Odin: Ecstasy, Runes, & Norse Magic - Diana L. Paxson 2017

God of the Dead

Cattle die, kinsmen die,

You yourself will die.

But fair fame dies never,

For the one who wins it.

—Hávamál 76

If there is one quotation most Heathens know, it would be the one above. These words of the High One are taken as a call for courage, but they also have implications for the way we think about death and about Odin as a god who is as concerned with the dead as he is with those who are living. Stephan Grundy interprets Odin's blue-black cloak as the livor mortis from pooling blood that colors the back and shoulders of a corpse that has been lying on the ground.

As it happens, I began working on this chapter on Hallowe'en, an appropriate time to consider Odin in his aspect as a scary, one-eyed death god. Several of his names confirm his claim to this role. Price lists ten “Gallows-names” for Odin. As Hangatyr or Váfudhr (Dangler), he is the god of the hanged who knows how to make them speak, whether they were strung up for a crime or as an offering. Twelve names show him as Lord of the Dead. As Draugadrótin, he is the ruler of the Draugar, a particularly nasty type of Norse zombie. As Hléfödhr (Mound Father), he wards those whose bodies or ashes are buried in the earth; and as Valfadhr, he is the Father of the Slain who presides over his chosen warriors in Valhalla. As we see in the song that introduces this chapter, on stormy winter nights, Odin leads the Wild Hunt that brings both death and blessings.

How central are these aspects to Odin's nature? The worlds between which Odin walks include those of the living and the dead. In The Cult of Ódhinn, God of Death, Grundy (2014) argues that Odin's original and primary function was as a death god and shows how Odin's other aspects could have developed from this role. I highly recommend this book, which explores aspects of Odin's nature often skipped elsewhere. It is academic in style, but now that so much of the Old Norse literature is available online, you can look up the quotes in translation.

Wolves and Ravens

For a first clue to Odin's role as a god of death, let us consider his animal companions. Odin's wolves are called Geri and Freki, “Hunger” and “Greed.” Today, most of us see wolves and ravens in a positive light. Wolves are canny beasts with an admirable social organization whose example may well have shown early humans how to work together to hunt.

Ravens are known for their brilliance at solving problems, but what Huginn and Muninn are usually thinking about and remembering is where to find things to eat. In the wild, ravens will often raise a clamor of cawing over the body of a fallen animal in order to attract the wolves, who can tear open the body, so that the ravens can get at the soft bits. Both creatures are highly effective and opportunistic scavengers, and in the old days, human bodies were among their favorite foods.

When Odin stands below the scaffold to talk to the hanged man, a raven is probably sitting atop it, waiting, as they do in the song “The Twa Corbies,” to pluck out a “bonny blue eye.” When men were sacrificed to Odin, they were hanged as well as stabbed, and the ravens always came.

Odin is Hrafnagudh (Raven God), Hildolf (Battle Wolf), and Kjallar, the one who nourishes the carrion eaters. The real banquet hall for both wolves and ravens is the battlefield, as in this poem by the late Paul Edwin Zimmer (1979):

The Dead lie in silence upon the cold ground,

And the calling of Ravens is all of the sound.

When the Heroes have fallen, the birds always know—

And the hunger of Ravens their Honor shall show.

The Black Bird of Odin, who blesses the slain,

Shall rise filled from the field where the Heroes have lain;

Where the Valkyrie bears men's souls on her swift steed,

The Ravens shall thank them, as they wing down—to feed.

Hangatyr: Gallows God

I know a twelfth, if I see in a tree

A hanged corpse dangle,

I cut and color certain runes

So that man walks

And talks with me.

—Hávamál 157

The ability to reanimate and speak to the dead is a mighty magic, and of all the dead, those who died on the gallows are the closest to the God of the Hanged. There are two reasons for this. First, as we have seen, Odin himself was hanged on the Worldtree, and speared as well. We know from the history of Starkad and other references in the sagas that this was the traditional mode of sacrifice to Odin, so when the god proclaims that he was sacrificed to himself, he is speaking literally.

A second reason might be that tightening a noose stops the breath. It was Odin who gave humans that gift in the first place. What does it mean that he can still make a man speak when the breath has been taken away?

And why, if the sacrifice has been hanged, is he also pierced by a spear? Odin's own dedicated weapon is the spear Gungnir. In sources from the 1st century through the Viking Age, there is abundant evidence that casting a spear over the opposing army dedicated them to Odin. Not only did the god claim the battle dead, but any surviving foes might be hanged afterward as an offering.

