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

Will the Real Odin Stand Up, Please?

High One, Just as High and Third

These are his names as we have heard,

Wide of Wisdom counsel gives,

Odin, Oski, Omi lives,

We call on Wodan, Vili, Vé,

to All-father, Sigfather, Gandfather pray.

—“Namechant,” by Diana L. Paxson

The man was in a blue cloak, and called himself Grimnir (the masked, or hidden one); he said nothing else about himself, though he was asked.

—Grimnismál, prologue

Those who have grown up with the straightforward definitions of gods that you find in Dungeons and Dragons manuals may find themselves frustrated when they try to explain Odin, who is “the god of . . .” a lot of things. One place to start is by looking at the names and titles he has been given over the years. The “Namechant” quoted above gives a few of them (for the music, see appendix 2 at the end of this book).

In Neil Gaiman's American Gods, Shadow asks, “Who are you?” His companion offers “Mr. Wednesday,” since it is his day. When Shadow insists on his “real” name, Mr. Wednesday answers, “Work for me long enough and well enough . . . and I may even tell you that” (Gaiman 2001, 22). For many who work with, or for, Odin, that is indeed the goal.

In “The Lay of Hárbard,” Thor, worn out from fighting giants, arrives on the shore of a fjord and calls to the ferryman to come over and take him to the other side. Apparently he is too far away to realize that the man at the ferry is his father. Odin seems to be in a quixotic mood. When the exchange of pleasantries works its way around to introductions, the god replies, “I am called Hárbard, I seldom hide my name . . .” (Hárbardhsljódh 10).

This may be the only joke Odin makes in the entire body of the lore. The point, of course, is that Odin has more names than anyone else in Asgard, and never gives his own name when a byname will do. He is the ferryman Hárbard (“Hoar-Beard”) when he teases his son at the shore. As the wanderer Vegtam, he conjures the seeress from her grave-mound to give him answers, and as Grímnir, the Hidden One, he withstands being “roasted” by King Geirrod. Still other epithets, bynames, and hypostases may be found elsewhere. In The Viking Way, Neil Price lists 204 names used for Odin in the lore.

Why does he have so many names? In the section of the Younger Edda called Skáldskaparmál, Snorri Sturlusson, writing for young poets, explains that in poetry you can call a thing by its name, substitute another word, or use a descriptive kenning. Given that kings needed praise poems to spread their fame, poets had to find a lot of terms for the patron of kings. The other reason, of course, is that Odin is interested in a great many things. Those who work with him today may refer to him as “the Old Man,” or sometimes, “You bastard.” How many names Odin really has ranks with his last words to Baldur as one of the great unanswerable questions in the lore.

Some years ago, my friend Lorrie Wood got a post from someone who was trying to understand the relationship between Odin's many aspects. This is how she replied:

The aspects of Odin that are in one or another “name clump” may resonate more with me, and others with another, but none of them aren't Odin. The aspects of Lorrie that might be collected under the aspect of “lwood”—the parts of me that directly pertain to having been a systems administrator for fifteen years—have friends to whom that's the way they know me. The folk who know me as “Clewara,” a community organizer for a certain poly-MMORPG gaming guild primary based in EVE Online, see a different side of me. Our enemies within that game see me and my alternate characters, which only means to them I'm a target, or I'm gathering reconnaissance on them because THEY are—well, we are to one another, ultimately. That's another group of folks who know me after that fashion. Both of those me's aren't the same me as the Lorrie who's been chugging along in service to the Troth for a decade and a half. That's another batch. The Lorrie that stands at Diana's side running Hrafnar isn't the same and hasn't the same friends as the foregoing either.

They all intersect and overlap: the Linux administrator learned how to handle groups of people and both know how to do a good turn in desktop publishing and so on. They all gather data and see patterns and weave threads and tease sense from them and all that happy fun stuff. Those are all me!

