فصل 13

13

THE STORY OF GERD AND FREY

I

Frey, the brother of Freya, was the mightiest of the Vanir. He was handsome and noble, a warrior and a lover, but he was missing something in his life, and he did not know what it was.

The mortals of Midgard revered Frey. He made the seasons, they said. Frey made the fields fertile and brought forth life from the dead ground. The people worshipped Frey and they loved him, but this did not fill the empty place inside him.

Frey took stock of his possessions:

He had a sword so powerful and remarkable that it fought by itself. But this did not satisfy Frey.

He had Gullinbursti, the boar with the golden bristles, created by the dwarf Brokk and his brother, Eitri. Gullinbursti pulled Frey’s chariot. It could run through the air and over the water, run faster than any horse, and run even in the darkest night, for its golden bristles shone so brightly. But Gullinbursti did not satisfy Frey.

He had Skidbladnir, a boat made for him by the three dwarfs known as the sons of Ivaldi. It was not the biggest ship there was (that was Naglfar, the Death Ship, made from the untrimmed fingernails of the dead), but there was room for all of the Aesir on board. When the sails of Skidbladnir were set, the winds were always fair, and it took you wherever you needed to go. Even though it was the second biggest ship there had ever been and would hold all the Aesir, Frey could fold Skidbladnir up like a cloth and place it in his bag. It was the best of all ships. But Skidbladnir did not satisfy him.

He owned the finest residence that was not Asgard. It was Alfheim, the home of the light elves, where he was always welcomed and acknowledged as overlord. There was nowhere like Alfheim, and yet it did not satisfy him.

Frey’s servant, Skirnir, was one of the light elves. He was the finest of servants, wise of counsel and fair of face.

Frey ordered Skirnir to harness Gullinbursti, and they set out for Asgard together.

When they reached Asgard, they walked toward Valhalla, the great hall of the slain. In Odin’s Valhalla live the Einherjar, “those who fight alone”—all the men who have died nobly in battle since the beginning of time. Their souls are taken from the battlefields by Valkyries, the warrior-women charged by Odin with the task of bringing the souls of the noble dead, battle-slain, to their ultimate reward.

“There must be a lot of them,” said Skirnir, who had not been there before.

“There are,” Frey told him. “But there are more to come. And still more will be needed when we fight the wolf.”

They heard the sound of battle as they approached the fields around Valhalla; they heard the clash of metal on metal, the thud of metal on flesh.

As they watched, they saw powerful warriors of all ages and places, well matched in battle, dressed in their war gear, each man fighting his hardest. Soon enough half the men were lying dead on the grass.

“Enough,” called a voice. “The battle is over for the day!”

At this, those who were still standing helped the dead men get up from the courtyard floor. Their wounds healed as Frey and Skirnir watched, and they clambered onto their horses. All the soldiers who had fought that day, whether they had won or lost, rode home to Valhalla, the hall of the noble dead.

Valhalla was an enormous hall. It had 540 doors, and each door allowed 800 warriors to walk abreast. It seated more people than the mind could hold.

In the hall, the warriors cheered as the feast began. They were eating boar meat, ladled out from an enormous cauldron. This was the meat of the boar Saerimnir: every night they would feast upon the boar’s meat, and each morning the monstrous beast would be alive again, ready to be slain later that day and to give its life and its flesh to feed the noble dead. No matter how many of them there were, there would always be enough meat.

Mead was brought for them to drink.

“So much mead for so many warriors,” said Skirnir. “Where does it come from?”

“It comes from a goat called Heidrun,” Frey told him. “She stands on top of Valhalla and eats the leaves of the tree called Lerad, which is what we call that branch of Yggdrasil, the world-tree. From her udders the finest mead flows. There will always be enough for every warrior.”

They walked to the high table, where Odin sat. He had a bowl of meat in front of him but did not taste it. He would stab a piece of meat with his knife from time to time and flick it onto the ground, to be eaten by one of his wolves, Geri and Freki.

Two ravens sat on Odin’s shoulders, and he would give the ravens scraps of meat as well, while they whispered to him of things that were happening far away.

“He isn’t eating,” whispered Skirnir.

“He does not need to,” said Frey. “He drinks. He only needs wine, nothing else. Come on. We are done here.”

“Why were we here?” asked Skirnir as they walked out of one of the 540 doors of Valhalla.

“Because I wanted to make certain that Odin was here in Valhalla with the warriors and not in his own hall at the Hlidskjalf, the observation point.”

They entered Odin’s hall. “Wait here,” said Frey.

Frey walked alone into Odin’s hall and clambered up onto the Hlidskjalf, the throne from which Odin could see everything that happened across the nine worlds.

Frey looked out across the worlds. He looked to the south, to the east, and to the west, and he did not see the thing he was looking for.

And then he looked to the north and saw the thing he was missing in his life.

Skirnir was waiting by the door when his master came from the hall. There was an expression on Frey’s face Skirnir had never seen before, and Skirnir was afraid.

They left that place without speaking.

II

Frey drove the chariot pulled by Gullinbursti back to his father’s hall. Frey spoke to nobody when they got there, neither his father, Njord, who is the master of all who sail the seas, nor his stepmother, Skadi, the lady of the mountains. He went to his room with a face as dark as midnight, and there he stayed.

