Treasury of Norse Mythology (National Geographic)

SHAPE-SHIFTERS

S hape-shifters abounded. People were convinced that the visions of beasts and
monsters that came to them in dreams were their departed loved ones. And even in
ordinary life, you could never be sure who that particularly large bear spying on you
might be, or that seal you were dueling with, or even that terribly annoying fly that bit you as
you worked at the forge.

The very nature of shape-shifting is deception; thus, it’s no surprise that Loki, that
disgrace of all beings, had perfected the art of shape-shifting. And sometimes he used it to
the advantage of the Aesir. This may well be why some of the gods, especially Thor, enjoyed
his company.

In the battle between the Aesir and the Vanir, the stone wall around Asgard was reduced
to rubble. The gods wanted it rebuilt, but the task was onerous and no one stepped forward
to do it.

No one, that is, until the mason came. He rode into town alone on a fine stallion, and the
god Heimdall, who guarded the entrance to this world, stopped him. “What do you want?”

“I have a proposal for the gods,” said the mason.
So the gods and goddesses gathered in the hall Gladsheim and Odin said, “Well?”
“I’ll rebuild your wall,” said the mason. “Stronger and higher than before. No one will be
able to breach it. Not even the strongest, tallest frost giants. And I’ll do it in just eighteen
months.” He paused.

A Sacred Transport

Picture stone of Sleipnir, from Gotland, Sweden, ninth century

In Norse culture, particularly in Iceland, horses were seen as having a dual nature: They were
domesticated animals used for riding and carrying burdens, but they also were seen as a typical
transport to the underworld in Norse mythology—a bridge between the world of the living and the
world of the dead. Thus, they were sacred, and sometimes they were buried with their owners at
funerals. This stone carving shows Sleipnir, the eight-legged horse Odin rode.

Odin recognized the significance of that pause. “Under the condition …?”
“… that Freyja becomes my wife.”
Freyja felt a bolt shoot through her. The wife of a human? Never! She was so furious, her
private hall Sessrumnir shook.
Shouts of derision came from every direction.
Odin pointed past the mason. “Get out of here!”
“I want the sun and the moon, as well,” said the mason. “The three of them: Freyja, the
sun, the moon. That’s all. That’ll do.”
Pandemonium broke out.
But a sharp, loud voice pierced all. “Wait a minute.” It was Loki. “Let’s think it over, at
least.”
So the mason left, while the gods remained there to hash it out. Freyja wept tears of gold,
for that was her habit. Others scorned Loki.
“It’s impossible to build a wall that size in eighteen months,” said Heimdall.
“My point precisely,” said Loki. “Let’s agree to his terms. At the end of eighteen months,
he’ll have failed to meet his promise. We’ll owe him nothing. And we’ll have whatever part
of the wall he’s managed to complete. We win, no matter what.”
No one liked the idea, but no one could fault Loki’s logic.

The mason and his horse were given six months to rebuild the wall that surrounded Asgard. That was far too

little time for the enormous job. But the lovesick mason accepted the challenge.

Odin summoned the mason back. “Six months. That’s all you get. Build the wall and you
get Freyja, the sun, and the moon.”

“That’s too short,” said the mason.
“Those are the terms. If it’s not complete in six months, you forfeit all.”
The mason looked at Freyja googly-eyed. He was drunk on her beauty. “Allow me the aid
of my stallion, Svadilfari, and we have a deal.”
Odin objected. But Loki’s voice again rose high. “Would you turn away from the deal at
this point? The horse is small help—and we need a wall.”
So the gods agreed and the mason assumed the task. He spread out a net and heaved
stones onto it, slabs of enormous weight. Why, this mason’s strength rivaled that of Thor,
the strongest of the gods. Then the mason harnessed this massive load to his stallion and
bellowed. The horse thrust forward with all his might, stamping his hoofs into the rocky
earth. He proved stronger even than his master. The two of them worked all night. At dawn,
the gods and goddesses were astonished to see so many stones already hauled to the wall
site. As the days and weeks and months passed, they watched the wall grow.
It was thicker, taller, better than ever.
And it was nearly finished. The mason and his stallion were a marvel, and a terror. What
would the Aesir do if this builder succeeded? How could they exist without the light and heat
of the sun, the comfort of the moon? And poor Freyja, wed to a brute? She stood in a rising
puddle of gold tears and chewed at her wrists. It was all too awful.
Odin called a meeting. Everyone railed at Loki.
But Loki had the solution, of course. He’d make sure the mason didn’t finish. One way or
another.
To Loki it was clear that the stallion was the answer. Without that horse, the mason could
carry at most one boulder up the hillside at a time.
That evening, as the mason led Svadilfari back down to the quarry, a mare stepped
forward from the thicket beside the path. Her neck was long and sleek, her mane seemed to
float around her, her tail was a stream of stars. She kicked up her heels. Her flanks
shimmered.

The stallion simmered.
Off they galloped, him behind her. The mason called after his horse. He shouted till his
throat was raw. He cursed.
Svadilfari didn’t give a backward glance.
In the morning, when the stallion finally returned, the mason realized that one lost night
of work had cost him the whole deal. Anger smoldered within until it burst forth and the
mason changed into who he really was—a huge rock giant. The gods and goddesses now lost
their tempers; no one could come before them disguised and hope to get away with it,
especially not a giant. It was outrageous! Thor hit the giant in the head with his hammer,
Mjolnir. The giant’s skull shattered, and he immediately found himself in Niflheim. Several
months later, Loki, who hadn’t been seen in all that time, returned to Asgard. With a colt at
his heels, a colt who had eight legs. Loki had been that alluring mare, and with Svadilfari, he
had made the magnificent colt Sleipnir. So Loki was actually the colt’s mother.
Odin was smitten with the colt immediately. And what was Loki going to do with a colt,
after all? He’d been a dreadful father, and he certainly had no desire to be a mother. So Loki
gave Sleipnir to Odin.

Loki shape-shifted into a beautiful mare and lured the mason’s stallion away so that the mason would not be
able to finish the wall in the allotted time. The mason, who was really a rock giant, burst with anger.

Heimdall, with his horn, Gjallarhorn, rode his golden-maned horse through the countryside of Midgard. He
fathered three sons, each one the progenitor of a whole group of people: the slaves, the peasants, and the
rich and royal.

HEIMDALL’S MANY CHILDREN

Remember Heimdall? The mason who came to barter his services in rebuilding the
wall around Asgard had to pass by Heimdall before he could talk with the council of
the gods. That’s because Heimdall guarded entry into the Aesir world. He lived on
the cliff Himinbjorg at one end of the flaming rainbow bridge, Bifrost, and he always stayed
alert for invaders. Heimdall was a perfect pick as guard for three reasons. His eyesight was
so keen he could see across vast distances whether day or night. His hearing was so acute
that he could hear grass grow. And he needed even less sleep than a bird.

