Celtic Influences in Germanic Religion: A Survey 3831642265, 9783831642267

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Matthias Egeler

Celtic Influences in Germanic Religion A Survey

Herbert Utz Verlag • Miinchen

Münchner Nordistische Studien herausgegeben von Annegret Heitmann und Wilhelm Heizmann Band 15

Titelbild: “A British Druid,” from William Stukeley: Stonehenge. A Temple restor’d to the British Druids. London: Printed for W. Innys and R. Manby, at the West End of St. Pauls 1740,plate I (facingp. 1). Reproduced with the kind permission of the Library of St Catharine s College, Cambridge.

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http://dnb.d-nb.de abrufbar. Dieses Werk ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Die dadurch begründeten Rechte, insbesondere die der Übersetzung, des Nachdrucks, der Entnahme von Abbildungen, der Wiedergabe auf photomechanischem oder ähnli­ chem Wege und der Speicherung in Datenverarbeitungsanlagen bleiben - auch bei nur auszugsweiser Verwendung - Vorbehalten. Copyright © Herbert Utz Verlag GmbH -2013 ISBN 978-3-8316-4226-7 Printed in EU Herbert Utz Verlag GmbH, München 089-277791-00 • www.utzverlag.de

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“Anything is possible in the fabulous Celtic twilight, which is not so much a twilight of the gods as of the reason.” J.R.R. Tolkien (1963, p. 30)

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After I had published some of my work on Valkyries and their Celtic (and other) relatives, one day I found myself being asked whether I would contribute a short overview of Celtic influences in Germanic religious history to an edited volume. I agreed immediately – only to realise a while later that (apart from the Valkyries) I really did not know very much at all about the general state of scholarship on this topic. This was all the more worrying as no-one else within living memory seemed to have produced a detailed, critical synthesis on which to build. After some two years of further thought and after collecting the historiography in question, the present text is an attempt to provide both a summary and a critical assessment of the debate concerning Celtic influences in Germanic religious history since the beginning of the 20 century. (It should perhaps be emphasised at the outset that this attempt is restricted to religious history, though understood in a relatively broad sense; ‘secular’ heroic legend has not been included, as this topic would require a book in its own right.1) The original plan was to sum up the state of scholarship in a short article, but after surveying the historiography I had the impression that more was called for: in over a century of research, many th

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What exactly is meant by ‘religious history’ and what lies outside its scope depends on the vexed question of the definition of the term ‘religion’. (For overviews and theories on this question cf. e.g. Zinser 2010, pp. 35-80; Rüpke 2007, pp. 2627; Auffahrt & Mohr 2006; Kehrer 1998; Ahn 1997; Geertz 1973.) I do not wish to venture into such definitional debates here: to do so would be to raise a multitude of hotly contested questions without contributing much to a survey whose primary purpose is to establish the current state of scholarship in the field. In the following, the selection of material will therefore be based on an understanding of ‘religious history’ which uses the term in a very wide sense based on the varying usage of the terms ‘religion’ and ‘mythology’ in the historiography rather than on theoretical considerations about ‘religion’ as such. I will return to this question below (p. 106).

5 suggestions have been put forward, but there has been very little critical debate. Accordingly, the present text aims to provide not only an overview of the proposals advanced to date, but also some assessment of their plausibility. In terms of sources, the main emphasis is on the evidence of the Middle Ages, which has constituted the centrepiece of scholarly discussion to date; Celtic and Germanic antiquity also receive attention (albeit briefly), but the treatment of the archaeological evidence in particular has been largely restricted to the presentation of a digest of current opinions. The section dealing with the Middle Ages – i.e. the question of insular Celtic influences on Norse mythology – enganges in more sustained criticism and discusses the proposed Celtic-Norse relationships in enough detail to allow an assessment of their merit. This section presents broad coverage of research conducted from the early 20 century onwards. 19 century research, although groundbreaking for its time, has not normally been addressed explicitly; the methodology of Sophus Bugge (the most important contributor of his time by far) was felt to be unsatisfactory already at the turn of the century, and another century later this assessment remains valid.2 Occasional gems of 19 century research are, however, mentioned where appropriate. Even for the 20 century, I have not aimed at complete coverage of existing scholarship. Rather, the goal was a detailed treatment of methodological problems on the basis of a broad, but not exhaustive analysis of the historiography: much of what follows is a discussion of methodological issues raised by many 20 century contributions to the debate surrounding Celtic influences in the North. These methodological issues will soon make clear why I have chosen the above quotation of Tolkien to introduce this little book: 20 century discussions repeatedly faced seemingly insurmountable th

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E.g. Bugge 1889; Bugge 1899. For a concise summary of this earliest part of the debate cf. Chesnutt 1989, pp. 35-36; Andersson 1964, pp. 56-61. For a (comparatively) recent critique of Bugge cf. also Harris 1976, pp. 70-71. Early critical remarks can be found already in Mogk 1896, p. 27; von der Leyen 1908; von Sydow 1910, p. 65; Finnur Jónsson 1921, pp. 80-93; or cf. van Hamel (ed.) 1933, p. 260.

6 methodological problems which have rarely led to a constructive debate. Instead, they have created a widespread climate of scepticism towards any attempt at elucidating possible historical connections between Norse and insular Celtic mythological patterns and motifs. The following survey will show that this feeling of scepticism is on the one hand justified (at least from a historiographical perspective), but that it is in some respects also overstated: while much that has been proposed is indeed rather problematic, there are also a number of contributions which illustrate that a methodologically responsible approach to the question of Celtic-Norse religious contact is possible. In fact, in spite of the many problems inherent in the debate about Celtic-Norse religious contact, there is probably more to it than the present climate of scepticism would lead one to expect – if one has the patience to search for the worthwhile contributions among those that belong to the (as Tolkien put it) ‘Celtic twilight’. To restrict the following to a collection of the best pieces, however, would not have served the debate. On the one hand it is of methodological interest to analyse failed comparisons and to show they have failed. On the other, the lack of actual discussion of proposed insular Celtic-Norse influences to date (as opposed to mere expressions of disbelief) makes it worthwhile to present such a discussion – if only to clear the way for new approaches. Those who are interested less in methodological questions and more in interesting results may jump directly to the sections about Útgarðaloki, the Valkyries or the Ódáinsakr, perhaps making a stopover with the mythological pigs along the way. Like every book (and probably more than many), the present one has not been written in isolation, and I owe thanks to a number of people for their help in bringing it to completion (while it goes without saying that full responsibility for any errors of omission, fact, interpretation or English grammar remains with me alone). In the first place I am indebted to Jens Peter Schjødt, who gave me the idea of starting this little book, while I owe much of the motivation to actually finish it to Wilhelm Heizmann and Bernhard Maier. Alex Woolf pointed me to some literature which I would otherwise

7 surely have missed. Bernard Mees had the patience to read the whole manuscript and to point out a number of oversights. Special thanks go to Kathryn Stevens, who undertook the laborious task of correcting my English style and grammar across the whole manuscript, and who along the way also forced me to clarify my presentation of a number of points, as well as to re-think my interpretation of some Tacitean historiography. Colin Higgins and Sarah Fletcher kindly provided me with a cover image from one of the 18 century volumes held by the library of St Catharine’s College. And, of course, I thank the editors of the , Annegret Heitmann and Wilhelm Heizmann, for accepting the manuscript for publication in their series, and the of the Ludwig-MaximiliansUniversity in Munich for covering the costs of printing. I dedicate this little book to my parents Sigrid and Reinhold Egeler. th

St Catharine’s College, Cambridge Autumn 2012 Matthias Egeler

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1. Introduction: the Penny for the Ferryman...................................10 2. Celtic-Germanic Parallels in Antiquity ........................................16 2.1. Parallels and Influences? Rejection of Cult Images, Hairsacrifice, the Dioscuri, the Island of Mother Earth, Animal Standards........................................................................................16 2.2. Further Parallels: Weapon Sacrifices ....................................22 2.3. Borrowing and Linguistics: Veleda, nimidas, the Matres....29 3. The Middle Ages ........................................................................... 33 3.1. Útgarðaloki.............................................................................. 33 3.2. Hrungnir’s Whetstone .......................................................... 44 3.3. Thor.........................................................................................45 3.4. Eschatology............................................................................ 50 3.5. Drowning in Mead ................................................................. 53 3.6. The Death of Balder............................................................... 55 3.7. The Everlasting Battle ............................................................58 3.8. Grave Mounds ........................................................................62 3.9. Rebirth ................................................................................... 64 3.10. Heimdall............................................................................... 69 3.11. Ægir........................................................................................79 3.12. Mythological Pigs ................................................................. 81 3.13. Mímis brunnr and its Surroundings ....................................85 3.14. Odin...................................................................................... 90 3.15. Freyr.......................................................................................97 3.16. Fruits of Summer in Winter ..............................................103 3.17. Satire ....................................................................................105 3.18. Myth, Legend, Literature.................................................. 106

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4. The Middle Ages and Charon’s Obol ........................................108 4.1. Valkyries................................................................................108 4.2. Freyja..................................................................................... 116 4.3. The Ódáinsakr ...................................................................... 122 5. Concluding Remarks................................................................... 127 Bibliography..................................................................................... 132 Old Norse Texts.......................................................................... 132 Irish Texts.................................................................................... 133 Secondary Literature and Text Editions .................................... 134

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During the 3rd century AD, two regions of central Germany and the Danish islands show groups of particularly rich, ‘princely’ burials. One of the noticeable features of these burials is that many of the dead were buried with a Roman (gold) coin or a coin-like substitute (like a golden ring) in their mouth. This immediately recalls the Greek and Roman custom of putting a coin into the mouth of a deceased person as payment for Charon, the ferryman of the dead. Moreover, during the period in question such a custom is not found elsewhere in , the Germanic regions outside the borders of the Roman Empire. In fact, it is clear that these highstatus burials belong to individuals who were in close contact with Roman civilisation, as they contain a large number of imported Roman artefacts among the grave goods. Thus, in this case the coins in the mouths of the dead indeed appear to reflect the GrecoRoman custom of Charon’s obol. A possible route of transmission can be found in the political history of the period: Germanic mercenaries in the service of the Gallic Empire during the 3rd century could have become familiar with this habit and brought it with them on their return to their homeland.3 What does such a clear instance of Mediterranean influence on the religious history of two regions of have to do with the Celtic influence that is the topic of the present survey? The answer is that it raises the question of what is to be included under the heading of ‘Celtic’ influence. Charon’s obol is a quintessentially Mediterranean custom that developed its characteristic Classical form in Greece. From Greece it reached Rome and finally also the western, ‘Celtic’ provinces of the Roman Empire; from

3

Steuer 2002, pp. 503-504; cf. Gebühr 1998, pp. 191-194; Dölle 1991, pp. 172-174; Gorecki 1975, pp. 238-242; Werner 1973, pp. 11-14, 23-27.

11 those western, ‘Celtic’ provinces it was probably carried further to central Germany and Denmark.4 Does a route of transmission which includes a ‘Celtic’ area of the Roman Empire qualify an influence to be counted as a Celtic one? Intuitively, the answer is probably no, but the central issue is: what is to be defined as Celtic? Historically, there are two fundamental ways of defining the term ‘Celtic’, one based on the ethnographic and historical works of Classical antiquity, and the other on linguistics. The former has historical primacy: the designation ‘Celtic’ was applied by Classical writers to a variety of continental European peoples outside of the immediate area of Classical culture. (Loosely based on this usage is a definition common in archaeological circles, whereby ‘Celtic’ is identified with the La Tène-culture, whose distribution largely overlaps with the range of the Classical ethnographic term.) Much younger, going back only to George Buchanan in the 16 century, is the insight that the insular Celtic languages are related to the continental Celtic languages. This insight was the central precondition for applying the term ‘Celtic’ not only (in the Classical fashion) to the European continent, but also to speakers of Celtic languages in Britain and Ireland (an application which became established only in the 18 century). The difference between the Classical ethnographic and the modern linguistic uses of the term ‘Celtic’ is particularly worth noting in a discussion of Celtic influences on Germanic religion. The vast majority of research in this field has consisted of studies of supposed Irish influences on Norse mythology, but Ireland only became ‘Celtic’ thanks to the new linguistic definition of the term: Classical ethnography never considered the island to be ‘Celtic’.5 th

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Steuer 2002, pp. 500-501, 503-504. Cf. Maier 2012, pp. 2, 24-25; Maier 2000,2; Maier 2001,2, pp. 11-12, 23. The most recent overview of the history of the term ‘Celtic’ and the associated scholarly debates is Maier 2012, pp. 1-36, esp. pp. 1-3, 23-36. The question of cultural continuity beyond the purely linguistic relationship between continental and insular Celts is fiercely disputed. Sims-Williams 1998 is fundamental; cf. also Maier 2000,1; Koch 2000; Koch ; Mallory 1992; McCone 1990; and the classic ex-

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12 If the present survey is to build upon the long-standing tradition of considering Irish influences on Norse mythology as ‘Celtic’ influences, then this has immediate consequences for the question of Charon’s obol. Irish influences are ‘Celtic’ influences insofar as the Irish speak a Celtic language; yet in 3rd century Gaul, too, remnants of the Celtic vernacular were still in use. The texts on the ceramic tiles from Châteaubleau (Seine-et-Marne) from the 2nd/3rd centuries AD and the graffiti from La Graufesenque (Aveyron) from the 1st/2nd centuries AD illustrate that Gaulish was used well into the imperial period.6 If this is so, then the Gaulish provincials from whom our 3rd century Germanic mercenaries adopted the custom of Charon’s obol were possibly to some (linguistic) extent still ‘Celts’, and thus the transmission of the Mediterranean coin for the ferryman of the dead to the corresponding parts of the Germanic area is in one sense a ‘Celtic influence’. Admittedly, it is highly counter-intuitive to categorise the Mediterranean custom of Charon’s obol in Danish and central German high-status burials as a ‘Celtic’ influence. This, however, is exactly the reason why this example heads the present discussion, for this and related problems will recur with notable frequency. The following pages will first present a survey of CelticGermanic religious contacts (and their problems) in antiquity, and will then turn to the question of Celtic elements in medieval Norse mythology. Research to date has approached such questions primarily from the medieval perspective, which will accordingly also constitute the main focus of the present survey. Both sections will concentrate on the question of Celtic-Germanic : this means that not every Celtic-Germanic parallel which has been proposed in the scholarly debate will be discussed. Most compara-

treme positions of Jackson 1964 and Murphy 1955-1957 Carney 1955. Several relevant contributions are reprinted in Karl & Stifter 2007, vol. 1. For discussions of the term ‘Germanic’, which in many respects is hardly less problematic than the term ‘Celtic’, cf. e.g. Jarnut 2012; Seebold 2012; Beck 2004; Maier 2003, pp. 11-17. 6 Koch 2006,1, pp. 795-796; Lambert 1998, pp. 663-675.

13 tive work to date has focused on the question of Indo-European heritage; but heritage is not influence, and therefore in principle it is beyond the scope of this survey. Furthermore, repeated surveys of the Indo-European approach have already been undertaken, and a new comprehensive work on Indo-European religious history has recently been announced for the foreseeable future;7 there did not seem any need, therefore, to discuss this approach in any depth here. Individual examples will, however, occasionally be mentioned, either where they seem suitable for underlining a methodological point or where they are particularly fitting thematically. The chronological range of the present survey is restricted to the Iron Age and the Middle Ages. Two cases of proposed influence which fall outside this range should, however, at least be mentioned. First, one scholar has proposed ‘Celtic’ influences in the Bronze Age rock art of Scandinavia, although the corresponding evidence is extremely problematic.8 Second, and more important, is

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For a comparatively recent survey cf. Puhvel 1987. Specifically on the Dumézilian approach cf. Schlerath 1995-1996; Belier 1991. A new survey of Indo-European comparative mythology is currently being prepared by Jackson and Oettinger (cf. Jackson & Oettinger 2011). 8 Görman 1987. The fundamental problem with Görman’s approach is that she is too willing to ascribe concrete (supposedly Celtic) meanings to very basic elements of the iconography of late Bronze Age and early Iron Age Scandinavia. Such an approach might be possible in the case of motifs which are too complex or too distinctive to assume independent origin, but Görman sees specifically Celtic meanings even in motifs as ordinary and elementary as depictions of hands or deer hunting – she interprets the former as symbols of Lug, the latter as sacrifices to Cernunnos (pp. 91-107, 73-75, 176, 177-178). While an association between Lug and the depiction of a hand is already highly problematic (to say the least), it is entirely impossible to assume that a motif as widespread as the depiction of a hand has the same meaning both in Celtic and in Scandinavian contexts. Equally there is no reason why deer hunting should not independently be depicted in every region where deer are native and hunted. Such fundamental methodological problems permeate Görman’s book to a degree which makes it seem unpromising to discuss it in detail. For a different perspective on cultural contact with Scandinavia during the Bronze Age cf. Kristiansen & Larsson 2005, but also the discussion of Nordquist & Whittaker 2007 Kristiansen & Larsson 2007. Under the supervision of Görman, Adetorp has recently written a doctoral thesis in which he suggests an

14 a suggestion by Maier, who – with due emphasis on methodological – has pointed out that the origin legend of the Merovingian dynasty finds curious parallels in Gaelic folklore, elements of the archaeological record of North-Western Europe, and texts from the Classical Mediterranean as well as the Ancient Near East. Maier interprets this evidence as a possible indication that the motifs in question might go back as far as the Neolithic period and the spread of agriculture across Europe.9 In the present context, this theory should at least be mentioned – even though it lies outside of the general chronological scope of this survey –, as it draws on some Celtic comparative material and since the transmission of such a motif to the later ‘Germanic’ regions would have taken a route that crossed areas which in the historical period were ‘Celtic’. An ethnic or linguistic classification of the populations involved at that time is, however, impossible. The following survey will make no attempt at summarising the state of scholarship on the question of cultural contact in general. This would be a book in its own right, and both for more theoretical considerations and for more concrete outlines of the situation in specific historical contexts the reader is referred to a wealth of contact in early existing literature.10 For the question of

interpretation of the C-bracteates on the basis of Celtic comparative material (Adetorp 2008). Unfortunately, I was not able to gain access to a copy before the beginning of the typesetting process. 9 Maier 1999; Maier 2003, pp. 134-138; Maier 2001,2, pp. 99-102; furthermore cf. his observations on the Celtic Maponos, which also touch upon the cult of Nerthus (Tacitus, XL): Maier 2001,1; Maier 2001,2, pp. 94-99. 10 For general thoughts on forms of cultural transfer cf. Sievers 2007. Many important discussions of evidence from the pre-Roman Iron Age can be found in Möllers 2007, cf. also Frey 1986. These contributions approach the question from an archaeological perspective; for a linguistic and historical perspective cf. Seebold 2012; Rübekeil 2002; Green 1998, pp. 145-163; Maier 1994, pp. 190-191; Schmidt 1986; Evans 1980-1982; Birkhan 1970; de Vries 1960. Useful contributions to the question of contact between the insular Celts and the Scandinavians in the Middle Ages go back at least as far as Mogk 1896; more recently cf. Sheehan & Ó Corráin 2010; Larsen 2001; Gísli Sigurðsson 1988.

15 Europe in particular, the current state of research does not yet permit the development of a general theory.11 The present work will, I hope, make a contribution which is a necessary stage on the way towards such a theory, but to go so far as to actually propose a general theory of religious contact between Celts and Germans would still be premature. However, as in the case of the obolus for the ferryman (which can be connected with Germanic mercenaries in the service of the Gallic Empire), possible mechanisms as well as historical and social contexts for individual cultural influences will be addressed where it seems appropriate.

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Cf. Maier 2003, pp. 138-141. For some general remarks on religious contact from the perspective of comparative religion cf. Nanko 2006. For a detailed case-study cf. Egeler 2011.

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' Charon’s obol presents an unusually clear case of external influence in early Germanic religion: the custom is distinct enough to be immediately identifiable where it appears, and this appearance is directly traceable in the archaeological record. Other instances of real or apparent Celtic-Germanic parallels which at first glance seem as if they could indicate Celtic influence are much less unproblematic. The main problems are the reliability of the extant sources, the different ways in which parallels may be interpreted, and the question of whether or not they are significant (what indicates a borrowing, and what is merely coincidence?). Most of the seeming or actual parallels between Celtic and Germanic religion in antiquity display one or more of these problems; it may therefore be appropriate to begin this survey with a short discussion of several Celtic-Germanic parallels that exemplify some of the issues involved. One such Celtic-Germanic ‘parallel’ is the idea that neither people worshipped their gods in the form of cult images. Tacitus states of the that “because of the greatness of the heavenly beings, they do not think it right to confine the gods within walls, or to represent them with the appearance of any human face: they consecrate woods and groves and call by the names of the gods that secret which they see through reverence alone” ( IX.3: ! " ; cf. XLIII.4). This finds a correspondence in Diodorus Siculus’ report about the reaction of Brennus, the leader

17 of the Gauls who tried to sack Delphi, upon entering a Greek temple: when Brennus saw the cult images, he laughed at the Greeks for believing that the gods had human form, and for making images of them (# XXII.ix.4). These reports seem to suggest a shared Celtic-Germanic attitude that the use of cult images was inappropriate. This first impression, however, does not stand up to closer scrutiny. The rejection of cult images is a recurring topos of Classical ethnography that is widely used in descriptions of either ancient or ‘barbarian’ peoples and constitutes a cliché to characterise particularly archaic religious attitudes (cf. e.g. Herodotus IV.lix.2 on the Sythians). The inappropriateness of built temples for the gods, which Tacitus notes as a Germanic idea, is another such topos (cf. Cicero, $ III.14). This idea mirrors contemporary trends in philosophical thought; already in the Hellenistic period philosophers had come to develop reservations about the cult in temples. The literary and philosophical resonances of these motifs severely undermine the value of these passages for the study of Celtic as well as Germanic religion: ultimately, such Classical statements about ‘barbarian’ beliefs tell us more about Classical ethnographic and philosophical attitudes than about their professed ‘barbarian’ subjects.12 A case which illustrates a slightly different problem raised by some Celtic-Germanic parallels in Classical descriptions is the sacrifice of a warrior’s hair to the god of war. When discussing the Chatti, Tacitus ( XXXI.1) reports a practice that has become typical among them, whereas in other tribes it only happens occasionally, as a matter of personal choice: upon entering adulthood, the Chatti take an oath that they will grow their hair and beards long, and cut them once they have killed an enemy. In another context, Tacitus gives a concrete example of such an oath being undertaken on individual initiative: Civilis, the leader of the Batavian rising against Rome, had from the beginning of the revolt

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Maier 2003, pp. 89, 91-92; Maier 2001,2, p. 150; Hofeneder 2008, pp. 77-78; Perl 1990, pp. 35-36, 160-161.

18 let his hair grow and dyed it red; he only cut it after the legions had been destroyed (% IV.lxi.1). This Germanic practice has a seemingly Celtic parallel which on the surface appears to suggest a shared Celtic-Germanic pattern of ritual behaviour: Silius Italicus, IV.200-203 writes that a certain Celt by the name of Sarmens had made a vow to dedicate “his yellow hair – locks that rivalled gold – and the reddish knot under the crown of the head” ( [...] [...] ) to the god Gradivus in case of victory. The parallelism between these instances of vows to dedicate a warrior’s hair is striking. Yet ultimately Silius Italicus’ Celtic parallel is too good to be true: Sarmens’ vow to dedicate his hair in the case of victory corresponds to the description of the vow of Civilis not only in general outline, but even in the (reddish) hair colour. This suggests that both authors may have been drawing on the same literary source for their respective descriptions of ‘barbarian’ practices, rather than representing a shared Celtic-Germanic ritual (or chance parallel). This suspicion becomes the more acute as the hair-knot of Silius Italicus’ Celtic warrior is otherwise known from descriptions and artistic representations of Germans, but not of Celts. This seeming parallel in Celtic and Germanic ritual behaviour thus dissolves into an example of a Classical literary topos.13 These two examples illustrate that apparent Celtic-Germanic parallels in Classical accounts may reflect mere topoi or literary stereotypes within Classical literature. This is fundamentally a problem of the reliability of the textual sources. Yet even where reliable sources indicate the existence of real, noticeable parallels between Celts and Germans, this does not necessarily reflect a specifically Celtic-Germanic exchange of religious ideas. For instances of this type of problem, one may again turn to Tacitus. In the territory of the Germanic tribe of the Naharnavali, Tacitus mentions a grove with an ancient cult ( ; XLIII.4). This cult is carried out by a priest in female

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Maier 2003, pp. 119-120; Hofeneder 2008, pp. 446-448.

19 dress; the sanctuary is dedicated to the & , which Tacitus explains as corresponding to the Roman Castor and Pollux. Like Castor and Pollux, the Alcis are worshipped as brothers and as young men ( " ). An equivalent report for the Celtic area comes from a much earlier remark by Timaeus of Tauromenium (extant as a quotation in Diodorus Siculus IV.lvi.4 =' % 566 F 85), according to whom the Celts living by the Ocean worship the Dioscuri most among the gods (()*+ ,-./ (01 234-101 3-()53)61(-+ 748()*+ 94:);859(- (?1 @4?1 ()*+ A5)93B.)=+). That these two testimonies indeed reflect a widespread cult of divine brothers in Celtic and Germanic Europe seems to be confirmed by the (later) epigraphic evidence from the corresponding Roman provinces, which shows a remarkable number of dedications to these deities under their Classical names.14 In this case, therefore, the reliability of the sources is not at issue. But before these cults of divine brothers are interpreted as evidence for a Celtic-Germanic exchange of religious ideas, it has to be taken into consideration that this Celtic-Germanic commonality is not specific to Celts and Germans: a cult of two divine brothers, also worshipped “as brothers and young men”, is likewise known among the Romans (the Castores), the Greeks (the Dioscuri), and in ancient India (the Aśvins). This has commonly been taken to indicate that the cult of the ‘divine twins’ might go back to the proto-Indo-European period;15 thus the example of the divine brothers illustrates that Celtic-Germanic parallels may be due not only to borrowing or a process of exchange between these two peoples, but also to a shared heritage. A different Celtic-Germanic parallel, which is neither thrown into question by problems of source criticism nor suspected of representing Indo-European heritage, may be reflected in two remarks by Classical authors about two island sanctuaries. Strabo,

14

Maier 2012, p. 7; Maier 2001,2, p. 76; cf. Gury 1986, vol. 3.1, p. 634. Maier 2012, p. 7; Jackson & Oettinger 2011, p. 133; Maier 2001,2, p. 76; Puhvel 1987, pp. 141-143, 210 .