So how much less could Odin be Odin, whether I'm calling him Vegtam or Valfodr? Those address the god in different places, but they're the same god. Who is the Far-Crier? Who is the Way-Tamer? Who is the Hooded One? Who is the Old Man? Who is Frost-Beard and Horsehair-Mustache and Fire-Eyed and Dead-Eyed? Who is Woe-Worker and Desired One?

Yes.

In this chapter, you will encounter a summary of Odin's names and history that will give you a context for the more detailed discussion of his major aspects in the chapters that follow.

Aliases and Aspects

The name by which we know Thor's father best is Óðinn, anglicized as “Odin.” In Old English, he is Woden, in German, Wotan, or the archaic Wodanaz. The root word can be translated as “frenzy,” “voice,” “poetry,” “vision,” “excitation,” or “mind.” As you shall see in chapter 10, these terms derive from a state of mental exaltation that can indeed manifest as either inspiration or berserk fury. To me, the fervor of excitement one feels in the throes of creative achievement of any kind captures the essence of Odin's primary name.

In the earliest myths, Odin is accompanied by two other gods. We don't know much about his companions, and for this reason, scholars sometimes identify them as “hypostases” of Odin, or other “persons” sharing the same nature. In Völuspá 4, we learn that Midgard was made by the “sons of Bor,” identified by Snorri Sturlusson in Gylfaginning 5 as Odin, Vili, and Vé. If one loosely translates these as “Mind,” “Will,” and “Holiness,” they make up a useful creative trinity.

In verse 18, Odin, Hœnir, and Lódhur create the first humans from logs of wood found on the shore. Hœnir does appear elsewhere in the mythology. Lódhur is unknown, though some have speculated that this is another aspect of Loki. In the Prose Edda, Snorri Sturlusson offers us a more explicit trinity. When King Gylfi enters Valhall, he sees three thrones, one above the other, and is told that “the one that sat in the lowest throne was king and was called High, next to him the one called Jafnhár (Just-as-high), and the one sitting at the top was called Thridhi (Third)” (Sturlusson 1987, Gylfaginning 2). Given that the “words of the High One” (Hávamál) are ascribed to Odin, it is pretty clear that Jafnhár and Thridhi can be identified as Odin as well.

But three names don't begin to cover Odin's multiplicity of roles. After roasting in silence for nine nights between King Geirrod's fires (Grimnismál), Odin responds to receiving a horn of beer from the king's son with fifty stanzas of lore, in the final section of which he gives fifty-four names by which he has been known during various adventures. He was Grimnir, the masked, or concealed one, when he came in disguise to Geirrod's hall, but when he leaves, he is Ódhinn, “best of gods.”

Elsewhere in the lore, other names appear. Each one tells us something about the god. Drawing from all sources, we see Odin in many roles—the great sovereign and creator, the master of magic, the winner of the runes, the god of destruction and frenzy, the god of ecstasy, the god who loves women, who speaks to the dead, and gives defeat or victory.

Although he can take many forms, Odin's bynames give us a pretty good idea what people thought he looked like. When he wanders the world, he appears as a lean man wrapped in a blue or shaggy cloak, with a broad-brimmed hat pulled down over one eye, leaning on a staff that might also be a spear. His symbol is the Valknut.

Fig. 2: Unicursal and tricursal interlaced Valknuts

Colors associated with him are black, gray, and blue, and his numbers are three or nine. If the hat comes off, we see him with an eye-patch, half-blind beneath the bristling brows, or if angered, with a blazing eye. Beard and moustache are long, and he is lean and pale. Generally, he appears as old, but in one reference (Bárdharsaga Snaefellsáss 18), his hair is still red, which would explain where Thor gets his ruddy hair.

We should also not be surprised that Odin also has names derived from the creatures with whom he is associated, Bjorn, the bear, and of course the ravens (Hrafnagudh). Surprisingly, we have no wolf names, unless Hildolf (“Battle-Wolf”) should be counted here, instead of under his warrior epithets.