Heimdall was Odin’s son, and his mothers—yes, mothers, for he had nine of them—were
giantess sisters, as inseparable as sea waves. How this god came into being is a mystery, but
there’s no question that he was a most astonishing figure. Odin had teeth that could gnaw
through stone, true, but Heimdall’s teeth were pure gold. Frey rode the golden-bristled boar,
Gullinbursti, true, but Heimdall’s horse, Gulltopp, had a gold mane. Thor was huge and red-
bearded, true, but Heimdall’s skin shone white, like the noon sun.

Heimdall owned the horn Gjallarhorn, which he used for both drinking and sounding. He
dipped Gjallarhorn into the well Mimisbrunn, which Mimir guarded, and thus drank
himself into wisdom. But he also blew Gjallarhorn to summon gods to a meeting or to warn
them of the approach of enemies. It would be Heimdall’s job to blow Gjallarhorn to
announce the battle of Ragnarok. In that battle, he was fated to fight Loki to the death—both
their deaths.

So Heimdall was important to the gods. But he was even more important to other
creatures.

One spring day, Heimdall strode across Bifrost all the way to the edge of the deepest sea
that surrounded Midgard. He found a rickety hut there and gave the door a firm knock. The
door swung open to reveal a smoky, stinky room. An old couple peered squinty-eyed at
Heimdall and then welcomed him warily. They were Ai the Great Grandpa and Edda the
Great Grandma. Their clothes were threadbare, their walls crumbly. Now, Heimdall was
accomplished in the ways of the world and he knew how to put others at ease. He spoke with
the old couple as though he’d been friends with them all his life, and before long they urged
him to sit closer to the fire, to warm his hands. In no time at all, they were sharing their
meager broth with him. And soon enough all three went to sleep in the same bed with
Heimdall in the middle.

Slave Trade

Frightful Viking ship prow

Heimdall walks across the land visiting people, but the Vikings mostly traveled to other lands in boats,
often with frightening prows. Sometimes they stole people, often children and women. They took
slaves when they plundered towns and monasteries for gold and silver and they snatched slaves at
random from coasts. Scientists have found that around 20 to 25 percent of the males who founded
Iceland were of Gaelic ancestry. This tells us that many Vikings raided Ireland and Scotland for wives.

Heimdall stayed with Ai and Edda three nights, and then he continued on his travels. But
he had left behind something; deep inside Edda was a tiny baby boy, Heimdall’s son. When
he was born nine months later, his mother called him Thraell the Servant.

Thraell was not the most handsome fellow around; in fact, he had a goonish look, with a
misshapen back and lumpy, clumpy hands. Anyone who watched him, though, soon
appreciated him, for he was strong and hard-working. One day the girl Thir the Drudge
came along. From the sound of her name alone, you might guess she wasn’t pretty, and
you’d be right. Her face was pushed in flat, her teeth were stained brown, and her legs were
bowed like matching crescent moons. Thraell instantly fell in love with her. They had many
ugly sons to whom they gave yucky names, like Kleggi the Horsefly and Fulnir the Stinker.
And they had many equally ugly daughters to whom they gave equally yucky names, like
Kumba the Stupid and Okkvainkalfa of the Fat Legs. But names and looks aside, these were
good people. They worked the land and took care of the animals. From them came the
people known as thralls—the people who worked as slaves or servants for all others.

Meanwhile, Heimdall had gone on his way and stopped at a farm. He swung his huge fist
against the farmhouse door and then entered. An old couple sat by a fire. They were Afi the
Grandpa and Amma the Grandma. On Afi’s lap was a piece of wood he was carving into a
weaver’s beam. Beside Amma was a distaff of flax, from which she spun thread. Their walls
were in good repair; their clothes and hair were clean and trim. The old people welcomed

Heimdall drily and kept about their work. You know Heimdall, though—he talked about this
and that in the most familiar way and soon he was the one sitting closest to the fire and he
was the one getting the thickest chunk of rye bread with the biggest glob of butter on it for
dinner. After the meal all three went to bed together, with Heimdall in the middle.

Heimdall visited a poor family, and had a son with the woman Edda. The boy’s name was Thraell, and he loved
to take care of the animals and plow the fields. His progeny became the servants who worked for other
people.

Heimdall visited another family and had a son with the woman Amma. The boy’s name was Karl, and he was

good at building huts and barns. His progeny became the free peasants, who did whatever work the servants

and slaves didn’t do.

Heimdall stayed three nights and three days and then continued his journey. Again, he
left behind something: another tiny son, deep inside Amma. When the red-faced babe was
born, Amma named him Karl the Free Man. He was stronger than others, and learned skills
quickly. He dug the most durable foundations for buildings, erected sturdy huts and barns,
and laid thick turfed roofs at just the right pitch. He plowed the land with the help of oxen
that he goaded expertly.

When Karl reached manhood, his parents found him a wife called Snor. Keys and little
tools, like an awl and a scoop for ear wax, jangled from her waist. Snor used them diligently.
She and Karl suited each other, and soon they had a passel of children who were just as neat
and diligent as they were and had names to reflect it: One son was Dreng the Strong,
another was Smid the Craftsman; one daughter was Brud the Bride, another was Svarri the
Proud. From them came the people known as peasants—the people who were free and did
most of the work that the thralls didn’t do.

Heimdall continued his journey and next met Modir the Mother and Fadir the Father, and
you know what happened next: Nine months later Modir gave birth to Jarl the Earl, who was
the first in a long line of warriors. In this manner Heimdall gave rise to people of all ranks of
society everywhere he went, including the people who became rulers. The kings of Denmark
are descended from the god Heimdall himself.

Yes, indeed, Heimdall was important. Majorly.

Freyja was a Vanir, but she was traded to the Aesir. She loved her Aesir husband, Od. When he disappeared,
she searched the cosmos for him, sometimes flying, sometimes on the back of her boar, and sometimes in her
chariot pulled by two cats.

FREYJA’S SHAME

There was no shortage of beauties among the goddesses, which was good because the
deities of this cosmos cared a great deal about looks. A notable beauty was Thor’s
wife, Sif, the one of the yellow hair that Loki cut off and who now wore an even more
amazing golden wig. But more stunning than Sif by far was the magician Freyja. She had
come to the Aesir as a kind of peace offering after their war with the Vanir, a tenuous
position at best and a lonely one, at least at the start. As fortune had it, she fell in love with
Od, and they had two daughters together, Hnoss and Gersemi. So this new life seemed to be
working out for her.

Od, however, was a wanderer; one day he simply left Freyja alone. Her hands reached out
toward emptiness, her core shook with need. She understood nothing of why he left, where
he went. So she wrapped herself well in her cloak of falcon feathers and followed after him.
Where? Where? Her tears fell copiously, transforming rock to red-gold puddles wherever she
flew.