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20 IV.iv.6, relates on the authority of Artemidorus of Ephesus (fl. 100 BC)16 that there is an island off the coast of Britain on which the same rites are performed as those in the cult of Demeter and Persephone in Samothrace.17 Maier suggests that this could be seen in the same context as Tacitus’ report about the cult of Nerthus ( XL),18 whose island sanctuary is probably the most famous sacred island in the Germanic world. Given that Demeter is the goddess who commands the growth of the fruits of the earth, that Tacitus describes Nerthus as “Mother Earth” ( ), and that both the cult described by Strabo and the cult of Nerthus focus on an island, it is possible that these two descriptions of island sanctuaries reflect a shared pattern which might have been common to both Celtic and Germanic inhabitants of the North Sea region. These two phenomena are geographically close, noticeably similar in content, and connected by the same sea, which would have provided a convenient route of communication. This makes it indeed thinkable that they could even reflect processes of religious exchange. It should, however, also be noted that the comparison made by Strabo/Artemidorus itself indicates that a cult of the on an island was not specific to the North Sea region: Artemidorus’ equation of the cults on the British island and Samothrace to some extent implies that the British island sanctuary was not entirely outside parameters to which a Mediterranean observer could relate. While it has (to the best of my knowledge)

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Hofeneder 2005, p. 105. Cf. Hofeneder 2005, pp. 109-111. 18 Maier 2001,2, pp. 98-99. – For an attempt to interpret Nerthus as a Celtic import cf. Bugge 1920-1925, pp. 367-370. Bugge’s central argument is an etymological one: he argues for a Celtic derivation of the divine name (p. 368), in combination with the assumption of a large number of Celtic immigrants in Scandinavia. For a survey of the different etymologies that have been proposed for Nerthus in older scholarship cf. de Vries 1956-1957, §448. Celtic linguistic parallels to the name are still considered important in etymological discussions today; yet the idea of a simple borrowing from Celtic into Germanic is by now obsolete and has been superseded by the assumption of a shared Celtic-Germanic linguistic heritage: cf. Zimmer 2002. 17

21 never been suggested that the island of Nerthus and the island sanctuary off the coast of Britain testify to a shared Indo-European heritage, they appear to fit within a broader pattern which recurs throughout the religious history of ancient Europe. How such wide-spread patterns relate to the question of specifically CelticGermanic contact is, however, a question which has so far hardly ever been addressed. Yet the importance of this question becomes clear from the high proportion of Celtic-Germanic parallels to which it applies. The Mediterranean-Gaulish-Germanic distribution of Charon’s obol, with which we began, is a case in point. Another possible example is the use of sacred military standards which show images of animals.19 In his account of the Roman war against the Celts in northern Italy, Polybius, writing in the 2nd century BC, mentions golden standards that had been stored in the temple of ‘Athena’ and were fetched from there during preparations for a battle against the Roman forces in 223 BC (% II.xxxii.6).20 Similarly, military standards with religious significance (used in ceremonies surrounding the most binding oaths) are mentioned by Caesar in his description of the Gaulish uprising against his rule ($ VII.ii.2).21 Neither description gives any detail about the design of these standards, but artistic representations suggest that such standards in all likelihood carried animal figures; the best-known examples are probably those depicted on the triumphal arch in Orange.22 Corresponding standards are also known to have existed in Germanic territories: Tacitus in his account of the revolt of the Batavi mentions that the Batavian leader Civilis had the traditional military standards brought out of the forests in order to demoralise the Romans: “images of wild animals brought from the forests and groves, as it is the custom of every tribe to enter battle” (

19

Maier 2003, pp. 121-122; Maier 2001,2, pp. 149-150. Cf. Hofeneder 2005, pp. 91-92. 21 Cf. Hofeneder 2005, pp. 218-219. 22 Cf. e.g. Müller 2002, pp. 107-109 (figs. 71-72), 110-111; Beck 1965, p. 113. 20

22 "

: % IV.22, cf. VII). Again, however, such practices were not restricted to the Celts and Germans, but had parallels in the Mediterranean: the of a Roman legion was also an animal-standard that was kept in a sanctuary when not in military use; the too could be present at the most solemn oaths; and before the reform of the Roman army by Marius also animals other than eagles crowned the Roman military standards (wolf, bull, horse, boar).23

( )

'

Caesar states that when the Gauls go into battle, they usually vow to dedicate the booty to the god of war; if they are victorious, they sacrifice the captured animals and carry away the other booty, which they pile up in a single spot. According to Caesar’s account, such piles are seen in sacred places in many communities, and whoever despoils such a place or does not relinquish the booty which he has won in battle is cruelly executed ($ VI.xvii.3-6).24 Other Classical testimonies also mention the sacrifice not only of captured animals and booty, but also of captured enemies (Diodorus Siculus, # V.xxxii.6; XXXI.xiii).25 Concerning the Germanic tribes, Tacitus gives an interesting description of the site of Varus’ final defeat: visible on the battlefield were the skeletons of the fallen legionaries, and in addition broken weapons, horse bones and severed skulls which were fixed to the trunks of trees; in nearby groves the altars where the tribunes and the highest-ranking centurions had been sacrificed

23

Hofeneder 2005, p. 218 (note 1384); von Domaszewski 1895, pp. 1-19. Cf. Hofeneder 2005, pp. 198-211, esp. pp. 208-209; Maier 2001,2, p. 114. 25 Cf. Maier 2001,2, p. 121; Hofeneder 2005, pp. 153-155; Hofeneder 2008, pp. 8182. 24

23 could still be seen (& I.lxi).26 Much of this account is probably a literary attempt to convey a sense of the gruesome chaos of a battlefield several years after the battle. Yet the systematic killing of high-ranking captives of the enemy force on the sacrificial altar is a significant detail: it shows that a destruction of ‘human booty’ was a central part of the rituals which followed the Germanic victory over the Roman force. Elsewhere, Tacitus mentions that the Roman standards captured in this battle were dedicated to the gods of the victors (& I.lix); this indicates that not only captives, but at least prominent parts of the material booty as well were sacrificed. Recent archaeological research on the battlefield has furthermore produced some finds of Roman military equipment which have likewise been interpreted as remains of sacrifices.27 Taken together, these pieces of evidence could indicate that the martial rituals which followed upon Varus’ defeat might have included dedications of the spoils of war – both humans and objects – which recall Caesar’s and other accounts of Celtic war sacrifices. This observation is not new: it has already repeatedly been pointed out that sacrifices of military equipment, war booty and captives constitute a parallel between Celtic and Germanic customs.28 The discussion has focused in particular on the archaeological evidence, since the custom of dedicating the spoils of battle to the gods of war is also – indeed especially – reflected in the archaeological record. Sacrifices of military equipment are well attested in the Germanic north (starting in the 2nd half of the 4 century BC with the ship, swords, spears and defensive weapons of th

26

Cf. Hofeneder 2011, pp. 400-401. On ritual aspects of the remains of the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest with discussion of the relevant archaeological finds cf. Rau & von Carnap-Bornheim 2012, pp. 536-540. 28 Cf. Rau & von Carnap-Bornheim 2012, p. 520; Martens 2007, p. 103; Łuczkiewicz 2007; Maier 2003, p. 75; Davidson 1988, pp. 61-64. – For a general overview of sacrifices of weapons cf. Steuer 2006. For a collection of Classical testimonies about Celtic and Germanic sacrifices of weapons and other war booty cf. pp. 25-26. A wide-ranging discussion of weapon sacrifices (focusing on western and Mediterranean Europe) is also given by Müller 2002, pp. 93-148. 27

24 Hjortspring),29 and in the north of France in particular new finds of pre-Roman sanctuaries have contributed much material. The most spectacular of these northern French discoveries is probably the sanctuary of Ribemont-sur-Ancre (Dép. Somme);30 the 5000 pieces of weaponry found in this complex constitute the most extensive collection of La Tène weapons known anywhere.31 One section of this sanctuary contained, in a space of only 35 m², the remains of 140 decapitated male individuals and their weapons (altogether more than 300 weapons and 20000 bones); all dated from the early 3rd century BC. The arrangement of the assemblage suggests that the corpses of these individuals had been installed on a raised structure of considerable height.32 Other parts of the sanctuary also contained human remains and remnants of weapons which had undergone different kinds of treatment; the total of the finds suggests the remains of some 1000 slain and mostly headless warriors, all of whom may have died on the same battlefield.33 Comparable finds also stem from Gournay-sur-Aronde (Dép. de l’Oise). This sanctuary was located on a slope slightly above a swampy area; the entrance of the enclosure (45x38 m) faced the river and its marshes. In the 3rd century BC, this entrance was framed by a monumental gateway decorated with severed skulls and

29

Steuer 2006, p. 33; Harck 2007, pp. 230-238; Randsborg 1999; Völling 1998, pp. 561-562. – Cf. e.g. also Vimose (Nielsen 2006), Ejsbøl (Ørsnes 1989) or Krogsbølle (Thrane 2001; Völling 1998, p. 563). For an overview of the Scandinavian weapon sacrifices cf. Steuer 2006, pp. 33-42 ; for further recent discussion cf. Rau & von Carnap-Bornheim 2012. Görman 1987, pp. 125-137, 179-180 argues on the basis of similarities between the weapon sacrifice of Hjortspring and weapon sacrifices in Celtic regions that Hjortspring reflects a Norse borrowing of a Celtic custom, including a borrowing of a new Celtic god of war (cf. above note 8). 30 In general on the sanctuary of Ribemont cf. e.g. Brunaux 2003; Brunaux 2000,1, pp. 101-112; Brunaux 2000,2, pp. 238-241; Brunaux 1999, pp. 98-103; Brunaux 1995, pp. 66-74. 31 Brunaux 2003, p. 556. 32 Brunaux 2003, p. 558; Brunaux 1999, pp. 99-100 with plate 16. 33 Brunaux 2003, p. 561.

25 military equipment. The extensive remains of sacrifices from Gournay fall into two main groups: animal bones ( 3000) and weapons ( 2000 pieces of weaponry, reflecting 500 complete sets of equipment). Some of the weapons were arranged on and in front of the entrance gate, and others on the inside of the enclosure of the sanctuary; chronologically, they span the 3rd century BC.34 Considering this material, there seems to be a certain degree of similarity between ‘Celtic’ and ‘Germanic’ war sacrifices (apart from the sacrifice of weapons as such, one might note the special treatment of severed skulls which appears in Tacitus’ account of the Varus battlefield, where skulls were nailed to the trees, and which can be inferred from the finds of Ribemont, where many of the victims had been decapitated). The question is, however, whether this can be taken to indicate cultural influences. Orosius in his % V.xvi.5-6 relates an incident that is supposed to have taken place after the battle of Arausio (105 BC).35 In this battle, the Cimbri and Teutones defeated the Roman forces and, after capturing the two Roman camps, destroyed all booty – including textiles, armour and horse trappings –, threw the captured gold and silver into the river and hanged all captive Romans. It has been pointed out that in the course of their migrations, the Cimbri became fundamentally ‘Celticised’.36 On the one hand this raises the question of whether the incident at Arausio reflects Germanic or Celtic customs,37 but on the other hand (and perhaps more importantly) it has also prompted the suggestion that the migrations of the Cimbri could have been instrumental in conveying Celtic religious observances to Germanic territory.38

34

Brunaux 1999, pp. 92-98; Brunaux 1998; Brunaux 1995, pp. 55-66; cf. also Müller 2002, pp. 112-117. 35 Łuczkiewicz 2007, p. 213. Cf. Hofeneder 2011, pp. 399-401; Müller 2002, pp. 127-128. 36 Steuer 2007, p. 263; cf. Rübekeil 2002, pp. 431-435; Scardigli 1995, p. 560. 37 Cf. Hofeneder 2011, pp. 400-401. 38 Łuczkiewicz 2007, p. 213; cf. Völling 1998, pp. 572, 574.

26 Concrete examples of such a cultural transfer have been posited on the basis of a number of Late Iron Age weapon sacrifices from present-day Poland: Łuczkiewicz has recently discussed weapon sacrifices, for the most part in rivers and bogs, in the territory of the Przeworsk-culture,39 which is traditionally considered to be ‘eastern Germanic’.40 The finds in question predominantly consist of depositions of single, typically double-edged swords in watery contexts. Łuczkiewicz compares these finds to ritual depositions in bogs and bodies of water in the context of the Jastorf-culture (such as the deposition from Hjortspring in Southern Jutland). He points out that also these depositions almost always contain swords. Among these swords, the double-edged variety is important for several reasons: it is noticeably prominent among the sword-types present in these depositions; it includes several Celtic imports;41 and the double-edged type in itself is originally of Celtic derivation:42 such depositions appear to favour weapons which differed from the local type.43 Here Łuczkiewicz also makes reference to Orosius’ report about the events after the Roman defeat at Arausio and suggests that the migrations of the Cimbri, Teutones and Bastarnae might not only have brought new forms of weapons to the Germanic area (the double-edged sword), but could also have brought about a transfer of cultic observances connected with these types of weapons. The weapon sacrifices from the Przeworskculture could, he suggests, reflect such Celtic stimuli, for which the Jastorf-culture might have acted as a mediator. The question of whether such Celtic influences in the Przeworsk-culture were

39

Łuczkiewicz 2007. For scepticism about equating such archaeological cultures with ethnic categories cf. Steuer 2007, esp. p. 260. 41 On the particular value of imported items cf. also Völling 1998, p. 562. 42 Cf. Kaul 2000, p. 360. Völling 1998, p. 572 suggests that the religious significance of the Celtic double-edged sword could be due to the success which this weapon had when it was first encountered by warriors from northern central Europe. 43 Cf. similarly Völling 1998, p. 570. 40

27 transmitted via Jastorf or directly cannot be decided with certainty, however: based on the presence of Celtic imports in some of the Przeworsk-depositions, Łuczkiewicz also finds it conceivable that there were direct connections between Celtic cultures and the Przeworsk-culture. For comparison, Łuczkiewicz points to sites like La Tène or the finds from the Saône river, and also notes that depositions in watery context in the Celtic area likewise consist for the most part of double-edged swords. In sum, Łuczkiewicz assumes that these weapon sacrifices in the Jastorf- and Przeworskcultures are ultimately inspired by Celtic customs and have reached the Przeworsk-culture probably (but not necessarily) via the Jastorfculture.44 Other aspects of the religious significance of the ‘Celtic’ double-edged sword have been discussed by Völling, who also addresses the inclusion of such swords among the grave goods of Germanic warrior burials and suggests that the underlying concepts might be inspired by originally Celtic objects as well as ideas.45 For a later period, further Celtic-Germanic parallels in the deposition of weaponry have been noted by Steuer (though without indicating whether or not such parallels should be taken to reflect cultural contact). Steuer compares the Celtic sanctuaries of Picardy – as represented by Gournay and Ribemont – to sites like the sanctuary of Magusanus-Hercules in Empel. The latter sanctuary was situated in Batavian territory, and between 125 BC and 250 AD was the site of the deposition of more than 150 fragments of Roman military equipment, which Steuer ascribes to native Batavian veterans.46

44

Łuczkiewicz 2007, pp. 211-214, 222. – Concerning a different type of sacrifice, which in its watery context overlaps with the weapon sacrifices analysed by Łuczkiewicz, Rübekeil and (in passing) Martens have suggested that there are possibly significant parallels between Celtic and Germanic bog-bodies: Rübekeil 2002, pp. 284-292, 300, 431-433; Martens 2007, p. 103. 45 Völling 1998, pp. 573-574. Cf. also Kaul & Martens 1995, p. 150, who remark that the inclusion of weapons among the grave goods of pre-Roman burials must in its origin be Celtic. 46 Steuer 2006, pp. 35-36.

28 At the same time, however, it has also been noted that the deposition of weapons and war booty in bogs, bodies of water or in sanctuaries on dry land is widely known throughout the religious history of Europe, with a broad chronological and geographical distribution. The first weapon sacrifices may go back to the early Neolithic period: depositions of flint axes are extant which could be interpreted as weapon sacrifices. From then onwards, weapon sacrifices continue until the Middle Ages.47 Geographically, the phenomenon does not only include Celtic and Germanic regions, but is also well known from the Mediterranean:48 weapons and other military equipment are attested as dedications from all major Greek sanctuaries, where they were displayed in various fashions. Such dedications of weapons could be made by the thousands: after a victory over the Thessalians, the Phocians dedicated 2000 captured shields at Dephi, and another 2000 at Abae (Herodotus VIII.27). Even whole warships could be dedicated (which Steuer compares to the sacrifices of Hjortspring and Nydam).49 From various regions of Italy, too, many sanctuaries with dedications of weapons are known, as are sacrifices of weapons in bodies of water.50 And conquered weapons were also depicted on Greek and Roman monuments, like the buildings of the sacred precinct of Athena in Pergamum or the triumphal arch in Orange; both Steuer and Müller have compared such Classical monuments with the display of conquered weapons in Celtic sanctuaries, such as the abovementioned sites of Gournay and Ribemont.51 Thus, both the Celtic sites discussed above in relation to CelticGermanic parallels have been compared with both Germanic and Mediterranean sanctuaries; this illustrates how the comparisons made to date encompass, but also transcend the Celtic and Germanic parts of Europe. While there may have been specifically

47

Steuer 2006, pp. 26, 42-43. For detailed references for the following examples cf. Steuer 2006, pp. 23-24. 49 Steuer 2006, p. 24; cf. Blackman 2001. 50 On the latter cf. Lavrsen 1982. 51 Steuer 2006, p. 24; Müller 2002, pp. 93-126 (esp. p. 112). 48

29 Celto-Germanic interactions, such comparive material suggests a pan-European rather than Celto-Germanic perspective. A comprehensive investigation of the question of weapon sacrifices and cultural contact is, however, still lacking,52 and thus it is by no means clear to what extent the overall similarities noted by different researchers are actually due to cultural contact, or to independent parallel developments, or should be interpreted within a different framework entirely.

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.

"

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Even though much of the available evidence for close CelticGermanic parallels either does not pass scrutiny or raises more questions than it answers, there are nevertheless strong indications that an intensive exchange was possible, at least on a regional level. A case in point is that of the Batavian prophetess Veleda, who played a major role in the Batavian revolt against the Romans that was led by Civilis (e.g. Tacitus, % IV.61; IV.65). The interesting point is her name C in conjunction with her office as a seer, as this name appears to be of Celtic derivation (cf. Old Irish , gsg. , originally “seer”; Welsh ).53 It is not clear whether ‘Veleda’ was the personal name of the prophetess or the designation of her office, but if the latter is the case, it would seem that the Batavians had an institutionalised prophetic office for which the name at least was derived from a Celtic equivalent.54 Linguistic evidence for religious contact between Celtic and Germanic tribes might also be afforded by the terminology of

52

A study of this kind has most recently been noted as a by Rau & von Carnap-Bornheim 2012, p. 520. 53 Koch 2006,6, p. 1728; Scardigli 2006, pp. 111-112; Scardigli 1995, p. 560; Birkhan 1970, pp. 553-557; de Vries 1953, p. 244. 54 Cf. Hofeneder 2008, pp. 475-478 (with detailed summary of the historiography); Scardigli 2006, p. 112; Koch 2006,6; Enright 1996; Birkhan 1970, p. 557.

30 sacred places. The is a document composed in the last decade of the 8 century, addressing pagan and superstitious ideas and practices from the point of view of the Church; it was probably written in the context of the consolidation of the Christianisation of the Saxons.55 This text contained a section $ , “about 56 the forest-sanctuaries which they call ”. Only the heading is extant and the content of this section is lost, yet the term might in itself be important: it is not otherwise attested as a designation for Germanic sacred places, but corresponds to the Celtic (“sanctuary”).57 This term is widely attested in place names throughout the settlement areas of speakers of Celtic languages (Drunemeton, Nemetocenna, Augustonemeton, Medionemeton, Nemetobriga, etc.); that it denoted a sacred place is indicated e.g. by the use of Old Irish (“sanctuary”) or by two lines of the 6 century poet Venantius Fortunatus, who mentions that the C in the Gaulish language means “great sanctuary” ( : Carmina I.99f.).58 Homann assumes that the term may indicate that the was composed by an Anglo-Saxon missionary.59 This cannot be entirely precluded, but taking the phrasing of the sentence at face value, the ascribes the term to the language of the pagans in question: “which they call ”, rather than “which we (at home in Britain) call ”. Thus the traditional interpretation of the th

th

55

In general on the cf. Homann 2000. Edited by Pertz (ed.) 1835, pp. 19-20 (p. 19). 57 Green 1998, pp. 26-27; Birkhan 1997, p. 321 (but cf. also pp. 751-752 note 1); de Vries 1960, pp. 80-81; de Vries 1956-1957, §§97, 250; de Vries 1953, p. 244; cf. Delamarre 2001 ‘nemeton’ (who simply lists this passage from the among the attestations of the Celtic term). The closest Germanic parallel is D , the modern name of a Swedish farm in Uppsala län (de Vries 1960, p. 81). 58 Edited by Leo (ed.) 1881 (p. 12). Cf. de Vries 1960, p. 80; $ E ‘neimed’; Delamarre 2001 ‘nemeton’. 59 Homann 2000, p. 371. 56

31 significance of this passage, which has been supported among others by de Vries,60 seems more likely: the term is a local term, which may indicate that a very common Celtic designation of a sanctuary was borrowed in a part of the Germanic-speaking area.61 This, therefore, might imply a very close Celtic-Germanic contact indeed. Another apparent case of very intense, but also comparatively localised Celtic-Germanic religious interaction is that of the and of (especially) the Rhineland.62 The cult of these female goddesses is never mentioned in the extant literature from Classical antiquity, but it is richly attested in over 1100 dedication stones and votive altars from the 1st to the 3rd century AD.63 The first attestations of this cult have been identified in dedications from Italy which slightly pre-date the middle of the 1st century BC; the first evidence in the Rhineland appears between 70 and 122 AD.64 Attributes like baskets of fruit, the cornucopia or infants indicate that the were closely associated with ideas of 65 abundance and fertility, whereas dedications in military contexts may imply that this nurturing role also branched out into a general provision of help and protection.66 Some of the epithets applied to these goddesses on the dedication stones are partly of Celtic, partly of Germanic derivation (e.g.

60

Cf. above note 57. The term can, esp. in the plural, also denote “sacrifice” or “religious worship”; however, the etymological connection of with a Celtic term for “sacred place” strongly supports an interpretation of the as “forest sanctuaries” rather than “forest sacrifices”. In general on Celtic sacred groves cf. Birkhan 1997, pp. 751-753; on Germanic groves cf. Green 1998, pp. 23-24, 26; Perl 1990, pp. 160, 247; de Vries 1956-1957, §250; on both: MacCulloch 1951. 62 In general on these goddesses cf. e.g. Mees 2006, pp. 14-15; Koch 2006,2; Neumann 2001; Birkhan 1997, pp. 513-525; de Vries 1956-1957, §522-530; and especially Bauchhenß & Neumann 1987. 63 Neumann 2001, p. 438; Maier 2003, p. 93; Schmidt 1987, p. 135. 64 Rüger 1987, pp. 10, 12; Birkhan 1997, p. 513. 65 Birkhan 1997, p. 521; cf. von Petrikovits 1987, p. 242. 66 Birkhan 1997, pp. 521-522, 524-525. 61

32 F , vs. & , & ).67 In the opinion of Birkhan, there are two principal reasons for supposing that the cult is originally Celtic: first, the Matres are also worshipped in areas where a Germanic influence cannot be expected,68 and second, the frequently triadic character of the dedications mirrors the recurring Celtic tendency towards forming triads.69 Schauerte has located the origin of the triadic iconography of the in southern Gaul and traced its spread from there to the Lower Rhine.70 In the Celtic-Germanic contact zone on the Rhine, the iconography of the three was then apparently adapted to local ideas, and the central one of the three maternal figures was substituted for a young girl with an open hairstyle, while the two outward matrons wear large bonnets.71 This as well as the Germanic derivation of many of their names on the extant dedication stones may indicate that this cult, although Celtic in origin, interacted with native Germanic ideas and integrated both Celtic and Germanic elements.72

67

Mees 2006; Birkhan 1997, p. 518 ; Neumann 1987; Schmidt 1987. Cf. Schmidt 1987, p. 149. 69 Birkhan 1997, p. 519; cf. Mees 2006, pp. 14-15. 70 Schauerte 1987, p. 92; accepted by Birkhan 1997, p. 519. 71 Birkhan 1997, pp. 519-520; cf. Schauerte 1987, p. 68. 72 Birkhan 1997, pp. 519-520; Maier 1994, p. 228; Neumann 1987, p. 128; Schmidt 1987, p. 149. 68

33

* /

*

%

0! 1

!

2

Arguably the most prominent case of possible Irish influence in the Norse mythology of the Middle Ages is the Útgarðaloki-episode in Snorri’s 44-47.73 In this episode of the Snorra-Edda, Thor sets out with his goat-drawn chariot, with Loki as a companion. The adventures they have on this particular journey fall into three largely distinct sections: major events occur when the travellers stay overnight in the house of a farmer, when they meet the giant Skrýmir on their further journey, and after they have finally arrived at the castle of Útgarðaloki. In an article of almost monographic length, the folklorist von Sydow argued for the Celtic origin of most (and all core-)elements of this narrative.74 His most noteworthy point concerns the first episode of Thor’s journey ( 44). In this episode, after the first day’s journey Thor and Loki find lodgings with a farmer; for the evening meal Thor slaughters his two goats and invites their host and his family to share the meal. The bones of the goats are thrown onto their skins, and the following morning Thor takes his hammer and blesses the skins in order to resuscitate the goats. Both of them get up, but one has a broken thigh bone, because the previous evening the farmer’s son had split this bone to get at the marrow. Thor is furious, but accepts the farmer’s two children as compensation, and they become his servants. A clear allusion to this story also appears in a slightly different context in % G H 37f.75

73

Edited by Faulkes (ed.) 2005. The material addressed in this section is also discussed in Egeler forthcoming 3. 74 Von Sydow 1910, cf. von Sydow 1920, p. 28. For an early critique cf. Finnur Jónsson 1921, pp. 104-113. 75 Cf. Dronke 2011, pp. 106-107.

34 In his discussion of this episode, von Sydow draws a parallel with a brief encounter between the servant of a Welsh tyrant and St. Germanus in the % # 32 (9 century):76 after being refused hospitality by the king, the saint is offered lodgings by a disobedient servant of this monarch. Even though this servant owns no livestock except one cow and its calf, he is so generous as to slaughter his only calf to feed his guests. St. Germanus decrees that none of the bones of the animal should be broken, and the next morning the calf is found alive and well next to its mother.77 The parallels to Thor’s resuscitation of his goats are indeed striking: (1) a holy man (though not a god) takes lodgings in (2) a poor household and (3) revives the animal that has been served for dinner; furthermore, there is (4) an injunction not to harm the bones, as it is implied also in the narrative about Thor. Von Sydow goes on to collect a staggering number of parallels to this tale, from across an area stretching from Ireland and Wales through France to the Alpine countries and Romania. In some of these the slaughtered animal is even the property of the visitor (just as the goats are Thor’s own) and in some of them the harm done to the animal by the breaking of a bone is not only present as a theoretical possibility, but fully developed.78 Von Sydow concludes from this material that the motif is originally Celtic (and that this story may originally have been told about a Celtic deity) and that it entered Scandinavian mythology as a loan, either during the Viking Age or even earlier, th

76

Von Sydow 1910, p. 67. A similar comparison, drawing on high medieval Irish texts and Irish folklore, was made by Davidson 1988, p. 46. % # : Mommsen (ed.) 1898, pp. 111-222. Dating: McDonough 2002, p. 70. 77 [The servant of the king] " 78

" (Mommsen [ed.] 1898, p. 174.)

Esp. von Sydow 1910, pp. 80-97.

35 during the Iron Age (although von Sydow considers the latter less likely).79 This example is of particular interest, and stands out among the materials treated by von Sydow, because of the early date of the motif’s appearance in the % # : the fact that this attestation actually pre-dates the Norse sources by a wide margin makes it worth serious consideration. In general, however, von Sydow is entirely unconcerned with the dating of his comparative material (including the parallels he quotes for the St. Germanus episode); the vast bulk of his material – including texts central to his arguments – is extremely late, which alone is already sufficient to question its significance. Von Sydow’s derivation of the next section of Snorri’s narrative (the Skrýmir episode) exemplifies this and other problems with his approach. In this episode, after their departure from the farm where Thor’s goats had been slaughtered and revived, the travelling party spends the next night in a large building they happen to find in the forest. As it turns out the next morning, this building had been the mitten of the giant Skrýmir, and this giant offers them to continue their journey together. On the giant’s suggestion, they put all their food into his bag, but in the evening the giant goes to sleep without eating. He tells them to take his bag and eat on their own; it turns out, however, that Thor is unable to undo the knots closing the bag. Von Sydow argues that the origin of this episode can be found in tales from the Irish cycle of Finn mac Cumaill. His main comparative evidence is the tale “The Lad of the Skin Coverings” ( I DI ).80 In this story, Finn and his companions have such a successful hunt that at the end of the day they have killed more deer than they are able to carry home. Suddenly a “Big Lad” ( J ) clothed in skins approaches them and asks to be taken into Finn’s service; after he is accepted as Finn’s servant, he takes on his back not only his share of the deer, but also all the deer that

79

80

Von Sydow 1910, pp. 97-105. MacDougall (ed./transl.) 1891, pp. 27-55; von Sydow 1910, pp. 150-151.