As a god of death, Odin is most present at the moment of dying, the stabbing anguish of the convulsing heart, the last struggle for breath. He is the giver of önd, and wherever the breath goes, he goes as well. The dead are without breath, but as they experience further transformations, they know the god after another manner.

In chapter 5, I quoted the first part of a poem by Fjolnirsvin in the form of a conversation with Odin. This is the remainder, in which Odin replies, and the imagery of the Odinic sacrifice leads to a confrontation with death.

II. Oðinn

When I manifest fully, I will bring your death,

which you await

like bride awaits bridegroom,

kindling wants fire,

drink cries out for fermentation.

not what comes after

(though much comes after)

but the moment of transition itself,

in which I am sovereign.

Maker of bounds, transgressor of limits,

trickster, I

lead all your chances

to that quick terror

to that ecstasy

when noose tightens on the beam

when reed becomes spear,

iron parts rib,

and point crosses perpendicular flesh.

III. Me

Let me not (Oh, let me!) pray too much.

“Gift calls out for gift.”

Is it better to remain ignored

or chance destruction from what is given in return?

Valhalla

In previous chapters, we encountered Odin as a god of war and battle frenzy and a Stirrer of Strife. But why is he so bloodthirsty? The role in which he is most often connected with the dead is as Valfadhr, Lord of Valhalla, the hall of the slain, where the einherior, the “only,” or perhaps, “number one” warriors, feast all night and fight all day. A euphemism for death in battle is “to visit Odin,” or “to be Odin's guest.”

Popular belief has it that the ambition of all Norsemen was to join him there, however Viking Age concepts of the afterlife included a number of options, including joining one's ancestors in Hel, reincarnating in the family line, or becoming one of the spirits of the land. As an afterlife destination, Valhalla is “invitation only,” a very exclusive club to which Odin admits only the most heroic of the slain.

Sometimes Odin delivers the invitation in person, as in Volsungasaga 11—12.

The battle had been going on for some time, when a man came into the fight. He had a wide-brimmed hat that sloped over his face, and he wore a black hooded cloak. He had one eye, and he held a spear in his hand. This man came up against King Sigmund, raising the spear before him. When Sigmund struck hard with his sword, it broke against the spear. Then the tide of the battle turned, for King Sigmund's luck was now gone, and many of his men fell. The king did not seek to protect himself, and fiercely urged his men on.

When night falls, Sigmund's wife searches the battlefield and finds him dying from many wounds, however he refuses to let her treat him, because Odin has broken the sword that the god himself once gave him. “Odin does not want me to wield the sword since it is now broken. I have fought battles while it pleased him. . . . But my wounds tire me, and I will now visit our kinsmen who have gone before.” While the saga does not specifically mention Valhalla, Sigmund is of Odin's line, and we can assume they all ended up there.

More often, it is the valkyries who deliver the invitations. If there is one image familiar from opera, it is that of the Valkyrie, usually portrayed as a busty soprano in a breastplate and winged helmet, shrieking syllables that, as Anna Russell points out in her discussion of the Ring cycle, are untranslatable because they don't mean anything. When you look at the lore, the valkyries become both scarier and more interesting.

Odin names thirteen valkyries in Grimnismál. Snorri adds a few more. As translated by Orchard (2011), they have meanings like “Wielder,” “Brandisher,” “War,” “Strength,” “War Bindings,” “Spear Waver,” and “Shield Truce.” Fulfilling Odin's will, they are the Choosers of the Slain. They may also have a role in battle. In the Germania of Tacitus, we hear of a tribal woman who watched the battles, shrieking to terrify the foe. In the Helgi poems, human women with the title of valkyrie send their fetches soaring above the battle, working spells. Given that at least one valkyrie name refers to binding, as workers of war magic they may be extensions of Odin's powers.

In Anglo-Saxon spells, we find the waelcyrge, sometimes used as a gloss for the Classical Furies. In the spell against rheumatism, some see them in the screaming “mighty women,” who send invisible spears to cause pain (Storms 1949, “With Faerstice”). The other job of the valkyries is to serve mead and ale to the heroes. The figures of women carrying drinking horns that appear on memorial runestones may represent valkyries, although this task was part of the role of a woman of high status, who performed it to honor heroes and promote peace within the hall. These stones are also the source of the valknut, the symbol of three interlaced triangles that has been adopted as a tattoo by some who dedicate themselves to Odin.