Life would have been a constant state of mourning if it weren’t for Freyja’s lovely
daughters. They were her treasures. Just gazing at them soothed her. Soon she found all she
wanted to do was gaze at beautiful things. She loved gold, especially. Freyja rode in a chariot
pulled by two cats or she climbed on the back of her boar, Hildisvini, or she flew in her
falcon-feather cloak, always on the lookout for beautiful objects to calm the ache inside that
never fully left her.

The Woes of Beauty

Mural of Xochiquetzal, Palacio Nacional, Mexico City
Like Freyja, the women in mythologies around the world often find that trouble comes with beauty.
The stunning Aztec goddess Xochiquetzal had a twin sister, Xochipilli, who was kidnapped from her
husband and forced to marry another … and another … and another. In various voodoo traditions, the
spirit of love, Erzulie Fréda Dahomey, is stunning, but angry and disappointed. She wants all men to
love her, and that makes her see all women as rivals. The beautiful goddess in a happy marriage is hard
to find.

One night just a little before dawn, Freyja put on her best dress and most elegant
brooches. But she didn’t call for her chariot or summon her boar or fly in her feathered
cloak. Instead, she walked out of Sessrumnir, her hall, and crossed the bridge Bifrost.

Loki happened to be up and about. He jerked to attention as the goddess passed. Where
was she going at that hour? Dressed like that? On foot? Here might be an opportunity for
making trouble; he followed her.

Winter blanketed Midgard with snow and ice. Now frozen tears dropped with a clink from
Freyja’s eyes, turning red-gold the grit under her foot. Daylight was brief, but she reached an
area of boulders and took a path around them down into a cave. Freyja stood still in the dank
air and listened closely. Water dripped from the cave ceiling. A little steam rushed over
rocks. And there, yes, thud. Thud, thud. The muffled blows of a hammer. That’s what she
had come for. That’s what drove her now to move through the cavern down even deeper into
the earth, pulled toward that sound.

Freyja went down into the cave that was the smithy of Alfrigg, Dvalinn, Berling, and Grer. She saw the

stunning gold necklace they were making and she decided she would have it, no matter what.

The air grew hot, so heavy and hot, the goddess was bathed in sweat. In front of her were
four dwarfs pounding away in their smithy—Alfrigg, Dvalinn, Berling, and Grer. They were
working on a gold necklace. As Freyja fixed her eyes on it, the metal twisted and writhed like
her own heart. It called to her. She needed it.

The four dwarfs for their part gaped at this remarkable goddess. Never had they even
dreamed of a vision so alluring.

“Sell me that necklace.” Freyja smiled and her teeth lit up the dank smithy. “Name your
price.”

“It’s called Brisingamen,” said a dwarf. “And it’s not for sale.”
You see, the dwarfs, like Loki, didn’t fail to recognize an opportunity. They held their faces
motionless, their beady eyes unblinking, and they bartered: the necklace in exchange for
Freyja taking each of them as her husband for one night. It was a hateful bargain. But Freyja
had no husband now, and Brisingamen could bring her solace … joy even. With a dead heart,

she made the deal.
Loki waited outside the cave the whole time. Finally Freyja emerged wearing the necklace

Brisingamen. Its brilliance nearly blinded the evil one. Loki instantly realized what had
happened in those four nights. He lost no time going to Odin, the one-eyed Allfather, and
telling all. Odin knew that Loki was a vile liar, of course. Everyone knew that. Still, the words
disturbed him. The gods all noticed Freyja’s beauty, no exceptions—not Odin, not even her
twin brother, Frey. That those abominable dwarfs should have enjoyed her as their wife
made Odin furious with envy. He demanded Loki bring him this dazzling necklace.

Loki shape-shifted into a fly and crept through a hole into Freyja’s room. As she slept, he turned into Loki
again and stole her beautiful necklace.

Loki went to where Freyja slept in Sessrumnir and found the door locked. Well, that was
no problem; he shape-shifted into a fly and flitted around, searching for a hole he could slip
through. But the door fit snuggly, top and bottom, the keyhole admitted only a breath, and
not a single chink was there between wall plaster and turf. Finally, under the roof, at the very
top point of a gable, he found a miniscule hole. He wriggled through.

Freyja slept on her back, the clasp of the necklace under her neck, out of reach. Loki
shape-shifted again, into a flea. He bit her cheek. The goddess groaned and rolled onto her
side. Loki shape-shifted into his own form now and unclasped the necklace. He left through
the door, identifiable to anyone; there was no longer need to dissemble.

When Freyja woke, her hand went to her throat and met nothing but skin—no gold, no
wonderful, fabulous, luxurious gold—gold that had cost her so dearly. It had to be Loki. Who
else? And to be that bold, he must have done it under the protection of Odin.

Freyja went straight to Valaskjalf and confronted Odin, sitting on his high seat. “Where is
my necklace?”

“You’ll never see it again …” Odin waited for Freyja’s gasp. Satisfied, he added, “… unless
you do as I bid.”

His bidding: She was to stir up a war between two human kings in Midgard. And each
time a soldier died, she must use magic to make him rise again and fight once more. The
battle must go on and on and on. Odin’s bidding was hideously bitter; such is the poison of
envy.

Freyja swallowed a lump of shame the size of the cosmos. All this for beauty. Beauty was
turning out to be Freyja’s curse. Her own beauty made men desire her for their wife. Her
love of beauty gave men the power to act on that desire. Woe! But even a priestess was
helpless against such a powerful enemy.

She held out her hand for that necklace.

Thor loved nothing more than killing giants. He rode in his chariot pulled by two goats, holding Mjolnir high,
ever on the lookout for someone to smash. It’s no wonder that the frost giant Thrym stole that hammer.

THOR’S HAMMER

Thor spent most of his time journeying in his chariot, pulled by his two goats,
Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjost, in search of giants to kill. Though he had strength
beyond all others, he still relied on three treasures in this quest. One was his belt,
Megingjord; it doubled his strength. One was his iron gloves, Jarngreip; when he wore them,
he could grip his hammer properly and swing it with effect. And the third was, of course,
that hammer, the one that the brother dwarfs Brokk and Sindri had crafted for him: Mjolnir.

One day Thor couldn’t find Mjolnir. This was the worst disaster he could imagine: Not
only could he not hunt giants without his hammer, he was also vulnerable to whoever had it,
as were all the gods. He turned to Loki for help. After all, if you needed a helper who
wouldn’t be inhibited by scruples, Loki was your man. Besides, Thor actually liked Loki;
things were exciting when Loki was around. Together they visited Freyja in Folkvang and
asked to borrow her falcon-feather cloak, which she lent willingly, for getting back the
hammer was of utmost importance.

Loki flew to the land of the frost giants, directly to their king, Thrym. It was a good guess,
for when Loki asked if Thrym had stolen Mjolnir, the massive giant lifted an eyebrow. “The
hammer lies eight leagues under the earth. If you want it, bring me Freyja as my bride.”