36 the other men had not been able to carry away. He then asks for a guide to show him the way to the camp, and one of Finn’s foremost men – Conan – runs ahead of the “Big Lad” to guide him. Yet even with the huge burden of deer on his back, the “Big Lad” walks faster than Finn’s man is able to run; by the time the others have caught up with him at Finn’s dwelling, he has already prepared food for all of them. In order to get rid of the “Big Lad” and spare the company further embarrassment, Finn sends him away on a seemingly impossible mission; yet the “Big Lad” not only completes it, but does so in an exceedingly short time. Conan afterwards challenges him to a running and jumping competition in which the “Big Lad” has to prove that he really is fast enough to accomplish such feats so quickly. The increasingly irritated and impolite Conan is defeated several times over, and in the end the “Big Lad” ties him up with knots so strong that none of Finn’s men can loosen them. It is undoubtedly true that this story contains a number of motifs that also appear in the Skrýmir-section of the Útgarðaloki episode: a very big and unbelievably strong figure carrying a lot of food; knots that cannot be loosened; even a running contest (this appears later on in the Norse tale in the race of Þjálfi against Hugi: 46). However, the differences in both the overall plot of the Irish and Norse narratives and the details of the two tales are such that any connection between the Irish tale and Snorri’s myth is not obvious, to say the very least.81 Furthermore, the Irish tale was only collected from oral tradition in the year 1889 or 1890;82 thus by implication von Sydow argues that the origin of Snorri’s narrative is

81

I von Sydow 1910, p. 152. The same problem also permeates the IrishNorse derivations posited in von Sydow 1920, e.g. his derivation of the ‘Builder’s Tale’ – the construction of the walls of Asgard by a giant in 42 and CK L 25f. – from the Irish Finn-cycle (pp. 26-27). A detailed discussion of this case is, however, unnecessary, as Harris (1976, pp. 68-69, 72-73) has already discussed this proposal and rightly dismissed it as lacking sufficiently specific and systematic parallels ( Chesnutt 1968, p. 125). For a discussion of another proposed Irish-Norse derivation from von Sydow 1920 cf. below pp. 86 ff. 82 MacDougall (ed./transl.) 1891, p. ix.

37 to be found in Scottish folklore which postdates Snorri’s text by more than 600 years.83 Such problems pervade von Sydow’s theories: his comparative material is normally extremely late (the % # is an isolated and notable exception), he is generally unconcerned with questions of dating, and he is too prepared to interpret superficial resemblances in isolated details as significant parallels indicating historical connections. Given these fundamental methodological problems, it seems unnecessary to discuss every aspect of his work in detail. Historiographically, the combination of occasional interesting observations and fundamental methodological problems in von Sydow’s work has led to a very varied reception of his theories. Finnur Jónsson ridiculed them,84 while de Vries referred to von Sydow’s ideas as fundamentally establishing the relationship between Norse and Irish narratives;85 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson remained doubtful.86 Chadwick claimed a northern Russian origin instead of Irish influence for the Útgarðaloki-episode;87 Chesnutt carried out a re-analysis of part of von Sydow’s material and some

83

Von Sydow 1910, pp. 148-154, 166-167, 177-178. Finnur Jónsson 1921, pp. 104-115. 85 De Vries 1956-1957, §46; de Vries 1933, pp. 82-83, cf. pp. 89-90. 86 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson 1957, p. 13. 87 Chadwick 1964. This proposal does not appear to have found any supporters. One of the problems with Chadwick’s approach is that she does not use Snorri’s version as the basis for her idea of close parallels between the Útgarðaloki-episode and northern Russian tales about the giant Svyatogor. Rather, she draws eclectically on Snorri’s narrative, the M NL OP and the adventures of Thorkillus in Saxo’s $ : she picks and chooses her evidence from sources of very different reliability to fit her argument. Furthermore, her arguments frequently do not rely on comparisons of the sources as they stand, but on assumptions of what the evidence must originally have looked like before it was recorded in a supposedly corrupted form. Both these factors taken together mean that, Chadwick, there are hardly any obvious similarities between the Norse sources as they stand and the Russian comparative material. Finally it should also be emphasised that Chadwick’s Russian sources consist of contemporary oral folktales and would accordingly be too late to constitute convincing evidence, even if there were notable similarities with the Norse material. 84

38 additional sources, but was unable to offer a convincing solution to the concerns raised by the late date of much of the Gaelic comparative material.88 And Liberman gives a historiographical survey which concludes with some scepticism towards the idea of Irish influences.89 Overall, the reception of von Sydow has been sceptical in spite of voices supporting his work, as no solution was offered to the fundamental problems with his approach. On a methodological level, a completely new approach to the Útgarðaloki episode (specifically its third section) was taken only in the mid-1980s, by Power.90 She analysed the possibility of Gaelic roots with regard to the happenings that befall Thor and his companions in the castle of Útgarðaloki ( 46f.), with a methodology and thoroughness which are exemplary and can indeed be considered as defining the methodology which any further enquiries into this type of question will have to follow. Power is not content to adduce random examples of (predominantly extremely late) sources, but rather begins her enquiry by systematically setting out the Irish evidence, both oral and literary, for the tale whose connection with Snorri’s Útgarðaloki episode she intends to investigate. This clarifies the actual chronological situation for the first time in over a century of research: the Irish tale that parallels aspects of the events in the hall of Útgarðaloki – ' Q I L – is extant in at least 57 manuscripts from the late 16 century onwards, to which can be added over ninety variants collected from oral tradition. This still leaves a time gap of several centuries, but pointing out the high popularity of this narrative contributes much to making plausible the idea that this th

88

Chesnutt 1989. Liberman 1992, pp. 97-98. 90 Power 1985. – Previous to Power, a large number of contributions had commented on the question of Norse-Irish influences in a much less thorough way, cf. e.g. von der Leyen 1908; von Sydow 1910, pp. 167-182; Krappe 1937 (cf. Jones 1946-1953, pp. 34-35, though Jones does not assume any direct influences, cf. pp. 44-45); cf. also Chesnutt 1989, pp. 45-51. On the historiography of the question see further Liberman 1992, pp. 97-98; Power 1985, pp. 220-222. 89

39 tale have had a long history already before it was first committed to writing. After presenting the Irish evidence in detail, Power then moves on to set out the Norse evidence with the same thoroughness, thereby also pointing out how comparatively isolated Snorri’s narrative is within Icelandic literature (which may be particularly interesting in comparison with the great popularity of the Irish tale in Ireland). Only once the ground for a meaningful enquiry has been prepared in this way does Power proceed to a comparison of the Irish material with the happenings in the hall of Útgarðaloki. In the Norse tale, Thor and his companions are challenged to prove themselves in a feat of their own choosing before they are fully accepted as guests. The contests that follow are eating, running, drinking and wrestling, and the company of travellers is defeated in each of them: Loki is out-eaten by Logi, Þjálfi is outrun by Hugi, and Thor is unable to empty a drinking horn, lift a cat from the ground, or defeat the old woman Elli in a wrestling bout. Only the next morning are they told how well they have done, as Loki was out-eaten by Fire, Þjálfi outrun by Thought, the drinking horn was connected with the sea, the cat was the Midgard-Serpent, and the old woman was Old Age: they never had a chance of winning, but nobody expected them to come as close as they did. After this, Útgarðaloki and his castle vanish with a warning that the companions should never approach him again. In an episode of the Irish tale ' Q I L (and its variants) a group of heroes suffer almost exactly the same fate: they are received in a house full of strange people and animals, where they undergo a number of tests in which they are defeated. Not every version of this episode, which appears in both the written literature and oral tradition, contains exactly the same tests, but some examples include a contest with a cat, and in the older versions the episode contains an encounter with an old hag. The Irish heroes too are told the following day that all their opponents were invincible personifications (the old woman personifying Old Age just as in the Norse narrative), and after the meaning of the strange happenings of the previous night has been explained to them, the house vanishes. Thus, the Norse and the

40 Irish materials parallel each other strikingly closely: in both cases a group of travelling heroes (divine or human) arrives at a strange hall, is challenged to undergo a number of tests, and is – apparently – shamefully defeated; yet on the following day they are told that their opponents were not what they seemed but rather invincible personifications (including an encounter with an old woman who is Old Age); and suddenly they find themselves alone, as the building vanishes. Importantly, Power does not only point out the parallels between the Norse and Irish narratives, but also comments extensively on the differences. In doing so, she is able to give explanations of how these differences could have come about through the process of adapting an Irish tale to the different environment of Norse narrative culture and its different interests and conventions. Conversely, Power also shows how a possible Irish origin may help to account for a striking oddity in the Norse tale: the wrestling match between Old Age and an almost by definition ageless god. Within the Norse mythological framework, such a contest stands out as somewhat strange. However, the explanation for this puzzling contest may be that the god here plays a role that was originally played by a mortal hero, for whom such a context would make perfect sense. Thus Power goes well beyond a mere search for origins, also attempting to shed light on the processes of adaptation that could have led to the narrative as it is preserved in Snorri’s Edda. Lindow has observed that much research directed at uncovering Irish antecedents for Norse mythical material dissects the extant Norse narratives into disjointed motifs and implicitly or explicitly assumes that these motifs have been combined arbitrarily by a late author and therefore possess no actual religious meaning; or, to put it another way, that tales whose elements are derived from outside Scandinavia are mythical novellas without further significance.91 A recent – though moderate – example of this approach is the work

91

Lindow 2000, pp. 171-172.

41 of Chesnutt, who locates the borrowing of Irish motifs into the mythology of Thor within the context of a weakening of pagan beliefs among inhabitants of the Viking colonies in the British Isles due to the confrontation with Christianity.92 Lindow rejects such an approach and argues in favour of trying to understand the religious or mythological meaning of the extant tales. Here he follows Clunies Ross, who likewise argues that any borrowed material must have been borrowed because it was meaningful within the framework of the mythology of Thor (although she thinks it is impossible to actually prove a borrowing); therefore, she suggests, the mythical tales can be analysed with the aim of uncovering their mythological meaning – irrespective of the problem of borrowing.93 Lindow is right to criticise the disregard which early researchers investigating the question of borrowings showed for the possible meaning of mythological tales. Borrowing and mythological significance are not necessarily mutually exclusive, however. Again, Power’s approach points in the right direction: Power does not simply present the parallels between an Irish story and the happenings in the hall of Útgarðaloki, but also goes on to ask why this particular set of Irish motifs could have been attached to Thor. Her answer is that the Irish tale is associated with the Irish hero Finn (who is one of the most popular, larger-than-life heroes in the whole of Irish narrative culture), and the (divine) hero Thor is in terms of status the closest equivalent of Finn in Ireland that is known to Norse literature.94 Unlike Chesnutt, Power does not interpret the borrowing of Irish narrative elements as a sign of any loss of respect for Thor, but rather as an accretion of a new (and elsewhere well-loved) heroic exploit to the mythology of the heroic deity. Thus Thor’s stature is not diminished, but rather enriched, and his heroic status is once more confirmed. Whether or not

92

Chesnutt 1989, pp. 41-42, 51. Lindow 2000, p. 172; Clunies Ross 1994, p. 266 (note 33), cf. pp. 266-268. 94 Power 1985, p. 244. 93

42 Power’s is the right answer is not something I feel confident to judge, given the rather late date of the Irish material; but the important thing is that hers is the right question. Research into the question of external influences only develops its full potential if it goes beyond an enumeration of possible loans and proceeds to consider the processes of exchange, reception and adaptation that might have brought about the observable state of the evidence. After all, the ultimate interest of research into religious contacts is in uncovering parts of these processes. The aim is not a history of motifs, but a history of human interaction. Another example of what such an approach focusing on human interaction might look like is provided by the reanimation of Thor’s goats. As mentioned above, von Sydow derived this motif from British and Irish saints’ lives. A thorough, up-to-date analysis of the material in question on the model of Power’s work on the events in Útgarðaloki’s hall is still lacking; a definite decision about the plausibility of von Sydow’s analysis is therefore not yet possible.95 However, the early date of the St. Germanus episode in the % # makes it conceivable that there might indeed be a connection.96 Accepting the possibility of such a connection for the sake of the argument, the question would then be what a possible context for the loan might look like. As the motif in question is known from hagiographic literature, a borrowing would most plausibly have taken place in a situation of pagan-Christian contact (which also happens to be the setting of the St. Germanus episode in the % # : the saint works this miracle on a visit to Britain which he undertakes in order to convert Britain to Christianity). It has repeatedly been remarked that one major point – and sometimes the most important point – in the confrontation between Christianity and paganism was the issue of power: which

95

Cf. Power 1985, pp. 246-247. A derivation of the goat-episode from “an Irish miracle story” is accepted by Dronke without further specification of her sources (Dronke 2011, p. 106).

96

43 god(s) is/are more powerful, the old pagan gods or the new Christian one?97 Thus the Frankish king Clovis I rejected his wife’s attempt to convert him to Christianity with the statement that his gods had created everything, and that the Christian god had no power (Gregory of Tours, % ' II.29: $ "$ [...]). Many conversion stories depict conversion as a consequence of the fulfilment of a prayer for victory in a difficult situation, where the victory was thought to prove the power of the new god.98 Viewed in this context, the miracle worked by St. Germanus in the % # is first and foremost a display of power intended to illustrate his superiority over his pagan opponents. To claim such a tale also for Thor might from a pagan perspective, and against the background of pagan-Christian disputes about superiority, simply be tantamount to the statement: “our god can do that, !” This interpretation does not locate this borrowing in the context of supposedly weakening pagan beliefs in the conflict with Christianity. Instead, it sets it into the context of a pagan attempt to counter Christian claims of superiority by marshalling claims of the same kind for the pagan belief system. That such a hagiographic motif would be ascribed to Thor of all gods would in this context be hardly surprising; one may compare the use of Thor’s hammer as an amulet, which seems to be a similar response to the Christian cross.99 In the conflict between paganism and Christianity, Thor appears to have been a central representative of the pagan pantheon.

97

De Vries 1956-1957, §620; cf. Davidson 1988, pp. 44-45, 224. For a collection of examples cf. de Vries 1956-1957, §620. 99 Abram 2011, p. 66; de Vries 1956-1957, §425. 98

44

*

#

!

3 (

Given the current state of research, however, this is ultimately mere speculation: before a decision can be made about the likelihood of a Celtic (or rather hagiographic) origin for the episode involving the revivification of Thor’s goats, a much more thorough investigation of the material than that provided by von Sydow is necessary. The situation is similar with a number of other motifs for which a derivation from Ireland or other parts of the ‘Celtic world’ has been proposed but never investigated in sufficient detail to determine whether such a derivation is possible or probable. And in a number of cases, the proposals fall short of more than just thoroughness. One of Thor’s opponents in his numerous fights against giants is the giant Hrungnir, who uses a whetstone as his weapon. In the single combat between the two, each one throws his weapon against his opponent, and the two weapons – Thor’s hammer and Hrungnir’s whetstone – meet in the middle; the whetstone breaks, and part of it hits Thor and becomes lodged in his skull. A K by the name of Gróa almost manages to remove the piece of whetstone from Thor’s skull, but when Thor tells her good news as payment for her help, she is so delighted that she forgets her spells, and so the stone remains in Thor’s head ( GL G L 17; % K 14100 20). Sommerfelt has suggested that this episode might be related to the Irish death-tale of king Conchobar,101 the king of Ulster in the Ulster Cycle (the older of the two most important heroic cycles of Irish literature). The death-tale of Conchobar (& I D ) tells how one day, when he was standing on the edge of a battlefield, he was hit by a slingshot; the sling-stone was a ball made of brain mixed with lime. This brain-ball settled in Conchobar’s skull, and the king’s physician deemed that he would die if anyone attempted to remove it, but that he would live if the ball stayed in

100

GL G L : Faulkes (ed.) 1998; % K : Finnur Jónsson (ed./transl.) 1908-1915, vol. 1A, pp. 16-20; 1908-1915, vol. 1B, pp. 14-18. 101 Sommerfelt 1962, p. 95.

45 his skull and he avoided any kind of exertion, be it anger or intercourse. Conchobar therefore spends the next seven years in inactivity, until he receives news of the crucifixion of Christ; then he falls into such a raving fury that the brain-ball falls out of his skull and he dies.102 The oldest of several extant versions of this tale goes back to the 12 century, although there are earlier allusions to elements of the tale.103 Yet the parallels between the two tales are rather restricted in detail, making it highly questionable whether they really indicate a loan – especially given the early date of the % K (9 century).104 th

th

** / th

In the early years of the 20 century, it was repeatedly proposed that even the figure of the thunder-god Thor himself is a Celtic borrowing.105 Olsen, for instance, interpreted the place name evidence as indicating that the cult of Thor has reached Scandinavia from the south, and connected Germanic RN S with Celtic 106 Q . Olsen’s approach is not unproblematic; for example, he takes the absence of evidence to be evidence of absence, which is clearly not warranted.107 Due to such methodological problems, the idea that Thor is a Celtic borrowing was soon rejected by Schröder,108 and more recently has also been discussed and dismissed by de

102

Edited by Meyer (ed./transl.) 1906, pp. 2-21; cf. Thurneysen 1921, pp. 534-539. Cf. Thurneysen 1921, pp. 534-535. 104 Simek & Hermann Pálsson 2007, p. 165. 105 Feist 1913, p. 482; Olsen 1915, p. 203; Schütte 1923, p. 137; for further references cf. de Vries 1956-1957, §442. 106 Olsen 1915, p. 203. 107 For more detailed discussion of the problems of the place name data cf. de Vries 1956-1957, §420. 108 Schröder 1929,1, pp. 47-48. 103

46 Vries.109 However, de Vries in particular emphasised that the Germanic and Celtic thunder-gods nevertheless represent a Germano-Celtic commonality; as already observed by Olsen, the name of the Germanic thunder-god does indeed form the exact linguistic equivalent of the Q who appears in a Roman inscription from Britain dedicated to T F Q (CIL VII.168, dated to the year 154 AD). Yet de Vries also notes that the more usual form of the name of this Celtic god is Q (Lucan, I.446; cf. e.g. T Q : CIL III.2804; Q : CIL XIII.6478; and Old Irish 110 “thunder”). While the details of the phonetic relationship between Q and Q remain unclear, de Vries considers it evident that the Germanic and Celtic names are related, both designating this god as the god of thunder. As the difference between Germanic RN S and the common Celtic form Q (with and in different positions)111 precludes a simple borrowing from Celts to Germans, de Vries assumes that the two names reflect a shared innovation of both Celts and Germans during a period of close contact and ultimately rooted in Indo-European traditions (cf. Indra in Vedic India).112 Birkhan too, after presenting a detailed re-analysis of the evidence of the Celtic and Germanic divine names, reaches a similar result, although he is more inclined to emphasise the inconclusive character of the evidence and concludes that the formal correspondence between the Celtic and Germanic divine names is the only evidence for a Celtic-Germanic

109

De Vries 1956-1957, §§97, 98, 416, 442; de Vries 1960, pp. 92-93. $E ‘torann’; cf. in greater detail Birkhan 1970, §108. – On Taranis cf. Powers Coe 2006; Birkhan 1997, pp. 585-587, 639-640, 800; Birkhan 1970, §108 ; de Vries 1961, pp. 63-64. 111 Cf. Birkhan 1970, §119.1. 112 De Vries 1956-1957, §§416, 442; de Vries 1960, pp. 92-93. De Vries 1960, p. 93: »Auch in diesem Namen des Donnergottes zeigt sich wieder, daß es eine Zeit gegeben haben muß, in der die Vorfahren der Kelten und Germanen eine enge Gemeinschaft gebildet haben, während der sie gemeinsame Neuerungen durchgeführt haben, wenn auch jedes Volk auf seine eigene Weise.« 110

47 connection. In doing so, he carefully underlines that the close etymological relationship between the Celtic and Germanic thunder-gods does not prove a specifically Celto-Germanic development, even though such a scenario is possible.113 A case for a different Celtic comparison with Thor has been made by Davidson, though without drawing clear conclusions from the proposed parallels. Davidson suggested a comparison between Thor and the Dagda, a prominent figure in the literary mythology of medieval Ireland.114 She claims that there exist a large number of parallels between these two gods; both deities, she argues, are associated with the sky; a club/hammer; the ability to both kill and revivify; law; boundaries; traditional knowledge; crudity; a huge appetite; encounters with supernatural women; and cauldrons. However, apart from the obvious correspondence between club and hammer ( one wants to equate these two weapons) and the huge appetite which is sometimes ascribed to both deities,115 Davidson’s comparisons, although numerous, are not necessarily very meaningful. The ‘crudity’ which Davidson sees in the depictions of Thor and the Dadga raises the question of whether such a trait does indeed date back to the pre-Christian period or is rather due to an ironic treatment of pre-Christian figures by Christian writers.116 This issue is particularly pressing as Davidson is entirely uncon-

113

Birkhan 1970, §§108-110, 121 (p. 331). Cf. also §§122-124 on the suggestion that the Germanic thunder-god should be connected with the Gaulish . From an Indo-European perspective cf. Watkins 1995, p. 343 (note 1) with some remarks on the potentially significant linguistic similarity between the names of Thor and the Hittite storm-god RQ U V; cf. furthermore pp. 429-438 for an Indo-European perspective on Thor’s hammer. On the assumed IndoEuropean background of the thunder-god cf. also more recently Jackson & Oettinger 2011, pp. 133, 134. 114 Davidson 1988, pp. 204-207. In general on the Dagda cf. e.g. Simmons & Sjöblom 2006; MacKillop 2004, pp. 125-126; Birkhan 1997, pp. 502-513, 542, 554, 574, 615, 671, 762-763; Maier 1994, p. 94. 115 For the Dagda’s most renowned feat of eating cf. the tale of the “Second Battle of Mag Tuired” (I Q ) §§89-92 (edited by Gray [ed./transl.] 1982). 116 Cf. e.g. Heinrichs 1997 on the GW L.

48 cerned with the chronology of her sources for this motif, all of which probably date to the Christian Middle Ages.117 Her remaining comparisons are even more problematic. When Davidson argues that both Thor and the Dagda have encounters with female figures, she explicitly compares instances in which the Dagda has sexual intercourse with otherworld women with texts in which Thor kills giantesses;118 if anything, these sources emphasise differences rather than parallels between Thor and the Dagda. Similar considerations apply when Davidson claims that both Thor and the Dagda are associated with cauldrons. Here, she adduces two pieces of evidence for Thor being associated with cauldrons: he cooks his goats in a cauldron, and in the % H he fetches a 119 cauldron for a feast of the gods. She carefully omits to mention that in the myth of the cooking of Thor’s goats no emphasis at all is put on the cauldron ( 44), and that in % H Thor is accompanied by Tyr – and, most importantly, that it is Tyr who points out where a cauldron can be obtained (% H 4f.). Her point that both Thor and the Dagda possess knowledge is trivial: every god possesses supernatural knowledge, which makes this point meaningless as a point of comparison. At first glance more interesting (because much more specific) is Davidson’s suggestion that both the Dagda and Thor are associated with boundaries. As evidence for the Dagda’s link with boundaries, Davidson mentions one passage of the “Second Battle of Mag Tuired” (I Q §93), where it is stated that the club of

117

Cf. Simek & Hermann Pálsson 2007, pp. 160-161. Davidson 1988, p. 206. One of Davidson’s examples of encounters between the Dagda and female mythological figures is his mating with the Morrígain in the tale of the “Second Battle of Mag Tuired” (I Q ) §§84f.: instead of being antagonists, as Thor and giantesses are more often than not, this encounter ends with the Morrígain providing the Dagda with help against his enemies. 119 Davidson 1988, p. 206. For the cauldron of the Dagda cf. e.g. the “Second Battle of Mag Tuired” (I Q ) §6; the “Book of the Taking of Ireland” (E L X : Macalister [ed./transl.] 1941) §§305, 325, 357; O’Rahilly 1946, p. 122. 118

49 the Dagda, if dragged over the ground, left a track big enough to form the boundary-ditch of a province, which was therefore called the “Track of the Dagda’s Club” ( E $ ). If one assumes, for the sake of Davidson’s argument, that this reflects a genuine tradition with roots in the pre-Christian period, then this passage might indeed imply an association between the Dagda and at least one type of boundary. Yet the problem is whether this motif actually has a significant Scandinavian counterpart. Davidson’s claim that Thor is associated with boundaries is backed up by a statement that the sign of Thor’s hammer “might be marked on boundary stones”.120 She does, however, not provide any reference for this claim, which raises the suspicion that it is based on the (single, isolated) example of a hammer used as a boundary stone mentioned by de Vries for the Helkundaheiður on Iceland;121 the plural seems to be due to Davidson, and if this is so, then the significance of this example is highly questionable, as it would be too isolated to provide a basis for further conclusions. For the rather surprising claim of an association between the Dagda and the sky, which Davidson proposes as another point of similarity with Thor,122 she does not even hint at any evidence, and it is likely that good evidence for such a claim would indeed be very hard to come by.123 When Davidson asserts that both the Dagda and Thor are able to kill creatures and restore them to life, her evidence for the Dagda is a text which mentions that one side of the Dagda’s club is able to kill his enemies, whereas the other side restores them to life.124 Davidson compares this to Thor reviving his goats;125 but the

120

Davidson 1988, p. 204. De Vries 1956-1957, §425. 122 Davidson 1988, p. 204. 123 Cf. the general literature on the Dagda quoted above in note 114. 124 Davidson 1988, p. 204, probably referring to the tale Y , “The Intoxication of the Men of Ulster”: Watson (ed.) 1941, ll. 627-633 (p. 28, LLversion); Watson (transl.) 1942; cf. also the text “How the Dagda got his Magic Staff”: Bergin (ed./transl.) 1927. 125 Davidson 1988, p. 204. 121

50 killing and reviving of animals and of humans are not necessarily on the same level, and it has been shown above that the story of Thor’s goats may in any case belong in a different (namely, hagiographic) context entirely.126 In sum, the evidence provided by Davidson is, to say the least, less than conclusive, and insufficient to support her argument that there is a significant similarity between Thor and the Dagda. Her proposed parallels are generally constructed out of superficial similarities without any consideration of context or chronology; they evaporate under even a cursory examination. Moreover, a more accurate comparison between Thor and the Dagda was already undertaken many years previously by Birkhan, who rightly concluded that any parallels between Thor and the Dagda are superficial and that there is nothing to indicate a direct historical relationship between them.127

*4 &

! th

At the beginning of the 20 century, Olrik presented an extensive and influential study of Norse myths about the end of the world. In the course of this study, he pursued far-ranging parallels to the different motifs which form part of the ZG , the “Twilight of the Gods”. For some motifs he also proposed Celtic analogues: the war of the gods;128 the collapse of the sky;129 the role of fire in the

126

Cf. above pp. 33 ff. Birkhan 1970, §§111-113, 280. – For further proposals of Celtic or Celticmediated influences in the mythology of Thor (the Þjazi-myth and the apples of Iðunn; the Geirrøðr-myth and the M[ L ) cf. Rooth 1961, pp. 19-21, 70-76, 223224; instead of a discussion of Rooth’s proposals, it is sufficient here to point to the justly devastating reviews of Rooth’s book by Heinrichs 1964, Halvorsen 1963 and Davidson 1962. 128 Olrik 1922, pp. 59-68, 107, 131, 450-453. 129 Olrik 1922, pp. 399-400, 423-424. 127

51 destruction of the world;130 and the disappearance of the earth into the sea.131 Olrik interprets some of these parallels as results of Celtic influence (the sinking of the earth into the sea in its combination with the destruction of the world by fire);132 with others he is less confident, or at least less clear in his discussion (especially in the case of the final battle at the end of the world).133 Since Olrik’s time, much has been written about the battle fought by the gods at the end of the world. The main materials adduced by Olrik have for the most part been interpreted as reflecting a common Indo-European heritage rather than CelticNorse cultural influences –134 although in recent years the value of the relevant Irish material as sources for the mythology of the preChristian period has been increasingly doubted.135 Accordingly, a detailed discussion of this particular motif in the present context has become unnecessary. The importance of other parallels addressed by Olrik is still unclear, although here too it has justly fallen out of favour to be too confident about their significance for the question of Celtic influence on Germanic mythology. A case in point is the ultimate conflagration and drowning of the world. Snorri ( 4,

130

Olrik 1922, pp. 32-33, 44-45, 381-385, 435. Olrik 1922, pp. 30-34, 131, 435. 132 Olrik 1922, pp. 33-34, 45, 131, 132, 435, 437. Cf. de Vries 1956-1957, §594. 133 Olrik 1922, p. 453. – For an early critique of Olrik’s approach cf. Finnur Jónsson 1921, pp. 93-102. 134 The main sources from Ireland are the two tales of the two battles of Mag Tuired, edited by Fraser (ed./transl.) 1916; Gray (ed./transl.) 1982. For IndoEuropean interpretations cf. e.g. Davidson 1988, p. 178; Puhvel 1987, pp. 176-182, 285 ; Dumézil 1940, pp. 107-110, 124-128; Dumézil 1941, esp. pp. 167-173 (but cf. also the slight change of opinion in Dumézil 1974, p. 21; Dumézil 1977, p. 199). In general on the problems of Dumézil’s Indo-European approach cf. Schlerath 1995-1996. 135 Carey 1989-1990; McCone 1989. One should also mention de Vries’ objection against postulating far-reaching connections for the battle at the end of the world: »Wenn die kriegerischen Germanen nicht selbst auf diesen Gedanken haben verfallen können, was wird man ihnen an Originellem dann noch belassen?« (De Vries 1956-1957, §596.) 131

52 quoting CK L 52) writes that there is a burning land of fire in the far south of the world called Muspell, and that at the end of the world the giant Surtr will come from there with a flaming sword and burn the whole world. The term has counterparts in Old Saxon and Old High German Christian poetry ( , , etc.), which appear to be terms denoting the end of the 136 world. In the last scene of the destruction of the world as described in CK L 56, the burning of the world is combined with the sinking of the land into the sea. In the current context, this may be interesting if taken in conjunction with a statement of Poseidonius as summarised by Strabo, IV.iv.4: according to Poseidonius, the druids taught that human souls and the cosmos are indestructible, but that fire and water will at some point conquer them.137 Thus in both the Celtic and the Norse case the world appears to be destroyed by both fire water. It should, however, be noted that the reliability of the Classical report about this Celtic idea may be problematic: the Classical account may be influenced by Stoic ideas about a final conflagration of the world and might therefore not exclusively reflect actual Celtic motifs.138 Further elements of Norse eschatology which might find a parallel in Celtic ideas are the earthquakes and the bursting of the sky:139 both elements feature in the eschatological scenes of the CK L, which in stanza 52, among other disasters, tells that [ K , “rocky cliffs collapse”, and G , “the sky bursts asunder”. This finds a medieval parallel from Ireland in the first recension of the heroic tale of “The Cattle-Raid of Cúailnge” (QL #[ I\ , ll. 4043f.), where the warriors of one province promise to hold their position unless the earth under them or the sky above them should burst; this Irish passage may be as early as

136

Maier 2003, p. 60; Faulkes (ed.) 2005, p. 173 ( ‘Muspell’). Maier 2003, p. 60; Olrik 1922, p. 31; Davidson 1988, pp. 188-189. 138 Maier 2001,2, p. 70; less sceptical is Hofeneder 2008, pp. 228-229. 139 Maier 2003, pp. 61-62. 137

53 the 8 century.140 The motif recurs several times in the medieval literatures of Ireland and Wales, and in antiquity the famous Celtic delegation to Alexander the Great provides another parallel: asked by Alexander what they feared most, the Celtic delegates said that they feared nothing, except that the sky might fall upon them (Strabo, VII.iii.8).141 These parallels are noteworthy. However, they may still not be sufficiently detailed to be conclusive, even if we leave aside the contested questions of to what extent the elaborate eschatology of the late pagan north might be influenced by the Christian emphasis on eschatology,142 or whether Strabo might be describing ideas of Stoic philosophy rather than Celtic mythology.143 As de Vries has already pointed out, fire and water are among the most (potentially) destructive forces which form part of the everyday experience of mankind; thus their inclusion among the forces which contribute to the final destruction of the world is not necessarily surprising or in need of explanation.144 The same holds true for the earthquake imagery of the bursting sky and earth. th

*5 $ ,

!