Odin through the Ages—Who Odin Is and How He Got That Way

Odin's names as we find them in the lore tell us a great deal about how he was seen at the end of the Viking Age. But gods, or our concept of them, evolve over time. For a more extensive discussion of Heathen history, see volume 1 of Our Troth: History and Lore, compiled by Kveldulf Gundarsson.

One question that is sometimes debated is whether Odin was part of the original Indo-European pantheon, migrated northward from the Middle East, or evolved from a god of death to become the god of kings. Lyonel Perabo (2015), a student of Scandinavian studies at the University of Iceland, characterizes Odin as a divine “vacuum cleaner” who sucked up the characteristics and powers of a number of other deities as he evolved.

Indo-European Origins

Nineteenth century scholars thought that the cult of Odin might have originated outside the Germanic area, among the Gauls or possibly on the Danube, and reached the north sometime between the 4th and 8th centuries CE (Common Era).

In the prologue to the Younger Edda, Snorri Sturlusson makes Odin a descendant of Thor who foresees that his destiny is in the north and migrates first to Germany and then to Sweden. Like other medieval historians who were inspired by Virgil's epic of the founding of Rome to link the legendary founders of their royal lines to Troy, Snorri says that Troy was the original home of the Æsir, and thus, the Aesir came from Asia. On the other hand, in the Ynglingasaga (2—5), he says that during Roman times, Odin led his people to Russia from somewhere east of the river Don, then to Germany, and finally to Scandinavia. Clearly, the present is not the first time that Europe has received an influx of immigrants from the east.

To find Odin's origins, how far back must we go?

Although the most likely explanation for Snorri's attempts to connect the Æsir with Troy is medieval literary fashion, it is tempting to see a possible source in folk memories of the migration of the Yamnaya culture from the steppes of the Caucasus and Urals into northern Europe four or five thousand years ago. A genetic survey reported in the June 2015 issue of Nature indicates that steppe herders whose background included Near Eastern elements moved west at this time (Callaway 2015). They joined with the hunter-gatherer and Middle Eastern farming populations that had arrived earlier to become the late-Neolithic Corded Ware people.

By the Bronze Age, a vital culture was flourishing in northern Germany and Scandinavia, enjoying vigorous trade with the eastern Mediterranean. These people spoke the Proto-Indo-European language, which diverged over time into the Baltic, Germanic, Italic, and Celtic language families. Other groups had moved east and south from the original homeland, carrying their language to Eastern Europe, the Mediterranean, and what are now Turkey, Armenia, India, and Iran.

What did these early Indo-Europeans believe? The French scholar Georges Dumézil is best known for his “tripartite” theory, the idea that just as Indo-European society was divided into three classes (preserved in the Hindu caste system and reflected in the Eddic poem Rígsthula, which tells how the god Heimdall established social classes), the gods of all Indo-European—descended cultures can be divided into three groups. We have the gods of physical well-being, who would include Frey, Njordh, and most of the goddesses; the gods of physical prowess, especially Thor; and the gods who maintain cosmic and juridical order, namely, Odin and Tyr (Dumézil 1973). This idea has been vigorously criticized by more recent Heathen scholars, who point out that to lump all the Vanir into the third function seriously unbalances the pantheon, and, among other problems, ignores the importance of Frey as the patron of the Swedish Yngling kings.

However, Dumézil's analysis of Odin in relation to the deities of India is worth considering.

The gift of shape-changing so characteristic of the former [Varuna] coincides with the maya that the latter employs so abundantly. The immediate and irresistible catch that Varuna makes, expressed by his lines and his knots, is also Odin's mode of action. On the battlefield he has the gift not only of blinding, deafening, and benumbing, but literally the gift of binding his enemy with an invisible line. (Dumézil 1973, 40)

Varuna is associated with the night, and the stars are the thousand eyes with which he sees all; however, as Indian religion evolved, he became a god of the sea, and the dead who are in his charge are those who drown. For Kris Kershaw (2000, ch. 11), it is Rudra, deadly leader of the Vedic equivalent of the mannerbunde who danced in animal skins over black clothing, who seems the closest analogue to Odin.

