The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures 9782503574899, 2503574890

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The Pre-Christian Religions of the North

THE Pre-Christian Religions of the North

Editorial Board John McKinnell, John Lindow, Margaret Clunies Ross

Titles in Series Research and Reception, Volume i: From the Middle Ages to c. 1830, edited by Margaret Clunies Ross Research and Reception, Volume ii: From c. 1830 to the Present, edited by Margaret Clunies Ross History and Structures (4-volume set), edited by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén Written Sources, edited by John McKinnell

The Pre-Christian Religions of the North History and Structures, Volume i: Basic Premises and Consideration of Sources Edited by

Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

© 2020, Brepols Publishers n.v., Turnhout, Belgium 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 the prior permission of the publisher. D/2020/0095/227 ISBN: 978-2-503-57489-9 e-ISBN: 978-2-503-57491-2 DOI: 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.112891 Printed in the EU on acid-free paper

Contents

Volume I. Basic Premises and Consideration of Sources List of Illustrations Foreword: The PCRN Project Bergur Þorgeirsson

xi xvii

Preface xix 0 Introduction Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén

1

Theoretical Considerations Jens Peter Schjødt

2

Memory, Oral Tradition, and Sources Pernille Hermann

3 Written Sources John Lindow

4

Language: Religious Vocabulary John Lindow

5

Language: Placenames and Personal Names Per Vikstrand

6

Archaeo­logy Anders Andrén

xxiii 1 41 63 103 115 135

Contents

vi

7 Images Anders Andrén

8 Folklore Terry Gunnell

9

The Spatial and Temporal Frame Anders Andrén

10

The Linguistic Frame John Lindow

11

Continuity and Break: Indo-European Jens Peter Schjødt

12

Continuity and Break: Germanic Jens Peter Schjødt

13 Encounters: Roman Rudolf Simek

14 Encounters: Celtic Matthias Egeler

15 Encounters: Slavic Leszek P. Słupecki

16

Encounters: Baltic Thomas A. DuBois

17 Encounters: Sámi Thomas A. DuBois

18 Encounters: Balto-Finnic Thomas A. DuBois

161 195 205 215 223 247 269 289 319 341 353 373

Contents

vii

Volume II. Social, Geographical, and Historical Contexts, and Communication between Worlds 19 – Historical and Social Contexts Anders Andrén

20 – Laws and Assemblies Stefan Brink

21 – Ethics John Lindow

22 – Gender Judy Quinn

23 – Kings and Rulers Jens Peter Schjødt

24 – Warrior Bands Jens Peter Schjødt

25 – Various Ways of Communicating Jens Peter Schjødt

26 – Magic and Religion Stephen A. Mitchell

27 – Ritual Space Torun Zachrisson and Anders Andrén

28 – Ritual Time and Time Reckoning Andreas Nordberg

29 – Cultic Leaders and Religious Specialists Olof Sundqvist

30 – Crisis Rituals Jens Peter Schjødt

391 445 479 509 529 559 589 643 671 725 739 781

Contents

viii

31 – Cyclical Rituals Jens Peter Schjødt

32 – Passage Rituals Jens Peter Schjødt

33 – Death Ritual and Mortuary Behaviour Neil Price

34 – Worlds of the Dead

797 823 853

John Lindow and Anders Andrén

897

John Lindow

927

35 – Fate 36 – The Divine, the Human, and In Between John Lindow and Jens Peter Schjødt

951

Volume III. Conceptual Frameworks: The Cosmos and Collective Supernatural Beings 37 – Cosmogony Mathias Nordvig

38 – Cosmology Mathias Nordvig

39 – Cosmic Eschatology: Ragnarøk Anders Hultgård

40 – Vanir and Æsir

989 1001 1017

John Lindow

1033

John Lindow

1051

41 – Þórr 42 – Óðinn Jens Peter Schjødt

43 – Freyr Olof Sundqvist

1123 1195

Contents

44 – Loki Jens Peter Schjødt

45 – Freyja Ingunn Ásdísardóttir

46 – Baldr John Lindow

47 – Njǫrðr

ix

1247 1273 1303

John Lindow

1331

John Lindow

1345

Anders Andrén

1363

48 – Týr 49 – Ullr 50 – Heimdallr Sebastian Cöllen

51 – Frigg Ingunn Ásdísardóttir

52 – Hœnir Jens Peter Schjødt

53 – Skaði John Lindow

54 – Minor Gods and Goddesses John Lindow and Jens Peter Schjødt

55 – Divine Twins Anders Andrén

56 – Sun and Moon Anders Andrén

57 – Matronae Rudolf Simek

58 – Dísir John Lindow

1371 1381 1391 1397 1405 1453 1465 1481 1493

Contents

x

59 – Norns Karen Bek-Pedersen

60 – Valkyries Judy Quinn

61 – Giants Margaret Clunies Ross

62 – Dvergar (Dwarfs) Terry Gunnell

63 – Álfar (Elves) Terry Gunnell

1501 1513 1527 1559 1571

Volume IV. The Christianization Process 64 – The Christianization of Denmark Michael H. Gelting

65 – The Christianization of Norway Sæbjørg Walaker Nordeide

66 – The Christianization of the North Atlantic Jón Viðar Sigurðsson

67 – The Christianization of Sweden Bertil Nilsson

68 – The Christianization of Finland Tuomas Heikkilä

69 – The Christianization of the Sámi Håkan Rydving

1581 1623 1649 1695 1729 1745

Bibliography

1761

Index

2017

List of Illustrations

Chapter 2 – Memory, Oral Tradition, and Sources Figure 2.1. The rune stone at Rök in Östergötland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Figure 2.2. The runic inscription at Hillersjö in Uppland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 Figure 2.3. Illustration of the dialogue between the Swedish king Gylfi and the three disguised æsir Hár, Jafnhár och Þriði in Gylfaginning in Codex Upsaliensis of Snorra Edda. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Chapter 3 – Written Sources Figure 3.1. The rune stone at Glavendrup on Fyn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 Figure 3.2. Page with opening of Vǫluspá from the manu­script of the Poetic Edda. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 Figure 3.3. The rune stone at Karlevi on Öland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 Figure 3.4. The beginning of Skáldskaparmál in the Codex Upsaliensis manu­script of Snorra Edda. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 Figure 3.5. Page from the so-called Angers fragment of the Gesta Danorum by Saxo Grammaticus. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94

xii

list of iLLUSTRATIONS

Chapter 4 – Language: Religious Vocabulary Figure 4.1. Silver fibula from Gårdlösa in Skåne, dated to the third century ce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 Chapter 5 – Language: Placenames and Personal Names Figure 5.1. A model of the concept of ‘place’.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 Figure 5.2. Distribution of theophoric placenames in the Lake Mälaren region. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124 Figure 5.3. Rune stone from Pilgårds on Gotland, dated to the late tenth century or about 1000. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 130 Chapter 6 – Archaeo­logy Figure 6.1. A so-called Harris matrix, showing the strati­graphical relations between different deposits, reconstructed into sixteen phases, in medi­eval Lund. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136 Figure 6.2. Ekornavallen in Västergötland, with megalithic tombs from the Stone Age, cairns from the Bronze Age, and erected stones from the Iron Age. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144 Figure 6.3. A long line of postholes found in the large-scale rescue excavations at Gamla Uppsala in 2012–13. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146 Figure 6.4. Aggregated plan of the excavated Iron Age village at Nørre Snede in central Jylland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148 Figure 6.5. The ringfort at Ismantorp on Öland, built around 300 ce. . . . . . . 151 Figure 6.6. A chamber grave at Birka in Uppland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 Figure 6.7. Osteo­logical analysis of human remains. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156

list of iLLUSTRATIONS

xiii

Chapter 7 – Images Figure 7.1. Two versions of the picture stone from Hunninge in Klinte on Gotland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163 Figure 7.2. The chrono­logy of rune stones in central Sweden. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164 Figure 7.3. Two pairs of humans with raised axes on Aspeberget in Tanum in Bohuslän. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167 Figure 7.4. A woman holding a drinking cup. Pendant from Öland, Sweden. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168 Figure 7.5. Elks on rock carvings on Laxön in Nämforsen in Ångermanland.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172 Figure 7.6. Ships on rock carvings at Himmelstalund in Norrköping in Östergötland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173 Figure 7.7. The Gosforth cross in Cumbria. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174 Figure 7.8. Typo­logy of Gotlandic picture stone. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176 Figure 7.9. Rune carving at Ramsund in Jäder in Södermanland, with motifs from the story of Sigurðr Fáfnisbani. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179 Figure 7.10. Bronze razor with a ship dated to late Bronze Age. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182 Figure 7.11. Gold bracteate of type C, from Kjøllergård on Bornholm. . . . . . 183 Figure 7.12. Examples of various gold foil figures from Sorte Muld on Bornholm. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184 Figure 7.13. Relief brooch from Syre on Karmøy in Rogaland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185 Figure 7.14. Corner post of one of the sledges from the grave at Oseberg in Vestfold. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187 Figure 7.15. Porch of the former stave church at Hylestad in Agder. . . . . . . . . 188 Figure 7.16. Part of one of the Oseberg tapestries. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190

xiv

list of iLLUSTRATIONS

Chapter 8 – Folklore Figure 8.1. The Dejbjerg wagon, a composite of parts from two identical wagons found in a bog at Dejbjerg in Jylland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199 Figure 8.2. Butter in a wooden trough deposited in a bog at Madla in Rogaland, in the fourth, fifth, or sixth century ce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 200 Chapter 9 – The Spatial and Temporal Frame Figure 9.1. The agrarian settlements in Scandinavia around 1000 ce. . . . . . . . 207 Chapter 11 – Continuity and Break: Indo-European Figure 11.1. The linguistic affinity among the Indo-European languages, according to the tree-model and the wave model. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225 Chapter 12 – Continuity and Break: Germanic Figure 12.1. Folio 1 of Matthew 5. 15–20 in the Codex Argenteus or ‘Silver Book’. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 248 Figure 12.2. Helmet from Negova (Negau) in Slovenia, typo­logically dated to the fifth century bce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 250 Figure 12.3. The opening page of Tacitus’s Germania from Codex Aesinas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259 Figure 12.4. The approximate location of Germanic tribes mentioned in Tacitus’s Germania. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 260 Chapter 13 – Encounters: Roman Figure 13.1. The maximum extent of the Roman Empire in the second century and areas with Roman objects found outside the Roman limes in western and northern Europe. . . . . . . . . 270 Figure 13.2. Objects from a grave at Hoby on Lolland, dated to the first century ad. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 273

list of iLLUSTRATIONS

xv

Figure 13.3. Latin inscription mentioning Mercurius Rex, found in Nijmegen, the Nether­lands. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 276 Figure 13.4. A collection of bronze statuettes of Roman gods and goddesses found in different parts of Denmark. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 282 Chapter 14 – Encounters: Celtic Figure 14.1. Region of late La Tène oppida in central Europe in the first century bce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 290 Figure 14.2. A silver cauldron from Gundestrup in Himmerland in northern Jylland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 291 Figure 14.3. Irish ornament fittings found at Sandnes in Rogaland. . . . . . . . . . 292 Figure 14.4. The approximate area of Celtic-language-speaking groups around 1000 ce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 295 Chapter 15 – Encounters: Slavic Figure 15.1. The approximate extent of Slavic groups north of Pannonia around 1000 ce; Regions with Slavic settlements in southern Scandinavia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 320 Figure 15.2. Rune stone at Sønder Vissing in central Jylland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 324 Figure 15.3. Remains of the Slavic hillfort at Arkona on Rügen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 332 Figure 15.4. Wooden figurine with four faces from Svendborg on Fyn. . . . . . 336 Figure 15.5. Reconstruction of a ritual building at the fortified Slavic settlement Gross Raden in Mecklenburg. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 337 Chapter 16 – Encounters: Baltic Figure 16.1. The approximate area of Baltic groups around 1000 ce. . . . . . . . . 342 Figure 16.2. Horse burial at Mervelė in Lithuania, dated to the late Viking Age. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 343

xvi

list of iLLUSTRATIONS

Figure 16.3. A copper box with an engraved runic inscription from Sigtuna in Uppland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 346 Figure 16.4. A Gotlandic picture stone found in one of the mounds of the Priediens cemetery II east of the trading place Grobiņa in Lavtia.   . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 347 Figure 16.5. The pagan centre Kernavė, north-west of present-day Vilnius in Lithuania. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 350 Chapter 17 – Encounters: Sámi Figure 17.1. The approximate area of Sápmi, the region of the Sámi, around 1000 ce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 354 Figure 17.2. Sámi goahti/gåhte (house) at Bläckajaure in Arjeplog in the Pite Sámi area, during excavation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 355 Figure 17.3. Sámi drumstick from Rendalen in Hedmark, dated to the eleventh century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 357 Figure 17.4. Sámi drum from Lule Lappmark dated to the medi­eval or early modern period. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 365 Figure 17.5. Sámi offering site at Stálojåkhå in Lappland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 366 Chapter 18 – Encounters: Balto-Finnic Figure 18.1. Approximate extent of the region of Balto-Finnish groups around 1000 ce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 374 Figure 18.2. Finnish objects from the Viking Age found in the Lake Mälaren region. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 377 Figure 18.3. Rune stone at Löt in Uppland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 379 Figure 18.4. Rune stone from Norra Åsarp in Västergötland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 380 Figure 18.5. A strap mount, dated to the eighth century, from a burial at Solberga in Askeby in Östergötland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 386

Foreword: The PCRN Project Bergur Þorgeirsson

T

he Pre-Christian Religions of the North (PCRN) research project is a ground-breaking initiative concerned with pre-Christian religious belief and cultic practice in Northern Europe before and during the arrival of Christianity in the region. A collaborative effort involving the input of dozens of leading scholars from around the world, the project aims to produce an up-to-date series of handbooks and resources for researchers, teachers and students of the medieval North. Alongside the present multi-volume indepth analysis of the history and structures of the Pre-Christian religions of the North, the project has already produced an extensive examination of the reception of this material from the medieval period to the present day, published in 2018, and will go on to include other volumes containing an overview of the nature and value of the known sources. The project has its origin in the year 2000, when Dr Jónas Kristjánsson, the former Director of The Árni Magnússon Institute of Icelandic Studies and a member of the board of Snorrastofa, an independent Icelandic research institute, proposed the initiation of a new extensive research project into Nordic mytholog y and religion. The project in question was then organised by Snorrastofa, which specialises in the medieval period in general and the life and works of Snorri Sturluson – the great medieval poet, scholar and statesman – in particular. The fact that Snorri was the author of one of the main sources of our knowledge of Norse mythology, namely his Edda, made this an obvious project for the young research institute to take on. Snorrastofa then contacted The Reykjavík Academy and members of the University of Iceland with a suggestion of collaboration, which was immediately accepted. An Executive Board for the project was established, and has been active since the autumn of 2006. Members of the board are Bergur Þorgeirsson, director of Snorrastofa, Terry Gunnell and Ármann Jakobsson from The University of Iceland, and Ingunn Ásdísardóttir and Viðar Hreinsson

xviii

Foreword: The PCRN Project

from The Reykjavík Academy. The staff of the project at Snorrastofa have included Evy Beate Tveter, Luke John Murphy and Liv Marit Mathilde Aurdal. Due to the great potential of such a collaborative project, and the importance of the possible outcomes, the first few years of the project were used as a period for reflection and debate, with the Executive Board overseeing discussion and formal meetings with specialists regarding the nature and potential scope of the project. Topics discussed included, among other things, the needs of researchers and teachers, the present state of knowledge in fields related to the study of pre-Christian religions in Northern Europe, and the various forms in which the results of the project could be presented. After this period of discussion, the Executive Board and the specialists involved in the earliest stages of the project organised it into three ‘strands’, each dealing with a specific aspect of the study of pre-Christian religions in Northern Europe: the ‘Histories and Structures’ strand; the ‘Sources’ strand; and the ‘Research and Reception’ strand, each of which would be produced collaboratively by a number of academics from around the world under the direction of the editors of the various strands, a small group of experts appointed by the Executive Board with a working Editorial Board consisting of John McKinnell, John Lindow, and Margaret Clunies Ross. The editors of the current ‘Histories and Structures’ strand are Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén. The aim of the strands, taken together, is to produce thoroughly researched, accessible and up-to-date overviews and analyses of the various aspects of the pre-Christian religions of Northern Europe, and the myriad ways in which they have been understood and interpreted throughout history. These studies are now culminating in the publication of a range of volumes by Brepols Publishers, an internationally-renowned academic publishing house specialising in medieval history, literature and culture. The project received competitive financial awards and grants from a number of funds and foundations in Iceland, Sweden, the Nordic region as a whole, and Australia. These grants have not only directly supported the writing of the project’s component studies, but have also enabled the creation of a worldwide network of scholars, academics and students through the funding of seminars and working groups attended by contributors to the project. Our hope is that the outcome of the Pre-Christian Religions of the North project will form an indispensable reference work not only for scholars in this field, but also for those academics and students studying religious systems, comparative religion as a whole, and related fields such as Icelandic, Scandinavian, and Germanic literature, folklore, culture and history.

Preface Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén

I

t has been a long way from the first ideas to the final publication of these volumes. John Lindow initially heard about what would turn into this project in Fall 2000 when he was a Fulbright lecturer at the Uni­ver­sity of Iceland. His walk home each evening took him past the home of Jónas Kristjánsson, and Jónas mentioned more than once his idea of a ‘new de Vries’ (to replace the ‘old de Vries’ — Jan de Vries, Altgermanische Religionsgeschichte, 2nd edn 1956–57), an effort that would involve cooperation between Snorrastofa in Reykholt, where Jónas was on the board, and local and international scholars. Some years later, Lindow was involved with the initial planning of the PreChristian Religions of the North (PCRN) project, which indeed took place at Snorrastofa, and included personnel from that institution, scholars from the Uni­ver­sity of Iceland and Rey­kja­vík Academy, and international scholars. The planning group grew over time, and the overall project gradually took shape. Recognizing that research history was inseparable from reception, planners decided to devote a separate ‘strand’ to that issue, and another to the thorny problems of source criticism, which could be treated at length in that separate forum. The third ‘strand’ comprises these volumes, on ‘History and Structures’. From the start, planners wished to have disciplinary expertise not only in philo­ logy, but also in the disciplines of history of religion and archaeo­logy. Besides the three editors responsible for these volumes, namely Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, the original editorial team also included Gro Steinsland, who unfortunately elected to leave the project upon her retirement. The three remaining editors began basic planning in 2010 in New York at a conference at Fordham Uni­ver­sity, where we ventilated our ideas for the project for the first time and worked on a tentative outline. Ingunn Ásdísardóttir attended that and all subsequent planning meetings of the editors as a liaison with the planners in Iceland.

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The project began in earnest in January 2013, when the editors took up oneyear appointments as Fellows at the Swedish Collegium for Advanced Study in Uppsala. In subsequent years we were in residence together in Berkeley in June 2014, Stockholm in June 2015, Aarhus in June 2016, and Stockholm for a portion of October 2017. During the course of 2013 we hosted three seminars for authors at the Swedish Collegium, in order to promote their vision of the project and facilitate exchange of ideas. From the beginning, a major goal was to embrace plurality — of interpretive possibilities, of interpretative modes, of interpretive voices. This work therefore has nearly thirty authors, even if we, the editors, have written many of the core chapters in order to maintain a certain consistency. We have deliberately imposed only limited and primarily structural uniformity on the other authors. In some cases we have asked for additional information and analysis, and in a very few cases we have asked authors to consider alternative interpretation of certain details, but we have tried to allow the individual voices to remain. The result has been a certain amount of inevitable repetition, which seems to us a small price to pay for creating a non-monolithic handbook of a subject that itself is anything but monolithic. There may also be small inconsistencies which we have failed to catch, but we believe that they do not affect the usefulness of the work as a whole. Many if not most of the chapters were written in 2013-14. Although the authors have had the opportunity to update essential issues and biblio­graphy, the chapters are essentially as the authors wrote them at that time. In completing a work of this scope we have naturally benefitted from the support of numerous individuals and institutions. We thank first and foremost our authors for the quality and variety of their chapters. Sophie Bønding (Aarhus Uni­ver­sity) and Simon Nygaard (Aarhus Uni­ver­sity) functioned as editorial assistants in Uppsala in 2013, and Nygaard did all the disciplinary copy-editing as well as biblio­g raphical work during 2016–18. Karen BekPedersen (Aarhus) edited the English of non-native speakers. Both Nygaard and Bek-Pedersen made several very helpful editorial suggestions beyond the scope of the work we had asked them to do. Cecilia Ljung (Stockholm Uni­ver­ sity) served as the Images Editor, and Daniel Löwenborg (Uppsala Uni­ver­sity) prepared the maps. We thank all of these colleagues for their contributions. Financial support for the work that produced these volumes has come from numerous sources. Initial planning and ongoing editorial support was provided by Snorrastofa and the Icelandic Parliament and the Icelandic Ministry of Education, Science, and Culture. The Swedish Collegium for Advanced Study

Preface

xxi

provided us with a year to work full time on the project in a highly congenial atmosphere where we could exchange ideas not only with each other but also with the other fellows at the Collegium, a process that greatly enhanced our efforts. Additional support came from Riksbankens Jubileumsfond, Kungliga Humanistiska Vetenskapssamfundet i Lund, Kungliga Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitets Akademien, and the Department of Scandinavian at the Uni­ver­ sity of California, Berkeley; the Department of Archaeo­logy and Classical Studies at Stockholm Uni­ver­sity, and the Department of the Study of Religion at Aarhus Uni­ver­sity.

0 – Introduction Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén

I

t is generally recognized that the first systematic treatment of Pre-Christian Religions of the North (PCRN) was Jacob Grimm’s Deutsche Mytho­logie, which first appeared in 1835 and was updated to new editions in 1844 and 1854. As with his Deutsche Grammatik and Deutsche Rechtsaltertümer, Jacob Grimm was operating across older linguistic and newer political boundaries, including all the material he could find from older stages of a group of languages his recent predecessors and contemporaries — and of course he himself — had found to be related: German, Dutch, English, Nordic, and Gothic, the languages we now call Germanic. Thus from the beginning of modern research, study of pre-Christian religion in northern Europe has most frequently — though of course not without exception — been conceived as focusing on an object of study conceived linguistically. The second word in his title, Mytho­logie, follows to some degree from this focus on linguistic sources: that is, texts and names. And indeed, nearly all studies of Germanic religion in the nineteenth century styled themselves, following Jacob Grimm, as studies of mytho­logy. This of course offered up a parallel to the classical mytho­logies, which was helpful in the national romantic project. Grimm organized Deutsche Mytho­logie around names: namely, the gods, beginning with Wuotan, then went on to goddesses, heroes, the so-called lower mytho­logy, and so forth, setting forth the textual evidence as he went. Styling the material as mytho­logy creates a unified intertextual universe not directly related to real human beings, one suspended in time and not located in any real space. The academic field of Germanic philo­logy fully matured around the beginning of the last century, and at that time the subject that concerns us in this work came to be called Altgermanische Religionsgeschichte. This would appear to incorporate two major shifts. The first is from the inaccurate deutsch, which The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. xxiii–xxx John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116927

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is overly inclusive with respect to both space and time: the focus is now old (alt-) and comparative (-germanisch). The second shift is probably even more significant: from the textual world of mytho­logy to a reconstructed historical world of humans practicing religion (Religions-), and an attempt to trace such practices through history (-geschichte). Karl Helm’s work with this title, of which the first volume appeared in 1913, was not the first to bear it (R. M. Meyer’s had appeared in 1910), but it was the most consequential. Helm was trained as a philo­logist and historian. In his opening chapter, Helm defined religion as myth and cult and the study of religion as essentially historical and based upon the gathering and criticism of sources. In his later discussion of the sources, however, Helm appears to value archaeo­logical sources only when there are no written sources. Decades later, when surveying the sources for his own account of Altgermanische Religionsgeschichte (first edition 1935, greatly revised edition in 1956–57), Jan de Vries gives even less attention to archaeo­logical sources, and there more or less only for the prehistoric period. His presentation of the sources is both chrono­logical and geo­graphic. For prehistory: archaeo­logy; for the Roman period: classical authors, inscriptions; weekday names; and southern post-Roman period: a handful of vernacular texts, including baptismal vows, charms, laws, chronicles, and poetry such as Beowulf. For the north Germanic traditions, de Vries gives Saxo and others their due but finds that Eddic poetry has pride of place (‘Unter den literarischen Denkmälern stehen die Eddalieder an erster Stelle’ (de Vries 1956–57a: i,  37) and devotes several pages to the problems they present. Next he somewhat carefully admits that mytho­logical skaldic kennings possess source value, as myths in miniature. Then to Snorra Edda, which he presents as ‘neben den erhaltenen Götterliedern, eine besonders wertvolle Quelle’ (besides the extant mythical poems a particularly valuable source) (de Vries 1956–57a: i, 42) by which he appears to mean the myths told in Gylfaginning and Skáldskaparmál, and he devotes some time to defending the source value of Snorri’s presentation of the mytho­logy. The presentation of the sources ends with brief discussions of the use of various kinds of sagas. As was mentioned in the Preface to these volumes, the working title was for a period of time the ‘new de Vries’, referring to the work just discussed. This is not to say, of course, that no general works on Scandinavian and Germanic preChristian religion have been written since. There certainly have been, and many of them are extremely valuable and present new perspectives and theories. The number of such publications is almost legion, and they cover the whole spectrum from the very popular to the very analytical and discussing. Just to mention a few from more recent years we can refer to the accounts by Clunies Ross

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(1994a), Simek (2003), Steinsland (2005a), and Abram (2011) and the more encyclopedic ones by Simek (1984) and Lindow (2002a), not to speak of the second edition of Reallexikon der germanischen Altertumskunde, with a great amount of articles on religion (and everything else that has to do with the preChristian periods as well as the Middle Ages). So the working title ‘new de Vries’ is mostly due to the extent of the coverage of de Vries’s work and its role as a reference work for generations of scholars. On the surface his Altgermanische Religionsgeschichte appears very descriptive, and as such it is very useful, but at the same time it is also clear that it contains interpretations. This naturally goes for all handbooks within the field and is more or less unavoidable. But whereas the descriptive parts of de Vries’s work are still very useful, many of the interpretations may be challenged. This is not to say that they are necessarily wrong but just that many of them would by most scholars nowadays be seen as too simplified, and perhaps not in accordance with the way religion is perceived here in the beginning of the twenty-first century. Therefore, the intention with these volumes is twofold. We state these briefly here and take up some of the ramifications immediately after these brief statements of purpose. 1. To present to the reader an updated account of the material that has appeared during the many years that have passed since de Vries’s work, which is mostly of an archaeo­logical kind. It is noteworthy that most handbooks on the subject that have appeared also after the ‘old de Vries’ have only to a very limited extent taken into consideration the archaeo­logical material, which is naturally due to the background of the individual scholars, which has most often been history of literature, history of religion, folklore, or philo­logy. We shall return to that below. 2. To present to the reader some of the new ideas that have come forward about how to view PCRN as such and also to make known the new theories that have appeared on individual subjects within PCRN, such as gods, myths, rituals and so forth. It has been clear during the last three or four decades that archaeo­logical finds are extremely important for our reconstructions of important parts of PCRN. Whereas older scholarship clearly was mostly interested in the conceptual framework, which can only to a limited extent be illuminated by archaeo­logy, later scholars have accepted that the ritual part of the religion would probably have been much more important for the pre-Christian Scandinavians, as it is in many comparable societies. Although the written sources do tell about ritual performances, we hardly have a single description about a ritual in its entirety;

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and when it comes to rituals, archaeo­logical material is highly illuminating, as will become clear in many of the subsequent chapters. In earlier research, as we see, archaeo­logy usually only has a minor role to play in illuminating pre-Viking religion. In current research, however, archaeo­logy is much more integrated in studies of PCRN, and it is primarily from archaeo­logy that we can trace many chrono­logical changes as well as regional and social variations of pre-Christian rituals. We shall just mention one single aspect here: namely, that whereas earlier on there was a strong interest in finding what amounted to proto-Viking rituals for various occasions, not least those of death and burials, so that those rituals which apparently deviated from this idea of a proto-ritual were seen as exceptions, it is nowadays clear that there never were such ‘proto-rituals’ — they were all more or less different, and these differences are now seen more as the rule than the exceptions. This recognition is no doubt very important, not only for our view on rituals but also for all aspects of the religious life in preChristian Scandinavia. This realization concerning the importance of archaeo­logy for our reconstructions is, however, just one characteristic of some of the changes that have taken place since the 1980s: namely, a growing, general awareness of the importance of interdisciplinarity. So, apart from archaeo­logy and textual studies of various kinds, also placename studies, memory-studies, and other disciplines have been recognized as necessary parts of the enterprise of reconstructing PCRN. This is one of the reasons why it has not been possible for one person to write this work, and this is certainly one of the more important differences in comparison with its predecessors. Within all disciplines there has also been a growing awareness of the importance of the theoretical frameworks. Some kind of theory has naturally always been involved, since without it, it is hard to describe or discuss anything, but back in the middle of the twentieth century there was not much awareness about it. In many of the handbooks from that period and earlier (and to some extent also later), it seems as if the authors had the viewpoint that reading the texts, with the necessary amount of source-critical work, would automatically generate the pre-Christian reality. This newer theoretical awareness can be seen in many chapters in the following, both when it comes to general considerations, as for instance the fading belief in the possibility of an ‘objective’ description of the past, and when it comes to interpretations of individual elements. For instance, so much theory has come forward concerning myths and rituals — even much more than are relevant for this handbook, but some of it will clearly appear in chapters dealing with these things. But also, on a much more

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detailed level, it can be seen that theories are discussed, which have appeared during the last decades, concerning, for instance, individual gods and myths. In this way it is hoped that the reader will get an updated (as far as possible) knowledge of PCRN, and not least the way it is seen by various experts in the second decade of the twenty-first century. It should be evident, however, that even so, there are many differing views on almost any subject involved in PCRN. We have aimed at presenting many of these differing views, but we are fully aware that it is not possible to succeed completely in that enterprise. Therefore we are also well aware that individual readers will still be able to find subjects that may be relevant which have not been treated, material which has not been mentioned, and theories which are not discussed. This is unavoidable, and it is due to both pragmatic and theoretical reasons: even in a work as large as this one it is simply necessary to make choices as to what can be included, and of course such choices can always be disputed. But there is also at least one theoretical reason for such deficits: namely, that the borders between what should count as religion and what should not are extremely blurred, as will be discussed in the first chapter. What is included in the individual chapters will mirror the viewpoints of the individual authors, of course. We are fully aware that one-author works have an advantage because they tend to be much more coherent than is the case when almost thirty scholars write on individual subjects. Nevertheless, the interdisciplinarity together with a growing specialization within each discipline convinced us that a handbook of this size had to draw in many specialists, who, apart from knowing the primary material and the problems connected with that, are familiar with the most recent research connected to the various issues that are treated. Another element, which we see as a benefit for the reader, is that with many authors who certainly disagree about many things it will be clear that historical reconstructions to a very large extent are dependent on interpretations. That is also why we have only to a very modest extent attempted to reconcile conflicting viewpoints, in order that the reader will get an impression of some of the ‘conflict-zones’ that we face in dealing with this fascinating area. Thus, there are examples where one interpretation is argued in one chapter, but more or less rejected in other chapters. No doubt, this can be seen as rather confusing by some readers, but it is, however, also an invitation to the reader to step into the laboratory in which the research work is taking place. We should also like to say a few things about the layout of the work. To some it may seem too modern, to others too conventional. As already mentioned, a work like this will inevitably be based on many choices. We have deliberately tried to find a balance between new and old, and we do not expect everybody,

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perhaps not even the majority of the readers, to agree with us in the choices we have taken. On the one hand, it is obvious that chapters on, for instance, memory, historical and social contexts, or gender could not have been part of an exposition of PCRN in the 1950s, so in that sense the layout is mirroring our own time. On the other hand, we have no doubt that some readers will criticize the structure of, for instance, the part ‘Conceptual Frameworks’, which is structured quite conventionally with an exposition of the individual gods. Some may argue, and rightly so, that it is problematic to treat the gods individually, because they are all part of some larger system, and in that sense cannot be treated separately. Nevertheless, it is our conviction that many readers will still be interested in learning about Þórr or Óðinn as individual gods, which they certainly also were. In this way many things could have taken another form, and again we can only refer to the need of making choices and find a balance between the most recent theoretical tendencies and the expectations we believe the reader to have. Some readers may also miss a chapter on the general history of research, a subject which is certainly very important, also for understanding the background of many of the interpretations of individual subjects that will be presented throughout the chapters in this work. As mentioned in the foreword, however, the whole project here has been planned to have three strands: namely, one for research history and reception; one for source criticism, or perhaps rather various ways of approaching the sources; and finally these volumes on the historical and structural aspects of PCRN. For readers especially interested in the research history, we, therefore, refer to the volumes of this first strand. Likewise we would like to refer to the second strand for more discussion about the sources. They are all presented in the first volume of this strand, but much more could be said about them than is the case here, not least when it comes to the written sources. In this sense the three strands are closely interconnected. Finally, a few words about the title (and its relation to the content). PreChristian Religions of the North is one of many designations which could have been chosen. The termino­logy used by scholars often varies. Other common designations for the subject treated here include pre-Christian Scandinavian religion, Nordic religion, Old Norse religion, and according to native languages, ‘fornskandinavisk religion’, ‘norrøn religion’, and even still the forementioned ‘altgermanische Religion’. The content behind these terms may vary somewhat, but to a large extent they cover the same religious area. One of the points, of course, is that this religion (or these religions, see below) did not have a native name, as is the case with, for instance, Christianity or Islam. So we can only distinguish it by relating it to a geo­graphical or a linguistic area or in relation

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to the periods which came after. PCRN ended (in some sense) with the advent of Christianity, but it is not possible to point to a time of its beginning. The reason why the plural ‘religions’ has been chosen is not, as some might expect, that the work will deal with all religions in Scandinavia. The focus is definitely on the religion of the Germanic speaking groups living mainly in middle and southern Scandinavia. However, it is one of the ideas with this exposition that the religion of this area was never a unified ‘belief system’; rather it consisted of a large variation of traditions, which were certainly related to each other, but at the same time were very diverse, also historically. This is why we have not set up some clear-cut limits for the period to be described. As was just mentioned, whereas we know to a certain extent when PCRN ‘ended’, we cannot know when it ‘began’. That is the reason why the reader will often notice that sources illuminating periods far back in time are taken into consideration. But the period which is in focus is the second half of the first millennium ce. Within this period there were certainly changes in the religion. Therefore, religions in the plural, covering both geo­graphical and historical diversity, seems to cover better the actual situation, although we are well aware that a description of this religious area must involve a complex relation between variation and unity. It is our hope that this work will function as a reference work for some time to come. We have no illusion that it will keep this role for fifty or more years, as the ‘old de Vries’ did, since things in the twenty-first century change very quickly: new archaeo­logical discoveries (and not least new methods to analyse the finds) occur almost from one day to the next, and new theoretical frameworks will be introduced that will alter our views on the past. We hope, nevertheless, that the information and the reflections that can be read in the following pages will continue for a long time to be of interest for scholars and students dealing with the fascinating subject of Pre-Christian Religions of the North.

How to Use These Volumes All references, to primary and secondary source material, are found in the lists of references in Volume iv. For primary sources, we have for the sake of consistency mostly settled on one edition and one translation of any given work and asked authors to quote from those unless clarity of interpretation would be compromised. The secondary list, although it is not intended as such, probably comprises a tolerably comprehensive biblio­graphy of relevant work on PCRN. Unless otherwise noted, quotations and translations are taken from the published editions and translations to be found in the list of references, and in those cases we give only page or stanza number. If a different edition or transla-

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tion is used, that fact is indicated in the text. If an author has chosen to give her or his own translation, this is indicated by the lack of page number or other references. Please note that diacritics unnecessary for linguistic arguments have been avoided. Cross-references within the work are to chapters, thus: è31. References to relevant images or maps found in other chapters are indicated similarly, thus: figure è31.1.

1 – Theoretical Considerations Jens Peter Schjødt

Introduction This chapter will serve to illuminate some basic theoretical and methodo­logical problems which have arisen during the last half century. It is certainly not an attempt to ‘solve’ these problems, but rather to make clear which issues we have to take into consideration when we aim at reconstructing the very complicated subject field which PCRN constitutes and how the editors of these volumes view the possibilities of dealing with PCRN in general.

Definitions Religion It is hardly possible to give a definition of religion which can be agreed upon by all scholars within the field of religion. Basically one could say that we can define everything as we want to, that a definition is neither ‘right’ nor ‘wrong’. Rather, what is at stake when we are going to evaluate a definition is its usefulness. And this will, in turn, always depend on what we want to use it for. Thus, a socio­logist of religion would probably prefer a definition which is based on the relation between society and what is seen as ‘sacred’ in a certain culture, whereas a psycho­logist of religion possibly will focus on the relation between the individual’s ideas of the ‘sacred’ and the consequences which it might have for his or her state of mind. A scholar of contemporary Christianity may define Jens Peter Schjødt, Professor of the Study of Religion, Aarhus University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. 1–39 John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116928

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religion as ‘a way for man to seek salvation’ (cf. Lanczkowski 1980: 23–24), whereas a scholar specializing in what used to be called ‘primitive’ religion might define it as ‘a force that keeps society united’. For Freud, religion was a collective neurosis, whereas for Marx, it was the opium of the people. Some scholars would prefer to go back to the use that the old Romans made of the term, that is, something that ‘binds’, whereas others would argue that the term, like many others, can be viewed both from an indigenous and a scholarly perspective, and that the two uses should not be confused. Terms that are useful in this connection are ‘emic’ and ‘etic’, here connoting the ‘insider’ view and the ‘outsider’ view, respectively, two levels that should be kept separate.1 Some scholars would prefer a functionalist definition, that is, what religion does,2 whereas others prefer a substantial definition, that is, what religion is. Many such attempts at definition bear clear witness of specific agendas, and at least they clearly show that the individual definitions are made up with a specific intent which, as suggested, is unavoidable and may even be useful. Nevertheless, it would seem advantageous to suggest a definition which as far as possible can be accepted by most scholars, whether they work from socio­ logical, psycho­logical, historical, or other perspectives. This means, in the first instance, that we should look for a minimum definition, which, however, should also have a heuristic value, so that it will be fruitful to work with in relation to a certain subject field. In this case the subject field to be treated and to which our definition must be meaningful is the religion of ancient Scandinavia. We will thus propose that religion is a term that covers a certain worldview and its consequences for man and society. What makes this world-view 1  This use of the two terms are not without its problems (Sinding Jensen 2003: 108–11), but it is nevertheless how they are often used by scholars from various disciplines; and the distinction between views of ‘insider’ and ‘outsider’ is certainly important. The two terms have played a major role in the study of religion (cf. Mostowlanski and Rota 2015), and they are important as analytical tools, not least because a certain amount of confusion has arisen in many debates about the ‘meaning’ of this or that phenomenon. Very often the disagreement is due to a lack of understanding of the fact that ‘meaning’ to the insider (the religious person) is not exactly the same as ‘meaning’ to the outsider (the scholar). For a brief overview, we can again refer to Sinding Jensen (2003) with further references. 2  Although it is not easy to avoid completely the functionalist perspective in any definition of religion, this kind of definition will never be completely satisfying either, because religion probably does nothing which cannot be done by other cultural phenomena, such as ideo­logy, politics, sports, art, and so forth. What is at stake, therefore, should be the unique structure of certain elements that creates religion, and thus what religion is, and not what it does.

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unique, as compared to non-religious world-views, is that it sees the world as divided into at least two domains. These two domains have often been termed the ‘sacred’ and the ‘profane’,3 although the termino­logy which will be used here will be the ‘Other World’ and ‘this world’ respectively. The reason why the second set of terms will be used here is simply that in using the term ‘sacred’ for ‘the wholly other’ connotes, for most westerners, at least something basically positive. But the Other World may just as well be negative. For in most religions the ‘Other World’ consists in reality of several ‘Other Worlds’: there is the world of the gods, the world of demons, the world of the dead, and various worlds in which more or less unidentified beings belong; and whereas it makes sense to speak of the world of the gods as ‘sacred’, it is much more problematic when we face a world of demons. And exactly when we are dealing with a religion like that of the pre-Christian Scandinavians we see many ‘Other Worlds’: that of the gods, that of the giants, that (or rather those) of the dead, that of the dwarfs, and many others. So, when we will be talking about the ‘Other World’, we are in fact dealing with many Other Worlds which have perhaps only one thing in common: namely, that they are in some way opposed to the world of humans, ‘this world’. 3 

These two terms, the sacred and the profane, have, not surprisingly, played an enormous role within the study of religion, since, whatever else can be said about religion, there seems to be no religion at all without a distinction of this sort. This is not to say that exactly these two terms are the most comprehensive, but they have been used up through the twentieth century by many and very different scholars, ranging from Émile Durkheim (1858–1917), who saw social life in general as a switching between the two domains (Durkheim 1912), to Mircea Eliade (1907–86), who, in almost onto­logical terms, insisted that the sacred and the profane are two indispensable parts of the world. So, where Durkheim saw the two categories as human constructs, Eliade saw them as onto­logical realities. This opposition has been one of the basic discrepancies within the study of religion, and is probably most accentuated if we compare Durkheim with his contemporary Rudolf Otto (1869–1937), who like Eliade saw the ‘sacred’ as an onto­logical category. In his book Das Heilige he emphasized the category of das ganz Andere (the wholly Other) as a designation for a world which is completely different from the world in which humans normally live, and which is more or less synonymous with the ‘holy’ or the ‘sacred’. Interestingly enough, Durkheim and Otto wrote their principle works within a few years of each other (1912 and 1917 respectively), and together they came to set the agenda for most of the scholarship within the study of comparative religion for the rest of the century (cf. Prades and Benoit 1990). No matter how we view the status of the opposition, however, it is certainly important, for without it we can hardly speak about religion at all. We could also mention the terms communitas vs societas and the equivalent pair liminal vs non-liminal, especially related to the anthropo­logist Victor Turner (1967, 1969). Even if the perspective here is from anthropo­logy, and even if the content of these terms is not completely equivalent with that of ‘sacred’ and ‘profane’, the relation no doubt is (cf. also Schjødt 2012c).

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For this is exactly what is the common denominator for the various ‘Other Worlds’: they are in some way or another in opposition to what this world is. The elements that are picked out as oppositions will vary, according to the message which is to be communicated in a certain myth or a dogmatic statement. Often in mytho­logies and theo­logies we meet the opposition between mortality and immortality — whereas humans are subject to death, this is not the case with the gods or the beings of the Other World; the Other World is often inexhaustible, which is not the case with ‘this world’. Other Worlds are not necessarily different from ‘this world’ in space only, in the sense that they are imagined to be at another place (in the sky, in the underworld, on some far away island, and so forth). They may also be different in time, so that they are imagined to be before or after the world in which we live here and now. That there was a time when everything was different from what we know in the present time is a theme that is known in all religions. These early times are often different in quality so that they, on the one hand, may be characterized by chaos which is certainly seen as negative, or, on the other hand, they may be imagined as positive and characterized by a much closer relation between humans and the gods than we know here and now; and the two conditions may both be set into a continuing narrative as we know it, for instance, from Genesis, in which the original chaotic condition is replaced by the picture of Eden. These narratives, which are most often called ‘myths’, will be subject of the next section. Therefore, no matter whether these Other Worlds are imagined in time or in space, they are characterized by notions that are opposite to the world in which humans live here and now. Some of these oppositions appear to be more or less universal, such as life vs death, or lack of resources vs inexhaustibility, as was just mentioned, but in principle every part of the human condition in ‘this world’ may be turned upside down in order to characterize the ‘Other World’: eternal darkness or eternal light, talking animals, almightiness, total equality, and so forth. This sort of otherness is what characterizes every religious worldview, and the narratives told about such worlds and the encounters between ‘this’ and some Other World is what constitutes the content of the category of religious myths. And exactly encounters between these worlds is one of the consequences of the religious world-view. If there is nothing but an imagination of some ‘Other World’, we can hardly speak of religion, for what characterizes religion is that ‘this world’ and the ‘Other World’ communicate. The status of the communication varies according to whether the sender of the communicative message is a human being from this world or is a god or some other creature from the Other World.

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In the first instance communication is carried out in ritual performances,4 that is, actions intended for manipulating the surroundings, partly through nonmaterial means which are often of a symbolic nature. It may include sacrifices or prayers or the performance of a cultic drama, intending to produce what was produced the first time it was carried out, perhaps by the gods themselves (cf. Patton 2009: 309–10). Such actions can be described by any observer, no matter whether he or she belongs to the religion in question. The communication from the Other World is of another kind, and can only be recognized as part of a communication process by those who belong to the religious community. For the communication from the Other World consists in ‘signs’ that have to be decoded: if it starts raining just after a sacrificial ritual has been carried out with the goal of getting rain, the rain will, from inside the religious community (from an emic point of view), be interpreted as an answer from the gods, whereas the outsider (from an etic point of view) may be sceptical towards such an interpretation. Thus, the rituals that can be observed constitute from a scholarly point of view a communicative element in religions, whereas the ‘answers’ from the Other World will be part of the emic interpretation. The way the rituals are carried out is very often seen, from the insider point of view, as a consequence of something that happens or happened in the Other World, perhaps that the rituals were instigated by the gods. And this is one of the most important characteristics of the phenomenon of religion and religious ideo­ logy: namely, that what happens in this world is partly seen as consequences of what goes on in the Other.5 In some religions it depends on the will of God or the gods, whereas in others man just has to live his life in accordance with the ‘tradition’, but the common thing is that humans, in order to keep up good relations with the gods, have to act in certain ways. It is generally recognized that this is what is going on in rituals, but it has a much broader impact. 4 

The definition of rituals has, as is the case with religion itself, been heavily debated. Good overviews of the scholarly study of ritual can be found in Bell (1992, 1997), Doty (1986), and Grimes (2000). The term ritual, in daily language, is used to denote not only actions that we normally connect to religion but also repetitive actions of a purely secular character, a view that has also been accepted by many anthropo­logists, not least from the perspective of the ‘new evolutionism’ (e.g., Rappaport 1999: 24; Turner and others 2018). In archaic religious societies, however, most actions that cause things to happen through non-material means are connected to the religious or the magical world-view. So, in the following, the term ritual will denote an action which by non-material and non-technical means, relating to the Other World, attempts to affect the surroundings. 5  ‘Partly’ because all religious societies, even those with the most simple techno­logical possibilities, will also often rely mainly on their practical and techno­logical skills (cf. Malinowski 1948: 28).

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For a religious society will, in many situations, act in accordance with traditions that are based on the understanding of the Other World. For the preChristian Scandinavians, we can mention such a thing as warfare, where a spear should be thrown over the enemy army in order to ‘give’ it to Óðinn, that is, so that it would be defeated and the warriors would die and go to Óðinn’s hall for the fallen, Valhǫll (è 24) (è 34) (è 42). Even if we do not have as many sources as we could wish for, there is no doubt that everyday activities, such as sowing, harvesting, and the like were carried out (partly) in accordance with religious traditions. And this interdependence between the two worlds may be seen not only on the collective level, but also on the individual. A phenomenon such as ‘bad conscience’ or fear, because one has not acted as the gods want one to act, is just one possible consequence at the psycho­logical level of the way the Other World influences this world also for individuals in everyday situations. To return to the problem of definition: we can thus conclude that, although religions are different from each other, and we must not only distinguish between different religions but also between different types of religion, as we shall return to below, it is possible to discern the main characteristics in all religions. Religion, then, is a world-view according to which there is an Other World than the one in which we, the humans, live here and now, and according to which communication is possible between these worlds; and the way we think and act in this world is more or less influenced by what goes on in the Other World, on the level of society as well as that of the individual. What this broad definition indicates is that we cannot rule anything out beforehand as a potential subject for a description of a religion, because everything in this world may be seen as a consequence of the Other World. This is not to say that everything is religion, but religion may ‘pop up’ under all circumstances in a religious society: some periods are more sacred than others, some places are more sacred than others, some happenings may be interpreted as sacred, as opposed to others (i.e., as consequences of something that has taken place in the Other World). And, as was mentioned above, there is a tendency that what is viewed as sacred are those phenomena that in some way are connected to the Other World. For most religious people, then, life on earth consists in shifts between the sacred and the profane, between activities that are strongly related to the Other World, and therefore are heavily loaded with prescriptions and prohibitions, and activities of an everyday kind. In the following sections we will briefly deal with the three categories of religious phenomena, namely myths, rituals, and the consequences of a religious world-view for society and individual, which are included in this definition.

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Myth The notion of myth has been defined in several ways, and it has been taken to mean everything from ‘a lie’ to ‘an eternal truth’. Whether the myths are true or not is not the task of this work to find out, however. In everyday language myth is normally equalled with some statement or rumour which people believe to be true, but which is not. Therefore, myth as a category from everyday language has nothing to do with religion, and it is definitely not a ‘sacred’ narrative, as has been maintained by many historians of religion (e.g., Eliade 1963). Traditionally the Greek word mythos has been seen as the opposite of logos, the second term denoting rational speech, whereas the first one denotes the same as Latin fabula. As in the case with religion, such expositions of original semantics (whether true or not) do not help us too much in relation to a modern scholarly use.6 What is more important here is to see how ‘myth’ can fit into the model proposed in the previous para­graph, which is to say that myth is here seen as a narrative which is part of a religious world-view.7 As a pragmatic working definition we may advance the view that myth is a narrative which of necessity must be characterized by means of both internal and external criteria, that is, partly by criteria which are characteristic of the narrative’s own internal organization and partly by criteria which characterize the attitude the narrative encounters in the culture in which it functions. To start with the latter, it should be emphasized that the often-used ‘truthcriterion’ — which means that the individual narrative must be understood as being true by the people in the culture in question — cannot be a crucial factor. Whether people ‘believe’ in the content of the myth in all its details and whether all attribute to it the same meaning are matters of less importance than whether they are influenced by its message in their world-view, that is, 6 

Lincoln (1999) discusses the various uses of the word, both in classical and modern times. For recent discussions of the term ‘myth’, we can refer to this work and to Glosecki (2007) and Niles (2007a, 2007b), with many further references, also to more classical works. For a recent account of general theories of mytho­logy, see Csapo (2005). 7  This is not to say, of course, that this is the only legitimate use of the word. The definition, for instance, proposed by Niles (2007a: 209–10) is certainly relevant in dealing with ‘historical’ myths. He says: ‘By a myth, I mean a story, well known among people or a group that tells about larger-than-life figures from recent or distant past in such a way as to confirm or authorize one or more essential ideas pertaining to that group’s culture’. Such a definition is definitely useful for his purpose (analysing the story of the battle of Maldon [991]) and partly also for Old Norse mytho­logy proper, but it does not seem to relate to the phenomenon of religion, unless ‘larger-than-life’ refers to the Other World.

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whether those signals which the narrative sends out, together with other narratives linked with it in a so-called mytho­logical corpus, form part of their way of understanding and their ways of handling the surrounding world. The crucial external criterion is, therefore, whether the narrative has an influence on individuals’ ways of understanding and arranging their experiences of themselves and their environment (c.f. Lawson and McCauley 1990: 155), and whether different variants of it have influenced their society as a whole.8 In that sense there is no difference between religious and non-religious myths. The stories about the American ‘Wild-West’ offer an example of how a nation’s world-view may be influenced by a non-religious meta-narrative. As far as internal criteria are concerned, we can, as was just mentioned, establish that the individual narrative must contain some kind of reference to the Other World in order to qualify as a ‘religious myth’. The main actors may be gods or other supernatural beings whose existence in the consciousness of the individuals belonging to the culture in question is beyond any doubt.9 But they may also be human beings who interact with the Other World. The myth is, therefore, a narrative which deals with events in the Other World, far away in space or in time, or events that are played out in the field between this and the Other World, and which are important for the way in which society’s world-view is organized.10 In this way the mythical content will set the con8 

Variation is rather the rule than the exception. The ‘message’ of the myth may be expressed in many ways, and for this reason it will not surprise us that the Other World appears in many different forms within specific religious groups. 9  As was mentioned, this is not to say that everybody believes in every detail in the myths, but that they share the world-view of which the myth is an expression. 10  This characteristic is not unlike what is suggested by Pierre Maranda many years ago (1972: 12–13): ‘Myths display the structured, predominantly culture specific, and shared, semantic systems which enable the members of a culture area to understand each other and to cope with the unknown’. The termino­logy is different and emphasizes the structural and the culture-specific together with the fact that it is semantic systems that we are dealing with. In this connection it is important to notice the rejection of Dan Sperber, that symbolic representations have a ‘meaning’ which is not in itself symbolic (Sperber 1975: 12–16). Yet it is reasonable to speak of semantic systems since myth creates associations between symbolic representations: associations which, indeed, do not create exact meanings in individual expressions, but which stake out the boundaries for meaning, that is, a space within which a certain actual or belief-based phenomenon’s meaning may be characterized and adapted with relation to other phenomena. See also Lawson and McCauley’s discussion (1990: 148–57) in which, from a cognitive perspective, among other observations they notice that ‘larger cognitive constructs rather than individual concepts […] are the most obvious bearers of meaning’ (154). In the following such spaces will be called ‘discourses’.

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ditions for how human beings react socially and religiously (for instance, in connection with rituals). This content of the myth or the mythical universe is at the same time taken from and helps to maintain the fund of representations which together form the ideo­logy11 or the world-view that a culture lives by and through which it understands itself.12 And myth is probably the most important expression of this ideo­logy in religious societies. Some myths contain existentially important parts (semantic fields) of the world-view, and they are, therefore, sometimes called ‘great narratives’, whereas others are quite modest in their pretentions, for instance, dealing with how certain animals came to look the way they do. The religious myth, therefore, acquires its content from the religious ideo­logy, is part in religious discourse, and in this respect always refers to a greater or lesser degree to the Other World. The function of myth is partly legitimating : it must give reasons for and legitimate a whole series of social institutions and norms. But it also has to be able to give an answer to a great many questions concerning the surrounding world. Therefore, it has both a legitimating and an explanatory function (cf. Bolle 1983: 298). For this purpose, it may use various scenarios taken from the society and its surroundings, and through the narrative sequence expose them to manipulations of all kinds. In the final phase of the sequence there will in all cases have to be a kind of justification or explanation, and so we may argue that all myths contain an aetio­logical aspect. But this may be indirect, and that which is justified will not be apparent until the individual myths are seen in a relationship with other myths within the semantic universe to which they belong. The objects for explanation in the individual myth may therefore be other myths, so that we are dealing with what Claude Lévi-Strauss called a ‘transformational group’. Thus the value of the explanation may be external, as it can turn towards society and its surroundings and justify some natural 11 

Ideo­logy, or rather ‘religious ideo­logy’, is here close to that which Annemarie de Waal Malefijt calls ‘dogma’: ‘The word dogma will be used in this discussion to indicate a set of propositions or cognitions about the universe which include the supernatural. The beliefs in any such body of cognitions are validated by myth […]. Dogma as the term is defined here, centres on three major topics: the nature of the supernatural, the nature of the physical world and the nature of man and his society’(1968: 145). Whether we talk about ‘ideo­logy’, ‘dogma’, ‘worldview’, ‘semantic universe’, or what Margaret Clunies Ross calls ‘the shared cultural knowledge’ (1994a: 25), we are therefore referring to almost the same phenomenon: the way a (religious) community perceives and ascribe meaning to itself and its surroundings. 12  It is here a question of the same two aspects of myth which Clifford Geertz touches on when he speaks of cultural patterns which are both models of and models for the world (Geertz 1966: 8).

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phenomena, rituals, or everyday events, or it may be internal and turn towards other narratives. In the latter instance, the explanatory value of the myth is related to the way in which people create order in their world. In most societies, and certainly in those whose religious traditions are based on oral transmission, this order is not an order that comprises all cognitive areas or all discursive areas, which is to say that we will look in vain for an overall logical order in the total amount of mythical expressions. Myths are ‘logical’ only within particular contexts or discourses (see below), which is why two myths often seem to be mutually contradictory and incoherent. In opposition to what is often maintained in the scholarship of the twentieth century, such contradictions are not necessarily due to ‘historical development’ or ‘foreign influences’, although these factors, of course, often do play a role. In relation to the Old Norse material, myth is especially important because a lot of ‘myths’ have been transmitted to us, whereas our knowledge of the rituals is much more scattered. The main problem is that most of the myths that we know from this area are without doubt written down by Christian authors, and thus might have been heavily influenced by Christian ideas. According to what has just been argued, we cannot for that reason, however, conclude that information that may seem incoherent is due to such Christian ideas; it may be so, but incoherence can just as well be seen as due to various myths taking part in different discourses. Therefore, we cannot be satisfied with finding out who the author of a certain source is, or whether the source, as such, at certain points may have been influenced by Christian notions. We have to evaluate every piece of information on its own (è3–8). The relationship to other narrative genres such as folktales, pseudo-historical writing, and legends has been the subject of much scholarship, but at this point it should just be stated that neither in Scandinavia nor in general does it seem possible to construct watertight barriers between myths and these other genres, and probably it will not be useful, either, to do so (cf. Lévi-Strauss 1964: 12–14). In the Scandinavian context, therefore, information concerning ‘mythical’ themes, in fornaldarsögur, Saxo Gramaticus, and other material that is not ‘myth’ in the traditional sense will be taken into consideration. To conclude this section, we can therefore state the following : the Old Norse narratives that we call myths are stories about beings from the Other World whom we have reasons to believe were venerated during the pre-Christian period: at least the majority of them, because we must reckon also with purely narrative figures who are there because they are needed for treating certain problem areas. Therefore, these stories must be seen as part of the (religious) world-view of that period. It is not (or not only) a question of some

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form or other of a primitive explanation of the course of nature or the trouble in human life. Myths are explanatory on many levels, and they therefore form a link in the construction of the Other World, and thus also of this world (cf. Berger 1969), through their status as building stones for the world-view of a certain culture.13 Ritual Rituals, as opposed to myths, are not primarily to be seen as aiming at constructing the Other World or as reflections of the relation between this and the Other World, although they may function in that way, too.14 Rituals indeed are part of the human construction of the world: namely, that part of the construction that has to do with the communication between the two worlds. All rituals, therefore, are played out in the communication zone between the two worlds, the zone which the anthropo­logist Victor Turner called the ‘liminal’ (Turner 1969: 95–96); and all rituals have as their purpose to manipulate, in one way or another, the actors of the Other World to make them feel or act positively towards this world. We will return to this below (è25), but what should be stated here is that it is through rituals of various kind that people get access to the Other World. Whether we are talking about divinations, prayers, initiations, sacrifices, or other actions, it is always a matter of getting into contact with the Other World, in order to prevent or to further changes in the human world and to keep the gods sympathetic to the performing society or individual, according to the individual purpose for which the ritual is performed (e.g., that the next year will be as good as the previous, that the famine will stop, that the gods will be on our side in an approaching war, and so forth). The sources we have for reconstructing the rituals of the pre-Christian Scandinavians are in general sparse and seldom very detailed. And, since ritual was probably much more important in ancient Scandinavia, at least from an emic point of view (what people believed was hardly an issue at all: it was what they did that created the religious identity) than was myth,15 this is, of course, 13  Cf. also Eliade who, from a completely different perspective than the one presented here, says: ‘The myth, whatever its nature, is always a precedent and an example, not only for man’s actions (sacred or profane), but also as regards the condition in which his nature places him […]’ (1974: 416–17). See further Clunies Ross (2017a). 14  For instance, myths are often narrated in connection with ritual performances, and the rituals certainly may function to strengthen the arguments set forth in mythical narratives. 15  It could perhaps be argued that it was different from an etic perspective.

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a major problem in our possibilities for getting a realistic understanding of the religion. However, the situation may not be as bleak as it seems at first hand. For, as we will discuss in the next sections of this chapter, we can get a lot of help from evidence gained from comparative material. Of course, comparative methods will never allow us to reconstruct the rituals in detail, but it will give us an opportunity to suggest realistic scenarios. How close these will be to the pre-Christian reality we will certainly never know for sure, but as long as our reconstructions ‘make sense’, not least in relation to the information related in the sources, they will contribute to our understanding of PCRN. It can be added that, even if reliable ritual descriptions are seldom transmitted, it seems as if rituals transformed into myths and legends are at hand that do allow for important reconstructions. Social and Individual Consequences As was suggested above, the notion of the Other World may influence any part of the social and psycho­logical life of society and individuals, which means that it is impossible to decide what is part of religion and what is not. The comparative methods which we just spoke about cannot help us in the same way as in the case of rituals, simply because religious rituals by definition are connected to the notion of the Other World. The influences this notion has had on individuals and societies cannot be predicted in the same way, and they will often be much more difficult to see in the sources, since the relation between social and moral rules on the one hand and the notion of the Other World on the other may not be acknowledged in the sources, and perhaps not by the religious person, either. Therefore, we have to depend, to a much higher extent, on what is actually related in the sources, which means that, because of the character of the sources, we are rather poorly informed about these matters (see, however è 20–22). There certainly are areas of which we do know something, such as the relation between the leader and the Other World (è23) or war and the Other World (è24). But in all these instances, even those that are best evidenced, we only know some general features, and the relations must to a large extent be reconstructed on the basis of general theory, rather than on clear cut evidence in the sources.

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How to Make Sense in the Twenty-First Century? Problems with Reconstructing Pre-Christian Scandinavian Religion The sources that are available for reconstructing pre-Christian Scandinavian religion are of many kinds, and we shall deal with some of the source-critical problems, belonging to the individual groups of sources, below (è3–8). But no matter the quality of the sources, there are some basic problems which we have to deal with whenever we attempt to reconstruct any religion, or any historical subject for that matter. Some of these problems have to do with the notion of reality, as this is conceived nowadays, in the beginning of the twenty-first century.16 Having witnessed the era of deconstructionism and postmodernism, reality (and our access to it) is no longer as simple as we thought it was up till the 1970s, as has already been mentioned in the Introduction above. Without going into either deconstructionism nor postmodernism,17 it can thus be stated that the whole idea of a ‘religion’ seemed more or less uncomplicated fifty years ago, probably because ‘religion’ was viewed from the platform of a somewhat idealized Christianity, which, so to speak became the model for what a religion would (and should) be like. Thus, a religion would consist of a coherent and logical system of beliefs and practices that was shared by everybody in a certain religious community (see also below). Of course, the scholars who were engaged in history of religion were well aware that foreign influences could be involved, and thereby that the original religion might have changed. But then we just have to use the relevant source critical-methods, and in that way be able to reach back to the original stage. All this has changed, not only with postmodernism but also with anthropo­logical structuralism, discourse analyses, 16 

For a good introduction to many theoretical problems in the Study of Religion, see Sinding Jensen 2015. 17  For a short introduction to the status of postmodernism within the study of religion, we can refer to Wolfart (2000). One could argue that if we are to apply the postmodernist view in its more extreme form, we would be able to say nothing about pre-Christian religion because this, like everything else, would be a construct that cannot be measured in relation to any kind of reality. And, as the deconstructionists would tell us, every construct can be deconstructed. However, this kind of extremist position is not what we find in the thinking of such famous postmodernists as Jacques Derrida or Richard Rorty and others, for whom ‘language’ certainly does exist. What is argued is just that language is not necessarily related to extra-linguistic worlds. Thus, as we will return to below, the notion of discourse will be of help, because to some degree it mediates between language and reality.

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the folkloristic investigations carried out by Parry and Lord and many others, and not least the cognitive studies within religious studies of the last two or three decades. These and other kinds of approaches in various humanistic disciplines have shown that religion is in no way coherent and logical; quite on the contrary, ideas as expressed in myths and other kinds of religious texts (as long as they are not written down in some canonical book),18 as well as ritual performances, although they are often viewed as unchangeable by the believers, change all the time; sometimes slowly and sometimes more quickly (cf. Niles 1999: 153–72; Staal 1975); various individuals have different opinions about their cosmo­logies; and major and minor variation from one village to the next is the rule, rather than the exception. This has as a further consequence that it is not as simple to speak of a religion, as we believed earlier, because, apart from the great universal religions, such as Christianity and Islam, most religions in the past had no watertight barriers between them, so that it would be difficult to delineate where one religion had become another religion. This means that it is problematic to reconstruct a religion not only because of a difficult source situation, but even more so because religion in itself is not a definite set of ideas and practices. When Jan de Vries and Gabriel TurvillePetre published their handbooks — which are some of the best ever written — in 1956–57(a) and 1964, respectively, the situation was much different. It made sense to look for the original religion of the Germanic peoples or the Scandinavians. Thus, very often we are confronted with discussions of whether this or that notion in the sources was the original one, apparently without much reflection of what that would mean.19 We will return to all this in subsequent sections and just conclude here by stating that, in accordance with what we have learned from various directions within the postmodern ‘movement’, our reconstructions cannot be judged against a ‘reality’ to which we have no direct access. Instead, they should be evaluated according to their power of ‘making understandable’ or simply, to ‘make sense’. In other words, how can we, from the perspective of the twenty-first century, make sense of the sources we have for PCRN? 18 

And even if there is a canon within a certain culture, it is common knowledge that the interpretation of this canon can differ immensely over years and from one cultural unit to another, so the difference here between primary and secondary religions is far from clear cut. 19  Even in some more recent handbooks we meet this idealized view on the pre-Christian religion, apparently without much reflection on how we may speak of the religion of Scandinavia, as if everybody shared the same myths and notions — of which we can be rather certain that they did not.

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Model20 In order to reconstruct anything, we must have an idea of the result we are aiming at, and the less complete the sources are, the more we will need such an idea, or such a ‘model’ as it will be called in the following. Nobody is able to tell us beforehand which is the right model, so we will never be certain that we are drawing the right picture from the scattered information that we get from the sources; what we can do is to draw this picture with due consideration to what is actually said in the sources. The important point here is that we interpret the sources from a sort of pre-understanding. This has to do with the whole problematic concerning the ‘hermeneutic circle’ which will not occupy us here, however. The model that we choose will by necessity depend on the world-view of our own time. To take an example from the world of Norse religion, it made good sense in the Middle Ages to understand the pagan religion from the point of view of euhemerism or from the perspective of the theory of Satan’s trickery. The belief in the pagan gods was thus due to a game played by the devil, or to a confusion of humans and gods caused by the stupidity of the pagans. In the nineteenth century, in the period of ‘nature mytho­logy’, people were seen as having misunderstood rational statements about nature, so that they came to believe that the natural phenomena concerned living creatures, that is, gods (Max Müller 1871–81). However, philosophers and scholars taught us during the last part of the nineteenth and in the twentieth centuries to view history and the world in a new way. We could no longer accept metaphysical explanations as sufficient for the relation between historical causes and effects. The role of society, the unconscious, and discourse, just to mention a few important factors, for the creation of a modern world-view, became clear to us. And one of the consequences was that the models of the Middle Ages and Romanticism no longer sufficed: they were simply no longer in accordance with the world-view that we see as the one representing reality in the most adequate way here in the beginning of the third millennium. Thus, the way we perceive religion nowadays is not only due to anthropo­ logy and religious studies but also, and certainly not least, to the achievements of the natural sciences, and further also of psycho­logical and cognitive sciences, and, as we saw in the previous section, various kinds of postmodernism and deconstructionism, since these fields have changed the world-view in very fun20 

This and the following sections are a revised version of parts of Schjødt (2009a, 2012a, 2013, 2017a, and 2017c; cf. also Lyle 2017: 343–44).

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damental ways since the nineteenth century. Thus, it would probably be impossible to imagine scholars within the field of religion proposing theories, explanations, and interpretations that would not be in accordance with the results of such sciences. And so the models used for our reconstructions must be generated from the world-view that is held not only within but also outside the subject field which we are studying, if they are to be taken seriously. At this general level, probably everybody will agree with the above, except perhaps the most-hard core positivists who may argue that our reconstructions are to mirror reality in a one-to-one relationship. Therefore, even if it may be hard for some to accept, the main part of the reconstruction we propose for understanding PCRN is based on a view of reality that does not stem from the sources of the period. The individual models are based on a certain understanding of the world that reaches far beyond the world of humanistic disciplines. When this is said, however, those specific models that we use in our reconstruction of the religion in focus must, of course, also take into consideration the more specific religio-historical contributions that have been proposed within the general field of the study of religion and other neighbouring disciplines. These are, among others, functionalism, structuralism, deconstructionism, oral-formulaic theory, and cognitive studies. The perspective from which we choose to view our object will — like definitions — depend on our aims. For instance, religion might be viewed from a socio­logical, psycho­logical, or a phenomeno­logical perspective; and of course none of these perspectives is ‘better’ or ‘more right’ than the others. Models, however, although they may vary according to the perspective chosen, may be of different quality. The quality cannot be judged with reference to reality, since the way we perceive reality, as was suggested, is to a certain extent a construction based on the overall world-view of our own time.21 The models, therefore, must be judged with reference to the extent to which they are able to explain the information given in the sources, and to which they are in accordance with an informed world-view, based on the scientific knowledge of the present. Thus, the model of PCRN will involve all sorts of interventions from all levels of a twenty-first century world-view, especially those stemming from socio­ 21 

This is not to indicate that ‘reality’ as such does not exist, as would be maintained by some extreme postmodernists and constructionists. The claim is simply that our view of reality will always depend on the world-view of our own time. This, however, is certainly more ‘realistic’ than world-views of earlier times, as can be deduced from the progress made within the natural sciences. But it is unlikely, to put it mildly, that we will ever reach a final stage in which our view of the world cannot be improved.

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logy and psycho­logy, and it is thus very general. Therefore, it is not possible to describe it in any detail, but what follows will offer a few examples, taken from the world of religion, of what we are aiming for.22 For example, as has already been mentioned, and as we shall return to, it is obvious that we cannot reconstruct a coherent world-view covering the whole of Scandinavia, because such a world-view hardly ever existed. Diversity on several levels has to be taken into account, according to a modern realistic model generated with the aid of comparative methods (see below). As another simple example of what we are aiming at we can mention that a realistic model (corresponding with analogies in other societies) will suggest that chieftains and kings, on the one hand, and ordinary farmers and slaves, on the other hand, did not practise religion in the same way. Thus, we must expect that the leaders were responsible for the whole of society, whereas the individual farmers were responsible for the family and the farm. It is likely, therefore, that they did not turn to exactly the same gods, which is not to say that they did not recognize the existence or the importance of the gods of the other part, but simply that it was not so much their concern. For instance, it is hardly likely that the king would be interested, or even aware, that a certain being, a god or some other creature, was situated in a certain minor lake close to a certain farmstead (but he would certainly not deny it). The local people, on the other hand, would be deeply dependent on this being, because he or she would be able to hold back the fish if not venerated in a proper way. Now, if we have no sources telling directly about such a being, it could be argued that we cannot know about him or her, just by reading the sources. But even so, if our model is good we would know, almost for certain, that veneration of such local deities would take place. And in this case, looking at the sources, for instance, in Landnámabók and in many sagas, it is actually confirmed that this sort of ‘local’ religion did exist, which is also to be seen in later folklore where we have a lot of examples of such practice. However, we cannot say anything specific about a deity in a certain lake without any information in the sources: what was his or her name, what was his or her appearance, in which way was he or she venerated, and so on. What we can do, however, is to propose that such beings were part of the discourse of the local communities, whereas it is not likely that within the religious discourse of the upper classes sacrifices for such local beings were carried out. In the same way, it is likely that there existed in the local discourse all sorts of mythical nar22 

For a brief, but useful, introduction to various uses of ‘model’ in the study of religion, see Sinding Jensen (2015: 73–74).

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ratives about how local phenomena, such as mountains, mounds, lakes, and so forth have come into being, but hardly stories about the descent of the king from godly beings: at least, they were not seen as interesting and relevant. We cannot know these things for sure, of course, but applying a realistic model, it would definitely make sense to read and interpret the sources in that way. In brief: a model may suggest that certain things existed even though they are not necessarily mentioned in our sources. Before we leave the notion of model, it may be reasonable to mention briefly some other elements that should be included in a realistic model of a religion like that of pre-Christian Scandinavia. It is thus important to be aware of the kind of religion that we are facing, that is, the type of religion to which it belonged. We will in this connection use the division made by the historian of religion Jan Assmann into primary and secondary religions, secondary religions being defined as religions that have a canon.23 The focus of Assmann is on memory, and he argues that whereas the cultures with primary religions ‘remember’ their religion through rituals, those with secondary religions remember through their canon. PCRN no doubt should be classified with the ‘primary’ religions, and apart from the lack of canonical writing, but probably related to this fact, we can add that it was a religion that had no central religious authority, and thus no dogma, which is another example, if banal, of the value of models: the sources (of course) do not tell us that there was no dogma, so this is something we infer from analogical deduction. Further, ‘belief ’ was probably never a big issue in PCRN, and it was, as has been mentioned, to a much higher degree a matter of performing the rituals in a proper way than to believe in accordance with a certain dogma (Schjødt 2013). These are just a couple of points to indicate that the religion which is the subject of this work was ‘religion’ in quite another sense than the way we use to think about ‘religion’ in the modern world. A consequence of this, to which we shall return, is that a unified belief system cannot, therefore, be part of our model. 23 

It is important to notice that, even if this division is related to the familiar one based on transmission via orality and literacy, respectively, it is characterized by the emphasis on canonical writings for the secondary religions. That means that not all cultures that knew of writing had secondary religions, because some did not use writing to produce a canon. Examples are the Greeks of antiquity or the Egyptians. Another classification of religions is the one suggested by Robert N. Bellah (2011) distinguishing among ‘tribal’, ‘archaic’, and ‘axial’ religions — and in an earlier publication (1964) two more phases, not relevant for PCRN —, which, as will be clear in some later chapters, is also very important for our understanding of what ‘kind’ of religion PCRN was (see also Nygaard 2014: 9–25; 2016).

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Thus, most often, we are not able to tell exactly which myths were told within a certain discourse or exactly how certain rituals were carried out, but, from the models we use, we can predict what sort of myths and rituals were performed by certain groups of people; in short: we can reconstruct important parts of the discourse, even without any source confirming it, although certainly not the details of that discourse — if our models are construed in a realistic way. Now, let us look a little closer at the notion of discourse.24 Discourse Even though all historical reconstructions, as we have seen, share some basic problems, there are, of course, significant differences, depending on whether we are aiming at reconstructing, say, a certain battle during World War II, or if the subject is the mentality, or rather mentalities, of the Stone Age. When we deal with mentalities, including such items as ideo­logies and world-views, it seems as if the notion of ‘discourse’ is of great heuristic value. The notion will be used in a slightly different way from what is meant by Foucault and most of the deconstructionists. For them, discourse is meant to exercise a certain kind of social and cultural power. It may be so, but that is not what is aimed at here. Suffice it to say that a society will have several discourses (and a larger area consists of many societies), that is, discourses that are apparently distinct by subject field (religion, technique, politics, etc.) but which are in reality often overlapping, since the borders between these areas are set differently in different cultures. As an example we can mention the ideas concerning the role of the king and the chieftain in society. Although this role involves apparently very profane relations (ordinary farmers, for example, have to supply the king with men when a war is approaching), the acceptance of the king’s superiority can very well be based on his relation to the divine powers. Or, the other way around, religious discourses may be part of a political discourse which will influence particular versions of a myth. It is up to us to decide where it makes sense to draw the lines between different discourses. The religious discourse in itself may also be seen to consist of several discourses, dealing for example, with individual gods (Óðinn, Þórr, Freyr, etc.), with ritual occasions (such as initiations of warriors, fertility of land and people, death, protection against hostile forces), or with magic (concerning the ‘luck’ of a person, techniques to prevent sickness or death, or so called love magic). But all these discourses are obvi24 

For good introductions to the various ways the term is used within the humanistic disciplines, we can refer to Howarth (2000) and Murphy (2000).

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ously related: Óðinn is clearly involved in warrior initiations, and besides he is a great magician among the gods (cf. Schjødt 2008). If, for instance, we want to understand the role of Óðinn within the religious world-view, it would be necessary to analyse sources dealing with Óðinn as a mytho­logical figure as well as those dealing with warrior initiations and certain kinds of magic. What we will achieve from such an investigation would be a picture of what could be said and done in connection with Óðinn in PCRN, but not necessarily what was actually said and done during a particular period in a particular place, not to speak about a particular occasion; or in other words, we may be able to reconstruct the frames within which things could be said and done in relation to Óðinn (è42). For instance, most of the Óðinn myths deal with two themes, namely: how Óðinn constantly acquires numinous knowledge; and how he bestows such knowledge on his chosen heroes. It is therefore obvious that Óðinn is connected closely to the numinous and to wisdom in general, and no myth told about the god nor any ritual performed for keeping up good relations with him can be in contrast with this characteristic. It may not play any significant role in the individual narrative, for Óðinn has many more functions and is certainly a god of many faces, and much more could be said of him. But it would not be possible to present Óðinn as stupid. In the same way, we do not know whether every single battle that Þórr fight with the giants, as related in the sources, has its roots in pagan myth, but all could have been there. What cannot be said about Þórr is that he is a weakling, which would clearly be outside the frames of the Þórr-discourse. In this way, the various gods each have a kind of ‘semantic centre’ which may be hard to define in any precise way, but which is the reason why they are different: the frames for what can be said about Loki are not the same as what can be said about Óðinn and Þórr. When we aim at reconstructing the notions about a god or some other religious phenomenon, it is thus reconstruction of a discourse we should be aiming at. The relation between model and discourse would be, then, that the model is constituted by our view of the society (and in particular religion, of course) in a certain period in a certain place, viewed from the beginning of the twenty-first century, whereas the discourses consist of the structural frames within which communication about various subjects in such a society must take place; and the two notions are in this way interdependent: discursive spaces are reconstructed on the basis of a certain model. The information in the sources should be viewed in this perspective: they are not, in themselves, able to give us anything like the full picture of the world-view of pre-Christian Scandinavia, but the model will allow us to draw a rough picture, from which we are able to interpret some of the details related in the sources and draw the lines between

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them, and thus construct the discourses that are involved. As in a jigsaw puzzle with most of the pieces missing and no image of what the finished puzzle is to look like, we will never be able to place any of the pieces in the right place if we do not have an idea of the missing image, that is, a model. From the model, then, and in combination with the source information that we do have, we will be able to reconstruct (parts of ) the discursive spaces: not with certainty, of course, but in a way that makes sense in relation to the model and the source information. In the jigsaw analogy the discourses would correspond to the various elements (the sky, a lake, or a forest, for example) that we might be able to place in meaningful positions in relation to each other, in accordance with the model, and which may form frames within which the individual pieces can be placed, even if we do not know their precise position. We may not be able to use all the pieces, and we cannot even be sure that they all belong to the same puzzle. We may hope, however, that in the future a new puzzle maker will come up with fresh ideas that will make ways for improvement. But how are we able to get an idea of the image in the first place? Or in other words: how do we create a useful model? And the answer would be: first and foremost by taking into consideration what we know from the physical reality, namely, in a very banal way, that the sky will be above the lake and the forest, that humans will be walking on the ground, and so forth, but also by looking at jigsaw puzzles from the same period or from the same manufacturer, perhaps finding another puzzle which shares some of the motifs; in short: by comparing. The main idea here is that if the model or the discourse is construed in a bad way, the sources in themselves cannot solve the problems. The interpretation of them will depend on the model we have chosen, and this, as was mentioned, must by necessity be based on our knowledge of various levels of the reality of which our subject field is part. Therefore, in constructing models as well as discourses or discursive spaces at a more detailed level, we have to take into consideration various kinds of comparative material if we want to be able to draw the connecting lines between those pieces of information that we actually get from the sources. Comparativism Comparativism may have various purposes. It is in itself interesting and illuminating to find differences and similarities between two or more religions, and it may help us to reconstruct some ‘proto-religions’ or to reconstruct some historical sequences. But besides that, comparativism is unavoidable in order to create a theory about religion as such, whether it is viewed as a social or a

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cognitive phenomenon.25 But also when we are dealing with a religion about which the source material is scanty in some way, comparativism may help us to reconstruct myths as well as rituals within that religion and decide their extension, and it may help us to determine the reliability of the sources’ information. Within the study of Old Norse religion, reconstruction and evaluation of the sources are extremely important.26 So let us look a little closer at how comparisons may be of value and how we may proceed in comparative analyses. First and foremost, it can be stated that already at the level of models we are dependent on comparativism, for if we do not take into consideration other religions from comparable cultures,27 it will not be possible for us to create a realistic model, as we shall return to in a moment. Comparisons, at another level, may also help us in deciding, for instance, whether various religious elements were general across a large area or whether their extension was rather limited or local. Before anything else, however, it is important to acknowledge that ‘certainty’ or ‘proof ’ is out of the question here (cf. Hodder 1982: 23). What we actually get from general comparisons is a general model and a rough picture of various discursive spaces, which is generated from these general comparisons and therefore may be able to give us some ideas about the way we should interpret this or that phenomenon, but certainly not the ‘truth’ about it; the more informed the way is in which we choose our comparisons, however, the closer our models will approach the pre-Christian reality. The reason why the making of models will create only a rough picture is because it is based on compari-

25 

Cf. Sinding Jensen (2001), Paden (2001), and Segal (2001), all in the same volume of the journal Numen, and also for a very interesting discussion of these matters Sinding Jensen (2008). 26  As everybody doing scholarly work within the field knows, one of the main issues when attempting to reconstruct the discourses is to decide whether the information related in the sources is in fact of pre-Christian origin, or whether it has been so heavily influenced by Christian medi­eval ideas that it cannot be viewed as pre-Christian at all. This issue has been thoroughly dealt with by many scholars, and this is not the place to enter this discussion. However, it should be stated that the answer to this question can be dealt with in a much more informed way if we take into consideration parallels from other cultures. In short, if a myth, for instance, has a structural parallel within some other pre-Christian mytho­logy with which the Scandinavians have had a cultural connection, due to common heritage or contacts of various sort, this myth can hardly be due to Christian ideas. 27  All cultures, in a certain sense, can be said to be ‘comparable’, but some are so more than others, depending on the level of details we want to analyse (see below).

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sons of a rather general kind which we may term ‘typo­logical’.28 The relevance of these comparisons will depend on the knowledge and skills of the individual scholar. The main academic fields that supply reconstructions of ancient world-views are anthropo­logy — especially, of course, anthropo­logical investigations dealing with societies that are close to pre-Christian Scandinavia in relation to the techno­logical and economic (and thus perhaps also religious) level (cf. Bellah 2011), but also various historical studies of ancient societies of which we have more information than is the case with Scandinavia are important here. This means, for instance, that Christianity, at least as it was understood by the theo­logical elite, is of rather limited value if we want to investigate the pre-Christian religions of, for example, the eighth century or earlier. For Christianity, with its theo­logical centralism, dogmatic reflection on how to believe, and not least its canonical texts, was in many ways different from the ‘primary’ (cf. Assmann 2006) religions to which pre-Christian Germanic or Nordic religions belonged. Most archaic religions29 are religions in quite another way than the universal religions of ‘the axial age’ (Bellah 1964, 2011). First and foremost Nordic religion existed in an oral society, and it could be argued, therefore, that it only existed in the narrative traditions, the ritual practices, and the material expressions of the myths and the rituals; but of course, Nordic religion must have had a world-view in the same sense as the ‘secondary’ religions — we just cannot read about it as is the case with religions that have a canonical book, and it was not systematized to the same degree as was the case with the Christian theo­logical elite. Therefore, we must reflect somewhat on how we choose material for comparisons. 28 

The comparativism that is at issue here is, therefore, of the typo­logical and not genetic kind. That is: it is based on general structures in religion which are not delimited to certain cultures, such as Semitic, Indo-European, and so forth (cf. Schjødt 1999b). Genetic comparisons, however, which are also of huge importance, signify the kind of comparisons which takes into consideration material from cultures that are historically related in some way to the culture in focus. 29  Robert Bellah in his famous 2011 book Religion in Human Evolution speaks of tribal religions and archaic religions (more or less equivalent to Assmann’s ‘primary’ religions), being ‘earlier’ (in an evolutionary sense) than the religions of the so called ‘axial age’, characterized by socio­logical as well as religious changes. Without going into details, the axial age is characterized by an improving philosophical awareness and a growing tendency towards transcendence in the notion of God. If the pre-Christian Scandinavians are seen in accordance with Bellah’s scheme, they would belong somewhere between the tribal and the archaic phase because they had not yet developed anything like real ‘city states’ with huge temples and priesthoods (see also Nygaard 2016; Schjødt 2017a).

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Anyway, it can, therefore, be argued that such comparative studies within relevant cultures may provide us with a rather realistic view of our subject — that is, ‘realistic’ as regards the general human way of thinking, on the one hand and, on the other hand, the general ways people create world-views in relation to eco­logical, political, and other cultural factors. Such a rough picture may, therefore, be established before we have even looked at a single source for the pre-Christian religion.30 But it cannot tell us anything about the specific ways the pre-Christians construed their religion and the details of their religious discourses. The next step, then, would be to go to the sources themselves and see how the information related can be interpreted in accordance with our general model, but also in accordance with parallels from related cultures. This is another kind of comparison, that is, genetic, and such comparisons are relevant at exactly this stage because they bring in the level between the universal, understood as general features of this or that type of religion, and the local: what should be expected in all religions and what is specific for a certain individual: for what mediates between these two poles are culturally determined discourses. This means, then, that besides the universal (typo­logical) comparativism which is a sine qua non for dealing with historical issues at all and for constructing models, we have to deal also with the cultural formations from which the sources must be expected to have been influenced — through ‘inheritance’ or ‘borrowings’,31 in order to reconstruct the discourses in any detail. Apart from Christianity, which plays such a large role in the medi­eval sources but which has no doubt also influenced parts of the Scandinavian world-view even before the Viking Age, since the first missionary efforts took place already in the eighth century (è64), the religious traditions we have to take into consideration are: the various traditions within Scandinavia, or for that matter within Iceland, according 30 

It may be important at this place to emphasize again that our models vary according to several factors, including knowledge about a certain type of religions. But it can be argued that the ‘cultural climate’ of a certain period, or a certain generation, is even more important. Thus the grand theories of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries (for instance, those of Darwin, Marx, Freud, and Durkheim), which are not necessarily about religion but about humans and human societies, will have a great impact on the way we perceive religion in general, and thus also Old Norse religion (see also above). 31  ‘Borrowings’, of course, is a strange notion when it comes to cultural influences. What is meant is simply that whereas a cultural influence may be due to heritage from a common source — a ‘proto-culture’, a ‘borrowing’ would here mean that there has been a direct contact and exchange so that one of the cultures involved has integrated something — a myth or a ritual, for instance, which they did not know before the contact was established.

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to the diversity that takes place even within a single community (see below); the Germanic heritage (è 12); other European cultures such as Sámi, Celtic, and Slavic which have influenced, directly or indirectly, different parts of Scandinavia (è 13–18); and the Indo-European heritage, whether or not we accept the theories of Georges Dumézil (è11).32 All these cultural influences must be taken into account, and we therefore have to acknowledge that there cannot be such a thing as an ‘original’ Scandinavian religion, because the Scandinavian discursive spaces, just like all other discursive spaces, were always ‘influenced’ from somewhere.33 And besides: what do we mean, for instance, when we ask whether the myth of Þórr and the Midgard serpent, related in numerous sources, including pictorial ones (cf. Meulengracht Sørensen 1986; è41) is originally Scandinavian? What do we mean by ‘origin’? Does the myth date back to the time when it was told for the first time by some old chieftain in Norway or is it when his Danish fatherin-law told it, although, in that version, it was part of the creation myth; or should we look for the original version perhaps when a Slavonic merchant narrated it in Haithabu, even if Þórr in that version was not Þórr but had another name; or is the original date when a Christian told about Leviathan, or when an Indian Brahmin told about the red-haired god Indra and the world snake Vritra? Who is to decide what is the original version? In Scandinavia we most often have only one version of a myth or a ritual description, which means that, for one thing, we do not know whether the content is pan-Scandinavian, and for another, we do not know whether the content is older than the source in which it is related. If, however, it is possible to find parallels among non-Christian cultures related in one way or another to the Scandinavians and demonstrable without influence from Christianity, there are two consequences: first, that this or that religious configuration to which we find parallels must be accepted as genuine within Scandinavian religion, ‘genuine’ here meaning simply not influenced by Christianity; and second, that we cannot reject the information of, for example, a thirteenth-century source 32 

For examples, of these various levels of comparison, see Schjødt (2017c). Again this is part of an informed model. All cultures change, some so slowly that we can hardly see it, and others much faster. These changes may be due to eco­logical and economic factors, and/or they may be due to influences from other peoples. And such influences probably existed in Scandinavia ever since the Stone Age. Theoretically, of course, we can imagine a small tribe living totally isolated, and in that case we have to accept that no such influences were at stake. But this was definitely not the case for the Scandinavians and the Germanic tribes, at least from the Bronze Age and onwards. 33 

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which has this configuration just because it is late; instead, as mentioned above, we have to judge the individual piece of information by itself and see how it fits in with what we should expect from our pre-understanding.34 This point has huge consequences for our possibilities of reconstructing pre-Christian Scandinavian religion because it transposes the focal point of source criticism from the text (understood as a work in prose or poetry) to the individual piece of information. This makes it meaningless to argue, for example, that we cannot count on this information because it is related in this or that source. We have to be aware that we are not dealing with political events such as when this or that king was born or why he went to war against this or that enemy. Concerning this kind of historical event, a contemporary source may well be assigned a higher value than a later one. But this is certainly not necessarily the case when we deal with religious world-views. If we can demonstrate that late medi­eval sources may contain, for instance, myths that have close parallels in related cultures which were no doubt not influenced by Christianity, then we are free to speculate whether other myths from the same kind of sources, with which we do not have such parallels, may be genuinely pagan. And then, once again, we have to use analogies, produced within anthropo­logy and historical studies in order to decide whether it is likely that such a myth was part of the pre-Christian discourse. Throughout this entire work we will deal with various levels of comparison on several occasions, so a few words will have to do here. Cultural comparison inevitably involves at least two cultural areas that are different in some respect. If they were similar on all points we would just have two copies of the same, and this does not exist in the real world. Thus, when we usually speak of comparisons, we think of finding similarities at some level between a certain number of cultural phenomena. However, it is important to accept that with ‘similarities’ we are not only speaking of ‘parallels’, but just as well of variations of a certain systemic character, in the form of transformations or inversions, to use the notions of Claude Lévi-Strauss (1964). Therefore, variation with regard to content, structure, word34 

An issue that cannot be dealt with here, but which may have huge consequences, would be to consider the more recent folkloristic material (è 8). According to what has just been said, there can be no distinction in principle between the medi­eval sources and later folklore. As has been suggested recently by Eldar Heide in several publications (e.g., 2009), it should be about time that we accept that this late material constitutes a potential that may be of great help for our understanding of pre-Christian myths and ritual, in principle not different from the way we treat the medi­eval sources. But again: how do we decide whether it has pagan roots or whether it is only ‘invented’ in the Christian era? Only comparisons of a typo­logical and a genetic kind will be able to tell.

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ing, style, and so forth is what is at stake in doing comparisons, and because of that: dealing with two sources from the same cultural area is actually doing comparison. If we look a little closer at, for instance, the Indo-European comparisons which have in particular been undertaken by Georges Dumézil, but also by many others, and which have been severely criticized by many scholars within the field of PCRN, it has been maintained that we cannot meaningfully use sources from distant cultures to cast light on the mytho­logy of Scandinavia. Too many differences are at hand socially, historically, and culturally, it is said, so that it is not meaningful to argue that, for instance, the Vedic mytho­logy and that of the North possess the same myths: distances in time and space are simply too great; besides that, the religions of the cultures were very different. This objection, however, is firmly based in an essentialist view of religion: because of all these differences, there can be no similarities. But if we accept at least part of the postmodernist view that religions and cultures ought not to be seen as complete and coherent systems, but rather as a group of open discourses, it seems obvious that parts of a religious or mythical discourse may be transmitted, probably very often as a kind of transformation,35 not least when we are dealing with oral cultures, through many generations, in spite of migrations, contact with other cultures, and so forth. No doubt, the traditions will change, often almost beyond recognition. But all this is not principally different from the kind of comparisons we make on the other levels mentioned above, and thus the kind of comparisons that scholars in the field of Old Norse myth have always made: motives from the picture stones in Gotland have been compared to Snorri’s texts, evidence from the sagas has been compared to archaeo­logical evidence from mainland Scandinavia, mythic information from Anglo-Saxon England has been compared to eddic material, sagas from one part of Iceland have been compared to sagas from other parts, and so forth. And this is certainly reasonable, as most historians of religion would probably agree. But why do we stop here? Is it meaningful to compare material describing cultures that are distant up to a hundred years in time and 1000 km in space, or is it perhaps two hundred years and 1500 km? It is obviously absurd to draw such lines. If it is possible, with a certain degree of specificity, to show that there are similarities between two cultures, which cannot be seen as part of a universal heritage, then everything points in the direction that there is a connection, based on borrowings or cultural heritage,36 unless such a connection would 35  In the sense of Lévi-Strauss, which was actually what Dumézil also dealt with in many of his analyses (e.g., Dumézil 1971). 36  One of the problems here is that it may be hard to determine which parallels are uni-

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prove to be impossible (but it should be doubted whether the similarities would then be sufficiently specific). In principle, there is thus no difference whether we compare Swedes and Icelanders on the one hand, or Germanic and Celtic tribes on the other. In both relations we must reckon with both borrowings and common traditions due to heritage. And this also applies if we ‘compare’ Icelandic sources from different periods and perhaps from different parts of the island, as we saw, even if, in this case, we do not usually speak about ‘comparisons’, probably because most scholars have seen the religious world-view in Iceland — even in the whole of Scandinavia — as uniform.37 But as has been argued above and as we will discuss further below, this was definitely not the case. A comparison of information in one eddic poem with that of another will therefore always principally be of the same kind as a comparison between myths from Scandinavia and myths from India, in so far as nothing forces us to accept that the two eddic poets had exactly similar world-views. There is, naturally, a difference in degree, but in principle the procedure is the same. In the North, we may compare in order to reconstruct ‘pre-Christian Icelandic or Scandinavian religion’; in the IndoEuropean area we may compare in order to reconstruct ‘pre-migration IndoEuropean religion’. Both notions are models that have been construed as necessary tools for making sense of the information we get from the sources. And even if these models do not correspond to reality in a one-to-one relationship, they do actually give significance to some basic structures that can be found in different forms over great distances and great time spans. To repeat: it is obvious that the differences get bigger the greater the area we take into consideration. The relation between similarity and difference is thus not the same within the Indo-European cultural sphere and the Icelandic area. But that is trivial, and the interesting thing is that, if we refuse to make comparisons, we cannot do studies in the history of versal and which are ‘cultural’. As an interesting example of this problematic we can mention Michael Witzel’s large work on the origin of the mytho­logies of the northern hemisphere (Witzel 2012). Here the author insists that comparing, for instance, Chinese and Greek mytho­logy should actually be seen as genetic comparisons whereas most scholars would clearly view them as typo­logical. It is not likely that we can set up rules here, and maybe we simply have to retreat to what may be called ‘common sense’. It seems obvious that if a certain amount of ‘specificity’ is at hand, we may be confident that we are dealing with parallels of a cultural kind, and thus based in ‘genetic comparisons’. 37  It seems, however to have gained widespread acceptance in recent years that this was not the case (e.g., Wellendorf 2006; Brink 2007b; Gunnell 2000; Andrén 2012b; Schjødt 2009a). However, we still need to decide the relation between what is different and what is similar within the area. For, as mentioned, there certainly are structures and discursive spaces which we may expect to be relatively stable, all over Scandinavia and, as we have seen, even over larger areas.

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religions at all, among other things because making comparisons implies that we acknowledge that religion is part of culture, and that every cultural unit is always part of greater units. It should be accepted, therefore, that source criticism, although certainly necessary, is not enough if we want to deal with subjects concerning religion and world-view and attempt to decide whether this or that information is genuinely pagan or stems from the Middle Ages. We have to take into consideration the information that we get from sources that are late and those that are concerned with the neighbouring peoples and see whether these may shed light on mythical or ritual elements and structures that are otherwise inconceivable. One of the greatest achievements of the comparative method is therefore perhaps that, besides the parallel structures that may be found, it also shows us that source criticism must be carried out in a much more sophisticated way than is usually done within the history of events. When we deal with world-views, differences in source information do not necessarily imply that one source is true and another is false. In spite of all differences, both may well reflect realities of the past, because we know — via the models generated by comparative studies — that various ideas, sometimes apparently mutually exclusive, are often expressed within the ‘same’ culture. Source criticism is certainly a necessity, but it cannot stand alone, and it is definitely not the most important tool for reconstructing pre-Christian Scandinavian religion. In order to allow for realistic interpretations, it is necessary to bear in mind that the world of religious world-views is often extremely tradition-bound and thus may go back to cultural units which have long ceased to exist, but which, nevertheless, continue to shape mythic and ritual structures in new surroundings, maybe in new media, and perhaps for new purposes. To sum up, concerning comparativism, we have to distinguish between two sorts of comparisons: the typo­logical, which serve to create a model; and the genetic, which primarily serve, together with source critical and source analytical procedures, to reconstruct the various discourses.

Diversity Since, from one point of view, people have their individual religious ideas, which they do not share with others, it would make sense to postulate that there is an infinite number of diversities in every culture. However, we have to systematize if we are to be more than just descriptive, and without claiming that there is only one way of classifying, it seems to be meaningful to take into

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consideration four kinds of diversity, which will be discussed below, although not in any exhaustive way, since they will often be part of the exposition of the individual themes throughout these volumes. These four categories are chrono­logical diversity, geo­g raphical diversity, social diversity, and cognitive diversity.38 Chrono­logical Diversity As has been maintained, religions change over time, and the diversity between periods has long been observed by scholars dealing with Old Norse religion. It is incumbent on historians to look for changes and describe them as far as is allowed by the sources. We shall therefore not deal much with this kind of diversity, which is acknowledged by all and included in most introductory handbooks on the subject of PCRN. We can thus state that, no matter how traditional the society we are dealing with, and no matter how difficult the development may be for us to see, change is a basic condition for all human life. It may be so insignificant that we cannot describe it, at least not in detail, which is why history is divided into shorter or longer periods, each period being characterized by a set of changes compared to the previous period. But we all know (or should know) that historical development is a continuum, from which we may isolate a period as a more or less static entity although we know that it is not, even if the changes can only be seen as manifested in a later period than the one we are dealing with. There is nothing wrong in this practice, since it is the only way for us to describe and systematize the past. But it is important to be aware that our description has the status of a model, and that it is not reality in itself we are describing. To put it differently, we may say that whereas reality is always ‘analogue’ without radical breaks, having an indefinite number of intermediate forms, our way of perceiving reality is ‘digital’ — either this or that: if we are to communicate at all, we have to maintain that a colour is, for example, blue or green even if we know that we are facing a continuum of colour because, in reality, there are no sharp boundaries. And the same goes for religion: the continuous change can only be grasped when we acknowledge that a set of changes has developed into something new. Then, we maintain that we have passed into a new period. This certainly makes sense and is a prerequisite for perceiving the world at all.

38 

The following sections are a slightly revised version of Schjødt (2009a).

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The division of world history into periods thus expresses our way of understanding the world. This is inevitable if we try to understand history and, as mentioned, it is also at the bottom of nearly all expositions of a certain religion. Most often we do not, however, at least not to the same extent, notice the same awareness of geo­graphical differences, to which we shall now turn. Geo­graphical Diversity In the pre-Christian North, by far the largest concentration of the sources concerning world-view was composed in Iceland.39 The question to be asked is therefore whether the information in these sources can be generalized to apply to the rest of the northern world. The normal way of treating Scandinavian and even ‘altgermanische’ religion has been to use these Icelandic sources as the basis for the reconstruction of the religion all over the area. It must be admitted, however, that the geo­g raphical concentration of the sources does create problems. The Viking Age society in Iceland differed in a number of ways from that in Denmark, Norway, and Sweden, one of the most important differences being that there was no royal power in Iceland, a fact that would definitely have had an impact also on the religion, even if the local chieftains were also closely related to religion (cf. Jón Viðar Sigurðsson 1999: 185–94). The major problem concerning geo­g raphical diversity, however, is the very idea that people across the area had the same religious world-view and performed the rituals in exactly the same way in the whole of Iceland or even the whole of Scandinavia. We know from the investigations made by Parry and Lord in the middle of the last century in the Balkans, that every time an epic song is sung, it has changed to a greater and lesser extent because every singer (narrator) adapts his performance to the current situation, thus adding something and leaving out something (e.g., Lord 1960). The main structure may remain the same, but the details will vary. Speaking about prose narrations, it is likely that this process of differentiation has accelerated. And it is most likely that the same ‘rules of change’ can also be applied to rituals, although perhaps with a slower speed. However, it could be argued that the communication (between villages, or greater areas) would involve ‘loans’ of some kind. This is no doubt true, but probably only to a limited extent, since rituals are not likely to have been 39 

The fact that most of these have been composed long after the introduction of Christianity has been a central issue for all scholars dealing with the pre-Christian religion. This will not be touched upon here, however, where the focus is on diversity (è3).

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exchanged with those from a neighbouring community just because they were known, and the same, although to a lesser extent, may be true of myths; at least they would have to be relevant for the ‘borrowers’. This is what we see nowadays, and there is no reason to believe that the situation was very different in the past. But basically, it seems as if we have to acknowledge the existence of a double movement, in which a process of diversity to some extent is neutralized by mutual influences, but only to some extent. In this way, we face a combination of constants and variables, exactly as we know it from, for instance, Christmas in modern times. Even if most people have a Christmas tree (a custom spreading out (borrowed) from Germany in the nineteenth century), and even if most people, within the individual countries, sing the same songs, more or less — at least with almost the same content — and eat almost the same food, which can only be chosen within a certain repertoire,40 there are still significant variations, both from family to family and from one part of a country to another. There are thus some structurally conditioned elements which can hardly be avoided, if we want to celebrate Christmas at all, whereas others can be changed, although this is not perceived by the practitioners as differences in the basic notions and rituals connected to Christmas. It must be emphasized here that modern Christmas takes place in societies in which communication, and not least mass communication, is probably the most outstanding characteristic of all. All in all, when watching present-day societies, it is obvious that things change from area to area and that, at the same time, notions and forms of practice from other cultures become part of the traditional culture. However, we can be sure that these influences from other cultures are much stronger in modernity than they were in the past, quite simply because communication is much more intense. But as was mentioned, influences have always existed to some extent. This implies that, when dealing with a period such as the Viking Age, we must try to distinguish between, on the one hand, features that seem to have been different from one area to another and, on the other hand, features that seem to be rather similar. This question will be addressed throughout this work, but it can be stated here that whereas the discourses — the frames concerning what could be said — are likely to have been rather stable over vast areas (and long time spans), the details, such as names of supernatural beings and the borders between various collective groups and subgroups such as, for example, vættir, álfar, nornir, or valkyries, may have varied a great deal. 40 

Unless one is consciously ‘alternative’, which was hardly the case in the Viking Age.

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A further — but related — theoretical question to be posed in this connection, is: where do we fix the limits of a ‘culture’? Operating with a term such as ‘southern Scandinavia’ is thus probably a more or less arbitrary delimitation. In general, of course, one may maintain that in historical investigations, for pragmatic reasons, it is necessary to make such delimitations: even if everything is connected, we cannot deal in a scholarly way with everything at the same time. So, we have to draw some limits. But where do we place these limits, and what are the consequences, when we use exactly one set of limits in preference over others. Concerning the North of the Viking Age, we have at least some linguistic criteria. At the time when the Viking Age begins, the north Germanic languages have already been separated from the east and west Germanic languages (è10). In fact, it seems likely that the languages constitute a rather precise analogy to traditional religion. For instance, it is hardly probable, in spite of the separation, that people living north of the river Eider spoke a north Germanic language whereas those living south of the river spoke a west Germanic language, so that they were not able to communicate. What is much more probable is that there were rather strong dialectal differences all over Scandinavia, as we also know it today, notwithstanding national borders and official languages. In the Viking Age, the transition between the languages and dialects was probably much less abrupt, and we have therefore — as in chrono­logical transitions — decided upon some artificial points where we find that the differences within a continuum of varying dialects have been so great that, instead of speaking of dialectic differences, we decide that we are dealing with a new language. Transferring this to the phenomenon of religion, it would mean that variants of the ‘same’ in relation to a certain area at some point become so great that we decide to speak about them not as variants of the same religion but as different religions (for instance that we are now no longer dealing with Germanic religion but with Celtic religion (è14)).41 Thus, from some fictitious centre, we move farther and farther away so that we may no longer recognize this centre, and then the variations of the ‘same’ have suddenly changed into something different. And even within the borders of the ‘same’ cultural area, there have no doubt been differences of a social character in the way that different social strata have had different notions and different rituals. We must, therefore, take a brief look at these. 41 

It is very important here to bear in mind that in opposition to some of the modern universalistic religions, the different ‘paganisms’ in Europe, before the Christianization, were not constituted on ‘faith’. That must necessarily have as a consequence that they were rather open for ‘inspirations’ from neighbouring people concerning their world-view.

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Social Diversity We know that kings and chieftains participated in rituals which explicitly had to do with the power of the ruler. We also know with great certainty that certain gods played a special role in connection with certain social classes, that Óðinn, for instance, was particularly connected to the upper class whereas Þórr was rather in the focus of the farmers. This does not mean that they were not part of the same pantheon42 or the same world-view, so to speak, but just that their roles and their positions were different from one social class to the other. It does not mean, either, that there were no similarities between the rituals performed by the upper and the lower classes, but that the different classes had different needs and different priorities dependant on the position in the social hierarchy from which the world was viewed. In short, the discourses varied between different social classes. A lot of research has been done in this area. Often, distinctions have been made between ‘lower’ and ‘higher’ mytho­logy, or between ‘folk religion’ and ‘elite religion’, distinctions which, however, sometimes give the impression of discourses that are more different than they actually are (cf. Nordberg 2012: 140). Perhaps it would be better to speak of two sets of discourses which are definitely interrelated, but, as was just mentioned, reflect different social obligations. Whether the individual scholar is mostly interested in the differences or in the similarities depends of course on the research tradition she or he is part of. For instance, scholars inspired by Marxism have typically been mostly interested in the differences, whereas historians of mentality have focused on the similarities that certainly also existed, and which were common for all members of the society, from the slave to the king. Both groups, therefore, acknowledge that there are both differences and similarities: they just have different perspectives. In relation to the pre-Christian Nordic societies (and to most societies of the past), many more sources are available on the religion of the upper class than on that of the lower class.43 This is not surprising, since it was primarily the upper class that was able to read and write, and the texts thus come from 42 

It has been raised as a problem whether the notion of ‘pantheon’ actually make sense in PCRN (Gunnell 2015). 43  When this is said it should, however, be qualified, since it depends on the weight we give to the so-called ‘folkloristic’ material (folktales, sayings, legends, etc.). If that is taken into account we may rightly claim that the amount of such material is much larger than that of the ‘classical’ sources. The problems with such material is that it is rarely ‘religious’ in any direct

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the members of that class. It does not mean that we have no knowledge of the religion of the farmers or the ‘private’ religion or the ‘lower’ mytho­logy, but compared to what we know of the upper class, it is rather scanty. A problem we often see is, however, that, even if these facts were acknowledged, the entire corpus of sources has even so been used to illuminate ‘the’ religion of the North, not taking this social diversity into consideration. Once again: it is important to be aware that there were definitely religious structures that played a role in the entire society, but many others that were of significance for only certain groups. There is no doubt that it is extremely complicated to distinguish between common religious features and those that are socially specific. This is not least due to the source situation, and it cannot be maintained that we can be precise about these matters. To decide which part of the source information belongs to which group, we must again recur to comparativism in order to get a realistic picture. For instance, comparing to religions that in certain respects are ‘like’ that of pre-Christian Scandinavia, according to our ‘model’, we will recognize, among other things, that in oral cultures, there was no religious ‘elite’ in the same sense as we know from, for instance, Christianity. Thus, to equate the social diversity in pagan Scandinavia with what we see in Christian societies between the ordinary people and the clergy would be less relevant than to look at other pagan societies. There were no doubt differences in the pagan society too, but they were due primarily not to various degrees of philosophical and dogmatic reflection, but, as has just been stated, to various focal interests. It is important, therefore, that we are aware of these problems, and that we take into account these considerations, when trying to grasp the religion (or rather religions) of the Viking Age. Psycho­logical and Cognitive Diversity The three types of diversity so far discussed are yet more complicated than most scholars have been aware of, since it has usually been taken for granted that, at least, we could maintain that the individual possessed a set of notions which could be seen as a more or less coherent system (and that this is what we should be aiming at, in reconstructing PCRN). If we compare with, for instance, the chrono­logical diversity, there may have been huge differences between the reliway, as this term has been characterized above, at least not in the same way as what we meet in Snorri’s Edda, the eddic poems, and some of the sagas.

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gion described (or rather hinted at) in Tacitus’s Germania and the one presented in the Eddas. This, however, is just what we might expect since there are more than a thousand years between the composition of the sources.44 But this very notion of ‘religion’ implies that we face coherent world-views, not just from a geo­graphical or socio­logical perspective, but also mentally. So, according to this view, if we had an old Viking standing beside us, we could ask him about his world-view, and then he would tell us what the Vikings of the North really believed. In other words, it must be due to the source situation that we cannot reconstruct this coherent world-view, and that we face so many contradictory notions; or to put it briefly, much of the information seems quite chaotic. For a coherent world-view must obviously have existed since reasonably intelligent people strive for a logical and coherent perception of all aspects of life. The problem with this notion is that almost no modern people have such a coherent world-view, and there is no reason to believe that this should have been essentially different back in the Viking Age (cf. Nordberg 2012). This misunderstanding is probably due to a strong influence from theo­logy and philosophy since, in both fields, the proponents seek for that which is free from contradictions and that which is logically coherent; this endeavour is thus seen as something common to all mankind. Some cultures and some individuals have managed to reach a higher level than others, it is argued, since, for instance, the Greeks were more logical than the so-called ‘primitive’ cultures. Thus, it is the general attitude of many scholars, especially from older generations, that individuals dislike contradictions within their world-view, and thus that they will try to eliminate them. But this does not seem to be the case, judged by the reactions of modern people; on the contrary, it seems as if most people are quite content even if their religious viewpoints are completely incoherent. Their gods are in the temple as well as in heaven; they are conceived both as anthropomorphic and not anthropomorphic. The dead are in some far away abode, and yet they receive presents in the mound. The rituals may involve the eating of the god, but it is not really the god, and so forth and so on. In the socalled universal religions, ‘high’ religions, or secondary religions,45 such things can be seen as ‘mysteries’, and then it is not as bad as when the ‘primitives’ have the same sort of incoherent ideas. But if we are sufficiently developed in regard 44 

Some of the eddic poems may go far back in time, but still, they cannot, in the form we know them, be earlier than the eighth century, and almost no scholar would date any of them that early. 45  Cf. Steinsland (2005a: 31–34) for a valuable distinction between folk religions and universal religions.

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to intellect, the different elements in the world-view ought to be logically connected, or so the argument goes. And this is also the way scientific thinking necessarily has to work. But religion is not science and is perhaps best characterized by this difference with scientific reasoning. Whereas the logic that characterizes the scientific process is formal, the (folk-)religious logic should be characterized as a logic of the concrete (cf. Lévi-Strauss 1962), which is a logic that is valid within certain fields but does not have to be valid within other fields. A consequence is, for instance, that a god may be characterized in a certain way within one myth but differently within another. And sometimes the two characteristics will be almost contradictory, but this does not mean that everything can be said about this god. Usually, we find for various gods what we above called a semantic centre (Schjødt 2013), which may generate a lot of different characteristics in different narratives — and, for that matter, also different rituals. ‘Many characteristics’, however, do not mean ‘all possible characteristics’. The fact that Óðinn is the one who knows (è 42) may be thematized in a direct way, or it may play some subordinate role; but it is not possible to portray Óðinn as a fool (unless it would be in a directly polemical text). So, there are limits, set by the discursive space, as to which roles a god may play, but within these limits, there is a rather large space for variations. Contradictions may arise because a certain mythical being can play a certain role, which is in accordance with his or her semantic centre, in one myth, in which details are related that are not necessary in other myths. For instance, we are told in one myth that Loki has his lips sewn together (è 44), a detail which is elsewhere never commented upon. Would this mean that this myth has originated in another time, at another place, or in another social class than the rest of the Loki myths? Very unlikely. It is probably due to the simple fact that, in this myth, there may have been an idea behind the sewing together of the lips whereas the motive is not necessary in any other myth, and there is thus no reason for the ‘myth maker’ to take it into consideration, whether or not he was acquainted with it. The mechanism here is probably similar to that of many cartoons, in which the agents act in accordance with their semantic centre (which may be psycho­logically or socially determined), but what happens in one episode does not play any role for the next one. This sort of thing ought to bother rationally thinking people who are able to construct bridges and space crafts, but apparently it does not. Except for a small minority seeking to construe their whole life and world-view as a coherent system, it is characteristic that in all cultures — also those of modernity — the main part of the population are quite content (at least most of the time) in spite of this incoherence: we are rationally thinking people, when necessary; but it is normally not nec-

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essary when we deal with religious matters. Sometimes, we need to think that God is almighty, which makes sense in some instances; at other times, we need to think that he is all good. It is only when the theo­logians try to combine these ideas that we get the theodicé problem. Also ordinary people in certain stressed situations, sometimes cannot escape thinking of such matters, which was probably also the case in the Viking Age. But in general, these opposite views create no problems (cf. Whitehouse 2000: especially 160–88). The various types of diversity that we have seen in the previous sections emphasize the need for the comparative perspective that we dealt with above. In order to be aware of the relation between the source information on the one hand and the reconstruction of the religious world-view of the pre-Christian Scandinavians on the other hand, we cannot deduce that a notion of a certain god, for instance, that we meet in the sources, is the pre-Christian notion of that god. It may have been, for a smaller or larger part of the population at a certain time, but we must certainly take into consideration what we know about such notions from other religions in order to get a realistic view of its representative value within Scandinavia. This means that it is rarely possible to determine which of two mutually contradictory expressions is the ‘pure’ pagan one. They may both very well contribute to the reconstruction of the discourse concerning a given god.

Concluding Remarks The viewpoints set forth in this chapter are meant to address some of the issues that we have to take into consideration when we deal with PCRN. There are of course many more problems that will be treated in the following chapters, which are important for the individual subjects. It will also be obvious to the reader that some of the viewpoints that are argued here are not shared by all the authors of the individual chapters. This is as it should be, since it would a big mistake to pretend that there is agreement on all issues in the field of PCRN. There certainly is not. Nevertheless, the main idea with this first chapter has been to address some theoretical problems which should be taken into consideration by all who engage in the reconstruction of PCRN. There will be different perspectives and different opinions about the procedures to be undertaken, but there can hardly be any doubt that it is important to be aware of them. What has been argued is that we need first to know what we are talking about in dealing with religion and with specific types of religion, and second

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that we must be aware of the procedures that we use for our reconstructions and not just accept the naïve viewpoint that we can just sift through the sources, and then everything we can possibly know of PCRN will be clear. This is definitely not the case: the perspective and the theoretical orientation of the researcher is of huge importance for our reconstructions, as can be seen as soon as we read through the scholarly literature on any subject within the field. Third, we also have to accept that it is not only a matter of finding the right, or rather the most useful, procedures for our reconstruction, but just as much that we reflect on what it actually is we can reconstruct. The various levels of diversity are thus of utmost importance for the status of our historical reconstructions: no matter how careful we are, we will never be able to describe PCRN as a whole, for it never was a whole. What we can do, therefore, is to point to some important features within the area that will allow us to glimpse parts of the world-view, as well as some of the discourses that constituted this world-view.

2 – Memory, Oral Tradition, and Sources Pernille Hermann

Introduction One of the obvious reasons for investigating pre-Christian Nordic religion in the light of memory is that this religion existed over time and therefore needed resources of preservation and transmission. The reflections below are structured around questions of preservation and transmission, and are divided into two parts: the first part deals with orality and ‘myths in memory;’ and the second part draws attention to writing and ‘memory in the myths’. The topic of memory is approached theoretically, having an emphasis on selected concepts of memory. Memory is dealt with as an embodied storage room of individuals and as a collective phenomenon, and the concepts of communicative memory and cultural memory are used in the discussion (Carruthers 1990; Carruthers and Ziolkowski 2002; Halbwachs 1992; Assmann 2005: 56; Assmann 2008: 109–10; see also Glauser, Herrmann, and Mitchell 2018). Memory in the sense of an embodied storehouse is seen as a craft and as a resource that can be trained to contain immense amounts of information. The others concern types of memory that are socialized and shared by people and which are externalized in cultural expressions. The chapter also includes consideration of the challenges posed by the Old Norse textual sources, and it deals with the mythic content and the way memory is expressed in the texts. The chapter touches upon a few selected areas only and makes no claim to being exhaustive. Pernille Hermann, Associate Professor, Scandinavian Studies, Aarhus University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. 41–62 John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116929

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Memory and Orality Memory Specialists Except for the special case of runic inscriptions (see below and è3), writing did not offer the possibility of storage in pre-Christian Scandinavian culture. Memory was therefore a crucial means of preservation. Comparative studies provide good reason to believe that memory was a highly developed resource in oral cultures (Ong 1999; Goody 1987), and we can assume that people in general were good at remembering in a culture where writing did not offer an infinite externalized archive. Still, certain people stood out from others in having excellent memories. The textual sources talk about minnuga mæn, that is, men of good memory (Brink 2014), and about men and women who could remember a long way back (‘es langt munði fram’) and who had a reliable memory (‘es bæði vas minnigr ok ólyginn’) (Íslendingabók ch. 1 and 9). Such wise people had trained memories and knew methods of remembrance (Larrington 2006). Memory-dependent abilities gave these individuals a special role, and they were consulted for their expertise. To this group belonged such skilled people as the skald, who overlapped with the frœðimaðr (man of knowledge), suggesting that the skald was not simply a poet with competences in aesthetics but a man of knowledge in a more general sense. Others were the law-speakers and cult leaders like the goði, the gyðja, the þulr, the vífill, and the lytir. Pagan religion had no professional priesthood, but people of good memory, who occupied different religious and social functions, were important as carriers of religious, legal, and other knowledge of past and present, as well as for keeping record of how to perform rituals. We do not know exactly how memory was trained, nor how mnemonic techniques were handed down from generation to generation, but an extraordinary memory can only be acquired through training. Studies from other cultures emphasize that remembering and mnemonic efforts can be supported by creations of mental mnemonic places and mnemonic images, which are creative innovations inspired by the physical environments of those remembering (Yates 1974; Scheub 1977; Carruthers 1990). Memory is a resource that requires assistance, without aids its contents will diminish and fade away (Rigney 2005). The textual material gives some insight into what Stefan Brink has called the ‘most prominent mnemonic tools for remembrance’ (Brink 2005: 110) in pre-Christian Scandinavia, which included both verbal and nonverbal mnemonic aids. Narratives and poetry using formalized language in the shape of metrics, alliteration, rhyme, formulas and sounds,

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would have supported and structured memory (cf., e.g., Lönnroth 1976; Harris 1983, 2010; Kellogg 1991; Mitchell 2003b). Nonverbal features, that is, pictures and g­ raphic imagery, would have assisted memory as well. Carved images depicting myths and legend, for example, the images found on the Gotlandic picture stones, represent a visual and icono­graphic language which functioned as a supporting device for those who ‘read’ and decoded the stone monuments. The specific type of skaldic composition, ekphrasis, which is in evidence in such poems as Húsdrápa, Ragnarsdrápa, and Haustlǫng, points to the relevance of intermediality for memory and to an interplay between memory, image, and oral utterance. Material artefacts and objects, that is, props used for religious and magical performances (for example, staffs, wands, masks and wagons) (Gunnell 1995: 54; Price 2002: 171–77), would have been mnemonic aids as well and as accompanying devices in rituals they would have assisted preservation and served as structuring principles. Natural and cultural sites in the landscape, for example, lakes, islands, mountains, rune stones, and places such as the hǫrgr, delineated symbolic spaces and as such they supported the preservation of the past. Judging from poems such as Ynglingatal and Háleyg jatal, graves were central places around which the memory of the dead and of the past thrived (cf. Glauser 2007: 19). Furthermore, monuments, for instance the Ramsund-complex (figure è7.9.), which combines runic inscription, carved images, and bridge constructions served as reminders of the great people of the past (Mitchell 2013: 294–95). Generally, places in the landscape would have been crucial for memory, not only in the narrow sense suggested above in connection with an individual’s mental creation of mnemonic places but also in a broader sense where the actual physical environment served as a resource that helped to preserve and structure collective memory (Schama 1995). When perceived by people living in an area, the real physical landscapes were potentially transformed into symbolic landscapes loaded with memories (Brink 2001; cf. Cresswell 2004). Collective Memory Emphasizing memory in the form of an embodied storehouse consisting of skilled individuals does not diminish the relevance of collective forms of memory. The interplay between individual and collective memory is a topic of great complexity. One strand of the discussion goes back to socio­logical theory and Maurice Halbwachs’s suggestion that the memory of an individual is shaped socially (Halbwachs 1992). This underscores that the memories of an individual are determined by experiences shared by members of a social group, that is,

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of a memory community. Following this line of thought, we can consider the memory specialists mentioned above as carriers of a collective memory. Collective memory is a ‘reconstructive’ memory (Halbwachs 1992: 39–49; Le Goff 1992; Assmann 2005: 40). It is a type of memory that remembers for the sake of the present not for the sake of the past. This insight suggests that a collectively shared remembered past is a living and creative phenomenon rather than a fixed entity that can be retrieved in its exact form. Memory’s plasticity, which exists both on individual and collective levels, has been pointed to by many scholars (e.g., Halbwachs 1992; Carruthers 1998; Rigney 2005). Jan Assmann has written: On all levels, memory is an open system. Still, it is not totally open and diffuse; there are always frames that relate memory to specific horizons of time and identity on the individual, generational, political, and cultural levels. (Assmann 2008: 113–14)

The reconstructive dimension of collective memory has affinities with what anthropo­logists suggest is the case in oral cultures: namely, that knowledge of the past is indebted to ‘homeostatic’ processes and principles of ‘structural amnesia’ (Goody and Watt 1968: 30; Hermann 2017b). Despite the fact that participants may be inclined to argue for sameness and exact reproduction, knowledge which is upheld orally tends, even when it concerns such important things as founding figures and mytho­logical beginnings, to adapt itself to the social circumstances at the time of the memory-activity. The principle of structural amnesia draws attention to the fact that forgetting is a built-in component of remembrance and must be reckoned just as relevant a structuring principle for the past as memory itself (cf. Connerton 2008). It is implied in this model that the past serves as an entity that can explain the present and thus establish coherence and a relation of continuity between past and present. Put simply, in a society — or in a local or regional community — without historical and social changes, the past does not need to be questioned or reinterpreted; it will continue to fulfil its explanatory function. In contrast, a turbulent historical situation with many changes increases the need for negotiation with the past. Even if evidence can be adduced that pre-Christian Nordic religion was transmitted as a ‘living memory’ within ‘specific horizons of time’ (cf., e.g., Fabech 1994; Andrén 2013a), historical changes happened relatively slowly over longer periods of time, a fact which — in theory — would mean that the past was not in a constant state of being reinterpreted and reinvented. But with regard to the genesis of the Old Norse textual sources — an important source group for our knowledge of pre-Christian religion and, especially,

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Figure 2.1. The rune stone at Rök in Östergötland (Ög 136, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). This impressive early ninthcentury rune stone was erected by Varin in memory of his dead son, Væmod, and features the longest-known runic inscription. The interpretation of the text is much debated, but most scholars agree that it is based on questions and answers concerning memory, with allusions to events in the distant past, in one instance going back nine generations. The Rök stone is the oldest written example of the profound importance of memory in Scandinavia. Photo: Anders Andrén.

its conceptual dimension — it is exactly historical change that forms the most conspicuous background aspect of their coming into being. In Iceland, where most of the texts were produced, considerable social, religious and political changes happened (migration, settlement, change of faith, loss of political freedom) between the ninth and the thirteenth centuries. Following the model described above, such changes would have led to a high-level negotiation of the past, and exactly this is evidenced in a great many parts of the textual corpus, which neatly demonstrates the reconstructive aspect of collective memory. Many of the Old Norse texts are immensely preoccupied with the past, both the relatively recent past (i.e., the Íslendingasǫgur), the more distant past (i.e., the fornaldarsǫgur) and the mytho­logical past (i.e., the Prose Edda). However, the principles guiding the narratives are formed by interests belonging to the time of the remembering activity (the thirteenth century and onwards) more than they mirror the truth of the real past (cf. Meulengracht Sørensen 1993a:

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43–44; Vésteinn Ólason 1998; Torfi Tulinius 2002; Hermann 2009). Whereas this situation makes the texts excellent sources for the collective memory of medi­eval Iceland, it complicates their status as sources to the reality of the pasts that they describe. Communicative and Cultural Memory The concepts of ‘communicative memory’ and ‘cultural memory’ have been developed in continuation of and as subcategories of Halbwachs’s notion of collective memory. They were initially introduced by Jan Assmann for a case study in Egypto­logy, but they have been subjected to widely differing treatments, with correspondingly widely differing ramifications, within various disciplines (cf. Assmann 2005, 2008; Erll and Nünning 2008). Involving the concepts of communicative and cultural memory in studies of pagan Nordic religion is not a matter of either-or; components of both concepts offer useful theoretical categories for coming to grips with the preservation and transmission of religion in the Norse world. Communicative memory embraces the recent past, about three generations; it is based on oral communication in everyday contexts and works within groups (e.g., family groups) in ways that are not formally or hierarchically structured. The dependency on face-to-face communication and generational transmission favours reconstructive tendencies (Assmann 2006: 24). The position of pagan Norse religion in an oral culture implies that a communicative memory may have been relatively dominant. If pagan Norse religion is considered similar to a ‘primary religion’ (Assmann 2006), a type of religion which blurs the delineation marks between religious and other cultural systems, religious ideas and phenomena would in part have merged with customs and practices that were not directly connected to formalized religious situations. The Old Norse term used for religion, siðr (custom), indicates that religion was not perceived in isolation from, for example, tradition, but as an integral part of a broad cultural spectrum. This perspective supports the view that religious knowledge would have been disseminated informally in various corners of people’s lives, that is, as communicative memory. Cultural memory contrasts with communicative memory inasmuch as it facilitates structured forms of preservation and allows for a diachronic depth: It is not a generational memory, but a memory which exists across time. Among the factors that make the reproduction of cultural memory possible are: specialists, media, ceremonial settings, and collective participation (Assmann 2005: 56; Assmann 2008: 109–18).

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With this concept it is suggested that memory, metaphorically speaking, exists as externalized cultural phenomena (see also Hermann 2013). Jan Assmann defines cultural memory as: jeder Gesellschaft und jeder Epoche eigentümlichen Bestand an WiedergebrauchsTexten, -Bildern und -Riten, in deren ‘Pflege’ sie ihr Selbstbild stabilisiert und vermittelt, ein kollektiv geteiltes Wissen vorzugsweise (aber nicht ausschliesslich) über die Vergangenheit, auf das eine Gruppe ihr Bewusstsein von Einheit und Eigenart stützt. (Assmann 1988: 15) (the characteristic store of repeatedly used texts, images and rituals in the cultivation of which each society and epoch stabilizes and imparts its self-image; a collectively shared knowledge of preferably (yet not exclusively) the past, on which a group bases its awareness of unity and character.) (Grabes 2005: 128)

In our context, this would mean that at the same time as such phenomena as poetry and narratives, images, ritual performances, artifacts, landscape, graves, and so on served ‘as tools of remembrance’, they actually constituted — they were — the cultural memory of pre-Christian Scandinavia, that is, an externalized shared memory that supported collective diachronic identities.1 The extent to which pagan Norse religion was formalized is a complicated matter. Theoretically speaking, a strong cultural memory would support a high degree of formalization and structure (Assmann 2005); moreover, cultural memory would be absolutely decisive for keeping alive a memory capable of preserving a remote mythic past. Pagan religion existed in an oral culture where written texts did not exist as a storage room able to preserve a past that extended beyond the range of a few generations. Assmann has emphasized that ritual was a crucial tool of remembrance and of unique importance for ensuring the reproduction of the past in oral cultures. In cultures without writing, the past-present relationship was upheld by a connecting structure of ‘ritual coherence’, characterized by repetition and reproduction (Assmann 2005; cf. Connerton 1989: 45). Consequently, religions in oral cultures are cult religions having their core essence in ritual performances rather than in belief. This corresponds to what Gro Steinsland, who defines pagan religion as a folkereligion (ethnic religion), writes: Folkereligionene har sitt tyngdepunkt i kulten, ikke i troen. Riktignok utvikler folke­religionene omfattende myto­logier og kosmo­logier der guder og makter 1 

In another context, Jan Assmann has called such cultural phenomena as dances, rites, and symbols ‘cultural texts’; cf. Assmann (2006: 123–24).

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spiller viktige roller, men disse trosforestillingene er ikke utmeislet i dogmer eller lære­systemer. Det er i den felles kulten at religionen har sitt ankerfeste. (Steinsland 2005a: 32) (Ethnic religions have their focal points in cult, not in belief. It is true that ethnic religions develop comprehensive mytho­logies and cosmo­logies where gods and powers have important functions, but these belief concepts are not depicted in dogmatic principles. It is in the shared cult that religion has its anchorage. (My translation)

This point of view implies that cultic performance, that is, rituals, was the main preservation resource of oral religions. Ritualistic actions would have presupposed myths as well as a conceptual dimension and therefore would have functioned as a storage room of knowledge about deities, the supernatural world, and cosmo­logical beginnings; however, myths embedded in the ritual were subordinate to the ritual performance (Assmann 2006: 122).2 Writing is important for the existence of cultural memory, that is, for the possibility of a culture having a diachronic perspective and thus acquiring its collective identity through identification with a remote past. At the same time, Assmann does not deny the existence of cultural memory in oral cultures. In oral contexts, cultural memory depends very much on specialists and the demands made on their memory. Assmann writes that those demands that insist on verbatim transmission are ranked highest. Here, human memory is used as a ‘database’ in a sense approaching the use of writing: A fixed text is verbally ‘written’ into the highly specialized and trained memory of […] specialists. (Assmann 2008: 114–15)

Examples have already been given of some of the specialists relevant in the context of pagan religion, and the question of verbatim transmission calls into focus skaldic verse and runic inscription, both inevitable when talking about cultural memory-strategies in the pagan Norse world (cf. Jesch 2005b; Harris 2010). Skaldic verses were a medium for commemorating the great deeds of kings and chieftains, but not least their use of mythic kenningar and heiti made them crucial for the transmission and preservation of myths. The conviction that their metrical system facilitated exact retrieval and that skaldic poems depended on memory as a database was noticed already by the medi­e val writers, amongst others Snorri Sturluson who preferred skaldic verses as sources to the past, 2 

For a discussion of the complex relationship between myth and ritual in relation to the study of pagan Norse religion, see, e.g., Schjødt (2008: 62–72).

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since these would have been likely to be transmitted in unchanged form: ‘En kvæðin þykkja mér sízt ór stað fǫrð, ef þau eru rétt kveðin ok skynsamliga upp tekin’ (Heimskringla, p. 7) (As to the poems, I consider they will yield the best information if they are correctly composed and judiciously interpreted) (p. 5). The function of skaldic poetry as externalized memory and its similarity to writing is illustrated in one of the Íslendingasǫgur: Bandamanna saga (see Hermann 2014). Even if the narrated episode is set after the actual saga age, it provides an insight into the function of skaldic verse in oral culture: ‘Þá mælti Ófeigr: Nú vil ek kveða yðr vísu eina, ok hafa þá fleiri at minnum þing þetta ok málalok þessi, er hér eru orðin’ (Bandamanna saga, ch. 10) (Then Ofeig spoke up: Now I want to recite a verse for you, so that more people will remember this Althing and the outcome of this case) (p. 491). The verse, composed with the intention of assisting memory, reveals that skaldic poetry had a function similar to that of books in written culture. Despite not taking the form of tangible objects, skaldic verse was objectified in the sense that it could be repeated. Thus, skaldic poetry constitutes a version of the intriguing feature that has been called ‘literacy avant la lettre’ (e.g., Jesch 2005a), and it points to the presence in preChristian Scandinavian culture of fixed oral utterances ready for repetition. In addition to runic inscriptions and skaldic poetry, other verbal expressions (e.g., eddic poetry, sagas, law, genealogies, proverbs, and charms) should be considered in the context of cultural memory. Jürg Glauser writes that genealogies are to be considered among ‘the most characteristic and original forms of cultural memory techniques’ (Glauser 2000: 210). Together with other list-types, genealogies point to diachronic interests and indicate how attempts were made to reach back in time and to combine the most distant legendary and mytho­ logical materials (e.g., ancient forefathers, founding figures) with present times. The question of verbatim transmission leads to considerations of rote memory versus creative memory. In Old Norse scholarship, this topic has been dealt with specifically in connection with eddic poetry (Acker 1998), which is one of the main media for not only pagan myth, but also ritualistic performance (cf., Gunnell 1995). The discussion of eddic poetry has been inspired by Albert Lord’s and Milman Parry’s investigations of Yugoslav epic singers and has included opinions giving precedence to, respectively, memorization and composition-in-performance (Lord 1960; Mitchell 2003b; Hermann 2017). Although this specific debate merely touches one corner of the huge landscape of different media that transmitted religious knowledge, pagan myths and ritual performances, it has broad implications. It shows the co-existence of different modes of remembering and points to the vexed question of conservatism versus innovation.

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A passage in Laxdæla saga can serve to illustrate one possible framework within which cultural memory could have existed towards the end of the pagan period. This narrated event depicts a situation where central demands of cultural memory are met: namely, the presence of specialists, media, communal participation, and a ceremonial setting.3 The passage tells of a wedding feast that took place c. 980–85 in the hall of an Icelandic chieftain: þat boð var allfjǫlmennt, því at þá var algǫrt eldhúsit. Þar var at boði Úlfr Uggason ok hafði ort kvæði um Óláf Hǫskuldsson ok um sǫgur þær, er skrifaðar váru á eldhúsinu, ok færði hann þar at boðinu. Þetta kvæði er kallat Húsdrápa ok er vel ort. (Laxdæla saga, ch. 29) (A great number of people attended the feast as the fire-hall was fully built by that time. Among the guests was a poet, Ulf Uggason, who had composed a poem about Olaf Hoskuldsson and the tales carved on the wood of the fire-hall which he recited at the feast. It is called House Drapa and is a fine piece of verse.) (p. 40)

The skald, Úlfr Uggason, acts as a specialist, singled out among the group of people gathered at the feast. The poem, Húsdrápa, and the images on the wall, depicting the myths about Þórr’s fishing expedition and Baldr’s funeral, are the media that serve as the connecting elements between the mythic past and the time of the memory-activity. The passage describes a media situation, wherein various verbal and pictorial means are simultaneously invoked to bring to life the narratives of the mytho­logical past. This mixed media aggregation points away from a diffuse transmission, where the reproduction of the myths is entrusted to any individual, and towards a formalized situation, where a specialist (in this case, the skald) is in charge and thus controls the transmission. If the wedding guests understand the references and allusions contained in the skaldic verse, the requirements of communal participation is met, and the skald can be understood as a carrier of a collectively shared memory. The performance happens in a ceremonial context, a wedding, implying that the participants were acting within a marked context. In this specific ceremonial situation, the conditions are provided for bringing the mytho­logical past into the present. This passage from Laxdæla saga suggests the relevance of special arenas for cultural memory, and it points to marked (sacred) spaces where cultural memory could be performed and shared by the members of the memory-group. One such type of arena of special relevance for religion would have been cult houses, 3 

See the discussion in Hermann (2017b).

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but also other arenas would have been crucial, for example, thing-assemblies (è20, 25, 27). As is indicated in the passage above, halls and houses could serve as arenas for ceremonial gatherings and thus as spaces that facilitated the reproduction of cultural memory (Herschend 1993; Brink 2005: 79). Terry Gunnell has argued that the interior environment of the hall was invoked in dramatic performances of rituals: in such cases, the architecture of the hall would have been transformed into a tangible visual sign of cosmos (Gunnell 2001c). With regard to cultural memory, the hall then constituted a complex and many-sided mnemonic framework for creating a link with the cosmo­logical past. That the preservation and transmission of pagan religion depended on multiple types of externalized memory — not only ritual, verbal utterances, and images, but also buildings — shows the importance of including a broad spectrum of material culture when discussing cultural memory-strategies (cf. Andrén 2013a).

Memory and Writing Textual Sources A well-known passage from the Prose Edda identifies the main obstacles interfering with modern scholars’ attempts to reconstruct the pagan myths (see Hermann 2009): that they were mediated in writing by Christians, that is, in a medium foreign to Nordic religion, and that they were inserted into a new ideo­logical context. The quotation places pagan myth and one of its main media (skaldic poetry) within written culture: En þetta er nú at segja ungum skáldum þeim er girnask at nema mál skáldskapar ok heyja sér orðfjǫlða með fornum heitum eða girnask þeir at kunna skilja þat er hulit er kveðit: þá skili hann þessa bók til fróðleiks ok skemtunar. En ekki er at gleyma eða ósanna svá þessar sǫgur at taka ór skáldskapinum fornar kenningar þær er hǫfuðskáld hafa sér líka látit. (Skáldskaparmál, p. 5) (But those things have now to be told to young poets who desire to learn the language of poetry and to furnish themselves with a wide vocabulary using traditional terms; or else they desire to be able to understand what is expressed obscurely. Then let such a one take this book as scholarly inquiry and entertainment. But these stories are not to be consigned to oblivion or demonstrated to be false, so as to deprive poetry of ancient kennings which major poets have been happy to use.) (p. 64)

The passage, explicitly stating that the work’s intended audience is young skalds, presupposes a situation wherein the kenningar that were prevalent in the orally

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Figure 2.2. The runic inscription at Hillersjö in Uppland (U 29, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). The long inscription starts with the word raþu (read/solve/interpret), which is carved into the eye of one of the runic animals in the upper left. Thus the rune carver Torbjörn skald requests the reader and viewer to interpret the carving, with its complicated composition and complex contents, in an active sense; cf. Andrén 2000a. Photo: Bengt A. Lundberg, Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm.

based and memory-dependent poetic form of skaldic poetry might no longer be immediately grasped and understood (see Hermann 2009, 2017b). Still, the writer clearly expresses a wish to preserve the poetic expressions and thus he uses the book as an externalized storehouse for the mythic narratives that are capable of explaining the ancient kenningar. The passage suggests that the myths (here termed sǫgur) had now become part and parcel of a culture where the book was considered as a means to avoid oblivion, that is, as a new ‘tool of remembrance.’ Medi­e val Nordic writers received writing in the form of the Latin alphabet as an aid to memory (Glauser 2007; Hermann 2013). In numerous authorial comments writers reflect on two co-existing storage rooms, memory and the book, and on the transfer of knowledge from one to the other. Moreover, the large quantity of knowledge of the past, often expressed in narrative form, which was transferred to writing during the thirteenth century in itself, indicates that writing was considered a tool that could assist memory. But writ-

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ing did not replace memory: medi­e val culture continued to rely heavily on the memorial capacity of individuals and thus remained a culture of memory (Carruthers 1990; Ásdís Egilsdóttir 2006; Hermann 2015). Still, writing changed the premises for storage and transmission, and it provided new ways of accessing the past. With writing, knowledge could accumulate and an archive could be established (e.g., Assmann 2008), providing new possibilities for how to approach the past, partly in allowing for processes of canonization and a hierarchical organizing of texts (Assmann 2005; Glauser 2000: 212).4 One of the basic textual problems is that the mythic material was not preserved and transmitted in writing by somebody who held it to be true and sacred. Judging from the Prose Edda, Christian men were encouraged not to believe in the gods or in the truth of the narratives, but to see them as the result of apostasy and false belief among the people of the past (Skáldskaparmál, p. 5). The mythic material transmitted in writing can be understood as Christian mytho­ graphy (cf. Lindow 2005: 22). The degree to which, exactly where, and in what detail the Prose Edda, and other textual treatments of the pagan material, reinterpret pagan tradition in the light of the Christian truth can be discussed, but there can be no doubt that a Christian mind-set as well as learned interpretative strategies were woven into the textual representations of the material (e.g., Holtsmark 1964b; Dronke and Dronke 1977; Weber 1987). From one perspective, Christian influences can be judged negatively as ‘inauthentic interpolations’ and ‘foreign elements’, and the written representations can be criticized for their divergences from the ‘original myths’ of the pagan period; however, if the textually transmitted mythic material is seen within the framework of medi­eval collective and cultural memory, interpolations and foreign elements show the reconstructive dimension of memory and its indebtedness to synchronic contexts at the time of the memory activity (Hermann 2009, 2017b). This reveals one of the important characteristics of myths, namely their capacity for adapting to changing circumstances. This characteristic makes expectations of an original myth highly problematic, inasmuch as they fail to recognize that myths would not have existed as fixed categories in the pagan period either, but more likely as localized narratives influenced by a wide range of, for example, 4 

According to Jan Assmann, the use of writing establishes a new type of past/presentrelationship of ‘textual coherence’ (in contrast to the ‘ritual coherence’ of oral cultures), which supports innovation and interpretation (Assmann 2005: 87–103). A shift from ritual to textual coherence may not be relevant in the case of pagan religion, since this religion never used writing, but it is relevant for medi­eval culture and the establishment of a textual corpus that became decisive for how the past was perceived and understood.

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geo­graphical, social, and psycho­logical factors (Raudvere 2002a; Brink 2007b; Schjødt 2009a, 2012a). That the myths could be adapted to their immediate frameworks (cultural, political, religious, social) is exactly the quality that facilitated their continued existence as part of a ‘working cultural memory’ in the medi­eval period. Aleida Assmann defines ‘working cultural memory’ as follows: The working memory stores and reproduces the cultural capital of a society that is continuously recycled and re-affirmed. Whatever has made it into the active cultural memory has passed rigorous processes of selection, which secure for certain artifacts a lasting place in the cultural working memory of a society. (A. Assmann 2008: 100)

A memory-perspective supports what has been argued by, for example, Margaret Clunies Ross (1998a): namely, that the mythic material was considered a cognitive tool in the medi­eval period. In other words, that the myths, despite being deprived of their sacredness, were regarded as meaningful and culturally significant narratives. Moreover, it calls for a broad definition of myth, one that focuses on function and on the explanary capacity of mythic narratives, rather than the narrow definition of myths as carriers of religious meanings only. The quotation above refers to ‘rigorous processes of selection’. Old Norse textual sources do not yield much information on rituals and cultic practices. In this respect, they may be misleading for interpretations of what the main components of the pagan cult religion were and of what was essential for its preservation, as in a myth/ritual-relationship wherein myth was secondary to ritual. The exclusion of ritualistic knowledge from the written record can in part be explained by processes of ‘active forgetting’ (A. Assmann 2008) within the Christian environments that produced the Old Norse texts. The fact that the performance of pagan rituals was forbidden soon after the Christianization plays an important role for the lack of knowledge about them in the medi­ eval sources. Also, medi­eval writers’ selective principles caused censoring and erasure of what was considered unacceptable parts of the past (Quinn 2000: 36). Moreover, the relatively uneven treatment of mythic and ritualistic material, that is, remembering of myths versus forgetting of ritual, can in part be explained by reference to the character of myth and ritual, respectively. As indicated above, myths are not highly formalized, but are subject to variance. In contrast, ritualistic practises are highly indebted to a strictly formalized bodily action and have a strong component of invariance encoded in them (Connerton 1989: 57–58; Hermann 2017b). That myths allow for variance

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Figure 2.3. Illustration of the dialogue between the Swedish king Gylfi and the three disguised æsir Hár, Jafnhár och Þriði in Gylfaginning in Codex Upsaliensis of Snorra Edda (vellum leaf p. 50, DG 11, Uppsala Universitetsbibliotek). Photo: Uppsala Univer­ sitets­bibliotek, Uppsala. 

and are indebted to a rich variety of influences supports the view that the mythic material could potentially be inserted into a variety of ideo­logical (and other) contexts, a factor crucial to their continued existence in collective and cultural memory in the medi­eval period. Also relevant to a treatment of the preservation and transmission of pagan material in the medi­eval period are some reflections on the memory space constituted by manu­scripts. Medi­eval manu­scripts reveal a great deal about the new contexts into which pagan material was inserted. Manu­scripts show, amongst other things, that media strategies were under consideration in the medi­e val period (Glauser 2009; Hermann 2017b). One of the important manu­scripts of the Prose Edda, Codex Upsaliensis (1300–25), raises a number of questions

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relating to medi­eval opinions of media and to the interplay between orality and writing. It points to the fact that both verbal (oral and written) and nonverbal (icono­graphic) media were invoked to reproduce culturally significant narratives in medi­e val cultural memory, and this suggests that writing — despite being of great importance — was not unchallenged (cf. Glauser 2013). One of the illustrations in the manu­script depicts the dialogue between the disguised æsir, Hár (High), Jafnhár ( Just-as-high), and Þriði (Third), and the Swedish King Gylfi in disguise as the wanderer Gangleri (Way-weary), a dialogue that constitutes the complex framework of the Prose Edda within which pagan mytho­logy is revealed.5 The image clearly depicts an oral communication situation, for instance, the hand gestures function as signals of orality and thus represent a way of expression alternative to writing (Schmitt 1991).6 Memory in the Mythic Texts But how is memory expressed within the mytho­logical world constructed by the Old Norse texts? First of all, it can be noted that the mythic narratives are in a very basic sense identical with cultural memory. Both mythic narratives and cultural memory support identities and self-images and both are concerned with the distant past. It is a defining characteristic that myths explain phenomena by referring to what happened when the world, its habitants, its institutions, and so on came into being, and they concern not only the divine world and the gods, but embrace a variety of natural, social, and cultural phenomena, which are provided with mythic origins. To the extent that a myth stabilizes self-images, that is, offers orientation to groups of people, a merging of myth and cultural memory is at stake: The mythic narrative becomes cultural memory. A few examples suffice to illustrate the explanatory function and the founding quality of Norse myths. The myths about Þjazi and Aurvandill (Skálds­ kaparmál, pp. 2 and 22), which tell of how eyes and a frozen toe, through the actions of Óðinn and Þórr, become stars in the firmament, explain the origin of star-images in the sky (Glauser 2014). These specific myths invoke fragmented body parts and thus repeat the body-metaphor also used in the cosmogony where creation is realized through the use of Ymir’s body-parts (Gylfaginning, p. 12). 5 

See the discussion in Hermann (2017b). See Michael Camille on the interplay in manu­s cripts between different modes and media, that is, images and verbal forms (1992). 6 

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The eddic poem Rígsþula, relating how the god Rígr, that is, Heimdallr, impregnates three women who give birth to Þrœll (thrall, slave), Karl (yeoman, freeman), and Jarl (jarl, noble) provides a story about the origins of a social hierarchy and explains social differentiation. Another example is the myth about the poetic mead (Skáldskaparmál, pp. 3–5), which explains how poetry came into being. The poetic mead derives from a mixing of body liquids and the creation of the wise Kvasír. It is a divine gift closely connected to Óðinn, and it is inextricably connected to the ingestion of liquids (Orton 2007; Quinn 2010). This myth provides a founding narrative for skalds in offering a framework for how to understand and encourage skaldic inspiration. But how else is memory expressed? It is well known that mytho­logical persons are preoccupied with aspects of knowledge (e.g., Quinn 2010). The occupation with memory is less transparent. However, such mytho­logical persons and places as Huginn and Muninn, Mímir, Míms hǫfuð, Mímis brunnr, linked to a semantic complex centring on the god of wisdom, Óðinn, suggest that together with wisdom memory was an important resource in the mytho­ logical world (Hermann 2014). Moreover, the authoritative utterings of vǫlur (sg, vǫlva), for example, the one in Vǫluspá, suggest the importance of memory. Memory is symbolically expressed and personified in the raven Muninn, who occurs as one half of the raven pair Huginn and Muninn.7 Etymo­logically ‘Muninn’ may derive from the Old Norse muna (to remember) and ‘Huginn’ from hugr (mind, thought) (de Vries 1962a: 265, 395; Lindow 2014). It is now common to consider the two ravens as personifications of memory and thought and to see them as representing two complementary intellectual resources of the mind. Recently, Stephen A. Mitchell has summarized the discussion and concluded that It is worth noting that this ‘thought’ and ‘memory’ perspective probably reflects many medi­eval Icelanders’ understanding of the name associations as well. […] The bifurcation of the mind into two partially overlapping categories by these understandings of the terms captures something essential about the way the mind was, and is, conceived. (Mitchell 2019)

The raven pair is connected to Óðinn. This is the case in, for instance, Gylfaginning: ‘Hrafnar tveir sitja á ǫ xlum honum ok segja í eyru honum ǫ ll tíðindi þau er þeir sjá eða heyra. Þeir heita svá: Huginn ok Muninn’ (Gylfaginning, p. 32) (Two ravens sit on his [Óðinn’s] shoulders and speak into his ear all the news they see or hear. Their names are Hugin and Munin’) (p. 33). 7 

The following discussion builds on and extends the argument in Hermann (2014).

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The two ravens lend their services to Óðinn. They relate what they experience, what they see (sjá) and hear (heyra), and as such they function as extensions of Óðinn’s senses. One of Óðinn’s many functions is to be the god of wisdom. The ravens support his status as the wise god, and their affinity with Ódinn suggests that his wisdom derives from and comprises the complementary intellectual qualities of thought and memory. Regarding Huginn and Muninn as personifications of Óðinn’s mind implies that memory and thought are detached from the bodily location that these resources could otherwise be expected to have (i.e., in the breast or the heart). Memory, then — and its counterpart, thought — is externalized and is given a concrete form. Another mythic person that may be a representation of memory is Mímir. Mímir has been understood as ‘the one who remembers’ (e.g., Simek 2007), although the etymo­logy of Mímir is somewhat obscure and may not warrant this understanding of the name (Heslop 2019). Still, Mímir’s function in the narratives places this god in a semantic complex that includes a complementary understanding of the intellectual resources of thought, that is, intelligence, knowledge, and memory. Mímir is known from Gylfaginning as the guardian of Mímis brunnr, the mytho­logical well of wisdom and knowledge. Mímir is in command of the crucial event in which Óðinn gives up his eye in exchange for these powers: þar er Mímis brunnr, er spekð ok mannvit er í fólgit, ok heitir sá Mímir er á brunninn. Hann er fullr af vísindum fyrir því at hann drekkr ór brunninum af horninu Gjallarhorni. Þar kom Alfǫðr ok beiddisk eins drykkjar af brunninum, en hann fekk eigi fyrr en hann lagði auga sitt at veði. (Gylfaginning, p. 17) (There is where Mimir’s well is, which has wisdom and intelligence contained in it, and the master of the well is called Mimir. He is full of learning because he drinks of the well from the horn Giallarhorn. All-father went there and asked for a single drink from the well, but he did not get one until he placed his eye as a pledge.) (p. 17)

This myth illustrates how wisdom was acquired: It is ingested into the body in the form of liquids; both Mímir and Óðinn drink from the well, and their acquisition of knowledge is expressed by means of the consumption of fluids. Also, wisdom is obtained through seeing. It is Óðinn’s eye, that is, sight, which functions as the medium for obtaining the desired resource, pointing to the importance of sensory experience in connection with wisdom and memory (Hermann 2015; Carruthers 1990). Mímir is also referred to in Ynglinga saga, however, and in a quite different context than in Gylfaginning. But also Ynglinga saga has amongst its themes

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the power of intellectual resources. Mímir is centrally placed as a token of exchange between the vanir and the æsir and is sent from the æsir to the vanir as a sign of peace. With Mímir the æsir send Hœnir, who is described as: ‘allvel til hǫfðingja fallinn. Hann var mikill maðr ok inn vænsti’ (p. 12) (well-fitted to be a chieftain. He was a large man and exceedingly handsome) (p. 8). Hœnir depends on Mímir and becomes unfocused and disoriented without him. The Hœnir/Mímir-couple can be understood like Huginn and Muninn, as another pair representing thought and memory (Clunies Ross 1994a) and underlining the complementarity of these resources.8 Moreover, the interdependency of these two qualities suggests that one does not work without the other, or more precisely: Thought needs memory in order to function. The passage in Ynglinga saga says that the vanir behead Mímir and return the head to the æsir: Þá tóku þeir Mími ok hálshjoggu ok sendu höfuðit Ásum. Óðinn tók höfuðit ok smurði urtum þeim, er eigi mátti fúna, ok kvað þar yfir galdra ok magnaði svá, at þat mælti við hann ok sagði honum marga leynda hluti. (ch. 4) (Then they seized Mímir and beheaded him and sent the head to the Æsir. Óthin took it and embalmed it with herbs so that it would not rot, and spoke charms over it, giving it magic power so that it would answer him and tell him many occult things.) (p. 8)

Once more, Óðinn is connected to intellectual resources of the mind. Back among the æsir, Óðinn takes care of Míms hǫfuð, transformed from body to head, and as a benefit of that gains knowledge from it. The vanir’s expulsion of Mímir from their community may imply that this group of gods, in contrast to the æsir, does not fully recognize the importance of memory, which implies a differentiation between the two god-groups and reveals the subordinate intellectual position of the vanir (Schjødt 1991; Clunies Ross 1994a: 96, 211–14). Moreover, this situation repeats a commonly expressed type of activity associated with Óðinn: namely, the wise god’s negotiations with persons who possess much desired intellectual resources. It confirms that Óðinn depends on others in order to maintain his position as the wise god, a dependency which is expressed in the Odinic cognomen Míms vínr, perhaps referring to his encounters with Mímir and his attempts to increase his knowledge. The 8 

For the etymo­logy Hœnir, which is debated, see de Vries (1961: 278). It is relevant to the present discussion that, in Vǫluspá, st. 18, Hœnir is mentioned as the god who gave humans their óðr (mental activity, reason), so in that context he is semantically associated with thought.

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linking of memory to the god of wisdom suggests that memory was paramount in attempts to maintain order in the mytho­logical world. Whereas Óðinn’s acquisition of knowledge would secure worldly order, his dependency on others, his efforts, and the sacrifices he makes suggest mytho­logical instability and the constant threat of disorder. Memory’s counterpart, forgetting, is also at stake in the mytho­logical world. This is indicated in the eddic poem Grímnismál: Huginn oc Muninn fliúga hverian dag iǫrmungrund yfir; óomc ec of Hugin, at hann aptr né komið, þó siámc meirr um Munin (Grímnismál, st. 20). (Hugin and Munin fly every day, over the vast-stretching world; I fear for Hugin that he will not come back, yet I tremble more for Munin.) (p. 51)

Óðinn fears that Muninn will not return, that is, that memory will not come back. When the ravens are around him, thought and memory are present, but when they fly off, the threat of oblivion is felt to be imminent. The otherwise complementary resources are here prioritized; Óðinn fears for Huginn but holds even stronger feelings for Muninn, whose absence causes him to tremble. In another eddic poem, Hávamál, st. 13, forgetting is dealt with in the kenning óminnis hegri (the heron of forgetfulness) ( Johansson 1996; Orton 2007; Mitchell 2013; Heslop 2014), referring to a heron that appears among aledrinking men. Also in Hávamál, rather obscurely, Óðinn reflects on forgetting: Ǫlr ec varð, varð ofrǫlvi at ins fróða Fialars; því er ǫlðr bazt, at aptr uf heimtir hverr sitt geð gumi (Hávamál, st. 14). (Drunk I was, I  was more than drunk at wise Fialar’s; that’s the best about aledrinking that afterwards every man gets his mind back again.) (p. 15)

This stanza refers to Óðinn stealing the mead of poetry from Suttungr (here called Fjalarr), and thus it associates ale-drinking men with poetic abilities. The best sort of drinking is when the geð (mind, senses) comes back. This implies an ‘out of the mind’-situation, that is, a state of oblivion. Or put another way: The return of the mind presupposes a previous liminal state of absence or oblivion.

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Thus, drinking and ingestion alongside a shifting between mental presence and absence, that is, memory and forgetting, are the preferred methods of obtaining poetic inspiration. Vǫluspá is a rich source on memory and the perception of it. The framework, which consists of a mono­logue by the vǫlva (Seeress) directing her speech to Óðinn and human listeners, clearly shows that the vǫlva is someone to consult for her exceptional knowledge. The vǫlva incarnates (at least) two particularities of memory. First, from her starting point in a present situation, she both remembers far back into earlier times and can make prophecies about the future. As such, her special knowledge derives from an ability to perceive a wide temporal span, an all-embracing past/present/future-nexus where memory is integrated in a temporal framework, which is not merely concerned with the past but with the present and the future as well (Lindow 2014a). Second, memory’s sensory dimension is conspicuously present, pointing to the way in which the senses mark an important gateway to memory. Judy Quinn has argued that ‘the vǫlva’s knowledge is essentially experiential; she expresses it through the cognitive processes of remembering and seeing’ (Quinn 2002: 251). The sense of sight is repeatedly emphasized when the vǫlva relates to Óðinn and her audience what she sees (e.g., ec sá, ‘I saw’), and it is especially this sense that facilitates her remembrance and knowledge. Thus, the faculty of sight serves as a device that triggers memory (Larrington 2006).9 Sight and its affinity with remembering is not only the prerogative of the vǫlva but also of Óðinn. Turning our attention away from Vǫluspá, and emphasizing Óðinn once again, the subtlety of Óðinn’s sight is highlighted not merely by him being one-eyed, but also in Óðinn’s names, such as Helblindi and Blindi, listed in Gylfaginning. At first, such names might be understood to indicate a lack of sight. However, since Óðinn is never disabled because of this, they instead turn our attention to his exceptional sight (Lassen 2003b 84–115). That the faculty of sight supports Óðinn’s cognitive ability is presupposed in another passage in Gylfaginning: ‘Þar er einn staðr er Hliðskjálf heitir, ok þá er Óðinn settisk þar í hásæti þá sá hann of alla heima ok hvers manns athœfi ok vissi alla hluti þá er hann sá’ (Gylfaginning, p. 13) (In the city there is a seat called Hlidskialf, and when Odin sat in that throne he saw over all worlds and every man’s activity and understood everything he saw) (p. 13). When positioned in his seat, Hliðskjálf, Óðinn is not only capable of seeing over the worlds but also of obtaining understanding: sight assists cognition. 9 

On memory, sight, and visuality, see, e.g., Yates (1974: 9–14, 82–104) and Carruthers (1990: 27, 221).

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The mytho­logy — implicitly, in symbols and personifications — reveals that memory is associated with wisdom and with such related resources as thought, intelligence, and knowledge. Moreover, it includes other key aspects of memory, which are evidenced not only in the mythic texts referred to above but in other parts of the Old Norse literary corpus as well (Hermann 2014): These key-aspects suggest, for example, that forgetting is considered as memory’s counterpart; that memory concerns not only the past but a past-present-future nexus; that memory is connected to sensory experience, for instance, sight; and finally that it is related to cognition.

Concluding Remarks Considerations of memory in connection with Old Norse religion draw attention to questions about past/present-relationships, connecting elements in collective groups, and — specifically regarding cultural memory — to the fact that in order to exist a religion, or a culture, requires representations, that is, externalized memory that binds people together, for instance, by referring to a shared mytho­logical past. It also draws attention to media, because it is only through media that memory can be externalized and thus can be shared by people. Memory is often contrasted with history (Nora 1989; Le Goff 1992; Erll and Nünning 2008). This stresses that memory is reconstructive, that is, it is living, relevant, meaningful, and so on, and thus it is indebted to the time of the memory-activity more than to the facts in the past. Approaching preChristian Norse religion by focusing on memory is not relevant first and foremost when attempting to retrieve original pagan practises that were related to myth and ritual. Instead, it concerns transmission and sheds light on the ways in which a mythic corpus and ritualistic performances existed as a relevant framework for people over time. It is concerned with how selected aspects of a mythic and ritualistic heritage lived on — or did not live on, with how it was mediated as well as to what degree and by what means people turned to it when defining collective identities. Of special relevance in this case, where the pagan mythic heritage actually seems to have lived on into the medi­eval period, is the question of how it was given meaning when represented in new contexts and in new media. A study that investigates pagan religion and its sources with reference to memory does not specifically aim at the reconstruction of a past reality or of general structures behind the representations of myth and ritual, nor does it attempt to reconstruct the historical background of a mytho­logical phenomenon. It places itself among those directions of scholarship that focus on meaning rather than on questions concerning factuality.

3 – Written Sources John Lindow

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s outlined in the above chapters, the written sources regarding PCRN offer a series of problems and challenges.1 With the exception of inscriptions, most were recorded by means of pen and ink — that is, by means of the techno­logy of writing brought to the North and usually controlled by the Church. Some are in Latin, and whether the place of recording was somewhere in Scandinavia or elsewhere in Europe, the literal translation into Latin is only the most manifest of the cultural translations that are at play. Even texts in the vernacular with what appear to be direct presentation of myth represent translation to a greater or lesser degree, the most important areas comprising translation from pre-Christian to Christian discourse and potentially or ultimately from oral to written discourse. It is probably safe to say that some runic inscriptions are the only texts that come directly from any pre-Christian religious discourse. To take the case of Iceland (no doubt the most important), the formal conversion to Christianity took place at the end of the first millennium, but vernacular writing may not have started before the early twelfth century, and none of the texts relevant to PCRN was written down before the thirteenth century. This time gap obviously touches both myth and ritual. Finally, we must recognize that we probably only have a very small percentage of what may have existed in oral tradition, as a comparison between the breadth of the Nordic mytho­logical materials, gathered and retained in haphazard fashion during the 1  For a clear presentation of the written sources and the problems they pose, focused on the mytho­logy but equally valuable for PCRN, see Abram (2011: 8–51). Earlier in this book (Abram 2011: 2–8) provides a succinct introduction to the use of archaeo­logical sources (è6).

John Lindow, Professor Emeritus of Scandinavian, University of California, Berkeley The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. 63–101 John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116930

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Middle Ages, and that of Finnish-Karelian mytho­logical poetry, gathered and archived systematically in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, seems to show (Lindow 2017a).

Runic Inscriptions Until the conversion to Christianity brought the techno­logy of writing on vellum, the society in which pre-Christian religion prevailed was more or less exclusively an oral society. The hedge ‘more or less’ is possible because of the existence of runic inscriptions (and also to some degree of skaldic poetry; see below). The runic writing system probably originated no earlier than the beginning of the common era, as an adaptation of Roman epi­g raphy (Odenstedt 1990), and no finds are known from before c. 175 ce. For the first several centuries, an alphabet (‘fuþark’, after the first six letters) of twenty-four characters was used. Only a few hundred inscriptions in this ‘elder fuþark’ are known, and their contents are extremely sparse: on the vast majority of them, just the runerow, a nomen agentis or personal name or two, simple manufacturers, memorial, or other formulas, and so forth. The oldest inscriptions are on portable objects, but from the fourth century onward there are inscriptions on stones. There are about half a dozen longer, more complex inscriptions, mostly on stones, and many scholars have seen in them references of one sort or another to magic and/or cult. By the seventh century or so the elder fuþark went out of use. In England and Frisia the rune-row was expanded and was in use until the eleventh century. In Scandinavia it was replaced by variations of a ‘younger fuþark’ consisting of sixteen characters, which remained in use in some cases down into modern times. A few thousand of these come from the Viking Age, primarily on stones from what is now Sweden and with a weighted centre in the areas around Lake Mälar (Uppland and Södermanland). The interpretive problems are significant (Hultgård 1982; Düwel 1992a). When Elmer Antonsen wrote that ‘a strict linguistic analysis must precede attempt at interpretations by mytho­logists and religious historians in order to provide a sound basis for their interpretations’ (1988: 43–44), he stood toward the end of a period when there was a near-consensus that the elder fuþark inscriptions, and indeed the runes themselves, had a direct connection with magic and the occult. That point of view has faded, and the prevailing view today is that the fuþark, like all writing systems, could be used for multiple purposes. Religion could certainly be among those purposes and probably is. The problem in the first instance is that the linguistic analysis is difficult, and it

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Figure 3.1. The rune stone at Glavendrup on Fyn (DR 209, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). The monument is erected as part of a long ship-setting. Photo: Anders Andrén. 

drives the interpretation. The three words on the reverse side of the Nordendorf fibula brooch 1 (Bavaria, sixth century) provide an example: logaþore: wodan: wigiþonar. All observers agree that the second and third words contain the names of the deities Wodan and ‘Consecrating’ Þórr (itself an interpretive problem). Some see the first word as that of a third deity, and an argument in favour is the usual tripling of divine names in formulas. Others think that logaþore is a plural noun or adjective meaning something like ‘schemer’ or ‘lying’ (Düwel 1982; Grønvik 1987a; MacLeod and Mees 2006: 17–19). Thus the inscription could be an expression either of a pre-Christian religious formula containing three gods or of an early Christian demonization of two of the gods. A second problem is that even when there is agreement on the linguistic form of an inscription, there may be extremely varied interpretations. Four rune stones from the Viking Age offer an example. There is little doubt that these stones contain a formula spelled out in full on the Glavendrup stone

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(DR 209, Samnordisk runtextdatabas): þur: viki: þasi: runaR (May Þórr hallow these runes). Given the lack of mytho­logical connection between Þórr and the sphere of language and his prominence in opposition to the Christian mission, it would seem most likely to take the formula as a pagan reaction to Christianity (Marold 1974), but not everyone is convinced (Sonne 2011: 17–53; also è41). A third and admittedly less pressing problem is the highly formulaic nature of many of the Viking Age rune stones, which are raised as memorials over dead relatives. Nevertheless, these stones are helpful in recovering important aspects of the social order (Sawyer 2000; è21). Bearing in mind the interpretive problems, runic inscriptions do offer tantalizing evidence on myth, on ritual, on magic, and on aspects of belief.2 We have seen Wodan and ‘Cosecrating’ Þórr on the Nordendorf fibula brooch I and the requests to Þórr to consecrate runes, and although these are the most salient examples, a few other names are attested as well. Especially the inscription on the Eggja stone (Sogn og Fjordane, N KJ101, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), c. 700 ce, has been seen as associated with death ritual, and the Thorsberg shieldboss (Schleswig-Holstein, DR 8, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), c. 200 ce may give evidence of the ritual sacrifice of weapons. The Ribe skull fragment (DR EM85; 151B, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) seems to invoke ulfuR auk uþin auk hutiuR, which has been interpreted as ‘Úlfr and Óðinn and Ha-Týr (High-Týr)’, against some kind of pain or illness.3 Possible indications of beliefs associated with the Other and thus with religion as we define it for this work centre on the role of supernatural beings in causing illness (e.g., the Canterbury Charm (E DR 419, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), in which Þórr perhaps appears again).4 The so-called Lister stones (DR 356; DR 357; DR 358; DR 359, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) from seventh-century Blekinge in what is now southern Sweden may give evidence about the role of rulers in bringing good harvest. Interpretation of these inscriptions remains contested, but the lost Gummarp stone (DR 358, 2 

The following para­g raphs profited from the survey ‘Runic Inscriptions as Sources for Pre-Christian Religion’ solicited by the editors from John McKinnell. For a survey of inscriptions possibly related to religion and magic, we can refer to McKinnell and others (2004). 3  Chapter 29 below treats the quite extensive runic evidence for cult specialists as possibly reflected in the term erilaz and in first-person formulas and in other individual lexical items. Runic inscriptions as evidence of magical practices are treated in è26. 4  The charm, written in the younger fuþark in a section of an English manu­script, is against ‘blood-vessel pus’. For discussion, see MacLeod and Mees (2006: 120) and Sonne (2011: 59–113).

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Samnordisk runtextdatabas) may suggest that one Haþuwolfaz gave wealth (indicated by repetition of the f-rune, the name of which means ‘wealth’), and a possible translation of the Stentoften stone (DR 357, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) is that this or another Haþuwolfaz gave a harvest. Runic inscriptions may also give indications about attitudes toward the dead, whether benign or malignant. We certainly do get unequivocal notions of attitudes toward the dead in the late Viking Age — and clearly post-Conversion — stones that pray God to help the soul of the person memorialized on the stone. In the rest of this chapter, we take up a brief explication of the other major written sources and the problems in using them (bearing in mind that unlike most previous treatments of PCRN, ours will attempt to give the archaeo­logical sources equal weight to the textual sources). We focus primarily on the most important of the medi­eval Nordic materials, as well as some significant ‘eyewitness’, ‘ethno­graphic’, and historical writings; the problems posed by many other written sources are treated where appropriate in individual chapters throughout the work. The order of topics here is not meant to indicate priority of value; as will become apparent, we believe that skaldic poetry comprises the most valuable of all the written sources available to us, but as indicated above in the introductory chapters, our approach permits access to a vast variety of sources, written and archaeo­logical, and it is not our purpose to prioritize them.

Eddic Poetry Many handbooks and other treatments of the sources begin with eddic poetry when considering the sources.5 For example, Jan de Vries wrote: ‘Unter den literarischen Denkmälern stehen die Eddalieder an erster Stelle’ (Among the literary sources the eddic poems have pride of place) (de Vries 1956–57a: i, 37). Surely the reason for this pride of place is the cognate poetic tradition in Old English, Old High German, and Old Saxon. Since several of the daughter linguistic traditions attest alliterative narrative poetry, scholars have inferred that there was a common Germanic (altgermanisch) poetic tradition. This poetry, the reasoning goes, attaches to the witness of Tacitus, in Chapter 2 of Germania: ‘Celebrant carminibus antiquis, quod unum apud illos memoriae et 5  Ursula Dronke (1992: 656–84) departs from the premise that ‘the tiny surviving corpus [of eddic poetry] is the key to a very full past’ (656). The bulk of her contribution, however, is not a consideration of what is set forth in her title but rather a series of lexical analyses. See Lindow (2016), Schjødt (2016), Gunnell (2016), and Lassen (2018a) for treatment of eddic poetry with respect to mytho­logy and PCRN.

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annalium genus est, Tuistonem deum terra editum’ (Their ancient hymns — the only style of record or history which they possess — celebrate a god Tuisto, a scion of the soil) (p. 267). Reconstruction of this common Germanic tradition need hardly concern us here. It would be complicated, for several reasons. First, the alliterative poems in Old English, Old High German, and Old Saxon are stichic, while the alliterative (‘eddic’) poems in Old Norse are arranged into stanzas. Second, many Old English and Old Saxon poems attest what amounts to epic (Beowulf, Judith, Hêliand). Third, Old English genres such as lament may stray a bit from ‘remembering or recording the past’. None of these variations, however, can affect the basic idea that alliterative narrative poetry must have existed in pre-Christian times, even if it is of course only (for the most part) recorded later. Indeed, alliterative sequences in runic inscriptions from before the conversion virtually guarantee the existence of alliterative poetry in the pre-Christian North. Another problem, however, is more significant. Although Tacitus goes on in Chapter 2 of Germania to say that the ancient songs he is discussing tell of Mannus and his sons — that is, are cosmogonic and more broadly speaking mytho­logical — while all the traditions have heroic poetry, only Old Norse has mytho­logical poetry.6 If we therefore were to surmise that, say, the Old English and Old Saxon Christian poetry represent innovations in those traditions, or that epic in those traditions and stanzaic form in Old Norse represent innovations, then it would not be inconceivable that Old Norse mytho­logical poetry in the old alliterative narrative form represents yet another innovation (here it is important to stress that we are speaking only of the existence of a type of poetry — poetry on mytho­logical subjects — not of individual poems). One logical explanation for the lack of mytho­logical poetry in the cognate alliterative narrative traditions could of course be the influence of the Church, which might more or less easily accommodate native heroes (see the vast literature on Beowulf as a Christian poem) or accommodate the form to Christian subjects, but might well find no cogent reason to record mytho­logical poetry or might even wish to suppress such poetry in its oral forms. If this was the case, we need to justify not the existence of mytho­logical alliterative poetry in pre-Christian times but rather its persistence into the Christian Middle Ages in Iceland. 6 

By ‘mytho­logical poetry’ here, we mean poetry narrating myths. Both Old High German (Second Merseburg charm) and Old English (Charm for Unfruitful Land, Nine Herbs Charm, For a Sudden Stitch, as well as the above-mentioned Canterbury Charm (E DR 419, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) attest metrical charms that call upon mytho­logical figures.

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The most obvious support for the coexistence of alliterative mytho­logical poetry with heroic poetry is the very common juxtaposition of the mythic and the heroic in a number of domains, or, put another way, of the unbreakable relationship between the mythic and the heroic, between gods and heroes (è36). For example, Viking Age picture stones portray both gods and myths across the northern world, from Northumbria to Gotland. Later narrative evidence (Saxo, sagas) attaches heroes to gods. Most important, there is strong evidence for the admixture of the mythic and heroic in skaldic poetry, which we take to be essentially a primary source from before the Conversion. We will take up that evidence later in this chapter, but in our view it argues strongly for the existence of pre-Christian mytho­logical poetry of the eddic type. Most eddic poetry is found in a single manu­script, GkS 2365 4to.7 It is from around 1270 and is a copy of a manu­script from a few decades earlier (see Lindblad 1954, 1977, 1980). Indeed, this manu­script gives the genre its name, since Bishop Brynjólfur Sveinsson, who conveyed it to the Royal Library in Copen­hagen, mistakenly thought that it was the ‘Edda’ of Sæmundr Sigfússon fróði (the learned), parallel to the Edda of Snorri Sturluson, whose title has witness in the Middle Ages. Ever since then, scholars have called the manu­ script Sæmundar Edda (‘The Edda of Sæmundr’, which it is not), or the Elder Edda (older than Snorri’s Edda, which it is not), or the Poetic Edda. This manu­script, the Poetic Edda, shows careful arrangement, which was probably the work of the scribe himself (Lindblad 1980). It moves from mytho­ logical to heroic poems, with a clear palaeo­graphic break between the two parts (Lindblad 1954). The redactor placed synoptic poems, namely Vǫluspá and Helgakviða Hundingsbana I, at the beginning of each section, and his overall organization is what Heinz Klingenberg once called ‘Endzeitprogrammiert’ (arranged according to ‘eschato­logical programming’), in that Hamðismál, the final poem, ends with a kind of heroic Ragnarǫk and thus looks back across the break between mytho­logical and heroic poems to the opening prophecy of the seeress in Vǫluspá (Klingenberg 1974). In Klingenberg’s view, this ‘Endzeitprogrammierung’ is in general characteristic of the organizational strategies adopted by the redactor.8 Purely from the point of view of textual criticism, then, it is prudent to take into account the way in which a poem in

7 

On the following discussion, see further Clunies Ross (2016). It may also have been traditional, since scenes and motifs of Ragnarǫk seem to prevail in the icono­graphy of Viking Age picture stones from Northumbria and Man. 8 

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the Poetic Edda articulates with the rest of the contents, not least in the way in which it is contextualized with respect to the poems that precede and follow it. One additional point about the organization of the Poetic Edda is that the redactor moved from the synopsis, Vǫluspá, through poems about Óðinn (Hávamál, Vafþrúðnimsál, Grímnismál, Hárbarðsljóð) to a poem about Freyr (Fǫr Skírnis or Skírnismál), to poems about Þórr (Hárbarðsljóð, Hymiskviða, Lokasenna, Alvíssmál). The location of V ǫlundarkviða, between Lokasenna and Alvíssmál, breaks the organizational principle by gods and may have to do with an attempt to place poems with an álfr and a dwarf toward the end of the sequence.9 Overall, however, the organization is significant, in that it apparently prioritizes Óðinn, places Freyr before Þórr, and associates álfar with the gods. This organization is presumably the product of the redactor or his environment, and it should probably, in the end, be understood in connection with the ‘Learned Prehistory’, the medi­eval Icelandic theory of the immigration of the Nordic peoples into Scandinavia from Asia, led by the human king Óðinn and, subsequently, his heir Freyr (see, most recently, Malm 2018). A second point to be inferred from the organization of the Poetic Edda is that the gods preceded human heroes in chrono­logical time. This inference gains strength from the fact that the heroic section is organized along a clear chrono­logical line. As a whole, then, the Poetic Edda imagines a pre-Christian cosmogony, a time when gods and then heroes (sometimes both) walked the earth, and what amounts to an end of the heroic era with the demise of Erpr, Hamðir, and Sǫrli.10 Although this chrono­logical line belongs properly to the reception of PCRN, it may affect our thinking about the individual poems. Besides GkS 2365, the Poetic Edda, there exists a second manu­script of eddic poems, AM 748 Ia 4to, from c. 1300. It attests seven whole or partial poems, all mytho­logical, and was originally adjoined to 748 Ib, a manu­script of Skáldskaparmál; thus the poems may have filled a role similar to that of Gylfaginning in other manu­scripts of Snorra Edda (Guðrún Nordal 2001: 58). The seven poems are Hárbarðsljóð (st. 19–60), Baldrs draumar, Skírnismál (st. 1–27), Vafþrúðnismál (st. 20–55), Frá Hrauðungi kóngi (header to Grímnismál), Hymiskviða, and the opening of the prose header to Vǫlundarkviða. Baldrs draumar is found only here. The others are also found in GkS 2365. AM 748 9  According to Lindblad (1954), Vǫlundarkviða has been transmitted with the mytho­ logical poems as far back as we can see. 10  The redactor may also, of course, have been influenced by the model of the Old Testament and New Testament in the Bible (Harris 1985).

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Figure 3.2. Page with opening of Vǫluspá from the manu­script of the Poetic Edda (Codex Regius, GKS 2365 4to). Photo: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, Rey­kja­vík. 

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Ia indicates a kind of generic sense, in that it collects mytho­logical poems, and indeed Gustav Lindblad shows that there was an independent collection of mytho­logical poems in the prehistory of the Poetic Edda (Lindblad 1954, 1980). However, it should be added that because Hárbarðsljóð begins with st. 19, there may have been a gathering preceding the extant gathering that makes up 748 Ia, and we cannot guess much about its contents other than the beginning of Harbarðsljóð, although Guðrún Nordal found that the extant poems ‘belong therefore to a manu­script that probably contained more eddic poems’ (Guðrún Nordal 2001: 58). Other mytho­logical eddic poems are found singly in manu­scripts devoted to other subjects, mostly of Snorri’s Edda. This fact confirms the association of eddic poetry with the study of poetics in the Icelandic Middle Ages. The existence of AM 748 Ia alongside the Poetic Edda brings up the issue of textual variation. The most important instance of such variation occurs in the case of Vǫluspá, which is found in the Poetic Edda, in the later manu­script Hauksbók, and in manu­scripts of Snorri’s Edda, where stanzas are quoted in Gylfaginning. Editors of the poem usually have proceeded under the assumption of some original Vǫluspá that may be (re)constructed on the basis of the manu­scripts, although from a text-critical perspective it would make far more sense to treat each version individually in its manu­script context (see Quinn 2001; Mundal 2008), and certainly they may represent recordings of variants from oral tradition.11 The recent edition of Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason (2014), which edits the two versions separately, is thus very welcome, as is Carolyne Larrington’s 2014 translation, which prints Hauksbók separately as an appendix. Each eddic poem is presumed to have been an independent entity, with its own textual history. These are naturally contested, and the problem could conceivably be compounded through the application of oral theory, which if applied overly strictly could lead to the conclusion that if the poem was recomposed at each performance, it can have changed so drastically over time that the version we have in the manu­script is no more than an artefact of the time of its recording.12 Against this view we can bring to bear the fact that many of the myths are recorded or alluded to in skaldic poetry, which we take to be a reli11 

Jón Helgason recognized this possibility some years before the advent of ‘oral theory’; Jón Helgason (1953: 28), cited in Lönnroth (1971: 311, n. 2). 12  Interestingly, the indispensable Frankfurt commentary on the eddic poems shows little interest in the possible oral background of the poems. For some discussion of the implications of this position, see Amory and Lindow (2006).

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able reflection of pre-Christian oral tradition of a different sort. We might also mention images, such as Þórr hooking the Miðgarðsormr (figure è 41.1–2), which indicate that the myths in eddic poems have been around for some time. Thus the content of eddic poems remains a valid source for the study of PCRN. The indications that Terry Gunnell has brought forth about the probable dialogic performance of ljóðaháttr poems is important here as well (Gunnell 1995). The poems on which he focuses are in fact mostly mytho­logical: Skírnismál, Hárbarðsljóð, Vafþrúðnismál, and Lokasenna, with only Fáfnismál belonging to the heroic corpus — and of course, much of the content of Fáfnismál is mytho­logical in nature. Gunnell’s final conclusion — namely, that the poems or dramas about gods had to have been composed during the preChristian period — gains traction from and works together with the common linguistic heritage of the heroic poems and the common context of heroic and mytho­logical topics in Viking Age Scandinavia.

Skaldic Poetry Skaldic poetry shares with eddic poetry the division into stanzas that distinguishes Old Norse poetry from poetry in other Germanic languages, and many other features distinguish skaldic poetry not only from verse in the other Germanic languages but also from the rest of the Old Norse poetic corpus, even if the firm distinction between ‘eddic’ and ‘skaldic’ poetry now seems as much an artefact of nineteenth- and twentieth-century scholarship as a vital part of Old Norse poetic tradition on the ground. Because it has named poets, some of whom were associated with the historical record, and because it sometimes treats datable events, it is possible to assign a hypothetical date of composition in many cases. The question, of course, is: how hypothetical is such dating, and is it in the end worth anything at all? Our response to these questions begins with the fact of the dróttkvætt stanza on the runestone in Karlevi, Öland (Öl 1, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) which is probably from c. 1000 ce. Thus, we know for a certainty that skaldic stanzas existed during the Viking Age, and we know that they used mytho­logical kennings, in this case specifically ‘dólga Þrúðar draugr’ (tree of the Þrúðr of battles, that is ‘warrior, man’)13 and ‘reið-Viðurr Entils jǫrmungrundar’ (chariot-Viðurr

13 

While draugr ordinarily means ‘tree’ in kennings, there may well be a pun here, since the kenning could be construed as ‘revenant of the Þrúðr of battles’, and ‘revenant’ could also be applied to the dead warrior in his mound.

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of the vast expanse of Endill, that is, ‘sea-captain’, or just ‘man’). We see in the first kenning the name of Þórr’s daughter and in the second an Óðinn-name. Another enormously important piece of evidence is the main repository of mytho­logical skaldic poetry: namely, the manu­s cripts of Snorri’s Skáldskaparmál. Skáldskaparmál shows enormous learning. Much of it, of course, is of a Christian sort, from the embedding of its learning in dialogue to the categories of the kennings as organized by Snorri (Clunies Ross 1987; cf. Clunies Ross 2018c). But it is, in our view, hardly credible that all of the examples cited in it should have been composed for the express purpose of providing examples of the kennings that Snorri wished to discuss. Nor does it strike us as credible that eleventh-, twelfth-, or early thirteenth-century rhetoricians can have invented a systematic skaldic past extending back into the ninth

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century, especially since the use of skaldic poetry in twelfth- and thirteenthcentury Iceland was widespread (Guðrún Nordal 2001). Indeed, the very fact that we can construct a literary history of skaldic poetry argues in favour of its existence in pre-Christian times and, especially, for the existence of extant poems during those times. Here an important argument is the apparent shift away from ‘pagan kennings’ during the Conversion Period and for a time later, first argued by Jan de Vries (de Vries 1934a; cf. Kuhn 1942 and de Vries 1956–57b). Even if de Vries’s argument appears somewhat exaggerated today, it seems undeniable that the verse of Hallfreðr Óttarsson vandræðaskáld shows a dictional break that is most easily associated with his conversion, just as the sagas tell us (Strömbäck 1975; see also Whaley 2011). The mytho­logy itself probably also offers additional evidence for the existence of pre-Christian skaldic poetry. Snorri tells us that there is a god Bragi, whose domain is poetry, while skaldic tradition tells us that there was a poet Bragi. The obvious solution to this doubling is to propose a progression from the human poet to the deity, as was done by Eugen Mogk as long ago as 1887 (Mogk 1887, 1889a; Bugge 1888). There seems little reason to doubt that Bragi inn gamli Boddason was a ninth-century poet, and Mogk’s proposal of Bragi as the inventor of skaldic poetry is plausible (Gade 1995: 226–38). We believe that Mogk trod dangerously thin ice when he proposed that Bragi’s deification had occurred by the ninth century, but that does not change the essential argument (è 54). Bragi was already in Valhǫll in the late tenth century, if (as we argue here) we can accept the dating of Eiríksmál to shortly after the demise of Eiríkr blóðøx in Stainmore in 954. Thus there is a clear progression, which in turn argues for literary development from the early pre-Christian period. Dróttkvætt was by far the most common metre for skaldic poetry on mytho­ logical topics. Its formal requirements — six syllables per line, trochaic cadence, alliteration, half and full rhymes — govern nearly every syllable in the twentyfour-syllable helmingr (half-stanza, the basic analytic and presumably compositional unit). The relative fixedness of skaldic poetry agrees with the use of the verbs yrkja to compose such verse and kveða to declaim it.14 Dróttkvæt verse is

14 

The runic inscription on the Tjurkö I bracteate contains the sequence wurte runor an walha kurne (Axboe 1985: 316; spaces added for clarity), which can be construed as Old Norse orti runor á Vala korni ‘worked runes on southerners’ grain’, in which the older form of the verb yrkja is joined with what appears to be a kenning: ‘southerners’ grain’ for ‘gold’. If this reading is correct, we see a kenning in the Migration Period, and ‘worked’ might be read as ‘composed’.

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not simply something one says: it is something one works up, and then formally presents orally.15 This enmeshing in a system would make recomposition in the full ParryLord sense out of the question; although it was an oral form, skaldic texts were relatively fixed texts. The disclaimer ‘relatively’ is necessary because the close analyses of manu­script transmission undertaken for a few poems and stanzas by Poole (1993), Abram (2001), and Marold (2005: 256–68) show variation within the skaldic system — that is, textual variants that fulfil the metrical requirements and make sense. Whether they represent oral variation in performance or a knowledge of skaldic poetics among scribes, these variant readings indicate that where variants were possible within the system, they could be actualized. That is precisely what one would expect in an oral culture, and indeed in a manu­script culture. But the changes are relatively trivial. Thus while we agree that what we read in manu­scripts is not exactly what circulated in oral tradition centuries earlier, and that variant readings are important, we believe that the content is trustworthy. Shami Ghosh, who rehearses these same issues in connection with kings sagas and Norwegian history, worries that later poets ‘could also compose poems, or change them in ways that do not affect the content, without our necessarily being able to detect which parts of the verses are old, and which are new’ (2011: 49). But if the content is unchanged, then there is no problem in recovering earlier thinking. And even if a later poet were to compose a new poem and succeed in attributing it to an older skald, if the content is consistent with the body of skaldic verse — and the mytho­logical poetry shows such consistency — then once again we see no problem. In our view this debate confuses the issue of the form of a text with its content.16 Ekphrasis was an important mode of early skaldic poetry, especially dróttkvætt poetry on mytho­logical topics.17 We see this connection as another argument for the notion of texts fixed from the time of composition. The underlying artefact — shield, wall decoration, whatever — does not change, and neither should the verse. 15 

Etymo­logically yrkja is of course related to English work, etc., and there are a few attestations indicating working with wood, but the most common semantic field in Old Norse, other than verse composition, is working a field. The semantic overlap consists in a relatively slow process that leads to a useful result. One consumes food from a field, just as one consumes poetry when it is recited. 16  On the issue of transmission, see further Fidjestøl (1982: 45–60). 17  See, for example, the four articles gathered in Viking and Medi­eval Scandinavia 3: Clunies Ross (2007), Fuglesang (2007), Hines (2007), Poole (2007b).

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It also seems likely that association of verse with a named poet could easily have contributed to fixing its form, since the descendants of poets had a natural stake in such verse. Certainly, too, the famous statement of Snorri in the Preface to Heimskringla, to the effect that skalds had to provide accurate descriptions of kings’ exploits, expresses confidence in the skaldic tradition as a whole. The above para­g raphs may be unnecessary, since few serious scholars who work with skaldic poetry have any doubts about the pre-Christian provenance of the individual texts with which they work. Nevertheless, we have felt it necessary to address possible scepticism. Once we accept that skaldic poems are valid sources of the mytho­logy attaching to PCRN dating from before the Conversion, and often with specific provenance in either Norway or Iceland, we can have confidence in the entire endeavour. Accepting the transmitted provenance of skaldic poetry permits additional certainty regarding eddic poetry. As was mentioned above, a main issue prompting caution about such poetry is the absence of mytho­logical poetry in the cognate traditions. The corpus of materials attributed to Bragi inn gamli Boddason, the oldest skald, can throw light on this subject. Let us consider the subjects about which he composed (we put it this way to avoid the issue of whether of the verses about Þórr´s battle with the Miðgarðsormr comprised a separate poem or a section of Ragnarsdrápa). Besides Þórr and the Miðgarðsormr, Bragi composed about Hamðir and Sǫrli’s harrowing attack on Jǫrmunrekkr, the eternal battle of Heðinn and Hǫgni, and the encounter between Gylfi and Gefjun. The point we wish to underscore here is that Bragi’s subjects, three of them at least on the shield he was describing and the fourth, if it was not there, a popular subject in Viking Age icono­graphy, comprise stories about gods and stories about heroes. There is also a crossing or commonality of themes. Both the outcome of the attack on Jǫrmunrekkr and the Hjaðningavíg look eschato­logical, and, further, the endless battles and nightly recovery of the participants in the latter look just like Snorri’s description of life in Valhǫll. The encounter between Gylfi and Gefjun was cosmogonic, if only in a local way, and in fact it may be that the participants include a human Gylfi and a divine Gefjun. The point we wish to make is that Bragi’s subjects (and therefore by implication the shield he was describing in Ragnarsdrápa) show a mix of divine and heroic subjects. This certifies an interest in poetry about gods and poetry about humans in ninth-century Norway (è36). The argument we are making here is that Bragi’s treatment of both kinds of subjects indicates that there was mytho­logical verse alongside heroic verse in ninth century and later Norwegian oral tradition, which found its way to Iceland and was recorded in the early decades of the thirteenth century. The

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likelihood of the origin of dróttkvætt metre from fornyrðislag, which scholars often situate in Bragi’s verse (e.g., Gade 1995: 226–38), is also helpful. Bragi’s mix of mytho­logical and heroic subjects cannot prove that there were mytho­ logical and heroic poems in fornyrðislag in ninth-century Norway, but it makes it seem far more likely. Finally, let us remember that the Rök runic inscription (Ög 136 $), which seems to have a piece of fornyrðislag on a heroic subject, may well also call on myth and seems to say that Þórr is a folk-memory.18 Thus although there is no formal mingling of gods and heroes in the verse form, the ‘repertory’ of narratives on the Rök stone, if we may call it that to highlight the similarities with Bragi, indicates that gods and heroes appeared in the same context. Taken together, these examples increase the likelihood that the ‘ancient songs’ of the Germanic peoples were predecessors of poetry in all the Germanic languages about gods — that is, that mytho­logical eddic poetry existed in the pre-Christian period. As noted above, this conclusion cannot demonstrate that a given poem existed in its extant form in the pre-Christian period, but it certainly facilitates the use of eddic poetry in the study of PCRN. Skaldic Kennings In discussing mytho­logical and religious source value, many works distinguish skaldic kennings from the content of skaldic verse. Skaldic kennings indeed comprise an important source for the study of PCRN, since they may confirm information we have or may offer differing perspectives. For example, Snorri offers only a few kennings in Skáldskaparmál for Váli, among them hefni-Áss Baldrs (avenging Áss of Baldr) and dólgr Haðar ok bani hans (enemy of Hǫðr and his killer) (p. 19), thus confirming Váli’s role as avenger in the myth of Baldr’s death. He also tells us that Víðarr, another avenging god, is inn þǫgli (the silent) (p. 19), information we do not find elsewhere but that can be integrated into the notion of a single-purpose god (è54). From the point of view of source criticism, it is worth noting whether such kennings are actually attested in verse, and if so when (and where) the poet might have composed. However, we should accept that Snorri knew more valid kennings than are attested in the verse he cites. For example, he tells that Njǫrðr may be kenned as vagna guð (god of wagons), which can be associated with the wagon that pulled Nerthus in Tacitus. We do not think that the association is fortuitous. 18 

The language of this sentence is carefully hedged so as to take in the possibility that the inscription may be riddling, in which case the referents would stand for something other than what they seem to. See Ralph (2007) and Holmberg (2015).

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Another point about the value of kennings is that they can give us some indication of the concerns of the poet whose work we are examining. For example, the Þórsdrápa of Eilífr Goðrúnarson is rich in giant-kennings whose base words are ethonyms. As Edith Marold (2007) has showed, these ethonyms relate to the military and political career of Hákon jarl, at whose court the poem will have been presented. From our point of view, it is noteworthy that a poet could combine, for whatever purpose, tropes for mytho­logical Other beings with notions of ethnic others. This combination probably tells us something of the frame of Viking Age dróttkvætt poetry and of the discourse in the circle of chieftains (è24), where ethnic others would have been quite well known. Another value of mytho­logical kennings is to indicate the poet’s concern in a given work. For example, many kennings indicate family relationships among the gods, indicating that divine genealogy concerned people. But in Húsdrápa, Úlfr Uggason used kennings for Þórr that, for the most part, allude to other victories over giants. Þórr’s defeat of the Miðgarðsormr in this poem is therefore conceived as part of a larger pattern of giant-slaying.

Snorra Edda (Snorri’s Edda) As was mentioned above, outside of the Poetic Edda, there is a close manu­script connection between eddic poetry and Snorra Edda, and nearly all mytho­logical skaldic poetry is retained in the manu­scripts of Skáldskaparmál (Poetic diction), a section of the Snorra Edda. Nearly all scholars accept that Snorri composed Edda (which surely means ‘Poetics’) around or in the decade following 1220. DG 11 4to, c. 1300, the oldest manu­script (usually called U because it is retained in Uppsala Universitetsbibliotek) contains a statement explicitly crediting Snorri with putting the work together, and it specifies the constituent parts: Bók þessi heitir Edda. Hana hefir saman setta Snorri Sturluson eftir þeim hætti sem hér er skipat. Er fyrst frá ásum ok Ymi, þar næst skáldskapar mál ok heiti margra hluta. Síðast Háttatal er Snorri hefir ort um Hákon konung ok Skúla hertuga. (p. 6) (This book is called Edda. Snorri Sturluson has compiled it in the manner in which it is arranged here. First it is about Æsir and Ymir, next Skáldskaparmál (‘poetic diction’) and (poetical) names of many things. Finally Háttatal (‘enumeration of verse forms’) which Snorri has composed about King Hákon and Duke Skúli). (p.  7)

The suggested tripartite division clearly correponds to the way we understand Edda today: Gylfaginning (about the æsir and Ymir), Skáldksaparmál (a didactic work on poetics), and Háttatal, Snorri’s poem equipped with a metrical

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Figure 3.4. The beginning of Skáldskaparmál in the Codex Upsaliensis manu­script of Snorra Edda (vellum leaf 1r, DG 11, Uppsala Universitetsbibliotek). Photo: Uppsala Universitetsbibliotek, Uppsala. 

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commentary. The main manu­scripts contain a Pro­logue, which is also part of the work. Beyond that, the versions differ (Krömmelbein 1992; Seelow 1998). The R branch (named for the so-called Codex Regius, GkS 2367 4to) contains þulur (word lists) after Skáldksaparmál, but U does not. U includes within Skáldskaparmál, toward the beginning, Skáldatal (a list linking skalds to kings), a genealogy of the Sturlung family, and Lǫgsǫgumannatal (a list of lawspeakers), and, between Skáldskaparmál and Háttatal, the Second Grammatical Treatise. R ends with the poems Jómsvíkingadrápa and Málsháttakvæði. W (Codex Wormianus, AM 242 fol., c. 1350), a member of the R branch, has the four Icelandic grammatical treatises between Skáldskaparmál and Háttatal and thereafter the eddic poem Rígsþula and a treatment of ókennd heiti from Skáldskaparmál. In all these, the connection with grammatical literature and eddic poetry is striking, and this connection is seen in those manu­scripts that have Skáldskaparmál but neither Gylfaginning nor Háttatal; these manu­scripts show us that in the Middle Ages the work was probably valued most as a treatise or school-book on poetics (Faulkes 2005b; Guðrún Nordal 2001: 41–72). The question whether the R branch or U stands closer to Snorri’s hypothetical original has naturally engaged attention, and since the nineteenth century scholars have argued both positions. However, editions of Snorra Edda have tended to be based on R or the R branch, whereas editions of U have presented themselves as such. The 2012 edition of U contains a vigorous argument in favour of its priority, but Daniel Sävborg’s argument to the contrary builds on scribal practice and thus engages methodo­logical weight (Sävborg 2012). Our own position is that the primacy of one or another text may be less important for our purposes than a consideration of the textual variation as a whole. For example, after Þórr has slain Gjálp and Greip on his visit to Geirrøðr in Skáldskaparmál, the U version has him speak: Einu neytta ek alls megins jǫtna gǫrðum í, þá er Gjálp ok Gneip dǿtr Geirraðar vildu hefja mik til himins. (p. 96)

(Once I used all my strength in giants’ courts, when Gjálp and Gneip, daughters of Geirrøðr, tried to lift me to the sky.) (p. 97)

Þórr’s words place this myth and the myth of Þórr’s duel with Hrungnir into a dialogue. When Hrungnir prepared to meet Þórr, Þjálfi warned Hrungnir, falsely, that Þórr would attack from underneath. In Geirrøðr’s goatshed we see an actual attack from underneath. Instead of coming from a male deity, as Þjálfi had falsely suggested to Hrungnir, it comes from female giants. The notion of

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being lifted up to the sky suggests the opposite of such cosmogonic acts as flinging the eyes of Aurvandill and Þjazi up into the sky, as in Hárbarðsljóð. If the giantesses had accomplished what they set out to do, they might have created a parallel or giant cosmogonic act, in which the body of an áss, Þórr, became part of the cosmos. Of course we must note that in Saxo, the ceilings in the hall of Geruthus have spikes in them. Pushing Þórr up into that space would hardly have been cosmogonic, although it would have been catastrophic. Þórr’s utterance may or may not have been in Snorri’s auto­g raph; perhaps the opposite supposition is more likely. But it could certainly have circulated in oral tradition and been known to whomever was ultimately responsible for this ending to the story. It gives us a different perspective on the myth, and indeed, a different perspective on Þórr, as one who exults in his triumph. It is a legitimate part of the dossier. Since Snorri visited King Hákon and Jarl Skúli in 1218–19, scholars assume, as noted above, that he began the work c. 1220. The exact duration of composition, or the order in which the parts were written (Wessén 1940), does not have direct implications for the use of Snorri’s Edda as a source for PCRN. It is no exaggeration to say that the manu­scripts we have just surveyed constitute the most valuable textual source for the study of PCRN. Earlier generations of scholars would at this point cite Gylfaginning, but we give Skáldskaparmál pride of place because it is the repository of mytho­logical skaldic poetry and the place where skaldic kennings are catalogued. Eilífr Goðrúnarson’s Þórsdrápa is preserved mostly in a single extended quotation in Skáldskaparmál, and Þjóðólfr ór Hvini’s Haustlǫng in two consecutive quotations. Scattered throughout Skáldskaparmál are the extant stanzas of Bragi inn gamli Boddason’s Ragnarsdrápa and Úlfr Uggason’s Húsdrápa. In other words, the most precious treasures of mytho­logical skaldic poetry are to be found there. There are also numerous stanzas evincing additional verse about or in some cases directed to the god Þórr. There are also lists of heiti for numerous mytho­logical beings. The opening of the text is sometimes termed the Bragarœður (Bragi’s sayings) because it establishes a frame. It is set at the hall of the euhemerized æsir. They receive a visit from Ægir (this name means ‘sea’, and it turns up in a list of giant-names) or Hlér, from Hlésey (‘Hlér’s island’, that is, Læsø in the Kattegat). At the feast that ensues, Bragi (that is, we presume, Bragi the poet) tells him stories about the æsir, and a dialogue between the two figures ensues, in which Ægir puts questions and Bragi answers them. The myths recounted in this frame structure include the alienation and recovery of Iðunn and the origin and acquisition of the mead of poetry. The framing device recalls the

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frame story of Gylfaginning and, more generally, the dialogic form of medi­eval didactic works. It indicates an attempt to put the myths into the mouths of preConversion Scandinavians, told as ‘true’ or believable and thus euhemerized. Although the dialogue between Ægir and Bragi is soon abandoned, the dialogic structure is maintained. The following short passage is typical of this dialogic form. Hvernig skal ‹kenna› Viðar? Hann má kalla hinn þǫgla Ás, eiganda jár‹n›skós, dólg ok bana Fenrisúlfs, hefni-Ás goðanna, byggvi-Ás fǫðurtopta ok son Óðins, bróður Ásanna. (p. 19) (How shall Vidar be referred to? He may be called the silent As, possessor of the iron shoe, enemy and slayer of Fenris wolf, the gods’ avenging As, father’s homestead-inhabiting As and son of Odin, brother of the Æsir.) (p. 76)

This passage accords neatly with what Snorri has said about Víðarr earlier in the Edda, in Gylfaginning. The speaker is Hár (è54). Viðarr heitir einn, hinn þǫgli Áss. Hann hefir skó þjǫkkvan. Hann er sterkr næst því sem Þórr er. Af honum hafa goðin mikit traust í allar þrautir. (p. 26) (Vidar is the name of one, the silent As. He has a thick shoe. He is almost equal in strength to Thor. He is a source of great support to the gods in all dangers.) (p. 26)

Snorri also has Víðarr act at Ragnarǫk. In his paraphrase of the verses from Vǫluspá that are to follow, Snorri writes this: En þegar eptir snýsk fram Viðarr ok stígr ǫðrum fœti í neðra keypt úlfsins. (Á þeim fœti hefir hann þann skó er allan aldr hefir verit til samnat: þat eru bjórar þeir er menn sníða ór skóm sínum fyrir tám eða hæl. Því skal þeim bjórum braut kasta sá maðr er at því vill hyggja at koma Ásunum at liði.) Annarri hendi tekr hann inn efra keypt úlfsins ok rífr sundr gin hans ok verðr þat úlfsins bani. (pp. 50–51) (And immediately after Vidar will come forward and step with one foot on the lower part of the wolf. On this foot he will have the shoe for which the material has been being collected throughout all time: it is the waste pieces that people cut from their shoes at the toe and heel. Therefore anyone that is concerned to give assistance to the Æsir must throw these pieces away. With one hand he will grasp the wolf ’s upper jaw and tear apart its mouth and this will be the cause of the wolf ’s death.) (p. 54)

The problem is one of potential circularity. How do we know that Snorri is not just repeating himself from one passage to the other, rather than citing mytho­ logical data he has obtained from poetry or elsewhere? When Snorri goes on

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to quote Vǫluspá’s stanzas about the final battle, the thick shoe is missing in his version of st. 55. Gengr Óðins son við úlf vega, Viðarr of veg at valdýri. Lætr hann megi Hveðrungs mund of standa hjǫr til hjarta. Þá er hefnt fǫður.19 (p. 52) (Odin’s son goes to fight the wolf, Vidar on his way against the slaughterous beast. With his hand he lets the blade pierce Hvedrung’s son’s heart. So is his father avenged.) (p. 55)

Vafþrúðnismál 53 agrees that Víðarr avenges Óðinn by tearing apart the wolf ’s jaw, thus corroborating Snorri on that point; and the tenth-century Gosforth Cross (Cumbria) bears an image which many take to represent Víðarr tearing the wolf ’s jaws apart by stepping on the lower jaw. But how are we to account for the thick shoe? Did Víðarr need it for alighting from his horse in the underbrush and thick grass that Grímnismál 17 puts in Víðars land? We can only conclude that Víðarr’s status as his father’s avenger is clear, but that only Snorri knows about a thick shoe. Despite our uncertainty about such details, we must admit that Gylfaginning, too, is a source of enormous value. In it, we read how a poet with extensive knowledge of poetic diction and all the tools of dróttkvætt could shape the mytho­logy into a coherent whole, from cosmogony to eschato­logy. Snorri was also a historian, and he fashioned Gylfaginning in light of contemporary theories of natural religion and euhemerism in the North. These are presented in the Pro­logue to the Edda, which is transmitted in all the vellums that contain all three of the other parts: Gylfaginning, Skáldskaparmál, and Háttatal. It appears to fit most readily, however, as a Pro­logue to Gylfaginning, and the fact that it is not transmitted in the independent manu­scripts of Skáldskaparmál supports that impression. Although older scholarship found it difficult to accept that one author could have written such superficially different works as the Pro­logue and Gylfaginning (Heusler 1908; Teilgård Laugesen 1942; Holtsmark 1964b), 19 

The stanza is also found in the Poetic Edda, though not in Hauksbók. The version in the Poetic Edda differs slightly: where Snorri has Viðarr of veg, the Poetic Edda has Viðarr vega (Viðarr, to fight).

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one invoking Christian theo­logy and history and the other a seemingly uncontextualized scene set in a hall somewhere in the distant Swedish past, the fit now seems quite secure (Breitag 1964; Faulkes 2005b). The first item treated in the Pro­logue is ‘natural religion’. The first sentence of the Pro­logue begins with Christian cosmogony: God created heaven and earth and everything in it and finally two humans, Adam and Eve,20 and from there the exposition moves on to the Flood. But thereafter, Snorri continues, people forgot the name of God. Through observation of natural phenomena and through listening to what their ‘elderly relatives’ told them about the earth, they inferred that there must be some controller of the heavenly bodies (‘nokkurr mundi vera stjórnari himintunglanna’) whose existence preceded that of the earth, and that this creator ruled all things. From this they groped their way toward faith. Af því trúðu þeir at hann réð ǫllum hlutum á jǫrðu ok í lopti, himins ok himintunglum, sævarins ok veðranna. En til þess at heldr mætti frá segja eða í minni festa þá gáfu þeir nafn með sjálfum sér ǫllum hlutum ok hefir þessi átrúnaðr á marga lund breyzk svá sem þjóðirnar skiptusk ok tungurnar greindusk. En alla hluti skilðu þeir jarðligri skilningu þvíat þeim var eigi gefin andlig spekðin. Svá skilðu þeir at allir hlutir væri smíðaðir af nokkuru efni. (p. 4) (And so they believed that he ruled all things on earth and in the sky, of heaven and the heavenly bodies, of the sea and the weathers. But so as to be better able to give an account of this and fix it in memory, they then gave a name among themselves to everything, and this religion has changed in many ways as nations became distinct and languages branched. But they understood everything with earthly understanding, for they were not granted spiritual wisdom. Thus they reasoned that everything was created out of some material.) (p. 2)

Snorri’s conjunction of nation (þjóð) and language is consistent with medi­ eval notions of conversion. He talks only about belief, not ritual, and what he postulates for his own Nordic ancestors, along with other ‘nations’ at a preConversion state, is a religion (átrúnaðr) based on knowledge derived from the observation of nature, literally earthly understanding (jarðlig skilning), and not yet enlightened by spiritual wisdom (andlig spekð). This religion, he asserts, was fundamentally monotheistic, with a male ruler over all. The names given among themselves to everything can, we believe, be equated generally with the 20 

To this may be compared the statement quoted above, which refers to Gylfaginning as about the æsir and Ymir, Ymir being the central figure of the cosmogny advanced in Gylfa­ ginning.

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Old Norse poetic system, rich as it is in nouns. More specifically and more importantly, they can be those names given in the religious sphere, such as the names of the individual gods, collectives like bǫnd and dísir, and so forth. Thus, the mytho­logical system that will follow in Gylfaginning, wrong as it is, nevertheless reflects an underlying recognition of the true place of God in the medi­ eval world. That is the natural religion of the Pro­logue. The history that follows moves the ‘nation’ that will speak Scandinavian languages (for Snorri presumably the dǫnsk tunga (è10)), as he calls it at the end of the Pro­logue) from Tyrkland to the North.21 This has long been recognized as a historical current, and in Iceland it goes back at least to Ari Þorgilsson fróði (the learned), the first to write history in the vernacular there.22 Snorri adopts it in slightly varying forms in Edda and Ynglinga saga in Heimskringla, but basically they impinge upon the study of PCRN because the prime mover of the emigration from the Middle East, according to Snorri, is Óðinn. In Ynglinga saga ch. 7, Snorri simply asserts that people began to sacrifice to Óðinn and the other gods and worshipped them after their deaths, thus accounting for the pre-Christian religion of his forebears. Gylfaginning is somewhat more subtle. It seems to show how it came about that people worshipped Óðinn and the other gods: namely, through a delusion of the Swedish king Gylfi. The conceit of Gylfaginning is that this king Gylfi wishes to account for the success of the æsir (to be understood as people from Asia according to the Pro­logue).23 Hann undraðisk þat mjǫk er Ásafólk var svá kunnigt at allir hlutir gengu at vilja þeira. Þat hugsaði hann hvárt þat mundi vera af eðli sjálfra þeira, eða mundi því valda goðmǫgn þau er þeir blótuðu. (p. 7) (He was quite amazed that the Æsir-people had the ability to make everything go in accordance with their will. He wondered whether this could be as a result of their own nature, or whether the divine powers they worshipped could be responsible.) (p. 7)

We never learn directly what Gylfi concluded about this question, but we may infer that he concluded that the divine powers of the æsir were responsible for 21 

Strerath-Bolz (1998) stresses the close connection between language and religion in the Pro­logue to Snorri’s Edda. 22  At the very end of the extant Libellus, Ari lists the ancestors of the Ynglingar and Breiðfirðingar, starting with Yngvi, Njǫrðr, and Freyr. 23  The following discussion is based on the readings in the RTW branch of the text; several features are missing or different in the U version.

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their success (Gylfaginning, p. 64). After being told that it is good to pray to Freyr for prosperity and peace and to the approachable Freyja for affairs of the heart, Gylfi exclaims this. Miklir þykkja mér þessir fyrir sér Æsirnir, ok eigi er undarligt at mikill kraptr fylgi yðr, er þér skuluð kunna skyn goðanna ok vita hvert biðja skal hverrar bœnarinnar. (p. 25) (Most important these Æsir seem to me to be, and it is not surprising that great power is with you when you claim to know details about the gods and know which one must be prayed to for every prayer.) (p. 24)

This would be the beginning of the euhemerization. Gylfi is a king, and according to medi­e val thinking his conversion to worship of the æsir should bring with it his nation. Snorri indeed specifies at the end of Gylfaginning how the oral traditions of the Asia-æsir became the oral traditions of the Swedes and hence of the rest of the North. Gengr hann þá leið sína braut ok kemr heim í ríki sitt ok segir þau tíðindi er hann hefir sét ok heyrt. Ok eptir honum sagði hverr maðr ǫðrum þessar sǫgur. (p. 54) (Then he went off on his way and came back to his kingdom and told of the events he had seen and heard about. And from his account these stories passed from one person to another.) (p. 57)

Gylfi tells (preaches?) the divine history of the æsir to his people, and this history is passed down over generations, presumably, in Snorri’s thinking, in verse and the prose that might accompany it, and perhaps also in images and artefacts. Snorri ends Gylfaginning with a return to the euhemeristic frame, adding that the æsir themselves also participated in the transmission of this divine history, specifically in assigning names that could further belief over time. This assertion buttresses the notion of a euhemerization far back in time. The mytho­logy that deludes Gylfi contains multiple similarities with Christianity, of which the most glaring example is a seemingly supreme Allfather. All this is in accordance with the natural religion postulated by the Pro­ logue, up to and including creation of the cosmos from the body of Ymir: ‘Svá skilðu þeir at allir hlutir væri smíðaðir af nokkuru efni’ (p. 4) (Thus they reasoned that everything was created out of some material) (p. 2). Since there are multiple reasons to accept that Ymir’s body was involved in pre-Christian cosmogony, we can hardly rule out most of the content of Gylfaginning as Snorri’s invention, an extreme position that a few scholars have adopted (e.g., Mogk 1923). We are simply required, as with all the written sources, to proceed with caution and to heed all the evidence. Thus Snorri’s attempt to catalogue exactly

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twelve æsir additional to All-father/Óðinn and twelve ásynjur looks like a nod to the Apostles and perhaps also calendars of saints (Lindow 2017b), but there is little reason to doubt the information he gives about the items in the catalogues. Where Skáldskapamál is a repository and explication of skaldic poetry, Gylfaginning builds on eddic poetry. From this we may conclude that Snorri himself saw a generic distinction between the two kinds of poetry,24 and, furthermore, that he may have seen eddic poetry as more narrative than skaldic poetry: in Skáldskaparmál he mostly cites, but in Gylfaginning he mostly paraphrases. Those poems he does cite from extensively are Vǫluspá, Vafþrúðnismál, and Grímnismál, along with snippets of others. It is also not unlikely that Snorri saw a time distinction between the prehistory of the events in Gylfaginning and the historical time in which lived the poets he cites in Skáldskaparmál. This distinction raises an interesting point concerning Skáldskaparmál: if Ægir and Bragi are meant to have met during a banquet hosted by the Asia-æsir during prehistory (as would be consistent with Bragi telling Ægir about the loss and retrieval of Iðunn and the origin of the mead of poetry), how could this frame accommodate quoting poets from the historical period? Perhaps this awkward situation explains the dropping of the frame. Indeed, at the moment when the frame is dropped, the theory of euhemerization is invoked. The authorial voice — not Bragi, surely Snorri — explains how the material being presented is meant to be used and understood. En þetta er nú at segja ungum skáldum þeim er girnask at nema mál skáldskapar ok heyja sér orðfjǫlða með fornum heitum eða girnask þeir at kunna skilja þat er hulit er kveðit: þá skili hann þessa bók til fróðleiks ok skemtunar. En ekki er at gleyma eða ósanna svá þessar sǫgur at taka ór skáldskapinum for[nar ke]nningar þær er hǫfuðskáld hafa sér líka látit. En eigi skulu kristnir menn trúa á heiðin goð ok eigi á sannyndi þessar sagnar annan veg en svá sem hér finnsk í upphafi bókar er sagt er frá atburðum þeim er mannfólkit viltisk frá réttri trú, ok þá næst frá Tyrkjum, hvernig Asiamenn þeir er Æsir eru kallaðir fǫlsuðu frásagnir þær frá þeim tíðindum er gerðusk í Troju til þess at landfólkit skyldi trúa þá guð vera. (p. 5) (But these things have now to be told to young poets who desire to learn the language of poetry and to furnish themselves with a wide vocabulary using traditional terms; or else they desire to be able to understand what is expressed obscurely. Then let such a one take this book as scholarly inquiry and entertainment. But these stories are not to be consigned to oblivion or demonstrated to be false, so as to deprive poetry of ancient kennings which major poets have been happy to use. Yet 24 

Gylfaginning does quote two skaldic stanzas as the frame is being developed, one in dróttkvætt. See Lindow (1977b) and Clunies Ross (1978).

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Christian people must not believe in heathen gods, nor in the truth of this account in any other way than in which it is presented at the beginning of this book, where it is told what happened when mankind went went astray from the true faith, and after that about the Turks, how the people of Asia, known as Æsir, distorted the account of the events that occurred in Troy so that the people of the country would believe that they were gods.) (pp. 64–65)

Here is yet another strategy for presenting the ‘divine history’ of the people of Asia, and it is the most direct in the Edda. Understanding this ‘divine history’ is a prerequisite for composing and understanding verse. It has nothing to do with believing in it, and its content must not be used to put poets out of business (see further Clunies Ross 1992a, 1998b; Hobson 2017).

Heimskringla Reference has been made several times above to Ynglinga saga, the first saga in Heimskringla. Although the specific authority for assigning the work to Snorri is not medi­eval ( Jørgensen 1992–93, 1994, 1995), few scholars doubt it. Heimskringla is one of three vernacular synopses of king’s sagas. While Morkinskinna begins c. 1025, and Fagrskinna begins with Hálfdan svarti (the black), the first historical king of Norway (mid-ninth century), Heimskringla begins with Ynglinga saga and provides prehistory running up to Hálfdan svarti. Most of the saga consists of a paraphrase and citation of the poem Ynglingatal, attributed to the skald Þjóðólfr ór Hvini c. 900 ce. The early dating of the poem has been famously challenged (Krag 1991) but seems to be holding up (Fidjestøl 1994; Skre 2007). Ynglingatal chronicles the way of death of twenty-seven kings of the Ynglingar; the first twenty generations are in Sweden, and the latter in Norway. The early Swedish setting gave Snorri an opportunity to pursue his euhemeristic agenda once again (all scholars date Heimskringla after Snorri’s Edda and, by other indices, after 1230). Thus he includes, before Ynglingatal’s first kings, a royal genealogy going back to the emigration of the Asia-æsir from Tyrkland, and readers can follow the euhemerization as it is progressing. Heimskringla, too, is equipped with a Pro­logue, derived from the earlier Independent saga of St Olaf. Snorri began this Pro­logue by mentioning three sources: narratives, genealogies, and poems. While his remarks on the veracity of skaldic poetry are well known, it is worth pointing out that he also makes an argument for oral tradition in general, through the specific example of the oral sources used by Ari Þorgilsson. This argument is consistent with what we take to be Snorri’s openness to oral traditional narrative, alongside poetry.

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Heimskringla begins with a brief statement about the geo­g raphy of the world, Kringla heimsins (‘the orb of the earth’, whence the title Heimskringla, awarded to the work during later reception). In Asia lives Óðinn, chieftain (hǫfðingi) of Ásgarðr the stronghold and of Ásaland or Ásaheimr. Ásgarðr is a place of great sacrifice (blótstaðr mikill). Snorri locates the kernel of the worship of Óðinn in military victories there in Asia. Svá var ok um hans menn, hvar sem þeir urðu í nauðum staddir á sjá eða á landi, þá kǫlluðu þeir á nafn hans, ok þótti jafnan fá af því fró. Þar þóttusk þeir eiga allt traust, er hann var. (Ynglinga saga p. 11) (It was also noted that whenever his men were sore bestead, on sea or on land, they would call on his name, and they would get help from doing so. They put all their trust in him. (p. 7)

So the euhemerism starts in Asia. There Óðinn is so frequently victorious in battle that men come to believe that he will always be so: ‘Hann var svá sigrsæll, att í hverri orrostu fékk hann gagn; ok svá kom, at hans menn trúðu því, at hann ætti heimilan sigr í hverri orrostu’ (He was victorious to the point where he won all his battles; and thus it came about that his men believed that victory was his by right in every battle). Snorri sets this at a time of Roman expansion, and many chieftains flee the Romans, but Óðinn sees that his future lies to the North. He leads an emigration from Asia, travelling north through Garðaríki (Russia) then west through Saxland (Saxony), where he begins to establish kingdoms. He stops at Óðinsey (Odense, understood as ‘Óðinn’s island’ — a false etymo­logy)25 and acquires additional land before heading north to Sweden, where he settles at Sigtúnir (Old Sigtuna), whose transparent meaning is ‘victory enclosures’. As in Saxland, he puts his sons in charge of various places. Most of the names and places derive from the mytho­logy, such as Baldr at Breiðablik or Þórr at Þrúðvangar, but Freyr he puts at the historical place Uppsalir (Gamla Uppsala). Two chapters then follow detailing Óðinn’s accomplishments, such as shape-changing, mastery of poetry, and magic, seiðr. En hann kenndi flestar íþróttir sínar blótgoðunum. Váru þeir næst honum um allan fróðleik ok fjǫlkynngi. Margir aðrir námu þó mikit af, ok hefir þaðan af dreifzk fjǫlkynngin víða ok haldizk lengi. En Óðin ok þá hǫfðingja tólf blótuðu menn ok kǫlluðu goð sín ok trúðu á lengi síðan. (Ynglinga saga pp. 19–20)

25 

Snorri’s form Óðinsey would indeed mean ‘Óðinn’s island’, but the etymo­logy of the name of the city Odense is usually understood to be from Óðinsvé (Óðinn’s holy place).

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(Most of these skills he taught the sacrificial priests. They were next to him in all manner of knowledge and sorcery. Yet many others learned a great deal of it; hence sorcery spread far and wide and continued for a long time. People worshipped Óthin and his twelve chieftains, calling them their gods, and believed in them for a long time thereafter.) (p. 11)

Thus Snorri has a kind of double euhmerization. The Asia-æsir worshipped Óðinn even before the emigration, and in Sweden the local population followed suit. Despite the numerous differences in the euhemerization in the Edda and here, the basic concepts are identical. And our evaluation of the source value for recovering PCRN must therefore be similar. Thus, although in Ynglinga saga Snorri may have slanted the portrait of Óðinn to make him resemble a Sámi noaidi or shaman (Lindow 2003), nearly all the details find parallels elsewhere in the textual tradition. For example, Ynglinga saga, ch. 3 recounts that once when Óðinn was away for an extended period, his brothers Vili and Vé declared themselves his heirs and took his wife Frigg as their wife. In Lokasenna, st. 26, Loki accuses Frigg of having slept with the brothers. And Saxo’s Gesta Danorum 1.7.1, has a king in Uppsala, ‘Othinus quidam Europa tota falso diuinitatis titulo censeretur’ (Odin who was believed throughout Europe, though falsely, to be a god), who goes away for a long period of time after, not before, his wife Frigg commits adultery, in this case with a slave. He is succeeded not by his brothers but by a second-rate magician whose name, Mythothyn, seems to contain Óðinn’s within it. Beyond the euhemeristic beginning and the preservation of Ynglingatal, Heimskringla has a few descriptions of pre-Christian ritual activity. The most extensive and famous of these is the description in Hákonar saga góða of the ritual sacrifice in Lade, presided over by Sigurðr jarl. Snorri gives a thorough description of the slaughter of animals and the disposal of the blood within the temple, using highly specialized vocabulary, followed by a description of ritual drinking. The most thorough study of this passage remains that of Klaus Düwel (1985), who shows that the more or less uncritical acceptance of it as unmitigated PCRN can hardly be accepted. Rather than following oral tradition or some lost written source, Düwel argues, Snorri is creating a plausible scenario based especially on pagan ritual in the Old Testament. Thus Düwel accomplishes on the linguistic plane what Olaf Olsen did two decades before on the archaeo­logical plane (Olsen 1966): he required a radical rethinking of the sources. We can certainly never prove the antiquity of the technical terms Snorri advances for ritual activity; no more can we prove the antiquity of heiti in Skáldskaparmál for which Snorri is the only authority. But some of Düwel’s

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arguments are far more convincing than others (also è 25, 31). For example, whatever he may think of Snorri’s presentation of hlaut and hlautteinar, the word group associated with the verb hljóta seems to have unequivocal associations with divination. Archaeo­logy cannot help recover specific items of vocabulary, but it certainly does seem to confirm that animal blood was shed at ritual moments. The myth of the mead of poetry also suggests the importance of the consumption of alcohol.

Icelandic Historical Writing The praise Snorri lavished in the Pro­logue to Heimskringla on Icelandic historical oral tradition should certainly be taken seriously. Snorri specifically praises Ari Þorgilsson’s work, of which we possess Íslendingabók/Libellus Islendorum, and in many cases, indeed, Ari names his oral source. Of course Ari was a priest writing at the behest of two bishops (and the manu­scripts are very late, although demonstrably copying from a very early exemplar), but the connection with oral tradition probably allows us to think of communicative memory as well as collective or cultural memory (Assmann 2005, 2006, 2008; also è2). And Ari’s byname explicitly connects him with the kind of memory that was largely embedded in oral tradition. All this means that Ari’s account of the conversion of Iceland, to take the most important case, is likely to be a fairly accurate account of the procedure, even if some details were naturally elided over time or even disputed at the time the events occurred. The establishment of the alþingi on land alienated from a murderer likely furnishes valuable information about the configuration of space and its relationship with society and law. And, as was mentioned above, Ari’s book shows us that the Learned Prehistory, deriving Norwegian kings from Njǫrðr and Freyr (and in that order), was accepted in Icelandic historio­graphy by the early twelfth century. The other great monument of medi­eval Icelandic history is Landnámabók. Ari probably participated in the original compilation, but we have no version from before c. 1300. Scholars agree that the versions of Landnámabók’s accounts of the settlement could be and were reworked over time, and that material continued to be added from other sources. Here again we are in a position where each piece of information must be individually scrutinized. We see no strong reason to doubt that Landnámabók presents more or less accurate representations of land-taking ritual (Strömbäck 1928b), or that oaths may have called upon áss hinn almáttki, the identity of whom thus becomes a legitimate object of study.

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Saxo Saxo Grammaticus (the grammarian) tells us in the Preface to his work of Danish history, now generally known as Gesta Danorum, that Absalon, bishop of Lund, commissioned the work. Absalon died in 1201, and in the Preface Saxo addresses Absalon’s successor, Andreas Sunesøn, who gave up his office in 1223. Gesta Danorum was thus begun before 1201 and completed before 1223. It was intended as a history of the patria and is a highly learned work (see, e.g., Skovgaard-Petersen 1969, 1975; Johannesson 1978; Lassen 2018b). Saxo describes his sources clearly in the Preface 1.3. Nec ignotum uolo Danorum antiquiores conspicuis fortitudinis operibus editis glorie emulatione suffosus Romani stili imitatione non solum rerum a se magnifice gestarum titulos exquisito contextus genere ueluti poetico quodam opere perstrinxisse, uerumetiam maiorum acta patrii sermonis carminibus uulgata lingue sue literis saxis ac rupibus insculpenda curasse. (I should like it to be known that Danes of an older age, filled with a desire to echo the glory when notable braveries had been performed, alluded in the Roman manner to the splendor of their nobly wrought achievements with choice compositions of a poetical nature; not only that, but they saw that the letters of their own language were engraved on rocks and stones to retell those feats of their ancestors which had been made popular in the songs of their mother tongue.) (pp. 4–7)

Here Saxo seems to be talking about Danish poems, analogous perhaps to the skaldic poems we know were composed in Norway and to the eddic poems that we surmise were found throughout Scandinavia. Especially the evidence of verse on runestones suggests the existence of Danish oral poetry. Had Saxo composed in the vernacular, we might have what amounts to a Danish poetic edda, and had Snorri composed in Latin, we might conceivably have versions of skaldic poetry that look like what Saxo left for us. A few sentences later in the Preface (1.4), Saxo expresses his debt to men from Thule, that is, Icelanders, who are, Saxo reports, eager to recount the histories of all sorts of peoples. These Icelanders could certainly be skalds, since Skáldatal lists Icelandic skalds at the courts of the relevant Danish kings, Valdemar I (the great) and Valdemar II (the victorious).26 This fact is highly significant, especially if we consider Snorri’s statement at the end of Bragarœður to the effect that there can be no understanding of poetry without knowledge of the underlying narratives. Saxo was manifestly interested in poetry, since he not 26 

On the Icelandic sources, see Bjarni Guðnason (1981).

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Figure 3.5. Page from the so-called Angers fragment of the Gesta Danorum by Saxo Grammaticus (NKS 869 g 4° 1r, Det Konglige Bibliotek). The Angers fragment consists of the four extant pages of the original work and is thought to be of Saxo’s own handwriting or that of a scribe recording what Saxo dictated. Photo: Det Kongelige Bibliotek, Copen­hagen. 

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only claims it as a source but also claims to translate large stretches verbatim. If Saxo’s Icelanders are skalds (and who else could they be?), it is difficult to imagine that he did not hear mythic and heroic narratives from them. It also seems likely that he may have heard narratives closer to what we find recorded in the fornaldarsögur, since Gesta Danorum is rich in them. One tantalizing passage occurs in Book 1, when Hadingus has retired from battle and finally regrets it. He recites a verse complaining about living in the mountains, and his wife Regnilda counters with a verse complaining about living by the sea. Observers agree that these verses correspond to the two ljóðaháttr verses exchanged by Njǫrðr and Skaði in Gylfaginning in Snorra Edda with identical complaints. The parallel of course offers an opportunity to observe the displacement of Njǫrðr (Dumézil 1970a, 1973b) and Saxo’s technique of poetic adaptation,27 but it also presents interesting questions about text and transmission. If, as seems likely, Saxo heard the original verses from his Icelandic sources, we may perhaps conclude that skalds knew and quoted eddic poetry. If not, was there a Danish version of these verses and the accompanying story? The latter seems unlikely, since both Saxo and Snorri have only the two verses. Based on this evidence, we might conclude that no more verses existed by the later twelfth and early thirteenth century. In Book 1.5.3–5 stands a passage that deserves to be quoted in full. Horum primi fuere monstruosi | generis uiri, quos gigantes antiquitas nominauit, humane magnitudinis habitum eximia corporum granditate uincentes. Secundi post hos primam physiculandi solertiam obtinentes artem possedere Phitonicam. Qui quantum superioribus habitu cessere corporeo, tantum uiuaci mentis ingenio prestiterunt. Hos inter gigantesque de rerum summa bellis certabatur assiduis, quoad magi uictores giganteum armis genus subigerent sibique non solum regnandi ius, uerumetiam diuinitatis opinionem consciscerent. Horum utrique per summam ludificandorum oculorum peritiam proprios alienosque uultus uariis rerum imaginibus adumbrare callebant illicibusque formis ueros obscurare conspectus. Tertii uero generis homines ex alterna superiorum copula pullulantes auctorum suorum nature nec corporum magnitudine nec artium exercitio respondebant. His tamen apud delusas prestigiis mentes diuinitatis accessit opinio. 27 

While the two vernacular verses are in ljóðaháttr, Saxo employes two different metres (Alcaic decasyllable and tetrameter catalectic; see Friis-Jensen (1987: 180, 188–89)) for his verses, and his verses are far longer than those in Gylfaginning (twenty and eleven lines). Karsten Friis-Jensen compares the passages closely and concludes that Saxo probably had a text quite like Snorri’s before him and that the expansion typifies Saxo’s style (Friis-Jensen 1987: 158–61).

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(The first of these were fellows of monstrous size, whom the ancients called giants, far surpassing human beings in their extraordinary bodily stature. In second place were those who obtained the leading expertise in haruspicy and were masters of the Delphic art. Although they yielded precedence to the former in their frame, they nevertheless excelled them just as much in their brisk acuteness of intellect. Between these and the giants there were interminable battles for supremacy, until the soothsayers won an armed victory over the monster race and appropriated not only the right to rule but even the reputation of being gods. Both these types, being superlatively dexterous in deceiving the eye, were clever at counterfeiting different shapes for themselves and others, and concealing their true appearance under false guises. The third class, bred from an intermingling of the other two, reflected neither the physical size nor the magic arts of their parents. Nevertheless minds deluded by their legerdemain believed in their deity.) (p. 41)

It seems that the enmity that obtained between the first two classes, and the outcome (interminable battles for supremacy, until the diviners won victory over the monster race and appropriated not only the right to rule but even the reputation of being gods) reflects the mytho­logy as we have it, a long struggle between æsir and giants. Saxo’s third class might well reflect beings such as Týr’s mother in Hymiskviða, or Loki, with his giant father and presumed ásynja mother (Lindow 2013), or perhaps ordinary human beings. Like Snorri and most northern intellectuals of the time, Saxo euhemerizes the gods, sometimes in passing, as we have seen with Othinus, once systematically, in a short passage in Book 6.5.3: Olim enim quidam magice artis imbuti, Thor uidelicet et Othinus aliique complures miranda prestigiorum machinatione callentes, obtentis simplicium animis diuinitatis sibi fastigium arrogare coeperunt. (At one time certain individuals, initiated into the arts of sorcery, namely Thor, Odin and a number of others who were skilled at conjuring up marvellous illusions, clouded the minds of simple men and began to appropriate the exalted rank of godhead.) (p. 379)

Despite this theory of euhemerization, Saxo occasionally refers directly to gods, no doubt because his Roman models did so. In any case, given the skaldic connection, Saxo represents an important source.

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Other Sagas Snorri’s Heimskringla, as noted above, extends the kings sagas back into prehistory.28 Thereafter, like the kings saga tradition as a whole, it places most weight on the so-called missionary kings Óláfr Tryggvason and Óláfr Haraldsson the saint. In this tradition, the gods are viewed through the eyes of the Church. Thus, for example, in Óláfs saga helga in Heimskringla, Þórr is a large idol whom the king smashes, thus smashing paganism in Gudbrandsdal. More generally, when the gods appear in kings sagas, they are are ‘irruptions’ from the past (Kaplan 2011). Although the operant mode is clearly one of demonization (Clunies Ross 2018a), as literary characters the gods Óðinn and Þórr certainly have traits that are recognizable from more strictly mytho­logical texts, and the existence of these traits shows that the (presumably clerical) authors of the Olaf sagas were familiar with basic mytho­logical conceptions. Above we mentioned the ritual scene in Hákonar saga góða in Heimskringla and the difficulties associated with its interpretation as a source for the study of PCRN. Two of the Íslendingasögur (‘sagas of Icelanders’, also sometimes called ‘family sagas’) have similar descriptions, and similar problems attend them. The generic name Íslendingasögur alludes specifically to Icelanders in the Settlement Period up into the early post-Conversion Period, that is, c. 900–1050 or so. Thus these sagas are set at a time when pre-Christian religion was practised; when it met Christianity; and when it was replaced by Christianity. Uncritical use of these sagas to reconstruct the religious notions of all three periods was routine until the middle of the last century, when Walter Baetke published an influential piece arguing the literary/Christian origin of religious evidence in the sagas (Baetke 1951a).29 In his book on Lade, Dúwel (1985) also argues that we cannot take seriously the two accounts of temples in the sagas of Icelanders. 28 

For a general discussion of sagas and PCRN, see Ármann Jakobsson (2018) and Clunies Ross (2018b). 29  The terms of this discussion were to a large degree fashioned by a much older dispute about the role of oral tradition in the origin of the Íslendingasögur. The polar concepts, coined by Andreas Heusler (1913), were Freiprosa (oral tradition) and Buchprosa (the sagas fashioned in the thirteenth century and later by scholar/authors using primarily written sources). According to the assumptions of this debate, Freiprosa offered historical accuracy (and thus made the sagas a source of PCRN), for oral traditions were assumed to be transmitted unchanged (this led to the absurd proposition that the sagas of Icelanders were composed in Norway or even Sweden!). Buchprosa offered a Christian interpretation, for every written source came from a Christian pen. Thus Baetke argued against any extensive oral tradition. Both positions now seem exaggerated. Even the proponents of Buchprosa (primarily Icelanders) had to call upon

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Recent treatments are more cautious. Vésteinn Ólason certainly captures the prevailing scholarly notion when he terms the Íslendingasögur ‘dialogues with the Viking Age’ (Vésteinn Ólason 1998a, 1998b). Dialogues go in two directions, and perhaps indeed there are voices from the Viking Age in the Íslendingasögur. Preben Meulengracht Sørensen finds that the world-view (he calls it ‘ideo­logy’) concerning references to Freyr in the Íslendingasögur likely went back to pre-Christian times, and other scholars continue to add to the picture (Meulengracht Sørensen 2001b). The fornaldarsögur are set in the forn öld: literally the term means ‘ancient age’, that is, prehistory from the Icelandic perspective, or in other words the time before the first skalds, the time before Iceland was settled. We would call it the Iron Age or, from the perspective of some of the motifs in them, the Migration Period. They are certainly full of material of a pagan nature (see Røthe 2010, or Boberg 1966, which includes an index of mytho­logical motifs, many from the fornaldarsögur), and because they are relatively free from demands for historicity that obviously bound the authors of Íslendingasögur, they may in fact be better sources for the history of religion (Schjødt 2000a), despite the features within them that are clearly borrowed from European romance or the French lai. Else Mundal reiterates this idea and believes that the fornaldarsögur may be valid reflections of mentalité and sometimes can reflect older ideo­logies under the pressure of newer ones (Mundal 2003).

‘Outsider’ Sources It is also necessary to say a few words about ‘outsider’ sources, since their discourse is of quite a different order from that of the sources from within Scandinavia.30 To be sure, there are the same problems of ‘translation’ that exist with our Nordic sources recorded in Christian contexts, but some of these outsiders write as ‘eyewitnesses’ or ‘ethno­g raphers’, even if by modern standards they were neither (the terms are meant heuristically only). The discourse of the oral tradition when no written source was at hand, and especially the findings of Parry and Lord and the research inspired by their work indicated that oral traditions could be unfixed, even when the same singer sang the ‘same’ song on different occasions. Probably the latest word is that of Gísli Sigurðsson, who has marshalled evidence indicating the likelihood of considerable continuity in the oral traditions that likely stand behind some of the extant Íslendingasögur (Gísli Sigurðsson 2002, 2004). 30  On these materials in general, see the chapters in Part 1 ‘Looking In: The Non-Scandinavian Perspective’, in Clunies Ross (2018d: 3–89).

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‘eyewitness’ is quite different from anything that the Christian Middle Ages produced in Scandinavia (where ‘eyewitnesses’ testify to dreams and visions). One of the more famous ‘eyewitnesses’ was the Risālat of Ahmad Ibn Fadlan, ambassador from the Abbasid Caliphate to the king of the Volga Bulgars, whose account of his travels along the Volga in 921 ce include an account of a meeting with the people whom he calls the Russiyah, that is, the Rus. They are traders in furs and slaves. Most analysis takes them for Swedish Vikings or Varangians, perhaps representing Scandinavians on their way to becoming Slavs (Montgomery 2000). Ibn Fadlan’s description for the most part behaves like eyewitness narrative: he describes what he saw (although we know that he could not have seen all that he describes). He describes two sets of cult activity: propitiation of anthropomorphic wooden idols for successful trade, and the complex funerary ritual associated with the death of an important chieftain, much of which can be related to other Nordic sources (further è32 and è33). Ibn Fadlan also reports some aspects of ‘belief ’: concerning the afterworld, including the notion, put forward by one of the Rus to Ibn Fadlan’s interpreter, that burning the dead gets them to the world of the dead more quickly than burying them. There are other Arabic ‘eyewitness’ accounts (see Montgomery 2008 and Birkeland 1954), but none so useful for the study of PCRN as that of Ibn Fadlan. ‘Eyewitness’ accounts go back as far as to Caesar’s Commentaries (in De bello Gallico) on his campaigns in Gaul, which describe briefly the Germanic tribes he met on the Rhine and east of it. Because there were already conventions about ethno­g raphic writing in the ancient world, however, the heuristic distinction between ‘eyewitness’ and ‘ethno­g raphic’ is difficult to enforce in this case. Caesar is just one of many classical authors, writing in Greek and Latin, to provide ethno­g raphic or geo­g raphic detail (sometimes first-hand, more often not) of surrounding peoples, including the Germanic tribes; other important ‘ethno­g raphic’ accounts are those of Strabo, Velleius Paterculus, Ptolemy, and, of course, Tacitus (for the source value of Tacitus, è12).31 While generic constraints and shifting or misapplied ethnic termino­logy encourage caution, the classical ethno­g raphers and geo­g raphers have much to say of the northern world. As the Germanic tribes began to be more established and integrated with the Roman Empire, they got their own historians,32 for example, Cassiodorus 31  32 

For a useful list of such sources, see Goetz and Welwei (2013a: i, 31–48). For a useful list of these and related sources, see (Goetz and Welwei 2013b: i, xxi–xxxv).

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(composed a history of the Goths supposedly surviving in excerpted form in the Getica, ‘Matters Gothic’, of Jordanes — both sixth century), Gregory of Tours (Historia Francorum, ‘History of the Franks’, sixth century), and Paul the Deacon (Historia Langobardorum, ‘History of the Langobards’, eighth century). Again, these writers were bound by convention, but they remain valuable sources. For another example, Procopius of Caesarea writes in Hypèr tōn polémon lógoi (History of the Wars) (mid-sixth century) (6.15) of how the Eruli come into contact with the men of Thule, who are across the sea from the Dani (that is, on the Scandinavian peninsula)33 and ruled by thirteen kings. He tells us that they sacrifice the first warrior they capture in battle to Ares, sometimes by hanging him in a tree. Myth, too, is corroborated: it can hardly be chance that the account of the battle between the Vandals and Vinnilians, as reported by Paul the Deacon, accords so closely with the picture of Óðinn (and Frigg) in the Icelandic sources. Lastly we should mention accounts of missionary activity, such as Rimbert’s Vita Anskarii, Alcuin’s Vita Willibrordi, Altfrid’s Vita Liudgari, and so forth. For PCRN, these may be said to culminate in Adam of Bremen’s Gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum (History of the Archbishops of the Hamburg Church) from around 1076 ce. Its fourth book comprises a treatise on the geo­g raphy of Scandinavia, informed partly by information Adam claims to have got directly from the Danish king Sven Estridsson. Therefore close to ‘eyewitness’, it is also ‘ethno­graphic’ and historical. Within Book 4 (ch. 26–27 and the scholia to them) is the famous description of the pagan temple at Uppsala. Like Ibn Fadlan, Adam describes idols, but rather than the anodyne wooden idols of the Rus standing by the shore of the Volga, these idols stand in an elaborate temple. They bear the names Thor, Wodan, and Fricco, and each idol is fashioned icono­graphically in a way that we recognize from the mytho­ logy. Where Ibn Fadlan had his Rus propitiate the gods for successful trade, the Swedes propitiate Thor, Wodan, and Fricco for different purposes, each related to a different sphere of activity. The counterpart of Ibn Fadlan’s funeral is the great ritual festival held every ninth year in Adam’s account. Like Ibn Fadlan’s account, it cannot be taken at face value, but source criticism will reveal much that is useful for the study of PCRN (è28, 32, and 33). What is most striking about these accounts, from the point of view of source criticism, is their primary focus on ritual activity rather than on narrative. These 33 

That he is writing of a high latitude is clear, since he mentions long summer days and long winter nights, as well as the Scrithiphini, clearly the Sámi (also è17).

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‘outsider’ or ‘eyewitness’ writers often describe a process, not what motivates the process, or why the process might be successful. Or to put it another way, they sometimes allow a captivating glimpse into PCRN as a ‘primary’ religion in operation.

Conclusion Attitudes toward the value of the Nordic written sources for knowledge of matters pre-Christian have varied over time. Even Snorri and Saxo, writing far closer to pre-Christian times than we are, felt compelled to discuss the veracity of their oral sources, as we have seen, and the positions argued by such first-rate scholars as Olaf Olsen and Klaus Düwel continue to appear, argued with equal skill and erudition. For example, Annette Lassen took up the same premise about the fornaldarsögur just mentioned (that they are freer from demands for verisimilitude than more ‘historical’ genres) and turned it on its head: there was more freedom for fabulating and such fabulating could and probably did include myth (Lassen 2003a). Lassen gives an excellent picture of Óðinn in the fornaldarsögur but does not feel that her picture can have much to do with pre-Christian mytho­logy. In a later work, Odin på kristent pergament (Lassen 2011b), Lassen argues that the textual and generic context accounts for the picture of Óðinn in any given text and that it is therefore extremely problematic to use the textual tradition to put together a picture of this important deity. We certainly agree that source criticism is important, but we do not think that authorial intent can account for all the value of a given source. Our view on these matters is set forth in è1. Nor are we discouraged by the contemporary debate about Vǫluspá, long a cornerstone of building theories about PCRN but now regarded as anything from the reflection of a Byzantine last supper to an oral poem that only reflects the moment of its recording (see the essays in Gunnell and Lassen 2013). Like all our textual evidence, Vǫluspá will always remain challenging, and no one doubts the plurality of religious points of view within it. We still believe, however, that one can sift through it, as does John McKinnell in ‘Heathenism in Vǫluspá’ (McKinnell 2013b) for valid evidence regarding PCRN; and this goes for all our written sources, as we indicated above in the Introduction. We note that the excellent presentation of the mytho­logy by Christopher Abram (2011) takes essentially the same view of the sources that we do.

4 – Language: Religious Vocabulary John Lindow Introduction This chapter complements the following chapters on the Indo-European (è11) and Germanic frames (è12). In those, the emphasis is on myth and text; here, we take up what language itself has to say. This line of inquiry has a long history in the study of PCRN since, as we have noted, the study of religion derived from or grew up alongside the study of language history. As a result, the tools of language history were naturally applied to the study of religion. Given our emphasis on the importance of comparativism, it is worth noting that these tools are fundamentally comparative: comparison of the form and semantics of cognates enables etymo­logy (postulation of an older, unattested form, and its meaning). Similarly, comparison of poetic formulas in Indo-European languages has allowed postulation of common formulas, some with religious meaning. And finally, comparison of the presence or absence of cognates within the Germanic languages, and/or their usage (sometimes in translation), tells us about the vocabulary of religion. The tools of language history therefore have much to offer, and sometimes they can capture older stages of meaning that are available from no other source. They are especially important in thinking about the longue durée. At the same time, however, there are limitations to what this field of knowledge can reveal about PCRN.

John Lindow, Professor Emeritus of Scandinavian, University of California, Berkeley The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. 103–114 John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116931

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The Holy and the Gods It has long been understood that even when the Indo-European daughter languages have words that are formally comparable, the concept of reconstruction is fraught, since each word’s semantics depend so heavily on cultural parameters (Untermann 1985). Nevertheless, comparison within both the IndoEuropean and Germanic areas allows helpful reconstruction. For example, Émile Benveniste shows that although the etyma were different, several IndoEuropean languages show a two-part division in adjectives for the sacred, as in, for example, Latin sanctus and sacer (1969: ii, 179–207). Within Germanic the distinction apparently existed as well and was captured in such pairs as the Gothic forms hailags and weihs. Furthermore, *hailagaz (also found in the runic corpus) seems originally to have had a connection with words meaning ‘hale, healthy’ (Benveniste 1969: ii, 186–87), and it is not inconceivable that the two notions originally informed one another. Such an interaction may be visible in the medical instruments found at Helgö, which suggest that a site containing the derivative of *hailagaz in its first component may have been a place both for healing and for cult activity (Frölich 2011; see also Zachrisson 2004a, 2004b). Wulfila’s preference for weihs in his New Testament translation may also support this possibility, since Christian doctrine does not conjoin medical treatment on earth with God’s holiness. Walter Baetke (1942a) argues on the basis of both etymo­logy and the semantics of attested forms that *wīhaz was associated with the numinous or directly divine, whereas *hailagaz was associated with prosperity that the numen could confer on humans (see also Baetke 1942b, 1944; Must 1960). If this distinction holds, we might construe *wīhaz as relating primarily to actions in the Other World, and *hailagaz as relating more closely to and perhaps deriving from communication between the two worlds. This concept might also be supported by the argument of Karin Calissendorff (1964) to the effect that in Nordic place­names, *hailagaz as first component might refer to commercial centres. We might also note the difference in the adaptation to Christianity in the Gothic Bible of Wulfilas, where weihs is used, and the alternate situation in West and North Germanic, which use the derivatives of *hailagaz. This situation could be construed as reflecting either regional, doctrinal, or temporal differences in the Christianization process. As was noted above, there is little conformity of divine naming across the Indo-European languages, which meant that the study of Indo-European comparative religion has relied on comparison of narrative details rather than of linguistic forms (è11). The famous exception in Germanic to the lack of Indo-

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Figure 4.1. Silver fibula from Gårdlösa in Skåne (SHM 25302:267741), dated to the third century ce. The runic inscription (DR EM85:128A, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), in the close up, reads ek unwodR (I the un-raging). Through this negation, the inscription is the oldest attested ex­am­ple of the concept *wōþaz. Photo: Bengt A. Lundberg, Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm. 

European divine parallels was *tīwaz, the reconstructed proto-form of Týr, Tiu, Ziu, and so forth; his name can be related to deus. As all commentators on this correspondence point out, deus and its cognates are nouns (as is the Old Norse plural tívar), whereas Týr is a name. The simplest explanation for this discrepancy is to assume the loss of an epithet, such as ‘father’; compare Iuppiter and Ziu páter ( Jackson 2012: 55). Nevertheless, the existence of the Indo-European cognate forms require us to take seriously a long history for Týr, even if he has left little trace in the bulk of the record (è48). The semantics of word formation can help illuminate some early aspects of the religious and mytho­logical systems. For example, forms in Proto-IndoEuropean -tu- tended to be abstracts, and we see such forms in the names *nerþuz > Njǫrðr, *wulþuz > Ullr, and wōþaz > Óðr. At some point in the distant past these gods may have been personifications of, respectively, creative power, glory, or perhaps gleaming, and ecstasy or inspiration (Meid 1992: 493).1 Furthermore, in North Germanic, réttr ‘law’ (as in such expressions as lǫg ok lands réttr or Guðs réttr) is also a –tu- stem (*reg-tu-s), probably an abstract indicating the power of setting things right (Meid 1987: 163). In other Indo-European languages, words for king derive from this root. 1 

Meid (1991) is in effect a preprint of Meid (1992).

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Ullr and Óðr correspond to Ullinn and Óðinn. The latter forms use a suffix in -na- (Proto-Indo-European -no-), which often corresponds to leadership of or control over something, as in Latin dominus to domus or, closer to home, dróttinn to drótt. The etymo­logy of the name Óðinn as something like ‘master of the possessed’ is well known.2 Ullinn should perhaps be understood in a parallel way etymo­logically as ‘master of the glorious’. It is noteworthy that the language, and thus presumably the religion, retained both forms, the abstracts and the derived ‘leader’ forms; therefore, we can infer that both must have had roles to play. The name Þórr appears originally to have had variant forms: a more or less abstract *þunraz ‘thunder’ and a nomen agentis: *þunaraz ‘the thunderer’ (Beck 1986a). Thus there appears to have been a distinction between the notion of a god who led, such as Ullinn and Óðinn, and gods who simply were or did, such as Þórr. Another way to think about this distinction is that through their names, Ullinn and Óðinn were networked in a hierarchical relationship with other phenomena or beings (if the *wōþaz was a group of ecstatic warriors rather than a concept of the ecstatic; è24), whereas Þórr was in no such relationship.3 Þórr provides an interesting case (è41). In West Germanic the name of the god was little different from the noun for ‘thunder’ (Old English þunor, etc.), and speakers of North Germanic could certainly have seen the similarity (for example, in such modern words for ‘thunder’ as Nynorsk tor, Swedish tordön, and so forth). We must therefore reckon that thunder was an active aspect of the frame of this god, even though we need to infer it within the mytho­logy rather than witness it directly. Etymo­logy can help with this inference. One of the accepted and most widely discussed examples of mytho­logical cognates is Þórr’s hammer, Mjǫllnir, and the way it relates Þórr to the Baltic thunder god (Nagy 1974; Watkins 1995: 429–38; West 2007: 238–55). Mjǫllnir relates etymo­logically to words in other Indo-European languages meaning both ‘hammer’ and ‘lightning’, and this evidence suggests that at one time Þórr’s hammer might have had aspects of lightning and might even have been a thunderbolt, not a short-handled tool. The thunder-god in Lithuanian was Perkunas, a name that has the Indo-European suffix -no- (Germanic -na-). Perkunas is thus ‘mas2 

Watkins (1995: 118) renders these suffixed forms as ‘who incarnates’ the collective: dominus ‘who incarnates the household [dom-]’ and ‘Germanic *wōþi/ana- “who incarnates shamanic wisdom, poetry”’. 3  And yet when Hrungnir stands on his shield in Haustlǫng st. 17 and renders himself vulnerable to an attack from Þórr’s hammer, Þjóðólfr used the expression ‘bǫnd ollu því’ (the bǫnd caused this).

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ter of the perku-’, and perku- is etymo­logically identical with Latin quercus ‘oak’. Lightning may, of course, be the master of the oak tree. Be that as it may, this correspondence may throw light on the huge tree dedicated to Jupiter that St Boniface felled as part of his conversion activities among the Saxons and that is usually taken as an oak sacred to Donar. What is perhaps more noteworthy is that Perkunas corresponds closely to Old Norse Fj ǫ rgynn, according to Skáldskaparmál the father of Frigg (Gylfaginning calls her father Fjǫrgvinr). In Germanic it seems that the root (*feru-) referred to mountains or mountain ranges (West 2007: 241–42). The feminine form is also attested, fjǫrgyn ‘earth’ according to a pair of verses and the þulur. Earth was Þórr’s mother, and so therefore is fjǫrgyn, or a personified Fjǫrgyn, attested twice in eddic poems. Fjǫrgyn(n) certainly attaches Þórr historically (that is, via etymo­logy) to the Baltic thunder-god (see Jackson 2001 for an explanation of the possible etymo­logical relationships). Thus although Þórr does not thunder very much in the mytho­logy, he probably did so in the landscape in which people lived.4 It is striking that skaldic poetry has neuter collectives for gods: bǫnd, hǫpt, regin, even goð (è 36). The first two are associated with bonds or fetters and might reasonably be associated with the fetter described by Tacitus in Germania ch. 39, for the sacred grove of the Semnones, even if there both the fetter (vinculo ligatus) and the godhead itself (regnator omnium deus) are in the singular. Certainly the use of collectives occludes the identities of individual gods as we see them in the mytho­logy and, for example, in the weekday names and in most 4 

The data discussed in the previous para­g raph does, however, raise questions for the mytho­logy. We refer to Lokasenna st. 26. Loki is speaking to Frigg. Þegi þú, Frigg! þú ert Fiorgyns mær og hefir æ vergiorn verið, er þá Véa og Vilia léztu þér, Viðris qvæn, báða í baðm um tekit. (Shut up, Frigg! You are Fjǫrguns mær and have ever been eager for men, since you, the wife of Viðrir [Óðinn], had Vé and Vili take you in their embrace.) (my translation) At issue is the expression ‘Fjǫrgyns mær’, which, following Snorri, appears to mean ‘Fjǫrgyn’s daughter’. But mær can also mean ‘wife’. Since Þórr is also the son of Óðinn, could Fjǫrgynn be Óðinn, and the expression ‘Fjǫrgyns mær’ parallel with ‘Viðris qvæn’ in the second half of the stanza? This conjecture may be more useful than the comparative one that makes of Fjǫrgynn the ‘old Germanic storm-god’ and Þórr/thunder his son (see West 2007: 250).

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placenames. Instead, these terms suggest numinous powers of a rather different order. Walther Gehl launched a vigorous argument associating them with fate (Gehl 1939). The passage in Germania ch. 39, would support such a supposition: ‘Si forte prolapsus est, attolli et insurgere haud licitum: per humum evolvuntur’ (If he chance to fall, he must not be lifted up or rise — he must writhe along the ground until he is out again) (p. 195). It is perhaps less easy to discern a connection with fate in the attested poetic usage: bǫnd ollu því and the like. Hǫpt is used primarily in kennings and therefore has even less to say about a potential association with fate. Certainly regin and goð are less likely to have an association with fate, but their etymo­logies are still meaningful. According to the standard etymo­logical dictionary, that of Jan de Vries, regin is associated with a root meaning ‘advise’ (de Vries 1962a: 436–37, s.v. regin) (but see Sturtevant 1916, who suggests derivation from a root meaning ‘power’). The etymo­logy of goð is contested. An attractive interpretation is that it may have meant ‘those who were called upon’ (de Vries 1962a: 181, s.v. goð/guð; see also Feist 1939, s.v. goþs), a perfect participle of the verb ‘invoke’ ( Jackson 2012: 54). If these two etymo­logies are correct, regin and goð will have had to do with human attempts at communication with the supernatural powers. When we add to these neuter plural collectives the masculine collective tívar (frequently attested in eddic poems, less so in the skaldic corpus), as well even as æsir and vanir, we see that a collective of gods was clearly a fundamental concept, even if the singular forms Týr, áss, and vanr are also attested. Language history can suggest changes over the course of the longue durée. Thus it matters little what the etymo­logy of the name Njǫrðr originally was, even though we think we know it. Even if we are wrong, however, the so-called ‘laws’ of sound change require us to accept that his name is identical with that of the goddess Nerthus in Tacitus (*nerþuz > njǫrðr).5 Given this equation, we can accept both continuity in the connection with fertility and fundamental change in the sex of the deity.6 5 

Rudolf Simek takes seriously the suggestion of Lotte Motz (1992) that other name forms in the humanist editions of Germania are as valid as Nerthus and that the deity in ch. 40 has nothing to do with Njǫrðr but rather should be associated with Frau Percht or Frau Holle in recent folklore (Simek 2003: 56–57). But as Simek admits, Nerthus has manu­script witness. Furthermore, Motz’s argument for conceptual similarities seems forced. 6  Meid (1992: 492) thinks that the concept was originally grammatically not marked for gender (as a u-stem, it could in fact be masculine or feminine in proto-Germanic) and that gender was only added to the numen when anthropomorphization of the numen took place. That position presupposes both masculine and feminine versions of the deity in proto-Germanic times, a proposition that might be supported through Nordic placename evidence.

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Language history can also show us very clearly the adaptation of the older religious vocabulary to Christianity. A salient example, set forth clearly and at length by Maurice Cahen (1921; see also Green 1998: 13–16) was the development of the word goð/guð. Originally neuter plural, under Christianity it came to be used as a masculine singular, as would be appropriate for the Christian god. Many other examples of such adaptation might be adduced (see, e.g., Green 1998: 13–29).

Cosmo­logy Wolfgang Meid (1992: 493) and others have pointed out that the proto-Germanic words for god and man, *teiwaz and *gumō respectively, could reflect etymo­logically a contrast between heaven and earth: Proto-Indo-European *deiwos < dīw for heaven, the Greek cognate χθών (khthōn) for earth. If so, we may think of the massive postholes at Uppåkra (cf. L. Larsson 2007), clearly meant to project the roof of the apparent cult-building up to the sky, or the cosmo­logy of the mytho­logy with its world tree reaching up into the sky. In this instance, then, etymo­logy gives us access to the longue durée. Meid also pointed out (1992: 490) that one of the words for fate, Old English wyrd, Old Norse urðr, contains the root also found in Latin verto/vertere (turn, turn round). Thus, etymo­logically at least, one conception of fate could be consistent with a cyclical world order, such as we appear to see in conceptions of the rebirth of the cosmos after its demise at Ragnarǫk.7

The Language of Ritual The general terms for sacrifice in Old Norse were blót (neuter noun) and blóta (strong verb, originally reduplicating). Most of the other Germanic languages attest cognates, so we can be confident that this word group was in use over a long period of time. Because the etymo­logy is unclear, it is not possible to use language history to determine what exactly might have gone on at a blót. Peter Jackson offers the helpful parallel of Vedic and Latin, where single (but not cognate) terms indicate ‘a wide variety of pious acts, including those of sacrifice, prayer, and praise’ ( Jackson 2012: 54). Another clue to ritual activity is provided by the semantics of the apparent loan into Finnish and Sámi. Finnish 7 

Note, however, that West associates the turning with a spindle of the goddesses of fate (West 2007: 383). See also Liberman 1994.

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luote and ‘Norwegian Sámi’ (so de Vries, i.e., North Sámi) luotte both mean ‘incantation, magic spell, magic song’, strongly suggesing both a verbal component and an attempt to intervene in the normal operation of the world (see de Vries 1962a: 45, s.v. blót). As the discussion in D. H. Green makes clear, the individual Germanic languages attest a variety of words associated with sacrifice, which may in turn indicate differences in actual ritual activity and conceptions of contact with the divine (Green 1998: 20–23). To take one interesting example, Old Norse tafn appears to denote what is sacrificed, although skalds used it often as the base word in kennings for ‘corpse’, especially on a battlefield. Its obvious cognates in Indo-European are in the word group represented by Latin daps and have to do with the sacrificial meal. The word may have been semantically narrowed in Scandinavian, or poets may have developed a fashionable metaphor. D. H. Green notes that Old High German and Old English attest for cult the word bigang, literally ‘going around’ (Green 1998: 20–21), which implies a procession and which might plausibly be associated with the description Tacitus gives of the worship of Nerthus. Although it is in a different part of the Germanic world, we would note that procession seems to have been a part of the ritual landscape over a long period of time in Scandinavia as well (è 25). Although bigang does not show a Nordic cognate, we might look at another word with possible ritual connotations. Benveniste (1969: ii, 164–65) notes that the word group with Old Norse eiðr, Gothic aiþs ‘oath’, and the Old Irish cognate ōeth (usually taken as unclear etymo­logies) suggest derivation from a root *oito- which can be understood as connected with a verb meaning ‘go’ (cf. Swedish edgång (Beck 1986b)). Benveniste believed that there might be a reference here to passing between the two parts of a severed sacrificed animal, but we may think rather of a procession. Of course, we cannot know whether the purpose of ritual procession was to swear an oath; and of course, the verb in Germanic (Gothic svara (strong verb), Old Norse sverja (weak verb)) suggests a speech act (compare Old Norse svara, Old High German andsvaran ‘answer’) (see also Polomé 1975: 663). The existence of cognates in Old High German and Old English of Old Norse hǫrgr (è 25) confirms that this term was associated with the religious sphere, as it is used especially in eddic poems. The etymo­logy seems to point to a pile of stones, which suggests possible continuity with the contention of Tacitus that the Germanic peoples had no temples but worshipped out of doors — assuming that that particular observation of Tacitus has ethno­graphic value, and despite the archaeo­logical evidence for cult houses (è27).

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Hávamál 144 attests a number of terms that seem to have to do with the language of ritual. Veiztu, hvé rista scal, veiztu hvé ráða scal, veiztu, hvé fá scal, veiztu, hvé freista scal, veiztu, hvé biðia scal, veiztu, hvé blóta scal, veiztu, hvé senda scal, veiztu, hvé sóa scal? (Do you know how to carve, do you know how to interpret, do you know how to colour, do you know how to question, do you know how to ask, do you know how to sacrifice, do you know how to dispatch, do you know how to slaughter?)

Of these terms, only blóta has cognates, and from this we might well conclude that the development of this specialized West Nordic religious vocabulary parallels a development of regional forms for ritual, including the use of runes (cutting, colouring, testing, and interpreting) and perhaps also sacrifice of animals that involved ‘sending’ them in a metaphorical way (Liberman 1978); biðja is used for Christian prayer, and the etymo­logy of sóa remains unclear. The Germanic languages do not attest a common word for persons who exercised sacerdotal functions, although the individual languages have several of these and sometimes a cognate appears in another Germanic language (è 29). Old Norse goði offers tantalizing possibilities, including the parallel gudija in Runic and Gothic gudja ‘priest’. But the Icelandic textual evidence essentially shows no certain priestly connotations, and it is not inconceivable that the goði institution was an Icelandic innovation (Höfig 2012).

Formulas An Indo-European poetics, going back to or revived by Rüdiger Schmitt (1967) and furthered by Calvert Watkins (1995) and most recently M.  L. West (2007), has isolated and analysed formulas that are found in more than one Indo-European tradition and can therefore be reconstructed for an earlier stages of Indo-European. Watkins has applied some of his basic formulas to Þórr’s slaying of the Miðgarðsormr, and he has also analysed etymo­logical continuity of the thunder weapon (Watkins 1995: 429–38). Although he does not pursue this line, we note that one of the versions of the basic formula Watkins

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adduces has a hero kill a dragon with either a specified weapon or accompanied by a companion. While there obviously is no lexical continuity of the formula into Germanic/Old Norse, we note that the terms of the formula are important in the Old Norse tradition. Thus although in the mytho­logy Þórr ordinarily used Mjǫllnir, he must sometimes act without it, as when he kills Geirrøðr with a flaming ingot. And thus he frequently has a companion on his giant-slaying expeditions, and both the identity of that companion (Þjálfi or Loki) or his presence or absence (the fishing expedition) can be at issue. Watkins also takes seriously the Old English Nine Herbs Charm, one of the rare passages in Old English to attest Woden (Watkins 1995: 424–28). The passage is difficult, but it is thought-provoking to read an attempt to attach Woden/Óðinn to Indo-European dragon-slaying formulas rather than first and foremost to healing. As his title indicates, West intends to take on myth directly. Accordingly, his book offers at least as many parallels of narrative structure as of linguistic structure. Similarities of narrative structure are of course what Dumézil trafficked in, but West has no grand scheme in mind, and the parallels are for the most part sets of details rather than larger structural entities. Sometimes he tests how far back the parallels can be reconstructed, but on some occasions he simply adduces them. To be sure, West is open to the idea of such parallels originating in loans to Indo-Europeans, as for example with the world pillar and world tree (West 2007: 346–47), but there is an important methodo­logical point here: where there is simply parallel of narrative structure, one may wonder whether bringing in non-Indo-European traditions might have yielded similar parallels, perhaps of a regional nature. Where there is a common linguistic form, however, with a common semantic core, we may think most comfortably of an Indo-European inheritance. There are in fact formulas within Germanic that seem to touch on religion. Of these the most well-known is the cosmogonic/cosmo­logical ‘iǫrð fannz æva né upphiminn’ (earth was not, nor up-heaven (i.e., heaven above)), attested in both manu­script versions of Vǫluspá (st. 3) and also cited by Snorri. Besides the pair jǫrð and upphiminn, attested elsewhere in the Old Norse poetic corpus and in Old English and Old Saxon, the formula turns up in a Christian context in the Old High German Wessobrunner Gebet, thus making it likely that the formula existed in oral poetry (Lönnroth 1971; Meid 1992: 496). This formula suggests a cosmogony ex nihilo, as we get in Vǫluspá and Gylfaginning. The more general formulaic link between jǫrð and upphiminn, and the cognates in other Germanic languages, reinforce the distinction between heaven and earth that we have already seen attested elsewhere in linguistic structures.

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Conclusion: Prospects and Limitations As mentioned above, etymo­logy requires us to confront issues of the longue durée and continuity. The etymo­logy of Týr certifies his pre-Germanic heritage. The etymo­logy of Óðinn corresponds closely to certain characteristics of the god in the mytho­logy. The etymo­logy of Þórr forces us to look beyond the mytho­logy to understand the role the god may have had in meteoro­logical contexts. The etymo­logical connection between Nerthus and Njǫrðr certifies a longue durée but confronts us with a significant interpretational challenge. The etymo­logy of Frigg, from an Indo-European root meaning ‘love’, helps explain how she came to be equated with Venus in the interpretatio Germanica and offers challenges in the deep history. In some cases when the dossier is thin, etymo­logy can be brought into play in service of an argument. Thus when de Vries removes Baldr from the realm of seasonal myth, one of his arguments is that the etymo­logy of Hǫðr, Baldr’s slayer, is likely to be from the root *haðu-, meaning battle (de Vries 1955a). Váli, too, he argues, derived from a battle word. De Vries adduces these new etymo­ logies as stepping stones in an argument, and although his notion of initiation into Óðinn cult remains unproved, the entire argument, including the etymo­ logies, surely does remove the Baldr myth in its Old Norse sources from the realm of seasonal fertility myth.8 However, problematic etymo­logies can add little to our thinking. We take the example of the figure Gná (è54), whom Snorri numbers among the ­ásynjur in Gylfaginning and who also appears as the base word in a few woman kennings. Snorri tells us that Gná was Frigg’s handmaiden, has a special horse, and that she exchanged a puzzling verse with the vanir. Etymo­logical guesses postulate derivation either from a root meaning ‘excess’ or from one meaning something like ‘riches’. While either would do for a fertility goddess, neither has anything to do with the later textual tradition, and interpretation simply must follow other paths (Mitchell 2014). Gná is a minor figure, but she will 8 

Modern scholars did not invent this form of argument. Snorri Sturluson advances his euhemerization of the gods — that is his argument of an origin from men from Asia — by invoking, among other things, an etymo­logy. From the Pro­logue to his Edda: ‘Þar var sá konungr er Gylfi er nefndr, en er hann spyrr til ferða þeira Asiamanna er Æsir váru kallaðir, fór hann móti þeim’ (p. 6) (There was a king whose name was Gylfi, and when he learned of the arrival of the men of Asia (who were called Æsir), he went to meet them) (p. 4). Scholars today do not associate áss/æsir with Asia. We still argue in this fashion, but with what we think is greater precision.

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do to illustrate a major point. We reject interpretations of religious phenomena, including but not limited to mytho­logical figures, that build exclusively on etymo­logy. We now restate some of the opening sentences of this section: –– The etymo­logy of Týr certifies his pre-Germanic heritage but does little more. –– The etymo­logy of Óðinn corresponds closely to certain characteristics of the god in the mytho­logy but does not exempt us from unpacking all of the sometimes contradictory evidence while seeking the semantic core. –– The etymo­logy of Þórr forces us to look beyond the mytho­logy to understand the role the god may have had in meteoro­logical contexts but does not appear to be central in our overall interpretation. –– The etymo­logical connection between Nerthus and Njǫrðr certifies a longue durée but confronts us with a significant interpretational challenge. The existence of Nerthus does not explain Njǫrðr, and vice versa. –– The etymo­logy of Frigg, from an Indo-European root meaning ‘love’, helps explain how she came to be equated with Venus in the interpretatio Germanica and offers challenges in the deep history, but it leaves open the question of her role in myth and religion. We have said nothing about Loki in this chapter, for we do not believe that etymo­logy can solve ‘the problem of Loki’. To sum up: Etymo­logy and language history are important tools for the study of PCRN. They offer access to the longue durée and to deep history and indeed may even constitute a kind of metaphorical archaeo­logy in their emphasis not on a textual tradition but rather on artefacts, usually words, in specific contexts. Those contexts are situated further back in time than much of what we have, and in that lies the enormous usefulness of the tools of etymo­logy and language history. And in placenames and personal names, they anchor religion to the landscape and to human life and society.

5 – Language: Placenames and Personal Names Per Vikstrand Introduction Name research (onomastics) is an important but perhaps under-utilized complementary subject to the study of Old Norse religion. The abundant source material of placenames and personal names — real as well as mytho­logical — with religious connotations offers rich material for analysis. Name research is basically a linguistic discipline, and it has its own requirements and methods, demanding special training and interdisciplinary approaches. This is especially true of placename research, as placenames form part of a landscape and cannot truly be understood outside their topo­graphical context. But personal names too can be misunderstood, even by linguistically trained scholars who are not aware of the distinct way in which names behave.

Placenames The keen attention paid to placenames related to pre-Christian beliefs seems to be a rather unique feature of Scandinavian onomastics. Names like Odensvi ‘the sanctuary of Óðinn’ or Torslunda ‘the grove of Þórr’ can be designated sacral placenames (Holmberg 1994: 282), and interest in them dates back to the late nineteenth century when a number of pioneer studies were carried out, the most important by Magnus Fredrik Lundgren (1878), Oluf Rygh (1880), and Johannes Steenstrup (1895–97). During the first decades of the twentieth Per Vikstrand, Reader of Placename Studies, Uppsala University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. 115–134 John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116932

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century, several extensive works by scholars like Elias Wessén (1921a, 1922, 1923, 1929–30), Magnus Olsen (1915, 1924, 1928), Oskar Lundberg (1913), and Oskar Lundberg and Hans Sperber (1912) saw the light of day. This formative period introduced topics, problems, and not least presuppositions about sacral placenames, which have not been questioned until very recently. From the 1930s onward, a reaction against what was regarded as too uncritical a use of sacral interpretations gained ground, led by the influential Swedish namescholar Jöran Sahlgren. After Sahlgren’s infamous and often-cited attack on Elias Wessén in 1950 (Sahlgren 1950), the field was more or less abandoned for several decades. It was reintroduced in the 1980s by the forceful and valiant Lars Hellberg (1986a), and it gained legitimacy through contributions by leading researchers such as John Kousgård Sørensen (1992), Thorsten Andersson (1992a, 1992b), and Jørn Sandnes (1992). Later on, important work was carried out by Stefan Brink, who has also played a decisive role in the dissemination of knowledge about sacral placenames to a wider audience (e.g., Brink 1996a, 1998).

The Sacred Place The sacral placenames can be regarded as a linguistic part of a sacral dimension of the landscape. In this connection, landscape cannot be considered as a neutral dimension or an empty stage for human action. On the contrary, it must be regarded as a social product created by human deeds and narratives. A landscape is a meaningful space consisting of places connected to each other by paths and stories. Places in this respect are something more than partitions of space; they are ‘centres of bodily activity, human significance and emotional attachment’ (Tilley 1994: 15), and they are localities that carry meanings and values. In the establishment of a place, name-giving has a decisive function, since the name defines the borders of the place and gives it its social and historical background. As Charles Frake (1996: 235) puts it, the name serves ‘like a verbal fence, to enclose an individual place as a spatial self ’. Hence, a place can be described as a locality with a name and a meaning (see Fig. 5.1). These three components interact in complicated ways, and it is by no means correct to regard the name as an empty label serving only as a means of communication. On the contrary, the example of the sacral placenames shows quite clearly that the meaning of a place is in many cases triggered by and constructed around its name, often through eponymic interpretations. Striking examples are provided by a number of Celtic goddesses who seem to be personifications of places and

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Figure 5.1. A model of the concept of ‘place’. Illustration: Per Vikstrand. 

who also have the same or very similar names as those places, such as Glanis from Glanum in Provence or Nemausus from Nemausus, present-day Nîmes (Green 1995: 465–66). It is also obvious that sacral placenames can designate places with a variety of different meanings, spanning from actual sanctuaries to places loosely associated with superhuman beliefs through myths or tales. It has been argued that a more rigid division between the sacred and the profane may have been introduced by the coming of Christianity (Nordeide 2013: 10). That might in some sense be true, but the placenames nevertheless point at the existence of pre-Christian sacred places, in the potent meaning of the word outlined above.

The Value of Placenames as Source Material Pre-Christian sacral placenames derive directly from prehistoric times and thus constitute source material directly relevant to Old Norse religion. Placenames are (or at least were) normally coined in the verbal interaction between language-users, that is to say, when people talk to each other. They can be described as agreements on the correct way to linguistically identify places. Such agreements must appear reasonable to the language-users, that is, the chosen name must seem an adequate denotation of the place, otherwise it will not catch on.9 It can therefore be regarded as reasonably certain that the words and notions that occur in placenames were alive and meaningful to the persons who coined 9 

The only exception from this appears to be is the use of irony or jokes, which is not uncommon in placenames.

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and accepted the names. In that respect, names do not lie. When it comes to sacral placenames, we can thus be certain that the deities and ritual aspects they refer to were current when the names were coined. Furthermore, the social spectrum of which they can be said to be representative is most definitely wider than is the case with skaldic poems or other literary sources.

Different Kinds of Sacral Placenames It is important to realize that sacral placenames do not constitute a semantically homogeneous group. In earlier research, such names were often labelled as ‘cultic placenames’ and thought to more or less exclusively denote ritual places. This is hardly the case. As mentioned above, we must instead realize that they can designate places with many different kinds of religious meanings. To categorise the material according to semantic divisions is, however, not an easy task. We still know too little about the spatial arrangement of pre-Christian ritual practices and also about how mythical aspects were represented in the landscape during pre-Christian times. Even so, we need to comprehend the material on a semantic level, and it is, in fact, possible to separate out some groups of names. Without venturing into the difficult task of a systematic classification, I will discuss some of these groups below. Cultic Placenames There is no easy way to delimit cultic placenames from other sacral names. It might seem possible to ‘play safe’ and stick to generics with the lexical meaning ‘ritual place’. But this strategy will not take us further than to Old Norse vé, and even the meaning of this word can be questioned. When we get to hof and hǫrgr, things get even worse because these words are clearly polysemantic, which means that they have other meanings beside the ritual or religious ones, and it is by no means self-evident with which meaning they occur in any given placename (see below). So there are no shortcuts. The potentially cultic meaning of such names must be argued for in a wider linguistic and religious context, and certainty remains beyond reach. Names containing Old Swedish vi, Old Norse vé ‘holy place, sanctuary’ are usually regarded as cultic placenames. These are most common in Sweden and Denmark, with examples such as Ullevi, Frösvi, Odense, and Vi. Although such names are nearly always understood as names of ritual places, it should be pointed out that the word is derived from a Germanic adjective *wīha-

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‘holy’, and the meaning is thus originally ‘holy place’. Also usually conceived as cultic are names including the words hov, Old Norse hof, and harg/horg, Old Norse hǫrgr, with examples such as Hov, Ullinshov, Harg, and Torshälla (*Thorshargher). But we must remember that, although hof and hǫrgr have a cultic meaning in the Old Norse language, both words are also well attested in Scandinavian dialects with a topo­g raphical sense: hov meaning ‘elevation, hill’ and harg/horg ‘stony ground, cairn’. The relation between the sacred and the topo­g raphical meaning of these words has been much debated, but the discussion has hitherto not been able to present any fully satisfactory explanation (Olsen 1966; Rostvik 1967; Andersson 1986; Brink 1996a: 260, 265–66; Vikstrand 2001: 207–25, 253–71; Vikstrand 2002b: 132–35). A similar problem surrounds the word lund ‘grove’. It can hardly be doubted that lund is a landscape term, denoting some kind of woodland used among other things for leaf-harvesting. This is certainly the meaning with which the word appears in the vast majority of the many hundreds — perhaps thousands — of names ending in lund across Scandinavia. Nevertheless, in Uppland in central Sweden, the frequent occurrence of names like Torslunda, Fröslunda, Odenslunda, and Ullunda does suggest that they denote ritual places of a rather elaborated kind (Vikstrand 2001: 278–88). The theophoric names in ‑åker ‘arable land, field’, such as Ulleråker, Torsåker, and Frösåker, should also be included with the cultic placenames. Although the word åker in itself does not have a religious meaning, the contextual analysis of such names clearly indicates that these fields were scenes of cultic activities on a rather high societal level. This is well known and has been pointed out repeatedly (Wessén 1923: 10–13; Hellberg 1986a; Vikstrand 2001: 379–84; Vikstrand 2002a), but apart from an interesting suggestion made by Anders Hultgård (1992), this fact is still waiting for recognition from the historians of religion and thus to be integrated with the overall picture of Old Norse ritual practices. Metal-detector investigations at a few sacral åker-localities have not yielded much in the way of results (Rundkvist and Vikstrand 2008), but perhaps that is not to be expected either. Several other denotations for sanctuaries are probably present in the placenames, including stav ‘staff, pole’ in Niærdharstaver in Uppland (‘the pole of the deity Njärd’) and the enigmatic *al that is perhaps contained in names like Alir, Alatuna, and Ullerål (Vikstrand 2001: 191–206; Vikstrand 2004b: 170–71; Elmevik 2004). A placename element that shows very interesting characteristics is Old Danish hyllæ, hillæ: not only is it limited geo­graphically to Jutland in Denmark, but it also occurs exclusively in combination with Óðinn (Onsild, Vognsild, and Vonsild). The word hyllæ, hillæ has been suggested to have the same

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meaning as the related Old Norse hjallr, which is a scaffold or platform used as foundation for the image of a god; more exactly ‘something provided with or having the appearance of a hjallr’ (Kousgård Sørensen 1992: 231–32). The exclusive co-location with the name Óðinn strongly suggests that hillæ/hyllæ should be considered part of the termino­logy of a pre-Christian cult (è42). Names of Sacred Places Other names did not denote actual cult sites, but places imbued with a metaphysical or supernatural quality, which were conceived as linked to supernatural beings or beliefs. Most obvious in this group are names containing Old Norse heilagr ‘holy’, such as Helgö and Hälke (*Hælghaeke ‘the holy oak-grove’). In this category we must also include the rather special names of Gudhem (e.g., Gudme) and Vihem (e.g., Viad), both seemingly identifying a settlement or even an area of settlement as sacred or as the abode of the gods (Kousgård Sørensen 1985; Brink 2011; Albris 2017: 89–95). It is, however, important to point out that the stem form Gud- rather strongly suggests that the specifics of the Gudhem-names originally referred to the divine powers as an impersonal collective (Vikstrand 2017). Also placenames containing actual names of gods may belong to this category of non-ritual toponyms. It is most uncertain whether names such as Tysnes, Tiset (*Tiswith), Thórshavn, Balleshol (*Baldrshól), Frösakull, or Nälberga (*Niardharbergh) were ever ritual sites, but this, of course, we cannot know with certainty. Epic or Narrative Names Epic or narrative names could be considered a subdivision of names of sacred places. Such names appear in mythical tales wherein gods or other supernatural beings interact with the physical landscape. Odens flisor ‘the flagstones of Óðinn’ on the island of Öland in Sweden is a typical name of this sort. A tradition recorded early in the seventeenth century by Rhezelius (p. 78) states that Óðinn tied his horse here by thrusting his sword through the stones (which actually are part of an ancient monument from the Iron Age). To identify such names is not easy, as the placename is often the last surviving remainder of the narrative. But sometimes stories can be traced that at least seem to be associated with such names, as in the case of Torsebro ‘the bridge of Þórr’ in Södermanland, Sweden, where the story of two giants who hunted each other might have substituted a story about Þórr hunting giants (Vikstrand 2011:

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315–37). Originally, many names of sacred places might have figured in such landscape-related stories and should thus count as narrative names. Narrative names, as discussed above, can also be seen in a much broader perspective in which myths are connected to the landscape and where placenames, extraordinary natural objects, and ancient monuments act as mnemonic pegs used to remember and recapitulate stories and myths (Brink 2013a: 34–36). For such places, the word chronotope has been suggested (Bakhtin 1981: 7), as a contrast to the presumed ‘empty’ places of modern society. The term may be useful to underline the potency of place in traditional societies, but in principle, it would seem that all places to some extent have this quality embodied in their meanings (see above). It is a difference of degree, not of nature. Theophoric Names A characteristic feature of Old Norse sacral placenames is that some of them contain names of gods and goddesses. Throughout Scandinavia, the following deities are with some degree of certainty represented in placenames: Baldr, Freyja,10 Freyr, Njǫrðr, Óðinn, Þórr, Týr, and Ullr. A few other names of deities of a regional character can probably be extracted from certain placenames, as I will discuss below. Although several of the above-mentioned deities can be found in placenames all over Scandinavia, their distribution sometimes shows interesting patterns. This might be described as the presence or absence of a certain god from a certain area, but such observations are simply the most obvious traces of more complicated patterns, including among other things the combination of name-elements and their frequencies. When we find the deity *Hærn/*Ærn- exclusively in placenames in Uppland in central Sweden, this is part of a wider pattern wherein Uppland stands out against surrounding areas in several aspects, among these its high frequency of sacral names ending in ‑lunda (contrasting with the many ‑berga in neighbouring Södermanland) and the relative scarcity of names ending in ‑vi. As Stefan Brink (2013a: 39) argues, such differences are only to be expected if we regard Old Norse religion as ‘a religious system adapted to and grown out of a static, sedentary culture within a spatially graspable society with chieftains and “kings”’. As a consequence, the variation in sacred placenames is probably a good tool for describing the cultural and perhaps political geo­graphy of Scandinavia. In this section, some regional dif10 

This has been questioned by Lennart Elmevik (see Elmevik 1997; 2013: 42–46).

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ferences among the theophoric placenames will be discussed in a more superficial way, but now and then the discussion will touch upon more complicated onomastic ‘fingerprints’, such as the one described for Uppland above. One of the most obvious regional distributions is that of Týr, who seems to be confined to a south Scandinavian setting. It has been questioned whether the god Týr was actually a deity in pre-Christian Scandinavia or whether he was a late creation of the skalds on the basis of the appellative noun týr ‘god’ (Düwel 1978: 335–36). But as Bente Holmberg (1986) has shown, it is possible to distinguish between the name and the appellative designation in certain placenames, and it is thus clear that a god named Týr (Old Danish *Ti) did exist. The placenames in which his name occurs seem to be limited to Denmark — mainly Jylland — although some have also wished to perceive his name in the Norwegian Tysnes in Hordaland, an interpretation favoured by the Norwegian scholar Magnus Olsen (1905). In the area where Týr occurs in placenames, we do not find Ullr, and this has led to various theories as to the relation between Týr and Ullr, most often building on the assumption of some kind of identity. However, the placenames containing Týr and Ullr do not display a genuinely complementary distribution since they occur in regions divided by a vast south Scandinavian area where neither is present. Strictly speaking, we are thus dealing with the names of two deities that show regional distribution (Vikstrand 2001: 407–08). The chief god of eddic mytho­logy is Óðinn. According to Snorri Sturluson, Óðinn is the oldest, highest, and mightiest of all gods. This view may be corroborated by placenames in southern Scandinavia where Óðinn occurs in compounds with vi ‘holy place, sanctuary’ in conjunction with important places of power during the Iron Age (Hald 1963). However, this is not the case in central Scandinavia. In the area around Lake Mälaren in Sweden, names containing Óðinn (Old Swedish Oden) show several interesting features. They are not uncommon and they seem to be rather old, thereby negating any claim that Óðinn could be a late newcomer to the Scandinavian pantheon. However, they do not seem to be connected to central places or to a higher level of societal organization. In importance, Óðinn is, moreover — according to the placename evidence — clearly overshadowed by Þórr and Ullr. Both these gods outnumber Óðinn, and the cult of Þórr especially shows signs of being official through its association with important and central places. Several areas or districts have been called — or are indeed still called — Torsåker ‘the tilled land of Þórr’, a name obviously given to a ritual place of central importance. The discrepancy between the literary sources and the placenames concerning the importance of Óðinn can have several causes. It is quite possible that the

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placenames of central Scandinavia are too old to reflect the rise in importance of Óðinn, a rise that according to many scholars is linked to the emergence of a Scandinavian proto-aristocracy during the Late Iron Age. But it is also possible that the importance of Óðinn was overemphasized by the skalds (Ljungberg 1947: 196). These acted in upper class surroundings where it may have been both appropriate and encouraged to accentuate the aristocratic and intelligent aspects of Óðinn, perhaps simultaneously exploiting and amplifying an inherent contrast between Óðinn and Þórr. This should probably be kept in mind when assessing the situation on Iceland, which is characterized by the frequent occurrence of names containing Þórr and, at the same time, the total absence of names containing Óðinn (Vikstrand 2016b). It might be considered whether this has anything to do with the societal structure of Viking Age Iceland, which by no means lacked hierarchy but nonetheless did not seem to include royal families claiming descent from the gods (Sundqvist 2016). The god Freyr, Old Swedish Frø, is well represented in Scandinavian placenames. The name Frø probably has its origin in the old Germanic designation *fraujan ‘lord’, which could be used for persons, but also for various gods. In Scandinavia, however, the word took on a-stem inflexion and became limited to one god in particular (Green 1965: 19, 46–49; see also Sundqvist 2014).11 This is, then, clearly a Scandinavian innovation. Although diffusionist approaches should be applied with great care in the discussion of how notions of particular gods became established, this is a case where it seems reasonable to consider a connection between the prevalence of the name Freyr and certain centres of power. As the Old Norse sources point to Freyr as the god of especially the Svear, we might anticipate on his part an attachment to Uppsala — the old centre of power and religion in the realm of the Svear. Once again, however, the placenames are obstructive. Names containing Old Swedish Frø are nearly totally absent from the area around Uppsala. This could be partly due to chrono­logical reasons, as the names might be too old to reflect circumstances in the later part of the Iron Age (Wessén 1923: 2). However, the distribution of Frö-names in the Lake Mälaren area suggests another explanation. These names display a distinctly western distribution, occurring mainly in the province of Västmanland and the western part of Uppland. There are no grounds for believing that the placenames of this area should be younger than those around Uppsala and it is thus obvious that the chrono­logical factor alone cannot explain their distribu11 

An alternative etymo­logy based on Old Norse *freyr ‘fertile, which is germinated or is fit for sowing’ has been suggested by Lennart Elmevik (2003a; see also Sundqvist 2014).

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Figure 5.2. Distribution of theophoric placenames in the Lake Mälaren region, based on Vikstrand 2001: 46. Map: Disir Productions, Uppsala. 

tion. Searching for a potential centre of distribution — and perhaps a point of invention for the development of Germanic *fraujan into Old Swedish Frø — Badelunda and the role it must have played is an obvious candidate to start with. This central place just outside the city of Västerås seems to have been the most powerful within the area of Frö-names during the Late Iron Age and should perhaps be regarded as a competitor to Uppsala. A highly interesting distribution is shown by the name Ullarvi ‘the sanctuary of the god Ullr’. It is a well-known fact that a rather large area in eastern Sweden displays strong linguistic similarities in dialects as well as placenames. Now, as language is the most prominent carrier of culture (the word is here used in a broad sense, ignoring all obvious complications), these similarities must point to cultural similarities over a long period of time. With its distribution from Öland in the south to Jämtland in the north, the name Ullarvi more or less defines this area. As sacral placenames like Ullarvi are ideo­logical

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expressions, this area must be understood more profoundly as an area of shared culture and ideo­logy where worship of the god Ullr at sanctuaries denoted vi was a common practice. This cultural sphere has earlier been associated with the Svear, but this connection was abandoned during the later decades of the twentieth century when the Svear, for obscure reasons, became taboo amongst historians and archaeo­logists. Keeping our heads cool and recognizing that Svear is just a common and rather unproblematic inhabitant designation, we may, based on the evidence of Ullarvi and other names, reconsider the strength and scope of the cultural impulses emanating from the Svear. A few other names of deities of a regional character can probably be extracted from the placenames themselves, such as in all likelihood *Ullinn in east Norway (Helleland 1996: 136; 2002), perhaps *Liudhgudha in Sweden (Vikstrand 2001: 310–15) and *Hærn-/*Ærn- in the province of Uppland in the same country (Vikstrand 2001: 304–10; Nyström 2012; Elmevik 2013: 46–47). The female mythical beings called dísir in Old Norse are known only from two placenames, both from the province of Östergötland in eastern Sweden (Sundqvist and Vikstrand 2014). Additionally, there are several cases wherein the name of a deity has been taken to be represented in only one placename, such as Forseti in Forsetlund in Østfold, Norway (Olsen 1924: 171–72; Olsen 1942: 60; Vikstrand 2002b: 124) and Rindr in Vrinnevi in Östergötland, Sweden (Lundberg 1913; Sundqvist and Vikstrand 2014: 154). It is wise to maintain a sceptical attitude toward such unique interpretations, as there are nearly always other ways of understanding the names in question.

The Ritual Landscape The ritual landscape described by the placenames differs somewhat from the established view within the history of religion. In central Sweden, sacred fields (åkrar) named after male gods (Ulleråker, Torsåker, etc.) seem to have played a fundamental role in the ritual life of an area or district, and holy hills, also named after gods (Nälberga, Torsberga, etc.), are scattered around the countryside. Very little attention has been paid to such circumstances, however, in the modern discussions of pre-Christian rituals, which have instead focused on aristocratic central places with their great halls. The halls themselves may be represented in names like Odensal and perhaps Hov, but this remains a disputed issue. Another intriguing discrepancy is that the many lakes and bogs, which seem to have played such an important role in the ritual life of the Iron Age (Fabech and Näsman 2013: 67–70) (è25, 27), mainly are missing in the ono-

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mastic material. There are some sacral names on lakes, such as Gussjö (*Gudsior) in Västmanland, Sweden, Odensjön in Skåne, Sweden, and Vittersen in Vestfold, Norway (Brink 2013a: 42–46). But these can seldom be linked to ritual practices, the main exception being Tissø in Sjælland, Denmark, if the latter element of that name is, indeed, sø (lake) and not ø (island), which is an option that cannot be dismissed. In the great majority of cases, however, the names of the sacrificial lakes and bogs seem to have been lost or replaced. A case where this development can be established is the lake of Bokaren in Uppland, Sweden (Zachrisson 2014a). For this important ritual site, two names are known: Bodkarlasjön (Bokaren) and Hovboträsk, both relating the lake to nearby villages and neither of them probably its Iron Age name.

Concluding Remarks on Sacral Placenames There is still a great need for basic research to be carried out in the field of sacral placenames. We are in want of modern surveys of the vast Norwegian material and in Sweden only parts of the country have been systematically analysed. The much smaller Danish and Icelandic name-corpora are better known (Kousgård Sørensen 1992; Svavar Sigmundsson 1992; Eilersgaard Christensen 2010). Even smaller, but very interesting, is the material from the Faroe Islands (Vikstrand 2013a). With regard to the etymo­logical discussions of placenames, these must be explicitly combined with contextual aspects if we are to make good use of them. But since etymo­logy is a discipline currently in danger of extermination, there is an obvious risk that this type of research will come to a standstill or even deteriorate. However, there is already a good deal of knowledge about sacral placenames that can be used in research and the possible ways of employing to this material are nearly innumerous. It would be interesting to further investigate the different regional ‘fingerprints’ touched upon above. It also would be useful to scrutinize the difference in representation of female and male deities in placenames; there is obviously a difference, which has caused some confusion in later years. But most fruitful of all would be if the placenames were to be really integrated into the interdisciplinary discussion of Old Norse religion, as is not seemingly the case today. And in doing so, we should take our starting point in what is typical and well attested, instead of pursuing the unique, trying to find ‘new’ sacral names or insist on semantically implausible interpretations.

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Personal Names The old Germanic personal names are, from a social and ideo­logical point of view, characterized by three main features: religion, heroism, and family bonds. The religious aspect seems to be an inherited, Indo-European trace, which the Germanic languages share with Greek and other Indo-European languages (Andersson 1998: 1–6). To utilize the religious aspect of personal names within a research context, it is, however, necessary to understand how Germanic names are constructed and to be aware of the main name-giving principles during preChristian times. A basic feature is the dithematic or two-component names, with examples such as Sigríðr (sigr ‘victory’ + fríðr ‘beloved’) or Geirmundr (geirr ‘spear’ + mundr ‘protector’). Such names are composed of two elements, which can be combined rather freely, and they are thus also referred to as variation-names. It is important to remember that, although some compounded words do occur among these names, there is normally no semantic connection between the first and the latter part. This is obvious from an example such as Gunnhildr, composed of two words, gunnr and hildr, which both mean ‘fight, battle’. A name like Þorsteinn, compounded by Þórr and steinn ‘stone; hillfort’, should therefore probably not be understood as ‘the stone of the god Þórr’, but as a more or less arbitrary combination of two collateral elements. These dithematic names are a heritage from Indo-European times, and as such they were well established already during Proto-Scandinavian times. The combination of elements in the dithematic names was, however, not altogether random but guided by certain principles. The most important of these was the principle of variation. This states that one of the elements of a parent’s name could be inherited by his or her offspring, but not both. The principle of variation is well attested in early sources, such as the rune stone at Istaby in Sweden (DR 359, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), where we meet three generations of men, with the names Haþuwulfaz, *Heruwulfaz, and Hariwulfaz, bound together by the element wulfaz ‘wolf ’ (as well as by alliteration) (also è29). From non-onomastic scholars — and, indeed, also from scholars within this field — there is not seldom a tendency to read a particular meaning into dithematic names and interpret them as meaningful compounds, comparable to compound words such as warlord or godfather. It is an understandable temptation, but it should be kept in mind that the principle of variation normally results in names with no semantic connection between the first and the last element. It seems, however, that scholars have sometimes been misled by speculations by medi­e val saga writers hinting at the notion that dithematic names

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actually did characterize the persons whom they designated. Especially names with religious connotations seem to be the object of such speculation, probably triggered by a fascination with the old religion already then. Several times, medi­eval literary sources inform us that a simplex name was given a religious addition because of the person’s strong relation to one or more gods (Wessén 1927a: 77–81). According to Landnámabók (189), a man called Geirr acquired the name Végeirr because he often sacrificed to the gods (the word vé meaning ‘place of sacrifice, holy place’). His children were then named Vébjǫrn, Vésteinn, Véþormr, Vémundr, Végestr, Véþorn, and Védís. Often cited and frequently elaborated upon is Eyrbygg ja saga’s account of Þórólfr Mostrarskegg. It is said that his name was originally Hrólfr, but because he was a keen worshiper of Þórr, he became known as Þórólfr. His son Steinn ‘was given to Þórr’ and then called Þorsteinn and his son in turn, Grimr, was also given to Þórr and hence called Þorgímr. This narrative has often been related as an example of the special link that could exist between a person and a certain god. Such links might very well have existed, but the narratives in themselves do not support the idea, as there hardly can be any doubt that the stories about Þórólfr and Végeirr are based on explanatory legends seeking exactly to account for the sacral components of these names. Such sacral components, like Þórr and vé, were fully transparent, called for explanations and invited stories of pagan worship. But Végeirr, Þórólfr, Þorsteinn, and Þorgrímr are, in fact, ordinary dithematic names, and the persons in the sagas must undoubtedly have been given them as compounded names already from the beginning. As for the family of Þórólfr, the repeated occurrence of the name Þórr probably has more to do with family bonds than with the worship of Þórr ( Janzén 1947: 93; Andersson 1992b: 514–15; Vikstrand 2009a: 24–25). Proto-Scandinavian Names A number of personal names of the Proto-Scandinavian period are known from runic inscriptions, which to a considerable degree are made up of personal names. Some names are also recorded in literary sources and some can be abstracted from placenames. All of these sources have their problems. As to the placenames, we are confronted with the eternal question of which first elements are personal names and which are not. Turning to the runic inscriptions, the reading of these always involves an element of decipherment. Even when a reliable reading of the runes can be established, it is not always easy to identify and delimit the personal names (Peterson 1994: 136). As we know little of the context of origin for these inscriptions and as our knowledge of the society that

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created them is likewise limited, the interpretations of the names are almost always deeply dependent on theory and heavily reliant upon the approach of the individual researcher. An influential person within the study of Proto-Scandinavian inscriptions was the German Wolfgang Krause. He regarded the inscription of runes as a ritual act and the person who performed this act consequently as a rune-magician. This had a profound impact upon Krause’s view on the meaning of the names, which he preferred to interpret in terms of magical abilities or ritual functions. I will give one example. The name haukoþuz on the Vånga stone in Sweden (Vg 65 U, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) can be etymo­logized as a nomen agentis to a verb *haukōn ‘to behave as a hawk’ or as a construction based on a word corresponding to Old Norse húka ‘(to) crouch’. The meaning of the name thus ought to be ‘he who is like a hawk’ or ‘he who (always) crouches’, ‘he who is bent’ (Peterson 1994: 146; Peterson 2004: 8). According to Krause, however, this is — as he puts it — obviously a descriptive byname of a rune-magician, who expresses his supernatural abilities by means of the sharp eye of the hawk (Krause and Jankuhn 1966: i, 148; Krause 1971: 40). Such strongly theorydependent interpretation has evoked much criticism, not least from Swedish scholars, and it might be wise to constrain oneself to names that are sacral on a lexical level, that is, names that contain words referring to religious notions in ordinary language-use. This task is difficult enough as we have such sparse knowledge of the Proto-Scandinavian language. Even with this restriction, however, there are several names and nameelements to consider. First, there are names containing words for supernatural beings of a collective nature. Here, we find *ansuz, that is, Old Norse áss ‘heathen god’, in names such as Ansugastiz and Ansugīslaz, and, perhaps more surprisingly, *albiz, corresponding to Old Norse alfr and modern English elf, in names such as Albiharjaz (Vikstrand 2009a: 8). This group of names — later on also including at least dís and goð — comprises possibly the most important and oldest religious feature of Old Norse personal names. Names as Alfgautr, Asbiǫrn, Øydís, Guðfastr, and so forth are plentiful but have been little discussed in the context of Old Norse religion. Beside these theophoric names, we also find formations based on the adjectives *hailaga- and *wīha-. These words are usually translated as ‘holy, sacred’, but most probably there existed a difference in meaning between them, which is difficult to pinpoint today (è4). While *hailaga- is only testified in the name Hailaga, a rather straightforward adnoun, the number of names — attested and reconstructed — that may relate to *wīha- is much larger. Several name-forms in different inscriptions — such as wiwaz, wiwilan, and wiwio — have triggered

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Figure 5.3. Rune stone from Pilgårds on Gotland, dated to the late tenth century or about 1000 (G 280, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). The monu­ ment was created at the request of a certain Vifill. Gotlands Museum, Visby. Photo: Bengt A. Lundberg, Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm. 

a discussion of what Lena Peterson characterizes as ‘an extremely tricky group of names’ (Peterson 1994: 147). I will not venture into this discussion here, but merely mention that names such as Wīhaz and Wīwila have been apprehended as designations for ritual specialists (Grønvik 1987b: 54–55; Kousgård Sørensen 1989; Peterson 1994: 147–49; Peterson 2004: 18–19), an idea that has important implications for our views on ritual practices of the Early Iron Age (è29). It should be pointed out that names of individual gods do not seem to appear in Proto-Scandinavian personal names, with the possible albeit unlikely exception of Þunrawīhaz (Kousgård Sørensen 1989; Peterson 2004: 32; Vikstrand 2009a: 14–15; Vikstrand 2009b: 1015–16). The traditional and often cited interpretation of the name Wulþuþewaz as ‘the servant of the god Ullr’ (Friesen 1920; Krause and Jankuhn 1966: i, 54) does not stand up to close scrutiny. To begin with, in such a compound, the name of the god ought to appear in the genitive (Tveitane 1979: 149; Andersson 1993: 52). Further,

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the name is inscribed on the chape of a sword-sheath found at Torsbjerg in Schleswig (DR 7, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), but it belongs to the armour of a defeated army. On archaeo­logical grounds, it is possible to determine the origin of this army to lie within the lands between the Elbe and the Rhine; that is, from a West Germanic area (Ilkjær and Lønstrup 1981: 57–58, 61). Thus, the person to whom the chape belonged was most probably not a Scandinavian but a person of West Germanic origin. This practically excludes the possibility that Wulþuþewaz should contain the name of the god Ullr, as he is known only from Scandinavia. Rather, this name must be a dithematic Germanic variation-name, containing the same element Wulþu- ‘splendor’ that is well known from West and East Germanic personal names, such as Gothic Gulduradus (= *Wulþu-), Lombardian Vuldotrada, and Old High German Vuldebert (Andersson 1993: 51 with references, 53; Vikstrand 2009a: 15–16; Vikstrand 2009b: 1016). Viking Age Names A major innovation during the Viking Age is that names of gods begin to occur as first elements in personal names. Admittedly, there are only two gods represented: Freyr and Þórr, but especially names in Þór- become very popular during this period. The origin of this custom was given an interesting explanation by the Swedish scholar Elias Wessén (1927a: 76–77, 83; see also Green 1965: 19–55; Andersson 1992b: 511; Andersson 1993: 42–43). His starting point is that the word *frauja ‘master’ seems to be a common Germanic element in personal names. As this word or title was in Scandinavia — and only in Scandinavia — turned into the name of a god — Old Norse Freyr — it came to be understood as the name of the god also when it occurred in personal names, such as Frøybiǫrn and Frøylaug. Freyr thus entered through the ‘back door’ into the Old Norse name-system. In so doing, he paved the way for the popular god Þórr, who also gained access through variation with the element As-, as Þórr was regarded as ‘the áss par préférence’. Earlier, the name Óðinn was thought to appear in the name Odinkar, but John Kousgård Sørensen (1974) has made it clear that this name should be derived from an adjective Old Danish *ōthinkār/*ōthankār, meaning ‘the one inclined for rage’. Óðinn’s name does occur in the woman’s name Oden-Disa (oþintisu), testified on a rune stone from Västmanland in Sweden. But as is evident from the form of the last part of the name — disa and not dis — this is not an ordinary dithematic name. Rather, the woman’s name has been Disa, a short form for names ending in -dis such as Frödis or Holmdis. As a consequence,

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Oden must be understood as a byname, later added to her name (Otterbjörk 1983: 110; Andersson 1992b: 512; Vikstrand 2009a: 21). Thus, Oden-Disa, the good wife of Hassmyra, certainly had some kind of relation to Óðinn, but her name does not imply a connection between Óðinn and the dísir. Wessén’s clever explanation as to the emergence of the names of gods in personal names is attractive, but perhaps not sufficient. Any explanation must, however, take into consideration that of the many Old Norse gods, only Freyr and Þórr seem to appear in personal names. It has been suggested that Óðinn was too mighty and his name therefore was taboo (Hornby 1947: 190; Kousgård Sørensen 1974: 109), but that might well be to overrate his importance. More probably, Óðinn’s treacherous and rather frightening character corresponded badly to the standards of masculine behaviour of the time. He might have been attractive as a god for the ruling elite, but he hardly possessed the qualities one wished to see in a young man.

Concluding Remarks about Sacral Personal Names A commonly held view is that sacral names were given to children as a way of dedicating them to the gods, placing them under the protection of higher powers (Wessén 1924: 173; Janzén 1947: 53; Höfler 1952b). Besides the obvious fact that this can only account for theophoric names, the idea is also mainly based on accounts of name-giving from the sagas, such as the above-discussed case of Þórólfr Mostrarskegg in Eyrbygg ja saga. As we have seen, such accounts cannot be regarded as reliable. According to Gottfried Schramm, the dithematic or two-part names have their origins in epithets from heroic poetry. Among these were certain epithets that described the hero as a descendent or servant of the gods (Schramm 1957, critically reviewed by Andersson 1992b: 516). This is by all means an interesting idea, but since the dithematic names constitute an Indo-European heritage, any solution will take us very far back in time and as a consequence be beset with great uncertainty. Perhaps more attention should be paid to names that might originate from bynames describing a religious disposition. This may be the case for names like Véþormr ‘he who venerates the sanctuaries’ and Guðrún ‘she who has the secret knowledge of the gods’ ( Janzén 1947: 118, 122; Andersson 1992b: 516, 521; Andersson 1998: 15; Peterson 2007: 257). Such names should, then, perhaps not be regarded as ordinary dithematic names but as lexicalized compounds originally used as bynames and later on integrated in the dithematic name-system. A large group of such ‘meaningful’ names have been supposed to origi-

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nally be titles of cultic specialists.12 This is the case for names in *wīhaz ‘the holy one’, such as Sǫlvér, Ǫlvér, Guthvir, and Þórir (Kousgård Sørensen 1989). Other such names are Vīfill and Hælgi (Müller 1968: 370–71; Sundqvist 1998: 95; Sundqvist 2007: 36–37, 43). Titles like this can also be traced in placenames. Some of them, like Old Swedish *gudhi in Gudhaby, seem rather evident, while others, like *ullargudhi in Ullbolsta (presumably contracted from *Ullargudhabolstadher), are based on rather bold reconstructions (Hellberg 1986a: 51, 63–64; Andersson 1992a: 249). That such titles do occur seems, however, rather certain, and it is fully possible that they — through being used as bynames — could have established themselves as ‘real’, ordinary names (Andersson 1992b: 520). Interestingly, certain of these names, such as Vīseti ‘he who is the manager of or lives by a sanctuary’ and Vīurðr ‘the custodian of the sanctuary’ ( Janzén 1947: 111; Sundqvist 2002: 196–203; Peterson 2007: 257), have more or less synonymic counterparts in metaphors (kenningar) of the poetry, such as vǫrdr véstals and vés valdr.13 This opens up for an explanation in line with Schramm’s and makes it very plausible indeed that we are dealing with meaningful compounds, perhaps of a bahuvrihi-character (that is, of the same type as flatfoot ‘policeman’ and egghead ‘intellectual’). To my mind, this seems the most promising material for further investigations within the field of personal names and Old Norse religion. To distinguish such bynames from ‘real’ dithematic names is, however, not always an easy task. Why should we, for example, accept Guðrún as a meaningful compound (‘she who has the secret knowledge of the gods’) but not Végeirr as a man Geirr who got Vé added to his name because he often sacrificed to the gods? When trying to discern names that originally were meaningful compounds, it seems wise to rely more on semantic patterns than on narrative sources, such as the sagas or Snorri. The reason for this is that the narrators themselves very often appear to have used the names as literary means, speculating on the meaning of names or even building stories on the basis of their perceived meaning. In fact, etymo­logical speculations — whether correct or incorrect — seem to be an important driving force behind the creation of myths. This does not mean that we should dismiss all narrative sources, but that, when they are not coherent with what is otherwise known about name-structure and the formation of names in Old Norse times, we ought to treat them with justified suspicion. 12  13 

A good survey is found in Sundqvist (2007: 24–43; also è29). On such metaphors, see Sundqvist (2002: 196–203).

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If we have several (or at least some) names, however, that seem to have the same or similar semantic meaning, but different linguistic forms, such as Vīseti and Vīurðr, this hints at some reality behind the names. If semantic parallels can, moreover, be found in more than one (type of ) source, such as the kennings vǫrdr véstals and vés vald, this lends further support to the notion of these names actually being meaningful compounds. Certainty is beyond reach, but then again, dealing with sacral names, certainty is not our business. However we go about it, trying to discern meaningful compounds among the dithematic names is arguably one of the most important tasks for future research into sacral personal names.

6 – Archaeo­logy Anders Andrén

A

rchaeo­logists working with material culture from the distant past face many problems, some of which are very different from the problems facing scholars studying ancient texts. In this context, the archaeo­ logical issues will be discussed more generally in order to provide a better background for the archaeo­logical interpretations in this volume. The archaeo­logical problems are in many cases more fundamental than those faced by textual scholars. Whereas textual scholars usually agree on textual genres, such as skaldic poetry, or on a basic reading of texts, there is no similar fundamental agreement among archaeo­logists on material culture. Whether a dark shadow in the ground soil represents a posthole and whether this posthole is in turn part of a house may be a matter of dispute. In similar ways, deposits may be interpreted as ordinary waste or as ritual remains depending on different interpretive frameworks. There are several aspects of this basic archaeo­logical uncertainty.

Transformed Fragments The most fundamental problem faced by archaeo­logists is that they always work with fragments from the past. For instance, from periods relevant to PCRN, not a single building is preserved, but only more or less visible traces of buildings. Very few objects of organic material are preserved, although we must presuppose that most objects were made of wood, straw, textiles, or leather. Metal objects are often better preserved, but usually in different stages of decay due to Anders Andrén, Senior Professor of Archaeology, Stockholm University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. 135–160 John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116933

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Figure 6.1. A so-called Harris matrix, showing the strati­graphical relations between different deposits, reconstructed into sixteen phases, in this case in medi­eval Lund. After Roslund 2002: fig. 8., based on Gardelin and others. 1997. The Harris matrix is an example of the highly formalized ways that archaeo­logical excavations are currently documented and analysed. The matrix is named after the archaeo­logist Edward Harris, who developed this method in the 1970s (Harris 1989). 

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corrosion. This fragmented character of the materiality of the past is dependent on both natural and cultural processes, such as types of soil, drainage, intensity of agriculture, extraction of gravel, or acid rain, but also on excavation strategies and excavation techniques (Schiffer 1987). Therefore, archaeo­logical source criticism has above all been directed towards the fragmented character of the physical remains and the more or less accidental circumstances of the finds. These source critical studies have nonetheless recurrently shown that more stable patterns become visible when many finds from different periods and regions are compared (Kristiansen 1985). In recent years, however, more interest has been directed towards the transformation of fragments from the past into archaeo­logical records, underlining the fact that archaeo­logists create the sources themselves. Although material culture is the basis of all archaeo­logical work, archaeo­logical interpretations are usually based on records that are produced during fieldwork. What is conventionally called archaeo­logical records are complex transformations of threedimensional remains from the past into drawings, plans, photos, and texts. Artefacts, bones, seeds, and other samples are usually preserved, whereas most of the deposits and features in the ground are not. These important remains are only preserved in transformed guises. This means that archaeo­logists construct the records in a process of several different transformations (Lucas 2012). In long-term perspectives it is easy to discover that the construction of archaeo­logical records has changed over the years. Different techniques of excavation and documentation have yielded very different results. Testpits and narrow trenches will give a very different understanding of a site compared to large-scale surface uncovering, as will digging in constructed layers compared to ‘natural’ layers. The techniques of fieldwork have changed in a complex interplay between theoretical trends within archaeo­logy and techno­logies used in other fields of research, such as geo­logy and land surveying (Harris 1989; Larsson 2000; Wolfhechel Jensen 2012).

Mute Objects Another fundamental problem is that material culture is literally mute. 14 Although several archaeo­logists during the 1980s and 1990s argued that objects could be read like texts (Hodder 1986; Tilley 1990), it is currently acknowledged that objects are mute (Olsen 2010). Archaeo­logists have no informants, 14 

Exceptions are objects with texts, see below.

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as do anthropo­logists, and no texts written by other humans, as do textual scholars. This does not mean that archaeo­logist cannot say anything about artefacts from the distant past, but they need different strategies to overcome this inherent muteness of objects. Above all, three different strategies are used: reasoning from contexts, from patterns, and from analogies. The character of these three strategies, however, has changed over time, since what is regarded as good contexts, patterns, and analogies has to a large extent been shaped by different theoretical trends within archaeo­logy (Trigger 2006). Many early archaeo­logists of the nineteenth century were content to work with objects having a provenance from a region or a parish, but during the twentieth century and especially in recent decades the importance of the specific context of material culture has been emphasized recurrently. In many cases, functions and meanings of material culture are only possible to discuss with the help of clear spatial contexts, such as a house, a grave, or a wetland deposit. Often connected to the issue of context is the question of pattern. In order to avoid coincidences of accidental finds, all archaeo­logists look for recurrent patterns in material culture. These patterns can be traces in different fields of analysis, such as the distribution of waste, layout of settlements, land use, mortuary practices, gendered selection of objects, and so on (Trigger 2006). For instance, arguments for rituals and ritual sites are always based on different combinations of contexts and patterns that separate these traces from more mundane traces (Kyriakidis 2007). Because of the inherent muteness of objects, all interpretations of different material contexts and patterns must be based on analogies. An iron object with a broad, sharp edge can be called an axe only after basic analogies with similar objects with known functions. Analogies must be used in all parts of archaeo­ logical reasoning, from understanding functions of objects and remains in the ground to interpreting religious traditions or social order. A consequence of the analogical premise is that all concepts and categories used for material culture will automatically be constructed within modern scholarship. Thus, the archaeo­logical perspectives onto the distant past will always constitute a view from the outside (è1). The sources of analogies are many and varied. Experiments have long been used in the field of ancient techno­logies and, in the recent decades, archaeo­ logical experiments have become an increasingly important source of analogies (Coles 1979; Petersson and Narmo 2011). Ethno­g raphic accounts have been used recurrently since the nineteenth century, predominantly in attempts to understand how pre-industrial, small-scale societies functioned in ­g eneral. During the second half of the twentieth century, special ethno-archaeo­logical

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investigations have been carried out as well in order to answer particular archaeo­logical problems (Gould 1978). The different ethno­graphical analogies are based on more or less evolutionary ideas about comparing societies on similar techno­logical levels. For instance, this is the background for some archaeo­ logists labelling Bronze Age societies in Scandinavia ‘chiefdoms’.15 Since the 1980s and 1990s, many of the ethno­graphical analogies have been criticized for being too general to be meaningful (Stahl 1993). Instead, other analogies closer in time and space to the studied objects have been preferred, which has led to a more historically oriented archaeo­logy. Written accounts and images roughly contemporary with the material culture under study have always been an important source of analogies, but in recent years there has been an increased interest in documentary analogies. The closeness in time, space and cultural contexts between texts and artefacts makes these analogies more specific, but the interface between documents and objects will always remain analogical in character (Andrén 1998a: 150–82). Different forms of analogical interfaces exist between texts and material culture (Andrén 1998b: 162–73). The most specific of these concerns identification, which means that texts may refer to the actual objects, individuals, buildings, or places that are archaeo­logically investigated. For instance, the description of Gamla Uppsala in Adam of Bremen’s church history might be compared to the actual remains of the place (Hultgård 1997; Sundqvist and Vikstrand 2013). A more general interface is based on classification, where types of objects, individuals, buildings, or places are similar in texts and material culture, although no direct relation exists. This is the case of different Old Norse terms for ritual sites, such as hof, hǫrgr, and vé, which have been more or less convincingly linked to excavated ritual sites (Engdahl and Kaliff 1996; Sundqvist 2016). Another more general interface between written sources and objects is different forms of correlation. In this case, texts are connected to the basic archaeo­logical analysis of pattern in order to investigate whether patterns in written documents could be correlated with patterns in material culture. One example of such a correlation is when the travel pattern of Norwegian kings in Heimskringla can be correlated with material traces of the places that the kings visited (Iversen 2004). Analogies between approximately contemporary texts and material culture mean that archaeo­logists sometimes come close to an interior view of the past, 15 

See Thedéen (2005) for a critical assessment of the use of the concept of ‘chiefdom’ in Bronze Age Scandinavia.

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for instance, when ancient concepts can be more or less convincingly related to objects, persons, buildings, or places. The best possibilities for an insider’s view are when texts are written on objects, for example, giving the past term for that object (Imer 2007), or when texts are written onto monuments, for instance, runestones that are placed in the landscape and give indications of how the landscape was perceived (Zachrisson 1998). Another important link is placenames (è5), since they indicate how different settlements were regarded in the past. For instance, in cases where sacral placenames, such as –hof, -hǫrgr, and –vé can be combined with archaeo­logically defined ritual remains, the analogy gives a very strong basis for further interpretations, as will be developed in (è27). Analogies are necessary tools that archaeo­logists must use to be able to say anything about material culture from the past. Since all analogies are based on some sort of similarity, a fundamental issue is whether it is possible to transcend these similarities and say something about the past that is profoundly different. A possible solution to this basic analogical problem could be triangulation. This method is based on more systematic comparisons between different analogies and the archaeo­logical contexts and patterns, trying to detect differences that could be used to transcend the analogical dilemma (Wylie 1985). An example of such a triangulation is the debate concerning the complex settlement at Helgö dated to about 200–1050 ce. When the settlement was found and excavated in the 1950s and 1960s, it was unique and consequently compared to trading places, early towns, and manors (Lundström 1988). Since none of these comparisons really fitted, Helgö was called a ‘central place’, a concept that later has come to designate several similar places that are specific to Iron Age Scandinavia ( Jørgensen 2009).

The Past Viewed from Final Deposits Another fundamental problem is that archaeo­logists always have to view the past from final deposits. This means that the life of persons as well as objects, buildings, and landscapes can only be reached indirectly. Basically, archaeo­logy is always struggling with the absence of action (Lucas 2012). The dilemma is most clear with respect to graves. Objects are often found in graves, but what they represent is difficult to determine and therefore disputed. The accompanying objects have often been interpreted in fairly straightforward ways as representing the life of the dead person, for instance, a sword signifying a warrior. In recent decades, however, the complexity of burial rituals has been emphasized much more (Artelius 2000). The objects within the graves could also express

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for example the way of death, the future life of the dead person or the burial rituals themselves. Consequently, the life of the dead person can no longer be deduced simply from grave finds without further arguments (è33). Similar problems arise with respect to settlements. It is not always clear whether objects found in houses can be associated with the activities in the houses when these were primarily used. Well-excavated sites show that many objects in houses represent waste discarded on the location of houses that had been abandoned (Larsson 2000). Consequently, the objects can be used when analysing a settlement in general terms, but not necessarily when investigating the functions of specific houses. The same problem is connected to objects themselves. They are found in different final contexts, be it a grave, a garbage pit, or a hoard, but their previous ‘life’ can be difficult to determine. Since objects are by definition mobile, they could have been produced, used, and transported in many other and very different contexts, far away from their final deposition (Moberg 1969). In recent decades, different kinds of scientific analysis have been used to partly overcome the dilemma of final deposits. For instance, osteo­logical analysis of human bones can show health conditions, muscular use, or injuries during the life of people in the past (Arcini 1999). Similarly, analysis of the isotope Carbon-13 can be used to determine whether humans had a diet based on marine or terrestrial resources and whether the diet changed during the course of their life (Eriksson 2003). Another method is Strontium analysis, which is used to determine non-local origins of humans and animals (Bentley 2006).16 The provenance of objects can sometimes be determined through different metallurgical, mineralogical, or petro­g raphic analysis (for instance, Roslund 2001; Carelli and Kresten 1997). As a result, activities before the final deposits can be partly retrieved and therefore used in comparative analysis of the final deposits. Still, the archaeo­logical view of the past from final depositions is problematic and probably constitutes a more fundamental challenge than the fact that material culture is mute.

16 

The isotope Strontium varies according to different rock types and is transmitted to humans and animals via plants and drinking water. By mapping the amount of Strontium in the earth at different places and comparing these results with Strontium in human and animal bones, it is possible to get a general idea of the mobility of humans and animals (Bentley 2006).

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A Question of Time A fourth fundamental issue in archaeo­logy is the question of time (Lucas 2005). Ever since archaeo­logy was professionalized in the middle of the nineteenth century, chrono­logy has been a central part of the discipline. In fact, the ordering of things in chrono­logical sequences was the very means by which the first archaeo­logists distinguished themselves from earlier antiquarians, who possessed little or no ideas about how objects should be dated (Trigger 2006: 121– 38). During the second half of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth century, most objects became more or less reliably dated, based on typo­logical methods but also to some extent strati­graphy. In Scandinavia, the overall chrono­logical order of the Bronze Age and the Iron Age, until the time of Christianization, was established by Hans Hildebrand, Oscar Montelius, Ingvald Undset, and Sophus Müller during the middle and second part of the nineteenth century (Baudou 2004: 158–204). In this context, it is striking that the chrono­logical frames of the first millennium ce have not changed considerably since then, although more details have been added. The background of this stable chrono­logy is that foreign coins in archaeo­logical contexts were used to outline the chrono­logy as early as in the nineteenth century. Since most coins carry texts, they could be related to the known history of the Roman, Byzantine, Islamic, or West European worlds. In the second half of the twentieth century, other dating methods based on natural sciences have revolutionized different aspects of the chrono­logical understanding of the past. The best-known of these methods is Carbon-14 dating. This method is based on the amount of the radioactive isotope Carbon 14 in organic material, such as charcoal and bone.17 As long as plants, animals, and humans are alive, their Carbon 14 is the same as in the atmosphere, due to the photosynthesis, but when they die, the isotope starts decreasing at a regular speed that is known. Therefore, it is possible to date samples of organic material by measuring the remaining amount of Carbon 14. There are several source critical aspects, however, that must be accounted for when using Carbon-14 dating (Taylor and Bar-Yosef 2014).18 If these problems are addressed, Carbon-14 dat17 

Carbon-14 dating was developed by the American chemist Willard Libby in the late 1940s and 1950s. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1960 for this work. 18  It is important that the sample is not old in itself. Charcoal from twigs of hazel or sallow give much more precise datings than charcoal from trunks of oak. When such trunks were used as building material or firewood, they might have been several hundred years old themselves, giving too early dating. Besides, the amount of Carbon 14 in bones from animals and humans

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ing has a huge potential within the field of archaeo­logy. Above all, totally new elements of the distant past have been dated with the help of charcoal, such as agrarian remains and production sites lacking any other dateable objects (Baudou 2004: 283–85). Dendrochrono­logy or tree-ring dating is another method developed within the natural sciences.19 This dating method is based on the size of tree-rings that vary annually according to weather conditions. By measuring the tree-rings, it is possible to create a unique series of tree-rings, from the present back to the distant past, in which every single year can be determined and subsequently recognized in other samples of wood. Besides dating preserved wood, dendrochrono­ logy is used to study paleoclimate. Good samples may yield very exact dates, but there are some problematic aspects of the method (Speer 2010).20 However, since the method is dependent on rarely found, well-preserved pieces of wood, the dendrochrono­logical results are still too patchy to form the basis of new chrono­logies. Instead, dendrochrono­logy can be used to define certain sites or events, for instance, the second phase of the Danish ringfort Trelleborg, which is dated to c. 980 ce (Bonde and Christensen 1982; Nielsen 1990). Although chrono­logy has been an important part of archaeo­logical work since the nineteenth century, a precise and systematic dating will never be established. The most common dating methods will always result in uncertain chrono­logies with margins rarely less than fifty years, that is, two generations. Besides, material remains seldom embody single events, but rather a palimpsest of activities during a longer period (Lucas 2005), for instance, settlements or may vary according to the so-called reservoir effect. If animals and humans were dependent on a marine diet, their Carbon 14 would be lower during their lifetimes, because Carbon 14 is lower in the sea than in the atmosphere. Therefore, bones from humans who lived off marine resources may give datings that are several hundred years too old. Finally, the amount of Carbon 14 in the atmosphere has varied through time, which means that Carbon-14 dating must always be calibrated according to this variation (Taylor and Bar-Yosef 2014). 19  Dendrochrono­logy was developed by the American astronomer Andrew E. Douglass in the first half of the twentieth century. He used old redwood and sequoia trees in California to date archaeo­logical remains in the south-western United States (Speer 2010). In Scandinavia, however, the method only had its breakthrough in the 1970s (Bartholin and Berglund 1975). 20  Dendrochrono­logy is basically a statistical dating method that requires a sample with many tree-rings to be accurate. Besides, the method requires that the outside rings, near the bark, are preserved to give exact dates (Speer 2010). Another source critical problem that can only be solved by means of archaeo­logical studies is the frequent reuse of wood as building material. Reused wood will always yield too early dates, and, consequently, it is very important to note any signs of reuse.

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Figure 6.2. Ekornavallen in Västergötland. This location is a good illustration of the multitemporal character of a present landscape, with megalithic tombs from the Stone Age, cairns from the Bronze Age, and erected stones from the Iron Age; cf. Burström 1989. Photo: Anders Andrén.

deposits in wetlands. This means that any comparison between material culture and text will include this chrono­logical uncertainty in the archaeo­logically constructed periods. The chrono­logical methods have changed since the nineteenth century, but the past was for a long time presented in clearly delimited periods, comprising only places, monuments, and objects from certain periods. In the 1980s, however, this chrono­logical mentality of archaeo­logy was criticized for not taking into account the complex multi-temporal character of the past. Since ancient monuments exist today, they must have existed and been noticed during all previous periods since their very construction (Chippendale 1983; Burström 1989). The debate in the last decades of the multi-temporal character of the past has widened not only the understanding of how archaeo­logists regard the past, but also how humans in the past related to their own past (Gosden 1994; Lucas 2005; Jones 2007; Olivier 2011). Most importantly, three aspects of the discussion of ‘the past in the past’ are of interest in this context (Bradley 2002; Andrén 2013a). The past could be used as a model in many different periods. In Scandinavia, many graves from

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550 to 1050 ce were constructed on the basis of much older models from the Bronze Age (1700–500 bce), such as large mounds, cairns, and ship-formed stone-settings (Artelius 2004; Bratt 2008). However, other ways of relating to the past were to use older sites in different ways. New graves or houses could be located near old remains, but old monuments could also be reused or remodelled. Through investigations of the past in the past, archaeo­logists can now participate in discussions regarding memory and claims of land right (Zachrisson 1994; Thäte 2007; Hållans Stenholm 2012). Finally, many objects of different chrono­logical backgrounds could be used and deposited at the same time, for instance, in graves. These palimpsests of objects from different periods indicate that people in the past actively used old objects in new contexts (ArwillNordbladh 2008).

Unbounded Records The final issue in archaeo­logy is that the records of material culture are constantly changing and increasing in ways that are totally different from the basically stable textual corpus of PCRN. Today, it is often a huge problem to obtain a reasonable overview of relevant new results, since not all results are published and those that are published are presented in a whole range of very different ways. There are several reasons for the current situation. One important aspect of archaeo­logical practice is new discoveries. Previously unknown sites are continuously being excavated, and many previously known sites are also investigated from new perspectives and with new techno­logy. Until the mid-twentieth century, most investigations were smallscale research excavations, but since the 1960s and 1970s, large-scale contract archaeo­logy has been dominating the scene in Scandinavia (Baudou 2004: 278–363). This means that activities relating to the present-day society, such as constructing motorways, railways, houses, and industrial plants, dictate most archaeo­logical practice. An advantage of contract archaeo­logy is that totally unexpected remains are found, but a disadvantage is that contract archaeo­logy always has to formulate research questions in respect to the spatial frames of modern construction activities. Only in a few cases have large-scale research excavations been carried out in recent years at important towns and central places that are not threatened by modern constructions, such as Birka, Hedeby, Jelling, Kaupang, and Uppåkra (è19). Another important aspect of archaeo­logical practice is new analyses of old excavations, yielding further results and thus increasing the archaeo­logical

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Figure 6.3. A long line of postholes found in the large-scale rescue excavations at Gamla Uppsala in 2012–13. The excavations were carried out due to the construction of a new railway tunnel through the site, and they exemplify how modern construction in present-day society can add information about previously unknown sites as well as new information about well-known sites. Photo: Arkeo­logerna, Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm. 

records without digging. These new analyses can be based on new research perspectives or experiences from other recent excavations. They often include new techno­logies, usually based on various methods from the natural sciences, such as osteo­logy, wood-determination of charcoal, metallurgical and mineralogical analysis, Carbon-13 and -14 analysis, lipid analysis,21 Strontium analysis, or ancient DNA (for example, Jones 2001). A fundamental factor of archaeo­logical practice is the changing interpretive frameworks. Archaeo­logists tend to find what they are looking for, and what they are looking for is to a high degree defined by theoretical trends within the discipline. The interplay between interpretive frameworks and new discoveries as well as new analysis of old sites is quite clear in long-term historical perspectives. In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, different evolutionary and cultural historical currents meant that archaeo­logists were above all interested in chrono­logy and regional groups. These interests directed them towards 21 

Lipid analysis concerns different organic residues in primarily pottery, such as meat, milk, vegetables, plant oil, beeswax, and tar. The function of different types of pots as well as different cooking traditions can thus be reconstructed ( Jones 2001).

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excavations producing objects for such studies. Especially graves were excavated in search of objects fit for use within the chrono­logical and spatial series. Since the interwar period of the twentieth century, different functional currents have turned archaeo­logists towards landscapes and settlements as well as scientific analysis revealing functions of different forms of material culture. During the 1980s and 1990s, new interests in ideo­logy and religion appeared, leading for the first time to more thorough and extensive investigations of ritual sites as well as to a new understanding of ritual asepcts within ordinary settlements. Currently, a new focus on materiality means a renewed interest in the material dimensions of the past. So far, however, this new trend has not altered the main profile of archaeo­logical practice (Trigger 2006; Baudou 2004; Olsen 2010). The interplay between interpretive frameworks, new discoveries, and new methods of analysis is and has always been complex and multifaceted. Interpretive frameworks are decisive for the archaeo­logical gaze, but key sites with well-preserved remains may themselves change the understanding of the past. In similar ways, the development of scientific analysis is only partly linked to theoretical trends within archaeo­logy, which is clear from the fact that many scientific methods are used by the majority of archaeo­logists, irrespective of their theoretical standpoints (Trigger 2006).

Genres of Materiality There are different conventional categories of material culture in archaeo­logy, as there are different textual genres in, for instance, history and literature. The genres are modern as are all categories in archaeo­logy, which emphasizes the complex interplay between texts and objects. These categories are not primarily based on religious perspectives, but in the following, they will be presented with examples that are relevant to the study of PCRN. Settlements and Landscapes Settlements and landscapes are crucial to the understanding of ancient Scandinavia. Land-use and location of different activities in the landscape, organization and spatial structure of settlements and houses, variations between settlements, as well as networks and long-distance connections between settlements are all important aspects of any society. Although these aspects are important, the archaeo­logical knowledge of settlements and landscapes in ancient Scandinavia is surprisingly recent. Partly, this disinterest can

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be explained by evolutionary ideas in the nineteenth century about the disappearing peasant society, which was regarded as the last relics of a basically old and unchanged rural society. Thus, within this evolutionary framework, scholars believed that information about settlements and landscapes could be gained from ethno­logical fieldwork rather than archaeo­logical excavations (see Hildebrand 1872a; Gustavsson 2014). Only in the two last decades of the nineteenth century were a few excavations of prehistoric houses carried out; these took place in regions where stone foundations of houses are still visible, such as Rogaland, Öland, and Gotland. More extensive investigations in these regions, as well as in Greenland, Iceland, and Jylland, started only in the 1920s and 1930s, when archaeo­logists began Figure 6.4. Aggregated plan of the excavated Iron Age village at Nørre Snede in central Jylland. The marked farms are dated to the sixth and seventh centuries. Map: T. Hansen, Vejle Museerne, Vejle.  

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to use more functionalistic approaches (Petersen 1933; Stenberger 1933; Hatt 1938). The best example of these early excavations is the Iron Age village of Vallhagar on Gotland, which was excavated in 1946–50 by a joint Scandinavian team (Stenberger and Klindt Jensen 1955). Apart from agrarian settlements, some towns and market places began to be excavated from the 1930s to the 1950s, such as Hedeby, Kaupang, and Helgö (è19). It was not until the 1960s and 1970s, however, that settlements and landscapes became the main focus of archaeo­logy. The Danish ‘Settlement committee’ (1969–82) developed new methods of tracing and documenting invisible settlements, above all in the sandy soils in parts of western Jylland. Through large-scale surface excavations, they could for the first time uncover whole villages from the Iron Age on the basis of ditches and postholes in recurrent patterns. Well-known settlements excavated during these campaigns are Grøntoft, Hodde, and Vorbasse (Becker 1971b; Hvass 1985; Hvass 1988). This techno­logy of large-scale surface excavations was later introduced in Sweden (Björhem and Säfvestad 1993) and Norway, and since the late 1990s it has been the standard procedure in any large-scale excavations. This techno­logical revolution alone has made it possible to discuss Scandinavian settlements and settlement patterns in general. However, in regions without much modern construction and hence without modern large-scale excavations, we still know very little about the settlements (Herschend 2011). Besides, this method is best suited for tracing small pithouses or longhouses with visible postholes for posts holding the roofs. Other types of house constructions are much more difficult to trace. In recent years, it has become clear that houses built of frame-constructions on sills, where the walls are holding the roofs, were introduced already from the ninth century or even the eighth century in some parts of Scandinavia (Svensson 2013). This means that settlements from the Viking Age (750–1050 ce) are in many regions much more difficult to trace than settlements from earlier periods. At the same time as the Danish archaeo­logists started large-scale excavations in Jylland, Norwegian and Swedish cultural geo­g raphers and archaeo­logists began to make systematic investigations of landscapes and land-use during the Iron Age in especially Rogaland, Östergötland, and Gotland (Lindquist 1968; Myhre 1972; Myhre 1980; Carlsson 1979; Widgren 1983). They surveyed and partly excavated visible remains of cultivated fields, meadows, and enclosed cattle roads around houses and settlements. By comparing these remains with cadastral maps from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, they could write a new agrarian history, underlining the changes with respect to the historically known peasant society (Pedersen and Widgren 1998; Myhre 2002). In regions

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without preserved agrarian remains, other traces have been used instead to reconstruct the agrarian economy, such as animal bones, seeds, and pollenanalysis (Lagerås 2007; Larsson 2015). Other activities in the landscapes have been studied as well, such as outland use (Svensson 1998) and iron production sites (Magnusson 1986). Another important method of studying settlements is large-scale metal detecting, which was introduced in Denmark in the 1980s. More recently, it has been used in more restricted ways in Sweden and Norway as well. Especially in regions with intensive modern agriculture, metal detecting is a good way of tracing settlements. With the help of metal detecting, many ordinary settlements have been found, but also large so-called central places with thousands of objects. In several cases, excavations have subsequently been carried out at these central places, for instance at Uppåkra (Hårdh 1999). The south Scandinavian central places from the Iron Age represent one of the most important discoveries in Scandinavian archaeo­logy in the last few decades ( Jørgensen 2009). For the first time, it is possible to outline a whole sequence of different settlements long before the first Viking Age towns and market places. The central places may also give a better understanding of other places that have long been known from texts and earlier archaeo­logy, such as Gamla Uppsala, Lejre, and Helgö. The existence of many central places means that Scandinavian society of the Iron Age has to been understood in very different ways in respect to earlier interpretations, which presupposed a society made up of mainly single farms (è19). Since the 1990s, archaeo­logists have also paid much greater attention to different ritual elements and aspects of settlements and landscapes. Ritual buildings, with clearly structured deposits inside and outside the buildings, have been found, but also ritual sites without buildings, such as platforms, fenced areas with fireplaces or miniature objects, and other spatially restricted deposits (è 27). In addition, ritual aspects of ordinary settlements have also been discovered in recent decades. Recurrent patterns of deposited objects and animal bones, such as horse skulls placed in postholes, by doorways, or under fireplaces, indicate rituals surrounding the construction and abandonment of houses (Carlie 2004; Falk 2008). Enclosures and Embankments A special kind of ancient monument is enclosures of stone or earth. The stone walls are usually round and semicircular, often placed on hilltops, but sometimes on flat land or on islands in lakes or moors. In Danish and Norwegian,

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Figure 6.5. The ringfort at Ismantorp on Öland, viewed from the air. The ringfort was built around 300 ce and used sporadically until about 650 ce. Photo: Metria.

they are called bygdeborger and in Swedish fornborgar; the English equivalents are hillforts and ring forts. They are mostly found in Norway, central Sweden, and Finland (Engström 1984; Taavitsainen 1990; Olausson 1997; Mitlid 2003). In contrast, most earthen walls are linear and found in Denmark. These are usually called virke, with the English equivalent dyke (Hellmuth Andersen and others 1976). Many of these remains are quite visible and have been known since the earliest antiquarian sources from the seventeenth century. A few are even mentioned in medi­eval sources, for instance, by Saxo and in the Guta saga. The forts as well as the dykes are very enigmatic monuments. Many of them lack cultural deposits or objects, and consequently their date and function are difficult to determine. Most of the enclosures are placed in the outland between

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settlements, in the periphery of the agrarian settlements. The sites are seldom threatened by modern development, which means that very few of them have been investigated in recent large-scale excavations.  Available dates place the forts between about 1000 bce and 1100 ce (Olausson 1997, 2009). This long period of construction and use probably means that the functions and meanings varied in time and space ( Johansen 1997). However, most of the hillforts and ringforts with large stone walls can be dated to the period 200–700 ce. They were undoubtedly fortifications or fortified settlements, although cosmo­logical ideas may also have been inscribed in the layout of the forts ( Johansen 1997; Andrén 2014). These stone enclosures are consequently important to the understanding of warfare and warriors in the Iron Age (Holmquist Olausson and Olausson 2009), as discussed in (è19) and (è24). Other monuments, with lower stone walls, are often earlier and may have had non-military functions, such as enclosed burial places, meetings places, and ritual sites (Olausson 1995). The dykes, with Danevirke as the most famous example, are usually interpreted as border demarcations with more or less symbolic functions (Hellmuth Andersen and others 1976). They usually appear in open landscapes without natural borders in the form of, for example, mountains, vast forests, or large stretches of water. Therefore, the location and dating of the dykes have implications for the understanding of the political and social history of southern Scandinavia. Graves The best-preserved and still visible remains from the Scandinavian past are graves, but the preservation of them is very varied in time and space (è33). In Denmark and parts of southern Sweden, very few graves from the Iron Age are visible, partly due to the intensive modern agriculture. In contrast, hundreds of thousands of graves are preserved in central Sweden and Norway (Hyenstrand 1984). Because so many graves are visible, most archaeo­logists of the nineteenth century excavated graves in order to obtain objects for museum collections and for studies of chrono­logy. Even today, our image of the material culture of the Viking Age is to a large extent formed from objects from the many graves around Birka excavated in the 1870s and 1880s (Arbman 1940–43). With the growing interest in settlements and landscapes during the 1960s and 1970s, graves were also used in studies of settlement patterns from the Early Iron Age and the Late Iron Age as well as different regions of settlements. In these studies, particularly unexcavated graves of different visible forms were

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Figure 6.6. A chamber grave (grave 750) at Birka in Uppland. The grave, which probably was a burial for both a man and a woman, had a special section for a deposited horse. Drawing: Hjalmar Stolpe in Arbman 1940–43: 268.

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used to trace long-term settlement patterns. The assumption made in these investigations was that the graves more or less reflected the population in a very straightforward way (Ambrosiani 1964; Hyenstrand 1974; Wijkander 1983). Since the 1980s and 1990s, there has been a growing awareness of the difficulties of using and understanding ancient graves (è33). It has become clear that there is no direct link between mortality rates and numbers of graves, since in some periods and regions very few individuals were buried in formalized graves (Stjernquist 1994). Even when formalized graves occur, they are probably only one aspect of much more complex burial rituals. This is especially clear in respect to cremations, since only parts of the cremated bodies were placed inside the graves. Other parts of the bodies must have been deposited in other places, such as water, cultivated fields, or holy groves (Andersson and Skyllberg 2008). In similar ways, it has become increasingly clear that graves are above all expressions of burial rituals, because they represent final deposits. Therefore, every social and political interpretation of graves must include these rituals. These problems concern all aspects of mortuary practice, such as the external markers, the internal constructions of the graves, the treatment of the dead bodies, and the animals and objects placed inside and outside the graves (Artelius 2000). In recent years, however, graves have become important sources for new scientific analysis as well. In particular inhumations can be investigated by means of Carbon-13 analysis, Strontium-analysis, and ancient DNA. Burial customs will be discussed in more detail in (è33). Deposits A deposit is an archaeo­logical term for objects deliberately placed in a special context that is not a grave. Often, a deposit represents a single event, but in some cases a deposit can represent several sequential events at the same place. Typical contexts of deposits are different forms of wetlands, such as lakes, moors, rivers, and fords, but deposits could also be placed on dry land, such as under a stone, in a pit, or near a house. Deposits include bog bodies, weapon deposits, objects of precious metals, but also more humble artefacts, such as pottery, tools, and animal bones. In wetland contexts, deposits may also include seldom found organic material, such as wood, straw, bone, antler, textile, and leather ( Jørgensen and others 2003; von Heijne 2004; Carlie 2009). Conventionally, deposits in wetlands have been interpreted as ‘sacrifices to the gods’, whereas deposits on dry land have been understood in more func-

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tional and profane ways, such as hoards or hidden treasures. This conventional understanding has been criticized in recent decades as being too categorical. Instead, some wetland deposits have been interpreted as formal burials of specific and unique objects (Lund 2009b). In similar ways, deposits of silver objects on dry land have been interpreted as connected to graves, since the bio­graphy of the objects can be regarded as expressions of the bio­graphy of the owner (Myrberg Burström 2009b). Still, some of the deposits in wetland contexts were undoubtedly associated with large-scale rituals that will be discussed further in (è27). In general, deposits must be understood in relation to graves, since different types of objects were selected for formal graves and deposits during the Iron Age. Objects of precious metal and decorated weapons are almost never found in graves but were deposited in wetlands or on dry land instead (Stenberger 1947–58; Andersson 1993–95; von Heijne 2004). This complex interplay between graves and deposits has not yet been fully taken into account with respect to Iron Age Scandinavia. An illustrative example is the different attempts at reconstructing Viking Age dress. The reconstructions are usually based on objects from graves and accordingly lack silver objects, such as neck rings, arm rings, finger rings, and possibly ankle rings, which are always found in deposits. Artefacts For a long time, archaeo­logical research was focused on artefacts. Objects were the very essence of archaeo­logy in the nineteenth and the early twentieth centuries (Baudou 2004: 142–204; Trigger 2006). They were above all used to construct chrono­logies and regional groups of so-called ‘archaeo­logical cultures’. However, artefacts are no longer necessarily the central objects of archaeo­logical research, since the archaeo­logical focus now includes investigations of landscapes and settlements as well as the use of new dating methods from the natural sciences. Even so, artefacts continue to play an important role in archaeo­logy. Although Carbon-14 datings are commonly used in research on the Iron Age in Scandinavia, the most detalied chrono­logies of the first millenium ce are still based on objects (for instance, Lund Hansen 1987; Carlsson 1983; Thunmark-Nylén 1995–2006). Besides, in contexts without organic material, such as bone or charcoal, objects are the only means of dating a site. The origins of artefacts, or the origins of the material for artefacts, are important when studying regional contexts and long-distance connections. Iron Age

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Figure 6.7. Osteo­logical analysis of human remains. Photo: Sabine Sten.

Scandinavia is characterized by finds from the Roman and Byzantine worlds as well as the Islamic and West European worlds (Lund Hansen 1987; Roslund 2001; Pettersson 2008; Andrén 2011a). An important aspect of moving objects is the possible changes in the meaning ascribed to artefacts during their ‘life’. Several studies based on the idea of object bio­g raphies (e.g., Kopytoff 1986) seek to understand and determine how foreign objects were incorporated and reinterpreted in new local contexts (Tsigaridas Glørstad 2010). In the context of PCRN, many artefacts are moreover important because they include different forms of images (è7). In a broad sense, material culture also includes objects other than man-made artefacts. Human and animal bones especially as well as plant remains have become increasingly important within archaeo­logical research. As mentioned above, human bones are today used to determine age, bio­logical sex, genetic profiles, health, corporal violence, and non-local origins; all aspects that are important to the understanding of economic and social conditions during the Iron Age in Scandinavia. The studies of animal bones are of special interest to the study of PCRN, because animals were used in many different rituals. The animal bones from rituals will be described in more detail in (è27), so it suffices with a few exam-

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ples of ritual sites here. At Frösö in Jämtland, domestic as well as wild animals were slaughtered (Magnell and Iregren 2010). At Skedemosse on Öland, rituals seem to have taken place in the autumn considering the estimated age of slaughtered young animals (Monikander 2010). And in central places, such as Lejre, Tissø, and Uppåkra, bones from pigs dominate, whereas bones from cattle are most frequent at other sites (Magnell and others 2013). In similar ways, plant remains can be used to reconstruct the agrarian economy of the Iron Age. For instance, plant remains of horticulture indicate that gardening was established at Uppåkra already during the first to fifth centuries ce (Larsson 2015). At Helgö, the first forms of bread were introduced in the third and fourth centuries, according to combined analyses of plant remains, burnt bread and small millstones (Bergström 2007). It must be underlined that all the genres of materiality presented here are modern concepts, used conventionally by archaeo­logy. In the past, these categories were not necessarily as clear-cut. As mentioned above, there is a clear interplay between graves and deposits, making it sometimes difficult to draw a line between the different categories. In similar ways, complex interplays between settlements and graves can be traced as well as between settlements, ‘forts’ and graves. Graves could be placed within former settlements, houses could be built on top of old graves, and forts could include houses as well as graves. This fuzzy image of the past is important to acknowledge, especially when trying to move from the perspective of an outsider to the perspective of an insider.22

Scholarship Archaeo­logy currently plays an increasing role in the study of Old Norse religion and cosmo­logy, but the discipline has not always been a central part of Old Norse studies because of the changing perspectives on the complex interface between texts and material culture as well as varying views on the interpretive potential of material culture. The role of archaeo­logy in this research field is therefore to a large extent parallel with the theoretical trends within archaeo­ logy itself.

22  The linguistic movement Words and Objects in the early twentieth century tried to overcome the conceptual gap between language and material culture. Scholars of this tradition studied words in broad cultural historical perspectives, trying to understand the material background of them. The main proponent of this movement was the German journal Wörter und Sachen, which began publication in 1909.

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The first museum curators and professional archaeo­logists were well versed in Old Icelandic literature, since this literature had become an important part of the creation of a Scandinavian identity and history by the Romantic movement of the first half of the nineteenth century. We therefore find some references to the Old Norse world already in their works, for instance, regarding the interpretations of gold bracteates (Thomsen 1855; Worsaae 1870). However, the first thorough archaeo­logical study of Old Norse religion was a survey of pagan rituals and beliefs among the Scandinavians, written in 1876 by Henry Petersen: Om Nordboernes Gudedyrkelse og Gudetro i Hedenold: En antikvarisk Undersøgelse. In this work, some of the fundamental links between objects and references in the Icelandic texts were examined for the first time. Petersen’s contemporary, Hans Hildebrand, used a similar approach when he identified for the first time certain small T-shaped silver amulets as representations of Mjǫllnir, the hammer of the thunder god Þórr (Hildebrand 1872b). Nonetheless, as in other historical archaeo­logies (Andrén 1998), the conventional method for a long time tended to be a rather simple ‘matching game’ between words and objects. Consequently, archaeo­logy played a rather passive, secondary role in the study of Old Norse religion, often reduced to illustrating motifs found in the texts. Right up until the the middle of the twentieth century, the Old Norse literature preserved its role as a mental background for archaeo­logical interpretations of the Iron Age and, mainly, for the Viking Age in Scandinavia. This is especially clear in the work of the more historically oriented archaeo­logists (for instance, Brøgger 1916; Nerman 1941; Lindqvist 1945). In their studies, however, Icelandic textual references were used to illuminate archaeo­ logical problems rather than to contribute to a general understanding of Old Norse traditions. In that sense, Scandinavian archaeo­logy during the first half of the twentieth century followed the principles of Christopher Hawkes. In a famous article from 1954, he outlined ‘the ladder of reliability’ in this tradition (Hawkes 1954). According to him, archaeo­logy in general could primarily be used to study techno­logy, to a lesser extent economy and social organization, and only with great difficulties religion and mentality. Religion was more of a residual category for things that could not otherwise be explained. It was only when support came from additional texts that archaeo­logy was considered able to say anything more substantial about thoughts and beliefs. During the 1960s, 1970s, and early 1980s, archaeo­logy for the most part turned away from issues of religion, because of the neo-materialistic and neoevolutionary traditions within the discipline (Trigger 2006: 386–444). As a result, very little archaeo­logical research was carried out in the field of Old

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Norse religion during these decades. Focus fell instead on landscape, settlement, economy, and social organization. Above all, the archaeo­logy of landscape and settlement made its breakthrough. Important results included new perspectives on land-use, settlement structure, and hierarchies of settlements (Baudou 2004: 278–363). With regard to PCRN, these results are very important to the economic and social understanding of Iron Age Scandinavia (è19). It was only from the 1980s and 1990s that archaeo­logy returned to issues of ideo­logy, mentality and to a lesser extent religion (Hodder 1986; Insoll 2004). In this tradition, material culture is viewed as an active element in constant negotiations and renegotiations between people. Meaning can be ascribed to artefacts, settlements, and landscapes, which can sometimes represent complex ideas. As in many other human sciences, interpretation has taken centre stage in archaeo­logy. This interest in ideo­logy, mentality, and religion in archaeo­logy means that totally new results concerning pre-Christian Scandinavian religion have been achieved within the last few decades. For example, it is now possible for the first time to have a serious discussion about the occurrence of ritual buildings in pre-Christian Scandinavia on the basis of concrete physical evidence from the Iron Age (A.-L. Nielsen 1997; Larsson 2004; è 27). A part of this trend is that the Icelandic literary tradition in general — and not only the religious aspects — has provided analogies for archaeo­logical interpretations. As a result, parts of Scandinavian prehistory have become very historic. However, in the last decade, a reaction against the optimistic views and the relativism of some interpretations presented by recent archaeo­logy can be discerned. Now, the materiality rather than the meaning of objects is underlined (Olsen 2003, 2010). Focus is being placed on what material culture does to people rather than what it means. Accordingly, religion is once again less in focus of some archaeo­logical research, although issues of materiality and bio­ graphies of objects are well suited to enter into a dialogue with ritual theory, in which social meaning rather than mental meaning of rituals is underlined (Lund 2009). The new focus on materiality has clearly opened up other perspectives within archaeo­logy, but issues relating to meaning are not about to disappear. Many results from earlier archaeo­logical traditions have been integrated into later archaeo­logical traditions, and a similar confluence will probably take place with regard to the current theoretical shift. The critique of optimistic and shallow archaeo­logical interpretations of the 1980s and 1990s is sometimes well founded, but the search for mental or religious meaning is still important in archaeo­logy. The metaphorical potential of material culture is especially worth

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studying in relation to religion. Besides, in the different historical archaeo­logies in particular, the dialogue between material culture and religion has been studied for a long time (Andrén 1998). These studies are usually based on thorough contextual analysis of material culture but take into account written sources as well. Although this dialogue has been continued, the relationship between Old Norse texts and material culture remains complicated. The distance in time and place between thirteenth-century Iceland and Iron Age Scandinavia means that the texts never contain descriptions of actual contexts that can be studied archaeo­logically. Instead, it is always a question of other non-direct relations. The indirect relationship between the two nonetheless also has constructive facets, since the common roots of the written word and materiality is oral tradition (è3–4). As many scholars have stressed, oral tradition is both changeable and rich in variation (Clanchy 1979; Ong 1982). An extant text is therefore only one possible variant of a narrative. Material culture related to the same narrative can thus represent yet further versions, which means that the relationship between artefacts and texts will always be provisional. Thus, the use of material culture within the study of pre-Christian Norse religion is not uncomplicated. Moreover, it can be difficult to ascertain from material traces of ritualized acts whether the rituals were connected to a religious discourse or not. The element of variation in the oral tradition also means that the identification of different motifs and figures can never be any more than provisional (Price 2006). At the same time, the fundamental active role of materiality in all oral culture means that artefacts can be a truly primary source for narratives, conceptions, and patterns of action in ancient Scandinavia. Objects and images could be used as mnemonic devices for composing new variants of the narratives in the form of ekphrasis (Clunies Ross 2005: 54). While cosmo­logical perspectives are sometimes merely hinted at in mythical or heroic narratives, the world-view can be depicted in a highly systematic way in material culture, for example, in settlements, buildings, and artefacts (Andrén 2014). Recurrent formalized acts at one and the same place may even show concretely how certain patterns of action were maintained for generations in the sense that the place and the acts were part of the collective memory (è2) (è27). Consequently, the use of material culture in the study PCRN has huge potential.

7 – Images Anders Andrén

Introduction From a European perspective, ancient Scandinavia is uniquely rich in images. In northern Scandinavia, numerous rock carvings and some rock paintings are preserved from about 4200–1500 bce, whereas thousands of rock carvings in southern Scandinavia are dated to about 1700–200 bce ( Jansson and others 1989; Hygen and Bengtsson 2000a; Mandt and Lødøen 2005). About five hundred unique picture stones from Gotland belong to the period c. 300–1100 ce (Herlin Karnell 2012), while also some rune stones from about 500–1100 ce include images ( Jansson 1976; Moltke 1976). Three-dimensional metal figures and many images on metal objects are preserved from the Bronze Age and the Iron Age across all of Scandinavia. Moreover, a few images on bone, antler, wood, and textile have survived from predominantly 800–1200 ce, giving some glimpses of a now mostly lost pictorial world in organic material. Although Scandinavia is uniquely rich in images, some periods are more iconic than others. The period 200 bce–200 ce is basically un-iconic, because very few images of Scandinavian origin are known from that time (Andrén 2014: 133–36). The well-known Gundestrup cauldron is dated to this period, but it was produced in south-eastern Europe (Kaul 1991; figure è 14.2), and hence the images covering the cauldron say very little about PCRN. Later periods also include foreign images, but these appear together with Scandinavian pictures. Among these foreign images are Roman statuettes of Roman gods and goddesses (Thrane 2005) and a unique Buddha statuette from Pakistan dated Anders Andrén, Senior Professor of Archaeology, Stockholm University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. 161–193 John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116934

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to the sixth or seventh centuries (Gyllensvärd 2004). It is quite possible that some of these foreign figures have been used as models for local three-dimensional figures, and in that sense they are important to the understanding of the Scandinavia pictorial world. Many of the Scandinavian pictures have long been used in investigations of PCRN. Art historians and archaeo­logists have conventionally studied these images, although many other specialists have likewise used images to illustrate certain phenomena or problems. In the last decades, however, art history in Scandinavia has to a large extent turned away from prehistoric imagery and focused on later periods, such as early modern and modern art. Consequently, early images in Scandinavia have become a mainly archaeo­logical research field. This scholarly turn has led to a greater emphasis on the contexts of images, whereas more recent theoretical trends in art history, such as visual culture, have not been extensively applied to the prehistoric images of Scandinavia. Pictures from ancient Scandinavia usually stem from archaeo­logical contexts and therefore share all the archaeo­logical problems that are discussed in (è6). In this chapter, however, more specific pictorial problems will be treated.

Documenting Images Most of the known early images of Scandinavia are still preserved today, but pictorial analysis is usually based on documentations of these images rather than the original pictures. Therefore, the transformation from original images to other media is a fundamental issue in all discussions of these early images. Conventionally, the pictures have been presented as drawings or photos, but today also photo-grammetry, laser scanning, and three-dimensional digital photos are used (Ljunge 2015). From the early nineteenth century until today, it is easy to see that the conventions of representation as well as the methods of documentation have changed. For instance, rock carvings in publications from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries look very different from rock carvings published today (Nordbladh 1980; Ljunge 2015). The main outline of the images is often unchanged, but the details are sometimes quite different. Since details are usually decisive for pictorial interpretations, the different documentations and conventions have a tremendous impact on the understanding of the pictures. One example of the importance of details in documentation is the fifth-century picture stone from Vallstenarum in Vallstena on Gotland. In the original documentation (Lindqvist 1941–42: pl. 9), two figures at the top of the monu-

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Figure 7.1. Two versions of the picture stone from Hunninge in Klinte on Gotland, according to Olof Sörling in 1917–27 (left) and Sune Lindqvist in 1941 (right). The two versions illustrate how some of the images on the picture stone were quite differently documented, for instance, the figures above the rider in the top panel and some of the figures in the bottom panel. After Lindqvist 1942: 81 and Lindqvist 1941: pl. 52, respectively.

ment were interpreted as animals with their heads turned to look back, whereas in a renewed documentation these figures could be interpreted as two riders (Arrhenius and Holmqvist 1960; cf. Oerhl 2019). An important aspect of documenting images is the question of what constitutes an image and its context. In rock art studies, it has recently become evident that the carved images often interplay in distinct ways with the geo­logical patterns of the bedrock, such as rifts or lines in quartz (Goldhahn 2005). A few similar cases, of interplay between images and geo­logical patterns, have been observed on much later rune stones, indicating that some conventional documentations of these images ought to be revised.

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Figure 7.2. The chrono­logy of rune stones in central Sweden, according to the stylistic analysis of Anne-Sofie Gräslund. B-e-v = rune animal’s head seen in bird’s-eye-view, Pr 1-5 = rune animal’s head seen in profile. After Gräslund 2006a: 132–33. 

Another important but difficult aspect of documenting images is the issue of colour. Previously, very little attention was paid to colour, since visible traces of colour are usually lacking. Instead, many rock carvings, picture stones, and rune stones have conventionally been repainted in red or black by antiquarian authorities. However, some picture stones and rune stones that have been discovered in the fabrics of medi­e val churches preserve traces of colour. In a few cases, it is even possible to determine that the images had been repainted several times ( Jansson 1954). Furthermore, some recent analyses of trace substance have been used to determine colour that is not visible by the eye. With these scant pieces of evidence it is now quite clear that the pictorial world was much more colourful than the antiquarian repainting presupposes. Common colours were not only red and black, but also blue, white, and yellow. From a few well-preserved examples, such as a runic gravestone from St Lars in Linköping, it is clear that colours could be used to distinguish different words from each other and to emphasize different elements within the animal ornamentation (S. Zachrisson 2007). Today, most early Scandinavian images lack their

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original colour, meaning that an important aspect of these pictures is lacking. Modern interpretations are consequently based on documentation that can only account for limited aspects of the images, namely, their cut or carved features.

Dating Images Images can be dated by means of their style, context, or space and in a few instances by methods from the natural sciences. In art history as well as in archaeo­logy, otherwise undated images are usually dated through stylistic analyses. Such studies take into account pictorial conventions (see below) as well as different stylistic details of the figures, such as feet, eyes, or hair. The most detailed stylistic analyses have been carried out on animal art from the late fourth to the twelfth centuries (Ørsnes 1966; Haseloff 1981; Karlsson 1983; Wilson 1995). For instance, rune stones from the eleventh and early twelfth centuries in central Sweden have been dated to six partly overlapping stylistic groups, each covering only thirty to forty years (Gräslund 1990, 1992). In earlier periods, such as the Stone Age and the Bronze Age, images are usually much more difficult to date, because the pictorial conventions as well as the stylistic details were more stable for longer periods. The most detailed stylistic chrono­logy that has been established concerns ships on rock carvings, because the different forms of the ships can be compared with ships on bronze objects that are dated. With the help of these links between objects and rock carvings, ship-images from about 1700 to 200 bce can be divided into six or seven stylistic groups, each covering about two to three hundred years (Kaul 1998: 87–116; Ling 2008: 105). A few rock carvings showing objects, such as swords, can also be dated on the basis of the types of objects that are depicted. Some images can be dated from their contexts, for instance, when they are found in graves or different types of deposits. If these contexts include coins, very precise dates of the earliest possible depositions of objects can be established. For instance, in Gotlandic silver hoards, the earliest cross was deposited around 990, whereas the latest Þórr’s hammer was deposited in c. 1080 (Andrén 2011b: 148). It must be underlined, however, that images can be older or much older than the deposition itself. Sometimes, activities that took place near or around images such as rock carvings and picture stones can be dated, too. It is not always certain, however, whether such activities were contemporary with the images or expressions of later reuse of the sites (Andreeff 2012; Nilsson 2017). Rock carvings and rock paintings are notoriously difficult to date, but apart from the different stylistic forms of ships, the locations of rock art have been

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used to create different chrono­logies. In the northern tradition as well as in the southern tradition of rock art, many images seem to have been carved close to the shorelines. Due to the displacement of the sea level since the Ice Age, rock carvings are now situated at different levels above the sea. The earliest rock carvings are located highest above sea level, whereas the latest rock carvings are located closer to the present shorelines. This spatial chrono­logy of rock art can be confirmed by the stylistic changes of ship-images (Helskog 1999; Ling 2008). In a few cases, images can be directly or indirectly dated by dendrochrono­ logy or Carbon-14 dating. For instance, the earliest forms of animal art, found in the weapon deposit at Nydam in southern Denmark, can be dated to a horizon from the late fourth to the early fifth centuries, according to dendrochrono­ logical dates ( Jørgensen and Vang Petersen 2003). Likewise, all the images from the Oseberg ship burial in southern Norway can be fairly accurately dated by dendrochrono­logy. The ship was built around 820, whereas the grave was constructed in 834 (Bill 2013).

Pictorial Conventions For a long time it has been clear that there is no immediate and direct link between images and ‘reality’. Pictures are always dictated by visual conventions, which means that some expressions are possible and others are not, at any given place in time and space. A good example of visual conventions is the development of perspective in European paintings. A new spatial perspective emerged in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, based on size and colour. Small objects and elements of blue nuances created an impression of distance for the viewer. In contrast, the previous medi­eval convention was based on different ideas about size and colour. Great size as well as the precious colour blue emphasized important elements within a painting, whereas small size indicated elements of lesser importance (Alberti [c. 1435] 1991; Panofsky 1924– 25). In similar ways, pictorial conventions in medi­eval Christian art were used to express mental circumstances. A variety of gestures of the body signified certain emotions, such as grief, sorrow, and obedience, whereas various ways of rendering the head, en face, in half profile or full profile, expressed the character of the depicted figures as holy, good, or evil, respectively (Gotfredsen and Frederiksen 1988). Images from periods that are relevant to PCRN were clearly rendered according to other pictorial conventions, although our understanding of these conventions is much less clear than it is for the medi­e val and early modern periods. Figures in rock carvings from the Bronze Age were usually cut as

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Figure 7.3. Two pairs of humans with raised axes on Aspeberget in Tanum in Bohuslän. This rock carving is one of many examples of images of humans incised as line drawings on solid rocks during the Bronze Age and early Iron Age. Photo: Bengt A. Lundberg, Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm. 

line drawings in profile, although certain objects, such as carriages, were rendered from above as well as in profile. Similar line figures were also depicted on bronze objects, a few wooden objects and pottery, showing that the pictorial convention was not restricted to certain material, such as bedrock. However, three-dimensional bronze figures with many details point towards another pictorial convention that was used at the same time as the line drawings. Sometimes, similar figures were depicted according to both conventions, such as men with horned helmets and axes or women turning somersaults ( Jansson and others 1989; Kaul 1998; Hygen and Bengtsson 2000a; Mandt and Lødøen 2005). Line images and three-dimensional figures were used in the Early Iron Age as well, such as the early picture stones on Gotland and bronze figures from Öland. However, from the fifth and sixth centuries on, other images began to appear. In these pictures, the bodies of humans and animals were not reduced to lines, but were much more emphasized in full profile, for instance rendering human heads with forehead, nose, and jaw. At the same time, clothing and hairstyles began to be clearly visible, adding further details to the human fig-

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Anders Andrén Figure 7.4. A woman holding a drinking cup. Pendant from Öland, Sweden (SHM 6485:266707). This figure is one of many examples of humans rendered in full profile during the late Iron Age. Photo: Gabriel Hildebrand, Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm. 

ures. Similarly, sails and even the rigging of ships can be discerned on some late Gotlandic picture stones (Lindqvist 1941–42; Nylén and Lamm 2003; Herlin Karnell 2012). Nonetheless, contemporary with this more ‘realistic’ pictorial current, animal art developed along a very different line (Haseloff 1981; Karlsson 1983; Wilson 1995). Many images were hidden in complex intertwined patterns, not the least since some figures were rendered in ‘split vision’, as two related profiles from above (Kristoffersen 1997). Although the pictorial conventions varied in time and space, a number of aspects were expressed in the same way through extensive periods of time, such as fighting rendered with raised swords and spears. Other distinctions were more temporally constrained. In the Bronze Age, gender was to a much greater extent indicated by means of bodily distinctions than in later periods. On rock carvings, male gender was often indicated by an erect phallus and enlarged calves, whereas female gender was indicated by long hair, bare breasts, and a hole for the vagina (Kaul 1998). In the Late Iron Age, gender was instead expressed through dress and hairstyles. Men were portrayed with pointed beards, sometimes long hair, and more or less visible trousers underneath long capes. Women were depicted with long hair and a hair knot as well as long dresses reaching the feet (Göransson 1999; Helmbrecht 2011; Mannering 2017). The distinctions between men and women are not always entirely clear, which has led to discussions about some forms of queer identity in the Late Iron Age (Back Danielsson 2007; Hedeager 2015), although these blurred images may well be linked to pictorial conventions rather than social reality.

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Interpretative Traditions Images can be analysed in many different ways. Although images are never direct expressions of a reality, they can be an indirect source of many historical phenomena. As a form of ‘Realienkunde’, or illustrations of material culture, images have been used to study the history of, for instance, ploughs, carriages, ships, weapons, and the clothing of men and women (Malmer 1989; Nylén and Lamm 2003). In many cases, the images of such objects can be compared to real objects. This primary identification of different pictorial elements is also a necessary first step in order to understand the broader meaning of images. The conventional understanding of images is that they convey icono­graphic representations with fairly fixed meanings. This interpretative tradition was primarily developed in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in relation to images from classical antiquity and the Middle Ages. The basic assumption was that images expressed narratives known from written texts, such as Greek mytho­logy, biblical stories, and saints’ lives. With the help of texts sometimes accompanying the images and attributes linked to certain figures, for example, the key of St Peter, it has been possible to decipher the icono­g raphic meaning of many classical and medi­e val images (Panofsky 1939; Gotfredsen and Frederiksen 1988; Baudry 2010). Early Scandinavian pictures have been analysed and interpreted within a similar icono­graphical tradition, although it is disputed to which textual corpus the images should be related. A fundamental question is how far back in time Old Norse texts can be used as the interpretative frame. Because of this uncertainty, pictures from the Bronze Age have sometimes been linked to early texts from the eastern Mediterranean (Almgren 1927; Kaul 1998; Kristiansen and Larsson 2005), whereas images from the Early Iron Age have been interpreted within the frames of early Celtic texts (Görman 1987; Aldhouse-Green 2004). Conventionally, pictures from the Late Iron Age have been related to the Icelandic literary tradition and other relevant texts, such as Adam of Bremen and Saxo (for instance, Roth 1986). Sometimes, however, even older images have been linked to Old Norse texts (Andrén 2014). In this icono­graphic tradition, many Scandinavian images, above all those stemming from the Late Iron Age, have been identified as pictures and symbols of gods and goddesses as well as illustrations of certain myths (see below). Among the least disputed interpretations are: an eight-legged horse as Óðinn’s horse Sleipnir (Lindqvist 1941–42; Buisson 1976), a phallic seated man as Freyr (Salin 1913), and a hammer-shaped amulet as Þórr’s hammer Mj ǫllnir (Hildebrand 1872b). Still, the icono­graphical interpretations of many images

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will always be more provisional than is the case for medi­e val pictures (Price 2006). Christian images were linked to canonical texts in ways that the early Scandinavian pictures never were. Instead, the images from Scandinavia were connected to basically oral traditions that varied in time, space, and social contexts (è3). Consequently, the pictures could be related to myths that are now totally unknown as well as to unknown variations of known narratives. Besides, images may also have been created with an intended ambiguity, deliberately associating them with different phenomena. Images can also be analysed from functional perspectives, attempting to answer questions about why certain pictures were used in some circumstances but not in others. The functional analysis often presupposes icono­graphic interpretations of the images, although they are more focused on spatial contexts. For instance, it is important to understand why certain images appear in graves or on memorials (Andrén 1993, 2014), while other pictures are linked to weapons or dress ornaments (Kristoffersen 1997; Hedeager 2011). The functional investigations may have implications for the understanding of the pictures as well as of the contexts in which they appear. Apart from the icono­g raphic and functional traditions, images have also been analysed in more structural ways, as expressions of mentalities in different temporal and geo­graphical environments. For instance, different forms of gender expressions have been discussed (Göransson 1999; Back Danielsson 2007; Helmbrecht 2011) as well as various forms of martial representations (Nordbladh 1980) and key symbols used during certain periods (Sjöstrand 2011). In recent years, the materiality of images has been underlined, opening up for questions about the production of images as well as the effect of pictures on humans (Mitchell 1986; Gell 1998). This material turn has been applied mainly to rock carvings, because the pictures on the bedrocks are the result of repeated actions during long periods (Hauptman Wahlgren 2002; Back Danielsson and others 2012; Ljunge 2015). Moreover, traces of contemporary as well as later activities, for example, in the form of fireplaces and fire-cracked stones, have been found around rock carvings, which indicates that the images had effect on people (Nilsson 2017).