%

In his overview of Celtic-Germanic relations, de Vries suggested a Celtic ritual parallel for the death of king Fjǫlnir, the son of Yngvifreyr (who allegedly received worship as a god).145 With

140

Edited by O’Rahilly (ed./transl.) 1976. On the dating cf. Thurneysen 1921, pp. 112-113, 213 and Breatnach 1977, pp. 101-103, 107. Sayers 1986, pp. 99-100. 141 Maier 2003, pp. 61-62; cf. with further Celtic parallels Maier 2001,2, pp. 70-72; Sayers 1986. 142 Cf. e.g. Maier 2003, p. 62. 143 Cf. Hofeneder 2008, pp. 228-229. 144 De Vries 1956-1957, §597. 145 De Vries 1960, pp. 98-100; cf. de Vries 1956-1957, §467; Davidson 1988, p. 66.

54 reference to a stanza of the ] (st. 1),146 Snorri relates in his ] (ch. 11)147 that king Fjǫlnir drowned in a vat of mead; within Norse literature, this death finds a parallel in Saxo Grammaticus’ description of the death of king Hundingus ( $ I.viii.27). In Ireland, a similar motif involving the drowning of a king in a vat of drink appears in a slightly different form: a king whose house has been set on fire drowns in a vat of wine where he has tried to find shelter against the flames. The main example is the death of Muirchertach mac Erca;148 according to the & Q , his demise in a vat of wine occured on the eve of Samain, an important feast day which marked the end of summer.149 De Vries quotes an example of a comparable drowning on Beltane,150 the feast day marking the beginning of summer, and infers that these tales are reflections of sacrificial rites; he compares them with the description of a Gaulish sacrifice by drowning in the Berne Scholia on Lucan and argues that all these cases are related to pre-Christian sacrificial rituals. Even if one were to follow this interpretation, however, it would still not necessarily indicate Celtic influence on Norse mythology or ritual. De Vries himself assumes that the parallels are the result of a common inheritance from a shared past and points out a further Greek parallel: Glaucus, the son of Minos and Pasiphaë, drowns in a jar of honey (which is of course the principal ingredient in mead) but is later revived (Apollodorus, # III.iii.1). In any case, while these parallels are certainly curious, they are hardly conclusive and are more likely to raise questions about

146

Edited by Finnur Jónsson (ed./transl.) 1908-1915, vol. 1A, pp. 7-15; 1908-1915, vol. 1B, pp. 7-14. 147 Edited by Finnur Jónsson (ed.) 1893-1901, vol. 1, pp. 9-85. 148 Stokes (ed./transl.) 1902, p. 424 (§42). 149 Stokes (ed./transl.) 1895-1897, pp. 132-134 in ^ I 17 (1896). 150 O’Grady (ed./transl.) 1892, vol. 1, p. 73, vol. 2, p. 77.

55 the significance of the comparative material than to provide answers about religious relationships in early Europe.151

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Possibly the most-discussed death in Norse mythology is that of Balder, and this too has been connected with Irish material.152 According to Snorri ( 49), Balder has premonitions in his dreams, as a result of which (almost) every animate and inanimate thing is asked to swear oaths not to harm him. After this has been accomplished, Balder and the Æsir use it as an entertainment to shoot and throw all kinds of things at Balder, since none of them does him any harm. Loki is displeased ( WG H ), and manages to find out that there is one thing which has not sworn an oath not to harm Balder: the mistletoe. Loki immediately plucks it and takes it to the assembly where everybody is entertaining themselves by shooting at Balder. There Loki approaches the blind Hǫðr, who has remained on the margin of the assembly, and asks him why he is not shooting at Balder; Hǫðr’s answer is that he is blind, and moreover he has no weapon. Loki then gives the

151

Another aspect of the mythology and ritual surrounding kingship has been noted as a Celtic-Germanic parallel by Davidson 1988, pp. 19-21: she juxtaposes kingship-related stones like the Lia Fáil in Tara, the Scottish stone from Scone and similar stones from Scandinavia. Davidson does, however, not draw any explicit conclusions from this juxtaposition, and it is indeed questionable whether the material would be sufficient to support further conclusions. 152 Gísli Sigurðsson 1988, pp. 77-78; Schröder 1962, p. 338; Rooth 1961, pp. 110-140 (cf. above note 127); de Vries 1956-1957, §478 (p. 218 note 3); Schröder 1941, pp. 141-144; Pokorny 1936, p. 86. – For a different type of Irish comparison, which also touches upon the death of Balder, cf. Puhvel 1972; however, this article does not actually discuss the extant material, but instead compares hypothetical reconth structions in the fashion of the solar mythology of the 19 century with other hypothetical reconstructions (e.g. Puhvel, following Grimm, thinks that the M D H reflects the killing of an older “lightning-god” by a younger “lightning-god” [pp. 216-217]).

56 mistletoe to him and shows him the right direction, and the unsuspecting Hǫðr accordingly shoots the mistletoe at Balder. It pierces Balder’s body, and he falls dead. The gods are speechless, but they cannot take revenge as the place is too great a sanctuary ( H H ). For this occurrence, a parallel has been sought in an Irish tale of the Ulster Cycle. The tale of “The Death of Fergus mac Roich” (& ' ^ ) has been dated as early as the 9 153 century. Fergus was a former king of Ulster who spent many years living at the court of Connacht, from where he harassed the men of Ulster with constant raids; he was also the lover of Medb, the queen of Connacht. On one occasion, Fergus’ men as well as Medb and her husband Ailill are assembled at a lake, and most of the men are bathing. Ailill tells Fergus to go into the water and drown the men, and he complies. Yet Medb cannot bear seeing him there and follows him, until she is on his chest and has her thighs twined around him. Her husband Ailill is less than happy about being cuckolded in public and turns to Fergus’ blind companion Lugaid Dalléces (“the blind poet”), telling him that it is “beautiful what the stag and the doe are doing in the lake”. Lugaid, whose spear never misses his mark, suggests killing them; Ailill gives him a spear and indicates the direction, and Lugaid’s cast kills Fergus. The blind poet is mortified at hearing from his comrades what he has done and complains how wretched it is to have killed his comrade innocently ( ). This Irish tale does constitute a surprising parallel to the death of Balder: in both narratives a blind man is tricked into killing the victim with a missile. However, these parallels have been interpreted in quite different ways: Rooth saw them as indicating a borrowing from Ireland to Scandinavia,154 whereas Schröder and Pokorny took precisely the opposite view, arguing that they are th

153

Thurneysen 1921, pp. 575-576, 667. Edited by Meyer (ed./transl.) 1906, pp. 3235. 154 Cf. Rooth 1961, p. 110, but also the criticism of Halvorsen 1963, pp. 132-133.

57 indications of a shared mythological tradition with ancient roots.155 The extreme contrast between these two ways of interpreting the same piece of evidence may serve as a warning of to what extent any interpretation of cross-cultural parallels is guided by the preferred theories and implicit or explicit assumptions of the respective researchers. This may be all the more important to remember as the two approaches of Rooth and Schröder and Pokorny do not even exhaust the range of interpretive possibilities: as different as they are, both approaches still assume a historical connection. Yet it is also possible to argue that the parallels reflect nothing more than chance. Schröder mentions a Jewish legend about the blind archer Lamech in an early medieval text from the Near East. According to this legend, Lamech’s little son used to direct Lamech’s arm towards the game when they were out hunting; on one occasion, however, he mistook the noise that Cain made in the forest for the noise of an animal, and so Lamech shot Cain between the eyes.156 Assuming that there is no direct literary relationship between this Jewish text and the medieval sources from Ireland and Iceland, this passage raises the possibility that the parallel between the deaths of Fergus and Balder, striking as it is, may nevertheless not be so distinctive as to preclude an independent invention in both places (even though the Norse and Irish examples both contain an element of conscious trickery that is lacking in the Lamech legend). At all events, however, the overall context of the death scenes in the Irish and Icelandic examples is so fundamentally different that even in the case of a direct NorseCeltic connection (be it literary borrowing or any other variety), the

155

Cf. Pokorny 1936, p. 86; Schröder 1941, p. 144: »Ausgeschlossen ist [...], daß Snorris Baldermythos die Quelle der irischen Erzählung von Fergus’ Tod gewesen ist, und ganz unwahrscheinlich ist auch die Annahme einer umgekehrten Entlehnung. Wir werden es vielmehr hier wie dort, bei den Iren wie den Nordgermanen, mit Resten urzeitlicher Riten und Mythen zu tun haben, die wir wohl vorsichtiger und richtiger alteuropäisch als urindogermanisch nennen müssen.« 156 Schröder 1941, p. 147.

58 Irish parallel contributes little to actually deepening our understanding of Balder’s death in the .

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A Norse motif that has repeatedly been derived from insular Celtic roots is the %P H W or “Everlasting Battle”.157 Usually the earliest attestation of the %P H W is seen in ^ L 8-11, traditionally dated to the 9 century, but recently also ascribed to the late 10 century.158 The corresponding stanzas of the ^ D L have been preserved as part of Snorri’s GL G L (ch. 50), where Snorri introduces them with a prose summary of (one version of) the %P H W -narrative. In this version, king Hǫgni has a daughter Hildr, who is abducted by Heðinn. When Hǫgni corners Heðinn after a prolonged chase, Hildr pretends to make an attempt to reconcile the two men, but in fact she merely alienates them further from each other and makes battle unavoidable. When Heðinn finally talks to Hǫgni in person in order to prevent a battle, Hǫgni tells him that it is too late now – Hǫgni has already unsheathed his sword, forged by dwarfs, which has to kill somebody every time it is drawn. So the armies engage, but by dusk the th

th

157

E.g. Chesnutt 1989, pp. 51-53; Gísli Sigurðsson 1988, pp. 42-44; Almqvist 19781981, pp. 91-94; Chesnutt 1968, pp. 129-133; cf. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson 1959, pp. 17-18; Birkhan 2009, pp. 94-112. 158 Edited by Finnur Jónsson (ed./transl.) 1908-1915, vol. 1A, pp. 1-4; 1908-1915, vol. 1B, pp. 1-4. On the dating cf. Simek & Hermann Pálsson 2007, p. 309; McTurk 2003, p. 114-116. The main sources for the %P H W are conveniently assembled in Malone 1964, pp. 35-38 (the prose texts only in detailed summary). With further literature cf. also Egeler 2011, pp. 42-45, 88-95. Authors arguing in favour of a derivation of the %P H W from Ireland sometimes reject the ^ L as evidence for the %P H W -narrative, even though it is otherwise universally accepted as its earliest attestation (Gísli Sigurðsson 1988, p. 43; Chesnutt 1968, pp. 130). This does not seem advisable, however, as it could easily look like bending the evidence to fit the argument (cf. Chesnutt 1968, pp. 132-133).

59 battle is still not decided and both parties withdraw for the night. During the night, however, Hildr goes out onto the battlefield and revives the slain by magic, and the next morning both parties engage in fighting again – the previous day’s survivors as well as the previous day’s dead. This happens every day, and even though the slain and their weapons turn to stone, they stand up again, find their weapons usable and continue fighting every morning until the end of the world. This is called the %P H W , the Hjaðnings’ battle. The evidence adduced as the main (or sometimes the only) argument for an Irish origin of the %P H W -motif is the Irish tale of the “Second Battle of Mag Tuired” (I Q ).159 This narrative tells of a war between two of the supernatural peoples of Irish literary mythology, the Túatha Dé Danann and the Fomore; it is extant in an 11 century recension probably based on 9 century materials.160 In this tale, a great number of marvels are related, some of which have been used as evidence to argue for an Irish connection of the %P H W . One of them is the unstoppable sword of Núadu, which nobody can resist (§5). Another is the craftsmanship of the smith Goibniu, who belongs to the Túatha Dé and promises to supply his people’s army with all the weapons they need, all of which will have supernatural properties (§97). Furthermore, the two sorceresses of the Túatha Dé offer to turn trees, stones and earth into warriors that will fight for them (§117). And after the engagement has begun, the chief-physician of the Túatha th

th

159

Chesnutt 1989, p. 51; Gísli Sigurðsson 1988, pp. 43-44; Almqvist 1978-1981, p. 92; Chesnutt 1968, pp. 131-133. Birkhan 2009, pp. 94-112 approaches the question from a very different angle and adduces different material; this enables him to point out interesting parallels for the heroic setting of the Everlasting Battle (rather than the Everlasting Battle itself). His approach will not be discussed in detail, as the question of the relationship between Germanic and Celtic heroic legend, which is the main focus of Birkhan’s approach, is outside the scope of the present survey. The parallels that Birkhan adduces for the Everlasting Battle as such, however, show the same fundamental problem as the comparison with the Second Battle of Mag Tuired (cf. below note 165). 160 Edited by Gray (ed./transl.) 1982; dating: , p. 11.

60 Dé (with the help of his two sons and his daughter) enchants a well so that every lethally wounded man who is thrown into it emerges whole again (§123) – provided that he has not been beheaded and his spine has not been severed (§99). Chesnutt sees in these elements the following parallels to the %P H W , which he believes are close enough to indicate an Irish (or rather joint Norse-Celtic) origin for the Norse motif:161 “the magic sword, the resuscitation of men, and the repair of weapons during the night”, as well as “the participation of a woman in the magic rites”, and the detail that the sorceresses of the Túatha Dé “can create an army out of and other raw material”, whereas the warriors of the %P H W and their equipment are 162 turned to stone during the night. However, upon closer inspection none of these parallels seems meaningful. The swords of Hǫgni and Núadu do not have anything in common beyond the trait of being irresistible – but one only needs to think of the swords of Sigurd or King Arthur to wonder which hero has a sword that is not irresistible. That a smith repairs weapons during a prolonged fight is similarly commonplace. Meanwhile, the way in which women participate in the %P H W and I Q is not comparable: in the Irish tale, only one out of four healers is female (which is insignificant, given that female figures generally play important roles in I Q ), while the ‘healing’ in the Norse tale is entirely in the hands of the female protagonist;163 moreover, there are hardly any points of contact between the sorceresses of the Túatha Dé fashioning warriors from trees and inanimate matter and the transformation of the fallen warriors into stone in the %P H W .164 Even more decisively dissimilar is, finally, the ‘resuscitation’-element in each story. In

161

Chesnutt 1968, pp. 132-133. He is followed by Gísli Sigurðsson 1988, pp. 43-44; cf. Almqvist 1978-1981, p. 92. 162 Chesnutt 1968, p. 132. 163 Cf. also Birkhan 2009, p. 110 note 50 Panzer 1901, pp. 329-331. 164 Birkhan 2009, p. 104 interprets the transformation of the weapons in the %P HD W into stone as an aetiological tale to explain some unusual stone formations.

61 I Q , this is not a true resuscitation but nothing more than a supernaturally increased possibility of healing mortal wounds – but not every mortal wound: injuries to the head and spine are explicitly excepted. This last difference alone makes any comparison between this aspect of I Q and the %P H W fairly dubious. Yet even more important is the completely different context of the ‘healing’-motif. In I Q , a group of supernaturally gifted physicians does their best to heal the warriors of their side in order to allow them to rejoin battle and bring victory to the Túatha Dé. In the %P H W, however, the ‘healer’ is independent from both sides, she revives the dead of either side, and the outcome of the battle is irrelevant to her: Hildr does not intend to help one side or the other, since her only interest is in keeping both sides imprisoned in a never-ending battle from which even death offers no escape. This has nothing in common with the happenings of I Q .165 In sum, therefore, it can be said that there are no significant parallels between the Old Norse %P H W -motif and the Irish mythological battle that would allow a derivation of the former from the latter, or support any other claim to a close relationship between these two narratives.166 This does not mean that there may not have been some (later?) exchange on a folkloristic level,167 but a Celtic-Norse influence that would pre-date the conversion and thus be early enough to be of relevance for a survey of possible religious influences in Norse paganism (even if understood in the broadest of senses) is still unproven; judging from the arguments proposed so far, it is unlikely. Thus it seems more advisable to try to understand the %P H W within the framework of Norse mythology, rather than in a Celtic or Norse-Celtic context.168

165

The same also holds true for the parallels adduced by Birkhan 2009, pp. 95, 111. A derivation of the %P H W from Celtic prototypes is also rejected by Rowe 2002, pp. 47-48. 167 Cf. Rowe 2002, pp. 47-48; Almqvist 1978-1981, pp. 92-94; Murphy 1953, pp. XXXIII-XXXIV, LIII-LIV. 168 Cf. already e.g. Müller 1976, esp. pp. 352-353. 166

62

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Another motif seemingly shared by Iceland and the insular Celtic world is that of the burial mound as a site of supernatural encounH %K HSD ters.169 The first time we meet Helgi in the % , he is sitting on a barrow – and while he is sitting there, he sees nine Valkyries riding ( L _ L WH G W ); this meeting determines the further course of the narrative and indeed the fate of the hero. Of similar importance is another meeting on a mound in the CK (ch. 1f.). There, the childless king Rerir and his wife pray to the gods for an heir; Frigg and Odin answer their prayers, and when Rerir is sitting on a barrow ( ), a Valkyrie comes to him and brings him an apple from Odin. With the help of this apple, the queen gets pregnant, and thus Vǫlsungr is born.170 As Chadwick has observed, a potentially interesting parallel to these encounters occurs in the Welsh tale of $ in the , where the mound of Arberth is known for its miraculous properties: whoever sits on it cannot leave it again without either having been beaten or having seen a miracle. It is while sitting on this mound that Pwyll sees Rhiannon for the first time.171 In favour of this comparison it can be said that in both the Norse and the Welsh tales a mound becomes the site of an encounter with a supernatural being, and that this supernatural being is female; furthermore, in both the cases of Helgi and of Pwyll the hero sitting on the mound later on marries this supernatural woman. On the other hand the three narratives summarised above are the only examples that have so far been adduced in the discussion. It might be possible (although not unproblematic) to add the opening scene of the Irish tale of the death of Muirchertach mac Erca as another variant of the motif. Here, Muirchertach

169

Chadwick 1953-1957, p. 180; Gísli Sigurðsson 1988, pp. 56-57. Edited by Olsen (ed.) 1906-1908, pp. 1-110. 171 Chadwick 1953-1957, p. 180 with note 10. 170

63 encounters a woman with supernatural powers while sitting on a “hunting mound” ( : & ` 172 §§1f.); yet even with this additional example the specific motif of the mound as a site for supernatural encounters remains (as yet) comparatively isolated. It is not only the rarity of this particular motif in the Celtic sources, moreover, which raises doubts about interpreting the episodes in question as reflecting shared Celtic-Norse lore. The two Norse examples adduced as evidence for the motif of the burial mound as a site of supernatural encounters can alternatively, and arguably more naturally, be read as examples of a common Norse motif. In Norse literature, mounds are generally places of important happenings, especially for kings. For example, in describing the abdication of king Hrollaugr in Naumudalr the % G recounts that he “went upon that barrow, on which the kings were used to sit” ( [ L N " G L P L) and there symbolically exchanged his king’s high-seat for the lower bench of a jarl. After this, he enters the service of king Harald Fairhair, who reinstalls him as jarl of the Naumdœlafylki (% L ch. 8).173 This use of mounds by kings would allow for a reading of the mound-episodes involving Helgi and Rerir which understands the mound not as a Celtic place for encounters with the supernatural, but merely as an expression of the royal status of the human protagonists: the supernatural meets them on the barrow, perhaps, not because the barrow is a site of the otherworld, but rather because the scene on the barrow forms a tableau which displays the king’s rank in the most emphatic way.174

172

Edited by Stokes (ed./transl.) 1902; cf. Cross 1915, pp. 10-12. The earliest th # G manuscript witness for & is the 14 century ] E . 173 Edited by Finnur Jónsson (ed.) 1893-1901, vol. 1, pp. 98-164. Cf. Olrik 1909. 174 Already Olrik 1909 saw the episode in the CK in this context (p. 2); he was, however, more sceptical about the corresponding scene in the % H %K HS (pp. 3-4). Yet while there are certainly elements which set the episode in the Helgi-poem apart from clearer examples of kings holding court on a

64

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Chadwick has also emphasised the importance of the three Irish tales which are known under the title “The Wooing of Étaín” (Q X W ).175 They are extant in a recension of the 11 century, which appears from certain linguistic elements to be directly based on 9 century texts.176 In these tales, Midir, the otherworldly lord of Brí Léith, takes the beautiful Étaín as his second wife, but his first wife Fuamnach does not take kindly to this and uses her magic skills to turn Étaín into a pool of water. The heat of a nearby fire helps this pool of water to transform into a worm, which turns into a beautiful purple fly with the most wondrous properties; this purple fly subsequently accompanies Midir everywhere. With the help of a magical burst of wind, however, Fuamnach manages to deprive Midir of the fly, which is driven through the land and finally falls into the drink of Étar, who swallows it and consequently becomes pregnant. At the end of this pregnancy, Étaín is reborn under her own name, over a thousand years after she was first born. Once she has grown up, Étaín is married to Eochaid Airem, the high king of Ireland. After the wedding, one of Eochaid’s brothers – Ailill Ánguba – falls in love with Étaín, and the “love-sickness” is about to kill him. While Ailill lies dying, Eochaid has to go on a journey and leaves Étaín to care for his brother and to ensure he receives a proper burial. Étaín, however, discovers the reason for the “sickness” and decides to “heal” Ailill. They make a tryst, but at the appointed meeting place she finds not Ailill but Midir. He tells her of her former marriage to him, but she does not have any memory of her previous life and th

th

mound (Helgi is “silent” [NK ] and without a name before his meeting with the Valkyrie), the scene might still be playing with the motif: the name and capacity for speech which Helgi appears to gain during the encounter on the mound are, after all, central for his later role as a king. 175 Chadwick 1953-1957, pp. 178-182; Gísli Sigurðsson 1988, pp. 54-56. For the Irish tale cf. Thurneysen 1921, pp. 598-603; edited by Bergin & Best (eds./transls.) 1938. 176 Thurneysen 1921, p. 598; Koch 2006,5, p. 1674.

65 refuses to leave her current husband for a stranger, saying she will only consent to go with Midir if Eochaid should agree. When she returns to Eochaid’s house and his brother Ailill, the latter is cured – his “love-sickness” had been created by Midir. After Eochaid returns, he is happy to find his brother well and Étaín receives his thanks. On another occasion it is Eochaid who is met by a stranger who introduces himself as Midir. Midir challenges the high king to several games of ‘chess’ ( ) and looses increasingly high stakes; in the last game, the stake is left open, and this time Midir wins and asks for a kiss and an embrace from Étaín. During this embrace he carries her through the skylight of the royal hall, and they fly away in the shape of swans. In order to retrieve his wife, Eochaid attacks Midir’s elf-mound, the Síd Brí Léith; but Midir makes him choose his wife from fifty women, all of whom look completely identical to Étaín. Eochaid makes his choice and is happy with it; later, however, he is visited by Midir who reveals to him that the woman he has chosen is not his former wife, but his own daughter with the real Étaín. At this point, Eochaid’s new wife (and daughter) is already pregnant by her father; Eochaid has the child brought away so he will never have to look at the child he had with his own daughter. This child later on becomes the mother of a great king. Chadwick sees a close parallel between this tale and the treatment of Helgi in the three Helgi-poems of the Poetic Edda and the %[ .177 In the % H %K HS , Helgi marries the Valkyrie Sváva, but one evening his brother Heðinn swears a drunken oath to possess Helgi’s wife. After Heðinn has sobered up, he feels so guilty about this that he goes to Helgi and tells him all about it. Helgi is not concerned: he foresees his death in an imminent battle and consoles his brother that this will allow him to fulfil his vow. This indeed comes to pass, and the lethally wounded Helgi tells his Valkyrie wife to take Heðinn as her new husband. Chadwick compares this episode to that

177

Edited by Rafn (ed.) 1829, pp. 363-380.

