The Allfather and Sága Fistfight in Heaven

Some from column A, some from column B. 

Our idea of one afterlife for evil people and a different for good has been shaped for two thousand years by Christianity. It’s not quite like that in Norse cosmology. 

Those who die bravely may go to Valhalla or Folkvanger, Freyja’s hall. If you find yourself in Valhalla, you will fight at Odin’s side and die a second and final death come Ragnarok, but a glorious one. 

If you find yourself in Folkvanger, you will help Freyja after Ragnarok, to guard and rebuild the world. 

If you do not die bravely…if you die of old age, say, or from other natural causes, or die a cowardly death, you find yourself in Helheim. But the reception differs. If you were all in all a good person who simply died peacefully in bed, you find yourself in a land of mists and forests; a land that is really a rather pleasant place, where all hurt and cares are gone and you can rest. You may find other family there, and be reunited with them. (Assuming they have not gone to Valhalla or Folkvanger, and have not chosen to be born again later in their descendants or linger as a spirit.)

 Lady Hel herself may keep you company, and you may find her quite a charming and pleasant conversationalist. 

If you are a evil person, you find Helheim to be less pleasant. Such people find Lady Hel a cruel mistress, and find no rest or peace. 

So tonight I was talking with crimson–red​ about life goals and I considered making a “happy board” with some empty cork boards I had, and it dawned on me that I could use one of them (I have two hanging up) as a shrine for my deity (Nyx)! And of course I had to make a post about it to help out other witches. If you’re a broom witch or are trying to keep your worship quiet, just say you really like whatever your deity rules over and exclude pictures of them. (I’m sure they’ll understand!) 

Here’s some materials you could add to your cork board, but you don’t HAVE to use them (feel free to add to this list). If you can’t get to/use a cork board, you could make a shadow box. If you’re trying to stay quiet about your craft or your deity, keep your shrine(s) hidden under your bed or in your closet. 

prayers/notes to them

dried plants (if they’re small or very fragile, put them in a small ziplock baggie) 

clippings that remind you of them/what they rule over

you could use craft scissors to give the edges a funky feel

you can draw what you can’t print or find in magazines 

even if it’s a just picture of food you can’t eat/offer because you’re allergic or you can’t afford to “waste” the food

colored fabric (behind the things you pin on)

see what colors correspond to them or pick a cute patterned fabric you’d think they’d like 

if you have insufficient fabric you can cover the cork with paper to color or draw on it 

you can also use multiple, smaller sample fabrics if you have a large work space 

cute push pins/thumbtacks

for example: sea shell pins for water deities and star pins for night/space deities 

you can also color coordinate; different offerings/pictures are assigned different colors/pins

a cute border around the edges (like ones you see in classrooms)

The best part is that you can change up what’s on your altar Heavier things such as offerings, crystals, incense, candles, and books can go on a shelf underneath the cork board! (If you’re allowing an open flame near your cork board make sure there’s good clearance so your shrine doesn’t go up in flames.) If you have songs you like to play/sing to them you can keep a small boombox or radio set to play a disc on repeat or tuned to a station you think they’d enjoy. You can also section off a cork board if you worship multiple deities! 

Aside from Snorra Edda, the only text that has Loki being explicitly “cast out” is the Lokasenna. The thing about the Lokasenna is that it operates within the constraints of a particular poetic genre; just like there are a certain set of constraints and expectations for sonnets, haikus, Greek tragedies, and the like, so too are there expectations and constraints for the senna.

In Performing Definitions: Two Genres of Insult in Old Norse Literature, Karen Swenson argues that a senna is a genre that pits insider against outsider, with the “outsider” usually representing the feminine, queer, or “monstrous” Other who comes in contact with and challenges the heroic group. The point of the senna is that this challenger forces the masculine “inside group” to recognize the Otherness among them or in them and redefine themselves against it, clearing themselves of the accusations and expelling Otherness in one way or another.

When discussing the Lokasenna in particular, Swenson writes:

Lokasenna…presents the sexually ambivalent Loki as representing the ‘sacré’ and threatening the community’s sense of self. Loki, the strange god who both is and is not a member of the community, who as double monstrueux is both necessary to and excluded from the community, serves well to embody the forces of and to voice the position of marginality” (72).

She goes on to explain that when Þórr forcefully expels Loki from the hall, brandishing Mjöllnir and yelling over and over again that he is a “queer being” (rög vættr), the Gods are literally creating a wall between the feminine and the masculine, the Self and the Other, and all of the other dichotomies that Loki undermined. Just as the senna genre demands, they are reestablishing boundaries by silencing a marginal figure.