Pictorial Genres In the following section, more specific interpretative problems will be discussed in relation to different genres of images that are relevant to PCRN. These genres are divided by material, since different forms of material present different

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possibilities of rendering images. Besides, the contexts of images, which are fundamental to the pictorial interpretations, are partly determined by the material. The contexts may refer to the spatial setting of images as well as to the relation between images and the question of whether several pictures constitute scenes or not. These contextual aspects of images can be easy as well as difficult to determine, depending on the different genres of pictures. Images on Bedrocks Rock art is known cross culturally around the world, but ancient Scandinavia has a unique position in rock art research because the area comprises two partly overlapping rock art traditions. The northern tradition, which is connected to hunters and gatherers, is found in northern Norway, northern Sweden, and in Finland, although a few such rock-art sites are known as far south as presentday Göteborg (Gjerde 2010). The images were carved or painted onto bedrocks, which were usually close to seashores, lakes, rivers, or waterfalls. The two most important sites are located at Alta in northern Norway (Helskog 1988) and at Nämforsen in middle Sweden (Hallström 1960; Tilley 1991; Forsberg 1993). At Nämforsen, pictures were cut on small islands in a huge waterfall. Today, the waterfall is situated far away from the sea, but when the images were cut, the waterfall was the mouth of a large river falling directly into the Baltic Sea. Close by the waterfall, an unusually large settlement has been discovered, which was contemporary with the rock carvings, indicating that Nämforsen was some form of regional meeting place for a hunting population (Sjöstrand 2011: 40–44). The pictures are usually dated within a broad window of time spanning from about 4200 to about 1500 bce. The main depicted figure in the northern tradition is an elk (i.e., the Eurasian elk, Alces alces) without antlers, either a female elk or a male elk during the winter. Apart from elks, the images include other wild animals and mammals, such as reindeer, red deer, bears, fish, whales, and seals. Humans and man-made objects are few, but some humans and small boats appear on the panels. Some of the figures, such as elks without antlers, bears, and whales, also appear as contemporary three-dimensional figures made of stone from the same region (Mandt and Lødøen 2005; Gjerde 2010; Sjöstrand 2011). Although a number of undisputed hunting scenes with several different figures exist at Alta (Helskog 1988), most figures seem to have been added to other, existing figures at different occasions. The northern rock art tradition is closely connected to similar contemporary rock carvings across the entire circumpolar region, stretching from Norway in the west to Siberia in the

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Figure 7.5. Elks on rock carvings on Laxön in Nämforsen in Ångermanland. Photo: Gabriel Hildebrand, Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm. 

east. Many close parallels are found in present-day Finland and western Russia (Gjerde 2010; Bolin 2011). The images of the northern rock art tradition have mainly been interpreted in three partly related ways, as hunting magic, as cosmo­logy of hunters or as shamanism (Tilley 1991; Lindqvist 1994: 130–32; Sognnes 2001). In recent years, these interpretations have been criticized as being too specific and detailed, considering the temporal distance between us and the rock-art tradition. Instead, it has been suggested that the main motif of elk should be regarded as a key symbol — that is, as a figure that was good for thinking — for the hunting societies.1 From this perspective, the specific meaning of the elk will always be ambiguous and fluid. Therefore, it is important to study not only the elk per se, but also aspects of the elk, such as standing elks, walking elks, running elks, or elks with marked intestines (Sjöstrand 2011). Rock art connected to the southern tradition is found in the middle and southern parts of Norway and Sweden and on Bornholm in Denmark. This 1 

The idea of natural species as ‘good for thinking’ was first presented by Claude LéviStrauss (1962).

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Figure 7.6. Ships on rock carvings at Himmelstalund in Norrköping in Östergötland. Photo: Anders Andrén. 

tradition has conventionally been dated to the Bronze Age, but stylistic details show that it continued into the Early Iron Age, indicating that images were cut into bedrocks from about 1700 to about 200 bce ( Jansson and others 1989; Kaul 1998; Kaul 2004; Hygen and Bengtsson 2000a; Mandt and Lødøen 2005; Ling 2008). At Nämforsen and at a number of sites in Trøndelag, images of the northern and southern traditions were carved onto the same rocks (Sognnes 1994, 2001), but otherwise the two traditions were geo­g raphically separate. The southern rock art tradition was associated with south Scandinavian farming communities. These rock carvings are obviously preserved in the bedrocks that they were cut into thousands of years ago, but the surroundings of these bedrocks have usually changed quite drastically. Recent analysis of rock carvings shows that many of them were cut into bedrocks situated directly on the shorelines (Ling 2008). Due to changes in the sea level, however, these localities are today situated in agrarian landscapes far away from the sea. A small group of rock carvings are also found on stone slabs raised in or at large graves, such as the cairn at Kivik in Skåne. These burial images sometimes render partly other motifs, such as geometrical figures and humans in processions (Randsborg 1993; Goldhahn 1999; Goldhahn 2013).

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Anders Andrén Figure 7.7. The Gosforth cross in Cumbria. Details of different scenes are presented in è figures 39.2 and 61.1. After Collingwood 1989 (1927): 156. 

The ship, often with a crew, is the most common motif, appearing on basically all rock-carving sites of the southern tradition. This motif furthermore underlines the maritime connection of the rock art (Kaul 1998; Ling 2008). Apart from ships, the rock carvings depict many warriors with or without phallus, a few women, some horses and other domestic animals, ploughs, carriages, lures, weapons, snakes, wheel crosses, hands, and feet (Malmer 1989). A  few images representing the sun being pulled by a horse are found in certain places. Several similar images are found on contemporary bronze objects, such as razors, or as three-dimensional bronze figures (Kaul 1998). Besides, some of the depicted objects show close similarities to real objects from the Bronze Age and the Early Iron Age, such as swords, axes, spears, and shields (Malmer 1989). Some of the motifs have close parallels in Mediterranean rock art, above all in Spain and northern Italy, indicating some kind of long-distance connections (Kristiansen and Larsson 2005). In conventional icono­g raphic traditions, the rock carvings have above all been interpreted as religious expressions. It is disputed, however, whether they depict rituals or myths and whether they can be linked to Old Norse religion or not. Some scholars regard the images as linked to totally different religious traditions (Almgren 1927; Kaul 1998), whereas others view the pictures as related to Indo-European religion or to an early form of Old Norse religion (Kristiansen and Larsson 2005; Melheim 2006; Andrén 2014).

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However, there have been several different reactions to the dominant religious interpretations. Rock carvings have no spatial limits apart from the extent of the bedrocks, which makes it difficult to determine whether the images can or should be viewed together as distinct scenes. Varying styles of figures on some panels show that various images must have been cut on different occasions. Therefore, many rock carvings seem to be sequences of images relating to each other, rather than scenes composed as complete entities. This repeated activity of cutting images in bedrocks has been emphasized in recent research (Hauptman Wahlgren 2002; Ljunge 2015). Some scholars have focused on the mentality behind the images, such as the male warrior ethos (Nordbladh 1980), whereas others have regarded the images as a kind of early writing or notation (Malmer 1989) or as associated with burial rituals in general (Widholm 1998; Goldhahn 1999; Goldhahn 2013). The main problem is that most interpretations ignore the ship as the main motif and instead are based on other, less common, images that sometimes appear in only a few places. Maybe the ship should be regarded as a key symbol in the same sense as the elk within the northern tradition, meaning that the ship was useful for thinking, thereby having ambiguous and changing meanings (cf. Sjöstrand 2011). The ship motif, in combination with the distinct maritime location of many rock carvings, speaks in favour of a connection between images and maritime activities, such as fishing, trade, long-distance voyages, or naval warfare (Ling 2008). The maritime connection of the rock carvings is evident, but other spatial contexts have not yet been fully explored. Excavations around some bedrocks have revealed fire places, cocking pits, and fire-cracked stones stemming from activities linked to the images and the production of images. In some cases, it seems that activities continued in these places long after the last figures were cut into the rocks. These later activities indicate that the bedrocks carrying rock carvings remained important places, even long after the primary use of the images (Nilsson 2017). A few rock-art sites, where short runic inscriptions in the older futhark have been added (Krause and Jankuhn 1966), point towards similar secondary uses of rock-art sites. Images on Standing Stones Images on freestanding stones belong to a tradition that is very different from the older rock carvings. Images, sometimes in combination with runic inscriptions, are known from all over southern Scandinavia from the fourth century ce until the early twelfth century. These pictures are designed according to Roman models and later Carolingian models (Lindqvist 1941–42; Holmqvist

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Figure 7.8. Typo­logy of Gotlandic picture stone, according to Lindqvist 1941–42. The timeline presents Lindqvist’s dating in comparison with current research (after Herlin Karnell 2012: 14–15). Photo: Harald Faith-Ell 1937, Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm (Sanda kyrka IV and Halla Broe VI), Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm (Ardre kyrka VIII), and Gotlands Museum, Visby (all other picture stones).

1952; Eshleman 1983) as also the runes were modelled on the Roman alphabet (Odenstedt 1990). The monuments were gravestones or memorials, which means that the images must have been relevant in relation to burials and ideas about the dead or the ancestors (è 33–34). Besides, some stone crosses and gravestones on the British Isles are of interest in this context, because they comprise images with more or less clear connections to the Old Norse tradi-

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tion. Especially crosses in Northumberland include relevant images, such as the Gosforth cross with a picture of Ragnarǫk (Bailey 1980; Wilson 1984; Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture). Most of the relevant images on stones, however, come from the island of Gotland, where about five hundred gravestones and memorial stones with pictures were erected from c. 300 to around 1100 ce. The Gotlandic picture

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stones are usually divided into four main groups, distinguishing between different forms of monument and different types of images (Lindqvist 1941–42). The early stones are tall limestone slabs that were raised as gravestones c. 300– 550 ce. They were decorated with recurrent images of large whirls and spirals, ships, a few humans and animals, and some creatures of unknown species. The whirls and spirals are usually understood as sun symbols, but the overall interpretation of these picture stones remains disputed (Lindqvist 1941–42; Gelling and Davidson 1969; Andrén 2014: 117–66). An intermediate group consists of small gravestones from c. 600 to 800. They mostly depict one or two animals, a ship, or a sail. The imagery is very reduced compared to both the earlier and the later stones, and therefore only few attempts to interpret these have been made (Nylén and Lamm 2003). The late stones from c. 800 to 1000 are limestone slabs in a distinct mushroom form, erected as memorial stones along ancient roads and at borders between different settlements. The large stones of this type are covered with many pictures, often divided into several framed picture panels. It is uncertain to what extent the different panels should be viewed as pictorial sequences with all panels on one stone being related to the same story, or rather as selections of images linked to different narratives (Andrén 1993). Images on the picture stone from Ardre, depicting an eight-legged horse, Sleipnir, as well as Vǫlundr’s smithy, show that one stone can depict several Old Norse myths (Buisson 1976; figure è 34.1). It is disputed, however, to what extent the pictures can be related to known narratives. Some images or sequences of images have been linked to Valhǫll, to the eternal battle called Hjaðningavíg (Lindqvist 1941–42; Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir 2012) and to the narratives of Sigurðr Fáfnisbani (Andrén 1993), whereas other pictures have resisted any interpretation based on the known Old Norse myths. In some cases, it is quite possible that the images are hybrid compositions consisting of Christian as well as Old Norse motifs (Staecker 2004). Finally, a group of mushroom-shaped rune stones from the eleventh century represent the last type of picture stones, although they seldom comprise more than a few images. Crosses and Christian prayers show that these monuments were clearly Christian, but the images seem to relate to Old Norse as well as Christian narratives (Lindqvist 1941–42; Andrén 1993; Staecker 2004). The early Gotlandic pictures, with whirls and spirals, have a number of contemporary counterparts in Uppland and Södermanland (Hamilton 2012). These picture stones are much smaller and usually comprise only one or two images. Furthermore, on Öland, large limestone slabs with smooth polished

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Figure 7.9. Rune carving at Ramsund in Jäder in Södermanland, with motifs from the story of Sigurðr Fáfnisbani (Sö 101, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). Photo: Bengt A. Lundberg, Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm. 

sides that probably contained painted images have been found, but in contrast to the Gotland stones, these figures were never carved into the stone, and consequently this pictorial world is now totally lost (Andrén 2014: 121–22). Runes began to be used in the late second century, but rune stones were not erected until the fourth and fifth centuries. Already around 500 ce, a few rune stones carried images, such as the rune stone from Möjbro in Uppland, with a mounted rider and two hounds (Upplands runinskrifter no. 877). However, pictures became more common on rune stones only in the late tenth, eleventh, and early twelfth centuries, during the final wave of erection of rune stones. These late images were often combined with animal art in which intertwined animal bodies were used as text bands (Andrén 2000a). Images on rune stones have usually been interpreted in mytho­logical terms. In contrast to the late Gotlandic picture stones, however, the rune stones seldom contain images that can be considered pictorial narratives in the sense that they display several scenes from the same tale. One exception is the rune carving at Ramsund in Södermanland, illustrating the story of Sigurðr Fáfnisbani (Södermanlands runinskrifter no. 101). Other than that, most images seem to be pictorial

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abbreviations of longer stories, such as Þórr fishing the Miðgarðsormr on the Altuna stone in Uppland (Upplands runinskrifter no. 1161; figure è41.2) or Hyrrokkin riding a wolf to Baldr’s funeral at Hunnestad in Skåne (Danmarks runeindskrifter no. 284/western, figure è 61.2). Besides, the images can in some cases be regarded as pictorial comments to the inscriptions or the spatial contexts of the monu­ments. One example of this is a rune stone at Tumbo in Södermanland (Södermanlands runinskrifter no. 82; figure è35.2), where the words þuþR krikum (dead in Greece) are placed in front of the jaws of a beast, indicating that the dead man was killed in battle in Greece, although that is not directly mentioned in the text (Andrén 2000a: 18–19). Another example is a rune stone from Harg in Odensala (originally Odensharg ) in Uppland (Upplands runin­skrifter no. 448), showing a bird of prey and a rider. In this case, the image could be a depiction of Óðinn, linking the monument with the place­name. Apart from images on freestanding stones, some erected stones are images in themselves. A number of stones in Sweden and particularly Norway are shaped as a phallus. Along the Norwegian coast, nearly sixty so-called ‘holy white stones’ have been found, most of them in relation to burials from c. 200 to 550 ce. These phallus-shaped stones have usually been associated with fertility and death, sometimes in relation to Nerthus/Njǫrðr (Solberg 1999; Solli 2002). Metal Images Metal images comprise three-dimensional figures of iron, bronze, silver, and gold as well as images on objects of the same materials. Both variants of metal images are known from the Early Bronze Age (c. 1600 bce) until the twelfth century ce. In contrast to pictures on bedrocks and standing stones, metal images are by nature mobile, which means that the spatial contexts of metal images are complex. The primary contexts concern the relation between pictorial objects and humans, linking images to the body, to the dress and to other objects. The secondary contexts relate to locations where pictorial objects have been deposited, such as graves, hoards and wetlands. In some cases, the spatial contexts of metal images are important clues to the interpretation of the pictures and symbols. Metal images were usually conceived of and produced on a single occasion, but it is still uncertain to what extent the images represent coherent scenes or not. Decorated weapons and dress ornaments were often covered with images that were impressed from different matrices, but it is not always clear whether

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these matrices represented narrative sequences of images. In some cases, it is also possible that metal images were abbreviations of more complex scenes or narratives, compacted due to the lack of space (see below). Regardless of these questions, in conventional icono­graphical perspectives metal images have usually been linked to myths and cosmo­logies. Notably images from the Late Iron Age have been related to Old Norse narratives, whereas it is disputed how far back in time this framework is relevant. Three-dimensional figures are fairly scarce, but are nonetheless often referred to within research on PCRN. Among these figures are the so-called sun chariot from Trundholm on Sjælland dated to c. 1400 bce (Kaul 1998, figure è56.1), several humans and animals from Öland dated to about 200–550 ce (Olofsson and Andersson 2001), and a seated phallic figure from Rällinge in Södermanland, which has been interpreted as Freyr and dated to the ninth or tenth centuries ce (Salin 1913, figure è43.3). In recent years, several threedimensional figures have been found by means of metal detecting, particularly in Denmark. Among these figures are several armed women that have been interpreted as Valkyries (figures è60.2–60.3) and a chained, four-legged beast from Engegård on Bornholm, which has been interpreted as Fenrisúlfr (Vang Petersen 2005; Helmbrecht 2011, figure è39.1). Three-dimensional symbols are much more common than figures, above all different amulets in iron, bronze and silver from the Late Iron Age ( Jensen 2010). These symbols include hammers, sickles, rings, and other miniature objects, such as swords. Most common are hammers, which have been interpreted as Þórr’s hammer Mjǫllnir (Hildebrand 1872b). They appear as decorated bronze and silver amulets in graves and hoards in many parts of Scandinavia, or as plain iron amulets at ritual sites and on top of cremation graves in especially central Sweden ( Jensen 2010; figures è41.8–41.9). Images on metal objects, which are much more common than three-dimensional figures, are linked to unique objects, such as the Gallehus horns of gold (Brøndsted 1954; Oxenstierna 1956), as well as to more common objects. Several categories of the latter type of objects have been recurrently studied in detail, such as bronze razors from the late Bronze Age (c. 1000–500 bce), gold bracteates from the fifth century ce, gold foil figures from the late sixth to the ninth centuries, as well as objects with animal art from the late fourth century to the twelfth century ce. Recently, Flemming Kaul has reconsidered the whole corpus of about five hundred south Scandinavian bronze razors with images, comparing them to other contemporary bronze objects with pictures, such as tweezers, fibulas, and neckrings. He interprets the bronze razors as objects used in male initiations

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Figure 7.10. Bronze razor with a ship dated to late Bronze Age. Find from Denmark with unknown location (Nationalmuseet no. UI365). Photo: Lennart Larsen, Nationalmuseet, Copen­hagen. 

and the images on them as connected to narratives told at such initiations. According to Kaul, the images are above all linked to narratives about the daily journey of the sun across the sky and through the underworld. Some of the figures on the razors, such as the sun-horse, have parallels in three-dimensional figures as well as on rock carvings (Kaul 1998, 2003b). Gold bracteates were mainly produced in Scandinavia during the fifth century, although some were probably produced in what is now England, Germany, and Hungary, too. Bracteates are usually discovered in hoards, but some have been found in graves in Norway and England. They were modelled on Roman coins and medallions, but included loops so that they could function as pendants. Some of the bracteates include more or less corrupted runic inscriptions. The intended function of the gold bracteates is disputed. Usually, the bracteates are interpreted as protective amulets (Hauck 1992; Axboe 2007), whereas others regard them more as political signs distributed as gifts within a ruling elite (Andrén 1991; Seebold 1992: 307). The coin-like character of the gold bracteates has enticed many scholars to study them since the 1850s (Thomsen 1855). Conventionally, they are divided into four groups, each made up of different types of images: Type A depicts a human head, type B one or several full-sized humans, and type C a human head on top of an animal, which sometimes has a beard or horns. Type D is covered with intertwined figures in animal art. Runes only appear on bracteates of types B and C. Already in investigations from the nineteenth and the first half of the twentieth centuries, some of the figures on the gold bracteates were interpreted as Óðinn, Þórr, Týr, and Baldr (Thomsen 1855; Worsaae 1870; Öberg 1942; Mackeprang 1952; Malmer 1963). During the last three decades of the twentieth century, however, research on gold bracteates was totally dominated by

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Karl Hauck and his colleagues and pupils. The main result of their joint efforts is a detailed icono­graphic catalogue of all known bracteates (there are around a thousand), presented in drawings in scale 3:1 (Hauck and others 1985–89; Heizmann and Axboe 2011). In contrast to the typo­logical analysis of many archaeo­logists (cf.  Malmer 1963), Hauck analysed the images on the bracteates as main motifs and as various abbreviations of these motifs, Figure 7.11. Gold bracteate of type C, from thereby creating another order of Kjøllergård on Bornholm (Nationalmuseet the pictures. All these main motifs no. C5366). Photo: Lennart Larsen, and their spatial distribution have Nationalmuseet, Copen­hagen.  recently been investigated (Pesch 2007). Hauck worked within a conventional icono­graphic tradition, building on some of the earlier identifications of Old Norse gods. His own contribution was above all connected to the so-called C-bracteates with a human head and an animal. On the basis of the Second Merseburg Charm, he interpreted this motif as Óðinn healing Baldr’s horse. In recent years, however, Hack’s understanding of the bracteates has been challenged, especially regarding the few written sources that he used for all his interpretations as well as how preconceptions about the images has influenced the interpretations of the runic inscriptions (Wicker and Williams 2012; Andrén 2014). Gold foil figures are very small, thin sheets of gold depicting one or two human figures. They are dated to between the late sixth and the ninth centuries. The figures have been found in all parts of Scandinavia, from Lofoten in the north to Bornholm in the south, but never outside of Scandinavia. The gold foils are above all associated with elite settlements and appear at several central places (Watt 1999c; Ratke and Simek 2006). They have sometimes been retrieved from post-holes and along the walls of halls and ritual buildings (è19). Although the sheets are very small, it is possible to identify clothing, dress ornaments, and hairstyle of the human figures as well as their gestures. Some of the figures are also holding beakers, drinking horns, and staffs. In Norway and most parts of Sweden, the motif consists of a human couple, often embracing each other, whereas in Denmark and Skåne the most common motif is a man,

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Figure 7.12. Examples of various gold foil figures from Sorte Muld on Bornholm. Photo: René Laursen, Bornholms museum, Rønne.

often portrayed en face (Watt 1999c). The interpretation of the images on the gold foils as well as the function of these thin sheets is disputed. Some interpret the couple as an image of the marriage of Freyr and Gerðr, thus linking the sheets to the ruling elite’s claims of divine decent (Steinsland 1991). Others interpret the gestures of the figures as connected to legal procedures, such as the swearing of oaths, thereby linking the images to relations between humans instead of relations within or to the divine world (Ratke and Simek 2006). The diminutive size of the gold sheets has been used as arguments in favour of interpreting the images as intended not for humans at all but for the all-seeing Óðinn (Hedeager 2015). There have also been attempts to deconstruct the icono­graphic tradition as a whole, for example, by questioning the gender attributes of the figures on the gold foils and considering them from the perspective of queer theory (Solli 2002; Back Danielsson 2007). A systematic catalogue of all nearly three thousand gold foil figures, produced from about six hundred different stamps, is still lacking but is currently being prepared (Watt 1999c). Such a catalogue will surely contribute to new interpretations of the figures, because a more system-

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atic overview of details and variations will be provided in contrast to many conventional interpretations, each of which are based on a small selection of figures. A special issue in relation to metal images is animal art. From the late fourth and early fifth centuries to the twelfth century, animal art is preserved mainly on metal objects. Animal art appears especially on weapons and more exclusive dress ornaments, such as brooches. Animal Figure 7.13. Relief brooch art is a special form of imagery, from Syre on Karmøy in Rogaland. The brooch consisting of intertwined animals is probably part of a and humans in complex design, goldsmith hoard from which often obscures the pictures. the fifth century. It is a Common animals are snakes, wolves, good example of early animal art. boars, and birds of prey, whereas Photo: Terje Tveit, Arkeologisk Museum i Stavanger. other creatures are not possible to identify, such as ‘gripping beasts’ or ‘the large animal’ (Wilson 1995; Hedeager 2011). Sometimes, the images are presented in ‘split vision’, that is, from two sides simultaneously (Kristoffersen 1997). Animal art is rendered in several distinct styles, commonly named after specific find spots such as Nydam, Borre, Mammen, and Urnes. Some styles are confined to Scandinavia, but others are also found and partly developed outside Scandinavia (Ørsnes 1966; Fuglesang 1980; Haseloff 1981; Karlsson 1983; Wilson 1995). The earliest animal art is clearly based on Roman chipcarved design used in the late Roman army, but there may also be some steppe nomadic connections, since early animal art is known in large parts of the Eurasian steppe zone (Böhme 1986; Bemmann 2007; Hedeager 2011). In early research, animal art was regarded as decoration without any icono­ graphic meaning. Since the 1950s, however, these complex patterns of intertwined bodies of animals and humans have been discussed in other ways (Lie 1952; Gurevich 1985; Kristoffersen 1997; Hedeager 1997a; Hedeager 2011; Andrén 2000a). Some interpret animal art as expressions of human-animal relations that are particularly relevant in relation to shamanism. From this perspective, animal art has been interpreted as a human-animal cosmo­logy dominating Scandinavia during a period of 800 years (Hedeager 1997a; Hedeager 2011).

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Others view animal art as an icono­graphic parallel to skaldic poetry and kennings, thereby seeing it much more as a pictorial discourse that could express many different meanings, both pagan and Christian (Lie 1952; Gurevich 1985; Andrén 2000a; Andrén 2014). Images on Amber, Antler, Bone, and Ivory Some images on amber, antler, bone, and ivory are preserved from ancient Scandinavia, although most objects of these materials must have decayed. In many ways, the figures and images carved onto these materials display the same kind of variation as the metal images: that is three-dimensional figures, carved images and animal art (Helmbrecht 2011). These parallels between different materials are probably not coincidental, because antler, bone, and ivory were sometimes used together with metal. Good examples of this combination are the caskets from Bamberg and Cammin, which were produced in southern Scandinavia around 1000 (Staecker 2009). A few three-dimensional figures are known, such as a gaming piece of amber from Roholte on Sjælland, dated to the tenth or eleventh century. Similar and contemporary figures of walrus ivory come from Baldursheimur in Iceland and from Lund. The figures depict a man gripping his pointed beard with his hands, which is a gesture also known from metal figures that have been interpreted as gods. (Helmbrecht 2011: 138–40; figure è 41.11). Carved figures also have parallels in other materials. One example is an intertwined mask carved onto a sword-hilt of elk antler from Sigtuna, and dated to about 1000. Similar masks are known from several rune-stones in Denmark and Sweden (Tesch 2015). Outside Scandinavia, above all the Franks casket is of interest in this context. The Franks casket is a unique reliquary made of whalebone in the eighth century, probably in Northumberland. The lid and the different sides of the casket are all covered in images and accompanying runic inscriptions. In a very interesting way, the images combine classical, Christian, and Old Norse traditions. Related to the Old Norse tradition is an image of Vǫlundr (Wilson 1984; Webster 2012; figure è36.2). Wooden Images Few wooden images are preserved from ancient Scandinavia due to the poor preservation conditions. From waterlogged contexts, such as wetlands and a few graves, we have a number of wooden figures. A special case is the early stave churches, which sometimes contain images that are relevant in this context.

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They show that wood was an important pictorial medium, although we now only have glimpses of this practically lost wooden world. Skaldic poetry, such as Húsdrápa and Haustlǫng, also refer to wooden images and painted Figure 7.14. Corner post of one of the sledges from the images on wood, giving furgrave at Oseberg in Vestfold ther evidence of this lost pic(Kulturhistorisk museum, torial tradition. Oslo, no. C55000_208). The In the same way as metal post is covered in animal art images, wooden images too from the early ninth century. It is an illustration of animal may take the form of threeart carved in wood, which dimensional figures or picis a mostly lost medium for tures carved onto wooden this form of imagery. Photo: surfaces. A few wooden figKulturhistorisk museum, ures from bogs are known. Universitetet i Oslo, Oslo.  They are either composed of the natural growth of vegetation, such as branches of trees, or sculptured as threedimensional figures. Both types of figures are usually interpreted as divine figures that have been standing in shallow lakes or bogs. Among these figures is a schematic male figure from Broddenbjerg in Jylland dated to the sixth century bce and a schematic female figure from Forlev Nymølle in Jylland dated to the second century bce; figure è27.2. A very different form of figure is a sculptured, seated man from Rude Eskildstrup on Sjælland. He is wearing a pointed beard and a collar with three rings, which dates the figure to about 500 ce (Kaul 2003b; figure è 27.17). These forms of wooden images may give some ideas of the shape of wooden figures and poles mentioned in different literary sources, such as Ibn Fadlan’s description of wooden poles raised by the Rus. From the huge weapon deposits dated between c. 150 and 475 ce come many wooden objects and some of them carry images. Sculptured male, bearded heads have been found at Nydam and seem to have decorated one of the deposited boats. Sword scabbards with some of the earliest examples of animal art

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Figure 7.15. Porch of the former stave church at Hylestad in Agder. The porch is decorated with motifs from the heroic legend of Sigurðr Fáfnisbani. Kulturhistorisk Museum, Universitet i Oslo. Photo: Anders Andrén. 

derive from the same site ( Jørgensen and Vang Petersen 2003). Later, during the ninth and tenth centuries, wooden figures and wooden objects with animal art were found in the remarkable graves at Oseberg and Jelling. The Oseberg grave, from 834, shows that ships, chariots, sledges, and ordinary household objects could be covered in animal art and figures, such as human heads and cats (Christensen and others 1992). In Jelling, some wooden pictorial fragments have been found in the north mound, dated to about 960. These frag-

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ments, which preserve some traces of red and green colours, are similar to the images on the large rune stone at Jelling (Krogh and Leth-Larsen 2007). Wooden images of relevance to PCRN are also found in Christian contexts. Stave churches in Norway (Anker 1997) and wooden details from former churches in Denmark, Sweden, and Iceland (Ahrens 1981) especially include pictures and ornamentation of interest. The earliest preserved Norwegian stave church is located at Urnes in Sognefjord and dated to c. 1140. It includes an older wall and door from c. 1070, which are decorated with animal art in a style known as the Urnes style after this church (Christie 2009; Krogh 2011: figure è 65.5). Similar large-scale decorations are preserved from the former stave church at Guldrupe on Gotland, which is dated to about 1100 (Ahrens 1981). These and other cases, as well as older finds such as the Osberg grave, show that animal art was used on wood and in large scale. The examples thus give a good background for understanding descriptions of decorated wooden walls, such as in Húsdrápa. Some of the later Norwegian stave churches have other kinds of images, which have a mixed Christian and pre-Christian background. From the former stave church at Hylestad in Setesdal, a carved doorway from about 1180 to 1200 has been preserved. All the motifs on this doorway are related to the narratives of Sigurðr Fáfnisbani (Anker 1997: 222–67, figure è36.4B). These motifs should not be regarded as pagan relics but rather viewed as examples of how older narratives were incorporated into Christian traditions, not unlike much of the writings of Snorri and Saxo (Nordanskog 2006). Textile Images Textile pictures are even more rare than wooden images. Textiles, such as tapestries, probably primarily decorated the interior or houses, although they are found secondarily in graves as well as in medi­eval churches. Since many textile images were created by means of different patterns in weaving techniques, the pictures are less freely shaped and rendered in more stylized forms, posing special interpretative problems. The images were created on one occasion, but it is frequently difficult to discern clear-cut scenes, since the figures on the tapestries are often placed in rows after one another (Bender Jørgensen 1992). The oldest preserved textile pictures are dated to the early ninth century and come from the extraordinary grave at Oseberg, which is dated to 834. Among these textiles are tapestries, which depict men, women, riders, and carriages in procession, as well as people hanging from a tree. Usually, these images have been interpreted from mytho­logical and ritual perspectives, for instance, as

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Figure 7.16. Part of one of the Oseberg tapestries (Kulturhistorisk museum, Oslo no C55000_377/2). The figure illustrates fragments of a mainly lost world of textile images. Photo: Kulturhistorisk museum, Universitetet i Oslo, Oslo. 

sacrificed humans or as Óðinn hanging in a representation of the world tree (Christensen and Nockert 2006; Vedeler 2019; Nygaard and Murphy 2017 on processions in PCRN). Other textiles have survived by being preserved above ground. Among them are some textiles from churches and church barns in Sweden. Five tapestries, dated to the eleventh and twelfth centuries, have been preserved from Överhogdal in Härjedalen. Some of the motifs on these tapestries are Christian, but others are possibly pre-Christian, such as different trees and an eight-legged horse. From Skog in Hälsingland comes a tapestry dated to the thirteenth century. Clear Christian motifs included in this are a church and a detached bell-tower, whereas other images are more difficult to interpret (Franzén and Nockert 1992). It seems that these textiles incorporate pre-Christian and Christian motifs in the same way as the wooden images from the Norwegian stave churches.

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The most extensive and complete textile images, however, come from the Bayeux tapestry. Although this tapestry is clearly Christian, it gives an idea of the potential icono­g raphy of a now virtually lost textile world from ancient Scandinavia. This embroidered tapestry, which is nearly seventy metres long, depicts the Battle of Hastings in 1066 and events related to that battle. The images are accompanied by explanatory texts in Latin. The tapestry was probably commissioned for the new cathedral in Bayeux, which was completed in 1077, but it seems to have been made by artists in southern England. Scandinavia, England, and Normandy were at that time partly sharing the same cultural traits, which means that many motifs on the tapestry are relevant from a Scandinavian point of view. For instance, ships, clothing, cooking, and fighting techniques seem to have been very similar. Therefore, images on the Bayeux tapestry have recurrently been used as illustrations of Viking Age Scandinavia (Wilson 2004; Wamers 2009).

Concluding Remarks The pictorial world of ancient Scandinavia is unique, but its potential has not yet been fully explored. New forms of documentation are in many instances needed in order to understand the details and variations of different images. Similarly, the spatial contexts in many cases still await further analyses. The icono­graphic tradition has been the mainstay of most interpretations, but other forms of visual analyses would broaden the interpretative frames. Above all, it is important to underline that images are not mere illustrations of known circumstances but rather pictorial expressions in their own right. This is especially clear in respect of the enigmatic animal art, but it is also clear from the interplay between different pictorial genres. For instance, the same kind of images are found as rock carvings, bronze objects, and three-dimensional bronze figures already during the Bronze Age. In similar ways, parallel images are found on picture stones and gold bracteates, whereas animal art is expressed in stone, metal, bone, and wood. These varying and overlapping trends need to be further explored as well. Another important aspect of images is the remedialisation between picture, oral culture, and written text. This form of interplay is particularly clear in the known instances of ekphrasis; that is poems or texts describing pictures, such as Húsdrápa and Haustlǫng (è2). In these cases, it is clear that images on a wooden wall and on a shield were visual representations of narratives, but that these images in themselves could also be sources of new narratives. In that sense, images were not only passive representations but could actively affect viewers (Mitchell 1986).

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A complex interplay between images and texts is likewise played out on certain objects, such as gold bracteates, picture stones, rune stones, the Franks casket, and the Bayeux tapestry. In these cases, images and texts are accompanying each other, and the question is to what extent they are related to each other as well. At least on some rune stones, it is clear that texts, animal art, and other pictorial elements can be interrelated, for instance, when images underline or expand the meaning of the runic texts (Andrén 2000a). Bearing all these aspects in mind, however, it is important to reckon images among the sources of PCRN. Pictures can be used in general to study different forms of objects as a kind of ‘Realienkunde’. Images can, moreover, be used to study general visual representations of, for instance, animals, humans, or gender. Finally, pictures can be used to study different aspects of Old Norse traditions, such as representations of myths and mytho­logical figures. The hermeneutic premise of such studies is that images must be related to existing texts, although the links between images and texts will always be provisional. It is very difficult to make icono­graphic interpretations without existing texts, although a few examples exist. Interpretations of different forms of sun symbolism and of the daily journey of the sun across the sky (Gelling and Davidson 1969; Kaul 1998, 2003b; Andrén 2014) are based on premodern conceptions of natural phenomena and a few textual hints, whereas interpretations of some images as representations of the divine twins are based on analogies from other, related religious traditions (è55). Images that can more or less definitely be linked to the Old Norse tradition are important to the study of PCRN. These pictures form necessary references in time and space to different narrative motifs, but they may also indicate temporal or spatial variations of such motifs. In the same way as placenames, the pictorial world shows that many mytho­logical motifs and figures of the Icelandic literary tradition were known in mainland Scandinavia as well, such as images of gods, goddesses, and other mytho­logical figures. Images from the Late Iron Age in particular can be linked to the Icelandic literary tradition, indicating that the narrative attributes seem to have been fairly stable from the sixth and seventh centuries onwards, although some motifs are known from earlier pictures, too. In some cases, however, images also indicate early variations of known mytho­logical figures, such as Fenrir/Fenrisúlfr. On a picture stone from Austers in Hangvar on Gotland, this figure is visualized as a monster with many legs, whereas on a mounting from Engegård on Bornholm, the figure is rendered as a four-legged beast (Lindqvist 1941–42; Vang Petersen 2005). These different

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visual forms indicate that the image from Gotland shows Fenrir as an undifferentiated monster, whereas the picture from Bornholm shows Fenrisúlfr as a monster-like wolf. Such visual variations should be further explored in order to yield a better understanding of the temporal, regional, and social variations of PCRN (figures è39.1 and 48.3).

8 – Folklore Terry Gunnell Introduction Folklore involves knowledge that is not learnt from books or in school, but rather by other, less formal means.1 It is not only the knowledge passed on by parents and grandparents to their children and grandchildren, but also that passed between friends and acquaintances, and from skilled artists (in a widest sense of the word)2 to those who wish to learn from them (outside formal 1 

There are (and have long been) a number of misunderstandings about the nature of folklore. For many people in England, it is epitomized by the images of a group of quaintly dressed Morris dancers with bells on their knees performing outside a rural pub; a long-haired female folk singer with closed eyes and a hand over one ear performing ancient ballads on a small stage; or an elderly lady sitting with her grandchildren by a fire, passing on the literal ‘old wives’ tales’ that she learnt from her own grandparents. While there is little question that folklore involves strong elements of tradition (see below), it is also clear that tradition can change or be invented (Hobsbawn 1983). While it is often found in rural communities, it is also found in modern schools or immigrant communities in the middle of cities. While it may involve costumes and dance, these may include punk fashions and break-dance. While it certainly involves music, this will include the Blues, world music, and hip-hop. And while it has always included the oral tales told by people, these will also include conspiracy theories, the fragile memories of ‘Dead-heads’ and the digital rumours passed on in the form of tweets or blogs. Some of the material contained in this chapter can be seen in a slightly different format in Gunnell (2014). 2  The American folklorist Dan Ben-Amos has famously described folklore as being essentially ‘artistic communication in small groups’ (Ben-Amos 1971: 13), although there is good reason to question the size of the groups and whether it always involves active communication (as in the case of a shared folk belief ). Terry Gunnell, Professor of Folkloristics, University of Iceland The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. 195–204 John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116935

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schooling). It involves narratives and songs, beliefs, traditions, customs, values, and skills which are not only transmitted in the shape of words, but also in the form of action (in other words, learnt by demonstration, sometimes accompanied with explanation). The word ‘folk’, meanwhile, applies to all people and all groups (see Dundes 1980: 7). The study of folklore (often referred to as folkloristics or ethno­logy) might thus be said to involve the study of shared informal knowledge which is and has been passed on within groups of any kind (ranging from a pair of friends to a nation) over time, both in the past and in the present. ‘Tradition’ is thus a central feature of folklore, although it must be remembered that this is something that is rarely stable and tends to change or adapt itself to circumstances over time (see, for example, Oring 2012: 22–48).3 Other key features of folklore are related to its role in defining identity (since our shared traditions help us identify who we are and whom we define as being ‘other’); its relationship to ‘culture’ (since, as noted above, folklore tends to involve various kinds of arts, albeit arts that tend to be defined as less ‘high’ than those put on display in theatres, concert halls, and galleries); and its essential connection to performance (since, as noted above, most kinds of folklore involve some degree of social communication between individuals, or objects and individuals). Considering what has been stated above, there is little question that all of the practices, narratives, and beliefs involved in PCRN can be regarded as having belonged to the field of folklore. They existed before the time of writing, and were thus passed on by demonstration and word of mouth. They moved through time and space with people, and the awareness of shared beliefs and traditions in different places, like the awareness of the shared languages of the various Nordic and Germanic tribes (in a sense another kind of shared ‘lore’), would have given those who shared them a sense of shared identity. Few of these beliefs, traditions, or stories can be considered to have been the creative work of an eccentric individual artist using a private language and/or mytho­ logy. They were social property. The fact that this material and these religious ideas were passed on by demonstration or word of mouth over a very wide territory within and outside the Nordic countries is easily demonstrated by the distribution of similar beliefs, linguistic concepts, and narratives (see below), similar placenames (Brink 2001; Brink 2007b; Vikstrand 2001; further è 5); and artefacts that bear obvious 3 

For other summaries of the nature of folkloristics as a field of study, see, for example, Ó Súilleabháin (1967: 7–15), Dundes (1965: 1–51), Toelken (1979), Oring (1986, 2012), Georges and Jones (1995), and Feintuch (2003).

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shared features, such as the gold foils (Watt 2004), and the recurring images of women bearing cups or horns (often related to valkyrjur) (see, for example, the images in Ellis Davidson 1969: 45–47), or those of a weapon-bearing man with a horned helmet (see Gunnell 1995: 58–65). These stories, placenames, and images were clearly not only passed through space. They were passed on over a great expanse of time. Archaeo­logical finds have shown that depositions at the same watery site could continue over hundreds if not thousands of years (see, for example, Fabech 1999; Fabech and Näsman 2013; Fredengren 2011; further è6). Indeed, folk traditions of this kind can survive for a very long time, sometimes without people being aware of their original function (as with the cookies that are left out for Santa Claus in many countries: in areas with a Nordic background, such Yuletide offerings go back to earlier minor sacrifices made to farm protecting spirits, if not the forefathers (see references in Gunnell 2014). Superstitions concerning what might happen if the tradition is changed will often help to preserve this status quo, and without any question helped preserve many pre-Christian beliefs and customs in the Nordic countries long after the time of the conversion (see, for example, Gunnell 2007a and A. Hall 2007 on the álfar; also è63). One of the key misunderstandings with regard to the way such folklore was earlier used by the earliest scholars of Old Nordic religions (some of whom, like the Grimm brothers, were also forerunners in the field of folkloristics) was their belief that the folklore of the rural people was naturally ancient, and that it had been passed on near intact for centuries (in a similar fashion to the IndoEuropean languages (è10, è11).4 Such a mind-set is clearly reflected in Jacob Grimm’s comment in Deutsche Mytho­logie about ‘dem deutlichen niederschlag der göttermythen in einzelne, heut zu tage noch lebendige volksagen und kindermärchen, spiele, sprüche, flüche, unverstandene tag- und monatsnamen und redensarten’ (the evident deposit of god myths, which is found to this day in various folk-tales, nursery-tales, games, saws, curses, ill-understood names of days, months, and idiomatic phrases (Grimm 1875–78: i, 10; and 1882–83: i, 7).5 This statement is reflected in Grimm’s regular comparatively uncritical use of numerous examples of later folk material alongside original textual sources 4 

This approach was in part a development of Herder’s earlier argument that the Volksgeist of the nation could be found in the folk narratives (and especially poetry) of the rural working-class population: see, for example, Wilson (2005). 5  See further Grimm’s introduction to the second edition of Deutsche Mytho­logie, which takes this argument much further: Grimm (1844: i, pp. xii–xvi, xxxii), trans. in Grimm (1882– 83: iii, pp. xi–xvii).

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as evidence for pagan belief and custom, ranging from Easter bonfires to mumming plays, Scottish charm formulae, boar-shaped cakes, and the setting aside of sheaves of corn for Óðinn’s horses, many of which are given little contextual explanation. A similar methodo­log y lies behind Mannhardt’s Wald-und Feldkulte (1904–08), which concentrates on traditions. It can also be observed in a range of other works on Old Nordic religions from the later nineteenth and early twentieth centuries by a number of respected scholars of Old Nordic religion ranging from Magnus Olsen and Nils Lid to Otto Höfler.6 It might be said that the approach was in part fuelled by the evolutionary interests of many folklorists during the same period, during which (as in linguistics) focus was more often placed on origins rather than function, development, or artistic creation. Approaches in folkloristics have since changed, not least under the influence of anthropo­logists like Bronislaw Malinowksi and Alfred Radcliffe-Brown who placed more emphasis on the function of narratives and traditions rather than their origin (an approach developed in particular within the field of folkloristics by the Swedish folklorist Carl Wilhelm von Sydow and his students in the early twentieth century). Equally important was the work of figures like Milman Parry and Albert Lord who effectively demonstrated the role of individual creation in the ‘passing on’ of ‘traditional’ narratives (see Lord 1960). All of this (and more) led to a greater awareness of how folklore ‘works’, comes into being, functions, and changes. Nowadays, while scholars still occasionally refer to folkloric material when discussing PCRN (see examples below), they tend to be a great deal more wary than their predecessors, not least because they are more aware of the degree of change noted above, and especially because they are strongly aware of the fact that the majority of folkloristic source materials were collected in the nineteenth century, over a thousand years since the acceptance of Christianity, and over eight hundred years since the advent of writing in the Nordic countries.7 If these materials are to be connected with Old Nordic religions, then it must be done with great care, and ideally with the use of ‘bridging’ material from the late medi­e val period and an awareness of other possible influences (from Christianity, classical education, or fashionable adoption from neighbouring cultures) which could lie behind or bring about change in customs, narratives, 6 

See, for example, Olsen (1909, 1915), Lid (1928a, 1933, 1942), and Höfler (1952a, 1973). The folklorists in question are also aware of the strengths and weaknesses of these earlier archived materials: see further Gunnell and others (2013). 7 

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Figure 8.1. The Dejbjerg wagon, which actually is a composite of parts from two identical wagons found in a bog at Dejbjerg in Jylland (Nationalmuseet no. C4758 and C5190). They are dated to the first century bce. Photo: Lennart Larsen, Nationalmuseet, Copen­hagen.

and world-view. When it comes down to it, as with most other source materials dealing with Old Nordic religion, all one can do is point to possibilities that are more, or less likely. The arguments noted above, however, do not mean that folkloristic materials should be totally avoided. In spite of its propensity for change and adaption, it is also clear that some kinds of folklore can survive for a great length of time (as can be seen with regard to sacrificial depositions). There is evidence from India and North America of oral chants, poems, or narratives having been passed down near unaltered over the course of centuries, especially when some policing is carried out by the authorities, or superstitions warn about divine punishment for those who make mistakes (see references in Gunnell 1995: 16, 184). The fact that ancient Greek motifs have been found in nineteenth-century Nordic folk legends in very different social contexts suggests a similar kind of survival within the oral tradition (see, for example, Hansen 2002). Indeed, it has been effectively demonstrated that folk legends have the potential to preserve a kernel of truth for centuries, as seems to have occurred with regard to the volcanic eruption on Santorini in the Bronze Age which seems to lie behind the myths of Atlantis. Most famous in the Nordic countries, perhaps, is the case of a local Norwegian legend concerning an armoured knight and his horse which was investigated by the archaeo­logist Karl Rygh. According to the legend both man and horse were supposed to be lying under

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Terry Gunnell Figure 8.2. Butter in a wooden trough deposited in a bog at Madla in Rogaland, in the fourth, fifth, or sixth century ce (Arkeo­logisk Museum, Stavanger no. S9457). The find, which is one of several examples of prehistoric butter found in Norwegian fens, gives a long-term perspective on the later custom of leaving butter on grave mounds. Photo: Terje Tvejt, Arkeo­logisk Museum, Stavanger. 

a large rock after having died in an avalanche. When Rygh excavated beneath the rock, he found the bones of a man and a horse, two Viking Age spear points, and no evidence of a grave (Alver 1989: 138). Another belief legend from Dejbjerg in Denmark told of wagons filled with gold which were supposed to be lying in a bog near the local vicarage, an account which was verified (to some degree) when the two famous Dejbjerg wagons from the Early Iron Age were later found in the bog in question in 1881–82 (Alver 1989: 138; further è6). The archaeo­logical finds of boat graves at Vendel in Uppland, Sweden (further è 6) were similarly preceded by local legends of kings who were supposed to inhabit the mounds (Alver 1989: 138). Clearly various kinds of information can survive for centuries, if not millennia, in the oral tradition (see also Gunnell 2001a). At the same time, it should never be forgotten that even those accounts referred to above contain features that have changed as the narratives have adapted themselves to suit new circumstances over time (see, for example, Gunnell 2001b on Icelandic Black Death legends which seem now to reflect an eighteenth-century disaster more than memories of the Middle Ages). It should also be remembered that the Dejbjerg legend was not unique: indeed, similar legends are attached to a number of lakes and bogs in southern Sweden (Klintberg 1998). The key value of the legend in question (in association with the archaeo­logical finds) is thus not so much that it might be based on a ‘genuine’ memory related to that particular lake. More importantly, it suggests that the gold wagon legends in general would seem to have some basis in ancient truth and shared social memory. Like the much earlier story of the sword Beowulf finds in the underwater abode of Grendel’s mother in Beowulf (see further Gunnell 2020), these accounts appear to have roots in faint memories of the ritual depositions of objects in water which took place during the Bronze and Iron Ages, activities for which the later storytellers had no evidence and no personal memory, but which have since been given substance by archaeo­logical

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evidence.8 This is why modern archaeo­logists tend to collect local legends relating to sites that they are investigating: there is always a possibility that they may contain a kernel of truth (see, for example, T. Zachrisson 1996; T. Zachrisson 2004b; Omland 2007; Omland 2010). Material of this kind evidently has some relevance for the study of Old Nordic religion, especially if it is used with care alongside other sources. Beliefs and traditions change slowly, especially in relatively stable, conservative societies (as has been stressed above in connection with archaeo­logical finds). That they can also survive radical superficial change was recently demonstrated by a detailed national survey into modern Icelandic folk and religious beliefs carried out in 2006 and 2007 by the Uni­ver­sity of Iceland (see Ásdís  A. Arnalds and others 2008). The survey in question reached three main conclusions: first of all, it shows that comparatively enlightened people in a modern society like Iceland continue to ‘believe’ relatively strongly in the supernatural (in the sense that they are wary about denying its existence) in spite of their Christian education; second, in spite of the radical changes that have taken place in Icelandic society over the space of thirty years, the belief figures attained from this survey are remarkably similar to those recorded in an earlier survey carried out in 1974; and finally, those beliefs that are strongest in both surveys are those which are also found in the medi­e val sagas. In other words, beliefs in ghosts, spirits, dreams, fate, and fylg jur (lit. ‘followers’, a kind of personal spirit born with people that accompanies them throughout their lives (further è 36)). All of these beliefs thus seem to have persisted in Iceland for over a thousand years, in spite of the arrival of Christianity (which hardly gave birth to them). A similar kind of longevity is suggested by the western Norwegian traditions of leaving out newly baked bread, butter, and newly brewed ale on farm grave mounds which in some areas persisted until the early years of the twentieth century (aided by folk legends which warned of the consequences of abandoning such traditions: see Olrik and Ellekilde 1926–51: ii, 231–32; Shetelig 1911; Birkeli 1938). While there is little likelihood that this kind of tradition has Christian roots, close parallels can be found in practices from the Iron Age, if not earlier (see Gunnell 2014; T. Zachrisson 2004b). While the use of folklore by Old Norse scholars may have slipped out of fashion after the Second World War (most particularly in Germany for obvious reasons), it has never totally disappeared or lost respect in Old Nordic stud8 

On the intrinsic, but commonly avoided connection between the intangible (which tends to take the form of folklore) and archaeo­logical finds, see Gunnell forthcoming a.

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ies. This can be seen first and foremost in the work of those scholars who see the earlier-noted close affinity between the nature of many of source materials used in Old Nordic studies (and not least the study of Old Nordic religion and mytho­logy) and various kinds of folklore, and therefore the applicability of folkloristic methodo­logies as a means of dealing with this material. Indeed, for the reasons noted above, it might be said that folklorists who regularly deal with beliefs, oral narratives, performances, and rituals of various kinds will have a better insight into such materials than literary scholars, not least because they are regularly dealing with comparable materials. Among those who have effectively worked in both fields during the last fifty years are Dag Strömbäck (1970a, 1975), Bo Almqvist (1965–74, 1991), Jón Hnefill Aðalsteinsson (1988, 1997, 1998, 1999b), Hilda Ellis Davidson (1964, 1969, 1988, 1993, 1998; see also Ellis 1943), Lotte Motz (1973–74, 1977, 1980, 1982, 1983, 1984b, 1996a, 1997a), Jacqueline Simpson (1965, 1967a, 1967b, 1968, 1972, 1988), John Lindow (1978, 1997a, 2002), Stephen Mitchell (2011), Thomas DuBois (1999), Gísli Sigurðsson (1988, 2004), Merrill Kaplan (2011), Jonathan Roper (2005), Karen Bek-Pedersen (2011a), Eldar Heide (2006a), Ármann Jakobsson (2005, 2006, 2008b, 2009a, 2009b, 2013, 2017), Frog (2011, 2013b, 2014), and the present author.9 While there is no space here to list all the ways in which the above authors have made use of folkloristic materials or approaches in their work (and their various strengths and weaknesses), it is possible to give a few examples of how later folklore materials can still be effectively used within the study of Old Nordic religions. The present author has, for example, examined the connections between pre-Christian nature spirits (so-called landvættir/ náttúruvættir), álfar, and dísir,10 and later Nordic supernatural beliefs as a means of understanding not only the development of these more recent beliefs but also their origin, their variability over time, and their individual Nordic nature (Gunnell 2000, 2004, 2007a). Elsewhere, later Nordic disguise traditions have been used as a means of suggesting a possible performance format for Eddic poems like Lokasenna and Vafþrúðnismál; for the appearance of Byggvir in Lokasenna (st. 44–46); for Þorleifr jarlsskáld’s Yuletide disguise described in Þorleifs þáttr jarlsskálds ch. 4–5; and for the figure of the ogress Grýla in thirteenth-cen9 

For examples of related works by the present author, see below. As the articles referred to note, the word álfr is related to the English word ‘elf ’ but has a different meaning, even in modern Icelandic. There is no direct translation for the word dís referring most commonly to a female family spirit. 10 

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tury Icelandic literature (Gunnell 1995: 93–181; Gunnell 2001a; Gunnell 2007b: 275–326). Potential parallels have been also suggested between the way so-called ǫndvegissúlur (lit. ‘high-seat pillars’) were said to have been used to decide places of settlement in Iceland and the widespread northern Nordic belief legends concerning how logs were floated down rivers to decide the positioning of medi­e val churches (Gunnell 2010: 110). Other parallels have been raised between the idea of helskór (lit. ‘Hel-shoes’) mentioned in Gísla saga ch. 14 and later Icelandic traditions of workers receiving new shoes from their employers when moving between farms at the time of The Feast of the Cross (Árni Björnsson 1996: 58–59). It is similarly evident that the ritual of passing around a preserved horse phallus with accompanying improvised verses described in Vǫlsaþáttr (Flateyjarbók, ii, 441–46) finds living context when examined in the light of a later tradition of passing around a decorated bull’s tail (a drunnur) and making verses at some Faroese weddings in the last fifty years (Coffey 1989; Joensen 2004: 31–34). Research and discussion of this kind need not be limited to the fields of belief and tradition: ideas that Þórr may possibly have functioned as a fertility god in some areas are given support by later Norwegian legends describing him consecrating weddings with his hammer (which he later loses as in Þrymsqviða) (the legend of ‘Tor og Urebøura’ in Bø and others 1981: 89–90, 265–66; Liestøl 1939: 116–17, 217; Berge 1976: 91). Other kinds of research drawing on both Old English sources and later folk legends have demonstrated that saga motifs like the Yuletide conflicts between Grettir and Glámr and the ogress of Barðárdalur (Grettis saga ch. 32–35) seem to belong to a long-living oral tradition which goes back at least as far as the story of Beowulf and Grendel but continues to reappear and readapt itself even in our own time, fed in part by living beliefs and disguise customs (Gunnell 2004; Celander 1943; Eike 1980). A similar living tradition is suggested when one considers the stjúpmæðra sǫgur (lit. ‘step-mother tales’) in Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar Odds Snorrasonar, pro­logue (and implied in Sverris saga, ch. 7) in the light of the numerous wonder tales concerning evil step-mothers collected in the Nordic countries in the nineteenth century. More generally, there are clear parallels between the kinds of personal settlement narratives passed on in the families of American and Canadian settlers and those brief settlement accounts contained in the Old Icelandic Landnámabók. In none of the above cases is it possible to say that the later folklore has developed directly out of written accounts of earlier rituals or beliefs. Everything suggests it has roots in early tradition that has been passed on by word of mouth or demonstration over several centuries, and that the same applies to the original Icelandic materials.

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Folklore clearly has its uses, and it is for reasons such as those noted above that many historians are now starting to delve into the folklore archives with the realization that folk legends often provide more information about the worldview and values of average people in the nineteenth century than one finds in official records (see, for example, Hopkin 2000; Hopkin 2004; Andreassen 1986; Tangherlini 1994: 6). In spite of this, it must always be remembered that considered alone, without any careful recourse to earlier records (and not least interim records) and/or archaeo­logy, this later folklore does not prove anything about Old Nordic religions. It can nonetheless be used to help explain earlier materials, not least by providing useful living contexts, comparative materials, and parallels. It is equally important as a means of suggesting that a saga account or poem may have been local rather than drawn from classical sources, and therefore potentially based on living tradition. This in turn will mean that, like other kinds of folklore, the account in question needs to be considered in living context and from the viewpoint of performance (see further Foley 2002). Most important of all, however, the evidence presented above underlines that folklore and the methods used to analyse it should never be ignored when considering the living religions, religious practices, and beliefs of earlier times. It should never be forgotten that they, too, were a form of folklore.

9 – The Spatial and Temporal Frame Anders Andrén

T

he term PCRN mainly designates religious traditions in southern Scandinavia and Iceland before the Christian conversion. The traditons are primarily defined by the high medi­eval Icelandic literary tradition, written by Christian authors, and some Latin and Arabic texts (è1). Theophoric placenames, runic inscriptions, archaeo­ logical investigations, images, and folklore in mainland Scandinavia and Iceland clearly confirm that information in these medi­eval texts is relevant in pre-Christian contexts as well (è2–8). The main issue, however, is how distant in space and time that the Icelandic literary tradition is relevant. From a narrow point of view, the Icelandic literary tradition can be mainly related to southern Scandinavia in the Late Iron Age (550–1100 ce) and to Iceland before the conversion (870– 1000 ce). Such a narrow frame must also include cultural interactions with groups living in the surrounding regions of Scandinavia during the Late Iron Age and cultural encounters outside Scandinavia during the Viking expansion (750–1100 ce). In broader perspectives, however, the Icelandic literary tradition includes elements with parallels before the Late Iron Age among Germanic-speaking groups as well as Indo-European-speaking groups. Such parallels mean that the spatial and temporal frames must be much wider, and must include cultural encounters with groups in more distant regions as well. To give a background to the following chapters (è10–18), the different spatial and temporal frames are briefly outlined in this chapter. It is organized first according to different periods, and then by the relevant geo­graphical settings in the various timeframes. Anders Andrén, Senior Professor of Archaeology, Stockholm University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. 205–214 John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116936

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The Late Iron Age (550–1100 ce) At the time of the Christianization in the tenth and eleventh centuries ce, Scandinavia consisted of two broad cultural groups: to the south, agrarian Scandinavian-speaking groups; and to the north, hunters and fishermen speaking Sámi languages. Placenames, runic inscriptions, and material remains, such as building traditions, shared symbolic expressions, and rituals, confirm that the agrarian Scandinavian-speaking population lived in present-day Denmark, southern Norway and southern Sweden, and also along the northern coasts of Norway and Sweden (è19). The Sámi lived in Sápmi, that is, in present-day central and northern Norway, central and northern Sweden, as well as in central and northern Finland and north-west Russia (è17). Outside Scandinavia, Finno-Ugric-speaking agrarian groups lived in southern Finland, north-western Russia, Estonia, and northern Latvia (è18), whereas different Baltic groups lived in southern Latvia, Lithuania, and former East Prussia (è16). Different Slavic groups were settled along the southern coast of the Baltic Sea, from the Vistula in the east to Jylland in the west (è15). This short sketch of different neigbouring groups in northern Europe can be modified in various ways, due to long-term cultural encounters. In many regions, the settlements and activities of the Scandinavians and the Sámi were overlapping, creating continuous cultural interactions, which probably led to bilingualism as well as hybrid cultural activities (Zachrisson 1997; Hansen and Olsen 2004; Ramqvist 2007; Bergman 2010; è 17). A corridor of cultural interactions among Scandinavians, Finns, and Estonians existed from the Mälar Valley in central Sweden to the coasts along the Bay of Finland. Objects and most likely people moved both ways, probably creating bilingual and culturally hybrid environments ( Jansson 1995; Mägi 2002; Mägi 2017; Fransson et al. 2007; Gustin 2017; Roslund 2017; (è18)). Similar close contacts seem to have existed between eastern Sweden, Gotland and the Baltic regions (Nerman 1929; Fransson and others 2007; Radins 2007; è16). In the southern Baltic region, groups from southern Scandinavia and the West Slavic groups intermingled, with Slavic settlements on some of the Danish islands and Scandinavian presence along the southern shores of the Baltic Sea (Selch Jensen and others 2000; Naum 2008; è15). The Viking expansion (750–1100 ce) resulted in further cultural encounters between Scandinavians and other groups and regions. The expansion included warfare, plunder, trade, migration, and colonization — often in combination — in large parts of northern Europe. The encounters between the Scandinavians and the local populations differed in various parts of the Viking world. In some

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Figure 9.1. The agrarian settlements in Scandinavia around 1000 ce, according to burial grounds, placenames, and rune stones. The Sámi region, Sápmi, was basically the vast area outside the agrarian settlements, although many cultural encounters between Scandinavians and Sámi occurred in Sápmi as well as in the agrarian regions. Map: Disir Productions, Uppsala, based on draft by Anders Andrén.

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regions, such as Normandy and Russia, the Scandinavians fairly soon began to speak the local languages; in other parts, such as northern Britain, they continued to speak a Scandinavian language much longer; whereas in Iceland Old Norse is still basically preserved (Brink and Price 2008: 341–617). To the east, Scandinavians interacted with above all Slavic groups in Russia (Androshchuk 2013; Callmer 2017; è 15), with other Finnish speaking groups in northern Russia (è 18), but also with Petchenegs, Volga Bulgars, Khazars (Hedenstierna-Jonson 2006), Arabs (Thorir Jonsson Hraundal 2013), and Byzantium (Sigfús Bløndal 1978). To the west, Scandinavians encountered among others Saxons, Anglo-Saxons, Franks, and Irish and Scottish groups (Richards 2004a; see è 14). A special case was the Scandinavian settlement of Iceland (Bjarni F. Einarsson 1995) and Greenland (Arneborg 2004), where there was no or sparse indigenous population. And it was in this region that the Icelandic literary tradition was created, the foundation of our basic knowledge of ancient Scandinavian religion. This general outline of northern Europe before the Christianization in the tenth and eleventh centuries can be basically confirmed by written accounts already from the sixth century ce. The Greek historian Procopius of Caesarea (c. 500–c. 554) writes in his History of the Wars from the 540s ce that the Germanic tribe Eruli needed a new ruler, and sent a delegation to the island of Thule (the Scandinavian peninsula) in search of a king. From Illyricum: οὗτοι […] ἤμειψαν μὲν τὰ Σκλαβηνῶν ἔθνη ἐφεξῆς ἅπαντα, ἔρημον δὲ χώραν διαβάντες ἐνθένδε πολλὴν ἐς τοὺς Οὐάρνους καλουμένους ἐχώρησαν. μεθ᾿ οὓς δὴ καὶ Δανῶν τὰ ἔθνη παρέδραμον οὐ βιαζομένων σφᾶς τῶν τῇδε βαρβάρων. ἐνθένδε τε ἐς ὠκεανὸν ἀφικόμενοι ἐναυτίλλοντο, Θούλῃ τε προσχόντες τῇ νήσῳ αὐτοῦ ἔμειναν. (these men […] traversed all the nations of the Sclaveni one after the other, and after next crossing a large tract of barren country, they came to the Varni, as they are called. After these they passed by the nations of Dani, without suffering violence at the hands of the barbarians there. Coming thence to the ocean, they took to the sea, and putting in at Thule, remained there on the island.) (6.15.2–4)

This description shows that the Eruli travelled from the Balkans, through different Slavic groups, to the Danes, and from them went by boat to the Scandinavian peninsula. In the accounts of this peninsula (the island of Thule), Procopius clearly distinguishes the basic cultural division between Scandinavian farmers and Sámi hunters (‘Scrithiphinni’)1 from a Greek perspective of ‘civilization’: 1 

Interestingly enough, the tribal name Scrithiphinni seems to be a Scandinavian word, meaning something like ‘sliding Finns’, with a reference to the Sámi using skies. Procopius prob-

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Τῶν δὲ ἱδρυμένων ἐν Θούλῃ βαρβάρων ἓν μόνον ἔθνος, οἳ Σκριθίφινοι ἐπικαλοῦνται, θηριώδη τινὰ βιοτὴν ἔχουσιν. οὔτε γὰρ ἱμάτια ἐνδιδύσκονται οὔτε ὑποδεδεμένοι βαδίζουσιν οὔτε οἶνον πίνουσιν οὔτε τι ἐδώδιμον ἐκ τῆς γῆς ἔχουσιν […] καὶ κρέασι μὲν θηρίων ἀεὶ τῶν ἁλισκομένων σιτίζονται, τὰ δέρματα δὲ ἀμφιέννυνται […] Οἱ μέντοι ἄλλοι Θουλῖται […] ἅπαντες οὐδέν τι μέγα διαλλάσσουσι τῶν ἄλλων ἀνθρώπων (But among the barbarians who are settled in Thule, one nation only, who are called the Scrithiphini, live a kind of life akin to that of the beasts. For they neither wear garments of cloth nor do they walk with shoes on their feet, nor do they drink wine nor derive anything edible from the earth […] they feed exclusively upon the flesh of the wild beasts slain by them, and clothe themselves in their skins […] But all the other inhabitants of Thule, practically speaking, do not differ very much from the rest of men.) (6.15.16–23)

The Ostrogothic historian Jordanes writes in his Getica, from about 550 ce (Svennung 1967), in similar vein about the Scerefennae2 in the northern part of the island Scandza (the Scandinavian peninsula). According to Procopius, the agricultural population of the southern Scandinavian peninsula, that is, ‘ἔθνη τριακαίδεκα πολυανθρωπότατα […] βασιλεῖς τέ εἰσι κατὰ ἔθνος ἕκαστον’ (those that (do not differ much from the rest of men) consisted of thirteen very numerous nations […] and there are kings over each nation […]. And one of their most numerous nations is the Gauti) (6.15.5–25). Jordanes, in Getica, is more detailed, and describes between twenty and twenty-five tribes (gentes) in southern Scandza.3 In his accounts of Thule, Procopius also gives the very first coherent description, from the sixth century, of the ancient Scandinavian religion: θεοὺς μέντοι καὶ δαίμονας πολλοὺς σέβουσιν, οὐρανίους τε καὶ ἀερίους, ἐγγείους τε καὶ θαλασσίους, καὶ ἄλλα ἄττα δαιμόνια ἐν ὕδασι πηγῶν τε καὶ ποταμῶν εἶναι λεγόμενα. θύουσι δὲ ἐνδελεχέστατα ἱερεῖα πάντα καὶ ἐναγίζουσι, τῶν δὲ ἱερείων σφίσι τὸ κάλλιστον ἄνθρωπός ἐστιν ὅνπερ δορυάλωτον ποιήσαιντο πρῶτον· τοῦτον γὰρ τῷ Ἄρει θύουσιν, ἐπεὶ θεὸν αὐτὸν νομίζουσι μέγιστον εἶναι. ἱερεύονται δὲ τὸν αἰχμάλωτον οὐ θύοντες μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἀπὸ ξύλου κρεμῶντες, καὶ ἐς τὰς ἀκάνθας ῥιπτοῦντες, ταῖς ἄλλαις τε κτείνοντες θανάτου ἰδέαις οἰκτίσταις. οὕτω μὲν Θουλῖται βιοῦσιν. (they reverence in great numbers gods and demons both of the heavens and of the air, of the earth and of the sea, and sundry other demons which are said to be in ably got the term from the eye-witness who also told him about the midnight sun in northern Scandinavia. 2  The name Scerefinnae can be another version of Procopius’s tribal name Scrithiphinni 3  The number of tribes depends on the interpretation of some corrupted passages in the text (Svennung 1967).

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the waters of springs and rivers. And they incessantly offer up all kinds of sacrifices, and make oblations to the dead, but the noblest of sacrificies, in their eyes, is the first human being whom they have taken captive in war; for they sacrifice him to Ares, whom they regard as the greatest god. And the manner in which they offer up the captive is not by sacrificing him on an altar only, but also by hanging him to a tree, or throwing him among thorns, or killing him by some of the other most cruel forms of death. Thus, then, do the inhabitants of Thule live.) (6.15.23–26)

In this short account, the connection of a main god (Ares), to the sacrifice of prisoners of war by hanging and other forms of killing, suggests clear associations to Óðinn and the rituals related with him. The information that other gods and demons were connected with heaven, the air, the earth, and the sea, indicates too that early forms of Týr, Þórr, Freyr, and Njǫrðr existed in the sixth century (è 48) (è 41) (è 43) (è 47). Demons in springs and rivers can be related to prohibitions against pagan rituals in some medi­e val Scandinavian laws (è20). Oblations to the dead, however, can be archaeo­logically confirmed rather than textually attested. Procopius’s account of the Scandinavian religion clearly shows that important aspects of the mytho­logy in the medi­e val Icelandic literary traditions had relevance in Scandinavia during the Late Iron Age (550–1100 ce). This interpretation of Procupius’s information about Scandinavian religion can to a large extent be confirmed by theophoric placenames (è 5) and material remains from the Late Iron Age. Several gods, goddesses, and other mytho­logical figures known from the Icelandic literary tradition can be attested through images, small figures, and a few runic inscriptions from the Late Iron Age (è7). In addition, some of the very few notices on rituals in the Icelandic literary traditions have more or less clear parallels in sites excavated in Scandinavia and Iceland (è27).

Early and Middle Iron Age (200 bce–550 ce) The cultural regions in northern Europe during the Early and Middle Iron Age seem to have been fairly similar to those of the Late Iron Age, apart from the situation along the southern shores of the Baltic Sea. The main cultural division of the Scandinavian peninsula between agrarian Scandinavians and hunting Sámi can be attested from early placenames, early runic inscriptions, and material culture, such as building traditions, symbolic expressions, and rituals (è17). Probably Baltic Finns as well as Baltic groups lived on the eastern shores of the Baltic Sea (è18) (è16). In former East Prussia and Lithuania,

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there is a continuity of specific horse graves from the first century ce until the twelfth century ce, indicating a cultural continuity in this region (Bertasius 2012). Along the southern shores of the Baltic Sea, however, there were no Slavic groups, as there were later, but rather other Germanic speaking groups (Andersson 2017). The region of Germani stretched from the Baltic Sea to central Europe as far as the Rhine and the Danube, but also to south-eastern Europe, with groups such as the Goths at the shores of the Black Sea (Wolfram 1979; è10, è12). Within northern Europe, cultural encounters between the agrarian Scandinavians and hunting Sámi were extensive (Hansen and Olsen 2004; Ramqvist 2007), as were the contacts across the Baltic Sea (Lund Hansen and Bitner-Wróblewska 2010). Outside northern Europe, the encounters with the Roman Empire were fundamental (Lund Hansen 1987; è13), and before the imperial conquest, contacts with the Celtic kingdoms in central Europe were important (Collis 1984; è14). North of the Black Sea, steppe nomad groups influenced groups of Germani in different ways (Wolfram 1979; è10, è12). This sketch of northern Europe can be partly confirmed by ethno­g raphic writings of classical authors (Lund 1993). Tacitus, in his Germania from 98 ce, describes the Germani in general and also about fifty distinct Germanic tribes, most of them settled south of the Baltic Sea. He mentions too some groups in northern Europe, such as the Cimbri in Jylland, and the Sviones, who lived on the island in the Ocean (the Scandinavian peninsula) (è19). On the right-hand (eastern) shores of the Suebian sea (Baltic Sea) lived the Aestii, speaking a language ‘closer to British’ and probably representing Baltic speaking groups (è16). At the far end of the world lived, among others, the Fenni, who can be identified as the Sámi. Tacitus describes them very similarly to the Scrithiphinni of Procopius: Fennis mira feritas, foeda paupertas: non arma, non equi, non penates; victui herba, vestitui pelles, cubile humus, solae in sagittis spes, quas inopia ferri ossibus asperant idemque venatus viros pariter ac feminas alit (Germania 46, 6). (The Fenni are remarkably savage and wretchedly poor. They have no weapons, no horses, and no homes. They feed on wild plants, wear skins, and sleep on the ground. Their only hope is their arrows, which for lack of iron they tip with bone. Men and women alike live by hunting.) (46, 6)

Tacitus’s description of Germanic religion is divided between accounts of the Germani in general and specific information about distinct tribes (è 12). In both parts, there are links to the Icelandic literary traditions. The general description includes information about the cosmogony, which resembles the

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Old Norse cosmogony (è37). The main gods Mercury, Hercules, and Mars, as well as the goddess Isis, can in similar ways be equated with early forms of Óðinn, Þórr, Týr, and Freyja (è42) (è41) (è48) (è45). At least in the fifth century some of these divinities can be identified in Scandinavian gold bracteates as well (è7), indicating links to the medi­eval Icelandic literary tradition. In the accounts of specific Germanic tribes, Tacitus also writes about the divine twins, the Alcis, among the Naharvali, and about the goddess Nerthus among a group of tribes, probably located in the southern part of present-day Denmark. These mytho­logical figures can be paralleled with contemporary images of pairs of men (è 55) and the god Njǫrðr (è 47). Besides, Tacitus mentions that the personified sun with rays around his head and his horses can be seen at a sea beyond the Sviones. This information can be compared with some hints of the sun and its horses in the Icelandic literary tradition as well as with different forms of images of the sun from the Early and Middle Iron Age (Andrén 2014: 117–66; è56). It is quite clear that the Icelandic literary tradition has some relevance with respect to Scandinavia even in the Early and Middle Iron Age. At the same time, however, the relationship between the religion of the Germani in general and that of the Germanic speaking groups in Scandinavia is not totally transparent from Tacitus’s accounts. Besides, some of the ritual traces from the Early and Middle Iron Ages, such as the weapon deposits, have no links to later literary sources. This probably means that there is a continuity in Scandinavian religion from the Early and Middle to the Late Iron Age, but that important transformations of rituals and mytho­logy took place, above all in the sixth century ce (Andrén 2014: 169–90).

Earlier Periods (before 200 bce) The cultural and religious situation in northern Europe is less clear before 200 bce, that is, during the earliest Iron Age, the Bronze Age, and the Neolithic. No written accounts about northern Europe from this period have survived, which means that all arguments have to be based on reasoning in archaeo­logy and language history, and recently also in genetics. The cultural division of Scandinavia, between an agrarian south and a hunting north, was established with the introduction of farming around 4000 bce. The northern limits of the Neolithic farming settlements went as far as Uppland in Sweden and as far as Møre and Romsdal in Norway (Hallgren 2008). North of this border the population remained hunters and gathers for millennia,

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although many changes occured in these regions as well. This original cultural division of Scandinavia was probably not based on Germanic-speaking groups in the south and Sámi-speaking groups in the north. Instead, a few genetic samples of early farmers indicate that farming was introduced in northern Europe by people coming from central Europe and ultimately from Anatolia. These early farmers, however, mixed with the former mesolithic populations, leaving mixed genetic markers in the present Scandinavian population (Manco 2015: 95–105). New genetic studies further indicate that the population of early farmers and some mesolithic hunters later was mixed with nomadic groups from the Russian steppe zone in the first half of the third millennium. Some argue that these nomads spoke early forms of Indo-European langauges (Manco 2015: 122–57; Kristiansen and others 2017; è11). The links between material culture, genetics, and language, however, are far from clear and will be studied much more intensively in the coming years, as new advances in analyses of ancient DNA appear. Besides, analogies from other parts of Europe show complex layers of several Indo-European and non-Indo-European langauges creating new hybrid languages continuously (Drobin 1989). Consequently, the cultural and linguistic patterns of early Scandinavia are far from clear, and must be further investigated. More direct links with later periods are only visible in southern Scandinavia in the Early Bronze Age, from about 1600 bce. From this period, houses began to be built as three-aisled halls, and this building tradition continued for about 2500 years, until about 1100 ce ( Jensen 2002: 109–20). Simultaneously, the ship was introduced as a key symbol in rock art, on bronze objects, and later as grave marker. The ship as a symbol continued to be used until about 1100 ce and remained an important social metaphor and organizational principle in Scandinavia until about 1300 ce (Müller-Wille 1970; Capelle 1986; CrumlinPedersen and Munch Thye 1995; Kaul 1998; Wehlin 2013). Finally, the socalled sun chariot from Trundholm, with a sun disc being pulled by a horse, represents the earliest attested links with the Icelandic literary tradition (Kaul 1998; Kaul 2004; Kristiansen and Larsson 2005; Andrén 2014; è 55, è 56). This zone of south Scandinavian material and symbolic expressions ranged from the northern-most part of present-day Germany to Trøndelag in central Norway and Uppland in central Sweden. It is quite possible that some parts of the farming Scandinavian population in the third millennium bce spoke early forms of Indo-European, but a more confined Scandinavian cultural and linguistic entity was probably formed only in the Early Bronze Age around 1600 bce. Since early Greek is attested in Mycenaean Linear B already in the fifteenth century bce, a contemporary Scandinavian situation is not unlikely (è10) (è11).

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In northern Scandinavia, a Sámi identity was probably formed at the same time, through complex long-term processes. Around 2000 bce the economy of the north radically changed, since large game in the form of the European elk (moose) disappeared (Larsson and others 2012). Later on, in the Early Metal Age, about 1800–1 bce, eastern contacts with groups in the Urals intensified and probably led to a Sámi identity contrasting with the contemporary Scandinavian identity in the south. Typical cultural traits of the Sámi, such as round huts with rectangular fireplaces and the dead being wrapped up in birch bark and placed in graves built of boulders, can be traced from the first millennium bce (Hansen and Olsen 2004). Consequently, it is quite possible that the Sámi and Scandinavian identities were simultaneously formed through foreign networks as well as through oppositions along a much older cultural border zone. The cultural and religious situation outside Scandinavia and around the Baltic Sea is as vague and disputed as the Scandinavian case. Contacts across the Baltic Sea, however, existed in earlier periods as well (Nerman 1933; Ambrosiani 1986). It is possible that Finnish-, Baltic-, and Germanic-speaking groups lived around the Baltic Sea already in the late second and the first millenium bce, but future research in archaeo­logy, historical linguistics, and ancient DNA will probably renew this debate in the coming years.

Concluding Remarks This short survey of the spatial and temporal frames of PCRN indicates that these religious traditions were not coherent or unchanged. Instead, different elements had different trajectories, depending on internal changes, external networks, and recurrent cultural encounters (Andrén 2014). Consequently, the various cultural and religious links inside and outside Scandinava will be further explored in following chapters. The deep history of languages is critically discussed in Chapters (è10) (Linguistic frame), (è11) (Indo-European), and (è12) (Germanic). Early and distant encounters are considered in Chapters (è 13) (Roman) and (è 14) (Celtic), whereas the nearer surroundings are dealt with in Chapters (è 15) (Slavic), (è 16) (Baltic), (è 17) (Sámi), and (è18) (Balto-Finns).

10 – The Linguistic Frame Introduction

John Lindow

Older studies of PCRN took it as self-evident that language, culture, and religion were all bound up and understood the topic as the study of the religion of a hypothetical people or culture who were defined by speaking the same hypothetical reconstructed language, or daughter languages within that language family. While we take an areal rather than linguistic view, it is clear that PCRN existed within a specific linguistic context, as is tacitly understood by use of the term ‘Old Norse religion’, where ‘Old Norse’ implies first and foremost the language of Viking and medi­e val Scandinavia; this term also recognizes the fact that the written sources were mostly recorded after the conversion to Christianity. Many scholars assume that genetic relationship between or among languages brings with it genetic relationship of religion. Genetic relationships, in our view, constitute a model, albeit an important one. Equally important is the situation of a culture on the ground, where the immediate linguistic frame includes all neighbouring languages, whether genetically related or not. This frame demands at least as much attention as the genetically related languages.

Genetic Relationships The Germanic languages represent a branch of the Indo-European family. Although many linguists believe that the (extremeley hypothetical) original Germanic homeland might have been in what is now Denmark, that issue is as fraught as the location of the hypothetical original Indo-European homeland

John Lindow, Professor Emeritus of Scandinavian, University of California, Berkeley The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. 215–222 John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116937

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(è11–12). The relationship of Germanic to the other Indo-European language branches poses a significant research problem (Porzig 1954), and traditional linguistic methodo­logy offers scant evidence for grouping Germanic more closely with any other branch or branches.1 Even so, Watkins (1998: 33) groups Germanic with Balto-Slavic and Albanian in what he terms ‘the North’. The closest neighbour outside the North, in this scheme, is Celtic in the West. Similarly, in a recent introductory survey, M. L. West groups Baltic, Slavic, and Germanic into a ‘Northern-central’ group, as opposed to ‘Eastern’ (Greek, Armenian, and Aryan) and ‘Western’ (Italic and Celtic) groups (West 2007: 20). A radical new attempt using computational analysis based on methods used in evolutionary bio­logy puts Germanic into slightly closer contact with Balto-Slavic (Taylor and others 2000) than these models and also brings out the anomalous position of Germanic. Although the ‘character-based’ method of Taylor and others may to some extent reflect geo­graphic proximity, since lexical items make up part of the data set, the consensus suggests that the Baltic and Slavic linguistic families will have been an important part of the linguistic frame of Germanic over a very long time. Indeed, the testimony of vocabulary supports the notion of contact that was both peaceful and less so, since words in the areas of warfare and trade were borrowed from Germanic into Baltic and Slavic (Otrębski 1966). Also of interest is Krahe’s postulation of ‘Alteuropäisch’ (Krahe 1954), that is, a continuum of socially similar, semi-nomadic tribal groups making up a *teutās, with cognates retained in Italic, Celtic, Baltic, and Germanic (Gothic þiuda, Old Norse þjóð). ‘Alteuropäisch’ has been suggested as one of the many possible languages spoken in the so-called Nordwestblock, a concept developed to cover a postulated prehistoric population (Bronze Age to pre-Roman Iron Age), located near the lower and coastal reaches of the rivers Somme, Elbe, and Weser, that spoke neither Celtic nor Germanic (Hachmann and others 1962); other languages have been suggested as substrata as well. The most important point here is perhaps that the neat family tree of Germanic within Indo-European creates a static and isolated entity when in fact languages (and cultures) are in nearly constant motion and in greater and lesser contact with other languages. The model is an abstraction that is valuable for comprehending linguistic relationships; it does not imply clean splits of groups of people in historical reality.2 1  See Nielsen (1989: 18–28) for an enumeration of the various features associating Germanic with other Indo-European branches. 2  (è1) for comments on our view of the value of models.

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Some of the earliest developments within Germanic can be postulated on comparative evidence. The earliest runic inscriptions often attest language that is quite similar to what would be reconstructed for common Germanic, although it differs from Gothic. The later attested written forms, that is, in Viking Age runic inscriptions (those in the ‘younger futhark’) and, especially, those on vellums, indicate a division into three branches: East Germanic (represented largely but not exclusively by Wulfila’s translation of the New Testament (fourth century ce), West Germanic (Old English, Old High German, Old Saxon), and North Germanic (Scandinavian). Again, this model almost certainly oversimplifies. Some isoglosses suggest grouping North and East Germanic, but most suggest a North-west Germanic grouping, as would be consistent with the differences between early Runic and Gothic. For West Germanic, some scholars follow Tacitus (Germania ch. 2) and see linguistic implications in the three gentes descended from Tuisto and Mannus in the cosmogonic myth there: ‘proximi Oceane Ingaevones, medii Herminones, ceteri Istaevones’ (those near the Ocean Ingaevones, the middle ones Herminones, the others Istaevones). Today they usually go by the names Ingvaeones, Istvaeones, and Irminones and are termed the ‘North Sea Germanic group’, the ‘Weser-Rhine group’, and the ‘Elbe group’ (see, e.g., Robinson 1992: 16–17). Together with East Germanic and North Germanic (Scandinavian), this would suggest five groups rather than three.3 However, it must be recalled that these five groups are ‘predictive’, in that there was little if any separation among the groups when Tacitus was writing (98 ce). For the Germanic languages, a ‘wave model’ provides utility and conforms to the findings of dialect geo­graphy (Nielsen 1989: 109–51). The linguistic innovations that separate North Germanic/Scandinavian from the other branches seem to have developed in the period c. 600–800 ce, a period of intense change in many ways.4 By the beginning of the Viking Age, Scandinavia seems to have been Scandinavian from a linguistic perspective. Linguistic development continued, of course, with most innovations originating in Sjælland and the Danish islands. Linguistically we can speak of East Scandinavian (Danish and Swedish) and West Scandinavian (Norwegian, Icelandic, and the languages of the other Atlanic islands), but this neat division obscures the fact that dialects in Jylland (Denmark/East Scandinavian) joined 3 

See Nielsen (1989) for research history and methodo­logical comments on the various postulation configurations of the relationships among the Germanic languages. 4  These innovations may have been to some extent enabled by the disruption of contact with Germanic speakers to the south that followed the Slavonic expansion westward; this expansion was manifested in Slavonic placenames in most of the south-east Danish area.

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West Scandinavia and Anglo-Frisian in changes that are together labelled ‘North Sea Germanic’ or Ingvaeonic. Manu­script writing came with the Church and the creation of kingdoms and chanceries, and thus to some extent what we might term ‘national languages’. Nevertheless, late Viking Age skalds, and Icelandic authors of the High Middle Ages, use the expression dǫnsk tunga (the Danish tongue), for something like ‘Scandinavian’; that is, for a linguistic commonality.5 The manu­script record indicates clearly that some dialectal differences had developed when vellum writing took place, but given the mutual intelligibility of the mainland Scandinavian languages today, we must assume that persons from throughout the Scandinavian speech area could make themselves understood anywhere within it throughout the Viking Age and down into the Middle Ages. Perhaps significantly, dǫnsk tunga seems to have had a geo­g raphical sense, alongside its linguistic sense (Aldís Sigurðardóttir and others s.v. danskr): ‘where Danish (Scandinavian) is spoken’. This seems to be so especially when the expression follows a preposition (Skautrup 1957), as in this citation from Skáldskaparmál.6 En fyrir því at Fróði var allra konunga ríkastr á Norðrlǫndum þá var honum kendr friðrinn um alla Danska tunga, ok kalla Norðmenn þat Fróða frið. (pp. 51–52) (But because Frodi was the greatest of all the kings in northern countries, the peace was attributed to him throughout all Scandinavia, and Scandinavians call it Frodi’s peace. (p. 107)

The idea that dǫnsk tunga as a geo­graphic phenomenon may reflect the realm of Danish kings goes far back in scholarship, at least to P. A. Munch (1852–63). Since Cnut the Great’s empire not only included but was based in England, we may wonder whether the area of dǫnsk tunga once included not only the Danelaw but also the areas further south in England, and this in turn raises the question of Anglo-Scandinavian communication. It hardly seems unlikely that the Vikings who went west, that is, to England and Dorestad, could communicate in a fairly straightforward way with speakers of West Germanic (and see below on Ohthere). 5 

Tunga (tongue) is of course almost certainly a loan translation of Latin lingua. The skalds who used it worked in Christian courts, and it turns up in the earliest religious literature in Iceland. 6  Sometimes the two senses are blurred, as when Óláfr Tryggvason is called ‘frægstr maðr […] á danska tungu’ (Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar eptir Odd Munk Snorrason ch. 75, p. 347) (the most renowned man within the Danish speech area).

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However, there also was contact with speakers of all manner of other languages, and communication with these speakers presupposes some degree of bilingualism or multilingualism (by which we mean simply an ability to function at some level in two or more languages). The extensive networks indicated by the archaeo­logical record are simply inconceivable without this basic prerequisite. The primarily Germanic-speakers of pre-Christian religion must have come into contact and been able to communicate with speakers of a variety of language families. Clearly there was significant prehistoric contact with speakers of Celtic. While there are a few loanwords from Germanic into Celtic, most of the traffic went the other way.7 Some words almost certainly borrowed into Germanic are institutional in nature. From the Celtic word for ‘king’ came words attested throughout Germanic: in their Old Norse forms ríkr ‘powerful’ and ríki ‘realm’. 8 Similarly, Old Norse ambátt ‘servant’ and its Germanic cognates derive from Celtic. Borrowing of these terms of social hierarchy may reinforce the notion that Celtic was also the giver rather than the receiver in religious and mytho­logical loans (è 14). Other loans have to do with metal-working, and Celtic also added to the stock of Germanic personal names and placenames. We may also mention shared isoglosses, of which the most important in this context may be the word for ‘oath’ (è4); also (è14). Historical sources suggest that Celts and Germanic peoples encountered the Romans at roughly the same time, much later than the earlier linguistic contact mentioned above. The long and geo­g raphically diverse encounter with the Roman Empire surely provided one of the most important contexts of the Germanic peoples and is an essential aspect of the linguistic frame of PCRN. Once again there is lexical exchange in both directions, but with the Germanic languages again borrowing far more than they lend (Gamillscheg 1935; Gamillscheg 1970; Green 1998: 201–18). The plural ‘languages’ is necessary here because the most extensive contact was along the Rhine, that is, in West Germanic. While Gothic does show some Latin loans, concentrated (like 7  On Celtic-Germanic linguistic relations see de Vries (1960), Birkhan (1970), Polomé (1983), Green (1998: 145–63). 8  Rígr, the father of the social orders according to the eponymous Rígsþula, bears a name that most observers associate plausibly with rí (oblique ríg-) the Old Irish reflex of this Celtic word for ‘king’. This loan would indicate Irish-Scandinavian contact, not Celtic-Germanic; that is, it would be a good deal later than the borrowing that led to words in the ríkr family. If Rígr is not a loan, it still may draw upon the Irish word for its semantics. See von See and others (2000: 514–18).

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Germanic loans into Latin) in the areas of warfare and trade, Latin loans into Scandinavian, other than those inherited from ‘Germanic’ (that is, those that reflect loans from before the linguistic innovations that broke Scandinavian off from Germanic), reflect not so much contact with the Roman Empire as with the learned world of the medi­eval Church, some openly so: annáll, dekan, disponera, disputera, kapituli, náttúra, obláta, and so forth.9 In Frankish and related areas, however, we find lexical borrowing not only in the ubiquitous areas of warfare and trade, but also in areas that reflect more sustained contact and the borrowing of social and institutional conceptions, primarily in law and administration. There are also terms for agriculture (broadly conceived) and building, and, of course, the names of the days of the week (Green 1998: 236–53). Finally, there is the runic writing system, which in all likelihood is the creation of Germanic merchants or mercenaries who knew both spoken and written Latin (Odenstedt 1990: 145–73).

Neighbouring Languages An important aspect of the linguistic frame involves languages not genetically related to the Germanic languages. Some of these are likely to have been substrata about which we know very little, whereas others have left traces or lived on. Of these the most significant fall into the family of Finno-Ugric languages, for the Sámi lived in close contact with Scandinavians, and speakers of Baltic Finnish dialects lived just across the Baltic from Sweden and Gotland. Sámi and Baltic Finnish probably split off some two thousand years ago, around the time when Germanic was fully developed. The process of the diffusion of vocabulary from Germanic into Baltic Finnish began deep in prehistory (very few loans went from Baltic Finnish into Germanic, cf. Fromm 1958). Finnish borrowings from Germanic fall into numerous practical areas, such as agriculture, food preparation, housing, metallurgy, hunting and fishing, ships, and transport (Koivulehto 1995; see also Hofstra 1985; Kylstra and others 1991–2012). Among cultural borrowings, scholars assign arpa ‘lot’ (as in divination) to the older layer, as well as kansa ‘people’. In the younger layer are such important loans as hallitus ‘governance’, juhla ‘festival’, kauppa ‘trade’, kuningas ‘king’, and, from the legal domain, sakko ‘fine’. These can only result from extensive contact at a social level. Sámi languages have similar loans. In North Sámi one can recognize, from Old Norse, both the adjective heilagr ‘holy’ and, in a placename, the noun vé 9 

These examples are from de Vries (1962a: xxxiv).

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‘holy place’; konungr (king), brúðr (bride), and þjóð (people) are also borrowing that indicate extensive contact (de Vries 1962a: xxxvii–xl). Proof of bilingualism and linguistic contact is to be found, for example, in King Alfred’s late ninth-century account of the trading of Ohthere (Óttarr in standard Old Norse), inserted in Alfred’s translation of the world history of Orosius. The account apparently results from an interview at Alfred’s court, without an interpreter to mediate between Ohthere’s Scandinavian and his interlocutors’ English (Fell 1984).10 Ohthere lived in the northernmost coastal area of Norway settled by Scandinavians and took tribute from the non-Scandinavian inhabitants of the northern coasts, whom he calls Finnas and who are presumably coastal Sámi. This taking of tribute of course presupposes some ability to communicate, whether in Norwegian or Sámi, or both. A further indication of what we may term ‘cultural bilingualism’ is that the Sámi had to pay tribute æt byrðum ‘according to birth’, that is, by social status; thus social status among the Sámi was known and indeed institutionalized by the Scandinavians. Ohthere also notes the Cwenas as a separate people, and we can assume an ability to communicate with them as well (although their identity and possible relationship to the current Kven people, Finnish-speakers, must of course remain open to doubt). Since Ohthere later expresses the opinion that the languages of the Beormas and Terfinnas, found at the far end of where he was able to travel, are similar, we can probably ascribe some degree of linguistic skill and interest to him. And indeed, Ohthere reports that the Beormas told him many stories about their own and nearby lands. Although there is little certainty, most scholars seem ready to accept that the Terfinnas and Beormas spoke Finno-Ugric languages, as both the component -finnas and Ohthere’s ability to communicate and perceive linguistic relationship would indicate. In any case, the communication presupposed here is also evident in the later Icelandic sagas, in which people travel to Bjarmaland for trading. One final point about Ohthere is that a good portion of his wealth consisted of reindeer. His apparent linguistic ability in Sámi thus paralleled his economic life. We must assume that Ohthere was no isolated case, but that there was extensive bilingualism alongside the other obvious Scandinavian-Sámi cultural exchange or even hybridity. Indeed, examples of bilingualism abound in the sources.11 Perhaps the bestknown example is Melkorka, a supposedly mute slave purchased in Norway and 10 

On multlinguilism in England, see the essays in Tyler (2011). Above we mentioned Odenstedt’s convincing argument regarding the bilingualism (oral and written) of the creators of the elder fuþark (Odenstedt 1990: 145–73). 11 

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used as a concubine by Hǫskuldr Kolsson in Laxdœla saga. Back in Iceland she bears a son, Óláfr, and Hǫskuldr one day hears her talking to him. It turns out that she speaks Icelandic, although her mother tongue was Irish. This she teaches to Óláfr, and later he uses it in Ireland, even pleading that Irish law cannot permit seizure of a ship’s goods when there is an interpreter (Irish speaker) aboard. Óláfr’s mother, Melkorka, was an Irish princess. At the opposite end of the social scale we have another bilingual, Tyrkir, in Grœnlendinga saga. A German servant of Leifr Eiríksson, Tyrkir goes missing in Vínland, and when he returns, he speaks first in German and only thereafter in Icelandic about his discovery of wild grapes. There is a kind of cultural bilingualism at work here as well: Tyrkir’s latent knowledge of more southerly plants is activated when he comes upon one, and this in turn activates his language from the relevant cultural sphere. Had one of the Greenlanders in the party encountered these wild grapes, would he have recognized them as such?12 We take these examples of bilingualism or even multilingualism as indicating a highly significant aspect of the linguistic frame. Evidence for communication across languages and cultures is to be found everywhere in the record. Indeed, the Christian mission would not have been possible without bilingualism, and the scribes who bequeathed to us the priceless vernacular records from the North were also almost certainly bilingual.

12 

With these words we by no means wish to take a stand on the issue of Vínland. The point is rather that the literary scene enacts something important about the underlying culture.

11 – Continuity and Break: Indo-European Jens Peter Schjødt Introduction: Language and Archaeo­logy As stated in the previous chapter, the Nordic/Germanic languages form part of a much larger linguistic community, namely, the Indo-European languages. As was suggested already in (è1), this fact may be of some help when we attempt to reconstruct the pre-Christian religion through comparisons; at least, that is what many scholars have believed, whereas others have been very sceptical when it comes to comparisons with religions and societies far removed in time as well as in space, as is the case with many of the Indo-European cultures. Basically, religions — and cultures in general — inevitably contain elements from traditions of the past, and they are also influenced by neighbouring cultures, including traditions that may originate far back in history. That means that it may be possible to shed some light on certain elements within the culture that we wish to investigate, which to us are enigmatic because of the source situation, if we could trace these elements back in time and take into consideration the cultures that may have exercised their influence, and which for various reasons are more clearly illuminated in regard to exactly these elements. The big question, of course, is how far removed in time and space it makes sense to include comparative material. Whereas most scholars find it reasonable to include the contemporary Christian cultures surrounding the pagan North because it is beyond doubt that these were known to at least some pagans and most likely had some influence on them, many would reject the use of sources from further away and perhaps much earlier — distance in space and time matJens Peter Schjødt, Professor of the Study of Religion, Aarhus University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. 223–246 John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116938

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ters. But although it is common knowledge that cultures and religions change over time, it is also well known that traditions may live on for centuries and perhaps even millennia. Therefore, it seems a bit hasty to rule out continuity beforehand, merely because of distance in time and space, when we deal with comparisons between cultures that at some point in history have been related.1 In the following, we shall deal with some of these problems, first and foremost in relation to the so-called Indo-European ideo­logy, as it was formulated back in the 1940s by the French historian of religion Georges Dumézil.2 The term ‘Indo-European’ was first used in 1813, by the Englishman Thomas Young (1813), but the realization that the similarities between several Indo-European languages could not be due to coincidences and should be understood as a kind of ‘family relation’ had existed since the late eighteenth century, most notably by William Jones, who in a lecture in 1786 and in several articles discussed these similarities.3 During the nineteenth century, a lot of work within historical linguistics was done by such outstanding scholars as the Dane Rasmus Rask (1818), the German Franz Bopp (1816), and many others, and towards the end of the century it was an established fact that the Indo-European languages constituted a ‘family’ which could be traced back to what is usually called ‘proto Indo-European’. How this ‘family relation’ should be understood, however, was (and is) much more problematic. The German Friedrich von Schlegel proposed as early as 1808 that all the Indo-European languages were developed from Sanskrit, whereas another German, August Schleicher (1861–62), put into system the so-called Stammbaumtheorie, the theory of the genetic tree, suggesting some proto-language, which is not recorded in any extant sources, combined with the ‘branching off ’ of daughter languages presented in a way that is meant to show the relative closeness or distance of relationship. A kind of alternative or perhaps rather a supplement to the genetic tree model was suggested by yet another German, Johannes Schmidt, already in 1872. It was constructed in order to account for some shortcomings in Schleicher’s model, which was not able to explain certain similarities that did not fit with his genetic tree model. The result 1 

Although we are not going to deal with it here, the idea that there are traits common to the mytho­logies all across the northern hemisphere cannot be rejected right away. Michael Witzel has thus, in spite of all the problems and difficulties involved in such an enterprise, attempted to demonstrate that certain motifs can be recognized in these mytho­logies and that the ‘proto-culture’ that generated them must go back 40,000 years (Witzel 2012). 2  For etymo­logy and other important aspects of the Indo-European linguistics, (è 4) (è10). 3  They can be seen in Jones (1799).

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Figure 11.1. The linguistic affinity among the Indo-European languages, according to the tree-model (above) and the wave model (below; the numbers indicate shared linguistic changes). After Anthony 2007: 12 and Anttila 1972: xx. 

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was the so-called wave model, suggesting that certain features within the IndoEuropean dialects have spread like waves into other dialects. Finally, we should mention also the Russian linguist Nikolai Trubetzkoy (1939), who suggested a model that basically concerned loans. He avoided the problem of the homeland question, which has caused so much trouble within Indo-European studies, by arguing that the spread of the Indo-European language was due to loans among peoples over a very large area who had long-lasting mutual connections and thus ‘became’ speakers of ‘Indo-European’. Trubetzkoy’s theories have, however, had no great impact within the mainstream of Indo-European studies.4 During the twentieth century, many details of the ‘genetic tree’ and ‘wave’ models were altered, but essentially, these two models and, not least, combinations of them are still regarded as valid,5 the general idea being that, notwithstanding all kinds of controversies, at some point in the prehistory, the predecessors of the historical speakers of Indo-European were living much closer to each other than was the case later on, and, according to the ‘genetic tree’ model, that their dialects were much more similar to one another than is the case with historical and modern Indo-European languages. And as a natural consequence of this recognition the question was raised: where did these speakers live? The discussion concerning this issue is usually called ‘the Indo-European homeland problem’ and, apart from historical linguistics, the other major scholarly discipline that has dealt with the homeland and the migrations of the IndoEuropeans is archaeo­logy. Here, the controversies seem to be even bigger than 4  Within the History of Religion in the Nordic area, we can mention the Swede Ulf Drobin (1980) who enthusiastically argued for Trubetzkoy’s theory and Lincoln (1999: 212– 16) who is reluctant. However, scholars such as West (2007: 1), Anthony (2007: 16), and many others seem to have shown that the Stammbaum theory is by far the best model for explaining the linguistic as well as the archaeo­logical reality. 5  Examples of models to account for the spread of the Indo-European languages are found in Mallory (1989: 15–21), which is also a good general introduction to many problems related to the Indo-Europeans. A notable theory that differs from almost all theories based on linguistics was proposed by the archaeo­logist Colin Renfrew in 1987 who argues, in opposition to most theories by other scholars, that the spread of the Indo-Europeans did not start during the fourth millennium, but several millennia earlier, and that the homeland was Anatolia. Other good introductions to particularly the linguistic part of the problem are West (2007), Baldi (1983), and Lockwood (1972). A very useful tool for dealing with various aspects of the Indo-Europeans is Mallory and Adams (1997), as is also Sergent (1995). Finally, especially Anthony (2007) is updated concerning the archaeo­logical argument, and Mailhammar and others (2016), mainly dealing with the linguistic perspective (but also others) can also be recommended. A useful and balanced discussion of the usefulness of ‘comparative philo­logy’ within the Indo-European area can be read in Jackson (2012).

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in the case of linguistics, and many modern archaeo­logists will argue that it is simply not possibly to trace the Indo-Europeans in the archaeo­logical record (Anthony 2007: 15–19). Much archaeo­logical investigation was carried out during the latter half of the nineteenth century and the first third of the twentieth, aiming to place the original home of the speakers of proto-Indo-European, often from nationalistic agendas. From the point of view of linguistics, various kinds of isoglosses (phonetic, grammatical, etc.) were taken into account, so that, for instance, it seems that the homeland must have been in an area in which certain kinds of trees (e.g., birch) and fish (e.g., salmon) existed, since we have proto-Indo-European words for these species. The problem here is, of course, that we can never be sure of the semantic contents of such words, so that even if we find the words in various Indo-European languages, we can never be certain that they meant the same in proto-Indo-European times. Nor has archaeo­logy been able to establish any kind of consensus regarding the homeland problem,6 partly because the relation between material culture and language is highly complex, that is, the material culture may well change substantially without any significant changes in language. All this said and bearing in mind that there is no unambiguous consensus, it seems, nevertheless, that both among archaeo­logists and linguists there is a vast majority who situate the homeland in the Pontic-Caspian steppes, from where migrations took place from the early fourth millennium to the middle of the third. This candidate for an Indo-European homeland was already suggested by the Lithuanian archaeo­ logist Marija Gimbutas in the 1950s and in the decades that followed,7 and has rather recently been forcefully argued by David W. Anthony (2007). But even so the task of reconstructing almost anything concerning the proto-Indo-Europeans is highly problematic, even if we are on somewhat safer ground when it comes to language than with other cultural issues. It is hard to reach consensus on any part of the Indo-European problem, but it seems as 6 

For a good overview of the homeland problem, see Mallory (1989: 143–85) and Anthony (2007: 91–101), with a thorough discussion of the various theories by modern scholars. The general hypotheses generated by archaeo­logy concerning the Indo-Europeans are outlined in Mallory (1989: 186–221) and, more briefly, in Sergent (1995: 54–64). A very useful overview can be read in Kilian (1988). 7  Gimbutas was extremely productive; her ideas are best accessible in a collection of articles, published in 1997. Although she has been much critisized by fellow archaeo­logists, not least because of a rather romantic view on ‘Old Europe’ (= pre-Indo-European) as consisting of peaceful, matriarchal societies which were eventually defeated by the aggressive Indo-Europeans, part of her work is certainly also admired (e.g., Anthony 2007: 306, 495).

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if the majority of scholars, from both archaeo­logy and linguistics, are willing to accept that the spread from the homeland, wherever that was, began during the fourth millennium (or perhaps even earlier), and then, in successive waves, reached the areas where we meet them during historical time.8 Thus, most scholars believe that they reached Scandinavia around the beginning of the Bronze Age (c. 2000 bce). There also seems to be some sort of consensus that the Indo-Europeans were a semi-nomadic people and that, which is probably the most important thing, they were able to domesticate horses that could be used in warfare.9 This may very well be the main explanation for their success in conquering the vast territory they possessed when they found their way into the historical record. Further, as to their social systems, evaluated on the basis of the linguistic record, all agree that we are dealing with a patrilineal and thus a patriarchal society, and many will accept that the main social unit was the clan, led by some sort of chieftain, and above that the tribe (Anthony 2007: 91–92) which might have been led by a ‘king’ (Proto-Indo-European *rég-s, Sanskrit raj, Latin rex; cf. about Old Norse Rígr; è10); cf. Pokorny 1959–69: i, 854–57 and Benveniste 1969). Many scholars have attempted to reconstruct a proto-Indo-European society in much greater detail, but there is no great consensus in this area either. However, even if we cannot be certain of much concerning the IndoEuropeans, it can be argued that the linguistic communality that is accepted by all may have involved other cultural items, such as religion and mytho­logy. And even if it has been argued that this idea is dependent on the time depth and the homeland issue,10 this is not necessarily so: just as the modern languages do not seem immediately to have much in common, neither do the religions recorded in historical time. But as the languages, by means of thorough analysis, reveal to the linguist a lot of similarities at various levels, and not least that of structure, this may be the case with the religions, too. We cannot know beforehand, but 8 

Proto-Indo-European, most scholars agree, was not spoken after 2500 bc, and thus the important migrations had taken place before that time. 9  See Sergent (1995: 396–98) and, for a much broader discussion of the significance of the domesticated horse and chariots, Anthony (2007). 10  See in particular Renfrew (1987: 250–62), where it is argued that the framework of Dumézil is ‘devastated’ (251) if the time depth is much greater than the traditional migration date in the fourth millennium. An attempt at refuting Renfrew’s argument in relation to religion and mytho­logy is found in Schjødt (1996); see, however, also Liberman (2016: 30–31), who argues that individualized and anthropomorphic gods did not exist eight thousand years ago, an idea, we should notice, which has no support in cognitive studies in religion.

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it certainly seems worth investigating. Also, as in the analyses of the linguist, it is not a matter of denying differences: no one would confuse Old Norse with Sanskrit or postulate that there are no differences; but what matters is that, even if the two languages seem at first glance to have nothing in common, certain features are actually similar. And what is perhaps even more important is that many of the differences between the Indo-European languages, both on a synchronic and a diachronic level, are of a systematic kind (sound shifts, morpho­logical changes, etc.). Thus, if the analogy between language and religion/mytho­logy is worth considering (and opinions differ widely concerning that), even substantial differences between the various ‘daughter mytho­logies’ do not rule out some common ‘ancestor’ and may be of interest in attempting to reconstruct the religion of a certain area during a certain period.

Mytho­logy and Religion The idea that there are similarities between the mytho­logies of the various Indo-European peoples is old and reaches back to, at least, the middle of the nineteenth century. There is no reason here to present a detailed account of these early attempts to explain certain similarities between the various cultures, since almost all of these attempts have been rejected by subsequent scholars. One name, however, should be mentioned; namely, the German Sanskritist and linguist Friedrich Max Müller (1823–1900) who spent his whole academic career in England. He is often seen as the founding father of the academic study of comparative religion, and he certainly was the leading figure in what is usually called ‘the school of nature mytho­logy’. As the term suggests, the fundamental idea of the romantic Max Müller was that mytho­logies (at least those of the Indo-Europeans) were created by poets who aimed at describing the events of nature in general, and the rising sun in particular, far back in prehistoric times. A phenomenon, which Max Müller called the ‘disease of language’, consisted in the fact that all nouns were gendered and thus could be understood as denoting acting figures (for instance the sky was seen as ‘he, the Sky’). In that way, mytho­logical beings were shaped, when the poetic statements, which were originally purely poetic descriptions of the happenings in nature, were subsequently misunderstood.11 Therefore, the Greek mytho­logy of Homer and Hesiod, compared to the Vedic mytho­logy being much closer to the original

11 

In that sense, Max Müller’s theory was a theory of metaphor.

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myths, seems ridiculous to modern man.12 Max Müller worked exclusively with the Indo-European mytho­logies; most of his work was concerned with the Indian and Greek, and he clearly saw a lot of correspondences between them, partly based on etymo­logies that were later on rejected when the theories of historical linguistics improved. Actually, only one name of a god can be traced back to proto-Indo-European times, namely, that of the ‘sky god’,13 and that name definitely designates gods with very different degrees of importance within the various mytho­logies. Already in his own lifetime, the ideas of Max Müller were rejected. With the advent of evolutionism in the human sciences, Max Müller’s Indian poet was replaced with a very primitive, and probably not very poetic, savage, and nothing in the anthropo­logical research in the late nineteenth century could support the idea that myths and mytho­logies were primarily about ‘nature’.14 Since the comparative efforts of the ‘nature mytho­ logists’ were so closely bound up with this view of the relationship between myth and nature, the whole enterprise of comparativism was rejected by many historians of religion and anthropo­logists,15 and thus also the idea that there might once have existed such a thing as a common Indo-European mytho­logy. So, for about fifty years following the 1870s, not much work was produced from that sort of comparative perspective.16 12 

Max Müller was extremely productive (a complete list of his works can be seen in Waarden­burg 1974: 184–88), and in particular we can refer to Max Müller (1871–81). For a good treatment of his contribution to the study of religion and mytho­logy, see Sharpe (1975: 35–46). 13  For example, PIE *dyeus, Sanskrit dyaus, Greek Zeus, Old Norse Týr (for further IndoEuropean and particular Germanic examples, see de Vries 1962a: 603). From the point of view of historical linguistics, there is no doubt that we are facing the same name, whereas from a religio-historical perspective the bearers of that name have very different functions and positions in the historically recorded mytho­logies. 14  Of course ‘nature’ occupies an important position in many myths all over the world, but this does not mean that myths are statements ‘about’ nature. Rather, it is because natural categories are good thinking tools (cf. Lévi-Strauss 1973). 15  This was certainly not due only to the nature mytho­logists. The work of James George Frazer, particularly The Golden Bough (1890), in which everything could be compared to everything, was perhaps even more important for the development that led to the kind of anti-comparativism often seen in the works of the functionalist school in the beginning of the twentieth century. 16  Within the Scandinavian/Germanic area, however, some scholars continued to work within this paradigm (e.g., Golther 1895), but they were clearly out of touch with what was current at that time within the general history of religions and anthropo­logy.

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The Contribution of Georges Dumézil A renaissance of Indo-European studies within the framework of religion was instigated by the French linguist and historian of religion Georges Dumézil. Although many valuable contributions from scholars who have worked within other theoretical frameworks have appeared,17 there is no doubt that from the perspective of the history of religions Dumézil’s work have certainly been the most influential. Being aware, of course, of the discredit of nature mytho­logy, he had to find another way of dealing with those parallels that he saw within the various mytho­logies. And since he was strongly influenced by the French socio­logical school, which centred on Émile Durkheim and his pupils, his view was based on an idea of a strong relation between religion/mytho­logy and society, as we shall return to shortly.18 Dumézil should first and foremost be seen as a comparativist. He began from the simple hypothesis that cultures speaking languages of the same family, as in the case of the Indo-Europeans, could very well — apart from their languages — have other cultural elements in common. For many reasons, such shared elements would most likely be visible in texts having to do with religion; both because the most ancient texts are connected to religion and mytho­logy in some way and because religion in itself is very often strongly bound by tradition. The contribution of Dumézil to the reconstruction of Nordic as well as many other Indo-European mytho­logies is enormous, and even if we stick to just the aspects that impact on Scandinavian mytho­logy, a thorough exposition could easily fill up a book in itself.19 This cannot be done here, but since the work of Dumézil continues to cause much dispute within the study of 17 

Among many we can mention Puhvel (1987), whose work is certainly influenced by Dumézil, but analyses a lot of mythical themes that were not dealt with by Dumézil, and West (2007), who does not take into consideration the tripartite structure at all (cf. West 2007: 4; see also below). 18  Actually, Dumézil changed his view on this relation toward the end of the 1940s (see, for instance, Dumézil 1958: 18, and 1968: 15–16). Whereas in the beginning of his career he saw mytho­logy as a reflection of society, he turned to the idea that society, as well as mytho­logy, was based on what he called ‘ideo­logy’. 19  Books and articles dealing with Dumézil are legion. The best introduction is his own L’Idéo­logie tripartite (1958). The classical introduction in English is Littleton (1982). Other relevant works are Riviere (1979), Lundager Jensen and Schjødt (1994), and the relevant chapters in Dubuisson (1993: 23–130). These works are all basically positive towards Dumézil’s project, whereas for instance Belier (1991) and many others (see Littleton 1982: 186–203) have been more critical.

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Old Norse/Germanic religion and since it will be referred to several times in this work, it will be necessary to render his theory in brief. As just mentioned, Dumézil, being well aware that the etymo­logies of mythic names that played such a huge role within the framework of the ‘nature mytho­logists’ could not be taken up again as the main path to follow, brought in a socio­logical perspective on the various mytho­logies.20 This was partly based in the Indian division of Varnas, where the three supreme Varnas (literally ‘colours’) are seen as very old, at least going back to the early Vedic period. These Varnas designated classes with different functions within a hierarchical classification system, namely, the Brahmans (priests), the Ksatriya (warriors), and Vaisya (cultivators), and to Dumézil it became clear that each of these classes had special relations to certain gods.21 Thus, the first social function was particularly related to two gods, Mitra and Varuna, being attached to the two recurrent aspects within that function, namely, the juridical/contractual and the magical respectively; the second function had a special connection to Indra, and the third function to a couple of divine twins called Nasatya. This is the empirical basis for Dumézil’s famous ‘tripartite’ theory. But there is also a methodo­logical point to be taken into consideration if we want to apply the results of his comparisons on any empirical field: namely, that Dumézil’s comparisons are concerned mainly with the relations between the functions and not primarily with the individual characteristics of each function, although that is part of his work, too. When working with relations between elements, we are working with structures, which is why Dumézil should clearly be labelled a ‘structuralist’.22 This means that his work can best be characterized as struc20 

Nowadays, it is taken as a simple fact that mytho­logies in some way always reflect the society in which they functioned. This also goes for Old Norse mytho­logy which can be seen in a very banal way in, for instance, the ideas surrounding the warrior paradise Valhǫll; thus the warriors here live a life filled with fighting, eating, and drinking, no doubt reflecting the ideals of the aristocratic society of which it was part (cf. Nordberg 2003). 21  Dumézil was well aware of the fact that the idea that some must produce, others defend, and others again secure the good relations to the Other World is universal. What makes the Indo-European ideo­logy ‘Indo-European’ is that it thematizes this social idea in its myths, rituals, and in several other discourses. And this is not just a question of certain gods taking care of certain functions, as suggested by Liberman (2016: 444). It is a systematic relation between certain functions and certain gods, although this relation may be more complex than Dumézil himself was aware of (cf. Schjødt 2012b). 22  Dumézil did not accept this label, however (Dumézil 1973a: 14), but considering how often he talks about ‘structures’, it seems obvious that this is what he was, although not in the classical binary ‘Lévi-Strausssian’ sense.

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tural comparativism. As in the application and evaluation of any method, its advantages must be seen in relation to the questions we pose to the material (è1). No one, and certainly not Dumézil, would argue that his structural comparativism could solve every question that can be legitimately raised in connection with pre-Christian Scandinavian religion. As just stated, Dumézil was not primarily occupied with the characteristics of the individual gods but with the relations between them. This means that he could not use etymo­logies in any extensive way, because the names of the gods could very easily change. The etymo­logies of the names Indra, Mars, and Þórr, for instance, have nothing in common, and it will hardly ever be possible to reconstruct the name of the Indo-European second-function god. What creates the parallels is the fact that these gods’ position in the mytho­logical framework vis-à-vis the other gods seems to be stable. However, from an etymo­logical perspective Týr should be paralleled with Vedic Dyàus, but his position within the structural framework obviously makes him a parallel to the Mitra aspect of the first function, which again is an example that the structural position is seen as more important than etymo­logy. The focus on structure also allows for the inclusion of many sources that do not deal with mytho­logy in the strict sense: legendary history, epics, and other genres may well show the same structures as we have in the mytho­logical narratives proper,23 and one of Dumézil’s most intriguing analyses is exactly that of the legendary king of the Danes, Hadingus, the ‘saga’ of whom is analysed as a vague memory of the relation between the æsir and the vanir (Gesta Danorum i.5–8; cf. Dumézil 1973b), as we shall return to below. On a more important level, the structural focus also indicates that older sources do not necessarily present a myth more ‘faithfully’ than younger ones. Thus, one of the major achievements of Dumézil is that he can be said to have ‘rescued’ Snorri from the critique of the more extreme source critics, such as Eugen Mogk (1923). A very legitimate question to the theory is where we find this structure: where is this classification system actually located? In society, in the human brain, or somewhere else? Although Dumézil began by postulating that it was located in society, he changed his view in the late 1940s and insisted from that time on that mytho­logy, theo­logy, magic, and so forth were all structured according to a particular ideo­logy — an Indo-European ideo­logy. ‘Ideo­logy’, 23 

Dumézil has used that kind of material in all the Indo-European areas he was occupied with. Most famous, probably, is a number of analyses of narratives from the Indian epic Mahabharata.

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as the notion is defined by Dumézil, is thus extremely important, also because he uses it differently from what is often the case, namely, as a ‘principle of classification’. He says (1958, 18): Aussi bien n’est-ce pas le detail authentique, historique, de l’organisation sociale tripartie des Indo-Européens qui intéresse le plus le comparatiste, mais le principe de classification, le type d’idéo­logie qu’elle a suscité et dont, réalisée ou souhaitée, elle ne semble plus être qu’une expression parmi d’autres. (In the same way, it is not the authentic, historical detail in the tripartite social organization which the comparativist is most interested in, but the principle of classification, the type of ideo­logy, which it has brought forward, and of which — realized or imagined — it only seems to be one expression among others.)

Thus, it is not a question of being located in society, but rather that society was seen through the lens of the ideo­logy of the three functions. In some places, for instance in India, it was actually implemented in real society, but in other cultures this societal structure was only used for classificatory and ideo­logical purposes. So we are dealing here with an ideo­logical structure that can potentially be implemented as a classificatory system at any level.24 Like language structures, the mythical structures were hardly operating on a conscious level for the practitioners. Perhaps we can compare to the number ‘three’ in many European folktales (three sons, three trials, three gifts, etc.): where in the cognitive apparatus is this ‘rule of three’ situated? It is not universal, since other cultures use other numbers, but it is not individual either because it is so widespread in Europe that we can hardly imagine any traditional tale in which it is not part. Is it part of the cognitive apparatus, or is it simply a part of a European consciousness, but apparently used without any conscious thoughts? Regardless of where it is located, it is there. The pre-Christian Scandinavian religion was one of the main areas with which Dumézil worked, and he carried out many analyses within nearly all aspects of this mytho­logy.25 If we start with the tripartite structure of Old Norse religion, however, Dumézil proposes that the gods of the first function 24 

This change in Dumézil’s theory (cf. above, note 18) has gone unnoticed by many of his critics. Even a scholar such as David W. Anthony who is generally positive towards Dumézil does not seem to be aware of this shift in his otherwise brilliant book on Indo-European archaeo­logy (Anthony 2007: 92). 25  Discussions and analyses of Scandinavian/Germanic myths are scattered throughout Dumézil’s works, in books as well as in articles. Most explicit are Gods of the Ancient Northmen (1973c) and From Myth to Fiction: The Saga of Hadingus (1973b).

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are Óðinn and Týr, covering the two aspects of magic and legal affairs, respectively. Whereas Óðinn in many ways can be seen as a typical first-function god of the Varunic type, Týr seems in the extant sources to have lost much of his former function, and even though it is possible to point to evidence for his connection to law and contract,26 this remains rather sparse. The second function has Þórr as its representative. This god is characterized by a connection to thunder and lightning, by a huge appetite and thirst, and as the greatest of warriors.27 Like the thunderbolt of his Indian parallel Indra, his main weapon, the hammer Mjǫllnir, is closely linked to thunder and lightning. Finally, the representatives of the third function are the male gods of the vanir family, Njǫrðr and Freyr. As opposed to the third-function gods in most other Indo-European mytho­logies, these two are not twins but father and son, and whereas in most mytho­logies the twins are hard to distinguish from each other, in Scandinavia there appear to be some differences. Thus, Njǫrðr has a rather close contact to the sea and to riches, and he is sometimes directly said to be auðigr ‘rich’, as in Ynglinga saga ch. 4, whereas Freyr seems to be more closely associated with fertility, including sexuality (è43). Further, the sister of Freyr, Freyja, is seen by Dumézil as a so-called transfunctional goddess, that is, a goddess who is based in the third function but is strongly related to all three functions.28 Thus, although there certainly are details that do not seem to fit too well, in the rough outline, the functional gods of the Scandinavians can be paralleled to the abstract scheme describing the Indo-European pantheons. We must bear in mind, once again, that we are dealing with cultures living thousands of kilometres and thousands of years apart from each other, so the similarities that 26 

An inscription from Roman England mentions ‘Mars Thingsus’, Mars being usually seen as an interpretatio Romana of Týr; and the only myth in which Týr is the main character, namely, the one in which he loses his hand to Fenrir (Gylfaginning pp. 28–29), definitely has to do with the swearing of oaths — although in that case he committed perjury. Further, we can mention placenames (è 5) such as Tirslund, connected with Týr (è 48), at several places in Denmark, some of them very likely being places with a þing. The two functions, law and war, do not rule out each other (cf. Green 1998: 35), as seems to be the view of Bruce Lincoln (1998, 1999: 121–37), who argued that Týr was not a god of law because he was a god of war. 27  The gods of the second function are probably those within the tripartite scheme who are most similar in the various mytho­logies, if we look upon them individually, that is, outside their structural framework. 28  Although it is hard to see any special connection between Freyja and the second function in Scandinavia, that is, Þórr. Freyja’s relation to the ‘war function’ seems to be much closer to the collective kind of war which is connected to Óðinn, than to Þórr’s invidual battles with giants (cf. Schjødt 2012b).

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were analysed by Dumézil should be seen as a series of transformations, like the linguistic ones, rather than as immediately recognizable parallels. The tripartite structure is definitely not the only structure that is common across large tracts of the Indo-European area, as we shall return to in a moment, but it is no doubt the structure that has the strongest generative power in the sense that many other structural parallels derive from it in various ways. So, apart from establishing this ‘theo­logical’ structure, the best known among the analytical results of Dumézil and the one that is argued to exist all across the Indo-European area, he did much analytical work from his comparative perspective in other aspects of Norse mytho­logy. These aspects are not necessarily found in all Indo-European cultures, maybe due to the source situation, maybe due to influences from the original populations of the areas in which the Indo-Europeans settled. In the following, we shall provide only a few examples. One of the very widespread mythical themes, one that has also played an enormous role within Old Norse studies, is the so-called war of the functions (Dumézil 1973c: 3–25). In the Norse sources, this war between the æsir and the vanir is primarily found in Snorri’s Ynglinga saga ch. 4 in a euhemeristic guise, and in Skáldskaparmál (pp. 3–5) by the same author, with hints scattered throughout the other sources, too. The vanir, as mentioned above, are the gods of the third function, and the war between them and the æsir is treated in detail in (è40), but the main structure is that a war between the two groups of gods takes place before the pantheon, as we know it from the sources, is established. The war is ended through peace negotiations in which hostages are exchanged between the groups, so that Njǫrðr, Freyr, and Freyja become members of the æsir group. Now, this war between the functions is also found in an Indian myth as well as in Roman legendary history. To Dumézil, this means that the traditional interpretation of the Nordic myth could not be right. This interpretation, common until the 1950s, argued that the war of the two groups reflected a real war that had taken place sometime in prehistory between a peaceful agricultural population, living in Scandinavia, and a more aggressive, warlike people attacking from the south. The integration of the vanir hostages into the æsir group was thus a vague memory of the coming together of these two peoples. With the comparative perspective, however, it became clear that this mythical structure was not exclusively Scandinavian, as we just saw, but rather a foundation myth that once existed all over the Indo-European area. The ‘meaning’ of the myth, as suggested by Dumézil, was therefore that it was a reflection of Indo-European ideas of what constitutes the perfect society and the necessity of having all three functions represented in order for society to

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survive.29 There is no doubt that much more can be said about the narrative structure of the myth as it is related by Snorri, but the repudiation of the ‘historicist’ view has, as mentioned, had an enormous impact on the modern view of the relation between the two groups of gods,30 and practically no scholar today, notwithstanding all sorts of differing interpretations, would argue for a ‘historicist’ reading of the myth as opposed to a ‘structuralist’, even without using Indo-European comparisons.31 Another example of the influence of Dumézil within the research into preChristian Scandinavian religion is his analysis of the myth of Baldr (1973c: 49–65). This will be treated in detail in (è46) below, but, through the comparison with primarily the main structure of the Indian epic Mahabharata, it can be established that the Baldr drama32 should be seen in connection with Ragnarǫk. The myth is fundamentally about the ‘drama of the world’: the killing of Baldr, the only god within the Nordic pantheon of whom nothing bad can be said, is a portent of what the world will come to in the near future. Following a war involving all beings on earth (or in the Norse version: gods and humans and giants), the earth will be restored: Baldr, as well as his Indian parallel Yudhistira, will return and a new order is established. Also the myth of Baldr has been much discussed by almost all mytho­logists engaging with Norse mytho­logy, and also here we see that at least some of the interpretations that might immediately seem convincing 33 have been rendered unlikely by Dumézil’s comparative analyses.34 A rather untypical analysis concerning Loki 35 was also carried out by Dumézil.36 It consists of a comparison between the Ossetic myth cycle of 29 

This part is clearer in the Roman variant about the so-called Sabine war, where the Sabine women who are the prerequisite for future generations are in focus (Dumézil 1949: 125–35). 30  For a brief overview of more recent understandings of the ‘war of the functions’, see Schjødt (2008: 382–96) with references. 31  A few exceptions would be Motz (1996a) and Hedeager (2011, 214–19). 32  Primarily as it can be read in Gylfaginning (pp. 45–49). 33  One can think here of Jan de Vries’s ‘initiation’ theory (de Vries 1955a; cf. Schjødt 2003: 65–69). 34  For a very thorough exposition of all details in the Baldr myth, including the research history, see Lindow (1997a). 35  ‘Untypical’ because it adopts a ‘psycho­logical’ bias that is not usually a Dumézilian perspective. 36  Dumézil, Loki (1986). This is for the most part a translation of the German 2nd edition from 1959, which was in turn a strongly revised version of the original French work from 1948.

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Syrdon and the myths of Loki. It is only very loosely connected to the tripartite scheme, and the conclusion of the analysis is that Loki was a sort of hypostasis of impulsive intelligence (è44), as opposed to Hœnir (è52), who is seen as the slower, more reflective intelligence. Although many scholars have accepted the parallelism between the two myth cycles, the results have not had any substantial influence on subsequent interpretations of Loki.37 Finally, as the last example of Dumézil’s contribution to Norse mytho­logy we should mention his very elegant and rather convincing analysis of the story of Hadingus in Saxo’s Gesta Danorum (Dumézil 1973b). Again, he opposes a historical interpretation of the hero Hadingus, who in much older scholarship was often identified with the Viking Hastings, and instead regards Hadingus as a human representative of the god Njǫrðr. Thus, his career was divided between what Dumézil characterizes as a ‘vanir existence’ and an ‘æsir existence’, just as is the case with Njǫrðr who as a hostage goes from the society of the vanir into that of the æsir. In this analysis, the comparisons are made predominantly between the heroic saga told by Saxo on the one hand and the myths known from the West Norse sources on the other hand, whereas the Indo-European component has no significant position. As mentioned, Dumézil worked with many more themes and mythical figures from the Scandinavian mytho­logy and epic, such as Heimdallr (Dumézil 1959), Starkaðr (Dumézil 1971: 25–58), Byggvir (Dumézil 1973c: 89–117),38 and several others, but, before we return to a critical evaluation of his contribution and a general discussion of the potential benefits in applying IndoEuropean comparisons, we shall turn to a couple of other themes that have not been treated by Dumézil.

Other Indo-European Parallels Throughout this work, we will occasionally mention and discuss Indo-European themes, but a couple of examples should be mentioned briefly here that do not bear on (at least not immediately) the Dumézilian framework. These are not necessarily structural in the same way as are most of the Dumézilian analyses, but there seem to be so many elements in common between the Scandinavians and other Indo-European cultures that it will be hard for most to outright reject some sort of connection. 37  38 

For more details on Loki, see (è44). The analysis here is more philo­logical than comparative.

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Thus, although we can hardly reconstruct such a thing as ‘the Indo-European creation myth’, it seems that we can point to some elements that were most likely part of it — or perhaps rather part of the mythical cycle that surrounded the Indo-European ideas about creation.39 For instance, the wording in Vǫluspá 3 about what was not before the creation is very similar to what we are told in Rigveda 10. 129; we have the idea that the world is created from the dismemberment of a primordial being, Purusha (Rigveda 10, 90) in India and Ymir in Scandinavia (Gylfaginning, pp. 10–11), and other places, too (see Lincoln 1975), just as a cow or an ox is often involved (in Scandinavia Auðhumla). The name Ymir, probably meaning ‘twin’, is definitely related to the Indian Yama and Iranian Yima (è37). It also seems that the primordial killing in some sense constituted a sacrifice, which is apparent in the case of Purusha, but less clear in other cosmogonies where we nonetheless do see the killing of a ‘twin’.40 The point here is not that all these ideas would constitute a coherent whole (a narrative myth proper), which was probably never the case, but simply that there are too many similarities among the various Indo-European cosmogonic ideas for us to reject a degree of common heritage. We shall return to that below in the evaluation of an Indo-European perspective. Another theme that should be mentioned here, and which may very well have something to do with cosmogony, too, relates to India. In Rigveda 1.32, we thus hear about Indra, who killed the mighty snake Vritra in order to free the waters, which were hidden inside a mountain, and in that way created, if not the world, then the foundation for the world as a fertile place. Narratives of this sort can be found all across the world. Even if the relation between Þórr and the Miðgarðr snake appears to be somewhat similar,41 the two myths may well be just variants of a widely distributed myth about a struggle between chaos 39 

An analysis of this kind has been attempted by Bruce Lincoln (1975, 1986), who draws attention to many conspicuous parallels. See also Witzel (2017) for a discussion of the parallels. 40  One cannot avoid thinking of the story told by Livy about Romulus’s killing of his twin brother Remus in Ab Urbe Condita i. 7, or the anthropogony recounted by Tacitus in Germania ch. 2 where we hear about the first being, Tuisto (probably meaning ‘two’ or ‘twofold’) and his son Mannus (‘man’). Here, we hear nothing of a killing, but the sole combination of ‘Man’ and ‘Twin’ in relation to a foundation myth can hardly be independent of the other Indo-European cosmogonies. 41  The ultimate fight between Þórr and the serpent takes place during the eschato­logical battle, whereas the fight between Indra and Vritra is placed in the cosmogony, and this discrepancy of course constitutes a major obstacle when we compare the two myths. However, it has been discussed whether the fight between Þórr and the chaos monster perhaps did take place in the beginning of time (cf. Meulengracht Sørensen 1986: 273; West 2007: 255).

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and cosmos, a monster and a hero, an aggressor and a defender (of the civilized world) and containing a binary structure. In order to claim a common origin, we need much more specific common traits. If, however, we turn to the AngloSaxon world, where we have the famous fight between Beowulf and Grendel, in the great epic of Beowulf we notice the rather unexpected fact that, after Beowulf has killed Grendel, the monster’s mother attempts to take revenge, but is eventually also killed by the hero (lines 1251–1887). Now, although the Rigveda hymn about the battle between Indra and Vritra is much less developed in narrative terms than the Anglo-Saxon epic, it is, however, clear that also Vritra’s mother seeks revenge and is killed by the hero. So what we have are monsters connected to water who threaten the civilized world, although in different ways, the one preventing fertility (Vritra) and the other preventing the survival of Heorot, King Hrothgar’s hall. Both the mountain that is surrounded by Vritra and Heorot are portrayed as ‘central places’: the mountain is in Indian cosmogony a variant of the axis mundi, and Heorot, being the centre of a wide empire (lines 78–79) is, in the words of Michael Enright, ‘not just any royal hall’, but its walls ‘standing true against the wintry waste and chaos of the stormy world outside’ (Enright 1996a: 5). So it is clear that both narratives concern a ‘centre vs. periphery’ opposition, in which the monsters entering the centre or threatening the centre cause a sort of chaos for the civilized world (in India this is a future world and in England and Scandinavia it is a well established one).42 Then a hero arrives who is able to fight the monster and eventually kills it, but the mother of the monster arrives on the scene and after more fighting she is also killed by the hero. As is often the question when we are dealing with comparisons, we must ask whether it is likely that this structure has originated independently in various cultures and periods, or whether something forces us to accept some sort of continuity: is the parallel specific enough for us to rule out coincidence, or is it not? Different scholars undoubtedly hold different opinions on this point because, in this instance as well as in many others, the borderline between the universal and general on the one hand, and the regional — although in this case a very wide region — and specific on the other hand, may be hard to draw. As mentioned above, there have been other important contributions concerning Indo-European religion and mytho­logy, more or less independent of 42 

Some interesting transformations could no doubt be analysed here (the relation between monster and water, Vritra preventing the water from coming out of the mountain, Grendel seeking shelter in the water, the water being in the middle of the world (cosmogonic time) and the water being on the periphery (mythic present), etc.).

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Dumézil’s theoretical framework. Some of these have already been referred to, and most of them have plenty of references for further reading. One work, however, is of special interest, and should therefore be dealt with in a little more detailed way: namely, Martin L. West’s Indo-European Poetry and Myth from 2007. Apart from having a lot of interesting observations on similarities between the various Indo-European cultures, it explicitly takes a position on Dumézil to which we shall return in the next para­g raph. Although West is somewhat negative towards Dumézil’s tripartite theory (2007: 4), he, nevertheless, brings forward a multitude of poetic and mythical parallels at the lexical level which should be able to convince those rejecting the value of IndoEuropean comparisons that, even without Dumézil’s framework, there is a lot to gain from these comparisons. West’s book is not primarily about PCRN, but in all the chapters there are references to this area, which seem to prove beyond reasonable doubt that much of the source information we get from Medi­eval Scandinavian sources has roots going far back to a proto-Indo-European stratum. Just to give a hint of the themes he is dealing with, we can mention a few of the chapter titles in which Scandinavian myth plays a part: ‘Sky and Earth’, ‘Storm and Stream’, ‘Cosmos and Canon’, ‘King and Hero’, and many others. As opposed to Dumézil, West is not dealing with large abstract structures: quite on the contrary, he is mostly dealing with individual motifs; for instance he proposes that, even if Óðinn is not a direct continuation of the Indo-European Skygod, he ‘took over certain features’ (2007: 173), and then gives a couple of examples, among others the title of Alfǫðr, which is most often explained as a Christian influence. There are certainly many details that should be discussed in West’s work, but all in all it strongly supports the idea of an Indo-European ‘heritage’ within PCRN. And many other parallels, both mythic and ritual, could be mentioned.43

Evaluations Among scholars dealing with some or more areas relating to the Indo-European cultures and religions, not least within the Scandinavian area, many have been positive towards an Indo-European approach, whether Dumézilian or not, while just as many, or perhaps even more, have been sceptical. The first question that must be addressed is what we can use this sort of comparison for in our 43 

Suggestions with references can be seen in Sergent (1995: 323–92) and Puhvel (1987), and of course West (2007).

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attempts to reconstruct pre-Christian Scandinavian mytho­logy and religion. First and foremost, it may be interesting just to demonstrate that there are parallels and perhaps to analyse the transformations that have taken place, and this would be an absolutely legitimate purpose, just as many scholars have focused on the similarities between the descriptions of myths and rituals in the extant sources and Christian notions. This is often done, however, with the further goal of demonstrating that these sources cannot be taken as reliable statements of a pagan world-view and thus cannot be used for reconstructions of such a pagan world-view. Indo-European comparisons can, on the other hand, be used in the same way, only to demonstrate the opposite: If it is possible to convincingly demonstrate that a myth in Scandinavia and one in India share the same structure or have a lot of specific details in common, it may be concluded that, even if the source is late, the myth or part of the myth is a reflection of very ancient notions, and therefore must have been part of the pagan world-view. As an example, we can consider the famous myth about Óðinn hanging on the tree (è42). It has been regarded as a parallel to mythical thought in India (Sauvé 1970) and as a transformation of the Christian myth of the crucifixion (Lassen 2009 and many others). Both views are, of course, based on comparisons, the four stanzas from Hávamál (138–41) being compared to Indian and Christian myths, respectively. If, for a moment, we disregard the possibility that these stanzas may very well have been influenced by both Indo-European and Christian ideas,44 the crucial point will be which of the comparisons is the more convincing, that is, which one is able to account for the most details and for the context, and which one accords best with what we know from other sources about the religion in Scandinavia. Whereas the proponents of the ‘Christian’ comparison would argue that it is very likely that these four stanzas were composed by someone well acquainted with Christian mytho­logy — but not with Indian — the proponents of the ‘Indian’ comparison would argue that the structural setting of the self-hanging, which is apparently completely heathen, is much more in accordance with the Indo-European traditions than with the Christian. Both arguments are certainly relevant and should be considered, 44 

As will be discussed several times in this work, the extant sources are for the most part composed in Christian times by Christians (although the dating of Hávamál and its individual parts is very uncertain), and therefore obviously have a Christian bias. However, it is well known — from, for instance, folklore through the Middle Ages and right up to the present — that a lot of pagan traditions survived the official Christianization. That obviously means that, even if a text is ‘Christian’, its content or part of its content may very well stem from a pagan worldview (for further discussion, see for instance Meulengracht Sørensen 1991 and Schjødt 2009c).

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although that is, unfortunately, not always what happens because many scholars become so focused on their own viewpoints that they do not even bother to take the argument of their opponents seriously. Actually, the two arguments should perhaps be seen as complementary. But without taking sides here and now, it is clear that whatever side we favour will have consequences for our view on Óðinn and thus also for our view on PCRN in general. In that way, we see, as was also suggested in (è 1), that it is very hard to completely escape comparativism: the question is, rather, what to compare and for what reason (see also Schjødt 2017a; Nygaard 2016: 10, 26–27). In relation to pre-Christian Scandinavia, we have just seen that one of the important issues where comparisons (Indo-European and others) are essential, is in the evaluation of the importance of the sources or perhaps rather the individual pieces of information that we obtain from the sources: if, for instance, we find other Varunic figures who are one-eyed, the fact that Ódinn is portrayed as one-eyed gains a lot of credibility as an old trait.45 Another important aspect of these Indo-European comparisons — again linked to the source situation — is that they help us to place certain myths within the mytho­logical curve from cosmogony to eschato­logy, that is, within a meaningful mytho­logical context. Because much of what we know from the textual evidence, for instance the kennings or individual stanzas of the Eddic poems, is presented more or less without any real context, or perhaps even put into the wrong context by Christian authors, we may use the comparisons to suggest at which place within the overall structure a given myth or myth fragment should be placed. For instance, the myth about Baldr, as Dumézil understood it (see above), must be part of the eschato­logical mythical cycle. There seem, therefore, to be good reasons to accept at least the potential use of Indo-European parallels. As has been shown, there are parallels between Scandinavia and for example India that cannot be explained without resorting to some theory of an Indo-European heritage, but of course we must be extremely cautious in our analyses. At times it appears that some comparativists are much too eager to prove the value of the Indo-European comparisons and set aside part of their critical sense in the process. The two most immediate dangers in carrying out these kinds of comparisons are: 1) that elements are not analysed in their context, so that statements belonging to different spheres are seen as the same, because they look the same; and 2) that myths and mythical structures found all over the world, and therefore must be part of our cognitive 45 

Which is not to say that there are no other ways in which the source value can be tested.

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apparatus vis-à-vis certain features in human society and surroundings, are seen as part of a Indo-European cultural and linguistic heritage.46

Dumézil’s Position within the Study of Pre-Christian Scandinavian Religion Some would say that Dumézil‘s theory is nothing but imagination, a fantasy with no basis among the Indo-Europeans. For instance, it has been argued that, in Scandinavia, there probably never was a societal division into three functions. And that may well be correct, but, as we have seen, Dumézil gave up, the idea of society being the fons et origo of the tripartite structure, from the late 1940s and onwards. Others would say that the relation between the Scandinavian gods in the tripartite system and the abstract, Indo-European scheme is unbalanced: for instance, Týr is more a war god than a god connected with legal affairs (è 48), Óðinn is also primarily a war god (è 42), whereas Þórr is a fertility god (è41). All in all, the application of the whole theory on Scandinavian religion would be a failure, because it does not ‘fit’.47 Others have accepted major parts of the Dumézilian framework, among them most of those scholars who have produced large expositions of Nordic and Germanic religion in the last century, such as Jan de Vries (1956–57a),48 E. O. G. Turville-Petre (1964), and Åke V. Ström (1975).49 But many others could be mentioned who, 46 

The one or the other of these ‘dangers’, sometimes both of them, is often evident in works that are otherwise valuable, such as Jaan Puhvel’s Comparative Mytho­logy, for instance, when he compares Poseidon and Medusa’s parenthood of Pegasos with Loki giving birth to Sleipnir (1987: 269), it seems that the contextual differences simply render it meaningless to compare the incidents; and likewise with Sergent’s great book, Les Indo-Européens, where he mentions without any comments that humans were created out of elements végétaux (1995: 351) in both Iran and Scandinavia, although the circumstances are completely different, and that the whole idea of humans being born from plants is probably quite common (for instance, in totemistic societies with plant totems). Statements such as these seem to create scepticism rather than to convince scholars who are already sceptical toward the use of Indo-European comparative studies. 47  Many scholars represent this attitude towards Dumézil’s theory. As some of the more outstanding, we can mention Karl Helm (1955), Ray Page (1978–79), Folke Ström (1961), Bruce Lincoln (since the nineties; for instance, 1998), Lotte Motz (1996a), Klaus von See (1988), and Liberman (2016). Several others could be mentioned. 48  In Altgermanische Religionsgeschichte, which was published originally in 1935 without being influenced much by Dumézil, but then in a second strongly revised edition in 1956–57, accepting all the main ideas of Dumézil. 49  Ström’s exposition is clearly the one that manifested the strongest Dumézilian influence of the three mentioned here.

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in books and articles, have written in the spirit of Dumézil.50 A third group is constituted of scholars who accept parts of the theory but are critical towards other parts. There is no doubt that one must be cautious when using the framework of Dumézil. After all, the tripartite structure and other, more narrative, structures that he and his ‘disciples’51 have analysed constitute only a model that may guide us to make sense of the scattered information we get from the sources. And models have to be continuously refined, both in relation to the sources, but even more so in relation to new recognitions within the human sciences as such (è1). It seems as if the discussion about Dumézil has faded a bit over the last decades. Whereas in the 1960s, 1970s, and particularly 1980s, most scholars were eager to mark their position for or against Dumézil, the modern agenda seems to be somewhat more relaxed: most scholars appear to accept smaller or larger parts of the Dumézilian framework while remaining critical towards other parts. From a modern perspective, it seems as if the tripartite structure in its ‘pure’ form and in itself is not that influential any more,52 whereas the structural approach as such has been part of the mainstream within analyses of myth, just as the structural study of myth in the Lévi-Straussian sense was a matter of great controversy back in the 1960s and 1970s, but subsequently became part of most scholarship dealing with myth, only in a much less technical sense. A very good example is the ‘war of the functions’, mentioned above, which was traditionally seen as reflections of an actual war that took place in prehistoric times. As stated, there are not many scholars who would take that position today (cf. è40). Whether or not the individual scholar agrees with Dumézil, one is forced to make up one’s mind about him as well as the whole problem concerning 50 

Many of these will be mentioned in other chapters of the present work. Dumézil did not want to speak about a ‘school’ of his. Still, there is no doubt that many of his followers were true disciples defending every word the ‘master’ had spoken. Actually, this was quite in opposition to the spirit of Dumézil himself, who was willing to discuss every detail in his analyses and to change his opinions when contra arguments appeared convincing. This has been seen as a ‘weakness’, but should rather be seen as the attitude that any true scholar ought to have. 52  Although quite negative, we may quote West for a position toward Dumézil, which is perhaps rather typical for many modern scholars: ‘As the system is essentially a theoretical taxonomy, it is hardly capable of proof or disproof. You may find it illuminating and useful, or you may not. Personally I do not. But one must acknowledge Dumézil’s breadth of learning and combinatorial brilliance, and give due credit for his real discoveries’ (West 2007: 4). 51 

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Indo-European comparisons. Scholars may very well engage in investigations that have no relation to Indo-European parallels at all, but in order to accept or reject the use of such comparisons for relevant purposes, such as source criticism, discussions of genre, and so forth, it is necessary to reflect a bit more deeply than is sometimes the case, no matter whether we are talking about ‘disciples’ or opponents. In conclusion, it appears obvious to most that there is a form of continuity from Indo-European times (understood as the period before the migrations) to the Late Iron Age in Scandinavia. This continuity may consist of very different features than those of the structures Dumézil pointed out as decisive — this will probably remain a matter of controversy for a long time; but it would probably be wise not to adopt any of the two extreme positions towards comparisons within the Indo-European linguistic community in order to reconstruct PCRN: either rejecting this sort of comparison altogether, or maintaining that they can explain everything. PCRN and most other religions of a certain age have so many ‘layers’ of influences from many different cultures that what we encounter in the historical record should always be regarded as a conglomerate, consisting of elements of very different age, some going back to the early phases of humanity, others having been picked up in subsequent phases during the long journey through history.

12 – Continuity and Break: Germanic Jens Peter Schjødt Introduction The problem concerning the relation between the religions of pre-Christian Scandinavia and those of the ‘proto-Germanic peoples’ does not, in principle, differ from that concerning the Indo-Europeans: In both cases, we are dealing with peoples who were linguistically connected to the Scandinavians through common heritage; in both cases, it is argued with great certainty that even if the extant languages in historical time differ substantially, they were during an earlier phase much more alike and should be seen more as mutually understandable dialects than as different languages; and in both cases, it seems that we can find common religious notions and practices, despite the great distances in space as well as in time. Also in both cases, the histories of the individual peoples (or tribes) are quite different from one another, not least in their respective relations to the Christianization process. The difference in dealing with, on the one hand, the relation between Scandinavians of the Iron Age and the Indo-Europeans and, on the other hand, the relation between the Scandinavians and the Germanic peoples is thus arguably more quantitative than qualitative. Having said this, however, it should also be stated that this difference in relation to space as well as time is important, and that, in practice, the continuity problem is much less accentuated when we work solely within the Germanic cultural area. Even so, it should nevertheless be stated that scholars are far from agreeing about the relations between or the development of the Germanic languages. But there does seem to be a kind of consensus on the notion that, around the Jens Peter Schjødt, Professor of the Study of Religion, Aarhus University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. 247–268 John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116939

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Figure 12.1. Folio 1 of Matthew 5. 15–20 in the Codex Argenteus or ‘Silver Book’ (DG 1, Uppsala Universitetsbibliotek, Uppsala). The manu­script is a copy from the early sixth century of Bishop Wulfila’s fourth-century translation of the Bible into Gothic. This manu­script is virtually the only surviving long text preserved in the Gothic language. Photo: Uppsala Universitetsbibliotek, Uppsala. 

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beginning of our era, we can speak about a proto-Germanic language, which at that time began to split into the three branches accepted nowadays: the East Germanic group, the West Germanic group, and the North Germanic group (= the Scandinavian languages); no East Germanic languages survive into the present, and the only representative that we have in the written record is the Visigothic bishop Wulfila’s translation of the Bible into Gothic from the middle of the fourth century (è10). The West Germanic languages developed into modern German, English, and Dutch, and the northern group into the modern Scandinavian languages. So, as in the case with the Indo-Europeans, many scholars have considered it worthwhile to investigate whether not only the languages but also other cultural elements could be related; again, religion and mytho­logy have been at the forefront of this enterprise.1 The name ‘Germans’ or ‘Germani’ (which will be used in the following, cf. Green 1998: 8) goes back to the first century bce2 and was used by the Romans to designate a number of Barbarian populations, whereas there is nothing to suggest that the peoples who became known by that designation ever used the word about themselves. They probably used the tribal designations Chatti, Cimbri, and so forth. The meaning of the word Germani is unclear (cf. Hasenfratz 1992: 27; Todd 2004: 8–11), but in the time of Caesar (first century bce), the peoples designated by the word were rather clearly defined, that is, roughly the tribes that lived east of the Rhine and north of the Danube, although we know that there were also Germanic tribes living west of the Rhine as well as Celts living east of the river. The origin of the Germanic peoples cannot be traced, although numerous theories have been proposed, particularly since the beginning of the nineteenth century and partly associated with political and nationalistic ideas.3 The oldest evidence we have of any Germanic language, apart from some possible placenames, is a very brief inscription, written in characters from an Etruscan alphabet, on a helmet found at Negova (Negau) in Slovenia. Together with twenty-three other helmets, probably stemming from Germanic-speaking auxiliaries at the beginning of the first century bce, it was part of a hoard, but 1 

For further references to the linguistic frame, see (è4) and (è10). Knowledge about a northern people to be distinguished from the Celts may, however, go back to Posidonius (135–51 bce). 3  For good overviews of the history of and many of the problems connected to the Germani, we can refer to many books and articles by Herwig Wolfram; in particular Wolfram (1997) and a brief, but very good, introduction (Wolfram 1995). Other instructive works are Timpe (1998b), Todd (2004), and not least Heather (2009). All of these works have plenty of references. 2 

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Jens Peter Schjødt Figure 12.2. Helmet from Negova (Negau) in Slovenia. The helmet is typo­logically dated to the fifth century bce, but it is part of a hoard that was deposited in the first century bce (Kunsthistorisches Museum Wien, ANSA VI 1660). On the helmet is carved the earliest recorded Germanic text, written in a north Etruscan alphabet. The inscription is probably contemporary with the deposition of the hoard, that is, from the first century bce. Photo: © KHM-Museumsverband, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

the helmet and the inscription could very well be older. The relevant part of the inscription reads harixastiteiva […]. The last part, teiva, is particularly interesting from the point of view of the history of religions because it may designate the Old Norse týr, ‘god’, or the god Týr.4 The first part, which should probably be read harigasti, a name meaning ‘guest of the army’ (in the dative), could then be read as an appellative having the following meaning: ‘for Týr (or the god), guest of the army’ or as a personal name: ‘from Harigast for Týr (or for the god)’. This cannot be decided, but the important thing seems to be that the first evidence of any Germanic language is linked to religion.5

Historical Framework Whether or not we can meaningfully talk about ‘Germanic’ peoples before that time is hard to say. On the one hand, the Celts of the Hallstatt (900–450 bce) and La-Tène (450–1 bce) cultures had non-Celtic neighbours to the north (figure è14), and these could very likely be Germanic or proto-Germanic peoples. The culture of the Celts with its urbanized societies was undoubtedly the more developed, techno­logically as well as politically, and much Celtic craftsmanship from the pre-Roman Iron Age can be found all over the Germanic area,6 4 

Markey (2001) believes it to mean ’priest’. See also McKinnell and others (2004: 11). 6  Much of this is dealt with in (è 14). Briefly, we can mention the wonderful cauldron, found in a peat-bog in Jylland near the village of Gundestrup, but created in the Celtic area, probably around 100 bce. It depicts scenes that are undoubtedly sacrificial, and also some 5 

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indicating a high level of communication between the two ‘barbarian’ peoples of northern Europe. From the time (c. 120 bce) when the Cimbri and Teutones, probably both tribes from northern Jylland, began to move southwards, the Germanic peoples became part of European history. In a series of battles they defeated several Roman legions but were eventually defeated themselves in the years 102 and 101 bce (è13). Poseidonius (c. 135–51 bce) in Historical Fragments 87. F 31.3 and Strabo (64 bce–21 ce, and dependent on Poseidonius) in his Geo­g raphy 7.2.3 from the early first century ce both provide interesting information about certain sacrifices of war prisoners, who were led by priestesses to a big cauldron and then had their throats cut so that their blood flowed into the cauldron (è13, è25).7 Some centuries later, the Spaniard Orosius (375–418 ce) in his Historia adversus paganos (4.16) gave a description of how the Cimbri, after their victory at Orange (c. 105), destroyed the booty they had acquired. Gold and silver were thrown into the river, horses were drowned, and enemy captives were hanged from trees.8 Julius Caesar, in the middle of the first century bce, was well aware of these neighbours of the Gauls, who continued to pose a threat to the Roman frontiers along the Rhine, culminating with the disastrous slaughtering of Varus’s legions by Arminius in the Teutoburger forest in the year 9 ce. And from the fourth century onwards, the Germanic tribes swept into Roman territory, a development that eventually caused the downfall of the West Roman Empire. This was the age of migrations, which were initially caused by the westward movement of the Huns but which continued for a long time, also after the defeat of the Huns in 451 at the Catalaunian Fields and the death of their king, Attila, in 453.9 Celtic gods. The fact that it was found in Denmark suggests that the religion of the Cimbri (the population of the area) was not that different from that of the Celts, as it was already stated by Strabo (Geo­graphy 7.1.2), or at least that religious expressions from the Celtic area were not incomprehensible to the Cimbri. Many other Celtic items have been found in the Germanic area (cf. Enright 1996a: 237). 7  Very much like one of the scenes depicted on the Gundestrup cauldron. Strabo may very well have been strongly influenced by Poseidonius, whose work now only exists in fragmentary form. 8  This strongly recalls the impression we get from the so-called ‘war booty sacrifices’ in bogs, primarily in southern Scandinavia and northern Germany. For a good recent overview, see Simek (2003: 42–52), with many references. 9  Brief surveys of the historical framework of the Migrations, and the relations with the Huns in particular, are found in Hedeager (2011: 33–37), Wolfram (1997: 123–44), and Heather (2009: 207–65). See also Rosen (2002) and Stickler (2007) for brief but good overviews of the migrations and the Huns, respectively.

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We know with certainty that medi­eval Europe, with the great Frankish empire, the creation of Anglo-Saxon England,10 and many other political changes, was a result of the Germanic and Slavic migrations. Of particular interest is the emigration of Angles and Saxons to England, because whereas many Saxons remained on the continent (‘the Old Saxons’), the land of the Angles seems to have been more or less deserted, leaving space for the Danes but also Slavic peoples who thus became a sort of buffer between the Scandinavians and the continental Germanic peoples. There are, however, many uncertainties when we attempt to draw a map of the migrations of the individual tribes,11 and it has little bearing upon the relation between the religions of the Scandinavians and those of the greater Germanic area. What is very important, however, is the history of Christianization, which will not be treated in detail in this chapter (è 64–69). It is noteworthy that what might once have existed of common religious traditions was definitively broken down with the advent of Christianity, a schism that lasted until the last of the Germanic tribes (i.e., the Scandinavians) were Christianized towards the end of the first millennium and the beginning of the second. The first Germanic people to accept Christianity, as early as the late third century, was probably the Goths, or rather some of the Gothic tribes living closest to the empire; and up through the fourth and fifth centuries many of the Germanic tribes became Christian, although the kind of Christianity that was accepted was primarily Arianism and not trinitarian Catholicism. Up through the sixth century, from the acceptance of Catholicism by the Frankish king Chlodewig (Clovis; d. 511) towards the end of the fifth century, most tribes, however, turned to the Roman Church. Towards the end of the sixth century (596), Pope Gregory the Great sent a missionary delegation led by Augustine of Canterbury (d. 604) to England, and the process of Christianization seems to have been remarkably successful, so that within about a hundred years, all the kingdoms of England had become Christian. It is obvious that those tribes, which had already accepted Christianity during the missionary phase, would see themselves as highly distinct from the pagans — and vice versa. One example is the Christianization process among the Saxons, which was forcefully carried out 10 

According to The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (the year 449) and to Bede (c. 672–735), Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum (i, 15), the Anglo-Saxons under the leadership of Hengest and Horsa arrived around 450, perhaps being invited by the native Celts in order to help against the Picts. 11  An outline of the possible routes of the individual tribes is found in, for instance, Todd (2004: 139–241).

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by Charlemagne and the Franks during the second half of the eighth century. And from then on, only the Scandinavians remained pagan. Notwithstanding missionary efforts from the south, it was only around 965 that the Danish king Harald blátǫnn accepted Christianity and ‘made the Danes Christian’, as it says on the rune stone he raised in Jelling, Jylland (è 64). Within another hundred years, practically all of southern (Germanic speaking) Scandinavia became Christian.12 So if there ever was a common religion among the Germanic tribes, this was definitely not the case from the third to the eleventh centuries. As with so many other elements of Germanic culture, we cannot say much with certainty about how the society was organized and how it functioned. From various written sources, however, we do get some information. The societies were no doubt patriarchal, and the major and most important social unit was probably the tribe.13 This could lead to the conclusion that the tribes were stable units, but this is certainly not the case. Already from Tacitus (see below) we hear about tribes that by his time had ceased to exist because they had been swallowed up by other and more powerful tribal units. When it comes to the names, we notice that many of the tribal names mentioned by Tacitus are not used when we come to the age of migration, while most of the tribal names from that time are not recorded earlier. One among other reasons could be that some of these names were actually designations for war-bands (è24) and not for traditional communities with a history reaching far back in time. As it has been put by Herwig Wolfram: ‘tribe and army are one’ (Wolfram 1997: 8).14 Another reason could be that smaller tribes were absorbed into larger units, examples of which are recorded, as mentioned, already by Tacitus. Our knowledge of the social organization is not definitive, but it seems that a simplified picture like the following can be created:15 The leader of the tribe was a 12 

Detailed accounts of the Christianization process with many references is available in Gschwantler and Schäferdieck (1976: 175–205), de Vries (1956–57a: ii, 406–48). For analytical purposes, it makes good sense to divide the whole process of Christianization into different phases. This has been attempted by Sanmark (2004: 75–117) and Simek (2003: 251–55). Many important works on the Christianization will be mentioned in (è64–69), and here we shall just refer to the outstanding work of Walter Baetke, discussing, among other things, the relationship between the political and the religious in the process (Baetke 1937, 1951b). 13  For brief but good overviews of the notion of ’tribe’ within the Germanic area, see Wolfram (1997: 2–10), Green (1998: 49–66), and Todd (2004: 28–34). 14  In Old Norse, for instance, herr could mean ‘army’ as well as ‘people’ (cf. Green 1998: 86); and the same applies to the word folk (cf. fylki, de Vries 1962a: 148). 15  The classical work on social structure among the early Germans is Wenskus (1977). See

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‘king’, rex, as he was most often called by the Romans.16 Subordinate to the tribal units we have also clans, the importance of which is uncertain, since we do not know their official status, nor who would be regarded as members of the same clan, even if it is likely that it consisted mainly of the population of a certain village; or perhaps we have to think of the extended family as we also know it from Nordic sources of a much later age, although a word for ‘clan’ is not recorded.17 Still further down, there was the household, governed by the equivalent to pater familias. An institution to which we shall return (è24) is the comitatus, a group of warriors surrounding the king or the chieftain, a retinue,18 which clearly was an important institution for the power relations. These warriors were part of the aristocratic class and, at least among certain tribes, the leading warriors seem to have had a position just below that of the king. War-bands seem to have played an important part among the Germanic tribes right up to the end of the Christianization period when we hear of warrior groups such as the berserkir and the úlfheðnar, known from textual sources as well as from archaeo­logy (Petré 1980; è24). Tacitus presents a probably rather simplified picture when he says that kings or chieftains were chosen according to their blood relations, while the war leaders were chosen because of their skills in battle (Germania ch. 7).19 In all likelihood, the distinction between these two kinds of leaders was often confused and would vary from one tribe to the other, and from one period to another (cf. Wolfram 1997: 15–20), but there are indications that there were differences among the leading men. For instance, even if Arminius was called rex by the Romans, he was very reluctant himself to use the title of king — perhaps because he was, instead, a dux. also Steuer (1979) and Murray (1983). The archaeo­logist Ulf Näsman presents a suggestive analysis, comparing archaeo­logical and textual material (Näsman 1988, especially pp. 126–27). 16  See, however, also (è23) on the rex-dux relation. 17  However, Herlihy (1985: 45–46) assesses evidence that Lombard fara, which also left traces in Bavarian and in placenames, may have denoted ‘the elusive Sippe’. If so, the word would emphasize the mobile nature of the ‘clan’, as it derives from the common verb ‘to travel’ (e.g., Old Norse-Icelandic fara). 18  A thorough philo­logical investigation of the comitatus was carried out by John Lindow in 1976. Of special interest are pp. 10–41; see also Todd (2004: 30). 19  Tacitus speaks of reges and duces (Germania ch. 7), but to the Romans in general there was hardly much difference. If a war leader achieved enough power, he was also seen as king. The vocabulary in the sources is not particularly clear, and the difference between, for instance, a king and a chieftain often remains blurred. We shall return to this in (è 23) (cf. Schjødt 2017a; Nygaard 2016: 24–26).

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Finally, we should mention the public gathering (concilium), which, again according to Tacitus (Germania ch. 11–12), is said to take place on certain days and at which the people would first listen to the chieftain and second have to accept or dismiss the decisions he proposed. It appears rather democratic, but there is no reason to believe that the concilium consisted of anybody but the men of high rank (cf. Green 1998: 30–48). Once again, it must be emphasized that this societal organization is heavily debated. We must assume first that it is unlikely that all tribes were organized in the same way, and second that during the Roman Iron Age a lot of changes took place, at least among those tribes who were in close contact with the Romans.

Sources Many of the sources we have for the Germanic religions will be referred to several times in this work and some have already been mentioned above. This applies to several works of antiquity and the Middle Ages, such as numerous chronicles and saints’ vitae, law texts and historical works — particularly the histories of individual peoples — and other texts, which often have things to say about various Germanic peoples and sometimes also about their religions, in particular concerning the history of conversion.20 Much more sparse is the information we get from pagan Germanic people themselves. We do have a good many inscriptions, some in Latin letters, some in runic script, where we learn a few names of gods of whom some, but far from all, are known from later Scandinavian material.21 We also have a few poetic texts, such as the two magical charms from Merseburg, the second apparently referring to some myth otherwise unknown to us, although some of the names are part of the Scandinavian mytho­logy (Óðinn and Baldr?22), too. Epic texts, such as the Old High German Hildebrandslied, which can be dated to the eighth century, the 20 

Noticeable is Jordanes’s Getica, from the sixth century, and Paul the Deacon’s Historia Langobardorum from the eighth. From the Anglo-Saxon area, we should mention Bede’s Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum and the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, but many more could be mentioned, some of which are taken into consideration in later chapters. For an overview of AngloSaxon paganism, see Wilson (1992). A good overview of some of the most important sources can be found in Todd (2004: 1–8). 21  Here, we should also include the so-called Matronae altars with pictures of three women and often inscriptions giving their names, in Germanic, Celtic, and Latin. The names are systematized in Simek (2003: 123); (è57). 22  For a discussion, see Schröder (1953).

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Old Saxon Hêliand, from the ninth century,23 the Nibelungenlied, probably from the twelfth century, and the Anglo-Saxon Beowulf, the dating of which it heavily debated,24 may well — even long before they acquired the form they now have in the extant manu­scripts — have an oral background and go back to pagan times. It certainly seems that much of the content reflects a heroic worldview with its roots solidly planted in the pre-Christian period. But the versions we have are definitely written down by Christians, and, as is the case with much of the Nordic material also, although it is no doubt worthwhile to search for pagan elements, we must be extremely aware of the difficulties inherent in such an enterprise. Nevertheless, subsequent chapters will include many details from these and other epic poems. Also other sources from the south Germanic area are important and some of them, for instance, mention names of gods, such as Ziu, Wodan, and Donar.25 Their existence all across the area is confirmed by the Germanic weekday-names (cf.  Strutynski 1975; Green 1998: 243–53) and placename evidence from many Germanic areas (Buchholz 1968–69: 128–29). All this material, taken together, seems to indicate that, in spite of many individual traditions differing from tribe to tribe and from one time to another, it is meaningful to look for similarities and continuity. We shall return to this in connection with the most important written source for Germanic religion in the early part of the first millennium, namely, Tacitus’s Germania. But we also have a substantial amount of archaeo­logical evidence (è 6).26 This can be divided into various types, and as is to be expected we are mostly informed about the cultic aspects of religion. Thus we have burials and sacrificial sites scattered all over the Germanic area, some of them being rather similar over larger areas, as is the case with the so-called ‘princely graves’ of the Lübsow type (Gebühr 1974). But also bog bodies that can be dated from the Iron Age can be found over a very wide area of northern Europe, suggesting some sort 23  Hêliand is a fully and explicitly Christian poem, but it does portray a heroic world-view that in some ways correspond to the pagan world. 24  For a short comment on the dating problem, see Niles (2007a: 15). 25  For overviews, see Buchholz (1968–69) and the chapters on the individual gods in de Vries (1956–57a) and Ström (1975). 26  The amount of archaeo­logical research within the area of the Germani is enormous, and it will be referred to throughout the chapters in this work. Interesting examples of archaeo­ logical works dealing with religion are Michael Müller-Wille (1989, 1999, with biblio­graphies). We can also refer to Beck and others (1992), in which several chapters deal with archaeo­logy as sources for religion.

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of common religious traditions. The same can be said about the bracteates which are found in Scandinavia as well as in other parts of the Germanic area. In Scandinavia and the northern part of Germany we also have the large scale war booty offerings in places such as Illerup, Ejsbøl, Nydam, and many others, all stemming from the pre-Migration Period, and also mentioned in some written sources, too (Simek 2003: 42–52). As we shall deal with relevant archaeo­ logical sources, both from Scandinavia and the wider Germanic area, in many of the chapters of this work, we shall not go into details at this place, but it is important to emphasize that continuity in religion from the early Germanic periods to the Viking Age can most often be seen when archaeo­logical finds are interpreted in combination with the written sources, both those written by foreigners and those from the Scandinavian Middle Ages.

Tacitus and Germanic Religion Whereas many of the above-mentioned categories of written sources individually only contain a few pieces of information of interest to the history of religions, the situation is different with Germania, an ethno­graphic account by the Roman author Publius Cornelius Tacitus from 98 ce,27 written in Latin, of course, where we are given a huge amount of information on Early Germanic religion. At the same time, Germania may serve as an example of many of the problems we face when we are dealing with pre-Viking Age, Germanic sources, not least the problems concerning continuity (or lack of continuity), which is why we shall treat it in some detail. Tacitus undoubtedly had an agenda with his work, writing for a Roman public, although there are differing opinions about exactly what this agenda was. One suggestion is that he wanted to show the Romans of his time how ‘decadent’ they were compared to the tough Germani, in the hope that they would give up this decadence. Another suggestion is that Tacitus wished to explain how dangerous the Germani were and how important it was to secure 27 

Tacitus also wrote two other substantial works, Histories and Annals, which are of some interest in relation to the religion of the Germani. For instance, there is an interesting account in Histories iv, 60–70 dealing with the seeress Veleda from the tribe of the Bructes — a virgin, like other seeresses, who played a central role in the rebellion of Civilis (69–70). For interesting observations on her and other seeresses, see Volkmann (1964). See also Enright (1996a: 170–71 with references), maintaining that Veleda is not a personal name but rather a term meaning ‘prophetess’. But to historians of religion, these other works of Tacitus are not nearly as valuable as Germania.

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the borders. We do not know, and will never know, exactly how much Tacitus in fact knew about the Germanic tribes he describes.28 We can safely assume that he was aware of the available literature of his time of which much has later been lost, and there is thus no doubt, either, that he knew many more works than we do today.29 At the time of Tacitus, the Romans had, as mentioned above, antagonistic encounters with the barbarian tribes to the North, but also used them as auxiliaries for more than two centuries, and it would be naïve to think that they had no knowledge whatsoever about these peoples. However, it is also obvious that Tacitus used a lot of stereotypes and topoi known from contemporary and earlier descriptions of foreign barbarians, reaching back to Herodotus almost six hundred years before, and much of the information he relates is thus impossible to verify; some of it is probably wrong. We cannot be sure, either, whether some of the generalizations, particularly in the first part of the book (ch. 1–27), really characterize the Germanic world in general; Tacitus is unlikely to have had the same amount of knowledge about all the Germanic tribes. We shall not deal with every piece of information relevant to religion at this point, but since Germania has caused a lot of controversy among scholars, it is definitely worth considering its value to the study of Germanic religion. It should be said at once that the reasonable or unreasonable use of Tacitus for establishing an ‘urgermanische Religion’ has much to do with ideo­logy. As can be imagined, Tacitus together with archaeo­logy was used in the romantic era as well as in the Nazi period of Germany to develop an idea of Blut und Boden: the Germanic peoples constituted a unity — and had done so for about two thousand years.30 This sort of idea has, of course, nothing to do with scholarship, whereas the very question of similarity versus difference among the tribes in the beginning of our era certainly is a legitimate question. And the answer is not a simple one: we must reckon with a rather complicated relation between similarities and differences, if we are going to get it right. Scattered throughout the work of Tacitus we find, as mentioned, much information concerning religion. Most of these pieces of information have 28 

A balanced discussion of Tacitus’s value to the history of religions is found in Timpe (1992), with many references. See also Picard (1991: 40–45). 29  A brief overview of the written sources used by Tacitus is found in Bruun and Lund (1974: 24–27), and in many other works. 30  This ideo­logical bias is wonderfully exemplified several places by Picard (1991), for instance, in her chapter on research history (15–31), referring to a discussion between Franz Rolf Schröder and Otto Höfler (see also Höfler 1938, speaking of continuity according to race, space, language, and state (Staat) (p. 5)).

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Figure 12.3. The opening page of Tacitus’s Germania from Codex Aesinas, the most important surviving manu­script of Tacitus’s text (cod. Vitt. Em. 1631 in Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Roma). Photo: courtesy of Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Roma. 

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Figure 12.4. The approximate location of Germanic tribes mentioned in Tacitus’s Germania. The location of the tribes will always remain provisional, but it is based on information given by Tacitus and on indications from placenames and regional names cognate with the tribal names. As is evident from the map, Tacitus knew more about Germanic tribes living close to the Roman limes than groups further away. Names of non-Germanic tribes are placed in brackets, and arrows show movements of tribes.. Disir Productions, Uppsala, based on draft by Anders Andrén.

often been used to argue for some sort of continuity in the religious world-view between a ‘pan-Germanic’ culture in the first century ce on the one hand and PCRN on the other hand. There are many problems involved in this, not least of a theoretical kind: What exactly do we mean by ‘continuity’? How shall we deal with the diversity that no doubt characterized the Early Iron Age as well as the Viking Age? What kinds of similarities are required for us to speak of continuity? These and many other problems (also of a more source-critical character) must be dealt with when we attempt to investigate the problem of continuity. For instance, Tacitus’s famous description of the cult of Nerthus (Germania

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ch. 40) occupies an important role in all works on Germanic religion and also all general expositions of PCRN (è47) because it may reflect some early version of a cult of the vanir, which is elsewhere known only from Nordic sources, mainly from the Middle Ages. There is no doubt that the name Nerthus from an etymo­logical perspective is the same as Njǫrðr. But Nerthus is only one out of several spellings of the name of this terra mater, and many scholars have argued that the form Nerthus that figures in most editions is only chosen because it can be used as evidence for continuity (e.g., Picard 1991; see also Motz 1992). Another problem is, of course, the fact that Nerthus as described by Tacitus is female, whereas Njǫrðr is male. So how, when and why did this ‘change of sex’ take place? We are not going to enter the discussion here,31 but simply note that the cult of Nerthus is rejected by many scholars as evidence of continuity. As another example, we may look a little further at ch. 9, which discusses the gods of the Germanic peoples in general. This chapter has likewise had an immense influence on the reconstruction of a ‘proto-Germanic’ religion, particularly in older scholarship. The main problem, once again, is one of continuity: whereas most of the older research — as mentioned, often with ideo­logical purposes — attempted to show how well the information about the gods of the Germanic peoples fitted in with the information related in the Nordic sources,32 later research has criticized these attempts, primarily by showing how uncertain the information given by Tacitus actually is and how much he relied on various topoi. In this chapter, Tacitus says: Deorum maxime Mercurium colunt, cui certis diebus humanis quoque hostiis litare fas habent. Herculem ac Martem concessis animalibus placant. pars Sueborum et Isidi sacrificat: unde causa et origo perigrino sacro parum comperi nisi quod signum ipsum in modum liburnae figuratum docet advectam religionem. ceterum nec cohibere parietibus deos neque in ullam humani oris speciem adsimulare ex mag­ni­ tudine caelestium arbitrantur: lucos ac nemora consecrant deorumque no­mi­nibus appellant secretum illud, quod sola reverentia vident. (p. 276) (Of the gods, they give a special worship to Mercury, to whom on certain days they count even the sacrifice of human life lawful. Hercules and Mars they appease with such animal life as is permissible. A section of the Suebi sacrifices also to Isis: the cause and origin of this foreign worship I have not succeeded in discovering, except that the emblem itself, which takes the shape of a Liburnian galley, shows that the ritual is imported. 31 

(è22) for discussion of gender in general. Among many, Rudolph Much (1937) and Otto Höfler (in several publications, for instance, 1952a), are good examples. 32 

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Apart from this they deem it incompatible with the majesty of the heavenly host to confine the gods within walls, or to mould them into any likeness of the human face: they consecrate groves and coppices and they give the divine names to that mysterious something which is visible only to the eyes of faith.) (p. 277)

Immediately, it appears that we do get very valuable information here: 1) We are told who the main gods of all the Germanic tribes were and even a little about how they were venerated and whether they were of foreign origin; 2) It is said that they had no ‘temples’ or cult buildings, and that the gods were not portrayed in anthropomorphic ways. Instead, they were venerated in groves and forests. But can we be sure that this information reflects the actual situation in the Germanic area in the first century ce? In order to answer that question, we have to analyse the chapter in some detail. Tacitus here uses, as most writers of antiquity do, the so-called interpretatio Romana, that is, translating the names of foreign gods into what is supposed to be their closest Roman equivalents. We must, of course, ask which Germanic gods were meant by these Roman names. The usual interpretation, by older as well as more contemporary scholars, is that Mercury is used for Wodan or Óðinn, Mars for Tiu or Týr, and Hercules for Donar or Þórr. If that is true, we unquestionably have an example of continuity. But how can we know? Eve Picard, in her doctoral dissertation from 1991, has criticized the old kind of ‘continuity research’, 33 arguing, among other things, that there are such big differences between Óðinn of the medi­eval Norse sources and Mercury of Roman religion that there is really no reason to focus our attention on Óðinn, since the only real parallel is that both gods function as psychopompos. She suggests that there are as many resemblances between Mercury and Njǫrðr and between Mercury and Loki as there are between Mercury and Óðinn (Picard 1991: 86). She does not accept the names of the weekdays (dies Mercurii is in most Germanic languages rendered as the day belonging to Wodan/Óðinn) and later medi­eval texts, such as Vita Columbani and Paulus the Deacon’s Historia Langobardorum, as reliable evidence for the contrary because the weekday names are also otherwise problematic, and because the texts mentioned are of much later date (Picard 1991: 84). What Picard demonstrates, then, is that we cannot be certain that the name 33 

Picard (1991: 68–88). Some details in Picard’s criticism will be treated more extensively in later chapters, but it should be noted at once that Picard presents many excellent arguments in her critique of the older research, even if her own views may also be criticized, although on another level.

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Mercury is used to designate Ódinn. But a couple of objections must be raised here: If we leave out of consideration the old idea that a ‘gemeingermanische Religion’ (è 1) ever existed, then we can clearly agree that the Mercury that Tacitus (might) have known is definitely not the ‘same’ as the Óðinn-figure of the Viking Age. Having said this, however, it is still worth looking for possible similarities. And in both instances we have a god who is considered the mightiest within the pantheon, for whom, in particular, human sacrifices are carried out, and who is connected to the dead.34 Further, we can point to the existence of several votive inscriptions,35 mostly from the southern part of the Germanic area and in the Rhine land, among which five mention Mercurius Cimbrianus, ‘Mercury of the Cimbri’, indicating that Mercury was in these cases seen as the tribal god of the Cimbri. This is entirely in accordance with Wodan/Óðinn as the ancestor of noble families. Considering that, it appears to make sense to maintain that Óðinn is, in fact, related to the Mercury of Tacitus (cf. Simek 1984: 260–64).36 Once again, however: the fact that there are differences is trivial — how could one expect otherwise? But there are at the same time parallels, which would be hard to explain if we were not to accept some kind of continuity (è42).37 Likewise, Hercules with his club and his strong physique could very well constitute a reasonable parallel to a god of the Donar/Þórr type. As for the parallel between Mars and Tiu (or Ziu)/Týr, there is really not much evidence except for the weekday dies Martis, which corresponds to Tuesday, ‘the day of Tíw’;38 since we do not know of any myths in which Týr is directly associated with war, apart from Snorri’s statement in Gylfaginning (p. 25) that he ‘ræðr mjǫk sigri í orrostum’ (decides much about victory in battles), there is not much reason for connecting Týr with Mars. However, in two inscriptions from Roman England, we encounter the name Mars Thingsus, which should probably be understood as ‘Mars of the þing’, the legal assembly. This would 34 

Óðinn is certainly not a psychopompos in the same sense as Mercury, but he chooses those who shall die on the battlefield and he is the owner of an abode for the dead, Valhǫll. For further similarities between the two gods, we can refer to Menzel (1855). 35  For a complete sample, see Inscriptiones trium Gallarum et Germaniarum Latina. 36  Enright (1996a: 217–40) argues that the Germanic Mercurius (Wodan) was influenced to a much greater extent by the Celtic Mercurius than by the Roman equivalent. 37  See also a well-balanced account of interpretationes Romanae as well as interpretationes Norroenae in connection with Óðinn in Lassen (2011b: 92–109). 38  For a brief discussion of the weekday normally attributed to Týr, see also de Vries (1956–57a: ii, 11–13).

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suggest that the god mentioned in these inscriptions was a god for legal affairs rather than one of war, which is also supported by some placename evidence, for instance, in the name Tissø, ‘Týr’s lake’, in Denmark in combination with archaeo­logical excavations (cf.  Jørgensen 2009; è48). In all likelihood, we have to regard the way that interpretatio Romana operated as a fluid attempt of translating gods with certain characteristics and certain functions into Roman equivalents. If that is how it functioned, we should certainly not be surprised if different authors identify the same Germanic god with various Roman gods — or even if the same author might confuse the gods. As is also noticed by Picard, Mars, in Tacitus’s Histories (iv, 64), is seen as the mightiest god (1991: 82–83), but this Mars could very well be a god closer to the Óðinn-type. It all depends on the perspective and the functions that best fit the given situation. Apart from ‘function’ as an aspect decisive in the interpretatio Romana, we might also consider other characteristics, such as attributes (for instance, a spear) or the position of a certain god within the pantheon (for instance, the ‘king’ of the gods). Finally, we do not know how the Germani themselves referred to their gods when they communicated with the Romans: Did they use Germanic or Roman names (or, which is much more probable: both) and did they translate into the same Roman name every time they referred to one of their own gods? Probably not. Óðinn as warlord might be translated into Mars, whereas Óðinn as the chooser of warriors on the battle field is much more likely to be compared to Mercury. As is well known, the Germanic peoples definitely did not venerate the Roman ‘Mercury’ most among their gods, but it is very likely that the god they did venerate the most was a god who had striking parallels to Mercury; and the most likely candidate for that was clearly a deity similar to Óðinn/Wodan. How can we blame the Roman authors for not getting it all quite clear and consistent? The most likely explanation for the apparent lack of consistency is that it never was quite clear and consistent and that all comparisons constitute a complex combination of differences and similarities. The other part of Chapter 9 of Germania says that the Germanic peoples only venerated their gods in groves and forests and did not portray them in human form. Is that really the case? Clearly not. Archaeo­logy has shown that there were depictions of gods in anthropomorphic form both before and after Tacitus (see, for instance, van der Sanden and Capelle 2001). There is no doubt, either, that this description by foreign writers — that they did not depict their gods in human shape — is a topos in the ethno­g raphy of antiquity (cf. Picard 1991: 69–73). However, just because something is a topos, it is not necessarily untrue. Moreover, it could be argued that, even if we do have wooden or

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other depictions of gods from way back in times, and even if we are able to find structures in the archaeo­logical record that may be houses for religious purposes, it is quite likely that Tacitus would not have been aware of it: Compared to Roman statues and temples, Germanic equivalents would hardly be noticeable. Furthermore, the spectacular sacrificial feasts with killings of animals and humans would not necessarily take place within buildings (è25). So, to a Roman, it would quite likely be ‘true’ that the Germanic peoples did not have depictions of anthropomorphic gods and did not have temples. But, of course, we will never know for certain what lies behind these descriptions by Tacitus; we simply have to analyse, as carefully as possible, what kind of reality we most likely have to assume in relation to the religion of the Germanic tribes prior to their Christianization. This said, it must be conceded that Germania ch. 9 can hardly be seen as anything like conclusive evidence of continuity from the time of Tacitus to the Christianization of Scandinavia. Scholars are, as mentioned, greatly divided when it comes to questions of continuity: some take the information gained from Tacitus and many other ancient and medi­eval sources dealing with various Germanic peoples as evidence for such continuity, whereas many others argue that this is far from certain. Again, we must emphasize the fact that continuity requires some degree of similarity — but of course not similarity in every respect. The problem, if we wish to argue for continuity, is thus not whether there are differences in religion between the first century and the eleventh, but rather whether there are also similarities. The last example that we shall deal with here appears to show beyond doubt that, at least at some level, it is possible to find such similarities that cannot be due to anything but continuity. When this is the case, it will, in our opinion, not be wise to reject other instances of continuity, even if we do not have the ‘smoking gun’. Anyway, a ‘smoking gun’ appears to be exactly what we have when we compare the theogonic/anthropogonic myth of Tacitus (Germania ch. 2) and the theogonic myth by Snorri Sturluson (Gylfaginning, p. 11). These two texts are well known, and they have been analysed together by different scholars from various perspectives,39 but here, they will serve only to

39  For instance, Meid (1992: 495–97). Bruce Lincoln has used both texts in his reconstruction of an Indo-European theogony (Lincoln 1975; 1986), whereas the Danish historian of religion Morten Warmind has discussed them in relation to the question of whether Ing or Óðinn was the forefather of the Germanic kings (Warmind 1999). For other parallels among the Germani, see Andrén (2012b: 94) (è37).

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show that such a central theme as the theogony actually does show astonishing similarities in structural terms. The two texts read as follows. First Tacitus: Celebrant carminibus antiquis, quod unum apud illos memoriae et annalium genus est, Tuistonem deum terra editum. ei filium Mannum, originem gentis condi­ toresque, Manno tris filios adsignant, e quorum nominibus proximi Oceano Ingae­ vones, medii Herminones, ceteri Istaevones vocentur. (p. 266) (Their ancient hymns — the only style of record or history which they possess — celebrate a god, Tuisto, a scion of the soil. To him they ascribe a son Mannus, the beginning of their race, and to Mannus three sons, its founders, from whose names the tribes nearest the ocean are to be known as Ingaevones, the central tribes as Herminones, and the rest as Istaevones.) (p. 267)

And more than 1100 years later (and thousands of kilometres away from Rome), Snorri says in Gylfaginning (p. 11), having just introduced the cow Auðhumla: Hon sleikti hrímsteinana, er saltir váru. Ok hinn fyrsta dag er hon sleikti steina kom ór steininum at kveldi manns hár, annan dag manns hǫfuð, þriðja dag var þar allr maðr. Sá er nefndr Búri. Hann var fagr álitum, mikill ok máttugr. Hann gat son þann er Borr hét. Hann fekk þeirar konu er Bestla hét, dóttir Bǫlþorns jǫtuns, ok fengu þau þrjá sonu. Hét einn Óðinn, annarr Vili, þriði Vé. (It licked the rime-stones which were salty. And the first day as it licked stones there came from the stones in the evening a man’s hair, the second day a man’s head, the third day there was a complete man there. His name was Buri. He was beautiful in appearance, big and powerful. He begot a son called Bor. He married a wife called Bestla, daughter of the giant Bölthorn, and they had three sons. The first was called Odin, the second Vili, and the third Ve.) (p. 11)

We notice, first of all, that there are several differences between the two texts. The gods involved have quite different names. Tacitus informs us that the three sons of Mannus are progenitors of different groups of tribes, which is not related by Snorri; however, Snorri mentions a cow and says that the first ‘god’, Búri, was born over the course of three days, being licked out of the stones by this cow, which has no parallel in Tacitus — and there are other differences, too. Even so, it seems banal to notice such differences: with a transmission encompassing a space of several thousands of kilometres and for a timeline of more than 1100 years, we can hardly be astonished that there are significant differences in the two cultures’ theogonic narratives. It is definitely more interesting and surprising if, in spite of all the differences, we are also able to find similarities — similarities so specific that it does not seem reasonable to argue that we are dealing

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with universals, manifested coincidentally in two different cultures. So let us go through these two small texts with a view to demonstrating similarities. These occur on different levels. To start with, it is possible to argue that some of the names in the two myths may be related to each other. Tuisto probably means ‘twin’ or Doppelwesen, ‘double being’ (Meid 1992: 496–97), which is also one interpretation of the name Ymir, the first giant in Old Norse cosmogony. Other manu­scripts of Germania, however, have the form Tuisco, which has been interpreted as a ‘descendant’ of Tiwas, or Týr. 40 No matter which of the two readings is the original, there seems to be some sort of continuity between the Roman author from antiquity and the medi­eval Icelandic source. However, this is not the main point here because this in itself does not help us in any way to reconstruct the structure of either a pre-Christian Scandinavian or a pre-Christian Germanic theogonic myth. In order to do that, we require much more specific parallels. And this is precisely what we find in the basic structure. First of all, an exact parallel is that the first god acquires a son who in turn acquires three sons; another exact parallel is that both Tuisto and Búri are born from the earth (even though it is said about Búri that he comes from stone), and a third parallel (though not quite as exact) lies in the fact that the third generation has some relation to human tribes. This is stated directly by Tacitus, whereas in the Nordic version we only hear about Óðinn having this role, insofar as he is the forefather of Scandinavian as well as Anglo-Saxon royal houses. Nevertheless, these parallels taken together seem to indicate beyond any reasonable doubt that we must accept some degree of continuity.41 Although such structural parallels cannot be demonstrated very frequently, it nonetheless appears that we cannot rule out some sort of structural continuity throughout the first millennium ce simply by referring to distances in time and space. Thus, late sources from the Middle Ages might potentially have deep roots in the pagan past of the Germani. Of course, it is important here to emphasize the word ‘potentially’ because a parallel such as the one here analysed does not allow us to argue, for instance, that everything in Gylfaginning is based on common Germanic mytho­logical structures. This is certainly not the case, since change is constant. But the example teaches us that we can definitely not dismiss the information related by Snorri simply by referring to its date or 40 

The discussions about this issue are found in de Vries (1956–57a: ii, 363–64). It is interesting, however, that a scholar such as Eve Picard who analysed the myth related by Tacitus did not mention Snorri’s version at all and seems to indicate that Tacitus made up the story himself (1991: 125). Is it really likely that Snorri 1100 years later made up the same story himself, too? 41 

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to his Christian world-view. Therefore, the greatest insight that we gain from such a comparative structural analysis is that no parts of the medi­eval material, except perhaps those having an obvious polemical twist against the pagan religion, should be ruled out beforehand. In order to determine whether a given piece of information is pre-Christian or not, we must analyse whether it will be able to explain features that are otherwise inexplicable.

Concluding Remarks With the few examples presented here, the fundamental problem regarding the literary sources written by Greek and Latin authors seems quite clear: Because it is very often hard to prove that the Germani of the Early Iron Age shared rituals and mythic traits with the Scandinavians of much later times, does this mean that Tacitus and his colleagues from antiquity and the early Middle Ages cannot be used as sources for Scandinavian religion? Definitely not! It only means that they, as with ethno­graphers of much later times, believed that it was possible to portray a religion that was not consistent as if it actually was. They had to generalize, as we all do when we attempt to characterize a people, not to speak of a whole group of peoples. Therefore, it is the task of the modern interpreter to go behind the texts and with an open mind attempt to analyse structures that may be tacit. The extreme position, for example, that the gods described by Tacitus were the ‘same’ as those of the Scandinavians of the Viking Age appears quite unrealistic, but the other extreme, that there was no continuity at all, is hardly better. The gods were by no means the ‘same’, but in certain respects they shared features, attributes, and functions to such a degree that it is hard to postulate that these are due to pure coincidence. Obviously, no text — not Tacitus’s works and no other texts, for that matter — should be taken at face value. In that sense, source criticism of the kind undertaken by Picard and many other highly qualified historians and philo­logists is always useful — and necessary. It only becomes problematic when it is assumed that there was ever an unambiguous reality that could have been grasped by the author of the source if he was only clever or honest enough. There was not, and the reality we attempt to reconstruct must reflect that. As to the continuity problem, it should be emphasized that both the denial of any sort of continuity and the acceptance of every piece of information as an exact parallel to phenomena we know from a much later period are both unrealistic viewpoints. Not least archaeo­logy seems to support that continuity as well as breaks in continuity characterized the pagan religion right from the beginning of the Iron Age and until the Christianization.

13 – Encounters: Roman Rudolf Simek Introduction Iron Age encounters with the Roman religion were among the earliest outside influences on Germanic beliefs.1 Recent archaeo­logical studies have shown that neither the Limes-borders along the Danube nor along the Rhine — nor, indeed, in between — were sealed borders, but that these areas formed part of a military, economic, and cultural contact zone that to different extents penetrated quite deeply into the area of Germania magna, that is, the areas not occupied by Roman forces. But quite apart from this contact zone that existed over several hundred years, there were other, predominantly military, encounters between southern Scandinavian (and northern continental) groups and the Roman Empire: these included the Cimbrian wars that took place when, towards the end of the second century bc, the Cimbri and Teutones left their homelands in Jutland, perhaps 150,000 strong eventually depending on various possible emigration scenarios, and after their success in the Battle of Noreia in 113 bc moved through the Roman provinces of Pannonia, Noricum, Helvetia, Gallia, and Hispania before splitting into two groups that were separately annihilated in 102 and 101 bc. Again in 57–56 bc the Roman armies came into contact with Germanic tribes, especially the Suebi and Sequani along the Rhine, during Caesar’s Gallic Wars. In the lead-up to Caesar’s campaign, the intensive connections between these Germanic tribes and the Celtic ones are apparent from various treaties that ulti1 

For a general introduction to encounters between Roman and Germanic religion, see Heather (2009), Hultgård (2003c), Schröder (1933), Simek (2014), and Spickermann (1995, 2003). Rudolf Simek, Professor of Scandinavian Studies, University of Bonn The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. 269–287 John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116940

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Figure 13.1. The maximum extent of the Roman Empire in the second century (1) and areas with Roman objects found outside the Roman limes in western and northern Europe (2). The map is mostly based on Lund Hansen 1987 and B. Magnus 2001. Map: Disir Productions, Uppsala. 

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mately led to the Gallic wars. Yet again, a good half century later, the forays of Roman armies under Drusus and Varus deep into the German Midlands in an attempt to subjugate Marbodus, king of the Marcomanni, ultimately led to the traumatic Roman defeat in the Teutoburg forest in ad 9. The bio­graphy of the victorious Arminius, born a prince among the Cherusci, hostage in Rome, Roman citizen, and army leader, shows the close interweaving of the elite of the Germanic tribes with the Empire to the south. Finds of Roman luxury goods, such as terra sigillata ceramics in chieftains’ graves in Thuringia in eastern Germany, deep in the Germania libera (‘free Germania’, i.e., that area inhabited by Germanic gentes which was not part of the Roman Empire, although this term is only used from the nineteenth century on) testify to the extent to which these political and diplomatic contacts influenced the material civilization far beyond the borders of the Empire. Roman luxury objects are not only found in the regions close to the Limes but also as far away as Scandinavia. Above all, the extraordinarily rich grave at Hoby on Lolland and the rich graves at Himlingøje on eastern Sjælland indicate direct links between the Roman Rhineland and parts of southern Scandinavia in the second, third, and fourth centuries (Lund Hansen 1987). These direct and indirect links between the Roman Empire and southern Scandinavia resulted in a particular ‘Romanized’ Scandinavian culture from the second to the fourth centuries ( Jørgensen and others 2003). Aspects of this culture are, for instance, the invention of runes (Odenstedt 1990; Fischer 2005), the use of Roman coins (Fagerlie 1967; Lind 1981; Lind 1988; Bjerg 2007), weapon deposits ( Jørgensen and others 2003), the organization of war-bands (Ilkjær 2000), paved roads and the organization of villages ( Jensen 2003), as well as so-called central places ( Jørgensen 2009). Of special interest are the presence of a number of bronze statuettes of Roman gods and goddesses (Lund Hansen 1987; Thrane 2005). These objects are never found in graves, in contrast to most Roman imports, but usually in wetlands where local wooden images of possibly divine figures are also found (Kaul 2003b). However, we must also consider the vast regional and chrono­logical differences in the possibilities of and willingness to adopt — or to actively reject! — Roman goods, habits, and ideas. This may have been of greater importance in the areas along the Limes or to the north-east of it, but for all Germanic areas we need to take into account the interests of a single chieftain or ethnic group to explain differences in speed and intensity of the reception of Roman culture. Only in Britain, the impact of Roman culture on the invading Angles, Saxons, and Jutes of the fifth century seems to have followed different paths since, it is not really viable to regard Britain as still ‘Roman’ by the time these Germanic

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tribes arrived, and we therefore have to reckon with the adoption of an already Christianized Roman-Celtic culture and not as such with Roman religion and culture that affected them. That economic contacts were by no means limited to the provincial Roman territories but extended well into the unoccupied Germanic areas east of the Rhine and north of the Danube (called Germania libera) is testified to by the discovery of a fortified trading town in Waldgirmes-Lahnau on the (navigable) river Lahn, but situated c. 100 km north-east of the Limes. This exclusively civil Roman settlement is dated to after ad 4 and already boasted a forum and several stone buildings as well as a wooden/earthen palisade with double ditches, but the settlement was never finished: it was possibly given up in the aftermath of the Teutoburg disaster of ad 9. The remnants of a monumental gilded bronze equestrian statue probably once erected on the forum testify to the high level of Roman culture Germanic tribes had access to even outside Roman territory. Apart from the contacts on the political and economic level, the use of Germanic tribesmen as auxiliary troops in the Roman army must have resulted in acquainting much of the population of Germania magna with Roman civilization, culture, and religion. The Roman trading posts deep inside that area also testify to the close economic contacts, as do the finds in Germanic settlements within a broad belt beyond the Limes that provided the provisioning of the Roman garrisons and towns along the Limes. The extent of Romanization of the indigenous populations of this belt can be estimated by the amount of Roman ceramics on the far side of the Limes, which right (north-east) of the Lower Rhine amounts to c. 15 per cent of all ceramics unearthed. Even before the Teutoburg disaster, the classis Germanica (the Roman Rhine fleet) had reached Jylland and probably got as far as Cape Skagen before turning back, not without having brought the remaining Cimbri in northern Jylland under (formal) control, thus penetrating into Scandinavia, although neither the Norwegian nor the Swedish south coast were apparently ever reached (Höckmann 1997; Höckmann 2000; Konen 2000). The exposed army camp of Hedemünden on the river Werra — a navigable source river of the Weser in north-east Germany — was situated on a strategic vantage point above the river and erected in several phases, providing a foothold for the Roman armies c. 250 km inland from the Limes of the Lower Rhine. It was probably founded by Drusus in 11 bc and in use for twenty years, possibly longer. This easternmost of all Roman camps in the Germanic areas must have provided the local population over nearly a generation with both economic and military contact to the Roman world and may serve as an example that even the so-called Germania libera was far from uninfluenced by the Romans.

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Figure 13.2. Objects from a grave at Hoby on Lolland, dated to the first century ad (Nationalmuseet no. DNF 2-22/20 and C17946-64). The grave, which is of one of the richest in northern Europe, probably represents the burial of a local chieftain who had direct contact with persons in the Roman Empire. In the grave was found a Roman table service, including two drinking cups of silver. According to an inscription these had once belonged to C. Silius, who was military commandant of Germania Superior in Mainz ad 14–21. The cups were made by a Greek artisan called Cheirisophos, who decorated them with scenes from the Iliad. Photo: Lennart Larsen, Nationalmuseet, Copen­hagen.

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Apart from the outlying post at Hedemünde, more than ten other Roman army camps in the Germanic areas outside the Roman Empire are known today from archaeo­logical evidence, some of them with several layers of temporary occupation on top of each other. The majority of those were situated along the river Lippe (Lat. Lupia), a major tributary of the Lower Rhine ending near Wesel and serving as a preferred inroad for the Roman Rhine fleet. These included camps at Holsterhausen, Haltern, Olfen, Lünen, Bergkamen, Delbrück, and one hitherto unidentified, which Tacitus (Annals ii, 7) calls Aliso. Others were situated further south, on the river Main (Marktbreit) and one in Hessen (Dorlar). All these camps can be dated to within two decades from c. 11 bc to ad 9. Occasional other, also mainly military, contacts — whether during confrontations as in Kalkriese (near Osnabrück) or during landing operations as at Bentumersiel/Jemgum in Ostfriesland — were far more short-lived and need not have resulted in close cultural contacts. But given the overall intensity and duration of cultural contacts over several centuries, whether more intensively as along the Limes and in the Roman provincial provinces or less so as in Germania magna, even less in Scandinavia, a certain amount of syncretism in various indigenous religions is to be expected. Roman influence in culture and religion can therefore hardly come as a surprise.

Interpretatio Romana However, it is necessary to distinguish carefully between the interpretatio Romana, that is, the impression given by Roman sources and their early medi­ eval Christian derivatives of the native religion of the Germanic tribes, and the interpretatio Germanica, that is, the attempts by indigenous Germanic people at making sense of the Roman religions and interpreting them in their own terms. The interpretatio Romana can be found in all reports by Roman authors dealing with the religions of non-Roman peoples in the north, trying to describe native religions in terms of the Roman understanding of the nature of religion. As the Roman religion was polytheistic with ostentatious cult buildings and public sacrifices as well as a strong inclination towards divination and a detailed system and hierarchy of cult functionaries, Roman writers sought to reproduce a similar system when describing the religion of those Germanic tribes they encountered. Among the very first of these encounters were the reports about the disastrous defeats the Roman armies experienced at the hands of the Teutons and Cimbri, especially the battle of Arausio (near Orange, south France) in 105 bc. Based on reports of these Roman defeats, the Greek geo­g rapher Strabo

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(c. 63 bc to c. ad 23) mentions a supposedly Cimbrian custom, which must reflect the traumatic experiences of the Roman armies some one hundred years earlier, when he talks about grey-haired Cimbrian ‘priestesses’ in long white dresses who are said to have sacrificed Roman prisoners in order to predict the future from their blood collected in huge cauldrons. Here, we may have an example of how three separate facts: namely, that a) Germanic seeresses were indeed in charge of divination, that b) according to Germanic custom enemy soldiers were sacrificed, and c) the role of divination in the Roman state cult were combined into a single, supposedly Germanic, cult performance to conform to Roman concepts of divination. When Julius Caesar in his personal report on his Gallic Wars reported on the trans-Rhenian tribes, he made a point of distinguishing them from the Gallic tribes with which he was mainly dealing and in his descriptions virtually denied the more primitive, but also more ferocious, Germanic tribes even the knowledge of personal gods — as those whom the Gauls worshipped — but ascribed to them only the veneration of natural phenomena such as sun, moon, and fire (De bello Gallico 6.2). In another place, however, he names Mercury as their main god (De bello Gallico 6.17) and as this tallies both with Tacitus’s description 150 years later as well with the second- and third-century votive altars dedicated to a (Germanic) Mercury, this has more likelihood than his earlier statement. But although Tacitus in ad 98 probably had access to far more information than Caesar, even his ethno­graphic account Germania is tinted by his own perception of Roman religion and especially its role in the supposed degeneration, in his eyes, of Roman society. In his description of Germanic religion, he therefore stresses those aspects, which distinguish this allegedly purer, more original society and religion from decadent Rome. Even so, his reports on the main gods Mercury, Hercules, and Mars ring true, as does his account of Germanic concepts of anthropogony through a divine genealogy. According to Tacitus (Germania ch. 2), these peoples ‘[c]elebrant […] Tuistonem deum terra editum’ (celebrate a god Tuisto, a scion of the soil) who had a son called Mannus who in turn had three sons, the eponymous ancestors of the tribes (or tribal groups) of the Ingävones, Hermiones, and Istävones (è12). The statement about Mercury as the main god is particularly likely since the most frequently named male god of late Roman votive altars within the Germanic provinces is exactly Mercury, although only a few of the epithets used on the inscriptions for Mercury are likely to be Germanic: Mercurius Cimbrianus (five dedications), Channin(i)us, *Leudisius, Gebrinius, *Eriausius (one dedication each). At the same time, others carry Latin epithets but are found within Germanic settlement areas. This also goes for Mercurius Rex on a Roman inscription from Nijmegen/Holland

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(Inscriptiones trium Gallarum et Germaniarum 1326), which is probably the strongest indication that Wodan/Óðinn was meant in these inscriptions since the Roman god Mercury hardly warranted the epithet ‘King’. This epithet would, however, be in keeping with the role of the highest god of the indigenous religion. Similarly, the dedicatory inscription found in Co­logne for a temple to Mercurius Augustus (dated to ad  79–81) was officially associated with the well-being of Emperor Titus (Spickermann 2008: 86–87), but it may be safely assumed that Germanic locals would have associated a Mercurius Augustus with their own main god (è42). Figure 13.3. Latin inscription mentioning Mercurius Rex, found in Nijmegen, the Nether­ lands. The inscription has been interpreted as a reference to the Germanic god Wodan/Óðinn (Museum Het Valkhof inv.no. BA.III.6). Photo: © Museum Het Valkhof, Niljmegen). 

Cultic Aspects

Tacitus is also the first source to describe sacrifices by the inhabitants of Germania magna: namely, the sacrifice in the sacred grove of the Semnones and the cult of Nerthus. The Semnones (who belonged to the Suebi and lived east of the Elbe and west of the Oder) supposedly conducted human sacrifices with regular intervals and in a sacred grove. There, Tacitus claims, representatives of all tribes assembled to conduct the bloody sacrifice. The interesting thing is not only that he mentions the great age of the meeting place and the fact that it is considered to be the abode of the ‘regnator omnium deus’ (all-ruling god), but also the sanctity of the grove itself. Nobody was allowed to enter without fetters, and nobody who fell was allowed to get up but had to exit the grove by rolling or somehow writhing himself out (Germania ch. 39). This has prompted comparisons to a similar ‘grove of fetters’, the Fjöturlundr in a

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poem of the Poetic Edda written down 1200 years later, namely, Helgakviða Hundingsbana i st. 30, although here, unfortunately, the name is all we hear about this lundr ‘grove’ (Höfler 1952a). The other sacrifice, described in even more detail, is localized at a lake on an island situated probably in the western Baltic since this sacrifice is also ascribed to the Suebi (Germania ch. 40). The peaceful gathering for the occasion is marked by the presence of the goddess Nerthus or Mother Earth (id est Terram matrem), who is carried around on a cart drawn by cows and led by a priest. After several joyful days of celebration, the cart and the cows are cleaned by slaves, who are afterwards drowned in the lake. The etymo­logical connection between the name of the goddess Nerthus and the Old Norse (male) god Njǫrðr seems indubitable at first sight, but unfortunately Nerthus, or rather the accusative form Nerthum, is but one of several readings found in the fifteenth and sixteenth century prints of Germania — others are: necthum, neithum, herthum, Neherthum, and Verthum. Some of the earliest editors, including those of the edition printed in Frankfurt 1551 and the Augsburg commentator Andreas Althammer in 1580, preferred the reading herthum, from which they deduced the existence of a goddess named *Hertha, because the element hert- is frequent in Old German names. Jacob Grimm, however, followed the reading of the editions from Vienna 1515 and Basel 1519, which preferred nerthum, because this was the obvious etymo­logical counterpart to Old Norse Njǫrðr. Hence, the proof of the identity of Nerthus and Njǫrðr is based on a circular argument and therefore carries little weight — quite apart from the conceptual discrepancies between a terra mater and an Old Norse god of the sea (see however è4 è12). The cart with the image of a goddess on it, however, rings true in the light of the cult wagons unearthed in southern Scandinavia, such the Dejberg wagon. Although Tacitus’s description is clearly influenced by Roman customs,2 it must be pointed out there was a longstanding northern European tradition of cult wagons, attested by the Bronze Age Trundholm wagon and a similar wagon from Tågaborgshöjden near Helsingborg as well as the Celtic wagon from Strettweg, Styria, dating to c. 700 bc. Moreover, human sacrifices connected with cult sites at lakes or bogs were, indeed, conducted both in northern continental Europe and Scandinavia, as excavations in Thuringia, northern Germany, and on the Swedish island of Öland have shown. 2 

Recently, however, the historicity of Tacitus’s report has been cast into serious doubt; see Battaglia (2001).

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Tacitus is, furthermore, our best source for the role of Germanic seeresses in the first century; he names two of them, Veleda and Albruna (or actually Albrinia/Aurinia),3 and, although there is little information about the latter, the former is mentioned not only in Germania 8 but several more times in his Histories (4.61), a history of Rome dealing with the second half of the first century. He ascribes to her a prominent political role during the Batavian Revolt of ad 69 along the Lower Rhine, with the native Bructeri (inhabiting the area between Ems and Lippe in northern Germany), the citizens of Co­logne and also the Roman commanders trying to enlist her mediation. The leader of the revolt, Julius Civilis, even sent the captured legion commander of the fallen Castra Vetera, Munius Lupercus, as a gift to Veleda. A little later, in ad 70, the flagship of the Roman Rhine fleet, a Trireme, was seized during a nighttime attack and dragged as far upstream as the river Lippe as a gift for Veleda. The escaped Roman commander, Petilius Cerialis, correctly assessed the power of Veleda and secretly asked her to allow the outcome of the struggle to take another direction and promising her the pardon of both Civilis and the Batavi (Tacitus, Histories 5.24) in return for her favour. Just how Veleda reacted to this attempt at bribery, we do not know, but we do hear about her later fate from other sources: a poem written by Papinius Statius (Silvae 1.4.89) mentions Veleda being a prisoner in the year ad 77 and notes that a little later Veleda was apparently deported to Italy and may have lived out the remainder of her days as a temple servant in a temple within the town of Ardea in Latium (southern Italy); a Greek satirical poem on a small fragment of marble from this town is aimed at Veleda, mentions her name, and calls her ‘the tall, arrogant virgin whom the Rhine water drinkers worship.’4 Despite the enticing phonetic similarity, the name Veleda is most likely not etymo­logically related to Old Norse vǫlva ‘seeress’, but is associated with Celtic fili(d) ‘poet, scholar’ (Krahe 1961; Guyonvarch 1961; Meid 1964), cf. Welsh gweled ‘to see’ (Birkhan 1997: 295). Moreover, it is quite possible that Veleda was not originally a name, but rather a term for ‘seeress’, in which case it could, indeed, be of Celtic origin. A somewhat later Roman source for Germanic seeresses is the Roman historio­grapher Cassius Dio (163–c. 229), writing in Greek in the early third century. When describing the campaigns of Emperor Domitian east of the 3  Albruna, which etymo­logically speaking presents very tempting interpretations, is only an emendation of the other, more likely forms. 4  On the fate of Veleda, see Guarducci (1945/46), Keil (1947), Wilhelm (1948), and Volkmann (1964).

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Rhine in the 80s of the first century, he mentions a seeress called Ganna belonging to the tribe of the Semnones who lived east of the Elbe. She seems to have been active towards the end of the first century ad, sometime after Veleda, as she was brought to Rome with the king of the Semnones, Masyos, as stated in Roman History 67.5.3: ‘ὅτι Μάσυος 1 ὁ Σεμνόνων βασιλεὺς καὶ Γάννα ῾παρθένος ἦν μετὰ τὴν Οὐελήδαν 2 ἐν τῇ Κελτικῇ θειάζουσἀ ἦλθον πρὸς τὸν Δομιτιανόν, καὶ τιμῆς παρ᾽ αὐτοῦ τυχόντες ἀνεκομίσθησαν’ (p. 346) (Masyos, king of the Semnones, and the virgin Ganna, who had appeared as a seeress in Celtica5 after Veleda, came to Domitian, were treated honourably and were returned). Domitian was emperor from 81 to ad 96, and a treaty with the Cherusci (living between Weser and Elbe) seems to have been made in the year after his final war against the Chatti: ad 86, which is a likely date for the appearance of Ganna in Rome. She was thus active in the decade after Veleda had been captured and deported. Interestingly, Cassius Dio does not call her by the usual term sibylla but rather theiázousa ‘someone making prophesies’. The name Ganna is usually interpreted as being linked to ON gandr ‘magic object or being’ and may as such, like Veleda, be a term connected to her function rather than her proper name. It is possible, although difficult to prove, that this term refers to some magic wand as insignia of her calling. With regard to a period one hundred years before Domitian, Cassius Dio also mentions (Roman History 54.35) an unnamed — gigantic or at least supernatural — woman with prophetic powers who supposedly confronted the Roman commander Drusus in 10 bc when he approached the Elbe in the area of Magdeburg, that is, within the tribal lands of the Cherusci. This intimidating woman purportedly predicted his approaching death (Abramenko 1994), which sure enough occurred soon afterwards after an unfortunate fall from his horse. Even so, this prediction should probably be seen as a typical ominous supernatural portent rather than a historic encounter with a Germanic seeress. A source of rare objectivity for the existence of a Germanic seeress deported by Rome has been found in Egypt. Inscribed in Greek on an ostracon (inscribed potsherd) from the second century ad on the Egyptian island of Elephantine, the name, position, and origin of the seeress are given: Waluburg. Se[m]noni Sibylla (Waluburg, sibyl from the tribe of the Semnoni). These details are found in the penultimate line of a list of Roman and Graeco-Egyptian soldiers, which was possibly a payroll. Senoni is certainly a misspelling of Semnoni, and so the 5 

Despite what Walter Baetke (1938: 113) says, namely, ‘in Germania’, the manu­scripts and most editions all read ‘in Celtica’.

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sibyl seems to have come from the Germanic tribal group of the Semnoni and not from the Celtic Senones, because the etymo­logy of her name is distinctly Germanic, even if -burg is otherwise not recorded in personal names before the seventh century. Walu- probably derives from Germanic *waluz ‘stave, wand’ and could thus also refer to the wand, the symbol of a seeress (cf. the other sibyl from the same tribe, Ganna) (Schröder 1916–19; Helm 1918; Franz 1950). How she came to be in Egypt and on a Roman payroll is uncertain, albeit not surprising considering the obvious, significant, and political influence that seeresses had in the first and second centuries ad. As far as the Germanic cult and cult functionaries are concerned, this is all we learn from Roman authors: the fanciful and probably ahistoric reference to Cimbrian priestesses by Strabo, the role of a (male?) priest in the cult of Nerthus, and the very prominent role of the seeresses. The reason for the lack of information on cults on the one hand and the prominence of the sibyls on the other may lie in the fact that the Romans in all likelihood had little chance to personally experience a native sacrificial scene (and both the blood sacrifice of the Semononi as well as cult of Nerthus show distinct signs of secrecy), while the political aspect of the role of seeresses must have been ever present in Roman dealings with the Germanic peoples east of the Rhine.

Interpretatio Germanica The interpretatio Germanica, however, shows how the Germanic peoples6 attempted to identify Roman divinities, myths, and cult habits with equivalents from their own cultures and tried to adopt concepts from the foreign religion(s) by assigning to them already known names and concepts from the indigenous religion. The best known insight into the interpretatio Germanica, as far as divinities from the Roman pantheon are concerned, is afforded by the Germanic translations of the Roman weekday names. Latin dies Martis (Tuesday) was rendered as the day of Zîu/Týr, the day of Mercurius (Wednesday) as the day of Wodan/Óðinn and the day of Jupiter (Thursday) became the day of Donar/Thor, although Thor actually appears in the interpretatio Romana as Hercules. Finally, the Roman goddess Venus was identified with Fríja/Frigg in the translation of dies Veneris (Friday). None of these translations are without problems, however. The only one of these identifications that tallies with that of the interpretatio Romana is the one of Mercury with Wodan/Óðinn, and even here one has to ask what prompted the comparison of the main god 6 

See (è12) for the relationship between Germanic religion and PCRN.

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of the Germanic pantheon with the (relatively) minor figure of Mercury. The identification could have been based on external attributes of the two gods, namely, Mercury’s broad-rimmed hat, cloak, and staff corresponding to the hat, cloak, and spear belonging to Wodan/Óðinn, but it is more than questionable that this description of Óðinn from medi­eval literature was already valid in the third century ad. The two gods must have had more in common apart from these questionable attributes, for example, that both had a function as companion of the soul in death. Another possibility for the identification might be that Mercury, like the Greek Hermes, had become a god of speech and eloquence and as such could be associated with Wodan/Óðinn, god both of poetry and magic diction. That Mercury could have meant Wodan to the Germanic population on second-century votive stones in the province Germania inferior is confirmed by several of his bynames (Mercurius Cimbrianus, *Leudisius, *Eriausius). That the validity of the identification was widespread is, furthermore, shown by the fact that all Germanic dialects had sooner or later taken over the translation of the weekday name: Anglo Saxon Wōdnesdæg (English Wednesday), Middle Dutch Wōdensdach (Dutch Woensdag), Old Norse Óðinsdagr (Danish, Norwegian, Swedish onsdag), Old High German wôdanestag, although in German the name was later replaced by the less heathen Mittwoch (and Icelandic Miðvikudagur, both from Church Latin media hebdomas) (Collitz 1924). Even Christian authors of the early Middle Ages confirm that Mercury was identified as Wodan: Jonas of Bobbio (Vita Columbani 1.27; c. ad 642) and Paul the Deacon (Historia Langobardorum 1.8; second half of the seventh century), as well as the Origo gentis Langobardorum. The least problematic of the Germanic translations of Roman weekday names is that of Dies Iovi ‘day of Jupiter’ to ‘day of Donar/Þórr’, although the interpretatio Germanica does not correspond to the interpretatio Romana in the case of these gods. Donar, probably identified as Hercules in the interpretatio Romana of Roman writers, must either have had a rather dominant position in the Germanic pantheon or else be equated with Jupiter because he, too, was able to create thunder and lightning. The resulting Germanic *Þonares dagaz was used in all areas of Germanic settlement, cf. Old English Þunresdæg (English Thursday), Old High German donarestag (German Donnerstag), and Old Norse Þórsdagr (Danish, Norwegian, Swedish torsdag). The day of Venus, dies Veneris, became the ‘day of Frîja’ in the interpretatio Germanica, Frîja being the southern Germanic equivalent of the goddess Frigg, not Freyja. The wife of Óðinn was in this way equated with the Roman goddess Venus, although it is most uncertain whether Frîja/Frigg was really considered to be a goddess of love (rather than of marriage). This equation may instead

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Figure 13.4. A collection of bronze statuettes of Roman gods and goddesses found in different parts of Denmark (Nationalmuseet no. C1077, C3662, C335, C9372, C1091, C3916, and C1088). These statuettes have usually been found in wetlands, in contrast to most Roman objects, which have been found in graves. Photo: Lennart Larsen, Nationalmuseet, Copen­hagen. 

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have its reason in the great popularity of Venus within Roman religion; her cult certainly was far more widespread than that of Hera, which would have been the more logical counterpart to Frîja/Frigg. But it could also have come about because of the combined veneration of Venus and Jupiter, both in temples on Capitol Hill in Rome and in the private sanctuaries (lararia) of Roman villas. Yet another reason may have been the rising cult of Venus Genetrix, the goddess of motherhood and marriage, which was promoted by Julius Caesar, who had a temple erected to her on the Forum Romanum in 46 bc. The most problematic rendition of Roman weekday names in the interpretatio Germanica is that of dies Martis ‘day of Mars’. Anglo-Saxons and Scandinavians simply replaced the Roman god Mars with the Germanic god *Tīwaz (Old High German Zîu, Old English Tīg, Tīw, Old Norse Týr), which resulted in the weekday names Old English Tīwesdæg (Engl. Tuesday), Old Norse týsdagr (Danish, Norwegian tirsdag, Swedish tirsdag/tisdag). In Germanspeaking areas, the god *Tīwaz appeared only in Frisian tīesdi, Old High German zîostag, Middle High German zîestac, Allemanic zîstac. In modern German, however, the Low German variants (Middle Dutch dinxendach, dingsdag, Low German dingesdach) prevailed and resulted in New High German Dienstag. The -n- form might be explained by a byname for Zîu/Týr preserved in a single inscription to a Mars Thingsus from Housesteads, dedicated by Frisian legionaries and probably derived from another name for *Tīwaz, namely, *Þingsaz ‘Thing-god’, unless the name directly refers to the Thing (‘council’) in the first place. In Bavaria, no Germanic god was used to replace Mars but instead the Greek form of Mars, Ares, was used, resulting in the now nearly obsolete form Ertag ‘Tuesday’ (de Vries 1929b; Höfler 1979; Simek 2007: 203, 335–38). Another aspect of the interpretatio Germanica, apart from the replacement of Roman gods with Germanic ones in the weekday names, was the adaption of Roman forms of cult and even the names of Roman gods in the veneration of native deities. Although the Roman god Mars was the addressee of many Roman Age altars while a few (particularly Mars Thingsus and Mars Halamarðus) seem to refer to a Germanic deity, as indicated by the native byname, these are quite isolated instances. This means that we have no way of knowing whether the actual Roman god was meant or his equivalent in the local indigenous religion. Far more frequent are dedications to what looks like a Germanic version of Hercules, which, according to the interpretatio Romana, would be referring to *Þunaraz (Donar/Þórr). This is testified by half a dozen Germanic epithets, all found on various stones, coins, and so forth: Hercules Magusanus (‘the mighty Hercules’), Hercules Deusonianus (to: Doesburg/Ijssel?), Hercules Maliator, and Hercules Saxanus (both meaning ‘Hercules of the quarry-workers’).

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Interestingly, when it came to female deities, the interpretatio Germanica only took over Roman forms of veneration, but not, as in the cases of Mars, Hercules, and Mercury, the Latin equivalents of the goddesses’ names. Even where we are able to draw a link between a literary interpretatio Romana in Roman writers and the religious veneration of a goddess, for example, documented by votive stones as in the case of Isis and Nehalennia, there is no indication on the stones of the actual name of Isis, although the attributes depicted with Nehallenia — namely, ships, oars, fruit, and dogs — make it likely that this is the goddess whom Tacitus’s interpretatio Romana refers to as Isis (Germania, ch. 9: ‘pars Sueborum et Isidi sacrificat’). Yet, the well over one hundred votive stones set up by Frisian sailors and merchants to Nehallenia formally follow the tradition of Roman votive stones both in terms of icono­graphy and language: only the names remain un-Romanized (Simek 2007, 228–29; Hondius-Crone 1955; Cramer-Peeters 1972). Other Germanic goddesses have not nearly achieved the popularity of Nehalennia, if we go by the number of votive stones dedicated to them: dea Sunnuxsalis mentioned on ten inscriptions west of Bonn and Co­logne was very likely a tribal goddess of the Sunuci (either Germanic or Celtic), dea Vagdavercustis is also referred to on seven preserved stones, and dea Hludana (possibly etymo­logically related to Old Norse Hlóðyn) is known from five inscriptions in Germania inferior. A special case is dea Sulevia, because her name also turns up in the plural, as deae Suleviae, but she need not be a Germanic goddess since the votive stones bearing her name are found also in other parts of the empire, outside the Germanic sphere. The most striking aspect of the interpretatio Germanica is the adaption of Roman cult forms for a mainly indigenous cult of three female deities, the matronae, to whom stone votive altars with Latin inscriptions and icono­g raphic representations of the deities, Roman-style temples, and whole sanctuary districts were dedicated in the Germanic and Gallic provinces of the Roman Empire (è 57, figure è 57). Among the several thousand votive inscriptions to the matronae, many — including the ones from the big cult centres west of the Lower Rhine — are Germanic, but there are also several Celtic ones and some Roman ones. Of the Germanic names of the matronae, the ones linked to water and especially to particular rivers are the most noteworthy and frequent, which is also the case with the Celtic names. Another large group of names can be linked to Germanic settlements and even tribes, and these names may have referred to local protective deities. These deities, however, do not correspond exactly to the lares and genii loci of the Roman religion despite the fact that they fulfil similar functions. Both the manner of veneration and the scope

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and power of these divinities are quite different from those of the corresponding Roman protective spirits. Still, occasional dedications to matronae, other gods, and a genius loci are known on the same stones within one inscription. Nonetheless, quite a large group of matron names of indubitably Germanic etymo­logy reveals aspects of the scope and function of the matronae: for example, the Aufaniae, testified on about ninety altars in two cult centres west of the Lower Rhine, whose name can be etymo­logically connected to Gothic ūfjō ‘abundance’ and thus interpreted to mean ‘the freely giving’. In addition, there are several matron names that, by including the Germanic etymon -gabiae ‘the giving’, refer to the giving or providing nature of the matronae. Examples include the Alagabiae ‘the all-giving’, the Friagabiae ‘the freely giving’ (from Housesteads), and the more frequent Gabiae ‘the giving’ (ten dedications). These female triads of deities correlate with single goddesses whose names are based on the same root, such as Garmangabis and Friagabis, both venerated by Suebian troops stationed along Hadrian’s Wall. Other matronae had, according to the testimony of their name, a more protective nature, such as the Audrinehae (possibly related to Germanic *auja ‘divine protection’, five dedications), the Et(h)rahenae (which might be connected to Old High German ettar ‘fence’ and refer to protection as well) and the Fachine(i)hae (possibly related to Germanic *fahana ‘happy’, three dedications). However, geo­graphic connotations, such as placenames, tribal names, or even directional aspects like the Austriahenae from Morken-Harff (‘Matrons of the easterners’, ‘Easterly Matrons’, possibly ‘Matrons from East of the Rhine’?), form the bulk of the material with a total of over 150 dedications. Like the inscriptions, the icono­graphic depictions of the matronae to some extent follow Roman icono­graphical traditions, but the depiction of the three female deities — the two on the outside are married women, indicated by their headdresses, while the middle one is unmarried and thus wears her long hair uncovered — follows local custom in the sense that the rather extravagant linen headdresses of the women of the Ubian tribe (resettled west of Co­logne after 39/38 bc by Agrippa) are taken over in the relevant icono­graphy within that area. These deities were, then, closely associated with the inhabitants of a given area rather than with a tribe as such, but even more likely local deities were, in several cases, connected (as are several single goddesses in the Celtic areas) to specific rivers. The attributes depicted on the votive stones additionally portray their giving nature: the three seated goddesses hold fruit baskets on their laps; other illustrations around them and on the sides of the votive stones include branches, trees, fruit, and cornucopia. Those inscriptions that mention the reason for the dedication of the votive stones regularly state that the male dedica-

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tor does this ‘for himself and his family’, for health, or for personal advancement — many of these dedicators being Germanic officials in the Roman hierarchy. The cult of the matronae is not unique to the Germanic areas but is also widespread in Gaul, and instances are found in Upper Italy, occasionally even spread out across other areas of the Roman Empire. How many of these instances are due to originally Germanic soldiers must remain open, as must the extent to which the Germanic-Celtic syncretistic belief in three female deities corresponded to similar (regional?) beliefs within Roman religion. We simply do not have references to this cult in any written sources. It can be said, however, that in the form this cult appears to us through its physical remains, it is a Germanic-Celtic-Roman cult; to what extent it was shared by Germanic peoples east of the Rhine or in southern Scandinavia is impossible to say, but it can be assumed that this was the case in one or another form. The veneration of ‘polyvalent ancestor, protective, and mother-deities’ (Spickermann and Steenken 2003: 122) probably best describes the syncretistic nature of the cult in this pronounced ethnic melting pot. The interpretatio Germanica is not in all its aspects fully understandable to us, as we do not know what value or meaning native Germanic peoples may have attributed to ideas or objects current within the Roman Empire. It is therefore imaginable that a precious, but totally secular, Roman drinking vessel could become a cult object in the Germanic reinterpretation, or that the ostentatiously representative silver mask in imitation of the helmet of a Roman officer could take on a religious quality and therefore end up as a sacrifice in, for example, the Thorsbjerg bog sacrifice. The best known, albeit somewhat later, example of such reinterpretation is the Roman custom of handing out bracteates bearing the image of the Roman emperor (Augustus) as a medal (or payment) to deserving officers (or perhaps as tribute); in the Germanic reinterpretation and reproduction of such bracteates, however, the images portrayed a god whose function is still not fully understood. He was possibly a healer, and thus the Germanic-produced bracteates served as amulets in the wide sense of the term (von Padberg 2011: 611). The intensive contacts between the Roman Empire and Germanic and Scandinavian tribes, even those outside the Empire, could well have led to other syncretistic phenomena that are not as vividly preserved as the cults of gods, goddesses, and triads within the borders of the empire. After the beginning of the fourth century, when the Roman Limes was ever more frequently breached by increasing incursions of Germanic groups, this must also have led to an early acquaintance with the advance of Christianity, since missionaries — like St Severin in Noricum — were already at work along the Limes in the

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fourth century. In the fifth century, not just southern Germanic groups but also southern Scandinavian tribes such as the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes came into contact with Roman Christianity when emigrating to Britain. This exposure to both Roman religion and Christianity in all the contact zones from the Middle Danube to Britain and through an extensive period of time led to an early loss of identity of the native polytheistic religions outside Scandinavia and only allows us to glean the remains of what was subsequently termed ‘pagan’, that is, pre-Christian, cults and beliefs. Even in the areas where we believe that the polytheistic religions survived longest — Saxony, Scandinavia — we must be aware that syncretistic traits need not only have come in during the missionary period, as is often assumed, but that matters and motifs originating from the Roman and Greek mytho­ logies as well as from Christianity, Judaism, and Near Eastern religions, can have made their way into Germanic myths and legends by ways of Roman legionaries and Germanic auxiliary soldiers employed by the Roman army in various parts of the extensive Empire. Thus, for motifs common between southern European and northern European religions, it is not always necessary to assume an ‘Urverwandtschaft’, because cultural contacts already in the first half millennium of our Christian era were more intensive than is generally assumed.

14 – Encounters: Celtic Matthias Egeler* Introduction ‘Celtic’ and ‘Germanic’ peoples have been in close contact ever since antiquity. Since the late nineteenth century at the latest it has repeatedly been argued that this contact has resulted in substantial Celtic influences in Germanic religion. The suggested influences concern both the continental Germanic religion(s) of the Iron Age and the mytho­logy of the North during the Viking Age, with the focus of the discussion having traditionally been on ‘Celtic’ (predominantly Irish) influences on the Norse mytho­logy of the Middle Ages.

Historical Background The first certain mentioning of ‘Celts’ (Κελτοί) in the historical record is found in the works of Herodotus in the fifth century bce. Modern scholarship — though with some caveats and a certain amount of disagreement — tends to use this term for cultures of central and western Europe from the late Hallstatt period (i.e., the mid-seventh century bce) onwards.1 At the time of their maximum dispersion, ‘Celtic’ peoples inhabited territories reaching from the Iberian Peninsula to the Balkans (with an outlier in Anatolia), and from Britain and Ireland to northern Italy. In the earliest Classical testimonies, ‘Celtic’ and ‘Germanic’ tribes are not differentiated from each other; the fourth-century  

* This research was supported by a Violet Campbell Research Fellowship at St Catharine’s College, Cam­bridge, and a Heisenberg Grant of the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft. 1  For a detailed overview of Celtic history in antiquity, cf. Maier (2012). Matthias Egeler, Privatdozent, Ludwig-Maximilians-University, Munich The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. 289–317 John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116941

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Figure 14.1. Region of late La Tène oppida in central Europe in the first century bce, conven­ tionally interpreted as a region of urbanized Celtic kingdoms. Map: Disir Productions, Uppsala. 

bce historian Ephorus, for instance, assumed that the nearest neighbours of the ‘Celts’ to the north-east were not the ‘Germanic peoples’ but the ‘Scythians’. It was only in the ethno­graphy of Gaius Julius Caesar that ‘Germani’ were first conceptualized as a group of equal standing with ‘Celts’ and ‘Scythians’ and not as an obscure part of the ‘Celts’ (Maier 2001: 11). Yet even after Caesar the classical use of the terms ‘Celtic’ and ‘Germanic’ never entirely corresponded to modern cultural and linguistic classifications. The term ‘Celtic’ in present-day scholarly usage is an etic term which is derived from the ethnic label of classical ethno­g raphy and whose exact definition varies depending on the specific scholarly discourse within which it is employed. The main usages are: (1) a use closely based on the classical ethno­

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Figure 14.2. A silver cauldron from Gundestrup in Himmerland in northern Jylland (Nationalmuseet no. C6576). The cauldron, which can be dated to the second or first centuries bce, was probably manufactured by Celts living in present-day Bulgaria or Romania. On the inside and the outside, the cauldron is decorated with Celtic mytho­logical motifs. The cauldron is an example of the contacts between the ancient Celtic world and Scandinavia. Photo: Lennart Larsen, Nationalmuseet, Copen­hagen. 

graphic term for peoples denoted as ‘Celts’ by Greek and Roman authors, but expanded by the inclusion of the inhabitants of Britain and Ireland (who are established as ‘Celts’ in all modern usages of the term, but were not considered to be ‘Celtic’ by classical authors); (2) a use for the archaeo­logical late Hallstatt and La Tène cultures; and (3) a use for speakers of Celtic languages (cf. Maier 2003b: 11–12). Of these definitions, the linguistic one (3) is the one most commonly used in the context of research on Celtic-Germanic religious contact, and this definition is also the basis of the following discussion. Celtic and Germanic territories have been in close contact during all periods.2 Already in the Iron Age before the rise of Rome, an intensive contact 2 

In general on Celtic-Germanic contact in antiquity, cf., e.g., Möllers and others (2007); for the Middle Ages cf. Griffiths (2010); Holman (2007); Larsen (2001); Clarke and others (1998); Gísli Sigurðsson (1988).

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Figure 14.3. Irish ornament fittings found at Sandnes in Rogaland (Kulturhistorisk Museum, Oslo no. C1959). The find is one of many insular objects from the Viking Age found in western Scandinavia. These objects emphasize the connections between the Celtic and Scandinavian worlds. Photo: Eirik Irgens Johnsen, Kulturhistorisk Museum, Universitetet i Oslo, Oslo. 

existed, ranging from trade to mercenary service. Here, for instance, the importation of highly decorated cauldrons to Denmark may be mentioned; such cauldrons can be of Celtic manufacture (e.g., the Rynkeby Cauldron) or can be Mediterranean products (e.g., the Mosbæk Cauldron, which is an Etruscan piece), but in either case, they have probably reached the north through Celtic hands (cf. Kaul 2007: 333–40). On the brink of the Roman conquest of Gaul, an example of close Celtic-Germanic encounters is provided by the Germanic king Ariovistus, who was called to Gaul by two Gaulish tribes to aid them in an internal Gaulish power struggle, learned the Gaulish language and married the sister of the king of Noricum (Caesar, De bello Gallico 1.31; 1.47; 1.53). Such encounters facilitated a cultural exchange, which brought ‘Germanic’ and ‘Celtic’ cultures, in so far as they can be differentiated, into contact with each

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other. During antiquity, this Celtic-Germanic contact took place primarily in central and western continental Europe. In contrast to this, the key locations for contact between Celts and Germanic paganism during the Viking Age were found in north-western Europe. Of central importance were the Viking settlements in Britain and Ireland; one may only mention the Viking kingdom of Dublin as the most prominent example. But also Iceland itself was a significant location for Celtic-Norse contact: intermarriage and the import of slaves relocated a weighty Celtic element to Iceland already during the Settlement Period (one may recall the revolt of Irish slaves described in Landnámabók SH ch. 8; cf.  Holm 1986, especially: 322–24). Overall, it can be noted that in both antiquity and the Middle Ages, CelticGermanic encounters spanned the whole scale from peaceful trade and political or military alliance to raid, conquest, and settlement. Thus, historical circumstances permitted religious encounters at all periods, some of which have left their imprint in the extant sources.

Sources There are substantial differences in the available sources between the continental Celtic religion(s) of antiquity on the one hand and Britain and Ireland during the early Middle Ages on the other.3 For the religious history of the Celts of antiquity, the main sources are the following: 1. Classical ethno­graphy.4 Classical written sources represent an outside perspective on Celtic religion, which tends towards broad generalizations and the use of literary stereotypes, and whose value is furthermore dependent on the degree to which an author had access to reliable information, the influence of his own philosophical perspectives, and the function of the ethno­graphic note in the broader literary frame of a work. In addition to self-declared ethno­graphic texts, historical texts can also contain important information. One case in point are the reports about the seeress Veleda, who has featured prominently in the debate about Celtic-Germanic encounters. 2. Archaeo­logical sources. Archaeo­logical sources, such as excavations of sanctuary sites, religious icono­graphy, or burials, have the advantage of pro3  For a more detailed general overview of the sources for Celtic religious history, cf. Maier (2001: 34–47). 4  These sources are collected and discussed in Hofeneder (2005–11). Cf. Maier (2012: 17–19).

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viding an authentic, first-hand testimony of Celtic religious life. However, the material in question is widely dispersed, and the problems of reconstructing religion on the basis of its traces in material culture are considerable, as a substantial part of the evidence is highly open to diverging interpretations. This class of evidence shows some overlap with the epi­graphic evidence (see below), as many inscribed monuments are also of importance as material objects, especially through their icono­graphy. Leaving aside the icono­graphy of dedication stones, the most prominent archaeo­logical evidence within the discussion about Celtic-Germanic encounters to date are a number of Iron Age weapon sacrifices; especially recent excavations of sanctuaries in Picardy (Gournay-sur-Aronde, Dép. de l’Oise; Ribemontsur-Ancre, Dép. Somme) have contributed much material. 3. Epi­graphy. This can be subdivided into (a) epi­graphic testimonies in Celtic languages that predate Roman conquest and the ensuing Romanisation, and (b) Roman epi­graphy, predominantly in Latin but to a smaller extent also in Celtic vernaculars. In spite of the frequent terseness of the information provided, this category contains much material of highest value, ranging from dedication stones (where a large number of dedications to the Matres or Matronae should be noted especially; è57) to outstanding singular monuments, such as the Coligny calendar. For early medi­eval Britain and Ireland, the source situation is characterized by the availability of a large and early native literature in both Latin and the vernaculars; Ireland in particular possesses one of the most extensive vernacular literatures of the Middle Ages.5 In the scholarly debate about Celtic-Norse encounters, attention has traditionally been focused on the vernacular Irish material, while the much less extensive Welsh vernacular evidence has played hardly any role in this discussion. In marked difference to much of the continental European literature, the Irish (and to a much smaller extent the Welsh) vernacular literature perpetuates a wealth of motifs whose origins appear to lie in pre-Christian mytho­logy. There is, however, no authentic pagan literature as such: most of the extant texts have been composed centuries after the Christianization of the island, which already began in the fifth century ce, and none predates or is contemporary with the Conversion Period. This has led to a fierce and still ongoing debate about the question of the extent to which the Christian literature of Ireland can be used to 5 

For an introduction to medi­e val Irish literature, cf.  Ó Cathasaigh (2006) and Ní Mhaonaigh (2006).

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Figure 14.4. The approximate area of Celtic-language-speaking groups around 1000 ce. Map: Disir Productions, Uppsala. 

reconstruct her pagan past.6 Equally problematic is the question of the extent to which continuities can be assumed between the pre-Christian religion of Ireland and the religion(s) of the continental Celts of antiquity (cf.  Sims-Williams 1998). These problems are only of marginal relevance to the question of IrishNorse encounters during the Viking Age, however, as contemporary literature from (Christian!) Viking Age Ireland is plentifully available. Yet they have to be noted, as some commentators have treated the Irish mytho­logical literature as if 6 

Cf.  McCone (1990); classic extreme positions are Carney (1955) vs. the review by G. Murphy (1955–57) and Jackson (1964). The debate about the degree to which medi­e val Irish sources can be used to reconstruct the history and mytho­logy of pre-Christian Ireland has been termed the ‘nativist’-‘anti-nativist’ controversy; for a recent general overview of this debate, cf. Bergholm (2012: 21–25). For a new treatment of Irish ‘mytho­logy’ with a predominantly ‘anti-nativist’ outlook, cf. Williams (2016).

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it were a reflex of a living pagan religion encountered by the Norsemen, rather than the learned product of a Christian society. Furthermore, these problems are of direct relevance to a number of attempts to find parallels between Celtic and Germanic religions during the Iron Age, as many reconstructions of the former draw heavily on the medi­eval Irish evidence. Concerning Irish archaeo­logy, it is clear that the Norsemen of the Viking Age encountered some of the monuments of pre-Christian Ireland first hand: Irish annals mention the plundering of a number of megalithic tombs by Vikings for the 860s, which was noted by the Annals of Ulster in particular as something that had never happened before (Annals of Ulster s.a. 863; cf. Annals of the Four Masters s.a. 861). Nevertheless, the archaeo­logical heritage of Ireland has played practically no role in the discussion about Celtic-Germanic religious encounters to date, and so far no evidence has been adduced that encounters such as those noted by the Irish annalists had any impact on the pre-Christian religion of the Scandinavians.

Scholarship and Interpretations Encounters between Germanic and Celtic peoples in the sphere of religious history have been discussed ever since Celtic material started to become more easily accessible during the course of the nineteenth century. One instance of just how quickly new results in Celtic Studies could be received by scholars of Germanic religious history are the valkyries. In 1869, W. H. Hennessy published what was virtually the first article to sum up the state of contemporary knowledge on the battlefield demons of Irish literature (Hennessy 1866–69). This led to an almost immediate reaction in Germanic scholarship: in 1870, a revised version of Hennessy’s article was printed (Hennessy 1870), expanded by a postscript by C. Lottner, which gave an account of noticeable parallels between the characters of the battlefield demons of medi­e val Irish literature and the valkyries of Norse mytho­logy. Studying these parallels, Lottner concluded that they are best explained by assuming a direct historical connection between the Celtic and Germanic concepts, which he located in CelticGermanic cultural contacts along the Rhine during antiquity (Lottner 1870). Lottner’s overall idea, if not all of its detail, has stood the test of time comparatively well, and later scholarship has expanded on and often agreed with his conclusion that valkyries and Irish battlefield demons should be seen as historically connected (cf. Egeler 2009, 2011; Epstein 1997, 1998a, 1998b; Birkhan 1970: 509–15, 583; Donahue 1941). This has, however, remained an exception: most other contributions have aged less gracefully and have sometimes

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even provoked severe criticism of ideas of Celtic-Germanic religious contact. Given this controversial nature of the debate, a detailed critical discussion of the historio­g raphy as a whole would go far beyond the scope of this chapter, and the reader is referred elsewhere for such a survey (Egeler 2013a). Instead, the following pages will on the one hand give a short account of some of the most plausible possibilities for Celtic-Germanic religious encounters suggested to date, and will on the other hand focus on questions of methodo­logy by presenting a sketch of the methodo­logical possibilities and challenges highlighted by the existing scholarship on Celtic-Germanic religious contact. With some exceptions, the scholarly debate about Celtic-Germanic religious encounters falls into two largely, though not entirely, distinct parts: Celtic-Germanic relations in antiquity and insular Celtic (i.e., predominantly Irish) parallels to the Norse mytho­logy of the Middle Ages. Of these, the latter, medi­eval part of the debate has traditionally been the centre of attention. The present section will mirror this and will approach the topic in two parts, of which Part 1 will discuss Celtic-Germanic relations in antiquity as they can be approached through continental sources, while Part 2 will focus on scholarship and interpretations based on the evidence provided by medi­eval insular Celtic and Icelandic literature. Antiquity The current state of scholarship on Celtic and Germanic religions in antiquity can be described as characterized by a growing awareness of methodo­logical problems and a strongly methodo­logical outlook, which has immediate bearings on the question of Celtic-Germanic encounters (e.g., Hofeneder 2005– 11 passim; Maier 2003b passim; Maier 2001 passim). Many of the questions highlighted by such recent research are of a source-critical nature. For instance, religious rites which classical sources ascribe to both Celtic and Germanic protagonists and whose similarity at first glance suggests a Celtic-Germanic commonality may at closer scrutiny turn out to be mere literary topoi. One case in point is the classical claim that both Celtic and Germanic religious attitudes rejected the use of anthropomorphic cult images (Tacitus, Germania 43.4; Diodorus Siculus, Library of History 22.9.4); this claim has been shown to have little value for understanding the relationship between Celtic and Germanic religious history in antiquity, because it merely reflects a classical stereotype used for the description of particularly archaic religious attitudes (Egeler 2013a: 16–17; Hofeneder 2005–11: ii, 77–78; Maier 2003b: 91–92; è12). A related type of problem is that classical authors sometimes tear real ethno­

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graphic material out of its context and ascribe it to both Celts and Germanic peoples. This is the situation when Silius Italicus claims that a Celtic warrior dedicated his hair to the god of war in case of victory (Punica 5.200–03), a dedication which exactly parallels ritual behaviour claimed by Tacitus for Germanic tribes (e.g., Germania 31.1). At first glance, such a parallel suggests a Celtic-Germanic commonality. Yet more detailed research has made clear that the ascription of this rite to a Celt is purely literary in character and probably reflects classical intertextuality. Therefore, it has little value for reconstructing Celtic-Germanic religious entanglements (Egeler 2013a: 17–18; Hofeneder 2005–11: ii, 446–48; Maier 2003b: 119–20). In addition to such problems that arise from the largely literary character of many sources, also other considerations complicate attempts to understand the exact relationship between Celtic and Germanic religions in antiquity. One is the question of Indo-European (or other shared Celtic-Germanic) heritage: if a feature is shared between Celtic and Germanic tribes, how can it be determined whether such a commonality reflects processes of Celtic-Germanic interaction and religious exchange or, rather, a shared heritage from an earlier period? A representative example is the cult of divine brothers, which classical sources ascribe to both Celtic and Germanic tribes (Germania 43.4; Diodorus Siculus 4.56.4): such a shared trait could on cursory scrutiny suggest a CelticGermanic religious exchange. Yet this type of cult is also found in Greece, Rome, and India, and has therefore traditionally been thought not to be a borrowing but rather an inherited feature of Indo-European religion (Egeler 2013a: 18–19; cf. Maier 2012: 7). In other cases it is difficult to determine what significance should be ascribed to parallels, which are manifest in, but not specific to, Celtic and Germanic religions. From historical and icono­graphic sources it is clear that both Celtic and Germanic tribes used military standards crowned with animal figures and to which was ascribed a large measure of sanctity. It is, however, unclear what this implies for the relationship between Celtic and Germanic religions if one considers that also the Roman army used such sacred animal standards: the aquila (eagle) of a legion (Egeler 2013a: 21–22; Maier 2003b: 121–22; Maier 2001: 149–50). In the context of religion and war, it has also been noted repeatedly that there are marked similarities between large (and in part roughly contemporary) weapon sacrifices in both Celtic and Germanic regions (cf. Rau and von Carnap-Bornheim 2012: 520, n. 16; Maier 2003b: 75); 7 prominent 7 

For a case study, cf. Łuczkiewicz (2007).

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examples are, for instance, the sanctuaries of Gournay-sur-Aronde (cf. Brunaux 1998) and Ribemont-sur-Ancre (cf. Brunaux 2003) in northern France or the sacrificial deposit of Hjortspring in Denmark (cf. Steuer 2006a), all of which show large-scale depositions of weapons which may reflect sacrifices of war booty (figure è27.9). A comprehensive study of the Celtic-Germanic weapon sacrifices is, however, still lacking (cf. Rau and von Carnap-Bornheim 2012: 520), and thus the question remains as yet unanswered how significant the similarities between Celtic and Germanic weapon sacrifices are for the history of Celto-Germanic religious encounters. This question is the more acute as largescale weapon sacrifices are well known in the classical Mediterranean as well, which emphasizes how uncertain this phenomenon may be as an indicator of religious contact (Egeler 2013a: 22–29). That religious encounters between Celts and Germans did occur is, however, beyond reasonable doubt. At the present state of research, the best evidence for such encounters is of a linguistic and epi­g raphic nature (è 4). An onomastic example is very illustrative: the seer Veleda of the tribe of the Bructeri (e.g., Tacitus, Histories 4.61; 4.65). It is not clear whether the name Veleda was the personal name of the seer or the designation of her office. If the latter is the case, this name may reflect the borrowing of a Celtic term for ‘seer’ (cf. Old Irish fili, gen. sing. filed, originally ‘seer’). Thus, this Germanic tribe could have had a prophetic office whose name — and perhaps even the office itself — might have been inspired by Celtic augury (Egeler 2013a: 29; Hofeneder 2005–11: ii, 475–78; Enright 1996b; Birkhan 1970: 553–57). Even more significant might be a passage in the Indiculus superstitionum et paganiarum, an eighth-century document whose historical background has been sought in the context of the Christianization of the Saxons. It contains the heading ‘De sacris silvarum quae nimidas vocant’ (About the forest sanctuaries which they call nimidas). The term nimidas as a designation for sacred places is without parallel in the Germanic languages, yet it corresponds to Celtic nemeton, a term for sanctuaries that is attested throughout the Celtic settlement area. This suggests that Saxon nimidas could be a borrowing from a Celtic source. And if a Celtic term for ‘sanctuary’ was borrowed in a Germanicspeaking area to name local Germanic sanctuaries, then this implies a very close, although also locally restricted, encounter between Celtic and Germanic religions (Egeler 2013a: 29–31; Green 1998: 26–27; de Vries 1960: 80–81; de Vries 1956–57a: i, 137, 351–53). Such a close, but strongly localized Celtic-Germanic encounter is also reflected in the Matres or Matronae (è57), whose cult was most prominent in the Rhineland and is attested in over 1100 inscriptions from the Roman period.

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These goddesses, whose primary function appears to have been connected with the provision of fertility and protection, seem to have originated in Celtic areas since dedications to them are well attested in regions for which a Germanic influence cannot be assumed (cf. Birkhan 1997: 519; K. Schmidt 1987: 149). Yet the epi­graphic evidence not only records Celtic, but also Germanic names for them (e.g., Celtic Sulevae vs. Germanic Alagabiae). This, as well as the spread of the cult into Germanic-speaking areas and icono­graphic adaptations within these areas, indicates that in the cult of the Matres Celtic and Germanic beliefs encountered each other and merged into a phenomenon which transcended the Celtic-Germanic language barrier (cf. Egeler 2013a: 31–32; Birkhan 1997: 517–20; K. Schmidt 1987: 149). The Middle Ages From the Valkyries to the Castle of Útgarðaloki: Themes In the scholarly debate about Celtic influences in Germanic religious history, the rich literary evidence of the Middle Ages has traditionally taken centre stage. In the late nineteenth century, the debate was dominated by the works of Sophus Bugge, who tried to prove fundamental Irish influences in Norse mytho­logy by applying a method strongly characterized by etymo­logical speculation (cf. especially Bugge 1889a and 1899). His approach, however, was soon felt to be unsatisfactory (cf. Finnur Jónsson 1921: 80–93). In the early twentieth century, Carl Wilhelm von Sydow focused not on etymo­logies but on the content of Norse and insular Celtic narratives (e.g., von Sydow 1910 and 1920a). He was long considered to be one of the most important contributors to this discussion (de Vries 1956–57a: i, 64), yet his works have not aged gracefully either: a complete lack of interest in the dating of his sources, the absence of any attempt at source criticism, and a strong willingness to accept superficial resemblances in isolated details as proof of historical connections between tales have done much to discredit von Sydow’s work (cf. Egeler 2013a: 33–38, 86–87; Egeler 2013b; Finnur Jónsson 1921: 104–15). Approaches that from a present-day perspective entail fundamental methodo­logical problems were not restricted to nineteenth-century research and the work of von Sydow, but characterized also substantial parts of the twentieth-century debate about Celtic influences in Germanic religious history.8 8 

Egeler (2013a: 3, 33–103, 127–28). Cf. for instance Rooth (1961) and the devastating reviews of this book by Ellis Davidson (1962), Fjeld Halvorsen (1963), and Heinrichs (1964).

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Some prominent arguments which on the basis of the evidence presented to date cannot be maintained are, for instance, the idea that there are strong Celtic parallels to the figure of Heimdallr and the mytho­logy and poetry surrounding this deity,9 that there are close Celtic analogues to Óðinn,10 or that the motif of the Everlasting Battle (Hjaðningavíg) has close Celtic affinities.11 The prevalence of such highly problematic arguments has contributed to creating a widespread climate of dissatisfaction with the discussion as a whole. In combination with the comparative inaccessibility of the Irish material,12 this has meant that most recent research on Norse mytho­logy has tended to avoid Celtic questions. Still, even if the field became marginal, occasional studies were undertaken throughout the twentieth century and beyond, some of which have highlighted noteworthy points. A limitation of this research is, however, that all of these points concern mytho­logy. To some extent, this ‘mytho­logical bias’ certainly reflects the availability of sources: texts treating mytho­logical and legendary motifs are readily available and — comparatively speaking — easily accessible both for the insular Celts and the Scandinavians and have been so since the late nineteenth or early twentieth century. Thus, what little research exists has naturally first focused on these sources. To some degree, the ‘mytho­logical bias’ of research to date also reflects the traditional textual focus of both Celtic Studies and Scandinavian Studies. It is therefore still unclear whether the absence of convincing arguments for Celtic-Scandinavian religious exchange outside of the limited sphere of mytho­logy corresponds to the absence of such exchange or merely indicates a lacuna in existing research. Neither of these two possibilities can be taken for granted. The available research is on the one hand limited and may thus still have overlooked important aspects of the question; on the other hand, it must be born in mind that Ireland and Britain had at the beginning of the Viking Age both been Christian for centuries, making it questionable whether they had any impact on the ritual practice of the Scandinavians beyond contributing to their later Christianization (which lies outside of the scope of the present chapter).13 9 

Argued, e.g., by Chadwick (1955–58: 111–15); Young (1933). Cf. Cöllen (2015: 51, 262); Egeler (2013a: 69–81; see also è50). 10  Argued, e.g., by de Vries (1961a: 54) and most recently Sieracki (2011: 137). Cf. Egeler (2013a: 90–96). 11  Argued, e.g., by Chesnutt (1989: 51–53; 1968: 129–33). Cf. Egeler (2013a: 58–61). 12  Cf. Power (1985: 218). 13  It might even be possible to argue that the contribution which the Celts of the British

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Of the Celtic-Norse mytho­logical encounters studied to date, the valkyries have been mentioned already above. Here, striking parallels between the Norse mytho­logical figures and female demons of medi­e val Irish literature were pointed out in the nineteenth century. The present author’s doctoral research has attempted to present a systematic survey of the relevant material with particular attention to a framework of central characteristics: (1) the female sex of the demons; (2) their appearance as both individuals and a collective of figures; (3) their connection to death, (4) birds, and (5) the transition of the dead to the Otherworld; (6) the marked sexuality displayed by these figures; (7) their power over the mind of their victims; (8) their possession of deeper knowledge; and (9) the devouring of corpses, which is a prominent trait of especially the Irish battlefield demons. Studying the material with particular attention to these motifs, it becomes clear that the valkyries show close parallels not only to the so-called Bodbs or Morrígains of early Irish literature, but that such figures also seem to have been known to (some of ?) the Celts of antiquity and find direct parallels in the demono­logy of the classical Mediterranean (the Etruscan death demon Vanth, the Roman Furies and the Greek Erinyes, Harpies, Keres, and, most notably, Sirens). These parallels may be close enough, and the cultural exchange between these peoples in antiquity was intense enough, to have led the present author to the conclusion that a historical connection between these demonic figures could be considered a serious possibility (Egeler 2009, 2011; reviews by Düwel 2012 and Edlund 2011) — even though, several years later, this conclusion now does not seem quite as compelling as it did at the time. There may be historical connections, but this material may also merely represent an instance of striking parallels resulting from typo­logically similar engagements with parallel concerns. A much clearer instance of a Celtic-Germanic (or rather: Irish-Icelandic) mytho­logical contact reflected in the medi­eval literary sources is the Glæsisvellir/ Ódáinsakr-motif (Egeler 2015a; cf. Egeler 2013a: 122–26; Egeler 2017; Egeler 2018: 188–208; Heizmann 1998). The Glæsisvellir and the Ódáinsakr appear Isles made to the history of Christianity in Iceland constitutes the strongest ‘Celtic’ impact on Germanic religion in the whole attested history of Celtic-Germanic religious encounters (è 66). As a prominent example one could quote Helgi the Lean, who according to the Sturlubók-version of Landnámabók had been brought up in Ireland (Landnámabók S ch. 217) and about whose religion (consequently?) the following is said: ‘Helgi var blandinn mjǫk í trú; hann trúði á Krist, en hét á Þór til sjófara ok harðræða’ (Landnámabók S ch. 218) (Helgi’s faith was very much mixed: he believed in Christ but invoked Thor when it came to voyages and difficult times) (p. 97).

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most prominently in several fornarldarsögur and in Saxo Grammaticus’s Gesta Danorum (4.2.1 and 7.14.1–20); the most important single attestation is probably the description of the Glæsisvellir and the Ódáinsakr at the beginning of the U-recension of Hervarar saga. These different sources taken together paint a composite picture of the Glæsisvellir/Ódáinsakr-motif which, allowing for some variation between the individual texts, contains the following main traits: the Glæsisvellir, ‘Shining Fields’ (cf. glæsa ‘to make shining’, gler ‘glas’), are a remote pagan realm beyond the sea with strong otherworldly connotations. This realm is ruled by King Guðmundr, who owns a special orchard whose fruit can be instrumental in entrapping the human hero in the Otherworld, and who has beautiful, aggressively seductive daughters with supernatural powers. In his territory is located the Ódáinsakr, the ‘Field of the Not-Dead’, where nobody can die; therefore Guðmundr and his people enjoy a life that extends far beyond a normal human lifespan. In addition to its literary existence within the realm of Guðmundr, the Ódáinsakr also appears associated with a concrete geo­graphical location in the Hvanndalur, a remote valley in the area of the Héðinsfjörður in northern Iceland. Direct attestations for this localization only go back as far as the seventeenth century, yet Wilhelm Heizmann has pointed out that, according to Landnámabók (H ch. 182/S ch. 215), the Hvanndalur was the site of an exceptionally deadly and strangely unmotivated conflict about the possession of this valley already in the Settlement Period; the unusual fierceness of this conflict about the ownership of a remote and inaccessible tract of land might indicate that it could have carried associations of a land of immortality, and hence a land worth fighting for, already at this early time. This is of particular interest given that there are extremely close parallels to the Glæsisvellir/ Ódáinsakr-motif in medi­e val Irish literature. From the late seventh or early eighth century onwards, texts of the Irish genre of the immrama or ‘Voyage Tales’ recount narratives about an otherworldly land which shows a number of traits directly corresponding to core traits of the Glæsisvellir and the Ódáinsakr: (1) it is located beyond the sea; (2) it is a land of immortality; (3) there grow otherworldly apples and apple orchards which play a central role in luring the human hero to the Otherworld; (4) it is inhabited by beautiful Otherworld women who (5) choose a human hero as their lover; (6) it is characterized by light and ‘shininess’; (7) and, in addition to its connection with powerful Otherworld women, it is associated with a male ruler figure. Overall, the parallels between the Irish Otherworld islands of immortality and the Glæsisvellir/ Ódáinsakr-complex are so close that they suggest that the latter could represent a direct adaptation of the former. This is the more so as this is not the only instance that during this period motifs from the genre of the Voyage Tales

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were borrowed into Norse narrative culture. The motif of Hvítramannaland or ‘White Men’s Land’, a Christian land of salvation imagined to be located in the Atlantic Ocean to the west of Ireland, is another instance of an Icelandic reception of Irish Voyage Tale motifs.14 Its account in Landnámabók (S ch. 122 = H ch. 94) is exclusively composed of motifs that also play a prominent role in the Irish immrama, and in this case, even the way of transmission is stated almost explicitly by the medi­eval source text: Landnámabók explains that the first man to tell the tale of Hvítramannaland was a certain Hrafn ‘Hlymreksfari’ (the Limerick-farer), ‘er lengi hafði verit í Hlymreki á Írlandi (who had long been in Limerick in Ireland). Here, a tale composed of Irish motifs is told by a man who has spent much of his life in Ireland, making it almost certain that the resulting narrative is exactly the adaptation of Irish lore that it appears to be. This turns the case of Hvítramannaland into a direct precedent for the case of the Glæsisvellir/Ódáinsakr-motif: in both cases, Irish mytho­logical motifs from the Voyage Tales appear to have been adapted into Norse narratives. In this context, it should not only be emphasized that the reference to Hrafn Hlymreksfari constitutes a virtually explicit statement of the way of transmission for one of these narrative complexes, but also that both narrative complexes originate from Christian surroundings: the Irish genre of the Voyage Tales is a Christian genre consisting in Christian tales of salvation, even if some of these tales also draw on native Irish imagery which may in one form or another already have existed in the pre-Christian period. Thus, the Norse reception of Voyage Tale motifs is a reception of Christian narratives. It is a striking phenomenon that in the case of the Glæsisvellir/Ódáinsakr-motif, such Christian narratives are transformed into a mytho­logy which in Old Icelandic literature is consistently seen as deeply pagan. Another remarkable aspect of the Icelandic reception of the Glæsisvellir/ Ódáinsakr-motif is that parts of its transmission seem to reflect a wholesale relocalization of an Irish place story from a specific place in Ireland to a specific place in Iceland. As already noted by Heizmann (1998) and mentioned above in passing, the Ódáinsakr did not merely exist in the realm of literature, but Icelandic folklore even gave it a specific real-world location in the northern Icelandic valley Hvanndalur, just as the corresponding Irish stories could be 14  The Irish roots of Hvítramannaland were first spotted more than a century ago by Fridtjof Nansen (1911: i, 353–55; ii, 42–51 and passim), who already collected all the core material and most central arguments, and have been almost generally accepted ever since. In recent years cf. Mac Mathúna forthcoming a; Mac Mathúna forthcoming b; Egeler (2015a: 503–11, 2015b, and 2017); Mundal (2011); Mac Mathúna (1997).

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specifically localized in the Irish landscape (cf. Egeler 2018: 188–208; Egeler 2015a: 102–08, 360–64 passim): in this case, apparently, an Irish place myth was taken out of its original spatial context and relocated to a new place in Iceland. This, furthermore, does not seem to have been an isolated occurrence.15 Another instance of such a relocalization of supernatural place lore can be found in the story of Auðun the Stutterer in Landnámabók S ch. 83/H ch. 71 (Egeler 2014 and Egeler 2018: 99–109). This tale tells of how Auðun, a son-in-law of the king of Ireland, takes land in Iceland and one day observes how a dapple-grey stallion emerges from the mountain lake Hjarðarvatn above his farm and bests his breeding-stallion. Auðun then catches this lake-horse and lets it perform a huge feat of strength; yet after sunset the lake-horse breaks Auðun’s harness and returns into its lake, never to be seen again. This tale about Lake Hjarðarvatn finds close parallels in prominent Irish heroic tales from the Ulster Cycle, one of the most important cycles of early Irish literature. There, the Líath Macha (Grey of Macha) is the steed of the hero Cú Chulainn. According to texts such as Fled Bricrenn (‘Bricriu’s Feast’, §§31–32; the relevant passage is an interpolation of the eleventh century or later) and Brislech mór Maige Muirthemni (‘The Great Rout of Mag Muirthemne’, §18, early eighth century), this steed — a grey stallion of unequalled strength — had been caught by Cú Chulainn after it had emerged from the lake Linn Léith in the mountain range Slíab Fúait and returned to this lake after its master had been lethally wounded. Thus, both medi­e val Icelandic and medi­e val Irish literature connect (1) a mountain lake with a story about a (2) grey horse that (3) emerges from this lake, is (4) characterized by supernatural strength, and (5) in the end returns to its lake, never to be seen again. The Icelandic story about Lake Hjarðarvatn even establishes an explicit connection to Ireland by making its human protagonist the son-in-law of the king of Ireland, suggesting that the parallels between the Icelandic and the Irish place stories could indeed be due to a wholesale relocation of an Irish place story to a place in Iceland. If this is so, not only were Irish place myths borrowed and transferred to Icelandic places, but at least in some cases an awareness of the Irish origin of the motif in question seems to have persisted until well into the High Middle Ages. Material from the Irish Ulster Cycle may have played a particular role in this context, as adaptations of Ulster Cycle material recur repeatedly in Iceland. The most spectacular instance may be the bio­graphy of Þórólfr bægifótr and his rebirth as the bull Glæsir (the Shining), which forms a bracket embracing almost the whole 15 

For a survey of several examples, see Egeler (2018).

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of Eyrbygg ja saga: this subplot of the saga appears to adapt in great detail the heroic-mytho­logical bio­graphy of an Irish otherworld hero reborn as the bull Findbennach (the Whitehorned), which is one of the core elements around which the Ulster Cycle of tales is clustered (Egeler 2018: 221–49). Among the grains of gold hidden in the sands of the works of von Sydow is the observation that the slaughtering and resuscitation of Þórr’s goats in Gylfaginning (p. 37) finds a remarkable parallel in a hagio­g raphic episode of Historia Brittonum, a ninth-century text from Wales.16 In the episode in question (ch. 32), St Germanus stays overnight in the house of a poor man. For dinner, he and his retinue are served this man’s only calf, and Germanus decrees that the bones of the animal should not be harmed. In the morning, the calf is found alive and well. In both this hagio­graphic tale and the Norse myth about Þórr, a (1) religious protagonist with the power to work miracles (2) takes lodging in a poor household, where (3) an animal is slaughtered for dinner; (4) it is important that the bones of this animal must not be damaged, and (5) the next morning the animal is revived. There are differences in details between both narratives. For instance, the injunction not to harm the bones of the slaughtered animal is largely implicit in the Norse myth and only takes centre stage after the resuscitation of the animal, as the breaking of one of the bones during the feast means that the animal is injured. In contrast to this, this injunction is made explicit in the St Germanus narrative and duly observed, so that the resuscitation is completely successful. Yet, the similarities are so detailed that a historical connection between the two tales can be considered as a serious possibility, even though a detailed study of the motif has not yet been undertaken and a final decision can therefore not yet be made (Power 1985: 245–47; cf. with more confidence, Dronke 2011: 106). A possible, albeit hypothetical, context for the borrowing of such a motif from the Christian hagio­graphy of the British Isles into pagan Norse mytho­logy could be found in discussions about the power of religious protagonists during the Conversion Period: when debating the question of whose deity is more powerful, it would be a natural reaction for the involved parties to claim the miracle stories told by their opponents also for their own mytho­logies (cf. Egeler 2013a: 33–35, 40–43; Egeler 2013b). Another strong case for an insular Celtic influence in the mytho­logy of Snorra Edda has been made by Rosemary Power (Power 1985; cf. Egeler 2013a: 16 

Von Sydow (1910: 67, cf. pp. 65–105), where he also discusses a large number of further parallels; the significance of this collection of material is, however, severely undermined by von Sydow’s disinterest in the dating of his sources. Cf. Egeler (2013a: 33–35, 42–43; 2018: 39–41).

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38–42; Egeler 2013b). She discusses Þórr’s adventures in the hall of Útgarðaloki in Gylfaginning (pp. 39–43). There, Þórr and his companions are received into the hall of a giant, where they are challenged to a number of contests. They are unable to win these contests, but the following morning they are told that this was not through any fault of their own: none of the tasks were what they had seemed, and their opponents were either invincible personifications or magically disguised. After this revelation, Útgarðaloki and his castle vanish, leaving Þórr and his companions alone in an open landscape (è 41). In Ireland, the same fate befalls the hero Finn mac Cumaill: in the tale Feis Tighe Chonáin, whose oldest extant form has been dated to the fourteenth or fifteenth century (MacKillop 2004: 208), Finn and his companions are likewise received into a house in which they have to face — and fail in — a number of challenges; and they, too, are told the next day that they had faced invincible personifications and the house then vanishes, leaving Finn and his men alone in the landscape. Thus, the two narratives exactly parallel each other in their general outline. The parallels do not end here, however, but also extend to specific details: for instance, the older versions of the Irish tale, just like the Norse narrative, contain an encounter with an old woman who personifies Old Age. Such close correspondences provide a good foundation for Power’s conclusion that the Norse myth seems to be derived from an Irish prototype. The main problems of this conclusion are chrono­logical in nature, as the Irish tale is attested only some two centuries after the Norse myth. This, however, is to some extent counterbalanced by Power’s exceptionally thorough treatment of the question: in contrast to earlier approaches to supposed Celtic influences in Norse mytho­ logy, Power is not content with discussing a very limited number of (typically undated) examples. Instead, she presents an extensive collection of the Irish material. Thus, it becomes clear that the Irish comparative material is on the one hand only attested from the late Middle Ages onwards, but that this story was on the other hand extremely popular in Ireland: the literary tale is extant in at least fifty-seven manu­scripts from the late sixteenth century onwards, and the tale even survived into contemporary oral tradition, from which it was collected in over ninety variants. Power rightly notes that the immense popularity of this story in Ireland forms a remarkable contrast to the situation of the Útgarðaloki-tale, which in Icelandic literature only survives in the single instance in Snorra Edda. Given the late date of the Irish material, it cannot be absolutely certain that the Útgarðaloki-episode is derived from an Irish heroic tale. But the striking similarities between Feis Tighe Chonáin and Þórr’s adventures in the castle of Útgarðaloki in combination with the great popularity of the tale in Ireland suggest that an Irish origin should at least be considered as a

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serious possibility. This, however, does not imply that the Norse tale is without mytho­logical significance; Power’s analysis clearly indicates that a derivation of the Norse myth from the Irish heroic tale would not so much indicate a lack of mytho­logical significance as rather an accretion of a new heroic exploit to the deeds of a heroic deity. In all these examples, it is clear that the direction of influence — if the argument for a historical connection is accepted — must have been Celtic to Germanic. In the case of the valkyries, the Ódáinsakr, the place story of Lake Hjarðarvatn, and the revivification of Þórr’s goats, this conclusion is based on chrono­logical arguments, since the first Celtic attestations are too early to assume that they reflect a borrowing from Germanic peoples. In the case of the Útgarðaloki-episode, the rarity of the story type in Norse literature and the frequency of attestations in Irish literature are a strong indication that the source of the tale must be sought in Ireland if a connection between the Útgarðaloki-tale and Irish narratives is accepted. Thus, the mytho­logical influences studied to date appear to have a consistent direction: they generally seem to flow from Celtic to Germanic peoples. Even so, for the time being it must be left open whether this merely reflects a lacuna in research to date or is, indeed, due to the particular social and political conditions of the Viking Age and the preceding periods.17 Even fewer general inferences can be drawn with regard to two other aspects of Celtic-Germanic encounters: their chrono­logy and geo­graphical location. In the case of the parallels between the valkyries and the Irish battlefield demons, the material as a whole points at continental antiquity as the place and time of origin of the mytho­logical correspondences, if indeed these correspondences are due to historical contacts rather than reflecting a close typo­logical parallelism. For the Ódáinsakr, the lake horse from Lake Hjarðarvatn, the revivification of Þórr’s goats, and the Útgarðaloki-episode, there is no compelling reason to go that far back in time or that far south in terms of geo­g raphical localization; the present state of research indicates that the most economical location of these mytho­logical encounters may be north-western Europe during the Viking Age. This, however, still leaves a very broad frame and a detailed localization of the respective encounters within this frame is not yet — and may never be — possible. The Norse could have adopted these motifs in the Viking 17  For the sake of completeness it should perhaps be noted that in the history of research there have been suggestions of influences from Germanic into Celtic; cf. in particular von der Leyen (1908), who argues that the similarities between Irish stories and the Útgarðaloki-episode are due to a borrowing of Norse motifs by the Irish. No such suggestion to date has, however, stood up to more detailed scrutiny (in this case: Power 1985).

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colonies of Britain and Ireland, or they could have adopted them in Iceland. Viking Age slave trade involved a significant dislocation of people who could have brought stories with them. The most prominent example in Norse narrative literature is probably the tale of the birth and upbringing of Olaf Peacock, whose mother is depicted as an enslaved Irish princess who pretends to be mute until she is caught talking to her child and who is allowed to take care of the upbringing of her son (Laxdœla saga ch. 12–13). An Irish counterpart to this anecdote is provided by the Annals of Ulster (pp. 276–77), which note for the year 821 that ‘orggan Etir o genntibh; pręd mor di mnaibh do brid ass’ (Étar was plundered by the heathens, [and] they carried off a great number of women into captivity).18 Just as elusive as the chrono­logy and geo­g raphical location is the social context of Celtic-Norse encounters: while the slave raids recorded by the Irish annals illustrate a ‘social bottom line’ for their possible contexts, they can just as well have taken place in high-status environments. Above it has, for instance, been mentioned that Irish annals note the plundering of prehistoric burial mounds by Vikings. The Annals of Ulster (pp. 318–19) state that this happened on the occasion when three kings of the ‘foreigners’ collaborated with Lorcán mac Cathail, the king of Mide, in plundering the land of Flann mac Conaing; this illustrates a high-status collaboration in the course of which not only plunder, but also stories, may have been exchanged. All this shows a general challenge: even where similarities between Norse and insular Celtic material are so big that they appear to indicate a cultural connection, and even if there is reason to assume that these similarities are not reflections of a shared heritage, there is no simple rule about the chrono­logical, geo­graphical, or social location of the underlying encounters. Such questions have to be discussed strictly on a case-to-case basis, taking recourse to an exhaustive analysis of the material — which is in most cases still a desideratum. And even if such an analysis is undertaken, it cannot be expected that we will in every case be able to determine the chrono­logy, geo­graphical location, or social context of a given case. Pigs, Trees, and Fountains of Knowledge: Methodo­logy The examples summarized above show that many questions are still unanswered. Nonetheless, they also indicate that research into Celtic-Germanic encounters has a strong potential to contribute to deepening our understand18 

Cf.  Holm (1986: 319, 323–24 n. 19, 325).

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ing of Germanic religious history. In the preceding pages, this has been illustrated primarily by presenting concise summaries of selected arguments proposed to date. In the following pages, this content-focused approach will be supplemented by a short case study focusing on methodo­logical questions: a discussion of one particular set of Irish-Norse mytho­logical parallels will serve to highlight some of the methodo­logical issues raised by scholarship and interpretations presented to date.19 The first recension of the Irish text ‘The Adventure of Cormac mac Airt’ (Echtra Cormaic maic Airt) has been dated to the second half of the twelfth century (Hull 1949: 871). In one part of this text, Cormac mac Airt, a legendary early king of Ireland, makes a bargain with an emissary of the Otherworld. As a consequence of this bargain, first his daughter, then his son, and finally his wife are taken from him and brought to the Otherworld (§§25–31). Now Cormac decides to take action and follows them. After he has passed through a mist, he finds himself alone in front of a bronze-walled fortress. He enters, and inside the bronze wall of this fortress he finds another bronze-walled fortification in which four buildings are located. Having entered this enclosure as well, he sees a great royal house ‘ a chleatha sidhe do credumæ,  a cæl d’airgid,  a thuighi do eitib én find’ (with its beams of bronze, its wattling of silver, and its thatch of the wings of white birds) (§34). Inside the rampart he sees a fountain from which hosts of people drink, from which five streams take their course and over which the nine hazels of Búan grow. These hazels drop purple nuts into the water and the nuts are eaten by five salmon living in the fountain (§35). Thereupon Cormac enters the palace, where he finds a beautiful couple and is bathed without any servants being visible; instead, the hot stones come into and out of the bathtub on their own accord (§36). Later, a man with an axe, a log, and a pig enters the palace; he slaughters the pig, chops up the wood, and puts the pig into a cauldron. He explains that a truth must be told for every quarter of the pig in order to boil it. The first truth he tells is the story of how he received the pig, the axe, and the log as ransom for a herd of cattle: he can 19 

The methodo­logical questions addressed in the following have been collected in the course of a survey of scholarship to date, for which see Egeler (2013a: 33–107). The example chosen for the case study, the Irish tale Echtra Cormaic, has primarily been selected for its illustrative value, which allows to bring together the methodo­logical insights as well as problems of a large number of contributions; in previous scholarship, this Irish text was mentioned in passing by von Sydow (1910: 78). In scholarship on Celtic-Norse encounters, the reviving pigs discussed below are mentioned with some regularity; for a collection of references cf. Egeler (2013a: 81 n. 248).

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kill the pig and chop the wood with the axe every day, and he always has enough firewood for the pig and the palace; and the next morning the pig is alive again and the log whole (§§37–42). After this truth has been told, one quarter of the pig is boiled, and so three further truths are told, one for each quarter; most of these truths describe the miraculous abundance and paradisiacal character of the Otherworld, the ‘Land of Promise’ (Tír Tarrngiri) (§§43–51). In the end, the Otherworld shows itself as benevolent to Cormac: his family is returned to him, and he receives valuable gifts with miraculous properties. Cormac’s host reveals himself as Manannán mac Lir, the king of the ‘Land of Promise’, and explains the marvels that Cormac has seen. Among these, the fountain that Cormac passed was the Fountain of Knowledge (topur in fis), and those who desire knowledge have to drink from it and from the streams that spring from it (§§52–53). This text contains some motifs which are well attested also outside of Echtra Cormaic. Thus, the motif of a pig, which is slaughtered and boiled in the evening for an otherworldly feast, but is well and alive in the morning, recurs a number of times. Possibly the oldest allusion is found in the tale De Gabáil in t-Ṡída (Concerning the Seizure of the Fairy Mound) (pp. 56–58): this narrative mentions, among other tokens of the inexhaustible abundance of the fairy mound ruled by the Mac Óc, ‘mucc bithbēo for chossaib’ (a pig eternally alive) and ‘mucc ḟonaithe’ (a roasted swine). These pigs are listed in a context in which the paradisiacal abundance of food inside the fairy mound is described, which suggests that the ‘pig eternally alive’ may be so with the interruption of being recurringly served for dinner and revived in between. On linguistic grounds, Hull dates this tale to the ninth century or earlier (Hull in De Gabáil in t-Ṡída, p. 54). More explicit is one recension of Lebor Gabála Érenn (Book of the Taking of Ireland), where the Otherworld lord Lug receives miraculously reviving pigs as wergild for the death of his father (§319): ‘Ocus sē mucca Essaig, .i. a marbad-side gach n-āidche acht co ro mardais a cnāma cen chommach cen cochnom no martis bii ar gach lāithe’ (The six pigs of Essach. They were slaughtered every night, and if their bones were kept without breaking or gnawing, they would survive alive every day) (pp. 136–37).20 Such pigs also appear in the Late Middle Irish (i.e., roughly thirteenth-century, see MacKillop 2004: 13) tale Altram Tige dá Medar (The Nurture of the House of the Two Milk 20 

An analysis of the different recensions of Lebor Gabála has been presented by Scowcroft (1987). According to this analysis, the passage in question belongs to ‘Recension m’: Scowcroft (1987: 141). The oldest testimony for parts of this recension (which does, however, not include the passage quoted above) is a twelfth-century manu­script: Scowcroft (1987: 87).

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Vessels). This narrative mentions ‘muca Manannain re marbadh  re marthain dona mileadaibh’ (the swine of Manannán to be killed and to continue to exist for the warriors) (§2). In the late tale Aided Fergusa meic Léide (The Death of Fergus mac Léti), which Thurneysen hesitantly dated to the thirteenth or fourteenth century (Thurneysen 1921: 541), pigs that can be slaughtered every day, but always come back to life again, appear among the marvellous possessions of the otherworldly king Iubdán. These attestations of the motif of the reviving pigs indicate that the motif was well established in medi­e val Irish literature, apparently going back at least to the ninth century. Throughout these texts, the pigs are associated with important Otherworld rulers, including — but not restricted to — Manannán mac Lir, the Otherworld ruler of Echtra Cormaic. Attestations outside of Echtra Cormaic can be found for the motif of the Fountain of Knowledge and the hazels connected with it as well. This motif already appears in the early eighth-century text The Caldron of Poesy (§11, pp. 86–87, 92–93).21 More detailed descriptions, which correspond very closely to the account given in Echtra Cormaic, are found in the Dinnṡenchas, the ‘lore of high places ’. The Dinnṡenchas consists in collections of tales in both prose and verse which relate fanciful explanations for Irish placenames; these collections date from the Middle Irish period and are thus roughly contemporary with Echtra Cormaic. When expounding the origin of the name of the Shannon, both the Rennes Dinnṡenchas and the Bodleian Dinnṡenchas connect this name to a failed attempt of an otherworldly girl by the name of Sinann (= Shannon) to gain knowledge from the Fountain of Knowledge. Both texts identify the Fountain of Knowledge with ‘Condla’s Well’ (Tipra Connla) and locate it under the sea; otherwise, the description of the fountain follows much the same general lines as in Echtra Cormaic, in that it mentions the hazels, the purple colour, how the hazels fall into the water, and how they are eaten by the salmon living there.22 Drawing upon well-established motifs of early Irish literature, Echtra Cormaic paints a picture of an Irish Otherworld in which the king of this Otherworld has his seat in a splendid palace behind supreme fortifications. Next to the hall of this king, the Fountain of Knowledge is located, surrounded by hazels and bestowing knowledge on those who drink from it. Inside the hall of the Otherworld ruler, a miraculous feast is held, the food of which consists 21 

On the dating of the text, see The Caldron of Poesy, pp. 52–56. Bodleian Dinnṡenchas (§33); Rennes Dinnṡenchas (ch. 59). Two versified versions of this placename story are found in the Metrical Dinnṡenchas (pp. 286–97); these, however, lack some of the specific details which the prose versions share with Echtra Cormaic. 22 

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in the meat of a pig boiled in a cauldron; this pig can be slaughtered, cooked, and eaten every day, but becomes whole again afterwards so that it can provide food for the next Otherworld feast. In the context of Celtic-Germanic encounters, such a concept of the Otherworld is of interest because it closely parallels some traits of the description of Ásgarðr in the eddic sources. Already von Sydow noted the resemblance between the Irish reviving pig and the boar Sæhrímnir that is eaten in Valhǫll (von Sydow 1910: 78). After mentioning the great number of people in Valhǫll and raising the question of how they are fed, Snorri says (Gylfaginning p. 32): ‘En aldri er svá mikill mannfjǫlði í Valhǫll at eigi má þeim endask flesk galtar þess er Sæhrímnir heitir. Hann er soðinn hvern dag ok heill at aptni’ (But there will never be such a large number in Valhǫll that the meat of the boar called Sæhrímnir will not be sufficient for them. It is cooked each day and whole again by evening) (p. 32). The cooking is done in a cauldron (ketill), which is called Eldhrímnir. This picturesque tableau provides an interesting parallel to the Otherworld description of Echtra Cormaic: in both texts, a reviving pig is cooked in a cauldron to provide meat for an Otherworld feast. The potential parallels do not end here. Echtra Cormaic locates the Fountain of Knowledge in the immediate vicinity of the hall of the Otherworld ruler and places hazels — that is, large, almost tree-like bushes — around this fountain. Gylfaginning (p. 33) and Grímnismál st. 25–26 place the tree Læraðr/Léraðr next to Valhǫll; the goat Heiðrún and the stag Eicþyrnir feed on this tree, and the water which drips from the antlers of Eicþyrnir feeds the spring Hvergelmir. This adds another point to the parallelism between the cosmo­logies of Echtra Cormaic and the eddas: next to the feasting hall of the Otherworld ruler big bushes/a tree grow over a spring. During the last decades, the communis opinio has been that the tree Læraðr should be identified with the world-tree Yggdrasill (Dronke 2011: 129–30; Nordberg 2003: 157; Simek 2007: 70, 185; Lorenz 1984: 473–74; de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 380–81). In the present context, such an identification would have an interesting implication. Gylfaginning (p. 17) notes about Yggdrasill: En undir þeiri rót er til hrímþursa horfir, þar er Mímis brunnr, er spekð ok mannvit er í fólgit, ok heitir sá Mímir er á brunninn. Hann er fullr af vísindum fyrir því at hann drekkr ór brunninum af horninu Gjallarhorni. (But under the root that reaches towards the frost-giants, there is where Mímir’s well is, which has wisdom and intelligence contained in it, and the master of the well is called Mímir. He is full of learning because he drinks of the well from the horn Giallarhorn.) (p. 17)

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If it can be assumed that Læraðr equals Yggdrasill, this would imply that also in the Norse case, as in Echtra Cormaic, the Otherworld feasting hall is located next to a Fountain of Knowledge, which dispenses wisdom to those who drink from it. Finally, another possible parallel can be added with respect to the wall surrounding the hall in Echtra Cormaic. In Gylfaginning (pp. 34–36), Snorri tells a myth about how a giant builder constructed an invincible defensive wall for the gods. Ásgarðr being thus surrounded by a rampart, this could be argued to constitute a parallel to the bronze wall surrounding the palace complex of the Otherworld ruler in Echtra Cormaic. Taken together, the parallels between eddic cosmo­logy and the Otherworld description of Echtra Cormaic would consequently be the following: both the Irish and the Norse Otherworlds locate 1. the hall of the lord of the Otherworld next to 2. a famous tree/hazels; 3. the tree/bushes are in both cases connected with a well of wisdom; 4. in both Otherworld halls, a a. feast is held during which b. the meat of a pig is served that has been boiled in an exceptional c. cauldron; d. this pig is slaughtered every evening, but is whole and healthy again the next day so that it can be slaughtered again for the next feast; 5. furthermore, in both cases this Otherworld compound is fortified. A comparison of the Middle Irish tale Echtra Cormaic and eddic concepts of Valhǫll and its surroundings thus suggests considerable parallels between Irish and Norse conceptions of the land of the gods. At first glance, the closeness of these parallels could be taken to constitute evidence for a historical connection between the two conceptions. Pursuing this line of thought for a moment, it is worthwhile highlighting two fundamental questions that would be raised by such a scenario. First, it would have to be decided whether the close Celtic-Norse parallels indicate a borrowing (e.g., in the context of the Norse settlements in Ireland during the Viking Age) or whether they indicate a shared common heritage. In principle, parallels can be taken to indicate either a recent arrival or great antiq-

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uity. In the past, it has happened that both interpretations were put forward for the same material,23 and it is not necessarily possible to come to a clear decision in favour of either. Second, if the parallels are taken to indicate a borrowing, a follow-up question arises. One of the most contended issues regarding borrowings has been the extent to which a motif borrowed from Britain or Ireland can be assumed to have any religious significance within its new Norse context. Is the appearance of a motif borrowed from the Celts an indication that the resulting narrative is a mythical novella without religious significance (cf. Lorenz 1984: 527; de Vries 1956–57a: i, 64; von Sydow 1910: 147, 166–67, 182)? Or can a borrowing be integrated into Norse mytho­logy in such a way that it acquires religious significance there (cf. Egeler 2013a: 40–43; Clunies Ross 1994a: 266, n. 33)? Both opinions have been put forward, and there is no easy way to make an objective choice between them. As important as these questions are, however, they can only be tackled after another point has been addressed — a point which is of central importance to the use of Celtic comparative material, but which has not always been paid as much attention as is necessary: the question of how representative the suggested parallels are. Drawing upon the version of Echtra Cormaic that was edited by Whitley Stokes (the ‘first recension’), I have in the preceding pages tried to show as many Irish-Norse parallels as possible and, most importantly, to show that these parallels form a coherent system which recurs both in Ireland and in the eddas. This version is, however, not the only extant version of Echtra Cormaic. There exists another, shorter version of this tale (the ‘second recension’), which linguistically appears to be of roughly the same age, but which does not contain all the motifs that appear in Stokes’s text. Vernam Hull, the editor of this shorter version, has pointed out the possibility that this shorter version might perhaps be the original version of the text: in the longer version, the text could have been expanded by the addition of new motifs (Hull 1949: 871–72, 874–75). In the present context, this is of particular importance because the shorter version does not contain the motif of the Fountain of Knowledge, suggesting that there might not be a traditional association between the hall of the Otherworld ruler and this fountain. This suspicion is strengthened also by the Dinnṡenchas texts, which were quoted above as parallel evidence for the Fountain of Knowledge: in these texts, at least some of which are roughly con23 

As an example see Rooth (1961: 110–14, 140) vs. Schröder (1941b: 144). Cf. Egeler (2013a: 55–58).

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temporary with Echtra Cormaic, there is no indication that this fountain is associated with an Otherworld hall, and the same is the case already with the eighth-century attestation in the ‘Caldron of Poesy’. On internal grounds of Irish literary tradition, the combination of the hall of the Otherworld ruler with the Fountain of Knowledge appears to be a secondary trait. This means that this trait cannot be used to attempt to elucidate earlier cultural connections: the Irish material has to be assessed on internal grounds first, and only if it passes this scrutiny can it be employed in a meaningful comparison — a rule which may seem obvious, but needs to be stressed nevertheless, as it has not always been duly observed (for examples, cf. Egeler 2013a: 50–51, 64–67, 70–72, 79–81, 86–87, 92–96, 99, 101–03). In the present case, this means that the comparative system outlined above loses points (1)–(3) with a single stroke of source criticism. This is the more ‘devastating’ as the significance of some of the other points can be questioned on grounds of common sense: the presence of fortifications around the seat of a ruler (point 5) is intrinsically likely in warlike societies; therefore, polygenesis cannot be ruled out. Similarly, the significance of a cauldron (4c) is questionable: for practical reasons, the pig has to be either roasted, boiled in a cauldron, or boiled in a cooking pit. If one assumes chances to be equal, the use of a cauldron has an intrinsic likelihood of 1:3 — much too high to preclude a chance recurrence. Thus, of the extensive system of parallels elaborated above, only the reviving pigs in the hall of the Otherworld ruler survive critical scrutiny. Whether this parallel in isolation is of sufficient complexity to preclude polygenesis, however, is difficult to determine.

Concluding Remarks Encounters between Celts and Germanic peoples have had an impact on Germanic religious history since antiquity. Most of the evidence for CelticGermanic religious interaction is highly problematic; yet there are enough clear-cut cases to demonstrate that such interaction played an important role. Given the problems of the sources and the state of research, the few cases in which such interaction has so far been pinned down probably constitute the mere tip of an iceberg whose exact extent we cannot, or cannot yet, fathom. Here, the ‘yet’ may be an important qualifier. In comparison to the amount of research that is available on Germanic religious history in general, contributions to the scholarly debate about Celtic influences have been few and far between, and many of those contributions have been rightly challenged by later scholarship for methodo­logical deficiencies; a lack of source criticism is

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a central, but by no means the only, objection frequently raised against CelticGermanic comparative studies. For a substantial number of important questions, like the much-mentioned but little-studied similarities between Celtic and Germanic weapon sacrifices in antiquity, no dedicated studies are available at all. Both these points — the lacunae in research to date and the methodo­ logical objections that have been raised against much of the research that is available — combine to create a situation in which further research on the basis of an explicit, critical methodo­logy seems highly desirable. Some of the points that such research should bear in mind are: (1) Source criticism is as important for the comparative material as it is for the Germanic material. This may be a truism, but cannot be stressed too much. This demand for source-critical approaches includes that (2) any meaningful comparison must take direct recourse to the original sources, that (3) questions of the chrono­logy of the material have to be fully considered, and that (4) individual, picked-out examples are of very limited value as comparative evidence: a meaningful comparison has to be founded on a broad collection of comparative data which ensures that the comparative evidence is representative. (5) Comparisons, furthermore, are only significant for understanding Celtic-Germanic religious interaction if they draw on material whose similarities are complex enough to justify the assumption that polygenesis is unlikely. (6) The analysis of the material has to include the full context of the motifs in question. (7) Differences between the Celtic and Germanic material are just as relevant as similarities. (8) And perhaps most importantly, the mechanisms and the socio-cultural and -political contexts of the process of borrowing itself will have to be examined. For, ultimately, the main aim of comparative studies is not a history of mere motifs but a history of human encounters.

15 – Encounters: Slavic Leszek P. Słupecki Introduction The Slavs Slavs and Germanic peoples have been in contact ‘since the beginning of time’, which is natural considering the common Indo-European origin of both ethnic groups (è 10, 11). However, the contacts between them are, at least for the prehistory and ancient history, tangible only in the form of linguistic material, which is difficult to attach to any specific chrono­logical period. This is related to the question of the so-called ‘ethnogenesis of the Slavs’ as well as the original location of the ‘cradle’ of the Slavic peoples is still under discussion, although it seems it might be located somewhere in Eastern Europe. The earliest undisputed written and archaeo­logical testimonies of the presence of Slavic peoples and their contacts with Germanic peoples (including interrelations and similarities in their respective pre-Christian beliefs) are available to us only from the Migration Period onwards.

Encounters The Slavs and the Germanic Peoples The Slavs evidently encountered the Germanic peoples during the Migration Period although probably also prior to that. On the edges of the steppes that border on the northern shores of the Black Sea, Germanic Goths undoubtedly Leszek P. Słupecki, Professor of Medieval and Old Norse Studies, Rzeszow University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. 319–340 John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116942

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Figure 15.1. (1) The approximate extent of Slavic groups north of Pannonia around 1000 ce, according to placenames and written sources. (2) Regions with Slavic settlements in southern Scandinavia according to placenames and archaeo­logy are also indicated. Map: Disir Productions, Uppsala, based on draft by Anders Andrén. 

lived close to the Slavs during the time of the Hunnish invasions, as is attested by Jordanes (Getica 5.34–35; 23.119–20; 48.247; cf. Wolfram 2003: 292–93; Strzelczyk 1994), who mentions the king of the Goths, Vinitharius (by then already subordinated to the Huns). This name (Vinithar) means ‘he who wins over the Wends (= Slavs)’, and Jordanes — as a consequence of this interpretation — describes the king’s victory over a group of Slavic people called the Antes and their king Boz.1 King Boz was captured and killed, together with his sons and seventy chieftains, at least according to the story told by Jordanes. 1 

The strange name Boz is probably a result of efforts to record an unknown Slavic word in the Greek-Byzantine way (Greek lacks a proper letter for v/w, for which beta can be substituted). Boz is also nothing other than a Slavic term wodz that means simply ‘the leader’, ‘army

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It is still a subject of some discussion to what extent the contemporary territories of Poland and eastern Germany were, at the time when the Slavs appear, deserted after the Goths, Vandals, and other Germanic groups departed and went further south (Dulinicz 2001; Dulinicz and Moździoch 2013). Written sources (Procopius of Caesarea, The Gothic War 2.15) describe a group of Heruli who were defeated by Longobards and returned back to the North. Procopius informs first about their passage through Slavic territories, but following that they continue their journeys across empty land. The traces of abandonment of some areas in Central Europe at the time of the great migrations are visible thanks to paleobotanical research. Even so, despite many archaeo­logical efforts to discover some, there are still no convincing traces of early Germanic-Slavic cohabitation found in the West Slavic areas. The fact that the Slavs take from previous inhabitants of their areas some of the more important river names (and a number of other hydronyms of mostly much older ‘Old-European’ provenience) does nonetheless testify to at least loose contacts between the old and the new, incoming peoples. How large a group of the old population (probably from the lower social strata) remained in their homeland and became integrated into the Slavic population is at the present stage of research unfortunately unknown. The famous account by Theofylact Simocatta about Slavs dwelling quite early on by the shores of the (Western) Ocean (i.e., the Baltic Sea) has recently been interpreted as Byzantine narrative fiction (Wołoszyn 2014). Nevertheless, already in Merovingian times, the Slaves had settled as far west as Kärnten in present-day Austria and Slovenia (Kahl 2002), in Dalmatia on the Adriatic coast (where Latin societies remained only in the towns, right up until the twentieth century, while Slavic kingdoms developed in the interior, rural areas of Croatia and Serbia), as far as the Alpine valleys of Northern Italy, and the river Main in the very centre of modern Germany (Kahl 2004). In the seventh century, a Frankish merchant and adventurer whose name was Samo organized the first Slavic proto-state somewhere on the Danube — in Pannonia, Moravia and Bohemia (Labuda 1949). This more or less accidental creation vanished quickly, but Great Moravia replaced it soon after and became Christianized thanks to the efforts of the ruling elite, who, disappointed with the Frankish Empire and German clerks, arranged the mission of the Byzantine clerics Ciril and Methodius, thus effectively starting the Slavonic liturgy in the Church. commander’, and this suggests that Boz was probably just a name of this king’s function and not his proper name.

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Great Moravia moreover had links to both the Western and the Eastern Empire and the Western and Eastern Churches, but eventually came to be dominated by Rome and the Germans. Thus begins the process of state formation and Christianization among the Slavs. Viking Rus — Scandinavians and Slavs The route from Scandinavia to the southern shores of the Baltic Sea and onwards along rivers to the Black Sea was not forgotten by the Scandinavians after the Migration Period, and the ‘Vikings’ travelled to places where the Goths and other Germanic peoples had dwelt (or passed through) before. They had at least a basic knowledge about eastern European geo­graphy and prehistory (Słupecki 2013b: 65–70). Memories of events relating to the Migration Period were still present in Scandinavian heroic mytho­logy and come to the light during the time of saga-writing in Iceland in, for example, legends about the Gothic king Ermanaric. During the Viking Age, Scandinavians (mostly Swedish people from Svealand and Gotlanders) travelled to the east (or rather south-east) along ‘the eastern road’ (Austrvegr), going from Dvina and Neva to Dnepr and Volga and then downstream to the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea via territory that would later become Russia. Here, they were named ‘Rus’, a term later used in the name for Russia (Duczko 2004; Melnikova and Petrukhin 2011: 133–52). Having travelled through vast areas, the Rus finally established a state by the river Dnepr — the Rus state. There, they became Slavicized during the tenth century (like the Bulgarians on Balkan previously), and already from the time of Vladimir the Great (who ruled Rus c. 980–1015 and was baptized c. 988), the Swedish Viking Rus became Slavic Rus, adopting the Christian Orthodox culture and religion (Duczko 2004). From that time on, Scandinavians coming to eastern Europe played a different role there, being mercenary warriors instead of conquerors, and they were called Varangians. Some of them entered into the Byzantine emperors’ service, forming an elite unit, the so-called Varangian Guard (Sigfús Bløndal 1978). The name ‘Rus’ remained in use, but was now a designation for the eastern Slavs. One consequence of this was the establishment of the Russian state, with a Slavicized and Christianized Scandinavian dynasty and elites, which in turn resulted in the rapid Slavicization of nonSlavic peoples inhabiting the territories of contemporary Russia, from the Black to the White Seas and from the Bug River to the Ural Mountains. The process of Swedish settlement in the area of modern Russia (in medi­eval Icelandic sources referred to as Svíþjóð in mikla, ‘Great Sweden’, which concurs

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perfectly with the ancient term Scythia Magna) initially had the character of military domination, including plundering and tribute collecting, but it continued with the establishment of a number of chiefdoms under the rule of Swedish warlords. This development as a whole resembles to some extent the Viking Age in the British Isles and in Normandy (Melnikova 2011: 35–48, although emphasizing the differences between the Scandinavian presence in Rus and in Western Europe). It also came to a similar end, with the Scandinavians losing their language, their pagan religion, and — albeit only partially — their customs and culture. However, the linear vision of the beginning of early Rus, linking this historical process from the very beginning to only one ruling family (Rurikids) and only one centre of power (Kiev), is nothing but royal propaganda from the turn of eleventh and twelfth century, recorded in the so-called ‘Nestor chronicle’ (now generally known as the Primary Chronicle). This chronicle codifies the success story of the winners, while in reality it is quite obvious that, before Vladimir the Great, there were several Swedish clans among the Rus people of (modern) Russia, and, apart from Kiev, many other centres of powers and economy emerge, such as Novgorod, Chernigov, Polotsk, Turov, and, of course, Gnezdovo (Duczko 2004), which is probably where the first town in the region of Smolensk existed (Mühle 1988). Archaeo­logy proves that Gnezdovo was the biggest centre in the Dnepr River valley (while the Khazar town of Itil and the Volga-Bulgarian town of Sarkel were the main trade-centres in the Volga river valley). The term ‘Kievian Rus’ when used for the period before Vladimir the Great is also a bit misleading. Rus was at that time an area of the most intense Scandinavian-Slavic contacts (not forgetting that other ethnic groups lived there along with the Slavs), and in that sense the situation there was very different from this in the regions along the southern shores of the Baltic, where the presence of Scandinavians comes to the light in archaeo­logical and written sources (e.g., in ports like Wolin/Jómsborg to mention the best-known place), but the ‘Vikings’ never succeed in playing any dominant role (Duczko 2011). Scandinavians on the Southern Shores of the Baltic Sea The contacts between the West Slavic lands and Scandinavia started about or just before the beginning of the Viking Age, and it continued into the time when the Hanseatic League was established and dominated the Baltic Sea. The West Slavic-Scandinavian relations developed differently in two fairly distinct areas, one of which is the coastal zone along the Baltic from Wagria trough the country of Obodrites and Rügen up to Pomerania, and in the other is the

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Figure 15.2. Rune stone at Sønder Vissing in central Jylland (DR 55, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). According to the inscription, the monument was erected by Haraldr Gormsson’s wife Tove Mistivoi’s daughter in memory of her anonymous mother. The text indicates complex dynastic relations between the Slavic and Danish elites. Since the monument is erected in Jylland, the Obrodite king Mistovoi was probably married to a high-status woman from Jylland, and their daughter in her turn was married to the Danish king Haraldr Gormsson. Photo: Roberto Fortuna, Nationalmuseet, Copen­hagen. 

inland region (which to the south extends as far as the Baltic Sea drainage basin, while the Moravian and Czech territories further south are less relevant). When the Slavs settled in Central Europe, the shores of the Baltic Sea from the Elbe Estuary (close to the future Hedeby) to the Elbe Estuary (close to the future Truso) came to be the main contact zone where Slavs met Danes and Swedes. Here, the ports of trade, with more or less intense presence of Scandinavians, opened the possibility for commercial and cultural contacts, including encounters involving religious activities. From the tenth century on, we can observe political links between West Slavic lands and Scandinavia, especially between the Obodrites and the Danes, and among Poland and Denmark and Sweden. That these contacts were also dynastic is evident from the fact that King Haraldr Gormsson of the Jelling dynasty was married to Tove, daughter of the Obrodite king Mistivoi.

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We may see also the presence of Scandinavian warriors employed as mercenary soldiers by the rulers of Poland from the end of the tenth century, which has come to light thanks to the excavations of a number of burial grounds. Archaeo­logical investigations have revealed cemeteries with Scandinavian components, including inter alia chamber graves (catalogue by Janowski 2015), such as those recently excavated in Bodzia (Buko 2014) and Kałdus (Chudziak and others 2009), all originating from the second half of the tenth century and the first half of the eleventh century. Slavs in Scandinavia The other side of the coin when speaking of encounters is the Slavic presence in Scandinavia, which is evidenced from at least the beginning of the Viking Period. The south-eastern Danish isles of Lolland, Falster, and Møn were from that time home to a large Slavic population living in separate villages, the names of which are preserved in etymo­logically Slavic toponyms up until today (Housted 1994, 2000). This significant Slavic settlement is, moreover, very visible in archaeo­logical findings (Løkkegaard Poulsen 2001). In Skåne (Roslund 2007) and on Bornholm (Naum 2008), only archaeo­logy proves the presence of Slavic populations, since no Slavic placenames existed or are preserved here, but the testimonies are sufficiently clear to assume that the ‘Slavic’ pottery (more neutrally known as ‘Baltic ware’), which dominates Scandinavia during the Viking Age and into the Middle Ages up until the thirteenth century, was obviously produced by craftsmen who came from the West Slavic lands and later by people (possibly their descendants) who continued this way of work (Naum 2008: 256–61). What is more, the presence of Slavic warriors in Denmark about the end of the tenth century has recently been proved by Dobat (2009). They seem to have formed an important part of the king’s retinue during the time when the Jelling dynasty began to build the Danish state. Also the construction of the circular fortresses of the Trelleborg type in Denmark appears to be very much akin to typically Slavic ways of building wooden forts. Similar to the Slavic way of building bridges is also the Danish bridge from Ravning Enge, dated to about 980 and resembling constructions from the West Slavic lands, especially those found in what is today Mecklenburg (see further Dobat 2009: 80–83 with references). All of this means that the western Slavs also had something to offer Scandinavia, not only on the level of producing pottery.

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Slavic Religion in the Germanic and Scandinavian Context Sources for Slavic religion Archaeo­logy provides us with sources that are difficult to interpret in terms of evidencing religious life. Furthermore, the current position regarding discussions about the origins of the Slavs enables us to include into our research the archaeo­logical material only from the Migration Period onwards. However, written sources on Slavic religion are not exactly numerous. The first relatively long description of Slavic beliefs (consisting of some few lines) is found in Procopius of Caesarea’s The Gothic War (part of the History of Wars from the sixth century) and concerns tribes or peoples mentioned together as ‘Sklavenoi’ and ‘Antoi’, who during Procopius’s time dwelt to the north of the Black Sea. During the following centuries, the written testimonies consist of very short mentions and glosses, and this situation continues up until the time of Thietmar of Merseburg (tenth and eleventh century), who in his Chronicle delivered many passages devoted to the beliefs of the western Slavs, but especially the Polabians of the Lutitian tribal union, who were living on the eastern border of the German empire. After Thietmar, written sources for Slavic religion become more numerous, but they concern in fact almost exclusively two separate regions where paganism was still practised then: one area includes Polabia (appearing with details on paganism by Adam of Bremen and Helmold) and Pomerania, especially St Otto’s Lives from the twelfth century, describing his missions (Vita Ottonis, Prieflingensis; Vita Ottonis, Ebo; and Vita Ottonis, Herbord). The other area is Rus with local paganism described ex post in the Primary Chronicle written in the early twelfth century. Regarding the areas in between, such as Poland and Bohemia, the sources are far more scanty and enigmatic and predominantly stem from times long after the conversion.2 Prelude: Procopius of Caesarea on Slavic Religion (Comparing Slavic and Scandinavian Paganism) As stated above, the first and for a number of centuries the only substantial description of Slavic customs and beliefs comes from Procopius of Caesarea’s work The Gothic War (3.14.23–24). In the same book, Procopius also describes 2 

The most important extracts from written sources are collected in Fontes historiae religionis Slavicae and, for eastern Slavs, by Mansikka (1922; 2005); for the few written sources newly introduced into research and archaeo­logical discoveries, cf. Słupecki (2006: 340–59).

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the religious customs of the Thoulitai (i.e., the Scandinavians, literally ‘inhabitants of Thule’; The Gothic War 2.15.23). The Thoulitai practiced ‘reverence in a great number of gods and demons, both of the heaven and of the air, of the earth and of the sea, and sundry other demons which are said to be in the waters of springs and rivers’ (p. 196). The Slavs — in contrast — believed that ‘one god, the maker of the lightning (άστραπής δημιουργόν), is alone the lord of all things’ (pp. 270–71). It seems at first glance that, according to Procopius, the Thulitai worship many gods while the Slavs just one. But this is not really the case. The most important Scandinavian gods are, says Procopius, those belonging to the heavens and the air, and precisely there must be located his only Slavic god, responsible for using or producing lightning.3 After this difference comes a similarity. The Thoulitai worship many demons dwelling in waters. But such demons appear also in Procopius’s description of the Slavs, who revere ‘ποταμούϛ τε καί νύμϕαϛ καί ‘άλλα ‘άττα δαιμόνια’ (p. 271) (both rivers and nymphs and some other spirits) (p. 270). Both Slavs and Scandinavians bring sacrifices to their gods. The Thulitai ‘ἐνδελεχέστατα ἱερεῖα πάντα καὶ ἐναγίζουσι, τῶν δὲ ἱερείων σφίσι τὸ κάλλιστον ἄνθρωπός ἐστιν ὅνπερ δορυάλωτον ποιήσαιντο πρῶτον· τοῦτον γὰρ τῷ Ἄρει θύουσιν, ἐπεὶ θεὸν αὐτὸν νομίζουσι μέγιστον εἶναι’ (offer up all kinds of sacrifices, and make oblations to the dead, but the noblest of sacrifices, in their eyes, is the first human being whom they have taken captive in war; for they sacrifice him to Ares, whom they regard as the greatest god) (p. 420). Ares, a war god, is here to be interpreted as an echo of Týr or Óðinn (Simek 2003: 52, 84). The manner of the actual sacrifice of the victim, which ‘is not only by sacrificing him on the altar, but also by hanging him from a tree, or throwing him among thorns or killing him by some other most cruel forms of death’, finds, especially with regard to hanging from a tree, several parallels in quite credible descriptions of Scandinavian rituals. But in Procopius’s narrative, there is something else which is also striking. Although he mentioned first the many gods of the Thulitai, this one is the most important and the sacrifices made to him are described in detail. In other words, the distinction initially made between the Scandinavians with many gods and the Slavs with just one is not particularly sharp. When it comes to Procopius’s description of Slavic rituals, the situation is similar. Only the offerings made to their one god, who is ‘ἁπάντων κύριον μόνον’ 3 

The best way of interpretation is to see in this enigmatic figure simply Perun, the Slavic thunder-god. But some less probable interpretations are also possible; he could be simply a divine smith, producing lightning for the thunder god and thus a Slavic counterpart of Hephaestus or Vulcan.

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(p. 270) (alone the lord of all things) (p. 271), are described in any detail: ‘καὶ θύουσιν αὐτῷ βόας τε καὶ ἱερεῖα πάντα’ (p. 270) (they sacrifice to him cattle and all other victims) (p. 270). Of human sacrifices, there is no mention. But the story continues. Procopius says about the notion of fate that the Slavs ‘εἱμαρμένην δὲ οὔτε ἴσασιν οὔτε ἄλλως ὁμολογοῦσιν ἔν γε ἀνθρώποις ῥοπήν τινα ἔχειν’ (p. 270) (neither know it nor do they in any wise admit that it has any power among men) (p. 271), but then immediately contradicts himself by stating that, when facing death because of sickness or war, ‘ἐπαγγέλλονται μέν, ἢν διαφύγωσι, θυσίαν τῷ θεῷ ἀντὶ τῆς ψυχῆς αὐτίκα ποιήσειν’ (p. 270) (they make a promise that, if they escape, they will straightaway make a sacrifice to the god in return for their life) (p. 271), and if they survive, ‘διαφυγόντες δὲ θύουσιν ὅπερ ὑπέσχοντο, καὶ οἴονται τὴν σωτηρίαν ταύτης δὴ τῆς θυσίας αὐτοῖς ἐωνῆσθαι’ (p. 270) (they sacrificed just what they have promised, and consider that their safety has been bought by this same sacrifice) (p. 271). But their one god is not the only divine power receiving offerings, because as was already mentioned, they venerate ‘ποταμούς τε καὶ νύμφας καὶ ἄλλα ἄττα δαιμόνια, καὶ θύουσι καὶ αὐτοῖς ἅπασι, τάς τε μαντείας ἐν ταύταις δὴ ταῖς θυσίαις ποιοῦνται’ (p. 270) (rivers and nymphs and some other spirits, and they sacrifice to all of these also, and they make their divinations in connection with these sacrifices) (p. 271).4 It seems that Procopius in his descriptions of Scandinavians and Slavs had in mind certain basic questions that he sought to answer (rather along the lines of a formal questionnaire), about gods worshipped, offerings made, places where the cult was performed, and about divinations. Comparisons of his statements with other albeit mostly later sources show that he had access to some credible, but rather basic, information. Speaking about the god or gods, he is in the case of both ethnic groups focusing on just one god, which in the Scandinavian case is characterized as the most important among several, and in the Slavic case as the only one. The Slavic god remains unnamed but is nonetheless linked to lightning (which enables us to identify him with Perun). The Scandinavian deity is likewise unnamed but is clearly described as a war god and named by means of interpretatio Graeca as Ares, and thus most likely Óðinn (è42). Apart from the gods mentioned in the beliefs of both peoples, a range of lower spirits are also noted; among the Scandinavians these are said to be connected to all elements, among the Slavs especially to water. Regarding offerings, Procopius stresses very clearly human sacrifices related to military activities among the 4 

For information concerning Slavic divinations compared with those of the Scandinavians, see Słupecki (1998).

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Scandinavians, while he is entirely silent about anything comparable among the Slavs. According to him, the sacrifices they make to their god include ‘cattle and all other victims’ — thus excluding human sacrifices. Regarding Slavic offerings made to ‘rivers and nymphs’, Procopius connects some unspecific offerings to divination rituals (although he stated first that the Slavs do not believe in fate). Regarding the Scandinavians, no information about beliefs in fate (è 35) or about divination is given. To sum up: the focus in the Procopian description of Scandinavian beliefs is on war, the war god, and its cult, which includes human sacrifice; however, his description of Slavic beliefs focuses on one god, whose main attribute is lightning and who is honoured with offerings of cattle, and on water spirits and their cult, which includes divinations. Procopius’s version of Scandinavian belief accords well with later accounts of Old Norse religion. In the case of the Slavs, their cult of the god of thunder is similarly well attested later, while the religious importance of water for the Slavs, which is stressed by Procopius, rather recalls what the literary and archaeo­logical sources say about aquatic aspects of the Germanic cult in antiquity. Water, while present in Slavic beliefs later on, does not seem to be so important in the medi­eval sources, although it is very vividly present in more modern folklore.5 Comparisons between the Slavic and Germanic Pantheons Scholars tend to interpret Perun, a deity of military character and god of thunder and lightning, as the main and most important Slavic god. Perun, who is assumed to be a pan-Slavic main god, clearly appears in sources for Rus beliefs, but only there; his (allegedly) prominent role in other Slavic regions is in actual fact merely suspected by scholars attempting to reconstruct other divine characters as Perun’s hypostases, or by proposing emendations to source records of other divine names, trying to connect them to Perun.6 Also a number of placenames have been understood in favour of that interpretation — as has

5 

About water in Slavic cult see Słupecki (1994: 163–66). New archaeo­logical discoveries of deposits of weaponry of early eleventh century in Lake Lednica can also be interpreted in favour of the hypothesis about its sacral background, cf. Duczko (2013: 25); worth noticing are also some possibly cultic structures fond on an isle on Lake Żółte in Pomerania, cf. Chudziak (2009: 40–70); Chudziak and Kaźmierczak (2014). 6  See, e.g., efforts to connect the gods Porenut, Porevit, and Prove (Prone?) to Perun (discussion by Gieysztor 2006: 90–91).

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even the name of a flower.7 The etymo­logy of Perun’s name is ‘the one who strikes’ with thunder (Gieysztor 2006: 86; Słupecki 2013a: 346). In Polish and Kashubian, this emerges in the common word denoting lightning, piorun. This common word is unknown in other Slavic languages and seems to be derived secondarily from the proper name of the god Perun, who was a typical thunder-god (Gieysztor 2006: 86). Perun as the god of thunder and of war was an obvious counterpart to other Indo-European gods of similar nature, including the Old Norse Þórr (è 41; cf. Rozniecki 1901). But from a philo­logical point of view, his closest counterparts are the Baltic deity Perkunas and the Old Norse Fjǫrgyn and Fjǫrgynn8 — the former is a straightforward thundergod, while the latter are a pair of rather enigmatic mythical characters who are nonetheless very closely associated with Þórr. In Rus, Perun is attested in the Primary Chronicle and — which should be stressed — in the very trustworthy fragments of it that describe oaths sworn by Old Russian warriors when concluding peace treaties with the Byzantine empire (see below). According to the Primary Chronicle (s.a. 945) in the times of Prince Igor, pagan warriors would swear oaths under Perun’s idol, which stood on a hill near Kiev, and the Rus retinue did the same again in the times of Prince Sviatoslav, although then the oaths were sworn on foreign soil in the Balkans during an expedition against the Byzantine Empire (Primary Chronicle, s.a. 971). In this episode, Perun appears in the text as one of two gods (the other being Volos) who were called upon by the Rus to warrant the treaty between the Rus and the Byzantines (both treaties possibly existed as written documents later used by the chronicler; the question remains how much he may have reshaped them). In the narrative of Primary Chronicle, the god Perun also appears in the story about Prince Vladimir, first when the new ruler was erecting a new sanctuary in Kiev (and another shrine for Perun in Novgorod, Primary Chronicle, s.a. 980), and second, after Vladimir’s conversion when he ordered the demolition of the same shrine (Primary Chronicle, s.a. 988). Among the idols said to accompany Perun in his new Kievian shrine, Volos is not mentioned.9 Scholars commonly refer to the group of gods shown in the effigies contained in this sanctuary in Kiev as ‘Vladimir’s pantheon’. Whether it really was erected in Kiev in (or about) 980 7 

Croatian perunika (iris germanica); see Gieysztor (2006: 90). Cf. Gieysztor (2006: 88). The roots of the name of this mytho­logical character can be traced in the Hittite goddess Perunaš. 9  Volos had eventually his own sanctuary in another part of the town of Kiev, called Podol; cf. Słupecki (1994: 140). 8 

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and destroyed again in (or about) 988, or whether it was created (possibly from genuine material) only in the narrative of Primary Chronicle at the beginning of the twelfth century remains an important question.10 Veles (or Volos), who is regarded as the second most important pan-Slavic god, is characterized in the Primary Chronicle (s.a. 971, in the above-mentioned peace treaty) as a god of cattle (skoti bog), which suggests an association with welfare and fertility. Volos was, however, shown in the Primary Chronicle’s statement first and foremost as a god guaranteeing oaths and able to punish with illness (most probably scrofula) those who committed perjury in retribution. Because of these facts, and because of the etymo­logy of his name, which suggests links to the world of the dead, scholars believe that he was a god of magic and the underworld.11 The only mention of Veles from outside of Russia is a Czech gloss describing the souls of dead people travelling ‘to Veles, over [beyond?] the sea’ (Gieysztor 2006: 143). His associations with magic and death go rather well with his connections to welfare. If he was a god of magic and death, he might be identified by the Scandinavians dwelling in Rus with Óðinn — although this is hypothetical speculation. Many other Slavic gods could be mentioned here (Słupecki 2013a: 338– 58), some of whom are probably hypostases of others, but in connection with the Scandinavian pantheon, we shall only consider the name of the god Prove, who was worshipped in a sacred grove in Wagria (a region close to Denmark, recalling the sacred grove of the Semnones mentioned by Tacitus in Germania ch. 39). Despite Gieysztor’s efforts to connect Prove linguistically to Perun, the name appears instead to derive from pravo (‘law’, cf. modern Polish prawo and Russian pravo ‘law’). Moreover, it is important to keep in mind that his holy grove was, according to Helmold, the place of the Wagrian tribal assembly (Słupecki 2006a: 348–49). Prove seems also to be a god personifying the law, justice, and the assembly, and in that way he is a possible counterpart to the Old Norse Týr (è48). Whether this possible parallel existed at the time when Prove was actually worshiped, or — going even further into speculation — whether there was some Scandinavian influence behind conceptions concerning the god, is impossible to say. But it is true that, in the nearby Wagrian town of Starigard/Oldenburg, archaeo­logical excavations have revealed a building 10  The same question should be asked about Perun’s idol mentioned in the Primary Chronicle (s.a. 945). 11  For etymo­logical and functional analogies for the Slavic god Veles and its linguistic counterparts; see Gieysztor (2006: 141–46) and Jakobson (1969).

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Figure 15.3. Remains of the Slavic hillfort at Arkona on Rügen. The hillfort was the central sanctuary on the island, and in the hillfort a huge wooden image of the Slavic god Sventovit was erected. According to Saxo Grammaticus, the hillfort was conquered by a Danish army in 1168, and on that occasion the Danes found gifts offered to Sventovit by previous Danish kings, some of them even Christian. Photo: Anders Andrén. 

similar in kind to a Scandinavian hall as well as a female elite burial in a wagoncasket (Gabriel 1988: 55–86); both of these discoveries are unique in the Slavic lands. The Religion of the Rus: Slavic or Viking? The Scandinavian expansions into Rus, which began with the Finnish and Baltic territories, very quickly moved to the areas along the Dnepr and the Volga because the Scandinavians were looking for the routes to Constantinople, Bagdad, and Bukhara. Their religious customs have been described briefly in a number of sources, such as Constantinos Porphyrogenitos (who informs about the Rus custom of making offerings after successful passages through waterfalls on the Dnepr en route to the Black Sea. Arabic sources provide information concerning the funerals of Scan­ dinavians who died in what is now Russia, consistently referring to these Scandinavians as ar-Rus and clearly distinguishing them from Slavs, whom they call as-Saqualiba. In the account by Ahmad ibn Fadlan from 922 (è32 è33)

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there is — apart from the detailed report on the funeral of a Swedish chieftain (Risalat pp. 12–21) — an interesting description of a sanctuary constructed by Scandinavian merchants, who were trading on the Volga. This consisted of one main pole, which was a rough idol of the main god (no name is recorded), with similar but smaller figures of other gods and goddesses around it, all encircled by a number of poles on which was placed the flesh of sacrificed animals — which was, Ibn Fadlan sarcastically says, eaten by dogs during the night (Risalat pp. 9–11). Very similar to this was, if we can trust the Primary Chronicle (written at the beginning of the twelfth century), the sanctuary which Vladimir the Great ordered to be built in Kiev after he came into power in Rus (c. 980). This consisted of a wooden figure of the main god Perun (whose face was covered with silver and gold foil) and the figures of a number of other gods plus one goddess placed around it (the so-called ‘Vladimir’s pantheon’). The similarity to the sanctuary described by ibn Fadlan speaks for the authenticity of the statement from the Primary Chronicle (the year 980). Even the building of the sanctuary in Kiev right after Vladimir comes into power in Rus sounds credible. Before Vladimir, Kiev was just a meeting place where the Viking expeditions to the Black Sea area gathered before passing the waterfalls on the Dnepr, as described by Constantinos Porphyrogenitos (De administrando imperio 9).12 At that time, the important centres were, instead, Gnezdovo, Chernigov and the predecessor to Novgorod (Rurikovo Gorodishe) — but not Kiev. However, if this be so, the information about Perun’s idol located in Kiev in 945 is not necessarily fully correct — the author of the Letopis may have attached the scene of the oath found in the charter to the most important place in Rus during his own lifetime, which at the beginning of the twelfth century was Kiev. The same could be said also about the names of the gods accompanying Perun in 980. The chronicler may assign to Perun companions whose names he knew from the traditions about local, multi-ethnic paganism that was still partly alive around the beginning of the twelfth century. Such a view on how this fragment came to be written can explain the mysterious problem in the Scandinavian-(east) Slavic religious relations. The gods of ‘Vladimir’s pantheon’ from the Primary Chronicle already had Slavic 12  Constantinos Porphyogenitos (De administrando imperio 9) recorded both Scandinavian and Slavic names of (almost) every waterfall — but despite 1500 years of Greek presence in Crimea, he does not seem to have known any Greek name of those waterfalls. By the abovementioned place for offerings one Swedish runic stone was found, which is a unique phenomenon outside Scandinavia

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(and partly Iranian) names: they were called Perun, Khors, Dashbog, Stribog, Simargl, and Mokosh. In peace treaties which the Rus concluded with the Byzantine Empire, Perun and Volos appear as gods warranting oaths sworn by the pagan section of the Russian retinue. The degree to which the ritual of swearing an oath, described in the Primary Chronicle (s.a. 945), echoes Scandinavian customs was analysed over a century ago by Stanislaw Rozniecki (1901). In the etymo­logies of some of the above-mentioned names of gods, one may suspect Iranian roots, but there is nothing at all to suggest any borrowings from Old Norse. At the same time, however, there is no doubt that in some of those Slavic gods, the Scandinavians may have recognized (local versions of ) their own deities: Perun, as the god of thunder, was an obvious counterpart to Þórr (è41); Veles, connected to magic and death, was a possible equivalent of Óðinn (è42); and Dashbog, whose name describes somebody who is ‘giving wealth’, may be perceived as a deity similar to Freyr or Njǫrdr (è43 è47). But Scandinavian names of gods did not appear anywhere in Rus tradition. One exception is the Russian word for a lightning, molnija (de Vries 1962a: 390),13 which is an obvious loan that comes from Old Norse Mjǫllnir, the name of Þórr’s hammer. Dozens of personal names of the members of the Old Russian retinues recorded in the peace treaties with Byzantium (Primary Chronicle, s.a. 912, 945) — the great majority of whom were of Scandinavian descent — do not include obvious Old Norse theophoric elements. Such may be detected, however, in the chieftain’s name Tury, recorded in another fragment of Primary Chronicle (s.a. 980). Tury is probably nothing other than the Old Norse name Þórir, and the Letopis locates his estate in Turov (a town on the Pripyat River still in existence today) in the middle of the territory of the Old Russian tribe of Drevlane (Duczko 2004: 126). The distant link between Tury and Þórr is, in this case, fairly obvious (è5). However, we should remember that, precisely around the middle of the tenth century, the members of the Rurikid dynasty, who had already succeeded in monopolizing the power in Rus (previously having names like Igor = Ingvar, or Olga = Helga), begin to use Slavic personal names (the first was Prince Sviatoslav, Vladimir’s father). Moreover, the Swedes in Russia became Slavs and (orthodox) Christians. Old Russian narratives recorded in Primary Chronicle include important parallels to Old Norse motifs and, as demonstrated many years ago by StanderPetersen, the oral ‘Waregersage’ was among the most important sources of this first Russian chronicle (Stender-Petersen 1934; Hannika 1960: 299–309; 13 

According to de Vries, the hammer of Latvian Perkunas was also called in Latvia milna.

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Słupecki 1994: 141–43). Three episodes are of particular importance. One tells of the death of Prince Oleg (Primary Chronicle, s.a. 912) who died from the poison of the serpent that came out from the skull of his dead horse (a variant of the story about Ǫrvar-Oddr’s death). Another describes the vengeance of Princess Olga (Primary Chronicle, s.a. 945) who killed the murderers of her husband by burying them alive in boats (echoing the custom of ship-burials). Finally, the story about the burning of two Varangians, father and son, who were Christians, (Primary Chronicle, s.a. 983) includes two Old Norse elements: one is choosing who is to be sacrificed to the gods by the casting of lots, resembling what happens to King Víkarr in Gautreks saga; and the other — after the father refuses to give the son to the ‘devil’ — is the burning of both Varangians inside their house, recalling Old Icelandic brennu inni episodes (Słupecki 1998: 107). Apart from the parallels to Scandinavian religious material that are found in the Primary Chronicle, there are likewise important parallels to Finnish motifs, which is, however, beyond the scope of this investigation. Scandinavian Influences in Polabia and Pomerania Polabia and Pomerania are two neighbouring regions, historically, culturally, and economically very close one to one another and naturally having connections to Scandinavia because of the close geo­graphical proximity. These areas were the last bastions of Slavic paganism, which remained alive there up until the end of the twelfth century.14 The lack of important Scandinavian influences is visible already from the beginning of the Slavic settlement on the southern shores of the Baltic Sea.15 For example, at the time when the Slavs settled there, the Scandinavians produced and used on the neighbouring Danish isles — including Bornholm — gold foil figures (è7), but not a single one of these is found among the Slavs, and no imitations of such objects have hitherto come to light on the Slavic side of the Baltic Sea. 14  The pagan area along the shores of the Baltic Sea continues behind the Vistula Estuary including territories of Baltic and Finnish people (Pruthenians, Lithuanians, Samogitians, Latvians, and Couronians, Livonians and Estonians), converted during the thirteenth to fifteenth centuries, but the process of Christianization lasted up until the eighteenth century. 15  For more about the process of settlement of the Slavs in Polabia and Pomerania, see Dulinicz (2001). To some extent, separate cultural development on both sides of the Baltic Sea underlines the title of the recent publication analysing this question from an archaeo­logical perspective: Worlds Apart? (Lund Hansen and Bitner-Wróblewska 2010).

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Figure 15.4. Wooden figurine with four faces from Svendborg on Fyn (Svendborg museum no. 10.764). The figurine illustrates the close connections between Slavs and Scandinavians in southern Denmark. Photo: Per O. Thomsen, Svendborg museum, Svendborg. 

Even so, archaeo­log y provides two obvious examples of religious interrelations, which seem, however, to be of a rather more technical than spiritual nature. The first case is a number of figurines (among the Slavs also sizeable idols) of multi-cephalic (or multi-faced) gods or supernatural beings (Lamm 1987: 219–31). Regarding these, however, the problem about the different meanings of multi-cephalism (usually overlooked by archaeo­logists) must be indicated, since multicephalia of gods seems to be a normal Western Slavic feature, while in the Old Norse religion, multi-cephalism appears to be typical of giants and trolls, but not at all of gods. The next case is the outward appearance, construction, and decoration of Slavic shrines, cult houses, or altar fences, whose construction and appearance seem to be influenced by Scandinavian models (see below). Other cases of Scandinavian influences are all more or less problematic,16 such as a possible parallel to the Germanic custom of depositing weaponry in waters (attested at only one site in Ostrów Lednicki; see Duczko 2013: 25; è 6 è 27). As for written sources describing the Slavic pantheon and rituals, there are no clear links to be found, except for one enigmatic mention by Ordericus Vitalis in his Historia Ecclesiastica (4, s.a. 1069). In describing Slavic Lutitians (at that time, they sent troops for a Danish expedi16 

Regarding chamber graves or graves of Scandinavian or ‘Varangian-Russian’ connections, see the publication of new discoveries from Bodzia (Buko 2014) and Kałdus (Chudziak 2010); for earlier discoveries, see especially the cemetery from Lutomiersk (Nadolski and others 1959) and Ciepłe (Ratajczyk 2013: 315–22). For monumental burial mounds resembling Scandinavian construction, especially the great mounds from Jelling, cf.  the Krakus mound in Cracow (Słupecki 2006b: 119–42). Most interesting is a cemetery consisting of many stone ship-settings (resembling the Lindholm Høje cemetery) near the Pomeranian town Menzlin, still not properly published in English, cf: Herrmann and others (1982) and Mohr (1997: 59–68).

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tion to England), Ordericus Vitalis states that they worship ‘Guodenem, Thurum Freamque aliosque falsos deos’ (p. 55) (Óðinn, Þórr and Freyja and other false gods). This, however, most likely stems from the fact that he knows that they were still pagans: ‘gentilitas adhud errore detenta verum Deum nesciebat’ (p. 55) (heathens, they still hold on to their errors knowing nothing about the true God) and learned from elsewhere that pagans worship Óðinn, Þórr, and Frigg or Freyja. Sanctuaries, Temples, and Halls The earliest information about Slavic temples appears in written sources soon after the end of tenth century, and to the tenth century belong also the archaeo­ logical remains of a cult building (or altar construction) from Gross Raden (Słupecki and Valor 2007: 377–79). The possible similarity of the structure at Gross Raden to Scandinavian or Germanic buildings consists of the palisade construction of the walls, which is not typical for Slavic houses. However, the anthropomorphic ends of every plank in its walls seem to be a typical feature of the Slavic (or rather West Slavic) manner of building pagan sanctuaries. Later on, in the early twelfth century, precisely at the time when the Urnes style flourished in Scandinavia, the description of the main Triglav temple in Szczecin in Herbord’s account of St Otto’s mission to Pomerania, included in

Figure 15.5. Reconstruction of a ritual building at the fortified Slavic settlement Gross Raden in Mecklenburg. Photo: Anders Andrén. 

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his Vita Ottonis, Herbord (2.32), provides the following statement: The principal temple in Szczecin, here described with the Slavic gloss contina: ‘[…] mirabili cultu et artificioso constructa fuit, interius et exterius sculpturas habens, de parietibus prominentes imagines hominum et volucrum et bestiarum, tam proprie suis habitudinis expressas, ut spirare putares ac vivere’ (pp. 122–23) ([…] had been built with amazing reverence and skill. Its outside and inside were decorated with sculptures protruding from the walls; there were effigies of people, birds and wild animals, pictured with all their features so accurately that they seemed to live and breathe) (translation after Słupecki (1994: 72); cf. Gieysztor (2006: 148). Even the snow and rain does not wash off the colours. It seems quite natural on reading this to turn to Scandinavian bas-reliefs of that time, such as the famous portal from the Urnes stave church, which seems to be precisely similar to it (Słupecki 1997: 300–01). First and foremost, however, the description is similar to information about other Slavic pagan temples from the same period, recorded in shorter and less precise form in other sources, like Thietmar, Ebo, and Saxo, and finding a kind of archaeo­logical support in the discovery of the wooden temple wall at Gross Raden. From a textual point of view, the fragment of Herbord’s description seems to echo a strange phrase from Ammianus Marcelinus (22.15.30),17 but in spite of this it appears to be truthful. This is especially clear when we notice that such ‘people, birds, and wild animals’ seem also to appear on objects made in some of the Scandinavian icono­graphic styles, for example, those of the famous portals from Norwegian stave churches covered with a wooden relief showing people, beasts, birds, and animals. Originally, these were in all likelihood — as in Szczecin — colourfully painted. Moreover, they were made around the same time as the pagan temples in Pomerania existed. In the circum-Baltic zone, the exchange of goods and ideas was intense, and it would not have been a problem to employ some workshop from Scandinavia for building (and decorating) a pagan temple in Szczecin. The city of Szczecin was at that time rich enough to pay for such a task.18 Furthermore, as can be observed on the decorations of many small wooden objects from Poland, the Scandinavian decorative styles (especially imitations of Borre motifs) spread very quickly, not only through the territories of Polabia and Pomerania, but also right into the heartland of 17  Describing subterranean passages in pyramids decorated with special decorative letters/ hieroglyphs. Cf. Słupecki (2016). 18  Ebo (Vita Ottonis, Ebo 3.9) wrote about the temple in Gűtzkow that it was built for 300 talents; cf. Słupecki (1994: 93).

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the Piast state (Duczko 2000: 23–44). This means that the workshop responsible for the wooden bas-reliefs at the temple in Szczecin could be local as well. The decoration of the walls of the temple is just a technical problem, but we still know next to nothing about the meaning of this decoration. Likewise, the religious significance of the bestiary from the Szczecinian bas-relief must remain beyond our knowledge. Generally speaking, we can say only that the decorations on the inside of the Slavic temples, as described in written sources, stress the military function of (west) Slavic gods.19 Rituals The main word for ‘sacrifice’ is the Slavic word treba, meaning ‘something you must do’, thus emphasizing the necessity of bringing offerings (Kahl 2004: 11–42). At least among the Wends, this developed (somewhat like the more specific term Yule among the Scandinavians) into a name for Christmas, probably as a reminiscence of a pre-Christian ritual feast held around the same time. Written sources, however, stress the importance of another period during the autumn, a feast which was celebrated in Arcona ‘after the harvest’ and in Riedegost in late November, both having the character of a thanksgiving following a good harvest and including prayers for future abundance. This type of feast finds plenty of counterparts in modern folklore. Other festivals held in the spring and summer are also well attested, especially in modern folklore, although not exclusively there. There is, for example, twelfth-century evidence from the vitae of St Otto informing us about Gerovit’s feast in Havelberg, dated to the beginning of May, and another spring feast held in Pyrzyce is attested in the same group of sources. But, as with the Old Norse religion, it is very difficult to find in medi­eval sources for Slavic religion testimonies confirming the summer festivals around the time of midsummer, although at least among the Slavs this term for festivals finds folkloristic evidence already from sixteenth century (Słupecki 2013a: 349–52). Sources describing Slavic sacrifices focus, especially in the cases of Polabia and the tribal union of the Lutitians, on human sacrifices. There is an obvious political reason for this, which is the bitter conflict between these ethnic groups and their Christian neighbours, first and foremost the Germans 19 

In the case of Riedegost (according to the description by Thietmar (Chronicon 6.23) the outer relief of the temple of the god Svarozic showed both gods and goddesses while the effigies inside showed gods in helmets and armour.

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(Słupecki 2013a: 350–51). What is more interesting, in the context of Old Norse religion, is the fact that the written sources never mention Slavic horse sacrifices, and almost no archaeo­logical remains of any such sacrifices have been found.20 The only written narrative that may be linked to this problem in some way relates of a Czech army sacrificing a donkey before a war expedition (Cosmae Pragensis Chronica Boemorum 1.11), which sounds rather like a mockery of some real custom. However, the Slavs had a very well-developed tradition of horse oracles (Słupecki 1998: 143–50; Słupecki 2009: 876–83), employing sacred stallions, as is also reported by Tacitus, concerning the Germani (è25). Another problem is the taboo regarding the consumption of horse-meat. In Scandinavia, the taboo arises because of Church instructions prohibiting the eating of horse-meat as a sacrificial food (beginning already with the missions to Germany attested in St Boniface’s sermons). No such prohibitions are known from testimonies of missionary activities among the Slavs, and no mention of any other instructions concerning horse-meat among the Slavs is known to the best of our knowledge. Even so, a very strong taboo forbidding the eating of horse-meat is still (as in earlier times) an important part of Slavic culinary customs, at least in Poland.

Concluding Remarks Similarities, contacts, and interactions between Slavs and Scandinavians, including encounters involving their respective pagan religions, are historical facts, as we have attempted to present above. It should be emphasized, however, that although it played a more or less important role — more important in territories of Rus (modern Russia, Ukraine, and Belarus), less in the west — the Scandinavian way of life, including the religious ideas and practices belonging to it, was never the most important factor for the Slavs. For the western Slavs, connections to Scandinavia were important, but much more important were their relationship to the Western Empire. The same may be said about Rus and the Eastern Empire. Scandinavian paganism left a number of traces in the Slavic lands, but the single outside influence that came to dominate Slavic culture and religion was Christianity.

20 

Results of recent excavations seem to indicate the onset of a change in our knowledge of this topic, especially findings from Lake Żółte in Pomerania; cf. Chudziak and Kamierczak (2014: 362–66).

16 – Encounters: Baltic Thomas A. DuBois

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he eastern shores of the Baltic Sea, from the Gulf of Riga to the river Vistula in present-day Poland, were in the early Middle Ages inhabited by different Baltic-speaking groups, such as Aukštaitians, Curonians, Galinds, Latgalians, Latvians, Lithuanians, Prussians, Sambians, Samogitians, Selonians, Semigallians, Scalovians, Vidivarii, and Yotvingians. The Baltic languages form an important branch of the Indo-European languages. Lithuanian and the now extinct Prussian are regarded as some of the most archaic IndoEuropean languages, often used in reconstructions of the Indo-European proto-language. With its thick hardwood forests, gentle and agriculturally fertile landscape, and numerous rivers, lakes, islands, and coastline teaming with fish, the region in every way equalled or surpassed the richest settlement zones of the Nordic region. Abundance led to great continuities of settlement and culture in certain areas, but also to extensive external contacts, involving trade, warfare, settlement incursions, ethnic displacement, and sometimes genocide. Especially during the Migration Period, Viking Age, and early medi­eval era particular locales of the region — particularly along the coasts — participated actively in extensive trade networks and became part of a cosmopolitan culture linked by the Baltic Sea. Religious ideas circulated throughout this region, evidenced in burial customs, grave goods, and occasionally in other evidence (Tebelškis 2006; Larsson 2009). Although many close parallels exist between Scandinavian religious phenomena and counterparts in the Baltic region, it is difficult to distinguish between common Indo-European traits and mutual influences through successive cultural encounters over time. Thomas A. DuBois, Halls-Bascom Professor of Scandinavian Studies, Folklore and Religious Studies, University of Wisconsin-Madison The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. 341–352 John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116943

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Figure 16.1. The approximate area of Baltic groups around 1000 ce. Trading centres and important places of contact between Balts and Scandinavians were located at Truso, Apuolė, and Grobiņa. The map is based primarily on Christiansen 1980. Map: Disir Productions, Uppsala. 

Over the course of the Common Era, the eastern Baltic region began to appear in the writings of foreign geo­g raphers, statesmen, and chroniclers, including Tacitus, King Theodoric, Jordanes, Adam of Bremen, Saxo Grammaticus, and various Slavic and Arabic writers (Puhvel 1987; Mugurēvičs 2000). The late ninth-century merchant Wulfstan describes a journey from Hæðum (modern Danish Hedeby) to the Baltic trading settlement of Truso in a text included by King Alfred the Great as an addendum to his Old English translation of the history of Orosius. Wulfstan reports sailing east past islands and regions belonging to Denmark and Sweden, toward the eastern coast of the Baltic, which is divided into Weonodland (the Slavic Wendland) south of the river Vistula and Witland to the river’s north. Witland is inhabited by a people Wulfstan refers to as ‘Estum’, a term reminiscent of the Aesti whom Tacitus

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Figure 16.2. Horse burial at Mervelė in Lithuania, dated to the late Viking Age (Bertašius 2009: 86; Daugnora 2009: 103). Photo: Audrius Astrauskas. 

places on the shores of the eastern Baltic, where they gather valuable amber (Germania ch. 45). According to Wulfstan, the inhabitants of Witland are divided into separate settlements, each with its own king. Wulfstan describes the region as literally a land of milk and honey, where wealthy men drink mare’s milk and poor men suffice on mead. Wulfstan further describes the inhabitants’ strange funerary customs that include leaving the corpse of a noteworthy man exposed for weeks or even months before cremation, and staging horse races as a means of dividing up the deceased’s inheritance. Archaeo­logists have identified Truso as the modern-day Janów Pomorski, a settlement near the city of Elbląg in modern Poland, and have noted the importance of horse burials in West Baltic cemeteries ( Jagodziński 2010; Jagodziński and Kasprzycka 1990; Wyszomirska-Werbart 1991: 13–14). Horse burials of varying kinds were common among various Baltic populations, although the form of such burials seems to have varied by cultural group and era (Varnas 1998). Excavations confirm that Truso/Janów was a thriving emporium during the Migration Period and Viking Age, similar in status to Birka and Hedeby, and producing an array of goods, including amber pendants in the shape of Þórr’s hammers, gaming pieces, and bone ice skates (Ambrosiani 1981; Jagodziński 1988; Wyszomirska-Werbart 1991). The styles of these objects show a dominance of Scandinavian influences but also a richly cosmopolitan situation in which ideas and commodities travelled frequently across cultural lines (Bitner-Wróblewską 1991).

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The main religious practices of the Balts, as reconstructed from archaeo­logy, medi­e val texts, and post-medi­e val ethno­g raphic research (see below), can be summarized as follows: –– the procurement and maintenance of personal and communal luck through sacrifices, observance of taboos, and rituals at designated sacred sites (open air compounds demarcated by poles, trees, groves, rocks, landscape features, wooden sculptures); –– the belief in various gods as well as celestial bodies (sun, moon, stars) as important shapers of human destiny, worshipped either singly or as an organized pantheon; –– mythic and ritual attention to particular animals, mostly domesticated livestock (horses, cattle) but also snakes; –– the maintenance of positive relations with underground and household spirits through periodic sacrifices and/or libations and the observation of taboos; –– reverence for and reliance on the dead as sources of spiritual and material help; –– the practice of ritual songs at key moments in the life cycle (e.g., marriage) or agricultural year (e.g., planting, Midsummer); –– the maintenance of mytho­logical knowledge through performance in song and incantation. Many of the details of this characterization rest on post-medi­e val sources, including antiquarian works of the sixteenth century and after (see Dundulienė 1990: 6–7 for a useful listing of these sources and Vėlius 1995 for an excellent compilation of original texts). Even more influential have been insights gained from Latvian folksongs collected in the nineteenth century, a body of material which Haralds Biezais explored over the course of a long and productive career (Biezais 1954, 1961, 1972, 1976; Å. Ström and Biezais 1975). According to Biezais, the conservative nature of the daina song tradition, as well as the relative fixity of its metre and diction, argue for the reliability of such song materials as sources for use alongside archaeo­logy and medi­eval texts. The methodo­ logical issues associated with this position — generally accepted within the field of Baltic mytho­logical research — lie outside the scope of this chapter. In any case, whether relying on post-medi­eval materials or limiting sources to archaeo­logical and textual evidence dating directly from the medi­eval period,

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it is clear that Baltic mytho­logy represents a particularly conservative instantiation of an ancient Indo-European belief system (Puhvel 1987), or following Gimbutienė (1985), a prior goddess-centred mytho­logy eventually supplemented or supplanted by Indo-European (Gimbutienė 1985: 151–60). As such, these beliefs share obvious elements with the religious practices of both pre-Christian Germanic and Slavic peoples. This common background makes it difficult to recognize clear instances of cultural borrowing from one tradition to the other, either in the case of Germanic beliefs or practices diffusing into Baltic tradition or the reverse. In many ways, pre-Christian Scandinavians must have found the beliefs of the Balts with whom they traded or warred as analogous or similar to their own. The reciprocity-based relations of chieftain and liegemen familiar from Scandinavian sources find parallels in the Baltic context, where — as Wulfstan’s account seems to indicate — chieftains exercised considerable power within their locales and carried on intermittent feasting and gift-giving as devices for group solidarity and partial redistribution of wealth (Vaitkuskienė 1995; Šnē 2006). This role led naturally to foreign trade, and Balts entered into trading relations with polities in the Roman world, Central Europe, Eastern Europe, and Scandinavia (Banytė-Rowell 2000; Carnap-Bornheim 2000; Michelbertas 2000). Baltic interest toward the west was met with ever increasing trading interests from Scandinavia (Lund Hansen 2000; Thunmark-Nylén 2000). In addition to amber, prime Baltic exports included salt, slaves, fur, honey, rye, horses, and jewellery (Žulkus 2007). Scandinavian-Baltic relations were by no means unitary on either side. Individual locales in Scandinavia were involved to varying degrees with specific locales in the Baltic region, and no overall unity of approach or relations can be imagined. In general, the archaeo­logical as well as textual evidence seems to point to three main Scandinavian vectors into the region. In the south Scandinavian area (Denmark, northern Germany, Bornholm), concerted trading relations seem to have developed particularly with the Prussians, Vidivarii (a population apparently settled along the Vistula), Sambians, and South Curonians of modern-day northern Germany, Poland, the Kaliningrad enclave, and western Lithuania. These relations developed toward military conquest, as chronicled in detail in Saxo’s Gesta Danorum, a situation that was to set the stage for the eventual arrival of German military monks in the region and the displacement of the Danes as feudal overlords (Mickevičius 1997). The Swedes of Uppland, however, focused their activities on the northern, primarily Balto-Finnic portion of the region, as well as portions of modernday Latvia, the home of the Latgalians, Selonians, and Semigallians. Eleventh-

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Figure 16.3. A copper box with an engraved runic inscription from Sigtuna in Uppland (SHM 14513:106865). The text states that a certain Diarfr got these scales (the content of the box) ‘af semskum manni’ (from a man from Samland or Semgallen) (U Fv 1912:8, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). This box is another example of connections between Balts and Scandinavians across the Baltic Sea. Photo: Gabriel Hildebrand, Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm.

century Uppland and Södermanland rune stones occasionally mention Baltic placenames and the events that occurred there. The Ängby runestone, Uppland (U356, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), memorializes a man named Björn, who died in battle in Virland, that is, Võrrumaa in southern Estonia. A stone at Åda, Södermanland (Sö 39, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) commemorates a Barkvíðr who drowned in Lifland (Livland, Livonia, the coast of the Gulf of Riga). And a stone from the island of Selaön in Lake Mälaren (Sö 198, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) celebrates a man named Svaein who used to run a valuable trading ship from Sweden to ‘Simkala’ (Semigallia), rounding ‘Domisnæs’ (the Cape of Kolka at the mouth of the Gulf of Riga) on the way. Such stones bear witness to a series of intermittent raids from coastal Sweden into the lands to the east, motivated by a desire to plunder but also undoubtedly by the desire to trade. Svæin’s wife Sigdriðr makes a point of stating that her husband often sailed to Simkala, implying a regular trading practice. And the type of boat mentioned in the inscription, a knörr, was not a warship but rather a light trading vessel. Although such evidence attests to trade with north Baltic communities, in comparison with the South Scandinavians, these Swedes seem to have regarded the region more as a transit zone on the way to important trading centres in Russia and Byzantium, and their impact on the region appears far less (Mickevičius 1997). The third important vector from Scandinavia into the eastern Baltic originated in Gotland and Öland, the islands directly to the west of the Gulf of Riga. Scandinavians from these islands appear to have entered into extensive and protracted relations with the Curonians, who lived to the south of

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the Gulf of Riga and along the Curonian Spit (Mickevičius 1997; Thunmark-Nylén 2000). Curonians were active themselves in trade and raiding, and were responsible for raiding in Ösel and elsewhere. According to Rimbert’s Vita Anskarii, the Curonian settlement of Apuolė (modern-day north-west Lithuania) was attacked by both Danes and Swedes over time. Egils saga ch. 46 depicts an expedition by Egill Skallagrímsson into Curonia, a venture in which the Curonians are initially successful in capturing and incarcerating their Viking attackers but eventually fall prey due to their leniency in not putting their prisoners to death. It was the Gotlanders, however, who appear to have established the closest ties to the Curonians, with the settlement at Grobiņa in modern-day south-western Latvia essentially a colony of Gotlandic immigrants. Archaeo­logical evidence indicates that the Figure 16.4. A Gotlandic picture early settlement was home to both women stone found in one of the mounds and men from Gotland, and that they even of the Priediens cemetery II east imported such items as a Gotlandic picture of the trading place Grobiņa in stone (Petrenko 1991; Thunmark-Nylén Lavtia. After Lamm 1991: 10.   2000). Over time, however, the settlers appear to have become assimilated into wider Curonian society. Later archaeo­logy demonstrates frequent exchange between Curonia and Gotland, consisting of jewellery as well as spouses. Many Gotlandic Viking Age hoards contain an admixture of Arabic, Byzantine, and West European coins as well as more local eastern Baltic goods, reflecting trade, warfare, and tribute taking (Lamm 2007). An example is the massive hoard at Spillings (dated to c. 870). It consists of two deposits, one with 14,000 Arabic coins and silver rings and another with a notable proportion of Baltic bronze rings (Pettersson 2008). Baltic history changed dramatically with the advent of the ‘Northern Crusades’ in the second half of the twelfth century. Beginning with battles in disputed areas of Germanic and Slavic influence in what is today northern Germany and Poland, the crusades gradually moved northward through the offices of emergent orders

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of warrior monks. Regarding the German component to this history, Christopher Tyerman writes: ‘The Baltic Crusades acted as one element in a cruel process of Christianization and Germanization, providing a religious gloss to ethnic cleansing and territorial aggrandizement more blatant and, in places, more successful than anywhere else’ (Tyerman 2004: 72). The process began when the German Albert von Buxhövden was consecrated bishop of Livonia in 1198 (Kala 2001: 8). Determined to make his new status a reality, Albert recruited a core of German crusaders who accompanied him to Livonia in the year 1200 with twenty-three merchant ships. Albert founded Riga on ground he and his crusaders conquered from the local Curonians, and by 1202 the crusaders had become organized into the Fratres Militiae Christi or Swordbrothers. The Order’s first leader, Dietrich, became the first bishop of Estonia in 1211, as the crusader-monks pushed northward in their mission of the sword. The notion of diverting the crusader fervour from the Holy Land to the eastern Baltic had begun already during the Second Crusade (1147), and would eventually involve not only the Swordbrothers but also the Teutonic Knights, a similar group of monastic warriors founded in Acre in the 1190s (Tyerman 2004: 74). Rather than travelling to the distant Holy Land to battle intransigent and well-ensconced Saracens, northern apo­logists appealed to a long succession of popes for crusades to subdue and Christianize the various pagan populations who lived on the eastern border of Christendom. Although Pope Innocent III in 1199 offered a lesser indulgence for participation in the newly approved ‘Northern Crusade’ than one could obtain from fighting in the Middle East, by the time of Pope Honorius III in 1222, the papacy treated both crusades as moral and spiritual equivalents (Throop 1940: 109), a trend that continued under subsequent popes. In 1237, the Swordbrothers and Teutonic Knights were amalgamated and placed under the patronage of the Virgin Mary (Tyerman 2004: 180–81). In 1245, Pope Innocent IV permitted the Teutonic Knights to dispense with the normal requirement of obtaining papal approval before offering crusade indulgences, a streamlining of procedure that made it possible for the Knights to carry on nearly ceaseless warfare against the pagans and Orthodox Christians of the region: a perpetual crusade that came to attract soldiers from throughout the West (Tyerman 2004: 75). The Knights centred their efforts on a Germanized Prussia as well as a further enclave in Livonia (modern coastal Latvia) from which they regularly advanced against their Estonian, Latvian, Lithuanian, and Polish neighbours (Christiansen 1980: 130). It is in the chronicles that arise in the aftermath of these events that we first find textual references to deities and rituals of the region’s Balto-Finnic and Baltic populations. The earliest such text is the Chronicle of Henry of

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Livonia, a first-hand account of the Livonian and Estonian crusade, written by a priest around 1225, right after the completion of the events he describes. More fanciful is the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, written by another German priest sometime around 1278. The events of locales further south are taken up in the Chronicle of Prussia of Petrus von Dusburg (dated to 1326), the Polish Chronicle of Jan Długosz (1460), and the Prussian Chronicle by Simon Grunau (c. 1520). Henry describes with fervour the subjugation of Curonians, Livonians, Semgallians, Estonians, and particularly islanders of Ösel, including occasional references to their rituals and deities. In a Livonian revolt, for instance, pagan backsliders sacrifice dogs and goats and cast the carcasses of the animals over their besieged city wall in order to irritate the militant Bishop Albert, who has arrived to put the populace back in its place (16.4). Henry’s account also reveals the extent to which portions of the eastern region had already been Christianized by Danish, Swedish, and Finnish clergy before the outset of the German crusades. Writing in verse, the poet of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle provides little detail of pagan practices, although he presents an account of King Mindaugas’s backsliding at the urging of the Samogitians with a surprising degree of detail and psycho­logical interest (lines 6315–6470). Petrus von Dusburg describes a Sambian pagan centre at Romow (Romuva; a name he conjectures must be borrowed from the Christians’ Rome), ruled by a pagan ‘pope’ called a criwe. Since the pagans were unaware of the one true God, he writes, they worshipped all manner of things, including sun, moon, stars, thunder, birds, four-footed animals, and even toads. They held sacred particular forests, fields, and waters (3.5, p. 105). Jan Długosz (pp. 414–15) presents considerable detail concerning the things that the pagan Lithuanians worshipped before their Christianization in the early fifteenth century. He depicts the righteous Christianizing king Władysław II Jagiełło calling a general council of the Samogitians in 1413 and instructing them to abandon their pagan ways. He destroys their pagan altars and sacred groves and extinguishes their sacred fires, particularly one housed in a high tower by the river Niewieża. The Samogitians are aghast to see their familial groves destroyed, where they had customarily cremated their dead along with their saddles, finest garments, and choice foods. The king also preaches against worship of gods like ‘Perkun’ and prevents the people’s planned rekindling of the extinguished sacred fire. Simon Grunau provides some similar information regarding Balts along the shores of the Vistula where, he maintains, people worship a trio of gods named Patollo (an old male god, associated with death), Potrimpo (a young male god, associated with grain), and Perkuno (a middle-aged bearded god associated with thunder). Each deity has an attribute: skulls of man, horse, and cow for

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Figure 16.5. The pagan centre Kernavė, north-west of present-day Vilnius in Lithuania. Kernavė consisted of four hillforts, an extensive ‘lower town’, and two upper towns apart from surrounding burial grounds. The centre existed in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries and was finally destroyed by Teutonic Knights in 1390. Photo: . Accessed 31 March 2019.

Patollo; a snake for Potrimpo; and a perpetual fire for Perkuno. Scholars have drawn parallels between this organized tripartite cult and Adam of Bremen’s account of the pagan temple at Uppsala (Puhvel 1987: 224–25), and, as with Adam’s account, have doubted the veracity of the report. Fifteenth-century texts make multiple references to the worship of sacred fires and groves (Puhvel 1987: 223). In examining such reports from a comparative perspective, it appears clear that the Balts possessed deities and rituals that in certain cases were strongly reminiscent of these of the Scandinavians. Open air ritual spaces marked by poles — a feature of Baltic worship attested to by archaeo­logy (Smirnovą 2006) — finds parallels in Poland, Germany, and Scandinavia. In Egils saga ch. 56, preparations for the annual Gulaþing assembly are described as follows: ‘En þá er dómrinn var settr, var vǫllr sléttr ok settar niðr heslistengr í hring, en lǫgð um útan snæri umhverfis. Váru þat kǫlluð vébǫnd’ (The place where the court was held was a flat plain. And they set out hazel poles in a ring with a rope running round them. That was called vébǫnd (i.e., the sanctuary cord)). When, in the same saga (ch. 56), Queen Gunnhildr wishes to disrupt the court proceedings, she has a henchman cut the encircling rope and break the poles, a grave act of vandalism that brings the court proceedings to a halt and fills the assembled men with consternation.

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So, too, the rather scant descriptions left to us of the thunder god Perkūnas seem to indicate that he shared many characteristics with the Scandinavian Þórr, and scholars have noted that the name Fjǫrgynn — Frigg’s father according to Snorri, but a name pair with Fjǫrgyn, another name for Þórr’s mother Jǫrð — may be cognate with Perkūnas (Puhvel 1987; è41). Yet the evidence of borrowing in either direction is minimal, and the fact that both traditions derive from a single Indo-European base argues for a reading of the two deities as cognates rather than as one deriving to any extent from the other. As William Sayers has shown, in fact, thunder gods are plentiful in the North European cultural area, with examples found in Indo-European as well as Finno-Ugric traditions (Sayers 1990). Medi­e val texts make mention of various gods, including the above-mentioned triad Patollo, Potrimpo, and Perkuno (Perkūnas, Pērkons), represented as male deities of differing ages, functions, and physiques. A god of the underworld and darkness Pecullus is mentioned in texts as well. A head god named Diviriks is mentioned, possibly as a synonym for Perkūnas. A smith god called Andaj or Taljavel was known, responsible for forging the sun, as were the obscure goddesses Žvoruna (‘bitch’) and Mějdějn (associated with the forest) (Puhvel 1987: 224). Latvian songs provide details on a number of these figures, particularly Pērkons, who is also called by a variety of epithets meaning ‘Old Man’, ‘Old one’, ‘Thunderer’, ‘Heavenly smith’, and so forth (Biezais 1976: 341). He is depicted as possessing a family, and was associated not only with thunder, lightning, and rain, but also with crops and fertility as well as battle. He may also have been the primary addressee of rituals performed in Saberi, a harvest festival that included the baking of bread, brewing of beer, and sacrifice of a domestic animal. The festival took place in early November. In addition to the gods known from medi­e val texts, Latvian songs give ample evidence of other deities, including a principal overgod Dievs, a paternal (often even elderly) figure associated with general welfare and with horses. Like Óðinn, he has a penchant for visiting human settlements in disguise and testing the leaders there for generosity and respect. A male fertility deity was called Jumis. He was associated particularly with grain crops, including rye, barley, and oats. Velnias is associated with animals, death, and the underground and became equated with the Christian devil. The sun (Saule) was conceived of as a goddess. She was associated with the sea as well as with certain varieties of trees held sacred (oak, linden, birch). Songs recount the courtship of the sun or the sun’s daughter (Saules meitas) with other astral deities: Dieva dēli (sons of Dievs), the moon (Meness), morning star (Auseklis), or Perkūnas. Midsummer figured as a key festival associated with the sun. The moon was often considered the sun’s suitor, but also associated with war.

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A goddess of fate Laima figures frequently in songs, and she seems to have been invoked for luck in various aspects of life, including marriage, birth, and cattle husbandry. Less common are songs about another female deity, Kārta, or a third named Dēkla. Finally, in the area of household guardian spirits, the large number of female spirits known in Latvian as māte (mother) offer interesting points of comparison with female attendant spirits and/or dísir in Scandinavian tradition (Turville-Petre 1964; Ström and Biezais 1975; è58 and perhaps also the matrones è 57). Mothers existed for various resources and natural features, including land, sky, wells, sea luck, rye, flax forests, sheep, night, gold, death, beer, and milk. Algirdas Greimas has produced an interesting analysis of the rituals and mythic concepts behind Lithuanian kaukai and aitvaras, figures which might be profitably compared with Scandinavian folk beliefs regarding underground beings and household guardians (Greimas 1992). Here again, however, methodo­logical hurdles arise: although scholars of Baltic mytho­logy readily make use of post-medi­e val evidence in their analyses, scholars of preChristian Scandinavian religious traditions have tended to reject such materials as potentially misleading or influenced by later eras and ideas. Such spirits, although occasionally referenced in the sagas and other medi­eval Scandinavian texts, are seldom accorded the textual attention enjoyed by figures like Óðinn and Þórr, making detailed comparisons difficult. In cases in which scholars of Scandinavian mytho­logy have examined post-medi­e val materials in their studies, they have often discovered interesting changes over time in the ways in which Scandinavians seem to have conceptualized underground beings and guardian spirits (Gunnell 2007a). As Gunnell has shown, the mobility of Scandinavians during the medi­e val period, and their extensive contacts with other cultures, likely affected many of their beliefs in a manner far more extensive than what one might expect for the comparatively more landlocked and static Balts.

17 – Encounters: Sámi Thomas A. DuBois Introduction Sámi, who by outsiders were called Finns, Skriðfinns, or Lapps, are briefly mentioned in different sources from the first millennium ce. In this period they already lived in large part of northern Scandinavia. Accounts from the Middle Ages and the early modern period show in more detail that Sámi lived in a vast area, from the central mountain region in Norway in the south-west to the Kola Peninsula in the north-east (Carpelan 1984; Salo 1984; Zachrisson 1987a; Larsson 2009). In examining contacts between Germanic and Sámi populations in the Nordic region over the course of centuries, it is important to adopt a workable model for how intercultural contacts could have occurred and how these cultures existed alongside one another over the course of millennia. Especially when dealing with the earlier periods before the Viking Age, a model of contact based on later medi­e val monarchic institutions, or on the cataclysmic power imbalances of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century European colonialism, leads to flawed assumptions concerning the ways in which peoples speaking Germanic and Finno-Ugric languages interacted. As we shall see in the following pages, a marked power imbalance certainly developed between Germanic peoples of the region — organized into kingdoms with strong military capabilities, widespread trading networks, and a taste for cultural influences emanating from the continent — and the less numerous, hunter-gatherer and subsistence farming populations that flanked them to the north and east. Yet in earlier periods, before the momentous social transformation of Germanic societies into Thomas A. DuBois, Halls-Bascom Professor of Scandinavian Studies, Folklore and Religious Studies, University of Wisconsin-Madison The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. 353–372 John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116944

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Figure 17.1. The approximate area of Sápmi, the region of the Sámi, around 1000 ce. Since many Sámi were mobile hunters and fishermen, Sápmi partly overlapped with agrarian Scandinavian and Finnish settlements, mainly along the Norwegian and Swedish coasts and in the interior of Finland. The map is primarily based on Zachrisson 1997. Map: Disir Productions, Uppsala. 

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Figure 17.2. Sámi goahti/gåhte (house) at Bläckajaure in Arjeplog in the Pite Sámi area, during excavation. The eight-sided house was built with walls made of logs held together and supported by stones placed outside a timber frame. It was built in the middle of the eighteenth century and repaired in the second part of the nineteenth century (Liedgren and others 2009). Photo: Lars Liedgren, Silvermuseet, Arjeplog. 

consolidated kingdoms, archaeo­logical and linguistic evidence indicate that it is more fruitful to imagine the Nordic region as comparable to ethno­graphic situations in parts of pre-Columbian North America and premodern Siberia — areas in which relatively small populations of people belonging to different language communities have lived alongside one another in constant, sometimes productive, sometimes antagonistic relation for many centuries. In such situations of long-term coexistence, trade goods, techno­logy, cultural (including religious) ideas, and genes passed over linguistic and cultural boundaries with regularity. This extensive and long-term exchange finds reflection in the religious traditions that the Germanic Scandinavians maintained and modified throughout this era and into the period of gradual conversion to forms of Christianity. The Nordic Finno-Ugric languages comprise both the Sámi languages (to­day chiefly represented by South Sámi, Ume Sámi, Lule Sámi, Northern Sámi, Inari

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Sámi, Skolt Sámi, Ter Sámi, Kildin Sámi, and the extinct or nearly extinct Kemi Sámi and Akkala Sámi) and the Balto-Finnic languages (è18). Specific northern localizations include a northern coastal complex in which local subsistence activities — the hunting of seals and reindeer, fishing, and gathering — came into more extended contact with cultural influences from the rest of the tundra zone of north Eurasia. Further to the south, in the boreal regions that today make up northern Sweden, most of modern-day Finland, and the Kola Peninsula, a more inland way of life developed, based on hunting and gathering within forest zones. Finally, in the areas of modern-day central Norway and Sweden, the heartland of modern South Sámi culture, a further distinctive culture developed with its own settlement patterns and livelihoods (Siiriäinen 1991). Contacts between Sámi and Germanic-speaking groups can be glimpsed in the loanwords that enter and pass between the various Finno-Ugric languages over time (Koivulehto 1984, 2002; Korhonen 1984; Sammallahti 1984, 1999; Suhonen 1984; Feldman 1988; Svonni 2008; Aikio 2009). Kinship terms for in-law relations in modern northern Sámi indicate likely strong patterns of intermarriage between Sámi and Norse speakers along the north Norwegian coast during the pre-Christian era (Svonni 2012). Intimate in-law terms like máhka and sivjjot (used to identify a brother-in-law or an in-law relative of the opposite sex) derive from proto-Scandinavian *mākkâ (Lehtiranta 1989: 74–75) and Old Norse sifjungr (Kotimaisten kielten keskus 2013). It is arguable that, in at least some contexts, small communities of differing language living beside each other in comparable eco­logical or economic situations, and with productive trade and intermarriage occurring regularly between them, would have found more in common with one another than with other communities farther away, regardless of linguistic affinity. A community of Old Norse speakers in the fishing and livestock-raising milieu of Norway’s northern coast, for instance, might find much more in common with a local Sámi community than with an urban merchant emporium like Hedeby or a farming community in Skåne. As we shall suggest below, areas of close contact and productive cultural exchange could become points of entry for cultural elements that could then pass from one linguistic group to the other, eventually becoming diffused more broadly through subsequent trade and cultural contacts. Recent archaeo­logical research has revealed such cultural linkages with considerable detail, and it is a challenge of contemporary scholarship in the area of Old Norse religious traditions to re-examine textual as well as archaeo­logical materials dating from the Viking Age and after with an eye to these inevitable but often formerly overlooked processes of intercultural exchange, cross-language influence, and cultural localization (Zachrisson 1987a, 1987b).

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Figure 17.3. Sámi drumstick from Rendalen in Hedmark, dated to the eleventh century (Kulturhistorisk Museum, Olso no. C26831a.) Photo: Eirik Irgens Johnsen, Kulturhistorisk Museum, Universitetet i Oslo, Oslo. 

Early grave finds and other archaeo­logical evidence from the South Sámi areas of Härjedalen, NordTrøndelag, and Hedmark show a remarkable degree of cultural exchange between the inland indigenous population of the region and the Scandinavian populations with whom they came into contact. Although these communities had not yet adopted agriculture, they displayed a wide variety of material culture that reflected close trading relations with agriculturalists (Zachrisson 1987a, 1992, 1997; Pareli 1991; Amundsen 2003; Bergstøl 2004; Fossum 2006; Hagström 2010). Sometimes, as in the famous Sámi drum handle discovered in Rendalen, Norway, Norse and Sámi influences appear together even on objects unambiguously tied to one or the other side of the Scandinavian-Sámi ethnic divide (Gjessing 1945; Pareli 1991). These finds indicate both an enduring Scan­dinavian-Sámi intercultural relation in the South Sámi region over many centuries and a persistence of distinctive cultural identities despite extended contact (Hansen and Olsen 2004: 103–09). This degree of exchange extended into Sámi burial customs, which changed during the Viking Age to include metal depositions as well as separate burials of silver jewellery (brooches, rings), apparently so that they might be retrieved by the deceased after death, a likely borrowing of Norse funerary norms into Sámi practice (Zachrisson 1987b). Of great interest as an area of cultural and apparently also religious hybridization is the Jämtland island of Frösö, ‘the island of Frö/Freyr’ and an assembly site (Iregren 1989, 1999; Magnell and Iregren 2010, figure è27.4). Excavations beneath the chancel of the island’s medi­e val church revealed a pre-Christian sacrificial site consisting of a birch tree surrounded by the skeletal remains of various animals. The assemblage of remains included both domestic animals like pigs, goats, and sheep, but also wild animals such as moose-elk, deer, and bear. Analysis of the osteo­logical data from the site demonstrates the regular seasonal sacrifice and deposition of animals, both domestic and wild, from

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the tenth to eleventh centuries. Portions of animal skeletons were placed on top of the roots of the tree and exposed to the elements until they were gradually covered by organic detritus and soil over time. Sacrifices may have been connected with both the agricultural year and the winter hunting season and appear to have included feasting. The site was apparently abandoned with Christianization, and the new ritual space of the community was placed over that of the old. The site has been interpreted as a place of cultural and religious hybridization between Germanic and Sámi ritual systems (Näsström 1996a; Welinder 2008: 90). Such sites reflect different notions of animal sacrality and the occasional passage of ideas of sacred animals from one community to another ( Jennbert 2011; DuBois 2012). While Jämtland can be regarded as a cultural interface area, archaeo­logical reappraisal of finds from further south in Sweden have uncovered abundant cultural and even genetic exchange between Sámi and Swedes even in the heart of Svíþjóð, as Torun Zachrisson (2017a) has shown. Boats constructed with Sámi materials and techniques have been recovered in sacrificial bogs and boat burials in Alsike, Vendel, Valsgärde, and Badelunda (Västmanland) (G. Larsson 2007: 95, 240). DNA analysis of a man in a boat grave in Tuna, Alsike, indicates Sámi ancestry on the man’s father’s side and Scandinavian heritage on his mother’s (Götherström 2001: 26). Analysis of skeletal material from this same cemetery indicates that the persons buried consumed foods rich in selenium during their lives, possibly an indication of a diet consisting of reindeer meat (Lidén and Nelson 1994: 19). Such abundant signs of cultural exchange within both Sámi and Scandinavian settlements indicate a context in which many religious ideas could become shared and adapted over time (Zachrisson 1997, 2012). Hybridity and extensive exchange did not mean that uniformity developed in the Nordic region, however. In many cases throughout the region, local communities seem to have maintained distinctive traditions, despite close contact with other cultures (Zachrisson and Iregren 1974) . As mentioned above, Sámi interactions with their neighbours varied regionally, and must be studied with an eye to both geo­graphic and economic specificity. As Per Ramqvist has shown, the region that is known today as Norrland, Sweden, actually contained at least five distinct Sámi life modes during the first millennium ce, varying in degree of trade contact with Germanic populations, adoption of agriculture, practice of hunting and fishing, and reliance on reindeer husbandry. These lifestyle differences also corresponded to distinct religious practices and ideas in the different areas (Ramqvist 2007). This combination of contact experiences — with some regions developing close trade and cultural interrelations between Sámi and Germanic settlers and other regions retaining a distinctive way of life —

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helps explain the interesting mesh of familiarity and exoticism that characterizes Old Norse textual accounts of their Finno-Ugric neighbours.

The Earliest Textual Accounts Finno-Ugric peoples, like other Nordic populations, first emerge in written texts with Tacitus’s Germania, dated to around 98 ce. Within Tacitus’s long exploration of various northern peoples, the ‘Fenni’ are described as primitive and uncouth, living in temporary shelters made of twigs, lacking iron implements, wearing clothing made of skins, and practicing no agriculture (ch. 46). Tacitus makes no mention of the religious practices of the Fenni, apart from noting that the Fenni feel no desire to appeal to any god, since they are content with so little. Similarly dim views of the ‘Scrithifinni’ appear in later Roman historians, such as the sixth-century writers Procopius of Caesarea and Jordanes (Siiriäinen 1991). A more proximate account of the Finno-Ugric presence in the Nordic region appears much later, around the year 890, when the merchant Ohthere provides King Alfred of England details on his travels to the northern reaches of Fenno-Scandia (Ælfred 1857). Ohthere describes his observations of Finnas and Terfinnas, but makes no reference to their religious practices (Vasaru 2012: 41). Roughly contemporaneous with Ohthere’s account are skaldic poems composed by prominent men in various courts of Viking Age Norway. These poems, which became prime sources for later Icelandic sagas, occasionally describe warfare or other forms of contact between Norse speakers and their FinnoUgric neighbours. Important among these are the poems of Þjóðólfr of Hvinir and Eyvindr Finnsson skáldaspillir, both of whom came from the Hålogaland region, putting them in direct trade contact with Sámi communities. About a century later, during the beginning of the reign of King St Óláfr (r. 1015–28), the skald Sigvatr Þórðarson describes in Víkingarvísur st. 3 a battle between Óláfr and the finnlendingar of Herdalar. The poem associates the battle with a fierce storm, a detail which links the depiction to later saga accounts, in which the Sámi are particularly associated with the weather, using it to control their enemies and environment (Steinsland 1991; Lindow 1995b; Mundal 1996; Straubhaar 2001; DeAngelo 2010; DuBois 2013). Accounts of Sámi in later prose works underscore the alterity and danger of the Sámi. In Adam of Bremen’s late eleventh-century Gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum, the ‘Skritifingi’ of the arctic coast are described as the sole surviving pagans in Norway, practitioners of divination and magic, and possessed of the ability to summon sea monsters at will (4.31). Saxo Grammaticus

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includes similar details in his Gesta Danorum. In Book 5.13.1 of his work, the Swedish warrior Arngrim defeats Thengil, king of Finnmark, imposing upon his subjects annual tribute payments in furs reminiscent of those reported by Ohthere. In Book 9, the Danish hero Regner (Ragnar) loðbrók is said to find a vexing challenge in contending with the guerilla tactics of the ski-equipped Fenni (9.4.24), as well as the weather magic of the more sedentary Biarmians in his attempts to subdue the north (9.4.22–23). Saxo includes in Book 3 the story of a Hålogaland King Helgi who marries — apparently out of love alone — one Thora, daughter of King Kuse of the Finns and Biarmians. Helgi must employ a spokesman to accomplish his suit since, Saxo writes, he suffers from a speech impediment. Once he finds a surrogate of sufficient eloquence to argue his case (presumably in King Kuse’s language), Helgi’s suit is received positively by both king and princess (3.2.8; 3.2.11). It is noteworthy, as Hilda Ellis Davidson points out in her commentary on Saxo (Davidson 1980: 157) that King Matul, prince of Finnmark, one of Regner’s opponents in Book 9 of Saxo’s Gesta Danorum, may be identical to King Mǫttul mentioned in Landnámabók as the grandfather of the wife of Hrosskell, one of the earliest settlers of Iceland: clearly intermarriage not only occurred but could sometimes prove a point of notoriety among subsequent generations of Scandinavians.