66 involving Ailill in Q X W , finding it “remarkable that in both the Irish and the Norse stories the brother of the hero has love relations with the hero’s wife, and that the hero, so far from resenting such a union, gives it his blessing.”178 This is, however, overstating the case. It is true that Eochaid thanks Étaín when he finds his brother well upon his return – after all, he had left with the expectation that he would come home to find Ailill dead. It is not clear, however, that Eochaid knows exactly what Étaín had been prepared to do in order to heal Ailill; indeed it is unlikely that he suspects the truth, given that he had never understood the true nature of his brother’s sickness. Eochaid does not thank Étaín for being prepared to cuckold him, but for nursing his brother back to health – hardly a close parallel to Heðinn’s marrying Helgi’s widow. Other points made by Chadwick seem similarly overstated. One involves rebirth. The % H %K HS concludes with the statement that Helgi and Sváva are said to have been reborn (% L O ). As such they reappear in the % H % K : the Helgi of this poem is merely said to be named after Helgi Hiǫrvarðzson, but his Valkyrie Sigrún is explicitly the reborn Sváva ( L ), and the end of this poem again states that both of them were reborn as Helgi Haddingiascaði and Kára. For more information on this Kára, Chadwick refers to the % [ , where a witch ( Pa Gb D G , ch. 6) of that name supports Helgi in battle in the shape of a swan, until she is accidentally killed by a stroke of Helgi’s sword (ch. 7). Here Chadwick notes “as a curious fact” that in both Q X W and the Icelandic tales “the lady subject to rebirth assumes the form of a swan and circles overhead.”179 This may, indeed, be curious; but the similarity does not appear to be meaningful. For one, the two instances of ‘rebirth’ are hardly comparable: Helgi’s Valkyries (as well as Helgi himself) die and are

178 179

Chadwick 1953-1957, p. 182, cf. p. 180; Gísli Sigurðsson 1988, p. 55. Chadwick 1953-1957, p. 181.

67 reborn from death to a new life, whereas Étaín never actually dies. Strictly speaking, she undergoes not so much a rebirth as a series of transformations, from woman to water to worm to insect to woman. The fact that one stage of this chain includes a passage through a female womb draws this chain of transformations nearer to a classic concept of rebirth, but it is still not the same. Moreover, the swan-shape of Kára in the % [ is attested only so late that it can be dismissed as evidence already on chronological grounds: the % [ only dates from the 17 century.180 Yet even if one chose to assume a high degree of continuity for the content of this text (one could e.g. point to the evidence of the IV from the early 15 century as an intermediary)181 the question would still remain whether the swan-shaped Valkyrie killed in battle is really a meaningful parallel to the two loving swans escaping together to a life of happiness.182 Another rebirth-related comparison made by Chadwick may be more interesting.183 The c NL H L in the ' P [Gversion of the c records how only the belt taken from the grave mound of Ólafr Geirstaðaálfr can bring about the birth of the later St. Olaf, as before the arrival of the belt from the mound his mother had been unable to deliver the child.184 Much later, when king Olaf on one occasion rides past this grave-mound, one of his men asks him whether he had been buried there. The king denies such an un-Christian presumption, but his retainer th

th

180

Foote 1985, p. 312; Simek & Hermann Pálsson 2007, p. 196. Edited by Finnur Jónsson (ed.) 1905-1912, pp. 351-410; Foote 1985, p. 312; but cf. also Zimmermann 2012, pp. 65-67. 182 In general on Valkyries in the shape of swans cf. Egeler 2009, pp. 441-449. To derive the motif of the swan-Valkyrie from Ireland would seem even more unfounded than an Irish derivation of the abovementioned scenes; the complacent, passive and victimised Étaín is hardly comparable to the aggressively active, dominant Valkyries of Norse literature. In general on Valkyries cf. Egeler 2011; Zimmermann 2012. 183 Chadwick 1953-1957, pp. 183-185; Chadwick 1955-1958, p. 100; Gísli Sigurðsson 1988, p. 56. 184 Edited by Guðbrandur Vigfússon & Unger (eds.) 1862, pp. 6-9. 181

68 corners him, pointing out that on a previous visit to the mound the king had said that they had been there before. The king denies this and rides off quickly.185 This denial of what – in the overall context of the saga – seems to be a very reasonable deduction by the unnamed retainer finds an Irish parallel in the “Story from which it is inferred that Mongán was Finn mac Cumaill” ( d D D d' I L ). Linguistically, this latter text probably belongs to the Old Irish period (i.e. before 900 AD) and thus pre-dates the c NL by a considerable margin.186 It describes how on one occasion king Mongán, a sage in his own right, had an argument with his court poet about the accuracy of one of the poet’s tales. The poet is so angered by this questioning of his authority that he threatens the king and his country with terrible satires (which were assumed to have devastating physical effects on their victims). In order to help Mongán settle the point, an ancient warrior comes from the land of the dead and acts as an eyewitness to the events in question; yet in making his statement, he accidentally gives away that Mongán himself was also present at the incident – in those days he was Finn mac Cumaill. Mongán tries to hush this up, but the tale ends with the statement that Mongán indeed Finn, even though he did not want it to be disclosed. In both these texts a king is suspected of having been reborn but denies any such claim. Whether or not such examples indeed indicate that beliefs in rebirth lingered on until well into the Christian period (as Chadwick concluded) is something which cannot be decided without a systematic study of corresponding motifs in both Irish and Norse literature. Yet at least there seems to be a shared motif in this case – even if it is far from clear whether the motif is religious or literary, and whether the Irish-Norse

185

Chadwick 1953-1957, p. 184; Guðbrandur Vigfússon & Unger (eds.) 1862, p. 135. Dating: Koch 2006,3, p. 1306; White (ed./transl.) 2006, pp. 25, 27-29 (suggestth ing a possible 8 century date). Edited by Meyer (ed./transl.) 1895, pp. 45-52; White (ed./transl.) 2006, pp. 73-74.

186

69 parallelism is due to independent parallel ideas or reflects some kind of loan or exchange.187

* < # It has repeatedly been argued that the depiction of the god Heimdall in general and the ^W N in particular were strongly 188 influenced by Irish motifs. The ^W N is a probably 13 century th

187

Chadwick 1953-1957, pp. 181-185 puts great emphasis on what she perceives as a connection between rebirth and the barrows of the dead, supposedly common to both Irish and Norse literature. However, among the texts quoted by her the abovementioned testimony about St. Olaf seems to be the only one in which such an association might be perceivable. 188 Cf. e.g. von See 2000, pp. 481-483, 485, 488-489, 492; Dronke 1992, pp. 671, 676-677. For a refutation of some older claims about Irish-Norse parallels in the ^W N cf. Thurneysen in Meissner 1933, p. 116 (note 1), p. 126 (note 1). Of particular importance is the fact that a myth about the creation of social classes by a divine progenitor – which is at the heart of the ^W N – is not attested in Ireland (p. 116). A derivation of social status from descent is well known to Christian medieval thought, however, cf. Honorius Augustodunensis, $ III (= E [Migne] t.CLXXII, c.166A-B) about the time of Noah’s son Sem: % P ! " " E " T " I (Meissner 1933, p. 115.) The suggestion of von See 2000, p. 492, according to which the closest parallel to Rígr as a divine progenitor of human beings can be found in Ireland, is true only with a large . Von See point to Meissner (1933, p. 125 note 2) for a collection of relevant attestations; the examples in question are Cú Chulainn, Mongán, and – with hesitation – Conchobar. These, however, are all examples of truly exceptional individuals who in everything but terminology correspond to Greek heroes of mixed divine-human parentage; the assumption of von See that the Greek examples of mixed parentage are farther removed from the ^W N than the Irish ones does not seem warranted. The idea that ‘normal’ human beings and even representatives of the lowest stratum of society should be sired by a god does not find a counterpart in either the Irish or Greek material and seems to be peculiar to the ^W N .

70 poem which describes how the classes of society came into being.189 In it, ^W visits three households in turn; on each occasion, he spends the night sleeping between husband and wife, and nine months later a child is born. These households and children are depicted as representing different strata of society, starting from the lowest and ending with the king. Rígr himself is identified with Heimdall in the prose introduction to the poem.190 It is widely (though not universally) accepted that the name of the main protagonist of the ^W N , ^W , is derived from the Irish word for ‘king’, W (oblique cases W ).191 As far as the plot of the ^W N is concerned, Young has claimed that the “most significantly Irish feature of the poem” is that Rígr (apparently) sleeps with the wife of each householder whose hospitality he enjoys.192 Young goes on to quote a number of Irish examples according to which the king had the right to sleep with the wife of any of his subjects in whose house he stayed; on this basis, her argument has found a predominantly positive reception.193 If one follows up her references, however, the positive impression changes quickly. Even leaving aside the fact that these references are rather inaccurate in detail, they are also extremely misleading. Two seemingly independent references lead back to the same text, the “Tales of Conchobar” ( d I ) – one via the text edition and the other via the treatment of d’Arbois de Jubainville.194 The

189

Dating: von See 2000, p. 513. For a different opinion, ascribing the poem th to the pagan period before the beginning of the 11 century, cf. Dillmann 2003, p. 626. 190 For doubts concerning the authenticity of this identification cf. von See 2000, p. 508. 191 E.g. von See 2000, pp. 488-489; Dronke 1992, p. 671; Einar Ólafur Sveinsson 1957, p. 6; Chadwick 1955-1958, pp. 113-114; Meissner 1933, p. 127; von Sydow 1920, p. 23; for possible Byzantine Greek, native Icelandic and Danish derivations cf. Dillmann 2003, p. 623. 192 Young 1933, p. 101. 193 Cf. von See 2000 S. 482, 492, but also the critical assessment pp. 537-538 and in Dillmann 2003, pp. 625-626. 194 Stokes (ed./transl.) 1910, pp. 24/25 (§12); d’Arbois de Jubainville 1892, pp. 7-8.

71 supposed attestation in “The Wooing of Emer” (Q X ) turns out to be a case of the (which is something 195 different and irrelevant in this context). Young’s reference to the # leads to a section of the text which describes how a son of the high king of Ireland got himself killed by demanding the right to sleep with the wives of the kings of Ireland;196 if anything, this example indicates that it was thought appropriate to ask for such a thing (which in this case would more than anything else have had strong connotations of a power struggle; cf. the Irish term for “royal inauguration”: , i.e. De , “spending the night with a 197 woman”). Young’s claim that the Deirdre story (E D Y ) provides an example of the king’s right to sleep with the wives of his subjects is simply false.198 The case of the poet Atherne in “The Siege of Howth” (I X )199 does not exemplify royal rights but the rights of a poet (and is consequently irrelevant here),200 and Atherne’s claims are furthermore not (morally) just, but belong to a large number of out-of-proportion claims which are meant to be conscious provocations.201 And Young’s last example, of Finn in “The Battle of Gabhra” (I ), is again a case of 202 Thus, on closer inspection, Young’s list of . ‘attestations’ melts down to a single clear instance in d I D . The motif therefore known in Irish literature, but it is far less well known than has sometimes been claimed in the discussion.

195

D’Arbois de Jubainville 1892, p. 49; cf. Stokes (ed./transl.) 1910, p. 19; Thurneysen 1921, p. 394. This version of Q X (version III) is edited by Meyer (ed.) 1901, pp. 229-263 and van Hamel (ed.) 1933, pp. 16-68 (in both editions §88). 196 Stokes (ed./transl.) 1892,1, pp. 54-59. 197 $E ‘banais’. It may be telling that the problematic example in the # is the only Irish parallel that Stokes adduces to the instance in d I : Stokes (ed./transl.) 1910, p. 20. 198 Windisch (ed.) 1880, pp. 59-92; Hull (ed./transl.) 1949,2. 199 Stokes (ed./transl.) 1887, pp. 48-49. 200 Cf. Thurneysen 1921, pp. 69-70. 201 Cf. Stokes (ed./transl.) 1887, pp. 50/51. 202 O’Kearney (ed./transl.) 1853, pp. 134-137.

72 In addition it should be noted that the single clear example ( d I ) is not even particularly early: Thurneysen has ascribed this text to the first half of the 12 century.203 Young also argues that a passage in the ^ $ f should be seen as a parallel to two motifs in the mythology of Heimdall.204 The Dindṡenchas are a Middle Irish collection of fanciful place name lore;205 the tale told by the ^ $ f 206 about the estuary D& is the following: Rúad, the grandson of a king, sets out across the sea to Scandinavia, but halfway through the journey the ships suddenly seem to be stuck as if held by an anchor. Rúad jumps into the water to find out what is happening, and under the surface of the sea he sees nine beautiful women holding his ships. They take him with them, and for nine nights he sleeps with each of them. One becomes pregnant, and Rúad promises to return to them on his journey home to Ireland. After Rúad has stayed in Scandinavia for seven years, he sails back to Ireland but does not keep his promise to return to the women; they try to catch up with him, but are unsuccessful. Therefore the mother of the child cuts off its head and throws it after Rúad; at this everybody says in unison: “It is a great crime ( D )!”, whence the name D& , “Estuary of the Great Crime”. Young compares the motif of the nine women who have one child and the motif of the head used as a missile with the figure of Heimdall. The latter was said to have been born from nine mothers (% [H 35-37; %\ L 2;207 27; GL G L 8, 208 16), and was also associated with the use of a human head as a weapon: GL G L 8 explains that a sword could be called th

203

Thurneysen 1921, p. 524. Young 1933, pp. 103-105. 205 Stokes (ed./transl.) 1894-1895, p. 272 in ^ I 15 (1894), tentatively th th dates the ^ $ f to the 11 or the first half of the 12 century. 206 Stokes (ed./transl.) 1894-1895, pp. 294-295 in ^ I 15 (1894). 207 Edited by Finnur Jónsson (ed./transl.) 1908-1915, vol. 1A, pp. 136-138; 19081915, vol. 1B, pp. 128-130. 208 Cf. von See 2000, pp. 790-792. 204

73 “head of Heimdall” because “it is said that he was struck through with a human head. In the poem % it is spoken about him, and since then a head is called doom of Heimdall; a sword is called man’s doom.” (% K H H_ L KH W K Y G H W% D " G WH G K H PK H % _ H PK H ) To what extent one decides to find these parallels significant is a largely subjective question. Young herself admits that the head in the Irish tale is thrown at the father of the child (rather than at the ‘child of nine women’ itself).209 This difference between the story of Heimdall and the Irish narrative might be considerably more significant than Young is inclined to assume, particularly given the overall dissimilarity of the sparse notes on Heimdall on the one hand and the Middle Irish tale on the other. Young does not argue, however, that this element is of Irish origin and was borrowed into Norse literature, but rather that the Irish tale is based on Norse motifs.210 This she interprets as evidence that the myths of Heimdall were “widespread and popular amongst the Scandinavians in Ireland”, which in her opinion supports the argument for Irish influence on the ^W N .211 Yet in the opinion of the present writer, her evidence is insufficient to allow this conclusion. The existence of close Irish parallels has been claimed not only for the ^W N , but also for the figure of Heimdall himself. The argument has been made that he finds a close parallel in the Irish figure of Manannán mac Lir, who appears in Old Irish literature in close association with the sea and who is probably a euhemerising

209

Young 1933, pp. 104-105, concluding: “It seems most likely that the story in the ^ $ reflects a somewhat confused and distorted version of the legend of Heimdall as told in the % .” (Quote: p. 105.) 210 Young 1933, pp. 103, 105. 211 Young 1933, p. 105.

74 reflection of a pre-Christian god.212 In the words of Chadwick: “The picture of Heimdall which we get from these sources [i.e. the Old Norse texts which mention Heimdall] claims comparison with Manannán mac Lír in that he is closely associated with the sea, and is also a sage and a poet, a magician with powers of shape changing, and above all he is a begetter of children.”213 As evidence for Heimdall’s function as a “begetter of children”, Chadwick adduces the first stanza of the CK L, where the audience is addressed as % , “Heimdall’s sons”, as well 214 as the ^W N . Meanwhile, Manannán is introduced as a “begetter of children” in the tales dealing with the birth of king Mongán, whose begetting by Manannán is foretold in the tale # (“The Voyage of Bran”) and described in I L (“The Conception of Mongán”).215 Chadwick argues that “it is chiefly as the begetter of children that his [Heimdall’s] similarity to Manannán comes out most fully”.216 However, it may well be doubted whether the “begetting of children” is a very significant trait. It is sufficient to point to Odin’s title & KH “Allfather” to illustrate that such a function is an extremely widespread and correspondingly rather trivial characteristic of important gods.217

212

In general on Manannán cf. e.g. Busse & Koch 2006; MacKillop 2004, pp. 322324; Birkhan 1997, pp. 507, 676-683, 716; Spaan 1965; de Vries 1961, pp. 86-87; Vendryes 1952-1954. 213 Chadwick 1955-1958, p. 112; cf. Chadwick 1953-1957, pp. 187-188; Davidson 1988, p. 211. The patronymic, which Chadwick reads as EW , is probably more correctly read with short vowel as E , cf. $ E ‘1 ler’. Chadwick’s work also forms the basis for Dronke’s acceptance (1992, p. 671 note 56) of strong Irish influences in the ^W N . 214 Chadwick 1955-1958, pp. 113-114. 215 Chadwick 1955-1958, pp. 81, 94-98. # : Mac Mathúna (ed./transl.) 1985; Meyer (ed./transl.) 1895, pp. vii-41. I L : Meyer (ed./transl.) 1895, pp. 42-45; White (ed./transl.) 2006, pp. 71-72. 216 Chadwick 1955-1958, p. 113. 217 For attestations of the epithet & KH cf. Snorri, ch. 3, 9, 10, 14, 15, 17, 20, 34, 35, 39; GL G L ch. 2. Esp. cf. ch. 9: FG N W L

75 As for shape-changing, Chadwick claims that this “is one of Manannán’s most constant characteristics”.218 While she omits to give an example,219 there is indeed an attested instance of this motif: in one version of the tale of the conception of Mongán, Manannán begets Mongán on the wife and in the shape of king Fiachna Finn (§4), and later in the story, he also makes an appearance disguised as a cleric (§7).220 The shape-shifting motif is not, however, as prominent in the depiction of Manannán as Chadwick claims. In any case, disguises and shape-shifting occur too frequently in both Norse and Irish mythology to attribute much significance to the motif as a parallel in such a general sense. For instance, Heimdall fought with Loki in the shape of a seal; this implies an act of shapeof them shifted their shape. shifting ( GL G L 8),221 but Other examples are the frequent transformations of a number of

& KH

H H G G N G G For the sake of completeness it may be mentioned that Spaan 1965, p. 179 suggests “vague overtones of Manannan as a ‘father-god’, perhaps distantly related to Odin.” (As far as the present writer is concerned, the emphasis here is distinctly on “vague”.) Schröder and Wagner claim that the epithet F D “All-father” of the Dagda in Irish literature cannot be separated from the Norse epithet & KH (Schröder 1967, pp. 3-4; Wagner 1955, p. 355); however, given the lack of any noticeable parallels in the characters of these two figures ( Wagner 1955, pp. 354-355), this parallel can in all likelihood be put down to simple chance, Schröder and Wagner; it is sufficient to point to the to illustrate how widespread the idea of a deity as a father-figure is. Cf. also Birkhan 1997, p. 503 for a rejection of the equation of the two epithets. 218 Chadwick 1955-1958, p. 115. 219 Cf. Chadwick 1955-1958, pp. 85-86, 91-96. 220 This version (I L $ DE L , “The Conception of Mongán and Dub-Lacha’s Love for Mongán”) is edited by Meyer (ed./transl.) 1895, pp. 58-84. The motif does not appear in the version of I L mentioned above (note 215), where Manannán begets Mongán with the wife of king Fiachna Lurga. There, the king’s wife is perfectly aware that Manannán is not her husband, and at first she rejects his advances and tells him that she would not cuckold her husband for anything in the world. Manannán can only convince her to have intercourse with him by promising to save her husband’s life, when he would otherwise die in a battle against a superior enemy. 221 Cf. Heizmann 2009, pp. 506-508.

76 very different protagonists into birds (e.g. the giant Suttungr in GL G L G56; Loki in GL G L 18), or Odin’s transformation into a snake in order to enter the mountain in which the mead of poetry was stored ( GL G L G58). The shapeshifting motif is commonplace and therefore not a very significant trait of Heimdall. Chadwick bases her identification of Heimdall as sage, poet and magician on the existence of a poem entitled % , “Heimdall’s Incantation”, from which Snorri quotes two lines in the (27; cf. GL G L 8).222 This is not much to go by, and even though such traits are also associated with Manannán,223 the comparison itself seems trivial: deep wisdom and supernatural powers are almost by definition characteristics of any deity. Furthermore, as was the case with the other points of comparison so far discussed, again Odin is associated just as strongly with such qualities, or even more so. Finally, the association with the sea which Chadwick proposed as a point of comparison between Heimdall and Manannán is not unproblematic either. In the case of Manannán, this marine association is fundamental to his character. Already # , one of the earliest Irish narrative texts (8 or perhaps even late 7 century),224 introduces Manannán as a being of the sea who meets the hero of the story in the middle of the ocean (§§32-60). Another very early source for Manannán’s link to the sea is “Cormac’s Glossary” ( I ), the shorter version of which may perhaps have been directly associated with Cormac ua Cuilennáin th

222

th

Chadwick 1955-1958, pp. 114-115. Chadwick’s assumption (Chadwick 1955-1958, p. 115 [cf. p. 94]) that the song in # , in which Manannán describes his perception of the sea to Bran, is a “song of illusion”, is erroneous, however. Bran is not being made the victim of an illusion; rather he is being introduced to the very different perspective from which Manannán sees the sea. 224 McCone (ed./transl.) 2000, pp. 43-47. 223

77 himself (†908 AD).225 This version contains the following entry about Manannán: .i. cennaige amra bói aninis Manand. ise luam as deach boi aniarthar Eorpa. noḟindad tre nemgnacht (.i. gnathugud nime) inoiret nobíd insoinind 7 in do[i]nind 7 intan nosclæchlóbad cechtar don dá résin. inde Scoti et Brittones eum deum vocaverunt maris. et inde filium maris esse dixerunt .i. mac lir mac mara. et de nomine Manandan Inis Manand dictus est.226 L , i.e. a renowned trader who dwelt in the Isle of Man. He was the best pilot in the west of Europe. Through acquaintance with the sky he knew the quarter in which would be fair weather and foul weather, and when each of these two seasons would change. Hence the Scots and Britons called him a god of the sea, and hence they said he was son of the sea, i.e. ‘son of 227 ) the sea’. And the name of the Isle of Man ( is taken from that of Manannán. An association with the sea is thus at the very core of the figure of Manannán, at least in the early period.228 For Heimdall, on the other hand, the assumption of a close association with the sea is not entirely unproblematic. Chadwick contends that the nine mothers of Heimdall are identical with the nine daughters of the sea-giant D Ægir.229 The nine mothers of Heimdall are mentioned in 27: “Nine maidens bore him as their son, and they were all sisters.” (% L P W G ) This passage also quotes two lines of the % , in which Heimdall says

225

Russell 2006. Stokes (ed.) 1862, p. 31. 227 Transl. Stokes (ed.) 1862, pp. XXXIV-XXXV. 228 Cf. Spaan 1965 for an overview including later literary developments. 229 Chadwick 1955-1958, pp. 112-113; for references to other scholars who have proposed the same idea cf. von See 2000, p. 791. 226

78 of himself: “I am the son of nine mothers, I am the child of nine sisters.” ( W G H K "| W G )230 In % [H 35 it is stated that this birth took place H H N K , “on the edge of the world”. As this edge of the world could be interpreted as the sea-shore, it is at first glance indeed tempting to identify the nine sisters who gave birth to Heimdall with the nine daughters of the sea-giant Ægir. The names of the nine mothers of Heimdall are given in % [H 37, whereas lists of the names of Ægir’s daughters appear in various sources, including GL G D 231 L 25 and 61. Of particular importance for the current discussion is an observation made by von See : while the different lists of the names of Ægir’s daughters largely agree with each other, none of the names contained in these lists recurs in the list of Heimdall’s mothers in % [H 37.232 The identification of Heimdall’s nine mothers with the nine daughters of Ægir might therefore not be as secure as has sometimes been assumed.233 If Ægir is not the grandfather of Heimdall, however, then the argument in favour of an association between Heimdall and the sea is reduced to the fight which Heimdall fought against Loki and during which both of them had the shape of seals ( GL G L 234 8; cf. GL G L 16; %\ L 2). Yet the extent to which taking the form of a seal indicates a specific association with the sea is questionable: Heizmann has observed that the seal-shape of the two antagonists corresponds to the liminal character of the setting of the fight between sea and land in an almost ideal fashion;235 the interpretation of the seal-shape as an expression of liminality emphasises that a simple reading of seal=sea may fall short of

230

Cf. above p. 72. For a complete list of references cf. von See 2000, p. 791. 232 Von See 2000, p. 791. The names of Heimdall’s mothers are, however, partly known from other texts as names of giantesses: von See 2000, pp. 791, 795-797. 233 For further discussion cf. von See 2000, pp. 791-792. 234 Cf. Heizmann 2009, pp. 506-508. 235 Heizmann 2009, p. 508. 231

79 grasping the full significance of this episode by a long margin. This is especially important as the maritime aspect may be the least unusual aspect of the scene – after all it should not be forgotten that in the sea-faring societies of the north, almost every god is on one occasion or another associated with the sea. One may think of Thor fishing for the Midgard-serpent ( 48), Freyr’s ship Skíðblaðnir ( 43), or the creation of mankind by Odin and his brothers on the seashore ( 9; cf. CK L 17f.). In sum, there is little to justify claims of a particular similarity between Manannán mac Lir and Heimdall. Manannán is fundamentally connected with the sea, whereas for Heimdall such a connection is highly problematic; and all other suggested parallels between the two are banal in the extreme. Perhaps the most telling indication of the value of the comparison between Heimdall and Manannán is the fact that every single one of their supposedly shared traits can also be identified in the character of Odin: the few characteristics these figures really share are so widespread that the similarity is rendered insignificant.

*

=!

The question of Norse parallels must be discussed not only in relation to the figure of Manannán mac Lir himself, but also with regard to other figures associated with him. One of the cases in question is Manannán’s presumed father Ler ( E has often been interpreted as a patronymic meaning “son of Ler”). Stokes (in 1862) was probably the first to suggest that the word could be connected with the Old Norse % d , an alternative name for the seagiant Ægir (e.g. GL G L G55, 25).236 Stokes appears to have

236

Stokes (ed.) 1862, p. XXXV. A few years later, a similar comparison appeared in the Old Norse dictionary of Cleasby and Gudbrand Vigfusson, who draw attention to the similarity between % d and , the Welsh equivalent of Old Irish :

80 envisioned this connection as a purely linguistic one; in the writings of Chadwick, however, it turned into a mythological connection: Chadwick repeatedly suggested that Manannán’s father, his Welsh equivalent E (in the name of Manannán’s Welsh counterpart Manawydan fab Llŷr) and the Old Norse % d were mythological figures who were in origin identical.237 Virtually nothing is known about Ler.238 He has repeatedly been assumed to be an older god of the sea,239 but ultimately there does not seem to be any evidence for this. Moreover, as Vendryes has already observed, the assumption that a specific individual Ler stands behind the apparent patronymic E is unwarranted: the word can denote a “son” in the literal sense of a genealogical relationship, but is also widely used in figural and allegorical expressions which merely indicate a close relationship between the L is literally a “son respective terms connected by .240 A of death”, yet this does not mean a physical son of Death personified, but simply an evil, murderous man.241 The term is widely 242 may attested as a poetic designation for the ocean; thus, simply mean “son of the ocean” in a figural sense, i.e. an expression of the close relationship between Manannán and the sea, which does not imply anything about Manannán’s genealogy.243 The same can be said about the equivalent Welsh terms.244 Accordingly, Vendryes has firmly advanced the view that the frequently

Cleasby & Gudbrand Vigfusson 1874 ‘Hlér’. On Hlér cf. also Faulkes (ed.) 1998, vol. 2, p. 476 ( ‘Hlér’). 237 Chadwick 1953-1957, pp. 186, 187; Chadwick 1955-1958, pp. 112-113; cf. Wagner 1977, §31 with probably the same intention, but very unclear phrasing, and Wagner 1981, §29. 238 Spaan 1965, p. 176. 239 Cf. e.g. Spaan 1965, p. 176; Vendryes 1952-1954, p. 239. 240 Vendryes 1952-1954, pp. 248-249. 241 $E ‘1 mac’, col. 7 ll. 3-14 with attestations. 242 For attestations see Vendryes 1952-1954, p. 247; $ E ‘1 ler’. 243 Vendryes 1952-1954, p. 248. 244 Vendryes 1952-1954, pp. 247-248, 249.