On the third day, Njord sent for Skirnir.

“Frey has been here for three days and three nights,” Njord said. “He has not eaten, nor has he drunk anything.”

“This is true,” said Skirnir.

“What have we done to anger him so?” asked Njord. “My son, who was always so gentle and filled with kind, wise words, now says nothing, only looks at us with fury. What did we do to upset him so?”

“I do not know,” said Skirnir.

“Then,” said Njord, “you must go to him and ask him what is happening. Ask him why he is so angry he will not speak to any of us.”

“I would rather not,” said Skirnir. “But I cannot refuse you, lord. He is in such a strange, dark mood, I am afraid of what he will do if I ask him.”

“Ask him,” said Njord. “And do what you can for him. He is your master.”

Skirnir of the light elves went to where Frey stood looking out at the sea. Frey’s face was clouded and troubled, and Skirnir hesitated to approach him.

“Frey?” said Skirnir.

Frey said nothing.

“Frey? What has happened? You are angry. Or you are downcast. Something has happened. You have to tell me what is happening to you.”

“I am being punished,” said Frey, and his voice sounded hollow and distant. “I went to the All-father’s holy seat, and I looked out at the world. For my arrogance in believing I had a right to the observation place, my happiness has been taken from me forever. I have paid for my crime, and I am paying still.”

“My lord,” said Skirnir, “what did you see?”

Frey was silent, and Skirnir thought he had once again sunk into a troubled silence. But after some time he said, “I looked to the north. I saw a dwelling there, a splendid house. And I saw a woman walking up to the house. I have never seen a woman like her. Nobody who looks like her. Nobody who moves like her. As she raised her arms to unlock the door to her house, the light glanced off her arms, and it seemed to illuminate the air and to brighten the sea, and because she is in it, the whole world is a brighter and more beautiful place. And then I looked away and saw her no more, and my world became dark and hopeless and empty.”

“Who is she?” asked Skirnir.

“A giant. Her father is Gymir the earth giant, her mother a mountain giant, Aurboda.”

“And does this beautiful creature have a name?”

“Her name is Gerd.” Frey was silent once more.

Skirnir said, “Your father is worried about you. We are all worried. Is there something I can do?”

“If you will go to her and ask for her hand, I would give anything. I cannot live without her. Bring her back to me, to be my wife, whatever her father says. I will pay you so well.”

“You are asking a lot, my lord,” said Skirnir.

“I will give anything,” said Frey fervently, and he shivered.

Skirnir nodded. “I will do this thing, lord.” He hesitated. “Frey, may I look at your sword?”

Frey took out his sword and held it out for Skirnir to examine. “There is no other sword like this. It will fight by itself, without a hand holding it. It will always protect you. No other sword, no matter how powerful, can penetrate its defense. They say that this sword could even prevail against the flaming sword of Surtr, the fire demon.”

Skirnir shrugged. “It is a fine sword. If you wish me to bring you Gerd, this sword will be my wages.”

Frey nodded assent. He gave Skirnir his sword, and a horse to ride.

Skirnir traveled north until he reached the house of Gymir. He entered as a guest and explained who he was and who had sent him. He told the beautiful Gerd of his master, Frey. “He is the most splendid of all the gods,” he told her. “He has dominion over the rain and the weather and the sunshine, and he gives the folk of Midgard good harvests and peaceful days and nights. He watches over the prosperity and abundance of humanity. All people love and worship him.”

He told Gerd of the beauty of Frey, and of his power. He told her of the wisdom of Frey. And at the last he told her of the love Frey bore for her, how he had been heart-struck by a vision of her and now would no longer eat or sleep, drink or speak, until she agreed to be his bride.

Gerd smiled, and her eyes shone with joy. “Tell him yes,” she said. “I will meet him on the isle Barri for the wedding, nine days from now. Go and tell him.”

Skirnir returned to Njord’s hall.

Before he could even climb down from his horse, Frey was there, even more pale and even more wan than when he had left him. “What news?” he asked. “Do I rejoice, or do I despair?”

“She will take you to be her husband nine days from now, on the island of Barri,” said Skirnir.

Frey looked at his servant without joy. “The nights without her in my life last forever,” he said. “One night is so long. Two nights are even longer. How will I manage to cope with three nights? Four days feel like a month to me, and you expect me to wait nine days?”

And Skirnir looked at his lord with pity.

Nine days from that day, on the isle of Barri, Frey and Gerd met for the first time, and they married in a field of waving barley. She was as beautiful as he had dreamed, and her touch was as fine, her kiss as sweet, as he had hoped. Their wedding was blessed, and some say that their son, Fjolnir, went on to become the first king of Sweden. (He would drown in a vat of mead late one night, hunting in the darkness for a place to piss.)

Skirnir took the sword he had been given, Frey’s sword that fought all by itself, and he returned to Alfheim with it.

The beautiful Gerd filled the hole in Frey’s life, and the hole in his heart. Frey did not miss his sword, and he did not replace it. When he fought the giant Beli, he killed him with a stag’s antler. Frey was so strong, he could kill a giant with his bare hands.

Even so, he should not have given his sword away.

Ragnarok is coming. When the sky splits asunder and the dark powers of Muspell march out on their war journey, Frey will wish he still had his sword.