Historia Norwegie and the Christian Sagas Already in Adam and Saxo, clerical disapproval of the Sámi as pagan diviners and magicians appears well established. Within these texts produced in the southern reaches of the Nordic region, or even outside of it, the Sámi become simple foils for demonstrating the doughtiness and mettle of Scandinavian heroes within legendry and chronicles. The early thirteenth-century history/ geo­g raphy Historia Norwegie, undoubtedly produced within Norway by a cleric with strong feelings of disapproval for the realm’s Sámi populace, offers a glimpse of the more local perceptions of Scandinavians who lived in closer contact with these by now legendary populations. The author of the short work laments the existence of as yet un-Christianized populations to the north of Norway, and includes more extensive descriptions of the Finni’s magical activities, making it a source, albeit highly biased, for the reconstruction of medi­eval Scandinavian religious contact with Finno-Ugric ritual specialists: ‘Horum itaque intollerabilis perfidia uix cuiquam credibilis uidebitur, quantumue diabolice supersticionis in magica arte excerceant’ (4.13) (A person will scarcely believe their unendurable impiety and the extent to which they practise heathen devilry in their magic arts). They are able to use an ‘immundus spiritus’

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(foul spirit) called gandus to practise divination and reveal hidden treasures, and they use an uncus (a bent wand or staff ) to gain large catches of fish. And, in a passage much quoted and discussed in later scholarship, they are said to employ incantations, special paraphernalia, and a ritual procedure in order to do spiritual battle on unseen plains with the intent to heal. Because this passage is so consequential to the study of Germanic understandings of Sámi ritual practices during the medi­eval period, it merits quotation in full (4.16–33): Quadam uero uice dum christiani causa commercii apud Finnos ad mensam sedissent, illorum hospita subito inclinata expirauit. Vnde christianis multum dolentibus non mortuam, sed a gandis emulorum esse depredatam, sese illam cito adepturos ipsi Finni nichil contristati respondent. Tunc quidam magus extenso panno, sub quo se ad profanas ueneficas incantaciones prepararet, quoddam uasculum ad modum taratantarorum sursum erectis manibus extulit, cetinis atque ceruinis formulis cum loris et ondriolis nauicola eciam cum remis occupatum, quibus uehiculis per alta niuium et deuexa moncium uel profunda stagnorum ille diabolicus gandus uteretur. Cumque diutissime incantando tali apparatu ibi saltasset, humo tandem prostratus totus niger ut ethiops, spumans ora ut puta freneticus, preruptus uentrem uix aliquando cum maximo [fremore] emisit spiritum. Tum alterum in magica arte peritissimum consuluerunt, quid de utrisque actum sit. Qui simili modo, sed non eodem euentu suum implens officium — namque hospita sana surrexit — et defunctum magnum tali euentu interisse eis intimauit: Gandum uidelicet eius in cetinam effigiem inmaginatum ostico gando in preacutas sudes transformato, dum per quoddam stagnum uelocissime prosiliret, malo omine obuiasse, quia in stagni eiusdem profundo sudes latitantes exacti uentrem perforabant. Quod et in mago domi mortuo apparuit. (Once, when Christians who had come to trade had sat down at table with some Finni, their hostess fell forward all of a sudden and expired. While the Christians felt serious grief at this calamity, the Finni were not in the least saddened, but told them that the woman was not dead, merely pillaged by the gands of her adversaries, and that they could quickly restore her. Then a magician, spreading out a cloth under which he might prepare himself for intoning unholy sorcerer’s spell, raised aloft in his outstretched hands a small vessel similar to a riddle, decorated with tiny figures of whales, harnessed reindeer, skis, and even a miniature boat with oars; using these means of transport the demonic spirit was able to travel across tall snowdrifts, mountain-sides and deep lakes. After chanting incantations for a very long time and leaping about there with this paraphernalia, he finally threw himself to the ground, black all over like a negro and foaming at the mouth as if he were mad; ripped across his stomach, with a mighty roar he eventually relinquished his life. Next they consulted another specialist in the magic arts as to what had happened in each case. This individual went through all his practices in similar fashion, though with a different outcome: the hostess arose in sound health and

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then he revealed to them that the sorcerer had died in the following way: his gand, having taken on the likeness of a whale, was shooting rapidly through a lake when it had the misfortune to encounter a hostile gand, which had transformed itself into sharply pointed stakes; these stakes, hidden in the depths of the lake, penetrated the repulsed creature’s belly, and this was also manifested by the death of the magician in the house.)

This dramatic tale bears resemblances to accounts of shamanic trance collected centuries later in northern Eurasian contexts among Siberian peoples and represents the earliest surviving textual account of a set of religious traditions that later Lutheran missionaries described in detail during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries (see below). Although the exact details of the account are probably far from reliable reflections of what Sámi ritual traditions were like in the thirteenth century, and differ markedly from what later accounts describe as Sámi shamanic trance, the Historia Norwegie text is significant in that it demonstrates Norwegian clerical familiarity with such customs and a tendency among Christians to witness or perhaps even rely upon such acts, at least in crisis situations. The notion of lurking pagan tendencies alive and well among one’s FinnoUgric trading partners and neighbours recurs frequently in the sagas and other texts of the thirteenth century and after. In Snorri Sturluson’s rendering of Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar (ch. 76), a Hålogaland Norwegian pagan Eyvindr refuses to accept baptism because, as he states: ‘Ek em einn andi, kviknaðr í mannslíkam með fjǫlkynngi Finna, en faðir minn ok móðir fengu áðr ekki barn átt’ (I am a spirit given life in human form by Sámi magic, for my father and mother were unable to have children otherwise). His parents apparently availed themselves of Sámi ritual assistance in order to have a child, and Eyvindr cannot or will not turn away from that fact in order to save his life before Óláfr’s missionary zeal. The Christian law codes of Eiðsivaþing and Borgarþing specifically prohibit consultations with Sámi for supernatural purposes, implying that the practice was far from unheard of at the time (Strömbäck 1935: 203–05; DuBois 1999: 129; also è 20). And in a fourteenth-century Alfræði íslenzk account of a miracle said to have been witnessed by a Hålogaland priest during the reign of King Hákon Hákonarson, a Finnur recognized by his community as ‘formaðr ok spámaðr’ (leader and diviner), watches with interest and eventual terror the priest’s performance of a mass. At the moment of the priest’s elevation of the host, the Finnur has a vision of a bloody child in the priest’s hands, flees from the mass in horror, and eventually falls unconscious. The clerical recorders of the vision note in detail the circumstances of the event, but observe ‘en það greinir eigi í þessum

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aðburð, hvort Finnur in fjölkunnigi snerizt til réttrar trúar eða eigi’ (there is no indication in this account of whether the Finnus magician converted to the true faith or not) (quoted in Tolley 2009a: ii, 194–95). The evident awareness of at least some Scandinavians of Sámi divinatory shamanism undoubtedly played a role in the proliferation of images of Sámi men and women as diviners and workers of magic within saga texts, particularly in connection with the rather murky tradition of divination and compelling magic referred to in the texts as seiðr. Practitioners of the art are sometimes described as Sámi themselves or to have learned their art from Sámi. Occasionally, however, they are described as belonging to other ethnic groups. Scholars have suggested that in seiðr, longstanding Germanic traditions of female divination and magic may have received new influences from contact with Sámi tradition (Strömbäck 1935; DuBois 1996, 1999; Price 2002; also è26). However, it is a matter of scholarly debate, maybe the most important debate of all when it comes to the relation between Sámi and Germanic religion, whether such Sámi imagery — evident in the texts — indicates real processes of influence and exchange over time or is to be seen as primarily superficial motifs added to narrative accounts of seiðr as later, thoroughly Christian, writers attempted to flesh out their descriptions of a tradition that had become rare or obscure for them (Dillmann 1994, 2006; Solli 2002; Tolley 2009a). Naturally, these two explanations are not necessarily mutually exclusive: On the one hand, there can hardly be any doubt that neighbouring peoples would to a greater or lesser extent be influenced by each other, and thus there seems to be no reason to reject a strong shamanic influence on those Germanic speaking Scandinavians who had close contacts with the Sámi, since they were often seen as the ‘archetypical’ others from the point of view of these Scandinavians (Lindow 1995b; Mundal 1996), and therefore in possession of otherworldly means to a high extent. On the other hand, there can be no doubt, either, that the authors of the thirteenth century also had a strong bias against Sámi culture. Perhaps because Sámi proved less prompt than their Germanic neighbours in converting to Christianity, they came to serve more and more as stock villains in the sagas created within Christian Iceland in the thirteenth century. Snorri Sturluson, ostensibly drawing on skaldic poetry from earlier centuries, describes Finnr malevolence at numerous turns, even when no such actions are indicated in the skaldic poems he quotes as evidence. In his Ynglinga saga unpacking of the events referenced (cryptically) in Þjóðólfr of Hvinir’s Ynglingatal, Snorri describes various duplicitous Finnr men and women who use magic to ensnare royal husbands or to punish insults or abandonment (DuBois 2013).

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From the above examples it is evident that, especially in the era of conversions to Christianity and after, Sámi became prime symbols of recalcitrant pagan backsliding, the delusions of demonic devotion, and the dangers of cultural mixing. Images of Sámi diviners, magicians, princesses, and conniving men played prominent roles in the narrative apparatus of Scandinavian tales, secular or religious. Sometimes these imagined cultural outsiders appear based at least to some extent on actual knowledge of Sámi customs and practices. Such knowledge would not have been hard to come by in areas of extensive trade and cultural contact, such as Hålogaland and Finnmark. But just as often, Scandinavian writers seem content to recycle stereotypes regarding Sámi. In these stereotyped forms, Sámi played an important role in helping Scandinavians achieve a discourse of cultural identity and values. That such occurred particularly with Christianization appears evident from both textual and archaeo­logical evidence. Yet it is important to note that correlation here does not necessarily mean causation: this same period saw the rise of more centralized, consolidated agrarian kingdoms in the Nordic region, ones that no longer valued the mobility or the trade goods (e.g., furs) that had so centrally shaped earlier contacts in periods like the Viking Age. It may be that the elite echelons of such kingdoms evolved to no longer have an economic need for, or cultural interest in, the Sámi as allies and trading partners. Yet the simplistic stereotypes of the medi­eval era persisted unabated into the modern era among Scandinavians and can often still be sensed in modern Scandinavian folklore about the Sámi (Mathisen 1989; Lindow 1995b). Such continuity represents a singular aspect of Scandinavian culture, comparable to the continuities of anti-Semitism and anti-Islamic discourse in other regions of the European cultural area.

Evidence Offered by Later Collecting Learned texts of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries provide further evidence regarding Sámi pre-Christian beliefs. Most Sámi of the time were active Christians, yet they also availed themselves of non-Christian traditions, particularly in the areas that were traditionally part of Sámi shamanism: divination, healing, and supernatural protection or aggression. Johannes Schefferus’s 1673 Lapponia includes detailed accounts of Sámi rituals, sacrificial sites, and drums. The missionary reports of Dano-Norwegian ministers (including Thomas von Westen, Isaac Olson, Knud Leem, Jens Kildal, and Hans Skanke) provide valuable materials. With justification, scholars have questioned the reliability of these late records regarding Sámi pre-Christian beliefs, particularly given the centuries that had passed since original contact with Christianity, the forced

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nature of most of the collected accounts, and the conscious or un­ conscious Christian bias of the collectors (Mebius 2003; also for treatment of the Dano-Norwegian ministers). At the head of the apparent Sámi pantheon — as indicated in these varied and sometimes conflicting sources — stood a male deity known by the name Ipmil (North Sámi), Jubmel (Lule Sámi), or Jupmele (South Sámi), a term related to the Finnish jumala (god) and widespread among other Finno-Ugric peoples. In Central and South Sámi areas this god often went by the name Raedie (ruler), Raedieaehtjie (ruler’s father), or Máilmmeraedie (world Figure 17.4. Sámi drum from Lule Lappmark ruler), all names containing the dated to the medi­eval or early modern period root raedie, loaned from Old Norse (Nordiska Museet, NM.0228846). The drum was confiscated from the Sámi in 1725. Photo: ráð (advice, counsel, rule). Other Bertil Wretling, Nordiska Museet, Stockholm.  sources refer to a South Sámi god called Vearelden ålmaj (world man, employing a Norse loan ver ǫ ld, ‘world’), who seems to have been identical with Ipmil but was particularly associated with successful harvests, as well as luck in fishing and reindeer husbandry. When this preeminent god is depicted on Sámi shamanic drumheads, he is often placed at the outer rim, seemingly remote from other gods or the human world of hunting, herding, ritual, and sacrifice depicted in the more central portions of the drums. In some depictions, however, he is accompanied in this placement by a wife and son. He appears to have been responsible for creating human foetuses and was sometimes associated with a pillar that held the heavens in place, that is, an axis mundi. Sámi offered sacrificial reindeer to him, or smeared a physical pillar with blood in his honour. A god of thunder also figures prominently in accounts of the Sámi pantheon. He seems to have enjoyed nearly as high a status as Ipmil. As Håkon Rydving (1992) has shown, the names for this god varied geo­graphically, ranging from

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Figure 17.5. Sámi offering site at Stálojåkhå in Lappland. Photo: Rikard Sohlenius, Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm. 

what appears to be an original Finno-Ugric name — Dierpmis — in the Kola and Sea Sámi regions, to names displaying Old Norse roots in the South Sámi area (Hovrengaellies, ‘thunder man,’ and the less linguistically transparent Hovrenåarja and Hovrenskodje). (Hovre is a South Sámi term for ‘thunder’ derived from the Norse theonym Þórr.) In North, Central, and Eastern Sámi areas, the god was known by names that seem to derive from epithets, such as Bajánolmmái (thunder man) or Áddjá (old man). In mythic accounts, he is sometimes described as the foster-son of Ipmil but also sometimes as the product of a demonic figure. According to the textual sources, he was viewed as presiding over weather, waters, the sea, the fertility of animals (particularly reindeer), and the welfare of humans. On drum heads he is frequently depicted in a prominent position, often near the sun, and sometimes accompanied by a dog or other helpers. He seems to have played an important role in shamans’ trance experiences. Bieggolmmái (South Sámi Biegålmaj ‘wind man’) also presided over winds, weather, waters, and the sea. In northern regions, he was called by the name Ilmaris, derived from the Finnish theonym Ilmarinen. Whereas Dierpmis was for the most part benevolent, Bieggolmmái’s relation to the human community was more ambiguous: he could prove both helpful and harmful. On Sámi drums he is often depicted with two implements: a shovel with which to deal

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out winds, and a broken shovel or club with which to stop the winds from blowing. Sámi sacrificed to him to ensure their safety, particularly when undertaking travel by sea. Similar to Bieggolmmái were gods associated with male food procurement activities. Leaibeolmmái (South Sámi Liejpålmaj, ‘elder tree man’) presided over hunting success and was associated with the alder, which was considered a holy tree and whose bark provided the source of a dye used for various ritual duties, including painting on Sámi shamanic drum heads. Čáhceolmmái (South Sámi Tjaetsieålmaj, ‘water man’), possibly identical to Guolleipmil (fish god), held responsibility over luck in fishing. Čoarve-raedie (South Sámi Tjåervieraedie, ‘antler ruler’) conferred success in reindeer husbandry and received sacrifices of reindeer antler or bone. He was sometimes depicted with a wife, Čoarve eadni (antler mother). Like the ritual offering sites (sieiddit; singular sieidi), these deities seem to have received sacrifices whenever members of the human community wanted to ensure success in key activities of life: hunting, fishing, trapping, reindeer husbandry, and travel over land or by water. Sieiddit could be rock formations, lakes, springs, or pieces of wood. The latter could be carved or naturally occurring and could resemble the human form. In some areas, particularly in connection with Čoarve-raedie, a tree could be uprooted, inverted, and replanted with roots facing upward in order to make a site at which to conduct sacrifices. Sacrifices included animals of particular colours and sex, blood, fish fat, bones, and/or offerings of food, drink, coins, or other objects. Depending on the local custom and circumstances, sacrificial animals could be buried alive or cooked and then shared with the sieidi. A set of female deities also played prominent roles in the ritual lives of Sámi, particularly women. The goddess Sáráhkká (South Sámi Saaraahka; from the verb sárrat, ‘to create,’ plus áhkká, ‘old woman’) lived beneath the hearth ring of the hut and presided over human fertility, particularly pregnancy. Uksáhkká (South Sámi Oksaahka, ‘door woman’) resided beneath the door of the hut and guarded the home from dangers. She also played protective and helpful roles in human reproduction, particularly menstruation and care of the infant. Juoksáhkká (South Sámi Joeksaahka, ‘bow woman’) presided over male hunting weapons as well as male foetuses and helped determine a boy’s eventual hunting and fishing luck. These goddesses are often depicted as a triad on shamanic drums. A fourth goddess Máttaráhkka (South Sámi Maadteraahka) is mentioned in some sources. Her name seems to mean ‘mother woman’, and she was viewed at the mother of the other three goddesses as well as the originator of human foetuses, or the conduit by which Ipmil transmitted such foetuses to Sáráhkká.

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Less well known, but apparently important in at least some regions was the goddess Rana-nieida. Nieida means unmarried woman or girl; scholars are uncertain of the meaning of the term rana-. Sámi men sacrificed reindeer or other animals to her and offered her blood, a spinning wheel, and a distaff on a special altar each fall in order to ensure a fertile spring and good grazing conditions in the coming year. The goddess’s connection to grazing suggests that she may be identical with the Skolt Sámi Raizaijk (grass woman), responsible for reindeer fodder and fertility (Lid 1928b: 133). Rana-nieida seems to have been closely associated with reindeer calves and, syncretically, with the Virgin Mary, as well as the god Čoarve-raedie or the overgod Raedie. Sacrifices to Rananieida may have been performed primarily or exclusively by men, although it is also possible that women took part in them (Mebius 2003: 127). One of the lands of the dead Jábmiidáibmu (dead people’s realm) was ruled by the goddess Jábmiidáhkká (South Sámi Jaemiehaahka, ‘dead people’s old woman’). According to accounts, an afterlife in her realm was not unpleasant, although inferior to the realm known variously as sáivu, sávju, or sávja, a familial afterlife destination in which the dead lived in great happiness and comfort. The latter term could be applied to particular mountains or lakes as well, and these appear to have been viewed as the localized afterlife destinations of particular families or community groups. In contrast, Jábmiidáibmu seems to have been a more generalized underworld underlying most of the earthly terrain. Infectious disease was the work of the male god Rohttu (often appearing in the sources as Ruto), whose victims spent an unhappy afterlife in a separate dark, deeply subterranean world called Rohtáibmu. Sacrifices of black animals, particularly horses, were made to ensure that Rohttu left the human family or community alone. The noaidi (shaman) seems to have played a role in helping guide the dead to one or another afterlife locale, or rescuing the unfortunate dead from an afterlife in Rohtáibmu. Beaivi/Biejjie, the sun, was regarded as a deity as well. Accounts vary as to whether the sun was male or female, but animal sacrifices aimed at the sun were always female and frequently white, and scholars have theorized that the deity’s original gender was female. Sámi women prepared a special porridge in honour of the sun at Midsummer, and this was consumed communally to ensure luck and fertility. Often figuring prominently and centrally on shamanic drums, the sun presided over navigation by land and sea, fertility, and seasons. The moon was also regarded as a deity, possibly female. Particular moons were regarded as especially sacred or dangerous, including those of November and December. The moon’s light and assistance was sought in finding one’s way in the long winter’s night, and proper respect toward the moon was expected to prevent the

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moon from taking retribution through the murder, dismemberment, or consumption of human community members (Mebius 2003: 80; Lundmark 1982). Like other Nordic populations, the Sámi possessed beliefs regarding underground guardian spirits (see è 58 è 63). Names for these beings vary from region to region within the broader Sámi cultural area, and include ganeš (a native Sámi term), háldi (a term derived from Finnish), ulda, and gufihtar (terms derived from Scandinavian languages). Underground populations could be helpful or dangerous, and in any case, Sámi were said to exercise great care so as not to antagonize these supernatural neighbours in any way. Belief in underground spirits of this kind continued into the twentieth century in many Sámi communities.

Interpretations On the basis of archaeo­logy, as well as later missionary and ethno­g raphic accounts of Sámi religious traditions, we can surmise that the main religious practices of Sámi throughout the Nordic region consisted of the following: –– the procurement and maintenance of personal and communal luck through sacrifices at designated sacred sites (trees, rocks, landscape features, wooden sculptures); –– the veneration of and sacrifices to the sun and male gods of the sky and hunt as well as to female goddesses of the hearth and home, the former associated with weather as well as hunting and fishing success, the latter associated particularly with fertility, security, and luck; –– the performance of ceremonials aimed at maintaining good relations with particular animals, especially the bear; –– the maintenance of positive relations with underground spirits through periodic sacrifices and/or libations and the observation of taboos; –– the practice of drum- and music-based shamanism for the purposes of divination, healing, maintenance of luck, and supernatural aggression; –– the belief in multiple otherworlds, including a proximal land of dead kin, a more general world of the dead, and a land for the victims of infectious diseases; –– reverence for and reliance on the dead as sources of spiritual and material help.

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A number of these practices have parallels in pre-Christian Scandinavian religious traditions, and it is likely that in areas of strong cultural hybridity, exchange of ideas and practices moved in both directions across linguistic and cultural boundaries. Late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century scholars viewed such exchange as unidirectional, and posited a wholesale importation of Scandinavian gods into Sámi worship during the Viking Age (Friis 1871; Fritzner 1877; Olrik 1905a, 1905b; Krohn 1906; von Unwerth 1911; Harva 1915). Both Axel Olrik (1905a: 45) and Kaarle Krohn (1906: 164), for instance, regarded Dierpmis as a borrowing of the Norse Þórr. Such an interpretation appeared particularly attractive in their theorizing, given the Scandinavian origins of the South Sámi theonym Hovrengaellies, which derives from the roots Þórr (meaning ‘thunder’ in northern South Sámi dialects), and the Scandinavian root gaelles (from Norse karl, kall). The same authors, and others, regarded Rohttu as a manifestation of Óðinn. Both Åke Hultkrantz (1962: 295) and Drobin and Keinänen (2001: 139) have seen Ipmil, particularly in the South Sámi manifestation Vearelden ålmaj, as related to, influenced by, or derived from Freyr, although their analyses allow for more possibility of a back-and-forth influence over time between the neighbouring cultural groups. Uno Holmberg [Harva] regarded Rana-nieida as related to the goddess Frigg, particularly since the spinning wheel and distaff offered to the Sámi goddess are reminiscent of the spinning tools associated with Frigg in Scandinavian constellations made up of the stars of Orion’s belt (Mebius 2003: 125; see also Lid 1928b and Westman 1997 for related discussions). Such theories have been challenged over time. Rydving’s (1992) analysis reveals the geo­graphic variability of the Sámi thunder god’s name over the wider Sámi regions, suggesting that the name Hovrengaellies, although clearly a loan in itself, may reflect South Sámi recognition of parallels between the Sámi thunder god and its Norse counterpart rather than an outright borrowing of the god from one culture to the other. Similarly, both Gustav Ränk and Olof Pettersson have identified the wider North Eurasian mytho­logical context for the god Rohttu, one which makes the Scandinavian parallels with Óðinn seem secondary or at least only partial (Pettersson 1983; Ränk 1983). In recent research, the intricacies of the relation between Sámi, Finnish, and Norse mytho­logies with regard to gods of thunder have been systematically explored by Maths Bertell (Bertell 2003, 2006). Louise Bäckman has drawn parallels between the Sámi goddesses of hearth, doorway, and uterus and the Scandinavian norns without positing any unidirectional flow of ideas (Bäckman 1984). Drawing on the work of Nordland (1969), Thomas DuBois (1999: 75) has drawn parallels

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between Sámi and Norse understandings of multiple afterlife locales, including a proximal locale for familial dead and a more general otherworld presided over by a goddess. Positing a flow of influence from Sámi to Scandinavian, Jurij Kusmenko has argued for interpreting the giant Þjazi as a loan of the Sámi god of fishing luck Čáhceolmmái, even arguing for the phono­logical characteristics of the Norse name as deriving from the Sámi theonym (Kusmenko 2006). In most cases it is methodo­logically difficult to determine the degree to which parallel phenomena represent instances of cultural exchange, or merely cases of convergent evolution of ideas that result subsequently in the borrowing or adapting of a neighbouring culture’s name for one’s own deity. It is likely in any case that pre-Christian Scandinavians would have been able to understand much of the logic behind, if not also many of the details of, the Sámi religious practices they witnessed or took part in (Zachrisson and Iregren 1974; Bäckman 1975; Bäckman and Hultkrantz 1977; Hultkrantz 1977; NorlanderUnsgaard 1983; Ahlbäck 1987; Ahlbäck and Bergman 1991; Rydving 1992; Zachrisson 1992; Vorren and Eriksen 1993; Pentikäinen 1995; DuBois 1999; Mebius 2003; Äikäs 2011a).

Conclusion Late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century scholars found much of interest in Sámi materials. At the same time, they tended to examine these materials not out of interest in Sámi culture in its own right but in hopes of discovering information about their Norse neighbours. When they perceived parallels or commonalities in the Norse and Sámi materials, they were quick to read these as evidence of unidirectional Sámi borrowing rather than more balanced SámiScandinavian exchange. Over the course of the twentieth century, advances in archaeo­logy, as well as the broader development of Sámi studies scholarship, offered valuable correctives to these earlier tendencies. The relation between pre-Christian Sámi and Scandinavians over the course of millennia has come to be recognized as close and enduring, involving the exchange of cultural and religious ideas in both directions and the development of hybrid communities in particular places and contexts. At the same time, scholarship in the area of medi­eval texts has become increasingly cognizant of the textual agendas and fictive tendencies of the writers of medi­eval sagas. Through awareness of saga narrative features, scholars have come to interpret saga representations of Sámi not as evidence of historical events or situations per se, but rather as conjectural accounts of what earlier Sámi-Scandinavian relations may have been like,

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as imagined from the vantage point of the medi­eval writer’s own present day. In this sense, textual sources allow us to recognize a gradual disengagement of Scandinavians from their Sámi neighbours over time, a tendency that seems to have begun in the era of Christianization and continued to increase over subsequent centuries. In the writings of medi­eval Icelanders — separated as they were from extensive first-hand contact with Sámi communities — the Sámi become part of a wider Norse imaginary, enacted as plot devices in narratives and storytelling alongside similarly exotic and wondrous Franks, Irish, Greeks, Russians, Skraelings, giants, unipeds, and others. Given this process of exoticization, it is not surprising that by the time Scandinavian scholars of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries began to examine Sámi mytho­logy for evidence regarding the pre-Christian religions of the Norse, they assumed a situation of mutually exclusive Sámi and Scandinavian communities, in which, at best, ‘primitive’ Sámi borrowed cultural traits from the ‘advanced’ Scandinavians. It took the evidence of archaeo­logy, as well as scholarly explorations of Sámi ties to wider north Eurasian religious systems, to begin to dismantle this set of assumptions and build instead a recognition of the parity and intimate exchange that had gone on between Sámi and Scandinavians in the pre-Christian era. It is this process of religious cross-fertilization and exchange that modern scholarship tends to examine, one in which the Nordic region becomes viewed as a place of vibrant exchange between Europe’s expanding Indo-European and remnant Finno-Ugric populations.

18 – Encounters: Balto-Finnic Thomas A. DuBois

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alto-Finns, who spoke Finno-Ugric languages like the Sámi but were agriculturalists in contrast (è17), were living in the area around the Gulf of Finland already in the early Middle Ages according to written accounts. Today the Balto-Finnic languages are represented by modern Estonian, Finnish, Ingrian, Karelian, Ludic, Vepsian, Votic, and the nearly extinct Livonian. Speakers of all of these languages came into close and extended contact with Germanic peoples, and cultural and religious influences moved in both directions. Naturally the ethonyms of today are of little real applicability when examining ancient or medi­eval cultures in the Nordic region: there was no unified ‘Finnish’ or ‘Estonian’ people in the Viking Age, just as there were no real ‘Swedes’ or ‘Norwegians’ in the sense we mean today. However, medi­eval ethonyms — for example, Kvens, Bjarmians — like the Germanic Götar and Svear, probably designated distinct and fairly unified cultural and/ or linguistic groups, although identifying their modern descendants, or even original locales, can prove difficult. The following discussion avoids the unfortunate scholarly tendency to apply modern national boundaries and cultures backwards in time when discussing the pre-Christian era. As much as possible, the discussion employs the terms for peoples used in the medi­eval texts, noting where possible their relation to later populations. Coastal centres in what is today north-western Estonia and south-western Finland became the contexts in which the Balto-Finnic languages and cultures took definitive shape, eventually expanding inland with seasonal or permanent migrations (Siiriäinen 1991). Balto-Finnic speakers came into contact Thomas A. DuBois, Halls-Bascom Professor of Scandinavian Studies, Folklore and Religious Studies, University of Wisconsin-Madison The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume i, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, pp. 373–389 John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 1 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116945

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Figure 18.1. Approximate extent of the region of Balto-Finnish groups around 1000 ce. The map is based primarily on Roslund 2017. Map: Disir Productions, Uppsala. 

with, intermarried with, or assimilated the prior, non-agricultural Finno-Ugric populations that they came to live alongside, some of whom spoke languages ancestral to the modern Sámi languages, but others of whom may have spoken other Finno-Ugric languages which have since disappeared (Helimski 2006). The dynamic interplay between expanding Balto-Finnic communities and other inland Finno-Ugric populations led to extensive cultural borrowing and intermarriage within the Finno-Ugric complex itself, a process that is evident in archaeo­logical remains as well as loanword evidence (Carpelan 1984; Salo 1984; Valonen 1984; Aikio 2009). This process of expansion and assimilation continued over millennia and was still underway during the late Middle Ages, particularly in remote areas like northern Finland (Asunmaa 2012). As we shall discuss below, this process of expansion may also account for some of the populations mentioned in medi­e val texts, including the Kvens and the Bjarmians

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(Vasaru 2012). Given this process of cultural mingling and evolution, it is not surprising that the Germanic populations of the Nordic region often made little distinction between the various Finno-Ugric populations that they came upon in their trade and raiding. This linguistic ambiguity within the texts — and perhaps to some extent within the communities with whom the Norse speakers had dealings — represents a further interpretive challenge for researchers hoping to study Finno-Ugric religious systems in relation to Germanic during the Viking Age and after. The long-term interaction between Germanic settlers and local FinnoUgric communities finds abundant evidence in the archaeo­logical record, but can be glimpsed also in the loanwords that enter and pass between the various Finno-Ugric languages over time (Koivulehto 1984, 2002; Korhonen 1984; Sammallahti 1984, 1999; Suhonen 1984; Feldman 1988; Svonni 2008; Aikio 2009). Loanwords indicate that Balto-Finnic populations learned agriculture from their Baltic and Germanic neighbours. A staple crop of Nordic agriculture goes by the Finnish name ruis/Estonian rukis (rye), a term borrowed from Old Norse rúgr. Names for grass grown for livestock husbandry — Finnish heinä/ Estonian hein (hay) — however, indicate a Baltic source language (cf. modern Lithuanian šienas) (Suhonen 1984; Itkonen and others 1992–2000). Other loanwords indicate early contact between Finno-Ugric and Indo-European groups. Kinship terms like the Finnish käly (sister-in-law)/Estonian käli (brother-in-law)/North Sámi galojædne (sister-in-law), for instance, probably represent a far earlier borrowing from a different Indo-European language; tellingly, these terms have counterparts in other Finno-Ugric languages such as the Mordvin languages, Komi, and Khanty indicating adoption into the FinnoUgric proto-language before these various languages became differentiated from one another (Sammallahti 1999: 85; Feldman 1988: 170). The transferral of specifically religious concepts or practices within this long-term process of intercultural exchange is not always evident. Much of the archaeo­logical and linguistic evidence left to us indicates linkages along secular, economic lines: Germanic and Finno-Ugric peoples traded with each other extensively, sometimes exchanging personnel as well as goods. Occasionally, however, as in the case of burial patterns, or certain terms for religious concepts, we can point to clear processes of religious exchange. The Finnish word for the sky, taevas (Estonian taevas) derives from the Baltic term for a god (Lithuanian dievas, Latvian dievs), itself probably originally derived from a basic IndoEuropean term for the heavens (Feldmann 1988: 156). The Finnish word for demon (perkele; cf. Estonian expletive pärgel) derives from the Baltic term for the god of thunder (Lithuanian Perkūnas, Latvian Pērkons). The tendency to

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invert the sacrality of a neighbouring god has been pointed out as characteristic of Finno-Ugric mytho­logies (Ajkhenvald and others 1989). A further example of lexical borrowing is the term for lots used in divination. The Finnish arpa/North Sámi vuorbi [Estonian liisk] is a loanword from Old Norse arfr (Koivulehto 2002: 587). Within the Finno-Ugric languages into which it was borrowed, it came to refer to implements of bone or wood used to make predictions, sometimes in connection with other shamanic tools such as a drum. Yet although the term passes from Old Norse into Finno-Ugric, it is the latter group that becomes represented most often in medi­eval texts as diviners and magicians. In Old Norse itself, the term arfr comes to refer to other aspects of fate, such as inheritance and heirs. Such shifts in meaning and function reflect complex processes in which these neighbouring peoples borrowed concepts and termino­logy from one another and sometimes played ritual roles in each other’s religious life.

Hybridity in Contact Zones During the second half of the first millennium ce, the Mälar region in Sweden, the Åland islands, and the area around the Gulf of Finland seem to have been one huge contact zone between Scandinavian and Balto-Finnic groups. Many objects of Finnish and Estonian origins have been found in Uppland and in Birka (Gustin 2012, 2017; Roslund 2017), and in similar ways many Scandinavian objects have been found in Finland and Estonia (Lehtosalo-Hilander 1990). These foreign objects often appear together with local objects, indicating different forms of hybridity. Examples are, for instance, Viking Age graves within the extensive inhumation cemetery at Luistari, Eura in south-western Finland (Lehtosalo-Hilander 1990). The grave of a wealthy man who was buried in the first half of the tenth century showed clear indications of Balto-Finnic dress, but jewellery and other grave goods that linked the man to Gotland, Birka, and Uppland, as well as Russian sites to the east. Lehtosalo-Hilander suggests that the man may have belonged to a cosmopolitan warrior class that spanned the Baltic and that involved Finnish warriors alongside men from Sweden in the various lucrative and prestigious trading/raiding excursions east to Russia. Nor were Finns passive participants in such developments. As Lehtosalo-Hilander points out, some stylistic details found in Luistari graves seem to have started in Finland and spread westward to Sweden rather than in the reverse direction. It should be noted, however, that women’s ornaments in the Luistari graves show

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Figure 18.2. Finnish objects from the Viking Age found in the Lake Mälaren region. The map is based on Roslund 2017: 190. Map: Disir Productions, Uppsala.

far less foreign influence: it is likely that warriors were exposed to far more intercultural influences than those who remained at home. This archaeo­logical evidence relates in interesting ways to the details of the Gotlandic Guta saga, which recounts the eventual overpopulation of Gotland and the necessity of relocating a substantial portion of the population eastward (Guta saga). By judgement of the landed farmers and chieftains of the island, a third of the population is forced to leave, travelling first to the island of Dagaithi (Swedish Dagö, Estonian Hiiumaa) to form a settlement there, before continuing on to Estonia proper, and then by river to Russia and Byzantium. During and after the Swedish conquest of Finland in the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, colonists from the Swedish mainland also started to settle along the Finnish and Estonian coasts. These Swedish settlements resulted in even more fundamental cultural encounters over the course of centuries between Scandinavian and Finno-Baltic groups.

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The Earliest Textual Accounts Finno-Ugric peoples, like other Nordic populations, first emerge in written texts with Tacitus’s Germania, dated to the year 98 of the Common Era. After long explorations of peoples living in Central Europe, Tacitus progresses northward in his survey to discuss the Suiones (apparently the Svear), connected with modern-day eastern Sweden. Their lands, Tacitus writes, are bordered by those of the Sithones, a people much like the Suiones except that they are ruled by women (ch. 45). Tacitus here associates what appear to have been BaltoFinnic peoples with amazons, a tendency that recurs throughout the medi­eval era and that may derive from a misinterpretation of the ethonym Kven (see below) as related to the Germanic root for ‘woman’ (Old Norse kona/kvenna-). The Sithones are said to possess a lifestyle in most respects similar to that of the Suiones. A later account by a merchant named Ohthere — Old Norwegian Óttarr — in the court of King Alfred of England around the year 890 provides far more information about the Finno-Ugric neighbours of the Norwegians. Alfred hoped to supplement the geo­g raphy of the Latin writer Orosius and interviewed Ohthere to obtain details of the lands and peoples in the north of Fennoscandia. Ohthere describes leaving his home in Hålogaland and travelling along the northern coast as far north as possible, then due east and south, apparently into the White Sea. He passes Finnas and Terfinnas (probably terms for various Sámi populations), Cwenas (Kvens, apparently a Balto-Finnic speaking population), and finally reaches a land inhabited by Beormas (Bjarmians), another Finno-Ugric community, whose settlement is situated at the mouth of a river, possibly the Varzuga or the Northern Dvina (Vasaru 2012: 41). Of the Cwenas, Ohthere notes that they are engaged in intermittent raiding on the Northmen: ‘Ða Cwenas hergiað hwilum on þa Norðmen ofer þone mor. Hwilum þa Norðmen on hy’ (The Cwenas sometimes make attacks on the Northmen over the mountains, and sometimes the Northmen on them) (Ælfred 1857: 250–53). Ohthere speaks enviously of the Cwenas’s lightweight and easily portaged boats, which they carry between the various rivers and lakes of the region. The Beormas appear more sedentary, with their trading settlement arrayed along the shores of the river (Ælfred 1857: 248–49). The Beormas, Ohthere notes, seem to speak a language closely related to that of the Finnas, which aids in their commerce with one another. The modern ethonym Perm refers to other Finno-Ugric peoples, the Komi and Udmurts. Neither of these groups, however, appears likely to be the

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Bjarmians of medi­e val sources, since they reside farther to the east than what Ohthere’s account seems to indicate. In examining the amassed archaeo­logical evidence and textual accounts of the Beormas, Vasaru (2012) suggests that they may have been Vepsians. Based on onomastic substratum evidence from northern Russia, Helimski suggests that the Bjarmians may have been a distinct Finno-Ugric people that has since disappeared or been assimilated into another polity (Helimski 2006). Archaeo­logical evidence indicates close ties between the Varzuga valley of the Kola peninsula and the south-eastern shores of Lake Ladoga, one of the main settlement sites of the Vepsians in later times (Vasaru 2012: 51), while onomastic evidence points to a ‘Lop’ population (the Russian term for the population) around Lake Beloe as well as along the north-eastern shores of the White Sea (Helimski 2006: 110). It is noteworthy that a broader Russian term for Balto-Finnic peoples in general, chud, corresponds to the čuđit, the name for legendary marauders in Sámi oral tradition collected throughout the northern region in later times. Ohthere reports that the Bjarmians are important trading partners, who supply him with both walrus tooth and hide. The Finnas, however, pay tribute to Ohthere in the form of marten and reindeer hides, bear and otter skins, feathers, and rope made from whale or seal hide. The Cwenas, as rivals, apparently supply nothing to Ohthere’s personal economy.

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Figure 18.3. Rune stone at Löt in Uppland (U 722, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) erected by a man called Tafæistr. Photo: Bengt A. Lundberg, Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm.

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Figure 18.4. Rune stone from Norra Åsarp in Västergötland (Vg 181, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), com­ memorating a man called Olaf, who was killed ‘i Æistlandum’ (in Estonia). Photo: Bengt A. Lundberg, Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm. 

Other examples of cultural encounters are rune stones from the Swedish mainland, with personal names indicating Finnish and Estonian origins of the mentioned individuals. In Löt in south-western Uppland (U 722, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) and in Tibble in southern Uppland (U 467, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) rune stones were raised by men called Tafæistr, indicating that they came from Tavastland, being the Swedish name of the Finnish region Häme (Peterson 2007: 219). Similarly, several rune stones in Södermanland and Uppland mention personal names such as Æistr (Sö 90; U181, 448–49, 461, 670, 766, 780, 855, 1050, 1060, 1158, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), Æisti (U44, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), Æistfari (Sö 45; U466, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), and Æistmaðr (U771, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), indicating many links with Estonia (Peterson 2007: 262–63). It is quite possible that several of the settlements

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behind these rune stones were bilingual. Besides, hostile as well as friendly relations towards Tavastland (Häme), Finland (Suomi), Virland (Võrrumaa), Estland (Estonia), Livland, and Domesnäs (Kolkas rags) are mentioned on other Swedish rune stones (Gs13; U346, 356, 439, 533, 582, 698; Vg181; Sö39, 198, Samnordisk runtextdatabas; cf. Peterson 2007: 310–25). Skaldic poems occasionally depict warfare between Norse and Finno-Ugric communities. Glúmr Geirason (tenth century) describes a battle between King Haraldr gráfeldr and the Bjarmians in Gráfeldardrápa 6: Austr rauð jǫfra þrýstir orðrakkr fyr bý norðan brand, þars bjarmskar kindir, brennanda, sák rinna. Gótt hlaut gumna sættir (geirveðr) í fǫr þeiri (ǫðlingi fekksk ungum) orð (á Vínu borði). (The word-bold crusher of princes [king = Haraldr] reddened the flashing sword in the east, north of the settlement, where I saw Permian people flee. The reconciler of men [king = Haraldr] gained a good reputation on that expedition; a spear-storm [battle] was granted to the young prince on the banks of the Dvina.) (p. 255)

The Bjarmians are foes against whom to show one’s mettle. The Saxo Grammaticus in the twelfth century depicts similar warfare in his Gesta Danorum (5.1.4), in which the Swedish warrior Arngrim defeats Egther, king of Bjarmaland, and imposes an annual tribute. In Book 9, the Danish hero Regner (Ragnar) loðbrók faces the weather magic of the Bjarmians in his attempts to subdue the north (9.4.22–23). Book 8 of Saxo’s work describes the exploits of King Gorm in Bjarmaland: Thorkillus the far-travelled leads Gorm and a company of some three hundred men into Bjarmaland, described as a place bereft of the sun’s warmth even in summer and perpetually cloaked in snow. The land is filled with wide, trackless forests and treacherous rivers, and inhabited not only by Bjarmians but also by giants, the entrance to whose realm lies within the land’s bounds. The giant Guthmundus attempts to ensnare the men by offering them choice foods and marriage to any of his twelve beautiful daughters. Those that succumb to these temptations, however, lose their wits and memory, and are thus compelled to remain in Bjarmaland permanently, a fate much to be regretted (8.14.2–15). Saxo’s depictions of Bjarmaland reverberate through the centuries, as in the late and fanciful Ǫrvar Odds saga, in

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which the Bjarmians figure as a recurring and dangerous enemy. Such later texts include little real evidence regarding the religious relations of actual Bjarmians and their Germanic neighbours during the pre-Christian period.

Historia Norwegie and the Christian Sagas Already in Adam and Saxo, clerical disapproval of the Finno-Ugrians as pagan diviners and magicians appears well established. Within these texts produced in the southern reaches of the Nordic region, or even outside of it, the FinnoUgrians become simple foils for demonstrating the doughtiness and mettle of Scandinavian heroes within legendry and chronicles. The early thirteenth-century history/geo­graphy Historia Norwegie, undoubtedly produced within Norway by a cleric with strong feelings of disapproval for the realm’s Finno-Ugrian neighbours, offers a glimpse of the more local perceptions of Scandinavians who lived in closer contact with these by-now legendary populations. Although various sagas, including Egils saga and the later, more fanciful Bósa saga and Ǫ rvar Odds saga, incorporate expeditions into Finnmark or Bjarmaland as part of their narratives, in general, such texts provide little if any, reliable information regarding the religious traditions of the Finno-Ugrians. One text that does include some information along these lines (albeit again, of questionable reliability) is Snorri’s tale of the looting of a temple or grave site in Bjarmaland by warriors under the employ of King Saint Óláfr. In Snorri’s account, the men carry on amicable trade for a time with the Bjarmians at their settlement on the ‘Vína’ river after appointing a truce. Óláfr’s men acquire furs of great value and are able to sell the wares that they had brought at full price. After the truce has ended, however, the men decide to go looting in the locale and eventually enter and loot a Bjarmian burial mound. The leader of the men, Þórir, knows Bjarmian inheritance customs and that the name of their god is Jómali. The group steal a bowl of coins that the statue of Jómali had been holding, knock off the statue’s head, and steal its neck ring (ch. 139) The name Jómali is strongly reminiscent of the Finnish jumala, a general term for god, and eventually the name for the Christian deity. Such details indicate some degree of awareness of Balto-Finnic traditions and language, even in areas remote from the eastern Baltic, such as Iceland or southern Norway. Snorri’s description of the cult site differs considerably from the sacred groves and landscape sites which scholars of Balto-Finnic religion and archaeo­logy have tended to describe (Eisen 1919; Koski 1990; Anttonen 1996, 2013; Äikäs 2011a; Jonuks 2011). However, it seems reminiscent of the grove with images of the god Tharapita that Henry of Livonia reports having desecrated in his mis-

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sionary work in Estonia in the year 1220 (Book 4.24.5). Henry completed his chronicle only some five years after this event, and he attested to the first-hand accuracy of his text. If his recounting is at all credible, it indicates that carved images of gods were part of at least some Balto-Finnic religious traditions. Both Snorri’s account and Henry’s report testify most clearly to the fact that attacking and plundering Balto-Finns was counted a great good, particularly among Christians. In summing up the deeds of the late eleventh-century king Hákon Magnússon, Snorri writes: ‘Hákon konungr […] hefir hǫfðingja verit einn ástsælastr í Nóregi af allri alþýðu. Hann hafði farit norðr til Bjarmalands ok átti þar orrostu ok fekk sigr’ (King Hákon […] was one of the chieftains who was most beloved by all the people in Norway. He had travelled north to Bjarmaland, had fought there, and won a victory) (Magnús saga berfœtts 2). In this light Hákonar saga Hákonarson, the saga/bio­graphy of King Hákon IV of Norway, written by Snorri Sturluson’s nephew Sturla Þórðarson (1214– 84), stands out as a startling piece of counter-evidence. Certainly the saga recounts hostile dealings with Finno-Ugrians, including a trading expedition to Bjarmaland in 1221, headed by the Hålogaland chieftains Andres Skjaldarband and Ivar Utvik, following on the heels of an earlier expedition that had ended in the murder of the Norwegians by their Bjarmian hosts. This expedition seems at first to end more positively, with the Norwegian crews returning to their homeland with a fine load of skins. Yet after a subsequent storm at sea destroys most of the expedition’s ships — an oblique reference to the Bjarmian ability to summon storms — Andres returns to his home district, vowing never to sail to Bjarmaland again (75–76). More startling than this apparent Bjarmian defeat, however, is the account that Sturla appends to the end of his saga, in a listing of good deeds the holy king Hákon accomplished before his death in 1263. One of these was to award lands in the Malangen fjord area to Bjarmians displaced by Tatar and Mongol aggression within their homeland: Til hans kuomu marger biarmar er flyit hofdu austan fyrir ofridi tartara ok kristnadi hann þa ok gaf þeim einn fiord er malangur heitir. (209) (There came many Bjarmians who had fled from the east in response to the harrying of the Tartars, and he baptised them and gave them the fjord of Malangen.)

It is clear that the Bjarmians are required to convert (presumably from Orthodoxy) in order to receive the benefits of the king’s largesse. Yet the amicable resettlement of Bjarmian refugees in Norwegian territory in the thirteenth century argues for an attitude far less hostile and exclusionary than earlier sagas suggest.

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Evidence Offered by Later Collecting Textual records of Balto-Finnic religion begin with a thirteenth-century birchbark text written in Cyrillic and containing a prayer or incantation addressed to Jumolanuoli (arrow of god) (DuBois 1999: 106; Holthoer 1981: 161). Lengthier but more removed from the pre-Christian context is Lutheran bishop Mikael Agricola’s 1551 condemnatory listing of Finnish and Karelian gods, many of which represent proximal spirits instrumental in securing luck in relation to particular human endeavours (e.g., weather, travel, hunting, fishing, trapping, livestock husbandry, planting, crops), sometimes with clear incorporation of later Christian lore, that is, the cult of the saints (Hautala 1954: 27–30; Anttonen 2013). It is only with the Enlightenment and the Romantic period that Finnish scholars began to make serious attempts to reconstruct the pre-Christian religious traditions of the region that is today Finland. The works of Henrik Gabriel Porthan (1739–1804) and especially Christfrid Ganander (1741–90) represent some of the first extensive examinations of the topic, focusing particularly on indications of past religious beliefs furnished by epic, lyric, and ritual songs. Ganander’s Mytho­logia Fennica (1984 [1789]) contains hundreds of terms for particular gods and mytho­logical details, arranged alphabetically in the form of a lexicon. The fieldwork of Finnish collectors like Elias Lönnrot (1802–84) amassed thousands of records of Finnish epic, lyric songs, and incantations during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Finnish scholars have argued for the antiquity of the Finnish trochaic tetrameter song metre (Korhonen 1994), and for the likely antiquity of many of the themes and narratives contained in collected songs (Kuusi 1994: 23–78; Siikala 2002: 32–37). The temporal dating of song contents has proceeded largely on the basis of narrative themes and geo­graphic distribution, although also to some extent on the basis of stylistic features as well. Certain thematic details arise in some epic songs that appear parallels to saga materials: characters and events depicted in the later medi­eval Bósa saga, for instance, seem reminiscent of those occurring in a number of Karelian epics (Lid 1951). The adventures of Thorkillus and Gorm among the ill-disposed giants of Bjarmaland, discussed above with reference to Saxo’s account, bear strong reminiscence to some of the adventures faced by Karelian epic heroes such as Lemminkäinen and Kaukomoinen (Siikala 2002), and the death of Baldr has long been cited as a potential parallel to the death of Lemminkäinen (è46), perhaps even a borrowing (most recently Frog 2010). Some of these materials have a direct bearing on religious traditions: Finns and Karelians alike shared a rich trove of incantations that often contain mythic kernel narratives regarding such events as the discov-

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ery of fire, the creation of iron, and the birth of diseases. Epic songs as well as ethno­graphic field notes from the nineteenth century reveal the importance of shamanic healing in folk practice down to the recent past. Such materials can shed valuable light on premodern Finnish and Karelian world-view and suggest interesting parallels with the folk beliefs of pre-modern Scandinavians. As with the post-medi­eval Sámi materials, however, methodo­logical hurdles are considerable when attempting to use such materials to reconstruct aspects of medi­eval belief or practice (see è17). The influence of centuries of Christian culture and the diffusion of folklore and book-learning from neighbouring peoples make it difficult to know precisely what such songs contained a millennium before they were collected in the nineteenth century. Thus, despite Finnish scholarly unanimity on the antiquity and usefulness of nineteenth-century folk song recordings as a basis for the reconstruction of pre-Christian Finnish (and broader Nordic) religious traditions, scholars of pre-Christian Germanic Scandinavian lore have been hesitant to make much use of such materials. Through careful analysis of Agricola’s catalogue of twenty-three purported gods, and careful comparison with songs and incantations collected in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, it becomes possible to point to some figures that may have been regarded as deities and that in any case play prominent roles in the folklore of the Balto-Finnic (particularly Finnish and Karelian) world. Agricola divides his catalogue into two sections: eleven gods of the people of western Finland (Häme province), and twelve gods of the people of the eastern province of Karelia. Most of these entities receive only brief characterization and appear to be chiefly guarantors of particular natural or agricultural bounties. Natural products gained from hunting and fishing are associated with the Häme gods Tapio (game) and Ahti (fish), as well as the Karelian gods Hiisi (game in general), Veden emo (‘mother of waters’; fish), Nyrkes (squirrels), and Hittavanin (hares).The Karelians had a further guarantor of domestic cattle: Kekri. ‘Gods’ of this kind are common in Finnish (and broader Nordic) charms, but also occasionally show links or confusion with the medi­eval Christian custom of patron saints. The term Veden emo suggests that the concept of lower-order female deities associated with particular resources, a feature well developed in Estonian tradition as well as in the Baltic māte tradition, extended into the Karelian culture area as well (see è16 on Baltic encounters for discussion of māte). In Agricola’s catalogue the Karelians have a far greater array of gods associated with various domestic crops. Where the Häme catalogue notes only Liekkiö as a guarantor of plant life (specifically grass, roots, and trees), the Karelian catalogue lists Rungoteus (presides over rye), Pellonpekko (bar-

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Figure 18.5. A strap mount, dated to the eighth century, from a rich burial at Solberga in Askeby in Östergötland (SHM 21921:271215). The mount depicts a man fishing from a boat and a fish-woman on the hook. The motif is possibly related to folk songs of Väinämöinen catching the water spirit Vellamo’s Maiden, a song included in Lönnrot’s Kalevala (poem 5) (Callmer 1994). If this interpretation is correct, the mount reflects the close interactions between Finns and Scandinavians. Photo: John Ljungkvist, Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm. 

ley), Virankannos (oats), Ägräs (peas, beans, turnips, cabbage, flax, hemp), as well as Köndös (associated with swidden agriculture and with ploughing). Of these, Pellonpekko finds close parallels in the Karelian and Setu Estonian areas, where the term Peko referred to a fertility idol useful in guaranteeing agricultural success and fertility (Hagu 1987). Scholars have regarded these various agrarian gods as likely assimilations of Western or Eastern Christian saints, who would have entered Balto-Finnic customary life through oral channels during the many centuries of Christianity in the region prior to the development of local literacy and more extensive theo­logical instruction for members of the faith. Three Häme gods are grouped together as guarantors of worldly success: Turisas (in war), Kratti (in possessions), and Tonttu (in the welfare of the household). Tonttu in particular appears related to the household spirits of Scandinavian peoples (cf. the Swedish tomte). Certain Häme gods are also assigned astral functions: Rahkoi is responsible for the waning ‘darkening’ of the moon, while a set of beings called Kapeet are responsible for eclipses.

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Wider myths and rituals appear associated with the remaining gods. Kalevanpojat (sons of Kaleva) survive into the modern legendry in both Finland and Estonia as primordial giants responsible for prominent aspects of the landscape. Two figures are known from Finnish and Karelian epic song traditions: Äinemoinen (Väinämöinen) and Ilmarinen. Of the former, Agricola notes only that he created songs; of the latter, Agricola notes that he brought peace and good weather and protected the traveller. In epic poetry, names for constellations, and folk beliefs Väinämöinen seems to have presided over a wide array of activities, including boating, fishing, and agriculture. His character also seems to have contained or attracted into itself shamanic narratives of spirit travel and otherworld adventures. In Agricola’s catalogue, Ilmarinen seems to hold a similar status to the Sámi god of thunder Dierpmis. In epic songs, he is known as a smith, the creator of magic objects such as the sampo and the vaults of heaven. By far the most attention in Agricola’s catalogue is paid to the god Ukko and his consort Rauni. Agricola devotes some eight lines to the couple, describing a spring ritual associated with sowing that involves an object called Ukko’s cup and another called Ukko’s sowing basket. In what scholars have regarded as an instance of hieros gamos, Ukko is said to respond to Rauni’s actions by sending down rain upon the earth, thereby guaranteeing favourable weather and a successful harvest. The name Ukko means ‘old man’ and serves as the root for the Finnish word for thunder (ukkonen). The name Rauni is unclear etymo­ logically, but scholars have associated it with the Swedish rönn (rowan tree) and suggested a sacred role for the rowan in Finnish life, one that might possibly link Ukko to the Scandinavian Þórr (Anttonen 2013). Scholars have not associated Rauni with the Sámi Rana-nieida, despite the fact that the latter is closely associated with successful plant growth, apparently one of the prime functions of Rauni as well. In Estonian tradition, the god of thunder tended to be called either Uku or Vanataat (old father). Nineteenth-century Estonian nationalists wrote about other deities, that is, a thunder god Taara, but such appears to have little evidence in the materials preserved in Estonian oral tradition or in the rather sparse written records left from the medi­eval era.

Concluding Remarks If this chapter’s purpose is intended to investigate direct and conscious borrowing of Finno-Ugric religious traditions or ritual procedures into Germanic religious practice, then the extent of Finno-Ugric influence has to be characterized as probably fairly slight. However, if ‘Finno-Ugric contacts’ — both Sámi and

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Balto-Finnic populations — includes the effects of the Finno-Ugric peoples as perceived social and religious threats, then the Finno-Ugrians can be said to have played a profound role in Nordic Germanic societies. Especially in the era of conversions to Christianity and after, Finno-Ugrians became prime symbols of recalcitrant pagan backsliding, the delusions of demonic devotion, and the dangers of cultural mixing. Images of Finno-Ugric diviners, magicians, princesses, and conniving men played prominent roles in the narrative apparatus of Scandinavian tales, secular or religious. Sometimes these imagined FinnoUgrians appear based at least to some extent on actual knowledge of Finno-Ugric customs and practices. Such knowledge would not have been hard to come by in areas of extensive trade and cultural contact, such as Hålogaland, Finnmark, the nebulous Bjarmaland, and the south-east coast of Finland. But just as often, Scandinavian writers seem content to recycle stereotypes regarding Finno-Ugric peoples: time and again we see potion-brewing Sámi, storm-wielding Bjarmians, enticing but dangerous Finno-Ugric women. In these stereotyped forms, images of Finno-Ugrians played an important role in helping Scandinavians achieve a discourse of cultural identity and values. That such occurred particularly with Christianization appears evident from both textual and archaeo­logical evidence. Yet it is important to note that correlation here does not necessarily mean causation: this same period saw the rise of more centralized, consolidated agrarian kingdoms in the Nordic region, ones that no longer valued the mobility or the trade goods (e.g., furs) that had so centrally shaped earlier contacts in periods like the Viking Age. It may be that the elite echelons of such kingdoms evolved to no longer have an economic need for, or cultural interest in, the Finno-Ugrians as allies and trading partners. Yet the simplistic stereotypes of the medi­eval era persisted unabated into the modern era among Scandinavians, and can often still be sensed in modern Scandinavian folklore about the Sámi (Mathisen 1989; Lindow 1995b). Such continuity represents a singular aspect of Scandinavian culture, comparable to the continuities of anti-Semitism and anti-Islamic discourse in other regions of the European cultural area. On the basis of archaeo­logy, as well as later ethno­graphic research, particularly through the collection and analysis of Estonian, Finnish, and Karelian songs and incantations, scholars have been able to characterize the main components of pre-Christian Balto-Finnic religious practice as follows: –– the procurement and maintenance of personal and communal luck through sacrifices, observance of taboos, manipulation of the spirits or inherent power of beings (väki), performance of incantations, sometimes at designated sacred sites (trees, rocks, landscape features, wooden sculptures);

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–– the belief in one or more sky gods, apparently with a spouse, helpful in securing good weather and agricultural success; –– the performance of ceremonials aimed at maintaining good relations with particular animals, especially the bear; –– the maintenance of positive relations with underground and household spirits through periodic sacrifices and/or libations and the observation of taboos; –– the practice of shamanism for the purposes of divination, healing, maintenance of luck, and supernatural aggression; –– the belief in multiple otherworlds, including lands of the dead; –– reverence for and reliance on the dead as sources of spiritual and material help; –– the practice of ritual songs at key life cycle rituals (e.g., marriage); –– the maintenance of mytho­logical knowledge through performance in song and incantation. This repertoire of sacred concepts is rooted in Finno-Ugric religious traditions but also shows the influence of Indo-European (particularly Baltic (è16), but also potentially Germanic (è12) traditions and concepts over time (Kuusi and others 1977; Hagu 1987; Pentikäinen 1989; Talve 1990; Honko and others 1993; Apo 1995; Siikala 2002; Anttonen 2013).

The Pre-Christian Religions of the North

THE Pre-Christian Religions of the North

Editorial Board John McKinnell, John Lindow, Margaret Clunies Ross

Titles in Series Research and Reception, Volume i: From the Middle Ages to c. 1830, edited by Margaret Clunies Ross Research and Reception, Volume ii: From c. 1830 to the Present, edited by Margaret Clunies Ross History and Structures (4-volume set), edited by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén Written Sources, edited by John McKinnell

The Pre-Christian Religions of the North History and Structures, Volume ii: Social, Geographical, and Historical Contexts, and Communication between Worlds Edited by

Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

© 2020, Brepols Publishers n.v., Turnhout, Belgium 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 the prior permission of the publisher. D/2020/0095/227 ISBN: 978-2-503-57489-9 e-ISBN: 978-2-503-57491-2 DOI: 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.112891 Printed in the EU on acid-free paper

Contents

Volume II List of Illustrations 19 – Historical and Social Contexts Anders Andrén

20 – Laws and Assemblies Stefan Brink

21 – Ethics John Lindow

22 – Gender Judy Quinn

23 – Kings and Rulers Jens Peter Schjødt

24 – Warrior Bands Jens Peter Schjødt

25 – Various Ways of Communicating Jens Peter Schjødt

26 – Magic and Religion Stephen A. Mitchell

vii 391 445 479 509 529 559 589 643

Contents

vi

27 – Ritual Space Torun Zachrisson and Anders Andrén

28 – Ritual Time and Time Reckoning Andreas Nordberg

29 – Cultic Leaders and Religious Specialists Olof Sundqvist

30 – Crisis Rituals Jens Peter Schjødt

31 – Cyclical Rituals Jens Peter Schjødt

32 – Passage Rituals Jens Peter Schjødt

33 – Death Ritual and Mortuary Behaviour Neil Price

34 – Worlds of the Dead

671 725 739 781 797 823 853

John Lindow and Anders Andrén

897

John Lindow

927

35 – Fate 36 – The Divine, the Human, and In Between John Lindow and Jens Peter Schjødt

951

List of Illustrations

Chapter 19 – Historical and Social Contexts Figure 19.1. Inhumation grave from Birka with a set of weapons, interpreted as a grave for a man. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 392 Figure 19.2. Rune stone at Hassmyra in Fläckebo in Västmanland. . . . . . . . . . . 393 Figure 19.3. Iron neck-ring from Birka, interpreted as a fetter for a slave. . . . 394 Figure 19.4. Arable fields from the early Iron Age at Stånga on Gotland. . . . 397 Figure 19.5. Reconstructed cross-section of a longhouse from the Iron Age. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 401 Figure 19.6. Plan of a large farm at Övetorp in Algutsrum on Öland, from the third to the sixth/seventh centuries ce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 403 Figure 19.7. An Iron Age village at Rosendal in Böda on Öland. . . . . . . . . . . . . 404 Figure 19.8. The early Iron Age village at Hodde in Jylland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 406 Figure 19.9. Reconstruction of an Iron Age farm at Ullandhaug in Rogaland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 407 Figure 19.10. Map of central places and early towns in southern Scandinavia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 410 Figure 19.11. Plan of Tissø on Sjælland showing archaeological excavations, find spots, and the former extent of the lake Tissø. . . . . . . . . . . 412 Figure 19.12. Reconstruction of the central place Uppåkra in Skåne in the tenth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 413 Figure 19.13. The so-called royal mounds in Gamla Uppsala in Uppland, with remains of the former cathedral. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 414

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Figure 19.14. Plan of Helgö in Uppland, with house terraces and burial grounds. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 415 Figure 19.15. Aerial photo of the flat settlement area at Birka. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 419 Figure 19.16. Reconstruction of Hedeby at Viking Museum Haithabu. . . . . 420 Figure 19.17. Plan of Kaupang, with settlements and surrounding burial grounds. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 421 Figure 19.18. Map of Scandinavia and major regional names for different parts of the Scandi­navian agrarian settlement. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 424 Figure 19.19. Map of the medieval province of Småland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 428 Figure 19.20. Weapon deposits in southern Scandinavia and the approximate area of many hundreds of hillforts and ringforts in central Scandinavia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 436 Figure 19.21. The burial ground at Valsgärde in Uppland, from the fifth to the eleventh centuries. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 439 Figure 19.22. Important places during the formation of the Danish Christian state in the late tenth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 441 Chapter 20 – Laws and Assemblies Figure 20.1. Roman altar from Hadrian’s wall, with a votive inscription to Mars Thingsus, interpreted as a reference to the Germanic god Tīwaz/Týr. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 447 Figure 20.2. The Icelandic alþingi (general assembly) site at Þingvellir. . . . . . 454 Figure 20.3. The assembly site at Bällsta, ‘Arkels tingstad’ in Vallentuna in Uppland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 455 Figure 20.4. Anundshög at Badelunda in Västmanland and a tall rune stone erected in front of the mound. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 456 Figure 20.5. An iron ring from Forsa in Hälsingland, dated probably to the ninth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 459 Figure 20.6. The opening page of the Older Gulaþing Law, Codex Rantzovianus. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 465

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Chapter 21 – Ethics Figure 21.1. Rune stone from about 1000, later built into the medieval church at Hällestad in Skåne. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 484 Figure 21.2. The runic monument at Björketorp in Blekinge from the seventh century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 493 Figure 21.3. Rune stone at Rörbro in Nöttja in Finnveden (south-west Småland) from c. 1000. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 502 Chapter 22 – Gender Figure 22.1. Reconstruction of a possible vǫlva grave at Fyrkat in northern Jylland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 517 Chapter 23 – Kings and Rulers Figure 23.1. A sceptre from the royal ship burial at Sutton Hoo in Suffolk, dated to the early seventh century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 533 Figure 23.2. An eyebrow of a helmet from Uppåkra in Skåne, dated to the seventh or eighth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 540 Figure 23.3. Drinking vessels from rich inhumation graves, dated to the third and fourth centuries, from Himlingøje in Stevns on Sjælland. . . . . . 542 Figure 23.4. A large grave-mound at Inglinge in Östra Torsås in Värend (southern Småland). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 549 Figure 23.5. Example of the first Swedish coins, minted by Olof Skötkonung in Sigtuna. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 557 Chapter 24 – Warrior Bands Figure 24.1. The geometrically planned ringfort at Fyrkat in central Jylland, dated to the 980s. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 562 Figure 24.2. Destroyed weapons from the large weapon deposit at Illerup in central Jylland, from about 200 ce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 564 Figure 24.3. Reconstruction of a warrior dressed in a bear skin, based on a grave from Hjärterum in Kuddy in Östergötland, dated to about 100 bce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 566

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Figure 24.4. Plan of the fortified hilltop settlement at Runsa in Ed in Uppland, dated to the fifth and sixth centuries. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 567 Figure 24.5. Plan of a hall in Birka, dated to the tenth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 568 Figure 24.6. Bronze matrices for producing helmet plates, dated to c. 600, found at Björnhovda in Torslunda on Öland. . . . . . . . . . . . . 576 Figure 24.7. Detail of the top panel of the picture stone from Hunninge in Klinte on Gotland, dated to the ninth or tenth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 584 Chapter 25 – Various Ways of Communicating Figure 25.1. Panel from the Gundestrup cauldron, dated to the second or first centuries bce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 611 Figure 25.2. Horse skull pierced by a flint dagger, from a bog at Ullstorp in Skåne. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 613 Figure 25.3. The bog body from Tollund in central Jylland, dated to about 375–210 bce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 623 Figure 25.4. Picture stone from Stora Hammars in Lärbro on Gotland, dated to the ninth or tenth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 627 Figure 25.5. A procession of men, women, and carriages on one of the tapestries from Oseberg, dated to the early ninth century. . . . . . . . . . 631 Figure 25.6. Plan of a ritual road at Rösaring in Låssa in Uppland, dated to the Viking Age. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 632 Chapter 26 – Magic and Religion Figure 26.1. Runic amulet of bronze from Högstena in Västergötland. . . . . . 660 Figure 26.2. Fragment of a human skull dated to the eighth century, from Ribe in Jylland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 661 Figure 26.3. Runic amulet from Kvinneby on Öland, dated to the eleventh century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 662 Figure 26.4. Runic inscription from Søndre Søstergården in Bergen, dated to the twelfth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 663 Figure 26.5. House from the village of Vallhagar on Gotland, dated between the third and the sixth centuries. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 665

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Chapter 27 – Ritual Space Figure 27.1. The weapon deposit site of Ejsbøl mose in southern Jylland, surrounded by rising shore lines that created a natural theatre. . . . . . . . . . . . 674 Figure 27.2. A wooden figure from the ritual site at Forlev Nymølle in middle Jylland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 675 Figure 27.3. Two stone heads from Ravlunda in Skåne. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 676 Figure 27.4. Important ritual sites from the Iron Age in Scandinavia. . . . . . . . 679 Figure 27.5. Plan of Käringsjön in Halland, with ritual deposits along the shorelines. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 682 Figure 27.6. The bog body from Grauballe in central Jylland, dated to the early third century bce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 685 Figure 27.7. Excavation of deposited human bones at Alken Enge, in central Jylland, from the early first century ce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 686 Figure 27.8. Roman bronze figure from lake Fysingen in Uppland. . . . . . . . . . . 688 Figure 27.9. Destroyed weapons and other equipment from the former lake at Illerup. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 690 Figure 27.10. An exquisite Viking Age sword, with a gilded sword-hilt, deposited at Dybäck in Skåne. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 692 Figure 27.11. Remains of a boat deposited at Kvalsund in Møre and Romsdal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 695 Figure 27.12. Gold collar deposited at Ålleberg in Västergötland. . . . . . . . . . . . 696 Figure 27.13. Plan of the ritual building at Uppåkra with distribution of gold foil figures and a tentative reconstruction of the house. . . . . . . . . . . 698 Figure 27.14. Plan of the central part of Helgö, building group 2, including the main hall and distribution of ritual deposits. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 700 Figure 27.15. Plan of the central part of Tissø, including the main hall and the ritual building within an enclosure. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 701 Figure 27.16. Plan of Gamla Uppsala, including grave mounds, house terraces, ritual roads, ordinary settlement, and minor burial grounds. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 704

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Figure 27.17. Wooden figure from a bog at Rude Eskildstrup on Sjælland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 706 Figure 27.18. A stone altar, with a stone face and stone troughs at Rossland in Rogaland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 707 Figure 27.19. Reconstruction of a ritual building at Borg in Östergötland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 708 Figure 27.20. Plan of Hofstaðir in northern Iceland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 709 Figure 27.21. Plan of Frösvi in Närke. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 711 Figure 27.22. Aerial view of the sacred grove in Lunda, northern Södermanland, during excavation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 712 Figure 27.23. Plan of Götavi in Närke. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 713 Figure 27.24. Plan of the ritual site at Lilla Ullevi in southern Uppland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 714 Figure 27.25. Large rings with three smaller rings attached from Lilla Ullevi in southern Uppland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 715 Figure 27.26. Map of the former Lake Skedemosse and its surroundings. . . . 717 Chapter 28 – Ritual Time and Time Reckoning Figure 28.1. Runic calendar staff from from Nyköping in Södermanland, dated to the thirteenth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 732 Chapter 29 – Cultic Leaders and Religious Specialists Figure 29.1. Runic amulet of bone from Lindholmen in Skåne, dated to about 400–550. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 748 Figure 29.2. The rune stone at Snoldelev in Sjælland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 756 Figure 29.3. A panel on the picture stone from Tängelgårda on Gotland, dated to the ninth or tenth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 766 Figure 29.4. The top of an iron staff, with a representation of a house. . . . . . . 778

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Chapter 30 – Crisis Rituals Figure 30.1. Ship from the weapon deposit at Nydam in southern Jylland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 783 Figure 30.2. A staff of yew from a bog at Hemdrup in Skarp Salling in Himmerland, northern Jylland, dated to the ninth or tenth century. . . . . 785 Figure 30.3. An attempt to reconstruct the dress and equipment of Þorbjǫrg lítilvǫlva. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 791 Chapter 31 – Cyclical Rituals Figure 31.1. Plan of the central part of Lejre, with halls and possible ritual buildings. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 813 Figure 31.2. Reconstruction of the main hall at Gamla Uppsala in the seventh and eighth centuries. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 819 Chapter 32 – Passage Rituals Figure 32.1. A richly furnished grave of a girl about ten years old, at Ire in Hellvi on Gotland, from the tenth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 827 Figure 32.2. A gold foil figure with an embracing couple from Krokek in Östergötland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 828 Figure 32.3. ‘Mora stenar’ according to Olaus Magnus in Historia de gentibus septentrionalibus, a history of the Nordic people, printed in Rome in 1555. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 843 Chapter 33 – Death Ritual and Mortuary Behaviour Figure 33.1. Burial ground consisting of mounds at Kånna in Finnveden (south-western Småland) from the Late Iron Age. . . . . . . . . . . . . 865 Figure 33.2. A cremation grave with a Þórr’s hammer ring placed on top of the urn, from the burial ground in Söderby on Lovö, Uppland. . . . . . . . 866 Figure 33.3. Burial ground at Trullhalsar in Anga on Gotland, dated to the Late Iron Age. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 867 Figure 33.4. Excavation of a grave at Gnista in the parish of Danmark in Uppland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 871

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Figure 33.5. Woman buried in a carriage at a small burial ground by the ringfort Fyrkat in northern Jylland from the late tenth century. . . . . . 873 Figure 33.6. One of the richly furnished inhumation graves at Himlingøje in Stevns on Sjælland, dated to the third century ce. . . . . . . . . 874 Figure 33.7. The ship-setting ‘Ales stenar’ at Kåseberga on the south coast of Skåne, probably constructed in the sixth century. . . . . . . . . . 876 Figure 33.8. Aerial view of the burial ground at Lindholm Høje in Vendsyssel in northern Jylland, dated to the Late Iron Age. . . . . . . . . . . . 879 Figure 33.9. Reconstruction of a chamber grave in Birka, with the dead woman seated in the grave. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 881 Figure 33.10. Reconstruction of the final phase of the burial at Oseberg in Vestfold in 834. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 883 Figure 33.11. Raknehaugen in Ullensaker in Akershus. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 887 Figure 33.12. Double inhumation grave from the eighth century in Birka. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 888 Figure 33.13. Reconstruction of the burial of seven men in the small boat grave at Salme on Saaremaa (Ösel) in Estonia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 891 Chapter 34 – Worlds of the Dead Figure 34.1. The picture stone from Ardre on Gotland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 907 Figure 34.2. Boat grave at Valsgärde in Uppland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 908 Figure 34.3. The richly decorated carriage from the boat grave at Oseberg in Vestfold. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 906 Figure 34.4. Four mounds with ‘south-west gates’ at the burial ground of Tuna in Västerljung in Södermanland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 919 Chapter 35 – Fate Figure 35.1. A so called ‘weaving sword’ from Våga in Oppland, Norway, dated to the Viking Age. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 932 Figure 35.2. Rune stone at Tumbo in Södermanland, dated to about 1000. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 935

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Chapter 36 – The Divine, the Human, and In Between Figure 36.1. Detail of the picture stone at Ardre on Gotland, dated to the ninth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 969 Figure 36.2. Weland the smith on the front panel of the Franks casket, an Anglo-Saxon casket from the early eighth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 970 Figure 36.3. A ‘birdman’ from Uppåkra, inter­preted as Vǫlundr. . . . . . . . . . . . . 971 Figure 36.4. Three depictions of important events in the life of Sigurðr Fáfnisbani. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 974

19 – Historical and Social Contexts Anders Andrén

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he study of pre-Christian religions of the North (PCRN), as it is known from the Icelandic literary tradition and Latin and Arabic sources, has links primarily to south Scandinavian society from about 200 bce to about 1100 ce (è9). This Scandinavian period can best be described as a kind of protohistory. The society is briefly described in a handful of wellknown foreign sources, such as the writings of Tacitus, Jordanes, Procopius, Rimbert, and Adam of Bremen. Aspects of Scandinavian society, such as raids and named kings, also appear in, for instance, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and the Carolingian annals. Furthermore, Scandinavian society is described in retrospective accounts such as Saxo’s Gesta Danorum, Snorri’s Heimskringla, and many of the Sagas of Icelanders. However, all these descriptions can be regarded as external, since they were written by contemporary outsiders or by later authors looking back to a past that may have been more or less imagined. In order to get a more systematic overview of Scandinavian society in the Iron Age, in this chapter more emphasis will be put on internal sources, such as settlements and placenames. In many cases, these sources may give a partly new and better understanding of some of the external written sources.

Free Men, Women, and Slaves All extant written sources indicate that Viking and early medieval Scandinavia was a society dominated by men and male norms, and much earlier sources, such as Tacitus’s Germania, present similar impressions. Although the society was male-dominated, men could be free or unfree and of different rank. A free Anders Andrén, Senior Professor of Archaeology, Stockholm University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume ii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 2 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 391–443 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116946

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Figure 19.1. Inhumation grave from Birka (grave 855) with a set of weapons, interpreted as a grave for a man. Drawing: Hjalmar Stolpe in Arbman 1940: 311. 

man had full legal capacities, had different forms of rights to land, had the right to be armed, and was supposed to defend his and his family’s honour (è21). To have full legal capacities meant that a free man was legally responsible for himself and his household, but also that he could be punished. All free men had access to the legal assemblies. Consequently, the harshest punishment was to be outlawed, that is, to be set outside the law and to be refused admission to legal assemblies, which usually meant going into exile (è20). Although all free men had access to legal assemblies, they were not equals, because the bases of power varied considerably between peasants and different kinds of chieftains and rulers. The social links between free men were horizontal as well as vertical. Kinship and bonds between families in the form of marriages formed horizontal alliances. In addition, friendship, constructed brotherhood,

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Figure 19.2. Rune stone at Hassmyra in Fläckebo in Västmanland (Vs 24, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). The monument was erected by Holmgautr after his dead wife, Óðindísa. According to the inscription ‘KumbR hifrøya til Hasumyra æigi bætri, þan byi raðr’ (There will come to Hassmyra no better housewife, who rules the estate). This stone offers a good example of a woman with a strong social position in the late eleventh century. Photo: Bengt A. Lundberg, Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm. 

and other forms of cooperation such as félag could also constitute horizontal alliances. In contrast, patron-client relations, friendships between chieftains and peasants, as well as fostering of sons in other families, and concubines, represented vertical alliances, which sometimes were stronger than horizontal alliances in struggles of power (Foote and Wilson 1970: 79–90; Vésteinn Ólason 1989; Breisch 1994; Auður G. Magnúsdóttir 2001, 2012; Ekholst 2009; Jón Viðar Sigurðsson 2010; è32). Women were usually legally subordinate to men, even those who were born in families of free men (è 20) (è 22). Women had few legal rights in and of themselves, and therefore their closest male relatives usually defended them. For instance, men controlled land that was inherited by women. Conseqently, women had little access to legal assemblies, except in a few cases, such as when they acted as witnesses in cases of childbirth. Instead, women were important parts of male alliances, above all through marriages, but also as concubines. Furthermore, as wives or concubines women had power in households and could also exert indirect power by verbally defending male honour.

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In a few cases, however, women could act by themselves, without male protection. As a widow with underaged children or without children, a woman could act more as a man. A  married woman could also assume this role if her husband was abroad for a longer period. Besides, married women of higher rank than their men sometimes acted more independently than usual. Consequently, the degree of female legal freedom could vary according to rank and phases in the lifecycle (Foote and Wilson 1970: 108–22; Jesch 1991; Breisch 1994; Auður G. Magnúsdóttir 2001, 2012; Ekholst 2009; Jón Viðar Figure 19.3. Iron neck-ring from Sigurðsson 2010). A special female domain Birka, interpreted as a fetter for a was textile craft, with products ranging slave (SHM 5208:608426). Photo: from ordinary clothes and sails to extraorChrister Åhlin, Statens Historiska dinary tapestries, with mythological images Museum, Stockholm.  (figure è 7.16). Besides, many women were important as ritual specialists (è22) (è29), as well as memory specialists preserving knowledge from the past ( è 2). Consequently, women could also exert power through their ritual, mythological, and memnonic knowledge. Apart from free men and free-born women, ancient Scandinavian societies consisted of many different groups, such as tenants, the landless, and poor or defenceless. The most distinct social borderline, however, was between free and unfree persons. An unfree person, whether male or female, had basically no legal rights or honour, and could be sold or given away as a slave to other persons. Slavery is mentioned as a natural part of society in most early written accounts on Scandinavia, including many of the medieval laws (Foote and Wilson 1970: 65–78; Karras 1988; Iversen 1994; Skre 1998; Lindkvist and Myrdal 2003; Brink 2012). However, it is very difficult to estimate the extent of slavery, and hence its economic and social importance. The number of slaves is disputed (Brink 2012; Zachrisson 2014c) and must have varied in time and space. Probably slaves were more common in the central places (see below). And probably the maritime expansion, with plunder and trade, from the late eighth century onward, led to an increased supply of slaves, and hence to an economy more based on slaves. Still, most slaves seem to have been working within households rather than running large estates (Myrdal 1999; Brink 2012: 169–81).

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An important aspect of slavery is the extent to which the unfree status was permanent or transitional. In some cases, household slaves remained unfree for generations, whereas in other cases supplies of new slaves replaced previous slaves that have been given freedom and land as subservient tenants. In the latter case, slavery had only a transitional character, as a way of creating dependent tenants (Iversen 1994; Skre 1998; Lindkvist 2003; Brink 2012: 205–16). Besides, a slave was defined as an unfree person lacking honour and legal rights, but this did not necesseraly mean a lack of power. Some unfree persons, such as bryti1 and a deig ja,2 seem to have had some power as managers of manual work at large farms and estates (Brink 2012: 121–68). The varying degrees of unfree status and the partly transitional character of slavery make it difficult to trace material remains of slavery (Brink 2012: 217–40). Some stray finds of iron chains and iron neckrings have been found, but they must above all be connected with the slave trade (Zachrisson 2014c). Apart from these objects, some indications of household slavery have been found in recent years. In some settlements, living quarters with fireplaces have been found in connection with animals, indicating humans of low rank. These contexts include fireplaces in stables (Nordström and Herschend 2003) as well as a small secondary living house located on a hillside below a stable (Svensson 2013). Beyond that, some Viking Age graves with an extra person buried in the grave have been interpreted as burial sacrifices of slaves. Several inhumations on Sjælland from the tenth century include additional cremations, which have been interpreted in this way as well (Svanberg 1999: 97–101). This burial custom can be associated with Ibn Fadlan’s description of a slave girl who was sacrificed at the burial of a Rus chieftain (è32). During the late tenth and the eleventh centuries, however, the number of slaves seems to have increased considerably, above all in southern Scandinavia. A special form of Slavonic pottery, the so-called Baltic Sea ware, was suddenly introduced in many large settlements during this period. This pottery was probably produced by women of Slavic origin, and therefore the change of ceramics has been interpreted as an expression of women taken as booty during largescale slave raids on the southern shores of the Baltic Sea at this time (Roslund 2001: 247–56; Roslund 2013). Further indications of many slaves in the eleventh century are the earliest churchyards in the city of Lund. In some of these churchyards, from about 990 to 1100, people with traces of leprosy were buried 1  2 

Literally ‘a man who breaks (the bread)’ and hence ‘chief slave; steward, bailiff ’. Literally ‘a woman who kneads dough (bakes bread)’ and hence ‘chief maid’.

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in the peripheries of the cemeteries. Since people with leprosy were regarded as ‘outside the law’, other persons buried in the same peripheral zones must have been of low rank, many of them possibly slaves. Estimations show that about 20 to 25 per cent of Lund’s population was buried in these peripheries, indicating the presence of many slaves in the city (Andrén 2000b). A high proportion of slaves in southern Scandinavia during the late tenth and eleventh centuries can probably be viewed as a social background to early medieval large estates, above all in Sjælland and Skåne. In the first diplomas from the twelfth century, it is quite clear that many villages in these provinces were large estates. Such mansiones consisted of manors run by slaves or half-free persons, and adjacent tenant farms run by dependent tenants on short-term contracts (Ulsig 1968).

The Economic Basis Scandinavian societies in the Iron Age were basically agrarian economies. Husbandry and agriculture were the most important parts of these economies. Therefore, it is not surprising that wealth was summarized as fé (cattle) and óðal (inherited land), and these are in fact the first and last letters of the runic alphabet.3 Raising of cattle, sheep, goats, and pigs was generally more important than agriculture. In southern Scandinavia, livestock began to be housed in stables during the winters in the late Bronze Age (1000–500 bce), whereas in northern Scandinavia the same process took place in the Early Iron Age (500 bce–500 ce). This system required hay from meadows and leaves from chopped trees and bushes for fodder during the winter. Long and short scythes of bronze and iron were introduced as part of this important change (Pedersen and Widgren 1998: 253–60; Myhre 2002: 137–51; Hardt 2003). Products from husbandry, such as leather and wool, were important for making clothes (Gleba and Mannering 2011). Good land for agriculture was scarce, because no systematic drainage was carried out until the early Middle Ages (Myrdal 1985). Many arable fields were cultivated permanently through manuring, but some arable fields were used through fallow cultivation. In some forest regions more mobile slash-andburn cultivation was used as well. Above all barley, oat, rye, and beans were cultivated. Wheat was uncommon but became more important in some larger 3 

The name of the runes are recorded in several manuscripts from the eighth and ninth centuries, but can be indirectly secured through the use of runes as concepts in inscriptions from at least around 600 (Nedoma 2003). However, the order of the runes has been unchanged since the first recorded runic alphabets in the fifth century.

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Figure 19.4. Arable fields from the early Iron Age at Stånga on Gotland. After Carlsson 1979: 72.

settlements from the third century ce. The use of wheat can be linked to the introduction of the Roman innovations of small rotation millstones and ovens for baking bread. Previously, cereals were presumably only used for porridge and ale (E. Pedersen and Widgren 1998: 379–89; Bergström 2007). Through pollen analysis, it is also possible to follow large-scale trends of Scandinavian agrarian economy. Pollen analysis shows a slow expansion of agrarian settlements from about 200 bce to about 200 ce, and a rapid expansion from 200 ce until the sixth century ce. From the sixth century to the eighth century the

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agrarian settlement contracted, above all, in more forested marginal areas of present-day Norway and Sweden (Lagerås 2007). This decline of agrarian settlements is much disputed (Pedersen and Widgren 1998: 309–14; Myhre 2002: 170–86; Näsman 2012), but in recent years it has been linked to a general economic crisis in Europe (Wickham 2005: 548–53), partly caused by climatic changes as well as plagues (B. Gräslund 2008; Löwenborg 2012; Andrén 2014: 178–83; see below). An agrarian expansion started again in the ninth century, continuing into the large-scale expansion and colonization from the eleventh to the thirteenth centuries, until the late medieval agrarian crises in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries (Myrdal 1999, 2003; Øye 2002; Poulsen and Sørensen 2003; Lagerås 2016). Apart from husbandry and agriculture, fishing and seal hunting were locally important in lakes, rivers, and along many coasts (Myhre 2002: 151–53; Hardt 2003: 97–101). However, it was not until the twelfth and thirteenth centuries that large-scale fishing and fish trade became vital in areas such as Lofoten and Öresund (Barrett and Gibbon 2015). Fur hunting was important above all in forest regions, but fur trade was also connected with the Sámi in northern Scandinavia (Myhre 2002: 151–53; Hansen and Olsen 2004; Lindholm and Ljungkvist 2016; (è15). Already in the sixth century, Jordanes mentions sapphire blue pelles (fur/skins), probably from wild animals, that were traded from the Suehans (Svear) to the Romans (Svennung 1967). Iron began to be locally extracted from bogs during the Late Bronze Age (c. 900–500 bce), and ‘bog iron’ became a widespread technology during the Iron Age and persisted as well into the Middle Ages (Magnusson 1986; Voss 1991; Myhre 2002: 154–58; Berglund 2015). Small-scale use of iron ore can be attested from the third and fourth centuries ce (Kresten 1993), but largescale iron mining was only established in the eleventh and twelfth centuries in central Sweden and southern Norway (Pettersson Jensen 2012). Iron bars were traded from iron production areas to regions with few or no bogs with iron, such as the plains in southern Scandinavia (Magnusson 1986; Lindeberg 2009). Iron was used for everything from simple tools to high-quality steel weapons. For a long time, all precious metals had to be imported from abroad, since copper and silver were extracted in large volumes from Scandinavian mines only during the Middle Ages and gold only in the modern period. During the Iron Age (500 bce–1100 ce), bronze (an alloy of tin and copper) was used above all for clothing ornaments. Some exclusive gold objects were imported during the Late Bronze Age ( 1000–500 bce), and a few gold objects were also locally produced during this period ( Jensen 2002: 462–67; Andersson 2011). However, it was not until Roman gold coins began to be common around 200 ce (Fagerlie 1967) that gold objects were produced on a large scale by local goldsmiths in

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Scandinavia. Gold was used above all for neckrings, armrings, finger rings, pendants, bracteates, and gold foil figures (Andersson 1993–95, 2011). In the sixth century, the flow of Roman and Byzantine gold coins ceased, and thereafter gold became a very scarce metal. A few neckrings, armrings, finger rings, and pendants of gold from the Viking Age are known (Fuglesang and Wilson 2006), but gold became more an ideal metal than a reality (Zachrisson 1998: 30–32). Silver began to be used only in the first centuries ce, when Roman silver coins (denari) started appearing in Scandinavia (Lind 1981, 1988; Bjerg 2007). Locally produced silver objects, such as fibulas and pendants, were for a long time fairly scarce. Silver became the major precious metal only from the late eighth century onwards, with the influx of Islamic and later Western European coins (Stenberger 1947–58; Hårdh 1976a, 1976b, 1996; von Heijne 2004). Above all, neckrings, armrings, finger rings, and different forms of pendants were produced by local silversmiths (Stenberger 1947–58: ii; Hårdh 1976b). In addition, silver coins were minted in Ribe and Hedeby during the eighth, ninth, and tenth centuries (Malmer 1966; Feveile 2010), although no real currency was established until the late eleventh century in Denmark and Norway (Steen Jensen 1995; Skaare 1976) and the twelfth century in Sweden (Lagerqvist 1970). Ancient Scandinavia was deeply rooted in an agrarian economy, but it was also a distinctly maritime society. Large lakes, and long and irregular coastlines, with fjords, bays, and many small islands, meant that the major part of the population lived quite close to water. Possibly more than half of the population lived within a day’s walking distance of the nearest coast. Consequently, the sea, maritime communication, and maritime warfare played a huge role in Scandinavian society. Images of ships are known from south Scandinavian rock carvings and bronze objects as well as from Gotlandic picture stones and some rune stones (è7). Some of the Gotlandic images indicate that sail and keel were introduced as a new technology in the seventh and eighth centuries (Lindqvist 1941–42: i, 62–74; Varenius 1992). The first real ship with an attested mast and keel is a Scandinavian boat grave found at Salme in Estonia, and dated to about 750 ce (Price and others 2016; figure è33.13). This innovation was the technological condition for the Viking expansion, to the east but also to the west and the north Atlantic during the ninth, tenth, and eleventh centuries. Finds of real ships from this period at Oseberg, Gokstad, and Skuldelev show a great variety of boat types, such as large war ships, cargo ships for the open sea, and smaller ships for coastal voyages (Crumlin-Pedersen 1991). The maritime connections meant that Scandinavian society was dominated by a maritime mentality, partly because warfare was based on levy (leiðangr)

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( Jesch 2001; Nørgård Jørgensen and others 2002; Malmros 2010). Ships were used as a model for houses, as grave-markers, as graves, and as units for organizing society. In the Iron Age, and above all in the Viking Age, oval-shaped halls were formed as ships turned upside down (Crumlin-Pedersen and Munch Tye 1995). Ship-formed stone settings were erected as grave-markers in the Late Bronze Age (1000–500 bce) and again in the Late Iron Age (500–1000 ce; figure è33.7), whereas real boats were used as graves in the Iron Age (200–1100 ce) (Müller-Wille 1970; Capelle 1986; Artelius 1996; Wehlin 2013). Besides, the maritime aspects of warfare are evident in the early medieval administrative divisions, with more or less clear prehistoric roots. In many regions these divisions were based on a naval organization, and therefore settlements were divided into units such as skipæn (ships), skipreiða (ship-providing [districts]), or hamna (rowlock loops) (Aakjær 1926: 145–49; Malmros 2010; cf. Foote and Wilson 1970: 280–82).

Settlements The knowledge of prehistoric settlements in Scandinavia and in the Scandinavian diaspora is patchy, but has increased considerably during the last half century. Previously, only visible remains of prehistoric houses, such as foundations of stone or turf, were known from a few regions in Scandinavia, primarily in southern Norway, western Jylland, the islands of Öland and Gotland, and

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Figure 19.5. Reconstructed crosssection of a longhouse from the Iron Age. Drawing: © Mats Vänehem.

Hälsingland. Most of these remains are dated to the Roman and Migration Periods (1–550 ce). In the Scandinavian diaspora, visible house remains from the Viking Age in Iceland and Greenland have above all been known. Since the 1960s and 1970s, however, large-scale excavations have radically changed the perspectives on prehistoric settlements in Scandinavia (è6). Formerly, the single farm was viewed as the typical pre-Christian settlement in Scandinavia, but today the variation of settlement patterns in time and space is much more evident. Apart from single farms, during the Iron Age there also existed loosely organized villages, villages with uniform plots, manors, so-called central places, and marketplaces. Our knowledge of the settlement patterns, however, is still unevenly distributed in time and space, mainly due to the spatial distribution of rescue excavations, which are connected to modern constructions of roads, railways, housing, and industrial plants (è6). In earlier research (for instance, de Vries 1956–57a), settlement patterns were not considered in relation to preChristian religions of the North, but the variations in settlements may give a social and regional background to variations in the religious traditions in ancient Scandinavia. Farms and Villages Although the settlement patterns varied in time and space, the basic unit was a farm with one or several buildings. From the early Bronze Age (c. 1600

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bce) the main houses were built as three-aisled longhouses, with two rows of posts carrying the roof. The walls of the longhouses were often convex, sometimes creating an idea of a ship turned upside down. The construction, the internal division, the function and the size of the longhouses varied in time and space, but the three-aisled construction remained the dominant way of building houses for 2400 years, until the late eighth century ce (Hvass 1988; Göthberg and others 1995; Ethelberg 2003). From this time on, smaller houses began to be constructed with frame-constructions, which meant that the walls carried the roof, instead of internal posts. Such houses were above all common in the early towns, such as Birka, Hedeby, and Kaupang, but successively the building technolog y was used also in rural areas, for instance, on Gotland and in Uppland in the ninth and tenth centuries (Svensson 2013). In many parts of Scandinavia, however, threeaisled longhouses remained common until the twelfth century, when they were finally replaced by different forms of smaller frame-constructed buildings. Apart from these two types of houses, other forms of smaller buildings were built in many periods, such as small rectangular sunken huts and small square buildings supported by posts (Hvass 1988; Göthberg and others 1995; Ethelberg 2003). Large-scale excavations show that most of the settlements moved through time. Houses were recurrently rebuilt and often relocated a short distance from earlier houses (Hvass 1988; Göthberg and others 1995; Ethelberg 2003). For a long time, this movement has been explained in functional terms, as an expression of decaying houses with rotting posts being replaced by new buildings (Grøngaard Jeppesen 1981). In recent years, however, the relocation has been interpreted in social terms instead, and connected to the history of households that lived in the houses. From this perspective, new buildings expressed the formation of new households, and houses that were pulled down marked the end of a household or the reorganization of a household (Gerritsen 1999; Holst 2004; Dengsø Jessen and Holst 2008). This idea can be supported by rituals connected to certain houses. The main house in a farm often contained deposits connected to the construction as well as the destruction of the building (Carlie 2004; Falk 2008). In some cases, graves were located on the site of a former main house, including the fireplace, indicating that the members of a certain household were buried in their former house (Hållans Stenholm 2012: 195–201). These ritual remains show that the recurring relocation of the settlements was connected to rites of passage, connecting the life of the houses to their inhabitants (Gerritsen 1999; Holst 2004; Dengsø Jessen and Holst 2008).

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Figure 19.6. Plan of a large farm at Övetorp in Algutsrum on Öland, from the third to the sixth/seventh centuries ce. The farm consisted of four buildings located around a small courtyard. To the left is a longhouse serving as the main building and to the right is a special hall. After Stenberger 1933: 113.

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Figure 19.7. An Iron Age village at Rosendal in Böda on Öland. This is one of the best-preserved Iron Age villages on Öland, including houses (black), different forms of enclosures (grey lines), arable fields (shaded grey), and cemeteries (black dots). Map: Jan-Henrik Fallgren. 

The size of the farms, and consequently of the households, varied considerably in time and space. The most systematic overview of the variation can be gained from the Baltic islands of Öland and Gotland during the period 200– 700 ce (Nihlén and Boethius 1933; Stenberger 1933), where houses, farms, and villages, together with arable fields and enclosed meadows and pastures, are still preserved as stone foundations and stone alignments. According to the most recent analysis of these remains on Öland (Fallgren 1993, 2006, 2008), about 1300 house foundations are preserved or known from the outlands of the historical villages on the island. However, many more farms must have existed but were presumably destroyed, because they were located too close to the historical villages and their arable land. Based on the number and the size of the buildings, Fallgren has ranked the farms of Öland into three different classes, and these also hint at the social order on the island (Fallgren 2006; cf. Widgren 1998). Over 90 per cent of the stone-foundation buildings consisted of small farms with one or two buildings, up to 20 metres long. About 8 per cent of the known settlement consisted of medium-sized farms, with three slightly larger buildings. Finally, there was

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a small group with decidedly large farms or estates. Accounting for less than 2 per cent of the known stone-foundation buildings, these farms consisted of four or five buildings, with a main house that could be up to 55 metres long. The houses in the small farms were multifunctional, whereas the functions were more split up between the buildings in the largest farm. Above all, workshops and halls for gatherings and feasting were built as separate structures at these sites (Fallgren 2006; cf. Herschend 1997). Although no similar analysis has been carried out on Gotland, the settlement pattern on this island is very similar. More than 1800 house foundations are known on the island, and the same differentiation between small, mediumsized, and large farms can be found on Gotland. The large farms, consisting of several buildings with the main house being 50–60 m long, represent a small group of only a few per cent of the total settlements (Nihlén and Boethius 1933; Carlsson 1979). Unfortunately, no similar overview can be presented for later periods, partly because the frame construction of Viking Age houses in eastern Sweden makes the settlements less visible and therefore more difficult to trace. However, some large-scale excavations in Jylland give indications that large farms became even larger and more complex during the Late Iron Age (550–1100). At the site of Vorbasse in the middle of Jylland, the large farm in the tenth and eleventh centuries consisted of about fifteen buildings and comprised an area similar to two contemporary smaller farms, or three farms from the eighth and ninth centuries, or ten farms from the third to seventh centuries (Hvass 1988). The different sizes of the farms, and consequently the different sizes of the households, probably gives a much better idea of the social order in Scandinavia than the graves, because of the source critical problems with burials (è 6) (è33). The distinction between different farms indicates three different classes of households. To what extent these different households all represented families with ‘free men’ is unclear, but in many cases that scenario seems plausible. However, some of these families may have been more or less dependent on other dominant households, coming close to the notion of medieval tenants. Above all, in cases where farms were located in villages, some form of dependence may have existed between the small and the large farms (Widgren 1998). Again, the best examples come from Öland, Gotland, and Jylland. On Öland most farms during the period 200–700 were situated in loosely organized villages, with farms located 50–75 metres from each other. In large villages, with ten to twelve farms, there was normally one large farm with four to five buildings. This farm had the largest stables and barns and was usually connected to the most extensive arable fields in the village (Fallgren 2006).

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Figure 19.8. The early Iron Age village at Hodde in Jylland in Phase 3a. The three largest farms are shaded grey. After Hvass 1985: 177. 

Because the large farms controlled more agrarian resources, had their own workshops, and could host large gatherings in special halls (Herschend 1997), it is quite plausible that the surrounding smaller farms were dependent through some kind of patron-client relationship, including more or less forced giftgiving (Widgren 1998). A similar situation may have existed on Gotland. In areas with well-preserved remains, the farms were located in village-like clusters, usually including one considerably larger farm. A few of the largest farms on Gotland have been partly excavated, yielding exclusive imports such as glass, Roman terra sigillata and Roman gold coins (solidi), indicating high ranked settlements (Nihlén and Boethius 1933; Carlsson 1979). In Jylland a whole series of large-scale excavations have produced a good overview of villages from different parts of the Iron Age. In the late pre-Roman and early Roman Iron Age (200 bce–200 ce), settlement clusters were usually surrounded by one fence. In early periods one larger farm was often fenced off from the other farms inside the common fence, but later on all farms were surrounded by fences. In the third and fourth centuries the common fences surrounding the villages disappeared, and instead each farm was located in a rectangular or square plot. Usually one of the plots was larger than the other plots housing the large farm of the village. Through time the large farms increased

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Figure 19.9. Reconstruction of an Iron Age farm at Ullandhaug in Rogaland. Photo: Terje Tveit, Arkeologisk Museum, Stavanger. 

in size, and at the end of the Viking Age were essentially estates dominating the surrounding settlement (Hvass 1988; Ethelberg 2003). As on Öland and Gotland, the settlement pattern indicates a patron-client relation between the households. Even so, most households were probably represented by free men who had more or less full legal status. Similar patterns can be found in other parts of southern Scandinavia, such as Sjælland and Skåne, although the picture is more fragmented than in Jylland. Clearly visible fences are usually lacking in these areas, which means that the settlement patterns to a much larger extent have to be deduced from vaguer methods, such as clusters of houses (Artursson 2008; Boye 2008; Carlie 2008). Villages were common in southern Scandinavia, but there also existed single farms (Kaldal Mikkelsen 1999). Central Sweden, such as the provinces Östergötland and Uppland, seems to have been dominated by a mixture of small villages and single farms (Lindquist 1968; Widgren 1983; Göthberg and others 1995; Göthberg 2000, 2007; Hamilton and Vinberg 2011). A clear hierarchy among different units is also visible, from small farms to large manorial farms with many buildings and longer houses. Some of the large farms in the region around Lake Mälaren are clearly distinguished by their location; they were placed on small hillocks over-

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looking the surrounding landscape. Sometimes this dominant position is further underlined by a terrace on which the main longhouse was built (Olausson 2008, 2014). Further north in Sweden, in Hälsingland, Medelpad, and Ångermanland, the settlements in the Iron Age mostly seem to have been single farms, although some settlements with two or three farms existed (Ramqvist 1983; Liedgren 1992). The settlements in Norway, as well as Iceland and Greenland, primarily consisted of single farms, each with its own name, although settlements could sometimes consist of two or more farms (Myhre 1972; Myhre 1980; Myhre 2002: 120–37; Bjarni F. Einarsson 1995; Arneborg 2004). Recent studies of settlement patterns, however, have uncovered different forms of dependences in these areas as well. In Romerike in southern Norway, the burial grounds are unevenly distributed among the farms; some have visible graves, whereas others do not. This difference has been interpreted as a difference between dominant farms, namely, those with visible graves, and dependent farms without visible graves (Skre 1998). This interpretation can be supported by heaps of firecracked stone often found close to farms with visible graves. Since fire-cracked stones are remains from brewing and cooking, these farms must have hosted larger gatherings and feasts in contrast to the dependent farms (Pilø 2005). The pattern is similar in Iceland and Greenland. Traces of ritual feasting and a very large hearth have been found at the large farm Hofstaðir in northern Iceland, indicating a high-status settlement (Lucas and McGovern 2007). In the Sagas of Icelanders, there are also clear distinctions between the chieftains and their dependent thingmen (Byock 2001: 118–41). Although there are indications of similar forms of patron-client relations in several parts of Scandinavia during the Iron Age, we must reckon with regional variations and changes through time. Common placenames may give some indications of the variations. Placename compounds usually viewed as the oldest in Scandinavia, such as those ending in -heim/-hem, -inge, and -vin/vini, are never linked to personal names but to locations and groups of people often connected to certain places (Hald 1942; Ståhle 1946; Jansson 1951). In contrast to this pattern, other younger but still pre-Viking Age placename compounds ending in forms such as -lev/-löv and -sted/-stad are connected in southern Scandinavia to personal names, indicating more individual rights of land in this part of Scandinavia (Linde 1951; Kousgård Sørensen 1958; Søndergaard 1972; Vikstrand 2013c). During the Viking Age and the early Middle Ages, personal names became more commonly linked to placenames in other parts of Scandinavia as well (Olsen 1939).

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Central Places Apart from single farms and villages, there also existed so-called central places. The discovery of these sites in the 1980s has revolutionized the perspective on Iron Age society in Scandinavia. Previously a few central places were known from written sources and archaeology, such as Lejre, Gamla Uppsala, and Helgö. However, the discovery of several new central places in the last decades has led to a new and very different understanding of Iron Age society. Currently more than twenty such places are known, located in different regions. They vary internally, but all differ from ordinary settlements by their size, permanence, monumentality, number of objects — many of precious metal — and traces of long-distance connections (Hårdh and Larsson 2002; Jørgensen 2009). Central places existed in southern Scandinavia from at least the second and first centuries bce to about 1100 ce, that is, for more than a millennium. In some cases they are located very close to medieval towns, indicating some form of functional similarities to the later towns. The largest of these places cover more than 50 hectares with sometimes thick cultural deposits, including many objects of bronze but also of silver and gold. Usually they consist of large halls, special ritual buildings, adjacent farms, workshops, and large burial grounds, with more or less monumental appearance. The central places have been interpreted as large manors controlled by elite groups, who were able to connect other functions to their manors, such as public rituals (è 25), legal assemblies, seasonal markets, and gatherings of warriors (Hårdh and Larsson 2002; Jørgensen 2009; Zachrisson forthcoming). In the following, some of the central places in different regions will be presented. In Jylland three central places can be mentioned: namely, Dankirke by the medieval town Ribe; Bejsebakken in Himmerland, close to the medieval town of Aalborg; and Stentinget in central Vendsyssel. They all started as ordinary settlements but later became central places. Only a small part of Dankirke is excavated, but the results indicate that the site was a central place about 200– 750 ce, that is until nearby Ribe was established as a town — one of the first — in the early eighth century ( Jarl Hansen 1991). Bejsebakken has been known for a long time as a site yielding many metal objects, but in recent years excavations have uncovered 350 pit houses and over forty longhouses. The central functions of the site can be dated primarily to c. 600–800 ce (Nielsen 2002). Many metal objects from Stentinget indicate a large central place comprising about 1 sq. km, primarily from about 600 to 1100 ce ( Jensen and Watt 1993). One of the best known central places was located on Fyn, namely, Gudme, meaning ‘home of the gods’. It was situated on the south-east part of the island

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Figure 19.10. Map of central places and early towns in southern Scandinavia. Map: Disir Productions, Uppsala, based on draft by Anders Andrén. 

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and functioned as a central place primarily during the period 200–550 ce. The settlement consisted of a central area with about fifty farms surrounding a very large hall. About 2.5 km south-east of this settlement the largest burial ground on the island was situated. Another 2.5 km to the east a small harbour and marketplace were situated. In and around Gudme, some of the largest Danish gold hoards from the fifth and early sixth centuries have been found, as well as a foot of a Roman bronze statue (Thrane 1993). Recently, another central place has been located on northern Fyn at Vester Kærby, between Odense fjord and Kerteminde fjord, a few kilometres north-east of the medieval town of Odense. Preliminary investigations indicate that it covered about 1 sq. km and functioned c. 550–1000 (Henriksen 2013). East of Vester Kærby, a huge boat grave at Ladby, which has been dated to the early tenth century, indicates the presence of a political elite (Sørensen 2001). On Sjælland, four central places can be mentioned, namely Lejre, close to the medieval town of Roskilde, Tissø on north-western Sjælland, Boeslunde on south-western Sjælland, and Toftegård on Stevns and close to the medieval town of Køge. Recent excavations in Lejre have revealed a large hall, with a small ritual building beside it, and several farms surrounding the hall from about 600 to 1050 ce; figure è 31.1. Close to the settlement is an unusual burial ground, including a large mound and a large ship-formed stone setting. Lejre, which is known from Beowulf and Skjǫldunga saga, is connected with the royal lineage of the Skjǫldungar. In addition, Thietmar of Merseburg wrote in a chronicle from 1012 to 1013 that extensive pagan sacrifices took place at Lejre around 935 ce (Christensen and others 2015). Tissø (Týr’s lake) was located on the western shore of Lake Tissø. The place, which can be dated from around 600 to about 1000 ce, consisted of a large hall with a fenced ritual area to the south-west of the hall, including a small ritual building. Around this central part, several large farms were located as well as a huge area of workshops in sunken huts, which seem to have been used periodically. Along the shoreline of the lake, many weapons were deposited and at the southern border of the place bodies of persons who were executed have been found, as well as the largest-known Scandinavian golden neckring from the Viking Age. Objects show long-distance connections with Byzantium and Central Europe ( Jørgensen 1998, 2009). Boeslunde and Toftegård are less well known but consisted of sequences of clusters of longhouses and many objects of bronze and precious metal (H. Nielsen 1997; Thornbjerg 1998). In Skåne the major central places are Uppåkra, close to the medieval town of Lund, and Vä, which itself became a town during the Middle Ages. Uppåkra (‘fields located higher up’) was the main centre of south-west Skåne from about

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Figure 19.11. Plan of Tissø on Sjælland. The plan shows archaeological excavations, find spots, and the former extent of the lake Tissø. Map: Lars Jørgensen/Pre-Christian Cultsites, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen. 

150 bce until the early eleventh century ce. In the central portion of this place was a huge hall and a ritual building that was used from about 200 to 950 ce. Around the hall, other farms and workshop areas, indicated by waste from different crafts, were situated. About 30,000 objects of bronze, silver, and gold show long-distance connections with large parts of Europe, including the Black

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Figure 19.12. Reconstruction of the central place Uppåkra in Skåne in the tenth century. The place is reconstructed as a large manor, with a central hall and ritual building, and large mounds, surrounded by smaller farms and different production sites. Drawing: © Mats Vänehem.

Sea region. Some gold bracteates and around one hundred gold foil figures have also been found in Uppåkra, and other gold objects have been found in and around Uppåkra. The main seasonal market in Lund, ‘Tre högars marknad’ (market of three barrows), probably originated in Uppåkra (Larsson and Hårdh 1998; Hårdh 2001; Larsson 2004). Vä (holy place) is not as well known as Uppåkra, but the place consisted of a large settlement starting in at least 200 ce. Traces of trade and handicraft have been found, as well as some of the largest gold bracteates in Scandinavia (Stjernquist 1951). Vä was probably the centre of the old region called Vætland, which was later divided into four different herreds when it was integrated into the medieval province of Skåne (see below). Apart from Uppåkra and Vä, three smaller central places or manors in Skåne can be mentioned. In Järrestad (jarl’s place), in the southeast of Skåne, a large manor from c. 600 to 1000 has been discovered. It consisted of a large hall, with a ritual area and a small building to the south-west of the hall, thus resembling the central parts of Tissø and Lejre. Around the hall large heaps of firecracked stones indicate brewing and feasting (Söderberg 2003, 2005). North of

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Figure 19.13. The so-called royal mounds in Gamla Uppsala in Uppland, with remains of the former cathedral in the background. Photo: Anders Andrén. 

Järrestad another manor has been found at Ravlunda (amber grove). This place consists of a distinct area with cultural deposits and metal objects as well as a large burial ground of ship-formed stone settings. Gold bracteates as well as gold foil figures have been found at Ravlunda (Fabech 1998; Helgesson 2002: 68). Another manor at Sösdala, in central Skåne, is indicated by a huge burial ground consisting primarily of ship-formed stone settings from about 600 to 1000 (Strömberg 1961). In the close vicinity, horse equipment has been deposited in a steppe-nomadic fashion, as early as in the fifth century (Fabech and Näsman 2017). The whole village of Sösdala was granted by a Danish queen to the cathedral of Roskilde around 1070, further indicating the aristocratic background of the place (Carlie 1994). On Bornholm, a central place is located at Sorte Muld (black earth) on the north-eastern part of the island. It consists of a huge area with thick cultural deposits and a large amount of metal objects. The place is best known for the finds of over 2500 gold foil figures (Adamsen and others 2008). In the middle of Blekinge, a central place at Västra Vång was discovered recently. So far very little of the site has been excavated, but many metal objects, including gold foil figures, show that the place was used from about the first century bce until about 1000 ce. Västra Vång is situated close to Hjortsberga, which was the site of the general assembly of Blekinge in the Middle Ages (Henriksson and Nilsson 2016). In several other regions, there are only indications of central

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Figure 19.14. Plan of Helgö in Uppland, with house terraces and burial grounds. Map: Laila Kitzler Åhfeldt. 

places or manors from the Iron Age, such as Slöinge in Halland (Callmer and Rosengren 1997), Edsten in Bohuslän (Fabech 1992), Björnhovda in Öland (Brink 1999), and Borg in Östergötland (Lindeblad and Nielsen 1997). In Uppland, two major central places are known, namely, Gamla Uppsala and Helgö. Gamla Uppsala, in the centre of Uppland, has long been well known because of the monumental mounds at the site, Adam of Bremen’s description of the pagan ‘temple’ and the pagan sacrificies in ‘Ubsola’, and the connection to the royal lineage of the Ynglingar in the poem Ynglingatal (Hultgård 1997; Sundqvist 2002, 2013a; è31). The place has been investigated since the seventeenth century, but recent large-scale excavations are currently changing the whole image of Gamla Uppsala. The place was settled about 200 ce, but large monuments began to be added only from the fifth and sixth centuries, indicating that its central functions increased at that time. The new monuments were five huge grave-mounds, three extensive terraces for large halls, and two long, straight roads aligned with rows of tall wooden posts, possibly marking off the most central part of the place. Around these monuments, ordinary settlements,

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workshop areas, and numerous smaller burial grounds with hundreds of graves have been found (Ljungkvist 2006, 2013). Gamla Uppsala was clearly the centre of Svíþjóð, with political meetings, legal assemblies, and markets every year, and large sacrifices every ninth year (è 25) (è 27) (è 31). However, Gamla Uppsala seems to have played its most central role from the late sixth century to the end of the eight century, and later became more of a ‘historic place’. Helgö was discovered in the early 1950s, and the site was later investigated over the course of several decades. The place, meaning ‘holy island’, can be dated to about 200–1000 ce, but its most important period was c. 400–800 ce. The site consisted of several groups of longhouses on terraces and several burial grounds. In the central part of Helgö was a large hall, with gold foil figures and many exotica, such as an Irish crozier, a Mediterranean bronze spoon, and a Buddha statuette from present-day Pakistan. Close by the hall, an open-air ritual site was situated beside a large rock. At this ritual site, food and different small objects were deposited. Other groups of buildings, surrounding the hall, functioned as farms and workshops. Objects produced at Helgö have been found in northern Sweden as well as in Finland, showing long distance connections (Lundström 1988; Lamm 1999; Zachrisson 2004b; Arrhenius and O’Meadhra 2011; Clarke and Lamm 2017). Apart from Gamla Uppsala and Helgö, several large manors from the Iron Age are known around Lake Mälaren, such as Vendel, Valsgärde, Fornsigtuna, and Adelsö in Uppland; Anundshög at Badelunda in Västmanland; and Oppusa in Södermanland. These sites include monumental mounds or boat graves and large house terraces in different combinations (Andersson and others 1991; Carlsson 1997; Bratt 2008; Norr 2008). Of special interest in this context is Fornsigtuna, which is one of the few places that is directly connected with Scandinavian mythology. According to the Prologue of Snorri’s Edda and to Ynglinga saga ch. 5, this was the place where Óðinn lived as a king after he had settled in Svíþjóð. In Norway, central manors from the Iron Age are known from several regions, although no large central places of south Scandinavian types have yet been identified. Among these places are Åker in Hedmark, situated on a peninsula at Lake Mjøsa, just outside the medieval town and bishopric of Hamar. At Åker, many cooking pits from about 400 to 700 ce have been found as well as houses from about 200 ce onwards, several rings of gold, one of the largest grave-mounds in the region, and a unique gilded buckle with inlaid red garnets from about 550 to 700. The place is also known as a royal manor in the Middle Ages (Hagen 1992). Another central place is Borre in Vestfold, a manor which was long well known because of the monumental grave-mounds from about 300

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to 800 ce and its connection to royal families in Ynglingatal. Recently a large hall has been discovered near the grave-mounds, and it would not be a surprise if traces of a larger settlement with workshops will be found there in the future (Myhre 2015). A similar place is Avaldsnes on the island of Karmøy, on the Norwegian west coast. Remains of a large hall and several large mounds are preserved or have been investigated around the medieval church of Avaldsnes and along Karmsundet. The mounds are dated to about 200–500 ce, and according to Snorri’s Heimskringla, one of the royal manors used by King Haraldr hárfagri in the early ninth century was situated on Karmøy (Skre 2018). In Trøndelag, Lade (Hlaðir), which is situated 4 km north-east of the medieval town of Trondheim, was the political and ritual centre of the region, at least during the Viking Age. The place has not been excavated, but according to Háleyg jatal, Lade was the residence of six successive jarlar over central and northern Norway. At Lade large sacrifices were carried out by the jarlar.4 In Lofoten in northern Norway, a huge longhouse, with gold foil figures, was found at Borg in the 1990s (Munch and others 2003). Borg was clearly a political centre of Lofoten, but it should probably be regarded more as a magnate farm than as a complex central place of south Scandinavian standard. Apart from material remains and occasional notices in narrative sources, clusters of placenames may also give indications of manorial organization in the Iron Age. In several regions, functional placenames, such as Smedby (the smith’s farm/village), Rinkaby (farm/village of warriors), and Karlaby (farm/village of housecarls), together with sacral place names and compound placenames with the second component -tuna, appear in clusters. These clusters may be linguistic remains of manors from the Iron Age (Brink 1999; Vikstrand 2010b). The discovery of the central places adds several new aspects to the understanding of Iron Age society in Scandinavia. Central places represented a special form of stable sites surrounded by constantly relocated ordinary settlements. They show that permanent centres with religious, legal, political, martial, and mercantile functions existed as early as the first centuries bce. Many of the central places carried sacral placenames, and in the cases of Gudme and Gamla Uppsala it has been argued that the layout of the places reflected cosmological notions (Hedeager 2001a; Sundqvist 2004). The gatherings at these centres probably created a regional identity for those people participating. At the same time the central places can be regarded as nodes in elite networks, reinforcing more pan-Scandinavian notions as well. Not least, pan-Scandinavian phenomena found at the central places, such as gold bracteates and gold foil 4 

Compare a critical analysis of the sacrifices at Lade by Klaus Düwel (1985); (è31).

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figures, underline the long-distance connections. In most cases the ruling elite that controlled the central places is not known, but in Beowulf, Ynglingatal, Háleyg jatal, and other Icelandic narratives a few places, such as Lejre, Gamla Uppsala, Borre, and Lade, can be connected to lineages of kings and jarlar residing at these places (Sundqvist 2002, 2016). Early Towns and Ports In the eighth century new types of settlements with central functions began to appear, namely, towns and ports. In contrast to the older central places, which were usually located at some distance from the coast, these new places were situated directly on the shores of bays or by the open sea. The early towns and ports were more distinctly directed toward trade and craft production; for example, the earliest types of Scandinavian coins were minted at two of these places. Some of the earliest Scandinavian kings located securely in the historical record are connected with the early towns, although it seems as they had residences at some distance from the urban settlements. The earliest Christian mission was also directed toward the towns, and Christians are mentioned in some of the towns. The new towns and ports were expressions of the maritime expansions in Northern Europe from the eighth century, including maritime raids, long-distance trade, and Scandinavian settlement and colonization outside Scandinavia. The early towns and marketplaces were not unique to Scandinavia, since similar contemporary places were established at other sites along the coasts of the North Sea and the Baltic Sea. Among these coastal places were Dorestad, close to the mouth of the Rhine, Hamwih in southern England, Truso in Prussia, and Staraja Ladoga in Russia (Ambrosiani and Clarke 1991; Skre 2008a, 2008b; Kleingärtner 2014). The earliest trading place in Scandinavia was Ribe in south-west Jylland, which in the early eighth century was laid out with narrow plots for non-permanent workshops. Probably, early coins (sceattas) were minted in Ribe already in the eighth century. Later, the settlement became more permanent, but only in the eleventh and twelfth centuries did Ribe become an ordinary medieval city. Apart from a large burial ground, an early Christian churchyard has recently been found immediately south of the medieval cathedral. It has been dated from the middle of the ninth century to the early eleventh century, and it should be viewed in connection with the early mission directed towards Ribe ( Jensen 1991; Feveile 2008, 2010; Søvsø 2014). A few decades after Ribe, the early town of Birka was founded in the middle of the eighth century on the island of Björkö in Lake Mälaren, which at that

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Figure 19.15. Aerial photo of the flat settlement area at Birka, surrounded by a semicircular earthwork, a small hillfort (in the background) and the largest burial ground, called Hemlanden (in the foreground). Photo: Jan Norrman, Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm. 

time was a bay of the Baltic Sea. The town consisted of streets and narrow plots with workshops, situated around a harbour. The workshop area was framed by terraces with large longhouses. A small hillfort and a semicircular earthwork surrounded the town, and outside the fortifications about three thousand gravemounds are still visible in several distinct burial grounds. Many of these graves were excavated in the second half of the nineteenth century and have yielded a very rich and varied collection of objects from the Viking Age. Birka’s long-distance connections are underlined by many of these objects, such as Chinese silk, Islamic coins, Carolingian glass and pottery, and fur and antlers from the circumpolar region. According to Rimbert’s account of Ansgar’s mission in Birka in 829–30, the town was controlled by a Swedish king called Björn, through a sheriff. In addition, the free men of Birka had a legal assembly, where they could meet and discuss various issues, such as Ansgar preaching a new religion. The king probably resided on the neighbouring island Alsnö (Adelsö), where a very large house terrace and several large mounds from the Viking Age are located close to the later medieval parish church. Birka was abandoned in the late tenth century, and about 30 km to the north a new Christian city, Sigtuna, was founded at the same time. It is disputed whether the inhabitants moved

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Figure 19.16. Reconstruction of Hedeby at Viking Museum Haithabu. Photo: Anders Andrén. 

from Birka to Sigtuna or whether the two towns represented different economic and social contexts with little in common (Ambrosiani 2008; Magnus and Gustin 2009; Hedenstierna-Jonson 2012b; Tesch and others 2017). In the second half of the eighth century, Aarhus was founded as a small trading place at the mouth of Aarhus å,5 on the east coast of Jylland. In the 930s, the settlement expanded and was surrounded by a wall. A German bishop for Aarhus is mentioned at a meeting in Ingelheim in 948, but the town became a permanent bishopric only in the late tenth century. In the 1070s a large, still partly preserved, stone cathedral was built west of the enclosed town (Damm 2015). Around 800 Hedeby was founded as the largest Viking Age town in Scandinavia by a Danish king called Godfred. Hedeby was situated in the innermost part of the fjord of Slien/Schlei, at the border between Danish, Saxon, and Slavonic settlements. The town consisted of a dense settlement of streets and narrow plots with workshops and small houses. In the periphery of the town abundant traces of iron production have been found. In the ninth and tenth centuries coins were minted in Hedeby (Malmer 1966). The town 5 

The name of Aarhus derives from árós, meaning ‘river mouth’.

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Figure 19.17. Plan of Kaupang, with settlements and surrounding burial grounds. Map: Kaupang Excavation Project, Kulturhistorisk Museum, Universitetet i Oslo, Oslo. 

was surrounded around 900 by imposing earthworks that were connected to the earthworks called Danevirke, which was the formal Danish border facing the Ottonian empire. Outside the earthworks of Hedeby several different burial grounds have been found, including some richly furnished graves. In the late ninth century the merchant Ohthere (Óttar) from Hålogaland sailed to Hedeby for trade, and in about 965 Hedeby was visited by the Jewish merchant Abraham ben Jacob (al-Tartushi), who described the town, the inhabitants, and their pagan customs. Ansgar was permitted to build a church in Hedeby in 848, and in 948 a bishop is mentioned for the town. Hedeby faded away in the late tenth and early eleventh centuries, and was replaced by the Christian city of Slesvig/Schleswig, situated on the northern shores of the same fjord, only 3 km from the old town ( Jankuhn 1986; Hilberg 2008; Schitzel 2014). In the early ninth century Kaupang on the east coast of Vestfold was founded in what is today southern Norway. This town, however, may have been an initiative by the Danish king Godfred as well, since there were strong Danish interests in the Olso fjord area at this time. Like the other towns, Kaupang consisted of streets and narrow plots with workshops around a harbour area. The place was not surrounded by earthworks but instead by several burial grounds. About 2 km north of Kaupang, a large hall has been investigated at Huseby, which is probably identical with Skiringssal, mentioned by Óttar from Hålogaland in the late ninth century. When he said that he traded in Skiringssal, this indi-

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cated that Kaupang was controlled from Skiringssal. In the 930s, shortly after Óttar’s visit, Kaupang faded away, a few decades before the other Viking Age towns (Skre 2006, 2008a, 2008b, 2011; Pedersen 2016). Apart from these five permanently settled towns, there existed other ports and trading places along the Scandinavian coasts as well. These places were probably never permanently settled, although trade and crafts were carried out seasonally. Among these places are Sebbersund at Limfjorden in northern Jylland (Nielsen 2008), Åhus on the east coast of Skåne (Callmer 1991a), and Paviken and Ridanäs on the west coast of Gotland (Lundström 1981; Carlsson 1999). In Sebbersund as well as in Ridanäs early wooden churches have been found. The towns and the coastal trading places represented new forms of settlements in Scandinavia from the eighth century onwards. They were organized with streets and narrow plots, which were used for small rectangular houses built-in frame constructions, in contrast to the traditional three-aisled longhouses. The places were nodes in long-distance networks, and among their population must have been foreign traders and artisans. The craft production in these places was very similar, resulting in many pan-Scandinavian objects, such as oval brooches that were widespread in areas with Scandinavian settlements ( Jansson 1985). Consequently, these places reinforced a form of early market economy that penetrated into most regions (Sindbæk 2005). It must be underlined, however, that the towns and trading places above all were new commercial and political centres, whereas the old central places retained much of their religious and legal functions until the Christianization.

Regions Another way of looking at ancient Scandinavia is to emphasize the regional character of this area. Geographically, Scandinavia today is usually described by the modern nation-states Denmark, Norway, and Sweden. These polities have existed in different forms since the late tenth, the eleventh, and twelfth centuries, but the present division of the region is the result of recurrent wars during the seventeenth, eighteenth, and early nineteenth centuries. The present borders were finally settled at peace treaties in Hamina (Fredrikshamn) in 1809 and in Vienna in 1814 as well as in two referenda in 1905 and 1920. Danes, Norwegians, and Swedes are mentioned much earlier than the eleventh century, but before this period Scandinavia must be understood in very different ways. The basic unit of the society was the settled region (bygd, pl. bygder), normally with a name of its own (Brink 1997, 1998, 2008). Such regions varied considerably in size, and could be combined in different supra-

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regional polities for longer or shorter periods. In many cases the names of the early medieval regions can be attested much earlier as tribal names in different foreign descriptions of Scandinavia, such as Jordanes’s Getica from the midsixth century. But even after the establishment of the Christian Scandinavian kingdoms in the tenth through twelfth centuries, the regions remained important as building blocks on which the administrative, ecclesiastical, and legal divisions were based. Still in the thirteenth century, patria (fatherland) designated different provinces in Denmark and not the Danish realm. Only in the following centuries did the concept begin to be used of Denmark as a whole (Christensen 1945: 20). Therefore, the regional perspectives are fundamental in understanding society and settlement in ancient Scandinavia. No coherent old description of the different smaller regions in all of Scandinavia exists, which means that the regions must be inferred from regional names, medieval divisions, clusters of placenames, and archaeological remains of settlements. The regional and tribal names in Scandinavia have been studied for a long time (Munch 1852–63: i; Wessén 1927b, 1969; Andersson 1965, 2000; Svennung 1967, 1974; Krag 1971; Kousgård Sørensen 1978; Lund 1993). In similar ways the different administrative, ecclesiastical, and legal divisions of the Scandinavian kingdoms have been thoroughly investigated (Styffe 1867; Aakjær 1926–45; Dahlerup 1968; Brink 1997, 1998, 2008). By dating placenames, it has been possible to distinguish between pre-Christian regions with older placenames and medieval areas of expansion with typical placenames indicating medieval colonization in former unsettled forest regions (Clausen 1917; Bolin 1930). In archaeology, the regional character of material culture has been observed for a long time too, but it is only in the last four decades that settlement regions have been archaeologically defined (Hyenstrand 1984; Myhre 1987; Callmer 1991b) and that the regional character of material remains have been further explored (Ringtved 1988; Burström 1991; Svanberg 1999, 2003a, 2003b). Regional Names and Settlements In the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries approximately sixty to seventy regional names in Scandinavia are known from written documents, for instance: Hålogaland, Trøndelag, Telemark, and Romerike in Norway; Himmerland, Angeln, Fyn, and Falster in Denmark; and Värend, Tjust, Närke, and Hälsingland in Sweden. These names covered very different units, from whole provinces to smaller syssels, herreds, or hundreds. Placenames as well as pre-Christian burial grounds show that most of the regions were lim-

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Figure 19.18. Map of Scandinavia and major regional names for different parts of the Scandi­ navian agrarian settlement. Map: Disir Productions, Uppsala, based on draft by Anders Andrén.

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ited by natural borders. In Denmark the regions were primarily surrounded by open sea, rivers, and bogs; in Norway usually by mountains and forests; and in Sweden above all by forests and large lakes. For instance, in the Swedish province Småland (literately ‘small lands’), each of the known regions consisted of a central settlement core. This core was surrounded by areas without any prehistoric burial grounds but with medieval placenames with compounds such as -hult, -måla, -ryd, and -torp, indicating medieval colonization in former forests (Larsson 1986; Brink 1998). Although the extent of the settlements changed through time, the central settlement cores can be followed back in time from the Viking Age to at least the Early Iron Age, and in some case probably to the Bronze Age (Burström 1991). Therefore, the settlement regions — or bygder — can be described as small islands surrounded by forest zones of up to 20 km without permanent settlements. In similar ways other Scandinavian regions were like islands surrounded by mountains, forests, bogs, or real water. During the Middle Ages, most of these regions were important parts of the administrative, ecclesiastical, and legal divisions of the Scandinavian kingdoms. Taxes were often collected according to regions, and bishoprics were mostly based on one, two, or more regions, whereas the provincial laws were often used in more than one region. The size of these regions varied considerably, as is clear from the number of medieval parishes in each region. In larger regions there could be a hundred or more parishes, whereas in medium-sized regions there were about twenty to thirty parishes, and in small-sized regions sometimes only five to ten parishes. This pattern of non-systematic variation between larger and smaller regional units is well in accordance with other parts of Northern Europe. In, for instance, the so-called Tribal Hideage from AngloSaxon England, the number of households in each tribal unit varied quite considerably (cf. Callmer 1991b). Earlier References In most of the regions, archaeology can prove a long continuity of agrarian settlements in the core of each region, indicating a long history of the regions. It is also important that many of the regional names can be found in earlier sources, emphasizing that the regions were mentally regarded as units before the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The earliest Scandinavian references to regional names occur on rune stones from the late tenth and the eleventh centuries, including names in phrases such as af hringariki (from Ringerike) a haðalanti (in Hadeland) (Spurkland 2001: 112–20), a finnhæiði (in Finnveden), a

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þiusti (in Tjust), a rauningi (in ‘Röninge’, later Rönö herred), and i sveþiuðu (in Svíþjóð) ( Jansson 1976: 104–06; Vikstrand 2016a). Several Scandinavian regional names and tribal names are also known from Old English texts, such as the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, Widsið, Beowulf, and Wulfstan’s and Ohthere’s journeys from the ninth and tenth centuries (Wessén 1927b; Malone 1962; Lund 1984; Bately and Englert 2007; Englert and Trakadas 2009). Among these tribal and regional names are mid Þowendum (with Trønder; inhabitants of Trøndelag), Hörthaland (Hordaland), [weold] Hælsingum (ruled Hälsingar; inhabitants of Hälsingland), Lange­l and (Langeland), Laeland (Lolland), Falster (Falster), Sconeg (Skåne) Burgundæ­ holm (Bornholm), Blekingaeg (Blekinge), Meore (Möre), Eowland (Öland), and Gotland (Gotland). Other names may be linked more or less securely with names of the gentes (tribes, folks) that are mentioned by Jordanes in his Getica around 550, but probably reflect the situation in the early sixth century. This description of the southern and western part of Scandinavia is at times difficult to use, because some of the names are clearly corrupted in the transmission of the text. However, at least half of the tribal names are fairly transparent, and show an astonishing resemblance to many of the regional names attested during the Middle Ages (Svennung 1967; Brink 2008). Among these names are liothida (Luggude), bergio (Bjäre), hallin (Halland), finnaithae (Finnveden), ranii (Ranrike), vinoviloth (Vingulmark), raumarici (Romerike), aeragnarici (Ringerike), grannii (Grenland), taetel (Toten), augandzi (Agder), rugi (Rogaland), arochi (Hordaland), theustes (Tjust), ostrogotae (Östergötland), dani (Danes), and suetidi (Svíþjóð). Procopius, in his History of the Wars, from the middle of the sixth century, mentions two important tribal federations: namely, the ethnoi (nations) of the Dani and the Gautoi, which was ‘one of their most numerous nations’ in Thule (the Scandinavian peninsula). He also states that Thule, apart from the Scrithiphini (Sámi), consists of ‘thirteen very numerous nations […] and there are kings over each nation’ (History of Wars 6.15.2–4, 16–23, 26; (è9). In earlier sources it is much more difficult to relate later known regional names to tribal names, because the knowledge of Scandinavia among classical authors was much more restricted and possibly also because the tribal names changed through time. However, a few parallel names mentioned in Augustean inscriptions and by Tacitus in the first centuries bce and ce indicate a very long history of some of the regional names (Lund 1993: 216–79). These names include the tribal names of Cimbri (Himmerland), Suionum […] civitates (‘societies’ of the Svear), and possibly Aviones (Öland, cf. Eowland in the late ninth

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century). Finally, a weaker connection is found between names of some of the migrating Germanic tribes from the second century bce onwards and the later known regional names in Scandinavia. In these instances a possible background might have been that the ruling elite in the migrating tribes claimed a Scandinavian descent by using tribal names, although we should not envisage the migrations as mass movements of people from Scandinavia (Wolfram 1979; Pohl 2000; Brink 2008; Andersson 2017). Among these tribal names are Cimbri (Himmerland), Teutones (Thy), Vandali (Vendsyssel), Charydes (Hardsyssel and/or Hordaland), Juthi ( Jylland), Anglii (Angeln), Burgundiones (Bornholm), Gothi (Gotland), and Rugii (Rogaland). Thus it is clear that many of the regional names in Scandinavia have a very long history, underlining the dominant and long-standing regional character of Scandinavian society before the establishment of the Christian medieval kingdoms. The early forms of the names, however, are always connected to groups of people rather than regions. At some point between the mid-sixth century and the late ninth century the names changed from being tribal to being territorial, indicating important changes in the organization of Scandinavian society (Brink 2008). Hierarchy or Not? Several of the medieval regions had internal divisions with self-evident names. For instance, Finnveden and Gotland were divided in three parts, with names based on the cardinal points or on the location of the region; Sunnerbo, Västbo, and Östbo in Finnveden; and Sudertredingen, Medeltredingen, and Nordertredingen on Gotland, respectively. In other cases, however, it is much more difficult to determine whether the divisions originally were internal or rather incorporations of older more independent regions. Three case studies will illuminate the problems involved. According to the so-called cadastre of King Valdemar from c. 1230, Jylland was divided into fourteen syssels (Aakjær 1926–45, Dahlerup 1968; Andrén 1983). In the southern and central part of Jylland the names of the syssels were based on placenames, whereas five of the names in northern Jylland were based on older regional names, such as Vendsyssel, Thysyssel, and Himmersyssel. This indicates that the medieval divisions into syssels were partly based on older divisions of settled regions, but that the older regions lost some of their significance with the new division of Jylland as a whole. A similar case can be found in Skåne, which according to the same source was divided into twenty-two herreds (Aakjær 1926–45; Andrén 1983). In the south-west of the province the names of the herreds were based on placenames,

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Figure 19.19. Map of the medieval province of Småland. The province consisted of thirteen older small regions, each with its own name. The medieval borderlines between the regions are marked, as well as the settled regions in the Viking Age, according to burial grounds and placenames. Map: Disir Productions, Uppsala, based on draft by Anders Andrén. 

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indicating a late division of a possibly original Skåne (Bolin 1930; Andersson 1965). In the north and north-east, the names had a mixed character. Some can be related to older regional names, such as Villand’s herred (Vætland), or to the gentes of Jordanes, such as Luggude herred (liothida) and Bjäre herred (bergio). Other names seem to be internal divisions of older regions, based on the compounds -bo and -mark, such as Åsbo herred (Asbo), Göinge herred (Gudhisbo), and Albo herred (Alsmark). This means that the older regional names may originally have been different from the medieval herreds. It is, for instance, possible that Vætland originally consisted of not only Villand’s herred but also of Göinge, Gärds, and Albo herreds (Brink 1998). This region might very well have been a region of its own, only later incorporated into the province of Skåne. A third case is the area around Lake Mälaren in central Sweden. From around 1300 this region consisted of Uppland, Västmanland, Södermanland, and Roden, which was a separate coastal zone of ‘rowers’.6 Uppland was at that time a new provincial name, comprising the older regions of Fjärdundaland, Attundaland, and Tiundaland. These names are transparent, going back to a earlier division of hunds (hundreds) into four, eight, and ten units. However, the area around Lake Mälaren was earlier connected to the civitates or gentes of the Sviones and the regional name Svíþjóð. The geographical extent of this regional name is disputed. Some regard Uppland of 1300 as more or less identical with the earlier Svíþjóð (Th. Andersson 2004), whereas others believe that Svíþjóð comprised all the later provinces around Lake Mälaren (Brink 2008). The different regional names could thus have been late internal divisions of Svíþjóð. However, there seems to exist another level of more obscure, and probably older, regional names around Lake Mälaren. These names are preserved as names of islands or herreds and hundreds, such as Rek, ‘Rauningi’ (Rönö), Tör, Solland, Valland, Arland, Trögd, and Oland (Brink 1997). These names indicate that Svíþjóð originally consisted of other regions that were not identical with the later divisions of the medieval provinces. Regional Identities and Organizations In the medieval provincial law codes it is quite clear that a strong regional identity was connected to the medieval provinces. For example, in the early law code of Västergötland from the thirteenth century the fine for killing a person from the province was much higher than for killing a person from Denmark, Norway, 6 

Roden, later Roslagen, is the linguistic background for Ruotsi, the Finnish name for Sweden.

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Germany, England, or even other Swedish provinces (Holmbäck and Wessén 1946: 25). A similar regional identity is clearly described by Saxo Grammaticus in relation to the civil wars in Denmark during the middle and second half of the twelfth century. He writes that people from the different regions were very suspicious of each other and did not trust outsiders from other regions (SkyumNielsen 1971). These regional identities were probably constantly negotiated and recreated through local and regional networks, such as marriage alliances and recurrent gatherings at ritual, legal, mercantile, and political centres. In earlier periods, the regional identities can above all be traced through placenames, burial customs, and settlements patterns. None of these traces occurs exclusively in one settlement region, but together they form patterns that are more regionally exclusive. A good example is once again the province of Småland in southern Sweden. It was used as a common name since the middle of the thirteenth century for thirteen smaller regions, each with its own name: Aspeland (Asbolandia 1299), Finnveden (a finnhæiði eleventh century), Handbörd (in Andbyrdia 1299), Kinda (Kind 1250), Möre (Meore late ninth century), Njudung (Jn Niudhungis, 1170s), Sevede (in Sigwidhæ 1311), Tjust (a þiusti eleventh century), Tveta (Jn Thwetum 1178), Vedbo (Widhbo 1271), Vista (in Wyst 1291), Värend (Guarandia c. 1120), and Ydre (Ydre 1279). Some of these names are also known in earlier tribal forms used by Jordanes in the sixth century (Th. Andersson 1965; Larsson 1986; Brink 1998). With respect to regional identities some of these regions are quite distinctive. Finnveden together with Värend and Njudung formed a distinct legal region with its own law, usually called the Småland Code, whereas the other nine regions were connected to the law of Östergötland (Holmbäck and Wessén 1946: lxxv–lxxxiv). However, in the late twelfth century Värend became a bishopric of its own, closely linked to the Danish diocese of Lund, whereas all the other regions were part of the Swedish bishopric of Linköping (Schück 1959). However, Finnveden, Värend, and Möre were the only regions in Småland with placenames ending with -löv/-lev, which otherwise mostly occur in Denmark, Skåne, and Halland (Søndergaard 1972). The medieval placename component -måla (measured area) is widespread in eastern Småland, but was not used for medieval colonization around Finnveden (Ödeen 1927–30). In similar ways, the external grave-markers on burial grounds varied between different major regions of Småland during the Late Iron Age. In Finnveden the most common grave-markers were mounds built of earth (figure è 33.1). In nearby Värend the burial grounds were instead dominated by ship-formed stone settings, whereas in Njudung round stone settings and in Möre circles of erected stones were most common. In all the regions cremation was the

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common burial custom, but the objects placed in the graves varied regionally. None of the burial customs were unique from a Scandinavian perspective, but they were combined in a unique regional way in each bygd (Burström 1991; Svanberg 2003a, 2003b). In a few cases, however, it is even possible that specific rituals were linked to the notion of distinct regional identities. In Finnveden it was unusually common to place arrowheads and angling hooks in male graves (Svanberg 2003b: 36–53), maybe linking the dead men to the name of the region, meaning something like ‘the hunting path’. In neighbouring Villands herred (Vætland) no graves contained weapons. Instead many weapons have been found in a centrally placed lake (Lund 2009: 70–110), perhaps linking the rituals to the name of the region, which means ‘lake land’. Although there seems to have been a strong identity connected to the different regions, it must be underlined that the different regions should not be envisaged as homogenous ‘Scandinavian’. Along the Norwegian and Swedish northern coasts as well as in some northern inland areas, Scandinavian farming settlements expanded into Sápmi during the Iron Age. Therefore, several regions included Scandinavians as well as Sámi, leading to different forms of hybridization and possibly bilingualism (Ramqvist 2007; è17). Further south, some Finns and Estonians must have settled in the Mälar region, according to personal names as well as archaeology (è18). In south Scandinavia, a Slavonic presence is clear from placenames as well as archaeology. On the islands of Lolland and Falster, Slavonic placenames, such as Korselitse and Tillitse, show extensive Slavonic settlements, and archaeology indicates some Slavonic settlements in Skåne as well as on Bornholm (Larsson 1992; Selch Jensen and others 2000; Naum 2008; è15). Besides, foreign merchants must have settled or periodically lived in the early towns and ports. All the settlement regions must have had internal organizations, including political leaders and different forms of gathering places, not least the central places and marketplaces which have been described in more detail above (Brink 1997, 1998, 2002, 2008). It is important to underline, however, that the political order in the different regions was not necessarily the same all over Scandinavia. Some regions may have been ruled by kings, others by jarls, and some by goðar, as in Iceland, or by a collective of aldermen, as on Gotland in the early Middle Ages. A similar variation can be found among the gathering places. In some cases political, religious, legal, and mercantile functions were linked to one central place, such as Gamla Uppsala in Svíþjóð (Hultgård 1997; Sundqvist 2013), whereas in other cases the functions seem to have been more dispersed. On Öland the central ritual site was Skedemosse (Hagberg 1967a,

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1967b; Monikander 2010); the most important temporary military centre was Gråborg (Tegnér 2008); the mercantile and legal centre was Köpingsvik (Schulze 2004); and a possible permanent political centre may have been situated at Torslunda/Björnhovda (Brink 1999). It is unclear whether all the settlement regions at some stage were politically independent. Jordanes in the mid-sixth century indicates that many of the gentes that he describes were independent, because they were waging war against each other (Svennung 1967). As was mentioned above, Procopius in the midsixth century likewise mentioned that Thule (the Scandinavian peninsula) consisted of thirteen nations, each with its own king (History of the Wars, 6.15.5). Later writers of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, such as Saxo and Snorri, also envisaged that before the Christian kingdoms of the late tenth and eleventh centuries, the regions were more independent in the sense that they were ruled by kings and jarlar (Sawyer 1982). However, the patchwork of small and large regions should above all be regarded as building blocks of successively changing alliances of elite groups in the different regions. These elite groups were held together by pan-Scandinavian traits that transcended the local character of the regions. Examples of pan-Scandinavian expressions are the runic writing attested from the late second century ce (Odenstedt 1990; Düwel 1968), gold bracteates during the fifth century (Axboe 2007), and gold foil figures during the seventh, eighth, and ninth centuries (Watt 1999c).

The Scandinavian Diaspora A special phenomenon in the Iron Age was that groups of more or less clear Scandinavian origin raided and settled outside Scandinavia in different phases. The earliest mentioned groups were the Cimbri and Teutones who raided Celtic kingdoms in Central Europe and the early Roman Empire in the late second century bce. In the first century ce, other groups, such as the Burgundiones, Gothi, and Vandali, were settled along the southern shores of the Baltic Sea. From the third century ce onwards, these and other groups began to raid the Roman Empire, and later took political control of different parts of the former empire, such as eastern Gaul, northern Italy, Spain, and North Africa. Other groups, such as the Anglii and Juthi, came more directly from Scandinavia, and raided and settled in Britain from the fourth century (Bemmann and Quast 2008; Higham and Ryan 2013). The character of these ‘migrations’ is highly disputed, but for the last four decades they have mostly been interpreted as groups of people that were named after small elite groups and their myths of origins. In several cases it seems that these

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small elite groups had a background as mercenaries who only over time took political control. Some of these elite groups claimed a Scandinavian descent (Wolfram 1979; Pohl 2000; Steuer 2006b). Material traces of such claims are runic writing south of Scandinavia in the fourth and fifth centuries (Krause and Jankuhn 1966), animal art outside Scandinavia in the fifth and sixth centuries (Haseloff 1981), and gold bracteates from the fifth century found in present-day Poland, Hungary, Germany, Normandy, and England (Andrén 1991). It is also clear from a few written references that there were long-distance contacts between Scandinavia and the Scandinavian diaspora in the early sixth century. Jordanes mentions a king called Rodulf who left Scandinavia and travelled to the Ostrogothic king Theoderik (Getica 4.15–20). In a similar vein, Procopius writes that after the death of their king, the Eruli searched for a new king of ‘royal blood’ on the island of Thule (the Scandinavian peninsula). Finally they found two brothers, who together with two hundred young men returned to the Eruli who where at that time settled around Singidunum (Belgrad) (History of the Wars 6.15.27–36). If this first Scandinavian diaspora is vague and partly disputed, the second wave of raids, trade, and settlements is much better documented and studied. The ‘Viking expansion’ during the period 750–1100 ce extended from Newfoundland in the West to the Caspian Sea in the East, and from Greenland in the north to North Africa in the south. The raids, trade, and settlements of Scandinavians are known from foreign annals, Sagas of Icelanders, and some rune stones, and can be traced through some portable runic inscriptions and material culture as well. This is not the context to give an extensive overview of this Scandinavian diaspora, especially since there exist several good surveys (Foote and Wilson 1970; Sawyer 1982; Brink and Price 2008, Roesdahl 1998). Only a few aspects of the Scandinavian diaspora should be emphasized. The Scandinavian settlement was not uniform but varied considerably between different areas. In the west, the settlements are above all visible through Scandinavian placenames (Kisbye 1988), whereas in the east the settlements are mainly detected via graves with Scandinavian objects (Androshchuk 2013). In the North Atlantic, the settlement represented a primary colonization, above all in Iceland (è 66). But in other regions, the cultural encounters between Scandinavians and the local population led to different forms of more or less rapid hybridization ( Jesch 2008; Abrams 2012). In some regions, such as Normandy and Russia, the loss of the Scandinavian language seems to have been fairly quick, whereas in other regions, such as northern England, the Scandinavian language was kept much longer. Of special importance was the Scandinavian settlement in Iceland and Greenland from around 870 and 985 respectively. In both regions, the

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Scandinavians organized settlements without any relation to earlier agrarian landscapes. The settlement consisted of single farms, each with its own name. As in Scandinavia, the farms were divided in different regions (bygder) with transparent names: namely, the Southern, Western, Northern, and Eastern Quarters in Iceland; and the Eastern, Middle, and Western Settlements in Greenland (Hastrup 1985; Bjarni F. Einarsson. 1995; Byock 2001; Arneborg 2004). Beyond that, the Scandinavian settlers organized the societies in conscious contrast to the contemporary emerging Scandinavian kingdoms. No kings or jarlar existed in Iceland, only goðar who dominated the assemblies with their religious and political power (è29). The lack of historical links with the newly settled landscapes may even have promoted the oral traditions, giving important links to ancient Scandinavia (Hastrup 1985; è2). The Icelandic memorial tradition emphasizes another important aspect of the Scandinavian diaspora: namely, that most written accounts about Scandinavia and Scandinavians were produced in the diaspora. This is true of the whole Icelandic literary tradition, but it is equally true of the descriptions of the Rus by Arabic authors, such as Ibn Fadlan (Thorir Jonsson Hraundal 2013), and the Byzantine descriptions of Varangians (Sigfús Blöndal 1978). Consequently, a source-critical question concerning these narratives is the extent to which they mirror customs in a hybrid diaspora on the one hand or in the Scandinavian ‘homelands’ on the other ( Jesch 2008; Abrams 2012; Thorir Jonsson Hraundal 2013). A final aspect of the Scandinavian diaspora is the importance of connections between the diaspora and Scandinavia. Just as in the early sixth century, longdistance connections existed in the Viking world as well. The Icelandic literary tradition is full of notices of Icelanders going to other parts of the diaspora as well as to Scandinavia. In the final phase of the expansion, many rune stones from the late tenth and eleventh centuries clearly show how some men during long periods of time could be in different parts of the diaspora before turning back to Scandinavia (Sigfús Blöndal 1978; Larsson 1990). Of special interest are members of elite groups that went back and forth between Scandinavia and different empires and kingdoms, such as Byzantium, the Carolingian and Ottonian Empires, England, Russia, and the Khazar Khaganate. Potentially, many of these men could bring back new models of how to organize the Scandinavian societies. Especially in the establishment of the Christian kingdoms in the late tenth and eleventh centuries, it is quite clear that many of the kings and their allies had long and thorough experiences of other polities outside Scandinavia (Zeitler 1981; Piltz 1989; Andersen and Hägg 1990; Andrén 2011a: 131–43).

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Brief Outline of Scandinavian History 200 bce–1100 ce The political history of ancient Scandinavia is a difficult and disputed issue. Very few written sources concerning rulers and political organization exist before 800 ce. Therefore, several previous scholars, for instance, Birger Nerman, have tried to reconstruct a political history from later narrative sources, such as Ynglingatal (Nerman 1925, 1942). Modern source criticism has long regarded such attempts as outdated. Today issues of political history are discussed in much more structural ways. Instead of trying to reconstruct royal lineages or events, much more emphasis is put on central places, towns and ports, structures of rulership, sources of power, and organization of warfare. Many of these issues can be discussed using material culture, but some of the scant written sources can also throw light on certain aspects of them (Hyenstrand 1974, 1984, 1989; Randsborg 1980; Roesdahl 1982, 1998; Saywer 1982, 1988; Näsman 1988, 1991; Hedeager 1990; Fabech and Ringtved 1991; Herschend 1997; Nørgård Jørgensen and Clausen 1997; Skre 1998, 2018; Norr 1998; Jørgensen and others 2003; Ljungkvist 2006; Jørgensen 2009; Myhre 2015; Sundqvist 2016). The following outline focuses above all on different periods of central places and towns. A few central places were established already in the second and first centuries bce, such as Uppåkra and Västra Vång. Most early central places, however, appeared around 200 ce, such as Gudme and Helgö. In the middle of the sixth century, Gudme as one of the most important centres disappeared, while others changed character. In the late sixth century and around 600 a whole series of new central places was established, for instance, Tissø, Lejre, and Järrestad. From the eighth century, however, the old central places were supplemented with new towns and ports, such as Birka, Hedeby, and Kaupang. The old central places and the new towns existed until the late tenth and early eleventh centuries, when the first medieval Christian cities were founded, for instance, Roskilde, Lund, Sigtuna, and Trondheim (Andrén 1998b; Jørgensen 2009; see also above). The establishment of the first central places in the second century bce was contemporary with a more visible warrior identity. After several centuries without any weapons in the graves, ‘warrior graves’ began to appear in the second century bce. A few of these graves even included bear skins, giving associations to the later-known ideas about berserks (Nicklasson 1997; (è 24). The appearance of the first central places as well as the ‘warrior graves’ can be viewed as distant reflections of the urbanized Celtic kingdoms that existed at this time in Central Europe (Collis 1984). After the Roman conquest of these Celtic kingdoms in the late first century bce and the early first century ce,

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Figure 19.20. Weapon deposits in southern Scandinavia and the approximate area of many hundreds of hillforts and ringforts in central Scandinavia. Weapon deposits and hillforts represent two spatially divided expressions of the same military aggression between different tribal units during the period c. 200–600. Map: Disir Productions, Uppsala, based on draft by Anders Andrén. 

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the Roman influence in Scandinavia became very apparent, visible above all in Roman objects and coins. The Scandinavian elite seems to have had direct connections with Romans already from the first century ce, which is clear from Tacitus’s account of some northern tribes as well as from very rich graves with Roman drinking vessels found on Lolland and Sjælland. The Roman Empire remained an important external factor in Scandinavian society until the fall of the West Roman empire in the fifth century and the radical reduction of the East Roman/Byzantine Empire in the middle of the sixth century (Hedeager 1979; Lund Hansen 1987; Hedeager and Tvarnø 1991; è13). Scandinavia from the second century bce to the sixth century ce can best be described as a region of tribal societies (Mortensen and Rasmussen 1988, 1991; Hedeager 1990). These tribes and possible tribal federations were highly competitive, with recurrent plundering and large-scale warfare. This is evident from about forty huge weapon deposits in southern Scandinavia from about 200 bce to about 500 ce, but also from many hundreds of hillforts and ringforts from above all 200 to 550 ce in Sweden and Norway. Along the Norwegian coasts large boat houses for war ships were built from about 200 ce, and Tacitus already in 98 ce describes a naval organization of the Sviones ( Jørgensen and others 2003; Nørgård Jørgensen and Clausen 1997). In spite of the scale of warfare, however, the war leaders seem to have held only temporary positions. This situation is indicated by most Norwegian and Swedish hillforts and ringforts that were located in the outfields between settlements, which means that they were built as collective enterprises rather than by a single manor or village (Andrén 2014: 69–115). A non-permanent position of the war leaders is also well in accordance with descriptions of the dual rulership of the Visigoths in the fourth century and several Germanic myths of origin (Näsman 1988; Nygaard 2016; è23). Ritual leaders, however, could have had more permanent roles, probably residing in manors and the new central places (Sundqvist 2002, 2016). In the fifth and early sixth centuries, during the Migration Period when the West Roman empire collapsed and was divided into several kingdoms dominated by Germanic elites, it seems that the tribal societies in southern Scandinavia changed as well. It is possible that the former dual rulership in some regions partly disappeared and was replaced by more permanent leaders. This is indicated by some hillforts and ringforts that began to be more permanently settled, such as Eketorp on Öland and Runsa in Uppland (Borg and others 1976; Olausson 2014). The use of gold bracteates and images on these gold medallions further indicate that some rulers began to claim some form of links to the divine world (Pesch 2007).

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The Scandinavian tribal societies were hit by a series of crises in the middle of the sixth century. Three large volcanic eruptions in 536 and the 540s sent thick dust veils over the world, which resulted in cold winters and summers and failed crops for several years. Settlements were deserted and the population decreased. A few decades later, the Byzantine Empire was radically reduced, and the previous flow of gold coins to Scandinavia stopped, leaving the aristocracy without a medium for its display (Baillie 1999; Axboe 1999a; B. Gräslund 2008; Andrén 2014: 169–90; Büntgen and others 2016). The tribal societies, which were beginning to transform in the previous centuries, changed more fundamentally after the crises. A clear expression of this change is that the important central place Gudme totally disappeared ( Jørgensen 2009), probably in connection with some form of political collapse in southern Scandinavia. After the fundamental changes in the middle of the sixth century, new forms of political organization were established in the late sixth century and around 600, influenced primarily from the Merovingian world. The tribes successively disappeared and were replaced by early kingdoms, dominating different regions in changing alliances. In contrast to the earlier period, warfare seems to have been carried out by small groups of heavily armed warriors instead of huge armies of lightly armed warriors. In this type of warfare, there was no longer need for huge public weapon deposits or hillforts and ringforts (Nørgård Jørgensen 2009; Andrén 2014: 69–115; è23). The double rulership that was beginning to transform was finally replaced by a new type of elite (Skre 1998; Sundqvist 2002; Näsman 2008; Olausson 2009). New dynasties of kings and jarlar were established, combining ritual and martial roles and claiming divine descent. These new dynasties took control of some of the older central places, such as Gamla Uppsala, and developed their manors into new central places, with ritual, legal, and martial functions, such as Tissø, Lejre, and Borre. As mentioned above, faint echoes of royal lineages at Lejre, Gamla Uppsala, and Borre are preserved in later narrative sources ( Jørgensen 2009; Sundqvist 2002, 2016). New forms of monumentality were displayed at several central places, including huge halls on terraces, ritual buildings, large grave-mounds, and ship-formed stone settings, as well as ritual roads. The new large mounds at Lejre, Gamla Uppsala, and Borre have been interpreted as expressions of royal lineages claiming some kind of ‘óðal right’ to their kingdoms (Ljungkvist 2013; Zachrisson 2013; Sundqvist 2016). The Viking expansion from the middle of the eighth century again changed the political organization fundamentally. Trade, plunder, and long-distance connections over the sea became vital. The scale of warfare changed as well, from small groups of warriors to large armies and levies, most visible in the

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Figure 19.21. The burial ground at Valsgärde in Uppland comprises a series of boat graves, chamber graves (black squares), and cremation graves (black circles), from the fifth to the eleventh centuries. The boat graves at Valsgärde and other locations represented new and stable elite groups, connected to fairly unchanged burial rituals over the course of five hundred years. After Arwidsson 1977. © Gustavianum, Uppsala Universitets Museum, Uppsala. 

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‘Great Army’ plundering England in the middle of the ninth century. When Scandinavia was described in the late ninth century, the former tribes were transformed to regions, which in various ways ‘belonged’ to three different polities: namely, Denmark, Nóregr (probably deriving from norð-vegr, ‘northern way’), and Svíþjóð. According to Óttar’s voyage, all the land from Hålogaland in the north to Skiringsal (Kaupang) in the south was Norðvegr. And according to Wulfstan’s voyage from the late ninth century, Gotland, Öland, Möre, and Blekinge belonged to the Svear; Bornholm was a small kingdom of its own; and Skåne, Falster, Lolland, and Langeland belonged to Denmark (Sveaas Andersen 1977; Bately and Englert 2007; Englert and Trakadas 2009). The importance of the sea meant that the political focus changed towards the new towns and ports, although the older central places remained in use. The Swedish kings moved their main residence from Gamla Uppsala to Adelsö, just opposite Birka, and in similar ways Danish kings were present at Hedeby, Ribe, and possibly Kaupang (Carlsson 1997; Skre 2006). The new kingdoms based part of their power on the resources in the new towns. The older central places, however, continued to function as ritual and legal centres. In some cases, they may even have been bases of elite lineages opposing the new townbased kings. The Scandinavian ruling families were not only based in the emerging Scandinavian kingdoms but were also active in the Scandinavian diaspora and in the surrounding Christian kingdoms. Already in the ninth and early tenth centuries, members of the Danish and Norwegian royal families were baptized in England and Germany, and Swedes at the same time were part of the Byzantine imperial guard and consequently must have been at least primesigned. The foreign experience of the ruling elite gave the leaders potentially new models of political organization. Of special interest is that some of the first Christian kings lived parts of their lives in Christian countries abroad (Sawyer 1988; Thorir Jonsson Hraundal 2013). Besides, an important aspect of the Christian state formation around 1000 seems to have been foreign mercenaries who had to be loyal towards the new Christian rulers, since they had no local bases of power (Hedenstierna-Jonson 2006; Dobat 2009; Andrén 2011a: 131–43). Although the Christian mission towards Scandinavia started in the eighth century, it was only from the late tenth century to the early twelfth century that Scandinavia and Iceland were formally Christianized (è 64–68). Churches began to be built in all regions after the formal conversion, mainly in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. In central Sweden, however, representing the old polity Svíþjóð, a pagan resistance against Christianity continued until the

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Figure 19.22. Important places during the formation of the Danish Christian state in the late tenth century. Marked on the map are towns (1), geometrical ringforts (4), non-geometrical ringforts (5), and rune stones that are certainly (2) or probably (3) connected to the royal Jelling dynasty. Map: Disir Productions, Uppsala, based on draft by Anders Andrén. 

late eleventh century (è 67). The end of the Christianization process was marked by the establishment of the archbishopric of Lund in 1103, comprising Scandinavia as well as the Scandinavian diaspora in the North Atlantic (è64). The Christianization was part of fundamental social and political changes as well. Christian kingdoms were established, which based their power not only on alliances with the traditional local elite, but also on taxes of peasants, and on royal manors and new Christian cities, with foreign merchants, artisans, and priests (Andrén 1983, 1989b; Lindkvist 1988; Iversen 2004). Several of the new cities were located close to older central places and towns, and successively

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replaced the old centres, for instance, Roskilde close to Lejre and Trondheim close to Lade. This shift in political organization is best illustrated by Uppåkra in south-west Skåne. Uppåkra appeared as a central place in the second century bce and remained a central place until the early eleventh century ce. From about 980 ce, Lund emerged as a growing Christian city, 4 km north of Uppåkra. And in 1085, the fate of Uppåkra was finally sealed, when the Danish king granted Uppåkra to the chapter of the cathedral in Lund. After 1085, it was only the rent from ordinary tenants in Uppåkra that counted (Skansjö and Sundström 1985).

Concluding Remarks This brief overview shows that there were many distinct regional variations in Scandinavian society as well as important social and political changes through time. It is important to bear in mind all these variations and changes when considering ancient Scandinavian religion. Rituals and mythological narratives were always parts of different social and political contexts, and had to be relevant to survive in these different contexts. Therefore, the religious traditions must have varied spatially and changed through time. The distinct regional character of Scandinavian society, with different tribes, and later regions, can for instance be compared with burial rituals. As is clear from the example of Småland (see above), the variations in the burial rituals applied to all aspects of the rites, such as the treatment of the body, objects placed in the grave, accompanying animals, the invisible part of the grave, as well as the visible grave-marker. At the same time, pan-Scandinavian phenomena existed as well, such as boat graves, runic writing, gold bracteates, and gold foil figures. These aspects of Scandinavian culture were probably connected to elite networks that were based on the central places, other aristocratic manors, and the early towns. Similar variations between regional and pan-Scandinavian traits may also be found in, for instance, theophoric placenames (è 5), indicating differences in the cult of the gods and goddesses. Thus, the character of Scandinavian society and its religious traditions was ambiguous, including both unifying and diversifying elements (è1). The successive changes of Scandinavian society must have resulted in changes in the religious traditions as well. Above all, the social and political changes in the fifth and sixth centuries seem to have had fundamental impacts on rituals and myths. Before these changes, Scandinavia was probably dominated by tribal societies with double rulerships, and this form of political culture can be related to faint signs of ideas about divine twins (è 23) (è 55). After the

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changes in the fifth and sixth centuries, the emerging kingdoms had rulers who combined ritual and martial roles and claimed divine descent (è 23). It was in this political culture that many of the later attested mythological narratives seem to have taken shape. And it was these religious traditions that were brought to the Scandinavian diaspora in the North Atlantic and finally were written down in a Christian context in Iceland.

20 – Laws and Assemblies Stefan Brink Introduction We have to assume that some kind of legal societies existed already during the first millennium in Scandinavia. The legal custom at that early stage seems to have been closely tied to prevalent religious customs (cf., e.g., Brink 2003b). A striking piece of evidence to this is the case of Enhelga, discussed below — a small island with the name Guþø, ‘the island dedicated to the gods’, which was also a thing assembly for a hundari district (‘hundred’). A central word in this relation is of course Old Norse lǫg (neuter plural), Old Swedish, Old Danish lagh ‘law’, which is one of the words borrowed into the English language during the Viking Age (English law, Old English lagu, ProtoNordic *lagu-) (de Vries 1962a: 373; von See 1964 passim). This of course indicates that law must have been a central concept to the early Scandinavians. This word could also be used in the singular with a secondary meaning, namely, a district where a specific law was in function; the most famous example is the Danelaw in England, which can be understood as ‘the area where Danish law was applicable’. In a Latin document from 1324 it is stated that England was divided into three laws (leges): Essexenelaga, Mircenelage, and Denelaga (Calissendorff 1980: 13), also Westseaxenalag is recorded for Wessex (Kisbye 1988: 52). In Scandinavia, the word lǫg, lagh can be found in a number of district names: Trøndelag, Frostathingslag, Gulathingslag, Bergslag(en), Roslagen (Old Swedish Roþslagh[er]), which were probably all legal districts where a certain law was in function (the Frostaþing Law for Trøndelag, which hence is the law district of the Trønder; the Gulaþing Law for western Norway; a special Stefan Brink, Professor of Scandinavian Studies, University of Cambridge The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume ii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 2 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 445–477 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116947

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law for the mining district of central Sweden (esp. Dalarna) (Andersson 2014). The link between law and society is captured in the proverbial expression ‘með lǫgum skal land byggja’ (with law shall the land be inhabited or built), attested (with minor variation) in the preface to the Danish law for Jylland, in the Norwegian Frostaþing Law, and in the Swedish provincial laws for Uppland and Hälsingland. Today, it may be best known from Chapter 70 of Njáls saga, where Njáll dresses down the litigious Mǫrðr: ‘með lǫgum skal land várt byggja en með ólǫgum eyða’ (with law our land shall rise, but it will perish with lawlessness [‘unlaw’]) (p. 82). In many cases we can see, as mentioned, links between legal and religious aspects and customs in pre-Christian Scandinavia. One rather intriguing case is the enigmatic god Týr, enigmatic because we know so little about him and his role in the pantheon, and yet etymologically (Proto-Germanic *Tīwaz) linked to Latin deus, Greek Zeus, Sanskrit Dyaus. Early on, due to this etymological relationship within the Indo-European language family, Týr and his equivalents were considered to be the major god, a ‘progenitorial’ sky god (Grimm; Bickel), from which the other gods (of wind, thunder, etc.) were fragmented (Mogk), or perhaps he was a sun god (Max Müller; Müllenhoff ) who eventually transformed into a war god (Mogk; Much; Schröder; Storm).1 Týr is sparsely mentioned in the Edda poems and generally plays a very insignificant role in the Old Norse literature dealing with the mythology; when he is mentioned, it is in the context of war and battle (Simek 2007: 337).2 His link to law is in a way very obscure. It is particularly Georges Dumézil (1973c: 38–48), who has argued that Týr was a god of law (dieu juriste), mostly on the basis of comparative ideas that were — in the opinion of several scholars, including the present author — rather dubious.3 The fact that, according to the mythology, Týr lost his right hand while fettering the wolf Fenrir has been compared to much later Icelandic and Norwegian folklore and also to some one-armed gods in Irish and Old Indian mythologies, and it has been interpreted in the light of these comparisons to be a kind of pledge (at veði) (cf. Simek 2007: 337) and thus an action that was to be understood in a legal context. This is an interpretation, which is not obvious and actually seems rather farfetched. The most 1 

For an overview of this research and for references, see Nordberg (2013 passim) and af Edholm (2014: 7–33); see also, e.g., Polomé (1999 passim). 2  For a thorough review of the occurrence of and the role that Týr plays in the Old Norse literature and in the runological material, see af Edholm (2014). 3  See, e.g., von See (1964: 117–20), Page (1979), Clunies Ross (1994: 219), Lincoln (1999: 128–31).

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suggestive link between Týr and law is the combination of forms of the name of the weekday Tuesday together with a Roman inscription from the second century ce from northern England. To start with the latter: At Housesteads (Latin Vercovicium) on Hadrian’s Wall in northern England was in 1883 found inscribed on a Roman pillar-shaped altar the famous votive inscription deo marti thincso et dvabvs alaisagis bede et fimmilene et n[umini] avg[usti] germ[ani] cives tvihanti vslm, ‘To the god Mars Thincsus and the two Alaisagae, Beda and Fimmilena, and to the Divinity of the emperor the Germans, being tribesmen from Tuihantis (Twente), willingly and deservedly fulfill their vow’ (Roman Inscriptions of Britain 1594; Giliberto 1998: 158; Galestin 2008: 701; Green 1998: 34, with further refs). The Roman army squad linked to this inscription is a Germanic, more specifically a Frisian, unit known as the Tuihanti (today Twente in the Netherlands). The legal association here is the term Thingsus, which has been considered to be a Latinized form of a Germanic masc. *þingsa-, derived from a neuter s-stem *þingsa-, found in, for example, Langobardic thingx, and related to the more common word *þinga- ‘legal assembly’. The interpretation is reinforced by the occurrence of the names — obviously of two female deities — Bede and Fimmilene in the inscription, which have been associated with two Frisian terms for different types of legal assemblies, bodthing (a thing to which you were summoned) and fimelthing (called for special

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Figure 20.1. Roman altar from Hadrian’s wall, with a votive inscription to Mars Thingsus, interpreted as a reference to the Germanic god Tīwaz/Týr (Chesters Museum, CH 489). Photo: Trustees of the Clayton Collection/English Heritage Trust. 

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purpose) (Gutenbrunner 1936: 30; Green 1998: 34). The religious implication, is according to D. H. Green (1998), clear: ‘Thingsus is an epithet applied to the god Mars, standing for the Germanic god Tiu by interpretatio Romana, who is accompanied by two feminine deities of a type found in many inscriptions (often by Germani) to twin goddesses in the Roman-occupied Rhineland’. In the light of the above discussion, it is of course notable that the name of the weekday Tuesday (Old English Tīwesdæg), the Germanic equivalent to the Roman Dies Martis, is compounded with the god’s name Old English Tīw, cf. Old Norse Týr (< Tīwaz). A variant name for Tuesday, found in the Rhineland, is what we today probably find in German Dienstag (< dingstag < things-) (see Kluge 2002: 199; however cf. Hultgård 2014: 23–29 who qualifies this). Consequently, the material at hand has been interpreted to mean that we had two pagan West Germanic gods Tiu and *Thingsa-, both represented in the name of the same day (Karg-Gasterstädt 1958; Green 1998: 35, 249–51). D. H. Green (1998: 35) sums up: There is little objection to postulating a double naming of this day of the week in the lower Rhine area (as Tiu and *Thingsa-), nor to the designation of Tiu, the early Germanic god of war before the rise of Wodan, as a god of law as well in view of the fact that the Germanic legal assembly was also a military assembly. Even though the passing of laws and judgements remained in human hands, the meeting at which deliberations took place was under the protection of a god.

This combination of historic and Germanic philological evidence is quite compelling, linking the god Týr to a legal sphere. It is, however, striking that the perception of Týr as a god of law is in principle lacking in the Old Norse mythology as described in the relevant literature; moreover, there are scholars who plainly reject the perception of Týr being a god of law (e.g., Baetke 1973: 35–36; Page 1979: 53–56; Lincoln 1999: 128–31). Also when consulting the theophoric placename material, there is nothing obvious linking Týr to this field (Brink 2007b: 119–20).4 Finally, there are even scholars who — nota bene — totally dismiss the existence of an Old Norse god Týr (e.g., Motz 1998: 30; Marteinn Helgi Sigurðsson 2002); hence, the god Týr is indeed in many respects ‘enigmatic’ — in the Old Norse mythology as well as in the Old Norse mythological research history. His link to law is no doubt dubious (but see è48). 4 

Tislund (Thislund 1148; Danmarks stednavne xxiii, 142) in Ringsted, Denmark, which seems to contain the name of the god Týr in the first element, has been mentioned in the context of an assembly at Ringsted; see Holmberg (1986: 111) and also Olsen (1938: 81, with reference to Axel Olrik).

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Law and Religion in Mythology According to Vǫluspá, the institution of law occurs towards the end of the creation process that gives rise to the cosmos and to human society. In st. 20 (both versions), we learn that the laws are inextricably linked to the fates of humans: Þaðan koma meyjar, margs vitandi, þrjár, ór þeim sæ, er und þolli stendr; Urð heitir eina, aðra Verðandi — scáro á scíði —, Sculd ina þriðio; þær lǫg lǫgðo, þær líf kuro alda bornom, ørlǫg seggia. (From there come girls, knowing a great deal, three from the lake standing under the tree; Urd one is called, Verdandi another — they carved on a wooden slip — Skuld the third; they laid down laws, they chose lives for the sons of men, the fates of men).5

The three maidens are usually taken to be the norns (see è 35 and è 59). Although it might be possible to understand ‘law’ here as an alternate expression for human fate, it is equally likely that the poet envisaged human fate as bound up in the operation of the laws that govern society. Or to put it another way: one acts out one’s fate in the context of laws. A second explanation of the institution of law is found in Ynglinga saga ch. 8. Here, Snorri writes that Óðinn setti lǫg í landi sínu (established laws in his land): these laws concerned cremation of the dead, sacrifice, and taxes. Snorri clearly has in mind here the euhemerized Óðinn — the human king from Tyrkland who immigrates to Sweden — but he follows this reference to the laying down of law with a stanza from Eyvindr Skáldaspillir’s Háleyg jatal, which employs this kenning for Óðinn: sjaldblœtr ása niðr (shield-worshipped kinsman of the æsir), and refers to his offspring with Skaði. In this context, the rela5 

Larrington breaks these into two stanzas, 20 and 21, the latter beginning with ‘they laid down laws’.

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tionship between Óðinn and Skaði should be understood as euhemerized, but the stanza itself probably reflects a hieros gamos (è53); thus law is, according to Snorri in Ynglinga saga, established by the forefather of the ruling dynasty.

Early Polities and Provinces We must assume that there were several kingdoms or polities before the establishment of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden as major kingdoms at the beginning of the Viking Age (or slightly before) (see also è 19). We know from Classical authors from the start of the first millennium and from Jordanes’s history of the Goths, Getica (ch. 3), from around 500 ce, of several peoples (gentes) in Scandinavia. Many of these can be identified and geographically located, for example: theustes, the people living in the small province of Tjust; finnaithae, the people living in Finnveden; and ostrogothae, the Östgötar — all in southern Sweden; raumarici, the people living in Romerike; grannii, the people living in Grenland; and ranii, the people living in Ranríki — all to be found in (medieval) Norway (see, e.g., Brink 2008). The provinces of Scandinavia, today called landskap or fylke, earlier called land, fylki, or ríki, are certainly prehistoric and probably older than the Viking Age (è19). We have, for example, the name Jämtland mentioned on the rune stone on Frösön as eotalont ( J RS1928: 66, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) and Hadeland in Norway mentioned in the inscription on the Dynna rune stone (N 68, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) as haþalanti, both rune stones dated to the eleventh century. The interesting question, which is extremely difficult to answer due to the lack of written sources, is what was the societal base for these smaller polities or land? It seems probable that Scandinavia was characterized by a situation similar to the one found in, for example, early Anglo-Saxon England and early Ireland, with small kingdoms, lordships, and short-lived larger kingdoms. However, since we lack written sources in Scandinavia, we have no names for the possible lords, petty kings, kings, and ‘high kings’. Therefore, the mention by Jordanes (Getica ch. 3) of a king Roþulf who ruled the people called ranii (hence in Ranríki) becomes very important: ‘Ranii, quibus non ante multos annos Roduulf rex fuit’ (ranii, over whom Roduulf was king not many years ago). It seems a viable hypothesis that pre-Viking Age Scandinavia had a structure similar to Anglo-Saxon England, and to the Old Irish tuath system, with small kingdoms or at least polities under the control of a king, a dróttinn, jarl, or some other leader. Since the written sources are lacking, other sources become important, such as placenames, runes, and archaeological and philological sources. Within the

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latter category we find the name Erik, Old Norse Eiríkr, which is to be derived form a Proto-Germanic *Aina-rîkijaz, lit. ‘the one in sole control of power’ or something like that (cf. Elmevik 1982), and which seems to be an attribute of a ‘(high-)king’ (cf. Latin rex, Old Irish rig), which may belong to the same semantic sphere as the Old-Irish ‘high-kings’ (Byrne 1973) and the disputed Anglo-Saxon Bretwalda (cf. Wormald 1983; Dumville 1997; Keynes 1999). The implication is that the name Eiríkr, Erik may reveal that a regal institution existed in early Scandinavia similar to the Old Irish and Anglo-Saxon ones. A toponymic analysis of the small polities or land, together with what we may reconstruct from later written sources, indicates that what seems to have kept these communities together was a common judicial custom. Attempts have been made to reconstruct focal sites for legal activities within these land and their smaller subregions (these assembly sites often called þing, þingbrekka, þingløt, þingberg, þingmót, þingvall/vǫllr, þjóðstefna, þjóðarmál, þjódarlyng, vall/vǫllr/vellir, liung/lyng, løt, haugr, fylkishaugr, lǫgberg), hence mounds, hillocks, or level fields suitable for assembling, places where people met for legal discussions and settlements (Brink 2003b, 2004a; cf. Vikstrand 2016a). Who then controlled these þing assemblies? Was it a king or a chieftain, or was the ‘public’ important? It seems certain that the goði/guþi had an important role to play at these gatherings, but did he also have a cultic-religious function on such occasions, which is what the etymology of the term suggests? What was the role of the Lawspeaker and how was he selected in the community — was he a chieftain who ‘took’ the position, or was he elected to the office (if so, however, he was certainly from the upper stratum in society)? Most probably, someone ‘controlled’, maybe even ‘owned’, the þing assembly. But with practically no written sources, we have to construct feasible models from the few written sources we do have, from toponymy and landscape analyses, from retrospective analyses of the Old Icelandic literature, and from early medieval documents, and also from comparisons to the Frankish, Anglo-Saxon, and Irish cultures. The important knowledge we gain is that the early Scandinavian society or, rather, societies, were legal societies. How far back in time we can trace this is unclear. Whether Tacitus’s descriptions of law and legal customs among the Germanic people in his Germania (98 ce) is accurate, valid, and informative with regard to the societal situation on the Scandinavian peninsula in the first century ce is uncertain. In Chapter 11 of Germania, Tacitus tells us of a kind of assembly: De minoribus rebus principes consultant, de maioribus omnes, ita tamen ut ea quo­ que, quorum penes plebem arbitrium est, apud principes praetractentur. coeunt,

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nisi quid fortuitum et subitum incidit, certis diebus, cum aut incohatur luna aut impletur; […] dies cunctatione coeuntium absumitur. ut turbae placuit, considunt armati. silentium per sacerdotes, quibus tum et coercendi ius est, imperatur. mox rex vel princeps, prout aetas cuique, prout nobilitas, prout decus bellorum, prout facundia est, audiuntur auctoritate suadendi magis quam iubendi potestate. si displicuit sententia, fremitu aspernantur; sin placuit, frameas concutiunt: honora­ tissimum adsensus genus est armis laudare. (On small matters the chiefs consult; on larger questions the community; but with this limitation, that even the subjects, the decision of which rests with the people, are first handled by the chiefs. They meet, unless there be some unforeseen sudden emergency, on days set apart — when the moon, that is, is new or at the full: […] when the mob is pleased to begin, they take their seats carrying arms. Silence is called for by the priests, who thenceforward have power also to coerce: then a king or a chief is listened to, in order of age, birth and glory in war, or eloquence, with the prestige which belongs to their counsel rather that with any prescriptive right to command. If the advice tendered be displeasing, they reject it with groans; if it please them, they clash their spears: the most complimentary expression of assent is this martial approbation.) (pp. 279–81)

These words by Tacitus have of course had a nearly sacrosanct function in early historiography; today scholars differ in opinions regarding the historical accuracy of the account and, if accurate, to what region(s) it should be applied. A sound scholar like for example D. H. Green (1998: 30) does not hesitate in accepting Tacitus’s description as valid without qualifying or dismissing the statements in any serious way. Thus, if we may follow Tacitus and if we can assume his account was also valid for the people living on the Scandinavian peninsula, minor matters were dealt with by the chieftains, whereas major ones had to be decided by the people (plebs), hence obviously at some sort of general assembly. The men at the assembly were armed and when they assented to some decision, Tacitus tells us, they expressed approbation with their weapons (armis laudare), which of course recalls the Old Scandinavian custom of vápnaták, to rattle with weapons or beat swords or spears against shields. If we are to follow Tacitus, it is also of importance to note that ‘priests’ had a function at the assembly, namely, to silence the congregation (silentium per sacerdotes). We must assume that these men were some kind of cult-leaders (cf. Sundqvist 1998, 2003a, 2007, 2016: 164–67), who, it follows, also fulfilled a number of functions at law assemblies (è29).

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The Construction of the þing Assembly Site In a famous episode in the saga of Egill Skallagrímsson, the assembly at Gulaþing in western Norway is described: En þar er dómrinn var settr, var vǫllr sléttr ok settar niðr heslistengr í vǫllinn í hring, en lǫgð um útan snœri umhverfis; váru þat kǫlluð vébǫnd; en fyrir innan í hringinum sátu dómendr, tólf ór Firðafylki ok tólf ór Sygnafylki, tólf ór Hǫrðafylki. (ch. 56, p. 154) (The court was held on a level stretch of ground on which hazel poles had been arranged in a circle, with ropes called ‘holy ropes’ (vébǫnd) going all around. Inside the circle sat the judges, twelve from Fjord Province, twelve from Sogn and twelve from Hordaland.) (ch. 56, p. 136)

In the Gulaþing Law itself (ch. 91), it says that the þing site should have a round shape (þinghringr; cf. Robberstad 1937: 198; Schledermann 1974: 374), and in the early Frostaþing Law (p. 127) we find the word vébond; in the latter, it says that the ármenn (bailiffs) from every fylki shall enclose with vébǫnd the place of (the men in) the lögrétta: ‘Þat er fornr réttr at ármaðr or fylkium öllum scolo gera vebönd her á þingvelli’. In the so-called Hundabrævið from the Faroe Islands, vébǫnd are mentioned in the context of logþing: ‘Var þetta gort a logþingi innan vebanda’ (Barnes 1974: 386) (This was done at the law þing within the hallowed bands). Finally, the regulation concerning the use of vébǫnd is also found in Magnus Lagabøter’s Landslov (Law of the Realm) (p. 14) and Bylov (The Town Law) (p. 188). The use of hazel poles to fasten the vébǫnd on, mentioned in Egill’s saga, may also be based on fact. This custom is, for example, known from Frankish Law (Lex Ribuaria 67.5) in the eighth century. Pre-historic thing Assembly Sites It is possible to reconstruct a prehistoric division of Scandinavia into provinces (land; fylki), hundreds (hundari; hærað), and sub-districts within a lething/ leþunger/leiðangr naval organization (cf. Brink 2008). These districts did also function as legal districts. When we have written documents from the Middle Ages, we can see that the thing assemblies within the legal districts were ambulatory; they moved to different places within the district. In some documents, however, a proverbial expression occurs: a rættom þingstaþ(er) (at the right thing site), which probably hints at an older situation with a fixed þing site (Brink 2003b: 62). This assumption can be substantiated with a couple of important runic inscription from the eleventh century.

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Figure 20.2. The Icelandic alþingi (general assembly) site at Þingvellir. Photo: Cecilia Ljung.

At a place called Aspa löt in Rönö hundred in Södermanland, Sweden, we find a large burial mound called Tingshögen (the thing mound) and beside the mound is a rune stone (Sö 137, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), which bears the inscription: stain: sar:si: stanr: at: ybi: o þikstaþi: at: þuru: uar (This stone stands in memory of Œpir on the thing assembly site in memory of Þóra’s husband).

This is probably the old thing assembly site for Rönö hundred. On one of the two rune stones (U 225, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), which stand (obviously on their original site) at Arkils tingstad, in Bällsta, Täby, just north of Stockholm, we read the following: [Ulfkil] uk arkil uk kui þir kariþu iar þikstaþ (Ulvkel and Arnkel and Gye they made here a thing site (þingstaþer)).

This thing assembly site was probably not for the hundred (Valænda hundare); instead, it has been suggested that it was a private thing site for a family or a group of people living within the hundred.

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Figure 20.3. The assembly site at Bällsta, ‘Arkels tingstad’ in Vallentuna in Uppland. Photo: Cecilia Ljung. 

The important aspect these two runic inscriptions reveal is that they indicate a fixed thing site in the landscape, in these cases thing assemblies at different levels of society. It can be assumed that each of the legal districts mentioned above had its fixed thing assembly site (cf. Brink 2003b, 2004a). Furthermore, it can be assumed with a great deal of confidence that law and pre-Christian religion were closely connected at least during the Viking Age. Two cases may illustrate this. The thing site for the hundred of Östkind hæradh in the province of Östergötland, Sweden, was in medieval documents called Lytisberg. This can be identified with the place where the parish church in Östra Husby now stands. It is situated on a striking hill and has as its neighbour the farm Bossgård. Both these names, Husby and Bossgård, indicate some central administrative function in probably the late Viking Age and early Middle Ages (see è 19). The name of the thing assembly, Lytisberg, obviously contains as its first element the title of a pagan cult leader, lytir (Elmevik 1990, 2003b; è29), who therefore was connected to the thing assembly. The old thing assembly for the hundred of Trögd in the province of Uppland, Sweden, was Enhelga (Rahmqvist 2010: 23), which during the Viking Age consisted of an island in an inlet reaching far inland from today’s Lake Mälaren.

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Figure 20.4. Anundshög at Badelunda in Västmanland and a tall rune stone erected in front of the mound after a certain Heden, son of Folkvid and brother of Anund (Vs 12, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). Photo: Bengt A. Lundberg, Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm. 

This name goes back to Old Swedish Øin helgha (the holy island). As Karin Calissendorff (1964: 134–35) has — no doubt correctly — assumed, the old name for this island is to be found in the name of a nearby hamlet, Gåde (< Gudhø ‘the island of/dedicated to the gods’) (cf. Brink 2011: 20). Again we find a direct link between law and pagan religion. It seems plausible to assume that in the legal negotiations and settlements at a thing assembly in pre-Christian Scandinavia, pagan rituals and actions were vital elements in the proceedings (for suggestions on how these may have been conducted, see Brink 2004b). We thus know of a couple of prehistoric thing assembly sites in Scandinavia, such as the above-mentioned Aspa löt and Bällsta, furthermore Anundshög east of the city of Västerås in the province of Västmanland. At Elliðavatn by Þingnes west of Reykjavík in Iceland, a thing site has been excavated, which may be assumed to be the famous Kjalarnesþing, mentioned in Landnámabók (Guðmundur Ólafsson 1987, 2004). A number of archaeological surveys and excavations have been carried out at some of these to try to discover traces of the activities at these sites (see, e.g., Sanmark and Semple 2008, 2010). In some cases, it has been possible to see traces of what are probably thing booths and in others

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we have finds of cooking pits. However, it is of course difficult to discern traces of short-time gatherings, which must have left very few objects and structures, but hopefully more excavations will uncover the construction dates of such sites. The Forsa Rune Ring: The Earliest Law in Scandinavia It is obvious that Viking society was a type of legal society. There is no doubt about this, but it is very difficult to find traces and to reconstruct it. We do, however, have some — more or less — indisputable evidence. One is the inscription on the so-called Forsa rune ring (Hs 7, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). In the parish church of Forsa in the province of Hälsingland, northern Sweden, an iron ring with a runic inscription has been hanging on a door for centuries. The ring was observed and mentioned already in 1599, and the inscription was published and translated around 1700 by the famous Olof Celcius. The ring measures 43 cm in diameter and it contains nearly 250 runes. Traditionally, and ever since an important and influential analysis of the inscription by the Norwegian Sophus Bugge in 1877, this inscription has been referred to as the oldest legal inscription (law-rule) in Scandinavia. For a long time, the scholarly consensus was that the inscription contained an ecclesiastical law-rule, regulating tithes, the protection afforded by asylum in a church, or the illicit cancellation of divine service. The main argument for this being a church law is the occurrence of two key words, staf ‘(bishop’s) staff ’ and lirþir ‘the learned (clergy)’, so read and translated by Bugge. The ring and the inscription have therefore been assumed to stem from the Christian period, although the runes on the ring are very archaic; the same kind are found on, for example, the famous Rök rune stone in the province of Östergötland (from c. 800 ce). In an important analysis of the inscription, made by the Norwegian runologist Aslak Liestøl in the 1970s, he was able to prove that Bugge’s reading of lirþir was wrong. Instead, it should be read liuþir ‘people’. This does away with the foundation for the traditional interpretation and dating of the ring. There is nothing that forces us to link the ring to a clerical context any more. The inscription reads: :uksatuiskilanaukauratua stafatfurstalaki: uksatua aukaurafiurataþrulaki: : inatþriþialakiuksafiuraukauratastaf: aukaltaikuiuarrifanhafskakiritfurir: suaþliuþirakuatliuþritisuauasintfuraukhalkat: inþarkirþusikþitanunra tarstaþum: : aukufakra hiurtstaþum: inuibiurnfaþi:

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which may be translated as: (One ox and two aura [in fine] [to?] staf [or] aura staf [in fine] for the restoration of a cult site (vi) in a valid state for the first time; two oxen and four aura for the second time; but for the third time four oxen and eight aura; and all property in suspension, if he does not make right. That, the people are entitled to demand, according to the law of the people that was decreed and ratified before. But they made [the ring, the statement or?], Anund from Tåsta and Ofeg from Hjortsta. But Vibjörn carved).

Today, it seems more obvious to date the Forsa rune ring to the ninth or tenth century, which of course makes its title of ‘the oldest law-rule in Scandinavia’ even more accurate (Brink 1996b; Källström 2010b: 145, 201–02). We have here a legal text, a kind of law-rule, from the early Viking Age. It has been proposed that it regulates the maintenance of a vi, a cult and assembly site (Ruthström 1990). For the failure of restoring the vi in a legal way, one had to pay fines, an ox and two aura (ørar) for the first time, two oxen and four ørar for the second time, and four oxen and eight ørar the third time, and, failing this, all your property was to be suspended. Perhaps the most important part of the inscription is the phrase svað liuðir æigu at liuðrétti ‘that, which the people are entitled to demand according to the people’s right’ (i.e., the law of the land). Thus, this inscription provides evidence of a special kind of law of the people or of the land (most certainly Hälsingland), a liuðréttr, cf. Old Norse lýðréttr (see von See 1964: 57). This statement is, to my knowledge, unique for Viking Age Scandinavia, and it actually supports the statement by Snorri Sturluson that different people had different laws in early Scandinavia. The Forsa rune ring must be regarded as one of the most important artefacts of the early Viking Age because of the light it sheds on early Scandinavian society.

Prohibitions against Pagan Customs in the Laws The interaction between society, law, and religion continued after the conversion to Christianity. Many early laws contain prohibitions against certain kinds of behaviours linked to paganism, with surprisingly varied punishments and fines. These provisions open a window onto the processes of Christianization in the various polities. The prosecution of pagans and the prohibition against pagan customs started in the Roman Empire already by Constantine and were codified in laws and edicts by his son Constantine II (337–61), ordering the closure of pagan temples, prohibiting pagan sacrifices on the threat of death penalties,

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Figure 20.5. An iron ring from Forsa in Hälsingland, dated probably to the ninth century. The Forsa ring contains a long runic inscription, which is the oldest preserved legal text in Scandinavia (Hs 7, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). Photo: Bengt A. Lundberg, Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm. 

and this ban was later manifested even more severely by Theodosius (381–95) in his ‘Theodosian decrees’, with the injunctions of the killing of pagan priests, destruction of pagan temples, holy sites, idols, images and objects (see, e.g., MacMullen 1984 passim). This endeavour to eradicate pagan customs, buildings, and objects continued in the Frankish Empire, and Charlemagne issued a capitularium in 785, Capitulatio de partibus Saxoniae, whereby Saxons were forbidden pagan practices, such as divination, human sacrifices, cremation of the dead, the adoration of pagan deities at the temples or holy places, and forced to convert to Christendom:6 6. Si quis a diabulo deceptus crediderit secundum morem paganorum, virum aliquem aut feminam strigam esse et homines commendere, et propter hoc ipsam incenderit vel carnem eius ad commedendum dederit vel ipsam commederit, capitali sententiae punietur. 7. Si quis corpus defuncti hominis secundum ritum paganorum flamma consumi fecerit et ossa eius ad cinerem redierit, capitae punietur. 8. Si quis deinceps in gente Saxonorum inter eos latens non baptizatus se abscondere voluerit et ad baptismum venire contempserit paganusque permanere voluerit, morte moriatur. 9. Si quis hominem diabulo sacrificaverit et in hostiam more paganorum daemonibus obtulerit, morte moriatur. (Capitulatio de partibus Saxoniae, i, 68–69) 6 

See also Effros (1997) and Sullivan (1953: 732).

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(6. If any one deceived by the devil shall have believed, after the manner of the pagans, that any man or woman is a witch and eats men, and on this account shall have burned the person, or shall have given the person’s flesh to others to eat, or shall have eaten it himself, let him be punished by a capital sentence. 7. If any one, in accordance with pagan rites, shall have caused the body of a dead man to be burned and shall have reduced his bones to ashes, let him be punished capitally. 8. If any one of the race of the Saxons hereafter concealed among them shall have wished to hide himself unbaptized, and shall have scorned to come to baptism and shall have wished to remain a pagan, let him be punished by death. 9. If any one shall have sacrificed a man to the devil, and after the manner of the pagans shall have presented him as a victim to the demons, let him be punished by death.) (pp. 2–5; cf. Nilsson 1992: 14)).

However, it is notable that there are no actual prohibitions against pagan cult or sacrifices to be found in the Salian Frankish laws (Pactus Legis Salicae and Lex Salica Karolina) from around 500 and onwards. What these laws reveal instead are rulings against witchcraft, sorcery, and magic: § 1 Si quis alterum herburgium clamauerit, hoc est strioportium, aut illum, qui inium portare dicitur, ubi strias coccinant, et non potuerit adprobare, mallobergo hum­ nisfith hoc est, mmd denarios qui faciunt solidos lxii semis culpabilis iudicetur. § 3 Si stria hominem commederit et ei fuerit adprobatum… (Pactus legis Salicae, pp. 230–31). (1. He who calls another man a sorcerer (herburgium) — that is, a strioportio or one who is said to carry a brass cauldron in which witches brew — if he is not able to prove it (called humnisfith in the Malberg gloss), he shall be liable to pay twentyfive hundred denarii (i.e., sixty-two and one-half solidi). 3. If a witch eats a man and it is proved against him…) (p. 125, cf. p. 199)

There are some Visigothic law texts where pagan customs are discussed, ordering people to desert their pagan temples and warning them that pagan idols are demons. However, most of the laws in Lex Romana Visigothorum on paganism were concerned with the practice of divination and magic (McKenna 1938: 120–21). In the Frisian law (Lex Frisionum) from c. 790, there are two mentions of paganism; one is a paragraph (17.5) condemning the selling of slaves to ‘pagan people’ (paganas gentes), and the other is the famous and utterly strange paragraph that appears in an addition attributed to somebody named Wlemar (11.1)

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Qui fanum effregerit, et ibi aliquid de sacris tulerit, ducitur ad mare, et in sabulo, quod accessus maris operire solte, finduntur aures eius, et castratur, et immolatur Diis quorum templa violavit. (If anyone breaks into a shrine (fanum) and steals sacred items from there, he shall be taken to the sea, and on the sand, which will be covered by the flood, his ears will be cleft, and he will be castrated and sacrificed to the god, whose temple he dishonoured).7

It is not specified that the fanum/templa alluded to here is a pagan one, but everyone commenting on this bizarre paragraph is of that opinion (see, e.g., Siems 1980: 348), and it is difficult to see the law paragraph in a Christian context. As with the Visigothic laws and the Salian Frankish laws, the regulations in the Anglo-Saxon laws are mostly mainly about the prohibition of witchcraft and other behaviour condemned by the Church, but in principle never referring directly to pagan cult as such. One early example is from the Kentish king Wihtræd’s law (c. 695) (§ 13): ‘Gif þeuw deoflum geldaþ, vi scll gebete oþþe his hyd’ (pp. 26–27) (If a slave makes offerings to devils, he shall pay six shillings compensation or undergo the lash). In the laws of King Edgar, it is stated that the priests shall promote Christendom and totally exterminate all kinds of heathendom, such as the worship of wells, trees, stones, black magic, divinations, and the use of spells (Nilsson 1992: 28, with Old English citation in n. 57). More general prohibitions are mentioned in later laws, and in King Canute’s laws (1020–23) it is finally forbidden to worship pagan gods, the sun, the moon, fire, rivers, springs, stone or trees, with further prohibitions against witchcraft, sacrifice, and sorcery.8 There was, thus, a clear condemnation of pagan practices and customs by the early Church in Europe, but this had astonishingly little impact on the bar-

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Online at [accessed 4 April 2019]; cf. Nilsson (1992: 15). 8  And ‘[we] forbeodað eornostlice ælcne hæðenscipe. Hæðenscipe byð, þæt man deofolgyld weorðige, þæt is þæt man weorþige hæðene godas & sunnan oððe monan, fyr oððe flod, wæterwyllas oððe stanas oððe æniges cynnes wúdutreowa, oððon wiccecræft lufige oððon morðweorc gefremme on ænige wisan, oððon on blote oððon fyrhte, oððon swylcra gedwimera ænig þíngc dreoge’ (F. Liebermann 1903–16: i, 312; cf. Nilsson 1992: 29); ‘And we earnestly forbid every heathenism. Heathenism is, that men worship idols, that is, that men worship heathen gods and the sun or the moon, fire or rivers, water-springs or stones, or any kind of forest-trees, or love witchcraft, or promote murder in any way, or conducts sacrifice or divination, or in any such delusions’ (my translation).

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barian law codes.9 In all likelihood, this is partly due to the fact that when the law codes were written, their society was Christian, and therefore there were no need to deal with lingering pagan customs. However, one would have expected to find in some of the early Anglo-Saxon laws more elaborate legislation against pagan customs and cult, but alas. Therefore, the earliest Scandinavian laws become all the more interesting. Although hundreds of years later than the barbarian law codes, they are written in the same ‘vein’ and in an astonishing way cover the same legal fields. It is in the Scandinavian laws we come closest to pagan, pre-Christian cult and custom.10

The Provincial Laws in Scandinavia The earliest written laws in Scandinavia emanate from the High and late Middle Ages (roughly eleventh to fourteenth centuries). Normally, they are linked to provinces (land), such as Uppland, Gotland, Skåne, Jylland, or regions, such as the Gulaþing and Frostaþing Law areas. They are to be seen as branches of the same tradition as the continental Germanic laws (leges barbarorum), such as the laws of the Franks (i.e. Lex Salica), the Lombards, the Bavarians, the Anglo-Saxons, and so forth, which, however, began to be written down much earlier than in Scandinavia. The continental laws are all — in principle — written down in Latin, whereas the laws of the Anglo-Saxon kings and the Scandinavian provinces are, strangely enough, in the vernacular. A big issue in the discussion of these early provincial laws of Scandinavia has been to determine to what extent they reflect earlier legal customs, or whether they exclusively reflect medieval legal ideology, based mainly on continental law. In other words, do these laws constitute orally transmitted legal traditions and customs, which were then written down, or are they medieval codifications and legislation by political agents in the Middle Ages, who based their law codes on continental judicial patterns? Today, there seems to be an understanding within the current research that these earliest laws are, in fact, a combination of both (see, e.g., Brink 2015).

9 

Outside of the laws, however, we have ample evidence of condemnations of pagan practices and customs by the Church (see, e.g., Filotas 2005). 10  For a broad overview of pagan custom and cult among Germanic speaking people in medieval Europe, see, e.g., Krutzler (2011). For the early Church’s attitude towards pagan customs and cult, see Nilsson (1992). For an in-depth analysis of the practice of magic and magicians in early Iceland, see Dillmann (2006).

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When analysing and discussing the Old Norse religion, the forn siðr, the legal aspects are central, albeit elusive, phenomena. Questions regarding them include whether the prohibitions against pagan cults and conducting rituals found in the laws are to be seen as actually stipulative (for the time of writing down the laws) or as obsolete relicts, what the relations were — if any — between the cult site and the legal assembly site, and so on. But first, it is essential to inventory what the laws actually say about prohibitions of pagan cult practices. Prohibitions against Pagan Cult Practices in the Scandinavian Provincial Laws In the earliest Icelandic law collection, Grágás, we read: Menn scolo trva a einn gvð oc ahelga men hans. oc blota eigi heiþnar vættir. þa blötar hann heiþnar vættir. ef hann signir fe sitt oþrvm enn gvði. eþa helgvum mavnnvm hans. Ef maðr blotar heiþnar vættir. oc uarþar þat fiorbavgs garþ. Ef maþr ferr með galldra eþa gørningar. eþa fiolkýngi. ef hann queðr þat eþa kennir. eþa lætr queða. at ser eþa at fe sinv. þat varþar honvm fiorbavgs garþ. oc scal honvm heiman stefna. oc sækia við .xij. qvið. Ef maþr ferr með fordæs skap. þat varþar scoggang. þat ero fordæs skapir. ef maþr gérir i orðvm sinvm. eþa fiolkyngi sott eþa bana. fe eþa mavnnvm. þat scal sekia við .xij. qvið. Menn scolo eigi fara meþ steina. eþa magna þa til þess at binda á menn eþa a fé manna. Ef men trva a steina til heilindis ser. eþa fé. oc varþar fiorbavgs garþ. Scalat maþr eiga fé öborit. ef maþr a fe o borit. oc letr o merkt ganga. til þess at hann trvir aþat heldr enn a annat fe. eþa ferr meþ hindr vitni neccvers kyns. oc varþar honvm fiorbavgs garþ. Ef maþr gengr berserks gang. oc varþar honvm þat fiorbavgs garþ. oc sva varþar kavrlvm þeim er hia ero staddir. nema þeirhefti hann at. þa varþar aungvm þeirra. ef þeir vinna heftan hann et. enn ef optar kemr at. varþar fiorbavgs garþ. (pp. 22–23) (Men are to put their trust in one God and His saints and are not to worship heathen beings. A man worships heathen beings when he assigns his property to anyone but God and His saints. If a man worships heathen beings, the penalty is lesser outlawry. If someone uses spells or witchcraft or magic — he uses magic if he utters or teaches someone else or gets someone else to utter words of magic over himself or his property — the penalty is lesser outlawry, and he is to be summoned locally and prosecuted with a panel of twelve. If a man practises black sorcery, the penalty for that is full outlawry. It is black sorcery if through his words or his magic a man brings about the sickness or death of livestock or people. That is to be prosecuted with a panel of twelve. People are not to do things with stones or fill them with magic power with the idea of tying them on people or livestock. If a man puts trust in stones for his own

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health or that of his livestock, the penalty is lesser outlawry. A man is not to keep ‘unborn’ livestock. If a man has ‘unborn’ livestock and lets it stay unmarked with the idea of putting more trust in it than in other livestock or if he uses superstition of any sort, the penalty for that is lesser outlawry. If a man falls into a berserk’s frenzy, the penalty is lesser outlawry, and the same penalty applies to the men who are present unless they restrain him — then they are liable to no penalty if they succeed in restraining him. But if it happens again, the penalty is lesser outlawry. (pp. 38–39)

In Grágás, the belief in pagan ‘beings’ and the practice of sorcery is penalized with lesser outlawry (fjǫrbaugsgarðr), by which was meant a fine, the loss of some property, perhaps also an ox or cow, and the banishment from Iceland for three years (but, noteworthily, that, while abroad, the excommunicated person enjoyed normal immunity) (Foote and others 1980–2000: 250; cf. Jones 1940; Riisøy 2014: 123). However, practising witchcraft or sorcery to the effect that man or livestock became ill or died was deemed black sorcery, and this was penalized with full outlawry (fordæðuskapr),11 which meant that the person forfeited all his property and all his rights and could be killed by anyone with impunity, even abroad (Foote and others 1980–2000: 246). What is meant by ‘unborn’ livestock, mentioned in the paragraph, is unknown. And finally, the act of frenzyness, acting like a berserkr, was linked to pagan beliefs and therefore penalized with lesser outlawry. In another passage in Grágás, we are confronted with the terms tréníð and níðstǫng: Ef maðr gerir manne níð oc varðar fiorbavgs garð. En þat ero níð ef maðr scer manne tré níþ eða rístr eða reisir manne niðstöng scal søkia við xii. quið. (pp. 182–83) (And it is shaming slander if a man carves or incises a ‘wood-shame’ directed against him or raises a ‘shame-pole’ against him. He is to prosecute with a panel of twelve. (p. 197)

These terms, tréníð and níðstǫng, are not directly to be linked to any pagan custom here, but they are obviously to be seen in the same context as the skáldstǫng and flannstǫng mentioned in Kong Sverrers Christenret (Kristinréttr) (see below).12 Lesser outlawry, fjǫrbaugsgarðr, was as mentioned a three-year banishment from Iceland. 11  For fordæðuskapr, see Fritzner (1972–73 art. fordæðuskapr), and fordæða ‘sorcery’, Fritzner (1972–73 art. fordæða); cf. Dillmann (2010: 216). 12  For níðstǫng, see Dillmann (2006: 128 n. 133 with refs).

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Figure 20.6. The opening page of the Older Gulaþing Law, Codex Rantzovianus (E don. var. 137). Photo: Det Kongelige Bibliotek, Copenhagen. 

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In the Older Gulaþing Law, applied in south-west Norway, we find older and younger redactions of the law, known respectively as the Olav text and the Magnus text.13 Here, there are prohibitions against divination (spá), augury (galdr), and sorcery (e.g., bad or evil deeds),14 and anyone who is knowledgeable in such things and makes divinations or sings galdrar15 will normally be outlawed and excommunicated, while his property will be confiscated and divided into two parts, one part for the king, the other for the bishop.16 Vm spár oc um galldra Ðat er nu þvi nest at ver scolom eigi lyda spám ne golldrum ne gerningum. illum. En sa er kunnr oc sannr verðr at þvi. at hann segir spar. æða ferr með spám. þa er hann maðr utlagr oc uheilagr. oc hverr penningr fiár hans. þat a halft konongr. en halft biscop. En annar er spám lyðir. oc verðr sannr at þvi. þa scal sa [/þa] beöta .xl. marca. þat a halft konongr. en halft biscop. En sa annarr er ferr með galldra oc gerningar. oc verða [/værðer] at þvi kunnir oc sanner. þeir scolo fara or landeign konongs várs. þvi eigu menn eigi at lyda. þa hava þeir firigort hverium penningi fiár sins. En þeir scolo kost eiga at ganga til scripta oc beöta við Krist. En ef þat mælir biscop. æða hans ærendreke at maðr ferr með spár. æða galldra. æða gerningar. en þeir kveða við þvi nei. þar ero syniar mæltar firi. Ef manne er þat kent at hann fare með spár. syni með settar eiði. nefna menn .xii, iamgoða hanom. þar scal hann einn hava af þeim .xii. monnum. En hann scal sialfr annarr væra. hinn [þriði] nanaste niðr. En þeir [/hinir] þrir er firi orðe oc eiði kunni hyggja. fellr til utlegðar. ef fellr. Magnus. En ef maðr verðr at þvi kunnr oc sannr. at hann vinnr eið usöran. æða leiðir aðra menn með sér. þa er hann sialfr seccr .xv. morcom. en .iij, morcom firir hvern er svór með hanom ef þeir vissu eigi at usört var. En ef þeir vissu at usört var. fyrr en þeir vynni. þa giallde hverr [/þeira] .xv. mercr. sem hann. Baðer. En ef þat er konom kent at þær fare með golldrum oc gerningum. þa scal þar nefna konor .vi. þriar a hvara hond henne huspreyiur þær er menn vitu at goðar se. þær scolo vitni bera at hon kann eigi galldra ne gerningar. En ef henni þat vitni fellr. þa fellr til utlegðar. þa a konongr fe hennar halft. en biscop halft. En hana scal ervingi föra or landeign konongs várs. (p. 17) 13 

How old these redactions are, and hence which Olav and Magnus are alluded to, is disputed; for different opinions, see, e.g., Trygve Knudsen (1960: 559) and Magnus Rindal (1994: 12); pace Ebbe Hertzberg (1905) and Tore Iversen (2011: 103–22). 14  Cf. Hemmer (1947) for prohibitions in the Scandinavian medieval laws regarding sorcery and poisoning. 15  For galdrar, see Lindquist (1923); Fjeld Halvorsen (1960: 1159–61); Dillmann (2006: 119–20). 16  For a discussion and comparison between Grágás and the Gulaþing Law on this topic, see also Kværness (1996: 143–51).

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(Now it is so that we shall not listen to divinations, nor sorcerer’s songs, nor evil deeds. But he who is known and found guilty in such things, such as soothsaying or the conducting of divinations, then he is an outlaw and ‘unholy’ (not entitled to legal protection and therefore deprived of all personal rights), and all his property and money (shall be forfeited and divided) half to the king, and half to the bishop. But another one who listens to divinations, and believes in this, he shall pay 40 marker (in fine), the king ‘owns’ half, the bishop half (of the fine). But another one who performs sorcerer’s songs (galdrar) and deeds, and believes and is knowledgeable in such things, he shall be expelled from our king’s realm. Such things people shall not indulge in (i.e., listen to). But if they do (listen to it), then they have forfeited all their money and property. But they should have the option to do penance and show remorse before Christ. But if a bishop, or his emissary, says that a man conducts divinations or sings galdrar or other evil deeds, but he denies this, then this must be verified. If a man is accused of conducting divinations, then he must clear himself with a séttareiðr oath. Twelve men shall be named, equal to him, these twelve shall be represented as one, he shall be the second, and the third shall be his closest kin. And these three shall be in control of the word and oath, and they shall outlaw him if he fails. [Magnus:] But if a man is found to take a false oath, or misleads other men in a false oath, then he is to be penalized with 15 marker, and each of the men who took the oath with him and did not know it was false should pay three marker. But if they knew that it was a false oath, then they shall pay 15 marker each as he did. [Both:] But if women are accused of singing galdrar and conducting evil deeds, then six women shall be named, three on each side of her, housewives (húspreyjur), whom people know are good (trustworthy), they shall bear witness that she does not know how to sing galdrar or conduct sorcery. But if that witness fails her, then she is to be outlawed. Then the king owns half of her property, and the bishop half. And her kin must lead her out of our king’s realm.) (my translation)

It is clear, then, that for conducting sorcery and singing galdrar one was to be outlawed and to lose all one’s property. However, if not an acting part in such evil-doings, one could do penance and pay a sizeable penalty of 40 marker. If falsely accused of sorcery, one could together with twelve oath-takers — in a rather complicated composition, where the twelve was counted as one — take an oath, the so-called séttareiðr,17 and clear oneself. If a person failed the oath, and was found guilty, then s/he was to be outlawed. In the younger Magnus redaction of the law, there is nonetheless a more lenient outcome. Here, one could, on being found guilty of swearing a false oath, get away with paying a fine of 15 marker. According to both redactions, women conducting sorcery 17 

For séttareiðr, see, e.g., Hamre (1958: 494).

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were given the same severe punishment, outlawry, but in such instances, there was no séttareiðr to be named and oaths to be taken; instead, six housewives (probably female acquaintances of the accused) were to be named as witnesses. If the woman was found guilty, her family was responsible for forcing her out of the kingdom. In the following paragraph (29) in the Older Gulaþing Law, we find the famous prohibition against sacrifices to pagan gods and the usage of (burial) mounds and hǫrgar as cult sites. Anyone who is caught in the act of such pagan activities has, according to the law, forfeited his property; he must confess and do penance before Christ. If he does not repent, he must be outlawed. Um blot Blot er oss oc kviðiat at vér scolom eigi blota heiðit guð. ne hauga. ne horga. En ef maðr verðr at þvi kunnr oc sannr. þa hever hann firi gort hveríum penníngi fiar síns. han scal ganga til skripta oc bøta vid Crist. En ef hann vill þat eígi. þa scal han fara ór landeign konongs várs. (p. 18) (It is also admonished for us that we should not sacrifice to pagan gods, nor mounds, nor hǫrgar. But if a man is a believer and sacrifices, then he has forfeited all his property (in money), and he shall confess and do penance before Christ. But if he refuses, then he shall be outlawed (e.g., leave our king’s realm). (my translation)

From this legal enactment we can see that a burial mound could be used as a cult site in the pagan religion, which probably reflects an ancestor cult or ancestor worship in function (perhaps still when the law was written down).18 A hǫrgr we know was a kind of cult site, although we do not actually know what it looked like; was it a heap of stones structured as a sort of ‘altar’ (which the etymology suggests), was it an outdoor site for cult and sacrifice, was it some type of construction, a small building, or could it even denote a house or a hall (see also è25)?19

18 

Regarding ancestor worship and cult of ancestors, see Triin Laidoner (2015) for a comprehensive discussion. 19  See, for example, Olsen (1966), Rostvik (1967), Brink (1996a), and Vikstrand (2001); see also the discussion regarding the etymology of hǫrgr/harg by Heide (2015a, 2015b). Many archaeologists have used the term hǫrgr/harg as a term for excavated sites, constructions, or buildings, which they have identified as cultic; this usage has, unfortunately, been taken up in the scholarly writings and discourse in this discipline.

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Similar prohibitions against sorcery are also still found in the Younger Gulaþing Law, resulting in outlawry and loss of property if the culprit was found out: En þæsser luttir høyra till villu ok hæidins atrvnaddar. Galdrar ok gerni(n)gar ok sa er kallar nokorn mann trollridv spadommar ok at trva a landvættir at se j lvundum æda havgum æda forsom sva ok vtti sættor at spyria orlaga. ok þæir er segia afhendes ser gud ok hæilaga kirkiu till þess at þæir skollu i haogum finna æda adrar læidir rikcir verdda æda visir sva ok þæir fræista draugha vpp at væickia æda haugbua. (p. 308) (The following things belong to heresy and heathen beliefs: incantations and sorcery/witchcraft, and when someone calls another man witch-ridden, divinations, and belief in guardian spirits that are seen in groves or barrows or rapids, and also sitting out at night performing divinations, and those who reject God and the Holy Church in order to find (valuables) in barrows or become rich or wise/foresighted in other ways, and also those who try to raise ghosts or barrow dwellers.)20

In the Older Frostaþing Law, we find this paragraph on sacrifice (blót) and pagan gods/idols/supernaturals (vættir): Vm blot a heiðnar uettr Ef maðr blotar a heiðnar uetter eða fer hann með spasogur eða með gerningum sa maðr er þui lyðir oc þann mann husar [ok heimar] til þess. hann er sua utlægr sem manz bane. en biskup a huern pening fear hans. En ef [hann] dyl. bere karlmaðr iarn firir. en kona take i kætil. En sa er þessor mal kennir manni þa værðr hann af þui fiolmæles maðr ef skirskotat er. nema hann hafe firir ser heimilis kuiðiar vitni. (p. 152) (But if a man sacrifices to heathen supernatural beings or conducts divinations or evil deeds, that man who listens to and houses such things are of that kind, [namely] an outlaw similar to an assassin, and the bishop shall take all his property. But if he denies, then he must carry (the red) iron, but a woman must ‘take into’ the cauldron. But anyone who blames a man for such a deed, he is a fjølmælismaðr (a loudmouth) if it is examined by witnesses, and no witness proves his claim.) (my translation)

The Frostaþing Law has, as we can see, the same severe punishment for sorcery as the Gulaþing Law in the sense that anyone who is linked to or caught in the act of such aberrations should be outlawed. If indicted for such a crime, a man 20 

I am most obliged to Dr Erik Simensen, Oslo, an expert in translating Old Norse laws, for help with the translation of this tricky paragraph.

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had to prove his innocence by carrying red-hot iron, but for a woman the test was the ‘cauldron test’, where she had to pick up an object from a cauldron of boiling water.21 To falsely inculpate someone for sorcery and such pagan evil deeds was looked upon as defamatory, and a person guilty of this was given the epithet of fjølmælismaðr, a slanderer.22 The headline and the beginning of this paragraph is most interesting in that it refers to blót (pagan sacrifice) and also sacrifice to heiðnar vettir (pagan supernatural beings/gods); this clause is not found in any other law, except Grágás (see above), with the similar wording (blóta heiðnar vættir), and consequently in Kong Sverrers Christenret (Kristinréttr) (see below).23 In the Kristinréttr (Church Law), which has (misleadingly) been attributed to King Sverrir and which is a compliation or a redaction of paragraphs taken from the Gulaþing and the Frostaþing Laws, we find similar stipulations:24 Blott er os kuiðiat at ver skulum æigi blota hæiðnar vetter. oc æigi hæiðin guð ne hauga ne horgha. En ef maðr værðr at þui kunnr eða sannar at han læðr hauga eða gerer hus oc kallar horgh. eða ræisir stong oc kallar skaldzstong huern lut er han gerer þæirra þa hæfir han firergort huerium pæningi fear sins. han skal ganga till scripta oc bøta við Crist. En ef han vill þætt æigi þa skal han fara or landæign konongs vars. (p. 430) (We are told that we must not sacrifice to heathen supernatural beings and heathen gods, nor to mounds or hǫrgar. But if a man is knowledgeable in and a believer of this, so that he builds a mound, or makes a house, and calls it hǫrgr, or raises a staff and calls it skaldstong, every time he does this then he has forfeited everything he owns of money and property. He must do penance and show remorse before Christ. But if he refuses to do that, then he shall leave our king’s realm.) (my translation)

Here we find the same beginning as in the Older Gulaþing Law: ‘blota hæiðnar vetter. oc æigi hæiðin guð ne hauga ne horgha’ (sacrifice to heathen supernatural beings and heathen gods, nor to mounds or hǫrgar), but following this we find the interesting continuation: ‘han læðr hauga eða gerer hus oc kallar horgh. eða ræisir stong oc kallar skaldzstong’ (he builds a mound, or makes a house, and calls it hǫrgr, or raises a staff and calls it skaldstong). In this fairly unique passage, we are told that a hǫrgr could be a house, and we are furthermore 21  For an in-depth discussion of these kinds of ordeals in medieval Scandinavia, see Nilsson (2001); cf. the article ‘Gudsdom’ (Iuul and others 1960), for the ‘caulderon test’, esp. p. 548. 22  Cf. Fritzner (1972–73 art. fjölmæli). 23  For the word ON vættr/vettr f., see Fritzner (1972–73 art. vættr) and also Brink (2007a: 56). 24  See, e.g., Bøe (1964: 301).

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confronted with another object used in the pagan cult, the skáldstǫng, which appears to be some kind of a pole or idol. In a transcription by Arne Magnusson of the sysslumaðr Bjarne Pedersson’s excerpts of the Gulaþing Law, this pole is called flannstǫng (Nordland 1967: 517). Both words are very interesting and have been linked to the word tréníð found in Grágás. There are indications that this kind of pole was of an offensive, perhaps immoral, nature (see Almqvist 1967: 298–99 and also Nordland 1967: 517–18). In the Church law of the Borgarþing Law, valid for the area around Oslo and Viken, there is a prohibition against pagan sacrifice and sorcery, specifying that anyone indulging in such aberrations must pay — an astonishingly small fine of — 3 marker, and only to the bishop: A Guð skulu menn væll trua en æigi a boluan eða a blot skapp. En ef maðr uærðr at þui sannr at han fær með hæiðin blott þau er firi boðen ero at bok male. han er sæckr .iij. morkum. (p. 351) (People must believe in God and not in anathemata or sacrifice (blótskapr). But if a man is found guilty of conducting pagan sacrifices, which are forbidden in Latin [i.e., according to the Kristinréttr in the law book], then he is guilty [and must pay a fine] of 3 marker.) (my translation)

Why the penalty for pagan sacrifice is so lenient in the Borgarþing Law is uncertain. The difference between punishment with outlawry in the Gulaþing and Frostaþing Laws, hence social death, and this fine of only 3 marker is remarkable. The longest and most elaborate prohibition against and exemplifications of pagan cult and sacrifice mentioned in any Norwegian law is found in the Church law of the Eidsivaþing Law, valid for the area around Lake Mjøsa in eastern Norway. (E)Ngi maðr skal hafa i husi sinu staf eða stalla. vit eða blot. eða þat er til hæiðins siðar uæit. En ef hefer oc uærðr hann at þui kunnr eða sannr. þa er hann utlægr oc uhæilagr. oc huær pæningr fear hans. Nu ef blot er funnit i husi laslausu matblot. eða læirblot gort i mannzliki. af læiri. eða af dægi. þa skal hann þedan løysa i brot. mæð lyrittar æiði. sæckr .iij. markum ef æiðr fællz. (p. 383) (No man shall keep in his house staff/idol or stalli [altar], a sorcerer’s tool or sacrifice, or things connected to pagan customs. But if he does, and is found guilty of this, then he is [to be] outlawed and excommunicated, and will also [lose] every coin of [i.e., all of ] his property.

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Now, if sacrifice is found in an unlocked house, food offerings or clay offerings, shaped like a human body [i.e., a small clay idol/figurine], of clay or dough, then he must free himself from this with a lýréttr oath, [and he is] guilty [and must pay a fine] of 3 marker if he fails the oath. (my translation)

And in a subsequent paragraph: (E)Ngi maðr a at trua. a finna. eða fordæðor. eða a vit. eða blot. eða rot. eða þat. er til hæiðins siðar høyrir. eða læita ser þar bota. En ef maðr fær til finna. oc uærðr hann sannr at þui. þa er hann utlægr. oc ubota maðr oc firigort fe sinu allu. oc skal uera þriskift. skal konongr taka þriðiung. biscup annan. bøndr hinn þriðia. En hinn er sok er gefen. oc kueðr hann næi uið. þa skiri hann sik mæð .vi. manna æiði. þæira er þar ero fødder i þui heraðe. sem hann er stadðr. Oc hann fær æi uitni. þa skal hann na iarnburði. En ef hann fællr at iarnburði. ta er hann utlægr oc obota. maðr. sem aðr uar skillt. Kona huær er fær með lif. oc læz kunna bøta mannum. Ef hon er sonn at þui. þa er hon sæk .iij. markum. ef hon hefer fe til. En ef æigi er fe til. þa take er uill oc fenyti ser. En ef ængi uil ser fenyta. þa fare hon utlæg. (pp. 389–90) (No one shall believe in Sámi, nor witches, nor a sorcerer’s tool or sacrifice or rot [to fall into a trance?], or things connected to pagan customs, nor is anyone to seek help from this. But if a man goes to the Sámi, and if he is found guilty of this, then he is [sentenced to] outlawry and an outlaw and has forfeited all of his property, which shall be divided into three [lots], the king takes one third, the bishop the second, the farmers the third. But the one who is accused of this, if he says no hereto [i.e. denies the accusation], then he must clear himself with an oath sworn by six men, who are born in the same hundred/district [hærað] [as the accused]. If he is unable to muster witnesses, then he has the right to undergo the test of the red-hot iron [iárnburðr]. If he fails the test of the red-hot iron, then he is [sentenced to] outlawry and will be an outlaw, as said before. Every woman who conducts witchcraft, and claims she can heal people, if she is found guilty of this, then she must pay 3 marker [in fine], if she can afford it. But if there is not enough capital/property, then anyone who wants can take what there is and use it. But if no one wants to use it, then she shall be outlawed.) (my translation)

According to this law, it was not allowed to have anything that could be linked to pagan cult in one’s house, such as a (sorcerer’s) staff, a (pagan) altar (stallr), certain plants (used in sorcery), and so forth. Anyone in possession of such

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things was to be deemed ‘unholy’, be outlawed, and lose all property. The word vit found in these enactments is not easily understandable. Odd Nordland (1967: 517) interprets it as some sort of instrument used to conduct sorcery or create ecstasy (vitt), twigs, and links this to the expression kjósa hlautvið in Vǫluspá st. 63, a term referring to sticks or twigs to be used together with the sacrificial blót.25 In the paragraph cited above, the materials used in the household cult are also specified, such as food offerings and dough and clay shaped into man-like figurines. These sorts of cult objects are also mentioned in another paragraph in the same law, but this time with the addition of a prohibition against visiting Sámi (who were often linked to sorcery in sagas, etc.) or witches to be cured of some illness. This was considered a serious offence and resulted in the loss of all property and the severest form of outlawry. It is notable that there is a discrepancy regarding the punishment for being associated with pagan cult practice and objects in the different Norwegian laws. Punishments range from a fine of 3 marker to the loss of all property and outlawry. Bertil Nilsson (1992: 36) notes that the most lenient punishment is to be found in the oldest of the laws, the Older Gulaþing Law, where after a first offence one loses all property but is still given the possibility of doing penance; however, if being caught a second time, a person was to be outlawed. In other Norwegian laws, being associated with pagan cult and sorcery immediately led to the loss of all property as well as outlawry. In the Swedish provincial laws, which can be divided into two groups — the Göta Laws (The Västgöta Laws, the Östgöta Law, and the Law [Church law only] for Småland or Värend) and the Svea Laws (The Law for Uppland, the Hälsinge Law, the Västmanna Law, the Södermanna Law, and the Dala Law) — it is noteworthy that there is no mention in the Göta Laws of prohibitions against pagan customs or cult; such are found only in the Svea Laws. A special case is the Guta Law, valid for the island of Gotland, which contains more elaborate and unique prohibitions of this kind. In the Uppland Law, prohibitions appear already in the first paragraph of the Church law: A krist skulu allir kristnir troæ at han ær guþ. ok æi æru guþær flere. æn han æn. ængin skal affguþum blotæ. ok ængin a lundi ællr stenæ troæ. allir skulu kirkiu dyrkæ.26 25  For the word ON vitt (vétt, vett), see Fritzner (1972–73 art. vitt), Strömbäck (1935: 22, 43), and Dillmann (2006: 132 n. 144). 26  Old Swedish text from Lars-Olof Delsing’s online edition at [accessed 4 April 2019]. My translation. 27  Old Swedish text from Lars-Olof Delsing’s online edition at [accessed 4 April 2019]. My translation. 28  Old Swedish text from Lars-Olof Delsing’s online edition at [accessed 4 April 2019].

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( Concerning sacrifice Now the next thing is that sacrifice is strictly forbidden to allmen, together with all those old customs that belong to paganism. No one may pray to either groves or howes or heathen gods, nor to holy places or ancient sites. If someone is found guilty of this, and it is proved against him and confirmed with witnesses that he has invoked something of this sort with his food or drink, contrary to Christian practice, then he is to be fined three marks to the parishioners, if they win the case.) (p. 9)

This law enactment contains several very interesting aspects. The beginning resembles the wording of the Gulaþing Law: hult eþa hauga ‘groves or (burial) mounds’, but this is followed by the unique vi eþa stafgarþa ‘vi (cult sites) or stafgarþar’. The word vi is unambiguously linked to pagan cult sites in Scandinavian placenames and is derived from Proto-Germanic *wīha- ‘holy’. The word stafgarþer, however, is rather difficult to translate and to understand. In Gotlandic placenames Stavgard is linked to house foundations from the Migration Period, but although many interpretations have been suggested, it remains unknown what the first element, staf-, alludes to. The most thorough analysis of the word and the placename element has been conducted by Ingemar Olsson (1976; cf. 1992), but, although he spent many years analysing this problem, he was not able to find a general solution. The word is truly enigmatic. It seems probable that these house foundations could be referred to as stafgarþar and that they had some sort of function in the pagan belief system on Gotland. It is also interesting to note that the law prohibits the custom of offering food or drink (mat eþa dryckia), which probably represents a custom where you either bring food or drink offerings to gods or supernatural beings in the landscape, or perhaps a custom related to ancestor worship, where you share the meal with the ancestor on special occasions. This food offering has been a tenacious custom in Scandinavia and is well attested also in later centuries (Bringéus 1976: 141; cf. Celander 1928 passim). In the Scandinavian medieval laws, we find a range of prohibitions regarding pagan customs and cult practices, from the general repudiations of witchcraft and (black) sorcery, similar to what we find in the barbarian law codes, to more specific and detailed rules regarding blót, idols, and staffs (such as skaldstǫng), h ǫ rgr, the worship of certain supernatural beings (vættir), burial mounds (which in many cases represent some kind of ancestor worship), stones, groves, and the sorcery by Sámi. The most elaborate is the Guta Law, which adds vi (cult site) and the enigmatic stafgarþar as well as the offerings of food and liquids (mat, drykkia).

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The punishment for such aberrations differed, sometimes quite considerably. The normal and most severe punshment for conducting sorcery or pagan cult practice was outlawry, that is, excommunication; this is the case in the Icelandic Grágás, the Gulaþing Law, and the Frostaþing Law, and similarly in Kong Sverrers Christenret and the Eidsivaþing Law. In Grágás a rather more lenient punishment was introduced, the fjǫrbaugsgarðr (lesser outlawry) for blóta heiðnar vættir and for conducting witchcraft and magic; however, black magic (fordæsskap), whereby people or animals became sick or died, resulted in full outlawry. In the Gulaþing Law, a person who was only a passive spectator of sorcery and pagan cult got away with a fine of 40 marker. The same, really quite substantial, fine, 40 marker, was according to the Dala Law given to women conducting witchcraft, but if a woman could not pay, she was to be taken to a shore and be stoned (to death). In the Borgarþing Law as well as in the Swedish laws, the punishment for sorcery and pagan cult was 3 marker, and this was also the fine in the Eidsivaþing Law for food offerings. We see that the laws reveal four different punishments: full outlawry, lesser outlawry, 40 marker, and 3 marker. Bertil Nilsson (1992: 36) has noticed this discrepancy among the laws, but has not been able to find any logical reason for it. Another question to be asked is whether these regulations in the laws had any relevance in reality during the time when the laws where edited and written down. We are inclined to agree with Bertil Nilsson (1992: 38) that pagan customs cannot have been totally absent during this period in society, in the twelfth, thirteenth, and even fourteenth centuries; otherwise, there would be no incentive to include these prohibitions in the laws. What follows from this assumption is that in medieval Denmark there was no need for prohibitions against pagan customs, which probably reflects the situation there.

Concluding Remarks Older scholarship thought it possible, for example, to trace aspects of PCRN in informal law (e.g., Vordemfelde 1923), but that enterprise amounts to little more than hunting for details out of context. Of more lasting validity has been the discussion on the possibility of discerning varying attitudes toward the sacral in Germanic death penalties (classic study by von Amira 1922; see also è 23); today, however, we consider the evidence for human sacrifice, archaeological as well as textual, linked to religious and mythological concepts more than to hypothetical legal provisions or social structures. Walter Baetke’s

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insistence on the societal nature of Germanic and Scandinavian religion (e.g., Baetke 1936, 1938, 1973) simplifies the social situation and overlooks local and household cult. A major shift came in 1964, with Klaus von See’s classic study of legal vocabulary (von See 1964), which attempts to strip away the religious layer from the law codes. This remains a fundamental study.29 Yet, as this survey has shown, it is possible with today’s tools and outlook to address such issues as the relationship between secular and religious leadership, and between assembly sites and cult sites, as well as the surviving legal provisions regarding the practice of pagan behaviours in the early Christian polities. In general, it seems that the question of whether laws and judicial systems are of a religious or a secular nature is fundamentally misplaced when it comes to religions such as those of pre-Christian Scandinavia: As was argued in (è1), the religious sphere was not regarded as being substantially different from the secular sphere. Even though it cannot be expected that people at the time thought about the relation between law and religion, the relation will most often be there.30 This means that, for instance, the hanging of a prisoner of war might well be understood from different perspectives: in certain situations and by certain individuals, it could be viewed as a sacrifice to the war god, whereas the focus of others could be more secular, namely, as a punishment or a revenge, and most often, we should expect both notions to have been present. In any case, we should not expect that everybody in pre-Christian societies regarded legal affairs in exactly the same way. Although we do not have direct evidence for it, we should probably, as with many other religions, see the legal system as something that was ultimately understood as part of divine interference in a more or less direct way. Therefore, we actually need to bring knowledge of the social structures and legal concepts into any study of PCRN.

29 

William Ian Miller (1997) shows, by means of close readings, how the legal system functions in the sagas: the discourse is wholly secular. On the other hand, Lindow (1995b, 1997a) has shown the importance of the same structures within the mythology. 30  Even nowadays, oaths related to the Other World are often taken in court rooms, just as certain social norms refer to mythic figures and things that took place in illo tempore.

21 – Ethics John Lindow Introduction By ethics we mean constraints on behaviour imposed by notions of what is socially accepted, or socially valued or scorned. Since in our view PCRN permeated all aspects of human life — that is, the religious view was ever-present — notions of ethics were always imbued with the religious. While such a view might not hold in a modern or post-modern world, there is a far more fundamental difference. Today we think of ethics as involving decisions made by individuals when faced with various kinds of choices of behaviour within some sort of implicit or explicit notion of what is right and what is wrong. Ethical decisions are made by individuals, and ethics is an individual matter. In the pre-Christian and almost certainly medieval and even early modern North, ethics was a public matter, a matter that was socially and publicly enforced,1 and that had religious overtones. Consistent with this notion is the basic legal distinction that what is done in secret is done in an ethically unacceptable way and therefore is legally branded as a more severe crime than that which was done publicly. This notion reveals itself most clearly in the laws: theft is secret appropriation of another person’s property and is a more serious offence than public seizure. All the Nordic languages make a lexical distinction (for example, Old Norse-Icelandic þjófnaðr ‘burglary’ vs rán ‘robbery’),2 and the extant 1 

This notion is emphasized for the world of the Sagas of Icelanders by Preben Meulengracht Sørensen (1992: 187–212). 2  For individual treatements, see Jørgensen (1940) and Jørgensen (1975), Langseth (1975), Sigurður Líndal (1975), Vilkuna (1975), and Wallén (1975). John Lindow, Professor Emeritus of Scandinavian, University of California, Berkeley The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume ii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 2 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 479–507 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116948

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laws make it plain that theft, carried out as it was in secret, was a far more serious offence; indeed, theft was often punishable by death or outlawry. Narrative materials make of the thief a despicable figure with no ethical standing (summary in Andersson 1984). Killings, too, must be publicly acknowledged, lest they be taken for murder: ‘náttvíg eru morðvíg’ (Egils saga ch. 59) (killing at night is murder). This sentiment is widely found in the sagas. As a corollary to its public nature, ethics was strongly gendered. What was or was not ethical was played out in the public arena, to which ordinarily only men had access.3 Women had access to this arena for the most part only through the influence they had on the male members of their household;4 they could act within the private sphere to affect the behaviour of their husbands and sons in the public sphere. The hvǫt or whetting scenes in eddic poetry and the Sagas of Icelanders offer ample evidence of this gendering narrative. As a further corollary, it follows that ethics applied only to free men. Slaves and children did not act within the arena of ethics. Nor, perhaps, did outlaws; in the Sagas of Icelanders, outlaws commit some deeds, such as theft and deception, that would be ethically equivocal if they were free men.5 In what follows we address certain categories that relate closely to the presentation elsewhere in these volumes and for which there is sufficient source material to permit treatment.

The Ethics of Hávamál and the Sagas As we have it, in the poem or poems found in Codex Regius of the Poetic Edda and known as Hávamál, one finds numerous stanzas of an ethical nature. The conceit of the poem, named in the final stanza (and in stanza 111) is that these words of Hár were spoken in the hall of Hár (an Óðinn name), and since Óðinn is clearly the speaker in certain sections, we are invited to take the ethical stanzas too as Óðinn’s words, although there is no other evidence, let alone from the pre-Christian period, to see Óðinn as associated with ethics in general. 3 

Like all generalizations, this one obscures a complex and rich set of data. There is no doubt that in certain cases women did act in the public sphere, and that women functioned as cult specialists, but that was, in our view, an exception to the usual gender rules. See further (è22). 4  Consider the etymology of German heimlich (secret): what is inside the household is confidential or secret from the outside world. While this semantic narrowing is restricted to German (the continental Scandinavian forms, Danish/Norwegian hemmelig, Swedish hemlig, are borrowed from Middle Low German) and may not be old in German, it is instructive. 5  On outlaws, see Ahola (2014).

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Although most of the gnomic stanzas in Hávamál are quite mundane, older observers drew special attention to stanzas 76 and 77. Deyr fé, deyja frœndr, deyr siálfr it sama; enn orðztírr deyr aldregi, hveim er sér góðan getr. Deyr fé, deyja frœndr, deyr siálfr it sama; ec veit einn, at aldri deyr; dómr um dauðan hvern. (Cattle die, kinsmen die, the self must also die; but the glory of reputation never dies, for the man who can get himself a good one. Cattle die, kinsmen die, the self must also die; I know one thing which never dies: the reputation of each dead man.) (pp. 22–23)

On the basis of these stanzas, these older observers postulated a ‘Germanic ethics’ of heroism and honour in the medieval Icelandic literary tradition (e.g., Gehl 1937; Kuhn 1938; van den Toorn 1955). According to this view, honour was not just the primary but the only motivating force in Germanic heroic poetry and in the Íslendingasögur, which were thought to be the direct heirs of heroic poetry. This view began to crumble with Bjarni Guðnason’s reasoned discussion of the ethics of the sagas (1965) and was completely dismantled by Theodore M. Andersson (1970), who showed that an ethics of moderation prevailed not only in the sagas but also in the ethical precepts of Hávamál. In the context of the entire first section of gnomes, Andersson shows, the famous stanzas about one’s honour surviving one’s death can be read as indicating that even a dead person may take some comfort in a reputation that survives him, just as a lame man may take comfort in the fact that he can still ride a horse, a one-armed man in the fact that he can still drive a herd, and a deaf man that he can still take part in battle (st. 71). Today’s scholarly paradigms now accept that Christian ethics are everywhere in saga literature. Nevertheless, it seems that it may be possible to recapture some data concerning ethics in PCRN, and we believe that Hávamál st. 76–77 may contribute to this endeavour.

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Warrior Bands/Honour 6 The study of Indo-European poetics has revealed a common poetic formula first identified by Adalbert Kuhn as far back as 1853, when he juxtaposed Greek kléos áphthiton with Vedic akṣiti śrávaḥ  / śrávo […] ákṣitam ‘imperishable, unfailing fame’ (Watkins 1995: 173; cf. Schmitt 1967; West 2007: 402–10). Watkins has placed the Old English expression dom unlytel ‘no little fame’, used of Sigemund in Beowulf 885b, in the context of this formula and its system (Watkins 1995: 415).7 Although of course neither dom nor unlytel is cognate with the Greek and Vedic terms, the fact that Sigemund’s fame survived his death suggests that it was imperishable. Sigemunde gesprong æfter deaðdæge dom unlytel, syþðan wiges heard wyrm acwealde, hordes hyrde […] (For Sigemund there arose after the day of his death no little fame, after the one hard in battle, the guardian of the hoard, killed the dragon […]).

Furthermore, Watkins indicates that an optional addition to the formula was the notion that the fame was everlasting, or lasting for all eternity (Watkins 1995: 177), and West points out that Indo-European imperishable fame was lofty or high and could reach up into the heavens (West 2007: 407–08). Both these notions suggest a connection with the sphere of religion, and West points out the obvious: imperishable fame confers a kind of immortality (West 2007: 409). In Chapter 3 of Germania, Tacitus seems to draw on this trope, conjoining songs memorializing and praising a hero and the enterprise of battle. Fuisse apud eos et Herculem memorant, primumque omnium virorum fortium ituri in proelia canunt. Sunt illis haec quoque carmina, quorum relatu, quem barditum vocant, accendunt animos futuraeque pugnae fortunam ipso cantu augurantur. (They further record how Hercules appeared among the Germans, and on the eve of battle the natives hymn ‘Hercules, the first of brave men’. They have also those cries by the recital of which — ‘barritus’ is the name they use — they inspire courage; and they divine the fortune of the coming battle from the circumstances of the cry. (pp. 267–69)

6 

See also (è24). Baker (2013) argues the importance in Beowulf of an ‘economy of honour’ tied up closely with acts of violence. 7 

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Hercules is of course part of the interpretatio Romana, but the choice of Hercules can only support the idea of imperishable fame and its association with battle. And Tacitus suggests that the opposite of imperishable fame could also be gained in battle (Germania ch. 6). Scutum reliquisse praecipuum flagitium, nec aut sacris adesse aut concilium inire ignominioso fas; multique superstites bellorum infamiam laqueo finierunt. (To have abandoned one’s shield is the height of disgrace; the man so shamed cannot be present at religious rites, nor attend a council: many survivors of war have ended their infamy with a noose.) (pp. 273–75)

The man who abandons his shield, who flees in battle, who loses a chance at imperishable fame, forfeits his access both to ritual and to society. He may indeed end his life by means of a noose, that is, marked off with those who are sacrificed to Wotan/Óðinn; this detail also accords with some of the Iron Age bog bodies. This suicide does not and cannot earn imperishable fame, and while it is intended to put an end to the infamy, Chapter 12 of Germania reports that traitors and deserters are hung from trees. The glory of the warrior was, according to Tacitus, an important aspect of the comitatus (see è24). Germania ch. 13 reports that a chieftain’s fame might dissuade others from warring against him, but Chapter 14 seems to have the clearest connection with the ethical notions of behaviour within the warrior band. Cum ventum in aciem, turpe principi virtute vinci, turpe comitatui virtutem prin­ cipis non adaequare. Iam vero infame in omnem vitam ac probrosum super­stitem principi suo ex acie recessisse: illum defendere, tueri, sua quoque fortia facta gloriae eius adsignare praecipuum sacramentum est. (When the battlefield is reached it is a reproach for a chief to be surpassed in prowess; a reproach for his retinue not to equal the prowess of its chief; but to have left the field and survived one’s chief, this means lifelong infamy and shame: to defend and protect him, to devote one’s own feats even to his glorification, this is the gist of their allegiance.) (pp. 283–85)

The dishonour of surviving one’s chieftain would result, to use the sense of the Indo-European formula, in imperishable infamy.8 Insofar, then, as the warrior 8 

It is important to stress that we are dealing here with an ideal (as indeed with all ethics), or to put it another way, with a literary trope, on the ground there must almost certainly have been ways for a survivor to affiliate with a new chieftain without loss of honour.

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Figure 21.1. Rune stone from about 1000, later built into the medieval church at Hällestad in Skåne. According to the text: Æskel satte sten þænsi æftiR Toka ¤orms sun, seR hullan drottin. SaR flo ægi at Upsalum. Sattu drængiR æftiR sin broþur sten a biargi støþan runum. þeR ¤orms Toka gingu næstiR (Áskell placed this stone in

memory of Tóki Gorm’s son, to him a faithful lord. He did not flee at Uppsala. Valiant men placed in memory of their brother the stone on the hill, steadied by runes. They went closest to Gorm’s Tóki) (DR 295, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). This inscription offers an early example of warrior ethics. Photo: Roberto Fortuna, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen. 

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band was embedded within a religious system, relating to the warrior and other aspects of Wotan/Óðinn, these ethical notions have a religious connotation. Indeed, this general sphere constitutes an important arena for notions of ethics. In the passage quoted above from Beowulf, a bard is singing the praises of Beowulf after he has killed Grendel and likening it to the famous dragon-slaying of Sigemund.9 Similarly, the songs about ‘Hercules’ that find mention in Chapter 3 of Germania are sung before battle. These instances indicate not only that the Germanic reflex of imperishable fame was, as in Indo-European, celebrated in poetry, but also that the context of the performance of that poetry could have been the warrior band. Here the use of the general Nordic term for warrior band as the first component of the term for the main skaldic metre, dróttkvætt or dróttkvæðr háttr, takes on additional meaning (Lindow 1976: 31). Battlefield fame lived in verse, and verse lived in the warrior band. Indeed, we have in the Old Norse textual record an instance of poetry recited within the warrior band (in this case an army) prior to battle. According to the versions of Óláfs saga helga, Óláfr Haraldsson asked one of his skalds, Þormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld, to recite a poem to the troops on the morning before the battle of Stiklestad (at which Óláfr would be killed). Þormóðr chose Bjarkamál in fornu, a poem about the last battle of Hrólfr kraki (Óláfs saga helga ch. 208). Only seven whole or partial stanzas are extant in Old Norse, from a variety of sources. These stress the munificence of the leader toward his men. However, a long version of the poem in Latin hexameters is found in Saxo Grammaticus, Gesta Danorum, 2.7.4–28. After presenting it, Saxo states the existence of a shorter, well-known Danish poem, which may have been similar to the Old Norse poem. Saxo’s version of Bjarkamál stresses very clearly the ethical bond between retainers and king, According to Óláfs saga helga, the army at Stiklestad termed the poem Húskarlahvǫt (Incitement of retainers); the term húskarl was a technical term for a member of the warrior band (see è24). Thus the traditions about the last day of the life of St Óláfr play explicitly on the ethical theme of the bonds between king and warrior band. Indeed, Óláfr rewards Þormóðr with a gold ring for reciting the poem, and Þormóðr expresses his desire never to part from his leader. Saxo’s poem explicitly invokes notions of honour and shame within the group of the king’s retainers, in the very first words, spoken by Hialto to Biarco (that is, Bjarki, after whom the title Bjarkamál is styled). 9 

In light of the warrior band and notions of small-group initiation (see è24 and è32), it is worth noting that Sigemund is attended by Fitela, his son or nephew, although Fitela is not present at the actual dragon-slaying.

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Ocius euigilet, quisquis se regis amicum Aut meritis probat aut sola pietate fatetur. Discutiant somnum proceres, stupor improbus absit, Incaleant animi uigiles: sua dextera* quenque Aut fame dabit aut probro perfundet inerti. (2.7.4) (Rise swiftly, whoever through his deserts is proud to be the king’s friend, or is such from loyalty alone. Princes, shake off your sleep, away with vile stupor; heat your minds to alertness, for each right arm shall bring fame or steep your lassitude in disgrace. (p. 123).

When Biarco has awakened, Hialto adds: ‘Dulce est nos domino percepta rependere dona, | Acceptare enses fameque impendere ferrum.’ (2.7.6) (Sweet it is to repay the gifts of our master, to grip the sword and devote our weapons to glory) (p. 125). When he is mortally wounded, Biarco is prepared to see Óðinn but defiantly says he would kill the war god if he could. His final speech, addressed to Hialto, clearly encapsulates the ethical obligation of the retainer to fight for his lord, die for his lord if necessary, and above all to seek fame. It is worth quoting in full. Si potero horrendum Frigge spectare maritum, Quantumcunque albo clypeo sit tectus et altum Flectat equum, Lethra nequaquam sospes abibit: Fas est belligerum bello prosternere diuum! Ante oculos regis clades speciosa cadentes Excipiat: dum uita manet, studeamus honeste Posse mori clarumque manu decerpere funus. Ad caput extincti moriar ducis obrutus, ac tu Eiusdem pedibus moriendo allabere pronus, Vt uideat, quisquis congesta cadauera lustrat, Qualiter acceptum domino pensarimus aurum. Preda erimus coruis aquilisque rapacibus esca, Vesceturque uorax nostri dape corporis ales. Sic belli intrepidos proceres occumbere par est, Illustrem socio complexos funere regem. (2.7.27–28)

(If I should set eyes on the fearsome husband of Frigg, though he is protected by his white shield, and manœuvres his tall horse, he shall not go unhurt from Lejre; it is right to lay low the warrior god in battle. Let a radiant doom overtake those who fall before the face of their king. While life lasts may we strive

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to perish with honour and our hands reap a fine end. Struck down I shall die at the head of my slain leader, while you will drop face-foremost at his feet, so that one who views body on body may see how we made return for the gold received from our master. We shall be the carrion of ravens and nourish gluttonous eagles, our bodies a banquet for birds of prey. It is proper that jarls, though fearless in war, should fall, and embrace their illustrious king in a common death.) (pp. 139–41)

The poem makes explicit the notions of honour and the proper behaviour of retainers, to die if necessary for the king, but above all to win fame. The last lines even draw upon the trope of the beasts of battle, which is common in Old English and Old Norse poetry. Here it is worth noting that the root of kléos and śrávah can be reconstructed as meaning ‘hear’. Its cognates in Germanic are all associated with modern English loud, although the semantics range from noise to silence. The Old Norse cognate hljóð (neuter) must be mentioned here, in connection with poetic performance, as in the famous opening stanza of Vǫluspá: ‘Hlióðs bið ec allar | helgar kindir’ (I ask all the holy families for a hearing ).10 Men’s fame lives in poetry, and the recitation of poetry required hljóð. Indeed, R. Schmitt and, especially, Watkins and West, make clear that imperishable fame was a trope of Indo-European poetry. This fame was won on the battlefield. As was mentioned above, Watkins adduced the Old English expression dom unlytel in connection with the Indo-European formula for imperishable fame, with litotes (unlytel). In Old English prose, dom ordinarily occurs in religious or institutional contexts, in translations rendering such Latin nouns as judicium, sententia, decretum, jus, lex, and censura (Bosworth and Toller 1898–1921: s.v. dom). In poetry, however, it does seem to have the sense of ‘reputation’, and this usage accords perfectly with the second of the two famous stanzas in Hávamál cited above that appear to invoke the trope of imperishable fame.11 Collocation of the English and Icelandic verses may well suggest usage that goes back into the Germanic past, in which a hero’s fame could survive his lifetime. 10 

We quote the version from Hauksbók, which includes the adjective helgar (missing in Codex Regius) and thus fulfills the demands of alliteration. 11  While we accept T. M. Andersson’s reading of these stanzas in the context of the extant Hávamál, the background of the gnomes in oral tradition is wholly unknown and must remain so. It is certainly possible, if not probable, that the various gnomes of Hávamál could have been used situationally as proverbs.

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Stanza 76 uses as a parallel to dómr in stanza 77 the compound orðstírr. Old Norse tírr and Old English and Old Saxon tīr are probably the most common words in Germanic for the glory of the hero (the compound orðstírr in Hávamál 76 provides the required alliteration). The word descends ultimately from a root meaning ‘shine’ or gleam’, and this semantic development (‘shine’ or ‘gleam’ to ‘glory’ or ‘honour’) it shares with other Germanic words for the same concept, heiðr, vegr, tígn, mærr in their Nordic forms). However, tírr/tīr share the same root as the god Týr and the plural tívar ‘gods’ and numerous Indo-European cognates for gods (Zeus, Diana) and heaven (Lindow 1976: 130–36). Insofar as divine gleaming is implied, we have another connection between battlefield glory and religious ethics. We can infer from Tacitus that ethical matters, at least as they may have related to gradus within the warrior band, were marked upon the body (see also è 24). The passage in Germania ch. 31 about the Chatti warrriors certainly places the conduct of individuals in battle within an ethical sphere. Et aliis Germanorum populis usurpatum raro et privata cuiusque audentia apud Chattos in consensum vertit, ut primum adoleverint, crinem barbamque sub­ mittere, nec nisi hoste caeso exuere votivum obligatumque virtuti oris habitum. Super sanguinem et spolia revelant frontem, seque tum demum pretia nascendi rettulisse dignosque patria ac parentibus ferunt: ignavis et imbellibus manet squalor. Fortissimus quisque ferreum insuper anulum (ignominiosum id genti) velut vinculum gestat, donec se caede hostis absolvat. (The ceremony, practiced by other German peoples only occasionally, and by individual hardihood, has with the Chatti become a convention, to let the hair and beard grow when a youth has attained manhood, and to put off the facial garb which is due and delicate to manliness only after an enemy has been slain: standing above the sanguinary spoil, they dismantle their faces again, and advertise that then and not before have they paid the price of their birth-pangs, and are worthy of their kin and country. Cowards and weaklings remain unkempt. The bravest also wear a ring of iron — the badge of shame on other occasions among this people — in token of chains, until each man frees himself by the slaughter of an enemy.) (p. 309)

Again, these provisions can be understood in connection with the warrior band and thus have religious connotations (see è24). To the ring may also be compared the chain or fetter worn by the worshipper who entered the sacred grove among the Semnones (Germania ch. 39). The formulaic system of Beowulf suggests a linking between what is heard (that is, men’s reputation) and what is ethical (that is, what men ought to do). The first formula appears as early as in the very opening lines of the poem:

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‘Hwæt, we gardena in geardagum | þeodcyninga þrym gefrunon’ (Lo, we spearDanes have heard of the might of the kings of peoples in days of old) The key here is the verb frignan ‘hear’. Sometimes we hear of battlefield glory directly, but on other occasions, as here, the poet hears of it. The other formula is the swa sceal ‘thus shall’ formula.12 Stanley Greenfield linked these formula systems together as an aspect of the ‘authenticating voice’ of the poet, which was ultimately a Christian voice (Greenfield 1976); we draw attention to them as comingling battlefield glory, ethics, and a religious point of view. The poet was aiming at Christian morals, but he was drawing on pre-Christian formulas. When, according to Germania ch. 12, traitors and deserters were hung on trees, that is part of what we might term ethical gradation within the death penalty. Licet apud concilium accusare quoque et discrimen capitis intendere. Distinctio poenarum ex delicto. Proditores et transfugas arboribus suspendunt, ignavos et imbelles et corpore infames caeno ac palude, iniecta insuper crate, mergunt. Diver­ sitas supplicii illuc respicit, tamquam scelera ostendi oporteat, dum puniuntur, flagitia abscondi. (At this assembly it is also permissible to lay accusations and to bring capital charges. The nature of the death penalty differs according to the offence: traitors and deserters are hung from trees; cowards and poor fighters and sexual perverts are plunged in the mud of marshes with a hurdle on their heads: the difference of punishment has regard to the principle that crime should be blazoned abroad by its retribution, but abomination hidden. (p.281))

This passage has elicited a good deal of discussion about the possible sacral nature of the death penalty among the older Germanic peoples. In the twentieth century, this position was articulated most pervasively by the German legal historian Karl von Amira (e.g., von Amira 1922, published when he was an almost legendary figure in Germanic legal history; throughout his long and productive career, von Amira operated from the position that Germanic law and Germanic religion were inextricable).13 Folke Stöm (1942) argued that 12  This formula is most closely associated with battlefield glory in lines 1534b–36: ‘Swa sceal man don | þonne he æt guðe | gegan þenceð | longsumme lof; | na ymb his lif cearað’ (So shall a man do when in battle he intends to gain long-lasting praise; he does not care about his life). 13  Following von Amira’s study, we can mention Ólafur Láruson (1928; threat of the ‘Germanic’ death penalty in a verse directed against the missionary Þangbrandr in Iceland; but cf. Weber (1968) and Almqvist (1965–74: ii, 88–112), Weiser-Aall (1933; death penalty and warrior band), and Ivar Lindquist (1940: 131–35; thinks he can trace related formulaic language on the Sparlösa stone (Vg 119, Samnordisk runtextdatabas)).

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there was no evidence that the death penalty had any sacral connection, a position which Dag Strömbäck (1942) argued might be somewhat extreme, at least as regards sacrilege (cf. the useful summary of this discussion, with appeal to archaeological finds, in Sandklef 1944). Later Donald Ward (1970) attempted a Dumézilian classification of death penalty and human sacrifice, associating hanging with the first function, death by weapon with the second function, and drowning with the third function; hanging clearly goes with Óðinn, but the other assignments are more difficult to maintain (on law in general, see è20). Ignavos must refer to men by grammatical gender and imbelles by context, but corpore infames could refer either to men or women. Because bog bodies are both male and female, scholars have thought of women for corpore infames (adulteresses? prostitutes?) (Much and others 1967: 214–17). If so, to be executed in a bog was for a man to be classified as a woman, a concept that must have carried ethical connotations, as the contrast between the words scelera and flagitia indicates. Given the possible connection of hanging with Wotan/ Óðinn and of bog bodies with ritual sacrifice, the ethical sphere once again impinges quite obviously on the religious and suggests a hierarchy within ritual practice. If bog deposits represent sacrifice of defeated foreign armies, men who were no longer free and were thus without status, the cowards and women buried in bogs are in effect removed from the social order, like those warriors who abandon their shields and are thus cut off from ritual and society.14 Here we are in the arena of honour, not of battlefield glory. While glory represents a positive state and lack of winning it a neutral state, those who lose it are in a negative state. Since this state is best termed dishonoured, it is clear that honour and glory operate within the same semantic realm. Men cast into the bog had lost their honour. Here, too, it is worth recalling that his followers in the warrior band contributed to the prince in two different ways, according to Tacitus. They confer: ‘in pace decus, in bello praesidium’ (splendour in peace, defence in war) (Germania ch. 13). These sentiments may be seen in operation in the Old English poem The Battle of Maldon, which describes the encounter between the forces of Alderman Byrhtnoð and a group of Viking invaders in 991.15 While the crux 14 

Some individuals seem to have been dishonoured in grave practice. For these ‘deviant’ burials, see Gardeła (2011, 2013; see also è33). 15  The circumstances of the composition of the poem are unknown, and guesses have ranged from eyewitness account to some distance both in time and space. Although we find appealing the argument for an early dating advanced by Niles (2002), the notions of retainership, honour, and glory in battle are equally valid whatever the provenance of the poem.

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of the poem is the expression ‘in his ofermode’ (line 89; probably a reference to excessive pride), describing Byrhtnoð’s decision to allow the Vikings to cross the tidal flat and join battle, the tropes of leader and followers, brave and cowardly, play out very clearly. Thus as Byrhtnoð exhorts his followers as the battle starts, the poet tells us that warfare was near, glory in battle (‘tir æt getohte’; l. 104), and paraphrasing Byrhtnoð he tells us the dom is at stake (l. 129). The conceit of the poem is that Byrhtnoð falls, and his forces are defeated because of the defection of the cowardly sons of Odda (‘earh Oddan bearn’; l. 238),16 and the poet underlines the betrayal by noting that Godric, who rides away on Byrhtnoð’s horse, had previously received gifts of horses from Byrhtnoð (l. 188), thus making explicit the patron-client relationship. After Byrhtnoð’s death, his retainers make speeches about their obligations to Byrhtnoð their lord, before dying honourably (‘þegnlice’; l. 294). The Battle of Maldon is a Christian poem, and it is clear that for the poet and his audience there was no contradiction between Christianity and the obligations between lord and retainer. Indeed, in one passage the Christian god is invoked alongside the retainer relationship. Se eorl wæs þe bliþra, hloh þa, modi man, sæde metode þanc ðæs dægweorces þe him drihten forgeaf. Forlet þa drenga sum daroð of handa, fleogan of folman, þæt se to forð gewat þurh ðone æþelan æþelredes þegen. (ll. 146–51) (The earl was the happier, he exulted then, the brave man, thanked God for his day’s work, which the Lord granted him. Then one of the warriors loosed a spear from his hand, let it fly from his palm, so that it went forth through the noble thane of the lord.)

The most straightforward way to understand the invocation of the Christian god in this context is as the continuation of a thematic that prevailed in PCRN. The names for God in this passage, metod and drihten, ordinarily ‘fate’ and ‘lord’, might themselves carry over from the pre-Christian period. Certainly the latter term applies the vocabulary of the warrior band to the relationship between god and man. 16 

Old English earh (cowardly) is cognate with Old Norse-Icelandic argr and the ethically charged word family to which it belongs; see below.

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Indeed, the portrayal of Christ and his disciples in the Old Saxon Hêliand has long been understood as a palimpsest of the pre-Christian warrior band (e.g., Vilmar 1862; Murphy 1989). Thus the crucifixion can be understood in terms of the obligation of the retainers to stand by their lord: the disciples do not, and Christ’s defeat (on the cross) is sealed (Murphy 1989: 95–115).17

Ergi and níð A connection between the offences set forth in Germania ch. 12 and the vocabulary and social system of Old Norse culture was suggested by Natanael Beckman (1920, 1936): namely, the pervasive honour-shame system that employs such terms as ergi and níð and related words. These concepts have been extensively studied by Erik Noreen (1922), Bo Almqvist (1965–74), Folke Ström (1972, 1974), and (in the most thorough — if short — synthetic treatment) Preben Meulengracht Sørensen (1983). Unpacking the semantics of ergi, Meulengracht Sørensen finds three components: perversity in sexual matters, being versed in witchcraft, and being cowardly or effeminate (1983: 18–20). The entire complex depends upon a hyper-attenuated sense of the difference between the masculine and the feminine. Thus as regards sexual perversity, a man who is argr or ragr is one who is penetrated by another man in homosexual intercourse,18 while a woman who is ǫrg is ‘immodest, perverse or lecherous’ (Meulengracht Sørensen 1983: 18). Seiðr is especially unsavoury if practised by men, even if the medieval literary sources offer us roughly equal numbers of magicians of each sex in Iceland (Dillmann 2006: 143–60; è26). This concept was activated within the honour-shame system, specifically in accusations of ergi; such accusations went under the blanket name níð, and a person accused

17 

According to Gerald Murphy: ‘Woden and Thor are nowhere explicitly cited in the Heliand, yet they are present’ (Murphy 1989: 75). He argues considerable sympathy on the part of the Hêliand author for the old gods, now to be replaced. He does not, however, emphasize the similarity between Christ and Óðinn as chiefs of warrior bands, and although he titles the chapter about the crucifixion ‘The Final Battle’, he pursues only in the previous chapter, on Woden (‘The Lord of the Runes’), a potential parallel with Ragnarǫk. 18  The basic form of the root is found in the adjective argr. Ergi derives from it as an abstract noun, and the adjective ragr from it via metathesis of the first syllable. It is possible that ragr has a more strongly sexual component, as it is found in the compound rassragr (arse-ragr), which is presumably parallel to the adjectives sorðinn and stroðinn (used sexually — penetrated anally — by another man) and especially the compound adjective sannsorðinn (demonstrably thus used by another man; discussion in Meulengracht Sørensen 1983: 17–18).

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Figure 21.2. The runic monument at Björketorp in Blekinge from the seventh century (DR 360, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). The monument consists of three tall erected stones, one of which contains an inscription written in the older fuþark. The text is partly obscure, but it includes one of the earliest examples of the negative idea of ergi. Photo: Bengt A. Lundberg, Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm. 

or convicted of misbehaviour could be termed a níðingr (coward, scoundrel, miscreant). The etymologies of both words, argr and níð, are uncertain (de Vries 1962a: 13 for argr, 409 for níð), but the cognates are telling. The cognates of argr in other Germanic languages are without exception negatively charged. Cognates of níð, however, can mean not only ‘enmity’ but also ‘battle’ (de Vries also offers an Irish cognate with this sense), thus illuminating the aggression that is inherent in the practice of níð: it is directed toward another person, with the exclusive aim of shaming that person, of defiling that person’s honour. The pre-Christian (seventh century ce) inscriptions on the Stentoften (DR 357, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) and Björketorp (DR 360, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) rune stones in Blekinge, Sweden, show the negative valence of ergi. Both attest a formula ‘ærgiu hearma-lausR’ (restless with ergi) to be visited upon the person who ‘breaks’ (violates) the monument (grave). The connections with magic and with perverse sexuality are found on two later stones from northern Jylland, Denmark, that have been dated to c. 1000 ce. Skærn 2 (DR 81, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) wishes that the man who breaks the monument may engage in seiðr (‘siði sa mannr’), and Sønder Vinge 2 (DR 83, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) goes farther and perhaps clarifies siði: may he become ‘særði ok

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seirðrati’. The first term appears to be a noun related to the adjective sorðinn (penetrated anally by another man; discussed below), and the second means something like ‘one possessed or made mad by seiðr’. According to Margaret Clunies Ross (1973), the first skaldic poem we possess, the Ragnarsdrápa of Bragi Boddason, also has a reference to ergi in the form of implied anal penetration, which would put the concept in ninth-century Norway and at the very heart of West Scandinavian poetic tradition. The power of níð is shown in medieval laws from Norway and Iceland, recorded during the Christian period and under Christian impetus. The Gulaþing Law states that the penalty for verbal níð (Old Norse tungu-níð) or ‘timber-níð’ (Old Norse tréníð) is outlawry. The same paragraph refers to a form of libel called ýki (exaggeration), so-called because it cannot be true: a man is a woman every ninth night,19 has borne a child, or takes the form of a monster (Old Norse gylfin).20 In addition to ýki, there were fullréttisorð, expressions for which one could seek full compensation. These include accusations of having given birth to a child, been demonstrably penetrated anally by another man, or called a mare, bitch, or whore (Gulaþing Law, p. 70). Other fullréttisorð are calling a free man a slave, a troll, or a witch (Old Norse fordæða). Thus the law conflates out-group membership (slave, troll) with ethical behaviour. Grágás, the Old Icelandic law code, has similar terms and provisions, but with a more explicit prohibition on certain kinds of verbal abuse. Most níð and ýki, described as they are in the Gulaþing Law, lead to lesser outlawry, but use of three words can lead not only to full outlawry but also entitle the person so insulted to kill in retaliation. These words are ragr, stroðinn, and sorðinn. In this context ragr joins stroðinn and sorðinn as a vulgar word for having being penetrated sexually by another man, although it probably never lost its ethical sense. The Old Swedish Västgötalagen (the Law of the People of Västergötland) from the early thirteenth century contains similar provisions about insults that 19 

Nine is of course an extremely prevalent number in PCRN, and it would not be surprising if notions of shapechanging were attached to it. In the context of this Christian law, it would appear that the insult (becoming a woman) is increased by associating it with a number that was charged under paganism. 20  The word gylfin(n) (manuscript gylvin) is a hapax legomenon. The Dictionary of Old Norse Prose indicates correctly that we cannot even be certain about its form (Aldís Sigurðardóttir and others: s.v. gylvin). An apparently related feminine noun gylfra seems to mean something like ‘ogre’ or ‘beast’. The tentative translation ‘werewolf ’, found in some dictionaries, strikes us as unlikely, since werewolves were part of later folk belief and probably were not considered impossible in the Middle Ages. From a semantic perspective, it would be likely that gylfin should refer somehow to the female sphere.

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matter: calling a man a bitch puppy (Old Swedish bikkjuhvælp), or a coward, or one penetrated by another man. Similar insults of a sexual nature involve unnatural intercourse with a cow, or mare, or with one’s mother (Almqvist 1965–75: i, 61–62). Hednalagen, a fragment of a now lost manuscript of Västgötalagen, contains a ritual verbal exchange that is associated with duels: Giuer madher21 oquueþins ord manni, þu er ei mans maki, och ei madher i brysti, Jach er madher sum þu, þeir sculu mötas a þriggia wegha motum, Cumber þan ord hauer giuit, och þan cumber ei þer ord hauer lutit, þå mun han wara sum han heitir, Er ei eidganger och ei witnesbeer, Er hwarti firi man ella kunu, Cumber och þan ord hauer lutit, och ei þan ord hauer giuit, þå opar han try niþingx opp, och merkir han a iorþu, þå se han madher þes værri þet talaþi han ei halla þorþi, Nu mötas þeir baþir, med fullum vapnum, faller þan ord hauer lutit, gilder med haluum gieldum, faller þan ord hauer giuit, Glöper orda werster, tunga houudbani, ligger han i ogil­ dom acri. (p. 50) (If a man insults another thus: ‘You are not like a man, and no man at heart.’ ‘I am as much a man as you.’ They shall meet where three roads converge. If the one who gave the insult arrives, and the insulted one does not, he shall be what he was called. He cannot swear oaths or give witness, either for man or woman. If the one who was insulted arrives and the one who gave the insult does not, then he shall shout three shouts of niþing [= níðingr, i.e., scoundrel] and make a mark on the earth, and let him be the worse man for having spoken what he did not dare defend. If they both arrive, fully armed, and the one who received the insult falls, the fine shall be half a wergild. If the one who gave the insult falls: Insulting words are worst, the tongue [is] the death of the body, let him lie without compensation [literally ‘in uncompensated soil’].)

Here the insult (Old Swedish oqäþins ord) concerns bravery and cowardice, although a statement ‘You are not like a man’ might be understood to imply ‘You are a woman’. In any case, what is interesting about this provision is that a demonstrated coward cannot participate in the legal system. Similarly, a man who cannot back up an insult loses face and can be excluded from the system of compensation. A passage in Chapter 33 of Vatnsdæla saga, one of the Sagas of Icelanders and probably a product of the thirteenth century in its written form, contains an extremely interesting passage set in the imagined past in Húnaflói in northern Iceland and touching on the matters raised in the passage from Hednalagen. As compensation for a blow received when he had insulted Þorsteinn, goði of 21 

Throughout the fragment, the long-branch and medieval m-rune (m) is used instead of the Old Swedish madher (man).

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the men of Vatnsdalur, Bergr asks his assailant Jǫkull to go under three strips of turf. This was a terribly degrading ritual (see è32), and Jǫkull refuses, saying that he would prefer to be taken by the trolls. Þorsteinn, however, agrees to undergo the ritual, but when he bends to go under the first strip of turf Bergr exults that he has made the foremost of the men of Vatnsdalur bend like a pig. At this insult Þorsteinn breaks off the ritual, and Finnbogi, Bergr’s supporter, challenges him to a duel. Bergr offers a second challenge, to Jǫkull. Jǫkull’s response ends with the following words. ...fór Bergr lútari, bikkjan, er ek sló hann svá at hann fell við, enda kom þú nú til hólmstefnunnar, ef þú hefir heldr manns hug en merar; en ef nǫkkurir koma eigi, þá skal þeim reisa níð með þeim formála, at hann skal vera hvers manns níðingr ok vera hvergi í samlagi góðra manna, hafa goða gremi ok griðníðings nafn. (Bergr, the dog, bent lower when I hit him, so that he fell down. You must now turn up to the duel if you have a man’s heart rather than a mare’s, and if anyone fails to show up, then a scorn-pole will be raised against him with this curse — that he shall be a coward in the eyes of all men, and will never again share the fellowship of good folk, and will endure the wrath of the gods, and bear the name of a truce-breaker.)

Here we have three animal insults (pig, bitch,22 mare), two of them female animals, and an apparent implicit insult based on being in a position making one vulnerable to being used sexually by a man (pig, bent over). The verb reisa (raise) appears to suggest sculptural níð, although it may well be metaphoric: when something is ‘up’, it is remembered. The formula proclaiming the coward who fails to show up for a duel to be an outcast includes not only being cast out of human society but also of incurring the wrath of the gods. We have no way of knowing whether this is the invention of a Christian tradition-bearer or scribe, but it would certainly be appropriate within PCRN. A similar notion turns up during the epiphany in Grímnismál, both when the still masked Grímnir tells Geirrøðr that he has lost the good graces (Old Norse-Icelandic hylli) of Óðinn and all the einherjar (st. 51), and when he announces ‘úfar ro dísir’ (the dísir are angry). The term griðníðingr used by Jǫkull refers in its component parts to the breaking of a truce and ultimately, therefore, to the breaking of oaths. The Icelandic Grágás is explicit:

22 

‘Dog’ is certainly an idiomatic translation; the original has ‘bitch’, which accords with the female sex of the mare in the next sentence.

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Sa er griðniðingr er griðum spillir rækr ok rekiN fra guði oc avllom Guðs mönnum. En sa er griðum helldr oc settum friþi. Hafi guðs vingan oc goðra manna. vtan enda. Hafim allir guðs hylli oc havlldum vel griðu. (The one who breaks a truth settlement is a true griðníðingr, driven from God and all God’s men. But he who keeps the truces and settlements in peace; may he have the friendship of God and of all good men, without end. Let us all have God’s grace and keep the truces well.) (Grágas, Staðarhólsbók, ch. 383, p. 404)

The passage is in the Vígslóði (manslaughter) section of this particular redaction of the Icelandic law. Although the references are wholly Christian, it is not difficult to imagine that formulas for putting an end to bloodfeuds in the preChristian period invoked powers of the Other World. Griðníðingar were sometimes equated in the laws with thieves, murderers, outlaws, the excommunicated, and betrayers of their lords.23 The semantic realm would probably also cover the coward who ducks a duel according to Hednalagen, and thus may not swear an oath. To judge from the extant medieval Scandinavian law codes, the legal system depended on oaths and the bearing of witness. To be excluded from the category of those who could swear oaths was to be excluded from society. As the obverse of this coin, the Icelandic ritual for manumission of slaves, as presented in Grágás, requires the swearing of an oath — the sign of being a good and true man. Thus the swearing of oaths was symbolically coded as positive, and the obverse as negative. We know very little about wood-níð. It may have comprised carved images or figures, perhaps of two men in a compromising position, as occurs in Gísla saga and Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa.24 Or perhaps it refers to poles raised in connection with níð and insult, denoted in some texts with the term níðstǫng (níð-pole). These were raised and directed toward an enemy. In the famous case in Egils saga (ch. 57), Egill puts a horse’s head on the pole he raises against 23 

See the attestations in the entry in the Dictionary of Old Norse Prose (Aldís Sigurðardóttir and others) s.v. griðníðingr. As regards betrayal of one’s lord, the version of Óláfs saga helga in mesta in the manuscript SKB 2, 4to, contains an interesting passage. After the battle of Stiklestad and the demise of Óláfr Haraldsson, when Finnr Árnason assails his brother with harsh words, this version says: ‘callaði hann griðníþing oc drottins svica’ (Great Saga of St Olaf, ch. 229, p. 577) (called him a griðníðingr and betrayer of his lord). The accusation plays on the tropes of the warrior band, but in context the word dróttinn (lord) edges toward the meaning it took under Christianity, namely, the Christian god. 24  As Bo Almqvist notes, the provisions about wood-níð are mentioned in connection with verbal níð of a sexual nature (1965–74: i, 43).

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Eiríkr blóðøx. This might be termed a crisis ritual, and Egill certainly makes an appeal based upon forces from the Other World. Sný ek þessi níði á landvættir þær, er land þetta byggva, svá at allar fari þær villar vega, engi hendi né hitti sitt inni, fyrr en þær reka Eirík konung ok Gunnhildi ór landi. (ch. 57) (And I turn its scorn upon the nature spirits that inhabit this land, sending them all astray so that none of them shall find its resting place by chance or design until they have driven King Eirik and Gunnhild from this land)

This is not Egill’s first attack upon Eiríkr and Gunnhildr calling upon forces from the Other World. The others were in verse. According to the saga, Egill spoke the first just after Eiríkr terminated Egill’s suit for his inherited property. Svá skyldu goð gjalda gram reki bǫnd af lǫndum, reið sé rǫgn ok Óðinn, rǫ́ n míns féar hǫ́ num; folkmýgi lát flýja, Freyr ok Njǫrðr, af jǫrðum, leiðisk lofða stríði landǫ́ ss, þanns vé grandar. (Egils saga ch. 56, p. 163)25 (Let the gods banish the king, pay him for stealing my wealth, let him incur the wrath of Odin and the gods. Make the tyrant [Eiríkr blóðøx] flee his lands, Frey and Njord; may Thor the land-god be angered at this foe, the defiler of his holy place.) (p. 109)

According to the saga, Egill utters the second when he learns that he has been made an outlaw by King Eiríkr. Lǫgbrigðir hefr lagða, landalfr, fyr mér sjǫlfum, blekkir brœðra søkkva brúðfang, vega langa; 25 

As Volume v of Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages, which will contain this and the following stanza, has not been published yet, we use the Íslenzk fornrit edition and the Sagas of Icelanders translation of Egils saga as per the Primary Sources list.

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Gunnhildi ák gjalda, greypt’s hennar skap, þenna, ungr gatk ok læ launat, landrekstr, bili grandat. (Egils saga ch. 57, p. 165) (Land-spirit [Þórr], the law-breaker [Eiríkr blóðøx] has forced me to travel far and wide; his bride deceives the man who slew his brothers. Grim-tempered Gunnhild must pay for driving me from this land. In my youth, I was quick to conquer hesitation and avenge treachery. (p. 110)

Both these stanzas are about place and the ability of the otherworldly powers to enforce presence or absence. The first has a large list of powers, both collective (bǫnd, rǫgn) and individual; the second calls only upon one landálfr, who is probably parallel to the landáss in the first; the latest editor of these stanzas, Margaret Clunies Ross, regards both these compounds as referring to Þórr. Calling upon these powers to drive off the king who has spoiled the hallowed space (vé) constitutes a curse and should be regarded as the verbal component leading up to the erection of the níð-pole. As these verses suggest, verbal níð seems often to have been in verse, and certain kinds of poetry were themselves legally constrained. Bo Almqvist has pointed out that there is an artistic component to both the forms of níð as articulated by the law (Almqvist 1965–74: i, 60), and the practice of verbal níð would fit with the semantic core and frame of reference of Óðinn, attached as that god was to the warrior band and its precepts of honour and shame. It is in this context that we should view provisions against skaldic poetry in Norwegian and Icelandic law.26 The provisions refer specifically to verse about another person in the same social space and must exist because of the possibility of concealing níð in ostensibly innocent verse (Meulengracht Sørensen 1983: 70). Perhaps it is not coincidental that níð was directed against missionaries. When the Saxon missionary bishop Friðrikr and his follower Þorvaldr víðfǫrli (widely travelled) attended the alþingi (national assembly) in Iceland in the 980s, an anonymous ditty was directed toward them.27 26  27 

These provisions are in the Frostaþing Law and both main manuscripts of Grágás. The episode and verse are also found in Þorvalds þáttr víðfǫrla.

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Hefr bǫrn borit byskup níu þeira er allra Þorvaldr faþir. (Kristni saga ch. 12) (The bishop has borne nine children; Þorvaldr’s father of them all.) (pp. 37–38)

This is a conventional níð verse, and Þorvaldr executed his right to vengeance and killed two men; but the saintly Friðrikr points out that it may have a double meaning, in that he might have stood godfather to Þorvaldr’s children. Almqvist has treated this episode in detail (1965–74: ii, 26–54), and he observes that resistance to the missionaries might have been triggered not only by possible perceptions of clerical clothing and Christian teaching as feminized, but also because the new faith represented a threat to the social system. Not quite two decades later (998–99), numerous sources report that the Norwegian king Óláfr Tryggvason sent the missionary Þangbrandr to Iceland. His mission famously failed, but the next year the conversion took place. Two skalds involved themselves in níð directed at Þangbrandr, Vetrliði Sumarliðason (who also left a verse praising Þórr), and Þorvaldr veili. Vetrliði’s verse did not survive, but several sources report the níð and the vengeance taken on him by Þangbrandr and Guðleifr Arason. A stanza from a hypothetical anonymous poem (possibly by one Ljóðarkeptr or Óðarkeptr; see Almqvist 1965–74: ii, 72) about Guðleifr describes the incident. It is far from completely clear, but all readings confirm that the killing of Vetrliði by Guðleifr caused his ax (morðhamarr ‘killing-hammer’) to resound or ring (g jalla) against the skull of Vetrliði. The section on fullréttisorð and níð in Grágás also gives a man the right to kill another man ‘on account of women’ (um konur). The degree of kinship relationship required for this provision is set forth elsewhere and involves a man’s wife, daughter, sister, and mother (including foster-daughter and fostermother) (Grágás, Vígslóði). The provision goes on to imply that both rape and adultery are permissible grounds for killing another man. In either case, what is at stake is a man’s honour, rather, apparently, than the woman’s virtue or body. Here again we see the gendered nature of the ethical system.

The Ethics of Moderation and Social Utility Above we alluded to T. M. Andersson’s article showing that there exists in the Sagas of Icelanders an ethics of moderation that may be more powerful than the ethics of honour, with negotiators and moderates such as Njáll and Snorri

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goði being presented as a positive alternative to the warrior ethic. Jón Viðar Sigurðsson’s emphasis on friendship in the Viking and medieval Norway and Iceland (2010) supports this analysis (and see the essays in Helgi Þorláksson and others 2001). On the basis of vocabulary and etymology, Lindow advanced a similar argument: alongside martial honour, ‘adherence to the social standard was elevated to an ethical norm’ (Lindow 1976: 136). Viking Age runic inscriptions refer to a sizeable number of men as ‘good’, an adjective that seems to have an ethical dimension.28 According to Birgit Sawyer (2000: 101–11), most of these men were retainers of the Danish king. Sawyer understands them as equivalent to the boni homines known elsewhere in Europe: ‘These were men acknowledged as trustworthy members of their communities who had a leading role in local affairs — for example, in assemblies, in making legal decisions, and as witnesses’ (Sawyer 2000: 111). The noun used for these men is frequently drengr or þegn, and these nouns may have involved ethical notions, given the semantic range within which the Old Norse-Icelandic noun drengskapr operated: valour, but also noble behaviour (classic treatment in Sigurður Nordal 1990: 138–51). The famous snatch of poetry in the inscription on the Gripsholm stone, Södermanland, Sweden (Sö 179, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), also invokes the semantics of drengskapr, through the related adverb drengila (valiantly). Þeir foru drængila fiarra at gulli ok austarla ærni gafu. (They went valiantly far off after gold and to the east they fed the eagle.)29

Hübler (1996: 127–34) catalogues the qualities ascribed to persons who are praised in the verses on Swedish runic inscriptions from the Viking Age, many of which have clear ethical implications. For example, three inscriptions have the formula ‘manna mæstr oniðingr’ (greatest of men, not a níðingr), thus inverting the negative ethical connotations of níðingr. This formula seems to belong to the ethics of honour and níð. But the inscriptions also highlight 28 

Herschend (1998) devoted a monograph to the notion of the good, primarily on the basis of textual analysis, but interestingly tied it in with the archaeology of the hall. 29  While the trope of feeding the beasts of battle usually refers to killing enemies, here it may just as well refer to the disastrous outcome of Ingvar’s expedition and to the Haraldr who is commemorated on the stone.

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Figure 21.3. Rune stone at Rörbro in Nöttja in Finnveden (south-west Småland) from c. 1000. According to the inscription Assur made the monument after his father Eynd a ‘góðr þegn’ (good thegn). ‘Hann vaR manna mestr óniðingr, var yndr matar ok ómunr hatrs’ (He was the most unvillainous af men, was liberal with food and oblivious to hate) (Sm 37, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). In this text, several aspects of an ethics of moderation were summarized. Photo: Pål-Nils Nilsson, Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm. 

many other positive qualities beyond bravery in battle. Sawyer mentions the categories of the ‘wise’ (i.e., eloquent, quick-minded) and the generous (e.g., with food) (Sawyer 2000: 102). Hübler isolates a possible poetic formula relating to generosity with food: ‘mildr matar / mildastr matar’ (generous / most genereous with food). A possible reflection of an honour or ethics of social utility is the positive valence of the winning of wealth, a by-product of Viking valour as it is usually conceived. As Ketill raumr put it to his son Þorsteinn in Vatnsdœla saga ch. 2: Ǫnnur gerisk nú atferð ungra manna en þá er ek var ungr, þá girntusk menn á nǫkkur framaverk, annattveggja at ráðsk í hernað eða afla fjár ok sóma með einhverjum atferðum, þeim er nǫkkur mannhætta var í, en nú vilja ungir menn gerask heimaelskir ok sitja við bakelda ok kýla vǫmb sína á miði ok mungáti, ok þverr því karlmennska ok harðfengi, en ek hefi því fjár aflat ok virðingar, at ek þorða at leggja mik í hættu ok hǫrð einvígi. (The behaviour of young men today is not what it was when I was young. In those days men hankered after deeds of derring-do, either by going raiding or by winning

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wealth and honor through exploits in which there was some element of danger. But nowadays young men want to be stay-at-homes, and sit by the fire, and stuff their stomachs with mead and ale; and so it is that manliness and bravery are on the wane. I have won wealth and honour because I dared to face danger and tough single combats.)

Ketill juxtaposes an honour associated with valour to the honour associated with wealth. Wealth is, of course, required for generosity with food. In the larger world of Germanic heroic literature, wealth is associated with kings, who give it away, but on the ground it seems to have been associated with the ethics of goodness.

The Ethics of the Gods Mythological poetry explores a number of ethical issues through the behaviour and statements of the gods. Before reaching the cataclysmic physical events and the last battle of gods and giants, the end of the world as described in V ǫluspá is cast to a certain degree in social terms. The social norms that break down give a clear indication of ethical values. These begin in stanza 39: Sá hon þar vaða þunga strauma menn meinsvara oc morðvarga, oc þannz annars glepr eyrarrúno. (Theres he saw wading in turbid streams the false-oath swearers and murderers, and the seducer of another man’s close confidante.) (p. 9)

Oath-breaking, murder, seduction, and/or adultery: these are categories of the disruptive, of behaviour that, in the logic of the poem, leads to the end. It is worth noting that within the mythology as we know it the gods themselves, regarded objectively, have violated these norms. They have broken oaths with Fenrir and the Master Builder;30 they have murdered numerous giants, beginning with Ymir; Óðinn and Loki (according to Lokasenna) have engaged in numerous seductions. 30 

Vǫluspá st. 26 is explicit on this point: ‘á genguz eiðar | orð oc sœri | mál ǫll meginlig | er á meðal fóru’ (oaths were rescinded, words and things sworn, all the mighty agreements that had gone between them).

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Beyond these, there seems to be an escalation, in stanza 45: Brœðr munu beriaz oc at bǫnum verðaz, muno systrungar sifiom spilla; hart er í heimi, hórdómr mikill, sceggǫld, scálmǫld, scildir ro klofnir, vindǫld, vargǫld, áðr veriold steypiz; mun engi maðr ǫðrom þyrma. (Brother will fight brother and be his slayer, sister’s sons will violate the kinshipbond; hard it is in the world, whoredom abounds, axe-age, sword-age, shields are cleft asunder, wind-age, wolf-age, before the world plunges headlong; no man will spare another.) (p. 9)

Brothers killed brothers when Hǫðr killed Baldr and Váli killed Hǫðr.31 Only the destruction of affinal kinship by maternal cousins cannot be aligned with actions of the gods, unless perhaps ‘maternal cousins’ is meant metaphorically. In the eddic poem Lokasenna, Loki insults the various gods at a banquet given by Ægir (whose servant Loki slays to begin the action).32 Loki’s insults offer insight into notions of accepted and unaccepted behaviour, set in the divine community. The clearest indicator in the poem is the accusation, addressed toward all the females, of sexual misconduct of one sort or another. Loki accuses both Iðunn and Frigg of being verg jǫrn (eager for a man) and indicates that each chose an inappropriate sexual partner: Iðunn slept with her brother’s killer (st. 17), and Frigg with her husband’s brothers (st. 26). We know nothing of Iðunn’s brother or the slayer of that brother, but the accusation puts coupling into the realm of vengeance and bloodfeud. Frigg’s indiscretion is, however, known from other sources. Ynglinga saga, ch. 3, reports laconically that when Óðinn had been travelling for so long that his return seemed 31 

Vǫluspá 32 (R33; the stanza is lacking in H), apparently refers to Váli, Baldr’s halfbrother, as ‘Baldrs bróðir’. 32  In the following, we do not take up Heimdallr, the insult to whom must lie in the hitherto unexplained expression aurgo baki (with a wet/muddy/dirty/perverse/straight back). Nor do we take up Byggvir and Beyla, who remain obscure; see Dumézil (1952) for an attempt at interpretation (è54).

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inconceivable, his brothers Vili and Vé divided his inheritance, and they both married Frigg. Upon Óðinn’s subsequent return, he took her back. Saxo has a more ethically charged version of the story (1.7.1–2). Successfully setting himself up as a god, Othinus receives from other kings a statue embellished with gold. Frigga has smiths remove the gold for her usage, and Othinus hangs the smiths and has the statue, which he has now imbued with speech, decorated with more gold. Frigg sleeps with a slave (another inappropriate sexual partner), and they strip the statue of its gold. At this double affront to his honour, Othinus withdraws into exile and is replaced by a wizard, Mithothyn. When Othinus returns, Mithothyn flees to Fyn, where the people put him to death, but it is only after Frigga’s death that Othinus regains his reputation. The story is complex, but there is a constant in the bad behaviour of Frigg/Frigga. Loki does not use the term verg jǫrn when insulting Freyja (st. 29–32), but the charge is the same: every male there has been her illicit lover (hórr), and she was interrupted in bed with her brother. For Skaði (st. 49–52) and Sif (st. 53–54), Loki explicitly identifies their illicit lover: himself. Gefjon is accused of ‘laying her thigh’ over sveinn inn hvíti (the white boy), whom scholarship will probably never succeed in identifying. In the context of the poem it must be an inappropriate sexual partner, and in that light the semantic sense ‘cowardly’ for hvítr (white) would make sense (von See and others 1997: 422–23). Taken together, these insults suggest that society exerted considerable pressure on married women against adultery.33 Since concubinage was common and accepted, according to the written sources, the pressure seems not to have been reciprocal, and the insults in Lokasenna and underlying social constraints must in the end have to do with the honour of the husbands or other males associated with the targets of the insults. The insults toward the males are far more mixed. Based on the association of honour and glory in battle, we would expect accusations of cowardice, and there is one such explicit accusation, directed against Bragi (st. 11–15). For Týr the insult addresses his physical flaw, lacking a hand, and from this one might infer a sort of ethical status of the intact body. But the way Loki phrases the insult implies loss in battle: ‘handar innar hœgri | mun ec hinnar geta, | er þér sleit Fenrir frá’ (st. 38) (your right hand will I mention, which Fenrir tore from you), and of course there may be implicit reference as well to the oath that was broken when the wolf was bound. But with the insult in stanza 40 Loki is back on familiar ground: he slept with Týr’s wife, and Týr never got compensa33 

To this may be compared the prohibition on mansǫngr (maiden poetry), addressed to unmarried women.

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tion. Here the insult may best be described as weakness, and weakness as a concept covers many of the other insults to the male gods:34 Njǫrðr was a hostage abused by giantesses (st. 34) (and as a vanr he commited incest, as did Freyja); Freyr lacks a sword, and so how will he do battle at Ragnarǫk (st. 42)? Finally, the insults directed at Þórr, the harping on his helplessness when travelling with Skrymir, also suggest weakness. Weakness ultimately shades into ergi. Notions of strength and weakness could help explain why Óðinn is immune to criticism both for his missing eye and his engaging in ergi: these confer strength, not weakness. Ergi is at the core of the central exchange between Óðinn and Loki in the poem (st. 23–24): Loki was eight years underground, milking a cow — or was a milk-giving cow — a woman, giving birth. Óðinn was going about like a seereess or witch. In this light one might view Loki’s insult to Óðinn, to the effect that he gave victory to the less keen (st. 22); that is, he aligned himself with the weaker and actually upset the honour-glory paradigm. Note too that Þórr begins his stanzas addressed to Loki with ‘Þegi þú rǫg vættr’ (Shut up, you ragr creature). Perhaps the most ethically charged sequence in Snorri’s Edda is the story of the binding of the wolf Fenrir in Gylfaginning. Fenrir easily breaks the first two fetters the gods bind him with but is suspicious at the third, thin as a ribbon but made from magic. Svá lízk mér á þenna dregil sem ønga frægð munak af hljóta þótt ek slíta í sundr svá mjótt band, en ef þat er gǫrt með list ok væl, þótt þat sýnisk lítit, þá kemr þat band eigi á mína fœtr. (p. 28) (It looks to me with this ribbon as though I will gain no fame from it if I do tear apart such a slender band, but if it is made with art and trickery, then even if it does look thin, this band is not going on my legs.) (p. 28)

When the æsir tell him that they will release him if he cannot break the fetter, he responds: Ef þér bindið mik svá at ek fæk eigi leyst mik þá skollið þér svá at mér mun seint verða at taka af yðr hjálp. Ófúss em ek at láta þetta band á mik leggja. En heldr en 34  On weakness as a concept in Old Norse culture, see Clover (1993). Here we may note Loki’s insult to Skaði, to the effect that he was foremost among the æsir who killed Þjazi; this insult makes most sense if it is read as an allusion to the fact that Skaði’s marriage to Njǫrðr and laughter at Loki’s antics with the goat did not constitute serious compensation for the death of her father (è44 è53).

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þér frýið mér hugar þá leggi einnhverr hǫnd sína í munn mér at veði at þetta sé falslaust gert. (p. 28) (If you bind me so that I am unable to release myself, then you will be standing by in such a way that I should have to wait a long time before I got any help from you. I am reluctant to have this band put on me. But rather than that you question my courage, let some one put his hand in my mouth as a pledge that this is done in good faith.) (pp. 28–29)

There is a good deal going on here. In the first instance, Fenrir makes decisions based upon the honour-shame paradigm, and lest his courage should be called into question, in effect he challenges the courage of the æsir: someone must be knowingly maimed. Also, Fenrir calls on the notion of a pledge and on things being done honourably, that is, not falsely. The binding of the wolf constitutes the breaking of an oath and thus proves to be impermanent (è48).

Concluding Remarks The notion of ethics therefore represents an inevitable move from the individual to the social. Actions that could be regarded ethically were those that could be regarded socially, and vice versa. While many classic twentieth-century formulations of the importance of honour in Old Scandinavian society were undoubtedly exaggerated and simplistic, the roles of honour and shame and the gradations of public notions of behaviour were certainly embedded in a calculus of ethics involving those concepts. This held not only for men but also for gods. We note that the gods do not participate in the ethics of social utility, which may perhaps be under-represented in eddic poetry but is very clearly present in the Sagas of Icelanders and, most importantly in our view, on Viking Age runic inscriptions.

22 – Gender Judy Quinn Introduction An investigation into gender in the social context of PRCN necessarily relies to a large extent on traces of supplanted traditions preserved in texts of later centuries. These textual traces suggest that one of the most radical changes brought about by the conversion to Christianity across Scandinavia, as an exclusively male priesthood was progressively established by the church, was the consequent disempowerment of women in the public sphere of religious and social activity and the redefinition of male roles in line with Christian ideology. The traces relating to females include lexical evidence (such as the term hofgyðja, meaning ‘temple-priestess’),1 information about legal changes (such as prohibitions against women officiating in religious ceremonies or participating in certain secular entertainments such as the exchanging of erotic verses), saga descriptions of women performing prophecy and magic as well as ‘preaching’ the old religion, and gendered patterns within mythological sources associating female figures with particular kinds of knowledge (è29). The overview of gender offered in this chapter will concentrate on the information that has been preserved in textual sources about what the feminine seemed to signify in pre-Christian mythology as well as what evidence survives that reveals something of the role played by women in PCRN. Much of the rest 1 

The term hofgyðja is used as a soubriquet for the pre-Christian Icelander Þuriðr hofgyðja, in Landnámabók ch. 321; it is also used to describe a powerful female combatant in the M text of Örvar-Odds saga ch. 180. See further the citations sub verbum in Dictionary of Old Norse Prose (Aldís Sigurðardóttir and others) for hofgyðja and gyðja and Ólafur Briem (1945: 47–50).

Judy Quinn, Reader in Old Norse Literature, University of Cambridge The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume ii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 2 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 509–527 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116949

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of this volume is devoted to describing the elite warrior culture of Viking Age Scandinavia, about which our sources are both abundant and loquacious. Being the culture of a male elite necessarily means, however, that it is a culture that would not have necessarily equated directly with the beliefs and mores of the rest of the population, the 80 per cent or so accounted for by women and nonelite males.2 Even though we know less about the religious views and practices of the rest of the population, it is salutary to keep the frame of investigation wide enough to acknowledge how partial our view is, and the degree to which extant sources, and the scholarship that has developed around them, present an ‘unquestioningly androcentric view’ of the pre-Christian period, as Neil Price has recently described it (2015: 2). In mythological, legendary, and historical texts from medieval Scandinavia, there is a rich vein of material that suggests that both females and males in the pre-Christian period were able to assume, at least temporarily, appearances and practices identified with the other gender. Perspectives offered by recent theoretical work on third-gender and transgender identities have not been engaged with in the brief treatment of gender offered here, though there is no doubt that medieval Scandinavian material offers considerable potential in this regard. One intriguing example is the hermaphroditic capacity of Loki’s body, which was capable of fathering a wolf, serpent, and Hel (the goddess of death) with a giantess but which can also provide a womb fertilized by a stallion to produce a remarkable eight-legged foal. The semantic pairing, Freyja and Freyr, is also of interest in this regard since the siblings are the product of incest, a pattern that might suggest an understanding that inherited traits (or at least Vanir traits) could be concentrated in offspring of either gender and potentially transmitted by them (è 40). It is striking as well that, over time, the fertility deity Nerthus (feminine) appears to have changed gender to Njǫrðr (masculine) (see è47) and that in addition to the gendered pairing of deities — æsir and ásynjur — several terms for gods are grammatically neuter, suggesting they are collective terms representing both female and male members. Furthermore these terms — bǫnd, hǫpt, regin, and goð — are often used, especially in poetry, to refer to the divine forces that cause things to happen in the world of humans, suggesting that the veneration of deities is unlikely to have been limited solely to male gods, despite the pattern of placename evidence suggesting that most cult places were associated with them (see è5). And the earth itself seems to have been understood simultaneously as the dismembered body of the male giant Ymir and the intact body of the female giant Jǫrð. 2 

For a study of women in the Viking Age more generally, see Jesch (1991).

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Traces of the Past Gleaned from Accounts of the Conversion While the central role played by males in Christian institutions meant that opportunities would have opened up for once-pagan men to play a part in new social and cultural arenas, the conversion was not without awkwardness in regard to social expectations of what constituted manly behaviour. The evidence of later texts, in this case the law code, allows us to make inferences about preceding norms of masculinity. The medieval Icelandic law code stipulated that antipathy to studying (presumably indoors, and for prolonged periods) on the part of young boys was not something for which they should be unduly punished. In setting out the responsibilities incumbent on a priest who took a boy into training, the law code stated: Nv vill sveinn eigi nema oc leiþiz honum bok þa scal föra hann til annarra verka oc raþa honum sva til at hvartki verþi honum við illt ne við örkyml. (Grágás 1a: 18) (If the boy will not learn and finds Latin tedious, he is to be put to other work and chastised at that only in such a way that he suffers no illness or lasting injury.) (i, 34)

This lack of insistence on literate education is less marked than the antipathy evidenced in an earlier Germanic context, when the Goths campaigned against their future regent Theodoric being given a Roman education, fearing that it would inhibit his manliness (Wormald 1977: 97–98). Behind this anxiety was presumably a normative association between masculine youth and outdoor, physical activity, but there may also have been a sense that the ideology of the new religion somehow feminized men. Certainly charges of effeminacy seem to have been quick to the lips of those encountering Christian missionaries on campaign across the Icelandic countryside, if the account of interaction, preserved as verse quotations within Kristni saga, is taken into account: Þeir Friðrekr byskup ok Þorvaldr fóru til þings, ok bað byskup Þorvald telja trú fyrir mǫnnum at lǫgbergi […]. Þá báðu þeir skáld níða þá Þorvald ok byskup. Þetta var þá kveðit: Hefr bǫrn borit byskup níu þeira er allra Þorvaldr faþir. Fyrir níð þat vá Þorvaldr tvá men. (Kristni saga ch. 12)

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(Bishop Freiðrekr and Þorvaldr went to the assembly, and the bishop asked Þorvaldr to preach the faith to the people at the Law-Rock […]. Then they [opponents to the conversion] asked poets to libel Þorvaldr and the bishop. This verse was uttered: The bishop has borne nine children; Þorvaldr’s father of them all. Because of the libel, Þorvaldr killed two men.) (pp. 37–38)

Kristni saga mentions a number of other poets who composed libellous verses against the missionaries, including Vetrliði and Þorvaldr veili, the latter referring to the missionary as ‘argr Guðs vargr’ (Kristni saga ch. 20) (unmanly wolf of God), the adjective argr or ragr characteristic of the pre-Christian tradition of accusations of effeminacy (níð) against political or personal enemies (Meulengracht Sørensen 1983; è21 on níð).3 While accusations of níð deployed against missionaries were probably just part of the armoury available to be used against any political opponent, it is tempting to speculate that the figure of the Christian missionary, in habit and the espousal of values, did not always accord with prevailing expectations of masculine behaviour in the public sphere. Resistance to Christian ways was by no means confined to males, however, as the following account from Kristni saga reveals: Þeir Þorvaldr ok byskup fóru í Vestfirðingafjórðung at boða trú. Þeir kómu í Hvamm um alþingi til Þórarins fylsennis, ok var hann þá á þingi, en Friðgerðr kona hans var heima ok son þeira Skeggi. Þorvaldr talaði þar trú fyrir mǫnnum, en Friðgerðr var meðan í hofinu ok blótaði ok heyrði hvárt þeira orð annars; enn sveininn Skeggi hló at þeim. Þá kvað Þorvaldr þetta: Fór ek með dóm inn dýra, drengr hlýddi mér engi; gátum háð at hreyti hlautteins, goða sveini. En við enga svinnu aldin rýgr við skaldi, þá kreppi Guð gyþju, gall of heiðnum stalla. (Kristni saga 9–10)

3 

The term vargr is elsewhere used of someone who is outlawed for committing murder: vargr í véum (‘wolf in the sanctuaries’, Vǫlsunga saga ch. 110 and Egils saga ch. 125). See also sub verbum in Dictionary of Old Norse Prose (Aldís Sigurðardóttir et al.) and Ney (2012).

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(They came to Hvammr during the Althing, to the home of Þórarinn fylsenni, and he was then at the assembly, but his wife Friðgerðr was at home with their son Skeggi. Þorvaldr preached the faith to people there, but meanwhile Friðgerðr was in the temple and sacrificed and each of them heard the other’s words, and the boy Skeggi laughed at them. Then Þorvaldr uttered this verse: I preached the precious faith, no man paid heed to me; we got scorn from the sprinkler — priest’s son — of blood-dipped branch. And without any sense, old troll-wife against poet — may God crush the priestess — shrilled at the heathen altar.) (p. 36)

As Siân Grønlie notes, confrontations between Christian missionaries and pagan females seem likely to reflect the historical role women played in homebased cults during the pagan period (Grønlie 2006b; Grønlie 2006a: 60; Steinsland 1988). Vápnfirðinga saga (ch. 5) preserves an account of a hofgyðja (temple-priestess) named Steinvǫr who controlled the main temple and collected a temple-toll from all the local farmers; she came into conflict with a Christian named Þorleifr who refused to pay his taxes. The wording of this report in Kristni saga indicates that when sacrifices were performed, they were accompanied by the recitation of ritual words, here performed by a woman. The apostrophe in Þorvaldr’s verse (‘priest’s son’) is telling, the conventional apostrophe of self-memorializing skaldic verses being a woman, whose estimation of reputation was intrinsic to an adventuring warrior’s fame (see Frank 1990). With the shift to Christian culture, women were not only excluded from officiating at religious rituals but also pushed to the margins of the community which transmitted significant cultural information. Their relegation is highlighted by the stipulation in the Icelandic law code that the rite of baptism must be performed by a priest, or failing that a male who knows the rite, or failing that by a male who is instructed in the wording by a woman, or, in the very last resort, a woman herself: Rett er at kona keni honom at skíra barn en eigi scolo konor skíra barn nema engi kostr se anar a. (Grágás 2,5) (It is permitted for a woman to teach a man to baptize a child but women themselves should not baptize children unless there is no other option.)

While the church had the power to legislate about its official rituals, it seems that women continued nonetheless to be bearers of cultural history, judg-

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ing by an aside in Íslendingabók, a history of the church in Iceland commissioned by the bishops in the early twelfth century. Íslendingabók’s author, Ari Þorgilsson, singles out a woman as being a particularly significant informant for his account: ‘Þóriðr Snorradóttir goða es bæði vas margspǫk ok ólúgfróð’ (Íslendingabók ch. 4) (Þóríðr, daughter of Snorri goði, who is both wise in many things and unmendaciously learned). The association of the guardianship of knowledge and beliefs from the heathen past with women is reinforced in the preface to Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar written in the late twelfth century by the monk Oddr Snorrason. While urging the telling of sagas about Christian kings to praise their works and glorify God, he discredits other stories then in circulation which were at odds with his Christian point of view: Ok betra er slict með gamni at heyra en stivp meðra saugvr, er hiarðar sveinar segia, er enge veit hvart satt er. er iafnan lata konungin minztan isinvm frasognum. (Saga Óláfs Tryggvasonar in meiri ch. 4) (And it is better to listen to these stories with delight than to stepmother sagas which shepherds tell, in which no-one knows what is true and which always place the king in a lesser position in their narratives.)

The two groups of people associated with transmitting this kind of narrative and perpetuating an unauthorized view of history, stepmothers and shepherds, are representatives of those sections of Icelandic society which would have had least contact with literate Christian culture once the church had established itself in Iceland. Women’s role as tradition bearers might also be behind another revealing aside in a late thirteenth-century manuscript, 2367 4to (known as the Poetic Edda): ‘Þat var trúa í fornescio, at menn væri endrbornir, enn þat er nú kǫlluð kerlingavilla’ (prose epilogue to Helgakviða Hundingsbana ii) (that was the belief in ancient times, that people were reincarnated, but that is nowadays thought of as old women’s nonsense), the compiler of the Poetic Edda says.4 In Kristni saga’s account of the political tussle that preceded the official adoption of Christianity on the island, the opponent who takes on another missionary, Þangbrandr, in a debate about the potency of their respective gods is also a woman. That woman is identified by the saga narrator as Steinunn, mother of the poet Refr, who is elsewhere known as Hofgarða-Refr; his byname means ‘of the temple courts’, indicating the family’s deep religious affiliations. Steinunn composed two stanzas which celebrated the willful destruction of the missionary’s ship by the god Þórr. 4 

Translations of the Poetic Edda are my own.

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Þórr brá Þvinnils dýri Þangbrands ór stað lǫngu, hristi blakk ok beysti brands ok laust við sandi. Muna skíð á sjá síðan sundfœrt Atals grundar, hregg því at hart nam leggja, hǫnum kennt, í spǫ́nu. Braut fyrir bjǫllu gæti bǫnd meiddu val Strandar, mǫgfellandi mellu mástalls vísund allan. Hlífði ei Kristr þá er kneyfði kólgu hrafn með stǫfnum, lítt hygg ek at Guð gætti Gylfa hreins it einu. (Kristni saga 24) (Þórr drew Þvinnill’s animal, Þangbrandr’s long ship, from land, shook the prow’s horse and hit it, and hurled it against the sand. On sea the ski of Atall’s land will not swim henceforth, for a harsh tempest sent by him has hewn it into splinters. Before the bell’s keeper (bonds destroyed the beach’s falcon) the slayer of giantess-son broke the ox of seagull’s place. Christ was not watching, when the wave-raven drank at the prows. Small guard I think God held — if any — over Gylfi’s reindeer.) (pp. 43–44)

These verses seem to have become a staple of the received textual account of the conversion, quoted in Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta as well as in Njáls saga (though in the opposite order). The account in Njáls saga provides some background to the recitation of the verses, with Steinunn seeking out the missionary during his mission to the western districts of Iceland:

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Steinunn kom í mót honum, móðir Skáld-Refs; hon boðaði Þangbrandi heiðni ok talði lengi fyir honum. (Njáls saga ch. 265) (Steinunn, mother of Poet-Ref, came to see him. She tried to convert him to paganism and lectured him for a long time.)

While the staging of the encounter between a proselytzing pagan and a zealous missionary is staged differently across accounts, in Njáls saga ch. 101, Steinunn has the last word. After contending that Þórr had challenged Christ to a duel in which the latter did not dare engage, she asked Þangbrandr if he knew who wrecked his ship — a rhetorical question to which her verses provide the triumphant answer (Njáls saga ch. 265). Other verses which call upon the god Þórr to repulse missionary incursions are recorded, and these may belong to a genre of hymns to the god that treat missionaries as akin to his usual giantess opponents, a parallel that underlines the association between men of God and a dangerous kind of femininity (Lindow 1988a: 130–32). There is yet more evidence from medieval texts of women in the preChristian Scandinavian past officiating in pagan rituals. In a travelogue by the Norwegian poet Sigvatr Þórðarson, the poet describes being barred from a house in the heathen hinterland by a woman who was conducting a sacrifice to elves: Gakkat inn,’ kvað ekkja, ‘armi drengr, en lengra; hræðumk ek við Óðins — erum heiðin vér — reiði.’ Rýgr kvazk inni eiga óþekk, sús mér hnekkði, alfablót, sem ulfi ótvín, í bœ sínum. (‘Do not come any farther in, wretched fellow’, said the woman; ‘I fear the wrath of Óðinn; we are heathen.’ The disagreeable female, who drove me away like a wolf without hesitation, said they were holding a sacrifice to the elves inside her farmhouse.)

Sigvatr’s Austfararvísur (Verses about Easterly Journeys) were composed not long after the conversion. This verse is unusual in quoting the direct speech of someone the poet encounters on his travels. Whether this reveals the authenticity of the report or the poet’s artful technique is, of course, difficult to judge, but Sigvatr’s depiction of a pagan woman conducting a sacrifice adds to the body of evidence that, in the pre-Christian period, women as well as men were involved in religious rituals. Archaeological evidence of pre-Christian sites in

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Figure 22.1. Reconstruction of a possible vǫlva grave at Fyrkat (grave 4) in northern Jylland. Illustration: Þórhallur Þráinsson in Price 2002: 153.

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Scandinavia where sacrifices were conducted is abundant, although such material remains may not necessarily preserve evidence of the gender of the agent or agents of sacrifice (but see Sundqvist 2007: 56–78; è25 è31). Even if the tools of sacrifice might have been among the grave goods of someone who had performed ritual sacrifices during their lifetime, the gender of the owner might not necessarily have been correctly identified. As Price notes (2015: 7), gravegoods ‘have in the past been interpreted with consistent bias’ with regard to identifying the gender of the buried person, and this may have polarized (and narrowed) the picture we have of gender in the pre-Christian period. This bias, Price argues (2015: 5), is also apparent in the identification of recent finds such as the seated figure from Lejre (figure è 51.2); the dress and jewellery of the figure are characteristically those of a female and yet, despite that, the figure has been identified as Óðinn (Christensen 2009; see also Mitchell forthcoming). Identifying the gender (and indeed purpose) of unearthed figurines from the pre-Christian period is difficult due to the lack of legible context, with our interpretation depending, in this case, on a particularly confusing mix of signs: a seat (or throne?) with stylized animal heads looping from the back of the chair to the chair’s arms, symmetrically perched birds on the sides of the chair, a cloak arranged to reveal ostentatious necklaces bedecking a seated, goggle-eyed figure in a dress, the figure’s mouth obscured by what may be a fold in the cloak or a headdress. In the catalogue for the 2014 Vikings exhibition (shown in Copenhagen, London, and Berlin), a magnified image of the tiny figure — it is less than 2 cm in any dimension — is accompanied by the caption ‘Odin or völva figure, 800–1050’, and it is juxtaposed with an image of ornamented metal rods on the facing page with the caption ‘Objects of this type have been interpreted as staffs used by Viking sorceresses’ (Williams and others 2014: 174–75, figs 14 and 15). The captions, presumably authored by Price who wrote this section of the catalogue, ‘Belief and Ritual’, accord with his interpretation of such grave finds as implements used in the practice of sorcery (Price 2002). If such objects do indicate that these are the graves of practitioners of sorcery, it is not surprising that the vernacular term for those described in textual sources as prophesying the future through sorcery of one kind or another should have become attached to those buried in them. The vǫlva (pl. vǫlur) is a particularly interesting figure for our purposes because she is mentioned in accounts of the mythological as well as the (human) social world. Perhaps the best-known and most colourful account of a vǫlva in the social world is from Eiríks saga rauða, where an itinerant woman — described as a spákona (prophecy-woman) and named litil-vǫlva (little vǫlva) — is invited to a farm-

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stead in Greenland to tell the fortunes of people from the district and to predict the annual harvest. She is said to perform her prophecy after eating a special meal of kid’s milk and animal hearts; she sat on a high seat furnished with a feather cushion and had various accoutrements related to her art, including an ornamented staff and a belt-purse containing charms. In addition, she needed women of the household to chant particular songs to enable the prophecy to be performed (Eiríks saga rauða ch. 4) (è 30). Other descriptions of human vǫlur are found across a range of sagas — there is a survey in McKinnell (2005: 95–108) — with a pronounced fascination for the figure in the fornaldarsögur (Quinn 1998). Vǫlur are also mentioned in kings’ sagas, and in the pre-Christian period they seem to have circulated at all levels of society, including within the households of political leaders. The association of women with prescience appears to have run deep in Germanic culture, Tacitus describing it in his Germania and Histories relating the case of a particular woman, Veleda, who was accorded significant authority on account of her prophecies in negotiations between local leaders and Roman officials in the Rhineland in the first century ce. There may well be grounds for perceiving continuity between this early cultural association and later archaeological finds. The discovery of a staff in the high-status grave of a female from the late tenth century at Fyrkat in Denmark has led to speculation that the buried woman might have been King Haraldr blátǫnn’s ‘court prophetess’ (Pentz and others 2009: 232; see also è 26). Whether or not she had such a patron, her grave goods present a complex range of attributes: in addition to her staff, she was buried with exotic jewellery, a large number of hallucinogenic seeds, a copper cup and cooking spit, a box containing white lead, and a glass phial containing a compound of phosphorus, lead, and calcium. There is also a staff among the grave goods in the Oseberg ship burial, possibly indicating that one of the women buried with it was also a v ǫlva (Ingstad 1993; Gansum 2002). Christian prohibitions against heathen rituals specify a number of different practices, including galdrar (chants), gørningar (magic), and fjǫlkyngi (sorcery) (Grágas Ia 22),5 that even by the twelfth century had not been entirely suppressed according to the saga relating the life of Bishop Jón Ögmundsson (1052–1121) (Jóns saga ins helga ch. 209; see also è21 and è20).6 5 

See Mitchell (2011) for a detailed account of magic in this period. Also (è26). Dillmann (2006) provides a detailed survey of the evidence for sorcery and the social status of its practitioners. 6 

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There is one particular traditional practice involving both women and men that drew the ire of the bishop in the early twelfth century: Leikr sá var mǫnnum tíðr er ófagrligr er, at kveðask skyldu at, karlmaðr at konu, en kona at karlmanni, klækiligar vísur ok hæðiligar, ok óáheyriligar, en þat lét hann af takast ok bannaði með ǫllu at gera. (Jóns saga ins helga 211) (There was a disagreeable entertainment at the time in which a man would address a woman, and a woman a man, reciting disgraceful verses which were unlistenable to, and [Bishop Jón] forbad them and had them banned.)

Since no record exists of the words that were recited, it is not possible to know the content of the verses; presumably the offence to pious ears arose from the lewdness of the verses, which in itself might indicate something of the gulf between pre-Christian attitudes to sex and those dictated by the church. While such attitudes might not necessarily be regarded as religious, they nonetheless suggest a more playful and sanguine social response to sexual relations between females and males than prevailed after the conversion as well as the inclusion of both sexes in public entertainments. The textual traces that have been surveyed above indicate in a necessarily speculative way — given the way the material surfaces mainly in the context of prohibition and denunciation — that women almost certainly played a more central role in religious practices before the conversion than they were permitted to play after it. Price has taken this speculation further, suggesting that ‘it seems that women may have in fact played the leading role in magical and cultic communications between Viking-Age people and the invisible population of spirits and other beings with whom they believed they shared the world’ (2015: 5; see also Jochens 1996: 130–31; Näsström 2002a; Moen 2012). This conclusion chimes with Simek’s observations regarding daily life in Roman Iron Age Germanic areas, where it appears from the evidence of widespread veneration of matrones (è57) that belief in female deities was much more significant than that of male deities. In the following section, where the focus will be on textual sources preserving ancient Scandinavian mythology, it becomes apparent that female figures also played a significant role in the conceptualization of fate and aspects of the transition into and out of the state of being alive, in addition to bearing knowledge about the deep past and the distant future, even beyond the deaths of some of the main gods of the Scandinavian pantheon, such as Óðinn and Þórr.

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Traces of the Past in Mythological Texts Just as farmers and chieftains of the pre-Christian period appear to have sought out a human vǫlva to find out what the future held in store for them, so too the god Óðinn relied on the prophecies of vǫlur in order to find out his and others’ fates at Ragnarǫk, judging by the evidence of orally transmitted poetry with its roots in the pagan period. Vǫluspá presents the visions of a vǫlva recited at the insistence of Óðinn. The vǫlva of Vǫluspá has knowledge of the very distant past and of the creation of the world and people; according to the knowledgeable giantess of Hyndluljóð (an eddic poem preserved in the saga manuscript Flateyjarbók, GkS 1005 fol.), few can see further into the future than Ragnarǫk, although the vǫlva of Vǫluspá can, and she describes in some detail the next cycle of the world’s re-emergence in the distant future.7 The vǫlva of Baldrs draumar is described as being roused from her grave by Óðinn, who seeks information from her about happenings in the world of the dead (where the arrival of Óðinn’s son Baldr is being eagerly anticipated) and the entailments of his death in the world of the living (where the strategy for avenging his death is forecast by the vǫlva). As they are depicted in eddic poetry, vǫlur are both dead and revivable, their knowledge able to be extracted after the vǫlva is drawn into conversation either through necromancy (in the case of Baldrs draumar) or through bribery (in the case of Vǫluspá). That a vǫlva can be made biddable by the offer of jewellery — Vǫluspá st. 9 depicts Óðinn cajoling her into continued prophesying by offering her rings and necklaces — reinforces the sense that she enjoys a kind of life while dead, her well-appointed grave a locus of wealth as well as the seat of coveted knowledge. To some extent then, the figure of the vǫlva dissolves the distinction between the living and the dead and transcends mortality. While the detailed narrative accounts she provides represent a different kind of recollection from the quiz-answer repertoire of giants (judging from the wisdom contest presented in Vafþrúðnismál), the vǫlva appears to have gained her extensive knowledge from experience in different worlds: from Ásgarðr (she knows Óðinn’s secret, of having forfeited one of his eyes for a drink from a sacred well, Vǫluspá st. 28), from the world of the dead and from the world of the giants. Although she is not identified as a giantess herself, the vǫlva of Vǫluspá explains that she was raised among giants long ago (Vǫluspá st. 2). Over recent decades, much of the analysis of Old Norse mythology has been based on the binary divisions favoured by structuralism (see especially Clunies 7 

A detailed analysis of the vǫlva in eddic poetry can be found in Quinn (2002).

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Ross 1994a): male/female, order/chaos, culture/nature, life/death,  and so forth. While such analyses have been very productive and shed a great deal of light on various aspects of the mythology, they have certain shortcomings, especially in regard to the treatment of gender. In addition to the obvious andocentrism that underlies the polarizations listed above, there is an inherent danger in the binary model of oversimplifying rather complex, dynamic material. Female figures in the mythology who are associated with death are also closely associated with life, for instance. The vǫlva, who seems to dwell in the world of the dead, nonetheless continues to exercise the power of speech, as though she were still alive. Valkyries – those who choose the slain – also seem to have been imagined as being capable of extending a warrior’s life by protecting him in battle, as well as, in some cases, marrying him instead of escorting him to Valhǫll (è 60). The recent archaeological find of a fully armed female figurine in Hårby, Denmark, from around 800 (Williams and others 2014: 165, fig. 3; figure è60), probably functioned as a good-luck charm to be carried by a warrior into battle, the valkyrie a symbol of protection for the bearer against an ill-fated attack. While the valkyrie certainly also figured as a portent of imminent death in some poetic sources, this personification of the moment of death served as a lively vehicle for thinking about death in both lucky and unlucky situations. The polysemous signification of such a figure in our sources should therefore encourage nuanced interpretation in order to better understand the mythology. Another example of the close association between death and life can be found in the prose epilogue to Helgakviða Hundingsbana ii mentioned above, where valkyries and their chosen heroes seem to be connected to the phenomenon of reincarnation, the death of each valkyrie and hero couple apparently giving life to a new pairing. And in the Hildr myth, narrated in Skáldskaparmál and in Bragi Boddason’s ninth-century poem Ragnarsdrápa, the valkyrie-like Hildr resurrects warriors at the end of each day’s fighting, albeit to encourage them to fight the next day, and risk being killed, again. On the subject of mortality, it is significant that across the mythology more broadly there is a cluster of female figures who are associated with delaying old age, temporarily avoiding death, with the magical healing of mortal wounds, as well as with resurrection and reincarnation — all of these powerful interventions in the time-bound cycle of life. Norns are present at the moment of birth to determine the course, and length, of people’s lives: setting each life in time (è 59). Valkyries appear towards the end of a warrior’s life to judge the moment when he will die. Magic-workers, such as Oddrún in the eddic poem Oddrúnargrátr (herself connected to the identity of a valkyrie through her sister Brynhildr, according to stanza 16 of the poem) know how to enable birth when

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maternal labour seems doomed; and runes to effect the same thing are taught by the valkyrie Sigrdrífa in Sigrdrífumál (st. 9). Until she is distracted, the magicworker Gróa is able to chant spells that could dislodge a whetstone from Þórr’s skull (Skáldskaparmál), a potentially life-saving, or at least life-enhancing, skill. Vǫlur, as just mentioned, have minds and voices that appear not to die and therefore in some way transcend the barrier of mortality, and of life as a fixed temporal interval. And a female figure called Gullveig (described in Vǫluspá st. 21) was speared and burnt by the Æsir, but despite repeated attempts to kill her she remained alive: ‘þrysvar brendo, þrysvar borna, opt, ósialdan, þó hon enn lifir’ (three times they burnt her, three times she was reborn, often, unseldom, though she still lives). The goddess Hel presided over the world of the dead, a realm that is also associated with the goddess Freyja. According to Grímnismál (st. 14), Freyja and Óðinn share half of those killed in battle each day: ‘hálfan val hon kýss hverian dag, enn hálfan Óðinn á’ (half of the slain she chooses every day, while Óðinn has the other half ). While death is often gendered feminine in Old Norse sources, it is portrayed as a complex, even volatile force, those animate beings representing it sometimes open to negotiation about when and if death will occur (Quinn 2006). In Ynglinga saga, Freyja is said to live the longest of all the gods (ch. 10): ‘hon ein lifði þá eptir goðanna’ (she alone lived after the [deaths] of the [other] gods). In addition, the goddess Iðunn has the power to keep the gods youthful. Iðunn’s power does not enable her to make the gods immortal — as is sometimes said — since Óðinn, Þórr, and Freyr will all certainly die at Ragnarǫk; but second-generation gods survive into the renewed world, along with the resurrected Baldr. And in the interim, the gods stay young. In the skaldic poem Haustlǫng st. 9, Iðunn is described as the ‘mey […] þás ellilyf ása […] kunnni’ (girl who knew the old-age medicine of the gods) (p. 444). Interestingly, Haustlǫng does not mention the apples on which the myth about Iðunn told in Skáldskaparmál hinges, but even in the telling of the myth there, the power of rejuvenation appears to inhere in the person of Iðunn rather than in her apples; indeed the etymology of her name may suggest rejuvenation (‘ever young’) (see de Vries 1962a: 283). When she is rescued from giants’ territory, she is turned, with or without her apples, into a nut — a symbol of future life — and it is her return which arrests the ageing process of the gods. One of the most striking distinctions between male and female patterns of behaviour in Old Norse mythology is the relationship of beings to time. Specifically, the knowledge of female beings appears to be, in some cases, less time-bound than the knowledge of male figures. The span of time that the

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mythological female mind embodies is underlined by the names of the norns in Vǫluspá st. 20, Urðr, Verðandi, and Skuld, which many scholars have noted seem to refer to what has happened, what is becoming, and what will happen (see however è 59). Óðinn, on the masculine side, is, by contrast, very good at covering current affairs and seeking intelligence about the future: he invests resources into sourcing stories — through his roving reporters, the ravens whom he had trained to speak (according to Ynglinga saga) — and new technologies — a disembodied answer-machine made by embalming the head of Mímir, for instance, which according to Ynglinga saga provided him with information from Other Worlds (‘ok sagði þat honum mǫrg tíðendi ór ǫðrum heimum’) as well as about unspecified hidden things (‘ok sagði honum marga leynda hluti’). According to Sigrdrífumál (st. 14), Mímr’s head spoke the first word, the true staves, in some primordial wisdom exchange (Heslop 2014; see also è42). Two of the ásynjur, Frigg and Gefjun, are described by their peers in Lokasenna as knowing the fates of all the gods, though Freyja points out that while Frigg might know everything that will happen to everyone, she does not speak about it herself: ‘ørlǫg Frigg hygg ec at ǫll viti, þótt hon siálfgi segi’ (Lokasenna st. 29). Prescience, then, seems to be regarded as an inherent quality of the female mind, but the disinclination to prophesy goes hand-in-hand with it in the case of the goddesses. Indeed the suppression of revelations of future and past activities appears to be the modus operandi of Frigg, who says in Lokasenna (st. 25): Ørlǫgum ycrom scylit aldregi segia seggiom frá, hvat iþ æsir tveir drýgðot í árdaga; firriz æ forn rǫc firar. (The stories of the gods’ lives – including what you’ve done long ago — should not be recounted: always avoid [revealing] ancient destinies.)

Even in the account given in the Prologue of Snorra Edda, a text which is almost entirely devoid of female figures of any kind, the association of women with prophecy is nonetheless remarked on: ‘fann hann spákonu þá er Sibil hét, er vér kǫllum Sif ’ (Þórr came across a prophetess called Sibyl, whom we call Sif ) — an equation that neatly ties Old Norse mythology into the cultural patterns of the classical world. The Prologue also notes that ‘Óðinn hafði spádóm ok svá kona hans’ (Óðinn had the power of prophecy, and so did his wife, Frigg), the order of precedence as one might expect from the Christian perspective of the genre. The Prologue presents a narrative so deeply influenced by Christian learning that masculine figures and masculine agency occupy pretty much the

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entire stage. While the frame stories of the other parts of the Edda are maledominated — goddesses are present at the feast which opens the frame-story of Skáldskaparmál but they do not play a role — the myths recounted within Gylfaginning and Skáldskaparmál admit females and present more interaction between the genders. The liveliest source material, when it comes to interaction between genders, is eddic mythological poetry. There, in a poem like Lokasenna, we can observe how the social suppression of prophetic utterance by the ásynjur creates powerful tensions during the not entirely festive exchanges between the gods. In fact it is this unvoiced knowledge which creates traction in the relationship between the mythic present and the foreseen but only partially disclosed future over which their conversation ranges. Moreover the prescience of the ásynjur seems to be limited to the fates of the æsir, Loki able to exploit a blindspot in their knowledge when it comes to his own future actions (Quinn 2015). One of the principal tensions in the mythology is the desirability of the ásynjur to giants and although the usual pattern is for the gods to outfox the giants in their kidnap attempts, sometimes the giants have their way: the giant Fárbauti impregnates the goddess Laufey to produce Loki,8 a quintessential form of instability in the relationship between the two groups; and an unnamed giant impregnates Gefjun, though their offspring play a more productive role, only emerging as oxen to create the island of Sjælland. Týr too has a giant father, according to the eddic poem Hymiskviða, a result, it would seem, of his ásynja mother being seduced by his giant father. The giants’ desire for Freyja prompts a number of mythological narratives, and when one giant throws the sun and the moon into the bargain, it must signal not just exaggerated predation but also a sense that Freyja embodies powerful forces the gods must safeguard, as crucial as the heavenly bodies that determine diurnal rhythm. It is interesting to compare the identifying attributes of some æsir and ásynjur, to try to tease out the degree to which their powers are integral to their ‘person’, for want of a better word; to look at how power of various kinds is vested in gendered bodies. While it seems Iðunn’s apples might not in themselves have prevented ageing if Iðunn herself were not present, other goddesses such as Freyja and Rán have empowering possessions that they can lend out — a flying coat and a net — without the absence of the object apparently diminishing them in any way.9 In this sense, they have an excess of effect; and they are 8  Fárbauti is identified as a giant by Snorri (Gylfaginning 26) while Laufey is counted among the ásynjur in a þula (pl. þulur) preserved in one of the manuscripts of Snorra Edda. 9  Rán’s net is mentioned in the prose preface to the eddic poem Reginsmál, while the borrowing of Freyja’s flight-enabling garment forms part of the plot of Þrymskviða.

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not, like Þórr, dependent on their marvellous possessions to fulfil their mythological role. As Loki warns Þórr in Þrymskviða after the giant has stolen his hammer, the giants will move into Ásgarðr if he cannot get the hammer back from them (Þrymskviða st. 18). A variation on this male pattern of dependence on an enabling object is the case of Freyr’s sword, though the sword which he trades for assistance in wooing the giantess Gerðr does not diminish his effectiveness as a fertility god; it does, however, underline his inevitable defencelessness against the giant onslaught at Ragnarǫk. Both Þórr’s hammer and Freyr’s sword clearly express a deep anxiety about phallic dismemberment. The shadow of another kind of impotence seems to hang over the god Baldr, of whom it is said in Gylfaginning that none of his decisions can be fulfilled (‘en sú náttúra fylgir honum at engi má halfask dómr hans’). And Hœnir is shown to be chronically dependent on Mímir for verbal advice, unable to function independently (Ynglinga saga ch. 13). Examples of giving away possessions for advantage in the constant tussle for power over giantkind that are closer to the bone are Týr’s loss of one hand, Heimdallr’s apparently detached hearing (Vǫluspá st. 27), and Óðinn’s trading of one of his eyes in return for a drink of wisdom from Mímir’s well. The benefit in the last case may not be quantifiable, but the gesture demonstrates the lengths to which Óðinn went to procure advantage, even sacrificing his entire body by hanging from a tree (Hávamál st. 138). Both these extreme experiences paradoxically enhance Óðinn’s status, his tolerance of danger marked on his body forever by the facial disfigurement of having only one eye. Óðinn’s gendered behaviour in relation to knowledge acquisition is interesting: he is a quester after knowledge of the future, a harvester of prophecies, a high-paying consumer of knowledge drinks, but his knowledge is acquired through quests rather than being innate, like that of a number of female figures in the mythology (Schjødt 2008; è42). It is of course difficult, in this respect, to separate out different kinds of knowledge or wisdom across all the mentions in the sources: knowledge of the future, which is particularly associated with the feminine, might be just one of the strands of intelligence Óðinn acquires, and our view of what the ‘hidden things’ are that Mímir is able to tell Óðinn is forever occluded. It is telling, however, how crucial Freyja is to Óðinn’s development of techniques for knowledge acquisition according to the account in Ynglinga saga. There, in Chapter 4, Freyja is said to have been the first to bring seiðr among the gods and to teach it to them. Óðinn is later described as knowing and practising seiðr, an íþrótt (accomplishment), through which he can predict the fates of men and future events. The nature of seiðr, learnt by Óðinn from Freyja, apparently compromised masculinity and is said to have been associated with

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perversion and shame: ‘En þessi fjǫlkynngi, er framið er, fylgir svá mikil ergi, at eigi þótti karlmǫnnum skammlaust við at fara, ok var gyðjunum kennd sú íþrótt’ (Ynglinga saga ch. 7) (But this sorcery is attended by such wickedness that manly men considered it shameful to practice it, and so it was taught to the priestesses) (p. 11). That is no deterrent for Óðinn: his forays into effeminate behaviour do not seem to diminish his potency — though he is taunted for them by both Þórr (in Hárbarðsljóð) and Loki (in Lokasenna). The marks of effeminate behaviour on Loki’s body are more transient: though he bears a foal, he seems effortlessly to resume his original form afterwards, and the offspring he produces, the eight-legged horse Sleipnir, is an entirely positive addition to æsir culture. Judging divine behaviour according to social mores is ultimately an inadequate way to account for the dynamics between the genders in Old Norse mythology: while accusations of effeminacy on the part of gods or promiscuity on the part of goddesses may raise a titter as scandals are played out in poetic dramas, there was, it seems, no mythological consequence.10 When Loki is eventually bound, it is not because of his shameful deviancy; and in his bound state awaiting Ragnarǫk — which after all is just temporary — he reverts to a markedly normative male role, attended in his defiance by his dutiful wife Sigyn. Fertility, creativity, and value are characteristics of some mythological female bodies: Freyja’s tears are not a salty fluid as others’ are, but consist of gold, while the spontaneously generated cow, Auðhumla, who provided nourishment for Ymir at the beginning of the world, also has the capacity to lick humans into existence (Gylfaginning). Dismembered organs and fluids from male bodies, however, are capable of being exploited in their separated state, Kvasir’s blood becoming a profitable tonic for poets, and Mímir’s head (presumably with voice-box still attached) a valuable source of spoken knowledge for Óðinn (Schjødt 2008). Whether Óðinn’s plucked-out eye augments the value of the waters of the well in which it is deposited is unclear. Physical integrity therefore seems to be a characteristic of the female mythological body (even vǫlur, long dead, are apparently whole), whereas disfigurement or loss — or more particularly, chronic fear of loss — is characteristic of some of the main male bodies in the mythology.

10 

Consequence in the form of temporary exile for unmanly behaviour does feature in Saxo’s euhemerized account of Óðinns’s seduction of Rinda (in order to father a son to avenge the death of Balderus), within a context which is, however, marked by concern about political propriety (Gesta Danorum 3.4.8).

23 – Kings and Rulers Jens Peter Schjødt Introduction That there is some relation between the ruler and the gods within PCRN is a fact which no scholars have disputed. This said, however, almost everything else connected to this relation has been heavily debated, and as we have already seen several times, at the basis of the disagreement are varying opinions about the sources and how they should be used, which shall not be discussed again at this place. Instead, we shall begin with some general considerations concerning the relation between rulers and the Other World. We know from all kinds of societies that they have religious specialists of various types: some of them mostly involved in what we would most often classify as ‘magic’, whereas others are particularly specialized in the conducting of more or less spectacular public rituals. Such specialists will be dealt with in (è29). The existence of religious specialists is due to the fact that in religious societies, as a defining element, there is a clear awareness of a dependence of the ‘Other World’: we are able to control many things in our world, but certainly not everything. If the beings of the Other World are not friendly to us and grant us success in our work in the field, luck in war, and in personal matters, and so forth, then we are in deep trouble. This means that, just as we need some specialists to guide and help us in ordinary affairs (the blacksmith, the ship builder, etc.) we need somebody to help us in our relation towards the Other World and the beings who in the last instance determine the outcome of our enterprises. And since, in most tribal and archaic societies the relation to the Other World is intertwined with almost anything we do, the person who is in charge of the well-being of the society above ordinary people, that is, the Jens Peter Schjødt, Professor of the Study of Religion, Aarhus University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume ii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 2 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 529–557 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116950

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ruler, must also have a special relation to the Other World. This special relation is thus, from an emic point of view, an extremely important legitimizing factor for our acceptance of this person’s decisions. Because of this special relation to the gods, he (it is most often a male) is also the person we accept to guide us in other matters which do not immediately, from a modern perspective, have anything to with the Other World and thus with religion. There is no reason to go into a detailed discussion whether the political leader held his religious position because of his political office, or if it was the other way round. Most likely the answer to that question is dependent on whether we take an emic or an etic perspective (è 1): from the emic perspective the religious relation is seen as legitimization for political office, whereas from an etic perspective it could very well be the other way round: because of the political power of the leader, it is possible for him to be in charge also in religious matters. The important thing, however, is that leadership within the political and the religious sphere1 is most often very hard to distinguish in tribal and archaic societies. Therefore it would not be possible to deal with the social aspects of PCRN without taking the role of the political leader into consideration. A couple of terminological problems should be addressed before we can deal in any detail with the subject. First and foremost, seen from the perspective of the history of religions, it is hardly possible to make a clear distinction between different kinds of political leaders, based on the extant sources. This is not to say that there could not well have been differences between, for instance, kings and chieftains (see, e.g., Jón Viðar Sigurðsson 2011: 80–85). That there were such differences in relation to their political roles and the extent of their power is clear, but in relation to religion, the sources are simply not sufficiently detailed for us to draw any sharp distinctions, although they may well have been there as has been suggested by Olof Sundqvist (2012), discussing the differences between Icelandic chieftains and Scandinavian kings. Even the designations create huge problems. As we shall see below, Tacitus distinguishes between reges and duces (Germania ch. 7), and he also writes about principes (some kind of chieftains), but we do not know the exact relation between these different leaders; and to make it even more difficult, the Romans sometimes called a dux a rex, as is the case with Ariovist (cf.  è12). Also within the Scandinavian area we have terms such as dróttinn,2 1  Speaking of these two spheres is of course possible only from an etic perspective, since in archaic cultures people would hardly be able to draw a sharp distinction between them. 2  The word means ‘the leader of the army’ (or the warrior band, see è24) and goes back to proto-Germanic (cf. Lindow 1976).

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jarl,3 konungr,4 and many more that designate various kinds of leaders and sometimes the same kind of leader. It is quite likely, even probable, that also within the religious realm there were clear differences between these categories, but because of the source situation it is not possible to pin out these differences. For these reasons we shall stick to such terms as ‘leader’ and ‘ruler’.5 Second, traditionally within the history of religions a distinction between different kinds of religious specialists, particularly between specialists of a ‘priestly’ type and specialists of a ‘shamanic’ type, has been made (cf. Malefijt 1968: 228–45). The question about ‘shamanism’ within PCRN has played a major role in the discussion since the last decade of the twentieth and the beginning of the twenty-first centuries (e.g., Hedeager 1997a; Solli 2002; Schjødt 2001; Price 2002; Tolley 2009a), but has also been a subject for older research (e.g., Strömbäck 1935; Buchholz 1968–69, 1971). This discussion will not be taken up in this chapter; suffice it to say that there is no evidence at all that the political leader was anything like a shaman.6 There may have been other specialists who acted in a ‘shamanistic’ way, for instance, the people who performed the seiðr, but the descriptions we have about leaders suggest rather that these were part of, perhaps even in charge of, important parts of the official cult, and certainly ideologically related to the gods, but without any sign of ‘spirit travels’ or other characteristics which we usually connect with shamanism. Notwithstanding the difficulties in distinguishing between the different categories of leaders, just mentioned, we will have to discuss the term ‘sacral kingship’, which therefore, in this connection, can also be applied to ‘sacral chieftainship’. Within the general study of religion, however, the term ‘sacral kingship’ is most often used (Widengren 1969: 360–93),7 whether or not the 3  Jarl means a kind of chieftain, but there can hardly be no doubt that etymologically it is related to *erilaz meaning ‘magician’ or ‘priest’, which would indicate some sort of combination of secular and religious power (cf. de Vries 1962a: 290). 4  Konungr meaning probably ‘man of divine descent’ (de Vries 1962a: 326). 5  D. H. Green (1998: 124–34) discusses within the Germani in general three vernacular words, þiudans, truhtin, and kuning, which he does not distinguish functionally but rather chronologically. 6  It has been suggested by John Lindow (2003) that the Óðinn we meet in Ynglinga saga ch. 6–7 is presented as a Sámi shaman, which seems very likely. At the same time, however, Óðinn is euhemerized, so he is also presented as a king. Thus the two figures, ‘shaman’ and ‘king’, are present in the same person. However, this is an extraordinary case and can hardly be used as evidence for any such thing as shamanic performances carried out by Scandinavian kings. 7  Another, often-used term is ‘divine kingship’, emphasizing the idea that the king is seen as god, as is the case in many cultures. Whether this is the case also in PCRN will be discussed below.

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leader in case is actually a king, which is why it will also be used here. But even if the term ‘sacral kingship’ has been seen to designate different institutions, as we shall see in a moment, some scholars insist that in order to use the term, the king should be seen as some kind of god, whereas others would argue that a role as cult leader would justify the use of it (Köhler 2004: 181).8 As a consequence, it may cover a wide range of relationships between the ruler and the Other World, from ‘just’ being an important participant in rituals to being a god — and all intermediate forms, including ideas about the king’s inherent numinous power, his descent from the gods, and many other stronger or weaker relations.9 Therefore, a certain relation between rulers and religion is something we should expect, before we have even looked at the sources; and as mentioned, probably nobody would deny that this was also the case in Scandinavia, so what we have to look for is a wide range of relations between the ruler and the phenomenon of religion as it was characterized in (è 1). There is no immediate reason to look for all the typological details that were suggested by an older generation of scholars like James George Frazer,10 Arthur M. Hocart (1927; see below), and Geo Widengren (1969: 360–93). A more recent structural approach was taken by Henry J. M. Claessen (1978: 550–51). He enumerates the following points: 1. The position of the sovereign is based on a mythical charter. 2. The ruler is sacral. The most important manifestation of his sacrality is his mediation between his people and the supernatural forces. 3. The ruler performs rites, and in some cases is even the high priest. 4. He placates the supernatural powers with offerings. 5. The sovereign is also the lawgiver and supreme judge. Being the supreme commander of the armed forces, he is charged with the protection of his 8 

Köhler (2004: 181) has a useful overview of various kinds of sacrality by the leader, such as divinity by his own power, incarnating a divinity, substitute for the god, direct descent, the main figure in mediating between humans and gods, symbolic closeness to the gods, or magic and supernatural powers. These forms of sacrality may appear individually, but more often they can be seen in combination. 9  For a splendid outline of the discussion within PCRN, we can refer to Sundqvist (2002: 18–38), although his account is mainly concerned with the old Swedish society. For the viewpoints up until the 1970s, a very useful survey can be read in McTurk (1974–77, 1994). 10  All through The Golden Bough (1907–15) Frazer touches upon sacral kings, as is also indicated by the myth-ritual complex with which the work begins: the king of the woods in Nemi.

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people. His benevolence is expressed in the gifts presented and the remuneration paid by him. 6. The essential aim of all these characteristics is protection against supernatural forces, enemies, poverty, and anarchy. It is believed that wherever the sovereign is, there is safety, order, and well-being. 7. In principle, therefore, the relationship between the sovereign and his people can be seen as a reciprocal one: the people supply food, goods, and services, and the ruler provides protection, that is, a redistribution system. Of course, there is room for criticisms here, but mostly it will be a matter of perspective, and there certainly are valuable observations in the above list. It is, however, important to be aware that this is not a checklist, according to which we can determine whether we face a sacral kingdom or not, but it is a figure we may use in order to interpret the sources from PCRN. And even if some of the points do not seem immediately to have any direct relation to religion, they probably have so anyway, since, as was mentioned, most happenings in archaic societies were seen in relation to the religious worldview. We may miss some points, and perhaps we can find other characteristics that are of importance in Scandinavia, but Claessen’s points are useful to bear in mind, exactly because they allow us to see, within each point, a variety of potential manifestations. This distinguishes the list from those of earlier generations, and makes it much more useful when we attempt to analyse different structural relationships between rulers and religion. Figure 23.1. A sceptre from the royal ship burial at Sutton Hoo in Suffolk, dated to the early seventh century (British Museum no. 1939, 1010.160). The sceptre consists of a whetstone with four carved human masks at both ends. At the upper end of the sceptre is a ring with a stag. The ship burial at Sutton Hoo has many Scandinavian parallels, and from a Scandinavian point of view, the whetstone sceptre recalls the myth of Þórr’s killing of the giant Hrungnir. According to Snorri, all whetstones come from Hrungnir’s whetstone, which Þórr shattered with his hammer (è41). The sceptre, consequently, could have suggested association of the ruler and his relations to the Other World and to the creation of the world. Photo: © Trustees of the British Museum, London. 

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As mentioned above, the religious character of the ruler in PCRN has been vividly discussed for a long time, and in the following section we shall attempt to give a brief overview of some of the more important view points in the history of scholarship.

Scholarship Up until 1964, there was a general consensus that the king in pre-Christian Scandinavia should be seen as ‘sacred’, partly due to analogies from the Mediterranean area and to the scattered hints in the Scandinavian sources themselves. The whole idea of sacral kingship in the scholarly community had its origin in the so called ‘Myth and Ritual School’ founded by the Cambridge ritualists in the years around 1900,11 and it survived the criticisms raised against its other parts (Schjødt 1990a; Steinsland 2000: 53–57; Sundqvist 2002: 18–38) such as the stable relation between the two phenomena ‘myth’ and ‘ritual’ and others. In accordance with the comparative method of the time, scholars within PCRN construed detailed models, sometimes based on that of A. M. Hocart, which was created from material mainly from the ancient Near East, but also from the rest of the world (Hocart 1927), connecting the scattered evidence within the Nordic sources. There is no doubt that some of these reconstructions had very meagre support in the sources, and that they were often part of a romantic view of the Scandinavian past. But many valuable theories about sacral kingship which were still based on comparative evidence were also published by scholars such as Vilhelm Grønbech (1909–12), Åke V. Ström (1956), Folke Ström (1954), and Otto Höfler (1959). In 1964, however, Walter Baetke published his famous book on sacral kingship, Yngvi und die Ynglingar: Eine quellenkritische Untersuchung über das nordische ‘Sakralkönigtum’, in which he concluded that there was no such thing as a sacral kingship in the North. This created a heated debate in the following years, but there is no doubt that in this period in which the ‘source critical’ method was at its peak the tendency was in favour of Baetke,12 whereas this has changed in recent years, where the tendency seems to go in the opposite direction, as we 11 

For general accounts and discussions about the school, we can refer to Fontenrose (1966); Kirk (1970: 8–31); Doty (1986: 72–106); Bell (1997: 3–22); and Segal (1998: 1–13). 12  Again, we can refer to Sundqvist and McTurk when it comes to the debate about Baetke (Sundqvist 2002: 31–35; McTurk 1974–77: 150–68). It should be mentioned that already in 1971 Erik Gunnes challenged Baetke for not taking comparative perspectives into consideration in connection with what the Old Norse sources actually relate (Gunnes 1971: 31).

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shall return to below. An interesting thing, however, is that the main part of the disagreement seems to be about definitions: what do we need in order to speak about sacral kingship? Baetke insisted that sacral kingship necessarily had to involve a veneration of the king as a sacred figure — that he had to have some inherent ‘religious power’ (Baetke 1964: 39). In Old Norse we have such terms as haming ja, gæfa, gipta (è36) definitely indicating qualities of some inner ‘life’ that can be expressed as a kind of inherent soul, gift, or luck (see Sundqvist 2002: 244–48; Ejerfeldt 1969–70) and could be seen as an indication of such power, but they are all rejected by Baetke as evidence for pagan ideas about the king’s ‘power’, mainly because they were not only attributed to kings (Baetke 1964: 19). We shall return to that below, but as we just noted, the idea of such an inherent power is not necessary, in order to speak of ‘sacral kingship’ as the term is used in the general study of religion. But of course definitions are not ‘right’ or ‘wrong’. The problem, however, is that it is hard to discuss the existence of sacral kingship if the participants in the discussion have differing opinions about what they are actually talking about. More famous is Baetke’s rejection of the descent from the gods, primarily based on a source critical analysis of Ynglingatal. Baetke did not accept this poem, or any other source for that matter, as an indication that the Scandinavian kings descended from any god, be it Óðinn or Freyr. The divine qualities that can be seen in many saga descriptions, it was maintained, are due to Christian influence, including the notion of rex justus. This rejection of divine genealogy was of course necessary in order to reject the inherent power of the ruler: if a person descends from the gods, he or she would most likely possess some superhuman power. Therefore, in spite of the fact that neither Baetke nor anybody else rejected the idea that the king played a role in the cult, he had no ‘divine’ qualities, and thus was not really ‘sacral’. The problem, however, is then, how — in a tribal or an archaic society — it would be possible to legitimize the social and political position of the ruler without recurring to some basic ideological patterns, shared in more or less detail by all members of the society in question, that is, religion. Of course military or economical ‘force’ would play an important role, but it is hardly likely that people in the long run would accept a leader who was not able to maintain a good relationship with the Other World, governing most things in this world. So even if Baetke’s analysis, particularly in the first couple of decades following the publication, had immense impact, and still has, in the sense that many scholars are hesitant to use the term ‘sacral kingship’ at all,13 we must reconsider the whole idea of the divine qualities of the king. 13 

The term ‘sacral kingship’ is in this chapter used without any prejudice. A scholar such as

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Since Baetke, the whole discussion of the role of the ruler has continued, and many contributions have been published, and some of them will be mentioned below. As suggested above, since the 1990s the general attitude towards the existence of a kind of sacral kingship — whether or not the term is accepted — in pre-Christian Scandinavia has been more positive, mostly due to a more positive attitude in general towards the possibility of using the sources for reconstructing PCRN.14 We shall not go into details with the various contributions at this place, but important viewpoints will be mentioned in the following sections.15 One scholar, however, should be mentioned here: namely, the Norwegian historian of religion Gro Steinsland. In her thesis she proposes that a certain pattern concerning the descent of the king was to be seen in some eddic and skaldic poems (Steinsland 1991: passim; (more briefly) Steinsland 2000: 57–81). This pattern consists mainly in the fact that the numinous power of the king is due to his descent from a relation between a god (Freyr or Óðinn) and a giant woman, a relation which Steinsland characterizes as a hieros gamos.16 Prior to Steinsland, the ancestral mother was never focused upon, but Sundqvist seems to be very hesitant to use the term in connection with the pre-Christian Scandinavian area, because he sees it as a continuation of the ‘pre-Baetke’ scholarship (Sundqvist 2002: 37, 365; cf. Steinsland 2011b: 16). He speaks about a ‘sacral kingship school’ which is understood as part of the Frazerian framework. In this chapter the term is used simply to characterize any relation in which the ruler possess some numinous power which is beyond that of his people, involving some or all of the characteristics presented by Claessen. ‘Sacral kingship’ is thus understood as a religious phenomenon at the same level as ‘sacrifice’, ‘myth’, ‘shamanism’, etc., and certainly not as a ‘school’ (after all, we do not talk about a ‘sacrifice school’, a ‘myth school’, etc.). The fact that a term has been used by some scholars we do not agree with should not prevent us from using that term — as long as it is meaningful: if an important part of the legitimization of the position of the king has to do with his position vis-à-vis the Sacred, it definitely makes sense to speak of a ‘sacral kingdom’, and thus of ‘sacral kings’. See also von Padberg (2004: 180). 14  See, for instance, Brink (1990b); North (1997); Nygaard (2016); Schjødt (1990a, 2010); Steinsland (1991, 2000); Jón Viðar Sigurðsson (1999), and a bit more hesitant Sundqvist (2002, 2005, 2007, 2012). Among ‘post-Baetke’ scholars rejecting the idea of sacral kingship, we can mention Ejerfeldt (1969–70), Lönnroth (1986), Picard (1991), and Frank (2007). 15  Sundqvist in numerous publications, and in particular in his book from 2016, An Arena for Higher Powers, has gathered and discussed almost all relevant material, including a brief account of the research history (Sundqvist 2016: 7–14). In contrast to his earlier book from 2002, Freyr’s Offspring, he is here dealing with the whole Nordic area. 16  Once again a term, the definition of which there is absolutely no agreement about. Basically it is about a sexual relation either between a human and a divine being, or two divine beings, or two human beings who have some metaphorical relation to the Other World.

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according to her, it is decisive to take this giant woman into account, because it explains the ill fate we often see connected to the kings. Whether or not this theory can account for the entire ‘ruler ideology’ remains to be seen,17 but whether or not the relation between a god and a giantess is significant, there can hardly be any doubt that it is significant in many sources that a woman who is in some way connected with the Other World is very often chosen when kings are in need of a wife, both in myths and in legendary history,18 as well as in real life.19 Steinsland, thus, although somewhat sceptical towards the term ‘sacral kingship’ (Steinsland 2011b: 16), fully agrees that the king is closely related to the Other World through descent.

Historical Framework The discussion about an early Germanic kingship has been going on for more than a century, and it would be impossible in this chapter to go into just the most important details of that discussion.20 In brief it can be stated that, as we have just seen in relation to Scandinavia, there is no agreement whether there actually was such a thing as a sacred kingship and also in the same way as in the discussion above, whether the sources are reliable concerning these matters. And, as is nearly always the case in dealing with the early Germanic peoples, we cannot be sure of anything. We do know a lot about kings, or at least persons who were seen as kings by the classical authors, but the character

Whether it is a question of ‘pure’ sexuality or the main purpose is procreation is hard to say, but in general the two things are very difficult to separate in religious matters. 17  Margaret Clunies Ross (2014) has, like some other reviewers, been very critical towards Steinsland’s theory and has problematized the textual foundation for it. 18  Several examples can be found in Ynglinga saga. 19  Examples, although partly legendary, could be the wife of Haraldr hárfagri Snæfríðr, King Hringr’s wife Hvít, or King Vǫlsungr’s wife Hljóð, who are all ‘strangers’ (cf. Mundal 1996), just as Danish kings such as Gormr the Old and Haraldr blátǫnn took (Slavonic) wives outside the ‘in-group’. 20  Among many good overviews we shall in particular refer to the articles on ‘Königtum’ and ‘Sakralkönigtum’ in Reallexikon der germanischer Altertumskunde, 17 (2001) and 26 (2004) (for instance, Schneider 2001, Padberg 2004, and Steuer 2004); see also Castritius and Sawyer (2001); Wolfram (1968); Wallace-Hadrill (1971). Green (1998: 121–40) has a good discussion but leaves the question of ‘sacral kingship’ unsolved (1998: 123–24). An interesting contribution dealing primarily with Anglo-Saxon matters, but very suggestive also for the Old Norse world is Chaney (1970).

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of their relation to the gods is very hard to grasp from the sources.21 It seems, however, that at least some of the Germanic tribes — and there may well have been differences22 — saw their ruler as a descendant from the gods, as we see it most clearly in Jordanes’s Getica (14.79), in which we are told that the kingly family, the Amali, were seen as semi-gods (ansis)23 and had descended from Gapt (probably Óðinn). We may also interpret the statement by Tacitus in Germania ch. 7 that the kings were chosen according to their birth (‘Reges ex nobilitate […] sumunt’) as if the genealogy of the royal family (known as stirbs regia) was of another kind than that of ordinary people. Here it is also said that war leaders are chosen because of their courage. Tacitus speaks about reges and duces as two kinds of leaders which may very well correspond to the so called ‘Freyr kings’ and ‘Óðinn kings’ respectively, the king of peace, and of the tribe, and the king of war, and of the war bands (Schjødt 2012b: 73–79; Nygaard 2016: 14–15, 24–26; cf. Enright 1996a: 89–90).24 How and when this division developed and how and why it later, in the pagan Scandinavian context (and in medieval Europe, of course), was reduced to one king, we cannot know with any certainty, but we shall return to the theme below.25 Also most of the Anglo-Saxon royal houses would trace their line back to Óðinn as 21 

For a thorough overview of the sources concerning the Germanic peoples, outside of Scandinavia we can refer to Goltz and others (2004). Here there are also many references to the heated discussion about the sources, and it is stated that almost no sources speak clearly about anything that can be connected directly to a ‘sacral kingdom’ (Sakralkönigtum). 22  For instance, it seems that the eastern tribes had a more monarchic kind of government than those in the west (Chaney 1970: 9). 23  The word is related to Old Norse æsir (de Vries 1962a: 16); see also North (1997: 135– 39), who maintains that Gapt was not in the outset Óðinn but a god of the vanir-type. 24  These two types of kings are also discussed in Wolfram (1997: 15–20). He says about Tacitus’s two kinds of leaders that they represented ‘two forms of Germanic kingship that supplemented, indeed succeeded, one another’ (p. 15). 25  The archaeologist Kristian Kristiansen has attempted to demonstrate a ‘twin rulership’ already in Bronze Age Scandinavia (and other places). Although many of his theories remain rather speculative, his results may well be of interest in this connection (Kristiansen 2001; cf. Kristiansen and Larsson 2005: 271–82). The so-called ‘hillforts’ or ‘ringforts’ and their use may also indicate the existence of some sort of military leaders, probably the duces of Tacitus, as has been demonstrated by Anders Andrén (2014: 69–115). These constructions and the military organization they were part of, therefore, in the third century ce, seem to be ‘based on negotiations between different aristocratic families, and the military leaders probably only enjoyed temporary power associated with the actual campaign’ (Andrén 2014: 114), whereas they developed into more permanent settings in the fifth century, probably indicating a change in the position of the duces (cf. Wolfram 1997: 15–20).

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their ultimate forefather (Chaney 1970: 29–33). Apart from this genealogical evidence, we also learn from Germania (ch. 10) that the king or the chieftain was, together with the priest, in charge of a divination ritual involving horses. In Histories (4.61–65), Tacitus likewise relates that there was a seeress, Veleda, living in a tower who was closely related to the chieftain Civilis of the Batavians who settled things together. Charlotte Fabech in particular (Fabech 1991) has proposed that a transformation took place in the fifth century when important parts of the cult were moved from wet areas to the rulers’ halls: this also suggests the important role of the ruler in connection with the cultic performances. Whether or not Fabech’s theory corresponds to the archaeological record — it has been severely questioned by other archaeologists (e.g., Zachrissson 1998; Hedeager 1999; Monikander 2010) — there can be no doubt that during the Later Iron Age many rituals took place in the kingly halls ( Jørgensen 2009). For the later period of Scandinavia the sources are much more explicit. Although, as we saw above, the value of the written sources is problematic, we shall attempt in the following to apply some of the criteria we have seen above in order to see whether we can draw a likely if rough picture of the various relations that can be seen between the king and the Other World in PCRN. There is no doubt that archaeology is able to support the idea that the leaders carried with them a certain amount of sacrality. The problem, as it has been stated by Heiko Steuer (2004) and Torsten Capelle (2001), is that archaeology cannot by itself, and without written sources, decide in any detail the relation between ruler and religion or even whether the corpse in a mound or a grave is that of a king. Nevertheless, there can be no doubt that, for instance, the mounds at Sutton Hoo (particularly the ship burials)26 and many Scandinavian mounds are made in relation to members of the highest strata in the society, and some of them very likely for kings. One of the clearest examples from the archaeological record about this connection is exactly the helmet from Sutton Hoo, Mound 1 (for illustration, see Carver 1998: 30–31); it has recently been shown convincingly that the left eye on the helmet has deliberately been changed in a way so that it would seem as if the person wearing the helmet would look one-eyed (Price and Mortimer 2014). Therefore, we can hardly escape the view that the king (Raedwald, who died 625, or some other pagan king) on certain occasions was to be seen as a replica of Óðinn. That would all fit extremely well with the ideas of this god as the leader of the warrior band 26 

A brief introduction to the Sutton Hoo burial place can be read in Carver (1998), in which it is also possible to see most relevant references (1998: 185). See also Carver (2005).

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Jens Peter Schjødt Figure 23.2. An eyebrow of a helmet from Uppåkra in Skåne, dated to the seventh or eighth century (LUHM 31251:3804). The eyebrow is similar to the eyebrows of the helmet from the royal ship burial at Sutton Hoo in Suffolk, showing that similar helmets were used in Scandinavia as well. Photo: Historiska museet vid Lunds universitet, Lund.

(è24), who would attend the feasts in the royal halls, facing their leader in this world as well as the other (Price and Mortimer 2014). It is also conspicuous that in the same period (sixth and seventh centuries) we can see the mounds, in at least some places in Scandinavia, perhaps under the influence of Frankish and Anglo-Saxon culture, grow bigger, suggesting a new position of the ruler (cf. Zachrisson 2011b, with references to previous literature),27 and also a kind of centralization with various functions being moved into the main halls, for instance, at Tissø in Denmark ( Jørgensen 2014: 260).

Cultic Relations We can, in accordance with what has been stated above, divide the relation between rulers and religion into two ‘levels’: namely the cultic (or ritual) and the mythic. It would make no sense to have the ruler as cult leader, if it was not because he was, beforehand, seen as someone ‘special’. The special qualities of the leader can in various religions be accounted for in many different ways, but what is constant is that he is always closer to the Other World than other humans, and thus he is attributed with a higher degree of the numinous.28 We shall now turn to some examples of various ways in which the ruler is particularly related to rituals. We can provisionally divide the rituals into those in which the king acts as a cult leader, and those in which he is the object of the ritual (either as a sacrificial victim, the recipient of worship, or as the entity 27 

In central Sweden it is also quite clear that more valuable riches are found in the graves from this period, such as, for instance, the gold collar from the west mound in Gamla Uppsala. 28  This does not necessarily need a straightforward mythic explanation, as it can be attributed to other phenomena, such as abilities to interpret the will of the gods, maybe because the ‘sacred’ person has passed through some initiation ritual, or because he or she is in other ways ‘special’, and therefore beyond the level of ‘normal’ people.

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which is manipulated through the ritual). As a cult leader we meet him in various sources, and most of them are insecure in one way or another. For the runic inscriptions, for instance, Olof Sundqvist has examined the most important examples (Sundqvist 2002: 176–80, 197–98), but both the reading and the semantics are so uncertain that we can hardly build any sort of reconstruction on them, even if they may support a general cultic relation of a ruler. As for the literary sources, we see this relation mainly in Snorri’s Heimskringla, to which we shall return immediately, but also at other places too we get some indication of a close relation between the ruler and the performance of rituals. For instance, Adam of Bremen (4.27, schol. 140) reports that a certain Anund who was a Christian refused to bring the sacrifice of the people for the gods, and this may be a literary topos, since the same is related in Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks ch. 16 about a king Ingi who would not give up his Christian faith as demanded by the people at the þing and was therefore driven away and replaced by the pagan Blót-Sveinn (cf. Sävborg 2017). Similarly in Hákonar saga góða in Heimskringla ch. 17 the king is forced to take part in the blótveizla (sacrificial feast) at Hlaðir, if he is going to keep his position (cf. Ágrip ch. 5).29 These examples all relate to so-called calendrical rituals of a public kind, the number of which is not certain (è31), but probably three or four during the year, and further some, even more spectacular ones every ninth year, as is related by Adam of Bremen concerning Uppsala (4.27) and Thietmar of Merseburg concerning Lejre (Chronicon 1.17; è28). These calendrical, public rituals were probably often placed in connection with þing meetings (è20). The example from Hákonar saga góða is not said directly to have anything to do with any other kind of gathering, and we are not even told that it is a calendrical ritual, but nevertheless we hear that it was held in the autumn, in the beginning of the winter which indicates that it indeed was one of the calendrical rituals (è31). In the examples given above it seems clear that the king is confronted by the people, indicating that his duties concerning the rituals are on behalf of the people. He can thus be seen as a primus inter pares whose responsibility it is to keep up good relations with the Other World, in accordance with what we would expect. In this sense he represents the people towards the world of the gods. We shall deal a little further with some elements of the sacrificial feasts at Hlaðir, 29  This passage, together with the description of the same ritual that we get in Chapter 14, has been heavily debated (i.e., Düwel 1985; Sundqvist 2005, both with many references; and not least Meulengracht Sørensen 2001c, with important theoretical considerations), and obviously it is not ‘historical’ in every detail, but the importance of the king for the performance of the ritual is in accordance with many other sources (è31).

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Figure 23.3. Drinking vessels from rich inhumation graves, dated to the third and fourth centuries, from Himlingøje in Stevns on Sjælland. The drinking vessels emphasize the importance of drinking within elite groups (Nationalmuseet no. C24707; j.nr.360/49; MCMXXXIII; C24708; C24709; MCMXXXIV; MCMXXXV; C7675; j.nr.1200/75; C3243). Photo: Lennart Larsen, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen.

so far as it tells us about the relation between ruler and religion. In Chapter 14 of the saga, we get a general description of the feast that was held there. We are told that Sigurðr Hlaðajarl was a great blótmaðr (performer of sacrifices), and that he held the sacrificial feasts in Trøndelagen on behalf of the king, which could indicate that the king, as the formal ruler, had the duty to celebrate these feasts, but for practical reasons had to rely on a substitute.30 Further, we are told that all men had to come to the feast bringing their own food, and all were to take part in the drinking of beer.31 The drinking of alcohol in connection with religious feasts has played an immense role in PCRN, both on a mythical and a ritual level (cf. Doht 1974; de Vries 1956–57a: i, 424–28; Dillmann 1997; 30 

However, politically it could also well be a show off of the hierarchical relation between the jarl and the king. 31  In the text it is said that all the farmers, or rather the landowners (allir bœndr), had to go to the sacrificial place (hof). This would probably mean the wealthier men, and it could indicate, therefore, that the ritual to be celebrated, apart from its overtly religious purposes (the emic part) also had a political purpose, that is, strengthening the relation between king and people and thus the unity of the group (cf. Durkheim 1912).

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Sundqvist 2002: 191–93), and there is no doubt that the ritual drinking was another way of strengthening the solidarity, both among the participants and between gods and humans.32 Also, huge sacrifices of various animals, and horses in particular,33 took place, and the blood clearly has the same important role that we see all over the world in connection with bloody sacrifices, whereas the meat was boiled and eaten by the participants, thus again creating a communion. In connection with the ruler it is of special interest that the leader of the ceremony, the chieftain, should bless (signa) the beaker and the sacrificial food. The word signa is definitely a word of post-pagan origin which is to be expected by an author of the thirteenth century,34 but the idea that the ruler should make the drink and the food ‘sacred’ is again in full agreement with what we should expect beforehand. After this we are told that a toast should firstly be drunk to Óðinn for victory and power of the king, and then one for Njǫrðr and Freyr for abundance of crops and peace (ár ok friðr),35 and following that it is said that many also drank the bragafull, meaning either ‘beaker of Bragi’, an apparently minor god in the pantheon, or more likely ‘beaker of the king’ (cf. Cleasby and Vigfusson 1957: 75; de Vries 1956–57a: i, 457–58). Finally, toasts in memory (minni) of the dead relatives were drunk.36 It seems quite obvious that this spectacular ritual was centred around the ruler and aimed at strengthening the solidarity of the leading people with the ruler as a sort of symbol for the unity of the group, which is of course why the behaviour of Hákon related in Chapter 17 was such a disaster. According to this description, which is the most detailed we have for a calendrical ritual 32 

It is also worth mentioning the ritual drinking in the hall, mentioned by Enright (1996a) in which the warrior band (comitatus) was transformed into a kind of relatives to the ruler through the drinking of mead, dispensed by the female consort of the ruler, probably representing a goddess (1996a: 285 and passim). 33  For instance, in the Ladby ship burial (c. 950) eleven horses and several dogs were found (cf. Sørensen 2001). 34  It has been raised as an argument against the reliability of the passage that this word (along with others) is used (e.g., Walter 1966), which does not seem reasonable: no matter how much a person knows about the past, he or she will of course use the language of his or her own time in order to relate it. That has no impact at all on the trustworthiness of the content of what is actually related. 35  This formula can be seen in a large number of texts, and there are no convincing arguments for seeing it as Christian, as has been done by some scholars (e.g., von See 1988; see also è25 and è31). 36  There is no indication in this source that dead rulers were memorized in particular, but at other places, it is said directly that kings were memorized (e.g., Ynglinga saga ch. 37).

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with the ruler in the centre, and which is very much in accordance with rituals of this kind known from the phenomenology of religion, we see that the king or his substitute was responsible for maintaining the feasts, and that he had an outstanding role, since he was the one who had to make sacred the mediating substances between this and the Other World, that is, the drink and the meat from the victims. But apart from this role as a cult leader, he was also in the centre of the very goal of the ritual which appears to be on the one hand the victory of the king, for which purpose Óðinn is called upon, and on the other hand the prosperity of the land, with the gods Njǫrðr and Freyr as recipients of the toast. The role of the ruler in war is obvious, but according to a religious world-view he should also be seen as responsible for the general well-being of the land, inherent in the formula ár ok friðr. If it is true that the term bragafull implies a toast to the king, it is of particular interest that the king seems to be at the same level as the gods and the dead ancestors in relation to the toasts. Since the gods, as well as the dead, hold a high degree of numinous power compared to ordinary, living people, this would indicate that the king, at least at ritual occasions, could hold a similar status. We shall return to this below. It has been suggested by scholars such as Folke Ström (1954, 1961) and Gro Steinsland (1991, 2000) that the king in relation to an inauguration ritual or some calendrical ritual would have been involved in a so-called hieros gamos, a sacred wedding, during which the male ruler would perform a sexual act with a woman who represented the land.37 Although there is no direct evidence for this proposition, it can definitely not be ruled out. From what we know about the ruler and his responsibility for his land and its ‘well-being’ in a broad sense, there would definitely be room for such a ritual. But again, maybe it was never carried out in the real world, or it had been carried out long before the Viking Age but was forgotten somewhere along the way or heavily transformed. As we shall return to below this could have something to do with a shift from a Freyrkingship to an Óðinn-kingship.38 Also in divination rituals which were often carried out in relation to crises we see the ruler as responsible for organizing the ceremonies. We saw already 37 

Folke Ström and Steinsland differ in many ways, however. Whereas Ström in continuation of Magnus Olsen (1909) sees the relation as part of a fertility cult, Steinsland sees it in the context of ruler ideology, and thus as part of an inauguration ritual (Steinsland 2000: 61). For Ström the ‘land’ is the fields, whereas for Steinsland it is the political area, belonging to the king. 38  See also West (2007: 415–17). Here we learn that already in Indo-European times the idea of the king being responsible for the land can be seen, as well as the relation between the queen and the land.

