Paranormal Encounters in Iceland 1150–1400 9781501513862, 9781580443296

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Paranormal Encounters in Iceland 1150–1400

The Northern Medieval World

On the Margins of Europe Editorial Board Carolyne Larrington, St. John’s College, Oxford (Chair) Oren Falk, Cornell University Dawn Hadley, University of Sheffield Kate Heslop, University of California, Berkeley Jana Schulman, Western Michigan University Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, Universitetet i Oslo

Paranormal Encounters in Iceland 1150–1400 Edited by Ármann Jakobsson and Miriam Mayburd

ISBN 978-1-58044-329-6 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-1-5015-1386-2 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-1-5015-1361-9 Library of Congress Control Number: 2019955108 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2020 Walter de Gruyter Inc, Boston/Berlin Cover image: © photo by Miriam Mayburd Typesetting: Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Contents Introduction: The Paranormal Encounter

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Part I: Experiencing the Paranormal Ármann Jakobsson “I See Dead People”: The Externalization of Paranormal Experience in Medieval Iceland 9 Miriam Mayburd It Was a Dark and Stormy Night: Haunted Saga Homesteads, Climate Fluctuations, and the Vulnerable Self 21 Ásdís Egilsdóttir Happy Endings: The (Para)Normality of Miracles

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Andrea Maraschi Þórgunna’s Dinner and Other Medieval Liminal Meals: Food as Mediator between this World and the Hereafter 49 Marion Poilvez A Troll Did It?: Trauma as a Paranormal State in the Íslendingasögur Sarah Bienko Eriksen Traversing the Uncanny Valley: Glámr in Narratological Space Anna Katharina Heiniger On the Threshold: The Liminality of Doorways Sean B. Lawing The Burial of Body Parts in Old Icelandic Grágás

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Daniel C. Remein Paranormal Prose: “Para-Narrative” and Ice in the Icelandic Sagas

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Contents

Part II: Figures of the Paranormal Andrew McGillivray Encounters with Hliðskjálf in Old Norse Mythology

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Sandra Ballif Straubhaar “Ok flýgr þat jafnan”: Icelandic Figurations of Böðvarr bjarki’s Monster 193 Arngrímur Vídalín Demons, Muslims, Wrestling Champions: The Semantic History of Blámenn from the Twelfth to the Twentieth Century 203 Kent Pettit The New Faith vs. The Undead: Christmas Showdowns

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Zuzana Stankovitsová Following up on Female fylgjur: A Re-Examination of the Concept of Female fylgjur in Old Icelandic Literature 245 Rebecca Merkelbach Dólgr í byggðinni: Meeting the Social Monster in the Sagas of Icelanders 263

Part III: Literature and the Paranormal Christopher Crocker Even a Henchman Can Dream: Dreaming at the Margins in Brennu-Njáls saga 279 Þórdís Edda Jóhannesdóttir A Normal Relationship?: Jarl Hákon and Þorgerðr Hǫlgabrúðr in Icelandic Literary Context 295 Gunnvör S. Karlsdóttir Priest Ketill’s Journey to Rome

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Ingibjörg Eyþórsdóttir “Darraðarljóð” and Its Context within Njáls saga: Sorcery, Vision, Leizla? 327 Martina Ceolin Paranormal Tendencies in the Sagas: A Discussion about Genre

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Shaun F.D. Hughes Reading the Landscape in Grettis saga: Þórhallur, the meinvættur, and Glámur 367 yoav tirosh Trolling Guðmundr: Paranormal Defamation in Ljósvetninga saga

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Védís Ragnheiðardóttir “Meir af viel en karlmennsku”: Monstrous Masculinity in Viktors saga ok Blávus 421 Index

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Introduction: The Paranormal Encounter In the early nineteenth century, the study of medieval literature and medieval history emerged as modern scholarly subjects. The two fields were especially closely intertwined when it came to the medieval literature of Iceland since medieval Icelandic writing mostly gathered attention as a valuable source of early Icelandic history. This was the case in the polemic works of Arngrímur the Learned (d. 1648) and in the nineteenth-century Icelandic independence movement, whose leader Jón Sigurðsson (d. 1879) was also an important philologist and editor of medieval texts who used medieval literature to argue for his cause. In the period between these two cases, an expanded world view emerged in the wake of European colonization of other hemispheres, and a new mindset was fueled by the Scientific Revolution of the seventeenth and the eighteenth centuries. These developments radically changed scholarly attitudes to the natural world and, of course, to all events and figures that now came to be defined as ‘otherworldly,’ or not in keeping with the emerging knowledge of the natural world. The early nineteenth century saw the fashioning of modern folklore, but this significant scholarly interest in popular tales and folk beliefs was not without influence from the natural sciences, as is perhaps most palpable in the tendency of nineteenth-century folklorists to categorize otherworldly apparitions and figures as if they were flora and fauna. Thus, from the nineteenth century onwards there was an ambiguity inherent in scholarly attitudes to the medieval sources. On the one hand, they were treated with reverence as important cultural heirlooms and valuable sources of a past golden age, especially in Iceland where the Middle Ages were seen as the boreal counterpart to the classical ages of Greece and Rome. On the other hand, the old revered narratives were full of fantastical elements that were egregiously incompatible with the new, dominant world view of the post-Enlightenment sciences, which limited the scope of the real to empirically observable data. The prevailing impulse among scholars was to simply ignore these fantastical elements, although a minority of researchers with folkloristic inclinations showed genuine interest in them. In the scholarly saga editions of the twentieth century, narrative elements are divided into two categories: realistic or potentially factual information, and less important fantastic and fictional content. Editors believed their own rational judgment to be an authoritative measuring tool that could be used to discern the true elements in the sagas from the myths and the legends. The sagas suffered a heavy blow as sources for historical events and personalities of long gone ages in the early twentieth century when the critical attitudes of some historians, such as the Swedish Weibull brothers, divided saga scholars into https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-001

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competing camps. However, in the last decades of the twentieth century, the sagas have been reestablished as legitimate and valuable sources for mentalities and attitudes propagated in medieval Iceland, rendering debates of truth versus fiction obsolete as attention has shifted instead towards examining the complexities and multimodalities of medieval worldviews, imaginations, and cultural fabrics through which these narratives of unlikely fantastic experiences were filtered. The present volume’s use of the term paranormal as its thematic focus is intentionally provocative. As a word that gained circulation only in the twentieth century, it is intentionally jarring in its anachronistic dissonance, prompting the modern reader to associate it more closely perhaps with popular folk anxieties such as UFO sightings and alien abductions than with medieval literary themes like miracles and dreams. It is a word that bridges the distance between critic and text, between subjective reading experience and interpretative model; its anachronistic placement performs its cognitive impact. The term paranormal is subversive, even parasitic, as its very definition feeds off its host concept, which it contrasts and distorts: the very notion of posited normativity. This term cannot be contemplated in isolation without prompting the bigger question of what, then, constitutes the normal, challenging dominant epistemic paradigms and triggering their revaluations. If this brings consternation or disorientation to the modern literary critic, it will have achieved its aim. The concept of the paranormal, as the unexplainable, exposes the idea of normative reality itself as a socio-historical construct, far from an absolute given and ever contingent upon the particular interpretative models used to define it. Any order or structure is a product of the invisible grid of critical apparatus the scholar chooses to apply, and this anthropocentric perspective may blind one with the illusion of objectivity and closure. The concept of the paranormal hijacks and cracks open the stale formulae of critical discourse by reminding us that not everything can be swept under the rug of convenient solutions, can be quantified or explained away. It compels further discussion and invites debate. Above all, the application of this term to medieval Icelandic texts serves to remind us that modern understanding of medieval sources remains ever incomplete, and it is this awareness which opens up discursive space for new critical perspectives and theoretical approaches. The present volume’s thematic focus on the paranormal puts the spotlight on features of medieval Icelandic narrative that may be often overlooked, or indeed looked down upon, by literary critics for not adding up or aligning with the structural formulae they employ. The paranormal turns our attention to the rough edges, the tensions, and the inconsistencies lodged in medieval narratives like inconvenient splinters—too messy to extract within normative discursive

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frameworks, yet too difficult to ignore. As a focusing theme, the paranormal thus serves as an auspicious critical lens for engaging broader issues pertaining to medieval Icelandic society, offering nuanced vantage points on aspects that otherwise might be missed. Literature does not exist in a vacuum, nor does it emerge without an audience. Given the painstaking care and investment that went into manuscript production, the perceived value of the sagas’ paranormal content may be appreciated by the very fact that it has been preserved in written form. Vellum space was at a premium in the impoverished economy of medieval Iceland, where scribes eschewed elaborate decorations in favor of practicality and made profuse use of abbreviations to fit as much text on a page as possible. The sagas’ narrative contents are direct results of editorial decisions by copyists and manuscript compilers. Whatever interpretative model one may assume, the inclusion of paranormal phenomena in medieval Icelandic narratives speaks to its indisputable relevance for its intended audiences. It cannot be disentangled from the social-historical context in which those narratives took shape. This approach will be clearly discernible in the present volume’s structure, where paranormal themes serve as entryways into subjects as diverse as medieval historiography, vernacular beliefs, hagiographies, dreams and visions, legal history, psychology, ontologies of self-experience as well as genre and method. The common strand running through this diverse collection is a phenomenological approach to the paranormal as human experience, turning the focus away from classifications or categories of paranormal beings and instead concentrating on how they were perceived and narrated. Encountering the paranormal is primarily the subjective experience of a community or an individual. Thus, the study of the paranormal must concentrate on how such an encounter was constructed by the individual or the community, how it was interpreted, and possibly to what material or social circumstances the encounters with the paranormal respond. The focus in this volume is on the paranormal encounter itself—i.e., the human experiences related in narratives that defy ordinary experience. The paranormal thus emerges as inseparable from the human mind and thereby an integral part of what constitutes medieval experiential reality. We emphatically seek to dismantle the silos of disciplinary overspecialization in favor of critical-theoretical cross-pollination and new angles of approach. Past scholarship on paranormal encounters has tended to limit the scope of its investigations to methodologies and critical apparatuses dictated by their respective disciplinary boundaries: for example, the study of medieval miracles was left to historians of religion and experts in Christian literature, whereas paranormal beings attracted the attention of folklorists and literary critics for their traces of superstitions or as symbolic metaphors. The present volume brings all these subjects together in one place in reaction to and

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rejection of the interpretative critical paradigms established in the nineteenth century that treat paranormal content as an inferior or primitive part of natural history. The studies compiled in this volume display an eclectic range of approaches under the shared common goal of utilizing new theoretical perspectives and maintaining a critical attitude towards many of the old scholarly ‘truths’. Departing from purely literary and/or historical readings of the sagas, the contributing chapters engage recent theoretical turns from other fields as diverse as landscape phenomenology, embodied cognition, trauma theory, and art history to transcend the boundaries of written text and situate the paranormal encounter in the material and social contexts of its audiences. Given the profound agency of the Icelandic landscape on shaping these narratives of paranormal encounter, the issue of spatiality and the mapping of its terrain (both cognitive and topographic) receives particularly strong emphasis throughout the volume. As paranormal encounters are recounted in narrative, they unavoidably take place within language. The present authors distance themselves from the literary-theoretical scholarly vocabulary of the last century and a half in order to bring new insights to the subject or to directly reexamine how such vocabulary has invisibly shaped the interpretations that emerged from its usage—for example, regarding the concepts of genre and liminality. These increased efforts to reinterrogate critical apparatuses follow the recent trend of reexamining the medieval vocabulary of the paranormal, resisting the tantalising urge to treat medieval terminology as akin to scholarly concepts. These words were neither definite nor precise, and at times they were even contradictory in their inconsistent applications. The medieval vocabulary for various paranormal beings was not used within the framework of modern scholarly thought; when carefully examined, such terms often turn out to be slippery and have to be treated with caution. While this volume marks a focus shift from the paranormal figure towards its audience—the spectator who is the witness to the encounter and the source of future narratives—it remains necessary to discuss both paranormal figures and metaphors. Paranormal entities are many and varied, leading to a marked tendency in previous scholarship to adopt a zoological approach when studying them. According to this reasoning, since animals could be understood by categorisation and classification, the same must also be true for paranormal beings. Moving away from that trend, the present volume firmly treats paranormal entities as part of language, situated entirely in human experience. As language and narrative form a large part of the current volume’s thematic focus, it is opportune to extrapolate on the volume’s titular chronological bracket that embeds these studies between the mid-twelfth and early fifteenth centuries. Apart from indicating the time frame over which the medieval Icelandic