In The Cult of Oðinn: God of Death?, Stephan Grundy explores the possibility that Odin's original role may have been that of a god of death and the dead. Three major functions are ascribed to him in Old Norse literature—battle god, god of kingship, and god of magic and poetry. As a god of war, he does not actually take part in conflict, but rather (via his valkyries) is the chooser of the slain. His major battle skill is to demoralize the enemy. As a god of kingship, he connects the living ruler with his ancestors in the grave-mound. As a god of magic and poetry, he chants charms to speak with the dead and travels through the worlds. In later chapters, we will see more about all these skills.

Is Odin a shaman? Grundy and other critics of this theory point out that properly speaking, a “shaman” operates in a tribal cultural context quite different from the world of the Viking Age, much less our own. Certainly Odin's other functions argue for a very different identity. However, if we look at Odin's roles as a god of magic and battle, it is possible to see him at an earlier period as the shaman who migrated with the tribes, working magic to encourage their warriors and terrify their foes.

Odin and Rome

Most of our written information on the origins of Scandinavian culture comes from sources such as the Eddas, The Lives of the Norse Kings (Heimskringla) by Snorri Sturlusson, and the history of the Danes by Saxo Grammaticus, all written down in the 12th to 13th centuries. These sources begin with events from the Migrations Period (4th through 7th centuries), when many different Germanic tribes were moving south and west into Europe. We also have a few references in chronicles and inscriptions from the Roman Empire. Even at that date, there is evidence for what H. M. Chadwick calls “the crafty, magical, bardic side [of Odin] on the one hand, and the warlike side on the other” (Chadwick 1899, 29).

The Romans dealt with the abundance of deities they encountered as the Empire expanded by the interpretatio Romana—identifying the native gods as local forms of whatever Roman god they most resembled. Germans who served with the Roman army and the Romano-German population living along the border of Germania felt that the Roman equivalent of Wodanaz was the Roman Mercurius (who himself overlaps, but is not quite the same, as the Greek Hermes). Mercurius is associated with travel, commerce, and communication and was also a psychopomp who conducted the souls of the dead to the Otherworld. In Cologne, the cathedral was built on the ruins of a Roman temple to Mercurius Augustus. The temple was erected to honor the Emperor Titus, but if I were trying to describe Odin's role as a god of kings in Roman terms, this aspect of Mercurius is the name I would use.

According to Tacitus, a Roman historian who collected information from officers who had served in Germania, the chief god of the Germans was “Mercurius” (Tacitus 1964, Germania 9), who was given human sacrifices. The Greek Hermes and the Roman Mercurius are gods of communication, guides for the dead, magicians, and tricksters—categories that certainly apply to Odin. However, Hermes generally facilitates, rather than originating, action. The messages he carries are those of Zeus and other gods, not his own, whereas Odin speaks to the dead and sometimes is responsible for their deaths rather than serving as a guide. Mercurius and Hermes come closer to Odin in his aspect as Hermes Trismegistus, who in the Hellenistic period was master of esoteric wisdom, though Hermetic magic tends to be far more ceremonial than the skills attributed to Odin in the Ynglingasaga. Finally, the tricks played by Odin have a deeper purpose, and often a deadlier result, than the relatively innocent pranks ascribed to Hermes.

My own explorations have led me to speculate on links between Odin and the deities Apollo and Lugos. His Irish incarnation, Lugh Samildanach, is good at everything. In his Gaulish form, Lugos sent ravens to guide his people to found the city of Lugdunensis (Lyons). I am not the only one to have noted these similarities. In The Quest for Merlin, Nikolai Tolstoy proposes that Merlin may have been a priest of Lugh/Odin. Before acquiring his associations with the sun, Apollo was a god of poetry and healing. A plate found at Delphi shows him accompanied by a crow. But Apollo also has a dark side in which he runs with the wolves and shoots plague arrows with his silver bow. He and Odin are not the same god, but I suspect that they sometimes hang out in the same bar.