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in Tacitus that the king played an important role in divinations together with priests, and that there was a strong relation between the ruler Civilis and the seeress Veleda (Histories 4.61–65). At a more modest level we have the account from Eiríks saga rauða ch. 4 where we are told that Þorkell the chieftain, or at least the most powerful of the farmers, is obliged to find out why things go bad with fishing and hunting, and therefore invites a vǫlva to foresee what will happen.39 The description in Hákonar saga góða portrays the king not only as a cult leader but also as an object of the cult. So if we turn to the rituals in which the ruler has the role as the sacrificial object of the ritual, we have the famous description, also by Snorri, from Ynglinga saga ch. 15 concerning the sacrifice of King Dómaldi. This is much more mythical in its character than the descriptions from Hákonar saga góða, and there is nothing to suggest that Dómaldi was ever a historical person. Snorri tells that in his days there was famine in Sweden, and the Swedes therefore made a big sacrifice, blót, in Uppsala. The first fall they sacrificed oxen, which did not help. The next year they sacrificed humans, which did not help either; and the third year the chieftains decided that Dómaldi was probably to blame for the bad harvests and that he should be sacrificed, which they accordingly did. As with most other pieces of information in Ynglinga saga, Snorri relies here on Þjóðólfr ór Hvini’s Ynglingatal,40 which clearly seems to support that the king was killed and that it was connected to (lack of ) fertility in some sense. Now, if we preliminary take at face value the reason for the killing, given by both Þjóðólfr and Snorri (but leave out the context we get from Snorri — but not from Þjóðólfr about the oxen and ordinary people being sacrificed), then it takes place because the Swedes are árg jǫrn (eager for prosperity), because they want the bad years to end, and the fields to prosper. This can be interpreted in three ways: first, because the ruler’s numinous power was not strong enough he had to be sacrificed (Ström 1954: 39); second, because he did not perform the rituals in the way he should, the chieftains wanted to get rid of him (Baetke 1964: 65).41 The third possibil39 

Many other examples of divination in connection with rulers can be seen in Sundqvist (2002: 214–24). 40  All important references concerning this poem can be found in Bergsveinn Birgisson (2008). In opposition to most scholarship, which holds the poem to be one of the oldest skaldic poems dating towards the end of the ninth century, Claus Krag (1991) has suggested that the poem is only from the twelfth century. Although some have accepted Krag’s argument, it is for a variety of reasons very unlikely. 41  Baetke’s idea here is thus more a question of getting rid of the old ruler in order to have a new one. If this is the case, the ‘gift’ aspect of the ritual (i.e., ‘gift sacrifice’) is absent, and thus it can hardly qualify for a sacrifice at all.

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ity is, if we take Snorri’s account into consideration — that the outcome failed in spite of the sacrifices of oxen and ordinary people, but succeeded with the sacrifice of the king — which indicates that the numinosity of the king was so much stronger than that of the other categories of victims, that the ‘value’ of this sacrifice was in accordance with what was demanded from the gods. And that this was actually the case seems likely from the inherent logic of the relation between ruler and gods: The ruler was a representative of the gods towards the people and a representative of the people towards the gods, as it has been argued by Schjødt (1990a: 58), and as we shall return to below. As is always the case in sacrifices, the victims have to be made ‘sacred’ before they can be sent from this to the Other World in order to become compatible with it (Hubert and Mauss 1964). According to this logic, it also seems obvious that an object which is already seen as numinous, as was no doubt the case with the king, would be more suitable than one which is not: outstanding objects which possess more numinosity than other objects are closer to the Other World and thus better suited as gifts to the gods than ordinary things (Schjødt 2010: 174). And the more important the outcome of the sacrificial ritual is, the more numinosity is needed. From that perspective, there is an inherent logic, which puts the king in a risky position, although such king sacrifices probably did not take place in historical times.42 We also know from the sacrifice by Starkaðr of King Víkarr in Gautreks saga ch. 7 and Gesta Danorum (6.5.7) that the idea of the gods, in this case Óðinn, wanting kingly victims existed. We do not know to whom Dómaldi was sacrificed, but we cannot be certain that it was to some fertility god or goddess, just because the crisis was about lack of prosperity. It might just as well, and perhaps more likely, have been Óðinn, being the god to whom the kings were attached in particular, and who is seen as their patron.43 From this perspective, whether Dómaldi was sacrificed because of his neglects of the cult or because his numinosity was not sufficient does not appear as important as has been thought, although both ideas might have been part of the ideological basis. If sacrificial regicides ever took place in the real world, it seems as if it 42  In this connection it is also worth mentioning the French literary historian René Girard (1986) who argues that religion as such originated from the scapegoat figure, who is always some extraordinary figure, either by birth or by arrangement (lot casting or other means), and in either a positive or a negative way. 43  In Historia Norwegie ch. 9 it is said that Dómaldi was sacrificed to Ceres (perhaps interpretatio Romana for Freyja); however, we are also told that he was hung, clearly an indication that the receiver of the sacrifice was Óðinn. This could perhaps point to a cult in which both Freyja and Óðinn were involved, a subject to which we shall return in (è42).

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was because the rulers were seen as the most appropriate victims for the gods.44 But of course it was also because their relation to the Other World was not as good as it had to be. Whether this ‘disturbance’ was due to lack of numinosity or neglect of rituals or both, we will certainly never know for sure, and perhaps we should not even attempt to make such a distinction. The important thing, then, is that the king for some reason was not able to keep up the good relations with the Other World,45 and since he was at the same time the representative of the people, being somewhat closer to the gods, he was also the most valuable victim of all. In general we should probably be careful about distinguishing too sharply between these various ‘figures of thought’. Although we have no sources indicating that the living ruler ever was a recipient of worship,46 we surely do have such indications concerning the dead ruler (Sundqvist 2015). Thus it is related about the Danish king Frotho by Saxo (5.16.3) that after he had died, his death was kept secret, and for three years he was driven around in a wagon, so that people could see that he was still alive and continue to pay taxes to him. These ‘taxes’ could very well be seen as a kind of sacrifices. Freyr47 who is strongly related, perhaps basically identical, to Frotho (cf. Schier 1968; Schjødt 2009b) was, according to Ynglinga saga ch. 10, secretly put into a mound when he died where he stayed for three years, and in the mound there were three windows so that the Swedes could throw into it copper, silver, and gold as tributes. In that way ár ok friðr lasted. In both cases we may well think of the taxes as a kind of sacrifice for peace and prosperity. Another king, Hálfdan svarti, in whose reign there was great prosperity, drowned, and his body was dismembered and put into mounds at four different places, so that prosperity would last in the different parts of the country (Hálfdanar saga svarta ch. 9).48 These examples certainly indicate that the dead 44 

See Nygaard (2016) for the possibility of a specific ‘ruler sacrifice’ in PCRN. In a purely speculative way one could think of the happenings in 536, having been discussed in several publications by Morten Axboe (e.g., 1999a) and recently by Gräslund and Price (2012). One could perhaps imagine that events such as the virtual disappearing of the sun could be a proper reason to sacrifice a king. 46  However, it cannot be ruled out when we take into consideration the source situation. Of course, it would be futile to postulate a cult centering around the living king, since it is never mentioned, but if theories, for instance based on new archaeological finds, would involve the idea of such a cult, it would not be much of a surprise. 47  Who, we must remember, in Ynglinga saga is seen as a human king. 48  For other variants of the same story, see Sundqvist (2002: 279–80; Sundqvist 2016: 462–65; cf. also Lincoln 2006, 2014). 45 

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king was supposed to be able to bring prosperity, exactly as the gods of fertility. And as a matter of fact we are told about a king who was transformed into a god, or at least a divine being (an álfr). This story (Ólafs þáttr Geirstaðaálfs) is found in Flateyjarbók (Ólafs saga hins helga ch. 5–8)49 and deals with a certain legendary king, Ólafr, who when he died was called Ólafr Geirstaðaálfr and received sacrifices (è63). And other examples could be mentioned which, although they are not reliable from a traditional source-critical stance,50 suggest that in the Middle Ages there existed a vague memory of a cult of dead rulers. Other rituals in which the ruler should be seen as object of the cult are constituted by various rites de passage (cf. van Gennep 1960), especially those of inauguration and funeral. It has been argued by some scholars that we have no evidence to support the idea of inauguration rituals (Sawyer 2001: 385). It is true in the sense that there is no direct account dealing with such rituals, but we do have scattered hints — and we should expect beforehand that they took place because they are known all over the world and in all historical periods — indicating that some important symbolic acts took place when a person took office as king. We are told, for instance, in the Ynglinga saga ch. 36 and Haralds saga hárfagra ch. 8 that sitting in a high seat is a symbolic expression of being king, and it is hard to believe that nothing else should have taken place (cf. Sundqvist 2016: 498).51 Thus it has been argued by Jere Fleck, through an analysis of Hyndluljóð, Grímnismál, and Rígsþula, that a ‘knowledge transmission’ took place (Fleck 1970) from a person with numinous power, probably a kind of ‘priest’, maybe called a þulr, to the new ruler, which was an important part of the ritual. This would be very well in accordance with the scheme of initiation that we find in much of the medieval literary material (Schjødt 1990a: 59–62; Schjødt 2008, esp. pp. 373–78). And it is likely that the inauguration took place in connection with the funeral of the former king, as it is related in Chapter 36 of Ynglinga saga.52 What is of particular importance is that such 49 

For other variants, see Heinrichs (1989). As in other cases, it is rather easy to be suspicious about each individual source, whereas taken together there seems to be a clear indication that dead rulers were the object of cult. 51  This is, however, what has been suggested by Vestergaard (1990). Sundqvist, however (2001: 628–44, 2002: 266–77; cf. 2016: 498–502), mentions several elements which rather likely might have been part of an inauguration. Also from archaeology there are indications that the high seat played an important symbolic role in connection with the king, for instance at the Inglinge mound in Småland on which apparently a high seat has been on top of the mound (Flodérus 1950). 52  In Ynglinga saga and Ynglingatal it appears that the royal inheritance was decided 50 

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Figure 23.4. A large grave-mound at Inglinge in Östra Torsås in Värend (southern Småland). At the top of the mound a tall stone slab is erected, and in front of the stone slab a round decorated stone is placed. The stone slab and the round stone have been interpreted as a high seat fashioned from stone for a ruler. The location of this high seat at the top of a grave-mound further indicates links between a ruler and the worlds of the dead. Photo: Anders Andrén.  

numinous knowledge would be the most natural way to explain the numinosity of the leader, both in relation to his position during the ritual performances and the power with which he is attributed after his death (è32). The funeral feasts concerning kings and chieftains are another ritual of passage, in which the deceased person is the object of the ritual. As in all funerals, the purpose is to make sure that the dead person will be able to go into the Other World, but of course we are also dealing here with a power discourse, attempting to secure the status of both the deceased and his family. Again we do not have as much evidence as we could wish for, but we do have one source which is quite outstanding: namely, a description by an eyewitness of a funeral taking place among Scandinavian, probably Swedish, Vikings, situated by the river Volga. This description is given by the Arab diplomat Ibn Fadlan in his book Risalat (meaning ‘small book’). The funeral took place in 922, and Ibn Fadlan gives us a lot of details, some of which will be commented upon in (è32–33).53 beforehand, whereas we can see from later kings’ sagas that it was not so obvious who was going to succeed the deceased king. 53  An English translation of the relevant chapters is given in Duczko (2004: 137–54), with a thorough commentary. Another very valuable work with many good observations is Montgomery (2000). See also Schjødt (2007b).

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Much of what is related here, and in other descriptions of funerals, does not speak directly of a certain relation between ruler and religion. Of course in all funeral rituals there is a transference of something (the dead person) from this to the Other World, but the special relationship between the ruler and the Other World seems in Ibn Fadlan’s account to be mostly expressed in the expenses needed for his funeral and the value of the grave goods, which in general is much higher when it comes to persons from the highest social strata than is the case with ordinary people. Funerals, therefore, should not least be seen as power discourses staged by the family of the deceased. Of particular interest, however, in connection with rulers is it that Ibn Fadlan says that the dead chieftain will go to his ‘lord’ (Duczko 2004: 141), and that this god of his has sent the wind, so that the funeral pyre will take the chieftain, the ship, and all the grave goods within a short time, which is actually also what happens. This ‘lord’ who is responsible for the wind, and who is apparently residing in some kind of ‘paradise’ where there are ‘young men’, probably warriors, and where the chieftain will eventually go, and is thus, most likely a variant of Valhǫll, must be Óðinn, the god of the aristocracy who in many instances is reported to take home his chosen heroes. And, even if it is not stated directly, the text most likely also hints at parts of an inauguration ritual connected with the successor, since it is said that he who sets the ship on fire is the closest relative to the deceased. He is reported to be naked, walking backwards towards the ship with his face, therefore, turned towards the ‘world of the living’, perhaps indicating some sort of symbolic ‘rebirth’ (cf. Schjødt 2007b: 141; è32).54 Thus, although funerals of chieftains appear sometimes to be more of a social and power-related ‘show off ’ than a ritual, expressing a certain relation between the ruler and the Other World, it seems as if we do get some glimpses of this relation. However, it is often very difficult from archaeological as well as the kind of textual material we have for PCRN to determine the ideas lying behind the various rites that were performed. We shall, therefore, now turn to the relation between the ruler and the Other World as this can be seen from the ‘mythic’ information. 54 

This rite has been seen as purely apothropaeic (Ström 1961: 214; Sass and Warmind 1989: 43), which, however, is hardly enough to account for the various elements (Schjødt 2007b: 141). It seems obvious that this rite would not be the only one concerning the ‘new ruler’, for as we have been told earlier, the dead chieftain has been in a provisional grave for ten days, during which we are only told about the slave girl who is eventually to be burned with him, and therefore many other rites, for instance, some secret ones concerning the future ruler, might well have taken place, although Ibn Fadlan was not aware of them (è32).

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Mythic Relations55 We have already touched upon some of the themes that constitute the ‘ideology of rulership’ or the ‘ruler ideology’ as it has been formulated by some scholars (e.g., Steinsland 2011a: 8; Sundqvist 2007: 105; Sundqvist 2012).56 But we shall now go into somewhat more detail about the ideological relationship between the ruler and the gods. It was said above that the ruler in a symbolic way was a representative of the gods towards society and a representative of society towards the gods, which is the reason why we can state that he performed as an intermediary between this and the Other World. This position forces us to accept that the ruler was seen as a figure with some inherent numinosity, although this, as we have seen, has been rejected by some scholars, perhaps because they did not see this fundamental structure as a constant figure in almost all tribal and archaic societies. We have also seen that the ruler, after his death, became an object of cult and that his role in the cultic performances must be ascribed to some kind of numinosity. Further it was suggested that this numinosity most likely was transferred during an initiation ritual in connection with his inauguration. But there is another way by which we may explain the numinosity of the ruler: namely, through his descent. As was seen, one of the important issues that has been discussed is whether the pre-Christian Scandinavians saw their rulers, or some of their rulers, as descendants from the gods. It was in particular this part of the theory of a Sakralkönigtum in Scandinavia that was criticized by Baetke. Whereas Steinsland accepts the genealogical connection as constitutive for Scandinavian kingship, although with the addition that the giants’ role should be taken into consideration (Steinsland 1991, 2000, 2011b), others, such as Sundqvist, have argued that terms such as Freys ǫttungr (Frey’s offspring) in, for instance, Ynglingatal st. 21 should not be taken literally (Sundqvist 2002: 169–70)57 but should rather be taken as metaphorical or symbolical expressions.58 55 

The following section is a slightly revised version of parts of Schjødt 2010. See further Steinsland 2011a for valuable observations on myth, ritual, and ideology. 57  However, it seems as if Sundqvist has changed his mind, stating that ‘in general, the god Freyr is regarded as the divine father of the “Ynglingar”’ (Sundqvist 2012: 238). 58  Sundqvist’s argument runs as follows: ‘it seems that a symbolic approach might be preferable. We would then avoid the problematic consequences of the crude literalist’s approach, i.e. to explain why the people should believe that their ruler was a god or the god’s son in a concrete sense’. It may not be too ‘problematic’, however: People, or rather most people, have no difficulties in believing almost anything, if they are told so, by people they respect. It is not easy 56 

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An important aspect of this question is the relationship between the human and the divine (è36). The main part of the discussion about ‘sacred kings’ has thus been focusing on the way in which the ruler was ‘divine’: was he a god or was he not; and if he was, then in which sense? But there is another perspective which should also be taken into consideration: namely, the way the gods were gods. In Snorri and in many other sources the gods are portrayed as past kings and chieftains, which is a common way in the Middle Ages to view the pagan gods, the so called ‘euhemeristic perspective’.59 No doubt this was a common device to explain these false gods from a Christian point of view, and it seems as if many scholars have concluded that if this obvious Christian influence were extracted from the sources, the actors of these mythological stories would be ‘gods’ and not ‘humans’.60 This either/or scenario, however, is not what we usually find in the mythologies of comparable cultures.61 Here, by contrast, it is normally so that ‘a long time ago’, before the world was what it is now, the differences between humans and gods did not exist in the same way as we see it in the world we are living in today. And this lack of distinction does not only concern humans and gods. Often we see that differences between animals and humans were also of a different kind than what is experienced in the present world, and the same goes for the relation between male and female. In short: the world was once much less differentiated than is the case nowadays, and the mythical-historical process towards our present time is also a process of differentiation. The mythic past represents an Other World compared to our world. Therefore, the heroes of the past were greater than they are today, and they were also closer to the gods, for their numinosity was greater than that of present humans. Actually, we often meet a scenario in which it would be hard to tell the difference between the ancestors and the gods, since the gods are also more ‘like’ humans: they think, feel, and act in ways that humans would, had they had the same powers. The difference between gods and humans are thus blurred in many archaic religions by comparison with conceptions of the gods

to see why the divine descent of rulers should be more problematic than most other religious postulates. 59  From the Greek Euhemeros (third century bce) who argued that the Homeric gods were kings and heroes of the past. 60  For a general overview of the euhemeristic position, see Weber (1994) and von See (1989); and particularly in relation to Snorri, see Beck (2000, with further references). A most relevant article is also Faulkes (1978–79). 61  Cf. the distinction made between ‘primary’ and ‘secondary’ religions in (è1).

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in the major religions of our era (è36).62 In these, particularly in the so-called biblical religions, there is an idea that God in (nearly) all respects is different from humans. God is the creator, whereas humans are created by God. God is eternal; he was not born, and he will not die. These qualitative differences,63 however, are not typical for archaic religions, and forefathers may achieve the status of gods when they die; at the beginning of time both humans and gods lived under conditions different from the present situation. Humans did not have to work, and they were often thought to have been immortal.64 The differentiation between gods and humans is thus due to a process; the world was not ‘created’ that way, and thus the various ‘differentiations’ are not absolute in the sense we normally perceive the term. It is important to recognize this insofar as many scholars have discussed whether this or that being (historical or mythic) should be seen as god or human.65 Some of these scholars tend to hold the view that the mutually opposing ideas present in the sources must be due to mistakes or confusion on the part of the authors. And of course this could well be the case in some sources, but it is important to be aware that there is no reason to believe that a certain figure, from the outset, must have been either a god or a human. Rather, the ambiguity we often encounter in the sources is characteristic of the pagan religion itself. We can state then, that in the genuine pagan world-view, the gods were not ‘transcendent’ in the way, for instance, the Christian God is. On the contrary, they mingled with humans all the time (or at least some of them did) — and much more so in the olden days than in the present. One shared characteristic which exists all over the Indo-European world is that gods and humans are able to procreate children with each other. As these children will naturally also procreate, we humans may claim some form of descent from the gods.66 We hear about this in the poem Rígsþula, but what seems to be a much more common idea is that the kings, in particular, 62 

Many examples can be found in Bellah (2011: 117–209). But even within Christianity, the difference is not as straightforward as some theologians would like it to be. Beings such as angels, saints, or even the Virgin Mother are, from a phenomenological perspective, very hard to distinguish from what we usually call gods in polytheistic religions. 64  For examples of this lack of differentiation, see Schjødt (2009b: 572–76) and (2010: 178–79). 65  For instance, Höfler (1961) on Siegfried and Schier (1968) on Fróði. 66  According to Tacitus, Germania ch. 2, all humans are descended from the gods, cf. the so-called ‘Mannus’ tribes. 63 

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were descendants from the gods.67 As mentioned, we see this in many sagas and in the Anglo-Saxon regnal lists. We also know from some skaldic poems (Hákonarmál and Eiríksmál) that some of the heroes of olden times were supposed to play a special role in Valhǫll, distinctive in some way from the other einherjar, which suggests the existence of the idea that dead heroes (or dead kings) were, if not gods themselves, then very close to the gods. Thus the dead, and especially the dead rulers, were expected to join the gods and to become somewhat ‘like’ the gods, just as living rulers of the past were more ‘like’ the gods. Therefore it would make sense to sacrifice to them and, in particular, to rulers whose divine descent was seen in their numinous power while they were still alive, manifested in the well-being of land and people. Therefore, the problem is not just whether the rulers were divine, but just as much the extent to which the gods were ‘human’. There is no doubt that gods normally were seen as having much more numinous power than humans, but the difference was not an absolute one, and therefore the gods should not be seen as qualitatively distinct from humans but rather quantitatively distinct. And therefore it makes much more sense to speak of a lineage from a divine ancestor:68 Humans were not just humans, and gods were not just gods. The two species were compatible. So basically, as it has also been supported by John McKinnell, who has argued convincingly that the idea of descent of sacred kings from a god is very old, using various narrative patterns for the argument (McKinnell 2005: e.g., 79–80), and by Richard North (1997: 260–66), most recent scholarship accepts that some idea of descent from the gods existed in pre-Christian Scandinavia, although the viewpoints on various details vary. We shall in the following deal briefly with one of these ‘details’, which is, however, of great importance: namely, the question of whether the one or the other god was seen as ancestor of the kingly lines, and in that connection also touch upon the relation between numinosity due to initiation and numinosity due to descent. 67  This is basically also what Rígsþula is about: the creation of kingship. But still it is important that humans in general are seen as descendants. 68  Which would, of course, be impossible within Christianity, for example. However, many beings within Christian mythology (saints, angels, as we have seen) seem to have some divine qualities from the perspective of the phenomenology of religion. This also goes for Adam and Eve, who were from the outset immortal: they could not procreate, they did not have to work, and they had nothing to worry about at all. In other words they had important similarities with at least some of the gods in polytheistic religions. And yet they became the ancestors of all humankind.

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As has been demonstrated by several scholars, it is clear from the sources that Óðinn has a special relation to the king or more generally to the ruler (e.g., Enright 1996a; Hultgård 2011; Schjødt 1990a; Steinsland 2000, 2011b), probably already from the Early Iron Age, and perhaps even earlier. This is likely to be due to this god’s role as initiator of kings and warriors (Schjødt 2008). But we also have evidence, both from Anglo-Saxon England and Scandinavia, stating that Óðinn was the ancestor of many royal lines. However, Freyr also has this role in some instances, and among them perhaps the most famous of all royal lines: namely, that of the Ynglingar.69 This difference could, of course, be explained by the simple fact that traditions may evolve differently in different areas, and as many scholars have proposed there may very well be some historical explanations for the existence of two gods as ancestors for different royal families among the Germanic peoples.70 A part of the solution to the problem could be that whereas Óðinn can be seen as the god to whom the warlord (the dux of Tacitus) was initiated, the ‘peace’ king (the rex of Tacitus) was the offspring of Freyr. During the centuries, and due to different political and social conditions, the two were mixed, and since the ‘warlord’ tended to become the real leader in most places, whereas the peace king apparently gradually lost his importance,71 Óðinn therefore in most of the genealogies transformed himself into the ancestor. But we could very well imagine a situation in which the war king and the peace king had their numinous power from two different sources: the first through initiation to his personal guardian god, and the other through family relationship (Schjødt 2010, 2012b). It is obvious that during the mission process of the Viking Age, the ruler ideology had to be transformed, but it was not abandoned.

69  Freyr may also be the same as Saxneat, ancestor of the royal line in Essex (cf. Dumézil 1973c: 29), and, to judge from the name, a very important god among the Saxons. 70  Thus Enright (1996a) proposes that Óðinn became the god of the warlord under Celtic influences during the first century bce, whereas North (1997) proposes that Óðinn only became the ancestor of the Anglo-Saxons during the seventh century and substituted for Ing as the ancestor. Then later on, this tradition was transported to Scandinavia. Finally, Steinsland (2011b) believes that Freyr was replaced by Óðinn in the ninth century in Scandinavia. There may be some truth in all these propositions, since they are partly compatible. 71  This is in accordance with Robert Bellah’s idea that it is during the transformation from tribal to archaic society, the leaders come to play an important role outside the ritual arena (Bellah 2011: 181). It could be hypothesized that the rex would be a representative of this old tribal and ritual king, whereas the dux would be the ‘modern’ political king of archaic societies.

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A New Religion — A New Relation72 As was argued in the beginning of this chapter, the idea that the ruler must have some special relation to the Other World — that he can be seen as a kind of mediator — can be found in all religious societies, more or less explicitly, and more or less referring directly to the general notions of the Other World. In Christianity it was of course out of the question to postulate any sort of family relation to God. Because in pre-Christian times, as we just saw, the differences between gods and humans were not radical, it makes sense to see certain people (or all people) as descendants of the gods. When gods are more or less ‘human’, we may ascribe to them the same qualities and relationships that apply to humans, even if there is always a difference in relation to the degree of numinosity. This makes many things relatively easy: even if the gods have more numinosity than humans and, accordingly, must be treated somewhat differently, it causes no logical problems.73 When the gods, however, became one God, and when this god is seen as the creator ex nihilo of the whole world, totally distinguishable from the creation, we certainly do have a problem in maintaining that we descend from God. Not even the kings could postulate they did, so a new relationship to legitimizing force would have to be construed: and this turned out to be the complex of ideas surrounding the notion of rex justus, in which the king was king because of the grace of the Lord, a grace which he deserved because of his personal qualities. So far so good: the king was thus established as someone special and supported by God. The cult of the dead king could then be continued by making him a saint74, or failing that, some ancestors of the king could be seen as saints. Saints too are surely beings associated with the Other World, and they may grant health, luck, and other benefits: so, as mentioned above, they can hardly be distinguished from what we usually call deities in archaic religions. Thus the dead king became a god, although this term could of course not be used. In that way everything went back to normal, and sacral kingship was established

72 

This last section is a slightly revised version of Schjødt (2010: 188–90). However, it should be stated here that it is quite unlikely that the pagans ever reflected too much about the logic of their world-view. That is usually not what religious people do, except for the theologians and other ‘professionals’. 74  Thus it is worth noticing that Saint Olaf and Saint Knud (kings of Norway and Denmark, respectively) were made saints already in the eleventh century, whereas Saint Erik in Sweden achieved saintly status in 1167. 73 

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once again.75 To be sure it was established in a transformed manner, but all the ingredients constituting sacral kingship were at hand: the king’s possession of a special numinosity which was greater than that of other people; his relation to the Other World, which was necessary in order for the people to be prosperous; the fact that he was to a certain extent responsible for cult practice (building churches, attending selected services, etc.); religious elements which were important in the inauguration rituals; and finally the explanation of his numinosity through the fact that he or one of his ancestors was a ‘deity’. In this way it is reasonable to argue that at a certain structural level not much changed concerning the relation between ruler and religion: there was sacral kingship before Christianity, and there was sacral kingship afterwards.

75 

For continuity of this kind in Iceland, see Jón Viðar Sigurðsson (1999: 193–94); and for Anglo-Saxon examples, see Chaney (1970: 89–90, 110–11).

24 – Warrior Bands Jens Peter Schjødt Introduction It has often been maintained, and rightly so, no doubt, that the religion and mythology of the Late (and perhaps also the Early) Iron Age to some extent reflected a warrior ideology, and that religion and war were strongly intertwined aspects.1 Thus, it has been said about the military band that it was ‘as much religious as it was martial’ (Kershaw 2000: 18). Therefore, the character of the military bands, the Männerbünde, as they are often called, the retinue or the warrior bands, which is the term we will use here, is of great interest in dealing with the social consequences of the religious world-view (è1).2 Military power has always been a prerequisite for any society to survive, whether it be religious or not. But particularly in relation to war and battle, the outcome is as uncertain as it is important, which is why the relation to the Other World is deemed crucial in most archaic cultures. This relation surfaces in connection with several phenomena that have to do with war. From archae1 

See especially Price (2002; particularly 329–96). The German term Gefolgschaft has also played an important role in research into warrior bands. For example Christoph Landolt (1998: 533–37) discusses some of the terminological and semantic problems connected to various terms. Gefolgschaft, however, covers more than what is usually meant by ‘warrior band’, including large armies (cf. Timpe 1998a: 538; D. H. Green 1998: 75–77, 106; Todd 2004: 30; Heather 2009: 126–31). Although the terminology and the relation between, for example, comitatus, Gefolgschaft and retinue has been much discussed, it is hardly possible to distinguish precisely between them (cf. Green 1998). The terminology is not sufficiently clear and consistent in our sources in order for us to depict what the individual term signified in the various societies (see also J. Harris 2008: 294–96). 2 

Jens Peter Schjødt, Professor of the Study of Religion, Aarhus University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume ii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 2 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 559–587 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116951

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ology we know of war booty sacrifices among the early Germanic tribes, particularly from Denmark and northern Germany, indicating that victory was celebrated with a feast during which weapons and other items belonging to the enemy were destroyed, probably as a sacrifice to the gods (cf. Orosius’s Historiae adversum paganos 5.16.5–6). At the same time, a number of literary sources tell us that a spear was thrown over the enemy army in order to dedicate it to Óðinn (Styrbjarnar þáttr Svíakappa in Flateyjarbók; Eyrbygg ja saga ch. 44; cf. Vǫluspá st. 24), a dedication indicating that the enemy was to be killed, and we are told by Snorri that the prerequisite for being able to go to Valhǫll was that one was killed in battle (Gylfaginning p. 32).3 All in all, we have much evidence that throughout the Iron Age, war and religion were linked. However, one of the most fundamental institutions was the warrior band. Institutions like it can, when defined broadly, be found all over the world:4 bands of warriors, young or old, who constitute a fraternity and who are particularly devoted to the chieftain, the king, or the military leader.5 The structure and the religious content of such institutions, of course, vary a lot, but there are also many parallels.6 Most often, the members of the band are initiated through some secret rituals,7 during which they change their status in such a way that their solidarity is shifted from their original family to their new ‘brothers’, including their leader; often, an oath is involved as an indication of this change, and often it is, moreover, symbolically expressed through a transformation in the initiates’ physical appearance. As long as they are members of the band, they are not allowed to 3 

This information should probably not be taken too literally, since we know that people were also able to go to Valhǫll without being killed in battle. This applies, for instance, to Njǫrðr (Ynglinga saga ch. 9) and to Sinfjǫtli (Vǫlsunga saga ch. 10 and Frá dauða Sinfjǫtla). We shall return to these and other figures below. 4  That is, not in every single society but in societies from all parts of the world. 5  Cf. the discussion on reges and duces in (è 23). As is suggested by Harris (2008: 295), there might also have been a leader among the retainers, but it is still the lord, whom the band as a whole serve, who is their ultimate leader. 6  It is important to bear in mind that talking about parallels does not mean talking about the same thing. As has been shown by many scholars, the Germanic comitatus and its development probably began just before the beginning of our era, and its coming into existence undoubtedly had significant consequences both socially and politically (see Enright 1996a: 195–214, with many references), but not necessarily in relation to religion. The idea that warlike young men constituted bands connected to a certain god is clearly to be detected already in Indo-European times (cf. Kershaw 2000: 201–39; West 2007: 448–51). 7  Cf. the German notion Geheimbünde used by, among others, Otto Höfler (1934) and criticized by Jan de Vries (1956–57a: i, 496).

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live a ‘normal’ life with family and daily work. In the following, we shall deal both with elements we encounter in nearly all warrior bands and with elements specific to the Germanic/Scandinavian area.

The Historical Framework It seems that we are able, with the help of archaeology,8 texts from antiquity, as well as sagas and other textual evidence from the North, to follow this institution in the Germanic area over a very long period. Also from the point of view of historical linguistics, it appears beyond doubt that the comitatus of Tacitus was an institution among the Germanic peoples that survived in the North, where it was known as drótt (Old High German truth), right up until the Christianization towards the end of the Viking Age (cf. Green 1998: 106–12; Lindow 1976: 26–42).9 And again, we must reckon with a combination of continuity and development. Thus, it seems beyond doubt that parts of the late information we have on the berserkir and úlfheðnar have roots going back to Roman times (e.g., Höfler 1934) and, to a certain extent, to a European (Näsström 2006: 179–94) or even an Indo-European stratum (Wikander 1938; Kershaw 2000; West 2007). Not everybody, however, has accepted this idea of continuity, and scholars taking this view are represented by Hans Kuhn, who insists that warrior bands existed only during the time of Tacitus and in the Viking Age, but not in between, and that they should be seen primarily as responses to similar social and military situations (Kuhn 1956). 10 However, as we shall see below, the continuity hypothesis, which is based on linguistic, archaeological, and textual evidence, appears to be far better at explaining the data. The question of how far back the idea can be traced is worth considering. Michael Enright makes a good case for proposing that the Germanic com8  There are, as we will return to, many pictorial depictions that may be of great value to our understanding of this issue. But apart from these images, it is difficult for archaeology to ‘prove’ a connection between artefacts and warrior bands (Steuer 1998: 546). For accounts and interesting discussions of archaeological and epigraphical evidence in connection with the warrior bands, see Näsström (2006: 107–32) and Samson (2011: 287–336). 9  Lindow’s book is extremely useful, because it traces the terms relevant to the warrior band institution, right from the time of Tacitus and up to post-Viking Age. He considers such notions as hirð, lið and many more in terms of their semantics in both prose and poetry. He does not deal with the religious aspects of the warrior band, but simply proves that this institution lived on in a variety of similar forms right up until the Christianization period. 10  For other discussions of the history of the comitatus, see Wenskus (1977) and Steuer (1982).

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Figure 24.1. The geometrically planned ringfort at Fyrkat in central Jylland, dated to the 980s. The legendary Jómsvikingar and their strict rules can be compared with the four geometrically planned Danish ringforts at Aggersborg, Fyrkat, Nonnebakken, and Trelleborg from the 980s. Photo: Anders Andrén. 

itatus, the war band, was taken over from the Celts during the first century bce (Enright 1996a: 169–282), which does not correspond very well with the Indo-European hypothesis. A problem with Enright’s theory is that sources for Germanic societal organization are totally absent before that time, the use of argumenta ex silentio thus being of no value. A possible solution to the problem could be to hypothesize that some prototype of the war band was in existence long before any group (tribes, languages) that might be called Celts or Germani. Whatever the case, there is no doubt that such an entity would have changed substantially through contact with cultures such as the Roman and the Celtic. Even the very notion of war must have changed as societies became much larger, and thus also the scale of the wars fought. Anders Andrén, among others, has argued that we should distinguish between ritualized warfare and large-scale wars, two different forms of war that doubtless existed side by side, but which also reflect a development in society and political circumstances (Andrén 2014: 98–102; cf. Green 1998: 75–77). It is important here to bear in mind that, even if the social structures changed, as they no doubt did from the first century bce onwards because of the encounters with the Romans, we

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cannot automatically assume that the religious structures changed, too. This means that when Enright speaks about comitatus warfare as opposed to tribal warfare (1996a: 195–214), corresponding more or less to the distinction made by Andrén, and even if it can be hard to make a clear distinction between these two forms of war,11 we do not necessarily have to assume changes in the relation between warrior bands and the Other World, or for that matter in the ideals concerning loyalty to the leader. At any rate, taking Enright’s observations into consideration, it seems beyond doubt that, at least from the first century bce, we can be certain that warrior bands actually existed in the Germanic area, although they changed dramatically in size and probably organization during the first centuries of our era (cf. Heather 2009: 46). One of the best candidates for a historical, as opposed to a legendary, warrior band in the North is probably the so-called Jómsvikingar, who lived at Jomsborg, the exact location of which is uncertain but which was probably located near the mouth of the river Oder on the Baltic coast. The most detailed source is Jómsvikinga saga which, although of dubious source value, tells the history of this confraternity and their final defeat in the battle of Hjǫrungavágr in the 980s or perhaps a little later.12 In this saga, we learn that there were rules that must be obeyed by all the members; for instance, women were not allowed into the fortification, war booty must be divided among the men, nobody was allowed to refuse to fight against another man of equal strength and ability, they all had to obey their leader, Palnatoke, and so forth (Jómsvikinga saga ch. 16; cf. Hálfs saga ok Hálfs rekka ch. 10). However, we do not hear anything about the religious notions that may or may not have formed part of the ideology of the Jómsvikingar. In order to obtain an insight into that area, we have to rely on the evidence of the fornaldarsögur, which are much more informative when it comes to the religious roots of the warrior band. 11 

Enright says (1996a: 195): ‘While it is not always easy to distinguish comitatus warfare from tribal warfare in the historical sources, it is obvious that the latter was much more exclusive with loose knit armies being gathered and organized according to family and clan and with little or no room, either political or economical, for the leader with an extra-tribal group of followers supported at his expense and living more or less constantly in his hall’. This is true, but still it is possible to imagine a fixed group of warriors following the leader, who are joined together through some religious rituals. For a good account of the various forms of ‘war bands’ in the Roman Early Iron Age, see Heather (2009: 123–34). As a sort of parallel, one could also think of the hirð of much later times; this probably developed from the drótt, but displayed rather strong hierarchies and was much larger in size (cf. Lindow 1976: 26–41 and 52–63). 12  A thorough discussion of almost all aspects related to the Jómsvikingar, including the sources, can be found in Morawiec (2009).

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Figure 24.2. Destroyed weapons from the large weapon deposit at Illerup in central Jylland, from about 200 ce. Photo: Moesgaard Museum, Højbjerg. 

The warrior band fundamentally consists of a group of young men who voluntarily fight for and protect the leader in wartime as well as in peace, and who are willing to die for him in battle. They are far from the only warriors in the tribe or the society, but they constitute the military elite. And alongside the social and political functions, also the religious aspects of these warrior bands seem quite clearly portrayed in the sources, since these men’s abilities were seen not only as a consequence of their strength and skills, but even more so as a consequence of a transformation of their identity into a kind of superhuman beings, strongly related to, if not directly identified with, certain animals or, as has been suggested by Höfler (1934), as an army of the dead. Some of

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these ideas can be questioned, but the supernatural relation in general cannot be called into doubt. Below, we shall go through the most important sources, including the archaeological ones, and discuss the details that characterized the Germanic/Scandinavian warrior bands.

The Sources Archaeology Archaeology can contribute to the issue of warfare and elite warrior bands in ancient Scandinavia in different ways. Large-scale warfare, with large levies of armed men,13 can be detected primarily from large weapon deposits consisting of weapons, riding equipment, personal objects, clothes, and slaughtered animals deposited in shallow lakes (Fabech 1991; Randsborg 1995; Ilkjær 2000; Jørgensen and others 2003; Nørgaard Jørgensen 2009). Around thirty such sites of weapon deposits from the Iron Age have been located, most of them in present-day Denmark and southern Sweden. A recurrent pattern is that weapons were deposited in the same place on repeated occasions, but often with long intervals between. Some fifty deposits made at the thirty sites are known for the period 200–600 ce, and only three large deposits from the earlier period of 350 bce to 150 ce are known (Fabech 1991; Kaul 2003a; Ilkjær 2003). It has proved possible to reconstruct the organization of these groups of warriors from the selection of weapons. At the early site of Hjortspring, from about 350 bce, a boat for twenty-two to twenty-three men and weapons for at least sixty-five to seventy warriors have been found. The different types of weapons indicate that the defeated army whose equipment was deposited consisted of units of ten men, with nine ordinary soldiers armed with spears and shields and an ‘officer’ armed with a chainmail, a sword, and a shield. Each boat consisted of two such units as well as one or two ‘mates’ and one higher ‘officer’ who was probably commanding the ship (Randsborg 1995; Kaul 2003a). At Illerup, roughly ten thousand weapons were deposited on just one occasion at the start of the third century ce. The find may represent a defeated army of an estimated two or three thousand men (Ilkjær 2000). It is possible to discern a similar military hierarchy as at Hjortspring, consisting of three different levels of warriors: namely, ‘private’ foot soldiers, mounted ‘officers’, and mounted ‘commanders’ (Ilkjær 1997, 2000). The armed warriors (89 per cent) were equipped with 13 

The large-scale army which could probably also include the warrior bands was equivalent to the Roman exercitus (Old High German heri, Old Norse herr).

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Figure 24.3. Reconstruction of a warrior dressed in a bear skin, based on a grave from Hjärterum in Kuddy in Östergötland, dated to about 100 bce. The bear skin warrior invites comparison with the later known concept of berserkir. Drawing: Jonas Wikborg in Nicklasson 1997: 241.  

mass-produced lances, spears, and shields, while the officers (9 per cent) more often carried individually designed swords, shields, and belts with bronze mountings. The commanders (2 per cent) were equipped with artfully designed swords, shields, belts, and equestrian gear with gilded silver mountings, and some of them moreover carried chainmail and decorative Roman helmets of silver. It is primarily to this elite that objects with animal ornamentation and runes can be linked. Apart from large weapon deposits, large boathouses along the Norwegian coast as well as large hillforts and ringforts in Sweden and Norway indicate similar large-scale warfare with many armed men. About ninety Norwegian boathouses for large warships are known from around 200 to 550 ce, representing a huge navy of between 1800 to 2400 warriors, probably an early form of leiðangr (Myhre 1997). Many hillforts and ringforts consist of only stone walls, but on the island of Öland from about 200 to 650 ce fifteen ringforts were constructed with houses inside the walls. It has been estimated that about 1200 houses were built in these ringforts, which means that most of the inhabitants of the island could have been housed in the ringforts during periods of warfare. Besides, it seems as if the organization of warfare in these ringforts was linked to cosmological ideas, because the layout of the forts had cosmological associations (Andrén 2014: 69–115; figure è6.5 and è38.1). In later periods, the Viking attacks in Western Europe from the late eighth century onwards again involve large levies of armed men.

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Figure 24.4. Plan of the fortified hilltop settlement at Runsa in Ed in Uppland, dated to the fifth and sixth centuries. Map: Michael Olausson.

Traces of elite warrior bands are much more difficult to detect archaeologically, but there are some indications in different parts of Scandinavia. On Gotland, graves from the period 200–1 bce located in different places contain weapons for several warriors; sometimes as many as fifteen warriors (Arnberg 2007: 192–95). This burial custom shows that warriors were buried together and in graves separate from other ‘ordinary’ dead persons, which suggests that warriors were grouped together and were in certain ways segregated from the rest of society. In Östergötland, a grave from Hjärterum in Kuddby, dated to about 100 bce, contained not only weapons but also claws from a bear (Nicklasson 1997: 198), indicating that the warrior was dressed in a bear skin, which conjures associations to the later concept of berserkir. Along the Norwegian coast, about twenty-five so-called ringtun and tun sites are known from about 200 to 850 ce. They are shaped as clusters of houses placed around an open space in a circle or oval with one or two openings. The

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Shield fragment Arrow head Spear head

Figure 24.5. Plan of a hall in Birka, dated to the tenth century. The building, with weapons along the walls, has been interpreted as a hall for professional warriors. After Holmquist Olausson and Kitzler Åhfeldt 2002: 14. 

tun sites are usually placed in the outland between settlements, although they are often surrounded by large cooking pits, fireplaces, and burial mounds. Several tun sites are linked to the placename element -leik, which means ‘play’ but also ‘training for war’. The finds are few and modest, but they show that the sites were often used on different occasions and through an extended period of time. The sites have been interpreted as places connected to eating and drinking ceremonies, which were necessary for creating a sense of community in warrior bands since these were not held together by bonds of kinship (Storli 2000, 2001; Stylegar and Grimm 2003). In the Mälar region in central Sweden, about twenty so-called hilltop sites from the fifth, sixth, and seventh centuries ce are known. They consist of small, fortified settlements on hilltops. The best-known site is Runsa, placed on a rock overlooking one of the narrow passages between the Baltic Sea and Gamla Uppsala. Excavations have revealed a large hall and at least five other, smaller buildings, one probably with a ritual function (Olausson 2011, 2014). The

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secluded locations, away from ordinary settlements, indicate that these hilltop sites were not ordinary aristocratic residences but instead places where various warrior bands had their bases. An even more overtly martial environment from the tenth century has recently been discovered in Birka. On a terrace, between the hillfort and the urban settlement, a hall and a smithy have been uncovered. Along the walls of the hall, remains of a wooden chest with spears and shields have been found. In addition, some of the spears appear to have been placed upright, leaning against the walls. This site has been interpreted as a hall for professional warriors, who were in all likelihood associated with Óðinn (Holmquist Olausson and Kitzler Åhfeldt 2002; Hedenstierna-Jonson 2006; cf. Green 1998: 79; è42). Apart from geographical sites, the pictorial world of the Late Iron Age likewise points to warfare involving elite warriors. Warriors and different animals of prey, such as wolves, bears, snakes, eagles, and boars, are depicted on many exclusive weapons, for instance, swords, shields, and helmets. This is especially true of weapons in the rich boat graves from, for example, Vendel and Valsgärde in Uppland (Kristoffersen 1997; Hedeager 1997a, 2011; Price 2002).14 Textual Sources For the earlier period, Tacitus is, if not the only, then definitely our main textual source with regard to the warrior bands. Chapters 13, 14, 24, 31, and 43 of Germania present important information about institutions and traditions which are probably linked to warrior bands, although, as was stated in (è12) (and several other chapters) above, the source value of Tacitus has been much debated. We learn from Chapters 13 and 14 that the society is strongly involved in the decisions about when to carry weapons. At the people’s gathering (concilium), for example, the young man’s father or one of the chieftains (principum aliquis) will give him a shield and a framea (a lance or a spear) as a sign that he is now an adult and no longer a member of the household of which he was a part as a child.15 This is obviously a kind of initiation ritual, although we are not given any detail on how it is carried out. It appears to be a so-called ‘puberty 14 

For an interesting analysis of one the images on the Gundestrup cauldron as depicting a scene of initiation into the warrior band, we can refer to Enright (2007). 15  We may note here that there seems to be a sort of parallel between the ‘family’ of the child and the new ‘family’ of the adult, with new ‘brothers’, as is typical of the warrior band, as has been suggested by Enright (1996a: 76–77).

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ritual’ of a type well known all across the world, but Tacitus immediately goes on to talk about the retinue (comitatus) of the chieftain (princeps), stating that there are various positions (sing. gradus) and that the chieftain decides who is given which position.16 The chieftain’s reputation is dependent on, among other things, the size and the courage of his retinue, and the members compete for the highest position. In Chapter 14, Tacitus continues with the notion of honour: it is disgraceful for the chieftain if the members of his retinue appear more courageous than himself, while it is disgraceful for them to be less courageous than their chieftain — but the most disgraceful thing is if someone survives a battle in which his chieftain has been killed (è21). Tacitus concludes (ch. 14): ‘principes pro victoria pugnant, comites pro principe’ (the chieftains fight for victory, the retainers for the chieftain). It seems that Tacitus is speaking here about two different kinds of warriors: on the one hand, those who undergo a transition from boyhood to manhood, which is symbolized by their acquisition of arms;17 and then, on the other hand, those who become part of the retinue. Even if he also says that the Germanic warriors are lazy and do not want to work the soil (Germania ch. 14 and 15), we must assume that ordinary adult men would have to do some agricultural labour for a living. This is also confirmed by Tacitus when he states that the most courageous men do not carry out any form of ordinary work (which must imply that others did). These most courageous men are most likely those of the retinue. From this we can deduce, then, that all men receive weapons as part of their initiation into adulthood, whereas the most courageous become part of the retinue (professional warriors), who receive their horses and weapons18 as well as their sustenance from the chieftain they serve (Germania ch. 14) and are therefore not supposed to do any other work than fighting for him. Tacitus thus makes reference to two kinds of warriors who probably underwent two kinds of initiation: namely, the ordinary adults and the elite warriors.19 It is noteworthy 16 

The war bands were most likely intertribal (cf. Green 1998: 107). According to Tacitus, we are dealing with societies in which men are always armed (Germania 13.1) except at certain, mostly ritual, occasions. 18  This statement must mean that the weaponry of the retinue is of another kind (probably of a higher quality) than those an ordinary man receives during his initiation into adulthood (see above on archaeological evidence). 19  This would also explain the strange assertion in Chapter 13 that noble birth may give the very young men rank of chieftain and the continuation that: ‘ceteris robustioribus ac iam pridem probatis adgregantur’ (they then join the more experienced who have already shown their abilities). If a man is a chieftain, he can hardly be seen as an ordinary member of the retinue, 17 

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that we clearly get an impression of a hierarchical or a vertical structure, the gradus, which is not in accordance with the ideal sometimes presented in other sources, that is, that the structure was horizontal and all members of the retinue were equal (Enright 1996a: 18–20). However, the most important information here is that there existed a retinue around the chieftain. Nothing is said at this place about any religious connection, but this occurs in Germania ch. 43, which is discussed below. In Chapter 24, we are told of a kind of ‘weapon dance’, performed by naked youths who jump between swords (gladii) and spears (frameae). Tacitus sees this as pure entertainment, but it is probably more than that. We know sword dances from later folklore all over the Germanic area (Müllenhoff 1871), which may very well be a continuation of what Tacitus describes.20 More interesting in relation to religion, however, are some pictorial depictions, such as the helmet from Torslunda (c. 600). Here, we see two figures, both holding spears, one wearing an animal mask (probably a wolf mask) and the other a horned helmet; the latter is one-eyed and obviously dancing.21 Whenever we encounter a oneeyed figure, the associating to Óðinn is inescapable, and although we obviously cannot be sure, this possible identification has tremendous consequences for the whole idea of the warrior band, as we shall return to below. The information given by Tacitus may not be very informative in itself, but when it is compared to later material, it suggests that on special occasions the warriors had to perform a dance,22 which displayed their skills in the use of weapons. We cannot know whether this was part of an initiation ritual, or whether it was perhaps

too. What is probably meant is that the best of the young initiates may join the retinue immediately and thus become part of the circle around the chieftain. Tacitus’s statements about young men obtaining the rank of chieftains because of their noble birth or the deeds of their fathers could, however, also be seen in connection with the problem concerning reges/duces (Germania ch. 7), which was dealt with above in (è23). Even so, the confusion about the various categories of young warriors remains. 20  Cf. de Vries (1956–57a, 1: 443), with many references. Kershaw treats the dancing warriors extensively from an Indo-European perspective (2000: 83–102). It is interesting that sword dances seem to be unknown in Norway and Iceland, which may indicate that the late evidence from Denmark and Sweden was, in fact, imported from Germany during the Middle Ages (Gunnell 1995: 132). However, a continuation from the pre-Viking era can by no means be ruled out. 21  Cf. Beck (1968) and Arent (1969). For further references to pictorial sources, see Mitchell (2012: 12) and Hedeager (2011: 61–98). 22  Unfortunately, we do not know which occasions.

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part of some fertility ritual. But what is almost certain is that groups of warriors existed and that dance formed part of some of their specific rituals. In Chapter 31 of Germania, Tacitus informs us about the Chatti,23 and with this we move outside the more general part of his work. Nevertheless, some of the information related here seems to supplement what he presents earlier, and it also appears to fit in very well with information from later sources. We are told that, on becoming adults, the young men let their hair and beards grow until they have killed an enemy. The bravest of them furthermore wear an iron ring, something which is said to be disgraceful, and only when they have killed an enemy (one more?) do they remove it. But some of them keep the ring until they grow old, and they are the elite warriors. They do not have any property, and others have to supply them with food.24 Here it seems that we have three groups: 1) the young men who let their hair and beard grow until they have killed an enemy; 2) some of them who wear an iron ring, which they remove when they have killed an (other?) enemy; and 3) some of these men who continue to wear the ring until they become old. Exactly how the status of these three groups should be understood will not be discussed here, but again we notice a distinction between different kinds of warriors and the fact that a certain group seems to constitute a special brotherhood. Furthermore, we see that some kind of initiation trial is involved: being a warrior is something you are initiated into with tests and symbolic outfit (uncut and cut hair, rings). It is tempting to compare this to Tacitus’s general statement in Chapter 13 concerning the various positions of the warriors in the chieftain’s retinue. The last chapter of Germania to be treated here is Chapter 43. This chapter describes, among other things, the Harii, who are considered, by Tacitus at least, a tribe but should perhaps rather be seen as a special group among the Lugii, a federation of tribes in the eastern part of Germania. Judging by Tacitus’s description, there can hardly be any doubt that this group was constituted by 23 

301). 24 

They may actually have constituted a confraternity rather than a ‘tribe’ (cf. Harris 2008:

There seem to be some inconsistencies in the description. Since those who never kill an enemy will maintain this unkempt appearance, i.e., the cowards (ignavus and imbellis), it would be hard to distinguish them from the bravest of the warriors (cf. Fehrle and Hünnerkopf 1959: 118; see also Perl 1990: 214–15; Schjødt 2008: 331–33). It has been argued that the very fact that they were fed by others is evidence that they belonged to a god (Kershaw 2000: 46), which they probably did. However, we have many examples all over the world that retinues of chieftains and kings had to be supported by ordinary people simply because the leaders had the power to demand so.

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a band of warriors,25 harii being connected to ON herr, ‘army’.26 We learn that the Harii were the strongest of the Lugii, and that, although formidable as they were, they would use artificial means to look more so: their shields are black, their bodies are painted, and they choose dark nights for their attacks, so that Tacitus directly speaks of a feralis exercitus, an ‘army of the dead’. This passage has led many scholars to believe that the warrior bands were part of a cult of the dead and that the members saw themselves as dead (e.g., Weiser 1927: 39–42; Höfler 934: 163–72; de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 379; Meuli 1975: i, 275; Kershaw 2000: 41). We shall discuss this issue in more detail below; for now, it suffices to note that also among the Lugii we find a certain group of elite warriors who, like the warriors among the Chatti, are distinguished from the rest of the people by a fierce appearance. To sum up the implication of this account of the early period that Tacitus presents, it can be stated that all young men carried arms, that there were special groups with a more or less uncivilized appearance who had to be tested in particular and who, if they passed these tests, joined a group of elite warriors, a retinue or some other kind of warrior band. Further, these warriors would on special occasions perform weapon dances and they were, during battle, compared to the dead. Tacitus, as previously mentioned, is by far our best (and almost only) textual source for the existence of warrior bands in the Roman era, and the question is whether there is evidence of such an institution in the Viking Age also: in other words, whether we can assume some degree of continuity. It can be stated at once that, apart from Jómsvikinga saga, we are not told directly in any of the sources that may be labelled ‘historic’ (Íslendingasögur, other konungasögur, skaldic poems, etc.) that such bands, connected to the religious sphere, actually existed,27 although various types of warriors are mentioned. The sources we 25 

The etymology of the word harii is not certain, but see de Vries (1962a: 224–25). It is also worth noticing that some of Óðinn’s many cognomen are herjann, hertýr, and several others with her- as prefix, and he is also the lord of the einherjar, the dead warriors in Valhǫll. 27  A phenomenon we will return to in (è32) is the establishment of blood-brotherhood, which is described in several sources. The differences notwithstanding, these all speak of young men who, through a ritual which bears all the characteristics of an initiation ritual, transform their status in such a way that they become ‘family related’. These blood-brotherhoods seem to be related to the warrior bands in some way and the initiation into them may perhaps help us in reconstructing part of the symbolism surrounding the warrior bands (cf. Schjødt 2008: 355–73). 26 

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must turn to in order to reconstruct warrior bands rooted in pagan religious ideas are above all the legendary sagas (fornaldarsögur). One stanza from a skaldic poem, however, is often taken as a starting point: namely, stanza 8 of the so-called Haraldskvæði or Hrafnsmál, known primarily from Haralds saga hárfagra and allegedly composed by Þórbjǫrn hornklofi shortly after the battle of Hafrsfjǫrðr.28 The relevant stanza (st. 8) goes: ‘Grenjuðu berserkir | guðr vas þeim á sinnum | emjuðu úlfheðnar | ok ísǫrn dúðu’ (berserks bellowed; battle was under way for them; wolf-skins howled and brandished iron spears). Later in the same poem, the two groups are mentioned and clearly with approval: they are portrayed as great warriors and highly valuable for the king. Berserkr means either ‘bare shirt’ or ‘bear shirt’,29 signifying a warrior who is either fighting without armour or one who is fighting wearing a bear skin.30 Úlfheðinn means ‘wolf skin’, thus signifying a warrior connected to wolves. It seems, therefore, that this poem — probably composed in the early tenth century and thus rather early compared to most other skaldic poems, and no doubt composed by a pagan — clearly indicates that these groups of ‘animal warriors’ constituted a kind of elite troops in Haraldr’s army.31 Since there is much more information about the berserkir than about the ulfheðnar, we shall start our discussion with them.32 In the Íslendingasögur we often hear about berserkir, and they are almost always portrayed as rowdies, very strong, but without any respect for other people’s property. The way in which berserkir are introduced in these sagas is part of a literary topos where they come to a farmstead demanding food and drink, and frequently also some of the women on the farm. Finally, a brave young hero stands up to them and eventually kills them, even if they are invulner28  The date of this battle is not certain, but sometime between 870 and 900. Traditionally 872 has been assumed ( Jones 1984: 89). 29  We cannot from the word itself determine which is the correct meaning (a full discussion is found in Samson 2011: 66–85), but as will become clear below, the ‘bear’ etymology seems to cover the ideas about berserks as they are expressed in the medieval literature, in the more adequate way (see, however, West 2007: 449 and Speidel 2002: 253–54). 30  Although this should doubtless not be taken literally, since it would be impossible to fight wearing a heavy bear skin. Rather, we should envisage a warrior who is somehow seen as a ‘bear fighter’ (fighting as a bear). See also below. 31  For different views of the poem, including st. 8, see Samson (2011: 93–138) and Fulk (2012b: 91–117), both with references. 32  The two groups cannot be distinguished sharply from one another and it seems that, in later texts, they are more or less identified (i.e., Vatnsdœla saga ch. 9, Grettis saga ch. 2). See further below.

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able to fire and iron (cf. Blaney 1982). In many cases these berserkir number only one or two, but at other times we hear about whole gangs, consisting of twelve (for example, Egils saga, Víga-Glums saga, Grettis saga, and Hrólfs saga Gautrekssonar, as well as others). Judging from these sagas alone, the impression is that they are pure villains,33 and there is no doubt that the general view on berserkir in the thirteenth century was negative, as is evident from the prohibition against berserksgangr in Grágás (i, 23).34 But there is another view which, as stated above, is most often presented in the fornaldarsögur,35 and this is probably much more in accordance with the pagan view of the berserkir, as described in Haraldskvæði. Here, we almost always meet them in larger groups, sometimes twelve (e.g.. the sons of Arngrímr in Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks ch: 1, Hrólfs saga kraka ch. 22) and sometimes constituting the retinue (or part of the retinue) of a king. It must be conceded that we have only one source that links the berserkir directly to the sphere of religion; the rest is conjecture, albeit a conjecture which definitely makes good sense. The source is the famous Chapter 6 of Ynglinga saga in which Snorri relates the following about Óðinn’s abilities: Óðinn kunni svá gera, at í orrostu urðu óvinir hans blindir eða daufir eða óttafullir, en vápn þeira bitu eigi heldr en vendir, en hans menn fóru brynjulausir ok váru galnir sem hundar eða vargar, bitu í skjǫldu sína, váru sterkir sem birnir eða griðungar. Þeir drápu mannfólkit, en hvártki eldr né járn orti á þá. Þat er kallaðr berserksgangr. (Óthin was able to cause his enemies to be blind or deaf or fearful in battle, and he could cause their swords to cut no better than wands. His own men went to battle without coats of mail and acted like mad dogs or wolves. They bit their shields and were as strong as bears or bulls. They killed people, and neither fire nor iron affected them. This is called berserker rage.) (p. 10)

First, we notice that Snorri apparently combines the two possible etymologies of the word: the berserkir fight without coats of mail, and they are strong as bears. Moreover, they go, as is an often-mentioned and defining characteristic of 33 

For a general account of the literary treatment, see Beard (1978) and Blaney (1972). We even see them as opponents of Þórr in the shape of women (Hárbarðslióð st. 37). We do not know what this myth fragment is hinting at, but considered in relation to the rest of the poem it may point to the opposition between Þórr and Óðinn, the berserkir being related to Óðinn. However, we do not hear about female berserkir. For a discussion, see Näsström (2006: 133–58). 35  Sometimes, however, these sagas contain the same topos as the Íslendingasögur. 34 

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Figure 24.6. Bronze matrices for producing helmet plates, dated to c. 600, found at Björnhovda in Torslunda on Öland (SHM 4325:618351 and 4325:108869). The two matrices illustrate a warrior between two bears and a ‘wolf warrior’ together with a one-eyed warrior with a helmet. The images call to mind the concepts of berserkir and úlfheðnar. Photos: Sören Hallgren, Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm. 

berserkir, into a kind of ecstatic rage. But, more importantly, they are regarded as warriors belonging to Óðinn and are compared to wolves and bears, exactly the two animals that are present in the terms berserkir and úlfheðnar. Although this cannot be taken as proof that they were imagined in the shape of these animals, it certainly strengthens the hypothesis that there existed some sort of relationship between warriors and these particular animals, which were known for their ferocity and strength. As is the case with almost everything Snorri says about religion and mythology, the value of this information to a reconstruction of pagan traditions has been heavily debated, and some have regarded it as mere folklore belonging to Snorri’s own time (e.g., Liberman 2003, 2005). It is true that, were this the only evidence for ‘animal warriors’, there would not be much to build an argument on. But fortunately, this is not the case, since we have in at least one fornaldarsaga a legendary, but quite detailed and apparently very old, account of how these animal warriors were part of the warrior band surrounding the king. This saga is the late (fourteenth century or later) Hrólfs saga kraka. Here, we have on the one hand a typical medieval attitude towards the berserkir, who are portrayed, particularly in the þættir of Svipdagr and Bǫðvarr bjarki, as aggressive and self-promoting, although they are members of a king’s retinue.36 36 

First, we hear about King Aðils’s berserkir in Chapters 18–21, then King Hrólfr’s in

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What is interesting, however, is that in two instances, first in connection with Svipdagr, then with Bǫðvarr and Hjalti, we hear that the three heroes are challenged by the berserkir. It is said that it is their habit to ask everybody in the hall whether they think they are as strong as they, the berserkir, are; of course, only our heroes have the courage to accept the challenge. The point here is that, in order to become a member of the retinue, one must first prove one’s strength in what could very well be a ritual fight against a berserk (or ritually speaking: a bear). That this is part of an initiation sequence is further supported if we analyse the sequences that lead up to the acceptance into the band of Bǫðvarr and Hjalti: regarding Bǫðvarr, we get a long story in which it is said that he is the son of a man called Bjǫrn (bear) and a woman called Bera (she-bear). His own name, Bjarki, means ‘little bear’, and he is, in the final battle in which Hrólfr and all his men are killed, fighting in the shape of a bear (ch. 50). Hjalti, however, is portrayed as a frightened little boy called Hǫttr, who is afraid of everybody in the king’s hall until, with the help of Bǫðvarr, he is forced to drink some blood and eat part of the heart of a beast,37 which has been killed by Bǫðvarr but which is subsequently raised, as if it were still alive, and then killed a second time, so to speak, by Hǫttr. After that, the king gives him a sword and a new name: Hjalti; from then on he is accepted as one of the great warriors in King Hrólfr’s retinue, among his kappar. Also the relation to Óðinn is clearly apparent in the saga (ch. 39 and 46). Here, the king and his men come to a farmer called Hrani who turns out to be Óðinn. He tests their endurance and advises the king to send home those who are not able to stand the test, which is everyone except the kappar/berserkir. On their second visit, Hrani offers them weapons, but the offer is rejected by the king.38 It seems that it is Óðinn himself who tests the warriors and that only ‘his’ men are able to pass the test. In this folktale disguise, we get the definite impression that behind the king and his warriors there is a deity who protects them and chooses them. Chapters 22 and 37. In both cases, the berserkir are portrayed as elite warriors, although in the case of King Hrólfr they are to some extent distinguished from the kappar and hirðmenn (for a more detailed analyses, see Schjødt 2011: 279–87). But this distinction is likely due to the negative view of the berserkir in the Middle Ages. It is also worth mentioning that exactly those men who are portrayed in the saga as kappar are said by Snorri to be berserkir (Skáldskaparmál p. 58). 37  In Saxo’s version of the story (Gesta Danorum 2.6.11), it is explicitly said that the beast was a bear (ursus). 38  It should be noted here that in the medieval tradition, Hrólfr is portrayed as a ‘noble heathen’, i.e., although he was heathen, he did not really venerate the pagan gods.

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What we have here, then, are two stories about two heroes, intertwined yet still clearly separated, who become members of one of the most famous warrior bands of early times; and they are both, in different ways, strongly connected to bears (son of bears, killing a bear, fighting men who appear in bear-shape).39 There is no doubt that fornaldarsögur in general, including this one, are influenced by medieval folklore and popular Christianity, but also traditions reaching back into pagan times have likewise left a mark on them (cf. Mitchell 1991: 60), and the sequences analysed here would be hard to explain if we did not accept a preliterate tradition connecting warriors (of a certain kind) with bears. And if that connection is accepted, it becomes difficult not to link these bearwarriors to berserkir.40 We do not learn much from the saga about the wider social setting of these warriors, but if we take all the evidence into account, the following scenario can be reconstructed. In pagan times in Scandinavia, there existed warrior bands who surrounded the king and who were connected to those aspects of Óðinn that have to do with war and battle.41 In order to become members of these bands, which were symbolically associated with bears, the neophyte had to go through an initiation ritual involving a fight with someone who was already a member, or perhaps a sham fight with a figure representing a bear, as may be indicated in the Hǫttr story. From then on, he would be regarded as ‘a bear’ (cf. Hasenfratz 2011: 65). This was not understood literally: he was ‘a bear’ only in regard to strength, ferociousness, and invulnerability. In other words: during his initiation, he was transformed symbolically into a bear. Although Saxo does not mention berserkir directly, we do hear about individuals who can hardly be distinguished from these figures; especially the negatively conceived berserkir of the saga-topos mentioned above seem to have parallels in Saxo’s work. Of particular interest in Saxo is the reference to twelve Norwegian brothers (Gesta Danorum 6.2.1–10), seven of whom he mentions by names and all the names have -biorn (bjǫrn ‘bear’) as their last element. These twelve brothers have been seen as a confraternity, not as kin-related brothers, 39 

A much more thorough analysis of these sequences can be found in Schjødt (2008: 312–26). See also Arent (1969). 40  Important parallels to these episodes in Hrólfs saga kraka can be found in Grettis saga and in Beowulf. There is no doubt that we are dealing with folktale themes that are widespread all over Europe (cf. Stitt 1992). The question is how such folktale themes originate, and the proposition that a memory of heroic patterns, ultimately going back to warrior initiations, is involved, seems to be valid. And there is no reason to think exclusively in terms of ‘literary loans’. 41  In Ketils saga hængs ch. 5, we also see a berserkr who is closely related to Óðinn.

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by Stephen Mitchell (2012: 11), and, as we shall see in connection with the úlfheðnar, there are good reasons for reckoning with such confraternities, also in connection with the wolf warriors. Before we leave the berserkir, it must also be mentioned that bearskins have been found in graves,42 and this has convincingly been linked to the berserkir complex by Åke V. Ström (1980). Thus, we can assume that warriors who were initiated into the berserkir bands could be buried with this identity, perhaps because they were about to join their ultimate leader, their host in the Other World, Óðinn. We will now turn to the úlfheðnar. As mentioned, these are not dealt with nearly as often as the berserkir in the saga literature. Even so, there is one saga episode that gives an extensive account relating to these ‘wolf warriors’: namely the one in Vǫlsunga saga concerning Sigmundr and Sinfjǫtli, and this is, moreover, probably the most frequently debated episode relating to warrior bands and, not least, initiations into them. Furthermore, there is onomastic material which suggests the existence of such ‘wolf ’ bands in the Viking Age. Vǫlsunga saga is probably the most famous of the fornaldarsögur and is commonly dated to the last half of the thirteenth century or later. It is a heroic saga whose content is known from the European tradition (Nibelungenlied, Þiðreks saga and much pictorial evidence) as well as the Nordic material.43 The main figure of the saga is Sigurðr — Sigfried in the continental tradition — together with some of his relatives. As a kind of prolegomena, however, Chapters 1–10 deal with Sigurðr’s father, Sigmundr, and his half-brother, Sinfj ǫtli. A brief summary of the episode will be given here.44 Sigmundr is a son of King Vǫlsungr and great-great-grandson of Óðinn, who intervenes in the saga on several occasions. He has nine younger brothers and a twin sister, Signý. Vǫlsungr owns a great hall in the middle of which a large tree grows. The Swedish king Siggeirr wishes to marry Signý, and although she is reluctant, her father decides that the marriage should be celebrated. The wedding takes place in Vǫlsungr’s hall, and during the feast an old one-eyed man comes into the hall and drives a sword into the tree, saying that the one who can draw it out shall own it. Everybody tries, but only Sigmundr succeeds. As he refuses disdainfully to sell the sword to Siggeirr, Siggeirr plans revenge 42 

An inventory of these burials is found in Petré (1980). Hermann Schneider (1962: 125–70) has a good overview of the Sigurðr tradition in Scandinavian and European literature. For more recent views on Vǫlsunga saga, see, e.g., several relevant articles in Fornaldarsagornas struktur och ideologi (Ármann Jakobsen and others 2003). 44  For a more detailed summary together with an analysis, see Schjødt (2008: 299–312). 43 

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and invites Vǫlsungr, his sons, and his followers to visit him at his home three months later. Although they are warned by Signý about Siggeirr’s treachery, they enter the hall where they are attacked and all except Vǫlsungr’s sons are killed. The ten sons are put in stocks in the woods, but every night a large shewolf, which is actually Siggeirr’s shape-shifting mother, arrives and eats one of the brothers. This goes on for nine nights till only Sigmundr is still alive. With the help of Signý he succeeds in killing the wolf, and he is liberated, but stays in the woods, in a dwelling in the ground (jarðhús), while he plans revenge. Apparently, he needs some help, and Signý sends her two sons by Siggeirr to him in the forest. But they do not pass the tests that Sigmundr imposes on them, and Signý advises him to kill them which he does. Later, Signý exchanges shape with a sorceress (seiðkona) and goes to her brother in his underground dwelling. They sleep together for three nights and as she regains her own shape it turns out that she is pregnant; in due course she gives birth to Sinfjǫtli. When he is ten years old (the same age as her two sons by Siggeirr) he is sent into the woods and he passes Sigmundr’s tests without problems. Before they seek vengeance they travel through the forests, and one day they come to a house in which there are two wolf-skins, which they put on. But they cannot get them off and they run wild, ravaging the land of Siggeirr and howling like wolves. They agree that each of them alone can take on up to seven men, but if they attack a larger group they must call for the other. As Sinfjǫtli does not adhere to this rule and kills eleven men all by himself, he is killed by Sigmundr, but is eventually brought back to life by the help of Óðinn. Finally, they rid themselves of the wolf-skins and take their revenge on Siggeirr. Then they return to the land of Vǫlsungr; Sigmundr becomes a famous king and Sinfjǫtli a famous warrior. In the end, both are ‘taken home’ by Óðinn himself — that is, they die and go to Valhǫll.45 A lot of details are not included in this brief summary, but it is obvious that Sigmundr and Sinfjǫtli can appropriately be seen as ‘wolfskins’ or wolf warriors. It also seems quite clear that the sequence is a virtual initiation sequence,46 as was noted already by Lily Weiser (1927: 70–71): the boys are tested before they are allowed to undergo the initiation sequence, and during the liminal 45 

Óðinn carries Sinfjǫtli with him in a boat (Vǫlsunga saga ch. 10 and Frá dauða Sinfjǫtla), and he breaks Sigmundr’s famous sword in his final battle (Vǫlsunga saga ch. 11). Besides, we know from Eiríksmál st. 5 that they are both in Valhǫll as einherjar. 46  The sequence is somewhat obscured by the fact that we have two protagonists who have different objectives: one is to be king, the other to be warrior. In the following, we shall deal primarily with Sinfjǫtli.

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phase of the ritual Sigmundr and Sinfjǫtli are virtually wolves, wearing wolfskins and howling like wolves.47 Sinfjǫtli even dies and is resurrected, which is one of the extremely common themes of initiation rituals all across the world (Eliade 1975). Moreover, it is obvious that one of the abilities Sinfjǫtli acquires during his stay in the forest is that, while he must show courage, he must not expose himself to unnecessary risks by attacking too many men. This balance between courage and realism is crucial for a warrior in order for him to perform his task in an optimal way. Initiation will be treated further in (è32), but we can state immediately that, even if no text speaks directly of pagan initiation rituals in connection with admittance into the warrior band, it seems possible to reconstruct part of such a ritual. For instance, it has been proposed that drinking rites form an important part of it just as a feminine entity seems to play a significant role.48 Here, we should perhaps think of Signý who becomes the mother of the future warrior. At first glance, there is no sign of any warrior band in this sequence, but we must be aware that this is above all a piece of literature composed by an author who is unlikely to have had the slightest idea about such things as warrior bands. Even so, we may hypothesize, although it is an argument hard to support on the basis of the saga itself, that Sigmundr and his nine brothers constitute such a warrior confraternity: they are all related to a wolf, which eventually kills the brothers, while Sigmundr himself manage to kill the wolf. A consequence of this is that he is able to function as the initiator of Sinfjǫtli. So, if nothing else, the two wolf episodes, one of which deals with a group of brothers, suggest some relation between bands of warriors and wolves; in short: the individual member of the band can be seen as an úlfheðinn — a member of a confraternity who is symbolically acting like a wolf. At the same time, it is also especially interesting that both Sigmundr and Sinfjǫtli are clearly attached to Óðinn: he is said to be their ancestor, he helps them in various situations, and he takes them ‘home’ when they die.49 47 

The criteria for talking about initiations are discussed in Schjødt (2008: 72–84), and the application to the Sigmundr/Sinfjǫtli episode is expounded in short form in Schjødt (2011: 290–92). 48  For proposals as to which elements are involved in these rituals, see Enright (1996a), who suggests among many other things that an important relation between a woman and the retainers was established during the initiation, and Schjødt (2008), who reaches the same conclusion from another perspective. 49  This is one of the most important results in Otto Höfler’s famous book on the warrior bands (Höfler 1934: 188–226), and it is confirmed in the anonymous poem Eiríksmál st. 5 that

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As mentioned above, there is also onomastic material that may be of help.50 Among other things, we have a group of runic inscriptions from Blekinge in Sweden which include wolf names, such as Haþuwulfar (battle wolf ), Heruwulfar (sword wolf ), and Hariwulfar (army wolf ). These have been thoroughly analysed by Olof Sundqvist and Anders Hultgård (Sundqvist and Hultgård 2004; è 43), who conclude that they should be seen in relation to, among other things, initiatory rituals of young warriors (Sundqvist and Hultgård 2004: 597).51 As with the bear names, it seems highly plausible to associate these wolf names with bands of warriors.52 So, apart from the sagas, we also have contemporary evidence which points to the existence of animal warriors. The pictorial material gives us strong indications that warriors sometimes wore animal masks, probably in order to identify them with those animals that the masks portray.53 Besides, masks have been found in the archaeological record, and although it is often impossible to determine what they depict, it is clear from some that we are dealing with animal masks. We also have depictions of masks on other objects, such as rune stones and metal items (Price 2002: 171–74).54 On what occasions such masks may have been worn we cannot say, but it seems likely that it happened in connection with some sort of rituals, and according to what has been stated so far, presumably rituals of an initiatory kind.55 The problem of whether berserkir and úlfheðnar should be regarded more or less as the same thing or be seen as two different kinds of warrior bands cannot be determined with certainty.56 There is no doubt that, in some sagas, both Sigmundr and Sinfjǫtli are thought to be among the warriors in Valhǫll. 50  Both sagas and runic inscriptions provide many names containing the words ‘wolf ’ and bear’ (Peterson 2007). 51  See also this work for many relevant references. 52  For these examples of wolf names and many more, among others the famous Rök stone, see Mitchell (2012). 53  For a good exposition of various kinds of dramatic activities, including rituals, and with analyses of the textual as well as the pictorial evidence, see Gunnell (1995: 23–92). 54  Most of the pictorial sources that may be connected to berserkir are depicted in Samson (2011: 343–58). 55  Although it is also likely that they may have been worn in connection with seasonal rituals, which would bring the evidence in accordance with the later folklore, including processions of young men wearing masks (Höfler 1934: 25–31) at certain times of the year. 56  It has been argued by Lotte Hedeager (2011: 89–90, 95–96) that there also existed a third kind of warrior band, connected to yet another animal: namely, the wild boar. She sup-

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the author sees them as alternative terms for the same phenomenon, whereas in other sources they appear to be distinguished. We must of course be aware that the saga writers lived centuries after the ‘animal warrior bands’ had ceased to exist as a retinue of the king or chieftain, and that their knowledge relied on oral traditions, which during this long time span had become somewhat confused and unclear. Because of this, some scholars have argued that there was no difference, that the terms were interchangeable and simply referred to wild and terrifying animals (e.g., Näsström 2006: 158–61), as is perhaps suggested in Haraldskvæði, whereas others argue that the terms actually represented two kinds of warriors (e.g., Price 2002: 374; Hedeager 2011: 89–98). Kris Kershaw even suggests that they represent two stages of the ‘education’ of the warriors, the young initiates being úlfheðnar, whereas only some of them become berserkir (Kershaw 2000: 61), a division apparently relating to the distinction made by Tacitus concerning the Chatti. We will never know for sure, but what seems clear is that both groups were connected to Óðinn. Since Óðinn, judging from the mythological and semi-mythological texts, was the god of the mental — strategic and ecstatic — and the collective side of the phenomenon of ‘war’ (cf. Schjødt 2012b; è 42), he is also the god we should expect to be the ‘leader’ of the warrior bands. And this is, indeed, what we see in the sources that can be linked to the warrior bands, insofar as they give us any clue at all about a divine relation (cf. Green 1998: 79–80). Whereas Óðinn is mentioned several times, both in connection with ‘bear warriors’ and with ‘wolf warriors’, none of the other gods can feasibly be seen as associated with these bands. This is not to say that other deities were not connected to war and fighting, because most of the gods actually were, but there are no hints that they were ever seen as patrons or leaders of special groups of warriors. So, just as we have seen that the berserkir and the úlfheðnar were the elite among the warriors, characterized by their ecstatic fighting and by being destined to go to Valhǫll after their death, we also see that some of Óðinn’s most important characteristics are his role in connection with war, his ability to incite his chosen warriors before and during the battle,57 and being the leader in Valhǫll, the home of the einherjar. All these elements are intertwined in our sources, but whereas each piece of evidence and its individual interpretation can obviously be doubted and questioned, it would seem unreasonable to reject the sizeable accumulation of details that connect warrior bands, animal shape, and Óðinn, ports this idea with some pictorial evidence, whereas the textual evidence is extremely thin (cf. also Beck 1965). 57  Cf. his name which is etymologically related to óðr, ‘furious’ (de Vries 1962a: 416).

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Figure 24.7. Detail of the top panel of the picture stone from Hunninge in Klinte on Gotland, dated to the ninth or tenth century. The panel shows a rider, accompanied by a dog/wolf, and being welcomed by a woman with a drinking horn. Over the rider, a man with a ring is ‘flying’, and above him are two fighting warriors with swords and shields. Similar compositions are known from the picture stones from Ardre and Tjängvide in Alskog, which are interpreted as representations of Valhǫll, due to accompanying images of halls. Although the picture stone from Hunninge lacks a hall, the parallels indicate that the fighting warriors can be interpreted as einherjar. Gotlands Museum, Visby. Photo: Anders Andrén. 

not least because, as we shall return to in ( è 42), the figure of Óðinn is so closely related to that of the political leader: not only in his capacity of warlord but also at a much more general level associated with numinous knowledge and initiation. As the last element to be treated in this chapter, therefore, we shall briefly deal with the relation among the members of the warrior bands, Óðinn, and the dead. Óðinn’s hall is the place where warriors go when they are killed in battle and where they become einherjar,58 which means ‘those who fight alone’ or ‘the only (outstanding) warriors’ or perhaps more likely ‘those who fight like 58 

The locus classicus for the notions about the dead in Valhǫll is Gylfaginning pp. 32–34.

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one’, which accords extremely well with the idea of the warrior band as a unit.59 Lily Weiser (1927), Otto Höfler (1934), as well as Kris Kershaw (2000) have argued that the Odinic warrior bands formed a counterpart to the einherjar. The feralis exercitus of Tacitus not only looked like the dead, they were the dead in a symbolic sense, and were thus identified with the ancestors. Especially Höfler used contemporary folklore from the Germanic area to support this parallel by postulating a connection between the processions of young masked men, mentioned above, the ideas of ‘the wild hunt’, which is the tradition about the dead rushing through the air with a ghostly hunter as their leader, and the fact that this leader was sometimes seen as Óðinn, in order to argue a continuity from Tacitus up until the present (Höfler 1934: 77–84).60 This approach has been severely criticized, not least because of Höfler’s ideological framework, which is treated briefly in the next section.61 Undoubtedly, there are good reasons to be careful with Höfler’s exposition, but this being said, a certain link between the warrior bands and the einherjar is nonetheless relevant, although probably not exactly in the way that Weiser, Höfler, and Kershaw have seen it. Again, we can never obtain an unequivocal answer, but the idea that warrior bands were in some way regarded as ‘the dead’ appears to be entirely unsupported by the extant sources, except perhaps for the Harii. There are many indications that warrior bands were in some ways regarded as particular species of animals, and thus as belonging to a non-human world, but there are no indications that the einherjar were ever seen as or even compared to animals. Being dead, they were certainly also of another world, but a direct identification is problematic. What seems much more likely is that the relation was metonymic instead of metaphoric: the warriors of the warrior bands were not regarded as dead, but when they died they became part of the group of einherjar and as such would come to belong to the ultimate retinue: namely, that of Óðinn himself. Just as the war-

59 

See Finnur Jónsson (1931: 102): ‘de som hører til, udgør én hær’ (those who belong to, constitute one army). Kershaw (2000: 19) says: ‘the paragon of the herr’. 60  In the folklore, it seems most likely, however, that we are dealing with a combination of, on the one hand, popular Christian ideas that see Óðinn as the devil — a tradition reaching far back, at least to the thirteenth century — and, on the other hand, possibly more or less vague memories of Óðinn as the leader of the dead in Valhǫll. 61  Among the most severe critics is Klaus von See, who in several publications has discussed and criticized the ‘continuity’ theory, accusing Höfler of ideologically based theories (e.g., von See 1972). A critique from another point of view is found in Näsström (2006: 232– 42).

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riors would fight till death for their leader, so the einherjar will fight in the final battle of Ragnarǫk in which Óðinn and all his men will fall.

Scholarship We have already looked at some of the major controversies within the study of the warrior bands: is it possible to discern a degree of continuity from Tacitus until the Viking Age, and is it possible to maintain that these bands were founded in religion, that is, that they were strongly related to the god Óðinn? Lily Weiser and Otto Höfler were the first to analyse the phenomenon of Männerbünde within a religious context. They were both inspired by Heinrich Schurtz’s book from 1902, Altersklassen und Männerbünde: Eine Darstellung der Grundformen der Gesellschaft, which showed that the institution of secret male societies existed in all parts of the world. Schurtz has been criticized for his use of the ethnographic material as well as for the theories he developed on the basis of this material. Nevertheless, subsequent research has proven that the phenomenon of certain closed societies, consisting of elite warriors, existed and continues to exist in many cultures, although in very different guises. So, in a way it is surprising that there has been so much resistance to the idea that such a phenomenon also existed among the Germanic tribes and that it continued into the Viking Age (Kuhn 1956). The reason for that is, no doubt, as was suggested above, because Weiser’s as well as Höfler’s results were so warmly welcomed by the National Socialists of the Third Reich, which in the post-war era has led to them being seen as pure propaganda and Nazi ideology.62 It was in a certain sense understandable, and perhaps even necessary, to adopt this stance at that time, although from today’s point of view, at the beginning of the third millennium, this reaction may seem just as ideological. What seems unreasonable now is not the rejection and doubting of many details in both Weiser’s and Höfler’s arguments, because doing so is both sensible and necessary, but the rejection of the basic discoveries that they made and which we have attempted to show above from textual, linguistic, archaeological, and folkloristic evidence. As can only be expected, the growing distance in time from the excesses of the National Socialists and the Second World War has allowed for a more balanced evaluation of the material, one result of which is that recent scholars accept without hesitation the idea that warrior bands existed all through the 62 

A brief, but very informed exposition of the post-war evaluation of the ideas of the Männerbünde concept, Höfler’s research in particular, is found in Harris (2008: 288–96). The whole article can be recommended for various aspects of the warrior band problem.

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pre-Christian era (and even into the Middle Ages).63 This does not mean that there is not much left to discuss — there most definitely is — but it means that, even if the sources taken one by one could all be rejected for various reasons, the overwhelming amount of all kinds of sources taken together cannot and should not be rejected or overlooked.

Conclusion To sum up the principal characteristics of the warrior band in its relation to religion, we can be confident that warrior bands existed among the Germanic tribes, at least since the time of Tacitus (Lindow 1976; Enright 1996a) and probably much earlier (Kershaw 2000; West 2007). This does not mean that they did not change sociologically during this long period, because we can be absolutely confident they did; besides their sociological/political functions, they were rooted in religion and were especially related to the cult of Óðinn or his equivalents further back in time. It is also certain that a prerequisite for becoming included in the warrior band was that the young warrior went through an initiation ritual, the symbolism of which we are quite well informed about through a number of semi-mythic texts. The fixed relation between a band and its leader — and some woman with prophetic gifts (Enright 1996a: e.g. 283–87) —, consisting of an unconditional loyalty and willingness to fight until death for him, also seems to be part of the religious core of the whole complex.

63 

Just to give a few examples, which differ substantially in many ways, but all take for granted that the bands did exist, we can mention: John Lindow (1976), Michael Enright (1996a), Britt-Mari Näsström (2006), Joseph Harris (2008), Jens Peter Schjødt (2008), Vincent Samson (2011), and Stephen Mitchell (2012).

25 – Various Ways of Communicating Jens Peter Schjødt Introduction Following some introductory remarks, this chapter will fall into two parts. The first part will consist of a brief history and a discussion of some of the relevant positions within the general history of research on rituals within the history of religions, followed by an account of the terminology and the classification of rituals which are used in this and subsequent chapters. After that, we shall consider some basic structures that can be universally applied to rituals. In the second part, we shall treat certain ritual phenomena in PCRN which may be part of any one of the main ritual categories, such as sacrifice, procession, and divination. Among most modern Westerners, religion is seen as something that has primarily to do with ‘belief ’. In ‘primary’ or ‘archaic’ religions, however, religion is more often connected with what you ‘do’ than what you ‘believe’. In PCRN there was no word corresponding to ‘religion’ as it was seen by the Christians. Trúa as the word for religion was only introduced with the church, the more common word before that being siðr, meaning ‘custom’ or ‘habit’, perhaps ‘tradition’. Thus, when Christianity came to the North and was accepted by some, the distinction arose between the ‘old’ and the ‘new’ siðr, designating paganism and Christianity, respectively (cf. Clunies Ross 2002a). This indicates that religion, as we see it, as something that can be differentiated from everyday life, was viewed differently among the pagans. Here, religion was part of the general

Jens Peter Schjødt, Professor of the Study of Religion, Aarhus University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume ii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 2 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 589–642 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116952

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custom, the way people lived their lives.1 This is so because, as we saw in (è1), the interference with the Other World would have consequences for almost everything that was acted out in this world. That does not mean, of course, that there was no such thing as a distinction between ‘sacred’ and ‘profane’: at certain occasions people should not and could not behave as in everyday situations.2 Already we hear from Tacitus (Germania ch. 40) that during the time when Nerthus is carried around in her wagon, humans do not begin war and do not carry weapons, as is otherwise the custom. This period, therefore, is sacred: people behaved differently from what they usually did, and this can be seen as a kind of taboo (you are not allowed to do this and that here and now), which is a universal characteristic of sacred moments. Also in the Old Norse sources there are many examples of periods or moments during which humans are closer to the gods than at other times and therefore have to behave differently from the way they usually do; in short: the communication between worlds is facilitated by being at the right spot at the right moment. This time and place and what goes on there is what we usually call the ‘ritual sphere’ (è27–28). This means that, although that kind of communication may take place simultaneously in various situations (a god or the valkyries show up on the battlefield or a hostile being attacks you while you are asleep), the way to discover the will of the gods, the way to please the gods, and, in general, to manipulate the gods or other beings of the Other World is most often seen as more successful when a ritual setting is established. Therefore, since the notion of belief did not play any significant role (cf. Clunies Ross 2003: 284), we must assume that there were no dogmatic controversies in pagan times because this ‘manipulation’ of the Other World, carried out to the benefit of the individual or society, should be seen as the key point in the religion (è1). So, although the world-view and with that the myths would support the rationale behind the rituals, it would be fair to say that the communication with the Other World constituted the more important part of PCRN. This causes some problems, however, since we do not know as much about the rituals as could be wished for because of the source situa1 

See, for instance, Max Weber’s important statement (1965: 1): ‘religious or magical behavior or thinking must not be set apart from the range of everyday purposive conduct, particularly since even the ends of religious and magical acts are predominantly economic’. The religious aspects of this ‘everyday purposive conduct’ belong to what was called ‘social and psychological consequences’ of the notions of and the communication with the Other World in (è1). 2  This distinction, as we saw in (è 1), is a prerequisite for speaking meaningfully about religion at all.

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tion (Clunies Ross 2002a): on the one hand, we do not have very many ritual descriptions, and there are whole categories of rituals that we have no knowledge about at all, but which we must assume by way of analogy were part of the religion; on the other hand, in the descriptions that we do have, very few are detailed enough for us to carry out classical ritual analyses. In most expositions of PCRN, therefore, the myths and mythical sphere often constitute the main part. This is reasonable, insofar as we are far better informed about these things, but in all probability it does not reflect the religion as it was viewed by those who performed the rituals: namely, the pre-Christian Scandinavians. This, of course, raises many problems, because the way the sources allow us to observe PCRN will inevitably be distorted. Moreover, it creates some methodological problems for our possibilities of reconstruction. For, on the one hand, it is always problematic to attempt to reconstruct phenomena that are not treated in the extant sources, but on the other hand, it would be naïve to reject the existence of such phenomena that are known from most comparable cultures. An example could be rituals of initiation into various kinds of office. Since we are not informed about such things in any sources that are traditionally regarded as reliable, some would deny their existence, although we would a priori expect them to be there; and when it is even possible to analyse sequences, mainly found in the fornaldarsögur, as relicts of initiation ideology (Schjødt 2008), it would seem appropriate to deduce that various kinds of initiation rituals actually existed in PCRN. It is obvious that there are details we will never obtain access to, but in order to attain a realistic view on the ritual and thus the religious world of the Scandinavians, we have to take into consideration many phenomena that are not related in the sources, but which must have been there, in order to explain various other phenomena of which we do have some information.3 What should be avoided, however, is the attempt to reconstruct individual rites in any detail within a ritual sequence, unless such are related in the sources. Archaeology is another source that provides us with material remains of the actions connected to the ritual sphere, but seldom informs us about the precise intentions behind the actions. Archaeology, therefore, answers questions such as ‘what happened’, rather than why it happened.

3 

An example, to which we shall return and which has been touched upon already (è23), could be the relations between rulers and the god Óðinn. This relation would be almost impossible to understand if we do not accept that the ruler and the god are tied together through some kind of initiation ritual (è32).

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Ritual Structures and Classification Research History In her interesting book, Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions from 1997, the historian of religion Catherine Bell wrote: ‘To anyone interested in ritual in general, it becomes quickly evident that there is no clear and widely shared explanation of what constitutes ritual or how to understand it. There are only various theories, opinions, or customary notions, all of which reflect the time and place in which they are formulated’ (Bell 1997: x). These are wise words that should be borne in mind when we attempt to approach ritual as a category within the history of religions. Although the same words could be used about a host, if not all, of religious phenomena, they still emphasize the complexity and the many perspectives that have been used within ritual studies. This is not the place to go through the various ‘schools’ of interpretation,4 since ritual, as a research object, has already been treated by numerous historians of religion and anthropologists, and to just mention the main positions would constitute a work in itself. As was also stated in (è1), the term ‘ritual’ has been used to designate many different kinds of behaviour, and not only human. According to some definitions, it makes sense to speak of ‘animal rituals’, acts performed by animals which have no direct influence on the goal that is to be achieved, such as, for instance, the signaling of social position within a group.5 In daily language we often speak about rituals as series of actions which are repeated with certain intervals. Some elements focused upon in such a definition are also relevant when we speak about religious rituals. Nevertheless, it is important to bear in mind that, within the frames of this work, talking about rituals means talking about religious rituals and thus, in discussing and analysing ritual actions in the following, the religious components will be emphasized, that is, actions which in some way or another refer to the Other World. It can of course be equally meaningful to focus on other issues than those of the religious discourse; that is just not what we shall do here.6 4  Research histories can be found in many works by anthropologists and historians of religion. Good overviews are Bell (1997: 3–90) and Doty (1986). 5  ‘Direct’ is important here. As opposed to, for instance, fighting or building nests where the actions are directly connected to the result, the subjection to the ‘alpha male’ or the collective, however, is just signalled through a certain behaviour that has to be ‘interpreted’ by this male or the group in order for it to work (cf. Turner and others 2018). 6  For a brief overview on definitional issues, see Zuesse (1987).

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Rituals have been dealt with by most historians of religion as well as by many anthropologists, psychologists, and sociologists, because it is obvious to anybody who studies especially preliterate cultures, but also to a very large extent modern societies, that rituals play a huge role at several levels. In the book just mentioned, by Catherine Bell, the author attempts in the first three chapters to outline the history of research from the end of the nineteenth century up to the end of the twentieth, and the titles and subtitles of the chapters can thus be taken as indications of the various aspects that have attracted scholarly interest in ritual studies within the last century. We shall not deal with all these perspectives, but in order to give an impression of the variety of interests it may be worthwhile to mention these titles. Although Bell’s chapters are structured in mainly chronological order, it is obvious, as she is also aware of herself (1997: 88), that most of the positions she discusses, including the older ones, are still part of the scholarly discourse. The three main chapters in this section are: ‘Myth and Ritual: Questions of Origin and Essence’, ‘Ritual and Society: Questions of Social Function and Structure’, and ‘Ritual Symbols, Syntax and Praxis: Questions of Cultural Meaning and Interpretation’, respectively. In the first chapter, some of the subtitles are: ‘The Myth and Ritual Schools’, ‘The Phenomenology of Religions’, and ‘Psychoanalytic Approaches to Ritual’; in the second we find ‘Functionalism’, ‘Neofunctional Systems Analyses’, ‘Structuralism’, and ‘Magic, Religion, and Science’ as subtitles; and in the third chapter, the subtitles are: ‘Symbolic Systems and Symbolic Action’, ‘Linguistics’, ‘Performance’, and ‘Practice’. Although the expediency of this classification can in some respects be discussed, the titles give a fairly complete view of the issues and perspectives that have been discussed within the general History of Religions. They are certainly not all of equal relevance to the study of Old Norse religion, not least because, as we have seen, the sources do not allow us to reconstruct every aspect of that religion and its rituals. However, they are all relevant for the forming of general theories about rituals. It will be too much of a digression away from PCRN to go into all these points, but a few words about some of them will be necessary in order to help establish a comprehensive view on rituals within PCRN with regard to such elements as function, symbolic meaning, classification, and structure. At first sight it may seem that the various positions mentioned by Bell are heterogenous — and it is true that they focus on very different aspects of ritual. But it is important to acknowledge that many of these aspects can actually be seen as more or less complementary. All rituals are, for example, performed; many rituals have political alongside religious functions; rituals often have a strong impact on the psychology of the participants; they follow a certain

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structure; and they frequently create social solidarity. It therefore makes good sense to take into consideration sociological as well as psychological factors, just as semiotics and performance theory, and so forth, can all be very useful to us if we want to understand all the various aspects of a given ritual. There are also many kinds and categories of rituals, as we shall see in a moment, and their position and function within a certain culture may vary substantially. All this makes it problematic to find elements which are relevant for all rituals, whether they have to do with function, meaning, performance, or any other aspect. One important problem is the one concerning emic and etic interpretations and functions. During most of the 20th century, scholarship was primarily occupied with etic aspects of ritual. In discussing what rituals were good for at all, there has been a strong focus on psychological and, in particular, sociological perspectives. Taking the most influential scholars from the beginning of the twentieth century, we should of course mention Sigmund Freud (1913) and Émile Durkheim (1912), both of whom were primarily interested in the ritual side of religion.7 To Freud, sacrifice, which he saw as the origin of religion, was a celebration of the killing of the totem forefather with the purpose of obtaining access to the females within the group, and to Durkheim, as we have seen above, rituals were carried out in order to strengthen the solidarity within the group. Whereas Freud has no impact on ritual studies nowadays, Durkheim certainly has, and the idea that ritual should first and foremost be considered a sociological phenomenon, organizing both the solidarity and the hierarchical structure of the society, is widely acknowledged by modern scholars, although there may also be other, compatible functions involved, not least that of communication: ritual is a form of communication through which roles are defined.8 Furthermore, we can mention Jan Assmann, who has suggested that ritual is a means of remembering in illiterate societies (2006: 39–40); the notion of memory has also been taken up by Harvey Whitehouse (2000), although from a different perspective wherein different kinds of memory are classified and analysed in relation to various rituals (cf. Nygaard and Schjødt 7  In opposition to the enterprise of Comparative Religion in most of the nineteenth century, where myth was the main focus, not least in connection with the so called nature mythology of Friedrich Max Müller (for example, 1889, 1909) and his ‘school’. The ‘change’ of focus from myth to ritual came with William Robertson Smith, particularly his book The Religion of the Semites from 1889 in which he maintained that sacrifice was the fundamental religious phenomenon (see also Bell 1997: 4–8) from which the phenomenon of religion as such could be derived. Freud (1913) was heavily influenced by Robertson Smith. 8  Especially within Social Anthropology, a host of famous scholars have focused on this ‘function’ of ritual. See, for instance, Turner (1969), Leach (1976), and Geertz (1973).

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2018). At any rate, many of these theories are by no means mutually incompatible, and these as well as many others have all contributed to a better understanding of the phenomenon of ritual, both in a religious and a non-religious sense. Compared to the amount of these etic theories, the amount of theories dealing with ritual from an emic point of view is relatively small and have mostly been proposed by phenomenologists of religion. Again, we notice that the two viewpoints are not at all incompatible: they simply reflect various interests and different levels within the rituals themselves. Thus, there can be no doubt that rituals always serve social and/or psychological functions which are, however, not the reason for their existence according to the participants. For them, it could be a question of serving God or promoting fertility,9 whereas the display of power relations that exist in many rituals is seldom consciously acknowledged by those who participate in them. Whereas questions of ‘function’, whether psychological or sociological, are usually considered from an etic perspective, questions of ‘meaning’, which are often asked by the phenomenologists, normally adopt an emic perspective.10 Perhaps we might say that the communicative function between the various participants in a ritual, that is, the ‘horizontal’ communication, is of an etic kind, whereas the ‘vertical’ communication, that between this and the Other World, could be said to belong to the emic aspects of the ritual. However, the dichotomy emic/etic is often not very clear-cut and, for, instance, within semiotics and what we could broadly term structuralist studies it may be hard to decide whether the decoding of the symbols involved in a certain ritual should be attributed to one or the other perspective. Nevertheless, also when aiming to reconstruct pre-Christian Scandinavian rituals, it is of importance to bear these different levels in mind. Another problem touched upon above is that concerning myth and ritual. We shall not deal with the so-called ‘Myth and Ritual School’ which flourished around the end of the nineteenth and in the beginning of the twentieth centu9 

It has been discussed (e.g., Bell 1997: 108–09) whether it is possible to distinguish between exchanges made for pure devotion and those that rather have the character of bribes. Although such a distinction may have some importance, it is, however, important to be aware that whether we talk about ‘devotion’ or ‘bribe’ it is always a matter of manipulating the Other World to look kindly upon our world, or at least upon the performer of the ritual. We shall return to this below in relation to sacrifice. 10  In reality, ‘meaning’ and ‘function’ are often heavily intertwined. For instance, if the purpose of a ritual, from an emic point of view, is to promote the fertility of beast and soil, it is not easy to decide whether this purpose should be seen as an emic ‘function’ or an emic ‘meaning’. For some aspects of this problem, see Strenski (1993: 35–36).

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ries (cf. Fontenrose 1966; Bell 1997: 5–8; Doty 1986: 73–78; Segal 1998; Segal 2017) with such prolific authors as James George Frazer, Jane Harrison, and Arthur M. Hocart. The basic idea that myth and ritual related to one another in the same stable way as speech does to action, the myth saying in words what the ritual says in actions, has long been rejected, not least because many rituals are not linked to any specific myth and vice versa, many myths are not part of any ritual. The fact, however, remains that some rituals and some myths are strongly connected to one another.11 But often this relation is much less direct than what was proposed by the proponents of the ‘Myth and Ritual School’, so that most often we cannot expect a fixed narrative to have accompanied the performance of a ritual, interpreting the gestures so to speak for the audience. That kind of relation was analysed within PCRN by, among others, Vilhelm Grønbech (1932) and Bertha Phillpotts (1920) in the beginning of the twentieth century and, although Phillpotts in particular seems to be convincing in some of her analyses, it is obvious that such relations between myth and ritual, even in cases where they clearly do exist, are usually much more complex than this simple formula suggests. The relation between the two categories should perhaps rather be seen as that of a mythic construction of an Other World vis-à-vis an attempt at ritual manipulation of this Other World. For rituals do something; they are there in order to change or maintain elements in our world, whether it be the making of a king or the rhythms of nature. But in order to work properly, there must be some idea of the Other World, formed via mythic narratives, so that the communicative activity can be as efficient as possible in order to achieve the wished-for goals. Therefore, a ritual performance may at times take the form of a repetition of certain deeds performed by the gods in illo tempore — for instance, the cosmogonic myth may be reenacted — whereas in other instances it is simply a question of approaching the Other World, knowing what it takes to ‘bribe’ a specific god; and such instances will often not involve the reenactment of individual myths. Thus, whatever etic functions a ritual may have, it is, seen from the performer’s perspective, a more or less directly expressed attempt at communication with and manipulation of the Other World. Prayers might be said to constitute another kind of communication. However, since most prayers are accompanied by bodily acts (bending down, folding the hands, etc.), there is hardly any reason to classify prayers as a category different from rituals in general; rather, 11 

In a recent article Frog (2017) has once again taken up the issue, but this time within a semiotic paradigm and using the tool of parallelism to illuminate the relationship between ritual and accompanying myths.

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they should be seen as a particular category of rituals in which words play a more dominant role than is often the case in ritual performances. Most rituals are composed of longer or shorter sequences of actions. In the following we shall call these actions ‘rites’. Thus, in the terminology used in the following, ‘rituals’ connote a sequence of ‘rites’ and are characterized by a certain goal, or perhaps several goals; whereas the rite, although it may very well have a ‘meaning’ in itself, basically contributes to the goal of the ritual.12 A ‘ritual’, then, may have as its ultimate goal the promotion of the fertility of the fields. This ‘ritual’ will normally consist of a series of ‘rites’, which may involve such elements as sacrifices, dramatic performances of fights between gods of chaos and gods defending the cosmic order, ‘imitative rites’ such as pouring water from a vat, and so forth. These all require their own interpretation; the sacrifice may be viewed as a gift to the gods in order to sway them to let it rain; fights between gods and demons enacted as certain dances may be a ‘magic’ rite, aimed at repeating what happened in illo tempore, and the pouring of water may indicate another kind of sacrificial gift to the gods of the underworld. Yet first and foremost they all contribute to the overarching goal: namely, to allow the fields to prosper. Apart from all the etic functions that we may be able to detect in such a ritual, the main goal seems quite clear from the point of view of the participants. It is of importance to realize that often the ‘rites’ will acquire their significance only from their position within the ‘ritual’, and therefore it is quite likely that the ‘same rite’ can be part of various rituals and therefore take on different ‘meanings’, which seems to be the case with for instance the so-called jarðarmen rite, as we shall return to below (è 32). Within PCRN, especially when it comes to the archaeological record, we are often in a position where we can reconstruct (at least to some extent) some of the rites that have taken place, whereas we can seldom reconstruct whole rituals without a great deal of conjecture. As is the case with all taxonomies, there will be cases where it is not easy to make a clear-cut distinction between the categories, that is, rituals and rites. For instance, a sacrificial rite or a divination rite may be so dominant within a ritual that the rites themselves will consist of a large amount of individual actions (perhaps even structured in the same way as a full ritual sequence), such 12 

It must be noticed that this distinction and thus the terminology is not common among historians of religion and anthropologists. Usually, there is no real distinction between the two words (this is true not only in the English-speaking world), and they are mostly used synonymously. However, since it makes sense to distinguish between the individual units within a ritual sequence on the one hand and the ritual sequence itself on the other hand, the two words, rite and ritual, may be meaningfully used to denote these two entities respectively.

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as consecrations of the place and participants involved, purifications, and invocations of the gods. A word that will not be used very often in the following is ‘ceremony’. The reason why this term is avoided is that it is frequently used simply as a synonym for ‘ritual’ (but not for the individual ‘rite’), although a ‘ceremony’ is commonly conceived of as more spectacular than a ‘ritual’, at least the rituals of a private kind. However, most people probably associate the word ‘ceremony’ with all kinds of public celebrations, and, to a much higher degree than is the case for ‘ritual’, it is far from necessarily connected to the religious sphere. We do, of course, speak of ‘religious ceremonies’, but without the adjective ‘ceremony’ is not so closely associated with religion. Therefore, ‘ceremony’ should be regarded as a facet of certain public rituals (religious or not). Classification of Rituals There are different kinds of rituals, and therefore we cannot escape the problem of how to classify them. In order to organize the exposition, it is necessary to divide the vast amount of information into some ritual categories. As an example of how this may be done, we can refer once again to Catherine Bell. In Chapter 4 of her book on ritual (1997: 91–137), she classifies various rituals into the following subcategories: ‘Rites of Passage’;13 ‘Calendrical Rites’; ‘Rites of Exchange and Communion’; ‘Rites of Affliction’; ‘Feasting, Fasting, and Festivals’; and finally ‘Political Rites’. These categories are on the one hand quite familiar within the history of religions, but on the other they show some of the difficulties that we face when we attempt to classify. The main problem seems to be that dissimilar criteria are used in the differentiation between the categories. For instance, we notice that the category ‘Rites of Exchange and Communion’ comprises offerings and sacrifices, phenomena which have been classified above as ‘rites’ and not ‘rituals’. So, whereas ‘Rites of Passage’, for instance, is a category defined through the social occasions which they accompany, ‘Rites of Affliction’ and ‘Feasting, Fasting, and Festivals’ seem rather to be defined through the moods of the participants. The classification issue, however, has been addressed by many scholars, and this is not the place to go into any deep discussion.14 13  Notice the use here of ‘rites’. To Bell and, as mentioned, to many others, the term often covers what is here called ‘rituals’. 14  A brief discussion can be found in Schjødt (2008: 46–48), and a bit more detailed in Schjødt (1986a).

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Taking the above-mentioned distinction between ‘rituals’ and ‘rites’ into consideration, a useful classification could be the one proposed many years ago by the Finnish folklorist and historian of religion Lauri Honko.15 Honko divides the rituals into the following three categories: ‘Rites of Passage’, ‘Calendrical Rites’ and ‘Crisis Rites’, a categorization both similar to and different from that proposed by Bell. But Honko is much more consistent than Bell in the criteria he uses in order to make the distinctions. The three categories can be distinguished in various ways, and Honko proposes criteria such as ‘social orientation’, whether the rites are recurring and whether they are predictable (Honko 1975: 75). Thus, according to Honko a ‘rite of passage’ is characterized by being individual in its social orientation, by being non-recurring — each person will in principle only experience a certain initiation once in his or her lifetime — and by being predictable: although we may not know the exact date in advance, it is certainly predictable that a person has to go through a pubertyritual or a marriage ritual.16 Although these criteria are, as just mentioned, quite systematically applied, they are certainly not without problems when it comes to the details; for instance: is a passage ritual always individual in its social orientation? Nevertheless, the division into these three categories seems appropriate, since most religious rituals appear to belong to one or the other. Another criterion of a structural kind has been suggested by Jens Peter Schjødt (2008: 47–48). In arguing that rituals in general serve to maintain or improve the initial condition, we can distinguish three qualitative levels: the ‘normal’ as well as what is ‘below’ and ‘above’ the ‘normal’. Thus, whereas a passage ritual aims at bringing the initiates to a ‘higher’ level than the ‘normal’, calendrical rituals aim at maintaining the world as it is, while crisis rituals aim at returning to a normal level from ‘below’, which is what comprises the ‘crisis’. Therefore, the relation between the initial and the final phases of the ritual constitutes a taxonomic criterion based on structural relations. The three categories proposed by Honko will, therefore, be used in the presentations included in the following chapters, although the term ‘cyclical’ will to a great extent replace ‘calendrical’. As we saw above, many other proposals for 15  Honko did not himself distinguish between ‘rituals’ and ‘rites’, as is indicated by the title of one of his two articles that are of importance in this connection (Honko 1975 and 1979), which is called ‘Zur Klassifikation der Riten’, where the term ‘Riten’ covers what is here called ‘rituals’. That is, however, not relevant here, although it prevented Honko from relating individual rites, such as sacrifices or purification rites, to his overall categories. 16  This may be true of the ‘biologically’ oriented occasions (birth, puberty, marriage, and death) whereas it is less obvious that the entrance into some secret society or mystical organization should be predictable.

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classifications of rituals have been suggested within the general history of religions and, apart from Honko’s three main categories, it is useful also to take yet another criterion into consideration: namely, the one of public versus private rituals. This division is applicable to all of the three above-mentioned categories. Rituals of passage may be performed as small-scale ceremonies within the family, as is often the case with rituals in connection with births, or they may be spectacular rituals for the whole people, as in coronation rituals; cyclical rituals may take the form of modest offerings to the spirits of the farm, and they may be celebrated by the entire village or even the whole nation participating. The same is true of crisis rituals, which may be performed to cure an individual or to avert a war that would involve the entire nation. This, of course, has as a consequence that, within the three main categories, there are huge differences, and the taxonomy suggested is only a means of structuring the vast amount of ritual manifestations in religious worlds. As we shall see in this and subsequent chapters, examples of all these ‘types’ of rituals are also found within PCRN: private as well as public versions of the three main categories. Some Basic Characteristics of Ritual Performance One of the most conspicuous characteristics of rituals is their diversity; huge differences from one culture to another, vast differences between the various categories, and great differences within each category in each culture. Function, purpose, the level of expenditure, number of participants, and so forth vary immensely. But at the same time there seem to be some elements of a symbolic and structural kind that are common to all religious rituals. One of these is the distinction between this world and the Other World, often related to the distinction between profane and sacred. This basic dichotomy, which lies at the core of all religious life, generates structures and symbolisms that are more or less visible in all religious rituals,17 which is what we shall discuss briefly here. One of the most useful general theories of ritual structure was proposed by the anthropologist Victor W. Turner back in the 1960s on the basis of the analyses carried out by Arnold van Gennep in his book on passage rituals (van Gennep 1960).18 Turner argues that normal life in any society was 17 

It is obvious that in rituals performed in private, perhaps by a single individual and lasting only a few minutes, as is the case with many prayers, it will be very hard to recognize these structures, at least in their entire complexity. Nevertheless, although some elements may be invisible, it is most often possible to apply the fundamental structures. 18  For a good, albeit brief, discussion of Turner’s contribution to both ritual studies

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at certain times interrupted by liminal periods, liminality being defined as a period ‘where there is a certain freedom to juggle with the factors of existence’ (Turner 1967: 106), and that this occurs primarily during certain phases of ritual performance. But not only then since the liminal may also in some cultures become a way of life characterized as being an opposition to the ordinary life of ordinary people, a social and psycho-sociological phenomenon which is known particularly from religions with universal claims, that is, those Robert Bellah termed ‘Axial religions’ (Bellah 2011).19 Concerning rituals, Turner concurs with van Gennep in distinguishing three phases of ritual: namely, a separation phase during which the participants of the ritual are separated from the everyday world in order to enter the liminal space; this is followed by the liminal period, to which we shall return shortly, and following that comes a phase in which the participants return to their everyday mode of existence. The liminal period is clearly the most important since the other two can be seen as merely transitional phases between the two modes of existence: the normal, everyday existence and the liminal. This liminal phase is in some way inverted in comparison to everyday existence, and it characterizes not only religious outlooks, wherein the two modes of existence are often regarded as ‘sacred’ and ‘profane’, but is also a phenomenon of significance to psychology and sociology all over the world (è1). Liminality in general, and thus also ritual liminality, does not and other aspects in his work, see Morris (1987: 235–63). Turner was an extremely productive author, and, besides many analyses of aspects of the Ndembu culture in Zambia, he wrote mostly on ritual in general, but also on pilgrimage and theatre. The works most relevant to the present topic are his books The Forest of Symbols from 1967 and The Ritual Process from 1969. 19  A kind of definition of Turner’s understanding of liminality is found in the following quotation: ‘A limen is a threshold, but at least in the case of protracted initiation rites or major seasonal festivals, it is a very long threshold, a corridor almost, or a tunnel which may, indeed, become a pilgrim’s road or passing from dynamics to statics, may cease to be a mere transition and become a set way of life, a state, that of the anchorite, or monk. Let us refer to the state and process of midtransition as ‘liminality’ and consider a few of its very odd properties. Those undergoing it — call them ‘liminaries’ — are betwixt-and-between established states of politico-jural structure. They evade ordinary cognitive classification, too, for they are neitherthis-nor-that, here-nor-there, one-thing-nor-the-other. Out of their mundane structural context, they are in a sense ‘dead’ to the world, and liminality has many symbols of death — novices may be classed with spirits or ancestors or painted black […] the most characteristic midliminal symbolism is that of paradox, or being both this and that. Novices are portrayed and act as androgynous, or as both living and dead, at once ghost and babes, both cultural and natural creatures, human and animal.’ (Turner 1977: 37). It is obvious from this that Turner is talking mainly about ‘novices’, that is, participants in initiation rituals, but the characteristics may easily be extended to other kinds of rituals.

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have any inherent general properties except that it is always defined as being in some way in opposition to the non-liminal, the world of rationality, of technological knowledge, where the achieved goals are a function of the mundane procedures that are used, without interference from the Other World. We might say that liminal symbolism is ‘borrowed’ from the semantic universe that constitutes the culture in question — only in inverted form. Turner gives a long list of examples of what may count as liminal symbolism (Turner 1969: 106), such as, for instance, sacredness as opposed to secularity, absence of rank as opposed to distinctions of rank, totality in opposition to partiality. The liminal is thus what everyday life is not. From a ritual perspective, then, the liminal phase is the centre of the ritual, the pivotal point so to speak. The two other phases are, of course, necessary because the two worlds are not directly compatible: in order for beings in this world to approach the Other World, they must to some extent become a bit ‘otherworldly’ themselves, which is done by putting their non-liminal way of being aside. This is often symbolically expressed in separation rites: the participants, for instance, dress differently from their everyday clothing or they must be purified so as to be cleansed from any sort of profane ‘dirt’. When this has been achieved, they are ready to step into the liminal space, which is a space somewhat similar to that of the Other World, so that the two worlds can meet on relatively equal terms. And that is what makes communication between the two worlds possible. In the same way, the rites of reintegration have as their main purpose to strip the participants of their sacra, the sacred attributes that have been attached to the participants during the separation rites. Thus, the degree of sacredness is gradually diminished during this phase. The foundations of these two phases are therefore obvious: because this and the Other World are so profoundly different,20 it is necessary to make them compatible through mediating rites. In spite of the variety of ritual liminality, it normally involves a liminal space, a liminal time, and a number of liminal actors. These phenomena within PCRN will be treated in subsequent chapters (è27–29), and only a couple of general remarks shall be presented here. The ritual liminal space may be constructed in many different ways (cf. Murphy 2017c). There are permanent cult sites which may take the form of buildings such as churches or they can be parts of the natural environment, such as lakes or groves, but there are also places 20 

This is why we often see that the mixing of the two spheres is regarded as unclean or taboo if no (ritual) efforts have been made to bring them together, efforts which are often in the hands of ritual specialists who are more knowledgeable about the Other World as well as about communication with it than are ordinary people.

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that are only liminal or sacred at certain ritual occasions,21 for instance, when sacrifices are about to be carried out. However, there are some general features of sacred spaces: namely, that they are formed either as spaces with a built-in opposition between centre and periphery, the space becoming gradually more and more sacred the closer you come to the centre, or there is some sort of path that the participants move along, coming closer to the sacred as they go along. This latter type is seen in, for example, Christian churches, but also processions roads are often structured as a path towards the sacred. Liminal periods also differ greatly from each other, some being very long, even lasting for several years (although in such cases with varying intensity), whereas others only last a few minutes, which is what we often see in prayers where the hands are folded or the head bent down in a certain direction — toward the sacred — as a signal that the everyday world has been left for a short period. And also the amount and character of the liminal actors involved will naturally vary from one ritual to the next. Thus, we also see an enormous difference in dramatic expression from rituals carried out in solitude, establishing a liminal space for a brief prayer, to those carried out collectively with the whole population attending, perhaps involving large-scale sacrifices, huge processions, and feasts with eating and drinking, often led by ritual specialists who may be identical with the king or chieftain, or they may be priests or shamans, and so forth. Many of these sacred figures are sacred only during the rituals, as is typically the case with shamans, whereas others are attributed a more permanent sacredness, although, again, it usually differs in degree from liminal to non-liminal periods. The ritual actors, both religious specialists and ordinary participants, will typically dress and behave in ways which are somehow different from how they usually go about things. So what we basically face here during the liminal phase of rituals is the turning upside down of (some aspects) of everyday life, which is in accordance with the basic religious figure of thought: namely, that there is an Other World that is in important aspects opposite to the world in which we live our daily lives. Going into a liminal space and a liminal period therefore means that we approach this Other World and establish some sort of analogy with it in order to facilitate communication with it. This is also why in so many rituals all over the world we meet the phenomenon that the gods are present, either in the form of statues and other idols, or in the form of human beings who are dressed 21 

And even the permanent ‘sacred’ places are naturally more sacred on ritual occasions than during everyday life, although they often inspire a certain degree of awe at all times (even when there is no sermon, we tend to lower our voices when we walk into a church).

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up like beings from the Other World. In such cases, these figures emphasize the fact that right now, on this spot, we are either in an Other World or somewhere in between this world and the Other. The main point is that we have moved into a sphere which is different (to varying degrees, according to the type of ritual we are dealing with; see above) from the one in which we live our daily life and thus have approached the Other World: we have constructed a space which is compatible with that of the gods. From here, we are in a position to communicate with the Other World and to manipulate it for the benefit of society and individual, whether in this daily life or in the life hereafter, in the beyond. In (è 30–32) we shall deal with the main categories of rituals, as defined above, whereas in the rest of this chapter we shall attempt to reconstruct some of the more prominent rite categories, that is, rites that may be part of any one of the three above-mentioned main ritual categories. From a phenomenological perspective, the rites dealt with here do not constitute an exhaustive review since it may very well be that in PCRN many more rites were carried out in connection with various rituals; however, even if this is likely to be the case, it is almost impossible to detect them in the sources. This is the situation that faces us with regard to such otherwise important rites as purifications, various apotropaic rites, and many more that are common in other religions.

Some Important Rite Categories Sacrifice as a General Category Sacrifice is often seen as the most conspicuous way of communicating with the gods.22 And to many, sacrifice is defined as such because some sacrificial object — be it a thing, some vegetables, an animal, a human, or something else — is destroyed during the ritual act, whether burned, drowned, or killed in some other way. In spite of this basic commonality, very different ideas can be linked to such a destruction, although they may take similar ritual forms. Thus, there seem to be at least two ideas which both necessitate the destruction of a victim: that involved in the so-called ‘gift sacrifice’ and that which is implied in the so22 

The category is without any doubt universal, although it may take on very different shapes from culture to culture. Arguments that ‘sacrifice’, as the term is used in scholarly literature, is not universal (e.g., Berggren 2006) naturally depend on the definition. If it is defined in a culture-specific way, it is obviously not universal, whereas defining it as an object being transformed in order to mediate between this world and the Other, certainly makes it universal. In that sense, the problems in connection with sacrifice are no different from those involved in any other categorization.

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called ‘communion sacrifice’.23 In both types, the sacrificial object, or parts of it, is usually destroyed and sometimes eaten by the participants, although this is not essential in gift sacrifices. As the terms indicate, the idea behind the gift sacrifice is that the sacrificial object is regarded as a gift to the gods, and during the rite it is more or less directly stated that something is wanted from the gods in return. Therefore, this kind of sacrifice is commonly characterized as dout-des (‘I give in order that you will give’). This is also part of the simple logic connected to the very notion of the gift as this was analysed by Marcel Mauss many years ago in his famous essay about gift-giving (Mauss 1974).24 In this case, when the gift is given to the gods, the return gift is always of higher value than the gift presented by the humans: If we sacrifice this ox, we expect that you give us plenty of fertility for beast and soil; or if we sacrifice this prisoner of war, we expect that you give us victory in the battle we are about to fight, and so forth. The idea behind the communion sacrifice is quite different. Here, the victim is in some mystical sense identified with the god, and the communion therefore consists in a bond between a god and his worshippers: by eating the god, for instance the totemic ancestor, the worshippers will acquire part of the divine, thus strengthening the relation between humans and deity. Again, we notice the idea that, during the ritual, a certain compatibility, or in this case perhaps rather a kind of identity, is aimed at. On an abstract level, the two kinds of sacrifice have the same goal: to strengthen the good relation between the gods and the humans performing the sacrifice. But apart from that, the two modes of thought involved are quite different, because in the gift sacrifice there is a clear distinction among the gift, the victim, and the god,25 whereas in the 23 

This term is often used to characterize sacrifices in which, after the killing of the sacrificial animal, the participants eat together with the god. Here, however, it denotes the kind of sacrifices in which the sacrificial victim is in some sense seen as an incarnation of the god. Sacrificial meals following the killing are, from the perspective we adopt here, still ‘gift sacrifices’ insofar as part of the victim is seen as a gift to the gods. The classical example is the main Greek sacrifice, known for example from Homer, in which part of the animal is burnt so that the gods will enjoy the smell of the sacrificial victim, whereas the participants will eat the rest at a ritual banquet. 24  In introductory works on religion as well as on PCRN, we often meet many more categories of sacrifices, such as, for instance, propitiatory sacrifices, thanks offering, etc. But from the perspective we adopt here, these are simply variations of the gift sacrifice: there may be various reasons for giving the gift to the gods, but this, in our view, does not alter in any significant way the structural and semantic unity behind all these sacrifices: humans attempt to manipulate beings from the Other World with some sort of ‘bribe’. 25  This said, it should also be remembered that gifts often involve the notion that part of the giver is somehow included in the gift.

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communion sacrifice this distinction is somewhat blurred. Even if ‘eating’ plays a dominant role in both kinds of sacrifices — it is essential in the communion sacrifices and often a part of gift sacrifices in which only part of the victim is burned or otherwise destroyed whereas the rest is eaten by the participants26 — the symbolic meaning of eating is different: in communion sacrifices, the participants ‘eat’ the god, whereas in gift sacrifices they eat with the gods. Seen from the outside, however, it may be hard to distinguish between these two kinds of eating in actual rituals.27 Further, as was mentioned above, there is clearly a difference in the directness of manipulation aimed at. In particular in many communion sacrifices, but also in some gift sacrifices, the manipulative aspect is rather downplayed, and we sometimes get the impression that we are dealing with merely devotional actions. In other instances, the direct exchange is very clear, sometimes even taken to the extreme, so that the sacrificial gift will only be given when the gods have given the ‘return gift’.28 In this end of the spectrum, we have the so-called ‘thank offerings’ in which sacrifices are performed because the crisis has been solved. But the manipulative aspect should not be overlooked: pleasing the gods is surely a means of making them look kindly upon the devotees.29 Both 26 

However, this is certainly not always the case. Often, the victim is completely destroyed in order to reach the realm of the gods and nothing is left for a ritual meal. 27  In actual rituals performed, the two kinds of sacrifices may also be combined. A good example is found among the Ainu of Hokaido in their bear sacrifices (Batchelor 1971). Here, we learn that the sacrificial victim, the bear, is in some sense a god itself, but however the bear is also presented as a gift to its ‘parents’, the bears of the Other World, so that they will send other bears to be hunted by humans. Even so, the sacrifice ends with a festive meal during which the participants eat the meat of the bear. In this case as well as in others, it is somewhat difficult to decide whether the meal is believed to be a symbolic ‘eating the god’ or whether it is simply a meal, which is supposed to strengthen the bonds between the Other World bears and the humans. For instance, Marshall Sahlins (1978: 46) writes: ‘offered as foods to the gods, the victim takes on the nature of the god. Consumed then by man, the offering transmits this divine power to man’. Thus, the distinction between the two categories of sacrifice is more of an analytical kind than a description of actual rites carried out in various cultures. 28  The most famous example of this is probably the Roman ver sacrum (sacred spring ) sacrifice where promises are made to carry out sacrifices once the gods have fulfilled their part of the ‘contract’. 29  Bell writes (1997: 110): ‘Devotional offerings to the deity are not meant to result in direct or immediate concrete benefits, although they are understood to nurture a positive human-divine relationship that will benefit the devotee spiritually and substantively’. This is important to bear in mind because, no matter how ‘spiritual’ the emic explanation will be, it has the same characteristic as many mundane social situations: we communicate in order to

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types of sacrifices are widely known and can be found in all kinds of cultures whether they are part of the ‘official’ religion or not. Communion sacrifice was seen by William Robertson Smith (1972 [1889]) as the ‘original’ form of sacrifice, providing the foundation for a host of theorists during the twentieth century, in a kind of opposition to the earlier dominant view, represented by, for instance, Edward Burnett Tylor (1871), that sacrifice should be seen as a gift to the beings of the Other World. Whether there is such an origin that can explain all sacrifices in all cultures is, however, a question which shall not be pursued here; we shall just note that the sacrificial victim or object always serves to mediate the relation between this and the Other World. In Scandinavia, the sources tell us next to nothing about communion sacrifices, and the present discussion will thus concentrate on the various forms of gift sacrifices. However, when we attempt to reconstruct rituals in PCRN, the question of structure is more important than the origin of sacrifice.30 This issue was the theme of one of the most influential books on sacrifice of all times: namely, Sacrifice: Its Nature and Function, originally published in French in 1898, by Henri Hubert and Marcel Mauss (1964). Their main point was that all sacrifices follow a certain structure, which consists of three phases: that of sacralization — the entry; that of the ritual killing — the sacrifice proper; and that of desacralization — the concluding rites. This idea recalls the structure that was described in connection with ‘Rites of Passage’ by van Gennep some ten years later.31 The sacralization concerns both the victim and the participants of the ritual, sometimes even the place where the sacrifice is carried out (if it is not in a permanent sacred room — and sometimes also then) and perhaps the instruments used for the rite, because, as we saw above, the two worlds are incompatible unless the ‘profane’ is somehow transformed into a sacred entity. The desasomehow manipulate. See also the definition of ritual proposed by Jørgen Podemann Sørensen (1993: 19–20): ‘[ritual is] representative acts designed to change or maintain their object’. This definition may not be a precise description of religious rituals, but it nonetheless focuses on the main purpose of such rituals, not least sacrifices, in emphasizing the manipulative aspect. 30  For speculations about the origin, we can refer to such distinguished scholars as Sigmund Freud (1913), who argues that sacrifice was based on the actual killing of the father by the sons; Walter Burkert (1972), who argues that the hunters’ killing of an animal lies behind sacrificial killings; and René Girard (1982), who believes that the ultimate reason for sacrifice was found in the figure of the scapegoat. Many other theories have been proposed, for which we refer to Carter (2003). 31  A brief discussion of the relation between the two ideas is taken up in van Baal and van Beek (1985: 131–32).

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cralization, however, concerns normally only the human actors of the sacrificial act. In this way, sacrifices work as communicative acts between the two worlds with the sacrificial object, most often in the form of a victim, as the medium. Therefore, the victim can be said to be transformed in two steps: first it is consecrated; and second, it is killed in order to be transferred to the Other World. In attempting to reconstruct sacrifices within PCRN from archaeological as well as written sources, and having almost no written records that describe in any detail the sequences of ritual actions, it may be of great importance to bear this general structure in mind in order to place the bits and pieces that we do have correctly. If we do not use this or other models, it is simply not possible to place the details meaningfully within the sacrificial ritual. Nordic Sacrifices Turning now to the Nordic material, we must make clear at once that the textual sources provide no such thing as a full description of a sacrifice understood as the above-described sequence of first hallowing the sacrificial object and the participants, then killing or destroying the object and then a phase of desacralization in order to return to the normal non-liminal situation. However, we do know a good deal about various elements pertaining to sacrifices, such as the seasonal timing of the three official main sacrifices (è28) and quite a bit about the various actors and participants in the sacrifices (è29) as well as about the sacrificial victims, not least through the help of archaeology (è 27). In fact, there are hints at sacrifices scattered all over the written records, the most detailed being the descriptions in Hákonar saga góða ch. 14 of Sigurðr jarl’s feast at Hlaðir, in Eyrbygg ja saga ch. 4 of Þórólfr’s in Iceland, and in Kjalnesinga saga ch. 2 of Þorgrímr goði’s, also in Iceland (è31).32 Although the problems relating to the archaeological sources are quite different, the information we get from them is also only partial: the situation to which we have direct access is only the last scene of the ritual (cf. Price 2008b), and we have to reconstruct 32 

The source value of the sagas has been much debated, not least when it comes to the descriptions of sacrifices, as mentioned above. It has, for instance, been argued that the accounts in the three texts (Hákonar saga góða, Eyrbygg ja saga, and Kjalnesinga saga) are partly dependent on each other (Beck 1967: 21) and therefore not reliable when it comes to pagan cult. That may be so, but however the saga authors, even if they actually did know the pagan tradition, would have had great difficulties in convincing the modern source critics that this was the case. Anyway, as has been stated by Anders Hultgård (1993: 235–36), when we take comparative material into consideration, most of what is related in these sagas seems to be quite in accordance with what we should expect from these sorts of sacrifices in pagan times.

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from this scene all that went before, a task that we will never be able to accomplish in any detail, particularly not when it comes to the concepts accompanying the ritual performance. The main word for sacrifice was blót, with the verbal form blóta. Usually, but not always, the grammatical construction places the receiver of the blót in the accusative and the sacrificial object in the dative, which should probably be seen as an instrumental. The purpose or the goal for which the sacrifice is carried out (the return object) is normally constructed with the preposition til (for instance til árs ok friðar, literally ‘for year and peace’). The man who performs the blót is usually called a blótmaðr,33 and there are other compounds with blót-, such as blótfé, blótbolli, and others.34 The etymology is not quite clear, but its Gothic cognate blotan means ‘to honour’, and thus blóta may more specifically mean ‘to honour with sacrifice’ (cf. Maier 2003a: 108; Maier 2003b: 72; de Vries 1962a: 45). To simply ‘sacrifice’ seems, however, to be the most common semantic content of the word. Another term which denotes sacrifice is senda, meaning ‘to send’, and thus emphasizing the aspect of transportation of the object from this to the Other World, but the word also may mean ‘to kill’.35 A third word which is partly synonymous is sóa; it, too, may mean ‘to kill’ and is connected to blood sacrifices in particular (cf. de Vries 1962a: 528; Näsström 2001: 25; Beck 1967: 117–19).36 These three words, blóta, senda, and sóa, are likely to have focused on different aspects of the sacrificial act, as is indicated in stanza 144 of Hávamál,37 but in the extant sources they often seem to be used more or less synonymously. It 33 

Or the hofgoði, the person who administrated the hof, the cult house, and who appears to be the chieftain, also functioning as a priest. 34  For further linguistic discussion, see Beck (1967: 88–95) and Näsström (2001: 23–24). Beck’s exposition is probably still the most thorough concerning the terminology of sacrifice in PCRN and is highly recommended. 35  The semantics of this word has been vividly discussed, but, as has been convincingly shown by Anatoly Liberman, there can hardly be any doubt that it was used within the sacrificial sphere, perhaps particularly in connection with human sacrifices (Liberman 1978: 487). 36  The word is only known from four passages in the poems (in Hávamál and Ynglingatal), cf. also Cleasby and Vigfusson (1957: 578) for possible etymologies. 37  Lines 5 to 8 of this stanza say: ‘veiztu, hvé biðia scal | veiztu, hvé blóta scal | veiztu, hvé senda scal | veiztu hvé sóa scal’. Since the semantic content of these words is not particular clear, it is hard to give a precise translation. Seen as different elements in the sacrificial ritual, however, the following would certainly make sense: ‘Do you know how to pray? Do you know how to make the sacrificial ritual? Do you know how to send (the victim to the gods)? Do you know how to slaughter (kill the victim)?’ See also Düwel (1970: 234).

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should perhaps also be mentioned that the word gefa ‘to give’ is sometimes used synonymously with ‘to sacrifice’, indicating that the victim is thought of as a gift to beings of the Other World. In the following, the account of Nordic sacrifices will be structured according to the constants that we find in gift sacrifices all over the world, that is: a) the sender or sacrificer, b) the sacrificial object, c) the receiver, and d) the return object. Furthermore, we shall deal briefly with e) the reason for carrying out sacrifices, f ) the performance of sacrifice, g) the places of sacrifice, and h) the time for sacrifice. The two last mentioned will be dealt with more extensively in (è27–28). a) The Sender Since the sources, as expected, are primarily occupied with the higher social strata, it is not surprising that by far the largest part of the descriptions we have of sacrifices belong to the category ‘public rituals’; therefore the sender is most often a king or chieftain, predominantly acting on behalf of the people. But sometimes the ‘people’ act against the king, taking him as the sacrificial victim. This is what we hear in the famous story about Dómaldi, related by Snorri in Ynglinga saga ch. 15 and in other texts. Dómaldi, it is said, was sacrificed because there was famine during his reign, and therefore the people made huge sacrifices at Uppsala, first of oxen, then of ordinary people, and finally of the king. Whether the reason for killing the king is that he is seen as the most valuable sacrificial victim, as seems to be Snorri’s idea, or the reason is that the people want to get rid of the king, because he cannot fulfill his duty as a king — namely, to make the land prosper — it is obvious from the sources what is is at stake in these sacrifices is the well-being of the people and the land collectively (è23). Little is known about who actually carried out the sacrifice (the killing, the cutting up, and other ritual acts; è29), but, surprisingly enough, in those examples where we are told about this, women often seem to be the main actors, at least when it comes to human sacrifices. Already Strabo (64 bce–21 ce) wrote in his Geography (7.2.3) that among the Cimbri, priestesses who were also soothsayers cut the throats of war prisoners over a huge cauldron and prophesied by looking at the blood as well as at the entrails of the victims. Also Tacitus (Germania ch. 9) mentions that women were held in high esteem among the Germani and were seen as having prophetic abilities. Another example is the so-called Angel of Death, mentioned by Ibn Fadlan (Montgomery 2000: 18–19), who killed the slave girl who was to follow her dead master to

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Figure 25.1. Panel from the Gundestrup cauldron, showing an oversized woman putting a man in a huge cauldron, probably depicting a human sacrifice. The Gundestrup cauldron, which is dated to the second or first centuries bce, was produced in south-east Europe and depicts Celtic mythology. It was deposited in Himmerland in northern Jylland, however, and can be used to illustrate Strabo’s information about priestesses among the Cimbri killing prisoners of war over a huge cauldron. Photo: Roberto Fortuna and Kira Ursem, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen. 

the world of the dead. But usually we are not told who actually performed the sacrifice.38 The ‘sacrificers’ (those on whose behalf the sacrifice was carried out) of the public rituals were most often high-ranking men who performed on behalf of the people, or the people themselves; but in neither case we are told who actually carried out the ritual. In general it is not easy to distinguish between the public and the private cults since, in the Icelandic sources and primarily in the Íslendingasögur, what we commonly hear is that farmers, most of them chieftains, build a hof (for examples, see Beck 1967: 22), in and around which sacrifices were carried out.39 38 

The role of women in the cult in general is treated below, in (è29), and in Sundqvist (2007: 56–78). Sundqvist argues that the roles of women in the cult were more differentiated than has usually been acknowledged among scholars and that they were as prominent in the public cult as in the private. This seems convincing and in more accordance with the sources than the traditional dichotomy wherein women have been regarded as ritual specialists in the private cult, with men being in charge of the public cult. Not least the name Odindisa (è5; figure è19.2) in a Swedish runic inscription (Sundqvist 2007: 59–60) indicates that women were, indeed, part of the Óðinn cult. 39  Notice, for instance, the information given in Guta saga ch. 1 where it is stated that on Gotland there were three ‘levels’ of sacrifices: one for the whole island, one for each of the ‘thirds’ into which the island was divided, and sacrifices for each of the smaller assemblies,

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However, we do have a few descriptions which clearly belong to the private sphere: namely, that of Vǫlsi in the so called Vǫlsa þáttr (è31) and a description of a blót for the álfar in Snorri’s Óláfs saga helga (è 31), and also many magical rituals (è26) no doubt had a private character. We shall return to the question of the ‘sacrificers’ in the following chapters. b) The Sacrificial Object We do know a lot about sacrificial victims from both archaeological and textual sources. Archaeologically it is often the context which allows us to ascertain whether we have found a sacrificial object or not (è27). Therefore, even if it may sometimes be a little problematic to decide the religious significance of such objects (cf. Capelle 2003: 114), we frequently have no doubt as to whether the remains of some animal or human indicate a sacrificial death. For instance, there can hardly be any doubt that the so-called bog bodies from all over the northern Germanic areas, dating from the pre-Roman as well as the Roman Iron Ages, should be regarded as sacrificial victims, clearly showing us that human sacrifices were part of the cultic world of the Germani, to which we shall return presently. Apart from humans, we also have huge amounts of weapons deposited in bogs, mainly from the southern parts of Denmark and normally referred to as ‘war booty sacrifices’. The weapons of these finds were violently destroyed, which no doubt connects them to some religious ritual.40 The interesting part is that, even though in certain places we have found war gear from rather sizeable armies (in Illerup Ådal in eastern Jylland probably as many as two to three thousand individuals; cf. Andrén 2014: 92), the human remains of these large armies have not been found. This may indicate that the weapons have been brought from somewhere else, where the battle took place, so that the sacrificers could deposit them in their own sacred places (Andrén 2014: 93–95). In the Old Norse sources, we also hear of gold and silver being given to the dead Freyr (Ynglinga saga ch. 10) and to Hǫlgi and his daughter Þorgerðr (Skáldskaparmál p. 60), both of which should no doubt be seen as a kind of sacrifice. As archaeological evidence from the Early Iron Age, we can mention the bracteates and other gold deposits from wetlands (Näsman 1994). It is also possible, although far from certain, that the gold foil figures (so-called guldgubber), which have often been found in post holes from the later Iron Age and at clearly on a much more modest scale. It is quite likely that those in charge of these different ‘levels’ of sacrifices would not be of the same rank. 40  For good overviews, see Fabech (1991a, 2009) and Lund Hansen (2008).

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Figure 25.2. Horse skull pierced by a flint dagger, from a bog at Ullstorp in Skåne. The skull has been dated by Carbon 14 to the Viking Age, whereas the flint dagger is from the late Neolithic. This find has been interpreted as a horse sacrifice carried out with an ancient object several thousands of years old (Stensköld 2006). Photo: Eva Stensköld.  

places where we must assume that large public gatherings have taken place (see, for instance, Munch 1991; Watt 1991; Adamsen and others 2009), should be seen as a sort of sacrifice. Therefore, such places may also be assumed to have been sacral places, with rituals of various types taking place at certain times. According to the archaeological as well as the written sources, animals of various kind were the most common sacrificial victims and most valued among them was the horse, which, right from the time of Tacitus (Germania ch. 10), seems to have played a special religious role; indeed, so special that the pagans could contemptuously be called horse-eaters by the Christians. Similarly, we know that, when the Icelandic alþingi in 999/1000 decided to adopt Christianity, one of the prohibitions concerned the eating of horse meat (Íslendingabók ch. 7, Brennu-Njáls saga ch. 105). In Hákonar saga góða ch. 14 we are told that a horse constituted part of the sacrificial meal, and also in Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks ch. 16 a horse is sacrificed in connection with the inauguration of a king. Although the individual sources may all be doubted with good reason, no scholar is likely to deny that the horse was viewed as a very valuable sacrificial victim in PCRN (cf. DuBois 2012: 71–73). As just mentioned, also in Vǫlsa þáttr the horse was closely linked to the sacrifice, although it is not said that the stallion was actually sacrificed. In connection with burials we likewise see from both archaeological and written sources — such as the Ladby ship burial in Fyn, Denmark; Vendel and Valsgärde in Uppland, Sweden; Borre in Vestfold, Norway (cf. for instance Müller-Wille 1978; Wamers 1995); and many others, as well as in Ibn Fadlan’s account — that horses played an important role in the burials of leaders. Except for Vǫlsa þáttr, all these examples (and many more could be added) concern kings and chieftains, and it is reasonable

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to deduce from this that there are aspects of a symbolism reaching far back in time, because we know of horse sacrifices specifically in connection with kings and the inauguration of kings from both India (the Ashvamedha sacrifice) and Ireland (Giraldus Cambrensis, Topographica Hibernica ch. 3.25), clearly suggesting a time span reaching back into Indo-European times. In both cases, the horse, a stallion in India and a mare in Ireland, is apparently identified with a god, so in that sense Vǫlsa þáttr seems a closer parallel than the horse sacrifices taking place in the kingly halls, since, as we shall see, it may be possible to identify Vǫlsi with Freyr or some other god (see è31). Bulls and cows were sacrificed, too, as it is told in Ynglinga saga ch. 15 and 26, while also Saxo (1.8.12) says that black oxen are sacrificed to Freyr. It seems that, following the outcome of a single combat, the winner sometimes had to kill a bull (blótnautr), as is told in Kormáks saga ch. 23 and Egils saga ch. 65. The term blótnautr certainly indicates sacrificial aspects, but beyond that it is not easy to perceive any sacrificial ritual behind this act since, for instance, there is no information about a possible receiver of the victim (cf. also Beck 1967: 104–05). Archaeology, however, seems to confirm the importance of cattle in the sacrificial cult. Important sites here are Hofstaðir in Iceland (Lucas and McGovern 2008) and Helgö and Frösö Church, both in Sweden (Zachrisson 2011a: 82; Magnell and Iregren 2010). Sheep and rams are also mentioned as sacrificial victims (e.g., Ljósvetninga saga ch. 4 and the Stentoften runic inscription: DR 357, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), as are dogs, mentioned by Adam of Bremen (4.27), and poultry, mentioned by Thietmar of Merseburg (Chronicon 1.9).41 That all these animals could be sacrificed is confirmed by archaeology,42 from which it is moreover evident that such animals as elk and even squirrels were sacrificed, which is not mentioned anywhere in the textual corpus (cf. Iregren 1989). We do not know much about the correspondences between the nature of sacrificial victims and the receivers, nor about the correspondences between the kinds of victims and the occasions on which the sacrifices were carried out. However, it seems that some tentative tendencies can be discerned. For instance, the description by Tacitus (Germania ch. 9) that Mercury received human sacrifices, whereas Hercules and Mars, most likely to be equated with Þórr and Týr respectively, received animal sacrifices, indicates that such corre41 

Many of these animals are also mentioned in Ibn Fadlan’s funeral description. The archaeological literature dealing with sacrifices is enormous. For fairly recent viewpoints, see the articles in Jennbert and others (2002), and especially Jennbert (2011: 89–117). Cf. also (è27). 42 

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spondences — not as fixed rules without exceptions, but as tendencies — actually did exist: not any kind of sacrificial victim could be sacrificed to any god. It even makes good sense to speak of a strong continuity here, since Óðinn (who is probably to be equated with Tacitus’s Mercury) appears to be much more strongly connected to human sacrifices than any of the other gods. Perhaps we can also perceive a long-term convention relating to Saxo’s mention that Freyr is given black oxen, since we know from other cultures (for instance, Greece) that the sacrificial victims presented to gods connected to the chthonic world are black. It could perhaps also be argued that horses were particularly associated with Freyr, which would fit nicely into the ‘sacred kingship’ pattern (è23). In general, we should expect such systems to have existed, but they are not easy to discern within the sources, whether textual or archaeological, although the problems arise for different reasons in these two types of sources. Perhaps in the future, DNA analyses will help us here. Somehwat similar to animal sacrifices we encounter ‘toasts’ in honour of various gods (e.g., Hákonar saga góða ch. 14). These toasts may also be seen as a kind of gift for the gods, although certainly not as physical objects. Genuine libations, the pouring out of liquid as a gift to the gods, are, however, not mentioned in the sources.43 As has been recognized by many scholars, the human sacrifices were probably valuated highest among the pagans,44 and even if some of the descriptions presented by the authors of antiquity and of the Christian Middle Ages can be seen as deliberately putting the Germani and the Scandinavians in a bad light, there can be no doubt that they did take place from the Early Iron Age (and even earlier) and right up into the Viking Age, as is overwhelmingly supported by archaeological finds (è 27). There can be no doubt either that in the preViking period most victims were prisoners of war who, as in Strabo, were executed, probably as a gift to the war god Wotan/Mercurius.45 This would, again, be well in accordance with the view that the enemy was dedicated to Óðinn, as we shall return to in (è42). We do not know the identities of the humans that were hanged in Uppsala and Lejre, as told by Adam of Bremen and Thietmar of 43  Adam of Bremen (Gesta Hammaburgensis 4.27) does, indeed, speak of libationes (libatio, ‘libation’), but we do not know exactly what is meant. 44  In Guta saga ch. 1, we are told that at the main sacrifices for the whole island, humans were sacrificed, whereas in the more local sacrifices only cattle (and food and drink!) were sacrificed, clearly indicating a relative valuation of the sacrificial victims. For archaeological evidence, see (è27). 45  For an overview of the pre-Viking Age evidence, see de Vries (1956–57a: i, 408–09).

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Merseburg, respectively. They could easily be imagined to be slaves or prisoners, however, albeit rather less likely, they might be nobles.46 It does seem, in fact, that some of the pre-Viking Age sacrificial victims, such as the bog bodies, were not ordinary working men, judging by the skin on their hands, although this conclusion is not incontestable ( Jensen 2003: 186). Most conspicuous among the human sacrifices are those of the king as these are related in several sources mentioned already. Thus, Dómaldi, Víkarr, Hadingus and others are all killed in ways that are or can easily be regarded as kinds of sacrifice.47 Víkarr and Hadingus are both hanged and we can therefore safely assume that they are sacrificed to Óðinn, who sacrificed himself in the same way (Hávamál st. 138–41). It has been discussed to which degree we may also regard victims from the lower classes as gifts to Óðinn or whether they should simply be seen as criminals who are punished.48 The question will probably never be solved, but it may be argued that it is not likely that these two ways of viewing persons killed in public were absolutely distinct among the Germani themselves. We should rather expect that the spheres of law and religion could very well be indistinguishable (è20). In Kristni saga, it appears that the pagans would sacrifice two men from each quarter of Iceland, but they would ‘blóta enum verstum mǫnnum’ (sacrifice the worst men). However, apparently even sons of kings and perhaps of other people also (Guta saga ch. 1) could be sacrificed, as we are told in Ynglinga saga ch. 25 where King Aun sacrificed nine sons to Óðinn in order to secure a long life for himself, and in Flateyjarbók where Hákon jarl sacrificed his son to Þorgerðr Hǫrðabrúðr (Flateyjarbók i, 191) to obtain victory.49 We do not know whether such sacrifices ever took place in the real world, which is also the case with the sacrifices of kings. The sources are Christian, and of course they are biased in their descriptions of the pagan world. Therefore, it is probably safer to assume that the idea that kings and their sons could be sacrificed existed already in the pre-Christian period, regardless of whether it was actually carried out or not. 46 

We should probably not be overly concerned about the argument that the gods would not be satisfied with people of the lower classes. First and foremost, there are many examples all over the world that prisoners were sacrificed to the gods; and even though most sacrifices have an element of contract built-in (do-ut-des), the ‘value’ of the sacrificed object and that of the return object is never equal. 47  See Nygaard (2016: 18–21) on the possible category of ‘ruler sacrifice’. 48  Some of the more important participants in this discussion are Eugen Mogk (1909), Karl von Amira (1922), and Folke Ström (1942). 49  In a version in the Icelandic Annals the sacrifice is given to Óðinn (Beck 1967: 97).

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A special kind of human sacrifices are those where whole armies are sacrificed or dedicated to Óðinn. We see this in Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks ch. 13, in Styrbjarnar þáttr Svíakappa pp. 70–73, and in other texts. The model here is undoubtedly Óðinn’s own spear throw mentioned in Vǫluspá st. 24, dedicating the valr, ‘the slain’, presumably to Óðinn himself; perhaps it could even be seen as a parallel to the war booty sacrifices which, as we saw, would comprise the war gear of whole armies. What happened to the defeated warriors who survived the battle we can only guess, but as we saw in Strabo (Geography 7.2.3), who wrote his work at the beginning of the first century ce, war prisoners among the Cimbri had their throats cut, probably as gifts to the war god; likewise Procopius, writing in the sixth century, says that among the peoples living in Thule (probably Scandinavia), prisoners of war were sacrificed on an altar, as well as by hanging, to ‘Ares’, the war god, who in this case can hardly be any other than Óðinn (History of the Wars 6.15). Furthermore, in the almost contemporary account by Jordanes, the Goths are said also to sacrifice their war prisoners to ‘Mars’, another version of the war god Óðinn. Jordanes does not say that the prisoners were hanged, but that this is what happened to the armour of the enemy who were defeated (Getica 5.40). Despite the many differences, this evidence all seems to point in the same direction and to belong within the same discursive space: namely, that war prisoners as well as their gear were sacrificed to the war god after victory in battles as a sort of thank offering,50 and that hanging was in one way or another involved, clearly connecting it to the discursive space of Óðinn. Perhaps we should also place the scratching of a spear on a person’s deathbed, as related by Snorri (Ynglinga saga ch. 9), within the same discourse. This tradition, it is said, was instigated by Óðinn and was to be followed by the men who would join him in Valhǫll (è 42). The problem here is whether what is described is a genuine sacrifice. As has been argued by Jens Peter Schjødt (1993, 2008: 173–205), the distinction between initiations and sacrifices are usually far from clear. What we can state, however, is that in gift sacrifices involving humans as the ‘victims’ as well as in initiations, a person is dedicated to a god to whom he will afterwards ‘belong’. In that sense, those who dedicate themselves to Óðinn on their deathbed, or dedicate enemies to him by throwing the spear before battle, can be seen as performing sacrifices to Óðinn as well as ritually 50 

A spectacular finding in Alken Enge, Eastern Jylland, has revealed human bones from an army of more than a thousand warriors from around the beginning of our era. Although we can only speculate, it makes sense to imagine a sacrifice to the war god performed by the victorious army (Holst and others 2016).

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creating initiates of Óðinn. And perhaps this is observable in certain graves, for instance, in Birka, into which spears have been stuck so that the dead were, in this way, initiated to Óðinn (Nordberg 2002; Nordberg 2003: 280).51 All in all, it seems as if almost anything could be used as sacrificial objects: different kinds of humans, different kinds of animals, different kinds of material objects. As mentioned, there may well have been some system concerning what to sacrifice at which occasions or to which deity, but our sources are not specific enough for us to draw any certain conclusions regarding this, except perhaps pointing to some general tendencies. c) The Receiver It cannot be ruled out that some sacrifices — understood in the sense of some object being transformed, most often destroyed or killed — were not thought of as gifts to a deity, or at least not any definite deity (cf. Lund 2009). But in our sources it is most often quite clear that a certain god or some other being from the Other World is expected to receive the sacrificial victim. We have already seen that the great gods Óðinn, Þórr, and Freyr received sacrifices, but a lot of other gods and goddesses also received various kinds of sacrificial victims, among others the collective groups dísir (è58) and álfar (è63). And even the dead, as can be exemplified with the ‘human’ Freyr and with Óláfr Guðrøðarson to whom sacrifices were given in order to obtain fertility (Flateyjarbók ii, 7), could be receivers of such gifts. We should also mention here the legendary cow Síbília, mentioned in Ragnars saga loðbrókar (ch 10–11) as belonging to King Eysteinn, said to be so fierce that the enemy of the king will be bewitched when she lows. Apparently, the king sacrifices to her for victory. Although the account is certainly not trustworthy as it stands, it might still reflect pagan tradition. And there are other examples of sacrifices to various animals: boars (Hrólfs saga kraka ch. 42), ravens (Landnámabók ch. H 5) and perhaps horses (V ǫlsa þáttr). Whether these animals were ‘just’ animals or representatives of some gods is not clear. It is tempting to see the boar and horse as representing Freyr, the ravens as representing Óðinn, and cows perhaps as representing Freyja. The textual evidence, however, is not clear about these aspects, and we are therefore not in a position to establish a general pattern concerning such representations.

51 

Perhaps this can be seen as a parallel to the graves with rings with ‘Thors hammers’ which probably indicate that the dead was in some way linked to Þórr (G. Andersson 2005b).

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We also have examples of special places that can be seen as receivers of sacrifice, such as groves (lundr, Landnámabók ch. H202), rapids (fors, Landnámabók ch. H313, S355), and mounds (haugr, Norges Gamle Love, p. 430).52 Again, we must ask whether such places were viewed as receivers of sacrifices in themselves or whether they were regarded as linked to certain gods or other Other World beings, and again we cannot give any definitive answers.53 We do, nonetheless, know that Tacitus established a close connection between groves and gods (Germania ch. 39), saying that a certain god rules in a sacred grove venerated by the Semnones who performed human sacrifices there. This would clearly indicate that the grove was considered sacred because it belonged to a certain god. In the subsequent chapter (40) we are told about Nerthus whose wagon is placed within a sacred grove on an island. Here, there can hardly be any doubt that the grove is sacred because it is associated with Nerthus. Therefore, it seems most likely that the sacredness or numinosity of certain places in nature had to do with their relation to some divine powers. That means it is no different from the way churches are perceived by most Christians: the building is sacred because it is the house of God and because a number of sacred rituals take place there. We notice here also the words by Adam of Bremen that every single tree in the sacred grove is seen as divine because of the death of the victims (Gesta Hammaburgensis 4.27); these victims are in some way dedicated to a deity, most probably Óðinn, which is why they and the place where they are hanged are sacred.54 Finally, it should be mentioned that what is usually thought of as grave goods may also in some cases be regarded more correctly as sacrificial objects, although it is always difficult to interpret the intentions behind depositing things in graves. This is not even clear in the textual sources. If, as an example, we take the description by Ibn Fadlan of the animals slaughtered in connection with the burial of the chieftain among the Rûs, which is the most detailed description of a ritual that we have, it is not possible to ascertain whether the weapons, fruits, horses, cows, poultry, dogs, and even the slave girl (Montgomery 2000: 16–17) were, from an emic perspective, seen purely as grave goods or whether they were regarded as sacrificial objects; or, which is probably the most likely interpreta52 

Concerning a ‘mound cult’, see Bø (1978: vi, 246). In general, we can here refer to Olrik and Ellekilde (1926–51: i, 334–588). This work is a treasure trove for all kinds of folkloristic evidence and is highly recommended. In this connection, also the placename material, especially concerning theoforic placenames, is of utmost importance for the connection between gods and certain places; see Vikstrand (2001) and (è5). 54  For a list of receivers of sacrifice, see Beck (1967: 111–16). 53 

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tion, some of them are grave goods whereas others are likely victims (è32 and è33). But a further difficulty is that we cannot even take for granted that the participants of the ritual had clear ideas about these things, just as is the case in many rituals across the world, both in the past and in the present. When asked, very few people are able to interpret the symbols and the ‘theological’ notions surrounding the rituals in which they take part (e.g., Staal 1975; Lawson and McCauley 1990). These problems, which probably cannot be solved empirically but only theoretically, must of course be taken into consideration in dealing with sacrifices from an archaeological as well as a textual perspective. d) The Return Object Return objects can be anything wished for among humans. As we see in Hákonar saga góða ch. 14, the toasts are directed towards various gods and for various purposes (è31). Most interesting is the toast for Óðinn with the purpose of securing victory for the king and those for Freyr and Njǫrðr for ár ok friðr, ‘good year55 and peace’. Although some scholars (e.g., Lange 1958: 119; Düwel 1985: 66–69; von See 1988: 84–87) have argued that this formula is not pagan but has snuck in due to Christian influences (pax et prosperitas), there can hardly be any doubt that at least the semantic content of the formula is genuinely pagan56 and constitutes a substantial argument for the association between the vanir gods and fertility. At any rate, as was mentioned above, it is 55  It has been argued by Åke V. Ström (1975: 233–34) that the meaning of ár should more likely be understood as the coming period and thus translated simply as ‘year’. Using comparative evidence he shows that, in many cultures, rituals must be performed in order to secure the continuation of the world. This may be so, but the close link to the vanir seems to indicate that the fertility of the coming year is certainly also at stake. Further, the Stentoften runic inscription (DR 357, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), referred to above, seems to confirm this semantic content. 56  Hultgård (1993: 242–53) has discussed the formula extensively and concludes that it should be seen as genuinly pagan (‘als echte vorchristliche Formeln aufzufassen’, p. 253). Although Hultgård is convincing in his argument, it should also be stated that regardless of whether or not the formula as such is pagan, the content certainly is: it is impossible to imagine that, for a culture like that of pre-Christian Scandinavian, good year (fertility for beast and soil) and peace should not be of utmost importance. The notion of friðr should of course not be seen as an abstract or mental state, but is to be taken quite literally. War and plunder must be avoided in ‘our’ land, whereas there are probably no ideas about universal ‘peace’ involved. War as well as bad harvest is disastrous for the well-being of any agricultural society, but that is important only when ‘we’ are the victims. Plundering elsewhere may be of great benefit to ‘us’, so ‘peace’ is to be interpreted as ‘our peace’.

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sometimes difficult to establish any rules concerning the connection between certain sacrificial victims and certain receivers, except for some general tendencies (human sacrifices to Óðinn, boars and horses perhaps to Freyr); however, when it comes to the relation between the receivers and the return objects, we are somewhat better equipped. This is due to the simple fact that the different gods are particularly connected to certain areas of life; they have certain functions, which may well overlap, but are nevertheless important for defining the ‘semantic centres’ (Schjødt 2013) of the individual gods. There is, therefore, no point in sacrificing to a certain god for a purpose on which he or she has no influence. We notice, for example, that Óðinn is usually (there will always be exceptions to any rule) the receiver of sacrifices that have to do with war and kings, whereas there is a clear tendency that the vanir are asociated with fertility and prosperity of various sorts.57 Þórr is harder to relate to a specific functional area, since he appears to have a protective function in general, and it seems as if he receives sacrifices for a great variety of reasons (è41).58 For most of the other gods, we cannot tell with any certainty what they are expected to give back to those who sacrifice to them. It is even much more problematic when we come to the private cult. As we have already seen, we have very few descriptions of sacrifices carried out within that sphere, and there are no clear indications of what is actually wished for in any of the instances. This being said, however, it should be noted that there can hardly be any doubt as to what were the main concerns among farmers: fertility, good health, and good luck in general. e) The Reason for Carrying Out Sacrifices This point is related to d) above insofar as the reason for making a sacrifice is that we want a certain return object, be it victory in battle, good harvest, or something else. The subject will be taken up again in (è30–32) on the individual categories of ritual. We shall therefore deal only briefly with the issue here. In general, we can distinguish between two types of reasons for carry57 

Again, we shall refer to the Stentoften runic inscription from Blekinge (DR 357, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), in which it is said that a certain HaþuwolAfR gave good year with a sacrifice consisting of nine billy goats and nine stallions. This sacrifice was probably directed to the vanir or other figures related to fertility. 58  For an analysis of the ‘functions’ of and the relation between Óðinn, Þórr, and Freyr, see Schjødt (2012b).

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ing out sacrifices — and, indeed, all rituals. There are those which are planned beforehand and can be foreseen for years to come. Above we have called them ‘cyclical (calendrical) rituals’. The reason for carrying out this type of sacrifice is that if we do not, all kinds of bad luck may strike us. Perhaps we could even say that, by performing such rituals, we create the summer, the harvest, the ‘year’. Also in connection with passage rituals we sometimes have sacrifices relevant to the future life of the initiates. The other type consists of those carried out in order to cope with a dangerous and unexpected situation, such as illness, war, or bad weather. So where we could say that the first type is concerned with the future, the second type is mainly concerned with critical situations in the present — hence ‘crisis rituals’. As was mentioned above, sacrifice can be seen as a ‘rite’, that is, a part (although often the most important part) of a larger ritual complex, and therefore the reason for the sacrifice cannot be dealt with outside the broader framework of the ritual in question. f ) The Performance of Sacrifices As mentioned in the introduction to the Nordic sacrifices above, we do not have any descriptions that give us the ‘whole’ picture. Even in the most detailed description that we have, namely that of Ibn Fadlan, we are not informed about everything that went on. And as was suggested, we do not even know whether the killings in this ritual should be regarded as sacrifices proper (involving receivers and return objects) or perhaps rather as grave goods for the benefit of the dead chieftain. As mentioned already, sacrifices may be part of different rituals with different aims, and we can be sure that the way the sacrifices were performed was also different. Apart from the three saga descriptions from the West Norse area dealing with cyclical rituals, which were mentioned above and to which we shall return in (è31), we have glimpses of other kinds of sacrifices performed in other contexts. Thus, elements from sacrifices of another kind are sometimes mentioned, although we cannot in these instances see the ritual pattern clearly. For instance, it is related in Kjalnesinga saga that men are sacrificed in a kind of pool. Nothing is said about how they were killed, whether by weapon or by drowning, or perhaps both, but we know from other sources (cf. Gesta Hammaburgensis 4.26) that drowning could be part of divinatory rituals. And of course we cannot escape the supposition that there could be a connection between the bog bodies and other people who were drowned, although this is very uncertain.59 59 

It must of course be taken into consideration that all the bog bodies were killed before

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Figure 25.3. The bog body from Tollund in central Jylland, dated to about 375–210 bce. The man, who was about forty years old, was killed by hanging and then deposited (‘drowned’) in a bog. Museum Silkeborg. Photo: Anders Andrén. 

Anyway, it has been proposed that an idea existed, stemming back from IndoEuropean times, about a so-called ‘threefold death’ (Ward 1970; Näsström 1997; Näsström 2001: 47–55), a sacrifice in which the victim or victims were killed through hanging (or strangulation), stabbing with a knife or a sword, and drowning, with these three methods corresponding to the three functions postulated by Georges Dumézil (è11). Exactly this can be observed on some of the bog bodies of the Early Iron Age, although the interpretations must necessarily remain very uncertain, even if we can be relatively sure that hanging had a special connection to Óðinn. However, it appears that such hanging sacrifices were given to the god more in his capacity as a war god than as a magician (the ‘magical’ aspect of the first function). There is no real evidence for a particular connection between Freyr and drowning or Þórr and cutting, and the relation between Dumézil’s three functional scheme and the ‘threefold death’ must therefore remain hypothetical. Space does not allow us to treat all the various forms of sacrificial killings documented in the sources. But one, the hanging, is outstanding and deserves a brief treatment here, although it will be dealt with in other chapters, too, although we have already mentioned some of the classical and early medieval sources referring to hanging, stating that the main receipient of these hanged victims was Óðinn. And hanging, sometimes in combination with the thrust of a spear or some other weapon, seems to occupy a special position in our sources. We even have a couple of mythic-legendary descriptions of a ritual sequence they were thrown into the bogs. This could well be the case also in the description in Kjalnesinga saga, but hardly in Adam’s account.

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wherein hanging is the central rite, namely, Starkaðr’s famous killing of Víkarr, which we shall deal with in (è36) and (è42): in the latter we shall also deal with the god’s own ‘self-hanging’. However, Adam of Bremen’s description of the sacrifices in Old Uppsala (Gesta Hammaburgensis 4.27) that also includes hanging does not afford us the opportunity to reconstruct anything like a ritual sequence.60 What we are told concerning the Uppsala sacrifice is that the people sacrifice nine individuals (capita) of all living males (horses, dogs, humans, and no doubt other species), and through their blood the people attempt to expiate themselves in the eyes of the gods. The bodies, however, are hung in a sacred grove close to the temple. We are not told in any detail about the procedures leading up to the killings and the hangings, and we cannot know, therefore, what the victims actually died from. Most likely, however, they were killed by stabbing or cutting in some way and thereafter hanged in the grove. According to Tacitus, nearly a thousand years earlier, only Mercurius was worshipped with human sacrifices, and, if we accept continuity over so extensive a period, it would indicate that Óðinn was the receiver of these men, which is in turn supported by the fact that they were hanged, exactly like the god himself.61 But Adam’s description is not very clear, and it would probably be most realistic to assume that the rituals he was informed about were concerned with all three gods that he mentions, and maybe other deities as well, and that the description includes rites or parts of rites taken from various contexts. In general we can state that, according to the sources, sacrifice could be carried out in multiple ways: on the one hand, there were sacrifices for all kind of purposes, to different gods and with different participants; and on the other hand, even the ‘same’ sacrifice, for instance, that carried out for the victory of the king, would vary over time and from place to place. The archaeological evidence seems to confirm this assumption: it is hardly possible to find exact similarities, at least when it comes to the finer detail, among even two sacrificial sites (cf. Bemmann and Hahne 1992 concerning mostly weapon deposits). There may well have been rather close parallels on the ideological level — the ideas lying behind the acts — but the acts themselves would, we must suppose, vary immensely according to natural and political conditions.

60 

For a good overview and many interesting analyses, see Hultgård (1997). Chapters 26 and 27 in Adam of Bremen’s Book 4 are quoted with translations in (è31). 61  As mentioned above, in Strabo’s Geography (7.2.3) for instance, it is related how war prisoners among the Cimbri had their throats cut by priestesses in order to use their blood for prophesying, but we are not told what happened to their bodies afterwards.

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g) The Sacrificial Place Where did the rituals take place? This question will also be the subject of (è27), so we shall keep it brief here. Already Tacitus mentions (Germania ch. 9) that the Germani did not have ‘temples’ because this was not in accordance with the greatness of their gods. Instead, they would consecrate groves and forests to the gods (cf. Vikstrand 2001: 278–88). In Annals 1.51 Tacitus himself, however, mentions a templum, which in the context must be a building, and archaeological evidence also points in the direction that some buildings from the Early Iron Age could be ‘cult houses’ of some sort (A.-S. Gräslund 2008a: 250–53; see also Larsson and Lenntorp 2005 and Larsson 2006a about the excavations at Uppåkra). Nevertheless, it may well be true that most of the sacrificial cult took place outside, if only for the simple reason that no houses at that time would probably have room for the killing of many animals, some of them quite large. Thus, there can hardly be any doubt that natural spaces as well as human constructions were used as sacrificial places. Although there has been much debate about where the sacrifices took place, it seems as if much of this debate has been based on false premises. First, it is very likely that there was great diversity, historically as well as geographically and according to their function, which means that sacrifices were not carried out in the same manner and in the same sort of surroundings all through the Iron Age62 and all across the Scandinavian area, not to mention the variations that we should expect with regard to the different purposes of rituals (Andrén 2002: 313–18). Sacrifices related to fertility cult may sometimes have taken place in the fields, whereas sacrifices linked to war could have taken place in or near the kingly halls. Second, the individual sacrificial ritual could well have taken place both inside and outside a cultic house. For instance, it would seem appropriate, as mentioned, that the animals or humans were killed outside, whereas the sacrificial meals were consumed inside. A priori 62  As mentioned above, it has been proposed by Charlotte Fabech (1991a) and other archaeologists that the cult places moved around the middle of the first millennium from wetlands to kingly halls, although this distinction should not be taken too literally (cf. Fabech 2006: 30; for critique of Fabech’s original proposal, see Zachrisson 1998: 118 and Hedeager 1999). Another question, which has been debated for a very long time, is the question of cult continuity from the pagan into the Christian era. The main proponent for the rejection of this idea is Olaf Olsen (1966), but since the 1960s so much archaeological evidence has been found to support that, at least in some places, churches were built at places where pagan rituals had been carried out. For an overview of this debate including more recent evidence, see Andrén (2002) and Jørgensen (2009).

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it would be easy to imagine, and this gains some support from placename material (Brink 1996a, 1997; Vikstrand 2001), that for some rituals, perhaps also sacrificial rituals, movements would be involved from one site to another, from the hall to the natural surroundings (Gunnell 2006; Zachrisson 2004b) (è31). None of our sources informs us in a sufficiently detailed manner about these things for us to obtain certainty, but it is necessary briefly to discuss some of the terms designating arenas for cultic activity. Vé is related to the verb víg ja, meaning ‘to hallow’. Vé, then, should be seen as a hallowed place in a very general sense (Vikstrand 2010a: 58–59).63 It can therefore designate buildings as well as other kinds of places that are sacred, in some but not all cases because sacrifices were carried out there. Vé is thus, as stated by Inge Beck (1967: 36), rather the quality of a sacred place in opposition to the ‘normal’, profane space surrounding it. The term does not reveal anything about the ‘architecture’ of sacred places (Vikstrand 2001: 330), and it designates places that can be found everywhere, even among the gods (Beck 1967: 33–36; de Vries 1956–57a: i, 341–43).64 Another word often used in connection with sacrifices is hǫrgr, the precise meaning of which is uncertain. On the one hand, it has been discussed whether the hǫrgr was made of wood, as seems to be indicated in Vǫluspá st. 7, in which it says that the gods constructed hǫrgr and hof 65 out of timber. On the other hand, the very etymology of the word would indicate that it was made out of stone, perhaps designating a pile of stones somehow used in connection with sacrifices. From a religio-historical perspective the question is not of great importance, and a priori it would seem likely that this sort of construction could be made of various materials according to the actual place where it was raised.66 Much more interesting is the function of the hǫrgr. Most scholars have accepted that it was a kind of altar,67 an interpretation based inter alia on stanza 10 of Hyndluljóð where it is said that Óttarr, the protégé of Freyja, has 63 

Víg ja is thus derived from the root vé. For its etymology and various meanings, see de Vries (1962a: 648–49); Vikstrand (2001: 298–366), and (è5). 64  Vé is, moreover, a part of several personal names (Beck 1967: 77–87) and could indicate that these persons were in some way associated with sacred constructions. 65  These two words often concur (Beck 1967: 3–29), probably both because of the alliterative qualities and because of their semantic content: both designate some sort of sacred building. 66  Jan de Vries tried to solve the problem by suggesting that the hǫrgr was made of stone, but had a wooden roof on top (de Vries 1956–57a: i, 379). 67  Others, however, would interpret it as more generally designating simply a cultic place (cf. Näsström 2001: 86).

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627 Figure 25.4. Picture stone from Stora Hammars in Lärbro on Gotland, dated to the ninth or tenth century. The third panel from the top depicts a hanging from two trees and a sacrifice at an altar. Bungemuseet, Fårösund. Photo: Anders Andrén. 

reddened the hǫrgr with sacrificial blood. If this is correct, we can easily imagine that in at least some sacrifices, but hardly all, the sacrificial victim was killed on such an altar. Whether or not the hǫrgr was placed in the open air or in ‘cult houses’ cannot be decided. A construction that could easily be interpreted as a sacrificial ‘altar’ can be seen on the Gotlandic picture stone from Lärbro, Stora Hammars. The hof, on the other hand, points to a sizeable building and was undoubtedly an important part of public rituals, as is related in the three sagas referred to above (Eyrbygg ja, Kjalnesinga, and Hákonar saga góða) and elsewhere. It appears that several rites took place inside the hof, but, as mentioned, it is hard to imagine that large animals were killed inside, and we must therefore assume that the sacrificial blood was brought in for sprinkling after the killing. It also appears that statues of divine beings were placed in the hof and that the sacrificial meals were eaten here. It is thus most likely that what is called a templum, for instance, by Adam of Bremen, is in reality the same as the hof. Exactly how these buildings were used outside the ritual periods, we do not know, but it is quite likely that they functioned as the manor houses of kings and chieftains.68 Other words that probably designate buildings related to sacrifices, perhaps used synonymously with hǫrgr or hof, are blótstaðr (sacrificial place), 68 

Another word, which may be synonymous, too, is sal/salr; see Vikstrand (2013b) with many references and Brink (1996a).

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blóthús (sacrificial building), and goðahús (house of gods) (Beck 1967: 31–32). Helgistaðr (sacred place), however, should most likely be understood as a sacred place in general and does not have to be a building. In Gylfaginning (p. 17) it is said that the helgistaðr of the gods is by Yggdrasill where the gods hold council every day. Therefore, we interpret it as synonymous with vé, a place that is sacred whether or not there is a building there. Apart from these buildings, which we hear of almost exclusively in connection with chieftains or kings and thus as part of the public sacrificial rituals, we also hear of rituals carried out in private houses. In these descriptions, however, we rarely hear about sacrifices of animals or humans, as we shall see in Vǫlsa þáttr (è31). Concerning the álfablót related in Óláfs saga helga, it appears to take place inside a private house, but nothing at all is said about what was sacrificed and — if killings were part of it — where these killings took place (è31). Somewhere in between the sacrificial places created by humans and natural places we have the mounds (haugar). These were associated primarily with the dead ancestors and can thus be seen as clear evidence of a cult of these ancestors (de Vries, 1956–57a: i, 345–47). From archaeological evidence in particular, we know that many sacrifices were performed in sacred places in nature where there were not necessarily any buildings, but it is difficult to determine from archaeological remains whether the whole ritual was carried out at the same place. As mentioned, it seems likely that part of the ritual took place at one place and other parts at others: for instance, killings and meals do not have to occur in the same place, as has been suggested for example for Helgö in Lake Mälaren, central Sweden (Zachrisson 2004b). Therefore, the answer to the question of whether sacrifices were carried out on spots that were constructed by humans or on natural sites appears never to have been one of either/or but rather of both/and. The sources, however, do not have much to say about these matters. Thus, sacrifices could very likely be carried out by rivers, in groves, and at other sacred places in the natural surroundings where certain Other World beings — receipients of the sacrifices — were believed to dwell, probably mostly landvættir. Sacrificial victims to rivers were likely drowned, and we hear, for instance in Landnámabók H313, that the remnants from sacrifices should be thrown into the river. h) The Sacrificial Time Also this point will be treated more extensively in (è28), and we shall merely repeat here what has been stated before: namely, that a blót could be part of

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each of the three categories of rituals mentioned above, that is, rituals of passage, cyclical rituals, and crisis rituals. Except for the cyclical rituals it is not possible to tell exactly when sacrifices took place. As we also saw above, sacrifices were carried out in connection with war, both before and after as offerings of thanks, in connection with the failing of crops, and in connection with all other kinds of crises. Concerning rites of passage, and especially in relation to funeral rituals, the textual sources often tell us about sacrifices, and the archaeological evidence seems to confirm this, although we can, as mentioned, never be sure what ideas lie behind ‘grave gifts’ — whether they should be seen as simply ‘gifts’ meant to ease the passage of the dead person into the Other World, or whether they are there in order to ‘bribe’ the dead or other beings of the Other World. The distinction is hard to discern, also on a theoretical level, since ‘gifts’ may well be understood as attempts to prevent the deceased from harming the living. In any case, objects given to the Other World have the character of sacrifices, even if we are not informed about any return object. As for the time of performance of both crisis rituals and rituals of passage, whether in private or public spheres, they depend on the circumstances, whereas the cyclical rituals must naturally take place at the same time every year, or with some other type of regularity: for example, Adam of Bremen and Thietmar of Merseburg refer to every ninth year when speaking of big public rituals at the central places in Uppsala and Lejre. As we shall see in (è28), the sources do not agree on how many public rituals that can be seen as pan-Scandinavian existed. Snorri has the following statement in Ynglinga saga ch. 8: ‘Þá skyldi blóta í móti vetri til árs, en at miðjum vetri blóta til gróðrar, it þriðja at sumri, þat var sigrblót’ (A sacrifice was to be made for a good season at the beginning of winter, and one in midwinter for good crops, and a third one in summer for victory). These three public blót feasts were held in the autumn, in December or January, and probably in the spring to mark the beginning of the war season. There may also have been a miðsumarblót, although it is only mentioned by Snorri (Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar ch. 65) and at gói (middle of February to middle of March), the last mentioned perhaps identical to the spring sacrifice (è 28; Nordberg 2006a). From the sources, it seems as if the two first feasts, in autumn and midwinter, were primarily concerned with fertility, and thus the vanir and other groups of fertility deities were in focus, whereas the rituals at the opening of the war season had Óðinn as their focus — just as we should expect (for more textual evidence, see Beck 1967: 48–57; cf. also Sundqvist 2002: 188–91). However, it also appears that the great blót, described in Hákonar saga góða, was dedicated to both fertility and war gods. Thus, it is hardly possible to find a standard system behind the

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descriptions in the sagas, although it seems clear that there are some tendencies towards a systematization in regard of the relations between time, purpose, and the receivers of the sacrifices. Procession Another important issue within the ritual sphere is ‘procession’. Although processions are definitely not as common and, from an emic point of view, are probably not as central to the religious life as are sacrifices, they often play an important role in public rituals. They can, of course, take many different forms, but usually their main function, from a phenomenological perspective, is to display some deity. A statue or some other symbol of the god is at certain liminal occasions taken out of the cult house, the temple, or the sacred grove where it is normally placed and displayed to the people. The etic function seems quite clear: namely, confirmation of the communality and strengthening of the solidarity of the people participating in the display of this divine symbol. Although the textual evidence from Scandinavia does not reveal much about such processions, the Nerthus episode from Tacitus, mentioned in the beginning of this chapter, is surely one example. We shall discuss other possible examples in the following, both from textual and archaeological sources. From an emic point of view, the major function is probably hierophany, the display of the sacred for the public, creating an experience of the numinous. In general it can be stated that within the comparative study of religion processions have not occupied a prominent position in scholarly works on rituals, perhaps because they have usually been interpreted as merely preparatory acts for the ‘real’ thing, which could be a sacrifice, a ritual death and resurrection, or a sermon.69 As mentioned, however, the appearance of the god in front of the people is certainly one of the more important ways a religion, not least in preliterate societies, is remembered and through which it creates social solidarity. Processions are, of course, more prominent within public rituals than in the private sphere and, even if they can be performed in all the three main categories of rituals, they appear mostly in cyclical rituals. However, we can safely assume that processions were also part of the rituals of passage concerning coronations of kings and funerals and probably others. This is, for instance, indicated by the so-called Eriksgata, a kind of procession which according to the Swedish 69 

Archaeology, however, suggests that processions have taken place, at least since the Bronze Age: see, for example, Rudebeck (2002: 189) and Kaul (2004: 173–78) concerning the Kivik grave and its petroglyphs).

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Figure 25.5. A procession of men, women, and carriages on one of the tapestries from Oseberg, dated to the early ninth century (Kulturhistorisk museum, Oslo no. C 55000_337_1 and C 55000_337_2). Drawing by Mary Storm. Photo: Mårten Teigen, Kulturhistorisk museum, Universitetet i Oslo, Oslo. 

medieval laws had to be performed by the new king. Although it cannot be proven that this tradition also existed in pre-Christian times, comparative evidence reveals that this is clearly what we should expect. And processions were no doubt also part of the rituals surrounding funerals, even though they are hardly mentioned in the written sources. However, there are a few hints which may point in the direction of funeral processions, such as the description in Beowulf of Scyld’s funeral (28–51) or that of the arrival of the guests for Baldr’s funeral as related in Gylfaginning pp. 46–47 and on the pictures described in Húsdrápa, although it is not stated explicitly that we are dealing with ritualized behaviour in either case. The same goes for the pictures on the tapestry from the Oseberg grave; it is hard to interpret them as anything but depictions of some sort of procession. The Nerthus celebration, which clearly belongs to the cyclical rituals, is described by Tacitus in Germania ch. 40. Here, we are told that a group of tribes in the northern part of the Germanic area celebrate Nerthus, identified by Tacitus with Mother Earth (Terra Mater), who is transported around the entire area on a consecrated wagon drawn by cows and that she is accompanied by her priest. The period during which this lasts is liminal, as we saw earlier, so that people do not initiate battles and they do not carry weapons.

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Jens Peter Schjødt Figure 25.6. Plan of a ritual road at Rösaring in Låssa in Uppland, dated to the Viking Age. The road, which is 540 m long, is aligned on the east side with about 105 postholes. It connects a small house in the north with a grave-mound in the south. Map: Gerhard Winberg and Lars Löthman. 

After this period, the goddess is led by the priest back to her sacred grove, situated on an island in the ocean, where she and her wagon are washed and the slaves who have carried out this task are subsequently drowned. There can be no doubt that this circumambulation must be considered a religious procession. This passage contains a lot of information which has been discussed by many scholars dealing with PCRN. Here, however, we shall note only the processional aspects, clearly evidencing the existence of processions among the Germani and helping us interpret certain archaeological finds, the most prominent among them being the Dejbjerg wagon (è 8), found in western Jylland and stemming from the Early Roman Iron Age (cf. Jensen 2003: 195–202). But other wagons have been found which may well be interpreted as ‘cult wagons’, especially since their axels were not able to pivot: for instance, in the famous Oseberg grave (Christensen and others 1992: 119–20). All in all there is no reason to doubt that the description by Tacitus describes processions that actually took place. Good arguments have been raised — due to various parallels with this Nerthus cult — that also the þáttr about Gunnarr helmingr from Flateyjarbók is based on ritual processions; in the þáttr a statue

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of Freyr is accompanied by a priestess as this couple drive around a specific area in Sweden. It may also be that the enigmatic story of Lytir (Flateyjarbók i, 579–80) can be connected to such processions (cf. Sundqvist 2002: 233– 35).70 If so, that is particularly interesting in the present context, since in the story of Lytir the Swedish king Erik performs sacrifices in order to make the god appear so that he can ask the god about the future. That would make this an example of the combination of three elements: procession, sacrifice, and divination. Finally, we should also mention the description by Saxo (Gesta Danorum 5.16.3) of Frotho’s death, in which it is said that his men wanted to keep the death of the king secret in order to prevent the country from falling apart. The men therefore drove him around the country in a ‘royal’ wagon (regale vehiculum) for three years before they buried him. If we accept a close relationship among, perhaps even an identity of, Nerthus, Freyr, and Frotho (cf. Schjødt 2009b), it appears that these three descriptions are all part of a discourse connecting gods of the vanir type with circumambulations and thus with processions focusing on yearly rituals. Apart from the wagons, which we may well assume to have been parts of processions, archaeology may also help us in locating ‘ceremonial roads’. Of course, it is seldom easy to ascertain with what purpose a road was constructed and thus whether it had practical functions or might have been built for purely ritual purposes — or perhaps both. There are, however, archaeological indications that roads consisting of a roadbank should be seen as ceremonial, and, apart from the theoretical probability that processions took place during big, public rituals, what looks like such roads have actually been found — namely, in Gamla Uppsala — right next to the mounds of the most famous cult site in Scandinavia.71 These roads can hardly be interpreted as anything other than procession roads, probably used during the large gatherings described by Adam of Bremen.72 The eastern posthole alignment is about 900 m long and leads from the river Samnan towards the royal manor. The postholes are placed 6 m 70 

Sundqvist apparently accepts that Lytir is identical to Freyr (2002: 233), which would certainly fit nicely with the whole setup. In this connection it is moreover interesting that processions were part of the cult of St Erik, which is seen by Sundqvist as a sort of relict from pagan times (2002: 354–56). 71  For a recent discussion of the role of Gamla Uppsala in the pre-Christian North, see Brink (2017) and Sundqvist (2018b). 72  The 2012–14 excavations at Old Uppsala have not yet been published, but descriptions of the whole area at earlier stages can be found in Duczko (1993–96) and Sundqvist and Vikstrand (2013). The monumental posthole alignments that were discovered in 2013 were sensational.

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apart. They have been interpreted as free-standing posts, and the solid alignments and diametres of the posts of 0.3–0.6 m indicate that they must have reached high up into the air. Another alignment to the south leads up to the burial grounds with the huge kings’ mounds and continues east of it. In the postholes there were depositions of jaws and teeth from horses. The bones have been Carbon-14 dated to the late sixth and early seventh centuries, and thus the period of monumentalization of Old Uppsala (Beronius Jörpeland and others 2013). A road which must likewise be understood as a procession road has been found in Rösaring in Sweden, stretching 540 m and 3.5 m wide, bordered on one side with 125 postholes and leading to a cemetary and for that reason probably used in connection with burial rituals (cf. Damell 1985). Thus, even if the written sources are meager and the archaeological evidence is not entirely unequivocal when it comes to interpretations, there nevertheless appears to be enough material for us to be able to confirm that processions, known from almost all other comparable cultures, were part also of the rituals within PCRN. We know very little about the details, and, apart from the few sources mentioned above, these will have to be reconstructed from comparative evidence.73 Divination Divinatory rites seem to be most prominent within the category of crisis rituals, and as such they, like sacrifices and processions, are usually parts of larger ritual settings, which may include these three kinds of rites and many more. As opposed to the phenomenon of processions, which, as we just saw, is very weakly represented in the written sources, various kinds of divination play a significant role in a variety of textual genres. The saga material mentions a huge number of instances of such practices, no doubt reflecting the importance of divination in the everyday life of the pagan Scandinavians.74 The whole idea that it is possible to come to know about the future through various techniques appears to be universal in tribal and folk religious settings of all times, whereas the techniques themselves, however, vary immensely from culture to culture. Without pushing the religious logic too far, it seems to be a prerequisite for divinatory rites that the future is in some way already decided, that fate is una73 

Very litle has been written on processions in PCRN. The only systematic account is a recent article by Simon Nygaard and Luke John Murphy (Nygaard and Murphy 2017). 74  A very useful work which mentions all instances of divination in the sagas of Icelanders and in Landnámabók is Dillmann (2006); this work discusses various kinds of divination and provides many references to both primary and secondary sources. See especially pp. 29–52.

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voidable, so to speak (è35), and that the rites will allow the privileged person access to knowledge about the future. Simultaneously, the Germani and the Scandinavians as well as all other cultures were actively trying to influence fate. This may seem a paradox, but it is a paradox that we cannot deny — it is known from belief systems all over the world. Apart from all the other problems pertaining to our sources, there is a particular problem in relation to divination which makes it difficult to judge the pagan attitude towards divination: namely, the fact that omens and other hints about the future are predominanly related in texts composed long after the relevant incidents have taken place. In the literary sources, divinatory features of various kinds, mostly dreams, commonly have the appearance of a literary means by which the author creates excitement for the reader. What usually happens is that a diviner or an interpreter of dreams has foreseen the outcome of a battle or the death of an individual and that it eventually turns out to be true; the emphasis is thus on the result and only rarely on the actual ritual carried out. Nevertheless, we do get a rather clear impression of the variety of divinatory techniques that could be brought into play when important decisions had to be taken, often in connection with some looming or manifest crisis. We can hardly expect a clear systematization of the various techniques, such as for instance that certain types of divinatory practices were used in connection with certain crises or that males or females were in charge in this or that sort of divination technique. Even so, there do seem to be some general trends. Before enumerating the various techniques, we shall briefly attempt to create a taxonomy on a more abstract level. In general, all religious societies have sought knowledge about the future by means of interpreting particular signs as information from the Other World. Although all more or less ordinary events — whether they occur in dreams, in the natural phenomena of the surrounding world, or in ritual settings — can be interpreted as divinatory signs, these usually fall into two basic categories: on the one hand, those that appear spontaneously and have not been deliberately sought; and on the other hand, those that have been produced through some magical ritual (è 26). In both cases, however, the signs must be interpreted. Some interpretations are culturally determined and are understood by everybody, as when Adam of Bremen (4.26, schol. 138) says that during the great ritual feasts in Uppsala, humans were thrown into a well or a stream (fons), and, if they were not seen again, the wish of the people would come true.75 75 

This also shows that divination rites were carried out as part of larger rituals and could be linked to sacrifices in particular (cf. Derolez 1968: 296–97; cf. above about Lytir).

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Other incidents require the interpretation of some specialist, as is often the case with dreams. Of course many such prophesies should be seen mainly as literary means of creating suspense in our texts, as we just saw, but there is no doubt that they did, in fact, take place in various forms. Thus, the signs of both spontaneous and provoked forms of divination could be culturally determined or would need ‘specialist’ interpretation. Another taxonomic feature is the dichotomy between those signs which can be seen, although perhaps not interpreted, by everybody and those that require the diviner to enter a certain state of mind, such as ecstasy, to be able to predict the future happenings. The latter was the case with seiðr rituals and probably also the technique of útiseta, literally ‘sitting out’ (è26), meaning that the diviner or the magician would place herself (it was practised mostly by women, often a vǫlva; cf. Tolley 2009a: 136) somewhere outside and in isolation during the night in order to get inspiration from the spirits.76 People able to reach a certain stage of ecstasy can often, but not always, be classified as belonging to the group of ‘religious specialists’ (è29). All these forms of divination exist all over the world, whereas the particular techniques are of course different from one culture to the next.77 Another general problem with divinations is the question of whether the diviner interprets the signs in an ‘objective’ way or whether he or she actually has the power to manipulate the future. This problem is a variant of the abovementioned paradox in which fate is on the one hand inescapable, but can on the other hand be manipulated in many ways. In PCRN, it seems as if the attitude of the diviner was of some importance for the way things happened in the future. In Gunnlaugs saga ormstungu (ch. 2), for instance, the interpretation of Þorsteinn’s dream is seen as ‘unfriendly’, as if the interpreter is contributing to the way things will turn out.78 This paradox appears to be present in all sorts 76 

However, in Ynglinga saga ch. 7 we are told that Óðinn would sit under the hanged, no doubt in order that they should supply him with knowledge from other worlds, and this may be taken to indicate that also men could perform some sort of útiseta. We also have the term sitja á haugi, ‘to sit on a mound’, indicating that the dead possessed numinous information about the future. Although we cannot know for sure, útiseta might be a kind of necromancy. Apparently, it was also possible to learn skaldic poetry by sitting under running water or in rapids, as it is evident in Bjárni Kolbeinsson’s Jómsvíkingadrápa. 77  Other useful attempts at classifying various divinatory rituals have been carried out by Dillmann (2006: 29–52), Derolez (1968: 274–302), and de Vries (1956–57a: i, 428–38). Derolez also has a complete list of divinatory techniques to which we shall refer here. 78  The Björketorp inscription (DR 360, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), on a runic stone in Blekinge, probably contains the word úþarba-spá, which may be interpreted as ‘harm-prophecy’ (see Dillmann 2006: 29), indicating that the prophecy in itself has an aspect of bad will from the diviner.

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of divinations: on the one hand, the future is part of the fate of individuals as well as of the whole cosmos and cannot be radically changed; but on the other hand, it can be manipulated by people who know how. The paradox is probably part of the human cognitive apparatus and is hardly subject to anything like a logical solution. All aspects of the future can be subject to divinatory interpretations. In the North, we have the whole spectrum between the future of an individual, as in Gísla saga Súrssonar ch. 30 concerning the dreams of the hero, and the destiny of the whole world (cf. Raudvere 2003: 58), as is related in Vǫluspá. Between these two extremes we find most of our examples, dealing with subjects that are important to groups of individuals, such as success in hunting, in fertility, or in battle. But let us turn to some examples of various forms of divination among the Germani and the Scandinavians. The general term in Old Norse, which may cover the whole range of divinatory techniques, is ganga til fréttar, meaning ‘to go to ask for news’, and the phrase is used often in the Old Norse sources (cf. Meissner 1917). However, already Tacitus mentions that omens were very important among the Germani (Germania ch. 10; cf. also ch. 7–8). He says: Auspicia sortesque ut qui maxime observant: sortium consuetudo simplex. virgam frugiferae arbori decisam in surculos amputant eosque notis quibusdam discretos super candidam vestem temere ac fortuito spargunt. mox, si publice consultetur, sacerdos civitatis, sin privatim, ipse pater familiae, precatus deos caelumque suspi­ ciens ter singulos tollit, sublatos secundum impressam ante notam interpretatur. si prohibuerunt, nulla de eadem re in eundem diem consultatio; sin permissum, auspiciorum adhuc fides exigitur. et illud quidem etiam hic notum, avium voces volatusque interrogare: proprium gentis equorum quoque praesagia ac monitus experiri. publice aluntur isdem nemoribus ac lucis, candidi et nullo mortali opere contacti; quos pressos sacro curru sacerdos ac rex vel princeps civitatis comitantur hinnitusque ac fremitus observant. nec ulli auspicio maior fides, non solum apud plebem, sed apud proceres, apud sacerdotes; se enim ministros deorum, illos conscios putant. est et alia observatio auspiciorum, qua gravium bellorum eventus explorant. eius gentis, cum qua bellum est, captivum quoquo modo interceptum cum electo popularium suorum, patriis quemque armis, committunt: victoria huius vel illius pro praeiudicio accipitur. (To divination and the lot they pay as much attention as anyone: the method of drawing lots is uniform. A branch is cut from a nut-bearing tree and divided into slips: these are distinguished by certain marks and spread casually and at random over white cloth: afterwards, should the inquiry be for the people the priest of the state, if private the father of the family in person, after prayers to the gods and with eyes turned to heaven, takes up one slip at a time till he has this on three separate occasions, and after taking the three interprets them according to the marks which

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have been already stamped on each: if the message be a prohibition, no inquiry on the same matter is made for the same day; if the message be permissive, further confirmation is required by means of divination; and even among the Germans divination by consultation of the cries and flight of birds is well known, but their special divination is to make trial of the omens and warnings furnished by horses, in addition to other methods. In the same groves and coppices are fed certain white horses, never soiled by mortal use: these are yoked to a sacred chariot and accompanied by the priest and king, or other chief of the state, who then observe their neighing or snorting. On no other divination is more reliance placed, not merely by the people but also by their leaders and their priests; for the nobles regard themselves as the servants of the gods, but their horses are their confidants. They have another method of taking divinations by means of which they probe the issue of serious wars. A member of the tribe at war with them is somehow or other captured and pitted against a selected champion of their own countrymen, each in his tribal armour. The victory of one or the other is taken as anticipatory decision.) (pp. 145–47)

Some of these different divinatory practices are not known, at least not in any direct form, from the Nordic sources, although there may be some vague hints. But the casting of lots is known from, for instance, Gautreks saga ch. 7 (hlutfall) where Víkarr’s men want to decide who should be mock-sacrificed in order to get wind for their ships. Although lot casting is probably too common universally for us to speak about a genuine continuity among the Germani when it comes to details, it indicates that lot casting in some form took place among the Germani for at least a millennium. As described by Tacitus, it is the pater familias who carries out the ritual in private matters, whereas priests are in charge in public matters. We do not know whether this division also obtained in later times, but it seems quite likely that it did. It has been suggested that the signs on each chip of wood (surculus) could be a kind of runes, although most scholars are sceptical about that (McKinnell and others 2004: 13; de Vries 1956–57a: i, 433). Still, the signs (notae), whether proto-runes or not, needed to be interpreted by the priest or the pater familias, which may indicate that there was no standardized, culturally determined significance to each of them.79 Apart from the casting of lots, Tacitus also relates that they perform some sort of ornitomancy. How this is done is not related in any detail, and we have 79  Being open to individual interpretations would, then, indicate a great deal of arbitrariness, since not only the priests, whom one can believe had learned the significance of the signs during some rituals, but also the pater familias were able to do the interpretations; and it is not very likely that all such heads of households would have gone through the same rituals, acquiring the same numinous knowledge.

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no clear parallels to that sort of divination from later sources, although sometimes birds do appear to have a special relation to future knowledge. Thus, we are told in Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar (ch. 27) that Hákon jarl made a great sacrifice before his battle against Jarl Óttarr, and ‘þá kómu þar fljúgandi hrafnar tveir ok gullu hátt. Þá þykkisk jarl vita at Óðinn hefir þegit blótit ok þá mun jarl hafa dagráð til at berjask’ (then two ravens came flying, croaking loudly. Then the earl believed that Óthin had accepted the sacrifice and that it was a propitious time to fight) (p. 167). First, we notice that the divinatory sign is linked to sacrifice, a relation that may have been important in connection with many divinatory practices. Second, the very idea that birds — in this instance, not just any kind of birds but exactly birds signifying the war god — in their flight and cries can be interpreted as predicting the future, seems to indicate a continuity from the time of Tacitus, although other possibilities also exist. 80 Another example could be the titmice in Fáfnismál st. 32–39 who tell Sigurðr about what will happen in the future. Of course this is not as close a parallel to Tacitus’s statements or to the ravens just mentioned, but it could still indicate that birds were seen as especially associated with knowledge of the future.81 Since ornitomancy was common among the Romans, too, Tacitus simply notes that this practice was also found among the Germani. He is much more interested in the hippomancy that he mentions immediately after. The horses here are said to be bred with the purpose of being part of divinations. Again, in later sources, no rituals are described that we can safely assume to be a continuation of the practice that Tacitus relates. Nevertheless, there is overwhelming evidence for the importance of horses in both myth and rituals, as we have seen above, not least in sacrificial rituals, and this is also well known from other Indo-European peoples (Derolez 1968: 289). The most famous horse in the sagas is Freyfaxi, known from Hrafnkels saga Freysgoða. We are told that Hrafnkel who, as suggested by his appellative Freysgoði, has a special relation to Freyr, owns a horse to which is attributed a certain degree of sacredness, so that nobody except Hrafnkel is allowed to ride it (ch. 3). This could be compared to Tacitus’s information that the horses taking part in the divination should not be ‘soiled by mortal use’. Even so, there is nothing to suggest that Freyfaxi was directly associated with divination.82 Perhaps it is more likely that the horses 80 

For instance, some sort of loan from the Sámi. And birds, not least ravens, are thought to possess other kinds of knowledge, too, such as the capacity of memory, see Lindow (2014a: 43–44), Hermann (2014: 15–17), and Mitchell (2019). 82  However, we know from Gesta Danorum (14.39.10) that hippomancy also existed 81 

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participating in sacrificial rituals were treated in a special way and that their blood played a role in some form of divination. However, we do not know how they were bred or whether they were treated in a special way prior to the slaughtering, although, again, archaeology may help us here, since it appears that pigs intended for sacrifices may well have been bred in another way than ordinary pigs (Magnell and Iregren 2010). We do not know, either, what happened to Tacitus’s horses. Were they perhaps sacrificed after the interpretations of their ‘neighing and snorting’? It cannot be ruled out, since nothing is reported of their fate.83 Finally, Tacitus reports of duels as a means of foreseeing the result of battles.84 This form of divination is not found in the Old Norse material; although the sagas contain a great many examples of duels (hólmganga), there are none in which divinatory aspects are obviously involved. A possible example from the mythology may be the fight between Þórr and Hrungnir, where it is said that the outcome is of huge importance for the giants in particular, since Hrungnir is the strongest of them. There are, however, other kinds of divinations in the Nordic sources than those reported by Tacitus. We have already mentioned the interpretation of dreams, which was probably not connected to any ritual but which shows clearly that the Other World could intervene, even without magical and ritual attempts to discover the future.85 We have also mentioned the practice of útiseta, which could well be a kind of necromancy. The wakening and questioning of the dead is widely mentioned in the sources (cf. Boyer 1994: 126–29), and the logic behind this practice appears to rest in the idea that the dead know the Other World better than the living do, as we see in Fáfnismál, Baldrs draumar, and many other texts. It must, however, be emphasized that information about the future is only one aspect of the knowledge that can be gained from the dead.86 among the Slavs, so it can clearly not be ruled out that this sort of divination existed across the whole of the North European area (cf. Słupecki 1994: 29). 83  We do know that horse fightning and horse racing took place, which is also confirmed from archaeological findings, such as those at Skedemose on Öland where slain horses were found in a bog (Hagberg 1967b) and as is strongly indicated by the Häggeby picture stone from Uppland, apparently depicting a stallion fight. Whether these fights were part of divination rituals, we cannot know. 84  For other examples from antiquity and medieval sources, see de Vries (1956–57a: i, 429–31). 85  For many examples of dream divination, see Boyer (1986b: 91–95). 86  The idea that the dead can supply the living with information from Other Worlds has been treated by Ohlmarks (1936), Boyer (1994: 126–29), and briefly in Hasenfratz (2011: 81–82).

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During útiseta, the diviner therefore isolates her- or himself and receives inspiration from undefined spirits which, at least in some cases, seem to be the spirits of the deceased who supply her or him with knowledge, sometimes of the future, sometimes of other things hidden to ordinary people in an ordinary state of mind. We have, as mentioned, many examples of that in the sources, the most famous being the vǫlva in Vǫluspá. The practice of reading signs from blood is known as far back as the first century bce where, as was mentioned above, Strabo (Geography 7.2.3) tells us that the priestesses of the Cimbri prophesy by observing the blood of war prisoners, clearly as part of a sacrificial ritual. There is no later evidence of this practice,87 but considering the important role that blood plays in many rituals, we should expect that certain divinatory signs could be observed in the blood of sacrificial victims. There are some clear instances where the practice of ganga til fréttar is connected to blót, for instance Landnámabók (SH ch. 7), where it is said that Ingólfr prepared a great blót and went to enquire about his destiny, and that the frétt told him to go to Iceland. We are not told in any detail exactly how this happened, but the combination of sacrifice and divination could well indicate the importance of the sacrificial blood (cf. Boyer 1986b: 184). Probably the most famous of all the various ways of coming to know about the future are the seiðr rituals, which are treated in chapters (è22) (è26) and will also be discussed in (è30). Suffice it here to say that part of the seiðr complex concerns divination, although many other elements of magic manipulations are also involved. When it comes to divinatory seiðr, it appears that only women performed this practice, which is no doubt related to the statement in Ynglinga saga ch. 7 indicating that men could not perform seiðr without being accused of ergi. There were probably many more ways of looking into the future, some widespread all over Scandinavia or the whole Germanic-speaking area, others limited to certain areas and others again perhaps individual. As has been stated already, we should not look for any rigid system in the beliefs lying behind all these practices. Is it the will of the gods that is revealed, as seems to be the case in Eyrbygg ja saga ch. 4 where Þórr is addressed by Þórólfr Mostrarskegg, or is it some impersonal ‘fate’? In all likelihood, there would have been innumerable ways of explaining the ‘theory’ of divination, some broadly accepted and some highly individual, some operating on fully conscious levels and some only subconscious. 87 

In his history of the Norman dukes (De moribus et actis primorum Normanniae ducum) from the beginning of eleventh century, Dudo of Saint-Quentin, in his description of the Normans’ pre-Christian past (ch. 2), gives another version of divinatory interpretations related to human victims.

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Concluding Remarks The main purpose of this chapter has been to discuss the important role of religious communication and to propose a theoretical model from which we can view the ritual framework in PCRN. Further, we have attempted to show some fundamental ways in which communication between worlds could take place in PCRN, emphasizing the ritual dimension. It is not possible in a treatment such as this to be exhaustive on these matters, and other subjects, such as myths, the views on the dead, and many more which are treated in other chapters, could have been taken into consideration, because communication between the world of humans and that of the superhuman was multifaceted and involved many different elements in many different ways. In the following chapters, we shall deal in more detail with some of these subjects, bringing in a wealth of examples from archaeological as well as written sources.

26 – Magic and Religion Stephen A. Mitchell Introduction: Magic as a Concept Categories of religion geared to contacting unseen power, often referred to in the research literature by the Polynesian term mana, in efforts to know the future and influence its events, have a complex history in modern scholarship (cf. Cunningham 1999). Largely shaped by the colonial discourses of earlier eras, discussions by nineteenth- and early twentieth-century writers framed such activities as bearing a special relationship to, but being separate from, religion and science. One of the most influential of these authors, James George Frazer, extended Edward B. Tylor’s earlier views about magic, arguing that magic, science, and religion were to be understood within an evolutionary scheme: magic was perceived as faulty reasoning about causality, which over time was replaced by religion, and that, in turn, would give way to science. Edmund Leach (1964: 398) captured the essence of the debate in a particularly succinct locution, noting: ‘The core of the magical act is that it rests on empirically untested belief and is an effort at control — the first aspect distinguishes it from science, the second from religion’. However, debates about the suitability of hiving these sorts of categories off from other religious pursuits have persisted, with many scholars concluding that such special treatment of these areas, the ‘Frazerian hangover’, is unwarranted (cf. Tambiah 1990). Summarizing the discussion for many, Dorothy Hammond (1970: 1355) concludes: ‘Magic is not an entity distinct from religion but a form of ritual behavior and thus an element of religion’. A historically useful, if intellectually questionable, approach contrasts socalled supplicative attempts to achieve goals with those that are more manipuStephen A. Mitchell, Robert S. and Ilse Friend Professor of Scandinavian and Folklore, Harvard University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume ii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 2 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 643–670 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116953

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lative: according to this view, whereas the religious person (often meaning the practitioner of a more politically powerful religion) implores higher powers through prayer for a particular outcome, the user of magic commands dark, powerful forces to do his bidding. This is a distinction that can be traced back as far as to early Christian writers (e.g., Augustine). An especially important perspective in the West, this view’s underlying thesis, that God and the angels cannot be compelled to do the ritual actor’s bidding and thus the results of magic — understood by everyone, Christian or not, to be real — must therefore derive from diabolical forces, led over time to the concept of the Satanic pact (pactum cum diabolo). And critically for modern scholarship, that was the understanding held by those medieval observers and commentators on whose writings we depend for much of our knowledge of magic in the North. Addressing these and related questions in the medieval European context, Richard Kieckhefer points out that with regard to science, there existed a growing interest in so-called ‘natural magic’, a branch of science looking for ‘occult virtues’ or hidden powers within nature, whereas what the authorities viewed as so-called ‘demonic magic’ was not really distinct from religion, ‘but rather a perversion of religion. It was religion that turned away from God and toward demons for their help in human affairs’ (1989: 9; cf. Kieckhefer 1994; Bailey 2007). Against these largely modern, etic considerations of magic, medieval, and thus more proximate, ecclesiastical and secular authorities did not doubt that they knew what magic was. Early textual sources (e.g., legal and penitential documents) frequently cite behaviours abhorrent to churchmen. Thus, for example, the Konungsbók version of Grágás, a medieval Icelandic law code, condemns the worship of ‘heiþnar vættir’ (heathen beings) and then goes on to prohibit spells, witchcraft, and lesser forms of magic,1 specifying that using such magic, or getting others to use it, carries a penalty of lesser outlawry, whereas more serious magic, magic that causes the death of men or cattle, is punishable with banishment.2 1  ‘Ef maþr ferr með galldra eþa gørningar. eþa fiolkýngi. þa ferr hann með fiolkyngi ef hann queðr þat eþa kennir. eþa lætr queða. at ser eþa at fe sinv’ (If someone uses spells or witchcraft or magic — he uses magic if he utters or teaches someone else or gets someone else to utter words of magic over himself or his property). 2  ‘Ef maþr ferr með fordæs skap. þat varþar scogGang. þat ero fordæs skapir. ef maþr gérir i orðvm sinvm. eþa fiolkyngi sott eþa bana. fe eþa mavnnvm’ (If a man practises black sorcery, the penalty for that is full outlawry. It is black magic if through his words or his magic a man brings about the sickness or death of livestock or people) (Grágás 22). The translators’ use of the terms ‘black sorcery’ and ‘black magic’ are not literal but are intended to sharpen the dif-

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We may today view this law’s configuration of magic as many things, but it is not hard to imagine that the people of medieval Scandinavia knew exactly what the authorities were saying in such pronouncements: namely, that magic was verbal, as the law’s phrasing indicates (‘queðr, lætr queða, i orðvm sinvm’); teachable; sometimes professional; morally reprehensible; and believed to be potent. But even if Christian ecclesiastics viewed magic as iniquitous, that does not mean that magical acts as such were not also recognized and used by Christian missionaries and writers as well. The biography, or vita, of St Ansgar (801– 65), the so-called ‘Apostle of the North’, written by his successor, Rimbert, for example, colourfully details the confrontations between the heathen Swedes and Christianity in the Swedish trade centre of Birka in the first half of the ninth century. Miracles in saints’ lives have long been recognized as a form of ‘white magic’ (Loomis 1948), and what one encounters in Rimbert’s narrative takes advantage of this point to neatly juxtapose the two faith systems. Through a series of miracles involving, for example, protection from violent weather and healing, one of the Christian converts, Herigar, demonstrates the greater magical power of his new religion over native traditions (Vita Anskarii ch. 17–19). In each case, the superiority of Christian magic over pagan magic is emphasized in Vita Ankarii and demonstrates the importance of magic as a tool in the missionaries’ kitbag, as a metalanguage in the dialogue between pagan and Christian (cf. Mitchell 2011: 25–40).

Sources and Survey of Data The body of evidence bequeathed to modern scholarship by a highly serendipitous preservation process offers images of magical functions that touch on all aspects of life in an often harsh and violent world, that is, efforts to influence, even control, weather, war, romance, fertility, sex, fortune, health, and so on, as well as the opportunity to protect and to curse through malediction. Perhaps above all other magical functions, the ability to see into the future, to prophesy the outcome of subsequent events, was prized, something already classical writers note (see è25). In general, our sources for the recovery of pre-Christian magic are either material objects, such as archaeological remains (e.g., talismans), or textual ference between ‘galldra eþa gørningar. eþa fiolkýngi’ (spells or witchcraft or magic) for which lesser outlawry is appropriate and the more sinister form of magic, fordæðuskapr, for which full outlawry is required.

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sources in one sense or another (e.g., runic inscriptions, laws). All of these materials — amulets, house deposits, laws, literature, historical chronicles, synodal statutes, letters, skaldic poems, sermons, charms — contribute to the emerging picture of how pre-Christian Northern Europeans dealt with life’s daily struggles. But they all also require careful assessment as to their so-called ‘truth value’ (cf. Schjødt 2012a). This important issue may be of special significance when dealing with the Icelandic sagas and Eddas, with their alluringly realistic presentations of magic in pagan Scandinavia: these tales and poems are demonstrably among our richest and most promising sources but must always be recognized in the forms we have today as products of the post-conversion world, windows onto earlier practices, to be sure, but like all windows, filtering what we see through sometimes distorted glass. After all, in sifting the texts of the post-Conversion world for relevant evidence, we are almost always dependent on the observations of those with clerical training, people whose every professional instinct must have been to condemn the kinds of behaviours that are of most interest to us. Yet that need not mean that these writers were incapable of being accurate observers; moreover, many of the priests and other ecclesiastics themselves came out of the various cultures of Northern Europe and will have possessed more emic views than we sometimes credit them with. Still, it would be naïve not to expect that we may sometimes encounter authors whose comments are as much the products of fantasy and clerical lore as anything else. A further factor to bear in mind in searching for evidence of magic in the pre-Christian North is that what we regard as magic today may not always have appeared that way to them, and to the extent that all members of all social levels, including ecclesiastics, practised ‘magic’, these behaviours could sometimes be viewed without prejudice. The principal sources of information about magic in the pre-Conversion North are for ease of presentation divided here into the following categories: texts with normative functions, narratives, vocabulary, runic inscriptions, and material culture. Texts with Normative Functions Law codes, synodal statutes, homilies, penitentials, and so on — texts with normative functions — as sources for the understanding of magic have in common that they all offer overtly negative assessments of behaviours deemed unorthodox, frequently amounting to disapproval by church and state authorities of perceived traditional practices. Whether consisting of, for example, homiletic

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jeremiads against the use of aphrodisiacs,3 or reports of magical flight,4 or prohibitions against ‘sitting out’ (útiseta, sitja úti) on mounds in order to see into the future,5 these kinds of texts represent behavioural strictures an empowered elite wished to impose on society as a whole. Each of these cases suggests how complicated such witnesses can be: the Old Norse homiletic warning against aphrodisiacs is likely connected with originally Anglo-Saxon sermon literature; the concern with magical flight we know from a saint’s life, but has likely arrived in the Far North from penitential and canon traditions which are themselves ultimately based on beliefs derived from continental folk traditions; and the warning against the practice of ‘sitting out’ is generally interpreted as referring to a prophetic ritual, but that is entirely uncertain. The fact that the histories of these materials are often complicated, however, should not suggest that they are without evidentiary value, only that the interpretation of the texts, and what they can, and cannot, tell us, needs to proceed with caution. Occasionally the practices or beliefs being referred to can be especially enigmatic, as when the thirteenth-century Swedish Äldre Västgötalagen (Older Law of Västergötland p. 38) states that among the felonious, actionable insults about a woman is to say, ‘Iak sa at þu reet a quiggrindu lösharæþ. ok i trols ham þa alt var iamrift nat ok daghér’ (I saw that you rode on the pen-gate, with your hair loose, and in a witch’s shape, when all was equal between night and day).6 Even more perplexing, a Norwegian law code section begins by speaking of an incomprehensible magical tradition, ‘En ef kona bitr fingr af barne sinu eda to 3  ‘En þer ero sumar konor er gera drycki oc gefa gilmonnum sinum. til þess at þæír skili þa unna þeim væl ok hafa þær at konum sér’ (But there are some women who make drinks and give them to their lovers in order that they should love them well and have them as their wives) (Hauksbók 168). 4  ‘Kveldriður eða hamleypur þykkiaz með Diana gyðiu oc Herodiade a litilli stundu fara yfir stor hỏf riðandi hvolum eða selum, fuglum eða dyrum, eða yfir stor lond’ (‘Evening-riders’ or ‘shape-shifters’ believe themselves to travel with Diana the goddess and Herodias quickly over great oceans, riding whales or seals, birds or wild animals, or over great lands) (Jóns saga Baptista 914). 5  For example, ‘oc sva firi morð oc fordæðo skape. oc utisetu at vekia troll upp. at fremia heiðrni með þvi’ (Gulaþing Law p. 19) (and [those who are killed] for [deeds of ] murder or for [the practice of ] witchcraft or for going abroad at night to call forth evil spirits and to promote heathendom thereby) (p. 58) 6  Important early discussions of this curious passage include Lidén (1914); Pipping (1915: 68–71); Linderholm (1918: 141–42); cf. the overviews in Svenska landskapslagar, v, pp. xi–xxxvii and Mitchell (2011: 150–52).

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ok gerer þat til langlifis hon er sæck .iij. morkum’ (But if a woman bites off a finger or toe from her child and does that [in order to secure] long life, she is fined 3 marks). It goes on to specify aspects of what seems a very ordinary set of magical behaviours: ‘En ef fordædoskapr verdr funnin i bædium eda bulstrum manna har eda nægl eda frauda fötr. eda adrer þæir lutir e[r] uenir þickia til gærninga. þa ma sok gefa’ (And if sorcery is found in bedding or bolster, the hair of a man, or nails or frog feet or other talismans which are thought wont in witchcraft, then a charge may be made) (Borgarþing Law p. 362). Whether such statements are to be taken at face value or as mere phantasms of elite authorities is difficult to assess, but such remarks may over time and with careful assessment prove to be valuable data points. Narratives Narratives too are often extremely valuable windows onto the beliefs of the Middle Ages, although the degree to which they are equally useful as regards the remote past has been a matter of much debate over the decades. Notable presentations of magic in the Icelandic sagas include the enumeration of Óðinn’s magical skills in Ynglinga saga, such as his ability to find hidden treasure, know about future events, and inflict death and misfortune (Ynglinga saga ch. 6–7); the detailed presentation of Egill’s curse to drive King Eiríkr and Queen Gunnhildr from Norway through the use of a níðstǫng ‘scorn pole’ and a verbal charm in Egils saga Skallagrímssonar (ch. 57); Busla’s effective and ribald poetic enchantments of King Hringr through the so-called Buslubæn ‘Busla’s prayer’ and Syrpuvers ‘Syrpa Verses’ that force from the king promises of safety for his son and the eponymous hero of Bósa saga (ch. 5); Gunnlaugr’s studying witchcraft in Eyrbygg ja saga (ch. 16); Þuríðr’s elaborate performance of malicious charm magic against Grettir Ásmundarson (Grettis saga ch. 78); and the seiðr ceremony in Eiríks saga rauða (ch. 4). But these episodes are only a few of the best-known examples from an extremely rich narrative tradition, one carefully ransacked over the decades for evidence of magical practices (e.g., Strömbäck 1935; Dillmann 2006; Tolley 2009a; Mitchell 2011). Recent examinations of the Icelandic saga materials have tended to underscore the tendentious character of how magic is presented in the sagas (e.g., Jochens 1996; Mitchell 2011), although this point should not be understood to nullify the sagas’ capacity to report genuine traditions and practices reliably. One of the most famously detailed — and most frequently cited — scenes of magic being performed in the saga materials is the seiðr ceremony mentioned above and carried out by the lítil-vǫlva ‘Little Prophetess’, Þorbjǫrg, in Eiríks

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saga rauða ch. 4. As presented in the fourteenth-century manuscripts of the saga, this scene, in which an apparently semi-professional Þorbjǫrg — a figure minutely described as regards such details as clothing and dietary habits — employs her prophetic gifts only when certain behaviours have been followed by her host and others. It is notable that Þorbjǫrg is referred to as lítil-vǫlva once and as vísindakona ‘wise woman’ once but as spákona ‘seeress’ a half dozen times, all labels representative of her role in the saga; moreover, she is said to have had nine sisters, all of whom were seeresses: ‘Hon hafði átt sér níu systr, ok váru allar spákonur…’. On the evening of the second day of her stay, ‘var henni veittr sá umbúningr, sem hon þurfti at hafa til at fremja seiðinn. Hon bað ok fá sér konur þær, er kynni frœði þat, sem til seiðsins þarf ok Varðlokur hétu’ (she was provided with things she required to carry out her magic rites [seiðr]. She asked for women who knew the chants required for carrying out magic rites [seiðr], which are called ward songs [Varðlokur]). These chants turn out to be a special kind of song evidently known only to a Christian woman visiting there, who had learned them from her foster-mother back in Iceland, and who is very reluctant to assist in such pagan activities. Convinced by her host that her assistance is necessary, the woman, Guðríðr, agrees to help. Slógu þá konur hring um hjallinn, en Þorbjǫrg sat á uppi. Kvað Guðríðr þá kvæðit svá fagrt ok vel, at engi þóttisk heyrt hafa með fegri rǫdd kvæði kveðit, sá er þar var hjá. Spákonan þakkar henni kvæðit ok kvað margar þær náttúrur nú til hafa sótt ok þykkja fagrt at heyra, er kvæðit var svá vel flutt, — ‘er áðr vildu við oss skiljask ok enga hlýðni oss veita. En mér eru nú margir þeir hlutir auðsýnir, er áðr var ek duldið, ok margir aðrir’. (Eíriks saga rauða ch. 4) (The women now formed a circle around [Slógu […] hring um, lit. ‘(they) surrounded’] the scaffold [hjallinn] upon which Þorbjörg sat. Guðríðr sang the song so beautifully and well, that no one who was there believed they had heard the song sung with a more beautiful voice [kvæði kveðit]. The seeress thanked her for the song [kvæði] and said ‘many spirits [náttúrur] have come here and think it beautiful to hear a song so well-delivered, [spirits] who previously stayed away and would not grant us obedience. And many things are now apparent to me which earlier had been hidden from me and many others’.)7

Whether this scene is a fundamentally accurate description of such activities or the invention of the later author has been at the heart of much discussion (below), and the resolution of that question is one of central significance to our 7 

For the sake of accuracy, I provide this literal translation.

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understanding of magical practices in the pre-Christian North, and to the ability of modern scholarship to access such information (see è30). Generally, other saga references reinforce the same association as the one presented in Eiríks saga rauða, one also in evidence in the laws, of magical practices as pagan survivals from the pre-Christian world. This perspective on magic and superstition as ‘survivals’ is, of course, one made famous by Tylor, when he describes superstitious beliefs as being ‘fragments of a dead lower culture embedded in a living higher one’ (Tylor 1871: i, 65). Given this widespread view, one that is hardly the invention of the nineteenth century, it is unsurprising that the persistence of paganism and pagan beliefs is a regular theme in the sagas. Orkneyinga saga, for example, offers its audience the image of a recently converted Sweden, where King Ingi despises the old pagan practices and seeks to abolish their prophetic practices, their sorcerers, and their bad customs, an initiative that leads to a popular revolt and the attempt to replace Ingi with a different leader, one more sympathetic to pagan traditions (Orkneyinga saga ch. 35). This episode about so-called ‘Sacrifice-Sveinn’ (Blót-Sveinn) appears elsewhere in Icelandic saga literature (e.g., Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks ch. 16) and is referred to in a series of Swedish documents, where the usurper is sometimes Latinized to Sveno Victimarius. It is a tale that may contain elements of historical truth (cf. Ljungberg 1938: 233–38; Sävborg 2015) — certainly, it is precisely this same image of prolonged magical practices and superstitions, and the need to abolish them, that dominates many of the medieval Nordic sources looking back at the pagan past, as happens in many of the konungasögur and biskopasögur, sagas focusing on the biographies and careers of kings and bishops. Equally comprehensive, and arguably of greater value in reconstructing Nordic magic in the pre-Christian world, are the skaldic and eddic poems that were preserved in the Icelandic Middle Ages, but presumably hark back much further. Here we get indications of a vast array of magical practices, although all too often only hinted at. Thus, for example, the master of magic within the Old Norse pantheon, Óðinn, claims in Hávamál st. 146–63 to know eighteen different charms, although notably he does so without revealing their secrets. Still, he does claim that among his special kinds of knowledge are: charms against sorrows; medical charms; imprecations to blunt his enemies’ weapons; charms to escape from bonds; spells to stop the flight of arrows; magic that allows him to turn charms of hatred back against their conjurer; incantations against fire; charms to still hostility; spells to calm a stormy sea; magic against witches; spells to protect allies in battle; necromantic charms; spells for success in battle; incantations that allow him to know supernatural details; charms that give

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strength, success and wisdom; charms that give him the pleasures of a woman; and spells for romance, as well as an enigmatic eighteenth charm (Hávamál st. 163; cf. McKinnell 2007). More detailed in its presentation of magical practices is an eddic poem like Skírnismál, which provides a relatively rare comprehensive image of a charm being worked. The frame story has Skírnir, the servant of the god Freyr, travelling to the giantess Gerðr in order to acquire her for his master. When his various attempts to win her through bribes and threats fail, Skírnir engages in a magical performance, finally winning her acquiescence through it. The performance is marked by Skírnir’s repeated references to, and uses of, a wand (called a tamsvǫndr and gambanteinn in the poem), the fact that the meter of the poem switches to galdralag (‘incantation metre’, where the final line echoes, sometimes repeats, the penultimate line), and the content and wording of the poem, a portion of which mirrors charm magic known from runic inscriptions (cf. Reichardt 1939; Mitchell 1998, 2007). Busla’s versified enchantment of King Hringr in Bósa saga provides yet another detailed example of an eddicstyle imprecation being performed (cf. Thompson 1978; Mitchell 2011: 190). Given its memorial and panegyrical functions, skaldic poetry does not offer the same sort of perspectives on magical performances, if that is what these examples are, but does afford interesting testimony of sorts. So, for example, Ynglingatal, according to tradition composed by Þjóðólfr ór Hvini c. 900, and preserved, for example, in Ynglinga saga in Snorri’s Heimskringla, sketches elements of the pre-Christian magical world. When a certain king, Vanlandi, has not made good on his promise to return to his wife, this abandoned mother of his son calls on the help of a female practitioner of magic (seiðkona) who kills him by riding him in the form of a nightmare: Enn á vit Vilja bróður vitta véttr Vanlanda kom, þás trollkund of troða skyldi liðs Grimhildr ljóna bága. Ok sá brann á beði Skútu menglǫtuðr, es mara kvalði. (Ynglingatal 3; cf. Ynglinga saga ch. 13)

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(And the creature of charms [sorceress] got Vanlandi to visit the brother of Vili [= Óðinn], when the troll-descended Grímhildr of strong drink [woman] had to trample the fighter of men [king]. And that ring-destroyer [generous man] whom the mara tormented burned on the bank of Skúta.) (p. 12)8

In other words, when the ‘witch’ performs her act of supernatural aggression — ‘En er seiðr var framiðr’ (But when the seiðr was performed) — Vanlandi is killed by the ‘troll-descended Grímhildr of strong drink’, the mara (nightmare), riding him to death (Ynglinga saga ch. 13). As understandably dominating as such remarkable Icelandic texts are in discussions of magic, the Icelandic sagas are by no means the only narratives to take up the question of magic in the pagan North. The Latin history of the Norwegian kings from the ninth to twelfth centuries, Historia de antiquitate regum Norwagiensium, by Theodoricus Monachus provides images of both native traditions and the work’s broader Christian design when it talks of idols and prophecies uttered by demons in connection with ritual specialists of both genders who are called seithmen (i.e., seiðmenn) ‘sorcerers, witches’ in the vernacular (ch. 11). The king has eighty of them gathered into a building and burned. Aspects of this tale are also known from Icelandic sagas, but the broader question of how much we can trust any of these sources, given their religious purposes and tendentious nature, as well as the classical training of many of their authors, dogs, but does not necessarily prevent, attempts at analysis. The same issue applies, for example, to such information as the presentation of magic and magicians in relation to paganism and godhead in the Gesta Danorum of Saxo Grammaticus: Olim enim quidam magice artis imbuti, Thor uidelicet et Othinus aliique com­plures miranda prestigiorum machinatione callentes, obtentis simplicium animis diuinitatis sibi fastigium arrogare coeperunt. Quippe Noruagiam, Suetiam ac Dani­am uanissime credulitatis laqueis circumuentas ad cultus sibi pendendi stu­dium concitantes pre­ cipuo ludificationis sue contagio resperserunt. (6.5.3) (At one time certain indivduals, initiated into the arts of sorcery, namely Thor, Odin and a number of others who were skilled at conjuring up marvellous illusions, clouded the minds of simple men and began to appropriate the exalted rank of godhead. Norway, Sweden, and Denmark were ensnared in a groundless convic8 

Cf. John Lindow’s careful literal translation, ‘But to visit the brother of Vili [Óðinn], the creature of magic arranged for Vanlandi, when the troll-related night Hildr [witch] was to tread underfoot the enemy of the band of men; and that necklace-destroyer [king], whom the nightmare strangled, burned on the bank of Skúta’ (Lindow 1995: 10).

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tion, urged to a devoted worship of these frauds and infected by the smirch of their gross imposture.9

Vocabulary The terms used to describe magic-related activities and peoples represents a further significant source of information, even if Latin terms (e.g., maleficium ‘witchcraft’, maleficare ‘to bewitch’, incantatio ‘spell’, sortilegium ‘fortune-telling’) are commonly used in many of the legal and ecclesiastical documents treating Nordic magic. At the same time, there are many native terms, which must be counted by the dozens, even hundreds, from which it is possible to tease out a sense of magic’s perceived functions in the non-Christian North. To a degree, the Nordic magical vocabulary reflects usage shared by other IndoEuropean languages, and it is helpful to review the Nordic semantic taxonomy against this important linguistic backdrop (cf. Buck 1949; de Vries 1962a). A vastly richer hoard of terms exists from medieval Iceland than elsewhere, but whether this fact is due to the circumstance that there exist more, and more discursive, medieval Icelandic texts, or from the possible explanation that differing attitudes about magic developed in medieval Iceland is impossible to know at this remove. The very large Nordic inventory of words for magical acts and actors principally builds on notions of prophecy, wisdom, deeds, performance, transformations and transvection, trollness, the paraphernalia of magic, and paganism, as enumerated below, with illustrative examples; the glosses are drawn from Cleasby and Vigfusson (1957). For more complete terminological catalogues and discussions, see one of the many specialized studies that take up this question (e.g., Jochens 1996; Dillmann 2006; Mitchell 2011). Prophecy Foretelling the future contributes heavily to the magical vocabulary, with numerous compounds constructed on spá, as a noun ‘a prophecy’ and as a verb ‘to foretell’ (cf. Scots spae): thus, for example, spádómr, spáleikr, spámæli, spáorð, spásaga, spásǫgn, all meaning ‘prophecy’, ‘divination’, ‘spae-word’, ‘prophetic words’, and so on. Compounds for women who carry out such activities are often built on this same simplex (i.e., prophecy plus a term for a female, so, spádís, spákerling, spákona, spámær); male counterparts are sometimes called spá9 

Cf. the essays in Friis-Jensen (1981).

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menn (singular spámaðr). Those capable of divination are said to have the ‘gift of prophecy’ (spádómsgipt, spádómsg jǫf). Ultimately, all of these terms derive from the device used ceremonially for seeing into the future, namely, the simple wood chip, spánn (also: spónn; blótspánn ‘chip used in divination’). Other terms referring to prophecy, foreboding, superintendence, and so on reflect usage roughly equivalent to ‘foresight’, with an emphasis on the concept of ‘seeing’ into the future (e.g., forsýn ‘foresight’, ‘foreboding’; forsýnn ‘gifted with foresight’; framsýn ‘foresight’; framsýnn ‘foreseeing, prophetic’) (see è25). Wisdom To describe someone as ‘knowledgeable’ kunnigr (< kunna ‘to know’, ‘to understand’) can indicate that he or she is versed in magic, and ‘magic lore’ is thus sometimes styled kunnátta, kunnasta, and kunnusta. Wisdom is also widely used to describe practitioners of magic, especially ‘wise women’, ‘sibyls’, ‘soothsayers’, ‘magicians’ (vísdómskona, vísendakona, vísindamaðr, vísdómsmaðr). Likewise, spakr ‘wise’ is used with the notion of prophetic vision or second sight; thus, spakfrǫmuðr ‘soothsayer’, ‘sage’. A very productive and widely used part of this category consists of fjǫl- ‘much’ and marg- ‘many’, prefixes which when joined with terms for knowledge and wisdom form compounds indicating preternatural wisdom, or ‘witchcraft’ or ‘magic’, often literally meaning something like ‘much knowing’, ‘knowledgeable about many things’ (e.g., fjǫlkyngi, fjǫlkyngislist, fjǫlkyngisíþrótt, marg frœði, margkunnandi). Terms for those who practise these arts are made by adding words indicating people (e.g., fjǫlkyngisfólk, fjǫlkyngiskona, fjǫlkyngismaðr, or adjectivally, fjǫlkunnigr, margkunnigr). Deeds Terms for magic-related activities often build on dáð ‘deed’ or gerning ‘act, doing, deed’. In the case of dáð, the addition of the negative prefix for- generates terms for witchcraft and sorcery itself (fordæðuskapr) and criminal acts of magic (fordæðuverk ‘an execrable crime’). Used in the plural, gerningar glosses ‘witchcraft’ and is occasionally found in such concatenations as the alliterative phrase galdrar ok gerningar, in this instance in the Old Norwegian laws concerned with recalcitrant paganism (Nyere Gulathings-Christenret pp. 307–08; cf. pp. 326–27). These ‘deed’ terms are among the most negatively charged in the entire lexicon insofar as they frequently indicate the felonious results of magical acts (e.g., gerningahríð and gerningaveðr both meaning ‘storm raised

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by witchcraft’; gerningasótt ‘sickness caused by sorcery’). This pattern accounts for many of the terms used for those who practise magic, for example, fordæðumaðr, gerningakarl, gerningamaðr, gerningavættr, all meaning ‘witch’, ‘sorcerer’, or ‘wizard’, also available in feminine forms, fordæða, gerningakona, gerningavíf. Performance Frequently words for spells and charms are based on terms connected to singing (or the sounds of incantations being produced), nomenclature which has subsequently attached itself both to the individuals carrying out the act, and the act itself. Seiðr ‘magic’, ‘spell’, ‘charm’, ‘enchantment’, ‘incantation’ has been etymologized by some to words for singing, by others to the root for ‘bind’, although other possibilities exist as well (cf. Strömbäck 1935: 120–21; de Vries 1962a; Tolley 2009a: 26). Certainly by the time of most written records from Old Icelandic, it is one of the dominant terms for witchcraft and sorcery. There are a variety of terms that hint at the idea of seiðr as ceremony and ritual (e.g., efla seið, fremja seið, magna seið, seiða seið, phrases that express the sense of performing or exercising seiðr, or practising sorcery). Related meanings are contained in the verbs seiða ‘to enchant by a spell’, ‘to work a spell’, ‘to practise sorcery’ and síða ‘to work a charm’, and those who practise such magic are called seiðberandr ‘practitioner of magic’; seiðkona ‘sorceress’, ‘witch’, ‘magic woman’; seiðmaðr ‘enchanter’, ‘wizard’; and seiðskratti ‘wizard’. A number of terms underscore the idea of seiðr as charm or spell or the execution of such magic: seiðgaldr ‘enchantment by spells’, seiðmagnan ‘the working of a spell’, seiðsla ‘the working of a spell’ (cf. seiðvilla ‘spells to counteract witchcraft’). And a large number of compounds turn on the physical aspects of the actual ritual: seiðhjallr ‘incantation-scaffold’, seiðlæti ‘sounds heard during the incantation’, seiðstafr ‘enchanter’s wand’, seiðstaðr ‘the place where a spell is worked’. If there is some doubt about the connection between seiðr and singing, the same cannot be said of galdr ‘song’, ‘charm’; ‘witchcraft’, ‘sorcery’ (cf. gala ‘to crow’; ‘to chant’, ‘sing’; Latin gallus ‘cock’; English nightingale; yell), a term associated with both singing and magic in other Germanic languages (e.g., AngloSaxon galdor ‘sound’, ‘song’, ‘incantation’, ‘spell’, ‘enchantment’; galdorcræft ‘occult art’, ‘incantation’, ‘magic’). Thus, the compound ‘galdra-man (or woman)’ is a common phrase for witch, sorceress, wizard, and so on (e.g., galdrakarl, galdrakerling, galdrakind, galdrakona, galdramaðr, galdrameistari, galdraraumr, galdrasmiðr); there is also a related simplex gylfra ‘witch’. Like seiðr, with which it bears so many similarities, galdr is associated with a large number of terms relating to its practice: galdrabók ‘book of magic’, galdrahríð ‘magic storm’, galdrasmiðja

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‘articles used in the practice of magic’, galdrastafir ‘magical characters’, galdravél ‘a magical device’. The term valgaldr indicates ‘a kind of necromancy ascribed to Óðinn’, combining galdr with the battle dead, valr. A number of Old Norse terms connect charms with the performance of magic ceremonies: álag (especially plural álǫg) ‘spell’, ‘charm’; andsœlis ‘withershins’, ‘against the course of the sun’; atkvæði ‘spell’, ‘charm’, ‘word’, ‘sound’, ‘decision’; bǫlva ‘to curse’, ‘swear’ (cf. bǫlbæn, bǫlvan ‘curse’, ‘imprecation’); heilla ‘to enchant’, ‘spell-bind’, ‘bewitch’; ljóða á ‘to chant at’ [= ‘to enchant’?]; magna ‘empower’, ‘strengthen’; ‘to charm, make strong by a spell’. Transformations and Transvection Many phrases used for and about magic in the Norse world concern flight, or other magical transport: renna gǫndum ‘to ride a witch-ride’ (also: gandreið ‘witch ride’; < gandr ‘anything enchanted or an object used by sorcerers’10) connotes one aspect of this idea, as does hamfarir, which has been described (Cleasby and Vigfusson 1957: 236) as ‘a mythical word, the “faring” or travelling in the assumed shape of an animal, fowl or deer, fish or serpent, with magical speed over land and sea, the wizard’s own body meantime lying lifeless and motionless’ (< hamr ‘skin’; ‘shape’; cf. hamhleypa ‘a human being who travels in the shape of an animal; a witch that goes out in ham-farir’; hamramr ‘able to change one’s shape’; hamstolinn, hamstoli ‘prop. a wizard whose skin has been stolen, and hence metaph. frantic, furious’; hamfrær ‘witches’). A variety of other terms refer to the same idea: kveldriða ‘night-hag’, ‘witch’, ‘evening rider’; myrkriða ‘nightrider’, ‘hag’, ‘witch, dark rider’; and túnriða (< ‘hedge rider’) ‘witch’, ‘ghost’. Related in the sense that these phrases too involve the idea of movement and space, a number of other important and widely used expressions for witchcraft and the magical world have to do with the location of its practice, or where one learns to practise the art. Thus, one can fara til Finna or trúa á Finna ‘travel 10  Scholarship on this word complex has a very long and complicated history (e.g., Lid 1927): one of its most famous appearances in our source documents comes in Historia Norwegie (4.13–23), where it evidently occurs in the context of Sámi shamanism and is referred to as a gandus. Drawing on this and other medieval attestations, etymologies, later folklore materials, and Sámi religion, Heide (2006a) notes the connections between the term understood as referring to magical agents which can variously reconnoiter or harm, or even help, individuals, and the word understood as a staff or wand, as well as penis. Further noting its association with such senses as ‘spirit’, ‘wind’, ‘breath’, ‘puff ’, and so on, he suggests that such spirits could travel in and out of various bodily orifices, a penetration, and interpretation, which could even be understood sexually, including anal sex. Cf. Tolley (1994, 1995, 2009a) and Mitchell (2003a).

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to (believe in) the Sámi for the purpose of witchcraft’, or take a finnfǫr ‘Sámitrip, i.e., visit Sámi for the purpose of witchcraft or sorcery’ (cf. finnvitka ‘to Sámi-witch, i.e., to bewitch like a Sámi’).11 A widely used phrase for the practice of witchcraft, especially in the Norwegian laws, has to do with sitting out of doors: útiseta (also: sitja úti) ‘a sitting out in the open air, esp. of wizards for the practice of sorcery’, whence útisetumaðr ‘wizard’. Trollness No lexical complex yields more terms than those built on troll-, including many common medieval designations for magic and witchcraft. At the same time, few terminological complexes have more disputed etymologies — or interpretations — than those associated with trolldómr ‘witchcraft’, trolldómligr ‘belonging to witchcraft’ (< troll ‘a monstrous, evil-disposed being’, ‘not belonging to the human race’; ‘a human being having the nature of a troll’). It should perhaps be understood in the context of the related verb trylla ‘to enchant, turn into a troll’; ‘reflexively, to be enchanted’; ‘entroll’.12 Semantically, several terms point to the Other World, madness, and magic. Some of the terms — trollaukinn ‘troll-eked’, ‘possessed by a troll’; trylldr ‘charmed’; ‘to become mad, furious, demonic’; tryllskr ‘bewitched’, ‘the being a troll or a witch’; also trollskapr ‘nature of a troll’, ‘witchcraft’; tryllska ‘witchery’, ‘the being a witch’ — suggest the probability that medieval Scandinavians themselves would have done with Óðinn and óðr . From these words have sprung many of the most commonly employed terms for witchcraft in the non-insular Nordic tongues: trollkarl (Danish troldkarl) ‘magician’, ‘witch’, ‘sorcerer’, ‘necromancer’, and its female equivalents trollkerling, trollkona. With this group, one might also associate such related terms as ergi ‘lewdness, lust; wickedness, devilry’, galinn ‘mad’, ‘frantic’; ‘voluptuous’, ‘sensual’ (Modern Swedish galen) (< gala ‘to crow’; ‘to chant, sing’), and skelmiskapr ‘devilry’ (< skelmir ‘a devil’, ‘rogue’; cf. German Schelm). A further possibility suggests that the terms are to be derived from words having as their common thread the notion of deception. Witches possessed the power to cast spells typically described as sjónhverfiligr ‘eye-deceiving’ (lit., ‘sight-warped’) and deception of this sort was called a sjónhverfing ‘ocular delusion’, ‘worked by a spell’. 11  In this context, Sámi is the most likely meaning of Finnar, although the term was used of other non-Scandinavian Balto-Finnic groups; see (è16) (è17) (è18). 12  In the most comprehensive review of scholarship and interpretations of trolls to date, Lindow (2014b: 12) ingeniously proposes ‘entroll’ as a gloss for forms of trylla.

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Paraphernalia There are a number of terms that do not easily fit the categories enumerated above. These words typically have to do with accoutrements related to the practice of magic. Such paraphernalia include the skáldstǫng ‘libel pole’, ‘a pole with imprecations or charms scratched onto it’, which is specifically mentioned in Kong Sverrers Christenret (p. 430) and has been inferred elsewhere, as in Egils saga, as a means of aggressive magic. Similarly, the spágandr ‘divination rod’ or seiðstafr ‘witch’s wand’, also called tamsvǫndr and gambanteinn, are routine elements of the witch’s kit. Another potentially important arena of witchcraft activity pertains to the witch’s possible role as a lifkona ‘herb-woman’, ‘healer’. Although healing with plants was clearly important in Norse society, the use of lyfjar ‘herbs’ (to which Cleasby and Vigfusson (1957: 400) add: ‘esp[ecially] with the notion of healing, witchcraft or supernatural power’) can carry a negative connotation in medieval Scandinavia. Thus, for example, the Norwegian codes warn that one should avoid lif runir oc galdra ‘herbs-runes and magic runes’ calling them fiandans […] darscapir ‘mockeries of the devil’ (Erkebiskop Paals tredie Statut p. 286). An important set of terms which may also have its origins in the use of specific paraphernalia (painted runes?) revolves around taufr ‘sorcery’, ‘charms’, ‘talismans’ (cf.  German Zauber, OHG zoubar); thus, taufra ‘to enchant’; taufr(a)maðr ‘sorcerer’, ‘enchanter’; but also taufralauss ‘lacking in magic’.13 Paganism Finally, it needs to be said that since the principal concern of the older Nordic laws was the promotion of an exclusively Christian world-view, it is hardly surprising that everything relating to the former pagan world is condemned with exactly this chronological concatenation in mind, typically using compounds of forn- ‘old, ancient’: forneskja ‘old times’; ‘heathenism’; ‘old lore’, ‘witchcraft’ (> forneskjumaðr ‘sorcerer, wizard’); fornfræði ‘old lore (of witchcraft)’ and fornfróðr ‘skilled in old lore’, ‘versed in witchcraft’; fornspjǫll ‘old spells’, ‘old lore’; fyrnska ‘old lore’, ‘witchcraft’; vita fyrnsku ‘to be skilled in witchcraft’ (cf. fremja heiðni ‘to promote, practise heathen worship’). It is in this context that hindrvitni ‘idolatry’, ‘superstition’, ‘nonsense’, is forbidden in the Norwegian laws: 13 

The argument is sometimes made that taufr is to be associated with Anglo-Saxon teáfor ‘a pigment, material used for colouring’ through the idea of painted runes. Cf. de Vries (1962a: 583); Bosworth and Toller (1898–1921: 972).

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‘ef madr fær med spadome. runum galdrum. gerningum. eða hindrvitnum sem dǫmiz firir villu’ (if anyone uses prophecy, magical runes, witchcraft, or superstition judged to be heretical) (Erkebiskop Arnes Statut p. 300). The terms enumerated above by no means represent all the possible ways of expressing the use of magic in medieval Scandinavia: a number of additional terms for magician, witch, sorcerer, and so on exist, including Old Swedish runokarl and koklare (but also meaning ‘fool’). Among the most widely used of these terms is the charged word skratti (also skrattakarl) ‘wizard’, ‘warlock’, ‘wicked wizard’; ‘goblin’, ‘monster’. To the extent that such usages provide a reliable window in the aggregate into the magical world of Northern Europe, especially in its preliterate phases, these lexemes too suggest, inter alia, beliefs and practices associated with a discursive mix of sometimes harmful, sometimes helpful outsider powers to be tapped into by specialists, as well as valuable opportunities to learn of future events and acquire numinous knowledge. Runic Inscriptions and Charms Runic inscriptions relating to magic provide key insights into the thoughtworld of the pre-Christian North, exactly because the earliest of them antedate by centuries initial acceptance of Christianity by ruling elites, the events usually used as the official dates for the conversion of the various nascent Nordic countries, and even after the Christianization process, the runic materials offer contemporary written data that did not require special training at cathedral schools and the other usual church-related interventions that can cloud written medieval testimony. Caution is, however, very much in order, as there has historically been a tendency to over-interpret the connection between magic and runes, and to regard runes as something other, or more, than an epigraphic system (cf. the overviews and discussions in, e.g., Bæksted 1952 and Flowers 1986). Two anthologies of runic inscriptions relating to magic, McKinnell and others (2004), and MacLeod and Mees (2006), with generous references to the scholarly literature and debates, have in recent years supplemented the excellent electronic file of transcriptions, transliterations, and translations, Samnordisk runtextdatabas, whose transcriptions and English translations are followed here except where noted. Among the single-word runic texts from the pre-Christian era appear such apparently magical words as laukaR, alu, salu, laþu, and ota, whose meanings are paradoxically at the same time both simple yet largely impervious to easy explanation (cf. McKinnell and others 2004: 85–101). One of the most

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Figure 26.1. Runic amulet of bronze from Högstena in Västergötland (Vg 216, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). Illustration: Ksenija Dubrovina, © Sofia Pereswetoff-Morath. 

straightforward charm texts may be the bronze fibula from Strand, Trøndelag, Norway, c. 700 (N 450), siklisnAhli, transliterated as siklis nA hli in Samnordisk runtextdatabas, which normalizes and translates the inscription as sigli’s nauða hlé, ‘The jewellery is protection from (the) needs’. It has been suggested that ná- may be related to nár ‘corpse’ and thus the charm would be meant to ward against, for example, the walking dead, draugar, in general, or perhaps intended to calm the corpse of the buried person with whom it was deposited.14 Similar in intent may be the alliterating eleventh-century inscription on the Högstena bronze amulet from Västergötland, Sweden (VG 216, Samnordisk runtextdatabas; McKinnell and others 2004: 171; MacLeod and Mees 2006: 130), which reads, ‘Gal anda viðr, gangla viðr, riðanda viðr, viðr rinnanda, viðr s[it]ianda, viðr sign[and]a, viðr f[a]randa, viðr fliuganda. S[kal] allt fy[r]na ok um døyia’ ([I] practise witchcraft against the spirit, against the walking (spirit), against the riding, against the running, against the sitting, against the sinking, 14 

McKinnell and others (2004: 163) normalizes the inscription as sigli’s ná-hlé with the translation: ‘The brooch is protection (against) the dead’. MacLeod and Mees (2006: 75) concur, giving Sigli (i)s ná-hlé ‘Brooch (i)s corpse-protection (i.e., against the walking dead)’. Cf. Mitchell (2008) on the n-rune, nár, and wraiths.

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Figure 26.2. Fragment of a human skull dated to the eighth century, from Ribe in Jylland. On the skull, a runic charm text is inscribed (DR EM85, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). Photo: Lennart Larsen, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen. 

against the travelling, against the flying. Everything shall lose its vitality and die). One might prefer ‘[I] charm against’, or even ‘[I] sing, or chant, against’, for the central repeated gal viðr, since that is the usage Óðinn himself makes in Hávamál 152 (‘þann kann ec galdr at gala’, ‘I know that charm to chant’, ‘spell to sing’, and so on), and mirrors the term’s etymology; moreover, it reflects a sense of the performance practices likely to have been associated with the actual vocalization of the charm (cf. Mitchell 2013). The early eighth-century text inscribed on a fragment of human skull from Ribe, Denmark (DR EM85, Samnordisk runtextdatabas; McKinnell and others 2004: 50–51; MacLeod and Mees 2006: 25–27, figure 26.2) mentions Óðinn, as well as, it would seem, terms for pain and ‘dwarf ’ (dværg), a wellknown trope in Germanic medical lore (cf. Jolly 1996; Hall 2007). Although the text, its transliteration, and its meaning are much debated, with sometimes greatly differing outcomes, one possible presentation of the inscription would be ulfuR Auk uþin Auk HutiuR ‘HiAlb buriis uiþR þAiMAuiArkiAuk tuirkuni2n [hole] buur with the following possible translations, (Ulfr and Óðinn and Hydyr … … against that pain and … …), (Ulfúrr and Óðinn and Hátyr are help for Burr

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Figure 26.3. Runic amulet from Kvinneby on Öland, dated to the eleventh century (Öl SAS1989; 43, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). Illustration: Ksenija Dubrovina, © Sofia Pereswetoff-Morath. 

against these: pain and dwarfstroke. Burr), or (Ulfr and Óðinn and Há-. Help is against that pain. And the dwarf (is) conquered Bour(r)).15 The broader context of this Óðinn reference may indicate familiarity with the Norse myth known from later sources about the origins of the world (MacLeod and Mees 2006: 25), in what is called a historiola, a reference to a mythic narrative embedded in a magic formula. This is by no means clear in this case, but a consensus holds that the item is an amulet intended to fight against head pain of some sort, presumably the reason behind the choice of a cranial medium for the inscription. A further example of apotropaic magic may be the early eleventh-century Kvinneby amulet from Öland, Sweden (Öl SAS1989;43, Samnordisk runtextsdatabas; McKinnell and others 2004: 65–66; MacLeod and Mees 2006: 27–29). It was produced from sheet copper, bears the image of a fish, and has a hole that apparently allowed it to be worn as a periapt. That is about all that modern scholarship agrees on with respect to the amulet, apart from the runic text’s use of another, and in this case, clear, historiola: namely, the myth of Þórr’s fishing for the World Serpent and the appearance in it of his hammer, Mjǫllnir. 15 

Samnordisk runtextdatabas, with emendations from McKinnell and others (2004: 50–51), who also present an overview of possible interpretations, as suggested by, for example, Klaus Düwel, Ottar Grønvik, Edith Marold, and Marie Stoklund.

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Figure 26.4. Runic inscription from Søndre Søstergården in Bergen, dated to the twelfth century (N B380, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). Photo: Kulturhistorisk museum, Universitetet i Oslo, Oslo. 

That central section of the text reads: ‘En bra haldi illu fran Bofa. Þorr gæti hans með þæim hamri sem uR § B hafi kom’ (…hold all evil away from Bófi. May Þórr protect him with that hammer which came from out of the sea). By no means were all magical runic inscriptions charms, but charms, often preserved in runic inscriptions, represent an important tradition within Northern magic. Major anthologies of Nordic charms (in, e.g., Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og æfintýri, Norske hexeformularer, Danmarks trylleformler, Signelser ock besvärjelser) often contain medieval magical texts that may reflect in various ways on the pre-Christian traditions, at least to the extent that some of the deities known from the pre-Conversion pantheon, Óðinn and Þórr especially, are mentioned in them. The likelihood, however, that interpretatio Christiana has shaped the tradition must also be borne in mind (cf. Celander 1920; de Vries 1931; Mitchell 2009), although it is also clear that there exist important continuities between various multiforms of charm magic over time (e.g., Liestøl 1964; Mitchell 1998). Precisely how such materials were remembered over generations is unclear, although modern studies in such areas as memory studies (e.g., Olsan 2004; Hermann 2015) hold out the promise of a better understanding of such mechanisms. Not infrequently, the magical content, and magical intent, if any, can be difficult to tease out of the runic texts. The late twelfth-century runic inscription from Søndre Søstergården in Bergen (N B380, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) would be a fine example of this point. With its alliterative character, references to pagan deities, and charm-like structure, it might seem that this rune stick’s meaning would be clear and beyond dispute, but that is not at all the case. It reads, § A Heil(l) sé þú ok í hugum góðum. § B Þórr þik þiggi, Óðinn þik eigi. ‘§ A Hail to you and good thoughts. § B May Þórr receive you, may Óðinn own you’ (cf. Liestøl 1964: 37–38; Meulengracht Sørensen 1991: 219–20; McKinnell and others 2004: 128; MacLeod and Mees 2006: 30–31). But to what does this inscription, composed in galdralag ‘incantation metre’ refer? Is it complete or is it simply a portion of a

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larger work, as Liestøl believes? Does this reference to the pagan gods represent a magical act or not? Opinions about its meaning and purpose have differed substantially, ranging from the view that it is a private expression of faith by a heathen (Hultgård 1998b: 730) to the possibility that it is nothing more than an antiquarian exercise, perhaps even a parody (Marold 1998a: 680–82). Material Culture Finally, we have the opportunity to recover pre-Christian magical practices and beliefs from material culture. Here too caution is in order: with the possible exception of runic inscriptions, no area has been more subject to conjecture, misinterpretation, and speculation. Indeed, the romantic and overgenerous interpretations of some early practitioners (e.g. Stjerna 1912; Nerman 1931) led in turn to, on the one hand, extreme caution among some later scholars, creating an atmosphere where functionalist and materialist interpretations were preferred to alternative explanations of possible magical goods, as well as, on the other hand, a certain disciplinary atomism, a division that has been extensively healed in recent decades.16 Moreover, strict divisions between and among types of and approaches to the data, although understandable and useful scholarly conveniences, can run the risk of hyper-professionalism and, worse still, of obfuscating our understanding of what pagan tradition bearers might have believed. The impossibility of absolute divisions among the sources becomes clear if one considers, for example, runic inscriptions and sagas, whose messages are, strictly speaking, forms of textual evidence, requiring philological expertise: at the same time, they are necessarily preserved as physical objects — talismans, amulets, manuscripts, and so on — the end results of production techniques carried out by human hands, where archaeological methods are also called for (cf. Fuglesang 1989; Driscoll 2010). The following examples, selected with an eye toward illustrating varying types of evidence, underscore how a better understanding of the nature and means of magic in the pre-Christian Northmust depend on an omnivorous intellectual approach to data.17 16 

For an introduction to this vast topic, see Andrén (1997, 1998a), Price (2002), and the essays in Steinsland (1986), and Raudvere and Schjødt (2012). 17  This point is not intended to detract in any way from the advantages of disciplinary specialization, but it does argue for the necessity of broad interdisciplinarity if we are to begin understanding so multifaceted a topic as archaic magical practices; cf. Mitchell and others (2010) and Mitchell (2011: 17–25).

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Figure 26.5. House from the village of Vallhagar on Gotland, dated between the third and the sixth centuries. In four postholes and two deposits in the floor, a quern stone, a ceramic pot, and bones from horse and sheep have been found. These finds have been interpreted as house deposits. Plan: Annika Jeppson in Carlie 2004: 129, based on Biörnstad 1955. 

In a series of recent studies, important questions have been raised about the nature and meaning of house floor assemblages and other kinds of ritual depositions in Scandinavia, variously referred to as ‘house deposits’, ‘foundation sacrifices’, and so on (e.g., Carlie 2004; Hansen 2006; Larsson 2007; Falk 2008). The Iron Age ritual building at Uppåkra, for example, was found to have had a metal beaker and glass bowl deposited while the building was in use (Larsson 2007). Defining what such materials represent (e.g., an accidental deposit or an intentional one; a deposition connected with magical, ritual and ceremonial purposes, or something buried purely out of security concerns), let alone the spiritual purpose, if any, of such deposits, is not easily addressed, especially in the complete absence of any near-contemporary references to the practice (cf. Falk 2008: 51–62). In this regard, these material echoes of past practices are of special interest since they provide hard evidence of traditional behaviours otherwise completely unnoticed and uncommented on by medieval legal, literary, and historical writers. Both Carlie (2004, 2006) and Falk (2006, 2008), for example, demonstrate in their studies the dynamic continuity of such a tradition as part

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of south Scandinavian social life over very long periods, and not only for key central structures like the Uppåkra ritual building but also in the case of family homes, with certain critical turning points in the nature of the ritual practices, for example, from the Migration Era to the Vendel Period. Carlie (2004, 2006) notes that ceramic vessels, quernstones, and tools are among the most commonly deposited items in southern Scandinavian sites, with significant regional variations, and although building deposits are found throughout five millennia, these ritual actions are heavily concentrated in the Early Iron Age and Migration Period. Falk (2006, 2008) traces the continuity of these, or similar, practices throughout the Middle Ages, with animal bones, especially animal skulls, and ceramics being frequent offerings. Given the lack of textual evidence from such routine medieval sources as the laws and the Icelandic sagas, without the archaeological record (and much later traditions observed by folklorists), we would simply have no knowledge of these practices or their longevity. And whereas pre-Christian magical actors — vǫlur, seiðkonur, and so on — were once largely discussed on the basis of textual evidence alone (e.g., Finnur Jónsson 1892), scholarship has in recent years more eagerly integrated archaeology into evaluations of the magical world (e.g., Hauck 1972; Hedeager 1997b, 2011; Price 2002, 2004; Solli 2002; Gardela 2009; Pentz and others 2009). One line of inquiry has been especially interested in the thousand or so gold bracteates from the Migration Era, a number of which show a figure accompanied by animals believed by some, when interpreted in the light of the later literary sources, to be Óðinn (e.g., Hauck 1972, 1983; cf. Wicker and Williams 2012). That this identification might in turn lead to the interpretation of some of the bracteates as representing Óðinn in the role of a shaman engaged in the practice of seiðr has also been promoted, especially by the archaeologist Lotte Hedeager, who argues that a number of these medals show ‘den arketypiske fremstilling af shamanens, sandsynligvis Odins, rejse til den anden verden, hvor sjælen er afbildet som et mandshoved, men i fugleham, og hvor håret ofte er udformet som et fuglehoved’ (the archetypal presentation of the shaman’s, probably Óðinn’s, journey to the other world, where the soul is depicted as a man´s head, but in bird shape, and where the hair is often shaped like a bird head) (Hedeager 1997b: 274). Following a different line of inquiry, Price, for example, has argued that the sort of witch’s staff referred to in Eiríks saga rauða and Laxdæla saga was no mere literary invention but can be demonstrated to have existed in reality, based on grave goods, part of the so-called ‘archaeology of death’. To make this case, however, required his pushing back against decades of professional views that had interpreted these objects in entirely utilitarian ways, as, for example, spits for roasting meat or, possibly, as measuring sticks; moreover, the under-

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standing of the archaeological goods he presents builds on extensive examination of the textual sources (cf. Price 2002, 2012). The special circumstances of grave 4 from the Trelleborg-style fortress at Fyrkat, beyond the western end of Mariager Fjord in Danish Jylland, provide a useful prism through which to view the valuable contributions that can be made by a corresponding ‘archaeology of magic’ (cf. Gilchrist 2008). The 1955 excavation of the tenth-century grave and its contents are described in Roesdahl (1977: 83–104). Many aspects of this female grave mark it as having been special: it is one of only a dozen or so Nordic burials where the corpse was placed in a clinker-built wagon body which was deposited in the grave. Two possible ‘magical staffs’ were found in the grave: one is made of wood and would have been rather thin and flexible; the other possible staff is of metal but, given its condition, of indeterminate length. Remarkably, owl pellets or castings, the jaw of a suckling pig, henbane (Hyscyamus sp.), and amulets of various sorts, including one in the shape of a typical Viking Age chair, were also found in the grave. This combination of items has been widely interpreted as meaning that the grave is likely to have been that of a woman who had deep connections to other, or perhaps Otherworldly, powers. Even the most mundane reading of the evidence leads to the view that she was likely to have been, for example, a healer. In a more extended interpretation of the evidence, she can readily be interpreted as having been a vǫlva or seiðkona (Roesdahl 1977: 91, 97–104; Price 2002: 152–53, 185–86, 200–06; Pentz and others 2009).

Scholarly Trends The practice of seiðr, with which such women as the figures from Eiríks saga rauða and, perhaps, Fyrkat grave 4 are so closely associated, has, in fact, been a central concern throughout the past century and a half of scholarship on magic in these early periods. The historic multiculturalism of the North, especially of adjacent Germanic and Finno-Ugric cultures, has long suggested itself as a potentially important background against which to judge the origins and nature of Nordic forms of magic, especially seiðr. Thus, many scholars have examined the possibility of cross-cultural, mainly Sámi, connections to Norse magic, especially as reified in the practice of seiðr, a line of inquiry with deep roots (e.g., Fritzner 1887; Jaide 1937; Ohlmarks 1939a). Whether Sámi shamanism, noaidevuohta,18 or other techniques archaïques de l’extase ‘archaic techniques of ecstasy’, in Mircea Eliade’s famous formula18 

On noaidevuohta, see DuBois (1999: 122–38), Price (2002: 233–78), and Tolley (2009a: i, 75–78 passim); and on its relationship to later accusations of witchcraft, see Hagen (2006b).

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tion about shamanism (Eliade 1951: 15), are to be understood as having an important relationship to neighbouring pre-Christian religious and magical traditions has been intensely examined in recent years, with some (e.g., DuBois 1999; Price 2002, 2004) arguing for the relationship, while others (e.g., Dillmann 2006: 269–308; Tolley 2009a) have taken a more sceptical position. In addition to those drawing heavily on the ethnographic comparanda have been scholars more focused on the medieval literary testimony (e.g., Buchholz 1968; Hermann Pálsson 1997). Among these studies, the work of Dag Strömbäck (1935) deserves special attention for its comprehensive, source-critical review of the available materials and the author’s unrivalled ability to combine the fields of folklore and philology in examining the material in favour of the Sámi connection. Although the practice of seiðr has, as noted, been a, if not the, central concern in the study of Nordic magic, it has not been the only approach to the intriguing issue of pre-Christian magical practices in the North. Broadly speaking, several other trends have also shaped scholarship on pagan magic in Northern Europe as reviewed in, for example, Price (2002: 76–89), Dillmann (2006: 6–9), and Mitchell (2011: 1–15). One such branch might be characterized as approaching pre-Christian Nordic magic as a world-view and a different perception of reality. Thus, Régis Boyer presents Norse magic as something of a refracted version of Norse religion, Le monde du double (The World of the Double), of his study’s title (1986b). In a similar way, Catherine Raudvere’s fine examinations of medieval Scandinavian magic (e.g., 2002b, 2003) also highlight perception, occult knowledge, and insight. Thus, for example, she writes concerning divination rituals and other magical performances that they ‘were expressions of ways of finding the keys to hidden parts of reality and measuring what was given’ (2002b: 96). The sociological dimensions of magic in the pre-Christian Nordic world, including within the context of cultic practices, have also been a long-standing area of inquiry (e.g., Baetke 1938; Ohlmarks 1939b). No work on the subject, however, approaches this issue to the same degree, or with the same fine-grained analysis, as does François-Xavier Dillmann in his Les magiciens dans l’Islande ancienne: Études sur la représentation de la magie islandaise et de ses agents dans les sources littéraires norroises (2006). One of the main tenets of this extremely thorough review of the relevant medieval Icelandic literary evidence is that from the surviving texts, it is possible to develop an accurate image of Icelandic practitioners of magic, that is, of their social standing, origins, gender, occupations, familial descent and its prestige, and so on, and of the attitudes of others toward these people and the forms of power they are represented as controlling.

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Also concerned with the reconstructed socio-historical outlines of preChristian Nordic magic are the works of those who have keyed in on the issue of gender and Norse magic (e.g., Morris 1991; Näsström 1995; Solli 2002; Helga Kress 2008). Although the total numbers of various magical actors presented of each gender in surviving saga literature is roughly equal, some scholars have argued that it might have been quite different in earlier times, or as one noted historian concludes, ‘women were the original and remained the most powerful magicians, whereas men gained access only later and never attained parity with women, either in numbers or power’ ( Jochens 1996: 130–31). Specifically treating the post-Conversion Era, from 1100 to 1525, Mitchell (2011) provides a wide-ranging review of available medieval cultural documents — sagas, legal cases, church art, law codes, ecclesiastical records, runic spells, and so on — from throughout the Nordic world in establishing an image of the fusion taking place in the Middle Ages between native traditions and Catholic teaching about magic and related topics. These studies, like the issues they seek to address, are naturally more complex and subtle than the simple taxonomy used here suggests — all of the works mentioned fit to some extent into more than one of these groups. The categories do, however, give an impression of the main currents in scholarship to date and indicate the likely directions the study of Nordic magic anterior to, and outside of, Christianity will continue to take.

Concluding Remarks The discussions above have mainly concerned themselves with the question of premillennial and other early magical practices associated with cultures typified by speakers of North Germanic dialects, so-called Scandinavians, largely to the exclusion of other frameworks. Just as pre-Christian Nordic magic must be assessed against the backdrop of neighbouring Finnic peoples, so too must a comprehensive review of the Scandinavian materials be placed within the broader historical Germanic context, especially as these magical traditions have been explored in Anglo-Saxon England (e.g., Storms 1948; Meaney 1981; Jolly 1996; Hall 2007) and among continental Germanic peoples (e.g., Wipf 1975; Holzmann 2001). Although of obvious interest, such comparative work has been attempted more rarely than one might expect (e.g., Christiansen 1914; Harris 1975; MacLeod and Mees 2006), and even when executed with caution and discernment, forays into comparative historical research of this sort have often faced opposition from those content to say as little of interest about such materials as possible.

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Clearly, no single, unified view of the character or role of magic in the Northern world emerges from among the works of those specializing in magic in pre-Christian Scandinavia; however, the multifaceted nature of modern scholarship’s perspectives on the topic is itself probably a reasonable reflection of actual historical realities: it is highly unlikely that any single view of that part of religious life conceived of in modern terms as magic, that arena of social life believed to allow those with special knowledge to communicate with, and acquire the supernatural assistance of, otherworldly powers, would have dominated uniformly throughout a geographic area stretching from Greenland to Finland, or in societies with similarly discursive demographic compositions. That PCRN inherited, borrowed, and developed techniques that were understood to allow particularly active tradition bearers and other specialists to look into the future, protect, charm, heal, employ supernatural aggression, and so on, that is, to make manifest the practitioner’s volition on the environment and on others, is a cultural reality that can be both assumed and adduced from the surviving, mainly later, cultural documents.

27 – Ritual Space Torun Zachrisson and Anders Andrén Introduction As a ‘primary’ religion, PCRN was above all defined by ritual practice. It was called siðr, meaning ‘custom’, ‘habit’, or perhaps ‘tradition’ (è 25). However, very few written sources concerning rituals in Scandinavia are preserved (Clunies Ross 2002a), which means that archaeology is very important in any attempts to characterize PCRN. Rituals may have been more or less imbedded in everyday life (cf. Carlie 2004), but they were also carried out in spaces that were set aside from mundane life (è25). In this context, above all more specific ritual spaces will be treated, apart from burials, which will be discussed elsewhere (è33). There are several different ways to define rituals and ritual space in archaeology. For many decades, there has been a general archaeological discussion concerning rituals, trying to define this category cross-culturally, often in relation to ritual theories in religious studies (for a recent review, see Swenson 2015). Primarily, the non-mundane character of rituals — and ritual traces — have been emphasized. At the same time, problems in identifying different types of rituals (è 25) in relation to ritual remains have been underlined as well (Renfrew 1985, 1994; Renfrew and Bahn 1991; Stjernquist 1989, 1998; Gibson and Simpson 1998; Insoll 2004; Kyriakidis 2007). In Scandinavian archaeology, however, more specific discussions on rituals have also been carried out. Not least, the enigmatic weapon deposits in lakes and bogs in Iron Age southern Scandinavia have been discussed as rituals and sanctuaries Torun Zachrisson, Associate Professor of Archaeology, Stockholm University, and Head of Research, County Museum of Uppland, Uppsala Anders Andrén, Senior Professor of Archaeology, Stockholm University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume ii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 2 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 671–723 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116954

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(Engelhardt 1863; Worsaae 1865; Jankuhn 1936a; Jankuhn 1936b; Brøndsted 1966: 208–09; Hagberg 1961: 251; Hagberg 1967b; Ilkjær 1994: 21; Ilkjær 2000; Lund Hansen 2008: 28–30; Fabech 2009; Nørgård Jørgensen 2009). Deposits of more ordinary objects in wetlands have been discussed in ritual perspectives as well (Lindqvist 1910; Arbman 1945; Strömberg 1961: 80; Geisslinger 1967; Becker 1971a; Stjernquist 1963, 1973, 1997). Charlotte Fabech presents a model of ritual sites based primarily on wetland deposits in southern Scandinavia, which has had a major impact. She argues for a shift in the middle of the first millennium, from ritual sites in wetlands to rituals on dry ground associated with elite settlements. At the latter sites, churches were later erected, emphasizing cult continuity into Christian times (Fabech 1991: 291; Fabech 1994: 169–70; slightly modified Fabech 2006: 26; Fabech and Näsman 2013: 85). Her model has been criticized, because archaeology clearly shows that wetlands were used in rituals until the eleventh century ce (Zachrisson 1998: 118; Hedeager 1999; Stjernquist 2001: 22ff; Andrén 2002; Jørgensen 2002; Lund 2004; Lund 2009; G.  Larsson 2007: 238–52; Monikander 2010: 94f; Eklund and Hennius 2015; Fredengren 2015; cf. Hines 1989). Some important changes, however, did occur in the sixth century. Huge weapon deposits ended, and later more formalized expressions of rituals can be traced (see below). In earlier research, it was taken for granted that ritual buildings were important elements of PCRN (overview in McNicol 1997), but in a source critical investigation, Olaf Olsen dismisses most possible examples of specific ritual buildings (Olsen 1966). In recent decades, however, unquestionably ritual buildings have been found, primarily in the so-called central places (è 19). These discoveries have renewed the debate, for instance, with respect to different Old Norse concepts of ritual space and ritual buildings (Sundqvist 2016). Another way of defining rituals and ritual sites in Scandinavian archaeology is to use the few written sources that actually exist regarding rituals, as a kind of analogy. The earliest account of Scandinavian religion is given by the Greek historian Procopius of Caerarea (c. 500–c. 554) in his History of the Wars from the 540s (è9): θεοὺς μέντοι καὶ δαίμονας πολλοὺς σέβουσιν, οὐρανίους τε καὶ ἀερίους, ἐγγείους τε καὶ θαλασσίους, καὶ ἄλλα ἄττα δαιμόνια ἐν ὕδασι πηγῶν τε καὶ ποταμῶν εἶναι λεγόμενα. θύουσι δὲ ἐνδελεχέστατα ἱερεῖα πάντα καὶ ἐναγίζουσι, τῶν δὲ ἱερείων σφίσι τὸ κάλλιστον ἄνθρωπός ἐστιν ὅνπερ δορυάλωτον ποιήσαιντο πρῶτον· τοῦτον γὰρ τῷ Ἄρει θύουσιν, ἐπεὶ θεὸν αὐτὸν νομίζουσι μέγιστον εἶναι. ἱερεύονται δὲ τὸν αἰχμάλωτον οὐ θύοντες μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἀπὸ ξύλου κρεμῶντες, καὶ ἐς τὰς ἀκάνθας ῥιπτοῦντες, ταῖς ἄλλαις τε κτείνοντες θανάτου ἰδέαις οἰκτίσταις. οὕτω μὲν Θουλῖται βιοῦσιν.

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(They reverence in great numbers gods and demons both of the heavens and of the air, of the earth and of the sea, and sundry other demons which are said to be in the waters of springs and rivers. And they incessantly offer up all kinds of sacrifices, and make oblations to the dead, but the noblest of sacrifices, in their eyes, is the first human being whom they have taken captive in war; for they sacrifice him to Ares, whom they regard as the greatest god. And the manner in which they offer up the captive is not by sacrificing him on an altar only, but also by hanging him to a tree, or throwing him among thorns, or killing him by some of the other most cruel forms of death. Thus, then, do the inhabitants of Thule live.) (6.15.23–26)

Apart from Procopius, other hints of rituals are mentioned by Tacitus, Orosius, Jordanes, Thietmar of Merseburg, and Adam of Bremen, as well as the Icelandic sagas, and medieval prohibitions against pagan cults point towards certain recurring ritual aspects (è9, 20, and 25). According to these sources, humans, different kinds of animals, and weapons were sacrificed, and food and drink were consumed. These rituals could take place in holy groves, rivers, lakes, springs, holy places, and ritual buildings, and also at trees, barrows, stones, fires, and idols. These fragments of spatial references to ritual sites can to a large extent be confirmed by theophoric placenames (Ahlbäck 1990; Andersson 1992a, 1992c; Vikstrand 2001; è 5). Different components of theophoric placenames refer to ritual settings such as holy places (-vi, -harg), settlements (-löv, -tuna), buildings (-hov, -sal), arable fields or meadows (-åker, -äng, -vin), groves, woods or trees (-lund, -tved, -skog, -eke), water (-fors, -sjö), island (-ö), as well as rocks and hills (-hammar, -berg). In a few cases, in recent decades places with theophoric placenames have also been archaeologically investigated, suggesting more concrete links between material remains and ritually designated spaces ( Jørgensen 1998; Andrén 2002; Zachrisson 2004a, 2004b; Nielsen 2005; Andersson and Skyllberg 2008; Svensson 2008; Magnell and Iregren 2010; Bäck and Hållans Stenholm 2012; Hulth 2013; Holst and others 2017). So far, these specific links between names and material remains point towards a high degree of complexity and variation regarding ritual space. By combining these different ways of defining rituals and ritual space in archaeology, it is possible to outline some general traits of ritual sites in PCRN.

Elements of Ritual Space Rituals and ritual spaces are often set apart from everyday life (è25), and sometimes ritual spaces can be discerned by certain non-mundane qualities. Rituals could be connected with a spring of red water (Stjernquist 1997); with small lakes surrounded by promontories or ridges (Arbman 1945; Carlie 1998); with

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Figure 27.1. The weapon deposit site of Ejsbøl mose in southern Jylland, surrounded by rising shore lines that created a natural theatre. Photo: Anders Andrén. 

rushing rapids (Zachrisson 2004c); with unusually formed rocks and boulders; with rifts, cracks, and hollows that formed various openings to the underground (Carlie 2009; Petersson 2004; Lindeblad 2009); and small hills covered with stones and boulders (Andersson and Skyllberg 2008). It seems that some of these places are still surrounded by some kind of numinosity or a sense of secludedness. Many ritual deposits have been found in bogs and shallow lakes. Very few wetlands sites, however, have been totally excavated, which means that possible enclosures or fences have rarely been reported. In several cases, however, these wetlands were surrounded by ridges, where parts of the rituals may have taken place. In a few cases, fireplaces have been found on such ridges, supporting this interpretation. The surrounding ridges and promontories indicate that several wetland locations are set in the landscape as natural amphitheatres, giving room for many participants as well as spectators of the rituals. One example is Ejsbøl mose, near Haderslev in southern Jylland, where deposits of weapons were made at the shores of a former shallow lake on six different occasions between the first century bce and 400 ce. The lake is surrounded on three sides by ridges rising at least six to seven metres above the lake (Nørgård Jørgensen and Andersen 2014). In the wetlands, wooden objects are among those most frequently found. Such objects can either be made of manufactured wood, such as planks, timber,

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and pointed stakes, or natural wood of both smaller and larger dimensions. Often sticks and twigs in vertical positions have been found. Platforms of wood or stone have quite often been recorded in southern and eastern Scandinavia. Wooden platforms were built up of branches, logs, and stakes, while platforms of stone were made with larger stones facing the waterfront. In central Sweden, the surface was often built up from fire-cracked stones. These stone packings seem to have been continuously added over time as ‘waste products’ from the fireplaces and cooking pits on the platform where the meals were prepared. The sizes of the platforms are often c. 20–15 m × 15–10 m (Zachrisson 2014b; Petersson 2013b).1 In a few cases, posts, wooden figures, and cairns could mark the focal point of the ritual sites. Wooden figures have primarily been found in Jylland, but examples are also known from southern Norway 2 and central Sweden (Capelle 1995). Cairns could be combined with a wooden image and deposited pots. The cairns had a double function, partly securing the wooden image, and partly serving as a ‘table’ for deposited objects. The earliest figures are dated to about 500 bce, such as a male phallic wooden figure from Broddenbjerg east of Viborg in northern Jylland.3 1 

A platform at Hassle in Närke is dated to between the sixth and eighth centuries, and its filling was made up of fire-cracked stones. In the platform were three large postholes, one of them being 0.80 m in diameter and nearly 1 m deep. These posts were probably part of the platform as a kind of ritual scene, but it is unknown if they were carved as well (Annuswer 2007). 2  In Telemark, two wooden male images, suggesting inverted trees, were placed in the same swamp Rotjørn upside down, the head, i.e., root, in the swamp and legs in the air. One of them had a hole for a phallus to be fitted; the other image was phallic with marked pubic hair, and two phalluses were found beside them. The figures are dated to 950–60 ce (Dahl 2007: 35–38). 3  The image is rather small (c.  0.9  m), standing on two pointed legs, and is dominated by its erect penis. The face is

Figure 27.2. A wooden figure from the ritual site at Forlev Nymølle in middle Jylland. Drawing: Jørgen Mührman-Lund, Moesgaard Museum, Højbjerg. 

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Figure 27.3. Two stone heads from Ravlunda in Skåne (SHM 16511: 44915 and 16525:44916). Photo: Ola Myrin, Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm.  

Most figures, however, are dated to the period 200 bce–400 ce, but some were used until the late Viking Age. Some effigies are plank-shaped figures, and they are often androgynous, whereas trunk-shaped figures usually have marked genitalia. Most of these are male with a phallus and an expressive face (Capelle 1995; Sanden and Capelle 2001: 9; Dahl 2007: 35–38). The marked sex of many figures indicates that they were connected to fertility rituals, most probably associated with early forms of the vanir gods and goddesses (è40, 43, 45, and 47). A good example of a small ritual site with a wooden figure and a cairn is a former lake at Forlev Nymølle in central Jylland. At the shore of the lake, a three-metres-high, trunk-shaped image of a woman with marked hips and naturally formed female genitalia was placed. It was secured by a stone cairn, on top of which were bundles of flax and a flax club, and around it stood broken pots, crushed bones from cattle, sheep/goat, hare, dog, horse and a human bearded and the right eye is slightly more marked than the left; a line at the neck can mark a neckring. Resin has been smeared at the groin and phallus (Sanden and Capelle 2001: 9; Dahl 2007: 49–50).

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shoulder bone, as well as several ski-like stakes of ash, two metres long. These and other objects were spread around several cairns by the lake shore ( J. Lund 2002; Jensen 2003: 192). Apart from wooden figures, stone heads are known from a few wetland sites, primarily in Jylland. One interesting case is a large boulder found in a bog at Brønderslev in Vendsyssel. The boulder was hewn to form a head with a grim smile and one eye. The boulder was surrounded by masses of pottery from about 200 bce to 200 ce (Becker 1961: 102; Friis 1971: 49–50; Ross 1967: pls 1b–1c). The image indicates that the site could have been an early dedication to the god Óðínn. Ritual sites on dry land have been more difficult to discern, but in recent decades many activities around solid rocks and large boulders as well as on hills covered with stones have been interpreted as religious rituals. A special case on dry land is the newly discovered ritual buildings. Some of them seem to have been used exclusively for rituals, whereas others seem to have used ritually only periodically and at other times functioned as the main building in a settlement. Basically, all kinds of ‘objects’ could be used in rituals, but ritual objects were clearly set apart from ordinary everyday contexts such as settlements and burials. Humans or parts of humans were deposited in wetlands, and sometimes on dry land, throughout the entire Iron Age (c. 500 bce–c. 1050 ce), although human remains are fairly unusual in ritual sites. Bones of all types of domesticated animals have been found recurrently at most ritual sites, and in a few cases bones from wild animals have been discovered as well. Pottery, probably originally containing food, and different types of tools made of iron and wood are common deposits during parts of the Iron Age. Weapons constitute the main part of deposits from c. 350 bce to c. 550, but small amounts of weapons and single weapons have been deposited later as well. A few weapon deposits include whole ships, but smaller boats could be deposited without other objects. Gold was rare in ritual deposits, but many gold objects seem to have been deposited during a short period of time, constituting a kind of ‘gold horizon’, in the sixth century. Finally, special ritual phenomena in the Late Iron Age (550–1050 ce) were miniatures of mythological figures and other special ritual objects, such as amulet rings of iron. Many of the different types of ritual ‘objects’ could be deposited at the same places, whereas others were clearly spatially separated. Some humans, such as the enigmatic ‘bog bodies’, were deposited separately in different bogs, whereas other human remains were deposited at the same places as animals and weapons. Many weapons seem to have been deposited at ritual sites with older deposits such as pottery or animal remains. The gold objects, however, were

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often deposited at special places, with no earlier or later ritual remains. Finally, miniatures and special ritual objects have mostly been found at central places, manors, and places with theophoric placenames. Although there are different ways of defining ritual sites, the classification of different forms of rituals and the sequences of different rites at these places are much more difficult to discern. The main problem is that archaeology always works with final deposits (è6). Consequently, finds at ritual sites could be ‘ritual waste’ from concluding rites, rather than the main rituals per se. It is possible, however, to partly overcome this inherent bias by thoroughly investigating the remains that are actually found. For instance, a single horse skull represents much more than the skull, although no more horse bones might have been discovered. The skull presupposes the killing of a horse, often represented by a visible blow at the skull, and the butchering, distribution, cooking, and eating of horsemeat. In similar ways, collections of destroyed weapons in weapon deposits imply rituals, which included cutting the weapons into pieces, sometimes with the help of fire, collecting them in bundles, and throwing these bundles into the lakes. Occasionally, it is also possible to infer something about the type of rituals that took place at certain places. The age of young slaughtered animals may sometimes indicate the season of the rituals and consequently make it feasible to discuss cyclical rituals. In other cases, the dating of specific deposits may show ritual activities at very irregular intervals, such as the weapon deposits, which clearly indicates crisis rituals. At some complex rituals sites, however, such as the central places, several different types of rituals were undoubtedly carried out in the same location.

An Overview of Ritual Places The following survey will be based on different types of rituals sites, rather than different types of rituals, because the ritual places and the different activities at these places are much more easily to define archaeologically than the rituals themselves. As far as possible, though, indications of different categories of rituals and sequences of rites will be presented. The overview will be confined to ritual space in Scandinavian settlements during the Iron Age (c. 500 bce– c. 1050 ce), that is, to the period that is most relevant in relation to written sources about PCRN (è9). General traits as well as temporal changes, regional variation, and social differences in Scandinavia will be presented. There will be more examples from southern and eastern Scandinavia than from western Scandinavia, since ritual sites and rituals have received more attention in Danish and Swedish archaeology than in Norwegian and Icelandic archaeology.

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Figure 27.4. Important ritual sites from the Iron Age in Scandinavia. 1 = central place, 2 = weapon deposit, 3 = other ritual site. Map: Disir Productions, Uppsala, based on draft by Anders Andrén. 

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Ritual Places with Food, Vessels, and Tools Most ritual sites in small lakes and bogs contained animal bones, and many of them household pottery, containers, drinking vessels, and tools for an agrarian economy. The ritual remains varied, but most of these places were probably connected with cyclical fertility rituals. Domesticated animals, primarily horses and cattle, but also sheep/goats, pigs, and dogs, have often been found in bogs, lakes, and waterholes all over southern Scandinavia. The sites are found in Denmark, in southern Norway, and in southern and middle Sweden and can be dated to the Iron Age as a whole (cf. Lundholm 1947; Strömberg 1961: 83–84; Geisslinger 1967: 63; Hagberg 1967b: 69–78; Monikander 2010: 54–76; Carlie 2013; Fredengren 2015). Further north the situation is less clear, but the tradition of depositing animals in wetlands does not seem to be present there. The selection of animals in the ritual sites was clearly different from that of ordinary settlements. Young or very young animals were preferred, and horses were much more present than in everyday life. An example is a bog at Stange by Lake Mjøsa in southern Norway, where animal bones were deposited c. 330– 780 ce. Around 50 per cent of the bones were from horses, whereas the rest were mainly cattle, but also sheep/goat and pig. Most of the animal bones were extremities, which shows that the other parts of the animals were eaten at communal meals and deposited elsewhere (Bukkemoen 2016). At ordinary settlements, the amount of horse bones was usually low, which shows that there was a striking difference between the animal bones deposited in wetlands and in the ordinary settlements (Vretemark 2013: 53).4 Normally the animal remains tend to be the remains of cooked and consumed meat from gatherings, but in some cases parts of whole animals were deposited as well ( Jørgensen and others 2014; Magnell 2019: 312–14). Bones from wild animals were very rare and only occurred at a few sites (cf. Strömberg 1961: 84; Stjernquist 1973).5 4  When studying how frequent the various species are that were ritually deposited in wetlands in Sweden, the horses dominate in shallow lakes and bogs, whereas in wells both horse and cattle occur. Smaller animals like pigs, sheep, and goat recurrently occur in wells. Even though there are few sex determinations of the animals chosen, generally mares and bulls/oxen are more often chosen than cows (Magnell 2019: 310). 5  A special form of deposited food remain was the so-called bog butter that occurs sparsely in Norway from the first centuries bce to the fifth and sixth centuries ce. The largest find is a deposit of nearly 1 kg of butter found in a bog in Madla in Sola on Jæren. The butter, which was placed in two wooden containers and in an oxen horn, is Carbon-14 dated to 532–620 ce (Næss 1969; Fredriksen 1982; figure è8.2). Bog butter is a Western phenomenon, since it has been found in the British Isles and in the Netherlands as well. It is debated, however, if bog but-

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Other ritual remains are pots, probably containing food, that were placed in bogs and lakes from about 500 bce onward. There are up to four hundred locations in Denmark with deposits of one or more pots, and sometimes they can amount to a hundred (Becker 1971a; Jensen 2003: 189). The tradition was most common in central Jylland during the pre-Roman Iron Age (500–1 bce), while it was located primarily in northern Jylland during the early Roman Iron Age (1–200 ce). There are indications, however, that the tradition was more extensive than was previously thought, and it may have continued into the Viking Age (Becker 1971a; Lund 2002). The tradition of placing pots in bogs was maintained along the coast of western Norway as well, whereas such ritual sites are rare in the eastern parts of Denmark6 and in Sweden. Apart from ceramic pots, a few large Celtic cauldrons of bronze or occasionally silver were also deposited in Jylland and Fyn in a few places, such as the huge cauldrons from Brå in central Jylland and Gundestrup in Himmerland ( Jensen 2003: 202–06).7 Roman cauldrons have been deposited in bogs, along the Norwegian coast, and also in central Sweden and on Gotland (Hauken 2005: 80, 90, 92). One uncommon find is a set of two drinking horns, from about 1 to 200 ce, which has been found in a bog at Skrydstrup, in southern Jylland. The horns as well as the mounts were preserved. An analysis of the crusts on the inside of the horns showed that one horn had contained mead made from honey, whereas the other had contained beer made from emmer wheat (Grüss 1931: 180ff ); thus the horns were used for different beverages (Brøndsted 1966: 161;è54).8 ter should be regarded as a ritual deposit or if it was only kept in bogs for storage reason (Næss 1969: 245–50). 6  One example is a wetland at Bukkerup on Fyn. Here the front- and hindlegs of thirteen oxen, tied together with ropes at tethering poles, were placed next to some fifty pots; a ritual that was upheld for three to four hundred years (Adamsen 1994; Jensen 2003: 190–91). 7  Foremost amongst the vessels is the famous Gundestrup silver cauldron, probably produced c. 150 bce in south-eastern Europe. On the different panels deities from the Celtic world are depicted, as well as a probable sacrificial scene where warriors are sunk head forward into a large vessel. The Gundestrup cauldron was destroyed before being placed on the surface of the small, high-lying saucer-bog Rævemosen in Himmerland, around 1 ce. Close by was the rural settlement of Borremose. The village was surrounded by a moat with thousands of pointed oak sticks meant to hinder intruders. It had been a thriving settlement that somewhere around 125 bce was abandoned. This has been viewed in connection with the migration of the tribe of Cimbri that through plunder and warfare became known to Rome and its neighbours in the first century bce (cf. Jensen 2003: 221). 8  A similar division between different beverages may be the background for two famous

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Figure 27.5. Plan of Käringsjön in Halland, with ritual deposits along the shorelines. Point = ceramic vessel; triangle = wooden object; circle around the symbol = object from the third century; square around the symbol = object from the fourth century. After Carlie 2009: 257. 

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Connected with food production were ards and shares (cutting parts of ards), which have been deposited in bogs in basically the same western region as the ceramic pots. Complete ards as well as shares for ards have above all been found in bogs in Jylland and Norway. Normally shares are found as singles, but on Karmøy, in western Norway, four ards have been deposited, indicating a grander ritual, or ard depositions repeated several times (Zachrisson 2017b: 692–98). Occasionally finds have also been made in Sjælland, Halland, and Skåne (Glob 1951; Fleseland 2014; Carlie 2014). On Sjælland the shares could be combined with parts of wagons, as in a bog at Jørlunde. Apart from an ard share, about forty wheels have been deposited in a 60 × 8 m large area over a long period of time. As part of the agrarian economy, tools and raw material for textile production were deposited in wetlands as well. In some rituals sites in Denmark, Sweden, and Norway, spindle whorls, as well as bundles of flax, flax seeds, hoops, hemp, and nettles have been found (Halvorsen 2008). A good example of a complex small ritual site is the well-excavated Käringsjön (‘old woman’s lake’) in southern Halland, dated to about 200–400 ce (Arbman 1945; Carlie 1998). The closest settlement name is Älvasjö (in 1569 Elffuessiø, ‘Elf lake’), which might have been the original name of the lake. The site consists of a round lake, 50 m in diameter, surrounded by ridges on all sides. Close to the lake, fireplaces for cooking have been found. At the shore of the lake there were wooden platforms used as ritual scenes. Around the platforms more than two hundred pots, originally containing food9 and possibly drink, were deposited.10 All the pots were locally made, possibly from a settlement 3 km away (Stilborg 2009). Apart from the the pots, bundles of flax, stones wrapped in bast rope, and various wooden tools were deposited, such as a spade, two rakes, a flail, a trough, and a tether stake. The rituals seem to have taken place in the spring as well as in the autumn (Carlie 1998, 2000, 2009). All objects deposited in the lake were connected to female work in a traditional agrarian society, which could explain the present name Käringsjön. If Älvasjö Gallehus horns from the fifth century. Both were decorated with figures, but only one had a runic inscription (Axboe and others 1998; Jensen 2004: 121). 9  At Hulje in Östergötland, large cooking pits were found in a wetland. Macrophossile analyses have shown that not only meat but also grain was part of the ritual food (Heimdahl 2012; Petersson 2013a). 10  Five of the pots had holes in the bottom, which would enable the pots to sink, or the food in the pots to sink, as if consumed by the powers of the lake, or as ‘killing holes’ for ritual purposes (Arbman 1945: 104–06; Carlie 1998: 21–23; Botwid 2009).

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was the original name of the lake, however, the site can be interpreted as a material expression of a calendrical alfablót, carried out mainly by women (è63). Ritual Places with Humans, Human Remains, and Bodily Objects Humans or parts of humans were deposited in wetlands from the Bronze Age until the eleventh century ce. In Denmark, and above all in Jylland, more than a hundred bog bodies and whole skeletons have been found, and they are dated between 800 bce and 200 ce. Among these finds are the well-preserved Tollund man and Grauballe man from central Jylland. Generally speaking, more women than men were deposited in wetlands before 1 bce, while more men than women were deposited after 1 ce (Monikander 2010: 89–91; cf. Jensen 2003: 176–86; Glob 1965, 1969). For some of the bog bodies, it has been possible to establish the cause of death: these individuals have been either strangled, hanged, or had their throats cut. Some of them were naked, while others were fully dressed. The bodies were often carefully positioned in the bog, usually without other surrounding deposits. Sometimes the bog bodies were placed in bogs that had been in use earlier for other ritual depositions.11 Parts of humans, such as skulls, were deposited at the same time as the bog bodies and later, down into the eleventh century ce. An example is provided by a bog at Jerslev in Vendsyssel, where pits at the bottom of a bog were filled with six human skulls of young persons, a skull of a dog, and a skull from an older stallion. Pots had also been deposited. The ritual site was in use about 1–150 ce. Analyses have shown that the humans were between eighteen and twentyfive years old at the age of death (Wåhlin, Vendsyssel Historiske museum). Another example is a wetland at Hundstrup on south-west Sjælland, where remains of twelve humans have been found together with wooden objects, fragments of pots, and a wooden arrow. The humans have been dated to 500–830 ce. Three of the individuals have been analysed to determine whether they were locals or not. The strontium isotope values show that only one young male was local (Sjælland), while an eleven- to thirteen-year-old child did not grow up in Denmark, and an old man came from totally different geographical surroundings, with very different isotopic levels. The latter individual is interpreted as a possible slave taken on journeys abroad and later sacrificed ( Jørgensen and oth11 

The famous Huldremose peplos dress was thought to have belonged to the bog body of a woman. Carbon-14 datings have shown that the peplos dress dates back to 350–30 bce, while the woman placed a couple of metres away is dated to 350–40 bce (Mannering and others 2009, 2010); despite overlapping dates, the two are considered as separate depositions.

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Figure 27.6. The bog body from Grauballe in central Jylland, dated to the early third century bce. Photo: medie Moesgaard, Rógvi N. Johansen, Moesgaard Museum Højbjerg. 

ers 2014: 193). In Skåne, humans were deposited in springs and bogs until the Viking Age (Strömberg 1961: 84–85; Stjernquist 1997, 2001).12 In central Sweden, humans seem to have been deposited in wetlands already in the early Bronze Age, and the tradition continued into the Viking Age. Apart from lakes and bogs, several humans were also deposited in rivers, such as Äverstaån in Närke, Fyrisån in Uppland, and Motala ström in Östergötland (Petersson 2013b; Fredengren 2015). On the islands of Öland and Gotland, humans were deposited in wetlands during the Iron Age. At the former lake of Skedemosse huge amounts of animals were deposited, but also remains of thirty-eight humans, dating from about 400 bce to about 1050 ce. They represent old men and women as well as children and young adults (Monikander 12 

At Röekillorna (‘the red springs’) in south-eastern Skåne, rituals took place around a wooden phallus and a wooden image of a face. Animal bones and objects were deposited from the Neolithic until about 200 ce. In addition, some humans were thrown into the spring. One man had received a severe blow to the skull. Thereafter the skull was smashed and the parts were spread over the site. Parts of the long bones were also broken and spread out, and afterwards gnawed by dogs (Møhl 1997: 126–27; Stjernquist 1997).

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Figure 27.7. Excavation of deposited human bones at Alken Enge, in central Jylland, from the early first century ce. Photo: Ejvind Hertz, Museum Skanderborg.  

2010: 77–91). On central Gotland, skulls from the Viking Age have been found in a bog close to the Gotlandic general assembly at Roma (ThunmarkNylén 1995–2006: iii, 460; see below). In Norway, preserved skeletons have been found in lakes and bogs from Jæren in Rogaland in the south to Nord-Trøndelag and Nordland in the north (Sellevold 2011; Henriksen and Sylvester 2007). They have been dated from the sixth century bce through the eleventh century ce. The five oldest skeletons, of both men and women, belonging to the period 500–1 bce, come from lakes in Hedmark. None of the skeletons had marks of violence, but one was found together with a rope, indicating that the person was killed by hanging (Resi 2011). One was a man of higher stature than normal at that time. He was between thirty and forty years old, was well nourished, and was not used to hard physical labour. In contrast, another man of the same age had been exposed to illness or famine as a small child (Sellevold 2011).13 13 

Unique is the find of four, perhaps five crania from infants dated to the period 90/120– 410/30 ce found in a bog located on marginal land belonging to one of the most prosper-

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The interpretation of the bog bodies, skeletons, and other human remains is disputed, and the background of human deposits was undoubtedly varied. A few isotope analyses indicate the individuals killed were non-locals. Some could have been punished, and others could have been sacrificed, for instance, as prisoners of war or as hostages. It is difficult, however, to find much evidence of sacrificed prisoners of wars among the old men, old women, and children. Instead, many could have been part of cyclical rituals, crisis rituals, or divinations concerned with the well-being of larger groups of people. The only clear example of human deposits related to warfare is a unique find at the bog Alken Enge, formerly a calm inner lagoon of Lake Mossø in central Jylland (Holst and others 2016, Holst and others 2018). Remains of about two hundred men14 — many with wounds — between thirteen and forty-five years old have been found, dating from about 1 ce. Most of them seem not to have been trained and were inexperienced warriors. The human remains were dismembered and collected in different groups: for example, pelvic bones of four different men collected on one stick. Most of the skulls were fractured, and crushed on purpose, while still fresh. It is plausible that the men died at a battlefield, and that the decomposed remains were later picked up and brought to the site. The deposits at Alken Enge were clearly parts of crisis rituals. Pots and animal bones were also deposited at Alken Enge, which shows that the site was a ritual place for a long time. A special form of deposited human remains was human hair, sometimes plaited, probably from women. Such deposited bundles of hair have been found in several wetlands in northern Jylland and at Frøya in Sør-Trøndelag. They have been dated to about 400–200 bce (Ingstad 1961: 33; Halvorsen 2008: 68; Ebbesen 2008). Normally they are believed to represent a single woman’s coiffure and are interpreted as belonging to passage rituals (Ebbesen 2008: 82). But recently the cut-off plaits have been viewed as traces of humiliating acts connected to the taking of hostages (Randsborg 2015: 14). Wetland sites in Scandinavia have also yielded objects connected to the human body. Several deposits of clothes and textile production date to the period 500 bce–200 ce. The finds consist of pieces of fabric or garments such ous farms, Bø, ‘the outmost farm’, in Hå on Jæren, southern Norway. The body parts had been placed in the swelling Tviodlo, two natural springs in a bog situated where the fertile plain changes into hilly landscape. The infants were not accompanied by adults or material objects. The crania from the children may have been placed there in repetitive rituals (Sellevold and Næss 1991; Lillehammer 2011; Sellevold 2011; Zachrisson 2017b). 14  Osteological analyses show that only 5 per cent were women (Holst and others 2016).

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as a peplos dress, a cloak, a carpet with fringe, and a mantle. They could possible be connected to passage rituals.15 Other objects related to the body, such as neckrings, arm rings, finger rings, brooches, bracteates, and beads, have been deposited in wetlands as well. In the period 500–1 bce about 80 per cent of all neckrings of bronze in Denmark were deposited in wetlands (Hedeager 1999: 237). Many armrings and neckrings of gold from about 200 to 550 ce in Scandinavia have also ended up in wetlands (Andersson 2011: 94–107). During the sixth century, brooches in combination with beads, bracteates, gold coins, and finger rings were placed in bogs in Jylland and Sjælland (Geisslinger 1967: 47–48, 50). Neckrings of bronze could also be deposited in wetlands in the period 550–800. Many of these finds have been interpreted as possible female offerings (Geisslinger 1967: 113–14). It is also possible that some of them were part of

Figure 27.8. Roman bronze figure from lake Fysingen in Uppland (SHM 7414). Photo: Jan Eve Olsson, Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm.  

15  A unique find from Tegle in Time on Jæren, dated to the sixth century, consists of a woollen bag with fragments of textiles, representing different weaving technics, such as tabby, twill, tablet weaving, and plaited/netted work. The bag also contained a ball of yarn, loose yarn, unspun wool, and a bone needle. Two twisted cords 30–35 cm long are probably human hair. The deposition was supposedly made by a young and inexperienced woman, because the yarn was unevenly spun and small pieces of textile could represent work samples (Halvorsen 2008: 31, 64–65, table 1). Consequently, the deposit could have been part of a passage ritual for a young woman.

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complex burials, representing objects that were not put into a formal grave. In this case, the bodily objects could have been part of passage rituals.16 Finally, images of human figures could also be deposited in lakes and bogs. These could be imported Roman bronze statuettes of gods, goddesses, and house deities (lares), or locally manufactured bronze figures. These statuettes could have been used as representations of different gods and goddesses in the wetlands. Lakes and bogs, however, could also have been regarded as sites of suitable final depositions for such figures. One example is a figure of a Roman house deity, carrying a sacrificial bowl in his outstretched hand, which was deposited in Lake Fysingen in Uppland (Andersson 2013: 50–51). An example of a local bronze figure, possibly a deity, was found in a bog at Norra Möinge in Skåne. The man is dressed in a short tunic, wearing a neckring of a type from about 200 bce to 200 ce (Arne 1909: 183). A hole indicates that the figure once had been phallic.17 Rituals with Weapons Large deposits of destroyed weapons, interpreted as war booties, have been found in bogs and former shallow lakes in Denmark and southern Sweden, but not in Norway and Iceland. About fifty different deposits are known from somewhat fewer than thirty places, dating from about 350 bce to about 600 ce. This means that several different deposits could be carried out at irregular intervals at the same place. Complete weapon deposits, representing war booties of fully equipped armies, have only been found in a few places, in about 350 bce and from about 200 ce to the late fourth century or about 400 ce. Extensive but not complete weapon deposits have been discovered in several locations from the first century ce to about 475 ce. Selected smaller deposits comprising mostly weapons can be dated from about 1 ce to about 600 ce (Nørgård Jørgensen 2009). The oldest war booty, from about 350 bce, has been found in a bog at Hjortspring on the island of Als. The find consisted of a war canoe for a crew of twenty-four men. Apart from the boat there were weapon sets consisting of 16 

Interestingly, objects associated with men seem more often to have been deposited in moving waters such as rivers, streams, and lakes, while objects associated with women more often in stagnant waters as in some lakes, bogs, and marshes (Andrén 2002: 317). 17  Other indigenous bronze statuettes, probably representing local male deities, are found on Fyn and Öland; two islands with marked Roman influences (Andersson 2013: 98–102). The find contexts of these bronze figures, however, are in many cases uncertain.

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Figure 27.9. Destroyed weapons and other equipment from the former lake at Illerup. Photo: Moesgaard Museum, Højbjerg. 

equipment for about ten officers and eighty enlisted men, enough to accommodate four or five such war canoes (Kaul 1988; Randsborg 1995). Three large boats were also deposited with substantial numbers of weapons at different occasions in the bog at Nydam in Sundeved, just opposite Als. These boats were deposited in the early third century, the early fourth century, and about 350 (Vang Petersen 1988, 1995; Jørgensen and Petersen 2003; Rau 2010; Rieck and others 2013). Although there was a long time-span between Hjortspring and Nydam, it seems that a local tradition of depositing boats with weapons was maintained in this region, because it is not known anywhere else. Other large weapon deposits have been found at Thorsbjerg in Angeln (Engelhardt 1863) and Ejsbøl outside Haderslev, both in southern Jylland (Ørnes 1988; Nørgård Jørgensen and Andersen 2014); at Illerup in central Jylland (Ilkjær 1993, 1994, 2000; Carnap Bornheim and Ilkjær 1996); at Kragehul on western Fyn (Iversen 2010), at Vimose on northern Fyn ( Jensen

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2008); at Skedemosse on Öland (see below); and at Finnestorp in southern Västergötland (Nordqvist 2007a, 2007b; Vretemark 2013). One of the largest deposits was made at Illerup in the beginning of the third century. Roughly ten thousand weapons (spears, lances, arrows, swords, shields, and riding equipment) have been found. The deposit may represent a defeated army of an estimated two or three thousand men (Ilkjær 2000). Apart from weapons, additional booties also include male clothes, combs, strike-a-lights, different tools, and surgical instruments. Several weapon deposits occurred at places with other ritual remains that were older, as well as younger, than the war booties. One example is Vimose on Fyn, where animals, humans, food pots, and jewellery, from different periods, bear witness to a long-term use of the bog. Another example is Skedemosse on Öland, where animals and humans were deposited before as well as after the weapons. This mixture of different types of deposits indicates that the war booties were deposited at already well-established ritual sites. Therefore, the weapon deposits should be regarded as ritual sites to which the weapons were brought after a war, rather than signifying battlefields close by. In that sense the weapon deposits can be regarded as Scandinavian parallels to Roman triumphs, where spoils were brought to central sanctuaries, often far away from the battle fields.18 The rituals connected to the weapon deposits were focused on the destruction of the weapons and of their fighting efficiency. Wooden handles of spears and lances as well as wooden shields were cut to pieces, and spearheads, lance heads, and swords could be bent or cut to pieces, sometimes with the help of fire. The higher the value of the weapon, the heavier was the destruction. Top military personal equipment of silver and bronze for ‘commanders’ or ‘officers’ was exposed to particularly violent destruction, which shows that objects were perceived as having agency (Nørgård Jørgensen 2011). Axes seem often to have been the preferred cultic tool (Dobat 2006). Fragments from different 18  Analyses of the weapon chronology and the soldiers’ personal equipment at Illerup have revealed the provenience of the armies and thus the geographical areas whence the objects derive. These analyses show that the fallen troops originated from western Norway and Sweden, as well as the Baltic region. This has been interpreted as meaning that the defeated enemies were killed in battles in the vicinity of the sacrificial lakes (Ilkjær 1994: 21; Ilkjær 2000; Fabech 2009). Other scholars have argued against this position and suggested instead that the war-booty offerings can be viewed as conquered victory goods carried home ( Jørgensen 2001: 14–16; Andrén 2014: 93–95; cf. Herschend 2003) equivalent of Roman triumphs, where war booty was carried home and used in the important victory processions, and thereafter sacrificed to the gods at the capitol (Lund 2003; Östenberg 2009).

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Torun Zachrisson and Anders Andrén Figure 27.10. An exquisite Viking Age sword, with a gilded sword-hilt, deposited at Dybäck in Skåne (SHM 4515:108809). Photo: Ulf Bruxe, Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm. 

destroyed weapons were collected in bundles with ropes or cloths and thrown into the shallow lakes (Ilkjær 2000; Jørgensen and others 2003). Apart from weapons, horses could also be deposited. In some cases, horses were ritually killed in two ways simultaneously: with a sword on one side and a spear on the other (Rau forthcoming). White stones were thrown into some of the lakes, presumably by the participants (Ørsnes 1959: 107; Nørgård Jørgensen 2011: 312). In a few cases, runes were inscribed on the destroyed objects. At Kragehul on Fyn, for example, a complicated runic inscription is carved on a destroyed spear handle: ‘I Ansugisl’s eril called Muha. I give luck, gagaga. Hail I consecrate the spear’ (DR 196, Samnordisk runtextdatabas; Hultgård 1984: 69; Hultgård 1998b; Sundqvist 2007: 200– 05). Behind such inscriptions could be ritual specialists (è29). The complex rituals around the war booties clearly indicate crisis rituals carried out mainly by men in connection with warfare, above all sacrifices of gratitude to a war god after a successful battle (cf. Lund Hansen 2003). Although the interpretation of the weapon deposits is fairly straightforward, they nevertheless represent an enigma. There are no indications in the extant Scandinavian written sources of rituals with mass destruction of weapons, and the sites with weapon deposits do not stand out in respect to placenames, apart from a few indications.19 This means that the weapon deposits represent rituals that disappeared so early that not even faint echoes survived into the later written sources. The only written account that can be related to 19 

Very few of the locations with weapon deposits seem to have sacral names, but two possible exceptions are Thorsbjerg in Angeln and Vimose (Allese mose) on Fyn ( Jensen 2008).

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the weapon deposits is Orosius’s description from the fifth century ce (based on earlier sources) of the rituals carried out by the Cimbri after their victory in 105 bce over a Roman army at Arausio (Orange) in southern France: hostes binis castris atque ingenti praeda potiti noua quadam atque insolita exsecra­ tione cuncta quae ceperant pessum dederunt; uestis discissa et proiecta est, aurum argentumque in flumen abiectum, loricae uirorum concisae, phalerae equorum disperditae, equi ipsi gurgitibus inmersi, homines laqueis collo inditis ex arboribus suspensi sunt, ita ut nihil praedae uictor, nihil misericordiae uictus adgnosceret. (Historia adversus Paganos 5.16) (Having gained possession of both camps and of a huge amount of booty, the enemy seemed driven by some strange and unusual animus. They completely destroyed everything they had captured; clothing was cut to pieces and strewn about, gold and silver were thrown into the river, the breastplates of the men were hacked to pieces, the trappings of the horses were ruined, the horses themselves were drowned in whirlpools, and men, with nooses fastened around their necks, were hanged from trees. Thus the conqueror realized no booty, while the conquered obtained no mercy.)

Single weapons continued to be deposited during the Late Iron Age (550–1050 ce) in Scandinavia, but usually new sites were chosen, and the weapons were normally not destroyed (Geisslinger 1967: 107). In many cases very exquisite swords, with gilded hilts and pommels, sometimes with inlaid precious stones, were involved (Androshchuk 2014). In Viking Age Denmark about 140 finds of weapons are known, which have been deposited in water, often near communicative spots in the landscape such as bridges, fords, and seashores (Lund 2003, 2004, 2005, 2007). Scabbards, lances, and axes were placed in wetlands in Viking Age Skåne as well (Strömberg 1961: 85), and swords and axes were deposited in water in Västergötland and Värmland (Widéen 1955: 61–65), while axes were placed in a river in Södermanland (Zachrisson 2004c), and swords, spears, and axes in the river Fyris, Uppland (Ljungkvist 2006: 173–77).20 In some cases, several weapons were placed in lakes, bogs, and waterholes in the Viking Age, such as Råbelövssjön in Vetland in Skåne, Gudingsåkrarna 20 

The ford Hyndevadet in western Södermanland was used repeatedly from the Late Neolithic to the Middle Ages for depositions of mainly stone, bronze, and iron axes, strike-a-lights, and jewellery. Close by the ford there was a dramatic rapid, which seasonally could be very powerful (Zachrisson 2004c). Weapons and weapon miniatures were probably deposited recurrently in the Viking Age harbour area close to the royal manor at the Fyris river-mouth (Ljungkvist 2006: 175–77). Remains of humans were also deposited; some contemporary with the weapons (Fredengren 2015: 169–71).

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on Gotland, and Tissø on Sjælland21 (Strömberg 1961: 83–86; Lund 2009: 77–79, 82–83; Thunmark-Nylén 1995–2006: iii, 460; Holst and others 2017: 162). In these cases of single weapons or small amounts of weapons, the rites were probably not related to crisis rituals but rather to passage rituals, such as initiations, burials, or final depositions of special objects, with certain histories (Lund 2009; Androshchuk 2002). Deposits of Boats In Norway and central Sweden there were no war booties, but instead several deposits of ships in wetlands. Boats or parts of boats like oars or oarlocks occur in wetlands and were an important part of the ritual traditions along the entire western coast of Norway from c. 200–1050 ce (Müller-Wille 1970; Nordeide 2011a: 250, map 12; Shetelig and Johannessen 1929: 34–56). This tradition might have started earlier, since parts of a boat from the late pre-Roman Iron Age resembling the Hjortspring boat type have been found in Haugvik on the Helgeland coast (Sylvester 2009: 54, 59). At Kvalsund in Møre and Romsdal a ship from about 620–760 was metriculously destroyed and deposited in small pieces together with hazel rods, sticks of young deciduous trees, and nettle (Shetelig and Johannessen 1929).22 At other places, stones as large as a fist, often of white colour of quartzite, chalk, or flint, were thrown from the shore, as in the depositions from the fifth and sixth centuries at Bårdset in Norway (Gjessing 1941; cf. G. Larsson 2007: 251). Presumably the pointed sticks and 21 

At Gudingsåkrarna, in the parish of Vallstena, around a thousand iron objects have been found, among them 225 spearheads, some swords, an axe, as well as some horse harnesses, and some female and male brooches, tools, weights, and iron slag. The finds were concentrated in a 200 × 100 large area around a water hole, and a stone-paved road ran through the site. The weapons were not placed randomly, but along certain stretches of the ground. South-west of the water hole eight large spearheads were placed in a ring with the points downwards. The weapons have been dated mainly to c. 750–1000 ce, but a few weapons belong to the period 400–750 as well as to the eleventh century (Stenberger 1943; Thålin-Bergman 1986: 263–64; Thunmark-Nylén 1995–2006: iii, 460). 22  ‘Ikke et eneste spant er helt, kjøl og stevn brukket, årene knekket, klædningen flekket op så ikke noget sted to bord fantes sammenhengende som de hadde sittet i fartøiet. Bara roret og et par av årene er hele, ellers er hvert stykke mishandlet. Vi møter en gjennemført ødeleggelse… …Stykkene er knekket og brukket med vold, et arbeide som må ha krevet adskillig strev…’ (Not a single rib is complete, keel and stern broken, oars are cracked, the lining is torn to pieces. Only the rudder and a pair of oars are complete, otherwise every piece is abused. We meet a consistent destruction… …the pieces are broken by violence; works that must have cost great strive …’) (Shetelig and Johannessen 1929: 34).

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Figure 27.11. Remains of a boat deposited at Kvalsund in Møre and Romsdal. Photo: Universitetsmuseet, Bergen.

the stones indirectly point to spectators taking part in the rituals. Boat deposits are also known in central Sweden. In Gästrikland, the small lake Igeltjärn was virtually filled with about twenty deposited boats (Zachrisson 2014b: 98–100; G. Larsson 2007: 244). A Golden Horizon In the sixth century many deposits of gold, some of them huge, were put in wetlands and on dry land. The gold deposits include one or many gold coins, gold bracteates, gold rings, gold collars, sword parts, as well as so called gold currency rings, and gold ingots (Axboe 1999b; Hedeager 2003; Resi 2005). Usually, the gold deposits are single events, without any earlier or later deposits in the same places. On Fyn, the largest gold deposits in Denmark were placed around the central place of Gudme (Thrane 1998a, 1998b). In Skåne, the heaviest golden neckring was deposited close to the central place Uppåkra (Strömberg 1963: 77), and six gold bracteates were deposited at Kläggeröd, the highest point in south west Skåne, where three medieval hundreds later met (L. Larsson 2015: 113). At Söderby in southern Uppland several gold bracteates were deposited, after the images on the largest bracteate were ritually ‘killed ‘by being cut with a knife and having its loop slit off, and the whole piece finally crumbled up (Lamm and others 1999). Three outstanding gold collars with anthropomorphic and zoomorphic figures (horses, boars, birds, serpents/lizards) were

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Figure 27.12. Gold collar deposited at Ålleberg in Västergötland (SHM 492:108861). Photo: Sören Hallgren, Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm. 

deposited as singles on Öland and in Västergötland. They could have functioned as regalia of secular or sacral elites (Holmqvist 1980: 99–100; Pesch 2015: 668). The gold collar from Färjestaden on Öland was deposited close to the shores of Kalmarsund, while the gold collar from Ålleberg in Västgötland was found among stone slabs below a scree at the northern end of the hill.23 In Södermanland, at Tuna in Västerljung, a large golden neckring and several golden mounts were placed, and in other parts of central Sweden, several gold objects were deposited close to hillforts (Andersson 2011: 178–29; for depositions at hillforts; Zachrisson 2017b: 705; Olausson 2007, 2008). The background of these gold deposits is disputed. Some regard them as hidden hoards of precious metal, whereas others see them as responses to fundamental crisis in the middle of the sixth century. Climatic hardships (Büntgen and others 2016; Axboe 1999b; B. Gräslund 2008; Gräslund and Price 2012) hit globally, resulting in crop failure, possible famine, and death, that struck at the same time as the Justinian bubonic plague affected parts of Europe (Frankopan 2015: ch. 4). At the same time the power structures and networks in many parts of Europe changed. Consequently, the gold deposits may have been desperate crisis rituals at a time when demography, economy, and politics suddenly changed.24 One of the consequences of the mid-sixth century crisis 23 

Much later oral traditions at this place indicate some knowledge of gold deposits. The scree was regarded as a symbolic gate, that suddenly could open and reveal a whole army of sleeping warriors in gilded helmets, as well as horses equipped in silver and gold (cf. Klintberg 2010: 391). 24  A special case is a goldsmith’s hoard, deposited in the middle of the sixth century at Syre on Karmøy at the westcoast of Norway. The objects have been wrapped up in something, pos-

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was that Gudme disappeared as a central place (è19). The many gold deposits around this site could thus be an illustration of how the leading groups in Gudme actively tried to handle the crisis. Central Places Central places were large and stable settlements, with thick cultural deposits and extremely rich material culture. They existed between the second century bce and the eleventh century ce, although many of them emerged in the second and third as well as the sixth centuries ce (è19). The material culture consists of numerous imports and remains of craft production, and therefore the central places are understood as hubs for both local and long distance networks and trade. There are usually strong Roman influences on the material culture ( Jørgensen 2011), such as signs of the consumption of bread and the use of surgical instruments for healing cuts and wounds, and Roman glass and sometimes unique bronzes together with many Roman silver and gold coins. Many of these traits and the organisation of the central places as such indicate that they could have been established by returning individuals who had been mercenaries serving in imperial bodyguards in the Roman Empire or had belonged in its auxilia-troops (Lund Hansen 2001b; Frölich 2010, 2011; Jørgensen 2011; Andersson 2013: 59–79; Zachrisson forthcoming). Many different rituals were carried out at the central places, and the clearest ritual remains have been found in and around Uppåkra, Helgö, Tissø, and Gamla Uppsala. Uppåkra, in south-west Skåne, was established as a central place in the second century bce and was contemporary with the late Celtic oppida in Central Europe (Lund Hansen 2001b: 83; è19). It is therefore interesting that male violence comparable to that of Celtic oppidas have been found in the surroundings of Uppåkra (cf. Magnusson Staaf 2003). Within a 10 km radius from Uppåkra, wetlands have yielded seven to eight depositions of skulls dated to the period 500–1 bce. The skulls were all from adult men, whose heads had been exposed to blunt force trauma and cuts (Fredengren 2018).25 sibly cloth, and placed on a layer of white quartz stones. This single but meticulous ritual was probably performed as a crisis ritual, but perhaps also as a closing ritual for a craft with direct religious implications. The contexts of the craft changed dramatically, since for many generations afterwards gold objects were not deposited in the region (Kristoffersen 2012: 172–74; Zachrisson 2017b: 706). 25  Especially one bog, Gullåkra mosse just east of Uppåkra, shows a long-term use, with a deposited bronze horn from the mid-Bronze Age near a wooden construction in the bog, an

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Figure 27.13. Plan of the ritual building at Uppåkra with distribution of gold foil figures and a tentative reconstruction of the house. The beaker (LUHM 31251:1522) and the glass bowl (LUHM 31251:1523) were found together inside the building. Illustration: Loïc Lecareux. Plan after Watt 2004: 169. Photo: Bengt Almgren, Historiska museet vid Lunds universitet, Lund. 

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In the central part of Uppåkra, there were several hall buildings26 and an excellently preserved ritual building. It was rebuilt at exactly the same spot seven times between c. 200 and 950 ce. The building was 13.5 × 6 m large, heavily built with large roof pillars that indicated that it had been a very tall building. The hall had two entrances in the south and one in the north. A large door ring probably marked the main gate at the south-western entrance. A unique silver beaker with ornamented gilded panels in animal style and a blue glass vessel, which date to about 450–500 ce, imply ritual drinking probably formalized at the latest during this period.27 These objects were thereafter used until the late Viking Age, when they were ritually ‘buried’ in the floor of the house. Crucibles and slag were found in the floor levels of the building from the Migration Period, and traces of gold from the manufacturing of goldfoil figures from the Merovingian period (Larsson 2004; Larsson and Lenntorp 2004: 7, 18, 31; Kresten and others 2001: 163–64; Axboe 2012: 129). These gold foil figures, approximately 100 in number, were concentrated around the north-western posthole, where a high seat probably stood. The ritual building has been compared to contemporary temples in the Roman world (Andrén 2004b; Andrén 2007: 31; Larsson 2006b; Larsson 2016: 147). The ritual building was surrounded by thick deposits of unburnt animal bones, which must have shone white to anyone approaching the house. The animal bones were mainly from cattle, sheep, and pigs, but were dominated by cattle bones cut into portion pieces — remains of meat that had been cooked in vessels. Age determination of the animal bones indicates slaughtering all year round, but primarily in the late summer and early autumn (Magnell 2011). Isotope analysis indicates that animals were brought from the surroundings to enable the large-scale feasting. The bones from inside the building consist of a large proportion of fowl and fish from the coast. The bones from the post-hole fillings were dominated by pig bones (60 per cent) of pigs from only days old up until six months, of a breed that was large sized and had a boar-like look (Magnell 2011, 2013; Jennbert 2011: 96–98). The specific selection of animal bones inside the ritual building indicates that luxury consumption took place axe and sword from the Late Bronze Age, and a La Tène torques neckring. In the Migration Period when the central place was functioning, spears were still deposited (Stjernquist 1996; Stjernquist 1998: 176; Stjernquist 2001: 13ff; Fredengren 2018). 26  For halls in general, see Herschend (1993, 1999). 27  The different forms of the two drinking vessels at Uppåkra (Hårdh 2004) indicate that they were used for different beverages, possibly ale and mead respectively, as was the case with the two drinking horns from Skrydstrup (see above).

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Figure 27.14. Plan of the central part of Helgö, building group 2, including the main hall and distribution of ritual deposits. Illustration: Lars Jørgensen/Pre-Christian Cultsites, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen. 

there, such as banquets for the chosen. Among the animal bones outside the building, there were also human bones, some of which had been gnawed by dogs while relatively ‘fresh’, while others had been trampled. At the periphery of the cover of animal bones, there were also deposits of over three hundred weapons, north, west, and south of the ritual building. These weapons include spears and lances and a gilded eyebrow of a parade helmet (Helgesson 2004: 226; Helgesson 2010: 108; figure è23.2). The finds in and around the ritual building at Uppåkra indicate different complex rituals that included slaughtering, butchering, cooking, and eating of meat, fowl, and fish as well as drinking of mead and ale, probably in connection with cyclical rituals and recurrent gatherings and assemblies. Some humans were also killed and cut apart, possibly in relation to weapon deposits and crisis rituals after victories in warfare. The gold foil figures, finally, indicate passage rituals of the elite groups that dominated the place (cf. Stolt 2001). At Helgö, in southern Uppland, the settlement started around 200 ce (è 19). Several generations of halls seem to have been used periodically for rituals. In a late phase of the building, gold foil figures have been found as well

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Figure 27.15. Plan of the central part of Tissø during phase 2 (primarily from the eighth and possibly from the beginning of the ninth century), including the main hall and the ritual building within an enclosure. Illustration: Lars Jørgensen/ Pre-Christian Cultsites, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen. 

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as different types of exotica, such as a Buddha statuette from Pakistan, a bronze spoon from the Mediterranean, an Irish crozier, and silver plates. The main rituals, however, seem to have taken place at the foot of a bare rock immediately east of the hall. Stone constructions, perhaps functioning as altars, were found on all sides of the bare rock. Iron amulet rings and a charred ditch and traces of postholes seem to have separated the open-air ritual site from the hall buildings. The charred ditch could represent the remains of repeated fires, and the amulet rings may have been fastened to a fence that enclosed the ritual site (Zachrisson 2004a: 352–75; Zachrisson 2004b:146–58; Zachrisson 2011a: 79; Jørgensen 2009: 329–54; synthesized in Clarke and Lamm 2017: 60–63). On a shelf below the rock, animal bones and objects were placed around a post in thick deposits from about 200 to 850 ce. About every hundred years or so the site was ‘renewed’, when clay was carried up to the shelf and evened out and covered over the older deposits. The clay was in itself clean and contained no finds. Between the clay layers, animal bones were deposited, mostly unburned, cleaved, and some with slaughtering marks. They were mainly from cattle, pigs, and sheep. Crania were prominent at the site (Stolle forthcoming; Olson 2004: 24). Fragments of rotary querns together with seventy pieces of bread and the remains of clay linings for ovens were deposited in the different layers (Bergström 2007: 41–43). Throughout the deposits was an extensive amount of ceramics, probably repeated food offerings; the pots seemed to have been thrown against the bare rock (Zachrisson 2004a: 355; Zachrisson 2004b: 148; Zachrisson 2011a: 79–80). The animal bones, bread, and ceramics were deposited recurrently, as well as surgical instruments, but other deposited objects were only deposited in certain period.28 When the rituals stopped, a three-pointed stone setting was placed on top of the ritual deposits as a lid covering the depositions that had been formed during the previous six hundred years.29 The rituals that took place at Helgö could have been cyclical rituals 28 

During the period c. 200–400 ce, dress accessories, beads, shears, knives, and birch-bark cakes were placed there. Around 500 to 600 ce knives were still deposited, but now accompanied by numerous iron objects, such as nails, tongs, various tools, mounts, iron, rods, beads, and crucibles from metal working. In the top layers, dating to c. 700–850 ce, many iron objects continued to be deposited, such as arrows, spikes, and Þórr’s hammers, shears and arrows, but also amulet iron rings, mounts, iron bars, rods, rivets, nails, beads, and amber. Old gold and silver objects, as some kind of antiquities, from the Migration Period were also placed in the top layer (Lundström 1970: 155, 159; Zachrisson 2004a: 353–54; Zachrisson 2004b: 147–48). 29  Along the eastern side of the three-pointed stone setting were five small pits with burnt objects. In the points of the stone setting there was an Arabic silver coin, minted in 819 ce, and wheel-turned pottery from Frankia (Holmqvist 1964: 57; Arrhenius 1964: 278–79).

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including eating and drinking, but also passage rituals connected to humans as well as to production of different objects. Tissø on western Sjælland functioned as a central place about 600–1050 ce (è19). The entire area covered an estimated 500,000 sq m, but only about 20 per cent of the area has been excavated. The buildings and material culture show that it belonged to the highest strata of central places, presumably royally founded. The first central building complex functioned until 700 ce, when it was burnt down, and then it was moved 600 m to the south, where it stood until 1050. In the different phases, the main hall of the site was in the south-west combined with a smaller fenced area, and inside this area stood a small building. This small building has been interpreted as a ritual house, and it was rebuilt several times. In one phase from about 850 to 950 it was a square building, with four freestanding posts in the interior, resembling preserved Norwegian stave churches ( Jørgensen 1998, 2002, 2009, 2010; Holst and others 2017: 89). In the fenced area around the ritual building, traces of iron production as well as miniatures with mythological motifs have been found. Very similar layouts, of a huge hall combined with a fenced area surrounding a small building, have been discovered at Lejre on Sjælland (Christensen 1991; Christensen and others 2015, figure è31) as well as at Järrestad in Skåne (Söderberg 2005: 192–97, 277). Apart from the ritual building and the surrounding fenced area, rituals took place at other locations at Tissø as well. In waterholes in the southern part of the settlement, skulls of young animals, primarily pigs, were deposited ( Jørgensen and others 2014; Holst and others 2017), and west of the ritual building horses were placed in a bog. Jewellery and numerous weapons were deposited east of the ritual building, at the shores of Lake Tissø. And at the south end of the settlement, a sword, a huge gold neckring, and decapitated humans have been found ( Jørgensen 2009; Jørgensen and others 2014; Holst and others 2017). The ritual remains at Tissø suggest cyclical rituals, passage rituals connected to the elite groups that dominated the place, as well as crisis rituals having to do with warfare. The decapitated humans could represent capital punishment. The oldest remains at Gamla Uppsala are dated to about 200 ce, but the location became an important central place only in the fifth, sixth, and seventh centuries ce (è 19). Gamla Uppsala is well known from Adam of Bremen’s description of the rituals there (è25), but paradoxically very little of these rituals has been confirmed through archaeology. Instead, recent excavations have primarily uncovered the complex scenes of such rituals. From the fifth century, Gamla Uppsala began to be dominated by different large monuments. Huge halls were placed on two or three terraces, probably representing the original Upsalir (Duczko 1996; Ljungkvist 2013; Sundqvist 2016: 124–27, 208).

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Figure 27.16. Plan of Gamla Uppsala, including grave mounds, house terraces, ritual roads, ordinary settlement, and minor burial grounds. Hall = hall, Gård = farm, Möjlig gård = possible farm, Bebyggelseyta = settlement area, Gravfält = burial ground, Kungshögarna = the royal mounds, Känd gräns för bebyggelsen = known boundary of the settlement, Marknadsplats = market place, Förundersökningsområde utan bebyggelse = Excavation area without settlement traces, Stolprad = alignment of wooden posts. After Beronius Jörpeland and others 2017: 360. 

A main hall from about 600 to 800 has been excavated. It was 60 × 10 m, with white-coloured walls, huge doorways decorated with iron spirals, and a long fireplace (Ljungqvist and Frölund 2015: 11–13, 26). Remains of two older halls, however, have been traced below the investigated hall. The oldest hall is dated to the fifth century. These halls may have been predecessors of the ‘temple’ or ‘triclinium’ mentioned by Adam (cf. Dillmann 1997: 65–69, 72).

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South-west of the main halls, four enormous grave mounds were erected as well as a possible thing mound from about 600. Into this central area, a ritual road was constructed in a straight line running 900 m north to south, with huge wooden posts along the western side of the road. As a border to the south was another ritual road built in a straight line running 500 m east to west, with huge wooden posts along the north side and fireplaces along the south side. The straight roads indicate different processions in cyclical and passage rituals, inside as well as around Gamla Uppsala, with associations to the story of Gunnarr helmingr (è25; Nygaard and Murphy 2017).30 The only traces of rituals at Gamla Uppsala are animal deposits in some wells and abandoned pit houses. Age determinations of the animal bones indicate that the deposits were made in March (Seiler and Magnell 2017), which coincides with the written sources describing calendrical rituals at the dísablót (Nordberg 2006a: 156; Sundqvist 2002: 186–93; è 28). Around the central part of Gamla Uppsala, ordinary settlement with workshops and smaller burial grounds were situated. At one of the eastern burial grounds, small amulet rings were deposited that seem to have been manufactured in the Gamla Uppsala workshops. Analysis shows that they were made of ‘low quality iron’ and seem to have been produced solely as ritual objects (Englund and Hjärthner-Holdar 2017). Effigies of divine figures are mentioned in the ‘temple’ of Gamla Uppsala, which means that halls have housed such figures of gods and goddesses. A possible example of such an effigy is a wooden figure found in a bog at Rude Eskildstrup on northern Sjælland. The figure depicts a sitting man in a robe or gown, who is folding his hands around an object in his lap that is not identifiable. Around his neck he is wearing a gold collar of a type from the late fifth cen30 

Linear monuments are also known from a handful of other places. At Badelunda in Västmanland, a straight road with one row of erected stones delimits a huge grave mound and shipformed stone-settings. Geophysical surveys have shown that the row of stones replaced an earlier alignment consisting of a row of posts, just as in Gamla Uppsala. At Rösaring in southern Uppland another straight road from the early Viking Age has been found. It is 500 m long, running north to south, with traces of about 150 posts placed along the eastern side of the road. It is placed on top of a ridge, starting at a small house in the north and ending at a grave mound in the south. The ritual road could have been used in burial rituals but also in connection to gatherings on or around the grave mound, from which there is a grand view over Lake Mälaren, which at that time was an inlet of the Baltic Sea; figure è25.6. Earlier linear monuments are known from Skåne. At Degeberga and Önsvala roads with posts, pits, and fireplaces have been dated to about 200–600 ce. There are different indications that these roads were parts of assembly places (Beronius and others 2013; Björck and Wickberg 2015: 246–51; Svensson 2015: 96–97, 115).

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tury or about 500 ce (Mackeprang 1935; Capelle 1995; Zachrisson 2007; Fabech and Näsman 2013: 83–85). Other wooden effigies may have had real gold neckrings, such as the huge gold ring found at Tissø.31 Manors

Figure 27.17. Wooden figure from a bog at Rude Eskildstrup on Sjælland (Nationalmuseet no. B4283). Photo: Lennart Larsen, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen.  31 

Apart from the large central places, ritual remains have also been recovered from other large farms or manors. Primarily gold foil figures have been found in settlements and large halls in all parts of Scandinavia, such as Slöinge in Halland, Ströja on Visingsö, Eskilstuna in Södermanland, Hov in Oppland, Mære in Trøndelag, and Borg on Lofoten (Lamm 2004: 42). Other ritual remains have been found in some places, such as Hoby on Lolland, Rossland in Rogaland, Runsa in Uppland, Borg in Östergötland, and Hofstaðir in Iceland. Hoby on Lolland is best known for an extremely rich grave with Roman imports from the first century ce (figure è 13.2). Recent excavations, however, have uncovered a large manor with three huge halls. North of the settlement a ritual site was located, with two large man-made waterholes, several cooking pits, and depositions of animal bones. One of the water holes had a wooden platform in the middle (Holst and others 2017: 46).32

Effigies may also have been made of stone. At the central place of Ravlunda in eastern Skåne, two stone heads have been found. One of the heads is cut as a male wearing a helmet with cheek guards, possibly symbolizing a Roman auxilia-soldier (Zachrisson 2017c; cf. Hedeager 2001b: 80, 84). 32  Wells and water holes for ritual purpuses have also been found close at a settlement preceding the ringfort at Trelleborg on Sjælland. Several animals (a dog, a horse, a ram, and a per-

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Figure 27.18. A stone altar, with a stone face and stone troughs at Rossland in Rogaland. Photo: Barbro I. Dahl, Arkeologisk museum, Universitetet i Stavanger, Stavanger. 

At Rossland in Rogaland, house foundations from about 200 to 550, as well as mounds, cairns, and standing stones are preserved (Broby-Johansen 1967; Dahl 2003). Above the settlement, on top of a hill which dominates the surroundings, a stone table called Skammelen is placed on two stone legs. Beyond that, a stone head, a stone base, and two or three stone troughs of a local rock have been found on the top and by the slopes of the hill. The unique site has been interpreted as an altar with a stone effigy and troughs connected to food offerings (Birkeli 1944: 106). This unique stone altar was probably based on Roman models. One of the few permanently settled hillforts in central Sweden was Runsa in Uppland. It was used in the sixth and early seventh centuries. Inside the walls of the hillfort, a hall was situated at the highest location. Below the hall, a ritual site was placed in an opening between rocks. It was partly terraced, but it is uncertain if it ever carried a building (figure è24.4). At this site, depositions of animal bones, especially horse bones, took place, as well as a large amount egrine falcon) had been thrown into the wells in intact condition, as well as four children, four to seven years old, together with a lot of objects (Gotfredsen and others 2015). Horseshoeshaped ditches were located near the water holes and could possibly be understood as fenced areas used for the ritual killing/slaughtering that took place (Nørlund and others 1948: 44; Jørgensen 2009: 329–30).

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Figure 27.19. Reconstruction of a ritual building at Borg in Östergötland. Illustration: Richard Holmgren/ARCDOC. 

of iron objects. Among these iron objects is a miniature Þórr’s hammer amulet from the sixth century, one of the earliest that is dated.33 At Borg, a ritual site from the Viking Age consisted of a fireplace by a large rock, an open space, and a small house with a stone pavement. In an area west of the house and north of the rock, amulet rings of iron, slag, pottery, and bones, primarily of pigs, have been deposited. The pig bones were spatially divided between bones of boars to the north and bones of sows to the south. At the east end of the house was a small cairn, but apart from an amulet ring the house was empty of objects (A. Nielsen 1996, 1997, 2006; Lindeblad 1996). This site can be interpreted as a small ritual building associated with the slaughtering, cooking, and eating of meat. At the fireplace by the rock, amulet rings were forged and then used in the rituals inside and outside the house. Probably, the 33  Another example of a ritual site located at a rock and a boulder is Abbetorp in Östergötland. At a cleft boulder by the shore of a wetland, fireplaces were located, and pottery was thrown at the boulder. In another area was a post erected between a rock and a horseshoeshaped stonewall. Around the post, animal bones of cattle and horse were deposited (Petersson 2004: 36–67).

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Figure 27.20. Plan of Hofstaðir in northern Iceland. Drawing: Gavin Lucas. 

ritual practice at Borg can be associated with cyclical rituals, perhaps directed towards fertility. At Hofstaðir in the Mývatn region in northern Iceland, a three-aisled hall was erected in a dominant position around 940 ce (Lucas 2009: 62–64, 402– 04). The building functioned as the main building of a chieftain’s farm that was transformed seasonally into a sanctuary. It was divided into three rooms, and the northern room had two large cooking pits that had been in recurrent use and repeatedly cleaned. The centre was the hall proper with a hearth where the high seat probably stood. There was also a small hall with a room with a hearth and traces of two supporting roof-posts, that had direct access to the larger hall. In two deposits at least twenty-three skulls of cattle were found, but the weathering on the skulls indicated that they had once been placed outside. Probably the skulls were originally displayed along the turf walls of the major hall and were the remains of large scale feasting. The slaughtering seems to have been meticulous: first came a crushing blow to the forehead of the animal, then the animal was decapitated, probably with a broad axe which caused a lot of blood-letting. This slaughter would have required two persons (Lucas and McGovern 2007). Analyses conducted on the cattle bones from Hofstaðir indicate that the animals were bigger, stronger, and better bred than the usual kind of animals (Lucas 2011: 285). It is thus reasonable to presume that the animals were tributes, or part of gifts, that were given to the farm and the chieftain when the rit-

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uals took place. The dating of individual skulls indicates that the rituals ended around 1000 ce, and this finding has therefore been viewed in connection with the Christianization of Iceland. The word hof in Icelandic written sources is used for the pre-Christian multifunctional hall buildings, where the representations of gods were kept and the cultic meals were consumed. The hall at Hofstaðir was probably perceived as such a building. But the word hof carried a double meaning and could sometimes refer to a more specific ritual building detached from the hall. The latter could also be referred to as goðahús. In the Sagas of Icelanders the term blóthús occurs for a separate ritual house, detached from the main building (Sundqvist 2016: 104, 155–56).34 Ritual Sites with Theophoric Placenames Several of the central places had general theophoric placenames, such as Gudme, Vä, and Helgö. However, other types of rituals have been found in recent decades in smaller settlements with placenames connected to named gods and goddesses. Most of these excavated locations belong to the period 550–1050 and are situated in present-day Sweden. At Frösvi (Freyr’s holy place) in Närke, a ritual place was excavated in 1910 (è 42). In a wetland, a stone platform of 15 × 11 m was built up from the remains of hearths as well as cooking-pits and fragmented burnt animal bones from young pigs and sheep/goats. The platform was nearly empty of objects, but a brooch placed at the bottom layers dates its construction to 550–600 ce. From the platform an eighty-metre long footbridge of split oak logs stretched out to the wet part of the bog (Lindqvist 1910; for placenames, Vikstrand 2001: 326–30). This indicates that the movements on the footbridge were connected to communal meals at the platform, but as the footbridge was not wide, a single person walking out to the bog centre perhaps could have performed special rituals there. 34  In recent decades, ritual buildings have primarily been connected to central places and other major settlements or farms. It cannot be excluded, however, that certain ritual buildings existed in more ordinary settlements as well. An example is the large village of Vallhagar on Gotland, dated to about 200–550 ce. The village consists of farms of different sizes located at some distance from each other. In the central part of the village, away from other farms, a small square house is located. It has yielded some two thousand pottery shards, bones of sheep/goat, and human bones from two individuals. In contrast to the other houses in the village, it was not burnt down but decayed gradually into a ruin. In local tradition it was known as ‘the church’ of the abandoned village. This name together with the finds could indicate that the building had some ritual functions (Nylén and Nylén 1955).

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Figure 27.21. Plan of Frösvi in Närke. a= cultural deposits. b = wooden footbridge. After Lindqvist 1910: 120. 

At Frösthult in northern Uppland, a ritual place was recently excavated. The site was probably used from the eighth to the tenth century. On a stone foundation and in a cultural deposit interpreted as a ‘holy field’, knives, arrowheads, spikes, rods, sickles, and amulet rings, as well as an oval brooch, a sword, and a shield buckle, have been deposited. Remains of horses were also found. The original form of the name was Frøstolft, which can be interpreted as ‘Freyr’s twelfth’, alluding to a territorial district of twelve levy men. Therefore, the site could have been the gathering site for levy men, going out to or returning home from levy duties (Appelgren and Evanni 2016). Another ritual place connected to Freyr was Frösö (Freyr’s island) in Jämtland. Under the chancel of the Romanesque stone church of Frösö, a birch stump has been found. Around the stump, bones from domesticated as well as wild animals were deposited. Pig bones were most common (65 per cent of all bones), and they represented a special breed of pigs with marked tusks, more like boars than ordinary pigs. In addition, the pigs had been reared on a sweet diet so that they had a tendency to develop caries. Most were pigs younger than twelve months old, but several were younger than three months. There was a high proportion of wild animals as well, especially brown bear. Although hunting was fairly important for households in contemporary settlements in Jämtland, remains of brown bears were never frequent in any period. The bears had been skinned and the meat consumed with bones cleaved for marrow. The age of the slaughtered animals indicates rituals in April and around Midsummer. The bones do not show traces of scavengers, which indicates that the ritual tree was enclosed by a fence (Magnell and Iregren 2010: 233–36). In the Middle Ages, Frösö was the assembly and market place of the province of Jämtland, and the finds show us cyclical rituals at a holy tree at this place in the Viking Age. A ritual site possibly related to Freyr was Lunda (grove, possibly holy grove) in northern Södermanland. A settlement, a burial ground, and a stony hill have been excavated there. The main building in the settlement was a large hall from

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Figure 27.22. Aerial view of the sacred grove in Lunda, northern Södermanland, during excavation. Photo: Michael Lyckholm, Sky Movies. After Andersson and others 2004: 18. 

the third to the seventh centuries. Inside the house and in a fenced area outside the building, small phallic gold figures have been found which have been interpreted as representations of the god Freyr (Andersson and others 2004; Skyllberg 2008: 17; figure è43.4). The nearby natural hill, about 140 m long, was covered with a ‘stone carpet’ that was partly man-made, partly natural. In this stone carpet, birch-bark resin, beads, knives, and bones from humans and animals were spread out in the period 200–750. Some of the objects on the hill could have been part of complex burial rituals that took place in part on the hill. Many of the unburnt animal bones, however, could have been remains of ritual meals. The high proportion of suckling pig (86 per cent of all animal bones) again indicates rituals connected to Freyr (Andersson and Skyllberg 2008). The stony hill probably represented the grove behind the placename Lunda. Rituals directed toward Óðinn (è 42) are more difficult to discern, but a possible site related to Óðinn was Götavi (Gautr’s [Óðinn’s?] holy place) in Närke (Vikstrand 2010a). This place consisted of an artificial and fenced platform 18 × 15 m, which was built up in a swamp, surrounded by small hillhocks. The platform of a thick clay layer rested on nine stone ramps serving as a foundation. No animal bones or specific ritual objects were found on the platform,

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Figure 27.23. Plan of Götavi in Närke. A platform of clay superimposed a stone foundation consisting of stones laid out in nine segments from north to south. Illustration: Kenneth Svensson, Arkeologikonsult, Upplands Väsby.  

but there were concentrations of what was probably fat and blood around a huge posthole. These traces indicate rituals including smearing a post with fat and blood. The site was constructed and used in the last part of Viking Age, the eleventh century (Svensson 2012). Apart from the name, the nine ramps in the hidden foundation suggest association with transformation and possibly Óðinn. Three excavated locations that are linked to the god Ullr are known (è49). At Ullevi outside Linköping in Östergötland, a rectangular fenced area from about 400 bce to 400 ce has been found. Inside the fences were about forty pits and fireplaces, indicating cooking of sacrificial meals (Nielsen 2005). At Lilla Ullevi in southern Uppland a highly complex location from about 650 to 800 has been investigated. In the centre were a large solid rock and a stone pavement with a small wooden platform ‘anchored’ to the rock. South of the stone pavement were several post holes and sixty-five amulet iron rings, with smaller rings attached. Some of the rings could originally have been attached to the posts. This central area was fenced off on three sides with boulders, fireplaces, cooking pits, and post holes, with a formal entrance to the site from the east (Bäck and others 2008; Bäck and Hållans Stenholm 2012). Finally at Ultuna in central Uppland a square area (10 × 10 m) of thick ritual deposits from about

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Figure 27.24. Plan of the ritual site at Lilla Ullevi in southern Uppland. Sixty-five amulet rings were distributed within an area delimited by a fence of posts in the east and a stone fence in the south. The plan is based on Bäck and others 2008: 42.  

600 to 1100 has been discovered. The square was located in the yard of the contemporary settlement, which is otherwise known for a large burial ground with a boat grave. The ritual deposits consisted of spears, arrowheads, silver coins, amulet rings, and miniature weapons, horse pendants, and equestrian equipment, as well as animal bones from ritual meals (Hulth 2013: 65–68).35 All the ritual sites with theophoric placenames show that rituals continued to be carried out in the open air, while ritual buildings were simultaneously used. In many places, the rituals were probably a combination of indoor and outdoor activities. Besides, rituals combined with different gods as well as with 35 

Apart from Ultuna, rituals in wetlands have been found at several other Tuna settlements in Uppland. Horses and boats were deposited in a wetland at Stora Ullentuna, animals were placed placed in a wetland at Tuna in Alsike and other wetland deposits were made at Närtuna (perhaps ‘Njǫrðr’s fenced area’; Fredengren 2015). In the present churchyard of Estuna, many hundreds of unfinished weapons, mainly arrows and spears, were placed in a cultural layer at what was then probably the yard of a former Tuna settlement (Rydh 1969; Müller-Wille 1999: 63; Notelid 2009; cf. Androshchuk 2002: 12).

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Figure 27.25. Large rings with three smaller rings attached from Lilla Ullevi in southern Uppland. This combination of rings was most common at the site. Photo: Mathias Bäck, Arkeologernaa, Statens Historiska Musuem. 

different second placename components, such as -vi, show complex variations with few general patterns. A recurrent pattern at ritual sites with theophoric placenames in central Sweden is the use of amulet rings of iron, also found in some central places and manors in the same region.36 Plain amulet rings of iron, with or without smaller attachment rings, were objects that during the seventh century started to be produced solely for the rituals, and as far as we know had no other function. They are normally of arm ring size (Bäck and Hållans Stenholm 2012). Fireshaped rings can have twisted rods and often carry pendants of different shapes: sickles, smaller fire-shaped rings, axes, spades, short scythes, or spears, but they never have hammer-form (Ström 1984). Amulet rings have also been found at small ritual sites between burial grounds and ordinary settlements.37 36  Iron rings have also been found on Gotland. At Dungårde in Dalhem seven to eight hundred rings of different size were placed in circles in several horizontal layers. Some of the rings had folded sheet iron attached. At Rosarve in Havdhem iron rings on top of each other were placed in a bog. The largest ring was placed at the bottom, and in a row there were animal teeth, and finally the smallest rings on top. Sometimes the iron rings were accompanied with gold objects from about 550 to 750 (Thålin-Bergman 1986: 260–63). 37  At Kymlinge, in Uppland, amulet rings and tools, and miniatures with edges, were thrown at a three-metre-large boulder that dominated the burial ground (Biuw 1992: 134; Zachrisson 2004a: 374–75; Zachrisson 2004b: 162). Recent excavations at nearby Hjulsta shed further light on this. Around two hundred fire-steel shaped amulet rings were found, especially in connection with a boulder, and a foundation for a possible altar 0.5 × 0.5 m, between two settlements. At a burial ground, on a slope below, amulet rings were deposited as well (Harrysson 2017). The amulet rings at the boulder and possible altar could have been deposited at burial rituals, or also at cyclical rituals.

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Between Centre and Periphery In the Late Iron Age, it is possible that there existed a hierarchy of ritual places in certain regions. This is indicated by the so-called Guta Saga, a mythologicalhistorical addition to the provincial law of Gotland. In the Guta Saga ch. 1, pagan rituals before the Christianization of the island are described as follows: Firir þan tima ok lengi eptir siþan troþu menn a hult ok a hauga, vi ok stafgarþa ok a haiþin guþ. Blotaþu þair synum ok dytrum sinum ok fileþi miþ mati ok mungati. Þet gierþu þair eptir vantro sinni. Land alt hafþi sir hoystu blotan miþ fulki. Ellar hafþi huer þriþiungr sir. En smeri þing hafþu mindri blotan miþ fileþi, mati ok mungati, sum haita suþnautar, þy et þair suþu allir saman. (Prior to that time, and for a long time afterwards, people believed in groves and grave howes, holy places and ancient sites [stafgarþar], and heathen idols. They sacrificed their sons and daughters, and cattle, together with food and ale. They did it in accordance with their ignorance of the true faith. The whole island held the highest sacrifice on its own account, with human victims, otherwise each third held its own. But smaller assemblies held lesser sacrifice with cattle, food, and drink. Those involved were called ‘boiling companions’, because they all cooked their sacrificial meals together.) (Peel 1999: 5)

The centre of the island was Roma (literally ‘room’), where the general assembly was held and a market place from the Viking Age recently has been found (Östergren 1992, 2005; Myrberg 2009a; cf. Lindroth 1915). Roma was surrounded by huge wetlands to the north, east, and south, and at the north end of these wetlands, human skulls, together with animal bones and a few weapons, were deposited in the Viking Age. This deposit could possible be related to the ‘highest sacrifice’, with human victims according to the Guta Saga. No remains of the rituals sites of the three thirds of the island have been discovered. Traces of the smaller assemblies, or ‘boiling companies’, however, should probably be found among groves and at grave mounds, holy places, and stafgarþar, which seem to have been enclosures with one or several staves, constructed in remains of older ruined settlements (Andrén 2020). In addition, remains of ritual meals have been found at places where Gotlandic picture stones were erected during the Viking Age (Andrén 1989a, 1993).38 38  Most of the Gotlandic picture stones have been found in secondary contexts, such as medieval churches. The original locations, however, are known for a handful of monuments. These show quite clearly that the picture stones from the Viking age were erected at roads, often in relation to older settlement remains. Charcoal and animal bones have been found at several of these places. The best-preserved location is at Stora Hammars in the parish of Lärbro, where

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Figure 27.26. Map of the former Lake Skedemosse and its surroundings. On the small peninsula Kvinnö in the northern part of the former lake are the probable remains of Sörby ringfort, and in the southern part of the former lake is the site of the ritual deposits. East of the former lake are two narrow ridges with roads (dashed lines) and a paved road (solid line) going from Bo mosse to Skedemosse. Around the lake are several burial grounds (black areas). South of the former lake is the location of the village Tjusby, which in its name preserves the concept þjóð (folk, people), indicating that Skedemosse played a central role on Öland. The plan is based on a map made by Ylva Bäckström in Fallgren 2020: 77. Disir Productions, Uppsala.

Another example of a central ritual site is the former lake at Skedemosse in the middle of the neighbouring island of Öland. The lake was continuously used as a ritual site from about 300 bce until about 1100 ce. A stone-paved road led from contemporary settlements in the east to the lake. Along the eastern shore of the lake was a long dry ridge, and the ritual depositions were most frequent along the ridge in the eastern parts of the lake. Only a small part of five picture stones originally were erected (today they are placed in a local open air museum at Bunge). They were placed in a row from west to east, only a few metres east of a house foundation from about 200–550 ce. The row started in the west at a limestone block with polished flat surface, which is interpreted as an altar stone. Around the site of this stone there remain heaps of charcoal with animal bones. The row ended in the east at a cairn, where the largest and best known of the picture stones, was ereceted (figure è25). The location can be interpreted as a memorial place, where inhabitants from the surrounding settlements met for cooking and eating (Andrén 1989, 1993, 2020; cf. Lindqvist 1964).

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the lake has been excavated, but it has yielded almost one ton of animal bones from an area of 90,000 sq m. These comprise horse bones (35 per cent), cattle bones (28 per cent), and sheep or goat bones (22 per cent) (Boessneck and others 1968). In the neighbouring settlements, cattle and sheep bones dominated, and horse bones made up only 4–5 per cent. This clearly shows that horses were especially selected for the rituals in Skedemosse, possibly for horse racing on the ridge along the lake. The skulls of the horses show no signs of damage from crushing, which could mean that exsanguination was practised via a cut to the throat (Vretemark 2013: 53–54). It may also indicate that blood could have been an important part in the rituals. Age determination of some animal bones indicate that rituals took place in the autumn. Apart from animals, at least thirty-eight humans were killed and deposited in the lake over the course of the entire period. Several gold armrings were placed in the lake during the third and fourth centuries, and weapons from war booties were deposited in the fourth, fifth, and sixth centuries. Skedemosse can be envisaged as the central ritual place for the island of Öland as a whole. Cyclical rituals, primarily during the autumn, were carried out at the shores of the lake, possibly in combination with horse racing as part of divinations (Hagberg 1967b:79–84, 108–10). Crisis rituals, however, also occurred at the site in some periods, when gold rings and weapons were deposited. As a contrast to Skedemosse, local ritual places too have been found on Öland. Outside the ringfort of Eketorp on southern Öland, a water-hole with deposited animal bones has been investigated. Especially pig bones and skulls of horses were deposited, in contrast to the kitchen waste in the ringfort, which consisted primarily of sheep or goat bones (Vretemark 2013: 54). The rituals seem to have been linked to gatherings and communal meals, rather than to activities in the ringfort, as the deposits started in the early Roman Iron Age, before the ringfort was built, and continued after it was deserted up until the Viking Age (Backe and others 1993). Apart from the examples from Gotland and Öland, central places, other manors, and places with theophoric placenames were clearly centres of regions or smaller settlements regions, where important rituals were carried out. In other cases, it is less clear whether the ritual sites were centrally placed or located in the periphery. Many ritual sites, above all in wetlands, were located at later attested borders between parishes, hundreds or larger regions such as syssels. It may well be that some of these ritual sites actually marked out border zones from the beginning. An interesting case is a valley in central Jylland, where the well-known sites at Alken Enge, Forlev Nymølle, and Illerup are located (see above). This valley, which is a tributary of Gudenå (god’s river),

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was also the border between two of the syssels in Jylland. Perhaps the valley was a liminal zone that was protected by powers of the Other World. Considering the gruesome fate of the young men from Alken Enge, it is quite possible that humans and objects on display at that place acted as warning examples for those approaching a tribal region. A border zone like Gudenå in Jylland, dense with cultic sites of various types in active use, would then be a real hindrance for an intruder to pass.39 The relation and possible interaction between different ritual sites in Scandinavia is much less known. It is quite possible that some of the weapon deposits were made at the same time in different places. For instance, some of the deposits at Nydam and Ejsbøl, situated 35 km from each other, show interesting similarities (Nørgård Jørgensen 2011: 304). It is also plausible that some of the rituals in the central places could be related to rituals in the surroundings, such as the gold deposits around Gudme and the human skulls deposited around Uppåkra.

The End of Ritual Places At some ritual places there are traces that can be interpreted as ritual actions ‘closing down’ the cultic sites. These rituals primarily consisted of covering the former site, either by soil or by stones. The ritual site at Lilla Ullevi in Uppland was covered with one metre of soil, and the ritual building at Borg in Östergötland was covered with one metre of gravel (Nielsen 1996: 102). A hall building at Hov in Vingrom by Lake Mjøsa in eastern Norway was covered with fire-cracked brewing stones. It has not been possible to date the layers covering these sites more precisely, but it is assumed that this was done during the Christianization process (è64, 65, 66, 67). Digging down ritual objects and remains was another way of changing the appearance of an old ritual site. In Iceland the skulls of bulls in Hofstaðir, which had been on display outside the hall, were deposited in two assemblies when the hall was demolished in the late Viking Age (Lucas and McGovern 2007). Other objects from ritual buildings could be ‘buried’ in wetlands, when the 39 

An interesting parallel to these liminal zones of deposits are Anglo-Saxon deviant burials that appear from c. 600 ce onwards. Formal judicial execution cemeteries in the seventh to ninth centuries were placed at later known borders of administrative territories. These boundaries were associated with the haunt of the malevolant dead and not the sphere of the living. For persons entering a certain territory, the execution cemeteries would also manifest the law and order of that territory (Reynolds 2009).

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ritual buildings ceased to function. The wooden image of a seated figure from Rude Eskildstrup could be such an example. Some of the gold deposits with oversized gold neckrings, for instance, from Tissø and Tuna in Västerljung, may also have originated from effigies from closed ritual buildings. Ritual sites in wetlands seem more often to have just been left untouched. Götavi in Närke, where rituals with meat and blood took place in the late Viking Age, was later left as an untouched piece of land. Even in the earliest cadastral maps from the seventeenth century the site was uncultivated, possibly because a taboo was connected to it (Svensson 2012). The last dated depositions at different ritual sites may also indirectly shed light on the process of Christianization. At Skedemosse on Öland the depositions of humans and horses went on until the eleventh century (two datings from 990 to 1150 and 1040 to 1160 respectively). By that time there were Christian rune stones and wooden churches on Öland (Ljung 2016). The latest humans and animals deposited in Skedemosse coincide approximately with the construction of the oldest stone church in Resmo, on which construction began in the 1080s (Boström 1999).40 At a central place such as Uppåkra, a decrease of ritual activitities could be viewed in relation to the Christianization. When the ritual building went out of use around 950, another site was used as a final ritual place at Uppåkra. West of the former cult building, a small stone paved gable room of a former hall was used. In this area, a spear, a sword, a Þórr’s hammer and a richly decorated mount, interpreted as a figure of the legendary Vǫlund, have been found (Helmbrecht 2010; T. Zachrisson 2017a; figure è36.3). This gradual diminishing of the ritual site coincided with the Christianization of Skåne and the rise of the early Christian town of Lund, which was established about 980, only 4 kilometres north of Uppåkra (Hårdh and Larsson 2006). Although there are archaeological datings for the closing down of certain cultic sites and of objects and humans/animals deposited in wetlands at the latest in 1050–1100 ce, it is evident that the cultic sites were still an important issue when the early provincial laws of the North were written down in 40 

Similar situations are attested at Mjölkholmen in Närtuna and in Knivsta träsk in Uppland. Humans were deposited at the shores of the island Mjölkholmen in the Viking Age, and the last human to be placed there can be dated by Carbon-14 to about 990–1150, whereas the last human was placed in Knivsta träsk about 1030–1200 (Fredengren 2015: 167, appendix 1; Larsson 2007: 237–36). These places are located close to the early Christian town of Sigtuna, established around 980. In the late eleventh century, stone churches probably started to be built in Sigtuna (Tesch 2016).

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the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Provisions in these laws set forth which objects and sites were no longer to be invoked after Christianity was accepted (Brink 2013a: 40; è20).

Concluding Remarks Although ritual practice varied in time and space, there are some general trends concerning rituals and ritual space in Scandinavia. Different forms of food remains were deposited in wetlands and sometimes on dry land during the entire Iron Age (500 bce–1050 ce). The food remains could be animal bones from communal meals or pots for food and drink. Remains of ritual food could also be cooking pits close to wetlands or large fields of cooking pits, used for preparing communal meals in the open air in connection with large gatherings. Different aspects of these food remains have been found in different parts of Scandinavia. Deposited animal bones have been found everywhere, whereas pots were mainly deposited in Jylland and large fields of cooking pits have primarily been discovered in Norway. Ritual sites with food remains were probably above all connected to powers of fertility in cyclical rituals. Humans were killed and deposited during the entire Iron Age as well, except in northern Norway and northern Sweden, which are lacking human deposits. Overall, human remains are much less frequent than animal bones. In some cases, such as the bog bodies and whole skeletons, humans were deposited as whole bodies, but in other cases the humans were disarticulated, and the remains only consisted of skulls or other body parts. These killed humans could represent legal punishment or cyclical sacrifices in relation to fertility or to crisis rituals linked to warfare and hostage. Weapons and boats were deposited from about 350 bce until 600 ce in Denmark and southern Sweden, while boats were deposited in Norway and central Sweden in the same period. Single weapons or small amounts of weapons continued to be deposited from about 600 to about 1100 in southern Scandinavia. The huge war booties from 350 bce to 600 ce represented crisis rituals, at irregular intervals, which were connected to warfare, whereas the later small weapon deposits probably were linked to passage rituals for humans and objects. Specific ritual buildings and halls, which were periodically used for rituals, can be traced from about 200 ce in central places. This ritual invention was probably modelled on different forms of ritual buildings in the Roman Empire. Rituals took place inside as well as outside these ritual buildings, probably in relation to cyclical rituals as well as crisis and passage rituals. From the sixth

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century and onwards, the rituals inside and outside the ritual buildings were more formalized, with the use of miniatures of weapons, tools, and figurines of mythical images as well as formalized drinking vessels. Apart from the central places, a formalization of ritual practice during the Late Iron Age (550–1050 ce) can be traced in other manors as well as in places with theophorical placenames. In these place, animal bones, gold foil figures, and amulet rings of different shape often have been deposited. Finally, the Christianization can be indirectly traced at several ritual places. Some of them were covered by thick layers of sand, gravel, or stone, whereas others were left untouched for centuries. In a few cases, datings of the last deposits are contemporary with the earliest signs of Christian activities, indicating complex religious transitions. Knowledge of ritual space will be expanded from new excavations as well as new analysis of old material. The complex spatial settings of different ritual sites have to be further studied, and future rescue excavations will undoubtedly yield new perspectives from different periods and regions. The fundamental problem of final deposits in archaeology (above and è6) must be further discussed in relation to rituals. It has to do with issues such as ritual practices before the deposits as well as the participations at the ritual sites: Who had access to the rituals? Only free men? Women and children on certain occasions? Foreigners? Who performed rituals, who participated, and who was only viewing from a distance? All these questions are difficult to answer but fundamental in trying to understand the ritual sites in long-term perspectives. Written sources indicate that some people were clearly able to enter many different types of ritual space, while others, due to age, gender, and social status, may have had access to only few of them — or none. An aspect of the participation at the ritual sites concerns the hierarchical level of the rituals, and whether they were performed by a farming household, by a local community, by a manor or central place, or by a whole region. New types of scientific analyses will be important in studying ritual sites, such as osteology, isotope analysis, and ancient DNA (è6). From osteological analyses, it is possible to determine the season of cyclical rituals, to figure out the size of livestock, and to reveal how deposited humans and animals were exposed to violence. Isotope analysis on animal teeth can be used to determine the origin of the animals: that is, whether they were locally bred or delivered as tributes or gifts from distant regions. Analyses of ancient DNA will be able to answer questions concerning the colouring and descent of animals, for instance, if white horses were used in divinations or if a certain breed of horses was preferred.

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Today we know fairly little about the humans found in wetlands or in various dry-land contexts, such as the central places. Isotope analysis will give hints of their dietary pattern through life as well as their mobility, that is, whether they were local or from distant regions. Analysis of ancient DNA will determine their maternal and paternal biological ancestry as well as their biological sex, which osteological analysis cannot determine for small body parts or children. If ancient DNA of an individual is well preserved, deep sequencing of the data is possible, yielding detailed knowledge of eye, hair, and skin colour of a person, and also if the individual could develop diabetes or was lactose intolerant. The genetic information of an individual does not stop there: bacteria and viruses that individuals might carry can contribute to their life stories — did they carry bubonic plague bacteria in their bodies or leprosy? If the skeletal remains of an individual are well preserved, it is possible to go further by doing either a facial reconstruction or a reconstruction of the whole body, making him or her ‘come to live’, in the same way as the well-preserved bog bodies. Consequently, ritual practice will come to be much more concretely reconstructed in the future.

28 – Ritual Time and Time Reckoning Andreas Nordberg Introduction A society can only function if there is a common perception of and a more or less agreed-upon system for the calculation of time. For the individual and family, time is governed by mundane and periodic tasks. For settlements and larger regions, time regulates collective social arrangements, political, judicial and economic harmony, and, not least, both private and public religious life. The anthropologist Edmund Leach has expressed it thus: among the various functions which the holding of festivals may fulfil, one very important function is the ordering of time. The interval between two successive festivals of the same type is a ‘period’, usually a named period, e.g. ‘week’, ‘year’. Without the festivals, such periods would not exist, and all order would go out of social life. We talk about measuring time, as if time was a concrete thing waiting to be measured; but in fact we create time by creating intervals in social life. Until we have done this, there is no time to be measured. (Leach 1961: 134–35)

Another anthropologist, Victor Turner, described time in religious societies as a movement between liminal and non-liminal periods (Turner 1969), the liminal constituting the central phases of the ritual performances. As we have already dealt with the various phases in (è25), this ‘ritual time’ in the narrow sense will not be treated in this chapter, which will be concerned mainly with the calendar that can also be seen as a sort of ‘ritual calendar’. The oldest extant source materials concerning possible traces of a preChristian division of time in the Nordic region originate in twelfth-century Iceland, but some scant evidence is also attested in other parts of Scandinavia. Andreas Nordberg, Associate Professor of the History of Religions, Stockholm University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume ii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 2 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 725–738 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116955

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We cannot assume that the reckoning of time was exactly the same across this whole area, but we can nonetheless surmise that there were basic similarities in the calendrical divisions, since these periods and points of demarcation to a large extent depended on elementary astronomical and climatological divisions. Logically, the day was divided into periods based on observations of, for example, the sun’s passing across the heavens and its rising and setting on the horizon. Longer periods were divided into weeks, months, seasons, and years. Months followed the four phases of the moon (new moon, waxing gibbous, full moon, and waning gibbous), while the year could be divided both climatologically into seasons or astronomically in accordance with pivotal points such as the solstices and equinoxes. Although there is no doubt that the measurement of time would, of course, have varied in its details from one region to another, there is data to indicate that efforts were made in pre-Christian society to establish some degree of uniformity on how time was measured. According to the Icelandic code Grágás, for example, during the Althing, the law-speaker should proclaim the correct calendar, after which the Icelandic goðar (plural) should communicate this to the local legal assemblies (Hastrup 1985: 27–28) Further, it was stipulated in several Swedish and Norwegian provincial laws that it was the clergy’s duty to explain the calendar to the masses (Granlund and Granlund 1973: 21–22 with refs.) Similarly, it may have been the duty of the law-men and religious leaders to maintain and communicate the calendar in pre-Christian times.

Solar Year and Lunar Months The Gregorian calendar, which is used in the West today, is a modification of the Julian calendar initiated by Julius Caesar in the year 45 bce as the official calendar of the Roman Empire. When Christianity was adopted as the official religion of Rome, the Julian calendar became the official calendar of the burgeoning Christian Church. The spread of Christianity throughout Europe thus brought with it the Roman way of measuring time. In the Nordic areas, the Julian calendar seems gradually to have replaced two different ways of measuring time: on the one hand, a form of weekly calendar; and on the other, what is usually referred to as a ‘lunisolar’ calendar. This latter calendar was based on the solar year, while the months were calculated from the phases of the moon, probably from new moon to new moon. At least some of the annual festivals, markets, and legal assemblies seem to have been regulated on the basis of this lunisolar year. In many ways, this is quite understandable. The lunisolar calendar was based on the astronomical cycles of the sun and moon, and these are

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constants no matter where one is located. Thus, placing a market, a legal assembly, or a religious festival in accordance with a certain phase of the moon in a specific lunar month would make coming dates for that gathering very easy to remember and to calculate. Since a synodic lunar month lasts for approximately 29½ days, a lunar year has only 354 days. This causes a dislocation of eleven days between the lunar and the solar years which seems to have been compensated for by inserting a thirteenth month approximately every third year (see Nordberg 2006a: 51–75 with refs.). There is much to indicate that the point of departure for this system involving intercalary months was the winter solstice. In Chapter 15 of Bede’s De temporum ratione from 726 ce, there is an account of a lunisolar year which was apparently employed by the heathen Angles (probably also the Jutes and Saxons). The first month of the year, corresponding approximately to January, was called Giuli ‘Yule-month’. This month was followed by Solmonath, Hredmonath, Eosturmonath, and Thrimilchi. The months corresponding to June and July were both called Litha. Then followed Weodmonath, Halegmonath, Winterfilleth, and Blodmonath. As January, also December was called Giuli. The year was further divided into four quarters of three months each. Leap years consisting of thirteen months were called Thrilithi, because a third Litha-month was inserted into the summer of these years. The year started at the winter solstice, which, according to Bede, was called Modranecht ‘the night of the Mothers’, after certain religious festivals which took place at that time, and in addition, the two lunar months Giuli were named after the winter solstice, since one preceded and the other succeeded that day. Further, Bede explains that Solmonath could also be called ‘the month of cakes’, since cakes were offered to the gods during that month. Hrethonath and Eosturmonath were named after their respective goddesses, Hretha and Eostre. In Thrimilchi, cattle were milked three times a day. Litha meant ‘gentle’ or ‘navigable’, referring to the calm breezes of the sea during that part of the year. Weodmonath meant ‘month of tares’ and Halegmonath ‘month of sacred rites’. Winterfilleth alluded to the first full moon of the winter. According to Bede, Blodmonath (literally ‘blood-month’), meant ‘month of sacrifices’ because the cattle slaughtered during this month were consecrated to the gods. Similar accounts of these old names of months, albeit less detailed, are to be found in other Old English sources as well. An incomplete calendar of Normanno-Saxon character is found in Cotton Vitellius E. XVIII. The manuscript, which is believed to have been composed in the year 1031, contains the following series of months: solmonað (February), Hlyda (Mars), aprelis monað, maius, junius or ærra liða, julius monað, weodmonað (August), halig-

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monað (September), winterfylleð (October), blotmonað (November), and ærra jula (December). Many of these names are also accounted for in a series of antique names of months, compiled 1705 by G. Hickes in Antiquæ litteraturæ septentrionalis libri duo i. For example, the double months associated with the summer solstice are here called ærra liða ‘the earlier Liða’ (= June) and æftera liða ‘the later Liða’ (= July). Similarly, December and January are recognized as ærre geola and æftera geola ‘the earlier/later Yule month’ (Nilsson 1920: 293– 94).The earlier Yule month of these series even has an early Gothic parallel: fruma Jiuleis ‘the month before Yule month’, confirmed in the fragment Codex Ambrosianus from about 350 ce. The name of the month implies, as in the Old English accounts, a lost second month *Jiuleis (Feist 1923). The lunisolar calendar described by Bede was obviously closely related to the ritual year. Due to the lack of relevant sources, it cannot be established whether a similar relationship between the naming of months and religious conceptions and rituals once existed also in pre-Christian Scandinavia, but many indications still suggest that the lunisolar calendar was of great importance for the ritual year. With some important exceptions (see below), the names of the pre-Christian lunar months from mainland Scandinavia are no longer known. The oldest known list of names comes from early medieval Iceland, and there are two main sources for it: Snorri’s Edda and the text Bókarbót, dated to c. 1220. In these writings, the months are part of an exclusively Icelandic medieval calendar. The summer half of the year contains the following names, beginning with a month stretching from mid-April to mid-May: Gauksmanuðr ‘cuckoo month’ or Sáðtið ‘seed-time’ or Harpa (meaning unknown). Mid-May to midJune: Eggtíð ‘the time when birds lay eggs’ or Stekktíð ‘the time when lambs were separated from their mothers and put into enclosure (stekkr)’ or Skerpa (meaning unknown). Mid-June to mid-July: Sólmánuðr ‘month of the sun’ or Selmánuðr ‘shieling month’. Mid-July to mid-August: Miðsumar ‘midsummer’ or Heyannir ‘hay-time’. Mid-August to mid-September: Tvimánuðr ‘the second month before the beginning of winter’ or Kornskurðarmánuðr ‘barley-cutting month’ or Heyannir. Mid-August to mid-September: Kornskurðarmánuðr ‘barley-cutting month’. Mid-September to mid-October: Haustmanuðr ‘the month of harvest’. The winter half of the year contained the following months, starting with mid-October to mid-November: Gormánuðr ‘slaughtering month’. Mid-November to mid-December: Frermánuðr ‘frost-month’ or Ýlir (cognate with jól ‘yule’). Mid-December to mid-January: Jólmánuðr ‘Yule-month’ or Mǫrsugr ‘fat-sucker’ or Hrútmánuðr ‘ram month’ (with reference to the pairing of the sheep). Mid-January to mid-February: Þorri (meaning unknown). Mid-

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February to mid-Mars: Gói (meaning unknown). Mid-March to mid-April: Einmánuðr ‘the last month before the beginning of summer’ (Nilsson 1920: 297–98; Beckman 1934: 32–34). According to Martin P:n Nilsson and Nathanael Beckman, it is doubtful whether all of these names were actually commonly used, except for Jólmánuðr, Þorri, and Gói which correspond to names of lunar months in other parts of Scandinavia. In Norway, Finn Magnusson recorded the names Jolemoane, Thorre, the latter used variably for January and February, and Gjö, variably for February and March. The variation in the accordance of these months with those of the Julian/Gregorian calendar is explained by the fact that the Norwegian names were names of lunar months (Nilsson 1920: 298). In medieval and later Swedish sources, there are several fragments of a lunisolar calendar. Among the lunar months are testified, for example, Julmånad/Jultungel, Tor/ Torre, and Göje/Göja. In early medieval Iceland, the month Jólmánuðr was said to last from midDecember to mid-January in the Julian calendar. It was preceded by the month Ýlir, the name being an ia-derivation of Old Norse jól ‘yule’, which corresponded to the period mid-November to mid-December. The winter solstice occurred at the junction of these two Yule-months (Beckman 1914: 169). It is thus usually accepted that all of these month-names originally designated preChristian lunar months which, like the Anglian and Old English Yule months, were in some way connected to the winter solstice. Possibly, the basic rule for calculating this lunisolar calendar was that the crescent of the second Yule lunar month was not to be seen in the sky before the winter solstice, and that a thirteenth leap month was to be inserted the present year, if this was about to happen the following year (Nordberg 2006a: 65–66).