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literary corpus emerged and developed, the bracket emphatically serves to reposition medieval Iceland away from the “Viking-Age” niche in which it had been repeatedly situated by previous saga scholarship. English-speaking popular audiences in the West still to this day frequently regard the “sagas of Icelanders” (as Íslendingasögur are often translated) as constituting the entirety of the saga corpus. Public familiarity with other genres of saga literature, such as fornaldarsögur, riddarasögur, biskupasögur, and konungasögur, remains largely inhibited due to the persisting scarcity of English-language editions, thus corroborating the impression that saga research is seemingly limited to feuds, social structures, and other conservative approaches to the period of Icelandic settlement that is portrayed in family sagas. In creating a discursive binary between pagan vernacular traditions and learned Christian cultural strata, the nuances and complexities of medieval Icelandic literature are frequently lost to reductionism and simplification. The titular timeline serves to resituate medieval Iceland in the contemporary historical context of the broader European cultural currents that surround its narratives. As the role and function of paranormal content varies considerably across different genres of medieval Icelandic prose and poetry, the contributors to this volume pay particularly close attention to the pivotal role narrative plays in framing paranormal encounters, keenly aware of its entanglements in the social concerns and cultural climate of medieval Europe at large. While all the studies published here, twenty-three in total, share multiple thematic interlacings, we have for the purpose of clarity divided the contributions into three groups. The first grouping concerns the framing of the paranormal encounter in the cognitive space of its reader-audience. The second grouping has a stronger focus on paranormal figures and how they feature in the narratives. The final grouping takes a broader view to consider the literary functions of the paranormal, which can be quite diverse across the various genres of medieval Icelandic texts. The volume emerges from the five-year group research project Encounters with the Paranormal in Medieval Iceland, instigated by Ármann Jakobsson—along with Ásdís Egilsdóttir, Torfi Tulinius, Terry Gunnell, and Stephen Mitchell—and supported by RANNÍS, the Icelandic Research Fund (Rannsóknasjóður Íslands), and the University of Iceland. All in all, over twenty scholars collaborated on this project, and the funding was instrumental to the completion of three doctoral dissertations and six MA theses. The project sponsored multiple conference sessions at the International Congress on Medieval Studies in Kalamazoo, the International Medieval Congress in Leeds, and the Hugvísingaþing at the University of Iceland between 2012 and 2017. The present collection brings together contributions by many participants of those sessions, reflecting the

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lively discussions they generated and yielding insight into the diversity of approaches and critical stances of the project’s members. While the authors of this volume hail from nine different countries, all but four were in some way affiliated with the University of Iceland between 2012 and 2017. Thus, this volume is also a testament to Iceland’s vibrant scholarly community. Although it is one of the least populous nation-states in the world, Iceland has managed not only to establish itself as an object of study but also to contribute actively to its own examination. This is why sincere thanks are due to both the University of Iceland and RANNÍS for making this volume possible. The Editors

Ármann Jakobsson

“I See Dead People”: The Externalization of Paranormal Experience in Medieval Iceland Abstract: Every paranormal encounter involves at least two people: the human whose experience is being narrated and an intended listener. A third figure could be the paranormal entity sighted in the encounter, but in this study it is suggested that the impulse to direct attention towards what the humans see during a paranormal encounter should be resisted. An example from Njáls saga is used to suggest a new focus.

Troll Space and the Realistic Reader Every paranormal encounter ever recounted involves at least two people: the human whose experience is narrated and an intended listener who needs to be told about the encounter. A third figure could be the paranormal entity sighted in the encounter. The scholarly impulse throughout most of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries has been to accept the artistic illusion of these narratives and to direct attention towards what humans see during a paranormal encounter. One result of this approach is that the scholarly organization of the material is based on a relatively zoological taxonomy of paranormal beings such as we see in the great folktale collections of Iceland—and elsewhere—that were published in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.1 In Iceland, children born in the latter part of the twentieth century learned to think of folktales as tröllasögur (troll stories) and draugasögur (ghost stories); the paranormal apparitions figure strongly in this definition, and the human observers take second place, so humble as to often fade into invisibility.2 Confronted with this tradition, it becomes tempting to ask: what happens if the paranormal figures seen by humans are ignored, and the scholarly gaze is instead directed towards the humans themselves? Thus the focus shifts onto the people who have paranormal experiences, the question becoming not what they see, but how and why. Departing from the traditional scholarly tendency to accept the externalization of danger in paranormal figures also involves a stronger acceptance of the unreality of the paranormal. Paranormal beings are not real, so why should our gaze be directed towards them and away from those humans whose experiences include these phenomena?

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And yet, by not treating paranormal figures as a part of the natural fauna of the world and thus moving the focus from the external to the internal, the unreal paradoxically becomes real again. Instead of unreal paranormal apparitions external to humanity, our subject is an internal experience that must be examined as real in the mind of the witnesses and, presumably, of the narrators. Thus internalized, each paranormal figure becomes a perichoretic part of the human consciousness, becomes integral to humanity. Each elf and troll, so categorically alien, is in reality an essential part of us—residing within us like a glamorous or menacing double, or an uncanny ancestral core.3 It might at first be tempting to locate the space of the trolls somewhere in the landscape or geography of the natural world, for example in mountains or caves, of which there is no shortage in Iceland. This would mean that we have accepted that externalization is used in traditional narrative to deal with the recesses of the mind.4 Another approach is to locate this space within the human consciousness as an expanse of danger, as an existential crisis that can be externalized in the form of monsters but is essentially internal. Troll space exists within the human witness, and indeed within the narrative’s entire audience. The troll they see, whatever its origins, is as such an enemy within their own psyche. Troll space is a psychological rather than a geographic entity—and as a consequence studying the trolls certainly does not entail leaving humanity behind. The quest for troll space is unusual in that it is apparent from the beginning that its boundaries must remain essentially elusive. Thus, troll space is real. However, it is not independent of human consciousness. Man and troll are inextricably intertwined. Like the Holy Trinity, they are the same and yet altogether different entities. The realization that troll narratives are existential narratives only leads to a brief ‘eureka moment’ since, on closer inspection, all narratives are, albeit with varying subtlety, existential in that their primary function is to ‘make men,’ as Davíð Erlingsson has phrased it; in fact, this general and metaphorical aspect of narrative has always been fundamental to the structuralist study of literature.5 However, this existential approach may have a transformative effect on the study of troll narratives within the field of Old Norse studies, which has tended to highlight the specific with the consequence that the general is often dismissed as trivial or superfluous. The notion that troll narratives are mainly concerned with the human condition need not be a dramatic discovery, yet it provides troll studies with an important critical stance that will be further utilized in this study. The sagas’ realism has often been highlighted by saga scholarship. While it is true that the sagas are realistic, especially in their fairly direct relevance to the realities of their medieval audience, the trope of realism has two inherent

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dangers: one is the constant use of the term realism defined according to modern scientific notions of the real, and the other is a negation of the symbolic value of the fantastic that may be damaging to saga interpretation.6 A case that comes to mind is the Fóstbrœðra saga, a biography of the two early eleventh-century blood brothers and poets Þorgeirr and Þormóðr. The modern reader’s instinct would be to treat these figures like actual flesh-andblood humans, but that method leaves them strangely elusive. It seems more fruitful to think of them in terms of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in that the contrasting characters of the two men essentially make sense only if the audience thinks of them as one composite personality, the extremes of which are externalized in the form of two separate characters. This realistic impulse is, of course, not as potent when it comes to paranormal entities, and yet it is far from absent—however unreal they are perceived to be, the tendency to see paranormal entities as a part of the world’s fauna is still marked. Reading through a realistic prism does not do all narratives justice. In saga studies, this approach has led to a disregard for paranormal events; indeed, they often fall outside the scope of a realistic interpretation. Of course it is natural to admire the subtle realism, for example, of the legal intricacies of Njáls saga and their close links with the emotions of the characters, which are all vividly portrayed.7 An interpretation of these matters will often exclude all paranormal events in the saga by simply failing to mention them. And yet Njáls saga is full of paranormal events, and the artistry of the paranormal passages in this narrative are no less than what we see in those parts of the saga that are more easily framed as realistic by a modern audience. I will use this saga as an example of how paranormal encounters are represented in medieval Iceland.

A Teenager Sees a Witch-Ride Shortly before the climactic burning of Bergþórshváll in Njáls saga, Hildiglúmr Runólfsson walks out of his home in Reykir at Skeiðar on a Sunday.8 It is never stated in the narrative how old he is, but—given both the complexity of his later testimony and the fact that he seems to be able to journey between farmsteads on his own, contrasted with his apparent dependency on his father—it is hard to imagine him either as a young child or as a fully-grown adult. It may be safest to envision him as between the years of twelve and eighteen. Hildiglúmr has no function in the narrative of the saga except to witness what he sees on that particular Sunday.

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His vision is related as follows: Hann heyrði brest mikinn, ok þótti honum skjálfa bæði jǫrð ok himinn. Síðan leit hann í vestrættina, ok þóttisk hann sjá hring ok eldslit á ok í hringinum mann á grám hesti. Hann bar skjótt yfir, ok fór hann hart; hann hafði loganda brand í hendi. Hann reið svá nær honum, at hann mátti gǫrla sjá hann; honum sýndisk hann svartr sem bik ok heyrði, at hann kvað vísu með mikilli raust: Ek ríð hesti, hélugbarða, úrigtoppa, ills valdanda. Eldr er í endum, eitr er í miðju; svá er um Flosa ráð sem fari kefli, ok svá er um Flosa ráð sem fari kefli. Þá þótti honum hann skjóta brandinum austr til fjallanna, ok þótti honum hlaupa upp eldr svá mikill, at hann þóttisk ekki sjá til fjallanna fyrir. Honum sýndist sjá maðr ríða austr undir eldinn ok hvarf þar.9

As remarkable as the vision is, no less ominous is Hildiglúmr’s reaction, and it magnifies the impact of the vision: Síðan gekk hann inn ok til rúms síns og fekk langt óvit ok rétti við ór því. Hann munði allt þat, er fyrir hann hafði borit, ok sagði fǫður sínum, en hann bað hann segja Hjalta Skeggjasyni; hann fór ok sagði honum. Hjalti mælti: ‘Þú hefir sét gandreið, ok er þat ávallt fyrir stórtíðindum.’ 10

All of these reactions (the fainting, illness, and the journey to the magnate) require our attention, starting with Hjalti Skeggjason and his nebulous words. Hjalti Skeggjason from Þjórsárdalr is well-known from thirteenth-, fourteenth-, and fifteenth-century sources as one of the main Christian magnates in the conflicts that accompanied the Christianization of Iceland around the first millennium. A mocking ditty by Hjalti, “Vilk eigi goð geyja / grey þykki mér Freyja,” is preserved in several textual sources, including in Njáls saga.11 As one can see from this anecdote, he is also a master of the art, of the utmost importance to any sage or prophet, of providing elusive answers. To begin with, he never explains what gandreið is and seems to assume prior knowledge of this phenomenon, which is most unlikely since he still has to tell Hildiglúmr what he has seen. Indeed this is the only documented case of the word in the Sagas of Icelanders, with two further usages in later legendary sagas.12 In fact, this

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anecdote about Hildiglúmr’s vision is the only actual depiction of a gandreið in medieval Icelandic textual sources. There are more interesting points in this narrative of a paranormal encounter. Hildiglúmr has seen fires and mountains and heard the name of Flosi, clues ignored by Hjalti whose anti-interpretation is perhaps most indicative of how a sage is supposed to behave in medieval Iceland. In a country where libelous words may easily lead to multiple killings, the words of the wise are characterized by understatement, as prescribed by “Hávamál,”13 and sagas such as Njáls saga contain multiple examples of wise men who are careful with words. The horseman who is as black as tar may echo the destructive Surtr from Muspell who appears in “Völuspá” and is represented as the destroyer of the world in the Prose Edda.14 This ominous figure certainly provides a two-part message to the audience within the saga, as well as that of the saga itself, through his medium Hildiglúmr: Flosi and fire. Thus every reader of the saga will understand more than Hjalti Skeggjason is willing to say. As usual, the saga narrative is succinct and laconic, but both the horseman’s terrible visage and the great din of his voice would have sufficed to frighten a late medieval audience. A black demon on a horse may not seem terrifying to a twenty-first-century audience, but to a medieval Icelandic audience the image of Surtr would have been equivalent to that of a black hole in the more technological and less mythical worldview of modern man. Even in times of surplus and technology, people who live near earthquakes and volcanic eruptions—i.e., in places such as Iceland—know full well that shaking earth, fire, and poisonous gases are no laughing matter. When a figure on a horse resembling Surtr himself is added, it seems likely that Hildiglúmr’s unexplained experience would have put fear into the hearts of most people hearing about it, and of course it would have raised awareness that the terrible events predicted would not be commonplace.