So who gets on Odin's A-list, and why? In the euhemerized history of the gods in Ynglingasaga 9, we learn that

Odin died in his bed in Sweden, and when he was near death he had himself marked with a spear point and dedicated to himself all men who died through weapons; he said that he should now fare to the Godheims and there welcome his friends. . . . The Swedes often seemed to see him clearly before great battles began; to some he gave victory, but others he bid come to him; both fates seemed good to them.

One mortal king who is believed to have ended up in Valhalla is Hákon the Good, last son of King Harald Hairfair. Fostered in England, he was raised a Christian, but alone among converted Norse kings, he did not try to impose the new religion on his subjects. For this, the poet who eulogized him praised him as a guardian of the Heathen temples. When Hákon had reigned for twenty-six years, the sons of his oldest brother attacked him. The king's side won the battle, but Hákon died of his wounds.

No doubt the king expected to go to heaven, but the skjald Eyvind Scaldaspiller (1932) says otherwise. His poem, the Hákonarmál, tells how Odin sent the Valkyries Gondul and Skogul “to choose amongst the kings which of Yngvi's race should go to Odin and be in Valhall.” When the king asks why they didn't help him, the Valkryies point out that though he is dying, his side has had the victory. As Hákon and his men approach Valhalla, Odin sends the hero Hermod and the god of poetry, Bragi, out to welcome him, and Bragi points out that eight of Hákon's brothers are waiting to greet him. The fact that the sons of Harald Hairfair had been vicious rivals when they were alive is irrelevant.

The gusto with which some warriors looked forward to this fate is expressed in the twenty-nine stanzas of the Krákumál, the death song sung by Ragnar Lothbrok. This is a sample. For the whole, see the Sagas of Ragnar Lothbrok and his Sons, translated by Ben Waggoner (2009, 76).

We struck with our swords!

My soul is glad, for I know

that Balder's father's benches

for a banquet are made ready.

We'll toss back toasts of ale

from bent trees of the skulls;

no warrior bewails his death

in the wondrous house of Fjolnir.

Not one word of weakness

will I speak in Vidrir's hall.

In Gylfaginning 40, Snorri tells us, “Each day after they have got dressed they put on war-gear and go out into the courtyard and fight each other and they fall each upon the other. This is their sport. And when dinner-time approaches they ride back to Val-hall and sit down to drink.” In the lore, fighting and drinking seem to be viewed as sufficient occupations for a hero. Today, many Heathens feel that the poets who chronicle the deeds of those heroes are also represented here, and given the advances in military technology, there is probably a computer room there as well.

Valhalla, the hall of the slain, has 540 doors, through each of which eight hundred warriors can pass. The einherior dine on the flesh of the boar Saehrimnir, which is cooked, eaten, and reconstitutes itself each day. For drink, the valkyries serve the mead that flows from the udder of the goat Heidhrun, who grazes on the leaves at the top of the Worldtree. It all sounds rather like the Viking sports channel, but the purpose of this establishment is not entertainment. In S. M. Stirling's The High King of Montival, young Mike Havel comments, “Well, they'll know they've been in a fight, but then it's pork chops at Odin's All Night Diner for us until Ragnarok” (Stirling 2014, ch. 2).

This poem, written to honor Paul Edwin Zimmer, who died in 1997, expresses my understanding of Valhalla. Paul, a swordsman, poet, and writer of heroic fiction, knew Odin long before I did and helped me understand him from a male perspective as well as from my own.

All-father Odin, Ale-Giving God!

Rage-giver, Runewinner, Rider of Yggdrasil!

Guard now and guide to glee in Valhalla

The rider who fares on Rainbow Bridge.

For nine nights' knowledge, on Yggdrasil,

You, Odin, the doom of death endured:

Worldtree Warrior, wisdom-winner,

Through spell and shadow lead the lost one—

Lead home to the feast, fastest far-farer,

The swordsman who strides over Rainbow Bridge!

This Bragi-blessed warrior whose name we call!

Edwin! Prepared is your place at the feast!

Unveiled valkyries the veteran greet;

Let beer now flow freely from barrels,

As the Hero's Portion you divide!

From wandering to wonder, from woe to bliss,

From Midgard's madness, hard on heroes,

Enter another on the Einherior's roll!