81 postulated ancient sea god Ler simply did not exist.245 His Welsh equivalent Llyr was, in contrast to the Irish case, at some point perceived as an individual, yet this may well be an innovation based on a misunderstanding of the phrase “son of the sea” as an actual patronymic.246 In consequence, clear evidence for even the existence of an ancient mythological figure Ler (or equivalent) is lacking, and if this is the case, then it is obvious how tenuous the argument for a shared Celtic-Norse background for Hlér/Ægir must be.247

*

%

!

!

Another (and more concrete) parallel between features associated with Manannán and elements of Old Norse mythology has been noted by a number of scholars since von Sydow and recently reiterated by Davidson.248 According to the description of Snorri, the host in Valhalla is fed with the meat of the boar Sæhrímnir ( 38): “And never is there such a great multitude of people in Valhalla that the meat of that boar which is called Sæhrímnir cannot suffice for them. It is cooked every day and is whole in the evening.” (` L G PK H W C K LN G G N O W % H

245

Vendryes 1952-1954, pp. 249, 254. Vendryes 1952-1954, pp. 249-251. 247 Cf. also Faulkes (ed.) 1998, vol. 2, p. 312 ( ‘hlér’) for the current interpretation of the term. The suggestion of Wagner 1981, §§30-33 that the name of Ægir’s wife ^L is borrowed from a hypothetical (!) Brythonic term for “seal” does not need to be discussed. – Wagner’s (1966) suggestion that the two terms [ and in & W L 30 and 32 are derived from Irish terms is, at a cursory glance, considerably more convincing than his speculations on mythological names (cf. also above note 237), but the discussion in von See 2000, pp. 364, 366 shows that it is unnecessary, even though von See do not mention Wagner’s hypotheses (which may imply a value judgement?). 248 Davidson 1988, p. 46; Lorenz 1984, p. 466; Spaan 1965, p. 176; de Vries 19561957, §582 (p. 379 note 1); von Sydow 1910, p. 78. 246

82 G ) Such self-renewing pigs are also provided by Manannán, as is described in the late Middle Irish tale of “The Nurture of the House of the Two Milk Vessels” (& Q L ), which tells of the origin of some of the institutions of the Tuatha Dé Danann.249 After the Tuatha Dé Danann have been defeated by Erimon and lost the upper (i.e. surface) part of Ireland, they withdraw underground into the ‘elf-mounds’. These are distributed among them by Manannán, who also establishes other aspects of the new order (§2): [...], 7 gach aen ler cubaidh adhba 7 inadh oireachais d’faghbail do Tuathaibh Dé Danann do orduigh Manannan doibh adhbhba dileas gacha deighfir, 7 dorinneadh in feth fiadha 7 fleagh Goibhneann 7 muca Manannain dona mileadhaib .i. in feth fiadha tar nach faici na flaithi, 7 fleadh Goibninn gan aeis gan urcra dona hardrighaibh, 7 muca Manannain re marbadh 7 re marthain dona mileadaibh, [...].250 And to every one of the Tuatha Dé Danann to whom it was fitting to get an abode and a seat of dignity, Manannán appointed a special abode for every good man, and the ' ' and the Feast of Goibhne and the swine of Manannán were made for the warriors, i.e. the ' ' through which the chiefs were not seen, and the Feast of Goibhne to ward off age and death from the high kings, and the swine of Manannán to be killed and to continue to exist for the warriors.251 These pigs, who like Sæhrímnir are slaughtered, cooked and revived on a daily basis as part of an otherworldly feast, also appear in other

249

Edited by Duncan (ed./transl.) 1932. Dating: MacKillop 2004, p. 13. For another version of the tale cf. Dobbs (ed./transl.) 1930 (there the self-renewing pigs are mentioned in §2). 250 Duncan (ed./transl.) 1932, p. 188. 251 Duncan (ed./transl.) 1932, p. 207.

83 texts. The oldest allusion to them may be found in the short tale “Concerning the Seizure of the Fairy Mound” ($ L DgW ), 252 which Hull dates to the 9 century at the latest. In very terse language this text mentions a pig that lives forever and a roasted pig that never decreases (i.e. comes back to live after being cooked and eaten?); these marvels are located in the fairy-mound which the Mac Óc manages to obtain from the Dagda by trickery. In the “Book of the Taking of Ireland” (E L X ) six pigs of this kind are said to have been received by Lug as wergild for the death of his father; it is explicitly stated that the resurrection of these pigs depended on the preservation of their bones, which were not allowed to be broken or gnawed (§319).253 Another selfrenewing pig appears at the court of Manannán in “The Adventure of Cormac mac Airt” (` I & ), the first recension nd of which has been dated by Hull to the 2 half of the 12 century.254 In this tale, king Cormac travels to the otherworld, where he enters a magical, luxurious palace inside a bronze-walled fortress (§§3436). When it is time to prepare food, a man with an axe, a log and a pig enters the palace. He slaughters the pig, chops up the wood, and puts the pig into a cauldron. It is a peculiarity of this cauldron that a truth must be told for every quarter of the pig that is to be cooked in it. So the pig’s owner relates how he received the pig, the log and the axe as ransom for a herd of cattle; he can kill the pig and chop the log with the axe every evening, and there will be enough wood to boil the pig and serve as firewood for the palace, and both the pig th

th

252

Edited by Hull (ed./transl.) 1933; dating: p. 54; the pigs: pp. 56/58. Macalister (ed./transl.) 1941, pp. 134-137. This section belongs to ‘Recension ’ according to Scowcroft’s analysis (Scowcroft 1987, p. 141). There is no detailed th linguistic dating for this recension; it survives in manuscripts dating from the 14 / th 15 century onwards (cf. Scowcroft 1987, pp. 86-87). 254 Hull (ed./transl.) 1949,1, p. 871. Edited by Stokes (ed./transl.) 1891; the full title of the first recension is: “The Irish Ordeals, Cormac’s Adventure in the Land of Promise, and the Decision as to Cormac’s Sword” ( d 'W ' "` I D Q Q " I I I ). Hull himself has edited and translated the second recension, which is of similar date (Hull [ed./transl.] 1949,1, p. 872) and also makes reference to the daily reviving of the pigs (pp. 876, 880-881). 253

84 and the log will be whole again the next morning. This story is true, and one quarter of the pig is boiled (§§37-44). In the following section of the narrative, which no longer directly concerns the selfrenewing pig, further true stories are told until the pig is boiled (§§45-51), and Cormac learns that the palace belongs to Manannán mac Lir, the king of the otherworld (the “Land of Promise”, QW Q : §53).255 In spite of the difference in tone between the Irish and the Norse vignettes, the self-renewing pig which in both cases forms part of the feast in the hall of the ruler of the ‘otherworld’ certainly constitutes an interesting parallel. Whether this parallel is so distinctive as to preclude independent creation in both cultures is, however, a question which cannot be answered objectively. In the context of parallels between Norse and insular Celtic pigs, an observation made by Beck regarding the boar of Freyr should also be mentioned. Snorri tells in 49 that Freyr had a chariot drawn by a boar called Gullinbursti or Slíðrugtanni. The golden bristles which characterise this boar according to its name ( D , “Gold-bristle”)256 are also emphasised in Úlfr Uggason’s %\ L 7 ( GL G L 7), where Freyr appears riding this boar (instead of yoking it in front of his chariot). It can run faster than any horse, and even in deep darkness can always light its way with the light it sheds from its bristles ( GL G L 257 35). Beck has noticed a parallel to this boar in the Welsh tale

255

For a much later attestation of the motif of the self-renewing pigs in a late medieval version of the death-tale of king Fergus mac Léti (& ' ) cf. also O’Grady (ed./transl.) 1892, vol. 1, p. 249, vol. 2, p. 281. Thurneysen attributed th th this text with some hesitation to the 13 or 14 century (Thurneysen 1921, p. 541). 256 Cf. Cleasby & Gudbrand Vigfusson 1874 ‘burst’. 257 Cf. de Vries 1956-1957, §457. In the context of this divine mode of transport it may also be appropriate to mention the ship Skíðblaðnir, which is attributed to both Freyr and Odin (de Vries 1956-1957, §457). De Vries argues ( ) that this Norse ship should not hastily be rejected as a mere fairy-tale motif, as Manannán also has a miraculous boat (on which cf. MacKillop 2004, p. 322; Spaan 1965, p. 176). However, Manannán for the most part uses other modes of transport

85 I F : he draws attention to the boar ` , “Grugyn Silver-bristle”, whose path through woods and meadows is said in this tale to be visible thanks to the glittering of its bristles. Beck points out that this Welsh boar parallels the Norse Gullinbursti both in having a name which indicates that it has bristles from precious metal, and in emanating light.258

* * %>

;

'

!

In the “Adventure of Cormac mac Airt” (already mentioned above in relation to the episode of the self-renewing pigs), after Cormac has entered the bronze-walled fortress in which the palace of Manannán is situated (§34), he passes a fountain. Five streams flow out of this fountain; the nine hazels of Búan grow over it, and in the fountain live salmon who feed on the nuts which fall from these hazels; furthermore, people drink from the water (§35). Later on it is explained to Cormac that this fountain is the Fountain of Knowledge ( ), and those who desire knowledge must drink out of this fountain and the streams that spring from it (§53).259 This Fountain of Knowledge and the hazels around it also appear in the Dindṡenchas (place name lore) of the Shannon;260 the motif appears to have been fairly well-known, and a versified version of this place name story in the 12 century # G E th

( ), and in any case, in a sea-faring society the idea of a miraculous boat does not seem very unusual. 258 Beck 1965, pp. 116, 119, 125. 259 Cf. Spaan 1965, p. 191. This episode is not in the second recension (edited by Hull [ed./transl.] 1949,1). 260 Stokes (ed./transl.) 1891, p. 226 (note on §35); # $ f : Stokes (ed./transl.) 1892,2, §33 (pp. 497-498); ^ $ f : Stokes (ed./transl.) 1894-1895, ch. 59 (^ I 15 [1894], pp. 456-457); $ f : Gwynn (ed./transl.) 1913, pp. 286-297.

86 illustrates that the motif goes back at least to this century in the context of place name lore also.261 The little tableau of the fountain of wisdom with its hazel-trees next to the palace of the lord of the otherworld has a certain similarity to a tableau in Snorri’s 15:262 there, after Gangleri has asked about the most important cult centre and holy place of the gods ( K H H H H H ), he is told about the ash Yggdrasill, where the gods hold their court. Under one of the three roots of Yggdrasill is the W , “in which wisdom and human intelligence are contained, and the one is called Mímir who owns the well” ( GH G W [ " G L W L ). In order to obtain a drink from this well, Odin has to leave one of his eyes in it as a pledge. The Irish and the Norse accounts parallel each other in the motifs of (1) the well of wisdom, (2) the trees associated with it and (3) the well’s central location in the cosmos ( K H H / location next to the palace of the lord of the otherworld). Whether this correspondence is significant enough to be meaningful for the question of Norse-Celtic contacts is, however, unclear – most fountains have something growing next to them, and a site as important as a well of wisdom is intrinsically likely to be located at an important place. Thus the possibility that the correspondence is simply a random coincidence cannot be ruled out. Scholarship to date has in any case sought Celtic roots for the W elsewhere.263 Von Sydow based his argument on the abovementioned Dindṡenchas of the Shannon and the Dindṡenchas of the Boyne.264 In the Dindṡenchas of the Shannon, Sinann goes to the Well of Wisdom to gain knowledge; the water ebbs away, however, and when Sinann tries to follow it, it rises up again and

261

Edited by Gwynn (ed./transl.) 1913, pp. 286-291. Cf. Davidson 1988, pp. 25-26. 263 For a general rejection of proposed Celtic influences on Mímir (though without discussion) cf. Dillmann 2002, p. 41. 264 Von Sydow 1920, pp. 24-25. 262

87 drowns her.265 Meanwhile, in the Dindṡenchas of the Boyne, Nechtán possesses a well which harms everyone who approaches it, except Nechtán himself and his three cupbearers. Out of pride,266 Nechtán’s wife Bóann challenges the well, which attacks her, deprives her of one eye, one foot and one hand, and finally drowns her.267 Von Sydow argues that the second well was originally also a well of wisdom; having in this way adapted the material to the needs of his argument, he claims that the loss of Bóann’s eye from the attack of the well parallels the eye of Odin which the Norse god has to leave in the W to obtain a drink from it. Von Sydow confidently concludes from this: ”Här är överenstämmelsen så stor att den inte gärna kan vara tillfällig.”268 But this claim that the correspondence is too strong to be accidental is, of course, to be rejected. A comparison between Bóann and Odin would be farfetched even if it were based on the actual textual evidence; the fact that it is based on von Sydow’s own reconstruction of a hypothetical original form of the tale only serves to weaken it further. Given this fundamental flaw in his approach, his argument cannot even be saved by his further claim that Mím(i)r as a severed head corresponds to the importance of severed heads in Irish literature.269 Severed heads form the core of Ross’s approach.270 She presents a collection of archaeological evidence for severed heads in (sacred) wells and similar contexts,271 which she then compares with

265

Cf. above note 260. A different motivation is given by one of the metrical versions: Gwynn (ed./ transl.) 1913, pp. 36/37. 267 # $ f : Stokes (ed./transl.) 1892,2, §36 (p. 500); ^ $ D f : Stokes (ed./transl.) 1894-1895, ch. 19 (^ I 15 [1894], pp. 315316); $ f : Gwynn (ed./transl.) 1913, pp. 26-39. 268 Von Sydow 1920, pp. 24-25, quote: p. 25. 269 Von Sydow 1920, p. 25. On Mím(i)r as a severed head cf. CK L 46; ] 4, 7; Simpson 1962-1965; Dillmann 2002 . 270 Ross 1962, p. 41. Cf. also Simpson 1962-1965, p. 44, and in passing Bugge 19201925, p. 371. 271 Ross 1962, pp. 33-36. 266

88 evidence drawn from literature and folklore.272 This literaryfolkloristic material contains some curious details, such as the following from a legend about Saint Melor of Cornwall and Brittany: Melor’s head is cut off and carried away; when the man carrying the head becomes unbearably thirsty and calls for help, the head speaks and tells him to plant his staff into the earth. The staff then takes root and transforms itself into a beautiful tree, from the roots of which a fountain flows forth.273 There are indeed elements here which are somewhat similar to motifs associated with Mím(i)r: a talking head (faintly reminiscent of Odin talking to the head of Mímr in CK L 46), and a supernatural well and tree (which recall the W and the world-tree of 15). Overall, however, the parallels between such episodes and the traditions about Mím(i)r are not close enough to be truly conclusive. A further problem is that throughout her study Ross is largely unconcerned with the dating of her sources, making it impossible to assess the chronology of her comparative material. Consequently, with a systematic study of the evidence still lacking, it is currently impossible to make a definitive decision about whether or not Ross’ conclusion is correct; she states that “[a]ll the evidence suggests that this episode in Norse mythology, if not a direct borrowing from a Celtic source, at least owes its presence in the Norse tradition to a detailed knowledge on the part of the story-teller of such beliefs among the Celts.”274 Yet although it may not yet be possible to decide with absolute certainty whether or not this is the case, it is at least possible to say that even if her idea is correct, Ross has not provided conclusive evidence for it.275 In general, the question of how detailed similarities must be in order to be classed as significant is a highly problematic one.

272

Ross 1962, pp. 36-46. Ross 1962, pp. 38-39. 274 Ross 1962, p. 41. 275 Simpson considers the parallels to be significant, but doubts the derivation of the Norse motifs from Celtic sources; instead, she considers a common IndoEuropean root: Simpson 1962-1965, pp. 45-46. 273

89 Mímr’s talking head provides an excellent example with which to illustrate the difficulties, since in this case there is rich Greek material that offers potentially interesting parallels which emphasise this problem. For instance, Ogden felt that Mímr’s head was quite close to an episode told in Aelian’s C XII.8.276 According to Aelian, before he seized power, the Spartan ruler Cleomenes I had sworn an oath to his friend Archonides that he would take his counsel in every affair. After he became king, Cleomenes had Archonides beheaded; yet in order to keep true to his oath, he preserved the head in a jar of honey and discussed with it every decision he took. Of course these discussions were rather one-sided, but severed heads and skulls that do actually talk appear frequently in ancient Greece. The most well-known of these talking severed heads is perhaps the head of Orpheus: after he had been killed by Thracian women, his head came to rest in Lesbos, where it lay in a chasm and prophesied from there (Flavius Philostratus, % XXVIII.9-13).277 Another set of parallel Greek sources, which belong not to the realm of myth but rather to that of ‘applied magic’, are the Greek magical papyri from Egypt, which recuringly provide recipes for the use of skulls for oracular purposes.278 All these Greek parallels come just as close to the Norse material as the Celtic parallels adduced to date; thus they illustrate that much closer parallels would be needed to support claims of an actual borrowing from Britain and Ireland into Scandinavian mythology.

276

Ogden 2001, p. 209. Ogden 2001, pp. 166, 208-209. Cf. also Simpson 1962-1965, p. 46. For a comparison of the myth of Orpheus with the head of Bendigeitvran in the Welsh cf. Birkhan 2009, p. 99. For some remarks on Mímir from a Dumézilian perspective which also include Celtic and Greek comparisons cf. Nagy 1990, esp. pp. 216-217, 219-220. 278 Ogden 2001, pp. 202, 205, 211-214. 277

90

* 4 ? At the beginning of the 20 century, it was repeatedly suggested that the cult of Odin/Wodan was introduced to the Germanic peoples from Celtic Gaul, or that the persona of Odin at least was subject to influences from this direction.279 Already in 1913, however, Helm observed that any attempt to claim a completely Celtic background for Odin must fail on account of the absence of any Celtic (or Roman) deity who would correspond to Odin in name and character.280 The fact that Helm himself, despite noting the absence of actual parallels to Odin among the Celtic deities, still accepted the possibility of some Celtic influence provides telling testimony to the low critical standards of this whole discussion.281 Several decades after Helm, Wagner took a new approach to the question of Celtic influence on the mythology of Odin by drawing not on the continental material (as Helm had done), but on the medieval texts of Ireland.282 According to Norse mythology, after Balder has been killed, Odin has a son with Rindr; this son is born in order to avenge Balder’s murder (Saxo Grammaticus, $ III.iv.1-9; CK L 32f.; # 9-11; etc.). Wagner claims that this narrative is so similar to an Irish story that a historical connection between the two must be assumed. The story in question is that of the birth of Óengus as told in “The Wooing of Étaín” (Q X W §§1f.)283 and a number of other sources. Wagner’s proposition has been discussed by Schröder,284 with the same result as we have seen with a number of other proposals of Celtic influences discussed above: already at the level of casual scrutiny it becomes clear that there is no similarity at all between the proposed, supposedly compelling Irish model and the Norse th

279

Müllenhoff 1900, pp. 123, 213; Helm 1913, p. 267; Schütte 1923, p. 125. Helm 1913, p. 267 (note 67), 390. 281 Helm 1913, p. 267. 282 Wagner 1955. 283 Edited by Bergin & Best (eds./transls.) 1938. 284 Schröder 1967, pp. 3-6. 280

91 ‘derivative’, let alone a similarity that could be considered as significant and indicative of a historical connection. Another aspect of the mythology of Odin was proposed as a candidate for Celtic influence by Schröder himself in a somewhat earlier book. The starting point of Schröder’s considerations is the assumption that the runes were thought to be an invention of Odin (although he freely admits that this is nowhere stated explicitly).285 Schröder then derives this idea that the alphabet was invented by a god from the Celts.286 His evidence for a Celtic origin is a passage from Lucian’s % , in which Lucian describes a picture of the Gaulish god Ogmios. Ogmios was identified with Heracles by the Gauls but retained strongly local character traits: he was depicted as an extremely old man with chains of gold and amber fastened to his tongue; those chains were connected with the ears of his followers, and even though the chains seemed flimsy, none of his ‘captives’ tried to break away. Lucian then goes on to say that this image was explained to him by a learned local: eloquence was thought by the Gauls to be connected to Heracles, and because eloquence reaches its peak with the experience of old age, Heracles was depicted as an old man; the chains connecting the tongue of Heracles to the ears of his followers represented the power of Eloquence personified over those who listenen to it.287 To this Schröder adduces a more than dubious parallel from the Stowe-Version of the QL #[ I\ ( 288 15 century). In the passage in question a warrior is so fierce that several men are meant to restrain him with the help of chains fastened to his neck; such is the warrior’s ferocity, however, that he drags the men violently over the ground. This ‘parallel’ is meant to prove that Lucian’s description of Ogmios reflects authentic Celtic th

285

Schröder 1929,1, p. 45. Schröder 1929,1, pp. 50-55. 287 Schröder 1929,1, pp. 50-51. Cf. Hofeneder 2011, pp. 82-96; Mees 2009, pp. 8993, 192; Birkhan 2006; Birkhan 1997, pp. 563-570. 288 Edited by Windisch (ed./transl.) 1905, pp. 796/797; O’Rahilly (ed.) 1961, p. 143; dating: Thurneysen 1921, p. 117. 286

92 tradition.289 Schröder then connects the Gaulish Ogmios with the Irish Ogam script, postulating that the similarity of the names indicates that Ogmios was considered to have been the inventor of the script.290 Arguing furthermore that Ogmios might have been a god of fate (although there is no evidence for this),291 Schröder then concludes that this Celtic mythological complex of the god of fate inventing writing was the model for making Odin, the Norse god of the dead, the inventor of the runes.292 This summary of Schröder’s argument should already have made sufficiently clear, however, the extent to which he uses speculative inferences as the basis for further inferences, and how thin the empirical basis of his argument is. It is certainly too meagre for his conclusions to be considered convincing – even leaving aside the fact that the value of Lucian’s decription of Ogmios as a source for the history of Celtic religion is disputed.293 More recently, de Vries has proposed extensive parallels between Odin and the Celtic god Lugus/Lug.294 He does not interpret these parallels as indications of a loan, but rather as reflections of a common heritage which ultimately reaches back to

289

Schröder 1929,1, pp. 51-52. Schröder 1929,1, pp. 53-54. A linguistic connection between the Irish figure of F , whom medieval Irish tradition presents as the inventor of the Ogam script, and Lucian’s F has in the past been deemed extremely problematic (cf. Hofeneder 2011, p. 93; Birkhan 1997, pp. 566-567). However, some of the most recent contributions no longer consider the linguistic problems to be insurmountable: cf. Mees 2009, p. 93 (note 9); Birkhan 2006. 291 Schröder 1929,1, pp. 52-53, 54. 292 Schröder 1929,1, p. 54. 293 On the basis of a detailed analysis of this passage and other suggested testimonies for Ogmios, Hofeneder has recently rejected Lucian’s description of Ogmios as likely to be a piece of fiction without value for the history of Celtic religion: Hofeneder 2011, pp. 94-95. Other scholars are more confident about the reliability of the text, however (cf. e.g. Mees 2009, pp. 89-93, esp. p. 92; Birkhan 2006), and – as Hofeneder himself remarks (2011, p. 95) – the discussion will certainly continue. 294 De Vries 1962-1965,2, pp. 117-119; de Vries 1961, p. 54; de Vries 1960, p. 92; de Vries 1958, pp. 278-281. 290

93 Indo-European times;295 thus in the form in which de Vries originally presented them these parallels are strictly speaking outside the scope of the present survey. However, they have recently been accepted and used as the basis of far-reaching conclusions by Rübekeil, who argues that the genesis of the cult of Odin took place in the Celtic-Germanic contact zone on the European continent and reflects a strong Celtic input.296 The plausibility of Rübekeil’s arguments in favour of this hypothesis builds upon (and is therefore dependent upon) the validity of de Vries’ comparison between Odin and Lug, which makes it necessary to give a short discussion of this comparison. De Vries assembled his proposed parallels between Lugus/Lug and Odin in a list of nine points,297 which are stated and evaluated individually below. For the sake of convenience, they will be addressed in de Vries’ order. 1) E " F hi – Within the Irish material, the position of Lug as main god is less than clear-cut. To illustrate this, it is sufficient to recall the abovementioned passages where Manannán (and not Lug) is described as king of the Land of Promise.298 Similarly problematic is the continental Celtic situation: Caesar, $ VI.xvii.1 states that the Gauls worship as their main god ($ ). When de Vries was writing, it was common to identify this with Lug,299 but Maier has since demonstrated in an important article that all the main arguments traditionally advanced to support this equation are, on closer scrutiny, inconclusive.300 This suggested point of comparison between Lugus/Lug and Odin has thus been rendered equally inconclusive and probably obsolete.

295

De Vries 1958, p. 281. Rübekeil 2002, pp. 181-303, 420-429. 297 De Vries 1961, p. 54. 298 Cf. above p. 84. 299 Cf. de Vries 1961, p. 54. 300 Maier 1996; accepted by Hofeneder 2005, pp. 206-207. 296

94 2) # E F – The statement that Lug is a military commander (in the “Second Battle of Mag Tuired”, I Q )301 is not wrong, but how significant is it, given that more recent research has emphasised the problems inherent in the assumption that the plot of this tale is closely based on a pagan myth?302 3) E # Q " F j i – This point of comparison is to some extent a duplicate of point (2) and accordingly has little independent value. This is all the more the case since god plays an important role in the Second Battle of Mag Tuired, which is perhaps best illustrated in a section of the tale where every participant describes in detail what important contribution he or she will make (§§96-120). Making an important contribution to this battle thus makes little contribution to defining any one participating character. 4) # – While this is true, the overall importance of the spear in both cultures somewhat limits the significance of the comparison. One may also note that in the most important encounter during the Second Battle of Mag Tuired, Lug uses a sling as his weapon (§§133-135). 5) # – Again this is true, but so too do other gods. For instance, the Morrígain makes a central contribution to the Second Battle of Mag Tuired by weakening the enemy through magical means (§85), and the physician of the Túatha Dé Danann uses a cure which restores most of the dead to life (§§99, 123). 6) E " F – The closing of one eye by Lug is only one part of his performance; he goes round the army, chanting, on one foot, and with one eye closed (§129). Such behaviour is a stock-element of magical actions in Irish literature – compare for example the evil hag Cailb in the “Destruction of the Hostel of Da Derga” (Q

301 302

Cf. de Vries 1961, p. 53. Cf. the literature quoted above in note 135.