Sagas and Signs Hildiglúmr, whose actions within the narrative are limited to his simple role of seeing this terrible apparition, is not the only visionary in Njáls saga. In the preceding chapter, Sæunn the old maid warns the Bergþórshváll household against the chickweed later used to burn the farmstead and kill her.15 Shortly after Hildiglúmr’s vision, after Bergþóra has announced that she will now serve her last meal, Bergþóra goes on to predict that her sons Grímr and Helgi will arrive sooner than expected, as they do, and when the food arrives at the table Njáll himself sees the gable walls of the room gone “en blóðugt allt borðit ok

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matrinn.”16 The bloodied table that Njáll has a clear vision of, that he sees no less clearly than Hildiglúmr sees the black demon on the horse, is paralleled later in the saga by the blood rain before the battle of Clontarf that occupies much space in the narrative of Brennu-Njáls saga,17 even though traditionally some scholars have felt it was extraneous to the narrative. The author of Brennu-Njáls saga had a different idea, namely that the battle of Clontarf does belong in this saga that is full of wonders and religious experiences.18 What modern readers mostly admire about the saga, the tiny but precise nuances in the conversations and interactions of the people of the saga, is accompanied by alien themes such as demonic fire in the mountains. The gandreið seen by Hildiglúmr has a counterpart later in the saga in the narrative of Flosi’s dream after the burning of Bergþórshváll. He sees a man in a goat cape with an iron staff in his hand coming out of Lómagnúpr, and this man calls out to many of Flosi’s entourage before he recites a poem about heila borgir (decapitations) and bloody legs.19 It is not stated that his voice is deep and cold, but in his poem “Áfangar” the poet and philologist Jón Helgason added that element, capturing the fear that accompanies the man calling out.20 Medieval authors as a rule do not say much about the terror that goes hand in hand with paranormal encounters or the guilt of the guilty that Flosi presumably finds hard to shake off. On the surface Flosi is said to be modest and to speak bravely, but the man with the staff invades his dream. This is no excursus from the story, but its essence—the deeds of men are not external to them but exist within their heads and follow them forever, like the call of the giant follows all mortals in Jón Helgason’s poem. Neither the man with the staff, nor the man on the horse—whom Jón Helgason calls a giant, but the saga does not characterise in this way21—is designated in any other way than with the word maðr, which modern zoological taxonomy would lead us to see as a species. In the medieval texts, there is not the same precision in the usage of the word, and it is therefore frequently used to describe anthropomorphic paranormal others. The comfort modern man gets from designations—which so often feel like explanations—did not exist for the original audience of Brennu-Njáls saga. Modern man knows, for example, if the cause of someone’s death is cancer. We may not, however, know what exactly caused the cancer, why it has spread in this particular individual, or whether we too will suffer the same fate, but we do have a term for it and think of it as an explanation. We also tend to think that paranormal beings are easily identifiable as a giant or a troll or a ghost, but although we do see words like tröll and draugr in the medieval texts, they are not technical terms in the same way as “dog” and “cat” are in modern zoology. Instead we only have menn that appear in dreams or in the visions of young adults.

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In addition to this word, the ogres or demons that Flosi and Hildiglúmr have to face share a poetic bent. Brennu-Njáls saga exists in several medieval manuscripts—in fact, it is the record holder among the sagas of Icelanders when it comes to extant medieval manuscripts. There are subtle differences between the manuscript versions, one being that some manuscripts contain few verses, some only around twenty, and many of those are made up of only half-stanzas or four lines.22 It is worth noting that some of those verses, indeed a large number of those preserved in most of the medieval manuscripts, are attributed to someone or something that nowadays would be categorized as a paranormal figure. Apart from the two menn encountered by Hildiglúmr and Flosi, ladies from Caithness recite eleven eddic stanzas, now often edited under the heading “Darraðarljóð.”23 Two major saga heroes, Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi and Skarpheðinn Njálsson, both recite stanzas after their death; in some versions of the saga it is their only poetry. Gunnarr appears on his mound, reciting a stanza with the common spectral repetition,24 and right at the end of the burning of Bergþórshváll the attackers hear a verse spoken from within the burning building that is commonly attributed to Skarpheðinn, since Grani Gunnarsson remarked: “Hvárt mun Skarpheðinn hafa kveðit vísu þessa lífs eða dauðr.”25 The question may be rhetorical, and it certainly receives no answer. Considering these examples, it becomes gradually apparent that Brennu-Njáls saga is not to be understood as dealing only with the temporal world. Njáll himself remarks that God will not let him burn both in this world and the next. The saga characters are sometimes in two worlds, whether we consider their spectral poetry, Flosi’s guilt, or the fire seen in the Landeyjar by random teenagers—the undead, the mountain-dwellers, and black demons participate in these events both in dreams and waking life. These are not isolated examples: the saga is from start to finish characterized by a strong belief in the netherworld. In the modern world, belief is often seen as an acknowledgement of existence: belief in God means believing in his existence. In late medieval Iceland, religion was more a question of allegiance. When Icelanders rejected heathendom and embraced Christianity they became followers of a new god, of Christ, but this conversion did not entail any statement that the old gods and other heathen figures did not exist. The followers of and believers in Christ did not think that no other occult phenomena existed. This is abundantly clear in Brennu-Njáls saga. Njáll dies thinking about a merciful Christian God, but there are other doors open to the netherworld: what enters through them may be sent by Christ, but it may also be of a different kind. In this saga, the audience is invited to look into various worlds, good and bad. It is not merely a story of humans and their issues, but also of demons and ghosts.

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Living as we do in the Space Age, modern man is bound to feel infinitely small when contemplating the vastness of his universe, but this feeling of inferiority may not be a modern innovation. In spite of all of the belief systems that place humanity at the centre of creation, individual humans trapped within a fairly limited existence within a vast landscape such as Iceland will still, at least on occasion, have felt their smallness with every fibre of their being. This may be regarded as one of the paradoxes of a worldview defined by man as microcosm. The relative dimensions of man and his world, driven home to him as he stands dwarfed by every mountain, will inevitably not have altogether escaped his attention, in spite of all his valiant attempts to ignore it. Thus there is possibly an element of flattery in the constant intervention of paranormal powers, some examples of which have been described above, into everyday human existence. The occult forces do care and will visit you in dreams and inform you of what the future holds. They will present you with ominous portents and, somewhat like the Olympian gods during the Trojan War, enhance your importance in the scheme of all things by way of this perpetual interest in your fate, and all this despite the individual’s seeming insignificance. Therefore there is a form of self-aggrandizement in any paranormal encounter, as the occult powers cast a spotlight on the lone human actor and may have a transcendental effect on his life. In a sense, this is one of the stories that is related in Brennu-Njáls saga.

Notes 1 See the more extensive discussion in Ármann Jakobsson, “The Taxonomy of the Non-Existent: Some Medieval Icelandic Concepts of the Paranormal,” Fabula 54, nos. 3–4 (2013): 199–213. 2 A good example is how the folktales collected by Jón Árnason (Jón Árnason, Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og æfintýri, 2nd ed., ed. Árni Böðvarsson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, 6 vols. [Reykjavík: Þjóðsaga, 1954–1961]) were popularized in smaller volumes entitled Huldufólkssögur (1901), Útilegumannasögur (1902), Tröllasögur (1905), and Draugasögur (1906), all reprinted in 1917– 21, with Galdrasögur in 1922, and again in 1970–74 with pictures by the legendary artist Halldór Pétursson. Thus popular editions often provide the framework for scholarly thought by simplifying the categorization used in more serious editions. 3 An early twenty-first-century audience is unlikely to read about menacing doubles and an uncanny ancestral core without thinking of a more modern cave scene—i.e., when Luke Skywalker enters a paranormal cave in The Empire Strikes Back (1980), encounters his nemesis Darth Vader, beheads him, and—when unmasking him—sees his own face. The power of this scene, which the present author loathed when first seeing the film at the age of eleven, may rest in how it refers to the uncanny doppelgänger element in all troll narratives; the ancestral relationship itself will be discussed in more detail later in this study.

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4 Folklorists have for a long while been aware of how folktales externalize humanity’s inner struggles ; a good exposition of the interpretative methods, strongly influenced by the structuralist revolution in the humanities (e.g., the work of Lévi-Strauss and Greimas), can be found in Brengt Holbek, Interpretation of Fairy Tales: Danish Folklore in a European Perspective (Helsinki: Suomalainen Tieteakatemi, 1987), esp. 259–400. 5 Davíð Erlingsson, “Saga gerir mann: Hugleiðing um gildi og stöðu hugvísinda,” Skírnir 166 (1992): 321–45. 6 See Ármann Jakobsson, “Beast and Man: Realism and the Occult in Egils saga,” Scandinavian Studies 83, no. 1 (2011): 29–44. Lars Lönnroth has discussed this in relation to the saga’s appeal to both medieval and modern audiences (Lars Lönnroth, “Saga and Jartegn: The Appeal of Mystery in Saga Texts,” in Die Aktualität der Saga: Festschrift für Hans Schottmann, ed. Stig Toftgaard Andersen [Berlin: de Gruyter, 1999], 111–23), with Hildiglúmr’s vision discussed at 117–118. Davíð Erlingsson has discussed the vision in the context of how symbolic and fantastic literature can easily be misinterpreted or undervalued when all narratives are explored from the perspective of historical reality (Davíð Erlingsson, “Fótaleysi göngumanns: Atlaga til ráðningar á frumþáttum táknmáls í sögu af Hrólfi Sturlaugssyni, ásamt formála,” Skírnir 170 [1996]: 340–56). 7 For a reading that focuses on the more realistic aspects of the narrative, see, e.g., William Ian Miller, ‘Why is Your Axe Bloody?’ A Reading of Njáls saga (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014). 8 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, Íslenzk fornrit 12 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1954), 320–21. 9 “He heard a great din and felt that both earth and sky trembled. Then he looked west, and he felt he saw a ring the color of fire and in the ring a man on a grey horse. He travelled swiftly and roughly; he had a burning log in his hand. He rode so near him that he [Hildiglúmr] could see him well, and the rider seemed black as bitumen and [he] heard that he recited a stanza in a powerful voice: I ride a horse, with an icy mane, and a wet forelock, boding ill. Fire is in the extremes, poison in the middles. So is the will of Flosi as a brand flying, and so is the will of Flosi as a brand flying. Then he [Hildiglúmr] felt that he threw the log east to the mountains, and he felt that a fire arose so big that he could not see the mountains for it. He seemed to see the man ride east into the fire and vanish there.” 10 “Then he walked in and got into his bed and lost consciousness, but he got better. He remembered all he had seen and told his father who asked him to tell Hjalti Skeggjason; he went and told him. Hjalti said: ‘You have seen a witch-ride, and that is always a sign of great tidings.”’ 11 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Brennu-Njáls saga, 264. The verse is also given in Jakob Benediktsson, ed., Íslendingabók Landnámabók, 2 vols., Íslenzk fornrit 1 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag,

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1968); Sigurgeir Steingrímsson, ed., Kristni saga, Íslenzk fornrit 15 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2003); Ólafur Halldórsson, ed., Færeyinga saga: Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar eptir Odd munk Snorrason, Íslenzk fornrit 25 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2006). The Njáls saga and Ólafs saga versions of the stanza are longer than the others. 12 The only other examples in the Old Norse Prose Dictionary in Copenhagen are considerably younger than Njáls saga: they are from Þorsteins saga bæjarmagns (sixteenth century) and Ketils saga hængs (fifteenth century). 13 Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, eds., Eddukvæði, 2 vols., Íslenzk fornrit (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2014), 323, 327. 14 Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, Eddukvæði, 304, 314, 320; Finnur Jónsson, ed., Edda Snorra Sturlusonar, Íslenzk fornrit (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1931), 11, 74. 15 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Brennu-Njáls saga, 320. 16 “But the table and food all bloodied” (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Brennu-Njáls saga, 324). 17 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Brennu-Njáls saga, 440–60. 18 See Lars Lönnroth, Njáls Saga: A Critical Introduction (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976), 129–31, 226–236. 19 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Brennu-Njáls saga, 346–48. 20 Jón Helgason, Úr landsuðri og fleiri kvæði (Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1999), 13: “jötunninn stendur með járnstaf í hendi / jafnan við Lómagnúp. / kallar hann mig, og kallar hann þig . . . / kuldaleg rödd og djúp.” 21 The man identifies himself as Járngrímr (“Iron Mask”), a name which also appears in Sturlunga saga (chap. 145 of Íslendinga saga) used by another (or possibly the same) paranormal figure whose role seems to be to collect the dead. 22 See Guðrún Nordal, “The Dialogue between Audience and Text: The Variants in Verse Citations in Njáls saga’s Manuscripts,” in Oral Art Forms and Their Passage into Writing, ed. Else Mundal and Jonas Wellendorf (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2008), 185–202. 23 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Brennu-Njáls saga, 454–58. 24 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Brennu-Njáls saga, 193. 25 “Was Skarpheðinn alive or dead when he spoke this verse?” (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Brennu-Njáls saga, 337)