Welcome the wanderer to Warrior's Hall!

Wode and the Wild Hunt

After the conversion to Christianity, the belief that dead warriors went to Valhalla may have faded, but in the Wild Hunt, the Einherior lived on. For a vivid evocation of their appearance, I offer the following passage from The Broken Sword, by Poul Anderson, which was my introduction to Odin in 1954 and the first book to convey to me what it would be like to live in a culture with a completely different worldview.

The brief glimpse he had, seated on his plunging horse, of the mighty cloaked form that outran the wind, the huge eight-legged horse and its rider with the long gray beard and the shadowing hat. The moonbeam gleamed on the head of his spear and on his single eye.

Hoo, halloo, there he went through the sky with his troop of dead warriors and the fire-eyed hounds barking like thunderclaps. His horn screamed in the storm, the hoofbeats were like a rush of hail drumming on the roof, and then the whole pack was gone and the rain came raving over the world.

Imric snarled, for the Wild Hunt boded no good to those who saw it and the laughter of the one-eyed huntsman had been mockery. (Anderson 1954, 14)

Imric is right to worry, because when Odin sends an ancient sword forged by Bolverk as a naming gift for the human changeling the elf lord has stolen, it is clear that the god has his own plans.

The Wild Hunt, also known as the Furious Host, appears in medieval folklore from all over Europe, led by figures ranging from the devil, King Arthur, and Hellequin to the goddesses Diana or Herodias, and followed by ghostly riders. A similar tradition survives in the Pennsylvania Dutch country today. The leader of the Hunt in the Germanic countries is Odin or Wotan, followed by the Oskerei or the Wilde Jagd. Some of the riders appear as warriors from ancient times, while some are the recently dead or living men who participate in dream or trance. The Hunt rides the winter storms, especially around the time of Yule. In Norway, children were told not to whistle at night lest they attract the Hunt's attention.

John T. Mainer sees the wild ride as an expression of primal energy.

One of the earliest understandings of Odin was Wode, the transforming passion, the wild rage. To be caught by the wild hunt meant one of two things: if you were prey, you had to keep before the wild hunt all night or the pack would rend you asunder for its wild lord's pleasure.

The hunt took others than prey. The horn of the huntsman calls to the blood, the song of the wolf calls to the hunter, the killer, in all of us. If the Wild Hunt took you and you ran with it, civilization was thrown aside, humanity cast off like a tattered cloak, and you ran naked with fangs bare and no more between your hunger and the night than a wolf has.

The fire in the blood, the transforming passion, the madness and ecstasy of throwing off your cares, your inner conflicts, and following the wild hunt with only the joy of the hunt, the sweet taste of fear in the night, and the song of the pack; these are dark and splendid gifts.

To wake in the morning, drenched in sweat, eyes still burning, smiling softly with a body shaking in exhaustion, and a soul burned clean of conflict and care, a mind as still and peaceful as the morning after a thunderstorm; these are bright and healing gifts.

Our modern lives chain us with responsibility and care. Duty and struggle, stress and endless imperfect compromises fill us with internal stress and conflict we can never set down, never escape.

Wode, the Wild Huntsman. Primitive, some say the darkest face of Odin, Wode and his hunt are that throwing off of civilization for a howling embrace of life. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. We jump out of perfectly good airplanes. We pay money to put a fragile kayak into the part of the river called Hell's Gate, where the railroad was measured in dead men per mile. We hang from cliffs while hammering a ring backed nail into rock while tourists pass overhead in heated gondolas above the abyss you dangle over. How many times and how many ways do we find that taste of madness, that wild embrace of passion that is our last best preserver of sanity?

Somewhere inside, part of us listens for the sound of the horn above the TV, listens for the call of the pack above the AC. Some part of us chafes at our centuries of progress and burns for just one last chance to howl. (Mainer 2011, 21)

But the Hunt is more than a release for those who join the Furious Host. The explosion of energy renews the land. In meditation on one such stormy night, this is what my friend Vefara heard:

Those whose lives were great shouts through the worlds cannot have their death wasted in one place. On the nights that return life to the land, whether that is through the scouring of snow or the torrents of rain, the gale-winds bring the Host, the heroic dead, those who strove to bring themselves brim-full to the end of their days: whether in bed or on field. Not to repay the land's luck which was their charge in one place, as Frey's men might, but to scatter it over all the lands in their passing, that some small spark might land, stirred by the gale of their screams as they pass, in fertile soil, on fertile souls, and stir more greatness, as has been ever done.