The Names of Days and Calculation of Weeks Over and above calculations based on the lunisolar year, it appears that time was also measured on the basis of week years. According to a report which deals primarily with the establishment of the alþingi in Iceland in 930, the Icelandic year at that time was considered to consist of fifty-two seven-day weeks (Hastrup 1985: 25–26). It is commonly thought possible that the Icelandic settlers brought this weekly measurement from Scandinavia. Its origin is, however, still quite uncertain. Etymologically, the word for ‘week’ (Old Norse vika; Old Swedish veka, vicka; Old High German wecha; Anglo-Saxon wice) can be traced back to *wikōn ‘change’ and may originally have referred to the four roughly seven-daylong phases of the moon (Hellquist 1957: 1324). Although it is possible that

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the week in this sense could be traced back to an ancient indigenous tradition, the names of the weekdays in the Germanic languages are, in fact, reinterpretations of the Roman weekdays. The day of the sun (Old Norse Sunnudagr, Old English Sunnendæg, Old High German Sunnûntag, etc.) have their equivalent in the dies Solis of the Roman week, while the day of the moon (Old Norse Mánadagr, Old English Monandæg, Old High German Mânetag) corresponds to the Latin dies Lunae. The god Týr’s day (Old Norse Týsdagr, Old English Tiwesdæg, Middle High German Zîstag) are the equivalent of the Roman god Mars’s day, dies Martis, while Óðinn’s day (Old Norse Óðinsdagr, Old English Wodnesdæg, Middle High German Gudensdach) is modelled on the Latin dies Mercurii, Mercury’s day. Þórr’s day (Old Norse Þórsdagr, Old English Þunresdæg, Old High German Donrestag) equate to Jupiter’s day dies Iovis, and Frigg’s day (Old Norse Frjádagr, Old English Frigedæg, Old High German Frijatag) can be traced back to Venus’s day dies Veneris. Only the Latin name for Saturday, Saturni dies, lacked an Old Germanic equivalent (Green 1998: 244, 248–53; see è13). There is much to suggest that these day names were absorbed through interpretatio Germanica by the Germanic peoples of the Continent and the Scandinavian peninsula through contact with the Roman Empire in the first centuries ce and were then incorporated into a calendrical system, which may have been a precursor of the Nordic week year. If such is the case, one might be tempted to see the origin of the week calendar as part of a larger process of change among the Germanic peoples wherein social organization, trade, systems of justice, the art of war and runic characters, and so forth were developed or reformed partly based on Roman models (see è13). There is, however, no exact information on how this pre-Christian week calendar was ordered. When measurement by weeks emerges in greater detail in the Icelandic sources in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, it is partly integrated into the ecclesiastical measurement of time. In Scandinavia and in the old Swedish settlements in Estonia and Karelia from the seventeenth century onwards, it is found only as calendrical fragments. Incomplete remains of information are even to be found in Silesian sources from the sixteenth century. What is best preserved is what appears to be a closely related week calendar, which was still being used in Sámi society as late as the nineteenth century (Lithberg 1944; Granlund 1955; Granlund and Granlund 1973; Vilkuna 1974: 279–80). Judging from these remnants, the week measurement was tied to important periods in the working year. Similarly, the measurement by weeks can indirectly have been of great importance even to the annual cycle of festivals and can have constituted the calendrical starting point for the division of the year into four quarters.

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Division into Quarters and Annual Festivals Calendrical festivals definitely existed in several forms. Some were of only regional or even local importance. It is quite possible, for example, that the so-called álfablót and the blót in Vǫlsa þáttr, celebrated in late autumn at local farms or villages,1 are two known examples of such local or regional festivals. According to the scant sources concerning these two festivals, they seem to have been unfamiliar to strangers. Other yearly festivals were undoubtedly celebrated across much wider areas. Among the most important were certainly those celebrated at the beginning of the calendrical quarters of the year. There seem to have been at least two principal ways of dividing the year into quarters. The week year was divided into four quarters of thirteen weeks each. In the case of a peculiar medieval Icelandic week measurement, quarters were calculated with the help of the regulations of the ecclesiastical computus. Later Scandinavian sources maintain instead that the quarters often coincide with the quarterly divisions of the Julian calendar. In this case, the week year started with Christmas Day, 25 December, which was the formal winter solstice in the Julian calendar. The second quarter started on Lady Day, 25 March, which was the spring equinox according to the Julian calendar, while the third quarter started at the summer solstice on the feast of John the Baptist, 24 June. Formally, the fourth quarter started on 24 September, but occasionally it was counted from Michaelmas, the 29th of the same month. Many have suggested that this division may be a medieval harmonization of an older quarterly division, which originally followed the astronomical solstices and equinoxes (Granlund 1955: 30–32). There are, moreover, reminiscences of yet another pre-Christian quarterly system in Iceland, Norway, Sweden, and in the Swedish settlements of Finland and Estonia, which seems to have been of significance to both the judicial and religious system. These dates are first mentioned in Icelandic calendrical texts from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, but are also found in several Scandinavian provincial laws and mediaeval Church calendars, on calendar rods and rune-staffs, and in later popular contexts from the seventeenth century onwards. According to this system of division, the year began in the autumn on the ‘first day of winter’ or ‘the winter nights’ (Old Norse vetrnǽtr, Old Swedish wintirnætir), which in the extant sources is variably given as one of the three days, 13–15 October in the Julian calendar (20–22 November in the 1 

In Vǫlsa þáttr the ritual celebrations also takes place on a daily basis during the autumn (see also è31).

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Gregorian calendar used today). It has rightly been pointed out that this three-day period was originally conflated. The second quarter began at ‘mid-winter’ or ‘mid-winter night’ (Old Norse miðvetr, miðvetrarsnótt), 12–14 January in the Julian calendar (Gregorian 19–21 January). The beginning of the third quarter was on ‘the first day of summer’ or ‘the summer nights’ (Old Norse sumarmál), 13–15 April (Gregorian 20–22 April), which was succeeded by ‘midsummer’ (Old Norse miðsumar) 13–15 July (Gregorian 20–22 July) (cf. Lithberg 1921; Nordberg 2006a: 34–42 with refs.). It has been postulated that these displacements of the quarters in correlation to the astronomical solstices and equinoxes were relative to the climatological seasons of the central areas of Scandinavia (Vilkuna 1961: 80–83). Still, they also seem to have been fixed exactly four weeks after the astronomical solstices and equinoxes, which would imply that the fixed dates of the quarters originally belonged to the old week calendar (Nordberg 2006a: 42–47). At all events, the displaced quarters were, according to several sources, also tied to the yearly cycle of festivals. Most pre-Christian festivals were probably of regional or even local importance (compare, for example, the alfablót and the blót in Vǫlsa þáttr mentioned above). But some seem to have been more widely dispersed. In Ynglingasaga ch. 8, Snorri Sturluson relates that in pre-Christian times sacrifices were to be held at the approach of winter for the year’s crops (‘blóta í móti vetri til árs’), in mid-winter for the harvest (‘miðjum vetri blóta til gróðrar’) and on a third occasion close to summer (at sumri). He speaks of similar sacrifices in several other texts: for example, in Óláfs saga helga ch. 107–09 where he mentions a sacrifice for good harvest at the winter nights (at vetrnóttum), a sacrifice for peace and fertility (til friðar) at midwinter and a sacrifice at the beginning of summer (at sumri). In several sources, the festival at the winter nights is associated with the female fertility goddesses called dísir, as in Víga-Glúms saga ch. 6 (cf. Gunnell 2000), although occasionally also Freyr is mentioned as the recipient of offerings at the winter nights (Gísla saga Súrssonar ch. 15). This might indicate that the cult at the beginning Figure 28.1. Runic calendar staff from from Nyköping in Södermanland, dated to the thirteenth century (SHM 29486:120336). Photo: Bengt A. Lundberg, Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm. 

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of winter included a hieros gamos between the dísir and Freyr, as suggested by Folke Ström (1954). The mid-winter festival appears to be identical with the pre-Christian Yule. According to, for example, Snorri’s Hákonar saga góða ch. 13 the Yule festival fell on ‘hǫkunótt, it was miðsvetrarnótt and Yule was held for three nights’ (see also è31). There is much to support the idea that these festivities did not coincide exactly with the dates of the year’s quarterly divisions, but rather with a new or full moon connected in one way or another to these dates although moving in the solar year. In his Germania ch. 11, the Roman historian Tacitus mentions that the Germanic peoples held their gatherings at a new or full moon, and he intimates in his Annals 1.50 a larger Germanic festival at the astronomical new moon, saying that on the night of this festival only the stars lit the sky. Similar accounts are found even in later Nordic sources. For example, in Egils saga Skallagrímssonar ch. 44 we are told that a sacrifice to the dísir was held in the autumn when it was niðamyrkr outside. The term describes the darkness when the moon is completely invisible before the first crescent of the new moon is seen in the sky. Furthermore, in medieval Iceland it was customary to welcome the new moon in the months of Þorri and Gói, inviting it to shine as a blessing on all things, mankind and animals. Similar traditions are also attested in other parts of Scandinavia (Celander 1950). The pre-Christian Yule probably involved a series of festivities, but there is also much to support the view that its high point was associated calendrically with a specific phase of the moon, that is, the full moon of the second Yule lunar month. If one accepts that the second Yule month began with the first new moon after the winter solstice, and that the Yule festival was celebrated at the time of this month’s full moon, the varying dates of this full moon would fall within a period coinciding approximately with January. According to Snorri, pre-Christian Yule was celebrated at Miðsvetrarnótt, which falls right in the middle of that period. Further, according to a statement of Thietmar of Merseburg, the most important festival among the heathen Danes was held in January (Nordberg 2006a: 102–07). Both of these festivals accordingly coincide with the second Yule month’s full moon, considering that this month began with the first new moon after the winter solstice. Similarly, the timing of the great pre-Christian sacrifice in Uppsala with its market and legal assembly was probably fixed according to the full moon within the lunar month Göja or Göje (Old Norse Gói). In several medieval Swedish sources, this gathering is named Distingen ‘the dis-councils’,2 and it is said to 2 

Despite the similarities in names, the festival Distingen should not be identified with

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begin with the first full moon after the first new moon after Epiphany. In medieval and later Swedish sources, this moon was named distungel or distingstungel (Swedish tungel, meaning ‘moon’ and ‘lunar month’). The use of Epiphany as a starting point for this calendrical rule is probably a medieval alteration of an older pre-Christian regulation. According to Snorri’s Óláfs saga helga ch. 77, the gathering was in pre-Christian times held in the month of Gói but was moved to an earlier time of the year when the Svear converted to Christianity — most probably to prevent it from coinciding with the Christian Lent prior to Easter. Although Snorri might have identified Gói with a month in the peculiar and exclusively Icelandic calendar of his own time, the name most likely corresponds to the Swedish lunar month Göje or Göja. This would have been the third lunar month after the winter solstice, whose full moon occurred in a period roughly corresponding to the month of March. According to Adam of Bremen (skolion 141), the main sacrifice of the Svear was held in Uppsala ‘circa aequinoctium vernale’ (around the spring equinox). In Adam’s day, the spring equinox fell on 15 March, which suggests that Adam and Snorri in fact write about the same pre-Christian gathering (Nordberg 2006a: 107–15). A similar timing may possibly even be associated with some other preChristian or medieval Swedish councils and market assemblies. On the island of Frösön (Freyr’s island) in the province of Jämtland, the assembly Jamtamot (attested 1170) was held at the spring equinox in the Middle Ages (Holm 2000: 66) and during the same period the so-called Samtingen in Strängnäs commenced on the first Sunday after Lent. The name of a lunar month recorded in the seventeenth century, Samtingz tungel, could indicate that also the Samtingen originally took place at a full moon at the spring equinox (Lithberg 1944: 144–45, 147).

Longer Calendrical Feast Cycles Over and above such astronomical cycles as the day, the lunar month, and the year, it would appear that the measuring of time and the calendrical cycle of feasts were also associated with a longer astronomical cycle of eight solar years which, with an aberration of one and a half days, constituted exactly ninetynine lunar months. In practical terms, this means that a lunar month which the West Nordic dísablót. The latter, which took place at the winter nights in autumn, seems to have been a household festival. The Middle Swedish Distingen, which was held in spring and encompassed legal assemblies and markets in addition to the religious rituals, was as far as we know the most comprehensive and large-scale public gathering in Viking Age Svetjud.

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started at the winter solstice at the beginning of an eight-year cycle would not again be synchronized with the solstice for the following eight years. On the ninth year an approximate synchronization would occur — which was then the first year of the coming eight-year cycle. This cycle has been used in several different ceremonial and calendrical connections, for example, in ancient Greece, where it was called oktaëteris. In Scandinavia, this cycle seems to have constituted the basis for the lunisolar calendar and in connection to this to have been associated with at least two major festivals. Thietmar of Merseburg relates of an important sacrifice among the heathen Danes, which took place in Lejre ‘post VIIII annos’ (every ninth year) (Chronicon 1.17) in the month of January. Thietmar’s statement that the sacrifices took place in January agrees well with the interval for the varying dates of the second Yule month’s full moon. The expression ‘every ninth year’ is an example of the so-called inclusive way of reckoning, which was common to both Latin and demotic languages at this time. In practice, it means that the last year of an interval is included as the starting year of the next interval and is thus counted twice (1–9, 9–17, 17–25, etc.), with the result that, with a modern exclusive way of reckoning, the nine-year cycle only lasts for eight years. It is highly probable that this eight-year sacrificial cycle was identical to the moon’s astronomical cycle of eight solar years and that this also constituted the foundation of the lunisolar year. If so, the sacrifices carried out at this kind of calendrical festival might even have been imbued with cosmologic-astronomic symbolism. The part of the text in which Thietmar relates of the sacrifices of animals and humans in Lejre is from a source-critical point of view problematic in many ways. Still, in connection with his information on the amount of sacrificial victims, he mentions the number of 90+9. Coincidentally, 99 is also the number of lunar months encompassed in the moon’s astronomical eight-year cycle (Reuter 1934: 483– 86; Nordberg 2006a: 80–85, 106–07). Possibly, a similar kind of cosmological-astronomical sacrificial symbolism was implied in connection with the major festival in Uppsala as well. In his Gesta Hammaburgensis (4.27) from the mid-1070s, Adam of Bremen relates that this sacrifice was held ‘post novem annos’ (every ninth year, that is, in an eight-year cycle) and that it proceeded for nine days. According to Snorri (Óláfs saga helga ch. 77), it was also customary to hold legal assemblies (þing) and markets (markaðr) at this gathering. Snorri states explicitly that the market (kaupstefna) lasted for a week. According to the ‘Þingmalæ balk’ 14 of the medieval provincial law Upplands-lagen, Distingen’s market days were enclosed by two ‘market councils’ (kiöpþingæ), the first announcing and the second revoking the

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disæþinx friþer ‘Distingen’s peace’. Accordingly, the gathering may have lasted for 1+7+1 = 9 days, that is, exactly the period stated by Adam (figure è26). But since legal councils and trading probably did not occur simultaneously and at the exact same locations as the major sacrifices, the sacrifices were most probably performed in the evenings and during the nights, after the opening legal assembly and after each of the seven market days. On the second assembly, however, the disæþinx friþer was revoked and the meeting was closed. This would suggest a nine day long gathering, which encompassed only eight evenings and nights involving sacrifices. According to Adam, nine humans and male animals of different species (nine of each species) were sacrificed, the number of sacrificial victims totalling seventy-two. This suggests that nine victims were sacrificed during each of the eight evenings or nights (9 × 8 = 72). Possibly, each of these eight nights of sacrifice represented a year in the moon’s (next?) eight-year cycle (Nordberg 2006a: 86–97).

Calendrical Festivals til árs ok friðr In most religions, time has a mythological-cosmological dimension. This cosmological dimension could also be expressed in ritual. Time and the measuring of time were consolidated through the calendrical festivals. Such festivals were held at the beginning of the year, in relation to the beginning of the year’s quarters and in connection with longer cycles important to the reckoning of time. On many occasions it is said of these festivals that sacrifices were held til árs ok friðar (for year and peace). The Old Norse word friðr denotes peace and harmony in society, but the word also had sexual connotations and was thus linked to the notion of fertility. The Old Norse term ár means ‘year’s crop’, ‘yield of crops and livestock’, and so forth, but its basic meaning is ‘year’ (Ström 1976; Hultgård 2003a). The sacrificial symbolism of the cult til árs ok friðar can therefore be seen as reaching further than merely the hope of peace and a good harvest: it also touched upon the wish for cosmic regeneration and the assurance of a new year (cf.  è25).3 Therefore, it is no surprise that these practices coincided with the calendrical rites. Time was a crucial aspect of creation. Noticeably, the most important fertility festivals took place during the winter half of the year; in the beginning of autumn, in the middle of winter, and in in the beginning of spring. This surely depends on the fact that these festivals 3 

This could relate to some possible ideas about a cyclical cosmic time (see Schjødt 1981b, 1992, and also è39).

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were highly correlated with the most intensive periods in the agricultural and pastoral working year. Assuredly, Snorri states that the festival at the beginning of sumar was as a sigrblót, emphasizing a martial aspect of this ritual. But this is clearly the warrior aristocrat’s perspective. For most people, spring was above all a time for sowing and animal breeding. Little agricultural work was to be done in summer however, when the livestock grazed freely and the crops grew on the fields. The most intensive period in the working year took place during a period from late summer to early winter, which was the time of hay-making, harvesting, threshing, grinding, hunting, slaughtering of wild animals and livestock, brewing beer and mead, baking bread, desiccating fish and meat, as well as much other work to preserve food for the winter months. In some early medieval sources, it is said that much of this work was to be done before Christmas.

Concluding Remarks: The Ritual Year The concept of time is closely related to religion. In Old Norse mythology (cf. Vǫluspá 5–6), time was ordained by the gods in illo tempore to establish cosmic order from the primordial chaos. It was the gods who established the regulations of night and day, the cycles of the moon, and the daily movement of the sun in the sky. Hence, they even ordained the measurement of time in days, lunar months, and solar years to assist mortals in their daily lives. No wonder, then, that the Germanic peoples could so easily equate the gods of the Roman day-names with their own emic deities, such as, for example, in the case of the Scandinavian weekdays Týr’s day (Tuesday), Óðinn’s day (Wednesday), Þórr’s day (Thursday), and Frigg’s day (Friday). Since the cyclic movements and the astronomical fix points of the celestial bodies were fundamental natural manifestations of the ordered cosmos, as well as the foundations of the conception and the measurement of time, these phenomena also formed the bases for the ritual calendar. Some late pieces of evidence suggest that sunrise and sunset might have been common times for certain pre-Christian daily rituals to be carried out, while varying sources dated from the first century ce to the late premodern era affirm that the rise of the new and full moon, as well as the solstices and equinoxes of the solar year, were important points in time for certain calendrical festivals. Summarizing the scant written evidence, it seems that the ritual year in ancient Scandinavia consisted of the main calendrical festivals discussed above as well as listed below. Some of these can be confirmed by archaeology. By determining the age of slaughtered young animals, it is sometimes possible to ascertain at what time of year a certain ritual took place (see also è27).

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The West-Nordic dísablót seems to have been associated with a specific new moon in (approximately) October, which calendrically was related to the socalled ‘winter nights’ (Old Norse vetrnǽtr, Old Swedish wintirnætir), representing the beginning of winter. Rituals during the autumn took place at Frösö in Jämtland, as well as at Skedemosse on Öland and at Käringsjön in Halland. The pre-Christian Yule festival at ‘mid-winter’ or ‘the mid-winter’s night’ (Old Norse miðvetr, miðvetrarsnótt; Old Swedish midhvinter) seems to have coincided with the full moon of the lunar month (named after the festival) following the winter solstice. Another important festival related to the quarters of the year was held at the ‘the first day of summer’ or ‘the summer night(s)’ (Old Norse sumarmál, Old Swedish första somardagher, somarnat) in mid-April. Rituals during the spring are attested at Frösö in Jämtland and at Käringsjön in Halland. According to some, albeit rather scant sources, public festivals were also held at ‘midsummer’ (Old Norse miðsumar, Old Swedish miþsumar). Notably, major West Nordic legal assemblies such as the Norwegian Frostaþing and Gulaþing and the Icelandic Alþing were likewise held in the middle of summer. Most probably, these gatherings also encompassed religious activities. Rituals during the summer are known from Frösö in Jämtland. The major East Scandinavian gathering Distingen in Svetjud seems to have opened with the rise of the ‘Disting’s full moon’, that is, the full moon of a certain lunar month calendrically related to the time of the vernal equinox. This festival is indicated by written sources to have taken place at Gamla Uppsala. Moreover, some religious (and social/economic) gatherings seem to have been related to even longer astronomical cycles. Several sources relate of festivals held ‘every nine years’ or annual festivals that were expanded ‘every nine years’. As this temporal description is inclusive (i.e., the last year in one cycle is also counted as the first year in the next cycle), it is in fact referring to a cycle of eight years, which is most likely to be identified with an eight-year cycle of the moon, known to have been used as a basis for the reckoning of time in accordance with a lunar-solar calendar in several societies. Taken together, all this strongly indicates that the celebration of calendrical festivals was associated with the reckoning of time and even with the ritual recreation of time and the ordered cosmos.

29 – Cultic Leaders and Religious Specialists Olof Sundqvist Introduction Almost all cultures have cultic leaders, often even different kinds of cultic and religious leaders, at an official level of society. Some people are regarded as more skilful or useful than others when approaching the Other World and performing rituals such as public sacrifices or divinations. There are also particular persons who preserve oral or written traditions. Some appear as specialists in world-views or symbolic systems. One and the same individual may carry out several or all of these functions. In traditional societies, such specialization may develop to different degrees; some leaders appear as exclusive religious specialists, while others may assume other societal functions, too. In certain societies, the cultic leaders, particularly the religious specialists, may form an institutionalized, centralized, and hierarchic organization. This organization may monopolize certain cultic functions, and also normalize the official worldview, theology, dogmas, and ritual practice (cf. Sabourin 1973).1 Religious differentiation, specialization, and organization are dependent on the contextual aspects and general structures of society: ‘As the scale and complexity of society increase and the division of labour develops, so too does the degree of religious specialization’ (Turner 2010: 144). 1 

A process of bureaucratization may thus be discerned involving ‘rationality in decision making, relative impersonality in social relations, routinization of tasks, and a hierarchy of authority and function’ (Turner 2010: 145). Olof Sundqvist, Professor of the History of Religions, Stockholm University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume ii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 2 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 739–779 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116956

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In what follows, cultic leaders and religious specialists will be presented chronologically and by means of a lexicographic (philological-terminological) approach. Thus, certain terms that may refer to religious or cultic functions will be in focus, such as: Proto-Nordic erilaz, gudija, *wīwaz (or *wiwaz), þewaz; the eighth-century term þulR (Old Norse þulr); as well as Old Norse goði, *ǫlvir, *lytir, *vífill, gyðja, and vǫlva. Besides these religious officials there were also general leaders, such as chieftains (e.g., hersir sg.), jarls2 (jarl sg.), and kings (konungr sg.), whose offices included cultic or religious functions in society. These political leaders were involved in public sacrifices and rituals, and sometimes they appeared as organizers or commissioners of the religious feasts as well as custodians of the sanctuaries (e.g., Sundqvist 2002, 2003a, 2003b, 2007, 2016). Such ‘political leaders’ will not be treated here, since the relation between political leadership and religion is dealt with in (è23). Perhaps also the skalds should be included in the category religious or ritual specialists, since they made a kind of oral-poetic performances in the ceremonial hall (cf. Nygaard 2019).

Research Positions and Terminology The issue of cultic leadership in PCRN has rarely been discussed in previous research. Besides surveys in handbooks on ancient Germanic and Scandinavian religion (e.g., de Vries 1956–57a: i, 393–406) and references in some philological and onomastic studies (e.g., Andersson 1992b; Brink 1996a; Vikstrand 2001), only a few scholars have investigated ancient Scandinavian cultic leaders thoroughly (e.g., Phillpotts 1912–13; Wesche 1937; Kuhn 1978: 231–42; Sundqvist 1998, 2003a, 2003b, 2007). Previous discussion has been polarized; two lines of interpretation can be discerned, each represented by scholars from two different fields of study: namely, philology (onomastics) and the history of religions. Some historians of religions, such as, for instance, Folke Ström, argue that the ancient Scandinavians lacked a professional priesthood: according to him, there were no priests whose duties consisted exclusively of serving the deities.3 Instead, the political leader, the king or chieftain, made contact with the deities at the public sanctuaries on behalf of the people at the sacrificial feasts 2 

The meaning of the modern English cognate ‘earl’ has changed somewhat and to many conjures a very different picture, which is why we prefer jarl. 3  Ström (1985: 72; 1983: 71). Cf. Hultgård (1997: 19–20); Näsström (2001: 76). See also Phillpotts (1912–13), Dumézil (1973c), and Ellis Davidson (1993). The archaeologist Olaf Olsen (1966: 55) has a similar point of view; see also Kuhn (1978). For the early discussion on this topic, see Phillpotts (1912–13: 264–65).

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and in other rituals taking place at cultic sites. This type of religious leadership has often been associated with the notion of sacral kingship. Historians of religions who investigate the entire Germanic area sometimes argue that priests existed in some areas. Jan de Vries (1956–57a: i, 401), for instance, states that in the southern Germanic area, profane and sacred leadership functions were separated, whereas the situation in the northern area seems to have been different: Bei den Südgermanen haben die Priester neben der weltlichen Obrigkeit gestanden […]. Die Quellen, die wir für Skandinavien besitzen, scheinen darauf hinzuweisen, daß die Trennung der weltlichen und priesterlichen Funktionen hier nicht, oder jedenfalls nur sehr spät, stattgefunden hat. (Among the South-Germanic peoples the priests stood beside the secular authorities […]. The sources that we have from Scandinavia seem to point out that a separation of secular and priestly functions never, or at least only very late, took place there.)

Other scholars think that the Scandinavians did have specialized priests. This opinion is represented mainly by philologists, especially specialists on onomastics. Klaus von See (1964) argues that the Old Norse term goði refers to an exclusively priestly office. Only in Iceland, he believes, where the historical situation was very special, did the goði office develop into a leadership including several functions, such as law and other ‘secular’ aspects. He also states that originally, the Germanic people distinguished strictly between religious and judicial aspects. This issue has been debated throughout the twentieth century and beyond. John Kousgård Sørensen (1989) states that a priestly class, in Danish præstestand, existed in Late Iron Age Scandinavia. He focuses on the Old Scandinavian term -vé(r), -vi(r)/-væ(r) (Proto-Nordic *wīhaz), which he interprets as ‘priest’. According to him, compound nouns including this term reflected a differentiated hierarchical priesthood. Other specialists on toponomastics, such as Lars Hellberg (1986a), Thorsten Andersson (1992b), and Lennart Elmevik (2003b), have observed terms in the placename material which could refer to exclusive religious specialists: for example, Old Norse goði, *vífill, and *lytir. In general, the specialists in toponomy apply designations such as ‘priests’, ‘priesthood’, or ‘pagan priests’ to ancient Scandinavian conditions. One exception is Per Vikstrand (2001: 386, 427), who uses the concept kultfunktionärsbeteckningar (designations of cultic functionary). The difference between historians of religions and philologists/specialists on toponomy is probably due to the different evaluation of the source categories and the different methodologies that the respective disciplines use. Historians

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of religions rely mainly on historical and narrative sources, while philologists put more trust in the linguistic material and etymology (cf. Vikstrand 2001: 396). The difference of opinion is also caused by some confusion of terminology. It seems that philologists have used the common category ‘priest’ without any definition. Nor have historians of religions defined what they mean by ‘priest’. In this discipline, however, suggestions as to how operational concepts such as ‘priest’ and ‘priesthood’ can be conceived are sometimes encountered (see, e.g., Sabourin 1973; Widengren 1969). In an article published in 1998, Olof Sundqvist criticizes this terminology. On the basis of classical phenomenological treatments, Sundqvist proposes analytic definitions of the categories ‘priest’ and ‘priesthood’ and tests them on the Scandinavian materials.4 He arrives at the conclusion that common features of priests or priesthood were vague in early Scandinavia. There is only weak evidence for initiations into or formal training for a religious office.5 The cultic officials do not seem to constitute a closed and hierarchical form of organization that appears as an independent social stratum in society. Neither was there a priestly institution standardizing world-views or ritual practices. Finally, the cultic leaders did not have or perform with external characteristics or imposed taboos, which would have helped to isolate them in society. One exception to this was the oath-ring used by the goðar (see below). Because of these circumstances and in consideration of the information provided by the literary sources that the rulers and chieftains on different levels of society were the people who performed important cultic functions at the sanctuaries, Sundqvist argues that the concept ‘priest’ could be misleading in such treatments. Since the concept of ‘priest’ (from Greek presbyteros ‘the older’, presbys ‘old person’) was, moreover, formed and developed within a Christian tradition, Sundqvist later argues that it is better to use more neutral concepts in Germanic and Scandinavian contexts, such as cultic leaders, cultic performers, or religious specialists, in order to avoid serious misinterpretations (Sundqvist 2003a, 2007; cf. Hewitt 1996: 16; Rüpke 1996: 241). This type of criticism has its limitation, since the concept of a ‘priest’ could be used as an etic construction and an operational concept, completely defined by the analyst (cf. Sinding Jensen 2014: 7) and thus more or less freed from its ordinary emic use and associations in, for instance, Christian contexts. 4  For definitions of ‘priest’ and ‘priesthood’, see, e.g., Sabourin (1973), Widengren (1969), and Sundqvist (1998). 5  Traces of initiation may be seen in mythical traditions, however; see mainly Schjødt (2008). Cf. Sundqvist (2009b, 2010).

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In the present chapter, the description ‘cultic leader’ is proposed.6 It refers here to a person who was temporarily responsible for certain religious functions in society at different types of cultic sites, both communal sanctuaries and those located at the ruler’s farm (see below). The cultic leader had other societal duties beside his or her religious tasks. He or she also functioned as a general political leader. The term ‘religious specialist’ designates an exclusive religious office in the present overview, that is, it describes that a more intensified and permanent specialization has taken place and that the religious leader has become more or less professional (cf. Rüpke 1996; Turner 2010). It is, however, almost impossible to say whether we are dealing with cultic leaders or religious specialists in the Continental, Anglo-Saxon, and early Scandinavian materials (100 bce–800 ce), due to the scant and fragmentary sources. When treating Viking Age conditions (800–1100), we may at least formulate hypotheses regarding this matter.

Continental and Anglo-Saxon Sources (c. 100 bce to 1000 ce) When the Romans described foreign peoples’ beliefs, rites, and customs, they occasionally used indigenous concepts but often they applied Latin terms, such as sacerdos ‘priest’. It is hard to know what lies behind such Latinizations. Often, it may concern an interpretatio Romana or an ethnographic cliché. Moreover, when the Romans described Germanic cultic leaders and religious specialists, they rarely produced a coherent image. Caesar stated during the first century bce that the southern Germanic peoples had no druids (druides) who served the gods of the cult (De bello Gallico 6.21). In contrast to that, Tacitus mentions ‘priests’ (sacerdotes) among the northern Germanic tribes in his Germania. In the Nerthus cult, which existed among seven tribes somewhere close to the Baltic Sea (perhaps in Denmark), a ‘priest’ (sacerdos) had a special relationship to the goddess and her shrine (Germania ch. 40). A ‘priest’ (sacerdos) also performed ritual roles among the Naharvali (Nahanarvali), a tribe belonging to the religiously based covenant called Lugii. They lived in Central Europe, north of the Sudetes mountains in the basin of the upper Oder and Vistula Rivers, that is, in the south and middle of modern Poland. Tacitus says that 6  The concept ‘cultic leaders’ and eqvivalents to this term, such as ‘cultic/ritual/religious specialists’, Swedish/Norwegian kultledare/kultledere or kultfunktionär/kultfunksjonær, have been applied by several scholars working with ancient Scandinavian and Germanic contexts. See, e.g., Hultgård (1997), Sundqvist (1998, 2003a, 2003b, 2007, 2016), Vikstrand (2001), Steinsland (2005a, 2007), Näsström (2001), Tausend (2009), and Gardela (2012).

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their ‘priest’ (sacerdos) presided in a particular sacred grove, wearing female dress (muliebri ornatu), and that in this grove, the divine twins called Alcis/ Alci were worshipped (Germania ch. 43). In addition to the important functions in divination rites (Germania ch. 10), the Germanic ‘priest’ also had legal functions, according to Tacitus. Only he had the right to punish a warrior with death or to distribute other forms of punishment (Germania ch. 7, 11). The conflicting data of Caesar and Tacitus may be because one of them or both were poorly informed about cultic conditions among the Germanic peoples, or it may stem from the fact that they described various Germanic tribes at different times. There are about 150 years between Caesar’s and Tacitus’s works. Caesar observed the Germanic tribes in connection with warfare. Perhaps the Roman emperor wanted to underline the differences between the fascinating role of the druids in the Celtic religion and the more underdeveloped Germanic cult, in a more or less rhetorical way (cf. de Vries 1956–57a: i, 397–99, Turville-Petre 1964: 261; Kuhn 1978; Timpe 1992; Polomé 1992). It is hard to know what Tacitus actually meant by sacerdos and sacerdotes. It has been suggested that his expression sacerdos civitatis (Germania ch. 10) referred to a more specialized and limited cultic leadership (de Vries 1956–57a: i, 398). However, one cannot discern any sharp specialization, differentiation, or hierarchy within the group of sacerdotes that he describes. However, Tacitus makes a particular distinction between sacerdos civitatis and rex vel princeps civitas (Germania ch. 10), suggesting that the Germanic peoples differentiated between religious and secular leadership. Both seem, however, to be equally concerned with divination rites. The ruler, according to Tacitus, also fulfils ritual functions and participates in the same divination rites as the ‘priest’. Furthermore, Tacitus distinguishes between public worship and private worship of which the latter was led by patres familiarum. The religious functions of the princeps, sacerdotes civitatum, and patres familiarum, then, seem to be only one aspect of their more general social (and political) leadership roles (cf. Timpe 1992: 484). The question of whether the Germanic cultic leadership was hierarchically organized has likewise been discussed (cf.  de Vries 1956–57a: i, 398–99). Ammianus Marcellinus (fourth century ce) mentions that the Burgundians had a sacerdos omnium maximus, ‘high-priest’ (28.5.14). The title might reflect an official position at the top of a hierarchy. It is supported by a statement from the Anglo-Saxon cleric Bede. He called the official Coifi primus pontificum, that is, one who possessed the highest priestly ministry (Historia Ecclesiastica 2.13).7 7 

Researchers have, however, revealed traces of foreign or later ideas in these sources and names (e.g., Kuhn 1978).

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There are native Germanic designations in the Gothic Bible referring to either cultic leaders or religious specialists. The term (auhumists) weiha appears as a translation of the Greek term archiereus (‘archpriest’, ‘high-priest’; ‘Oberpriester’, ‘Hoherpriester’) ( John 18.13), which may also support a hierarchical organization. Wulfila also uses the Gothic term gudja when designating the Jewish ‘priest’ (Greek hiereus ‘priest’, cf. sa auhumista gudja for archiereus ‘high priest’). It is derived from the Gothic noun guþ ‘god’. There is no doubt that gudja (a jan-stem) is an old word that corresponds to Proto-Nordic gudija and is related to Old Norse goði (an an-stem). The word is probably also related to Old High German gotinc/goting, used to gloss tribunus ‘chief, commander’ (cf. Wesche 1937: 6–8; de Vries 1956–57a: i, 400, 1962a: 181; Green 1998: 33–34; critically reviewed by Kuhn 1978: 235–36). It has been argued that this word should be associated with an Old High German *goto (Wesche 1937: 6). In a lost manuscript, a derivation of it — namely, the Old High German verb gotten — is glossed iustificare ‘act justly towards, do justice to, vindicate, justify’ (Wesche 1937: 6–7; Green 1998: 33–34. Critically reviewed by Kuhn 1978). Whether the terms gudja, goði, and gotinc originally refer to individuals who were regarded as exclusively religious specialists is therefore uncertain. There are West Germanic glosses from the post-Roman period that can refer to cultic leaders or religious specialists. The Old High German words bluostrari, harugari, and parawari can be regarded as later word formations based on the Latin loan suffix -ari- (Wesche 1937: 2–6; de Vries 1956–57a: i, 399; Green 1998: 28–29). 8 Wulfila ( John 9.31) related the expression theosebes ‘anyone who is devout’ to gudblostreis ‘worshippers of god’, a compound where the second element is derived from the Gothic verb blotan ‘to worship’ (cf. guþ blotan for theosebeia ‘religion, piety, the service of God’ and Old Norse blóta ‘to worship, sacrifice’). The Old High German term bluostrari and Gothic blostreis can be linked to other native Germanic terms, such as Old Norse blótmaðr and Old English blōtere ‘sacrificer’ (cf. Wesche 1937: 5–6). The latter word formations seem basically to be constructed from native terminology. The term harugari, linked to Old High German harug, Old English hearg, Old Norse hǫrgr, ‘cultic place’, has been interpreted as ‘priest’, ‘diviner’; while parawari, from Old High German baro ‘sacred forest (grove)’, can be interpreted as ‘guardian of the sacred forest (grove)’ (Wesche 1937: 2–6; de Vries 1956–57a: i, 376, 399; Green 1998: 29). Perhaps the most common Old High German and Middle High German word for a Jewish or Christian ‘priest’ is ēwart(o), ēwart. This is equiva8 

It should be noticed, however, that this suffix appears as early as in Gothic.

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lent to Old English ǣweweard, which literally means ‘guardian of the law’, but which may also have had the meaning ‘priest’ (Wesche 1937: 8–16; de Vries 1956–57a: i, 399, Kuhn 1978: 234; Green 1998: 31–33). The word is derived from the Old High German ēwa, ēa (cf. Old High German, Middle High German ē, ēwe; Old Saxon eo; Old Frisian ā, ē, ēwa, ēwe; Old English ǣ, æw), which may be translated as ‘secular law’, ‘law’ but also as ‘divine law’, ‘religion’ (Wesche 1937: 13, 20; Green 1998: 31). Old High German ēsago, Old English ēosago, and Old Frisian āsega means ‘law-speaker’, ‘judge’ but is also related to ēwart(o), ēwart (Wesche 1937: 12–19; de Vries 1956–57a: i, 399). Old Frisian āsega occurs as a translation of sacerdos in Christian contexts. Whether these terms indicate that legal aspects and religious cult were linked together as one office in the pre-Christian context is controversial (cf. von See 1964: 92–93, 105–12). There are few indigenous designations for cultic leaders and/or religious specialists among the Anglo-Saxons. The Old English term ǣweweard has already been mentioned. King Alfred’s English translation (c. ninth century) of Bede’s Historia (2.13) (c. eighth century), describes primus pontificum Coifi in Northumberland as ealdor-bisceop. He belonged to the group called ealdor-men ‘the eldest’. Coifi, who lived in the seventh century, was associated with a shrine that he desecrated when converting to Christianity. According to Bede, the old cultic leaders could neither carry weapons nor ride stallions in the vicinity of the shrine. It is likely that the episode in Bede’s book, written down more than a hundred years after the events described, was influenced by Christian attitudes to pagan cultic leadership (Kuhn 1978) In older sources from the Continent, female cultic leaders or perhaps rather religious specialists also appear.9 Already Strabo (7.2.3) mentions that certain women of the Cimbri (perhaps from Jylland) had important functions within 9 

Rudolf Simek (2015) states that concepts such as ‘cultic leaders’ or ‘religious specialists’ are not suitable for female ‘cult functionaries’ and ‘sorceresses’ appearing in these sources. He admits that these women may have had ‘connections with the supernatural’ and ‘prophecy’; however, since they had no associations with a ‘public cult’, they should rather be described as ‘prognostic specialists’. Simek’s interpretation of ‘cult’ in this context seems to be very narrow, since it excludes more private cultic and ritual activities such as divinations and sacrifices at farms (cf. Ringgren 1970: 89–93 and Lang 1993, who give the concept of cult a much wider frame). In the Viking Age Scandinavian context (i.e., in the Old Norse sources), we meet the vǫlur, for instance, who performed divination rituals at individual farms (see below). In our opinion they should definitely be regarded as ‘religious specialists’, although they sometimes performed rituals on a more private level (see below). Some female ‘sorceresses’ in the early Continental sources could be likewise labelled.

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sacrifice and divination rites. These ‘priestesses’ (pl. hiereiai), who wore special clothes, received prisoners of war with swords in their hands and crowned them with garlands. Then they made them bend down over a cauldron and cut their throats. Through the blood that ran down into the cauldron, the ‘priestesses’ could set a prophecy (manteia), and by means of observing the intestines of the prisoners, they could make prophecies of victories for the people (è25). The credibility of this story has been questioned (de Vries 1956–57a: i, 393; Simek 2015). It may be a ‘horror story’ circulating among Roman soldiers (Zanker 1939); however, the ritual process described is consistent with information on Celtic practices and customs attested in other written sources (e.g., Diodorus 5.31.4) and in archaeological finds from Duchcov and Vix (Bourriot 1965; Ellis Davidson 1993; Hultgård 2002a). Caesar tells of matres familiae among the Suebi, who by means of lots and divination rites could determine whether it was appropriate to engage in battle (De bello Gallico 1.50; cf. Polomé 1992). Also Tacitus mentions that Germanic women had something holy and prophetic about them (‘etiam sanctum aliquid et providum putant’) and that the men did not reject their advice (Germania ch. 8). In this passage, Tacitus also mentions a woman called Veleda. She was worshipped as a goddess during Emperor Vespasian’s time. Earlier, also Albruna (?) (in the manuscripts the name is variously rendered Auriniam, aurimam, aurinam and Albriniam) and other women were objects of some cult (cf. Helm 1913: 285; de Vries 1956–57a: i, 321; critically reviewed by Peterson 2002). Veleda is also mentioned in Tacitus’s Histories (4.60–62; 5.22–25), where it is said that she had a significant role during the Batavian rebellion in 69 ce. It is said that she inhabited a high tower from which she reported oracles to the people. Her name has been associated with Early Irish fili(d) ‘poet, scholar’ (Dichter, Gelehrter), suggesting Celtic influences (de Vries 1956–57a: i, 320, 404; Guyonvarc’h 1961; Simek 2007, 2015; critically reviewed by Meid 1964). Cassius Dio (67.5) mentions a female called Ganna among the Semnones, in the Svabi-tribe, who succeeded Veleda. Her name may be related to Old Norse gandr ‘magic staff ’, alluding perhaps to her magical abilities (de Vries 1956–57a: i, 297–98, 321, 324 and ii, 362; Simek 2015: 74). In the late eighth century ce, Paul the Deacon (1.3.7–9) mentions a Gambara who turned to Frea when her people were involved in a battle (cf. Origo Gentis Langobardorum 1; see also Gambaruc in Saxo’s Gesta Danorum 8.13.1). Her name has been associated with *gand-bera ‘staff carrier’ (Helm 1946: 22, n. 49; Ström 1985: 85, 272).

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Figure 29.1. Runic amulet of bone from Lindholmen in Skåne, dated to about 400–550 (DR 261, Samnordisk runtextdatabas, Lunds Universitets Historiska Museum no. 5084). The inscription includes the term erilaz. Photo: Roberto Fortuna, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen. 

Early Sources from Scandinavia (c. 200–800 ce) There are several possible native designations of cultic leaders and/or religious specialists in the oldest runic inscriptions from Scandinavia: namely the terms erilaz, gudija, and perhaps the term *wīwaz (or *wiwaz; cf. *wīwilaz), which appears as a proper name (Wīwaz/Wiwaz) in the runic stone of Tune, Norway. Also early Viking Age þulR and Proto-Nordic þewaz could, in certain cases, perhaps be added to them. Most likely, these titles reflect cultic leaders or religious specialists. Needless to say, the fragmentary information from the ProtoNordic runic inscriptions can only lead to hypothetical reasoning. Proto-Nordic erilaz The Proto-Nordic term erilaz (irilaz) is attested in at least eight runic inscriptions, all dating from the Migration Period.10 These inscriptions appear in different contexts, such as runic stones, gold bracteates, a fibula, a bone amulet, and a deposited spear-shaft (Krause and Jankuhn 1966; Düwel 1992b, 2015; Nowak 2003; Düwel and Nowak 2011). The word erilaz has been interpreted as ‘priest, magician, wizard’ or ‘rune-master’ (see survey in Düwel 1992b and 2015). Some scholars have argued that the concept erilaz later developed into the Old Norse concept jarl (Hellquist 1957; Klingenberg 1973). There are, however, linguistic problems with such an interpretation (Andersen 1948; cf. Mees 2003). Others have tried to relate it to the designation of a people called Heruli (Latin eruli, heruli; Greek erouloi) (Elgqvist 1952; cf. Hellquist 10 

There is also a bracteate from Trollhättan with an inscription, which may be interpreted Ek erilaz Mariþeubaz haite, wrait alaþo(?) (I the eril am called Mariþeubaz (= the sea thief / the famous thief ), I wrote a nourishing charm(?)) (Vg IK639, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). Cf. Axboe and Källström 2013. Perhaps there is a tenth erilaz-inscription on a fragment on a stone from Strängnäs, found in 1962 (Sö Fv2011;307 U, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) which could be interpreted as … [e]rilaz Wōdinz. See Hultgård (2010a) and Gustavson (2011).

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1957; Mees 2003; Spurkland 2005). Recently, it has been suggested that erilaz was a leader of a type of secret and bellicose group (Fischer 2005; è24) and that it designated a military function (Herschend 2005). Since erilaz appears with other personal names, it has been suggested that this term is a title or refers to an office of some sort (Düwel 1992b, 2015; Hultgård 1998b). There are some features of the runic inscriptions suggesting that the term erilaz could refer to a cultic leader or a religious specialist. Some of them follow a pattern that indicates a ritual or cultic formula (Hultgård 1982, 1998b; Sundqvist 2009a.; discussed by Düwel and Nowak 2011). Immediately before erilaz there is often an emphatic ec ‘I’. After that, we may see the verb *haitan (cf. Gothic haitan) ‘be called’ and a personal name. Sometimes, there is also a mention of what erilaz does or what function he has. This pattern is visible in, for instance, the inscriptions of Kragehul (DR 196, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), Lindholmen (DR 261, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), and Järsberg (VR 1, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). Krause and Jankuhn (1966) interpreted these inscriptions thus: Kragehul: ek(eril(aRasugisalas±mu(ha(haite(ga(ga(gaginu(ga(he /// lija /// hagalawijubig /// ek erilaR A(n)sugīslas mūha (oder Mūha) haitē. (ga(ga (ga (= gibu auja oder gebu ansuR), ginu-(ga. he[lma-tā]lija (oder: -[tā]lija[tō]) hagla wī(g)ju (oder: wī(h)ju) bi g[aiRa] /// Ich Eril (= Runenmagiker) heiße Ásgísls Gefolgsmann (oder: Sohn Muha). Ich gebe Glück (oder: Gabe-Ase) (dreimal), magisch-wirkendes (Zeichen) (ga. — Helm­vernichtenden (?) Hagel (= Verderben) weihe ich an den Speer. (I the Eril (rune-master), the vassal (or: son) of Ásgísl, am called Muha. I give luck (or:giving-áss) (thrice), [magical sign] (ga. I  dedicate helmet-destroying hail (= destruction) by means of the spear.) Lindholmen: (A) ek erilaR sā wīlagaR ha(i)teka: (B) aaaaaaaa RRR nnn x b m u ttt: alu Ich, der Eril (= Runenmagiker) hier heiße ‘Listig’. aaaaaaaa RRR nnn x b m u ttt: alu [= Zauber]. (I, the Eril, am called the Cunning one. [cryptographic sequence] + alu [= magic].)11

11 

Krause and Jankuhn (1966) do not present any transliteration here. Samnordisk runtextdatabas reads it: ek erilaz sa wilagaz hateka: aaaaaaaazzznnn-bmuttt: alu:

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Järsberg: ubaRhite: (haraban(aR (hait ek(erilaR runoRw aritu ŪbaR(?) h(a)itē, HrabnaR hait(ē); ek erilaR rūnōR wrītu. Der Tückische (oder …ub) heiße ich, Hrabn heiße ich; ich Eril (= der Runenmeister) ritze die Runen. (The Wicked (or … ub) I am called, Hrabn I am called; I Eril (rune-master) carve the runes.)12

A similar formula (ek + *haitan + name + exploit/function) is also attested in the inscription of two identical C-bracteates from Køge (IK 98 Sjælland II, Die Goldbrakteaten), which do not contain the designation erilaz: hariuhahaitika: farauisa: gibuauja: )ttt (?). Krause and Jankuhn have translated this sequence as: ‘Hariuha heiße ich, der Gefährliches Wissende. Ich gebe Heil’ (Hariuha I am called, the one knowing dangerous things, I give luck).13 An emphatic ek ‘I’, a designation of a function, and a description of the subject is also visible in the Proto-Nordic inscription from Nordhuglo, Norway (see the text below). In this inscription, the verb *haitan has been left out. The functional designation erilaz has further been substituted with the designation of the cultic leader gudija. The self-predication and formulaic language indicate, however, that this inscription has a connection to the erilaz-inscriptions. These statements including the formula haiteka that appear in the ProtoNordic runic inscriptions have an interesting relation to some myths and rituals associated with the god Óðinn (e.g., Hultgård 1982, 1998b, 2007b, 2010a). They recall some phrases found in the Eddic poem Grímnismál st. 46–50, where Óðinn introduces himself using the expression hétom ec, for instance in st. 46: ‘Hétomc Grímr, | hétomc Gangleri’ (I was called Mask, | I was called Wanderer). This presentation ends in stanza 54, where Óðinn makes a contrast between the name he carries now and the names he has previously had: ‘Óðinn ec nú heiti, | Yggr ec áðan hét | hétomc Þundr fyrir þat’ (Óðinn I am called now, | Terrible One I was called before, | they called me Thund before that). 12  The runologist Magnus Källström states that Erik Moltke’s (1981) reading and interpretation is better than those of Krause and Samnordisk runtextdatabas: ek(erilaR / ubaRh[a]ite: (haraban(aR / (hait[e] / runoR w / arit / u (I the eril (a kind of domestic tutor or goði) am called the adversary (properly: he who stands in hostile opposition), my name is raven, I write (the) runes (the inscription)). See Axboe and Källström 2013. 13  Krause and Jankuhn (1966). farauisa can be interpreted as fārawīsa ‘the one knowledgable of danger’, or farawīsa ‘the one who knows about journeys’. See Düwel (2005a). For some other problems with the interpretation of this inscription, see Düwel and Nowak (2011).

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These formulistic expressions with an emphatic ec ‘I’ may very well be reminiscent of cultic self-predications or prayers. They were most likely recited in ritual contexts, for instance, at the sacrificial feast or when invoking the deity. It is possible that the cultic leader/religious specialist in such rituals was seen as a representative of or deputy for the god. Similar ritual formulae, so-called aretalogies, may be seen in late antique cults from Greece and Rome and also in cults from ancient Iran (Feist 1922; Hultgård 1982; 1998b, 2010a; Sundqvist 2007: 193–218). Perhaps the erilaz-inscriptions could also be interpreted as such divine selfpredications. The bynames used by the erilaz sometimes have connections to the names, functions, or attributes of Wodan-Óðinn. This relation has been noticed by several scholars previously.14 On the Järsberg-stone, for instance, this sequence appears: (haraban(az (VR 1, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). Both Krause and Jankuhn (1966: 157–58) and Düwel (2008: 36) interpret it as a byname of erilaz, Hrabnaz. They argue that this name is based on a ProtoNordic *hrabnaz (cf. Old Norse hrafn) ‘raven’. Óðinn’s relation to ravens is well known from the Old Norse traditions (see Mitchell forthcoming). Sometimes, he carries names or bynames which refer to them. In the old skaldic poem Haustlǫng st. 4 (c. 900), by Þjóðólfr ór Hvini, he is called Hrafnáss ‘the ravengod’ (cf. hrafna guð ‘the god of the ravens’ in Gylfaginning p. 38),15 and in Húsdrápa st. 10 (c. 990) he is designated Hrafnfreistuðr ‘raven-tester’. The latter name refers most likely to the event when Óðinn tested his ravens by sending them out in the world in order to collect information (cf. Old Norse freista ‘to try, to put to a test’) (Falk 1924: 18). In a lausavísa composed by Hallfreðr vandræðaskáld in the late tenth century, Óðinn is called hrafnblóts goði, ‘the goði of the raven-sacrifice’ (see Falk 1924: 18 and Sundqvist 2009a; critically considered by Wulf 1994). It should be noted, however, that not all names to which the erilaz references relate in the runic inscriptions may be attached to this specific deity (e.g., Elmevik 1999; Stoklund 2001b; Sundqvist 2009a and the literature therein). Nevertheless, it seems that erilaz also appears in other cultic contexts which may be linked to Wodan-Óðinn. According to the inscription on the spear-shaft from Kragehul, the erilaz presumably consecrates the sacrificial gift: ‘I erilaz … con14 

For example, Marstrander (1952); Krause and Jankuhn (1966); Müller (1975); Hultgård (1982, 1998b); Dillmann (2003b); Sundqvist (2009a). Critically considered by Wulf (1994) and Nowak (2003). 15  Hrafnáss also appears in the Poem about Gizurr gullbrárskáld by Hofgarða-Refr Gestsson (eleventh century).

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secrate (or hallow) (wīju)’ (see above; cf. DR 196, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). The wooden spear was broken into at least five pieces when it was found. This makes the reading and interpretation of the inscription uncertain. However, some runologists and historians of religion accept that the verb *wīhian ‘consecrate, hallow’ is part of it (e.g. Düwel 2008, 2015; Hultgård 2010a).16 The spear was deposited in a bog where other sacrificial finds have also been detected (Ilkjær 2001; Stoklund 2001a; Hultgård 2010a). The archaeological evidence thus indicates that the entire spear was sacrificed. In the Old Norse sources, Óðinn is often related to sacrifices or consecrations which involve spears.17 We therefore cannot exclude that erilaz in Kragehul consecrated/dedicated both the spear and the enemies, who were killed by it, to Wodan-Óðinn, that is, the spear-god among the æsir (McKinnell and others 2004). Another argument supporting the notion that persons called erilaz were associated with religious-magic matters is the fact that the inscriptions containing this word often appear on objects that can be regarded as ritual or sacrificial, such as the spear-shaft from Kragehul. The word erilaz and the formula that apparently goes with this term also appear on the object made of bone or horn from Lindholmen (DR 261, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), which has been interpreted as an amulet (e.g., Stoklund 2001b; McKinnell and others 2004; Hultgård 2010a). Erilaz also turns up on the two identical F-bracteates from Äskatorp and Väsby (IK 241.1 and IK 242.2, Die Goldbrakteaten). They display an image that may relate to the mythical sphere. The name Wīgaz (*wīgaz ‘fighter’), which appears in this inscription, can also be associated with a heiti of Wodan-Óðinn (Düwel and Nowak 2011: 428). It should be mentioned that erilaz could also be linked to other societal functions besides cultic assignments. It seems as if the erilaz also handled runes. In the Järsberg inscription, for instance, we read: ‘ek erilaz … runoz writu’ (I erilaz … carve runes) (see above; cf. VR 1, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), and on the bracteates from Väsby och Äskatorp, similar information appears: ‘I stained (fāhidō) this piece of art, Wīgaz, I erilaz’. The handling of runes may of course have been one aspect of a cultic office, since runes sometimes appear to have a religious dimension. According to the passage called Rúnatalsþáttr Óðins in Hávamál (st. 138–45), for instance, the runes are linked to Óðinn (Sundqvist 2009a, 2009b, 2010; è42) and in stanza 80 it is furthermore stated that: ‘Þat 16  It could also be related to the verb *wīgian (Old Norse viga, vega) ‘combat’. Cf. Stoklund (2001a). 17  See Vǫluspá st. 24; Hlǫðskviða st. 27–28; Ynglinga saga ch. 9; Gautreks saga ch. 6–7. See further Sundqvist (2009b, 2010).

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er þá reynt, er þú at rúnom spyrr, inom reginkunnom’ (It is then tested when you ask about the runes derived from the gods).18 But perhaps we may also see the erilaz as a leader who had several societal functions, both religious and profane, and thus could be considered a cultic leader. Proto-Nordic gudija As noticed above, the formula connected to the erilaz-inscriptions also has a close parallel in the Proto-Nordic runic inscription from Nordhuglo, Hordaland in Norway, dated to the fifth century. In this latter inscription, we may find an emphatic ec ‘I’ just before the designation of an office or societal function followed by a description of the subject. Krause and Jankuhn (1966) interpret it as: ekgudijaungandiRih /// (ek gudija ungandiR ih …) ‘I, the priest, immune to sorcery, (or: who does not engage in sorcery), in Huglo’. This expression may also be some kind of self-predication, applied within a cultic context. The Proto-Nordic word gudija corresponds to the Gothic gudja ‘priest’, ‘sacrificer’ and is closely related to Old Norse goði ‘chieftain’ or ‘cultic leader’ (see above and below). These terms are derived from a word with the basic meaning ‘god’. The word ungandiz in the Nordhuglo inscription may be taken to confirm that the gudija deals with religious-magic aspects. The term must be related to Old Norse gandr ‘sorcery’, which refers to different types of witchcraft. The privative prefix un- indicates that the word can be interpreted either as ‘he who is immune to sorcery’ or ‘he who does not engage in sorcery’ (Spurkland 2005: 48–49; Düwel 2002). Perhaps the context of the Nordhuglo inscription could also support a cultic interpretation. The inscription was found on a stone near the farmyard, nearly 3 m high and 70 cm wide. It has been suggested that the stone originally marked a grave mound near the sea. Possibly, the gudija at Huglo was somehow involved in making the grave monument. Perhaps the gudija at Huglo was also involved in other societal functions, just like the Icelandic goði (see below). In that case, he should be regarded as a cultic leader.

18 

This could be compared to the expression on the Noleby (sixth century) inscription:

runo fahi raginakudo (I paint a rune, derived from the gods) (Vg 63, Samnordisk run­

textdatabas). Cf. Düwel (2008: 35).

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Proto-Nordic *wīwaz (or *wiwaz) Traces of a cultic leader or religious specialist may also occur in the first part of the Tune inscription (fifth century), Østfold, Norway (N KJ72, Sam­ nordisk runtextdatabas). James Knirk (2006) interpreted this sequence thus: ­ kwiwazafter · woduri / dewita(da(halaiban: worahto:? …????woduride: e staina · / ‘I Wiwaz, in memory of Woduridaz, “provider of bread”, wrought [the runes]??? the stone to/for Woduridaz’. Wolfgang Krause and Herbert Jankuhn (1966) stated that the name of the carver should be interpreted as Proto-Nordic Wīwaz, which may contain an old appellative: *wīwaz. This term is a construction from the root *weik- ‘to separate’ and related to Gothic weiha ‘arch-priest, high-priest’ and the Old Norse verb víg ja ‘to hallow, consecrate’.19 According to Krause and Jankuhn, it could mean ‘the consecrated one’ or ‘the one who consecrates’. The name Wīwaz could probably also be related to a diminutive form, Wīwila, which appears in the runic inscription of Veblungsnes in Norway (N KJ56 † U, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). Gunter Müller (1968) is inspired by Krause and Jankuhn in his interpretation of the names Wīwaz and Wīwila, but he has a different opinion about the word formation. Wīwaz should be related to the word *wīgwaz, which was construed directly from a verb related to Old Norse víg ja. It should be interpreted as ‘inaugurated, consecrated’. Linked to *wīgwaz, there was a diminutive construction *wīgwilaz with the meaning ‘the small consecrated one’. Müller argues that the Old Norse name Vífill is derived from the diminutive form (see below). This interpretation is, however, somewhat uncertain (see, e.g., Peterson 2007; cf. Vikstrand 2009a). Ottar Grønvik (1987b, cf. 1981) argues that the name on the Tune stone should be read with a short vowel in the root syllable, *Wiwaz, and be interpreted as the one who consecrates (sanctifies, blesses) and denominates a kind of cultic leader. He argues that this name was visible also in other inscriptions, such as the one on the Eikeland clasp (N KJ17A $U, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). There, he found the sequence wiz, which he interprets as *Wiwaz. He likewise interprets the sequence wiwio on the Eikeland clasp as a female derivation of *Wiwaz. Since the subject of the inscription wiz describes wiwio (ProtoNordic *Wiwjō, a genitive form of *Wiwja) as his asni, that is, the dative of an unattested noun asniz ‘beloved’ (cf. Old Norse ást ‘love’), he suggests that *Wiwaz and *Wiwja were a married couple (critically considered by Knirk 2015). John Kousgård Sørensen (1989) opposes Grønvik’s interpretation and 19 

Cf.  Marold (2015). Knirk (2015: 431) states that this interpretation is uncertain because *Wiwaz could etymologically speaking just as well be related to ‘fight’ as to ‘holy’.

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argues that wiz on the Eikeland clasp should be interpreted as *Wīwaz, that is, a substantivization of an adjective *wīha- ‘holy’ and with the meaning ‘priest’. The name on the Tune stone, wiwaz, is interpreted as an original *wīha-wīhaz ‘præst ved vi’, that is, a ‘religious specialist at a vi-sanctuary’. Also this interpretation has been regarded as problematic (e.g., Peterson 1994; Knirk 2015). Despite this uncertainty, several runologists relate the appellative behind the name Wīwaz/Wiwaz (*wīwaz/*wiwaz) in the Tune inscription to some kind of cultic leader or religious specialist, and perhaps also the name Wōdurīdaz should be included. It may correspond to an Old Norse *Óð-ríðr, where the first element is equivalent to the Old Norse adjective óðr ‘frenzied, raging, raving: mad with fear, angry, insane, violent’ and the second element is ríðr ‘rider’. The entire name could thus possibly be interpreted as a Wodan-Óðinn-heiti ‘the frenzied (violent) rider’ (cf. Spurkland 2005). Wōdurīdaz was most likely also a local ruler, since he is called: wita(da(halaiban ‘he who provides (takes care of ) bread’, ‘he who secures bread’ (cf. Old English hlāf-weared, hlāford ‘lord’) (Marstrander 1930; Brink 2010a; Marold 2015). We cannot rule out that there was an appellative *wīwaz/*wiwaz designating some type of religious leadership during the Roman and Migration Periods. It is, however, impossible to say exactly what kind of ritual functions he had or whether he should be classified as a cultic leader or a religious specialist. The Eighth-Century Term þulR In Old Norse texts, the term þulr is used with reference to a ‘wise man’, ‘sage’, ‘cult orator, pagan priest’ (cf. Old English þyle) (see, e.g., Olrik 1909; Vogt 1927, 1942; Simek 2007; Brink 1997; Sundqvist 1998, 2003a, 2003b, 2007; Poole 2005; and most recently Tsitsiklis 2017). This noun is often related to the Old Norse verb þylja ‘speak, mumble, sing’. There is a certain genre of poetry called a þula, that is, a rhymed or alliterative list or chant. The equivalent runic word þulR appears in the Danish Snoldelev inscription (DR 248) at Sylshøj, Sjælland: kun’uAlts| |stAin ‘ sunaR ‘ ruHalts ‘ þulaR ‘ o salHauku(m) ‘Gunvald’s stone, son of Roald, þulR in Salløv’ (see Moltke 1985; cf. Düwel 1992b, 2008, 2015; Stoklund 2005). The last sequence of the inscription is literally interpreted as: a salhaugum ‘on the sal-mounds’. This indicates a connection between the þulR and the hall building, that is, the sal, wherein ceremonial feasts were performed (Brink 1996a). Perhaps the þulR performed ritual utterances during feasts in the hall. This inscription is dated to 650–800/900 (Moltke 1985). The stone was part of a monument containing fifteen stones arranged in two lines and located close to the mound called Blothøj (see Danmarks runeind-

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Olof Sundqvist Figure 29.2. The rune stone at Snoldelev in Sjælland (DR 248, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). The inscription includes the term þulz. Photo: Roberto Fortuna, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen. 

skrifter). It has interesting symbols. The swastika and the triskele of three drinking horns are coeval with the inscription, although the ‘sun wheel’ is prehistoric (see Danmarks runeindskrifter). The stone contains two lines of runes, written mainly with the twenty-four character ‘elder futhark’ (Moltke 1985). This inscription therefore provides authentic evidence of a þulR during the Vendel Period or early Viking Age in southern Scandinavia. It has been discussed what kind of functions the þulR/þulr had. Gun Widmark suggests that a þulR was the keeper and intermediary of the Runic Swedish mogminni ‘memory of the kin (people)’ mentioned in the Rök inscription, Östergötland, Sweden (Ög 136, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) (Widmark

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1993, 1997; Gustavson 2003; Ralph 2007; Holmberg 2015; see also Holmberg and others forthcoming). Such memories were ritually declaimed at certain occasions, for example, the burial feasts called erfi. It has also been argued that, in the Germanic area, the succeeding ruler, often a younger or youngest son, was required in connection with the inheritance feast to learn numinous esoteric knowledge about runes, royal genealogies, and spells in order to win power and attain the office of ‘sacral kingship’ (Fleck 1970; Sundqvist 2002; Schjødt 2008). According to Jere Fleck (1970), the future king was taught by an expert, that is, the Old Norse þulr. As keeper of traditions, he may have recited the genealogy during royal inaugurations, of which one important element was the enumeration of forefathers. Most likely, he fulfilled a function also in other cultic contexts, for instance, when celebrating ceremonial feasts in the hall (Sundqvist 2003a, 2003b, 2007; see however also Tsitsiklis’s (2017) very critical and thorough investigation). In Hávamál st. 111 we find the expression ‘á þular stóli’ (on the chair of the þulr). It is interesting to note that the speaker (i.e., the þulr) here is performing his speech in Háva hǫll ‘the High One’s hall’ (probably Valhǫll, since Urðar brunnr is located close to it). The speaker states: ‘hlýdda ec á manna mál; | of rúnar heyrða ec dœma, né um ráðom þǫgðo’ (I heard the speech of men; I heard talk of runes nor were they silent about good counsel). This and other passages in Hávamál indicate that the þulr was some kind of ceremonial leader or public orator, who was perhaps also knowledgeable about runes (see below). The þulr seems, however, to be a multifunctional type of public person who plays many roles within society. In skaldic poetry, such as Haukr’s Íslendingadrápa st. 18, and a lausavísa (st. 29) by Rǫgnvaldr jarl, both dated to the twelfth century, the term þulr signifies ‘skald’. In other contexts, it refers to a more general sort of wise person. The wise speaker in Hávamál st. 134, for instance, is called ‘hárr þulr’ (the grey-haired þulr).20 In Vafðrúðnismál st. 9, it is the wise giant Vafðrúðnir who is called ‘inn gamli þulr’. It seems that a þulr was, as mentioned, skilled in the art of runes since in Hávamál st. 142 it is said that the mighty sage (the þulr or Óðinn) painted runes (‘fimbul þulr faði’). In other areas of Northern Europe, words equivalent to þulr had other connotations. In one glossarium, Old English þyle glosses Latin orator, ‘speaker, orator’, and in another it glosses Latin scurra ‘joker’, ‘jester’ or ‘practical joker’

20 

Ottar Grønvik (1999) has argued that the ek-person in Hávamál st. 111–64 is consistently a reference to the old þulr and not to Óðinn, as has previously been presumed.

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(Vogt 1927, 1942). The þyle Unferð in Beowulf is an orator, spokesman, or perhaps a principal court officer.21 The poem (1165–68) states: Swylce þær Unferþ þyle æt fotum sæt frean Scyldinga; gehwylc hiora his ferhþe treowde, þæt he hæfde mod micel, þeah þe he his magum nære arfæst æt ecga gelacum. (There too sat Unferð the spokesman, at the feet of the Scyldingas’ lord [King Hroðgar]; all of them relied on his bold spirit, believing that he had great courage, although in the play of sword blades he had shown no mercy to his kinsmen).

Obviously, Unferð was a great warrior besides being a spokesman. Previously, he had killed his brother, and he lent his wondrous sword Hrunting to Beowulf for the fight against Grendel’s mother. Proto-Nordic þewaz The term þewaz appears in some Proto-Nordic runic inscriptions. It is usually interpreted as ‘servant’, ‘slave’, or ‘follower’ (cf. Old English þēow; Gothic þius) (Düwel 1992b; Brink 2003a, 2012: 127). It sometimes appears, however, in connection with Old Germanic names of people of high rank. We have the inscription owlþuþewaz (DR 7, Samnordisk runtextdatabas on an expensive ferrule from Thorsbjerg, Angeln, Schleswig (third century)). In this case, þewaz is the second element of a compound where the first element is a form of the name Wulþu. This name (or appellation) could be compared to Gothic wulþus, meaning ‘splendour, brilliance’. It can also be related to the Old Norse name of the god Ullr. The compound can therefore be interpreted as ‘the servant of Ullr’ (Antonsen 1975; Moltke 1985; T. Andersson 1993; Brink 2003a, 2012; Nordberg 2006b; Laur 2009; for a different interpretation, see è 5). Krause and Jankuhn (1966) argue that the o-rune at the beginning of the inscription should be interpreted as an ideograph (Begriffsrune), signifying ōþila ‘property’. When the rune-carver who carves his name onto the sword puts the o-rune in front of his name, he indicates that the sword belongs to him. Thus, þewaz in this inscription was probably not a conventional ‘servant’ or ‘slave’ (Spurkland 2005). Perhaps he was considered a high-ranking religious specialist who served a deity (i.e., Ullr). In this context, Stefan Brink (2003a) has discussed several Germanic compound names, which include equivalents 21 

On the þyle Unferð’s role in Beowulf, see also Enright (1996a) and the overview in Tsitsiklis (2017: 9–15, 151–260). On Beowulf in general, see Gräslund 2018.

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to the term þewaz as last element. The name of the Vandal Gotthæus (Gothic *Guþþius) and the Old High German name Gotadeo both mean ‘servant of god’. The Old English name Incganþeow attested in Widsið means ‘servant of the god Ing’, and Old High German Irmintheo means ‘servant of the god Ermin/Irmin’. Brink argues that þewaz in pre-Christian time sometimes designated a free servant, perhaps devoted or dedicated to a specific deity, and who probably enjoyed high social rank. Some of the names have first elements indicating a relationship to the divine world, such as Old High German Ansedeus, which includes a word related to Old Norse áss ‘god’. Whether þewaz could be connected to religious functions is somewhat debated, however (see, e.g., T. Andersson 1993; Wulf 1994). There are also dithematic names, including þewaz, which lack a first element referring to a religious sphere. An argument against the interpretation ‘the servant of Ullr’ in the Thorsbjerg inscription is that we should expect a genitive in the first element of the compound (see Brink 2012: 155).

Cultic Leaders (goðar/*gudhar/goþar) in Viking Age Sources (c. 800–1100 ce) The goðar of Norway and Iceland Early Scandinavian chieftains were sometimes called goðar (singular goði). and the authority or office they held was called a goðorð (literally ‘god’ + ‘dignity’; cf. mannaforráð ‘power, rule over people’).22 A holder of such an office was called goðorðsmaðr or goði. The term goði is derived from Old Norse goð ‘god’, thus indicating an original cultic function of these leaders (cf. Gothic gudja). Besides his religious tasks, the goði also performed other societal functions, such as lawman, but also as a more general political leader: that is, he was a chieftain.23 Thus, he should be regarded as a cultic leader. Medieval prose texts report that goðar in Norway had a close relation to the pre-Christian sanctuaries. Landnámabók (S 297, H 258) states that: ‘Þórhaddr enn gamli var hofgoði í Þrándheimi á Mæri. Hann fýstisk til Íslands ok tók áðr ofan hofit ok hafði með sér hofsmoldina ok súlurnar; en hann kom í Stǫð­ varfjǫrð ok lagði Mærinahelgi á allan fjǫrðinn ok lét øngu tortíma þar nema kvikfé heimilu.’ 22  On goðar in general, see mainly Ebel (1998), Jón Viðar Sigurðsson (1999), Dillmann (2006: 312–17). For the religious aspects of goðar, see Sundqvist (2003a, 2003b, 2007). 23  It is an old scholarly tradition to refer to the goðar by means of the English term ‘chieftains’, although the semantic correspondence may, in fact, not be all that exact. See Byock (2001: 13)

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(Þórhaddr the old was a hofgoði in Trondheim in Mære. He wanted to travel to Iceland, and before he went, he took down the hof and brought with him the soil from the sanc­tuary and the high-seat posts. He came to Stǫðvarfjǫrðr and proclaimed the Mære-Peace over the entire fjord area, and nothing was allowed to be killed there, except the animals on the farm.)

This short passage gives us some important information. It tells us that Þórhaddr controlled and even regarded the cultic building (hof) of Mære as his own property. It seems that he could do whatever he wanted with it. When he moved to Iceland, for instance, he took down the building and brought the most essential parts of it with him to the new land. When he came to Iceland, he also proclaimed the Mære-Peace (Mærinahelgi) over his new land area and prescribed the ritual regulations which were to be adhered to there. The close relation between him and his sanctuary is indicated by his title: hofgoði ‘sanctuary chieftain’. Most likely, Þórhaddr was regarded as a political leader or chieftain as well. The Skarðsárbók and Þórðarbók versions of Landnámabók report that he was described as a (great) chieftain (hǫfðingi (mikill)) (Landnámabók p. 307 n. 12). Archaeology may partly support the information in Landnámabók. Under the medieval church of Mære, remains of a Viking Age building were found, which has been interpreted as a hof-sanctuary (Lidén 1969, 1999). Inside the building, gold foil figures were discovered. They constitute strong indication of cultic actions as well as the presence of a political-religious ruling power at this site during the Late Iron Age. Perhaps the gold foils should be related to a wealthy family who had great ambitions of gaining power in Inner Trøndelag. Since Mære was probably no magnate farm during the early Viking Age, it has been suggested that the family who controlled the sanctuary lived at Egge.24 At this place, rich Late Iron Age burials have been located. Landnámabók combined with the archaeological evidence inform us that goðar and local chieftains played an important role in the public cult in Norway during the Late Iron Age. There was, however, a radical change to this situation when the central royal power started to exert influence on local chieftains in the late ninth century.25 Sources report that many goðar and chieftains emigrated 24 

See the discussions in, e.g., Stenvik (1996); Røskaft (1997: 237; 2003: 138–39); Lidén (1999: 45). 25  It is possible that hofgoðar were important also in late Viking Age Norway. One manuscript of Heimskringla mentions that during Guðbrandr’s life (c. 1000 ce) there was a hofgoði of the Dalesmen, who was called Þórðr ístrmagi. In the other manuscripts, Þórðr is called hǫfðingi. See Phillpotts (1912–13: 271).

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to Iceland with their sanctuaries, in a fashion similar to Þórhaddr inn gamli.26 The reason for doing this was, according to these narratives, the harsh reign of King Haraldr hárfagri. One example is the chieftain Hrólfr Mostrarskegg, who brought his hof-sanctuary from Mostr Island in south-western Norway to western Iceland after a conflict with King Haraldr (see below). There is little evidence of a formal religious organization or priesthood which owned lands in early Viking Age Norway or other parts of Scandinavia. In the central settlement districts of Norway, land was owned by private persons or families. If a chieftain erected a ceremonial building on his land, it was his own property, and he could do whatever he wanted with it. These sanctuaries were thus associated with aristocratic centres and chieftains’ farms. Þorbjǫrn hersir in Fjalafylki, for instance, tended (infinitive varðveita) the hofsanctuary at his farm in Gaular, while Guðbrandr hersir cared for his hof in Guðbrandsdalir at the end of the tenth century (Njáls saga ch. 87–88; Óláfs saga helga ch. 112; Flateyjarbók, ii, 189). The people living in the settlements could, however, be invited to take part in ceremonial feasts at these sanctuaries. Perhaps they paid tribute (hoftollr) for this privilege. It is therefore possible that public feasts occasionally took place in private sanctuaries. Most likely, there were also some kind of communal cultic sites in Norway and Sweden, which may have been organized by a cooperation of chieftains. Mære was probably a sanctuary of this type during the tenth century (that is, after Þórhaddr left Norway) (see Sundqvist 2016: 172–74, 510–13). Several Old Norse prose texts report that many goðar left Norway and migrated to Iceland during King Haraldr’s reign. Upon arriving in Iceland, they consecrated the land where they intended to build their farms (see Sundqvist 2016: 291–95). It seems as if the intention was to establish some sort of sacred or ritual landscape. On their new farms, they also erected hof-buildings wherein they placed ritual objects, such as the high-seat posts. The close relationship between goðar and their hof-sanctuaries in Iceland is attested in Úlfljótslǫg ( Jón Hnefill Aðalsteinsson 1998: 35–56), which has been preserved in the Hauksbók redaction of Landnámabók (H 268), Þáttr Þorsteins uxafóts (fourteenth century) (Flateyjarbók i, 249), and the codex Vatnshyrna’s version of Þórðar saga hreðu 1 (thirteenth to fourteenth centuries). In what follows, the passage from 26  See, e.g., Landnámabók SH7–8; H11; S289 H 250; S310 H270. So did, e.g., Hrafn enn heimski and his son Jǫrundr goði in S 338 H 296; Kolgrímr hinn gamli in H 22; the brothers Eyvindr vápni and Refr enn rauði in S 267 H 229; Bárðr blǫnduhorn in S 340 H 298. Phillpotts (1912–13) noted that many goðar in Iceland actually came from old hersir-families in Norway. For more complete documentation, see Strömbäck (1928b) and Birkeli (1932).

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Landnámabók is paraphrased. The texts narrates that a gold ring weighing two ounces or more should lie on the stalli (altar or platform; see below) of every chief hof-building, and, moreover, every chieftain (goði) should carry the ring upon his arm during all public law-assemblies at which he was head of affairs, having first reddened it in the blood of an ox which he himself had sacrificed there. The text further says that the land (i.e., Iceland) was then divided into quarters, and it was decided that there should be three assemblies in each quarter and three hof-buildings in each assembly district or community. Moreover, men should be selected according to wisdom and righteousness to have ward of the hof-buildings, and these men were to nominate courts of judges at the assembly as well as regulate the proceedings of lawsuits, and therefore were they called goðar. Finally, every man should pay toll to the hof-building as they now pay tithes to the church. The historical source value of this text has been much debated. Olaf Olsen (1966: 34–49), for instance, questioned several details in this description, such as the organization and the number of the thing-assemblies and hof-sanctuaries in Iceland as well as the information about sanctuary dues (hoftollr) and the oath-rings. According to him, the information that the goðar were ‘selected according to wisdom and righteousness to have ward of the hof-building’ must be considered nothing more than a myth, which had nothing to do with historical reality. The goðar were never selected by the people as ‘temple superintendents’. It was individuals who came from the foremost and noblest families in Iceland who had the power position and possibilities to play a central role at the judicial courts and in public cult. Usually, they erected the hof-buildings on their own farms. The Inheritance of Cultic Leadership Olsen’s argument is well founded. The free people of Iceland did not select somebody to the office of goðorð or appoint a candidate to the ward of the hofbuilding just because of their wisdom and righteousness, as stated in Úlfljótslǫg. These qualifications were of course expected from a legitimate leader alongside other qualities, such as generosity and ability to obtain support from friends and allies ( Jón Viðar Sigurðsson 1999). There were probably also other aspects which qualified someone to the status of goði. According to some traditions, it seems that the role of cultic leader in Iceland, including the charge over the hofbuilding, was inherited within the chieftain family. These traditions intimate that the dignity of cultic leader was sometimes brought from Norway to Iceland. Landnámabók (S85, H73) and Eyrbygg ja saga ch. 3–4, for instance, report that

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the chieftain Þórólfr Mostrarskegg maintained the office of cultic leader after he left Mostr in Norway and settled at Breiðafjǫrðr in western Iceland. In Landnámabók, we do not get much information about Þórólfr’s family or what kind of office he held. It says only that he was the son of Ǫrnólfr fiskreki and that he lived in Mostr. It is also mentioned that: ‘hann var blótmaðr mikill ok trúði á Þór’ (he was much devoted to offering up sacrifices, and believed in Þórr). According to Eyrbygg ja saga ch. 3, Þórólfr was a chieftain of considerable standing (‘hǫfðingi mikill’). It also says that he was a close friend of Þórr (‘mikill vinr Þórs’) and watched over a Þórr’s hof (‘varðveitti […] Þórshof ’) at his farm in Mostr Island. No text explicitly states that he occupied the office of goði, even if he was a religious man. Evidence in both Eyrbygg ja saga and Landnámabók indicates, however, that Þórólfr held some kind of office, which also included the charge of the hof-building. This office was inherited within his family by his sons and grandchildren.27 Both Landnámabók and Eyrbygg ja saga mention that several male members of his family were titled goðar, that is, they were regarded as cultic leaders. In Eyrbygg ja saga ch. 3, for instance, it is said that Þórólfr had a son called Hallsteinn, who was born in Norway. In Chapters 5 and 6, it states that Hallsteinn journeyed to Iceland together with Bjǫrn Ketilsson, and that he considered it a slur on his manhood that he should have land granted to him by his own father, Þórólfr at Hofstaðir, so he crossed over to the other side of Breiðafjǫrðr, to a place called Hallsteinsnes at Þorskarfjǫrðr, and staked his claim there. Later in the text, Hallsteinn is called ‘goði af Hallsteinsnesi’ (Eyrbygg ja saga ch. 48). Similar information is also provided in Landnámabók where he is called Þorskarfjarðargoði (M 25, S85; cf. Íslendingabók ch. 4). In this text, it is said that he sacrificed to Þórr because he wished that the god would send him his high-seat posts. After some days, a big tree came ashore, which Hallsteinn used for high-seat posts (S123, H95). Most likely, Hallsteinn was qualified to hold a goðorð since he was a son of the chieftain and cultic leader Þórólfr. Even if it is not explicitly mentioned, Eyrbygg ja saga intimates that also Þórólfr’s other son, Þorsteinn þorskabítr Þórólfsson, was a kind of goði and took care of the hof-building at Hofstaðir after his father’s death. This can be deduced because the context of the narration suggests that Þorsteinn lost full custody over this sanctuary. According to Chapter 9, Þorsteinn had a great conflict with Þorgrímr Kjallaksson, and this conflict was resolved in such way that Þorgrímr 27 

Several scholars have regarded Þórólfr as a goði; see, e.g., Wessén (1924: 170); Baetke (1942a: 133–34); Strömbäck (1975: 41–42). Cf. DuBois (1999: 65–66); Sundqvist (2007: 25–28). Cf. Sundqvist (2016: 176–80).

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was to bear half of the cost of maintaining the hof-sanctuary at Hofstaðir and also that he and Þorsteinn were to share the sanctuary dues and the support of the farmers equally between them. Þorgrímr was, moreover, supposed to back Þorsteinn in all his lawsuits and safeguard the sanctity. He was from then on designated Þorgrímr goði. The text clearly intimates that, before the conflict with Þorgrímr, Þorsteinn was the only person who occupied the cultic office at Hofstaðir. Probably, he inherited this office from his father Þórólfr. The interpretation that Þorsteinn acquired chieftaincy (goðorð) and the charge of the hof-building at Hofstaðir by means of the inheritance from his father harmonizes with the continuation of the saga, because it is said that Þorsteinn later built a great farm Helgafell where he erected a hof-building. At his new farm, Þorsteinn and his wife had a son called Grímr. It seems that Grímr inherited his father’s cultic role and the charge of the sanctuary: ‘Þann svein gaf Þorsteinn Þór ok kvað vera skyldu hofgoða ok kallar hann Þorgrím’ (Þorsteinn dedicated this boy to Þórr, calling him Þorgrímr, and said he should become a hofgoði) (Eyrbygg ja saga ch. 11; è31). Eyrbygg ja saga ch. 15 narrates further that Þorgrímr Þorsteinsson, in turn, had a son called Snorri. He inherited his father’s farm and the sanctuary at Helgafell. He was now in charge of the hof-building and was thus called goði: ‘Hann varðveitti þá hof; var hann þá kallaðr Snorri goði’. We may note that the scribe of the saga uses the verb varðveitta ‘be in charge of, take care of ’ when expressing the relation between the cultic leader and his sanctuary. This expression is also used when describing Þórólfr’s relation to his sanctuary in Mostr; that is, Þórólfr watched over the Þórr’s hof (‘varðveitti […] Þórshof ’) located there. The unknown author of Eyrbygg ja saga intimates that various members of Þórólfr’s family for several generations occupied a religious office, which included the charge of hof-buildings in the areas around Breiðafjǫrðr. It also appears that the sons and grandsons of Þórólfr were devoted to the cult of Þórr. Some of Þórólfr’s sons carried, like their father and grandfather, the name of the god as a first element in their names, for example, Þorsteinn and Þorgrímr. Whether this naming custom within goði-families really reflects ancient conditions is much debated (see, e.g., Andersson 1992b; Vikstrand 2009a). The idea of presenting Þórólfr and his descendants as a kind of ‘priest-family’ who cared for local sanctuaries at Breiðafjǫrðr was not a literary construction by the author of Eyrbygg ja saga. Most likely, he based this idea on an older tradition. Also in Landnámabók we see that several descendants of Þórólfr were titled goði. Þórólfr’s son Hallsteinn was called Þorskafjarðingargoði, while his grandson was called Þorgrímr goði Þorsteinsson þorskabíts and his great grandson Snorri goði Þorgrímsson (S86, H74, M25).

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The sources report that the goðorð could also be acquired in other ways as well. It could be shared between two persons, received as a gift, or even purchased. In, for instance, Hrafnkels saga Freysgoða ch. 4, it is mentioned that Þorkell leppr Þjóstarsson handed over his position of authority (mannaforráð) to his brother Þorgeirr when he went abroad. Before that, he had been a goðorðsmaðr. The text intimates that he originally inherited the title goði from his father. In the course of events, Þorgeirr offers to return the goðorð and the position of authority to his brother Þorkell for a period, but then he suggests that they could share it equally between them. Þorkell, however, refuses to take this offer from his brother, since he feels that Þorgeirr is the more accomplished of them both for this task. Also in Eyrbygg ja saga it is said that Þorgrímr and Þorsteinn shared the goðorð at Þórsnes. We must not forget that these statements appear in medieval texts. Most historians accept, however, that the goðorð could be handled in such a way (see, e.g., Byock 2001). The sources indicate that the Icelandic goðar should not be seen as persons who exclusively occupied a priestly office and permanently appeared in cultic roles (cf. Gunnell 2001c). Most of them functioned as general political-judicial leaders as well and also had many secular leadership functions within society. They could thus be described as both hofgoði and lagamaðr. Some of them were, however, closely associated with a specific deity. It could, for instance, be Þórr,28 but it could also be Freyr.29 In such cases, the chieftains’ sanctuaries were sometimes dedicated to the same deity. Ritual Objects and Symbols of Dignity It seems as if goðar also carried certain ritual objects and symbols of dignity.30 As was mentioned above, Úlfljótslǫg states that every man who was to transact any business at an assembly must first swear an oath upon a certain ring, name two or more witnesses in evidence, and then speak the following words: ‘at ek 28 

Other than Þórólfr and his family, we may refer to Þorgrímr goði, who had a hof-sanctuary at Kjalarnes in southwestern Iceland in which Þórr was the most worshipped god (Kjalnesinga saga ch. 2). 29  See, e.g., the traditions about the chieftain Hrafnkell Freysgoði in Hrafnkels saga Freysgoða ch. 2. Landnámabók mentions a chieftain called Þórðr Freysgoði Ǫzurarson; see H 276. 30  Even if we have no clear evidence for an initiation ritual on the goðar in the sources, it seems natural from a comparative perspective that these symbols of dignity were received at such a ceremony after a period of training into the cultic office. In the mythic accounts we may see traces of initiations (see Schjødt 2008; Sundqvist 2009b, 2010).

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Figure 29.3. A panel on the picture stone from Tängelgårda on Gotland (SHM 4373:108186) depicts a procession with men holding rings in their raised hands. The picture stone is dated to the ninth or tenth century. Photo: Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm. 

vinn eið at baugi, lǫgeið; hjálpi mér svá Freyr ok Njǫrðr ok hinn almáttki áss’ (Landnámabók H 268) (I take an oath upon the ring, a lawful one, so help me Freyr and Njǫrðr and the all-powerful god). A similar description of oath-rings and hof-buildings is also found in Eyrbygg ja saga ch. 4. Here, it also says that a structure of some sort (Old Norse afhús) was built inside the hof of Þórólfr’s farm at Hofstaðir. Inside this recess, there was an altar or platform in the middle, called stalli. On this platform lay an open ring without joints (hringr einn mótlauss), weighing twenty ounces, upon which people had to swear all their oaths. It was also the duty of the hofgoði to wear this ring on his arm or in his hand at every public meeting. Similar information appears in Kjalnesinga saga ch. 2, where it is mentioned that a ring made of silver was placed on the platform in Þorgrímr goði’s hof-sanctuary at Kjalarnes. When an assembly was held, the hofgoði had this ring in his hand. People also swore oaths on this ring. In these texts, the rings are described as ritual objects belonging to the sphere of goðar. In connection with them, rituals were performed which seem to link to the sacrifice, but also to judicial matters, such as oaths. Most likely, these rings were also symbols of honour linked to the goðar. When appearing in public

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functions at sacrifices or judicial assemblies, the goði must carry the ring in his hand or on his arm. These descriptions in the Sagas of Icelanders have, however, been debated. Olaf Olsen (1966) argues that they do not say anything at all about pre-Christian religion and ancient customs in Iceland. Nor was Úlfljótslǫg, according to Olsen, based on ancient tradition. The oath-formula, for instance, with the expression ‘hinn almáttki áss’, which he interprets as ‘the Almighty God’, instead had a Christian origin (cf. Kabell 1975 and è31; see above). But perhaps Olsen’s and other scholars’ source criticism has been too severe. There is, in fact, information in some more trustworthy sources which appears to confirm at least part of the information from the sagas. There are, for instance, some passages in eddic poetry where the custom of swearing oaths on rings is validated. In Hávamál st. 110, a baugeiðr ‘ring-oath’ is mentioned, and in Atlakviða in grœnlenzka st. 30 it is stated that oaths were sworn on Ullr’s ring (‘eiða opt um svarða […] oc at hringi Ullar’). There is also a note in the AngloSaxon Chronicle dated to 876 which is of great interest in this context. It states that western Scandinavian Vikings swore oaths on a sacred ring and promised to refrain from ravaging within the realm of King Alfred (quoted in Kabell 1975: 36). Today, we have archaeological evidence of ‘oath-rings’, such as the big ring (c. 43 cm in diameter) from Forsa in Hälsingland, Sweden (figure è 20). It is decorated with runes and has for a long time been in the possession of the church in Forsa. When it first came to the attention of scholars in the eighteenth century, it was nailed onto the door between the porch and the nave inside the old church, which was pulled down in 1840. For a long time, there was a consensus among scholars that the runic inscription on this ring was a medieval clerical legal enactment from the twelfth century (è 20). Recently, however, it has been argued that the ring should not be regarded as a clerical record (Liestøl 1979; Ruthström 1990; Brink 1996b, 2010b; Widmark 1999; Källström 2007, 2010b, 2011; Sundqvist 2007, 2016, 2017; Williams 2008), because the content of the inscription is, instead, a Viking Age enactment, more precisely from the ninth or tenth century. Also the function of the ring has been reinterpreted. In previous research, it was thought that the ring should be seen as a ‘church-door ring’, whereas today, scholars argue that the Forsa-ring was an ‘oath-ring’. This ring was probably kept at the important assembly place (and cultic site) of Hög. The persons mentioned in the runic inscription, Anund in Tåsta and Ofeg in Hjortsta, may very well have been a sort of Old Swedish *gudhar (cf. Old Norse goðar) with both religious and judicial functions within the local area. Maybe they carried the ‘oath-ring’ in their hands during religious ceremonies, as a sign of dignity and religious authority.

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A picture-stone from Tängelgårda, Gotland, may display just such cultic leaders taking part in a procession and carrying ‘oath-rings’ in their hands. The information in Eyrbygg ja saga ch. 4 that the ring must be made without joints (mótlauss) is interesting. That some symbolic rings must be without joints is attested from elsewhere. In connection with the small cultic house in Järrestad, eastern Skåne, which is located next to a multifunctional hall, a ring was discovered (Söderberg 2005). This ring had a diameter of 9.5 cm. It was forged from round-iron and a break was subsequently made to give the ring an opening. This feature could be associated with the Icelandic ‘oath-rings’, which must not be closed when carried by the goðar during sacrificial ceremonies. It could perhaps also be associated with the ritual restrictions which the Roman Jupiter-priest flamen dialis was required to follow: he was not allowed to carry closed rings (Aulis Gellius, Noctes Atticae 10.15.7). *Gudhar/goþar in Eastern Scandinavia Placenames and runic inscriptions indicate that an office equivalent to Old Norse goðar, namely, Old Swedish *gudhar and Old Danish goþar, existed in east Scandinavia (e.g., Hellberg 1986a; Brink 1996a; Vikstrand 2001). It seems that they, too, were closely linked to public sanctuaries. The close connection between the *gudhi-office and public sanctuaries appears to be evidenced in the placenames around Lake Mälaren. The farm name Gudby (< Gudhaby), in Fresta parish, Uppland, for instance, has been interpreted as ‘the *gudhi’s farm’. The placename specialist Lars Hellberg (1976, 1986a) has suggested that the area around Gudby was the cultic centre for the people living in the settlement districts or ‘small regional formation’ called *Valand (Vikstrand 2001: 387–88). Directly north of the village, there is a settlement (farm) designated Vallen­sjö. According to Hellberg, that name is derived from the name *Valændasior ‘the lake of the inhabitants of Valand’. The first element includes a genitive form of the plural inhabitant designation valændar, which is derived from the settlement name *Valand. This lake, which today has been drained, probably played a significant role for all people living in *Valand. Hellberg argues that this lake was regarded as a holy lake and that the *gudhi in the neighbouring village may have functioned as ‘hednisk präst’ (religious specialist) for all valændar when performing sacrifices at this place (cf. Brink 1997: 430). It seems, thus, that the Old Swedish *gudhar sometimes were in charge of public cult for local or minor regional groups within the Lake Mälaren region, such as the valændar. It is possible that East Scandinavian *gudhar/goþar had many functions within society in a way similar to the Icelandic goðar. They could,

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for instance, bear various titles simultaneously. The Glavendrup inscription (DR 209, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) from Fyn, Denmark (tenth century) is an example of this phenomenon. Erik Moltke (1985: 226) reads and interprets one sequence of it thus: … auft | ala . saulua kuþa | uia l(i)þs haiþuiarþan þia | kn … ‘… in memory of Alle, goþi of the Sølver, honour-worthy thegn of the uia-host …’. According to Moltke, Alle was not only the Old Danish goþi of the inhabitants called Sølver, he was also an honour-worthy thegn, that is, a free man and successful ‘warrior, champion’ of high rank.31 If we accept Jan Paul Strid’s (1999) interpretation of the runic inscription of the Karlevi stone (Öl 1, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), in Öland (c. 1000), we may also there meet a multifunctional leader designated *gudhi, Old Danish goþi (critically considered by Marold 2000b). In the Karlevi inscription, ‘Sibbi the goþi’ is, after his death, honoured with a complete dróttkvætt stanza wherein he is praised as a great and upright sea warrior, who ruled ‘over land in Denmark’ ( Jansson 1987; Düwel 2008). The inscription at Gursten (Sm 144, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), Småland, is also noteworthy in this context. The placename derives from Old Swedish Godhastæinn, that is, ‘stone of the *gudhi’ or ‘part of † Sten that belonged to the *gudhi’ (Hellberg 1979. Cf. Brink 1999; Strid 1999). It is possible that a lost hamlet close to Gursten was named † Sten, a name possibly denoting the hillfort situated in the vicinity. Otto von Friesen (1914) dates the inscription to the late ninth century. The first part of the sequence kuþaskaki in line 3 of the inscription can be interpreted either as the personal name Gudhi in the genitive case or as a genitive form of a common Old Swedish noun (appellation) *gudhi (sg. or pl.) (see Kinander 1935–61: i, 292–96). This personal name is not very well documented.32 We may therefore assume that the term *gudhi here denotes a person with religious leadership roles, that is, it is used as a title (von Friesen 1933). Perhaps Skeggi’s father was a *gudhi or he came from a family of *gudhar (Källström 2007). Perhaps this family previously had military functions at the hillfort (Godhastæinn), beside their religious assignments. The picture of the east Scandinavian *gudhar/goþar that can be pieced 31  Moltke argues that þegn in this context ‘denoted a kind of military status. “Thegn” is then a title of rank’ (1985: 286). Michael Lerche Nielsen (1998) opposes this interpretation and states that þegn could just as well mean ‘free yeoman’ in this context, and thus this inscription would not support the notion that Alli was a multifunctional leader (cf. Nielsen 1968: 10–16; Lindow 1976: 106). 32  It may appear in a few inscriptions (Sm 96; Vg 187; U 579, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). Ingrid Sanness Johnsen states that the proper nouns Góði and Guði as well as the appellative *gudhi/goði are theoretically plausible ( Johnsen 1968: 162).

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together from runic inscriptions is very uncertain, however. We cannot tell from the inscriptions alone whether these *gudhar/goþar appeared in multifunctional leadership roles and as general chieftains. Since the related Old High German term gotinc/goting appears as a gloss for tribunus (chieftain) (see above) and thus indicates a picture which harmonizes with the information on Old Norse goði provided by the medieval Icelandic texts, we may assume that also the East Scandinavian *gudhi/goþi was a chieftain who carried out many societal functions. Such chieftains appear to be linked to local or regional sanctuaries where they also organized public cultic activities for specific groups of people, most likely the local inhabitants. Most of these sanctuaries were probably located at the chieftains’ farms, but some might have been regarded as communal cultic sites.

Religious Specialists in Viking Age Sources? Old Norse Ǫlvir According to Sigvatr Þorðarson’s poem Austrfararvísur, composed around 1020, the Christian skald travelled to Sweden (‘til Svíþjóðar’) in the beginning of the eleventh century. Finally, he arrived at Hov (‘til Hofs’) (perhaps in Dalsland), but the people there turned him away, since that day (or place; see Austrfararvísur st. 4) was to be kept holy (heilagr). The people were celebrating álfablót, that is, sacrifices to the divine beings called álfar (è31) and (è63). A woman told the skald in st. 5: ‘vér erum heiðin’ (we are heathen people) and that ‘ek hræðumk við reiði Óðins’ (I fear the wrath of Óðinn). It is notable that three of the farmers who drove Sigvatr away are referred to as Ǫlvir (see st. 6). The second element in this name, which may also be a title, consists of Old Scandinavian -vé(r), -vi(r)/-væ(r) (Proto-Nordic *wīhaz). John Kousgård Sørensen (1989) argues that some composite words including this element (*wīhaz) may indicate a pagan priestly office. Sometimes, these composites have guð ‘god’ as first element, for example, Runic Swedish Guðvēr. In other cases, the first element is a name of a deity, as for instance in Swedish Tore (cf. Old Norse Þóri[r]). The first element occasionally consists in a designation for a cultic place, such as Al-, Sal-, Vi-, Hargh-, as for instance the name or title Salvir, which has been interpreted as ‘priest of the sal-sanctuary’. The name Ǫlvir belongs to this group. Jan de Vries (1932; 1956–57a: i, 402; 1962a: 687) interprets it as *aluwīhaz ‘priest of an alu-(alh-) sanctuary’ (Priester eines alu-(alh-) Heiligtums). It should be noted that the first element *al, *alu, is much debated (Brink 1992a; Vikstrand 2001; Elmevik 2004). However, the composites including this ele-

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ment (*wīhaz) undoubtedly refer to a person of religious significance. Whether the three named Ǫlvir in Austrfararvísur should be regarded as cultic leaders or religious specialists must, however, remain uncertain. Old Swedish *lytir/Old Norse Lytir Lennart Elmevik (2003b; cf.  1966, 1990) has suggested that Old Swedish *lytir, which appears as first element in some Swedish placenames — for example, Lytisberg in Östra Husby, Östergötland, Lytislunda in Österrekarne, Södermanland, and Litslunda, in Lillhärad, Västmanland — originally derived from a Proto-Nordic *hluti-wīhaz ‘diviner, truth-teller, sacrificial priest’.33 In some cases, the first element may just as likely be derived from a word related to Old Norse hlutr (Old Swedish luter, loter) ‘lot which is used in divinations’. The appellation *lytir may thus be interpreted as a religious specialist particularly associated with divination rituals (cf. Nygaard and Murphy 2017: 67–68). Old English hlȳtere (cf. tān-hlȳtere) — which is a gloss for clericus, meaning ‘clergyman, priest’ — supports such an interpretation (Clark Hall 1916). According to Rimbert’s Vita Anskarii ch. 18, there was a diviner (Latin divinus) who performed divination rituals among the Svear in Birka c. 830–40 ce. Perhaps the native term for him was *lytir, that is, an expert in casting and interpreting lot-staves (fella blótspán; hlauttein hrista), observing the flight or sound of birds, and so forth. One reservation concerning *lytir, however, is that Lytir may be the name or byname of a god. The name is used specifically with reference to a deity in Hauks þáttr hábrókar in Flateyjarbók (Strömbäck 1928a). Thus a possible interpretation is that Lytisberg, Lytislunda, and so forth should be regarded as theophoric place-names, with the name of this god as the first element (Vikstrand 2001). Old Swedish *vivil, Runic Swedish Vivil, Old Norse Vífill Equivalent forms to the Old Norse name Vífill are attested in Swedish runic inscriptions and place-names (Runic Swedish/Old Swedish Vifill/Vivil/*vivil) 33 

Simon Karlin Björk (2015) has recently discussed the sequence lutaris, representing a personal name in the genitive form, which is found on the Danish rune stone DR 145. He interprets the name as an Old Danish *Lutari(r), from the word hlutr ‘lot, share’, or alternatively *Lȳtari(r), from the verb hljóta ‘get as one’s lot’. He argues that this name was originally a common noun describing a person with a cultic function and meaning ‘caster of lots, soothsayer’, related to Old High German liozari and Old English tān-hlȳtere ‘soothsayer’.

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(Andersson 1992b: Vikstrand 2001). It appears, for instance, in a sequence of the Gotlandic runic inscription at Pilsgårds, Boge parish (G 280, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), uifil, employed either as a name or an appellative (Gustavson 2001; Thorgunn Snædal 2002). The farm name Vivelsta, Markim parish, Uppland, is also interesting. Lars Hellberg (1986a) argued that this name derived from the form *Vivils-Husar. In his opinion, the placename designates ‘en bebyggelsepart i centralorten *Husar (*Husa), som tilldelats dess präst, kallad vivil(l)’(Hellberg 1986a: 63) (a part of the settlement in the central region *Husar, that was allocated to its priest, called vivil[l]). Independently of Hellberg, Gunter Müller (1968) also interprets the name/appellative Vivil/*vivil as a ‘consecration name’ (Weihename) or the ‘title of a priest’. Müller connected it with the Proto-Nordic diminutive *wīgwilaz ‘the little consecrated one’ (see above).34 Vivelsta in Markim parish is located in an area that is interesting from the historian of religions’ point of view. The religious character of the place may be supported by ritual depositions discovered by the lake at Vivelsta (Zachrisson 1989). The central place Husby, not far from Vivelsta, was most likely a thingplace during the Viking Period, that is, the assembly site for the people in the area. There are several Viking Age runic stones, some perhaps of a symbolic significance, appearing in Markim and Orkesta in the vicinity of Vivelsta (Zachrisson 1998). It has been argued that one and the same family may have had political power and controlled the public cult during the Conversion Period, since Vivelsta is located close to the early medieval vicarage and Husby (Vikstrand 2001). Placenames in Gotland indicate that the office of *vivil also existed there. There is a place called Vivlings, south-east of the church in Hellvi parish. The parish-name Helgawi appears in documents dating back to the fourteenth century, and it includes the words Gutnish hailigr ‘holy’ and vi ‘cultic place’. Ingemar Olsson (1996) carefully suggests that the placename Vivlings includes the word *vivil meaning ‘pagan priest’. The locality of Vivlings close to the old assembly place (probably Helgawi) indicates that a *vivil was situated there during the Viking Age (cf. Blomkvist 2002). It is thus quite possible that the *vivil-institution was spread across Scandinavia during pre-Christian times and that the *vivil was some kind of religious specialist.

34 

It should be noted that another etymology exists, which is derived from Proto-Germanic *webilaz, Old High German wibil, Old English wifel, Swedish vivel, ‘some sort of a beetle’ (Peterson 2007).

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Female Cultic Leaders and Religious Specialists in the Viking Age Sources The gyðja The Sagas of Icelanders also report that females, designated gyðjur (singular gyðja) or hofgyðjur, could be in charge of hof-buildings in Iceland. Vápnfirðinga saga ch. 5, for instance, describes the hofgyðja called Steinvǫr. She was in charge of a major hof-building (‘varðveitti hǫfuðhofit’) at the farm called Hof in Vápnfjǫrðr, in eastern Iceland. All the local farmers must pay sanctuary tributes (hoftollr) to her. We cannot rule out that Steinvǫr also had a political position in Vápnfjǫrðr since she took care of the sanctuary tributes. In order to carry out this task, she was supported by the chieftain Brodd-Helgi, which indicates that she herself did not control any military or physical power. Other gyðjur and hofgyðjur also occur in the medieval texts. In Land­ námabók (S180, H147) and Vatnsdæla saga ch. 35, for instance, Þuriðr gyðja Sǫlmundardottir is mentioned. She was connected to the farm Hof in Vatnsdalr, where a hof-building had been erected by Ingimundr inn gamli. Þorlaug gyðja Hrólfsdóttir was, according to Landnámabók, associated with the hof-sanctuary at Reykjardalr in south-western Iceland (S 41, H 29), while Þuriðr hofgyðja Véþórmsdóttir and her brother Þórðr Freysgoði Ǫzurarson were linked to sanctuaries situated in Bakkárholt (H 276). Magnus Olsen (1926) argues that the gyðjur were exclusively associated with the fertility cult directed towards Freyr and that these female cultic leaders were regarded as this deity’s wives (Norwegian ektefelle). The weak evidence can neither deny nor corroborate this. But perhaps we can connect at least Þuriðr hofgyðja to Freyr, since she was the sister of Þórðr Freysgoði, whose family was called Freysgyðlingar ‘priestlings of Freyr’. In the region of their home there is, moreover, a place called Freysnes (Freyr’s headland). In Ǫgmundar þáttr dytts, there is a female cultic leader, perhaps a gyðja, who is called ‘Freys kona’ (Freyr’s wife). A lausavísa by the skald Þorvaldr Koðránsson (tenth century) provides early and more reliable evidence of a gyðja called Friðgerðr, whom we encounter in a cultic context. According to Kristni saga ch. 2 (where the verse is preserved), Þorvaldr arrived at her farm in Hvammr in western Iceland together with a bishop. The two men preached the faith, while Friðgerðr was inside the hofsanctuary, performing a sacrifice (‘enn Friðgerðr var meðan í hofinu ok blótaði’). Friðgerðr’s son Skeggi laughed at the missionaries. The lausavísa itself gives a vivid eyewitness description of the gyðja Friðgerðr and her son Skeggi. They seem to be upset, since the skald and the bishop are disturbing them with their

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mission. Skeggi is called ‘hlautteins hreytir’ (the one who cast lots) and ‘goða sveinn’ (servant of the gods). These expressions may not have been chosen by mere accident. Perhaps they refer to the activities that the skald really observed during his stay at Hvammr. The stanza also says that Friðgerðr was shouting from the pagan ‘altar/platform’ (‘gall of heiðnum stalla’). Even if the ritual context is not fully clear, it seems that Friðgerðr was performing sacrifices at the ‘stallr’/’stalli’ (altar/platform), while Skeggi was casting lots (for a thorough examination, see Düwel 1985). The term stallr/stalli indicates that they were at a sanctuary, perhaps inside a hof-building. The prose in Kristni saga supports this interpretation. In the prose of Flateyjarbók (i, 270) (where the verse also is preserved), it is mentioned that Friðgerðr was sacrificing during Þorvaldr’s visitation. The sources thus suggest that the gyðja and her son performed both sacrifices and divination rituals inside a ceremonial building, while Þorvaldr preached about Christ for the people in Hvammr. The vǫlva The female religious specialists (and mythical beings) called vǫlur (also called seiðkonur, vísindakonur, or spákonur) are well attested in eddic poetry and the Sagas of Icelanders, whereas they only appear once or twice in the oldest skaldic poetry35 and never in placenames. In the sagas, vǫlur often appear as ‘diviners’. They obtain knowledge by performing a ritual known as seiðr at a ritual platform or construction called seiðhjallr (see Sundqvist 2012b). Seiðr was a form of magic or divination ritual, which has also been associated with shamanism (cf. Strömbäck 1935; Buchholz 1968; Price 2002; critically considered by e.g. Dillmann 2006). The ritual practice of seiðr furthermore appears in mythical contexts, particularly in relation to Óðinn, but it also has connections to the goddess Freyja (Ynglinga saga ch. 4, 7). Sometimes, vǫlur appear in other rituals, too, but it seems that they never performed sacrifices. The vǫlur moved about from farm to farm and were sometimes followed by an entourage. According to late sources, they received payment for their rituals.36 The vǫlva should thus be regarded as a professional religious specialist. The most important account of a vǫlva appears in Eiríks saga rauða ch. 4, which tells the story of Þorbjǫrg lítilvǫlva. In this passage, her ritual dress 35  There is one attestation of a vǫlva in Kormákr’s lausavísa 48 (tenth century), and one later instance in Hofgarða-Refr Gestsson’s Ferðavísur 2 (eleventh century). 36  See, e.g., Norna-Gests þáttr in Flateyjarbók (i, 358). See also Price (2002) and Dillmann (2006: 367–69).

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and attributes are described (critically considered by Dillmann 2006; Schjødt 2007c; Tolley 2009a; Gardeła 2016). She wore a dark blue robe adorned with stones as well as a necklace of glass beads. On her head, she wore a black lambskin hood lined with white catskin. She carried a staff in her hand which was adorned with brass and precious stones.37 Around her waist, she had a belt with a leather purse in which she kept some witchcraft accessories. On her feet, she had shaggy calfskin shoes with long straps and on her hands catskin gloves, which were white and fluffy inside. She was treated by everyone with respect. The farmer had prepared a place for her to which he led her. On her high seat was a pillow stuffed with chicken feathers (è22) and (è30). In the medieval traditions, vǫlur and other performers of seiðr are sometimes described in a negative sense, that is, as deviants from the social norms (e.g., Raudvere 2003; Meylan 2014a; critically considered by Dillmann 2006). They perform suspicious rituals, which are sometimes described as evil. Obviously, there is a Christian perspective in these sources. This tendency may even be seen in the eddic lays. The mythic seiðr-skilled vǫlva called Heiðr, in Vǫluspá st. 22, for instance, was ‘æ var hon angan illrar brúðar’ (always the favourite of wicked women).38 In Lokasenna st. 24, Óðinn is accused of having practised seiðr and beating drums as vǫlur do. It says that he appeared in the likeness of a wizard (‘vitca líki’). The seiðr-ritual he practised is described as the ‘args aðal’ (hallmark of a pervert).39 It has been argued that the art of seiðr was a gender-determined activity, intended only for females (see, e.g., Strömbäck 1935; Ström 1985). Men who performed this ritual were considered to be marred by ergi ‘sexual aberration or abnormality’, ‘inordinate sexual desire’, or ‘lasciviousness’ (cf. the adjective argr) (cf. Strömbäck 1935; Meulengracht Sørensen 1982; Dillmann 2006). In Ynglinga saga ch. 7, for instance, Snorri says this about seiðr: ‘En þessi fjǫlkynngi, er framið er, fylgir svá mikil ergi, at eigi þótti karlmǫnnum skamlaust við at fara ok var gyðjunum kennd sú íþrótt’ (But this sorcery is attended

37 

Recently, Leszek Gardeła (2016) has made a thorough and critical assessment of all such known staffs from the Viking Age North including archaeological, iconographic, and textual sources leading to an interpretation of these staffs as ‘multivalent objects’ (2016: 219), but often with magical purposes. 38  On the different text versions and interpretation of this stanza, see Strömbäck (1935). Cf. Dronke (1997). 39  Strömbäck (1935: 27). Dronke (1997: 338) translates ‘oc hugða ek þat args aðal’ as: ‘that I thought an unmanly nature’. For a critical discussion on the expression args aðal, see Dillmann 2006.

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by such wickedness40 that manly men considered it to shameful to practise it, and so it was taught to priestesses). Catharina Raudvere (2003) states that narratives involving vǫlur and seiðr include certain anomalies (cf. DuBois 1999). The performers of seiðr are, on the one hand, described as important and good for society; on the other hand, they are odd, exotic and deviant when it comes to, for instance, their very old age, eating, and clothing habits, as well as ethnicity (or geographic origin). Especially the last aspect is used to indicate deviation in the texts. The seiðrperforming Kotkell family in Laxdœla saga ch. 35, for instance, came from the Hebrides. In general, the seiðr-performers are said to have a Finnish or Sámi origin or background, and often they are females such as the seiðkona (in the text called finna) in Vatnsdœla saga ch. 10. Also the vǫlva Þorbjǫrg in Eiríks saga rauða ch. 4 is exotic in some sense and deviates from the ‘normal’. She comes in a special costume with certain attributes to the farm as a temporary guest, and she brings knowledge which could be considered numinous. She is fed a meal including ritual food made from various animals’ hearts. Thus, she is ‘clearly distinguished from the other women present at the farmstead, and the details of her dress underscore her alterity’ (DuBois 1999: 124). In addition, Þorbjǫrg seems to be very old, since she is said to have had nine sisters, all of them seeresses, but now only she was still alive. These anomalies and exotic attributes relating to the seiðr-performers could be interpreted to mean that such persons only appeared in marginal contexts, far away from the aristocratic halls and the large public blót-feasts, where mainly males perform the sacrificial rituals. As soon as seiðr-performers approach the aristocratic milieu, they seem to be portrayed as evil, at least in some sagas (see, e.g., Meylan 2014a: 49–91). One example is Hulðr in Ynglinga saga ch. 13–14, who creates a lot of trouble and much evil for the Ynglinga family when she comes into contact with the royal milieu. With her seiðr-rituals she kills King Vanlandi and puts a curse on the whole family, which subsequently causes the death of King Vísburr. The vǫlur rarely appear in the oldest written sources, such as skaldic poems or runic inscriptions. This may suggest that they were not part of the elite activities. Neither is the concept vǫlva attested in placenames, which may be taken to indicate that vǫlur never had any officially recognized position within society and that their activities during the Viking Age belonged to the social periphery or in the countryside far from the central settlements. But it is also possible that the clerical scribes, who fixed the traditions on parchment, 40 

The word ergi should rather be translated to ‘perversion’ here, and not wickedness.

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deliberately described the vǫlur negatively in order to belittle them and their activities, or to turn them into something exotic. The negative view on seiðrperformers may also be due to the distorted image projected onto them by previous research, which actually does not harmonize with the evidence from the sources. Moreover, archaeology from recent years seems to contradict the idea of vǫlur as persons at the bottom of the social hierarchy, since some women who may very well be identified as vǫlur are found in graves that are in no way poorly equipped (see, for instance, Price 2012; Gardeła 2016). François-Xavier Dillmann has shown in his thorough investigation on magicians in Iceland, Les magiciens dans l’Islande ancienne (2006), that the image of vǫlur must be reconsidered compared to the one often found in previous handbooks and specialist literature. Dillmann focuses on the texts Íslendingabók, Landnámabók, the Íslendingasögur, and the Íslendingaþættir, and states that the magicians there generally represent the ‘norm’ and that they are often well integrated and respected within society. By means of a careful reading of these texts, Dillmann is able to show that equally many men and women perform magic in these sources and that their ages vary significantly. They belong to the social group called ‘the free’, they own land, and they are frequently attached to the elite of the society. In terms of ethnicity, they usually derive from Norwegian families and have their geographic homeland within Norway. In Iceland, they live within the ‘usual’ settlements and neither in caves nor on isolated islands. Neither are they described as ‘perverted’ or ‘sexually deviated’. The image of seiðr-performers and magicians produced by Dillmann actually harmonizes well with the picture we gain from other source categories. Archaeological finds indicate that vǫlur also existed in aristocratic milieus in both Sweden and Norway, even at the very highest social stratum of society (Price 2002; Gardeła 2016). In one rich female Viking Age grave from Klinta, Köping parish, Öland, a sturdy staff or wand has been discovered. It was made out of iron, had a little miniature building on the top, was decorated with a little animal head, and also had a ‘basket’ close to the top. Neil Price (2002; cf. Gardeła 2016) interprets it as a possible staff of a vǫlva, a vǫlr (cf. Old Norse stafr, seiðstafr, gandr, gambanteinn; Gardeła 2016: 135–70 critically treats the textual occurances of these terms) (cf. Tolley 2009a).41 In three chamber graves from Birka (Bj 660, Bj 834, Bj 845), staves resembling this have been found. They have been interpreted in a similar way (Price 2002, cf. Gardeła 2016). Furthermore, they appear in find contexts indicating that the users belonged 41 

Eldar Heide (2006a, 2006b) suggests that these staffs should be regarded as distaffs, but with a symbolic meaning.

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Figure 29.4. The top of an iron staff, with a representation of a house. The staff was found in a woman’s grave at Klinta in Köpingsvik on Öland, and dated to the first half of the tenth century (SHM 25840:107776) Photo: Gunnel Jansson, Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm. 

to the highest social stratum. These staffs are of a similar size as the one from Klinta. They all feature a knob-like mount on the shaft. A fragmentary staff was found in grave 4 at Fyrkat, Denmark, and this, too, was quite a rich woman’s grave. The original length of the staff is unknown (Price 2002). The Birka staffs and the staff from Klinta were all decorated and had knobs on their shafts. This recalls Þorbjǫrg’s staff in Eiríks saga rauða ch. 4, which was ‘ornamented with brass and decorated with gemstones just below the knob’. The wealthiest female burial in all Scandinavia has been excavated in southern Norway (Ingstad 1993; Gansum 2002). At Oseberg in Slagendalen, southwest of Oslo, two women were laid to rest inside a royal mound in c. 835–50. The grave is extremely rich, and therefore it has been suggested that it was a queen with her female servant who were buried there. According to Anne Stine Ingstad (1993), Neil Price (2002), and Leszek Gardeła (2016), the finds indicate that one of them was a vǫlva. They suggest that the staff found there could be interpreted as the vǫlr ‘staff ’ of a vǫlva (= ‘staff-carrier’; Gardeła 2016: 154–56 is critical of this interpretation, as the staffs are most often called by other Old Norse terms, as was mentioned above).42 On a carriage found in the grave, several cat symbols were carved, and in a chest cat skins were discovered. Ingstad argues that the cat and its skin were important symbols for vǫlur. She refers to Eiríks saga rauða ch. 4 where it says that Þorbjǫrg had catskin gloves on her hands; on her head she wore a black lambskin hood lined inside with 42 

This interpretation is critically considered by Pesch (1999). See also Arwill-Nordbladh (1998) and Steinsland (2004).

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white cat skin. In the Oseberg grave, a little leather purse was found, which contained seeds from the plant cannabis sativa. According to Eiríks saga rauða ch. 4, Þorbjǫrg wore a belt made of touchwood round her middle, ‘ok var þar á skjóðupungr mikill; varðveitti hon þar í taufr þau er hon þurfti til fróðleiks at hafa’ (and on it was a big skin pouch in which she kept those charms of hers which she needed for her magic). It is thus possible that the rich woman in the grave was a vǫlva or that her female companion had such ritual functions. These finds also indicate that seiðr-performers and magicians did, in fact, appear in elite contexts.

Concluding Remarks There may well have been some kind of ‘cultic leaders’, who were responsible for specific ritual functions at particular sanctuaries. Some of them may well have taken on the role of organizers of public sacrificial feasts and as custodians of shrines and of cultic activities. These ‘cultic leaders’ (e.g., goðar) are also likely to have carried certain insignia (such as oath-rings) when performing religious duties. Whether they were permanently employed as ‘priests’ at the sanctuaries and exclusively performed religious tasks is uncertain. Most likely, many of them had functions similar to those of other leaders of society and only occasionally stepped into their cultic role. At certain important sanctuaries, such as Uppsala or Lade, the ruler (i.e., the king or the earl) could have had the overarching responsibility for the public sacrificial feasts and may have played important ritual roles at these gatherings. When performing complex rituals, such political leaders probably needed assistance from other cultic leaders and/ or religious specialists (see Sundqvist 2016: 189–92). Perhaps there were also various kinds of more exclusively ‘religious specialists’ and ‘magicians’ in the Viking Age, such as vǫlur and seiðr-performers. Some sources indicate that they could earn their living by means of performing rituals and thus exercised religious practice as their ‘profession’. No sources support the assumption, however, that the ‘cultic leaders’ or the ‘religious specialists’ formed a closed or hierarchical organization (i.e., a priesthood) that in any way endeavoured to standardize an official world-view, a particular theology, special dogmas, or ritual practices for a wider group of people. It is likely that religious offices were commonly inherited within certain families, who predominantly cared for their own religious traditions at local cultic sites situated at these families’ farms. There are also signs indicating that cultic leaders cooperated at some communal sanctuaries.

30 – Crisis Rituals Jens Peter Schjødt Introduction According to the classification suggested in (è25),1 ‘Crisis Rituals’ is one of the main categories in religions worldwide (cf. also DuBois 2006: 74). They are characterized by the aim of bringing a negative condition back to normal.2 The goal of these rituals may be oriented towards an individual or a collective, that is, poor health on the part of an individual or threats against the whole of society such as war or famine. Divination is often an important part of crisis rituals: in order to detect the reason for a crisis and thus the most efficient means to solve it, it is necessary to obtain knowledge of what or who has caused it. This is also what we see in some of the examples dealt with below. 1 

The chapter (è25) in general should be seen as an introduction to the present and the following two chapters (è 31–32). Many examples of various rituals and ritual features are mentioned there and will therefore not be treated in the following chapters. Especially for rituals of a magical kind, which may also be seen as crisis rituals, we refer to (è26). 2  ‘Crisis’ here should be understood in a rather narrow sense. From a certain point of view, we could argue that all rituals are about crises, since cyclical rituals, as well as many rituals of passage, exist in order to prevent crises that can, to a certain extent at least, be anticipated. One of the main characteristics of crisis rituals, however, as we saw in (è25), is that they are not predictable. Therefore, the rituals to be treated here are rituals that are related to crises that exist here and now. As genuine crisis rituals, however, we must also view rituals which are performed with the aim of preventing failure in situations that might be immediately dangerous, such as long sea journeys or other risky tasks. Another category here could be the deposits made in connection with moving into new buildings, perhaps forming new households (è26). Whether we should see the performance of such rituals as an attempt to prevent crises or as a kind of rituals of passage is not easy to determine, which show that models are not reality. Jens Peter Schjødt, Professor of the Study of Religion, Aarhus University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume ii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 2 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 781–796 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116957

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Sources As is frequently the case, we do not have a great many descriptions of such rituals, although we do have many hints scattered about in the Germanic and Norse sources that may be dealing with crisis rituals; most of them, as is to be expected, concern public rather than private rituals.3 We cannot touch on all the examples here and will only treat a small selection of those detailed enough for a ritual analysis. A special problem is that in many descriptions of rituals we are not told precisely why they are performed, which of course creates problems when we attempt to classify the individual rituals. For instance, we are told in Adam of Bremen, as in many other sources, that when war is impending, sacrifices are performed to Óðinn, which would certainly indicate a crisis ritual,4 whereas in Hákonar saga goða ch. 14 (è 31), we get the impression that the toasts for victory are part of a yearly ritual. Therefore, two rituals performed in honour of Óðinn and with the same purpose — namely, to gain victory — need not be performed in the same way or in the same context. As we also see from these two sources, neither narrates how the particular ritual is performed, and this is the typical situation: even though there are, as mentioned, hints to be found in sagas and other source categories, the information on concrete details is scanty. We do have a few examples, however, which inform us rather well about possible ways in which such rituals could be carried out, although these are not exactly detailed either. The problem here is, as is often the case when rituals are mentioned in the sources, that only very few instances provide us with anything like a ritual sequence that can be analysed according to the structure outlined in (è 25). Probably also a great many archaeological finds are remnants of such rituals, but there is rarely any way of ascertaining the motivation for the individual ritual from archaeological evidence alone. However, one form of sacrifice, which could be somehow connected to crises, comprises the weapon deposits in bogs in southern Scandinavia. Although these should probably be seen as thank offerings rather than as genuine crisis rituals, we can say for sure that they are not 3 

Again, it must be emphasized that the borders between private and public rituals are not always easy to draw. There certainly are examples which undoubtedly belong to one category or the other, but, for instance, one of the most famous descriptions of a crisis ritual found in the textual corpus — namely, that of the seiðr-woman in Greenland from Eiríks saga rauða — is not very easy to classify. We shall return shortly to this below. 4  See, for instance, Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar ch. 27 (cf. Vellekla st. 29), Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks ch. 7, etc.

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Figure 30.1. Ship from the weapon deposit at Nydam in southern Jylland. Nydam is one of about forty sites in southern Scandinavia where weapons and other equipments were deposited at irregular intervals, indicating that the deposits were parts of crisis rituals. Museum für Archäologie Schloss Gottorf, Schleswig. Photo: Anders Andrén. 

cyclical rituals, carried out annually, since the distance in time between them can be more than a hundred years (cf. Ilkjær 2000, 2003). Thank offerings may be linked to all of the three above-mentioned main categories of rituals (è25), but the weapon deposits are surely related to some sort of crisis and its elimination: namely, the battle that had taken place and the victorious outcome. Even so, it is hardly possible from this evidence to come close to any sort of detailed reconstruction of how the ritual was carried out. We do know, of course, that the weapons were destroyed, most likely within a ritual frame, and that they were gathered into bundles and wrapped in cloth (Ilkjær 2000: 14), but this is still not very much when seeking to reconstruct the religious part of the ritual. There are other hints at crisis rituals in the Germanic sources, for instance in Tacitus’s Historiae 4.60–70, dealing with Veleda of the Bructes, and also other authors from antiquity who mention seeresses, such as Strabo’s account (Geography 7.2.3) of the Cimbrian seeresses’ sacrifices of war prisoners. Also supporting the archaeological interpretations of the weapon deposits is Orosius’s account of how the Cimbri destroyed the booty they had acquired during battles (Historia adversus paganos 5.16). But nowhere do we get a detailed description of the rituals performed (è6, è12, è25).

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There is no doubt that crisis rituals of various kinds were performed whenever a crisis was threatening, and also when it had been eliminated, as we know from most religious societies; nor is there any doubt that they were very important. However, because of the source situation, we will discuss just a few textual examples from which it is actually possible to reconstruct at least parts of the rituals that were performed on the occasion of crises.5 Private Rituals As mentioned, we know less about private rituals than about public ones, and many of those we do know are perhaps better described as ‘magical’ acts. One example of this is from Egils saga Skallagrímssonar ch. 72. Egill is visiting a man called Þorfinnr; while he is there, he sees a sick woman lying on the crossbench, and he asks what is wrong with her. Þorfinnr answers that she is his daughter who has been ill for some time. Egill asks if anyone has attempted to find out what is wrong with her, and he is told that a farmer’s son has carved some runes in order for her to be cured. When Egill has finished eating, he goes to the woman and demands that she be lifted out of the bed after which he examines the bed. Here, he finds a whalebone with runes on it and, having read them, he scrapes them off and burns the whalebone. Then he speaks a verse (lausavísa, 38): Skalat maðr rúnar rísta nema ráða vel kunni þat verðr mǫrgum manni, es of myrkvan staf villisk; sák á telgðu talkni tíu launstafi ristna þat hefr lauka lindi langs ofrtrega fengit. (No man should carve runes unless he can read them well many a man goes astray around those dark letters. On the whalebone I saw ten secret letters carved from them the linden tree [woman] took her long harm.) (p. 143) 5 

Other examples are mentioned by de Vries (1956–57a: i, 314–15).

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After that, Egill carves some new runes, which he places under the pillow; immediately, the woman thinks she has awakened from a sleep and now feels well again, although still weak, and her parents of course are very happy. Apart from learning important things about how runes were perceived and how they could be used, both in creating and solving a crisis, which is most clearly expressed in the stanza quoted, we are also given some details about that sort of ritual. As was probably the case with many private crisis rituals, carried out within the household, it does not appear very spectacular, but the structure is nevertheless similar to all other rituals of this kind: there is an individual crisis, and the ritual then consists in finding the reason for it and eventually eliminating it. We do not hear about the involvement of any beings from the Other World, which was probably also very typical for rituals of this type — and one of the reasons why they are so often seen as ‘magic’. But there is no doubt that some influences from the Other World should be seen in the runes. As we are told in the stanza, the runes carved first are regarded as ‘dark letters’ (stafir), meaning that they are attributed some numinous power in themselves, and the goal of the ritual is to manipulate this numinous power. The fact that runes are involved may be an indication that behind the ritual power lurks Óðinn, god of the runes. In general, we can assume that curing illnesses would be the kind of crisis rituals most often performed in the private

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Figure 30.2. A staff of yew from a bog at Hemdrup in Skarp Salling in Himmerland, northern Jylland, dated to the ninth or tenth century (DR EM85;350, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). On the staff a rhombic pattern is carved, with four dog-like animals, a human figure, and two runic inscriptions in the rhombs. The interpretation of the texts is disputed, but one inscription includes the word ‘flying’, which may refer to fever or to seiðr. Photo: Erik Moltke, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen. 

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sphere, and apparently several runic inscriptions support this idea, although the interpretations are self-evidently uncertain. Examples of this, according to the interpretations by McKinnell, Simek, and Düwel, are the Ribe skull fragment (McKinnell and others 2004: 50–51), and the Hemdrup rune-pin (McKinnell and others 2004: 66–67), both from Jylland. There is obviously no way for us to get information about the ritual contexts of these carvings, but it is not unlikely that magic formulas or stanzas, like the one Egill spoke, may have accompanied the carving. But as the saga indicates, there is no reason to imagine that any spectacular ritual actions were performed in these contexts. Whereas this ritual evidently belongs to the private sphere, our next example is more doubtful. It is definitely much more spectacular, and there are many more people attending it. On the scale ‘private — public’, we are clearly moving towards the public, although we are still far from the big public gatherings we hear about from, for instance, Adam of Bremen. This ritual is the famous description in Eiríks saga rauða ch. 4 of a seiðrwoman in Greenland performing a divinatory ritual because of a crisis linked to climate and the resulting shortage of food.6 Because of the amount of detail in the description and because it is referred to often throughout this entire work, it will be quoted in full (Skálholtsbók version): Í þenna tíma var hallæri mikit á Grœnlandi; hǫfðu menn fengit lítit fang þeir sem í veiðiferðir hǫfðu farit, en sumir eigi aptr komnir. Sú kona var þar í byggð er Þorbjǫrg hét; hon var spákona; hon var kǫllut lítilvǫlva. Hon hafði átt sér níu systr, ok váru allar spákonur ok var hon ein eptir á lífi. Þat var háttr Þorbjargar á vetrum at hon fór á veizlur, ok buðu men henni heim, mest þeir er forvitni var á um forlǫg sín eða árferd. Ok með því at Þorkell var þar mestr bóndi, þá þotti til hans koma at vita hvenar létta mundi óárani þessu sem yfir stóð. Þorkell býðr spákonu þangat, ok er henni búin góð viðtaka, sem siðr var til, þá er við þess háttar konu skyldi taka: Búit var henni hásæti ok lagt undir hœgindi; þar skyldi í vera hœnsafiðri. En er hon kom um kveldit ok sá maðr er í móti henni var sendr, þá var hon svá búin, at hon hafði yfir sér tyglamǫttul blán ok var settr steinum allt í skaut ofan; hon hafði á hálsi sér glertǫlur; hon hafði á hǫfði lambskinnskofra svartan ok við innan kattskinn hvítt. Staf hafði hon í hendi ok var á knappr; hann var búinn messingu ok settr steinum ofan um knappinn. Hon hafði um sik hnjóskulinda, ok var þar á skjóðupungr mikill; vardveitti hon þar í taufr þau er hon þurfti til fróðleiks at hafa. Hon hafði kálfskinnsskúa loðna á fótum ok i þvengi langa ok sterkliga ok látúnsknappar miklir á endunum. Hon hafði á hǫndum sér kattskinnsglófa ok váru hvítir innan ok loðnir. 6 

The same motivation for a ritual performance, including sacrifice, occurs for instance in Reykdæla saga ch. 7.

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En er hon kom inn þótti ǫllum mǫnnum skylt at velja henni sœmiligar kveðjur, en hon tók því eptir [því] sem henni váru menn skapfelldir til. Tók Þorkell bóndi í hǫnd vísendakonunni og leiddi hann hana til þess sætis er henni var búit. Þorkell bað hana renna þar augum yfir hjǫrð ok hjú ok hýbýli. Hon var fámálug um allt. Borð váru upp tekin um kveldit, ok er frá því at segja hvat spákonunni var matbúit: henni var gǫrr grautr af kiðjamjólk en til matar henni váru búin hjǫrtu ór allskonar kykvendum þeim sem þar váru til. Hon hafdi messingarspón ok kníf tannskeptan, tvíhólkaðan af eiri, ok var af brotinn oddrinn. En er borð váru upp tekin gengr Þorkell bóndi fyrir Þorbjǫrgu ok spyrr hversu henni virðisk þar hýbýli eða hættir manna eða hversu fljótliga hon mun þess vís verða er hann hefir spurt eptir ok menn vildu vita. Hon kvezk þat ekki mundu upp bera fyrr en um morgininn, þá er hon hefði sofit þar um nóttina. En eptir um daginn at áliðnum degi var henni veittr sá umbúningr sem hon skyldi hafa þá er hon skyldi seiðinn fremja. Bað hon fá sér konur þær sem kynni frœði þat er þyrfti til seiðinn at fremja ok Varðlokur7 heita¸en þær konur fundusk eigi. Þá var at leitat um bœinn, ef nǫkkur kynni. Þá svaraði Guðríðr: ‘Hvarki em ek fjǫlkunnig né vísendakona, en þó kenndi Halldís fóstra mín mér á Íslandi þat frœði er hon kallaði Varðlokur’. Þorbjǫrg svaraði: ‘Þá ertu fróðari en ek ætlaða’. Guðríðr segir: ‘Þetta er þess konar atferli at ek ætla í øngum atbeina at vera, þvíat ek em kona kristin’. Þorbjǫrg svarar: ‘Svá mætti verða at þu yrðir mǫnnum at liði hér um, en værir kona ekki at verri. En við Þorkel met ek at fá þá hluti hér til, er þarf.’ Þorkell herðir nú at Guðríði, en hon kvezk mundu gera sem hann vildi. Slógu þá konur hring um hjallinn, en Þorbjǫrg sat á uppi. Kvað Guðríðr þá kvæðit svá fagrt ok vel, at engi þóttisk fyrr heyrt hafa með fegri raust kveðit, sá er þar var. Spákona þakkar henni kvæðit; hon sagði margar náttúrur ‘higat hafa at sótt ok þótti fagrt at heyra þat er kveðit var, er áðr vildi frá oss snúask ok oss øngva hlýðni veita. En mér eru nú margir þeir hlutir auðsýnir er áðr var bæði ek ok aðrir dulðir. En ek kann þat at segja, at hallæri þetta mun ekki haldask lengr ok mun batna árangr sem várar. Sóttarfar þat sem lengi hefir á legit mun batna vánu bráðara. En þér Guðríðr, skal ek launa í hǫnd liðsinni þat sem oss hefir at þér staðit, þvíat þín forlǫg eru mér nú ǫll gløggsæ. Þat muntu gjaforð fá hér á Grœnlandi er sœmiligast er til, þóat þér verði 7 

The two manuscripts S (Skálholtsbók) and H (Hauksbók) have different spellings of the word: namely Varðlokur and Varðlokkur (both normalized). The first element must be a composite form of the masculine noun vǫrðr, which may mean a ‘ward’, perhaps a vættr of some kind, or, as argued by Dag Strömbäck, a ‘free soul’ (Strömbäck 1935: 130). Depending on whether we choose the form given in S or H of the second element, it will mean to ‘enclose the spirit’ or to ‘allure the spirit (or soul)’. Strömbäck opts for the meaning ‘free soul’ (of Þorbjǫrg) and argues for an influence from Sámi shamanism (1935: 124–39; critically examined by Dillmann 2006: 290–99), although it is obvious from the following part of the text (about the náttúrur) that the author of the saga understood vǫrðr as a kind of external spirit, not as Þorbjǫrg’s ‘free soul’.

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þat eigi til langæðar, þvíat vegar þínir liggja út til Íslands, ok mun þar koma frá þér ættbogi bæði mikill ok góðr, ok yfir þínum ættkvíslum mun skína bjartr geisli, enda far þú nú vel ok heil, dóttir mín.’ Síðan gengu menn at vísendakonunni ok frétti hverr eptir því sem mest forvitni var á; var hon ok góð af frásǫgnum; gekk þat ok lítt í tauma sem hon sagði. (This was a very lean time in Greenland. Those who had gone hunting had had poor catches, and some of them had failed to return. In the district there lived a woman named Thorbjorg, a seeress who was called the ‘little prophetess’. She was one of ten sisters, all of whom had the gift of prophecy, and was the only one of them still alive. It was Thorbjorg’s custom to spend the winter visiting one farm after another where she had been invited, mostly by people curious to learn about their future or what was in store for the coming year. Since Thorkel was the leading farmer there, people felt it was up to him to try and find out when the hard times which had been oppressing them would let up. Thorkel invited the seeress to visit, and preparations were made to entertain her well, as was the custom of the time when a woman of this type was received. A high seat was set for her, complete with cushion. This was to be stuffed with chicken feathers. When she arrived one evening, along with the man who had been sent to fetch her, she was wearing a black mantle with a strap, which was adorned with precious stones right down to the hem. About her neck she wore a string of glass beads and on her head a hood of black lambskin lined with white catskin. She bore a staff with a knob at the top, adorned with brass set with stones on top. About her she had a linked charm belt with a large purse. In it she kept the charms which she needed for her predictions. She wore calfskin boots lined with fur with long, sturdy laces and large pewter knobs on the ends. On her hands she wore gloves of catskin, white and lined with fur. When she entered, everyone was supposed to offer her respectful greetings, and she responded according to how the person appealed to her. Farmer Thorkel took the wise woman by the hand and led her to the seat which had been prepared for her. He then asked her to survey his flock, servants, and buildings. She had little to say about all of it. That evening tables were set up and food prepared for the seeress. A porridge of kid’s milk was made for her, and as meat she was given the hearts of all the animals available there. She had a spoon of brass and a knife with an ivory shaft, its two halves clasped with bronze bands, and the point of which had broken off. Once the tables had been cleared away, Thorkel approached Thorbjorg and asked what she thought of the house there and the conduct of the household, and how soon he could expect an answer to what he had asked and everyone wished to know. She answered that she would not reveal this until the next day after having spent the night there.

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Late the following day she was provided with things she required for carrying out magic rites. She asked for women who knew the chants required for carrying out magic rites, which are called ward songs. But such women were not to be found. Then the people of the household were asked if there was anyone with such knowledge. Gudrid answered, ‘I have neither magical powers nor the gift of prophecy, but in Iceland my foster-mother Halldis taught me chants she called ward songs.’ Thorbjorg answered, ‘Then you know more than I expected.’ Gudrid said, ‘These are the sort of actions in which I intend to take no part, because I am a Christian woman.’ Thorbjorg answered, ‘It be that you could help the people here by so doing, and you’d be no worse woman for that. But I expect Thorkel to provide me with what I need.’ Thorkel then urged Gudrid, who said that she would do as wished. The women formed a warding ring around the platform raised for sorcery, with Thorbjorg perched at top it. Gudrid spoke the chant so well and beautifully that people there said they had never heard anyone recite in a fairer voice. The seeress thanked her for her chant. She said many spirits had been attracted who thought the chant fair to hear — ‘though earlier they wished to turn their backs on us and refused to do our bidding. Many things are now clear to me which were earlier concealed from both me and others. And I can tell you that this spell of hardship will last no longer, and times will improve as the spring advances. The bout of illness which has long plagued you will also improve sooner than you expect. And you, Gudrid, I shall reward on the spot for the help we have received, since your fate is now very clear to me. You will make the most honourable of matches here in Greenland, though you won’t be putting down roots here, as your path leads to Iceland and from you will be descended a long worthy line. Over all the branches of that family a bright ray will shine. May you fare well, now, my child.’ After that people approached the wise woman to learn what each of them were most curious to know. She made them good answer, and little that she predicted did not occur.) (pp. 5–7)

The trustworthiness of this description has been heavily debated (see, for instance, Dillmann 2006: 275–306), but, since it is the most detailed account of a seiðr ritual, it has often been used for reconstructions of such rituals. As is always the case with the sagas, it is very hard to find objective criteria for evaluating their source value, but a priori this passage should arouse some suspicion, exactly because it is so detailed: is it really likely that this wealth of details, some apparently quite unimportant, should be remembered several hundred years after the pagan seiðr ceased to exist? It is perhaps more likely that the author used some magician from the thirteenth century as the model (cf. Schjødt 2007c: 183–84). It is also clear that the whole passage is employed as a literary

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means of showing the reader that Guðríðr, one of the main characters of the saga, will be the ancestress of several bishops in Iceland. When this is said, however, we must accept that there are elements in the description which could very well have roots extending far back in time. There is no reason to expect that the vǫlva’s outfit or her diet were ever standardized. This seems to be confirmed by archaeology (Price 2002), which reveals a rich variety of such outfits, albeit including a number of recurrent elements, such as the staff, also mentioned in the saga passage just quoted (see Gardeła 2016 for a comprehensive and critical treatment of staffs in the Viking Age). However, this is not the place to discuss Þorbjǫrg’s equipment. It may be that every detail has some symbolic value,8 but if so, such meanings would probably be very individual. The important thing here is that this example of a crisis ritual taking place in what can be labelled the ‘private sphere’ is concerned with obtaining knowledge concerning the duration of ‘the hard times’. It is, however, only one example of how such disasters could be dealt with. We must assume that many details and also the individual rites would vary from place to place and from time to time. The main rite here is, of course, a divination (è 25), which is performed by a religious specialist, in this case a vǫlva. But as can be seen, for instance, in Reykdæla saga ch. 7 (although this saga is not considered trustworthy), they may also include sacrifices, which we shall return to below in connection with a more public kind of ritual involving a king. Sacrifices, however, are apparently not a consistent part of private crisis rituals. The structure of the ritual is pretty clear and in accordance with the structure outlined in (è 25). There is a phase involving 1) separation rites — the preparations, not least of the special kind of food, but also the raising of the platform, the eyes gazing at everything in the house, and probably even the sleep of the first night, which is apparently necessary for her predictions. The idea behind this is that dreams in some sense give access to the Other World and thus to a state which is more conducive to obtaining information about the future than is the normal waking state. Of this we have plenty of examples in the sagas. This is followed by a phase involving 2) liminal rites — the forming of the ring around the platform, the singing by Guðriðr, and, of course most interestingly, what Þorbjǫrg does during this singing, of which, however, we are told absolutely nothing. Is she in some unconscious state, as is thought by many commentators; is she uttering words or chants, or perhaps both? What we do 8 

For instance, the cat skin may be a reference to Freyja, allegedly the first divine figure who performed seiðr, and who was undoubtedly associated with cats. However, we cannot be sure that this is the case, since cats are very often linked to magical performances, all over the world.

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Figure 30.3. An attempt to reconstruct the dress and equipment of Þorbjǫrg lítilvǫlva, based on the description in Eiríks saga rauða and on general knowledge of material culture in the Viking Age. Illustration: Þórhallur Þráinsson in Price 2002: 170. 

know is that, on the conceptual level, it is imagined that spirits9 come to her, probably telling her what the future would bring, both for the collective and for the individual. Finally, there is a phase involving 3) reintegration rites, with the people approaching Þorbjǫrg in order to get their individual predictions. After this, she leaves for another farm.10 9  The exact meaning of náttúrur (clearly a loan word from Latin) is disputed (see Tolley 2009a: 498–501). Tolley argues that ‘spirits’ may not be the correct translation and that it should rather be understood as Guðríðr’s innate skills. The prerequisite for that reading is that the text (the Skálholtsbók version) is corrupted (Tolley 2009a: 501), which may well be the case; to the scribe, nevertheless, the meaning is clearly ‘spirits’. This question, however, is not so relevant to our discussion of ‘crisis rituals’. 10  In Historia Norwegie ch. 5, we find a famous description of a shaman who brings a dead woman back to life. Here, we are given many details: he spreads out a cloth, and lying underneath it he prepares himself for intoning spells; he uses a small, decorated vessel, which is sup-

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As is clear, we are told nothing about several significant aspects, the most important being the condition and actions of Þorbjǫrg during the singing.11 And it may be that many other elements were part of such rituals of which we are not informed (perhaps some sort of sacrifice?). However, what we should notice is that the ritual carried out here has a female specialist leading it. Although we must be careful about making statistical surveys from the saga material, it seems as if, in public as well as in private rituals, females played important roles, just as was the case with sacrifices above (è25) (cf. Dillmann 2006: 143–61), maybe particularly in rituals concerned with crises. Thus, it is hard to tell from the evidence whether rituals carried out in connection with crises were profoundly different from those carried out in relation to calendrical and passage rituals. Public Rituals Another description, this time from the more public sphere, is comprised by the incidents taking place in connection with the sacrifice of King Víkarr, as related by Saxo and in Gautreks saga (è36 and è42). This description is in no way any more reliable than the one we have just discussed, but it has some interesting details which seem to be genuine for such rituals. Again, the reason for performing the ritual is related to weather phenomena. This time, the issue is the lack of wind, which prevents the ship of King Víkarr and Starkaðr to sail in the direction wished for. Then the saga text says (ch. 7): Víkarr konungr sigldi af Ögðum norðr á Hörðaland ok hafði lid mikit. Hann lá í hólmum nokkurum lengi ok fekk andviðri mikit. Þeir felldu spán til byrjar, ok fell posed to bring him through lakes and across mountains; and he leaps around (until he unfortunately dies and another shaman has to take over). The text clearly shows us how such a séance could be performed. The problem, however, is that it all happens among Finns, that is, the Sámi, and although we must assume that the Germanic-speaking Scandinavians were strongly influenced by Sámi magic, and that seiðr rituals are likely to have involved similar phenomena, we must also assume that many of the details would be quite different between the two cultures. 11  Since we know from other sources that men who performed rituals involving seiðr were considered effeminate, one cannot help wondering whether something went on that referred to female sexuality, perhaps the ways in which words were uttered or some obscene movements. We may recall Ljót from Vatnsdæla saga ch. 26, who is said to perform a kind of sorcery where she walks backwards with her clothes pulled over her head and her head between her legs. One can easily imagine that kind of performance in a homophobic society, as the Old Norse undoubtedly was (è21), to be regarded as something men could not do. However, nothing of that sort is hinted at with regard to Þorbjǫrg.

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svá, at Óðinn vildi þiggja mann at hlutfalli at hanga ór hernum. Þá var skipt liðinu til hlutfalla, ok kom upp hlutr Víkars konungs. Við þat urðu allir hljóðir, ok var ætlat um daginn eftir, at ráðsmenn skyldu eiga stefnu um þetta vandmæli. (King Víkarr sailed from Agder northwards to Hordaland and had a great army. He stayed long at some small islands, and had a strong headwind. They cast lots for a fair wind, and it turned out so that Óðinn would receive a man from the army, chosen by lot, to be hanged. Then the army was organized for the lot casting, and King Víkarr’s lot came up. Because of that all became silent, and it was decided that the next day the men of good counsel should hold a meeting about this matter.)

During the night, a man called Hrosshárs-Grani (who turns out to be Óðinn) woke up Starkaðr and asked him to follow him. They come to a meeting of the gods, and whereas Þórr is hostile to Starkaðr, Óðinn is beneficial towards him, among other things bestowing on him three life-spans and the ability to compose poetry. As a return gift, Óðinn wants Starkaðr to send him King Víkarr, which Starkaðr agrees to do. Óðinn gives him a spear and tells him that it will seem like a reed stalk. Then the saga continues: Um morguninn eftir gengu ráðgjafar konungs á stefnu til umráda. Kom þat ásamt með þeim, at þeir skyldu gera nokkura minning blótsins, ok sagði Starkaðr upp ráðagerðina. Þar stóð fura ein hjá þeim ok stofn einn hár nær furunni. Nedarliga af furunni stóð einn kvistr mjór ok tók í limit upp. Þá bjuggu þjónustusveinar mat manna, ok var kálfr einn skorinn ok krufðr. Starkaðr lét taka kálfsþarmana. Síðan steig Starkadr upp á stofninn ok sveigði ofan þann inn mjóva kvistinn ok knýtti þar um kálfsþörmunum. Þá mælti Starkaðr til konungs: ”Nú er hér búinn þér gálgi, konungr, ok mun sýnast eigi allmannhættligr. Nú gakktu hingat, ok mun ek leggja snöru á háls þér.” Konungr mælti: ”Sé þessi umbúð ekki mér hættuligri en mér sýnist, þá vænti ek, at mik skaði þetta ekki, en ef öðruvís er, þá mun auðna ráða, hvat at gerist.” Síðan steig hann upp á stofninn, ok lagði Starkaðr virgulinn um háls honum ok steig síðan ofan af stofninum. Þá stakk Starkaðr sprotanum á konungi ok mælti: ”Nú gef ek þik Ódni.” Þá lét Starkaðr lausan furukvistinn. Reyrsprotinn varð at geir, ok stóð í gegnum konunginn. Stofninn fell undan fótum honum, en kálfsþarmarnir urðu at viðju sterkri, en kvistrinn reis upp ok hóf upp konunginn við limar, ok dó hann þar. Nú heita þar síðan Víkarshólmar. (The morning after, the councellors of the king went to a meeting to discuss the matter. They agreed that they should make a mock sacrifice, and Starkaðr told them what to do. There was a pine tree close by, and close to the pine there was a tall tree trunk. Low down on the pine there was a slender branch stretching up into the foliage. Then the servants prepared food for the men and a calf was slaughtered and cut

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up. Starkaðr let the guts of the calf be taken out. Then Starkaðr climbed the trunk and bowed down the slender branch and tied the guts of the calf to it. Then Starkaðr said to the king: ‘Now a gallows has been prepared for you, king, and it does not appear too dangerous. So you go there now, and I will put the rope around your neck.’ The king said: ‘If this thing is not more dangerous than it seems to me, then I expect that it will not hurt me, but if it is otherwise, then fate will have to decide what will happen.’ After that he climbed the trunk, and Starkaðr put the noose around his neck, and then went down from the trunk. Then Starkaðr stabbed the king with the reed stalk and said: ‘Now I give you to Óðinn.’ Then Starkaðr let the pine branch loose. The reed stalk became a spear and went through the king. The trunk fell under his feet and the guts of the calf became a strong withy and the branch went up and lifted up the king into the tree, and there he died. Since then that place was called Víkarr’s islands.)

This story is also told by Saxo (6.5.6–7), who relates a somewhat different version, although these differences have no great impact on our view on the ritual. Saxo likewise speaks of the lack of wind preventing the ships from sailing on, and the lot casting determining that the king should be sacrificed. In Saxo, however, Víkarr is killed by a sword and not a spear, and the author casts doubt on the transformation of the reed stalk and the calf guts. Nevertheless, Saxo’s version confirms that there existed a vague memory of such kinds of rituals. We notice that in Gautreks saga, no women take part in the ritual. This may of course be due to the context, which is that of a raiding party, and so it is quite natural that women were not present. Even so, we see once again that a kind of divination rite is performed, but this time it is obvious that the divination aims at something far more spectacular than just finding out when the wind will change, namely what should be done in order to make it change, and subsequently who is going to be sacrificed in order to have that favourable wind. If we put aside the mythic/legendary context, in which the emphasis is on the relation between Víkarr and Starkaðr,12 we are left with the following initial element: a divination rite in the form of a lot casting, or rather two lot castings. The first one reveals what is required to do away with the crisis — namely, a 12 

There can hardly be any doubt that the saga also concerns an initiation of Starkaðr by his foster-father Hrosshársgrani, who is Óðinn, the god who supplies him with many famous skills, as is the case with many other heroes (see Schjødt 2008: 271–327; è36). In this sense, the episode contains a description both of a crisis ritual, including a human sacrifice, and an initiation of the man who actually performs the sacrificial rite. It can by no means be ruled out that the two are linked: In order to become one of Óðinn’s men, he must perform a sacrifice.

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sacrifice to Óðinn by one of the men in the army —, and the second one reveals that the victim must be the king. Thus, although we are not informed about any details regarding the lot casting procedure,13 the main lines of the ritual are quite clear: The reason for carrying out the ritual is a crisis in the form of bad weather, and we may also notice that the situation occurs during some military campaign, already indicating that the important figure in the Other World could be Óðinn. This is then confirmed in the text, and we are told that the preparatory rites consist of two divinatory rites, while the main liminal rite is the sacrifice of the king. The whole sequence serves to create a bond between the people and the god. Unfortunately, the legendary frame afterwards focuses solely on the reaction against Starkaðr, and we are not informed about any rites reintegrating the participants into the non-liminal sphere; but we must expect such rites to have existed. Compared to the ritual related in Eiríks saga rauða, there are both similarities and differences: Both rituals are carried out because of crises in the local environment, both include divinatory practices, and both make use of a religious ‘specialist’: Þorbjǫrg as the diviner and Starkaðr as the sacrificer. The differences, however, are found on the textual as well as the content level. The seiðr-woman appears to be described quite realistically as does the whole ritual sequence, whereas in Gautreks saga we are obviously dealing with a heroic legend that includes many supernatural elements. These differences should of course be taken into consideration. As is usual in the Íslendingasögur, events take place among ordinary farmers and minor chieftains, whereas the setting of the fornaldarsögur is often that of legendary kings and heroes of supernatural strength. Thus, the transformation that takes place in Starkaðr’s sacrifice is much more closely related to the mythic sphere. In Eiríks saga rauða, we are not told anything about a sacrifice, although perhaps the animal hearts that are served for the seeress could indicate a kind of sacrifice; and we are only very vaguely informed about the beings from the Other World with whom Þorbjǫrg communicates. These, incidentally, cannot be identified with any of the groups of beings that we know from elsewhere. In Gautreks saga, however, it is quite clear who is going to receive the sacrificial victim: namely, Óðinn, god of nobles and warriors. It is hardly a coincidence that the ‘senders’ are also nobles and warriors. So even if the killing of King Víkarr is certainly not ‘historical’, it is most likely that historical crisis rituals among these social groups may have been carried out in such manner. 13 

We should probably compare with the description by Tacitus (Germania ch. 10) of lot casting among the Germani (è 25), but also with much later sources, such as Rimbert’s Vita Anskari ch. 30 and many others.

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Concluding Remarks As mentioned, there are many hints to rituals associated with crises in the sagas,14 and in other sources, for example, when Adam of Bremen speaks of the reasons for sacrificing to Þórr and Óðinn.15 What appears is that these rituals seem to follow the structure and the basic content of most other rituals in the North as well as everywhere else, although the performers, the motivation, the Other World beings involved, and so forth all vary from one ritual to the next. From the extant material, it does not seem as if there is a clear system here, although we can probably assume that in the higher social layers there would be a tendency to communicate with the great pan-Scandinavian gods, whereas among the lower classes, and in more isolated communities, the beings of the Other World would most likely vary a great deal from one locality to the next, and, as in Eiríks saga rauða, they appear to be constituted by an undifferentiated group of ‘spiritual beings’.

14  An interesting sacrifice connected to a crisis is that of Dómaldi in Ynglinga saga ch. 15, which has been dealt with above (è25). 15  The whole passage from Adam’s work (including a rendering of the relevant passages) will be dealt with in the next chapter (è31) on cyclical rituals.

31 – Cyclical Rituals Jens Peter Schjødt Introduction Most of the more spectacular descriptions of rituals in the Old Norse sources seem to be occupied with so-called cyclical rituals, that is, recurring rituals, celebrated at certain times of the year (è28) or perhaps on a daily basis, such as, for instance, the Vǫlsi ritual, as we shall return to below, or within other cyclical periods. Many cyclical rituals have as an important function, besides manipulating the supernatural beings to be benevolent, to establish a calendar to be used in the agricultural work. As in the previous chapter on crisis rituals (è30), we shall be occupied mainly with some of the most famous and spectacular ritual descriptions in the sagas and in other sources, some of which we will quote quite extensively, although there are many more hints to rituals of this kind (Näsström 2001: 106–14; è25).1

Sources By far the largest amount of descriptions of rituals in general, and cyclical rituals in particular, are to be found in the various saga categories. But also sources in Latin, such as the chronicles by Thietmar, bishop of Merseburg, from the early eleventh century, and Adam of Bremen from the later part of the same 1 

A typical example of such a hint, we find in Gísla saga Súrssonar ch. 10, where it is said that it was customary to have a vetrnáttablót (a sacrifice for the winter). This piece of information serves a purely literary function, and we are not told anything about the ritual as such. But of course we are dealing with a cyclical ritual taking place at a certain time of the year. Jens Peter Schjødt, Professor of the Study of Religion, Aarhus University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume ii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 2 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 797–822 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116958

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century give valuable information. Concerning the Germani from the early part of the first millennium ce, we also get some information from the authors of antiquity (not least Tacitus) and the early Middle Ages, although the information concerning any of the cyclical rituals is not sufficient for reconstructing them in any detail. As mentioned, in (è30), it is not easy from archaeological material to judge what the reason was for carrying out a particular ritual, and thus which of the three categories, crisis rituals, cyclical rituals, or passage rituals it belonged to. When archaeological findings are interpreted as cyclical rituals, it is very often on the basis of written sources, and the use of comparisons in general (see, for instance, Kaliff 2003: 48–49).2 This also goes for much of the pictorial material, such as the gold foils (‘guldgubber’; dated to the period between the sixth and the ninth centuries) which were by Magnus Olsen as early as 1909 interpreted as parts of recurring fertility rituals, and thus cyclical rituals (Olsen 1909). Gro Steinsland, however, has in several publications (e.g., Steinsland 1997: 91–96; Steinsland 2000: 74–78) argued that they were parts of a wedding ritual, and thus a passage ritual. It is not likely that such discussions will ever be settled, since they will be very dependent on more general views, held by the respective authors.3 The gold foils in themselves cannot tell us how, and in which rituals they were used.4 Private Rituals We have already mentioned some of these rituals, especially in (è25),5 where we saw that álfar could be recipients of sacrifice in the private cult (Óláfs saga 2 

We may also get a hint about the ritual contexts by looking at sacrificed animals, when we can determine their age and thus deduce at what time of the year they have been slaughtered (è27). 3  An interesting attempt of a fresh interpretation is Ratke and Simek (2006), where it is argued that the traditional view of the motives on the gold foils as mythological must not necessarily be true. Instead, it is argued (2006: 263) that they could be part of a ‘legal-ritualistic context’, depicting human beings showing different legal gestures. 4  There can hardly be any doubt, however, that at least a large number of the gold foils were connected to rituals having to do with fertility, but it is hard to be more precise than that. For good introductions to and discussions of the gold foil figures, we can refer to numerous works of Margrethe Watt (for instance, 1999a, 1999b, 2007, and 2009), and to Sundqvist (2016: 409–17). 5  A recent analysis of ‘private’ rituals or ‘household’ rituals, adding some which are not mentioned in the following paragraphs and with many interesting observations, can be found in Murphy (2017a: 140–89; 2017b).

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helga ch. 91), or perhaps the dísir in the so called Vǫlsa þáttr from Flateyjarbók, as we shall see below.6 The interesting passage, related in Snorri’s Óláfs saga helga (ch. 91) about the skald Sigvatr and his companions who are travelling in the east towards the beginning of winter, tells that they are not allowed in at the farms where they seek shelter for the night because the farmers are conducting an álfablót, a sacrifice for the álfar. The reaction is apparently the same at several farms, but the most relevant passage is worded as follows: ‘Stóð þar húsfreyja í durum, bað hann ekki þar inn koma, segir, at þau ætti álfablót’ (There the woman of the house stood in the doorway and told them that they could not come in there, saying that they were sacrificing to the elves). This can be interpreted in two ways: either that the húsfreyja was in charge of the ritual, as is argued by Olrik and Ellekilde (1926–51: i, 171), or that she went to the door because somebody else, perhaps her husband, whose exact status remains unknown, was busy performing the ritual. It could thus indicate that, at least when it comes to private rituals, women played important roles.7 In the stanza spoken by Sigvatr, it is further said that the woman of the house fears the wrath of Óðinn if she lets in the strangers. This statement should hardly be seen as if Óðinn was involved in the sacrifice, but simply that he is a representative of the heathendom, to which, she also declares, the people at the farm belonged to, as she says ‘erum heiðnir vér’ (we are heathens). The private character of the ritual seems to be quite clear, not least since Sigvatr and his companions approach other farms with the same result: they are rejected. Thus people do not gather for this sort of celebrations but perform the ritual, apparently within the individual household. However, apart from learning that the ritual was performed towards winter (and took place during the night), and that the recipients of the sacrifice were the álfar (è63) and thus

6 

A dísablót is also celebrated during the winter nights in Víga-Glúms saga ch. 6. Here, however, it is difficult to tell whether it should be classified as a private or a public ritual (cf. Turville-Petre 1964: 221), which is also the case in Þiðranda þáttr. Another dísablót is mentioned in Egils saga ch. 44, and here it is clearly a ‘public’ celebration, attended by King Eiríkr (bloodaxe) and his queen. However, in none of these sources are we told anything about how the ritual is performed, except that a lot of drinking went on. For an overview of medieval as well as later folklore concerning private as well as public rituals, Olrik and Ellekilde (1926–51: 148–333) can be recommended (and other sources connected to rituals involving the dísir, in particular, are mentioned p. 326). 7  For the source value of Sigvatr’s poem, see also the comments in Lönnroth (1996). The use of þau here indicates that males as well females were involved.

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that the aim of the sacrifice was connected to fertility of some kind, it is not possible to reconstruct what went on (è29). There are some parallels in another famous description of a private cyclical ritual: namely, the description in Vǫlsa þáttr. Here it appears that the ritual is carried out on a daily basis (at least for a limited period of time), and as it stands the stanzas seems to be more about sexuality than fertility in general. This, however, could very well be due to the literary context which aims at presenting this farmer family as very primitive and very heathen, and thus very occupied with sexuality. Thus, in Vǫlsa þáttr from the Flateyjarbók,8 we hear about King Óláfr (the future St Óláfr) arriving one evening with two friends, all three of them in disguise, at an isolated farm in the Far North, inhabited by a man and a wife, their son and daughter, and a thrall and a servant maid. The story says that earlier on at this farm, a large stallion had died sometime during the autumn, and after skinning it the farmer’s son cut off its penis, which is referred to as Vǫlsi as well as vingull, and proceeded to tease the women of the farm with it. But the wife takes it, dries it, and wraps it in linen cloth, with onions and herbs in order to preserve it, and it becomes full of power so that it can swell and stand beside the housewife.9 From then on she brings it into the living room every evening, and each of the six persons on the farm then has to speak a verse over it before handing the horse penis on to the next person. These verses are mainly of an obscene and sexual nature, and they all have the refrain: ‘þiggi Mǫrnir | þetta blœti’ (may Mǫrnir receive this sacrifice).10 All this also takes place on the evening when the king and his friends arrive, but when the phallus is handed to the king, he throws it to the dog that eats it. Although the wife regrets what has happened, the family all become good Christians when the visitors finally reveal who they really are. Apart from the obvious Christian overtones, this story may be one of the very few that actually give us glimpses of the private cult. Even if it is hard to distinguish clearly a sacrificial object in the story, there is apparently a receiver of the sacrifice, Mǫrnir, as is evident from the quotation above. The sacrificial 8 

For further discussion of this þáttr and its source value, see (è43) and Tolley (2009b: 681). Heizmann (1992: 384–85) suggests that the onion was seen to have an aphrodisiac function, causing the horse penis to swell, and also, based on a comparisons with older runic material, that such a meaning reaches far back in time (p. 389). 10  Mǫrnir is problematic on philological grounds, since it could be both feminine plural or masculine singular. In the latter case it seems to be the name for a sword, known from a þula and could thus be seen as a metaphor for a phallus. 9 

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gift would then appear to be either the verses spoken by the people, which are then perhaps better described as tribute to the mysterious Mǫrnir, or, and more likely, the penis itself. Britt-Mari Näsström (2001: 104) argues that, although the text does not say so explicitly, the ritual described goes back to real horse sacrifices, the penis playing the role of a pars pro toto for the stallion which is identified with Freyr. The identity of Mǫrnir has been much discussed,11 but, although we can be quite certain that this is a figure (figures?) closely connected to sexuality and fertility, we cannot say whether we are dealing with one of the known gods from the extant mythology or with some local deity. The important thing here, however, is that we have another example of a sacrificial ritual, carried out in the private sphere portraying a woman, here the housewife, as being in charge of the act. The time appears to be connected to the winter nights, once again, since the stallion died at that time. Thus, even if we are, as mentioned, rather poorly informed about private rituals,12 we must assume that the men as well as the women in the households would take active part in the ritual. We do not know of private rituals being performed at other times of the year than in the autumn, except from much later folkloristic material (cf. de Vries 1956–57a: i, 460–83, and much more extensively in Mannhardt 1904–08). Nevertheless, there can hardly be any doubt that rituals performed for the well-being of the household must have been an important part of the daily existence of the household in these agricultural societies, and that both rituals of the álfablót type (several households celebrating the ‘same’ or similar rituals at approximately the same time) and 11 

Olrik and Ellekilde (1926–51) and Ström (1954) suggest that Mǫrnir could be the dísir, the argument being based, among other things, on an apparent identification of Mǫrn with Skaði (Haustlǫng st. 12), and it thus could be a heiti for a goddess. Most modern scholars, however, tend to see the name as a synonym for the god Freyr (e.g., Turville-Petre 1964: 258; Näsström 2001: 103–04), while others again interpret it as referring to giant women, indicating a kind of hieros gamos between Freyr, identified with Vǫlsi, and a giant-woman (Steinsland and Vogt 1981: 97–98; this idea has been heavily criticized by Tolley 2009b: 694–96). Finally Maths Bertell in a recent article has suggested that Mǫrnir should be identified with vanir goddesses (Bertell 2016: 118). This shall not occupy us here, but it is obvious that the ritual concerns sexuality and fertility, which would accord well with the cult of the vanir. Turville-Petre, who identifies Vǫlsi as well as Mǫrnir with Freyr, thus states that he was ‘both the sacrifice and the recipient of the sacrifice’ (1964: 258), an identification which cannot be ruled out; but again: we must maintain that Mǫrnir cannot with any certainty be identified with any of the known gods. Therefore we may also assume that Mǫrnir, whether singular or plural, should rather be identified with some local deity or deities. 12  Åke V. Ström has gathered most of the material on these kinds of sacrifices (Ström 1975: 222–24; cf. also Olrik and Ellekilde 1926–51, including the folkloristic material).

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those of the Vǫlsi type (the individual household performing individual rituals) were very common, and probably constituted the main parts of rituals for most people in pre-Christian times, and often with women in charge, or at least playing a more dominant role, than seems to be the case with the public rituals (cf. Olrik and Ellekilde 1926–51: i, 166–69 and Kaliff 2001: 443). Although of dubious source value,13 Vǫlsa þáttr is particularly interesting because it lets us glimpse a kind of ritual which is not mentioned in other written sources: although there is no apparent sacrifice to be seen, and there is no known god(s) explicitly involved, we learn that ritual relations between this and the Other World took place at the individual farms with the whole household taking part in the performance, which can in this case be characterized as a kind of phallus cult, and that poetry could be involved. These features are in no way surprising, and the most surprising part is the fact that so little information about the private cult has survived from the old sources. If we draw in the later folkloristic material, however, this situation changes dramatically, and all kinds of natural phenomena seems to have been objects of some sort of cultic performance, such as trees, wells, mounds, and so forth, together with various kinds of supernatural beings, such as the vættir, some of them probably to be identified with some of the major gods from the pre-Christian period (Þórr, Freyr, and Óðinn) (cf. Olrik and Ellekilde 1926–51: i, 202–12), whereas others are more or less anonymous. For instance there are many examples of vættir living in mounds close to the farms, and bringing health and fertility to the inhabitants on the farm. Therefore, of course, the inhabitants brought sacrifices to these beings (Olrik and Ellekilde 1926–51: i, 242–49). Public Rituals According to Guta saga (ch. 1), on Gotland there were three levels of public rituals: namely, one covering the whole island; below that, a sacrifice covering a third of the island; and finally, smaller sacrifices carried out by the local communities. Although hardly surprising, this shows that public rituals were not all carried out by the same ‘public’, which is also one of the reasons why it is sometimes difficult to draw the lines between ‘public’ and ‘private’. It is also worth noticing that there seems to be a connection between the sacrifices performed and the legal assemblies, although in Guta saga this is directly stated 13 

As is often the case there is no way to be certain how much of the þáttr reaches back to pagan times: Steinsland and Vogt (1981) would say almost everything, and Tolley (2009b) would say virtually nothing. The truth could very well be somewhere in between.

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only for the third level rituals, ‘en smeri þing hafþu mindri blotan’ (but smaller assemblies held a lesser sacrifice). But, as we shall see below, there is no doubt that this connection was the rule, rather than the exception (è20). Cyclical rituals have no doubt taken place during several millennia in the North as well as everywhere else. One of the most famous descriptions of such a ritual from the Early Iron Age is Tacitus’s description of the Nerthus ritual in Germania ch. 40. Although it is not said explicitly that this is a cyclical ritual, there is no doubt that it is recurring and that it involves the whole community. Like with most other rituals of this type, we are not told at what time of the year the Nerthus procession took place, but since it is clearly a ritual connected with fertility and peace, we may conjecture that it was not during the summer, which was the season for war and other kinds of male activities (see below). There are many other important pieces of information, which we have dealt with above, however, in connection with processions (è25; see also Nygaard and Murphy 2017: 44–46). The information concerning this sort of rituals from the pre-Viking Age, in general, is so scattered that we cannot reconstruct them, although the sources dealing with the Germanic area fully confirm that they existed. We shall therefore move directly to the pre-Christian rituals of later times, and in some much more detailed sources.14 The three blót feasts (October, December/January, and early spring)15 dealt with in (è28) (and to a lesser degree in è25) no doubt were of a public nature. It also seems that the two first mentioned were concerned with fertility, whereas the third was concerned with victory in war, as is stated by Snorri, who says about the laws instigated by Óðinn (Ynglinga saga ch. 8): ‘Þá skyldi blóta í móti vetri til árs, en at miðjum vetri blóta til gróðrar, it þriðja at sumri, þat var sigrblót’ (A sacrifice was to be made for a good season at the beginning of winter, and one in midwinter for good crops, and a third one in summer, for victory). As we shall see below, however the reality was probably a bit more complicated, and several goals can probably be found in most of these public rituals, most

14  Since, in the following we shall concentrate on a few rather detailed descriptions, we will refer to Olrik and Ellekilde (1926–51: i, 335–588), mentioning most of the medieval as well as modern folkloristic evidence for public rituals, including placename material, more or less connected to the pagan period. They also mention all kinds of supernatural beings as well as natural phenomena as objects of the cult. 15  There might have been a fourth one in the middle of the summer (miðsumarsblót, cf. Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar ch. 65), which is, however, mentioned much less compared to the three others.

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of them surrounding the political leaders, just as the function of the leader involved several aspects, such as victory, fertility, and general success (è23). In this section we shall mainly deal with some classical descriptions that will be quoted and analysed in some detail. However, as we have already seen, hints to various kinds of rituals, including those of a cyclical nature, can be found scattered all over the textual corpus. Many of these are referred to in various chapters in this work, and the following, therefore, is far from exhaustive. We shall begin with three saga descriptions which have by most scholars been seen as mutually dependent, because there certainly are conspicuous similarities. Nevertheless, as we shall see, they do vary, and it cannot be ruled out that the authors, Snorri and two unknowns, have known different versions. The passages are those from Hákonar saga góða ch. 14, Eyrbygg ja saga ch. 4, and Kjalnesinga saga ch. 2 that are quoted here in full: Hákonar saga góða Sigurðr Hlaðajarl var inn mesti blótmaðr, ok svá var Hákon, faðir hans. Helt Sigurðr jarl upp blótveizlum ǫllum af hendi konungs þar í Þrœndalǫgum. Þat var forn siðr, þá er blót skyldi vera, at allir bœndr skyldu þar koma, sem hof var, ok flytja þannug fǫng sín, þau er þeir skyldu hafa, meðan veizlan stóð. At veizlu þeiri skyldu allir men ǫl eiga. Þar var ok drepinn alls konar smali ok svá hross, en blóð þat allt, er þar kom af, þá var kallat hlaut,16 ok hlautbollar þat, er blóð þat stóð í, ok 16  For a thorough discussion of the word forms hlaut (feminine and neuter) or hlautr (masculine), see Düwel (1985: 21–38). These words were seen by Snorri and other saga writers to denote ‘sacrificial blood’, whereas etymologically they are rather to be connected to hlutr (lot). Düwel’s conclusion is that since the word cannot be shown to go back to pagan times, it was misunderstood by Snorri and his contemporaries, and only at that time given the meaning ‘sacrificial blood’. Therefore we cannot rely on Snorri and other authors, which should prevent us from using these saga descriptions for reconstructions of the pagan cult. Düwel’s methodology has been criticized by Preben Meulengracht Sørensen (particularly in 2001c). Main proponents for this critical and somewhat negative view are, besides Düwel, Olaf Olsen (1966), Ernst Walter (1966), and many others, whereas Meulengracht Sørensen, Anders Hultgård (1993), and Olof Sundqvist (2005 and 2016) take a much more positive stand towards the source value of these authors. The meaning of hlautr (and thus also hlautteinn), however, cannot be decided with any certainty, but the semantic development that may have taken place, could perhaps indicate that sacrifice and divination could be part of the same process, as was already suggested by Finnur Jónsson in Lexicon Poeticum (1931: 261) (see also Boyer 1986b: 183), rather than discrediting the medieval authors. Anyway, specific words will of course mirror the situation at the time of the written source and do not tell us much about the content: if Snorri really attempted to write about pagan rituals, he would still have had to use a vocabulary that could be understood by his readers. It could therefore be that sacrificial blood was only called hlaut in the Middle Ages, but this choice of wording does not indicate that sacrificial blood did not play an important role in pre-Christian times (and the reddening with sacrificial blood of vari-

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hlautteinar, þat var svá gǫrt sem stǫkklar, með því skyldi rjóða stallana ǫllu saman ok svá veggi hofsins útan ok innan ok svá støkkva á mennina, en slátr skyldi sjóða til mannfagnaðar. Eldar skyldu vera á miðju gólfi í hofinu ok þar katlar yfir. Skyldi full um eld bera, en sá, er gerði veizluna ok hǫfðingi var, þá skyldi hann signa fullit ok allan blótmatinn, skyldi fyrst Óðins full — skyldi þat drekka til sigrs ok ríkis konungi sínum — en siðan Njarðar full ok Freys full til árs ok friðar. Þá var mǫrgum mǫnnum títt at drekka þar næst bragafull. Menn drukku ok full frænda sinna, þeira er heygðir hǫfðu verit, ok váru þat minni kǫlluð. (pp. 167–68) (Sigurth, earl of Hlathir, was a most ardent heathen worshipper, as had been Hákon, his father. Earl Sigurth maintained all sacrificial feasts there in Throndheim on the king’s behalf. It was ancient custom that when sacrifice was to be made, all farmers were to come to the heathen temple and bring along with them the food they needed while the feast lasted. At this feast all were to take part in the drinking of ale. Also all kinds of livestock were killed in connection with it, horses also; and all the blood from them was called hlaut  […], and hlautbolli, the vessel holding that blood; and hlautteinar, the sacrificial twigs  […]. These were fashioned like sprinklers, and with them were to be smeared all over with blood the pedestals of the idols and also the walls of the temple within and without; and likewise the men present were to be sprinkled with blood. But the meat of the animals was to be boiled and to serve as food at the banquet. Fires were to be lighted in the middle of the temple floor, and kettles hung over them. The sacrificial beaker was to be borne around the fire, and he who made the feast and was chieftain, was to bless the beaker as well as all the sacrificial meat. Óthin’s toast was to be drunk first — that was for victory and power to the king — then Njorth’s and Frey’s, for good harvest and for peace. Following that many used to drink a beaker to the king.17 Men drank toasts also in memory of departed kinsfolk — that was called minni. (p. 107) Eyrbygg ja saga Þar lét hann reisa hof,18 ok var þat mikit hús; váru dyrr á hliðvegginum ok nær ǫðrum endanum; þar fyrir innan stóðu ǫndvegissúlurnar, ok váru þar í naglar; þeir ous ritual phenomena is known from many other sources; see Sundqvist 2016: 332–34). And the same argument can be used in connection with the word signa which is clearly of Christian origin (but could perhaps be ‘borrowed’ before the conversion; cf. Williams 1996c: 79). 17  The translation of bragafull (or bragarfull) is disputed. Cleasby and Vigfusson (1957: 75–76) simply translate it ‘a toasting cup’ and add ‘to be drunk esp. at funeral feasts’. Bragr means ‘best’ or ‘foremost’ and it would thus be a natural designation for a king, maybe a deceased king. However, it could also be drunk at other kinds of feasts, and often it is connected with making vows of future deeds, as mentioned, for instance, in the U-version of Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks ch. 4. 18  Just before this description, we have heard that Þórólfr Mostrarskegg went from Nor-

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hétu reginnaglar; þar var allt friðarstaðr fyrir innan. Innar af hofinu var hús í þá líking, sem nú er sǫnghús í kirkjum, ok stóð þar stalli á miðju gólfinu sem altari, ok lá þar á hringr einn mótlauss, tvítøgeyringr, ok skyldi þar at sverja eiða alla; þann hring skyldi hofgoði hafa á hendi sér til allra mannfunda. Á stallanum skyldi ok standa hlautbolli, ok þar í hlautteinn sem stǫkkull væri, ok skyldi þar støkkva með ór bollanum blóði því, er hlaut var kallat; þat var þess konar blóð, er svœfð váru þau kvikendi, er goðunum var fórnat. Umhverfis stallan var goðunum skipat í afhúsinu. Til hofsins skyldu allir menn tolla gjalda ok vera skyldir hofgoðanum til allra ferða, sem nú eru þingmenn hǫfðingjum, en goði skyldi hofi upp halda af sjálfs síns kostnaði, svá at eigi rénaði, ok hafa inni blótveizlur. (pp. 8–9) (There he had a temple built, and it was a sizeable building, with a door on the sidewall near the gable. The high-seat pillars were placed inside the door, and nails that were called holy nails were driven into them. Beyond that point, the temple was a sanctuary. At the inner end there was a structure similar to the choir in churches nowadays and there was a raised platform in the middle of the floor like an altar, where a ring weighing twenty ounces and fashioned without a join was placed, and all the oaths had to be sworn on this ring. It also had to be worn by the temple priest at all public gatherings. A sacrificial bowl was placed on the platform and in it a sacrificial twig — like a priest’s aspergillum — which was used to sprinkle blood from the bowl. This blood which was called sacrificial blood was the blood of live animals offered to the gods. The gods were placed around the platform in the choir-like structure within the temple. All farmers had to pay a toll to the temple and they were obliged to support the temple godi in all his campaigns, just as thingmen are now obliged to do for their chieftain. The temple godi was responsible for the upkeep of the temple and ensuring it was maintained properly, as well as for holding sacrificial feasts in it. (pp. 133–34) Kjalnesinga saga Hann [Þorgrímr goði] var blótmaðr mikill; lét hann reisa hof mikit í túni sínu; þat var hundrað fóta langt, en sextugt á breidd; þar skyldu allir men hoftoll til leggja. Þórr var þar mest tignaðr. Þar var gert af innar kringlótt svá sem húfa væri; þat var way to Iceland, and how he was particularly related to Þórr, who was his ástvin (dear friend). As some enmity had arisen between him and the king (Haraldr hárfagri), he asks (gekk til fréttar; è25) Þórr whether he should make peace with the king or leave the country, and he is advised to go to Iceland. He brings with him his high seat pillars (ǫndvegissúlur) in which Þórr was carved, and throws them over board when he approaches Iceland, saying that he would settle where the high-seat pillars landed. This is certainly a divinatory rite and is followed by another rite consisting of carrying fire around his land claim. Þórólfr, thus, is a devotee of Þórr, who therefore played a special role in the rituals which guided him to his new home where he raised the temple.

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allt tjaldat ok gluggat. Þar stóð Þórr í miðju ok önnur goð á tvær hendr. Frammi fyrir Þór stóð stallr með miklum hagleik gerr ok þiljaðr ofan med járni; þar á skyldi vera eldr, sá er aldri skyldi slokkna; þat kölluðu þeir vígðan eld. Á þeim stalli skyldi liggja hringr mikill af silfri gerr; hann skyldi hofgoði hafa á hendi til allra mannfunda; þar at skyldu allir menn eiða sverja um kennslamál öll. Á þeim stalli skyldu ok standa bolli af kopar mikill; þar skyldi í láta blóð þat allt, er af því fé yrði, er Þór var gefit, eðr mönnum; þetta kölluðu þeir hlaut ok hlautbolla. Hlautinu skyldi dreifa yfir menn eða fé, en fé þat, sem þar var gefit til, skyldi hafa til mannfagnaðar, þá er blótveizlur eru hafðar. En mönnum, er þeir blótuðu, skyldi steypa ofan í fen þat, er úti var hjá dyrunum; þat kölluðu þeir Blótkeldu. (p. 7) (He [Þorgrímr goði] made many pagan sacrifices. He had a large temple built in his hayfield, a hundred feet long and sixty wide. Everybody had to pay a temple fee. Thor was the god most honoured there. It was rounded on the inside, like a vault, and there were windows and wall-hangings everywhere. The image of Thor stood in the centre, with other gods on both sides. In front of them was an altar made with great skill and covered with iron on the top. On this there was to be a fire which would never go out — they called it sacred fire. On the altar was to lie a great armband, made of silver. The temple godi was to wear it on his arm at all gatherings, and everyone was to swear oaths on it whenever a suit was brought. A great copper bowl was to stand on the altar, and into it was to go all the blood which came from animals or men given to Thor. They called this sacrificial blood and the sacrificial blood bowl. This blood was to be sprinkled over men and animals, and the animals that were given in sacrifice were to be used for feasting when sacrificial banquets were held. Men whom they sacrificed were to be cast into a pool which was outside by the door; they called it Blotkelda. (p. 307)

Before dealing with these texts it should also be stated that part of the discussion relates to the so-called Úlfljótslǫg, presumably the oldest Icelandic law complex (see Landnamabók H 268).19 They are not preserved in their entirety, but fragments can be found in Landnamabók as well as in other sources (see Słupecki 2009a: 36). The relevant laws, mentioned here, concern a ring which should be placed in the main hof on a stalli (altar?) and worn by the goði on the arm during the law assemblies, and that he ‘rjóða […] þar áðr í roðru nautblóðs þess, er hann blótaði þar sjálfr’ (he should redden it before with the blood of the sacrificial victim which he himself sacrificed). Further, people who had 19  There has been much discussion about these laws and their source value. A very negative view has been presented by Olaf Olsen (1966: 30–49), who argues that the laws were composed in Christian times around 1200 and had nothing to do with pagan religion (p. 49); an example of the opposite view is Słupecki (2009a), and in both works there are extensive references (è29).

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anything to do with the court should swear an oath on the ring and name witnesses, calling also upon ‘Freyr ok Njǫrðr ok hinn almáttki áss’ as part of the oath. Who the ‘almáttki áss’ (the almighty áss) is has been discussed, but in all likelihood it is Þórr, since the other candidate, Óðinn, would probably not be seen as ‘the mightiest’ of the gods in an Icelandic context.20 It seems obvious that parts of the descriptions from the sagas are very similar to what we learn here about the ring. The similarities among the three saga episodes and between them and Úlfljótslǫg have caused many scholars to argue that these sources were interdependent in the sense of literary ‘borrowings’ and ‘loans’ (see, for instance, Olsen 1966; Beck 1967; Düwel 1985). Olaf Olsen in particular is sceptical towards the use of the sagas in general and believes that they had no real basis in the historical reality (1966: 54). This view is partly based on the archaeological situation at the time and on a strong methodological scepticism towards the use of the medieval literature as sources. Since then, Olaf Olsen’s own methodology has been criticized by, for instance, Preben Meulengracht Sørensen (2001c: 152–55), and new archaeological excavations at Hofstaðir, in the north-eastern part of Iceland, appear to demonstrate that much of the information from Eyrbygg ja saga could very well be close to the Viking Age reality (Sundqvist 2016: 152–55). This has of course problematized Olaf Olsen’s conclusions that there was no historical reality behind the description. We have dealt with the source problems several times, and it shall not occupy us here; we will never be sure that the information related in the sagas is anything but fantasy on the part of the authors, but there are many indications that at least part of the saga descriptions are more than that (cf. Sundqvist 2016: 316–63, where most of the elements in the blót descriptions are discussed). In spite of the similarities among the saga accounts, however, we also notice some differences which are not easy to explain if literary ‘borrowings’ are really all there is in it. We must wonder, for instance, why there are elements in one text which are not mentioned in the others, if the individual author only knew these rituals from the two other sagas or from Úlfljótslǫg. Therefore, although the wording may be ‘borrowed’, one may consider that blót feasts of the same type, but with geographical and social variants, actually took place more or less in accordance with the descriptions transmitted. The following is a presentation of how we may imagine one type of ritual: namely, one of the major public sacrificial feasts held by the chieftain on behalf 20 

Kabel (1975) argues that the words referred to the Christian God, which for a variety of reasons does not seem very plausible (è29 and è43).

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of the people21 and which seems to be part of a cyclical ritual. The ritual as a whole certainly centres on the sacrifice, although there are also other elements involved, and these rituals are therefore called blótveizlur, ‘sacrificial feasts’; they, or some of them, have most likely been connected to legal assemblies. In Hákonar saga we learn that feasts of this kind are celebrated in the beginning of winter, and it may be that we can deduce that the Icelandic rituals took place at the same time, although we cannot be sure. According to the texts, they take place in a hof, a building which was probably also the house of the chieftains,22 but we must assume that some of or parts of the rituals took place outside, for example, the slaughtering of animals (cf. Zachrisson 2004b: 166), and probably also in smaller houses, used exclusively for ritual purposes (see for instance Jørgensen 2009). In Hákonar saga góða, we are thus informed that horses were slaughtered, which one can only imagine as hard to do inside the house. The ritual space was probably marked off from the profane, although not stated explicitly in the texts quoted, but mentioned in other sources in connection with legal assemblies, using the word vébǫnd (sacred bonds), indicating the religious dimensions that were attributed to these assemblies. This is mentioned in, for instance, Egils saga (ch. 56) and in the medieval Frostaþing Law (p. 127) (cf. Sundqvist 2016: 298–305). In the hof, there are statues of gods; in Kjalnesinga saga we learn that Þórr was present together with other gods on the sides of him,23 whereas Eyrbygg ja only has ‘gods’ in general who are placed around the altar (stallr). In Hákonar saga góða, nothing is said about statues of the gods, even though they must be assumed to have been present since toasts are presented to them. In this sense, the hof must be considered a 21 

Olof Sundqvist (2012) has argued convincingly that there were differences in the relations between the ruler and the gods in the milieu around the Þórsnesingar of Eyrbygg ja saga on the one hand, and the earls of Hlaðir, described in Hákonar saga góða, on the other hand. Sundqvist’s focus, however, is the mythic relations, not the rituals performed. Although we do not know how reliable the details in the two sources are, and although we are not told nearly as much as we could wish for, it seems as if the rituals described should be seen within the same discursive frames, i.e., public and cyclical sacrificial rituals with the aim of securing a good outcome for the coming year (cf. also Jón Viðar Sigurðsson 2011). 22  Whether there were larger cult houses, separate from the chieftains’ halls, has been debated, but there certainly were smaller ‘cult houses’. For a good overview, see Sundqvist (2016: 95–110) and (è27). 23  This description strongly recalls that by Adam of Bremen (Gesta Hammaburgensis 4.26), where Þórr is placed in the middle with Óðinn and Freyr at either side; see below. Further examples (although very few) of statues and pictures of gods are mentioned by Olrik and Ellekilde (1926–51: i, 327).

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temple, a place where the gods dwell, whether it was in separate buildings or in the manor halls. It is also stated that the people attending the sacrificial banquets would have to bring the food themselves, probably in the form of animals to be slaughtered for the sacrifice. In Eyrbygg ja saga and Kjalnesinga saga, we hear about a kind of sacrificial altar (stallr) upon which a ring is placed that is not related directly to the sacrificial act, as is also the case with the oaths we are told about.24 Nevertheless, these ‘legal’ elements suggest that religious rituals and legal assemblies were closely intertwined (è 20),25 as we are also told in Úlfljótslǫg. The hlautbolli into which the blood from the sacrificed animals (according to Kjalnesinga saga, also from humans) should be poured was also to be placed on the stallr. With this blood the walls, the altar and the participants should be sprinkled, using a hlautteinn, ‘twig for sprinkling the sacrificial blood’.26 In Hákonar saga we also learn that there were fires on the floor, and that the beaker had to be borne around the fire, a rite that should be seen as a kind of circumambulation. Apparently, the flesh was eaten by the participants at the banquet. Finally, in Kjalnesinga saga, we are told that outside the hof there was a pool into which the humans who were to be sacrificed were to be sunk, which was called blótkelda, ‘sacrificial well or spring’.27 From the description in Kjalnesinga saga, it is clear that Þórr is the main receiver of the sacrifices, whereas in the two other accounts it is not said explicitly for whom the victims are intended as gifts, but perhaps we can draw the conclusion that, in Hákonar saga góða, the divine beings mentioned in connection with the toasts and the ancestors were thought to be the receivers, and in Eyrbygg ja saga the gods who were placed around the altar or platform.

24 

The swearing of oaths during this kind of rituals is confirmed in many sources (for instance, in Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks konungs (U-version ch. 4 and 14). Sundqvist (2001) suggests that this swearing of oaths could originally be part of an inauguration ritual. 25  For a very detailed discussion about ‘rings’ connected to rituals, see Sundqvist (2016: 376–403). 26  Düwel (1985: 34–35) and many others have argued that the motif with the sprinkling of the blood is a ‘borrowing’ from the Old Testament (mainly Exodus ch. 12 and Leviticus ch. 7) which certainly have some parallel elements. However, blood in many sacrificial rituals all over the world plays a special role and has to be treated in certain ways, so that similar but independent ideas cannot be ruled out. The parallel, therefore, does not in itself support a rejection of the sprinkling of blood as a pagan rite. 27  As we shall see below we are also told about such a spring (fons) by Adam of Bremen, which is used for divinatory purposes, indicating that sacrifice and divinations probably were strongly intertwined.

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In Eyrbygg ja saga, Kjalnesinga saga, and Úlfljótslǫg, we are told that the goði should wear the ring, and in the last-mentioned source it is said that he should redden it with the sacrificial blood. But apart from that, we do not know who was supposed to do what during the ritual sequence. As was mentioned in (è29), it is not clear whether there ever were full time religious specialists in the pagan religion;28 but we do know that the secular ruler, whether a chieftain, a jarl, or a king, played a decisive role in many religious rituals, as we also see in the texts quoted above (è23). Here we notice that the leader built the hof and was responsible for maintaining it, but we hear nothing about his role in the actual performance of the rituals, except that it is said in Hákonar saga that he had to signa the beaker. Actually we do not even know with certainty whether the goði or the hofgoði was identical with the secular ruler, although this is highly likely, and we may therefore infer that he had to wear a ring during the rituals, and thus mediate between the religious and the legal aspects of the ritual. Anyway, it is likely that there were other specialists involved who took part in various parts of the rituals (the killing of the sacrificial victims, the sprinkling of the blood, the beaker being carried around the fire, etc.), not least if there was some sort of divination involved, which is quite likely, although not stated explicitly in the quoted texts (è25). We are not told either the specific reason for carrying out the rituals. In Hákonar saga, however, the toasts for both victory and for ár and friðr could indicate that the ritual is multipurposed, although it is a bit surprising that the victory of the king is part of a ritual celebrated in the beginning of winter, since we would expect that such rituals would be celebrated rather in the beginning of the summer. A possible explanation could be that in relation to victory of the king the ritual could be seen as ‘thank offering’ after a successful campaign during the summer. But as we shall see below with Adam of Bremen, it could also be that some of these rituals apparently concerned the whole well-being of the land, including fertility as well as victory in war.

28 

Although the question has been much discussed, and even if certain designations clearly point to the existence of several religious specialists (see Vikstrand 2001: 386–97), it must be seen as very unlikely that there existed such full time specialists. In societies like those of pre-Christian Scandinavia it seems much more realistic to imagine that since rituals can be rather complicated processes, they would need different kinds of specialists. But it could hardly be afforded to have several religious specialists who had no other obligations than those connected to ritual. Therefore we can probably be quite certain that religious specialists were not only religious specialists, although they could probably be strongly specialized, being in charge of different rituals or of different parts of the more spectacular rituals.

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Figure 31.1. Plan of the central part of Lejre, with halls and possible ritual buildings, according to the latest archaeological excavations and surveys. After Christensen 2015: 48–49. 

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Even in these rather detailed accounts, where much is supported by archaeological finds (Sundqvist 2016 passim), it is obvious that we do not have a full description of a ritual sequence. We are informed of some of the elements that form part of such a sequence,for instance, that a sort of divination took place. However, we do not know, for instance, when the reddening of the participants and the altars took place. But first and foremost we are not informed about how the killing was actually carried out,29 what happened before the killing in order to sanctify the animals, and how ‘sacred’ the sacrificial meal was, and so forth. In other words, we need a model in order to fill out the lacunae and also to evaluate the significance of the information in the sources. Such a model must come from comparative evidence, as was suggested by Anders Hultgård already in 1993. From that comparative perspective, a reconstruction of this spectacular sacrifice would probably be close to the following. People, no doubt from the higher social strata, would arrive at the farm of the mightiest chieftain/jarl in the area, bringing with them animals for sacrifices. We must assume, further, although not stated in the texts, that the arrival of people and animals would have had the form of a procession. It is highly likely that horses here had a special position as the most valuable animal, associated with the leaders and the god Freyr. The larger animals were slaughtered outside, and the meat was brought in together with the bowl containing the blood from the victims. The whole sacred area was probably enclosed in some way, most likely only temporarily when rituals were about to take place. Then the room and the participants were sanctified, and thus brought into a liminal condition, by being sprinkled with blood. Most important, probably, was the sprinkling of the altar that represents the gods, apparently done by some sort of religious specialist. In this kind of sacrifice it does not seem as if any part of the meat is given to the gods, so that only the blood constitutes the gift. Then the banquet took place and toasts were delivered to the gods, making explicit what was wished for, just as oaths were sworn on some sacred ring. We can also assume that the sacral character slowly turned into a feast of a more profane kind before the whole thing was finished. Apart from these sacrificial rituals, we must also assume that legal matters would be part of the gatherings which probably ran over several days. The sacrificial ritual described here, based mainly in the three sources mentioned above, is thus fully in accordance with both the structure and the elements we would expect when looking at the sources from a comparative perspective: The role of the chieftain, the importance of the blood, the consecra29 

See, however, (è25) in which the possibilities of osteological analyses are mentioned.

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tion of the place and the participants, the meal which is eaten together with the gods — all these elements can be found worldwide; to postulate that they should be ‘borrowed’ from Christianity can only be due to lack of knowledge of this fact. And therefore it is natural to imagine that a ritual of the type just reconstructed would have taken place. A somewhat different type of ritual is related by Adam of Bremen (around 1070) and Thietmar of Merseburg (around 1015). Both describe some largescale sacrifices in Uppsala and Lejre respectively. Whereas Thietmar’s description (Chronicon 1.17) is very brief, Adam is rather detailed, and below we shall therefore quote the two chapters (26 and 27) of his fourth book in full and discuss it briefly. There can be no doubt that both descriptions portray cyclical rituals, since Thietmar says that the sacrifices are celebrated in January, perhaps indicating that it could be the Jól celebration that is aimed at, whereas Adam says that the time is aequinoctium vernale (spring equinox) in March and thus toward the summer (è28). Thietmar of Merseburg Est unus in his partibus locus, caput istius regni, Lederun nomine, in pago, qui Selon dicitur, ubi post Viiii annos mense Ianuario, post hoc tempus, quo nos theophaniam Domini celebramus, omnes convenerunt, et ibi diis suimet lxxxx et viiii homines et totidem equos, cum canibus et gallis pro accipitribus oblatis, immolant […]. (pp. 23–24) (In this land, in the region of Sjælland, it is Lejre which is the capital of the land; here everybody gathers in the month of January, after the time when we celebrate the advent of our Lord, every ninth year, and they sacrifice 99 humans and the same amount of horses along with dogs and roosters — instead of falcons.) Adam of Bremen 26. Nobilissimum illa gens templum (Schol. 138–39) habet, quod Ubsola dicitur, non longe positum ab Sictona civitate [vel Birka]. In hoc templo, quod totum ex auro paratum est, statuas trium deorum veneratur populus, ita ut potentissimus eorum Thor in medio solium habeat triclinio; hinc et inde locum possident Wodan et Fricco. Quorum significationes eiusmodi sunt: ‘Thor’, inquiunt, presidet in aere, qui tonitrus et fulmina, ventos ymbresque, serena et fruges gubernat. Alter Wodan, id est furor, bella gerit hominique ministrat virtutem contra inimicos. Tercius est Fricco, pacem voluptatemque largiens mortalibus. Cuius etiam simulacrum fingunt cum ingenti priapo. Wodanem vero sculpunt armatum, sicut nostri Martem solent; Thor autem cum sceptro Iovem simulare videtur. Colunt et deos ex hominibus factos, quos pro ingentibus factis immortalitate donant, sicut in Vita sancti Ansgarii legitur Hericum regem fecisse.

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27. Omnibus itaque diis suis attributos habent sacerdotes, qui sacrificia populi offerant. Si pestis et fames imminet, Thor ydolo lybatur, si bellum, Wodani, si nuptiae celebrandae sunt, Fricconi (Schol. 140). Solet quoque post novem annos communis omnium Sueoniae provintiarum sollempnitas in Ubsola celebrari. Ad quam videlicet sollempnitatem nulli prestatur immunitas. Reges et populi, omnes et singuli sua dona transmittunt ad Ubsolam, et, quod omni pena crudelius est, illi, qui iam induerunt christianitatem, ab illis se redimunt cerimoniis. Sacrificium itaque tale est: ex omni animante, quod masculinum est, novem capita offeruntur (Schol. 141), quorum sanguine deos [tales] placari mos est. Corpora autem suspenduntur in lucum, qui proximus est templo. Is enim lucus tam sacer est gentilibus, ut singulae arbores eius ex morte vel tabo immolatorum divinae credantur. Ibi etiam canes et equi pendent cum hominibus, quorum corpora mixtim suspensa narravit mihi aliquis christianorum LXXII vidisse. Ceterum neniae, quae in eiusmodi ritu libationis fieri solent, multiplices et inhonestae, ideoque melius reticendae.30 Schol. 138: Prope illud templum est arbor maxima late ramos extendens, semper viridis in hieme et aestate; cuius illa generis sit, nemo scit. Ibi etiam est fons, ubi sacrificia paganorum solent exerceri et homo vivus inmergi. Qui dum non invenitur, ratum erit votum populi. Schol. 139: Catena aurea templum circumdat pendens supra domus fastigia lateque rutilans advenientibus, eo quod ipsum delubrum in planitie situm montes in circuitu habet positos ad instar theatri. Schol. 140: Nuper autem cum rex Sueonum christianissimus Anunder sacri­ ficium gentis statutum nollet demonibus offerre, depulsus a regno dicitur a con­ spectu concilii gaudens abisse, quoniam dignus habebatur pro nomine Iesu con­tu­ meliam pati. Schol. 141: Novem diebus commessationes et eiusmodi sacrificia celebrantur. Unaquaque die offerunt hominem unum cum ceteris animalibus ita ut per IX dies LXXII fiant animalia quae offeruntur. Hoc sacrificium fit circa aequinoctium vernale. (pp. 259–60) (26. That folk has a very famous temple called Uppsala, situated not far from the city of Sigtuna and Björkö. In this temple, entirely decked out in gold, the people worship the statues of three gods in such wise that the mightiest of them, Thor, occupies a throne in the middle of the chamber; Wotan and Frikko have places on either side. The significance of these gods is as follows: Thor, they say, presides over the air, which governs the thunder and lightning, the winds and rains, fair weather and crops. The other, Wotan — that is, the Furious — carries on war and imparts to man strength against his enemies. The third is Frikko, who bestows peace and pleasure on mortals. His likeness, too, they fashion with an immense phallus. But Wotan they chisel armed, as our people are wont to represent Mars. Thor with 30 

One of the problems with Adam’s text is the fact that there are several manuscripts, often being quite different: see, for instance, the edition by Werner Trillmich (1961: 150–55).

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his scepter apparently resembles Jove. The people also worship heroes made gods, whom they endow with immortality because of their remarkable exploits, as one reads in the Vita of Saint Ansgar they did in the case of King Eric. 27. For all their gods there are appointed priests to offer sacrifices for the people. If plague and famine threaten, a libation is poured to the idol Thor; if war, to Wotan; if marriages are to be celebrated, to Frikko. It is customary also to solemnize in Uppsala, at nine-year intervals, a general feast of all the provinces of Sweden. From attendance at this festival no one is exempted. Kings and people all and singly send their gifts to Uppsala and, what is more distressing than any kind of punishment, those who have already adopted Christianity redeem themselves through these ceremonies. The sacrifice is of this nature: of every living thing that is male, they offer nine heads, with the blood of which it is customary to placate gods of this sort. The bodies they hang in the sacred grove that adjoins the temple. Now this grove is so sacred in the eyes of the heathen that each and every tree in it is believed divine because of the death or putrefaction of the victims. Even dogs and horses hang there with men. A Christian seventy-two years old told me that he had seen their bodies suspended promiscuously.31 Furthermore, the incantations customarily chanted in the ritual of a sacrifice of this kind are manifold and unseemly; therefore, it is better to keep silence about them. Schol. 138: Near this temple stands a very large tree with wide-spreading branches, always green winter and summer. What kind it is nobody knows. There is also a spring at which the pagans are accustomed to make their sacrifices, and into it to plunge a live man. And if he is not found, the people’s wish will be granted. Schol. 139: A golden chain goes round the temple. It hangs over the gable of the building and sends its glitter far off to those who approach, because the shrine stands on level ground with mountains all about it like a theater. Schol. 140: When not long ago the most Christian king of the Swedes, Anundar, would not offer the demons the prescribed sacrifice of the people, he is said, on being deposed, to have departed ‘from the presence of the council, rejoicing’ that he had been ‘accounted worthy to suffer reproach for the fame of Jesus’. Schol. 141: Feasts and sacrifices of this kind are solemnized for nine days. On each day they offer a man along with other living beings in such a number that in the course of the nine days they will have made offerings of seventy two creatures. This sacrifice takes place about the vernal equinox. (pp. 207–08)

The two texts are similar in certain ways when it comes to the ritual descriptions, although they are most likely not dependent on each other; they may therefore be seen as independent testimonies of this sort of ritual in mainland 31 

The translation should more likely be: ‘Here are also hanged dogs and horses, together with humans; a Christian has told me that he had seen 72 such bodies hanging carelessly among each other.’

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Scandinavia. Thietmar tells us in a rather precise way where and when they took place: namely, in Lejre every ninth year in January. We are not told who acted as sacrificers, but the sacrificial victims are ninety-nine of four species: humans, horses, dogs, and roosters. Nothing however is said about the way the ritual is carried out. Adam is much more detailed, but unfortunately many of these details are not related in a comprehensible way, and actually it is likely that Adam was mixing several types of rituals in his description.32 Before discussing that we shall, however, take a brief look at the parallels between the rituals described in the two sources. Both of them take place in important central places; they take place (apparently) every ninth year (è 28);33 large amounts of victims are sacrificed, and humans, as well as horses and dogs, are mentioned in both texts.34 Compared to the Old Norse texts analysed above, it seems as if the sacrifices described in Chronicon and Gesta Hammaburgensis were much more spectacular and not least much more violent. Even if we are told about human sacrifices in Kjalnesinga saga, they appear to be very different from the slaughter we envisage in these texts. These differences can perhaps be explained with reference to the unreliability of the two sources, but it could also be that we are dealing with different historical and social circumstances in the probably much more densely populated areas of Uppland and Sjælland, and we can also think that the information related by the two authors would mirror historical situations somewhat back in time, that is, not necessarily the situation in the eleventh century. Adam’s text appears to have a wealth of information, but again we are in reality only getting glimpses of the rituals in Gamla Uppsala.35 One of the 32 

The source value of Adam’s Gesta Hammaburgensis has been debated extensively. Many valuable references to this debate can be found in the articles in Hultgård (ed., 1997), and for more recent contributions we can refer to Sundqvist (2016: 110–32). Most strongly the source value of Adam’s work has been rejected by Henrik Janson (1998). Although Adam did not visit Uppsala, his informant, the Danish king Sven Estridsen, certainly had done so several years earlier. This is no guarantee, of course, but it should warn us not to reject the description by Adam right away. 33  The number nine had a special significance in the pre-Christian world; see Schjødt (1988) with references. 34  If the figures mentioned by the two authors are reliable, it seems that the number of sacrificial victims in Lejre would have been close to four hundred (396), whereas Adam explicitly says that seventy-two living beings are being sacrificed. Such figures, however, cannot usually be relied upon. 35  For a good overview of the historical development of Gamla Uppsala, we can refer to Zachrisson (2011b).

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Figure 31.2. Reconstruction of the main hall at Gamla Uppsala in the seventh and eighth centuries. A similar later hall may have been the background for Adam of Bremen’s description of a ‘templum’ in Uppsala. Illustration: Disir Productions, Uppsala. 

main problems with the description, apart from the source-critical problems, is that it apparently does not describe one ritual but more likely several ritual acts that probably do not belong together in one ritual sequence. Thus, in Chapter 27 it is said that the priests36 would sacrifice to different gods according to different ‘threats’ and occasions. This indicates that, apart from the feasts celebrated every ninth year, also some crisis rituals would be part of the ritual activities. However, the main sacrifice is said to take place with nine-year intervals.37 Here we learn that it is a general feast for all the provinces of Svetjud and that all have to send gifts for the feasts.38 This is probably to be paralleled with Snorri’s account that all should bring food to the feasts at Hlaðir. So also here we can imagine some sort of procession, which is supported by the recent archaeological investigations, where it seems that a ‘processional’ road has been found (Sundqvist 2016: 126; Nygaard and Murphy 2017: 54–56). Anyway, in 36 

In Adam’s description we almost get the impression that there was a thing like ‘a priesthood’ comparable to those known from Greece and Rome in antiquity. Such institutions are not very likely to have existed in pagan time, and, if they did, it must have been in the very last phase and cannot be seen as a characteristic of the pagan religion. 37  See, however, Nordberg (2006a) in which it is argued that the ritual cycle was more likely eight years. Although nothing is said in the text, it also seems safe to assume that in a place like Gamla Uppsala, also cyclical rituals with shorter intervals, probably more than one ritual a year, have taken place (è28). 38  It is not clear what is meant here, since we are also told that everybody has to attend the celebrations, so instead of ‘sending’ gifts we should perhaps rather think that everybody had to ‘bring’ gifts.

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attempting to reconstruct the rituals reported by Adam, we have to be aware that they may not all fit into one sequence.39 In Scholion 138 we are told that the ritual space is formed as a replica of the cosmological world-view with a tree and a well, probably being modelled on Yggdrasil and the well of Urðr, having been observed by many scholars (e.g., de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 381). The well in Uppsala, we learn, is also used for divinatory purposes, which is in accordance with the mythic well having something to do with fate (è35 and è59), and it could perhaps be compared to Kjalnesinga saga’s blótkelda. Close to the temple there is a sacred grove, the sacredness of which is due to the ‘death and putrefaction of the victims’. Thus, it seems that the whole area with temple, well, and grove will have formed a sacred space. Although not related directly by Adam, we also know that a legal assembly and market activities took place there attended by all the Svear (Óláfs saga helga ch. 77; cf. Zachrisson 2013: 171–72). And a concilium is mentioned in schol. 140, pointing in the same direction. We also hear of a golden chain that could perhaps be seen as a parallel to the vébǫnd, mentioned above, serving to mark off the sacred sphere, although Adam’s wording does not say so. As mentioned, the nine-yearly festival takes place in the beginning of spring and it lasts for nine days (schol. 141), each day having its own sacrifices consisting of humans, horses, and dogs, and as it is said nine male individuals (or the heads of nine individuals) of each species, whatever that means precisely.40 The blood of the sacrificial victims is used to placate the gods, and it could be that it was sprinkled, as is the case in the Old Norse texts, whereas the bodies are hanged in the sacred grove, which points in the direction of some sort of sacrifice to Óðinn (è42). Finally we learn that songs were chanted that were inhonestae (unseemly), which probably indicates that they had a sexual content, therefore pointing to sacrifices for Freyr. The word used here, libationes, means literally ‘drink offerings’, and it may therefore be contrasted with sacrificium above. If this interpretation is right, it could indicate that there were different kinds of sacrifices to different gods and with different goals involved in these celebrations. As mentioned above, we cannot know for certain whether these 39 

We shall not deal here with the information concerning the gods, which are dealt with in many of the chapters in this work. For a discussion of the three gods, their functions, and attributes, mentioned by Adam, we can refer to Schjødt (2012b). 40  The latin text has capita, which can mean both ‘heads’ and ‘pieces’ (individuals). If the former is the right translation, there seems to be an opposition between ‘heads’ and ‘bodies’ in the following. However, it could also be that the ‘bodies’, corpora, should be seen in opposition to the blood with which they ‘placate the gods’.

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ritual features were all parts of the same ritual, or whether Adam or his sources mixed up different rituals which may not have taken place during the same festival. However it does seem natural that sacrifices of this spectacular kind, lasting for nine days, would involve various kinds of rituals, having different purposes, and aiming at manipulating different gods with different functions. To sum up, it seems that these celebrations in Gamla Uppsala and Lejre were of a much more spectacular kind than those related in the three Old Norse texts analysed above. The differences are due mainly to quantity: many more sacrificial victims and probably many more people attending. From the Old Norse texts we do not know for how long they were celebrated, but probably not as long as the one in Gamla Uppsala. Here, however, it is also likely that sacrificial feasts of a lesser duration would take place every year. If Adam is reliable, we should also assume a difference when it comes to the role of religious specialists: whereas the size of the East Nordic rituals would need the attendance of several priests, this is not necessarily so in the West Nordic rituals. We hear about the goði who may be identical with the secular ruler, and we can probably also be certain that some specialists would take care of the killing of the sacrificial victims. In Uppsala, however, it is stated by Adam that there were appointed priests for all their gods, perhaps indicating that there were different priests for each of the main gods, and as we also saw they may have carried out different rituals (bloody sacrifices, libations, drownings, etc.). It is not mentioned, either, by Thietmar or Adam that food was eaten or toasts proposed, but we should be careful not to over-interpret that sort of argumenta ex silentio; in general there are many details which we can safely assume were part of the rituals, but which are not mentioned by Thietmar and Adam. Both authors and their sources were much more interested in the violence and, according to their view, cruelty that was going on than in possible common meals and toasts or ‘oath rings’. In other words, we can easily imagine that during the festival period, sacrificial meals and a lot of drinking would be important parts. Actually, we would be surprised if this was not the case. But we also have a lot of similarities. In all the texts here analysed it appears that people from a larger area have to attend; they have to bring along with them sacrificial animals for the sacrifices; legal and religious affairs went hand in hand, although rings are not mentioned by Adam and Thietmar; several gods are parts of the rituals, and bloody sacrifices were carried out; in both east and west the blood had a special significance, although we are not informed about how it was handled in Lejre and Old Uppsala; and other similarities in the evidence could be mentioned.

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Concluding Remarks The texts we have dealt with in this chapter, and many others, confirm that recurring rituals were part of the religion in ancient Scandinavia as in all other societies. They were carried out on a private basis, some perhaps daily and some in connection with the various seasons, just as we would expect in an agricultural society which was deeply dependent on the outcome of its crops and the well-being of the animals. But they were also carried out in the public sphere, and here, in addition to the fertility aspects, we have also seen that the change of the seasons with war during the summer period had to be celebrated at large public gatherings, in which the secular ruler played an important part, both as an object of the ritual (toasts for the victory of the king) and as a mediator between the legal and the religious aspects of these gatherings. Therefore, these public rituals were ‘multipurposed’ to a much larger extent than is the case with the private settings. Of course ‘private’ and ‘public’ must be seen as ‘ideal types’ with a lot of intermediary forms, where it is practically impossible to make a clear distinction between the two. Nevertheless, it is clear that the more densely populated the area is, the more spectacular and ‘public’ the ritual would be. Although we cannot find clear evidence in the sources, we must also assume that the longer intervals there were between the celebrations, the more spectacular they would be, which may very well be one of the reasons why the apparently yearly ritual at Lade and the ninth-yearly ones in Gamla Uppsala and Lejre, appears so different in size and expenditure. The cyclical rituals in pre-Christian Scandinavia were, of course, different in many details from such rituals in other cultures, but it seems that the general structures are more or less the same all over the world. Gods are addressed to make them help protecting the society and its surroundings; the person in charge of the society also has a prominent role in these rituals towards the gods; the rituals follow a certain structure with preparations, liminal periods, and meals and toasts together with the gods. And just as the secular ruler played a particular role, so also were the religious and the legal aspects — both of utmost importance for any society — celebrated together. Sacrifices, religious specialists, communication with the gods, and so forth are all elements that can be found worldwide. Further, as mentioned, it is well known from all agricultural societies that the calendar is bound up on cyclical rituals that have, besides the overt purposes of manipulating the gods to be benevolent towards land and society, the purpose of creating a calendar for the agricultural work, and of course also of keeping up the social identity of the celebrating people.

32 – Passage Rituals Jens Peter Schjødt Introduction The classification of rituals was discussed above (è 25), and whereas crisis rituals and cyclical rituals have not been theorized separately from a classificatory perspective, this is, on the contrary, the case with passage rituals.1 The very notion can be dated to 1909, with the appearance of Arnold van Gennep’s book Les rites de passage. Van Gennep had a broader definition of rites de passage than the one we have chosen here (è25), since he included many rituals which we have classified as ‘cyclical’ (van Gennep 1960: 178–83). Nevertheless, van Gennep’s analyses of passage or transitional rituals (rites de passage) are still important, even fundamental, to the ritual interplay between this and the Other World. This is mainly due to his famous distinction between the various parts or phases of such rituals: namely, separation rites (rites symbolizing separation from the previous mode of existence), liminal rites (rites symbolizing the transitional stage proper; van Gennep 1960: 21), and rites of incorporation (rites symbolizing reintegration into society with a new status). Much research on the phenomenon of passage rituals, in particular initiation rituals, has, of course, taken place since the early twentieth century, both within the general study of religion and more specifically within PCRN (cf. Schjødt 2008: 22–57). Suffice it to note here, however, that much of this research has focused on social and psychological aspects of initiation, which will not be discussed 1 

A research historical account of these rituals, especially in connection with initiation outside as well as inside of the Nordic area, is found in Schjødt (2008: 22–57).

Jens Peter Schjødt, Professor of the Study of Religion, Aarhus University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume ii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 2 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 823–851 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116959

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in this chapter, whereas some important works concerned with structure and symbolism will be briefly mentioned, especially some ‘classical’ works within the field of PCRN. Passage rituals usually take place when an individual or a group of individuals are to change their religious or societal status, going from a lower to a higher level,2 a transition which is in principle irreversible and which usually involves some modification in physical appearance (physical ‘marks’ or attributes such as weapons or other paraphernalia), together with the acquisition of numinous knowledge, which is ‘secret’ in the sense that those who have not been initiated are not supposed to know it, although in reality they often do. In the first instance, we can divide rituals of passage as they exist worldwide into two broad groups: on the one hand, those connected with biological changes in the life of individuals; and on the other hand, those that may be celebrated at any time in the life of an individual and are not determined by biology.3 To the biological group we will count rituals linked to birth, puberty, weddings, and death, which are probably found in every society. To the non-biological category we will include rituals performed in connection with entrance into mystery cults, secret societies, and other social settings, such as groups that see themselves as blood brothers, but also into various individual positions in society, such as priests, shamans, kings, and others. In these cases, some socially or religiously important change in individual status are affected.4 In all these instances, we can observe ritual celebrations in religious — and non-religious — cultures. This, of course, does not mean that all such occasions are ritually celebrated in all cultures, since some cultures lack, for instance, kingship or priests or secret societies. The point here is that when we look for passage rituals in the pre-Christian North, it is wise to focus on transitions of a biological and/or social kind. Therefore, this chapter will do exactly that, although, as we shall see, the sources do not give us information about all of them. 2 

The opposite possibility, going from a higher to a lower level, is of course also a possibility, although it is seldom celebrated in any spectacular way. One may, however, think of army officers whose medals and other symbols of rank are torn off in front of the whole regiment. Within PCRN we may also think of certain kinds of nið, which will deprive the intended victim of his rank as an honourable person (è21), even if such rituals are often carried out as magic (è26) and therefore often in secrecy. 3  Admittedly, these designations are not very precise. For instance, rituals celebrated in connection with marriage are here seen as ‘biological’ but are not ‘biological’ in the same sense as are puberty rituals or funerals. 4  Again, it could be argued that these changes all require at least adolescent status, so to some degree there is, also here, a biological aspect in play.

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Sources In general, no single ritual description, with one exception — namely, the description by the Arab diplomat Ibn Fadlan of the funeral of a Rus chieftain on the Volga in the year 921/22 — is in itself sufficient for us to reconstruct the ritual sequence in any detail.5 However, hints can be found scattered across the various saga categories, not least in the fornaldarsögur (cf. Schjødt 1994, 1999a, 2000b, 2003, and 2008); and the structure and symbolism, although in a mythic setting, can be detected in some of the eddic poems as well as in Snorri’s Edda (Schjødt 2008: 328–78), some of which are quite informative regarding the symbolism that we can expect also to be part of ‘real-world’ performance of rituals. Archaeological sources are extremely important when it comes to burial rituals, which is why these will be treated in their own chapter (è33), whereas it is more difficult from archaeological evidence to depict and reconstruct passage rituals associated with other transitions. That does not mean that archaeological finds of various kinds cannot be meaningfully explained with reference to other types of passage rituals; many finds were probably linked to such rituals, which we must expect to have played an important role in the religious life of the preChristian Scandinavians. The problem is that it is often difficult to argue for such a connection as more likely than connections to other ritual categories, even when it comes to the pictorial material, such as, for instance, the gold foils (è 31). It may well be that, for example, the pictures depicted on the helmet from Torslunda, apparently showing dancing warriors, should be seen in relation to initiatory rituals of warriors, but again we cannot be certain; and even if they are related to such initiations, we cannot know in which way (è24).6 Birth We do not know much about rituals connected to birth in the pagan period. From the folklore of later periods, we know that a whole series of various customs were attached to these occasions in which both the mother and the child might be the focal point. This points to two different aspects of the rituals: namely, the integration of the newborn child into society, and the celebration of the new status of the mother (Gotfredsen 1956; Näsström 2002b: 70–72). 5  As we shall see below, the forming of blood-brotherhood, although far from as detailed as the funeral in Ibn Fadlan, can perhaps be said to be another exception. 6  The following is partly a revised version of parts of Schjødt (2008: 328–78).

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The few hints we have for such rituals concern the sprinkling of water (ausa vatni),7 the giving of a name (Rígsþula st. 34), and the placing of the newborn on its father’s knee (knésetja). These should probably be seen as parts of one ritual sequence, the aim of which was to incorporate the child into society (de Vries 1956–57a: i, 179; Näsström 1996b). Although we cannot place these three rites within the sequence, it seems likely that the pouring of water could be understood as a rite of separation with a cleansing function, whereas giving the child a name and placing it on the father’s knee should probably be seen as rites of incorporation, which invest the newborn child with the identity that it will have in society.8 It is possible that some form of divination was carried out in association with birth. In Helgakviða Hundingbana I (st. 1–8), set in a mythic scenario, we hear that the norns (è 59) arrived after Helgi was born and twisted with strength the threads of destiny (‘snero þær af afli ørlǫgsþátto’, st. 3). The extent to which we can use this particular text as support for general birth rituals is certainly debatable, however, both because the tone of the poem is mythical and because Helgi is by no means an ordinary child: he is a king and destined to become one of the greatest of warriors of all time (see è35). The sources that we have for these rituals, then, do not allow us to reconstruct a ritual sequence, apart from the help we get from van Gennep’s threephase model (see above) and by using comparative material. On this basis, however, it appears quite certain that such rituals did take place and that they should definitely be viewed as passage rituals of a sort. Puberty It is somewhat paradoxical that puberty rituals are hardly represented in the Norse source material, since these particular rituals have been of the greatest interest within the History of Religions and Social Anthropology in general. One of the reasons could be that some of the warrior initiations, which we 7  Hávamál 158 suggests that this rite could perhaps also be part of the initiation of a noble (þegn) and that Óðinn played a part in such cases. 8  There can hardly be any doubt that these rituals played a significant role for the child’s identity as part of society. For instance in Harðar saga ch. 8 we learn that it was murder to kill children who had had water poured over them, whereas before that happens they could be left outside for exposure (cf. Hasenfratz 2011: 63). Likewise, name-giving was a serious matter, and the name chosen for an individual often appears to be associated with the religious sphere, even if this can be debated (see è5).

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Figure 32.1. A richly furnished grave of a girl about ten years old, at Ire in Hellvi on Gotland, from the tenth century (grave 218A). In Viking Age graves on Gotland there are clear patterns associating female objects with the age of the dead. Small girls up to five years of age were buried with only a few beads, and in graves together with adults. From about five to fifteen years, girls were buried in graves of their own, with 100 to 250 beads and rings on their right arm. From about fifteen years and up, young women were buried with about twenty beads and rings on their left arm. From this analysis, it seems that girls on Gotland went through important passage rituals when they were around five and fifteen years old (Thedéen 2011). After Stenberger 1962: 54. 

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Figure 32.2. A gold foil figure with an embracing couple from Krokek in Östergötland (SHM 21517:111325). This and other motifs have been understood as mythological scenes (è43.1), but they have also been inter­ preted as depictions of different legal procedures, such as weddings (Ratke and Simek 2006). Photo: Gunnel Jansson, Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm. 

have dealt with in some detail above (è 24) and will return to briefly later in this chapter, should also be seen as a kind of puberty initiation for boys: becoming an adult male among both the Germani and the Scandinavians also involved various skills in the use of weapons.9 This lack of distinction, caused by the source situation, is also clearly reflected in two famous monographs on the subject of passage rituals within the Germanic area: namely, the works by Lily Weiser (1927) and Otto Höfler (1934), which we have dealt with rather extensively in (è 24). Neither of these authors makes much effort to distinguish between the two categories of puberty and warrior initiations, but this may, as just mentioned, accord with the actual situation as it is represented in 9 

Of course there must have been significant differences between, for instance, warriors who were to become members of a warrior band and more ‘ordinary’ sons of farmers. We can speculate whether the former category emphasized martial skills much more (e.g., Hálfs saga ch. 10) compared to the latter, which perhaps tended to be a more common ‘puberty’ ritual. As we have seen above (è24), most of the sources we have for reconstructing warrior initiations most likely portray initiations into warrior bands.

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the sources. According, for example, to some sources (Hálfs saga ok Hálfsrekka ch. 10 and Jómsvíkinga saga ch. 24), the age of those who joined the warriorbands was between twelve and eighteen. This hardly reflects reality, but it does suggest that even boys who had not reached their teens were seen as capable of bearing arms, and thus seen as warriors, although of a different kind from adult warriors. From the two sagas just mentioned, we also learn that there were certain rules that the warriors of these bands had to adhere to. They were, for instance, required to be strong enough to lift a large stone from the ground, they must be able to carry certain weapons, and they had to be so tough that they did not need to have their wounds dressed the same day as they were wounded;10 apparently there were also some ethical rules they had to obey (they were not allowed to take children and women as prisoners). As with birth rituals, we have no descriptions of ritual sequences that might allow us to reconstruct any details in the puberty initiations. Even so, we must undoubtedly accept that these, too, constituted important parts of PCRN. Weddings The Old Norse word for wedding is brúðlaup, literally meaning ‘bride running’, probably indicating the rush of the participants in the feast,11 although we do not know to what extent this was part of the religious dimension of the ritual. Regarding weddings, we do not have any sequential description of the ritual that can be connected to pagan times. We do, however, have a few hints. We are told in Þrymskviða st. 30, when Þórr, dressed up as Freyja, is going to be married to the giant Þrymr, that the giant says: ‘Berið inn hamar | brúði at vígia | leggit Miǫllni | í meyjar kné | vígit ocr saman Várar hendi’ (Carry in the hammer to consecrate the bride, and lay down Mjǫllnir in the lap of the maiden, consecrate us together with the hand of Vár). We cannot be certain, of course, that these elements would be part of every wedding, but as it stands, we may conclude that Þórr’s hammar, perhaps in the form of some symbolic figure (cf. the many hammer-shaped amulets found by archaeologists), was used for 10 

Here, we can also think of the trials to which Signý in Vǫlsunga saga ch. 7 subjects her sons by stitching the cuffs of their kirtles onto their arms, passing the needle through flesh and skin. 11  The underlying form would be brúðhlaup. According to de Vries (1962a: 59, with references), it originally means ‘heimführung der braut und zwar in schnellem lauf ’ (bringing home the bride in a fast run).

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consecrating the bride by laying it in her lap, an act obviously connected to fertility. This is in accordance with the role of fertility god that is often attributed to Þórr, for instance by Adam of Bremen, even if Þórr’s role according to Adam seems to be more linked to the fertility of the soil (è 41). But in the context of weddings, the hammer should probably not be seen exclusively as a fertility symbol; perhaps it is more likely to constitute some sort of protection against all evil that might ruin the marriage. Snorri also tells us about the goddess Vár, who (Gylfaginning p. 29) listens to agreements made between men and women and who is, thus, associated with marriages and weddings.12 The mention of her hand may be related to a symbolic handshake, which is known from very early on, perhaps even from Indo-European times (Wikman 1957: 308). The phenomenon of entry into marriage has given rise to rituals all across the world (van Gennep 1960: 116–45), and entering into marriage is a transition in more than one sense: First, one of the spouses must leave his or her family to join the family of the other. In Scandinavian society, which was predominantly patriarchal, it was the woman who left her family to become a member of her husband’s family (cf. de Vries 1956–57a: i, 186), and this in itself would justify a transitional ritual. But a wedding is normally also a matter of beginning a new chapter in the life of both the husband and wife, as they leave behind some of the possibilities (and limitations) — possibly more so for the woman than for the man — that are attached to life as an unmarried person, and in return acquire those that are characteristic of being a couple. The most obvious thing to mention here is the fertility aspect: the ability to beget children and thus continue the family.13 But even if the sources have next to nothing to say about wedding rituals, it is not hard to imagine which elements must have been included: sexual symbolism, perhaps even symbolic (or real) sexual intercourse, probably some exchange of gifts and no doubt much feasting — which may well have included sacrifices — processions and many other phenomena, well-known from the phenomenology of religion. Many of these are also sometimes found in medieval and later Christian traditions and can perhaps be seen as a partial continuation of pagan wedding rituals.

12 

Vár is well attested in skaldic kennings. The plural, várar, means ‘oaths’ (cf. de Vries 1962a: 645). 13  We note here the clear connection between the phallic fertility god, Freyr, and sacrifices carried out for him in connection with weddings, reported by Adam of Bremen (Gesta Hammaburgensis 4.27).

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Textual Evidence for Rituals Connected to Death and Burial As was mentioned in the introduction, we have an enormous amount of archaeological material, which informs us about this category of ritual and will be treated in the next chapter (è33). What we shall do here is to mention a few pieces of textual evidence, among others the famous description by Ibn Fadlan (see also è33 and figures è33), which we shall analyse in some detail, since it is the only description by an eyewitness concerning such a ritual. Although burial rituals are undoubtedly those best described within the category of passage rituals, this does not mean that we are able to reconstruct any such thing as a ‘proto-ritual’ that might have been used all over Scandinavia. There are considerable lacunae in the sources regarding both the sequence of the events and the meaning and symbolism associated with the ritual. In addition, we must a priori expect considerable differences in the performance of the rituals in regard of both regional and social distinctions (Roesdahl 1987: 177–80; DuBois 1999: 70–72; Price 2012; cf. also Schjødt 2009a and è33). Furthermore, our most copious source for funeral rituals, Ibn Fadlan’s description, although very detailed, is also highly problematic, as we shall see below. Apart from Ibn Fadlan’s description, the written sources do not give us an entire sequence, but in a few eddic and skaldic poems, in Snorri’s Edda and in the sagas, we get some scattered pieces of information, which for the most part belong within a specific literary context, but which may nonetheless be expected to shed light on some aspects of rites that were carried out in pagan times (see also è33). Eddic poems about the gods contain very little of importance, except for a couple of allusions to cremation (Hávamál st. 71 and 81, V ǫluspá st. 33, Baldrs draumar st. 10 and 11), which do not tell us anything about the actual performance of rituals. Conditions are not much different in the heroic poems. Here, too, there are a couple of references to cremation (first and foremost in Sigurðarkviða in skamma st. 65–69, in connection with the deaths of Brynhildr and Sigurðr). In addition, there are references to funeral feasts and the drinking of erfi (Atlamál st. 75 and Guðrúnarhvǫt st. 8) as well as the burning of slaves in connection with the funeral (Sigurðarkviða in skamma st. 67 and Guðrúnarkviða in fyrsta end prose). In the prose introduction to Helreið Brynhildar, we learn that there was a carriage on Brynhildr’s funeral pyre in which she was expected to ride to Hel.14 14 

This recalls the carriage found in the Oseberg grave, cf. Christensen, Ingstad, and Myhre (1992: 119–23).

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We learn a little more from Snorri’s Edda. Thus, in the description of Baldr’s cremation, there is a vague hint at a ritual sequence (Gylfaginning pp. 46–47). The text speaks of cremation on a ship at sea, which perhaps may be considered an especially honourable form (Uecker 1966: 83–91). First, we hear that Baldr’s ship, Hringhorni, was to be launched, but could not be moved; the gods therefore sent for the giantess Hyrrokkin. She arrived riding a wolf, went up to the boat, and pushed it out into the sea. Then, Baldr’s body was carried onto the ship. On seeing this, his wife Nanna died of grief, and she was also carried onto the pyre, which was then lit. Þórr stood up and consecrated the pyre with his hammer, Mjǫllnir. Here, Snorri tells of a peculiar incident: namely, that a dwarf named Litr ran in front of Þórr who then kicked him into the fire. Further, Snorri says that this funeral was attended by all kinds of beings: gods, valkyries, and different groups of giants. Finally, we learn that also Baldr’s horse was led onto the pyre to be burnt with him. It is not easy to determine whether the individual elements mentioned in connection with this cremation are generally applicable to funerals of prominent persons or are particular and only exist in the world of myth. The Hyrrokkin and Litr episodes can hardly have had the status of ritual acts,15 while Nanna’s death may be seen in the light of the burning of widows, which is attested in other sources;16 the same is true of the horse being led onto the pyre. No other sources mention that a funeral pyre was to be consecrated, as this text states that Þórr does, but it seems likely that some form or other of sanctification must have occurred, probably with the aim of furthering life and perhaps with an apotropaic purpose (cf. Lindow 1997a: 93). Concerning Litr, whose significance is completely obscure, it is not possible to provide a plausible cultic parallel.

15 

Sune Lindqvist suggests, rather speculatively (1921: 171), that Hyrrokkin corresponds to the wind, which by Ibn Fadlan is said to carry the dead chieftain up to his master (see below). If we are to interpret the role of this giantess, it must be that she represents fire (cf. the first syllable hyrr = fire), but this is uncertain. For a good overview on this subject and possible parallels to Hyrrokkin, see Lindow (1997a: 74–80). Lindow’s understanding of the figure (1997a: 88) — that she is a representative of the socially inferior group of giants, but is nevertheless necessary for this, the most serious situation in the life of the gods — seems probable. It is, however, a purely mythological construction, which obtains meaning and significance only with reference to Baldr’s cremation and not to rituals in the human world. 16  Cf. above with reference to Brynhildr and women who seek death with their husbands, as we see in Gesta Danorum 1.8.4 and 2.5.5, and also the Arabic traveller Ibn Rustah (Birkeland 1954:17).

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Related to the funeral rituals are the memorial feasts, but these should probably not be considered part of the ritual sequence that aims to ensure the dead person’s transition to the world of the dead. Instead, they may be seen as an element in the cult of the dead, the function of which was, above all, to commemorate the dead (cf. the noun minni ‘memory, memorial, memorial toast’) and honour them, while transferring the dead person’s property and position to the nearest kin.17 Although the description of Baldr’s funeral is the most extensive within the mythological corpus concerning funerary rituals, it is clear that it cannot be used to afford a more detailed insight into the ritual symbolism and structure.18 The other written sources do not contribute much either. Although there are several passages that tell us about things taking place when a person has died, we are not in a position to reconstruct a full ritual sequence.19 Even so, the existence of a series of funerary rites is beyond doubt. First of all, we notice 17  There are several examples in the saga material that indicate that the aim of memorial feasts was primarily to transfer to the living not only the possessions of the dead, but also the position of the dead king or chieftain. Thus in Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks konungs ch. 11, we hear that Angantýr is crowned king at the thing, but he does not take possession of his high seat until after he has avenged his father, nor does he celebrate the memorial feast until then. The act of taking possession of the high seat obviously played a considerable symbolic role in the assumption of power and may, therefore, correctly be considered as a reintegration rite in the ritual sequence, with the ‘new leader’ as its object. This compares to Ynglinga saga ch. 36, where it is said that the new king may only sit down in the high seat once he has drunk from the ‘Bragi-cup’ (Bragafull; on this see de Vries 1956–57a: i, 457–58); however, when this has taken place he can enter fully and completely into his new role. Emil Birkeli (1944: 19–21) has clearly demonstrated that the high seat had both a social and a religious significance. From the passages mentioned, it also appears that, in connection with drinking, oaths are sworn (cf.  è31) with regard to various forms of heroic action that will be carried out in the future, thereby marking the qualitative difference that the new status will bring. Whether an erfikvæði (literally: ‘inheritance poem’) was recited during the funeral feast itself cannot be determined with any certainty, but a passage in Egils saga Skallagrímssonar ch. 78 may indicate this. It is obvious that the arrangement of an erfi, in addition to the function it may have had with regard to the heir, also served to honour the memory of the dead person. Such an erfi, however, should probably not be seen as part of bringing the dead into the Other World. 18  Húsdrápa’s description of Baldr’s cremation does not add anything new on the subject of mortuary ritual to Snorri’s statement, except perhaps that some kind of procession was involved. That processions formed part of funeral rituals in the real world is certainly what should be expected (see also Nygaard and Murphy 2017: 51–65). 19  An attempt to set up a sequence of events, based on saga material, has been carried out by Inger Vibeke Hansen (1981: 135–39); but also here it appears that this can only be done with a very high degree of uncertainty.

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that some of the acts described in various sources must have served an apotropaic purpose, such as closing the dead person’s eyes (cf. Ström 1942: 242– 44), and such acts would not necessarily have been part of the ritual sequence in which the passage from one world to another was the object. However, an interesting rite is described in several sources: namely the ‘preliminary burial’ (e.g., Droplaugarsona saga ch. 6 and Brennu-Njáls saga ch. 17), to which we shall return below in connection with Ibn Fadlan’s description. Further, in all instances it is usual for the corpse to be covered, which is perhaps due to the risk of being molested by wild animals, as is indicated in Grágás (i, 88). People, moreover, gave burial gifts of various kinds, both animal and human, which the archaeological material also demonstrates; how this was done is, however, far from clear. It likewise appears from several passages that, prior to the burial itself, the corpse had to be prepared according to some customs (e.g., Gísla saga ch. 14). This may have included the closing of the nostrils and eyes, together with the dressing of the corpse, and possibly the binding of shoes onto the dead person’s feet (helskór; Gísla saga ch. 14 and 17).20 However, it is hardly possible here, either, to discern a certain symbolic pattern, although it is likely that different rites of separation were involved. Evidence for liminal rites are almost nonexistent. Most interesting, perhaps, is the statement by Snorri in Hákonar saga góða ch. 32, where it is said in connection with Hákon’s death that his grave was spoken over as was customary among the pagans, and that this in some way ‘vísuðu honum til Valhallar’ (showed him the way to Valhal). What was said is unlikely to be the poem Hákonarmál as we know it, although Snorri quotes it at the end of the chapter, since the wording used by Snorri rather suggests the kind of formulas we know from other religions21 and which are intended to lead the dead person to the afterworld, thus making it easier for 20  As this passage is the only place where the binding of ‘hel-shoes’ is mentioned, it may perhaps be doubted whether this was a common custom. One can argue, however, as is done by Helge Rosén (1919: 128–29), that the custom was very common, since the author of the saga presupposed that his readers would know it. Whether Rosén, and several others who also accept this piece of information as authentic, are correct in presuming that the custom was in general use in Scandinavia, we cannot know for certain, but it seems reasonable to argue in this case, as in others, that customs that were known by most people would not be mentioned each time they took place. Thus, argumenta ex silentio are useless here. Rosén’s argument is tenable as far as it goes, so that in some environments in Iceland at least the custom would have been generally known. 21  The closest examples are the so-called Orphic gold tablets, found in graves in Greece and Italy, which instruct the dead on what to do and what not to do at the various stages on the road to the kingdom of the dead (see Zuntz 1971: 299–393; Albinus 2000: 141–52).

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him or her to enter it. Here, we may once again link to Baldr’s funeral, where Snorri furthermore says that Óðinn whispered something into the ear of his dead son. The poem Hákonarmál, however, seems not in itself to have the character of instructions about how to behave in the hereafter and must be regarded primarily as a poem of homage. Some people might also on their death-bed have been marked with a spear, as is said about Óðinn and Njǫrðr in Ynglinga saga ch. 9. The text says directly that this marking will secure for the dead a life with Óðinn, probably in Valhǫll, and we may therefore speculate whether this custom was specific for Odinic warriors who were not killed in battle (cf. Schjødt 2007a). But again, this is mentioned only in a mythic-legendary context, so we cannot be sure of what status this action had in the socio-historical context.22 The Description by Ahmad Ibn Fadlan The only pre-Christian ritual that is described as an entire sequence is the funeral of a Rus chieftain somewhere on the river Volga, by the Arab traveller and diplomat Ahmad Ibn Fadlan, whom we have already discussed earlier (è 23) and who will be mentioned throughout this work (in particular in è 33), in his small book Risalat.23 Ibn Fadlan was a member of a diplomatic mission instigated by the caliph al-Muktadir during the years 921–22 to the Volga Bulghars, and somewhere along the Volga he met with a group of Rus, most likely Swedish ‘Vikings’.24 The book deals with various peoples and gives important information about the lifestyle of the Rus, but the important passage, which we shall summarize briefly here, is the description of a funeral of one of their chieftains. Being an eyewitness account, Ibn Fadlan’s description is outstanding and carries much greater value than any other ritual description, both because it is much more reliable and because it is much more detailed. 22 

A few other relevant Old Norse texts, but also the funeral scenes in Beowulf, will be mentioned below, in particular, Ynglinga saga ch. 8 concerning Óðinn’s decisions concerning rules for burials, will be treated below in (è33). 23  Part of the information related by Ibn Fadlan is also mentioned by other Arab writers (see Thorir Jonsson Hraundal 2013: 120–21). For other relevant written sources including the Byzantine, see (è33). 24  For a good overview of the history of the Rus and many problems connected to their identity, see Thorir Jonsson Hraundal (2013: in particular 123–28) and Duczko (2004; cf. also è15). Duczko gives a translation of the relevant passage in (2004: 139–41). Another, more philologically oriented translation, is James E. Montgomery’s (2000) with many valuable commentaries (cf. also Montgomery 2008).

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There are problems, however, due to several factors. First and foremost, Ibn Fadlan was an outsider and thus dependent on a translator of whom we know nothing, such as whether he was Rus or perhaps another Muslim; and it seems that there were elements in the ritual that he did not really understand. He also ‘translated’ some of the notions into Arabic, which makes it difficult to find our way ‘back’ to the Scandinavian concepts. For instance, he quotes the slave woman (see below) as saying that she looks into ‘paradise’, a term that she would almost certainly not have used, but we do not know whether she perhaps used a word designating Valhǫll. Another problem is that we do not know to which extent the group of Rus described were travellers, were staying by the river for a shorter period, or if they had perhaps been there for generations. If the latter is correct, we must assume that they were heavily influenced by Slavic and other cultures (the Volga Bulghars were, for example, a Turkish-speaking group; cf. Thorir Jonsson Hraundal 2013: 112), including customs related to religion; and if so, it is obvious that it will be hard to use the description as a means to reconstruct funeral rituals in Scandinavia during the same period. For these reasons, Ibn Fadlan’s text is problematic as a source, although the problems are of another kind than those we usually envisage when we deal with PCRN. Having said this, however, we can also state that there are several elements in the text that correspond to the Scandinavian context without problems. Ibn Fadlan starts out by speaking about some general customs connected to death: for instance, that deceased individuals (apparently both rich and poor) are placed in boats, and the property of a rich person who has died is divided. We are further informed that when someone has died, his family will ask the servants who among them will die with him, and the volunteer (?), most often a girl, cannot take back his or her word, even if he or she should later wish to do so. Ibn Fadlan has been told that a prominent Rus man has died, and the rest of the description is an account of what is done in connection with this death. First, we hear that the deceased was put in a provisional grave for ten days,25 and that a slave woman who is to follow her master onto the pyre is then selected. During the rest of the period, she is accompanied by a couple of girls (who are the daughters of the ‘Angel of Death’, whom we hear about later), who even wash her feet. This can only mean that the girl has now changed her status and should be seen as the chieftain’s wife, at least symbolically.26 When the 25  These ten days should probably be seen as a period of nine nights and thus as a kind of ‘sacred’ period. 26  This is confirmed in the version by Amin Razi where the woman is said to be the wife of the deceased (cf. Duczko 2004: 145).

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day of the cremation arrives, the deceased chieftain’s ship has been pulled up onto the beach and is supported by four planks of birch, while other preparations have also been made. Then people begin to walk around the boat, speaking words that Ibn Fadlan states that he does not understand.27 After that, we hear about the ship being made ready for the chieftain to be placed in. This was done by a figure called ‘The Angel of Death’, whom Ibn Fadlan sees as ‘a strapping old witch’ (Duczko 2004: 139), who is said to be responsible for some of the ‘practical’ tasks during the funeral, although some of these tasks are clearly religious, such as the killing of the servant girl. In this way, she clearly acts as a kind of priestess. Then, some of the Rus go into the provisional grave in order to bring the dead man from there to the ship, and we learn now that they had placed some fruit and alcohol in the provisional grave. They dress him for the cremation and place alongside him various kinds of vegetables and musical instruments and put him into a tent (or a pavilion, cf. Montgomery 2000: 16), which is placed on the ship. Ibn Fadlan then goes on to mention the various animals that are sacrificed: horses, cows, poultry, and a dog, which are all killed in specific ways. For instance, we are told that the horses were made to gallop until they began to sweat and were then cut up and thrown into the ship; the dog, however, is cut in two and also thrown into the ship. Meanwhile the servant girl, drinking and singing, goes into one tent after another, visiting the friends of the deceased, and in each case she has sexual intercourse with the owner of the tent who then asks her to tell her master that he does this for love of him. Later on in the afternoon, they bring the girl to a construction resembling a doorframe. There, she places her feet on the hands of the men, and when they raise her above the doorframe, she utters some words. This is repeated three times, and then she is handed a hen, the head of which she cuts off and throws away, while the men throw the hen into the ship. Having asked the interpreter what is going on, Ibn Fadlan is told that the first time they lifted her, she said: ‘Behold, I see my father and mother’.28 The second time, she said: ‘Behold, I see all of my dead kindred seated’, and the third time: ‘Behold, I see my master, seated in Paradise. Paradise is beautiful and verdant. 27 

Since he did not understand the language of the Rus, it can be assumed, perhaps, that what was spoken in this situation was different from ordinary speech, since it is explicitly mentioned that he did not understand it, and perhaps we are here dealing with some sort of ‘ritual language’. 28  This is also an indication of the status shift mentioned above. The parents of a slave or servant would hardly be conceived of as inhabiting the world to which the chieftain is about to go.

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He is accompanied by his men and his male slaves. He summons me, so bring me to him’ (p. 18). Then, she is brought to the ship where she removes her jewellery and gives it to the Angel of Death and her two daughters, who are identical to her two guards mentioned earlier. She is given more alcohol and sings in order to say farewell to her friends. The girl and the Angel of Death then go into the tent on the ship and six men follow, who all have intercourse with her. After that, a rope is placed around her neck and is pulled by two of the men, while two others take hold of her feet and two of her hands. The Angel of Death then approaches with a dagger, thrusting it several times in between her ribs, while the two men strangle her with the rope until she dies.29 Afterwards, the closest relative of the deceased lights a piece of wood and approaches the pyre walking backwards, facing the spectators, and being completely naked. He has the lighted piece of wood in one hand while the other covers his anus (cf. Sass and Warmind 1989), which should perhaps be seen as an apotropaic act. Then, he ignites the wood, and the other people come forward with firewood and burning sticks, which they throw onto the pyre. A hard wind, then, begins to blow, and within an hour everything is burned. One of the Rus says that this wind was sent by their god. Finally, a round hillock is built on top of the ashes where the ship had been, and on that they erect a piece of wood on which is written the name of the chieftain and the name of the Rus king. As can be seen, we do get a lot of information in this extraordinary description, and although this is not the place to analyse all the details, some remarks are appropriate.30 First of all, we notice that the full ritual sequence involves not one but three ‘passages’: First, we have the dead chieftain who is thought to go from this world to the Other World; second, we have the slave girl, whose status is changed and who also later has to leave this world and accompany her ‘husband’ into the Other World; and third, it appears that we glimpse part of an inauguration ritual, in which the closest relative, perhaps a son of the deceased, lights the pyre. The way this is done recalls some elements that we often meet in initiation rituals (cf. Eliade 1975), in which a new leader comes into office: namely, the fact that he is naked and that he walks backwards towards the pyre. Therefore, he faces the group (the living) whose leader he is going to be, and he approaches them from the Other World and thus as a ‘newborn’ or ‘reborn’ leader, since nakedness often functions as a symbolic characteristic of the neophytes in initiation rituals (Eliade 1975: 32, passim). Ibn Fadlan was much 29  This combination of strangling and stabbing has reminded many scholars of Óðinn’s self-hanging (è42). 30  A more detailed analysis is found in Schjødt (2007b; 2008: 344–52).

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more focused on what happened to the dead chieftain and the slave girl, and it is quite likely that there could have been several rites, of which we are told nothing, whose object was the new chieftain. Perhaps they were carried out in secrecy or at least less publically. This distinction between three ritual sequences for the three main subjects involved is, of course, only an analytical move. Ibn Fadlan does not distinguish between them, nor do most historians of religion. Nevertheless, it can be useful to bear in mind that a funeral ritual is not always only a funeral ritual, although all the various rites are, obviously, triggered by a death. Perhaps the most important merit of Ibn Fadlan’s description is that it allows us to see a ritual sequence. From the death of the chieftain to the final raising of the hillock it is actually possible to apply van Gennep’s three-phase structure: The preparations taking place while the chieftain is in the provisional grave and the appointing of the slave girl, perhaps together with many other rites of which Ibn Fadlan was not aware, constitute the separation phase. Most of the rites carried out on the day when the chieftain is burned can be seen as liminal. The exception are the rites performed after the burning, such as the raising of the hillock and the erection of the piece of wood with the name of the Rus king, which classify as rites of incorporation: The chieftain has now been transferred to the Other World, and the living will return to their ordinary mode of existence. As is evident, there is much sexual symbolism involved, and this is probably an important feature in bringing the dead into a new mode of existence, since the men do it for love of their ‘master’. There is also a great deal of drinking going on, especially in connection with the slave girl, who appears to be drunk most of the time, at least on the day of the funeral. This can easily be linked to some of the ritual feasts already mentioned, where drinking clearly has ritual properties. Other ‘classic’ religious features are the walking around the pyre, a kind of circumambulation, and not least the sacrifices that take place. There can hardly be any doubt that the way these animals were killed also had a special symbolic value (the horses and the dog in particular), but we cannot know the significance of all the individual rites mentioned by Ibn Fadlan. This leaves us in a situation that necessitates much interpretation. An important question, mentioned above, is to what extent this ritual description reflects Viking Age Scandinavian customs. Even though we cannot be certain, there are a number of elements that suggest a rather close resemblance: for instance, the words spoken by the slave girl when she is lifted above the doorframe and looking into ‘Paradise’. She sees her dead relatives and her master surrounded by his men, which may well be a vision of Valhǫll. If a Muslim had to find a word for this very positively connoted place, he would

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hardly hesitate to call it ‘Paradise’. Another example is the god who sends the wind in order to take the chieftain to this otherworldly abode. If we consider which god is likely to invite chieftains to his kingdom, and who among the gods rules over the wind, the answer is most certainly Óðinn. In Ynglinga saga ch. 7, he is said to be able to manipulate the wind with mere words,31 and he is the patron god of noble men who will go to Valhǫll when they die (Schjødt 2007a). This combination of a god of the dead, having a specific relation to chieftains and other noblemen, and also god of the wind may not be particular for Scandinavians, but it could very well suggest that Óðinn was the god of Rus chieftains. Finally, a minor detail seems to be decisive when it comes to determining whether the Rus ritual links to Scandinavian religious ideas. After the slave girl is lifted up above the doorframe, she takes a hen and cuts off its head, which she then throws away, whereas the body of the hen is thrown onto the ship. A clear parallel to this, although in inverted form and in a completely different context, is found in Gesta Danorum 1.8.14.32 It is part of the story of Hadingus, which relates how the protagonist was invited by a woman from the underworld, which is of course also the world of the dead, to join her in order to see where he would go after his death, as Saxo philosophizes. Having passed through a fog, he sees a sunny place with fresh grass. Then they arrive at a river in which various weapons are flowing and across which there is a bridge. Once they cross, they see two armies (acies) fighting.33 These are people, the woman explains, who have died in battle and who are doing the same as they did while they were alive. Then they come to a wall, which is difficult to cross, but the woman cuts the head off a rooster and throws it over the wall. The rooster crows from the other side, proving that it is now alive again. Without further information, we are then told that Hadingus is back in his own world. As just mentioned, there are important differences between the two episodes when it comes to context. Ibn Fadlan describes a ritual act, whereas Saxo deals with a mythic or semi-mythic episode. However, it is not surprising that 31 

This may seem to contradict the idea of Þórr as the wind raiser (Perkins 2001; cf. è41). However, we do not have to see each individual function as belonging only to one individual god (cf. Schjødt 2012b). If Þórr is really a wind-raiser, he is so by a physical act — namely, by blowing — whereas Óðinn manipulates the wind, as Snorri says, by words and thus by a mental act. 32  Duczko (2004: 149) has also noticed this parallel, but he does not take into consideration the differences between the two incidents described by Saxo and Ibn Fadlan, respectively. Thus, he argues that the hen may actually have been a rooster, ignoring the fact that the two incidents constitute an inversion of each other (see below). 33  The description with two armies, consisting of men who have died in battle, of course recalls the various descriptions of Valhǫll (è34).

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symbolic structures found in myths can also be found in rituals. Other differences, however, should rather be seen as inversions: Ibn Fadlan refers to a hen, whereas Saxo mentions a rooster. The slave girl and Hadingus, although both deal with the world of the dead, approach it from different directions: Hadingus is in the realm of the dead, whereas the slave girl is still among the living. This means that the woman in Saxo throws the head into the world of the living, where it crows as a sign of life, whereas in Ibn Fadlan’s description, the body of the hen is thrown into the world of the dead, that is, onto the ship. Thus, there is a series of inversions: In Ibn Fadlan, a woman is about to join the dead, a hen is decapitated, and its body thrown into the world of the dead by some men; whereas Hadingus is about to join the living, a rooster is decapitated, and its head thrown into the world of the living by a woman. All this means that, although the two episodes are very different, they are so in a very systematic way. The elements are the same: a person about to go from one world to another, a decapitated poultry bird, the head remaining in or thrown into the world of the living, or the body remaining in or thrown into the world of the dead. The parallels play on a range of oppositions: masculine vs. feminine, head vs. body, this world vs. the Other World, life vs. death. This structural parallel, although in the form of an inversion, is so detailed that even if we are not ready to accept all of the other parallels noted above and elsewhere, it cannot be explained away by pointing to general features in the religions of the world or to coincidence. Therefore, it seems indisputable that these Rus people and their world-view were at least to some extent Scandinavianderived. We will obviously never know whether the other elements might likewise be typical Scandinavian or whether they constitute a mixture of traits from multiple cultures, as suggested by Thorir Jonsson Hraundal (2013: 128), but it would be wise not to reject the information presented by Ibn Fadlan, for instance, in the interpretation of archaeological finds, as has also been accepted by many archaeologists (e.g., Price 2012; è33). Initiations into Warrior Bands We have already dealt with initiation into the warrior bands (è24) in some detail and will therefore be brief in this section. Unlike the transition from the living to the dead in the funeral rituals, we are not very well informed about warrior initiations, nor, as mentioned, about most other passage rituals. In fact, we only have some semi-mythical accounts, mostly from the fornaldarsögur. We have treated the Sigmundr-Sinfjǫtli episode from Vǫlsunga saga and the Bǫðvarr-Hjalti episode from Hrólfs saga kraka above (è 24), both of which

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seem to be reminiscences of rituals that are likely to have been performed in connection with initiations into warrior bands. In these sagas, a few more incidents are described, which may be part of the same ritual complex, but none that add substantially to our knowledge of such initiations. What can be said with some certainty is that such rituals would have involved tests of skills and courage, as is obvious in the two saga episodes just mentioned, but also for instance Hálfs saga ok Hálfsrekka ch. 10 and Jómsvikinga saga ch. 6 — both mentioned above in connection with puberty rituals — yield information about what was needed to become accepted into these warrior bands. Even so, we are nowhere explicitly told about religious rituals in that connection. However, another important feature is the link to Óðinn, pointed out already by Otto Höfler (1934: 323–41) who at the time termed the institution of the warrior band a Weihekriegertum, thus clearly indicating the initiation aspect. Thus, it appears rather unproblematic to infer initiation rituals, most likely associated with Óðinn (cf. Schjødt 2008), whenever these bands are mentioned. Further, on the basis of these semi-mythical sources, we moreover obtain the idea that, apart from the tests, some sort of symbolic transformation into animals was also involved, mainly wolves and bears, but perhaps also boars (cf. Hedeager 2011: 89–90), and other animals. It seems clear that these warriors were connected to Óðinn, not only when alive but also in death (Schjødt 2007a), becoming the einherjar of Valhǫll, the warriors who will fight the giants at Ragnarǫk and until then will carry on happily drinking and fighting. We cannot reconstruct a detailed ritual sequence from these sources, but it appears that they followed the three-phase scheme outlined by Arnold van Gennep: first, a separation from the ordinary society by performing the tests, which would make the neophytes ready for the second step, which is the liminal period during which they were probably identified with certain Odinic animals and perhaps going through a symbolic death (cf. Sinfjǫtli, è24). Finally, we have the third step, when they were reintegrated into society and received a new name and some warrior equipment. Even if the sources appear meager, we can be confident that, just as the institution of the warrior band played a significant role among the Germani right up until the Christianization (and perhaps even after), the accompanying initiation rituals formed an important part of the religious and social life of the military elite.34 34 

In an intriguing article, Michael Enright (2007) has proposed an interpretation of one of the plates (IV) of the Gundestrup cauldron as depicting a warrior initiation. However, since the cauldron is of Celtic or Thracian provenance, it cannot be taken as direct evidence of initiations into the Germanic/Nordic warrior bands.

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Initiation of Rulers As with the initiation rituals of warriors, we have almost only indirect sources pertaining to the initiation of kings and other rulers, which have likewise been dealt with above (è23). There, we noticed that it seems as if the new king had to be placed in a high seat as part of the inauguration, confirming that at least some symbolic actions took place when a new ruler came into power, as has also been argued by a number of scholars (e.g., Sundqvist 2001, 2002, 2016). In this brief section, therefore, we shall only deal with one aspect of these rituals: namely, the transmission of numinous knowledge, which is part of most initiation rituals across the world.

Figure 32.3. ‘Mora stenar’ according to Olaus Magnus in Historia de gentibus septentrionalibus, a history of the Nordic people, printed in Rome in 1555. The stones at Mora in central Uppland were the site where Swedish kings were elected in the Middle Ages. At the election, the king stood on a large stone slab. These rituals concerned the inauguration of Christian kings, but the ritual element of standing on a large stone slab may be older, and may have been an alternative to initiating a ruler in a high seat (Zachrisson 2010). After: Magnus 2010 [1555]: 324. 

In an interesting article from 1970, Jere Fleck proposes that some of the eddic poems (Hyndluljóð, Grímnismál, and Rígsþula) were concerned with such transmission. In Hyndluljóð, the frame-story is that Freyja is riding to the underworld on a boar, which in reality is Óttarr, a king-to-be and her protégé, in order to obtain information from a wise giantess, Hyndla. The main part of the poem is a long series of pieces of information, genealogical as well as mythic, given reluctantly by Hyndla (è45).35 In Grímnismál, the frame-story 35 

For an analysis of the initiation theme in Hyndluljóð, see Schjødt (2008: 251–61; and more briefly, 2016: 138–44).

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tells of how Óðinn gave secret information to Geirrøðr, his protégé, who later becomes a famous king; subsequently, Óðinn similarly related information to his son, Agnarr, who must be assumed to become king after the death of his father.36 Finally, Rígsþula tells the story of a god, Rígr, who in the introductory prose is identified with Heimdallr but could also be seen as a manifestation of Óðinn (cf. Cöllen 2011: 82–92, with references; Schjødt 2017b), who travels through the human world. By having sexual intercourse with three women from three different strata within society, Rígr becomes progenitor of three social classes: slaves, free farmers, and the nobility. The son of the third woman, who is noble, is called Jarl and his youngest son, in turn, is Konr who is called ‘Konr ungr’, a name clearly intended to imply the noun konungr, ‘king’. From stanza 43 onwards, we are told about Konr’s skills, including knowledge of runes and other sorts of magic, and as it happens he becomes more knowledgeable about runes than his father, thereby acquiring the right to call himself Rígr (st. 45) (è 50).37 Through a comparison and analysis of these three poems, Fleck finds that all three portray a divine actor imparting knowledge to a potential king, and that the relationship between god and protégé is crucial for the discharging of the latter’s duties in the sacral kingship. Thus, for Fleck, the only reasonable way to understand Rígsþula st. 45, where Jarl and Konr are discussing runes, is that Konr proves superior because Rígr has instructed him. Fleck’s conclusion to his analysis of Rígsþula is that education in numinous knowledge, supplied by some divine figure, formed a decisive factor in the succession to a Germanic sacred kingship (Fleck 1970: 42).38 This idea seems to be confirmed when we look at other ‘kings’ in the semi-mythic texts, such as Sigmundr and Sigurðr in Vǫlsunga saga, Hadingus and Haraldus Hyldetan in Gesta Danorum, and others. They all have links to Óðinn, and they all receive advice and other gifts from him (è42). Thus, even if pagan inauguration rituals, at least those elements that were directly associated with pagan gods, had to be abandoned with the Christianization,

36 

Whether or not Óðinn’s visions in Grímnismál should be regarded as information intended for Agnarr can, however, be discussed (see Schjødt 1988 and Nygaard 2019) 37  Rígr is derived from Irish rí, meaning ‘king’; accordingly, it should here be seen as a title. 38  Fleck also argues that the fact that both Konr and Geirrøðr are youngest sons is important, because it shows that ideally younger sons would become kings instead of the oldest, if they possessed sufficient knowledge. If this idea is correct, it contributes to emphasize the importance of such knowledge. For further discussion of the last stanzas in Rígsþula, see also von See and others (2000: 646–65).

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it seems possible to get a glimpse of what they were like through these semimythic or legendary texts.39 Although none of the sources individually considered can be said to constitute ‘proof ’ that such inauguration rituals were performed, when we take all the evidence into consideration, it seems that we can be confident that they actually were, indeed, performed. Not least adopting a comparative perspective strongly suggests this, since there is hardly a single example of new kings whose ascension to that title has not taken them through such ceremonies; and in religious societies, these are always more or less directly connected to the Other World. The Formation of Blood-Brotherhood40 As opposed to initiations of kings and elite warriors, which we find in almost all societies, there also existed an institution in pre-Christian Scandinavia, which is only found in some societies. This is the blood-brotherhood: the mixing of blood among a number of men, who thereby create a kind of artificial family relation, which was, however, just as strong as a ‘real’ one and included obligations to avenge the killing of one’s blood-brothers.41 We may speculate whether this goes back to some sort of military fraternities, and should therefore perhaps belong in the section on warrior initiations (cf. Hellmuth 1975: 202–18). However, as we meet the institution in the medieval sources, a direct connection cannot be discerned. The institution of blood-brotherhood is mentioned in several textual passages,42 but it has left no traces in archaeology. Paradoxically, we see that even if the institution apparently does not hold the same amount of public importance as, for instance, the institution of kingship or warrior bands, we are much better informed about the initiation into it. Several reasons for this could be suggested, one of them being the absence of 39  As has been argued by Gunnell (1995 and many others), it is quite likely that some of the eddic poems were parts of rituals. If this is also the case with Rígþula, we can easily imagine that the poem would be part of a ritual aiming at supplying the new king with numinous power by a human figure impersonating the god (whether Heimdallr or Óðinn). 40  This section is an abbreviated and revised version of Schjødt (2008: 355–73). 41  Of course, this relation would be different from that of the biological family, in the sense that the blood-brotherhood did not involve obligations of any sort to family members of the other blood-brothers, including vengeance. Therefore, the blood-brotherhood was a kind of ‘closed’ community, only involving the members, and thus reminding us of the members of the warrior bands. 42  Hellmuth (1975: 14–54) contains a complete register of the passages in the sources.

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warrior bands and kings in Iceland, whereas blood-brotherhood was apparently quite common. The main sources for the rituals initiating a man into blood-brotherhood are three saga descriptions and a passage from Gesta Danorum. They are all presented here in full. Gísla saga Súrssonar [ch. 6] Ganga nú út í Eyrarhválsodda ok rísta þar upp ór jǫrðu jarðarmen svá at báðir endar váru fastir í jǫrðu ok settu þar undir málaspjót þat er maðr mátti taka hendi sinni til geirnagla. Þeir skyldu þar fjórir undir ganga, Þorgrímr, Gísli, Þorkell ok Vésteinn. Ok nú vekja þeir sér blóð ok láta renna saman dreyra sinn í þeiri moldu er upp var skorin undan jarðarmeninu ok hrœra saman allt, moldina ok blóðit. En síðan fellu þeir allir á kné ok sverja þann eið at hverr skal annars hefna sem bróður síns ok nefna ǫll goðin í vitni. (pp. 22–23) (They walked out to Eyrarhvolsoddi and scored out a long strip of turf, making sure that both ends were still attached to the ground. Then they propped up the arch of raised turf with a damascened spear so long-shafted that a man could stretch out his arm and touch the rivets. All four of them had to go under it, Thorgrim, Gisli, Thorkel and Vestein. Then they drew blood and let it drip down onto the soil beneath the turf strip and stirred it together — the soil and the blood. Then they all fell to their knees and swore an oath that each would avenge the other as if they were brothers, and they called on all the gods as their witnesses.) (p. 7) Fóstbrœðra saga [ch. 2] Hafði sú siðvenja verit hǫfð frægra manna, þeira er þat lǫgmál settu sín í milli, at sá skyldi annars hefna, er lengr lifði, þá skyldu þeir ganga undir þrjú jarðarmen, ok var þat eiðr þeira. Sá leikr var á þá lund, at rísta skyldi þrjár torfur ór jǫrðu langar; þeira endar skyldu allir fastir í jǫrðu ok heimta upp lykkjurnar, svá at men mætti ganga undir. (p. 125) (It had been a tradition among men of renown to become bound to each other by a law which stated that whoever outlived the other would undertake to avenge his death. They had to walk underneath a triple arch of raised turf, and this signified their oath. The arch was made by scoring out three lengths of turf and leaving them attached to the ground at both ends, then raising them to a height whereby it was possible to walk underneath them.) (p. 331) Þorsteins saga Víkingssonar [ch. 21] ‘Nú vil ek bjóða þér þann kost, ef þú gefr Bela líf, at vit sverjumst í fóstbrœðralag’[…] var þettta síðan bundit fastmælum. Þeir vöktu sér blóð í lófum ok gengu undir jarðarmen ok sóru þar eiða, at hverr skyldi annars hefna, ef nokkurr þeira yrði með vápnum veginn. (p. 234)

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(‘Now I will offer you that condition, if you let Beli live, that we swear foster-brotherhood’ […] This was later confirmed by a firm engagement. They let blood run into the palms of their hands and went under a strip of turf and there swore oaths that each would avenge the other if one of them was killed by weapons.) Gesta Danorum [1.6.7] Spoliatum nutrice Hadingum grandeuus forte quidam altero orbus oculo solitarium miseratus Lisero cuidam pirate solenni pactionis iure consiliat. Siquidem icturi foedus ueteres uestigia sua mutui sanguinis aspersione perfundere consueuerant, amicitiarum pignus alterni cruoris commercio firmaturi. (p. 48) (An aged man with only one eye happened to take pity on the lonely Hading, robbed of his nurse, and brought him into friendship with a pirate Liser by establishing a covenant between them. Now our ancestors, when they meant to strike a pact, would sprinkle their combined blood in their footprints and mingle it, so as to strengthen the pledge of their fellowship.) (p. 49)

There are a few other hints to this ritual, especially about blood running into foot­ prints,43 but, as in Saxo, without the so-called jarðarmen rite being mentioned. Although all these sources are of a fairly recent date in relation to the time that they pretend to describe, most scholars agree that they do, in fact, give us some idea of how the formation of blood-brotherhood took place, not least because the customs are so ‘strange’ that an influence from Christianity is very unlikely. However, there is considerable disagreement about the symbolism of the ritual(s) described.44 Common for the first three sources is that the participants are to ganga undir jarðarmen (go under a strip of turf or an arch of raised turf ),45 and that they must swear an oath; the two actions appear in Fóstbrœðra saga to be identical — going under the turf is the oath. In all three saga episodes, the oaths are closely connected to vengeance: he who lives longest must avenge the other(s). Thus, the ritual will have consequences for the parties involved for the rest of their lives, and the blood-brothers are henceforth to be seen as actual brothers, as is most obvious in Gísla saga. Maybe we should even speak of a kind of identity among blood-brothers, as was postulated by Jan de Vries almost a hundred years ago (de Vries 1929a: 116) — at least we know that it was thought 43 

For instance in Brot af Sigurðarkviðu st. 17, where Brynhildr says: ‘mantattu, Gunnarr, til gorva þat, er þit blóði í spor báðir rendot’ (‘You clearly did not remember, Gunnarr, that you both let your blood run into a trench’; a more literal translation, however, would be: ‘Do you not remember, Gunnarr, that you both let your blood run into your footprints’). 44  A detailed overview is found in Hellmuth (1975: 78–84). 45  Literally, jarðarmen means ‘earth necklace’.

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that important qualities could be transferred from one being to another along with the blood (see, for instance, Hrólfs saga kraka ch. 35). It is therefore a matter of entering a new existence, which is so often part of the symbolism within initiation rituals and passage rituals in general (Hellmuth 1975: 190–92). Here, this is indicated not least by the jarðarmen rite, which most likely symbolizes a kind of rebirth (Pappenheim 1919: 78–80; de Vries 1929a: 132). The texts quoted above undoubtedly describe, if not the ‘same’, then at least related rituals.46 The descriptions are not identical, which may well be due to the knowledge or lack of knowledge of the authors, although it could also indicate that the entrance into blood-brotherhood could be ritualized in slightly different ways, to which we shall return shortly. In the following, we shall deal briefly with the various elements and their possible symbolism, especially that of ganga undir jarðarmen.47 In the descriptions quoted above, we essentially see three rites: namely, the swearing of oaths, the mixing of blood, and the jardarmen rite. The swearing of oaths should probably be seen as a confirmation of the entry into blood-brotherhood directed both at the people involved (and probably also those attending) and at the gods (cf. the description in Gísla saga).48 We hear about oath-taking and the swearing of oaths in many sagas, although often without learning much about the accompanying rites (cf. Hellmuth 1975: 16–53). But the taking of oaths will, in a religious society, most often be part of religious rituals involving the gods, who should probably be seen as guarantors for the keeping of the oaths, and the oaths, therefore, will involve some numinous qualities. And the same is, of course, part of the symbolism connected to blood:49 blood has, as we saw in 46  It has been argued by, for instance, Rolf Heller (1976: 116–22) and others that the descriptions should be seen as literary ‘loans’. This cannot be ruled out, but similarities could just as well be due to knowledge of the same ritual procedure, of course with the variations that must always be expected. 47  The rite of ganga undir jarðarmen was apparently also used in other contexts than those of forming a blood-brotherhood (see, for instance, Pappenheim 1919: 70; Pappenheim 1924: 116). In Laxdæla saga ch. 18, it seems to serve as a Gottesurteil (judgement by the gods), and in Vatnsdæla saga ch. 33 as a kind of penitence caused by some shameful act (cf. also BrennuNjáls saga ch. 119; see also Schjødt 2008: 369–72). In later folklore there are examples of how parents let their sick children be drawn through a hole in the turf in order to cure them (Olrik and Ellekilde 1926–51: i, 361), clearly implying that the child is reborn. 48  We should also remember here that in Saxo’s description Óðinn is certainly involved, although it is not said directly that he was called upon during the ritual, neither as a witness nor as anything else. 49  The fact that blood is not mentioned in Fóstbrœðra saga cannot be taken as an indica-

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the previous chapter and in (è 25), some sacred or numinous value, whether we are talking about sacrifices or the mixing of blood in connection with passage rituals. The blood of the participants is mixed, whether it runs into the palms of their hands and/or is mixed with the soil, most likely both, which is quite a powerful symbolism for the transfer of abilities. In Gísla saga, there is no mention of footprints as in Brot af Sigurðarkviðu and Gesta Danorum, but the blood is mixed with the soil underneath the turf, which could very well be in the footprints of the participants without the author explicitly stating it. The symbolism, however, seems clear: the blood, be it mixed directly in the palms or in the footprints, which have a metonymic relation also to the participants, creates a bond between them and this is of the same kind as that between blood relatives. The jarðarmen rite seems to highlight the significance of the underworld with its numinous power, so that the blood in the footprints not only creates a bond between the participants, but it also creates a bond to the underworld realm. In this way, the participants symbolically go to the underworld, which is also the world of the dead (de Vries 1929a: 132), and in doing so they separate themselves from the ordinary space in which they usually live. This can easily be understood as part of the three-phase structure, suggested by van Gennep, as a rite of separation: the participants ‘die’ out of the existence they had prior to the ritual. Their ‘return’ from the underworld should likewise be seen as a kind of rebirth, as has been suggested by many commentators, including Pappenheim, de Vries, and Hellmuth, and thus as a rite of incorporation. In between, the liminal part of the ritual, including the swearing of oaths that involve the gods and the mixing of the blood, has taken place, thus making the soil beneath the jarðarmen almost literally a liminal space. With all the reservations we have to take into account when we attempt to reconstruct such rituals, we could perhaps imagine the following series of events: Turf is dug up from the soil to form a jarðarmen. This already indicates tion that it played no part in the ritual sequence. Of course it cannot be ruled out that this could be the case, but it is much more likely, since the blood is mentioned in the three other passages, as well as in Brot af Sigurðarkviðu st. 17, that the author of the saga did not know this rite or perhaps did not find it interesting to relate. It is also somewhat suspicious that it is said that the passage under the jarðarmen in itself would signify the oaths, since, in the Old Norse wording, the two elements seem more or less identical: to go under jarðarmen is their oath. This description, therefore, appears somewhat different from the others. Theoretically, we could propose that the authors of the three other passages added this incident with the blood, but it seems much more likely, as mentioned, that the author of Fóstbrœðra saga simply did not know about it.

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that people other than the blood-brothers-to-be were part of the ritual, which makes good sense, also because it was probably important that there were witnesses (apart from the gods) to the formation of this new confraternity. Under the turf, a spear, perhaps a reference to Óðinn whose main attribute is the spear, is raised. Then, probably attended by some less spectacular rites, since they are not mentioned in any of the descriptions, the coming blood-brothers will descend into the symbolic underworld, maybe thinking of themselves as people about to die out of their ‘old existence’. Here, they will let their blood flow and it will be mixed, either directly on their palms or less directly via their footprints. We must suppose that the oaths were spoken, and other words, probably addressed to the gods, could perhaps also be involved. Having been changed in this dramatic way, the participants were then reborn to their ‘new existence’, which involved new relatives who were no less close than those of their former life. Of course, we cannot know all these things for certain, but it seems safe to assume that in the pagan period the likelihood is that much more took place during these rituals than what we are explicitly told about. Therefore, what we have in these descriptions is probably the most detailed information concerning any passage ritual in PCRN, except for the funeral ritual described by Ibn Fadlan. As was mentioned above, it seems somewhat surprising that the institution of blood-brotherhood was in this way remembered better and in more detail than initiation rituals into other, more spectacular, offices. Possible explanations could be that they grew out of the initiations into the military confraternities independent of the central authority of the kingdoms, which did not exist in Iceland. Consequently, blood-feud remained more important in Iceland, and for that reason knowledge of the ritual lived on to be recorded in literary texts emphasizing the need for vengeance. However, such a development is difficult to support from the sources.

Concluding Remarks As we have seen, even if the sources are far from ideal, it is possible to reconstruct a few elements that seem to have been part of the passage rituals within PCRN, and this is also the case when it comes to the reconstruction of the structure and symbolism involved in the types of passage rituals dealt with above. The sources do not allow us glimpses of other kinds of passage rituals or initiations, although we can be fairly sure that they did exist. For instance, the entrance into at least some of the various kinds of religious specializations (è29) presumably involved such rituals. It is, thus, not likely that people who specialized in runic magic should not have gone through some learning pro-

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cess, involving Óðinn and a number of rituals connected to him, or that people who were able to perform seiðr were not somehow exposed to those spirits that were to help them perform their art. The fact is, however, that these matters are not described in any written sources, and they cannot be detected, either, through archaeological material. It is only by means of comparative material that we can assume their existence, and therefore it is not possible for us to reconstruct such rituals in all their details.

33 – Death Ritual and Mortuary Behaviour Neil Price Introduction Death is a collective experience, one that includes the living left behind, who may also themselves be changed by the absence of the dead. Burial customs are often analysed by archaeologists in terms of typologies of artefacts and grave form, assemblages of so-called ‘grave goods’ (the things accompanying the dead) and changing combinations of material culture. While all these and other, similar lines of enquiry can produce fruitful results, in fact they are all subsumed within a larger picture: burials represent behaviour, by no means only relating to the dead, and behind that behaviour lie entire worlds of ideas, beliefs, practices, customs, traditions, and social concepts of the normative and deviant. The later Iron Age of Scandinavia and the northern cultures is especially fertile ground for the study of these worldviews, particularly as they encode loosely conceived packages of religion and spirituality, and offer a chance to attain a glimpse of these peoples’ attitudes to life as manifest in their approaches to death. This chapter is intended to provide a critical review of this complex field, including a broad synthesis of the available material and its changing interpretation, with a forgiving eye to the conventions of the previous generations of research and a simultaneous caution concerning the conservative influence of received wisdom. The focus throughout will be on archaeological data, including the necessary reinterpretation of antiquarian finds and excavations from past decades. Written sources will also be brought to bear, but with a stress on Neil Price, Professor of Archaeology, Uppsala University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume ii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 2 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 853–896 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116960

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contemporaneity and the context of their composition and transmission. In addition to a source-critical assessment of the relevant texts, attention will also be paid to the usefulness of the different perspectives that may be applied to them (see also è32). The burial customs of later Iron Age Scandinavia in particular exhibit a marked degree of social, regional, and chronological variation. Strong emphasis will be placed on nuanced and multi-scalar interpretations, taking care to avoid assumptions of ‘religion’ in assessing the behaviour for which the graves provide evidence. Funerary rituals will be explored as a component of the larger thought-world mentioned above but also embracing many other arenas of social action. Furthermore, burial must not be seen as merely an act, a single event at a brief moment of time, but as part of a longer continuity both before and after. The chapter will conclude with the need to assess the wider context of mortuary behaviour at every level, from its social situation to the literal landscapes of memory within which ‘cemeteries’ may prove to be illusorily discrete entities. Key themes must include agency, active interaction with the funerary environment, and, above all, the question of what it meant to be dead in the later Iron Age.

Dealing with Death: Research Approaches to Late Iron Age Mortuary Behaviour A comprehensive survey of scholarly paradigms in the interpretation of Late Iron Age mortuary behaviour is of course impossible in a treatment of this scope, but we may profitably employ one key region — Iceland — as a lens through which to view more general trends, with reference back to the broader picture in the Scandinavian homelands. This island in the North Atlantic has long assumed a perhaps disproportional prominence in the overall trajectory and reception of early Scandinavian history, especially that of the Viking Age, due to the unique preservation of Old Norse narrative tradition in the form of the sagas and poetry ( Jónas Kristjánsson 1988; McTurk 2005; Clunies Ross 2010). This enormous corpus is of course a prominent element of the entire PCRN project and requires no further explanation here, but it is of importance to the study of funerary archaeology because of its influence on the entire perception of the Viking Age past as it played out in the Scandinavian nations during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. This process has been well studied (e.g. Wawn 1994, 2000; Roesdahl and Sørensen 1996; Wilson 1997; Gerhard and others 1997; Svanberg 2003a), and in relation to mortuary behaviour it encouraged a romantic view of

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Viking heroes and noble shield maidens, visualized through finds from graves. Coupled with this deeply rooted narrative heritage, especially prominent in the folklore and cultural life of rural communities, a strong tradition of what might be called ‘popular antiquarianism’ was prevalent throughout the North in the early modern period (Adolf Friðriksson 1994). In Iceland especially, wherever remotely possible this resulted in a compulsively determined attempt to link the occupants of excavated graves to named figures in the Norse literature, or at least to the farms that they were thought to have inhabited. This relationship between sagas and a kind of historical topography of burial was championed in the late nineteenth century by scholars such as Kristian Kålund (Adolf Friðriksson 2013: 28–35), and later incorporated with the developing school of archaeological typology and fledgling science by the Society of Antiquaries of Iceland. The latter was strongly influenced by the work of Swedes such as Hans Hildebrand and Oscar Montelius, especially the latter who in 1895–97 produced the first refined chronology of the later Iron Age, largely derived from burial excavations. This work was taken up in Iceland by researchers such as Valtýr Guðmundsson. Towards the end of the 1800s and on into the early twentieth century, these new perspectives were given massive impetus by the discovery of the ship burials at Borre, Oseberg, and Gokstad, and the work of Norwegian archaeologists such as Oluf Rygh, Nicolas Nicolaysen, Håkon Shetelig, and A.W. Brøgger; in Sweden, the exploration of the Vendel boat graves by Hjalmar Stolpe had similar effects (see below for references to all these excavations). Once more focusing on a cultural historical approach associating archaeological finds with the saga histories, burial excavations such as these brought an overwhelming focus on the high-status dead — on the chieftains and princes who were then thought to be emerging from the Old Norse epics into empirically verifiable reality (something especially tangible at the Gamla Uppsala cemeteries and other so-called storhögar in central Sweden (Lindqvist 1936). The complexity of these discoveries also began to open the way for systematic post-excavation programmes that would have far-reaching implications across Scandinavia, not least in the excavations at Gamla Uppsala, which was perceived as a comparable site in both mythologized legend and material culture to Norwegian Borre. The new understanding of the sheer scale of evidence that was preserved in the Scandinavian landscape led to a drive towards salvage and/or preservation, both somewhat innovative concepts in the early 1900s when what we would now call ‘heritage management’ was only in its infancy (Adolf Friðriksson 2013: 35–38). In Iceland this was pioneered by Matthías Þórðarson, but the real breakthrough came with the work of his successor as state antiquary,

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Kristján Eldjárn, whose efforts on behalf of the country’s heritage later took him to the presidency. Eldjárn conceived the idea of a new Icelandic history, one based firmly on archaeological evidence rather than the received wisdom of the sagas. This marked a major break with previous traditions, and he soon put this into practice in the compilation of a massive catalogue of all Viking Age graves then known from Iceland. The resulting work — which in its various incarnations still forms the backbone of study in this field — was published in 1956, and was updated and expanded by Adolf Friðriksson in 2000 and 2017. Another major transformation in burial studies was felt throughout Scandinavia with a beginning in the 1950s and accelerating impact from the 1970s onwards: the development of so-called ‘rescue archaeology’, in the wake of major infrastructure projects (see Bennett 1987: 5–14, discussing the gradually increasing contributions made by Mälar sites such as Lovö, Helgö, and Birka, with numerous references; see also è 6). Far from focusing on spectacular monuments for the upper classes, the essentially random — or at least topographically driven — location of the excavations revealed hitherto unsuspected landscapes of death and brought about a new democratization in the study of Late Iron Age mortuary behaviour. That this occurred by accident rather than design has not lessened its implications for our understanding of the period. Simultaneously with this new direction in funerary archaeology, saga specialists were beginning to seriously question the usefulness of the textual sources in the reconstruction of an actual Viking Age reality (a discussion beyond the scope of this chapter, but see Clunies Ross 1994a, 1998a, 2010). One arguable consequence of this growing divide between archaeologists and textual scholars was a corresponding separation of interpretation (which was seen as the realm of narrative, and thus text) and data-gathering (viewed as the prime mission of archaeology). For many years, and all too often still continuing today, burials were therefore recorded, described, and published essentially as catalogues of the dead and their supposed possessions (in fact, the objects may have belonged to a variety of different people, and by their presence signalled different meanings accordingly). Thus we read of individuals interred with a number of artefacts and animals presented simply as an itemized inventory list. Furthermore, the artefacts themselves, the so-called ‘grave goods’, have been focused upon for their intrinsic interest, at the expense of other preserved traces that might instead point to what had actually happened in the course of the funeral, the presumed ceremonies, or rites. In particular, it is often overlooked that people, animals, and objects in the burials were in many instances only present in part, for example, in the form of deliberately broken artefacts, dismem-

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bered and incomplete bodies, and cremation deposits that clearly do not represent a whole corpse. When cremations are not found on the site of the pyre, where were the dead burned? In the case of animals, where were they killed? Where only some body parts of animals or humans are present, what happened to the rest? All this necessarily implies that the ‘missing’ pieces must have been disposed of somewhere else, perhaps in several places. By extension, this would suggest that ‘funerals’ may have been very much more elaborate and extended processes, both in space and time, than has conventionally been assumed. A related problem concerns the identity of the people in the graves. Even when skeletal remains are present and reasonably well preserved, osteological determinations of both sex and age are notoriously unreliable, and in any case say little of full-spectrum gender constructions. However, in the not uncommon absence of preserved bones, the sex and gender of the dead have often been — and still are — frequently inferred from objects alone, certain types and combinations of things being assumed to equate simply with biological sex (jewellery for a woman, weapons for a man, and so on). This misleading reliance on artefactual, osteological, and genetic signals has been analysed at length and with despairing accuracy by Back Danielsson (2007: 60–63 and ch. 2), who rightly observes that in most cases we are simply sexing metal and assigning gender to bones. It is hard to overestimate the impact that these biases have had on our published record of Late Iron Age burial, and thus our understanding of contemporary mortuary behaviour. The assumptions noted above are often undeclared in the literature, and without detailed re-examination of every individual grave in the museum storerooms of the North (in cases where the material even survives at all), we have little way of knowing to what degree the burial of, for example, ‘a woman in her mid-40s’ is in any way a genuine reflection of the actual grave or the person in it. In some instances from early excavations or antiquarian records, it is not always clear that artefactual sex determinations have been made in the absence of human remains, even when the dead are firmly identified as male or female. It is clear that no ready solution presents itself. In the text that follows here, the sex determinations of the original excavators are employed for want of alternatives, and where any ambiguity is present and detectible in the grave itself, this is brought out in discussion and in full awareness of its uncertainties. A representative overview of current Viking Age funerary archaeology is impossible, due to the encouraging variety of perspectives and positions. However, a fewer broader trends can be noted, with a caveat that this is merely the tip of a vast iceberg.

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In recent years there have been tendencies to approach graves very much at the level of the individual, not only as a unique window onto a specific life but also as a personal lens through which to view the time as a whole (Harrison and Svensson 2007; Price 2010). This has been employed with particular success in communicating mortuary behaviour to the public, linking attitudes to life and death, as at Aarhus where ‘sleeping’ Vikings introduced exhibition visitors to early medieval Aros (Skov and Varberg 2011), and at Birka in the form of a five-year-old girl’s grave and subsequent reconstructions (Hedenstierna-Jonson 2012a). This new concern for specificity has also led some scholars (e.g., Back Danielsson 2007) to a move away from mortuary identities based on biological sex in any sense, and a search for a more intensely somatic and mutable past; others seek new levels of nuance in more traditional, gender-based readings of graves (e.g., Hayeur Smith 2004, among many others). Another trend, linked to wider theoretical developments in archaeology as whole, emphasizes the materiality of graves and their contents, the assemblage of identity through things, and the ways in which the human and material interact and define each other (e.g., Þóra Pétursdóttir 2009). Another approach involves the search for pluralistic narratives encoded in the rituals that can be reconstructed from funerary archaeology, conceptualized not in relation to formal structures such as sagas, but as personal responses to death and its meaning for the living (e.g., Price 2008a, 2008b, 2010, 2012). In particular, careful recording and stratigraphic analysis have been championed for their potential in retrieving ritual sequence and character, the process of the funeral rather than merely its result (Gansum 2004; Bäck 2011; Ulriksen 2011; Price 2014). Using this compacted research history as a platform, we can review in turn the specific textual and archaeological evidence for Viking Age funerary practices, and the thought-world form which they emerged.

Eyewitnesses and Hindsight There is no doubt whatsoever that archaeology provides our primary evidence for the burial practices of the later Iron Age, in all their immense variety, and this is reflected in the emphasis of this essay. However, it would be unwise to ignore the fascinating but deeply problematic information that can be gleaned from close study of textual sources, to which some short notes can be devoted here. We possess very few direct descriptions of Late Iron Age pre-Christian burial customs, but as we have seen this has not deterred scholars from applying this minimal corpus far more widely than is probably warranted. That said,

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they are also a mine of useful data, which with appropriate source critique can be brought to bear on archaeological problems. That the excavated material should not only corroborate but also to an extent sharply contradict the textual sources should not surprise us, but of key importance is the fact that the archaeology reveals mortuary practices that have left no documentary trace at all. The relevant texts fall into two essential categories: a small, primary group of eyewitness accounts, mostly from Arab and Byzantine writers; and a larger group of secondary descriptions in Icelandic sagas and a handful of Old Norse poems, written down centuries after the Late Iron Age and of a value that has long been debated across a broad spectrum of perspectives (see also è3 and è32). The Arab writer Ibn Fadlan’s description of a Rus ship burial is very long and will not be reproduced here (numerous translations have been published in whole or part; see Lunde and Stone 2012 for the most recent complete edition, and Montgomery 2000 for a scholarly text with references to the original; see also è32 for a brief summary). Unsurprisingly, this account has been widely discussed by Viking specialists, and also by archaeologists working more generally with burial studies (e.g., Arne 1941; Ritter 1942; Kowalska 1973; Warmind 1995; Parker Pearson 1999; Taylor 2002; Schjødt 2007b). Neil Price has dealt extensively with Ibn Fadlan’s narrative (Price 2002, 2008b, 2010, 2012), and has focused upon: Ibn Fadlan’s description of the ten-day sequence of the rituals; the employment of a temporary grave for the corpse while the ship is made ready; the manufacture of objects intended for burial; the movement, gestures, and sounds involved; the use of food and especially alcohol; the killing of animals and humans; the frequent sexual performance; the detail of the graves’ contents and their order and placement; and the actions of the various individuals present. Some aspects of Ibn Fadlan’s account will be taken up below, but it is clearly an essential source for anyone interested in Viking Age mortuary behaviour. Other Arab writers of interest include Ibn Rustah and Ibn Miskaweih, who describe how women might be buried alive in the chamber graves of their male partners, and who also record the deposition of swords in the graves of warriors (Birkeland 1954; Montgomery 2008). The Byzantine sources also preserve several items of interest, particularly from accounts of a campaign against the Rus in the early 970s, a force with very strong cultural links to Scandinavia. One episode, mentioned in John Skylitizes’s Synopsis of Byzantine History 15.12, occurs during a lull in the fighting when the Rus army is surrounded by the Imperial troops after a battle. Here it says that the Rus remained awake all night along, mourning for those who had fallen, and that it sounded more like the roaring and bellowing of wild

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beasts than the grief and lamentation of humankind. Although given but a passing mention, it is interesting how the Rus clearly mourn their dead at night. Another description of the same occasion comes from the Greek historian Leo Diaconus, who accompanied the Byzantine emperor as secretary. In the eighth and ninth books of his Historia, he notes first how the Rus emerged from their besieged fortification at night to retrieve their dead from the previous day’s combat. He describes how the Rus went among the slain in the light of the full moon, building great pyres of logs outside the wall, on which they cremated the dead. Male and female prisoners were brought out and sacrificed, along with young animals. Cockerels were killed and thrown into the river, and offerings were made of what appears to have been alcohol (Ellis Davidson 1972: 25). Turning to the retrospective sources (see also above è 32), the Old Norse prose and poetic corpus contains several mentions of what are claimed to be Viking Age burials, almost all incidental details in wider narratives. Very few of these instances make direct reference to any beliefs that might lie behind the practices and situations described, though it is possible to gain some approximation of ideas attaching to the dead and their condition. Before briefly considering a representative sample of these, we can turn to the single deliberate account of burial practices that also contains some explicit statements about their meaning. Ynglinga saga ch. 8 presents the so-called ‘Laws of Óðinn’ in which he decrees the proper treatment of the dead. It is worth quoting in full: Óðinn setti lǫg í landi sínu, þau er gengit hǫfðu fyrr með Ásum. Svá setti hann, at alla dauða menn skyldi brenna ok bera á bál með þeim eign þeirra. Sagði hann svá, at með þvílíkum auðœfum skyldi hverr koma til Valhallar sem hann hafði á bál, þess skyldi hann ok njóta, er hann sjálfr hafði í jǫrð grafit. En ǫskuna skyldi bera út á sjá eða grafa niðr í jǫrð, en eptir gǫfga menn skyldi haug gera til minningar, en eptir alla þá menn, er nǫkkut manns mót var at, skyldi reisa bautasteina, ok helzk sjá siðr lengi síðan. (p. 20) (In his country Óðinn instituted such laws as had been in force among the Æsir before. Thus he ordered that all the dead were to be burned on a pyre together with their possessions, saying that everyone would arrive in Valholl with such wealth as he had with him on his pyre and that he would also enjoy the use of what he himself had hidden in the ground. His ashes were to be carried out to sea or buried in the ground. For notable men burial mounds were to be thrown up as memorials. But for all men who had shown great manly qualities memorial stones were to be erected; and this custom continued for a long time thereafter.) (pp. 11–12)

Written two centuries after pre-Christian mortuary behaviour was the norm, in isolation we have little way of evaluating the degree to which the ideo­logical

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filters of his own time shaped Snorri’s presentation of these rites. However, from the similarities with excavated examples, it is clear that to some degree the descriptions are based either on some kind of actual collective memory, and/ or practical knowledge of pre-Christian burials from empirical observation of their remains. With these caveats in mind, it is worth drawing out some key points in Óðinn’s alleged commands: –– all the dead are to be burned, irrespective of status; there is no mention of inhumations –– the things burned with them are their possessions, which would follow the deceased to the next world –– all the dead are apparently bound for Valhǫll (or is it just those whom this ancestral Óðinn governs?) –– things buried unaccompanied by bodies are also for use after death, and can be selected for that purpose by the living, making arrangements for their own afterlives –– burial mounds are only for special, ‘notable’ men (it is hard to know how androcentric this statement actually is meant) –– standing stones are for the commemoration of anyone of note –– at least some of the cremated dead are disposed of in water, that is, in a manner invisible to archaeology; it may be significant that this deposition of ash in the sea is the first method of disposal that is mentioned — and thus the most common? After more than a century of excavations, there can remain no doubt whatsoever that we cannot speak of a standard orthodoxy of burial practice common to the whole Norse world: Snorri’s ‘Laws of Óðinn’ are an illusion, even for the rather vague ‘country’ (a kind of fictive Sweden) to which they allegedly applied. This does not mean that every part of his description is inaccurate, but instead we should examine it in specific rather than generalized contexts. We will encounter several of these qualities in the excavated material, and the possible light that Snorri’s account may shed on them should not be discounted (see Lindqvist 1920 for an extensive early echo of this debate). In total the saga corpus contains some 150 references to burial, which is intrinsically interesting in that there is no self-evident reason why this should be discussed at all. It is clear that graves were important in the late Norse mind, and also that their location was an integrated part of their meaning (Adolf

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Friðriksson 2013). Earthen mounds are frequently mentioned, and the sagas also contain references to a significant number of what are clearly chamber graves, inhumations within wooden rooms, built either above or below ground and covered by a barrow. The degree to which the mounds’ incumbents were still thought to ‘reside’ in their graves, and thus remain members of their communities, is arguable, though their metaphorical presence seems assured. The Old Norse prose sources contain many stories of the living dead in the sense of the physically reanimated corpse, but while the majority of these tales concern evil beings, there are also a significant number that merely relate how the dead live on in their graves (cf. Sävborg 2011). A prominent example is that of Gunnarr of Hliðarendi from Njáls saga, who in Chapter 78 is seen happily singing in his mound one night, seated and surrounded by four ‘lights’ that may be candles (è34). Similarly, the dead warriors of the unsettling poem known as The Waking of Angantyr seem to sleep uneasily in their burials, ‘down among the tree-roots’ (the poem is eddic in style but found in a later story, Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks konungs; Terry 1990: 248–53; Larrington 2014: 268–73). The most vivid account, and the most archaeologically useful, comes from Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar ch. 18. The anti-hero Grettir has decided to rob a large burial mound on a headland, over which he has seen flames hovering at night, and assisted by the local farmer he begins to break into the mound from the top. He works hard until he reaches the ‘rafters’ (viðir), which he then breaks through. Lowering a rope, he prepares to enter the barrow: Gekk Grettir þá í hauginn; var þar myrkt ok þeygi þefgott. Leitast hann nú fyrir, hversu háttað var. Hann fann hestbein, ok síðan drap hann sér við stólbrúði ok fann, at þar sat maðr á stóli. Þar var fé mikit í gulli ok silfri borit saman ok einn kistill settr undir fœtr honum, fullr af silfri. Grettir tók þetta fé allt ok bar til festar; ok er hann gekk útar eptir hauginum, var gripit til hans fast. Lét hann þá laust féit, en rézk í mót þeim, ok tókusk þeir þá til heldr úþyrmiliga. Gekk nú upp allt þat, er fyrir varð; sótti haugbúinn með kappi. Grettir fór undan lengi, ok þar kemr, at hann sèr, at eigi man duga at hlífask við. Sparir nú hvárrgi annan; fœrask þeir þangat, sem hestbeinin váru; kippðusk þeir þar um lengi […]. (pp. 57–58) (Then Grettir went inside the mound. It was dark and smelled unpleasant. He explored the mound to see how it was laid out. He found some horse bones, then he rubbed against the carved back of a chair and could tell there was a man sitting in it. A huge amount of gold and silver had been piled up there and the man’s feet were resting on a chest full of silver. Grettir took all the treasure and carried it over the rope. And when he was walking back inside the mound, something grabbed him tight. He dropped the treasure and fought back, and the two of then grappled violently, knocking everything over that was in their way. The mound-dweller went

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for him ferociously, and Grettir backed off for a long time, until he realised that he would need all his strength. They both fought with all their might, and struggled towards where the horse bones were. They grappled for a long while […]). (p. 75)

The roof-construction of the chamber is exactly paralleled by excavated examples (see below), as are many of the contents and their disposition, including the seated incumbent, boxes of precious objects, and the presence of a horse slightly separate from the main chamber. Barrows such as this also feature in some of the eddic poems as the site of supernatural encounters, and in skaldic verses as places where it was possible to gain a strange kind of heightened receptiveness to the influence of otherworldly powers. It is clear that after the burial, these landmarks — sometimes named, in the manner of Anundshög, ‘Anund’s Mound’ — played a significant part in the cognitive landscape of the community. Moving outside the strictly Scandinavian corpus of texts, though to a story nonetheless set there, we find that one of the greatest northern epics of all, Beowulf, is actually structured around funerals (Owen-Crocker 2000; Fulk and others 2008). The poem opens with the burial rites of a king, taking the unique form of his deposition in a ship that is then pushed out to sea, a scene that has inspired countless popular culture imitations, despite the rarity of the original. This beginning is matched by the epic’s end, with the mound burial of the titular hero. This is described in detail, highlighting the deposition of precious metals, the formal mourning of the dead including a ride past by leading retainers, the considerable length of the rituals, and the importance of visibility in the finished barrow. Although definitely written down in the Viking Age, its scribal ‘author’ was an English Christian relating a tale from the Scandinavian Migration Period, so — like the sagas — its usefulness as a genuine source is problematic. For the mythological sources and their descriptions of funeral rites, we refer to (è32).

Variation and Consistency Perhaps the central element of Viking Age Scandinavian funerary ritual was its individual character, most evident in the artefactual assemblage but also in the rites or ceremonies themselves. The selection, combination, particular type, quality, quantity, and exact positioning of this material are all factors in the variation within Viking Age mortuary ritual. All across this spectrum of behaviour, it is vital to note the detail that can give us information about the

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sequence of events, the time they may have taken to perform, and the spatial arena of ritual that in some cases must have extended very considerably beyond the grave itself. In addition to the variation between individual graves, it is important to understand that at a larger scale this also forms patterns of regional, even local, expression. This in turn must imply at least a degree of variation in the meaning behind these practices, and thus the structures of belief relating to the treatment of the dead. No comprehensive survey is possible in an essay of this kind, but some of the broader trends can be noted. One of the first, and still most important, studies of specific burial practices right across Scandinavia was undertaken by Johan Callmer (1991b, 1992), who over many years mapped the excavated funerary assemblages at a cemeterylevel of resolution. In so doing he was the first to empirically demonstrate that variation was present at the level of individual communities, villages, and even extended farmsteads. From one settlement to another people handled the dead in broadly consistent ways — essentially through cremation or occasionally inhumation — but differed in the details of grave construction and elaboration, the placement of the body, and the selection and deposition of objects that accompanied the deceased. A similar survey has been undertaken more recently for Finnish mortuary behaviour by Anna Wessman (2010). It has been suggested that this diversity is a signal not of varying treatment of the dead within a single society, but it is instead evidence for the illusory nature of the ‘Viking Age’ itself: that the highly regional burial traditions are indicators of distinctive ethnic, social, or political groupings that make a mockery of the notion of a pan-Scandinavian culture (Svanberg 2003a, working from his superbly detailed analyses; Svanberg 2003b, on discrete cultures of ritual in southern Sweden). The problem with this interpretation is that it ignores the very real, general similarities of material culture within the region (not to mention language and settlement pattern) and focuses only on variations that are nonetheless practised within a broader, consistent framework. That villages or even larger communities promote their own identities does not mean that they have no part of larger ones. The culture of the Viking Age Scandinavians is as evident in their burials as in other aspects of their society. Particular forms of burial, treated in more detail below, also have regional trends. Frans-Arne Stylegar’s work on chamber grave traditions (2005, 2014) has demonstrated a clear concentration in the western fjords of Norway, with very few found around the Oslofjord and the east. A related form, known in Norwegian as hellekister or ‘flagstone coffins’ — effectively a stone chamber grave though with more elongated outline — is located almost solely in the

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Figure 33.1. Burial ground consisting of mounds at Kånna in Finnveden (south-western Småland) from the Late Iron Age. These mounds provide a good example of localized burial customs, which varied between different regions. Photo: Anders Andrén. 

west. In some hybrid cases, wooden chambers are built inside the hellekister, and this type is found only along the south-west coast with a single, northern outlier at Veiem in Nord-Trøndelag. This pattern holds broadly true from the Roman Iron Age and on into the Viking Age, with gradual changes in the exact structure of the graves through time. In Sweden, chamber graves are instead found focused on the Mälar Valley and Uppland province, with a special focus on urban contexts such as Birka (see below). In all cases, they are likely to be the burials of individuals who enjoyed a markedly higher status than the norm. There are also numerous examples of localized practice, of which only a few can be referenced here to give a flavour of the ritual range. In eastern central Sweden and Åland, for instance, we find a unique emphasis on the burial inclusion of so-called Thor’s hammer rings. Usually placed on top of cremation urns, this ritual is found only in the late 900s and into the eleventh century, which perhaps suggests that it developed in direct response to the rise of Christianity in these areas at that time — a demonstrative paganism in opposition to the new faith (Andersson 2005b). In some areas of central Sweden there is a clear emphasis on the inclusion of bear pelts in graves (Petré 1980), and so on. Some variations are extreme and clearly depend at least in part on the vagaries of preservation and excavation location. The central Danish island of Fyn,

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Figure 33.2. A cremation grave (grave A 65) with a Þórr’s hammer ring placed on top of the urn, from the burial ground in Söderby on Lovö, Uppland. After Petré 2011: 240. 

for example, has only two confirmed burials of Viking Age date, which cannot possibly reflect a complete reality but may nonetheless indicate a differing treatment of the dead there, perhaps tending more towards burial without trace (see below). We also find special rituals in island communities, and in general the funerary rites of places such as Gotland, Öland, Bornholm, and Åland are unlike those of their respective closest mainlands, which differ in turn from the surrounding areas (e.g., Thunmark-Nylén 1995–2006; Beskow Sjöberg and others

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Figure 33.3. Burial ground at Trullhalsar in Anga on Gotland, dated to the Late Iron Age. The burial ground, which is one of the best preserved on Gotland, consists primarily of cairns, which are typical of Gotlandic graves. Photo: Anders Andrén. 

1987–2001). On Gotland in particular there are tendencies not only towards very large cemeteries with a long continuity over time, with a particular emphasis on inhumation (such as Ire and Barshalder; see Rundkvist 2003), but also for clusters of burials with unusual mortuary behaviour, including prone inhumation, decapitation, and complex ritual trauma (such as Lilla Bjärge, Fröjel and Kopparsvik — see Wickman-Nydolf 1999; Carlsson 1999; Arcini 2010; Funegård Viberg 2012). Here too there are localized rituals, as in the use of colour symbolism in burials of young girls interred with white beads made of exotic cowrie shells, that may suggest new connections between material culture and visible status (Thedéen 2010). On Öland, for example, fossils such as ammonites were sometimes deposited with the deceased (Beskow Sjöberg and others 1987–2001). On the Åland islands between Sweden and Finland, the ashes of the dead were buried in pottery vessels, on the top of which was placed a miniature animal paw made of clay. The paws, which were not present on the funeral pyre, have been identified

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as characteristic of either bears or beavers. This rite is found only on Åland, and in specific clusters of graves on the Volga and Kljaz’ma rivers in Russia; from the accompanying grave goods, these burials have been convincingly interpreted as those of travelling Ålanders (Callmer 1994). Recognizably Scandinavian burial traditions are also found across the Viking world, again with local traditions in evidence. In the North Atlantic colonies, cremation is extremely rare, and indeed very few graves of any kind from the period are known from the Faroes (see papers in Arge and Mortensen 2005). On Iceland some 350 burials from the Viking Age are known (Kristján Eldjárn and Adolf Friðriksson 2017), mostly located either singly or in small clusters in relation to farmsteads and along lines of communication (Adolf Friðriksson 2013). A number of boat burials have been found, especially in the north of the country (Roberts 2009), and the funerary assemblages in general contain fewer objects than on the Scandinavian mainland (though this should not necessarily be taken to imply major differences in status; Þóra Pétursdóttir 2009). No Scandinavian burials have so far been found in North America. Around the British Isles, burials with objects of Norse type are concentrated in the north and west, with major concentrations around Dublin, Man, and Orkney. The burials are almost entirely inhumations, including several boats, and are predominantly found in the coastal areas where the Norse settled. Furnished female burials are more common in Scotland than elsewhere in Britain (the material from the northern and western Isles, and mainland Scotland, is summarized in Graham-Campbell and Batey 1998, where more recent finds include a remarkable child burial at Balnakeil; see also Batey and Paterson 2013). Mound burial, including the use of boats, is frequent on the Isle of Man (Bersu and Wilson 1966; D. Wilson 2008), and the island also boasts several runic memorial stones. It lies at the centre of the Irish Sea cultural sphere, which shows considerable consistency in its burial rites of Scandinavian and local character (Griffiths 2010: ch. 5). More than a hundred furnished inhumations are known from Ireland, with a mixture of Insular and Scandinavian graves-goods (Harrison and Ó’Floinn 2014). Much of the material was collected by antiquarians after being disturbed during construction work, especially around Dublin, and the analysis of the corpus has consequently been beset by documentation problems. However, a clear focus on Dublin is apparent, with discrete cemeteries visible around the town and the settlements that preceded it. The large numbers of recorded weapons testify to the nature of the Viking forces and their early impact on Ireland. In England there are almost no burials resembling the mounds common in Scandinavia (see Halsall 2000). The main exception is the cemetery at Heath

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Wood with its fifty-nine barrows, which include animal sacrifices and a number of empty ‘graves’ of indeterminate meaning, with a possible link to the nearby winter camp of a Viking Army at Repton, itself with numerous burials (Biddle and Kjølbye-Biddle 1992, 2001; Richards 2004b). Burials of arguably Norse character are otherwise concentrated in the north-west and in Cumbria (e.g., Paterson and others 2014), with very few in the east or south of England (Richards 2008). In the later Viking Age, however, new classes of stone memorial are introduced (Bailey 1980), including distinctive grave covers known as ‘hogbacks’ (Lang 1984), and even as far south as London there are elaborate runestones commemorating the new Anglo-Scandinavian elites. In Continental Europe, very few graves can be unequivocally interpreted as of Norse origin. In the territory of the Frankish Empire only a handful are known, principally from Normandy and Brittany, including the great ship burial of the Île de Groix, discussed further below (Price 1989, 2013a; Renaud 2000). In the eastern areas of Viking expansion, Norse funerary rituals are found amalgamated with Slavic, Khazar, and other ethnic practices. Alongside individual graves and small groups of burials, the cemeteries of the Dvina, Dniepr, Volkhov, and Volga river systems are both vast and complex — in some cases much larger than anything found in Scandinavia — and in this they reflect the ethnic melting pot of their formation. The degree to which Scandinavian influence is detectible there has been debated for centuries and lies at the heart of Viking Age research in the East, but a detailed discussion is beyond the scope of this chapter (for recent attempts, see Duczko 2004; Androshchuk 2008, 2013). The Great Absence: Death without Trace Before discussing specific rites for the burial of the dead, it is important to mention an aspect of Viking Age mortuary behaviour that is often overlooked: quite simply, it is clear that not everyone was afforded a grave at all. Estimates of the proportion of the populace without a detectable burial place are unreliable, and essentially a matter of guesswork in attempting to correlate settlement scale (and estimates of how many individuals lived in an ‘average’ building) with the quantity of visible funerary monuments. However, it is not impossible that more than half of the population did not receive a burial that we can now detect. It is perhaps reasonable to assume that these ‘missing’ dead were marked by low status, either the very poor or slaves, but we cannot be sure. We have no identifiable evidence for the burials of slaves in their own right, as opposed

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to their presumed presence as sacrificial offerings in a few cases treated below. Whether these people were cremated and their ashes then scattered or disposed of in water, or whether they were excarnated, is impossible to say. It is worth noting that these archaeologically invisible burial forms are mentioned not only in Ynglinga saga ch. 8 as we have seen, but also in first-hand accounts left by Arab writers such as Ibn Fadlan, who described in the tenth century how dead slaves were simply abandoned, at least while on the move (Montgomery 2000; Lunde and Stone 2012: 49). Children are also under-represented in the burial record, which may reflect a number of factors. We know little of how the child-adult transition was regarded at this time, and accordingly whether dead children were seen as ‘worthy’ of formal burial (Mejsholm 2009); the fact that we have child burials at all suggests however that the same criteria of familial and personal status may have been applied. The practice of child exposure and abandonment may also account for a large number of the children missing from the archaeological burial record (Wicker 1998). Burning and Burying There is no exact figure on the number of extant burials from the Viking Age in Scandinavia. On the imprecise basis of a professional lifetime working with the archaeological material, and following a personal canvas of Nordic colleagues who have done the same, a guess of perhaps half a million graves seems reasonable though open to question. By the same informal measure, one can reach a figure for excavated examples in the low tens of thousands. They fall into some basic, broad patterns, but essentially the Vikings either burned their dead or interred their bodies. In Sweden only cremation occurs, with occasional inhumations and chamber burials at exceptional sites such as Birka. In Norway and Denmark a mixture of cremation and inhumation was practised. We do not know why one ritual was chosen above another, though there is some, very tentative speculation that part of the intention with cremation was to prevent the dead person’s resurrection in some malevolent form. As with so much of Viking mortuary behaviour, this does not entirely square with the alternative in the form of inhumations, but does make sense when compared with later graves of the Christian period, when we know that the body was intended to return after the day of Judgement. Although most graves contain a single individual, on occasion two, three, four, or more bodies are found together, either interred or burned at the same time, or in successive depositions (selected examples are considered below).

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Figure 33.4. Excavation of a grave at Gnista in the parish of Danmark in Uppland. The grave (no. 42) consisted of a burnt layer with cremated bones placed in an urn. Photo: Fredrik Thölin SAU/Upplandsmuseet, Uppsala. 

For those who received a visible burial, the most common means of disposing of the dead was through cremation, followed by the interment of the ashes either in unmarked graves or under mounds. Remains of pyres have been found on several sites, especially in Swedish Uppland, sometimes with extensive survival of carbonized material. They most often seem to consist of cross-timbered wooden platforms, with plenty of space for air to circulate between the logs and provide a draught to keep the fire going. The dead — both human and animal — were either laid on top of the pyre, or else inside as it was constructed around them. In rare instances, the dead were burned directly on the ground surface. Even at this stage of the rituals, it must be noted that a burning pyre was a dynamic, chaotic environment. The topography of the site, the weather, the fuel in the form of timber and kindling, the placement and condition of the body all played a role, and the result could only have been an emotional experience for those involved. Fragments of shattered flint found in pyre remains hint at other dimensions too, as this stone explodes in dramatic showers of sparks when burnt at high temperatures, and it may have been added to cremations for just this purpose. Fire and smoke can be seen over long distances, especially if the pyres are on high ground. We have already observed the possibility that Viking funerals may sometimes have been conducted at night, further heightening the visual impact of flame and firelight. The variable predictability of cremation pyres requires considerable knowledge and experience to manage, and it is likely that special individuals had this task in the Viking Age. In rural grave-fields, it is evident that many of the pyre remains found by archaeologists were from very badly built structures, perhaps

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resulting from funerals conducted by family members performing these ministrations for the first time. Near larger settlements, there is clear evidence that the pyres are much better constructed, as we might expect in localities where funerals were a more common event. When the excavated remains indicate that the pyre has been consistently turned over and maintained at a constant temperature, this is a virtually certain indication of the presence of specialists. After soft tissues, clothing, and so on have been burned away in the fire, it is not uncommon for skeletal material to be left charred but quite substantially intact after a cremation, more than might be assumed to be the case. In most instances the bones of the humans, and sometimes the animals, have been retrieved from the ashes, sorted, cleaned, and sometimes crushed, before being laid back on the remains of the pyre — either directly or in a container such as a ceramic vessel, a box, or a bag. Burial pits could also be dug down through the pyre to accommodate the ashes; in one unique case, at Klinta on Öland, a hexagonal ceramic lid had been placed over the pit, under the remains of the pyre (Petersson 1958, 1964). Another relatively common alternative saw the ashes removed for separate burial elsewhere. In cases where several people were cremated together, it is not unknown for the remains of the humans and animals all to be sorted separately and then buried in their own individual graves some considerable distance from the pyre, as again at Klinta. This processing of the dead mentioned above, sorting the charred bones and ashes, is significant because in many — even most — cases it is clear that only a portion of the remains was subsequently placed in the ‘finished’ grave. By way of demonstration, a modern, professionally managed machine-operated cremation reduces a male human body to some 7–8 litres of ashes and bone material, and slightly less for a woman; in Late Iron Age cremation graves, it is uncommon to find more than about a litre, and even the largest ceramic cremation vessels can hold no more than 1.5 litres. We do not know what was done with the rest, but many interesting possibilities exist. Perhaps parts of the bodies were distributed to the family, friends, or comrades of the deceased; perhaps the limited quantities of ashes that we find in graves collectively add up to whole individuals, divided between what we have archaeologically recorded as distinct, separate burials; perhaps some of the ashes were strewn on the fields, in or around houses and buildings, in water. We will probably never find out, but it is clear that our present understanding of what constituted a ‘grave’ might need revision. Throughout the Viking world it was very common for objects to be burned together with the dead, laid out around them on the pyre or placed about their persons. In the case of burials constructed over the pyre, even when the ashes

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Figure 33.5. Woman buried in a carriage at a small burial ground by the ringfort Fyrkat in northern Jylland from the late tenth century. After Roesdahl 1977: 98, for a reconstruction, èfigure 22.1. 

have been treated and manipulated as above, the objects seem to remain where they fell vertically through the pyre as it burnt out. In some cases objects were deliberately broken before the pyre was lit, perhaps to mark their ‘death’ alongside that of their owner. Sometimes the ashes are also overlain by unburnt items, placed there during the construction of the grave. This combination of material from the pyre and from outside it is not uncommon, and provides further evidence for the complexity of the procedures involved, with a ritual meaning content that remains almost impossible to access. Inhumation was rarer but occurred across Scandinavia. It has been argued that in the later Viking Age, some of these burials represented transitional Christian graves, but this is debated (Gräslund 1980, 2008b). Bodies were generally laid in rectangular grave cuts, either directly on the ground, on textiles or mats of bark (the latter especially in northern Norway), in shrouds, or in coffins of various kinds including the detachable cargo bodies of wagons (especially for women; Hägg 2009). The dead could even be interred in small boxes, with bodies folded and crammed into them — perhaps the defleshed remains of those who had died far from home, and brought back to the family farm. Many different body postures have been found, though the dead are most often laid out either supine or slightly curled over on their sides, as if sleep-

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ing, with legs straight or flexed. In some graves the remains of blankets, pillows, and other bedding have been found under and around the bodies, reinforcing this suggestion. Some remarkable combinations are found, such as a person buried on their back with one leg bent at the knee and turned. In a few unusual instances the dead are buried prone or in a variety of unnatural postures that necessitate actual damage to the body, for example, by the removal of limbs. Whether this relates to some kind of punishment or legal censure is hard to say, but the large stones placed on top of some of these bodies imply a fear that they might somehow leave the grave and presumably cause harm to the living. This raises obvious questions of deviation in relation to the normative in Viking Age burial, and of course the problems in defining those concepts in context (Murphy 2008; Reynolds 2009). A  special study of such burials in Scandinavia and the Viking colonies has been made by Leszek Gardeła (2011, 2012, 2013), reviewing a wide range of ritual trauma, with the interesting conclusion that such practices were very much more widespread than previously believed, and essentially form one expression of mortuary behaviour among many others. There are again regional variations in all this, as in Norway where people were

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sometimes buried in large ‘coffin boxes’, taking the form of oversized graves lined and floored with wooden planking in a construction that had been built inside the cut rather than being lowered into it (Shetelig 1912). Often lined with mats of birch bark covered with textiles, as we have seen with the hellekister above, these same features can also be built of stone (Stylegar 2014). In an increasing number of burials, especially in Iceland, evidence is now being found for post-built structures erected over inhumation graves. Resembling small buildings, some of them also appear one-sided and even with posts inserted at an angle, perhaps making some kind of shelter-like affair above the interment (Þóra Pétursdóttir 2009; Roberts 2009). Inhumation burials normally exhibit the same or even greater range of grave goods as the cremations, though the apparent profusion is perhaps a factor of preservation. Like the cremations, inhumations were also accompanied by animal and occasionally human offerings, along with considerable quantities of foodstuffs and, to judge by the containers, drink as well. Among the artefacts deposited with the dead, the most commonly encountered include items of personal dress and ornament such as: jewellery; weapons; implements for textile production and food preparation; smithying tools; agricultural implements; household utensils, containers, and fixtures of various kinds; horse equipment; furniture including beds, chairs, and stools; textiles of varying quality and quantity; food and drink, amongst many other kinds of objects.

The Visible Grave Beyond the level of cremation or inhumation, a number of clear categories of grave form can be discerned. The most ubiquitous is that of burials under mounds. Burials are found within stone settings, and also in the form of chamber graves, the iconic ship and boat burials, and occasionally as mass graves. Within these basic structures, however, the variety in the detail of mortuary behaviour is almost such as to make every grave slightly (and sometimes dramatically) different. Mound-Dwellers and Settings of Stone Burial mounds could be of widely varying shapes and sizes, ranging from low humps in the ground to monumental barrows up to 10 m high or more. Circular forms predominate, but oval, rectangular, and triangular mounds are also known. In some instances the mounds are augmented by what appear to have been posts set up in them, for unknown reasons, or by small pits dug

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Figure 33.7. The ship-setting ‘Ales stenar’ at Kåseberga on the south coast of Skåne is the largest preserved ship-setting, measuring 67 m long. It was probably constructed in the sixth century. Photo: Anders Andrén. 

into the sides, again of indeterminate purpose but presumably relating to the extended rituals of the burial, discussed further below. The relative numbers of burials in the same place can vary greatly, partly in natural relation to the size of settlements — an obvious difference between, for example, a town and a single farmstead — but also sometimes grouped in clusters that must have served more than one community. Mounds occur singly or in small groups, all the way up to cemeteries of thousands. In general burials seem to have been unmarked in the sense of personally recording their occupants, but Ibn Fadlan’s account, mentioned above, describes how a mound was topped by a wooden pole, on which was cut (presumably in runes) the dead person’s name and that of his lord. Leaving little archaeological trace (with some exceptions, as at Repton in Derbyshire; see Biddle and Kjølbye-Biddle 1992, 2001), this form of commemoration might have been more common than we suppose, and may also explain some of the postholes found in barrows. In other ways the marking of graves was elaborate and widespread, and usually achieved with stones. These range from individual bautastenar, standing stones erected on a single grave, to complex settings in an enormous variety of shapes (Bennett 1987). The latter include kerb rings, circles, elipses, rectan-

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gles, star patterns, triangles, often with other stones within them forming still further variant patterns. We also find curious three-sided forms with concave sides, known in the absence of an English term as treuddar, ‘three-pointers’. The meaning, if any, of all these stone settings is undetermined, but several explanations have been proposed — by way of example, a recent idea has seen the treuddar as representing the roots of a tree, perhaps Yggdrasil, the World Tree (Andrén 2004a). A particularly striking form of stone setting is shaped like a ship, occurring in a range of sizes up to an enormous 356 m long at Jelling in Denmark (Holst and others 2012). The ship settings are sometimes empty but found among graves, often with the remains of fires and meals within — perhaps some form of commemorative place. Other ship settings contain one or more cremations spaced around their interior. In general most graves contain single cremations, but multiple burials in the same mound are known and are not uncommon within the larger stone settings. There is also a wider but related issue in the erection of memorials to the dead beyond the burial itself. These will not be treated in detail here but include rune stones, standing stones, bridges, and monumental acts of commemoration such as colossal mounds, fortresses, and churches (see Roesdahl 2005; A.-S. Gräslund 2008b). Uniquely on the island of Gotland, memorial stones carved with pictures occur, erected as upright slabs of local limestone up to 4 m high. With a tradition beginning in the Migration Period, the stones evolved through several forms, design schemes, and scales to the end of the Viking Age. Their iconography is too large a subject to tackle here, as the picture stones represent probably the single biggest corpus of Late Iron Age visual thought that has survived, but a complete catalogue was compiled by Sune Lindqvist (1941–42), updated by Erik Nylén and Jan-Peder Lamm (2003).1 Outside Gotland, the only other such picture stones known are one from Uppland, two from Öland, and one from Grobin in Latvia, all thought to commemorate Gotlanders who died there (Nylén and Lamm 2003: 144–47; Petrenko 1991). Cemeteries The great variety of funerary groupings reflects the spatial and no doubt social patterning of the communities that they served, from individual farms with ‘family plots’ to larger villages and urban centres such as Birka and Hedeby. 1 

Subsequent finds of picture stones are reported in the annual volumes of the journal Fornvännen, and new studies to be found in Herlin Karnell (2012).

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There also seem to be political factors at work, in that some areas tend to aggregate the dead in clusters whereas others maintain traditions of local burial. In general the dead were not buried far from settlements, but instead their graves can be seen as an extended component of the inhabited areas. As with the revisionist attitude to the study of individual graves discussed above, cemeteries themselves should probably be seen less as archaeological site plans and more in terms of landscapes of experience. The ‘grey literature’ of archived archaeological excavation reports contains evidence from hundreds of Viking Age cemeteries all over Scandinavia; thousands more have been provisionally identified through topographic or visual survey (e.g., Ambrosiani 1964 and Hyenstrand 1974, for central Swedish sites). Until a thorough review of this somewhat neglected resource is complete, we can only skim the surface of the available data. However, a few notable sites can be mentioned. The best example of a cemetery as it originally appeared is found at Lindholm Høje in northern Jylland, where a grave-field was buried by wind-blown sand and has survived intact (Ramskou 1976). Almost every burial is marked by stones, often without apparent pattern, but clearly comprising an integral part of the funerary ritual. Other important and well-published sites include Valsta village in central Sweden, with its syncretic funerary rituals blending Christian elements with more traditional rites (Andersson 1997, 2005a), specialized communities such as the tenth-century enclosure at Fyrkat (Roesdahl 1977), and spectacular individual graves within larger grave-field contexts such as Mammen, also in Denmark (Iversen and others 1991). Regional surveys have been produced for the area around Göteborg (B. Hall 2007), and Langeland (Grøn and others 1994) and Vestjylland in Denmark (Eriksen and others 2011: 149–76). Urban cemeteries form a discrete category of their own, notwithstanding the endless debate on the definition and character of such settlements. Providing merely a representative selection, at the larger end of the scale a number of excellent reports have appeared on three of the most important sites: namely Birka, Hedeby, and Kaupang. The late nineteenth-century excavations in Birka’s cemeteries (published as Arbman 1940–43) have spawned several major monographs and countless smaller works using the objects from the graves as a foundation for the study of Viking Age material culture in general, at least in Sweden. However, apart from Anne-Sofie Gräslund’s monumental work (1980), less subsequent attention has been paid to the rituals in evidence there. This is now starting to change with major projects from both Stockholm University and the National

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Figure 33.8. Aerial view of the burial ground at Lindholm Høje in Vendsyssel in northern Jylland, dated to the Late Iron Age. The cemetery, which is one of the best preserved from the Iron Age, consists of standing stones, many placed in different geometrical forms, such as squares, circles, triangles, and ovals. Photo: Nordjyllands Historiske Museum, Aalborg. 

Heritage Board, focussing on the so-called Black Earth and the burials in both the hillfort area and the sectors of the island outside Birka’s wall, in addition of course to the great grave-fields of Hemlanden (summarized in several papers in Hedenstierna-Jonson 2012b, with reference to the bulk of the theses and dissertations dealing with the island); several aspects of this work are discussed in more detail below. Like those of Birka, the Hedeby cemeteries also contain mixtures of cremations and inhumations, including some spectacular chamber graves. As georadar survey adds to our knowledge of their extent, it is more clear than ever that — again like Birka — the burial fields are divided into specific zones and that there is a clear funerary topography for the different cemeteries. After many years of disparate publication in papers and report fascicules, discussion of the Hedeby graves has now been gathered for the first time in two volumes (Arents and Eisenschmidt 2010). In Norway, the cemeteries at Kaupang are different again, lacking the chamber graves of the other major towns but instead having a greater number of boat graves and similarly spectacular interments. The burials are distributed along the higher ground behind the settlement at the water’s edge, with more graves on adjacent islets and promontories. The publications

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of the 1950s excavations (Blindheim and Heyerdahl-Larsen 1995; Blindheim and others 1999) have now been supplemented by new research from more recent fieldwork (Stylegar 2007). The grave-fields of several Baltic islands have also been published in detail, with especially good coverage of Gotland (Thunmark-Nylén 1995–2006) — including the cemeteries serving proto-urban trading sites (e.g., Carlsson 1999) — and Öland (Beskow Sjöberg and others 1987–2001). As we have seen above, similarly sized cemeteries in the overseas colonies are found especially in the east at sites such as Staraja Ladoga on the Volkhov, and Gnezdovo near Smolensk (Androshchuk 2008, 2013), but here Scandinavian burials are intermingled with those of other groups.

Under the Earth Chamber Graves Chamber graves are known from the centuries before the Viking Age, especially in the Roman Iron Age and Migration Period, but it was in the ninth and especially tenth centuries that they reached their zenith. They effectively take the form of underground rooms built in wood, with walls, floors, and raftered roofs, usually covered by a mound (Eisenschmidt 1994; Ringstedt 1997; Stylegar 2005, 2014; Fischer 2014). There are no standard dimensions, but the graves are always either square or rectangular; the Swedish examples average 2 m deep and may be up to 4 m in length. These are substantial structures requiring considerable investment to build, especially in a Scandinavian winter. Chamber graves were apparently reserved for occupants of high status, buried in fully furnished environments packed with objects, animals, food, and drink. Here too the dead could be laid out on their backs or sides, or even sitting in chairs. The bodies are also occasionally found in coffins on the floor of the chamber, or in beds. They are most common in Sweden, where 111 examples have been found at Birka alone (Arbman 1940–43; Price 2013b), while around sixty are known from Denmark and northern Germany (Eisenschmidt 1994). The latter examples cluster around Hedeby, and it seems likely that the early towns were epicentres for the spread of what became an unusual but interregional burial rite (Stylegar 2005). In Norway the custom was not as widespread, and no such burials have yet been found at Kaupang (the nearest equivalent to Birka and Hedeby), and on present knowledge chamber graves appear as a primarily eastern and southern phenomenon, as we have seen above. This burial form is also

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found in areas of Scandinavian settlement or influence abroad, especially in Russia and Ukraine where elaborate chamber graves have been excavated at Cernigov amongst other sites (Duczko 2004; Androshchuk 2008, 2014). Some of the chamber graves are among the most spectacular burials known from the Viking Age. Every grave is different, and many can be reconstructed as microcosms of local belief and funerary practice. Only isolated examples of this rich variety can be given here, but at Hedeby the burials include a large chamber with a ship placed on top of it (Müller-Wille and others 1976), and the Mammen grave from Denmark represents what may be the resting place of a Viking man of princely rank. Dating to c. 970, the chamber was built to resemble a hall, with a pitched roof and sturdy wooden walls, all buried by a mound. Inside was a wooden cofFigure 33.9. Reconstruction of a chamber fin-box, on the lid of which stood grave in Birka (grave 845), with the dead a candle. The rich textile finds in woman seated in the grave. Illustration: Þórhallur Þráinsson in Price 2002: 141.  particular have revolutionized our knowledge of high-status male dress, and the silver-inlaid axe is among the most famous finds from the whole period, giving its name to the Mammen art-style (Iversen and others 1991). The greatest chamber grave of Denmark, probably built by King Haraldr blátǫnn for his father as part of the Jelling monuments, is covered elsewhere (Holst and others 2012). In some of the chamber graves, especially at Birka, the dead are found to have been buried seated, presumably on chairs or stools, though the latter have decayed. The deceased sometimes have objects placed in the hands or on the

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lap, with grave goods laid out around and particularly in front of them. In rare examples, as in the tenth-century grave IX at the Vendel cemetery, Uppland, Sweden, individuals are found seated in chairs on the decks of ships (Stolpe and Arne 1912: 37). Female seated burials are more common in the chambers, whereas on ships the rite is largely confined to men. Exceptionally in two chamber graves from Birka, men and women have been found buried sitting on top of each other in the same chair, the woman uppermost in both cases (Price 2002: 132–39). Remains of slim iron chains around the bodies suggest that the corpses were tied to the back of a chair to hold them in place. The meaning of seated burial is not known, though it is clear that in at least some instances the graves have been deliberately oriented so that the dead seem to ‘look out’ over a specific vista. At Birka, for example, the chamber graves with seated women are all positioned so that their occupants’ faces would be turned inwards to the town, perhaps watching over it (Robbins 2004). We should also note that seated burial is mentioned in a different kind of source, Ibn Fadlan’s eyewitness account of the Volga ship cremation. Here, cushions are used to prop up the dead chieftain’s body in a sitting position on top of a bench that has been made up as a bed. Boat and Ship Burials Stone settings in the shape of ships have been mentioned above, but the most spectacular burial rite of the Viking Age involved the deposition of actual ships in the graves (Müller-Wille 1970). In burials like this, vessels ranging from dugout canoes and small fishing skiffs to thirty-metre longships were dragged up from the water and laid to rest in a trench specially cut for the purpose. The bodies of one or more men and women were placed on board, laid out in various ways: lying amidships or resting in bed, sitting in chairs, or propped up on cushions, sometimes covered by shaggy bearskins. The dead were often deposited in a chamber, usually built amidships but occasionally underground with the ship balanced on top (sometimes inverted). As in other chamber graves, they are found surrounded by weapons and personal belongings, jewellery, tools, household equipment, and fine textiles. The makings of a feast were often laid out — decorated drinking horns and expensive imported glasses, and the mead and wine to fill them; alongside them are offerings of food, herbs, and spices. Sometimes the full range of home furnishings was carried on board: beds, looms for weaving, smiths’ tools and agricultural equipment, sledges, ice skates, even entire wagons. Tents and other gear for the outdoor life have also been found.

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Figure 33.10. Reconstruction of the spectacular final phase of the burial at Oseberg in Vestfold in 834, envisaged to have taken place at night. Illustration: Anders Kvåle Rue.  

A second category of ship graves involves the burning of the vessel, as in the account of Ibn Fadlan. In such cases the ship was lifted onto a great pyre of wood and set on fire. We find it as a heap of ash with the outline of the vessel preserved as rows of iron rivets, filled with burnt and twisted traces of what had lain inside. In Sweden, ship burials cluster in the Mälar Valley, especially at the site of Valsgärde, which has a continuity of boat graves at a rate of one per generation since several centuries prior to the Viking Age (Arwidsson 1942, 1954, 1977; Lamm and Nordström 1983; Munktell 2013). Other major sites include Tuna in Alsike (Arne 1934) and Vendel (Stolpe and Arne 1912), while significant boat burial excavations outside the Mälar region include Klinta on Öland (Petersson 1958, 1964) and Skamby in Östergötland (Rundkvist and Williams 2008). Danish ship burials are fewer in number but no less dramatic, including the remarkable grave from Ladby (Sørensen 2001) and the example from Hedeby (Müller-Wille and others 1976). Here the tradition of boat burial has its origins earlier in the Iron Age and may offer clues as to the significance of the vessels in that parts of ships were buried with the dead in the absence of the complete craft (as at Slusegård: Andersen and others 1991).

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The most dramatic examples of the ship burial rite have been found in Norwegian Vestfold, with the famous burials at Oseberg, Gokstad, and Tune (Nicolaysen 1882; Brøgger and others 1917–28; Christensen and others 1992). Due to their unusual degree of preservation — protected by the anaerobic clay of their mounds, which has left not just the vessels themselves but also organic grave goods intact — these burials are among our richest sources for the detailed inventories of high-status graves anywhere in the Viking world. Other major boat burials include several from Gausel (Børsheim and Soltvedt 2002), Avaldsnes (Opedal 1998), and Kaupang (Blindheim and HeyerdahlLarsen 1995; Blindheim and others 1999). Beyond Scandinavia, boat burials are found in the British Isles, especially in island communities on the Orkneys (Owen and Dalland 1999) and Man (Bersu and Wilson 1966). These burials are sometimes lined with stones in the prow and stern (Graham-Campbell and Batey 1998: 135–40), as at Ardnamurchan (Harris and others 2017). Beyond Denmark, until recently there was only one Scandinavian ship burial known from Continental Europe, located on the Île de Groix off the south coast of Brittany (Müller-Wille and others 1976; Price 1989), but this has now been joined by the extraordinary twin ship burials found at Salme on the Estonian island of Saaremaa, discussed below in the section on war rituals. The dead were often accompanied by very high numbers of animal sacrifices — up to twenty decapitated horses, for example, accompanied the Oseberg grave. Whole or partial bodies have been found of creatures ranging from domesticated livestock such as cattle, sheep, pigs, and goats, to riding horses and high-status beasts such as hunting dogs, falcons, and several species of hawk. Even more exotic creatures are sometimes found in the ships, including owls, peacocks, eagles, and cranes, to name but a few. In rare instances, fish are also found in the boat graves. Regardless of the nature of the rituals involved, almost all the graves are covered with a mound of earth, a barrow erected over the buried vessel or the remains of its cremation (the Uppland boats are a notable exception, though they too may have various forms of aboveground marker). Sometimes a post might be set up on top, the ship’s mast left sticking vertically out of the mound, or the beaks of the prow and stern left exposed out of the barrow’s sloping sides. The burial monuments themselves can be augmented with other features, such as the circle of standing stones surrounding the Groix ship grave, and the line of stone uprights that appear to form a processional way leading up to it (MüllerWille and others 1976). In boat burials too we find regional variation, sometimes startlingly so as in the case of the island of Gotland. No ship graves have been found on the

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island, but instead Viking Age (and earlier) burials are sometimes marked by picture stones (see above), that in their lower sections usually bear a depiction of a ship under sail. It has been suggested that these picture stones are in effect the Gotlandic equivalent of ship burials, but with their message content expressed through images rather than the physical objects that are customary on the mainland (Andrén 1993). The content of this message and meaning has been subject to long debate, focusing principally on the ship as means of transport for a symbolic journey or as a high-status possession either of the dead or their wealthy relatives (Crumlin-Pedersen and Munch Tyhe 1995). Others have seen the burial ships as metaphors, representing the hall buildings characteristic of high-status chieftains, and thus forming a kind of residence for the dead (Herschend 1997). In this interpretation it is important that the dead stay in the mound, protecting or serving their community with spiritual power — the very opposite to the idea of death as a journey. We certainly know that some of the ship burials were left partly open for a short time, with portions of the vessel visible. The most striking evidence comes from the Oseberg ship burial, which has been shown to have been covered only partway by the original mound, leaving the entire prow and fore-part of the ship exposed, including the entrance to the burial chamber (Gansum 2004; Nordeide 2011c critiques this interpretation, but shows only that the grave must have been ‘completed’ in the course of a season — the sequence and staggered nature of the rituals is confirmed). Although the mound was later extended to cover the whole vessel, we do not know what kinds of activities took place around and even inside the burial in the intervening period. Similarly, the line of boat burials at Valsgärde may have been housed under open-ended sheds, their occupants and contents accessible to visitors (Herschend 1997). While these questions are not easy to resolve, it is clear that the ships often contain deliberate markers of ethnicity, religion, and power, and may also hold the clue to remarkable cultural interchange. One example comes from the Uppland graves as a whole, in which the presence of Sámi objects has been found in some profusion, including entire sheets of decorated birch bark tent covers that seem to have been laid over the ships at both Vendel and Valsgärde (Price 2002: 237). DNA and dietary work at the Tuna in Alsike grave field has also suggested that the dead interred there may have had Sámi ancestry (Price 2002: 237), raising the question of whether some of the ship burial occupants may actually have actively maintained Sámi identities. Similarly startling results were obtained from new work on one of the two women from the Oseberg burial. Originally thought to have been aged about

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sixty to seventy and twenty-five to forty years old, respectively, when they died, analysis of tooth root translucency in the younger woman has shown that she was probably at least fifty and perhaps older still, thus closing the age gap between the two. Most interestingly, successful extraction of DNA from one of her teeth has revealed that she belongs in mitochondrial sub-haplogroup U7, which strongly suggests that she came from the Middle East, particularly the area of modern Iran (Holck 2008: 205, 208). Very close matches in radiocarbon dating sequences indicate that the two women most likely died at the same time, while Carbon-13 analysis shows that both women had followed the same diet, perhaps implying that they were of similar status (Holck 2008: 204–05). The same pathologist’s more recent studies (Holck 2009a, 2009b) suggest varying degrees of genetic abnormality and severe illness in the older Oseberg woman and the man from Gokstad, giving them dramatically changed appearances and perhaps thereby some kind of marker that made them appropriate for the rite of ship burial. Another striking aspect of the ship burials is their construction for both women and men. It is clear that the latter were in the majority as primary occupants of the graves, almost 90 per cent of those interred being male (MüllerWille 1970; subsequent work has not significantly altered this ratio). However, the female boat graves are also among the richest known: indeed, the two women of Oseberg occupied the most spectacular Viking Age grave ever found (though on the basis of the artefactual assemblage, one scholar has argued that the primary burial at Oseberg was actually that of a man, whose body was completely removed when the chamber was disturbed; see Androshchuk 2005). Even in a minority, these rituals have considerable implications for the status of women in Viking society and accords well with other female-sponsored memorials such as the runic inscriptions mentioning bridge-building and similar activities. It is also worth noting that many of the boat graves are situated in cemeteries with other types of burials, as at Valsgärde where cremations are interspersed among the boats and include some female graves of very high status.

Old Graves, New Dead Another phenomenon that emerges clearly in Norse mortuary behaviour in several areas of the Viking world is a deliberate concern for the relative location of the dead, not only regarding proximity to the farms of the living (cf. Adolf Friðriksson 2013) but also to the burials of much earlier times. In our reconstructions of ancient world-views it is easy to forget that the people of the past themselves had a prehistory (Bradley 2002; Andrén 2013a). The perceptible

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Figure 33.11. Raknehaugen in Ullensaker in Akershus. The grave mound is one of the largest in Scandinavia and has been dated by dendrochronology to 552. It covered a cremation without any objects deposited in the grave. Photo: Bjørn Haugen, Kulturhistorisk museum, Universitetet i Oslo, Oslo.  

cognitive distance to, for example, the Bronze Age was scarcely less for the Vikings than it is for us, and while their understanding of their own past may not have been as ‘accurate’ as ours, there is no reason why their explanations of it were any less sophisticated. In particular, the siting of Viking Age burials close to prehistoric barrows and mounds may relate to ideas about the ancestors (Laidoner 2015), and the social situation of contemporary tenants in relation to the age-old inhabitants of the land. Thus in Denmark and southern Sweden, there are numerous instances of Viking Age graves being inserted as secondary burials into spectacular mounds from the Bronze Age, or alternatively created around them in the landscape (Pedersen 2006; see also Thäte 2007 for a broader Scandinavian frame of reference). The same phenomenon can be observed on Gotland, where Viking Age cremations have been carried out in a broad ring around the base of great stone cairns from the Bronze Age, as at Uggarde Rojr (Martinsson-Wallin, on-going excavations and personal communication). In similar studies of eastern central Sweden, Ann-Mari Hållans Stenholm (2006, 2012) has shown how intricate

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Figure 33.12. Double inhumation grave from the eighth century in Birka. The grave contained two men: at the bottom an older man with weapons (B) and on top of him a beheaded younger man (A) without any objects except for an antler of elk. The young man with the elk antler has been interpreted as a human burial sacrifice. After Holmquist Olausson 1990: 176.  

sequences of superimposed graves have been used to shape formalized spatial relationships to the past. Often there is an immense gap in time, some thousand years or so, between the earliest graves and the ones overlying them: from the Roman Iron Age to the Viking period. In a variant of this practice, we also find some of the so-called storhögar (‘great mounds’, a term used to denote barrows of high social status and monumentality) constructed as successive layers of burials, built up over time throughout the later Iron Age as they acquire new levels of funerary meaning within the community (Bratt 2008: 62–97; see also Gansum 2004). Similar practices can also be found within the Viking Age itself, as in the secondary deposition of cremations into existing inhumation graves (especially in the Swedish province of Skåne; see Svanberg 2000). This presumably functioned as part of similar processes of commemoration as we have seen above, binding people with the land and turning the varied monuments to the dead into what have been called ‘memory machines’ ( Jones 2007;

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see also Williams 2006). The location of burial mounds, especially on boundaries, is used as a signal of tenure certainly within Anglo-Saxon juridical practice (Semple 2013), and in Scandinavia the siting of barrows is also found in the legal documents of much later periods as proof of long-term rights to the properties in question (Zachrisson 1994).

Death at the Funeral Human sacrifice in association with burial can be hard to identify with certainty, as graves with more than one occupant may represent family groupings or multiple burials due to disease, amongst other possibilities. However, a significant number of Viking Age graves contain individuals who were clearly killed to accompany the primary occupant of the burial in death — diagnostic injuries in these cases include decapitation, stabbing, broken necks, and hanging, with the hands and/or feet sometimes being bound. Famous examples include a man buried at Stengade with a decapitated, bound man placed beside him, both bodies covered by a heavy spear (Skaarup 1972), and a similar burial from the hillfort wall at Birka, in which the decapitated body of a young male was laid partly over that of an older man furnished with weapons and with elk antlers placed behind his head (HolmquistOlausson 1990). Another tied, decapitated man accompanied the male buried at Lejre (Andersen 1960), while a woman’s grave from Gerdrup near Roskilde contained the body of a man with a broken neck (Christensen 1981). At Ballateare on the Isle of Man, an armed male youth had been buried with grave goods and covered by a mound, on top of which a young woman was killed with a sword blow from behind, apparently while kneeling. A thick deposit of cremated animal bone was then strewn over her body, covered in turn by a second layer of earth to complete the mound (Bersu and Wilson 1966). The human accompaniment of the dead seems to have been particularly common in connection with ship burials. The most dramatic case comes from the account of Ibn Fadlan mentioned several times previously (Montgomery 2000). The ship cremation ceremony (è 32) includes the murder of a young slave girl — the Arabic implies that she was about fourteen or fifteen years old — stabbed and strangled after at least six acts of rape and many more of arguably consensual sex. During the course of the rites she is seemingly drugged with some sort of beverage and has (or says she has) a series of visions. Ibn Fadlan states specifically that the girl volunteers to accompany her owner in death, though how much coercion was involved is another matter. He mentions that slaves of both sexes might do this, and also dead men’s wives and concubines.

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The latter are also mentioned by other Arab writers such as Ibn Rustah and Ibn Miskaweih, who describes how women might be buried alive in the chamber graves of their male partners, something perhaps confirmed by the Russian burials at Cernigov (Price 2002: 46). It is clear that more than one person might be sacrificed at Viking funerals, and we have seen above the Byzantine account of a Rus army burning its war dead by moonlight, accompanied by the mass killing of prisoners of both sexes (Price 2002: 369). Studies of Norwegian burials containing more than one person, in circumstances that might imply sacrifice, have found that many of the presumed victims had markedly different diets from the ‘primary’ occupants of the graves, though similar to that of the majority population (Naumann and others 2013). This does not confirm (or disprove) that the sacrifices were slaves, but does suggest a difference in status between them and the other persons in their graves.

War Rituals Some late Vendel and Viking Age burials relate to circumstances far removed from ‘conventional’ funerary settings, and instead represent the treatment of casualties sustained in battle. Buried far from home and in situations not necessarily of their comrades’ choosing (for example, under pressure in hostile territory), these give us brief glimpses of what might be termed war rituals, a focused concern for the martial dead, the manner of their passing, and the form of their memory. Until recently, the most dramatic of these was the large complex of burials and fortifications around Repton church in Derbyshire, associated with a winter camp of the Viking Great Army and closely dated to 873–74 (Biddle and Kjølbye-Biddle 1992, 2001). The church had been used as a gateway strongpoint into a D-shaped enclosure on the river bank, with several burials in preChristian Scandinavian style around it. These included a clear warrior grave of a man felled by several massive injuries and buried with weapons and pagan charms (a Þórr’s hammer, jackdaw’s leg, and a boar’s tusk between his legs), with a second grave adjacent that contained the unfurnished body of a youth; both graves had been covered by a stone cairn through which a standing post had been erected. Outside the fortification, a former mausoleum of the Mercian royal line had been adapted for use by the Vikings, with a huge charnel deposit of disarticulated bones — representing more than 250 people, mostly men — arranged around what is thought to have been a central burial. After years of debate, adjusted radiocarbon dates and isotope analyses have confirmed that the bodies are indeed related to the Viking Great Army.

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Two mass graves of what appear to be execution victims have been excavated at Ridgeway Hill, Weymouth (Loe and others 2014), and St John’s College, Oxford (Wallis 2014). All the bodies are male adults, and isotope data indicate a Scandinavian origin for many of them, but there is no question that they were killed and buried by their enemies, and thus do not represent properly Scandinavian rituals. There is, however, a degree of ceremony involved, especially at Ridgeway Hill, where the decapitated bodies were thrown into a pile, with a stack of heads adjacent, all in a disused Roman quarry on prominent high ground. Interestingly, perhaps the most significant Viking funerary discovery of the last century also belongs to this category of war rituals, in the find of two boat burials dating to c. 750 at Salme on the Estonian island of Saaremaa. Excavated between 2008–12, these remarkable graves appear to represent the resting places of Scandinavians who perished on a raiding expedition. The find is unique and gives us an unprecedented insight into what the ships, crews, and material culture of such forces might have looked like at the very start of the Viking Age. As this essay goes to press, the Salme finds are still under investigation, and this account is based on interim publications (Konsa and others 2009; Peets and others 2011, 2013; Peets 2013; Curry 2013), but they undoubtedly represent one of the most exciting early Viking discoveries for many decades. Originally located on a spit of sandy terrain projecting out into a heavily trafficked sound between islands, two clinker-built boats had been partly buried so as to leave most of their profile above ground. Aligned parallel to the shore and only a few metres from the water, they would have been visible from a distance

Figure 33.13. Reconstruction of the burial of seven men in the small boat grave at Salme on Saaremaa (Ösel) in Estonia. Illustration: Þórhallur Þráinsson. 

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and must have remained a landmark for sailors over many years. The sea would have washed their hulls, as we know from the lenses of silt that gradually built up against the coastward side of the boats — a dramatic sight. The two vessels were of different sizes, but from the context they seem to have been deposited at the same time and thus probably resulted from the same event. The Salme ships together contained an astonishing forty-one bodies, an enormous number by comparison with any other known grave from the Viking Age (even the greatest previously known ship burials had no more than four or five occupants). The dead ranged in age from late adolescence to maturity, with the majority in their thirties, and thus represented men in their prime. Many of the skeletons showed signs of major physical trauma consistent with battle injuries, indicating that these men died in combat; the others presumably perished at the same time, of unknown causes. The fighting had evidently been at least partly maritime in nature, as the sides of both vessels were studded with arrowheads, including a triple-pronged fire arrow used to carry wads of burning material into enemy hulls, sails, and rigging. The smaller of the two vessels was a rowing boat approximately 11.5 m long and 2 m wide. It contained the bodies of seven men, placed apparently sitting up on the benches: six of them in three pairs at the oars, seemingly with their arms round each other’s shoulders, and the seventh man at one end (we cannot distinguish the prow from the stern). The men were buried with weapons and a range of personal items, and the boat also contained hawks, falcons, and dogs — all animals associated with high-status activities such as hunting. The second vessel was much larger, a true ocean-going ship 17 m long and 3 m across the beam. It is hard to be sure from what was preserved, but it seems very likely that the larger of the Salme boats was powered by sail. At one end of the boat (again, we cannot tell the prow from the stern), thirty-four men were buried in four layers, laid down side by side in the hull. More swords than men were present in the grave. The quality of the workmanship was very high, with a great deal of gold ornament. The bodies were strewn with a variety of objects, such as gaming pieces; on some of the corpses, fish of several species had been placed. At the centre of the mound was the richest of all the Salme individuals — a man laid down with weapons and jewellery of spectacular quality. In his mouth was a single gaming piece, the king. The whole pile of bodies was covered by a kind of mound made from fifteen shields, placed with overlapping boards to form a wooden dome over the dead. Each shield boss had been hammered flat, and many of the weapons were deliberately bent. Over this lay a large piece of textile, perhaps the sail. In the ship were a number of dogs that had been killed in various elaborate ways, pre-

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sumably sacrifices to accompany the dead. The fact of the careful and elaborate burial rituals surely implies that the dead were interred by their countrymen, and the undisturbed nature of the find suggests that the Scandinavians retained sufficient influence over the region to prevent the desecration of the graves.

Concluding Remarks After decades of study with an ever-increasing data-set, it has become clear that the mortuary behaviour of the later Scandinavian Iron Age saw a gradual development of two trends by comparison with preceding centuries: the broad standardization of outer burial form, and an almost infinite variation of the individual rites practised within that repertoire. The key questions in the study of deathways at this time focus on the possible explanations for this transformation. Beyond their intrinsic study, these problems can also be illuminated by comparative reference to the northern Germanic societies of the Continent, the burial rites of the Anglo-Saxons, and the rituals of the Sámi. A necessary first step here is the deconstruction — at times a fantastically difficult task — of the most apparently fundamental terminology: put simply, in the later Iron Age, what was a grave, and what was a funeral? It is clear that the rituals involved were complex affairs and took a considerable period of time, sometimes so long that the body was placed in a temporary grave while the primary site was being prepared (an example of this has been excavated in northern Iceland; Roberts 2009). Ibn Fadlan notes that the funeral rites took a full ten days of continuous activity, which may not be untypical. Good evidence for these drawn-out rituals of death comes in particular from ship burials, such as a boat grave from Kaupang that exhibits a particularly prolonged sequence of activity (Price 2010, 2012). The chamber graves in particular also exhibit a complexity that must reflect an intricate series of actions during their construction, such as the burials of possible sorceresses on Birka (Price 2002: 128–41). One of these, Bj.834, contains a double chair burial as described above, and a lance has been thrown across the seated figures in order to strike deep into the wood of the platform upon which rests a pair of draught-harnessed horses. Other burials also exhibit weapons being either stuck into chamber walls or else plunged vertically into cremation deposits (Nordberg 2002). One further element of this extended funerary behaviour may be the practice of so-called grave robbing. While clearly some burials were merely plundered for their valuables, many of the break-ins to mounds and other graves are so extensive that they simply cannot have been done in secret or without

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wider social sanction — the disturbance of the Oseberg and Gokstad burials is a case in point (Bill and Daly 2012). Often burials were opened (perhaps a better term than ‘broken into’) soon after the original interment, as seen in the still partial articulation of the corpses when they were disturbed. While some of these removals have a relatively clear motive, such as the translation of Gorm the Old’s bones to the new church at Jelling, others are more obscure. Often the bodies are moved around or taken out altogether, some objects are taken while others are left alone, and sometimes it is possible to see how piles of items were shifted en masse and left where they were placed, presumably in order to access something else. Excellent work has been done on this phenomenon in an AngloSaxon context (Klevnäs 2007, 2014), and it is clear that further research will shed much-needed light on an integral part of the mortuary behaviour that has hitherto been erroneously considered only in relation to the actual burial itself. There is a strong sense of the active presence of the dead in the grave. In some of the Valsgärde ship burials, for example, hnefetafl sets are laid out with the pieces positioned as if in the middle of a game, with the next, winning move due to the player on the side of the board nearest the body of the deceased: the dead man is about to beat his invisible opponent (Herschend 1997). In the princely chamber grave from Mammen, Denmark, a candle had been lit on top of the coffin, and would have burned down, unseen in the dark, as the oxygen ran out in the sealed grave (Iversen and others 1991). Then there are all the ‘missing’ graves. We still know very little of the criteria that decided whether any given individual received a burial at all, but equally we should not assume that an archaeologically invisible funeral was necessarily one without dignity or meaning. Perhaps they too were ‘present’, but somewhere else. Another important dimension of the grave was the role played by funerary ritual, and its interplay with burial form, in constructing a posthumous identity and memory for the dead. Interesting studies of runic epitaphs for men has shed light on the desirable components of a masculine memory, coupled with the qualities conferred by specific kinds of deaths (Thedéen 2009). This has considerable implications for what might be meant by the selection of particular kinds of objects for burial with the dead — for men, an obvious example being the clichés of ‘warrior graves’ containing weapons. The choice of what has been put in, or left out, may contain subtle messages about the reputation and character of each individual, deliberately constructing or obscuring aspects of their status after death. Individual objects, such as box brooches, may be employed as signals of ethnic allegiance — they are conventionally associated with female dress of Gotlandic type — but may equally form part of intricately cosmopolitan identities (Thedéen 2012).

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We must also consider whether graves were a success, in contemporary terms. The concept of ritual failure has recently begun to be explored in archaeology (Hüsken 2007; Koutrafouri and Sanders 2013), and this is a perspective that can also be profitably applied to burials. In assessing the social impact of Late Iron Age funerals, we often routinely speak of costly and conspicuous consumption in the choice of objects and animals disposed of in the grave: for example, horses were expensive creatures, and the slaughter or more than a dozen in some of the larger ship burials must have represented a considerable sacrifice in economic terms. This has been interpreted as signalling the high status of the dead, or their relatives, or the community within which the rituals are taking place — but even assuming that we are right in sensing the presence of such markers, what is to say that any of these social strategies worked? Among the onlookers at a spectacular funeral, might there not have been some who sniggered at the social pretensions on display, and might the deposition of so much obvious wealth been perceived as vulgarity rather than grandeur? We will never know, but we should be open to the possibility, and to the unbidden elements of subversion that can be present at any public occasion. It is also possible to pursue mortuary behaviour beyond the dead themselves. One example of this is the phenomenon of hoard deposition. It has long been clear that buried hoards of silver and other metals are too numerous for them to represent nothing more than primitive banking, the Viking Age equivalent of hiding one’s money under the mattress. Given the very large numbers of hoard finds within relatively small areas, especially Gotland, it is similarly evident that those doing the burying cannot all have died without telling anyone else where their wealth was concealed. There were probably many concurrent explanations for hoarding behaviour, but it is possible that in part it could relate to mortuary ritual either in the absence of a corpse or in addition to one disposed of elsewhere. There is also an alternative, relating to the actions of a person in advance of their own death. We know that some ambitious individuals were capable of erecting runic memorials to themselves in their own lifetimes, and should therefore reconsider Snorri’s suggestion — mentioned above — that hoarded wealth could be buried by the person who had accumulated it in order to enjoy it in the afterlife. Scholars have often been too ready to dismiss details of the Ynglinga saga account, and yet this is the kind of telling observation that is at least as likely to reflect Viking Age reality as it is Snorri’s imagination (Gruszczynski 2019). It is also entirely possible that something similar lies behind the numerous depositions of precious metalwork in watery, liminal locations such as bogs, tidal zones, and rivers (see Lund 2009 for a comprehensive discussion of this phenomenon).

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One obvious factor in understanding Viking burials is the question of where the individual dead were thought to be destined. We know relatively little of specific afterlife beliefs, and what we do know contains many contradictions. The graves give us small clues, though hard to interpret. The buried dead, and even the accompanying horses, sometimes wear crampons on their feet — does this imply that the funeral took place in winter, or are the dead travelling to somewhere cold? The written sources mention special ‘Hel-shoes’ to speed the dead on their way (Strömbäck 1961); is this something similar? One of the bodies in the boat burial from Scar on Sanday, Orkney (Owen and Dalland 1999), was that of a man whose feet had both been twisted round to face backwards — was this to prevent him from following the others on their way, or to stop him coming back to haunt the living? When vehicles are involved, especially ships, it is often assumed that death was therefore a journey, and that the deceased would travel by boat, wagon, or sled into the next world. This may be true, but there is no reason why these might not just represent exceptionally expensive possessions of the dead (or their living relatives) alongside all the other artefacts. In the greatest ship burial of all, Oseberg, the vessel was actually moored in the grave by a hawser tied to a massive boulder; apparently the intention was that it should not ‘travel’ anywhere at all. There are also indications that the larger of the two Salme vessels was similarly anchored to the ground ( Jüri Peets, personal communication). The funerary symbolism of doors and openings has also been considered by Marianne Hem Eriksen (2013; cf. Andrén 1993), with something of a hallmark of current studies in its emphasis on plurality, nuance, the importance of context and also the empowering aspects of gender across a broad spectrum. The future for Viking funerary studies has great potential, but also equal risk. We must learn to embrace diversity, to resist easy categorization, and to appreciate each burial for what it was — something as enormous as the ending of a life, unique for each person, and perhaps the beginning of a different one. In the image of the threshold it may be that here we have the ultimate metaphor for the period: the passage of its inhabitants from one place — one life — to another, through a portal that was once wide open but is now closed.

34 – Worlds of the Dead John Lindow and Anders Andrén Introduction Graves — the world(s) of the dead — surrounded living people. The dead, insofar as they could influence the lives of the living, constituted the sort of Other beings whom we take in this work to be characteristic of a religious worldview. Worlds of the dead can be related both to various mythological death realms and to places where the dead actually rested. The extent to which there was a relation between ideas of death realms and resting places of the dead is disputed, but the possibility is not unlikely. From a spatial point of view, the living in ancient Scandinavia were always surrounded by the dead, in the form of more or less visible graves. In well-preserved contexts, it is clear that graves could be placed either close to settlements (for example, Liedgren 1992: 96–120) or at the borders of settlements, surrounding farms, and villages (for example, Fallgren 2006: 45–86). As is clear from (è33), not all dead received a formal grave, and those who were buried in formal graves must have been ‘important dead’; above all they were presumably regarded as ancestors and other important members of the society. In the basically oral culture of ancient Scandinavia, it seems likely that grave mounds of the ancestors could have been used as signs of rights to inherited land, that is, óðal (è19). Even in some medieval provincial laws, grave mounds could be used in conflicts regarding claims of land (Zachrisson 1994).

John Lindow, Professor Emeritus of Scandinavian, University of California, Berkeley Anders Andrén, Senior Professor of Archaeology, Stockholm University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume ii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 2 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 897–926 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116961

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Sources Given the commemorative function of most rune stones, the dead are a constant concern in that discursive system. However, the inscriptions in the older fuþark seem to be concerned not with any world(s) of the dead but rather with keeping the dead from re-entering the human world as revenants and in preserving the grave monuments intact; to the latter belong the formulas against ‘breaking’ grave monuments marked with runes, some of which are discussed in (è 21). If the term kumbl ‘monument’ refers to the grave in which a certain Þormundr lies (assuming that is what the short inscription is about), then the imperative on the Nørre Særå rune stone (Fyn, Denmark, c. 900, DR 211, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), which is apparently addressed to him, ‘njót kumbls’ (use or enjoy the monument), might refer to a physical world in which Þormundr now dwells. Beyond the runic inscriptions, textual evidence must be sought in manuscript writing. With the exception of the so-called ‘eddic praise poems’ Eiríksmál and Hákonarmál, treated below, a world of the dead is not portrayed in skaldic poems, although it must be inferred in many of the references to Hel (place or person) used in these. However, eddic poetry presents several pictures of the realms of the dead, and heroes enter grave mounds in sagas of Icelanders and fornaldarsögur. Christian vision literature, of course, shows visits to the world of the dead, and in some cases there may be crossing of the Christian conceptions embodied in vision literature and the older myth and religion of the North. Above all, graves reflect traces of ritual practices concerning death and burial (è33). Sometimes, however, there may be allusions to ideas about the worlds of the dead in certain elements of the graves. Especially the location of the graves, the external grave markers, the internal layout, and the objects accompanying the dead could give some indications of ideas about different forms of existence after death. Myth hel/Hel Early poetry refers to a world of the dead with the term hel.1 Etyma from the other Germanic languages, such as Gothic halja and Old English hell, refer to the Christian Hell. The West Germanic languages attest a clearly related verb, 1 

See Abram (2006) for an excellent survey of the two meanings of this term (see below) in the earliest poetry.

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helan (conceal) (de Vries 1962a: 220–21), suggesting that the conception of this realm of the dead is of a place hidden away from the view of the living and that the conception is older than Christianity.2 Perhaps curiously, the word is rare in skaldic poetry. Sigvatr uses it in his Erfidrápa Óláfs helga (c. 1040 according to conventional wisdom). 1. Tolf frák tekna elfar tálaust viðu bála; olli Ǫ́ leifr falli eirsama konungr þeira. Svía tyggja leitk seggi sóknstríðs (firum) ríða (bǫl vas brátt) til Heljar (búit mest) Sigars hesti. (I heard without equivocation that twelve trees of the pyres of the river [GOLD > MEN] were captured; Óláfr, the merciful king, caused their death. I saw the men of the battle-hard king of the Swedes [= Óláfr sœnski] ride the horse of Sigarr [GALLOWS] to Hel; the greatest harm was quickly prepared for the men.) (p. 665)

While it is not wholly inconceivable that Sigvatr draws on an existing poetic trope for killing people — that is, to dispatch them to the world of the dead — it is also likely that he has the Christian Hell in mind here (Abram 2006: 3), since the slain were pagans who opposed Óláfr’s imposition of Christianity. The same uncertainty surrounds a stanza by Þjóðolfr Árnorsson (lausavísa 9)3 since the three dead are members of the army of the Swedish king Steinkell and may thus have been viewed as pagans by the Norwegians, although perhaps here the trope seems more likely. The relevant helmingr runs as follows. Ǫld es, sús jarli skyldi ógnteitum lið veita — sterkr olli því stillir — Steinkels gefin helju. (Steinkell’s men have been handed over to death’s realm, those who should have given support to the battle-joyous jarl; the mighty ruler [Haraldr] caused that.) (p. 173) 2 

The related Old Norse-Icelandic verb hylja is found in burial contexts; see Uecker 1966: 17–19. His lv 25 in Finnur Jónsson’s edition (1912–15), but renumbered by Diana Whaley in Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages. 3 

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Later Christian poetry uses hel alongside helvíti (a loan from Old English). In the syncretistic discourse of Sólarljóð, the use of hel makes some sense; the term features in a sequence of stanzas describing the arrival of the soul in Hell. ‘Heljar reip’ (ropes of hel; that is, the bonds of Hell) encircle the soul (st. 37); ‘heljar meyjar’ (maidens of hel) bring torment (st. 38); the soul sees the sun but hears the groaning of ‘heljar grind’ (the gate of hel) (st. 39). Even the almost baroque poet of Lílja can call the abodes of Hell ‘heljar byggðir’ (st. 61). If skaldic poetry shows the word hel as a world of the dead to be of little importance, the opposite is true of eddic poetry and related mythic and heroic materials. In eddic poetry,4 a person who has died goes to hel (the verbs are fara (travel) and ganga (go on foot)); killing someone in battle means smiting the person to hel (the verbs are lemja (batter) and drepa (strike)),5 and one can send (hafa) or bring (koma with object) someone there. Compounds built upon these ideas are helfǫr (journey to hel), helfúss (eager for hel), and helreið (ride to hel). In all of these expressions, hel can be understood as a realm of the dead. Grímnismál st. 31, however, suggests a different conception. Þriár rœtr standa á þriá vega undan asci Yggdrasils; Hel býr under einni, annarri hrímþursar, þriðio mennzcir menn. (Three roots there grow in three directions under Yggdrasil’s ash; Hel lives under one, under the second, the frost-giants, under the third, human kind.) (p. 53)

Given the incontrovertible semantics of the verb búa (live, dwell) and the parallelism between hel and the living beings who live under the other two roots, hel must be a living being in the conception of this poem. Following convention, we will refer to her as ‘Hel’ (and the world of the dead as hel). We have the gender from Snorri, but the feminine grammatical gender and the presence of other female figures associated with death, such as the dísir, as well as the classical parallels, would lead observers in that direction anyway. 4 

For a table cataloguing the attestations of hel in Eddic poetry, see Abram (2006: 7). To these expressions may be compared Widukind of Corvey’s statement that the Franks killed in battle against the Saxons went to infernus (Simek 2006b: 90–91), as well as the axe called Hel that King Magnús inn góði carried in battle against the Wends (Magnúsdrápa st. 10), according to some versions of Óláfs saga helga inherited from his father, Óláfr Haraldsson the saint. 5 

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In Gylfaginning (p. 27), Snorri has Hár number Hel among the children of Loki and Angrboða, sired in Jǫtunheimar; the others were the Miðgarðsormr (or Jǫrmungandr) and the wolf Fenrir. As Chris Abram (2006) has shown, the earliest skalds knew of a female personification of death and created kennings for her fitting this profile. These kennings go all the way back to Bragi Boddason inn gamli, who is traditionally reckoned the first skald. In what editors regard as stanza 9 of his Ragnarsdrápa, the poet refers to the death awaiting the warriors who fight in the eternal battle known as the Hjaðningavíg: ‘ulfs at sinna | með algífris lifru’ (to accompany the sister of the complete monster of a wolf [Fenrir] [= Hel]) (p. 41). Although one might raise the argument that Bragi intended here no more than the trope of beasts of battle, the kennings ‘Loka mær’ (daughter of Loki) and ‘Býleists bróður mær’ (daughter of the brother of Býleistr) in stanzas 7 and 31 of Þjóðólfr of Hvín’s Ynglingatal settle the matter.6 ‘Hveðrungs mær’ (daughter of Hveðrungr or daughter of the monster) in stanza 32 also seems to be Hel, given the transparent kenning for the wolf, her brother, in Vǫluspá st. 55: ‘Hveðrungs mǫgr’ (son of Hveðrungr). Thus, there was clearly a conception of a female personification of death, a daughter of Loki and sister of the wolf, among the early skalds. Although they do not call her by name (and neither hel nor Hel occurs in the kenning system of the older poets),7 there is no reason to imagine that Snorri has got the family relationship right while getting the name wrong. In short, Hel as a female personification of death existed in certain social circles in Viking Age Norway. The final stanza of Egill’s Sonatorrek seems to invoke both Hel and hel. Nú erum torvelt: Tveggja bága njǫrva nipt á nesi stendr; skalk þó glaðr með góðan vilja ok óhryggr heljar bíða. (Now my course is tough: Death, close sister of Odin’s enemy stands on the ness: with resolution and without remorse I shall gladly await my own.) (p. 156)8 6 

We number ourselves among the majority who accept the traditional dating of Ynglingatal to the pre-Christian period. 7  In his Magnúsdrápa, a poem praising the military exploits of Magnús berfœttr, the little-known twelfth-century poet Bjǫrn krepphendi called fire ‘hel kastar’ (hel of the woodpile) (st. 1); here, hel probably means ‘death’. No other such kennings are known. 8  The translation is not literal (and the verse is complex). In the first half-stanza, the edi-

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Although the kenning in the first helmingr is difficult, the base nipt (sister) in this context can hardly anchor a kenning for anyone or anything other than Hel. The second helmingr is clear; Egill proposes to await death without complaint. In his lausavísa 7, Egill again seems to play on both conceptions (assuming that the verse is genuine). Svá hefk leystsk ór Lista láðvarðaðar garði, né fágak dul drjúgan, dáðmildr ok Gunnhildar, at þrifreynis þjónar þrír nakkvarir Hlakkar til hásalar Heljar helgengnir fǫr dvelja. (Great in my deeds, I  slipped away from the realm of the lord of Norway and Gunnhild — I do not boast overly — by sending three servants of the tree of the valkyrie to the otherworld, to stay in Hel’s high hall.) (p. 84)

According to the saga text, Egill uttered this verse to Arinbjǫrn after he had escaped from the pursuit of Eiríkr blóðøx. The adjective helgengnir especially suggests motion towards the place, but ‘high halls of Hel’ might refer either to the person or to the place. In Egill’s stanza in Sonatorrek, he sees Hel standing on the headland. Bragi says that the warriors in the Hjaðningavíg should travel with (sinna með) Hel, and perhaps we should understand Egill’s stanza in this way: Hel will accompany him.9 The operating concept then seems to be that the personification of death functions as a kind of psychopomp. Surely she brings the deceased to hel, the realm of the dead suggested by expressions like fara í hel (travel to hel) and the like enumerated above. No skaldic poet says or hints at what the journey is like, nor do the skalds express any notion of what it might be like to be in hel. One must turn to eddic poetry for such information. We have one reference to tor and translator read ‘close sister of the enemy of Tveggi’ (i.e., of Óðinn). ‘Enemy of Óðinn’ would be the Miðgarðsormr, whose sister is Hel; the word, however, is not attested here, and the translator has added ‘Death’. In the second half-stanza, Egill says that he will gladly await Hel or hel; the editor and translator prefer the latter (although the translator omits the word) because of the lines in Hávamál st. 15 that state how every man should gladly await his bani (death). 9  This concept may also be found in a clause in Ynglingatal st. 22: ‘Ok hallvarps hlífiNauma þjóðkonung á Þótni tók’ (And the protecting Nauma of the cairn [= Hel] took the mighty king in Toten) (p. 48).