Bibliography Ármann Jakobsson. “Beast and Man: Realism and the Occult in Egils saga.” Scandinavian Studies 83, no. 1 (2011): 29–44. Ármann Jakobsson. “The Taxonomy of the Non-Existent: Some Medieval Icelandic Concepts of the Paranormal.” Fabula 54, nos. 3–4 (2013): 199–213. Davíð Erlingsson. “Fótaleysi göngumanns: Atlaga til ráðningar á frumþáttum táknmáls í sögu af Hrólfi Sturlaugssyni, ásamt formála.” Skírnir 170 (1996): 340–56. Davíð Erlingsson. “Saga gerir mann: Hugleiðing um gildi og stöðu hugvísinda.” Skírnir 166 (1992): 321–45. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed. Brennu-Njáls saga. Íslenzk fornrit 12. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1954. Finnur Jónsson, ed. Edda Snorra Sturlusonar. Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1931.

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Guðrún Nordal. “The Dialogue between Audience and Text: The Variants in Verse Citations in Njáls saga’s Manuscripts.” In Oral Art Forms and Their Passage into Writing, edited by Else Mundal and Jonas Wellendorf, 185–202. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2008. Holbek, Brengt. Interpretation of Fairy Tales: Danish Folklore in a European Perspective. Helsinki: Suomalainen Tieteakatemi, 1987. Jakob Benediktsson, ed. Íslendingabók Landnámabók. 2 vols. Íslenzk fornrit 1. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1968. Jón Árnason. Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og æfintýri. 2nd ed. Edited by Árni Böðvarsson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson. 6 vols. Reykjavík: Þjóðsaga, 1954–1961. Jón Helgason. Úr landsuðri og fleiri kvæði. Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1999. Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, eds. Eddukvæði. 2 vols. Íslenzk fornrit. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2014. Lönnroth, Lars. Njáls Saga: A Critical Introduction. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976. Lönnroth, Lars. Njáls Saga. “Saga and Jartegn: The Appeal of Mystery in Saga Texts.” In Die Aktualität der Saga: Festschrift für Hans Schottmann, edited by Stig Toftgaard Andersen, 111–23. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1999. Miller, William Ian. ‘Why is Your Axe Bloody?’ A Reading of Njáls saga. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014. Ólafur Halldórsson, ed. Færeyinga saga: Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar eptir Odd munk Snorrason. Íslenzk fornrit 25. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2006. Sigurgeir Steingrímsson, ed. Kristni saga. Íslenzk fornrit 15. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2003.

Miriam Mayburd

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night: Haunted Saga Homesteads, Climate Fluctuations, and the Vulnerable Self Abstract: This article interprets the natural physical topography of medieval Iceland as a zone of paranormal radiation exercising alterity upon those “exposed” to it. This dynamic is extended to “acts of nature” and severe weather phenomena as depicted in Íslendingasögur, and links between meteorological turbulence and revenant hauntings are explored. The central focus is on the psychological and physiological effects of these ecological entanglements upon the sagas’ living characters trapped in these adverse conditions. Of especial interest to the present study is the concept of the open body, borrowed from neuroscience, as well as the phenomenon of the dissolving self—an estrangement from oneself that occurs when all the perceived boundaries between self and environment begin to collapse. These concepts’ proposed applicability and relevance to the medieval Icelandic context enrich our understanding of how medieval Icelandic minds and bodies were perceived and how they functioned (or malfunctioned) under stress limit conditions. The present chapter offers several new approaches to investigating medieval cognitive structures of reality and self-experience by focusing on the Íslendingasögur’s narrative depictions of discomfort, tension, and bodily disruption under paranormal influences in the natural environment of medieval Iceland. In light of recent studies focusing on the contaminatory qualities of paranormal phenomena, it is possible to perceive the physical environment of medieval Iceland as almost equivalent to a radioactive zone, too much exposure to which is fraught with perilous consequences for the living.1 This dynamic of paranormal contagion may be developed further, and I will extend it to acts of nature and severe weather phenomena as depicted in Íslendingasögur. A particular temporal/spatial conjunction appears to emerge as the most potent perceived locus of paranormal activity. Given that the revenant hauntings reported in the sagas increase dramatically with the arrival of winter, the phenomena is not confined to the remote, inaccessible wilderness but encroaches directly into the human midst. In violation of the commonly championed “center versus periphery” model that posits the norm as the center and situates the paranormal as marginal, in the sagas the closer to home the paranormal occurs, the greater its perceived magnitude and terror. If it were possible to https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-003

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imagine cattle becoming possessed and frenzied by a malicious nonhuman presence that was believed to dwell in the area where they grazed, as Eyrbyggja saga does, could the inclement weather not be likewise hijacked by similar powers— and what does this mean for human characters who reside in such places? Revenant hauntings in a meteorological context will serve as a springboard to address a bigger question—how paranormal activity was perceived to affect medieval personhood and ontological orientation. Since, arguably, the sagas presented their narratives in terms that were relevant for their contemporary audiences, the literariness of these texts is no obstacle for their anthropological value, as they reflect their audiences’ attitudes and concerns.2 Having just sketched out the very tangible and physical dangers lurking in audiences’ perceived surroundings, what ramifications do these observations hold for the medieval Icelandic self? Now, as the physicality of the paranormal environment enters our discourse, so does the problem of the self as a physical body situated in such an inhospitable and perilous setting. To establish what may be happening with respect to this paradigm, it may be fruitful to reevaluate the way the human physical body proper is usually understood.

No Man Is an Island It bears remembering that the modern dualistic model of self and body—of the self being situated “within” the body, acting as the spirit inside the machine—is a postmedieval phenomenon. The same goes for the assumed binary of the isolated self as a discrete unit versus the external outside environment. This owes much to the Cartesian view of the abstract self as the sole, isolated locus of consciousness separate from the sensory world, subsequently much built upon in Western philosophy.3 It also owes much to the changes undergone by developing postmedieval European societies, as the increasing urbanization, industrialization, and rigorous regulation of social mores enforced greater controls over the body, its actions, and its impulses. The result was “the shifting focus of individuals’ anxieties to an inner world of self-awareness, towards mental and emotional landscape that had never been experienced before in the same way.”4 Because of the social demand and expectation “to internalize an unprecedented amount of physical and mental control,” individuals came to regard their emotions and impulses with unease, as if they lurked in some dark interior space; this, in turn, gave rise to the conceptualization of mental disorders “as a problem in the internal organization of the personality.”5 While the recent phenomenological turn in cognitive science has challenged the primacy of Cartesian cogito and its abstracted

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mental representation in formulating the locus of self-experience, it has led contemporary scientific discourse farther away from arriving at a consensus on how, indeed, the self may be defined, with innumerable conflicting theories currently in circulation.6 “No one of these disciplines,” writes Shaun Gallagher, “whether neuroscience, philosophy, psychology, or any other, can claim to provide a full account of what seems to be a multidimensional and highly complex phenomenon.”7 These observations draw attention to the contingent nature of any one model of the self, in that the structure of any such model remains predicated upon the particular discursive frameworks employed to define it, and different theoretical approaches will necessarily lead to different results. The Cartesian view of self, from the modern socionormative perspective, has often been pre-discursively assumed in saga scholarship with respect to the medieval self and personhood, resulting in a “corporeal reductionism”8 where the body’s physicality fades from view in favor of literary metaphors and notions that “human agents are disembodied minds unaffected by their senses.”9 However, a growing number of recent anthropological and cultural-historical studies of premodern societies (such as Laura Stark’s study of premodern rural Finland, Lambros Malafouris’s study of ancient Greece, and Kirsi Kanerva’s study of medieval Iceland proper) have moved away from this Cartesian dichotomy; they have shown that premodern bodies were conceptualized in their respective cultures as fluid rather than static entities, that boundaries between the self and its environment were less strictly defined and may indeed have been nonexistent.10 In Laura Stark’s study of premodern folk magic, for instance, magic’s perceived effectiveness lies in its ability to transgress and violate personal boundaries, including the boundaries between bodies and their environments. The human body thus becomes an “open body,” vulnerable to intrusion from outside.11 The outside is not “outside” at all, but rather an extended space of the body itself, within which it is situated. The perceived paranormal influences within the environment only spell out that bodies were exposed to, and subject to, these influences as well. We may gain a new perspective on this dynamic of the open body by utilizing the concept of “body schema,” borrowed from neuroscience. A new direction in the fields of archaeology and anthropology is a phenomenologically grounded conceptualization of the human body as a site of lived experience and embodied agency. Thus, having a body is no mere passive experience of ownership, but rather an ongoing phenomenological entanglement among minds, bodies, and their physical environments.12 In following the neurological concept of “body schema”—a spatial map around the person which structures the body’s comportment in surrounding space—it emerges that the body is not a closed unit, and that the environment around the body is a sensitive area to

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which the body is receptive. Thus, the physical body is perpetually in open dialogue with its environment, which forms an interrelated organism through which the body is constituted, shaped, and defined. In premodern ontological orientations, the physical environment was regarded as ominous, filled with ambiguous other-than-human agencies and forces that could threaten or attack the body at any moment.13 Nor were these notions limited to a particular region or to vernacular folklore. The theme of paranormal entities triggering illness and disease in humans is widely evident throughout medieval Europe, appearing not only in literature but also in medical treatises, thereby affirming the paranormal as a reflection of daily concerns beyond mere entertainment.14 In learned medieval medical discourses, also established in medieval Iceland as demonstrated by the humoral theory found in Hauksbók (AM 544 4to, early fourteenth century), body and world were believed to reflect each other as microcosm and macrocosm, both comprised of the same elements, with their mutual entanglements and interdependencies enabling perceived environmental influences to affect the body’s “internal microclimate.”15 Let us now consider how these theories may be discussed with respect to the Íslendingasögur. At first glance, such an inquiry seems to be doomed from the start: How do we approach the sagas with questions about the elusive concept of self-experience, given how terse and reticent saga prose so often is? As has been noted by Laura Stark, the body tends to enter conscious awareness only when there is a disruption between the body schema and the outside world. “The theoretical concept of the body schema thus provides us with an indication of where in a narrative corpus we can begin looking for descriptions of bodily experience,”16 —namely, in depictions of limit/crisis situations involving any kind of stress, discomfort, or unease. As has been noted multiple times in scholarship across the disciplines, paranormal encounters are staged precisely in situations of limit or crisis, when the physical senses of the protagonists are already strained and under stress, which in turn may result in alterity of perception of the situation in question.17 In this way, crisis situations (or limit experiences) provide an auspicious context to study not only medieval Icelandic constructions of personhood but also perceived paranormal phenomena and their impact upon the self, as both are in fact intertwined. Before diving into an analysis of saga scenes that narrate paranormal disturbances, however, let us contemplate for a moment the fragility and plasticity of the medieval Icelandic normative social setting, so as to gain a fuller appreciation of what is at stake with regard to looming paranormal threats. Like fractal geometries revealing same patterns on larger scale, the paradigm of the open body—and its relational dynamic as a microclimate within the broader macroclimate of its environment—bears out remarkably well for medieval

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Icelandic homesteads as social units in relation to other settlements and to the physical landscape itself. To regard those homesteads as independent units, however, is to fall into the same Cartesian trap that posits the self as discrete and separate from outside world. The still popular image of medieval Icelandic homesteads as isolated stand-alone bastions of self-reliant and independent farmers owes much to nineteenth-century romantic, national idealizations whereby the reading public was inclined to imagine itself in their place.18 It does not help that archaeological excavations of Icelandic farmsteads, necessarily limited to specific sites they engage, give an impression of static structures rooted in a static place. It is only recently that the archaeology of saga landscapes underwent a similar phenomenological turn to the above-considered cultural anthropological approaches to self and environment, letting go of cognitive bias and shifting focus to the dynamic agencies, ecological flows, and multilayered processes inherent in the saga homesteads’s environmental entanglements. Far from being isolated, medieval Icelandic farmsteads served as hubs in active networks of mobilities and connections that sprouted between different settlements and areas. The sagas themselves report such activities on a regular basis, with characters frequently on the move (weather permitting) between farms to report tidings, to ride to local legal assemblies, and to carry out errands. The settlementera Icelandic homestead was not only “made up of diverse places, movements, and activities, but also, critically, it was not unified,” its physical boundaries porous and vulnerable to encroachment, its resources in threat of being contested, and the ever-present danger of social disruption looming not altogether too far off.19 The permeability of medieval Icelandic spaces may even be observed in settlement-era burial patterns.20 Instead of setting boundaries between the dead and the living, there were no cemeteries or designated burial areas, and burials were not infrequently placed as territory markers between different farms, always at or near travel routes. Often burials were placed in such a way as to be conspicuously visible from inhabited places.21 These liminal locations blur the notion of static divisions, accentuating instead the mobility and transience of the surrounding landscape.22 Instead of a fixed and static structure, the medieval Icelandic homestead thus emerges as a multidimensional organism embedded in its extended environment as a network of interconnected assemblages and ecological entanglements. It is as dynamic as it is fragile, for its well-being is predicated upon particular confluences, flows, and conjunctions between all its composite mobilities. Violate those combinations, and the organism will collapse.