Another deity who is sometimes linked with Odin is the Irish battle and crow-goddess, the Morrigan. According to author Morgan Daimler, who has worked with the Morrigan for many years, they have a lot in common.

Although it's fairly popular to equate the Morrigan to the Valkyries, I find that a bit of an unequal comparison myself and feel that it makes more sense to compare her to the Valfather than to those who are known to serve him. The two deities have a variety of things in common including a tendency in mythology to interfere directly in human affairs and a reputation in modern paganism to be active among their followers. Both the Morrigan and Odin are known to sway the outcome of battles in favor of those they want to win and are associated with the dead. Both are also associated with prophecy and strategy, and both are known for appearing in disguise or presenting themselves to people in stories as someone else. And of course Odin and the Morrigan are both strongly associated with magic of various kinds. They are not, however, identical, as the Morrigan is not known to wander as Odin does nor is she striving to gain wisdom or to prevent any battles, such as Ragnarok. I've always thought the two Gods would probably get along well enough and enjoy sharing a drink, when they weren't enjoying fighting and trying to outwit each other.

By the time the migrating Germanic tribes encountered the Romans, Wodan was well established. In his Annales (13:57), Tacitus, writing in the first century, tells of a war fought between the Hermunduri and the Chatti for possession of a sacred salt river. The victorious Hermunduri then sacrificed the entire beaten side, with all their arms and possessions, to “Mars and Mercury' that is, Tiwaz and Wodanaz. This suggests that Odin and Tyr played complementary roles in warfare. The origin story of the Lombards, recounted by Jordanes in the 6th century, portrays Godan (Wodan) in a more kingly role, tricked by his wife into giving the tribe both victory and a name.

The God of Skjalds and Kings

Whatever his origins, by the Viking Age, Odin appears as the leader of the Æsir, patron of poets and kings. Until the conversion to Christianity was complete and the task of reporting history taken over by monkish chroniclers, it was the poets who recorded the deeds of the kings and heroes. The livelihood of the skjalds and the fame of the king were equally dependent on that relationship. We should not be surprised by the number of battle names recorded for Odin—the kings made offerings to him for victory, but there are only so many ways to describe a battle—the poets were probably asking the god for more words.

In the Younger Edda, Snorri Sturlusson introduces Odin as All-father. Nonetheless, a few paragraphs later, we are given a list of additional names for the god, indicating that, despite the propaganda, his other aspects were still known. Bynames such as Vidrir (“Weather god”) and Thund (“Thunder”) link him to the wind and storms; names such as Hagvirk (“Skillful Worker”) and Thrór (“Thrive”) give him an even broader sphere. Even though Odin received sacrifice mostly from Norse nobility and kings, he is not a sovereign in the medieval sense of the word. Indeed, our image of Odin as “king of the Norse gods” seems to owe more to later writers brought up on classical mythology than it does to the Eddas.

Odin Goes Underground

Iceland was the last of the Scandinavian countries to convert to Christianity. Odin was remembered in the sagas set in earlier times, but he was no longer worshipped. He did survive in folklore, especially in stories of the Wild Hunt, about which we see more in chapter 8. Grimm records some tantalizing traditions from Germany, in which the last sheaf in the wheat harvest might be left out for Odin's horse. There is also the curious appearance in the 13th century of Wunsch, or “Wish” (about whom there is more in chapter 5), personified as a powerful creative being who sounds a lot like Wodan (Grimm 1966, I:138).

Was Odin gone? My belief is that for a time he went underground, wandering the world in disguise throughout the Renaissance and Enlightenment, inspiring new ways of thought and invention.