Loki returned to Thor with the news, and, without a thought to Freyja’s welfare, both of
them visited the goddess once more and told her to put on a bridal veil, for she was to be
wed to Thrym.

Freyja had had her fill of such idiotic demands. “Get out!” she shouted. Her anger made
the wonderful necklace Brisingamen burst apart, its jewels scattering across the floor. The
walls of her hall, Sessrumnir, rolled like a drum skin.

There was nothing to be done except call together the gods and goddesses to Gladsheim to
see if anyone could come up with a less idiotic plan. Heimdall did. “Let’s put a bridal veil on
Thor.”

Everyone guffawed. “We can repair the necklace Brisingamen and Thor can wear it, just as
Freyja would.” Now the deities howled with laughter. “He can put on a flattering dress with
finely crafted silver brooches.” Heimdall touched his torso exactly where the brooches would
go. “A tangle of keys and tools must hang from his waist …” Heimdall pretended to jangle
those keys, “… just as would hang from the waist of any good woman looking to become a
good wife.” By now a hush had fallen over the hall. Heimdall’s plan seemed better with each
detail. “And a kerchief over his curly tresses. That should do it.”

Powerful Number

Celtic number nine
Nine comes up repeatedly in Norse tales. There are nine worlds; Odin hangs nine days from Yggdrasil
and learns nine magical songs; it takes nine days to travel from Midgard to Hel; Heimdall has nine
mothers; and Thrym awaits his bride on the ninth night. Nine appears often in tales around the world.
Perhaps because human gestation takes nine months? After all, nine is three times three, and a family
often begins with one father, one mother, and one baby.

Thor looked around at all the nodding heads and recoiled. “Do you mean to shame me,
making me dress as a woman?”

“Don’t be a fool,” said Loki. “If Thrym keeps your hammer, giants will rule Asgard. Put on
your disguise. I’ll travel with you, as your handmaiden, and we’ll get back Mjolnir.”

So the gods sent word to Thrym that nine nights hence, he’d have his bride.
Thor, dressed as that bride, rode with Loki, dressed as a handmaiden, in the goat-drawn
chariot all the way to Jotunheim.
No one said frost giants were particularly smart, but Thrym might have been among the
dimmer ones, for he believed Freyja was actually on her way to wed him. He strode about his
property making sure everything was in order. His cattle still had gold horns. His oxen were
still jet-black. His chests were still brimming with jewels. Everything he had ever wanted was
there—except Freyja. And now he’d have her. Life was grand. He ordered a banquet spread
on a table and invited everyone who was anyone.

The frost giant Thrym stole Thor’s hammer and wouldn’t give it back till Freyja came to marry him. So Thor

disguised himself as Freyja and Loki disguised himself as a handmaiden, and they went to Thrym’s home for

the wedding banquet.

Thor and Loki drove there at such a wild pace that mountains split and the earth caught
fire. They swept into Thrym’s hall in long dresses, took the seats to the sides of the king’s
throne, and lost no time chowing down. Thor, disguised as Freyja, devoured an ox and eight
salmon. He gobbled down treats that had been prepared for the women guests. He drank
crock after crock of mead.

Thrym stared. This woman’s appetite excited him. He rubbed his hands together in
anticipation. “I’ve never seen a bride eat or drink like that.”

Loki, disguised as the handmaiden, explained that Freyja hadn’t eaten for the past eight
nights, she was so eager for this wedding.

In the middle of the banquet, Thor threw off his disguise and killed Thrym with his hammer, Mjolnir. Then he

killed the other frost giants who had come as wedding guests.

Thrym grinned in his stupidity. It didn’t seem right to make such a lusty wife wait for a
kiss. He lifted her veil, and then leaped back with a gasp. “Her eyes are sizzling coals!”

Again Loki rose to the occasion. He explained that Freyja hadn’t slept for the past eight
nights, she was so eager for this wedding.

At this moment Thrym’s older sister offered the bride her loyalty in exchange for the rings
on her fingers and on her handmaiden’s fingers.

Thrym paid no attention to this hag of a sister, as well he shouldn’t have. Who knew what
was up with her? Perhaps the whole family was a bunch of dolts. Instead, he merrily called
for the hammer Mjolnir, which he somehow saw as intrinsic to this wedding. He had the
hammer placed on his bride’s lap, near those warm thighs. The next moment Thor grabbed
his hammer, ripped off his veil, and glared at everyone. His eyes and beard flamed. With one
blow of Mjolnir, he smashed Thrym’s skull. Then he smashed the skull of every giant guest

at the wedding feast, including Thrym’s luckless old sister.
It was Thrym who had stolen the hammer in the first place, not his sister and not his

guests. Yet all of them lay slaughtered. Humans loved Thor; they saw him as protecting
them against the giants. But was he protecting anyone that night?

Thor worried that dressing as a woman would shame him. No, no, no. His own taste for
blood and gore—that was the real dishonor in him. Shame, shame on Thor.

Thor and Loki went hunting giants. They stopped at a peasant home and ate heartily, offering their own
goats as meat—magic goats that would come alive again later. But the peasants’ son cracked a goat bone—a
mistake with terrible consequences.

THOR THE GREEDY

The more Thor thought about giants, the more he wanted to kill them. He was
obsessed. So one morning he said he’d head east on a killing spree, and when Loki
offered to tag along, Thor agreed. Theirs was a twisted alliance.
They set out in the goat-drawn chariot and spent the full day traveling across Midgard.
Come evening, they stopped at a humble farm and asked for room and board. The farmer’s
wife offered these weary guests room quite readily, but she apologized that the board could
only be vegetable gruel, for there was but little meat.

Thor said he’d supply the meat, and he swiftly slaughtered his two goats. He set the skin
aside and told the farmer’s family to throw the dinner bones on the skins as they ate. The
hungry farmer gaped at such a feast. But after the meat was gone, the farmer’s son Thjalfi
stared at a goat thighbone. Marrow was far too delicious and nutritious to waste. He snuck
over and split that bone, sucked out the marrow, and tossed it onto the bone pile.

That night all slept soundly.
In the morning Thor woke first. He held the hammer Mjolnir over the bone-filled goat
skins and muttered magic words. Instantly, the goats were whole again, and fully alive. But
one had a lame hind leg. Thor stomped into the room where the farm family slept still.
“Who broke my goat’s thighbone?” He raised Mjolnir high in threat.

The Norse Diet

Hanging fish to dry is an old Viking tradition.

In the last story Thor devoured an ox, eight salmon, and other treats, and later in this chapter we’ll see
an extravagant eating contest. The idea that gods might eat huge amounts must have been appealing
to the Norse people because the harsh, long winters meant farmers spent much time simply trying to
get enough food for their families. They grew vegetables and grains and collected fruits. The Norse
also hunted game, raised animals, and fished. They ate this fish fresh, smoked, salted, or fermented.