It is important to note that Loki is not punished for killing Baldr in this text, and that the storyline leading up to Loki’s binding in Snorra Edda only draws this conclusion based on stanzas 33-35 of Völuspá: a narrative reading of these stanzas as related that has since been questioned many times. The truth of the matter is, with the appended nature of Lokasenna’s epilogue and the holes in Snorri’s reading of the Völuspá stanzas, we don’t know exactly WHY Loki is bound. What we do know, however, is that he is expelled from the hall at the end of Lokasenna for questioning the other Gods and likening them to himself. If we accept Swenson’s reading of senna (which I do), we realize that Loki is expelled from the hall because he is too close to “Otherness” for the other Gods to accept, and rather than recognizing the flexible nature of these categories they, in this poem at least, choose to force him out completely instead.

It is my interpretation that Loki was not outlawed at all. If he was, the Æsir would not be able to implicate his (otherwise barely mentioned) children in their vengeance. The story very closely follows patterns of feuding in sagas like Njáls saga. The “negative reciprocity” that permeates Icelandic feuding is extremely present in the ragnarök story; Loki’s binding is symbolically equivalent to his disruption of the feast in Lokasenna, and the Æsir are only able to get vengeance on Loki through Narfi and Váli because of Loki’s role in the death of Baldr (in both cases the actor does not kill directly but rather causes to be killed indirectly), but if Loki were actually outlawed and therefore removed from the system of reciprocity, the death of his son would have been plain old cold-blooded murder instead of a measured counterpoint, and whichever Áss was responsible would themselves be subject to outlawry. Sigyn also would not be allowed to help him. To me, the story only makes sense if Loki was NOT outlawed.

This is actually one of the problems with the “innangarðs/útangarðs” dichotomy. There are families of jötnar who are no less a part of the society in which the Æsir participate than the Æsir themselves, but with different sets of alliances and responsibilities, and the family ties must be recompiled for each individual rather than, say, accepting Óðinn as the head of the family and deriving the social roles of the rest of the Æsir by comparison to him. To take the Æsir and their closest allies as a cohesive and self-enclosed “society” does not work — the complex and nuanced social network has a tight cluster around Óðinn’s immediate family and we identify this cluster as the Æsir but the social topography looks very different from the perspective of Óðinn and, say, Skaði. That this was true of human society is painfully obvious in the sagas where people sometimes seriously have trouble figuring out who they’re supposed to side with (not to mention Skarphéðinn Njálsson killing Höskuldr Þráinsson, his foster-brother…).

It also goes (or rather, should go) without saying that this only applies to Snorri and the prose epilogue of Lokasenna, which some scholars believe post-dates Snorri’s Edda anyway. As Lokavinr said, the actual poetic sources on ragnarök are extremely fragmented. We cannot take it for granted that Snorri had any more than the same fragments that we have, or if he did that it did not develop in post-Christianization Iceland.

By the way, Saxo’s version of the story of the death of Baldr, wherein Loki is not even mentioned, seems to have entered the general pool of common knowledge, but I’m not sure if this has: the story that Saxo tells was already attested before him, in Chronicon Lethrense (‘The Lejre Chronicle’), which was probably written before Snorri was born. I don’t know whether Saxo used this as a source or whether they are two separate witnesses to a tradition. Saxo usually has to be treated with caution because he clearly innovated a lot, but having another, earlier example of the Baldr and Hǫðr story goes a long way.

There is something which is EXTREMELY important to keep in mind when reading Snorri’s version of the story. His task was to take fragments of an eroding mythology and fashion them into a cohesive narrative. I am of the opinion that he doesn’t seem to have intentionally invented much, but he really obviously unintentionally invented a lot.

I cannot recommend highly enough Torfi Tulinius’ The Matter of the North on the likelihood that, first of all, Snorri wrote Egils saga, and second, that it was heavily shaped by autobiographical themes. The Edda would then have to be read keeping the same thing in mind. Snorri literally went to war against his own family. Considering what he had to work with — Vǫluspá, Baldrs draumur, maybe the poetic parts of Lokasenna, bits and pieces of other poems like Vafþrúðnismál… it’s really only natural that he would understand these things in terms of a struggle between two parts of a single extended family, and also that he would portray one side of this conflict in a much better light than the other.

This is to say nothing of the possibility of Christian influence on the binding of Loki and the damn-near indisputable Christian influence on Vǫluspá.