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Environ(mental) Fallout Upon surveying depictions of revenant hauntings in Íslendingasógur, it may be noted that they share a common feature: a dramatic increase in their severity and violence with the arrival of winter.23 There appears to be an almost calendric consistency in their alignment with seasonal changes. Thus Grettis saga reports, for instance, that “eptir jólin þóttusk menn sjá hann [Glám] heima þar á bœnum,” yet “en er váraði ok sólargangr var sem mestr, létti heldr aptrgǫngunum. . . . Fór allt á sama veg sem fyrr; þegar at haustaði, tóku at vaxa reimleikar” (“after Yule, people thought they saw him [Glámr] home there at the farm,” yet “when spring came, and the going of the sun was the greatest, then the hauntings abated. . . . All went the same way as before, for when autumn came, the hauntings started to increase”).24 A similar cycle is evident in Eyrbyggja saga: “En er á leið sumarit, urðu men þess varir, a Þórólfr lá eigi kyrr. . . . Ok er vetr kom, sýndisk Þórólfr opt heima á bœnum” (“But as summer passed, people became aware that Þórólfr lay not quietly. . . . And when winter came, Þórólfr was often seen home at the house”).25 Not only do long periods of winter darkness obscure the sensory perceptions and prey upon imaginations, but winters in Iceland are notorious for their abrupt meteorological fluctuations, bringing with them violent winds, storms, and blizzards. Studies of seasonal reports mentioned in Icelandic historical documents spanning the period from ca. 865 to 1598 indicate that the “medieval climate of Iceland was highly variable with many cold episodes,” challenging the widespread notion of the weather’s clement stability over that time span.26 The din of the wind, or of a storm tearing at the roof of a haunted farmstead, may well be perceived by its inhabitants as the beams being ridden by some unwholesome presence: “Opt heyrðu menn úti dunur miklar um nætr i Hvammi; urðu menn ok þess varir, at opt var riðit skálanum” (“People often heard a great din outside at night at Hvamm; people also became aware that the hall was often ridden”).27 The inherent vagueness of such narrated moments, and the lack of direct attributions of this phenomena to particular figures, melts the distinction between saga actants and their scenery as their environment itself becomes charged with agency, unleashing destructive fury in blind disregard for human and nonhuman alike. If weather may be regarded as “‘short-term climate,’ something that lasts for a relatively brief time; on the scale of days to months,” with climate itself being “the longer-term sum of ‘weather’ averaged over time,”28 then it becomes possible to postulate the aforementioned paranormal activity as part of local meteorological phenomena, tied as it is to seasonal climate changes. While this is not by any means intended to rationalize or explain them away, the hauntings in sagas may be considered as short-term weather events.

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Far from all accounts of saga revenants involve face-to-face confrontations by the living. A reader who automatically imagines a zombie-like cadaver each time a revenant is reported may be missing this crucial obscurity that hangs over the haunting episodes. The paranormal activity is there, yet the anthropomorphic figures to whom such activity is ascribed are often not. Their agency is notably deanthropomorphized even when their names are used, as if these doings emerge directly from natural environmental disturbances. When Eyrbyggja saga reports Þórólfr bægifótr walking after his death, it describes only the destruction he leaves in his wake, which is much like the wreckage in the wake of a storm: “Tók Þórólfr nú at ganga svá víða um dalinn, at hann eyddi alla bœi í dalnum; svá var ok mikill gangr at aptrgǫngum hans, at hann deyddi suma men, en sumir stukku undan” (“Now Þórólfr took to walking so widely through the valley that he laid waste all steads in the valley; so great was the trouble from his walking that he killed some men and others have fled”).29 The hauntings of Glámr are similarly reminiscent of a rampaging maelstrom senselessly laying waste to anything standing in its path. As the panicking farm folk abandon the homestead and flee the area, Grettis saga describes that everything left behind, cattle and property, was destroyed when “fór hann um allan dalinn ok eyddi alla bœi upp frá Tungu” (“he roamed all over the valley and destroyed all the farms up from Tunga”).30 When it comes to the individual deaths of local house folk, allegedly perpetrated by Þórólfr bægifótr and Glámr in their respective saga narratives, it is intriguing to note that these killings actually take place “off screen.” The sagas do not describe these moments, instead only reporting what is left on the scene in the wake of such episodes: the broken and mangled corpses of the victims as found by living witnesses. Thus, in Eyrbyggja saga: “Sá atburðr varð um haustit í Hvammi, at hvárki kom heim smalamaðr né fét, ok um morguninn var leita farit, ok fannsk smalamaðr dauðr skammt frá dys Þórólfs; var hann allr kolblár ok lamit í hvert bein” (“Such tidings were in the autumn at Hvamm, that neither shepherd nor cattle came home, and in the morning searching was carried out, and the shepherd was found dead near the mound of Þórólfr; he was coal-black all over and both legs were broken”).31 Grettis saga relates a similar instance of a shepherd gone missing: “Gengu þeir fyrst til dysjar Gláms, því at menn ætluðu af hans vǫldum myndi orðit um hvarf sauðamanns. En er þeir kómu nær dysinni, sá þeir þar mikil tíðendi, ok þar fundu þeir sauðamann, ok var hann brotinn á háls, ok lamit sundr hvert bein í honum” (“They first went to Glámr’s cairn because people thought that from his deeds came the loss of the shepherd. But when they came near to the cairn, there they saw great tidings, for there they found the shepherd, and his neck was broken and every bone in his body crushed”).32 The attribution of the witnesses’ findings to paranormal activity follows on the basis of their reports, yet it only ever remains a product of their own attempts to

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make sense of these happenings and supply their own explanations.33 It is perhaps not surprising that such events become linked with facts already known to the witnesses: namely, the physical proximity of a recently deceased character who was (still is?) notoriously difficult and abusive. Thus, Laxdæla saga explains what triggered the fallout at Hrappr’s homestead after he died: “En svá illr sem hann var viðreignar, þá er hann lifði, þá jók nú miklu við, er hann var dauðr, því at hann gekk mjǫk aptr. Svá segja menn, at hann deyddi flest hjón sín í aptrgǫngunni; hann gerði mikinn ómaka þeim flestum, er í nánd bjuggu; var eyddr bœrinn á Hrappstǫðum.”34 (“Yet as bad as he had been to deal with when he lived, he was a great deal more [difficult] when he was dead, for he walked much [after death]. So people said that he killed most of his servants in his after-walking; he caused much trouble to those who lived near. The house at Hrappstaðr was deserted”). This somewhat tautological extrapolation of the cause behind the reported deaths and local distress—Hrappr walked posthumously because he was evil when alive; his evil extended beyond death because he walked again—underlines the cognitive tension inherent in such attributions of crisis events to paranormal phenomena. Ominously, Hrappr’s hauntings are not directly performed by Hrappr himself, indeed he is conspicuously absent from the scene, but they unfold entirely in the afflicted minds of the individuals still residing at his homestead. We observe their mental collapse solely on the basis of their resulting actions, which the saga narrates: his farmstead empties out as the house folk flee, his son is driven to madness and dies shortly after returning to his property, and Hrappr’s wife is so reluctant to associate with the estate that she refuses her inheritance in a move that was almost unheard of in a historical period marked by contested resources. Their disturbances are tied not to a reanimated corpse, but to a specific place that becomes charged with an oppressive atmosphere. It does not help that Hrappr was initially buried right at the threshold to the house, per his own spiteful instruction, yet even after he is dug up and relocated to a remote area—“where cattle were least likely to roam,” the saga narrator adds, betraying concerns that even the most cursory proximity to livestock is perilous—the oppressive atmosphere continues to hover over the farmstead. Eyrbyggja saga plays up the environmental contagion even more, reporting that “fénaðr allr, sá er verit hafði í dalnum, fannsk sumr dauðr, en sumr hljóp á fjǫlll ok fannsk aldri. En ef fuglar settusk á dys Þórólfs, fellu þeir niðr dauðir.”35 (“[Of] all the livestock that was in the valley, some were found dead and some leaped into the mountains and were not found. And if birds settled on Þórólfr’s mound, they fell down dead”). Like a nuclear spill and its ecological fallout, the invisible tendrils of paranormal radiation spread from the burial spot of the restless dead and contaminate everything in their path, both the radius and the potency of these spillovers increasing with the onset of winter and its atmospheric fluctuations.

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Black Seas of Infinity Upon considering the preceding cases, the following dynamic emerges. With revenant hauntings narratively linked to seasonal changes and severe weather, the meteorological climate itself becomes firmly associated with paranormal agencies. If there is a particularly nasty individual in the area who has died and been locally buried, the violent climate fluctuations impacting local homesteads are perceived within the saga narratives to go hand in hand with his own agency and activity (in this light, it may be intriguing to consider the ongoing meteorological tendency to assign human names to particularly severe hurricanes). The reaction of the living human characters to these paranormal attacks upon their homesteads is depicted in the same fashion across the narratives, and in this the sagas are unambiguous: a clear sense of fear, unease, and discomfort. While some are driven insane by their exposure to these manifestations, the end result of all cases considered above is that the haunted homesteads are abandoned as survivors flee to other areas. Recently, Kirsi Kanerva interpreted the emotion of fear experienced by human saga characters in reaction to revenants as itself constituting a supernatural agentive force: an intrusion from the environment into their bodies.36 Thus, the emotion of fear itself becomes a paranormal contagion, not originating in the characters who sense it but as if part of the very climate, whose fluctuations stir and disturb human mind-organs (hugarhrœring) in unsolicited and unwholesome ways. At first glance, the flight from and abandonment of haunted homesteads seem to be entirely self-evident reactions in the face of severe environmental disturbances, whether merely violent weather or revenants on spiteful killing sprees. And yet it is worth asking here – what is the source of the human characters’ terror? If the recently deceased personages with nefarious reputations are expected to be restless postmortem, and if paranormal activity in the winter seasons is a usual counterpart to these hauntings, then such phenomena are no longer paranormal—they are part of the natural course of things. For all these factors, the saga characters’ shock is not abated, and the horror of these events still haunts the minds of those affected. The disturbance and panic spreads to the entire valley and beyond, not only with house folk fleeing, but with reports of this paranormal activity keeping visitors from other areas from carrying out their errands there. Once thriving hubs in their regional social ecologies, afflicted farmsteads take on the semblance of dead cells, stagnating as regional travel routes fall into disuse and as the unwholesome atmosphere of it all caves in on any lingering dwellers. What is happening to them here? We are now witnessing the phenomenon that Laura Stark has termed “the dissolving self”—an estrangement from