The farmer offered anything, anything at all, if he would spare their lives.
Now, Thor was quick to anger, obviously, but also quick to regain his senses. The terrified
faces of the family gave him pause. With a wave of the hand he said he’d simply take the boy
Thjalfi and his sister Roskva as his servants, and that would be that.
The idea of balance—of a punishment that fit the crime—was foreign to Thor. That these
two children should hereafter spend their lives in servitude never fazed him, such was his
sense of self-importance. But then, he was a god—and gods were important, after all.
So Thor and Loki and the boy Thjalfi and his sister Roskva set out on foot till they reached
the seashore. They slept on an open strand. In the morning they found an old boat and
crossed the waters into Utgard, which surrounded the stronghold of the giants in Jotunheim.
Then Thjalfi ran ahead, scouting, and found an enormous hall in a pine glade for them to
sleep in. In the middle of the night, however, they woke to a great trembling underfoot—the
whole earth roared. Thor was sure it was an earthquake, but no sooner than he said that, it
stopped. Still, they didn’t feel safe staying where they were. So they explored the grand hall
and found a side room, where three of them entered; Thor stood guard at the doorway with
Mjolnir at the ready. But no one slept really; how could they with the roaring returning
intermittently as it did? Dread sat like mud in their mouths.
In the morning Thor crept outside and saw a giant asleep. This was a bigger giant than
any Thor had ever known before. The giant snored. Aha! the source of the roars. As Thor

stood there, the giant woke. Thor was so surprised, he didn’t kill him, but, instead, acted
sensible and asked who he was.

“Skrymir,” said the giant. And he asked if Thor and his crew had moved his glove.
Instantly Thor understood. The enormous hall they’d slept in was Skrymir’s glove, and the
side room was the thumb part. Amazing!
Skrymir offered to share food. Then he accompanied them on their journey. But his
strides were so long and so fast that the others were soon left behind and didn’t catch up to
him till nightfall, when he had stopped to sleep. Again, he let them raid his knapsack for
food, but he fell asleep as they did so. Thor and Loki and Thjalfi and Roskva wrestled with
the knot on that sack, but they couldn’t open it. Thor became convinced that this was exactly
what Skrymir had intended. In his too typical fury, he slammed the giant on the forehead
with Mjolnir. The hammer broke the skin.

Thor was annoyed at the noisy snoring of the giant Skrymir; he climbed onto the sleeping giant’s head and
slammed him with his hammer. But the giant was so enormous, all he did was wake up surprised.

The giant woke. “What leaf fell on my head?”
Yikes. Mjolnir had barely wounded the giant, much less killed him. The four snuck away
and worried half the night. But Skrymir’s snoring irritated Thor so much that he went back
and slammed Mjolnir with all his might against the giant’s forehead.
The giant woke. “Did an acorn fall on my head?”
Yikes and double yikes. But this giant didn’t seem threatening, not really. So, near dawn
Thor tiptoed back and swung Mjolnir harder than ever into the giant’s temple.

The giant woke. “Bird droppings—they must have fallen on me.” Now he saw Thor.
“Gather your party and go home. The folk ahead are much larger than me.” Then Skrymir
took his sack and marched north into the mountains.

But Thor and his companions persisted through the forest until they came to a high gate.
They forced their way between the bars and entered a huge hall, where giants lolled on
benches and leered at them. The giant king said he knew this puny thing before him was the
god Thor, and he challenged the travelers to display a skill.

Loki took the challenge. “I can eat faster than anyone.”
A giant named Logi sat at the opposite of a wooden trencher from him. Servants filled it
with food. Then Loki and Logi ate their way toward each other. But Logi the giant ate not
only the food but the bones and trencher as well. He won.
“Who’s next?” asked the giant king.
Thjalfi said, “I can run faster than anyone.”
A small guy named Hugi—a giant, but small for a giant—raced Thjalfi. Hugi easily won.
They raced three times. Hugi won three times.

Thor bet a giant king that he could drink more than anyone. The giant gave him a full horn. Thor drank and
drank, but he couldn’t drain the horn.

“And you, Thor?” asked the giant king.
“I can drink more than anyone,” said Thor.
“Quite a boast,” said the giant king. He gave Thor a horn to drain.
Thor took an enormous draught. But much still remained in the horn. He took a second

draught. And a third. It was as though the horn held a rising tide.
“Bah! Give me a second task,” said Thor. “Anything.”
“Boast away, will you?” The giant king challenged Thor to pick up his cat.
Thor tugged on the cat, but its paws stayed on the ground even as its back stretched and

arched higher and higher. Thor pushed himself under the cat and heaved himself upward.
The most that moved was a single paw. “Bah!” Thor screamed. “I want a third challenge.
Someone wrestle with me!”

After failing at two tasks, Thor asked for someone to wrestle him, for he thought he could beat anyone. But
an old giantess named Elli defeated him.

The giants laughed. Only the old giantess Elli hobbled forward; she dropped her walking
stick. It was shameful to fight a woman, but Thor was eager to clear his name. He lunged at
her. She stood firm. He persisted. She brought him to his knees.

“Enough,” said the giant king. “Let’s feast and then rest.”
And so all ate and drank themselves silly and slept in the huge hall, and the giant king
showed a generosity that Thor couldn’t fathom.
The next day Thor and his companions left. The giant king accompanied them out to the
forest. Thor was chagrined that he had failed, and feared the giant king would bad-mouth
him to everyone. But the giant king explained that he had cast a spell on them. All that had
happened was partly illusion. The giant king was, in fact, that giant Skrymir, and if Thor’s

hammer had hit its mark, it would have killed him. The giant Logi, who won the eating
contest against Loki and consumed even the trencher, was really wildfire. The giant Hugi,
who won the race against Thjalfi, was really the giant king’s thoughts. The horn that Thor
couldn’t drain had its bottom in the sea. The cat he couldn’t lift was the serpent
Jormungand, who circled Midgard and bit his own tail. And Elli was old age itself. So Thor
and his companions had, in fact, done very well in these challenges and proven themselves
worthy. “But don’t come back,” said the giant king. “I used magic to vanquish you this time.
I’ll use it again. I’ll protect Utgard however I must.”

Amazing! This giant was far better at deception than even Loki! In anger at having been
tricked, Thor raised his hammer. But the giant king had already vanished. Thor chased after
him, ready to crush the huge hall with Mjolnir, but the hall had also vanished.

Thor went back home, stopping by the farm to get his two goats, but keeping Thjalfi and
Roskva as servants. He was a greedy god; mercy meant nothing to him.

A huge eagle ate the gods’ meal. When Loki speared him, he found his hand was magically stuck to the
weapon. In exchange for his freedom, Loki promised the eagle what he demanded: Idunn and her precious
apples.