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a journey to niflhel (dark hel).10 According to Baldrs draumar st. 2, Óðinn rode his horse Sleipnnir down to niflhel, which is consistent with graves being located under the earth or covered by the earth of a mound. Vǫluspá st. 43 agrees with the subterranean location of hel: as Ragnarǫk progresses, Gullinkambi’s crows awaken Heriafǫðr’s (Óðinn’s) men (the einherjar) for the last battle, and this is echoed by another rooster’s crowing: ‘fyr iorð neðan, | sótrauðr hani, | at sǫlum Heliar’ (a sooty-red cock in the halls of Hel (p. 9)). Baldrs draumar likewise states that there are halls there. According to this poem, the journey down to the world of the dead is dangerous and difficult. In stanzas 2 and 3, Óðinn is beset by a bloody hell-hound, a whelp that came out of hel (‘ór heliu kom’) and howls at him. The earth resounds as he rides, and he arrives to the east of the door — thus suggesting a journey downward and westward, like that of the setting sun (cf. Andrén 2012a, 2014). Upon arrival, Óðinn must awaken a dead seeress through the use of magic charms applied specifically to the dead (valgaldr) (st.4). This seeress describes the weather in the world of the dead (or on the surface of the grave) (st. 5): ‘var ec snivin snióvi | oc slegin regni | oc drifin dǫggo’ (I was snowed upon, I was rained upon, dew fell on me (p. 235)). But although the seeress describes and emerges or speaks from a grave (‘vǫlu leiði’, st. 4), Óðinn has arrived at a hall (st. 3): ‘hann kom at hávo | Heliar ranni’ (he approached the high hall of Hel).11 This hall is decked for a feast, as the hall of a chieftain on earth might be. Challenged by the seeress, Óðinn (falsely) identifies himself and poses his first question, to which the seeress replies. 6. Vegtamr ec heiti, sonr em ec Valtams; segðu mér ór helio –ec man ór heimi– hveim ero beccir baugom sánir, flet fagrliga flóð gulli? 7. Hér stendr Baldri of brugginn mioðr, scírar veigar, 10 

Since we use the form hel, we prefer the form niflhel to the more commonly used Niflhel. Here it is not possible to determine whether reference is made to a being (Hel) or to a place (cf. ‘heljar grindr’ in Lílja), although the preponderance of the latter meaning in eddic poetry might give it preference. 11 

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liggr scioldr yfir, enn ásmegir í ofvæni. Nauðug sagðac, nú mun ec þegja. (6. Way-tame is my name, I’m the son of Slaughter-tame; tell me news from hell12 — I bring it from the world: for whom are the benches decked with arm-rings, is the dais so fairly strewn with gold? 7. Here mead stands, brewed for Baldr, clear liquor; a shield hangs above, and the Æsir are in dread anticipation. Reluctantly I told you, now I’ll be silent.) (p. 236)

Snorri gives additional information about Hel and her siblings. Understanding by means of prophecies that they were to inflict harm on the æsir, Óðinn had them brought to him and attempted to neutralize them. He cast the Miðgarðsormr into the sea, and, as is retold in an elaborate story, the gods bound the wolf. Regarding Hel: Hel kastaði hann í Niflheim ok gaf henni vald yfir níu heimum at hon skipti ǫllum vistum með þeim er til hennar váru sendir, en þat eru sóttdauðir menn ok ellidauðir. Hon á þar mikla bólstaði ok eru garðar hennar forkunnar hávir ok grindr stórar. Eljúðnir heitir salr hennar, Hungr diskr hennar, Sultr knífr hennar, Ganglati þrællinn, Ganglǫt ambátt, Fallanda Forað þreskǫldr hennar er inn gengr, Kǫr sæing, Blíkjanda Bǫl ársali hennar. Hon er blá hálf en hálf með hǫrundar lit — því er hon auðkend — ok heldr gnúpleit ok grimlig.) (Gylfginning p. 27) (Hel he threw into Niflheim and gave her authority over nine worlds, such that she has to administer board and lodging to those sent to her, and that is those who die of sickness or old age. She has a great mansion there and her walls are exceptionally high and the gates great. Her hall is called Eliudnir, her dish Hunger, her knife Famine, the servant Ganglati, serving-maid Ganglot, her threshold where you enter Stumbling-block, her bed Sick-bed, her curtains Gleaming-bale. She is half black and half flesh-covered — thus she is easily recognizable — and rather downcast and fierce-looking.) (p. 27)

Of the names Snorri mentions for objects and persons in Hel’s abode, only that of her hall, Éljúðnir, is not transparent.13 It is also worth noting that Snorri assigns to Hel domain over multiple worlds of the dead. 12  This translation recognizes that the place rather than the individual is likely to be behind the word hel in this stanza. 13  Ganglati and Ganglǫt, which Faulkes does not translate, are obviously masculine and

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A woman presiding over a household (let alone nine worlds) would be anomalous in terms of the gender system. Such inversion appears to be characteristic of the various conceptions of the worlds of the dead in pre-Christian Nordic religion, where the dead continue to live on in some form. As was mentioned above, hel/Hel is related to the verb hylja (conceal), and there may have been links between this idea and the actual construction of graves. Many graves in the Iron Age had a cover, such as a mound, a cairn, or a stone setting, concealing the grave from the living. In a few cases, the stone cover was filled with stones laid out in a spiral in counterclockwise direction, that is, contrary to the normal movement of the sun. This can be compared to Ibn Fadlan’s account that the person who lit the funeral pyre was walking backwards (Nordberg 2009; see also è32). The counterclockwise direction of the stone cover may also be paralleled by the inversion of the worlds of the dead, such as a fundamentally different language of the dead (see below). Valhǫll According to Snorri, Hel gets only those who die of illness or old age.14 Whatever the relationship between hel and Hel, and whatever the role of Hel as psychopomp, Snorri clearly needed a statement like this in order to clarify the distinction between Hel and Valhǫll, an abode of the dead presided over by Óðinn and housing the best warriors. The Grímnismál poet gives information about Valhǫll: 22. Valgrind heitir, er stendr velli á, heilog, fyr helgom durum; forn er sú grind, enn þat fáir vito, hvé hon er í lás lokin.

feminine of a compound adjective meaning ‘lazy at walking, slow-moving’. According to Finnur Jónnson (1931: 117 s.v.), Éljúðnir compounds the obvious él (storm, hail) with an otherwise unknown form related to úði (drizzle). Thirteenth-century skaldic poetry attests both Éljúðnir and Hel’s dish (hunger). The former ‘vann sólginn Baldr’ (Málsháttakvæði st. 9) (had swallowed up Baldr) (p. 1223) and the latter occurs in a verse in Sturlunga saga attributed to Sigvatr Sturluson. The other names are not found elsewhere and may be Snorri’s embellishments. 14  This raises an interesting question regarding Snorri’s recounting of the Baldr story. Did Snorri contradict himself, or did he regard an accidental death, or one caused by something that is not technically a weapon, as mythically equivalent to a death from illness?

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23. Fimm hundrúð dura oc um fiórum togom, svá hygg ec at Valhǫllo vera; átta hundruð einheria ganga ór einom durom, þá er þeir fara at vitni at vega. (22. Valgrind it’s called, standing on the plain, sacred before the sacred door: ancient is that gate, but few men know how it is closed up with a lock. 23. Five hundred doors and forty I think there are in Valhall; eight hundred Ein­her­ jar will pass through a single door when they march out to fight the wolf.) (p. 51)

The compound name Valhǫll is transparent: hall of the slain. We see the first component repeated in the name of the gate Valgrind (gate of the slain; known as a toponym only here) and elsewhere in such compounds as Valfǫðr (father of the slain, i.e., Óðinn) and valkyrjur (choosers of the slain, i.e., the valkyries). Stanza 22 puts a gate into this world of the dead, parallel to the one Snorri puts outside the domain of Hel. Although the multiple doors accord poorly with any archaeological evidence, they allow for a very large number of warriors to emerge quickly from the building. Two poems assigned by tradition to the pre-Christian period portray settings in Valhǫll. According to Fagrskinna, Queen Gunnhildr, the widow of Eiríkr blóðøx, commissioned the anonymous poem we now know as Eiríksmál some time after Eiríkr’s death in Stainmore, Cumbria, in 954. Nine mostly partial stanzas in eddic metre survive. Initially, the speaker appears to be Óðinn, and the situation is that Eiríkr is about to arrive in Valh ǫll, Óðinn having allowed him to fall so as to strengthen his army for Ragnarǫk. Óðinn awakens the einherjar and tells them to prepare for celebration, queries Bragi about what is to happen, and orders the heroes Sigmundr and Sinfjǫtli to greet Eiríkr, who himself speaks the last extant stanza announcing the arrival of five kings beside himself. This Valhǫll, then, contains mostly the illustrious dead (for Bragi, Sigmundr, and Sinfjǫtli, see è36), and it is both a chieftain’s hall getting ready for an evening of drinking and an armed camp preparing for battle. Hákonarmál, attributed to Eyvindr Finnsson skáldaspillir (usually understood as ‘plagiarist’), takes up similar subject matter for King Hákon inn góði (the good), Eiríkr’s younger half-brother, who fell mortally wounded in the battle of Storð c. 961. Like Eiríksmál, the poem is in eddic metre (more accurately, metres, since both ljóðaháttr and málaháttr are employed), and it too describes the king’s arrival in Valhǫll, this time preceded by valkyries who have chosen him to die. Besides Bragi, the Hákonarmál poet names Hermóðr, else-

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Figure 34.1. The picture stone from Ardre on Gotland (SHM 11118:108199), with a possible depiction of Valhǫll in the upper panel Photo: Ola Myrin, Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm. 

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Figure 34.2. Boat grave (no. 8) at Valsgärde in Uppland. The dead warrior was equipped with objects for an afterlife in a hall such as Valhǫll. By courtesy of: Uppsala University, Viking phenomenon project. 

where a son of Óðinn, as inhabitants of Valhǫll, and also mentions the drinking of beer in Valhǫll. Ideas concurrent with the literary descriptions of Valh ǫll are moreover found on the picture stones from Alskog and Ardre on eastern Gotland, both dated to the ninth century. In the upper panel of both stones an eight-legged horse with a rider approaches men fighting in front of a huge building. On the Alskog stone, a woman with a drinking horn also stands in front of the building. Both images have been interpreted as depictions of Valhǫll, the fighting einherjar, a valkyrie with a drinking horn, and Sleipnir carrying either a dead warrior or Óðinn himself (Buisson 1976; Ellmers 1980; Nordberg 2003: 151–210). Ideas about a hall for the dead were possibly also expressed through certain external grave markers. A few large stone settings with curved sides may have been representations of houses with curved walls. These ‘houses’ are known from western Norway and a few places in southern Sweden. Above all, the sizeable ‘hall settings’ at Askeberga in Västergötland and at Nässja in Östergötland, measuring between 45 and 55 m, could have had metaphorical links to the idea of Valhǫll (Carlsson 2015: 200–01).

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Einherjar The warriors in Valhǫll are the einherjar. Elsewhere in Grímnismál the pig whose flesh is boiled, Sæhrímnir, is mentioned in connection with their mysterious nutrition (st. 18), almost certainly whilst members of Óðinn’s retinue. Similarly, stanza 36 reports that a number of women, some of whose names we recognize as names of valkyries, serve beer to them. The noun einherjar (pl., sing. einheri) has been interpreted in various ways. If it is transparent, it means ‘those who fight alone’ or, better in this context, ‘warriors who fight as one’. Etymologically it could also be derived from something like ‘peerless warriors’. Grímnismál seems to presuppose either that the listener knows about the einherjar or, at a minimum, that within the conceit of the poem they form part of the experience and vision of Óðinn, who is speaking. Gylfaginning reports that those who die in battle are Óðinn’s adopted sons (‘óskasynir’, p. 21) to whom he assigns places in Valhǫll; they are then einherjar. Vafþrúðnismál st. 41 tells us that the einherjar fight in Óðinn’s yards each day, kill (‘val þeir kiósa’), and ride away from the battle; they are then reconciled. Snorri further has a lengthy passage about the einherjar in Gylfaginning (pp. 32–33), spoken by Hár, which agrees with this statement and harmonizes too some of the information in the eddic poems. They eat the flesh of the boar Sæhrímnir: ‘Hann er soðinn hvern dag ok heill at aptni’ (p. 32) (It is cooked each day and whole again by evening) (p. 32). A similarly endless supply of beer flows from the udders of the goat Heiðrún, which stands atop Valhǫll. The einherjar fight all

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day and then drink together in the evenings. This picture accords well with what we know and can surmise about warrior bands (è 24) and might also be juxtaposed to the deposition of swords and drinking horns in Viking Age graves. As was mentioned above, einherjar are probably depicted on the picture stones from Alskog and Ardre on Gotland. More common allusions to the posthumous lives of warriors, possibly as einherjar, are the well-equipped so-called ‘warrior graves’ from several places in Scandinavia (Sjösvärd 1989; Pedersen 2014). In rich boat graves dated from the sixth to the eleventh centuries at Vendel and Valsgärde in Uppland, for instance, the dead men were placed in what are basically ‘sailing halls’. Besides weapons and riding gear, the dead were equipped with large cauldrons, drinking horns, drinking glasses, board games, cushions, and birds of prey, all intended for a man’s aristocratic afterlife, such as would be expected in Valhǫll (Lundström 1980a, 1980b; Herschend 1997: 49–59; Nordberg 2003: 233–38; Ljungkvist 2008). Fólkvangr Grímnismál st. 14 says that Freyja shares equally in the dead with Óðinn. Fólcvangr er inn níundi, enn þar Freyia ræðr sessa kostom í sal; hálfan val hon kýss hverian dag, enn hálfan Óðinn á. (Folkvang is the ninth, and there Freyja fixes allocation of the seats in the hall; half the slain she chooses every day, and half Odin owns.) (p. 50)

In Gylfaginning (pp. 24–25), Snorri expands on this notion: Freyja claims her half of the slain when she rides off to battle, and her hall is called Sessrúmnir (Many-seated). Fólkvangr (plural Fólkvangar in Snorri) means ‘battle-field’ etymologically, although the first component is the transparent word for ‘folk’. Fólkvangr as a realm of the dead is reminiscent of both Valhǫll and the realm of Hel; Valhǫll in that it houses warriors, Hel’s realm in that a woman presides over it. In all these cases, the realm of the dead resembles the realm of the living in that it consists of homesteads and halls. Another potential conception of Freyja as presiding over a realm of the dead is suggested by Egils saga ch. 78, to which Egill’s poem Sonatorrek is appended. Egill’s daughter, Þorgerðr, who tricks Egill into composing the poem, states that

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she has had no meal and expects none until she comes to Freyja. Besides adding a woman to what Grímnismál and Snorri suggest are a warrior-realm belonging to Freyja, this passage also suggests the hospitality that was to be expected in many realms of the dead. Rán In stanza 7 of Sonatorrek, Egill laments that Rán had greatly wronged him (‘Mjǫk hefr Rǫ́ n  | ryskt um mik’). Although the word sometimes seems to mean just the ‘the sea’, Rán serves as the base word of a few woman-kennings,15 so Snorri’s presentation of her as Ægir’s wife in Skáldskaparmál (p. 41) seems justified. In the same passage, he also says that Rán has a net with which she catches sailors; for this reason, and with a few passages from the sagas in mind, some scholars have argued that Rán presided over a realm of those who drowned in the sea.16 The textual evidence neither supports nor denies this supposition,17 but it is perhaps worth noting that, in more recent Nordic folklore, those who were lost at sea and haunt the earth are lexically differentiated (e.g., Norwegian draug, Swedish gast). It would thus not be surprising if, during some periods or in some areas, the sea was conceived as a realm of those who had drowned and that Rán, like Hel a female, ruled over this topsy-turvy world. Green Fields? In Old English, the term neorxnawang (alternatively, neorexenewang) is used to render the Christian concept of ‘Paradise’, both the Garden of Eden and Heaven. The first component remains unexplained. The second component is the noun wang (field), and the cognate in the Gothic bible, waggs, is also used to translate the Christian concept of Paradise. Heliand 1303 attests the term heƀanwang (meadow of heaven). Most scholars accept that these usages reflect a pre-Christian conception of fields or plains of the gods, presumably also reflected in the mythological placenames ‘Fólkvangr’ (the abode of Freyja according to Grímnismál: st. 14) and ‘Þrúðvangr’ (singular) or ‘Þrúðvangar’ (plural) (the abode of Þórr according to Gylfaginning and Ynglinga saga). 15 

The skald Bragi Boddason inn gamli apparently had the first such kenning, in Ragnarsdrápa st. 8. 16  This conception would be consistent with the meaning of the common noun rán (plunder). 17  Þorsteinn þorskabítr, who is seen entering Helgafell in Eyrbygg ja saga ch. 11, drowned while out fishing.

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To this may be compared the vision of the slave girl in Ibn Fadlan’s account of a Rus funeral: as she is lifted above the door frame, she sees into the world of the dead where, she says, everything looks green and beautiful. A (Glittering) Realm of the Immortal? The beginning of the U-redaction of Hervarar saga tells of Guðmundr, a chieftain in Jǫtunheimar, which is here described as a place where a mixed race of humans and giants lives. Guðmundr lives at Grund (green field) in Glasisvellir. In Skáldskaparmál (p. 41), Snorri explains the gold-kenning ‘needles or leaf of Glasir’ by stating that there is a grove called Glasir before the door of Valhǫll, and this notion may explain the name: plains of Glasir, that is, a place outside but very close to Valhǫll. For the kenning to work, the needles and leaves of the trees there must be gold. Many scholars, however, prefer to see a form of gler (glass) as the first component and thus understand the compound as ‘glittering plains’. The explanations are not mutually exclusive. According to Hervarar saga, people in Glasisvellir live for many generations. Því trúðu heiðnir menn, at í hans ríki mundi Ódáinsakr, sá staðr, er af hverjum manni, er þar kømr, hverfr sótt ok elli, ok má engi deyja. (p. 65) (For this reason heathen men believed that in his realm must lie the Land of the Undying, that region where sickness and old age depart from every man who enters it, and where no-one can die. (p. 66)18

Guðmundr of Glasisvellir and Ódáinsakr are mentioned in several other sources, primarily fornaldarsögur, and Saxo (see below; 4.2.1) also knows of a place of exile called Undensakre, ‘nostris ignotum populis concessisse est fama’ (which is unknown to our people). There are, moreover, tantalizing traces of possible placename evidence in Iceland and Ringerike, Norway (Ström 1975: 192).19 Journeys to the World of the Dead Besides Óðinn’s mythic journey to the world of the dead in Baldrs draumar, several other such journeys are described. The version of the death of Baldr in Snorri’s Gylfaginning (pp. 45–48) tells of Hermóðr’s journey to the world of the dead and his negotiations there 18 

Guðmundr does die, and his men sacrifice to him and call him their god. An eighteenth-century source indicates that Ódáinsakr in Iceland was so called because herbs able to ward off death grew there (Tolkien 1960). 19 

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with Hel. Like Óðinn in Baldrs draumar (there may well be textual influence), Hermóðr rides Sleipnir. His journey takes nine days and nights, and he traverses valleys so dark and deep that he can see nothing until he arrives at the river Gjǫll, which is crossed by the bridge Gjallarbrú (‘bridge of Gjǫll’).20 There, Hermóðr is challenged, not by a hell-hound but by a maiden guarding the bridge. Her name, Móðguðr (perhaps ‘brave-battle’), may suggest that she is a giantess. She notes that he apparently still belongs among the living, but she lets him pass when he declares his mission, adding that the way to Hel runs downwards and northwards (as opposed to the apparent downwards and westwards in Baldrs draumar). Hel’s domain is protected by a gate over which Sleipnir and Hermóðr leap. Inside the gate is a hall, which seems very like a hall among the living, with the dead Baldr sitting in the ǫndugi (seat of honour). As might happen in the realm of the living, Hermóðr stays the night before raising the issue of his errand, and once he has done this and obtained a response to his request, he returns to Ásgarðr. Unlike most households up on earth, however, this one is presided over by a female, Hel. It is apparently she who hosts Hermóðr (and Baldr) and she who sets the conditions for Baldr’s return to the living. As noted above, this world of the dead is thus inverted with respect to gender roles (è22). Some of these features recur in the account of the journey to the world of the dead undertaken by the Danish king Hadingus in Gesta Danorum by Saxo Grammaticus (1.6.8) (è 36). The episode is brief. A woman seemingly rises from the earth (‘femina […] humo caput extulisse conspecta’), shows him summer plants (it is winter),21 wraps him in her cloak, and whisks him away along a worn path, through a sunny region to a dark river, which they cross via a bridge. On the other side, they see two armies fighting, like the einherjar, an everlasting battle. They encounter a wall, which (lacking Sleipnir) they cannot leap over, but the woman wrings the neck of a rooster (as in Ibn Fadlan’s account of the Rus funeral), which revives when thrown over to the other side. In Book 8 (14.1–14.20), Saxo tells a version of the myth of Þórr’s visit to Geirrøðr, displaced into the human world, in which the abode of Gerruthus and his daughters looks like a world of the dead. Once again the journey is to the north, and here it is undertaken by a Danish royal expedition led by one 20 

This spatial boundary labelled Gjǫll may be compared to the temporal boundary associated with the onset of Ragnarǫk and embodied in the Gjallarhorn (horn of Gjǫll) in Vǫluspá st. 46. 21  These herbs can be compared to the snow-free grave-sites that are occasionally mentioned in Icelandic sagas, e.g., that of Þorgrímr in Gísla saga ch. 18.

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Thorkillus, apparently an Icelander. It is said that the expedition will have to sail beyond the ends of the earth into a land of eternal darkness, and at first the ships go up the Norwegian coast to Hålogaland and thence to Bjarmaland where they encounter Guthmundus (Guðmundr of Glasisvellir). From here, the expedition must cross a bridge over a river that divides humans from demons and over which no mortal must pass. They pass nonetheless and then approach a town, gloomy and decayed, with skulls on stakes and guarded by fierce dogs. Within, there is a terrible stench (as if, we infer, of death) and many vile sights. They see Gerruthus, his body cut through, and his three daughters, their bodies covered with tumours and their backs apparently broken. Thorkillus tells his men that Þórr is responsible for the injuries to these persons, and knowing the myth as we do, we must infer that these are living corpses in a world of the dead.22 The features of river and bridge separating the worlds of the living and the dead are also found in Christian vision literature and may well have been borrowed into the Nordic narratives. However, the northern location of the world in the expedition of Thorkillus fits the geography of the high northern latitudes.23 Journeys to the worlds of the dead are undertaken by gods (Óðinn, perhaps Hermóðr)24 and also, as in Christian vision literature, by living humans (Hadingus, Thorkillus). But, of course, most journeys to the world of the dead will have been undertaken by the dead themselves (perhaps accompanied by a psychopomp, as the early poetry may suggest). One narrative about a dead person’s journey is that of Brynhildr in the poem that editors have appropriately titled Helreið Brynhildar (Brynhildr’s hel-ride); she travels in the wagon in which, according to the headnote, she was cremated. The poem itself consists of a dialogue between Brynhildr and a giantess (also according to the headnote) who challenges Brynhildr along the way. Brynhildr expresses her conviction that she and Sigurðr will dwell together in the world of the dead and orders the challenger, here explicitly addressed as gýg jarkyn (ogress’s brood), to sink down. One may also think of Baldr’s funeral. In order to send him on his journey, the gods launch a ship and set it on fire. Here, too, a giantess is present, namely Hyrrokkin. Although her presence is not approved by everyone, it is necessary since only she can launch the ship and thus let Baldr’s journey begin. 22 

Although no such inference can be made concerning the subsequent visit to Utgarthilocus, terrible stench characterizes his realm as well. 23  Lincoln (1991) argues that there are traces in Old Scandinavian tradition of a realm of the dead located to the south and ruled over by the primordial sacrificial being (Ymir in Old Norse). 24  The status of Hermóðr is unclear. See Lindow (1997a: 101–15).

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Ideas about journeys to the worlds of the dead have been discussed with respect to picture-stones, ship-formed stone settings, rich graves with horses, carriages or boats and the notion of a ‘funeral road’. Horses are deposited in several rich ‘equestrian’ graves in Denmark and Sweden (Sjösvärd 1989; Pedersen 2014). Since horses were animals of status, their relation to journeys to other worlds is quite plausible if not clear-cut (Gjessing 1943; Nordberg 2003: 241–55). Images of riders on some Gotlandic picture-stones indicate journeys to death realms more clearly. The picture-stones from Alskog and Ardre, mentioned above, both depict a man riding on an eight-legged horse. This motif has been interpreted as Óðinn or as a dead warrior approaching Valhǫll (Buisson 1976; Ellmers 1980). Ships were recurrently connected to graves and memorials, in the form of ship-formed stone-settings, real boats, and images of ships (Crumlin-Pedersen and Munch Thye 1995). Ship-formed stone-settings were built during the Late Bronze Age (c. 1000–500 bce) and the Late Iron Age (550–1050 ce) (Capelle 1986). Boat graves were used during the first millennium ce (Müller-Wille 1970), whereas images of ships on memorial stones are known from about 400 to 1000 ce (Andrén 1993, 2014). All the various forms of ships have been discussed in relation to journeys to the world of dead (Ohlmarks 1946). Most boat graves (about 75 per cent) are regarded as the graves of men, according to conventional gender division based on objects, and most Gotlandic picturestones with images of large ships have been viewed as male memorials, which means that ship-voyages to death realms were regarded as linked especially to men (Andrén 1993). This male connection fits well not only with the fact that ships and the sea constituted a male realm, but also with the myth of the funeral of Baldr, who was cremated in a ship that was set on fire and launched into the sea (see above and è46). Ibn Fadlan’s account of the funeral of a Rus chieftain on the Volga offers a specific link to an apparent journey to the world of the dead in connection with a ship cremation: Ibn Fadlan reports that one of his interlocutors told him that burning the body meant that the deceased entered Paradise immediately (è32). Burials in carriages are known mainly from the Viking Age. In contrast to the boat graves, burials in carriages are associated with women, according to conventional gender division based on objects (Müller-Wille 1985; Andrén 1993). Wagons have also been depicted on small Gotlandic picture-stones, usually seen as memorials of women (Nylén and Lamm 2003). The famous Oseberg boat grave, in which two women are buried, includes a richly ornamented carriage. The close connection between women and burials in carriages offers clear associations to Brynhildr’s hel-ride, the subject of the eddic pom Helreið Brynhildar mentioned above.

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Figure 34.3. The richly decorated carriage from the boat grave at Oseberg in Vestfold (Kulturhistorisk museum, Olso no. C55000_224). Photo: Eirik Irgens Johansen, Kulturhistorisk Museum, Universitetet i Oslo, Oslo. 

The wagon from Oseberg has fixed wheels, which means it was unable to turn and could only move straight ahead. The fixed wheels probably indicate that the Oseberg wagon was used in funeral procession along a straight ‘funeral road’. Such a funeral road from the Viking Age is still preserved at Rösaring in southern Uppland. On top of a ridge overlooking Lake Mälaren is a road, 540 m long, running in a straight north-south line. The road connects a small house at the northern end and a large mound in a burial ground at the southern. Along the east side of the road, about 150 postholes are preserved at regular intervals (Damell 1985). Such a straight road could have formed the scene for the Oseberg carriage, in a funeral procession expressing in a concrete manner the notion of a journey from the world of the living to the world of the dead (see Nygaard and Murphy 2017 on processions in PCRN in general, 51–66 on processions with funerary connotations specifically). Deyja í fjall Landnámabók (ch. S97/H84) and Eyrbygg ja saga (ch. 4) tell of groups of pagan settlers who believe that they will ‘die into’ a specific mountain or set of hillocks (hólar). Chapter H56 of the Hauksbók redaction of Landnámabók is more matter of fact: ‘Þeir Sel-Þórir frændr inu heiðnu dóu í Þórisbjǫrg’ (SelÞórir and his pagan kinsmen died into the mountain Þórisbjǫrg). Naturally, we cannot know whether there was any such belief in pre-Christian time, but several scholars have accepted it (see below under scholarship). Eyrbygg ja saga ch. 11 tells of a shepherd who sees Þorólfr’s son Þorsteinn þorskabítr enter the

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mountain, which is lit up and festive with drink, and sit down in the seat of honour opposite his father. Soon, the news arrives that Þorsteinn has drowned while out fishing. Possibly related to this concept of dying into the mountain is the death described in Ynglingatal st. 2 in which an Yngling king, Sveigðir, appears to follow a dwarf who invites him to enter into a large stone (thus Snorri’s understanding of the stanza in Ynglinga saga ch. 7): En dagskjarr Dúrnis niðja salvǫrðuðr Sveigði vélti, þás í stein hinn stórgeði Dusla konr ept dvergi hljóp. Ok salr bjartr þeira Sǫkmímis jǫtunbyggðr við jǫfri gein. (And the daylight-shy guard of the hall of the descendants of Dúrnir [(lit. ‘hall-guard of the descendants of Dúrnir’) DWARFS > ROCK > DWARF] tricked Sveigðir when the great-minded offspring of Dusli [= Sveigðir] ran into the rock after the dwarf. And the bright giant-inhabited hall of Sǫkmímir and his followers [ROCK] gaped at the prince.) (p. 10)

Here, the dwarf who entices Sveigðir into the stone and the giants who inhabit it are portrayed as chthonic beings. Living in the Mound Hervarar saga contains prose and verse about Hervǫr invading the mound of her dead father Angantýr to retrieve his sword, Tyrfingr. Here is how the verse describes the opening of the mound: Hnigin er helgrind, haugar opnask, allr er í eldi eybarmr at sjá (Hel’s gate is lifted, howes are opening, the isle’s border ablaze before you.) (p. 16)

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Here, the gate of hel (or Hel) confers entry into the grave mound, which is on fire rather like a funeral pyre. The final verse reiterates the burning and reveals a little more about this poet’s conception of this world of the dead. Búi þér allir, brott fýsir mik, heilir í haugi, heðan vil ek skjótla; helzt þóttumk nú heima í millim, er mik umhverfis eldar brunnu. (May you all lie unharmed in the howe resting­— to hasten hence my heart urges; I seemed to myself to be set between worlds, when all about me burnt the cairn fire.) (p. 19)

Christopher Tolkien’s otherwise praiseworthy translation is slightly misleading here. What Hervǫr says at the beginning of the stanza is literally ‘May you all live hale here in the howe’. This wish echoes the general conception in Old Norse-Icelandic literature that the dead live on in their graves (usually mounds in the sagas), with existences fairly like those they had in this world. To mention just one of the best-known examples, in Njáls saga ch. 79, after Gunnar af Hlíðarendi has been interred in his mound, seated, people hear him reciting verses in there. Skarpheðinn and Gunnar’s son Hǫgni see the mound in the distance one moonlit night. It is open: candles illuminate it, and a seemingly cheerful Gunnar recites a skaldic stanza so loudly that they hear it (and thus the author can report it: Gunnar boasts of not giving way to his enemies). There are several archaeological indications that graves in themselves could be seen as the world(s) of the dead. Apart from the link between the cover on top of the graves and the concept of hel (see above), some graves from the Late Iron Age had formal entryways, functioning as portals between the living and the dead. Some mounds were surrounded by ditches except for short sections towards the south or south-west, leaving passages open from the surroundings to the graves. In other cases in central Sweden, formal doorways have been found south-west of grave mounds. These ‘south-west gates’, mostly dated to the tenth century ce, are found predominantly at grave mounds built for women (Gräslund 1969; Nordberg 2008, 2009). In some cases, the gates are constructed as doorways with stone thresholds and wooden doorframes (Arrhenius 1970). These constructions offer associations to the helgrind in

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Figure 34.4. Four mounds with ‘south-west gates’ at the burial ground of Tuna in Västerljung in Södermanland. After Gräslund 1969: 134. 

Hervarar saga as well as to Ibn Fadlan’s description of the funeral of the Rus chieftain on the Volga, in which the slave girl is lifted three times over a doorway and sees her deceased relatives in the world of the dead on the other side (è32). The location of the entries across the surrounding ditches and the formal ‘south-west gates’ indicate that the world(s) of the dead were regarded as located downwards and towards north/north-east. These directional conceptions may be compared with those found in the literary traditions. Reincarnation? The prose passages following two of the Helgi poems in the Poetic Edda state that the main characters of the poems were reincarnated. The statement after the last verse of what we now call Helgakviða Hjǫrvarðssonar, ‘Helgi oc Sváva er sagt at væri endrborin’ (Helgi and Sváva are said to have been reincarnated), leads directly into the prose introduction to what we now call Helgakviða Hundingsbana II, inviting the reader to infer that the two main characters of that poem, Helgi and Sigrún, are Helgi and Sváva reincarnated. The prose pas-

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sage following Helgakviða Hundingsbana II suggests another round of reincarnation, although the allusions are now inaccessible to us. Þat var trúa í fornescio, at menn væri endrornir, enn þat er nú kǫlluð kerlingavilla. Helgi oc Sigrún er kallat at væri endrborin. Hét hann þá Helgi Haddingiascaði, en hon Kára, Hálfdanar dóttir, svá sem qveðit er í Károlióðom, oc var hon valkyria. (There was a belief in pagan times,25 which we now reckon an old wives’ tale, that people could be reincarnated. Helgi and Sigrun were thought to have been reborn. He was called Helgi Haddingia-damager, and she was Kara, Halfdan’s daughter as is told in the ‘Song of Kara’, and she was a valkyrie.) (p. 137)

These statements are peculiar to the Helgi poems, and it is simply not possible to know whether they reflect any actual older beliefs in reincarnation. However, the notion does turn up in connection with King Óláfr Haraldsson the saint, in the version of his life in Flateyjarbók. As they ride past the grave mound of the prehistoric King Óláfr Guðrøðarson Geirstaðaálfr (so named because he was worshipped there in Geirstaðir after his death), a retainer asks the king whether it is true that he is a reincarnation of the earlier Óláfr. Needless to say, the Christian king becomes angry over such a question, and he rails against this false belief (ii, 219). Tradition almost certainly did know of some kind of connection between the two kings, since the Legendary Saga of St Óláfr says that Hrani inn víðfǫrli Hróason, following instructions given to him by Óláfr Geirstaðaálfr in a dream, broke into the latter’s grave mound, beheaded the still animate corpse of the king, and took his ring and belt. Still following the dream-man’s instructions, Hrani proceeded to travel to Oppland where Ásta, the future saint’s mother, was having a difficult childbirth. He put the belt around Ásta, who immediately delivered a baby boy. Hrani then raised the boy and gave him the belt as a tooth-gift and the ring when he was baptized and named Óláfr — as the dream-Óláfr had requested. These passages at least reveal to us that in medieval Norway and Iceland, some people (men of letters?) seemingly found it plausible that their ancestors once believed in reincarnation, apparently over many generations. This hypothetical belief may have included continuity in name forms, and it may have been limited to the sphere of warriors and kings.

25 

The word forneskja in the Old Norse means literally ‘ancient times’.

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A Language of the Dead? Alvíssmál offers vocabulary for thirteen items in the languages of various mythological categories of beings. Although many observers think the poem could be late or idiosyncratic, it does partake in a well-known Indo-European tradition (Güntert 1921; Watkins 1970), and we regard it as worth considering even if it cannot be shown that the conceptions in it formed part of pre-Christian Nordic religion. Through most of the poem, Þórr asks about the vocabulary of various collectives of beings: menn, æsir, vanir, álfar, and so forth, but in seven cases we learn what things are called in the language spoken in hel: ‘kalla […] í helju’ (they call it […] in the world of the dead’). The emphasis on the realm rather than its inhabitants — the poet might just as well have said ‘dauðir’ (the dead) — is interesting and seems to imply a fundamental difference between the living and dead, or, to put it another way, implies that all the mythological beings (including humans) inhabit a realm of the living, which is fundamentally opposed to the realm of the dead.26 Since the vocabulary assigned to the categories of men, gods, and giants seems not to be arbitrary (Moberg 1970–73), it is worth surveying the vocabulary assigned to those who live in the world of the dead. Six of the thirteen categories are covered. The following chart shows the words used by Þórr and those used, according to Alvíss, í helju. Stanza 13–14 17–18 19–20 25–26 31–32 33–34

Þórr máni (moon) ský (clouds) vindr (wind) eldr (fire) sáð (seed) ǫl (beer)

í helju hverfanda hvél (turning wheel) hiálmr huliz (concealing helmet) hvívuðr (squaller, stormer) hrǫðoðr (hurrier) hnipinn (drooping) miǫðr (mead)

The categories not represented in hel are iǫrð (the earth), himinn (the sky), sól (the sun), logn (calm sea), marr (sea), viðr (forest), and nótt (night). It seems that, according to Alvíss, the dead have little vocabulary to discuss the world of the living, with its earth and sky, sun, sea, forest, and diurnal pattern of night and day.27 The dead do have the moon, the clouds that obscure the sun, some 26  Schorn (2013: 76) finds that this distinction is crucial in the vocabulary of Old NorseIcelandic poetry in general. 27  Day is of course the ‘missing category’ in the poem (Klingenberg 1967), so ‘night’ must stand in for both here.

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weather (they lack calm but have wind), and the ingredients for mead. It will be observed that alliteration links all but the final pair of concepts mentioned by Þórr and the vocabulary assigned by Alvíss to hel, and these links certainly could be taken to indicate that what mattered was the alliteration, not the concept of a world of the dead. If, in spite of this possibility, one scrutinizes this vocabulary from a semantic perspective, a few suggestive readings may emerge. To be sure, Lennart Moberg (1970–73: 309–10) found only one, namely hnipinn (drooping), which usually refers to hanging one’s head in sorrow but here refers to the bending ear of barley. Beyond that, however, a concealing helmet changes the concept of clouds from wispy ribbons or tall cumulus that allow some sunshine through to heavy stratus clouds, hanging low and obscuring the sun and much of the surrounding landscape. The expression ‘hverfanda hvél’ (turning wheel) should first and foremost be compared to ‘fagra hvél’ (beautiful wheel), the word for the sun among the álfar (st. 16). The expression is also attested in Hávamál st. 84 as the place where the fickle hearts of women are made, perhaps a potter’s wheel. The image may be appropriate because of the muddy clay that spins on the wheel. On the other hand, ‘hverfanda hvél’ sounds like the sun28 and could represent an inversion: the dead call the moon by a name that in the world of the living would be appropriate for the sun. Finally, we note that in hel mead is consumed, just as in the stanza from Baldrs draumar, cited above. Mead may have been particularly important in ritual contexts and thus would be appropriate in the mysterious Other World of the dead. Cult The aforementioned worship of the prehistoric Norwegian king Óláfr Geirstaðaálfr, dead inside his mound, also suggests possible ancestor worship, at least of kings. In several versions of the story,29 Óláfr foresees his death and orders his followers not to worship him. They ignore this instruction, and that is how the king receives the posthumous by-name ‘Geirstaðaálfr’ (álfr of Geirstaðir).30 However, it must be pointed out that this story is found only in the Icelandic accounts. It is lacking in the one Norwegian version of the story, 28 

The sun-images on some Gotland picture stones could certainly be described as looking like turning wheels. 29  For a thorough discussion of the versions, see Heinrichs (1989). 30  Although the use of the term álfr in this context is rare, it finds a potential analogue in Bárðr Snæfellsáss, a living being with giant ancestry who according to Bárðar saga was called upon for aid. See also (è63).

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the Legendary Saga of St Óláfr. Sundqvist (2015) argues that although the story itself may not be trustworthy, it probably reflects actual historical conceptions. There are a few signs that extensive rituals took place at graves subsequent to the burial rituals. At one third of the excavated ‘south-west gates’ in central Sweden, pottery shards and animal bones have been found, indicating some form of memorial visits involving food and drink (Gräslund 1969). It is also possible that graves themselves were regarded as consecrated places and that some of the constructions on the burial grounds were not graves, but functioned instead as altars or as representations of different cosmic elements. In some cases, the ground was burnt before the grave was constructed, possibly as a kind of consecration (Nordberg 2009). In other cases, graves have been interpreted as altars (Kaliff 1997, 2007) or as different forms of cosmic representations (Andrén 2004a, 2014; Nordberg 2008, 2009). Particularly in the Migration and Merovingian periods (400–750 bce), some inhumations were reopened fairly soon after the burials, and certain objects and bones were then removed (Ljungkvist 2011). This practice indicates some manner of continued dealing with the dead, which finds parallels in Central Europe (Klevnäs 2013). The purpose of the reopening could be either the returning of the ancestor’s important heirlooms or the plundering by opponent families in some kind of ‘posthumous bloodfeud’ (Klevnäs 2015). With respect to cremations, it is also well known that only parts of the cremated human bones were deposited in formal graves (è33). The rest may have been used in other forms of cult, presumably ancestor rituals, although very little is known about them. A possible example of such rituals is a small hillock at Lunda in Södermanland; this stony hillock was covered with deposits of cremated human and animal bones, clay, small resin balls, pottery, beads, knives, and arrowheads dating from the Late Iron Age (Andersson and Skyllberg 2008; figure è27.22).

Scholarship According to Klare (1933–34), the concept of the dead as corporeal beings living on in the grave was a scholarly discovery of the twentieth century. To some degree that is so, since the earliest study of death conceptions that still retains some currency, Neckel’s analysis of Valhǫll (1913), distinguishes between the fallen on the battlefield and the mythical conception of Óðinn’s hall. There can be little doubt that the mythological sources fully support this conceptual distinction. Indeed, it is key to notions of worlds of the dead, where there is hospitality and in some cases sport.

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Many scholars have taken seriously the notion of the dead inside mountains and related it both to ancestor cult and more generally to notions of Valhǫll and ancestor worship (e.g., Hartmann 1937). Grønvik and Hovda (1959: 165– 67) argue that the name of the Norwegian mountain Vesaldo, near Stavanger, was based on this notion. The relationship between the ruler’s hall on earth and conceptions of Valhǫll forms the topic of Nordberg (2003). The varying conceptions of Valhǫll in Eiríksmál and Hákonarmál have been the subject of investigation (von See 1963; Marold 1972). With its blood and gore, Hákonarmál may be the older, but the poems may moreover represent (Anglo-) Danish and Norwegian variations. Folke Ström (1954: 70–79; 1956a: 64–68) understands the similarities between Freyja and Hel as rulers of a world of the dead as indicating that the two figures are identical. Although it can hardly be proved,31 this idea does bring a certain amount of order to a complex situation and is helpful if one understands the distinction between Valhǫll and the realm of Hel as representing a semantic opposition (Hastrup 1985: 49). Specifically, the distinction involves not just male versus female and warriors versus ordinary people, but also the iterative and individual aspects of Valhǫll versus the durative and collective aspects of the realm of Hel (Schjødt 2008: 389–91). The early poetry may well allow us to assign this semantic distinction to Viking Age western Scandinavia, even if the overall conceptual complex remains entangled. Steinsland (1997: 97–123) explores conceptions of the relationship between the living and the dead that can be understood as love or an erotic impulse. She argues that especially some scenes (both in texts and images) that bear on the notion of travel to the world of the dead can be understood in this light. Reincarnation in general was treated by Eckhardt (1937). Kragerud (1989) treated the subject in the Helgi poems. There seem to be social distinctions associated with the worlds of the dead. The warriors in Valhǫll would appear to be from the higher social classes, although Baldr in the realm of Hel offers an alternative scenario for the kings. In Hárbarðsljóð st. 24, Hárbarðr (Óðinn in disguise) boasts that Óðinn gets the jarls who fall in battle and Þórr, his interlocutor, gets the slaves. While there is no way of verifying the latter assertion, much of what Hárbarðr says in the poem concurs with other sources. Viking Age graves indicate that persons of the lowest social orders were buried in the peripheral areas of graveyards, which may imply parallel social ordering in the worlds of the dead, without reference 31 

Freyja’s connection to the slain would be an issue, and of course Fólkvangr would have to be identical with the realm of Hel; however, Freyja is a noa-name, and perhaps Hel is too.

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to Þórr or other deities. Þorgerðr’s statement about Freyja to the contrary,32 there is no compelling evidence for gendered worlds of the dead other than Valhǫll and its equivalents.33 Monographic treatments of death and ideas about it are found in Hilda Ellis Davidson (1943), Régis Boyer (1994), and Arnved Nedkvitne (1997). In the latter, conceptions of the worlds of the dead are contextualized through consideration of related notions, and the longue durée is also taken up. Rather than a break, the Christianization process brought with it a transition with regard to such conceptions. There are no archaeological studies solely dedicated to ideas about different worlds of the dead. Instead, the focus of archaeological interest is on burial rituals, although in some cases aspects of different death realms and journeys to them are mentioned (Price 2012). These aspects include different sorts of gates to graves (Gräslund 1969; Arrhenius 1970; Andrén 1993; Nordberg 2008, 2009), a posthumous life in Valhǫll (Herschend 1997; Nordberg 2003; Carlsson 2015) as well as different forms of travelling to the worlds of the dead (MüllerWille 1970, 1985; Buisson 1976; Ellmers 1980; Capelle 1986; Andrén 1993).

Concluding Remarks As this survey shows, conceptions of the worlds of the dead were clearly multiple in pre-Christian Nordic religion. They varied widely in time and space and may well have been self-contradictory at any time and in any location (as they are today in many societies). We believe that the evidence supports a distinction between warriors (the warrior band) on the one hand and most ordinary people on the other. In connection with this distinction, we believe that it could be profitable to investigate the possibility that the earliest textual traditions may portray Hel as a psychopomp. This possibility would juxtapose her to the valkyries and ultimately to Freyja. The relation between ideas about different worlds of the dead and the actual graves where the dead were buried remains ambiguous. As was men32 

Þorgerðr’s somewhat ambiguous statement to Egill is interesting in this context: ‘Vil ek, at vit farim eina leið bæði’ (I want both of us to go the same way). Ordinarily the statement would be metaphoric (I want both of us to suffer the same fate), but taken literally it could imply that the road to the world of the dead would be the same for Þorgerðr and Egill, and this would vitiate the gendering implied by Þorgerðr’s desire to go to Freyja. 33  Or are deposits of armies and their weapons in bodies of water indicative of genderbased conceptions of the worlds of the dead?

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tioned above, it is sometimes possible to see links between the death realms and aspects of the graves, but in most cases these links remain unclear. Instead, the parallels between the worlds of the dead and the graves can be considered on a more general level in the parallel variations. The burial rituals were as varied as the different worlds of the dead. Moreover, these parallel pre-Christian variations are clearly contrasted with the fairly uniform Christian burial rituals and the clearly delineated Christian worlds of the dead for those saved and those doomed (and, in time, those undergoing purification).34

34 

See Le Goff (1984) on the ‘birth’ of purgatory in the twelfth century.

35 – Fate John Lindow Introduction The idea of fate — in the world of gods, in the world of heroes, and in the world of ordinary people — finds expression in numerous rather varied outlets in the older written sources and has also captured the imagination of later scholars and artists. The concept was a staple of the older study of Germanic culture and religion, but some more recent scholarship has recognized classical and Christian influences. Briefly, fate may be defined as what must happen to a person or persons, beyond his or her control, usually beyond his or her knowledge. Fate was also beyond the intervention of human agency and in PCRN, as far as we can see, was associated with the agency of supernatural beings and the gods. At least in the Old Norse textual tradition, fate is closely associated, although not exclusively, with what must last happen to a person, namely death.

Sources Fate as a concept plays a role in many eddic poems and heroic myths and in the Sagas of Icelanders. Besides the relevant passages themselves, the etymology and historical semantics of the terminology used can be viewed as source material for the concept of fate. In addition, there are several beings who to some degree personify fate. Although there is pictorial evidence both for narratives in which fate is involved and for beings associated with fate, this evidence does not illuminate conceptions of fate. Nor is there any particularly relevant data from the archaeological record or from placenames, with one possible excep-

John Lindow, Professor Emeritus of Scandinavian, University of California, Berkeley The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume ii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 2 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 927–950 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116962

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tion mentioned below. More recent customs documented in the ethnographic record may relate to pre-Christian conceptions of fate.

Myth Perhaps the clearest example of the importance of fate is the anthropogony of the eddic poem Vǫluspá. At the conclusion of the catalogue of dwarfs, the narrative voice of the seeress resumes at stanza 17. Unz þrír qvómo ór því liði,1 ǫflgir oc ástgir, æsir, at húsi; fundo á landi, lítt megandi, Asc oc Emblo, ørlǫglausa.2 (Until three gods, strong and loving, came from out of that company; they found on land capable of little, Ash and Embla, lacking in fate.) (p. 6)

In the following stanza the æsir Óðinn, Hœnir, and Loðurr endow this first couple with various aspects of life: ǫnd, óðr, lá and læti, and litir góðir. While there has been much discussion about what exactly is meant with these terms (è36), it seems clear that none has to do with the fate that Askr and Embla lack. These endowments of the æsir would seem to address the problem of Askr and Embla being ‘lítt megandi’ (capable of little — that is, of nothing). Fate, it seems, comes from a different source. After the æsir have endowed Askr and Embla with the aspects of life, the seerees goes on with her vision.3 19. Asc veit ec standa, heitir Yggdrasill, hár baðmr, ausinn hvítaauri; þaðan koma dǫggvar, 1 

Both manuscripts have feminine þrjár (three), but the following masculine plural adjectives, as well as the masculine plural æsir, require emendation to masculine þrír. 2  Use of the masculine accusative plural ørlǫglausa instead of the neuter for masculine and feminine elides the distinction between the sexes. 3  This is the order of the stanzas in R. In H they are reversed, and the endowing of fate follows directly on the animation of Askr and Embla.

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þærs í dala falla, stendr æ yfir, grœnn, Urðar brunni. 20. Þaðan koma meyjar, margs vitandi, þrjár, ór þeim sæ [H: sal], er und þolli stendr; Urð heitir eina, aðra Verðandi –scáro á scíði–, Sculd ina þriðio; þær lǫg lǫgðo, þær líf kuro alda bornom, ørlǫg seggia [H: segja]. (19. An ash I know that stands, Yggdrasil it’s called, a tall tree, drenched with shining loam; from there come the dews which fall in the valley, green, it stands always over Urd’s well. 20. From there come the girls, knowing a great deal, three from the lake [H: hall] standing under the tree; Urd one is called, Verdandi another — they carved on a wooden slip — Skuld the third; 21. they laid down laws, they chose lives for the sons of men, the fates for men [H: they say fates].) (p. 6)4

Larrington chooses the literal translation of the verb l ǫ gðu (laid down); although the sense of course is ‘establish’, the physical laying down of laws and fates of men may be important. She also correctly translates ørlǫg as plural, although the noun is plurale tantum and thus incapable of rendering number. We note that the noun seggr, which in the genitive plural qualifies the fates that are laid down, ordinarily means ‘warrior’ but in eddic poetry also has the general sense ‘man’, as it is translated it here. We also note that a form of the root of the verb verb kjósa (kuro líf, ‘choose lives’) also occurs in the noun valkyrja (literally ‘carrion chooser’, that is, valkyrie). We treat the clause ‘skáru á skíði’ (here rendered ‘they carved on a wooden slip’) in the section below ‘The Vocabulary of Fate’. 4 

In her translation, Larrington has chosen to break the overlong stanza 20 into two stanzas, one of them (21) shorter than is normal.

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Although the passage does not explicitly state that these maidens are norns, Snorri does so in Gylfaginning, and we accept that Snorri is correct.5 The norns thus represent one of the important aspects of the complex notions associated with fate. An entire chapter of this work is devoted to the norns (è59), so here we only take up issues involving the relationship of norns to the broader conceptions of fate. The first of these is the very existence of beings who personify fate, as opposed to the broader and more elusive concepts of fate that are also to be found. As a collective, the norns recall the classical Moirai and Parcae, especially in the triplets of Vǫluspá st. 19–22 and Snorri’s reworking of it. No mythological source states or even implies that the norns were to be numbered among the æsir/ásynjur, that they dwelled in Ásgarðr or had a connection with it, or that they had any genealogical relationship with the æsir. Instead, they have a cosmological component, since the well of Urðr (Vǫluspá st. 20) is by the World Tree, at the very centre of the cosmos: indeed, at the very intersection of the horizontal and vertical axes, where conceptions of time and knowledge meet (è38). The expression ‘Urðar brunnr’ (well of Urðr) was clearly known to early poets. Surely the most interesting example of its use was in a fragmentary verse by Eilífr Goðrúnarson (Fragment, Eilífr) to the effect that the king of Rome (Christ, according to all commentators on the verse) has his throne south at the ‘Urðar brunnr’. Eilífr is famous for Þórsdrápa, a poem celebrating Þórr’s journey to and victory over Geirrøðr and his daughters, and this stanza is all that remains of whatever poetry he may have composed after converting to Christianity. Despite its apparent simplicity, the helmingr is not without textual problems (Ohrt 1937–38; Weber 1970), but it seems apparent that Eilífr was able to recycle the cosmological conception of the norn Urðr into a new context. Another formulaic expression in eddic poetry and to a lesser extent in skaldic poetry is ‘judgement of the norns’, which is a kenning-like circumlocution for ‘fate’. It is realized lexically in three ways: ‘dómr norna’ (judgement of the norns), ‘kviðr norna’ (sentence or decree of the norns), and ‘skǫp norna’ (decrees of the norns). These translations can hardly capture the semantic ranges; suffice it to say that kviðr has the greatest legalistic overtone of the three and skǫp the least, since skǫp as simplex is itself a word for fate (see below). Both dómr and (especially) kviðr imply performative speech acts, and so we infer such a mean-

5 

Bek-Pedersen is in our view overly cautious about the Vǫluspá poet’s silence on whether the maidens are norns (Bek-Pedersen 2011a: 73–88; è 59). Old Norse poetry does tend toward the elliptical.

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ing for skǫp.6 This formula implies that the fate imposed by the norns can be formulated into words. Against these formulaic expressions drawing on the image of the norns as a group are references to a single norn (e.g., Reginsmál st. 2; Sigrdrífumál st. 17). If it is genuine, the lausavísa attributed to Kveldúlfr in Chapter 24 of Egils saga has an early, Norwegian attestation of this usage. When he learns that his son Þórólfr has been killed, Kveldúlfr laments ‘norn erum grimm’ (a [or the] norn is grim to me). A stanza in Snorri’s Skáldskaparmál attributed to Kormákr Ǫgmundarson and assigned by editors to his Sigurðardrápa (second half of the tenth century) states that when battle raged, ‘komst Urðr ór brunni’ (Urðr emerged from the well). These cases imply that the norns also acted when someone died or when death was at hand. The lifeless and fateless Askr and Embla of Vǫ luspá st. 19–22 may be the manlíkun (human forms) fashioned by the dwarfs according to stanza 10 (Steinsland 1983); in Gylfaginning Snorri says they are logs. In any case, they must have fate in order to live, and the norns endow it at precisely the moment when the two become alive. This might imply a different view from that adduced above (i.e., that the norns act in connection with death). Instead, the implication is that the norns endow humans with fate at the moment of birth, and one eddic poem explicitly supports such an implication: namely, Helgakviða Hundingsbana I st. 2–4. 2. Nótt varð í bœ, nornir qvómo, þær er ǫðlingi aldr um scópo; þann báðo fylki frægstan verða oc buðlunga beztan þiccia. 3. Snero þær af afli ørlǫgþátto, þá er borgir braut í Brálundi; þær um greiddo gullin símo oc und mána sal miðian festo. 6 

La Farge and Tucker (1992: 240) also gloss skǫp in this verse as ‘decrees’.

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Figure 35.1. A so called ‘weaving sword’ from Våga in Oppland, Norway, dated to the Viking Age. The design of the weaving sword is similar to contemporary spear heads. The object illustrates the female domain of textile production, but also its associations to warfare, probably through the mythological notion of female figures of destiny weaving the fate of warriors. Photo: Ørnulf Hjort-Sørensen, Kulturhistorisk Museum, Universitetet i Oslo, Oslo. 

4. Þær austr oc vestr enda fálo þar átti lofðungr land á milli; brá nipt Nera á norðrvega einni festi, ey bað hon halda. (2. Night fell on the estate, then came the norns, those who shaped fate for the prince; they said the war-leader should be most famous and that he’d appear the best of princes. 3. They plied very strongly the strand of fate, as strongholds were breaking in Bralund; they prepared the golden threads and fastened it in the middle under the moon’s hall [sky]. 4. East and west they concealed its ends, the prince possessed all the land between; Neri’s kinswoman to the north threw on fastening; she said it would hold forever.) (pp. 110–11)

Although highly suggestive, this passage is relatively unique, both in putting the norns on the scene at a birth and in having them turn the ‘strands of fate’ or golden threads. The fate that they shape for the prince seems to be his glory as a ruler (st. 2), and it appears that with their strands or threads which they fasten to the sky and to east, west, and north (st. 3–4), they determine the extent of his territory (see BekPedersen 2011a: 127–32 for discussion of the passage). The broken fortresses in Brálundr (a place not elsewhere known) remain mysterious, as does the identity of Neri.7 The related compound ørl ǫ gsíma (fate-thread) is attested in Reginsmál st. 14, where it seems to refer to the fame of the hero Sigurðr. Reginn predicts that Sigurðr’s fate thread will spread or remain, depending on how one reads the obscure verb þrymja, over all lands. In either 7 

See von See and others (2004: 181–82) for discussion of Neri.

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case, Reginn is probably talking about Sigurðr’s reputation or fame, since he never becomes a renowned leader. This fame survives Sigurðr’s death. One other stanza may put the norns at a birth: namely, Fáfnismál st. 12. In it, Sigurðr asks the dying dragon Fáfnir this question: hveriar ro þær nornir, er nauðgǫnglar ro ok kjósa mœðr frá mǫgum? (which are those norns who go to help those in need and bring children forth from their mothers?) (p. 155)

In its use of the verb kjósa (choose), the vocabulary here recalls the norns in Vǫluspá st. 20, who ‘chose lives’ for Askr and Embla. This parallel suggests that Sigurðr is asking about norns giving fate at birth, if that is what ‘kjósa mœðr frá mǫgum’ (literally ‘choose mothers from sons’) means here (discussion in BekPedersen 2011a: 37–40). The strands and threads associated with the norns suggest a connection with textile work. Although we never explicitly see the norns at such work, the eddic poem usually called Darraðarljóð (Spear-Song), transmitted in Njáls saga and according to the saga overheard in Caithness around the time of the battle of Clontarf, plays clearly on the notion of the weaving of the fates of warriors. The poem is put into the collective mouths of valkyries who will choose the dead, and it contains the recurring lines ‘Vindum, vindum | vef darraðar’ (Let us wind, let us wind, the web of the spear). According to stanza 2, they use a loom in which the weft is human intestines and the weights human heads. Since valkyries are death-beings, the association of their weaving with battle and death seems appropriate. It seems, however, that the valkyries, unlike the norns, focus fate exclusively on the hour of one’s death. Given the focus of Germanic heroic literature on a hero’s ‘good death’, the tropes of fate appear frequently. The best example may be offered by Hamðismál, the last poem of the Codex Regius of the Poetic Edda and perhaps in some ways a summation of the heroic in that particular medieval artefact. Hamðir and Sǫrli killed their half-brother Erpr before setting out to attack J ǫrmunrekkr, and without Erpr’s help, they manage only to sever Jǫrmunrekkr’s legs and arms. Hamðir speaks some of the most famous words in Old Norse heroic literature: 28. ‘Af væri nú haufuð, ef Erpr lifði, bróðir occarr inn bǫðfrœcni, er við á braut vágom,

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verr inn vígfrœcn ­ — hvǫttomc at dísir — gumi inn gunnhelgi — gorðomz at vígi — . 29. Ecci hygg ec ocr vera úlfa dœmi, at vit mynim siálfir um sacaz, sem grey norna, þau er gráðug ero í auðn um alin. 30. Vel hófum við vegit, stǫndom á val Gotna, ofan, eggmóðom, sem ernir á qvisti; góðs hǫfom tírar fengið, þótt scylim nú eða í gær deyia, qveld lifir maðr ecci eptir qvið norna.’ (28 ‘Off his head would be now, if Erp were alive, our brother bold in battle, whom we killed on the road, the man so fierce in war — the disir drove us to it — the man inviolate in fighting — they spurred us to slaughter. [29] ‘I don’t think it is for us to follow the wolves’ example and fight among ourselves, like the norns’ bitches, greedy beasts, brought up in the wilderness. [30] ‘We have fought well, we stand on Goth corpses, weary from the sword-edge like eagles on a branch; we have won great glory if we die now or yesterday, no man outlasts the evening after the norns have given their verdict.’) (p. 234)

The norns’ bitches in stanza 29 must be wolves. In this context they invoke the trope of beasts of battle, who are present when warriors meet their fate, that is, die on the battlefield. It is worth pointing out that on the rune stone at Tumbo kyrka (Sö 82, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), the word þuþr (understood as Old Norse dauðr ‘dead’, referring to the man being commemorated), is directly in front of the mouth of a canine beast carved into the centre of the stone. If it was fated that Hamðir and Sǫrli should kill their half-brother Erpr when they did, then the line ‘hvǫttomc at dísir’ (the disir drove us to it) (p. 234) associates the dísir, another collective group of supernatural females, with fate (è58); here we discuss only the most direct association with fate. A connection with death is one of the salient features of the dísir, not least in eddic

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Figure 35.2. Rune stone at Tumbo in Södermanland, dated to about 1000 (Sö 82, Samnordisk run­text­ databas). The image and text illustrate how a man being killed in a battle is viewed as being eaten by a wolf. The word dauðr (dead) is placed directly in front of the wolf ’s jaws (cf. Andrén 2000a). Photo: Cecilia Ljung. 

poetry. Þiðranda þáttr implies a battle to the death between groups of dísir over the fate/death of Þiðrandi, and spá-dísir (prophecy-dísir) exercise a protective function in battle. Although a relationship with fate is less clear, the death of King Aðils in the dísarsalr (hall of the dís) at a dísablót (sacrifice to the dísir) might be part of this complex, and the beings sacrificed at Gamla Uppsala, at what is likely to have been the dísablót (è28), may seem too to meet their fate. It would, however, be unwise to push this evidence very far, and it is clear that the various groups of female figures for the most part to some extent do have separate profiles and identities. Thus, although the fylg jur (lit. ‘those (female) who accompany’) clearly have something to do with fate, it seems that their role consists more in signalling and sharing an individual’s fate than in shaping or enforcing it.8 Gautreks saga ch. 7 has a scene, often the subject of comment, in which the gods Óðinn and Þórr bestow fate (‘dœma ørlǫg’) on the hero Starkaðr. Starkaðr has been fostered by one Hrosshárs-Grani, who leads him to a clearing in a forest on an island where eleven persons sit in a kind of assembly with an empty 8 

Else Mundal (1974) distinguishes between animal fylg jur, who share an individual’s fate, and female fylg jur, who do not. On fylg jur in general, see (è36).

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chair presumably for Hrosshárs-Grani, whom they greet as Óðinn (è30 and è 36). The bestowing of fate(s) comprises an alternation between Þórr and Óðinn, in which one ordains something and the other counters it: Starkaðr will have no offspring (Þórr); he shall live three human lifetimes (Óðinn); Starkaðr will commit an unspeakable act (níðingsverk) in each (Þórr); he shall possess the best weapons and clothing (Óðinn); Starkaðr will possess no land (Þórr); he shall have money (Óðinn), but the money will never seem enough to him (Þórr); Starkaðr shall have victory and prowess in each battle (Óðinn), but he will be grievously wounded in each (Þórr); Starkaðr shall master poetry (Óðinn), but he will not remember what he composes (Þórr); Starkaðr will seem loftiest to the greatest men (Óðinn), but the common people will despise him (Þórr). While these divine decrees certainly constitute biographical details of an Óðinn hero (è36), they are unlike fate as it is presented in most of the sources, and the concept of fate presented here may relate especially to the sphere of Óðinn. It is worth pointing out that both Þórr and Óðinn frequently use the verb skapa (shape) for their decrees, and Þórr once uses the verb phrase ligg ja á (ordain); the related noun álǫg refers to magic spells of the sort that spoil people’s lives. The gods too are subject to fate. In the Codex Regius version of Vǫluspá (but not in the Hauksbók version, which lacks the Baldr story), the seeress sees Baldr’s fate. Probably the stanza before she reveals it is also relevant, since it contains valkyries, but the vision of Baldr’s fate proper begins in stanza 31: Ec sá Baldri, blóðgom tívor, Óðins barni, ørlǫg fólgin (32. I saw for Baldr, for the bloody god, Odin’s child, his fate in store.)9 (p. 8)

This fate is of course his death, here at the hand of his brother Hǫðr by means of mistletoe. The seeress also sees the vengeance that is taken for this killing, apparently on both Hǫðr and Loki. This vengeance is an integral and vital part of the Baldr myth (Lindow 1997a; è46), and perhaps it therefore constitutes part of Baldr’s fate. This requires fate to be thought of as not only the circumstances of one’s death but also the narratives that are told in connection with that death. For Hamðir and Sǫrli, it was enough to know that they 9 

Larrington renders the final words ‘ørlǫg fólgin’ as ‘his fate in store’. Equally plausible would be ‘his hidden fate’.

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died heroically;10 Baldr’s death — his fate — was inextricably tied up with the immediate aftermath. The long-term aftermath of his death seems to have been, in the eyes of the poet whose Vǫluspá is retained in Codex Regius, the fates of all the gods. Eddic poets call this ‘ragna rǫk’ or ‘tíva rǫk’, conventionally rendered ‘fate of the powers’ and ‘fate of the gods’, but rǫk really refers to the whole story, not just to deaths of the gods, and thus may not be part of the technical vocabulary of fate, except perhaps in this one instance.11 Be that as it may, the deaths of Baldr and the other gods illustrate an important point: namely, that the gods, like everyone else, are subject to fate. The Baldr story as we have it in Snorri’s Gylfaginning will serve as an example of the irreversibility of fate: Frigg knew that Baldr was to die but could not avert it; Hermóðr’s agreement with Hel to reverse death was undertaken, in the end, to no avail. Both cases may have been near misses (if only Frigg had got the oath from mistletoe; if only Þǫkk had wept — what Stjernfelt 1990 called the ‘minus-one effect’), but the closeness only shows how impossible it would be to reverse fate. The Vocabulary of Fate Much of the scholarship on fate has, quite reasonably, focused on the complex vocabulary that is deployed around the concept (see further von Kienle 1933; Boyer 1986a; and Liberman 1994). It is worth bearing in mind that when we find these fate-words in manuscripts, they may represent attempts to reconcile pagan concepts of fate to Christianity. D. H. Green (1998: 381–90) offers an illuminating discussion of this process in the attested Germanic languages. Ørlǫg As the above paragraphs have shown, the neuter plurale tantum noun ørlǫg is a primary term for fate in eddic poetry. Some lexica give ‘war’ or ‘battle’ as another meaning, but the actual semantics of the passages are difficult to pin down. Old Norse ørlygi also means ‘war’ or ‘battle’, but de Vries (1962a: 10 

Here one may note the famous verses on the honour that survives a man (Hávamál st. 76–77). The orðstírr (fame) and dómr (judgement) that he wins are bound up in the narratives that survive. See further below, ‘Fate and Honour’. 11  We employ the usual form rǫc and dictionary meaning, but note that Haraldur Bernharðsson (2007) has put forth a forceful argument for the form røk and thinks the word may originally have meant something like ‘rebirth’.

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683) regards it as a loanword (Fremdwort). Although the etymology remains unclear,12 it is instructive that the other Germanic languages also have similar terms for ‘fate’ (Old English orlæg, Old High German urlac) and ‘war’ (Old English orlegi). Whatever the etymology, poets (and speakers who considered the matter) would presumably have seen some kind of semantic overlap between fate and battle, since the fate of a hero is to die in battle. Urðr As was mentioned above, one of the norns who give fate to the first humans is named Urðr. Cognates in the other Germanic languages are nouns for fate: Old English wyrd, Old High German wurt, Old Saxon wurth. A commonly proposed etymology associates the word with the Indo-European root *wert (twist; cf. Latin vertere ‘turn’), which in turn has yielded Old Norse verða (become). According to some observers, fate might then be related to cycles or to textile work, as was briefly mentioned above. These possibilities will be discussed below in the section ‘Scholarship’. For now it suffices to say that the existence of a common term with a more or less common meaning suggests a deep history for the conception embodied by this word. In both Old English and Old Norse, the concept seems to have been personified (in the other languages we lack sufficient attestations to know much about the word) as a female figure, but in Old English especially the common noun is what one sees, meaning not only ‘fate’ but also, and more usually, ‘occurrence’ or ‘event’ — what happens to someone, as we might put it. In Old Norse the noun is basically restricted to poetry, where it means ‘death’ and, unlike Urðr and the cognates, bears masculine gender (Finnur Jónsson 1931: 584 s.v. urðr); or perhaps, if one wishes to retain the etymological sense, it means something closer to ‘dire fate’ (La Farge and Tucker 1992: 273), which amounts to the same thing. It is attested once in the plural, in Sigurðarkviða in skamma st. 5: ‘Gengo þess á milli | grimmar urðir’ (The terrible fates intervened in this) (p. 178). The context is as follows: Sigurðr, acting on behalf of Gunnar, has wooed Brynhildr, placing a sword between them in bed. Brynhildr has never known anything bad, but cruel fates are to intervene. The plural is usually explained as parallel to plural nornir in stanza 7 (see von See and others 2004: 328–29). 12 

Although the word may have originated in a participle meaning something like ‘what is laid down’, there are apparent etyma in various Germanic languages with divergent phonological form of the second component that seem to require a different explanation (de Vries 1962a: 683).

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Skǫp Besides the expression skǫp norna (decrees of the norns) simplex skǫp also can mean ‘fate’. It is plural of the neuter noun skap (mind, disposition, character, state, condition) and is related to the verb skapa (shape, form). Snorri uses this verb in Gylfaginning at the point when he identifies Urðr, Verðandi, and Skuld as norns: ‘Þessar meyjar skapa mǫnnum aldr’ (p. 18) (These maidens shape life for people) (p. 18). Skǫp too has cognates in the other Germanic languages. Although several different forms are attested (Green 1998: 384–85), it is interesting that the Old English poem Widsith (l. 135) uses the direct cognate in the dative plural with an instrumental sense to suggest the idea of minstrels being directed by fate or chance as they wander from one lord to another; to this may be compared, for example, Ynglingatal st. 10. Skǫp was used fairly commonly in poetry: skǫp could be góð (good; Sigurðarkviða in skamma st. 58); ill (bad; Oddrúnargrátr st. 34); rík (powerful; Fáfnismál st. 39, Kormákr lausvísa 40). It could be made to grow (vaxa; Atlakviða st. 39), which is to say move toward its conclusion, or to increase (œxla; Atlamál st. 2), which has much the same meaning. Eddic poetry has an idiom, ‘vinna skǫpum’, which is probably best translated ‘overturn one’s fate’. It is always negated, indicating that one cannot, in fact, overturn one’s fate, avoid one’s appointed death. The poet of Grípisspá found it useful for ending his poem. First, Grípir ends his prophecy of Sigurðr’s life and career: 52. ‘Því scal hugga þic, hers oddviti, sú mun gipt lagit á grams ævi; munat mætri maðr á mold koma, und solar siot, enn þú, Sigurðr, þiccir’. (52. ‘This shall console you, leader of the army, this luck’s laid down in the prince’s life: no mightier man will walk on the earth, under the sun’s dwelling, than you, Sigurd, seem to be’.) (p. 146)

Sigurðr responds: 53. ‘Sciliomc heilir! Munat scǫpom vinna, nú hefir þú, Grípir, vel gort, sem ec beiddac;

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fliótt myndir þú fríðri segia mina ævi, ef þú mættir þat.’ (53. ‘Let’s part and say farewell, one can’t overcome fate; now, Gripir, you’ve done just what I asked you; swiftly you’d have told of me a life more pleasant, if you’d been able!’) (p. 146)

The half-line ‘Alt eru óskǫp’ in Hávamál st. 98, with a negated form of skǫp, seems to refer to disorder.13 Assuming that this reading is correct, one may infer that skǫp — that is, fate — is part of the order of the world, and that if it could in fact be overturned, disorder would follow. Skepna Also related to skapa (shape) is skepna. It is attested once in eddic poetry with the meaning fate (Guðrúnarkviða I st. 24), but is more generally found in Christian poetry, where it refers to (God’s) creation. Mjǫtuðr Cognate with Old English meotod (fate, God), mjǫtuðr (literally ‘measurer’; cf. Gothic mitaþs ‘measure’) is used in verse for ‘fate’ or ‘death’. The two meanings may be seen to converge in Snorri’s discussion in Skáldskaparmál of Heimdallr. Heimdalar hǫfuð heitir sverð; svá er sagt at hann var lostinn manns hǫfði í gǫgnum. Um hann er kveðit í Heimdalargaldri, ok er síðan kallat hǫfuð mjǫtuðr Heimdalar; sverð heitir manns mjǫtuðr.) (p. 19) (A sword is called Heimdall’s head; it is said he was struck through with a man’s head. He is the subject of the poem Heimdalargaldr, and ever since the head has been called Heimdall’s doom; man’s doom is an expression for sword.) (p. 76)

What fate should have measured is not immediately clear, but the most obvious possibility is the length of a lifetime, since one does not live a day beyond what the norns decree (Hamðismál 30). 13 

The line goes on ‘nema einir viti | slícan lost saman’ (unless only few together know of such a vice). The translation is certainly conjectural, but nema (unless) does suggest something negative in the previous clause.

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Auðna This word (and the rare poetic alternative auðr) shows an Indo-European root for ‘weaving’ and thus would form part of the evidence for associating fate and weaving. There is nothing in the semantics of the term to verify that assumption, however. Auðna survived the conversion and could be used of the fate assigned by the Christian god. Skáru á skíði These words are fundamentally associated with the anthropogonic myth in Vǫluspá and clearly make up part of the way the norns endowed Askr and Embla with fate. The verb skera (past plural skáru) means ‘carve’, and the noun skíð or skíði is formed from a dental extension of the Indo European root *skei (cut, part, separate) and usually has to do with wood that has been cut (Pokorny 1959–69: i, 921; de Vries 1962a: 491). Some observers have compared the expression to the description of Tacitus concerning augury in Germania ch. 10: the diviner inscribes signs or letters (notae) on strips of wood (surculi) cut from a branch and reads the future in them. Some observers understand notae as runes and think the norns carved runes to set fate, but if runes were carved in the line in Vǫluspá, the verb would be rísta, not skera; and a skíð/skíði must be a large piece of wood, like a plank, not a slip that can be lifted, so the passage in Tacitus can hardly be related to the line in Vǫluspá. Anne Holtsmark thinks of calendar staves (Holtsmark 1951), but then we might expect skora rather than skera (Bek-Pedersen 2011a: 115; è25). John Lindow (2015) proposes that the norns may have carved images: like the art underlying ekphrastic poetry, images would fix fate immutably. Fate and Time One passage does seem to reveal a different sense of the term ørlǫg than those discussed above in connection with the death of heroes: namely, Lokasenna st. 25. Frigg is speaking to Óðinn and Loki, who have been trading accusations of ergi. ‘Ørlǫgum ycrom scylit aldregi segia seggiom frá, hvat iþ æsir tveir drýgðot í árdaga; firaz æ forn rǫc firar.’

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(‘The fates you met should never be told in front of people, what you two Æsir under­ went in past times; the living should keep their distance from ancient matters.’) (p. 85)

Here the fates (ørlǫg) of Óðinn and Loki are in primeval times rather than in the future; that is to say, what has already happened can be covered by the concept of fate (or the vocabulary of fate) apparently just as readily as what is to happen. It is interesting and perhaps significant that the actions covered by ørlǫg constitute ergi: Óðinn accuses Loki of milking a cow or being a milking cow, and Loki accuses Óðinn of behaving like a vǫlva. These actions would of course open them up to charges of ergi, which would affect their reputations in a way similar to the reputation that a hero might earn fighting bravely and falling at a time the norns had determined. If fate is endowed at birth (by the norns) and constitutes one’s death and, sometimes, important events in one’s life, it follows that for each individual, fate has a temporal component. The temporality of fate might be reflected in the names of the three norns: Urðr, Verðandi, Skuld. Verðandi is quite clearly the present participle of verða (become), and some scholars have associated Urðr with the past and Skuld with the future. As was mentioned above, Urðr too was derived from verða, in a usual way: cf. the pairs finna (find) and fundr (meeting, ‘finding’), or bjóða (invite) and boð (party). While there is nothing temporal about these nouns (a meeting or party can have happened, can be happening, or can happen in the future), the vocalism of Urðr might have been analysed (falsely) by speakers as analogous to urðu, the past plural of the verb verða, thus associating Urðr with the past. Skuld derives from the modal verb skulu (related to English ‘shall’) and is identical with the noun skuld ‘debt’. The verb may suggest future, as may the notion of a date or obligation, insofar as payment constitutes a future obligation (cf. Old Norse skuldadagr ‘day when a debt falls due’). A notion of time is implicit in the Old Norse adjective feigr (fated to die soon), which has cognates in the West Germanic languages (Old English fæge, modern English fey, Old High German feigi, Old Saxon fegi) and probably is to be regarded as derived from common Germanic vocabulary. The etymology is not known (de Vries 1962a: 115 s.v. feigð). One possibility is that the word derives from a root meaning ‘hostile’, and another is that it is related to the verb fá (mark, colour) and signifies that a man was marked for death. The latter might imply that the doomed man was coloured, for those with second sight, with gore or blood, but it is probably more important to stress that the conception of fated impending death went back to common Germanic times than to speculate on the etymology.

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A passage from Hamðismál st. 10 will serve to illustrate the semantics of upcoming death associated with the term. Sǫrli is addressing Guðrún before the brothers set out on their doomed expedition against Jǫrmunrekkr. Brœðr grát þú þína ok buri svása, niðja náborna leidda nær rógi; okkr skaltu ok, Guðrún, gráta báða, er hér sitjum feigir á mǫrum, fjarri munum deyja. (Weep for your brothers and your dear sons, close-born kinsmen, brought to strife; for us both, Gudrun, you shall weep too, we who sit here, doomed men on our horses, far from here we’ll die.) (p. 231)

Sometimes the fey nature of a man was recognized after the fact. The Rök runic inscription (Ög 136, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) shows this plainly in the opening words of this longest of all runic inscriptions. aft uamuþ stonta runaR þaR n varin faþiR aft faikion sunu.

(In memory of Væmod stand these runes. And Varin wrote/coloured them, the father in memory of his doomed [feigr] son).14

For additional discussion of the issue of fate and time, see below under Scholarship. Fate and Honour As the above survey will have shown, fate is an indispensible trope of the heroic ideal as presented in Old Norse poetry, particularly eddic poetry and the sagas. According to this trope, fate appoints the when of one’s demise, but one has control over the how, and if one dies properly in battle, one wins honour, perhaps inextinguishable honour (è 21). Two stanzas of Hávamál (76–77) express this ideal: Deyr fé, deyja frændr, deyr sjálfr it sama; enn orðstírr deyr aldregi hveim er sér góðan getr. 14 

Translation adapted from Samnordisk runtextdatabas.

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Deyr fé, deyja frændr, deyr sjálfr it sama; ek veit einn, at aldri deyr, dómr um dauðan hvern. (Cattle die, kinsmen die, the self must also die; but the glory of reputation never dies for the man who can get himself a good one. Cattle die, kinsmen die, the self must also die; I know one thing which never dies: the reputation of each dead man.) (pp. 22–23)

But since one could not know which was to be one’s last day, one’s final battle,15 one presumably had to behave honourably at all times. Before dismissing the trope as a purely literary diversion, one must consider the Swedish rune stones that suggest that ‘masculinities’, as Susanne Thedéen calls them, are constructed through the way men meet their death (Thedéen 2009). The literary nature of the trope can, however, be glimpsed in a stanza of the Hrynhenda of Óláfr Þórðarson hvítaskáld, schoolmaster, author of the Third Grammatical Treatise, and, like his uncle Snorri Sturluson, a poet at thirteenthcentury courts. According to Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar, the stanza concerns the unrest that followed upon Jarl Skúli’s claim to the throne in 1239, and Óláfr invokes not only immutable fate but also the immutable honour of the adversaries. Fláræði kom framm of síðir; fríðbann hóf þá ǫfund manna; eigi má við ørlǫg bægjask jǫfra sveit, þótt ráðug heiti. Stórr vas harmr, þars stríddu harrar stála hregg, þvít æ mun beggja rausnarkapp ok ríki uppi, ramri þjóð, meðan jǫrð heldr flóði. (Treachery emerged at last; the malice of men then led to a peace-ban; a host of princes cannot contend against fate, though it is called wise. It was a great sorrow to the mighty people when the lords fought a storm of weapons [battle], because the eagerness for glory and the power of both will always be remembered, as long as the earth adheres to the sea.) (p. 663)

15 

Hávamál also warns against knowing one’s fate in advance; see below.

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Fate and Law In Vǫluspá, when the norns ‘chose lives’ for Askr and Embla, they also ‘laid down laws’. Lives and laws are thus parallel here, although it is not clear what the seeress or the poet meant with this parallelism: are the norns establishing the laws of life and death for all humans, or the metaphorical laws that will direct the fates of the first humans? Or is the legal system in which people live their lives, the laws themselves, a gift of the fate beings? The discussion is complicated by the variant readings of the last two words of the stanza. In R we find ‘ørlǫg seggja’ (fates of men), yet another aspect of what has been laid down or chosen. In H, however, we find ‘ørlǫg segja’ (declare fates), making of the laws laid down and lives established a speech act undertaken by the norns. More generally, law interacts with fate in the heroic literature through honour: sometimes one must break a law to maintain or enhance one’s honour, and heroes tend to blame such outcomes on fate (Meylan 2014b). This trope is particularly common in the Sagas of Icelanders. Although honour plays an enormous role in the careers of such doomed heroes as Gísli of Gísla saga, Gunnarr in Njáls saga, or Grettir in Grettis saga, their demise comes about in the logic of the saga plot as a result of a conflict between their fates and the legal situations in which they find themselves. To take but one example, the plot of Gísla saga depends upon the failure of the four main protagonists to carry to its conclusion the blood-brother oath (a legal procedure) of Chapter 6, when Þorgrímr will not bind himself to Vésteinn and, consequently, Gísli will not bind himself to Þórgrímr. Gísli uses the vocabulary of fate to describe what has happened and what is to happen. Nú fór sem mik grunaði, ok mun þetta fyrir ekki koma, sem nú er at gert. Get ek ok, at auðna ráði nú um þetta. (This is what I thought would happen. What has taken place here will come to nothing. I suspect fate will take its course now.)

Conceptions of fate are central to the Sagas of Icelanders (Wirth 1940; for a modern view, see, for example, Vésteinn Ólason 1998a: 166–79). In these sagas, and more generally in the Old Icelandic literary canon, these conceptions frequently manifest themselves in prophecy, experienced in dreams or spoken by a seer.

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Fate and Prohecy As the Baldr myth shows, prophecy could reveal one’s fate. This motif is hardly limited to the mythological corpus. As was noted above, the seeress in Vǫluspá saw Baldr’s fate. Especially in Old Norse poetry, the faculty of vision is associated with determining the otherwise invisible fate of an individual. In Grípisspá, for example, Grípir runs through the course of events that are to come in young Sigurðr’s life. In the earlier part of the poem, while putting his questions to Grípir, Sigurðr repeatedly stresses that Grípir can ‘see ahead’ or ‘forward’ or ‘in advance’ (‘sjá fram’) — that is, see the future. These references occur in stanzas 8, 10, 20, 22, 28, 30, and 32, and in 28 Sigurðr states explicitly his belief that Grípir can predict the operations of fate: ‘þvíat þú ǫll um sér | ørlǫg fyrir’ (because you see all fate(s) in advance). This is the mid-point in the narrative, as Grípir begins to narrate the fatal events concerning Brynhildr that will cost Sigurðr his life.16 From here on the narrative tone changes, as Sigurðr engages far more directly with what Grípir is telling him. The poem is interesting not only for the emphasis on seeing the fate that is to come, but also in its movement from fate as the course of a life, which is what Sigurðr asks about in the opening stanzas, to fate as death, which is how the poem ends. In the final stanza, as noted above, Sigurðr states that fate cannot be averted (‘Mun-at skǫpum vinna’). A gnomic stanza in Hávamál (56) seems to reflect these ambivalent notions about knowing one’s fate. Meðalsnótr skyli manna hverr æva til snótr sé; ørlǫg sín viti engi fyrr þeim er sorgalausastr sefi. (Averagely wise a man ought to be, never too wise; let no one know his fate beforehand, for he’ll have the most carefree spirit.) (p. 20)

This is the third of three gnomes beginning with ‘Meðalsnótr’ (moderately knowledgeable) and praising moderation of knowledge.

16 

In the last lines of stanza 25, Grípir tells Sigurðr: ‘dægr eitt er þér | dauði ætlaðr’ (on a certain day death is appointed for you).

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Cult A cult pertaining to fate may well be seen in the various phenomena relating to divination and to magical acts undertaken to affect what is to happen — in effect, in some cases, to change fate (è25–26 for discussion). The amount of material in the medieval sources is remarkable, and given the emphasis Tacitus also places on divination, it would seem that the conceptual world of PCRN embraced the paradox: fate was given and unknowable, but one could try to know it, and there may have been specialists one could employ or actions one could undertake to change it. The death of Baldr may be a perfect mythic example: his dreams are bad, and the gods understand what they mean; and Frigg undertakes to change the fate he has been given. Her inability to do so, despite the cooperation of nearly the entire cosmos, may well have been one important implication of the myth in PCRN, underscoring that even the gods must bow to fate. Or the implication may simply be the bond that ties honour to fate: one must struggle as valiantly as possible against fate, that is, one’s death in battle. In that light, Óðinn’s preparations for Ragnarǫk, gathering an army that is doomed to fall, participate in the same complex. Amulets and other protective objects must indicate conceptions of a fate that is less than fully fixed, that can be held at bay through the intervention of higher powers. Jan Paul Strid’s derivation of the placename Orlunda in Östergötland, Sweden, from something like *wurþazlund- (Urðr’s grove) suggests cult activity to Urðr (Strid 2009: 86–87). Although she is careful to avoid claiming that the dyng ja (women’s work space), which is recognized archaeologically, was a ritual space, Karen Bek-Pedersen speculates that it ‘had the potential for taking on connotations of magic and of issues outside the masculine realm’ (2011a: 109), and that these connotations may be reflected in the mythology of the norns. The Rök inscription (Ög 136, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) was intended as a memorial for a dead man, as were most of the Viking Age runic inscriptions. Nearly everyone would agree that the text goes on to reflect a death ritual, even if we do not understand exactly how or why. The use of the term feigr (doomed to die soon) for the son being commemorated thus associates an aspect of the vocabulary of fate with cult activity.17 Nineteenth- and twentieth-century ethnological recordings from Norway and the Faroe Islands refer to the custom of preparing nornagraut (norns’ por17 

The inscription from Västra Ryds kyrka (U 606, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) has the sequence Æstin ufik, which has been interpreted as Eysteinn ófeigr (Eysteinn the un-fey), but this seems reading questionable, and the nickname would not throw light on concepts of fate.

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ridge) in connection with childbirth. Although conceptions of the norns and fate were presumably no longer active, scholars have regarded this custom as derived from pre-Christian ritual meant to propitiate the norns during childbirth and, presumably, to secure the newborn child a good fate (see BekPedersen 2011a: 38–40 for discussion).

Scholarship Persons familiar with classical mythology — and that would have included just about everyone from the nineteenth century through the 1968 student unrest — would probably have seen or expected a conception of fate similar to that presented by the Moirai and Parcae. Thus fate would essentially be bound up with the norns, and spinning or weaving would be at the centre of the conceptions about them. This goes back at least to Jacob Grimm (1882–83: 405–17) and was commonly repeated in both scholarly and popular treatments of Northern mythology and religion. Most recently, it is treated in its IndoEuropean context by West (2007: 379–86). While the materials surveyed in this chapter show that the norns were important to conceptions of fate, they are part of a greater whole, and the aspect of spinning or weaving is less important than was previously thought (Bek-Pedersen 2007). Scholars put fate at the centre of the discourse on Germanic culture and religion during the period between the two world wars (e.g., Kauffmann 1923–26; van Hamel 1928–36; von Kienle 1933; Naumann 1934b; Ninck 1935; Gehl 1939). These scholars departed from the premise that the Germanic concept of fate was unique and that it was central to the lives of the various Germanic peoples. Both etymology and texts supported the historical analysis typical of the era,18 generally leading to hypotheses about how darker, varied, and more impersonal notions of fate gradually gave way over time to more personified fate, usually with Óðinn figuring prominently in the discussion (e.g., Ninck 1935; Gehl 1939). But in general it is fair to say that scholars of the time were drawn to the paradox of gods who could not control fate but had to submit to it. This view of the special nature of Germanic fate informed analysis past the middle of the last century (e.g., Mittner 1955; Neumann 1955; Ström 1967b). In 1969, however, Gerd Wolfgang Weber published his book Wyrd. Weber chose the Old English form because it is actually more widely attested than Old Norse Urðr/urðr, despite the far more consistently Christian point of view 18 

Separate analyses devoted to the textual traditions include Therman (1938) and Wirth (1940).

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in Old English literature. Weber showed how these conceptions of personified fate reflected Augustinian thinking about fortuna fatalis (the goddess Fortuna in her fateful role), which was common in the Middle Ages. Although Weber thus removed a goddess of fate from the Germanic pantheon, scholars have continued to look for the special features of pre-Christian notions of fate in the North. Paul C. Bauschatz took up the question of the relationship between fate and time (1975, 1982). Bauschatz arugued for an analogy between the linguistic structure of the Germanic languages, which lack a simple future tense,19 and the experience of time and fate in PCRN. Thus the fundamental distinction, according to Bauschatz, was bipartite: past and nonpast. As we would see it, fate is set in the future, but according to the argument of Bauschatz it is also anchored in the past, mythologically so in the speech acts of the norns, at the centre of the universe, endowing humans with fate.20 This view has not gained traction. Anthony Winterbourne (2004) devoted a monograph to the issue of Time and Fate in Germanic Paganism (so the subtitle). Using philosophical reasoning, Winterbourne argues vigorously that time is not fate, a conclusion with which Bek-Pedersen (2011a) concurs. Indeed, it seems unlikely that any analysis of PCRN would lead to the conclusion that fate and time are wholly identical, and the question may hold greatest interest within the academic field of philosophy. It does, however, seem equally clear that fate takes place within time, and that poets at least conceived of fate using the vocabulary of time: ‘qveld lifir maðr ecci | eptir qvið norna’ (no man lives an evening beyond the decree of the norns) (Hamðismál st. 30).

Concluding Remarks Although previous scholarship almost certainly exaggerated the character and importance of notions of fate in PCRN, it is certain that pre-Christian notions of fate are not the same as those held in the modern world (Ström 1967b) or, presumably in other times and places. The anthropogonic myth of Vǫluspá, with Askr and Embla lacking fate and the norns providing it, implies that no human life is possible without fate, from which one might infer that human life is impossible without fate. Furthermore, fate was for the most part focused on 19  Compare Latin ibo from ire and the English translation, ‘I shall go’, which uses a modal verb. In the older Germanic languages, the present tense could have future meaning. 20  This is not to deny the importance of the past in prophecy, as in Vǫluspá, in which the seeress begins her vision of what is to come with what has already been, namely cosmogony.

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the hour of one’s death, not on the details of one’s life or career. The evidence to the contrary seems to involve disasters in life: acts of ergi, such as those Óðinn and Loki were guilty of according to Lokasenna, or the níðingsverk of Starkaðr according to Gautreks saga. From these it may be possible to infer the importance of honour: at the points where fate falls, honour is (always?) at stake. Fate as we have it in the record was highly gendered. Even if we remove the putative goddess Wyrd/Urðr from the pantheon, those who give fates are female. This includes not just the norns but also the dísir, whose association with death is prominent, and the valkyries. The latter are a special case, since they displace the decision about a warrior’s individual fate from a male deity, Óðinn, to a female intermediary. As they are articulated in the literary record, valkyries can truly choose, thus activating the agentive aspect of the noun valkyrja (chooser of the slain): they choose to substitute love for death, thus postponing a warrior’s fate (at least for a time; è60). Furthermore, the association of fate words with textile work suggests female hands turning fate. The gendering of fate leads to the question: can a woman have a fate? Fate as we see it in the literary record (and as we can infer its operation in Swedish rune stones; see above, ‘Fate and Honour’) is only at stake for warriors. Here we may note that at Ragnarǫk, we learn the fates only of male gods, not of goddesses, even of Freyja. Given this fact, we may wonder if anyone, male or female, may have a fate outside the class of warriors or others who use weapons, such as the men in the sagas who participate in bloodfeud. Against the idea of women not having fate is the anthropogonic myth in Vǫluspá, which makes no indication that Askr’s lack of fate is any more important than that of Embla,21 and from this we may perhaps infer that non-warrior males might also have fates. Any discussion of this issue must recognize the lopsided nature of the written record: the texts that inform notions of fate are primarily those, such as eddic poetry, that inform notions of the heroic. That fact may ultimately have to do with the importance of warrior bands and the role of memory in that particular social group (è24).

21 

But see n. 2 above, which points out an elision between the distinction between sexes at this point in the poem.

36 – The Divine, the Human, and In Between John Lindow and Jens Peter Schjødt Introduction In his famous book from 2011, Religion in Human Evolution, Robert N. Bellah writes: ‘In archaic societies, complex chiefdoms, and the tribal societies […] gods, powerful beings, ancestors, and humans exist on a continuum — there are no absolute breaks between these categories’ (202).1 This is not to say, of course, that an awareness of the opposition between sacred and profane did not exist: certain places, times, persons, and other beings were definitely seen as more ‘sacred’ than others (è 25). It simply means that between this and the Other World there was room for entities occupying intermediate stages: some were more, others less sacred, but there were ‘no absolute breaks’. Since the pagan Germanic societies in the first millennium ce, including those of Scandinavia, must be considered complex chiefdoms, we should expect Bellah’s 1  The three categories of religions mentioned here can all be equated with the ‘primary religions’ of Jan Asmann (2006). Concerning the relation between ‘powerful beings’ and ‘gods’, Bellah is never quite clear, but his main criterion for making the distinction (cf. Bellah 2011: 95–96) seems to be whether these Other World beings are venerated or not. Since the powerful beings are not as powerful as gods (at least in the Judeo-Christian tradition), they are not gods. But gods in polytheistic systems are never as powerful as those in monotheistic religions. To us, the distinction here is a matter of a continuum with very powerful beings at the one end and much less powerful beings at the other.

John Lindow, Professor Emeritus of Scandinavian, University of California, Berkeley Jens Peter Schjødt, Professor of the Study of Religion, Aarhus University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume ii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 2 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 951–987 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116963

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characteristic to fit these — and they do.2 Because of the source situation, it is not always easy to see this because the Christian authors of many of the sources had an implicit and Christian notion about religion that involved exactly such an absolute break, as was known within Christianity; so when intermediate categories of beings were found, they were seen as proof of the inferiority of paganism, notwithstanding a whole hierarchy of saints within the Church itself. Thus Snorri, in the prologue to his Edda, identifies the Scandinavian gods as human heroes of Trojan origin, which fits well with his euhemeristic framework. Likewise, Adam of Bremen states in his Gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum (4.26), with strong condemnation, that the Swedes made humans into gods, as was the case with King Eiríkr. This lack of an absolute break was regarded as typical of paganism, and many scholars have seen this blurring of categories as stemming exclusively from the euhemeristic model. However, sources of all kinds, including those which do not have an anti-pagan agenda, support Bellah’s view: that there was indeed no absolute break between gods and humans,3 or rather that there was a number of categories of beings who can be seen as intermediate in the sense that they embody some degree of ‘supernaturalness’, but without being on par with gods such as Óðinn or Þórr. But even the relation between the ‘real’ gods and ordinary humans was clearly not regarded in the same way in Germanic paganism as it was in Christianity. Whereas in the latter, God is eternal and almighty while humans were subject to his will, in the pagan religion, humans were seen as sons of the gods (cf. below on Tacitus and Rígsþula). Moreover, the gods were in turn born from earlier generations of supernatural beings and were subject to death in Ragnarǫk (or earlier should they lose the apples of Iðunn), and they certainly do not have the power to change the fate of the world. Thus, they are neither eternal nor almighty. Furthermore, their interest in humans is much more selective than is the case within Christianity: here, God is interested in and knows about every single person, whereas the pagan gods interfere in the life of humans only insofar as they are venerated and asked to, or if they are for some reason hostile to certain individuals. But even so, most of the Scandinavian gods that we know by name will naturally fall into the category of ‘gods’ when viewed from a comparative per2 

See also Simon Nygaard’s critical treatment of Bellah’s evolutionary typology and evaluation of the typology’s ultimately positive value for the study of PCRN (Nygaard 2014, 2015, 2016, forthcoming). 3  Schorn (2013) shows that the semantic distinctions in poetry between the divine and the human are insignificant compared with the distinction between the living and the dead.

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spective, although they sometimes seem much less transcendent; and similarly most of the human figures we hear about in various sources are clearly ‘human’, although from a modern etic perspective they may possess certain numinous powers. As we saw from Bellah, however, there are at least two categories between ‘gods’ and ‘humans’: namely, so-called ‘powerful beings’ and ‘ancestors’. If we say that ‘powerful beings’ are ‘gods of a lesser degree’ (in relation to power) and ‘ancestors’ are ‘humans of a higher degree’ (in relation to power), then the distinction between these two categories becomes even more blurred. And obviously some among ancestors would have greater power than others, such as, for instance, ancestors who earlier on were powerful kings (cf. Fróði/ Frotho; è 23) or in other ways were more powerful than ordinary people. It seems, therefore, that we find no clear breaks at all on this whole continuum, so even if we must have categories in order to speak meaningfully about this long line of gradual shifts, we should not confuse models with reality: in the real world, humans may end up as ancestors4 and some ancestors may end up rather powerful, perhaps even gods.5 In this way, it is not only at the level of classification that we cannot distinguish clearly between the categories, but the individual ‘being’ may change status over time: gods could become humans through the process of euhemerization,6 as seems to be the case with the medieval magician Óðinn; ancestors could become gods, as seems to be the case with the peace-king Fróði and perhaps many other kings; and even more ordinary humans could become gods, as seems to be the case with the poet Bragi (see below). As mentioned, the distinction between gods and ‘powerful beings’, therefore, appears to have been quite blurred, and the question is whether it is meaningful at all, at least to our understanding of the pagan reality. Perhaps it would make more sense to operate with more or less local gods: some gods were known all across the Scandinavian or even the Germanic area, whereas others were tied to particular areas or perhaps to a single person or a single family as a sort of guardian spirit, as seems to be the case with Þorgerðr Hǫlgabrúðr and the jarls of Lade.

4  Even if most people will end up being ancestors to some, their religious and social roles as ‘ancestors’ depend strongly on the status they had when they were alive. It was not necessary to belong to the nobility, but most likely slaves and other low status people would never become ‘ancestors’ to anybody in a religious sense. 5  See Nordberg (2013) for a survey of the development of theoretical scholarship in this area. 6  Euhemerism is the theory that the beings people believed to be divine were actually humans, and thus ‘gods’ came to be seen as historical humans through the lenses of euhemerism.

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Among the four categories mentioned by Bellah, there are certainly differences within the individual category, both in terms of power and no doubt also when it comes to the degree of sacredness: some humans have more numinous power than others, perhaps because they have descended from the gods; some ancestors are more powerful than others; and some ‘gods’ and ‘powerful beings’ are more powerful than other such beings. Some of these categories have been dealt with earlier7 and will therefore only play a minor role in this chapter. In the following, we shall thus deal briefly with the very notion of ‘humans’ — what constitutes a human being? — and with some of the designations for ‘gods’. But the main part of the chapter will focus on the figures that are somewhere ‘in between’, and not least those normally classified as ‘heroes’. They, or rather some of them, should probably be seen as ‘semi-gods’ or heroi in the Greek sense of that notion, that is, they are neither fully divine nor fully human, which invokes all the classificatory problems just described.

The Conceptual Framework Human Beings The notion of ‘humans’ conjures up varying semantics in various cultures, but in all religious cultures there is a distinction between the physical part of the individual on the one hand and some more ‘soul-like’ or ‘spirit-like’ substance on the other hand. In a comparative perspective, we may distinguish between a variety of ‘souls’,8 such as: ‘life-soul’, the vital principle which leaves the body when a person dies; a ‘free soul’ which is able to leave the body on certain occasions in order to travel outside of the physical body, which in the meantime is either unconscious or asleep; often, we also find an ‘external soul’, which is a being connected to the person, but not always occupying his or her body, maybe taking the form of an animal; and an ‘ego-soul’, constituted by the cognitive abilities of the person. Finally, a sort of ‘prestige-soul’ can sometimes be 7  Kings (è23), warriors (è24), the dead (è33 and è34), and also some of the mythological beings that are treated in (è58–63). 8  ‘Soul’ is here obviously an etic term and it should not necessarily be taken to indicate what is understood as a ‘soul’ in Christianity. Probably, when some scholars (e.g., Neckel 1913: 111; Ljungberg 1955: 89) have maintained that there is no such thing as a ‘soul’ in PCRN, it is due to the fact that there is nothing similar to the Christian notion of the soul. Even so, there can be no doubt that within the pre-Christian understanding, humans consisted of more than the physical body.

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seen by certain persons in a society, which is what makes this person particularly powerful (Hasenfratz 2005: 36–38). It must, however, be emphasized that these various ‘souls’ should be regarded as aspects of the non-physical life of humans. As a rule, these aspects are not systematically distinguished from one another, although this may be the case in some cultures. In most societies, there are usually several words for these various aspects of the ‘soul’, but most often the borders between them are rather blurred and so are the designations. This also is the case in PCRN. We do have a whole vocabulary for the designations of the non-physical part of human beings, but although it is possible to discern some distinctions in the use of these designations, it is difficult to draw clear lines between them. This may partly be due to the fact that we have the terminology scattered all across the sources, in eddic poems as well as in various genres of sagas written by Christians who may not have been aware of the precise contents of the words used; but probably even more so because there never was a clear-cut understanding of the various notions and their contents. If we begin with the anthropogony as it is related in V ǫluspá st. 17–18 and Gylfaginning p. 13, we hear that the gods9 found two logs of wood10 that were without fate (ørlǫg) (è35). We may speculate that these pieces of wood were imagined to have been carved in the forms of humans, so that the physical appearance was already apparent. Then the three gods give them, according to Vǫluspá, ǫnd (breath, spirit), óðr (here probably ‘intelligence’ or ‘inspired mental activity’), lá (probably ‘blood’ or ‘vital warmth’),11 læti (‘voice’ or perhaps ‘gestures’), and litr (‘appearance’ or ‘colour’), whereas Snorri has ǫnd, líf (life), vit (‘consciousness’ or perhaps ‘intelligence’), hrœring (motion), ásjóna (appearance), mál (ability to speak), heyrn (ability to hear), and sjón (ability to see).12 Through the conferring of these gifts on the ‘fate-less’ and ‘capable of little’ (lítt megandi) logs of wood, humans are created, and we may therefore presume that these are the qualities needed in order for a being to be considered 9  According to Vǫluspá, Óðinn, Hœnir, and Lóðurr, whereas Gylfaginning has Óðinn, Vili, and Vé. 10  That is according to Gylfaginning, whereas this is not stated directly in Vǫluspá. Here, we are simply told that they are called Askr and Embla, the first name clearly denoting the ash-tree, whereas the etymology of the second is unclear, but may refer to an elm tree (for discussions, see Sperber 1910; Schröder 1931: 92–99; Simek 1984: 84–85; Kure 2010: 175–84, 287–96; see also more generally on the anthropogony Steinsland 1983). Further, in Vǫluspá it is not clearly said that they are found on the beach, whereas this is said directly by Snorri. 11  The word is a hapax legomenon. 12  For a thorough analysis of these ‘gifts’, mainly those given in Vǫluspá, see Polomé (1969).

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human. Some of these qualities are strongly connected to the physical abilities that characterize living human beings. Thus, the ability to see, hear, speak, and move are all very physical. The same goes for ‘appearance’ and ‘gestures’ — and of course ǫnd if we translate it as ‘breath’ (but not ‘spirit’). ‘Life’, however, can be physical as well as mental or spiritual, and the same goes for lá, since blood clearly has certain mental connotations in the sense that blood together with the heart are the physical substance representing mental values. Therefore, when a person drinks the blood of a strong being, he will become strong (for example, Bǫðvarr in Hrólfs saga kraka ch. 31; è24), while the blood of a wise person makes the one who drinks the blood wise himself, as we see it in the myth of Kvasir (Skáldskaparmál pp. 3–4; è42). But óðr, and perhaps ǫnd — if we translate this as ‘spirit’ — however, should clearly be seen as mental capacities and thus as an immaterial part of humans. However, it is not possible from the available evidence to be precise about the semantics of any of these words, even more so because ǫnd, in particular, changed its semantic content during the Christianization process, and we therefore have to look to other terms used to describe and characterize the mental faculty of the human beings. Although the distinctions between the various facets of the psyche were probably never particularly clear, it is possible to discern some aspects of this ‘mental’ entity that no doubt played a role in the ‘anthropology’ of the preChristian Scandinavians. We notice, for instance, the significance of the name as conveyer of personality aspects and personal qualities.13 Children were frequently given the name of some deceased relative, often a grandparent, probably indicating a degree of ‘essence’ that the two share, which in turn suggests a sort of psychic entity. This may also be linked to ideas about reincarnation, which we meet a few times in the sources,14 indicating that some part of the soul was not imagined as purely individual, but as part of more than one person (de Vries 1956–57a: i, 181–83, 218 with references). A word that may designate a kind of ‘free-soul’ is vǫrðr. Literally, it means ‘guard’ and the meaning ‘free-soul’ is based on the passage concerning Þorbjǫrg lítilvǫlva in Eiríks saga rauða (ch. 4) in which the vǫlva asks for someone to sing a song called varðlokkur or varðlokur in order for her to call upon certain spirits to help her perform the divination.15 This is clearly how it is understood by the saga author, but Dag Strömbäck (1935: 191–205) attempts to argue that 13 

For the scattered evidence concerning rituals connected to name-giving, see (è32). See also (è34). The most thorough work, although outdated in many ways, is still Eck­ hardt (1937). 15  See (è30) for a summary and discussion of this ritual. 14 

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it was the vǫlva’s own soul that was to be called back to her body by the song. Regardless of how we interpret the scene, however, we cannot be certain of the semantic contents of the word when it is used to designate a spiritual being. A designation we find much more often is hugr, but also here the semantics are unclear. One meaning is ‘mind’, another ‘desire’ or ‘wish’, and there are many more.16 The plural hugir may be almost personified and thus recall the fylg jur or haming jur, all terms designating some sort of spiritual being (mostly believed to be women, but sometimes also in animal shape) that exist independently of the body. Again, the distinctions between these groups are very unclear, but they all appear to be a kind of guardian spirits.17 Whereas fylg ja, in both singular and plural forms, denotes such a guardian spirit that may be attached to the individual as well as to a family, hugr has different meanings according to number. Thus, in the singular it denotes an inner quality of the individual, whereas in the plural it may still belong to the individual, but it is outside his or her body; and haming ja, both in the singular and the plural, may designate an inner quality of the individual as well as an animal figure, outside the body. We should also mention hamr (shape) in this connection, although this refers only to the bodily shape, because it is probably etymologically related to haming ja which,18 as just mentioned, denotes some inner quality. Haming ja refers primarily to luck that can pass from one person to another and may also be a quality of not only individuals but whole families.19 This seems to indicate that the notions involved in the etic term ‘soul’ are hugely complicated, and it may well be that the vocabulary we have in the extant sources is a mixture of ideas from various time periods.20 From this brief exposition it should be obvious that we have no competent way of accurately describing an ‘anthropology of the inner life’ in PCRN.21 16 

The etymology is not known, but the word has a wide range of semantic content (cf. Cleasby and Vigfusson 1957: 290–91). 17  It is noteworthy that a person’s fylg ja is protecting him, but it cannot be seen. When it is seen, this is an omen of his death. 18  This would then go back to *ham-gengja, ‘to let one’s hamr leave (the body)’; cf. Falk (1926). 19  Other terms which we shall not treat here, but which are more or less synonymous to haming ja, are auðna, gæfa, gipta, and heill, all of which have more than one meaning, one of which is ‘luck’ or ‘fortune’. 20  It is obvious that only textual sources can be of help in reconstructing the anthropological ideas concerning the ‘souls’ in PCRN. These ideas probably cannot be grasped through archaeology, and thus there are clear limits for how far back we can go. 21  The terms discussed here and some others are treated in much more detail in Tolley

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What we can say is that, without a doubt, the idea of the human as extending beyond the material body did exist, as it does in all religions. The different designations probably mirror different aspects of this idea, sometimes referring to a personal guardian spirit, sometimes to a kind of double that exists outside the body and sometimes to various psychic or mental qualities, such as intellect, power, fate, or ‘luck’. As is the case in many societies in which the family constitutes the main social unit, aspects of the individual’s soul are also regarded as just part of the family’s collective soul and of the ancestors. As is typical of most societies with ‘primary religions’ (è1), these ideas about the inner life of humans were hardly systematized in any detailed way. Gods We shall not deal with the gods in detail in this chapter, since the more important ones will be individually treated in (è 40–54) below. However, a few remarks on some general characteristics of the gods in their relation to humans and heroes are required. According to the definition of religion given in (è1), gods are beings of the Other World, but it is very important that we do not use the concept of God in the monotheistic religions such as Christianity and Islam as our point of reference.22 The gods in PCRN are certainly very different from the Christian god and not nearly as powerful, but they are there to assist people, just like the gods and their helpers in the so-called monotheistic religions.23 As is the case with the different notions of the ‘soul’ within human beings, it is difficult to relate the various designations of the gods to each other and 2009a: 176–98 (and notions of ‘spirits’, some of which are relevant in this connection, on pp. 200–71), which in general are highly recommendable. 22  ‘Gods’ may, of course, be defined in several ways according to the purpose of one’s investigations. Bellah, for instance, insists that there are no real gods in tribal religions because they are not worshipped ‘but identified with in ritual enactment’ (Bellah 2011: 153), and he speaks instead of ‘powerful beings’ or ‘ancestors’. In our view, this distinction is not particularly relevant for our purpose, the point being that there is a belief in supernatural beings whom it is possible to manipulate by means of religious rituals and thus sway them to look kindly upon those performing the ritual. This is certainly part of both ‘the tribal’ and the ‘axial’ religions, as defined by Bellah. 23  ‘So-called’ because we usually find within these religions, too, a whole hierarchy of supernatural beings, such as saints, angels, and other spirits, which are only inferior to ‘God’ in relation to power: ‘God’ is in charge, so to speak, as a king is among the nobles or as Óðinn is among the æsir.

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in this way form a coherent view of the concept of a ‘god’, because, also in this respect, there probably never was a systematic concept of ‘god’. It must be kept in mind that we are dealing with a primary religion with no dogmas, and so we should expect a significant degree of variations between individual interpretations of various concepts and even from one situation to the next (è1). Nevertheless, the various terms (often in the neuter plural) for collectives of gods undoubtedly reveal important aspects of the gods in PCRN.24 Most common is probably goð or guð, perhaps meaning ‘that which is called upon’ (de Vries 1962a: 181), emphasizing the aspect of supernatural helpers for humans, and this term, interestingly, seems to have changed from the original neuter to masculine, probably because of Judeo-Christian influence ( Jackson 2012: 54). Another term is regin (plural), attested as an element in many personal names and probably originally meaning ‘those who give advice’, again emphasizing the relation to human beings. Words such as bǫnd and hǫpt are both connected to bonds and fetters (è 5), which could indicate either the bonds between gods and humans or the way the gods ‘bind’ the world according to their decisions (de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 3). Still, the relation between this world and the Other World remains in focus for these terms. The designation tívar (pl.; sing. týr), however, does not encompass this communicative aspect. It is an old Indo-European word that ultimately goes back to a designation for the sky (de Vries 1962a: 603). Further, we have the masculine véar, only mentioned once in the eddic poem Hymiskviða and no doubt emphasizing the relation to sacred spaces, and díar which, with the meaning ‘gods’, is likewise attested only once, in Kormákr’s Sigurðardrápa st. 3, whereas Snorri in Ynglinga saga ch. 10 apparently uses the word to refer to ‘priests’.25 The source situation does not permit drawing any conclusions on how far back these designations go, but many of them are probably very old in Scandinavia, and, as we can see, they often emphasize the relation between human beings and the supernatural. This is not to say that the pagans using these words were aware of the different meanings; most likely they were not, and the choices made by poets were doubtless often dependent on the need for alliterative words so that they were selected without regard to their precise semantic contents (see also Frog and Roper 2011). Nevertheless, it is presumably significant that most of these words can be attributed to the ‘communicative sphere’, apparently emphasizing the importance of the ritual level vis-à-vis 24  See also de Vries (1956–57a: ii, 1–10) who gives a complete overview of the collective terms, designating various aspects of the ‘gods’. 25  For other designations, such as æsir and vanir, see (è40) below.

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the conceptual level. Having said that, however, we should also emphasize that not all the gods known from PCRN seem to have played a role in terms of cults; that is, they were probably not worshipped. As is so often the case within the study of PCRN, it is hard to determine whether this impression is due to the source situation or whether these gods were just mythological beings who fulfilled various narrative roles and in that sense contributed to the construction of the Other World. If this is so, which seems to be the case for at least some of the gods, it makes it difficult to draw a clear distinction between ‘gods’ and certain ‘humans’ portrayed in poetry and sagas — depending, of course, on our definitions. We shall return to this below. In conclusion, there is nothing to indicate that there were clear-cut semantic borders between the different designations for the beings that we usually call ‘gods’, that is, beings who exist in the Other World. Figures in Between As outlined in the opening pages of (è21), it is possible to trace in the North the notion underlying an Indo-European poetic formula meaning ‘imperishable, unfailing fame’. M.  L. West adds that such fame could be understood as lofty or high and could reach up into the heavens (West 2007: 407–08). Realized in that form, this notion would effectively cancel out the opposition between heaven and earth that is expressed in the formula jǫrð […] upphiminn and also, realized in the etymology at least, between the celestial divine and the earthly human (è10). In short, this sort of nullification implies that humans can become like gods. And to reverse the procedure, if imperishable fame confers a kind of immortality (West 2007: 409), we can look to the mythology for another point where humans and gods cross: the gods grow old like human beings when Iðunn and her apples of immortality are removed from them (Skáldskaparmál p. 7); Baldr dies; and all the gods die at Ragnarǫk. Again, we see that it is difficult to enforce an absolutely firm distinction between gods and humans. These beings may change their status in two ways: on the one hand, historical circumstances may transform humans to gods or vice-versa, as just mentioned, and not least the fact that so many sources were composed by Christians has clearly contributed to this process. While Snorri argues that the gods were humans who later on became worshipped as gods, Saxo and the authors or redactors of the fornaldarsögur often transform the myths (narratives about gods) into historical accounts (narratives about humans), a process known as ‘displacement’. On the other hand, within the religious world-view itself we also see that some persons — that is, kings and other outstanding

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individuals — become perhaps not gods in a narrow sense, but very godlike, as part of Óðinn’s retinue in the Other World, and apparently some of them were actually worshipped as gods (for example, in the fourth book of Adam’s Gesta Hammaburgensis concerning a certain King Eiríkr). Therefore, we must in every way be careful in deciding whether certain figures should be regarded as humans or gods. These figures are the heroes, whether they are understood as just extraordinary persons or minor gods living with the great gods, as in the case of Þjálfi, or being worshipped as in the case of King Eiríkr and apparently also of King Fróði (è23). According to most of the textual sources, these figures were definitely human; some of them are portrayed as historical persons, whereas others apparently are part of genuine myths and act in environments where they are surrounded by gods. It has been suggested that some of these human figures are ‘sunken’ gods, which may be the case with the Danish king Fróði who by many scholars has been seen as a ‘human’ Freyr (Schier 1968), whereas Sigurðr, for instance, has conversely been seen as a mythologized human being (Arminius; see Höfler 1961).26 The main point here, however, is that most of these ‘heroes’ are in all likelihood of different provenience, so that in order to obtain a realistic view on them we must treat them individually. The textual evidence placing humans and gods in the same contextual sphere is ample. Outside of the North, the common Germanic verse form was used primarily for heroic poetry — that is, poetry about humans — but both Old English and Old High German attest charms in which the god Woden (Óðinn) appears.27 The ease with which the form was used for Christian topics (e.g., the Old English poetic lives of saints, such as Judith, or the Old Saxon Heliand, a life of Christ) may also suggest that what appears to be primarily a heroic form, based on the extant texts, was equally suitable for more sacral topics. And in the North, of course, we see mythological poems in the common Germanic verse form: namely, the eddic mythological poems. Christian redactors must have seen a relationship between the actions of the pagan gods and of the ancient heroes, since they combined them. The most famous example is, of course, Codex Regius of the Poetic Edda, but it is also noteworthy that Haukr Erlendsson chose to include Vǫluspá in his book (Hauksbók), a compendium of learning, and that he placed it just before Trójumanna saga. Breta sögur, 26 

See also below on ‘displacement’. According to Calvert Watkins, the Nine Herbs Charm may, in fact, reflect an Indo-Euro­ pean pattern relating to dragon-slaying (Watkins 1995: 424–28). If so, we could state explicitly that, like Old Norse, Old English also exemplifies narrative poetry in the common Germanic alliterative metre about both gods and heroes. 27 

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Hemings þáttr Áslákssonar, Fóstbrœðra saga, and Eiríks saga rauða are among the texts that follow. Vǫlundarkviða is an eddic poem about a protagonist who displays features of the human as well as of the divine. The earliest skalds composed on both heroic and divine subjects. For example, Bragi Boddason inn gamli crafted sequences about the attack of Hamðir and S ǫ rli on J ǫ rmunrekkr, the Hjaðningavíg (both assigned by Snorri to Ragnarsdrápa), and Þórr’s battle with the Miðgarðsormr as well as a stanza about Gefjun acquiring land from Gylfi. If the ekphrasis in Ragnarsdrápa was limited to heroic subjects, that in Þjóðólfr’s Haustlǫng was limited to mythic topics: Þjazi’s abduction of Iðunn and Þórr’s duel with Hrungnir. Húsdrápa, Úlfr Uggason’s ekphrasis of the hall at Hjarðarholt, is, as we know it, also mythic in its focus: Þórr and the Miðgarðsormr, Loki and Heimdallr, and Baldr’s funeral. This evidence suggests that both mythic and heroic scenes were portrayed in carved images that belonged in the same context and that skalds felt free to compose about both. Þórsdrápa is a special case, since we have no evidence that it was an ekphrasis. The leading interpreter of the poem, Edith Marold, understands it as a narrative about Þórr’s journey to Geirrøðr, functioning as a praise poem for Hákon jarl. This convincing interpretation maps the divine onto the human: Þórr overcomes giants, just as Hákon subdues his enemies. Through its giantkennings relying on ethnonyms as base words, too, the poem seems to embed humans into the mythology. The skaldic situation is summed up in a curious stanza in Skáldskaparmál that Snorri attributes to Þórðr Særeksson and cites for its use of the term vanr as a heiti for Njǫrðr (Skáldskaparmál p. 18). Edited as stanza 3 of his ‘Fragments’, it runs as follows: Varð sjǫlf suna, nama snotr una, Kjalarr of tamði, kvǫ́ ðut Hamði, Guðrún bani; goðbrúðr Vani; heldr vel mara; hjǫrleik spara. (Guðrún herself became the killer of her sons; the wise god-bride [Skaði] did not begin to love the Vanr [Njǫrðr]; Kjalarr tamed horses very well; they did not say that Hamðir was stingy with sword-play [BATTLE].) (p. 478–79)

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We draw attention to this verse not for its end-rhyme or structure (lines 5–8 comple­ment, respectively, lines 1–4) but for its juxtaposition of the heroic and the mythic. While the pagan gods only appear in demonized form in kings’ sagas and related þættir and hardly appear at all in Íslendingasögur, some fornaldarsögur do present interaction between humans and gods, primarily Óðinn. Sagas in question include Vǫlsunga saga, Hervarar saga, Gautreks saga, Ǫrvar-Odds saga (see Røthe 2010: 13–102), and also Snorri in his paraphrase of the Vǫlsung material. Saxo has gods and demi-gods acting alongside humans and interacting with them. In his version of the poem Bjarkamál, the dying Biarco craves a glimpse of Óðinn and threatens to kill him (2.7.25–27). An adversary of King Frotho is the evil King Frogerus, said to be a son of Othinus (4.8.1). Saxo moreover speaks at length about the interactions between Othinus and Starcatherus (Book 6, and see below) and Othinus and Haraldus Hyldetan (Books 7–8). In the fornald­ arsögur as well as in Saxo, the encounters usually take place in this world. Like the textual evidence, the iconographic evidence is ample and compelling in its placement of the heroic and the divine in the same conceptual spheres.28 For example, two of the Gotland picture stones, Alskog Tjängvide and Ardre VIII, display in their upper registers explicit images of a rider on Sleipnir and thus of the world of the dead; most images on these and the other Gotland picture stones appear to relate to the actions of heroes. Scholars believe that they can identify motifs such as the Hjaðningavíg, the death of Sigurðr Fáfnisbani, Wayland the Smith, and Gunnarr in the snake pit on other picture stones from Gotland (Lindqvist 1941–42: i, 101–07; Buisson 1976; Andrén 1993; Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir 2012). Here, we should point out that the warriors of the Hjaðningavíg who fight, die, and are revived show special ‘godlike’ features and are in this respect similar to the einherjar, themselves of uncertain status in this regard. Furthermore, Vǫlundr appears to be an álfr, which likewise allots him a status somewhere between human and divine (è63). Indeed, aspects of the story of Vǫlundr are depicted on the Franks (Auzon) casket and on Viking Age carved crosses from Yorkshire. In 2011, a cast copper mount was 28 

Strictly speaking, the specific quality of being ‘in-between’ the human and divine can only be grasped in the textual sources, since depictions of figures can only be identified on the basis of the texts. Seen as isolated entities, pictures, whether on stones, bracteates, or on some other pictorial representation, cannot be identified as either gods or human heroes or those in-between; this is only made possible by the myths and legends related in texts (è 7). It could be argued that, for instance, the Uppåkra birdman (see below and Zachrisson 2017a) is a being in between human and animal, but we cannot judge the divine status without referring to the texts.

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excavated near the foundation of the cult house at Uppåkra, depicting a human figure apparently wearing armour and a flying device. There are good reasons to accept that it depicts Vǫlundr (Helmbrecht 2012) and it can be used to unpack the implications of the myth (Zachrisson 2017a). Descent from the Gods In Germania ch. 2, Tacitus implies that three Germanic tribes — the Ingaevones, Herminones, and Istaevones — derive from Mannus, son of the god Tuisto who issued from the earth: that is, that humans are descended from a god (in this case a chthonic figure; è37). Similarly, the eddic poem Rígsþula presents the origin of the social classes, and therefore of the humans who comprise them, as the result of a series of anthropogonic sexual acts. In the poem, these are undertaken long ago by Rígr, whom the first stanza identifies as a powerful, aged, wise, and bold áss, that is, as a god. Ár qváðo ganga grœnar brautir ǫflgan ok aldinn, ás kunnigan, ramman ok rǫsqvan, Ríg stíganda. (Long ago they say that along the green paths a powerful, mature, and knowledgeable god went walking, mighty and vigorous, Rig stepping along.) (p. 238)

The prose header indicates that Rígr is a name assumed by Heimdallr, ‘a certain one of the æsir’.29 Many royal genealogies derive rulers from gods euhemerized as people from Asia. This conceit is found as early as in Ari fróði Þorgilsson’s Íslendingabók and is widespread in Icelandic historical writing (Heusler 1908); it is also found in Anglo-Saxon royal genealogies (Faulkes 1978–79). We turn now to individual figures who fall ‘in between’. Not all of these are conventional heroes. We begin with Bragi, who in Lokasenna (st. 12–15) is the subject of an insult from Loki concerning his lack of bravery in battle but whose career spans the human and the divine.

29 

For the purposes of this narrative, see (è50); for further discussion, see Schjødt (2017b).

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Humans with Mythic Status Bragi Most scholars separate out Bragi Boddason inn gamli, by tradition reckoned the first skald, from the Bragi whom the Eiríksmál poet places in Valhǫll along with the heroes Sigmundr and Sinfjǫtli shortly after the death of Eiríkr blóðøx at Stainmore in 954.30 Centuries later, Snorri quotes repeatedly from Bragi skáld (the poet) in Skáldskaparmál. In the opening of Gylfaginning in the RTW manuscripts of Snorra-Edda, a verse attributed to Bragi skáld gamli (the poet Bragi the Old) forms part of the frame that is established.31 But later in Gylfaginning p. 25, Snorri reports that one of the æsir is named Bragi: ‘Hann er ágætr at speki ok mest at málsnild ok orðfimi’ (He is renowned for wisdom and especially for eloquence and command of language) (p. 25). Snorri believes that the noun bragr (poetry; chieftain) derives from Bragi’s name, and he adds that Iðunn is Bragi’s wife. A few pages later, he has Hár recite a þula naming Bragi as the best of poets, while most of the other characters who are the best at something are mythological in nature. In the frame of Skáldskaparmál, Bragi also appears among the æsir, and it is he who informs Ægir about their deeds. Thus Snorri, at least, seems to have had a conception of the historical Bragi the poet and the áss Bragi who was associated with poetry. Since Bragi the poet was so clearly skilled in the Old Norse language, it would have been difficult for Snorri to make him an áss from Asia, and perhaps that is why he kept the two figures separate. We see no reason to do so, and we therefore take Bragi as one of the clearest examples of euhemerism (Mogk 1887; cf. Bugge 1888; Mogk 1889a; Clunies Ross 2006; Lindow 2006), not as a medieval theory but as a consequence of the relatively thin line between gods and humans that characterizes so many religious world-views. Þiálfi Eilífr Goðrúnararson’s skaldic masterpiece Þórsdrápa uses plural verbs for most of the stanzas that deal with Þórr’s crossing of the river Vimur on the way to 30 

In his Hákonarmál, Eyvindr Finnsson had Óðinn tell Hermóðr and Bragi to greet Hákon inn góði upon his arrival in Valhǫll, but Eyvindr earned his byname skáldaspillir (destroyer of poets, perhaps plagiarist?) in part through his close imitation of Eiríksmál. 31  The absence of the verse in U and the absence of other dróttkvætt stanzas in Gylfaginning makes the presence of this verse problematic, although reasonable explanations for its occurrence here have been suggested (Lindow 1977b; Clunies Ross 1978).

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Geirrøðr and the subsequent giant-slayings. His companion appears to be Þjálfi, who is named explicitly in stanza 10: unz með ýta sinni — aflraun vas þat — skaunar á seilhimin sjóla sjalflopta kom Þjalfi. Œddu stáli stríðan straum Hrekkmímis ekkjur; stophnísu fór steypir stríðlundr með vǫl Gríðar. (until Þjálfi came hovering through the air on the strap-sky [shield] of the ruler with the helper of the launchers of the shield [warriors > leader = Þórr]; it was a test of strength. The widows of Hrekkmímir [giantesses] infuriated the stream, harsh against the weapon; the overcomer of the cliff-porpoise [giantess >  = Þórr] went stubbornly with the staff of Gríðr .) (pp. 96–97)

According to Snorri in Gylfaginning, Þjálfi and his sister Rǫskva became Þórr’s servants in a settlement between Þórr and a farmer with whom Þórr and Loki had stayed for the night. Þórr slaughters his goats and serves them to the family, but when he revives them the next day, one is lame because Þjálfi cut a bone to get to the marrow. Þórr’s rage ebbs away when he sees the terror of the human family, and he accepts the children as his servants. Rǫskva plays no real role in the mythology; Snorri says that she went along on the journey to Útgarðaloki’s court, but she does not participate in the contests there. Eilífr does, however, certify her existence in this version of stanza 22:32 Vreiðr stóð Vrǫsku bróðir; vá gagn faðir Magna; skelfra Þórs né Þjalfa þróttar steinn við ótta. (The brother of Rǫskva [= Þjálfi] stood furious; the father of Magni [= Þórr] won victory; the stone of valour [heart] of neither Þórr nor Þjálfi trembles with terror.) (p. 123)

Thus the poet kenned both Þjálfi and Þórr by means of family relationships. 32 

Although the stanza is found in Skáldskaparmál separately from the nineteen-stanza sequence specifically labelled as Eilífr’s Þórsddrápa in RTW, the lines ‘skalfa Þórs né Þjalfa | þróttar steinn við ótta’ are found there, in stanza 11.

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As the story goes on in Gylfaginning, Þjálfi participates in three foot races against Hugi, a sveinstauli (little boy) in Útgarðaloki’s household. Just as Loki had lost the eating contest with Logi and as Þórr was to lose his contests with the drinking horn, the cat, and the old woman, Þjálfi loses all three foot races to Hugi, who is later revealed to be Útgarðaloki’s thought. Þjálfi also appears in Skáldskaparmál, in Snorri’s paraphrase of Þórr’s duel with Hrungnir, and it is he who warns the giant that Þórr will attack from under the ground, thus tricking the giant into standing on his shield and rendering it useless. According to Hárbarðsljóð st. 37–39, Þjálfi had accompanied Þórr to Læsø on a mission to attack giantesses but had been chased off by them. As noted above, Þjálfi and, according to Gylfaginning, also his sister Rǫskva are closely associated with Þórr. They are the only humans within the mythology to have such a relationship to Þórr. Lindow (2000) has argued that Þórr’s ability to control his rage when the ritual revival of his goats is botched can indicate the positive attitude that the deities have toward humans. Two of the towering figures of twentieth-century scholarship expressed views about Þjálfi, in both cases working comparatively. Axel Olrik (1905b, 1906) argued for a Sámi parallel to the companion of the thunder-god and believed that it had to do with the characteristic rumble that accompanies thunder; more interesting is his suggestion of an Estonian parallel to Loki as Þórr’s companion, thus yielding theoretical parallels to both of Þórr’s companions. Franz Rolf Schröder (1938b) departed from the apparent similarity of the name Þjálfi to Þieluar in the opening lines of Guta saga. Because Þieluar brought fire to Gotland and thus kept it from sinking into the sea each night, and because his descendants settled the island, Schröder saw him as associated with fire and fertility. This is meant to relate to Þórr through an Indian parallel; in the end, Schröder believed that Þjálfi represented Þórr’s procreative power. Obviously, this reading of Þjálfi finds little support in the Norse materials. Indeed, the etymology of Þjálfi’s name is unknown and its relation to Þieluar uncertain, even if it is possible to link the Gotlanders to Þórr and argue that they were all to some degree servants of Þórr (Andrén 2012b). Another comparative analysis was carried out by Toporov, who argues that Þjálfi and the Lithuanian Teljavelj represent the thunder-god’s assistant in the two traditions, under conditions of mutual cultural influence (Toporov 1970). Haustlǫng tells of Þórr’s duel with Hrungnir but makes no reference to Þjálfi. Þórr apparently travels alone (the verbs are singular), and Hrungnir’s fatal stepping on his shield is differently motivated (è41). The relevant helmingr (17a) runs as follows.

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Brátt fló bjarga gæti — bǫnd ǫllu því — randa ímunfǫlr und iljar íss; vildu svá dísir. (The battle-pale ice of shield-rims [SHIELD] flew swiftly beneath the footsoles of the guardian of the rocks [GIANT = Hrungnir]; the gods caused that; the dísir wanted [it] so.) (p. 457)

The keys here are the apparent agency of the shield itself, which quickly flew (brátt fló) under the feet of Hrungnir, and the fact that the collective of divine powers caused and wished it: the bǫnd and the dísir.33 The sudden move of the shield may remind us of the flying Þjálfi of Húsdrápa, but to picture him in this scene of Hrungnir’s demise would be mere guesswork. Even if we believe that Snorri deliberately inserted Þjálfi into the Hrungnir story, rather than reporting a parallel tradition about how the shield came to be under the giant’s feet, Þjálfi’s companionship of Þórr must have been a widespread mythological tradition in the Old Norse area (cf. Bertell 2013). If we leave Snorri completely out of the picture, it would seem that Þjálfi was especially valued for his participation in Þórr’s exploits against giantesses (Gjálp and Greip; the vargynior of Hárbarðsljóð). Neither of these sources indicates that Þjálfi was human, but his absence from the kenning system, þulur, and of course Snorri’s lists of the æsir makes it likely that Snorri’s information about Þjálfi is trustworthy. However, a kenning in the first helming of Þórsdrápa st. 9, immediately preceding the direct mention of Þjálfi in stanza 10, does complicate matters somewhat: Óðu fast, en Fríðar flaut, eiðsvara Gauta setrs víkingar snotrir sverðrunnit fen, gunnar. (The oath-bound vikings of the seat of Gauti [= Ásgarðr > = Þórr and Þjálfi], wise in war, waded firmly, and the sword-filled fen of Fríðr [river] flowed.) (p. 95)

33 

As Clunies Ross points out (Clunies Ross 2017b: 458), Finnur Jónsson’s reading ímundísir, which would conjoin disparate elements using the rhetorical device called tmesis to make a kenning for valkyries (battle-dísir), is unsupportable. The poet clearly intended bǫnd ollu því and vildu svá dísir to be parallel clauses.

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Figure 36.1. Detail of the picture stone at Ardre on Gotland (SHM 11118:108199), dated to the ninth century, with central elements of the Vǫlundr myth: the smithy, the beheaded princes, and Vǫlundr’s flight in the form of a bird. Photo: Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm. 

The translation above uses the following reasoning. The base word is clearly víkingar, and the determinant is ‘Gauta setrs’ (of the seat of Gauti). This leads to the kenning ‘vikings of Ásgarðr’, which would be the gods or some other residents of Ásgarðr. Thus the poet included Þjálfi among the æsir, or at least among the residents of Ásgarðr (or Valhǫll). This reading would, therefore, be wholly consistent with the presence in Valhǫll of Bragi, Sigmundr, and Sinfjǫtli according to Eiríksmál and, indeed, of all the einherjar. Þjálfi was clearly one of those humans who had a special relationship to the gods. Vǫlundr Whoever arranged the poems in the Poetic Edda placed Vǫlundarkviða in the ‘mythological’ section, between Þrymskviða and Alvíssmál. A convenient explanation is that Vǫlundr is twice called vísi álfa (prince of the álfar) and that this poem and Alvíssmál, with its dwarf, were placed at the end of the mythological section because álfar and dwarves were taken to be mythological beings.34 34 

In stanza 10, Vǫlundr is called álfa lióði. The hapax legomenon ljóði appears to be related to lýðr (people) and should thus perhaps mean ‘member of the álfar- people’, but there are rea-

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Figure 36.2. Weland the smith on the front panel of the Franks casket, an Anglo-Saxon casket from the early eighth century (British Museum no. 1867.0120.1). Photo: © The Trustees of the British Museum. 

However, Vǫlundr’s elfish status does not appear to manifest itself particularly strongly in the plot of the poem. Vǫlundr is a highly skilled smith who lives a solitary life after his wife leaves him. He is captured by King Niðuðr, maimed by having the tendons of his knees severed, and forced to craft precious objects for the king. Ultimately, he avenges himself by murdering the king’s sons, dismembering them, and forging objects from their skulls, eyes, and teeth, and further by seducing and impregnating the king’s daughter, Bǫðvildr. The story of Vǫlundr is also recounted in a longer and somewhat different version in the section of Þiðreks saga called ‘Velents þáttr’; the name form clearly indicates a setting or origin outside Scandinavia. Wayland (the usual English form) was, indeed, well known in the West Germanic area. The Old English poem Deor contains two stanzas outlining Weland’s capture by Nithad, the murder of Nithad’s sons, and the pregnancy of Beaduhilde, and these thus confirm the parallel details in Vǫlundarkviða. In addition, Weland’s skills as a smith are reflected in several weapons attributed to him in Old English heroic literature. Vǫlundr is a smith. and the special status of smiths is widely known and exemplified in a variety of sources (see, for example, Marold 1973; Hauck 1977; Müller-Wille 1977; Beck 1980). As a ‘supernatural smith’, Vǫlundr thus sons to regard it as a parallel to vísi in a third, variant attestation of the formula ‘prince of the álfar’ (von See and others 2000: 171–73). Such a reading departs from a position opposite to the existing minority view: namely, that vísi álfa means ‘wise one of the álfar’ (è63).

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Figure 36.3. A ‘birdman’ from Uppåkra, inter­ preted as Vǫlundr (LUHM 32146:13360). Photo: Bengt Almgren, Historiska museet vid Lunds universitet, Lund. 

takes up a position midway between humans and gods. Indeed, Sigmund Oehrl (2012) evaluates the Gotland picture stones and other iconographic evidence and argues that a smith, probably Vǫlundr, is portrayed in the world of the dead, Valhǫll, on a picture stone from Barhaldershed in Grötlingbo. Thus, Oehrl proposes adding Vǫlundr to Bragi, Sigmundr, Sinfjǫtli, and the other humans whose earthly lives continue after death among the gods. According to the prose header of Vǫlundarkviða, Vǫlundr and his brothers are sons of a Sámi king (synir Finnakonungs), and, like the Sámi, they travel on skis and hunt. He is in this way a member of an ethnic Other group, with the implications of the supernatural that such a relation implies (Hall 2007: 50–52). Moreover, unlike ordinary humans, he takes a wife from the supernatural realm. Like ordinary humans, however, he mourns the loss of his wife. Like both gods and humans in this narrative tradition, he plots and carries out vengeance. He rejoices in his vengeance and, like the gods in their feather suits, flies away. This being is neither a human nor a god. Torun Zachrisson (2017a) stresses Vǫlundr’s paternal Sámi background and links it to the social and geographical setting of Vǫlundarkviða, which, she argues, would accord with the halls of the Ynglingar in Gamla Uppsala from the seventh through the ninth centuries, with Sámi smiths living in the forested areas just north of Lake Mälar. Vǫlundr’s numinosity would be consistent with his Sámi Otherness, and the birdman of Uppåkra would make sense in a cultic context. Alaric Hall takes seriously Vǫlundr’s status as a member of the álfar (A. Hall 2007: 39–47), that is, as a supernatural being with positive qualities, aligned

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closely with the æsir in a binary opposition to the giants and dwarfs (A. Hall 2007: 21–39). Humans align with æsir and álfar in this binary opposition, but in Hall’s scheme another binary opposition separates them from the supernatural. In our understanding of the religious world-view, however, Vǫlundr would align with the here-and-now in his human aspects and with the Other primarily through his having lived long ago. Into this context comes the old suggestion that the narrative of Vǫlundarkviða may have been influenced by or inspired by a scene in the Vita Severini by Eugippius (early sixth century) in which smiths forced to ply their craft as slaves to a king gain their freedom by threatening to kill the king’s son, who, like the young sons of Niðuðr, has come to visit the smithy (von See and others 2000: 84–85). If this is, indeed, the origin of the narrative, Vǫlundr’s status as álfr could represent a kind of euhemerization, the human smiths of Eugippius’s tale being elevated to the status of prince of elves in the Germanic tale. Heroes Whereas the figures mentioned so far are most likely firmly rooted in the mythical world in the sense that, although they are portrayed as humans, they were far removed from the everyday world, we shall now turn to a different category who could more appropriately be characterized as ‘heroes’. What distinguishes this category from the figures dealt with above is that they are just as firmly placed in this world. Some of them may actually have their roots in historical figures, but the main point is that they are not thought of, by those who composed the sources, as gods or any other kind of supernatural beings. Some of them, as we shall see, may have evolved from divine figures, but they are, nevertheless, portrayed as humans, although not ordinary humans. Most, if not all, of these figures were outstanding kings or warriors, and, since we have already dealt with these (è23–24, along with è42–43), this chapter will only treat a few of them as well as add some details that are of importance to their intermediate position between gods and humans. The Vǫlsungar In the eddic poem Reginsmál, especially as expounded by the prose sections, Óðinn, Loki, and Hœnir interact with Hreiðmarr and his sons. Although two of the sons are able to change shape — Otr sports as an otter, and Fáfnir changes himself into a dragon — this family clearly does not belong to the

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divine sphere. The same story is told midway through Vǫlsunga saga. The opening of the saga presents Siggi, king of Húnaland, as a son of Óðinn. Siggi’s son Rerik and his wife are childless until they conceive a son after calling on Óðinn, and this son, Vǫlsungr, gives his name to the family line that will include the heroes Sigmundr, Sinfjǫtli, and Sigurðr. Throughout the saga, Óðinn appears, implicitly or explicitly, to help the Vǫlsungar. As regards Sigmundr and Sinfjǫtli, the main source for these two heroes is Vǫlsunga saga. Apart from the saga, the two protagonists are known from a few eddic poems and from Skáldskaparmál, but almost only by name so that these sources do not contribute any significant information that we do not get from the saga. From Eiríksmál, on the contrary, we get a very interesting piece of information, as we saw above, concerning their presence in Valhǫll, to which we shall return in a moment. We have already dealt with the two heroes in (è24) (with a short summary) and the following discussion will therefore be quite brief. In (è24), it was stated that they are special favourites of Óðinn. For this reason alone, they are not ‘ordinary’ human beings. During their initiations (see also Schjødt 2008: 299–312), they become Óðinn’s men, in life as well as in death, and this is very likely the reason why Eiríksmál st. 5 presents both Sigmundr and Sinfjǫtli as inhabitants of Valhǫll. The question, here, is how to evaluate this presence. Are they ordinary einherjar, or do they perhaps have a more god-like status?35 We can state at once that it is not possible to produce any definite answers. What we know is that Sigmundr was a king (like Eiríkr), and that he is apparently thought to hold a position in Valhǫll that is somewhat different from that of the other einherjar. However, the reason for that could also simply be that as a legendary hero he must be supposed to have been known to the audience of the poem when it was presented for the first time, which would then be why it is in particular he and his son who are mentioned. However, Franz Rolf Schröder (1935, 1960b), Jan de Vries (1953), as well as others have attempted to relate the two heroes to genuine myths, viewing them as reflections of gods. This may be so, but the evidence is rather weak, and there is nothing to indicate that they were ever worshipped in any way, even if this is not a decisive criterion for defining a god. Of course it cannot be ruled out that one or both of them may have had some part to play in rituals, but we have no evidence that might confirm it. Their main function seems to be exclusively mythic-legendary, and most likely it is exactly the connection between the Odinic heroes of 35 

The etymology of Sigmundr suggests ‘he who is in charge of victory’, whereas that of Sinfjǫtli is more problematic (de Vries 1962a: 476).

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A

C Figure 36.4. Three depictions of important events in the life of Sigurðr Fáfnisbani. The images are from different parts of Scandinavia and are dated between the ninth century and about 1300. They illustrate the popularity of the narratives about the Vǫlsungar. A) Sigurðr kills Fáfnir, according to the runic carving at Ramsund in Jäder in Södermanland, dated to about 1000 (Sö 101, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). B) Sigurðr eats the heart of Fáfnir and learns the speech of birds, according to wood carvings on the porch from Hylestad church in Agder, dated to about 1300. C) Sigurðr is killed and lies beneath his horse Grani with the gold treasure on the back, according to the picture stone at Stora Hammars in Lärbro on Gotland, dated to the ninth century. Photos: Anders Andrén.

this world and the dead warriors of the Other World that is central. If this is so, Sigmundr and Sinfjǫtli should probably not be seen as god-like in the same sense as Þjálfi, Vǫlundr, or Bragi who all, in the extant sources, seem to be far removed from this world, except that Þjálfi is so clearly portrayed as a human being. Sigmundr and Sinfjǫtli, however, could just as well have been historical persons because the focus is on the relation, just mentioned, between living extraordinary humans and dead extraordinary humans. Therefore, it seems to

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make most sense to interpret their role in Eiríksmál simply as representatives of the einherjar, who are in some way extraordinary. Another question, therefore, is whether the einherjar in general should be seen as some kind of gods. We know, as dealt with in (è23), that dead rulers could be seen as a kind of gods with all the characteristics we normally attribute to gods in the form of cults and expectations of gifts to benefit land and people. This being so, it cannot be ruled out that ‘the dead’, at least as a collective, were regarded as a kind of demigods. This was also what Otto Höfler had in mind when he argued that some élite warriors (harii) should be seen as representatives of the einherjar (Höfler 1934), indicating an aspect of ‘supernatural’ power. Whether or not this was the case, we must accept that we are not in a position to establish with any certainty whether Sigmundr and Sinfjǫtli should be considered gods or humans. In all likelihood, we are better off focusing on their role as mediators between the living Odinic warriors and the dead. Another son of Sigmundr is Sigurðr Fáfnisbani, no doubt the most famous of all the Germanic heroes, and, as opposed to his father and brother, he is well known all across the Germanic area; but the main sources are still the eddic poems and Vǫlsunga saga, and in this case also a rich iconographic tradition (for example, see Andrén 1993 on the Gotland picture stones).36 Sigurðr, in the first part of the saga (ch. 13–22), goes through a rather clear initiatory sequence, which is closely associated with Óðinn (Schjødt 1994; 2008: 282– 99), and there is thus no doubt that he should be regarded as an Odinic hero. The question is whether he is more than that: can he be seen as a god? Gabriel Turville-Petre believes so: ‘In short, the evidence at our disposal suggests that Sigurðr was originally a god, or at least a demi-god’ (Turville-Petre 1964: 205). The next question, then, is how convincing the arguments for this suggestion are. Turville-Petre accepts that the Sigurðr figure is composed of traits from various influences, both from Irish myth and legend and from historical figures, such as Arminius and the Frankish king Sigeberht (sixth century),37 but sees him basically as a god or a ‘demi-god’ because he fights a dragon (like Þórr), he suffers death at the hands of a relative (like Baldr), and he descends from Óðinn. However, as we saw in (è23), kings could be considered descendants of the gods (Óðinn or Freyr) without being seen as gods in the same way as 36 

For the Continental and English traditions and their relation to the Nordic material, see Schneider (1962: 125–70) and, for a brief overview, Turville-Petre (1964: 198–99). 37  There are even similarities between Sigurðr and Vǫlundr (in Þiðreks saga), in that they both test a sword by letting some wool or cloth flow down a stream (a motif also known from Celtic material; cf. Turville-Petre 1964: 204) and perhaps a commonplace of heroic literature.

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their ancestor, at least not until they died. Still, there can be no doubt that some ‘godly’ or ‘Other Worldly’ qualities were to differing degrees associated with many humans and with that in mind we may call them ‘gods’, again depending on our definitions. But to argue, as Turville-Petre does from this, that a hero such as Sigurðr was originally a god (with all the definitional problems), perhaps even the divine ancestor of the Cherusci, seems far from convincing.38 The similarities to some individual mythemes with gods as the protagonists are perhaps better seen as an example of displacement. All in all, the evidence that Sigurðr was ‘originally’ a god is weak, and, although it cannot be rejected outright,39 it does not seem to fit with his role as a typical Odinic warrior/king. Sigmundr is also said to have a third son, the enigmatic Helgi. The name means ‘the hallowed one’, which might indicate that we are dealing with a divine or semi-divine figure. The main sources are the three Helgi-poems in Codex Regius (Helgakviða Hundingsbana I, Helgakviða Hundingsbana II, and Helgakviða Hjǫrvarðssonar).40 But Helgi is also mentioned in Vǫlsunga saga and a few other fornaldarsögur as well as by Saxo, who knows several ‘Helgos’. Most of these figures seem to go back to some sacred figure, be it a genuine god or — more likely — a sacral king. In Codex Regius, the compiler undoubtedly saw the poems about Helgi Hundingsbani as complementary, whereas Helgi Hjǫrvarðsson was seen as a hero living earlier who was reborn as Helgi Hundingsbani;41 so there is no doubt that at least the Helgis in the eddic poems and the figure in Vǫlsunga saga are strongly related and ultimately identical. The question of whether we are dealing with a god or a human once again comes down to definitions. It has been proposed that the Helgi-poems ultimately go back to initiation rituals (Höfler 1952a), although the evidence for that seems somewhat weak. However, the name Helgi could well indicate that he was a legendary sacral king, and as such he would have been close to the 38  Turville-Petre (1964: 204–05) further argues that Sigurðr, as well as some of his Irish parallels, are connected to, if not identical with, a hart, and in this way Sigurðr almost takes the form of a totemic forefather of the Cherusci (perhaps related to *herut ‘hart’). 39  After all, Sigurðr was a king, and, without discussing possible historical roots, it cannot be ruled out that the idea once existed that he could bestow various gifts on his people, and, if it did, then this brings him very close to the constituent elements of a god. 40  For summaries and discussion about the relationship between the poems, see de Vries (1964–67: i, 303–17), and for valuable discussions, Harris (1983). 41  The question of reincarnation has been treated by many scholars, mainly focusing on whether this idea was ‘originally’ pagan or was inferred by Christian scribes. For an overview, see Kragerud (1989) and (è34).

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gods, residing in Ásgarðr, just as we have just seen with Sigmundr and Sinfjǫtli. If that is so, we are once again reminded of the close connections between kings and gods and of the intermediate position of kings in PCRN. Starkaðr Both Óðinn and Þórr interact with the human hero Starkaðr in Gautreks saga ch. 7, another of the fornaldarsögur. The incident is embedded in the greater story of Starkaðr’s sacrifice of King Víkarr to Óðinn (è 42). Óðinn appears both in disguise, as Hrosshárs-Grani, Starkaðr’s foster-father, and as himself at an assembly of twelve notables, presumably gods, of whom Þórr is one. Óðinn and Þórr determine the fate (dœma ørlǫg) of Starkaðr. They alternate bestowing negative gifts and positive gifts: Starkaðr will have no offspring (Þórr); he shall live three human lifetimes (Óðinn); Starkaðr will commit an unspeakable act (níðingsverk) in each of these lifetimes (Þórr); he shall possess the best weapons and clothing (Óðinn); he will possess no land (Þórr); he shall have money (Óðinn), but the money will never seem enough to him (Þórr); Starkaðr shall have victory and prowess in every battle (Óðinn), but he will be grievously wounded in every battle he partakes in (Þórr); Starkaðr shall master poetry (Óðinn), but he will not remember what he composes (Þórr); Starkaðr will seem loftiest to the greatest men (Óðinn), but the common people will despise him (Þórr).42 The positive aspects granted to Starkaðr by Óðinn agree with Óðinn’s connection to the aristocracy and especially the ability to compose verse as rapidly as he can recite it suggests Óðinn’s ability to speak in verse.43 After the assembly, Hrosshárs-Grani/Óðinn requests of Starkaðr the sacrifice of King Víkarr, and the sacrifice is soon completed (è25, è30, è35, and è42). In Gesta Danorum, there is a whole saga of Starkaðr (Starcatherus), stretching from Book 6 to Book 8. Starcatherus is a hero much beloved by Saxo, because he despises luxury and effeminate conduct and because he is tough and brave. However, except for his superhuman powers and skills which, as we just saw, were given to him by Óðinn, Starcatherus is not particularly god-like; all through his life he behaves exclusively as a great hero, but he does not in any way 42 

The last exchange clearly echoes Óðinn’s boast in Hárbarðsljóð st. 24: ‘Óðinn á iarla | þá er falla í val, | enn Þórr á þræla kyn’ (Odin owns the nobles [jarls] who fall in battle, and Thor owns the race of thralls). 43  Gautreks saga ch. 7: ‘Óðinn mælti: “Ek gef honum skáldskap, svá at hann skal eigi seinna yrkja en mæla”’ (Odin said: I give him poetry in such a way that he shall no more slowly compose than speak).

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mingle with the gods. Saxo also knew the birth and early life of Starcatherus, although it is told in a slightly different way than in Gautreks saga, the most important difference being that whereas in Gautreks saga it is Þórr who decides that he shall commit a níðingsverk in each of his three lives, according to Saxo this is decided by Óðinn (6.5.6). However, there is no doubt that he is an Odinic hero, even if the god apparently disappears out of his life after the killing of Víkarr; and the same goes for Þórr and the hostility between the hero and this god: it is apparently not portrayed in the rest of the ‘saga’. Nevertheless, it has been argued by Georges Dumézil (1983) that much of Starcatherus’s career is closely connected to his relation to the two gods, the main link being the three ‘sins’ (níðingsverk) that are predicted by Þórr (Gautreks saga) or Óðinn (Gesta Danorum) to be committed by the hero. Scholars have been discussing these nídingsverk because Saxo, who is the only source for the latter part of Starcatherus’s life, does not explicitly say that the second and the third are consequences of the prediction. However, it seems quite clear that the third would be the killing of the Danish king Olo (8.6.3), which Starcatherus agrees to carry out for a salary of 120 marks of gold. Actually, he becomes so depressed afterwards that he wants to die. The second ‘sin’, on the contrary, is far from clear. It could be fleeing from a battle, or it could be the instigation of a mass killing in the hall of King Ingellus (6.9.17).44 It is obvious that, despite the lack of direct evidence for divine interaction in the latter part of Starkaðr’s life, he is a hero placed between two gods who are often seen as opponents (cf. Hárbarðsljóð), and this position ends up structuring his whole life. Having said this, however, we must once again state that there is no evidence for the view that Starkaðr was ever considered a god, even if he is unquestionably closely linked to Óðinn like some of the other heroes we have dealt with and will deal with in this chapter.45 Hadingus Hadingus, whom we meet in the first book of Gesta Danorum, is clearly another Odinic hero, as we shall return to in (è42). There, we will see that Hadingus is protected by Óðinn and that he ends his life sacrificing himself to the god by hanging. Hadingus, like Sigurðr, has been seen as a legendary hero whose story 44 

For a discussion of these issues, see Turville-Petre (1964: 205–11). We should also mention here the analysis of Meulengracht Sørensen (2001a), which deals primarily with the significance of Starkaðr’s descent from a giant father as decisive for his whole life. 45 

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is based on genuine myth, this time as a replica of the god Njǫrðr. This was first proposed by Georges Dumézil (1970a, in English as 1973b; see also è47) who saw the career of Hadingus as a reflection of that of Njǫrðr: starting out as a vanir god, including incestuous sexual relations with his foster-mother, and then joining the æsir, expressed in his relation to Óðinn.46 Dumézil’s analysis of Hadingus’s career appears to be one of the most brilliant of his many brilliant analyses, and, although many details should be discussed and perhaps rejected, the clear parallel between Hadingus and Njǫrðr is hard to deny. Hadingus, therefore, seems to be an example of the ‘displacement’ (see below) which is often seen in Saxo: in narratives disguised as ‘history’, heroes take on roles that originally (or at least previously) belonged to gods. The structures, however, as analysed by, among others, Dumézil — and not only in connection with Hadingus — do not necessarily change in any substantial way, which is why Saxo is often relevant to our reconstructions of the mythology of PCRN. At any rate, it is clear that Hadingus is an outstanding person because, although he is human, he is seen as rather close to the gods. This fact, however, may be due to his position as king, as was proposed in (è23), rather than to the ‘displacement’. Therefore, we are in the same situation with Hadingus as with some of the above-mentioned ‘heroes’: As a legendary king, he might have been worshipped as a god, however there are no indications of this in the extant sources. Thus, Hadingus illustrates well the problems we have in dealing with such ‘intermediate’ figures: In the extant sources, he is presented as a ‘historic’ king, although many supernatural traits are ascribed to him. This means that he may reflect pagan notions of kingship, but it can also mean that we are simply facing a ‘displacement’, which would mean that he is basically to be regarded as a ‘sunken’ god, in this case Njǫrðr, rather than a ‘raised’ human. Maybe the situation is not one of either-or, but more likely both-and. For Hadingus, this bothand may be supported by the fact that his name is closely related to the plural Haddingjar,47 a name often used to describe brothers but which could equally well be a dynastic name, as seems to be the case in Hversu Noregr byggðist ch. 2. Further, Helgi hundingsbani is called Haddingjaskati (warrior or chieftain of the Haddingjar) (end prose of Helgakvida hundingsbana II and Hversu Noregr byggðist ch. 2). Since haddr may mean ‘a woman’s coiffure’ (de Vries 1962a: 200; cf. Turville-Petre 1964: 219), the name Hadingus may indicate that he was connected to some cult with female orientation, recalling Germania ch. 46 

For a detailed summary of the Hadingus story, see Turville-Petre (1964: 213–16). They are sometimes presented as more than two (for instance, in Ǫrvar-odds saga ch. 14 and Hversu Noregr byggðist ch. 2), but then they succeed each other. 47 

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43 where it is said that among the Nahanarvali a priest in women’s dress presided over the cult of the Alcis, two divine brothers, whom Tacitus compares to Castor and Pollux. This leads Turville-Petre (1964: 219–20) to suggest that the cult was linked to the vanir gods. We know from Saxo that Starkaðr (Gesta Danorum 6.5.10) despised the feminine character of the cult in Uppsala, which was certainly connected to Freyr and thus to the vanir; furthermore, it is said that Hadingus instigated a cult of Frø in Sweden and that it was celebrated by the Swedes for generations to come (Gesta Danorum 1.8.12). All in all, it seems certain that Hadingus was closely associated with the cult of the vanir and, according to Turville-Petre, that the cult of the divine twins was connected to the vanir.48 Therefore, he suggests that the Haddingjar could well have been priests related in particular to this effeminate cult and ‘as such they would be divine, even incarnate gods’ (1964: 219). Turville-Petre, however, is also aware that it is problematic for this theory that Saxo portrays only one Hadingus, so it is as if Saxo or his source ‘had dropped one of the Haddingjar brothers because the concept of dual chieftainship was a thing of the past’ (1964: 219). This historical explanation of the relation between the two Haddingjar, connected to dual kingship, and the one Hadingus found in Saxo, however, is not the only possible one.49 If the twin kings (e.g., Hengest and Horsa) were not thought of as exclusively belonging to the third function of Dumézil, but rather as a way of expressing the interdependence of vanir and æsir, peace kings and war kings, and so forth (è23 and Nygaard 2016: 24–26), then it is clear why ‘one Hadingus’ is enough: he is both a representative of the vanir cult and of the Óðinn cult because of his transition from the vanir sphere to the Óðinn sphere. Although, of course, we can never know for sure, it seems quite likely that Saxo’s account of Hadingus could well derive from this idea about dual kingship. All this shows how difficult it is to determine whether the ‘intermediates’ are gods or humans. As mentioned above, there are two main reasons for this: namely, that some sources seem on one hand to place the gods in heroic pseudohistorical accounts, thus rendering them ‘humans’; and, on the other hand, that certain human figures were probably seen (also by the pagans) as possessing such a high degree of numinosity that they were very close to what we normally

48 

According to Dumézil (1973c: 17–18), the gods of the third function are most often twins, although in the North they are depicted as father and son (Njǫrðr and Freyr). For a more general treatment of divine twins, see (è55). 49  For further discussion and arguments for a cult of the dioskuri, see de Vries (1956–57a: i, 244–55).

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consider gods. Thus, they may well be, and most likely were, seen as mediators between the divine and the human. Additional Odinic Interactions Óðinn interacts with humans in a number of other fornaldarsögur as well. In Hrólfs saga kraka ch. 39, a certain Hrani hosts Hrólfr and his army and through various physical tests winnows down Hrólfr’s army for the upcoming battle with Aðils in which Hrólfr prevails; thus Hrani bestows victory on Hrólfr and his twelve kappar (champions, heroes). Later, they return, and Hrani offers them weapons, which they refuse. They leave their angry host, yet soon realize that the man was Óðinn, but when they return, his farm has vanished. Hrólfr points out to his men that their host was an evil spirit. In Ǫrvar-Odds saga, the eponymous hero swears blood-brotherhood with one Rauðgrani, later identified by the author as Óðinn, in order to obtain help in avenging his fosterbrother Þórðr, who was killed by a malevolent berserkr. Numerous similar figures appear in the fornaldarsögur, in dark clothing and with hoods pulled down over their eyes, and although we infer that these are Óðinn-like figures, the identification is not actually made very often.50 Óðinn has a similar relationship to kings and heroes in Saxo’s Gesta Danorum. King Frogerus is his son (4.8.1), and Haraldus Hyldetan is his special favourite. Ódinn advises him about clever military formations (Book 8) but then later passes on the same information to his enemy and, disguised as Haraldus’s charioteer, clubs him to death as the battle turns against him (Book 8 and è42).

Cult As we have indicated above, what qualifies figures for inclusion in this particular chapter is the presence of some sort of numinosity about them combined with scant or no evidence of any cult activity. The later written records do, however, give us Óláfr Geirstaðaálfr, an early Yngling king in Vestfold. Foreseeing his death in a plague, Óláfr Geirrøðarson instructs his people to inter him in a mound but forbids them to worship him after his death. However, they proceed to worship him anyway, calling him Óláfr Geirstaðaálfr (álfr of Geirstaðir). The episode is found in some versions of the saga of St Óláfr wherein the future saint acquires some of his namesake’s grave goods and is even regarded by some 50 

For a thorough survey, see Røthe (2010: 13–102).

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as his reincarnation (fundamental study in Heinrichs 1989). While the idea that in pagan tradition an ancestor might become an álfr is not implausible, the presentation is consistent with medieval Christian thinking (Wellendorf 2003). And in the earliest recording of the story, the Legendary Saga of St Óláfr, a Norwegian version from the thirteenth century, ancestor worship plays no part at all. Ritual is, of course, the site of meetings or potential meetings between humans and the divine, and thus ritual space represents the kind of ‘in-between’ that is the subject of this chapter. However, as we have seen, ‘in-betweenness’ is not exclusively associated with ritual space and, just as some of the gods we know from the myths apparently have no cultic functions, the same may well be the case with some of the heroes: we can rarely rule out the possibility that in some distant past, outside the reach of our sources, some of them were worshipped — in fact, for dead kings this clearly seems to have been the case. Others, however, seem instead to be purely narrative figures whose main function is to create and support the world-view of the pre-Christians. Scholarship and Interpretation Euhemerism As we have seen in the preceding paragraphs, the distinctions between gods and humans are not always easy to draw. There are several reasons for this, such as definitional problems and the fact that these categories clearly were not distinguished as an either-or but as a spectrum with several intermediate categories in between. Another important reason is also the way paganism was conceived of by many of the authors of our sources. As has been stated several times, most of these sources were composed by Christians, and their view of the pagan religion was influenced by general medieval models used to explain paganism, the two most influential being that of demonology and that of euhemerism — and often a combination of the two.51 Thus, the gods were most often seen as demons or historical persons, or both, who had led the poor, naïve pagans astray.

51 

For a splendid overview of euhemerism as used both within Christian Europe in general and the North in particular, see Weber (1994, with many valuable references). Weber also treats the combinations of the views, in which the pagan gods were seen as demons and as historical figures, respectively. See also Malm (2018), Simek (2013), and Clunies Ross (2018a).

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The theory that gods were originally human beings who eventually came to be regarded as gods is called euhemerism, from the Greek Euhemeros, who lived in the fourth and third centuries bc and who argues that the Greek gods should be understood as kings and heroes of the past. This model was adopted by the Christian writers of the Middle Ages and became a favoured way for the early Christian Icelanders to describe their pagan past, most notably Snorri Sturluson who, in the Prologue and in Gylfaginning of his Edda as well as in Ynglinga saga, relates how the æsir originally came from Asia Minor, called Tyrkland, and much later became viewed as gods by the Scandinavians. It has, however, been acknowledged for a long time that gods in polytheistic systems in general should not be seen, at least not exclusively, as originating from historical persons, and therefore the view of the medieval writers must not be taken at face value. Or in other words: in order to obtain the right perspective on the pagan religion, it is necessary to extract the euhemerism from the sources. No modern scholar is likely to reject the basic assumptions in this view: the Norse gods did not arrive from Asia Minor, and they are not to be seen as historical persons. However, we cannot simply maintain that the gods were not conceived as historical figures. Most of them were certainly not historical in a scholarly sense: in the world of factual history, Óðinn was not a king from Asia, and he was not the founder of the pre-Christian religion, but there is nothing to suggest that he was not, by the pagans, regarded as a figure who founded various royal houses and maybe a number of tribes. In this way, we could perhaps speak of a kind of ‘inverted euhemerism’: the pagans generally did not make gods out of historical persons, although some kings and warriors, as we have seen, probably did come to be viewed as gods after their deaths, but the pagans, conversely, did make historical persons out of (some of ) their gods. In our opinion, there is no doubt that this fluctuation between gods and humans is one of the main characteristics of PCRN and that many of the ‘in-between’ figures we have treated in this chapter have, as their raison d’être, this fundamental knowledge: the difference between gods and humans is not insurmountable. Even if it were only the dead, especially dead rulers, who were really worshipped, many of the figures treated here should probably not be seen as qualitatively different from the ‘mythological gods’, that is, as gods that apparently had no cult but were there to establish the characters of the more important ‘cultic’ gods. Displacement By the term displacement, we mean the transposition of a narrative structure found in myth into the narrative world in which the actors are human, as set

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forth in the discussion of Hadingus above.52 Working within an older diffusionist folklore paradigm, some scholars argued that, for example, the myth of Þórr’s visit to Útgarðaloki had been ‘borrowed’ into adjacent oral tradition areas such as Ireland (von der Leyen 1908) or Russia (Chadwick 1964),53 but they did not term such borrowing ‘displacement’, and neither would we. We prefer to limit the term to displacement within the same narrative tradition, in most cases Old Norse (taken broadly and including Saxo). We are aware and accept that the term presupposes a chronological progression, and we are also aware and accept that ‘human’ narrative structures could just as well be displaced into mythic narratives. However, in the case of the Old Norse textual tradition, most scholars would agree that mythic narratives did antedate the displaced versions that we find; and, indeed, some of the texts containing displaced myths can be dated fairly late in medieval Icelandic literary history, such as Þorsteins þáttr bœjarmagns. As far back as 1924, Eugen Mogk notes that this fornaldarsaga comprises a displaced version of Þórr’s journey to and battle with Geirrøðr (Mogk 1924a). The hero, Þorsteinn, obtains a magic stone that, like Þórr’s hammer, returns to him when thrown; like the hammer, too, it comes from a dwarf. Like Þórr on his way to Geirrøðr, Þorsteinn crosses a dangerous river, and also like Þórr he kills a giant named Geirrøðr by means of a projectile, in this case the stone. Although the parallels are far from perfect, there is no doubt that a human plays the role of Þórr in this comic tale;54 moreover, the Útgarðaloki myth is also displaced into it.55 In Book 8 of Saxo’s Gesta Danorum, the Geirrøðr story is also displaced. Thorkillus leads an expedition to the dark underworld abode of Geruthus, and during the course of this journey he and his companions must cross a dangerous river. Rather than kill Geruthus, however, Thorkillus merely recounts the myth: Þórr maimed the old man as well as three (not two) giantesses. 52  Displacement, as we use it, is a transposition by the Christian authors, whereas ‘inverted euhemerism’ should be seen as the perspective of the ‘insiders’; e.g., Óðinn, the god, was made into a forefather. 53  C. W. von Sydow argues for an opposite trajectory, the borrowing into Old Norse myth, in this case Þórr’s journey to Útgarðaloki, from Irish tradition (von Sydow 1910; cf. von Sydow 1920a). 54  See further Frog 2014 and Lindow 2014c. 55  Thus, a joke that runs throughout the text is that, although Þorsteinn is as mighty as a house and has by this quality earned his cognomen bœjarmagn, among the giants who befriend him, he is tiny; they think barnamagn (children’s might) would be a more suitable name for him.

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What such displacements show is that human and divine actors could be put into similar plots (other examples have been adduced by Haraldur Bessason 1977 and Lindow 1977a).56 The most significant example of such a phenomenon involves the overlap between mythic eschatology and the demise of the progeny of Guðrún (è 39). The redactor of the Poetic Edda clearly saw this parallel: the death of Hamðir and Sǫrli in Hamðismál, who have killed their brother or half-brother Erpr just as Hǫðr did Baldr, is the ‘Ragnarǫk’ of a kingroup. The redactor organized all his material with multiforms of the Endzeit in mind (Klingenberg 1974), and the materials easily fit such a mould. Although scholars have primarily located displacement in the fornaldarsögur and in Saxo’s Gesta Danorum, Preben Meulengracht Sørensen (2001b) makes a brilliant analysis of Freyr in the Íslendinga sögur, although the displacement here is much more difficult to see. Dumézil’s analysis of the Hadingus saga is noteworthy, too, in that he argues for the displacement of both extant and lost myths about Njǫrðr. In other cases, however, the situation is much more complicated, which makes it difficult to decide which is the ‘original’ version, the ‘myth’ or the ‘displacement’, as is the case with the figures Freyr and Fróði: is the latter a displacement of the myth about Freyr’s funeral, or is the archetypical king the model for the myth about Freyr, as related by Snorri (Ynglinga saga ch. 10)? These issues cannot be resolved here; suffice it to say that all through the present work, we will occasionally encounter the problem of euhemerism/displacement.

Concluding Remarks We began this chapter by quoting Robert Bellah, maintaining that the boundaries between various beings in this world and the Other World were often, if not always, fluid in the kind of societies to which the pre-Christian Scandinavians belonged, and we have seen that this was definitely also the case within PCRN. The figures we have treated here are all placed in the distant past when the world was different from what it is here and now, and it seems to be a general feature in most religions that back in those days the borders between gods and humans were different from what they are now — usually different in the sense of less solid. Although we have seen that some human beings, even in the his56 

Kaaren Grimstad’s association of the story pattern of Vǫlundarkviða with myth, specifically Grímnimsmál, also constitutes a displacement, unless one assigns the Vǫlundar story to the divine (Grimstad 1983); see above on Vǫlundr.

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torical present, are not purely of this world, since there exist, inside as well as outside their physical bodies, entities which are of the Other World, it seems clear that the heroes of the past were closer to the gods, perhaps even more ‘godlike’, than is the case in the present world. We have noted two different kinds of humans: on the one hand, those who seem to be firmly situated within the mythic world, such as Þjálfi and Bragi (at least in the way Bragi is described by Snorri and in poetry); and, on the other hand, those who are just as firmly situated in this world, such as the Vǫlsungar, Starkaðr, and Hadingus. No doubt many more heroes could have been mentioned here, such as other heroes from the fornaldarsögur who have special relations to the Other World. Vǫlundr is problematical to place within this distinction since he is on the one hand surely a ‘hero’, but on the other hand he is definitely much more ‘god-like’ than is the case with the heroes just mentioned. The differences between these two groups of ‘in-between’ beings are not clear, but from an analytical point of view it is interesting that Þjálfi, who is the only human to live among the gods without being dead, is also the only human of the lower classes who has become kind of ‘god-like’. All other humans who mingle with the gods are of noble origin. Compared to many other mythologies, it is a bit surprising how few humans we meet in the ‘classical’ mythological sources (Snorri and the eddic mythological poems), which give the impression that there was virtually no exchange between gods and humans. This, however, changes dramatically when we turn to Saxo and the fornaldarsögur, in which the heroes often meet the gods, although it is usually the gods, and nearly always Óðinn, who come to this world, but only occasionally humans who go to the Other World (for instance, Þorsteinn and Thorkillus, see above). From these sources it could well be argued that in the oral, pagan society there is a type of myth, which we only see seldom in the ‘classical’ sources: namely, narratives revealing a much closer relation between gods and humans in the mythic past than is the case in the present world (cf. Schjødt 2009b). But this condition could for some reason not persist, and gradually the world turned into what it is now. What has happened since the mythic past is a process of differentiation at all levels, including the relation between gods and humans. It is important to note that we are dealing with a process: the differences characterizing the world we are living in are not as absolute as one might be led to believe: they have changed over time and can perhaps change again. This is certainly one of the reasons why people of the past, often kings and other heroes, were closer to the gods than we usually see in the present, and it may be one of the reasons for the close relationship between the categories of myth and heroic legend. They are narratives from different times (albeit not that different!), existing on a continuum.

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As we have seen, however, this does not mean that special humans in the present are not closer to the gods than ordinary people. In this way, we can conclude this chapter by stating that the fluid borders between various kinds of beings, as mentioned by Bellah, can be seen from a diachronic as well as a synchronic perspective: the relation between gods and humans is mediated by beings who are not ordinary gods, nor ordinary humans. This relation, however, changed over mythical time, and in general the distance between the two worlds was perceived as much greater in the present than in the past.

The Pre-Christian Religions of the North

THE Pre-Christian Religions of the North

Editorial Board John McKinnell, John Lindow, Margaret Clunies Ross

Titles in Series Research and Reception, Volume i: From the Middle Ages to c. 1830, edited by Margaret Clunies Ross Research and Reception, Volume ii: From c. 1830 to the Present, edited by Margaret Clunies Ross History and Structures (4-volume set), edited by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén Written Sources, edited by John McKinnell

The Pre-Christian Religions of the North History and Structures, Volume iii: Conceptual Frameworks: The Cosmos and Collective Supernatural Beings Edited by

Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

© 2020, Brepols Publishers n.v., Turnhout, Belgium 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 the prior permission of the publisher. D/2020/0095/227 ISBN: 978-2-503-57489-9 e-ISBN: 978-2-503-57491-2 DOI: 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.112891 Printed in the EU on acid-free paper

Contents

Volume III List of Illustrations 37 – Cosmogony Mathias Nordvig

38 – Cosmology Mathias Nordvig

39 – Cosmic Eschatology: Ragnarøk Anders Hultgård

40 – Vanir and Æsir

ix 989 1001 1017

John Lindow

1033

John Lindow

1051

41 – Þórr 42 – Óðinn Jens Peter Schjødt

43 – Freyr

1123

Olof Sundqvist

1195

Jens Peter Schjødt

1247

44 – Loki

Contents

vi

45 – Freyja Ingunn Ásdísardóttir

46 – Baldr John Lindow

47 – Njǫrðr

1273 1303

John Lindow

1331

John Lindow

1345

Anders Andrén

1363

48 – Týr 49 – Ullr 50 – Heimdallr Sebastian Cöllen

51 – Frigg Ingunn Ásdísardóttir

52 – Hœnir Jens Peter Schjødt

53 – Skaði John Lindow

54 – Minor Gods and Goddesses John Lindow and Jens Peter Schjødt

55 – Divine Twins Anders Andrén

56 – Sun and Moon Anders Andrén

57 – Matronae Rudolf Simek

1371 1381 1391 1397 1405 1453 1465 1481

Contents

58 – Dísir John Lindow

59 – Norns Karen Bek-Pedersen

60 – Valkyries Judy Quinn

61 – Giants Margaret Clunies Ross

62 – Dvergar (Dwarfs) Terry Gunnell

63 – Álfar (Elves) Terry Gunnell

vii

1493 1501 1513 1527 1559 1571

List of Illustrations Chapter 38 – Cosmology Figure 38.1. Plan of the ringfort Ismantorp on Öland, dated to about 300–650. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1011 Figure 38.2. Example of a three-pointed stone-setting at Säby on Öland. . . . 1012 Chapter 39 – Cosmic Eschatology: Ragnarøk Figure 39.1. Fibula from Engegård in Svaneke on Bornholm. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1018 Figure 39.2. Scene on the cross from Gosforth in Cumbria, interpreted as Víðarr’s vengeance. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1022 Chapter 41 – Þórr Figure 41.1. Picture stone from Hørdum in Thy in northern Jylland. . . . . . 1062 Figure 41.2. Image on a rune stone at Altuna in Uppland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1062 Figure 41.3. A bronze mounting with a pair of he-goats from Tissø, dated to the Late Iron Age. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1085 Figure 41.4. Mould for a cross and a Þórr’s hammer from Trendgaarden in Overlade in Himmerland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1090 Figure 41.5. Figure of antler from a Viking Age grave mound at Lunda on Lovö in Uppland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1092 Figure 41.6. Theophoric placenames based on the name Þórr in Scandinavia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1094 Figure 41.7. Rune stone from Sønder Kirkeby on Falster, dated to about 1000. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1095 Figure 41.8. A Þórr’s hammer ring placed on top of a cremation urn at Grimsta in Fresta in Uppland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1101 Figure 41.9. A Þórr’s hammer from an unknown location in Skåne. . . . . . . . 1102 Figure 41.10. A carved Þórr’s hammer on a rune stone at Stenkvista in Södermanland, from about 1000. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1103

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Figure 41.11. Two figures of seated men, both of which have been interpreted as portable figures of Þórr. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1104 Figure 41.12. A Þórr’s hammer from Købelev on Lolland, dated to the tenth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1115 Chapter 42 – Óðinn Figure 42.1. Bronze figure from Glasbacka in Halland, conventionally dated to about 1000–500 bce, but which could also belong to the period 500 bce–400 ce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1135 Figure 42.2. Gold bracteate from Lerbäck parish in Närke, dated to the fifth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1136 Figure 42.3. Odinic figures. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1137 Figure 42.4. Picture stone from Tjängvide in Alskog on Gotland, from the ninth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1138 Figure 42.5. Rune stone from Harg in Uppland, from the middle of the eleventh century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1139 Figure 42.6. Picture stone from Stora Hammars in Lärbro on Gotland, dated to the ninth or tenth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1156 Figure 42.7. Theophoric placenames based on the name Óðinn in Scandinavia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1172 Chapter 43 – Freyr Figure 43.1. Gold foil depicting an embracing couple, from Helgö, Uppland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1211 Figure 43.2. Theophoric placenames based on the name Freyr in Scandinavia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1220 Figure 43.3. Bronze statuette from Rällinge in Södermanland, interpreted as an image of Freyr. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1225 Figure 43.4. Phallic bronze statuette with gilded head from Lunda in Södermanland, interpreted as a depiction of Freyr. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1227 Figure 43.5. Rune stone from Stentoften in Gammalstorp in Blekinge. The inscription is dated to the sixth or seventh century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1239

list of iLLUSTRATIONS

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Chapter 44 – Loki Figure 44.1. Panel on the cross from Gosforth in Cumbria. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1257 Figure 44.2. Protection stone for a bellows found in Snaptun in central Jylland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1262 Chapter 45 – Freyja Figure 45.1. A lavishly decorated wagon from the burial at Oseberg in Vestfold, dated to the early ninth century  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1278 Figure 45.2. Silver figurine from Aska in Öster­g ötland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1293 Figure 45.3. Imagery on the Sparlösa runestone in Västergötland, dated to around 800 ce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1294 Figure 45.4. Theophoric placenames based on the name Freyja in the Mälaren region. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1296 Chapter 46 – Baldr Figure 46.1. Gold bracteate from Faxe, dated to the fifth century. . . . . . . . . . 1316 Chapter 47 – Njǫrðr Figure 47.1. Theophoric placenames in Scandinavia based on the name Njǫrðr. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1340 Chapter 48 – Týr Fig 48.1. Gold-plated silver figure from Gudum in Slagelse on Sjælland, dated to the Viking Age. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1348 Figure 48.2. Gold bracteate from Trollhättan in Västergötland, dated to the fifth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1351 Figure 48.3. Picture stone from Austers in Hangvar on Gotland, probably from the fifth or sixth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1352 Figure 48.4. Theophoric placenames in Scandinavia based on the name Týr. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1357

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Chapter 49 – Ullr Figure 49.1. Theophoric placenames in Scandinavia based on the names Ullr and Ullinn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1366 Figure 49.2. Plan of a fenced area with fireplaces at Ullevi near Linköping in Östergötland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1368 Chapter 50 – Heimdallr Figure 50.1. A person with a horn, standing in front of a monster, on the cross from Gosforth in Cumbria. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1374 Chapter 51 – Frigg Figure 51.1. Image of Godan and Frea in a manu­script of Origo Gentis Langobardorum. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1383 Figure 51.2. A small silver figurine of a person sitting in a high seat with a bird on each of the two arms of the chair. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1386 Chapter 54 – Minor Gods and Goddesses Figure 54.1. A pair of drinking horns with bronze mountings from Söderby-Karl in Uppland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1410 Figure 54.2. Bronze figure of a woman holding her hair from Tissø on Sjælland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1437 Figure 54.3. The rune stone at Ledberg in Östergötland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1444 Chapter 55 – Divine Twins Figure 55.1. A pair of bronze figures from Stockhult in Loshult in Skåne, dated to about 1500–1300 bce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1459 Figure 55.2. Picture stone from Vallstena on Gotland, from the fifth or sixth century ce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1461 Chapter 56 – Sun and Moon Figure 56.1. The so-called sun chariot from Trundholm on Sjælland, dated to about 1400 bce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1470 Figure 56.2. The sun disc from Eskelhem on Gotland, dated to about 500 bce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1472

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Figure 56.3. Picture stone from Sanda on Gotland, dated to the fifth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1474 Figure 56.4. Pelta-shaped gilded pendant from Vännebo in Västergötland, from the fifth century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1476 Figure 56.5. A pair of horned animals from Solberga on Öland, from the third to fifth centuries. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1478 Chapter 57 – Matronae Figure 57.1. Cult centre for matronae at Nettersheim in the Eifel region of Nordrhein-Westfalen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1483 Figure 57.2. Votive stone from Cologne with three matronae named Aumena­henae. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1484 Chapter 60 – Valkyries Figure 60.1. Female figure with a drinking horn on the picture stone from Tjängvide in Alskog on Gotland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1515 Figure 60.2. Figurine with a mounted woman and a woman with a shield, from Tissø on Sjælland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1518 Figure 60.3. Female figurine with a shield and a sword, from Hårby on Fyn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1524 Figure 60.4. Female figurine with a drinking horn, from Klinta in Köpingsvik on Öland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1525 Chapter 61 – Giants Figure 61.1. The motif of ‘the fishing stone’ from St Mary’s Church in Gosforth, Cumbria. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1540 Figure 61.2. Female figure riding a wolf on a picture stone from Hunnestad in Skåne. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1541 Chapter 62 – Dvergar (Dwarfs) Figure 62.1. Two oval brooches from grave 966 in Birka. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1560

37 – Cosmogony Mathias Nordvig Introduction Given regional and temporal variety in pre-Christian populations in the North, there may well have been multiple cosmogonies. Two are preserved in the mythology: one that is largely a course of natural processes, where the gods lift the earth to let the sun shine on it so that plants will grow; and one where the gods kill the primordial giant Ymir and build the world from his body parts. In both instances, the gods arrange the world as an inhabitable place comparable to the environment of pre-Christian Scandinavians. There are temples and dwellings, woods, mountains, ocean, heaven, and even a rampart to protect the world against the giants. In the centre of the world, the World Tree Yggdrasill grows and extends its roots and branches to the ends of the cosmos. Humans and the dwarfs are created after the gods have arranged the world and the humans are allotted fate by the norns.

Sources In the mythology, the primary sources to the cosmogony are: Vǫluspá st. 1–20, Vafþrúðnismál st. 21, Grímnismál st. 40–41, and Gylfaginning pp. 9–13

Myths Vǫluspá gives an account of the cosmogony, which seems slightly different from the other sources. The tree Yggdrasill plays an important part in this eschatological version of the cosmogony (see è39). In stanza 2, the vǫlva declares that Mathias Nordvig, PhD. Department of Germanic and Slavic Languages and Literatures, University of Colorado at Boulder The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume iii, ed. by Jens Peter Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) pp. 989–1000 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116964

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she remembers ‘miǫtvið mœran fyr mold neðan’ (the mighty Measuring-Tree below the earth). This is presumably Yggdrasill in an incumbent state. There are also giants present, and the cosmos is divided into nine worlds. However, stanza 3 clearly describes how the cosmos is otherwise devoid of everything to which humans are normally accustomed. The only existing entity is the primordial giant Ymir: 3. Ár var alda, þat er Ymir bygði,1 vara sandr né sær né svalar unnir; iǫrð fannz æva né upphiminn, gap var ginnunga, enn gras hvergi. (3. Early in time Ymir made his settlement, there was no sand nor sea nor cool waves; earth was nowhere nor the sky above, a void of yawning chaos, grass was there nowhere.) (p. 4)

This recitation retains what may be a common Germanic formulaic style also known from the Bavarian poem Wessobrunner Gebet from c.  790. The Wessobrunner Gebet recounts a version of the Christian cosmogony with similar imagery and wording: Dat ero ni uuas noh ufhimil, noh paum noh pereg ni uuas, ni nohheinig noh sunna ni scein, noh mano ni liuhta, noh der maręo seo (There was no earth nor high heaven, there were no trees no mountain, nothing at all nor did the sun shine, the moon did not light up, nor was there a wonderful sea.)

Ginnungagap is also a term that recalls the continental Germanic tradition. It is glossed in a scholion to Adam of Bremen’s Gesta Hammaburgensis Ecclesiae Pontificum in the form of Ghinmendegop, as the name of the abyss that encircles the earth (4.39). Ginnungagap seems to mean either ‘the universe full of magical power’ (‘der mit magischen kräften erfüllte weltraum’) (de Vries 1962a: 167–68; 1956–57a: ii, 361–62) or ‘the void of the enormous expanse’ (‘den uhyre udstraktes gab’) (Finnur Jónsson 1931: 182–83). In Vǫluspá st. 4, the world is created by the sons of Burr or Borr who lift the ground out of the sea (Schier 1963).2 The mighty fortification Miðgarðr 1 

Gylfaginning has ‘ekki var’ instead of ‘Ymir bygði’ (see below). The text does not actually mention the sea, but most commentators agree that this is where it is lifted from. 2 

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is created, and, as the sun shines on the earth, plants begin to grow. Still, the courses of the celestial bodies are erratic. This prompts the gods to gather at their rǫkstólar (fate-thrones) and separate night and day in order to count days and years. With this action, the gods assign courses to the celestial elements and invent the calendar. A golden age begins in stanzas 7–8 (Dronke 1997: 37) and the æsir gather at Iðavǫllr, ‘the shimmering field’. Here, they build high temples and halls. They create tools and forge and process gold. The gods are happy and completely free of worries, but soon thereafter, in stanza 9, three giant maidens arrive out of Jǫtunheimar, and this somehow upsets the world of the æsir. Once again, the gods assemble in their rǫkstólar and discuss how to handle this new situation. They discuss the creation of the dwarfs: 9. Þá gengo regin ǫll á rǫcstóla, ginnheilog goð, oc um þat gættuz, hverr skyldi dverga dróttin scepia, ór Brimis blóði oc ór Bláins leggiom. (9. Then all the Powers went to the thrones of fate, the sacrosanct gods, and considered this: who should create the lord of the dwarfs out of Brimir’s blood and from Blain’s limbs?) (p. 5)

It seems that the æsir, when faced with the maidens from Jǫtunheimar, lose their uninhibited access to gold, and as a response to this they create the dwarfs from ‘Brimir’s blood and Bláin’s bones’, the blood and bones of Ymir, i.e., the sea and the rocks. The dwarfs are chthonic beings and this is emphasized by the creation of them from the sea and the rocks. As they dwell in the mountains and rocks, they are assigned the role of blacksmiths of the gods, and the æsir will turn to them for gold and other treasures in the future (Dronke 1997: 38). Vǫluspá at this points recounts a long catalogue of dwarfs, whose names are associated with the dead, with battle and wisdom, with craftsmanship, the supernatural, and with the álfar (elves) (Lindow 2002a: 100).3 In stanza 17, the æsir find the first man and woman, Askr and Embla, both of whom are without any abilities and without fate. The three gods Óðinn, Hœnir, and Loki give the humans ǫnd, óðr, lá, læti, and litr, the translation of which has caused much debate (see, e.g., Polomé 1969), but can be understood as ‘breath’, ‘soul (or maybe “mental capacity”)’, ‘blood (or bodily fluids)’, ‘voice (or maybe the capacity of speech or socially acceptable ways of behaving)’, and

3 

See (è62) and (è63) on dwarfs and elves (álfar) respectively.

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‘colour or appearance’, respectively.4 This last act of creation by the æsir seals the process of the cosmogony. Subsequently, stanza 19 describes the towering ash tree Yggdrasill: 19. Asc veit ec standa, heitir Yggdrasill, hár baðmr, ausinn hvítaauri; þaðan koma dǫggvar, þærs í dala falla, stendr æ yfir, grœnn, Urðar brunni. (19. An ash I know that stands, Yggdrasil it’s called, a tall tree, drenched with shining loam; from there come the dews which fall in the valley, green, it stands always over Urd’s well.) (p. 6)

With the picture of Yggdrasill as an impressive tree, the process of the cosmogony is now complete. The gods have created Miðgarðr, set the courses of the celestial bodies, and established a civilization. They have created the supernatural creatures who dwell in the ground, and they have given life to humans to whom the norns have allotted fate. While this process was taking place, mjǫtviðr, the measuring tree, has grown into full size and it is described as a flourishing and beautiful tree. The qualities by which Yggdrasill is described throughout the poem indicate the state of the world. When Ragnarǫk comes, it will quake and groan (Vǫluspá st. 47–51) and eventually it will be engulfed in flames (cf. Steinsland 1979). In Vafþrúðnismál st. 21 and Grímnismál st. 40–41, the cosmos is created by the gods from the body parts of the slain primordial giant Ymir. In Vafþrúðnismál st. 20, Óðinn asks the giant Vafþrúðnir where the earth and sky came from, and in the following stanza Vafþrúðnir answers: Ór Ymis holdi var iǫrð um scǫpuð, enn ór beinom biǫrg, himinn ór hausi ins hrímkalda iǫtuns, enn ór sveita siór. (From Ymir’s flesh the earth was shaped, and the mountains from his bones; the sky from the skull of the frost-cold giant, and the sea from his blood.)

Grímnismál st. 40–41 supplies further information about the arrangement of the world from Ymir’s body. Stanza 40 adds that his hair became the trees, and in stanza 41 it is told that Miðgarðr is created from the brows of Ymir for ‘manna sonom’ (men’s sons), while his brains became the dark clouds of the sky. 4 

For a more thorough discussion, see (è36).

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The figure of Ymir seems to originate in a common Germanic myth about the creation of the world — or Miðgarðr — from a primordial chthonic being. This is supported by the story of the earth-borne (terra editus) Tuisto in Tacitus’s Germania ch. 2,5 but also in the later medi­e val tales of Fornjótr in Hversu Noregr byggðiz and Fundinn Noregr (Clunies Ross 1983). The etymology of Ymir indicates that the name is related to the Sanskrit Yama and the Avestan Yima which are also names of mythical ancestors. The word is, moreover, related to the Latin geminus, to the Middle Irish emon ‘twin’, and to the Indo-European *iemo ‘twin’. The etymology of the name Ymir suggests a hermaphroditic being (de Vries 1962a: 678; de Vries 1956–57: ii, 363–64; Simek 2007: 377). This is also supported by the etymology of Tuisto. The name is connected to the Old Norse tvistra ‘separate’. This would appear to indicate that the primordial being was, at the time when the name was coined, regarded as twofold in character (de Vries 1962a: 602). The creation of the world from Ymir’s body parts has roots in an ancient idea of the world as a macrocosm corresponding to the body. This occurs in medi­e val works, such as William of Conches’s Philosophia, Honorius of Autun’s De imagine mundi, and Peter Comestor’s Historia scholastica genesis. It is also found in Plato’s Timæus, and in less detailed form in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Faulkes 1983: 288, 305–06). There is also evidence for the idea in the Rigveda, and it is not unlikely that the concept is as old as some of the first Indo-European peoples (de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 367–68; Lincoln 1986). There may also be a cult-myth present in the killing of Ymir, where the dismemberment of his body corresponds to the butchering of a sacrificial victim in rituals (Simek 2007: 377–78). The existence of kennings in skaldic poetry based on the figurative language of body and cosmos, such as ‘Ymis blóð’ (Ymir’s blood [the sea]) or ‘Ymis hauss’ (Ymir’s skull [heaven]), suggests that this figurative language of body and cosmos is a concept in PCRN (Simek 2007: 377; de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 370). The creation myth in Gylfaginning pp. 9–13 is a longer narrative that on the one hand synthesizes the poetic narratives and on the other supplies new information in prose. When the Swedish king Gylfi disguised as Gangleri asks the three æsir Hár, Jafnhár, and Þriði about the beginning of everything, Hár recites a version of the third stanza of Vǫluspá. This version of the stanza omits the presence of Ymir and instead presents the wording : ‘Ár var alda, þat er ekki var’ (Gylfaginning p. 9) (It was the beginning of time, when nothing was) (p. 9). According to this version, there was, indeed, only the empty void of 5 

races.

By Tacitus, however, it is not the world that is in focus but rather the creation of human

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Ginnungagap, and so Ymir did not exist in the earliest time. It is subsequently added that there was a place called Niflheimr with a well that is known as Hvergelmir. From this well, eleven rivers flowed, and the eleventh passed by Helgrindr (the Hel-gate). These rivers were called Élivágar. There was another realm called Muspell (Muspellsheimr), and it seems that this place existed before Niflheimr. Muspell was bright and hot, and it was guarded by Surtr who defended the land with a flaming sword. When the Élivágar had flowed far enough from their source in Hvergelmir, their poisonous waters turned to ice. The vapour that was emanating from the poison crystalized on top of the ice and covered Ginnungagap in the direction of Muspell. The northerly part of Ginnungagap was filled with ice and blew vapour toward the centre, while the southerly part of Ginnungagap was illuminated and warm from the fire in Muspell. This made Ginnungagap mild as a windless sky, and, as the rime and ice thawed, Ymir was created. Gylfaginning p. 10 states that the hrímþursar called Ymir Aurgelmir. At this point is inserted an augmented version of stanza 31 of Vafþrúðnismál: Ór Élivágom stucco eitrdropar, Svá óx, unz varð ór iǫtunn; þar órar ættir kómo allar saman, því er þat æ alt til atalt.6 (Our of Elivagar sprayed poison-drops, so they grew until a giant came from them; [from there arose all our clan, thus they are all always terrifying].) (p. 42)

According to Gylfaginning, Ymir and Aurgelmir are assumed to be the same being. This is, however, not the case in Vafþrúðnismál, where the two beings appear separately, and the relationship between them must be inferred (st. 28–29). In the following, Gylfaginning (p. 11) relates that Ymir/Aurgelmir created children from his armpits and feet and in this way generated the race of hrímþursar. This accords with Vafþrúðnismál st. 33, where it is said that Aurgelmir procreated in the same manner, because he lacked a female. Ymir lived off the milk of the cow Auðhumla that had also been created from the dripping rime. The figure of Auðhumla appears to be very old. Its name is composed of auðr ‘gold, riches’ and *humala- ‘hornless’ (de Vries 1962a: 18). This ostensibly associates the primeval cow with holy cattle related to fertility. According to Tacitus (Germania ch. 5), some Germanic tribes kept hornless cattle. The primeval cow seems closely related to important goddesses 6 

The second part of the stanza occurs only in Gylfaginning.

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of other Indo-European and Near Orient mythologies (de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 365–66; Simek 2007: 22). There may be a parallel between the motif of the fluids flowing from Auðhumla’s udders and the mythical animal figures Heiðrún and Eikþyrnir. Heiðrún is the goat from whose udders mead flows eternally in Valhǫll, and from the antlers of the hart Eikþyrnir, who grazes in Yggdrasill, the waters flow into Hvergelmir (de Vries 1956–57a: 366). Auðhumla nurtured itself by licking the rime-stones. As it licked the rocks, a man slowly appeared. He was named Búri, and he had a son named Borr. Gylfaginning states that Borr married Bestla, the daughter of Bǫlþorn, and they had three sons: Óðinn, Vili, and Vé. The name Búri presumably means ‘grower’ while Borr means ‘son’ (de Vries 1962a: 65). The genealogy reflects a common Germanic pattern, which was known also to Tacitus: grandfather, father, and three sons:7 Tuisto → Mannus → *Ing, *Ermin and *Ist Búri → Borr → Óðinn, Vili and Vé In Old Norse, the alliteration of the names of the three sons Óðinn, Vili, and Vé has been lost due to the contraction of the Proto-Germanic wō- to ProtoNordic ō- and Old Norse ó-. An older form of the names could have been Wōþanaz, Vilin, and Vēuz. In older Germanic, Óðinn, Vili, and Vé form a trinity of divine powers whose names alliterate much in the same manner as the offspring of Mannus in Germania. In the context of the above-mentioned anthropogenesis in Vǫluspá st. 17, the trinity of Óðinn, Hœnir, and Lóðurr occurs, and it is tempting to compare it to Óðinn, Vili, and Vé. Whether this trinity is originally the ‘Bors synir’ mentioned in Vǫluspá st. 4 is uncertain, but this variation regarding a trinity of creator gods may indicate that it is an ancient Germanic myth. Gylfaginning provides more detail on how the three gods created the world. By killing Ymir, they caused a flood of his blood that poured out from the wounds and drowned all the Hrímþursar except for Bergelmir, who saved himself and his family in some sort of vessel. This could be seen as an attempt by the author to align parts of the mythology with the Judeo-Christian tale of the Flood and Noah’s Ark. To support his description, Snorri cites stanza 35 of Vafþrúðnismál, 7 

This parallel structure is highly interesting to the question of continuity during more than a thousand years, maybe even longer, within Germanic and Indo-European religion. Since we find it only in Snorri within Old Norse literature, it certainly also supports the view that Snorri had greater knowledge about the mythology than what is now available to us from the extant sources. For analyses of the parallel, see, for instance, Lincoln (1975, 1986), Warmind (1994), Andrén (2012b), and Schjødt (2017c).

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where Vafþrúðnir tells Óðinn that the first thing he remembers was that Bergelmir was placed in a lúðr (chest, coffin). Certain scholars have suggested that the word lúðr is interpreted by Snorri to mean ‘ark’ (Kure 2010: 73–77), but there is nothing to suggest that this was its original meaning, and there is no other cause for associating this particular stanza with the biblical Flood than the author’s intention to interpret it in that way (Lindow 2002a: 324). After the killing of Ymir, the æsir transported his body out into the middle of Ginnungagap where a mild climate reigned, and there they constructed Miðgarðr from his body. His blood filled Ginnungagap so that water encircled the world. The gods took the four dwarfs Norðri, Suðri, Vestri, and Austri (North, South, West, and East) and placed them in each their corner of the world to hold up the sky. They took sparks and molten particles from Muspellsheimr and put them in the sky to light up the world. These became Sun and Moon and the stars. In accordance with Vǫluspá, it is said how the æsir appointed the celestial elements their places and courses across the sky. Then it is related how the earth was arranged: Hon er kringlótt útan, ok þar útan um liggr hinn djúpi sjár, ok með þeiri sjávar strǫndu gáfu þeir lǫnd til bygðar jǫtna ættum. En fyrir innan á jǫrðunni gerðu þeir borg umhverfis heim fyrir ófriði jǫtna, en til þeirar borgar hǫfðu þeir brár Ymis jǫtuns, ok kǫlluðu þá borg Miðgarð. Þeir tóku ok heila hans ok kǫstuðu í lopt ok gerðu af skýin. (Gylfaginning p. 12) (It is circular round the edge, and around it lies the deep sea, and along the shore of this sea they gave lands to live in to the races of giants. But on the earth on the inner side they made a fortification round the world against the hostility of giants, and for this fortification they used the giant Ymir’s eyelashes, and they called the fortification Midgard. They also took his brains and threw them into the sky and made out of them the clouds. (pp. 12–13)

This description perceives Miðgarðr as a citadel and adds more detail to the information from the poetry. This accords with standard medi­e val thinking about the structure of the cosmos. The information from Grímnismál st. 41, that Miðgarðr was made for humans from the brows of Ymir, is interpreted as the construction of a cosmic fortress that protects against the dangerous giants. Snorri thus presents the relationship between humans and æsir on the one side and giants on the other as one of hostility. This hostility is embedded in the creation processes described in Gylfaginning, and as such it is — at least in Snorri’s view — part of the very fabric of the mythical world. The story of the creation concludes with a paraphrasing of Vǫluspá st. 17 and 18, where Bor’s sons give life to the humans Askr and Embla. The three gods

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Óðinn, Hœnir, and Loðurr are thus interpreted as the same as the sons of Burr/ Bor, who initially created the world in stanza 4 of Vǫluspá. In Gylfaginning, these sons of Bor are the three brothers Óðinn, Vili, and Vé.

Scholarship Many scholars have been preoccupied with questions regarding the origins of several of the motifs in the Old Norse cosmogony myths. Hilda R. Ellis Davidson (1964: 199–200), for example, dismisses the discussion of a possible Judeo-Christian origin of the idea of the creation of the world from the body of Ymir. A similar myth occurs in the Jewish Talmud, and, as noted above, there are several medi­eval writers who could potentially have inspired the Old Norse poets to account for a creation of the world from Ymir’s body. Davidson points out, however, that there are likewise several non-Christian sources which could just as well have served as sources of inspiration for the Ymir myth instead. She also refers to natural places that may have functioned as inspiration for the creation myth as it appears in Gylfaginning. In Annals, Tacitus describes the salt springs of the river Saale near Strassfurt as a holy site for the Germanic tribes: Davidson regards this site as a place that could have inspired the tale of Auðhumbla licking the salty rocks. She also points out the obvious candidate for an image of the unification of fire and ice: namely, the glacial volcanic activities of Iceland. Ellis Davidson is joined by Anne Holtsmark (1964b: 31) in regarding the primordial giant as a genuine pagan aspect of the creation myth. Also Jan de Vries (1956–57a: ii, 367) believes that the myth about creation from a primordial being is very ancient and argues that the Christian version of this myth was probably only current in Judeo-Hellenistic natural philosophy. Bruce Lincoln has also demonstrated that there is considerable evidence for widespread notions of the homology of body and cosmos in Indo-European mythologies (Lincoln 1986: 1–40). Both Holtsmark and Davidson find support for the ancient provenance of Ymir in the skaldic kenning for the heavenly vault ‘Ymir’s skull’. It has, however, been pointed out by Guðrún Nordal (2001: 307) that the skaldic kennings relating to Ymir are relatively late and that they may have been inspired by the advent of Neoplatonic philosophy in twelfth-century Iceland. Also Klaus von See (1988: 52–55) sees influence of Neoplatonic thought in the creation myth. He argues that the motif of converging fire and ice is an appropriation of the Neoplatonic dualism of extreme heat and extreme cold from, among others, William de Conches and Lactantius. Margaret Clunies Ross (1994a: 152–86) has argued that Ymir’s procreation of offspring from his armpits and feet affirms male pseudo-procreation as the

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basis for the cosmic transition from primeval matter to the production of offspring by both sexes. As the description of the process of the creation of Ymir in Gylfaginning involves heated poisonous matter, there are significantly negative values associated with the first anthropomorphic beings, who are, through their passivity, associated with female roles in the Old Norse social structure. The creation of the world is thus a social act of negative reciprocity where the male gods, the æsir, murder their maternal relative, Ymir. This is a display of superiority by the new class of gods, who subsequently reaffirm the inferior status of the giants by taking brides from among them. Clunies Ross acknowledges that traditional Norse concepts underlie the notion of the primordial being emerging from the poisonous drops from Élivágar (1994a: 185). The cosmogony is, then, an expression of a Norse intention to disparage female reproductive powers, avoid the complications of exogamy, and assert the superiority of male creativity on a spiritual and cultural level beyond physiological reproduction. Frederik Stjernfelt (1990: 40–48) also takes an interest in the killing of Ymir as a central part of the creation myth. Strongly influenced by the French literary scholar René Girard, he argues that the foundation of the universe is a murder, a collective lynching in which a scapegoat is chosen to atone for the malice that exists in the primordial world. The primordial world consists of pure evil, and, in order to make the world inhabitable, this evil must be atoned for with a sacrifice. The primeval killing of Ymir in the unstable and hostile environment of the early world makes way for a peaceful, ordered, and stable universe in which humans can exist. Another interpretation of the role of Ymir in the creation is offered by Henning Kure (2010: 131–43), who proposes a different meaning of the name Ymir. Kure argues that the etymology of Ymir as ‘twin’ would have been opaque to the Scandinavians of the Viking Age. Instead, he associates the name with ymr, ‘humming, groaning’ and points out that the association of the giants with noise is widespread — in fact, with nearly 15 per cent of giant names related to sounds, it is the most common association for giants. Kure suggests that the creation was rather a process of defining the world in words, of refining the sounds (ymr), the raw material, and creating words in the process of naming things in existence: earth, sea, sky, and so forth. Early discussions of Askr and Embla compare them to Adam and Eve (Simek 2007: 21), but this, too, is refuted by Davidson, who points out that Askr connects both with the World Tree ‘Askr Yggdrasill’ and with the AngloSaxon tradition of the Aescingas, who supposedly descended from Aesc. Embla may be derived from ‘elm’ or some other plant (see Josefsson 2001), but the etymology remains unclear. Davidson also notes that there is another human cou-

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ple who live in Yggdrasill: Líf and Lífþrasir. This myth does not seem to relate to any biblical story. According to Gylfaginning, these two humans shelter in the World Tree during the great winter, and, in the cyclical world-view of the mythology, it seems appropriate that it is from the World Tree that these two humans will repopulate the world (Ellis Davidson 1964: 201–02). Holtsmark points out that the Gylfaginning version of the creation of humans is based on Vǫluspá st. 17, with several elements having been added. Furthermore, she argues that the idea of the gods giving life to tree trunks fits with a medi­e val world-view where the idea of sorcerers giving life to wooden idols in pagan worship is a commonplace. Holtsmark eventually compares the two wooden figures that the gods find on the beach to the high-seat pillars mentioned in some sagas (1964b: 63–64). Clunies Ross focuses on the most central aspect of the creation of the humans: namely, that they are transformed from lifeless raw material into animated beings with certain divine gifts: sensory, intellectual, and spiritual qualities. She also accepts the idea that the motif of Askr and Embla is traditionally Norse, but states that the story would not have been hard to match with Genesis 3.21. Similarly, she theorizes that Snorri could have had Exodus 16.14 in mind in relation to the story of Líf and Lífþrasir (Clunies Ross 1994a: 172). Gro Steinsland (2005a: 115–20; 1983; 2001) links the anthropogenesis to the creation of the dwarfs in Vǫluspá. The dwarfs were created by the gods in response to meeting the three women from Jǫtunheimar. Steinsland argues that the creation of the humans was initially an attempt by the exclusively male collective of dwarfs living in the ground as craftsmen, to procreate through their abilities within their crafts. However, the dwarfs were unable to bring proper life to their creations, who were only physical forms, and the spiritual aspects of life — as well as breath itself — were granted by the gods. Finally, the norns provide the humans with fate. Askr and Embla are created at the same time, and there is no myth of original sin; therefore, Steinsland argues, no observable biblical influence. Henning Kure (2010: 265–77) also relates the creation of the dwarfs to the anthropogenesis but argues that the humans and the dwarfs are opposed to one another in quality of appearance. The dwarfs may look like humans, but they are pale and lack the human characteristics of a healthy glow. They seem to be mechanical creatures without spirit. They are also unable to live above ground, where they turn to stone when sunlight falls upon them. Conversely, the humans are lifeless at first, but when they do come to life, they receive healthy colours and spirit. The dwarfs, Kure argues, were created as prototypes for humans. This follows a pattern that Kure sees reflected in the mythology, where

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creation seems to have been a chain of co-operations or interactions between dichotomized forces, which supplement each other: the abstract and the concrete, the upper world and the underworld, male and female powers. Kure suggests a different interpretation of the names of Askr and Embla (2010: 289–93). In his opinion, the names fully symbolize man and woman. Based on an interpretation of the kenning ‘emblu aski’ (the ash of Embla: ‘sword’) from a lausavísa by Egill Skalla-Grímsson, Kure suggests that, if Askr means ‘man’ in the creation myth, the kenning may semantically mean ‘the woman’s man’. Embla may thus mean ‘sheath’, and the two figures are thus compatible as a sword is to its sheath, just like the male and female reproductive organs.

Concluding Remarks There is little doubt that the cosmogony as we know it from extant mythological sources is ancient. Motifs as well as structures compare with known cosmogonic myths of several cultures across Eurasia. The medi­e val Icelandic texts probably indicate a minor influx of learned Neoplatonic ideas that may give rise to speculation about the originality of singular aspects of the cosmogony in its form in Gylfaginning, but regardless of this, there is no reason to assume that the cosmogony in Old Norse mythology as we know it does not have its roots in the pre-Christian era. The idea of a homology between the body and the world, as represented in the figure of Ymir, is so widespread in myths that it is hard to exclusively attribute it to influence from medi­e val Christian sources. This is also true in the case of the creation of humans. The creation of the first couple, a man and a woman, is so common that it can hardly have come from biblical sources into the North. It also stands to reason that, although Askr and Embla may seem comparable to Adam and Eve, there is little in the myth that compares to the biblical creation of man and woman. It is tempting in that respect to accept the idea that Askr and Embla simply mean ‘man’ and ‘woman’ and symbolically relate to the two sexes.

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Introduction In (è1) Jens Peter Schjødt set forth the conception of religion to be used in this handbook: namely, that it constitutes a world-view including a distinction between ‘this world’ and one or more ‘Other Worlds’. This conception is to a large degree cosmological — note the term ‘world-view’ and the idea that religion involves conceptual spaces set in relation to each other. Cosmology is thus an essential element of the analysis of PCRN. Although conceptions of the history and structure of the cosmos must have varied over time and space within PCRN, and although the textual evidence is fraught, there is reason to believe that the Old Norse cosmology may have experienced considerable continuity.

Sources The main sources regarding the mythological cosmology are the eddic poems Vǫluspá, Vafþrúðnismál, and Grímnismál, and Gylfaginning in Edda. The skaldic poems Sonatorrek and Hákonarmál provide insights into early conceptions of Valhǫll. Cosmological notions are, of course, implicit in many if not most written texts as well as in the configuration of space in the physical landscape and it must be recognized that, in fact, the archaeological record has much to contribute. Mathias Nordvig, PhD. Department of Germanic and Slavic Languages and Literatures, University of Colorado at Boulder The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume iii, ed. by Jens Peter p. 1001–1015 Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) p BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116965

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Myths A) Mythical Time (see also è28) With the eschatology of Ragnar ǫ k, V ǫ luspá provides a temporal perspective on the Old Norse mythical world. The creation in Vǫ luspá, which is haunted by the tension between the æsir and the giants, is intertwined with the idea that the world will come to an end. The vǫlva begins her account in stanza 2 by remembering the giants who fostered her in the early times of existence. The ancestor of all giants, Ymir (as is related in Hyndluljóð st. 33), was also present then. According to stanza 3, he, and presumably his offspring, lived when there was no earth. With the killing of Ymir by the sons of Burr, who belong to the æsir, cosmic time is already set to move towards the final destruction in Ragnarǫk. While the æsir create a wonderful existence for themselves in Ásgarðr and Miðgarðr, they are confronted with Jǫtunheimar already at an early stage. This results in their creation of the dwarfs and the humans, and it may well be that both races are created as aids against the threat from Jǫtunheimar. As other races grow powerful during the course of the cosmogony, the æsir face new problems. A supernatural race seems to have appeared early on without the involvement of the æsir: this is the vanir, whose powerful witches the æsir attempt to kill. The burning of Gullveig in Óðinn’s hall in stanza 21 ushers in an era of warfare as the vanir retaliate. The first war in the world emerges from this, and in stanzas 25–26 the æsir, led by Þórr, cause more strife by breaking oaths to the master builder, who was promised ‘Óðs mey’ (Od’s girl). This woman is presumably Freyja (Dronke 1997: 44). A series of disasters follows: the death of Baldr; the punishment of Loki and the killing of his son Váli; brothers slay one another; cousins violate the bond of kinship; and human relationships are plagued by adultery. The war between the æsir and the giants begins in stanza 47 as Yggdrasill shudders and groans, and the terrible giant (Surtr or Loki) breaks loose. The powers of the world converge on each other, and there is a great battle. The æsir as well as the giants die in the battle, the sun turns black, and the earth sinks into the sea, while flames rise high into the heavens. Then the world is reborn; emerging from the abyss, it brings the new life of the sons of the older gods: Baldr, Hǫðr, and Hœnir. They live in Gimlé and re-establish society, but the last stanza warns about the dragon Niðhǫggr flying in the distance. Although Vǫluspá seems to show influence from Christianity and may be to some extent a syncretistic poem of the late pagan era (McKinnell 2008), it evidently represents cosmic time as a form of cyclical process where the world

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is created and recreated, over and over (Lindow 2002a: 39; Schjødt 1981b; Schjødt 1992). The tree of Yggdrasill represents cosmic time in Vǫluspá in the sense that it grows from an incumbent state in stanza 2 to a magnificent tree in stanzas 19–20 under which the norns Urðr, Verðandi, and Skuld reside.1 In the end, the World Tree topples and is devoured by fire in Ragnarǫk. The idea that Yggdrasill represents time is also expressed in Grímnismál st. 31–35, and stanza 35 of that poem details the premonitions of Ragnarǫk in an image of the tree suffering from usage: Ascr Yggdrasils drýgir erfiði, meira, enn menn viti; hiǫrtr bítr ofan, enn á hliðo fúnar, scerðir Níðhǫggr neðan. (Yggdrasil’s ash suffers agony more than men know: a stag nibbles it above, but at its side it’s decaying, and Nidhogg rends it beneath.) (p. 53)

B) Mythical Space If Vǫluspá indicates the temporal aspects of the cosmology, Grímnismál relates the spatial dimensions of the cosmos. Stanza 4 thus begins by declaring the land of the æsir and vanir sacred. The following stanzas enumerate thirteen dwellings of the gods, which present the reader with a fully developed Nordic landscape. Whether these dwellings are situated on the central plain Iðavǫllr, where the æsir build high temples in Vǫluspá st. 7, is uncertain, but the inference is possible. Þórr lives in Þrúðheimr, ‘Power-dwelling’ or ‘Power-world’, a name possibly related to Þórr’s might as a thunder god, although it is also consistent with the great strength he exhibits in the extant myths. Ullr resides in Ýdalir, yew-valleys, which seems to represent the evergreen trees of the forests. A more enigmatic site is Valaskjálf, which, according to stanza 6 of Grímnismál, was chosen by either Óðinn or the god Váli (è54), neither of which is mentioned directly. The name of this dwelling seems to relate to three placenames that may indicate ancient cult-sites (Brink 2004b). Søkkvabekkr, ‘Sunken Bank’, belongs 1  The names of the three nornir are disputed. Urðr is probably connected with the verb verða, ‘to happen, come to pass, take place’. This is also the case with Verðandi. Skuld is related to the modal verb skulu, ‘shall’. Urðr is often translated as ‘Fate’, Verðandi as ‘Becoming’, and Skuld as ‘Debt’ or ‘Must-Be’ (Bek-Pedersen 2011a: 76–82; see also è35 on fate and è58 on the norns).

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to the goddess Sága. The name of the dwelling suggests that it is an underwater realm, and it may be connected to Frigg’s dwelling Fensalir, ‘Marsh Halls’, which is mentioned in Vǫluspá st. 33 and a couple of times in Snorri’s Edda (Gylfaginning pp. 29, 45, and Skáldskaparmál p. 30). It is unclear whether Frigg and Sága are identical (Simek 2007: 81), but it is a distinct possibility that both dwellings refer to the same concept of a submerged goddess of marshlands and lakes who presides over fertility (Gunnell 2007c: 4). The lack of any reference to Frigg and Fensalir in Grímnismál may indicate that in this context Sága, who drinks with Óðinn every day (st. 7), has replaced Frigg. Óðinn’s hall Valhǫll, ‘the hall of the slain’, is, according to Grímnismál st. 8, located in Glaðsheimr, ‘Shining home’ or ‘Shining world’. Stanzas 9 and 10 of Grímnismál detail the arrangement of the hall of Valhǫll. It is built of spears, roofed with shields, and mail-coats are strewn on the benches. Two iconic animals of death have their place here: the eagle soars above the roof, and a wolf hangs by the western door. Here, Óðinn chooses the einherjar (Grímnismál st. 8). This is a warrior-king’s dwelling. In Gylfaginning st. 17, the abodes of the gods are described, and here, Óðinn’s abode Valaskjálf, presumably the same as Valhǫll, is located in heaven. This idea of a heavenly abode for Óðinn and his einherjar may also be present in Grímnismál if the location of Glaðsheimr, the Shining World, can be interpreted as the sky. However, in the first book of Saxo’s Gesta Danorum, the description of King Hadingus’s visit to the underworld suggests that the afterlife for dead warriors may have been underground (see also è 34). This idea of a subterranean world of the dead also seems to find support in the belief of Þórólfr Mostrarskegg in Eyrbygg ja saga. According to this saga, Þórólfr thought his afterlife would be inside the mountain of Helgafell; later on, in Chapter 11, Þórólfr’s son, Þorsteinn, is received into the mountain after his death: ‘mikinn glaum og hornaskvǫl […] þar var heilsat Þorsteini þorskabít ok fǫrunautum hans ok mælt, at hann skal sitja í ǫndvegi gegnt feðr sínum’ (much noise and merrymaking […] there Þorsteinn þorskabítr and his companions were greeted, and a voice told him to sit down in the high-seat opposite his ancestors). This scene is comparable to that of the skaldic poems Eiríksmál amd Hákonarmál, in which the kings Eiríkr and Hákon are received in Valhǫll by Óðinn, although neither poem includes information about the location of Valhǫll, be it a heavenly abode or in the underworld. It does, however, seem that the idea of a realm of the dead — for warriors as well as others — in the underworld was a widespread notion, which has often been thought to be older than the ideas of Valhǫll (Neckel 1913; de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 377), but could just as well be due to variants of other kinds. Certain placenames may support the idea of an underworld abode of the dead warriors. The site of Dejbjerg in West Jutland, with its mounds,

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may be such a place. The older forms of the name, Døthbyergh (1325 ce) or Dødbergh (1381 ce), translate as ‘Death Hill’. Such hills or mountains of the dead, including the Icelandic Helgafell, seem to have been widespread in the pre-Christian North (Lundberg 1911). In Grímnismál st. 14, Fólkvangr is mentioned as the home of Freyja, and, most notably, it is stated that half of the slain are assigned seats in her hall, whereas the other half goes to Óðinn. As the name means either ‘People field’ or ‘Army field’ and seems associated with the chthonic realm, this division of the dead between Óðinn and Freyja may either be a compromise between an earlier chthonic underworld and a later heavenly abode of the dead or it may be a structural feature, thematizing feminine and masculine aspects of the death realm. Vafþrúðnismál st. 43 mentions Niflhel ‘Mist-Hel’ and nine other worlds, all situated below Hel, which receives those who die out of Hel. The nine worlds are presumably underworlds (see è34). The poem Grímnismál continues the enumeration of dwellings after the description of Valhǫll. Stanza 11 includes the giant Þjazi’s old place Þrymheimr, stating that it now belongs to his daughter Skaði who is married to Njǫrðr. The name, which in manu­scripts of Snorri’s Edda is written Þrymheimr, Þrumheimr, or, in U, Þrúðheimr, identical to Þórr’s dwelling, indicates an association with loud noises and/or great strength. Incidentally, the home of the giant Þrymr in Þrymskviða is also called Þrymheimr, but there is no reason to regard the two as identical. It is possible that the theme of noise relates to Skaði’s qualities as a goddess of mountains, and to giants in general (de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 335–36). The following two dwellings mentioned in stanzas 12 and 13 belong to Baldr and Heimdallr. These are called Breiðablik ‘Far-shining’ and Himinbjǫrg ‘heaven Mountain’. Both names suggest association with high altitudes and may either be understood as heavenly abodes comparable to Glaðsheimr, or in context of the theme of mountains that Þrymheimr also links to. Glitnir, ‘Shining one’, is the dwelling of Forseti who presides over justice and strife. Nóatún, ‘Shipyard’ or ‘Ship enclosure’, belongs to Njǫrðr, and in stanza 17 we are told about a place called ‘Viðar’s land’. Stanzas 25 to 35 of Grímnismál describe the World Tree, Yggdrasill. Initially calling it Læráðr, an obscure name (Simek 2007: 185), the poem describes how the goat Heiðrún and the hart Eikþyrnir graze on the leaves of the tree from the roof of Óðinn’s hall. From her udder, Heiðrún provides mead, which is filled into vats for consumption by the einherjar. From the horns of Eikþyrnir the world’s waters flow into the well of Hvergelmir from where they are dispensed into the world’s rivers. In Vafþrúðnismál st. 16, it is mentioned that the great river Ífing separates the æsir and the giants. Grímnismál recounts in total forty

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cosmic rivers, some of which flow past Miðgarðr and down to Hel. With the exception of Þórr, who wades through the waters of Kǫrmt, Ǫrmt, and the two Kerlaugar, the gods ride across Ásbrú to meet beneath Yggdrasill. In Fáfnismál st. 15 and Grímnismál st. 44, this bridge is called Bilrǫst. Beneath the World Tree, the gods deliberate and pass judgement. Vǫluspá st. 6 and 9 inform us that the gods meet for judgement at their rǫkstólar (judgment-seats), and it may be surmised that these seats are placed beneath Yggdrasill in accordance with Grímnismál. In Vǫluspá st. 19–20, it is stated that Urðarbrunnr is situated underneath Yggdrasill and that the norns meet there to decide the fates of humans. According to Grímnismál st. 31, Yggdrasill is the centre of the cosmos, and it has three roots that stretch to the ends of the world: Hel lives under one, the Hrímþursar under another, and humans live under the third. The tree is inhabited by several animals: the eagle in the top, Níðhǫggr underneath, and the squirrel Ratatǫskr, who carries insults between the other two. There are also the harts Dáinn, Dvalinn, Duneyrr, and Duraþór who live in the branches. Below the tree live the snakes Góinn, Móinn, Grábakr, Grafvǫlluðr, Ofnir, and Sváfnir. These animals all damage the tree with their activities. The horses Árvakr and Alsviðr drag the sun across the sky and the protecting shield Svǫl stands before it to prevent the sun from burning the world. The sun, who is a goddess, is, according to Grímnismál st. 39, chased by the wolves Skǫll and Hati. According to Vafþrúðnismál st. 23, the father of Sun and Moon is Mundilfœri. Vafþrúðnismál st. 12–14 supplies the information that the horses of day and night are called Skinfaxi and Hrímfaxi. The father of Dagr ‘Day’ is called Dellingr, and Nótt ‘Night’ was born of Nǫrvi. The winds are, according to stanza 37, made by the giant Hræsvelgr when he moves his wings. Vafþrúðnismál st. 18 tells of Vígríðr, which is the plain where the æsir will meet Surtr for the final battle. According to Fáfnismál st. 14–15, that place is an island, which is also known as Óskópnir. As the only eddic poem, Vafþrúðnismál mentions Vanaheimr (world of the vanir) in stanza 39. It is said that Njǫrðr of the vanir came to the æsir from his home in Vanaheimr. Gylfaginning presents what is largely a synthesis of the cosmology as it is developed in Vafþrúðnismál, Grímnismál, and Vǫluspá, but much new material is also added. In Chapter 3, it is said how Alfǫðr ‘All-father’ resides in his dwelling Gimlé ‘Safe from fire’ or Vingólf ‘Friendly house’, where he collects the souls of the righteous, while the wicked go to Hel and Niflhel. The cosmos is divided into two halves: there is Niflheimr to the north and Muspell or Muspellsheimr to the south. In the middle of Niflheimr is the well of Hvergelmir from where eleven rivers flow. The river Gjǫll flows past Helgrindr

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(Hel-gate) which seems to have counterparts in Valgrindr (Slain-gate) mentioned in Grímnismál st. 22 and Nágrindr (Corpse-gate) from Skírnismál st. 35 and Lokasenna st. 63. Niflheimr is cold and Muspell is hot. Between the two was the mild Ginnungagap and there now lay Miðgarðr, built by the æsir from Ymir’s body. The arrangement of the earth is described thus: ‘Hon er kringlótt útan, ok þar útan um liggr hinn djúpi sjár, ok með þeiri sjávar strǫndu gáfu þeir lǫnd til bygðar jǫtna ættum’ (Gylfaginning p. 12) (It is circular round the edge, and around it lies the deep sea, and along the shore of this sea they [the gods] gave lands to live in to the races of giants). By implication, it must be understood that these areas on the rim of the world are the Jǫtunheimar, the ‘Giantlands’, and possibly identical with Útgarðar, the ‘Outer realms’. Útgarðar, however, is only known from the tale of Þórr’s journey to Útgarðaloki in Gylfaginning pp. 37–43,2 while the Jǫtunheimar are mentioned both in eddic and skaldic poetry. The description of the world as a circular disc surrounded by water very much resembles the beginning of Ynglinga saga in Heimskringla, whose name stems from the first sentence of the work: ‘Kringla heimsins’ (Ynglinga saga st. 1) (The orb of the earth). This arrangement of the cosmos belongs to the medi­ eval world-view and represents a literary description of the world as it is represented in the didactic medi­e val maps commonly known as mappae mundi. Gylfaginning p. 13 elaborates on this Christian interpretation of the cosmos. It adds that the gods built the city of Ásgarðr in the middle of the world, and this city, it says, is otherwise known as Troy. This is a learned interpretation of the pagan cosmos as a secular, historical realm. All-father, who is otherwise known as Óðinn, has his seat in that city, and his throne is called Hliðskjálf. All-father is, according to this tradition, both the father and husband of Jǫrð (Earth). The æsir built a bridge between heaven and earth and called it Bifrǫst. The red in the rainbow is fire that burns to keep þursar and giants at bay. The bridge ends in Himinbjǫrg, where Heimdallr guards it. According to Gylfaginning p. 17, the gods ride over this bridge every time they go to meet at their court beneath the World Tree, Yggdrasill. Yggdrasill branches out over the world and extends its branches across the sky. Its three roots extend very far: one reaches the æsir; the second the hrímþursar, where Ginnungagap once was; and the third extends over Niflheimr. This is where Hvergelmir is located, and it is also here that Níðhǫggr lives. Under the root that reaches to the Hrímþursar 2 

Útgarðar may well be a much later designation than Miðgarðr, as has been argued by Per Vikstrand (2006), but even so, it seems quite certain that the jǫtnar were in general regarded as beings of the periphery.

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there is a well, which belongs to the wise Mímir. By the trunk of the World Tree in heaven, the norns have their hall. In the branches of Yggdrasill sits the eagle, and between his eyes sits a hawk called Veðrfǫlnir (Weather-pale). In Urðarbrunnr (Urðr’s Wel), there live two swans and from them descend all birds of that species. There is a place in heaven called Álfheimr (Elf-world), populated by Ljósálfar (Light-elves), and under the ground live the Døkkálfar, the ‘Dark-elves’ (see also è63). Gimlé is located at the southernmost end of heaven. South of and above the first heaven there is another one called Andlangr (extended). This heaven, it is said, will not perish in Ragnarǫk. Above Andlangr, there is yet another heaven, which is called Víðbláinn, ‘Far-blue’. Gylfaginning p. 27 also states that Loki’s two children Hel and the Miðgarðsormr, the Midgard Serpent, were assigned places in the cosmos by All-father. All-father threw the Midgard Serpent into the deep sea, so that it lies there and encircles all lands. He threw Hel into Niflheimr and let her reign over the realm for those who die of sickness and old age.

Scholarship The Old Norse concept of time — not least the eschatology (see è39) — has been discussed by several scholars. Jan de Vries posits that the overall image of Ragnarǫk belongs to the late pagan era and was heavily influenced by Christian eschatology, but that the elements of this eschatology were older; some were pagan and some were formed during an early stage of Christian influence (de Vries 1959–57a: ii, 404). This view is shared by John McKinnell, who has argued that large parts of Vǫluspá have been influenced by Christian sermons pertaining to Easter Vigil and Easter Sunday, not least the ideas of Ragnarǫk as an apocalypse of fire (McKinnnell 2008). As such, the poem of Vǫluspá and its cosmic timeline must be understood as a product of syncretism. It remains an open question, then, whether Vǫluspá in fact represents a cyclical conception of time or whether it is a linear eschatology similar to the Christian apocalypse. Mircea Eliade (1971) sees the pre-Christian Nordic conception of time as a cyclical one. Schjødt (1981b) has also argued this point on the basis of the last stanza of Vǫluspá where the dragon returns as a harbinger of a new, future Ragnarǫk (see also Schjødt 1992). Margaret Clunies Ross, however, is not convinced by the idea of a cyclical conception of time in Vǫluspá. She writes: If we search for this idea in Old Norse myth, we can produce some evidence that the fifth age reproduces many of the same social groups, some of the same individuals (those of the junior generation) and some of the same cultural institutions as were present in the world before Ragnarǫk. However, there is definitely not a return to

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the first age of the world, in which the cosmos was not yet fully differentiated and the giants were the only existing group of living beings. (Clunies Ross 1994a: 241)

The cyclical and the linear views are, however, not incompatible, since the time span within one cyclical period may very well be seen as linear, as is proposed by John Lindow, who sees an overall chronology represented in the myths. As different myths, associated with various gods, take place in different periods of the chronology, there is a progression of cosmic time towards a better world: ‘In the distant past there was no cosmos, but in the distant future there is a green world with birds and fertile fields’ (Lindow 2002a: 42). A fusion of the concept of cosmic temporality with the spatial aspects of the cosmology is seen in the works of Eleazar Meletinskij, who argues for a division of the cosmos into a vertical and a horizontal axis. He associates the two axes with the two temporal systems of the cosmogony and the eschatology and argues that various semantic elements of the cosmology belong to these axes (Meletinskij 1973–74: 47). Meletinskij follows Aaron Ya. Gurevich, who argues that the cosmos is organized according to a vertical and a horizontal axis and that the two major realms of horizontal opposition, Miðgarðr and Útgarðr, are the realization of a cosmic division between centre and periphery (Gurevich 1969: 44–45). This view of Old Norse cosmology is further developed by Kirsten Hastrup, who reproduces Meletinskij’s trichonomic structuring of the vertical cosmic axis in accordance with the World Tree, Yggdrasill (Meletinskij 1973–74: 48). Represented in the zoomorphic catalogue of the cosmos, with the eagle above, the deer in the middle, and the serpent below, this model places Ásgarðr in the top of the tree — in heaven. Humans are placed on Earth and the dead below ground (Hastrup 1990: 30–31). Meletinskij’s partial association of the temporal concept of cosmogony with the horizontal axis and the concept of eschatology with the vertical axis (Meletinskij 1973–74: 50–56) is interpreted by Hastrup as two fixed concepts of temporality, which are associated directly with the axes. She applies the notion of ‘temporal irreversibility’ to the vertical axis (the World Tree) and ‘temporal reversibility’ to the horizontal axis (Hastrup 1990: 31–32). With this, the Old Norse cosmos may be understood to contain the potential for both a linear and a cyclical conception of time. Jens Peter Schjødt does not accept the idea that the semantic elements belonging to the one axis correspond directly to the other, and that these axes are associated with different temporal modes (Schjødt 1990b: 47 and 54–55). Furthermore, it is pointed out by Schjødt that the æsir do not seem to dwell in the heavens. He argues that this is only a conception in Gylfaginning and that it must be a post-Conversion interpretation. He thus concludes that the sky is

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empty space. The sky is only used for movement between the realms; it is not an actual cosmic place (Schjødt 1990b: 40, 46). Schjødt has elsewhere (2004) emended some of his statements on this subject and pointed out that there does seem to be some correlation between certain mythic figures, their movements in myths and different models of the cosmos. The cosmic model pertaining to Þórr is generally horizontal, as the god never moves on the vertical axis. Óðinn’s movements are, conversely, primarily vertical. The oppositions related to the horizontal axis are associated with enmity, while the oppositions on the vertical axis are more complimentary to the activities of the gods, as Óðinn collects wisdom and important objects on his movements along the vertical axis (2004: 131). Margaret Clunies Ross has formulated a critique of the terminology that is used in the context of the spatial arrangement of the cosmos. Gurevich, Meletinskij, and Hastrup all use the term ‘Útgarðr’ as a designation for the cosmic periphery inhabited by giants, but Clunies Ross has pointed out that this term is, indeed, rarely used in the cosmology and only occurs in the myth of Þórr’s journey to Útgarðaloki. The appropriate term is, rather, Jǫtunheimar, which seems to indicate that the periphery is multiform in some capacity. Útgarðr (sing.) or Útgarðar (pl.) is a different Other World altogether. The giants of Jǫtunheimar, she argues, are susceptible to social control by the æsir, but in the Útgarðar, Þórr encounters a species of beings who are more akin to natural forces, and the result of this encounter is that he is defied in his attempts to control them (Clunies Ross 1994a: 51; cf. also Vikstrand 2006). Clunies Ross’s interpretation also expresses a critique of Snorri’s Edda and the information in Gylfaginning as a source to Old Norse cosmology. Snorri’s Edda is perceived as a more organized and coherent narrative than the eddic poems, whose cosmology seems more fragmented (1994a: 230–32). This notion is shared by Stefan Brink (2004b), who argues that the cosmology of Snorri’s Edda is coloured by: ‘den kristna, retoriska polariteten mellan himmel och helvete’ (the Christian rhetorical polarization of heaven and hell) and rules out the use of this text as a valuable source. Brink would rather use eddic poems and especially Grímnismál, or some similar description, which could be understood as closer to the reality of the landscape (2004b: 297–98). Gro Steinsland (2005b) suggests that the division between æsir and giants is not as clear as is often believed. She argues that the potential for life appears at the crossing point between Ásgarðr and Útgarðr (2005: 144). A similar view has been proposed by Nanna Løkka (2010), who has argued for the rejection of any idea of a dualistic world-view in Old Norse cosmology. The cosmic model is sought redefined on the premises of understanding the pre-Christian Nordic universe through a monistic principle of causality rather than a dualistic one.

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Figure 38.1. Plan of the ringfort Ismantorp on Öland, dated to about 300–650. The layout of the ringfort has been interpreted as a cosmological representation of Miðgarðr. Plan based on Andrén 2014: 74. 

In this connection, the giants are not considered peripheral (2010: 9–15), and Løkka argues that the distance between the æsir and the giants is perhaps not as great as previously assumed. The semantic values of the cardinal directions, with north and east coded negatively as the abodes of giants and death, and south coded positively, was the subject of an investigation by Lindow (1994a). These, too, map onto Christian values, with south being the direction of Christian pilgrimage from the north. Another way of studying Old Norse world-views is to investigate different cosmological aspects in relation to the real world of the Iron Age. Above all, Miðgarðr, Ásgarðr, the World Tree, and sacral placenames have been treated in this way. The notion in Gylfaginning p. 12 that Miðgarðr was a fortification created by the eyelashes of the primordial being Ymir has been compared to

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Figure 38.2. Example of a three-pointed stone-setting at Säby on Öland. Photo: Anders Andrén. 

hillforts and ringforts from the period 200–650 ce ( Johansen 1997). Anders Andrén has investigated some distinct ringforts on the island of Öland in the Baltic Sea with this in mind (Andrén 2006; 2014: 69–115). The best preserved of these ring forts, at Ismantorp in the middle of the island, is, according to him, a representation of Miðgarðr. The ringfort, which is dated to about 300–600 ce, consists of a stone wall with nine gates. Inside the walls are the foundations of ninety-five houses, located in different blocks around a central place. The remains of a small house, a huge post, and a pit are found at the exact geometrical centre of the fort. Andrén argues that these elements can be viewed as representations of Miðgarðr, with the World Tree and the house of the norns and Urðarbrunnr in the middle of the world. A similar combination of cosmological representation and warfare is well known from Roman forts of the same period (Andrén 2014: 102–15). The idea of Ásgarðr has been compared to the spatial organization of some central places from about 200 to 800 ce (figure è27.16). Lotte Hedeager has suggested that the central place of Gudme on southeast Fyn in Denmark was laid out as a representation of Ásgarðr (Hedeager 2001a, 2002). In similar

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ways, Olof Sundqvist, like several others before him, traces parallels between the spatial layout of Gamla Uppsala and counterparts to it within the mythology. He finds that there is a high level of consistency between the mythical locality of Ásgarðr in Grímnismál and the descriptions of Uppsala in Adam of Bremen’s Gesta Hammaburgensis Ecclesiae Pontificum. The combination of the components mentioned by Adam of Bremen in his description of the temple at Uppsala — the tree, the hall, the well, and the fence — represent a symbolic Ásgarðr (Sundqvist 2004). In more general terms, Torun Zachrisson has compared different elements of the central place at Helgö in Uppland to several other cosmic elements (Zachrisson 2004a, 2004b). The notion of a World Tree, standing in the middle of the world and linking the sky to the underworld has been compared to different elements in the real world. The excavated remains in Frösö church, in Jämtland, of a birch root surrounded by deposited animal bones show that ritual trees existed in the Viking Age. The tree has also been interpreted as a representation of the World Tree (Näsström 1996a; Andrén 2002: 322). Whereas the tree in Frösö until now represents a unique example, Andrén has argued that so-called three-pointed stonesettings could be more general and widespread representations of the World Tree (Andrén 2004; 2014: 27–67). These monuments, which are dated to about 200–1000 ce, consist of three marked points of stone and earth, sometimes with a monolith of stone or a hole for a wooden post in the middle. These could represent the three roots and the trunk of the World Tree. Three-pointed stone-settings are known from burial grounds, although they seem not always to be graves. Usually, they appear as single monuments often placed at high points in the middle of the burial grounds, possibly referring to the central position of the different mythical trees, such as Yggdrassill and Læráðr (Andrén 2004; 2014: 27–67). In some cases, sacral placenames have been discussed in relation to worldviews as well. Stefan Brink has pointed out that some smaller, confined settlement regions appear to have been regarded as divine micro-cosmos, with all the major gods and goddesses present in sacral placenames of the area. One example is the small island of Selaö in Lake Mälaren, with placenames associated with Oðinn, Ullr, Njǫrðr, Freyr, and Freyja; and another example is Vadsbro in northern Västergötland, where Oðinn, Þórr, Ullr, Freyr, Freyja, and probably Njǫrðr are present in the sacral placenames (Brink 2004b). Per Vikstrand, however, has pointed out that the sacral placenames in the Mälar region are predominantly based on a combination of the gods’ names and the compounds -lunda (grove), -berga (hill), and –åker (arable field), which all differ from the divine abodes described in the Icelandic literary tradition. These differences could reflect temporal or regional variation (Vikstrand 2004a).

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Most research on cosmological representations has focused on how cosmological ideas have been mapped out in the real world. Much less work has been done on the possibility of an intricate interplay between the real world and cosmological notions. The large aristocratic halls of the Iron Age were probably not only representations of the divine abodes in Ásgarðr, but as much models of these cosmic ideas. The same is probably true of the World Tree in relation to real ritual trees and ‘farm trees’3 (cf. Andrén 2004; 2014: 27–67).

Concluding Remarks The scholarly discussions and interpretations of Old Norse cosmology are marked by certain strong dispositions focusing on the questions of whether or not Snorri’s Edda is a reliable source for cosmology, or whether the written sources, eddic poems as well as Snorri’s Edda, are at all reliable as genuine expressions of pre-Christian cosmology and world-view. The cosmology of Gylfaginning is indisputably strongly influenced by the author’s will to impose elements of a Christian world-view onto the information found in such poems as Vǫluspá, Grímnismál, and Vafþrúðnismál. However, one cannot fully reject, for instance, the interpretation of the realm of the æsir as a heavenly domain in Gylfaginning simply because the Christian cosmology contains a polarization of heaven and hell. Although other myths (Schjødt 1990b, 2004) indicate that the gods move through the sky from one place on the ground (Ásgarðr) to another ( Jǫtunheimar), it is not impossible that some of the abodes of the gods in Grímnismál are located in the sky. The tendency to focus on oppositions within the cosmology has been highly criticized as a mark of Christianity in Snorri’s Edda (Brink 2004b; Steinsland 2005b; Løkka 2010), but regardless of that, it serves to note that binary oppositions occur in the cosmologies of many cultures. The idea of binary oppositions gains support not just from Snorri’s Edda but also from other Old Norse sources, such as the eddic poems. As the peoples of the North established settlements and their societies developed and changed, their cosmologies must have changed, too. This is a point that Andrén makes clear in his interpretation of different images of the World Tree in archaeological remains (2014). The Old Norse mythology as we now know it is the last in a long chain of variations of the indigenous 3 

So-called ‘farm trees’ or ‘guardian trees’ existed at many farms in premodern Sweden and Norway. They were closely related to the destiny of the farm and its inhabitants. Votive offerings at the trees were common in connection with childbirth and marriage (Palm 1948: 60–70; Vikstrand 2001: 283)

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cosmologies of the North, and, although it shows signs of influence from Christianity, it undoubtedly also contains a great deal of older information about the cosmology. The comparability of specific aspects of the cosmology in written accounts to archaeological remains attests to this. Especially the tree of Yggdrasill appears to continuously have played a significant role in Old Norse and Germanic mythology. Thus, it does not look like a coincidence that the Old Saxons worshipped the holy pillar Irminsul at Eresburg. This structure seems to have been comparable to the World Tree, and it drew sufficient attention to itself as a ritual object for Charlemagne to cut it down in 772 ce. The Slavs of Wolin also worshiped a ‘Pillar of Heaven’ in their temple (de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 386–87). It may thus be surmised that the worship of a holy World Tree was widespread in Northern Europe, and the Old Norse sources accord with this idea. Similarly, it may be expected that other aspects of the cosmology as it has come down to us have deep roots in the pre-Christian era.

39 – Cosmic Eschatology: Ragnarøk Anders Hultgård Introduction The term eschatology involves a twofold concept: ideas related to the afterlife (è34), and myths about the future destiny of the world, of humankind, or of a particular people. Here, we are concerned with the latter concept, cosmic or universal eschatology. In Scandinavian tradition it is known as Ragnarøk1 (ragnarøk) ‘fate of the gods’. Two Old Norse poems of the tenth century, Eiríksmál and Hákonarmál, include references to the Ragnarøk myth and are the first datable evidence of that myth. Vǫluspá, the ‘Seeress’s Prophecy’, is the key text for cosmic eschatology from which the Prose Edda of Snorri draws much of its description. Icono­ graphic evidence of Ragnarøk has frequently been suggested but is difficult to demonstrate unequivocally.

Sources As indicated above, the main source is Vǫluspá st. 40–65 (and H66), which forms a coherent description of events during Ragnarøk. Vafþrúðnismál st. 44–53 provide us with important knowledge of what comes after the destruction of the world. In addition, other eddic stanzas refer here and there to the cosmic eschatology. Grímnismál st. 17 depicts Víðarr on horseback awaiting 1  Haraldur Bernharðsson (2007) has demonstrated the priority of the form røk over rǫk, and this form will be used throughout this chapter.

Anders Hultgåard, Professor Emeritus of the History of Religions, Uppsala University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume iii, ed. by Jens Peter p. 1017–1032 Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) p BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116966

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Figure 39.1. Fibula from Engegård in Svaneke on Bornholm. The fibula is formed as a four-legged monster, interpreted as the Fenris wolf (Nationalmuseet, no. C35692). Photo: John Lee, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen. 

the moment to avenge his father Óðinn, and stanza 23 shows the einherjar marching out from Valhǫll to fight Fenrir. Lokasenna includes several references to the Ragnarøk myth. Stanza 39 states that Fenrir will be bound and must ‘await the twilight of the gods’ (bíða ragna rǫcrs) before getting free, and stanza 41 shows the wolf lying before ‘the river mouth’ until the gods will be destroyed (unz rjúfask regin). In stanza 42, Loki pours scorn on Freyr because the god will lack his sword in the final battle, and, finally, in stanza 58, Þórr is accused of cowardice when Fenrir attacks Óðinn. Hyndluljóð describes the portents announcing the destruction of the gods (st. 42) and predicts in stanza 43 the coming of a mighty ruler thereafter, adding the remark that few can see further than Óðinn’s encounter with Fenrir. Gylfaginning (pp.  49–55) in Snorri’s Edda present a comprehensive account of Ragnarøk, and it is this description that is usually referred to when Scandinavian cosmic eschatology is discussed. The plot of the skaldic poem Eiríksmál revolves around the idea of the last battle at Ragnarøk. Sigmundr asks Óðinn why he is expecting Eiríkr rather than other kings. Óðinn answers that Eiríkr has reddened his sword in many a country (st. 6). Sigmundr replies: ‘Hví namt þú hann sigri þá, | es þér þótti han snjallr vesa?’ (st. 7) (Why did you deprive him of victory then, when he seemed to you to be valiant?) (p. 1011). Óðinn answers by referring to the uncertainty of knowing when the grey wolf will attack the abodes of the gods (st. 7). In other words, Eiríkr is expected to fight against the evil powers as one of the einherjar. The skaldic poem Hákonarmál, composed by Eyvindr skaldaspillir Finnsson in the aftermath of the battle at Fitjar, in which King Hákon inn góði was mortally wounded, promises the king that he will be in Óðinn’s retinue among the einherjar. The three stanzas that follow are in praise of Hákon (19–21), and his

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uniqueness is underlined by a formula that refers to Ragnarøk in stating that no man as good as Hákon will appear until the end of the world (see below).

The Myth of Ragnarøk In the Old Norse poetic sources, the myth is referred to in different ways. Besides ragna røk, (the fate of the gods) and ragna røkkr, ‘the twilight of the gods’ we find also aldar røk, ‘the fate of the world’ (Vafþrúðnismál st. 39) and aldar rof, (the destruction of the world) (Helgakviða Hundingsbana II st. 41). Sometimes, the event is circumscribed with a whole sentence: ‘þá er rjúfask regin’ (when the powers are torn apart) (Vafþrúðnismál st. 52); ‘unz um rjúfask regin’ (until the powers are torn asunder) (Grímnismál st. 4); ‘þá er í ráði at rǫgn um þrjóti’ (when it is decreed that the gods come to their end) (Hyndluljóð st. 42), and ‘þá er regin deyja’ (when the powers die) (Vafþrúðnismál st. 47). The meaning of røk is not quite clear. In the early religious literature in Old Norse, represented by manu­scripts from the middle of the twelfth century up to the first decade of the thirteenth century, it is used to denote important mythic events in the history of early Christianity.2 Correspondingly, the meaning ‘a decisive mythic event concerning the gods’ is the one underlying the concept ragna røk, which includes not only the destruction of the world but also its renewal. The word røk(k)r in ragnarøk(k)r means ‘twilight’ and refers in Old Norse both to sunset and sunrise, and, indeed, it may be etymologically related to røk; it has been argued that both terms have the basic meaning ‘renewal of the divine powers’ (Haraldur Bernharðsson 2007). In addition, these two terms display different distribution patterns in such a way that ragnarøk is found in most of the eddic poems, whereas ragnarøk(k)r is used in Snorri’s Edda and in Lokasenna st. 39. Only Vǫluspá and Gylfaginning present a coherent narrative, that is a myth, but the additional references in eddic poetry are important in order to understand the variation of the myth and its roots in oral tradition. Both Vǫluspá with its three different versions and Gylfaginning recount the events in roughly the same order. In Vǫluspá, the opening scene (st. 40) shows the ‘old woman in Iron-wood’ giving birth to wolves, and one of them, a monster-wolf, will snatch the moon (tungls tjúgari). He is probably the same as the one described in the following stanza (41), gorging himself with dying humans and reddening the dwellings of the gods with the blood. The sunshine will become black during the subsequent summers, and the weather will in every possible way be severe. 2 

The attestations are listed and discussed in Hultgård 2017.

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Whether this is the result of the monster-wolf ’s activity or whether another independent element is thought to be the cause is difficult to say. A sort of interlude then follows: Eggþér, the herdsman of an unnamed giantess, strikes his harp, and three cocks begin to crow in different places (st. 42–43). The first cock sits in a tree (or in a wood), which in the version of Codex Regius is called gaglviðr, (goose-tree) (other interpretations are less convincing),3 but in Hauksbók it is galgviðr (gallows-tree). These two different names evoke different ideas: the former suggests the mythic tree with goosebirds, known from Celtic icono­g raphy;4 the latter Óðinn and his association with hanging from a tree or a gallows. Eggþér’s harp and the cocks’ crowing convey the message that the end is approaching. Next, a second terrifying animal is introduced: a dog called Garmr who bays loudly before the ‘Gnipa-cave’, while the following lines state that the fetter will break and the ‘ravenous one’ (freki) run free (st. 44). Most probably, the poet thought the ‘ravenous one’ to be another beast than Garmr, presumably Fenrir. That Garmr represents a dog is indicated by the use of geyja (bay) for Garmr and ýla ‘howl’ for the ‘ravenous one’. This stanza reappears as stanzas 49 and 58 of the Codex Regius version and another two times in Hauksbók, and it functions as a refrain for the first part of Vǫluspá’s description of the Ragnarøk myth. The portents of the coming end increase (st. 45). Brothers will fight and kill one another, family members will defile kinship, the world becomes a place of hardship, with much whoredom and many wars. A wind-age and a wolf-age will come before the world is destroyed; no man will spare another. Hauksbók adds further omens: shrilling sounds are heard from fields and woods, and trollwomen are flying. Heimdallr now blows his horn, and Yggdrasill, the world-tree, shudders and its wood groans, but it is still standing upright (st. 46). The hostile powers gather for the attack. Loki and the sons of Muspell arrive on a ship, and Miðgarðsormr coils violently and churns the waves. All giants are agitated, and the gods gather in council. The giant Surtr arrives from the south with burning fire, his sword is shining. Men tread the road to hell (troða halir helveg) and, finally, the sky is rent (st. 50–52). 3 

To mention two of them: Strömbäck (1927) refers to a word gagl in Nordic dialects that means something large extending upwards and suggests this meaning ‘the high tree’ for gaglviðr. Kock (1911) proposes a connection with Old English gagel (Myrica gale ‘sweet gale’). 4  Votive stele from Trier, first century ce (Rheinisches Landesmuseum Trier Catalogue 1984, no. 100); see also Hultgård 2017.

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The final battle begins. Óðinn is devoured by Fenrir, but his son Víðarr avenges him by thrusting his sword into the heart of the monster (figure è54.3). Freyr combats Surtr and is presumably killed. Þórr fights the terrifying Miðgarðsormr, who advances with gaping jaws, as is told in the Hauksbók version. The god slays the serpent and walks nine steps away before he falls down dead on account of the poison the serpent has spewed over him (st. 52–56). The sun becomes black, and the earth sinks into the sea. The stars disappear from the sky. Smoke gushes forth and covers the world-tree, and flames of fire play high against heaven itself. The world is now destroyed (st. 57). This is not the end, however. The earth rises a second time out of the sea, green once again, and nature is renewed (st. 59). The gods (æsir), at least some of them, will meet again on the green fields; they talk about the Miðgarðsormr and recall the megindómar (the great events) as well as ‘fimbultýs fornar rúnar’ (the ancient runes [i.e., secrets] of the mighty one). They will find again in the grass the golden gaming pieces that they once had owned. The fields will grow without having been sown, and all evil will be healed (st. 60–62a). Vǫluspá mentions some of the gods that will reappear. Baldr will come as will his brother Hǫðr, and they will live well together in Óðinn’s victory places. Hœnir, another deity, will choose ‘hlautvið kjósa’ (the augury tree) and ‘burir brœðra tveggja’ (the sons of two brothers), presumably the sons of Baldr and Hǫðr, will live in the wide wind realm (st. 62b–63). The prophecy properly speaking comes to an end with the vision of a hall in a land called Gimlé where ‘dyggvar dróttir’ (trustworthy people) will settle and enjoy the days of their life in pleasure (st. 64). The Hauksbók version adds a prediction of ‘inn ríki’ (the mighty one), who will arrive from above (st. 65). He will come at regindómi, a term attested only here, and which means either to ‘take possession of his rulership’ or ‘to judge the powers’, that is, the gods. Stanza 66 describes how the dragon Niðhǫggr comes flying from below, from the Niða-hills. He carries corpses in his pinions. The words ‘now she will sink down’ conclude the poem. The allusive character of Vǫluspá suggests that the poet drew on a broad mythic tradition of Ragnarøk and that his use of it was eclectic. This is corroborated by the additional information found in other eddic poems as well as in skaldic verse, which helps to complete our picture of Ragnarøk. Vafþrúðnismál st. 44–53 is mainly concerned with the renewal of the world, but other mythic events are recorded as well. A destructive winter shall come, called the fimbulvetr (the great winter), to ravage the earth. Only one human couple will survive, having found shelter in a place denoted ‘Hoddmímis holt’ (Hoddmimir’s wood). The name of the woman is Líf (Life) and that of the man Lífþrasir (Persistent (?) Life) and from them new generations will be born (alask).

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1022 Figure 39.2. Scene on the cross from Gosforth in Cumbria, interpreted as Víðarr’s vengeance. After Finnur Jónsson 1913: 83. 

Cosmic restoration is indicated in stanzas 46–47 and possibly also in 48–49. Before Fenrir takes the sun, she will give birth to a daughter who will ride her mother’s paths. The following stanzas (48–49) are obscure and offer different possibilities of interpretation.5 According to the most plausible of these, three mighty streams (þjóðár) fall down above the homesteads of Mǫgþrasir’s girls. The figure of Mǫgþrasir is unknown elsewhere and some scholars suggest that he is the same as Lífþrasir (Boer 1922: 58; Gering and Sijmons 1927), which would also fit in with his name (Larrington 2014: 288); others are of the opinion that both names were created by the poet himself ( Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason 2014: 164). The stanza may refer to the renewal of nature and the image recalls that of Vǫluspá st. 59. The question of which gods will survive the universal conflagration is addressed in stanzas 50–51. It turns out to be the second generation of the principal deities. Víðarr and Váli, the sons of Óðinn, will live in the gods’ holy places (vé goða). Móði and Magni, the sons of Þórr, will return with their father’s hammer Mjǫllnir. The transfer of the hammer into the new world shows how sacred and indispensable this object was in the mythic thinking of the ancient Scandinavians.6 Hyndluljóð st. 42 describes the disasters announcing Ragnarøk: storms will pound the sea, enormous waves will rise over the land and will reach the sky itself. Snow will fall and winds will bite. 5  See the discussion in Machan (2008: 102‒04) and Hultgård 2017. 6  For Þórr’s hammer and its role in the mythology, see Lindow (1994b) and è41.

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The theme of the lurking wolf Fenrir and the uncertainty of when the moment of his final assault will come is taken up in Eiríksmál (st. 7): ‘Því at óvíst es at vita, nær ulfr inn hǫsvi sœkir á sjǫt goða.’ (‘Because it cannot be known for certain when the grey wolf will attack the home of the gods.’) (p. 1011)7

Hákonarmál st. 20 likewise confirms the importance of the motif of Fenrir’s attack at Ragnarøk: Mun óbundinn á ýta sjǫt Fenrisulfr fara, áðr jafngóðr á auða trǫð konungmaðr komi.

(The wolf Fenrir, unbound, will enter the abode of men before so good a royal person [as Hákon] comes onto the vacant path.) (p. 193)

Óðinn’s encounter with the wolf and Víðarr’s vengeance seem to have been particularly popular. The scene is also thought to be pictured on the Gosforth cross. Vafþrúðnismál presents the motif of the final battle in which Óðinn is devoured by the wolf and avenged by Víðarr (st. 53). Unlike the description of Vǫluspá (st. 55), Víðarr is here said to split the cold jaws of the monster: ‘kalda kjapta hann klyfja mun’. Egil Skallagrímsson calls Óðinn ‘úlfs bági’ (the adversary of the wolf ) (Sonatorrek st. 24). In Lokasenna st. 58, Þórr is accused of cowardice when the wolf swallows Óðinn all up. The same poem states that the wolf is lying at the river mouth, waiting for the destruction of the gods. Hyndluljóð predicts the coming of a mighty deity whose name must not be pronounced and adds the remark that ‘fáir siá nú fram um lengra, enn Óðinn man úlfi mœta’ (few can now see further than when Óðinn has to meet the wolf ) (st. 44). Some kennings in Skáldskaparmál (p. 19) for Viðarr allude to this heroic act: ‘dólg ok bana Fenrisúlfs, hefni-Ás goðanna’ (enemy and slayer of Fenriswolf, the gods’ avenging As) (p. 76). These kennings are not supported by quotations from skaldic poems, however. Lokasenna st. 42 alludes to the final battle by reminding Freyr of the fact that he gave away his sword; therefore, when Muspell’s people arrive, his inability to do battle will become clear to him. 7 

For the textual problems, see Jón Helgason (1968) and Fulk (2012a: 171–95).

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The company of otherworldly elite warriors, the einherjar, plays an important role in the Ragnarøk myth. They are those warriors who fall in battle; as indicated by the sources, predominantly men from the aristocracy enjoy the privilege of joining their ranks.8 They receive a new status in the afterlife and have one great task. When the end comes, they will fight together with the gods at Ragnarøk against the evil powers. The role of the einherjar in the last battle is evoked in several eddic stanzas. Grímnismál emphasizes the large number of einherjar who will march out of the many doors of Valhǫll to fight the wolf (st. 23). When parting from his beloved, Helgi says he must join ‘the victorious people’ (sigrþjóð) before the cock Salgofnir awakens them (Helgakviða Hundingsbana II st. 49). The reference is to the einherjar and most probably to their final combat. The same poem shows Víðarr on horseback proclaiming his fearlessness in avenging Óðinn (st. 17). Like Vǫluspá, Gylfaginning (pp. 49–55) also presents a more or less complete story of Ragnarøk. Most of what Snorri tells us is known from the eddic poems and these were in all likelihood also his main source. His text is in addition characterized by his own embellishments. Furthermore, he clearly introduces Christian teaching into the description of the otherwordly places that will appear after the destruction of the world (Gylfaginning p. 53). Even so, there are some passages in which Snorri draws upon material unknown from elsewhere. When describing the ship Naglfar, he points out that it is made by dead men’s nails. Anyone who dies with his nails uncut will add material to that ship, which gods and men wish would take a long time to build (Gylfaginning p. 50). In recounting the vengeance of Víðarr, Snorri emphasizes that the god wears on his one foot a shoe that has been in the making for a very long time indeed. It consists of the strips of leather that men cut off at the toes and the heel when making shoes for themselves. Anybody who wants to help the gods in Ragnarøk shall throw away these strips (in a particular place or way?) because he or she will then contribute to that massive shoe (Gylfaginning pp. 50–51). In both cases, Snorri seems to refer to popular traditions of his own time. The description of the fimbulvetr includes features which Snorri has most probably taken from earlier tradition, perhaps some lost eddic stanzas: ‘Frost eru þá mikil ok vindar hvassir. Ekki nýtr sólar’ (Gylfaginning p. 49) (There will then be great frosts and keen winds. The sun will do no good) (pp. 52–53). Snorri adds that three such winters unite into one with no summers between. 8 

See further Nordberg (2003: 213‒20) and Hultgård (2011: 297–329)

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It is, moreover, likely that Snorri has the idea of two humans surviving the final cataclysm, as well as their names, from Vafþrúðnismál, which may have been his source also for the fimbulvetr, although he seems to have relied on independent traditions for the description of this great winter (cf. TurvillePetre 1964: 283).

Scholarship and Interpretation The discussion of the origins of the Ragnarøk myth has followed different paths, but three main lines of interpretation can be distinguished. The first one emphasizes the composite character of the myth and partly its non-Scandinavian origins, the second one its Indo-European background, and the third one the Christian impact. A Composite Myth of Diverse Origins The most prolific proponent of the myth’s diverse origins is Axel Olrik (Olrik 1902b, 1914, 1922). He concentrates on Vǫluspá and regards the poem as a kind of mosaic where different pieces had been united into a whole. Celtic and Persian mythology, widespread folklore motifs — including Scandinavian ones and traditions from the Caucasus region on the bound giant and the fettered monster — contributes the main part. Some elements were obviously Christian, such as the motif of cosmic cataclysms and Heimdallr’s blowing the horn to announce the final battle. Olrik’s work, in particular the impressive collection of comparative materials, exerts a long-lasting influence on subsequent scholarship. Gustav Neckel accepts the results of Olrik, but goes one step further in denying any Christian influence. He maintains that the theme of universal conflagration was intimately bound up with that of universal renewal; both themes had their origins in the Caucasus region and reached Scandinavia in the Migration Period with the Goths as intermediaries. The sole Germanic element of the Ragnarøk myth was, according to him, the heroic determination to fight until the bitter end despite knowing that the enemy side will win (Neckel 1918). Also within the perspective of a non-Scandinavian and composite origin of the Ragnarøk myth are Richard Reitzenstein’s studies (Reitzenstein 1924, 1963). He suggests that Iranian eschatological ideas constituted the foundations of the Scandinavian myth and that they had been intermediated by the Manichaeans, whose views on the end of the world were strongly rooted in Iranian tradition. This influence most likely found its way across the Balkans

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and Russia where, according to Reitzenstein, Manichaean cosmogonic myths had survived in popular traditions among the Slavs and the Balts. Inspired by the publication of an Iranian apocalyptic text (Benveniste 1932), Will Erich Peuckert joined the Manichaean-Iranian argument (Peuckert 1935). He finds at least three central motifs in Vǫluspá that ultimately came from Iran but had come to Scandinavia through the Manichaeans: the evil ‘wolf-time’ with the dissolution of society and family; the final battle between Good and Evil; and, surprisingly, the mighty one from above, mentioned in Vǫluspá st. 65 (H58, lacking in R) and Hyndluljóð st. 43–44. The Old German poem Muspilli contained, according to Peuckert, apparent Manichaean elements and served as an important link in the transmission of the Manichaean-Iranian eschatology to the North. Two influential handbooks on Germanic religion acknowledge their debt to Olrik: namely, Turville-Petre (1964: 280–85) and Ellis Davidson (1964: 202–10). The former agrees with Olrik on the presence of Christian elements, but stresses more strongly the point that Vǫluspá does not represent popular beliefs about Ragnarøk; instead, it conveys ‘the views of a mystic and an exceptional poet’ (1964: 282). Turville-Petre concludes that the Ragnarøk myth, as it is described in Vǫluspá, ‘consists of motives drawn from many sources’ (1964: 285). Ellis Davidson identifies two basic themes that made up the description of Ragnarøk in Vǫluspá: one being the destruction of earth and heaven, the other the breaking loose of monsters. There is, she believes, practically no Christian influence on the myth, but the description of the final cataclysm could have been inspired by some Icelandic scenery of terrible earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, as is also suggested by Sigurður Nordal (1952). Taking the relationship between myth and ritual in the ancient Near East as a model, John Stanley Martin emphasizes that the motifs of Ragnarøk had their original setting in seasonal rituals (Martin 1972). As he sees it, two main myths, originally independent, form the bulk of the Ragnarøk myth as we now know it: one is the final battle of the gods, the other is Baldr’s death. To these were added a range of minor motifs, such as the fimbulvetr. Martin addresses only in passing the question of when the Ragnarøk myth might have come together as a whole.9

9 

Martin (1972: 94): ‘In the composite ragnarǫk, which must have existed as an eschatological unity at least by the end of the twelfth century, Surtr was the leader of the gods’ opponents.’

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The Indo-European Approach This approach (also è 11) was anticipated in a remarkable way by Viktor Rydberg at the end of the nineteenth century (Rydberg 1886–89). Though not a professional scholar, he was able to profit from the progress of contemporary scholarship that was making ancient Indian and Iranian texts available in new editions and translations. Fresh comparative materials were thus at hand, and Rydberg deserves credit for using them. The way in which he applied these materials to the Scandinavian Ragnarøk drama and the conclusions he drew were, however, too speculative to gain scholarly acceptance. The breakthrough of the Indo-European approach came with Stig Wikander and Georges Dumézil. The former focused on the theme of the great battle as found in the national epics of India and Iran, the Mahabharata and the Shāhnāme, respectively. Disguised as pseudo-history, the descriptions reflect a very ancient myth on the final confrontation of Good and Evil (Wikander 1960). Although widening the IndoEuropean perspective with his trifunctional system, Dumézil likewise based his approach to the Scandinavian myth on the ancient Indian Mahabharata. He compared with much ingenuity the plot and main actors of the Indian epic with the Ragnarøk drama and found the correspondences so striking and regular that a myth on the history and destiny of the world common, or at least partially common, to all Indo-Europeans, must be assumed (Dumézil 1973c). Dumézil’s impact on the comparative study of Germanic mythology can be seen from the number of publications that build on or refer to his work (e.g., Å. V. Ström 1967a and è11). Other scholars following the Indo-European line of interpretation pay particular attention to the theme of the final battle. Ragnarøk is presented as ‘the undisputed locus classicus of this theme’ (O’Brien 1976: 295). Attempts to reconstruct a model of Indo-European eschatology include a number of motifs taken from the Ragnarøk myth (O’Brien 1976; Ahyan 1998; Bray 2000). Regarding the Ragnarøk myth as an independent variant of a broader and more ancient Indo-European tradition, Bruce Lincoln raises the question of a bodily resurrection of the gods after the final cataclysm. He argues with reference to Greek and Iranian myths that at least Baldr and Hǫðr were resurrected in this way (Lincoln 1986: 131–32). Comparison with ancient Iranian eschatology reveals common features that actually suggest an Indo-European background (Hultgård 2009, 2017).

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Ragnarøk: A Myth under Christian Influence This line of interpretation dominated scholarship at the end of the nineteenth century and was argued by, among others, Anton Christian Bang (1879), Sophus Bugge (1881–89), and Elard H. Meyer (1889). In their view, Scandinavian eschatology was almost exclusively made up of Christian ideas with some classical elements intermediated by medi­eval Christianity. The Christian impact was accepted, albeit not in the same radical form, by scholars like Jan de Vries (1956–57a) and Arend van Holten (1977). De Vries considered the Ragnarøk myth as a whole to be a product of the expiring Scandinavian paganism, but many motifs reached back to the eighth century and were partly of Christian, partly of Germanic origin (de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 403–05). Van Holten drew attention to the role played by social and cultural changes for the genesis of eschatological ideas, pointing to what happened among the Indians of Mesoamerica when the Europeans arrived. The confrontation caused a dissolution of their traditional society and values, creating an atmosphere of imminent destruction and of the decay of the native gods. The penetration of Christianity gave rise to a similar ambience among the Scandinavians, which in turn led to the emergence of the Ragnarøk myth. The Christian line of interpretation has regained favour in modern scholarship. The discussion has to a large extent centred on Vǫluspá. The main problem can be stated as follows: Is the poem the first expression of a coherent eschatological myth shaped by the impact of Christianity, or does it draw on an ancient Germanic tradition? A radical view interprets Vǫluspá as composed by a poet who was probably a committed Christian and who wished to show that the old gods were doomed to perish and that something new and better was coming (Samplonius 2013). The term Surtalogi,10 which denotes the universal conflagration, is usually associated with the fire-giant Surtr despite the strange form of the compound. According to Samplonius, however, surtalogi has nothing to do with Surtr but means ‘the black fire’ and derives from medi­ eval Christianity, where it is used about the fire in hell. In fact, only the names of deities, such as Óðinn, Þórr, and Frigg, are considered by Samplonius to be of native Germanic origin. Apart from some widespread folklore motifs, the main elements of Ragnarøk in Vǫluspá, as he sees it, all derive from Christianity. Most of them had penetrated into Scandinavia before the official conversion 10 

The Old Norse term surtalogi is usually explained as ‘Surt’s fire’ and interpreted as a designation of the universal conflagration at the end of the world. The form surtalogi is somewhat strange, however. One would have expected surtslogi or surtarlogi, as noted by commentators.

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and had been integrated into the native world-view, such as the figures of Loki and Fenrir. On to all of this, the poet then superimposed a coherent Christian structure while also introducing a typological interpretation. Other scholars, too, assume a Christian background of Vǫluspá and Ragnarøk, at the same time emphasizing the syncretistic character of the myth. Vǫluspá is ‘a patristic poem’ composed by a Christian well versed in Latin learning, who collected a number of pagan motifs which he freely arranged and restructured according to classical and medi­eval typology and rhetoric (Schulte 2005). In this view, the coherent Ragnarøk myth of Vǫluspá is no more than a learned, rhetorical fiction. A variant of this line of interpretation suggests that biblical eschatological themes and Christian icono­g raphy mixed with pagan elements have shaped the dominant structure of Vǫluspá’s description of Ragnarøk. The poem’s purpose was probably to present the Christian religion as the solution to problems caused by social and religious unrest in the transition period, which is when Vǫluspá was composed (Pétur Pétursson 2013). One could reverse this approach and try to pick out the elements that are clearly not Christian. Such an attempt has been made, and the conclusion is that at least some elements ‘genuinely come from the imagination of a pre-Christian poet, although he or she must have had some contact with Christian ideas’ (McKinnell 2013b: 108). The question of the Sibylline Oracles and Ragnarøk myth in Vǫluspá first raised by Bang (1879) has been addressed again, albeit from different angles. As pointed out by Dronke (1997), different versions of the Oracles circulated in Ireland and England from about 700 onwards. The introduction of a ‘Cantus Sibyllae’ into the liturgy of the Church contributed much to the spread of Christian prophecy. Scandinavians travelling to the British Isles would have had many occasions to encounter Christian culture and be influenced of it. This also goes for the poet of Vǫluspá. Although a pagan, he was sufficiently impressed by Christianity to be inspired by its eschatological teachings (Dronke 1997: 93–104). According to Karl G. Johansson (2013), Vǫluspá’s dependence on medi­eval Christian apocalypses is shown by the many parallels to the so-called Tiburtine Sibyl in its widespread Latin versions. Ragnarøk properly speaking — that is, the destruction of the world and the gods — has been interpreted as most plausibly rooted in ancient Scandinavian tradition whereas the ‘the myth of the future’ (Vǫluspá st. 59–65) was an innovation brought in by Christianity (Steinsland 2013). A different approach to the problem is seen in the attempt to explain the meaning of Vǫluspá’s eschatology as an expression of the hope for something better to come with Christianity (Abram 2011: 157–69). From this point of view, it seems that the poet looked forward to the downfall of the old world

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and its gods, in which case Vǫluspá ‘can be read as a performance of the last rites for Scandinavian paganism’. At the same time, Abram states that the poem is ‘deeply and intrinsically pagan’ (2011: 168). When considered in relation to Christianity, Vǫluspá and its Ragnarøk myth obviously present a problem to commentators. The dilemma is often passed over in stating the near impossibility of distinguishing precisely between Germanic and Christian elements (cf. Würth 2003: 220). Furthermore, it seems difficult to reconcile the concept of a thoroughly pagan poet with the Christian ideas that the poem is simultaneously thought to convey. But Vǫluspá is not a poem about religious change. It can be argued that it is neither a response to Christianity, nor an attempt to keep it away. Ragnarøk simply means the downfall of some gods who will be replaced by others, just as the political power of the Icelandic chieftains (the goðar) continued after the Christianization ( Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason 2014: 135). Additional Interpretations Cosmic eschatology usually implies a particular conception of time. In the preChristian world-view of the Scandinavians, this concept is implicitly present in the mythological texts, and it has been proposed that time was divided into five periods, of which the last two pertained to the events of Ragnarøk (Clunies Ross 1994a: 229–42). With reference to the ideas of Mircea Eliade (Eliade 1954), it has been suggested that the Ragnarøk myth is cyclical in character (Schjødt 1981b, 1992). The crucial passage for this interpretation is stanza 66 of Vǫluspá. If the appearance of the dragon Níðhǫggr belongs to the framework of the narrative rather than to the narrative itself, the seeress has terminated her prophecy when this is mentioned; but if it is part of the vision proper, the dragon’s appearance could be interpreted as the return of evil and could thereby represent a new time cycle, which would repeat the same events all over again. The idea of a cyclical world-view is wholly dependent on the interpretation of one stanza in Vǫluspá, however.11 When reading the Ragnarøk myth in the light of the notion of killing within the family, the blood-feud system, and reconciliation, new aspects appear that elucidate especially the role of Baldr and Hǫðr in the world to come (Lindow 1997a: 164–81). The Baldr story as a whole must be connected to Ragnarøk: its first part takes place in a social context projected onto the divine world 11 

For this stanza, see also Mundal (1989a) and Lindow (1997a: 173).

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from the realities of early Icelandic society, but the end of the story is set in an entirely different world where reconciliation becomes possible. References to natural and climatic catastrophes have been made in order to explain the Ragnarøk myth, especially the motif of the fimbulvetr. The Swedish botanist Rutger Sernander pointed to a drastic deterioration of the climate in Northern Europe in the transition between the Bronze Age and the Iron Age, and he assigned the name ‘fimbulvinter’ to this (Sernander 1910, 1912). Another hypothesis proposed a sequence of very hard winters in the past, which would have given rise to the idea of the great winter (Bergeron 1956). However, in more recent research, it is the cataclysm of the years 536–37 ce that is in focus. Contemporary sources report that the sun never shone clearly, a dust veil covered the sky day and night, and the subsequent summers became much colder than normal. The cause of this drastic change seems to have been two enormous volcanic eruptions.12 The consequences were severe: crops and cattle diminished, and in Northern Europe, as has been shown by archaeology, populations decreased markedly and the cultural areas shrank. The cataclysm of the years 536–37 and its consequences give, according to some scholars, a satisfactory explanation of the origin of the fimbulvetr motif (B. Gräslund 2008; Gräslund and Price 2012). In view of its Iranian counterpart that can be dated to at least the middle of the first millennium bce, it is nonetheless more likely to assume the existence of an ancient Germanic myth announcing a devastating winter from which only a few humans would survive (Hultgård 2009). This would undoubtedly have been acutely actualized by the cataclysms of the years 536–37.

Concluding Remarks It seems improbable that the genesis of the Ragnarøk idea and the composition of Vǫluspá were due to the impact of Christianity, still more so the view that the poet was a Christian. Neither is the thesis of a late, composite myth convincing. The evidence available suggests that the Ragnarøk myth, as it has come down to us, ultimately derives from a more comprehensive oral tradition on the end of the world and its renewal that seems to reach far beyond the Viking period (Gísli Sigurðsson 2013; Hultgård 2017). The clear similarities with ancient Iranian tradition point to an Indo-European background.13 Motifs such as the 12 

See further Charpentier Ljungqvist (2009). For the Iranian tradition on the end of the world, see Hultgård (1998a); and for the idea of the world-tree, see Hultgård (2010b). 13 

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final battle between the powers of good and evil, the great winter announcing the end, and the cosmic tree symbolizing the world both in time and in space with their Iranian correspondences cannot be disregarded and, moreover, lend a significant amount of support to this interpretation.

40 – Vanir and Æsir John Lindow Introduction The idea of a group of deities called the vanir, originally separate from the æsir but incorporated into that group as the result of a truce following a war between the two groups, runs through the works of Snorri Sturluson. Until recently, all scholars accepted that the distinction and the myth behind it were part of PCRN, but the very existence of the vanir as a separate entity has become the subject of discussion in recent years. As this chapter will show, we believe that the sources support the idea of two groups of gods, mythologically conjoined at an early state of divine history. There is no evidence for the existence of such a group outside the Icelandic mythological texts, and theophoric placenames based on some form of the noun vanir (singular vanr) have not been identified with certainty (Brink 2007b; Vikstrand 2001: 399–400). The etymology of the word is contested. One attractive hypothesis associates the root with vinr (friend) and more distantly with Venus and Sanskrit vanas (lust), as would be appropriate for fertility gods such as Njǫrðr, Freyr, and Freyja (see de Vries 1962a: 644).

Sources Skaldic poetry attests the plural vanir only once, in the kenning ‘Vanabrúðar dóttir’ (daughter of the consort of the vanir) for ‘treasure’. The consort of the vanir is Freyja, and her daughter is Hnoss (treasure). The kenning is found in a stanza in Skáldskaparmál attributed by editors to Einarr Skúlason and John Lindow, Professor Emeritus of Scandinavian, University of California, Berkeley The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume iii, ed. by Jens Peter p. 1033–1050 Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) p BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116967

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assigned to the dubious poem Øxarflokkr (st. 5) (p. 145).1 Since the expression Vanabrúðar occurs at the end of the second line of the helmingr, we may think of Snorri telling us of Freyja’s byname Vanadís (Gylfaginning p. 29) or of the kennings Vana goð and Vana dís for her (Skáldskaparmál p. 30). The singular vanr is also attested once, in a stanza in Skáldskaparmál attributed to Þórðr Særeksson (Skáldskaparmál p. 18), and edited as stanza 3 of his Fragments. The clause in question reads ‘snotr goðbrúðr nama una Vani’ (the wise god-bride [Skaði] did not love the Vanr [Njǫrðr]) (pp. 478–79). Explaining the verse, Snorri writes ‘Hér er þess getit er Skaði gekk frá Nirði’ (p. 18) (Here reference is made to Skadi’s leaving of Niord) (p. 75). Thus the vanr would be Njǫrðr and the ‘god-bride’ would be Skaði, as the editor of Þórðr Særeksson’s Fragments, Kari Ellen Gade, rightly suggests. Eddic poetry uses the plural vanir on several occasions. The formula vísir vanir (wise vanir) is found in three poems: Vafþrúðnismál (st. 39), Skírnismál (st. 17, 18), and Sigrdrífumál (st. 18). In each case, the formula is found in a ljóðaháttr long line and thus provides the alliteration for the line. Þrymskviða (st. 15) says that Heimdallr could see into the future, ‘sem vanir aðrir’. Although the translation ‘like other vanir’ seems most obvious, ‘as otherwise the vanir do’ has been proposed and would remove the potential contradiction with Heimdallr’s characterization as hvítastr ása (whitest of æsir) in the previous line in the same stanza (è50). The sequence of the war between the groups of gods is in Vǫluspá, in both Codex Regius and Hauksbók. In stanza 21 of the edited versions (20R, 26H), the seeress remembers ‘fólcvíg fyrst í heimi’ (the first war in the world).2 This and the next stanza refer to Gullveig and Heiðr, and stanza 23 has ‘regin ǫll […] ginnheilog goð’ (all the powers […] the very holy gods) in council. Stanza 24 puts the vanir at war: ‘knátto vanir vigspá | vǫllo sporna’ (the Vanir, with a warspell, kept on trampling the plain).3 In Regius the next two stanzas apparently take up the building of the wall around Ásgarðr, and the following two refer1 

In the previous stanzas in Skáldskaparmál, taken by modern editors as part of Øxarflokkr, the poet relies on other family relationships of Freyja to make kennings for Hnoss (treasure). She is ‘hróðrbarn […] Hǫrnar’ (the glory-child of Hǫrn) (p. 143) and ‘Njarðar dóttur barn’ (child of Njǫrðr’s daughter) (p. 144). At least in this order, there seems to be a progression from individuals (Freyr and Njǫrðr) to the group. 2  Literally ‘the first troop slaying in the world’. The term fólc usually means ‘troop’ and rarely means ‘people’ in eddic poetry (La Farge and Tucker 1992: 64). Nevertheless, in the present context it is tempting to assume a double meaning for it in this compound, thus mapping the armies of the æsir and vanir onto social groups. 3  Following most commentators and translators, we understand vígspá (Larrington’s ‘war-

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ence Heimdallr and Mímir, the latter of whom is associated with the aftermath of the war in other sources. In Hauksbók the first three of these four stanzas appear, in the same order, before the four ‘war’ stanzas rather than after them. The head of Mímr (not of Mímir), speaks in Sigrdrífumál st. 14. Vafþrúðnismál st. 39 states that the vís regin (wise powers) created Njǫrðr in Vanaheimr (the land of the vanir). This stanza and Lokasenna st. 34–35 also refer to Njǫrðr as a hostage. Alvíssmál refers consistently to a language of the vanir. The story of the settlement between the æsir and vanir following their war, and the complex history of the mead of poetry, is found in Skáldskaparmál, following on the alienation of Iðunn, the death of Þjazi, and the compensation of Skaði. In Codex Upsaliensis these early narratives of Skáldskaparmál, including also the stories of Þórr’s battles with Hrungnir and Geirrøðr, are appended to Gylfaginning. As with the other three narratives in this part of the text, Snorri does not cite skaldic stanzas. Kennings that are cited later in Skáldskaparmál do reference some of the events in the mead of poetry story. Most of these refer to Óðinn’s theft of the mead from Suttungr and Gunnlǫð, but the kenning Kvasis dreyri ‘Kvasir’s blood’ for poetry is attested once, in Vellekla, a poem by the Icelandic skald Einar skálaglamm composed toward the end of the tenth century in honour of the Norwegian jarl Hákon Sigurðarson. The story of the exchange of hostages is told in full in Ynglinga saga ch. 4 and mentioned briefly in Gylfaginning. Míms vinr (Mímr’s friend) is attested a few times as a kenning for Óðinn. Míms synir (the sons of Mímr) in Vǫluspá st. 46 appear to be giants, although it is possible that we do not understand the kenning. In Gylfaginning (p. 23) Snorri mentions Njǫrðr as a hostage obtained from the vanir in exchange for Hœnir. Later (p. 24) he reports that Freyr and Freyja are the children of Njǫrðr, and from this it is possible to infer that Freyr is also one of the vanir, which Snorri makes explicit in Skáldskaparmál: one of the ways to ken Freyr is to call him ‘Vana guð eða Vana nið ok Vanr’ (p. 18) (Vanir god and descendant of the Vanir and a Van) (p. 75). In Gylfaginning (p. 30) Snorri tells how some vanir see Gná riding her horse Hofvarpnir and exchange some verses with her. In Ynglinga saga ch. 12, he tells of the Swedish king Sveigðir, grandson of Freyr and son of Fjǫlnir. Sveigðir marries Vana in Vanaheimr, and they have a son, Vanlandi, who succeeds Sveigðir after the latter is taken into a rock by a dwarf.4

spell’) as having an instrumental sense. A literal translation would be ‘prophecy of killing’. Fin­ nur Jónsson understands the compound as ‘battle-song’ and equivalent to ‘battle’ (1931: 634). 4  These details are not to be found in the corresponding stanza cited from Ynglingatal.

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It is worth stressing that the written sources (and these are really all we have) are more than usually heterogeneous. Vǫluspá focuses on the war and perhaps its prehistory, whereas the two accounts in works of Snorri focus on the settlement. However, these accounts, in Skáldskaparmál and Ynglinga saga, differ significantly, perhaps more than we might even expect given the mythologizing of the former and the euhemerizing of the latter. And Gylfaginning shows little interest in either the war or the settlement, focused as it is on the ‘mythic present’.

Myths The poetic sources indicate Njǫrðr, Freyja, and (possibly) Heimdallr as vanir. Snorri adds Freyr to this list. The main myth about the vanir and æsir concerns the war, the truce, the incorporation of the groups, and the aftermath. Up to a point, the sources agree: There was a war between the æsir and vanir (Vǫluspá st. 21–24, Skáldskaparmál, Ynglinga saga ch. 4), after which the two groups convened a formal meeting to make peace (Skáldskaparmál, Ynglinga saga). The fullest account of the war, including perhaps the events that preceded or precipitated it, are in Vǫluspá st. 21–24.5 These stanzas have proved difficult to understand, as a glance at such commentaries as those of Sigurður Nordal (1923, 1980) or Ursula Dronke (1997: 40–44) will show; we limit ourselves to a summary, since the details do not impact our overall view of the relationship between the vanir and the æsir. The beginning of the hostilities occurred when Gullveig entered or invaded the hall of Hár (Óðinn) and proved herself invincible (st. 21). Thrice stabbed with spears, thrice burned, she yet lives. The identity of Gullveig has proved highly elusive. Many have sought it by examining her name, but only the first component, gull- (gold), is clear. The association with gold suggests the vanir, specifically Freyja, but whether -veig should be understood as ‘drink’ or ‘thirst for’ remains an open question; Clunies Ross has adduced arguments for paying attention not to Gullveig’s name but to the possibility that her attempted murder outrages the vanir and precipitates the ensuing war (Clunies Ross 1994a: 198–211). Under the name Heiðr (a new name acquired when reborn?),6 she is a travelling seeress, practicing seiðr and appealing to women, ‘evil women’ accord5  According to Robert Höckert (1916, 1926–30), the war comprises stanzas 21–29 in the edited versions and is the central focus of the poem. 6  ‘Heiði hana héto’ (Vǫluspá st. 22) (they called her Heiðr).

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ing to the poet (st. 22). The connection of the name Heiðr and its root with magic and magicians is well known (Palmér 1930–31). Snorri explicitly associated Freyja with seiðr in Ynglinga saga — indeed said that she brought it to the æsir, so again there is a connection with Freyja. Although neither Gullveig nor Heiðr is listed in the sources as a name for Freyja, one of her characteristics is the multiplicity of names by which she is known. From the logic of this text, in any case, it seems that the female Gullveig/Heiðr destabilizes the primarily male society of the æsir with seiðr, whether she is understood as Freyja or not. In the next two stanzas the vanir appear as a group, not as an individual female (Gullveig/Heiðr/ Freyja) or individual females (Gullveig and Heiðr). Stanza 23 begins with the usual sign of a crisis in the poem: Þá gengo regin ǫll á rǫcstóla, ginnheilog goð, oc um þat gættuz, (Then all the Powers went to the thrones of fate, the sacrosanct gods, and considered this:) (p. 7)

The powers have gone to the thrones of fate twice before in the poem. In stanza 6 the issue is giving names to the components of time reckoning : ‘nótt ok niðiom | nǫfn um gáfo’ (they gave names to night and the waning moons). In stanza 9 the issue is the creation of the lord of the dwarfs, leading into the dverg jatal. Thus we have to assume that once again a crucial juncture has been reached, and that the issue is to impose order in some way. The second half of stanza 23 defies easy interpretation. hvárt scyldo æsir afráð gialda eða scyldo goðin ǫll gildi eiga. (whether the Æsir should yield the tribute or whether all the gods should share sacrificial feasts.) (p. 7)

The translation above suggests a distinction between æsir and goðin ǫll (all the gods), which would presumably include both the æsir and the vanir. It also suggests a formal mechanism for monetary exchange, which in the older interpretive paradigm was understood to refer to the tribute that humans left at cult sites. Another equally feasible translation of the last line would be ‘or all the

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gods should have banquets’. This interpretation would suggest a different form of a potential settlement or peace process.7 However one understands stanza 23, the following stanza unequivocally describes war. While some observers have felt that it would make more sense for the war (st. 24) to precede the discussion of a settlement (st. 23), the order preserved in the manu­scripts makes perfect sense if we simply assume that the negotiations in stanza 23 broke down and that war broke out again, as in fact stanza 24 suggests with the adverb enn (still) in the second line. And it is in this stanza that a direct opposition between æsir and vanir is made explicit. Fleygði Óðinn oc í fólc um scaut, þat var enn fólcvíg fyrst í heimi; brotinn var borðveggr borgar ása, knátto vanir vígspá vǫllo sporna. (Odin hurled a spear, sped it into the host; that was war still, the first in the world; the wooden rampart of the Æsir’s stronghold was wrecked; the Vanir, with a warspell, kept on trampling the plain.) (p. 7)

Here Vǫluspá breaks off. There is no account of the meeting for the peace settle­ ment. The account of the war in Ynglinga saga differs in some significant ways. It and the following meeting and settlement receive quite laconic treatment in Chapter 4. Óðinn fór með her á hendr Vǫnum, en þeir urðu vel við ok vǫrðu land sitt, ok hǫfðu ymsir sigr. Herjuðu hvárir land annarra ok gerðu skaða. En er þat leiddisk hvárumtveggjum, lǫgðu þeir milli sín sættarstefnu ok gerðu frið ok seldusk gíslar. (Óthin made war on the Vanir, but they resisted stoutly and defended their land; now the one, now the other was victorious, and both devastated the land of their opponents, doing each other damage. But when both wearied of that, they agreed on a peace meeting and concluded a peace, giving each other hostages.) (pp. 7–8)

7 

Cf. Meulengracht Sørensen (1988) for thoughts on the process of incorporation of the divine by means of banqueting.

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In this version, Óðinn is the aggressor, and the domestic crises of Vǫluspá st. 21–22 involving mysterious females are nowhere to be found, unless we imagine that the damage (skaði) inflicted by the vanir on the æsir during the stage of equilibrium is their doing, and the text will hardly support such an inference. In this version, it is clear that two armies are at war, and that supports the euhemerized idea of the æsir as people moving from Tyrkland to the North, waging war when necessary. The truce leads to the peace settlement, and this chapter of Ynglinga saga offers one of the two versions of the story. Hostages were exchanged: Njǫrðr to the æsir; Hœnir to the vanir; Freyr to the æsir; Mímir to the vanir; Kvasir to the æsir. Snorri describes these hostages: Njǫrðr was wealthy; Hœnir was handsome and looked like a splendid chieftain; Mímir was the wisest (inn vitrasti) of men; Kvasir most prescient (spakastr). However, believing they had been deceived because Hœnir could function as a chieftain only with the advice of Mímir, the vanir beheaded Mímir and returned the head to the æsir. Óðinn embalmed and enchanted the head, and it provided him with secret knowledge. Later Óðinn established Njǫrðr and Freyr as cult leaders and díar among the æsir.8 The exchange of Njǫrðr and Hœnir is also mentioned in Gylfaginning, as is Mímir, whose head in that text appears to be attached to his body. In his description of cosmology, Snorri has Jafnhár describe the well of Mímir. En undir þeiri rót er til hrímþursa horfir, þar er Mímis brunnr, er spekð ok mannvit er í fólgit, ok heitir sá Mímir er á brunninn. Hann er fullr af vísindum fyrir því at hann drekkr ór brunninum af horninu Gjallarhorni. Þar kom Alfǫðr ok beiddisk eins drykkjar af brunninum, en hann fekk eigi fyrr en hann lagði auga sitt at veði. (p. 17) (But under the root that reaches toward the frost-giants, there is where Mimir’s well is, which has wisdom and intelligence contained in it, and the master of the well is called Mimir. He is full of learning because he drinks from the well with the horn Giallarhorn. All-father went there and asked for a single drink from the well, but he did not get one until he placed his eye as a pledge.) (p. 17)

At this point, Jafnhár quotes a stanza of fornyrðislag, a variant of what editors print as the second half of st. 28 of Vǫluspá. 8  The word díar is only attested here and in Kormákr’s Sigurðardrápa st. 3. Finnur Jónsson (1931: 138, s.v. fjǫrðr) construes a kenning día fjǫrðr (fjord of the díar) for poetry, in which ‘fjord’ as liquid stands for the mead of poetry. Díar would then properly mean ‘gods’. According to Kiil (1958), however, it may mean ‘cult functionaries’, which would accord with Snorri’s statement about the vanir in Ynglinga saga.

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Allt veit ek, Óðinn, hvar þú auga falt; í þeim inum mæra Mímis brunni. Drekkr miǫð Mímir morgun hverjan af veði Valfǫðrs. Vituð þér enn, eða hvat? (p. 17) (I know all about it, Odin, Where you hid you eye in Mimir’s famous well. Mimir drinks mead every morning from the Father of the Slain’s pledge — do you want to know more: and what?) (p. 7)

These are equivalent to lines 7–14 of Vǫluspá st. 28, which is found only in Codex Regius; the first six seem to have to do with the frame of the poem rather than the seeress’s vision.9 In the previous stanza, the seeress spoke of the hljóð (hearing? horn?) of Heimdallr hidden under the holy tree, sprinkled with dew from the pledge of Valfǫðr. Mímir thus has a cosmological function and deep association with wisdom. In Gylfaginning, too, Snorri quotes Vǫluspá st. 46, in which Óðinn talks to the head of Mímr (not Mímir) as ragnarǫk approaches. This stanza also contains the kenning Míms synir. In addition to the war and the peace settlement, Ynglinga saga offers additional information about the vanir, subsequent to their incorporation with the æsir. Freyja was a blótgyðja (sacrificial priestess), and she taught seiðr to the æsir. Prior to the incorporation, Njǫrðr had married his sister, but such incest was banned among the æsir. As noted below under ‘Cult’, Snorri did present Freyja as practising cult in Uppsala. Seiðr was a powerful but dangerous weapon. As Snorri wrote a bit later in Ynglinga saga (ch. 7), Óðinn practised seiðr, and obviously it fits within the discourse of that deity. At the same time, Snorri wrote that although it enabled Óðinn to accomplish much, it could easily lead to accusations of ergi and was thus restricted to females, just as it was one or more females who, according to Vǫluspá st. 22, brought it among the æsir. Although seiðr thus apparently originated among the vanir, it seems to have been with the outgroup females, not with the entire group; that is, there is little evidence that Njǫrðr 9 

‘Ein sat hon úti, | þá er inn aldni kom | Yggiungr ása, | oc í augo leit: “Hvers fregnit mic, hví freistið mín?”’ (Alone she sat outside, when the old man came, the Terrible One of the Æsir and he looked her in the eyes: ‘Why do you question me? Why do you test me?’) (p. 7).

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and Freyr ever practised it. However, it is not difficult to imagine that a charge of ergi could be lodged against Njǫrðr (è44), or even against Freyr for giving up his sword. Incest, too, was a dangerous weapon. It could provide the genealogy of extraordinary heroes, such as Sinfjǫtli, conceived in the purposeful incestuous union of Signý and Sigmundr according to Vǫlsunga saga, but human society shuns it. Clearly in the context of the incorporation of the æsir and vanir, its banning represents the ‘civilizing’ of the vanir (as does, probably, the assignment of seiðr to females). We note, however, that incest is yet another feature that binds the vanir as a group: Njǫrðr practised it with his sister, and Freyja, one generation down from Njǫrðr, apparently practised it with her brother (Lokasenna st. 32). The version of the story of the settlement of the æsir and vanir in Ynglinga saga, with the exchanging of hostages, makes sense if the myth is about the incorporation of two groups. The other version of the peace settlement is more openly mythic, and it leads to the creation and acquisition of the mead of poetry. Perhaps not surprisingly, it is found in Skáldskaparmál, whose overarching subject is poetry. It is told in answer to Bragi’s question ‘Hvaðan af hefir hafizk sú íþrótt er þér kallið skáldskap?’ (p. 3) (How did this craft that you call poetry originate?) (p. 61). The part having to do with the settlement encompasses two motifs. The first is that the two groups mixed their spittle in a kettle.The second is that to retain the token of the truce (griðamark), from the mixed spittle the gods made Kvasir, a man of enormous wisdom, who went around the world teaching wisdom to people. The story goes on for some length after this: two dwarfs kill Kvasir and from his blood brew mead that can make those who drink it poets or wise men. After the dwarfs kill a pair of giants, they are forced to surrender the mead to the giant Suttungr in compensation. Óðinn obtains it for gods and men by seducing or raping Suttungr’s daughter, Gunnlǫð. As noted above, Vǫluspá focuses on the war. For the rest of the poem, we must infer the peace and incorporation of the two groups of gods. The two stanzas following the war (25–26 in the standard numbering) seem to refer to the possible loss of Freyja to the giant master builder: ‘ætt iotuns | Óðs mey gefna’ (Óðr’s maid given to the family of giants) and the resolution of that crisis. Thus, Freyja would now be regarded as a valuable member of the family of all the gods. The reference to Mímir and his well (st. 28) should also follow the war if Mímir belongs to the peace settlement. Since this stanza is lacking in the Hauksbók variant, inferring incorporation is more difficult there.

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Mímir poses a special set of problems, since three name forms exist. Following Vǫluspá st. 28, Mímir is what Snorri uses in Gylfaginning for the owner of the well, Mímis brunnr (the well of Mímir). It is also the form Snorri uses in Ynglinga saga for the beheaded hostage. However, as mentioned above, in Gylfaginning Snorri also quotes Vǫluspá st. 46, which has the form Míms hǫfuð (head of Mímr), as well as Míms synir (the sons of Mímr). In Skáldskaparmál, he cited verses with both forms. And as the poet of Háttatal, he used the kenning Míms vinr (friend of Mímr) for Óðinn. To generalize, when we can discern differences, the form Mímir is usually associated with the well and Mímr with the head. In addition, there are numerous compound names with both forms as second component. And there is a third form, Mími: the poem Fjǫlsvinnsmál twice refers to Mímameiðr (tree of Mími) for what appears to be the World Tree (st. 20, 24). Even if these three forms should refer mythologically to the same figure, there is the complication that Mímir is included in Skáldskaparmál in a list of heiti (poetic synonyms) for giants, and that Míms synir (sons of Mímr) are also found sporting in Vǫluspá st. 46 just before the poet states that Óðinn is speaking to the head of Mímr; it is not difficult to understand these beings as giants. Despite the obvious problems, however, recent scholars seem to regard these data as reflecting variations in a single underlying name.10 For example, Jacqueline Simpson (1962–65) makes a compelling argument for the essentially interstichial status of Mímir/Mímr/Mími: neither áss nor vanr, neither living nor dead, a head in a well, for whom it is even possible to construct an association with the World Tree. The etymological connection of the root with words for ‘memory’, such as Latin memor, is appropriate for the wisdom associated with the head of Mímir (see Clunies Ross 1994a: 211–15).11 Etymology has also proved helpful for the other main version of the settlement story, the creation of Kvasir, which leads in turn to the mead of poetry.12 The possible etymological connection with words having to do with beverages extracted by squeezing (Danish kvase, English quash) makes sense (TurvillePetre 1964: 40; cf. de Vries 1962a: 336), since Kvasir embodies, before it is made, the mead of poetry. However, it would also be fair to say that Kvasir is to some degree, like Mímir, interstichial, at least in his incarnation in 10 

Thus Jan de Vries treated them as a single lemma in his etymological dictionary (de Vries 1962a: 387). 11  Lindow has suggested both that the head might have been regarded as a kind of ‘pagan relic’ and that there might have been a connection with shamanic masks (Lindow 2002a: 24; 2003: 96–97, 103). 12  The part of the story dealing with Óðinn’s acquisition of the mead is treated in (è42).

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Skáldskaparmál. Not born of woman, his ‘genetic background’ encompasses bodily fluids of both groups of gods, and his enduring value is through his own bodily fluid. Because of his wanderings through the world imparting wisdom, he seemingly has no home, neither with the æsir nor with the vanir nor indeed with any group. Like Mímir, one part of his body could be processed in order to create wisdom: Óðinn used herbs, the dwarfs, honey. Finally, the eddic poem Alvíssmál is built on the notion of languages of various beings, or, more accurately, those that are spoken heimi hveriom í (in every world/land). The vanir appear as one of the more frequent groups in the poem. In answer to Þórr’s questioning, the dwarf Alvíss offers a word from the humans and giants for each of the thirteen conceptual category that Þórr asks about, but all other groups are missing in certain categories. For the álfar it is only the last — ǫl (beer) — that is missing; at the opposite end of the scale, for ása synir (sons of æsir) only one word is provided, in the category of sól (sun) (è34). Vanir are represented in nine of the thirteen categories, and this makes them one of the more consistently represented groups. All the words assigned to the vanir have initial v-, and this is the most consistent use of alliteration in the poem. The words assigned to them fall into the category that Lennart Moberg associated with the gods (Moberg 1970–73); they are poetic (sometimes kennings) and/or archaic.

Cult Although there are numerous indications of cult associated with Njǫrðr, Freyr, and Freyja individually, cult associated with the vanir as a group is more difficult to postulate. The placenames Frösön (Frö’s [= Freyr’s] island) and Norderön (Njärd’s [= Njǫrðr’s] island) a few kilometres apart in Lake Storsjö in Jämtland, Sweden (Brink 1990a; Vikstrand 1993), could be evidence of the vanir rather than of the respective deities, but the evidence is complex.13 In the Hauksbók version of Landnámabók, reference is made to pre-Christian law, including oaths that are to be sworn to Freyr, Njǫrðr, and ‘áss hinn álmáttki’ (the all-powerful god)14 13  Placenames representing Óðinn and Ullr are also in the vicinity, but the two vanir names are both for islands. Scholars have generally taken Njärd here as female and seen a pattern attested elsewhere of linked male and female gods in placenames; see also Wessén (1921a). 14  ‘Áss hinn almattki’ (the all-powerful god) remains unexplained. In the Icelandic context, Þórr rather than Óðinn might be likely (Turville-Petre 1972), but as Ólafur M. Ólafsson (1970) adroitly notes, its ambiguity could include either. In this context, too, it might perhaps even have offered the medi­eval Icelandic audience of Landnámabók the possibility of imagining their pre-Christian forebears as noble heathens who had a vague concept of the Christian god but no name to go with it (è29 and è31).

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which again might suggest a notion of Freyr and Njǫrðr taken together as vanir. Similarly, in the description of a ritual at Lade in Chapter 14 of Hákonar saga góða, in Snorri’s Heimskringla, a bumper is to be drunk for Njǫrðr and Freyr together. Further, Egill Skallagrímsson credited Njǫrðr and Freyr together with conferring riches on Arinbjǫrn (Arinbjarnarkviða st. 17); and in a lausavísa uttered, according to the saga (ch. 56), when Egill parted from Arinbjǫrn, Egill called down the wrath of the gods against Eiríkr blóðøx. In the first helmingr the gods are bǫnd, goð, and Óðinn; in the second they are Njǫrðr and Freyr, alongside landáss (lausavísa 28). In both of these stanzas, the name Freyr bears alliteration, but Njǫrðr does not, and the pairing does seem to suggest ritual language pointing toward the vanir as a group. Two conversion stanzas of Hallfreðr vandræðaskáld might contrast the worship of the æsir and vanir. Found in Hallfreðar saga vandræðaskálds (ch. 6), they are conventionally numbered 9 and 10 of his lausavísur. Mér skyli Freyr ok Freyja, fjǫrð létk af dul Njarðar, líknisk grǫm við Grímni, gramr ok Þórr enn rammi; Krist vilk allrar ástar, erum leið sonar reiði, vald á frægt und foldar feðr, einn ok goð kveðja. Sás með Sygna ræsi siðr, at blót eru kviðjuð; verðum flest at forðask fornhaldin skǫp norna; láta allir ýtar Óðins blót fyr róða; verðk ok neyddr frá Njarðar niðjum Krist at biðja. (Against me Frey and Freya (last year I left off Njord’s deceit; let fiends ask mercy from Grímnir) will bear me fury, and the mighty Thor. From Christ alone will I beg all love (hateful to me is the son’s anger; under the father of earth he holds famous power) and from God. It’s the creed of the sovereign of Sogn, to ban sacrifices. We must renounce many a long-held decree of norns. All mankind casts Odin’s words to the winds. How I am forced to forsake Freyja’s kin and pray to Christ?) (p. 236)

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The first helmingr of stanza 9 groups together Freyr, Freyja, and Njǫrðr. In the second helmingr of 10, Óðinn, in Óðins blót (sacrifice to Óðinn), and Njarðar niðjar (the descendants of Njǫrðr) appear to be parallel expressions for the gods as a group, and it is not inconceivable that Hallfreðr intended to indicate the entire group of gods who should be abandoned in favour of Christ as composing both æsir (Óðinn as pars pro toto or primus inter pares) and vanir (the descendants of Njǫrðr). In that case, we would construe ok (also) as attaching not to the speaker of the verse (‘I too abandon’) but to the descendants of Njǫrðr (‘Óðinn’s family and also the descendants of Njǫrðr’). Although the syntax may seem to favour the first reading, the second cannot be ruled out. The earliest kings at Uppsala seem to have had a connection with the vanir through Njǫrðr and Freyr, progenitors of the Ynglingar according to Ynglinga saga ch. 13, and the genealogies in Íslendingabók and Historia Norwegie, and also perhaps through Vanlandi. Freyja is also said, according to Ynglinga saga ch. 13, to have maintained the cult sacrifices in Uppsala during the three years before Freyr’s death was made known to the people. Hopkins and Haukur Þorgeirsson (2011) explore the idea of a relationship between ship settings and a mythological notion of a ship of the dead. Although they tie it to discussions of the vanir, the actual point of contact would be with Freyr.

Scholarship and Interpretation The final section of Richard  M. Meyer’s Altgermanische Religionsgeschichte (1910) is a chronology, beginning with the onset of human culture c. 5000 bce and ending with three works of scholarship in the then-nascent twentieth century. He places around 600 ce the ‘Wanenkrieg’, a war between Danish worshippers of Wodan and Swedish worshippers of Freyr (Meyer 1910: 633). Except for the confident dating, this notion was normal for the time; to earlier scholars it seemed quite clear that the myth reflected the reality of a religious war. This position persisted through the first half of the twentieth century (see, e.g., Eckhardt 1940; Philippson 1953)15 and met no serious challenge until the structuralist turn in the second half of the century. The debate played out more or less explicitly in an exchange of articles between Karl Helm (1955, 1956) and Georges Dumézil (1956). Helm (1955) 15 

Analyses arguing more or less from this position include Weinhold (1890), Detter and Heinzel (1894), Mikkola (1924), Höckert (1916, 1926–30), and all the way through to Stubbs (1959).

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intended to present Dumézil’s work to the wider scholarly community and to highlight its theoretical premises; in his response, Dumézil pointed specifically to the war and peace settlement as having Indo-European analogues (Dumézil 1956: 177–78), 16 and thus they could not reflect actual history among Germanic peoples. Dumézil restated his position in the first chapter of his Les dieux des Germains (Dumézil 1973c). In the following years the structuralist position seemed obvious, and the opposition between vanir and æsir offered an excellent binary, put to use, for example, by Einar Haugen (1967) and RenauldKrantz (1972).17 And even the more traditional historicist reading advanced by Ólafur Briem (1963) argued simply a conflict of cults as a likely ‘germ of the story of the war and the subsequent alliance between the Æsir and the Vanir’ — no more (Ólafur Briem 1963: 80). Today the consensus is that the myth had no background in an actual war or conflict of cults. The minority view has been expressed by Lotte Motz (1996a), who thought that the æsir and vanir represent peoples coming from the south to Denmark and the east to Sweden, and by Lotte Hedeager, who advances the hypothesis that the euhemerized history of Óðinn’s entry into Scandinavia reflects the advances of Attila in the fifth century, and specifically that the unresolved war between the æsir and vanir represents a mythic displacement of the war between the Huns and the Ostrogoths (Hedeager 2011: 212–23).18 Dumézil argues that the entire mythic complex served to explain the existence of different sorts of gods: those concerned with ordering and protecting society (his first and second functions), and those concerned with fertility of beast and soil (his third function) (Dumezil 1973c: 3–25). This position, though seldom expressed with Dumézils’s terms, has become the norm (e.g., Schjødt 1984, 1991; Clunies Ross 1994a: 211–18). The myth is really about the peace, about the incorporation of the vanir into the larger group of the æsir. The two groups have different and in some ways conflicting aspects. Especially through Óðinn, the æsir represent the intellect and the mind, and also warfare;

16 

Dumézil had previously treated the war in Dumézil (1941, 1947). For Haugen, the æsir-vanir distinction was one of a series of binaries that could be used to map the mythology; for Renauld-Krantz, it was a binary that mapped onto the human body, with the æsir in the upper regions and the vanir in the nether. 18  Although it may be too early to predict the impact of this controversial hypothesis, early reviews have not been favourable, and it is not clear that it will stand up to detailed sourcecritical analysis. 17 

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the vanir, however, have chthonic aspects,19 like the giants. Together, they make one divine society. A consistent theme in recent scholarship has been the close relationship, or perhaps identity, of the vanir with the álfar (Schjødt 1991; Schjødt 2008: 382–91; Gunnell 2007a; A. Hall 2007: 28–53). This argument begins with the obvious and long-noted association of Freyr with the álfar through his dwelling, Álfheimr (Grímnismál st. 5), and goes on to view the common poetic formula æsir ok álfar (æsir and álfar) as reflecting the same binary as æsir and vanir. The most convincing example occurs in Lokasenna, which reports that æsir and álfar were present in Ægir’s hall; it uses neither the singular vanr nor the plural vanir, and places Njǫrðr, Freyr, and Freyja in the action. As Alaric Hall astutely observes, Lokasenna st. 30 includes an accusation of incest if álfar and vanir are synonymous (A. Hall 2007: 35–36). Þegi þú, Freyja! þic kann ec fullgerva, era þér vamma vant; ása oc álfa, er hér inni ero, hverr hefir þinn hór verið. (Be silent, Freyia, I know all about you; you aren’t free of faults: of the Æsir and the elves, who are in here, each one has been your lover.) (p. 86)

If with álfar the poet meant vanir, Freyja would have taken to bed both her father Njǫrðr and her brother Freyr. Stanza 32 appears to make explicit the latter accusation. In 2005 Rudolf Simek published an ‘obituary’ for the vanir.20 Indeed, it was he who had sought to dispatch them. His argument is that the term was originally one of the several poetic terms for the gods, such as regin, bǫnd, goð, and the like, and that it was Snorri Sturluson who first conceived of a separate family or group of gods bearing this name. Since the poetry connects most to Njǫrðr and Freyja, Snorri assigns them to this group. The war between the two groups, then, becomes Snorri’s interpretation of the admittedly obscure stanzas in Vǫluspá. Simek’s obituary ran again in 2010 and occasioned a number of responses. The piece by Frog and Roper (2011) analysed all of the occur19  Of Nerthus, whose name corresponds directly with that of Njǫrðr but who is female, like Freyja, Tacitus wrote in Germania ch. 40 that she was actually Terra mater (Mother Earth). 20  Summarized in Simek (2006a).

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rences in poetry and showed that Simek might be right; vanir could just be a collective meaning ‘gods’, used in poetry when the metrics required alliteration in v-. However, the evidence is limited and in the end probably insufficient to make a confident judgement one way or the other. In the same number of the Retrospective Methods Network Newsletter, Clive Tolley (2011) argues that news of the demise of the vanir was premature.21 A thorough review of all the available evidence leads Tolley to the conclusion not only that the vanir indeed existed as a separate group but further that they were separate from the álfar: álfar tended to be male, which would exclude Freyja. Tolley reads the æsir-vanir binary as encompassing a distinction between ‘individuality’ and ‘relationality’, which in turn maps onto male and female characteristics. The vanir attach to the seasonal cycle, to magic, to death, incest, and sacrifice, even to battle. Tolley locates the common principle in transition and liminal states: of the seasons, of life and death (as represented also in birth and marriage), of ritual goods (in sacrifice), of contact with and control of the spirit world (seiðr), of transgression of social norms (incest). Schjødt (2014) also finds that there are clear functional differences between æsir and vanir. Finally, we note the fact that of the male gods, only two, Njǫrðr and Freyr, have wives from among the giants. This fact, plus Freyja’s marriage to the áss Óðr, supports the notion of broken or negative marriage reciprocity among giants, vanir, and æsir (Vestergaard 1991; Clunies Ross 1994a: 103–43).

Concluding Remarks Whatever the relationship between the vanir and álfar, it is clear that the textual evidence supports a binary in the mythological world between two principles. The mysterious stanzas in Vǫluspá obviously do present a war, and the expression ‘folcvíg fyrst í heimi’ (the first troop-slaying in the world), suggests that it was foundational. Taken together, the four stanzas about the war in Vǫluspá suggest at one level an opposition between Óðinn (at least as host of the hall that Gullveig invaded) and an individual female. Spears, Óðinn’s weapons, pierce Gullveig, and fire, which sent Baldr to Hel, consumes her. And yet she lives.22 21 

And Słupecki (2011), also writing in the same forum, was quite content to accept the presence of the vanir (or vanir/álfar) in the mythology through their perceived absence at Ragnarǫk. 22  Clunies Ross (1994a: 198–211) associates the burning of Gullveig with the punishment traditionally visited upon witches and links this possibility with the seiðr of the following stanza. The spears, however, suggest the realm of Óðinn and the æsir.

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Consider Baldr, Óðinn’s rightful heir and presumed future leader of the æsir. Penetrated with a projectile, he is burned in funeral ritual. Unlike Gullveig, he stays dead. There is thus a kind of linearity to the æsir (Baldr stays dead) and an iterative aspect to the vanir (Gullveig is reborn). As noted above, the vanir have associations not just with the female but also with magic. Thus, before the war, the vanir bring seiðr, and in it they use a vígspá, a prophecy, something from the realm of vǫlur (seeresses) like Heiðr. Whether or not one identifies Gullveig and Heiðr with Freyja, there are fundamental consistencies in the realms of the female and of magic. The nature of the peace settlement also suggests a binary. Hostages are not just exchanged; they are also transformed. Useless among the vanir, Mímir, when transformed by death and magic, is invaluable among the collective of gods. Created by the collective, Kvasir also controls immense wisdom (as in Gylfaginning, where in the myth of the binding of Loki, Snorri refers to him as wisest of the æsir), but when transformed by death, the skill of dwarfs, and by travel into and out of the mountain of a giant, and perhaps also by the care of a female giant, his blood becomes the precious source of poetic wisdom and knowledge.23 Freyja, a destructive force in the war, confers wealth and fertility in the peace. We have already entertained the notion of the ‘war king’ and ‘peace king’ (è 23 and è 42) as conceptions that were not incompatible. Similarly, the numerous areas of overlap between Óðinn and Freyja in the areas of death and magic suggest that the male intellectual aspect of the æsir and the female chthonic aspect of the vanir may not be incompatible either. What we see here is a model, a bipartite structure for the accommodation and expression of basic needs within society and religion. Whether the ‘vanir’ side was called vanir, álfar, or something else, it seems clear that at least at a structural level PCRN had to accommodate both. The collective of gods, of æsir and vanir (or vanir/álfar) has a temporal component, in that it was created in the mythic past. We have a good hint that it will not survive into the mythic future. In response to a question about the origin of Njǫrðr, Vafþrúðnir tells Óðinn about Njǫrðr in a way that encompasses the mythic past, present and future. Í Vanaheimi scópo hann vís regin oc seldo at gíslingo goðom; í aldar rǫc 23 

Drobin (1991) argues that both Kvasir and Mímir are symbols of the mead.

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hann mun aptr koma heim með vísom vǫnum. (Vafþrúðnismál st. 39) (In Vanaheimr the wise Powers made him and gave him as hostage to the gods; at the doom of men he will come back home among the wise Vanir.) (p. 43)

When all bonds dissolve, as they will at the end of the world, the alliance between the æsir and vanir will be undone. The unravelling of the divine coalition, the repartioning of two seemingly incompatible principles, means the end of the world.

41 – Þórr John Lindow Introduction and Historical Background Þórr was probably the most widely known and/or most worshipped god of the Viking Age. The name is also attested in Old High German Donar and in Old English Thunor; while these names suggest an agent noun, *þunaraz ‘thunderer’, the Scandinavian form derives from the more abstract *þunraz ‘thunder’ (Beck 1986a). Either could have led to the equation with Jupiter (dies Jovis) in the Germanic adaptation of the Roman weekday names (Old English Þunresdæg, English Thursday, German Donnerstag, Danish/Norwegian/ Swedish Torsdag, and so forth), since Jupiter was associated with the sky and rain. That he was also the head of the pantheon could accord with the prominence of Þórr in later written sources, even though medi­eval Icelanders such as Snorri Sturluson and the compiler of the Poetic Edda assign that role to Óðinn. Scholars infer equivalence with Jupiter in the ‘robor Iovis’ (oak of Jupiter) in Geismar, Thüringen, held sacred by the unconverted Chatti and felled by Boniface in 723 ce according to Willibald’s Vita Bonifatii (8.22). Scholars also have assumed that Hercules, in the presentation of deities in Chapter 9 of the Germania of Tacitus, refers to this deity, the predecessor of Þórr, but here Mercurius surely is head of the pantheon: Mercurius receives human sacrifice, while Hercules and Mars (almost certainly *Tīwaz) receive animal sacrifice. Much in the later traditions about Þórr can be juxtaposed to characteristics of Hercules: strength, appetite, travel, fights with monsters, use of club or hammer. Roman Germania attests votive objects to several versions of Hercules, and although we may be dealing with Roman or Celtic deities, scholars have John Lindow, Professor Emeritus of Scandinavian, University of California, Berkeley The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume iii, ed. by Jens Peter p. 1051–1121 Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) p BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116968

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been willing to accept that Hercules Magusanus may well attest a predecessor to Donar/Þórr.

Sources Þórr figures prominently in pre-Christian skaldic poetry. Norwegian skalds who composed about Þórr, or about objects on which myths of Þórr were depicted, include Bragi inn gamli Boddason (Ragnarsdrápa), Þjóðólfr ór Hvini (Haustlǫng), and Eilífr Goðrúnarson (Þórsdrápa). The Icelandic skald Úlfr Uggason composed about Þórr in his Húsdrápa (late tenth century), and there are several fragments left behind by other skalds. There are also skaldic fragments addressed directly to Þórr, using the second person, and focusing on his killing of monsters. The Poetic Edda contains three poems in which Þórr is the protagonist: Hymiskviða, Þrymskviða, and Alvíssmál. In addition, the compiler may have considered both Hárbarðsljóð and Lokasenna as Þórr poems. Snorri’s Edda has information about Þórr that is independent of the extant poetic material. Þórr also appears in Icelandic sagas and in Saxo’s Gesta Danorum. Þórr’s name is found in both placenames and personal names. The most important archaeological evidence concerning Þórr are the so-called Þórr’s hammers, small iron or silver hammer-like objects presumably worn around the neck, serving as amulets. Images of Þórr’s battle with the Miðgarðsormr are found on Viking Age carved stones. Landnámabók records several narratives about the reliance of some settlers on Þórr to help them choose where to take land. There are also tantalizing fragments in folklore collected in the nineteenth century.

Myths Family Relationships In the mythology recorded in Iceland in the thirteenth century, Þórr is presented as the son of Óðinn, chief of the gods, and Jǫrð (earth); she is called Fjǫrgyn in Vǫluspá st. 56 and Hárbarðsljóð st. 56, and the skalds used that name to denote ‘earth’ (è54). In Gylfaginning, Snorri has Hár state that Þórr’s mother Jǫrð and Rindr, the mother of Váli, ‘eru talðar með Ásynjum’ (p. 30) (are reckoned among the Asynior) (p. 31). Since we know that Rindr was a giantess, and the original giant Loki was ‘also reckoned among the æsir’, we must infer that Jórð was a giantess as well. Þórr’s wife is Sif (è54), whose name is the singular of the plural noun sifjar ‘affinal kinship’. Ullr is her son and thus Þórr’s stepson. Þórr’s sons are Magni (related to words for ‘strength’) and Móði

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(angry) and his daughter is Þrúðr (as a simplex noun — which is not attested — the word would mean ‘power’ or ‘strength’). The skalds frequently kenned Þórr through these family relationships. According to Grímnismál st. 4, Þórr will live until Ragnarǫk in a holy land near the æsir and álfar called Þrúðheimr (Power-World). Accoutrements Þórr is armed with a hammer named Mjǫllnir.1 Its origin is found in a narrative in Snorri’s Skáldskaparmál (pp. 41–42), telling of six of the most precious objects possessed by the gods. Like many such precious objects, it was the work of dwarfs, but Loki was the catalyst (è44). Having cut off the hair of Sif, Þórr’s wife,2 Loki had to get a replacement. He went to the sons of Ívaldi, who fashioned golden hair for Sif, and also Freyr’s ship Skíðblaðnir and Óðinn’s spear Gungnir. The dwarf Sindri then wagered with Loki that he could surpass the craftsmanship of these objects, and he made Óðinn’s ring Draupnir, Freyr’s boar Gullinborsti, and Þórr’s hammer. While Sindri was forging the hammer, with his brother Brokkr at the bellows, Loki took on the form of a fly, and he bit Brokkr so fiercely between the eyes that blood blinded him, and he stopped fanning the flames for just a moment; this delay caused the handle of the hammer to be shorter than intended. However, the hammer will not break, it will shrink to fit in a pocket, and it will return to Þórr when he throws it. The gods adjudge it the most precious of the six items. In the extant mythology, the hammer is first and foremost a weapon. Þorr uses it to kill, attack, or threaten monsters or other enemies of the gods, including, for example, Hrungnir, the Miðgarðsormr, even Loki. It is also used for blessing: blessing of a bride (Þrymskviða st. 30), blessing of Baldr’s funeral pyre, and revival of Þórr’s goats in Gylfaginning (pp. 46, 37). In his description of Þórr in Gylfaginning (pp.  22–23), Snorri adds to the hammer two other precious objects. The first is ‘megingjarðar’ (a belt of strength) that Snorri says makes Þórr’s ‘Ás-megin’ grow. The latter word is clearly a compound of áss, singular of æsir, and a common noun for ‘might’ (cognate with archaic English ‘main’). Another term for the same concept is ‘Ás-móðr’, where the second component means ‘rage’. Thus the concept involves 1  The etymology and possible meaning of this name are discussed below in the section ‘Scholarship’. 2  On the possible significance of this act, see below under ‘Scholarship’.

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a somewhat altered state of strength and anger,3 like a berserk fit or like the fight or flight response that psychologists believe is hard-wired in the human brain. The giants with whom he contends can call on something similar: ‘jǫtunmóðr’. The final accoutrement Snorri assigns to Þórr is a pair of iron gloves that apparently help him grip the hammer. Described thus, it is an over-determination of the hammer, but iron gloves would certainly come in handy if one were handling molten metal. Although Þórr’s Ás-megin/Ásmóðr is a fairly common motif in the mythology, the belt of strength and iron gloves are seldom mentioned. They come most into play in the Geirrøðr story, where Þórr must travel without them and uses loaners from the giant Gríðr. He also borrows a staff, which plays a prominent role in the myth, both for crossing the river and for killing the daughters of Geirrøðr (see below). It is not known in other sources. Apart from the hammer, belt of strength, and irons gloves, Þórr’s attributes include the he-goats that pull his carriage. The motif of the goats has not been fully explored, but there are more or less positively identified images of he-goats from the Late Bronze Age and the Iron Age. A pair of horned animals of bronze, possibly he-goats or horned horses, has been found at Vestby in Lunner in south-eastern Norway (Hagen 1954). The figures are dated to about 700–500 bce and may represent the oldest possible figures of he-goats. Apart from this find, however, there are no other figures of he-goats until the fifth century ce. On some of the so-called C bracteates, with an animal and a human head, the animal has horns and a beard, and some scholars have interpreted it as one of Þórr’s he-goats (Salin 1895: 91; Malmer 1963: 215–20). From the Viking Age (750–1050 ce) brooches with two horned animals, possibly two he-goats, have been found in several parts of Scandinavia. The two animals are placed in a juxtaposition, with a strange round figure between their heads. The motif has been interpreted in a Christian context as animals drinking at the spring of Paradise (Trotzig 1996), but it has also been interpreted as the two he-goats between a large ‘thunder stone’. On some of the brooches, the middle figure actually looks very similar to small ‘thunder stone’ amulets, consisting of a fossil mounted by bronze wires (Rud 1966: 287).

3 

The verb used is ‘færask í’ (go into), which employs the metaphorical sense of motion into a physical state.

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Monster Slayings Fishing Expedition To judge from both textual and pictorial evidence, Þórr’s fishing up of the Miðgarðsormr was the most widely known myth of PCRN during the Viking Age. Bragi inn gamli Boddason, typically taken to be the earliest skald whose verse has survived (and perhaps the first skald), left six half-stanzas about this myth, all of which are recorded in Skáldskaparmál. Early editors included it in Bragi’s Ragnarsdrápa, although Snorri nowhere specifically makes this designation; if the sequence was part of Ragnarsdrápa, one or more images of the myth were to be found on the shield that the poem describes. Bragi’s stanzas on this myth are cited individually in Skáldskaparmál, so the order of the stanzas must be determined through editorial judgement. Here is the order adopted by Margaret Clunies Ross in Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages, Vol. iii, who edits them separately from Ragnarsdrápa under the title Þórr’s Fishing. 1. Þat erumk sent, at snemma sonr Aldafǫðrs vildi afls við úri þafðan jarðar reist of freista. 2. Vaðr lá Viðris arfa vilgi slakr, es rakðisk, á Eynæfis ǫndri, Jǫrmungandr at sandi. 3. Hamri fórsk í hœgri hǫnd, þás allra landa, œgir Ǫflugbarða, endiseiðs of kenndi. 4. Ok borðróins barða brautar hringr inn ljóti á haussprengi Hrungnis harðgeðr neðan starði. 5. Þás forns Litar flotna á fangboða ǫngli hrøkkviáll of hrokkinn hekk Vǫlsunga drekku.

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6. Vildit vrǫngum ofra vágs byrsendir œgi, hinns mjótygil máva mœrar skar fyr Þóri. (1. It is conveyed to me that the son of mankind’s father [= Óðinn > = Þórr] soon wanted to try his strength against the twisted thing of the earth [= Miðgarðsormr], pounded by water. 2. The fishing line of Viðrir’s heir [= Þórr] lay not at all slack on the ski of Eynæfir [ship], when Jǫrmungandr unwound himself on the sand. 3. The terrifier of Ǫflugbarði [= Þórr] lifted the hammer in his right hand, when he recognised the boundary-saithe of all lands [= Miðgarðsormr]. 4. And the ugly ring of the road of the side-rowed ship [sea > = Miðgarðsormr] glared from below, defiant, at the skull-splitter of Hrungnir [= Þórr]. 5. When the coiling eel of the drink of the Vǫlsungar [poison > = Miðgarðsormr] hung coiled up on the fishing hook of the wrestling-challenger of the followers of ancient Litr [giants = Þórr]. 6. The wind-sender of the sea [giant  = Hymir] did not want to raise up the twisted terrifier, he who cut the slender string of the marshland of seagulls [sea > fishing line] for Þórr.) (pp. 47–52)

The first stanza reveals that it was Þórr who sought out the encounter, and it could hardly have been otherwise, since the Miðgarðsormr lived in the deep waters of the open ocean; to encounter it required a journey there. Bragi’s conception of Þórr’s motivation is now, however, lost to us. The poet says that the story was ‘conveyed’ to him, as Clunies Ross translates it, and this locution may suggest that an object was passed along to him, although it is tempting to think of an allusion to the passing along of narratives in oral tradition. One manu­ script has instead the verb sýna (show), which would suggest that the poet has seen and is describing an image. In either case, these stanzas focus on the moment when Þórr has hooked his adversary: the fishing line is taut; the monster hangs on the hook; the god lifts his hammer. The monster glares at Þórr, and we can assume that their eyes are locked fiercely together. Þórr’s terrible gaze is an essential aspect of the god and is almost certainly captured in the prominent bulging eyes on many of the Viking Age Þórr’s hammers.

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We depend upon Snorri to understand the last stanza; see below. According to his account in Gylfaginning (pp. 44–45), the giant Hymir accompanied Þórr on the fishing expedition, and just as Þórr was pulling up the Miðgarðsormr, the giant cut the line, and it sank back into the sea. Snorri records at various places in Skáldsksparmál twelve stanzas, mostly halfstanzas, that he attributes to Úlfr Uggason’s Húsdrápa. Laxdœla saga reports that the poem was recited at the wedding of Þúriðr, the daughter of Óláfr pái, to Geirmundr gnýr, the great Viking and unpleasant retainer of Hákon jarl, and that it was based on the carvings in Óláfr’s newly built hall. Five of the halfstanzas treat the battle between Þórr and the Miðgarðsormr. If the evidence of Laxdœla saga is taken seriously — and as the word ‘innan’ (inside, within) in the stef suggests — these comprise an ekphrasis of what would appear to be one scene incised into the paneling at Óláfr’s hall at Hjarðarholt. Internal and external chronology would date the events in the saga, and thus the composition of the poem, to the last decades of the tenth century. Because the stanzs are scattered throughout Skáldskaparmál, as with Bragi’s stanzas, arranging them is an editorial matter. Here is the order adopted by Edith Marold in the Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages, Vol. iii:4 3. Innmáni skein ennis ǫndótts vinar banda; ǫ́ss skaut œgigeislum orðsæll á men storðar. 4. En stirðþinull starði storðar leggs fyr borði fróns á folka reyni fránleitr ok blés eitri. 5. Þjokkvǫxnum kvað þykkja þikling firin*mikla hafra njótr at hǫfgum hætting megindrætti. 6. Fullǫflugr lét fellir fjall-Gauts hnefa skjalla — ramt mein vas þat — reyni reyrar leggs við eyra. 4 

Like most editiors, Marold combines two contiguous half-stanzas into the final full stanza (st. 6). Although most manu­scripts separate the two half-stanzas, one (Codex Upsaliensis) does not.

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Víðgymnir laust Vimrar vaðs af frǫ́num naðri hlusta grunn við hrǫnnum. Hlaut innan svá minnum. (3. The interior-moon of the forehead [eye] of the hostile friend of the gods [= Þórr] shone; the praise-blessed god shot terror-beams at the necklace of the earth [= Miðgarðsormr]. 4. And the flashing-eyed stiff cord of the earth [= Miðgarðsormr] stared at the tester of the peoples of the bone of the earth [rock > giants > = Þórr] below the ship’s side and blew poison. 5. The user of goats [= Þórr] said that it seemed a very great danger to the heavy-set fat one from the weighty powerful pull. 6. The most powerful killer of the mountain-Gautr [giant > = Þórr] let his fist slam against the ear of the tester of the bone of the reed [stone > giant]; that was a mighty injury. The Víðgymnir of the ford of Vimur [= Þórr] struck the ground of the ears [head] off the gleaming serpent near the waves. Thus [the hall] received [decoration] inside with memorable pictures.) (pp. 412–15)

Stanza 3, the first quoted above in this arrangement, is found only in Codex Wormianus of Snorri’s Edda, at the very end of its version of Skáldskaparmál in a list of heiti for eyes. Its inclusion in Húsdrápa does, however, seem reasonable. If we accept the standard inclusion of stanza 3 and the order proposed by Marold, the first two half-stanzas deal with the same topic: the moment when Þórr and the Miðgarðsormr lock eyes in a terrible gaze, with a half-stanza allotted to each of the antagonists. The next half-stanza records the terror of Hymir, at least as Snorri understood the stanza. The noun phrase hǫfgr megindráttr (weighty powerful pull) indicates that Þórr has hooked and is pulling up (dráttr < draga ‘pull’) the Miðgarðsormr. There is no indication of a threat to the fishing line. The final stanza presents Þórr’s attack, and it was powerful: ‘ramt mein vas þat’ (that was a mighty injury) (p. 415). As we saw above, Bragi left the outcome of the duel unresolved, and so do the exant Viking Age images. Úlfr, however, clearly does resolve the issue, with the beheading of the Miðgarðsormr. These stanzas suggest that two scenes concerning Þórr’s encounter with the Miðgarðsormr were incised in Óláfr’s hall in Hjarðarholt, western Iceland, toward the end of the pre-Christian period: the first was the scene that we might call ‘the gaze’, in which the Miðgarðsormr is hooked on Þórr’s fishing gear and by Þórr’s terri-

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ble gaze; the second was the killing of the Miðgarðsormr. Certainly these are the two scenes present in Úlfr’s poem. They do not prove that Þórr killed the Miðgarðsormr in any other version of the myth, but they do show that to the moment when Þórr hooked and gazed at the Miðgarðsormr could be added the motif of its death. What is striking, however, is the persistence of the hook and gaze. Even if this version of the myth moves to an outcome, it still highlights that betwixt and between moment, when the terrible gaze — of both antagonists, in this case — is the focus. Bright eyes and a powerful gaze indicate high social status and leadership ability (Marold 1998b). Óláfr Haraldsson (later the saint) had them, and they are indeed a trope for good qualities. Skáldskaparmál also records three half-stanzas attributed to one Eysteinn Valdason, otherwise unknown but often assigned to the late pagan period in Iceland, which appear to be a fragment of a longer poem about Þórr’s encounter with the Miðgarðsormr. Although these three stanzas follow one another directly in Skáldskaparmál, which is not Snorri’s usual practice, it nevertheless makes senses to arrange them in the following order (the second, first, and third in Skáldskaparmál), as Margaret Clunies Ross does for Poem about Þórr, Eysteinn Valdason in Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages, Vol. iii. 1. Sín bjó Sifjar rúni snarla framm með karli — hornstraum getum Hrímnis hrœra — veiðarfœri. 2. Leit á brattrar brautar baug hvassligum augum — œstisk áðr at flausti ǫggs búð — faðir Þrúðar. 3. Svá brá viðr, at sýjur seiðr renndi fram breiðar jarðar; út at borði Ulls mágs hnefar skullu. (1. The confidant of Sif [= Þórr] quickly brought out his fishing gear with the old fellow; we [I] can stir the horn-stream of Hrímnir [poetry]. 2. The father of Þrúðr [= Þórr] stared with piercing eyes at the ring of the steep road [= Miðgarðsormr]; previously the dwelling of the redfish [sea] surged against the boat.

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3. So it came about, that the saithe of the earth [= Miðgarðsormr] made the broad rivetted planks slide forward; the fists of the kinsman of Ullr [= Þórr] banged out on the gunwhale.) (pp. 185–87)

In this arrangement, the first stanza ends with a stef, so we are presumably justified in assuming that the poem had stanzas before here giving the background of the story, perhaps telling us why, as Bragi put it, Þórr wished to test his strength against the Miðgarðsormr. The karl (old fellow) of this stanza is likely to be the giant who accompanied Þórr on the expedition, Hymir according to the sources that name him. The other stanzas too contain analogues to other versions of the myth, of which the most common, as we have just seen, is Þórr’s terrible gaze (‘leit […] hvassligum augum’); here there is no corresponding gaze from the Miðgarðsormr, as in Úlfr’s Húsdrápa, nor is there poison in the air. Instead, it seems, we are closer to the storm implied by Bragi, as they rage around the boat: ‘œstisk áðr at flausti’ might just as well be taken as ‘surged over the boat’. What is new here is the motif of Þórr’s fists resounding on the ship or some part of it (borð ‘plank’ could stand for any part of the hull or metonymically for the entire vessel). If Þórr’s fists hit and rang out against the hull, we may be obliged to assume that in this version, unlike Úlfr’s, he failed to box the Miðgarðsormr’s ear. In any case, the poet (or whoever collected his stanzas) leaves us in mid-battle, which is very much within the tradition of the poetics of this myth. Again, then, we have no outcome, and again we have Þórr kenned with his family relationships: the nuclear family of his wife Sif and daughter Þrúðr, and the affinal relationship with his stepson Ullr. Skáldskaparmál preserves two half-stanzas (Poem about Þórr, Gamli gnævaðarskáld) from the otherwise unknown poet Gamli gnævaðaskáld, like Eysteinn usually assigned to the last decade of paganism in Iceland, one of which appears to be part of a longer poem about Þórr and the Miðgarðsormr, as the first word meðan ‘while’ — þá er ‘when’ in U — indicates. Meðan gramr, hinns svik samðit, snart Bilskírnis, hjarta, grundar fisk með grandi gljúfrskeljungs nam rjúfa. (While the ruler of Bilskirnir [= Þórr], the one who did not plan treachery in his heart, quickly smashed the fish of the sea-bed [= Miðgarðsormr] with the destruction of the gully-whale [giant > = Mjǫllnir].) (p. 189)

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The negative suffix -t is to be found only in U. If omitted, one infers that some treachery was involved in this version of the encounter, thus perhaps suggesting an intertextual relationship with Hrungnir on his shield, or perhaps Þórr in a bridal gown and veil in Þrymskviða. Otherwise this version departs from the majority first in lacking ‘the gaze’, although it might well have been mentioned in one of the stanzas that did not make it onto vellum. But what is a presence here, and not an absence, is presentation of an outcome. Gamli agrees with Úlfr in that Þórr killed the beast: he smashed the Miðgarðsormr,5 here again kenned as a fish, with Mjǫllnir kenned equally fishily as ‘the wreck of the gully-whale’. ‘Tear apart’ is consistent with ‘behead.’ In the section on how to ken Þórr, Skáldskaparmál contains these lines, attributed to Ǫlvir hnúfa, edited as Poem about Þórr. Œstisk allra landa umgjǫrð ok sonr Jarðar. (The encircler of all lands [= Miðgarðsormr] and the son of Jǫrð [= Þórr] became violent.) (p. 491)

We know Ǫlvir hnúfa from the early pages of Egils saga. These present him as a son of the Viking and berserkr Berðlu-Kári. As the saga progresses, Ǫlvir employs his poetic gift both in erotic verse and as a court skald of Haraldr hárfagri; the latter relationship is supported by Skáldatal in Codex Upsaliensis (p. 102). Nothing of either of this sort of verse is retained, and we have only the quarter-verse in Skáldskaparmál just cited and a lausavísa from Skálda saga in Hauksbók. If we accept the traditions that have survived about Ǫlvir, and there is little reason not to do so, we can put some knowledge of the encounter between Þórr and the Miðgarðsormr in the retinue of Haraldr hárfagri in Norway in the tenth century and regard these lines as evidence of the possible centrality of the myth among Viking Age poets. It is not impossible that Ǫlvir’s lines are from a shield poem (Finnur Jónsson 1920–24: i, 432), which would indicate an interest in both the visual and verbal aspects of the myth. This fragment merely tells us that the two opponents ‘became violent’. According to Lexicon Poeticum, the middle-voice verb œsask is used especially of natural phenomena (‘især om elementerne’; Finnur Jónsson 1931: 658 s.v. œsa), and the examples given include fire and the sea. Thus we may well be justi5 

The verb is rjúfa, which ordinarily means ‘tear apart, break’. If taken with this more literal sense, the passage makes the death of the Miðgarðsormr more obvious.

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Figure 41.1. Picture stone from Hørdum in Thy in northern Jylland. The image is interpreted as Þórr’s fishing expedition. Photo: Lennart Larsen, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen. 

Figure 41.2. Image on a rune stone at Altuna in Uppland (U 1161, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). The picture has been interpreted as Þórr’s fishing expedition. Photo: Bengt A. Lundberg, Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm. 

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fied in taking this brief fragment as an indication of the cosmic nature of the encounter between Þórr and the Miðgarðsormr: like flames or crashing seas, they rage at one another. A verb with initial vowel was, to be sure, required for alliteration with allra and umg jǫrð, but that hardly negates the semantics of what the poet composed. In the circles of Haraldr’s court, the encounter between Þórr and the Miðgarðsormr was, apparently, no small matter. The Viking Age images that portray the encounter also focus on the moment when the beast takes the bait. Scholars agree that these include the decorated stone from the churchyard at Hørdum, Jylland, Denmark; the Altuna rune stone from Uppland, Sweden; the Gosforth ‘fishing stone’ from Cumberland, England;6 and very likely too the Gotlandic picture stone Ardre VIII.7 The Hørdum (North Thisted parish in northern Jylland) stone is a slab containing an incised image. Although it was found during an excavation in the churchyard, there is nothing on the stone itself to link it to Christianity, and scholars are fairly certain that it was carved during the Viking Age. It depicts two anthropomorphic figures in a boat: one holds with both hands a fishing line, taut (as in Bragi’s Þórr’s fishing st. 2); and the other holds up something in his hand over the line, perhaps an axe about to cut the line (Þórr’s fishing st. 6). The foot of the one with the fishing line extends down through the bottom of the boat into the sea. This motif is not found in the poetry, but Snorri has it: Þórr worked so hard to bring in his catch that both his feet went through the bottom of the boat, and he braced himself against the sea bottom as he hauled in the monster on the line. Although here we have one foot, not two, and the one foot does not reach the bottom of the panel, it seems almost certain that Snorri has given us the key to understanding this motif in the image. The panel is too badly weathered to see either the bait or the shape of the serpent. Altuna parish is located in Simtuna härad in Uppland, and alongside this depiction of the central Þórr myth we can also point to the Freyr-placename Fröslunda (Brink 2007b: 127; Vikstrand 2001: 60–61) within the parish. The inscription on the rune stone (U1161) is dated to the mid- or later eleventh century. Measuring approximately 1.95 m in height, the stone is carved on 6 

Abram (2011: 36–37), however, thinks that scholars have been too quick to read this image as Þórr’s fishing expedition. 7  For discussion, see Meulengracht Sørensen (1986); cf. also Kopár (2016). Three other possible images have been suggested, but they are unlikely. They include: ‘a bronze mount from Solberga, Sweden; the Överjärna rune stone (Sö 352), Sweden; and a D-bracteate of uncertain provenance. These associations are, however, highly uncertain (cf. Oehrl 2006: 130–31)’ (Kopár 2016: 141 n. 3).

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three sides. The inscription begins on a large face of the stone, which is also carved with a gripping beast in the Urnes style. The inscription continues on to one of the narrow sides. According to the inscription, three men raised the stone in memory of two other men, who, according to Side B, were burned to death. The fishing expedition is on the narrow western side of the stone. It depicts a human figure in a boat holding an axe or hammer in one hand and what appears to be a fishing line in the other. The line runs down to an ox-head (Hymiskviða st. 22), and a coiling creature (perhaps with multiple heads) is biting the ox-head. Above this image is another, of a man on horseback apparently armed with a sword. Atop the stone on this side is a separate panel depicting a man standing, with horizontal lines crossing his neck and waist, giving to some degree the impression of a ladder. The interpretation of this image and the relationship, if any, between the two panels remains elusive (Oehrl 2006: 124–28), although attempts have been made to link the uppermost man with Óðinn on Hliðskjálf (Weber 1972), since there may be a raven on this man’s shoulder. The Gosforth ‘fishing stone’ has similar imagery. It is a stone slab, most likely from the tenth century, and it is worth reminding ourselves of the context: the Gosforth cross, from the same location, has both pagan (Óðinn at Ragnarǫk) and Christian elements. On the ‘fishing stone’ one sees again two anthropomorphic figures, one apparently with a fishing line — it seemingly goes down on the far side of the boat from the viewer — the other with an axe. Underneath the boat, the prey, perhaps with multiple heads (see below on Þrívaldi), and with aspects of both serpent and fish, goes for the bait. It is also worth pointing out that the eyes of the fisherman with the line in his hand feature prominently (‘the gaze’), and that the serpent’s eye may also be prominent (or eyes if it has more than one head). This image does not, however, have the foot extending through the hull. Chronologically the earliest of the images that may portray Þórr’s fishing expedition is the picture stone Ardre VIII from Gotland (figure è34.1). Given the apparent image of Óðinn on Sleipnir in the upper register, it seems likely that other scenes on the stone may also relate to mythology (see Buisson 1976 for an attempt at a complete reading). The majority but by no means universally accepted view is that an image in the upper left portion of the lower register, portraying two anthropomorphic figures in a small boat, shows Þórr’s fishing expedition. On the right of the boat, we see what may be the boat’s rudder, and to the left a straight line running slightly downward (the taut fishing line?) attached to an object that might be understood as the head of an ox; the line appears to run from the bow of the boat, but it is possible that the man in the

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bow is holding it in some way. Directly below is an indistinct image, so weathered that it is certainly impossible to say that it is not the serpent. Sune Lindqvist suggests other possible scenes connected to the myth (1941–42: i, 95–96). The house in the bottom seems to contain an ox and two men leaving with what may be an ox’s head (Hymiskviða st. 19); it looks a lot like the object on the end of the line in the ‘fishing scene’. To the left of the house are two anthropomorphic figures in a small boat over what may be a fish net. One of them is spearing a large fish (whale? Cf. Hymiskviða st. 21, where Hymir hooks two whales).8 Above that, a man faces a being with multiple heads (cf. Þrívaldi). This speculative interpretation would create a chain running clockwise: obtaining the bait; the first part of the fishing trip; ‘the gaze’ implied by the two figures facing one another and perhaps the otherwise unknown motivation for the fishing expedition (Þórr’s Fishing st. 1); the Miðgarðsormr hooked. The eddic poem Hymiskviða, found in both manu­scripts of eddic poetry, embeds the fishing expedition in a more extensive narrative that ultimately tells how Þórr obtained an enormous kettle in which Ægir was to brew beer for the æsir.9 Þórr and Týr are dispatched to the home of the giant Hymir, and when Þórr eats two of the three oxen that were slaughtered for the entire household, the giant declares that they will need to get more food (st. 17). Þórr suggests fishing, and Hymir tells Þórr to go get bait (st. 18). Þórr tears off the head of another of Hymir’s oxen (st. 19). The fishing expedition proper is in stanzas 20–24: 20. Bað hlunngota hafra dróttinn áttrunn apa útarr fœra; enn sá iotunn sína talði lítla fýsi at róa lengra. 8 

Emphasing the net and interpreting the fish as a salmon, Buisson (1976: 63–65) understands the image as Þórr’s capturing of Loki in the shape of a salmon, prior to his binding (Gylfaginning pp. 48–49). But Snorri has Þórr grasp the salmon, not spear it, and there is no boat involved. 9  However, it is worth noting that although AM 748 Ia gives the poem the title Hymiskviða, the rubric in the Poetic Edda manu­script is ‘Þórr dró miðgarðz orm’ (Þórr pulled [up] the Miðgarðsormr).

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21. Dró mœrr Hymir, móðugr, hvali einn á ǫngli up senn tvá; enn aptr í scut Óðni sifiaðr, Véorr, við vélar vað gorði sér. 22. Egndi á ǫngul, sá er ǫldom bergr, orms einbani, uxa hǫfði; gein við ǫngli, sú er goð fiá, umgiǫrð neðan allra landa. 23. Dró diarfliga dáðraccr Þórr orm eitrfán upp at borði; hamri kníði háfiall scarar, ofliótt, ofan úlfs hnitbróður. 24. Hreingálcn hlumðo, en hǫlcn þuto, fór in forna fold ǫll saman. Søcþiz síðan sá fiscr í mar.10 (20. The lord of goats told the ape’s offspring to row the launchway-horse out further; but the giant said, for his part, he wasn’t eager to row further out.

10 

Like many editors, Neckel and Kuhn suggest (by means of a blank line), a lacuna between the second and third (final) long lines in stanza 24 (between the fourth and fifth lines in the arrangement used here), and Larrington indicates it in her translation, used here. This editorial intrusion is based on the fact that Snorri has additional material at this point, that the final line may be equivocal, and that the stanza is a long line short, but there is no manu­script evidence of any omission, and we have not indicated it in the text printed here. For discussion, see von See and others (1997: 327–28).

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21. The brave and famous Hymir alone caught two whales at once on his hook, and back in the stern Odin’s kinsman, Thor, cunningly laid out his line. 22. The protector of humans, the serpent’s sole slayer, baited his hook with the ox’s head. The one whom the gods hate, the All-Lands-Girdler from below gaped wide over the hook. 23. Then very bravely Thor, doer of great deeds, pulled the poison-gleaming serpent up on board. With his hammer he violently struck, from above the hideous one, the wolf ’s intimate-brother’s head. 24. The sea-wolf shrieked and the rock-bottom re-echoed, all the ancient earth was collapsing, then that fish sank itself into the sea.) (p. 77)

Unlike the skalds, this poet seems to devote each stanza to a slightly different scene in the narrative. Þórr urges the giant to go further out, and the giant is reluctant. The giant fishes up whales, while Þórr is still baiting his hook. Þórr hooks the Miðgarðsormr. Þórr drags up the Miðgarðsormr and smashes it with his hammer. As the cosmos reels, the Miðgarðsormr sinks into the sea. What is perhaps most surprising about this presentation is the absence of ‘the gaze’, which was so central for the skalds and which the poet had already used back in Hymir’s hall. The apparent recycling of Bragi’s adjective ‘ofljóttr’ and Ǫlvir’s kenning ‘allra landa umgjǫrð’ certainly suggest a familiarity with the skaldic tradition.11 Thus the Hymiskviða poet has not only situated the fishing expedition in the context of the acquisition of the kettle, but he has also fundamentally recast the fishing expedition itself, making of it not an image of the moment when the cosmic opponents glare at one another just as the Miðgarðsormr is hooked, but rather a linear narrative about a fishing trip. The cosmic nature of the entire episode, implicit in the verse of the skalds and perhaps located in the adversaries themselves in Ǫlvir’s use of the verb œsask, is set explicitly in nature: in the reaction of wolves, stony grounds, in the ancient earth itself. There is no intervention by the ‘giant helper’ here, and, as in Úlfr’s version, Þórr gets in a mighty blow to the head of the Miðgarðsormr. The verb used for that blow, knýja, is interesting, in that it is frequently used in the context of the sea: people drive (knýja) ships through the waves, and they slam (knýja) oars into the sea. Alois Wolf aligns the use of the verb here in Hymiskviða with its use for the Miðgarðsormr’s bashing of the waves in Vǫluspá st. 50 (Wolf 1977: 18), and we might also think of Ǫlvir’s use of the verb œsask in the fragment we 11 

The adverb ‘neðan’ (st. 22) seems to recall Bragi’s ‘neðan starði’, but here ‘neðan’ is used to locate the baited hook above the jaws of the Miðgarðsormr.

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have from him about the encounter.12 The outcome, however, is ambiguous: the reflexive verb form søcþiz (søkkðisk) suggests agency, as in Larrington’s translation ‘sank itself ’ (that is, survived the encounter), but many translators take the verb as simply intransitive (‘sank’), which could imply the demise of the monster. As von See and others point out, in mythological contexts this particular verb signals ‘daß das betreffende Wesen seine Bedeutung verloren hat’ (that the being in question has lost its importance) (von See and others 1997: 330). The clause in Þórr’s Fishing stating that Þórr vildi ‘wanted’ to test his strength gave Snorri an opportunity to motivate the encounter. After the Útgarðarloki episode in Gylfaginning (pp. 37–44), he has Gylfi/Gangleri ask a question, eliciting Hár’s response. Þá mælir Gangleri: ‘Allmikill er fyrir sér Útgarðaloki, en með vælum ok fjǫlkyngi ferr hann mjǫk. En þat má sjá at hann er mikill fyrir sér at hann átti hirðmenn þá er mikinn mátt hafa. Eða hvárt hefir Þórr ekki þessa hefnt?’ Hár svarar: ‘Eigi er þat ókunnigt, þótt eigi sé frœðimenn, at Þórr leiðrétti þessa ferðina er nú var frá sagt, ok dvalðisk ekki lengi heima áðr hann bjósk svá skyndiliga til ferðarinnar at hann hafði eigi reið ok eigi hafrana ok ekki fǫruneyti. Gekk hann út of Miðgarð svá sem ungr drengr, ok kom einn aptan at kveldi til jǫtuns nokkurs; sá er Hymir nefndr’. (pp. 43–44) (Then spoke Gangleri: ‘Very powerful is Utgarda-Loki, and he uses a great deal of trickery and magic. It is clear that he is powerful when he had men in his following who have great might. But did Thor never get his own back for this?’ High replied: ‘It is no secret, even among those who are not scholars, that Thor achieved redress for this expedition that has just been recounted, and did not stay at home long before setting out on his journey so hastily that he had with him no chariot and no goats and no companionship. He went out across Midgard having assumed the appearance of a young boy, and arrived one evening at nightfall at a certain giant’s; his name was Hymir’.) (p. 46) 12 

In describing the encounter, the poet is fond of linguistic juxtapositions: ‘Mœrr Hymir, | móðigr’ (brave and famous Hymir) in stanza 21 and ‘dáðrakkr Þórr’ (Thor, doer of great deeds) in stanza 23; ‘sá er ǫldom bergr’ (the protector of humans) for Þórr and ‘sú er goð fiá’ (the one whom the gods hate) for the Miðgarðsormr, both in stanza 22; and the kennings ‘áttrunn apa’ (the ape’s offspring) in stanza 20 for Hymir and ‘Óðni sifjaðr’ (Odin’s kinsman) in stanza 21 for Þórr. Another kenning of family relationship is far more subtle: ‘úlfs hnitbróðir’ (the wolf ’s intimate-brother) in stanza 23. The base word is otherwise unknown, but it calls on the verb hnita (rivet together). Many observers have seen the metaphorical strength of the joining of Loki’s two monstrous sons in this context, but what seems just as important here is that riveting is done with a hammer and that Þórr struck a hammer-blow against the Miðgarðsormr’s head just one line earlier.

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As this lengthy passage shows, Snorri relied on the skaldic poetry, which does not treat the journey to the Miðgarðsormr and gives Þórr no companion other than the ‘giant helper’ of some versions. That he sets out in disguise is not to be found elsewhere but could answer to the manu­scripts of Gamli’s halfstanza that have ‘gramr [Bilskirnis] er svik samði hjarta’ ([Bilskirnir’s] lord, who nursed treachery in his heart) or, of course, with the Hymiskviða poet’s use of the noun sveinn (boy). In any case, although Snorri embroidered on the theme of Þórr as young lad, having the giant first refuse to take Þórr along fishing because of the disguised god’s small stature, apparent youth, and presumed inability to withstand the ocean cold, the motif leads nowhere in the greater logic of the story. It does, however, lead directly back to the shape-changing practised by Útgarðaloki and his retainers, as does the absence of the goats and chariot, which figure prominently in that story (Lorenz 1984: 544), and it therefore makes sense in the context in which Snorri placed this narrative. Just as the Miðgarðsormr took the form of an innocent-looking cat in that episode, so Þórr takes on the form of an innocent-looking fisherman’s assistant. Snorri reverts specifically to this theme, just after Þórr has put the bait on the hook, neither of which is, Snorri notes laconically, particularly small (unlike the ‘boy’ who baits it) — the ox whose head supplied the bait is, according to Snorri, Himinhrjótr, which relatively transparently combines the noun himinn ‘sky’ with an obvious nomen agentis from the verb hrjóta, among whose base meanings are ‘shake’ and ‘jump’.13 Ok er þá svá satt at segja at engu ginti þá Þórr minnr Miðgarðsorm en Útgarðaloki hafði spottat Þór þá er hann hóf orminn upp á hendi sér. (p. 44) (And then it is true to say that Thor fooled the Midgard serpent no less than Utgarda-Loki had made a laughing-stock of Thor when he was lifting the serpent up with this hand.) (p. 47)

Like the Hymiskviða poet, Snorri sets the episode far beyond the places where fishermen and any other humans are likely to go. Snorri does follow the skalds in emphasizing ‘the gaze’, and he moves it into the personal experience of his readers and listeners. En þat má segja at engi hefir sá sét ógurligar sjónir er eigi mátti þat sjá er Þórr hvesti augun á orminn, en ormrinn starði neðan í mót ok blés eitrinu. (p. 45)

13 

The þulur transmitted with Snorra Edda include under names for oxen the similar Himinhrjóðr, whose second component means something like ‘destroyer’.

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(And one can claim that a person does not know what a horrible sight is who did not get to see how Thor fixed his eyes on the serpent, and the serpent stared back up at him spitting poison.) (p. 47)

The verb phrase ‘hvesti augun’ recalls Eysteinn’s ‘leit hvassligum augum’, and ‘starði neðan’ echoes Bragi and is here placed where it belongs. Other motifs as well are familiar from older sources. Þórr’s fists bang on the gunwales (Eysteinn), and his feet penetrate the bottom of the boat (Altuna and Hørdum stones). Unlike the stones, however, Snorri’s version has Þórr bracing his feet on the very bottom of the sea, as is consistent with the motif that he walked home at the end of the encounter. As was noted above, Snorri states explicitly that the giant cut the fishing line, and he deals with the equivocal nature of the outcome in the skaldic sources by offering two opinions: En Þórr kastaði hamrinum eptir honum, ok segja menn at hann lysti af honum hǫfuðit við grunninum. En ek hygg hitt vera þér satt at segja at Miðgarðsormr lifir enn ok liggr í umsjá. (p. 45) (But Thor threw his hammer after it, and they say that he struck off its head by the sea-bed. But I think in fact the contrary is correct to report to you that the Midgard serpent still lives and lies in the encircling sea.) (p. 47)

Snorri presumably had Hár incline toward the hypothesis of the Miðgarðsormr’s survival because he knew Vǫluspá well, and in it Þórr and the monster meet again: 56. Þá kømr inn mœri mǫgr Hlóðyniar, gengr Óðins sonr við úlf vega; drepr hann af móði miðgarðz véor, muno halir allir heimstǫð ryðia; gengr fet nío Fiorgyniar burr neppr frá naðri, níðs óqvíðnom. (Then comes Hlodyn’s glorious boy; Odin’s son advances to fight the serpent, he strikes in wrath Midgard’s-protector, all men must abandon their homesteads; nine steps Fiorgyn’s child takes, exhausted, from the serpent which fears no shame.) (p. 11)

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The assailants slay one another, but Þórr staggers nine steps before succumbing, from the Miðgarðsormr’s poison according to Snorri. In the chronology of the poem Þórr is the last god standing, since Óðinn and Freyr were dispatched in stanza 53. They are accorded a half-stanza each, while Þórr gets this sequence of one and a half stanzas — plus one full preceding stanza in the Hauksbók redaction of the poem. If we understand this final battle as an alternative to or variant of the fishing expedition, the outcome is again to some degree equivocal. Geirrøðr and his Daughters Like the story of Þórr’s encounter with the Miðgarðsormr, his encounter with the giant Geirrøðr and his daughters is known from multiple textual variants, although there are no known images of the story. We are fortunate to possess in manu­scripts of Skáldskaparmál a sequence of nineteen dróttkvætt stanzas attributed to Eilífr Goðrúnarson’s Þórsdrápa, dealing with the story that immediately precedes them: namely, Þórr’s journey to the abode of the giant Geirrøðr. Editors usually add to the poem two additional stanzas found elsewhere in Skáldskaparmál.14 Little is known about Eilífr, other than that he was in the retinue of Hákon Sigurðarson, jarl of Lade and a notorious adherent of the pre-Christian religion in Norway. It is likely that the poem was composed and performed in this environment.15 To begin the poem,16 a lie by Loki set Þórr off on the road to Geirrøðr, with an accomplice, later identified as Þjálfi (three stanzas). They reach a river, where Þórr wishes to fight with a giantess; he and his companion set out to cross the river on foot, apparently using poles to brace themselves; the current is fierce, and Þórr’s might grows against it; Þjálfi contributes in some way that is difficult to understand; giantesses make the current fierce, but Þórr advances using Gríðr’s pole; both Þórr and Þjálfi were brave (seven stanzas). Þórr and Þjálfi kill multiple giants (two stanzas). They enter a giant’s hall, and Þórr breaks the 14 

In her edition for the Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages, Vol. iii, Edith Marold includes a stanza from from the Third Grammatical Treatise attributed to Eilífr kúlnasveinn as stanza 4 of Þórsdrápa. 15  Skáldskaparmál also attests an interesting half-stanza from Eilífr kenning Christ as the ‘strong king of Rome’ and going on to say that he has his seat ‘suðr at Urðarbrunni’ (south at Weird’s well). It would thus seem that Eilífr lived through the Conversion. 16  The poem is challenging, and many readings are open to question, even if the action is fairly clear. For that reason, we summarize rather than quote. The summary is based on Marold (2007) and Lindow (2014c).

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back of two giantesses (two stanzas). A giant throws molten metal at Þórr, who catches it and throws it back, piercing and killing the giant (four stanzas). Þórr kills more giants, this time with his hammer (two stanzas). It will be noted that the lengthiest section is the river-crossing, and that there are multiple giant-slayings in the text. Geirrøðr is not named by name after the first stanza, and the giantesses not at all. Also noteworthy is the fact that many of the giant-kennings have ethonyms as the base word (e.g., Skotar Gandvíkr ‘Scots of Gandvík’, an inlet near the White Sea, i.e., the Arctic; its ‘Scots’ are giants). In his summary of the story just prior to citing these nineteen stanzas of Þórsdrápa, Snorri helps clarify the action, and he names names (Skáldskaparmál pp. 24–25). He begins the story, however, not with Loki’s lies but with his hunger: flying off to Geirrøðr’s abode in Frigg’s falcon suit, he was captured by Geirrøðr and starved. The condition for his release, and to save his life, was to cause Þórr to come to Geirrøðr without his hammer or his belt of strength. Accompanied by Loki, Þórr stops off to visit the giantess Gríðr, the mother of Víðarr inn þǫgli (the silent), and she equips him with a belt of strength, iron gloves, and her staff.17 Þórr arrives at and attempts to cross the river Vimur. In the middle as he is buffeted by the current, he speaks a stanza in ljóðaháttr. Vaxattu nú, Vimur, alls mik þik vaða tíðir jǫtna garða í; veiztu ef þú vex at þá vex mér ásmegin jafnhátt upp sem himinn. (p. 25) (Rise not thou now, Vimur, since I desire to wade thee into the giants’ courts. Know that if thou risest then will rise the As-strength in me up as high as heaven.) (p. 82)

Þórr sees that a giantess, Gjálp, is astride the river causing it to rise (with urine or menstrual fluid), and he flings a rock at her and hits the target. ‘At ósi skal á stemma’ (p. 25) (At its outlet must a river be stemmed) (p. 82), he says in what could be a line of fornyrðislag or a proverb. He pulls himself out of the current by means of a rowan, and this, Snorri says, is the origin of the (otherwise unknown) proverb ‘reynir er bjǫrg Þórs’ (p. 25) (Thor’s salvation is a rowan) (p. 82). At Geirrøðr’s abode, Þórr sits on the single chair in a goat shed, and as it is forced up to the ceiling he pushes back with Gríðr’s pole. Screams indicate that he has broken the backs of Geirrøðr’s daughters, Gjálp and Greip. The final 17 

A son of Óðinn, Víðarr is to avenge his father’s death at Ragnarǫk. Presumably it is Gríðr’s relationship with Óðinn that prompts her to equip Þórr with the equipment he will need.

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scene takes place in Geirrøðr’s hall, where ‘games’ are to take place. Using iron tongs, Geirrøðr flings molten metal at Þórr. Þórr catches it with his iron gloves and throws it back at the giant. Geirrøðr dashes for the shelter of an iron pillar, but the molten missile penetrates the pillar and the giant, killing him. Toward the end of Book 8 of Gesta Danorum, Saxo turns to a king Gormo (Gorm), who has heard from Tylenses (Icelanders) of the place where a certain Geruthus is living. It is said to be full of riches but very difficult to get to. The perilous journey requires crossing the ocean, passing beyond the realm of night, and finally into a world of permanent darkness. Gormo gathers three hundred volunteers to make the journey and enlists the originator of the tale, Thorkillus, to lead them. The route passes along Hålogaland and ends in Bjarmaland — that is, it goes up the coast of Norway. On the way there are incidents reminiscent of the Aeneid, and the giant who assists the Danes, Guthmundus, Geruthus’s brother, appears to correspond to the Guðmundr af Glasisvǫllum in numerous Icelandic sources, including one clearly cognate to Saxo here. After some encounters with Guthmundus, the Danish expedition crosses via a golden bridge a river said to separate the human and supernatural worlds. The abode of Geruthus is a dark and gory stone chamber with a crumbling wall. Geruthus, an old man with a perforated body, lies on a couch surrounded by three women laden with tumours and with broken backs. Cupientes cognoscere socios Thorkillus, qui probe rerum causas nouerat, docet Thor diuum gigantea quondam insolentia lacessitum per obluctantis Geruthi precordia torridam egisse chalybem eademque ulterius lapsa conuulsi montis latera per­tu­disse. Foeminas uero ui fulminum tactas infracti corporis damno eiusdem numinis attentati poenas pependisse firmabat. (8.14.15) (Since his comrades were curious to know, Thorkil, who was well aware of the reasons behind things, taught them that once the god Thor, harassed by the giants’ insolence, had driven a burning ingot through the vitals of Geirrøth, who was struggling against him, and when this fell further, it had bored through and smashed the sides of the mountain; he confirmed that the women had been struck by the force of Thor’s thunderbolts and had paid the penalty for attacking his divinity by having their bodies broken.) (p. 609)

This accounting of the myth focuses on the encounter with Geirrøðr and his daughters. It omits the dangerous river-crossing, although we might assume displacement of that part of the myth into the voyage of the Danes up the Norwegian coast, and of course Saxo does mention the river.18 18 

According to an episode in Sneglu-Halla þáttr, King Haraldr harðráði (r. 1046–66) once

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In Þorsteins þáttr bœjarmagns, the eponymous protagonist travels to a giant (literally so) named Geirrøðr and ultimately kills him with a magic stone that, like Mjǫllnir to Þórr, returns to him after he throws it. Clearly this is a displaced version of the myth, parallel to some degree to the displacement that has Thorkilus lead the dangerous voyage to Geruthus, even if he does not kill the giant. Hrungnir Some manu­scripts of Skáldskaparmál contain blocks of text, and a few individual stanzas, from the poem Haustlǫng (Autumn-long) of Þjóðólfr ór Hvini; one seven-stanza block recounts Þórr’s duel with Hrungnir (another block tells of the death of Þjazi). Skáldatal, which links chieftains to skalds in their retinues, associates Þjóðólfr with three of the murky rulers who preceded Haraldr hárfagri in the last decades of the ninth century and the first of the tenth, and he was also almost most certainly the poet of Ynglingatal. The stanzas relevant to the Hrungnir myth are as follows, as edited by Clunies Ross. 14. Eðr of sér, es jǫtna ótti lét of sóttan hellis b*ǫr, á hyrjar, haugs Grjótúna, baugi. Ók at ísarnleiki Jarðar sunr, en dunði — móðr svall Meila blóða — mána vegr und hǫ́num. 15. Knǫ́ttu ǫll, en Ullar, endilǫ́g, fyr mági grund vas grápi hrundin, ginnunga vé brinna, þás hofregin hafrar hógreiðar framm drógu — seðr gekk Svǫlnis ekkja sundr — at Hrungnis fundi. challenged the poet Þjóðólfr Árnason to create on the spot a skaldic stanza casting a quarrel between a tanner and an ironsmith that was to be based on Þórr’s battle with Geirrøðr. Þjóðólfr rose to the challenge, using Þórr and Geirrøðr as the base words for kennings for the two brawlers. This implies that the myth was well known after the Conversion.

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16. Þyrmðit Baldrs of barmi (berg) solgnum þar dolgi (hristusk bjǫrg ok brustu) — brann upphiminn — manna. Mjǫk frák móti hrøkkva myrkbeins Haka reinar, þás vígligan, vagna vátt, sinn bana þátti. 17. Brátt fló bjarga gæti — bǫnd ollu því — randa ímunfǫlr und iljar íss; vildu svá dísir. Varðat hǫggs frá hǫrðum hraundrengr þaðan lengi trjónu trolls of rúna tíðr fjǫllama at bíða. 18. Fjǫrspillir lét falla fjalfrs ólágra gjálfra bǫlverðungar Belja bolm á randar holmi. Þar hné grundar gilja gramr fyr skǫrpum hamri en berg-Dana bagði brjótr við jǫrmunþrjóti. 19. Ok harðbrotin herju heimþingaðar Vingnis hvein í hjarna mœni hein at Grundar sveini, þar svát eðr í Óðins ólaus burar hausi stála vikr of stokkin* stóð Eindriða blóði, 20. áðr ór hneigihliðum hárs ǫl-Gefjun sára reiði-Týs it rauða ryðs hœlibǫl gœli. Gǫrla lítk á Geitis garði þær of farðir. Baugs þák bifum fáða bifkleif at Þorleifi.