The Return of the Wanderer

In England, the publication in 1770 of Thomas Percy's Five Pieces of Runic Poetry and Northern Antiquities reintroduced Odin to a changing world. As the 18th century gave way to the 19th, the rationalism derived from the philosophy of classical Greece was replaced by a new romantic nationalism that drew on European folklore. The Brothers Grimm collected fairy tales, and Jacob Grimm produced his monumental collection of German folklore, Teutonic Mythology. For inspiration, writers, artists, and musicians mined the legends of their lands. Interest spread even to the United States, where Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote several poems based on incidents in Heimskringla.

In England, the men who founded the British Empire sought inspiration in the North. In The Vikings and the Victorians, Andrew Wawn suggests that it was the Victorian interpretation of the old lore that shaped the way we see the Vikings today. A bookshelf full of works on Odin debated wheather he was

a mighty Scythian leader who had once challenged the tyranny of Rome, and who could now act as a role model for upwardly mobile Victorian young achievers? Or was he a uniquely gifted member of a primitive society invested by his awestruck fellows with supernatural authority? Or was he part of a primeval nature myth transmitted by oral tradition? Or could his presence be found in contemporary folklore in rural Britain? (Wawn 2000, 5)

They may have found support for the first theory in a classical story that a “tribe from the Sea of Azov, allied with Mithradates, carried on his dream of one day invading Italy. Led by their chieftain Odin, this tribe was said to have escaped Roman rule after Pompey's victory by migrating to northern Europe and Scandinavia” (Mayer 2010, 360).

At first, like Snorri Sturlusson, the scholars followed the Greek philosopher Euhemerus in interpreting gods as deified men. In “The Hero as Divinity,” a lecture given in 1840, Thomas Carlyle, who saw mythology as personification of the workings of nature, focused on Odin as a man remembered as a god:

Wheresoever a thinker appeared, there in the thing he thought was a contribution, accession, a change or revolution made. Alas, the grandest “revolution” of all, the one made by the man Odin himself, is not this, too, sunk for us like the rest! Of Odin what history? Strange rather to reflect that he had a history! That this Odin, in his wild Norse vesture, with his wild beard and eyes, his rude Norse speech and ways, was a man like us, with our sorrows, joys, with our limbs, features—intrinsically all one as we, and did such a work! But the work, much of it, has perished; the worker, all to the name. “Wednesday”, men will say tomorrow, Odin's day! Of Odin there exists no history, no document of it, no guess about it worth repeating. (Carlyle 1840)

Northern mythology was new and exciting, but the people who read it had been educated in the classical tradition, and it was natural for them to see Odin, or Wotan, as a northern equivalent of Zeus. It was Richard Wagner, abandoning the Italian models that dominated the opera of his day, who repopularized German mythology on an international scale with The Ring of the Nibelungs, an epic four-part retelling of the legend of Siegfried and Brunhild, creating, or perhaps discovering, a new incarnation of the god.

In Das Rheingold, the first opera in the Ring cycle, Wotan is a young warrior/king, already fond of women and wandering but driven most by a lust for knowledge, which leads him first to capture the Ring of Power and then to give it up. In Die Walküre, the second opera, he is the All-father, trapped in the conflict between Will and Love and seeking a way around the laws that he himself has made. In Siegfried, the third opera, and the one with the most explicit borrowings from the Eddas, he appears as “the Wanderer,” who tempts and manipulates the other characters rather than intervening directly. By Götterdammerung, the last opera in the cycle (in which he does not directly appear), Wotan is bound by the fate he has laid down and can only wait, hoping that his offspring will end the old world so that a new one can be born.

Myths have a wonderful capacity to adapt to changing cultures. Wagner, sensing the potential hazards of the forces unleashed by the Industrial Revolution, made the “ring” a key to boundless wealth and power and Wotan a tragic figure struggling with the problem of how to use it. Wagner's operas occupy a unique position in music today, and some of Odin's divine nature still shines through. In a radio interview, I have heard a Wagnerian singer describing performing the Ring as a “religious experience.”