And on nights like these . . . No longer only horses, no longer only wolves with snake-reins, but all manner of vehicle, carriage, and creature that could ever love a human hand and share the fierce joy of the battle-song: there are not a few on motorcycles now, and somehow the airplanes, biplanes through to fighters, fit well among the elder steeds without crowding them out.

The stories of the dead are the inspiration of the living, and the lights of the living are the inspiration of the dead. The heroes watch, and if they are of a mind to be among the Host, they ride. Disir and alfar worthy of the name spread their luck back into Midgard, taking in trade the praise of those who remember, and tell, the stories of the departed. The song of our passing stirs all who hear it, slowing, a little, the sick, pointless death that would come if, in its time, Ragnarök did not.

Hléfodh: God of the Grave-Mound

Although we are told in Ynglingasaga that it was Odin who introduced the practice of cremating the dead, he also has a connection with the grave-mound. Although he does not mention the spell in the list in Hávamál, it is clear that Odin can not only speak to the hanged, he can also talk to the dead in the mound.

In the Eddic poem Baldrsdraumar, Odin rides to the eastern door of Hel where he knows that a völva is buried and uses his necromancy to chant valgaldr, “death-galdor,” until the corpse is forced to rise and answer him.

Howes, or grave-mounds, are holy. Few know the spells to compel the dead, but once summoned, the howe-dwellers are often willing to offer wisdom to their descendants. Svipdag gets counsel from his dead mother by sitting on her grave, and Hervor persuades her berserker father to rise and give her his magic sword. However, the most significant relationship between Odin and the mound probably lies in the traditions of sacred kingship.

The fact that so many Germanic royal houses traced their lineage to Odin supports the idea that the places where those god-descended ancestors were buried would remain places of power. As Grundy puts it:

In general, it seems clear that Scandinavian rulers were expected to have a particular relationship with the dead, from whom at least a portion of their authority was derived. . . . If the Scandinavian rulers were thought to get anything more out of their ancestral mounds than a link with tradition and a prominent place from which to address a crowd, then the seat on the howe would fall more within Ódhinn's domain than that of any other deity. As cultic leader/sacrificer, the ruler also had a particular relationship with the realms of the dead: in his person, he linked the gods, the dead, and the living, and was responsible for maintaining communication and good relationships between them. (Grundy 2014, 115—116)

Draugadrottinn: Ruler of the Draugar

Unfortunately, kings are not the only powerful beings that may dwell in a mound. In the sagas, we find stories about a particularly nasty type of Undead called the draug. The term is often translated as “ghost,” but the draugar, although they can pass through the earth that covers their graves, are both solid and dangerous. To quote Lorrie Wood:

Perhaps it ought to be said that undeath, as such, was not necessarily considered to be outside the natural order of things. A dead man within his barrow could defend his home or odal ground without causing much comment, right up until a passing hero became interested in the buried grave-goods. (Wood 2006, 22)

In the sagas, particularly Grettis Saga and Eyrbyggfa Saga, stories of draugar abound. In general, they make trouble either because someone got greedy and broke open their mound or because they were nasty and difficult people while they were alive and in death see no reason to change their ways, driving animals mad, damaging property, and terrifying the neighborhood. Most of the stories about draugar take place after the conversion to Christianity, when the only recourse was to have the creature dismembered or burned by a hero. However, if Draugadrottinn is one of Odin's names, I suspect that in earlier times the god might have been invoked to defeat them.

Ragnarök

Odin is not only a god of death, he is also a god who is going to die.

Alone among European Paganisms, Heathenry includes a myth about the end of the age. Some see in this description of the End-Times a reflection of the Christian eschatology to which Norsemen of the time were being exposed, and a textual comparison with the biblical material taught to newcomers to Christianity does show a number of parallels (McKinnell 2008). However, I find myself compelled to look at another interpretation.

There will come a time, says the seeress in Völuspá, when the sky will darken during the summer, the weather grow “shifty.” Then the soot-red cock will crow in Hel, and in Asgard, Golden-comb will take up the cry. The einherior will awaken and Heimdall will blow his horn. In Midgard, “Civilization as we know it” will come to an end.

Brothers will battle and fight to the death,

Sisters' sons their kin will ruin.

Hard is the world with much whoredom,

An axe age, a sword age, shields are split.