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(14. Furthermore one can see on the shield-ring of fire, where the terror of giants [= Þórr] made a visit to the tree of the cave of the mound of Grjótún [= Grjótúnagarðar > giant = Hrungnir]. The son of Jǫrð [= Þórr] drove to the iron-play [battle], and the path of the moon [sky/heaven] resounded beneath him; the anger of the brother of Meili [= Þórr] swelled. 15. All sanctuaries of hawks, low from end to end [skies/heavens] were burning, and the ground was battered with hail in front of the kinsman of Ullr [= Þórr], when the goats drew forward the temple-deity of the comfortable chariot [= Þórr] to a meeting with Hrungnir; the widow of Svǫlnir [= Jǫrð (jǫrð ‘earth’)] split asunder at once. 16. The brother of Baldr [= Þórr] did not spare there the greedy enemy of men [giant = Hrungnir]; rocks were shaken and crags burst apart; the heaven above burnt. I have heard that the knower of killer whales of the dark bone of the land of Haki [sea > rock > giants > giant = Hrungnir] moved very violently in opposition, when he recognised his warlike slayer. 17. The battle-pale ice of shield-rims [shield] flew swiftly beneath the footsoles of the guardian of the rocks [giant = Hrungnir]; the gods caused that; the dísir wanted [it] so. The rock-gentleman [giant = Hrungnir] was not desirous of waiting long after that for a much-battering blow from the hard friend of the troll of the muzzle [= Mjǫllnir > = Þórr]. 18. The life-destroyer of the evil-causing troop of Beli [giants = Þórr] made the bear of the hiding-place of not low roaring waters [cave > giant  = Hrungnir] fall on the island of the shield-rim [shield]. There the ruler of the land of ravines [mountains > giant = Hrungnir] sank down on account of the tough hammer, and the breaker of rock-Danes [giants > = Þórr] caused injury to the mighty obstinate one. 19. And the hard-broken whetstone of the home-visitor of the female follower of Vingnir [giantess > giant = Hrungnir] flew whining towards the boy of Grund [= Þórr] into the roof-ridge of his brain [skull], so that the pumice of steel weapons [whetstone], still stuck in the skull of the son of Óðinn [= Þórr], stood there, spattered with the blood of Eindriði , 20. until the ale-Gefjun [woman  = Gróa] could enchant the red boasting destruction of rust [whetstone] from the inclined slopes of the hair [head] of the bearing-Týr of wounds [= Þórr]. I see clearly these happenings [depicted] on the fence of Geitir [shield]. I received the quivering cliff of the shield-boss [shield], decorated with moving stories, from Þorleifr.) (pp. 453–61)

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The first three stanzas indicate the cosmic nature of Þórr’s journey and the upcoming battle: the earth nearly splits, and the sky is aflame. The duel itself (st. 17–18) turns on the giant’s misuse of his shield, which he places beneath rather than in front of himself. The powers as a group (bǫnd) caused this, and the dísir, with their relation to fate and death (è58), desired it. But Þórr paid a price: namely, the whetstone lodged in his head, at least for a time.19 As the stef at the end of stanza 20 indicates (as does st. 1), Þjóðólfr is describing a shield. At least two myths were portrayed on it. If we wish to speculate further, we might think of a scene showing the cosmic reaction to Þórr’s journeying, a scene portraying the giant on his shield and Þórr’s hammer aloft, and perhaps a scene of Gróa chanting over Þórr. The extant images of Þórr with the Miðgarðsormr on his hook would provide a precedent for a scene showing the battle. What precipitates the battle is not clear from these stanzas. However, in a list of kennings for shield in Skáldskaparmál, Snorri states that a valid kenning was ‘ilja blað Hrungnis’ (p. 69) (Hrungnir’s sole blade) (p. 120) and then cites a half-stanza of Bragi, which scholars usually regard as the opening of Ragnarsdrápa. 1. Vilið, Hrafnketill, heyra, hvé hreingróit steini Þrúðar skalk ok þengil þjófs ilja blað leyfa? (1. Do you wish, Hrafnketill, to hear how I shall praise the leaf of the footsoles of the thief of Þrúðr [= Hrungnir > shield], bright-planted with colour, and the prince?) (p. 28)

The kenning for Hrungnir ‘Þrúðar þjófr’ (thief of Þrúðr) suggests that in killing Hrungnir, Þórr may have been rescuing his kidnapped daughter. Snorri’s version of the story (Skáldskaparmál pp. 20–22) precedes his citation of this block of verse (in the manu­scripts in which he cites it), and it is considerably more complex. To begin with, he motivates the battle by having Óðinn ride Sleipnir into Jǫtunheimar, where he and Hrungir get into a boasting contest about their horses. Óðinn rides off with Hrungnir in pursuit, and soon the giant is in Ásgarðr. After a few drinks he boasts that he will transport Valhǫll to Jǫtunheimar and kill all the gods except Sif and Freyja, whom he will carry off with him. The æsir call on Þórr, and he is outraged to see a giant 19 

Since clauses beginning in áðr (before, until) routinely take the subjective, the verb gœli could mean ‘sings’ or ‘will sing’ as well as something less definite, such as North’s ‘might chant’ (1997a: 10).

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drinking in Ásgarðr, but Óðinn has given the giant sanctuary, so Þórr can do nothing.20 Pointing out that there would be no glory in killing a weaponless visitor — quite the opposite — the giant suggests a duel, and Þórr accepts, for no one has ever thus challenged him before. When Hrungnir returns home, the giants realize what is at stake, for he is the strongest of them. When it comes time for the duel, Snorri writes that Hrungir has a heart and head of stone, is armed with a whetstone, and holds a thick and broad stone shield before himself. The giants have made him a second, Mǫkkurkálfi, out of clay: he is nine leagues tall and three in breadth but has the heart of a mare, and he wets himself at the sight of Þórr. Þórr’s second is Þjálfi, and when he warns the giant that Þórr will attack from underground, the giant stands on his shield. The two fling their weapons simultaneously, and when they meet in midair, the hammer shatters the whetstone into two pieces. One falls on the ground to become, Snorri says, the origin of all whetstones, and the other lodges in Þórr’s head. The fully intact hammer smashes Hrungnir’s head to bits, and when he falls dead, one leg pins Þórr on the ground. Neither Þjálfi nor any of the other æsir can lift the leg, but Þórr’s son Magni, a precocious three years of age,21 easily lifts it off and boasts that he could have taken down Hrungnir. Þórr rewards Magni with Hrungnir’s horse Gullfaxi. Þórr returns home with the whetstone in his head, and the seeress Gróa sings over it until it begins to come loose. But then Þórr wishes to reward and gladden Gróa, and he tells her how he made a star out of the frozen toe of her husband Aurvandill. She is indeed gladdened at this news, so much so that she forgets her charms and the whetstone stays in Þórr’s head. Clearly this myth is in dialogue with the Geirrøðr story and with the story of Þórr’s encounter with Hymir (see below), both of which involve throwing and breaking things. Snorri’s version of the Hrungnir story, conceived of as a formal duel, establishes or re-establishes the hierarchical relationship between the æsir and the giants, just as the latter had feared. Other Monsters The Third Grammatical Treatise, so named because of its position within the four works on Grammatica included with Snorri’s Edda in Codex Wormianus, 20  Snorri invokes something similar in the Masterbuilder story, in which Þórr’s rage is forestalled, for a time, by the fact that the giant builder of the wall around Ásgarðr is under contract with the æsir. 21  So the manu­scripts R and T. W and U make him an even more precocious three days old.

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is the work of Snorri’s nephew Óláfr Þórðarson and is dated between 1245 and 1252 (Clunies Ross 2005: 152). Óláfr cites an anonymous half-stanza that runs as follows: Áðr djúphugaðr dræpi dolga rammr með hamri gegn á grœðis vagna gagnsæll faðir Magna. (p. 194) (Before the deep-minded, powerful, trustworthy, victory-blessed father of Magni struck with his hammer the enemies of the sea of wagons [earth].)

Óláfr indeed uses it to illustrate what he calls svipa: ‘en svipa heitir þat, ef fleiri sannkenningar heyra einum hlut ok-laust’ (p. 194) (and it is called svipa, if several sannkenningar attach to an item without the use of ok). Óláfr understands sannkenningar as what we would call adjectives. The use of a kinship kenning for Þórr is also very common. The verse just says that Þórr killed giants with his hammer, and that is hardly news. What may make the stanza interesting is the implication of cosmic consequences in the kenning for the giants: enemies of earth. The kenning within the kenning would seem to point very clearly to Þórr, who is associated both with wagons and with the sea. In Hárbarðsljóð st 23, Þórr explains the cosmic consequences of his more general giant-slaying — that is, of his killing multiple giants rather than single giants with names. 23. Ec var austr ok iotna barðag, brúðir bǫlvísar, er til biargs gengo; mikil myndi ætt iotna, ef allir lifði, vætr myndi manna undir miðgarði. (23. I was in the east and I fought against giants, malicious women, who roamed in the mountains; great would be the giant race if they all survived, there’d be no humans within Midgard.) (p. 69)

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Þórr’s giant-slaying, then, is not only on behalf of the gods but also of human beings, who could hardly survive if Þórr did not cull the giants.22 This makes Þórr a defender of all humans, not just the powerful higher social levels. This action may be likened to the motif of ‘cleansing of the land’.23 This concept is clearly behind a rather curious incident found first in Oddr the monk’s Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar and also in later redactions. Óláfr Tryggvason is sailing off the coast of Norway near some mountains when a ruddy man asks for passage. After joking with Óláfr’s men, he is brought before the king and questioned; he has no difficulty providing the answers. Finally the king asks the ruddy man about the territory. It was, the ruddy man says, inhabited by giants,24 who died out except for two fearsome giant women. These giant women caused great harm to the humans who came to settle the area; they called on ‘red beard’, and ‘I killed the women with my hammer’. With that, the stranger leaps into the sea, and the king muses that the fiend was quite bold on this occasion (Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar eptir Odd munk Snorrason, pp. 290–93). Despite the king’s understanding of Þórr as a demon, the anecdote is told with quite a neutral tone, and it is probably telling that it is precisely female giants who disrupt human settlement until Þórr removes them. The Dwarf Alvíss Alvíssmál is the final poem in the mythological section of the Poetic Edda. Its thirty-five stanzas in ljóðaháttr present a dialogue between Alvíss (All-wise) and Þórr, the subject of which is made clear in the first eight stanzas stanzas. 22 

This stanza is interesting because it puts the giants in Miðgarðr, where humans live. Thus we can assume that there was probably a rich oral tradition about encounters between humans and giants (or other supernatural nature beings), such as the encounter between Bragi and the troll-woman, or the many encounters in the fornaldarsögur. It also implies that the ample legend tradition in Scandinavia, documented from early modern times onward, goes back to preChristian times and was adapted to the new religion. 23  Old Norse-Icelandic landhreinsun (cleansing of the land) is used when such undesireable elements are removed as those who engage in pagan practices (see the attestations from Norwegian laws in Aldís Sigurðardóttir and others, Dictionary of Old Norse Prose), berserkir (Grettis saga ch. 22), or ghosts and monsters (Grettis saga ch. 67). The concept existed in Old English as well, where it was captured by the verb fælsian, which is used repeatedly in Beowulf. See further Orchard (1995: 163). 24  The term used is risar, that is, persons of gigantic status, not the giants (j ǫtnar) of the mythology. Since risi (sing.) frequently translates Latin gigas (Schulz 2004: 43–44), we may wonder whether that is not the word that Oddr wrote in his lost Latin original. See also (è61).

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A  suitor announces that he has come to fetch home his bride (st.1). Þórr’s response (st. 2) is not positive. 2. Hvat er þat fira, hví ertu svá fǫlr um nasar, vartu í nótt með ná? Þursa líki þicci mér á þér vera; ertattu til brúðar borinn. (2. What sort of creature is that, why so pale about the nostrils, did you spend the night with a corpse? The image of an ogre you seem to me, you were not born for a bride.) (p. 105)

Alvíss gives his name and adds that he lives under the earth beneath a stone (st. 3). Þórr complains that his role as father was abrogated and that he was not present at home when the girl was given away. Alvíss in turn asks who his interlocutor is (st. 5), and Þórr names himself (st. 6): Vingþórr,25 son of Síðgrani. Alvíss pleads his case (st. 7), and Þórr responds that the suitor (whom he addresses as vísi gestr ‘wise guest’) shall only have the maiden ‘ef þú ór heimi kant | hveriom at segja | alt, þat er ec vil vita’ (if you know how to tell me from all the worlds  all that I want to know) (p. 106). Twenty-six stanzas follow in which Þórr in one stanza asks what things are called in various worlds and the dwarf answers in the following stanza. Each question stanza begins: ‘Segðu mér þat, Alvíss, | ǫll of rǫc fira | voromc, dvergr, at vitir—’ (Tell me this, All-wise — I reckon, dwarf, that you have wisdom about all beings—). The thirteen semantic items for which Þórr requests synonyms are: earth, sky, moon, sun, clouds, wind, calm, sea, fire, tree, night, seed, beer. Alvíss begins his responses with the words first from humans (menn) and then from gods (goð ten times, æsir three). Jǫtnar (giants) are always the first category in the second half-stanza of his responses. Beyond these three constants, other groups that occur are vanir, álfar, dwarfs, the dead,26 ása synir (sons of the æsir),27 uppregin (upper powers) ginnregin

25  The name Vingþórr (Wing-Þórr) is also found in Þrymskviða st.1. The prefix ‘wing-’ does not accord with any known myth, unless it is imagined that Þórr’s chariot flies through the sky. 26  Only for the dead does the dwarf talk about a ‘world’ by using ‘í helju’ (in Hel). 27  This category might imply that Alvíss knows something about Ragnarǫk — as might be implied by his knowing ‘ǫll rǫc fira’ (all the fates of men) — and that the oral traditions that will prevail among the surviving second-generation æsir will not be identical with those of the parent generation.

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(mighty powers), halir (troops), Suttungs synir (sons of Suttungr, i.e., giants).28 After hearing about words for ‘beer’ in the various worlds, Þórr asks no more questions. Instead he exults: 35. Í eino briósti ec sác aldregi fleiri forna stafi; miclom tálom ec kveð tældan þic: uppi ertu, dvergr, of dagaðr, nú scínn sól í sali.

(35. In one breast I’ve never seen more ancient knowledge; with much guile I declare I’ve beguiled you: day dawns on you now, dwarf, now sun shines into the hall.) (p. 109)

The final line (appropriately making the second half-stanza galdralag) suggests that Þórr’s trickery was in keeping the dwarf spewing knowledge until the sun could splinter him or turn him to stone. Although a dwarf is hardly a monster in the class of the giants and giantesses who are Þórr’s usual adversaries, Þórr calls Alvíss in stanza 2 ‘þursa líki’ (the image of an ogre). More to the point is that in this myth, as in others, Þórr acts to defend the females of the æsir, and in this case, as possibly also in some versions of the Hrungir myth, his own daughter. Although the character of Þórr’s awareness for language presented here stands in direct contrast to what Snorri presents in the Útgarðaloki story, the semantic categories are consistent with those found in other eddic wisdom poetry: aspects of the cosmos and finally beer. Myths of Acquisition and Reacquisition Acquiring the Kettle As was noted above, Þórr’s battle with the Miðgarðsormr is presented in Hymiskviða as a part of Þórr’s journey, accompanied by Týr, to the giant Hymir to fetch a kettle for Ægir to use to brew beer for the æsir. The prose header to Lokasenna, which follows Hymiskviða in the Poetic Edda, states that Ægir indeed did brew beer in this kettle.29 28  This category could imply that those who once owned the mead had their own term for it, or that there was some variety among various families of giants. 29  There may also be a connection with the preceding poem, Hárbarðsljóð. It ends with the disguised Óðinn saying to Þórr: ‘Farðu nú, þars þic hafi allan gramir’. Larrington translates

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Hymiskviða begins with the gods’ lack of a kettle and Óðinn’s encounter with Ægir, who according to prophecy has many kettles. However, wishing to avenge himself against the gods, Ægir demands that ‘Sif ’s husband’ (Þórr) bring him a kettle in which he can brew beer for all the gods. The gods are at an impasse, until Týr suggests that Hymir, a cunning giant and his father,30 has an enormous kettle. He and Þórr then proceed to visit Hymir, whose terrible gaze causes a pillar to crumble and kettles to tumble to the floor. All but one (presumably the one that Þórr is to obtain) break. When Hymir locks gazes with Þórr, he is somewhat dismayed (st. 14). He slaughters three oxen, and Þórr eats two, leading to the fishing expedition, for food is thus running short. After the fishing expedition, Þórr’s quest for the kettle is presented as a series of tests that he must pass. First, it seems that Þórr must haul the boat up out of the water, which he does easily. Then Þórr must break a beaker. He only succeeds when ‘in fríða frilla’ (the lovely woman), obviously Týr’s mother, advises him to smash it on Hymir’s skull (st. 30). This seems to be decisive, since Hymir laments that he will no longer be able to brew beer (st. 32) and tells Þórr to take the kettle­, if he can lift it — that is, he sets another test. Týr tries twice and fails, but Þórr lifts it, and they set off. Soon they are attacked by an army of giants, including Hymir, and Þórr kills them all. Regaining the Hammer Although in the mythology Þórr’s characteristic weapon is his hammer Mjǫllnir, he must function without it in the Geirrøðr story, and the eddic poem Þrymskviða presents a myth in which he must retrieve the hammer, stolen away by a giant: a fact that is presented with no further explanation in the second stanza: ‘áss es stolinn hamri’ (the God has been robbed of his hammer) (p. 93). Loki is dispatched in a feather-suit to Jǫtunheimar, where he learns from the giant Þrymr (as a noun, the name would mean ‘noise, din’) that the giant has stolen the hammer and will not return it unless the æsir send to him Freyja as a bride. This forces the æsir into a strategy meeting. Freyja flatly refuses to be sent to giantland, and finally Heimdallr comes up with a solution: 15b. Bindo vér Þór þá brúðar líni, this line ‘Go where the monsters’ll get you!’ (p. 73), but the subjunctive hafi would also permit ‘where the monsters may get you’. The abode of Hymir might qualify as just such a place. 30  The anomaly of Týr apparently having a giant for a father is treated in (è48).

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hafi hann iþ micla men Brísinga! 16. Látom und hánom hrynia lucla oc qvennváðir um kné falla, enn á briósti breiða steina, oc hagliga um hǫfuð typpom! (Let’s tie on Thor a bridal head-dress, let him wear the great necklace of the Brísings. Let keys jingle by his side and women’s clothing fall down over his knees, and on his breast display jewels, and we’ll put a pointed head-dress properly on his head!) (p. 95)

The giant is suspicious when his bride-to-be eats three oxen and seven salmon as well as all the dainty food for the ladies and drinks off three barrels of mead, and he is frightened at the terrible gaze he sees behind the veil, but Loki has explanations: Freyja has neither eaten nor slept for nine nights, so eager is she for this marriage. Finally the hammer is brought out to consecrate the marriage and placed on the bride’s lap. Exulting, Þórr snatches it up and dispatches all the giants. And so Þórr got his hammer back. It is noteworthy that Snorri never mentions this story, either in Gylfaginning or Skáldskaparmál. However, the story was later reworked in Iceland into the late medi­e val metrical form called rímur: Þrymlur, by consensus dated to around 1400. Moreover, as early as 1591, a ballad telling this very same story from Denmark was published (‘Tord af Haffsgaard’, Vedel 1591) and recordings are also known from Sweden (1670s), Norway, and — in fragmentary form — the Faroes. There is no indication in these ballads that Tor (Þórr) or Torekarl (Old man Þórr), two of the several names the protagonist bears, is a deity, and in The Types of the Scandinavian Medi­eval Ballad ( Jonsson and others 1978: 252; type E126), the ballad is classified among the heroic ballads, specifically ‘Ballads of Champions and Supernatural Beings’, in a subcategory ‘Man and Giant in Fight’ ( Jonsson and others 1978: 249–53). Despite the word ‘giant’ here, what one finds in the recordings is the word ‘troll’. Þrymr is called ‘Tosse-greven’ (Duke of trolls; cf. Old Norse ‘þursa dróttinn’) in the Danish and Trolletram (a nonsense word whose first component is ‘troll’) in the Swedish. The ballads hew quite closely to the plot of Þrymskviða, but they diverge considerably from one another in the language. The relative stability of

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Figure 41.3. A bronze mounting with a pair of hegoats from Tissø, dated to the Late Iron Age. The motif has been interpreted as Þórr’s goats. Photo: Pia Brejnholt/ Pre-Christian Cultsites, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen. 

plot and divergence of language suggests oral transmission and the continued existence of the myth, in desacralized form, down into the late Middle Ages and beyond. Insofar as the myths of obtaining the kettle and retrieving the hammer both end with multiple giant-slayings, they are consistent with Þórr’s essential role in the mythology as slayer of monsters. What these myths show is that Þórr also contributes to the overall well-being of the æsir by participating in the important mythological theme of acquisition of precious objects from the giants, and that he has a special role in protecting the female æsir, unlike any of the other deities. Journey to Útgarðaloki Although it contains elements of many of the myths discussed above, the complex story of the journey to Útgarðaloki’s court and the encounters that take place there falls into a special category, since there is no giant-slaying and no acquisition or re-acquision of precious objects. The story is only recounted in Gylfaginning (pp. 37–43), but it is alluded to in other eddic poems, and Saxo may have known it. The story has several parts. It occurs late in Gylfaginning, perhaps at a point when Gylfi/Gangleri asks directly whether Þórr was ever overcome by force or magic, a question that the false æsir have no choice but to answer (Beyschlag 1954). Unusually, it is Þriði (Third) who recounts the entire narrative. It begins in a familiar way: Þórr and Loki are travelling. No motivation for the journey is given. They put up one night at a certain farmer’s house, and Þórr slaughters his goats for dinner, telling the family to toss the bones onto the goatskin he has placed away from the fire. The farmer’s son, Þjálfi, cuts and breaks a thigh-bone to get at the marrow. The next morning Þórr brings the goats back to life, but

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one is lame. Þórr goes into a furious fit (móðr, presumably an ás-móðr), but the family begs for mercy. Þórr controls himself and agrees to be compensated by taking on the farmer’s children, Þjálfi and his sister Rǫskva, as servants. When the journey, now identified as eastward to Jǫtunheimar, continues, the now augmented group crosses an ocean and enters a deep forest. There they find an empty hall to lodge in. In the middle of the night an earthquake awakens them, and they retreat into an inner room, where Þórr guards the door amid loud noises outside. In the morning they leave the hall and see a huge man who identifies himself as Skrýmir. Þórr realizes that they had been sleeping in his glove and that the noises were Skrýmir’s snoring. They agree to travel together and share provisions, which Skrýmir puts in his bag. At night Skrýmir simply lies down to go to sleep, inviting the rest of the party to eat, but Þórr cannot undo the knots on Skrýmir’s bag. Enraged, he bashes the head of the sleeping Skrýmir, who mildly asks whether a leaf might have fallen on his head. Twice more in the night Þórr bashes Skýmir’s head, with similar results. In the morning they part ways, and Þórr and his companions head toward Útgarðr.31 There, unable to open the heavy gate, they slip in between the enormous fenceposts and enter the hall of King Útgarðaloki. He proposes games, and Loki says that he can eat faster than anyone. He takes on Útgarðaloki’s retainer Logi (flame), who eats not only all the food but the bones and the trencher on which it sat. No one is reckoned to be fleeter of foot than Þjálfi, but he loses three footraces to Hugi (thought). Þórr then tries three contests: empty a drinking horn in three quaffs, lift a cat — he fails at both — and wrestle with an old woman named Elli (old age), who brings him to one knee. Leading the travellers out the next morning, Útgarðaloki explains that Logi was indeed flame and Hugi his thought. The drinking horn was connected to the sea, and Þórr’s drinks have created the tides. The cat was the Miðgarðsormr, and the old woman really was Old Age. Furthermore, he himself was Skrýmir, and the hammer blows created mountain valleys. With that, he and the hall vanish. Conflicts with Óðinn The eddic poem Hábarðsljóð comprises an agonistic dialogue between Þórr and Óðinn, who calls himself Hárbarðr (hoary beard). The premise is that Þórr needs to cross a body of water, and that Hárbarðr is the ferryman. The two stand on opposite sides of the water, exchanging boasts often triggered by the question ‘Hvat vanntu þá meðan’ (What were you doing then?). Þórr’s giant 31 

The name Úrgarðaloki implies a plural. Perhaps this is one of the Útgarðar?

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slayings come up — Hrungnir, Þjazi, giantesses — but Hárbarðr taunts Þórr with the Útgarðaloki story and claims that Þórr’s mother is dead and his wife, Sif, has taken a lover back at home, and, in stanza 24: ‘Óðinn á iarla, | þá er í val falla, | enn Þórr á þræla kyn’ (Odin owns the nobles who fall in battle and Thor owns the race of thralls) (p. 69). Óðinn’s boasts have to do with sexual exploits, few of which we now recognize. In the end, Þórr does not get his ride and must walk around the fjord. The younger redaction of Gautreks saga contains the so-called Víkars þáttr, a brief narrative in which the great hero Starkaðr plays a leading role (this narrative is also treated in è 25, è 30, è 36, and è 42). King Víkarr and his men, including Starkaðr, who has served the king for fifteen years and is a great favourite, are becalmed travelling from Agder to Hordaland. They cast lots to determine who shall be sacrified to Óðinn, and it is the king. That night Starkaðr is taken by his foster-father, Grani Hrosshár (horse-hair) to a council on an island, whose twelve participants turn out to be the gods. Greeted as Óðinn, Grani states that the dómendr (judges) shall set the fate of Starkaðr. What follows is a dialogue in which Þórr and Óðinn parry one another, Þórr against Starkaðr, Óðinn for him. The fates each of them ordains for him may be summarizrd as follows. Þórr: Starkaðr will have no progeny; Óðinn: he will live three lifetimes; Þórr: he will commit a níðingsverk (shameful deed) in each; Óðinn: he will have splendid weapons and clothing; Þórr: he shall own no land; Óðinn: he shall have ample money; Þórr: it will never seem enough; Óðinn: he will win great victories; Þórr: he will be seriously wounded in each battle; Óðinn: I give him the gift of poetry; Þórr: he will not remember what he composes; Óðinn: he will seem highest among nobles and the best men; Þórr: common people will despise him. Here the semantic realms of the two gods are again juxtaposed, and the last exchange explicitly recalls Óðinn’s taunt in Hárbarðsljóð st. 24. It is worth noting that Þórr bases his enmity toward Starkaðr on the fact that Álfhildr, Starkaðr’s paternal grandmother, chose a giant rather than himself as a sexual partner. Whether he is fulfilling Þórr’s prophecy of a series of shameful deeds, or Óðinn’s wish for royal sacrifice, or both, Starkaðr’s attempt to simulate sacrificing the king, by using calf guts for a sham noose and a reed for a spear, turns deadly when the reed becomes a spear and the guts a stout noose. King Víkarr dies the sacrificial death.

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Þórr’s Companions As the above para­g raphs will have shown, Þórr frequently travels and acts with a companion: Þjálfi (journey to Geirrøðr in Eilífr’s Þórsdrápa; Þórr’s second in the duel with Hrungnir in Skáldskaparmál; journey to Útgarðaloki in Gylfaginning); Loki (journey to Geirrøðr in Skáldskaparmál; journey to reacquire the hammer in Þrymskviða; journey to Útgarðaloki in Gylfaginning); and Týr (journey to acquire the kettle from Hymir in Hymiskviða). This is not to say that he always does so; there is no mention of a companion in the extant stanzas of Þjóðólfr’s Haustlǫng, for example. Nevertheless, the participation of a companion forms an important aspect of the mythology of Þórr. Snorri’s recounting in Gylfaginning of the journey to Útgarðaloki, summarized above, explains how Þjálfi (and his sister Rǫskva, who does not, however, feature in the extant mythology) came to serve Þórr. Here it may simply be added that Þjálfi and Rǫskva are apparently human, and we have a far different relationship between deity and human than we see with Óðinn and his chosen heroes, such as Starkaðr or Haraldr hilditǫnn. And in fact, as Snorri describes the scene, we see Þórr extinguishing his rage and exercising mercy toward the human family who have bungled a ritual he has asked them to carry out (è36). In Hymiskviða, Þórr’s travelling companion is Týr.  The poem does not explain directly why this should be so, but in the logic of the narrative it makes sense, since Hymir is stated to be Týr’s father. No myth exists to explain why Loki should act as Þórr’s travelling companion, although sometimes he is just cleaning up his own mess, as in Snorri’s version of the journey to Geirrøðr’s courts. Loki and Þórr face each other at the end of Lokasenna, when Þórr arrives to deal with the intruder, as in the Masterbuilder and Hrungnir stories. They exchange four pairs of stanzas. Þórr’s all begin identically (57, 59, 61, 63). Þegi þú, rǫg vættr! þér scal minn þrúðhamarr, Miollnir, mál fyrnema […] (Be silent, perverse creature, my mighty hammer Miollnir shall deprive you of speech […].) (pp. 90–91)

In the second half of these four stanzas, Þórr tells Loki how he will kill him: decapitate him, cast him away to the eastern trails, break every bone in his body, dispatch him with ‘Hrungnis bani’ (Hrungnir’s killer, i.e., the hammer) to Hel. Loki parries the first three with details from the less impressive part of Þórr’s dossier: he will not dare fight the wolf that will swallow Óðinn (we do

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not have this motif from elsewhere); he cowered in Skrýmir’s glove; he could not open Skrýmir’s food sack. But Loki gives in to the fourth threat, saying that he knows that Þórr really will strike.

Opponent of Christ Chapter 9 of Kristni saga, an account of the conversion of Iceland probably dating from the mid-thirteenth century and retained in the late fourteenthcentury manu­script Hauksbók, reports some verses attributed to Steinunn Refsdóttir. The missionary Þangbrandr’s ship was swept out to sea and the wreckage washed ashore. 1. Þórr brá Þvinnils dýri  Þangbrands ór stað lǫngu,  hristi blakk ok beysti  brands ok laust við sandi;  muna skíð á sjá síðan  sundfœrt Atals grundar,  hregg því at hart nam leggja  hǫ́num kennt, í spǫ́nu. 2. Braut fyrir bjǫllu gæti,  bǫnd meiddu val Strandar,  mǫgfellandi mellu mǫ́stalls vísund allan.  Hlífði ei Kristr, þá er kneyfði  kólgu hrafn med stǫfnum;  lítt hykk ek at Guð gætti  Gylfa hreins it eina. (1. Þórr drew Þvinnill’s animal, Þangbrandr’s long ship, from land, shook the prow’s horse and hit it, and hurled it against the sand. On sea the ski of Atall’s land will not swim henceforth, for a harsh tempest sent by him has hewn it into splinters. 2. Before the bell’s keeper (bonds destroyed the beach’s falcon) the slayer of giantess-son broke the ox of seagull’s place. Christ was not watching, when the waveraven drank at the prows. Small guard I think God held — if any — over Gylfi’s reindeer.) (pp. 43–44)

The same verses are also found (in reverse order) in Njals saga ch. 102 and Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar in mesta; there the verses are contextualized with a verbal encounter between Steinunn and Þangbrandr, in which she preaches paganism to him and asserts that she has heard that Þórr challenged Christ to a

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John Lindow Figure 41.4. Mould for a cross and a Þórr’s hammer from Trendgaarden in Overlade in Himmerland (Nationalmuseet no. C24451). This combination of symbols has been interpreted as an artisan’s response to a religiously divided market at the time of the Christianization. The combination might also be regarded as an expression of the idea of a conflict between Þórr and Christ. Photo: Lennart Larsen, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen. 

duel,32 but that Christ was too cowardly to fight; Þangbrandr says he has heard that Þórr would be no more than earth and ash if it were not for God’s will. Steinunn then asks the missionary if he knows what befell his ship and recites her verses when he says that he does not. This is only the most tale-worthy of a number of indications that the battle for the conversion was fought not by missionaries and recalcitrant pagans but by Þórr and Christ. As a result of this point of view, a demonized version of Þórr was enabled, such as we saw above in discussing a passage from Oddr munk’s Óláfs saga Tryggvsonar eptir Odd munk Snorrason. This view accords generally, of course, with the notion of the pagan gods as demons. It is especially common in the sagas of the missionary kings Óláfr Tryggvason and Óláfr Haraldsson the Saint. However, it is noteworthy that a negative picture of Þórr occurs in other contexts. In Chapter 8 of Bárðar saga, set in the waning years of pre-Christian Iceland, a fisherman calls on Bárðr, a recluse of giant heritage and godlike powers, for rescue from Þórr out on a fishing bank. Far more detailed is the set of events in Flóamanna saga (ch. 20–22) in which Þórr plagues one of his former worshippers, now a recent convert to Christianity, by visiting and threatening him in dreams. When Þorgils sets off on a voyage from Iceland to Greenland, Þórr causes him to be becalmed. The entire crew faces starvation, but Þorgils has put his faith in God, and after throwing overboard an ox that had been consecrated to Þórr, they reach Greenland. 32 

In other words, she asserts that there is a story to this effect in oral tradition.

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Cult Head of the Pantheon? As was mentioned above, the association of Þórr with Jupiter in some older sources would point to the predecessor of Þórr as the head of the pantheon. This concept turns up in the late Viking Age as well, when Adam of Bremen (4.26) describes the pagan temple at Gamla Uppsala (è31). In hoc templo, quod totum ex auro paratum est, statuas trium deorum veneratur populus, ita ut potentissimus eorum Thor in medio solium habeat triclinio; hinc et inde locum possident Wodan et Fricco. (In this temple, entirely decked out in gold, the people worship the statues of three gods in such wise that the mightiest of them, Thor, occupies a throne in the middle of the chamber; Wotan and Frikko have places on either side.) (p. 207)

Versions of Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar also refer to idols of Þórr as ‘mest tignaðr’ (most worshipped) in the pagan temples Óláfr enters and destroys. While these accounts certainly betray considerable Christian influence, the fact that Flateyjarbók places the idol of Þórr in a carriage with goats in front suggests that details from the pre-Christian period have survived. Adam describes the cultic spheres of the three major deities (4.26): ‘Thor’, inquiunt, ‘presidet in aere, qui tonitrus et fulmina, ventos ymbresque, serena et fruges gubernat’. (Thor, they say, presides over the air, which governs the thunder and lightning, the winds and rains, fair weather and crops.) (p. 207) Si pestis et fames imminet, Thor ydolo lybatur, si bellum, Wodani, si nuptiae cele­ brandae sunt, Fricconi. (4.27). (If plague and famine threaten, a libation is poured to the idol Thor; if war, to Wotan; if marriages are to be celebrated, to Frikko.) (pp. 207–08)

Kjalnesinga saga preserves a similar notion of the hierarchical superiority of Þórr, this time in Iceland. The goði Þorgrímr Helgason builds a huge pagan temple, in which Þórr is most honoured (‘mest tignaðr’). His statue or likeness stood in the middle and other gods on both sides (è31). The image of Þórr on the high-seat pillars brought by settlers to Iceland according to Landnámabók and related texts may well also suggest Þórr as the most important deity to the settlers.

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Figure 41.5. Figure of antler from a Viking Age grave mound (A 60) at Lunda on Lovö in Uppland. The figure, which depicts a man holding a hammer, has been interpreted as Þórr. The figure may give an idea of the shape of the statue of Þórr in Gamla Uppsala mentioned by Adam of Bremen, especially considering the proximity between Lovö and Gamla Uppsala. After Petré 2010: 277. 

Þórr has been plausibly associated with ‘áss hinn almáttki’ (the all-powerful god) found in some Icelandic legal formulas along with Njǫrðr and Freyr (Turville-Petre 1972). If this identification is correct — and no proof can be brought to bear — the formula would offer further evidence for placing Þórr atop the pantheon, at least in Iceland. Placenames Theophoric placenames indicating the god Þórr are widespread in Scandinavia, but with uneven distribution and differing second components (Brink 2007b). A  handful of names is found in Denmark (in Jylland, the islands, and the old eastern part). In Norway the centre of concentration is the Oslo fjord area, but names in western Norway are rare, and there are none in Trøndelag. The most common second component in Norway is -hof (cult place or farmstead where cult was celebrated), but -nes (headland) is also common. By far the largest number of Þórr names is found in Sweden, the greatest concentration in Uppland, and indeed Þórr and Ullr are the deities that figure most prominently in theophoric placenames there. The Þórr names are often located in places that probably had central functions in Iron Age society (Vikstrand 2001: 141–65). The most common second component is -lund(a) (grove), which suggests cult activity, as do the names in -åker (cultivated field) (see Vikstrand 2001: 366–85 and è 5).33 33 

There is one of these in Denmark as well: Torsager in Jylland, the site of one of Denmark’s five round churches.

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There is one name in -vi (cult place). A few names attach Þórr to rocky prominences (Torsberga), thus apparently implying the connection with thunder and lightning, but this connection is vitiated by the other theorphoric placenames — for nearly every deity, even Njǫrðr — with the same second component. All in all, the placenames show Þórr to have been the most important pre-Christian god in the Mälar Valley, and the importance of the deity is evident in the geo­graphical breadth and depth of Þórr names across Scandinavia. Runic Inscriptions The inscription on the sixth-century Nordendorf fibula brooch I (found near Augsburg in Bavaria) has a sequence in which early forms of the names of both Óðinn and Þórr appear: logaþore: wodan: wigiþonar. Interpretation is difficult (è3). The first component may relate to the word family of víg (battle) or víg ja (consecrate) (see Mees 2013). Either would make sense within the mythology of Þórr; he fights, and he uses his hammer to consecrate (on the probable sense of the verb, see below). The scholarly consensus appears to be the latter: ‘consecrating Þórr’. Þórr figures on the runic inscription on the stone from Rök, Östergötland, Sweden (Ög 136), dated to the first half of the ninth century. The occurrence is toward the very end of the inscription, written in cipher runes on the narrow left side of the stone.34 While the name þur (Þórr) appears to be quite clear, how it relates to the rest of the inscription is a question that has no direct answer. Despite the uncertainty, it seems reasonable to assume that Þórr had some connection with the family of Varin, who erected the stone, and his dead son Væmod, and that this connection was invoked in commemorating the dead man. Grønvik (1983, 2003) believes that Þórr was central to the dead man’s family and to the death ritual carried out. Nielsen (1969) sees an allusion to the Hrungnir myth, and Harris (2006b, 2009a, 2009b, 2009c; see also è46) thinks that Þórr plays in a regional variation of the Baldr myth in the context of avenging Væmod. However, Ralph’s argument to the effect that the stone is essentially riddling (2007) might call the reference to Þórr into question. Per Holmberg (2015) builds on Ralph’s reading and argues that the text is self-referential and calls for speech act responses from the reader. Although he leaves the reference to Þórr as unfinished business, he refers to it as an invocation (Swedish åkallan), which suggests a ritual act of some sort. If Ralph and Holmberg are correct that 34 

Von Friesen (1920) reads þur as imperative singular of the verb þora (dare), but that reading has been abandoned in favour of the name of the god.

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Figure 41.6. Theophoric placenames based on the name Þórr in Scandinavia. Map based on Brink 2007b. Disir Productions, Uppsala. 

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Figure 41.7. Rune stone from Sønder Kirkeby on Falster, dated to about 1000 (DR 220, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). The invocation to Þórr is placed between an image of a ship and the memorial text. Photo: Roberto Fortuna, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen. 

the inscription invokes riddles of day and night, a reference to Þórr at the very end of the inscription just might suggest a conception of the deity as a sky god and could perhaps be relevant to the ending of Alvíssmál. Four Viking Age runic inscriptions call on Þórr to hallow the runes (Glavendrup, DR 209, Samnordisk runtextdatabas; figure  è 3.1, Sønder Kirkeby, DR 220, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), the kuml (monument) (Virring, DR 110, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), or something not specified (Velanda, Vg 150, Samnordisk runtextdatabas).35 All are memorial inscriptions, and the appeal to Þórr generally follows the main information about who erected the stone and for whom. The man commemorated on the Glavendrup stone is characterized as a goði, a term which presumably had a religious function in this context (è29). Side C of the stone calls down a curse on anyone who would damage the monument. Thus Þórr would seem to fit in a religious context here. This man, and the one commemorated on Vg 150 Velanda, are referred to in the main inscrption as a ‘góðr þegn’ (good man), and the noun þegn may have had ethical overtones (è21). Sønder Kirkeby is also interesting, since the invoca35 

Korpbron (Sö 140, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) has a dangling þur (Þórr), to which the verb phrase might possibly have been appended.

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tion to Þórr to consecrate the runes is carved in bind-runes (not used in the main inscription) atop the main inscription and perpendicular to it, suggesting that it relates to the main inscription in some special way. Edith Marold (1974) has studied these inscriptions and is able to place them in the syncretic context of the meeting of Viking Age religion and Christianity, and this seems reasonable. Nevertheless, the name wigiþonar on the Nordendorf fibula I may attest the same verb meaning ‘to consecrate’. The Viking Age context of the finds offers a possible explanation for the carvers calling on Þórr rather than Óðinn, who in the mythology is associated closely with runes and verbal charms; as was mentioned above, Þórr was perceived as the particular enemy of Christ when the two religions met. The eleventh-century amulet from Kvinneby, Öland, Sweden (Öl SAS1989;43, Samnordisk runtextdatabas; figure è26.3) contains a runic inscrip­ tion that calls on Þórr to protect a certain Bofi, and apparently it alludes to the myth of his battle with the Miðgarðsormr. Two sentences are read as follows:36 En brá haldi illu frá Bófa. Þórr gæti hans með þeim hamri sem(?) ór(?) hafi(?) kom(?). (And may the lightning hold all evil away from Bofi. May Þórr protect him with that hammer which came from the sea.) (MacLeod and Mees 2006: 28)

The image of a fish on the amulet could relate to the fishing up of the Mið­ garðsormr,37 or it may have been used to invoke good luck on fishing grounds, or perhaps both. A marginalium to an Old English manu­script calls upon Þórr for protection in the context of illness and healing. Usually called the Canterbury Charm (E DR419, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), it is written in runes and uses Old Norse, although the transcription cited here (from MacLeod and Mees 2006: 120) conforms to Old English ortho­graphy. Gyril sārðvara, far þū nū! Fundinn es(tū). Þōrr vīgi þik þursa drōttinn! 36 

See Westlund (1989) and MacLeod and Mees (2006: 27–30). Here it is worth recalling that skalds were fond of using ‘fish’ as a base-word for kenning the Miðgarðsormr, and that the poet of Hymiskviða had ‘sá fiskr’ (that fish) disappear into the sea as the climax of Þórr’s encounter with the beast. 37 

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Gyril sārðvara. Viðr æðravari. (Gyril wound-causer, go now! You are found. May Thor bless you lord of ogres! Gyril wound-causer. Against blood-vessel pus.)

The manu­script is from the eleventh century (MacLeod and Mees 2006: 120), which puts the charm into the Anglo-Scandinavian context of that time. Gyril is obscure, but obviously is conceived as the causer of the wound. He is addressed, like giants in eddic poetry (e.g., Þrymr) as ‘þursa dróttin’ (lord of ogres). In that context, the expression ‘Þórr vígi þik’ (May Þórr bless you) may call on a meaning of the verb víg ja (usually ‘consecrate’ or ‘bless’) as ‘keep you out of harm’s way, that is, render you harmless’ (see also Mees 2013, who points out the association of the verbal root with Latin victim ‘victim, sacrifice’). Finally, there is the rune stick from Søndre Søstergården, Bergen, Norway (N B380, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), whose text is usually transliterated as Hæill sé þú ok í góðom hugi Þórr þik þiggi, Óðenn þik eigi.38 (Hail to you and (be) in good spirits! May Thor receive you, may Odin own you.) (MacLeod and Mees 2006: 30)

The stick dates from 1170 to 1198. Some scholars (e.g., Hultgård 1998b: 730) think that the stick is evidence of the continuation of pre-Christian beliefs into medi­eval Norway, in which case we may have evidence of magic activity of some sort, perhaps a blessing or a curse (‘may the trolls have you’). Other scholars, however (e.g., McKinnell and others 2004: 128), see a parody (see MacLeod and Mees 2006: 30–32 for general discussion); however, since parody requires some knowledge of what is to be parodied, the stick can likely be taken as evidence of genuine conceptions. Poems Addressed to Þórr Among the stanzas that Snorri attributes to Bragi Boddason, who also left the stanzas about Þórr’s battle with the Miðgarðsormr discussed above, is this, found in some manu­scripts of Skáldskaparmál and edited as Fragments, Bragi inn gamli Boddason st. 3: 38 

We set the lines thus in order to show that they represent a half-stanza in galdralag, the metre that would regularly be used for charms and curses.

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Vel hafið yðrum eykjum aptr, Þrívalda, haldit simbli sumbls of mærum sundrkljúfr níu hǫfða. (You have well driven back your draught animals, cleaver asunder of the nine heads of Þrívaldi [= Þórr], above the famous drink-provider of the drinking party [= Ægir (ægir ‘ocean’].) (p. 58)

We do not know what Bragi was alluding to with this stanza. Þórr’s steeds might well be his goats, and perhaps there is a lost myth here. However, what is noteworthy is that Bragi addresses Þórr using the second person, and praises him for an obvious monster-slaying.39 Þórr is the only god to be directly addressed in the skaldic corpus, and there are two other fragments from known skalds, both Icelandic, both composed, as far as we know, right around the time of the conversion of Iceland to Christianity. Snorri quotes the stanzas together in Skáldskaparmál. The first is attributed to Vetrliði Sumarliðason: Leggi brauzt Leiknar, lamðir Þrívalda, steypðir Starkeði, stétt of Gjalp dauða. (Lausavísa, Vetrliði Sumarliðason) (You broke the bones of Leikn; you thrashed Þrívaldi; you overthrew Starkaðr; you stepped over the dead Gjálp.) (p. 425)

The second fragment is edited together with a quarter-stanza as a hypothetical Poem about Þórr of Þorbjǫrn dísarskáld, by Margaret Clunies Ross in the Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages, Vol. iii. Þorbjǫrn’s cognomen dísarskáld suggests a special connection with the pre-Christian conceptual world, as does the line of his poetry edited as stanza 1 of the poem. 1. Þórr hefr Yggs með ǫ́rum Ásgarð af þrek varðan. 2. Ball í Keilu kolli, Kjallandi brauzt alla, 39 

The name Þrívaldi probably means ‘as mighty as three others’ (è 61), and multiple heads clearly associate this giant with the unnatural. Here we may note the three heads (according to some sources) of the dragon v ṛtra, slain by Indra, and the three heads (according to some sources) of Cerberus, slain by Hercules.

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áðr drapt Lút ok Leiða, lézt dreyra Búseyru, heptir Hengjankjǫptu, Hyrrokkin dó fyrri, þó vas snemr in sáma Svívǫr numin lífi. (1. Þórr has defended Ásgarðr with power together with the messengers of Yggr [gods]. 2. There was a clang on Keila’s crown, you broke all of Kjallandi, you had already killed Lútr and Leiði, you caused Búseyra to bleed, you bring Hengjankjǫpta to a halt, Hyrrokkin had died previously, yet the swarthy Svívǫr was [even] earlier deprived of life.) (pp. 470–71)

These stanzas are in quite different metres: Vetrliði’s in málaháttr and Þorbjǫrn’s in dróttkvætt. It may therefore be difficult to generalize outwardly from them to an entire tradition of poems addressed to Þórr, although there are ample parallels in other Indo-European traditions. Since both Bragi and Þorbjǫrn also composed narrative poetry (to the extent that skaldic poetry permits narrative) about Þórr, it is also possible that there was a genre of praise poetry to the god in dróttkvætt, using both second and third person for the subject, and that Vetrliði’s stanza is a formal outlier. No certainty can be reached on this point. What can be said about the two Icelandic verses together is that they are catalogues of Þórr’s prowess at ridding the world of chaos beings.40 Starkaðr and Gjálp in Vetrliði’s stanza and Hyrrokkin in Þorbjǫrn’s are recognizable giants. According to Gautreks saga and a version of Hervarar saga, Þórr killed a giant with the name Starkaðr (Áludrengr) who had carried off a woman from the human community; the version in Hervarar saga has Þórr do so after the girl’s father has called on him for help.41 This giant is not the same as the 40 

While Vetrliði’s verse is a simple list, Þorbjǫrn’s stanza implies a chronology of giantslaying. Lútr (or Litr in U) and Leiði apparently were killed before Keila and Kjallandi, and Hyrrokkin apparently died before Hengjankjǫpta. If we associate Litr and Hyrrokkin with Baldr’s funeral, it would seem that the poet put Þórr’s slayings associated with that event early in the chronology, although the conjunction þó (however, nevertheless) implies that Svívǫr’s death occurred before the funeral, and the adverb snemr (earlier) is unequivocal. The order would then be something like this: first Svívǫr; then Lútr/Litr, Leiði, and Hyrrokkin; finally Keila, Kjallandi, Búseyra, and Hengjankjǫpta. It may be significant that the chronology starts with a female. 41  This anecdote appears in R:715 of the Uppsala University Library, a seventeenth-century paper manu­script written by Páll Hallsson in Eyjafjörður: ‘Álfr konungr hét þá á Þór at

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Óðinn-hero Starkaðr, who however does have giant heritage and to whom Þórr behaves antagonistically, as in the scene in Chapter 7 of Gautreks saga discussed above. As for Gjálp, several sources tell us that Þórr killed her on the occasion of his visit to Geirrøðr. Hyrrokkin is the giantess who according to Snorri’s Gylfaginning launched Baldr’s funeral ship.42 No extant source has Þórr kill her, but Gylfaginning tells us of Þórr’s great anger at her action, which leads him to kick the dwarf Litr into the pyre; the Uppsala manu­script of Snorra Edda has Litr instead of Lútr in Þorbjǫrn’s stanza. Of the names we can identify, then, two are male and two are female. If we look at the other names in the lists, only two are male and six are female. While we do not know who these others are and why Þórr killed them, some of the names certainly belong to the realm of disorder or the giants, such as Leiði (loathsome; male) and Hengjankjǫpta (slack-jaw; female). The emphasis on female giants accords with statements in eddic poetry such as this boast made by Þórr in Hárbarðsljóð (st. 37). Brúðir berkserkia barðac í Hléseyio; þær hǫfðo verst unnit, vélta þióð alla. (Berserk women I battled in Hlesey; they’d done the worst things, betrayed the whole people.) (p. 71)43

Þórr’s Hammers and Hammer Rings Even before the identification was made by Hildebrand (1872b) (Sonne 2013: 85–86), small T-shaped objects have been understood to be amulets representing the hammer of Þórr. They fall into two categories: iron, bronze, and silver hammers in graves and hoards found in many parts of Scandinavia; and plain leita eptir Álfhildi, ok síðan drap Þórr Starkað ok lét Álfhildi fara heim til fǫður síns’ (King Álfr called upon Thór to seek for Álfhild; and afterwards Thór slew Starkad and allowed Álfhild to return home to her father) (ed. and trans. C. Tolkien, p. 67). This would appear to be a variant version to the one in Gautreks saga of the relationship between Álfhildr and Þórr. 42  Úlfr Uggason’s Húsdrápa confirms that an ‘all-powerful’ giantess launched a ship, but he does not name her. 43  McKinnell (2005: 110–11) argues that at one level, these berserk women (‘brúðir berserkja’, literally ‘brides of berserks’) may be waves, which Þórr pointlessly tries to fend off. At the other levels of the poem, they are conceived as giantesses.

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Figure 41.8. A Þórr’s hammer ring placed on top of a cremation urn at Grimsta in Fresta in Uppland. Photo: Toralf Fors, Arkeologikonsult.

iron hammers, ordinarily attached to iron rings, found at ritual sites and on top of cremation graves with a focus in central Sweden ( Jensen 2010). The so-called Þórr’s hammer rings consist of worked iron rings, usually twisted, c. 50 cm in diameter equipped with a clasp that makes them resemble neck rings. Hammer or axe-shaped pendants, sometimes also spirals and smaller rings, are attached to them. The hundreds of finds, from the eighth to the tenth centuries, are concentrated in Uppland, Södermanland, and the eastern part of Västmanland, with outliers in other parts of Sweden and several in Russia; these are interpreted as associated with the funerals of Swedes travelling to the east. The context is overwhelmingly cremation graves, usually in stone settings or mounds, in which the ring was placed in, over, or around the cremation urn (Lyman 2007), after the cremation had taken place. A few have also been found in inhumation graves or other contexts. In contrast to Þórr’s hammer rings, which have multiple pendants, stand Þórr’s hammer pendants. These are individual hammer-shaped amulets, sometimes of iron, sometimes of silver or bronze, sometimes plain, sometimes decorated. An eyelet on the end of the hammer shaft allowed a person to wear the amulet around the neck with the head of the hammer hanging down.44 Sometimes these amulets are decorated with prominent eyes at the end of the shaft, usually in connection with a secondary perpendicular or curved element. More than one hundred Þórr’s 44 

In about half of the inhumations graves with Þórr’s hammers, the hammer was found by the neck (Staecker 1999a: 218)

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hammers have been found, the minority in graves, across the old Danish kingdom, eastern Sweden, and southern Norway, with a few as well in Scandinavian England ( Sta e c ker 1 9 9 9 a : 2 1 3 – 4 4 ; Nordeide 2006).45 The hammer-shaped adornment on several Viking Age rune stones may also portray the hammer of Þórr (Hultgård 1999a). Two from Södermanland, Sweden — Södra Åby (Sö 86, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) and Stenkvista (Sö 111, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) — have a hammer-like object in the middle of the stone, encircled by the inscription (in each Figure 41.9. A Þórr’s hammer from an unknown case a usual memorial, although location in Skåne (SHM 9822:106659). Photo: Gabriel Hildebrand, each uses the unique word sirun Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm.  ‘forever decorated with runes’). This location is in the place where one might normally expect a cross. The hammer on Stenkvista is in the upper portion of the field, oriented with the head of the hammer down and the shaft up. It appears to be hanging from the text band, just as a Þorr’s hammer pendant would hang down from a chain. One is reminded of the Forsa ring (figure è20.5), incised as it is with runes around the ring, with a small Þórr’s hammer shape protruding from it. By contrast, the hammer-shaped object on Södra Åby stands with the shaft down and the head of the hammer on top; on top of this is a human head that makes the hammer look like a human body. The other possible Þórr’s hammers on rune stones are small and marginal to the inscriptions. A Viking Age cast bronze object from Eyrarland, Eyjafjörður, Iceland. 6.7 cm tall, depicts a bearded man seated on a chair holding with each hand the split handle of an inverted cross-shaped object. The handle seems to blend with his beard, and the ends of the object are rounded. Scholars have tentatively 45 

As this work goes to press, a beta version has become available of a database of Þórr’s hammers prepared by Katherine Beard to accompany her MA thesis at the University of Iceland: .

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Figure 41.10. A carved Þórr’s hammer on a rune stone at Stenkvista in Södermanland, from about 1000 (Sö 111, Samnordisk run­ textdatabas). Photo: Bengt A. Lundberg, Riks­antikvarieämbetet, Stockholm. 

identified the object with Þórr, depicted as holding his hammer, from the very earliest descriptions in the 1820s (Perkins 2001: 83). It might have been the kind of ‘god’ amulet that people carried with them; according to Perkins, it had to do with calling up favourable winds (see below). According to Hallfreðar saga ch. 6, one of Hallfreðr’s enemies in King Óláfr’s retinue accused Hallfreðr, a recent convert to Christianity, of sacrificing in secret: ‘ok hefir hann líkneski Þórs í pungi sínum af tǫnn gǫrt’ (he has a Thor amulet made out of walrus ivory in his moneybag ). The accusation proves to be false, but it is certainly possible that the saga retains some older traditions about amulets of Þórr, perhaps even a hammer in this case, since a closet pagan would hardly wear the hammer around his neck.

Scholarship and Interpretation Overall Interpretations The oldest theme in the interpretation of Þórr departs from the transparent etymology of his name. Since Jakob Grimm, many if not most scholars have thought of Þórr as ‘[t]he god who rules over cloud and rain, who makes himself known in the lightning’s flash and the rolling thunder, whose bolt cleaves the sky and alights on the earth with deadly aim’ (Grimm 1882–83: i, 166).46 This notion 46 

This interpretation occurs in the first edition of Grimm’s Deutsche Mythologie (1835) and was echoed by Uhland (1836).

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Figure 41.11. Two figures of seated men, both of which have been interpreted as portable figures of Þórr. A) Figure of bronze from Eyrarland in northern Iceland (Þjóðminjasafn Íslands no. 10880). Photo: Ívar Brynjólfsson, Þjóðminjasafn Íslands, Rey­kja­vík. B) Figure of walrus tusk from Lund in Skåne (Kulturen no. KM 38252): Photo: Lars Vestrup, Kulturen, Lund.  

informed such important works as Helge Ljungberg’s 1947 sifting of all the material relevant to Þórr, the ‘Nordic thunder god’ according to the subtitle of the work. Ljungberg also thought, as did Grimm (1865: 402–38), that Þórr was a representative of an original Indo-European thunder god widely represented in the daughter mythologies (è11): the Baltic Perkunas/Perkons; the Slavic Perun; the Indic Indra and Parjanya; Zeus, Jupiter, and Hercules; the Celtic Taranis (see West 2007: 238–63, on whom the following sentences depend). There are some remarkable similarities of detail. Perkunas is pulled by goats and has an axe or hammer that returns to him when thrown, and one of the weapons Perun uses is a mace. Perkunas has a special association with the oak tree, both in mythology and through the etymology of his name, which may derive from a noun meaning ‘master of the oak’, and his name is cognate with the mysterious Fjǫrgynn, perhaps the father of Frigg; the feminine form Fjǫrgyn is earth, mother of Þórr (è4; Jackson 2001, 2007). Perun and Jupiter, too, have strong connections with oak.47 Indra uses his thunder-weapon, the vajra, to kill the dragon vṛtra. He has 47 

Vikstrand (2001: 147) reports that although the oak may not be struck by lightning any more frequently than other trees, it suffers greater damage, a fact that could account for the connection between the thunder god and the oak.

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a ruddy beard and a huge appetite: ‘he eats the flesh of twenty bulls or a hundred buffalos, and drinks whole lakes of soma’ (West 2007: 246). Indo-European thunder gods kill demons and monsters, and a special enemy, reconstructed from Vedic, Greek, and Norse, is ‘a monstrous reptile associated with water, lying in it or blocking it’ (West 2007: 255). These parallels, and the obscure association with Fjǫrgynn/Fjǫrgyn, leave little doubt that Þórr derives from or at the very least has a connection with the Indo-European thunder god. If Þórr is taken to be a thunder god, it follows that his hammer should be a thunder-weapon. There may be etymological evidence for this view: a standard though perhaps not universally accepted etymology associates the name of the hammer, Mjǫllnir, with words for lightning in other Indo-European languages (see de Vries 1962a: 390 for discussion). Pokorny (1959–69: i, 722) accepts the relationship and even postulates an Indo-European root *meldh- ‘lightning, hammer of the thunder god’. However, West (2007: 253–54, with references) notes that not just lightning but also hammers appear to attach to the Indo-European word family in question:48 ‘The underlying notion is that of crushing and grinding, as in Greek mýle “mill” and the verbs Latin molare and Russian molót. The semantic steps are crush: crushing instrument: thunderbolt: lightning’ (West 2007: 254). Thus, technically, Mjǫllnir could be seen as representing a ‘crushing instrument’ rather than a thunderbolt or lightning.49 Even so, it remains a ‘thunder-weapon’. For earlier scholars, that was self-evidently a thunderbolt (Blinkenberg 1911), but in his study of the ‘circum-Baltic’ story of the stolen thunder-weapon, Frog (2011b) works with numerous narratives in which the weapon itself takes various forms. It certainly does appear, as he argues, that the narrative in Þrymskviða can be aligned with the other ‘circum-Baltic’ reflexes of the story, and that constructing a linear model of influences is impossible, even if it is possible to advance hypotheses about forms of multiplicity (Frog 2018). However, it must be remembered that many scholars take Þrymskviða for a late or parodic poem, and that Snorri seemingly did not know it (see further below). The areal perspective is applicable not just to the ‘thunder weapon’ but to many other aspects of the deity. Already Grimm drew Finnish materials into a discussion of thunder-words in Indo-European, and Ljungberg (1947) included non-Indo-European deities in his comprehensive discussion of Þórr in the Indo-European context, although he regarded them as loans from Indo48  Motz (1997b) ignores these etymologies and argues that Mjǫllnir was originally not a hammer but a stone, associated with conceptions from later folklore of the thunderstone. 49  Would the etymology linking Mjǫllnir to lightning have been proposed at all if scholars had not departed from the premise that Þórr is a thunder god and lightning his original weapon?

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European traditions.50 Recent work is much more careful about notions of simple loans and far less tied to models of diffusion. For example, Mats Bertell (2003) has brought together conceptions of cosmology relating to Þórr and to thunder gods of two neighbouring peoples, the Sámi and the Baltic Finnish, primarily as they relate to the world pillar. While the world pillar may not be the first notion that leaps to mind when thinking about Þórr, we have the ‘robor Iovis’ (oak of Jupiter) mentioned above, even if the Saxon Irminsul and the Norse Yggdrasill do not link up directly with Þórr.51 But more to the point are the images of gods made out of poles and high-seat pillars, both of which can be aligned with Þórr (as well as with other deities).52 What Bertell sees is a common connection between thunder gods, fertility, and the world pillar, across the three cultures he examines. Furthermore, Bertell argues that the fertility aspect of the thunder gods contrasts with ‘paired’ fertility gods: Þórr/Freyr, Hovrengaellis/Verelden ålmai, and Ukko/Sämpsä. The thunder gods bring rain and exercise a protective function, while the second members of the fertility pairs focus on sexuality and procreation.53 A few scattered references reported by nineteenth-century folklorists seem to associate Þórr with thunder (see, for example, Hyltén-Cavallius 1863–64: i, 230–34; Rietz 1962: 729; Feilberg 1886–1914: ii, 823–26). It is difficult to know how to assess this material. In a great many of these cases a noa-name is used, such as Gofar (good father), and the nineteenth-century authorities assume that Þórr stands behind the name. However, some reports do name Þórr by name, and it is certainly not unlikely that an expression like ‘Þórr is riding’ could continue to be used when thunderstorms passed through even long after 50  Olrik (1905a, 1905b, 1906), who adduces Estonian parallels to the ‘theft of the thunderweapon’, also draws on Sámi materials, but not so much in an areal perspective as through seeing the Sámi materials as having borrowed and retained older Nordic notions. 51  According to the Frankish annals and other sources, in 772 ce Charlemagne knocked down a pillar that was a sacred cult site to the heathen Saxons. Although Jǫrmunr (cognate with Irmin) is a name for Óðinn, there is no particular reason to associate Óðinn with this pillar, since the prefix jǫrmun- in Old Norse just means ‘powerful’. Irmin may connect with the Herminones, attested as early as in Tacitus’s story of the origin of the three Germanic tribes descended from Tuisto (Germania, ch. 2). 52  Schröder (1957) puts Þórr into the archetype of the Indo-European ‘god’s son’ (that is, the divine son of the divine proto-couple) who among other things establishes the world-pillar. Kiil (1960) also associates the cult of Þórr with pillars. 53  Bertell also has an excellent discussion of the supposed proverb ‘Reynir er bjǫrg Þórs’ (Thor’s salvation is a rowan), showing that the connection with Sámi and Finnish conceptions put forth by earlier scholarship is almost certainly exaggerated (Bertell 2003: 105–12).

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anything like a religious belief in Þórr had ceased to exist. These references may reflect Þórr the thunder god and, in a few instances too, his thunder weapon. The early modern down to pre-industrial folklore recordings are important because of a simple fact, pointed out as early as 1901 by Ernst Siecke. Commenting on Uhland’s 1836 book on Þórr mythology, Siecke points out that extant myths have very little to do with thunder and lightning. Indeed, the only place where the connection is more or less explicit is in Snorri’s version of the duel with Hrungnir in Skáldspararmál. Hrungir has just followed Þjálfi’s false advice about Þórr’s attack plan and is standing on his shield, grasping the whetstone in both hands. ‘Því næst sá hann eldingar ok heyrði þrumur stórar. Sá hann þá Þórr í ásmóði’ (p. 21) (Next he saw lightnings and heard great thunders. Then he saw Thor in an As-rage) (p. 79). It seems that Snorri is conveying his reading of Haustlǫng st. 14–15 (see above). These could certainly be construed as alluding to thunder and lightning, but with a cosmic twist: ‘seðr gekk Svǫlnis ekkja | sundr’ (the widow of Svǫlnir [= Jǫrð (jǫrð ‘earth’)] split asunder at once) (p. 455). The shaking mountains of the following stanza also appear to be cosmic but could fit human experience of a severe thunderstorm in a high mountain area. One legend from Telemark becomes important in this context: namely, the story of the Urebø rockfall. In the earliest known recording, from 1777, the protagonist is called Tor trollebane (Þórr the troll-killer). Later a longer version was reported to Andreas Faye by the parish priest S. O. Wolff. The salient features that accord with the mythology, besides the byname, are the throwing of his hammer, loss of it and recovery (in the rockfall), and the inadvertent construction of a road through the rockfall, created as Tor throws boulders aside looking for his hammer. By 1840 it is certainly possible that Wolff, who said he heard the story from a peasant, could have been quite familiar with books about the mythology and that his mythological knowledge could have affected his report — or that Faye rewrote it in some way — but there remains the tantalizing possibility that in this remote valley in Telemark some conceptions of Þórr might have had a long afterlife in oral tradition (Olsen 1955; cf. Bø and Hodne 1974: 89–90). If so, it might seem more likely that the meteorological conceptions just mentioned could be valid. Siecke’s objection, however, cannot be avoided, for despite the etymology of Þórr’s name and that of Mjǫllnir, and despite the areal analogues, the extant mythology of Þórr, as will be clear from the survey presented above, simply has little to do, at least directly, with thunder and lightning, and even less with rain and fertility of animals and crops.54 This fact has been proven beyond any 54 

Only the revival of the goats in Hymiskviða might fit this description.

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doubt by the recent book of Declan Taggart (2018), who carefully sifts the evidence and finds only marginal evidence for the notion of Þórr as a thunder god, and that only from Norway.55 The only support one can find in the older record are the statements by Adam of Bremen about the spheres of influence of Þórr and the other two deities whose idols stood in the Uppsala temple. Although he controls wind and weather, according to Adam, Þórr is the object of sacrifice when famine and plague threaten. Among the many possible causes of famine would be lack of rain, which a thunder god could be expected to ameliorate if properly propitiated, but is it not possible that an appeal to the god with the huge appetite might also be effective against famine? And given that disease seems often to have fallen under the category of malicious magic, perhaps the appeal here would be to Þórr’s protective powers. With thunderstorms come gusts of wind, and in this context the bold hypothesis of Richard Perkins (2001) comes up. He adduces a number of written sources indicating that seafarers invoked Þórr for wind, so as to be able to sail at all, and a fair wind at that (a Viking ship was not a very efficient sailor and could not, like more modern sailing vessels, make good a course into the direction of the wind). Specifically, he argues, Þórr raised wind by blowing into his beard, or ‘sounding his beard’, and a number of small objects, including the Eyrarland amulet mentioned above, depict Þórr doing just that. They were, Perkins concludes, amulets that were used by seafarers attempting to invoke Þórr’s help in raising a sailing wind. Perkins does not attempt to contextualize this aspect of Þórr’s activity with his background as a thunder god, and it would seem that a fair sailing wind is not the same thing as a squall. Nevertheless, it is consistent with Adam’s statement of Þórr ruling over the air. Dumézil (1973c: 66–79) takes Þórr for a typical second-function figure, whose connection with force would explain his giant-slaying. There was, Dumézil implies, a sort of shift, in that the rain that was a byproduct of the ­second-function thunder god’s actions brought fertility to the earth. Thus, according to Dumézil, Þórr is what one might call an accidental god of fertility, one who has nothing to do with sexuality and procreation, the realm of Freyr, and the other vanir — that is, the gods of the third function. Those Nordic sources that associate Þórr with fertility would then be the result of an overshadowing of the original source of the rain, in the battles of the thunder god with monsters. Schjødt (2012b) modifies these findings considerably. He sees Þórr’s connection with fertility as the result of the god’s basic role as the 55 

The following sentences do not accord completely with Taggart’s excellent work, to which we refer for a careful and all but exhaustive survey.

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defender of cosmic order, which includes fertility (but not sex, which is the domain of Freyr). The result of the divide between Þórr’s origin as an Indo-European thunder god and his actions in the mythology have meant, in practical terms, that the few overall or mono­graphic interpretations of the god that exist have seen him as a thunder god (Ljungberg and Bertell) or wind god (Perkins) — a related concept. Taggart (2018) shows that it is possible to write a book about the lack of thunder in the mythological sources and still reach a reasonable conclusion about the mythology of Þórr: the semantic centre of Þórr in the Viking Age and early medi­eval sources, he concludes, is strength. Even scholars who accept the premise of Þórr as a thunder god would seem to be in agreement with this statement, since much of the scholarship about Þórr has focused on his activies as monster-slayer.56 Individual Myths: Monster Slayings57 Since the Indo-European thunder god was a monster-slayer, interpretations of Þórr that stress either an Indo-European origin or the similarities with cognate figures such as Indra will by definition go some way toward accounting for his slaying of monsters. However, that aspect of the mythology of Þórr has also attracted other kinds of analysis. For example, Clunies Ross (1994b) discusses the implications for Þórr’s monster-slaying of viewing the imagined world of the mythology as an ‘honour-shame’ society. An inability to protect one’s dependent females — that is, to limit their sexuality — would lead to dishonour not only of an individual male but also of the the group of which he is a member. Alvíssmál is obvious here: the low-status dwarf should not be able to marry Þórr’s daughter, and Þórr arranges his death. In the case of Hrungnir, Clunies Ross draws attention to Bragi’s kenning suggesting that Hrungnir had abducted Þrúðr and suggests reading the myth out from this beginning, not the one supplied by Snorri. In this reading, Þórr restored his honour by killing Hrungnir, although the outcome of the battle was rather equivocal: the giant’s leg lay atop Þórr, which could give thoughts to homosexual intercourse (ergi), 56 

One pleasant exception is the treatment of the persistence of Þórr from ‘myth to marvel’ by Arnold (2011); while the book is essentially a study of mytho­graphy and reception, its early chapters engage the older sources perceptively. 57  A fairly comprehensive consideration of Þórr myths is found in McKinnell (2005: 109–46). In separate chapters, McKinnell treats Þórr’s fights with giantesses and the analogues, as McKinnell sees them, with the Bear’s Son folktale.

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and the whetstone remained lodged in Þórr’s head as a permanent sign of the dishonour of having one’s daughter abducted. The third myth Clunies Ross draws in is Loki’s cutting off of Sif ’s hair. How could he have got close enough to her to do so? By being her lover, as he claims in Lokasenna st. 54. This claim goes unchallenged, and it may be what Hárbarðr meant when he claimed that Sif had taken a lover (Hárbarðsljóð st. 48). Some scholars have sought to embed individual myths of Þórr’s slaying of monsters into the context of initiation (e.g., Dumézil 1939: 99–106; Dumézil 1973c: 69–71, accepted by de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 135–36; Renauld-Krantz 1972: 153–57). Snorri’s remark that Þórr accepted the duel with Hrungnir because he had never been challenged before, and the change to his body in the form of the whetstone lodged in his head, have been proposed as indications of warrior initiation. Especially important in reasoning about warrior initiation, however, has been the clay giant Mǫkkurkálfi, who fits the cross-cultural pattern of a made monster in initiation ritual and is echoed in the winged monster in chs 35–36 of Hrólfs saga kraka. This creature is first slain by Bǫðvarr bjarki, who gives the weakling Hǫttr its blood to drink. Hǫttr becomes strong and then ‘slays’ the monster a second time, after Bǫðvarr has propped up its dead body, and thereafter Hǫttr is a powerful warrior (è24). The problem here is a surfeit of evidence, all of it enigmatic. If Þjálfi is the initiand, where is his subsequent warrior status? If Þórr is the initiand, what new status did he obtain, and what is the role of Mǫkkurkálfi? The myth may play on some form or forms of initatory narrative structures, but it cannot meet the criteria normally applied when initiation is at stake (Schjødt 2008: 233–42). The same may be said of Renauld-Krantz’s reading of the Geirrøðr myth as warrior initiation (1972: 146–47). While it is of course true that Þórr’s exploits can be read as tests, there is no indication of the presence of any of the rest of what we would expect in initiation. Clunies Ross (1981) reads the Geirrøðr myth as reflecting Þórr’s initiation not into warrior but into adult status — or perhaps better, as a narrative reflection of the psychological processes involved in his movement from youth to adult. According to this reading, Jǫrð and the giantesses in the myth represent his maternal bonding and Geirrøðr his father. By overcoming (killing) them, he moves beyond childhood and is ready for marriage (the rowan would symbolize Sif, and Gríðr’s staff his access to adult sexuality) and a career (see Schjødt 2008: 242–51 for critical discussion). Lindow (1988a) has studied the lists of monsters whom Þórr is credited as killing in the two late Viking Age stanzas addressed to the god in the second person. While some of these are known from surviving myths, others are not.

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Taken together, they indicate that Þórr slew a great many monsters, and, what is more important, that a sizeable percentage of them were female. This would accord with more general understanding of the gendered aspects of the mythology and, presumably, late pre-Christian religion (è22). Most studies have taken up just one myth; among these, the fishing expedition has naturally attracted a good deal of attention. The classic study of modern times remains that of Preben Meulengracht Sørensen (1986). He seeks to clarify the different outcomes of the encounter by positing development of the myth first from a version in which there is cosmic balance, a balance that is threatened when the giant accompanies Þórr into the realm of the Miðgarðsormr and preserved when the giant cuts the fishing line. This version, he argues, was reflected in Bragi’s stanzas. However, as the interaction with Christianity increased, the notion of cosmic balance faded and the Miðgarðsormr could be killed, as in Húsdrápa, which dates from the very end of the pagan period in Iceland. The uncertainty about the outcome expressed in Gylfaginning, finally, reflects the importance of eschatological themes, in this case the battle between Þórr and the Miðgarðsormr at Ragnarǫk. Margaret Clunies Ross seems willing to accept Meulengracht Sørensen’s notion of ‘cosmic balance’ in Bragi’s presentation of the myth (1994a: 258–62), but she argues that there is a difference between most of Þórr’s giant-slaying and the equivocal nature of his battles with the Miðgarðsormr, ‘and that stems largely from the fact that the god’s adversaries belong to two distinguishably different groups’ (Clunies Ross 1994a: 262): the giants, who are a social group and who can be dealt with in social ways, and natural forces, which treat gods, giants, and humans in the same way.58 Both these carefully considered arguments may just be too clever, of course: perhaps there was simply regional and temporal variation, although on the basis of comparison, we would expect the Indo-European thunder god to kill his adversary. Maybe we should be less interested in the outcome and more interested, as the carvers and poets seem to have been, with the very fact that Þórr got the Miðgarðsormr on his line. In any case, because of the ample data, this is one of the very few opportunites for a ‘case study’ of issues regarding transmission and variation of word and image (Abram 2011: 31–51; Kopár 2016).59 58 

For this argument to succeed, the death of the Miðgarðsormr in Húsdrápa must be explained away. This Clunies Ross argues by invoking Schier’s demonstration (1976c) of the close connection of the conceptual world of the poem with the social circles of the Lade jarls and their virulent reaction to Christianity. 59  Gschwantler (1968) uses the images to argue early adaptation of the myth for Christian allegory.

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There also are numerous textual versions of the Geirrøðr story, although no images. Mogk (1924a) assigns generic labels to them, consistent with his view that we have very little genuine myth,60 but Lindow (2014c) goes in a different direction by arguing that the textual variants can be read as exemplifying a series of ‘mythic narrative modes’ (cf. also Mogk 1924a), and Taggart (2018) sees no reason to doubt the mythological underpinnings of the versions of the story, even in Þorsteins þáttr bœjarmagns. What is of course particularly striking about the Geirrøðr material is that Þórr takes on and kills both female and male adversaries, and this has drawn in discussion of sexuality (cf. especially the argument of Clunies Ross (1981) mentioned above). Outside the context of initiation, few have studed the Hrungnir story. Lindow (1996) offers close readings of the two extant versions in the context of surviving information about duels and argues that Hrungnir demonstrated, not least through misuse of his shield, a lack of understanding of cultural implements and norms, as might be expected of giants. Furthermore, the version in Snorra Edda contrasts Óðinn and Þórr in a way quite different from what we see in Hárbarðsljóð: in this case, Óðinn gets himself into trouble and Þórr rectifies the situation. Something similar may be going on in the implicit frame of Alvíssmál, for there Þórr’s daughter was apparently promised to the dwarf in Þórr’s absence. Commentators find it uncharacteristic for Þórr to be engaged in a verbal duel, especially one having to do with vocabulary (usually the province of Óðinn), and indeed most studies focus on other aspects of the poem, such as the listings of vocabulary (Watkins 1970; Moberg 1970–73), the ‘missing category’ of referents Þórr asks about (i.e., the sun, which will destroy Alvíss) that the dwarf fails to note (Klingenberg 1967), its relationship to conception of dwarfs (Acker 2002), and its function within the Codex Regius manu­script (Lindow 2007b). Individual Myths: Myths of Acquisition and Reacquisition Given the central plot element of the quest for an object, Hymiskviða has made several scholars think of the folktale (e.g., von der Leyen 1899, von Sydow 1914). Clunies Ross (1989a) applies the structural scheme of Vladimir Propp (1968) for the wondertale and succeeds in linking the poem to the mythological system as a whole. 60 

Mogk’s scepticism is addressed particularly toward Snorri (Mogk 1923), but he extends it to some degree too to Eilífr’s Þórsdrápa.

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Several contradictory themes characterize the scholarship on Þrymskviða. On the one hand, many scholars have thought it to be a late poem, parodying Þórr rather than saying anything important about his religious status (Heinrichs 1972). On the other hand, Schröder (1957) is able to adduce Greek and Indic parallels and to construct a hypothetical history of the movment of the myth millennia ago; the areal aspect was touched on above in connection with the theft of the thunderweapon. As regards Snorri’s silence, it prompted Peter Hallberg (1954) to argue that Snorri kept silent because he himself had composed the poem, a suggestion that no one takes seriously today (see, for example, Lindblad 1978). An intriguing hypothesis allowing for the evidence of the ballads is that of de Vries (1928), who suggests thirteenth-century origin of the poem in Norway, outside of Snorri’s knowledge. Whatever the history of the poem, despite its burlesque and comic moments and its relationship to the ballads, the underlying myth is consistent with the rest of the mythology, right down to the charge of níð to which Þórr must subject himself in order to regain his hammer (see further Lindow 2002c; Clunies Ross 2002b). Þórr’s Companions In a series of articles in the early twentieth century, Axel Olrik (1905a, 1905b, 1906) adduced Estonian parallels to the story of the theft of the thunder weapon and, more generally, Sámi parallels to the companion figure of the thunder god. Lindow (2000) argues the importance of the scene in Gylfaginning in which Þjálfi and Rǫskva are recruited to the god as an indicator of the kind of special relationship Þórr could have with humans. Bulding on the possible relationship to Þjálfi of the name of the legendary Þieluar (cf. Schröder 1938b), the progenitor of the human population on Gotland according to Guta saga, and the unique nature of the ringfort Torsburgen, Andrén (2012b) argues that the Gotlanders may have seen themselves as servants of Þórr. Meulengracht Sørensen (1986: 268) sees the giant in the boat with Þórr in the fishing expedition in most versions as essential to what is going on: The giant functions in the myth as an, albeit involuntary, helper, i.e., as a mediator between the world of Thór and the world of the monster. The distance between the two poles is made plain by his presence. Through several stages Thór moves away from the cosmos, of which he is the master and to which he belongs, finally to fight the monster in its own element, the ocean depth, which is the opposite of the heavens of the god.

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Cult A recent full-length mono­g raph on the cult of Þórr is that of Lasse Sonne (2013). Much of the book is a sifting of what can and far more often cannot, in Sonne’s argument, be considered a valid source, whether text, image, or artefact. Sonne’s critical eye rejects nearly everything: most texts,61 hammers on rune stones, Þorr’s hammer amulets. In the end, eight sources remain: five of them runic, one charm, one skaldic poem, and one sermon, giving testimony to a cult of Þórr in connection with the protection of runic monuments, the protection of individuals, and the protection of agricultural society at fixed cult places. This application of a hypercritical point of view, assuming that nothing could have existed unless we can prove that it did, leaves the author at a bit of a loss when he attempts to discuss the geo­graphic variation at the end of his study (2013: 186–87), although the runic inscriptions offer more opportunity for a discussion of temporal variation (2013: 187–95). And the find of a socalled Þórr’s hammer amulet in Købelev, Lolland, Denmark in 2014 upsets one part of Sonne’s argument. It bears a short runic inscription: hmar x is, interpreted as ‘hammer is’,62 that is, ‘this is a hammer’ (Imer 2014). That adds over a hundred pieces of evidence to the data set, and hundreds more if we include the hammer-rings. The hammers have long been taken as evidence of the protective function of Þórr on the one hand and of the meeting between PCRN and Christianity on the other (Staecker 1999b: 214 and the references assembled there). According to this view, the hammer amulets arose as a direct response to the coming of Christianity, and specifically to the strength of the cross, in late Nordic paganism, and may even have represented a crisis in PCRN from the ninth to eleventh centuries (Staecker 1999b: 243). A contrary opinion was put forth by Wamers (1993): missionaries could have seen and used the hammer as a prefiguration of the cross. Both arguments may be exaggerated, but certainly a mould that could be used to fashion both Þórr’s hammer and Christian cross puts the hammer in the context of the cross, and the later textual evidence pits Þórr and Christ against one another in the missionary period, when pre-Christian religion was presumably undergoing a crisis. The Þórr’s hammer rings, however, antedate the 61 

Sonne does accept skaldic poetry as a valid source, accepting that Vellekla st. 14 may refer to cult sites sacred to Þórr. His rejection of the two stanzas addressed to Þórr by Vetrliði Sumarliðason and Þorbjǫrn dísdarskáld, however, seems to rest on a curious unwillingness to separate second-person address from human to god in skaldic poetry from second-person conversation between god and god in mythic narrative poetry. 62  The character x is understood to indicate a word break.

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Figure 41.12. A Þórr’s hammer from Købelev on Lolland, dated to the tenth century. On the object is inscribed in runes ‘this is a hammer’. Photo: Tine Bonde Christensen, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen. 

meeting between PCRN and Christianity and seem to show Þórr’s protective function in connection with funerary ritual. As the hammer protected and blessed in myth and formula, so it probably did in creamtion ritual as well. In the ritual sequence, placing a Þórr’s hammer ring near the urn of the ashes of the deceased, after the cremation, may have signalled the end or near-end of the sequence. Taggart (2018: 174–86) studies carefully all the evidence in which Þórr is associated with acts of consecration, usually through use of the verb víg ja or its equivalents. He notes that these generally involve a passage from life into death (Baldr’s funeral), persons memorialized on rune stones with the Þórr vígi (may Þórr consecrate) formulas, from death into life (reviving the goats), and from unmarried to married status (Þrymskviða). Based on this evidence, it could certainly be that Þórr played a role, now mostly lost to us, in passage rituals (è31). But Taggart also reminds us: The mechanics of Þórr’s divine intervention may have varied according to the cir­cumstances in which he was invoked and the person doing the invoking. The properties of mythic Þórr may not always map on the Þórr of ritual, and the properties of the mythic Mjǫlnir may not fully map onto those of carved hammers or those shaped in a soapstone mould. (2018: 183)

Concluding Remarks The image of Þórr in the West Norse mythological sources is quite consistent: as the slayer of monsters, Þórr in the first place constantly replicates and invokes cosmogony, when a giant was slain to create the cosmos in which gods and men live. Beyond the symbolic resonance of his monster slaying, through it Þórr

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protects the other gods, and, by extension, humans. Monsters bring chaos; Þórr brings order. Monsters are unnatural, both in appearance (e.g., multiple heads) and in fundamental behaviour (e.g., Ymir’s method of procreation), and Þórr rids the world of them. As a concrete example of Þórr and the unnatural, we may cite Þórr tearing away the extra arms of Starcatherus in Book 5.2 of Saxo’s Gesta Danorum, thus making the giant’s body more ‘natural’. The monstrous body of the giant Starkaðr is also known from Gautreks saga and a version of Hervarar saga,63 and in both cases he carried off a human female, after which, upon the invocation of the woman’s father, Þórr killed Starkaðr (see above) and retrieved her.64 He thus protected not only the females of his own divine world but also those of the human world. Here Þórr’s genealogy is relevant. As the son of Óðinn and a giantess ( Jǫrð), he is a paradigmatic example of the benefits the æsir reap from controlling the flow of females in the social relationship between themselves and the giants. Furthermore, Þórr’s half-brothers through various other giantesses (Váli from Rindr, Viðarr) were sired for the express purpose of taking vengeance on the giants for losses suffered by the gods. In this light, Þórr’s giant-slaying would appear to be built into his DNA, as it were: another paradigmatic example, this time for his younger half-brothers. Baldr too is a half-brother of Þórr, but his mother is Frigg, whose status as an ásynja is unquestioned. Baldr is a legitimate son and presumably a dynastic heir, unlike Þórr. Indeed, Þórr’s mythological role is outside the ruler ideology that permeates the mythology, and this fact may be reflected in his inability to decode the system in the myth of his visit to King Útgarðaloki. Another way to put this would be that Þórr was the protector of all people, not just of the warrior-band and its institutional descendants. We may glimpse this inclusivity (as opposed to the implicit exclusivity of Óðinn’s mythological sphere) transferred to the human world in the statement in Hárbarðsljóð st. 23, quoted above but worth repeating: […] mikil myndi ætt iotna, ef allir lifði

63  Although the situation is complicated, some traditions separate this Starkaðr (Starkaðr Áludrengr or ‘the older’ Starkaðr) from the ‘divine hero’ Starkaðr (see further de Vries 1955c; Skovgaard-Petersen 1985; see also è36 and è11). 64  The points of contrast between Þórr and Óðinn, to be taken up below, crystallize in the sequence in Gautreks saga discussed above, in which the two gods set contrasting fates for Starkaðr. More generally, the so-called ‘divine heroes’ like Starkaðr are generally associated with Óðinn and are prone to antisocial behaviour, where the ‘Þórr hero’ Þjálfi does nothing but contribute to Þórr’s monster-slaying.

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vætr myndi manna undir miðgarði. ([…] great would be the giant race if they all survived: there’d be no humans within Midgard.) (p. 69)

There would hardly be a human being of any social class on earth if the giant race grew; Þórr protects everyone65 — perhaps even the slaves, if we invert Óðinn’s taunt in Hárbarðsljóð st. 24 that dead chieftains go to Óðinn, ‘enn Þórr á þræla kyn’ (but Thor owns the race of thalls) (p. 69).66 The Hrungnir myth as told by Snorri explicitly contrasts Þórr and Óðinn: as was mentioned above, Þórr in effect rescues Óðinn from a threatening situation of his own making. As Hrungnir points out when Þórr returns to Valhǫll, he is drinking there under Óðinn’s protection. At stake in the ensuing duel is nothing less than the hierarchical superiority of the æsir over the giants. Had Hrungir triumphed, Óðinn’s reckless behaviour would have unravelled that superiority. The quasi-legal nature of the duel puts Þórr’s actions within a legal system, in contrast to Óðinn’s predilection for disguise, deceit, theft, and ergi.67 This hint within the mythology appears to be anchored in the placename evidence as well, where, in the Mälar area, for example, Þórr is associated with central places and hence with legal matters (Vikstrand 2001: 162–65). Another productive point of comparison between Þórr and Óðinn may be found, perhaps unexpectedly, in the area of language. As was noted above, most readers of Alvíssmál find themselves puzzled at Þórr’s use of language to delay and ultimately kill the dwarf suitor, for in the extant mythology Óðinn is the master of language. However — and despite the deep mythological connection 65 

The contrast between the two gods, and Þórr’s connection with actual human beings, also plays out in food on the mythological plane. Þórr has the voracious appetite of the IndoEuropean thunder god (doubtless a positive attribute in a society that must often have been short on calories consumed). He eats common food — meat and fish — and drinks the common beverage, mead. Óðinn, however, abstains from food, and he subsists on wine (Grímnismál st. 19, also quoted by Snorri in Gylfaginning), an exotic import. Since stanza 20 of Grímnismál mentions Óðinn’s ravens flying off to acquire knowledge, it would appear that knowledge substitutes for food in this case. 66  Since no other social groups are mentioned, the taunt might possibly be read as ‘Óðinn has the dead chieftains and Þórr everyone else, even slaves’. 67  While it is true that Þórr adopts this strategy to retrieve his hammer, he does so under compulsion. Óðinn, however, is untroubled by his acts of ergi — indeed, he boasts about them in Hárbarðsljóð.

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beteween Óðinn and runes — it was Þórr that people invoked to hallow runes during the late Viking Age. Here again we may see an indication of the importance of Þórr in real people’s lives, in this case of those who were sufficiently wealthy and of high social status to erect rune stones over their departed relatives. And the same holds true with respect to one of the most central of Óðinn’s mythological emphases: namely, skaldic poetry. Óðinn hardly figures in the skaldic poems that survive, whereas Þórr is the central figure in several. The oldest poems (those of Bragi and the other early skalds) appear to have originated in royal or chieftainly circles in Norway. In such circles we would have expected poems about Óðinn to exist and presumably to predominate, but none are to be found today. The emphasis on Þórr continues through the end of the preChristian period, as Eilífr’s Þórsdrápa indicates for the retinue of Hákon jarl in Lade. Out in Iceland, Óláfr pái (peacock) apparently had his hall decorated with the myths of Þórr’s fishing expedition, Baldr’s funeral (not exactly a triumph for Óðinn), and the duel of Loki and Heimdallr, and the poet Úlfr rendered them skillfully in a skaldic poem: Húsdrápa. Þórr as the opponent of Christ during the late pre-Christian period seems quite natural. Óðinn with the kings and illustrious warriors among the einherjar in Valhǫll is like God with his saints in heaven and would thus have made a poor choice to oppose Christ, the godhead who operated on earth and interacted with and helped real human beings.68 The tokens of opposition to Christ can be seen as an intensification of features that were present before the confrontation of the two religious systems. Þórr’s hammer pendants appear to be a restating of Þórr’s hammer rings, moving from many pendants to one so as to approach the cross; it seems too that as the confrontation progressed, Þórr’s hammer pendants became increasingly ornate and crafted of precious metals. The blessing of the rune stone monuments could reflect the earlier notion of wigiþonaR (consecrating Þórr) on the Nordendorf fibula brooch I. The two second-person poems addressed to Þórr from late tenth-century Iceland could be seen as a kind of revival or refocusing of Bragi’s stanza addressed to Þórr. Steinunn’s verse claiming that Þórr wrecked Þangbrandr’s ship would appear to play on the idea that Þórr is helpful for travel at sea; if he is a wind-blower, in this case he blew hard enough to cast the missionary’s ship adrift.

68 

Cf. (è23), which argues sacral kingship before and, in the form of the Nordic sanctified royal martyrs, after the conversion.

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Outside of what Adam of Bremen has to say about the idols in the Uppsala temple, the mythology of Þórr in the written sources, not least the Viking Age skaldic sources, diverges sharply from the thunder god of the areal perspective and from the wind god that may be scraped out of some other sources. The perspectives can be united insofar as the Indo-European monster-slayer was armed with a thunder weapon, and thunder and lightning are phenomena of the sky, but that explanation cannot really explain the nearly complete absence of thunder, lightning, and wind in the extant mythology.69 Only through inference, sometimes harking back to nineteenth-century nature mythology, can one see these meterological phenomena: lightning is blinding, as might be Þórr’s gaze, and thunder is deafening, as might be Þórr’s journeying. One might also infer a connection between lightning and such cosmogonic moments as Þórr’s creation of mountain valleys in the travel portion of the Útgarðaloki story in Snorri. We are perhaps on firmer ground reading Hrungnir standing on his shield as evidence, through inversion, that Þórr proceeds through the air. Even so, those aspects of thunder and lightning, in association with the slaying of monsters, are distant from the idea of a god of thunder and lightning who confers fertility on the land; nor does a sailing wind do so. Dumézil’s idea of a shift within the system of functions is elegant but cannot actually deal with the other side of the coin: the total absence of fertility in the Þórr of the mythological textual tradition. We are left with a formidable conceptual opposition. Added to this is the clearly widespread worship of Þórr throughout the Viking world. As Taggart points out, there is no way to determine whether þórr’s hammers were conceptualized as minature thunder-weapons rather than amulets that call on Þórr’s powers of protection against inimical powerful forces (2018: 183), especially if they are direct responses to the Christian cross. The runic inscriptions put Þórr in the unexpected arena of writing and more generally in the process of memorializing the dead. It would be simple, but simplistic, to argue a development from an IndoEuropean thunder god, who by definition killed monsters, to a Nordic monster-slayer whose mytholgocial profile dropped some of the motifs associated with the thunder god: simplistic because the areal evidence implies that the thunder god was present too. Here the Altuna stone is of particular importance: located in the Mälar Valley, where the placenames indicate extensive worship of Þórr, and where Adam of Bremen associates him with fertility, it conveys an image of Þórr as the monster-slayer. There is no likely link to fertil69 

The rather positivistic argument that Iceland lacks thunderstorms will hardly do, since the skaldic poems that present Þórr’s monster-slaying are from Norway.

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ity in the armed rider incised above Þórr and the Miðgarðsormr or the figure on the top, perhaps Óðinn (see above), or with the text of the inscription. The text states that the stone was raised for two men who were burned, which in this context almost certainly means burned to death by their enemies. Perhaps the inclusion of a mythological scene (or scenes) was meant to draw an analogy between human tragedy and myth, or even to conjure up an analogy between the burned men and Baldr on the pyre, but the stone as a whole places Þórr in the context of battle to the death. Nor can the wind god be dismissed. Even if Perkins’s interpretation of the Eyrarland amulet is beyond proof one way or the other, Þórr is connected in the written sources with travel on the sea, as Helgi the lean, Flóamanna saga, and Bárðar saga attest. When Helgi called on Þórr, he can hardly have disregarded the wind: too little and one ends up like Þorgils, becalmed and starving; too much and one ends up like the hapless fisherman in Bárðar saga, freezing and frightened. The fact that Þórr must encounter the Miðgarðsormr in a boat, and in the outer waters, suggests an association between Þórr and weather, for weather controls seafaring more than any other factor. Although Taggart’s study (2018) bears the title How Thor Lost his Thunder, he does not aim so much to explain the process as to sift carefully through the evidence and problematize it. In the concluding chapter he does take up two topics (possibly interrelated?) that could lead to factors behind the process: namely, climate and genre (Taggart 2018: 191–203). Iceland’s relative lack of thunderstorms has led several scholars to seek in this (contemporary) meterological fact an explanation for the relative lack of thunder and lightning in Þórr’s mythological dossier. Although this argument is simplistic, as was noted above, Taggart does show that in Iceland Þórr was closely associated with volcanic activity, which is relatively lacking in Norway. One could, then, infer that Þórr’s thunder and lightning gave way, in Iceland, to volcanic imagery. The problem with such an inference would be the Norwegian provenance of much of the skaldic evidence about Þórr, as well as the fact that the image of Þórr found in skaldic poetry is relatively consistent, as the above survey will have shown. As for genre, Taggart considers but rejects the possibility that the relatively realistic genres that were recorded in Iceland had little room for a god flinging thunderbolts about. One might, however, reconsider this second point from a different perspective. If it is so that the mythology was recorded in (and came to reflect) a society in which bloodfeud was a central mechanism of dispute resolution, encounters between gods and giants would naturally to some extent come to resemble more closely encounters between men engaging in bloodfeud. A thunder-weapon would make no sense in this context, nor would a

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god who conferred fertility, whether Freyr or Þórr. The former certainly has an attenuated role in the extant mythology, and Þórr’s appears to be simplified. One might even speculate that the distinction between fertility of crops, which Adam of Bremen assigns to Þórr (versus peace and pleasure for Fricco/Freyr), might have diminished in importance in the largely pastoral economy of medi­ eval Iceland. But these musings cannot explain away the general absence of notions of fertility in so much of the data about Þórr. This absence must remain a fundamental research question concerning Þórr.

42 – Óðinn Jens Peter Schjødt Introduction Óðinn is no doubt one of the most important divine figures in PCRN: we can trace his name back to long before the Viking Period; we know it from all over the Germanic area; he is one of the main figures in the extant Old Norse myths and apparently one of the favourites among Christian writers of the Middle Ages in their portrayal of heathen gods as demons and devils; and he played an important role in several rituals of which we are rather well informed in comparison with the cult of most of the other gods. Furthermore, he appears to be ‘multifunctional’, being in charge of various natural phenomena such as wind and sea, the ecstasy of warriors in battle, magic of all kinds, being the protector of kings, and so forth. All this has, of course, caused a lot of discussion among scholars regarding his ‘original’ function and his origin in general. A further characteristic is that he is one of the very few gods who is actually said to meet human beings outside the ritual sphere. Whereas most of the gods remain within the Other World, Óðinn often meets and gives advice to his human protégés and takes part in human affairs, battles in particular, which is why he is also sometimes called ‘the wanderer’.

Historical Framework The name of Óðinn is known from several Germanic languages. Among the Anglo-Saxons, he was called Woden; by the Longobards, Wotan; in Old Frankish, Wodan; and in Old High German, Wuotan (de Vries 1962a: 416),1 1  For a detailed discussion of the name Óðinn and its etymology, see Liberman (2016: 37–51).

Jens Peter Schjødt, Professor of the Study of Religion, Aarhus University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume iii, ed. by Jens Peter p. 1123–1194 Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) p BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116969

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a clear indication that he was venerated among many Germanic tribes of the early Middle Ages and probably, as we shall see below, from at least the beginning of the Common Era. The proto-Germanic name would thus have been *Wōðanaz.2 He is most often translated into the Roman god Mercury in the interpretatio Romana by the authors of antiquity and the Middle Ages.3 An early Germanic piece of evidence is the so-called Nordendorf fibula, found near Augsburg in Bavaria and containing, apart from the name Wodan, also the names Logaþore (perhaps Loki) and Wigiþonar (Þórr); it should probably be dated to the sixth century.4 The root óð- and thus the noun óðr (protoGermanic *wōþa-) means ‘excitement’ or ‘poetry’ (de Vries 1962a: 416) and as an adjective ‘furious’.5 The meaning of the name Óðinn is most likely ‘ecstacy’,6 which is also how it was understood by Adam of Bremen in the eleventh century — ‘Wodan, id est furor’ (4.26) (Wodan, that is frenzy) —, and it seems to fit well with the characterization of the Scandinavian Óðinn, although etymology is not always as important as is often believed. We also have to acknowledge that Óðinn in particular was a god who carried many names, all of them contributing in some way to characterize him and each with its own etymology. Before we attempt to trace the history of the god, however, it is necessary to emphasize that things, deities included, change all the time and from place to place (cf. McKinnell 2005: 12–14). This means that even when we speak of Óðinn as identical with Mercury or Woden, the identity is never complete, just as Óðinn himself was not the same all over Scandinavia, and in some places and at certain times some functions of the god would be more accentuated than others, just as he would most likely have blended with other gods occasionally.7 Therefore, it may be more in accordance with the actual situation 2  For variant forms of the name, such as Godan in Origo gentis Langobardorum and Paul the Deacon’s Historia Langobardorum, see Hultgård (2007b: 759–60). 3  For some interesting considerations about late medi­e val examples of interpretatio Romana, see Battista (2003). 4  Discussion of the inscription is found in McKinnell and others (2004: 48–49). 5  It is also the name of a god, Óðr, to whom we shall return below (cf. de Vries 1954). 6  Cf.  the runic inscription from the so-called Gårdlösa fibula from the pre-Viking Age, according to Krause and Jankuhn (1966: 35–36) as early as around 200 ce, saying ‘ek unwod […]’ probably meaning ‘I the not-frantic […]’ (Moltke 1976: 99–100). 7  Thus, in the Mediterranean area we often see that various gods have cognomina according to the particular functions, which are in focus in a given situation, or in order to highlight certain aspects characteristic of the god within a certain area. See, for instance, concerning Mercury in the Germanic area, the many bynames given in Simek (1984: 260–63).

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in the history of the pagan religion to speak about a god ‘of the Óðinn type’.8 As just mentioned, the names as well as the functions may have varied, sometimes even considerably. Nevertheless, for the sake of convenience, we shall speak predominantly of ‘Óðinn’ because it seems as if there is a kind of semantic centre (cf. Schjødt 2013), which is recognizable in spite of the variations, not only among the Scandinavian ‘Óðinn’s but also between the gods across the Germanic area who carry cognates. In dealing with the history of the god from the perspective of the Old Norse sources, the main question is whether Óðinn or a god of the Óðinn type has existed in the North as long as he has in the South Germanic area, where sources allow us to trace him further back in time (cf. Liberman 2016: 75–86). And, as a natural extension of this question, how old the god with the name Wodan (and variants) is in this area: for instance, whether it is possible to trace, not the name, but the semantic centre, back to Indo-European times. Another, but just as important question, is whether it is possible to perceive a degree of development in the functional spectrum: was Wodan or the Germanic Mercury functionally the ‘same’ as Óðinn, or was he a completely different figure when it comes to his role in the world-view in general? But we shall begin even further back in time: namely, among the proto-IndoEuropeans. Georges Dumézil, as was stated in (è 11), sees a tripartite functional structure in the various Indo-European pantheons, and Óðinn is seen here as representative of the magical aspect of the first function, with Týr representing the ‘juridical’ aspect (Dumézil 1973c: 26–48). Since these functional gods can be found all over the Indo-European area, it implies that it should be possible to find ‘a god of the Óðinn type’ within all these pantheons. Dumézil often used the pre-Vedic Indian material as reference, and the two aspects of the first function are thus frequently called ‘the Varunic’ and ‘the Mitraic’ aspects. Since we shall not deal with Týr here, we shall not deal with Mitra, either, but it is important to note that Mitra and Varuna are in many ways opposites of each other: whereas Mitra is connected to light and day, Varuna is connected to darkness and night. Mitra is of this world, Varuna of the other; milch belongs 8 

For instance, Wolfram (1997: 26–27) says that Gaut is not the same as Óðinn and points to differences between Scandinavian and Gothic burial forms for noblemen as an indication of this distinction. Usually, it has been maintained that Gaut and Óðinn were identical, but the answer to the problem is probably not a question of either-or: instead, we can assume that the two gods were, at least at times, identified, whereas at others they were seen as different. In other words, it would probably make sense to maintain that the two gods were both similar and different.

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to Mitra, soma to Varuna; Mitra is reliable, Varuna terrifying, and so forth. Varuna, as many Vedic and pre-Vedic gods, is multifaceted and has clear connections to natural phenomena such as the moon and water: he is the protector of the world order and punishes those who do not contribute to this order (among others those who break their oaths). These are elements that we do not recognize in Óðinn, but there are other parallel elements, as, for instance, the relation to kingship, horses, and to medicine (Gonda 1960: 73–82). Thus, if Varuna — being also a god of magic — is of the same type as Óðinn, it follows logically that at least part of the Óðinn figure will have roots back in Indo-European times,9 just as is the case with the gods of the three functions, wherever they are found within the Indo-European area, according to Dumézil. This, however, may appear to conflict with what most scholars within PCRN have believed concerning Óðinn’s arrival in the North. For instance, Karl Helm wrote in his famous book Wodan: Ausbreitung und Wanderung seines Kultes (1946) that Óðinn was brought into Scandinavia in the period around 500 ce by the Herulians (Helm 1946: 71), and others have expressed similar ideas (e.g., Wessén 1924).10 However, as was stated above, it is quite unrealistic to maintain about any god, particularly in oral cultures, that they were seen in exactly the same way over extensive periods and large spatial distances. New ideas come up, new social and political circumstances will influence the understanding of the gods who in turn have to fulfil new needs and functions. Influences of various kinds from other religions have an impact; some gods may disappear and their functions be shared among the other gods, and so forth. Thus, it seems very likely, as proposed by Michael Enright (1996a: 218–40), that the particular ties between Óðinn and the war-bands were heavily inspired by what went on among the Germani in the Rhine area during the two centuries around the beginning of our era. The Germanic tribes were, as also proposed by Enright, influenced by the Celts of the same area. Nevertheless, there is a strong case that war-bands or at least troops of warriors were linked to a specific god right back from Indo-European times, as suggested by Kris Kershaw (2000: 211–21). We know that the father of the warrior troops (the maruts in mythological terms) in India is Rudra (Gonda 1960: 87), whereas they are usually 9 

For interesting ideas about both etymology and function of these gods, see Jackson (2012: 57–59). 10  Recently, Lotte Hedeager (2011) has proposed that the Óðinn figure we know from the Old Norse sources was not primarily inspired by the one-eyed leaders, Civilis and Sertorius, as suggested by Michael Enright, but by Attila (d. 453), the ruler of the Huns (Hedeager 2011: 220–23; cf. Motz 1996a: 89–90).

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said to be led by Indra11 — but apparently not Varuna. Rudra, however, shows many similarities to Óðinn (cf. Samson 2011: 186–87; Gonda 1960: 89), and particularly his engagement in war and fighting and his affiliation to illness and curing strongly recalls Óðinn, as we shall see in a moment. So the idea that a god with ecstatic abilities was connected to bands of young warriors seems clearly to go back to Indo-European times. This could indicate that, in spite of the partial transformation undergone by Óðinn during the early Roman Iron Age, he was already associated with the war-bands in the pantheon of the IndoEuropeans. But it also shows that, even if there are clear similarities between Óðinn and Varuna, functions performed by other gods have also been applied to Óðinn.12 This makes it extremely difficult to decide whether Óðinn is ‘the same’ as Varuna. In a sense we can, for obvious reasons, say ‘no’. There are huge differences between the two gods, which was also acknowledged by Dumézil, but at the same time there are many similarities, not least in their structural positions, their dubious roles in various myths, and so forth. In other words: it does not really make sense to pose the question at all if we do not qualify it. And as suggested, this problem also occurs when we ask whether the Nordic Óðinn was the same as Mercury, as the Anglo-Saxon Woden, or even whether Wodan as described by Adam of Bremen was the same as Óðinn described by Snorri. In all cases, we can answer ‘yes and no’. Moreover, we can be certain that whatever answer we give cannot be based on empirical evidence only, but must be qualified by theoretical considerations. But to conclude on Óðinn’s Indo-European background, we can state that, at least on a structural level, it makes sense to accept that a god of the Óðinn type existed more or less continuously from Indo-European times through to the Viking Age in Scandinavia.13 11 

In some texts (e.g., Rigveda 2.33), however, Rudra apparently takes over many characteristics that are usually associated with Indra. The whole distribution of functions among the gods in India is in general rather unsystematic, and there is very much overlap in the functional areas of the various gods. 12  Turville-Petre (1964: 41) is no doubt right when he says that ‘perhaps we should rather doubt the stability of the tripartite system’, although it seems to be an understatement of the actual situation. Instead, we should say that, even if the various Indo-European traditions show clear parallels on a rather abstract, structural level, as Dumézil has shown in numerous publications, there is at the same time also room for tremendous variations and transformations. 13  It may be relevant here to ask whether Óðinn can be traced in the rock carvings of the Scandinavian Bronze Age. However, as is often the case, a definite answer is almost impossible to give. We do have carvings depicting a figure with a spear, which is one of the main attributes of Óðinn; however, a spear was probably a common weapon in the Bronze Age, and the motif

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However, this should not be understood in such a way that no development took place. Development obviously did occur right back from Indo-European times, and, although less obvious, it is highly likely that the Germanic Mercury of the first centuries of our era, mentioned for instance by Tacitus (Germania ch. 9), had changed in comparison to equivalent figures of previous centuries, among other things because of Roman and Celtic influences. According to, for instance, Michael Enright (1996a) and, albeit by completely different arguments, also to Richard North (1997b), the ‘sacred’ Germanic kings (reges) were replaced with warlords (duces) at that time (although somewhat later according to North), which is likely to have altered the position of Wodan substantially: from being a god of the warrior-bands and their leader to becoming a god of kings.14 A similar development, although somewhat later, is likely to have taken place in the North. For this and other reasons, even if we may argue that ‘a god of the Óðinn type’ existed in Scandinavia since the beginning of our era and probably much earlier, it does not mean that the Óðinn figure, whom we encounter in the medi­eval sources, was the same as the *Wōdanaz (or whatever his name was) of that early time. In fact, quite the opposite is the case, since we must calculate with both direct influences, such as knowledge of new gods and cults, and also more indirect influences in the form of new social and political frames and, as a consequence, new needs. All of these were certainly relevant in the North all through the Germanic Iron Age, and they would inevitably have led to changes also in the religious world-view, although such are very difficult to pinpoint because of the source situation. From the centuries surrounding the beginning of our era, we have almost no Germanic names for any of the gods, although the weekday names, which probably found their way into the Germanic area during the third century ce, indicate that, at that time, equivalents to Týr, Óðinn, Þórr, and Frigg were major gods in a pan-Germanic pantheon. According to most of the authors of that period, the Germanic peoples venerated Mercury, Mars, Hercules, Venus, and others with Roman names. Most scholars agree that Mercury, of whom Tacitus says (Germania ch. 9) ‘Deorum maxime Mercurium colunt, cui certis diebus humanis quoque hostiis litare fas habent’ (Of the gods, they give may portray a great warrior or perhaps a different god. Other or more precise attributes are needed if the interpretation of such carvings as depicting a god of the Óðinn type is not to be completely arbitrary. For a discussion of problems of that sort, see Schjødt (1986b). 14  This is not to say that he was not an important god in Indo-European times; quite the contrary, everything suggests that he was. But, for instance, the idea of him as progenitor of the royal houses could very well be due to this shift.

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a special worship to Mercury, to whom on certain days they count even the sacrifice of human life lawful) (pp. 143–45), corresponds to Óðinn, although some have rejected this interpretation (e.g., Helm 1946: 8).15 The acceptance of this identification is based primarily on three arguments: 1) he is the most venerated (at least among the nobility) and greatest recipient of human victims, exactly like Óðinn in the medi­eval sources; 2) in the Germanic weekday names, Mercurii dies is translated into Wednesday, the day of Wōden, with cognates to be found in other Germanic, particularly Scandinavian, languages;16 and 3) among later authors writing in Latin, there is a clear tendency to identify Mercury with Óðinn, although at times he is also identified with other gods, such as Mars (cf. Lassen 2011b: 90 and è12). The similarities between the two gods can, as just argued, never consist of a one-to-one relation: Wodan was not the same as Mercury, but from a Roman perspective, and probably also from that of the Germani acquainted with Roman culture, this identification would in most cases be the more sensible translation (cf. Schjødt 2019a). Thus, we meet the identification again in Paul the Deacon’s eighth-century history of the Longobards (Historia Langobardorum 1.9) and in other Latin sources, such as the Vita Columbani (1.27) from the seventh century.17 We cannot determine with certainty the exact reason for the identification, which is a general problem that we face when it comes to interpretatio Romana, nor can we assume, as stated by Bernhard Maier, that the similarities between the Roman and the native god would necessarily be transparent (Maier 1994). 15 

Helm argues that this sentence by Tacitus is a convention that can be seen from Herodotus to Caesar, and that it is pure form with no real content. Helm has clearly shown that it is possible that the sentence by Tacitus is not reliable. However, it is questionable whether his proposition is the more likely one. What if a god of ‘the Óðinn type’ existed among the IndoEuropean peoples that Herodotus as well as Caesar wrote about? What if the Hermes of Herodotus (5.7), venerated by the kings of the Thrachians (as Óðinn was venerated by the kings of Scandinavia), was actually a god of the Óðinn type, and what if Caesar’s Celtic Mercurius was Lug, then they were both similar to Óðinn and therefore reminded the respective authors of Hermes/Mercury? How would these authors of antiquity be able to convince the source critics of our time that parallels actually did exist? They would probably not stand a chance. For a critical evaluation of the equation between Lug and Mercury, see Maier (1996) and Egeler (2013a), who casts doubt on the parallels between Lug and Óðinn. 16  For the question of the weekday names, see Strutynski (1975); and for a critical evaluation of the traditional dating of the acceptance of the theophoric week among the Germanic peoples, see Shaw (2007: 387), who proposes a much later dating, namely, the seventh and eighth centuries (è12 and è28). 17  For many other instances of texts mentioning Mercury and various cognates of Wodan from the southern part of the Germanic area, we can refer to de Vries (1956–57a: ii, 27–42).

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It is remarkable, however, that these writers chose to identify the allegedly most powerful god of the Germani with a relatively minor god among the Romans. This indicates that it was not just a routine, as would arguably have been the case had they identified the main god with Jupiter: our mightiest god is the same as their mightiest god. There must have been some special reason. We notice that there is some similarity between the attributes of the two gods: they both carry a staff and wear a large hat, and they are both ‘wanderers’ moving from place to place. The identification, however, was probably based on much more than these minor parallels. Both Óðinn and Mercury had knowledge of things that were unknown to ordinary people, both were connected to eloquence and alphabets (Bremmer 1991), and both were connected to the dead; Mercury as a psychopomp and Óðinn as the lord of the dead in Valhǫll. And there are further similarities (see, for instance, Kaliff and Sundqvist 2004: 62–63). All in all, it seems quite understandable that, if the Germanic peoples of antiquity had a god who corresponded to the Óðinn of the North, then Mercury would be the natural choice among the Roman gods to identify him with. This is not to say, however, that the statement by Tacitus and the identification in general cannot be seen as partly due to influences from the Celts, as has been proposed by Michael Enright (1996a: 217–18), Ludwig Rübekeil (2002), Dieter Timpe (1992: 456–57), and many others: the point is simply to note that the mutual identification of gods of the different cultures in the Rhine area around the birth of Christ cannot be reduced to the simple question of whether Mercury ‘was’ Óðinn.18 In the sixth century, Jordanes wrote in his Getica that the ancestor of the Amali of the Ostrogoths was Gapt, probably to be identified with Gautr, a cognomen for Óðinn mentioned inter alia in Grímnismál st. 54, which is another indication of a cult of Óðinn among the southern Germanic peoples. This idea that Óðinn was the progenitor of royal houses or, indeed, of whole tribes is also known from Anglo-Saxon genealogies (cf. North 1997: 111–31). Wodan (Uuodan) is, moreover, mentioned in the Second Merseburg Charm as the healer of a horse. We know this charm from a tenth-century manu­script, but it is likely to be much older. In this connection, we should also mention the English Nine Herbs Charm, recorded in the same century and mentioning Woden as a healer of snake poisoning.19 Another noteworthy characteristic is that we are 18  The problem is somewhat akin to the one we face when comparing Óðinn to the Finnish Väinämöinen. Also here it has been demonstrated (e.g., Frog 2013a: 78–86) that parallels should be seen as a relation between similarities and differences. 19  Apparently, this curing ability by the god is fairly stable. We also meet it in the runic

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told by, for instance, Jordanes (Getica 5.41) about the Goths and Procopius in The Gothic War (De bello Gothico) (6.15) about the people of Thule, both writing in the sixth century, that these peoples sacrificed war prisoners to the war god, whom they refer to as Mars and Ares respectively, indicating that functions were more stable than names. And, as stated already by Tacitus and later authors, Mercury was in particular the recipient of human sacrifices, strongly recalling myths and rituals linked to the Scandinavian Óðinn (cf. Orkneyinga saga ch. 8–13; see also below). Of the Anglo-Saxons, it is said that Woden was their main god (Vita Kentigerni in Acta Sanctorum (p. 820) around 600). The picture we obtain from these sources is thus of a god who is associated with human sacrifices, who has a clear relation to royalty and war, and who has some magical abilities. Even if many scholars have cast doubt on the above-mentioned sources individually, when taken together they strongly indicate that ‘a god of the Óðinn type’, although not exactly the same as the god that we know from the Nordic sources, has roots reaching far back in time, probably as early as the Indo-European era. During this long period, various kinds of major and minor alterations must inevitably have occurred due to changing circumstances of all sorts. Particularly during the first half of the first millennium ce, huge changes took place among the Germanic peoples, first in the Rhine area, but soon also in other Germanic areas. The Rhine area was a melting pot with Roman soldiers from various parts of the empire taking part in various cults20 together with Celts and Germani from various parts of their respective homelands, some of whom were enlisted in the Roman army. In this way, many possible direct and indirect influences came into play, with strong variations from place to place, from one social stratum to another, and from one individual to another according to whatever relation to different groups of Romans and Celts, soldiers or priests, magistrates and chieftains, and so forth a given individual might have. Once this state of affairs is acknowledged, it hardly seems worth the effort to attempt to trace the historical development of the semantics of a particular god from the extremely heterogeneous source material. Such a venture is in any case doomed to fail, unless scholars who discuss whether Óðinn existed among the inscription on the so-called Ribe skull, probably from the mid-eighth century, where Uþin is called upon to cure some kind of pain (McKinnell and others 2004: 50–51). 20  Therefore, it is also a priori likely that Óðinn of the Viking Age was to some extent influenced by the cult of Mithras — and influences the other way round are just as likely — as has been convincingly proposed by Kaliff and Sundqvist (2004), taking textual, icono­graphic, as well as archaeological material into consideration.

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south Germanic peoples, or whether he existed in the North before a certain time, make the effort to define which Óðinn they are talking about — and in most cases, scholars who have speculated in this area have not done so. The Germanic gods (not only Óðinn) as well as the gods of other peoples from the Roman Iron Age were, we can safely assume, all influenced to some degree by ideas about gods from other cultures. And some of these ideas would eventually reach Scandinavia; in the case of Óðinn, such new ideas probably circulated among warriors and in the higher social strata, whereas nothing suggests that he was ever a god of importance to the daily life of common people. This is perhaps also reflected in the placename material. There are comparatively few placenames connected to Óðinn in Scandinavia (see below) and likewise among the other Germanic peoples. This has been taken to indicate that the cult of Wotan-Óðinn was not very widespread and has even been used as an argument against the identification of Mercury with Óðinn. However, we have to take into consideration the nature of the placename material: Although it is far from certain how various places got their names, it is probable that most names were not given by kings and chieftains, but by the people living in the area. The complexity concerning name-giving is, nevertheless, overwhelming (cf. Vikstrand 2001: 45–54; è5), and the argument should not be stretched too far. But if Óðinn, as suggested, was not a god of the common people, we should expect that his appearance in placenames would be quite modest. If all the material, including that of Indo-European comparative mythology, is taken into consideration, it seems that there from time immemorial existed among the Indo-Europeans a god who possessed some ‘demonic’ features (having close connection with the dead and demanding human sacrifices), who was well acquainted with the magical arts, and who was associated with poetry and with ecstasy. It also seems that some kind of warrior-band was for a very long time linked to this deity, although the character of that relation may, in accordance with Enright’s proposals (1996a), have changed substantially during the two centuries surrounding the beginning of our era. Therefore, there must also have been some sort of connection to military leaders that reaches far back in time. If all or most of this is accepted, we already have a god who is strongly reminiscent of the Scandinavian Óðinn, and thus ‘a god of the Óðinn type’.

The Nordic Sources Óðinn appears within many genres of Nordic literature, although he is, surprisingly, virtually absent from others in which one would expect to find him. This goes, for example, for personal names where we only find his name ocurring

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once, on a runic stone from Vestmanland, Sweden: Uþintisa, ON Óðindís — a woman’s name. More uncertain is the name Óðinkar — a man’s name, which has by some been seen as a reference to Óðinn, whereas most modern scholars reject the notion that the name of the god is involved here (Kousgård Sørensen 1974). The nearly complete absence of the god’s name from personal names is surprising but could perhaps be explained by the fact that the demonic character of Óðinn made the name a kind of ‘taboo’ in relation to personal names. It is also conspicuous that Óðinn, although he is portrayed in eddic poetry as the great master of runes, is only mentioned a few times in runic inscriptions from the pagan period, for instance, the Nordendorf fibula referred to above and the skull fragment from Ribe, Denmark (DR EM85, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), which is apparently a magical charm against some kind of pain (cf. McKinnell and others 2004: 50–51; figure è26.2). Further examples from the post-pagan period can be found in some of the runic inscriptions from Bryggen in Bergen, Norway (cf. Knirk 1995).21 Again, we can only speculate about the reasons, but it must be emphasized that the names of the gods in general are rather rarely represented in runic inscriptions.22 We are somewhat better off when it comes to placenames. Toponyms containing ‘Óðinn’, although not as frequent as the names of some of the other gods, are widespread across most of Scandinavia, except for western Norway, which is interesting not least because most of the immigrants who went out to Iceland came from this region (cf. Brink 2007b: 112).23 It may also be of importance that Óðinn toponyms were clearly more frequntly used in the southern part of Scandinavia than farther north. This can be seen as an indication of the fact that centralized power was more concentrated in the South than in the North, which accords well with the specific connection between Óðinn and war-band leaders which was probably also stronger in these areas. The fact that some of the placenames, such as Óðinsakr and Óðinsvin, could indicate a fertility aspect has been used as an argument for seeing Óðinn as a 21 

We shall return briefly to the post-pagan Óðinn below, but shall here refer to Mitchell (2011) who mentions several cases of magical acts in which Óðinn is mentioned. 22  Þórr is actually the only one of the great gods who is mentioned occasionally, and in almost all instances he is then invoked to protect something (most often the inscription itself ). 23  This article by Brink also has a lot of references to both older and more recent literature on the toponymical material, among others the important work by Per Vikstrand (2001), which is mostly concerned with the names of Mälardalen in Sweden but is worth referring to also for many general considerations regarding the use of placename material for the reconstruction of religious cults.

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fertility god (Turville-Petre 1964: 69). This is probably not correct, at least not in a straightforward sense, since everything we know about the god points in other directions. These names can equally well be understood as simply pointing to places where rituals related to the god took place. Another important group of sources, a substantial part of which belongs to the period before the Viking Age, is the pictorial evidence (è7). The interpretation of pictures is always problematic and thus also the identification of different gods. Mostly, we have to rely on attributes (if we see a figure with a spear, with two birds, with one eye, or a horse with eight legs, then it is probably Óðinn), or on reconstructed contexts of mythic situations, as we find on some of the bracteates and on the gold foils,24 as well as on the Gotlandic picture stones. This icono­g raphic principle means that images can only confirm aspects of already-known myths about Óðinn but cannot indicate unknown myths, because we are not able to recognize such images as Odinic. These more or less certain pictorial confirmations of Odinic myths, however, are important because they link the medi­eval narratives from Iceland with the pre-Christian contexts of the Scandinavian mainland and in some cases other parts of the Germanic-speaking world. Some of these problems with identification can be exemplified by the recently found figurine from Lejre in Denmark, which has been interpreted by some as depicting Óðinn and by others, the majority, as a woman, perhaps a vǫlva (cf.  Mitchell 2019). In reality, there is very little evidence for any definite answer because there are too few attributes or because those we have (in reality only two birds) are too ambiguous.25 Ever since the middle of the nineteenth century, different images from the period 400 to 1000 ce have been interpreted as depictions of Óðinn, based on the icono­graphical principle just mentioned. The possibly oldest Odinic figure in Scandinavia is found at Glasbacka in Halland, Sweden. It is a small, stylized bronze head with two differently shaped eyes, a forehead ending in a bird’s beak, and two arms. The bronze figure has a hollow base, indicating that it was originally put at the upper end of a wooden 24  Regarding bracteates, Karl Hauck has done much work on interpreting the motifs, and his results have been accepted by many scholars (for instance, his idea of relating certain motifs to various parts of the myth of Baldr), but they nevertheless remain quite speculative (Hauck and others 1985–89; for a balanced critique of this work, see Wicker and Williams 2012). The gold foils have been interpreted by Gro Steinsland as portraying the sacred wedding between a god and a giant woman (Steinsland 1990a). 25  For a brief overview of the various pictorial categories of evidence concerning Óðinn, see Hultgård (2007b: 778–80).

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staff or something similar (Montelius 1917). The figure has clear Odinic features, such as the one-eyed aspect, the shapeshifting into a bird, and the possible staff. The date of this figure is difficult to estimate, however, because it is a unique object without any clear find context. Usually, it has been dated to the late Bronze Age, that is, 1000–500 bce, because of parallels to other figures with a beak at the forehead dating from that period (Montelius 1917; Randsborg 1993: 103–04; Kaul 2004: 177). But it can also belong to the early or middle Iron Age (500 bce–400 ce), because several three-dimensional bronze figures are known from this period, for instance, from Öland (Stenberger 1964: 408–14). Even so, the figure from Figure 42.1. Bronze figure from Glasbacka must be one of the oldest figures Glasbacka in Halland (SHM depicting Óðinn or an Óðinn-type god 10972:96974). The figure is probably related to numinous knowledge. Odinic. It is conventionally dated to The oldest sizeable corpus of potenabout 1000–500 bce, but could also belong to the period 500 bce–400 tially Odinic images is the gold bracteates, ce. Photo: John Ljungkvist, Statens dated from the mid-fifth century to the Historiska Museum, Stockholm.  early or mid-sixth century (Axboe 2007: 65–76). These gold pendants with stamped images were modelled on Roman coins and medaillions, although the pictorial material was clearly different from that of the Roman models. Currently, about a thousand bracteates and imitations of Roman gold medaillions are known, primarily from Scandinavia but also from Germany, Poland, Hungary, northern France, and England (Heizmann and Axboe 2011). The icono­graphy of the bracteates has been a central issue since the mid-nineteenth century (Thomsen 1855; Worsaae 1870). Above all, the so-called C-bracteates, with a human head above an animal, usually one or two birds near the head and sometimes accompanying runes, have been interpreted as images of Óðinn (Thomsen 1855). Karl Hauck has in a series of studies proposed that all images on the C-bracteates can be interpreted as Óðinn curing the horse of Baldr by whispering into the ear of the horse, with references to the Second Merseburg Charm (Hauck 1992, 2011b; overview in Pesch 2007). Although this all-embracing interpretation is

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Figure 42.2. Gold bracteate from Lerbäck parish in Närke, dated to the fifth century (SHM 12762:108998). This example is one of many so-called C-bracteates, with a head placed directly above a horned animal. The image is often accompanied by a runic text and has been interpreted as Óðinn curing the horse of Baldr by whispering into the ear of the horse. Photo: Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm. 

disputed (see Andrén 2014; Wicker and Williams 2012) some of the motifs of the C-bracteates seem clearly Odinic, again underlining a mythological figure with numinous knowledge. Another corpus of varying Odinic figures of different form and material can be dated to between the seventh and eleventh centuries (Helmbrecht 2011). In contrast to the earlier images, they can be related to several different aspects of Óðinn, such as numinous knowledge, warfare, royal power, and death. A recurrent image is a one-eyed male figure with a head decoration — or helmet — with two birds as ‘horns’. Sometimes the man is holding a sword and one or two spears in his hands. This motif is attested in three-dimensional figures, in decorations on helmets, and on textile. They are known from early towns, central places, and other aristocratic sites, such as Ribe, Tissø, Uppåkra, Oseberg, Björnhovda, Gamla Uppsala, Valsgärde, Birka, but also from more ordinary settlements in Denmark, Norway, and Sweden (Helmbrecht 2011: 140–46, 167–69). Other figures render Óðinn as a rider with a bird-decorated helmet, a spear, and a shield, together with two birds, sometimes with other warriors (Helmbrecht 2011: 75–82). A special case is the helmet from Sutton Hoo in East Anglia, which as a whole seems to have been an Odinic item. Apart from Odinic decorations on the helmet, the two eyes of the helmet were decorated in different ways, giving the impression of only one gleaming eye so that the bearer of the helmet looked one-eyed, like Óðinn (Price and Mortimer 2014; Nygaard 2019: 86–95).

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Figure 42.3. Odinic figures. A) Warrior with spear, birds, and a canine animal forming a decoration on a helmet from a boat grave at Vendel in Uppland Drawing: Olof Sörling (Stolpe and Arne 1912: pl. IV). B) Bronze figure of a one-eyed man with horns from Uppåkra in Skåne (LUHM 31000:1309). Photo: Historiska Muséet vid Lunds Universitet.

Another type of motif comes from the picture stones on Gotland. On some of these stones, Óðinn is instead related to the dead as the lord of Valhǫll, which must have been a suitable motif for these memorial stones (Lindqvist 1941–42; Nylén and Lamm 2003; Helmbrecht 2011). On the top panel of at least five stones, a horse-rider is received by a woman holding a drinking horn. The most comprehensive pictures from Ardre and Tjängvide in Alskog include an eight-legged horse, a huge house, and fighting warriors as well. For a long time, these images have been interpreted as images of Valhǫll, with the einherjar, valkyries, and Sleipnir carrying either Óðinn himself or the dead warrior to Valhǫll (Lindqvist 1941–42; Buisson 1976). A possible, but rather late, image of Óðinn is found on a rune stone from Harg in central Uppland, dated to the middle of the eleventh century. The rune stone is erected by two brothers in memory of their father, and in the middle of the stone is a picture of a horse-rider with a bird above the rider’s head (U 448, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). The picture is not unambiguously Odinic, but it lacks a cross and is raised at Harg, which has given name to the parish church nearby, called Odensala, originally Othinsharg. Consequently, the image could have been a reference to the local theophoric placename.

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Figure 42.4. Picture stone from Tjängvide in Alskog on Gotland, from the ninth century (SHM 4171:108203). The top panel includes the image of a rider on an eight-legged horse, which has been interpreted as Sleipnir carrying either Óðinn himself or a dead warrior to Valhǫll. Photo: Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm. 

Turning to the written corpus, we shall begin with the sources written by foreigners (i.e., people, often missionaries and historians, who had some direct or indirect contact with Scandinavia during the pagan era). Here Óðinn is mentioned or implied quite often as an important god of the Scandinavians. Most interesting is Adam of Bremen, who in his Gesta Hammaburgensis Ecclesiae Pontificium (c. 1070) describes the temple at Uppsala, informing us about Wodan, his attributes, his function, and his cult. Another source of interest, although Óðinn’s name is not mentioned, is Ibn Fadlan’s account of a chieftain’s funeral among Vikings by the Volga. Here, we learn about the god whom the chieftain shall reside with in his future existence, and this may be Óðinn (è32). We shall return to both these sources below. In the Old Norse sources, Óðinn is mentioned in the skaldic poems, where in particular his relation to poetry is emphasized. However, he is not the main protagonist in any of the pagan skaldic poems, although he is mentioned quite often, not least by way of his many cognomina and often as an element of kennings. Nevertheless, in poems such as Eiríksmál and Hákonarmál we learn

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Figure 42.5. Rune stone from Harg in Uppland (U 448, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), from the middle of the eleventh century. The rider on the monument can be interpreted as Óðinn, with a reference to the original place name Othinsharg. Photo: Erik Brate, Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm. 

much about Óðinn’s role as ruler of Valhǫll, and therefore at least some of the older skaldic poems must be regarded as important sources (è34).26 The eddic poems definitely constitute one of the main sources for how Óðinn was perceived in the late pagan period. Below, we shall treat in detail many of the poems, and therefore we just present them briefly here. In Codex Regius, the redactor appears to have been aware of the important role of Óðinn, since he is the main protagonist in the first four of the mythological poems: Vǫluspá, Hávamál, Vafþrúðnismál, and Grímnismál. They are in various ways all concerned with this god’s knowledge. In Vǫluspá, Óðinn calls upon a vǫlva in order to get her to tell the history of the world from the earliest times to Ragnarǫk and beyond. In Hávamál, which is no doubt a compilation of several poems, originally independent but apparently all put into the mouth of Óðinn, the god gives advice on common rules of social behaviour and examples of how women should be dealt with based on his own experience; he relates mythic information about numinous secrets, among other things how he hung on the World Tree for nine nights in order to acquire numinous 26 

It is worth noticing that the skalds of these two poems which have direct reference to Óðinn chose to cast them in eddic metres.

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knowledge; and finally he tells of different kinds of galdrar (magical songs). Vafþrúðnismál is more ‘mythic’ in a traditional sense, telling of how Óðinn met with the wise giant Vafþrúðnir in order to hold a knowledge contest with him, which of course the god wins. This poem is interesting both because we get important information about Óðinn and also because it reveals a lot of mythical information in general. Grímnismál tells a myth about how Óðinn, in disguise and calling himself Grímnir, visits one of his chosen heroes, a king who, believing that the visitor is a magician, ties him up between two fires so that he will eventually be burned. After eight nights, Óðinn then starts telling him mythic lore and mentions many of his own names, finally revealing his real identity, after which he escapes and the king dies, stabbed with his own sword. In Hárbarðslióð, which is a dialogue poem like Vafþrúðnismál, Óðinn is disguised as a ferryman, calling himself Hárbarðr and quarrelling with Þórr who wants to go across a river. In many of the stanzas spoken by Hárbarðr, we are given valuable information about his character. Another mythological poem, although not from Codex Regius, with Óðinn as the main figure is Baldrs draumar. In terms of its structure, this poem is akin to Vǫluspá, telling of how Óðinn wakes up a vǫlva from the dead in order to force her through magical means to reveal her knowledge. This time, however, the knowledge does not concern the history of the world but a much more limited subject: namely, the death of Baldr and what comes after. Finally, among the mythological poems we should also mention Rígsþula, which is apparently not about Óðinn at all: it is about another god, Rígr, who in the introductory prose is identified as Heimdallr, but whose identity in the poem itself is never revealed. The myth is a sociogony, telling of how the three social classes of slaves, free farmers, and nobility — and then finally the king — all descend from Rígr, but from different mothers. Even if most scholars accept Rígr’s identity with Heimdallr, as stated in the prose introduction, some have argued that the enigmatic ancestor is more likely to be Óðinn (cf. von See and others 2000: 487, 516–18; Schjødt 2017b; è50). We shall return to this below. Apart from these mythological poems, Óðinn is also present in some of the heroic poems, especially in those dealing with young Sigurðr: Reginsmál, Fáfnismál, and Sigrdrífumál. Óðinn is not the protagonist in these poems but figures in a role which is known from many other sources: namely, as the giver of advice to the hero. In Sigrdrífumál, we also hear about the valkyrie who has been punished by Óðinn because she did not obey him in his wishes as to who was going to die on the battlefield. In Helgakviða Hundingsbana II, we also hear how Óðinn gave a spear to Dagr for him to kill Helgi. Most of the information in the heroic poems concerning Óðinn is supported by other sources, too.

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To sum up, we can state that our knowledge about Óðinn would be diminished substantially if we did not have eddic poems as sources for the Óðinn figure. It is true that Snorri, to whom we shall return presently, presents much of the same information and often quotes from the poems, but Snorri’s style is ‘medi­eval’, probably partly due to his euhemeristic view of the gods, and to an extent that makes it hard to glimpse a real ‘pagan’ Óðinn, which is, with a few exceptions, what we get from the poems just mentioned. Snorri is very much a medi­e val author, especially in his way of presenting the myths. Nevertheless, his works are extremely important for our knowledge of Óðinn, not only the medi­eval reception of him but also for his general position within the pagan world-view.27 In Gylfaginning, we are given a history of the world, probably modelled on Vǫluspá, from the cosmogony until the end of time. Here, we obtain a lot of information on Óðinn who is depicted as the king among the gods and the father of most of the other gods and of humankind (Alfǫðr, Alfaðir). He resides in Valhǫll (hall of the slain), clearly modelled on the kingly halls of pagan Scandinavia (Nordberg 2003). During the time span from the creation to Ragnarǫk, several myths, only some of which involve Óðinn, are told. Of special interest, perhaps, are the stories of how Óðinn lost his one eye in order to acquire knowledge from the head or well of Mímir and the myth about the killing of Baldr. Skáldskaparmál is structured differently and does not have the diachronic perspective that characterizes Gylfaginning,28 but it still tells several myths in which Óðinn has a prominent role, the best known being his acquisition of the mead of poetry and wisdom. Snorri’s Edda is an attempt to relate the old lore so that it would not be lost to skalds of Snorri’s own time, and thus it is told in a way that met the requirements concerning modes of narrating in the thirteenth century. Therefore, it is also obvious to most that the ‘myths’ told in Edda are different from myths that would have been told during the pagan era. However, here as elsewhere, it is necessary to distinguish between form and content (cf. Meulengracht Sørensen 1991), and, as we shall see, most of the content concerning Óðinn actually fits very well with what we know from other sources and with what we should expect. In other words: Snorri remains within the Óðinn discourse, insofar as it is possible to establish this. The other work by Snorri, which is equally important to our understanding of Óðinn, is Ynglinga saga, particularly the first nine chapters, which are very ‘mythological’, whereas the rest of the saga is perhaps better characterized 27  A very detailed and useful summary and discussion of Snorri’s treatment of Óðinn is found in Lassen (2011b: 235–307). 28  Concerning Skáldskaparmál and its problems, see Clunies Ross (1987).

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as ‘legendary history’. These chapters tell of how Óðinn and the other gods came to the North from Asia and settled down in Old Uppsala — a narrative different from, albeit in general accordance with, the immigration story told in the prologue to the Edda. Óðinn, who is of course also here seen from a euhemeristic perspective, is the leader, and in Chapters 6 and 7 we get the famous description of Óðinn’s abilities, which has become a locus classicus for our view on Óðinn.29 Here, we are told how he knows all kinds of magical techniques and that he is the leader of the berserkir ( è 24). Below, we shall deal with this description in some detail alongside other information presented in Ynglinga saga. We also meet Óðinn in some of the other sagas of Heimskringla, particularly in relation to the missionary kings, Óláfr Tryggvason and Óláfr Haraldsson, although there he is portrayed as demonic. Even in these sagas, however, we probably get information genuinely belonging to the pagan Óðinn discourse:30 he is wise, but often unreliable.31 There is no doubt that Snorri’s descriptions of Óðinn must be treated with caution, but there is no doubt, either, that Snorri does relate a substantial amount of details regarding Óðinn which are extremely important to our attempts at a reconstruction. Apart from the kings’ sagas, Óðinn is mentioned a few times in the Íslendinga­sögur and the hagio­graphic literature (Lassen 2011b: 121–28), albeit without contributing anything significant to what we know from other sources. In the fornaldarsögur, however, and in Gesta Danorum by the historian Saxo Grammaticus, we are given much important information.32 Although the for29  This is not unproblematic, however, since, as has been shown by John Lindow (2003), the whole description may well have been heavily influenced by shamanistic ideas relating to the Sámi. This idea is the more important because much of the modern scholarship on Óðinn has maintained that the god is basically to be interpreted from the perspective of shamanism. We shall return to this below. 30  ‘Discourse’ here is to be understood as a semantic space within which many different statements can be uttered, but not every statement; thus, in the case of Óðinn, for instance, it cannot be said that he lacks intellectual skills, or that he is a reliable helper for his chosen heroes (cf. Schjødt 2013 (è1)). 31  Lassen (2011b: 135–51) presents a good overview of Óðinn’s role in these sagas, taking into account versions from various manu­scripts. 32  Again, we can refer to the exhaustive exposition by Lassen (2011b: 152–234). In general, this work has the merit of treating all the sources in which Óðinn plays a role, and we refer to it for a detailed overview. Another important work for our understanding of Óðinn in the fornaldarsögur is Røthe (2010: 13–102), who analyzes all the ‘Óðinn passages’ in the fornaldarsögur from the perspective of the history of religions.

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naldarsögur in general are late (fourtenth century and later), they no doubt contain many features of Óðinn, which must have survived from pagan times in the oral tradition, of course becoming intertwined with Christian viewpoints and later folklore. These sagas sometimes characterize him as a demon attempting to seduce men to become or remain pagan, but the role of Óðinn in them and also in Saxo mostly consists in helping his chosen heroes, and he is thus often portrayed as a guardian god. But there are also other motifs to which we shall return in the following para­g raphs. It is, thus, characteristic of both Gesta Danorum and the fornaldarsögur that we most often meet Óðinn among humans as opposed to among the gods, as is the case for the figure as we meet him in the eddic poems (with the exception of Grímnismál) and in Snorri’s Edda, where it seems as if the worlds of the gods and of the humans are almost completely separate. Finally, as is also suggested in some of the sagas recorded rather late, Óðinn continued to play a role far into the Christian Middle Ages and even later, as can be deduced from various kinds of folkloristic material (de Vries 1931), and also from popular magic and legal material (Mitchell 2009, 2011). We must undoubtedly reckon with profound transformations in the views revealed in these sources as compared to the pagan views, but it would not be wise to reject altogether their value to our own understanding of the pagan Óðinn (cf. McKinnell 2013a).

Myths For most of the Scandinavian gods, we know much more about their position in the mythic and narrative records than in the cult, although the cult of Óðinn is probably the best documented among all the Scandinavian gods. But it is worth noting that most of the information about his cult is actually related in mythic or semi-mythic (legendary) material. General Mythic Features We shall begin this exposition with Óðinn’s general position in the pantheon,33 as far as it can be deduced from the mythological sources, primarily Snorri and 33 

It has been doubted by, for instance, Terry Gunnell (2013a, 2015) whether it is reasonable to speak about a pantheon in pre-Christian Scandinavia. This question is certainly relevant because most people will associate the concept with the Greek or Roman pantheons, with formalized relations between the individual gods. A Scandinavian pantheon in the same

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the eddic poems. As has been suggested already, these sources can probably not be taken to relate mythic ideas that were necessarily common throughout Scandinavia because traditions about the relations and structures within the world of the gods are likely to have varied substantially from one area to another; examples of this can be found in the extant sources. According to Gylfaginning (p. 11), however, Óðinn’s father was Borr and his mother Bestla, the daughter of a giant called Bǫlþorn. It is probably significant that his mother is of giant kin, attested also in the skaldic corpus (Vellekla st. 37), which would explain some of the more dubious traits of Óðinn; since giants in many ways represent ‘the Other’ (cf. Lindow 1995b; Schjødt 2012c and forthcoming; è61), it may serve as a partial explanation of the ‘otherness’ often connected to Óðinn.34 His brothers are Vili and Vé,35 who, according to Snorri, took part in the creation of the world and of humans, but of whom we do not hear much else in the extant mythological sources. Ynglinga saga ch.  3, however, says that when Óðinn, chieftain of the æsir, was away, they would take over and govern the land. Once, when he had been away for a long time, they both took his wife Frigg as their wife. When Óðinn came back, however, he took her back again.36 Frigg is mentioned as his wife in several sources, but Óðinn is also said in some sources to have Freyja as his mistress (for instance, in Sǫrla þáttr from Flateyjarbók). Since Frigg (from a root meaning perhaps ‘wife’) and Freyja (‘lady’) etymologically speaking fall within the same semantic sphere (è 45 and è 51), as does the name Óðinn in comparison to the name of Freyja’s husband Óðr, there can be no doubt that there existed some sort of relation between the two pairs Óðinn sense probably only existed in the very late pagan era (and perhaps not even then: it could be an invention by Snorri and other Christian writers). When the term is used here, it merely expresses the fact that there was, as a minimum, an idea of several gods who interacted and who had different characteristics and to a certain extent also different functions. Even if Gunnell may be right that different gods were venerated by different people, it is most likely that the majority of gods, mentioned by Snorri, for example, were at least known by (although perhaps not relevant to) everybody. 34  Schjødt (2008: 379–96) has argued that, within the ‘Other World’ (the world of the supernatural, including the gods), there is another ‘Other World’ which can be thematized as the world of the giants, of the vanir, or of some other beings, but always opposed in some sense to the world of the æsir which is the mythic replica to ‘our’ world. 35  There would thus be alliteration in the names of the three brothers at an older stage (Wodan-Vodan), as is the case with the so-called ‘Mannus’ tribes of Tacitus (Germania ch. 2). 36  A somewhat similar story is told in Gesta Danorum (1.7), although with important differences, since Vili and Vé are not mentioned. Instead, a figure called Mithothyn takes over who seems to be a double of Óðinn himself.

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and Frigg and Óðr and Freyja. Snorri also states in Ynglinga saga ch. 8 that Óðinn was even married to Skaði, and that they became the ancestors of the Norwegian jarls of Lade (Hlaðir). But Óðinn generally has many mistresses and is a great seducer of women, as he himself recounts in Hárbarðslióð. Thus, apart from the children he has with Frigg, the brothers Baldr and Hǫðr and perhaps many more, Þórr is said to be his son by Jǫrð (Earth) and Váli by Rindr. Many other gods are sometimes said to be his sons; Snorri directly tells us that he is the father of all the gods (Gylfaginning p. 21), which is why he is called Alfǫðr.37 Apparently, there was no stable tradition about these relations, nor should we expect that. Beside these purely mythic family relations, Óðinn, as we have already seen among various Germanic tribes, is mentioned as the ancestor of many royal and other noble families. This is more often seen among the Anglo-Saxons than in Scandinavia, but it does appear in, for instance, Háleyg jatal and in Vǫlsunga saga in which he is portrayed as the forefather of the jarls of Lade and the Vǫlsungr dynasty, respectively. Moreover, if Óðinn is, in fact, the protagonist in Rígsþula, this would be another example of him occupying this role. We will return to this important role of Óðinn as forefather below. Óðinn’s appearance is hard to sum up in a few words, since one of his characteristics is that he is often in disguise so that the people, both mythic and human, he meets do not realize whom they are facing. Frequently, particularly in the fornaldarsögur and in Saxo, it is not stated explicitly that the old man, who is often said to be one-eyed,38 is in fact Óðinn. In general, he is portrayed as an old or at least an older man (in spite of his success with women), one-eyed, and wearing a dark blue cloak as well as a large hat. His primary attribute is a spear, called Gungnir, and he also owns the ring Draupnir, which every ninth night drips eight rings of the same size. Draupnir is most likely symbolically connected to regeneration, and this must be why Baldr is given it on his funeral pyre and why he gives it back to Hermóðr when he comes to negotiate with Hel about the fate of Baldr: being dead in Hel is irretrievable. As a kind of attribute we may also mention Óðinn’s horse Sleipnir, which has eight legs and is the only horse that can pass the border between the living and the dead. Sleipnir is born from the union between Loki in the form of a mare and Svaðilfari, a stallion owned by a giant (Gylfaginning pp. 34–35), indicating that, like Óðinn himself, there is a certain amount of ‘otherness’ in the horse, explaining per37  For this term in relation to Alfaðir, see Simek (1984: 13) and Lindow (2002a: 55) with further references. 38  For a thorough discussion of one-eyedness in the North, see Lassen (2003b).

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haps why it has the ability to cross borders between worlds. It can also be mentioned here that, perhaps surprisingly, Óðinn is the only figure among the gods who is a horse-rider. Finally, the ship Skíðblaðnir is said in Ynglinga saga ch. 7 to belong to Óðinn, but is elsewhere attributed to Freyr (Gylfaginning p. 36; Skáldskaparmál p. 42; Grímnismál st. 43). His abode is Valhǫll in Ásgarðr. This hall is in every respect what warriors can dream of (cf. Nordberg 2003), and here Óðinn resides with his einherjar, those who have fallen in battle.39 This hall is described in Grímnismál, but Gylfaginning (pp. 32–34) provides a fuller picture. Here, Óðinn has his high seat Hliðskiálf, and he has two wolves (Geri and Freki) and two ravens (Huginn and Muninn). About the wolves we know very little, except that they eat the food that is served for the god, for he only drinks wine; apart from that, the primary associations to wolves in the past probably were that they were fierce animals and corpse eaters, thus emphasizing the relation of Óðinn to the battlefield. The ravens, whose names mean ‘mind’ or ‘thought’ and ‘memory’ respectively, could be seen as ‘informants’: they fly out all over the world and come back, telling him many hidden things, as it is related in Ynglinga saga ch. 7 (cf.  Mitchell 2019). Turning to his skills, the locus classicus, as mentioned above, is Ynglinga saga ch. 6 and 7, from which we will quote the relevant passage here: Chapter 6 Þá er Ása-Óðinn kom á Norðrlǫnd ok með honum díar, er þat sagt með sannendum, at þeir hófu ok kenndu íþróttir þær, er menn hafa lengi síðan með farit. Óðinn var gǫfgastr af ǫllum, ok af honum námu þeir allir íþróttirnar, því at hann kunni fyrst allar ok þó flestar. En þat er at segja, fyrir hverja sǫk hann var svá mjǫk tígnaðr, þá báru þessir hlutir til: Hann var svá fagr ok gǫfugligr álitum, þá er hann sat með sínum vinum, at ǫllum hló hugr við. En þá er hann var í her, þá sýndisk hann grimligr sínum óvinum. En þat bar til þess, at hann kunni þær íþróttir, at hann skipti litum ok líkjum á hverja lund, er hann vildi. Ǫnnur var sú, at hann talaði svá snjallt ok slétt, at ǫllum, er á heyrðu, þótti þat eina satt. Mælti hann allt hendingum, svá sem nú er þat kveðit, er skáldskapr heitir. Hann ok hofgoðar hans heita ljóðasmiðir, því at sú íþrótt hófsk af þeim í Norðrlǫndum. Óðinn kunni svá gera, at í orrostu urðu óvinir hans blindir eða daufir eða óttafullir, en vápn þeira bitu eigi heldr en vendir, en hans menn fóru brynjulausir ok váru galnir sem hundar eða vargar, bitu í skjǫldu sína, váru sterkir sem birnir eða griðungar. Þeir drápu mannfólkit, en hvártki eldr né járn orti á þá. Þat er kallaðr berserksgangr. 39 

Who the einherjar were and the actual prerequisites for going to Valhǫll has recently been discussed by Nordberg (2003), Schjødt (2007a), and Hultgård (2011) (è34).

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Chapter 7 Óðinn skipti hǫmum. Lá þá búkrinn sem sofinn eða dauðr, en hann var þá fugl eða dýr, fiskr eða ormr ok fór á einni svipstund á fjarlæg lǫnd at sínum ørendum eða annarra manna. Þat kunni hann enn at gera með orðum einum at sløkkva eld ok kyrra sjá ok snúa vindum hverja leið, er hann vildi, ok hann átti skip, er Skíðblaðnir hét, er hann fór á yfir hǫf stór, en þat mátti vefja saman sem dúk. Óðinn hafði með sér hǫfuð Mímis, ok sagði þat honum mǫrg tíðindi ór ǫðrum heimum, en stundum vakði hann upp dauða menn ór jǫrðu eða settisk undir hanga. Fyrir því var hann kallaðr draugadróttinn eða hangadróttinn. Hann átti hrafna tvá, er hann hafði tamit við mál. Flugu þeir víða um lǫnd ok sǫgðu honum mǫrg tíðendi. Af þessum hlutum varð hann stórliga fróðr. Allar þessar íþróttir kenndi hann með rúnum ok ljóðum þeim, er galdrar heita. Fyrir því eru Æsir kallaðir galdrasmiðir. Óðinn kunni þá íþrótt, svá at mestr máttr fylgði, ok framði sjálfr, er seiðr heitir, en af því mátti hann vita ørlǫg manna ok óorðna hluti, svá ok at gera mǫnnum bana eða óhamingju eða vanheilendi, svá ok at taka frá mǫnnum vit eða afl ok gefa ǫðrum. En þessi fjǫlkynngi, er framið er, fylgir svá mikil ergi, at eigi þótti karlmǫnnum skammlaust við at fara, ok var gyðjunum kennd sú íþrótt. Óðinn vissi um allt jarðfé, hvar fólgit var, ok hann kunni þau ljóð, er upp lauksk fyrir honum jǫrðin ok bjǫrg ok steinar ok haugarnir, ok batt hann með orðum einum þá, er fyrir bjoggu, ok gekk inn ok tók þar slíkt, er hann vildi. Af þessum krǫptum varð hann mjǫk frægr. Óvinir hans óttuðusk hann, en vinir hans treystusk honum ok trúðu á krapt hans ok á sjálfan hann. En hann kenndi flestar íþróttir sínar blótgoðunum. Váru þeir næst honum um allan fróðleik ok fjǫlkynngi. Margir aðrir námu þó mikit af, ok hefir þaðan af dreifzk fjǫlkynngin víða ok haldizk lengi. En Óðin ok þá hǫfðingja tólf blótuðu menn ok kǫlluðu goð sín ok trúðu á lengi síðan. (Chapter 6 It is said with truth that when Ása-Óthin came to the Northlands, and the díar with him, they introduced and taught the skills practiced by men for a long time afterwards. Óthin was the most prominent of them all, and from him they learned all the skills, because he was the first to know them. Now as to why he was honored so greatly — the reasons for that are these: he was so handsome and noble to look at when he sat among his friends that it gladdened the hearts of all. But when he engaged in warfare he showed his enemies a grim aspect. The reasons for this were that he knew the arts by which he could shift appearance and body any way he wished. For another matter, he spoke so well and so smoothly that all who heard him believed all he said was true. All he spoke was in rimes, as is now the case in what is called skaldship. He and his temple priests are called songsmiths, because that art began with them in the northern lands. Óthin was able to cause his enemies to be blind or deaf or fearful in battle, and he could cause their swords to cut no better than wands. His own men went to battle without coats of mail and acted like mad dogs or wolves. They bit their shields and were as strong as bears or bulls. They killed people, and neither fire nor iron affected them. This is called berserker rage.

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Chapter 7 Óthin could shift his appearance. When he did so his body would lie there as if he were asleep or dead; but he himself, in an instant, in the shape of a bird or animal, a fish or a serpent, went to distant countries on his or other men’s errands. He was also able with mere words to extinguish fires, to calm the sea, and to turn winds any way he pleased. He had a ship called Skíthblathnir with which he sailed over great seas. It could be folded together like a cloth. Óthin had with him Mímir’s head, which told him many tidings from other worlds; and at times he would call to life dead men out of the ground, or he would sit down under men that were hanged. On this account he was called Lord of Ghouls or of the Hanged. He had two ravens on whom he had bestoved the gift of speech. They flew far and wide over the lands and told him many tidings. By these means he became very wise in his lore. And all these skills he taught with those runes and songs which are called magic songs [charms]. For this reason the Æsir are called Workers of Magic. Óthin had the skill which gives great power and which he practiced himself. It is called seith [sorcery], and by means of it he could know the fate of men and predict events that had not yet come to pass; and by it he could also inflict death or misfortunes or sickness, or also deprive people of their wits or strength, and give them to others. But this sorcery is attended by such wickedness that manly men considered it shameful to practice it, and so it was taught to priestesses. Óthin knew about all hidden treasures, and he knew such magic spells as would open for him the earth and mountains and rocks and burial mounds; and with mere words he bound those who dwelled in them, and went in and took what he wanted. Exercising these arts he became very famous. His enemies feared him, and his friends had faith in him and his power. Most of these skills he taught the sacrificial priests. They were next to him in all manner of knowledge and sorcery. Yet many others learned a great deal of it; hence sorcery spread far and wide and continued for a long time. People worshipped Óthin and his twelve chieftains, calling them their gods, and believed in them for a long time thereafter.) (pp. 10–11)

As noted above, this passage has been regarded by John Lindow (2003) more as a portrait of a human magician, influenced by Sámi shamanism, than of a pagan god. Therefore, as Lindow says, we must ‘exercise extreme care with Ynglinga saga’ (2003: 106) when we use it for reconstructing the pagan Óðinn. However, Snorri probably knew other sources on Óðinn, which were in accordance with this picture. We shall return to the notion of shamanism later in this chapter and for the time being simply note that the Óðinn figure, whom Snorri presents here, seems to accord with what we know about the god from other sources, although many details may be of dubious value. Therefore, we shall not analyze every individual piece in the description. What is conspicuous,

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however, is the fact that all the abilities here described clearly link to Óðinn’s numinous powers: he can change his appearance; he can make everything he says appear to be true (because he speaks in verse); he can make his men invulnerable and transform them mentally; he can go on spirit travels; he manipulates the elements with mere words; he has the head of Mímir and his ravens which tell him tidings from Other Worlds; he knows how to wake the dead; he knows the runes and various magical songs; and he knows how to perform seiðr. So, there is no doubt that the skills of the god all lie within the discourse of numinous abilities, which must be considered the semantic centre of the Óðinn figure. There is no reason to reject that the way in which these abilities are presented in Ynglinga saga (and in other textual sources), including many of the details, also reflect post-pagan discourses. The main point here, however, is that these abilities all conform to what other evidence leads us to expect of a guardian god of chieftains and kings in a religious society such as that of pre-Christian Scandinavia: he should be able to manipulate both nature and culture for the benefit of land and people by supernatural or numinous means. As is the case with most of the gods in PCRN, also Óðinn has an antagonistic relation to the giants. He is, as we saw, partly of giant kin, but he nonetheless regularly confronts giants in some way or other during his ‘mythical career’. Apart from the killing of Ymir, however, he apparently confronts them mainly by intellectual means, as in his knowledge competition with Vafþrúðnir in Vafþrúðnismál or as part of larger mythical plots (for instance, the Hrungnir myth or that of the theft of the poetic mead (see below), as they are related in Skáldskaparmál pp. 20–22, 3–5). There is never any hint of a physical confrontation in the form of combat with weapons. Furthermore, it is a general characteristic of Óðinn that he acts as a helper of kings and warriors; examples will be given below. Here, it shall just be noted that by far the greatest number of his cognomina (and there are, indeed, many — perhaps close to two hundred)40 emphasize aspects of the god pertaining to war or magic abilities, suggesting that exactly war and magic were the key characteristics of this god.41

40 

A list with translations and divisions into various aspects of the god’s character can be found in Price (2002: 101–07). The classical investigation of Óðinn’s names is Falk (1924) who enumerates 169 . 41  Always a mental aspect of war, having to do either with frenzy or strategy; cf. Schjødt (2012b: 72–75; 2011: 270–79).

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Individual Myths Cosmogony Óðinn and his brothers Vili and Vé were, according to Snorri (Gylfaginning pp. 11–12), the main protagonists in the creation of the world (è 37): they kill Ymir and from his body parts bring the world into being. This story is not confirmed by any of the eddic poems, but is not contradicted, either. Snorri quotes from Vǫluspá, Vafþrúðnismál, and Grímnismál to support his story, but only Vǫluspá st. 4, which he does not quote, speaks of the sons of Borr as partaking in the cosmogony, although it has no details about Ymir’s killing. This, however, is secured from the two other poems. Thus, the myth, in the form related by Snorri, cannot be confirmed by older sources, although parts of it are supported by kennings in skaldic poems (for instance, Arnórr jarlaskáld’s Magnússdrápa st. 19). However, the idea of a primordial being being killed in order for the universe to be created is known in many mythologies (Witzel 2012: 117–20), not least from the Indo-European area. The question would therefore appear to be whether it was always Óðinn who had this role. Although a definitive answer cannot, of course, be given, Indo-European parallels give us reason to believe that rather a ‘god of the Þórr type’ was the original slayer of the primordial monster. Anthropogony We learn from Snorri (Gylfaginning p. 13) and from Vǫluspá st. 17–18 that Óðinn was one of three who created human life (è37–38). In Gylfaginning, his companions are Vili and Vé, whereas in Vǫluspá they are Hœnir and Lóðurr. In both sources, the three gods each give a gift that is necessary for human life. Snorri says that Óðinn gave ǫnd ok líf, whereas in Vǫluspá it is said that he gave ǫnd. Ǫnd means ‘breath or spirit’,42 which would mean that what Óðinn supplies humans with is the very principle of life. We might have expected that he would be the one to give óðr (Vǫluspá) or vit (Gylfaginning), probably meaning ‘mind’ and ‘wit’, and thus some of the mental capacities that Óðinn masters, but these are given by the second god in the triads. However, since Óðinn is moreover god of life and death, it seems quite appropriate that he is the giver of physical life, too.43 As has been mentioned, we also know that Óðinn was 42  In Christian times, the word came to mean ‘soul’, the semantics of which, however, cannot be inferred into the pagan vocabulary. 43  These ‘gifts of the gods’ are discussed in detail in Polomé (1969) (è36).

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regarded as the ancestor of at least noble families, and if, as has been argued (see von See and others 2000: 491, 514–16; Schjødt 2017b), he is the protagonist of Rígsþula, it would fit rather well that he should be responsible for the creation of the human race — and of the various social classes. All in all, the function of Óðinn as the creator of life seems to be in accordance with the Óðinn discourse. Acquisition and Exchange of Numinous Knowledge This is probably the category of Óðinn myths of which we have most examples. To a certain extent they all follow the same structure: namely, either that Óðinn, symbolically or literally, travels to an Other World or that he acquires an object, which has been in an Other World (cf. Wanner 2007). Both in Vǫluspá and in Baldrs draumar, the frame stories consist of a meeting between Óðinn and a vǫlva. In Vǫluspá, it is not said directly that the vǫlva is dead, but it seems to be implied in the last sentence of the poem where she says about herself: ‘nú mun hon søcqvaz’ (now she will sink down), apparently meaning that she will return to her grave after having given Óðinn all the knowledge she possessed — something she has apparently been forced to do (stanza 28, a stanza which is not in the Hauksbók version).44 In Baldrs draumar st. 4, it is said explicitly that the vǫlva is dead and that Óðinn wakes her up against her will, using valgaldr (death magic).45 In both poems, then, it is Óðinn who travels to the dead vǫlva; and vǫlur are particularly wise, since they can look into the future and manipulate the normal order of things. The vǫlur in these poems, however, are even wiser because they are dead and therefore have direct access to the Other World (cf. Quinn 2002). This structure indicates an important characteristic of Óðinn: namely, that, even if he possesses all kinds of wisdom and numinous knowledge, he is always seeking more. The point about Óðinn’s wisdom is, thus, not that he will eventually come to know everything, but that he is constantly acquiring more and more knowledge, much of which has the character of tools for obtaining even more knowledge, which can be seen clearly in some of the myths. One of the more enigmatic ‘myths’, which is far from being a full narrative and rather is a compilation of mythical statements, is the one dealing with his relationship to Loki. The main source here is Lokasenna, where it is stated (st. 44  For new and suggestive ideas about who is informing who in Vǫluspá, see Gísli Sigurðsson (2013: 50–52). 45  Valgaldr is a hapax legomenon, but the meaning seems rather clear.

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9) that Óðinn and Loki became blood brothers in the beginning of times (í árdaga). Blending blood means creating a bond that entails a very strong solidarity between the participants (è32 and è44). This should probably be seen in connection with the general role of blood in Old Norse culture, namely, that it functioned as a carrier of attributes: drinking blood from a wise being would mean acquiring part of that wisdom (cf. below on Kvasir), and drinking blood from a strong being means obtaining that strength yourself, such as we see it when Hǫttr drinks blood from the monster (Hrólfs saga kraka ch. 25) that in Gesta Danorum (2.6.11) is described as a bear. Several other examples could be mentioned. The transfer of blood is thus synonymous with a transfer of abilities (cf. de Vries 1929a: 116).46 We must therefore ask which abilities these two gods have in common, and the clear answer is that they are both able to cross borders between worlds; and whereas Loki is able to change sex, Óðinn sometimes dresses up like a woman. Loki transforms himself into a mare in connection with the birth of Sleipnir, and other instances can be mentioned (è44). Óðinn puts on women’s dress when attempting to have sexual intercourse with Rindr (Gesta Danorum 3.4.5–7), and, as we saw in Ynglinga saga ch. 7, he renders himself effeminate by performing seiðr. However, it is worth noticing that Óðinn does not turn into a woman: he is not a ‘gender bender’, as some scholars have proposed (e.g., Solli 2002 and Price 2002), but he needs to perform certain rituals that are normally taken care of by women in order to keep up the order of the world. Later on, in Lokasenna (st. 23–24), the two gods accuse each other of what each of them has done í árdaga, ‘in the distant past’ (Lokasenna st. 25): Loki has for eight winters been a milking cow47 and a woman in the underworld, and he has even given birth, whereas Óðinn has performed seiðr in Samsø and acted as a vǫlva.48 The accusations seem to parallel one another — both the stanzas end with ‘ok hugþa ek þat args aðal’ (and I find this a perverted behaviour’) — and we may understand this in such a way that the two gods have performed similar acts, implying that Loki has performed seiðr and Óðinn has rendered himself effeminate. This interpretation can be accounted 46 

For a general and very detailed exposition of blood brotherhood, see Hellmuth (1975). The text has kýr mólcandi, which is problematic since it cannot be decided whether mólcandi is to be understood as transitive (‘milking a cow’) or intransitive (‘a milch cow’). In the first instance it would mean that Loki performed a woman’s job, and in the second he would actually be the cow himself. In either case, however, an effeminate connotation is clear. 48  For the linguistic problems in the stanzas, see von See and others (1997: 427–35). For a more detailed analysis of this form of blood brotherhood between the two gods, see Schjødt (2008: 206–17). 47 

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for through the blending of blood since the two gods have thereby exchanged abilities.49 In this sense, the myth may be a variant version of Óðinn’s acquisition of numinous power: by mixing his blood with that of Loki, he acquires the abilities of this skillful but perverted god. Still, it is notable that, whereas Loki often uses his skill for evil or at least dubious purposes, Óðinn uses his skills in order to keep the world going. For instance, in the Rindr episode, the purpose is to get an avenger for Baldr, which is necessary according to the rules of society and the world-view. His relation to Loki,50 then — provided the reconstruction above is correct — displays some of the typical features in this sort of Óðinn myth: the acquisition of knowledge which is of an otherworldly nature and which is used by Óðinn when necessary. Another figure closely associated with Óðinn and just as strongly connected to numinous power is Mímir. Perhaps even to a greater extent than is the case with Loki, the mythical context of Mímir is unclear since there is no coherent narrative about him that can explain the various bits and pieces we can gather from the individual sources. This is accentuated by the fact that we have three names, which may or may not refer to the same figure: namely, Mímir, Mímr, and Mími (de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 246 and è40).51 We have no objective criteria from which a decisive conclusion can be reached, but the scattered information does appear to fall into the semantic field of numinous knowledge. In Vǫluspá st. 28, we learn that Óðinn’s eye is hidden in Mímir’s well and that Mímir drinks mead every morning from Óðinn’s pledge. It seems a bit odd that mead can be drunk from an eye, so it may be that the wager and the eye are 49 

The mixing of blood no doubt entailed a wide range of obligations for the people involved, among them the obligation to avenge if one’s blood-brother was killed. This may be the reason why Loki cannot be killed after the murder of Baldr: If he were actually killed, Óðinn would in turn be obliged to kill ‘the killer’. 50  This relation has been interpreted in different ways. Many scholars have noticed several similarities between the two gods, and, taking the mixing of blood into consideration, some have even interpreted this to mean that they were at an earlier historical stage identical (e.g., Ström 1956a). Although this possibility cannot be ruled out completely, it seems that the very fact that in the extant mythology Óðinn and Loki are definitely two individual figures must also have some structural explanation (è44). 51  Mími is not recorded in the nominative case but can be deduced from the term Mímameiðr, ‘Mími’s tree’, (most likely identical with the World Tree, Yggdrasill) in Fjǫlsvinnsmál st. 20 and 24. A detailed treatment of the mythic complex surrounding Mímir can be read in Schjødt (2008: 108–34) and Drobin (1991). In both there are also further references; see also Simpson (1962–65).

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not actually identical, as almost all scholars have hitherto believed. One argument is that Snorri relates (Gylfaginning p. 17), with reference to the stanza in Vǫluspá, that Mímir is full of wisdom because he drinks from the well — not using an eye, but using Gjallarhorn — situated under that root of Yggdrasill which reaches towards the giants.52 Óðinn came and asked for a drink from the well, Snorri says, but was not allowed until he gave his eye as a pledge.53 Apart from Mímir’s well, we also learn that there is a tree called Mímameiðr, probably the World Tree because the well is under that tree. Finally, there is the head of Mímir (or Mímr in R and H) from which Óðinn obtains knowledge when Ragnarǫk is approaching, as we hear in Vǫluspá st. 46 and Gylfaginning (p. 50). The head is also mentioned in Sigrdrífumál st. 14. The context there is obscure, but the head is said to speak wise words and true runic letters (stafir). The only mythic information about Mímir that is conveyed in truly narrative form stems, not surprisingly, from Snorri, and it explains how he was beheaded. This is related in Ynglinga saga ch. 4 in connection with the war between the æsir and the vanir (è40). As the two families of gods conducted peace negotiations, they decided to exchange hostages, and one of the hostages sent from the æsir to the vanir was Mímir, who is characterized as a most wise man. Together with him they also sent Hœnir, a very handsome man who was said by the æsir to be well suited to be a chieftain. Mímir advised Hœnir in everything, but when Hœnir attended the assembly without Mímir, he always left it to others to make the decisions. Therefore, the vanir believed that they had been deceived, and they killed Mímir, beheaded him, and sent the head to Óðinn, who embalmed it with herbs and spoke charms over it, so that it could tell him many secret things. Finally, Vǫluspá st. 46 refers to Míms synir of whom we know nothing, but most scholars suppose them to be giants.54 As mentioned, the Mímir complex is difficult to interpret, but almost all the information relates somehow or other to ‘knowledge’: He is situated near the tree (cf. Mímameiðr) by or in a well.55 His head, which must be a symbol 52 

For possible explanations of this wording in V ǫluspá, see among others van Hamel (1925: 299), Sigurðr Nordal (1927: 66), Ohlmarks (1937: 366), Fleck (1968: 119), and Carey (1983: 217). See also (è39). 53  The symbolism of the eye has been much debated (see Lassen 2003b: 88–92), but it presumably has to do with ‘inner sight’, seen in relation to Óðinn. 54  Fleck (1968: 120) has argued that synir should actually be read sýnir, ‘sights, visions’. This solution seems to accord better with the role of Mímir as supplier of numinous knowledge, but the phrase remains obscure. 55  The word brunnr means ‘well’ as well as ‘source’.

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of intellectual and spiritual power, belongs to Óðinn, and he is closely connected to the mead, which is also an important attribute of Óðinn. Thus, even if many elements in the myth complex surrounding Mímir remain uncertain and unknown, it seems clear that the semantic field surrounding him centres on numinous knowledge and that he is closely related to Óðinn as a supplier of numinous knowledge (like Loki, the ravens, and, as we shall see, many other mythical figures). One of the most famous myths about Óðinn is his acquisition of the mead of poetry and wisdom. It is related in full only in Skáldskaparmál (pp. 3–5), mainly in order to explain various kennings, but there are references to it also in other sources, especially in Hávamál st. 104–10 in which a somewhat different version is told; and yet another allusion can be found in Hávamál st. 13 and 14, referring to drunkenness. Although some scholars have argued that Snorri’s version was for the most part made up by himself (e.g., Frank 1981), it no doubt reflects a partly pagan world-view (e.g., Renauld-Krantz 1972; Doht 1974), since it is in full accordance with the Óðinn discourse as we see it in other sources. According to Snorri, the æsir and the vanir, during the peace negotiations after the war between them, went to a vat and spat into it as a truce offering. From this spittle they made a man called Kvasir who was so wise that he could answer any question. He travelled through the world and came upon two dwarfs, Fjalarr and Galarr, who killed him and let his blood run into two vats and a pot, called Són, Boðn, and Óðreyrir,56 respectively, and mixed it with honey. From that came the mead, ‘sá er hverr er af drekkr, verðr skáld eða frœðamaðr’ (which makes anyone who drinks from it a poet or a wise man) (Skáldskaparmál p. 3). Then they invited a giant and his wife and proceeded to kill them both. Their son, however, Suttungr, then arrived and threatened them to give him the mead as atonement for the killing of his father. Suttungr brought it home and placed it inside a mountain called Hnitbiǫrg (‘Clashing rocks’; cf. Finnur Jónsson 1931: 270) and lets his daughter Gunnlǫð guard it. After that, Óðinn comes into the story, calling himself Bǫlverkr (evil-doer). He arrives at the giant Baugi’s place and tricks his nine slaves, who are harvesting, to kill each other, and when Baugi, who is the brother of Suttungr, complains about this, Bǫlverkr offers to do the work of nine men if the giant will help him obtain a drink from the mead. Once the work is done, they go to Suttungr who refuses to give them anything. Óðinn, then, suggests that they try to enter the mountain by boring a hole all the way through to where Gunnlǫð is. Eventually, 56 

This last name means ‘that which moves the spirit or the mind’ and thus it could well be a name for the mead itself.

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Figure 42.6. Picture stone from Stora Hammars in Lärbro on Gotland, dated to the ninth or tenth century. In the lower part of the top panel are a birdman and a woman and a man. The motif has been interpreted as Óðinn, transformed into an eagle, with Gunnlǫð and her father Suttungr. After Lindqvist 1941: fig. 85. 

Óðinn — in the shape of a snake and after Baugi had tried to kill him — comes to Gunnlǫð. He lies with her for three nights whereupon she offers him three draughts of the mead. He empties all three vats, transforms himself into an eagle and flies back home to Ásgarðr pursued by Suttungr, also in the shape of an eagle. In order not to get caught, he sends out some of the mead backwards, and that everybody could have. But the Suttungr-mead Óðinn gives to the æsir and to those people who can compose poetry.57 Again, we must accept that there are elements in the myth that are hard to interpret (for instance, the episode with Baugi’s slaves). The version we get in Hávamál does not help us to solve the problems, quite the contrary, since the differences are hard to explain. For instance, it seems in this version that Óðinn actually got married to Gunnlǫð and that some wedding feast was celebrated in Suttungr’s hall.58 Whatever the reason is for that, the basic structure that we find is recognizable: in the narrative’s final situation Óðinn has acquired an object of knowledge, this time the mead, which plays such a significant role in myths as 57 

That mead and poetry, which could sometimes be seen as a magical art, are connected has been shown by, among others, Stephens (1972) and Edwards (1986); for Indo-European ideas, see also Kurke (1989). 58  For a discussion of the relation of the two versions, see Schjødt (2008: 148–56) and Drobin (1991). There may also be pictorial evidence for this myth, as has been briefly discussed by Rudolf Simek (2003: 139).

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well as in rituals within PCRN. Much of this has been discussed by Renate Doht (1974), who proposes various functions of the mead and finds that the myth complex in Scandinavia can be traced back to two distinct myths: namely, on the one hand a myth going back to Indo-European times about the theft of the gods’ drink; and on the other hand a myth wherein the protagonist goes to the Other World to obtain a drink of life (1974: 231). This may be so, but it seems as if the myth, as we have it in the extant sources, has a pretty coherent view of the mead. It is the drink of intellectual life, and we notice that poetry is included within this category. This is in all probability the reason why Óðinn also occurs frequently as the dispenser of the mead in kennings for mead. It is moreover interesting that Óðinn is portrayed here as a seducer, which will be discussed briefly below. Therefore, there also seems to be some connection between sex and numinous knowledge, which may fit into the pattern of ‘male pseudo-procreation’, as described by Margaret Clunies Ross (1994a: 146–51): the sexual relation between the two protagonists has as its outcome the mead of wisdom and poetry, coming from the mouth of the male, and not the creation of new physical life from the genitals of the female. Furthermore, it may be noticed that, in order for the mead to acquire its proper function, it has to pass through various worlds: that of the collective of gods, that of the dwarfs (the underworld?), and that of the giants, in order finally to become the property of Óðinn. Another myth about Óðinn’s acquisition of wisdom is told in Hávamál st. 138–41, where the god himself relates how he hung on a wind-swept tree (probably the World Tree Yggdrasill) for nine nights without food and drink, wounded with a spear and ‘gefinn Óðni, siálfr siálfom mér’ (given to Óðinn, myself to myself ), eventually picking up the runes from below. Then he fell down, and he obtained nine mighty, magic songs (fimbullióð nío)59 as well as a drink of the precious mead from Óðreyrir, which must be a reference to the myth just related. Finally, we are told that he became wise and that he learned new words and deeds (probably both of a magical kind). This myth has been seen as a self-sacrifice and as an initiation, and it undoubtedly contains elements of both these categories. For instance, the symbolism, known from many initiation rituals, focusing on death and rebirth (Eliade 1975) seems to be part of this 59 

It is of interest here that he receives these songs from the mighty son of B ǫlþorn, the father of Bestla. This means that the character he receives them from is his maternal uncle, whose identity remains unknown to us. But it is well known from anthropology that the relation between a man’s mother’s brother and himself is strong; it is even related by Tacitus (Germania ch. 20) that this was also the case among the Germanic peoples. For a good discussion, see Clunies Ross (1994a: 226–28; her view on this myth as a whole is presented in 1994a: 223–28).

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myth. Although a number of scholars have believed there to be a certain amount of influence from Christian notions of the Crucifixion in the stanzas,60 there can hardly be any doubt that the basic idea that Óðinn once sacrificed himself, probably as part of an initiation, and eventually achieved wisdom, is very old and probably reaches back into Indo-European times (Sauvé 1970). We know that hanging was an element of the Odinic cult, since at least two of his chosen heroes, to whom we shall return below — namely, Víkarr in Gautreks saga ch. 7 and in Gesta Danorum (6.5.7) and Hadingus (Gesta Danorum 1.8.27) — both die by hanging. There is plenty other evidence for the hanging of humans in the sources, sometimes very likely connected to Óðinn, whereas in other instances we can only guess about the god to whom the hangings are linked, as in Adam of Bremen’s description of the sacrifices in Uppsala (see below). Concerning the runes, we know from several sources that Óðinn had a special relation to them and this seems echoed in the myth, where the acquisition of the runes61 appears to be a prerequisite for the acquisition of the magical songs and the mead of knowledge and poetry. This emphasizes that Óðinn, even if he is knowledgeable, is first and foremost the seeker of more knowledge. It is important to acknowledge that Óðinn during the hanging comes into contact with death. It has been discussed whether he actually dies or whether it is only a ‘symbolic’ death he goes through. In a mythic context, however, such a distinction hardly matters: what may be symbolic among humans may well be ‘real’ among the gods.62 Thus, the death experience, real or symbolic, is the means by which numinous knowledge is acquired (cf.  Ström 1947; Sundqvist 2009b: 657–58). Other myths of a somewhat different type are those in dialogue form where Óðinn either displays his immense wisdom or directly competes with an opponent. Examples of these themes can be found in the eddic poems Grímnismál,63 60 

For references, see Schjødt (2008: 176); apart from these we should mention Lassen (2009), who argues for a rather strong Christian influence. 61  The runes have been much discussed (è3) and likewise the relation between them and Óðinn. The word means ‘letter’ or ‘secret’ (de Vries 1962a: 453), and whether either is the original meaning cannot be determined with any certainty. In the plural, the word can also connote ‘secret lore’ and this is often the meaning in our texts. For good overviews of the runes, see Düwel (1968), Flowers (1986); McKinnell and others (2004); and (è3). 62  Price (2002: 95), for instance, holds that Óðinn does not die a ‘real’ death. Perhaps it is simply a matter of perspective: from a ritual perspective, the death is symbolic, whereas from a mythic perspective, he probably dies and is then reborn, having acquired the runic knowledge, which in its ‘otherness’ is certainly connected to the dead. 63  Grímnismál is, of course, technically speaking a monologue, but by implication it can also be seen as a dialogue.

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Vafþrúðnismál, and to a certain extent in Hárðbarðsljóð, but also in the noneddic so-called Heiðreks gátur, known from Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks (ch. 10). In Grímnismal, we have a frame-story telling of how Óðinn and Frigg were sitting in Hliðskjálf looking into all the worlds. Óðinn boasted about his fosterson, Geirrøðr, who was a famous king, whereas Frigg’s foster-son Agnarr was living in a cave. Frigg said, which was not true, that Geirrøðr was miserly with food, and Óðinn then went to visit him to see with his own eyes whether this was indeed the case.64 Frigg, however, sent a servant girl to tell the king that the man who was about to come and visit him was a wizard. Accordingly, when Óðinn appeared in disguise, calling himself Grímnir, he was taken hold of and placed between two fires where he sat for eight nights, at which point the fires were just about to devour him. Then Geirrøðr’s son offered him a drink, and he began ‘the speech of Grímnir’. During this, he revealed a lot of mythological knowledge, finishing up with a long list of names by which he was called himself. When Geirrøðr finally realized who the captive was, it was too late, and he stumbled upon his own sword so that it went through him and he died; but Óðinn disappeared. This may not be a knowledge acquisition in a strict sense,65 but knowledge is still at the centre of the myth. In Vafþrúðnismál, Óðinn leaves home, again in disguise, to embark on a competition with the wise giant Vafþrúðnir. They ask each other many questions and are both able to answer all of them, but Óðinn is victorious in the end because he asks a question that he alone is able to answer: namely, what Óðinn whispered into the ear of the dead Baldr when he lay on the funeral pyre. We do not have a straightforward knowledge acquisition here either. The very point of a knowledge competition is that one knows the answers to his own questions and both the opponents here also know the answers to the questions posed by the other, until Óðinn’s last question.66 The situation is very much the same in Heiðreks gátur. Here, Óðinn is disguised as Gestumblindi (probably meaning ‘the blind guest’ and thus suitable for the one-eyed god) and solves and poses riddles to King Heiðrek, fin64 

This story strongly recalls the discussion between Óðinn and Frigg in Paul the Deacon’s Historia Langobardorum (1.8), concerning whether victory should be given to the Longobards or the Vandals, where Frigg tricks her husband into allotting victory to the Longobards, although he was in favour of the Vandals. 65  This has, however, been suggested by Schröder (1958), referring to similarities with shamanistic practices. For rejections of this view, see Fleck (1971) and Schjødt (1988). 66  This basic idea, that a wisdom contest cannot be a wisdom acquisition, has been overlooked by many scholars (e.g., Ármann Jakobsson 2008a: 265).

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ishing up with the same question as in Vafþrúðnismál so that the god wins in the end. Finally, we can mention a third eddic poem, Hárbarðsljóð. Here, Óðinn is disguised as a ferryman, Hárbarðr, whom Þórr calls upon in order to cross a sound. Hárbarðr, however, refuses to ferry the god over, mocking him instead, and the poem becomes one long series of mocking and boasting (on the part of Hárbarðr) and threats and boasting (on the part of Þórr). Although we get a lot of mythical information, mostly hints to myths that we do not know from elsewhere, there is not much numinous knowledge involved. Much of Óðinn’s bragging, however, concerns women he has seduced and armies he has fought, and, among other things, we find here the famous statement that while he receives the nobles who fall in battle, Þórr recives the slaves (st. 24). The opposition expressed in this poem between the two gods, although it is exaggerated by being put into the frame of a quarrel, no doubt reflects an important binary structure within the view of the pagans. We shall return to that below. Although these examples are very different, not least when it comes to context, they all show typical facets of Óðinn: He is intellectually smart, and he is often disguised, using one of his cognomina when he is travelling. Before we turn to the other major group of Óðinn myths — those in which he transfers numinousity to his chosen heroes — we shall briefly deal with the seducer role, which is evident in Hárðbarðsljóð and also in connection with Gunnlǫð. As mentioned, we do not know the sexual adventures he is bragging about in Hárbarðsljóð, but it is worth noting that in the two narratives that are detailed enough for us to analyse — namely, those of Gunnlǫð and Rindr (Rinda in Saxo) — the seducing is not just a matter of fulfilling a sexual desire. In the myth about Gunnlǫð, the ‘higher’ purpose was to acquire the mead, which we characterized as an ‘object of knowledge’. In the other narrative, which Saxo tells in Gesta Danorum (3.4.1–8), it is said how Óðinn (Othinus), after the killing of Baldr (Balderus), has to create an avenger to kill Hǫðr (Hotherus), and through a prophecy he learns that this avenger’s mother should be Rinda, the daughter of the Russian king. He then goes to the king (in disguise), who makes him a leader of the army and after winning a great victory he asks the king if he could have his daughter, which the king agrees to. The girl, however, refuses to have anything to do with him, no matter what he does, and Saxo has a lot of bad things to say of the way the god proceeds. At last, he puts on a woman’s dress and becomes the chambermaid of the princess. By trickery, he finally succeeds in raping the girl and thus the avenger, called Bous, is born who eventually kills Hotherus. In the West Norse sources, the name of the avenger is Váli, and there is no narrative about how he was conceived. But we do have the

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statement in Kormákr Ǫgmundarson’s Sigurðardrápa st. 3, clearly indicating that Óðinn used magic to obtain a son who could carry out the revenge: ‘seið Yggr til Rindar’ (Yggr (Óðinn) performed seiðr on Rindr), which is in accordance with Saxo’s story of how the god donned women’s clothing and which can therefore be seen as an act of ergi. So there can hardly be any doubt that a myth with the same basic structure as Saxo’s narrative also existed in the western part of Scandinavia: In order to get an avenger for Baldr, Óðinn has to have sex with a woman called Rindr, and he achieves this goal by performing seiðr. The purpose, however, is not primarily to satisfy his own desire but to do what has to be done: making way for the necessary revenge.67 The thing to notice here, therefore, is that in the case of both Rindr and Gunnlǫð, the role of seducer serves a ‘higher’ purpose: in the case of Gunnlǫð it is the acquisition of the mead, and in the case of Rindr it is the maintaining of the ‘law’. This is not to say that ordinary sexual desire does not play any role. In Harðbarðsljóð, as we saw, it is not easy to find any such higher purpose and similarly in another myth, told in Hávamál st. 96–102, the purpose of which is to show how men can be fooled by women, so in some cases it seems as if it is all about sex. But let us turn now to the myths about how Óðinn bestows his numinous knowledge to some of his chosen heroes. There are many examples and in the following, since we have already presented a couple above in (è 23–24), we shall only discuss a few of them here. The sources in which this theme is displayed are for the most part rather late, although part of the relevant pattern is also evident in eddic poems, such as in the prose header of Grímnismál, as we just saw, in which Geirrøðr receives advice from Óðinn and becomes a great king and also in the heroic poems dealing with young Sigurðr. But the pattern is most obvious in the fornaldarsögur and in Gesta Danorum. In Gesta Danorum, Óðinn is quite frequently mentioned in the first nine books (Lassen 2011b: 204–11), often in a way that is clearly hostile from the perspective of the author since Óðinn, more than any other god, is seen as a representative of the pagan religion. Most of these incidents are therefore of limited value to our reconstruction of the pagan Óðinn. He is, for example, ridiculed in the Rinda episode (and is expelled by his own people afterwards), 67  Lindow (1997a: 140–56) has discussed the problems involved in the fratricide of Hǫðr: On the one hand it is necessary, according to the ‘order of things’ that a member of the family takes revenge, but on the other hand it is not possible, because Hǫðr is also a member of the family. Thus, the way the myth attempts to solve the problem is to produce a new member of the family, who is not a brother in the same sense.

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although, as we saw, there may well be pagan notions involved, too. In another episode (Gesta Donomum 1.7.1), he is so embarrassed that his wife, Frigga, has committed adultery with a servant in order to acquire some jewellery from a statue that he goes abroad afterwards. It is, however, mainly in connection with the two kings, Hadingus (Gesta Donomum 1.5.1–8.27) and Haraldus Hyldetan (Gesta Donomum 7.10.1–8.4.9), 68 that we get an impression of the pagan Óðinn. In the Hadingus episode, Óðinn (who is referred to simply as an old, oneeyed man) is seen as the guardian god of the king: he brings Hadingus to his home (Valhǫll?) on a flying horse (the eight-legged Sleipnir?) and serves him a drink that cures him of his wounds; then he predicts his future, tells him what to do in order to obtain greater strength, and promises to help him in his future life. Later on, the old man teaches Hadingus how to organize his army and in a subsequent battle he helps him with some sort of weather magic, so that Hadingus has victory. At the same time, he predicts that he shall not die by enemy hand but by his own. And in the end, Hadingus actually hangs himself in front of all his people. Also Haraldus Hyldetan is a favourite of Óðinn. First, we are told that Óðinn is responsible for the oracle in Uppsala from which Haraldus’s father, Haldanus, received advice on how to get his wife pregnant with Haraldus. Further, it is said that Óðinn (in this episode, he is actually mentioned by his name, Othinus) was benevolent towards the young Haraldus and made him invulnerable so that no steel could wound him. Haraldus promised in return that Óðinn should have all the souls of the people he killed. Later on, Óðinn teaches him how to organize his army (of course, the same advice that was given to Hadingus). Because of this, Haraldus becomes a great king and lives a long life. When Haraldus grew old, Óðinn takes on the appearance of one of his counsellors, Bruno, and through intrigues he creates enmity between Haraldus and the Swedish king Ringo. After seven years of preparation, the final battle takes place. Haraldus who is very old and blind stands on his chariot and asks his driver, Bruno, how the enemy army is organized. When he learns that it is in a crescent-shaped line, the organization that Óðinn had taught him a long time ago, and which he thought he alone knew of, he suspects that Bruno is actually Óðinn. He begs for his life, but Bruno pushes him from the chariot and kills him with his own mace. Thus, we learn that, although Óðinn has supported Haraldus his whole life, in the end he makes sure that he will die in battle and 68 

234).

For a general enumeration of Óðinn’s roles in Gesta Danorum, see Lassen (2011b: 196–

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thereby, we must assume, will become one of Óðinn’s heroes in Valhǫll. This pattern emerges also in connection with other heroes, one of whom we shall turn to now.69 In Vǫlsunga saga, Óðinn is said to be the ancestor of the family of the V ǫ lsungar. One of these, Sigmundr, whom we have already dealt with in (è24), is clearly a favourite of Óðinn: He is helped by the god all through his career and is finally killed by the god himself. But the relation between the god and the hero is even clearer when it comes to Sigmundr’s son Sigurðr with the cognomen Fáfnisbani (the killer of Fáfnir). The story of his youth is dealt with in the heroic poems Reginsmál, Fáfnismál, and Sigrdrífumál from the Poetic Edda, and is told extensively in prose in Vǫlsunga saga ch. 13–22.70 The story of young Sigurðr seems to be one long sequence of initiatory motifs (Schjødt 2008: 287–88), and Óðinn takes part in many of them, directly or indirectly, always as Sigurðr’s guardian god. We meet Óðinn in many more of the fornaldarsögur (Lassen 2011b: 152–77; Røthe 2010: 13–102) and shall deal with some of the motifs below. The main point here, however, has been to demonstrate a very common role of Óðinn: he is the dispenser of numinous knowledge and power. Also in some of the konunga sögur, dealing with Christian kings, we meet this motif, albeit in a transformed variant: Óðinn tempts the Christian king with his knowledge about the past or he offers something to the king (which must of course not be accepted), a motif we also find in Hrólfs saga kraka. But it is not only in these scenarios we encounter Óðinn as a god who bestows numinous power. We likewise see it very clearly in settings that apparently have nothing to do with initiation. As an example, we shall take the perhaps most interesting figure among the heroes, Starkaðr.71 He has an important role in Gautreks saga (ch. 3–7) and in Gesta Danorum (6.5.1–8.8.12). Starkaðr or, as he is called by Saxo, Starcatherus, is said to be the son of a giant, Stórvirkr, whose father was also called Starkaðr and was said to be a wise giant, and according to some sources he was born with eight arms. Because he abducted princess Álfhildr, her father, King Álfr, called upon Þórr to rescue her, which he 69 

Another version of the battle at Brávellir can be read in Sǫgubrot af Fornkonungum ch. 7–9. Sigurðr has attracted an enormous amount of interest among scholars, both within literature and history. For an overview, see de Vries (1964–67: i, 88–90) and Schneider (1962: 73–76). References to literature from the history of religions can be found in Schjødt (2008: 282–99). 71  Starkaðr is treated in more detail and with many references, also to other textual sources in which he is mentioned, by Turville-Petre (1964: 205–11). See also (è36). 70 

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did.72 In Gesta Danorum (6.5.2), it is said that Starcatherus himself (not his grandfather) had six arms, but Þórr removed four of them, so that he would look more human. In the saga, the result of the giant’s rape of the princess was the son Stórvirkr, who was a great Viking and who eventually had a son, the second Starkaðr, with the daughter of a jarl. Most (in)famous among Starkaðr’s deeds is perhaps his sacrifice of King Víkarr, to which we shall return below in dealing with the cult of Óðinn. However, before this happens, the saga (ch. 7) and much more briefly Saxo (Gesta Danorum 7.5.6) tell of how he made a contract with Óðinn. The story goes that there was a powerful man named HrosshársGrani, who turns out to be Óðinn, who took Starkaðr as his foster-son for nine winters. Later on, Starkaðr and King Víkarr become brothers in arms, and once when they are about to go to war they come to an island but can go no further because they have a headwind (è30 and è36). Then they decide to cast lots in order to find out who should be given to Óðinn as a sacrificial victim, and the lot fell on Víkarr. What concerns us here, however, is that the night before the men were to discuss what to do, Starkaðr is awakened by Hrosshárs-Grani who takes him by boat onto an island. There they go to a place where a þing was set with many people attending. There were twelve seats, eleven occupied by men who turn out to be gods (at least Þórr) and Hrosshárs-Grani places himself in the twelfth. Then a long discussion between Óðinn and Þórr, recalling somewhat the scenario in Hárbarðsljóð, takes place concerning Starkaðr’s fate with these two gods taking turn to bestow their gifts on Starkaðr. Whereas Þórr’s ‘gifts’ are very negative (the hero shall have no sons or daughters, he shall never own land, etc.), Óðinn is very favourable towards him (he shall live for three life spans, he shall be victorious in all battles he takes part in, he shall be a great poet, etc.).73 After that, Starkaðr and Hrosshárs-Grani go back to the ship where Hrosshrárs-Grani asks for payment for his favours, saying that he wants Starkaðr to send him King Víkarr. Then follows the sacrifice to which we shall return. Saxo has a much shorter version in which it simply says that Othinus wants Wicarus to die; he gives Starcatherus three life-spans, courage, and the skills to compose; and in return for that he hopes that Starcatherus will kill Wicarus. 72 

The kingdom of Álfr is, not surprisingly, Álfheimr, which might indicate a connection to the vanir since álfar and vanir seem to be somewhat related (è40). If so, we see an interesting structural relation between giants and vanir, which is also thematized elsewhere. 73  It is worth noticing that most of these ‘gifts’ are exactly what we would expect from the god of war and poetry: he shall own the best weapons, will always have victory, will be a great poet, and shall be highly esteemed among powerful men.

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The characteristic point in this story is that Starkaðr is depicted as a truly Odinic hero: he is under the protection of the god and will remain so throughout his life.74 As Starkaðr is portrayed as being of giant kin, this could perhaps relate to the Óðinn mythology, since the god is also born by a giant woman.75 Although it is not stated explicitly, we can probably also be certain that, during the nine years he lives with Hrosshárs-Grani,76 he acquires some numinous knowledge in a way similar to Geirrøðr in Grímnismál, who also lived with the god, albeit only for one winter. So maybe there are slight traces of a transference of numinous knowledge after all. We also notice that most of the ‘gifts’ bestowed on him by Óðinn the night before the sacrifice of Víkarr are clearly related to the Óðinn discourse. In summarizing these myths about Óðinn’s numinous knowledge, we notice that on the one hand he acquires this knowledge through contact with beings who have visited or in other ways been in contact with an ‘Other World’, mostly portrayed as the underworld or the world of the dead — or both. We likewise saw how various attributes pertaining to this knowledge are connected to him: his ravens, Mímir’s head, the mead, the runes, and all kinds of magical songs and practices, including seiðr. On the other hand, this knowledge is also what he bestows on his chosen heroes in order to make them great kings or warriors. It thus seems that, whatever other aspects belong to the Óðinn figure, through his knowledge about war, war magic, and secrets in general, he is especially linked to kings, of whom he is often said to be the ultimate ancestor, and to warriors.77

74  There has been some discussion as to whether Starkaðr is an Odinic hero or perhaps rather a Þórr hero, as proposed (but later revised) by Dumézil (1970b). As the above summary suggests, however, there can hardly be any doubt that he is a genuine Óðinn hero. See also Boll (1986) on Starkaðr as a negative or dark Odinic hero. 75  We are, nevertheless, dealing with a probably significant difference: whereas Starkaðr is related to the giants through his father, Óðinn is so through his mother. 76  The number nine could well indicate a relation to the full ritual cycle, which we learn about from Adam of Bremen (è28). 77  It is possible that the knowledge related in the so-called Loddfáfnismál and Ljóðatal, both in the extant Hávamál (st. 111–37 and 146–64, respectively) and thus both put into the mouth of Óðinn, are part of the knowledge that the god could pass on to his favourites.

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Relations to Death and the Dead Óðinn is the god not only of living, but also of dead warriors.78 This is evident from several of the textual sources and perhaps also some of the Gotlandic picture stones (cf. Hultgård 2011: 323–24).79 The main sources for this role of Óðinn are Gylfaginning (pp. 32–34), some of the eddic poems on which Snorri’s account is partially based (Vafþrúðnismál and Grímnismál in particular), and also skaldic poems (Eiríksmál and Hákonarmál in particular).80 In all these sources, Óðinn is clearly seen as the ruler of Valhǫll, but he is not only that: he is also responsible for choosing those who will go there. It is he who sends out the valkyries in order to select those about to die on the battlefield (e.g., Hákonarmál st. 1),81 and, as we saw above, he even goes to the battlefield himself in order to kill the greatest heroes, as happens to Sigmundr and Haraldus; he is thus called valkjósandi, ‘he who chooses those who will die’. We also saw that he enjoys instigating war, which is part of the same context: the more battles are fought, the more dead warriors there will be — and the more dead warriors, the more warriors in Valhǫll. One reason for all this is given in Eiríksmál st. 7 where it is said by Óðinn himself that ‘óvíst es at vita, | nær ulfr inn hǫsvi | sœkir á sjǫt goða’ (it cannot be known for certain when the grey wolf will attack the home of the gods) (p. 1011), which means that nobody knows when Ragnarǫk will break loose, and that, when it comes, it is good to have as many brave warriors as possible in Valhǫll to defend gods and men against the giants’ forces.82 It is obvious, then, that death can be regarded as an invitation to join Óðinn in Valhǫll. 78 

Various notions of the dead have been treated in (è 34), and good overviews can be found in Simek (2006b) and Ström (1975: 181–93). 79  Anders Andrén has convincingly argued in several publications (e.g., 1993) that the picture stones should basically be seen as ‘doors to Other Worlds’, not least because of their motifs. 80  There are other sources describing how warriors will go to Valhǫll or to Óðinn, a metaphor for dying. Concerning these other sources and the relation between the two skaldic poems, see Hultgård (2011: 306–07) and Marold (1972). 81  The valkyries, valkyrjur, are mentioned for the first time in Haraldskvæði st. 2. The first part of the compound is valr, ‘corpses on the battlefield’, and the second part is derived from the verb kjósa, meaning ‘to choose’. An interesting statement about the relation between Óðinn and the valkyries is put in Sigrdrífumál, which relates how a valkyrie, Sigrdrífa, was punished by Óðinn, because she was disobedient and chose another warrior than she had been ordered to by the god (è60). 82  From an etic perpective, this wish of Óðinn’s to gather in Valhǫll the greatest warrriors

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According to Snorri, Valhǫll is for those men who fall in battle, but the situation was probably a bit more complex. As we saw, there can hardly be any doubt that kings such as Sigmundr and Hadingus are supposed to go to Óðinn after they die and, although it is far from explicit in all cases, it seems probable that any king who was initiated to Óðinn was supposed to go to Valhǫll. This may be linked to the conception that kings descended from Óðinn, a relationship that may have been created ritually through the initiation rituals, which they went through before they could take on the role of king (è23). But kings were not the only persons in Valhǫll — not the only einherjar.83 Warriors in general seem to have inhabited the place. We know from Eiríksmál st. 5 that not only Sigmundr was there to receive Eiríkr but also Sinfjǫtli, who was definitely not a king.84 Sinfjǫtli was a hero and a great warrior who did not fall in battle, but was poisoned by his stepmother, so how can this accord with Snorri’s statement that only those who fall in battle go there? One possibility would be to reject Snorri altogether or to accept that there could have been other versions of the death of Sinfjǫtli. Snorri’s systematization of the relationship between the two abodes of the dead, Valhǫll and Hel, seems, however, to imply a genuine structural pattern (Schjødt 2007a: 140–41), although it certainly does not cover the whole complex about the fate of the dead in PCRN; and Sinfjǫtli’s death also bears the traces of genuine myth, so another explanation may be looked for. If warriors as well as kings went to Valhǫll, and if warriors who did not die in battle could go there, too, we should look for features common to these groups. The key may be found in another work by Snorri, namely Ynglinga saga ch. 9, which relates the deaths of Óðinn and Njǫrðr, explicitly stating that they both died of illness (sóttdauðr). Concerning Óðinn, it is then stated that: ‘lét hann marka sik geirsoddi ok eignaði sér alla vápndauða men. Sagði hann sik mundu fara í Goðheim ok fagna þar vinum sínum’ (he had himself marked with the point of a spear, and he declared as his own all men who fell in batshould also be seen as a way of explaining why even the bravest and strongest of men may die in battle. 83  As we saw above in (è24), the word einherjar probably means ‘those who fight in the same army’ or ‘those who fight like one’ (cf. Nordberg 2003: 215). 84  According to Eiríksmál st. 3, Bragi also lives in Valhǫll. Bragi is mentioned as a god of poetry, but he may be a deified version of the skald Bragi Boddason of the early ninth century. Whether Bragi should be seen here as a long dead poet or a god of poetry, his presence in Valhǫll probably indicates that poets were part of the army in the sense that they were to secure the memory of the individual battle. We shall return briefly to that in the last section of this chapter (è36).

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tle. He said he was about to depart to the abode of the gods and would there welcome his friends) (p. 13). Later in the same chapter, it is said about Njǫrðr: ‘Lét hann ok marka sik Óðni, áðr hann dó’ (He had himself marked for Óthin before he died) (p. 13). We must assume, then, that the way Njǫrðr was marked was the same as that of Óðinn: being pierced by a spear. It is thus possible to go to Goðheimr, which is undoubtedly here a parallel to Valhǫll, if one is marked with a spear.85 This is frequently, and no doubt correctly, seen as a parallel to the ritual of throwing a spear in order to dedicate the enemy to Óðinn (Styrbjarnar þáttr Svíakappa; Eyrbygg ja saga ch. 44). This ritual is in accordance with Snorri’s statement that those who die in battle will go to Valh ǫll. Underlying the statement that all who die in battle will go to Valhǫll, however, is the knowledge that these men had been dedicated to the god. According to the sources, this could be brought about either by throwing a spear over the enemy or, if a person were to die in bed, by marking him with a spear. The spear is an attribute of Óðinn, a detail that supports this idea. Thus, both the marking and the throwing are variant dedications to Óðinn and so, of course, is the initiation that surely preceded acceptance into the war-band (è24). There is no reason, therefore, to believe that everybody in Valhǫll were kings or members of war-bands, since it seems that whole armies could be dedicated. If this idea is accepted, Snorri’s statement should not be taken literally but rather symbolically: those who were in various ways ‘initiated’ to Óðinn and therefore warriors of various kinds, became his friends and would join him in Valh ǫll after their death.86 That would also explain Hárbarðr’s boasting in Hárbarðsljóð st. 24 that ‘Óðinn á iarla, | þá er í val falla, | enn Þórr á þræla kyn’ (Óðinn owns the jarls who fall in battle but Þórr owns the breed of slaves). As we saw, the nobles belong to Óðinn, and they and their retinues were also the warriors. The ‘life’ that these noble warriors, Óðinn’s ‘friends’, lived in Valhǫll was probably in accordance with any warrior’s dream: lots of food and drink, fighting during the day, and resurrection in the evening, as is portrayed in the sources mentioned above (Grímnismál and Gylfaginning). The valkyries, who 85  A variant of this idea is found in the sixth century Byzantine scholar Procopius’s work on the Gothic war (6.14). Here, it is related how it is a tradition among the Herulians that when they grow old, they voluntarily place themselves on a funeral pyre, but before it is lit, a man who must not be a relative stabs the victim with a knife and thus kills him. Although Procopius does not attempt to explain this ritual, it is hard to escape the impression that the underlying idea is the same as the one related by Snorri. 86  For a more general discussion of these issues, see Schjødt (2007a); cf. also Nordberg (2003: 213–20).

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choose or select who is going to die, also have another role: namely, as servant maids in Valhǫll (Eiríksmál st. 1; Grímnismál st. 36). It is doubtless structurally significant that whereas the Baldr myth emphasizes the impossibility of escaping death from Hel — death is linear — the daily resurrection characterizing Valhǫll emphasizes the cyclical nature of death among Óðinn’s friends or stepsons. Both appear valid readings since, as Snorri states, he is the ‘father’ of those who fall in battle, which is the reason why he is called Valfǫðr.87 Óðinn thus resides as a king in his hall with his chosen men surrounding him. Thus, there is no question that the role of Óðinn as the host in Valhǫll must be considered in connection with his role as god of kings and warriors, and this fits neatly the later folk traditions in which he appears as the leader of the ‘wild army’ (cf. Höfler 1934). It has been questioned whether Valhǫll is an old concept in PCRN (Nordberg 2003: 13–41 with references).88 This will not be discussed here (è34), but as has been stated earlier considering other notions, the question has to be qualified: do we mean the word Valhǫll, do we mean exactly the ideas portrayed in the extant sources, or do we mean, more vaguely, an afterlife for warriors which is described very positively and in which a god of the Óðinn type was ruling? The word Valhǫll is not necessarily old (Nordberg 2003: 56–59), since it is not found in any of the other Germanic languages. Its first appearance is in Eiríksmál from the tenth century, or perhaps in Grímnismál depending on the dating of that poem, but of course it could be older than that. The semantics of the notion have definitely also been liable to change over time, and it is very unlikely that all the ideas expressed in the sources mentioned above can be traced back to periods long before the Viking Age. However, it is likely that the idea of a warrior paradise is much older than that (Dillmann 2007: 358). Although we will never know for sure, it seems reasonable to argue that the idea of Valhǫll has developed parallel to the idea of Óðinn himself and thus, at least according to Enright (1996a, and above), parallel to the ideas concerning the warrior-band. With this in mind, it seems plausible that the connection between Óðinn and an abode for dead warriors is constitutive: if there is a hall, that hall has a leader, and that leader 87 

‘Hann heitir ok Valfǫðr, þvíat hans óskasynir eru allir þeir er í val falla’ (Gylfaginning p. 21) (He is also called Val-father [father of the slain], since all those who fall in battle are his adopted sons) (p. 21). 88  An overview of the Valhǫll concepts can be found in Dillmann (2007), and not least a discussion on the origin of these concepts (2007: 357–59). A classic work concerning these matters is Neckel (1913), who, like many others, thought that the Valhǫll idea was fairly recent and certainly no older than the Viking Age.

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would of course be the god to whom the warriors were dedicated. Even if this is not the place to explore further the notions of the dead, it is important to bear in mind that such notions are never very clear: they differ from place to place and from one social class to another. However, the notions of Valhǫll confirm what we have already seen: namely, that Óðinn is a god for the nobility and the people who surround them. Ragnarǫk The last myth to be dealt with here is that of Ragnarǫk. Here, Óðinn, like all the other gods, fights against the forces of chaos. Óðinn is killed by the wolf Fenrir,89 and his son Víðarr then kills the wolf (Vǫluspá st. 53–55 and Gylfaginning p. 50). But prior to that, the same sources say, when he knows Ragnarǫk is approaching, Óðinn rides to the well of Mímir in order to obtain advice, probably because, as in other situations and like leaders also among humans, Óðinn is the god who is responsible for the world and who has to take the necessary decisions. The notion of Valhǫll is also connected to the Ragnarǫk myth, since the preparations for Ragnarǫk are said to be the reason why so many of the best warriors go to Valhǫll. The Myths: A Preliminary Conclusion Before we leave the myths, it should be emphasized that one of their important functions is to establish a semantic centre, which from an emic point of view will create a perceived logic in the performance of rituals carried out in relation to the individual gods. Thus, in polytheistic systems like that of PCRN, we cannot expect that the same gods were venerated at all occasions. Rituals were carried out for different purposes, and the gods in charge of the relevant fields were therefore also different. The Óðinn discourse was, as we have seen, centred on the functions carried out by kings and warriors, and it was undoubtedly these same functions that were governed by Óðinn. It is hard to imagine that any other god could take the position as the one who bestows victory on the king, and the means for that were his intellectual abilities (magical, numinous): he knew how war should be fought, he knew how kings would achieve success in their responsibilities towards land and people; and the logic behind this was that Óðinn himself had acquired this knowledge through his ‘objects of knowl89 

For an interesting analysis of the structural implications of this confrontation, see Tranum Kristensen (2007).

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edge’. Moreover, if his heroes were willing to fulfill their part of the ‘contract’ (probably established during some kind of initiation ritual) with the god, he would, in turn, help them achieve their goals. Part of that ‘contract’ was, as we saw, to dedicate those who died on the battlefield to the god, but there was more to it than that. So let us look a bit closer at how and why rituals carried out for Óðinn were performed.

Cult It is conspicuous, but nonetheless in accordance with what has already been said, that Óðinn was apparently not venerated in Iceland. Although this fact has been discussed by many (Hultgård 2007b: 772–73; Turville-Petre 1972), the reason seems quite obvious: namely, that a population in a country without kings and therefore also lacking warrior-bands would hardly be venerating a god such as Óðinn, a suggestion first proposed by Gabriel Turville-Petre (1972).90 As we can see from Snorri as well as the eddic poems, although it has sometimes been debated whether these should be seen as mainly Norwegian or Icelandic, Óðinn was certainly not unknown in Iceland (Guðrún Nordal 1999): quite the contrary. He is foremost among the gods in the medi­eval reception of pagan mythology. However, there is no placename evidence relating to Óðinn in Iceland, and he is only mentioned a few times in the Íslendingasögur (for example, in Víga-Glums saga91 and Egils saga Skallagrímssonar). As is so often the case, the situation is thus not an either/or: Óðinn was no doubt known and to a limited degree also worshipped in Iceland, but compared to Scandinavia (perhaps except for western Norway, which is more surprising), there were apparently not many Óðinn worshippers there. And those for whom we have evidence were mostly skalds and warriors with an international outlook, who had visited kings in Scandinavia and England; they were clearly not ordinary farmers. Placename evidence points to an Óðinn cult all across Scandinavia and in England (Philippson 1929: 156–62), and, as we have seen above, there appears to be clear evidence that rituals were carried out for the god all over the Germanic area. However, apart from the fact that Mercury/Wotan was apparently worshipped by means of human sacrifices outside the North, we do not know much about these ‘pan-Germanic’rituals. It also seems likely that Óðinn 90  This article is a translation of an earlier article in Icelandic, which appeared in 1958 as ‘Um Óðinsdyrkun á Íslandi’. 91  It has been discussed whether Óðinn originally belonged to this saga (cf. North 2000), which is, however, not so important from the point of view of the history of religion.

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Figure 42.7. Theophoric placenames based on the name Óðinn in Scandinavia. Map based on Brink 2007b. Disir Productions, Uppsala. 

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would have played a role in royal rituals in halls as well as in funerals of kings and chieftains, such as seems to be the case with the burial at Sutton Hoo 1, especially in connection with the helmet with one ‘gleaming’ eye (Price and Mortimer 2014). But apart from that, we have to turn to the North to learn more about the cults and rituals of Óðinn. It should be stated at once that we have no evidence for Óðinn in the private cult. This may be due to the source situation in general where we have only scant evidence for a private cult involving the big gods. However, for instance in the Vǫlsa þáttr, there may be evidence for a private cult in which Freyr plays a role, and in Austrfararvísur (in Óláfs saga helga ch. 91) we hear about a sacrifice to the álfar, which must have taken place very late in the pagan period. Here, Óðinn is actually mentioned when the mistress on a farm says that the guests (the poet Sigvatr and two companions) cannot come in, because they are having an álfablót and that, because they are heathens, she fears that Óðinn would become angry with them. Whether this piece of information is reliable or not, it has nothing whatsoever to do with a cult of Óðinn. It is without question the álfar (è63) that are in focus, and Óðinn is probably only mentioned because in this late period he had come to personify the pagan religion. Although we cannot argue, based on argumenta ex silentio, that Óðinn could not be venerated as part of the private cult, it is, however, also difficult to argue that he was. He seems to belong to the public cult, carried out among kings and their retinue as representatives of the whole people. Above in (è23) and (è31), we have already seen how he was an important god during the blót feasts at Lade, where he was mentioned directly in connection with the king’s victory. But, surprisingly, we do not have much direct evidence for a public cult of Óðinn, either. We shall deal with a couple of examples below, but we will have to make a small digression here about the sources we often use for reconstructing the rituals performed in the Óðinn cult. The fact is that what we have often, and sometimes rightly so, taken to be evidence of such ritual is actually transmitted to us through mythic or legendary texts. We have already discussed some of the scenarios in which Óðinn appears in the fornaldarsögur and in Gesta Danorum, with the suggestion that these were related to initiation rituals of various kinds (king and warrior initiations). Likewise, the scenario in Grímnismál has been interpreted as a shamanistic ritual (Schröder 1958), and the self-hanging in Hávamál has been seen as a sacrifice or an initiation, although both these scenarios are purely mythical.92 In other instances, we have 92 

For the whole paradox of gods performing rituals in many different religions, see Patton (2009), who also treats the self-sacrifice of Óðinn (213–36).

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to do with legendary heroes who are said to perform various rituals to please the gods. Examples include Starkaðr and Hadingus, mentioned above. Both these examples are related to ‘hanging’: Starkaðr performs a ‘ritual’ in which King Víkarr is hanged, and Hadingus hangs himself in front of all his people. In the first instance, it is directly stated that the rite is performed to please Óðinn, whereas this is not said in the second, but there can hardly be any doubt that Hadingus’s ‘suicide’ reflects Odinic rites. Thus, it is not often that we find sources dealing with actual ritual performances, but, as will become clear in the following, although the mythic and legendary sources constitute only indirect evidence for actual rituals, they seem clearly to reflect rituals once carried out among real human beings. In the Víkarr story, told in Gautreks saga ch. 7 and in Gesta Danorum (6.5.6–7), we hear that Starkaðr kills Víkarr because Óðinn wishes so. 93 Starkaðr receives gifts from the god and in return he ‘gives’ Víkarr to the god. Although this structure is not as obvious in the relation between Óðinn and other heroes, it appears to be inherent to the stories: Óðinn supplies the heroes with skills and courage in warfare, and they are expected to send those they kill to the god in return (cf. the throwing of the spear in order to dedicate the enemy army to Óðinn). However, what we shall deal with here in particular is the way in which Víkarr is killed (è 30). Both Saxo and the author of Gautreks saga agree that after the lot casting, which points out the king as the one to be sacrificed, Víkarr’s men decided that the act should be carried out as a mock sacrifice. Then ‘the gallow’ was prepared and the deceptive rope, made of a calf ’s intestines, was fastened to a thin tree, which they bend down, while Starkaðr used a rod as a symbolic weapon so that there would be no danger to the king. But when the sham sacrifice was carried out, the intestines turned into a strong noose and the rod into a spear. This transformation takes place 93 

In Gesta Danorum, it is just said that Víkarr should die a disgraceful death: ‘Uolens quondam Othinus Wicarum funesto interire supplicio, cum id aperte exequi nollet, Starcatherum inusitata prius granditate conspicuum non solum animi fortitudine, sed etiam condendorum carminum peritia illustrauit, quo promptiore eius opera ad peragendum regis exitium uteretur’ (6.5.6) (Odin once desired that Vikar should come to a dismal end, but did not wish to effect this openly. He therefore made Starkather, already remarkable for his unusual size, famous for his courage and his artistry in composing spells, so that he could use the man’s energies more readily to accomplish the king’s death) (p. 171). We are not told any reason why Óðinn wants Víkarr to die, but we note that whatever Starkaðr does, he does it in order to please Óðinn as part of a kind of ‘contract’: in return, he receives courage and the ability to compose poetry from the god (cf. above on the quarrel between Óðinn and Þórr concerning Starkaðr in Gautreks saga and è36).

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at exactly the moment when Starkaðr declares: ‘nú gef ek þik Óðni’ (now I give you to Óðinn). Although Saxo cannot subscribe to this transformation, he relates basically the same description: even if it was not the intention to let the king die, he dies when he is hanged, and Starkaðr puts an end to his life by piercing him with his sword.94 The reason why this motif is so famous is, of course, that it corresponds in many ways to the self-hanging that is narrated in Hávamál st. 138–41, referred to above: both Óðinn and Víkarr are hanged, both are wounded with a spear, and both are given to Óðinn. The relation between the two incidents is the familiar one between myth and ritual, widely known within the history of religions: what the gods did in the early times is done in the same way among humans in the present time, although ‘present’ time should be understood in the broad sense here, since we are of course dealing with legendary material; there is no evidence that any historical kings were ever sacrificed in this way. Nevertheless, it appears that the idea that Óðinn wanted something in return for his favours, especially in the form of splendid warriors, was current. This idea could no doubt be manifested in different ways, but whether we hear about the dedicating of enemy armies to Óðinn or the marking with a spear on a deathbed, we get the same overall impression: great warriors should go to Óðinn, and this in turn is interpreted as sacrifices to the god. It thus seems that this idea lies behind every sacrifice to the god whether explicitly stated or not: to give the god the heroes95 who will eventually become the einherjar of Valhǫll, whether they consist of oneself or others should be seen as a sacrifice to the god. A self-sacrifice is exactly what we encounter in the Hadingus story, although this makes no mention of a spear. Hadingus, as we saw above, is no less an Odinic hero than is Starkaðr: all through his life he is protected and supported by the god, and he is, indeed, a splendid warrior. Saxo clearly has no idea that the death of Hadingus has anything to do with a sacrifice to Óðinn, but in the light of what we have seen so far concerning the relation between Óðinn, his heroes, and hanging, it is hard to escape the interpretation that the death of Hadingus, like that of Víkarr, must be regarded as a sacrifice to Óðinn. Another 94 

On one of the Gotlandic picture stones (Hammars 1, Lärbro; cf.  Lindqvist 1941–42: i, 83–85) there is a scene strongly reminiscent of the saga description of Víkarr’s death. This indicates either that the Víkarr story was known in East Scandinavia or that the motif of the mock sacrifice was widespread and could perhaps be applied to various narratives and rituals. 95  The notion of ‘hero’ should probably not be taken overly literally. Hanging, apart from being a sacrifice, has also been used as a form of penalty from time immemorial. For the relation between the categories ‘sacrifice’ and penalty, see Ström (1942).

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aspect of these sacrifices should also be taken into consideration: namely, that those who are sacrificed will live on in the Other World as einherjar. This will explain the descriptions of Óðinn’s and Njǫrðr’s deaths in Ynglinga saga, as well as the suicide of Hadingus. Concerning Hadingus, we have a very close parallel to the self-hanging of Hávamál, since both deaths are self-inflicted.96 Both Víkarr and Hadingus, therefore, seem to act in legendary reflections of rituals that were once actually carried out, whether as genuine sacrifices of kings or perhaps mock sacrifices, as return gifts to the god who bestows victory and protects the kings or even as part of inauguration rituals for the king. But we do not have many sources that can be considered ‘truly’ ritual descriptions relating directly to Óðinn. They do exist, however, although their source value has been heavily debated, and we shall deal in a more detailed manner with a few of them below. We have mentioned Sigurðr jarl’s blót feast in Trøndelagen, which is of course very important, since it accentuates the relation between Óðinn, kings, and war (è 31); another statement in Heimskringla confirms this picture: Hákon jarl, although newly baptized, performs a great blót, apparently in order to discover the outcome of a battle he is about to fight. After the blót, two ravens come flying, which the jarl interprets as a sign and believed that ‘Óðinn hefir þegit blótit’ (Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar ch. 27) (Óðinn has received the sacrifice); he then goes to battle and wins. Again, we see the relation: Óðinn — ruler — battle. Sacrifices to Óðinn could be performed not only before but also after a successful battle, as we hear about in Órkneynga saga (ch. 8) where the jarl of Orkney sacrifices a son of Haraldr hárfagri by means of a blóðǫrn, ‘blood eagle’.97 These and many more descriptions are put into a narrative frame, which in the eyes of some scholars detracts from their reliability. Another kind of source is Adam of Bremen. In the fourth book of his Gesta Hammaburgensis Ecclesiae Pontificum from around 1070, he describes a ‘temple’, which supposedly existed in Gamla Uppsala in his own time.98 We shall 96 

This statement does not contrast with the idea expressed above: that the self-hanging in Hávamál constitutes an initiation. As was stated, there may be elements of initiation as well as of sacrifice, and actually it would make sense to speak of Hadingus’s hanging as a sort of initiation: by hanging himself, he is also initiated into the group of the einherjar. 97  The phrase rísta blóðǫrn means that the ribs were cut from the back, so that the lungs could be drawn out. For a critical evaluation of the sources, see Frank (1984). It is doubtful whether this ‘ritual’ could actually be carried out, but it is mentioned quite often in the sources. 98  As mentioned, the source value of Adam has been heavily debated. For various aspects of this debate, see the articles in Hultgård (1997b). See also the biblio­graphy in Lund (2000).

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not deal here with the description, as the entire ritual was treated above (è31), but there are some very interesting statements about Óðinn that belong here, although some of them also fit into the section concerning mythic information on Óðinn. Basically, we get at least four important statements. First, we hear that the statues of Óðinn (Wodan) and Fricco (most likely another name for Freyr, since Adam’s description corresponds very well to the functions of this deity) are placed on either side of that of Þórr, who is potentissimus eorum (‘the mightiest of them’). If we accept this statement, it means that Adam here deviates from the view on Óðinn that most of the mythological West Norse sources represent, since they depict the highest position as belonging to him. However, it seems quite in accordance with what we have seen above: namely, that Óðinn was a god particularly relevant to rulers and to the warriors surrounding the rulers. Since the ceremonies carried out at Uppsala every ninth year were to be attended by the whole people — ‘Ad quam videlicet sollempnitatem nulli prestatur immunitas’ (nobody is allowed to renounce this feast) —, this means that the ceremonies must have been relevant to the well-being of the people as such, that is, all social layers. This obviously does not mean that everybody left their farms in order to go to Uppsala. In all likelihood it would be the heads of households and the chieftains who had to attend: but, as is evident throughout the description, the rituals performed in Uppsala concerned several areas of life, including fertility of the soil, 99 exactly as it is also the case in Hákonar saga goða ch. 14, where toasts are drunk for victory as well as for ár ok friðr (è31). Thus, even though we get no real glimpses of the various rites reported by Adam, it seems that the feasts at this central place would have to respond to the needs of society in its totality, including fertility of the soil and general order, which among ordinary men was most likely seen as a function belonging to Þórr. Therefore, it does make sense that Óðinn and Freyr, who are both more ‘specialized’ than Þórr (è 41), should have occupied secondary positions.100 99  For instance, it is said that the songs that were sung were ‘multiplices et inhonestae’ (many and indecent), which likely relates to some sexual content. 100  Landnámabók (ch. 268 in the Hauksbók version) contains the famous legal oath in which Freyr and Njǫrðr and inn almáttki áss (the almighty áss) are called upon for help (see Lindow 2002: 55–56, with references). Scholars have long discussed who this áss might be, and various gods have been suggested, among them Óðinn. Given the near total absence of an Óðinn cult in Iceland, however, it seems most probable that the allmighty áss must be Þórr, which is also what most scholars believe (è29 and è31).

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Second, we are told that Wodan is in charge of wars and induces courage in humans, ‘Wodan, id est furor, bella gerit hominique ministrat virtutem contra inimicos’ (Wotan — that is, the Furious101 — carries on war and imparts to man strength against his enemies) (p. 207). It may be of some interest that Adam gives us the etymology of Wotan’s name in this passage instead of the first time it is mentioned. That could indicate that the furor hinted at should be seen particularly in relation to warfare, which would be in accordance with the passage on the berserkir in Ynglinga saga ch. 6. And the same could be the case when Adam writes that Wodan gives ‘courage’, which here should perhaps rather be seen as a kind of berserksgangr. What Adam relates, then, is in full accordance with everything we have seen before: Óðinn is especially closely linked to the mental side of war. Third, Wodan is said to be armed: ‘Wodanem vero sculpunt armatum, sicut nostri Martem solent’ (Wotan they chisel armed, as our people are wont to represent Mars) (p. 207). In Roman mythology, Mars is armed with a lance, which may well be one of the reasons for the identification of the two gods by some Roman writers (see above). This clearly indicates that the spear, which plays such a huge role in Óðinn’s relation to war and the dead, is also in this instance regarded as his main attribute. Fourth, and far from surprisingly, we learn that sacrifices are carried out in honour of Óðinn when war is approaching, which is once again fully accordant with what was said about jarl Sigurðr’s blót feast: a toast was dedicated to Óðinn for the king’s victory. Adam goes on to describe how the sacrificial acts are carried out. He states that the Swedes sacrifice nine male individuals of different species in order to appease the gods with their blood. The bodies are hanged in a sacred grove close to the temple. In this grove hung sacrificed horses and dogs and humans. In scholion 141, it is stated that each day they sacrifice one human being together with other beings so that the total during the nine-day period amounts to seventy-two living beings. The figures have been disputed (cf. Nordberg 2006a) but shall not occupy us here. Nine, of course, has a special significance within PCRN, and perhaps especially in connection with Óðinn, but quite what that significance comprises we cannot know. We have, however, seen several times that hanging seems to be, if not exclusively then predominantly, closely associated with the cult of Óðinn. Therefore, even if it is not stated expressly, it appears that part of the cult at Uppsala was dedicated to Óðinn because of the hangings and the human sacrifices. 101 

Actually furor means ‘madness’ or ‘rage’.

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All in all, although Adam is not particularly detailed and we therefore have difficulties reconstructing what went on at Old Uppsala, it actually appears that everything related by Adam fits into the overall picture of Óðinn. In other words: Although we know that Adam is not reliable in everything he says about the cult in Uppsala, what he says about Óðinn could very well be true; the details he presents certainly fall within the discursive frames of the Óðinn figure. Another ritual, which seems to imply the presence of Óðinn, is the famous description by Ibn Fadlan of the burial of a chieftain somewhere along the river Volga. This source, too, has been mentioned several times and is dealt with in detail above in (è32). Here, we shall only focus on the god who is mentioned once and without any name. As the pyre is lit, a Rus says to Ibn Fadlan that: ‘because of the love which my Lord feels for him. He has sent him the wind to take him away within an hour’ (Risalat p. 4). Who is this Lord? We are only told that he can manipulate the wind (cf. Ynglinga saga ch. 7), that he ‘takes’ the dead chieftain, and that the chieftain has a special relation to him. This, however, fits rather well with what we know from other sources about Óðinn.102 Another indication of some relation to Óðinn is the very way in which the slave girl who is to accompany the chieftain to the world of the dead is killed: she is both stabbed and strangled, recalling the way in which both Víkarr and Óðinn himself were ‘killed’. For obvious reasons, there is a great discussion about the cultural and even ethnic provenience of the Rus that Ibn Fadlan describes in this passage (Montgomery 2000: 23), and the mere fact that they seem to have known a god of the Óðinn type does not in any way mean that they were ‘orthodox’ pagans of Scandinavia. The Rus were most likely strongly influenced by Slavonic and several other cultural traditions (è 32). Still, exactly these statements about the god to whom the chieftain is expected to go nonetheless indicate some affinity with Scandinavian paganism.103 More could be said about the cult of Óðinn, but probably nothing that will significantly alter the picture outlined above. His cult was centred on the high102  Perkins (2001) argues that Þórr was the wind raiser. It is quite likely that in certain connections this was the case. However, it hardly makes sense to postulate that there were watertight boundaries between the functions of the different gods. Perhaps it is more interesting that Óðinn, according to Ynglinga saga ch. 7, manipulates the wind with words and not by physical excersion. Different ideas about such an important phenomenon as the wind is to be expected, and we actually also have a third idea: namely, that the eagle, Hræsvelgr, is causing the wind to blow (Vafþrúðnismál st. 37). 103  For a fuller discussion of the ‘Nordic’ elements in Ibn Fadlan’s account, see Schjødt (2007b).

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est social strata, as has been recognized by most scholars, and in that sense it can be argued that he was the mightiest god in the Scandinavian ‘pantheon’; but nothing suggests that he ever was the most venerated. Quite the contrary; if this were the case, it would be in opposition to everything that could be expected. It would mean that kings and elite warriors constituted the majority of society. Towards the end of this chapter, we shall return to this issue when comparing Óðinn briefly to some of the other gods. But to summarize: the two kinds of descriptions we have in the sources, those of a legendary kind on the one hand and those of a more ‘historical’ kind, that is, sagas and outside witnesses, on the other hand, all agree that the rituals related to Óðinn are connected to war and to aristocracy, kings, and chieftains. Rituals involving hanging and human sacrifice are often mentioned, whether it is hanging of one self, ‘giving oneself to Óðinn’, or giving somebody else, often the enemy, to the god. This seems to indicate that some Odinic rituals took place at so-called central places, be it inside kingly halls or outside (as we must assume was the case with Hadingus), and their goals were both to give something to the god in order that the king would have success in war and probably in other matters, too, and in order to achieve an afterlife in Valhǫll. In that sense, there is both a sacrificial and an initiatory aspect to these rituals. Others, however, were performed in connection with the battlefield (throwing a spear over the enemy army or sacrificing war prisoners to the god). Thus, most of the Odinic rituals were no doubt performed in public and from pagan times we have, as noted, nothing to suggest that there was anything like a ‘private’ cult of Óðinn. Theophoric placenames associated with Óðinn are, as we saw, attested in Denmark, Sweden, and parts of Norway, but not in Iceland (Brink 2007b). In the Mälar region in central Sweden, the Óðinn names are linked to -lunda (grove), -berga (hill), -eke (wood of oak), -vi (holy place), and -harg (heap of stones, altar) (Vikstrand 2001: 115–40). So far, no sites with Óðinn names have been excavated. However, several large and spectacular weapon deposits with ritually destroyed weapons from about 300 bce and the period between 150 and 450 ce have been investigated in Denmark and southern Sweden ( Jørgensen and others 2003; è19 and è27). It is unclear, however, whether these weapon deposits should be linked to Óðinn or Týr or to other unkown gods of war. Tacitus (Annals 13.57) records that the Hermunduri sacrificed a defeated army, including weapon and horses, to Mars and Mercurius, which in his interpretatio Romana could be equivalent to Týr (è48) and Óðinn. If the accounts of Tacitus were to cover the Scandinavian weapon deposits as well, the deliberate and undoubtedly violent destruction of the weapons could be seen to relate the ‘furious’ aspects of Óðinn. It is also important to note that

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the weapon deposits were large-scale public rituals, sometimes including several thousands of objects that were cut to pieces and thrown into shallow lakes (Ilkjær 2000). From the period 550 to 1050 ce there is little unambiguous material evidence of Odinic rituals. Examples of possible Odinic rituals, however, may include the spectacular boat graves from, above all, Swedish Uppland, such as Vendel, Valsgärde, and Tuna in Alsike. The boats were fully equipped for an afterlife in a royal hall (Herschend 1997), and, given the Odinic images on the helmets of the buried men, it is not inplausible that this afterlife was, indeed, in Valhǫll. Another possible Odinic burial ritual is a well-equipped chamber grave in Birka (Price 2002: 132–39; è33). Inside the grave, a man was buried sitting in a chair and a woman was subsequently placed on top of him. Over the two dead bodies was found a spear, which was stuck into a wooden frame of a platform, upon which was placed two sacrificed horses, as though it had been thrown. The throwing of a spear might in this case be regarded as a dedication to Óðinn. Since hanging was typical of sacrifices to Óðinn, a hanging scene on the Gotlandic picture stone from Stora Hammars in Lärbro (Lindqvist 1941–42) could possibly be connected to Odinic rituals as well.

Scholarship and Interpretation As is to be expected, an immense amount of literature has been written on Óðinn, and it is in no way possible to go through all of it here. Strangely enough, not many mono­g raphs have been written about the god since the middle of the nineteenth century; arguably, the only one that takes the perspective from the history of religions is H.  M. Chadwick (1899), which is somewhat dated, but still useful.104 Recently, another important mono­g raph on Óðinn has appeared, Annette Lassen’s Odin på kristent pergament: En teksthistorisk studie (2011b), which is definitely also very useful but adopts the 104  Martin Ninck’s Wodan und germanischer Schicksalsglaube (1935) should perhaps be mentioned here, but was already at the time of its publication out of date in terms of the theories of religion current at the time. Another, much more interesting, work dealing to a great extent with Óðinn is Höfler (1934), although this is really not a book primarily about Óðinn. Two other books are Grundy 2014a and 2014b, which together constitute yet another mono­ graph on Óðinn. Unfortunately they came to my knowledge too late to be properly integrated in this chapter. Apart from many valuable observations in the analyses of the individual myths, the conclusion is that Óðinn was originally a god of death. This conclusion is, of course, very far from the viewpoints put forward in this chapter, but the book is certainly worth taking into consideration.

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perspective of literary history and has no primary interest in Óðinn as a religious figure. Perhaps Karl Helm’s treatment of Óðinn from 1946, mentioned above, should also be counted as a mono­g raph, although it deals exclusively with one aspect of the god: namely, the ‘Ausbreitung und Wanderung’ (the diffusion and migration) of his cult. But Óðinn occupies a prominent place in many introductory works to Nordic and Germanic religion, such as that of Jan de Vries (1956–57a: ii, 27–106) and not least that of Gabriel Turville-Petre (1964), which must still be considered one of the best introductions to Óðinn ever written. Also the entry in Reallexikon der germanischen Altertumskunde (2007b) by Anders Hultgård should be mentioned, which offers a good overview of the sources. In all these works there are plenty of references to the literature, both older and more recent, dealing with Wodan-Óðinn.105 Of course the questions raised and the answers proposed mirror, at least to a certain extent, the time in which the individual work was written. The viewpoints put forward until well into the twentieth century were mostly of a euhemeristic or an allegoric kind: Óðinn was either seen as an immigrant from the East, from Asia (cf. Snorri’s Prologue to Edda and Ynglinga saga and other sources with a similar perspective), who settled down in the North where he came to be regarded as a god or as a personification of natural or mental phenomena (a symbol of ‘spirituality’, ‘time’, ‘winter’, etc.). This has been treated in some detail by Lassen (2011b: 32–51) and will not be dealt with here,106 since these viewpoints have no or very limited impact on modern views on Óðinn. A general notion in many of these works was that the mythology, transmitted in the Nordic sources, all referred back to a pan-Scandinavian world-view, or even a pan-Germanic one. It is worth noticing that ‘folklore’ from the time of 105  For good overviews of the research history, see Dillmann (1979: 167–71), Kaliff and Sundqvist (2004: 14–20), Lassen (2011b: 21–82), and Hultgård (2007b: 776–81). Lassen in particular is of interest concerning the reception of Óðinn in the centuries prior to the twentieth. 106  Although probably nobody within the history of religions would subscribe to these views as something that can account for mythology in general, we should not reject right away that so-called euhemeristic (understood here simply as the fact that historical persons may actually influence the view on the gods) traits may play a role, or that allegorical traits can be facets of mythic figures. As was pointed out above, the one-eyedness of Civilis may have contributed to the one-eyedness of Óðinn, although many other significant aspects have subsequently been ascribed to this characteristic. Likewise, it is a fact in numerous mythologies that gods are in various ways connected to natural phenomena. These things will hardly ever be able to account for the entire discourse of a certain god, but to maintain that historical events or natural phenomena have nothing to do with mythology does not seem reasonable.

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Jacob Grimm (1835) became an important source for the reconstruction of the original mythology and religion and has remained so ever since. Although some sort of source criticism was already carried out by Grimm, and even by some of his predecessors, it was, however, only towards the end of the nineteenth century that it was applied in a radical way, with Sophus Bugge’s Studier over de nordiske gude- og heltesagns oprindelse (1881–89), which was perhaps not the first, but definitely the most famous and influential, of the early source critical works. Bugge argues that even the oldest part of the written record did not reflect a world-view from some deep past. Rather, almost every piece of information from the sources was highly influenced by Christian notions and this was therefore also the case with Óðinn. Most famous is his argument that the self-hanging should be seen as a pagan imitation inspired by the Christian myth of the Crucifixion. In short, it can be stated that Bugge and his followers came to set the main standards for scholarship of a philological and historical kind up until the 1960s. Another very influential branch of scholarship at the beginning of the twentieth century was folkloristics, carried out by such brilliant scholars as Axel Olrik, Hilding Celander, and Kaarle Krohn. One of the most important, but also controversial, ideas concerning Óðinn among the folklorists was that he was the leader of ‘the wild hunt’, ‘der wilde Jäger’, and thus a god linked to the wind and to the dead (cf. de Vries 1962b). One of the problems here is that this role of Óðinn is not recorded until after the Middle Ages, and the question therefore remains whether it can be traced back to pagan times (cf. Höfler 1934; Liberman 2016: 30–33) or even to Indo-European times (cf. Kershaw 2000). It seems that to most scholars of the twentieth century, the most frequently posed questions concerned the origins and historical developments of the god and, closely tied to this, the question of Óðinn’s ‘original’ function: was he originally a death god, a wind god, a warrior god, a god of fate, or something else? The reason for this kind of question was, especially in the early part of the century, a kind of vulgar cultural evolutionism: a phenomenon which is complex (and Óðinn indeed is) must by necessity have been much simpler during earlier periods — what we see in the medi­eval texts as many functions must thus have been a single one earlier on. It is obvious that the many, sometimes almost contradictory, functions of Óðinn, for instance, in Ynglinga saga referred to above, call for an explanation. And until the 1950s or perhaps even the 1960s, the explanatory model for most scholars was historical. A good representative of this is Karl Helm (1955), who not only presented his historical exposition of Óðinn but also addressed the issue in a more theoretical way.107 107 

For the debate between Helm and Dumézil, see also de Vries (1951).

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With Georges Dumézil and later with other structuralists, the perspective changed somehow and the purpose of their analyses was not so much to explain the historical development but rather to see whether the functions of the god formed a structure. In principle, the two viewpoints do not exclude one another, since also the ‘Dumézilians’, although they usually do not attempt to trace the historical development in any detail, work with an implied prerequisite that Óðinn ultimately was a god parallel to the Varuna figure or to other Indo-European cognates. And even if they typically are more interested in the functional parallels than in the ‘origin’, the whole basis for functional parallels must nevertheless be common origins. Thus, although the historical origin is usually not the main focus for the comparativists, there is certainly an inherent idea, however vague, of what Óðinn would have been like in the ‘beginning’. However, the ‘historicists’ tracing the origins of the god will often also seek a sort of logic as to how the various aspects or functions are linked; how the functions ascribed to the god in the medi­eval sources were generated from the ‘original’ function; whether this should be sought in Indo-European times, in the Germanic encounters with the Romans, or the Celts along the Rhine in the centuries around the beginning of our era, or at other times and in other areas. Although it seems reasonable to distinguish between ‘historicists’ and ‘structuralists’ as broad tendencies within the Óðinn research, it must therefore be borne in mind that there are no definite borders between these categories. It is rather a matter of focus and of interest. The tendency since the 1950s seems, however, to have been in favour of the structuralist view,108 although in recent years the pendulum seems to be swinging back towards the historical enterprise once again (e.g., Gunnell 2013b; Liberman 2016: 23–86109): which historical circumstances have created the Óðinn figure that is presented in the medi­eval sources, and how are we to understand the original Óðinn figure? Since more or less detailed research histories can be read in the works referred to above, we shall only deal here with two issues that seem especially to occupy the focus in the recent research situation: one is the question about the historical basis for Óðinn, and the other, 108 

‘Structuralism’ here should not be understood in a ‘dogmatic’ sense, be it Lévi-Straussian or some other variant. The notion is just used here to designate a certain perspective: analyses of the relation between the various functions of Óðinn without focusing on how they came into being from a historical perspective. In this connection, also ‘psychological’ approaches, like that of Richard Auld (1976), who attempts to analyze Óðinn within a framework inspired by C. G. Jung and Erich Neumann, will count as a ‘structuralist’ perspective. 109  Liberman, like others before him, believes that Óðinn originally (?) was a demon of death.

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somewhat related, is the discussion about shamanism as a decisive factor for understanding Óðinn’s role in PCRN. As we have already seen in the ‘Historical Framework’ section above, a lot of proposals have been put forward as to where we should seek the original Óðinn. Previously, many scholars believed that the cult of the god had come from the East and was thus initially accepted by the East Germanic peoples (Hultgård 2007b: 776; Kaliff and Sundqvist 2004: 14–16).110 In recent years, the favourite theory, however, has been that we should turn to the Rhine area as the place to look for most of the conspicuous elements of the Óðinn figure. Enright (1996a) and Kaliff and Sundqvist (2004) argue that this area was a melting pot for cultural influences among Germani, Celts, and Romans, which is undeniably true. Enright focuses on the Celtic Mercury as the primary model for Óðinn as the god who is strongly connected to the warrior-bands and thus to the kings and chieftains, whereas Kaliff and Sundqvist favour a strong impact from the cult of Mithras, which played a tremendous role among the Roman troops along the Limes, and they argue, not least on basis of icono­g raphic material, that it is from this god that we should look for the warrior aspects of Óðinn. Whereas Enright rejects that Wodan should have existed earlier than the centuries around the beginning of the common era (1996a: 238),111 Kaliff and Sundqvist are open to the possibility that a god of the Óðinn type existed long before any connections with the cult of Mithras, but that his role as war god and ancestor of royal kin came about due to Mithraic influences (2004: 99). In our view, this way of approaching the historical development is more in accordance with the way new religious notions are internalized: there is a tendency that people will attempt as far as possible to synchronize new and old notions. Concerning the question of the main influences, these are unlikely ever to be determined with any certainty. In our view, it seems likely that in the Rhine area, just as in the eastern Mediterranean around the same time (the 110 

Lotte Hedeager (2011) argues that, although Óðinn is seen as an old pan-Germanic god, the Huns and their famous king Attila played a decisive role in the formation of the late pagan Óðinn, enumerating many common traits between the king and the god (2011: 221–22). Therefore, her theory can be seen as a new variant of the ‘eastern’ hypothesis. 111  Although Enright has made a very good case for ‘the warlord’ Wodan originating at that time, it seems as if he is basing much too much of this rejection on argumenta ex silentio: Even if there is no positive evidence that the Cimbri worshipped Wodan before they left their Scandinavian homeland (1996a: 238), as was proposed by Jan de Vries (1956–57a: ii, 30), we have to ask the simple question: what evidence could we possibly hope for? Such arguments are simply of no value in this case, and the question whether or not Wodan existed before Roman and Celtic influences were current must be based on another line of reasoning.

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so-called ‘Hellenistic’ culture), there was an extremely high degree of syncretistic tendencies, so that gods that had centuries earlier been quite different, became identified; perhaps not by everybody, but by some. Thus, we know that Mithras and Mercury were closely associated (Kaliff and Sundqvist 2004: 62–63) and, as we have seen, Wodan was also part of such an identification process. Therefore, it seems a priori likely that these three gods, and probably many more, as well as historical persons (Civilis, Sertorius, and perhaps even Attila; cf. Hedeager 2011) contributed to the notions surrounding Óðinn in the late pagan period in Scandinavia. At the same time, however, Dumézil’s argument that Óðinn is a god of the Varunic type should not be rejected. For instance, the magic abilities that are so important in the Nordic sources seem to be quite in accordance with Varuna. Therefore, the tendency among scholars to polarize different interpretations along the lines of whether Óðinn was an old Indo-European god or whether he was a newcomer from wherever is hardly meaningful, unless scholars are very specific in their use of these notions. This, of course, all relates back to what was stated earlier: namely. that religious notions are constantly changing. As new social circumstances create new needs, the strategy most often employed is to rework the old traditions in such a way that the new and the old can be combined, instead of just discarding old traditions away and substitute new ones for them. This means that the classical question concerning continuity and breaks must always be qualified. This is basically also the issue when it comes to the discussion about shamanism as an important feature of Óðinn. The idea that a kind of shamanism was practised among the Scandinavians is old and goes back to at least the 1930s. In 1935, Dag Strömbäck published his famous book on seiðr: Sejd: Textstudier i nordisk religionshistorie. Here, it is argued that the Nordic seiðr was strongly influenced by the shamanism of the Sámi, and Strömbäck as well as many other scholars, although differing on various issues, also see Óðinn as an important figure in relation to the Nordic shamanism (e.g., Ohlmarks 1939a, 1939b; Buchholz 1971, 1993). This theory, that in order to understand Óðinn we must view him in light of the shamanistic complex, has since the 1990s undergone a bit of a renaissance. Several scholars, mainly from the field of archaeology but from different perspectives and by no means agreeing on everything, have argued that Óðinn is to be seen as first and foremost a shamanic figure (e.g., Hedeager 1997a, 2011, arguing for influences from the Huns; Solli 1997–98, 2002, arguing for influences from the Sámi; and Price 2002,112 arguing for a kind of inherent shamanism; cf. also Motz 1996a: 112 

For both Solli and Price, it is a typical shamanistic trait that Óðinn is able to change his

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81–93). In particular François-Xavier Dillmann (2006: 269–308) has opposed the idea of a shamanistic component in PCRN with reference to the criteria established by Mircea Eliade (1964) in his large-scale phenomenological survey of shamanistic practices; criticism against viewing Óðinn primarily as a shaman has been raised also by Jens-Peter Schjødt (2001). An implicit critique has also been raised by John Lindow (2003), who argues that the main literary source for Óðinn’s connection to shamanism, Ynglinga saga ch. 6–7, is probably a description of a thirteenth-century magician rather than of the pagan god. Here, we must also mention the thorough investigation by Clive Tolley (2009a), who goes through all the available material in great detail, not only within the societies of the Germanic-speaking Scandinavians but also from neighbouring cultures. Tolley concludes that there is little reason to believe that there was shamanism in the strict sense (i.e., as among the Sámi) among the Germanic-speaking Scandinavians (2009a: 581), but rather a shamanism that can be found in agricultural societies further south whose cultures were more compatible with that of southern Scandinavia (2009a: 587). Tolley’s exposition seems to be rather balanced and thus likely reflects fairly accurately the reality of pagan Scandinavia. However, it is rare that we are able to answer questions about PCRN with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’, and this is most likely also the case here. On the one hand, we know that the Scandinavians, or rather those who lived in the northern regions, had much communication with the Sámi and that they regarded them as great magicians, probably due to their shamanistic practices. Therefore, it is highly likely that shamanistic practices became part of the magic traditions in PCRN, although, on the other hand, we cannot agree with the above-mentioned works in characterizing PCRN as basically shamanistic.113 In relation to Óðinn, other characteristics seem more important than that of shamanism, such as his relation to kings and war,

sex. This, however, as we have seen above, cannot be supported from any sources: there is not a single example that Óðinn becomes a female; quite on the contrary, he is portrayed as a great seducer of women. 113  This is certainly not a rejection of the idea that at a certain stage of the evolution of most religions it is possible to find shamanistic traits. This probably goes for PCRN as for any other religion. For instance, an early Bronze Age grave from Hvidegården, near present-day Copenhagen, seems to confirm the idea that ‘shaman-like’ religious specialists were part of the Bronze Age community. Among other things, a bark box and a purse containing special stones and other unusual elements may indicate that a very special person was buried below the stone­ setting (cf. Randsborg 1993: 122–24).

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which is not to exclude that, back in pagan times, some shamanistic traits were imposed on Óðinn, as we shall return to in the next section.114 Apart from these issues, we should also mention Annette Lassen’s exposition Odin på kristent pergament: En teksthistorisk studie (2011b). Lassen’s basic idea is that the view on Óðinn presented in the texts depends upon the textual genre in any given instance. She avoids going into a discussion of the pagan Óðinn but analyzes the way in which the god is portrayed in the different textual genres, finding that by far the largest part are strongly influenced by Christian ideas. There is no doubt that the picture we get of Óðinn from the medi­eval sources is often seen through Christian glasses, but, as we have noted above, much seems very likely to refer to pagan notions and to express continuity from a Germanic as well as an Indo-European past. It is important to bear in mind that we have to distinguish between form and content and also between different layers of content. Often, we have to go beneath the immediate surface of the statements in the sources in order to see what could lurk behind; this is especially relevant when we deal with Saxo and the fornaldarsögur. Much more has been said about Óðinn,115 not least in connection with the individual myths, than has been possible to refer to here. In the last section, we shall summarize some of the ideas outlined above and also attempt to outline a general interpretation of the Óðinn figure.

Concluding Remarks In her 2011 exposition of Óðinn, Annette Lassen writes (2011b: 75): ‘Det er påfaldende for forskningen i Odin i 1900-tallet og frem til årtusindskiftet, at artiklerne og værkerne om Odin ofte koncentrerer sig om et enkelt aspekt ved Odin’ (It is a remarkable trait within research on Odin, during the twentieth century and up until the change of the millennium, that articles and works about Odin often concentrate on a singular aspect by Odin).116 Although we 114 

Somewhat related to these problems is that addressed by Wanner (2007), who rightly argues that Óðinn is a god on the margins, which does establish some similarities to the shaman. 115  A viewpoint that has no direct bearing on the pre-Christian Óðinn as such, but rather on the Conversion history, has been presented by Terry Gunnell (2013b), who argues that Óðinn, as opposed to most other gods, was not tied to the local landscape but was by means of some symbol (helmet, spear, or ring), a ‘moving’ and ‘transportable’ god (p. 170); according to Gunnell, he was in this way already preparing the way for Christ as a universal god. 116  See also Lassen (2011b: 67), where it is stated that neither Ninck nor Turville-Petre made any attempts to synthesize the various aspects by Óðinn.

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believe that there are more exceptions to this ‘rule’ than are mentioned by Lassen, it may very well be a tendency. Later (Lassen 2011b: 77), she states that one thing nonetheless seems to be common to all scholars dealing with Óðinn: namely, that they regard the god as multifaceted or even as containing contradictory features (Kaliff and Sundqvist 2004: 9). This has been explained in various ways, but most scholars have considered it the result of historical influences from Celts, Romans, Sámi, Huns, or other cultures. Influences from the cults of Mithras, Mercury, Hermes, and others have been suggested, just as shamanistic elements from the Sámi, Finns, or Huns have been used to explain various characteristics of the Nordic god. Lassen herself has another solution, as mentioned above: that it is the literary genre that determines which picture of the god is presented. All this is quite possible: historical influences have definitely played a part, and there is no doubt, either, that the authors of the sources often had an agenda which was inspired by their Christian world-view. However, if the surface is scratched even just a little, the picture we get accords rather well with what we should expect an Old Norse god associated with the higher social strata to be like and perhaps even without the contradictory features that are observed by Kaliff and Sundqvist (2004). So let us attempt in the last part of this chapter to create some sort of synthesis. As we can see from the above para­g raphs, Óðinn is certainly a god of many faces; the question, however, is, whether it is possible to view all these ‘faces’ as part of one discourse with its own inherent logic. In doing this, it must be emphasized once more that, even if it is possible to discover such an inherent logic, this by no means rejects the above-mentioned influences and probably many more; they remain likely players, however hard to prove they often are. It is thus not an attempt to draw a portrait of some ‘original’ (?) Óðinn who remained the same in all aspects through centuries or even millennia. It may be that some traits of the god have roots going back to Indo-European times, others may have been added during the first half of the first millennium through influences from Romans and Celts, whereas others again may owe their existence to knowledge about Sámi shamanism. That is not the point, however. What shall be attempted here is simply to investigate whether the characteristics and the functions, mythic as well as ritual, of which we are informed in the sources can be seen as part of a structural framework constituting a discourse within which it is possible to understand all the various extant statements concerning Óðinn. Hypothetically, we could view the ‘numinous knowledge’ as the semantic centre of Óðinn. This feature can be detected in by far the most of the sources, if not as something he possesses then as something he is eager to obtain. We

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saw thus that most of the Óðinn myths concern the acquisition of knowledge or distributing it.117 Óðinn acquires knowledge, which in turn explains how he is able to give it away. The persons to whom he gives it are exclusively warriors associated with kings or kings themselves. It is also conspicuous that in many of the myths, both those in which he acquires knowledge and those in which he gives it away, are structured along lines similar to those of initiation rituals all over the world (Schjødt 2008).118 This may indicate that the acquisition as well as the passing on of numinous knowledge was somehow connected to such rituals. Furthermore, Óðinn is portrayed as king among the gods, but also as the god of kings. In both myth and ritual, we see that he is the advisor of kings, especially when it comes to warfare. Thus, we must assume that these kings and their warriors were initiated to Óðinn and that some of them saw themselves as descendants of Óðinn: he was seen as the ‘father’ of all nobles and perhaps even of all humankind. The ‘gift’ from Óðinn to kings is knowledge about strategy and to warriors it is strength and invulnerability. These gifts were returned in the form of sacrifices: the king sacrifices humans, often by hanging and stabbing, which is in accordance with the role of the spear as an attribute of Óðinn. Further, the spear plays an important role in another context: namely, as a means of initiating the dead to the god. On the deathbed, those who belong to Óðinn confirm the relationship with a scratch from the spear, and on the battlefield, the enemy is also ‘initiated’ to Óðinn, which they (or some of them) may well have been already. Óðinn is definitely also a god of the dead. Just as he is the ruler among the gods, he is also the ruler among the dead. In this role, he seems to be an exact parallel to the human kings, and the ‘life’ in Valhǫll is very much parallel to the life in the kings’ halls (cf. Nordberg 2003). It was prestigious for a king to have as many men around him as possible to show his power, 117  As noted above, this pattern can even be traced in the obviously Christian stories in which Óðinn confronts Christian kings (cf. McKinnell 2013a). Although he is of course viewed in a negative light in these narratives, his function and his character remain stable: he is portrayed as very clever. That fits in with what we are often told about the Christian devil (to whom he is paralleled), which suggests one of two things: either Óðinn takes on the role of the devil, and the stories are therefore a Christian invention; or Óðinn is used as a parallel to the devil in certain stories because he was known to be clever. After all, all mythologies know figures who are particularly clever. If, for instance, Prometheus were known only from postChristian sources, it would probably have been suggested that he was influenced by Christian ideas about the devil, too. Perhaps it would make better sense to propose that it was the other way round: The Christian devil was highly influenced by pagan gods and semi-gods. 118  As we saw earlier in this chapter another favour he could dispense was healing, again by magical means.

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and this is similarly the case with Óðinn. In that sense, it is logical that sacrifices to Óðinn consist of humans, and, just as is the case for human kings, the more heroic the warriors are, the better he can defend his ‘kingdom’. For Óðinn, of course, the kingdom is the world of gods and humans, living and dead. It is, then, possible to see that two main lines of the Óðinn discourse can eventually be reduced to one. On the one hand, the phenomenon of numinous knowledge and on the other hand the connection to kingship, war, and death. Since it is possible, as just stated, to view Óðinn as a reflection of powerful kings and warlords, it is obvious that his abilities must correspond to those that are necessary for the kings in order to carry out their task — and the task of any leader is to ensure that his people prosper. In the Viking Age, and probably long before that, there were two crucial factors on which the success of a leader depended: one was the general well-being, that is, the fertility of land and beast; and the other was victory in war. Although there were other gods who had power over different aspects of fertility, it was nonetheless up to the king as representative of the people when addressing the gods (and representative of the gods when addressing the people) to maintain good relations with the Other World in order for the land to prosper (cf. Hákonarmál st. 21),119 but first and foremost with the leader of that Other World, that is, Óðinn. If this relation is not optimal, everything will go wrong, and another king will be needed (cf. the story about Dómaldi, Ynglinga saga ch. 15). Although we have no evidence that kings could be expelled for such reasons, the sources are full of examples of both pagan and Christian kings who were thought to be responsible for prosperity. But particularly in war it was important to have the gods ‘on our side’, and therefore it was necessary to have as an ally a god who had power over the two most important abilities for carrying out a successful war: namely, on the one hand courage and strength, and on the other hand cleverness in strategy. Whereas the first mainly concerns the warriors, the second mainly concerns the king. Both sides are equally important to martial success. In the sources, we encounter several times this idea that when Óðinn abandons his hero, he will die or lose the battle. Probably also linked to battle is the role of poetry and poets: Fame and a great reputation were achieved mainly during battles, and a reputation is of course dependent on the trite fact that people have to remember what actualy happened. The medium for this memory was the oral performance of what is now called skaldic poetry; we must therefore assume that it was customary to have skalds as part of the army during battles. Many 119 

‘[S]íz Hǫkon fór | með heiðin goð; | mǫrg es þjóð of þéuð’ (Hákonarmál st. 21) (Since Hákon went with the heathen gods, many a nation is enslaved) (p. 193).

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such skalds were in all likelihood warriors themselves, but their main function would probably rest in their ability to put the exploits performed by kings and warriors into words, so that they would be remembered, if not for eternity then at least for generations to come. Because of that, it makes perfectly good sense that the god of these social groups and individuals to be remembered would also be the god of poetry. The role of memory in the Óðinn discourse is, moreover, emphasized by the name of one his ravens, Muninn (cf. Hermann 2014; Mitchell 2019; è 2). Nor is there hardly any doubt that poetry and magical manipulation were part of the same semantic sphere and that numinous knowledge, like all wisdom, was encoded in verse. In order for the ruler to maintain the good relations, it is necessary that he possess numinous knowledge as well as all other kinds of knowledge, which are in turn bestowed by the god himself, most likely during some initiation ritual, transforming the ruler into a protégé of the god for as long as he keeps his part of the contract: sacrificing to Óðinn, delivering the gift that a ruler requires more than anything else, be it in this world or in the Other, that is, manpower for the final battle. This basic relation between the ruler and the god thus explains almost every statement about Óðinn in the sources: He knows all the means necessary for a leader to manipulate the world to his own or his people’s advantage (war, magic — perhaps including some shamanistic features —, runes, and so forth); he contracts an alliance with the king in the sense that he will render the ruler victorious in this world while the ruler must contribute to the victory in the Other World, although we all know that no one can be victorious in the final battle; furthermore, by virtue of this contract, Óðinn agrees to look after the ruler and his men, not only in this world but also in the next. This structure seems to be fundamental to Óðinn and may include almost every statement in the sources. Therefore, numinous knowledge must be regarded as the semantic centre of this god since the medium that ties ruler and god to each other is the initiation. Above, the attempt is made to do what Annette Lassen maintains has seldom been done: produce an overall interpretation of the god that is able to explain all aspects of him. Of course, the portrait drawn here is of the late pagan Óðinn, perhaps the one of the Viking Age. However, as we have seen, it is difficult (not to say impossible) to trace the origin of the various elements, which constitute this figure. As suggested already, it may be reasonable to trace the sinister god of the dead and of knowledge connected to the dead back to Indo-European times; already during that period we find a god, Rudra, who is connected to bands of young warriors. The specialization into a god linked to war and warlords, however, is probably much more recent and may be due

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to the historical situation in the Rhine area around the beginning of our era; many details have no doubt been added due to various influences and historical developments. Before we end this chapter, we shall discuss briefly the relation that Óðinn has to a couple of the other gods. It seems that, especially with regard to Freyr and Þórr, there is some overlap: Both Óðinn and Freyr are concerned with kingship, and both Óðinn and Þórr are concerned with battle, or perhaps rather fighting since Þórr, except at Ragnarǫk where all the gods apparently fight against the giants, never fights in an army. Þórr always engages his opponents in single combat and his enemies are always giants. The giants, whatever else they may be and signify, are opponents of the ordered world that the æsir protect and represent (è 61). In that sense, Þórr is a defender of cosmos, a type of god found all across the world: the killer of demons (cf. Witzel 2012: 148–54). This constitutes another reason for the respective relations these two gods have to different social groups: Óðinn is a god of the aggressive nobility, whereas Þórr, logically, is much more important to farmers and others who need stability in order to do what they are supposed to do. Moreover, Þórr is very physically orientated while Óðinn is decidedly intellectually orientated. This probably means that Óðinn can be regarded as the god associated with collective and organized warfare, including the king and his warrior band, and often carried out as an aggression,120 whereas Þórr is the lone fighter who will stand up against any threat. Therefore, if we ask who the war god in PCRN is, the question must, once again, be qualified before it actually makes any sense: all gods probably fight, but they fight in different ways, with different means, and for different goals. Parallel to this are the respective relations to kingship that Óðinn and Freyr have. We have already dealt with the rex-dux issue above (è23) and can therefore be very brief on this here. Whether leadership was divided between two persons, as it apparently was at the time of Tacitus, or whether there was only one leader, it remains clear that there are two aspects related to kingship: namely, on the one hand that of governing in peace time, performing rituals to promote fertility; and on the other hand that of the war leader. It is likely that Óðinn has usurped some of the functions of the ‘peace-king’, maybe parallel to the historical developments, which turned the war leader into the only king. Anyway, the two aspects can be seen as a line of binary oppositions:

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We notice, particularly in the fornaldarsögur and in Gesta Danorum, that a great king is an aggressive king who wages war on enemy lands — but definitely not on his own.

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War king vs. peace king

Guardian god of the war leader vs. royal ancestor of the peace king

Intellectual and spiritual vs. physical

Having sex to maintain order vs. having sex to ensure prosperity

More oppositions could probably be added, which is, however, not necessary here. The point is that, just as we saw in the relation between Óðinn and Þórr, we can see that Óðinn and Freyr are similarly related according to a set of binary oppositions.121 The viewpoints set forth in this last section can, like all interpretations, be debated. The final word about Óðinn has definitely not yet been said. But it appears that the enigmatic character that has often been emphasized by the Óðinn figure is perhaps not as enigmatic as has been thought. At least it makes sense, even in an almost logical way insofar as myths and religious notions are logical at all, to view the Óðinn figure from this perspective. We have by no means solved all the problems relating to Óðinn, certainly not in relation to this figure’s historical development, but we have demonstrated that the fundamental structure of the Óðinn discourse centres on kingship and numinosity, including abilities in relation to all kinds of magic and healing.

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The relations between these gods have been analyzed much more thoroughly in Schjødt (2012b).

43 – Freyr Olof Sundqvist Introduction Old Norse Freyr (Old Swedish Frø) or Yngvifreyr was probably one of the most important gods in the North Germanic world during the Late Iron Age. Placenames clearly indicate that he was worshipped in almost all parts of Scandinavia during this period. He was also an important god in Iceland after the settlement in the ninth century. It seems that the cult of Freyr during the Late Iron Age was especially popular in eastern Sweden, that is, the Lake Mälaren region. In this area, he had a certain connection to the royal dynasty called the Ynglingar, which also ruled in parts of Norway. It has been suggested that Freyr (Yngvifreyr) could be related to a god named Ing in Old English, who according to Anglo-Saxon sources was worshipped among the so-called ‘East Danes’ or ‘the Heardingas’. These denominations could perhaps designate a tribe or a royal family living in Denmark or to the southern parts of Sweden. According to some scholars, Ing was also worshipped in Anglo-Saxon England (see below). Classical sources written in Latin indicate that Freyr, under the name *Ingwaz, was worshipped as early as the first century ce by the federation of tribes called Ingvaeones, who lived next to the ocean in the northern part of Germania, perhaps in Denmark.1 Hence, we may assume that a cult of Freyr 1  See the corrupt form given by Tacitus in Germania ch. 2, ingaeuones. Pliny’s rendition, inguaeones, is probably more accurate (Natural History 4.99–100). See Wessén (1924: 44), de Vries (1956–57a: ii, 165); cf. Much and others (1967: 53–54). Hellberg (2014) states, however, that both Tacitus’s and Pliny’s renditions of the name are corrupt. Nevertheless, in this text I follow the form given by Pliny. Hellberg (2011, 2014) states that the folk name Ingvae-

Olof Sundqvist, Professor of the History of Religions, Stockholm University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume iii, ed. by Jens Peter p. 1195–1245 Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) p BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116970

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existed in all Scandinavia. This cult was probably important as early as the first century ce and disappeared from public life around the eleventh century. Freyr appears frequently in the Norse mythical traditions. There, he belongs to the subgroup of gods called the vanir (see è 40). Scholars have regarded these deities, that is, Freyr, his sister Freyja, and his father Njǫrðr, as fertility gods. It was, for instance, good to pray to Freyr for prosperity and good crops (til árs). The sources indicate, however, that Freyr was ‘more than a fertility god’, and it may be argued that he carried features of a warrior lord and appeared as a peace-creator. He was also closely related to political power and religious ruler ideology, at least in some areas of Scandinavia.

The Sources Some sources on Freyr were produced in the Late Iron Age society by people who were probably not influenced by Christian beliefs and practices. Placenames, for instance, containing the name Freyr (Frøs-, Frös- genitive) constitute such a source of knowledge about the the god (cf. Brink 2007b). These names give reliable information about the pre-Christian cult of Freyr, especially the geo­graphic distribution of it. Archaeological finds from the Late Iron Age may also be considered important sources on Freyr since they were produced by people who experienced the pre-Christian religion from the inside. They are, however, sometimes difficult to interpret. Even so, the Viking Age Rällinge statuette from Södermanland as well as the three Migration Period figures from Lunda, also in Södermanland, Sweden, should probably be identified with Freyr since they all are attributed with a phallus, that is, a particular characteristic of this god. These archaeological objects may allow insight into how Freyr was conceived during the Late Iron Age.2 The gold foils showing a couple embracing, from the Vendel Period, have also been related to the myths and cult of Freyr (see discussion below). They have been found at several places in Scandinavia, often in the context of halls. It should be noted, however, that most of the three thousand known foils display only a single male figure and most of them should probably not be related to the vanir deity (cf. Watt 2007, 2019). ones (Proto-Germanic *ingwianiz) means ‘Ing-kins’ or ‘Ing-worshippers’. Ing (Proto-Germanic *Ingwaz) was thus the hero or god (see below).  2  A triad of anthropomorphic beings, interpreted as Óðinn, Þórr, and Freyr, have also been observed on the Skog tapestry (Hälsingland) and the picture stone of Sanda (Gotland); see Anjou (1935) and Jungner (1930).

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Some surviving skaldic and eddic poetry must also be considered important sources for the mythology and cult of Freyr, although they were not written down until the Middle Ages. The world-view and ethics showcased in this poetry are not always Christian, and the medi­eval Icelanders regarded them as pagan (see Meulengracht Sørensen 1991: 225). Most of the sources on the deity Freyr are prose narratives and descriptions transmitted by people who were not themselves adherents of the ancient religion. The authors lived in the medi­eval and Christian society of Scandinavia. Oral traditions attested in these sources have sometimes been reworked by medi­ eval rhetorical embellishments, ethno­g raphic clichés, and Christian-mission strategies. These sources thus reflect the medi­eval reception of Freyr. They comprise Norse prose texts, such as Landnámabók, Sagas of Icelanders, kings’ sagas, and fornaldarsögur, but also Latin texts, such as Saxo Grammaticus’s Gesta Danorum (c. 1200) and Adam of Bremen’s Gesta Hammaburgensis Ecclesiae Pontificium (c. 1075). The mythical writings of Snorri Sturluson also reflect the medi­e val image of Freyr. We do not know whether it agrees in detail with the notions that the Viking Age people had of him. Between the Viking Age and the Middle Ages, various additions may have been incorporated into the myths of Freyr. In his Edda (c. 1220), Snorri arranged his material in accordance with literary models and rhetorical devices that were common among learned writers in the Middle Ages (è3). In Ynglinga saga, which is incorporated into the beginning of his major work Heimskringla (c. 1230), Snorri produces an extensive account on Freyr, which seems to be affected by medi­e val thinking, such as euhemerism (critically considered by Schjødt 2009b). Even if Snorri’s texts and other medi­ eval writings on Freyr have not always satisfied the rigid criteria of source criticism, they should not be discarded as sources of knowledge about the Viking Age image of the god. Some of them incorporate oral traditions that reach back into the Viking Age.

The Historical Frames and the Names The Names Freyr and Yngvifreyr There has been a virtual consensus that Freyr’s name should be understood as a Proto-Nordic *Fraujaz (derived from the Indo-European root *pro- ‘forward, ahead, uppermost, before’) meaning ‘the uppermost’ or ‘Lord (ruler)’. This name is probably based on an appellative closely related to Gothic frauja ‘Lord (ruler)’ (Proto-Germanic *fraujan-, Old English frīega, Old Saxon

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frōio; alongside this jan-stem also an an-stem is postulated: Proto-Germanic *frawan-, which is presumed to appear in Old English frēa; Old Saxon frōho, frāho; Old Frisian frā; and Old High German frō).3 This name may originally have been a title or a Noa-name of the god (cf. Kock 1896; Sahlgren 1918; Wessén 1923; Green 1965: 19–55; Vikstrand 2001: 55).4 Also in other ancient religions the designation ‘Lord’ is quite common in the naming of gods, that is, Greek Adonis (see Burkert 1985: 176–77; Vikstrand 2001: 55). There are, however, also other suggestions regarding the etymology of Freyr. George van Langenhove (1939: 58–59) argues that the appellative behind the name must be an Indo-European *pr-ə2éu-y-o-, Proto-Germanic *frauja(n)-: ‘celui qui possède (apporte) la force vitale, animatrice’ (the one who possesses (brings) the vital, animating power). Most recently, Lennart Elmevik (2003a) has discussed the etymology of this name. He points out and strongly emphasizes the fact that Freyr is not inflected as a jan-stem but as an i-stem, and that this speaks against the general opinion of the origin of the name of the god in question. He suggests that this deity’s name could instead be a substantivized form of the Old Norse adjective *freyr (along with frjór, frær) (attested in Norwegian and Swedish dialects as frøy and frö, respectively) meaning ‘fertile, which is suited for cultivation or is fit for sowing’, from *fraiwia- (or *fraiwi-?), derived from Proto-Germanic *fraiwa- ‘seed’. This etymology would suit a ‘fertility god’ such as Freyr well, although the alternative ‘Lord’ is compatible with Freyr’s function as the ancestor god of royal dynasties and his relation to ruler ideology in Scandinavia. The etymology of the name is thus uncertain and in need of more linguistic research (see overviews in Sundqvist 2013b, 2014). Freyr is sometimes called Yngvifreyr, Ingvifreyr, or Ingunar-Freyr. Since these compounds appear in early poetry, it is possible to regard them as Viking Age designations for the god (Háleyg jatal st. 11; Haustlǫng st. 10; and IngunarFreyr in Lokasenna st. 43). The first two compounded names have been interpreted as ‘The Lord of the Ingvaeones (Ingvions)’ (from Proto-Germanic *Ingwia-fraujaz) by some scholars who support the traditional etymology of Freyr (e.g., Simek 2007: 379). According to Wolfgang Krause (1944: 238), the title/name Yngvi, related to Proto-Germanic *Ingwaz (Old English Ing), is the singular form of Proto-Germanic *ingwianiz (Ingvaeones). This title/name 3 

Cf. the jan-stem Gothic gudja ‘priest’, Proto-Nordic gudija ‘priest’ (in a runic inscription), and the an-stem Old Norse goði ‘priest’. These words, appearing with different stems, are derived from a word meaning ‘god’ (cf. Gothic guþ and è29) 4  de Vries (1956–57a: ii, 203–04) suggests that the original names of Freyr/Freyja were *Nerþuz/*Erþō, i.e., Njǫrðr/Jǫrð. A similar idea has been proposed by Kock (1896).

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could then be interpreted as ‘der Ingwione’ (the Ingvion) or just ‘Mann’ (man) (cf. Hellberg 2011 and 2014). Ingunar-Freyr (in Lokasenna st. 43 and Óláfs saga ins helga in sérstaka, p. 421) has been interpreted as ‘Ingun(n)’s Freyr’, where Ingun(n) has been understood as a female deity (Schück 1940; cf.  Schröder 1941a). Wessén (1924: 59) suggests ‘Ynglingens Frö’ (i.e., the king of Uppsala’s Freyr). Yet other scholars have argued for a conjecture, that is, Inguna-Freyr with a meaning ‘the Lord of the Ingvaeones’ (see overview in Wessén 1924: 59; Polomé 1995: 587; Lindow 2002a: 201). The simplex Yngvi (Old Swedish *Ingi < *Ingvi) is applied only to Freyr. According to the available sources, the god Freyr, Yngvi, or Yngvifreyr was related to the royal family of the Svear who were called the Ynglingar and are referred to in several sources.5 The name of this family is first mentioned in Íslendingabók. The members of this royal family were regarded as ‘Freyr’s offspring’ (see below). The name Ynglingar is often explained as ‘descendants of Yngvi-(Freyr)’ (so, e.g., Finnur Jónsson 1931: 633). Although many have written about the connection between Yngvi and the Ynglingar, there have been few convincing and successful attempts to paint a coherent picture (see, e.g., Wessén 1924: 56–59; Noreen 1925: 220; von Friesen 1932–34: 25; Schück 1940; Schröder 1941a; Krause 1944; de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 165–68; Baetke 1964: 106–07; Turville-Petre 1978–79: 55; Picard 1991: 184–229; McTurk 1974–77; McTurk 1994; Maier 2000).6 Yngvi may, moreover, have been a title and honour-name of individual rulers of the Svear. The earthly ruler could thus have been the ‘Ingvion’ par préférence (cf. Wessén 1924: 58–59; Hellberg 1986b: 23–24; Hellberg 2011: 37–38; Hellberg 2014). In Ynglinga saga ch. 10 and 17, Snorri writes: 5  Their genealogy appears in the poem Ynglingatal (c. 890), Ynglinga saga, Íslendingabók, and Historia Norwegie. 6  The best explanations are those of Wolfgang Krause (1944) and Lars Hellberg (2011, 2014). Hellberg states that Old Norse Yngvi (Old Swedish *Ingi), is the singular form of Ingvaeones (Proto-Germanic *ingwianiz) and refers to the king of Svear, i.e., the one who descends from the royal kin of the Svear, who were called the Ynglingar. The royal title Yngvi thus emphasized that the person who bore it was an offspring or even an incarnation of the god Ing, and at the same time he also represented the people in the cult of this particular god (Hellberg 2014: 47). According to Krause and Hellberg, Yngvifreyr is a cognomen for the god Freyr in his capacity as main god of the Svear, originally meaning something like ‘the lord of the Ingvaeones’. The Ingvaeones are in this case the Svea people. That *Ingi was used as a sort of title for the king of the Svear is supported by a number of placenames in central Sweden (Hellberg 2014 and see below).

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Freyr hét Yngvi ǫðru nafni. Yngva nafn var lengi síðan haft í hans ætt fyrir tígnar­ nafn, ok Ynglingar váru síðan kallaðir hans ættmenn […]. En Yngvi eða Ynguni var kallaðr hverr þeira ættmanna alla ævi, en Ynglingar allir saman. (Freyr was also called Yngvi; and the name of Yngvi was for a long time afterwards kept in his line as an honor-name. His race was thereafter called Ynglingar […]. Everyone in their line was always called Yngvi or Ynguni, and all of them Ynglingar.)7

In the ninth-century poem Ynglingatal, one legendary king of the Svear was called Yngvi. During the Viking Age, the Norwegian Vestfold dynasty started to call themselves Ynglingar or descendants of Yngvi, and soon the jarls of Lade were also using the same designation.8 Whether there was an actual relationship between the rulers of the Svear and the Norwegian leaders is uncertain. Norwegian rulers moreover applied the ideology of the dynasty’s divine descent from Yngvifreyr. Gradually, the denominations ynglingr and yngvi became general heiti (poetic synonym) for ‘ruler, king’ in skaldic poetry (Fidjestøl 1993). Ing and the Ingvaeones The names Yngvi or Yngvifreyr could perhaps also be related to the mythical name Ing, which appears in one verse of The Old English Rune Poem. This poem was most likely composed in the eighth or ninth century. Ing appears here as the name of the rune representing the sound ng. The verse related to it runs as follows: Ing wæs ærest gesewen secgun, ofer wæg gewat. ðus heardingas

mid Eastdenum oþ he siððan eft wæn æfter ran; ðone hæle nemdun.

(Ing was first seen by men among the East-Danes, till later he went away again over the sea, and his wagon rolled after him; that is what the man was called by those warriors.) (p. 83)

As noted above, the ‘East Danes’ or ‘the Heardingas’ could refer to either a tribe or royal family who settled in Denmark or the southern parts of Sweden. The Heardingas (= Hasdingi  = Hadding jar) have also been related to the 7 

The translations of Heimskringla are taken from Hollander, but are sometimes modified. Cf. Yngva ættar, Hákonarmál st. 1; Ynglings burr, Arinbjarnarkviða st. 3; ungr ynglingr, Haraldskvæði st. 4; allvaldr Yngva aldar, Sigurðardrápa st. 7. 8 

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tribe called Vandals.9 Whether they originated from Vendsyssel (Old Norse Vendill) in Denmark or from Vendel in Uppland, Sweden, is debated (TurvillePetre 1964: 171, 218; cf. Maier 2000). In Beowulf (ll. 1044, 1319), we find the Old English expressions eodor Ingwina ‘the Protector of the Ingwine’ and frea Ingwina ‘the Lord of the Ingwine’, which could be associated with the names Inguna(r)-Freyr or Yngvifreyr. Ingwine here is a name for Hroðgar’s Danes. Most likely the Old English name Ingwine was identical with the North Germanic Ingvaeones (Proto-Germanic *ingwianiz) mentioned in classical sources that date back to the beginning of our era. It is possible that also the assumed mythical progenitor *Ingwaz of the Ingvaeones (Ingvions) could be related to Ing (i.e., Yngvifreyr or Freyr). In his Germania ch. 2 (c. 98 ce), Tacitus writes on the mythical origin of the Germanic tribes: Celebrant carminibus antiquis, quod unum apud illos memoriae et annalium genus est, Tuistonem deum terra editum. et filium Mannum, originem gentis con­ di­toresque Manno tris filios adsignant, e quorum nominibus proximi Oceano Ingaevones, medii Herminones, ceteri Istaevones vocentur. (pp. 130–31) (Their ancient hymns — the only style of record or history they possess — celebrate a god Tuisto, a scion of the soil. To him they ascribe a son Mannus, the beginning of their race, and to Mannus three sons, its founders; from whose names the tribes nearest the Ocean are to be known as Ingaevones, the central tribes as Herminones, and the rest as Istaevones.) (pp. 130–31)

Scholars have construed the name of the first son of Mannus as Ing or *Ingwaz and have understood the Ingvaeones as living in Scandinavia (‘nearest the Ocean’), perhaps in Jylland (cf. de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 165–68; Much and others 1967: 50–55; Lindow 2002a: 200–01). It is interesting to notice the connection to the sea here. Perhaps the Old English Rune Poem indicates a movement of the cult of Ing from the sea: ‘If the Baltic is involved, one might even put Sweden on Ing’s itinerary’ (Lindow 2002a: 201).

9 

In heroic literature, the term Hadding jar (plural of Haddingi) refers to a royal family. The two Haddingjar in Gesta Danorum (5, 13,4) (duo Haddingi) may refer to the divine twins; see Dumézil (1973b). Cf. de Vries (1956–57a: ii, 166, 249), Lindow (2002a: 157), Simek (2007: 127); (è36).

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Fróði Freyr has sometimes also been related to the legendary Danish king called Fróði, who was one of the ancestors of the dynasty called the Skjǫldungar.10 In Skáldskaparmál (pp. 52–53), for instance, Snorri presents the background of Fróði and his peaceful and successful reign as part of the explanation for the kenning for gold, ‘mjǫl Fróða’ (Fróði’s flour). According to Snorri, Óðinn had a son called Skjǫldr from whom the Skjǫldungar are desended. His residence is now called Denmark. Skjǫldr had a son called Friðleifr, who ruled the territory after him, and Friðleifr’s son was Fróði. He succeeded to his father’s kingdom during the period when Emperor Augustus established peace all over the world. It was then that Christ was born. But because Fróði was the greatest of all the kings in the northern countries, the peace was attributed to him throughout all Scandinavia, and the Scandinavians call it ‘Fróða friðr’ (Peace of Fróði).11 No one harmed anyone else, even if he came upon his father’s killer or his brother’s killer, whether free or bound. At that time there were no thieves or robbers either, so that gold rings lay for a long time on Jalangrsheiðr ( Jelling heath). Snorri probably acquired his knowledge of ‘Fróða friðr’ from Grottasǫng st. 6. According to this poem, the peace was related to Fróði’s seat in Lejre (‘Hleiðrar stóll’; see st. 20). Most likely Snorri also used Skjǫldunga saga for his account on this passage. This text is only preserved in a seventeenth-century Latin paraphrase. Saxo mentions several kings called Frotho. The one most relevant in the context of Freyr is Frotho III, who appears in Gesta Danorum (5.1.1–5.16.3). He is son of Fridleif and considered a successful king of Denmark. Having defeated his enemies, he instigates an era of peace in his land. During his reign, no theft occurred in his country. When he finally passed away, his death was concealed for three years. This myth has strong links to a euhemeristic account of Freyr’s death in Uppsala, narrated in Ynglinga saga ch. 10 (see below). Because of the similarities between these narratives, we cannot rule out the possibility that Fróði was a historicized version of the god Freyr (cf. Lindow 2002a: 131). Freyr is also called inn fróði in Skírnismál st. 1–2, meaning ‘the wise one’, which also emphasizes his connection with Fróði/Frotho, the peace-creator. 10 

On the connection between Freyr and Fróði, see also Neckel (1920), Lid (1942), Ebenbauer (1976), Schier (1968), de Vries (1956–57a), Näsström (2002), Simek (2007), and Schjødt (2009b) (è 36). Whether Lytir was a name of Freyr must be regarded as uncertain. See Strömbäck (1928a), Elmevik (1966, 1990, 2003b), Vikstrand (2001), and Simek (2007). 11  This expression also appears in Vellekla st. 17, Ynglinga saga ch. 10–11, Skáldskaparmál p. 52, and Gesta Danorum 5.1.1–5.16.3.

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Myths Freyr appears quite frequently in the Old Norse mythic traditions, although most of these appearances take the form of brief comments on some details associated with the god, for instance his attributes and his residences. Some texts also inform us about his relationship to other gods, for example, to his sister Freyja and his father Njǫrðr. The most extensive individual myth about Freyr concerns his courtship of Gerðr. He also plays minor roles in the myths about Ægir’s banquet, the war between the æsir and vanir, and in the mythical account of Ragnarǫk. Finally, there are also semi-mythical and euhemeristic traditions about Freyr as a king in Uppsala. General Mythic Features Relationship to Other Mythical Beings As noted above, Freyr belongs to the divine group of gods called the vanir.12 Snorri states that Njǫrðr of Nóatún had two children: ‘Hét sonr Freyr en dóttir Freyja. Þau váru fǫgr álitum ok máttug. Freyr er hinn ágætasti af Ásum’ (Gylfaginning p. 24) (The son was called Freyr and the daughter Freyja. They were beautiful in appearance and mighty. Freyr is the most glorious among the Æsir) (p. 24). It should be mentioned that we do not know the name of Freyr’s and Freyja’s mother. Njǫrðr was for a short period married to Skaði, but it is unclear from the preserved traditions whether she was the mother of his children.13 It seems that Njǫrðr’s sister was the mother of them, since, according to Ynglinga saga ch. 4, Njǫrðr had his sister as wife while he lived with the vanir, because that was the custom among them: ‘Váru þeira bǫrn Freyr ok Freyja. En þat var bannat með Ásum at byggva svá náit at frændsemi’ (p. 13) (Their children were Freyr and Freyja. But among the Æsir it was forbidden to marry so near a kin) (p. 8). This statement is supported by Lokasenna st. 36 where Loki accuses Njǫrðr of having too close a relation to his sister: ‘munca ec því leyna lengr: | við systor þinni gaztu slícan mǫg’ (I won’t keep it secret any longer:

12 

See the debate on the background of the vanir in pre-Christian mythology in Simek (2010), Frog and Roper (2011), and Schjødt (2014). See also Gunnell (forthcoming b) (è40). 13  It is not certain that Skaði is referring to Freyr as her son in Skírnismál st. 1 when she uses the word mǫgr, which might as well refer to any young man. In stanza 2, the word sonr appears, indicating that the mǫgr [Freyr] really was Skaði’s son. However, the sources remain unclear regarding this issue. See Steinsland (1991: 50–61) and Lindow (2002a: 269).

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with your sister you got that son [Freyr]). In stanza 32 of this poem Freyja is similarly accused of having an affair with her brother Freyr: Þegi þú, Freyia! Þú ert fordæða oc meini blandin mioc, síztic at brœðr þínom stóðo blíð regin, oc mundir þú þá Freyia frata. (Hold your tongue, Freyia, you are a baleful witch and much mixed with evil — for beside your brother the blithe powers surprised you and then, Freyia, you must have farted.) (Dronke 1997: 340)

This information is not mentioned elsewhere, but since Ynglinga saga states that brother-sister sexual relations were a distinguishing characteristic of the vanir, we should not just dismiss it. Margaret Clunies Ross (1994a) has commented on these social codes and marriage rules in the Old Norse mythological traditions. She states that the male vanir gods were forbidden to have sexual relationships with beings of their own social group (including marriage between brothers and sisters) after becoming incorporated into the society of the æsir deities and settling in Ásgarðr (i.e., after the æsir-vanir war). Neither could they seek their partners among the goddesses of the æsir, since the vanir were below them in social rank and thus had no access to them. Therefore, they had to find their partners among beings of the lowest social rank, that is, the giants. This is the reason why Njǫrðr married the giantess Skaði, while Freyr took the giantess Gerðr as his wife. Mythic Residence In the eddic poems, Freyr’s splendid residence is referred to. Grímnismál st. 5 reports this about Freyr’s abode: ‘Álfheim Frey | gáfo í árdaga | tívar at tannfé’ (Álfheimr the gods gave to Freyr in bygone days as tooth-gift). According to this poem, Álfheimr ‘the world of the álfar’ is situated within Ásgarðr. It is interesting to notice that Freyr received Álfheimr as a tannfé ‘tooth-gift’ from the gods. A  ‘tooth-gift’ was given by a godparent when a child’s first tooth appeared (Simek 2007: 8). The information in Grímnismál about Freyr as an infant among the æsir is contradicted by other sources according to which Freyr only joined the æsir as a hostage by the time he was a distinguished man. Snorri states in Gylfaginning that the people called light-elves (ljósalfar) lived in Álfheimr (p. 19), and he seems to have meant that Álfheimr and the light-

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elves were located in the sky. This statement about a mythic residence in heaven may reflect a Christian impact on Snorri’s account (cf. Holtsmark 1992: 54–55). The information in Grímnismál that Freyr resides in Álfheimr intimates that he had a connection to the fertility beings called álfar (cf. de Vries 1956–57a: i, 259, ii, 196, 203; Ström 1985: 177; Schjødt 1991: 306; Holtsmark 1992: 57–58; Gunnell 2007a). These mythical beings were worshipped by means of sacrifices at a so-called álfablót ‘sacrifice to the álfar’, which was celebrated during the fall. It is possible that this fertility cult was in some sense related to Freyr, too. The description of Álfheimr indicates also that it was a splendid residence suitable for a prominent god. In Lokasenna st. 43, Byggvir exclaims: ‘Veiztu, ef ec øðli ættac | sem Inguna-Freyr, | oc svá sællict setr’ (You know, if I had a hereditary estate (or a lineage) as Inguna-Freyr and such residence (or an honourable seat)).14 Thus, Álfheimr appears to be the home of an aristocratic leader. Attributes: The Ship Mythic traditions ascribe certain attributes to Freyr, and these may be associated with fertility, military power, and leadership. Grímnismál st. 43, for instance, mentions that the sons of Ívaldi (i.e., the dwarfs) made Skíðblaðnir for Freyr and that it is the best of ships. Snorri adds to this stanza in Gylfaginning by saying that it was used for carrying weapons and war-gear: Hann er svá mikill at allir Æsir megu skipa hann með vápnum ok herbúnaði, ok hefir hann byr þegar er segl er dregit, hvert er fara skal. En þá er eigi skal fara með hann á sæ þá er hann gǫrr af svá mǫrgum hlutum ok með svá mikilli list at hann má vefja saman sem dúk ok hafa í pungi sínum. (p. 36) (It [Skíðblaðnir] is big enough for all Æsir to be able to go aboard it with weapons and war gear, and it gets a fair wind as soon as the sail is hoisted, wherever it is required to go. And when it is not to be taken to sea, then it is made of so many parts and with such great art that it can be folded up like a cloth and put in one’s pocket.) (p. 37)15

Scholars have speculated whether the ship was used as a ritual object in the fertility cult of Freyr (e.g., Rosén 1919; Almgren 1934; de Vries 1956–57a: 14 

My interpretation, based on Larrington’s translation. On the interpretation of Old Norse øðli, see Motz (1996a: 15). 15  In Skáldskaparmál p. 42, Snorri states that this was one of six wondrous objects made by the dwarfs for the gods. In Ynglinga saga ch. 7, Snorri contradicts himself and states that Skíðblaðnir belonged to Óðinn.

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ii, 177–78; Turville-Petre 1964: 173; Ström 1985: 176–77; Kobyliński 1995; critically considered by Simek 1977 and 2007: 289). The name Skíðblaðnir means ‘assembled from thin planks of wood’. It has been argued that this meaning goes well with a symbolic ‘cult ship’, which was built only for cultic festivities and not for actual sailing (e.g., Almgren 1934; critically considered by de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 177–78 and Simek 2007: 289). The ship Skíðblaðnir has been related to fertility cults among Germanic tribes mentioned by Tacitus (see Much and others 1967: 179–81; Näsström 1995: 37–38; Näsström 2002: 137). One of these cults concerned the mother goddess Isis, who was worshipped among the Suebi (Germania ch. 9). During the sacrifices to her, the cultic image took the shape of a Liburian galley, which, according to Tacitus, shows that the ritual was imported. Tacitus probably regarded Isis as an Egyptian goddess, but the Isis cult had nonetheless spread into Roman territory as a late antique sacred mystery during the first centuries ce. It has been suggested that Isis, when appearing close to the Limes, was sometimes identified with Nehalennia, a Germanic matrona and fertility goddess (critically considered by Neumann 2002). Nehalennia’s altar was decorated with an image of the goddess with her right foot resting on the stem of a ship and her hand on a rudder. She also carried a basket of fruits. Nehalennia’s name (*Nehalenna) has been interpreted as ‘the friendly giver’, a meaning that has been linked to Freyja’s by-name Gefn ‘the giver’ (see de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 315–16; critically considered by Neumann 2002). The ship Skíðblaðnir as an attribute of Freyr could thus be associated to a fertility cult. But it could probably also be a military symbol, since Snorri states that weapons and war-gear were taken aboard on it. Freyr’s Animals In the mythic accounts, Freyr is often related to different animals (e.g., Rosén 1913; Motz 1996a: 17–19; Steinsland 2005a: 152–54). According to Snorri, Freyr had a boar called Gullinborsti (also written Gullinbursti, Gullinbyrsti), meaning ‘the one with the golden bristles’ (Gylfaginning p. 47 and Skáldskaparmál p. 18) (see also è 44). He writes: ‘at hann mátti renna lopt ok lǫg nótt ok dag meira en hverr hestr, ok aldri varð svá myrkt af nótt eða í myrkheimum at eigi væri œrit ljóst þar er hann fór, svá lýsti af burstinni’ (Skáldskaparmál p. 42) (that it could run across sky and sea by night and day faster than any horse, and it never got so dark from night or in worlds of darkness that it was not bright enough wherever it went, there was so much light shed from its bristles) (p. 97). Most likely the name of the boar was invented by

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Snorri based on some lines appearing in Úlfr Uggason’s Húsdrápa st. 7 (c. 985). It is quite clear that Snorri was familiar with these, since they are quoted in his Edda (Skáldskaparmál p. 19): Ríðr á bǫrg til borgar bǫðfróðr sonar Óðins Freyr ok fólkum stýrir fyrst inum golli byrsta. (Battle-skilled Freyr rides first to the funeral pyre of the son of Óðinn [= Baldr] on the boar bristled with gold and leads the troops.) (p. 417)

In Skáldskaparmál (p. 19), Snorri informs us that Gullinborsti also appears under the name Sliðrugtanni ‘the one with the dangerous sharp tusks’ (see also Gylfaginning p.  47). Even if Snorri invented these names, Úlfr’s stanza and other sources support that Freyr had a particular relation to the boar.16 Sources reveal that boars and pigs were used as cultic animals. Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks, for example, mentiones that King Heiðrekr’s large boar was used when making promises and oaths. According to some manu­scripts of this saga (redaction H and U), it is mentioned that Heiðrekr worshipped Freyr (Freyja in U) and sacrificed a boar to the god during the annual feast in February, in order to procure growth (‘gefa Frey til árbotar’). The king claimed that this boar was so holy that it could advise on all matters. On Yule Eve, the boar must be led to the king so that men could put their hands on his bristles and make promises (p. 78). Archaeological finds indicate that pigs were important victims at sacrifices in aristocratic contexts, for instance, at Uppsala, but also at the magnate farm of Lunda where the phallic figurines, possibly to be identified as Freyr, from the Migration Period have been found (Frölund 2007; Zachrisson 2013; Skyllberg 2008: 34; Nordberg and Sundqvist 2008: 20). Pigs also appeared in the bone materials from a Viking Age sacred tree/grove close to a Hovsettlement on Frösön ‘Freyr’s island’ in Jämtland (Magnell and Iregren 2010). Boars, as symbols or emblems, have thus been associated with fertility (see, e.g., de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 190–91) but also with warriors, power, and kingship. When Freyr rides the boar in Húsdrápa, he is called ‘battle-skilled’ and he who ‘governs hosts’. A warrior-helmet could, moreover, be described as a ‘boar of battle’ (Old Norse hildigǫltr, hildisvín, valgǫltr), while the noble warrior 16 

See Turville-Petre (1964: 166); critically considered by Beck (1965) and Simek (2007: 122). Hyndluljóð st. 7 indicates that Gullinborsti was not only Freyr’s boar but also belonged to his sister Freyja.

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or prince could be designated jǫfurr ‘boar’ (Beck 1965; Motz 1996a: 17–18; North 2015: 164–65). According to Snorri, King Aðils of the Svear had a ring called Svíagríss ‘the Svea-piglet’ (Skáldskaparmál p. 59). It was an heirloom of the royal dynasty called the Ynglingar. This indicates that boars were also related to rulership. Furthermore, Freyr is associated with stallions and horses. In the nafnaþulur of Skáldskaparmál, the slayer of Beli (‘Belja dólgr’, i.e., Freyr) is said to ride the horse called ‘Blóðughófi’ (Bloody-hoof ) (p. 89). According to Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar in Flateyjarbók (i, 400–05), King Óláfr Tryggvason set out to desecrate the hof-sanctuary of Freyr in Þrándheimr. When King Óláfr landed near the hof, he saw a stud of horses and was told that they belonged to Freyr. The king mounted a sacred stallion as an insult to the god, while his men took the mares. They rode in triumph to the hof where Óláfr derisively seized the idol of Freyr. The Icelandic chieftain Hrafnkell had, according to Hrafnkels saga Freysgoða ch. 3, a horse called Freyfaxi (this name appears also in Vatnsdœla saga ch. 34).17 He treasured this horse above all things and gave half of it to Freyr, his friend. The connection between Freyr and a stallion (reduced to a horsepenis) might be present in Vǫlsa þáttr (see below). Horses were generally used as victims in sacrifices to different gods (including Freyr) (e.g., Adam af Bremen 4.26–27 and Hákonar saga góða ch. 14–18; cf.  Näsström 1997: 89). Bones from both pigs and horses, interpreted as remains of sacrificial meals, have been found at the Viking Age cultic house of Borg, Östergötland. In connection with excavations of this house, also amulet rings with sickles were discovered, perhaps reflecting a fertility cult to Freyr (cf.  Nielsen 2006). Even if horses and boars may have been regarded as symbols of fertility and welfare, they were also important emblems for aristocratic warriors and kings. As noted above, the same could be said about other attributes of Freyr, such as the ship.

17 

Whether the compounded name Freyfaxi includes Freyr as first element is uncertain. See Elmevik (2003a).

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Individual myths a) Entry into the Group of Æsir In Snorri’s euhemerized account in Ynglinga saga ch. 4, Freyr joined the divine group called æsir as a result of the war between the æsir and the vanir.18 When a settlement was reached, the æsir and vanir exchanged hostages: Fengu Vanir sína ina ágæztu menn, Njǫrð inn auðga ok son hans, Frey, en Æsir þar í mót þann, er Hœnir hét, ok kǫlluðu hann allvel til hǫfðingja fallinn. Hann var mikill maðr ok inn vænsti. Með honum sendu Æsir þann, er Mímir hét, inn vitrasti maðr, en Vanir fengu þar í mót þann, er spakastr var í þeira flokki. Sá hét Kvásir. (p. 12) (The Vanir gave their most outstanding men, Njǫrðr the Wealthy and his son Freyr; but the Æsir, in their turn, furnished one whose name was Hœnir, declaring him to be well fitted to be a chieftain. He was a large man and exceedingly handsome. Together with him the Æsir sent one called Mímir, a very wise man; and the Vanir in return sent the one who was the cleverest among them. His name was Kvasir.) (p. 8)

Freyr clearly played an important role in this exchange of hostages (è40). b) The Courtship of Gerðr The most elaborated mythic account of Freyr refers to his courtship of and marriage to Gerðr. This appears in the eddic poem Skírnismál but is also paraphrased in much shorter form in Gylfaginning (pp. 30–32) and alluded to in Ynglinga saga ch. 11, Hyndluljóð st. 30, and Lokasenna st. 42. In the prose introduction to Skírnismál it is said that Freyr had seated himself in Hliðskjálf and looked into Jǫtunheimar where he saw a beautiful girl. From that sight, he caught great sickness of heart. The plot is then played out in different scenes (von See and others 1997: 56). The first scene (st. 1–2) takes place in the servant Skírnir’s quarters with Skaði sending him off to find out why Freyr is so upset. The next scene (st. 3–9) is a dialogue between Skírnir and Freyr which takes place inside a hall. Freyr explains to Skírnir his sorrow of heart and asks him to woo Gerðr. He then gives his horse and sword to Skírnir and sends him away to Jǫtunheimar. In the following long scene (st. 17–39), Skírnir arrives, enters Gerðr’s hall, and starts his blandishments, but she refuses to receive the golden apples and the ring Draupnir. Skírnir now turns to physical threats, then curses, and states that he will tame her to his desires with his taming-wand. 18 

The myth about the æsir-vanir war is also attested in Vǫluspá st. 21–24, Skáldskaparmál p. 3, and by Saxo (1.7.1–1.7.3), (è40).

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Finally, he resorts to runic magic (st. 36): ‘Þurs ríst ec þér oc þría stafi’ (‘Giant’ I carve on you and three runes). With this, Gerðr accepts and states in st. 39: Barri heitir, er við bæði vitom, lundr lognfara; enn ept nætr nío þar mun Niarðar syni Gerðr unna gamans. (Barri is the name, as we both know, of a wind-calm grove; and after nine nights, there to Niord’s son Gerðr will give love’s pleasure.) (p. 63)

Skírnir returns home and tells the news to Freyr in the last scene (st. 40–42). When reproducing this mythical account in Gylfaginning (pp. 30–32), Snorri cites only the final stanza but adds a number of details and moral aspects to the episode (cf. von See and others 1997: 48–49). For example, he calls Hliðskiálf ‘helga sæti’ (holy seat) and states that it was intended for Óðinn only. According to Snorri, Freyr was punished for seating himself in it. Snorri also adds information on Freyr’s sword, which was given to Skírnir when travelling to Gymir’s farmstead: ‘Þessi sǫk er til er Freyr var svá vápnlauss er hann barðisk við Belja ok drap hann með hjartar horni’ (p. 31) (This is the reason for Freyr so being unarmed when he fought Beli, killing him with a stag’s antler) (p. 32). Snorri moreover connects this episode to Ragnarǫk and Freyr’s final fight with Surt: ‘Verða mun þat er Frey mun þykkja verr við koma er hann missir sverðsins þá er Muspells synir fara ok herja’ (pp. 31–32) (‘There will come a time when Freyr will find being without the sword a greater disadvantage when Muspell’s sons come and wage war) (p. 32).19 Snorri, who probably knew Skírnismál well, also added other details to the narrative. In Ynglinga saga ch. 10, he states, for instance, that Freyr and his wife Gerðr had a son called Fjǫlnir. This information does not appear elsewhere.20 It has been argued that some gold foil figures depicting a couple, dating back to the Vendel Period, may reflect the marriage scene of Freyr and Gerðr,21 but also other proposals have been made.22 These foils display a recurrent motif, 19 

This information is also mentioned in Lokasenna st. 42. The eddic poem Hyndluljóð st. 30 informs us, however, that Gerðr, Gymir’s daughter, was married to Freyr. 21  See, e.g., Olsen (1909), Lidén (1969), Steinsland (1991), and Lamm (2004). Critically considered by, e.g., Ratke and Simek (2006) and Watt (2007, 2019). Cf. Simek (2002, 2003, and 2014). See, however, also Sundqvist (2019a, 2019b). 22  Nils Lid (1942: 102–03), for instance, believes that the foils reflected the relationship 20 

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often interpreted as a man and a woman who are turned to­ward each other and are very welldressed. The man is usually bareheaded and the woman is sometimes wearing a mask. In many cases, they are hugging and perhaps kissing each other. The man is commonly standing to the left while the female is to the right. The overall motif is stereotyped, but there are variations in the details, such as poses, gestures, hairstyle, clothing, or attributes, such as jewellery or symbols. In several cases, these foils appear at buildings that have been interpreted as halls or cultic houses, for instance at Mære in Trøndelag, Norway, and at Helgö in Uppland, Sweden. Sometimes they appear in connection with locations where the high-seats are thought to have been placed. Many scholars have discussed Figure 43.1. Gold foil depicting an embracing the myth about Freyr, Skírnir, couple, from Helgö, Uppland (SHM 25075: and Gerðr as it appears in dif110379). The image has been interpreted as a ferent sources. As early as 1909, depiction of Freyr and Gerðr. Photo: Gunnel Jansson, Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm.  Magnus Olsen interpreted it from a nature-mythological perspective and suggested that it had a cultic context. He argued that Freyr was a god of sunshine and fertility. According to him, Skírnir (actually *Skíringr) was a hypostasis of Freyr, that is, just another form of the vanir god. The name Skírnir had the meaning ‘the shining one, the bright’ and was related to the adjective skírr ‘shining’. Skírnir was thus a manifestation of the sun, that is, an aspect of between Freyr and Freyja. Ing-Marie Back Danielsson (1999) has emphasized the cosmological and shamanistic aspects (related to Old Norse seiðr) of these foils. Ratke and Simek (2006) see these foils in a legal-ritual context and play down the mythical interpretation. For an overview of different interpretations, see Lamm (2004: 44–50).

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Freyr. At Skíringssalr in Vestfold, for instance, Freyr was worshipped under the name *Skíringr. Olsen argued that the name Gerðr was related to garðr ‘gjærde’ (field). She was thus a divine personification of the cultivated field: ‘akerns guddommelige repræsentant’ (the field’s divine representative). Freyr and Gerðr, furthermore, met at Barri. This name was derived from the dative form of the noun barr ‘korn’ (barley), that is, ‘i kornet’ (in the barley). Freyr/Skírnir thus sent down the sun-rays from heaven to retrieve Gerðr from the underworld. The tryst between them took place ‘at Barri’ (i.e., ‘in the seed’): ‘I kornet skal altsaa Frøi og Gerd møtes’ (In the seed shall thus Freyr and Gerðr meet). Olsen also argued that the myth in Skírnismál reflected a ritual act or drama, representing a holy wedding (hieros gamos) between the god of sunshine, Freyr, and his bride, the fertility and earth goddess Gerðr. This ritual was celebrated during the spring when the powers of life must defeat winter and death. A parallel to this ritual was found in Tacitus’s Germania ch. 40 and the account of the Nerthus cult. In order to support this cultic interpretation of the myth, Olsen focused on the sixteen Vendel Period gold foils, depicting a couple, found at Klepp, Rogaland, in 1897. According to him, the mythical marriage between Freyr and Gerðr was represented on them. These foils had been sacrificial objects in a fertility cult. For most of the twentieth century, Olsen’s hieros-gamos-interpretation of the myth held sway (e.g., Phillpotts 1920; Dronke 1962; Turville-Petre 1964: 174–75). Today, many scholars have, however, questioned the etymologies required to support this interpretation (e.g., Sahlgren 1927–28: 211–86; Sahlgren 1928; Sahlgren 1962; Steinsland 1991: 32–33; Motz 1996a: 20; Lindow 2002a: 122). Old Norse garðr, for instance, should not be interpreted as a ‘field’ but ‘fenced off area’. According to Skírnismál, Barri was actually the name of a lundr ‘grove’ and not of a field of barley. It has also been argued that the poem Skírnismál is young and has a literary character (e.g., von See and others 1997: 64–65; Sävborg 2006). Some have pointed out that Gerðr ought not to be seen as a goddess, and Freyr was neither a sky god nor the uppermost deity of the pantheon (cf. Sahlgren 1927–28, 1928, 1962). The interpretation of the foils with two figures as reflecting the mythical sceene with Freyr and Gerðr has also been contested (see above). Gro Steinsland (1991) maintains Magnus Olsen’s hieros gamos-interpretation in her detailed analysis of Skírnismál, although she downplayed the fertility aspect. Instead, she relates the poem to ruler ideology and the theory of sacral kingship. According to Steinsland, Gerðr’s identity as a giantess was important. The peculiar marriage between a god and a giantess was not only seen in Skírnismál but also in Viking Age skaldic poetry such as Háleyg jatal

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and Ynglingatal (actually Ynglinga saga). The product of this odd marriage was a human son who represented the prototypical ruler. In Háleyg jatal, the corresponding mythic couple was Óðinn and the giantess Skaði, whose son, Sæmingr, was the ancestor of the jarls of Lade. In Ynglinga saga, Freyr and Gerðr had a son called Fjǫlnir, who was the first king of the Ynglinga dynasty. The peculiar marriage (hieros gamos) seen in these texts was important for the Scandinavian ruler ideology in general. According to Steinsland, the motif on the gold foils also reflected this odd marriage. When these foils were deposited near the high seat of the ceremonial building in Mære, for instance, the intention was to emphasize the status of the building and the family who controlled this house. The function of them was to support the ruling power by means of the hieros gamos-myth. Some scholars have supported Steinsland’s interpretation of the myth in Skírnismál (e.g., Herschend 1996, 2018; Munch 2003; Wickström 2004), while others have been more sceptical (e.g., La Farge 1994; Hultgård 1994; Clunies Ross 1994a, 2014; Motz 1996b; Lönnroth 1997; Krag 2001; Sundqvist 2002; Frank 2007; Cöllen 2011). A new and different line of interpretation related to Skírnismál was introduced by Lars Lönnroth in 1977. He interpreted the myth in the poem from a sociological and structural perspective, suggesting that it attempted to mediate between binary contradictions, such as societal norms on marriage and individual erotic passions. The generation of Freyr’s parents represents the social norm, while he himself represents the individual passion (munr). Also Stephen A. Mitchell (1983) uses a structural model when interpreting Skírnismál. Like Lönnroth, he, too, feels that the myth tried to mediate between contradictions within society, especially different social groups who apparently were in conflict. The key to interpreting the myth is in stanza 19 and Skírnir’s gambit: ‘… frið at kaupa’. The messenger is sent to resolve conflicts between opposing groups, æsir-vanir and the giants, by means of a marriage. Clunies Ross (1994a) has interpreted Skírnismál through a structural model also applicable in a wider context of mythical texts. In these texts, the æsir gods (including the vanir deities) have an ongoing struggle with the giants. In this struggle, the gods nearly always succeed in obtaining valuables, including females, from the world of the giants. The flow of wealth is always in one direction. When the vanir are incorporated into the society of Ásgarðr subsequent to the war, incest relations were forbidden among them. Njǫrðr and Freyr had both been married to their sisters prior to the war and must now find new partners. Since they were hierarchically placed below the æsir, they could not marry ásynjur. They had to turn to the giantess. This is the reason why Freyr in Skírnismál marries the giantess Gerðr, after she has been persuaded through the use of all kinds of threats and curses.

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Lotte Motz (1996a) has argued that the plot in Skírnismál should be linked to anologies in Old Norse literature. The god’s journey to the world of giants, for example, frequently occurs as a motif in the mythic texts. Some precious item is always won, by guile or force, through this undertaking.23 On a human level, we have a parallel to Freyr’s experience when the young nobleman wins his bride in a distant and hostile place. Still today, many scholars argue that the fundamental theme in Skírnismál concerns sexual-erotic aspects, love-magic (including curses), or a hieros gamos between Freyr and his partner (e.g., Harris 1975; Ström 1985; Näsström 2002; and Mitchell 2007, 2011). Thus, Freyr’s fertility aspect is often emphasized. But there are also references to war and rulership in this poem which should not be ignored. Freyr’s sword, for instance, plays a special role in the poem, and in stanza 3 the god is called ‘fólcvaldi goða’ (the war-leader of the gods 24). According to the introduction, Freyr is also sitting in the high seat Hliðskjálf, which is obviously a symbol of power and sovereignty. (It is only in Snorri’s moral interpretation of the myth that he is punished for this.) It has been argued that Freyr’s apples (‘epli ellifo’, st. 19), his ring (‘baugr’, st. 21), and staff (‘tamsvǫndr’ and ‘gambanteinn’, st. 26 and 32) should be seen as royal attributes or regalia (Steinsland 1991: 130–68).25 Perhaps the motif of winning a bride in a distant region and from a hostile family should moreover be associated with royal contexts (see Motz 1996a: 20–21). That Freyr has a personal servant must also be considered an indication of aristocracy.26

23 

Two examples are presented; first, the tale of Óðinn gaining the mead of wisdom and inspiration from Suttungr and his daughter Gunnlǫð (Hávamál st. 104–10 and Skáldskaparmál pp. 3–5); and second, the narrative of Þórr obtaining the cauldron from the giant Hymir in which the gods brew their festive drinks (Hymiskviða and Gylfaginning pp. 44–45). 24  However, ‘fólcvaldi’ could also be translated as ‘the leader of the people’. 25  Mitchell (2007, 2011) relates the tamsvǫndr ‘taming rod’ and gambanteinn ‘magic wand or rod’ to ‘love magic’ which apparently seems to be present in the poem. Skírnir also uses runes with the same purpose. Cf.  Harris (1975). On staffs, see Price (2002), Heide (2006a, 2006b), Tolley (2009a), and Gardeła (2016). 26  We must not forget, however, that the poem Skírnismál, which contains the myth about Freyr and Gerðr, is usually regarded as relatively young, and it has a medi­eval literary character (e.g., von See and others 1997: 64–65; Sävborg 2006). This does not, however, necessarily imply that the core of the narrative might not be based on old mythic traditions.

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c) Loki’s Insults at Ægir’s Banquet There is a myth in Lokasenna about Loki’s insults at Ægir’s banquet (è 44), which also concerns Freyr, his servants Byggvir and Beyla, and the other vanir deities. For instance, Loki accuses the vanir deities of incest. In stanza 32, he reveals that Freyr and Freyja have been in bed together, and in stanza 36 he says that Njǫrðr had Freyr with his sister. In stanza 37 Týr speaks up in Freyr’s defence: Freyr er beztr allra ballriða ása gǫrðom í; mey hann né grœtir né mannz kono, oc leysir ór hǫptom hvern.

(Freyr is the best of all the bold riders in the courts of the Æsir; he makes no girl cry nor any man’s wife, and looses each man from captivity.) (p. 87)

A quarrel starts among Loki, Týr, and Freyr, which concerns events that will take place at Ragnarǫk. Loki attacks Freyr again, in stanza 42, for abandoning his sword in order to obtain Gerðr. Freyr’s servant Byggvir then defends his master by stating in stanza 43: Veiztu, ef ec øðli ættac sem Inguna-Freyr, oc svá sællict setr, mergi smæra mølða ec þá meinkráco oc lemða alla í liðo. (You know, if I had the lineage of Freyr, and such a blessed dwelling, smaller than marrow I’d have ground that hateful crow and mangled all his limbs into pieces.) (p. 88)

Most of the information about Freyr in Lokasenna is known from other sources, such as the incest between him and his sister. However, the mention of his servants, the couple Byggvir and Beyla, is found only here. They are mentioned in the prose introduction and in stanzas 44, 46, and 56. The etymology of Beyla’s name has been related to a word for ‘cow’, ‘bean’, or ‘little bee’, while Byggvir’s name is commonly related to the term bygg ‘barley’ (cf. Dumézil 1973c: 89–117; Polomé 1995: 592; von See and others 1997: 476, 492; Lindow 2002a: 78, 90–91, 124; Simek 2007: 36, 50). These names could thus in some sense link to their master, the fertility god Freyr, ‘he who

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makes no girl cry’. Some other aspects of Freyr in Lokasenna are not evident from other eddic poems, such as the information that the god will miss his sword when encountering Surtr at Ragnarǫk. His desire for love, mentioned in Skírnismál, has caused this situation. This motif is suitable for a fertility god. Other references also in the poem relate Freyr to aristocracy and power, for instance, the fact that he has two personal servants. Byggvir also praises Freyr for his splendid estate (or lineage) and his honourable seat. In Lokasenna st. 35, moreover, Freyr is called ‘ása jaðarr’ (lord of the æsir) and in stanza 37 he is described as the ‘beztr allra ballriða’ (best of bold riders). d) Ragnarǫk Freyr also plays a minor role in the eschatological Ragnarǫk myth (see Vǫluspá and in Gylfaginning pp. 49–55; è39). The final battle starts with Heimdallr blowing his horn, warning the gods of approaching events. Surtr leads the sons of Muspell, that is, the giants, into battle against the gods. Stanza 53 of Vǫluspá tells how the bright slayer of Beli (i.e., Freyr) will fight against Surtr. Snorri also comments on Freyr’s battle with Surtr in Gylfaginning: Freyr bersk móti Surti ok verðr harðr samgangr áðr Freyr fellr. Þat verðr hans bani er hann missir þess hins góða sverðs er hann gaf Skírni. (p. 50) (Freyr will fight Surtr and there will be a harsh conflict before Freyr falls. The cause of his death will be that he will be without the good sword that he gave Skírnir. (p. 54)

As noted above, also Lokasenna st. 42 indicates that Freyr was without his sword at Ragnarǫk, because he gave it to Skírnir to obtain Gerðr. His erotic eagerness to win his bride thus had cosmic consequences and played an important part at Ragnarǫk when the world was destroyed. It also played an active role for Freyr’s individual fate, since it led to his death. These facts emphasize Freyr’s role as a fertility god. In Vǫluspá st. 53, Freyr is also described as a great and brave warrior, since he fights the chieftain of the giants, Surtr. In this stanza, he is called ‘Belja bani’ (killer of [the giant] Beli). It should be noted that Freyr carries similar designations in several sources, for instance, ‘Belja dólgr’ (enemy of Beli) (Háleyg jatal st. 3), ‘bǫðfróðr Freyr’ (battle-skilled Freyr) (Húsdrápa st. 7), ‘máttugr’ (powerful) (Gylfaginning p. 24), ballriði (bold rider) (Lokasenna st. 37), ‘ ǫflugr atriði’ (the mighty attacking-rider) (Þorgrímsþula I),27 ‘folcvaldi goða’ (the 27 

Elena Gurevich treats atriði as a proper name, stating that this ‘Atriði’ is possibly either

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army-leader of the gods) (Skírnismál st. 3), ‘hǫfðingi’ (chieftain) (Gylfaginning p. 31), and ‘ása jaðarr’ (lord of the Æsir) (Lokasenna st. 35) (cf. Motz 1996a: 22).28 In some texts, Freyr is described as ‘veraldargoð’ (the god of the world).29 This name may indicate a connection to the earthly ruler as ‘the lord of the world’.30 The epithets of Freyr evoke an image of the god as a powerful military leader, perhaps some kind of warrior-lord, that is, someone able to create peace (friðr) and protect the order of society and cosmos from the chaotic powers, such as Surtr. e) Freyr as King of the Svear in Uppsala Some prose texts report another version of Freyr’s death. Ynglinga­ saga ch. 10, for instance, relates that Freyr, ‘the king of Svear’, erected a great hof-building at Uppsala and made his chief residence there. The Svear sent tributes to Uppsala, and Freyr also received lands and cattle. This was the origin of Uppsala auðr (the crown-land of the Svea kings), which has been kept up ever since. The Fróða friðr ‘peace of Fróði’ originated in Freyr’s days there and there were good crops in all lands at that time. The Svear attributed that to their king, Freyr. Snorri mentions this: Freyr tók sótt, en er at honum leið sóttin, leituðu menn sér ráðs ok létu fá menn til hans koma, en bjoggu haug mikinn ok létu dyrr á ok þrjá glugga. En er Freyr var dauðr, báru þeir hann leyniliga í hauginn, ok sǫgðu Svíum, at hann lifði, ok varðveittu hann þar þrjá vetr. En skatt ǫllum helltu þeir í hauginn, í einn glugg gullinu, en í annan silfrinu, í hinn þriðja eirpenningum. Þá hélzk ár ok friðr. (p. 24)

Freyr (via Kálfsvísa), ‘Reið bani Belja [Freyr] | Blóðughófa’ (Kálfsvísa, pp. 663–65) or Óðinn who in the nafnaþula of Grímnismál is called Atríðr (see also Óðins nǫfn st. 1). See Þorgríms­ þula I (p. 674). 28  There are also skaldic kennings for warriors that include the name Freyr, such as ‘vígFreyr’ (Óláfsdrápa sœnska st. 5) (‘battle-Freyr’, p. 339), ‘él-Freyr’ (Rekstefja st. 6) (‘storm-Freyr’, p. 903), ‘as-Freyr’ (lausavísa, Hofgarða-Refr Gestsson) (‘battle-Freyr’; cf. Finnur Jónsson 1931: 113), ‘nadd-Freyr’ (Poem about a woman st. 4) (‘spear-Freyr’, p. 328), ‘skjaldar Freyr’ (Árónsdrápa st. 2) (shield-Freyr) and ‘sverða Freyr’ (Íslendingadrápa st. 10) (sword-Freyr). 29  Ynglinga saga ch. 10 and Flateyjarbók (i, 403); see also Føroya kvæði, in Drobin (1991), where the name Veraldur appears in a context which might refer to Freyr ; cf. Drobin and Keinänen (2001). 30  Cf. Näsström (2002: 87). The name is related to the Sámi deity called Veralden olmai ‘the man of the world’ and Veralden rad (Radien, Maylmen radien) ‘the ruler’ or ‘the ruler of the world’; Bäckman (1991); Drobin and Keinänen (2001: 136).

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(Freyr took sick; and when the sickness gained on him, his followers hit upon the plan to let few men see him, and they threw up a great burial mound with a door and three windows. And when Freyr was dead they carried him secretly into the mound and told the Svear that he was still alive, and kept him there for three years. But all the tribute they poured into the mound — gold by one window, silver by another, and copper coin by the third. Thus good seasons and peace endured.) (p. 14)

Freyr appears to have received treasures in his mound at Uppsala after he was dead and in order to maintain ‘peace and prosperity’. This information from Ynglinga saga was repeated and elaborated in other Old Norse texts, for instance, Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar in Flateyjarbók (i, 400–05). In this text, it says that Freyr was regarded as a great king in Svetjud. When he died this caused his people great sorrow. They put him into a mound together with gold, silver, and copper coins, thinking that he was still alive and thus able to give them ár ok friðr. Because no living person wanted to join Freyr in the mound, they made two wooden statues of Freyr and placed one inside the mound. The other was sent to Trondheim, and this statue became the starting point for the local cult of Freyr there. These traditions are usually regarded as fictional and late stories about the Freyr cult in Uppsala (see, e.g., Lindqvist 1936: 112, 248–49). They seem to be impaired by euhemeristic interpretations of the pre-Christian gods where the deities are styled as human beings (Weber 1994; critically considered by Schjødt 2009b). In addition, there is a conflicting tradition about Freyr’s death in the eddic poetry, mentioning that Freyr was killed by Surtr at Ragnarǫk. The motif that Freyr’s death was kept secret for three years appears also in Saxo Grammaticus’s Gesta Danorum (5.16.3). In Saxo’s text, this motif is related to the Danish king Frotho III, who is sometimes interpreted as identical with Freyr (see above). During his reign, the so-called ‘Peace of Frotho’ was established, which included a long period of good crops that rendered the farmers prosperous. The peace was maintained as long as nobody removed a golden ring lying on the heath at the royal hall. When Frotho died, he was carried around in a vehicle for three years, as though he were still alive and in order to keep his death secret. As long as people thought that he was alive, they continued to pay tributes to him for maintaining the peace. Thus, this narrative resembles the traditions about Freyr’s death. Whether this motif is based on an ancient Scandinavian tradition is somewhat uncertain, because there are similar stories in the classical literature. Herodotus (4.94–96) reports about a deity of the Getae people (Thracian Dacians) called Zalmoxis. He was a god of death who went into hiding for three

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years in the underworld while the people mourned his death. However, in the fourth year he appeared again for the Getae and taught them about the immortality of the soul. It has been argued that the Zalmoxis-myth may have influenced the Scandinavian tradition about Freyr’s death (e.g., de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 182–86). However, the Greek and Scandinavian traditions do not resemble each other in terms of the details (cf. Schier 1968; Eliade 1972; Polomé 1995; Schjødt 2009b). In Ynglinga saga, Freyr does not return as a resurrected god to his people after three years as Zalmoxis does. Therefore, these traditions are not necessarily related. Even if the accounts about Freyr’s death at Uppsala and his burial in a mound have the character of euhemeristic fictions, they may reflect faint memories of sacrifices to a dead, deified ancestor, or heroic king, which were performed at his mound in Uppsala. The memories of this heroic king were meanwhile mixed up with traditions about Freyr, the specific sacrificial god of the Svear (blótgoð svía). This god/king was related to an extended period of peace and prosperity (cf. Schjødt 2009b; Sundqvist 2015, 2016: 466–69). The mythic traditions clearly indicate that Freyr was an important fertility god. But in addition to this, he may also be seen as a warrior-lord who defends cosmos from chaotic powers and creates peace.

Cult The cult of Freyr existed in all parts of Scandinavia. Certain ritual objects as well as specific ritual actions played a part in this cult, such as processions in a cart and sacrifices with recitations of a certain formula. There were also specific religious leaders of the Freyr cult. This cult, moreover, had a connection to judicial aspects. Evidence indicates that Freyr was also more than a fertility god when it comes to cultic activities. The Geo­graphic Distribution of the Freyr Cult Some designations for Freyr, blótgoð svía (the sacrificial god of the Svear) and Svía goð (the god of the Svear), indicate that he was an important god among the Svear living in the Lake Mälaren districs (see Ǫgmundar þáttr dytts and Viðbætir við Óláfs Sǫgu hins helga; Flateyjarbók, iii, 246). Narratives in other sagas point in the same direction. The protagonist of Hallfreðar saga (ch. 5), for instance, promised to sacrifice to Þórr and Óðinn if his ship drifted from Norway to Iceland, but to Freyr if it reached Svetjud: ‘ok skyldi gefa Frey fé mikit ef þeim gæfi til Svíþjóðar’. The fantastic story in Ǫgmundar þáttr dytts about the idol of

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Figure 43.2. Theophoric placenames based on the name Freyr in Scandinavia. Map based on Brink 2007b. Disir Productions, Uppsala. 

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Freyr and Gunnarr helmingr takes place in Svetjud (see below). As we have seen above, the Norse texts often relate Freyr or Yngvifreyr to the royal dynasty of the Svear, called the Ynglingar (see also below). Also medi­eval Latin texts indicate that Freyr was important among the Svear. In Adam of Bremen’s account (4.26), Fricco (i.e., Freyr) was one of the three idols in the Uppsala temple. It should be noted that Adam of Bremen did not perceive Freyr as the foremost god of this temple. Þórr is holding the throne (solium) there (on Adam of Bremen, see below). Other Latin sources report, however, that Freyr was the chief god among the Svear. Saxo, for instance, regards Frø (i.e., Freyr) as the Svea-peoples’ special cult god. He tells us that the great men of the Svear were regarded as the sons of Frø: ‘At Sueonum fortissimi hi fuere: Ari, Haki […]. Qui quidem Frø dei necessarii erant et fidissimi numinum arbitri’ (8.3.11) (The most valiant of the Svear were Ari, Haki […]. Indeed, they were kinsmen31 of the divine Frø and faithful confederates of the gods). He also calls Frø rex Suetie ‘the king of Svetjud’ (9.4.1) and deorum satrapa ‘the chieftain (or perhaps “viceroy”) of the gods’ (who took up residence not far from Uppsala) (3.2.13). Placenames including the element/name Frös- likewise indicate that Freyr was an important god in Svetjud. When looking at the placenames, one might anticipate a special attachment to Uppsala, the old centre of power and cult in the Svear realm. Names containing Frös- are, however, nearly totally absent from the area around Uppsala.32 Instead, the names have a clearly western distribution in Sweden, mainly appearing in the provinces of Västmanland, Södermanland and western Uppland (see Fig 43.2). 33 Archaeological evidence yields a similar impression. In this area, possible images of Freyr have 31 

Latin necessarius means ‘friend’ as well as ‘kinsman’. See Lewis and Short (1879). Wessén (1923) argued that the cult of Freyr replaced the cult of Ullr at Uppsala. Therefore, only few placenames with Freyr appear there. This is critically considered by Vikstrand (2001: 57–59; 2002b: 126). 33  Lars Hellberg (2013, 2014) has proposed that there is a group of placenames in the Mälaren region (Sweden), Ingeby (four places), Ingespjuta, and Ingeberga, which may be associated with the name Yngvi (cf.  Andersson 2009, 2012). These placenames have as the first element Old Swedish Inge < *ingi. According to him, this element is derived from a designation *ingvi (linguistically speaking, the eastern Scandinavian equivalent of the Old Norse personal name Yngvi), which was regarded as the Svea-ruler’s honorific (tígnarnafn) (cf. Ynglinga saga ch. 10 and 17; see above). A placename such as Ingeby in Södermanland should thus be interpreted as ‘the hamlet belonging to the Svea king’ (Hellberg 2011, 2013, 2014). Perhaps the boundary mark called Ingefreds sten on Öland should be mentioned in this context. It is attested on old cadastral maps from the seventeenth century and according to Hellberg this mark was called *Ingifrøys stæin(n) (Old Swedish *Ingifrøs sten) in ancient times (Hellberg 1986b). 32 

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been found, such as the Rällinge statutte considered (critically by Price 2006), the three phallic figures of Lunda and the gold foils of Eskilstuna. Gold foils depicting a couple, perhaps representing Freyr and Gerðr, have also been found at Helgö and at Ultuna, south of Uppsala. These foils may, however, reflect a human couple, as well as other mythical couples (cf. Simek 2014: 76; Watt 2019; cf. Sundqvist 2019a, 2019b). There are clear indications of a Freyr cult also in Norway, especially in Trøndelag. Skaldic poems indicate, for instance, that the jarls of Lade claimed to be descendents of Freyr/Yngvifreyr (see below). When Snorri describes the cultic feasts (blótveizlur) at the hof-sanctuary at Lade, he intimates that several gods were worshipped there, including Freyr (Hákonar saga góða ch. 14). In some instances, it is mentioned that cultic images of Freyr were placed in the hof-sanctuaries of Trøndelag (Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar (Flateyjarbók, i, 401); Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar eptir Odd munk Snorrason ch. 39). Placenames indicate that Freyr was worshipped also in other parts of Norway, such as Frøshof in Trøgstad, Østfold (see Olsen 1915; Olsen 1942; Sandnes 1992: 259; and Brink 2007b). Archaeology, too, may indicate that Freyr was worshipped in Norway, for instance the gold foils depicting a couple discovered under the church of Mære and in connection with a cultic house from the Viking Age (Lidén 1969, 1999: 47).34 The worship of Freyr also appeared in Iceland. The Sagas of Icelanders report that some magnates in Iceland had a close relation to Freyr. Hrafnkels saga Freysgoða ch. 2 mentions that the chieftain Hrafnkell had Freyr as his ‘vinr’ (friend), while Þorkell hár from Þverá, Eyjafjǫrðr, made a prayer to Freyr in a ‘hof Freys’ (Freyr’s sanctuary) at Hripkelsstaðir (Víga-Glúms saga ch. 9). Gísla saga Súrssonar ch. 15 narrates that Þorgrímr Þorsteinsson arranged a great feast with sacrifices to Freyr. According to the young Fljótsdæla saga ch. 26, images were erected in the hof-building belonging to Bersi inn spaki. In the ‘lesser high-seat’, Freyr and Þórr were seated. There are placenames including the name Freys- (genitive) in Iceland, which supports the fact that Freyr really was worshipped there. We have a Freysnes in the southern part and a Freyshólar and a Freysnes in the east (Svavar Sigmundsson 1992). 34 

Five similar foils were also found in the fourteen-metre-long hall of the large Late Iron Age hall-building at Borg in Vestervågøy (Munch 2003). Gold foils that may be related to Freyr have also been found in southern Norway: at the farm Hauge, Klepp, in Rogaland, sixteen foils were discovered and some too were found at Hov in Vingrom, Lillehammer (Lidén 1999: 43). See, however, the objections against the interpretation that Freyr occurs on these foils (e.g., Simek 2014: 76; cf. Sundqvist 2019, and forthcoming).

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As mentioned above, the traditions about the divinity called Ing or *Ingwaz may indicate that Freyr was worshipped in Denmark as early as the first century ce. It seems that Freyr was also worshipped there later, perhaps under the name of Fróði (see above). There are a few placenames that include the name Frøs(-genitive), which may point in this direction, such as Frøsherred ( Jylland) and some uncertain names, for example, the two Frøslev in Jylland, Frøslev (Sjælland), and Fröslöv (Skåne) (Kousgård Sørensen 1992; cf. Brink 2007b). Richard North (1997) has argued that Ing or Ingui was, moreover, worshipped in Anglo-Saxon England. North’s theories, however, are not fully supported by the preserved source materials.35 Whether a cult of Freyr ever existed outside Scandinavia remains uncertain.36 Cultic Objects and Processions Phallus Cult and Cultic Images The sources report that Freyr was related to specific cultic objects and actions. The phallus seems to have played a certain role in the worship of him, especially when making images or symbols of the god.37 As noticed above, Adam of Bremen reports that the statue of Fricco (i.e., Freyr) in the temple of Uppsala was adorned with a mighty phallus. In Book 4.26 he writes thus: In hoc templo, quod totum ex auro paratum est, statuas trium deorum veneratur populus, ita ut potentissimus eorum Thor in medio solium habeat triclinio; hinc et inde locum possident Wodan et Fricco. […] Tercius est Fricco, pacem volup­ tatemque largiens mortalibus. Cuius etiam simulacrum fingunt cum ingenti priapo. (In this temple, entirely decked out in gold, the people worship the statues of three gods, in such wise that the mightiest of them, Thor, occupies a throne in the middle 35  The argument that Nerthus was a male, for instance, is not convincing. Tacitus clearly states that Nerthus was ‘Mother Earth’ (‘in commune Nerthum, id est Terram matrem, colunt […]’). There is, furthermore, nothing in The Old English Rune Poem which indicates that Ing appeared in Britain. Cf. de Vries (1956–57a: ii, 167) and Shippey (2000). 36  De Vries (1956–57a: ii, 165–68) and Å.V. Ström (1975: 89–91) discuss the cult of a counterpart to Freyr outside Scandinavia, e.g., the element Frō that is visible in placenames in the Netherlands, Phol in the Merserburger Charm, and Saxnōte in an Old Saxon text. Wessén (1924: 69), however, holds that: ‘Frö och Fröja, äro rent nordiska gudar’ (Freyr and Freyja are purely Scandinavian deities). 37  On the phallus cult in Germanic area generally, see Hultgård (2003b). He refers there also to phallus images from the Bronze Age and Early Iron Age, such as in rock carvings. I will not treat these materials here.

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of the hall. Wodan and Fricco have places on either side. […] The third is Fricco, who bestows peace and pleasure on mortals. His likeness, too, they fashion with an immense phallus.)

Archaeological finds indicate that Adam’s information about the image of Freyr is reliable. The small anthropomorphic Viking Age statuette from Rällinge, for instance, is decorated with an erected penis. The figure is 7 cm tall and made of bronze. The man is sitting in a lotus position, holding his right hand on his beard or chin. The left hand is resting on his left knee. He is naked but carries a helmet or hat on his head. He has a ring on his right arm and perhaps also one on his (broken) left arm. Since the phallic shape resembles Adam’s description of Freyr in the ‘temple’, it has been proposed that the small statue from Rällinge was shaped as a miniature of the big Freyr statue located in Uppsala (Lamm 1985: 111; Näsström 2002; Näsström 2001: 201; critically reviewed by Price 2006). It should be noted, however, that statues of Freyr were probably placed at other sanctuaries as well, for instance, the ‘idol of Freyr’ at Skara; when Bishop Egino visited this place, he smashed it to pieces (Adam of Bremen 4.9). Icelandic prose likewise reports on the existence of small Freyr miniatures, comparable to the statuette from Rällinge. According to Landnámabók (S179), Ingimundr inn gamli had an image of Freyr made of silver. He lost this object (hlutr), but when he came to Vatnsdalr in Iceland he found it when he started digging holes for the high-seat pillars of his hof (cf. Vatnsdœla saga ch. 10–15). Phallic statuettes have been discovered elsewhere in Södermanland. At the ruler residence of Lunda three small figures were recently discovered. Two of them were found in connection with a small house to the north of the Migration Period hall (Andersson and others 2004; Skyllberg 2008). This small building has been interpreted as a specifically cultic house. The third figure was located in the yard to the south of the hall. These figures are small, c. 2–3 cm tall. Despite the variation in appearance, the three figures were probably intended to represent one and the same god, since they all display the same characteristic features and attributes. For instance, all three are phallic, and their ‘gestures’ seem to be identical. The downturned arms with palms placed on the stomach and exposed frontwards may be an expression of dignity and respect (Watt 2007: 141). Also the fact that they are gilded suggests that they represent the same god, even if they were perhaps made by different craftsmen during different periods. These figures should first and foremost be interpreted as Freyr, even if other suggestions are possible (see Andersson and others 2004). The most characteristic feature of them is their phallic nature. Since we have the important information in Adam’s text about Fricco’s phallic image in Uppsala, it seems most plausible to interpret them as representations of Freyr. Other sources indicate that the

43 – Freyr

1225 Figure 43.3. Bronze statuette from Rällinge in Södermanland, interpreted as an image of Freyr (SHM 14232:109037). Photo: Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm. 

Freyr cult spread into the area around Lunda during the Late Iron Age. Many placenames there, for instance, have Frös- as the first element (Vikstrand 2001: 55–71). It has been argued that the three figures from Lunda were actually miniatures of big cultic sculptures, shaped as posts and associated with the high seat of the hall (Andersson and others 2004). There are several other cultic objects, which may reflect a phallic cult related to the god Freyr. So-called ‘white stones’ (Norwegian ‘hellige, hvite stener’) appear in southern and western Norway : for instance, in Rogaland they appear quite frequently, especially at aristocratic farms, such as Tu in Klepp, Jæren. They are usually dated to the period 400–600 ce38 and are considered ‘phallic symbols’ (see, e.g., Solberg 2001). Many of them were either moved or destroyed during the Conversion Period (see Hultgård 2003b). These symbols have sometimes been related to the cult of Freyr or that of his father Njǫrðr (cf. Steinsland 2005a: 150). That a phallic cult related to Freyr existed in Viking Age Norway is perhaps also attested by the short narrative called Vǫlsa þáttr, preserved in Flateyjarbók (ii, 331–35), which takes place at the beginning of the eleventh century. It tells of certain rites performed at a farm in northern Norway in connection with the autumn slaughter (è 31). These rites centred on the penis of the slaughtered stallion, called Vǫlsi. The housewife had ritually preserved it with onions and herbs and then wrapped it in linen cloth and put it into a chest. By means of 38 

See, e.g., Solberg (2001). Bjørn Myhre (2006) argues that they were also in use during the Viking Period.

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this treatment, the strength of the penis grew so that ‘it could stand great and strong for the house-wife if she wished that’. She honoured Vǫlsi as though it were her god (guð sinn). Every evening when everyone gathered inside the main house of the farm (j stofu), she brought the penis to the highseat, where her husband was sitting. She placed it on his lap and recited a stanza: Aukinn ertu, Vǫlsi, ok upp um tekinn líni gæddr en laukum studdr. Þiggi Maurnir [Mǫrnir] þetta blæti! En þú, bóndi sjálfr, ber þú at þér Vǫlsa! (You are enlarged, Vǫlsi, and lifted up, provided with linen and supported by leeks. May Maurnir [Mǫrnir] receive this offering! But you, the farmer himself, you take Vǫlsi to yourself !) (p. 1095)

After this, the Vǫlsi was passed from person to person, and everyone who received it uttered a verse, often obscene and always accompanied by the puzzling refrain: ‘þiggi Mǫrnir | þetta blæti’. When King Óláfr came to the farm, he threw Vǫlsi on the floor to the dog and eventually succeeded in converting the people living there. The credibility of this text has been discussed.39 The narrative is put into a frame that concerns St Óláfr and his efforts to Christianize the Norwegians. The description of the old religion may thus deliberately have been rendered bizarre. But there are some elements in the story that seem to be very ancient. For instance, the powerful (magical-religious) words ‘linen’ and ‘onion’ (linalaukaz) are carved on a bone-knife found in a female grave discovered at Fløksand, Norway, and dated to the late Roman Iron Age. This inscription has been associated with the ritual treatment of the horse penis carried out by the the housewife in Vǫlsa þáttr.40 There are thus probably traces of genuine old folklore and rites in this story, which survived until the Con­version Period (Hultgård 2003b). 39 

On Vǫlsa þáttr and its source value, see, e.g., Ström (1954), Turville-Petre (1964), Steinsland and Vogt (1981), Mundal (2001), Näsström (2001), Tolley (2009b), and Kaplan (2011) (è31). 40  See, e.g., Heizmann (1995). The use of a horse penis in a ritual context may also appear in a lausavísa attributed to Magnús inn góði Óláfsson (‘gerði eigi sá garð of hestreðr’). The terms tjǫsnur and tjǫsnublót in Kormáks saga st. 10 may likewise refer to a horse phallus and horse-phallus sacrifice. See Hultgård (2003b).

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E. O. G. Turville-Petre (1964: 258) suggests that V ǫ lsi and M ǫ rnir [Maurnir] (also called vingull and beytill) are one and the same: namely, the emblem of Freyr. The phallus was, however, not only the emblem but also the embodiment of the god. V ǫ lsi-M ǫ rnir was, according to Turville-Petre, both the sacrificial victim and the recipient of the sacrifice. He relates this idea of sacrifice to Hávamál st. 138 and the words of Óðinn: ‘geiri undaðr oc gefinn Óðni, siálfr siálfom mér’ (wounded with a spear and given myself to myself ). Since M ǫ rnir in other poetic contexts refers to a ‘sword’, that is, a natural phallic symbol and perhaps a representation of Freyr, this interpretation is plausible. It should be noted, however, that Mǫrnir could Figure 43.4. Phallic bronze statuette with formally be the female plural form gilded head from Lunda in Södermanland, of Mǫrn and that the name could interpreted as a depiction of Freyr (SHM refer to the partner(s) of Freyr: 34914:363607). Photo: Gabriel Hildebrand, namely, the fertility goddess(es) or Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm.  the giantess(es) (cf.  Ström 1954, 1985; Steinsland and Vogt 1981; Steinsland 2005a). This interpretation would also make sense of the phrase: ‘þiggi Mǫrnir | þetta blæti’. The ritual in Vǫlsa þáttr could then symbolize a hieros gamos, where Vǫlsi represented Freyr and Mǫrnir his female (sexual) partners (è25, è31). The cultic actions related to the phallic objects must have concerned fertility. Perhaps the phallus could also be regarded as a symbolic sword and related to manhood and war. It is possible that the phallic Rällinge-statuette, for instance, has a conical helmet on his head.41 This statuette could then be seen as 41 

Such conical helmets are known from the so-called ‘Sigtuna-warrior’ (a ‘free sculpture’ from c. 1000 ce) and the riding warriors depicted on the Bayeux-tapestry (c. 1100 ce).

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a divine and noble warrior-lord (i.e., Freyr). It should be noted that the ‘phallic representations’ of Uppsala and Lunda have been found at aristocratic farms. Also the ‘white stone’ at Tu was related to an aristocratic context. Ingimundr inn gamli’s image of Freyr was found in connection with the high-seat posts of his hof-building, although it is not mentioned whether it was phallic or not. Thus, Freyr and the cultic (phallus-) objects representing him could be seen as symbols reflecting fertility (possibly also war). The Chariot and the Cultic Procession Icelandic prose also reports that the statue of Freyr was transported in a chariot during a cultic procession.42 In Ǫgmundar þáttr dytts, it is said that Gunnarr helmingr fled from the court of Óláfr Tryggvason and Christianity in Norway to Svetjud, where he met a pagan female cult leader, called ‘kona Freys’ (Freyr’s wife). Freyr himself appeared as a statue. This statue was so full of magic that the devil spoke directly to people from it: ‘at fjándinn mælti við menn ór skurðgoðinu’. People believed that the statue was alive and that it must have sex with Freyr’s wife. Freyr’s wife ruled over the statue and the place, called hofstaðr, that is, the sanctuary. Gunnarr took refuge there, although the god did not like him. When he had stayed there for three nights, the woman said to Gunnarr that he must remain with them for the winter and attend banquets with them, since the god must improve the crops for the people: ‘gera mǫnnum um árbót’. When the time came for the festivals, Freyr and his wife must sit in a cart, and their servant (Gunnarr) was supposed to walk ahead of them. After a long journey, a storm broke out, and Gunnarr was so tired that he had to sit down in the cart. Since Freyr did not like this, the animated idol attacked Gunnarr. During a hard struggle where Gunnarr became very exhausted, he promised to turn to the right faith and King Óláfr if he could get help to defeat the statue. The devil, who inhabited the statue, then escaped, and only an empty block of wood was left. Gunnarr cut it into pieces and returned to the chariot. He put on the statue’s outfit and met the delighted people in the villages as ‘Freyr’ where he was eating and drinking with them. Soon, his ‘wife’ was visibly pregnant. The Svear spoke about Freyr’s ability to secure good weather and crops for them. The news about the Svea god’s power (‘hversu blótguð Svía er máttigr’) reached King Óláfr, who invited the couple to Norway. As soon as they arrived at his court, both were baptized. 42 

On cultic processions in the Germanic area, see de Vries (1956–57a: i, 473–74), Hultgård (2001), Nygaard and Murphy (2017), Sundqvist (2018a, 2018b); Lindow (2019); Schjødt 2019b) (è25).

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Beside the obvious Christian topoi in the story about Gunnarr, such as the talk about the devil (fjándi) and the conversion motif, there could also be some genuine features which may be rooted in old traditions. As part of the cult of Freyr, a wooden image of the god may have travelled ceremonially in a circulating procession by chariot in order to promote crops (cf. Nygaard and Murphy 2017; Sundqvist 2018a, 2018b). As we have seen, other texts report that divine beings were ceremonially carried in a cart during some kind of processions. In The Old English Runic Poem, the divine being called Ing is associated with a charriot, which followed him (‘wæn æfter ran’). As seen above, this being could be related to Freyr or Yngvifreyr. Whether the medi­e val processions in the fields outside Uppsala involving the relics and banner of St Erik was related to the pre-Christian Freyr cult is, however, very uncertain (cf. Lid 1942; de Vries 1956–57a: i, 473–74; Hultgård 1992, 2001; Sundqvist 2002: 354–56). Ǫgmundar þáttr dytts may nonetheless include elements of an old fertility cult where the image of Freyr was carried in a ceremonial procession and placed in a chariot. Since ‘Freyr’s wife’ becomes pregnant, this ritual could be associated with a hieros gamos. In a ritual context, this sacred marriage could have been dramatized by a male and a female cultic leader, representing the deities. Certain burlesque features are, however, included in this story (cf. Näsström 2002: 91–92). They could perhaps be related to the negative view Icelanders had of the Svear in general (cf. Foote 1993). Sacrifices The medi­eval Norse and Latin texts report that fertility sacrifices were made to Freyr in Svetjud. According to Ǫgmundar þáttr dytts, sacrifices to the gods were performed in Svetjud, and for a long period Freyr was venerated above all other gods: ‘ok hafði Freyr þar verit mest blótaðr lengi’ (p. 112). He was therefore called ‘blótguð Svía’. In this text, the Svear expected ‘árbót’ (improvement of the crops) in return for these sacrifices.43 Adam of Bremen states: Omnibus itaque diis suis attributos habent sacerdotes, qui sacrificia populi offerant. Si pestis et fames imminet, Thor ydolo lybatur, si bellum, Wodani si nuptiae cele­ brandae sunt, Fricconi [Freyr]’. (4.27)

43 

A similar type of sacrificial cult involving Freyr is also mentioned in Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks. Redactions H and U report that Heiðrekr sacrificed a boar to Freyr during the annual feast in February in order to procure growth (gefa Frey til árbotar).

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(For all their gods there are appointed priests to offer sacrifices for the people. If plague and famine threaten, a libation is poured to the idol Thor; if war, to Wodan; if marriages are to be celebrated, to Fricco [Freyr].)

The incantations (‘neniae’) that are said to be manifold and unseemly (‘inhonestae’) (4.27) should probably also be considered part of the cult of Freyr. According to Adam’s descriptions, it seems that sacrifices to Freyr in Uppsala were related to peace, pleasure, sexuality, and fertility. A similar picture of Frø (Freyr) is painted by Saxo. According to him, Hadingus (Haddingr) established an annual festival in Svetjud, which the Svear called Frø’s sacrifice (‘Frøblod Sueones uocant’, 1.8.12).44 When Starcatherus (Starkaðr) visited Uppsala, he spent seven years on a leisurely visit with the sons of Frø, after which he departed to join Haco (Haki), the jarl of Denmark, since, living at Uppsala during the period of sacrifices, he had become disgusted with the womanly body movements, the clatter of actors on the stage, and the soft tinkling of bells: ‘Vbi cum filiis Frø septennio feriatus ab his tandem ad Haconem Danie tyrannum se contulit, quod apud Vpsalam sacrificiorum tempore constitutus effoeminatos corporum motus scenicosque mimorum plausus ac mollia nolarum crepitacula fastidiret’ (6.5.10). Starcatherus, who was a warrior of Othinus (Óðinn), thus disapproved of the feminized rituals surrounding the fertility cult of Frø in Svetjud (è36, 42). Sacrifices to Freyr in Iceland are occasionally mentioned in the Sagas of Icelanders. According to Gísla saga Súrssonar ch. 15, the chieftain (goði) Þorgrímr Þorsteinsson arranged a feast in his drinking hall at Sæból, Haukadalr, in order to celebrate the coming of the winter-nights (‘at vetrnóttum’). During this feast, he sacrificed to Freyr (‘blóta Frey’). Other Norse texts indicate that such winter-night sacrifices were carried out in order to ensure good seasons (‘til árs’).45 Víga-Glúms saga ch. 9 states that an ox was sacrificed to the vanir god at Freyr’s sanctuary (‘hof Freys’) at Hripkelsstaðir, close to Þverá in Eyjafjǫrðr, northern Iceland. According to Chapter 7, a cornfield, called Vitazg jafi (the certain giver), lay beneath this sanctuary. This field was the best on the farm, since it was never infertile: ‘því at hann varð aldregi ófrær’. According to Anne Holtsmark (1933: 126), Vitazg jafi is Freyr himself. When Víga-Glúmr commits a murder on this field, Freyr’s wrath erupts. 44 

According to Saxo, Frø was a Swedish king (‘rex Suetie Frø’, Gesta Danorum 9.4.1). What Saxo (1.8.12) meant by ‘furuis hostiis’ (dark-coloured victims) in the sacrificial cult of Frø is uncertain; see Polomé (1995: 592). 45  According to Ynglinga saga ch. 8, a sacrifice was to be made at the beginning of winter to ensure a good season (‘skyldi blóta í móti vetri til árs …’).

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According to Haraldskvæði (c. 900), King Haraldr of Norway was drinking Yule (‘jól drekka’) outdoors while he was performing the ‘sport of Freyr’ (‘Freys leikr’), often interpreted as ‘battle’. It has been argued that leikr should rather be interpreted as ‘sacrifice’ (cf. Old English lāc ‘sacrifice’), which was made to Freyr during the Yule celebrations (on the discussion of this kenning, see Sundqvist 2002: 190–91). One of the most extensive descriptions of sacrifices to Freyr performed in Viking Age Trøndelag appears in Hákonar saga góða ch. 13–18 (critically reviewed by Düwel 1985) (è31). When drinking the toasts to the gods, ritual formulae were uttered: ‘skyldi fyrst Óðins full — skyldi þat drekka til sigrs ok ríkis konungi sínum — en síðan Njarðar full ok Freys full til árs ok friðar’ (p. 168) (Óðinn’s toast was to be drunk first — that was for victory and power to the king — then Njǫrðr’s and Freyr’s, for good harvest and peace) (p. 107). Ritual Formulae Including the ár ok friðr-notion It seems that Snorri believed that the expression ár ok friðr, and notions related to it, were specifically linked to Freyr and his father Njǫrðr. In the euhemerized introduction of Ynglinga saga ch. 2–11, for instance, Snorri narrates that Óðinn was ‘sigrsæll’. He brought the gods to Svetjud where they settled. The saga further says that the Svear worshipped Njǫrðr after Óðinn died. In his days, peace prevailed and there were such good crops (‘var friðr allgóðr ok alls konar ár’) that the Svear believed Njǫrðr had power over the harvest and the prosperity of mankind (‘réði fyrir ári ok fyrir fésælu manna’). Freyr took over the reign after Njǫrðr in Svetjud. He, too, was beloved and blessed by good seasons (‘var vinsæll ok ársæll’), just like his father. After his death, prosperity and peace (‘ár ok friðr’) remained for a while. Freyr’s son Fjǫlnir, who was the first king in the line of Ynglingar, was regarded as ‘ársæll ok friðsæll’ by the Svear. When Snorri describes Freyr in Gylfaginning he writes: Freyr er hinn ágætasti af Ásum. Hann ræðr fyrir regni ok skini sólar ok þar með ávexti jarðar, ok á hann er gott at heita til árs ok friðar. (p. 24) (Freyr is the most glorious god of the Æsir. He is the ruler of rain and sunshine and thus of the produce of the earth, and it is good to pray to him for prosperity and peace. (p. 24)

In past decades, the ritual formulae including the collocation ár ok friðr (prosperity and peace) have received much attention in research. For a long period, they were regarded as genuine pre-Christian formulae. Vilhelm Grønbech

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(1997), for example, argues that they belonged to the ritual expressions recited during pre-Christian ceremonial meals, while Elias Wessén suggests that they were particularily related to the cult of Freyr (Wessén 1924: 177–83; see also Ström 1954: 19; Ström 1976; de Vries 1956–57a: i, 202–04, 425, ii, 185). Recently, however, several scholars have argued that they have no pre-Christian background. Wolfgang Lange (1958: 119), for instance, states that ‘friðr ist zwar ein altes Wort, aber die ältesten Belege für die Formel stehen ausnahmslos erst in der christlichen Dichtung’ (friðr is, indeed, an old word; however, the oldest evidence for the formula is without exception only in the Christian poetry). Klaus Düwel (1985: 61–69) is also sceptical of the pre-Christian origin of this expression. Klaus von See (1988: 84–87) regards ár ok friðr as Christian: ‘Sehr wahrscheinlich stammt sie [ár ok friðr] aus der christlichen Missionssprache’ (Very likely it [ár ok friðr] comes from the Christian mission language). Anders Hultgård (1993, 2003a, 2007a) has considered whether the expression is rooted in medi­e val Christian literature (such as the Roman and the Eastern Churches’ early liturgies, homilectics, and hagio­g raphical writings) and has concluded that there are no prototypes for this formula in medi­e val Christian literature: ‘Es läßt sich also feststellen, daß die Formeln mit ár ok friðr Vorstellungen ausdrücken, die kongenial mit der alt-skandinavischen Religion sind’ (So it can be established that the formulae containing the ár ok friðr collocation express notions that are congenial with the old Scandinavian religion) (Hultgård 1993: 251). Hultgård, who suggests that the medi­e val Church adopted these expressions from pre-Christian religion, has gained support from other scholars (e.g., Grønvik 1996: 169; Dillmann 1997: 58–58). In a more recently published essay, Hultgård (2003a: 304–06) has also found similarities between Old Norse ár and cultic expressions in ancient Iranian traditions (for instance, Avestan yāiriia- in, e.g., Yasht 8), indicating that these formulae might belong to an Indo-European heritage. Hultgård’s arguments are well founded. The cultic formula til árs ok friðar is probably pre-Christian. It appears in a clearly pagan cultic context in, for example, Hákonar saga góða where Freyr also is involved, and perhaps in connection with the description of Fricco (Freyr) in Adam’s text, pax et voluptas (see above). Moreover, this formula (or parts of it) appears in many other sources in the context of pre-Christian rulers and sacrifices, for example, the inscription from Stentoften (see below). This formula refers to fertility but also to peace in society and cosmos. The latter aspect was perhaps created by military means and strong leadership (further on this formula, see è25).

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Cultic Leadership and Judicial Matters Freysgoðar and gyðjur Some goðar (è29) seem to have had a certain relation to the god Freyr. Land­ námabók (H 276), for instance, mentions a chieftain called Þórðr Freysgoði Ǫzurarson. His descendants were called the Freysgyðlingar. In the region of his home, there is a place called Freysnes ‘Freyr’s Headland’. Hrafnkels saga Freysgoða ch. 2 describes the relation between the goði Hrafnkell and Freyr, his friend (vinr): ‘Hrafnkell elskaði eigi annat goð meir en Frey’ (p. 99) (Hrafnkell loved no other god more than Freyr) (p. 439). He shared all his best possessions with Freyr. One of them was his stallion Freyfaxi. Hrafnkell had such affection for this horse that he had sworn an oath to kill anyone who rode the stallion against his will. Þorkell inn hávi from Þverá prayed to Freyr in Víga-Glúms saga ch. 9: ‘“Freyr”, sagði hann, “er lengi hefir fulltrúi minn verit ok margar gjafar at mér þegit ok vel launat […]’” (p. 34) (‘Freyr’, he said, ‘who for a long time has been my confidant and received many gifts from me and has well rewarded them […]’). It has been argued that the linguistic usage in these texts was based on biblical expressions and that the saga authors had the Christian relationship between man and God as a model.46 It has also been suggested that, for instance, the concept of fulltrúi ‘confidant, true or completely trustworthy friend’, which sometimes expresses an individual devotion to a pagan deity in Old Norse prose, is based on Christian ideas (e.g., Zernack 1998). Other scholars have felt that even if these terms were first applied to pre-Christian conditions by authors of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, it is likely that memories of personal devotion to the old deities were passed on by oral tradition into later centuries (Hultgård 2008: 213). The Sagas of Icelanders also report on female counterparts of goðar, referred to as gyðjur (gyðja singular) or hofgyðjur. Vápnfirðinga saga, for instance, describes the ‘hofgyðja’ Steinvǫr. She was in charge of a major hof-building at the farm called Hof in Vápnfjǫrðr, eastern Iceland. Þorlaugr gyðja Hrólfsdóttir was, according to Landnámabók (S41, H29), related to the hof-sanctuary at Reykjardal in south-western Iceland, while Þuriðr hofgyðja Véþórmsdóttir and her brother Þórðr Freysgoði Ǫzurarson were associated with sanctuaries situated in Bakkárholt (Landnámabók H276). Magnus Olsen (1926: 247–55) has argued that the gyðjur appeared exclusively in the fertility cult that was addressed to Freyr and that they there were regarded as the deity’s spouse (‘ektefelle’). The 46 

See, e.g., Maier (2003b: 36). He refers to, e.g., Exodus 33.11 and John 11.11.

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evidence, however, is rather weak and can, in all likelihood, neither deny nor corroborate this. But perhaps we can at least relate Þuriðr hofgyðja to Freyr, since she was the sister of Þórðr Freysgoði, whose family was called Freysgyðlingar. In Ǫgmundar þáttr dytts we also find a ‘priestess’ called ‘Freyr’s wife’. Judicial Aspects and Oaths According to the law known as Úlfljótslǫg, Freyr is related to judicial matters through an oath formula that was sworn on a ritual ring (baugr) in the hof-sanctuaries protected by goðar: ‘ek vinn eið at baugi, lǫgeið; hjálpi mér svá Freyr ok Njǫrðr ok hinn almáttki áss’ (see, e.g., Landnámabók, H 268) (I swear an oath upon the ring, a lawful one, so help me Freyr and Njǫrðr and the All-powerful God) (on the discussion of this formula, see è 29).  That Freyr and Njǫrðr were associated with judicial aspects may also be attested in another way. Egils saga ch. 56 reports that King Eiríkr (and Queen Gunnhildr) violated the holy assembly of Gula in Norway by letting Eiríkr’s retinues attack the court and cut the holy bonds (vébǫnd). In a lausavísa (28) Egill subsequently curses the tyrant and desecrator (‘þanns vé grandar’) by invoking Freyr and Njǫrðr and telling them to drive the king off his land. It seems, thus, as if Freyr and Njǫrðr played the role of judicial gods who took revenge on those who broke the law. Freyr and his father were protectors of order and peace (friðr) in society.

Significance in Terms of Ruler Ideology As noted above, several aspects indicate that Freyr was related to kings and chieftains. Especially, he played an important role for the Swedish-Norwegian royal dynasty called the Ynglingar. The Divine Ancestor of Royal Dynasties Several sources report that Freyr (Yngvi or Yngvifreyr) was regarded as the divine ancestor of the Ynglingar. The oldest traditions about the Ynglingar appear in the skaldic poem Ynglingatal. It has been preserved in Snorri Sturluson’s prose text Ynglinga saga (c. 1230) According to Snorri, it was composed by Þjódólfr ór Hvini, who was Haraldr inn hárfagri’s skald sometime towards the end of the ninth century.47 Ynglingatal is a genealogical poem and 47 

This date was challenged by Krag in 1991. According to him, medi­e val Christian values and ideas are present in the poem, indicating an anachronism. This theory has not been accepted in the wider research; see, e.g., Fidjestøl (1994), Dillmann (2000), Sundqvist (2002,

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recounts the reigns of twenty-nine rulers. It was composed in honour of King Rǫgnvaldr, a minor ruler in Vestfold, Norway, son of Óláfr Geirstaðaálfr and a relative of King Haraldr. The name Ynglingar is not attested in the poem itself; indeed, it does not occur until Ari inn fróði’s list of this family (‘langfeðgar Ynglinga’) in Íslendingabók, dated to c. 1130. A genealogical account of these kings also appears in Historia Norwegie (c. 1160–75) (è23). The royal list in Ynglingatal begins with the ‘earthly rulers’, including Fjǫlnir, Sveigðir, Vanlandi, Vísburr, and so forth. This is a bit peculiar, since the medi­ eval versions of the ‘Ynglinga genealogy’ trace the family to a divine origin (Sundqvist 2002: 156–57; Sundqvist 2016). In Ynglinga saga, for instance, the list begins with Njǫrðr — Yngvifreyr — Fjǫlnir — Sveigðir, while Íslendingabók has Yngvi Tyrkjakonungr — Njǫrðr Svíakonungr — Freyr — Fjǫlnir — Sveigðir. Scholars have found it difficult to understand why Ynglingatal does not include these divine generations (i.e., Njǫrðr and (Yngvi-)Freyr). Some have thought that Ynglingatal as we know it is incomplete. They have suggested that it has lost some introductory stanzas, which might have carried information about the relation of the ‘Ynglinga kings’ to the gods (e.g., Ström 1954: 34–35, but critically considered by Baetke 1964: 89–103). Others believe that the poem was preserved in oral tradition in the form we know it today, but was accompanied by some explanatory re­marks, Begleits­prosa, before it was written down in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries (Beyschlag 1950). Still others think that the poem retains its original shape and that there were, in fact, no preChristian traditions connecting the ‘Ynglinga kings’ to the gods. According to Walter Baetke, the divine descent of the Ynglingar was pure medi­eval speculation and cannot be supported by Ynglingatal: it can only be observed in the medi­e val versions of the genealogy. Ari and Snorri were elabo­rating on preChristian traditions about Scandinavian royal families, creating the fictions that these fami­lies were of divine descent in an imitation of medi­eval Fran­kish and Anglo-Saxon genealogies (Baetke 1964: 69–170). Baetke’s stance may, however, be questioned. It is not necessary to turn to medi­e val sources in order to find the mythical descent of the Ynglingar: it appears quite clearly in Ynglingatal. In the stanza about Alrekr and Eiríkr, for example, the whole family is called ‘Freys afspringr’ (Freyr’s offspring ), while Egill is ‘týs ǫ́ttungr’ (descendant of the god). The Uppsala king Aðils is described as ‘Freys ǫ́ttungr’ (Freyr’s descendant), and Ingjaldr, finally, is designated ‘goðkynningr’ (of divine descent). In the Norwegian section of the poem, the entire dynasty is referred to as ‘þróttar Þrós niðkvísl’ (the kin-branch of the 2007), McKinnell (2010), and Marold (2012: 5–6).

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powerful (potent) Þrór [perhaps the god]). Expressions and denominations of the kings found in Ynglingatal, therefore, clearly indicate that members of the Ynglingar were praised for their divine origin. The Svea king Dyggvi is called ‘allvaldr Yngva þjóðar’ (the ruler over Yngvi’s people) (st. 7). We do not know whether Þjóðólfr had in mind a heiti/title of a ruler, a god (Freyr), or a mythical ancestor when using the name Yngvi. If he regarded Yngvi as a mythical being, it would appear that the entire group was lauded for its divine descent. Similar ideas are attested elsewhere in Scandinavia and the Germanic area (see, e.g., Vǫluspá st. 1 and Germania ch. 2). Originally, not only royal houses but also larger groups and populations could have been praised as the descendants of gods. This ideology may then gradually have become monopolized by noble families (Faulkes 1978–79: 93–94). Designations of the kings found in Ynglingatal, therefore, clearly indicate that members of the Ynglingar were praised for their divine origin. In general, Freyr is regarded as the divine father of the Ynglingar, since, for example, Alrekr and Eiríkr in Ynglingatal are called ‘Freyr’s offspring’ (cf. Wessén 1924: 25–26, 53–80; Ström 1954: 57), a view that has recently been challenged. It has been argued that the traditional view of Freyr as divine ancestor in Ynglingatal is far from obvious: ‘If one god should be singled out as ancestor, the argument for Odin is stronger’ (Norr 1998: 86–89). This interpretation originates from stanza 26 and the expression ‘niðkvísl […] þróttar Þrós’, which refers to the ‘Norwegian’ King Óláfr. It is stated that Þrór is Óðinn, and that the expression should be interpreted as ‘the lineage of the strong Óðinn’ (cf. Finnur Jónsson 1912–15: B1, 13 and A1, 14–15; and most recently by McKinnell 2010: 34; critically considered by Marold 2012: 55–56). It is true that Þrór occurs as an Óðinnheiti in Grímnismál st. 49 as well as in the list of Óðinn names in Gylfaginning (p. 22). The name Þrór is, however, not restricted to gods. It occurs as a name of a dwarf in Vǫluspá st. 12 and in Gylfaginning (p. 16). Hence, Þrór cannot with certainty be interpreted as Óðinn or any other particular mythical being.48 Freyr is the only god explictely mentioned in Ynglingatal in connection with the kings’ ancestry.49 Also, the medi­e val reception of the old traditions 48 

Wessén (1964: 77) argues that the mythical name Þrór in Ynglingatal referred to Freyr, since he was the forefather of the Ynglingar. Marold states that ‘the most likely explanation is that the word originally meant an unidentified divine being whose name was later transferred to Óðinn’ (2012: 56). Þrór was probably also a male name, since it appears in Swedish runic inscriptions. See Källström (2010a). 49  It is very uncertain whether we should interpret ‘týs ǫ́ttungr’ (st. 14) as ‘descendant of Týr’. Cf. Wessén (1964: 66). See however McKinnell (2010: 34) and Marold (2012: 31–32).

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held Freyr to be the ancestor of the Ynglingar. Snorri, for instance, makes use of an authentic tradition in Ynglinga saga when he separates Njǫrðr and Freyr from Óðinn’s kin and turned the vanir deities into ancestors of the Uppsala family. 50 According to Íslendingabók (p.  27) and Historia Norwegie ch. 9, Freyr/Froyr was one of the progenitors of the Ynglingar. Nothing is said about Óðinn in these two sources. Saxo (8.3.11) also regards Frø (i.e., Freyr) as the Svea-peoples’ special cult god, telling us that the great men of the Svear were regarded as the sons of Frø (see above). Further, placenames including the element/name Frös- indicate that Freyr was an important god among the Svear (Wessén 1923; Hellberg 1986a; Andersson 1992a; Vikstrand 2001). Some of these names are attached to the organization of society and indicate centrality. One example is Frösåkers härad, Uppland, where Frösåker is most likely an ancient central place, indicated by the field name Frössberg in the parish of Harg (Vikstrand 2001: 69–70). Several names in Frös- may directly or indirectly be connected to tuna-places, that is, ancient administrative centres in the settlement districts. Frustuna (< *Frøstuna) in Frustuna parish, Södermanland, is one example. Thus, the placenames in the Lake Mälaren area support a connection between ruling power, organization of society, and the god Freyr. If combining Ynglingatal with information found in other sources, it appears reasonable to assume that Freyr or Yngvifreyr was regarded as the ancestor of the Ynglingar as early as in the Viking Period. The description of Freyr as blótgoð svía, too, supports a similar assumption, although it is only evidenced in late sources. It is possible that also the jarls of Lade counted themselves as the offspring of gods. In the genealogical poem Háleyg jatal st. 1–2 and Ynglinga saga ch. 8, the forefathers of Hákon jarl are recounted back to Óðinn and Skaði. Some jarls in Háleyg jatal are, however, said to be descended from Freyr or Yngvi. Jarl Hákon Grjótgarðsson, for instance, is called ‘Freys ǫ́ttungr’ (Freyr’s descendant) (st. 9). Snorri likewise states in other passages that the Lade jarls descended from Yngvifreyr or Ingunarfreyr.51 Adam of Bremen says that Hákon jarl was the son of Inguar and a giant-woman.52 Some scholars have therefore argued that 50  In the Prologue of Snorra Edda, there is another version: ‘And Óðinn took with him a son of his whose name was Yngvi, who became king in Sweden, and from him are descended the family lines known as the Ynglingar.’ Von See (1988: 18–30) argues that the Prologue was never a work by Snorri but a late addition. 51  See Prologus of Heimskringla p. 4 and Prologue of Óláfs saga ins helga in sérstaka, p. 421. 52  ‘Haccon iste crudelissimus, ex genere Inguar et giganteo sanguine descendens’ (Adam of Bremen 2.25). This passage may, however, be a secondary interpolation.

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Óðinn’s position at the top of the genealogical list is a sign of West European influence, that is, the Anglo-Saxon royal lists (e.g., Bede 1.15) (e.g., Faulkes 1978–79). The kennings ‘Freys ǫ́ ttungr’ and ‘týs ǫ́ ttungr’ in Háleyg jatal may have been plagiarized from Ynglingatal by the skald Eyvindr Finnsson skáldaspillir (‘spoiler of poets’ or ‘plagiarist’), since they both appear there. In Háleyg jatal, the jarls are also called Yngva synir, ‘sons of Yngvi’, which may also ultimately derive from Ynglingatal. The idea that Óðinn was regarded as the ancestor of the Lade jarls may very well be based on old native traditions from Trøndelag or Háleygjaland (cf. Wessén 1924: 34–35; Ström 1981: 447; Steinsland 2011b: 32–33, 39). The skaldic poem Vellekla, for instance, reports that Hákon jarl was called ‘Yggs niðr’ (Óðinn’s relative). In Hallfreðr Óttarsson’s Hákonardrápa, Hákon’s conquering of the land is described symbolically as a marriage between the earthly ruler and the wild land, here represented as a mythical female. In this metaphoric language, Hákon is, moreover, identified with Óðinn. A similar symbolism is also evident in Háleyg jatal st. 15 (see Sundqvist 2002, 2007, 2012a, and 2016). Hence, it is quite possible that Freyr fulfilled a special role as mythical ancestor of the royal dynasty called the Ynglingar in Svetjud and in southern Norway. Whether he fulfilled the same role for the jarls of Lade is more uncertain. The Ynglinga Kings as Givers of Prosperity and Peace (ár ok friðr) As noted above, when sacrificing to Freyr, the god was expected to give prosperity and peace (ár ok friðr) in return. According to the medi­e val prose, similar abilities were expected of the earthly rulers of the Ynglinga dynasty (cf. Motz 1996a: 24–28). In these sources, it seems as if the king sometimes had an inherent strength that radiated all over his country and gave his people good fortune in everything from bountiful harvests to victories on the battlefield. This phenomenon has been referred to in research as ‘the royal luck’ (German ‘Königsheil’). In Ynglinga saga ch. 11, for example, Yngvifreyr’s son Fjǫlnir is praised: ‘Hann var ríkr ok ársæll ok friðsæll’ (He was powerful and also fortunate with seasons and peace). Thus, Fjǫlnir was considered as a good king since he had these abilities. Several scholars have accepted such statements as evidence of a Scandinavian conception of royal luck (e.g., Ström 1968). Other researchers are more sceptical (e.g., Baetke 1964): they think that there is little support for this idea in reliable sources, such as in the skaldic poems. It is above all in the medi­e val sagas that royal luck occurs, chiefly

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in accounts of Christian kings, such as Óláfr Tryggvason and Óláfr Haraldsson. It is believed that the saga writers projected the medi­e val Christian notion of the king’s charisma and divine grace (rex Dei gratia) back onto pre-Christian times, thereby constructing retrospectively the idea of pre-Christian ‘royal luck’ (see, however, Hallberg 1973). Walter Baetke contests the existence of royal luck when studying the Ynglinga kings. According to him, the rulers secured good crops and fertility among cattle only as long as they maintained sacrifices to, for example, Freyr. King Dómaldi in Ynglingatal st. 5 (and Ynglinga saga ch. 15), for instance, was killed or sacrificed (‘sóa’) when he ignored his duties as ‘sacrificer’ within the public cult (Baetke 1964: 51–54; Sundqvist 2002: 241–58). When he refused to execute these duties, he could no longer ensure prosperity and peace for his people. Figure 43.5. Rune stone from Stentoften in Thus, the Svear killed or sacrificed Gammalstorp in Blekinge (DR 357, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). The inscription is dated to the him, since they were eager for sixth or seventh century. Photo: Anders Andrén.  crops (‘árgjarn’). This interpretation may be supported by the description of Óláfr trételgja in Ynglinga saga ch. 43. More reliable sources indicate that rulers really did appear as sacrificers in a cult intended to improve the crops (til árs), where Freyr was perhaps involved. One of the best pieces of evidence for this is the Stentoften inscription, lines 1–3, as interpreted by Santesson: niuhAborumz niuhagestumz ­hAþuwolAfzgAfj (With nine bucks, with nine stallions Haþuwulf R gave good

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growth) (DR 357, Samnordisk runtextdatabas; Santesson 1989). Haþuwulf R performed a sacrifice wherein he offered nine bucks and nine stallions; in that way, he gave the people a good crop. It should be noted that the Proto-Nordic word jāra in this inscription (here marked with the j-rune, i.e., an ideo­g raph ‘Begriffsrune’) is equivalent to Old Norse ár, appearing in Icelandic texts in connection with sacrifices, meaning ‘good crops’ (Hultgård 1993, 2003a, 2007a). This term appearing in ritual formulae could perhaps also establish a connection to Freyr. In Hákonar saga góða ch. 14, for instance, sacrifices to Freyr were made for good harvest and peace (‘til árs ok friðar’) (see above). The sacrifice of nine stallions might likewise relate to Freyr, since this vanir god had a specific connection to horses (see above). The Stentoften inscription may thus support the argument that Late Iron Age rulers and chieftains performed sacrifices to Freyr (or other fertility gods) in order to ensure a good crop (ár) for their peoples (Hultgård 1993, 2003a; Sundqvist 1997: 135–74; Düwel 2008: 21–22). Also Vellekla indicates that a ruler was expected to procure prosperity and peace for his people by means of maintaining the sacrificial cult, perhaps in honour of Freyr. According to this poem, the cult sites had been ravaged by the Christian sons of King Eiríkr, but Jarl Hákon restored them (st. 15): Nú grœr jǫrð sem áðan; –aptr geirbrúar hapta auðrýrir lætr ǫ́ru óhryggva vé byggva. (Now the earth flourishes as before; the wealth-diminisher [generous man [= Hákon]] lets the messengers of the spear-bridge [shield > warriors] once again inhabit the sanctuaries of gods without sorrow.) (p. 303)

The skald then compares Jarl Hákon’s reign with King Fróði’s in stanza 17: Engi varð á jǫrðu ættum góðr, nema Fróði gæti-Njǫrðr, sás gerði, geirbríkar, fríð slíkan. (No well-descended guarding-Njǫrðr of the spear-board [shield > warrior] lived on earth who made such peace, except Fróði.) (p. 305)

Hence, we may discern here a cultic link between Freyr (actually Fróði) and the earthly ruler. Together, they seem to have established peace and prosperity for their people. Perhaps it is also significant that the poet chose the vanr Njǫrðr

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in the kenning here. It is not driven by alliteration, so he might just as well have used, for instance, Baldr or Hǫðr. The vanir were perhaps regarded as peacecreators together with the jarl or the king in a general sense. 