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oneself that occurs when all the boundaries, including perceived physical boundaries between body and environment, begin to collapse.37 Stark’s original application of this term pertains to the environmental context of isolated farms and villages in premodern rural Finland, describing the residents’ mentally debilitating fear triggered by the otherness of the deep woods that engulf them on all sides (the phenomenon of being lost or trapped in the “forest cover,” metsänpeitto, is a well-established Finnish folkloric motif). This experience of self as dissolving into environmental otherness is not strictly region-specific and has cognates in other landscapes and cultures, such as bergtagning from Swedish folklore, the phenomenon of being “taken into the rock/mountain,” which conveys the same effect despite a marked difference in topographic terrain to which the paranormal agency is attributed.38 The absence of any definite extant medieval Icelandic term for similar phenomena does not negate the ominous otherness of the natural environment as the sagas depict it. Given our previous discussion on the premodern conceptualization of self as an open body that extends outwards to include its immediate environment, being forced to flee and abandon the medieval Icelandic homestead—that formed an integral part of the body/self’s extended, interconnected organism— becomes nothing less than a rip in the fabric of the self, a tearing down of perceived localized, embodied ecology through which the self is constituted and maintained. Its innate environment is violently disrupted, and the source of this violent disruption is attributed to an ambiguous ‘other-than-human’ agency, presumably one that had in fact once been human. The hauntings become a disturbing reminder to the living that their own humanity is perishable and unstable, prone to dissolution and collapse, just as the unity of the self is a mere conceptual contingency and not at all a guarantee. The human dissolves into the other until there is no longer an oppositional binary between them but only a mixed and smeared conglomeration of ambiguous agencies, dynamistic forces, and ecological influences. The living characters are trapped in this paranormal vortex out of which there is no escape. It is no coincidence that the characters most severely affected by the hauntings are the anonymous common house folk and farming staff, whose marginality is accentuated by their social dependency on the local farmstead ecology to which they are attached. They are the ones who have the most to lose by necessity-driven relocations and the abandonment of haunted areas. Their forced uprooting from established homes increases their difficulty in achieving successful integration elsewhere. They are also less educated and hence less able to arrive at their own explanatory models to make sense of what is happening to them, here again instead depending on the explanations others provide. It is noteworthy that saga characters who are strong-minded and fearless in the face

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of such crises tend to be the socially privileged and educated; these are the regional authority figures to whom the local people appeal for interventions over the hauntings.39 A closer look at such scenes has thus yielded a nuanced perspective on the bodies and minds of common everyday people in medieval Iceland, and their strained and tenuous relationship with their physical environment: details that are too often out of sight in narratives that devote more focus to famous saga heroes and the cultural elite. The naturalization of the allegedly paranormal phenomena considered above, indeed even its implied “normativity” as part of the everyday course of things, augments the disturbance caused by these reported events even more. It may well be that what drove the farm folk to madness were the gaps left unfilled in their own explanations. What, then, is the paranormal? Perhaps it is human existence at large in a more-than-human world that the medieval Icelandic sagas reveal. As a term, “paranormal” recognizes the affective quality of the phenomena it thus labels, the cognitive tension the phenomena create. It brings attention to the most mundane details of the everyday and, zooming in on them more closely, reveals the most mundane to be full of unresolved lacunae and unanswered questions, lurking within the presumed normativity and turning it on its head. It exposes the reality of human experience as a mere construct of socio-historical contingency, thereby inviting ever incoming (and inevitably inexhaustible) attempts, formulations, and theorizations of how to make sense of it all.

Notes 1 For close readings and case studies on the parasitic qualities of medieval Icelandic paranormal beings and the alterity of human saga characters that results from contact with them, see Ármann Jakobsson, “The Fearless Vampire Killers: A Note about the Icelandic Draugr and Demonic Contamination in Grettis saga,” Folklore 120, no. 3 (2009): 307–16; on the social and psychological repercussions of revenants for human characters, see Kirsi Kanerva, “The Role of the Dead in Medieval Iceland: A Case Study of Eyrbyggja saga,” Collegium Medievale 24 (2011): 23–49; on the agency of Icelandic geological terrain in disturbing the category of humanity, see Miriam Mayburd, “The Hills Have Eyes: Post-Mortem Mountain Dwellings and the (Super)natural Landscape in the Íslendingasögur,” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 10 (2014): 129–154. 2 Ármann Jakobsson, “A History of the Trolls? Bárðar saga as an Historical Narrative,” SagaBook 25, no. 1 (1998–2001): 53–71; Astrid E. J. Ogilvie and Gísli Pálsson, “Mood, Magic, and Metaphor: Allusions to Weather and Climate in the Sagas of Icelanders,” in Weather, Climate, Culture, ed. Sarah Strauss and Ben Orlove (Oxford: Berg, 2003), 257; Hans Jakob Orning, “The Magical Reality of the Late Middle Ages: Exploring the World of the fornaldarsögur,” Scandinavian Journal of History 35, no. 1 (2010): 3–20.

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3 Shaun Gallagher, “The Self in the Cartesian Brain,” Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences 1234, no. 1 (2011): 102. For a comprehensive, state-of-the-art survey on the developing and changing concept of self within current discourses in philosophy, psychology, and neuroscience, see Shaun Gallagher, ed., The Oxford Handbook of the Self (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). 4 Laura Stark, “The Charmer’s Body and Behaviour as a Window onto Early Modern Selfhood,” in Charms, Charmers, and Charming: International Research on Verbal Magic, ed. Jonathan Roper (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 13. 5 Stark, “The Charmer’s Body and Behaviour as a Window onto Early Modern Selfhood,” 13. See also Norbert Elias, The Civilizing Process, vol. 1 of The History of Manners, trans. Edmund Jephcott (New York: Urizen Books, 1978). Originally published in 1939 as Über den Prozeß der Zivilisation and neglected for decades, Elias’s work pioneers the idea of intersubjective self, refuting the notion of a closed ego separate from society in favor of emphasizing changes to personality structures in different historical phases, a revolutionary concept for its time. 6 Consider such statements as “no such things as selves exist in the world: nobody ever was or had a self,” as this concept emerges only in “introspectively accessible partition” of a phenomenal self-model Thomas Metzinger, Being No One: The Self-Model Theory of Subjectivity (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2003), xi, 1; or the observation that “selves are inherently narrative entities” and thus attempts to define them are inevitably tautological: Marya Schechtman, “The Narrative Self,” in Gallagher, The Oxford Handbook of the Self, 395. 7 Gallagher, “The Self in the Cartesian Brain,” 102. 8 Chris Shilling, The Body in Culture, Technology and Society (London: Sage, 2004). 9 Laura Stark, The Magical Self: Body, Society, and the Supernatural in Early Modern Rural Finland, Folklore Fellows’ Communication 290 (Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum Fennica, 2006), 146. 10 Stark, The Magical Self; Lambros Malafouris, “Is It ‘Me’ or Is It ‘Mine’? The Mycenaean Sword as a Body-Part,” in Past Bodies: Body-Centered Research in Archaeology, ed. Dusan Boric and John Robb (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2008), 115–23; Kirsi Kanerva, Porous Bodies, Porous Minds: Emotions and the Supernatural in the Íslendingasögur (ca. 1200–1400), Annales Universitatis Turkuensis 398 (Turku: Turun Yliopistan Julkasuja, University of Turku, 2015). 11 Stark, The Magical Self, 145–62. 12 A lucid overview of the emergence of body schema as a term may be found in Shaun Gallagher, “Body Image and Body Schema: A Conceptual Clarification,” Journal of Mind & Behavior 7, no. 4 (1985): 541–54; Shaun Gallagher, “Body Schema and Intentionality,” in The Body and the Self, ed. Jóse Luis Bermúdez, Naomi Eilan, and Anthony Marcel (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1995), 225–44. For some stimulating applications (and implications) of embodied cognition in the field of archaeology, see Fredrik Fahlander and Anna Kjellström, eds., Making Sense of Things: Archaeologies of Sensory Perception, Stockholm Studies in Archaeology 53 (Stockholm: Stockholm University Press, 2010). 13 Stark, “The Charmer’s Body and Behaviour as a Window onto Early Modern Selfhood,” 13. 14 For a discussion of Anglo-Saxon ælfe and their abilities to influence human health, see Alaric Hall, “Calling the Shots: The Old English Remedy Gif hors ofscoten sie and Anglo-Saxon ‘Elf-Shot’,” Neuphilologische Mitteilungen: Bulletin of the Modern Language Society 106, no. 2 (2005): 195–209; Alaric Hall, Elves in Anglo-Saxon England: Matters of Belief, Health, Gender and Identity (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2007). For the medical ramifications of paranormal agencies in a medieval Norse context, see Alaric Hall, “‘Þur sarriþu þursa trutin’: MonsterFighting and Medicine in Early Medieval Scandinavia,” Ascelpio: Revista de Historia de la

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Medicina y de la Ciencia 61, no. 1 (2009): 195–218. For medieval dwarfs as the causes of disease, and Old English warding charms against them, see Paul Battles, “Dwarfs in Germanic Literature: Deutsche Mythologie or Grimm’s Myths?,” in The Shadow-Walkers: Jacob Grimm’s Mythology of the Monstrous, ed. Tom Shippey (Tempe and Turnhout: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies / Brepols, 2005), 33–35. 15 Kanerva, Porous Bodies, Porous Minds, 95; see also Kirsi Kanerva, “Disturbances of the Mind and Body: The Effects of the Living Dead in Medieval Iceland,” in Mental (dis)Order in the Later Middle Ages, ed. Sari Katajala-Peltomaa and Susanna Nijranen (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 233; Gail Kern Paster, Humoring the Body: Emotions and The Shakespearean Stage (Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 2004), 1–24; and Finnur Jónsson and Eiríkur Jónsson, eds., Hauksbók: Udgiven efter de Arnamagnæanske håndskrifter no. 371, 544 og 675, 4° samt forskellige papirshåndskrifter af det Kongelige nordiske oldskrift-selskab (Copenhagen: Thieles Bogtrykkeri, 1892–1896). Phenomenological entanglements between the human and the nonhuman in both learned and vernacular perspectives across medieval northern Europe are explored in Miriam Mayburd, “Between a Rock and a Soft Place: The Materiality of Old Norse Dwarfs and Paranormal Ecologies in Fornaldarsögur,” in Supernatural Encounters in Old Norse Literature and Tradition, ed. Daniel Sävborg and Karen Bek-Pedersen (Turnhout: Brepols, 190–214). 16 Stark, The Magical Self, 152. 17 John Lindow, “Þorsteins þáttr skelks and the Verisimilitude of the Supernatural Experience in Saga Literature,” in Structure and Meaning in Old Norse Literature: New Approaches to Textual Analysis and Literary Criticism, ed. John Lindow, Lars Lönnroth, and Gerd Wolfgang Weber, The Viking Collection 3 (Odense: Odense University Press, 1986), 264–80. 18 Orri Vésteinsson, “Patterns of Settlement in Iceland: A Study in Prehistory,” Saga-Book 25 (1998): 12. 19 Douglas J. Bolender and Oscar Aldred, “A Restless Medieval? Archaeologies and SagaSteads in the Viking Age North Atlantic,” postmedieval: a journal of medieval cultural studies 4, no. 2 (2012): 136–49. 20 Kristján Eldjárn and Adolf Friðriksson, Kuml og haugfé, 2nd ed. (Reykjavík: Mál og menning / Fornleifastofnun Íslands / Þjóðminjasafn Íslands, 2000); Ruth Ann Maher, Landscapes of Gender, Age and Cosmology: Burial Perceptions in Viking Age Iceland, BAR International Series 2529 (Oxford: Archaeo Press, 2013). This data pertains specifically to burials in the settlement period, ranging from ca. 865 up to Iceland’s conversion to Christianity in ca. 1000. In the wake of Iceland’s Christianization, a gradual, long-term shift in burial patterns towards more communally oriented placements may be observed, although burial sites remain local to their areas rather than becoming centralized. 21 Maher, Landscapes of Gender, Age and Cosmology, 54. 22 Adolf Friðriksson and Orri Vésteinsson, “Landscapes of Burial: Contrasting the Pagan and Christian Paradigms of Burial in Viking Age and Medieval Iceland,” Archaeologia Islandica 9 (2010): 52. 23 The most notorious saga hauntings unfold at Yuletide: Glámr’s fateful struggle with meinvættr and his posthumous terrorizing of the valley in Grettis saga, as well as the wonders of Fróðá in Eyrbyggja saga, are all staged during Yule. 24 Guðni Jónsson, ed., Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, Íslenzk fornrit 7 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936), 113, 115–16. 25 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds., Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr, Íslenzk fornrit 4 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935), 93.