A wind age, a warg age, before the world crumbles,

No one will spare another.

—Völuspá 45

All Powers that were bound now run free. The giant Hrym brings frost, and the sons of Surt set everything from Hel to the Bifrost Bridge aflame. The Midgard serpent churns the waves, the earth quakes as Midgard is destroyed. And the 540 doors of Valhalla open, and from each one, eight hundred warriors stride as Odin and the Æsir march out to meet the foe.

When I first read Völuspá, I interpreted these verses as a prediction of World War III and nuclear winter. But as I was flying back to California from the east coast during the drought, I saw a brown pall covering the land on the other side of the Sierras. The smoke from numerous forest fires had darkened the sky. These days, the end of Völuspá makes me think of global climate change. I see Ragnarök as what will happen when the balance of nature has been so badly upset that the destructive elemental forces are the only “giants” that remain.

For Midgard to change is natural and inevitable. The Holocene Epoch, during which our current ecosystem and our human cultures and religions evolved, will one day come to an end. Based on the time scale of earlier epochs, we ought to have a million years to go, but there is reason to believe the timetable could be upset by human actions.

Of all the gods, Odin is the one most concerned with preparing for the end of the age. I cannot help but wonder if he has been so actively recruiting during the past few years in an attempt to keep the destiny of the gods from being fulfilled too soon. If that is so, those of us who have answered his call have an obligation to help stave off Ragnarök in our time. When I first started talking about this, my friend Lorrie suggested that we form the Teal Party, which is what happens when Odin's blue meets environmental green. It even has an anthem, which you will find in appendix 2.

Whether it comes late or soon, in that final battle, Odin, at least in the forms in which we have known him throughout the history of Midgard, will die.

A second sorrow comes to Hlin [aspect of Frigg]

When Odin fares to fight the Wolf,

And the bane of Beli [Frey] to battle Surt.

Then will Frigg's lover fall.

—Völuspá 53

Dealing with Death

While Odin's concerns certainly include death and the dead, what is his meaning to us? Names and epithets are only part of the picture. What does it mean when we find a god whom we have first seen as a creator dealing death? And why do we need to pay attention to the dead?

The more I study the traditions of indigenous cultures in general and the Germanic peoples in particular, the more I realize that the dead were as integral a part of the religious system as the gods and the land. Honoring them is easier if you live in places where the dust of your ancestors is part of the earth you walk on or near a cemetery where you can put flowers on family graves than it is for those who no longer live near their parents, much less in the town where their grandparents lived and died.

Cremation makes environmental sense (and is the traditional method of disposal for followers of Odin), but a sense of connection can be lost when the ashes are scattered on the wind. And yet, even when we change our politics, our lifestyle, or our religion, we carry our physical ancestors with us in our DNA. Likewise, in the psyche we carry ancestors of the spirit—those who created the culture in which we grew up, whose stories we have read and heard, and whose ideas have shaped our souls.

By developing a relationship with those who lived before us, we create a context for the loss of those we live with today. Egil Skallagrimsson railed against Odin when his son was drowned, but in the end, he came to understand that the god's gift of poetry, though it could not negate Egil's grief, gave him a way to process it. Sorrow cannot be denied. It must be accepted, embraced, transcended. Odin asks nothing that he himself has not known. He too has lost a son. Unless they pass on the road after Ragnarök, Baldr, alone among all Odin's offspring, is the one whom he will never see again.

The other death that each one of us must deal with is our own. The old heroes laughed as they died because they lived on the edge, and if death did not come on a foe's sword, it would come from cold or the sea or hunger or disease. The men of the north knew themselves vulnerable, so they exulted in making good use of the power and time they had. It is not necessary to kill to know this, but you do have to accept danger, to forgo the idea that health or money in the bank will make you secure.

When we face Odin as a god of death, what are we looking at? What is it that we need to understand? We can gain some insight from “The Song of Odin,” by Michaela Macha (2004).

I am the rider of the tree

I am a draught of poet's mead

I am the socket's empty yawn

I am hunger: Who but I

Will sacrifice his self to Self?

I am the guest you don't expect

I am a song to wake the dead

I am a tide that drowns your mind

I am a trickster: Who but I

Brings woe to you and weal at once?

I am the spear to find your heart

I am a wolf within the woods

I am a storm that tears apart

I am creator: Who but I

Gives unto deadwood breath of life?