95 # $ $ ), who stands on one foot and uses only one breath while chanting a list of supernatural names (§62; this text appears to be an 11 century compilation of 9 century material).303 This comparison, therefore, is not of noticeable significance either, as Lug’s behaviour is less indicative of his own character than of the overall conventions of Irish literary magic.304 7) E "P F G – Mastery of the poetic art appears to be a rather wide-spread quality, attributed to many figures throughout Irish and Norse literature and mythology. It may suffice to recall Chadwick’s claim (discussed above) that mastery of the art of poetry constitutes a parallel between Heimdallr and Manannán:305 this alone throws into question the significance of this trait as a point of comparison. 8) # E F – In the case of Lug, this association is not based on the evidence of Irish literature, but merely on the foundation legend of Lyon (E D ) reported in Pseudo-Plutarch, $ VI.4 (probably nd rd 306 2 /3 century AD). This foundation legend is, however, so reminiscent of the foundation legend of Rome – including the role of the birds – that it has in all likelihood been modelled on the latter.307 The identification of the birds in the foundation legend of Lyon as ravens (in contrast to the vultures of the foundation legend of Rome) can also be explained with reference to the role of the raven in Classical divination, without having to assume that this reflects a genuinely Celtic motif (although the foundation legend may well have been created in Gallo-Roman Lyon).308 Moreover, even if the association between Lyon and ravens is genuinely th

303

th

Edited by Knott (ed.) 1936. Dating: Thurneysen 1921, pp. 626-627. In the Second Battle of Mag Tuired another type of a magical eye can also be found: Lug’s enemy Balor has an evil magical eye which breaks every army with its glance (§§133-135). 305 Cf. above pp. 74, 76. 306 De Vries 1961, p. 51. Cf. Hofeneder 2011, pp. 122-132. 307 Hofeneder 2011, p. 126. 308 Hofeneder 2011, pp. 127-129. 304

96 Celtic, Maier has pointed out that there is actually no conclusive evidence that E was a cult-centre of Lugus, as assumed by de Vries: there is no epigraphic evidence, only the toponym itself. This place name, however, could be interpreted as “warriorfortress” instead of “fortress of the god Lugus”; the first element of the place name could be derived from the term for the lynx (Irish ), which was used figuratively to refer to a warrior.309 If E is not the “fortress of Lugus”, then any connection between Lug and ravens becomes obsolete, even if the ravens are in fact a native element of the city’s foundation legend. 9) # – In order to illustrate how little significance this point of comparison has, it should be sufficient to recall how many of the Homeric heroes are of divine descent (Achilles, Sarpedon, Memnon, Aeneas, ...). As in the case of point (7) above, Chadwick used the same argument to associate Heimdallr and Manannán. It did not seem meaningful there, and in the case of Lug and Odin it does not seem meaningful either.310 In sum, virtually all the points of comparison that de Vries proposed between Lug and Odin have either been rendered obsolete by the development of research since de Vries’ time, or are too trivial to be significant. At the current state of research, there is nothing to indicate a particularly close relationship (or indeed any relationship) between the characters of Odin and Lug.311

309

Maier 1996, pp. 128-129. He also shows that the festival in honour of Emperor Augustus held at Lyon should probably not be connected with the Irish E : pp. 130-131. On the problems of the etymology of E see further Hofeneder 2005, pp. 206-207; Hofeneder 2011, pp. 127-132. 310 Cf. above p. 74. 311 Parallels between Odin and Lug are also claimed by Davidson 1988, pp. 89-92. These parallels overlap in part with those proposed by de Vries, but also add a substantial number of further comparisons. Apart from one reference to an Early Modern (!) text, Davidson’s proposals remain either undocumented or reference only secondary literature, at least part of which is notoriously unreliable (Ross 1967). In addition to this, her proposals are also highly problematic in terms of content, as two examples of her additional points of comparison may suffice to illustrate. Davidson argues that both Lug and Odin are associated with eagles, and

97

* 5 The 37 and the GW L (or ' W ) relate how one day Freyr sits down on Hliðsciálf, from where he overlooks all the worlds; on that occasion he sees a beautiful woman of the race of the giants, named Gerðr, and immediately falls in love with her. Stricken with a very severe case of love-sickness indeed, Freyr withdraws from all company and neither sleeps nor drinks, until finally his parents send his servant Skírnir to talk to him and find out what troubles him. Freyr tells Skírnir about the woman he loves, and Skírnir rides to woo her for him. In both texts Skírnir manages to arrange the union of Freyr and Gerðr; in the D , no mention is made of any obstacles which Skírnir had to overcome, whereas the GW L dwell in detail on Gerðr’s initial unwillingness to marry Freyr and how Skírnir has to convince her with threats of violence and harmful magic (stanzas 23-36). Talbot compared this narrative to the Old Irish tale “The Dream of Óengus” (& c ),312 which was dated to the 8 century by Shaw and to the 9 /10 century by Thurneysen.313 In this tale, Óengus sees a dream-vision of a beautiful woman, and this vision returns every night until he falls so deeply in love with her that he ceases to eat and falls ill. One of the foremost physicians of Ireland diagnoses the love-sickness and instigates a search for the woman th

th

th

that both are gods of healing. The underlying evidence is highly questionable throughout – e.g., Lug does indeed, as Davidson remarks, in one case heal Cú Chulainn; but a single instance of healing (an act performed by a fair number of Irish figures) does not constitute a meaningful association between Lug and healing. After the much more well-founded comparisons proposed by de Vries have been dealt with, it seems superfluous to address additions of this kind in detail. On the problems of Davidson’s work more generally cf. the discussion of some wild claims about Valkyries in Egeler 2011, pp. 83-84 note 261. 312 Talbot 1982. 313 Shaw (ed.) 1934, p. 37; Thurneysen 1921, p. 301; generally to the Old Irish period (i.e. pre-900): Koch 2006,4, p. 1389; MacKillop 2004, p. 11. Edited by Shaw (ed.) 1934; Müller (ed./transl.) 1876-1878, pp. 344-350. Summary: Thurneysen 1921, pp. 301-303.

98 whom Óengus has seen in his nightly visions. After a two-year search by some of the most powerful otherworld lords of Ireland, the girl is finally found. However, her home is in Connacht, outside the territory of the searchers, and so they go to Ailill and Medb, the king and queen of Connacht, to ask for their help. Ailill and Medb have no power over the girl, either, but try to act as mediators. Her father, however, refuses to be summoned to a meeting; therefore an army is raised and his elf-mound is taken by force. The girl’s father then confesses that even he himself has no power over her, and that she spends one year in the shape of a bird and the next in the shape of a woman; if they are to have any chance of success, they must deliver the proposal to her herself. On this basis, peace is made, and the following year Óengus finally meets the girl. She accepts his proposal, and they unite in the shape of two birds. Comparing these two narratives, Talbot concludes that “we find in both works a young son of a fertility god suffering from lovesickness after a vision of an Otherworld woman. He withdraws from the world, not wishing to tell any one [ ] the cause of his condition, and becomes the object of his parents’ deep concern [...]. In both stories the girl is unwilling to yield but is eventually won by force through the help of a third party, possibly a human, in both stories.”314 To some extent, Talbot manages to draw attention to potentially noteworthy parallels. Her claim that both Óengus and Freyr are sons of a “fertility god” is in line with the description of Njǫrðr in 23 and the usual perception of Óengus’ father, the 315 Dagda, even if the term “fertility” may not be the most accurate one conceivable. In combination with the love-sickness that befalls both Freyr and Óengus, this parallel may indeed be of some interest. Overall, however, Talbot overstates her case: the “vision of an Otherworld woman” which induces the love-sickness in the two

314

Talbot 1982, p. 38. On the Dagda cf. e.g. Simmons & Sjöblom 2006; MacKillop 2004, p. 125; Birkhan 1997, p. 574.

315

99 tales is comparable only in a rather loose sense: Óengus is visited by nightly visions through no fault or action of his own (the initiative seems to lie with the otherworld woman!), whereas Freyr sees Gerðr because he has sat down on Hliðsciálf – an act which is not only entirely of his own volition, but which is also explicitly condemned as a great arrogance ( G O ) for which the lovesickness is a punishment ( 37). Furthermore, Talbot’s interpretation that the girl is unwilling in both cases is not supported by the texts: in the Irish tale, the woman is initially simply not asked, and the difficulty is in finding her; once she has been found and is asked (nicely) in person, she immediately agrees. In this respect the contrast with the wooing of Gerðr could hardly be greater: Gerðr’s location is well-known, but she outright refuses to have anything to do with Freyr and only changes her mind after being threatened with harmful magic. It also seems to be somewhat stretching the argument when Talbot emphasises that Ailill and Skírnir are both possibly human and therefore comparable elements in the two tales:316 even leaving aside the question of whether Skírnir really is human (or whether this matters at all), the roles of Ailill and Medb on the one hand and of Skírnir on the other are so different in detail that the comparison between them and Skírnir is meaningless even if Skírnir human. After presenting this main comparison between the story of Freyr’s love-sickness and the “Dream of Óengus”, Talbot goes on to suggest several further traits that she regards as shared by Freyr and Óengus: a connection with trees, the dead, mounds, boats, pigs, plenty, fright and terror; kind support for the weak; and further parallels between the characters of Freyr’s and Óengus’ fathers.317 These proposed parallels can, however, be dismissed summarily, since Talbot’s method of determining parallels is largely based on assertion rather than reasoned argument. One example will be sufficient to illustrate the problems inherent in her methodology.

316 317

Talbot 1982, pp. 37, 38. Talbot 1982, pp. 39-42.

100 As her first point of comparison, Talbot proposes a shared association with trees.318 Her first piece of evidence for a connection between Freyr and trees is W L 5, where it is said that Ullr’s hall is in Ýdalir, “yew-dale”. In the following verses, the W L then name Álfheimr as the home of Freyr. The poem does not give any indication of the geographical relationship between Ýdalir and Álfheimr; yet in spite of this (and without clarification), Talbot claims that Freyr’s abode is in or “at any rate close to” Ýdalir – which she considers to be evidence of an association between Freyr and trees. Her second argument for such an association is “the evergreen tree” next to “Frey’s temple at Uppsala”. Adam of Bremen in his % IV.27 mentions a sacred grove next to this temple, and scholion 138 adds the evergreen tree, but Adam also states that the temple is the place of worship for three gods, Q , i , and ' , and that the people there worship Thor as the most powerful of these three (and accordingly place his statue in the centre of the arrangement of cult images: IV.26).319 Talbot carefully omits to mention any of this, which makes her statement about “Frey’s temple at Uppsala”320 almost appear to be bending the evidence to suit the (still rather weak) argument. Her arguments continue in this style, and it would serve no purpose to discuss them any further. The main (and in the present context only) contribution of her paper is the parallel she provides for the motif of the love-sickness. Within Irish literature, this motif also appears elsewhere; for example, the nearly lethal love-sickness which befalls Ailill Ánguba in “The Wooing of Étaín” (Q X W ) has already been mentioned above.321 one thinks that the love-sickness of Freyr cannot be a native Scandinavian idea and has to have been imported from elsewhere, the literature of Ireland is

318

Talbot 1982, p. 41. Edited by Schmeidler (ed.) 1917. 320 Talbot 1982, p. 41. 321 Cf. above p. 64. 319

101 therefore perfectly capable of having served as a source for this motif. An alternative derivation for Freyr’s love-sickness with greater explanatory force than the Irish hypothesis has, however, been proposed by Heinrichs.322 She links the love-sickness of Freyr with (1) descriptions of love-sickness in continental European medical literature of the medieval period and (2) the condemnation of excessive carnal desires within moral theological literature. The former comparison yields no new perspective or insight that could not also be provided by the comparison with love-sickness in Irish literature; the comparison with theological literature, however, is able to suggest an explanation for an aspect of the Norse tale which cannot be explained by an Irish derivation: the fact that what happens to Freyr is assessed in an explicitly negative way by Snorri, who states that Freyr’s love-sickness is the punishment for his presumption of having sat on Hliðsciálf. Such a negative assessment is lacking in the two abovementioned Irish examples of Óengus and Ailill Ánguba: both men are the innocent victims of unbidden nightly visions and the magic of Midir respectively, and neither is blamed for the desires which afflict them as a result. For the negative perspective upon Freyr’s love-sickness a different source must therefore be sought, if an external source is thought necessary, and Heinrichs has shown that the contemporary Christian literature of continental Europe could have provided templates both for the negative assessment and for the love-sickness itself. This does not make Irish influence impossible, but it makes an Irish connection at least unnecessary to explain the Norse story. For the sake of completeness, another proposed Irish parallel for Freyr should perhaps also be mentioned, even though its proponents interpreted this as reflecting common Indo-European heritage rather than Celtic influence on Norse mythology. This is the parallel between Freyr and Fergus as proposed by Olmsted and

322

Heinrichs 1997.

102 supported by Kristiansen and Larsson.323 Here a connection between Freyr and Fergus was supposed on the grounds that both have a huge sexual appetite and are extremely well endowed, and that both lost their swords when making a tryst with their lover and later missed this sword in the decisive battle. The sexual appetite claimed for Freyr appears to be inferred partly from his love-sickness; the latter motif was, however, so common in medieval Europe (as shown by both the Irish examples and Heinrichs’ discussion)324 that its significance as a parallel may be somewhat doubtful. Furthermore, Olmsted explains Freyr’s name in Uppsala – ' – as “lover”.325 Seemingly more concrete evidence for a large sexual appetite are the huge genitalia ascribed to both Freyr and Fergus: the cult image of Freyr/Fricco in the temple in Uppsala showed him (Adam of Bremen, % IV.26), while the 12 century “Tales of Conchobar” ( d I ) describe Fergus as having a penis seven fists in length and testicles the size of a bushel-bag; when he did not have his wife, he needed seven women (§13).326 However, this text is not particularly early and is furthermore so clearly burlesque that one wonders how meaningful it is to compare it with Adam’s description of the cultimage at Uppsala, as Olmsted does.327 The loss of the sword may be similarly problematic as a point of comparison. Freyr gives his sword to Skírnir when he rides off to woo Gerðr for him ( 37; GW L 8f.), and Freyr will miss it when he encounters Beli ( 37). Fergus, on the other hand, was caught out while he was having intercourse with Medb: the charioteer of Medb’s husband found the couple, but instead of interrupting them during coitus, he stole Fergus’ sword th

323

Olmsted 1994, pp. 80-81; Kristiansen & Larsson 2005, p. 260. On Fergus cf. already above p. 56. 324 Heinrichs 1997. 325 Olmsted 1994, p. 81. 326 Edited by Stokes (ed./transl.) 1910; dating: Thurneysen 1921, p. 524. 327 Olmsted 1994, pp. 80-81.

103 (QL #[ I\ , ll. 1030-1063). In consequence, Fergus did not have it when he was supposed to encounter Cú Chulainn.328 However, it is not clear that a sword given as a gift (in the case of Freyr) is equivalent to a stolen sword (in the case of Fergus), and furthermore in both cases no harm results from the lack of the sword in the subsequent encounters quoted by Olmsted: D 37 explicitly says that Freyr could have killed Beli with his bare hands, if necessary, and Fergus was unwilling to fight Cú Chulainn anyway – the lack of a sword indirectly gave him a reason to retreat (QL #[ I\ , ll. 2495-2518). Finally, if one broadens the comparison to include more of the narrative in each case, the similarity becomes smaller rather than bigger: Fergus receives his sword back before facing Cú Chulainn and his other opponents in their second encounter in the final battle of the QL (QL #[ I\ , ll. 4006-4108), whereas Freyr will indeed miss his sword in his final battle at the end of the world ( 37). One therefore wonders about the significance of the proposed parallels between Freyr and Fergus.

* 6

'

(

A motif connected with supernatural encounters in both Ireland and Scandinavia is the use of summer plants during winter as tokens of the otherworld. In his biography of Hadingus, Saxo Grammaticus relates one particularly curious episode ( $ I.viii.14):329 on one occasion when Hadingus is eating, a woman suddenly emerges from the ground next to the fireplace. She is carrying some hemlock ( ) and asks where such fresh plants ( ) grow at the time of the winter-solstice (

328

Olmsted 1994, p. 81. Edited by Olrik & Ræder (eds.) 1931; Friis-Jensen & Zeeberg (eds./transls.) 2005. 329

104 ). Intrigued, Hadingus expresses his desire to know the answer to this question, and the woman wraps him in her cloak and takes him with her to the underworld ( ). There Hadingus is shown remarkable places (taken partly from Classical and partly from Norse ideas about the land of the dead) before he is returned home. In Ireland, something very similar takes place in the tale of the “Adventures of Nera” (` ),330 which has been dated to the 10 century or later.331 In this tale, Nera – one of the warriors of Crúachain – is outdoors during the night of Samain (November 1 ). He comes across a host of otherworld warriors and follows them through the “cave of Crúachain” ( I ) into their realm, where he soon finds himself living together with an otherworld woman. His new wife is privy to plans according to which the fort of Nera’s king and queen is to be destroyed by an otherworld army the following Samain, and she tells him to warn his people. When Nera asks how he is to make the court of Crúachain believe the truth of his adventure and his warning message, the woman tells him to take “fruits of summer” ( ) with him. Nera accordingly takes three kinds of plant out of the otherworld to the court of Crúachain; the exact botanical identification of these plants is problematic, but they are types which are clearly associated with early summer in other sources.332 Thus in the $ plants that are entirely out of season are used by an otherworld woman to arouse the curiosity of Hadingus and hence to facilitate his journey to the otherworld, while in ` such plants are to be used at the instigation of an otherworld woman to prove the veracity of the tale that Nera is going to tell in Crúachain. Both episodes take place in or at the beginning of winter,333 and in both cases the summer plants are connected with a journey to an otherworld that is situated th

st

330

Edited by Meyer (ed./transl.) 1889. Thurneysen 1921, pp. 312, 668; cf. Carey 1988, pp. 67-68. 332 Carey 1988, p. 72. 333 Cf. Carey 1988, pp. 70-72. 331

105 underground (the otherworld of ` is entered through a cave). The parallels seem almost too specific and too detailed to be attributable to chance. Whether they reflect deeply rooted Norse mythological lore that attests to Irish influence in the religious sphere, however, is doubtful; given how unparalleled this motif is in Norse mythology, it is much more likely to be a purely literary loan into the literary work of Saxo Grammaticus.334

* 7 ' The Irish poet Atherne has been mentioned above in passing as a figure who played a prominent role in the Irish tale I X due 335 to his ability to demand outrageous gifts. One reason why a poet could command such authority was the devastating effect of satirical poetry: anybody who brought the wrath of a poet down upon himself and was satirised had to fear immediate physical consequences.336 Cormac’s Glossary ( I ) contains in its longer recension a detailed narrative which deals with the effects of a poet’s satire: the tale of Néde mac Adnai.337 The story in question is already alluded to in the earlier short version of the glossary and may thus go back to the early 10 century.338 In this tale an adulterous queen brings about the fall of her husband by talking a poet into satirising him. The poet at first objects that the king is so th

334

On Hadingus’ journey to the netherworld see further Herrmann 1922, pp. 102103 (also pp. 106-108 on some further possible parallels between elements of the Hadingus-narrative and sources from the literatures of Britain and Ireland). For another detailed parallel between passages in Saxo and Irish medieval literature cf. Gísli Sigurðsson 1988, p. 64; elsewhere (p. 59) he points out a general similarity between Irish and Scandinavian tales of travellers to the otherworld. 335 Cf. above p. 71. 336 Cf. Thurneysen 1921, pp. 69-70. 337 I (Meyer [ed.] 1912) §698. For an edition of the tale that is accompanied by a translation cf. Stokes (ed.) 1862, pp. XXXVI-XL. 338 Stokes (ed.) 1862, p. 24 ( ‘Gaire’); Russell 2006.

106 generous that there is nothing he could ask of him which he would not receive. But the queen knows one thing which her husband is not allowed to give away; thus the poet asks for this object, and the king’s refusal to give it to him provides the poet with a pretext for composing a satire. This satire has the effect of causing three blisters to appear on the face of the king (one red, one green, one white), who flees in shame and eventually dies. In this context, de Vries has noted that the motif of physical damage done by satirical poetry also occurs in Norse literature, in the M NL P GL 339 ( 1300 AD). In this tale, the poet Þorleifr wants to take revenge on Earl Hákon for the murder of his men, the destruction of a ship and the theft of its cargo. Þorleifr enters Hákon’s hall in disguise and recites a poem which at first seems to contain praise of the earl, but quickly becomes more ambiguous and finally outright satirical. This second part of the poem causes Earl Hákon an unbearable itching in the most embarrassing places, creates a darkness in the hall in which the weapons in the room kill many of the men there, and even makes the earl himself faint. His beard and half his hair fall out and never grow back, and the earl spends all winter and much of the summer in bed without ever fully recovering.

* 9 %

"- !

"-

The present survey is concerned with religious history. It should nevertheless have become clear in the course of the preceding discussion that the term ‘religious history’ has been used in a very wide sense, including not only core areas of undoubted religious significance (like cultic practices and major gods), but also some narrative themes which contain supernatural elements but show little evidence of ever having enjoyed any other but a purely literary

339

De Vries 1960, pp. 118-119. M NL : Guðbrandur Vigfússon & Unger (eds.) 1860, pp. 207-215. Dating: Simek & Hermann Pálsson 2007, pp. 388-389.

107 status. The two last-mentioned motifs (the fruits of summer and satire) exemplify this second category, as they concern supernatural elements within Norse texts, but are likely to do so on a purely literary level. I will not attempt, however, to present a systematic survey of possible Celtic influences on the depictions of the supernatural in Norse literary (rather than religious) history; nor will the current survey make any attempt to discuss systematically the question of Celtic elements in Germanic heroic and other nonmythological literature. Objects for such a study could for instance be found in elements of the traditions about Sigurd and the Niflungs;340 the % Dkl l Dlegend (with the exception of the Everlasting Battle);341 or the Tristan-legend.342 Such topics undoubtedly deserve further attention, but this would require a separate monograph.343 Þorleif’s satire and its effect on Earl Hákon may therefore conclude this chapter. Yet before bringing the present survey as a whole to a close, it may be appropriate to turn briefly to three themes which in a sense bring the discussion back to Charon’s obol and the question of how ‘Celtic’ (some) Celtic influences are.

340

Cf. e.g. Birkhan 2009, pp. 112-119; Davidson 1988, p. 147; de Vries 1960, pp. 131-134; de Vries 1953, pp. 231-235, 239-247; O’Rahilly 1946, pp. 332-334. 341 Birkhan 2009, pp. 94-112, and cf. above pp. 58 ff. with note 165. 342 Birkhan 2009, pp. 119-120. 343 For contributions on the topic of Celtic influences in Germanic ‘secular’ literature cf. e.g. Birkhan 2009; Gísli Sigurðsson 1988 ; Davidson 1988, p. 152 (about EP[ ); Almqvist 1975; de Vries 1962-1965,1; de Vries 1960, pp. 131-134; de Vries 1953; Frings 1942; Heiermeier 1941.

108

4 /

4

%

!

3 ?;

. 2

Much of the scholarly discussion concerning Irish influences in Norse mythology has focused on single texts, such as the account of the boar Sæhrímnir in Snorri’s . Such similarities may indeed be curious, but if one is trying to investigate influences they are not unproblematic: Irish parallels to single elements of Norse mythical narratives have repeatedly been taken to imply a purely literary borrowing that was not only seen as irrelevant to any mythological meaning but also sometimes interpreted as an indication that the elements in question were literary motifs pure and simple. The narratives containing them could therefore be seen as purely literary constructs whose elements have no claims to either antiquity or religious significance (one may recall the above discussion of the Útgarðaloki episode and in particular the views of Chesnutt).344 An alternative approach would be to ask whether there are more deeply rooted Norse-Celtic similarities which cannot simply be interpreted as literary borrowings but appear to be embedded in the fabric of the mythology of each cultural group. One case in point might be the Valkyries. Already in 1870 Lottner noted that there are striking parallels between the Valkyries and a group of female Irish battlefield demons known as the Bodbs or Morrígains,345 and this argument has been developed further by a number of au-

344

Cf. above pp. 40-41. – On the old proposal of Irish influences in the $ H P[H, recently restated by Zimmermann (2012, pp. 35, 236, 251), cf. Egeler 2009, pp. 433-434 note 129; Egeler 2011, pp. 59-60 note 139. 345 Lottner 1870.

109 thors.346 Since both groups of supernatural beings are integral parts of Norse and Irish mythology respectively, the proposed parallels between them cannot easily be explained as borrowings of single narrative motifs or individual stories; there is indeed very little in this material that would lend itself to such an interpretation. Rather, the parallels are found between the overall characters of both groups of beings, which suggests that the might be related, and not merely elements of the narratives in which they feature. Among the principal traits shared by the Norse and Irish battlefield demons are the following: both are groups of female demons (rather than single isolated figures), which can act both as a group and individually; both are fundamentally connected to death, especially death on the battlefield; both have an important influence on the course of events on the battlefield in general; in both cases their involvement in war is interlinked with a noticeable sexual aspect; both are associated with birds; and both have a destructive power over the mind of their victims.347 Several examples will serve to illustrate these traits for each group, beginning with the Valkyries. The section of the CK L which leads up to the end of the world is introduced by the appearance of a group of six Valkyries (Codex Regius-version, stanza 30; the poem is usually ascribed to the late pagan period);348 they have individual names (most of which are connected with

346

Egeler 2011 (with extensive methodological discussion; review: Edlund 2011); Egeler 2009; Gulermovich Epstein 1998,1; 1998,2; 1997; Birkhan 1970, pp. 509515, 583; Donahue 1941. For the sake of completeness it should be mentioned that Zimmermann also considers ‘Celtic’ influences on the more gory aspects of the depiction of Norse Valkyries, though without reference to any primary sources or any of the more recent literature on the question: Zimmermann 2012, pp. 158-160, 243. 347 The following outline is based on the corresponding sections in Egeler 2011, esp. pp. 31-172. 348 The dating of texts in the following paragraphs is based on Simek & Hermann Pálsson 2007 and von See 1997, 2000, 2004, 2006, 2009.

110 war),349 but are not otherwise differentiated in any way. In the first stanzas of the % G OH , on the other hand, a Valkyrie appears as a single figure, holding a conversation with a number of ravens (stanzas 1-4, late 9 century).350 These ravens still bear the marks of having spent the night on a battlefield, feeding on the corpses of the slain: pieces of flesh cling to their claws, and the smell of carrion lingers on their breath. Their conversation with the Valkyrie illustrates somewhat indirectly the link between Valkyries and death, or more specifically, death on the battlefield. This aspect appears at its most prominent in the %LG L , where Odin sends two Valkyries to the battle to choose who is to come to Odin and to dwell in Valhalla. This task is tantamount to choosing those who are to die on the battlefield; after the battle has ended, the Valkyries meet the dead king and his fallen men and tell them to make their way to Valhalla, thus functioning almost as and playing a central role in the transition of the slain men to the realm of the dead. The dead Hákon is less than happy and complains that he has been denied his deserved victory; the Valkyries reply that they did actually permit him to rout his enemies, even though they also decreed his death in the battle which he won (stanzas 1-13, late 10 century).351 This function of deciding who is to fall in battle is so fundamental to the Valkyries that it even determines their name: the DG P are ‘choosers of the slain’. Their interaction with warriors is not restricted to determining their death and sending them on their way to Valhalla, however; it can also be strongly erotically charged. In many instances Valkyries become the lovers of heroes, as in the three Helgi-poems (12 /13 century), the relationship between Vǫlsungr th

th

th

349

th

In general on the names of Valkyries cf. e.g. Zimmermann 2012, pp. 120-128, 240-241, 255-291; Price 2003, pp. 337-341; Boyer 1980. 350 Edited by Finnur Jónsson (ed./transl.) 1908-1915, vol. 1A, pp. 24-29; 1908-1915, vol. 1B, pp. 22-25. 351 Edited by Finnur Jónsson (ed./transl.) 1908-1915, vol. 1A, pp. 64-68; 1908-1915, vol. 1B, pp. 57-60.

111 and the Valkyrie Hljóð in the CK (ch. 2; 13 century),352 or the CK H (12 /13 century). The %P H W narrative may also belong to this context: here, the female figure who uses her supernatural power to bring about the Everlasting Battle bears the name Hildr – a typical Valkyrie name (cf. CK L 30) – and the narrative has a strongly eroticised undercurrent; even the most fundamental motif of this tale, the abduction of a woman, is erotically charged. The apparent connection between Valkyries and eroticism in this narrative may be all the more important as the %P H W is widely thought to be attested already on picture stones from Gotland, which have been dated to the 10 century at the latest and may even be as early as the 8 century.353 If an erotic or markedly sexual aspect is already part of the character of the Valkyries at this early stage, then this would also explain why an to gloss Anglo-Saxon glossator of the 11 century uses O 354 Venus, the Classical goddess of sexuality. A further trait of the Valkyries has already been alluded to in the conversation between the Valkyrie and the ravens in the % D G OH mentioned above: an association with birds. In a number of later sources this takes the form of a feather garment ( ) that allows them to transform into birds (% H# , stanza 6, 13 century; CK ch. 1; CK H , prose introduction and stanzas 1-2). Attested much earlier but perhaps reflective of a similar idea is the formation of G for ‘raven’ with names of 2 Valkyries (e.g. in L 6 , 900 AD).355 Finally, it might be worth mentioning a further possible characteristic of the Valkyries. The Valkyrie name % PK ( W L 36, 10 or 12 /13 century) might indicate that Valkyries also commanded a direct – and destructive – power over the minds of th

th

th

th

th

th

th

th

352

th

th

Edited by Olsen (ed.) 1906-1908, pp. 1-110. Cf. Egeler 2011, pp. 88-95. 354 Gwara (ed.) 2001, pp. 9, 646-647. 355 Edited by Finnur Jónsson (ed./transl.) 1908-1915, vol. 1A, pp. 22-24; 1908-1915, vol. 1B, pp. 20-21; cf. Meissner 1921, p. 121. 353

112 warriors: PK , the “army fetter”, denotes a loss of strength that befalls its victim in the face of mortal danger and thus brings about his death.356 A very similar combination of character traits is found in the Irish Bodbs and Morrígains. In Ireland, battlefield demons of the type of the Bodbs already appear in the oldest stratum of vernacular literature in the Old Irish period. They are female demons who can bear a certain variety of names; thus a probably Old Irish (i.e. pre900 AD) entry in Fm m identifies Macha as Bodb and “one of the three Morrígains” ( n ),357 implying that these figures can appear both as single individuals and as members of a group, and that their names are largely interchangeable. The entry continues with an explanation of a phrase that reveals much about the character of these beings: “the mast of Macha, that is: the heads of men after they have been slaughtered” ( O O D ); the Bodbs feast on the severed heads of the men fallen in battle. The Bodbs’ relationship to war does not end here, with the carrion on the battlefield; they also influence the course of war. In a passage of the “Second Battle of Mag Tuired” (I Q ) the Morrígain – here appearing as an individual – has intercourse with the Dagda, one of the leaders of the Túatha Dé Danann, and in exchange for his sexual favours she both supplies him with crucial information and weakens his enemies (§§84f.; this text is probably an 11 century recension of 9 century material).358 In the tale of the “Cattle-Raid of Cúailnge”, the Morrígain approaches the hero Cú Chulainn with a very similar intention, offering him her support in combat in exchange for a sexual relationship – only this time her advances are turned down and, insulted, she turns against the hero (QL #[ I\ , ll. 1845ff.; this passage probably goes th

356

th

E.g. % H ch. 36, edited by Þórhallur Vilmundarson & Bjarni Vilhjálmsson (eds.) 1991, pp. 1-97. 357 Stokes (ed.) 1900, p. 271 no. 813; Mac Neill 1932, esp. pp. 113, 116, 119. 358 Gray (ed./transl.) 1982, p. 11.