Scholarship, Interpretations, and Concluding Remarks Since the nineteenth century, several scholars have studied the mythology and cult of the god Freyr (see, e.g., Mannhardt 1855). In these early studies, the paradigm of the nature mythologists (e.g., Max Müller) was often used when interpreting these phenomena (see overview in Nordberg 2013: 141–202). Freyr’s connection to light and the coming of spring were thus often emphasized (e.g., Golther 1895: 218–42), but also his relation to fertility, sexuality, and love (see, e.g., Grimm 1854: 190–200; 1865: 321). Magnus Olsen’s myth-and-ritual interpretation of Skírnismál in 1909 was of great importance. As mentioned above, he stated that the myth in the poem reflected a hieros gamos between Freyr (represented by his servant Skírnir) and Gerðr. Freyr/Skírnir was a representation of the sun, while Gerðr was a personification of the fertile field (see above). Even if Jöran Sahlgren presented serious objections to Magnus Olsen’s seasonal interpretation of Skírnismál in 1927–28, the idea that Freyr was the Scandinavian fertility god, par préférence, became rooted in research for decades to come (see, e.g., Brate 1914; Lid 1942; cf. de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 178–81; Ström 1985; and below). It was also argued early on that the fertility cult related to Freyr had a particular significance within the agrarian districts of eastern Sweden, that is, the Lake Mälaren area, where the god, moreover, played an important role for the ruler ideology. Henrik Schück (1904), for instance, tries to reconstruct the cult of Freyr at Uppsala by frequent reference to James G. Frazer’s famous theory about ‘sacral kingship’ (è23).53 According to Schück, the king of the Svear was not only regarded as a priest or a mediator bet­ween the people and the divine world: he was equal to a god and consi­dered a son of Freyr. The king was the one who gave gifts to his people, such as rain and sunshine. A vast quantity of 53 

This concept, ‘sacral kingship’, was devised and elaborated by James G. Frazer in his famous book The Golden Bough (1890). Inspired by ideas presented by Wilhelm Mannhardt, Frazer con­strues a theory based on the annual cycle of nature, dying, and resurrecting gods and the supernatural power of the kings visible in sources from the Mediter­ra­nean area. According to Frazer, the king was considered both a priest and a divinity. He took part in a sacred marriage (hieros gamos) to the fer­tility goddess, played the role of the god in a ritual drama, and was even killed or sacrificed in order to guarantee the well-being of society.

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traditions from different Germanic areas was employed to support his theory, in particular the Ynglinga traditions. Frazer’s theory emphasizes that myths were often accompanied by ri­tes. Schück therefore argues that a cultic drama was performed at the feast of Uppsala, described by Adam of Bremen (4.27) (cf. Phillpotts 1920: 118–75). In this drama, a prisoner was dressed as king and simultaneously played the role of Freyr. The Svear gave him a wife, who was considered the fertility goddess. Together, Freyr and the goddess seated themselves in a carriage and made a procession. After these actions, ‘King Freyr’ was sacrificed, thus guaranting prosperity. The complete ritual could not be discovered in any one single Norse text, but by compi­ling different textual traditions and folkloristic sources with comparative materials, Schück fills in the gaps in the empirical basis of his theory. Freyr’s connection to a fertility cult in Uppsala and ‘sacral kings’ of the royal Ynglinga family has been maintained by several scholars (see, e.g., Jungner 1919; von Friesen 1932–34; Lindquist 1944; Ström 1954). The philologist Elias Wessén (1924) noted that the kings at Uppsala were regarded as the divine offspring of Freyr, while the rulers of the Götar originated from Óðinn (cf. Jungner 1919). From 1904 to the beginning of the 1960s, there was, in fact, a broad consensus that the ancient Scandinavian (and Germanic) kingship was ‘sacral’ and that Freyr was an important symbol of this ideology (cf. Ström 1959). However, when Walter Baetke published his work Yngvi und die Ynglinger in 1964, this entire issue was reconsidered. Employing radical source criticism, Baetke argued that the fundamental features of the sacral kingship theory were not visible in the reliable primary sources: they could only be deduced from the unreliable medi­eval Icelandic saga literature. Baetke’s critical line of reasoning gained support from philologists, while scholars with a comparative perspective held on to the idea of a sacral kingship in pre-Christian Scandinavia. For several decades, the sacral kingship theory lost its importance to scholarship on ruler ideology in pre-Christian Scandinavia. Freyr’s role as a god of sovereigns was thus downplayed in research from the 1960s until the 1990s. Instead, his role as a fertility god was emphasized. Folke Ström stated in his general overview Nordisk hedendom (1985), for instance, that Freyr and the vanir deities were the most important fertility gods within Old Norse religion. Anne Holtsmark (1992: 68) mentioned that the function of Njǫrðr as the Scandinavian fertility god par préférence was taken over by his two children, Freyr and Freyja, while Gro Steinsland (2005a: 151) described Freyr as a ‘fruktbarhets- og kjærlighetsgudom’ (deity of fertility and love). Also Britt-Mari Näsström (2002: 83) characterized him as ‘kärleksguden Frey’ (god of love) and emphasized his fertility aspects. Rudolf Simek (2007: 91) stated

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that Freyr was the ‘most important god of the Vanir and the most powerful god of fertility of Germanic mythology’. A similar image was produced also by previous generations of scholars. E. O. G. Turville-Petre (1964: 175) stated, for instance, that ‘Freyr appears chiefly as a god of fertility. For some people, for whom welfare depended on the fertility of the crops, he was most important of all gods; he was “god of the World”’. Jan de Vries argued in the same vein, stating that Freyr was much more important than his father Njǫrðr. But also he emphasized that Freyr’s ability to give luck and particularly fertility was crucial.54 According to Åke V. Ström (1975: 143), Freyr ‘ist ein typischer Fruchtbarkeitsgott’ (is a typical fertility god). Also Georges Dumézil (1973c) regarded Freyr and the other vanir deities as gods of fertility and wealth.55 They were related to ‘the third (nourishing) function’ of the Indo-European structural and ideological system called ‘l’idéologie tripartite des Indo-Européens’ (cf. Dumézil 1958: 55). Dumézil’s structuralist interpretation has been very important and influential in terms of cathegorizing Freyr as a fertility god.56 Freyr: More than a Fertility God There appears, thus, to be close agreement among researchers that Freyr was one of the greatest fertility gods in the Late Iron Age Scandinavian religion. It would seem, however, that this image of Freyr ought to be somewhat more nuanced. The survey of sources above indicates clearly that the early research on Freyr was sound, that is, when scholars understood him as a god related to both fertility and rulership within certain geo­g raphic areas. This idea has during the last decades been resumed (Motz 1996a; cf. Sundqvist 2002, 2013b, 2014; Simek 2003, 2014; Schjødt 2012b). In what follows, the argument for associating Freyr with rulership and military aspects will be summarized. His connections to fertility are so obvious that they do not need any further comments. Freyr can be related to leadership and military aspects by means of etymology, genealogy, cult, and/or mythology: 54 

Jan de Vries regarded the vanir deities primarily as fertility gods, who were part of an agrarian cult. He also noticed, however, Freyr’s connection with war and rulership (de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 163, 177). 55  Arinbjarnarkviða reports that Freyr and Njǫrðr endowed Grjótbjǫrn with great wealth. 56  See further Sundqvist (2013b, 2014). A  reformulation of Dumézil’s trifunctional scheme has been suggested by Schjødt (2012b), maintaining that Freyr and Óðinn represented two different aspects of kingship that related to each other as ‘peace-king’ and ‘war-king’, respectively. See also (è23) and Nygaard (2016: 24–26).

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1. Most scholars relate Freyr’s name to Proto-Nordic *Fraujaz ‘the uppermost’ or ‘lord’ (cf. Gothic frauja ‘lord’). The etymology of Freyr’s name therefore suits a ‘ruler-god’ well. This etymology has, however, been critized, and new interpretations have been suggested (see Elmevik 2003a). 2. Freyr was, in a genealogical sense, related to certain royal dynasties in preChristian Scandinavia. The Ynglingar of Uppsala, for instance, regarded him as their divine ancestor. They regarded themselves as ‘Freyr’s offspring’. Perhaps also the jarls of Lade believed that they descended from Freyr. It is more likely, however, that they were considered the offspring of Óðinn and Skaði. Some chieftains (goðar) on Iceland probably had another type of relation to Freyr compared to the Ynglingar, since they regarded Freyr as their ‘best friend’ (ástvinr) or confidant (fulltrúi). This relationship could be regarded as cultic (Sundqvist 2012a and 2016). 3. It seems that kings and jarls in Sweden and Norway maintained the cult of Freyr and protected the cultic sites where he was worshipped. By means of maintaining the sacrificial cult to Freyr, they were able to ensure prosperity and peace (‘ár ok friðr’) for their people. Archaeological evidence from Sweden and Norway indicate that the cult of Freyr really was connected to the ruling elite. Gold foils depicting a couple, for instance, appear frequently at aristocratic hall buildings, often associated with the high-seat. These foils may reflect the mythical marriage between Freyr and his bride. Also phallic images and symbols, representing Freyr, appear at aristocratic farms, close to residences, halls, and high seats. 4. In mythic contexts, Freyr is sometimes depicted as a general ruler. His home, Álfheimr, is described as a splendid residence intended for an aristocrat. Like a king, he is surrounded by servants and pages. One of his attributes was his ship, which may have had martial associations, since weapons were carried aboard it. Also his sword and animals, the horse and the boar (see above), could be related to similar aspects.57 Freyr also carries epithets, which indicate a warrior-lord, such as ‘Belja dólgr’ (enemy of Beli), ‘Belja bani’ (killer of Beli), ‘bǫðfróðr Freyr’ (battle-skilled Freyr), ‘máttugr’ (powerful), ‘ballriði’ (bold rider), ‘ǫflugr atriði’ (the mighty attackingrider), and ‘folcvaldi goða’ (the army-leader of the gods). Húsdrápa st.  7 reports that battle-skilled Freyr rides to the pyre of Baldr and leads the 57 

Dumézil (1973c: 78), however, states regarding the sword that it ‘is chiefly noteworthy in the god’s career by its absence’.

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host. Some epithets indicate that he was a more general (sometimes cultic) leader as well, such as ‘hǫfðingi’ (chieftain), ‘blótgoði’ (sacrificial-chieftain) (Ynglinga saga ch 4), ‘hinn ágætasti af Ásum’ (the most glorious among the Æsir) (Gylfaginning p. 24), and ‘ása jaðarr’ (lord of the æsir). In some texts, Freyr is described as ‘veraldargoð’ (the god of the world). This may also indicate that Freyr was regarded as a ‘lord’. Sometimes he is, moreover, involved in judicial matters, which is suitable for a general leader. Freyr’s martial and judicial features should probably be linked to his role as creator of peace (friðr) and order in society and cosmos. In one euhemerized myth, Freyr is described as the king of Uppsala. He dies there and is buried in a mound in Uppsala. While he was alive, he ensured peace and prosperity for the Svear. Even if this narrative is fantastic and fictional, it may still carry a faint memory of Freyr’s relation to an ancient royal dynasty who created peace and were buried in the Uppsala-mounds. Freyr could in many contexts be described as a plain fertility god and as such fit into the Dumézilian system well. In some areas, however, such as the Lake Mälaren region, he was also an important emblem for the ruling elite and could thus be described as a god of sovereignty as well as a deity of fertility. In this context, he was also described as the veraldargoð ‘the god of the world’. Perhaps he was a uniting symbol for several groups within Svetjud, since he was called blótgoð Svía. In such contexts, he spanned several aspects and functions, which in other contexts were related to other gods. The features and functions of Freyr could thus have varied not only geo­g raphically but also over time. Perhaps they also varied in different sources. In poetic traditions, the warlike aspects seem to be emphasized, while the prose focuses on the fertility aspects of Freyr (cf. Simek 2003: 145; Simek 2014: 145).

44 – Loki Jens Peter Schjødt Introduction Together with Óðinn and Þórr, Loki is the only god in the Norse pantheon who is the main character in more than one myth. He definitely plays a very significant role in the mythology of the extant sources, and he acts as the main antagonist in some of the most important myths, such as the killing of Baldr, at least in the most famous version, that of Snorri Sturluson, and the events at Ragnarǫk. At the same time, however, it is clear that he was never a much venerated god, if he was venerated at all, which there is actually nothing to suggest; no sources exist relating about rituals or cultic performances in which Loki is mentioned.1 This means that he is known to us as a purely mythological figure, and that any function he may have had as a religious figure must be sought within this level of the religious world-view. Whereas Óðinn as well as Þórr and a number of other gods from the Scandinavian pantheon can be traced back to some Germanic past, this is not the case with Loki. He is not mentioned in any of the sources from antiquity and the early Middle Ages and probably not in any of the known runic inscriptions,2 which, however, is not a decisive argument for seeing him as a 1  However, it cannot be ruled out that he was involved in ritual reenactments of various myths, as suggested by Terry Gunnell (1995: 247). He may have been, but it is important to note that this kind of partaking in ritual performances has nothing to do with worship. ‘Ritual dramas’, in the sense proposed by Vilhelm Grønbech, is of course ritual, but ritual of a very different kind than, for instance, sacrifice (è25). 2  Loki has been linked to the runic inscription on the so-called Nordendorf I fibula, found in Bavaria and probably dating from the sixth or seventh century. Three gods are mentioned,

Jens Peter Schjødt, Professor of the Study of Religion, Aarhus University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume iii, ed. by Jens Peter p. 1247–1271 Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) p BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116971

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latecomer in Norse and Germanic mythology. The nature of practically all sources concerning pre-Viking Age Germanic religion is such that they do not relate mythological information, and the deities mentioned in them are mostly those that were involved in some kind of cult. Thus, the mere fact that Loki is not mentioned in any sources outside the North nor in any that can unquestionably be dated to pre-Christian times is not enough to dismiss the possibility that he may have a long history within the mythical world of the Germanic peoples. This will be discussed in the sections below after taking a closer view of the sources in which Loki is mentioned.

Sources Loki is, thus, a figure known almost exclusively from the traditional mythological sources, that is, the eddic poems and Snorra Edda together with a few skaldic poems. Besides these he is only mentioned in one fornaldarsaga (Vǫlsunga saga) and in Flateyjarbók (Sǫrla þáttr). Most of these sources are probably late, and this fact constitutes, no doubt, an important contribution to the overwhelming amount of interpretations by scholars working with this enigmatic god and discussing the origin of the various motives. However, our interpretations of almost any god of the Scandinavian pantheon rely heavily on these same sources, even if the deities in question are occasionally mentioned also in sources of an earlier date. The name Loki is nowhere recorded as an element of any placenames or personal names, and there is no archaeological evidence that can uneqivocally be related to him, even if it is thought by most scholars that he is portrayed on certain bracteates and in a few other pictorial sources. Further, Loki plays a role in folklore from much later periods, which has been taken into consideration by many scholars and has in some cases been decisive for interpretations (e.g., Rooth 1961 and Heide 2011), even if others have been very critical towards the use of the post-medi­eval folkloristic material as a source for the pre-Christian period (e.g., de Vries 1933; è8). Many scholars have focused on the name of the god in order to find his ‘true’ essence. Thus it has been etymologically connected to Lucifer, to lokke (a

two of them being without doubt Óðinn and Þórr (è 42). The third is Logaþore who has been identified as the Norse god Lóðurr who plays a role in the creation of humans in Vǫluspá (è37). The etymological arguments, however, are not beyond discussion, and the identification of Lóðurr with Loki has been much debated within scholarship, as have other equally possible readings (e.g., McKinnell and others 2004: 48–49, Polomé 1969; Krogmann 1938).

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Swedish dialectal word for spider), lok (end), and many others.3 However, as we shall see, the complexity of Loki is overwhelming, and no matter what the etymology may be, it will hardly account for any such thing as Loki’s ‘essence’.

Myths Apart from the fact that Loki is mentioned only in sources that are late or at best difficult to date, another issue has also caused much disagreement among scholars: namely, the seemingly contradictory roles ascribed to him in various myths. These apparent problems are commonly solved by maintaining that not all the narratives in which Loki is an important figure represent the pagan view of the god, a fact to which we shall return to below. General Mythic Features We will start with the family relations reported in the sources and which will be discussed in more detail in the summaries of the myths below. Snorri tells us (Gylfaginning p. 26, Skáldskaparmál p. 19) that Loki’s parents are called Fárbauti (he who strikes dangerously) and Laufey (leafage island?) or Nál (needle?). These names are also reported in other sources, the former two even in older skaldic poems (Haustlǫng and Húsdrápa) and in the eddic poems Þrymskviða and Lokasenna. Loki is often called Loki Laufeyjarson, which emphasizes his maternal descent, probably due to the fact that his father, Fárbauti, is explicitly said by Snorri to be a giant. Whether this is also the case with his mother has been disputed (cf. Meulengracht Sørensen 1977), but it is thought that the matronymic is used because his mother is more acceptable to the æsir than his giant father. His wife is called Sigyn (Friend of victory), and she is known almost exclusively from the myth of Loki’s punishment (see below). Loki has a brother named Byleistr (the etymology is uncertain), known from Snorra Edda as well as Vǫluspá and Hyndluljóð, and another called Helblindi (the blind one of Hel), known from Snorri’s Edda only.4 The traditions connecting these names to Loki may well be old and go back to pagan traditions. Loki has several children among whom the most important are Hel, the death goddess, 3 

Liberman (2016: 175–96) lists and discusses almost all attempts to trace the etymology of Loki. 4  The name Helblindi, however, is also known as one of Óðinn’s by-names, a fact that emphasizes the close relation between Óðinn and Loki (cf. below on the mixing of blood between the two gods).

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Miðgarðsormr (the serpent of Midgard), and Fenrisúlfr (the wolf Fenrir). The mother of all three is Angrboða (she who causes or offers evil). Loki’s position as the father of these three is explicitly stated by Snorri (see the quotation below) but is moreover confirmed in kennings from eddic as well as skaldic poems. These three all play significant roles for the course of the world, and especially the latter two are throughout the mythology portrayed as the main antagonists of the gods Þórr and Óðinn, each engaging in single combat with them at Ragnarǫk. Indeed, it seems that these children of Loki are especially associated with the eschatology, as is Loki himself in the myths of Ragnarǫk. Others of his sons are only linked to the myth of his punishment, as is the case for Narfi or Nari (the etymologies of both names are uncertain), known from Snorri (Gylfaginning pp. 27 and 49, Skáldskaparmál, p. 20), Lokasenna (end prose), and even Ynglingatal st. 7, probably from the ninth century, and for Váli (Gylfaginning p. 49, Lokasenna end prose, and probably Vǫluspá st. 34). Finally, Loki is said to be the mother of Sleipnir, Óðinn’s eight-legged stallion. Before summarizing the myths, a number of characteristics often more or less explicitly connected to Loki must be mentioned. He is intelligent, cunning, and treacherous and also of a pleasing appearance, as is specifically stated in Gylfaginning pp. 26–27, where we find a systematic description of him, comprising most of the above-mentioned relations and characteristics. Here, it is said: Sá er enn talðr með Ásum er sumir kalla rógbera Ásanna ok frumkveða flærðanna ok vǫmm allra goða ok manna. Sá er nefndr Loki eða Loptr, sonr Fárbauta jǫtuns. Móðir hans er Laufey eda Nál.  Brœðr hans eru þeir Býleistr ok Helblindi. Loki er fríðr ok fagr sýnum, illr í skaplyndi, mjǫk fjǫlbreytinn at háttum. Hann hafði þá speki um fram aðra menn er slœgð heitir, ok vælar til allra hluta. Hann kom Ásum jafnan í fullt vandræði ok opt leysti hann þá með vælræðum. Kona hans heitir Sigyn, sonr þeira Nari eda Narfi. Enn átti Loki fleiri bǫrn. Angrboða hét gýgr í Jǫtunheimum. Við henna gat Loki þrjú bǫrn. Eitt var Fenrisúlfr, annat Jǫrmungandr (þat er Miðgarðsormr), þriðja er Hel. (That one is also reckoned among the Æsir whom some call the Æsir’s calumniator and originator of deceits and the disgrace of all gods and men. His name is Loki or Lopt, son of the giant Farbauti. Laufey or Nal is his mother. Byleist and Helblindi are his brothers. Loki is pleasing and handsome in appearance, evil in character, very capricious in behaviour. He possessed to a greater degree than others the kind of learning that is called cunning and tricks for every purpose. He was always getting the Æsir into a complete fix and often got them out of it by trickery. Sigyn is the name of his wife, Nari or Narfi their son. And Loki had other offspring too: There was a giantess called Angrboda in Giantland. With her Loki had three children. One was Fenriswolf, the second Iormungand (i.e., the Midgard serpent), the third is Hel. (p. 26)

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In many myths, we furthermore see that Loki is able to transform himself into a woman and into various animals (bird, insect, horse, fish, cow, and probably also seal), sometimes into female animals. Individual Myths In the following, the narratives in which Loki plays a major or minor role will, for the sake of systematization, be divided into three groups: those in which he seems to play a mainly positive role, those in which he plays a mainly or clearly negative role, and a third group in which it is more difficult to tell whether he should be evaluated positively or negatively. In this third group of myths, Loki causes some crisis for the other gods but is also (at least partly) responsible for the solution of that same crisis, just as is said in the above quotation from Gylfaginning. Myths in which Loki is Seen as a Predominantly Positive Figure In Lokasenna st. 9, it is related how Loki and Óðinn in the beginning of time (í árdaga) mixed their blood ( è 42). This incident is referred to by Loki himself, who uses it as an argument why Óðinn should never drink beer unless Loki is also allowed to do so. The mixing of blood was, in the Old Norse world-view, seen as a way of creating a relation, which was just as strong as that between biological relatives, although it did not create extended families (è 32). It is significant that Loki, through this creation of brotherhood with the mightiest of the gods, has made himself a member of the æsir group and is therefore able to live among the gods as one of their own. As we can see in several other narratives, the gods actually benefit from this relation to Loki. In a famous myth told in the eddic poem Þrymskviða, it is related how Þórr’s hammer, Mjǫllnir, was stolen by the giant Þrymr who, in order to return it, demanded Freyja as his bride. To the gods, this incident is a disaster because both the hammer and Freyja, who among other functions is a goddess of fertility, are necessary for the cosmos to function. And Freyja has absolutely no intention of marrying Þrymr. Heimdallr then suggests that Þórr dress up like Freyja to cheat the giant to give up the hammer, but Þórr initially refuses because he fears that the æsir will describe him as argr, ‘unmanly’, if he dresses up as a woman. Loki, however, persuades Þórr by emphasizing the importance of getting Mjǫllnir back and says that he himself will join Þórr on the journey as his servant maid, which proves essential for the outcome of the

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journey.5 For when they arrive at Þrymr’s, Þórr’s mighty appetite and fierce looks are about to disclose his true identity, but Loki explains that ‘Freyja’ has neither slept nor eaten for eight days because of her longing for Þrymr. Thus, the psychology of the two gods is the conventional one where Þórr is unable to control his hot temper, while Loki plays the role of the intelligent and cunning helper. The hammer ends up being brought in when the marriage ceremony is going to take place, allegedly in order to consecrate the bride, which is probably an old trait since the hammer is also described in other mythic scenarios as a means of consecration. As soon as Þórr gets hold of the hammer he kills all the giants in his usual way. Even if the poem is late, the narrative is not necessarily so, and at least some traits appear to be genuinely pagan. Loki’s role seems to be very positive: it is he who persuades Þórr to go, and it is he who makes it possible for the two protagonists to get back the hammer because his cunning intelligence prevents them from being recognized. The same can be said of another myth in which we, once again, meet Loki as the companion of Þórr, in this case alongside Þjálfi, and once again they are travelling to Giantland, this time to a giant called Útgarðaloki.6 In this myth, which is told in Gylfaginning pp. 37–43, Loki does not play a very dominant role at all, and his only action is to compete with a figure named Logi (fire) in an eating contest. Although Loki displays an enormous appetite, he loses because his opponent eats not only the meat but also the bones and the trencher. One more positive act of Loki’s is his potential role in connection with the creation of man. In Vǫluspá st. 18, a god named Lóðurr, together with Óðinn and Hœnir, gives the proto-humans Askr and Embla ‘life’. Many scholars have identified Lóðurr with Loki, primarily because the triad Óðinn, Hœnir, and Loki appears in other sources, too, (è52) but also because there may be an etymological connection between Loki and Lóðurr (Krogmann 1938). Whether or not Loki and Lóðurr are identical is probably impossible to determine with any certainty, and it is hardly decisive, either, for our general interpretation of the figure of Loki. 5  It is noteworthy that the poet of Þrymskviða st. 20 lets Loki use the neuter tvau, indicating male and female together, in the sentence ‘vit skolom aka tvau’ (we two (one male, one female) shall both go). This can, of course, be a simple mistake, but if it is done deliberately it could indicate a kind of níð (see also von See and others 1997: 555–56 with references). 6  The name is evidently related to Loki. It means Loki of Útgarðar (plural), which is one among several terms for the world of the giants. How to interpret this relation has, however, been heavily debated, and there is far from any agreement among contemporary scholars (cf. Liberman 1992; Bonnetain 2006: 141–44).

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Myths in which Loki is Seen as a Predominantly Negative Figure In opposition to the above-mentioned myths, we have a group of narratives in which it is hard to discern any positive assessment of Loki. Also in this category we find a couple of narratives where Þórr and Loki are travelling together, but here Loki’s role is clearly negative. The first example is the beginning of the Geirrøðr myth in which Loki tricks Þórr to travel to Giantland. It is related in the skaldic poem Þórsdrápa and in Skáldskaparmál pp.  24–25, the two sources differing in a number of significant ways. In Skáldskaparmál it is told how Loki wanted to play a trick on the giant Geirrøðr but got caught and was forced to promise to lure Þórr to the giant’s home without his hammer and his belt of strength. In this version, Loki was thus forced to entice Þórr along, whereas in Þórsdrápa nothing is said that can serve as an excuse for Loki in doing this. The myth, as it is told in both sources, includes several interesting motifs concerning Þórr and his hammer (which he seems to have already in the Þórsdrápa version (st. 19); cf. Clunies Ross 1981; è41), but the only significant trait attached to Loki is that he seems to act to the benefit of the giant against Þórr in order to rescue himself. Another motif, which is hard to grasp, but which apparently belongs with the ‘evil’ deeds of Loki is the one related in Hymiskviða st. 37 and 38 where it is said that Loki, on Þórr’s way home from Giantland after having killed the giant Hymir, causes one of Þórr’s goats to become injured, even if Loki is not mentioned earlier in the poem. This motif, although in another form, is known from Snorri’s narrative of Útgarðaloki in which it is said how Þjálfi (not Loki) on the way to (not from) the giant’s home, broke a bone of one of the goats, which is why Þjálfi and his sister Rǫskva had to follow Þórr as his servants. How the two versions of this episode relate to one another is very unclear, and concerning Loki we can therefore only state that the idea existed of him as instigator of some incident that injured one of Þórr’s goats. Probably the most famous of all Norse myths concerns the death of Baldr. Loki’s role here is unequivocally negative and extremely consequential, too, at least in the version told by Snorri towards the end of Gylfaginning (pp. 45–49). The myth as a whole will be summarized below in the chapter on Baldr (è46), and in the following we shall therefore concentrate only on Loki’s part in the story. Because all things, living and dead, have sworn not to harm Baldr, the æsir, allegedly for their entertainment, strike or shoot at him when at the þing, the law assembly, and nothing happens to the god. It is noteworthy that this entertainment is taking place at the þing because it may indicate that the myth has its origin in some ritual (Lindow 1997a: 51) since the performance of ritu-

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als was often closely linked to legal decisions, as will be discussed in the chapter on Baldr.7 Loki is first mentioned as a spectator to this entertainment, and it is said that ‘þá líkaði honum illa er Baldr sakaði ekki’ (he did not like that Baldr was not hurt). We are not offered any explanation why he disliked this, but we must note that any psychological motives Loki might have had are not important: what matters is the result of his action. Loki does what he has to do: namely, prepare the world for Ragnarǫk. There can hardly be any doubt in the version by Snorri, nor in the relevant stanzas of Vǫluspá (31–35), that, even if there is no explicit cause-effect relation between the two incidents, the Baldr drama should in both sources be regarded as a kind of prelude to the eschatological battle.8 Whether this idea was common among the pagan Scandinavians or not we cannot know for sure, but according to the investigations of Georges Dumézil (1973c: 49–65), the combination of these two themes is old and widespread among the Indo-Europeans. And this being so, the events surrounding Baldr’s death emphasize also the essence of Loki’s role: namely, as instigator of Ragnarǫk. Loki dresses up as a woman and goes to Frigg and asks if everything has really sworn not to harm Baldr. She then reveals to him that the mistletoe seemed to her too young to take an oath from. Next, Loki goes away and gets hold of the mistletoe. Back at the assembly, he lures Baldr’s brother Hǫðr, who is blind, to shoot at Baldr as do the other gods. Again, it seems as if something with an origin in some early ritual is going on, because Snorri tells us that Hǫðr was standing at the periphery of a ring of men, a formation typical of many rituals in which the scenario is construed as a centre with a periphery (apparently no women were at the assembly, probably indicating that this circle represents a ritual and ritual prohibitions). Hǫðr shoots and the mistletoe goes through Baldr who falls dead to the ground. Subsequently, a great deal of activity takes place, but the only incident that concerns Loki is Snorri’s statement that he is identical with the old giant woman Þǫkk who refuses to weep for Baldr, a refusal that results in Baldr having to remain in Hel until Ragnarǫk. In this way, it appears that Loki is doubly responsible for the present condition of the world: he causes the death of Baldr with his evil advice to Hǫðr, who is said to be the handbani, killer by hand, of Baldr, whereas Loki himself is seen as 7 

This has a decisive role in the interpretation by Bonnetain (2006: 110–20) in which it is maintained that the idea of Baldr as a sacrificial victim was originally seen as beneficial to the world (see below). 8  This is suggested by Martin (1972), who believes both incidents to be part of a ritual drama.

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the ráðbani, killer by advice, and he causes Baldr’s inability to return from the realm of Hel. Even if it seems obvious here that Loki plays a prominent role in the Baldr drama, some scholars have refused to accept that this is a true reflection of pagan tradition and argue instead that it is Snorri who has brought Loki into the myth (e.g., Mogk 1923 and 1924b). 9 The arguments for and against have been put many times over, but basically it is maintained by this group of scholars that no sources other than Snorri connect Loki to the Baldr drama. However, this link is referred to in some poems — namely, Lokasenna st. 28 — where Loki himself remarks that he is responsible for the fact that Baldr is no longer alive, and in Vǫluspá st. 31–35 where it is said, albeit not directly (but in that poem not much is said directly), that Loki is responsible. His punishment is thus described immediately after the killing of Baldr and this chronology seems hard to explain if there were no causal relation. No other West Norse source mentioning the killing of Baldr conflicts significantly with Snorri’s version, although these for the most part only hint at the myth and do not reveal the complete structure that we get from Snorri. In the other main version of the myth, however, the one told by Saxo Grammaticus in the third book of his Gesta Danorum (è46), there is definitely no mention at all of Loki. This problem has been discussed by several scholars and will therefore not be treated in detail here. Being aware of the way Saxo usually works and the agenda he had when he wrote about the pagan gods, it does not seem so hard to understand why Loki became superfluous: turning the æsir into the antagonists and placing the whole plot in the human realm, the killer of Baldr, a representative of the pagan gods, becomes the protagonist, the hero of the story, and that is Høtherus (Hǫðr). This, in turn, does not leave much room for the figure of Loki, who then disappears from the story. Moreover, it is hardly convincing to argue that Saxo was relating an ‘East Norse’ version of the myth. It seems much more likely that we are dealing with a true ‘Saxo’ version, that is, a reworking of the myths in order to put the pre-Christian gods into a bad light.10 Before we turn to the punishment of Loki, we must take a look at the poem Lokasenna. The first thing said about Loki in this poem is that he kills one of Ægir’s servants, Fimafengr. This is related by Snorri (Skáldskaparmál p. 41) and 9  For more discussion of Loki’s role in the killing of Baldr, see Lindow (1997a: 52–60 and 68). 10  A good discussion of the relation between Saxo and the West Norse material is found in Clunies Ross (1992a), Liberman (2016), and Lindow (1997a).

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in the prose introduction to Lokasenna. In the latter of these two, we are only told that Loki did not like that the servants were praised by the other gods, and that, as a consequence of this antipathy, he killed the one called Fimafengr (the one who is fast in bringing). We know nothing of this figure, and the killing thus appears to be due solely to Loki’s dislike of things that the other gods view in a positive way, as was apparently also part of his reasons for killing Baldr. Still, even if we do not know anything about the figure Fimafengr, the deed seems to be clearly negative and in line with Loki’s general opposition to the æsir. In Lokasenna proper, it also appears that the position of Loki must be evaluated as clearly negative. The poem has the frame story that all the gods are gathered in the hall of Ægir,11 and after Loki has killed Fimafengr and is chased away, he returns and starts quarrelling with each of the gods and goddesses in turn. Most of the accusations on both sides are of a sexual nature, the goddesses being accused of unrestrained sexual behaviour and the gods being accused of being ‘unmanly’. Thus, Loki is the antagonist of all the other gods, and only when Þórr turns up, threatening to kill him, does he give up and leave. One of the accusations directed against Loki is uttered by Óðinn and hints at something that has happened way back in olden times (árdaga). Here, Óðinn says (Lokasenna st. 23): Veiztu, ef ec gaf, þeim er ec gefa né scylda inom slævorom, sigr: ȧtta vetr vartu fyr iǫrð neðan kýr mólcandi oc kona oc hefir þú þar born borit oc hugða ec þat args aðal. (You know, if I gave what I shouldn’t have given victory, to the faint-hearted, yet eight winters you were, beneath the earth, a milchcow and a woman, and there you bore children, and that I thought the hallmark of a pervert.) (p. 84)12 11 

The reason for this gathering has been somewhat discussed. For instance, it is argued by van Hamel (1929) that the gods meet because they wish to discuss what should be done as a consequence of the killing of Baldr. If this is so, we would be able to better understand why the punishment of Loki in Lokasenna is the same as the one related by Snorri as a result of Loki’s part in Baldr’s death. The arguments against this, however, are that there is no obvious reason why Ægir should host such a meeting, and that the goddesses are present which they were usually not when legal affairs were decided. Most likely is perhaps the explanation that we are simply confronted with variant traditions, but we can never know for sure. 12  In Fjǫlsvinnsmál, we are likewise told that Loki has been in the underworld, but without the addition of any significant details.

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After this, Loki accuses Óðinn of having performed seiðr, a kind of sorcery strongly associated with femininity and which men, according to Ynglinga saga ch. 7, cannot perform without risk of being accused of ergi. The mutual accusations between Óðinn and Loki both end up with the line: ‘ok hygg ek þat args aðal’ (and I think this perverse behaviour). The adjective argr is related to the noun ergi, which is the designation for behaviour that can best be characterized as ‘unmanly’ (cf. Meulengracht Sørensen 1983), and there is thus no doubt that the accusations of performing seiðr and those of being a female and an animal in the underworld must be considered in some way parallel, playing on the sexual identity of the two gods; with this in mind, perhaps also Loki is therefore associated with seiðr (cf. Schjødt 1981a). The decisive piece of information in Lokasenna st. 23 is, thus, that Loki has been a female and perhaps even a cow.13 From the perspective of the old Scandinavians, this was undoubtedly seen as unambiguously negative for any male. A famous motif in the Loki myths is his punishment, according to Snorri as a consequence of his 13 

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Figure 44.1. Panel on the cross from Gosforth in Cumbria. The motif has been interpreted as Loki fettered in the underworld. After Finnur Jónsson 1913: 95. 

The text has kýr mólcandi, which is problematical since it cannot be decided whether mólcandi is to be understood as transitive (‘milking a cow’) or intransitive (‘a milch cow’). In the first instance it would mean that Loki performed a woman’s job, and in the second he would actually be the cow himself. In either case, however, an effeminate connotation is clear.

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role in the killing of Baldr, whereas in Lokasenna we get the impression that it is due to his behavour in Ægir’s hall. Thus, there seems to be no doubt that the notion of Loki being bound was rather widespread within the Nordic area. We know it from Gylfaginning p. 49, the end prose of Lokasenna, Haustlǫng st. 7, and Vǫluspá st. 35. Furthermore, we have the story of Ugarthilocus by Saxo where this being, possibly but not certainly identical to Loki, is portrayed as being fettered in some cave in the underworld, which is reminiscent of the bound Loki (cf. Liberman 1992). Also the Gosforth cross from tenth-century Cumbria in England features a motif that may be a pictorial representation of the same myth. The problem, however, is that in Gylfaginning and in Lokasenna it seems that the punishment is inflicted because of two different ‘crimes’, as just mentioned. Snorri writes that after the killing of Baldr the æsir wanted to take revenge on Loki, but he fled and hid in a house with four doors so that he could see the æsir approaching from any direction. During the day, he transformed himself into a salmon and swam in the waterfall Fránangrsfors. When he eventually saw the æsir coming, he went into the river, but he left behind in the house a fishing net that he had himself invented, and the æsir used it to catch him. Although he tried very hard to escape, they succeeded, and he was captured and fettered with the intestines of his son Váli who was torn to pieces by his other son Narfi transformed by the æsir into a wolf. Loki is placed beneath a rock on which the gods place a snake dripping its poison into his eyes. His wife Sigyn, however, holds a cup underneath the snake so that he is not harmed by the poison except when she has to empty the cup; then he trembles so hard that he causes earthquakes. Here, he will lie bound until Ragnarǫk when he shall break loose and lead the giants against the gods. The same story is told in Lokasenna, although in a shorter version, adding only that it is Skaði who puts the snake on the rock above Loki.14 In Lokasenna, however, the reason for the punishment seems to be his quarrelling with the æsir throughout the poem. Nonetheless, van Hamel (1929) has suggested that the apparent confusion here can be explained by the assumption that the killing of Baldr has already taken place and that, although it is not mentioned explicitly, this is the reason, also in Lokasenna, for the punishment (cf. Bonnetain 2006: 108–10). Even if there may be some problems with van Hamel’s interpretation, it seems most likely that such a severe punishment must have had another cause than just the rudeness Loki shows in Lokasenna. 14 

There seems to be some hostility between Loki and Skaði, even if we do not know the reasons for it. As we shall see below, Loki plays a decisive role when Skaði first appears among the æsir.

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Finally, Loki has an important role to play in Ragnarǫk. In Vǫluspá st. 51, we are told that he will be leading one of the armies of giants as they approach the battlefield ‘Vígriðr’, and Snorri furthermore states that he will eventually die in a fight against Heimdallr, the two killing each other.15 But not only Loki sides with the giants against the gods in this final battle: his children, the Fenrisúlfr and the Miðgarðsormr, also join and are important actors who kill Óðinn and Þórr, respectively, as many sources inform us. There is no doubt, then, that Loki and his offspring occupy a seriously negative and antagonistic position in the myth of the destruction of the world, at least if we accept the extant sources as reliable. Myths in which Loki is Seen as a Negative as Well as a Positive Figure Snorri tells us (Gylfaginning pp. 34–35) that shortly after the gods inhabited Ásgarðr, a giant builder came to them and offered to build a wall for protection around the whole place. His reward, if he succeeded in accomplishing the task in just one winter, was to have Freyja, the sun, and the moon. Although he was not allowed to obtain help from anybody else, the gods accepted, on the advice of Loki, that he could use his big stallion, Svaðilfari, for pulling stones together. Then the construction started: during the day the giant would do the building, whereas during the night the stallion would bring together the stones needed for the enterprise. When there were only three days left of the time limit, the gods could see that the giant was going to succeed in finishing the work on time. Now they had to do something, since losing Freyja, the sun, and the moon would, of course, be a disaster; so they threatened to kill Loki if he did not find some solution to the problem. Loki, then, took on the shape of a mare and ran out into the night to distract Svaðilfari. He succeeded so that no more stones were pulled together, and the builder, realizing that he would not be able to finish the task, sprang into a giant rage. Now, Snorri tells us, the gods found out that the builder was a giant, and they called on Þórr, who killed him with his hammer. Loki, however, became pregnant by the stallion and gave birth to the foal Sleipnir, the famous eight-legged horse of Óðinn. 15 

There must have been some mythic information that we now lack in the extant sources. But some antagonism between Loki and Heimdallr is attested also in a myth concerning the theft of a jewel called Brísingamen (è50). There are references to this myth in Haustlǫng, Húsdrápa, Sǫrla þáttr, and by Snorri in Skáldskaparmál, p. 19. Snorri and Þrymskviða further tell us that a jewel of that name belongs to Freyja. However, as has been noticed by Simek (2007: 46), it is hardly possible to reconstruct a coherent narrative from the scattered evidence.

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In Vǫluspá st. 25–26, which Snorri cites as evidence for his version, we cannot actually be sure that the events described refer to the story here summarized at all, as many critics have noted. The argument that Snorri quite simply misunderstood Vǫluspá does not, however, appear definitive (cf. Turville-Petre 1964: 135–36). There is no doubt that the motif with the master builder is widespread and is known from legend and folk narrative from the Middle Ages and later.16 This alone, however, cannot be taken to indicate that the myth is a late borrowing and was not known in Scandinavia during pagan times; quite the contrary, it seems likely that such motifs persist with great tenacity and during many centuries, being transformed, attracting new elements, and so forth. Therefore, the folkloristic nature of the myth is not in itself an indication that the notion of Loki giving birth to Sleipnir should not be considered part of the Loki mythology, not least because Loki’s role here fits very well with what we know from other myths. The basic structure of the narrative as considered specifically in relation to Loki thus reveals a pattern that we encounter also in three other narratives. This pattern consists in Loki doing something that is apparently not intended to yield negative results for the gods, but which, nevertheless, turns out to do so. Loki is subsequently threatened with death if he is not able to solve the problems, which he manages to do, and so a stable situation is restored after the crisis. This structure is also what we meet in the so-called Þjazi myth, related in Skáldskaparmál and in Haustlǫng. Óðinn, Hœnir, and Loki are travelling together, and when they want to prepare an ox for food, they cannot cook the meat to sufficient tenderness. This is caused by an eagle sitting in a tree near them. The eagle turns out to be the giant Þjazi, and he will only let the meat be properly roasted if he is offered part of it. As they agree on that, Þjazi flies down and takes so much of the meat that Loki becomes angry and hits him with a pole. Now Loki cannot loosen his grip on the pole, and the pole is stuck to the eagle. Loki has to pray for mercy, but the giant will only let him loose if he brings him the goddess Iðunn and her apples, which keep the gods young. Loki fulfils his promise, and soon the gods begin to grow old and grey. Again, they 16  A brilliant analysis with many references can be read in Harris (1976). Harris attempts to trace the possible versions of the ‘Masterbuilder Tale’ from various areas of Europe and to determine the character of the relations between the various Icelandic versions in order to find the historical roots in Snorri’s version. As Harris himself is aware (p. 94), the propositions put forward in the article are not indisputable but certainly have ‘at least a temporary value’.

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threaten Loki to bring Iðunn back. So he changes into the shape of a falcon, and, according to Snorri, he transforms Iðunn into a nut, so that he can carry her back to the æsir in his tallons. Þjazi pursues them, but as Loki arrives at Ásgarðr, the æsir light a fire that burns the giant to death. Later, Þjazi’s daughter Skaði arrives in Ásgarðr in order to avenge her father. However, the gods strike a deal with her to the effect that the dispute will be settled if she is allowed to choose a husband among them (although only by looking at their feet), and if they are able to make her laugh. We shall deal with the first condition in (è47) and (è53), whereas Loki plays a major role in fulfilling the second: he ties one end of a string to the beard of a goat and the other end to his own testicles. As the two of them pull, they both scream loudly, and in the end Skaði laughs. This probably has to do with the strange sexuality of Loki, and it may also play with some element of castration (cf. Lindow 1992).17 Most of the details of this myth are known to us only from Snorri, but when we compare it to Haustlǫng, it seems likely that the basic structure was already known in the ninth century. Once more, we notice that, even if Loki is the cause of a threatening disaster, it does not seem to be on purpose, and he also averts the crisis himself. The next myth is related only in Skáldskaparmál pp. 41–43, but it is nevertheless probably a genuine pagan myth in its main structure, since it deals with the creation of some of the most important attributes of the gods. It is not unlikely that Snorri has combined some elements that did not belong to the myth in pagan times, but, of course, we cannot know this for sure. The myth tells us that Loki once cut off the hair of Sif, the wife of Þórr. No explanation is given for this except that it is done out of malice (til lævísi). Þórr forces him to obtain another head of hair for Sif, made out of gold yet still able to grow. Loki then seeks out some dwarfs, known as the sons of Ívaldi, and he has them forge the hair as well as some other objects so that besides Sif ’s hair, given to Þórr, he can also give Óðinn the spear Gungnir and Freyr the ship Skíðblaðnir.18 Having obtained these things, he proceeds to make a bet with another dwarf, Brokkr, who shall receive Loki’s head if his brother, Sindri or Eitri, is able to make three items more valuable than the objects created by the sons of Ívaldi. This dwarf creates Draupnir (the one that drips), the ring from which drips every ninth night eight rings equally valuable to Draupnir itself, which is given to 17  Besides Lindow’s article, also Margaret Clunies Ross (1989b) and Richard North (2001) have written interestingly on this motif. 18  In Ynglinga saga ch. 7, it is said to be owned by Óðinn, but elsewhere it is said to be Freyr’s property, almost as an attribute.

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Jens Peter Schjødt Figure 44.2. Protection stone for a bellows found in Snaptun in central Jylland (Nationalmuseet no. FHM72A). The stone has an image of a head with lips sewn together. The picture has been interpreted as Loki having been punished by the dwarf Brokkr. Photo: Lennart Larsen, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen. 

Óðinn; the boar Gullinbursti, given to Freyr; and the hammer Mjǫllnir, given to Þórr. Loki must have had a suspicion that the hammer would be the best of the objects, since he attempts to prevent Brokkr who is working at the bellows from doing his job properly: Loki takes on the form of a fly and stings the dwarf so that he has to use his hand to chase away the fly, and because of that the shaft of the hammer turns out to be rather short.19 Then the three gods, who are given these precious items, have to decide which one of the gifts is the best, and they decide on the hammer. Loki, therefore, has lost his head in his bet with Brokkr, but by telling the dwarfs that they cannot cut it off because they did not win the neck he escapes death. Eventually, they end up sewing Loki’s lips together. This may well be depicted on a picture stone, a steatite, from Snaptun in Jylland (found by a smithy where it has been used as protection for the bellows from the heat), showing a head with the lips apparently sewn together (cf. Glob 1959). This narrative is long and in many respects rather strange, which may indicate considerable age. We may wonder whether Sif ’s hair really belongs here, since the other objects are all of great importance as attributes of the main gods, whereas the hair does not appear to have this position. What is important in relation to Loki, however, is that in doing something stupid he brings 19 

The myth related in Sǫrla þáttr (ch. 2), in which Loki helps Óðinn to steal a necklace from Freyja, also mentions that he transforms himself into a fly.

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about several valuable objects, just as in the master builder tale discussed above. Also, in this case he changes shape in order to prevent something that is not to the benefit of himself, but this time he does not succeed and he has to use his cunning intelligence in order to escape death. Whether or not the myth, as it is told by Snorri, was known in pagan times, we must therefore accept that it fits perfectly in with the impression of Loki we get in many other narratives in which he plays a prominent role. The last of the Loki myths we shall deal with is the Andvari myth (Skáld­ skaparmál p. 45, Vǫlsunga saga ch. 14, and Reginsmál prose introduction and st. 1–9) in which, as in the Þjazi myth, he travels together with Hœnir and Óðinn. Without any apparent reason, he kills an otter who turns out to be the son of the giant Hreiðmar whom they later happen to visit; when the giant realizes what they have done, they are taken prisoners. To regain their freedom, they have to give Hreiðmar in compensation as much gold as it takes to cover the skin of the otter completely. Loki is sent out to find sufficient gold, and he captures the dwarf Andvari (‘the one who takes care’) who swims in the shape of a fish in the Andvari waterfall. In order to save his life, Andvari has to pass on to Loki all his gold, the so-called Andvari treasure, and Loki can return to Hreiðmar’s place with the gold including a precious ring, so that the three gods can leave safe and sound. Again, Loki is the cause of the problems, but by acquring the gold he also solves the situation himself, at least as far as the gods are concerned, for the ring has fatal consequences for those humans who later come to own it. These are the myths on the basis of which we can interpret the character and function of Loki. It is certainly not an easy task and, as will become evident below, opinions vary so much that it is hard to imagine any consensus arising among scholars concerning this fascinating figure.

Cult As was mentioned in the introduction to this chapter, there is no indication that Loki was ever venerated or played any role in the religious cult (cf. note 1 above). No source reveals any sort of communication between Loki and humans, a sine qua non if we are to speak of any sort of veneration. This could indicate that he was actually never thought of as a religious figure in the sense that people did not think of him as interfering in their lives in the same way as other deities might. However, we do know from many other religions that certain ‘divine’ figures may play a profound role in peoples’ life even if they are not venerated through any rituals. The perhaps most striking example in this

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context is the Christian devil, who is certainly important in the lives of many Christians but is of course not venerated by them. Another example could be the trickster figures of many religions, characters responsible for many incidents in both this and the Other World, but who take no part in the cult. The fact, therefore, that Loki apparently never was part of the religious cult does not necessarily mean that he was not an important figure in the mythological thinking within pagan Scandinavia.20 We shall now take a look of some of the interpretations concerning Loki put forward by scholars from different disciplines.

Scholarship and Interpretations As has been made clear above, the sources dealing with Loki are for the most part medi­eval or they are difficult to date with any certainty. This goes especially for the eddic poems, the dating of which has always been a contentious issue. Apart from a few skaldic poems, in which it is often difficult to reconstruct the narrative behind the stanzas, and perhaps some bracteates and other pictorial representations, we cannot know with certainty that the information we have aboutf Loki is, indeed, of pagan provenance. This fact has been of immense significance to the scholarship on Loki, who has perhaps been the subject of greater scrutiny than any other figure in the Norse pantheon. There are probably two main reasons for this, the first being exactly the fact that from the extant sources we know hardly anything with certainty about a pagan Loki. Scholars often prefer to focus on those texts that support their arguments and dismiss the rest by arguing that they are late and therefore have no impact on the pre-Christian religious world-view. The other main reason is, as can be seen in the above section on myths, that the role of Loki positively invites confusion. Sometimes he appears to be very positive vis-à-vis the other gods, sometimes we see quite the opposite, and sometimes his behaviour seems to be a complete jumble of positive and negative aspects. Although he is of giant origin, he appears to be quite handsome, but then again this does not pertain to Saxo’s Ugarthilocus. Quite simply, there appear to be so many inconsistencies that one could reasonably adopt the stance that they cannot all be describing the same god in the same period of time. Scholars have, obviously, depended on 20 

Drobin (1968) should be mentioned in this connection, since he emphasizes that Loki was first and foremost a dramatic character: Loki is the one the poets turn to when some action is going to take place. This is probably quite true, but at the same time, it cannot be ruled out that he did have a semantic centre which may have been important for the world-view.

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the general view on mythology of their time, and we can trace the first scholarly treatments of Loki back to the time of nature mythology in the middle of the nineteenth century.21 Therefore, many proposals from especially the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries see Loki as a deity particularly connected with various natural phenomena, such as fire, water, or vegetation. Without rejecting such connections altogether, probably no scholar since the beginning of the twentieth century has focused especially on natural phenomena, because nature mythology has not since the nineteenth century been considered a realistic theory of mythical thinking in general.22 The first important mono­g raph on Loki that still has a certain relevance and influence is Jan de Vries’s The Problem of Loki from 1933. Analyzing carefully all the myths in which Loki plays a part, de Vries concludes that Loki was a trickster, that is, a mythological being who plays ‘tricks’ on the other gods, often in a rather funny way. This type of god is found in many cultures and is especially prominent in the mythologies of the American Indians (cf. Radin 1956). De Vries’s aim is, as is the case for so much Loki research, to go back in time, behind the Loki we meet in the extant sources, in order to discover some ‘original’ Loki figure; this renders it necessary to determine carefully which sources carry information that may enlighten this picture and which are constructed in the Middle Ages, often more or less influenced by Christian ideas. De Vries, however, although his book is filled with good observations, is not able to avoid a circular argument: the information in those sources that support the trickster theory goes back to pagan notions because the trickster (Loki) is pagan. In this way Loki is a trickster in the pagan sources. The Baldr myth, for instance, as it is related by Snorri, is therefore dismissed as evidence of the ‘original’ Loki, since the Loki figure here must be influenced by the Christian devil because he does not act as a trickster; therefore we cannot 21 

The history of research concerning the Loki figure is available from many books and articles on the subject. The most recent mono­graph is that by Yvonne Bonnetain (2013) which goes through most of the important research in a systematic way (pp. 44–92) and to which we refer for especially the older part of the research history (cf. also de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 265–67; Holtsmark 1962). In the present overview, only contributions which aim to interpret the Loki figure as a whole will be discussed, while many, some quite important, contributions dealing only with particular myths (such as, for instance, the relation with Skaði; Skáldskaparmál, p. 2), will not be mentioned (see n. 17 above). 22  Good overviews of the history of research within the general history of religions concerning nature mythology are found in van Baal and van Beek (1985), Sharpe (1975), Morris (1987); and particularly within the Nordic and Germanic areas, Seipp (1968). Cf. also de Vries (1961b).

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use it as evidence that Loki in pagan times was not a basically harmless figure. Apart from such shortcomings, de Vries’s work remains one of the very best and most thought-provoking scholarly contributions to the problem of Loki. The idea of Loki as a trickster is probably the most influential contribution of all to the Loki research (cf. von Schnurbein 2000: 113). Almost every scholar since de Vries has had to admit that the deity definitely has traits that strongly recall the trickster figures of the Americas (and, of course, other comparable beings, as for instance the Greek Prometheus). Nevertheless, this trickster aspect is by most scholars regarded as inadequate in order to fully understand the role and function of Loki in Scandinavian mythology,23 so even if de Vries’s contribution is certainly one of the most important interpretations hitherto, other scholars have gone other ways. Folke Ström (1956a) and Ernst A. Philippson (1953) in the 1950s both propose a theory that Loki originally represented the evil or negative side of Óðinn. Especially Ström, in Loki: Ein mythologisches Problem from 1956, presents a thorough argument for this proposal. The fundamental argument is that the two gods are alike in many respects (they both have feminine traits, and they are both able to transform themselves into animals) and not least their blood brotherhood could suggest some kind of identity. Thus, Loki is seen as the ‘dark side’ of Óðinn, having attracted those traits which in the late pagan period were not acceptable for the main god. Ström too selects carefully the sources that fit his theory, emphasizing especially the myths from the second group outlined in the ‘Myth’ section above (those in which Loki appears as a negative and sinister figure) and dismisses others. As mentioned above, the complex source situation allows for this sort of interpretative practice, but if we compare to de Vries, we cannot avoid noticing that when using this sort of source criticism almost everything becomes possible. Others have accepted the analyses of Ström and Philippson as far as the similarities between Loki and Óðinn go, but it seems a sizeable step from these similarities to the acceptance of an original historical identity.24 Georges Dumézil chooses another way. He argues in the second edition of his book Loki, from 1959, that by comparing Loki especially to the Caucasian material, the essential part of the Loki figure as we see him in the Old Norse material must be considered in a wider Indo-European context. Especially the Baldr myth is regarded as a parallel to the Caucasian narratives of the killing 23  De Vries himself changed his view under the influence of the theories of Dumézil, in his 1956–57 edition of Altgermanische Religionsgeschichte (1956–57a: ii, 266). 24  For a more detailed discussion of Ström’s view points, see Schjødt 2018.

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of the hero Soslan by the antagonist Syrdon who, although using different means, by trickery kills the supposedly invulnerable hero. Dumézil’s conclusion, which is quite unusual for his normal, structuralist way of dealing with Indo-European myths, is best characterized as ‘psychological’: to understand Loki, we must see him as a personification of the ‘impulsive intelligence’, 25 which, of course, fits well with the god’s psychology as he is portrayed in the sources. The problem is just how much it really helps us, if we want to understand the function of a god or goddess within a mythological structure, to characterize his or her psychology. Does it actually enhance our understanding if, for instance, we characterize Þórr as the aggressive one? It is true that various gods are portrayed with psychological characteristics and this may be interesting, but this is hardly the key to understanding their role in the worldview of a given culture. In another book from the same year, the second (and heavily revised) edition of his book on the Old Norse myths in general, Les dieux des Germains (English translation: Gods of the Ancient Northmen (1973c)), Dumézil also deals with Loki, but this time in his usual way. By comparing the myth complexes of Baldr and Ragnarǫk on the one hand to the main plot of the Indian epic Mahabharata on the other hand, he succeeds in showing that Loki can be regarded as a parallel to the villain of the epic, Duryodhana, who in turn should be seen as an incarnation of ‘the demon of our era’ or the present era, Kali (Dumézil 1973c: 56–57). Especially during the sixties and seventies, Dumézil’s results were more or less accepted by many famous scholars within the field, such as E. O. G. TurvillePetre (1964), Å. V. Ström (1975), and, as mentioned, Jan de Vries (relying on the first edition of Dumézil’s Loki book from 1948) (1956–57a), and his theories are still the object of serious scholarly discussion. The most important characteristic of Dumézil is that he is not (at least not in the last-mentioned book) interested in any sort of ‘original’ Loki but focuses instead on the function of the figure as he is portrayed in the extant sources.26 Another mono­g raph was released in 1961 by the Swedish folklorist Anna Birgitta Rooth, whose aim is to discover the original notion of Loki in the 25 

This is in opposition to the god Hœnir, who is interpreted by Dumézil as the ‘slow intelligence’, so that both Hœnir and Loki represent aspects of a mental capacity (è52). 26  This is also partly the aim of both de Vries and Folke Ström, but it is characteristic that, whereas in Dumézil’s analysis, this function is evident from the extant sources as we have them, this is not the case with either de Vries or Ström. They both focus on a figure who is definitely not the Loki we meet in the medi­eval sources.

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North, and she concludes that he was originally a spinner,27 functioning somewhat like a trickster and a culture hero, since he is the creator of the fishing net (cf. above), the one myth she accepts as genuinely belonging to Old Norse paganism. As already noted, it cannot be denied that Loki’s behaviour strongly recalls the trickster figures of other cultures, but it seems a bit farfetched to regard him as a culture hero because of the net (cf. Libermann 1992). Rooth’s method was traditional in historical folkloristics of that time:28 she traces the individual motifs in which Loki takes part; if these motifs are found outside Scandinavia, they are not viewed as genuinely Scandinavian and must thus be later influences on the original idea which, as mentioned, according to Rooth, is that Loki was a spinner. Compared to the works previously mentioned, Rooth’s theory seems somewhat simplistic and has only recently been taken up again (Heide 2011), although from another methodological perspective. From the point of view of the history of religions, Jens Peter Schjødt published an article in 1981, ‘Om Loke endnu engang’ (1981a). Here, it is suggested that, even though the sources on Loki are of very diverse nature and provenance, it is possible to consider all the evidence within a single ideological framework. Using the second theory of Dumézil, referred to above, as a starting point, Schjødt proposes that Loki can be seen as the means by which fate moves the world towards its end in Ragnarǫk. Being a mediator and as such confusing the basic categories of the world, Loki is able to take on the role of the demon of the present era, that is, the parallel to the Indian Kali Yuga, and thus fulfil the destiny of the world. Schjødt’s way of using the sources has been criticized (e.g., concerning Lokasenna, Söderberg 1987), but his argument has had some impact on further research. Jerold C. Frakes, in an article from 1987, ‘Loki’s Mythological Function in the Tripartite System’, presents an interesting analysis of Loki in relation to Dumézil’s ideas of the basic Indo-European tripartite structure, and he concludes that, although Loki falls outside the tripartite system, he is essential to its function, because he is the eternal antagonist or the essential Other. This interpretation is certainly helpful in order to understand Loki’s role as part of the overall mythic system, even if it leaves many details unexplained. In Both One and Many from 1994, John McKinnell also contributes to our understanding of Loki by discerning three different roles played by the god we meet in the sources. These are: the ‘trickster’, the ‘traitor’, and the ‘accuser’, three 27  As with so many other scholars, it is very unclear what is meant with ‘original’ (cf. Schjødt 2017c). 28  As for instance by Axel Olrik (1911) and Hilding Celander (1910, 1914).

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‘faces’ that are adopted at different stages. The first is certainly pagan, while the second has its roots in pagan times, and the third originates in Christian times (1994: 54–55). Whereas the analysis is in many ways rather convincing, McKinnell’s conclusions on the successive stages are not the only potentially correct reconstruction. Stefanie von Schnurbein’s article from 2000, ‘The Function of Loki in Snorri Sturluson’s Edda’, has, as the title indicates, a more limited scope in that it focuses on the way Snorri ‘uses’ the god. Nevertheless, the article constitutes a theory of the Loki figure in general and presents some interesting ideas. Von Schnurbein’s main point is, more or less in a reaction to Schjødt’s theory, that Loki was not a negative figure per se but was forced to act and behave negatively by the insults from the other gods. It is only in Snorri’s Christian perspective that he comes to resemble the devil. A whole book on the Loki figure was published in 2006 by Yvonne S. Bonnetain, Der nordgermanische Gott Loki aus litteraturwissenschaftlicher Perspektive.29 The book analyzes all the Loki myths and constantly engages in discussions with previous research. During these discussions, Bonnetain presents a lot of suggestions as to how to understand many details within the myths,30 but her main purpose seems to be that we must remain open to many different methods and theories because Loki is such a complex figure, pieced together from aspects belonging to various ages. Bonnetain draws a distinction between two kinds of ‘development’ in the Loki figure, ‘intramythologisch’ and ‘extramythologish’, a distinction already made by Schjødt (1981a): the first term deals with how Loki is perceived within the mythology itself, and the second deals with the role of Loki in different historical periods. Thus, the historical perspective occupies a very strong position in the book, and as such it continues the tradition that has prevailed through virtually all the research done on Loki. But at the same time, the author seems to be more aware of the methodological problems we face when we work with a pagan god who is presented to us almost exclusively through medi­e val sources. This said, 29  A much larger book on Loki by the same author was published in 2013, but the conclusions and viewpoints are very similar to those of the 2006 book. 30  One of the most interesting, but also most dubious, suggestions concerns the role of Loki in the Baldr myth. Here, it is said that in pagan times where a cyclical world-view was prevalent, the killing of Baldr was a necessary means to allow the world to enter a new cycle. Thus, it should be seen as a sacrifice for renewing the world (p. 120) and, as a consequence, Loki’s role only became dubious in the linear world-view of Christianity (p. 223). Bonnetain has been strongly criticized by Liberman (2016: 226–27).

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it is obvious that, from the point of view of the history of religions, we cannot be content with a solution to the problem of Loki that is based on purely literary analyses. While many of our sources are literary, the old problem still remains: how do we determine which of them relate pagan ideas and which are under the influence of Christian viewpoints? As has been shown by several scholars, even when we are able to date the texts with some certainty, this is not necessarily the same as dating the ideas related in them (cf. Meulengracht Sørensen 1991). An article by Kevin Wanner was published in 2009. Influenced by ideas proposed by classical scholars Marcel Detienne and Jean-Pierre Vernant concerning the Greek notion metis, which is translated as ‘cunning’, Wanner suggests that this concept may account for Loki’s role in Nordic mythology, especially in his relation to Óðinn. He proposes that Loki with his cunning intelligence was closely connected to the skalds, a kind of ‘god of poets’ (2009: 237). Throughout the article, there are many interesting reflections concerning, for example, the roles of and relation between Loki and Hœnir, the relation between kings and skalds, and many others. An article by Eldar Heide (2011) should also be mentioned here. In it, Heide proposes to take up once again the idea proposed by Rooth (and others before her) that late folkloristic material should be taken into consideration in our attempts to understand Loki. Heide sees two ‘Lokis’: one being a domestic spirit connected to the Ash Lad figure, and the other one a purely mythological figure. Even if many new etymological arguments are taken into consideration, some of which are rather persuasive, the article suffers to some extent from the same old problems that have been so irksome to most of the Loki research: namely, that the search for an ‘original’ Loki is very difficult to achieve from the sources that we have, and that the very notion of ‘original’ is very hard to define in a meaningful way that accords with what we know about ‘ethnic’ religions of polygenetic origins. Finally, we should mention a recent book by Anatoly Liberman (2016), which contains large chapters on Loki and Baldr (pp. 142–260). Here a lot of literature is mentioned and a lot of relevant discussions are entered. The chapters on Loki are based on an earlier article (1992), but includes also new issues. Liberman’s view is that Loki and Útgarðaloki were one and the same (p. 191), and that Loki from originally being a primitive chthonic deity developed into the famous giant Útgarðaloki, the ruler of Útgarðar, which according to Liberman should be seen as an underworld (p. 154). Many of these ideas have been proposed earlier, and although they may be correct, there is a good deal of hypothesis in the whole reconstruction.

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Concluding Remarks We have seen that most of the research concerning Loki has focused on attempting to distinguish between pagan and Christian notions of the figure. This is reasonable given the nature of especially the literary sources we have at our disposal; but at the same time, there is a risk that the quite trite acknowledgement, known to all historians of religion, that all religious notions and all religious rituals are to some extent influenced by something else, is forgotten, resulting in the utopian idea that if we are only careful enough in our treatment of the sources we can find, behind all those late and foreign influences, a figure that was pure and not ‘polluted’ by any sort of influence. Such a god does not exist, not in Scandinavia, nor anywhere else, at least not within the whole of the Indo-European and Semitic areas. It is also noteworthy that there seems to exist, among most scholars, an agreement that the diversity within the sources must be due exclusively to historical changes (‘extra-mythological changes’ in Bonnetain’s terminology). The question may well be posed, however, whether this diversity could not to some extent just as well be explained as different, but contemporary, traditions. It is a well-known fact that, in all oral cultures, there is never only one version of a given myth. Every time the myth is told, something is added and something is lost, depending on the skills of the narrator and the situation in which the story is told. This is obviously not to say that Loki did not undergo development through time, but just that the historical model is not the only one relevant and feasible when we try to understand the strange figure of Loki. For instance: it cannot be doubted that, as most scholars are aware, there are elements within the figure that remind us of the trickster known from so many illiterate cultures (and some literate cultures, too); likewise, there can be no doubt that Loki is in many myths in much more serious opposition to the other gods than we usually see with trickster figures. But does that necessarily mean that the two groups of stories, emphasizing one or the other of these characteristics, cannot be contemporary? Or is it at least possible to imagine that at certain places, at certain occasions, one type of story was told and in other circumstances another kind of story? We will never know for sure, but it must be suggested here that, in dealing with such a complex figure as Loki, we cannot rely exclusively on one model if we want to explain what appear to be inconsistencies. Regarding Loki, it seems reasonable to a much greater degree than is usually the case to take into consideration parallels from other cultures and to pay attention to the ways in which mythic mechanisms and diversity work in those other cultures.

45 – Freyja Ingunn Ásdísardóttir Introduction Freyja can be said to be the chief goddess of the pantheon in Ásgarðr, and, although Frigg is the wife of Óðinn, Freyja plays a far greater role in the mythology and was apparently worshipped to a greater extent. Freyja is of the vanir family, one of the two groups of gods in the pagan pantheon (è40). She is the daughter of Njǫrðr and the sister of Freyr; her name means ‘lady’, but she also has other names which relate to her many aspects and roles. Freyja’s main domains of power are sexuality and fertility, war and death, and the magic called seiðr. She also seems to be connected to gold and wealth. Historically, we do not know how old this goddess is. Neither she nor the other vanir are undisputedly found in the south Germanic area, but it seems certain that one or more goddesses associated with fertility and sexuality existed as far back as we can see.

Sources Other than in kennings, there are hardly any references to Freyja in the skaldic corpus, although a myth possibly involving Freyja is hinted at in st. 2 of Húsdrápa: namely, the struggle between Heimdallr and Loki, which according to Snorri was over the Brísingamen, Freyja’s necklace.1 Freyja plays a dominant role in the eddic poem Hyndluljóð and is furthermore mentioned in 1  Following up on Snorri, some observers have seen references to the Brísingamen in the stanza, while others have interpreted the stanza without recourse to Snorri or the necklace.

Ingunn Ásdísardóttir, Chair Person and Independent Scholar, Reykjavík Academy, and Assistant Lecturer, University of Iceland The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume iii, ed. by Jens Peter p. 1273–1302 Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) p BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116972

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Grímnismál, Lokasenna, and Þrymskviða, all of which provide us with important mythical information. She also seems to be referred to a few times in Vǫluspá, although not by name. Snorri Sturluson relates mythical information about Freyja, both in his Edda in Gylfaginning and Skáldskaparmál, as well as in Ynglinga saga in Heimskringla; and especially in Gylfaginning, she is mostly portrayed as a love goddess. In Snorri’s Edda, she also appears in the þulur where she is both mentioned in the lists for ásynjur and also gets a whole stanza for herself, listing her names and relations. Freyja is briefly mentioned in Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar, seemingly in connection with the afterlife, and in Íslendingabók — in connection with the Christianization of Iceland — where the story about a certain Hjalti Skeggjason being outlawed for reviling Freyja indicates that she must have enjoyed a certain amount of high-status worship. Finally, she is mentioned in the late Sǫrla þáttr (fourteenth century), where she is associated with sexuality, gold, and death and unending warfare. Snorri moreover provides quite a few kennings that refer to Freyja and to myths involving her, such as those of her family connections, the disappearance of Óðr and her golden tears, her cats and her necklace, her reception of the fallen warriors, as well as her ties to love and fertility. Hvernig skal Freyju kenna? Svá at kalla dóttur Njarðar, systur Freys, konu Óðs, móður Hnossar, eigandi valfalls ok Sessrúmnis ok fressa, Brisíngamens, Vana goð, Vana dís, it grátfagra goð. (Skáldskaparmál p. 30). (How shall Freyja be referred to? By calling her daughter of Niord, sister of Freyr, wife of Od, mother of Hnoss, possessor of the fallen slain and of Sessrumnir and tom-cats, of Brisingamen, Van-deity, Van-lady, fair-tear deity. (p. 86)

Not all of these kennings are, however, actually used in the skaldic poetry that we know, and those that are add little to the picture known from other sources. Freyja also functions as a determinant in the kenning system, building on the myth of her marriage to Óðr and her tearful search for her absent husband; in most cases these kennings designate gold. There are few archaeological artefacts that can unambiguously be linked to Freyja. Only one small figurine seems beyond doubt to represent Freyja (see below). Adding to this the evidence of numerous theophoric placenames that seemingly refer to Freyja, both from Norway and Sweden, it is reasonable to argue that Freyja was worshipped over large parts of Scandinavia, as is to be expected considering her relation to fertility and sexuality, but of course we should not expect that the goddess who was worshipped in pagan times is necessarily exactly identical with the figure of Freyja that is presented in the medi­eval

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sources. Moreover, she may well have been known also by other names, as is indicated in the literary sources.

Myths In contrast to some of the other gods about whom whole myths are known, mythical information about Freyja must to a great extent be patched together from various sources, as references to her and her mythical dealings are mostly scattered throughout the literary sources in bits and pieces, with the notable exceptions of Hyndluljóð and Sǫrla þáttr. Snorri, however, gives a brief description of her in Gylfaginning. After stating that Njǫrðr is not of the æsir kin, but of the vanir, he says: Njǫrðr í Nóatúnum gat síðan tvau bǫrn. Hét sonr Freyr, en dóttir Freyja. Þau váru fǫgr álitum ok máttug. […] En Freyja er ágætust af ásynjum. Hon á þann bæ á himni, er Fólkvangr heita, ok hvar sem hon ríðr til vígs þá á hon hálfan val, en hálfan Óðinn (Gylfaginning p. 24). (Niord of Noatun had afterwards two children. The son was called Freyr and the daughter Freyia. They were beautiful in appearance and mighty. […] And Freyia is the most glorious of the Asyniur. She has a dwelling in heaven called Folkvangar, and wherever she rides to battle she gets half the slain, and the other half Odin.) (p. 24)

Freyja is associated with many different aspects of life, her most important spheres, as mentioned, being fertility and sexuality, war and death, seiðr, and wealth, mostly in the form of gold.2 Sexuality and Fertility Looking for the fertility aspect of Freyja, we find quite a few and also varied references that relate to her role as a goddess of sexuality, fertility, growth, and life-giving forces: A reference to Freyja in Vǫluspá appears in this question: hverir hefði lopt allt lævi blandit eða ætt iǫtuns Óðs mey gefna. (Vǫluspá st. 25) 2 

For a good overview of the functions of Freyja, see Boyer (1995: 120–62), and most introductory works to PCRN.

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(which people had troubled the air with treachery, or given Od’s girl to the giant race. (p. 7)

Apparently, we have here a reference to a myth involving Freyja, namely the one of the master builder, elaborated in Snorri’s Gylfaginning (pp. 34–35), wherein a jǫtunn offers to build a wall around Ásgarðr within a defined timespan, demanding Freyja and the sun and the moon in return if he succeeds. In this myth, the gods become oath-breakers because they have to resort to trickery in order to avoid losing Freyja, the sun, and the moon to the giants (cf. ch. 40), thereby unbalancing the cosmic as well as the social order of the world. This myth links up with others that treat similar themes, such as the one told by Snorri in Skáldskaparmál (p. 20) where the giant Hrungnir boasts his intention to destroy Ásgarðr and take Freyja and Sif with him to Giantland, and the one found in Þrymskviða where the giant Þrymr has stolen Þórr’s hammer and refuses to return it unless he is given Freyja for wife. These myths all display Freyja as a desired sexual object for the giants, which may refer back to her role as a goddess of the fertility that is threatened by the giants and has to be defended by Þórr, indicating further that she, or at least the fact that she resides within Ásgarðr, has a cosmic significance. Freyja, however, is not the protagonist in these myths but appears only as the one (representing what is) desired by the giants — probably mainly female sexuality (è41). All these three stories thus show Freyja as an object of desire to the enemies of the gods, the giants. Given Freyja’s connection with sexuality and fertility, it is not surprising that the giants should desire Freyja, since by having her in their power they would obtain power over life itself. The presentation of these myths in the literary sources clearly shows her sexual attraction. Freyja’s image as a fertility deity, however, is not based on any direct references in sources, and on the surface the sexuality aspect (which is, of course, connected to fertility) appears to be much more prevalent. Thus, love and sexuality seem to be thematized in Snorri’s words: ‘Henni líkaði vel mansǫngr. Á hana er gott at heita til ásta’ (Gylfaginning p. 25) (She was very fond of love songs. It is good to pray to her concerning love affairs) (p. 24), and by the designation ástaguð (deity of love) found in some manu­scripts of Skáldskaparmál. References to her fertility function are predominantly found in her by-names: In Gylfaginning (p. 29), Snorri lists some of these, although without giving any explanations of their meanings. Freyja’s by-names that may relate to fertility are: Hǫrn, perhaps from the word hǫr ‘linen’, connecting her to growth and linen-production as well as spinning and weaving, which in turn have strong links to fate (cf.  è 35); Gefn ‘the giving one’, probably referring to the gifts

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of the earth, growth, and fertility; and Sýr ‘sow’, referring to fertility as pigs have long been symbolic of fertility and prolification, but also to warfare (see below). The by-name Mardǫll (mar = sea)3 could indicate some association with the sea, which recalls her father, Njǫrðr, who was god of the sea and seafaring (cf. è47). Two other by-names of Freyja are found in þulur: Þrǫng and Skjálf. Both of these are rather obscure: Þrǫng may refer to a throng of people and be connected to her abode Fólkvangr, thronged with a great many dead warriors; and Skjálf may be linked to names of halls such as Valaskjálf and Hliðskjálf, thus possibly linking her to some place of worship or describing her as the owner of a hall. Both these names may, however, also hold connotations to warfare and death (see below). Another myth implicitly referred to in the Vǫluspá stanza quoted above is Freyja’s marriage to a certain Óðr, also elaborated in Snorri’s Gylfaginning, where it says that Freyja: giptisk þeim manni, er Óðr heitir. […] Óðr fór í braut langar leiðir, en Freyja grætr eptir, en tár hennar er gull rautt. Freyja á mǫrg nǫfn, en sú er sǫk til þess at hon gaf sér ýmis heiti er hon fór með ókunnum þjóðum að leita Óðs. (Gylfaginning p. 29) (was married to someone called Od. […] Od went off on long travels, and Freyia stayed behind weeping, and her tears are red gold. Freyia has many names, and the reason for this is that she adopted various names when she was travelling among strange peoples looking for Od. (pp. 29–30)

Apart from the reference in Vǫluspá, Snorri is probably also relying on other similar references, such as Hyndluljóð 47 where Hyndla refers to Freyja’s search for Óðr and þulur 25 where she is said to weep golden tears for Óðr.4 About Óðr nothing is known except that he left and Freyja subsequently sought him all over the world. In this, Freyja has been compared to a number of goddesses from the Mediterranean areas and the Middle East who weep and search for their lost lovers, such as Inanna, Ishtar, Astarte, Isis, even Demeter (e.g., Schröder 1941b: 20–22).5 Some of these goddesses have been seen as related to the change of the seasons: when the lover is away in the world of the dead, the goddess follows him and there is then no growth, whereas their resurrection 3 

döll = unclear, possibly ‘bright, shining’; possibly cognate with the second element in the name Heimdallr (cf. Näsström 1995: 152). 4  Óðr is clearly related to Óðinn (cf. Ullr — Ullinn; è4 and è49). See also below. 5  For a brief research history of the goddess, see Näsström (1995: 11–19).

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Figure 45.1. A lavishly decorated wagon from the burial at Oseberg in Vestfold, dated to the early ninth century (Kulturhistorisk museum, Oslo, no. O1904). One end of the wagon is decorated with nine cats, suggesting an allusion to Freyja travelling in a wagon drawn by cats. Photo: Kulturhistorisk Museum, Universitet i Oslo, Oslo. 

makes the world prosper. However, this combination of fertility and the cyclical turn of the seasons is not easy to detect in the myth about Freyja’s search for Óðr, except perhaps tenuously in some of the many kennings for gold that refer to this myth (see below): perhaps when the tears are called rain, there may be a fertility connotation with the golden rain symbolizing two kinds of fecundity — growth and wealth. Snorri tells us (Gylfaginning pp. 25, 47; Skáldskaparmál p. 30) that Freyja travels in a wagon drawn by cats, and because of this, the procession that Tacitus links to Nerthus may be relevant to consider in connection with Freyja. Although in the extant Old Norse material we only hear about Freyr being carried around in such a procession (Ǫgmundar þáttr dytts;; see è25), it can certainly not be ruled out that this could also have happened to Freyja. Archaeology has likewise yielded evidence that looks relevant here. since the wagons and tapestry pictures from the early ninth-century Oseberg grave in Norway may indicate: first, that this travelling by wagon was practised for a very long period of time; second, that the wagons of the Oseberg grave

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carry numerous carved depictions of cats, and one cannot but wonder, in the light of Snorri’s statement that Freyja travels in a wagon drawn by two cats (Gylfaginning p. 25). It is nonetheless conspicuous that lasciviousness is accorded much greater emphasis in portrayals of Freyja than is fertility as such, as has already been discussed. An example of this is found in Lokasenna, where Loki accuses Freyja of having had sexual intercourse with all the present male gods, even her own brother:6 ‘Þegi þú, Freyia! þic kann ec fullgerva: era þér vamma vant: ása ok álfa, er hér inni ero, hverr hefir þinn hór verið.’ (Lokasenna st. 30)

(Be silent, Freyia, I know all about you; you aren’t free of faults: of the Æsir and the elves, who are in here, each one has been your lover. (p. 86)

Loki states here that he knows everything about Freyja and may be referring to some myths now lost. In this stanza, he accuses her of having had sex with every male present in the party, and the tone seems to indicate that there might be more. Some of Freyja’s lovers are known from other sources, and, in addition to her husband Óðr, we may mention Óttarr (Hyndluljóð), Óðinn, and four dwarfs (Sǫrla þáttr). Loki also points out that in her choice of sexual partners she does not differentiate between the races of æsir and elves. And since, as has been pointed out by scholars such as Hall (2007), Gunnell (2007a), and Schjødt (1991, 2008), the elves and the vanir may, at least sometimes, be seen as identical (è 40, è 63), it could be imagined that Loki is referring to the incestuous practices that existed among the vanir. This issue is explicitly mentioned by Loki in stanza 32: ‘Þegi þú, Freyia! Þú ert fordæða ok meini blandin mioc, síztic at brœðr þínom stóðo blíð regin, oc mundir þú þá, Freyia, frata’. (Lokasenna st. 32) 6 

It has been argued that Lokasenna is a late poem and influenced by Christian morality. However, this assumption is by no means necessary: Even in pagan times it was probably not seen as very positive that women had sex with men other than their husbands and certainly not their own brothers.

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(Be silent, Freyia, you’re a witch and much imbued with malice, you were with your brother, all the cheerful gods surprised you, and then, Freyia, you farted.) (p. 86)

The fact that Loki accuses her of farting appears to be an extra insult, ‘an insult or joke whose exact tenor escapes us today’, as John Lindow notes (2002a: 127). In Hyndluljóð, we find a similar reference to sexual lasciviousness as well as a reference to Freyja’s travelling far and wide as Hyndla throws the following abuse at Freyja: ‘Rannt at Œði ey þreyiandi, scutuz þér fleiri und fyrirscyrto: hleypr þú, eðlvina, úti á náttom, sem með hǫfrom Heiðrún fari.’ (Hyndluljóð st. 47).

(You ran after Od,7 always full of desire, many have thrust themselves under your over-skirt; you run about, noble lady, out in the night, as Heidrun runs in heat among the he-goats.) (p. 251)

This seems to be a reference to Freyja’s unhampered sexual desire. Looking beyond the negative attitude in Hyndla’s accusation here, we see in both elements mentioned in the stanza a reference to the sexuality, and therefore perhaps implicitly to the fertility aspect, of the goddess. In the Freyja figure, it thus appears that we meet two kinds of sexuality: one connected to fertility, the other connected to what can be described almost as a kind of nymphomania (akin to what Lindow (2008), with reference to the male vanir Njǫrðr and Freyr, calls ‘manic-vanic’ love). The latter is thus seen as threatening the social order. This negative aspect of sexuality is probably also what rears its head in the information about the incestuous marriage rules of the vanir, before the hostages were sent to the æsir. This incest theme connected to the vanir is most clearly described in Ynglinga saga ch. 4 (è40): Njǫrð ok Frey setti Óðinn blótgoða, ok váru þeir Díar með Ásum. Dóttir Njarðar var Freyja, hon var blótgyðja, ok hon kendi fyrst með Ásum seið, sem Vǫnum var títt. Þá er Njǫrðr var með Vǫnum, þá hafði hann átta systur sína, því at þat váru þar 7 

Larrington chooses to take manu­script ‘at œði’ as referring to Óðr, although an emendation would then be required. Most likely, perhaps, is that the expression means ‘possessed’ (von See and others 2000: 825).

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lǫg; váru þeirra bǫrn Freyr ok Freyja. En þat var bannat með Ásum at byggja svá náit at frændsemi. (Óthin appointed Njorth and Freyr to be priests for the sacrificial offerings, and they were díar [gods] among the Æsir. Freyja was the daughter of Njorth. She was the priestess at the sacrifices. It was she who first taught the Æsir magic such as was practiced among the Vanir. While Njorth lived with the Vanir he had his sister as wife, because that was the custom among them. Their children were Frey and Freya. But among the Æsir it was forbidden marry so near a kin. (p. 8)

Here, Snorri relates that Njǫrðr begot Frey and Freyja on his sister.8 The siblings, Freyr and Freyja, may also have been partners in a similar marriage before the vanir gods joined the æsir gods. The last sentence may possibly imply that their marriage had to be terminated after their arrival in Ásgarðr. We also have here a seemingly straightforward reference to the vanir as receivers of sacrifice, thus including Freyja as a mythological deity of worship. This is enforced in a further reference in Ynglinga saga: Freyja hélt þá upp blótum, því at hon ein lifði þá eptir goðanna, ok varð hon þá hin frægsta, svá at með hennar nafni skyldi kalla allar konur tignar, svá sem nú heita frúvor. Svá heitir ok hver freyja yfir sinni eign, en sú húsfreyja, er bú á. Freyja var heldr marglynd; Óðr hét bóndi hennar, dœtr hennar hétu Hnoss ok Gersemi; þær váru fagrar mjǫk: af þeirra nafni eru svá kallaðir hinir dýrstu gripir. (Ynglinga saga ch. 10) (Freyja kept up the sacrifices for she was the only one of the godheads who survived. Therefore she became most famous, so that all women of rank came to be called by her name. They are now called frúvur [ladies]. Thus everyone who is a misress over her property is called freya, and húsfreya [lady of the house] one who owns an estate. Freyja was rather fickle-minded. Her husband was called Óth, and her daughters, Hnoss and Gersimi. They were very beautiful, and we give their names to our most precious possessions. (p. 14)

In this passage, we see a confirmation of Freyja’s status as a blótgyðja, enjoying great honour. The fact that Freyja is said to have kept up the sacrifices is in itself interesting, since this was normally an obligation for male leaders. Moreover, Snorri here is probably alluding to Freyja’s many love affairs as well as noting her marriage to Óðr and the existence of her daughters.

8 

In Gylfaginning, however, we get the impression that the siblings are children of Njǫrðr and Skaði.

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Freyja’s identity as a fertility goddess, in spite of scant source material, seems thus to be closely bound up with her vanir kin, as the daughter of Njǫrðr and sister of Freyr, both of whom are clearly attested in the sources as deities associated with riches and on Freyr’s part to sexuality and fertility. The skaldic kennings that refer to Freyja’s kin, such as the above-mentioned Njarðar dóttir (daugter of Njǫrðr) and Freys nipt (sister of Freyr), demonstrate the importance of this connection to the skalds. The above-noted myth about Freyja’s marriage to Óðr also presents some quite confusing points due to the similarity between the names of Óðr and Óðinn (Turville-Petre 1964: 176; è4) as well as a number of mythical features that these two appear to have in common: in Ynglinga saga (ch. 3) Óðinn is said to travel abroad for a long time, leaving his wife, Frigg, at home who then married his brothers Vili and Vé;9 and in Sǫrla þáttr (ch. 1) Freyja is said to be Óðinn’s concubine. As this makes evident, the roles of Óðinn and Óðr, as well as those of Frigg and Freyja, carry similar elements: the male figure leaves his wife who then has sex with other men. War and Death Also on a functional level Freyja seems to have a close connection to Óðinn, namely in her capacity as goddess of those dead in battle: In Grímnismál st. 14 her abode is named Fólkvangr (battle-field; field of many people), and she is said to receive half of the dead with Óðinn receiving the other half. Fólcvangr er inn níundi, enn þar Freyia ræðr sessa kostom í sal; hálfan val hon kýss hverian dag, enn hálfan Óðinn á. (Folkvang is the ninth, and there Freyia fixes allocation of seats in the hall; half the slain she chooses every day, and half Odin owns.) (p. 50)

Snorri includes this stanza in his description of the vanir gods in Gylfaginning p. 24, quoted above, and he then goes on: 9 

In his Gesta Danorum, Saxo Grammaticus also tells a story about the couple Othinus and Frigga, in which Frigga’s greed for gold is so humiliating for Othinus that he leaves home and goes into a self-imposed exile (1.7.1).

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Salr hennar Sessrúmnir, hann er mikill ok fagr. En er hon ferr, þá ekr hon kǫttum tveim ok sitr í reið. Hon er nákvæmust mǫnnum til á at heita, ok af hennar nafni er þat tignarnafn, er ríkiskonur eru kallaðar fróvur. Henni líkaði vel mansǫngr. Á hana er gott at heita til ásta. (Gylfaginning p. 25) (Sessrumnir, as her hall is called here, is large and beautiful. And when she travels she drives two cats and sits in a chariot. She is the most approachable one for people to pray to, and from her name is derived the honorific title whereby noble ladies are called frovur [noble ladies]. She was very fond of love songs. It is good to pray to her concerning love affairs.) (p. 24)

Apart from her relation to matters of love, it is emphasized here that Freyja reigns within her own abode, indicating that she has her own domain of power, seemingly linked to inter alia battle and death. Snorri cites this stanza in Gylfaginning (p. 24), adding to its information that Freyja rides to battle, thus connecting her even more directly to war. An interesting piece of information linked to this may be found in Hyndluljóð, where Freyja rides a boar, which is either called Hildisvíni (boar of battle) or Gullinbursti (golden bristles), the latter name being identical with her brother Freyr’s boar on which he rides to Baldr’s funeral (Húsdrápa st. 7). This also links up with Freyja’s above-mentioned by-name Sýr, ‘sow’. Pigs, especially boars, were seemingly believed to have protective qualities, possibly especially in battle and warfare, as can be seen both on helmets decorated with boar motifs, found in Vendel in Sweden and Sutton Hoo in England, and in the Old English poem Beowulf where it says that images of boars on a helmet decoration protect the life of the warrior (Beowulf ll. 303–06). In this context an especially interesting kenning in a stanza by Egill Skallagrímsson is sárlaxa sýr ‘sow of the wound-salmons [swords]’, designating a valkyrja (Finnur Jónsson 1912–15: bi, 46; Finnur Jónsson 1931: 485).10 The name of Freyja’s hall, Sessrúmnir, is nowhere else to be found in the sources, and the question arises whether Snorri himself may have made the name up from the first half of the Grímnismál stanza. Whether or not this is the case, the fact remains that the name of the hall portrays an atmosphere of lofty greatness, and this seems to be corroborated by both pictorial and textual presentations of the mistress of the house receiving the warrior with a horn or a ‘mead cup’ (Enright 1996a), a scene also connected to the dead warriors. According to the latter part of the Grímnismál stanza, Freyja receives half of the men fallen in battle, which undisputably indicates that she is in some way or other a goddess of the dead and the afterworld, although the literary 10 

This kenning might also be construed as ‘sárlaxa Sýr’, using Freyja’s by-name.

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sources give no other detailed information about her in this context. Freyja’s by-name Vanadís might link her to the dísir and perhaps to the valkyrjur (see Ström 1954), but there are methodological difficulties regarding this potential link (è58, è60),11 and no myths now exist that definitively confirm this possible connection. Some icono­graphic material from the Gotland picture stones may shed some light on this matter. Both in Eiríksmál (st. 1) and Grímnismál (st. 36) it is stated that the valkyrjur serve mead to the einherjar; Snorri relates that Freyja serves mead to the giant Hrungnir when he comes on a visit to Ásgarðr (Skáldskaparmál pp. 20–21), and, although the context is different, this may be an indication of Freyja’s association with the valkyrjur. A common image on the Gotland stones, as well as a number of small women-figure amulets, shows a woman holding a horn in her hand, often seemingly welcoming a warrior.12 Whether this imagery is supposed to mark the arrival of soldiers to the afterworld is, of course, open to question, but no better explanation has been suggested so far.13 One other source may add to this notion, although it is relatively late. In Sǫrla þáttr from the fourteenth century, Freyja acquires a precious necklace from four dwarfs. Óðinn has Loki steal the necklace from her. and Freyja in turn becomes angry and wants her necklace back, but Óðinn refuses to return it unless þú orkir því, at þeir konungar tveir, at tuttugu konungar þjóna hvárum, verði missáttir ok berist með þeim álǫgum ok atkvæðum, at þeir skulu jafnskjótt upp standa ok berjast sem þeir áðr falla, utan nokkurr maðr kristinn verði svá rǫskr ok honum fylgi svá mikil gifta síns lánardrottins, at hann þori at ganga í bardaga þeira ok vega með vápnum þessa menn. (Sǫrla þáttr ch. 2) (you bring about a quarrel between two kings, each of whom has twenty kings subject to him; so that they shall fight under the influence of such spells and charms that as fast as they fall they shall start up again and fight on — unless there be some Christian man so brave and so much favoured by the great good fortune of his liege lord that he shall dare to take arms and enter among the combatants and slay them.) (p. 47) 11 

Names including dís, however, are mostly difficult to interpret, since this word may mean simply ‘woman’. Therefore, it is often impossible to decide whether the women bearing these names had a special affinity to the dísir or whether it is merely a reference to their gender (cf. Näsström 1995: 100–11). 12  On some of the Gotland stones, a human figure with wings is seen; whether these are supposed to designate women in bird-form is not certain. If so, there would be a connection with Freyja’s bird-costume. 13  For the whole complex of the ‘Lady with a mead cup’, we can refer to Enright (1996a).

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Freyja agrees to this in order to get her necklace back. Apparently under the name Gǫndul, she manipulates the kings Heðin and Hǫgni to fight a neverending battle for 143 years. This story may contain remnants of Freyja’s connection to war and death. The two above-mentioned by-names of Freyja listed in þulur may also link her further to warfare and death: Þrǫng may refer to a throng of people and thus be connected to her abode Fólkvangr, where Freyja apparently receives half of those fallen in battle (Grímnismál st. 14). Besides being said to be one of Freyja’s by-names in þulur, the other by-name, Skjálf,14 also occurs in Ynglinga saga (ch. 19), here as the name of a queen who causes the death of her husband, King Agni, through the manipulation of a precious necklace. If interpreted as a sacrificial act, as many of the kings’ deaths in Ynglinga saga are wont to be interpreted, the link to Freyja as a death goddess seems obvious. Besides the name being the same, the necklace directly recalls Freyja’s precious necklace, Brísingamen (see below), although she is never seen to use it to cause death. Additionally, the death that Skjálf contrives for her husband is by hanging, which closely links this episode to Óðinn, and, as we have seen, Freyja and Óðinn are closely connected in their mutual relation to war, death, and the afterlife. Two more references can be mentioned here which further associate Freyja with the dead: in Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar (ch. 78), Þorgerðr, daughter of Egill, says she will join her father in dying and states that she will neither eat nor drink until she has arrived in Freyja’s abode. In Hyndluljóð (st. 6), Freyja is said to keep her man in valsinni ‘among the fallen’.15 Both these instances connect Freyja clearly to the dead and the afterlife. An interesting link to Freyja’s warlike aspect may possibly be seen in Vǫluspá, where the figure of Gullveig, who may be another image of Freyja, seems to be the instigator of the first war in the world (cf. è40): Þat man hon fólcvíg fyrst í heimi, er Gullveigo geirom studdo ok í hǫll Hárs 14 

Cf. the placenames in Skälv (older Skialf ), which is related to the Swedish dynasty of the Skilfingar, and in their distribution may reflect the growth of the Svea imperium (Elgqvist 1944). 15  This is, however, just one possible interpretation. The word valsinni is only known from this and the following stanzas of Hyndluljóð, and it could just as well mean ‘the way to Valhǫll’ (see von See and others 2000: 711–12).

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hána brendo, þrysvar brendo, þrysvar borna, opt, ósialdan; þó hon enn lifir. (Vǫluspá st. 21) (She remembers the first war in the world, when they stuck Gullveig with spears and in the High-One’s hall they burned her; three times they burned her, three times he was reborn, over and over, yet she lives still. (p. 6)

Whether the Gullveig figure is the same person as the vǫlva, Heiðr, in the following stanza, has been debated (cf. McKinnell 2014: 34–58), but in view of the stanzas directly following in Vǫluspá (st. 22–24), both these figures seem at least to be closely affiliated with the vanir. Because of this, Gullveig (/Heiðr?) has for long been thought to be another image of Freyja, or at least very closely related to her as a symbol of gold and precious things, magic and sorcery, as well as warfare (Turville-Petre 1964: 159; Näsström 1995: 63, 83; Clunies Ross 1994a: 203). She may be the reason for or instigator of the first war in the world, the war between the two families of gods, æsir and vanir, waking the æsir’s greed and lust. As is known, this war finally resulted in the exchange of hostages whereby the vanir gods, Njǫrðr and Freyr (and presumably Freyja, too) joined the æsir gods (Ynglinga saga ch. 4), and together the two families of deities make up the pantheon of the Nordic gods in Ásgarðr. Magic Although Freyja is nowhere designated as a vǫlva, except possibly in the justmentioned Vǫluspá stanzas under the names of Gullveig/Heiðr, she seems according to other sources to be closely connected to seiðr and magic. The clearest instance of this is where Snorri relates that, when the vanir gods had joined the ranks of the æsir, Freyja was a blótgyðja (sacrificial goddess) and taught seiðr to the æsir. He further adds that seiðr was a special practice of the vanir (Ynglinga saga ch. 4). Seiðr then became one of the magical practices that Óðinn used for various purposes in his constant efforts to gain knowledge (è42).16 In this we may even see still further connections between Freyja and Óðinn (è26). The practice of seiðr has often been compared to shamanism, and one of the special characteristics of shamanism is the ability of the shaman to travel 16 

This is especially apparent in Ynglinga saga but is also evident in Lokasenna and other sources.

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between worlds. Both Óðinn and Freyja are able to do this, and both have clear associations with the worlds of the dead. In Freyja’s case, this would involve her bird-costume. It moreover seems, that in the above-mentioned Sǫrla þáttr, Freyja (under the name Gǫndul) uses some kind of seiðr in bringing about a neverending battle between two kings. A few other indications seem to enforce Freyja’s capacity in the sphere of seiðr. In the second stanza of Loki’s accusation of Freyja (see Lokasenna st. 32), Loki accuses Freyja of sorcery and magic, thus presenting such activity in a rather negative light. In many of the references to seiðr in the literary sources, this activity seems to be mainly prophetic in nature, its purpose being to seek knowledge about what will happen in the future, sometimes with regard to the fertility of the coming year. That is, for instance, the case with the seiðr performed by the vǫlva/seiðkona Þorbjǫrg lítilvǫlva in Eiríks saga rauða (ch. 4). In the famous description of her attire, she is said to wear gloves of cat-skin (è30). Adding this piece of information and the pictures of cats on the Oseberg wagons to Snorri’s description of Freyja’s cats drawing her wagon as she travels far and wide, we may see here a detail that further corroborates the connection among seiðr and Freyja and the vanir gods.17 As fertility and death are closely linked, it should also be mentioned here that some of Freyja’s by-names may, in fact, refer to fertility, seiðr, and death, all in one. Sýr, the fertile pig, also carries magical protective connotations for warriors and thus links up with war and death. Þrǫng may refer to both prolification and a battle-throng, and the name of Skjálf can be interpreted as referring to fertility through its link to the Swedish Ynglingar dynasty, but also to human sacrifice and death. Freyja’s by-name Vanadís does not only refer to her kin and the role of the vanir as fertility gods, but may moreover connect her to dísir (if the element dís- does not just connote ‘woman’) who in turn appear to be somehow associated with prophecy (Vǫlsunga saga ch. 11: spádísir). Thus, this name might also link her to magic and seiðr, and maybe even to fate.18 Another source telling us of how the goddess is related to numinous knowledge is Hyndluljóð, which relates quite a unique story about Freyja, almost the only whole myth we have about her. In this poem, we find references to most of her spheres of power, but we also see her in her full active capacity as a powerful goddess. 17  Again, we notice the similarity to Óðinn, since he, too, performs the magic called seiðr (e.g., Kormakr’s Sigurdardrapa st. 3). 18  For the relation between dísir and fate, and the nornir in general, see Bek-Pedersen (2011a: 41–48).

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Here, Freyja arrives at a cave where the giantess Hyndla lies sleeping. She wakes Hyndla and asks her to ride with her to Valhǫll. Hyndla is unwilling and resistant, but apparently Freyja promises her Þórr’s goodwill. In stanzas 5–7, we learn that Hyndla’s steed is a wolf and Freyja’s a boar, made by dwarfs (like many of the gods’ most precious things), and although this is the only source for Freyja’s boar, as discussed above, many other sources connect her to pigs. One is her by-name Sýr, ‘sow’, another is her brother Freyr’s boar, Gullinbursti ‘golden-bristles’, also made by dwarfs and on whom Freyr is said to ride to Baldr’s funeral (Húsdrápa st. 7). In Hyndluljóð, Freyja’s boar is either said to be golden-bristled or to carry the name Gullinbursti as well as the name Hildisvíni, ‘battle-swine’; whether these represent two proper names or not, the connection to Freyr and the vanir, warfare, and gold is clear. In this poem, Freyja is apparently concerned with the terms and prerequisites of kingship or chiefdom, as her purpose in visiting Hyndla is to make her recite for her the genealogy of her protégé, Óttarr, so that he may rightfully take over his heritage. Hyndla is extremely reluctant to do Freyja’s bidding, but finally she consents and recites Óttarr’s genealogy. Here, Freyja is presented as a powerful ásynja on par with Óðinn in his knowledge-related interactions with giants, because however the giantess Hyndla tries to resist or abuse her, she is neither able to avoid doing Freyja’s bidding and reveal the knowledge she possesses, nor does her abuse seem to have any effect on Freyja. Wealth One of the most conspicuous aspects of Freyja is that, when she is mentioned in the literary sources, she is frequently connected to gold and various precious things. As seen above, Snorri refers to Freyja’s marriage to Óðr and says that after he left she searched for him far and wide, crying golden tears (Gylfaginning p. 29). This myth is attested both in the þula named Ásynja heiti (st. 3): ‘Grét ok at Óði | gulli Freyja’ (Freyja also wept gold for Óðr) (p. 768) as well as in quite many skaldic kennings designating gold. These kennings refer to Freyja, both under her main name and under her various by-names: Gold is called ‘Freyju/Mardallar tár’ (Freyja’s/Mard ǫ ll’s tears) (Skúli Þórsteinsson: Poem about Svǫlðr st. 5; Bjarkamál st. 5); ‘Sýrar/Mardallar grátr’ (Sýr’s/Mardǫll’s weeping ) (Ásdís Bárðardóttir: lausavísa; Einarr Skúlason: Ǫxarflokkr st. 1); ‘Freyju hvarmþeyr’ (breeze of Freyja’s eyes) (Einarr Skúlason: Ǫxarflokkr st. 1); ‘regn Óðs beðvinu’ (rain of Óðr’s beloved) (Einarr Skúlason: Ǫxarflokkr st. 1); ‘Mardallar hvarma fagurregn’ (beautiful rain of Mardǫll’s eyes) (Háttatal st. 42).

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Although Snorri mentions Freyja’s marriage to Óðr, both in Gylfaginning (p. 29) and Skáldskaparmál (p. 30), as well as in Ynglinga saga (ch. 10), some inconsistencies separate the various works. Only in Gylfaginning does he explicitly mention her golden tears, whereas in Skáldskaparmál he calls her ‘hit grátfagra goð’ (deity beautiful in crying) but does not explain the imagery any further. Additionally, in Ynglinga saga he mentions two daughters of Freyja, Hnoss and Gersemi, but only one, Hnoss, in Gylfaginning. Apart from this, Freyja’s daughters are only mentioned in þulur (Hnoss albeit possibly, by correction, in a lausavísa by Kormákr Ǫgmundarson). Both names mean ‘precious jewel’, which relates them to Freyja and gold, but otherwise no mythological references to them are to be found. Thus, these daughters may be little more than hypostases of Freyja herself. The most profound gold connection of Freyja is, however, Brísingamen, the necklace which is one of her main attributes and which Þórr must don in Þrymskviða so that his disguise as Freyja, and Þrymr’s bride, is convincing. Although it is clearly stated both in Gylfaginning (p. 29) and Þrymskviða that Freyja owns Brísingamen, not much is really known about what it is (see also Boyer 1995: 122–23), apart from what can be discerned from its name: the word form brísinga- may be cognate with brísi ‘fire’ and brísingr which is a fire-name in þulur, thus to North Norwegian brisa ‘shine, glow’ (Ásgeir Blöndal Magnússon 1989: 82; see also de Vries 1962a: 57); men means ‘necklace’ (Ásgeir Blöndal Magnússon 1989: 615; de Vries 1962a: 384).19 The name probably means ‘firey necklace’ with fire being a reference to the colour of gold. According to Arrhenius (1969), the name could refer to jewellery of gold with inlaid red glass or red stones (cloisonné). The combination of gold and red stones would glow or give an impression of fire. In Brísingamen we may possibly see a reference to a sun-disk or the wheel of the sun, thus associating Freyja with her necklace to fertility and the force of life. As was mentioned above, an obscure reference to Brísingamen may be found in the skaldic poem Húsdrápa by the late tenth-century poet Úlfr Uggason, which Snorri Sturluson quotes in Skáldskaparmál (pp. 19, 20). According 19 

The Old English poem Beowulf mentions a heals-beaga ‘neck-ring’ (Beowulf l. 1195). This heals-beaga is stated to be the most magnificent on earth (Beowulf ll. 1195–96) and is apparently only comparable to another famous necklace called Brosinga mene, which is also called sigli ‘necklace’ and a hring ‘ring’ (Beowulf ll. 1199, 1200, 1202), and was apparently meant to give protection in battle (Beowulf l. 2002 a.o.). Although Brosinga mene is not etymologically related to Brísingamen, the words are so similar that it must be considered likely that there are common elements between the two concepts (see Ingunn Ásdísardóttir 2007: 239–40).

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to Snorri, Heimdallr and Loki fight, in the shape of seals, over an item that is probably Brísingamen (see è 50). Although Snorri says that Úlfr Uggason describes this fight elaborately in Húsdrápa, he himself only quotes one stanza that relates to this story, and, moreover, it is obscure and difficult to interpret. Snorri’s story presumably finds support in a few kennings where Loki is called ‘Brísings girðiþjófr’ (thief of the Brísing-belt/string-necklace) (Haustlǫng st. 9), and Heimdallr is called ‘mensækir Freyju’ (he who fetches Freyja’s necklace) (Skáldskaparmál p. 19). It is not difficult to imagine a now lost myth about Loki stealing Brísingamen from Freyja and Heimdallr going after him to retrieve it, upon which they fight over it, and Heimdallr brings it back to Freyja. An interesting twist in connection with this is that the second part of Freyja’s byname, Mardǫll, may be cognate with Heimdallr’s name (-dǫll, -dallr: ‘bright, shining’), with Mardǫll meaning something in the direction of ‘the bright one of the sea’ and Heimdallr’s name correspondingly meaning ‘the bright one of the earth’, and the two deities could thus be in some sense complementary in terms of belonging to the same semantic sphere, as ‘shining’ones.20 With this in mind, it would be reasonable to regard Heimdallr as Freyja’s helper in this case (Ellis Davidson 1990: 175; Näsström 1995: 152). Although such a lost myth can only be pieced together from fragments and on very shaky foundations, to say the least, one much younger source may nonetheless lend support to some of the elements of this (re)constructed myth: namely, the story related in Sǫrla þáttr. Here, we have a story about Freyja, which, although with legendary traits, probably preserves some older mythological material not least concerning the (probable) origin of Brísingamen. Freyja is said in this story to be Óðinn’s concubine/lover. She has her own house. One day, she goes outside and meets four men, also called dwarfs,21 who live in a stone nearby: Þat var einn dag, er Freyju varð gengit til steinsins, hann var þá opinn. Dvergarnir váru at smíða eitt gullmen. Þat var þá mjǫk fullgert. Freyju leist vel á menit. Dver­ 20 

Heimdallr could also be understood as belonging to the vanir-group (see Þrymskviða st. 15: ‘vissi hann vel fram | sem vanir aðrir’, which may be translated either as: ‘he could see far ahead as other vanir’ or ‘he could see far ahead as also vanir are able to’. Opinions differ about the right translation, but it certainly has important consequences for our understanding of the vanir and Heimdallr (è50). 21  It may be noted here that the resason why these men are designated as dwarfs rests exclusively on the fact that they are such dexterous smiths: ‘Þeir váru menn svá hagir, at þeir lögðu á allt gerva hönd. Þess háttar menn, sem þeir váru, kölluðu menn dverga’ (Sǫrla þáttr ch. 1)’ ([they] were men so clever that they could turn their hands to anything. Men of this kind were called dwarfs’) (p. 46) (è62).

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gunum leist ok vel á Freyju. Hún falaði menit at dvergunum, bauð í móti gull ok silfr ok aðra góða gripi. Þeir kváðust ekki féþurfi, sagðist hverr vilja sjálfr sinn part selja í meninu ok ekki annat fyrir vilja hafa en hún lægi sína nótt hjá hverjum þeira. Ok hvárt sem hún lét at þessu komast betr eða verr, þa keyptu þau þessu. Ok at liðnum fjórum náttum ok enduðum ǫllum skildaga, afhenda þeir Freyju menit. Fór hún heim í skemmu sína ok lét kyrrt yfir sér, sem ekki hefði í orðit. (Sǫrla þáttr ch. 1) (It chanced one day that Freyja went to the rock and found it open, and the dwarfs were forging a gold necklace, which was almost finished. Freyja was charmed with the necklace, and the dwarfs with Freyja. She asked them to sell it, offering gold and silver and other costly treasures in exchange for it. The dwarfs replied that they were not in need of money, but each one said that he would give up his share in the necklace and they didn’t want anything else, but that she would lie by each of them for a night. And whether she agreed to this for better or worse [i.e., enthusiastically or not], they then agreed on it. And at the end of four nights they handeed it to Freyja. She went home to her bower and kept silence about it as if nothing had happened.) (p. 46)

Although this text is relatively late (fourteenth century), it may preserve remnants of myths known from other and older sources. On the one hand, we see here Freyja’s above-mentioned liberal attitude towards sexual relationships, although in this instance it is rather clear that she is not having sex just for the sake of it but because she wants to achieve something, just as we see Óðinn seducing women because he wants to gain knowledge (Gunnlǫð) or create an avenger for the murder of Baldr (Rindr) (see è42). On the other hand, we also have a reference to a dwarf-made precious necklace. Whether this should be seen as the Brísingamen mentioned in Þrymskviða and in Snorri’s works is debateable, for the necklace in Sǫrla þáttr has no special name and no sources tell of the origin of Brísingamen. It would, however, not be unrealistic to surmise that Brísingamen might have been made by dwarfs just as many of the valuable possessions of the other gods; we may even surmise that it has some magic qualities as those other dwarf-made objects do (Ingunn Ásdísardóttir 2007: 239). A third interesting point in this story is that Loki steals the necklace from Freyja, albeit on Óðinn’s orders (Sǫrla þáttr ch. 2.) Although circumstances seem to be very different to those in Húsdrápa and Snorri’s narrative, there are undeniably common elements, which may lend some credibility to this tale containing mythical references. The figurine from Aska in Östergötland, found in an aristocratic woman’s grave dated to about 950 ce, may be interpreted as Freyja with Brísingamen, and thus it provides archaeological evidence that the necklace actually was in pagan times believed to belong to Freyja (Arrhenius 1969).

Ingunn Ásdísardóttir

1292

One more link to gold that Freyja could arguably be said to have is the abovenoted Gullveig myth in Vǫluspá st. 21. If Freyja and Gullveig can, indeed, be identified, Gullveig meaning ‘thirst for gold’ or ‘the power of gold’, this would be yet another indication of the goddess’s close relation to gold and would in this instance also relate to the first war in the world.

Cult ‘Eigi eru ásynjurnar óhelgari og eigi megu þær minna’ (Gylfaginning p. 21) (No less holy are the Asyniur, nor is their power less) (p. 21), states Snorri Sturluson when beginning his report on the inhabitants of Ásgarðr, thus informing his readers of the might and power of the goddesses (on this passage, see now Lindow 2017b). This must be seen as an implied indication of goddess worship, although there is not much definite textual evidence of a Freyja cult or worship of her, neither from Snorri, who more often than not seems to downplay her power and authority, nor from other literary sources. A few texts, however, give strong and straightforward indications of Freyja worship. In Hyndluljóð, in her attempts to convince the reluctant Hyndla to recite the genealogy of Óttarr, her protegé, Freyja says of him: Hǫrg hann mér gerði, hlaðinn steinom, nú er griót þat at gleri orðit; rauð hann í nýio nauta blóði, æ trúði Óttarr á ásynior (Hyndluljóð st. 10). (He’s made a sanctuary for me, faced with stone, now that stone has turned to glass; he’s reddened it with fresh ox blood, Ottar has always trusted in the goddesses.) (p. 246)

This stanza is one of very few texts that actually refer clearly to goddess worship. It seems undeniably to indicate that some kind of altars may have been built in honour of Freyja, although scholars are not sure of what a hǫrgr may have looked like (cf. è25 and è26). Also, it states that cattle were sacrificed at rituals there. It is interesting that, right after the description of the hǫrgr and the sacrifice, Freyja specifically mentions that Óttarr trusted in ásynjur. It almost seems as if the last two lines of the stanza function as a kind of explanation of why Óttarr makes his sacrifices: namely, because he trusts in ásynjur, which

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Figure 45.2. Silver figurine from Aska in Öster­ götland (SHM 16429:107873). The figurine depicts a woman with a large brooch, which has been interpreted as Brísingamen. Photo: Gabriel Hildebrand, Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm. 

would in turn indicate that sacrifices of oxen were practised in the worship of goddesses, although cattle was also commonly sacrificed to male gods. We must be careful, however, about surmising that sacrifices of the kind here discussed (i.e., cattle sacrifices) were especially directed at female deities; most often when we hear about such offerings, nothing is said about who the receipient is expected to be, and it may be of importance whether cows or bulls are mentioned. The word naut, as mentioned in the stanza of Hyndluljóð above, does not indicate the sex. But in this context, we may recall Tacitus’s narrative of the goddess Nerthus who is transported around the country in a wagon drawn by cows (Germania ch. 40). Another eddic poem mentions Freyja in a similar context. In Oddrúnargrátr st. 9, Borgný calls on Frigg and Freyja and other female deities to bless and help Oddrún in return for helping Borgný in her difficult labour. Although this looks like a rather general reference, it must be taken into account that the two chief goddesses of the Nordic pantheon are the only deities mentioned by name in the poem. This could indicate that the two goddesses may have been considered the most relevant or most powerful ones in situations of this kind. It has been suggested that the pagan goddesses were worshiped by women and not by men, that goddess worship was more a part of the domestic (‘feminine’) spheres of life and that the male gods had more to do with official (‘masculine’) matters (see, for example, Ellis Davidson 1998: 187–88; Hygen and Bengtson 2000b: 127–28). Although the reference in Oddrúnargrátr may in some ways support such an interpretation, this hypothesis nonetheless remains rather far-fetched and is not really supported to any great extent by the sources

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Figure 45.3. Within the enigmatic imagery on the Sparlösa runestone in Västergötland, dated to around 800 ce, are found two animal figures that may be interpreted as a female lynx with her kitten (Vg 119, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). Photo: Cecilia Ljung. 

as a whole. As childbirth is an activity that belongs exclusively to the female sex, it should come as no surprise that in such situations women would prefer to turn to (fertility) goddesses than to male gods, although this in no way inhibits the possibility that people of both genders would have worshiped goddesses in more general matters. From an archaeological point of view, there seems to have been a special relation between Freyja and powerful women. As mentioned above, the carriage from the Oseberg burial is decorated with nine cats or other felines, reminscent of Snorri’s information that Freyja had a carriage that was drawn by cats (Gylfaginning pp. 25, 47; Skáldskaparmál p. 30). In addition, about fifty graves from the first century to the tenth century in Medelpad, the Mälar Valley, and on Gotland were furnished with lynx skins. In most cases wealthy women were buried in these graves, sometimes with newborn children. Given the relation between Freyja and felines, it has been argued that these graves represented húsfrúvur, or housewives with a special connection to the goddesses. Such a connection may also be confirmed by Snorri, who in Heimskringla ch. 10 writes that women of rank are known by Freyja’s name as frúvur, and that a woman

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who is the mistress of a property is called freyja (Zachrisson and Krzewinska, forthcoming). A piece of information from Ynglinga saga may also relate to the worship of Freyja, although she is not mentioned directly in that context. As noted above, dísir were connected to war and death (è 58), and Freyja might be seen as semantically associated with this group of beings through her by-name Vanadís as well as other links to death and warfare. Snorri’s narrative here relates how the death of a certain King Aðils came about when he was riding around a dísarsalr ‘hall of the dís’ where a dísablót ‘sacrifice/ritual of the dísir’ was held (Ynglinga saga ch. 29);22 a king being sacrificed in honour and worship of these female deities seems to be the underlying theme, 23 although a direct link to Freyja is uncertain. An interesting indication of the worship of Freyja is found in Íslendingabók’s report on the prelude to the acceptance of Christianity in Iceland. The year before Iceland’s Christianization, the Christian Hjalti Skeggjason announces in a degrading half-strophe that he will not worship Freyja (Íslendingabók p. 15). Vil ek eigi goð geyja grey þykki mér Freyja24 (I don’t wish to bark at the gods: It seems to me Freyja’s a bitch.) (p. 8)

The wording of Hjalti’s strophe in all likelihood implies Freyja’s sexuality or some other fertility aspect, which may have been celebrated in her cult, perhaps including rites that were considered obscene when seen from a Christian perspective.25 Another aspect of Freyja worship may relate to her connection to war and death. As mentioned above, both Þorgerðr Egilsdóttir’s words in Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar ch. 78 and Grímnismál st. 14 indicate that Freyja is associated with the afterlife. Therefore, it is also likely that she was somehow involved 22 

Cf. also dísir Herjans ‘Odinn’s women’ (Krákumál st. 29; Guðrúnarkviða I st. 1), a kenning which further connects dísir, Freyja and Óðinn, although dísir in this context should be seen as identical with the valkyrjur. For the discussion about the dísir and their identity, including their relation to the valkyrjur, see Bek-Pedersen (2011a). 23  This may seem a speculative interpretation, but taking into account that all the kings in Ynglinga saga die under rather strange circumstances, one dying simply of a fatal accident would be somewhat out of order. Also, the environment of the dísarsalr is highly suggestive. 24  For other versions of this stanza, see Grønlie (2006: 24–25). 25  For an interesting discussion of Hjalti’s stanza with references, see Näsström (1995: 169–72).

Ingunn Ásdísardóttir

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Figure 45.4. Theophoric placenames based on the name Freyja in the Mälaren region, according to a critical survey by Vikstrand 2001. Map based on Vikstrand 2001: 88. Disir Productions, Uppsala. 

in rituals related to war. We do not have any direct evidence for this, but her byname Sýr may imply some references that, although not the sow, but rather the boar, seem to be related to warfare. We know from examples related by Tacitus that women sacrificed prisoners of war, but we have no evidence of any single goddess involved in that. Theophoric placenames have long been thought to cast a convincing light on cult and worship, both as concerns the pagan beliefs in general and individual deities. As noted above, many theophoric placenames seemingly referring to the three vanir gods are found in Scandinavia, in Norway especially around Viken and on the west coast, and in Sweden particularly on the eastern side of Lake Mälaren (see also Vikstrand 2001: 72–93). Scholars of an older generation, such as Jan de Vries, have understood these names as an indication of a strong vanir cult in those areas.26 In recent years, however, this has been disputed, for example, by Lennart Elmevik, who is doubtful of the existence of Freyja placenames altogether (Elmevik 1997: 107–15), and, more moderately, by Stefan Brink, who notes the difficulties concerning a clear distinction between Freyr and Freyja placenames. According to Brink, it seems quite cer26 

See, for example, Sahlgren (1932: 58); de Vries (1956–57a: ii, 310).

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tain that placenames referring to both Freyr and Njǫrðr are relatively frequent, especially in Sweden around Lake Mälaren, but they also exist in Norway and, in very small numbers, in Denmark. As concerns toponyms referring to Freyja, Brink notes that they would differ from the ones referring to her brother in that Freyr toponyms would carry a genetive -s. Accordingly, Brink states that: ‘there are particular linguistic difficulties involved in determining whether place names contain the name of the goddess’ or an adjective meaning ‘fertile’ (in Swedish dialects frö or frödd) (Brink 2007b: 108; Vikstrand 2001: 72).27 Concluding on the cultic role of Freyja, it must be admitted that we have very little unambiguous evidence for such a role. We do have semi-mythic accounts (e.g., Hyndluljóð) clearly indicating worship, which is of course also what we should expect, but the written sources, placenames and archaeology are not currently able to deliver any definite ‘proof ’.

Scholarship and Interpretation Folke Ström’s work Diser, nornor, valkyrjor, published 1954, is probably one of the first serious pieces of research on female deities in general. Here, Ström goes minutely and thoroughly through all textual references to these beings. His conclusion is that they are all different manifestations of a group of female deities who are a kind of servants or representatives of the chief goddess, that is, Freyja, and that these different maidens show clearly that Freyja’s domain was not limited to fertility and growth but also encompassed death, seiðr, and warfare (Ström 1954). Other scholars have concerned themselves with comparative research, emphasizing cultural relations to goddesses known from either the Eastern Mediterranean area (e.g., Neckel 1920; Schröder 1929) or the Indo-European cultures (e.g., Dumézil 1973c). In these accounts, although Freyja is treated, the emphasis is more often on feminine deities in general. Some of the proponents of these and other comparative perspectives will be briefly discussed here. Exclusively a scholar of philology, Ursula Dronke emphasizes that comparison to other Germanic as well as Celtic, Finno-Ugric, even classical and Sanskrit sources is necessary in order to establish the pagan origin of eddic poetry (see e.g., Dronke 1996: 657). She sees Freyja primarily as the grieving goddess of the seasonal change, comparable to such figures from Mediterranean myths (Dronke 1997: 45, 134). Being among the first to add archaeological data to 27 

For a thorough discussion of Elmevik’s suggestion that Freyja is not represented in the placename material, see Vikstrand (2001: 90–92).

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research on textual sources, Hilda Ellis Davidson establishes many analogous and comparable factors between North European tribes and communities and considers these to show common roots reaching far back in time and space (Ellis Davidson 1988: 217–28). With her book Roles of the Northern Goddess, published in 1998, she turns her attention strictly to female deities in the North. Here, she explores the various functions of Freyja through her many names and aspects, and she comes to the conclusion that the roots of the Nordic goddess can be traced to the Mediterranean and the Middle East, and even beyond. She makes a strong point of the many spheres, both social and religious, that fall under the dominion of goddesses, but seems in the main to agree with BrittMari Näsström (see below) that for a very substantial period of time there must have been just one goddess image, a kind of a mother-goddess who encompasses all the others: ‘The goddess […] is more than a deity of the Vanir group, although she has close links with them’ (Ellis Davidson 1998: 188). At the very opposite end of the argument is Lotte Motz, who in her book The Faces of the Goddess (1997) looks at goddesses in such disparate areas as the Polar regions, Mesopotamia, Greece, Mexico, Japan, and so forth. Comparing both similarities and discrepancies in connection with goddess images, her conclusions may be said to conflict head-on with other scholars’ ideas about one (Mother) Goddess: The images of godheads that emerge in this study differ greatly from those which inspire and console the followers of the new religion of the Goddess. These believe that the Goddess originated in one basic archetypal form, in one overwhelming experience that left its imprint on the human soul. I have argued that goddesses grew from a variety of contexts and desires, unfolding their nature in a variety of ways. Not the infants’ longing for their mothers’ breast shaped the contours of the divine, but the needs of adult men and women faced with the cruel exigencies of archaic life, exultant in their triumphs and burdened with the everpresent knowledge and spectacle of death. To trace the power of goddesses to their biological functions is to diminish the stature and flatten the form in the images of divine and human women. (Motz 1997a: 183)

Another scholar devoting her attention to female deities and their role is Gro Steinsland, whose interests lie mainly in the ideologies and mindset of the Viking Age. Through her research, Steinsland has put forward questions which present the myths in a new light. Looking at the role of myth in a social context, she explores the connection between myth and ritual, especially the so-called hieros gamos or sacred marriage. She rejects the older idea that the hieros gamos is simply a fertility ritual: rather, she connects it to social power

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structures and concludes that the female element of this ritual was of much greater importance in the social stucture than previously thought, as it had to do with the origin and genealogy of kings and thus their right to power (Steinsland 1991). On the mythological level, however, Steinsland sees this female element not in the form of goddesses; instead, she sees it exclusively in the form of giant maidens, jǫtnameyjar with the gods (æsir and vanir) as their contrasting partners. Many other scholars consider the feminine aspect in their research, such as Helga Kress (1993), whose main concern is the silencing of women and female aspects in medi­e val literature; Jenny Jochens (1996) and Judith Jesch (1991), who have written extensively about women’s images, social roles, and situations in the Viking Age; Rudolf Simek, who vehemently rejects the idea of one Great Goddess and through extensive research of female icono­g raphy sees the so-called Matrones and other venerated female spirits of the early Iron Age Germanic world as possibly compatible to the dísir of later literary sources, that is as protectors of the family as well as fertility and war deities (Simek 1993: 166; 2002: 93–123); and Terry Gunnell, whose research into the strong association of female deities with water has shed light on the importance of goddesses as well as their special links to fertility and the vanir gods (Gunnell 2000, 2007c). While these works are not addressed directly at Freyja, they help illuminate the contexts in which people may have regarded her. Margaret Clunies Ross looks at the role of the jǫtnamey (giant maiden) in her research of the contact and conflicts between gods and jǫtnar (giants) in her book Prolonged Echoes (1994a). She gives her main attention to the hierarchy between different social classes, which, she maintains, is very strict and formative in pagan society as a whole as well as with regard to the roles of both groups and individuals. Clunies Ross shows how, on the mythological level, women or feminine characteristics constitute the focal points of conflicts between the gods and jǫtnar, a centrality that reveals their significance in terms of upholding the social hierarchy. From a basically structuralistic viewpoint, Clunies Ross holds that the contrasts and conflicts between the gods and the giants result in change and cultural evolution (1994a: 101): Social relationships are thus maintained by mechanisms which are individually productive of disharmony but collectively ensure continuing dialogue between groups.

Freyja’s situation in Clunies Ross’s interpretation is thus not outstanding as a chief goddess; instead, she is mainly part of the subgroup vanir and as such a pawn in the interplay between the various social groups of the supernatural world.

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In his book Meeting the Other in Norse Myth and Legend (2005), John McKinnell, like Gro Steinsland, is concerned with royal dynasties and the right to power, but his approach is different. McKinnell explores and analyzes patterns of belief that lie behind prehistoric rituals of which remnants can be found in the literary sources (2005: 60–61): During the first millenium after Christ, each of the Vanir had both a male and a female form, who were simultaneously siblings and marital partners; […]  By Tacitus’s time local expressions of the deity were usually represented by a male or female idol attended by a priest(ess) of the opposite gender, who was probably the spouse or lover of the deity. The priest(ess) was of high social status and controlled the cult place. One major function of the deity was to guarantee the crops by means of an annual progress by waggon, but (s)he may also have had a role in royal funerals.

In this context, McKinnell finds parallels and similarities between Freyja and the figures of Gullveig,28 Þorgerðr Hǫlgabrúðr (è54), and Hyndla and regards them as representations of Freyja in the sanctification of kings, thus connecting her to royalty and a king’s legitimacy to power (McKinnell 2005: 81–94; see also Ingunn Ásdísardóttir 2007: 319 n. 257). All these figures — Freyja, Gullveig, Þorgerðr Hǫlgabrúðr, and Hyndla — are each in their way linked to magic. As noted above, Freyja is said to have brought the knowledge of seiðr into the world of the gods, and there is a general concensus among scholars that the seiðr practice is especially connected to the vanir gods (see, for example, Ellis Davidson 1990: 117–23; Raudvere 2003: 100; è 26). Thomas DuBois holds that the Nordic people originally learned seiðr from the Sámi and that contact between the Sámi and the Norsemen, both through mutual business and social relations, resulted in a merging of cultures (1999: 136–37): Here, then, we see a final stage in the apparent assimilation of the seiðr ritual into Scandinavian paganism. Beginning as a foreign loan, often performed by practitioners from neighboring cultures, the ritual seems to have become associated with Scandinavian women’s roles and linked mythologically to Vanir magic, seasonal household rituals, and the goddess Freyja.

In contrast to most of these works, all of which operate on a relatively general level as far as female deities are concerned, the Swedish scholar Britt-Mari Näsström has written exclusively on Freyja in her book Freyja: The Great 28 

As was mentioned above, many scholars consider the figure of Gullveig, who appears in Vǫluspá st. 21, to be either an aspect of Freyja or at least very closely related to her.

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Goddess of the North (1995). Näsström here emphatically argues that in the paganism of the Nordic lands, Freyja was an all-encompassing Great or Mother Goddess, and all other female deities, whether named or unnamed, individual figures or groups (such as valkyrjur, dísir, nornir), were merely different aspects of her. Régis Boyer places himself at the same end of the spectrum in his 1995 book La grande déesse du Nord, arguing that Freyja, Frigg, and Skaði are all aspects of ‘la grande déesse’ who constitutes some sort of female ‘archetype’. The great goddess in her various aspects should be understood as the woman in possession of beauty, knowledg,e and power (Boyer 1995: 13). Ingunn Ásdísardóttir takes up the question of the individuality of Freyja in her work Frigg og Freyja: Kvenleg goðmögn í heiðnum sið (2007), in which she considers whether the two goddesses share common roots or not and where their respective domains of power actually lie. Her conclusion is that, although Frigg and Freyja share a number of similar characteristics in the literary sources, they cannot be considered to be of the same origin as no sources on Freyja are to be found outside Scandinavia, whereas Frigg can be traced to southern Europe and even to the Middle East. Ingunn states that, even though Snorri Sturluson in his Edda tries to present Frigg as the chief goddess of the Nordic pantheon, Freyja was undeniably an exclusively Nordic goddess and the most powerful female deity of the Nordic lands in pagan times, ruling the domains of life and death, fertility, and magic (Ingunn Ásdísardóttir 2007: 279–86).

Concluding Remarks As described above, the image of Freyja that confronts us both in textual and other sources is extremely fragmented, and it is difficult to put together one clear, coherent, or complete picture of her. Even so, when all the relevant sources are taken into account, it seems beyond reasonable doubt to state that Freyja was an important and powerful deity in the Nordic pantheon, with a broad and many-faceted role, in religious, ritual, as well as social contexts. We have seen that her sexuality can be interpreted in a positive as well as in a negative light. On the one hand, moreover, there are indications that she is connected to fertility, but on the other she can also be regarded as a destabilizing element among the gods because, besides her incestuous relation to her brother and the incident with the dwarfs in Sǫrla þáttr, she functions as an extremely desirable sexual being whose presence among the gods causes the giants to endanger the world order as we know it. It seems, however, that in the textual sources, especially in Snorri Sturluson’s Edda, her role and image are somewhat downplayed, which may be because of

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his Christian background and outlook. Freyja was hardly compatible with the notion of woman in the medi­eval church or the late medi­eval Marian cult. When Freyja´s image is scrutinized, both in Snorri’s texts and other textual sources, it shows all the signs of a goddess whose realm of power encompasses sexuality, fertility and love, warfare, death, and the afterworld, as well as magic and seiðr. Freyja is, furthermore, closely connected to both of the main male godheads, Freyr of the vanir and Óðinn of the æsir, although in different ways. As the sister, possibly even wife, of Freyr, the daughter of Njǫrðr, as well as recipient of worship and protector and sanctifier of kings-to-be, the image of Freyja shows a female power ruling those spheres of life that involve the lifegiving forces, both on a social and a mythological level. Correspondingly, as the lover of Óðinn and as his partner in the governing of warfare, death, and the afterworld, and as recipient of blood-sacrifices (Hyndluljóð) as well, she is equally closely connected to the realms of the dead and the Other World. She is, in short, a mythological deity to be reckoned with. Both archaeological and textual sources seem to support that the Nordic vanir goddess, whether she bore the name Freyja at all times and in every place or not, was revered and received sacrifices consisting of both artefacts and blood. The ancient Nordic vanir goddess seems to have played a role even well into the Christian era. Her image and names may have varied across the North, depending on local conditions and concerns, lifestyles, and social circumstances. It is even possible that there were many independent conceptions of this goddess, if not individual goddesses, isolated in small communities and given local names, attributes, and characteristics, which have now disappeared in the mists of time, but perhaps also goddesses whom we know from the sources — only under different names, such as Þorgerðr Hǫlgabrúðr. This idea may be supported by the fact that the goddess’s surviving and best-known name, Freyja, actually means ‘lady’1 and was possibly regarded more as a title than a proper name.

1 

Freyja’s brother’s name, Freyr, is of course of similar kind, meaning ‘lord’ (cf.  è43). The etymology of both names has, however, been critized, and new interpretations have been suggested by Lennart Elmevik (see Elmevik 2003a).

46 – Baldr John Lindow Introduction

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aldr figures in the written sources primarily as a god who dies a violent death and is avenged. The Icelandic textual traditions suggest the importance of conceptions of forebodings of death, mourning, and funeral, and imply a connection between Baldr’s death and Ragnarǫk; there also existed conceptions of an attempt to reverse his death, and also of his having survived Ragnarǫk. Scholars have suggested involvement with healing, revealed primarily in sources from outside Iceland. Some have also connected his return after Ragnarǫk in some sources with conceptions of fertility and annual ritual.

Sources Although the very earliest skalds had nothing to say about Baldr, the skaldic poem Húsdrápa, attributed to Úlfr Uggason and according to Laxdœla saga a poem about carvings in a late tenth-century Icelandic hall, contains a sequence of stanzas about Baldr’s funeral. The most important Icelandic sources are eddic poems: Baldrs draumar, a short poem devoted exclusively to the Baldr story, and Vǫluspá (the R version and the version Snorri knew, but not the H version, except for what follows Ragnarǫk); other eddic poems also allude to aspects of the Baldr story. There may also have been one or more additional eddic poems about Baldr that are no longer extant (cf.  Schröder 1962). Both Snorri, in Gylfaginning, and Saxo, in Book 3 of Gesta Danorum, tell lengthy versions of the Baldr story that differ from each other and from the versions in eddic poetry. John Lindow, Professor Emeritus of Scandinavian, University of California, Berkeley The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume iii, ed. by Jens Peter p. 1303–1330 Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) p BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116973

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The Old High German Second Merseburg Charm refers to Balder (Baldr), whose injured horse is cured by Wotan (Óðinn). This text has enabled the conjecture of images of Baldr on bracteates. It is also possible that an image or two from Baldr’s funeral may be portrayed on Swedish rune stones.

Myths To clarify the variations in the written sources, this summary is broken down not by the parts of the myth (foreboding, death, attempted retrieval, funeral, vengeance, Ragnarǫk) but rather by source. Baldrs draumar A short poem summarizing the Icelandic version of the entire Baldr myth is found in the early fourteenth-century manu­script AM 748 Ia 4to, which alongside the Codex Regius of the Poetic Edda constitutes one of the two medi­ eval anthologies of eddic poetry; 748 Ia is fragmentary and contains only mythological poetry. Baldrs draumar is found between incomplete versions of Hárbarðsljóð and Skírnismál. The short poem consists of fourteen fornyrðislag stanzas, opening with four narrative stanzas and then turning to a dialogue in alternate stanzas between Óðinn and a seeress. The first stanza has the gods in council trying to figure out why Baldr is having bad dreams. In the next two, Óðinn saddles Sleipnir and rides off to Niflhel, one of the worlds of the dead (è34), where he is challenged by a dog near the hall of Hel. In the fourth he raises a seeress from her grave, and the dialogue begins, in stanza 5, when she asks who has raised her from the dead. Calling himself Vegtamr (accustomed to the road), Óðinn asks for whom the elaborate preparations for an upcoming feast are intended (that is, who is to die). The seeress responds that it is Baldr. Next Vegtamr/Óðinn asks who will kill Baldr. The answer is Hǫðr. Who will avenge Baldr? Váli.2 The subject of the final question remains unclear,3 but it 2 

The manu­script reading is ali, i.e., Áli, but the alliteration requires a name in initial V-, and other sources tell us that the avenger’s name is Váli. 3  ‘St 12: Hveriar ‘ro þær meyiar | er at muni gráta | oc á himin verpa | hálsa scautom?’ (Who are those maidens who weep for love | and who throw up to the sky the corner of their headdresses?). Logically we might expect a reference at this point to Baldr’s funeral, or perhaps to the universal weeping in the attempt to retrieve Baldr from the dead (von See and others 2000: 451), either of which may be captured in the weeping of the maidens. Frog (2006) argues that the stanza comprises a simple riddle for ‘waves’, which he reads in connection with the springs that Saxo associates with the death of Baldr as well as with the waters that wash over the earth as it sinks at Ragnarǫk. Waves might also be appropriate for a floating funeral.

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signals to the seeress that the questioner is Óðinn; Óðinn in turn accuses his interlocutor of being neither a seeress nor a wise woman, but the mother of three monsters. The seeress has the last word, sending Óðinn off with a reference to Loki slipping his bonds at Ragnarǫk. The poem contains the kernel of the medi­eval Icelandic version of the Baldr story: there are premonitions of his death and that he will die at the hand of Hǫðr; Váli will avenge him; the binding of Loki and impending disaster of Ragnarǫk are implicit parts of the myth. The details, however, are only to be found in other sources. Vǫluspá R The R (Codex Regius) redaction of Vǫluspá recounts the Baldr story allusively in what can be understood as the transition to Ragnarǫk;4 these stanzas are missing in the Hauksbók version of the poem. Nor does Snorri cite them in Gylfaginning, although they are consistent with his version of the story and probably underlie it. 29. Valði henni Valfǫðr hringa ok men fecc spioll spaclig ok spáganda, sá hon vítt oc um vítt of verold hveria. 30. Sá hon valkyrior vítt um komnar, gorva at ríða til Goðþióðar; Sculd hélt scildi, enn Scǫgul ǫnnur, Gunnr, Hildr, Gǫndul oc Geirscǫgul; nú eru talðar nǫnnor Herians, gorvar at ríða grund, valkyrior.

4 

The sequence of stanzas that is found here in R but missing in H actually begins at st. 28 (R29), in which the seeress tells of Óðinn’s hiding his eye in Mímir’s well. This stanza ends in a stef (Vitoð ér enn eða hvat). We therefore start this citation of the Baldr story at st. 29 (30R) and run up to the next stef.

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31. Ec sá Baldri, blóðgom tívor Óðins barni ørlǫg fólgin; stóð um vaxinn, vǫllom hæri miór oc mioc fagr, mistilteinn. 32. Varð af þeim meiði, er mær sýndiz, harmflaug hættlig, Hǫðr nam sciota; Baldrs bróðir var of borinn snemma, sá nam Óðins sonr einnættr vega. 33. Þó hann æva hendr né hǫfuð kembði, áðr á bál um bar Baldrs andscota; enn Frigg um grét í Fensǫlom vá Valhallar — vitoð ér en, eða hvat? (29. Father of Hosts chose for her rings and necklaces, treasure, wise speech, and spirits of divination; she saw widely, widely about every world. 30. She saw valkyries coming from far and wide, ready to ride to the gods’ realms: Skuld shouldered one shield, Skogul was another, Gunn, Hild, Gondul, and GeirSkogul — now the General’s ladies are counted up, valkyries ready to ride over the earth. 31. I saw for Baldr, for the bloody god, Odin’s child, his fate in store; there stood grown — higher than the plain, slender and very fair — the mistletoe. 32. From that stem which seemed so slender there came a dangerous grief-dart: Hod started to shoot; Baldr’s brother was born quickly; Odin’s son started killing at one night old. 33. He never washed his hands nor combed his hair, until he brought Baldr’s adversary to the funeral pyre; and in Fen-halls Frigg wept for Valhall’s woe — do you want to know more: and what?) (pp. 7–8)

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Stanzas 29–30 connect to the story insofar as they are in the same stef section. The connection with stanza 29 would appear to be Óðinn obtaining information from the seeress, in this case through the payment of jewellery rather than merely through his power to raise the dead as in Baldrs draumar.5 Or are the rings and necklace to be associated with grave goods in some way? The enumeration of valkyrie names in stanza 30 fits the context of an upcoming violent death but also implies an armed conflict (precisely as in Saxo) rather than a game or ritual gone bad. The vocabulary in stanza 31 is quite interesting. The hapax legomenon tívorr (standard tívurr) appears to contain the root of the plural tívar (gods), but the form is not easy to explain. Some scholars have argued connection with Old English tīfer (offering, sacrifice, victim) and Old High German ziber (sacrifical animal), and although that argument too is difficult to sustain (de Vries 1962a: 591), the idea of Baldr as a sacrificial victim is intriguing, and some scholars use it in interpreting the myth. Ørlǫg refers to fate, but to the end of what is fated, that is, to one’s death (è35). This fate is not usually visible, and thus it is hidden, except in this instance to the seeress who is revealing her vision of past present and future. We must therefore infer that Baldr dies from the mistletoe shot by Hǫðr, although the poet does not state this fact explicitly. Perhaps a hidden fate might also be manifested in the disquieting dreams we know that Baldr suffered according to Baldrs draumar and Gylfaginning, but it may be stretching a point to read Baldr’s dreams into the hidden fate the seeress discloses. Stanza 32 suggests a transformation of the weapon used to kill Baldr, from an apparently slender tree into a deadly projectile, and apparently the mistletoe mentioned cryptically in the end of the preceding verse. The seeress in Vǫluspá R tells us no more about the killer Hǫðr than the seeress in Baldrs draumar did, but she does have the additional information that the avenger was Baldr’s brother (or half-brother, according to the semantics of the term in eddic poetry) and also a son of Óðinn, and that Frigg (Baldr’s mother and Óðinn’s wife) wept. This is a real family drama, especially if we associate stanza 29 with it and take it as a direct response to Óðinn obtaining the story from the seeress. In any case, just based on the number of lines, the emphasis of this version of the story seems to be the role of the precocious avenger. Vengeance takes on an even bigger role because stanza 35 (R34), which follows the stef and has its own stef, appears to be a reference to vengeance taken on Loki. 5 

The seeress’s last words in Vǫluspá — ‘nú mun hon søcqvazk’ (now she will sink down) imply that Óðinn raised her from the dead for this performance.

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35. Hapt sá hon liggia undir hvera lundi, lægiarn líki Loca áþeccian; þar sitr Sigyn þeygi um sínom ver velglýiuð — vitoð ér enn, eða hvat? (35. A captive she saw lying under Cauldron-grove, an evil-loving figure, unmistakable as Loki; there sits Sigyn, getting very little joy from her husband — do you want to know more: and what?) (p. 8)

Although it does not recount the story of Baldr’s death, the Hauksbók redaction of Vǫluspá does contain a variant of R34. H30. Þá kná Vála vígbǫnd snúa, heldr vóro harðgor hǫpt, ór þǫrmom; þar sitr Sigyn þeygi um sínom ver velglýiuð — vitoð ér enn, eða hvat? (H30. Then oppressive bonds were twisted, rather severe fetters, made of Vali’s entrails. […] there sits Sigyn, getting very little joy from her husband — do you want to know more: and what?) (p. 8)6

The immediately preceding stanzas in H appear to have to do with the masterbuilder story, and it is plausible that vengeance could be taken on Loki for his role in that story in this version of Vǫluspá, since it put Freyja at risk and caused Þórr to break the oath the gods had sworn with the giant master builder. In the R version that possibility seems less likely, and in context it certainly appears that the cause of the vengeance has to do with the death of Baldr. Like Baldrs draumar, Vǫluspá R identifies the victim (Baldr), the killer (Hǫðr), and the avenger (Váli). With the possible exception of the weeping of the maidens in Baldrs draumar, neither of these eddic poems adds the 6 

Larrington’s translation follows the standard consolidated edition of Vǫluspá, in which editors have deleted the second half of H30 (‘there sits Sigyn’) to create a short stanza 34 (included in the first edition of the translation from 1996 (p. 8), but omitted in the 2014 second edition) and then have printed all of R34 as stanza 35.

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attempted retrieval from Hel or the funeral of Baldr to the story. Interestingly, the funeral is the part of the story best anchored in the pre-Christian textual tradition. Baldr was not, however, unknown to the poet of Vǫluspá H. Like R, H contains the following stanza in the section that describes the aftermath of Ragnarǫk (R60/H54). The earth has come up for a second time (R61/H55), and the æsir meet at Iðavǫllr and share memories of the time before Ragnarǫk (R58/H52). The gold gaming pieces that they had during that time are present (R59/H53). Then: 62 (R59/H55). Muno ósánir acrar vaxa, bǫls mun allz batna, Baldr mun koma; búa þeir Hǫðr ok Baldr Hroptz sigtóptir vel, valtívar — vitoð ér enn, eða hvat? (62. Without sowing the fields will grow, all evil will be healed, Baldr will come; Hod and Baldr will settle down in Hropt’s victory-homesteads, the slaughter-gods are well — do you want to know more: and what?) (p. 11)

Both Baldr and Hǫðr are valtívar (literally ‘carrion-gods’), since Hǫðr was slain by Váli. Just as fields will grow unsown, so the brothers, murderer and victim, will live together well.7 It seems, too, that their offspring are to propagate the earth. 63 (R60/H56). Þá kná Hœnir hlautvið kiósa, oc burir byggia brœðra tveggia vindheim víðan — vitoð ér enn, eða hvat? (63. Then Hænir will choose a wooden slip for prophecy, and two brothers’ sons build a settlement in the wide wind-realm — do you want to know more: and what?) (p. 12)

7 

Given the relatively broad semantic range of the adverb vel, we might understand that the brothers will live together contentedly, or without difficulty.

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Lokasenna If Loki’s role in the death of Baldr is unclear in Vǫluspa R, it is explicit in Lokasenna. After the significant exchange between Óðinn and Loki, redolent of ergi (è 42 and è 44), Frigg admonishes them. Loki replies with a vicious attack on Frigg’s virtue. Then comes this exchange: Frigg qvað: 27. Veiztu, ef ec inni ættak Ægis hǫllum í Baldri líkan bur, út þú né kvæmir frá ása sonom, ok væri þá at þér vreiðom vegit. Loki qvað: 28. Enn vill þú, Frigg, at ec fleiri telia mína meinstafi: ec því ræð, er þú ríða sérat síðan Baldr at sǫlom. (27. Frigg said: You know that if I had in here in Ægir’s hall a boy like my son Baldr, you wouldn’t get away from the Æsir’s sons; there’d be furious fighting against you. 28. Loki said: Frigg, you want me to say more about my wicked deeds; for I brought it about that you will never again see Baldr ride to the halls.) (p. 85)8

Given the focus on the agonism between Loki and the (other) æsir, it is probably appropriate that he elides the role of Hǫðr from his boast. Of course, Loki could be alluding not to killing Baldr but to keeping him in the realm of the dead, as in Gylfaginning — or to both, of course. Vafþrúðnismál The final sequence of Vafþrúðnismál consists of a series of questions that Óðinn puts to Vafþrúðnir concerning Ragnarǫk. The first four concern the aftermath of Ragnarǫk. Stanza 51 is the fourth of these questions: which æsir will survive Ragnarǫk? Vafþrúðnir responds by naming two pairs: Víðarr and Váli, and 8 

An equally possible translation of the last half of stanza 28 would be ‘for I brought it about that since then you do not see Baldr ride to the halls’.

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Magni and Móði, sons of Óðinn and of Þórr respectively. Like Váli, Víðarr is a special-purpose vengeance god, who avenges the death of his father Óðinn by killing the wolf. In the fifth question, Óðinn reverses the chronology, by asking about his own coming fate at Ragnarǫk (namely, to be swallowed by the wolf ). In the final question, Óðinn goes back to what in this context can only be the beginning of Ragnarǫk: ‘Hvat mælti Óðinn, | áðr á bál stigi, | siálfr í eyra syni’ (what did Odin say into his son’s ear before he mounted the pyre?) (st. 54). The death — and specifically, the funeral — of Baldr thus functions as the linchpin of the entire display of the wisdom contest in the poem, and as the doomed giant tells Óðinn, the answer to this question is unknowable.9 This ending can thus be read as a demonstration of the enormous power and great mystery of the myth of Baldr’s death, and it also certifies the funeral as of deep mythic importance. Other Eddic Poems In Grímnismál st. 12, Óðinn reports his vision of Baldr’s dwelling at Breiðablik, ‘á því landi, | er ec liggia veit | fæsta feicnstafi’ (in that land where I know there are the fewest runes of ill-omen) (p. 50). Stanza 29 of Hyndluljóð, the first stanza of the so-called Vǫluspá in skamma (Shorter Vǫluspá), states that Váli was born to avenge the death of Baldr and did so; he is Baldr’s brother, and therefore, one infers, a son of Óðinn. To sum up, the eddic poems agree that Hǫðr killed Baldr and that a brother of Baldr (Váli in two of the three poems) will avenge him. Loki takes credit for the killing in Lokasenna, and the vengeance on Loki follows directly on the vengeance on Hǫðr in Vǫluspá R. The magic weapon (mistletoe) is restricted to Vǫluspá R. No family relationship between Hǫðr and Baldr, filial or otherwise, is mentioned in any of these sources. Finally, it seems clear that there existed a connection between the death of Baldr and Ragnarǫk. Húsdrápa As mentioned above, Úlfr Uggason has a sequence of stanzas about Baldr’s funeral, describing the procession of those who attend and something of what happened. Laxdœla saga ch. 28 tells us that they describe the carvings on the 9 

Although a great many scholars have succumbed to the temptation to guess what Óðinn said (see Liberman 2004: 43–47), the question should probably remain, as Anne Holtsmark (1964a) put it, an insoluble riddle.

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interior of a hall newly built by the chieftain Óláfr pái (peacock) at Hjarðarholt in western Iceland at the south-east end of Breiðafjörður near the end of the tenth century, and that Úlfr recited the poem at the wedding of Óláfr’s daughter. Manu­scripts of the saga do not, however, retain anything of the poem, only the received judgement that it was good. Snorri cites three full stanzas and eight half-stanzas in Skáldskaparmál, one of which is a skaldic opening and another a skaldic closing. From the remaining stanzas, we infer that three different myths, at least, were portrayed on the carvings in Óláfr’s hall: a battle between Loki and Heimdallr (one stanza); Þórr’s fishing up of the Miðgarðsormr (three stanzas); Baldr’s funeral (five half-stanzas). If, as is commonly thought, the fight between Loki and Heimdallr played some cosmogonic role, and if we regard Þórr’s fishing up of the Miðgarðrsormr as of cosmic importance (è41), each of the three stories would have cosmic implications. The stanzas relating to Baldr’s funeral are as follows. 7. Ríðr á bǫrg til borgar bǫðfróðr sonar Óðins Freyr ok folkum stýrir fyrst inum golli byrstum. 8. Kostigr ríðr at kesti, kynfróðs þeims goð hlóðu hrafnfreistaðar, hesti Heimdallr, at mǫg fallinn. 9. Ríðr at vilgi víðu víðfrægr, en mér líða, Hroptatýr, of hvápta hróðrmǫ́l, sonar báli. 10. Þar hykk sigrunni svinnum sylgs valkyrjur fylgja heilags tafns ok hrafna. Hlaut innan svá minnum. 11. Fullǫflug lét fjalla framm haf-Sleipni þramma Hildr, en Hropts of gildar hjalmeldum mar feldu. 12. Þar kømr ǫ́, en æri endr bark mærð af hendi (ofrak svá) til sævar, sverðregns (lofi þegna).

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(7. Battle-skilled Freyr rides first to the funeral pyre of the son of Óðinn [= Baldr] on the boar bristled with gold and leads the troops. 8. Splendid Heimdallr rides a horse to the pyre which the gods erected for the fallen son of the kin-wise raven-tester [= Óðinn > = Baldr]. 9. The widely renowned Hroptatýr rides to the immensely large pyre of his son, and praise-speeches flow through my mouth. 10. There I believe valkyries and ravens follow the wise victory-tree [warrior = Óðinn] to the drink of the holy sacrifice. Thus [the hall] received [decoration] inside with memorable pictures. 11. The exceedingly strong Hildr of the mountains [giantess] made the sea-Sleipnir [ship] lumber forward, and the companions of Hroptr killed the steed with helmet-fires [swords]. 12. There the river comes to the sea, and once more I handed over a praise poem to the messenger of sword-rain [battle > warrior]; thus I raise up the praise of men.) (pp. 417–24)

This ordering of the stanzas follows the edition of Edith Marold and her colleagues. It is arbitrary, even if the word fyrst (in front) in stanza 6 offers good evidence for putting Freyr at the head of the procession. It should be noted that when Snorri mentions in Gylfaginning those who attended the funeral, he tells of Óðinn with Frigg and valkyries, then Freyr, Heimdallr, and Freyja. This ordering may of course privilege Snorri’s notion of Óðinn as head of the pantheon, but it might possibly also derive from his hypothetical knowledge of the structure of Húsdrápa, Freyr riding fyrst notwithstanding.10 In any case, Snorri’s words in Gylfaginning could suggest that stanzas describing the travel of both Frigg and Freyja are missing; there is no compelling reason to think that only male deities would have attended the funeral of the first god to die. Neither Húsdrápa nor Gylfaginning includes Þórr in the procession, although Snorri does place him at the funeral. The image of Freyr on his boar (st. 7) must have been strange and impressive,11 especially if the verb phrase ‘ok folkum stýrir’ (and leads the troops) refers to the icono­g raphy. Thus the icono­g raphy might have contained intimations of 10 

As a rule, Snorri cites only eddic poetry in Gylfaginning. The exceptions are the two skaldic stanzas quoted before Gylfi/Gangleri enters the hall (Lindow 1977b; Clunies Ross 1978). 11  For a thorough discussion of the relationship between the possible images and their relationship to the poem, see Schjeide (2015).

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armies (presumably coming to the funeral) carved into the wood, or perhaps the boar’s golden bristles in the carving were gilded in some way. Stanza 8 tells of Heimdallr’s place in the procession. He will have been portrayed elsewhere in the carving(s) showing his battle with Loki. If that battle was indeed cosmogonic, Heimdallr figures in this context in the beginning of mythic history and towards its end, as is consistent with his location at (temporal) borders (è 50). In the Loki stanza, the poet used the adjective frægr (famous), and here in stanza 8 kostigr (splendid). We will never know whether Heimdallr had some special mythological, religious, or icono­g raphic importance to Óláfr, his family circle, the carver,12 or the poet. However, the evidence does confer on him an importance we do not discern in the other sources available to us. Stanzas 9 and 10 (which contains a stef), couch Óðinn’s travel to the funeral in terms of tropes of the battlefield: valkyries and ravens. Ordinarily ravens are beasts of battle, although here they must also invoke Huginn and Muninn, in a kind of skaldic double entendre. The subject of this ekphrasis may well have looked rather like various images of Óðinn with his ravens flying about him, especially when we consider that according to Gylfaginning, Hermóðr has ridden off on Sleipnir to Hel in his attempt to retrieve Baldr while the funeral is taking place. This could mean that Óðinn rides an ordinary four-legged horse in the procession to the funeral, which would correspond with the image on the Vendel helmet plate that is frequently taken to be Óðinn and his ravens. Stanza 11 must reflect a vivid image of a giantess pushing or pulling a heavy ship, alongside images of berserks killing some kind of animal. Marold and her colleagues argue that the reference could be to the sacrifice of a horse, which can neither be proven nor dismissed. Snorri’s explanation of what is going on here will be taken up below. While it may be pure chance that we have only the funeral in skaldic poetry, that fact could highlight the importance of the funeral in religion and especially in cult; the poem was, after all, composed for and recited at a passage ritual, the marriage of the chieftain’s daughter. Since the funeral is a ritual, it is probably correct to connect this Icelandic poem with indications of the importance of procession in the written and archaeological record of mainland Scandinavia, as it has increasingly emerged into scholarly view (Nygaard and Murphy 2017; Lindow 2019; è 25). 12 

Schjeide (2015) speculates that the carvings may have been done in Lade, before the lumber was shipped to Iceland. If so, Heimdallr, or Baldr’s funeral, would have had a special position in the area of the Lade jarls.

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Although there is no way to test the hypothesis, this aspect of the Baldr myth could have served a foundational role in actual human funeral processions. The funeral figures in Úlfr’s poem and thus presumably the decoration in the hall at Hjarðarholt, although the relationship between the two media may be complex (Butler 2015). Perhaps the Christian burials that characterized the earliest Christianization of Norway (è 65) during the late Viking Age called up some kind of hyper-pagan response in the funeral of Baldr. It is, however, also possible that the funeral was mythologically important because it showed the gods successfully carrying out a passage rite, perhaps a foundational passage rite (this is the first funeral in the mythology) and even forcing a giantess to help them accomplish it. As far as we know, no giant ever enjoyed a funeral. Snorri In Gylfaginning, Snorri offers a well-structured narrative, spoken by Hár, that brings together the Icelandic poetic traditions considered above but adds new material concerning an attempt to retrieve Baldr from the world of the dead — that is, to reverse death.13 Before that, however, he includes Baldr in the list of æsir as the second son of Óðinn (the first is Þórr). Annarr son Óðins er Baldr, ok er frá honum gott at segja. Hann er beztr ok hann lofa allir. Hann er svá fagr álitum ok bjartr svá at lýsir af honum, ok eitt gras er svá hvítt at jafnat er til Baldrs brár. Þat er allra grasa hvítast, ok þar eptir mátþu marka hans fegrð bæði á hár ok á líki. Hann er vitrastr Ásanna ok fegrst talaðr ok líknsamastr, en sú náttúra fylgir honum at engi má haldask dómr hans. Hann býr þar sem heitir Breiðablik. Þat er á himni. Í þeim stað má ekki vera óhreint. (Gylfaginning p. 23)14 (Odin’s second son is Baldr, and there is good to be told of him. He is best and all praise him. He is so fair in appearance and so bright that light shines from him, and there is a plant so white that it is called after Baldr’s eyelash. It is the whitest of all plants, and from this you can tell his beauty both of hair and body. He is the wis13  Baldr also features in the Prologue to Snorri’s Edda as the second son of Óðinn, ‘Beldeg, er vér kǫllum Baldr’ (Beldegg, whom we call Baldr), whom Óðinn establishes as overlord of Westfalen and from whom a genealogy is traced. This passage belongs to Snorri’s euhemerization and basically serves only to underline the tradition of Baldr as a son of Óðinn. It may be worth noting that one of Beldegg/Baldr’s sons is Frioðgar, ‘er vér kǫllum Fróða’ (whom we call Fróði); this genealogy might associate Baldr with Danish prehistory, in which Fróði (Saxo’s Frotho) plays a significant role; see the remarks on the hypotheses of Kurt Schier, below. 14  Here Snorri cites Grímnismál st. 12.

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Figure 46.1. Gold bracteate from Faxe, dated to the fifth century (National­ museet no. 8069). On the bracteate is a motif of three men, which has been interpreted as Loki and Hǫðr on either side of Baldr when he was killed by a sprig of mistletoe Photo: Kit Weiss, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen. 

est of the Æsir and most beautifully spoken and most merciful, but it is one of his characteristics that none of his decisions can be fulfilled. He lives in a place called Breidablik. This is in heaven. No unclean thing is permitted to be there.) (p. 23)

Snorri’s account of the death of Baldr and its aftermath follows the account of Þórr’s visit to Hymir and fishing up the Miðgarðrsormr. It begins with the bad dreams that triggered Baldrs draumar. When he tells them to the æsir, they decide to get sanctuary for him, and Frigg gets oaths not to harm Baldr from fire and water, iron and all kinds of metal, stones, the earth, trees, illnesses, animals, birds, poison, snakes. Thereafter, the æsir amuse themselves by flinging weapons and stones at him. ‘En er þetta sá Loki Laufeyjarson þá líkaði honum illa er Baldr sakaði ekki’ (Gylfaginning p. 45) (But when Loki Laufeyiarson saw this he was not pleased that Baldr was unharmed) (p. 48). Disguised as an old woman, Loki visits Frigg and learns that she took no oath from misltletoe: ‘Sá þótti mér ungr at krefja eiðsins’ (Gylfaginning p. 45) (It seemed young to me to demand the oath from) (p. 48). Loki tears up some mistletoe from the earth and returns to the assembly of the gods. Hǫðr, who is blind in this account and weaponless at the moment, is not participating in the fun, but Loki gives him the mistletoe and guides his hand, and Baldr falls dead to the ground. Struck dumb, the gods realize that they cannot take vengeance, given the sanctity of the place, and all weep.15 Óðinn understands best what is at stake. 15 

Such weeping is unusual in the medi­eval Icelandic tradition, and it is telling in this context; see Lindow (2002b); critical response in Mills (2014).

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Nevertheless, it is Frigg who takes action next. She offers all her love to whoever will ride to Hel and ask whether she will release Baldr. Hermóðr, another son (or perhaps servant) of Óðinn,16 volunteers. He borrows Sleipnir and, like Óðinn in Baldrs draumar, rides the road to Hel. At this point Snorri turns to the funeral. When he returns to Hermóðr, he reports a journey of nine nights through dark valleys, followed by a ride across the Gjallarbŕu (bridge of Gjǫll), a challenge at the gate of Hel, offered by a maiden called Móðguðr, a leap over the gate of Hel, and an overnight there. In the morning Hermóðr has a deal. Hel will release him if he is as beloved as everyone says: ‘Ok ef allir hlutir í heiminum, kykvir ok dauðir, gráta hann, þá skal hann fara til Ása aptr, en haldask með Helju ef nakkvarr mælir við eða vill eigi gráta.’ (p. 47) (‘And if all things in the world, alive and dead, weep for him, then he shall go back to the Æsir, but be kept by Hel if any objects or refuses to weep.’) (p. 50)

Hermóðr brings this message, along with a few gifts, back to the world of the living. As the drama plays out to its end, the æsir send messengers out for all things to weep, and nearly all do. But in a cave sits a giantess (gýgr) who calls herself Þǫkk (Thanks). The living parallel to the mistletoe in the first half of the story,17 she refuses, with a verse: ‘Þǫkk mun gráta þurrum tárum Baldrs bálfarar. Kyks né dauðs nautka ek karls sonar: haldi Hel því er hefir.’ (Gylfaginning p. 48)

(‘Thanks will weep dry tears for Baldr’s burial. No good got I from the old one’s son either dead or alive. Let Hel hold what she has.’) (p. 51)

Snorri ends the story with the dry observation that most people think the giantess was Loki. Inserted between Hermóðr’s departure and his journey to Hel and the result, just detailed above, Snorri recounts the funeral, clearly using Úlfr’s stanzas as his basis, although he does not cite them. In Gylfaginning, Snorri explains as follows the content of st. 11, which has a giantess launch the ship while her mount is killed. 16  The word used is sveinn (boy) rather than the more usual sonr (son). Snorri later calls Baldr ‘Hermóðr’s brother’ (half-brother?). 17  Stjernfelt (1990) calls this the ‘only one’ (Danish ‘bare en’) principle.

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En Æsirnir tóku lík Baldrs ok fluttu til sævar. Hringhorni hét skip Baldrs. Hann var allra skipa mestr. Hann vildu goðin fram setja ok gera þar á bálfǫr Baldrs. En skipit gekk hvergi fram. Þá var sent í Jǫtunheima eptir gýgi þeiri er Hyrrokkin hét. En er hon kom ok reið vargi ok hafði hǫggorm at taumum þá hljóp hon af hestinum, en Óðinn kallaði til berserki fjóra at gæta hestsins, ok fengu þeir eigi haldit nema þeir feldi hann. Þá gekk Hyrrokkin á framstafn nǫkkvans ok hratt fram í fyrsta viðbragði svá at eldr hraut ór hlunnunum ok lǫnd ǫll skulfu. (p. 46) (So the Æsir took Baldr’s body and carried it to the sea. Hringhorni was the name of Baldr’s ship. It was the biggest of all ships. This the Æsir planned to launch and perform on it Baldr’s funeral. But the ship refused to move. So they sent to Giantland for a giantess called Hyrrokkin. And when she arrived, riding a wolf and using vipers as reins, she dismounted from her steed, and Odin summoned four berserks to look after the mount, and they were unable to hold it without knocking it down. Then Hyrrokkin went to the prow of the boat and pushed it out with the first touch so that flame flew from the rollers and all lands quaked. (p. 49)

Hyrrokkin is a transparent compound name meaning literally ‘fire-smoked’, which would accord not only with a monster but also with a cremation funeral (figure è 61.2). Indeed, Úlfr has the procession of gods uniformly riding to Baldr’s funeral pyre, using three different words for it. The pyre and the procession riding toward it are thus the constants of the verses about the funeral that have survived from Húsdrápa. Snorri’s emphasis is on the ship, and since the verb þramma has the sense of moving through water, we can agree that Hyrrokkin launched the ship, rather than pushing it through the water parallel to the shore, or up onto land for a boat cremation like the one carried out for the Rus chieftain according to the account of Ibn Fadlan. A rider equipped with snakes, one of which may be a rein, sits on what appears to be a wolf on a picture stone from the now dispersed Hunnestad monument (DR 284, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). Since a snake emerges from her mouth, she is clearly monstrous. This image certainly could portray Hyrrokkin proceeding to or arriving at the funeral. In any case, the conjoining of wolf and snake conjures up the two greatest enemies of the gods: the wolf Fenrir and the serpent Jǫrmungandr, the so-called Miðgarðrsormr. These bring to the funeral of the first god to die an intimation of the end, for the wolf is to kill Óðinn and the serpent is to kill Þórr at the final battle of Ragnarǫk. Snorri provides some sort of motivation for the felling of Hyrrokkin’s mount, the wolf. It may be that if a wolf stands in for a horse,18 even berserks cannot stable or hitch it. One might also infer a certain reinforcement of the 18 

Úlfr uses the poetic marr and Snorri the usual prose word hestr; both mean ‘horse’.

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ordering principle of gods killing giants, displaced to the level of the gods’s servants and the giantess’s ‘horse’. According to Snorri, Þórr wanted to kill Hyrokkin, but the gods begged for grace for her. However, Hyrrokkin is to be found in the list of giants and giantesses killed by Þórr in the panegyric Poem about Þórr attributed to the late tenth-century Icelandic skald Þorbjǫrn dísarskáld. This stanza enumerates eight victims in its eight lines. Hyrrokkin comes in the second half, after the otherwise little-known Hengjankjǫpta (with whom she is metrically bound by the alliteration) and before the equally unknown Svívǫr. While sometimes the poet tells how Þórr killed his victim, here Þorbjǫrn only says ‘Hyrrokkin dó fyrri’ (Hyrokkin had died previously) (p. 471).19 Snorri describes the actual funeral ritual as follow. Þá var borit út á skipit lík Baldrs, ok er þat sá kona hans Nanna Nepsdóttir þá sprakk hon af harmi ok dó. Var hon borin á bálit ok slegit í eldi. Þá stóð Þórr at ok vígði bálit með Mjǫllni. En fyrir fótum hans rann dvergr nokkurr. Sá er Litr nefndr. En Þórr spyrndi fœti sínum á hann ok hratt honum í eldinn ok brann hann. (Gylfaginning p. 46) (Then Baldr’s body was carried out onto the ship, and when his wife Nanna Nep’s daughter saw this she collapsed with grief and died. She was carried on to the pyre and it was set fire to. Then Thor stood by and consecrated the fire with Miollnir. But a certain dwarf ran in front of his feet. His name was Lit. Thor kicked at him with his foot and thrust him into the fire and he was burned.) (p. 49)

Since the ship has been launched, both in Úlfr’s verse and in Snorri, we must infer a ‘floating ship funeral’; these are rare but not unknown in Old NorseIcelandic literature (Lindow 1997a: 84–87; see also West 2007: 496–98 for the Indo-European context). One is the funeral of Sigurðr hringr (ring) in Skjǫldunga saga, now lost but retained in later texts, including a Latin paraphrase by the humanist Arngrímur Jónsson. In the passage in question (Lindow 1997a: 85–86), Arngrímur reports that the aged Sigurðr chose to die after his enemies poisoned their sister, Álfsól, whom he had been courting. He placed her body on a floating funeral ship and died beside her. These dead women on the pyre certainly call up the account of the funeral of the Rus chieftain given by Ibn Fadlan, in which a female slave is killed and her corpse burned in the flames alongside her master, although of course Álfsól dies before Sigurðr, not after. Neither Nanna nor Álfsól is a slave, and neither is subject to the sexual 19 

See (è41) for a discussion of the relative sequencing of events in this verse.

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exploitation of the slave girl. Nevertheless, Ibn Fadlan’s account appears to support the idea of a woman dying and being cremated alongside a chieftain. Part of the context, too, is the heroic analogy, when Brynhild stabs herself and then orders a pyre to be built on which she and her maids and two hawks can be burned alongside Sigurðr (Sigurðarkviða in skamma st. 47–71; cf. Vǫlsunga saga).20 Although Snorri did not conceive of Nanna as possessing the agency of Brynhild (or Dido), he evidently thought it was fitting that she should burn on her husband’s pyre. Snorri also thought there should be grave goods, since he has Óðinn place his ring Draupnir on the pyre and reports too that Baldr’s horse was led onto it. Þórr’s consecration of the pyre with his hammer could be related to finds of so-called Þórr’s hammer rings deposited on cremation funerals primarily in the Mälar Valley in Sweden (overview in Lyman 2007; see further Jensen 2010 and also è 41). It also finds a partial parallel in the end of Þrymskviða, when the hammer is brought out to bless the couple about to be married, the giant Þrymr and the ‘goddess Freyja’, actually Þórr in disguise, onto whose knee it is placed. Hammers had a medi­eval connection with the bridal bed, but whether Mjǫllnir did remains an open question (è41). Þórr is also called upon to bless runes in four Viking Age runic inscriptions, but the hammer is not involved. It is therefore certainly possible that Snorri felt that some last blessing should be conferred on the dead, as in a Christian funeral. It is perhaps equally possible that the protective power of Þórr’s hammer, or of some other agency, could have been invoked in pre-Christian funerals as well. Þórr’s killing of Litr may find support in a version of Þorbjǫrn dísarskáld’s stanza addressed to Þórr, mentioned above. Where the other manu­scripts have a victim named Lútr (Bent Over), paired alliteratively with Leiði (Hateful), the Uppsala manu­script of Skáldskaparmál has Litr. Þórr kicking the dwarf into the fire is hardly an act of giant-slaying. In light of some of the other accounts of funerals, it adds a low-status individual to the pyre. Besides the verse spoken by Þǫkk/Loki, there are numerous instances of alliterative runs in Snorri’s prose: for example, ‘hann reið níu nætr døkkva dala ok djúpa’ (Gylfaginning p. 47) (he rode for nine nights through valleys dark and deep) (p. 50). It thus seems at least possible that there may have been a poem underlying this part of Snorri’s Baldr narrative, and that he quoted only 20 

In the prose header to the following Helreið Brynhildar, the one pyre has become two, one for each of the star-crossed lovers. This seems to be a device to allow Brynhild’s ride to Hel to be taken alone, Sigurðr’s pyre having been lit first. Brynhild’s suicide is mentioned in Oddrúnargrátr st. 19 but not the cremation.

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a capping stanza, just as he apparently did with the story of Freyr’s wooing of Gerðr, quoting only the final stanza of Skírnismál. Málsháttakvæði Included in the Codex Regius manu­script of Snorri’s Edda after Háttatal are two poems that scholars believe were composed in the Orkneys in the early thirteenth century. One is Málsháttakvædi (Proverb-poem). As the title suggests, the poem consists of a series of proverbial expressions, and one whole stanza (st. 9) is devoted to the Baldr story. Friggjar þótti svipr at syni; sá var taldr ór miklu kyni; Hermóðr vildi auka aldr; Éljúðnir vann sólginn Baldr. Ǫll grétu þau eptir hann; aukit var þeim hlátrar bann; heyrinkunn er frá hánum saga; hvat þarf ek of slíkt at jaga. (It seemed a sudden loss concerning the son of Frigg [= Baldr]; he was reckoned from a great family; Hermóðr wanted to extend his life; Éljúðnir had swallowed up Baldr. They all wept for him; their ban of laughter [sorrow] grew; the tale about him is very well known; why do I need to harp on it.) (p. 1223)

The poet clearly knew a version of the story of the attempted but unsuccessful recovery of Baldr, as we know it from Snorri,21 although it does not mention Loki. If the assignment of the poem to the Orkneys holds, we have witness of that story in the Orkneys, along with the poet’s ironic refusal to pursue the subject because it was so well known. Furthermore, if the poem really is the work of Bishop Bjarni Kolbeinsson, as many scholars believe, we probably have witness to this version of the story before Snorri composed his Edda, since Bjarni lived until 1223, and it is unlikely that Snorri began work on the Edda before 1219. However, Bjarni did travel to Norway in 1218, when Snorri was there, so it is not completely impossible that one got the story from the other. But let us recall that the Orkadian provenance and attribution to Bjarni Kolbeinsson are surmises. 21 

Besides the similarities of plot, there is the name Éljúðnir, which is found only in Málsháttakvæði and in Gylfaginning, where Snorri says that is the name of Hel’s hall.

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Saxo In Book 3 of Gesta Danorum, Saxo Grammaticus sketches Danish prehistory from after the death of Frotho I to the first part of the story of Amlethus (Hamlet). The first half or so of the book consists of an account of the enmity between Høtherus and Balderus and their struggle for the Danish throne. The book begins by describing Høtherus, foster-son of Gevarus, king of Denmark and a paragon of many virtues. He loves his foster-sister Nanna, but so does the demi-god Balderus, explicitly stated to be the son of Othinus when first introduced. Nanna rejects Balderus on the grounds of incompatibility between god and mortal, but Høtherus engages him in a sea-battle, mortals against gods.22 The mortals are powerless against the huge club of Thoro, but Høtherus whacks the handle off it,23 and his army prevails. However, although Høtherus marries Nanna, Balderus lives to fight another day, and twice thereafter he defeats Høtherus in battle. The night before the final (fourth) battle, Høtherus encounters Balderus and plunges his sword into him. That night Proserpina (probably Hel in this context) appears to Balderus in a dream, and after three days he dies, is given a funeral by his army, and is buried in a mound. As in the Icelandic sources, vengeance follows. Othinus learns from a sage that a Ruthenian (Russian) princess named Rinda is to bear the avenger, and so he sets off to seduce her. This proves to be a difficult proposition, and after three failed attempts Othinus finally succeeds only by disguising himself as a female physician when she is ill and binding her so that she may take foul-tasting medicine, upon which he rapes her. The avenger, Bous, finally kills Høtherus, and dies himself one day later. The parallels with the Icelandic tradition are clear: Høtherus kills Balderus, who has had bad dreams (not just of Hel but also out of his longing for Nanna). The defeat of Balderus, in the first battle, is the defeat of all the gods, as at Ragnarǫk. There is a special weapon — namely, a sword that Høtherus acquires from a ‘wood-troll’ (syluarum satyrus) in the Far North named Mimingus —,24 22 

So Saxo describes the battle, but he adds ‘Deos autem potius opinatiue quam naturaliter dicimus. Talibus nanque non natura, sed gentium more diuinitatis uocabulum damus’ (Gesta Danorum 3.2.10) (We say ‘gods’ more from supposition than truth, and give them the title of ‘deities’ by popular custom, not through their nature). 23  If we take seriously this alternative to Snorri’s story of Loki’s ultimate responsibility for the short handle on Þórr’s hammer, Hǫðr/Høtherus acted against not only Óðinn’s family but also against Þórr’s ability to use his characteristic weapon and thus effectively against the collective of gods as a whole. 24  In Þiðreks saga, Mímungr is a famous sword forged by Velent (Wayland the smith) for

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but the event occurs before the first battle, and it is not wholly clear that this is the sword that Høtherus finally uses to kill Balderus. Høtherus meets twice with forest maidens (syluestrium virgines) who are somewhat reminiscent of valkyries or perhaps dísir; they control the special food of Balderus and thus to some extent, one infers, the course of his life. Othinus/Óðinn sires an avenger on Rinda/Rindr, and vengeance is carried out.25 The avenger is another son of Óðinn/Othinus, sired for the purpose,26 and Rinda/Rindr is not a willing participant: the tenth-century Icelandic poet Kormákr Ǫgmundarson left us this line: ‘seið Yggr til Rindar’ (Yggr obtained Rindr through sorcery) (p. 277).27 But if these similarities are clear, so are the differences. Balderus and Høtherus are not at all related — indeed, they are demi-god and mortal, and Høtherus has no real flaws. Indeed, from a narrative perspective, Høtherus is the protagonist of the narrative, not Balderus. The killing is fully motivated, neither instigated by an outside figure like Loki nor accidental. Beowulf The Old English epic poem Beowulf contains a short anecdote (ll. 2425–71), spoken by Beowulf himself, that may reflect and at the same time throw light on the Baldr story, although the context is heroic legend, not myth. The story concerns the two sons of Hreðel, Herebeald and Hæðcyn, whose names appear to contain reflexes of Baldr and Hǫðr. Hæðcyn accidently kills Herebeald with an errant spear throw, and finding himself unable to take vengeance, Hreðel falls into despair and dies.

his son Viðga, and one of the fragments of the Old English poem Waldhere mentions a sword named Mimming forged by Wayland. According to one of the þulur (lists) in Skáldskaparmál, Mímungr is a heiti (poetic synonym) for sword. 25  Váli takes vengeance when one day old; Bous dies one day after taking vengeance; in either case it is clear that the avenger exists only for the purpose of this one act of vengeance. 26  However, the names Bous and Váli cannot be reconciled. 27  Snorri quotes the stanza out of context in Skáldskaparmál, and editors assign it to Kormákr’s Sigurðardrápa. Yggr is an Óðinn name. The root of the verb síða, whose preterite Marold and her colleagues translate ‘obtained through sorcery’, is a form of the root of the noun seiðr. In Saxo, Óðinn drove Rinda mad during one of his unsuccessful attempts at seduction. His dressing as a woman certainly would be compatible with seiðr, and indeed he must abandon his throne for ten years because of this unmanly behaviour.

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Second Merseburg Charm A manu­script from the cathedral chapter in Merseburg, Sachsen-Anhalt, Germany, contains two charms in Old High German. The manu­script is usually dated to c. 900; the age of the charms cannot be determined. The first is a formula for loosing bindings. The second is a charm for healing a sprain, and it appears to call on pre-Christian deities, including Baldr. Phol ende uuodan uuorun zi holza. du uuart demo balderes uolon sin uuoz birenkit. thu biguol en sinthgunt, sunna era suister; thu biguol en friia, uolla era suister; thu biguol en uuodan, so he uuola conda. Sose benrenki, sose bluotrenki, sose lidirenki: ben zi bena, bluot zi bluoda, lid zi geliden, sose gelimida sin. (Phol and Wodan went to the forest. Then Balder’s horse sprained its foot. Then Sinthgunt sang charms, and Sunna her sister. The Frija sang charms, and Folla her sister; then Wodan sang charms, as well he could; be it bone-sprain, be it blood-sprain, be it limb sprain: bone to bone, blood to blood, limb to limb, so be they glued together.) (trans. Lindow 2002a: 227)

There can be little doubt that Wodan here is Óðinn, especially because the god also appears in an Old English charm for snakebite. Although Karl Helm put up a vigorous argument that balder here simply means ‘lord’ (Helm 1944, 1950), few observers today doubt that the rider is Baldr, and that it is his horse that Wotan/Óðinn cures. This would therefore be a Continental usage of Baldr not paralleled in the Nordic textual tradition.

Cult Although older scholarship was convinced that Baldr was deeply involved with fertility ritual, that position has been largely abandoned, and connections with cult have been elusive. As regards placenames, there are none in Sweden and perhaps none elsewhere in the North: ‘there may be a few names in Denmark and Norway indicating the existence of a cult of the god Baldr, but the evidence is fragile and inconclusive’ (Brink 2007b: 121–22). The late romantic Friðþjófs saga tells of a pagan temple at Baldrshagi (Baldr’s meadow)

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in Sogn, Norway, but scholars no longer take the mention seriously. Current thinking is open to an association of the Baldr myth with warrior initiation. One scholar, Joseph Harris, has launched a serious argument for association of the Baldr myth with the death ritual apparently at play in the runic inscription on the Rök stone in Östergötland (Ög 136, Samnordisk runtextdatabas), Sweden, and he also sees religious attitudes associated with sacrifice in the tenth-century Icelandic poet Egill Skallagrímsson’s Sonatorrek. Outside Scandinavia, the Second Merseburg Charm suggests that Baldr may have been associated with rituals of healing, as especially Karl Hauck has proposed in connection with some type B and C bracteates. Since bracteates were worn on the body, Hauck’s theories, if correct, might perhaps indicate some sort of protective role for Baldr in human lives. On both these arguments, see below under ‘Scholarship and Interpretation’.

Scholarship and Interpretation If there is a core to the disparate myths of Baldr outlined above, it would appear to lie in his violent death at the hand of Hǫðr and the siring of an avenger who kills Hǫðr.28 Nevertheless, scholarship, especially older scholarship, has often departed from or emphasized aspects of the story found only in Snorri, such as Baldr’s goodness, the mistletoe weapon (also found in Vǫluspá R32–33), and the universal weeping associated with the attempted retrieval from the world of the dead. For most of the nineteenth century and half the twentieth century, Baldr was regarded as a fertility god. James George Frazer devoted two volumes of The Golden Bough to a study of Balder the Beautiful (1980/1913). These volumes, forming the conclusion of the huge work, argued that the golden bough at Nemi, with which Frazer opened the work, was a branch of mistletoe growing in the sacred grove, and that Baldr was a mythic representation of the god who died with the harvest in the Fall and was revived with the new growth of crops and plants in the Spring. Although Frazer’s methodology was questioned even when the study first appeared, Gustav Neckel’s 1920 mono­graph met or 28 

In contrast to this statement about the core, Frog, in the most recent mono­g raphic treatment of the Baldr myth, gives more or less equal value to motifs that appear often or rarely. In his schema, the vengeance sequence forms a parallel to the attempted recovery: the first associated with Frigg, the second with Óðinn (Frog 2010: 26–29). Given his goal of engaging the Baldr and Lemminkäinen ‘cycles’, vengeance and Ragnarǫk in the Baldr material are of secondary importance to Frog’s argument.

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exceeded philological standards of the time.29 According to Neckel, Baldr was a loan, mediated by the Goths during the Migration Period, of the so-called ‘dying gods’ of the Mediterranean area: Tammuz, Attis, Adonis, the baalim of the ancient Near East. These gods died each year and were mourned, then were reborn as the earth grew fertile again.30 In numerous writings, Franz Rolf Schröder advanced the concept of Baldr as a fertility god, insisting on a strong connection with fertility ritual (Schröder 1924, 1938a, 1953, 1960a, 1962). In one study, Schröder argued the derivation of Lemminkäinen in Kalevala tradition from Baldr, since the formulas his mother uses to attempt to revive him resemble closely the text of the Second Merseburg Charm. This hypothetical borrowing was later supported by Fromm (1963) and rejected by Lindow (1997b); the latest study, that of Frog (2010), supports it but does not argue association with fertility or cult. A second strand of interpretation also began in the nineteenth century, most famously with the German translation of Sophus Bugge’s book on the origin of Nordic myth and legend (1889a).31 Bugge’s position in general stressed Western origins, and he found ample evidence to argue that the Baldr story was simply the story of the death and resurrection of Christ borrowed into Old Norse. Like those who argued that Baldr was a seasonal fertility god, Bugge and those who have followed in his footsteps find most of their evidence in Snorri’s version of the story. It would be difficult to align Úlfr’s description of Baldr’s funeral with Christ, and if we take Baldr’s story as one of murder and vengeance, the parallel will not hold, although no one would doubt the influence of Christianity on Snorri (see further, for example, Mosher 1983). The connection with fertility was broken by Jan de Vries (1955a), who argued a connection with war and battle: to begin with, Baldr’s return from the dead is not the result of universal mourning; rather, it explains the origin of death and with it Óðinn’s institution of cremation funerals. The killing of Baldr by Hǫðr reflects, in the view of de Vries, initiation ritual within an Óðinn cult: Óðinn is 29 

Although his book was the most influential of the Baldr books in older scholarship, it was hardly the first. Among other studies were Losch (1892), Detter (1894), Niedner (1897), and Kauffmann (1902). 30  Neckel also adduced the Old English noun bealdor, a poetic word for ‘lord’, for his argument, since many of the Near Eastern dying gods have names with this meaning, but Hans Kuhn (1951) argued that bealdor most likely meant something like ‘guardian’. The etymology of Baldr’s name is disputed, and scholars have tended to choose an etymology that suits their interpretation (see, for example, also the remarks on Liberman 2004 below). 31  Publication of the Norwegian original began in 1881 and finished in 1889.

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blind in one eye, as Hǫðr (the root of whose name refers to battle) is blind in both, and this Óðinn figure symbolically kills the initiand (Baldr). Clearly this scenario would fit with notions of the warrior band (è 24). While the direct connection with initiation ritual may not hold (Schjødt 2003), there is little doubt that de Vries turned Baldr scholarship in an entirely new direction. Although Schröder responded to this overturning of the standard view (1962), the most significant challenge was that of Kurt Schier. Schier argued that Freyr and Fróði were dying gods (1968), and he understood Baldr as fitting into that typology (1976a) and brought forth evidence for an independent Danish tradition of the god (1992, 1995). Later Liberman (2004; 2016: 297–41) reconstructed the ‘original’ myth as the killing of a sky god (Baldr, whose name Liberman etymologizes as ‘gleaming’) by Hǫðr, the ‘ruler of the underworld’, who learned the location of the reed that could kill him from Baldr’s mother. The cause was a woman (Nanna), and after Baldr’s mother’s attempts to free him from the underworld failed, he stayed there but ‘still protected crops and other plants’ (2004: 47; cf. 2016: 239). Although great erudition characterizes this analysis, it can only be regarded as extremely speculative. Most recent scholarship has accepted the premises put forth by de Vries in 1955 (1955a). Georges Dumézil adduced an Indo-European parallel in the Mahabharata to argue that the story is ultimately eschatological (Dumézil 1973c: 49–65): the killing of Baldr the good and the failure to retrieve him from the world of the dead launched the bad mythic present, which can only become good again through the upheaval of Ragnarǫk. Given the sequencing of the verses in Vǫluspá R and the use of the secret of Baldr’s funeral at the end of Vafþrúðnismál, discussed above, one does not need the Indo-European parallel to argue that the Baldr story could have initiated the eschatological chain of events.32 If one accepts Dumézil’s argument, however, the mythic interconnection would have deep roots. Interestingly, several scholars have argued an Indo-European background for the mistletoe, in one way or another. This weapon is special (Puhvel 1972), not least because it is taxonomically anomalous (Lincoln 1982; West 2004).33 32 

Bonnetain (2006) associates the death of Baldr with eschatology in an interesting way: in a presumed world-view involving cyclical rather than linear cosmic time, Baldr’s death was a sacrifice necessary in order to start a new cycle (è44). This hypothesis can hardly be verified, but the importance of the vengeance taken on Hǫðr in so many sources would seem to weaken it considerably. 33  Also operating over the longue durée, Liberman (2004) rejects the structuralist approach and thinks that the mistletoe replaced an original reed, or something similar, during the height

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However, Merrill Kaplan (2012) has shown that the narrative usage of the mistletoe in Snorri’s account — too young to swear an oath — accords with the medi­eval Icelandic legal apparatus, which did not allow young men who have not reached legal majority to swear oaths. They are therefore outside the legal system and pose a potential problem when that system is brought to bear, as in a settlement. A closer look at the realistic narratives of the Íslendingasögur, Kaplan writes, shows that: the young man who could not be sworn was sufficiently urgent a problem in the social imagination of medi­eval Icelanders to be worthy of repeated treatment. It should therefore not be surprising that Snorri would have chosen to articulate it in abstract form using the heaviest conceptual machinery available to him, the matter of myth. (2012: 46)

Lindow argued that the entire mythology could be understood in terms of the bloodfeud system of dispute resolution (1995a), and in a mono­graph on the role of Baldr within the mythology, (1997a) he stressed that the story uses the mythic machinery to come to terms with the insoluble problem a feud system faces when there is a manslaughter within a family.34 Joseph Harris reads Sonatorrek, the poem composed by the tenth-century Icelandic poet Egill Skallagrímsson on the loss of his two sons, as a reflection of Egill’s religious attitudes as an adherent of Óðinn, specifically on the notion of the death of his sons as a metaphorical sacrifice to Óðinn. Harris argues that running through the poem is ‘a sustained allusion to Baldr, his death, and Ragnarǫk’ (Harris 2007: 158; see also Harris 1994, 1999, 2006a). In a related series of articles, Harris argues that the Baldr story lies behind the enigmatic inscription on the Rök rune stone from ninth-century Östergötland, Sweden (Harris 2006b, 2009a, 2009b, 2009c). According to Harris, the inscription calls for the siring of an avenger for the deceased son of the man who sponsored the erection of the stone and its inscription by allusively citing a regional version of the myth in its final section. The notorious difficulty of the Rök text hinders evaluation of Harris’s hypothesis, as does the ‘socio-semiotic’ interpretation put forth by Per Holmberg (2015) based in part on Bo Ralph’s (2007) restatement of certain fundamental readings, but it is very carefully argued and should be taken seriously, alongside Harris’s identification of Baldr’s death as of Viking Age contacts between Britain and Scandinavia. For a structuralist reading of the entire story, based especially on Francophone scholarship, see Stjernfelt (1990). 34  In this light the passage in Beowulf is relevant, for there the killing is accidental, and with no course to pursue in response, Hreðel withers and dies.

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a kind of master narrative in some Icelandic poems reflecting the real world of death and death ritual. In numerous publications, Karl Hauck strove to associate the icono­graphy of a number of C bracteates with the Second Merseburg Charm and, presumably, the myth that underlay it.35 Building out from this identification, Hauck reads the B bracteates with three figures on them (‘Drei-götter’ (three-god) bracteates according to him) as portraying Óðinn, Loki, and Baldr, and he also saw a few other details of the myth of Baldr’s death, as it appears in Icelandic texts, on other bracteates. This hypothesis remained more or less untested, as most analyses of the myth have focused purely on the Nordic textual traditions. However, Hauck’s readings have been subjected to serious, forceful, and quite reasonable criticism, especially lately (see, for example, Polomé 1994; Starkey 1999; Wicker 2003, 2014; Wicker and Williams 2012; Hines 2013), and whether Baldr appears on any bracteates at all must remain an open question.36

Concluding Remarks It is not possible to reconcile the variations between the Icelandic textual tradition and Saxo’s Book 3 (Clunies Ross 1992b; Liberman 1992; and especially the essays in Jørgensen and others 2010). Given that fact, and given the arguments for local variation of the Baldr myth in Denmark (Schier) and Östergötland ( Joseph Harris), and given the apparently different focus of the Second Merseburg Charm and the proposed identification of Baldr icono­graphy associated with healing on the bracteates, we can probably best regard Baldr as a perfect example of variation through time and space within PCRN. The Icelandic versions clearly have to do with violent death and the vengeance that must follow, but it should also be stressed that Snorri’s version appears to contain an explanation for the presence of death among the gods (de Vries 1955a), and perhaps therefore among their clients, humans. Such myths are common around the world: the ancestors are without death for a period of 35  This line of scholarship began in 1970 and continued up to Hauck’s death in 2007, when he left behind two chapters later included in a massive volume on the evaluation of the bracteates (Hauck 2011a, 2011b). The amount of Hauck’s scholarship was simply staggering. For example, his series of articles subtitled ‘Zur Ikonologie der Goldbrakteaten’ (On the Icono­ graphy of the Gold Bracteates), many quite substantive, reached a staggering sixty-one entries. 36  Probably the most convincing argument relates to the B bracteates (Drei-Götter ‘Threegods’), some of which contain a strange projectile, clearly not a spear, aimed at the middle figure; Hauck suggestively reads this as a mistletoe projectile.

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time and then, often by their choice, it appears.37 That Baldr’s funeral could apparently decorate the hall of a wealthy and ostentatious Icelandic chieftain toward the end of the pagan period, and be the subject of an elaborate poetic performance there, shows that we must regard the funeral as an important aspect of Baldr mythology in that time and place. Saxo’s Balderus, however, does appear to have connections with the vanir, despite his violent death. His passion for Nanna, conceived when he was inflamed by the sight of her gleaming form (corporis nitor ‘gleam of her body’) emerging from the bath, suggests manic-vanic susceptibility (Lindow 2008), as does his incapacity that follows, like that of Freyr after he has beheld Gerðr.38 And then there is the connection with springs, mentioned twice by Saxo. Given the current state of our knowledge, interpretation of a single Baldr myth in the absence of a consideration of time, space, and textual context is probably inadvisable and quite likely impossible.

37  In his Motif-Index of Folk Literature (1955: i, 216), Stith Thompson reported the motif ‘Origin of death’ (A1335) on all six of the inhabited continents. A narrative example taken more or less randomly is found in the recordings made by Knud Rasmussen in northern Greenland in the early twentieth century: In the beginning there was no death, no light, and therefore no hunting. When the ancestors decided to allow death, the cycle of darkness and light emerged, and people were able to hunt. In other words, life (and death) as people knew it originated at that point. 38  Is it chance that Saxo includes a short section about Fro/Freyr at this point in the narrative? It would connect better with Baldr if a common notion of the vanir were at work here.

47 – Njǫrðr John Lindow Introduction and Historical Background The god Njǫrðr appears in a variety of sources and seems to have been widely known in time and space. Formally, his name is identical with that of Nerthus, to whom Tacitus ascribes an elaborate cult in Chapter 40 of Germania, subscribed to by seven tribes who probably lived near the North Sea.1 [N]ec quicquam notabile in singulis, nisi quod in commune Nerthum, id est Terram matrem, colunt eamque intervenire rebus hominum, invehi populis arbitrantur. est in insula Oceani castum nemus, dicatumque in eo vehiculum, veste contectum; attingere uni sacerdoti concessum. is adesse penetrali deam intellegit vectamque bubus feminis multa cum veneratione prosequitur. laeti tunc dies, festa loca, quae­ cumque adventu hospitioque dignatur. non bella ineunt, non arma sumunt; clausum omne ferrum; pax et quies tunc tantum nota, tunc tantum amata, donec idem sacerdos satiatam conversatione mortalium deam temple reddat. mox vehiculum et 1 

Motz (1992) casts doubt on the reading Nertum (accusative singular of *Nert[h]us), because it is only one of several in the manu­scripts of Germania; the others include necthum, Neithum, herthum, Neherthum, and Verthum (Robinson 1935: 317). According to Motz, modern editors prefer it because Jacob Grimm preferred it, on the basis of the etymological similarity with Njǫrðr. However, it is the reading found in Codex Aesinus, the most important manu­script, and thus the reading favoured by Rodney Potter Robinson in the standard critical edition (Robinson 1935: 317). And would it not be extraordinarily coincidental that a deity who fits the pattern of the later fertility gods should have a name that is etymologically identical with one of them? Motz adduces parallels with Frau Holle and Frau Perht of German folk tradition (Motz 1992; accepted by Simek 2003: 56), but nearly all these parallels will hold for Freyr and Freyja as well. On the veracity of Tacitus in general, see Naumann (1934a). John Lindow, Professor Emeritus of Scandinavian, University of California, Berkeley The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume iii, ed. by Jens Peter p. 1331–1344 Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) p BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116974

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vestis et, si credere velis, numen ipsum secreto lacu abluitur. servi ministrant, quos statim idem lacus haurit. arcanus hinc terror sanctaque ignorantia, quid sit illud, quod tantum perituri vident. ([N]or is there anything noteworthy about them individually, except that they worship in common Nerthus, or Mother Earth, and conceive her as intervening in human affairs, and riding in procession through the cities of men. In an island of the ocean is a holy grove, and in it a consecrated chariot, covered with robes: a single priest is permitted to touch it: he feels the presence of the goddess in her shrine, and follows with deep reverence as she rides away drawn by cows: then come days of rejoicing, and all places keep holiday, as many as she thinks worthy to receive and entertain her. They make no war, take no arms: every weapon is put away; peace and quiet are then, and then alone, known and loved, until the same priest returns the goddess to her sacred precinct, when she has had her fill of the society of mortals. After this the chariot and the robes, and, if you are willing to credit it, the deity in person, are washed in a sequestered lake: slaves are the ministrants and are straightaway swallowed by the same lake: hence a mysterious terror and an ignorance full of piety as to what that may be which men only behold to die.) (p. 197)

Like Freyr and Freyja, this Mother Earth is associated with a wagon, and like Freyja she is associated with death. However, her name corresponds directly to that of Njǫrðr. The difference in sex has over the years been explained in all sorts of ingenious way: by positing both female and male versions (like Freyja and Freyja; e.g., Kock 1896), sometimes twins, sometimes a hermaphrodite; by positing different gods whose names were homonyms (Polomé 1988); by historical development of the deity, with a change in sex (Wessén 1929–30; Polomé 1954). In the latter case, Skaði would originally have been male, which would accord with the masculine gender of her name. The grammatical class of the name Nerthus/Njǫrðr originally had both male and female members, which could accommodate two deities or an undifferentiated numen that could take gender when anthromorphized (Meid 1992: 492). The latter hypothesis might gain traction through the originally abstract formation in *-tu-. The most likely etymology seems to be a connection with a root meaning ‘strength’ (de Vries 1962a: 410–11), although it is by no means certain.

Sources Although no narrative about Nj ǫ rðr is recorded in skaldic poetry, Egill Skallagrímssonar did credit Njǫrðr and Freyr with conferring riches on his friend Arinbjǫrn (Arinbjarnarkviða st. 17), and Egill included Njǫrðr along with the Óðinn, Freyr, landáss, and the collective goð and rǫgn in the stanza

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recited, according to the saga, when he parted from Arinbj ǫ rn (ch.  56) (lausavísa 28).2 The name Njǫrðr is common in kennings. In a stanza in Skáldskaparmál thought to be part of Einarr Skúlason’s Øxarflokkr and edited as stanza 4, Hnoss (treasure) is ‘Njarðar dóttur barn’ (the child of the daughter of Njǫrðr). Here three generations are recorded: Njǫrðr, Freyja, and Hnoss. In two of his conversion stanzas (among his lausavísur), Hallfreðr vandræðaskáld mentions abandoning Njǫrðr (st. 9) and his descendants, the gods (st. 10). Njǫrðr is often found in eddic poetry, sometimes in a narrative role. No fewer than five of the mythological poems feature or mention him: Vafþrúðnismál, Grímnismál, Skírnismál, Lokasenna, and Þrymskviða. Njǫrðr also figures in Gylfaginning, Skáldskaparmál, and Ynglinga saga. Numerous placenames reflect Njǫrðr (eastern form *Njærþer). Areas of con­centration include eastern Norway and coastal western Norway (Hultgård 2002b; Brink 2007b: 118) and the ‘east Swedish culture area’, with names primarily in Östergötland, Närke, and the Mälar area (Vikstrand 2001: 94–100). Unlike many other deities, Njǫrðr is not represented in icono­graphy.

Myths Njǫrðr’s maritime orientation appears to have played a role in the myth of his failed marriage to Skaði, which is well documented, although it cannot be recaptured in Swedish placenames (Vikstrand 2001: 113). It may, however, be consistent with the location of the tribes who worshipped Nerthus. Nóatún, listed as Njǫrðr’s dwelling in Grímnismál st. 16, transparently means ‘enclosures for ships’, that is, ‘boathouse’ or ‘boathouses’.3 According to Skáldskaparmál, valid ways to ken Nj ǫrðr include calling him: ‘vagna guð eða Vana nið eða Van ok fǫður Freys ok Freyju, *gefanda guð’ (p. 18) (god of chariots or descendant of Vanir or a Van and father of Freyr and Freyia, the giving god) (p. 75). The chariots could be juxtaposed to the chariot of Nerthus, and the last kenning to the conferring of wealth; where Faulkes edits *gefanda guð (accusative), most manu­scripts have fég jafa guð ‘god of gifts of wealth’ (Skáldskaparmál p. 137). The other kennings play on his family relationships within the vanir. In eddic poetry, Freyr is called ‘Njarðar burr’ (son 2 

Because Njǫrðr is mentioned alongside Freyr in these stanzas, they may constitute evidence of the vanir as a group. See (è40). 3  Both Grímnismál st. 16 and Ynglinga saga ch. 4, use the name as a plural. In the euhemer­ ization of Ynglinga saga, Snorri makes of Nóatún a place somewhere in Sweden, given to Njǫrðr by Óðinn.

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of Njǫrðr) (Grímnismál st. 43) and ‘Njarðar sonr’ (son of Njǫrðr) (Skírnismál st. 38, 39, 41), and Freyja ‘Njarðar dóttir’ (daughter of Njǫrðr) (Þrymskviða st. 22). Like most gods, Njǫrðr was frequently used as the base word for mankennings. Njǫrðr plays a narrative role in two complex myths: the incorporation of the vanir into the æsir, and his marriage to and separation from Skaði. In Vafþrúðnismál st. 38 Óðinn asks Vafþrúðnir about the origin of Njǫrðr, who rules many cult sites and altars, ‘oc varðað hann ásom alinn’ (and he was not raised among the Æsir) (p. 43). The giant replies (st. 39): Í Vanaheimi scópo hann vís regin oc seldo at gíslingo goðom; í aldar rǫc hann mun aptr koma heim með vísom vǫnom. (In Vanaheim the wise Powers made him and gave him as hostage to the gods; at the doom of men he will come back home among the wise Vanir.) (p. 43)

Snorri mentions this in Gylfaginning (p. 23): Eigi er Njǫrðr Ása ættar. Hann var upp fœddr í Vanaheimum, en Vanir gísluðu hann goðunum ok tóku í mót at Ásagíslingu þann er Hœnir heitir. Hann varð at sætt með goðunum ok Vǫnum. (Niord is not of the race of Æsir. He was brought up in the land of the Vanir, but the Vanir gave him as hostage to the gods and took in exchange as an Æsir-hostage the one called Hænir. He came to be the pledge of truce between the gods and the Vanir.) (p. 23)

He tells the story with far more detail in Ynglinga saga ch. 4. The motivation for the exchange of hostages, he writes, is the peace treaty following a war between the æsir and the vanir. Óðinn fór með her á hendur Vǫnum, en þeir urðu vel við ok vǫrðu land sitt, ok hǫfðu ýmsir sigr. Herjuðu hvárir land annarra ok gerðu skaða. En er þat leiddisk hvárumtveggjum lǫgðu þeir milli sín sættarstefnu, ok gerðu frið ok seldusk gíslar. (Óthin made war on the Vanir, but they resisted stoutly and defended their land; now the one, now the other was victorious, and both devastated the land of their opponents, doing each other damage. But when both wearied of that, they agreed on a peace meeting and concluded a peace, giving each other hostages.) (pp. 7–8)

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Hostages in this context are persons ‘held as a security for the fulfillment of certain terms’ (Morris 1969: 637 s.v.). In this case the terms in questions would be the cessation of hostilities. Snorri goes on. Fengu Vanir sína ina ágæztu menn, Njǫrð inn auðga ok son hans, Frey, en Æsir þar í mót þann, er Hœnir hét, ok kǫlluðu hann allvel til hǫfðingja fallinn. Hann var mikill maðr ok inn vænsti. Með honum sendu Æsir þann, er Mímir hét, inn vitrasti maðr, en Vanir fengu þar í mót þann, er spakastr var í þeira flokki. Sá hét Kvasir. (The Vanir gave their most outstanding man, Njorth the Wealthy and his son Frey; but the Æsir, in their turn, furnished one whose name was Hœnir, declaring him to be well fitted to be a chieftain. He was a large man and exceedingly handsome. Together with him the Æsir sent one called Mímir, a very wise man; and the Vanir in return sent the one who was the cleverest among them. His name was Kvasir.) (p. 8)

Of the five hostages exchanged according to this passage, Njǫrðr is not only the first mentioned, but also in the end the one most associated with his hostage status. In Gylfaginning it is probably Njǫrðr, not Hœnir, who ‘varð at sætt með goðunum ok Vǫnum’ (p. 23) (came to be the pledge of truce between the gods and the Vanir) (p. 23). This would explain the second half of Vafþrúðnismál st. 39: Njǫrðr will return to the vanir at aldar rǫk (that is, Ragnarǫk). At that time, all bonds will be dissolved, including, one assumes, the treaty binding the vanir to the æsir.4 Lokasenna st. 34–35 clearly show that Njǫrðr’s status as hostage was salient, although the passage is difficult. Loki qvað: 34. Þegi þú, Niorðr! Þú vart austr heðan gíls um sendr at goðom; Hymis meyjar hǫfðo þic at hlandtrogi oc þér í munn migo. Njorðr qvað: 35. Sú eromc lícn, er ec varc langt heðan gísl um sendr at goðom: þá ec mǫg gat, þann er mangi fiár, oc þiccr sá ása iaðarr. 4 

See Słupecki (2011) for further comments on the relationship of the vanir to Ragnarǫk.

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(34. Be silent, Niord, you were sent from here eastwards as hostage to the gods; the daughters of Hymir used you as a pisspot and pissed in your mouth. 35. That was my comfort, when I, from far away, was sent as hostage to the gods, that I fathered that son, whom no one hates, and is thought the protector of the Æsir.) (p. 86)

In stanza 34, the translation of at goðom as ‘to the gods’ is certainly possible, and it would accord with Snorri’s euhemeristic geo­graphy, in which the vanir, who lived along the river Don, Tanakvísl, or Vanakvísl according to Snorri, were located to the west of the æsir.5 However, one could also read the expression as ‘for the gods’, that is, ‘on behalf of the gods’, and thus a possible reference to some other incident, perhaps metaphorically or sarcastically. That reading would accord with the second half of the stanza, with its otherwise unknown abuse of Njǫrðr by giantesses. We believe that the passage might best be explained as a sarcastic reference by Loki to Njǫrðr’s marriage to Skaði (so Boer 1922: 105–06; Steinsland 1991: 54; for discussion see von See and others 1997: 453–55), in which Njǫrðr’s person secured a settlement, just as it did after the war between the æsir and vanir. ‘East’ would then refer to Skaði’s dwelling in the mountains, at Þrymheimr. The kenning Hymis meyjar can only mean ‘giantesses’, and unless it is a synecdoche for Skaði, it appears to be difficult to reconcile with the marriage story. At least when Þórr encounters them, giantesses do tend to be in groups (e.g., Gjálp and Greip, or the brúðir berserkja and vargynjur (brides of berserks, she-wolves) in Hárbarðsljóð st. 37, 39), and we may see that principle here. Indeed, the problem vanishes if we take these giantesses as servants of Skaði. In that case, the passage would find a direct parallel in Skírnismál st. 35. There Skírnir warns Gerðr that if she is subject to the curse he is laying down should she reject Freyr, she will end up in an inappropriate marriage to the þurs Hrímgrímnir below the gates of the dead, and that there male servants or slaves (vílmegir) will give her goat’s piss to drink. In a further parallel, von See and others (1997: 454–55) adduce legal provisions from Grágás calling for lesser or greater outlawry for a person who urinates or defecates upon another. Although ‘person’ (maðr) can in theory be 5 

According to the logic of Chapter 2 of Ynglinga saga, the vanir would have been among the peoples subjected to Óðinn’s expanisionist regime when he was still located at Ásgarðr: ‘Óðinn var hermaðr mikill and mjǫk vífǫrull ok eignaðisk mǫrg ríki’ (Óthin was a great warrior and fared widely, conquering many countries) (p. 7). Clunies Ross has also pointed out they stood in the immediate path of the later emigration of the æsir from Ásgarðr (Clunies Ross 1994a: 96).

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male or female, outlawry is presumably a penalty aimed primarily at men. Thus, in this case, Skaði would again be in a male role with respect to Njǫrðr. To cite a further analogy, von See and others (1997: 454–55) also adduce a passage in Karlamagnús saga in which prostitutes urinate on prisoners. In either case, there is a systematic degradation of the victim that appears to be consistent with the gender-bending that runs through the story of the marriage of Njǫrðr and Skaði. Njǫrðr’s response (st. 35) supports the idea that Loki was referring to the marriage so long as we assume that Skaði was indeed Freyr’s mother. That notion is supported by the prose header to Skírnismál, which has Skaði, acting on Njǫrðr’s behalf, address Skírnir concerning okkar mǫgr (‘our son’, i.e., her son with Njǫrðr). However, in Gylfaginning Snorri has Hár state that Njǫrðr sired Freyr and Freyja after the marriage to Skaði had dissolved.6 To some degree the issue of the mother of Freyr and Freyja is not relevant to Njǫrðr’s response to Loki: the marriage to Skaði may have been a disaster, but subsequently Njǫrðr sired a valuable member of the community of the gods. We know the story of the events leading up to the marriage of Njǫrðr and Skaði from Skáldskaparmál. It is the first narrative Bragi recounts to Ægir just after the frame has been established, and, as is consistent with these early narratives (simply appended to Gylfaginning in U), no skaldic stanzas are quoted within it, although it does end with discussion of a few kennings. It is a longish narrative, beginning with the familiar pattern of three æsir travelling, in this case Óðinn, Loki, and Hœnir (è 44). They find themselves unable to cook an ox, and a large eagle perched on a branch above them tells them he is responsible. He will allow the ox to cook if he is given a share but takes the hams and shoulders. Enraged, Loki attacks the eagle with a pole, but the pole sticks to the eagle and Loki to the pole, and he suffers sufficiently as they fly off to promise to bring Iðunn and her apples to the eagle, soon to be disclosed as the giant Þjazi. Loki delivers on his promise, and the gods grow old without the apples. Loki then must retrieve Iðunn, and this he does in Freyja’s falcon-shape, having trans6 

Just prior to this point, the version in Regius describes the marriage using present-tense verbs, which could imply that despite the seemingly irreconcilable differences, the marriage has not dissolved: ‘Njǫrðr á þá konu er Skaði heitir, dóttir Þjaza jǫtuns. Skaði vill hafa bústað þann er átt hafði faðir hennar — þat er á fjǫllum nokkvorum þar sem heitir Þrymheimr — en Njǫrðr vill vera nær sæ’ (p. 23) (Niord has a wife called Skadi, daughter of the giant Thiassi. Skadi wants to have the home her father had had — this is in some mountains, a place called Thrymheim — but Niord wants to be near the sea) (p. 23). The corresponding passage in U, however, uses past-tense verbs, implying that the marriage had indeed dissolved by the time Njǫrðr sired Freyr and Freyja.

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formed Iðunn into a nut. Þjazi, once again in the shape of an eagle, flies off in pursuit. Approaching Ásgarðr, he flies in low, and his wings are singed by a fire the gods have built. He crashes, and the gods kill him within the gates of Ásgarðr. En Skaði, dóttir Þjaza jǫtuns, tók hjálm ok brynju ok ǫll hervápn ok ferr til Ásgarðs at hefna fǫður síns. En Æsir buðu henni sætt ok yfirbœtr, ok hit fyrsta at hon skal kjósa sér mann af Ásum ok kjósa at fótum ok sjá ekki fleira af. Þá sá hon eins manns fœtr forkunnar fagra ok mælir: ‘Þenna kýs ek, fátt mun ljótt á Baldri’. En þat var Njǫrðr ór Nóatúnum. Þat hafði hon ok í sættargjǫrð sinni at Æsir skyldu þat gera er hon hugði at þeir skyldu eigi mega, at hlœgja hana. Þá gerði Loki þat at hann batt um skegg geitar nokkvorrar ok ǫðrum enda um hreðjar sér ok létu þau ymsi eptir ok skrækti hvárttveggja við hátt. Þá lét Loki fallask í kné Skaða ok þá hló hon. Var þá gjǫr sætt af Ásanna hendi við hana. (p. 2) (But Skadi, daughter of giant Thiassi, took helmet and mail-coat and all weapons of war and went to Asgard to avenge her father. But the Æsir offered her atonement and compensation, the first item of which was that she was to choose herself a husband out of the Æsir and choose by the feet and see nothing else of them. Then she saw one person’s feet that were exceptionally beautiful and said: ‘I choose that one; there can be little that is ugly about Baldr.’ But it was Niord of Noatun. It was also in her terms of settlement that the Æsir were to do something she thought they would not be able to do, that was to make her laugh. Then Loki did as follows: he tied a cord round the beard of a certain nanny-goat and the other end round his testicles, and they drew each other back and forth and both squealed loudly. Then Loki let himself drop into Skadi’s lap, and she laughed. Then the atonement with her on the part of the Æsir was complete.) (p. 61)

The sources agree that the marriage did not last.  No kennings are retained depending on it. Skáldskaparmál (p. 18) cites a stanza from Þórðr Særeksson, now edited as stanza 3 of his Fragments containing the clause ‘goðbrúðr nama una vani’ (the god-bride did not love the vanr). Explaining the verse, Snorri writes ‘Hér er þess getit er Skaði gekk frá Nirði’ (p. 18) (Here reference is made to Skadi’s leaving of Niord) (p. 75). In Ynglinga saga ch. 8, Snorri reports the marriage and lays its failure at Skaði’s door: ‘Hon vildi ekki við hann samfarar’ (She would not have intercourse with him); the rest of the chapter treats Skaði’s subsequent — and fruitful — marriage to Óðinn. The version of the story in Gylfaginning cites mutual incompatibility.7 In the catalogue of æsir, 7 

Skáldskaparmál only tells of the compensation that led to the marriage and is silent about the wedding itself, although it does put both Njǫrðr and Skaði at the banquet Ægir hosts not in the frame but in the explanation of the kenning eldr Ægis (Ægir’s fire) for gold.

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Hár reports the marriage and adds that Skaði wants to live in her father’s dwelling, Þrymheimr, in the mountains, whereas Njǫrðr wishes to dwell by the sea.8 They settle on a compromise: spending nine nights at each place (nine nights in the mountains and three by the sea in T, W, and U).9 In opposing ljóðaháttr stanzas, each expresses distaste for the other’s location. Njǫrðr: Leið erumk fjǫll — varka ek lengi á, nætr einar níu: úlfa þytr mér þótti illr vera hjá sǫngvi svana. Skaði: Sofa ek máttigak sævar beðjum á fugls jarmi fyrir: sá mik vekr er af víði kemr morgun hverjan: már. (p. 24) ([Njǫrðr:] I  hate mountains — not long was I there, just nine nights: wolves’ howling I thought ugly compared with the swans’ song. [Skaði:] I could not sleep on the sea’s beds for the birds’ screaming; he wakes me who comes from out at sea every morning, that gull.) (pp. 23–24)

Saxo cites parallel verses in Book 1 of Gesta Danorum. Hadingus has retired from battle but finds tilling the land tedious compared with raiding at sea. He recites a verse complaining about living in the mountains, and his wife Regnilda counters with a verse complaining about living by the sea. Although the two verses are in different metres, Alcaic decasyllable and tetrameter catalectic (see Friis-Jensen 1987: 180, 188–89), and are considerably longer (twenty and eleven lines respectively) and far more verbose than the terse ljóðaháttr stanzas of Njǫrðr and Skaði, the nature of the complaints is similar. Hadingus complains about the noises of the wolves, and Regnilda of the sea-birds. Each has additional complaints: Hadingus wishes he were raiding at sea, and Regnilda 8 

Again, the RTW redaction uses the present tense, and U the past tense. Dillmann prefers the latter reading and argues that it reflects a view of the Nordic years as comprising nine winter and three summer months (Dillmann 1991, 1992, 2003a, 2005; cf. also Motz 1982–83, 1984a). 9 

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Figure 47.1. Theophoric placenames in Scandinavia based on the name Njǫrðr. Map based on Brink 2007b. Disir Productions, Uppsala. 

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greatly prefers the calm of the forest to the din of the crashing waves. The differences are largely in the poetic register, and Karsten Friis-Jensen argues that Saxo probably adapted a text quite like the verses in Gylfaginning (Friis-Jensen 1987: 158–61). The myth was therefore probably widely known, although if there really was a longer poem attached to it, we cannot recover it (è36). Before leaving the marriage of Njǫrðr and Skaði, it is worth recalling the statement in Ynglinga saga to the effect that Skaði later enjoyed a proper marriage to and bore offspring with Óðinn. Sæmingr, first of the Háleygir, was a product of this union, which was captured in verse by Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson in Háleyg jatal (st. 2). Njǫrðr is absent from the poem, but Snorri’s juxtaposition of the two marriages of Skaði seems to emphasize regional variation, in which Njǫrðr has no role to play in the royal genealogy of western Norway despite his ample role among the Svear. In the euhemerization of Ynglinga saga (ch. 9), Njǫrðr succeeds Óðinn as king of the Svear: ‘Á hans dǫgum var friðr allgóðr ok alls konar ár svá mikit, at Svíar trúðu því, at Njǫrðr réði fyrir ári ok fyrir fésælu manna’ (In his days good peace prevailed and there were such good crops of all kinds that the Swedes believed that Njorth had power over the harvests and the prosperity of mankind) (p. 13). Just before his death from sickness or old age (‘hann varð sóttdauðr’), Njǫrðr had himself ‘marked to Óðinn’, presumably with a spear, as Óðinn had done before him. This connection with Óðinn forms part of the evidence for Njǫrðr as ancestor of the royal line of the Ynglingar. Some texts begin the genealogy with Óðinn, some with Yngvi, but Njǫrðr figures near the top of each list (see further Faulkes 1977, 1978–79, 2005). Stanza 79 of the anonymous Christian poem Sólarljóð refers to runes carved by ‘Njarðar dætr níu, | Böðveig in elzta | ok Kreppvör in yngsta | ok þeira systr sjau’ (nine daughters of Njǫ rðr […], Böðveig the eldest and Kreppvör the youngest and their seven sisters) (p. 354). This occurs in the end of the poem, which has other mysterious mythic references, and has not been explained.

Cult The placenames pose several interesting problems. Foremost among these is the gender of the deity, since the genitive form would be the same whether the god was conceived of as male or female. Older placename scholarship inclined to a goddess and sometimes sought to pair ‘fertility goddess’ placenames based on Njǫrðr/*Njærþer with ‘sky god’ placenames, often based on Ullr. The most thorough modern discussion is that of Vikstrand (2001: 102–06), who finds in his material from the Mälar area names in -lunda (grove; five names), -vi

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(holy place; five names), -berga (mountain; three names), -tuna (enclosure; one name), -stad (place; one name), and -ö (island; one name). His analysis does seem to pair the Swedish Njärd- names with such male gods as Ullr, Óðinn, Þórr, and Freyr, and Vikstrand inclines to the notion of a female Njærþer in these names. However, scholars have mostly worked with the idea that the Norwegian names reflect the male Njǫrðr (Brink 2007b: 118; Olsen 1915: 50–56). It would certainly seem that Njarðarlǫg, if it was a legal district, would be more likely to represent a male, and Magnus Olsen adduces alongside it -lǫg names reflecting Freyr and Týr (Olsen 1905: 7–8). Vafþrúðnismál st. 38 has Óðinn say of Njǫrðr: ‘hofom oc hǫrgom | hann ræðr hunnmǫrgom’ (he rules over very many temples and sanctuaries) (p. 43). Grímnismál st. 16 has Óðinn say of Njǫrðr: ‘manna þengill, | inn meinsvani, | hátimbroðom hǫrgi ræðr’ (the prince of men, lacking in malice, rules a hightimbered temple) (p. 50). Given the placename evidence, these statements might conceivably reflect a formula in oral tradition with some connection to cultic language. According to Hákonar saga góða ch. 16 in Heimskringla, at the blót at Lade men drank to Óðinn for victory and and to Freyr and Njǫrðr for good harvest and peace. In the catalogue of the æsir in Gylfaginning, Njǫrðr appears third, after Baldr and before Týr. Hann býr á himni þar sem heitir Nóatún. Hann ræðr fyrir gǫngu vinds ok stillir sjá ok eld. Á hann skal heita til sæfara ok til veiða. Hann er svá auðigr ok fésæll at hann má gefa þeim auð landa eða lausafjár er á hann heita til þess. (p. 23) (He lives in heaven in a place called Noatun. He rules over the motion of wind and moderates sea and fire. It is to him one must pray for voyages and fishing. He is so rich and wealthy that he can grant wealth of lands or possessions to those that pray to him for this.) (p. 23)

While we have no direct evidence of prayer to Njǫrðr for seafaring and fishing, and only the statement of Hákonar saga góða for land or wealth, the statement fits with what else we know of Njǫrðr: he represents and can confer wealth (cf. Arinbjarnarkvida st. 17, mentioned above), and he has a maritime orientation.

Scholarship and Interpretation Most interpretation of Njǫrðr departs from the probable alignment with Nerthus. A few scholars have pushed the time depth even further back. For example, Bertil Almgren (1962) argued back from Nerthus to Bronze Age rock

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carvings, where empty ships and wagons, and footprints, could indicate the presence of the ‘invisible god’. The footprints could perhaps be aligned with Skaði’s choice of Njǫrðr, as Franz Rolf Schröder (1927, 1928) explicitly argued. Other scholars have sought to clarify the line joining Njǫrðr to Nerthus. In what remains the most thorough study, Eric Elgqvist (1952) argued a spread of the original Nerthus cult from southern Jylland to southern and western Norway and central Sweden, where the location of the placenames away from areas of original settlement suggests, he argued, a cult spread by new arrivals to the areas (his methodology, however, will not meet contemporary standards; for a contemporary perspective, see Vikstrand 2001). Despite the gap in time, the male Njǫrðr and female Nerthus make up a pair equivalent to Freyr and Freyja, and the idea of a divine brother-sister pair is supported by Snorri’s statement concerning the incestuous relationship Njǫrðr had with his sister before joining the æsir. The lack of war, use of cows, and other details of the Nerthus cult according to Tacitus have led observers to assign Nerthus/Njǫrðr to the realm of fertility, as is further supported by the statement in Ynglinga saga about the prosperity that characterized Njǫrðr’s reign over the Svear. In a number of publications, Georges Dumézil argued a mythic transposition or displacement (è36) from Njǫrðr to Hadingus in Saxo (e.g., Dumézil 1953, 1970a, 1973b). Each has two sexual relationships and a maritime orientation; and, according to Dumézil, Njǫrðr’s move from the vanir to the æsir finds a parallel in the career of Hadingus, who advances through the three Dumézilian functions of fertility, force, and sovereignty. The circumstances leading up to the marriage of Njǫrðr to Skaði, as part of the compensation for the killing of Þjazi, have received considerable attention in recent times. Margaret Clunies Ross reads the episode in light of ‘negative reciprocity’ — the inability of giants and vanir to marry æsir. Just as Þjazi abducted the goddess Iðunn, so Skaði seeks a spouse from among the æsir. She wishes to marry Óðinn’s legitimate son Baldr but is tricked into choosing Njǫrðr, whose feet have been washed clean by the sea. And by making Skaði laugh, Loki, another unsuitable husband for Skaði, plays the role of the successful suitor in folk tradition, and this too reflects the cunning ability of the æsir to deny Skaði a husband from their ranks (Clunies Ross 1989b; 1994a: 122–27). John Lindow (1992) also locates folklore and other analogues, and he stresses the sexual reversals: Loki’s potential emasculation, Njǫrðr as the object of the gaze, analogous to Steingerðr, with whom Kormákr falls madly in love after seeing her foot (Kormáks saga ch. 3); Lindow (2008) calls this ‘manic-vanic love’. Despite these efforts, however, the episode remains puzzling.

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Concluding Remarks The evidence concerning Njǫrðr is sufficiently inconsistent that a unified interpretation must remain unlikely. As it stands now, the placename evidence suggests two different sexes, although the Norwegian material awaits thorough modern treatment, and the fact of pairing in Swedish names suggests rather than proves a female deity there. However, male Njǫrðr names in Norway would be more or less consistent with the Old Norse mythological texts, and the coastal placenames could accord with the maritime orientation of the mythology. In myth, Njǫrðr’s marriage to Skaði, with her man’s armour, masculinegrammar name, and choice of Njǫrðr through the application of her gaze, otherwise always coded as masculine, clearly bends and worries gender boundaries, and whether it occurred in connection with the marriage or not, Njǫrðr appears to have been humiliated by female giantesses, the ‘daughters of Hymir’. This certainly edges toward ergi, a topic that fascinated the medi­eval Icelandic imagination. In these aspects of the myths of Njǫrðr, we may have a specifically Icelandic point of view, perhaps emphasizing an aspect of the now lost mythological record in which a passage from goddess to god was taking place. The status of the hostage — that is, of one belonging somehow at once to both of two groups — suggests a liminal being.10 Another possible sign of liminality is that the marriage between Njǫrðr and Skaði has no fixed abode, and can hardly be called a marriage, since one partner refuses sex. Njǫrðr’s liminal status also inflects mythic time. He was once and will again be one of the vanir, even though in the mythic present he is one of the æsir. The ‘mythic present’ is therefore perceptibly unstable and impermanent. These musings can be gleaned from the Icelandic textual record. It is not easy to reconcile them with the cult of Njǫrðr (male or female) implied by the placenames, nor with Njǫrðr’s role in Yngling royal genealogy, which is neither unmanly nor liminal — nor indeed with the maritime orientation also reflected in the myths. Even if the continuity with Nerthus is dismissed, the record is contradictory. It seems clear that there must have been considerable variation in conceptions of this deity in space and time.

10 

A possibly helpful analogy here may be the manumitted slave, who according to the Old Norwegian laws was for a time neither unfree nor free.

48 – Týr John Lindow Introduction The name Týr, Old English Tīw, Old High German Ziu, can be derived from Proto-Germanic *tīwaz, which in turn derives from the Indo-European root that in various forms yields words for day, sky, and god. Direct cognates are Latin deus, Irish dīa, Old Prussian deiwas, and Lithuanian diẽvas, all of which mean ‘god’ (de Vries 1962a: 603). Týr’s name thus is cognate with such divine names as Zeus, Jupiter, Diana, and Dēvona, and it is the only name in Old Norse with such affinities. In the interpretatio Germanica of the weekday names, *Tīwaz/Týr/Tīu/Ziu was equated with Mars, which suggests that he was specialized on battle and warfare.1 Týr is, however, not widely represented in placenames, and he does not figure largely in the later written sources. There is, however, intriguing icono­g raphic evidence concerning the major myth in which he figures.

Sources The equivalence with Mars in the interpretatio Germanica of the weekday names means that classical sources concerning Mars may be applied to Týr. These include various works by Tacitus. Jordanes, too, has information about Mars among the Goths. 1  In History, 4.64, Tacitus writes that the Tencteri hold Mars to be ‘praecipuus deorum’ (foremost of the gods); this would accord with the etymological connection with Zeus and Jupiter, but not with the system of the pantheon as we know it from other sources. The equation with Mars is also found in English glosses (Insley 2001).

John Lindow, Professor Emeritus of Scandinavian, University of California, Berkeley The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume iii, ed. by Jens Peter p. 1345–1361 Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) p BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116975

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The myth of Týr’s loss of his hand is told in detail in Gylfaginning and referred to in Lokasenna. In Skáldskaparmál (p. 19) Snorri reports that valid kennings for Týr include ‘einhendi áss’ (the one-handed god) and ‘úlfs fóstri’ (feeder of the wolf ), ‘víga guð’ (god of battles), and the ubiquitous ‘son of Óðinn’. In Hymiskviða, Týr accompanies Þórr on the journey to obtain the kettle from Hymir, here said to be Týr’s father. Týr is frequently the base word in kennings for warrior (determined by battle words) but also in kennings for Óðinn (Gautatýr, etc.) and once too for Þórr: ‘reiði-Týr’ (bearing god) (Haustlǫng st. 20).2 The runic inscription on the Ribe skull fragment (DR EM85, Samnordisk runtextdatabas) (c. 720–30) seems to refer to a presumably divine triad consisting of Úlfr, Óðinn, and Hu-Tiur (High-Týr?), but seen in this light the latter may also be an early kenning. Images on bracteates and one or more picture stones suggest the story of someone losing his hand to a monster, presumably Týr and the wolf.

Myths Týr figures in one major myth: namely, the loss of his hand to the wolf Fenrir, according to Gylfaginning in connection with binding Fenrir, called Fenrisúlfr here.3 Snorri has Hár allude to it in his presentation of Týr just after Njǫrðr and Freyja and before Bragi. 2 

Despite Snorri’s statement to the opposite effect (Skáldskaparmál p. 5; trans. p. 64), it could of course be argued that the base word in the kennings for Óðinn and Þórr is the noun týr (god), not the name of the god, in which case the kennings would be parallel to ǫndurgoð (snow-shoe god = Þjazi) and such kennings for females as Vanadís (dís of the vanir = Freyja) and ǫndurdís (snow-shoe dís = Skaði). But it seems unlikely for the warrior kennings, since we do not have ordinary man-kennings using terms like áss, vanr, or goð as base word. On the other hand, kennings using gods’ names, such as Baldr, are common. This is a good argument for the conceptual existence of Týr among skalds and their audiences, despite his minor role in the myths. 3  In Gylfaginning Snorri routinely uses the form Fenrisúlfr, which is also found in the header to Lokasenna. Its use in Hákonarmál st. 20 presumably puts that form in late tenthcentury Norway. The plural is used in the senna in Helgakviða Hundingsbana I st. 40, when Guðmundr counters Sinfjǫtli’s boast to the effect that he had sired nine wolves on Guðmundr: ‘Faðir varattu | fenrisúlfa | ǫllom ellri, | svá at ec muna, | sízt þic geldo | fyr Gnipalundi | þursa meyiar, | á Þórsnesi’ (You were not the father of the Fenris-wolves, older than them all, as far as I remember, after the giant girls castrated you on Thorsness by Gnipalund) (p. 115); in this portion of the senna, the contestants are drawing on mythic themes; see Meulengracht Sørensen (1983: 53). Here the term probably means ‘descendants of Fenrir’, i.e., fierce wolves (von See and others 2004: 308). In general, poets use the form Fenrir, which seems to mean just ‘wolf ’ in kennings.

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Hár segir: ‘Sá er enn Áss er Týr heitir. Hann er djarfastr ok bezt hugaðr ok hann ræðr mjǫk sigri í orrostum. Á hann er gott at heita hreystimǫnnum. Þat er orðtak at sá er ‘týhraustr’ er um fram er aðra menn ok ekki sésk fyrir. Hann var vitr svá at þat er mælt at sá er ‘týspakr’ er vitr er. Þat er eitt mark um djarfleik hans, þá er Æsir lokkuðu Fenrisúlf til þess at leggja fjǫturinn á hann, Gleipni, þá trúði hann þeim eigi at þeir mundu leysa hann fyrr en þeir lǫgðu honum at veði hǫnd Týrs í munn úlfsins. En þá er Æsir vildu eigi leysa hann þá beit hann hǫndina af þar er nú heitir úlfliðr, ok er hann einhendr ok ekki kallaðr sættir manna’. (p. 25) (High said: ‘There is also an As called Tyr. He is the bravest and most valiant and he has great power over victory in battles. It is good for men of action to pray to him. There is a saying that a man is ty-valiant who surpasses other men and does not hesitate. He was so clever that a man who is clever is said to be ty-wise. It is one proof of his bravery that when the Æsir were luring Fenriswolf so as to get the fetter Gleipnir on him, he did not trust them that they would let him go until they placed Tyr’s hand in the wolf ’s mouth as a pledge. And when the Æsir refused to let him go then he bit off the hand at the place that is now called the wolf-joint [wrist], and he is one-handed and he is not considered a promoter of settlements between people.) (pp. 24–25)

The wolf was one of Loki’s three children with the giantess Angrboða, and he was being raised in Jǫtunheimar when the gods found through prophecy that these children would harm them. Alfǫðr had them brought to him, and he cast the Miðgarðsormr into the sea and Hel under the earth. For reasons that are not made clear,4 the gods raised the wolf with them, and only Týr was brave enough to feed him. But he grew huge, and the prophecies were dire. The gods resolved to fetter the wolf. He easily broke the first and second fetters the gods put on him. According to Hár, who is again speaking here, these events led to the creation of two proverbs: ‘Þat er síðan haft fyrir orðtak at leysi ór Leyðingi eða drepi ór Dróma þá er einnhverr hlutr er ákafliga sóttr’ (pp. 27–28) (Since then it has been used as a saying to loose from Leyding or strike out of Dromi when something is achieved with great effort) (p. 28). These proverbs are not attested, although the word drómi is found once with the apparent meaning ‘snarl, knot, tangle’ (Aldís Sigurðardóttir and others: s.v. drómi). V ǫ luspá st.  40 mentions the brood of Fenrir, one of whom will be the robber (tjúgari) or the one who brings sorrow (tregari, found in the Codex 4  Snorri has Gangleri ask why the gods did not just kill Fenrir. Hár responds: ‘Svá mikils virðu goðin vé sín ok griðastaði at eigi vildu þau saurga þá með blóði úlfsins þótt svá segi spárnar at hann muni verða at bana Óðni’ (p. 29) (So greatly did the gods respect their holy places and places of sanctuary that they did not want to defile them with the wolf ’s blood even though the prophecies say that he will be the death of Odin) (p. 29).

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Upsaliensis version of the stanza) of the tungl (sun or moon). Fenrir thus represents a cosmic threat to the universe, and this is indeed expressed in Vafþrúðnismál st. 46, which states that Fenrir will destroy the sun. V ǫ luspá st. 44 says that bonds will break and the Fig 48.1. Gold-plated wolf (freki) will run loose, and silver figure from Vǫluspá st. 53 has Óðinn fight Gudum in Slagelse on Sjælland, dated to the the wolf (úlfr); both these Viking Age. The figure references are presumably to has been interpreted as Fenrisúlfr, which is explicitly the head of Fenrir with how Snorri understood them Týr’s hand in his mouth. (Gylfaginning p.  50; trans. Photo: Morten Petersen, Museum Vestsjælland. pp. 50–51).5 Given these dire prospects, the gods resort to magic with the still unbound young wolf. Óðinn dispatches Skírnir, ‘sendimaðr Freys’ (Frey’s messenger), down to Svartálfaheimr — the world of the dark elves, clearly subterranean — to some dwarfs, whom he has make him the fetter Gleipnir. It is made from ingredients both improbable (the sound of a cat walking, a woman’s beard, the breath of a fish, the spittle of a bird) and not quite impossible (the roots of a mountain, the sinew of a bear). Adverting to the frame, Snorri has Hár use these contradictory ingredients to argue to Gangleri the truthfulness of his narrative. The wolf is not keen to be bound with this fetter, which is no thicker than a ribbon, as he will gain little renown from breaking it but much approbation if he cannot. Þá sǫgðu Æsirnir at hann mundi skjótt sundr slíta mjótt silkiband, er hann hafði fyrr brotit stóra járnfjǫtra, — ‘en ef þú fær eigi þetta band slitit þá muntu ekki hræða mega goðin, enda skulum vér þá leysa þik’. (p. 28) (Then the Æsir said that he would soon tear apart a slender silken band, seeing that he had earlier broken great iron fetters, — ‘but if you cannot manage to tear this band then you will present no terror to the gods, and so we will free you’.) (p. 28) 5 

Since Óðinn is destined to fight the wolf at Ragnarǫk, Snorri had to find another opponent for Týr. He chose the monstrous hound Garmr, thus staying in the canine family.

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Unwilling to create an opportunity for questioning his courage, the wolf agrees to be bound but only on the condition that one of the gods put his hand in the wolf ’s mouth ‘at veði at þetta sé falslaust gert’ (p. 28) (as a pledge that this is done in good faith) (p. 29). Again, only Týr possesses sufficient bravery. He puts his right hand in the mouth of the wolf. What follows is one of the more classic examples of Snorri’s stylistic flourishes. En er úlfrinn spyrnir, þá harðnaði bandit, ok því harðara er hann brauzk um, því skarpara var bandit. Þá hlógu allir nema Týr. Hann lét hǫnd sína. (pp. 28–29) (And now when the wolf kicked, the band grew harder, and the harder he struggled, the tougher became the band. Then they all laughed except for Tyr. He lost his hand.) (p. 29)

It is perhaps curious that Alfǫðr deals so easily with Hel and Miðgarðsormrinn, whom he binds in place through his own authority. The wolf is a different matter. Neither underground nor outside the earth, he lives in the sacred centre, among the gods whom he threatens, in company with the head of the gods, Óðinn, whom he is fated to destroy at Ragnarǫk. Only after his binding is he removed from the sacred centre. According to Snorri, the æsir fetter the wolf to a stone slab with an anchor deep in the ground (Gylfaginning p. 29; trans. p. 29). The poet of Lokasenna knew this myth. Loki’s first insult to Týr relies on it (st. 38): Þegi þú, Týr! Þú kunnir aldregi bera tilt með tveim; handar innar hœgri mun ec hinnar geta, er þér sleit Fenrir frá.

(Shut up, Týr. You could never bear something good between two people:6 your right hand will I mention, which Fenrir tore from you.)

Loki’s way of couching the insult makes it seem as if Týr might have been defeated by the wolf in some kind of combat. Týr’s response is to contextualize the event (st. 39):

6 

We follow von See and others (1997: 461–62) in translating the difficult line ‘bera tilt með tveim’, which is consistent with Snorri’s statement (probably based on this line) that Týr is not a peacemaker. But ‘you cannot carry with two hands’ ( Jakobsen 1979) would be a more direct insult.

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‘Handar em ec vanr, en þú Hróðrsvitnis, bǫl er beggia þrá; úlfgi hefir oc vel, er í bǫndom scal bíða ragna rǫcrs.’ (I’ve lost a hand, but you’ve lost the famous wolf; evil brings pain to us both; it’s not pleasant for the wolf, who must in shackles wait for the twilight of the gods.) (p. 87)

Loki’s next and final insult to Týr is a boast to the effect that he slept with Týr’s wife, and Týr never got compensation. This incident is otherwise unknown; indeed, Snorri does not even equip Týr with a wife.7 The myth was clearly widely known. Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson used it as a trope for the end of the world in praising King Hákon inn góði Haraldsson, who fell in the battle of Fitjar in 961. Mun óbundinn á ýta sjǫt Fenrisulfr fara, áðr jafngóðr á auða trǫð konungmaðr komi. (Hákonarmál st. 20) (The wolf Fenrir, unbound, will enter the abode of men before so good a royal person comes onto the vacant path.) (pp. 192–93)

This stanza assumes a general knowledge of the myth of Týr’s binding the wolf, presumably in royal circles in Norway in the last decades of paganism. Thus we have good evidence outside of Snorri both for Týr’s loss of his hand and for the binding of the wolf.8

7 

Týr’s stump was apparently not a babe-magnet. The author of the prose header to Lokasenna has the æsir arrive in the company of their wives but of Týr he writes: ‘Týr var þar, hann var einhendr. Fenrisúlfr sleit hǫnd af hánum, þá er hann var bundinn’ (Týr was there; he was one-handed. The Fenris wolf tore his hand off when he was bound). 8  The anonymous poet of Málsháttakvæði, who certainly did know Snorra Edda, also alludes to this myth without mentioning Týr (st. 21): ‘fasthaldr varð á Fenri lagðr’ (a fetter was laid on Fenrir).

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The bracteates seem to suggest a version of the myth with the loss of the hand to the wolf but not the binding.9 Alexandra Pesch constructs an icono­g raphic category, B6 in her terminology, in which the central figure brandishes a sword with one hand (as would be consistent with a god of war or battle) while a wolf-like creatures threatens or bites the other hand (Pesch 2007: 120–23). She classifies three bracteates in this category, IK 71 (Hamburg, Die Goldbrakteaten), IK 599 (Derenburg-Meerensteig II, Die Figure 48.2. Gold bracteate from Trollhättan Goldbrakteaten), and IK 604 (Holt in Västergötland, dated to the fifth century area, Die Goldbrakteaten). In our view, (SHM 1164:109036). The bracteate depicts a man putting his hand in the mouth of a wolfthere is little doubt that the animal is like monster. The motif has been interpreted biting the hand in IK 71 and IK 604, as Týr and Fenrir. Photo: Ulf Bruxe, Statens but IK 599 is even more striking, since Historiska Museum, Stockholm.  there the central figure’s hand is not portrayed. It is either in the animal’s mouth or has been bitten off. It is worth pointing out that in all three bracteates, it is the right hand that is bitten, even though 71 and 599 show the central figure facing left and 604 facing right. In all three cases, the central figure holds the sword upright in his left hand. The loss of the right hand coincides with the information given in Snorri, and the brandishing of the sword suggests a martial function. Other bracteates in which an animal threatens or bites a hand of the central figure include IK 190 (Trollhättan, Die Goldbrakteaten) (bites), IK 166b (Skrydstrup, Die Goldbrakteaten) (threatens), IK 6b (Års, Die Goldbrakteaten) (threatens). In these images the central figure does not hold a sword, and in 190 it is the left hand that is bitten.10 The geo­graphic spread is thus extensive: on the 9 

Identification of Týr on bracteates was made as early as by Öberg (1942) and Oxenstierna (1956). 10  This image is furthermore unusual in that the central figure is portrayed head-on rather than in profile, with what appears to be exaggerated hair and an unidentified object in the right (non-bitten) hand. Karl Hauck (2001) was unmoved by the loss of the left hand and confidently assigned this bracteate to the group of those portraying Týr. He argues a cosmic function for the myth: allowing the world to continue into what we call the ‘mythic present’.

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Figure 48.3. Picture stone from Austers in Hangvar on Gotland, probably from the fifth or sixth century. The stone depicts a man and a multilegged monster, interpreted as Týr and Fenrir. Gotlands Museum, Visby. Photo: Anders Andrén. 

continent in Sachsen-Anhalt (Derenburg-Meerensteig) and Hamburg, across the sea in East Anglia (Holt): these three with the sword, and in Scandinavia in Jylland (Skrydstrup and Års) and Västergötland (Trollhättan). In addition to the bracteactes is an image on the stone from Hangvar Auster I, Gotland. Above a series of four spirals within a disk hovers a monster with multiple legs, two round eyes, and wide open jaws. Before it stands a human figure with arms outstretched, one arm or hand perhaps in the monster’s jaws and thus perhaps Týr (Ney 2007: 63). Below the spirals is what appears to be the stem or stern of a ship. Taking the interpretation of Andrén (2012a) for stones with central disk and ship below as cosmic representations of the movement of the sun, Týr would be fighting the wolf in the sky, and this interpretation would correspond with the etymology, suggesting that he was once a sky god. It might suggest a different cosmic function for the sacrifice of Týr’s hand, namely, in

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connection with the wolves who threaten the sun and moon in the much later Icelandic sources (è56). Karl Helm (1938) sees Týr and Fenrir on Alskog Tjängvide I, and it strikes us as not impossible that the wolf and god are to be found on the mid-portion of the bottom of the image on Ardre VIII, perhaps an image of Týr feeding the wolf if not the biting scene (figures è34, 42) Týr plays a minor role in a second myth. When in Hymiskviða Þórr is charged with getting the kettle, it is Týr who gives him helpful advice (st. 5): Býr fyr austan Élivága hundvíss Hymir, at himins enda; á minn faðir, móðugr, ketil, rúmbrugðinn kver, rastar diúpan. (To the east of Elivagar lives Hymir the very wise, at the sky’s end; my father, the brave man, owns a cauldron, a capacious kettle, a league deep.) (p. 75)

Thus Týr claims a giant as his father. The contradiction with Snorri’s alleged Týr-kenning ‘son of Óðinn’ might indicate alternate conceptions, but it may also reflect Snorri’s notion of what it means to be All-father. But stanzas 8–9 make the conception of Hymiskviða quite clear. Mǫgr fann ǫmmo, mioc leiða sér, hafði hǫfuð hundruð níu. En ǫnnor gecc, algullin, fram, brúnhvít, bera biórveig syni. ‘Áttniðr iotna, ec viliac ycr, hugfulla tvá, und hvera setia. Er minn frí mǫrgo sinni gløggr við gesti, gorr illz hugar.’

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(The lad found his grandmother, very ugly she seemed to him, nine hundred heads she had; and another woman, all gold-decked, walked forward with shining brows, bearing beer to her boy. Kinsman of giants, I’d like to seat you two valiant men under the cauldrons. My beloved, on many occasions, is stingy to guests, prone to enmity.) (p. 75)

In stanza 8, the grandmother must be Hymir’s mother,11 coded by her many heads as a particularly loathsome creature; Hymir himself is called váskapaðr (misshapen) in stanza 10. The contrasting blonde woman (‘with shining brows’), adorned with gold or dressed in clothing woven from gold (von See and others 1997: 292–93), is this monster’s daughter-in-law, Týr’s mother, as the word syni (to her son; rendered as ‘to her boy’ in the translation above) clearly indicates. Her mode of address in stanza 9 continues the emphasis on Týr’s monstrous lineage: ‘áttniðr iǫtna’ (kinsman of giants). The A version of this stanza clouds the waters, in that it has faðir (father) rather than frí (lover, husband). Although it is not possible to reconcile this reading with syni in the preceding stanza (or with the reference to ‘in fríða frilla’ (the beautiful lover) in st. 30), it suggests an alternative genealogy, in which Týr and the blonde woman are brother and sister. Against this reading is stanza 11, in which she tells Hymir that his/her/their son (Týr) has arrived; the dual pronoun suggests ‘our’, but it is not conclusive. ‘Ver þú heill, Hymir, í hugom goðom! Nú er sonr kominn til sala þinna, sá er við vættom af vegi lǫngom.’ (Greetings, Hymir, be of good humour! Now our son has come to your hall, he whom we’ve expected on his long journeyings.) (p. 75)

On the whole, however, R leaves no doubt that the blonde woman is Týr’s mother. While some commentators have seen in her a beautiful giantess, like the linen-white maiden of Hárbarðsljóð st. 30 and 32, or Gerðr (von See and others 1997: 292), that reading would give Týr exclusively giant lineage, which seems unlikely; even Loki’s mother, Laufey, is usually taken for an ásynja. Furthermore, it is the æsir who are usually associated with gold (despite Gerðr’s claims in Skírnismál), and as the mother of a more or less grown son, 11 

R has avmo, but all editors accept the reading of A.

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this woman would hardly fit the pattern of the unmarried Gerðr or a sexually available linen-white maiden. Even if Týr’s mother is an ásynja, however, Týr’s lineage as presented in Hymiskviða violates a basic principle of the mythology, in which patrilineal descent is clearly prioritized, and in which the mating of a god and a giantess can give rise to royal genealogies (e.g., Óðinn and Skaði and the jarls of Lade; è23, è43, and è53). Indeed, Margaret Clunies Ross’s reading of the mythology, to which we largely subscribe, is to a great extent based upon the principle of the restriction against giants taking wives or lovers from among the ásynjur (Clunies Ross 1994a). In an earlier study, Clunies Ross (1989a) compared Loki and Týr, with their identical genealogical status and argued that for Týr, this status made him a mediator between the worlds of his father and mother, but she did not examine the implications of a giant male obtaining a wife or lover from among the gods and passed over the implications in silence in her 1994 study (1994a). Contrasting as it does with a basic structural principle of the mythology, Týr’s patrimony as expressed in Hymiskviða would seem to represent one of the many irreconcilable aspects of variation we would expect in an oral religion (and, more generally, in an oral tradition). Certainly æsir and giants are closely linked genealogically, not least through Óðinn’s mother Bestla, but the paradigm is inverted here. Hymiskviða has another peculiarity, in that Týr seems to have both his hands.12 There is quite simply no reference to his one-handedness. Although we may presume that a person lacking a hand would be unable to lift a kettle (st. 33), the poet simply states that the kettle stayed put on the ground without reference to Týr’s ability to grip it (or not). There is of course always the possibility that týr in Hymiskviða is a noun and that some other god accompanies Þórr, but eddic poetry shows no parallel usage, and except for Haustlǫng st. 8,13 poets chose the plural tívar rather than the singular týr. This evidence strikes us as powerful. Without it, one might be tempted to imagine that the týr (god) who accompanied Þórr was Loki, who 12 

Without wishing to impose too much order on the mythology, we note that Týr’s loss of his hand in the process of binding the wolf was part of the creation of the ‘mythic present’, through which and beyond Týr should be without a hand. Þórr’s fishing up the Miðgarðsormr is certainly part of the mythic present proper, not of the period that created it. 13  The god referred to is Loki: ‘Fló með fróðgum tívi | fangsæll of veg langan | sveita nagr, svát slitna | sundr ulfs faðir mundi’ (The bird of blood [raven/eagle = Þjazi] flew happy in its catch over a long distance with the wise god, so that the father of the wolf [= Loki] was about to be torn apart) (p. 443). The adjective fróðigr is probably ironic, and Þjóðólfr’s use of unkenned týr may be a further ironic reference, in this case to Loki as the father of the wolf who ripped off the arm of the actual Týr.

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has a jǫtun father and ásynja mother; the problem of the discrepancy between the names Hymir and Fárbauti would hardly be insurmountable.

Cult According to Tacitus (Annals 13.57), the Hermunduri sacrificed the defeated army of the Chatti, including horses and weapons, to Mars and Mercurius. Germania ch. 9, states that Mercurius (presumably *Wōþanaz) received human sacrifice, while to Hercules (presumably *Þun[a]raz) and Mars animals were sacrificed. Jordanes (Getica 5.41) states that the Goths also sacrificed humans to Mars, ‘bellorum praesul’ (lord of battles). While it is frequently pointed out that these statements would accord equally well with *Wōþanaz/Óðinn, we see no reason to doubt the evidence of the weekday names and little reason, too, to doubt that *Tīwaz/Týr was a god of war and battle (but see ‘Scholarship and Interpretation’ below). Týr is very strongly represented in Danish placenames, with over thirty definite and probable names (Holmberg 1986; Brink 2007b: 119–20), although there are no examples from Fyn, Langeland, Lolland, or Falster, nor from the old eastern Danish provinces of Skåne, Halland, and Blekinge. The Danish Týrnames refer primarily to forest and groves, with fewer names indicating high land and bodies of water. Tissø on Sjælland has been extensively excavated ( Jørgensen 2003, 2005, 2009). This extensive central place in western Sjælland was in use over several centuries as an aristocratic manor, as a manufacturing and market site, and as a cult place. It takes its name from the lake to its immediate east, Tissø (Týr’s lake), where a large number of swords was deposited. This and the sword in Týr’s hand on the bracteates suggest a special connection with the sword, an aristocratic weapon during the Early Iron Age; it may be justified to compare Týr’s sword with Óðinn’s spear, a weapon less suitable for close-in fighting. Two eleventh-century beheaded bodies found at Tissø suggest a socio-legal function for the site, at least during the late Viking Age. The one secure Týr name in Norway is Tysnes, on the island of what used to be called Njarðarlǫg (quite possibly an old legal district) in Hordaland.14 A second possible Týr name is Tisluan in Melhus, southern Trøndelag, often understood as deriving from Týslǫg, another legal district (see Olsen 1905). 14 

Heide (2012) explains the richness of sacral names in the area as the possible result of the natural landscape being particularly well-suited for observation of solstices and solar equinoxes.

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Figure 48.4. Theophoric placenames in Scandinavia based on the name Týr. Map based on Brink 2007b. Disir Productions, Uppsala. 

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There are no secure names containing Týr in Sweden or the Atlantic islands; relevant Swedish names appear to be built on the noun *ti (god), or some other unrelated noun, rather than on the name of the god *Ti. Finally, there are English placenames based on Tīw/Tīg, the Old English equivalent to Týr. These appear to be quite parallel to the Danish Týr-names (Insley 2001: 430). Sigrdrífumál st. 6 mentions invoking Týr for victory: Sigrúnar þú scalt kunna, ef þú vilt sigr hafa, oc rísta á hialti hiors; sumar á véttrimom, sumar á valbǫstom, oc nefna tysvar Tý. (Victory-runes you must cut if you want to have victory, and cut them on your sword-hilt; some on the blade-guards, som on the handle, and invoke Týr twice.) (p. 163)

In the rune-rows and rune poems attested in manu­script tradition, the t-rune bears the name týr or its continental equivalents. The verse in Sigrdrífumál may relate to the probable tripling of the t-rune on the bracteate IK 98 (Køge areaC, Die Goldbrakteaten). According to one interpretation, the ‘speaker’ is ‘the lord of the army’, that is, Óðinn (Düwel 2005), which would be a reasonable context for repetition of the ‘victory’ rune but would also strengthen the association of Týr with battle and warfare. It is not, however, found in manu­scripts as an ideo­graph, such as the m-rune for Old English man or Old Norse maðr. The age of the rune names remains an open question, but even so this usage shows widespread knowledge of the god (or of the noun for ‘god’).

Scholarship and Interpretation Earlier interpretations of Týr departed from the etymology on the one hand and the placename evidence on the other. Etymologically Týr should perhaps be a sky god (or better: originally might have been a sky god), and this made easy work for scholars working within the paradigm of nature mythology (Much 1898; but cf. Motz 1998).15 In connection with this, older scholarship some15 

Klas af Edholm (2014) surveys the research history on Týr and stresses that the textual material will best support a war god, derived from an older sky god as suggested by the etymo­ logy.

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times read the placename evidence, with Týr in Denmark and Ullr in Sweden,16 as evidence that these were two names for a single god; the root of Ullr might have meant something like ‘gleaming’. However, as Per Vikstrand has argued, the placenames are not in complementary distribution, since Týr names are effectively restricted to western Denmark (the islands and Jylland) and the Ullr names to eastern Sweden (Vikstrand 2001: 407–08). Thus we are more likely simply dealing with pronounced regional variation. Anne Holtsmark thought that the primarily Danish focus of the placenames could be explained chronologically: Týr was an old god and therefore turns up in the areas of oldest settlement, but new gods replaced him as settlement moved north (Holtsmark 1975). Although this hypothesis may accord with the icono­graphic data, which is all quite early, the dating of the Danish names remains uncertain (Holmberg 1986), and we find the hypothesis implausible. Klaus Düwel (1978) advanced the hypothesis that the noun týr (god) may have been primary and that the development of the deity may have been secondary and late, a notion taken up again by Marteinn H. Sigurðsson (2002), but the evidence of the weekday name vitiates the hypothesis. In recent scholarship, Týr has often been regarded as having a socio-legal role, especially in connection with þing-meetings (assemblies) (è 20). The earliest evidence for this assumption is the third-century dedication to Mars Thincsus found at Housesteads on Hadrian’s Wall, and probably put there by Frisians. Thincsus appears to relate to the word þing (assembly), and thus there may be a reference to *Tīwaz as ‘Mars of the assembly’.17 This may even be found in the form of certain West Germanic names for ‘Tuesday’ (namely, Middle Dutch dingsdach/dinxdach, German Dienstag), thus forming a parallel to ‘*Tīwaz’s day’ (although other explanations of these names are possible). Furthermore, the place Tislund (Týr’s grove) near Ringsted in Sjælland, Denmark, was taken to be an assembly site, and thus the association of *Tīwaz/ Týr with assembly seemed secure (see de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 10–14). Georges Dumézil relied in part on this material when he sought to align Týr with the first function within his system, that of sovereignty, and specifically with the legal and judicial aspects of that function, as opposed to the magical and awesome aspects represented by Óðinn. In first arguing this interpretation, 16 

Ullr names are also found around the Oslo fjord and Ullinn names in southern Norway (see Brink 2007b and è49). 17  Just to put this datum in context, Mars Thingsus is only one of the many named variations of the Germanic Mars; others are Mars Interabus, Mars Halamarðus, and Mars Loucetius, none of which seems to imply a socio-legal sphere of activity.

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he adduced the Indic parallel of Mitra and Varuna and also argued out from Roman prehistory, where Horatius Cocles and Caius Mucius Scaevola lack, respectively, an eye and a hand (Dumézil 1940; also Dumézil 1973c, 1974). Thus, Týr’s mythological role as the binder of the wolf was to be understood as associated first and foremost with the upholding of contractual obligations. However, Bruce Lincoln (1998; 1999: 128–37) draws attention to structural similarities of loss of body part in the myth of binding the wolf: Óðinn loses his eye, Týr his hand, but the wolf loses (the use of ) his foot.18 These Lincoln then equates with the Dumézilian functions: Óðinn’s eye represents the first or sovereign function; Týr’s hand the warrior function; the wolf ’s foot the third function. Lincoln goes on to adduce other data suggesting that wounds to the head, arm or hand, and foot correlate with the three functions. The old reading of Týr as a war god, Lincoln suggests, finds support in this evidence. Lincoln then unpacks the political positions inherent in Dumézil’s postulation of Týr as a ‘legal sovereign’. The two parts of the analysis coalesce into a refutation of Dumézil’s reading of Týr as exclusively a sovereign god, at least in Dumézil’s scheme.19 On the whole, the placename evidence seems to us to point toward rather than away from a socio-legal orientation for Týr. Although Bente Holmberg, who has done the most thorough study of the Danish placename material, doubts the direct connection of Tislund with Ringsted (Holmberg 1986: 122), and although the many names referring to forests do not suggest a socio-legal sphere, there can be little doubting the apparent legal connections of Tysnes and Tissø.20 Another common second component is -ved (forest), which does not point to an assembly site. However, Tissø (Týr’s lake) was a central place.

Concluding Remarks Although Týr’s cult seems to have been centred in Denmark — perhaps Jylland, where the placenames are most common and where two of the bracteates were found — Týr was obviously widely known. From the interpretatio Germanica 18  Lincoln reaches the latter conclusion through reference to the wolf ’s statement in Gylfaginning that if he is bound, the fetter will not come off his foot. 19  Von See (1999) also argues against the socio-legal reading of Týr, in connection with a full-scale assault on every aspect of Dumézil’s theory, not just in Germanic but throughout Indo-European tradition. 20  The most striking find at Tissø is an enormous gold armring. Perhaps this find should be be connected with the notion of swearing oaths on rings?

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up through the statements in Gylfaginning emphasizing Týr’s bravery and his rule over success in battle, as well as his role in securing victory according to Sigrdrífumál, Týr has a long-standing connection with war or battle.21 But he is without a hand. The images and textual evidence suggest a similar long-term perspective, beginning in the Migration Period and running through the mythological recordings in thirteenth-century Iceland.22 The loss of the hand can be read in two ways: as disqualifying Týr from the socio-legal realm because he has lost the hand one needs to swear an oath, or as intensifying his connection with that realm. The parallels would include Óðinn’s loss of his eye, which intensifies his vision, and Heimdallr’s loss of his ear or hearing, which intensifies his ability to hear. If the latter reading holds, Týr’s loss of his hand, the result of a false oath that bound a chaos being,23 intensified Týr’s connection with the sociolegal realm. It is also quite possible that the loss of his sword hand intensified his ability to wield his sword, as the images in the bracteates may suggest. It is surely unwise to seek a unified reading of this complex figure, but his frame of reference would appear to include the socio-legal and war and battle.

21 

Hultgård concludes his useful survey by stressing the long-term continuity (Hultgård 2007c). 22  Krohn (1911) suggests a Christian context for the story of the loss of Týr’s hand, and Hultgård (2007c) points out that hands in monsters’ mauls may be found in Christian icono­ graphy. Von See (1999) suggests association with the medi­e val bocca della verità (mouth of truth). But there can be no question of Christian influence on the bracteates and Gotland picture stones. 23  In this it may be possible to compare Týr with Þórr. Each had a fight with a monster (each a son of Loki, according to the mythology), and both monsters will stay where they are until the end of the world (è41 for comments on the varying notions of the outcome of Þórr’s fishing expedition).

49 – Ullr Anders Andrén Introduction Ullr or Ullinn is an enigmatic god known only in Scandinavia. No coherent myths are known about him, although he is well attested from sacral placenames in Sweden and Norway. Excavations of rituals sites associated with Ullr confirm a long history of the divine figure. The root of his name is usually understood to mean something along the lines of ‘gleaming’, since the name is cognate with Gothic wulþus (splendours, glorious), Old English wuldor (glory), Latin vultus (appearance), and Old Irish filis (perceive). However, there are also other, albeit less convincing, explanations of his name (overview in Nordberg 2006b; cf. de Vries 1962a: 633). The alternative name Ullinn is based on a suffix in -na-, indicating leadership of or control over something. Perhaps this form of the name can be understood as ‘master of the glorious’ (è4).

Sources Ullr is mentioned in only two eddic poems: Grímnismál and Atlakviða. Snorri describes him briefly in Gylfaginning and Skáldskaparmál, and kennings based on Ullr are used in several skaldic poems. Saxo knows Ullr by the name Ollerus and regards him as an earthly king. Many sacral placenames based on Ullr or Ullinn in central Sweden and southern Norway show that Ullr was an important god. In recent years, three ritual sites with theophoric placenames linked to Ullr have also been investigated in Sweden, giving further evidence of rituals addressing the god. No images have convincingly been connected to Ullr. Anders Andrén, Senior Professor of Archaeology, Stockholm University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume iii, ed. by Jens Peter p. 1363–1370 Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) p BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116976

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Myths No coherent narratives about Ullr have survived, which means that he can only be characterized on the basis of various short references. The most detailed description of Ullr is given by Snorri at the end of his list of the æsir in Gylfaginning (p. 26): Ullr heitir einn, sonr Sifjar, stjúpsonr Þórs. Hann er bogmaðr svá góðr ok skíðfœrr svá at engi má við hann keppask. Hann er ok fagr álitum ok hefir hermanns atgervi. Á hann er ok gott at heita í einvígi. (Ull is the name of one, son of Sif, stepson of Thor. He is such a good archer and skier that no one can compete with him. He is also beautiful in appearance and has a warrior’s accomplishments. He is a good one to pray to in single combat.) (p. 26)

In Skáldskaparmál (p. 19) Snorri further notes that one can designate Ullr by calling him ‘son Sifjar, stjúp Þórs, ǫndur-Ás, boga Ás, veiði-Ás, skjaldar Ás’ (son of Sif, stepson of Thor, ski-As, bow-As, hunting As, shield-As) (p. 76). These short and vague descriptions are partly confirmed by other sources, above all kennings from skaldic poems. ‘Ullar mágr’ or ‘gulli Ullar’ (stepfather of Ullr) are used as kennings for Þórr in Haustlǫng st. 15 and in Þórsdrápa st. 18. A connection between Ullr and warfare is indicated by several other kennings. Ullr could be a heiti for a warrior, according to Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson’s lausavísa 8. ‘Askr Ullar’ (Ullr’s ash) is a kenning for a ship in an anonymous poem. A close connection between Ullr and a shield is alluded to in several skaldic poems: a shield could be called ‘skip Ullar’ (Skáldskaparmál p.  67) or ‘Ullar kjóll’ (Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson’s lausavísa 9) (Ullr’s ship), whereas shield warriors could be kenned as ‘Ullar asksǫgn’ (ship’s crew of Ullr) in Vellekla st. 4 and ‘askþollar Ullar’ (Ullr’s ash-firs) by Hallfreðr vandræðaskáld. These descriptions and other similar kennings in poems such as Hákonardrápa st. 1, Hrynhenda st. 15, Eiríksdrápa st. 12, Jómsvíkingadrápa st. 43, Liðsmannaflokkr st. 2, and Rekstefja st. 6 probably referred to a now-lost myth, which may have resembled the myth about Scyld Scefing (shield) who arrived among the Danes onboard an oarless boat filled with weapons, according to Beowulf ll. 4–52 (cf. Simek 2007: 340; Nordberg 2006b). An affinity with skiing and hunting is indicated by the word ǫndurr, since this word designated skis used especially for hunting (Nordberg 2006b). The expression ǫndur-Áss (ski-áss) can also be related to Saxo’s description of how Ollerus, using magic, could travel across the sea on a bone (Gesta Danorum 3.4.12). Already Victor Rydberg (1886–89: i, 693) pointed out that Saxo’s description fits the old way of skating on ice using polished horse bones. These

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‘ice-legs’ of polished horse bones are well-known archaeological artefacts from the Viking Age and the Middle Ages Further information on Ullr is found in two eddic poems. According to Grímnismál st. 5, Ullr lives in Ýdalir (Yewdales). Several scholars have pointed towards a possible link to Snorri’s expression ‘boga Áss’ (bow-áss), since high quality bows were made of yew. In Grímnismál st. 42, the expression ‘Ullar hylli oc allra goða’ (Ullr´s and all the gods’ protection) (p. 58) indicates a central role fulfilled by Ullr that may be linked to Atlakviða st. 30, where we are told that Atli swore an oath ‘at hringi Ullar’ (by Ullr’s ring). Both these references could indicate ruling or legal aspects of Ullr, which could moreover be linked to Saxo’s information about Ollerus as a ruler. He ruled for nearly ten years, while Othinus (Óðínn) was expelled from the country. When Othinus returned, Ollerus went to Sweden where he was finally killed by Danes (Gesta Danorum 3.4.10–12). The alternative form Ullinn may indicate some form of leadership as well. Summarizing these sparse fragments of information, it seems that Ullr was connected to partly interrelated activities: namely, winter communication, hunting, warfare, leadership, and legal affairs. Skiing and skating could be combined with hunting, especially when hunting for precious winter furs. However, hunting could also be regarded as training for warriors, whereas warfare, leadership, and legal procedures were clearly interlinked. Although we have no information about the relation between Ullr and the other æsir, apart from his mother Sif and stepfather Þórr, his wintery aspects stand out in comparison to the other gods.

Cult Numerous placenames show that Ullr was an important god associated with rituals. In the Lake Mälaren region, about twenty sacral placenames connected with Ullr have been securely attested in a modern survey. Above all, the placename Ullevi is frequent (Vikstrand 2001: 168–90). Outside this region, no thorough surveys exist, which poses a problem since the compound ull- may also be related to water. Consequently, a name such as Ullånger in Ångermanland has nothing to do with the god Ullr (Vikstrand 2001: 175–82). However, about another thirty placenames connected to Ullr or Ullinn are known from central Sweden and southern Norway, indicating that he was a major god in these regions (Brink 2007b). It is worth noting that no placenames linked to Ullr are known from southern Scandinavia, northern Norway, or most parts of northern Sweden. Saxo indicates a similar central Scandinavian link by letting

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Figure 49.1. Theophoric placenames in Scandinavia based on the names Ullr and Ullinn. Map based on Brink 2007b. Disir Productions, Uppsala. 

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Ollerus die in Sweden. The mythological abode of Ullr, Ýdalir (Yewdales), has three counterparts in existing placenames in Bohuslän, Sweden and Vestlandet, Norway (Elgqvist 1955: 56), although these probably referred to real yews on the sites. Further details on rituals directed towards Ullr can be gained from no less than three excavated ritual sites associated with the god (è 27). In Ullevi, in the northern suburbs of modern Linköping in Östergötland, a ritual site was excavated in 1992 (Nielsen 2005). The place was located on a small rise north of an Iron Age settlement. Rows of postholes formed an irregular rectangle, measuring about 40 × 50 m. The postholes fenced off the site, which had an opening to the south and a paved road leading to the nearby village. Inside the fenced area, more postholes, pits, and about forty fireplaces were found. Animal bones were scattered inside the fences, indicating ritual meals, but the bones have still not been fully analysed. Radiocarbon dating indicates that the site was used from about 400 bce to about 400 ce. The fenced area fits well with the notion of a vé as a demarcated holy place. However, the fireplaces and the scatted animal bones have hitherto revealed little about the rituals directed towards Ullr. The early date of the location nonetheless indicates a long history of this divine figure. At Lilla Ullevi in Bro in southern Uppland, another ritual site was excavated in 2007 (Bäck and others 2008; Bäck and Hållans Stenholm 2012; figure è 27.24). The place consisted of a small hill, including visible bedrock. The small rise was fenced off by a row of postholes to the east and a stone wall to the south-west, creating an irregular oval form. Between two protruding knuckles of bedrocks, a huge stone foundation was laid out in the form of an oversized end-room of a long house. South of the stone foundation was a cluster of irregularly placed postholes. Inside the whole fenced area, but above all between the stone foundation and the cluster of postholes, sixty-five small amulet rings of iron were found. The best preserved amulet rings were attached to another three smaller rings, and in two cases these amulet rings have some kind of fastener, indicating that the rings had originally been hanging from wood, maybe from the cluster of posts on the site. Apart from the rings, riding equipment, two arrowheads, five fire steels, a meat fork of iron, and an iron staff were found at the site. No animal bones have been analysed so far. The objects as well as radiocarbon dates indicate that Lilla Ullevi was used as a ritual site primarily during the seventh and eighth centuries ce. The fenced area fits the concept of vé as a demarcated place well. Some of the amulet rings were shaped like miniatures of larger rings, such as the Forsa ring from Hälsingland whose runic inscription links it to a legal assembly (è20). Therefore, the amulet rings indi-

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Figure 49.2. Plan of a fenced area with fireplaces at Ullevi near Linköping in Östergötland. The site has been interpreted as a sanctuary of Ullr. After Nielsen 2005: fig. 10. Graphics by Olle Höfors, Östergötlands Museum, Linköping, and Lars Östlin, Arkeologerna, Statens Historiska Museum, Linköping. 

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cate a legal role fulfilled by Ullr, which is supported by swearing an oath ‘at hringi Ullar’ (by Ullr’s ring) in Atlakviða. Ultuna on the southern outskirts of modern Uppsala in central Uppland is known as one of the places with rich boat graves from the Late Iron Age. In the years around 2010, a small ritual surface was investigated at Ultuna, consisting of cultural deposits to a depth of half a metre. In the deposits, animal bones and no fewer than eight arrowheads were found. The dates indicate that the site was used from the seventh to the eleventh centuries (Hulth 2013). The arrowheads from Ultuna as well as Lilla Ullevi recall Ullr being referred to as ‘boga Áss’ (bow-áss) and ‘veiði-Áss’ (hunting-áss), especially since some of the arrowheads could have been used for hunting. The three investigated ritual sites connected to Ullr underline that this god was venerated from at least a few centuries bce until the eleventh century ce. The ritual remains above can be linked to the legal and hunting aspects of this divine figure.1

Scholarship Ullr is a shadowy figure who is difficult to interpret on the basis of the scant references. Above all, the placename evidence has been used to speculate about his character. Ullr has been connected with Skaði and Njǫrðr, regarded as local a variant of Freyr and Týr, viewed as a god in conflict with Óðinn, and interpreted as a spring god, a moon god, a sun god, a death god, a winter god, a hunting god, and a personification of the winter sky. Some have also regarded him as a ruler (overview in Nordberg 2006b). Confronted with all these different interpretations, Jan de Vries writes somewhat resignedly: ‘Es gibt hier Rätsel genug’ (In this case, there is enigma enough) (de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 162). Since the placenames of Týr and Ullr are more or less mutually exclusive, with Týr-names occurring in Denmark and Ullr and Ullinn-names in Sweden and Norway (Brink 2007b; see also è 48), Axel Olrik proposed already in 1902 that Ullr was a northern variant of Týr and that he should consequently be regarded as a sky god (Olrik 1902a).2 This interpretation is still the one most 1 

A runic inscription dated to about 210–50 ce from the weapon deposit at Thorsbjerg in southern Jylland (Imer 2007: ii, 405) has been interpreted as a reference to a ritual specialist associated with Ullr (Krause and Jahnkuhn 1966: 53–55; compare also è29). In recent years, however, the expression has been reinterpreted as a south Germanic dithematic personal name (è5). 2  Per Vikstrand, however, has argued that the placenames are not mutually exclusive, since Týr names are restricted to western Denmark, whereas the Ullr names occur in eastern

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widely accepted and is often combined with an idea of Ullr as related to the gleaming and clear winter sky. From this perspective, his attributes have been interpreted as star signs (de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 153–63; Nordberg 2006b). As a sky god, Ullr has also been regarded as a counterpart to the vanir gods Freyr and Njǫrðr, since Ullr-names seem to be paired with these gods: namely, Freyr in Norway and Njǫrðr in Sweden (de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 157–58). From the same perspective, his abode Ýdalir would be associated with the world tree rather than his ability to master a bow (de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 161).

Concluding Remarks The spatial distribution of placenames based on Ullr or Ullinn is one of the best examples of the regional character of PCRN (Brink 2007b). The winter aspects of this divine figure are underlined by Snorri’s expression ski-áss, Saxo’s description of him as a skater, and by the location of sacral placenames. They do not occur in southern Scandinavia, corresponding to an ecological zone within which winters are usually very mild. However, the placenames are few or nonexistent in the Far North as well, in regions adjacent to the Sámi region, indicating that he was primarily a central Scandinavian phenomenon. Even so, it is difficult to produce a coherent description of Ullr, because he is such a vague figure in the extant mythology, although he must have been a major god in central Scandinavia. The linguistic origin of the names Ullr and Ullinn as well as the references to King Ollerus by Saxo and to ‘Ullr’s protection’ may indicate a ruling god or even a sky god. The oaths sworn on Ullr’s ring and the amulet rings found at Lilla Ullevi point towards legal aspects of the god, whereas Snorri’s expressions ski-áss, bow-áss, and hunting áss as well as the arrowheads from Lilla Ullevi and Ultuna emphasize that Ullr was considered an accomplished hunter. He should not be viewed as only a variant of Týr but rather as a god in his own right who had some traits in common with Týr; these commonalities could in turn explain the mutually exclusive distribution of the placenames pertaining to Ullr and Týr. More details on rituals addressing Ullr and their temporal settings will probably become clearer after future analyses of animal bones from the excavated ritual sites.

Sweden and parts of Norway (Vikstrand 2001: 407–08).

50 – Heimdallr Sebastian Cöllen Introduction Heimdallr1 is perhaps the most enigmatic god among the Old Norse deities. This circumstance does not stem from a lack of information; quite the contrary, the pieces of information are manifold. They are, however, fragmentary, often difficult to interpret, and hard to unite into a coherent picture. In the preserved literary tradition, Heimdallr plays an important role above all in eddic poetry. How far back these traditions go and how widespread they were is often difficult to determine. The oldest (with some certainty) datable evidence of Heimdallr is a skaldic poem from the end of the tenth century. The existence of placenames is doubtful, and archaeological sources are scarce. No certain evidence of the god exists outside Scandinavia and the British Isles.

Sources Some evidence pertaining to Heimdallr exists in skaldic poetry. The poet Úlfr Uggason mentions Heimdallr in two stanzas of his Húsdrápa (c. 980), a poem describing the myths behind the pictures decorating the house of the Icelandic chieftain Óláfr pái. An anonymous poem carrying Heimdallr’s name, Heimdallargaldr, is referred to in Snorri Sturluson’s Edda; only the two lines

1 

This is the most common rendering of his name in the manu­scripts. An alternative spelling is ‑dalr. Only one manu­script, that of Clemens saga, includes an instance of ‑dǫllr (Heimdaull, acc.). Sebastian Cöllen, ThD & PhD, Manuscripts and Music, Uppsala University Library, Uppsala The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume iii, ed. by Jens Peter p. 1371–1380 Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) p BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116977

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quoted by Snorri have been preserved.2 Apart from this, the names Heimdallr and Vindhlér — according to Snorri, another name of the god — are used in skaldic kennings for ‘head’ and ‘sword’. In his Gráfeldardrápa (c. 970), Glúmr Geirason refers to gold as ‘tennr Hallinskíða’ (teeth of Hallinskíði); Hallinskíði is yet another name ascribed to Heimdallr by Snorri. In eddic poetry, Heimdallr appears in Grímnismál, Hyndluljóð, Lokasenna, Skírnismál, Þrymskviða, and Vǫluspá. The protagonist of Rígsþula, the god Rígr, should possibly be identified with Heimdallr. Finally, Heimdallr occurs several times in the late Forspallsljóð. Snorra Edda contains many references to Heimdallr. In his enumerations of the æsir, Snorri places Heimdallr in between the major and the minor deities, after Bragi (Gylfaginning pp. 25–26) and Týr (Skáldskaparmál p. 1), respectively. Apart from this Old Norse literary evidence, Heimdallr is briefly mentioned, along with other pagan deities, in Clemens saga (first quarter of the thirteenth century) and in Sǫgubrot af fornkonungum, a prose text from the latter half of the thirteenth century. He also plays a minor role in Skíðaríma (early fifteenth century) st. 125 and 127. Among the written sources outside the Old Norse area, only the Old English Beowulf contains a possible reference to Heimdallr. Lines 1197–1201 describe how the hero Hama (Heimir of Þiðreks saga, c. 1250) escaped with the brōsinga mene. In Old Norse tradition, Heimdallr fights with Loki over the Brísingamen. The Old English name of the jewellery may, in spite of the divergence between ō and í, be an indication that the poet knew the Old Norse myth. Archaeological evidence is sparse, but the rune stone from Jurby (Manx Museum 127; perhaps from the latter half of the tenth century), Isle of Man, may contain a depiction of Heimdallr standing on a Christian cross and raising an oversized horn to his mouth. The latter detail would correspond to Heimdallr’s role at Ragnarǫk as described in Vǫluspá st. 46; the rune stones of this area often combine Christian with heathen eschatological motifs in a way resembling the mythology of this poem. Another possible depiction of the horn-blowing god in a Christian context can be found on the stone fragment (formerly a cross) from Ovingham, Northumberland (late tenth to early eleventh century). However, the images are crude, and other, equally possible, interpretations of the motif exist.3 An inscription on a spindle whorl found in 2  In Gylfaginning (p. 26). The name is often rendered as Heimdalargaldr in secondary literature, but manu­scripts also offer the form ‑dallar‑. 3  See Cramp (1984: 215–16). Heimdallr is not depicted on the western side of the

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Saltfleetby, Lincolnshire, and dated to the early eleventh century possibly refers to Heimdallr as well as to Óðinn (Daubney 2010). There is only one placename that may contain Heimdallr’s name, 4 viz. the mountain Heimdal(s)­haugen (1160 m) in Namdalen, Nord-Trøndelag, Norway. This name is attested in Sámi in 1730 as Aajme­thalie or Aimetal-Saiwo, the form suggesting the name to be a loan from before the change of the ProtoNorse diphthong ai > ei. The name might, however, not refer to the god at all, but rather to the ram (Old Norse heimdali, *heimdalr (Skáldskaparmál p. 131, st. 507)). This possibility is strengthened by the Norwegian name Trondhjems Bok or den norske Buk by which the mountain was also referred to in the eighteenth century. The name could also derive from a placename Heimdal, thus signifying ‘the mountain of the valley (dal) closest to home (heim)’.

Myths The very first stanza of the eddic poem Vǫluspá opens majestically by addressing the ‘sons’ or ‘offspring of Heimdallr’: Hlióðs bið ek allar helgar kindir, meiri ok minni, mǫgo Heimdallar! (Silence/attention I ask from all of the sacred kindreds, higher and lower/greater and lesser, sons of Heimdallr!)

There has been much debate about who is meant: the gods, mankind, or both. The same motif is also alluded to in Hyndluljóð st. 43, where Heimdallr is said to be related to ‘sjǫt gǫrvǫll’ (all residences, dwellings), that is, through metonomy, ‘inhabitants, people’. Many scholars have interpreted this evidence as a reference to the sociogonic myth of the eddic poem Rígsþula, where a god — here called Rígr — establishes the social order by fathering the eponymous ancestors of the three estates of the nobles, the freemen, and the slaves or serfs: Jarl, Karl, and Þræll. As Karl G. Johansson (1998: 80–81) has shown, the interpretation cannot rest on the evidence of the prose introduction of the poem, which actucross from Man (Reitzenstein 1924: 43, 45–46), nor on the stone from Altuna (Weber 1972: 327–28). 4  The many occurrences in the Germanic language area of mountain names formed by the words for ‘heaven’ and ‘mountain’ most probably have no relation to Heimdallr’s dwelling, Himinbjǫrg.

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Figure 50.1. A person with a horn, standing in front of a monster, on the cross from Gosforth in Cumbria. The image has been interpreted as Heimdallr announcing the coming of Ragnarǫk. After Finnur Jónsson 1913: 99.  

ally identifies Rígr with Heimdallr, but it could be strengthened by the reading of Vǫluspá st. 1, if ‘meiri ok minni, mǫgo Heimdallar’ (higher and lower, sons of Heimdallr) is understood as the human social classes. In Vǫluspá st. 46, Heimdallr blows his horn Gjallarhorn as the enemies of the gods approach; its sound announces the coming of Ragnarǫk. This horn may also appear in the middle of the poem (st. 27) where it (?)5 is said to be hidden beneath the World Tree, possibly as a sign of peace, just as, inversely, raising it up into the air (‘horn er á lopti’, st. 46.6) signifies the beginning of the final battle. An eschatological context is also provided by the genealogical poem Hyndluljóð, incorporating it into a sequence of stanzas often referred to as Vǫluspá in skamma (The Short Vǫluspá) (st. 29–44); but, in this poem, the most important motif associated with the god seems to be that of his birth. The poem provides the puzzling information that Heimdallr was born from no less than nine giantesses. Referring to the same myth, the two extant lines of Heimdallargaldr state that these mothers were sibling sisters. Adding further to the riddle, the Uppsala-Edda (Codex Upsaliensis) (DG 11) of this source calls the mothers meyjar, which can be translated inter alia as ‘virgins’. Numerous interpretations have been suggested for this motif, but the widest accepted and best supported one is that the god was thought of as having been born out 5 

The noun hljóð (literally ‘sound’) used in Vǫluspá st. 27 can also mean ‘hearing’. Regarding the latter meaning, some scholars have understood the noun as referring to Heimdallr’s ear that was hidden beneath the tree, as a counterpart to Óðinn’s eye alluded to in the same stanza (Detter and Heinzel 1903: 36)

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of the sea, in poetry represented by the nine daughters of Ægir (as suggested already by Müller 1844: 229; cf. more recently Cöllen 2015: 137–49, with references to previous research). The narrative function of Heimdallr’s occurrence in four stanzas spread out through Vǫluspá in skamma remains a matter of dispute (Klingenberg 1974: 9–36; Steinsland 1991: 275–303; Zernack 1999; Cöllen 2015: 178–220; Cöllen 2017). Þrymskviða st. 15 calls Heimdallr ‘hvítastr ása’ (the whitest of æsir). This information is confirmed by Snorri (Gylfaginning p. 25, Skáldskaparmál p. 19) and Forspallsljóð st. 14, which call Heimdallr ‘hvíti áss’ (the white áss). Þrymskviða also states that Heimdallr knows the future ‘sem vanir aðrir’ (as otherwise the vanir do).6 Forspallsljóð st. 11 more prosaically calls him ‘inn vitri’ (the wise one). In Rígsþula, the god gives each estate ‘advice’ (ráð) but teaches only Jarl, the ancestor of the warrior nobility (jarlar), runes (rúnar), likely with magic properties (cf. st. 36, 43, and 45). Some kind of magic knowledge could possibly also be assumed from the title of the lost poem Heimdallargaldr (Heimdallr’s galdr/Magic Chant). In spite of this numinous knowledge, Sǫgubrot af fornkonungu calls Heimdallr ‘heimskastr ása’ (the most stupid of the æsir) (ch. 3). The context, however, does not necessarily reveal any deeper knowledge about the pre-Christian gods. For instance, the author’s designation of Hermóðr (whose ascension to a god might have occurred only in the Christian literary tradition)7 as ‘brave’ could be derived from the etymological meaning of the name (‘army-brave’) together with the principle of alliteration (Hermóðr : hugaðr), just as the name Heimdallr could be understood to contain the root of heimskr, ‘stupid’. Grímnismál describes Heimdallr as living and drinking happily in his hall at Himinbjǫrg and refers to him as ‘vǫrðr goða’ (st. 13). A similar appellation, ‘vǫrðr með goðom’, is used in Skírnismál st. 28 and an identical one in Lokasenna st. 48, where Loki taunts Heimdallr as he does, in turn, the other deities. The epithet is usually understood to mean ‘watchman of the gods’. This is obviously how Snorri Sturluson understood it. However, the designation has puzzled scholars, since the low-ranking character of a watchman would 6 

This reading, rather than ‘as other vanir’, was proposed already by Wolfgang Golther (1895: 360 n. 1). It seems plausible, since Heimdallr is usually never characterized as a vanr only as an áss — so already in the very same stanza, Þrymskviða st. 15.2 (hvítastr ása); cf. Forspallsljóð st. 14.4; Skáldskaparmál (p. 114, st. 432). 7  In Hákonarmál st. 14, Hermóðr is obviously a human hero, residing with Bragi (presumably the poet Bragi Boddason, ninth century) in Valhǫll; his ascent to godhood seems to be a parallel phenomenon to that of Bragi (Mogk 1887; Lindow 2006; è36).

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seem to contrast with the noble character portrayed in Vǫluspá st. 1 and other places.8 In this context, attention should also be brought to the fact that the two sources where the epithet must be understood in a derogatory sense — Skírnismál and Lokasenna — tend to be regarded as late poems, perhaps even belonging to approximately the same time as when Snorri composed his Edda. For Grímnismál, a meaning ‘defender of the gods’ would be equally satisfying. A similar interpretation is also possible for a variant of the epithet attested already in Úlfr Uggason’s Húsdrápa st. 2, in the description of Heimdallr as ‘vári ragna’ (defender/watchman of the gods).9 A warlike character is also echoed in the myth of Heimdallr’s magical strengthening after his wonderful birth (Hyndluljóð st. 35.3, 38, 43.1–4). The eighth stanza of Húsdrápa tells that Heimdallr rode to the funeral of Baldr. In the second stanza of the same poem, as editors usually reconstruct it, Heimdallr seems to be portrayed in a struggle with Loki. Much scholarly energy has gone into understanding what they are fighting over, the suggestions encompassing the earth (Schier 1976b, 1999; Marold 2000a), the sun (e.g., Müllenhoff 1886), the primeval fire (Cöllen 2007), or simply a precious piece of amber (de Vries 1933). However, much speaks for the suggestion of the firstknown interpreter, Snorri Sturluson, who proposed that the object be understood as Freyja’s necklace, Brísingamen, which was stolen by Loki (Heizmann 2009). Most importantly, this interpretation requires no emendations of the text. In Úlfr’s poem, the object that the two gods fight over is called hafnýra (sea kidney), a compound resembling usual kennings for ‘stone’. Supported by this evidence, it has further been suggested that Freyja’s necklace was thought to consist of a special kind of stone-like seeds used for magical purposes at childbirth and which the Norwegians call ‘childbirth stones’ (lausnarsteinar) — or ‘sea kidneys’ (Pering 1941: 217–27; Cöllen 2015: 122–25).10 If this is correct, 8 

Húsdrápa st. 2 calls Heimdallr ‘frægr’ (renowned) (p. 407), st. 8 ‘kostigr’ (splendid) (p. 418). Hyndluljóð st. 43 describes him as ‘stillir stór­auð­g astr’ (greatly wealthiest king) and as ‘ǫllom meiri’ (more powerful than all others). Snorri (Gylfaginning p. 25) calls him ‘mikill ok heilagr’ (mighty and holy). 9  The noun vári is usually seen as a hapax legomenon but may be found on the Rök rune stone (Ög 136, Samnordisk runtextdatabas). However, because of the assonance with Fárbauta, the á in vári must be long in Húsdrápa st. 2, not short, as etymologically expected (< Proto-Germanic *war‑, in Old Icelandic vǫrðr, etc.). This may be explained through Úlfr having derived the line ‘Fárbauta mǫg vári’ from the older Haustlǫng st. 5.2, ‘Fárbauta mǫg Várar’, where the long vowel belongs to the noun Vár (‘a goddess’). 10  Brísingr (cf. Old Norse brjá ‘glisten’) would then be an alternative name for the ‘stones’.

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the core meaning of the myth seems to concern the gods facing the threat of losing a magical object with consequences for their reproductive powers. A counterpart to this myth can be found in Þrymskviða. The structure of the plot is the same as in the second stanza of Húsdrápa. Loki intends to bring Freyja and her necklace to jǫtunheimar, but Heimdallr intervenes and, in Þrymskviða, advises11 the gods to send Þórr in lieu of Freyja, disguised as the goddess with Brísingamen around his neck. Heimdallr here remains the protector of the gods’ reproductive powers, although the object of his actions has been transferred from the symbol of the fertility goddess to the goddess herself. In his Edda, Snorri Sturluson provides some additional information to what eddic and skaldic poetry tell us. Heimdallr’s dwelling is said to be where the rainbow bridge meets the world of the gods. He sits there guarding the bridge as vǫrðr goða; he can see a hundred miles wide night as well as day and hear how the grass grows on the ground and the wool on the sheep. Snorri also says that Heimdallr’s horse is named Gulltoppr (‘golden mane’) and that the god himself has golden teeth and thus carries the name Gullintanni (Gylfaginning p. 25). To Húsdrápa, Snorri adds that Heimdallr and Loki fought in the shape of seals and that the object of the struggle — as mentioned above — was Brísingamen. In Gylfaginning (p. 51), Snorri says that Heimdallr and Loki will meet again at Ragnarǫk, where each will be the death of the other. At another place, he states that Heimdallargaldr described Heimdallr’s death by a human head or, alternatively, that he was struck against a human head, ‘hann var lostinn manns hǫfði í gǫgnum’ (Skáldskaparmál p. 19), but if such a text passage ever existed, it has not been preserved.

Cult No cult of Heimdallr is attested. As is well known, the prose literature often provides more detailed information on cult activities than, for example, eddic poetry; in this literature, however, the god rarely occurs at all. The lack of placename evidence speaks against the god having had any important cultic function. Many and partially conflicting theories have been proposed in order to explain In some narrations, Freyja’s necklace (men) or girdle (girði) seems to be thought of as having only one such ‘stone’, as in Haustlǫng st. 9, (Loki = ) ‘Brísings […] girðiþjófr’ ([t]he girdle-thief of Brísingr) (p. 444), whereas in others, it consisted of several brísingar — cf. the name Brísingamen and Þrymskviða st. 16/6 ‘breiða steina’, used about Freyja’s necklace. 11  Might the knowledge of a similar version lie behind the attribute ‘[r]áðgegninn’ (­counsel-wise) (p. 407) ascribed to Heimdallr in Húsdrápa st. 2?

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these facts, for instance, that the god was a latecomer, a literary invention of the skalds (Meyer 1891: 228). However, it may be that the god was more like a deus otiosus, an ‘idle god’, who, having finished his primeval founding activities (of the social order), retreated from his interference with the human world. His greatest importance may, then, have been within the mythology.

Scholarship and Interpretation An overview of the research literature reveals that Heimdallr has been interpreted as — literally — almost everything between heaven and earth.12 The interpretation of Heimdallr as a god of the sky or its phenomena (the moon, the sun or sunbeams, the rainbow) has remained present from Jacob Grimm and the nature mythologists into the twentieth century. The name Heimdallr was most commonly derived from Old Norse heimr, ‘world’, and the ProtoGermanic stem preserved in Old English deal, ‘brilliant, proud’. The myths were then interpreted in accordance with the appearance of the nature substrate which the deity was seen to represent, his birth (from the waves) as the sky or the sun rising from the horizon of the sea, his ‘whiteness’ as the radiance of the celestial body, and so forth. Equally long-lived has been the theory of Heimdallr as a personification of the ‘world tree’ or ‘world pole’. This theory was put forward by Hugo Pipping (1925) and subsequently adopted by later scholars (e.g., Dronke 1992: 667; Dronke 1997: 107; North 1997b: 283–87; Tolley 2009a: i, 369–405). The theory connected the name Heimdallr with the word dallr, attested in Bjørn Haldorsen’s Icelandic dictionary in the meaning ‘arbor prolifera’ (fruit-budding tree) (Haldorsen 1814: s.v.). Heimdallr’s nine mothers were, in this paradigm, usually identified with the nine worlds through which the tree grows (so the interpretation of Vǫluspá st. 2) and the notion of his ‘whiteness’ from the white liquid being poured over Yggdrasill (Vǫluspá st. 19). A third recurring feature in research on Heimdallr up until the present time has been the god’s connection with the ram (e.g., Much 1930). This was established mainly through etymologies of names being ascribed to Heimdallr in Snorri’s Edda (e.g., Vindhlér, Hallinskíði) and their connection with kennings 12  See Cöllen (2015: 10–11), with literature. Pages 10–19 give a summation of previous research with an emphasis on the methodological and theoretical problems. Research from the nineteenth century until 1937 is more extensively presented by Ohlmarks (1937: 205–56; cf. also de Vries 1935: 54–63). A more systematic overview is given by Pering (1941: 55–85). Some later interpretations before 1988 can also be found in Lindow (1988b: s.v. Heimdallr).

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for ‘sword’ and ‘head’ concerning, possibly, the horns of the ram (the ‘head’ of the ram being its ‘sword’). Georges Dumézil (1959) found a link between this ram element and Heimdallr’s birth from nine mothers (the waves) in a Welsh folktale, where eight waves, thought of as sheep, give birth to the ninth: the ‘ram’. However, the connection between Heimdallr and the ram is in itself weak and has been questioned (Pering 1941: 264–76; Cöllen 2015). Many comparisons have been made between Heimdallr and gods from other times and cultures, as in Franz Rolf Schröder’s analysis, in which Heimdallr was compared to the Vedic fire god Agni (Schröder 1967; cf. Rydberg 1886–89: i, 440–51). The problem with this approach has commonly been that the fragmentary information on Heimdallr can be interpreted to mean almost anything when seen against the background of other (often equally fragmentary) material. This problem also pertains to more recent comparisons, for instance, with Irish material (cf. Sayers 1993). There have also been attempts to understand Heimdallr’s function within a specific ‘system of thought’. While Jan de Vries (1955b) tried to locate Heimdallr, along with Þórr, in the second function of Dumézil’s idéologie tripartite (‘Thor est le dieu qui frappe, Heimdallr celui qui veille’, 1955b: 267), contemporary scholars have analysed the deity’s position for instance within the genealogical structures reflected in the mythological traditions (Steinsland 1991: 275–303; Clunies Ross 1994a: 173–81; Cöllen 2015). Three mono­g raphs have been written about the god. The first was published in 1937 by Åke Ohlmarks. In his investigation, Ohlmarks used comparisons from all over the world — theoretically underpinned by the then fashionable ‘Kultur­kreislehre’ — to argue his thesis that Heimdallr’s horn was a moon symbol and Heimdallr himself a sun god. Only a few years later, Birger Pering (1941) published his investigation Heimdall. In opposition to Ohlmarks, Pering restricted himself, for the most part, to Scandinavian material. Using sagas and folklore, Pering tried to show that Heimdallr was a mythological counterpart to the guardian spirit of the farmstead. He regarded this kind of spirit (Norwegian vord) to be what the designation vǫrðr goða originally referred to — a theory that had little impact on subsequent scholarship. In 2015, Sebastian Cöllen published the third mono­graph on Heimdallr. Just like Pering, Cöllen abstained from the wide-ranging comparisons characteristic for earlier scholarship, trying instead to shed light on Heimdallr from within the Old Norse world, stressing Heimdallr’s role as progenitor and protector of order.

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Concluding Remarks The differing views on Heimdallr presented above must not discourage us completely. There seem to be, after all, some dominating features in the traditions about Heimdallr that render his character graspable. Heimdallr is, in many ways, a god of borders. As scholarship noticed early on, the deity’s most central importance seems to have been at the beginning and at the end of time. Thus, Dumézil (1959) labelled Heimdallr a dieu cadre (frame god) along with the Vedic Dyauḥ. This is concomitant with the deity’s functions as progenitor (establisher of social order?) at the beginning of time and as protector of Ásgarðr, a quality that would be not least important when the world order is at its very end. These two functions can also be conceived of as genealogical (social?) and territorial borders, of which Heimdallr seems to be the guarantor and/or founder. In this respect, it is not surprising that Heimdallr is often contrasted to Loki,13 the transgressor of borders.

13 

So in Húsdrápa st. 2; Þrymskviða st. 15; Hyndluljóð st. 35–41, and in Snorri’s account of their final battle in Gylfaginning (p. 51).

51 – Frigg Ingunn Ásdísardóttir Introduction In the literary sources, especially Snorri Sturluson’s Edda, Frigg is presented as the wife of Óðinn and as such the chief goddess of the pantheon, although upon closer investigation this status may be disputed. Her mythical image is mostly limited to the grieving mother, and indications that she possesses other virtues, such as foreknowledge, are little more than mere statements. Frigg’s name can be traced to an Indo-European root meaning ‘love’ (cf. Sanskrit priyā ‘wife; beloved’) (de Vries 1962a: 143).

Sources Unlike other Old Norse goddesses, older forms of Frigg’s name are found in European literary sources outside Scandinavia, which are older than any Old Norse textual sources. In the anonymous Origo Gentis Langobardorum (On the Origin of the Langobards) on which Paul the Deacon bases his work Historia Langobardorum (History of the Langobards) (from the seventh and eighth centuries, respectively) we hear about the couple Frea and Godan (Wotan). In both these works, Frea and Godan are euhemerized and presented as human queen and king. In the interpretatio Germanica, taking place in Middle Europe shortly before the Migration Period, Frigg is the only goddess whose name is, alongside the names of some of the male gods, given to a weekday (Old High German frîatac, frigedeag in Old English, frjádagr in Old Norse), a transposition of the Latin Dies Veneris, which may indicate some connection to fertility Ingunn Ásdísardóttir, Chair Person and Independent Scholar, Reykjavík Academy, and Assistant Lecturer, University of Iceland The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume iii, ed. by Jens Peter p. 1381–1389 Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) p BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116978

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and sexuality since this implies that Frigg was perceived as in some ways equivalent to Venus. In the so-called Second Merseburg Charm, recorded in a tenth-century manu­script but considered to be significantly older, a few familiar Old Norse deities are mentioned by name, one of them being Friia (Frigg). The context is healing magic where Friia (Frigg), Uodan (Wodan, Óðinn), and some other mostly unknown deities sing magic songs to heal a foal with a broken leg. Volla (Fulla) is mentioned in the Second Merseburg Charm, and the foal whose leg is healed may belong to Baldr. In Old Norse poetry, Frigg appears in the eddic poems Vǫluspá, Vafþrúðnis­ mál, the prose prologue of Grímnismál, Lokasenna, and Oddrúnargrátr. Frigg serves as the base word in a number of kennings, mainly as a designation for ‘woman’ but also in kennings referring to: Óðinn ‘frumverr Friggjar’ (Frigg’s husband) (Hallfreðr Óttarsson, lausavísa 7); Baldr, ‘Friggjar sonr’ (Frigg’s son) (Málsháttakvæði st. 9); or the æsir in general, ‘Friggjar niðjar’ (descendants of Frigg) (Sonatorrek st. 2). Frigg appears in Snorri’s Edda in Gylfaginning and Skáldskaparmál and in the þulur list of ásynjur as well as once in Ynglinga saga. She is also mentioned in Saxo Grammaticus’s Gesta Danorum, presented there as the gold-greedy wife of Othinus. Frigg may be attested in two placenames: Friggeråker and Frigg jarsetr (see below). She is not easily identified in any of the archaeological or pictorial material.

Myths There are only a few mythical narratives in which Frigg plays a main role. This does not necessarily mean that no such narratives existed or that she was not important in the world-view of pre-Christian Scandinavia, nor does it mean that she cannot have been known and venerated all across the Germanic area; it simply means that the extant sources do not provide us with any such indications, neither affirmative nor negative. As mentioned, Frigg appears in two identical stories about the tribe of the Langobards. During a conflict between the Vandals and the Vinniles (Langobards), the Vandals ask Godan to give them victory over the Vinniles. The Vinniles, however, turn to Frea to ask for victory, and she instructs the Vinniles’ women to arrange their long hair to look like beards and to stand with their men to the east of where Godan sleeps; in this way, Godan sees them right when he wakes up and looks to the east, asking who these ‘long-beards’ are.

51 – Frigg

Figure 51.1. Image of Godan and Frea in a manu­script of Origo Gentis Langobardorum (Codex no 4, Biblioteca del Monumento Nazionale Badia di Cava). Photo: Biblioteca del Monumento Nazionale Badia di Cava, Salerno. 

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Having thus given the tribe a new name, he must also give them victory. In this story, then, Frea is presented as rather cunning. Most of the information we have on Frigg is found in Snorri’s Edda. In Gylfaginning, he tells us that she is Óðinn’s wife and that they are the parents of all the other gods (p. 13). This, however, does not fit with other mythical information, both from Snorri’s own works and from other sources. Snorri also states that she is the daughter of Fjǫrgynn (a detail that is corroborated by Lokasenna st. 26), but nothing further is known of him.1 No special myths about genealogies where Frigg is involved are known. Again, Snorri says that Frigg is Óðinn’s wife and adds that she knows all things past and future as well as the fates of men (Gylfaginning p. 21). Moreover, he states that Frigg is the chief goddess and lists the other goddesses as her servants in different matters (Gylfaginning p. 29). Here, he also names her abode: Fensalir (fen halls or bog halls), a name which links her to water. In none of these cases, however, does he relate any special myths associated with Frigg. The only myth in which Frigg plays a major role is that of the death of Baldr (Gylfaginning pp. 45–48, cf.  è46). It is only in Snorra Edda that this myth is told in its entirety, but it is referred to in a few Eddic poems. Frigg’s role in this myth falls in three phases. First, she obtains from everything in the world a promise not to harm Baldr. Second, she is fooled by Loki into revealing to him that there was one small plant, the mistletoe, which did not swear the oath because it seemed to her too young to do so. After Loki has contrived Baldr’s death through the blind Hǫðr, Frigg, third, asks if there is anyone who wants to earn her love and adoration by travelling to Hel to try to bring Baldr back from there. Hermóðr, probably Óðinn’s servant or son (sveinn), takes on this task, but his errand fails, and Baldr does not return. Vǫluspá st. 33 refers to this myth in the following way: enn Frigg um grét í Fensǫlom vá Valhallar (and in Fen-halls Frigg wept for Valhall’s woe) (p. 8)

Frigg is the grieving mother who weeps for her son’s death. 1  The etymology is not entirely clear with regard to Fjǫrgynn (cf. de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 275), but he seems to be a male variant of the goddess Fjǫrgyn who is probably closely connected to the earth. She is mentioned a few times as the mother of Þórr (Hárbarðsljóð st. 56 and Vǫluspá st. 56) and is thus, at least to some extent, identical with Jǫrð (Earth). The extant sources relate nothing else about either of these two divinities.

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In Vǫluspá st. 53, Frigg is given the byname Hlín, and it is said that she weeps Óðinn’s death in Ragnarǫk when the wolf Fenrir kills him: Þá kømr Hlínar harmr annarr fram, er Óðinn ferr við úlf vega, … þá mun Friggiar falla angan. (Then Frigg’s second sorrow comes about when Odin advances to fight against the wolf, […] then Frigg’s dear-beloved must fall.) (p. 10)

Here, the issue is Frigg’s second grief. The death of Baldr is her first grief, Óðinn’s death the second. Thus, both Frigg’s griefs are associated with Ragnarǫk and the end of the world. The death of Baldr is also referred to in Lokasenna where Loki admits that it is his doing that Frigg does not see Baldr among the æsir anymore. In Vafþrúðnismál, Frigg appears only in the beginning where she tries to persuade Óðinn to refrain from going to visit Vafþrúðnir. Here, she only plays the part of the concerned wife in the Óðinn-Vafþrúðnir myth, without any real influence, as Óðinn goes away in spite of her warning (è42). An interesting aspect emerges in the prose prologue of Grímnismál where Óðinn and Frigg come into conflict with one another. They each have their protégés, Agnarr and Geirrøðr, who are the sons of King Hrauðungr, and the conflict between the two brothers is mirrored in the rivalry between Frigg and Óðinn. Geirrøðr, Óðinn’s protegé, manages to get rid of his brother Agnarr and become king himself, probably on the advice of Óðinn, and when Óðinn brags of this Frigg accuses Geirrøðr of meanness. Óðinn denies the charge and they make a wager. Frigg secretly sends her servant-woman, Fulla, to warn Geirrøðr that a dangerous wanderer might come visiting him. When the wanderer, who is Óðinn in disguise, arrives, Geirrøðr makes him sit between two fires. Agnarr, Geirrøðr’s young son, pities him being thus tortured and gives him a drink. Óðinn then recites the poem, a vision of the Other World culminating in an epiphany after which Geirrøðr realizes his mistake and stands up to free Óðinn from the fires, but stumbles and falls onto his sword and in this way dies by his own weapon. Young Agnarr then becomes king. Frigg is only present in the prose introduction to the poem, but the mythological theme that appears there is somewhat parallel to the Langobardic material, mentioned above, which is older than the recorded eddic poems and stems from a different part of the Germanic world.

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Figure 51.2. A small silver figurine of a person sitting in a high seat with a bird on each of the two arms of the chair. The person has a broad necklace around the neck and seems to be wearing long female clothes. The figurine has often been interpreted as a more or less queer Óðinn sitting in Hliðskjálf between his two ravens. It is, however, possible to interpret the figurine as a depiction of Frigg sitting in Hliðskjálf while Óðinn is away Photo: Ole Malling, ROMU, Roskilde Museum. 

Both Snorra Edda and Lokasenna relate that Frigg knows all things, both past and future, but nothing further is actually to be found about what that entails, nor any mythological examples or references to this ability of hers. Lokasenna, however, refers to a story, which Snorri Sturluson also relates in Ynglinga saga. There, a euhemerized Óðinn leaves his kingdom and is away for so long that his two brothers, Vili and Vé, take over both his kingdom as well as his wife, Frigg. This theme about Óðinn leaving his kingdom and staying away for a long time appears also in Saxo Grammaticus’s Gesta Danorum, but there are significant differences between the details of the two renditions of the myth (perhaps myths). In Saxo’s version, Frigg plays a decisive role in the course of events and Óðinn’s brothers do not appear in that version. Instead, the human king Othinus has been deified and a golden statue made of him. His wife, Frigga, desires the gold on the statue and by seducing one of her servants she has the statue destroyed and takes the gold for herself. Othinus is so ashamed of his wife’s conduct that he leaves his kingdom and goes into selfimposed exile (Gesta Danorum 1.7.1). Although there may be different reasons for Óðinn’s going away in the three sources as well as variation in other details, it is common to them all that Óðinn and Frigg are a married couple and that Frigg commits adultery, whether willingly or not. Two additional mythical references remain to be mentioned here. In the eddic poem Oddrúnargrátr st. 9, Borgný calls on Frigg and Freyja and other deities to bless and help Oddrún in return for helping Borgný in her difficult

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labour. This may provide a link to the above-mentioned Second Merseburg Charm, showing Frigg as a healing goddess, although no concrete myths exist that portray her in that capacity. It is interesting that, in Grímnismál itself, Frigg is not mentioned at all, even though the poem relates facts about most of the main Old Norse gods. However, a goddess named Sága is described there in a whole stanza: Sǫcqvabekkr heitir inn fiórði, enn þar svalar knego unnir yfir glymia; þar þau Óðinn oc Sága drecca um alla daga, glǫð, ór gullnom kerom (Grímnismál st. 7). (Sokkvabekk a fourth is called and cool waves resound over it; there Odin and Saga drink every day, joyful, from golden cups.) (p. 49)

It seems probable that Sága could be another name for Frigg. First, she appears to be very closely connected to Óðinn, being with him every day; second, the name of her place, Søkkvabekkr (sunken bench), seems synonymous with Frigg’s place Fensalir (see Vǫluspá st. 33).

Cult No evidence is to be found of any special worship or cult of Frigg, except the above-mentioned reference in Oddrúnargrátr, where Freyja and ‘fleiri goð’ (other gods) are called upon alongside Frigg, making this a general reference rather than specific evidence relating to Frigg alone. In Skáldskaparmál (pp. 24, 30), Snorri says that Frigg owns a bird costume. Nothing else is known about this whereas Freyja’s ownership of a bird costume is attested both in Skáldskaparmál and Þrymskviða (è45), and it is possible that this may be Snorri’s attempt to give Frigg greater weight as the chief goddess. No archaeological evidence specifically associates Frigg with cult, which does not mean, however, that such did not exist; and as noted, two placenames are associated with Frigg: Friggeråker and Friggjarsetr in Sweden and Norway, respectively. Stefan Brink sees complications in connecting the Norwegian placename to the goddess Frigg, whereas he considers the Swedish name to bear evidence of a Frigg cult, as this case seems plausible both etymologically and semantically (Brink 2007b: 123).

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Scholarship and Interpretation Early scholarship did not bestow much attention on Frigg, and in many cases she is only mentioned briefly as the wife of Óðinn and the grieving mother of Baldr. Around the middle of the twentieth century, scholarship took a different turn, and interest in and emphasis on goddess research increased substantially. In spite of this change, however, Frigg has not received much more attention than before. A good example of the attitude towards her is conveyed in the thesis of Hilda Ellis Davidson’s book on Roles of the Northern Goddess (1998), which offers far more on Freyja than on Frigg. This is followed by BrittMari Näsström, who argues in detail that all the Old Norse goddesses mentioned in the literary sources are nothing but various hypostases of (aspects of ) Freyja (Näsström 1995). Her argumentation includes Frigg, although Snorri Sturluson explicitly states that she is the chief goddess (Gylfaginning p. 29). Both Davidson and Näsström in this respect adopt the archaeologist Marija Gimbutas’s theories (1982, 2001) about worship of a Mother Goddess from the Early Stone Age in the Balkan area and present the idea that the image of the Old Norse goddess may be traced back to such a Mother Goddess in the Mediterranean areas and the Middle East, and, furthermore, that all individual goddesses are but aspects of this same root (Ellis Davidson 1998: 182–90; Näsström 1995: 98–122). Regis Boyer (1995), taking from the same point of departure a slightly different direction than Näsström and Ellis Davidson, sees Freyja as well as Frigg as representing different aspects of ‘the great goddess’ but emphasizes the differences between them. Ingunn Ásdísardóttir (2007) is very sceptical towards the idea that the two goddesses should be seen as having the same roots, underlining their relationship to the vanir and the æsir, respectively. Jenny Jochens, in her Old Norse Images of Women, treats Frigg only as the grieving mother of Baldr (1996: 65–66), and Judith Jesch does the same (1991: 135). In Prolonged Echoes (1994a), Margaret Clunies Ross only mentions Frigg in connection with her discussion of social structures and hierarchies within the supernatural world, and Frigg as well as other female characters are more or less seen as objects in the world of the male gods. The most serious treatment of Frigg to date is found in John Lindow’s Murder and Vengeance among the Gods (1997a) in which he goes minutely through the story of Baldr’s death, giving Frigg her due as an active player and role-holder in that tragic sequence of events (1997a: 9–68). Through his analysis of the Baldr myth, Lindow looks at older and more original images of Frigg, such as the etymology of her name and the transposition of the Latin dies Veneris into frigetac, and comes to the conclusion that her image carries elements of old fer-

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tility connections (p. 49). In the image the literary sources present of Frigg she has, however, largely lost these elements. In the Old Norse mythology, fertility is Freyja’s domain, and, in spite of Snorri’s statements in Gylfaginning (pp. 13, 29) that Frigg is the chief goddess, when other sources are scrutinized Freyja seems to have held greater power than Frigg in various realms, such as fertility, death and seiðr (è45).

Concluding Remarks No independent myths about Frigg exist today. The closest we come to any such is her part in the myth of the death of her son Baldr and also her connection to Óðinn’s brothers, Vili and Vé, during Óðinn’s absence. Even though the Old Norse textual sources show her as the prudent and respectable wife of Óðinn and grieving mother of Baldr, the few non-Norse sources that mention her appear to present a different picture of her. From both the Langobard stories and Saxo’s Gesta Danorum, it may be surmised that she may at one time or in some areas have been regarded as a pugnacious and lustful goddess, even possessing magic abilities, as it appears in for instance the Second Merseburg Charm. Snorri’s attempt to present the Old Norse pantheon as a strict hierarchy and family of gods is apparent in his writings, and it is not possible either to exclude Christian influences on his presentation of at least some of the pagan deities. In that context, Frigg is probably the most obvious example of this as he molds her image as the devoted wife and grieving mother into a more acceptable one for Christian readers at the cost of and contrary to the image of Freyja (è45).

52 – Hœnir Jens Peter Schjødt Introduction Looking at the sources for the god Hœnir, it seems immediately to be impossible to find any links between the various statements about him in the sources belonging to the Old Norse corpus. He is mentioned quite a few times in the mythological sources, which makes it unlikely that he was just a post-pagan, poetic invention, as seems to be the case with, for instance, some of the goddesses mentioned by Snorri. However, there is very little to indicate that he was ever worshipped or played a role in any ritual, neither in textual, nor in archaeological or toponymic sources, and we have no evidence that he was known outside the North, among other Germanic peoples.

Sources The oldest source in which Hœnir is mentioned is in Þjóðólfr’s Haustlǫng. The poem relates the story about the encounter between the giant Þjazi and the three gods Óðinn, Hœnir, and Loki, which we also know in prose from Skáldskaparmál (è42 and è44). Here he is part of some kennings, probably signifying his friendship with Óðinn (he is ‘hrafnásar vinr’ in st. 4) and with Loki who is said to be ‘Hœnis vinr’ (st. 3) and ‘vinar Hœnis’ (st. 7) and the trier of his courage or his mind, ‘hugreynandi Hœnis’ (st. 12), whatever this means precisely. Whether this friendship aims exclusively at the myth described in the poem in which the three gods make up a close triad as opposed to the giant or at the relation between the three gods in general, we do not know. Jens Peter Schjødt, Professor of the Study of Religion, Aarhus University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume iii, ed. by Jens Peter p. 1391–1396 Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) p BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116979

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He is also mentioned twice in Vǫluspá (st. 18 and 63). Stanza 18 deals with the creation of humans, together with the gods Óðinn and Lóðurr (è36–37), whereas stanza 63 is part of the description of the new world that comes into being after Ragnarǫk (è39). In Reginsmál (st.  1–9 with prose), telling about the gold of Andvari, Hœnir again plays a minor role as the member of the same triad as we meet in Haustlǫng, and as there he does not act individually. Snorri is clearly the main source for Hœnir. He mentions the god in Gylfaginning, Skáldskaparmál, and Ynglinga saga. In Gylfaginning (p. 23) we are told that Hœnir during the peace negotiations between the æsir and the vanir (è 40) was exchanged with Njǫrðr, which is also what is related in Ynglinga saga ch. 4 in much more detail. In Skáldskaparmál (p. 1) we learn that Hœnir, in the frame story, was part of the feasting party to which Ægir was invited,1 and in the first myth told in this part of the Edda that he was a member of the triad who dealt with Þjazi, as is also related in Haustlǫng. Later (p. 19) the question is raised: how shall we describe Hœnir, and the answer is: ‘Svá at kalla hann sessa eða sinna eða mála Óðins ok hinn skjóta Ás ok hinn langa fót ok aurkonung’ (by calling him Odin’s table-companion or comrade or confidant and the swift As and the long foot and mud-king) (p. 76). The last myth in Skáldskaparmál in which Hœnir is mentioned is the one concerning the gold kenning ‘otrgjǫld’ (otter-payment), and which is more or less identical to the one told in Reginsmál (p. 45). This same myth is also related in Vǫlsunga saga (ch. 14), and the differences from the versions in Reginsmál and Skáldskaparmál do not have any influence on our view of Hœnir. Finally, there is a rather strange sentence in Sǫgubrot af fornkonungum where Hœnir is said to be ‘hræddastr […] ása’ (most frightened of the æsir).

Myths As can be seen, we do not have much material that allows us to glimpse any such thing as a full and coherent mythic narrative. Probably the best candidate is the myth related in Ynglinga saga ch. 4 (è40). Here we are told that the æsir exchanged Hœnir for the vanir hostages Njǫrðr and Freyr. He was said to be a ‘mikill maðr ok inn vænsti’ (a big man and most beautiful) and very suitable as chieftain. Together with him the æsir sent Mímir who was said to be a very clever 1 

But he is not mentioned as a member of the feasting gods in Lokasenna, which is a bit surprising.

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man (and in turn they receive Kvasir from the vanir). Hœnir was immediately made chieftain among the vanir, and Mímir gave him advice about every­thing. However, when Hœnir was at councils and Mímir was not there, and problems came up, he always answered that others had to take the decisions. Then follows the brief story about Mímir, who was beheaded by the vanir, and how they sent his head back to Óðinn to become an important source of information for this god (è42). We do not hear anything more about Hœnir and what became of him. The impression here is that it is not exactly intelligence or knowledge that characterizes Hœnir; at least he appears as a very passive figure. This is also the impression we get from the Andvari and the Þjazi myths: he is part of a triad, but whereas the other two members are active (Loki very much so, and Óðinn to a lesser extent), Hœnir seems to be there simply because the narrative patterns need three figures. However, there can hardly be any doubt that his role as a ‘third’ figure must have been part of tradition, since we have it in our oldest source, as well as in the younger ones. However, since Hœnir does not seem to have any real function in the narratives, these myths do not help us to understand him any better. A bit more informative is his role in the anthropogony. Here we are told in Vǫluspá st. 18 that he gave óðr, probably in this connection meaning ‘wits’ or ‘mental faculties’, but it could also be ‘poetry’.2 Alongside Hœnir and Óðinn, as the third member of this triad, being the main protagonists in the anthropogony (according to Vǫluspá), we have Lóðurr of whom we know next to nothing,3 unless, as many scholars have believed, he is to be identified with Loki (e.g., Philippson 1953: 44–45; è 44). Immediately it seems a bit astonishing that óðr is not the gift of Óðinn. However, if we accept the stanza from Vǫluspá as a source for the pagan period, we must accept that here Hœnir is connected to the intellectual faculties of human beings. This appears to be in opposition to the rather unknowledgeable figure we meet in Ynglinga saga, and it is a question whether it is possible to find a solution to these opposing pieces of information.4 A third ‘narrative’ theme is the description in Vǫluspá of the new world that rises from the sea after Ragnarǫk (è39). Here stanza 63 mentions Hœnir.

2 

For a detailed discussion, see Polomé (1969). Apart from this stanza, we only have the name as part of a kenning for Óðinn, ‘Lóðurs vinr’, in Íslendinga drapa, by Haukr Valdísarson, and in Háleyg jatal (st. 10) by Eyvindr skáldaspillir. 4  Although it has been attempted, as we shall see in the section on scholarship below. 3 

Jens Peter Schjødt

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Þá kná Hœnir hlautvið kiósa oc byrir byggia brœðra tveggia vindheim víðan vitoð ér enn, eða hvat? (Then Hænir will choose a wooden slip for prophecy, and two brothers’ sons build a settlement in the wide wind-realm — do you want to know more: and what?) (p. 12)

The stanza is very problematic, and not only in relation to Hœnir.5 The crucial part is the first sentence, and apart from the fact that from the poet’s perspective Hœnir was important enough to be part of the group of gods who shall inhabit the new world, we understand very little of what is going on here, and it will take a lot of (uncertain) interpretation to connect this statement with other statements about Hœnir (see, however, Wanner 2009: 243–46 for a brave attempt, to which we shall return below). Anyway, we are told that Hœnir is able to choose (‘kná […] kiósa’) ‘hlautvið’. H has hlutvið, emphasizing clearly the divinatory discourse here, since hlutr means ‘lot’ (cf. Finnur Jónsson 1931: 266). Hlaut, however, is also etymologically connected to ‘lot’, so the semantic difference between the two words may not be that big, although the meaning ‘sacrificial blood’ might well have been the way the audience understood the first part of the compound hlautvið (è31). Viðr can mean ‘forest’ or ‘tree’, and from this ‘a piece of wood’, hence the meaning ‘slips’ in the translation above. So it could be that we are dealing with lots made of wood, or perhaps pieces of wood used for sprinkling the sacrificial blood. Interpretations, therefore, have varied somewhat as to what was the actual role of Hœnir, according to whether we are dealing with lot-casting (as in the translation above) or if he performed some kind of sacrificial rite. It is probably not possible to reach certain conclusions concerning this problem, whether he is connected to some kind of prophecy, or if he is connected to bloody sacrifices; and even if we could decide, it would hardly help us to get a better understanding of the god, since there are no other indications that Hœnir had any other connections to rituals of any kind. We therefore have to accept that Hœnir’s role in this post-apocalyptic 5 

We do not know who these sons of two brothers are. Most commentators believe that the brothers are Baldr and Hǫðr, but we do not know that Hǫðr should have a son, whereas Forseti is mentioned as the son of Baldr (è54), so he would be an option. The sentence, however, could also be translated as ‘the sons of Tveggi’s (an Óðinn-name) brothers’ and would then point to the sons of Vili and Vé. These, however, are as unknown as a possible son of Hǫðr, and we do not even know that these brothers actually had children. So, basically this part of the stanza must refer to some mythic information which has been lost.

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world will remain enigmatic, but, as mentioned, the very fact that he has a role here, where almost all of the gods of the older generation have been killed (cf. Lindow 1997a: 145), is an indication that he must have had a more prominent role in the mythology than can be seen from the extant sources. Apart from these three fragmentary ‘Hœnir-myths’, we have the kennings which may help us. The kennings involving the notion of friendship with Loki or Óðinn are not very helpful, and as mentioned we cannot know whether this friendship is just referring to the excursions these three gods go on, or if they have a broader scope. ‘Skjótr Ass’ and ‘langr fótr’ could both refer to the idea that he was imagined in some sort of bird form. Finally, ‘aurkonungr’ meaning ‘mud-king’ is not transparent at all.6 The first part of the compound could perhaps be seen as an error for ár (prosperity), and thus be placed in the setting of fertility, and therefore, also religion. It is, however, completely speculative, and we have to admit that the kennings involving Hœnir, are of little help. Much weight has also been put on the very name Hœnir, the etymology of which is highly problematic. From different etymological arguments, the name has been interpreted as ‘swan’ (Hoffory 1889), ‘white’ (Krogmann 1931–32), ‘rooster’ (Hellquist 1916), ‘stork’ (Schnittger 1916; Ström 1956b), and many others. As de Vries rightly points out (1962a: 278) the etymology is problematic as long as we do not know more precisely the function of the god; or in other words, we cannot deduce from the etymology of the name to the function of the god, but rather the other way round.

Cult As mentioned in the Introduction, there is nothing to suggest that Hœnir ever played a role in the pagan cult, notwithstanding the wording of Vǫluspá st. 63, and he should thus probably be seen as a purely mythic figure, on par with figures such as Loki and Heimdallr.

Scholarship and Interpretations As can be seen, Hœnir is an enigmatic figure like so many other gods of whom we only have few sources. Scholars like those mentioned above and many others have tried to identify his role in the mythology from etymology, although this is 6 

Aurr is also the designation for the substance with which the World Tree is watered (Vǫluspá st. 19). This could perhaps indicate some connection between Hœnir and Yggdrasill, but again it is only conjecture.

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hardly the most promising way. Even if it can be shown that he is related to some kind of bird, for instance, it will hardly bring us closer to understanding his role in the anthropogony or the eschatology, or his role as a hostage in the peace negotiations between the æsir and the vanir. Others have emphasized his close relationship with Óðinn and Loki, and from that reached their interpretations. This is what Georges Dumézil did (Dumézil 1986: 220–25).7 Taking his departure in the triad, mentioned several times, and noting the passiveness of Hœnir, he characterizes him as a personification of the ‘intelligence recueillie’ (contemplative intelligence) as in opposition to Loki’s ‘impulsive’ intelligence (è 44). In that way the passivity of Hœnir becomes one of his main characteristics, and therefore also his lacking abilities to take decisions in the community of the vanir. Another more recent attempt to connect Hœnir to Óðinn was proposed by Kevin J. Wanner (2009: 243–46). He focuses on the gift with which Hœnir contributed to the creation of human beings, namely óðr, of which he is seen as kind of personification. This is then analysed in relation to Hœnir’s appearance in the eschatology, and the conclusion is that ‘[Hœnir] satisfies the condition that even though Óðinn cannot be immortal, óðr must be’ (p. 246). In this way he is seen to personify a certain aspect of Óðinn.

Concluding Remarks All the interpretations of Hœnir may seem somewhat speculative, which is not to say that they cannot be true. But realistically it should be admitted that the sources are too few, too allusive, and first and foremost too disparate for us to draw anything like a coherent picture. It could be argued that gods such as Óðinn and Loki are also very disparate, but as can be seen in (è42) and (è44) we do have sufficient material to explain this disparity within some overarching semantic centre, whereas this does not seem to be the case with Hœnir. What could be significant is the tendency that Hœnir seems to be attached to timely, and perhaps spatial, boundaries: he is part of the anthropogony and plays a role in the first war in the world (both connected to the cosmogony), and he also has some role, although not quite clear, to play in the eschatology. Spatially it also seems that he is mostly present far from the centre of the world where the abodes of the gods are situated, and together with two other gods away in giant land and along the coast where the proto-humans were found. Whether these are important characteristics or merely coincidences, we do not know, however. 7 

This is also part of the interpretations of some of the above-mentioned scholars, such as, for instance, Ström (1956b: 58).

53 – Skaði John Lindow Introduction Skaði is presented in the written sources as the progenitor of the dynasty of the jarls of Lade, and in myth she figures generally as the daughter of the giant Þjazi and the wife of the vanir god Njǫrðr, whom she marries as compensation for the slaying of her father by the gods. Her name is identical with the Old Norse masculine noun skaði (injury, harm, damage). Interestingly, her name does not seem to have participated in the kenning system of skaldic poetry, although she herself is kenned and circumlocutions for her are made in kennings for her father Þjazi.

Sources Skaði is found in the Háleyg jatal of Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, and in the eddic poems Grímnismál, Hyndluljóð, Skírnismál (prose header), and Lokasenna. She appears also in Snorri’s Edda in Gylfaginning and Skáld­ skaparmál, and also in þulur for ásynjur, and in Ynglinga saga, where the relevant stanzas from Háleyg jatal are quoted. She appears to have been mythically displaced (è34) in the first book of Saxo Grammaticus’s Gesta Danorum. She is kenned twice in the Haustlǫng of Þjóðólfr ór Hvini. Placename evidence has been proposed but is unlikely. There is no record of Skaði in archaeological materials or images.

John Lindow, Professor Emeritus of Scandinavian, University of California, Berkeley The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume iii, ed. by Jens Peter p. 1397–1403 Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) p BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116980

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Myths Háleyg jatal is reconstructed from various sources. Stanzas 3–4 in the traditional numbering are only found in Ynglinga saga ch. 9, and it is in these verses that Skaði features as the progenitor of the jarls of Lade. We follow Russell Poole’s interpretation, which reads the two verses as a single unit (st. 2; Poole 2007a, 2012a) comprising three clauses. The first is straightforward. Þann skjaldblœtr skattfœri gat Ása niðr við járnviðju, (The shield-worshiped kinsman of the Æsir [= Óðinn] begat that tributebringer [jarl = Sæmingr] with the female from Járnviðr,) (p. 199)

The second clause poses some difficulties. We follow Poole’s ingenious reading, linking sævar beins in line 9 with ‘manheimum’ (not ‘Mannheimum’, which requires an emendation). þás þau mær í manheimum skatna vinr ok Skaði byggðu sævar beins, (when those renowned ones, the friend of warriors [= Óðinn] and Skaði [giantess], lived in the lands of the maiden of the bone of the sea [(lit. ‘maiden-lands of the bone of the sea’) rock > giantess > = Jǫtunheimar ‘Giant-lands’],) (p. 199)

Following Poole, we construe ‘í manheimum … sævar bein’s as ‘in the lands of the maiden of the bone of the sea’, that is, in giantland. But however one construes these phrases, the verse is clear about the cohabitation of ‘skatna vinr’, that is, Óðinn, and Skaði. This identity is made explicit in the final three lines, where Óðinn is named directly and Skaði is kenned. ok sunu marga ǫndurdís við Óðni gat. (and the ski-goddess [= Skaði] bore many sons with Óðinn.) (p. 199)

Háleyg jatal was composed c. 985, and the Háleygir (people of Hålogaland, in western Norway) are the forebears of Hákon jarl Sigurðarson, who ruled

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Lade (near modern Trondheim) during the late pagan period. Introducing the verse in Ynglinga saga, Snorri tells us that Sæmingr was one of the sons who resulted from this union, and other sources suggest that he was indeed the first of twenty-seven generations of the dynasty, although far from all are named in the extant verses of the poem. As the son of Óðinn and Skaði, that is, of a god celebrated in cult (skjaldblœtr) and a giantess (járnviðja), Sæmingr thus from the perspective of the mythology was a figure akin to, say, Víðarr or Váli, or even to Óðinn himself (the result of a union between the áss Borr and the giantess Bestla), and the notion of direct descent from the gods would have offered powerful support for the jarls of Lade.1 Introducing these verses, Snorri tells us too that Skaði had previously been married to Njǫrðr but that she had terminated the relationship and then married Óðinn. The famous stories of Skaði’s marriage to Njǫrðr and their subsequent disharmony constitute the principal myths of Skaði in Snorri’s Skáldskaparmál (è44 and è47). They follow on the complex story of an eagle (the giant Þjazi) interfering with the ability of travelling æsir to eat; Loki’s suffering as he flies stuck to the eagle and his subsequent betrayal of Iðunn to Þjazi; the aging of the æsir without Iðunn and her apples; Loki’s recapturing of Iðunn, and the demise of Þjazi as he pursues Loki, both now in bird form. This story made up a stefjubálkr in Þjóðolfr’s Haustlǫng, and in it Skaði is kenned as ‘Vár þrymseilar’ (the Vár of the bowstring) (p. 439) (st. 5: her hvalr (whale) is the ox that will not cook) and ‘ǫndurgoð’ (the ski-deity) (p. 443) (st. 7: her fóstri (male relative) is Þjazi). According to Snorri, the story went on. Skaði took weapons and went to the æsir to demand compensation for the death of her father. She was offered a husband, and the gods had to make her laugh. She was to choose the husband by seeing only the feet, and chose Njǫrðr, saying in a verse that she thought she was choosing Baldr. Loki made her laugh by tying a rope around his testicles and a goat’s beard; both howled, and he fell into her lap. Finally, Óðinn cast Þjazi’s eyes into the sky to become stars. Snorri tells of the failed marriage to Njǫrðr in Gylfaginning, at the point when he mentions Njǫrðr in the catalogue of æsir (è 47). Njǫrðr wished to live by the sea, and Skaði in her ancestral mountains. They agreed to alternate between nine nights in each, but each spoke a verse complaining about the noises in the other’s abode. When Skaði abandoned the marriage, she repaired to the mountains and went about on skis in Þrymheimr, Þjazi’s former abode, hunting with a bow according to Snorri. Skaði’s living in Þrymheimr is found in 1 

See (è 23). Perhaps such support would have been especially potent in the particular time and place of the composition of the poem, when paganism and Christianity were meeting.

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Grímnismál st. 11, which Snorri cites. In this stanza Skaði is called ‘scír brúðr goða’ (bright bride of the gods). In the first book of Gesta Danorum, Saxo tells an identical story about Hadingus and Regnilda, with the same exchange of verses. Þórðr Særeksson left a verse saying that the goðbrúðr (bride of the god) could not love the vanr, which Snorri understood as reference to the failed marriage (Skáldskaparmál p. 18). Although the prose header to Skírnismál indicates that Skaði was the mother of Freyr,2 and thus implicitly also of Freyja, Snorri states explicitly that Njǫrðr sired Freyr and Freyja after the dissolution of his marriage to Skaði (Gylfaginning p. 24). In Skáldskaparmál (p. 20) Snorri states that Loki may be kenned as ‘þrætudólgr Heimdalar ok Skaða’ (dispute-opponent of Heimdallr and Skaði). The reference could refer to the method Loki used to make Skaði laugh, or to her role in the binding and punishment of Loki, hanging a poisonous snake above his head. Or if we take þræta to be a verbal dispute, the reference could be to Lokasenna st. 49–52, in which she tells Loki of the binding of his son with his own guts and promises her enmity, and Loki tells her of his primary role in killing Þjazi and claims that she once invited him to her bed.

Cult In Lokasenna st. 51, Skaði says to Loki: ‘frá mínom véom oc vǫngom scolo þér æ kǫld ráð koma’. (from my sanctuaries and meadows cold counsel shall always come to you) (p. 89)

Some scholars have argued that placename evidence indeed suggests places sacred to Skaði (see below). The apparent hieros gamos of Óðinn and Skaði might imply the existence of ritual reenactments of the hieros gamos within that dynasty.

2 

‘Þá mælti Skaði. ‘Rístu nú, Scírnir, | oc gakk at beiða | occarn mála mǫg’ (Then Skaði said: Get up now, Skirnir, and go and ask to speak with our son)  (p. 57). With the dual possessive pronoun she invokes Njǫrðr. There is just a bit of semantic ambiguity here: mǫgr means ‘son’ in prose (Aldís Sigurðardóttir and others: s.v. mǫgr), but in eddic poetry the meaning shades into ‘man’ or ‘boy’, and in the context of this particular text one cannot completely rule out the implied meaning ‘son-in-law’.

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Scholarship and Interpretation The association of Skaði with the mountains and skies and the use of the adjective skír (bright) have suggested association with the long winter nights of Scandinavia. This was a staple of the earliest nature-mythological scholarship, and it continues to find expression in the work of François-Xavier Dillman, who from the reading ‘nine’ and ‘three’ rather than ‘nine and nine’ in some manu­scripts of Snorra Edda (Dillmann 1991) advances the hypothesis that the nine nights in the mountains correspond to the nine ‘winter months’ of Scandinavia (Dillmann 1992, 2003a, 2005; cf. also Motz 1982–83, 1984a). Taking an opposite tack, Ottar Grønvik argues that Old Norse ǫndurr refers properly to the kick-ski, as opposed to the glide-ski (skíð) and is thus an inappropriate name for someone who goes about in the snowy mountains. Grønvik prefers instead an otherwise unattested word meaning ‘procession’, and on this hypothesis he links Skaði to the priest who accompanies Nerthus in Germania ch. 40; each will have changed sexes (Grønvik 2000). By this reasoning Ullr, too, ǫndurguð, would have been associated with processions (Grønvik 2000: 42–43). While we agree that this association may be important, we are willing to accept ǫndurr as indicating transport over snow, if only as a metonym for the full skiing array of kick ski, glide ski, and pole. Grønvik adduces numerous placenames that he claims will help elucidate Skaði. Other scholars, too, have sought for Skaði in placenames, and about twenty names have been proposed in Norway and Sweden. They are disputed (Vikstrand 2001: 357–58),3 as is the etymology of Skaði’s name, if it is not just the common noun skaði.4 Grønvik also follows the well-trodden path that leads from Skaði to Scadinavia, the geo­g raphical name first used by Pliny for Scandinavia (4.13; 8.16). The underlying form must have ended in -aujō ‘island’ or ‘peninsula’, and the first component may include the name of Skaði or some other word or form that incorporates the root on which her name is built (Svennung 1963; Wagner 1994–95). Scholars have proposed etymologies associating that root 3 

Hjalmar Lindroth sought a goddess Skeðja, a feminine byform of Skaði (Lindroth 1917, 1919, 1930), but Elias Wessén’s criticism is effective (Wessén 1921b). Summary in Vikstrand (2001: 357–58). 4  Although arguments have been advanced to the effect that a name form identical with the noun might have feminine gender, the name is always nominative in poetry, and Snorri inflects it as a masculine. Viking Age and later speakers could certainly have equated name and noun.

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with shadows (goddess of the underworld), with goats (Loki’s testicles and the goat), and even herring (the fishing grounds of Øresund). Taking Scadinavia as originally ‘Skaði’s island’ or ‘Skaði’s peninsula’, some scholars have regarded her as a chthonic figure personifying the landscape, but *aujō/ey/ø/ö is not uncommon in theophoric placenames and does not normally function to designate larger regions or districts. The Scadinavia of classical geo­graphy would then best be regarded as a misunderstanding. However, it is probably more likely that Scadinavia just means ‘shadowy, dangerous place’ (Nyman 2005). Even without the etymology, Franz Rolf Schröder was able to see Skaði as an archaic, enduring primal figure associated over time with various gods (Schröder 1941b), but his methodology will strike contemporary readers as unsatisfactory. Perhaps the most scrutinized aspects of Skaði’s mythic dossier have been the circumstances of her compensation for the death of her father, including the choice of Njǫrðr for his feet and the requirement that she be made to laugh. Possible associations with ritual, legal procedures, and folklore have been adduced (Schröder 1927, 1928; Clunies Ross 1989b; Lindow 1992, 2008). Although older scholarship paid it little heed, the apparent hieros gamos between Óðinn and Skaði as the foundation of a dynasty, as found in Háleyg jatal, appears to be important. Gro Steinsland uses it as evidence for her argument about the significance for royal ideology in Scandinavia of a hieros gamos between god and giant: this union both creates the king as something beyond what is normally human and fixes his fate (Steinsland 1991). Although Steinsland devotes only a relatively short chapter to the union of Óðinn and Skaði in Háleyg jatal, it is actually the only one of the sources she examines that explicitly derives a royal line from the procreation of a god and a giantess; in the other cases, Steinsland proceeds on what are sometimes complex lines of argumentation. According to Steinsland, the giantess in these cases represents the land itself, and through her heritage she contributes positive and negative features. In other works Steinsland has repeated these themes and drawn in the hieros gamos as a model for the marriage of the human king (Steinsland 1997, 2000).5

Concluding Remarks A helmingr in dróttkvætt in Skáldskaparmál attributed by Snorri to Bragi gamli, apparently referring to Ódinn, says that he cast into the sky over humans the eyes of the father of ǫndurdís: ‘hinn er varp […] ǫndurdísar […] fǫður augum’ 5 

The theory has been heavily criticized by Margaret Clunies Ross (2014).

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(Skáldskaparmál p. 34) (He who threw […] the ski-goddess’s […] father’s eyes) (p. 89). If Snorri’s attribution is to be trusted, this verse constitutes the earliest textual reference to Skaði. Þjóðólfr’s use of the similar kenning ‘ǫndurgoðs fóstri’ for Þjazi suggests that in the Norwegian skaldic tradition, Skaði’s connection with winter travel was old. This connection with mountains and winters certifies Skaði’s identity as a giantess. Through the use of his eyes to make part of the cosmos, her father Þjazi recalls the proto-giant Ymir. As the daughter of a cosmic being, Skaði may therefore have offered a particularly good choice as a giant mate for the god in the procreation of a royal genealogy. Þórðr Særeksson’s reference to Skaði’s failed marriage to Njǫrðr puts that tradition in Norway in the early eleventh century.6 His kenning for Skaði, goðbrúðr, could include marriage not only to Njórðr but also to Óðinn. In any case, it is important to recall that according to Ynglinga saga, the genealogy of the Ynglingar actually began with Njǫrðr. While nothing is said there of Skaði, and while the marriage to Njǫrðr failed, Skaði’s connection with dynastic foundation seems to be implied here too. The traditions about Skaði seem to represent a case of regional variation. Her role as progenitor of the dynastic line of the Lade jarls is seemingly lost in Iceland; Snorri just says that she had many sons with Óðinn, including Sæmingr, but he says nothing about Sæmingr’s descendants. However, in Iceland Skaði was interesting for the strange circumstances of her marriage to Njǫrðr and its failure. Indeed, the conflicting evidence about Skaði as the mother of Freyr and Freyja points to an inherent contrast between a goddess who participates in a hieros gamos and a goddess who was able to don armour and weapons and to go about in the winter mountains on skis. Skaði is often numbered among the ásynjur. Since many of them have transparent names (e.g., Eir (mercy), Vár (pledge)), in such contexts Skaði’s name might also be taken transparently. An ásynja who originated among the giants might certainly imply the presence of ‘injury’ or ‘harm’, whether or not the marriage that brought her among the æsir succeeded. In any case, as an Other being numbered, as one might say,7 among the æsir, Skaði must have a special relationship with Loki. In both cases a ritual brought about the incorporation amongst the æsir (marriage for Skaði, blood-brother oath with Óðinn for Loki) and in both cases the incorporation proved to be less than permanent. 6  According to Skáldatal, Þórðr composed at the courts of Jarl Eiríkr Hákonarson (C, 177, p. 281) and Óláfr Haraldsson (C, 65, p. 274). 7  Snorri on Loki: ‘Sá er enn talðr með Ásum’ (Gylfaginning p. 27) (that one is also numbered among the æsir).

54 – Minor Gods and Goddesses John Lindow and Jens Peter Schjødt

Introduction In this chapter it is our intention to treat some lesser-known gods in a somewhat more systematic way than has been done in previous chapters, although most of them have already been mentioned. We are certainly speaking here of ‘minor gods and goddesses’ in the sense that they only figure in one or a few sources. This also means that it is usually difficult to grasp their role and function in the mythology. We may even ask whether some of them even existed in the pre-Christian world-view, or if they should rather be seen as poetic figures, which only came into existence in the post-pagan era. Some of them too may be viewed as variants of more well-known gods and goddesses, as has been suggested by many scholars. It is hardly likely, however, that we will ever know these things for certain. In dealing with these minor deities we should also emphasize that many more could have been mentioned, who are mentioned in various sources, some in placenames, and some in the medi­eval texts. However, a line has to be drawn somewhere, and as some of them are hardly anything but a name, they do not seem to deserve individual treatment. The minor gods and goddesses treated here appear in alphabetical order, and the structure of each section mirrors the structure used in the other chapters in this volume.

John Lindow, Professor Emeritus of Scandinavian, University of California, Berkeley Jens Peter Schjødt, Professor of the Study of Religion, Aarhus University The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: History and Structures, Volume iii, ed. by Jens Peter p. 1405–1452 Schjødt, John Lindow, and Anders Andrén, PCRN-HS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2020) p BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.PCRN-EB.5.116981

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Byggvir and Beyla Introduction These two mythological figures (perhaps rather than ‘gods’) are mentioned in only one source, Lokasenna. Here they are portrayed as man and wife, and servants of Freyr. They are both mentioned in the introductory prose; and stanzas 43–46 comprise a quarrel between Loki and Byggvir, and stanzas 55–56 between Loki and Beyla. Myths As can be seen these two figures can hardly be said to have any narrative role in the extant mythological sources. Even so the relevant stanzas in Lokasenna may contribute to some sort of characterization, together with the etymology of the names, as we shall return to. After having offended Freyr, Loki is addressed by Byggvir, who says: 43. Veiztu, ef ec øðli ættac sem Inguna-Freyr, oc svá sællict setr, mergi smæra mylda ec þá meinkráco oc lemða alla í liðo. Loki qvað: 44. Hvat er þat iþ litla, er ec þat lǫggra séc, oc snapvíst snapir? at eyrom Freys mundu æ vera oc und qvernom klaca. Byggvir qvad: 45. Byggvir ec heiti, enn mic bráðan qveða goð ǫll oc gumar; því em ec hér hróðugr, at drecca Hroptz megir allir ǫl saman.

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Loki qvað: 46. Þegi þú, Byggvir! þú kunnir aldregi deila með mǫnnum mat; oc þic í fletz strá finna né mátto, þá er vágo verar. (Byggvir said: ‘You know, if I had the lineage of Freyr and such an honourable seat, smaller than marrow I would grind down that hateful crow and lame him in every limb. Loki said: ‘What’s that little creature, that which I see wagging its tail and snaping and gaping? At Freyr’s ears you’re always found and twittering under the grindstone.’ Byggvir said: ‘Byggvir I’m called, and I’m said to be speedy by all the gods and men; thus I’m proud to be here where the kinsmen of Odin are all drinking ale together.’ Loki said:‘Be silent Byggvir, you never know how to share out food among men; and in the straw on the dais you make sure you can’t be found when men are going to fight.’) (p. 92)

Considering the etymology of the name Byggvir, on which all can agree that it is connected to bygg (n.), which means ‘barley’,8 it is not difficult to see the allusions to grain and phenomena connected to barley in these stanzas (Dumézil 1973c: 93–98). Thus, we notice that Byggvir will grind Loki down to smaller particles than those of marrow,9 which is probably to be seen as a word play with his own name ‘Barley’, and so is Loki’s mentioning in the following stanza of a kvern (grindstone). It could, therefore easily be imagined that we have some allusion to the brewing of beer here. And there may be more allusions of this kind, as suggested by Georges Dumézil (1973c). Anyway, when a divine figure has a name related to ‘Barley’ and is a servant of the fertility god Freyr, it is hard not to see some sort of connection to the semantic sphere relating to fertility. Apart from that, it seems as if Byggvir characterizes himself as strong and valiant, but of poor descent (st. 43). He is also said to be bráðr among gods 8 

Whether we should see a direct personification of barley is far from certain. As John Lindow has remarked (2002a: 91), ‘if Byggvir is indeed a personification of barley, he is virtually unique in Scandinavian mythology, which otherwise has little to say of such figures’. 9  The verb, used here, mylða (1. pers. sg. pret. subj.), from *mølva is a hapax legomenon, but it has a synonym mylja which is used in the prose literature of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries (von See and others 1997: 473).

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and men, which does not necessarily mean ‘speedy’, as in the translation above, but perhaps ‘violent’, ‘impatient’, or ‘illtempered’. An indication that he is not a proper god, at least not at the same level as the other participants in Lokasenna, is that he is ‘proud’ to be where the (real) gods, Hroptz megir, are drinking beer (st. 45). It also seems likely, as was just mentioned, that the reason why ǫl in particular is mentioned here is the role of the ‘barley’ in brewing and the fact that ‘Barley’ will be around when beer is drunk. Loki, however, accuses him of being an insignificant, small being, maybe comparing him to a bird of some kind (just as Byggvir called Loki a crow), and of always being close to Freyr, as if he has almost no independent existence (st. 44). In stanza 46 Loki accuses him of not knowing how to share food among men — again, probably, a reference to his connection with grain — which is seen by Dumézil to refer to similar accusations in the poem against Óðinn and Týr, who are accused of not being able to give victory to the right ones, and not to be able to bring reconciliation, respectively. Finally Byggvir, like the rest of the gods, is accused of cowardice10 because he cannot be found when men are going to fight. Beyla says in stanza 55 that she believes Þórr is approaching, but Loki apparently does not care and scorns her instead: 56. Þegi þú, Beyla! Þú ert Byggvis qvæn, oc meini blandin miǫc; ókynian meira koma með ása sonom, ǫll ertu deigia, dritin.’ (‘Be silent, Beyla, you’re Byggvir’s wife and much imbued with malice; a worse female was never among the Æsir’s children, you shitty serving-wench.’) (p. 94)

Apart from telling us that Beyla is Byggvir’s wife, we are told here that she is mixed up with ‘malice’. Again the word mein (n.) must not necessarily be translated with ‘malice’. Among other things it may mean ‘injury’, ‘accident’, or ‘loss’ (see Finnur Jónsson 1931: 400–01), but there can be no doubt that it has strongly negative connotations, and it could thus indicate that Beyla can cause bad things to happen. She is further said to be a filthy servant girl, perhaps a milkmaid. As to the etymology of the name, this is far from certain. It has been 10 

Dumézil finds that it is only on the surface that this sentence of Loki’s is about cowardice: behind it lies the notion of barley which is not in the straw on the benches. Perhaps, but it is hard to escape the notion of cowardice in Loki’s words.

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proposed that it is connected to baula (cow), hence ‘milkmaid’, or (as a diminutive) to bý (bee) (see also below).11 As can be seen, it is difficult to interpret these two mythological figures from their narrative roles, and the only thing that seems pretty certain is that they are both connected to fertility of some kind. They are closely related to Freyr and they are (at least Byggvir is) certainly connected to the grain, especially barley which is used for beer brewing. Cult There is no indication that Byggvir and Beyla were ever worshiped in any rituals. No archaeological or toponymic material can be connected to the two deities. Scholarship Considering how little source material we have for these two deities, who are mostly analysed together, they have been treated rather extensively, mostly concerning the elements that they personify, which has usually been seen as having ‘something to do’ with fertility. This is quite in accordance with the etymologies of their names and the fact that they are so closely bound up with the ‘fertility’ god Freyr (è42).12 One theme which has played a considerable role in the older research on Byggvir is the identification with the Estonian god Peko or Pekko. Thus, this identification was proposed already by Magnus Olsen in the early part of the twentieth century (Olsen 1915). The Estonian name would be an old loan from proto-Scandinavian *beggwa, later developing into bygg. This Peko is certainly a kind of ‘grain god’ and was worshipped as such in several Estonian rituals. The identification which soon came to involve other gods (such as Pellonpekko among the Karelians and the Scandinavian Fjǫlnir (cf. von Unverth 1917) was accepted by many, but also strongly criticized.13 Magnus Olsen also thought that Byggvir and Beyla should be seen as representatives of the two main 11  Other etymological attempts are mentioned in, among other works, Dumézil (1973c: 98–101) and de Vries (1962a: 34). 12  For overviews of the research history, see de Vries (1956–57a: ii, 204–06) and Dumézil (1973c). 13  Kaarle Krohn (1923–24), for instance, argued that Pekko/a was actually a diminutive of Pietari, to be identified with saint Peter, although in a rather pagan form where he is closely related to agriculture (cf. Dumézil 1973c: 112–15).

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Figure 54.1. A pair of drinking horns with bronze mountings from SöderbyKarl in Uppland (SHM 24298:120567). Analysis of a preserved pair of drinking horns has shown that they were used for beer and mead respectively. Since Byggvir and Beyla in one interpretation are also connected to beer and mead, they could be regarded as personifications of the recurring pairs of drinking horns. Photo: Ulrik Skans, Statens Historiska Museum, Stockholm. 

domains of the household of the old Scandinavians — namely the working of the fields and the cows, respectively — accepting the etymology that connects Beyla with baula (cow). The importance of the fact that the two gods constitute a pair is also noticed in an article by Georges Dumézil (1952; English translation 1973c: 89–117). Dumézil, however, did not accept the etymological connection between Beyla and ‘cows’. Instead, he proposed another etymology, relating Beyla to bý (bee).14 The natural interpretation, then, would be that these two deities are connected to ‘barley’ and ‘honey’ the main ingredients in the two main types of festive, and ritual drink, namely beer and mead, respectively. This, according to Dumézil also explains the wording of st. 56, saying that Beyla is mixed up with ‘malice’, because malice is also part of the drunkenness that comes from drinking alcohol. In his conclusion (1973c: 116) Dumézil argues that the two gods should probably be seen as ‘artificial personifications’ with no deep roots in the pagan religion. Concluding Remarks Byggvir and Beyla are good examples of mythological figures in PCRN who are only mentioned in a few — in this case a single — source, and apparently only have a kind of significance in this source. Etymology seems to indicate that they both had something to do with agriculture, and perhaps fertility, but since we 14 

This has been criticized by de Vries (1956–57a: ii, 204).

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have no direct links to any sort of cult, it is hard to argue with any certainty. It could be that they are merely personifications of some part of the agricultural cycle, a kind of ‘gods’ that we also know from, for instance, Roman religion. If so it should be expected, however, that they would have had some cultic significance during the relevant parts of this cycle, as should also be expected with a host of other deities, who are not mentioned in any source, but may well have played a role in the ‘popular’ agricultural religion, as we also see it in much later folklore (Olrik and Ellekilde 1926–51).

Forseti Introduction In Scandinavian mythology, Forseti is an obscure figure associated with legal judgements, said to be Baldr’s son. He is probably related to the Frisian deity Fosite, who according to written sources gave his name to an island called Fositesland.15 Sources Forseti appears in the eddic poem Grímnismál and in Gylfaginning and Skáldskaparmál, and his name is listed in one of the þulur for æsir appended to some manu­scripts of Skáldskaparmál (p. 114). Three medi­eval Latin sources mention Fosite and/or the island Fositesland. Myths In Grímnismál st. 15, Óðinn continues his vision of the dwellings of the god. Glitnir er inn tíundi, hann er gulli studdr oc silfri þakþr iþ sama, en þar Forseti byggir flestan dag ok svæfir allar sakir.

15 

The three Latin sources give three forms of the name: Fosite, Fosete, Foseti. The variation is probably not significant (Tveitane 1995).

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(Glitnir is the tenth, it has golden buttresses, and likewise is roofed with silver; and there Forseti lives most days and puts to sleep all quarrels.) (p. 50)

In Gylfaginning, Snorri quotes the verse after presenting Forseti as the final entry, before Loki, in the catalogue of æsir. Forseti heitir sonr Baldrs ok Nǫnnu Nepsdóttur. Hann á þann sal á himni er Glitnir heitir, en allir er til hans koma með sakarvandræði, þá fara allir sáttir á braut. Sá er dómstaðr beztr með guðum ok mǫnnum (p. 26). (Forseti is the name of the son of Baldr and Nanna Nep’s daughter. He has a hall in heaven called Glitnir, and whoever comes to him with difficult legal disputes, they all leave with their differences settled. It is the best place of judgment among gods and men.) (p. 26)

This statement is all we have to go on, since we never see Forseti exercising his judgement. He is listed eleventh of the twelve æsir sitting in high seats as judges (dómendr) when Ægir comes to a feast at Ásgarðr in the opening para­graph of Skáldskaparmál. Cult Both Alcuin’s Vita Willibrordi (c. 790) and Altfrid’s Vita Liudgari (mid-ninth century) mention the cult site at Fositesland, said to be named for the god Fosite in the territory of the Frisians and Danes. Adam of Bremen identifies Fositesland as Heligoland. The placename Fosslund or Forsetlund in Onsøy, Østfold, Norway, may contain the name of the deity. Scholarship Anne Holtsmark (1964b) constructed a neat hypothesis linking the Frisian and Nordic evidence. Fosslund/Forsetlund would be evidence of a Frisian trading post in the Oslofjord in the seventh or eight century. The Frisian deity would then have been borrowed by the Norwegians, and the name reformatted into the more or less transparent form Forseti (compare German Vorsitzer ‘governor, chairman’, modern Icelandic forseti ‘president’). If some Oslofjord placenames suggest that Grímnismál was composed in that area (Steinnes 1949–51), the location of the one possible theophoric placename would be explained; and if Baldr was popular in the area, Forseti’s paternity might be explained.

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Concluding Remarks Neat as the hypothesis linking the Frisian god to the Oslofjord area, there is room for doubt (cf. Siebs 1909). Forseti’s connection with judgement is unexplained, and if Grímnismál was not a product of the Oslofjord area, it is unclear how a Frisian god supposedly transplanted into a single discrete location in Norway should have the staying power to turn up in medi­eval Icelandic sources.

Fulla/Volla Introduction In Scandinavian mythology, Fulla is one of the ásynjur. She is presented as Frigg’s servant, and she has an association with gold. In south German tradition, as Volla, she may have been associated with healing. The name clearly means ‘fullness’, suggesting that Fulla/Volla had a connection with fertility. Sources Fulla is found in skaldic kennings, in Grímnismál, and in both Skáldskaparmál and Gylfaginning in Snorri’s Edda. Volla, her probable German counterpart, is found in the Second Merseburg Charm. If that charm is related to traditions of Baldr’s death, the scene of the curing of the sprained horse’s leg may be found on certain bracteates. Myths In the prose header to Grímnismál, Frigg sends Fulla, her eskimær (female servant), to warn King Geirrøðr, falsely, that a man versed in magic will visit at whom no dog will bark (Óðinn in disguise). In Gylfaginning, Snorri clarifies the notion of eskimær, and he provides additional details. The context is the list of ásynjur that Hár is providing to Gylfi/Gangleri. Fimmta er Fulla. Hon er enn mær ok ferr laushár ok gullband um hǫfuð. Hon berr eski Friggjar ok gætir skóklæða hennar ok veit launráð með henni. (p. 29) (Fifth is Fulla. She too is a virgin and goes around with hair flowing free and has a gold band around her head. She carries Frigg’s casket and looks after her footwear and shares her secrets. (p. 29)

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Snorri probably has the information about the headband from a verse, which he cites in Skáldskaparmál, lausavísa 9 by Eyvindr Finnson skáldaspillir, containing the following kenning for ‘gold’:16 ‘Fallsól vallar bráa Fullu’ (The setting sun of the plain of the brows of Fulla [forehead > gold]) (p. 228). Snorri repeats this notion when he numbers ‘hǫfuðband Fullu’ (headband of Fulla) among the gold kennings. We do not know why Fulla’s headband should be gold, but high-status women did wear such things. Presumably the information about footware has to do with what a woman might have stored in her casket; sharing Frigg’s secrets could certainly have to do with the false message conveyed to King Geirrøðr. Fulla is also found as the base word in a few woman-kennings. In the full story of the death of Baldr in Gylfaginning, Baldr sends three precious gifts back from Hel with Hermóðr, Frigg’s emissary whose aim was to retrieve Baldr from the world of the dead. To Óðinn he sends the ring Draupnir, burned with him on the pyre, to his wife Nanna a headdress, and to Fulla a gold ring. Cult The Old High German Second Merseburg Charm, named for the place where it was found but probably written down in Fulda, Hessen, Germany, is a charm for healing sprains. The manu­script is from the tenth century; the age and dating of the text cannot be known with certainty. Before the incantation proper it has a historiola mentioning several of the Germanic gods. Phol ende uuodan uuorun zi holza. du uuart demo balderes uolon sin uuoz birenkit. thu biguol en sinthgunt, sunna era suister; thu biguol en friia, uolla era suister; thu biguol en uuodan, so he uuola conda. Sose benrenki, sose bluotrenki, sose lidirenki: ben zi bena, bluot zi bluoda, lid zi geliden, sose gelimida sin. (p. 89) (Phol and Wodan were in the forest; Then Balder’s horse wrenched its foot; Then Sinthgunt sang charms, Sunna her sister; Then Friia sang charms, Volla her sister; then Wodan sang charms, as he well could.

16 

The stanza is also found in Hákonar saga gráfeldar in Heimskringla ch. 2.

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Be it bone-sprain, be it blood-sprain, be it limb-sprain: bone to bone, blood to blood, limb to limb, so be they glued together.)

The text offers numerous difficulties. The form Phol (l. 1) is uncertain, and scholars have disagreed whether balder in line 2 refers to the god or a noun for ‘lord’. Fortunately the remainder is clear. Sunna is probably ‘Sun’. Friia is directly cognate with the Old Norse-Icelandic Frigg, and of course Wodan is directly cognate with Óðinn. Volla is equivalent to Fulla, and as in the Old Norse tradition, she has a relationship with Frigg, here her sister rather than servant (è51). Scholarship Genzmer (1948) argued that Phol and Volla constituted a male and female pair of gods, comparable to Freyr and Freyja; this would of course put them among the vanir, given the connection of Volla’s name with fertility (also de Vries 1956–57a: ii, 170–71; Ström 1975: 70). Indeed, a transparent name like ‘fullness’ would be rather like Freyja, ‘lady’. In his vast scholarship on the bracteates, Karl Hauck advanced the idea that the so-called C-bracteates, with a human image and a horse, might depict the healing scene implied by the Second Merseburg Charm. It would, however, be impossible to identify Volla. Concluding Remarks The distribution of the name in both Nordic and German shows that Fulla/ Volla probably was a more important deity than can now be recovered. The connection with fertility implied by her name, and the demonstrable connection with Frigg, draws Frigg into the realm of fertility.

Gefjun Introduction Gefjun is mainly known from one single myth, but she is mentioned quite often in both prose and poetic sources. The etymology of the name has been the object of considerable discussion (de Vries 1962a: 160), but in all likelihood it should be related to the verb gefa (to give). Attempts have been made to connect her with cultic activities through placenames (Olrik 1910), but the

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evidence is far from certain. Therefore, we cannot be sure whether she was actually celebrated in ritual. It appears from the one myth we know that she had a special affiliation with the Danish realm, since she is said to have been married to the legendary founder of the Danish dynasty of the Skjǫldungar, Skjǫldr, a son of Óðinn (Ynglinga saga ch. 5). Sources Sources in which Gefjun is mentioned include a skaldic stanza by Bragi inn gamli Boddason, Fragments st. 1 in the latest edition,17 telling that Gefiun drew out land from the realm of Gylfi. In Gylfaginning (p. 7) and, as just mentioned, in Ynglinga saga ch.  5 this same story is related, although with many more details, which may or may not be due to Snorri’s own imagination.18 As will be argued below it seems quite likely, however, that Snorri actually knew a tradition which contained most of these details. Later in Gylfaginning (p. 29), in Snorri’s enumeration of the goddesses, Gefjun is mentioned as the fourth and characterized as a virgin (mær). Those who die as virgins will serve or attend her (þjóna). This connection to virginity could also be hinted at in one of the stanzas of Vǫlsa þáttr (è31); here the daughter of the farmer who is portrayed as a rather virtuous maid, being disgusted at the phallus which is apparently sacrificed to every evening, swears to Gefjun that she does not want to touch it. Gefjun is also mentioned as one of the ásynjur in Skáldskaparmál (p. 40), in one of the þulur (Skáldskaparmál p. 114), and in some other lists of goddesses which do not add anything to the picture outlined in the sources already mentioned. This could indicate that she is rather firmly established as one of the goddesses. Finally, Gefjun is also part of the gathering at Ægir’s party, related in Lokasenna. As she tries to calm the hostility between Loki and the other gods, Loki answers by accusing her (as is the case with all the other goddesses) that she is promiscuous.19 He says (st. 20): 17 

In Den norsk-islandske skjaldedigtning, Finnur Jónsson assigned the stanza to Ragnarsdrápa. The stanza is transmitted in Gylfaginning (p. 7) and Ynglinga saga ch. 5 as evidence for the story told there — almost the same in both sources, although with a few additions in Ynglinga saga. 18  Lindow (2002a: 136) argues that the Gefjun story was not part of Snorri’s original version of Gylfaginning. 19  This is probably also implied in Gylfaginning (p. 7) but not in Ynglinga saga, where it is said that Gylfi gave her ‘at launum skemtunar sinnar eitt plógsland í ríki sínu þat er fjórir øxn drœgi upp dag ok nótt’ (as a reward for his entertainment, one plough-land in his kingdom, as

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Þegi þú, Gefion þess mun ec nú geta er þic glapþi at geði: sveinn inn hvíti, er þér sigli gaf oc þú lagðir lær yfir. (Be silent, Gefion, I’m going to mention this, how your spirit was seduced; the white boy gave you a jewel and you laid your thigh over him.) (p. 84)

In the following stanza Óðinn warns Loki that he should not offend Gefjun because she knows all about men’s fate; in other words she is characterized as a possessor of numinous knowledge. Gefjun is also mentioned in some late texts translated from Latin into Old Norse, and she participates in the kenning system as a base word for women, among other in Haustlǫng st. 20 where Gróa is called ‘ǫl-Gefjun’ (Gefjun of the ale), but there are no sources adding anything to what has been stated above. Whether Gefjun existed outside the Nordic area is uncertain, but it has been suggested that there are parallels to the ploughing myth in sources from the British Isles (Lukman 1981: 229; Clunies Ross 1978: 163). Myths The only myth in which Gefjun plays an important role is the one enumerated by Bragi inn gamli Boddason, Fragments st. 1, and in Gylfaginning and Ynglinga saga, as mentioned above. The three sources do not tell exactly the same story, but the two works of Snorri are as mentioned very similar. Bragi’s stanza says: Gefjun dró frá Gylfa glǫð djúprǫðul óðla svát af rennirauknum rauk, Danmarkar auka. Bǫ́ru øxn ok átta ennitungl, þars gingu fyr vineyjar víðri valrauf, fjǫgur haufuð.

much as four oxen could plough up in a day and a night) (p. 7). Of course we cannot be certain what is meant by skemtun, but it is likely that a kind of sexual ‘entertainment’ is involved, which could imply some sort of prostitution (Clunies Ross 1978: 159; Lindow 2002a: 135).

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(Gefjun drew from Gylfi, glad, a deep disk of inherited land [island = Sjælland], Denmark’s addition [= Sjælland], so that steam rose from the swift-moving draught animals. The oxen bore eight forehead-moons [eyes] and four heads, where they went before the wide plunder-rift of the meadow-island [= Sjælland].) (p. 54)

The stanza is quite complicated, and therefore also the translation. Never­the­ less, there can be no doubt that Gefjun draw some land from Gylfi, to add to Denmark, and that this was done with the help of four oxen (see also Holtsmark 1944). This means that many of the details mentioned by Snorri are not related here, but however there is nothing in the stanza that opposes Snorri’s version(s). In Gylfaginning we are told that Gylfi is thankful for some ‘entertainment’ (see n. 12 above) that Gefjun has offered him, and therefore offers her as much land as she can plough with four oxen in one day and one night. Then we learn that she was of the family of the æsir, and that she took four oxen from Giant land (‘ór Jǫtunheimum’) who were the sons of herself and a giant. She ploughed so hard that it took the land out into the sea in the west and let it remain in a sound (Øresund). There it remained, and Gefjun gave it the name Sjælland (Selund). Snorri adds that where the land was there is now a lake, called Lǫgrinn (the Mälar), and that the inlets in the lake correspond to the headlands of Sjælland. In Ynglinga saga we get a few more details. Here we learn that when Óðinn came to Óðinsey (Odense) at Fyn, he sent Gefjun northward to Gylfi who offered her a ‘plough land’ (here there is nothing about any ‘entertainment’). Then she went to giant land and got four sons with a giant. She changed them into oxen, and they ploughed the land out of Sweden into the sea, west towards Óðinsey, and called it Sjælland. Then Snorri adds that she came to live there in Lejre and married Skjǫldr, who was a son of Óðinn. Finally, we get also here the information about Lǫgrinn (simply meaning ‘the lake’). The myth here is obviously aetiological, explaining the position of Sjælland as a part of Denmark. It is probably also important that Gefjun becomes a ‘foremother’ of the Danish kings of the Skjǫldungar dynasty. Thus, it makes good sense to argue that Gefjun was particularly connected to Denmark. The myth also points in the direction of fertility, since the ploughing could be an indication that Gefjun was also connected to this part of the agricultural work (Olrik 1910). It is tempting also to connect her to Freyja, since Gefjun could well be related to one of Freyja’s bynames, Gefn (è45), and further to the name of one the matronae, Gabiae (è57), all meaning ‘the giving’, and thus clearly putting them within the semantic field of fertility. Gefjun, therefore, may be seen as a Danish version of Freyja, and this argument is also strengthened by the sexual

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promiscuity which is so clearly evidenced by Freyja, and which seems to be also the case with Gefjun, who has sons with a giant in the form of oxen. This could perhaps be related to another fertility goddess, Nerthus (Germania ch. 40), whose wagon is drawn by cows and who is certainly ‘related to Freyja’ and the vanir in some more or less direct way (è40). The stanza from Lokasenna may also be an indication of such promiscuity, although in that poem all the goddesses are accused of that sort of promiscuity. We do not know who ‘the white boy’ is (Heimdallr or Loki himself perhaps), but it probably relates to some lost myth. Nevertheless, we are told that ‘the white boy’ gave her a jewel, reminding us of Freyja’s sexual relations with the dwarfs who made the Brísingamen20 and further to the story related by Saxo (1.7.1) about Frigg, who has sex with a servant in order to get jewellery. All three incidents seem to be part of the same mythic core: the three goddesses, who are all wise, seem to have participated in a myth in which they offer sex in return for a jewel. And although Frigg is not usually portrayed as especially promiscuous, we certainly have myths that refer to such matters. Apart from Saxo we see it in Ynglinga saga ch. 3, mentioning Frigg’s sexual relations to Óðinn’s brothers (è51). So whether or not we can speak about a real identity, which is certainly not what the Icelandic authors believed, it is hard to escape the idea of a myth containing a motif with a wise fertility goddess who once gave sex for a jewel, and that this goddess could be called Gefjun. This, however, seems to contrast with the information given by Snorri that she was a virgin, and that women who died as virgins would go to her. But again we can see an association with Freyja. She is connected to an abode of the dead, Fólkvangr, and apparently some women can expect to join Freyja when they die (Egils saga ch. 78). What the virginity is about is more difficult to interpret, since the information given by Snorri about the giant sons seems to be in direct contrast to any sort of virginity. We shall not make an attempt here to solve this problem,21 but it appears that excessive sexuality and virginity are in some way contrasted and thematized. 20  According to Húsdrápa st. 2 some fight about a jewel once took place between Loki and Heimdallr, and according to Snorri (Skáldskaparmál p. 19) this is exactly Brísingamen. Perhaps this could indicate that Heimdallr brought the jewel to her and had sex in return; according to Snorri he is also called ‘hvíti Ass’ (the white as) (Gylfaginning p. 25) (è50). 21  Anne Holtsmark (1964b) suggested that Snorri in his view on Gefjun was influenced by the Roman Diana, of whom Gefjun in some translated works is an interpretatio Germanica. Diana, too, has this ‘double nature’. It is not possible, however, to judge with any certainty whether these and other characteristics, such as wisdom and foresight, which we see in both goddesses, are due to ‘loans’ or to a sort of common heritage.

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Cult Because Gefjun is a goddess strongly related to sexuality, and probably also fertility, since her ploughing is an important part of the main myth about her (at least among those preserved), it should be assumed that she was part of some fertility cult. As partner of the first Danish king, we might also expect that she had a role in some royal rituals, perhaps as a symbolization of the land itself and thus as part in a hieros gamos. However, information about any cultic activity with Gefjun as a central figure is lacking. It has been proposed that a few placenames on Sjælland should refer to the goddess (Gentofte