This romantic nationalism continued into the early 20th century, especially in Germany, where, as Jung observes in his essay, “Wotan,” “What is more than curious—indeed, piquant to a degree—is that an ancient god of storm and frenzy, the long quiescent Wotan, should awake, like an extinct volcano, to new activity, in a civilized country that had long been supposed to have outgrown the Middle Ages” (Jung 1936).

In the early 20th century, young people wandered through the forests and revived Pagan ceremonies. By the 1930s, however, they were marching for the Nazis. Jung saw Wotan as the Wild Huntsman, a fury that was sweeping the Christian culture of Germany away. Writing before World War II, he could not imagine the horrors to which the furor teutonicus would lead; however, he clearly identified the power of those aspects of the god that bring madness and destruction, about which I have more to say in chapters 8 and 9.

Who Was That Masked Man? Odin Today

During and after the First and Second World Wars, many German-Americans anglicized their names, and Scandinavian newspapers and cultural organizations closed. After the Second World War, it was decades before Wagner's Ring operas became acceptable once more. Even today, the swastika, an ancient sun symbol found all over the world, cannot be used.

Ralph Metzner, who grew up in Germany during the Second World War, “had an almost visceral revulsion against any belief system even remotely associated with the Nazis' genocidal ideology” (Metzner 1994, 4). In The Well of Remembrance, he describes his struggle to reconnect with Germanic mythology. As he began to explore, it seemed to him that

the entire trajectory of European culture, with its relentless pursuit of knowledge in many forms, seems in some way related to the figure of this wandering god, his Greek counterpart Hermes, and such legendary wizard figures as Faust and Merlin. Strangely, the Odin myth seemed to describe many aspects of my own life-path, my continuing interest in exploring nonordinary realms of consciousness, triggered by my first psychedelic experience in 1961, as well as my continuing fascination with cross-cultural studies of religion, mythology and shamanism. (Metzner 1994, 10)

For many, The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien, a Rawlinson and Bosworth Professor of Anglo-Saxon at Oxford University, was their first exposure to Germanic culture. Originally appearing during the mid-fifties, the trilogy became a worldwide sensation in 1965, when Don Wollheim published the first paperback editions. I first encountered the books in 1963 when they were recommended to me by my mentor Dr. Elizabeth Pope, head of the Mills College English department. At that time, fans were dedicated but few, and having read the books admitted you to a select society, populated by medievalists and science fiction/fantasy fans. But by the end of the 1960s, posters advertising Middle Earth were on dorm room walls, and high school students were learning to write in runes.

By the time The Lord of the Rings had become a cultural icon and Metzner was beginning to explore consciousness, old memories were fading. Change was, one might say, in the wind, and one of the things that suddenly seemed possible was worshipping the old gods once more. A “church of Odin” had been founded in Australia before World War II. It was reestablished in England in the early '70s, and in 1980, it was renamed the “Odinic Rite.”

Else Christiansen started the Odinist Fellowship in 1969. A lot of her work was done with people in prison, which I discuss at more length in chapters 7 and 9. In 1973, Sveinbjörn Beinteinsson petitioned the Icelandic Parliament for recognition of Ásatru as a legitimate religion. Since then, it has flourished in Iceland, where, as of 2015, the Ásatruarfelagid had 2,700 members (in a population of 370,000) and is now building a national temple.

In the United States, an early group was the Asatru Free Assembly (AFA), founded by Steve McNallen. It foundered for lack of support, though it has since reorganized as the Asatru Folk Assembly and is now specifically limited to people of European ancestry. In 1987, former members of the AFA started two new groups, the Asatru Alliance (a federation of kindreds for people of European ancestry) and the Troth (which is open to all who are called by the Germanic gods). For a more complete account of all these developments, see chapter 7 of Our Troth: History and Lore. The Troth is the organization to which I have belonged since 1992, and I am understandably prejudiced in its favor. If you are looking for an inclusive organization that values both scholarship and inspiration, I recommend it. For information, see www.thetroth.org.