I am the counsel that brings fame

I am a sword that drinks your blood

I am a raven on a corpse

I am a gallows: who but I

Brings you to death while holding you?

I am the walker and the way

I am the gateway and the key

I am the rope of every thread

I am the end of every means.

Practice

1. Make a will.

First address the disposal of possessions and property, including ritual items. But when you have fulfilled your responsibilities to your heirs by addressing all the aspects the law might require, take a new piece of paper and list the nonphysical things you are leaving behind you. What have you done with your life? What have you given to the world? What deeds might earn the “fair fame” that will survive you? If you can't think of anything now, try making a “bucket list” of things you'd like to accomplish before you die.

If you are wondering how Odin might do this exercise, try listening to the Frank Sinatra song, “My Way.”

2. Read Krákumál at http://www.odins-gift.com/pclass/ragnarlodbroks-deathsong.htm and write your own Death Song.

3. Work with your ancestors.

If you don't already have a family tree, try one of the online genealogical services. If you have a yard, create a symbolic grave-mound in which you place pictures of your dead relatives. If that is not possible, gather pictures of dead friends and relatives to display. Serve a meal of foods traditional in your family. Set an extra place for the dead. When you have praised their deeds, eat in silence, opening your heart to their wisdom.

4. Celebrate Memorial or Veteran's Day.

Make an altar to the Einherior, honoring both those who have served their country in the military and other heroes whom you think deserve a place in Valhalla.

5. Spend some time in a cemetery.

Open your awareness to the dead. If circumstances allow, spend the night sitting out, ideally by the grave of a relative. Take a notebook to record the thoughts that come to you.

6. Honor the Hunt.

Wait for a good storm to come along at Yuletide—the latter part of December or the beginning of the year. Go outside and listen to the howling wind. Can you hear the Hunt raving through the skies? Set out offerings of apples for the horses—for the riders, bread and beer. Sing the “Wild Hunt” song (music is in appendix 2).

7. Eighth Night Meditation: God of the Dead

Set up your altar space as usual and light a black candle. You may also add pictures of ancestors or heroes. Then say:

Odin, by these names I invoke you:

Hangatyr and Váfudhr (Dangler)

Draugadrótin (Draugar Lord)

Hléfödhr (Mound Father)

Valfadhr (Father of the Slain)

Wod . . .

When the ones I loved are lost,

When the final fight is done,

Limbs no longer will obey,

And the enemy has won,

Odin, grieve with me.

When my heart is pierced by pain,

When lungs lose the fight for breath,

From my eyes the vision fades,

Word and will are blocked by death,

Odin, do not leave me.

When body's bonds no longer hold,

When mind, unmoored, at last breaks free,

To wander myriad worlds and ways

Experiencing ecstasy,

Odin, receive me.

Contemplate your death. You do not know how or when, but the one thing we all know is that it will come. You can read this meditation then think about it, or read it onto a tape to use as an induction.

Lie or sit comfortably. You are safe here. Know that your body will be warded until you return.

Close your eyes and breathe slowly and deeply. Let awareness of sounds and scents around you fade. Focus awareness in your feet and legs, then let them relax. Pay attention to hands and arms and then let them go limp as well. Feel the weight of your head and torso supported by bed or chair. As you breathe more slowly and deeply, awareness of your body recedes until a single cord of connection remains.

Who are you? What is the essence of the point of light that is your Self? Focus on that point, float in that peace. . . .

Reach out to the god. . . .

After a time, you feel a tug. The shining cord is pulling you back to awareness of your body, first your head and torso, then arms and hands, legs and feet. Breathe in and out more quickly, notice the smell of the air, the sounds in the room. Extend awareness, pull back all aspects of your Self. Then open your eyes and return to ordinary consciousness.

At Mimir's Well

Knowest thou where the Thunderflood rushes down from the heights, and where the mist from its frothing waters glimmers with rainbows? Canst name the seats of stone where the holy gods their judgments make? Knowest thou the place at the roots of the Tree where the Norns weave the fates of men? It may be, for the way to all of these has been shown to Æsir and Vans, and even sometimes to men.