IDUNN’S APPLES

No one was guaranteed eternal life to their bodies. Death could claim anyone. But
the gods, at least—unlike the humans, the giants, and the dwarfs—could go on
living with youthful vitality unless something came along to cut them down. How
the gods managed not to age and wither was no secret; it was because of the goddess Idunn.

Idunn had apples. And they were not ordinary. Anyone who had a bite became
rejuvenated. How Idunn came to own those apples nobody knew, but she was a magician,
for sure, and she fed her apples to the gods, and no one else. Everyone in the cosmos knew
about Idunn and those apples.

Now one summer morning, Odin, Loki, and Hoenir went exploring a part of Midgard that
was new to them. Odin was his usual bold self; Loki was his usual cunning self; and Hoenir
—well, he was his usual taciturn self. Remember, he was the Aesir god, brother of Odin,
who had been sent to live among the Vanir after the war between the two tribes of gods. It
was Hoenir who made good judgments for the Vanir, but only with Mimir’s help. On his
own, he kept his mouth shut.

The three gods tramped all day long. They followed a pebble-ridden glacier stream down
into a valley and came across a herd of oxen—lucky for them, since they were famished. Loki
killed an ox and Odin and Hoenir built a fire to roast it. The aroma was mouthwatering. But
somehow the meat simply wasn’t getting cooked.

Wise Odin guessed the problem. “Someone’s working against us.”
“Me,” came the screech from an oak branch above them. The gods looked up at an
enormous eagle. “Let me eat first. Then what’s left will cook to perfection for you.”
Since they had no choice, the gods agreed.
The eagle swooped down and set to eating a shoulder. Then a second. Then half the rump.
Then the other half. What would be left? In a fury, Loki rammed his staff through the bird.
The bird screeched again and flew off, with the staff still piercing it and with Loki hanging
on, for the god found that his hand was stuck to the staff. The eagle flew low to the ground
and Loki banged along. Rocks and thorns scratched his legs and feet till they bled.

Nourishing Apples

Apples play a part in myths from many cultures.

The apple tree originated in central Asia and may have been the first tree to be cultivated. Apples have
been grown in Asia and Europe for thousands of years. They were brought to North America by
European colonists in the 17th century. The old saying “An apple a day keeps the doctor away” turns
out to be right: Apples and apple products are important to child nutrition. So the appearance of apples
in these old Norse tales, and their association to continued strength and vitality, is no surprise.

“Mercy!” called Loki.
The eagle flew close beside a glacier till Loki bled everywhere.
“Mercy!” cried Loki.
“Only if you swear …”
“What? I’ll swear to anything!”
“… to bring me Idunn and her apples.” The eagle smashed Loki against boulders now.
“I swear!”
“One week,” screeched the eagle. And he dropped Loki like a sack of broken bones.
The next week, as Idunn walked along with her basket full of golden apples, Loki ran up to
her. “You won’t believe what I’ve seen,” he said.
And well she shouldn’t have, for Loki was about to lie, as usual. But Idunn paused and
listened.
“A tree with golden apples that look just like yours,” said Loki. “Maybe they, too, are
magical. The tree’s in the forest, on the other side of the bridge Bifrost. Come with me.
Bring your apples to compare, and if those other apples really are the same, we’ll gather
them for the gods.”
So Idunn crossed Bifrost with Loki. The instant she stepped off the flaming bridge, the
eagle swooped down and carried Idunn and her basket of apples away, over the sea, straight
to Jotunheim.

Loki met Idunn as she walked along holding her basket full of the golden apples that the gods nibbled on.

Those apples kept the gods young and strong. He convinced her to cross Bifrost with him.

Loki wasn’t surprised at all. Jotunheim was the land of the giants, and Loki was already
convinced that the eagle was in truth a giant. He was right: It was the giant Thjazi, who now
locked Idunn in his home high in the mountains.

Soon enough the gods noticed Idunn’s absence. The alarming consequences made them
shudder. They grew thin and weak. Their bones became birdlike. Their skin fell in soft folds.
The eyes of some turned milky, their sight dim. The hands of some trembled. That one over
there went bald. That one turned yellow with constipation, and that other one, red with the
runs. They were tired, irritable, fragile. Now some spoke nonsense, while others couldn’t
find the words they’d always known, and others had no voice even if the words danced in
their head. Old age was no picnic.

Odin drew on what little energy remained within him and called a meeting in the hall
Gladsheim. Everyone came except Idunn and Loki.

It didn’t take much to put two and two together and realize that Loki had stayed away
because all of this was his fault. They had to find the trickster and force him to tell them
where Idunn had gone.

While Idunn was locked in the home of the giant Thjazi, the gods suffered without her apples. They grew old

and weak.

The decrepit gods shuffled along till they found Loki asleep in a field. They bound him
and dragged him back to Odin. Weakened and helpless, Loki told all. He’d had no choice;
the eagle, who was really the giant Thjazi, would have killed him if he hadn’t promised to
bring him Idunn and her apples.

“Yes, you had to promise. But did you have to keep your promise?” asked Odin. It was a
good question. For a liar like Loki, not keeping the promise should have been natural. So
he’d kept that promise just to cause all this misery among the gods. “We’ll split your ribs,”
said Odin. “They’ll spread like wings—like those of the eagle you befriended.”

“No!” screamed Loki. “I’ll bring back Idunn and her apples, if Freyja will lend me her
falcon-feather cloak.”

Freyja handed the cloak to Loki, and wiped the few remaining fallen hairs from her
shoulders. She was now completely bald, ravaged by old age.

Sneaky Loki had been responsible for Idunn’s being locked up by the giant. So he turned into a falcon and

rescued her. Once the giant was dead, Idunn held out her hands, full of the apples of life.

“You’re not so beautiful anymore,” said Loki.
Freyja just wept those red-gold tears.
Enclosed in the feather cloak, Loki became a falcon. He flew to Thrymheim, high in the
mountains of Jotunheim.
There Idunn huddled in a drafty room, waiting in fear for Thjazi to return from wherever
he had gone. Loki turned Idunn into a nut and carried her in his claws back toward Asgard.
Meanwhile, Thjazi came home with his daughter Skadi, saw that Idunn was missing, shape-
shifted into an eagle, and flew after her. He was stronger than Loki—he gained on that
falcon.
But Odin saw it all from his high seat, Hlidskjalf. He had all the gods gather wood
shavings and set an enormous fire. Those teetering gods shook as they picked up a piece of
kindling here, another there, but they did it. The fire was tremendous. Loki flew over it, but

by the time Thjazi reached there, the flames were so high, they burned him up.
Loki chanted magic words to the nut.
Idunn stood among them again, young and fresh, and holding out apples.

Skadi, the giantess daughter of Thjazi, figured out that her missing father must have been slayed. Here she
wears a helmet and coat of mail and carries her father’s shield and spear. She is ready for revenge against the
Aesir.