So what role is Odin playing in the 21st century? In the chapters that follow, in addition to the testimony of the lore, you will find comments and accounts from people who are encountering him today.

Practice

1. Build an Altar

If you are hoping to develop a relationship with someone, a good first step is to find a place to meet. When the “someone” is a god, begin with an altar. In time, your altar for Odin may become quite elaborate, but start simply. A dark blue cloth, a candle, and a shot glass for offerings are enough to serve as a focus for meditation. If you want to do more, you can make a backdrop from a cardboard box in the form of a triptych, painted or covered with cloth. Find three images of the god online, print them, and attach. This will also be useful as a traveling altar. However, be prepared to expand the space—if you continue to work with Odin, you will collect additional items, and your altar will grow.

Fig 3. Portable altar for Odin

2. Collect a library

Odin may be a god of inspiration, but he is also a master of lore. Your altar should be balanced by a bookshelf. If followers of the Abrahamic religions are the “people of the Book,” Heathens are “the people of the Library.” For starters, I suggest:

H. R. Ellis Davidson, Gods and Myths of Northern Europe, Penguin, 1965 (reissued as Gods and Myths of the Viking Age, Crown, 1982). This is a classic work that provides a good general introduction to Old Norse culture and mythology. Used copies are readily available.

Neil Gaiman, Norse Mythology, Barnes & Noble, 2017. A new and sometimes irreverent retelling of the basic myths.

John Lindow, Norse Mythology, Oxford University Press, 2001. An accessible, dependable source to help you keep track of who's who.

Andy Orchard (trans.), The Elder Edda: A Book of Viking Lore, Penguin Classics, 2011. These are the great poems that are the basis of Norse mythology.

Snorri Sturlusson (Anthony Faulkes, trans.), Edda, J. M. Dent & Sons, 1987. This is a complete, relatively recent translation of the Younger, or Prose Edda, a 13th-century compendium of stories about the gods intended as a sourcebook for poets.

If you want to find out more about Heathen religion, try Our Troth: History and Lore and Our Troth: Living the Troth, by Kveldulf Gundarsson (available from Lulu.com or Amazon) or, for a more introductory account, my own Essential Asatru (Citadel, 2009).

Contemporary writers are telling new Odin stories of their own. For tales of how the gods may appear today, see:

Steve Abell, Days in Midgard: A Thousand Years On, Outskirts Press, 2008.

Laure Gunlod Lynch, Odhroerir, Nine Devotional Tales of Odin's Journeys, Wild Hunt Press, 2005.

John T. Mainer, They Walk with Us, The Troth (Lulu.com), 2015.

“Wanderer”

Who is this who walks the roads,

An old man, tall and grey?

One of his eyes is gone,

The other looks far away.

He's leaning on a walking-stick,

It's very long, it's very thick,

His steps are slow, his eye is quick,

On this cold, foggy day.

Always be kind to travelers,

Wandering near and far,

Always be kind to travelers,

You don't know who they are . . .

The old man knocking at the door

Asks if you'll be kind,

Two crows in the sky,

Circle close behind.

Give him a cup of what you've got,

Beer that's cold or coffee hot,

A bowl of stew if you've a pot,

Whatever you can find.

Always be kind to travelers,

Wandering near and far,

Always be kind to travelers,

You don't know who they are . . .

Patterns always weaving

More than you can see,

The courage, wit and kindness,

Strength and honesty,

Can weave the pattern round you

Better than you know,

Take the old man's blessing

That he'll give before he'll go.

Who was that gone down the road?

You never got his name.

He never said where he's bound

Or said from where he came.

What comes after, who can tell?

Earthly heaven, earthly hell?

But did ye treat him ill or well

Then you will reap the same.

Always be kind to travelers,

Wandering near and far,

Always be kind to travelers,

You don't know who they are . . .

—Leslie Fish, Avalon Is Risen (Prometheus Music, 2012)

Fig. 4, “Vegtam”