Further reading:

Anatoly Liberman - “Some Controversial Aspects of the Myth of Baldr“ (free PDF)

John McKinnell - “Völuspá and the Feast of Easter” (free PDF)

Torfi Tulinius - The Matter of the North: The Rise of Literary Fiction in Thirteenth-Century Iceland (Google books entry)

William Ian Miller - Bloodtaking and Peacemaking: Feud, Law, and Society in Saga Iceland (Google books entry - no free PDF unfortunately. This is THE book on feud).

Keeping in mind that I’m not a Heathen or Norse pagan but still someone on a path with similar feelings about loved ones, I want to make the point that families are not limited by blood.  If your blood family hurt you, then they haven’t demonstrated much of a family bond themselves, have they?  No, family is more than just an accident of birth, and while it’s hard to dismiss the cultural importance placed on biological relationships there’s a point at which that biology ceases to matter in the face of people’s actions.  The moment a blood relative hurts you with malicious intent, and especially if they continue to hurt you, they forfeit any and all obligations you have towards them.

“Found families” are just as meaningful, perhaps arguably more so for having been chosen. ‘Family’ is more than blood and you can define who and what your family is for yourself.

I’m an English major and they brought up turning my ancestor veneration into more of a hero veneration. They told me to look into writers and characters that have influenced and shaped my life. It’s not something I’ve actually done, but it is something I’ve thought about.

I also have the dubious joy of trying to figure out how to honour my more distant ancestors when I find them personally distasteful, but I’ve set out honours to deceased figures whom I simply admire for who they were before and felt that was meaningful as well. 

The standard disclaimer still applies—this is my impression of these terms based on what I’ve read and seen, and aren’t meant to be concrete definitions.

SEIÐR (Proto-Indo-European *h₂seut-, “to move about, roil, seethe” +  Proto-Germanic *seuþaną, “to seethe, boil”) is considered a Vanir magic, having been taught to the Æsir by the goddess Freyja. It is worked the majority of the time after utiseta, and involves communication with wights or other spirits. Seiðr is usually worked in an altered state of consciousness (ASC) and primarily utilized for divination, illusory magic, astral travel, or channelling. Practitioners may be called seið-worker, seiðkona (seiðwoman) or seiðmaðr (seiðman).

UTISETA (Old Norse, “sitting out”) is a preparatory practice for seið-workers. Traditionally, the practitioner goes out into a place of the dead and seats themselves upon a burial mound, with the object of task being to come into communion with the spirit that will be worked with during the practice of seiðr.

SPÁ (unknown origin, possibly Proto-Indo-European *spey-, “stick, staff”) is the power of prophesy or foresight, by ‘the determination of ørlög’. Ørlög is ‘the law of fate’ as determined by the Norns. Practitioners may be called spá-worker, spákona, or spámaðr. The term ‘spáwife’ is also commonly used. One who is highly skilled with spá or born with the innate ability may be called a völva, which is a traditionally feminine title, since such magics were seen as being in female domain.

VARÐLÖKKUR (Old Norse “warding songs”) are songs to be sung in preparation for seiðr or spá which are intended to help bring one into ASC. Unlike galdr, varðlökkur can be very melodic, and are today widely inspired by joik and kulning, two traditional singing styles amongst certain Nordic peoples.

What if both stories of Baldr’s death were true…

What if Hod was the shy, quiet, blind god that began to feel like everyone’s “comforting” remarks about his disability were condescending. What if he thought that Baldr, perfect, beautiful Baldr, was the worst of the lot. What if he became jealous that Baldr had everything everyone thought he didn’t — a good arm, good aim, a good wife, and “sacrificed” to help out “poor” Hod. What if Nana had told him “if only you could see” before turning away and choosing Baldr.

What if he overheard Frigg tell an old hag about the mistletoe, and went out himself to find some. What if he bound a sword — Baldr’s own sword — in it, and threw it as hard as he could at his brother. 

What if Loki really was disgusted by Frigg’s enchantment, and left the games in protest. What if nobody believed that a blind man could throw, and pointed their fingers at Loki because he was the only one not there, and Hod’s “but it was truly me” were seen as “woah is me I murdered my wonderful brother” instead of “look at what I did! I killed my arrogant brother!”

What if Odin confronted Loki about it, and didn’t believe his denial. What if that was the last straw for Loki, and he left, breaking their bond as he did so. 

What if Vidar believed that Loki was the killer, and he waited around for Loki to show his face so his could fulfill his prophecy, and accidentally killed Hod.

What if Loki admitted to killing Baldr because “fuck it. It doesn’t matter what I say, everyone thinks I did it anyway.” What if there was a part of Odin that believed Loki didn’t really do it, and that’s why he bound him instead of killing him.

Goddesses of the North - ansfhd

Hela

Freya

Nott

Idunn

Ran

Skadi