SKADI & NJORD

High in Thrymheim, Skadi watched her father, the giant Thjazi, shape-shift into an
eagle and chase after Loki. An eagle is stronger than a falcon. And Thjazi was
accustomed to flying as a bird, while Loki was new to it. Thjazi would catch the
wily Loki and bring back Idunn and her apples, and Skadi and her father would be forever
young.

All Skadi had to do was wait. But she wasn’t good at waiting. So she wandered the
mountain. The scree moved underfoot with a crunch, crunch, as broken rock does. The
brightness of the sheets of snow made her squint. The damp seeped through her skin and
deep into her bones. What a dreary wasteland this part of Jotunheim was. Skadi smiled. It
made her giantess heart throb with love. Nothing was better than sharing a bleak day in
Thrymheim with her father.

Only something was wrong. The hours passed, the night grew old, and still Thjazi didn’t
come back. Skadi picked at her elbows, at her knees, at the bumps on her toes, as she
imagined the gods of Asgard playing some rotten trick on Thjazi. They were a bloody bunch;
nothing was beneath them. By the time dawn came, a rocklike certainty had lodged in her
stomach: Her father was dead.

Skadi put on a coat of chain mail. She put on a helmet. She touched each red beak and
looked into all the shining eyes of the bird heads inlaid on the hide of her father’s tough
shield. She closed her fingers tight around the white ash shaft of his battle spear.

Winter Travel

Skiing is an important part of Norse culture.

Skadi zoomed across snow on skis; that’s how she hunted. The ski goes back in history farther than the
wheel, perhaps more than 20,000 years. A cave drawing in Lyon, France, from Paleolithic times
suggests that Cro-Magnon man hunted reindeer during the last ice age on snowshoes, skis, and sleds.
Skiing spread from Europe to Asia and then into North America. After many years, the entire Northern
Hemisphere used skis. Our word “ski” comes from the Old Norse skí, stick.

Finally, she hung at her hip her father’s sword. The giant Surt had a flaming sword that he
would swing against the Aesir at the terrible final battle, Ragnarok. The god Heimdall had
the sword Hofud that knew everything in his head and thus slashed with intelligence. The
god Frey had a sword that fought all on its own. But Skadi’s father’s sword was even better.
It was incised with a serpent that struck terror into an enemy heart just as surely as venom.

Well armed, Skadi headed for Asgard, her lips puckered for the sweet kiss of vengeance.
Heimdall saw her coming, of course; he did his job of guard well. He blew Gjallarhorn to
call the gods together. When Skadi arrived at the foot of the bridge Bifrost, the gods had
already assembled. They had no wish to see more bloodshed, so they offered Skadi gold in
recompense for her father’s death.
Skadi shrugged. What good could gold do her? She owned a mountain of gold. But she
looked across at those gods and noticed that some of them weren’t hard on the eyes. One, in
fact, was like eye candy—a certain Balder (for this was before the fair Balder had been slain).
Skadi was a hot-blooded giantess. Yes, she grieved for her father’s companionship. But that
Balder—ooh—he would sure add a spark to the dank nights in Thrymheim. So she said,
instead of making off with a sack of gold, she’d pick a husband. “Gentle. Wise. And I won’t
leave until I’ve had a bellyful of laughter.”
Now Skadi was not bad-looking herself. And the gods had often taken giantesses as wives.
So Skadi’s demand was not unthinkable. Still, Odin couldn’t help but see that Skadi’s eye

had rested a little too long on Balder, and Balder was his favorite—it wouldn’t do to let Skadi
make decisions that affected Balder’s life. So Odin agreed. “On one condition,” he said. “You
must choose your husband by his feet. All the rest of him will be covered.”

That didn’t sound off to Skadi. After all, a man as meltingly gorgeous as Balder surely had
caressable feet. So the gods covered themselves but for their feet, and Skadi chose easily.

The giantess Skadi wanted revenge for the death of her father, Thjazi. So Odin let her choose a husband as

her repayment—but she had to choose him by looking only at his feet.

Only it turned out she had chosen Njord. Njord was a rather rough-and-tumble god. He
was one of the Vanir originally and had been traded after the war, so now he lived among the
Aesir with his son Frey and his daughter Freyja. He was the god of seafaring folk and he
looked the part: weathered cheeks, sea blue eyes, sea salt in his hair. He wasn’t what Skadi
wanted. No, not at all.

But before Skadi could protest, Njord held up a warning hand. “Harsh words have no
place at the beginning of a marriage.”

“I’ve been tricked,” said Skadi.
“Better me than Loki, no?” answered Njord.
Odin nodded. “Gentle and wise. You’ve got your husband, Skadi.”

The giantess Skadi demanded that she be made to laugh before she would agree to marry Njord. So Loki told

a joke so funny that Skadi couldn’t keep herself from laughing.

“But the bellyful of laughter? Where is that?” Skadi shook her head. “I’ll never laugh
again.”

So Loki took over. The trickster liked to think of himself as a problem solver, after all. He
told a bawdy story about a goat accompanying him to market and a tug-of-war that involved a
lot of noise and no small amount of pain to Loki’s private parts, and in the confusion of
telling it all, he fell back into Skadi’s arms. The giantess laughed in spite of herself.

And so Skadi had all that she had required. There was no way she could back out of the
bargain now.

But Odin decided to sweeten the deal further. He took from his pouch two wet marbles.
Skadi gasped as the eyes of her father stared at her. Odin flung them high so they clung to
the sky, twin stars to gleam down on Skadi.

The god Njord loved his shipyard, and the giantess Skadi loved her snowy mountains. Though they were

husband and wife, they couldn’t find any place to live that made them both happy.

Njord held out his hand, inviting his new wife to come live with him at his beloved
shipyard, Noatun. Then began the first struggle of many between the newlyweds, for Skadi
said she’d never live anywhere but Thrymheim. At last they agreed to spend nine nights in
one home and then nine nights in the other. They began with Thrymheim, for Njord had a
gentlemanly streak. But the god soon learned he hated those frozen mountains; they felt like
death to him. The howling of the wolves kept him awake. After nine nights they went to
Noatun. But the giantess soon learned she hated the sight of the boats rocking on the sea
endlessly, endlessly. Worse was the whooping of the swans and the mewing of the gulls. She
got no sleep, not even when Njord sang stories to her.

It wasn’t long before husband and wife parted, each to live in their own realm. Njord
heard about Skadi often, and every now and then he saw her—a fleet figure skiing across the

snowscapes, determined in her desolation.
Some marriages just aren’t meant to be.

Frey did the unthinkable: He sat on Odin’s throne. From there, he saw the gorgeous young giantess Gerd. The
sun shone down on her and made her sparkle. Frey fell instantly in love—a desperate situation for him, since
he had always hated giants.