113 back to the 8 century).359 Both examples illustrate two character traits of these demons: they influence the course of the conflict, and they have a strongly sexual aspect, taking a very personal interest in the male protagonists of war. At first glance, these aspects may seem to present a strange contrast with the picture given by O’Mulconry’s Glossary, which describes the Bodbs as carrion-eaters who feed on the slain. But this duality corresponds to the two appearances of the Bodbs: they appear both in anthropomorphic form and as a hooded crow ( ), the native carrion bird of Ireland. In the 9 /10 century tale QL #[ ^ the Bodb (or Morrígain, depending on the manuscript) first appears as a red woman who starts an argument with Cú Chulainn – and then suddenly turns into a black bird,360 the same type of bird which on other occasions gorges itself on the slain. In spite of her very direct involvement in war, however, the Bodb does not normally fight with a weapon in her hand. Indeed, she does not need a weapon in order to kill, but can do so by directly attacking the mind of her victims: in two passages of the QL #[ I\ it is stated that the Bodb and her relatives screeched over the encampment of an army, which inspired so much fear in the warriors that each time one hundred of them died from fright (QL #[ I\ , ll. 3942-3944, cf. ll. 4033-4035). The characters of the Valkyries and the Bodbs appear to exhibit extensive parallels: both classes of supernatural beings are (1) female beings who can appear (2) both as a group and as single individuals, who are (3) fundamentally located in the realm of death, (4) deeply concerned with war, (5) can display a noticeably erotic trait in their dealings with the male protagonists of war, (6) are associated with birds and a bird-shape and (7) have a direct lethal influence on the mind of their victims. The parallels between the Valkyries and th

th

359

th

On the dating cf. Thurneysen 1921, pp. 112-113, 169-170 and Breatnach 1977, pp. 101-103, 107. 360 Edited by Corthals (ed./transl.) 1987; Windisch (ed./transl.) 1887; for the dating cf. Corthals (ed./transl.) 1987, p. 15; Thurneysen 1921, p. 667.

114 Bodbs have since Lottner (1870) been taken to suggest a direct connection between these two classes of supernatural beings. Lottner located the context for the borrowing of the parallel elements in Celtic-Germanic contacts on the Rhine,361 and indeed the first attestations of the Valkyries in Norse literature are too early to allow the possibility that the Valkyries could have been borrowed from Ireland during the Viking Age (nor is it possible to assume a borrowing in the opposite direction). That the Irish demons were already present in the mythology of continental Celtic antiquity seems to be indicated – among other evidence – by GalloRoman dedications, most importantly a stone from Upper Savoy dedicated to oIp : the element D (“battle”) seems to suggest a connection with war, while is linguistically the 362 exact Gaulish equivalent of Irish # . If however, we assume that there is a historical connection between the female battlefield demons of Ireland and Scandinavia via western continental Europe – as the evidence appears to suggest – then in a way this brings us back full circle to the example of Charon’s obol, for all the traits shared by the Bodbs and the Valkyries also recur in figures from the Classical Mediterranean. For example, the Sirens are female demons who bring about the death of their victims (e.g. F XII,39-46).363 They feed on them like the Bodbs (e.g. Lycophron, & 653f.; Tertullian, & VII,5), and they are both women and birds, portrayed as hybrid beings whose bodies are composed to varying degrees of anthropomorphic and bird-elements.364 They can act as D (recalling the Valkyries of the %LG L ), as on the reliefs of the so-called “Harpy Tomb” in Xanthos in Lycia (Turkey).365 They

361

Lottner 1870, pp. 56-57. CIL XII, 2571; Hennessy 1870, pp. 32-33; Jufer & Luginbühl 2001, pp. 14, 33; Egeler 2011, pp. 173-220, esp. pp. 175-177. 363 In detail cf. Egeler 2011, pp. 351-458. 364 Hofstetter 1990; Buschor 1944. 365 Hofstetter 1990, p. 248 (O 61, cf. pp. 243-248); Buschor 1944, pp. 35-38; cf. Zahle 1975, p. 75. 362

115 can be depicted framing scenes of combat.366 They are closely associated with sexuality and the realm of the goddess of love, and can even themselves be shown engaged in sexual intercourse.367 And the power of their song is such that it deprives all who hear it of any will to resist; it lures the Sirens’ victims helplessly to their death, showing a direct and lethal control over their mind (F XII,39-46, cf. XII,166-200). Thus the Sirens mirror nearly all the traits that constitute the characters of the Valkyries and Bodbs. And the Sirens in turn are part of an extended Mediterranean continuum of ideas about female demons of death: most of their character traits also appear in the Greek Erinyes, Harpies, and Keres, in the Roman Furies, and in the Etruscan death-demon Vanth.368 The material as a whole, therefore, does not only support a possible historical connection between the Valkyries and the Irish Bodbs, but also suggests that the Celtic demons might in turn be related to a whole set of demonic figures from the Classical Mediterranean. The ever-vexing question of transmission is not as problematic as it may seem at first glance, due to high levels of contact and mobility between Celtic and Classical Mediterranean societies. To mention only one possible route of transmission, Celtic mercenaries were active in the service of virtually every Mediterranean kingdom of the Hellenistic period – a time in which the Sirens were a prominent element of the iconography of public space in the Mediterranean due to their use on funerary monuments, so that they could easily have attracted the attention of a cultural outsider.369 If the suspicion is correct that the Bodbs are a Celtic variant of a Mediterranean type of supernatural being, then this material reflects a very similar situation to that of Charon’s obol: here too, a Mediterranean motif could have reached the Germanic area via a Celtic intermediary. This raises the question of whether the

366

Hofstetter 1990, pp. 49 (K 64), 52. Hofstetter 1997, no. 89. 368 Cf. Egeler 2011, pp. 221-350. 369 Cf. Egeler 2011, pp. 459-533. 367

116 parallels between the Bodbs and Valkyries can meaningfully be taken as evidence for ‘Celtic’ influence on Germanic religion, or even to what extent a category like ‘Celtic’ is at all meaningful for understanding the religious history of ancient Europe.

4 The potential importance of posing such questions is underlined by the existence of other possible Norse-Celtic-Mediterranean parallels, although these have not yet been studied in detail. One example is the goddess Freyja.370 Snorri ( 24) emphasises Freyja’s pre-eminent position (she is the “most glorious of the goddesses”, L O q P ), and then goes on to describe her main characteristics (or what he considers to be her main characteristics). At first glance, however, these characteristics might be thought to form a rather surprising combination of martial and erotic elements. On the one hand, Freyja rides to battle and receives half the dead from the battlefield ( WH W NL L L ; Odin receives the other half), and her dwelling is called '[ G , which could be interpreted as “battlefield”.371 But on the other hand, she is very fond of erotic verse and it is good to pray to her in matters of love: % WG H K q L The apparent contradictions do not end here: Freyja is described as a goddess of love, but her own love life seems rather problematic ( 35). She is married to Óðr, but he travels far away, while Freyja stays at home and weeps – although later she apparently decides to follow him, as Snorri remarks that Freyja acquired her many names when she went out among unknown peoples to search for Óðr ( [ H [G NP[H cH ).

370

For a more detailed discussion of the following (though from an Irish perspective) cf. Egeler 2012. In general on Freyja cf. e.g. Heizmann 2001. 371 Motz 1993, p. 95.

117 She travels in a chariot drawn by two cats ( 24: " NL G GK G W H), but also possesses a , “falcon’s garment”, although she is actually never seen using it herself ( GL G L G56). Another of her possessions is her famous piece of jewellery, the # W ( 35), 372 “the Brisings’ necklace”; this object is attested already in the % K (9 century), where it appears as “Brísing’s belt”.373 Freyja is the only goddess to feature as the main figure of an Eddic poem – this is the % [H (13 century).374 In this poem she helps Ótarr, a protégé of hers, to gain kingship by forcing the giantess Hyndla to reveal genealogical lore which Ótarr needs in order to assert his claims to the throne. Hyndla insinuates that Ótarr is Freyja’s lover (and taunts Freyja with her lasciviousness and the number of her affairs: stanzas 46f.), but Freyja denies this. The motif of Freyja’s involvement in the legitimisation of a king is restricted to this late, romanticising text. The traits described by Snorri, in contrast, are to a large extent linked to corresponding G which might provide indications of their traditional character (e.g. cH O in CK L 25). Yet it would be both beyond the scope of the current chapter and unnecessary for the present purpose (which is to outline the validity and importance of a question, not to give an answer) to analyse this material in detail. Freyja has already been the object of a number of comparative studies which have attributed her origins to very different contexts. Näsström has argued that Freyja should be seen in an IndoEuropan perspective,375 whereas Neckel and a substantial number of more recent scholars have suggested that Freyja might best be th

th

372

Cf. Heizmann 2009; on the meaning of # W cf. pp. 515-516. Cf. Heizmann 2009, p. 415. Edited by Finnur Jónsson (ed./transl.) 1908-1915, vol. 1A, pp. 16-20; 1908-1915, vol. 1B, pp. 14-18. 374 Simek & Hermann Pálsson 2007, p. 201. 375 Näsström 1995. 373

118 seen in a context of long-distance contacts across Europe, reaching as far as the (Ancient) Near East.376 One does not have to roam quite so far, however, to find parallels to Freyja. In Ireland, Queen Medb of Connacht is one of the most prominent figures of the early heroic literature, playing a central role in the tales of the Ulster Cycle. In these texts, Medb is depicted as a mortal (though in many respects quite exceptional) woman. There are, however, a number of quirks and inconsistencies in her mortality which have long been taken to indicate that Queen Medb is in all probability a literary, euhemerising recasting of a pre-Christian goddess.377 If this is correct, then it may be of relevance in the current context that the character of Medb as represented in the Ulster Cycle displays noteworthy similarities to the Norse portrayal of Freyja. Dr, Medb’s name is probably to be etymologised as R 378 ‘mead-woman’. This is generally connected with the strong Irish association between sovereignty and intoxicating liquor: thus her name establishes a close connection between Medb and sovereignty, which in turn is likely to be related to the frequently occuring motif that only marriage to Medb allows a man to become king.379 The most famous example is found in the second recension of the QL #[ I\ ,380 where Medb claims that it was only Ailill’s marriage to her which made him king of Connacht (QL #[ I\ , l. 44). Similarly, the 13 century tale of the Battle of the Boyne (I # ) describes how several generations of men are th

376

Vennemann 1998, p. 49; Vennemann 1997, pp. 462-463; Motz 1993, pp. 101111; Motz 1982; Philippson 1953, p. 27; Schröder 1929,2, pp. 414-415; Neckel 1920, pp. 50-51, 139. Cf. Heizmann 2009, p. 515; Heizmann 2001, pp. 279, 281, 283, 289290, 303-305; Polomé 1995, p. 587. 377 Cf. Birkhan 2005, p. 364; McCone 1990, pp. 120, 148; Thurneysen 1933, 1930. For a summary of the main arguments cf. also Egeler 2012, pp. 67-71. 378 McCone 1990, p. 109. 379 Cf. e.g. I (Meyer [ed.] 1912) §575: o'p D E “Sovereignty, that is good ale. Ale, that is beer.” Cf. also Thurneysen 1930, pp. 109-110; McCone 1990, p. 120 . 380 Edited by O’Rahilly (ed./transl.) 1967.

119 raised to kingship by her side, before they are finally dropped again.381 Medb’s martial and erotic characteristics appear early in the surviving sources. Already in the poem I W , which has been assigned to the 7 century, Medb is connected with an important military campaign and with the figure of Fergus, with whom she has an extra-marital relationship (although the latter detail is made explicit only in the prose introduction to the poem).382 This association with warfare and extra-marital affairs is a consistent trait of Medb’s characterisation in the heroic tales. For instance, both warlike and eroticised aspects of her character are also elaborated in the prose narrative of the “Cattle-Raid of Cúailnge” (QL #[ I\ ), the greatest raid described in the heroic literature of the Ulster Cycle; the first recension of this tale is essentially a compilation whose respective parts are probably based to a large extent on 8 century texts.383 In the QL , Medb herself musters the troops (ll. 25f.), and takes part in battle as an outstanding fighter (e.g. ll. 3202-3211). She dominates Fergus sexually (ll. 1040-1046, cf. ll. 1069-1073), and in a section of the narrative which dates to the 11 century she uses her sexuality to send the warrior Fer Diad to his death (ll. 2567-3146).384 That Medb’s amorous attentions could have lethal consequences is also illustrated by the death-tale of Fergus (& ' ), which Thurneysen dated to the 9 century: there Fergus is killed after he has intercourse with Medb in public, inciting the jealousy of her husband Ailill.385 In the second recension of the QL , a text of the 12 century,386 Medb claims that she has never been ‘without a man th

th

th

th

th

381

Thurneysen 1921, pp. 531, 528; Ó Máille 1928, pp. 130-136; O’Neill (ed./transl.) 1905. 382 Henry (ed./transl.) 1997. 383 For the date cf. Thurneysen 1921, pp. 109-113, 120, 149, 191 and Breatnach 1977, pp. 101-103, 107. 384 Thurneysen 1921, pp. 102, 219. 385 Cf. above p. 56. 386 Ó hUiginn 2006, p. 1646; Thurneysen 1921, pp. 114-115.

120 in the shadow of another’ ( e L : QL #[ I\ , l. 37). The same privilege was not granted to her husband Ailill, however: his death-tale, extant in a version of the 12 century,387 tells how every day Medb had intercourse either with thirty men or once with Fergus, but when Ailill neglected her in favour of other women, Medb ordered him to be killed.388 If it is true that Medb is a euhemerised reflection of a preChristian Irish goddess, then – to judge from her portrayal in the heroic literature – this goddess would have been characterised by a markedly eroticised and warlike persona, as well as by a role in the legitimisation of kingship; and in spite of her fundamental association with sexuality, her lovers seem to have looked forward to a dire fate. Such a character recalls Freyja, the goddess who helps in affairs of love and is accused of promiscuity, who receives half the slain on the battlefield, and who helps her devotee Ótarr gain kingship (although the value of the % [H as a source for Norse mythology is rather questionable), but whose own love-life is full of her tears for her lost companion. Whether or not this similarity indicates any kind of historical connection is a question which cannot be answered based on the current state of research. But if the question of historical connections asked – as has been done repeatedly with a view to a possible Near Eastern connection – then even this short sketch should make clear that it would first be necessary to pay detailed attention to the Celtic material before the comparison ventures as far as the Orient. In some respects, the case of Freyja is not unlike the situation of the Celtic and Mediterranean parallels to the Valkyries. As we saw earlier, with the Valkyries it is possible to follow the indications of a near-continuum of ideas through Scandinavia and Ireland, the continental Celtic area, and several cultures of the Mediterranean. th

387

Thurneysen 1921, p. 579. I I I\ & & I I (“The Cherishing of Conall Cernach in Crúachan and the Death of Ailill and of Conall Cernach”): Meyer (ed./transl.) 1897. 388

121 In a similar way, it is possible to find at least typological parallels to Freyja not only in Ireland, but also in the Mediterranean, in the form of the Graeco-Roman goddess of love, Venus-Aphrodite. Her sacred animal is the dove, and one of her possessions is an artfully wrought girdle (s;>+) which contains so great a power of seduction that even Zeus, the father and king of the Olympian gods, succumbs to it ( XIV.153-360).389 Yet even though Aphrodite is the goddess of love, her own love affairs do not always end happily: her beloved Adonis, for example, is killed by a boar (Apollodorus III.xiv.4), while her liaison with Ares results in the couple’s humiliation by the cuckolded Hephaestus (F VIII.266-366). Furthermore, beside her role as goddess of love, some of her cult images represented her as an armed goddess (e.g. Pausanias III.xxiii.1). Thus, here we find – again – a goddess of love and sexuality who loses her own beloved (cf. Óðr and the luckless lovers of Medb), who can appear in arms (cf. Freyja’s and Medb’s role on the battlefield), whose sacred animal is a bird (cf. Freyja’s feathergarment??), and who owns a truly exceptional girdle (cf. the #W ). It should be stressed once more that the aim here is not to establish whether and how far such similarities are significant; only a detailed study could hope to determine this, and to answer the question of whether these similarities are the result of wide-ranging processes of religious exchange. Nevertheless, is seems appropriate to pose this question in the context of the investigation of ‘Celtic influences’, for, as in the case of Charon’s obol and the Valkyries, it consists in part of asking how ‘Celtic’ the possible Celtic parallels are, and whether any (extremely hypothetical) Celtic influence would not have consisted primarily of facilitating an exchange of ideas between Mediterranean and ‘barbarian’ Europe.

389

Cf. Heizmann 2009, pp. 514-515 with note 69.

122

4* /

@ A

2

The situation may be similar with another possible ‘Celtic’ influence, the c L G/ O -motif.390 A recension of the % that dates to shortly after 1300 AD at the latest begins with a short description of king Guðmundr and his realm:391 in the farthest North, in Jotunheimar beyond the White Sea, there was a lord by the name of Guðmundr in the region Glæsisvellir. “He was a powerful and wise man, and he and all his men became so old that they lived many human life-spans. Therefore the pagans believed that in his territory the Ódáinsakr was situated, that place where disease and old age depart from every man who comes there, and where nobody can die.” (% G " " N S M " G F G " " " N G " " )392 This Guðmundr also appears in Saxo Grammaticus’ $ VIII.xiv.1-20 ( 1200 AD). There, the land of immortality is not mentioned in the account of Guðmundr’s realm, in line with a depiction which focuses largely on threatening and dangerous aspects. Importantly, however, Saxo not only elaborates on the long sea voyage required to reach Guðmundr, but also supplies the additional information that Guðmundr has exceptionally beautiful, seductive daughters and owns a special grove with fruit trees. A number of other, late texts elaborate on the different motifs first attested in these two accounts, including the % NL M[ 393 (14 century), in which the seduction of the hero by one of th

390

The idea that the Glæsisvellir should be seen in a broader context than Scandith navia alone goes back to the 19 century (Nutt 1895, esp. pp. 295-309). The first scholar to actually establish – rather than merely suggest – that a Celtic connection is likely was Heizmann 1998. On the non-Scandianvian aspects of the question in particular cf. also Egeler forthcoming 1; Egeler forthcoming 2. 391 Edited by Jón Helgason (ed.) 1924, there pp. 1, 89; Tolkien 1960, pp. xxix-xxx. 392 Jón Helgason (ed.) 1924, p. 89. 393 Edited by Ólafur Halldórsson (ed.) 2000, pp. 38-44.

123 Guðmund’s daughters plays a central role. However, these texts do not add any new motifs that require consideration in the present context. Given the late date of these texts, it seems at first glance rather questionable whether they are anything but romantic literature and whether the motif of the Glæsisvellir/Ódáinsakr should therefore be included at all in a study of pre-Christian religion. However, Guðmundr and his realm are consistently identified as belonging to the pagan (other-)world: the belief in the Ódáinsakr as part of his realm is depicted as a belief of , and the medieval authors treating Guðmundr and the Ódáinsakr were firmly convinced that they were describing a pagan idea. Even more importantly, by studying the historical (rather than the mythological) record of Iceland, Heizmann was able to show that the Ódáinsakr was identified with a specific valley on the Héðinsfjord and that this tradition in all probability goes back to the Settlement Period.394 This observation of Heizmann’s did raise more acutely the question of the origin of the Ódáinsakr-motif. Heizmann suggested an answer to this problem by pointing out the close parallels between the motifs associated with the Glæsisvellir/Ódáinsakr and ideas about otherworld islands current in the literatures of Britain and Ireland. Heizmann focused his discussion on traditions about Avalon, the island where King Arthur is brought after the battle of Camlann. According to the earliest testimonies, the purpose of Arthur’s journey to Avalon is that there his wounds can be healed, even though he is “lethally” ( ) wounded (Geoffrey of Monmouth, % # XI.178).395 Avalon is thus an island where certain death can be avoided – functionally identical with the Ódáinsakr, the “Field of the Not-Dead”. Furthermore, Avalon is ruled by nine sisters (Geoffrey of Monmouth, C 916f.), recalling Guðmund’s daughters; it is an “island of

394 395

Heizmann 1998, esp. pp. 72-82; cf. also de Vries 1956-1957, §519. Edited by Reeve & Wrigt (eds./transls.) 2007.

124 apples” ( : C 908), recalling Guðmund’s fruit-trees; and it can be an “island of glass” ( : Giraldus 396 Cambrensis, $ I.20), recalling the ‘crystalline’ aspect of the Glæsisvellir, which seem to be ‘shining fields’ ( , as the name was already translated in Stephanius’ 397 O ). To these points of comparison could furthermore be added that the seduction by Guðmund’s daughters also finds parallels in Arthurian texts, as in the E E (12 century), where one of the otherworldly women of Avalon seduces a knight and ultimately takes him with her to this island.398 Close parallels to these motifs can also be found in the early medieval literature of Ireland. The earliest examples may be the two tales of the “Voyage of Bran” ( # ) and the “Adventure of Condle” (` I ), both belonging to the 8 century (or 399 a little earlier). In both tales, the hero is seduced by an otherworldly woman to join her as her lover in her land beyond the sea, where he is promised immortality; and in both tales an otherworldly apple or a branch from an apple-tree plays a central part. Such Norse-Celtic parallels raise the possibility of a historical connection between these Scandinavian and insular Celtic mythological ideas.400 As has already been noted by a number of scholars, however, mythical islands of apples, immortality and supernatural women are not restricted to the seas of north-western Europe.401 The most famous apple-orchard of Classical antiquity is probably the Garden of the Hesperides. The earliest attestation of th

th

396

Edited by Warner (ed.) 1891. Stephanius 1645, p. 104. 398 Edited by Rychner & Aebischer (eds.) 1958. 399 Edited by Mac Mathúna (ed./transl.) 1985; McCone (ed./transl.) 2000; dating: McCone (ed./transl.) 2000, pp. 29-47. 400 Suggested e.g. by Heizmann 2002; Vennemann 1998, pp. 54-55; Heizmann 1998; Krappe 1943, esp. pp. 308-309; Much 1924, pp. 101-102; Nutt 1895, pp. 303309; cf. Ellis 1943, p. 191. 401 E.g. Heizmann 2002, p. 532; Vennemann 1998, pp. 51-55; Heizmann 1998, pp. 93-95; Puhvel 1987, pp. 216; Clarke 1973, p. 203; Ellis 1943, p. 191; Krappe 1943, p. 316; Nutt 1895, pp. 258-294, 326-331, . 397

125 the Hesperides is in Hesiod’s Q , where they “guard the beautiful golden apples and the fruit-bearing trees beyond the glorious Ocean” (Q 215f.: ;t8- ,;)+-Episode,« in: # • S E •% € 77, pp. 348-357. Wagner, H. 1966: »Irisches in der Edda,« in: X 20, pp. 178-182. Wagner, H. 1977: “The Archaic $ ^W Poem and Related Problems,” in: X 28, pp. 1-16. Wagner, Heinrich 1981: “Origins of Pagan Irish Religion,” in: ‰ 38, pp. 1-28. Warner, George F. (ed.) 1891: I C !$ (=Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores [Rolls Series] 21/8), London (Kraus Reprint 1964). Watkins, Calvert 1995: % G $ & D` New York/Oxford. Watson, J. Carmichael (ed.) 1941: Y (=Mediaeval and Modern Irish Series 13), Dublin 1983 (first published 1941). Watson, J. Carmichael (transl.) 1942: “Mesca Ulad,” in: 5, pp. 1-34. Werner, Joachim 1973: »Bemerkungen zur mitteldeutschen Skelettgräbergruppe Hassleben-Leuna. Zur Herkunft der des gallischen Sonderreiches in den Jahren 259-274 n. Chr.,« in: Helmut Beumann (Hg.): ' i 2 Bände (=Mitteldeutsche Forschungen 74/1 und 74/2), Köln/Wien 1973, 1974, vol. 1, pp. 1-30.

156 White, Nora (ed./transl.) 2006: I L Q F ` L Q &I ` "Q "Q "# C (=Maynooth Medieval Irish Texts 5), Maynooth. Windisch, Ernst (ed.) 1880: Q ia Leipzig: Verlag von S. Hirzel. Windisch, E[rnst] (ed./transl.) 1887: »Táin bó Regamna,« in: Wh[itley] Stokes & E[rnst] Windisch (Hg.): Q œ S ia ‰ " ‚ % Leipzig, pp. 239-254, 256. Windisch, Ernst (ed./transl.) 1905: $ % QL [ I\ # E Q œ S ` (=Irische Texte, Extraband), Leipzig. Young, Jean I. 1933: “Does Rígsþula betray Irish Influence?” In: & G a G 49, pp. 97-107. Zahle, Jan 1975: % Ÿ ` G G (=Studier fra Sprog- og Oldtidsforskning, udgivet af det filologisk-historiske samfund 289), København. Zimmer, St. 2002: »Nerthus und Nerthuskult. §1. Etymologie,« in: Heinrich Beck, Dieter Geuenich & Heiko Steuer (Hg.): ^ G & G ‚…! „› Von Johannes Hoops, zweite, völlig neu bearbeitete und stark erweiterte Auflage, Berlin/New York, pp. 83-84. Zimmermann, Ute 2012: k "Q ` G % ‰ i D G G E (=Schriften zur Mediävistik 20), Hamburg. Zinser, Hartmut 2010: ^ Paderborn

44226_Egeler_cov.pdf 1 17.12.2012 12:48:02

15 Celtic Influences in Germanic Religion

Matthias Egeler

Matthias Egeler

It has frequently been argued that there are significant parallels between elements of ›Germanic‹ and ›Celtic‹ religious history, stretching from antiquity to the Middle Ages, which indicate Celtic influences within Germanic religion. Elements of Germanic religion and mythology for which such influence has been proposed range from the Batavian seer Veleda to the Valkyries, from the cult of the Matres to the figure of Heimdall, from the myth of the death of Balder to the motif of the Everlasting Battle; the connecting lines that have been drawn extend to central aspects of Germanic religion in antiquity and nearly the whole of medieval Norse mythology. Yet few such proposals have ever been critically discussed, and even fewer attempts have been made to come to grips with the methodological problems raised by cultural contact research in Germanic religious history more generally. The present book is an attempt to address this situation: placing a strong focus on questions of methodology, it offers not only the first detailed summary, but also the first critical analysis of the state of scholarship on the question of Celtic influences in Germanic religious history.

Münchner Nordistische Studien

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