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26 Ogilvie and Gísli Pálsson, “Mood, Magic, and Metaphor,” 254; the chart of surveyed data appears on 255. See also Astrid E. J. Ogilvie, “Climatic Changes in Iceland A.D. c. 865 to 1598,” in The Norse of the North Atlantic, ed. Gerald F. Bigelow, Acta Archaeologica 61 (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1991), 233–51; Astrid E. J. Ogilvie and Trausti Jónsson, “‘Little Ice Age’ Research: A Perspective from Iceland,” in The Iceberg in the Mist: Northern Research in Pursuit of a ‘Little Ice Age’, ed. Astrid E. J. Ogilvie and Trausti Jónsson (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2001), 9–52. 27 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 93. 28 Ogilvie and Gísli Pálsson, “Mood, Magic, and Metaphor,” 252. 29 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 93–94. 30 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 115. 31 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 93. 32 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 114. 33 Before his career as an undead pest, Glámr’s own death at the hands of an unnamed paranormal adversary receives similarly terse coverage, with both the killing scene and explanation situated in the cognitive perspective of those who discovered him: “Því næst kómu þeir á traðk mikinn ofarliga í dalnum; þótti þeim því líkt, sem þár hefði glímt verit heldr sterkliga, því at grjótit var víða upp leyst ok svá jǫrðin. Þeir hugðu at vandliga ok sá, hvar Glámr lá skammt á brott frá þeim. Hann var dauðr ok blár sem hel.. . . Þat drógu menn saman, at sú meinvættr, er áðr hafði þar verit, myndi hafa deytt Glám” (Thereafter they came upon a great beaten place high up in the valley, and they thought it was as if wrestling had gone on there rather vigorously, for the rocks were dislodged and the soil too. They took close note and saw where Glámr lay, a little way from there. He was dead and black as hell. . . . Folks put two and two it together (deduced) that the meinvættr who had been there before must have killed Glámr), in Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 112, own emphasis added. For more on this ambiguous meinvættr that haunted the valley prior to Glámr, see Shaun D. Hughes’s article in the present volume. 34 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Laxdæla saga, Íslenzk fornrit 5 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1934), 39. “Yet as bad as he had been to deal with when he lived, he was a great deal more [difficult] when he was dead, for he walked much [after death]. So people said that he killed most of his servants in his after-walking; he caused much trouble to those who lived near. The house at Hrappstaðr was deserted.” 35 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 93. “[Of] all the livestock that was in the valley, some were found dead and some leaped into the mountains and were not found. And if birds settled on Þórólfr’s mound, they fell down dead.” 36 Kanerva, “Disturbances of the Mind and Body.” 37 Stark, The Magical Self, 357. 38 For more on bergtagning, see John Lindow, Swedish Legends and Folktales (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 34–35. 39 Arnkell in Eyrbyggja saga, Hoskuldr in Laxdæla saga. In Grettis saga, Þórhallr is simultaneously a well-established regional presence and the victim of hauntings, yet he does not succumb to the same blind panic that afflicts his staff and stays on in his property even as they flee.

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Hall, Alaric. Elves in Anglo-Saxon England: Matters of Belief, Health, Gender and Identity. Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2007. Kanerva, Kirsi. “Disturbances of the Mind and Body: The Effects of the Living Dead in Medieval Iceland.” In Mental (dis)Order in the Later Middle Ages, edited by Sari Katajala-Peltomaa and Susanna Nijranen, 219–322. Leiden: Brill, 2014. Kanerva, Kirsi. Porous Bodies, Porous Minds: Emotions and the Supernatural in the Íslendingasögur (ca. 1200–1400). Annales Universitatis Turkuensis 398. Turku: Turun Yliopistan Julkasuja, University of Turku, 2015. Kanerva, Kirsi. “The Role of the Dead in Medieval Iceland: A Case Study of Eyrbyggja saga.” Collegium Medievale 24 (2011): 23–49. Kristján Eldjárn and Adolf Friðriksson. Kuml og haugfé. 2nd ed. Reykjavík: Mál og menning / Fornleifastofnun Íslands / Þjóðminjasafn Íslands, 2000. Lindow, John. Swedish Legends and Folktales. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978. Lindow, John. “Þorsteins þáttr skelks and the Verisimilitude of the Supernatural Experience in Saga Literature.” In Structure and Meaning in Old Norse Literature: New Approaches to Textual Analysis and Literary Criticism, edited by John Lindow, Lars Lönnroth, and Gerd Wolfgang Weber, 264–80. The Viking Collection 3. Odense: Odense University Press, 1986. Maher, Ruth Ann. Landscapes of Gender, Age and Cosmology: Burial Perceptions in Viking Age Iceland. BAR International Series 2529. Oxford: Archaeo Press, 2013. Malafouris, Lambros. “Is It ‘Me’ or Is It ‘Mine’? The Mycenaean Sword as a Body-Part.” In Past Bodies: Body-Centered Research in Archaeology, edited by Dusan Boric and John Robb, 115–23. Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2008. Mayburd, Miriam. “Between a Rock and a Soft Place: The Materiality of Old Norse Dwarfs and Paranormal Ecologies in Fornaldarsögur.” In Supernatural Encounters in Old Norse Literature and Tradition, edited by Daniel Sävborg and Karen Bek-Pedersen. 189–214. Turnhout: Brepols, 2018. Mayburd, Miriam. “The Hills Have Eyes: Post-Mortem Mountain Dwellings and the (Super) natural Landscape in the Íslendingasögur.” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 10 (2014): 129–154. Metzinger, Thomas. Being No One: The Self-Model Theory of Subjectivity. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2003. Ogilvie, Astrid E. J. “Climatic Changes in Iceland A.D. c. 865 to 1598.” In The Norse of the North Atlantic, edited by Gerald F. Bigelow, 233–51. Acta Archaeologica 61. Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1991. Ogilvie, Astrid E. J., and Gísli Pálsson. “Mood, Magic, and Metaphor: Allusions to Weather and Climate in the Sagas of Icelanders.” In Weather, Climate, Culture, edited by Sarah Strauss and Ben Orlove, 251–74. Oxford: Berg, 2003. Ogilvie, Astrid E. J., and Trausti Jónsson. “‘Little Ice Age’ Research: A Perspective from Iceland.” In The Iceberg in the Mist: Northern Research in Pursuit of a ‘Little Ice Age’, edited by Astrid E. J. Ogilvie and Trausti Jónsson, 9–52. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2001. Orning, Hans Jakob. “The Magical Reality of the Late Middle Ages: Exploring the World of the fornaldarsögur.” Scandinavian Journal of History 35, no. 1 (2010): 3–20. Orri Vésteinsson. “Patterns of Settlement in Iceland: A Study in Prehistory.” Saga-Book 25 (1998): 1–29.

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Paster, Gail Kern. Humoring the Body: Emotions and The Shakespearean Stage. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 2004. Schechtman, Marya. “The Narrative Self.” In Gallagher, The Oxford Handbook of the Self, 394–416. Shilling, Chris. The Body in Culture, Technology and Society. London: Sage, 2004. Stark, Laura. “The Charmer’s Body and Behaviour as a Window onto Early Modern Selfhood.” In Charms, Charmers, and Charming: International Research on Verbal Magic, edited by Jonathan Roper, 3–16. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009. Stark, Laura. The Magical Self: Body, Society, and the Supernatural in Early Modern Rural Finland. Folklore Fellows’ Communication 290. Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum Fennica, 2006.

Ásdís Egilsdóttir

Happy Endings: The (Para)Normality of Miracles Abstract: The article addresses the paradoxical nature of medieval miracles. They were wondrous but also “normal” everyday experiences. Since most miracles tell of cures, medieval ideas about body, health, and disease are examined. Miracles reflect the emotions of those who are cured by the intercession of a saint, with joy being the fundamental emotion experienced.

I Three Icelandic saints were venerated from around 1200 until the Reformation in the middle of the sixteenth century: the bishops Þorlákr Þórhallsson (1133–1193), Jón Ögmundsson (1052–1121), and Guðmundr Arason (1161–1237).1 Icelandic miracles were written down both in separate miracle books and at the end of each bishop’s biography. The largest collection of Icelandic miracles is attributed to St. Þorlákr. The oldest preserved document is a miracle book that was read aloud at the Alþingi in 1199.2 This manuscript is dated to 1220. No parallel collection of St. Jón’s first miracles has been preserved, but a collection of St. Jón’s miracles is referred to in the fourteenth-century, as-yet-unpublished version C of Guðmundar saga, contained in the manuscripts Stockh. Papp. 4to no. 4 and AM 395 4to. It may have been in existence around 1200.3 Version B of Guðmundar saga, contains a collection of miracles. It was probably written shortly after 1320, or after the bishop’s relics had been exhumed. Most miracle stories are preserved in more than one version, and new miracles were added to younger versions of the sagas. The written texts relate how miracle stories were told and orally distributed. People recounted them to each other and to clerical authorities: “Sagði Grímr sjálfr þessa jartein Páli byskupi, ok virðu allir mikils þessa jartein, þeir er frá heyrðu sagt.” “Ok fór sú jartein brátt of allt land, ok lofaði hverr maðr Guð ok sælan Þorlák byskup. Fann hann þá síðan at hann var þá til loks heill orðinn, ok sagði hann sjálfr þessa jartein Páli byskupi, svát margir heyrðu á, ok lofuðu allir almáttkan Guð er slíkar dýrðir lætr verða fyrir sælan þjón sinn, Þorlák byskup.” “Nú tók at vaxa mjök orð á um heilagleik Jóns byskups, ok fengu margir menn mikla fró sinna meina og fagrar jartegnir af hans árnaðarorði við almáttkan Guð. Ok nú segir maðr manni þessi fagnaðartíðendi og spurðisk brátt víða. . . . öllum þótti um þetta mikils vert.”4 https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-004

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Most miracles are a dialogue between the common people and the clergy. It can be expected that the clergy reshaped the originally oral stories. Writing, telling, and retelling miracles was also a way to strengthen people’s faith.

II At first sight, miracles seem to be simple stories, aimed at credulous people. Medieval writers and theorists were certainly faithful, but they were not simple. We owe the most influential medieval discussions on miracles to intellectuals such as St. Gregory the Great (d. 604) and St. Augustine (d. 430). St. Gregory claimed that miracles, which people are willing to believe, can help ease acceptance of theological mysteries that exceed the limits of people’s imaginations.5 When relating miracles from Dialogues, which became known in Iceland in the latter half of the twelfth century, he frequently mentions witnesses and insists on their reliability. Reliable witnesses were standard features in the medieval hagiographical tradition and often became simple topoi. While St. Gregory’s accounts cannot be accepted as genuine in the eyes of modern scholars, he undoubtedly shaped medieval views towards miracles. Miracles were to be taken seriously, their authors believed them, and they wanted their readers to believe them as well.6 A miracle in the Christian sense is the work of God typically through the intervention of a saint—a person who had lived his or her life among ordinary people but had been given the role of intercessor because of extraordinary pious qualities. A saint is therefore not a supernatural or paranormal being. The miraculous act itself is beyond the capacity of ordinary humans. Most miracles turn abnormal situations into normal situations. The outcome of miracles is in most cases pleasant. A sick body becomes its natural self. Miracles were wondrous, but they were at the same time “normal” everyday experiences. People heard stories of such experiences, either read or told, and learned from them that miracles could happen to anybody. We may assume that believing in miracles was a comfort to those who suffered from poor health or other troubles. Miracles were understood as evidence of the continuing intervention of God in the world, and they formed an integral part of daily life. On the surface, their message was that people could expect help when in need by invoking a saint. People were reminded that miracles were miracula, or things to be marveled at. The Icelandic miracles contain numerous examples that show that miracles were regarded by their beneficiaries as surprising and wondrous: “Ok sjá var jartein mjǫk í gegn øðli, at óstyrk kona skyldi geig gøra mega svá miklum sel”, “þá varð fákunnligr hlutr.”7 However, since the purpose of the miracle is to show God’s infinite power, a good solution was to be expected.