FREY & GERD

F rey was Njord’s son. He was a Vanir by origin, but when his father was traded to the
Aesir after the great war, he and his sister Freyja accompanied the old man. That was
fine with Frey; the gods were good to him. As a babe, when he cut his first tooth, the
gods held the usual teething celebration and gave him rule over all Alfheim as a gift. The
light elves of that land loved him, and why not? Frey was god of sunshine and sweet breezes.
He rode around in a wagon pulled by the boar Gullinbursti, whose gold mane lit the way,
and he strewed flowers and fruits to onlookers. Or he sailed in his ship Skidbladnir, the ship
that always found winds to drive it in the direction the captain wished. Humans loved this
god, too, for he brought the season when plants grew. He was responsible for the fertility of
the cosmos. The only ones who didn’t love Frey, in fact, were the giants. They had little
tolerance for sunshine and sweet breezes, after all. They liked Jotunheim icy. And Frey
returned their hostility with his own. Frost giants were a scourge upon the cosmos as far as
he was concerned.

So, while Frey lived in Alfheim, he felt entirely at home in Asgard. In fact, he felt so at
home that one day he did something he had no right to do, something only Odin and his
goddess wife, Frigg, did: He sat on the high seat Hlidskjalf and looked out over the nine
worlds. That’s when his troubles began.

He looked north toward Jotunheim. One of the biggest halls there belonged to the giant
Gymir. And Gymir had a daughter. A lovely daughter. Oh, what a smashingly lovely
daughter. This daughter, glorious Gerd, came out of her father’s fine hall just as Frey was
looking her way. As she turned to shut the hall doors behind her, the light of all nine worlds
glistened on her arms. She sparkled brighter than gold, brighter than stars, brighter even
than sun on snow.

Frey stared. He couldn’t take his eyes off Gerd.
When the girl closed herself inside her own hall, Frey finally shut his eyes. But the image
of her burned in his brain. He could see nothing else. He stumbled from Odin’s hall aching
with longing. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat. He pined for Gerd. Frey was lovesick—
afflicted.

Midnight Sun

Aurora borealis in Norway

All the lands north of the Arctic Circle have long days in summer—so much so that on some days the
sun shines continually—and short days in winter—so much so that on some days the sun never shines.
For Norway the darkness of winter is combined with steep mountains and deep, cold fjords. Winds can
make it nearly impossible to walk outside. All these facts make winter exceptionally lonely for people
who do not live with others. So when Skirnir threatens Gerd in this story with never having a husband,
he is relying on her fear of torturous isolation.

Now Njord had plenty of problems of his own, what with a wife who wouldn’t live with
him, but his son’s behavior worried him. So he sent Frey’s servant Skirnir to find out what
was wrong.

Frey told Skirnir of his love, and of his fear that marriage between the two would never be
approved of because the giants held no love for any Aesir, especially not their enemy Frey.
Still, overwhelmed by his passion, he bade Skirnir fetch the girl.

But Skirnir needed help. He asked Frey to lend him his magic sword that could fight on
its own, protecting whomever wielded it. And he asked for Frey’s horse that could find its
way through the dark and wasn’t hurt by flames. Frey gave these treasures … ultimately a
foolish decision, but a god in love is as much a fool as anyone.

Skirnir rode that horse as hard as he could. He convinced the ferryman to take them
across the river into Jotunheim. By now it was the pitch of night, but that horse galloped on
—for he could find his way through the dark. Then they came to a curtain of fire, but that
horse galloped on—for he wasn’t hurt by flames. The next morning they arrived at last.

Fierce dogs guarded Gerd’s hall. They barked and growled. When Gerd heard the
commotion, she told her servant to welcome the visitor, though her mouth went sour and
her ears buzzed eerily.

And so Skirnir was brought before Gerd, who was dressed all in white. He offered her 11

apples from Idunn’s tree to marry Frey. “Think of your beauty lasting and lasting.”

Frey fell in love with the beautiful giantess, Gerd. He sent his servant, Skirnir, to fetch her. Skirnir offered her
11 of Idunn’s apples if she’d marry Frey. But the promise of eternal youth wasn’t enough to convince her.

But not even the promise of everlasting youth could persuade Gerd to marry the giants’
lethal enemy.

Skirnir held out the ring Draupnir that the dwarf Brokk had given to Odin. How it came to
be in Skirnir’s hands was anyone’s guess. “This ring drops eight others just as beautiful
every ninth night.”

But who needed wealth? Gerd’s father, Gymir, had a hall full of jewels.
Playing the nice guy was getting Skirnir nowhere; Skirnir unsheathed Frey’s sword. “Your
choice: beheading or marriage?”
But Gerd said her father would fight Frey and win.

Skirnir got furious at Gerd for refusing to marry Frey. He threatened her with loneliness for all the rest of

time. His words scared her. But they didn’t convince her. It was his magic staff that finally made her love

Frey, not any promises or threats.

Skirnir now raised his own staff, which had magic untold. Gerd gaped at it, spellbound, as
Skirnir spoke. “If you don’t marry Frey, you will never marry anyone. You will sit alone in
your hall, bleak, feeling nothing against your skin ever but sleet and cutting wind. You will
fly into unaccountable rages and you will weep for days on end. You will crawl like the
lowliest of creatures through the halls of the frost giants, having no sense of why you do it
and no ability to stop yourself. You will scream with the need of a husband, and never, never
attract anyone to your side. Everything you drink will taste like waste, but you’ll drink it all
the same, for you’ll never slake your thirst. It’s your choice, Gerd. No joy, all pain—or a
marriage to Frey.”

Gerd listened closely through the venomous words. She trembled. The threat meant she
would lose everything she valued in her womanhood; she would never attract a husband,
never have children. Her fertility would be forever thwarted. Still, she was firm in her
refusal.

Until she looked up at that magic staff. It loomed above her. She couldn’t take her eyes off
it. Now she spoke slowly. She said, “I never would have believed that I could love a god.”
Skirnir’s offers of presents hadn’t worked. Skirnir’s threats of violence hadn’t worked. But
simply by looking at that magic staff, somehow Gerd had changed. She loved Frey. Why?
How? But the answers didn’t matter. She loved him. And so she promised to be his wife
nine days hence.

When Skirnir came back with the good news, Frey thought he couldn’t survive the wait of

nine days. But he did, of course, wed the maid.
What he didn’t realize was that he couldn’t survive the loss of his magic sword, for Skirnir

didn’t bring it back from Jotunheim. That sword would have been useful to Frey in the final
battle, Ragnarok. Perhaps he could have won against the fire giant Surt instead of dying
hideously. Perhaps if he had wooed Gerd himself rather than letting Skirnir steal her
through dishonorable means, he might have won the girl and kept his sword.

But perhaps not. Fate is fate, after all. And given what he did to Gerd, maybe Frey got the
end he deserved.