But few there are of any kindred who have fared eastward round the Tree, towards Jotunheim. Here, tangled filaments glistening with rime trap the unwary. Long this web has been a-weaving, since time's beginning, layer upon layer of ice has been laid down. Each strand, beaded with that brilliance, mirrors the movement of the world and holds it forever fast. In that braiding of brightness is preserved all patterning. And all this crystal world cradles a deep well that waits for the moment when the distant sun sends through the latticework a single shaft. Something gleams in the well then; a star shines from the depths, and all the crystal webs reflect its radiance in rainbows beside which even Bifrost is pale.

Once Odin found his way here, wandering, seeking wisdom. The High One, to the depths descending, saw the knowledge refracted in the sharded strands and wanted to know more. He looked into the smooth, still waters beneath the crystal roots of the Tree. He put out a hand to cup the water, and found the surface smooth as ice, hard as stone. He sat back again and spoke a stave.

“Vegtam they call me, and far have I fared,

Much have I striven with powers—

Desirous am I of a drink from these depths,

Who shall deliver this draft to me?”

The smooth surface shivered. Words echoed from the crystal webs in a shimmer of sound.

“What wayfarer with such boldness bids me?

Three questions shall he ask and three shall answer;

A forfeit I take from him who fails,

But he drinks what he wills who masters me!”

Odin agreed to the terms of the contest, and the Voice from the well continued.

“Say then, Wanderer how the world was fashioned,

Who brought into being the beauty men see?”

Odin said:

“The Sons of Bor brought forth that beauty,

Midgardh they built from Ymir's bones.”

Once more the question came.

“And who called the creatures, in the world's beginning

Showed the Moon his way, set the Sun in her path?”

Odin said:

“The holy gods, gathered together,

On Ydalir's green plain gave all things names.”

The Well said:

“What name did they give to the well at the world's root,

Called the cauldron of crystal to the east of the Tree?”

But Odin was silent, for the gods could not name a thing of which they had no knowledge. And laughter came then from the deeps, and echoed in tinkling mockery from every shard of ice in the crystal web.

“Didst thou have true wisdom, oh Wanderer,

Wouldst have remembered what now I ask.

The Eye from thy head will I have as my forfeit,

Choose which one it is that thou wilt cast in!”

The Wanderer shrank back, but his word was given. Right eye or left eye—how could such a choice be mastered? Time he must have, though Loki was not there to melt the ice or find another way.

“Grant me first the answers,” said he, “to the riddles I shall say!

What is the place where the Norns are ever weaving,

In what spot do they spin out the fates of mankind?”

The Well said:

“At the Well of Urdhr the threads are woven,

Of the world which was, which is, and which will be.”

Odin said:

“What is that seat that the High One seeks

When the ways of the Nine Worlds he needs to know?”

The Well said:

“On the heights of Asgard, in the seat called Hlithskjalf,

The High One sits to see what passes below.”

Odin said:

“And how shall he look on what lies beyond it?

From what vantage shall Valfather view the spirit world?”

Thus spoke the Wanderer, but from the Well came only silence.

“I will drink,” said Odin, “and then thy forfeit I will pay.”

And he bent once more, cupping his hands, and gazing into the waters, saw endless depths that beckoned him to explore their mysteries. He dipped and he drank, and what went into him was Wisdom. He understood then all the answers to everything.

“Mimir art called, in the Cauldron of Memory

My eye shall I cast as the cost of this wisdom.

From thy darkness shall the Eye of Vafuth,

See all secrets at the heart of the worlds.”

And with hand still wet with wisdom, he tore out one eye from his head and cast it in.

“I know thee now, thou art not Vegtam,” sang the Well,

“but rather Odin, Oldest of Gods—”

The bright blood ran down the god's cheek and fell into the water. In a whisper came the reply.

“Odin I am, and One-Eyed also,

Single my seeing now, whichever eye I shall open.

From Hlithskjalf the waking world one eye watches,

From Mimisbrun my other shall mind what lies within.”

And it was so, and so it is that now when the lord of Asgard sits upon his Seat of Seeing, he perceives all that walk in the world. Terrible indeed is the glance of his living eye when he looks out over Midgard, but more terrible is the emptiness beneath the puckered lid on the other side, for it gazes within. Shape and structure, pattern, connection, all these he sees. He comprehends the myriad levels of meaning there.

Once a day, when the single shaft of sunlight slips through the crystal forest, it reaches to the depths of the Well. And then the Eye of Odin opens and a radiance blazes back that dims the sun, for what it looks upon is the glory beyond Ginnungagap. Then, it is Uncreated Light that the lost Eye of Odin sees.

Fig. 17. The Eye in the Well