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Miracles are established as true occurrences when they have been tested and proven by clerical authorities. The miracle book of 1199 tells the story of a young woman called Halldóra who suffers from a serious illness. Her body is paralyzed, and she is in great pain. After she has been ill for about three years, people start talking about the recent cult of St. Þorlákr and his miracles. The saint appears to a woman in a dream and tells her that Halldóra will be healed if she is brought to the church of Skálholt. The saint promises to watch over her during the journey. The whole community at Skálholt is encouraged to pray for her. The prayers were meant to give Halldóra what she wanted most—her health—and to cast glory upon the saintly bishop and strengthen people’s faith. Halldóra had been unable to walk, but the following day she walks to the altar and presents a golden ring as an offering. A few days later, she rides to the Alþing where she is shown to the people in attendance alheil (completely cured). Halldóra’s appearance at the Alþing is the proof that she had been cured. Abbot Karl Jónsson, who collaborated with King Sverrir of Norway in writing his biography, was the clerical authority who confirmed the miracle. True saints were the only people who could intercede on behalf of the faithful after they had passed away. In 1220 Bishop Guðmundr Arason was in the north of Iceland making the local farmers anxious because he and his entourage were living off their hospitality. The farmers sent word to their leaders to come and free them from the bishop and his flock. The leaders moved against the bishop, and the result was a battle. Arnórr Tumason and Sighvatr Sturluson, two of the chieftains leading the army against the bishop, have the following conversation: Arnórr mælti: Í sumar hefir mér verit kvellingasamt. En er mér kómu orð Reykdæla, at þeir þyrfti liðs við, hóf af mér allar vámur, svá at ek kenni mér hvergi illt. Þat mun þér þykkja jartegn, segir Sighvatr. Arnórr segir: Slíkt kalla ek atburð, en eigi jartegn.8

When this conversation takes place, the chieftains are engaged in a battle against Bishop Guðmundr, who was well known for his wonder-working. Sighvatr’s question is ironic. Arnórr’s reply may express secular attitudes.9 He had been ill but had recovered when he heard that his force would be needed against the bishop. His words may also equally show that he respects miracles. Arnórr is likely to know that not all occurrences could be called miraculous. Miracles only happen when a saint is invoked, and they would need to be accepted and approved by the clerical authorities. The narrative thus distinguishes clearly between atburðr (event, occurrence) and jartein (miracle). Written accounts of miracles also uphold this distinction: En sá atburðr var svá mjǫk í gegn vanða þeim er þar er á, at þeim þótti trautt at á einum degi myndi verða út mokaðr óssinn þótt fjǫlði manna væri at. Urðu þeir fegnir þessi jartein ok

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þǫkkuðu Guði almáttkum ok sælum dýrlingi hans, Þorláki byskupi, ok sagði Grímr sjálfr þessa jartein Páli byskupi, ok virðu allir mikils þessa jartein, þeir er frá heyrðu sagt.10

III Miracles provoked emotions of awe, admiration, amusement, confusion, and curiosity, but most of all fear and joy. Joy and well-being replace fear and apprehension: “En þá saknaði móðirin sveinsins ok varð óttafull . . . ok þóttusk þau son sinn hafa ór helju heimtan, er áttu.” “Faðir hennar var sorgmóðr af hennar vanheilsu . . .” “Ok er náttaði tók hon með mikilli sorgmæði at kalla á árnaðarorð ins heilaga Jóns byskups.” “Ok eptir þetta setr at honum grát mikinn af harmi ok leiðendum.” “. . . Áslákr varð feginn mjök heilsu sinni.” “Hann þóttisk verða hræddr við manninn ok þora ekki við hann at mæla (Bishop Jón appears to him in a dream). Honum þótti mikils vert um þenna atburð.” “Ok bað heilsubótar grátandi, en Brandi byskupi bað hon heilsubótar en eigi sjálfri sér.” “Ok urðu menn stórlega fegnir þessum atburðum.”11

Public expressions of delight and gratitude form the last part of the miraculous action: “þótti sú jartein mikils verð ǫllum sem vissu, ok lofuðu Guð ok enn sæla Þorlák byskup” “ok þótti sú en fegrsta jartein vera þeim mǫnnum er kunnleikr var á.” “ok virði prestrinn sjálfr þessa jartein mesta ok fegrsta sér í hug ens sæla Þorláks byskups.” “Virðu menn þetta fagrliga jartein vera.” “Var þá lýst þeiri jartein í kirkju ok sungit Te Deum ok hringt ǫllum klukkum, ok lofuðu allir Guð sem kunnu framarst ok enn sæla Þorlák byskup.” “Þótti ǫllum sjá atburðr mikils verðr, þeim er við váru staddir, ok var Páll byskup í þessu heiti með ǫðrum mǫnnum ok virði þessa jartein því meira en aðrir sem hann kunni gørr sjá en flestir aðrir.”12

Joy and happiness are part of the balance restored by the intervention of the saint. It may seem contradictory to view happiness as the normal state of mind in the Middle Ages when the misery of earthly life is emphasized in religious writings. The righteous and faithful, however, can expect eternal joy in heaven. To illustrate this, here are some examples from the Old Icelandic Homily Book (Íslensk hómilíubók) in Stock. Perg. 4to no. 15, dated to around 1200. On saved souls, the Homily Book states, “þær eigu þá aldregi að sér ótta né ugga engi

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hlut,”13 “fagnið ér nú og gleðjist ei og ei í augliti mínu.”14 Fear and joy are also the most prominent emotions in the Nativity according to the Gospel of Luke (2:8–11). The Gospel tells of the shepherds in the fields near Bethlehem who are watching over their flock on the night when Jesus Christ was born: And an angel of the Lord came to them, and the glory of the Lord was shining round about them: and fear came on them. And the angel said, Have no fear; for truly, I give you good news of great joy which will be for all the people: For on this day, in the town of David, a Saviour has come to birth, who is Christ the Lord.

Salvation is a cause for joy. St. Paul writes of his joy in 2 Corinthians 7–14. The relationship between the apostles is depicted as happy and joyful.15 God’s kingdom is characterised by righteousness, peace, and joy.16 The transformation of water into wine at the wedding at Cana is the first miracle attributed to Jesus in the Gospel of John. This miracle is thoroughly discussed and explained in the Old Icelandic Homily Book. Þá er Jesús fecit líkamlegt vín úr vatni í augliti lærisveina sinna, þá gjörði hann andlegt vín fyr hugskotsaugum þeira, það er hann snöri hjörtum þeirra frá ótrúu Gyðinga til sinnar trúu. Þá er þeir glöddust utan af líkamlegu víni, þá glöddust þeir og innan af andlegu víni, það er ást Krists.17

According to the homily’s interpretation, the miracle is to be read on two levels, namely physically and spiritually. In the spiritual sense, the miracle turned the hearts of the disciples to the Christian faith. The wine, however, made them happy in both the spiritual and the physical sense. The joyful outcome of these miracles corresponds to the happiness that is brought to the fore in this Christian world view.

IV Most medieval miracles tell of cures. They describe how the beneficiaries recover from illnesses or injuries after having invoked a saint. It is impossible to know whether the ailment was only temporary or if the “patient” had gradually got better with the help of his or her own immune system. A modern reader must bear in mind that medieval people did not necessarily expect to be cured when they fell ill. Any help could therefore easily be understood as a miracle: “Varð hon síðan heil á einum mánaði, þar er áðr vættu þeir henni trautt lífs, en þótti hon ráðin til ørkumla þótt hon rétti við, ok lofuðu Guð ok enn sæla Þorlák byskup.”18 Several texts containing medical knowledge have been preserved in medieval Icelandic manuscripts, indicating knowledge of the Regimen Sanitatis

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Salernitatum, a didactic poem on health care and medical practice.19 This poem has been dated to the middle of the thirteenth century, but it is derived from texts that were already in existence by the early twelfth century. Knowledge about the body and disease was limited. According to medieval medical theory, medicine consisted of three parts: res naturales, or the things that made up the body such as elements, humors, faculties, or spirits; res non naturales, or the things affecting bodily health such as air, exercise, food, and drink; and res contra naturam, or diseases and their causes. The res non naturales, or ‘non-naturals,’ were not however understood as unnatural. Rather, they were seen as things or factors outside of the body, which itself was seen as separate from one’s constitution and hence from the causes of disease or health. In addition to the aforementioned factors, accidentia animae, or emotions, were understood to affect the body and its health. Although medical treatises warn against strong emotions, moderate cheerfulness was considered beneficial to health. Late medieval treatises even suggest storytelling and reading as a remedy for the soul and body.20 A key word in ancient and medieval medicine is balance. First, the body needs to be in balance. Humoral theory or humorism, advanced by Hippocrates, describes the makeup of the human body as it was understood from antiquity until the nineteenth century. According to humorism, the human body is filled with four substances, or humors: black bile, yellow bile, phlegm, and blood. When a person is healthy, the humors are in balance. Consequently, if the humors are not in balance, a person could become ill. Phlebotomy, or bloodletting, is frequently mentioned in Icelandic sources and was a well-known method to regulate the humors.21 Nature was the beneficent provider for human needs, but at the same time it could bring starvation, illness, and death without reason or warning, disturbing the Christian view of a harmonious world order. With the help of the saints, balance could be restored.22 Ideally, the cosmos should be in balance like its smaller, human counterpart, the microcosmos: Kallast hann af því hinn minni heimur af því að hann hafði hold af jörðu en blóð af vatni, blást af lofti en hita af eldi. Höfuð hans var böllótt í glíking heimballar. Í því eru augu tvö sem sól og tungl á himni. Í brjósti er blástur og hósti sem vindar og reiðarþrumur í lofti. Kviður tekur við vekku sem sær við vötnum. Fætur halda uppi öllum líkam sem jörð ber allan höfga.23

The body of a saint is pure and incorrupt. Þorláks saga describes how the body of the saintly bishop is transformed after his death. No signs of illness are to be seen, and death does not seem to corrupt his body. His color is vivid, and his eyes remain bright. The saint transfers his powers to the bodies of the sick or injured and restores them to health, or at least to their normal condition. When the

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aforementioned Halldóra is cured, for example, her crippled body is returned to its normal state. The miracle book of 1199 tells of a man whose illness causes his body to swell. His wife measures the thickness of his body and promises to present as an offering a candle corresponding to his body’s circumference. A young woman finds this offering ridiculous because the man’s wife is implementing a remedy here that is more commonly used to help women in labor. It may also seem comic when a man’s sick and inflated body is likened to an ox in the Oldest Miracle Book of St. Þorlákr. But a human being, created in the image of God, should not look like an animal. By way of the intervention of the saint, in the miracle book of 1199 the sick man’s human shape is restored. Guðmundar saga, in the fourteenth-century versions B and D, contains a story about an illness suffered by Gyríðr Þorvarðardóttir, wife of Kolbeinn Tumason, and how Guðmundr cured her while still a priest. The poor state of her body is described thus: “Hon var bæði blá ok þrútin ok allóhugkvæmliga snöruð ok ólíkt kristnum mönnum ok fullkomit dauð” (B), “líkam ljótliga spilltan, alla lund snaraðan ok drepsóttan” (D). With the help of Guðmundr’s prayers, Gyríðr’s health is restored. Her body was “aptr leiddr í mannliga mynd ok endrbættr í öllum greinum því fráteknu, at svo var hon mædd ok máttfarin, sem líf at eins bragaði fyrir brjóstinu” (D). In version B, Kolbeinn saw his wife “liggja með fögrum lit ok náttúruligu yfirbragði sem fyrr hafði hon.”24 Both texts describe the healed body of Gyríðr as “natural” and “human”, and version B relates that her body was corrupt and that she did not look like a Christian person. Man was created in the image of God (Genesis 1:27) and therefore his human form should not be disfigured. People who heard stories of miracles could have identified with the problems and experiences related in these texts. They could have shared the emotions of those who feared disease and rejoiced when they or someone close to them became well.

Conclusion Although miracles may surprise, they are supposed to be believed and accepted. They are executed via the intercession of a saint, who had been a human mortal and is therefore not a supernatural or paranormal being such as an elf or troll. However, the saint is only a tool in the hands of God who is the real miracle worker. Miracles feature anxious and fearful people. Diseases are frightening, and medieval people could not expect to be healed and to survive. A happy outcome is characterised by joy. The experience of fear and joy that is

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related in these accounts fundamentally reflects Biblical language. Miracles help to keep the human body and soul and the world in balance and harmony. They are supposed to create a happy normal state, in nature, body, and mind.

Notes 1 Sigurgeir Steingrímsson, Ólafur Halldórsson, and Peter Foote, eds., Biskupa sögur, 1st ed., Íslenzk fornrit 15 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2003); Ásdís Egilsdóttir, ed., Biskupa sögur, vol. 2, Íslenzk fornrit 16 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2002); Jón Sigurðsson and Guðbrandur Vigfússon, eds., Biskupa sögur, 2 vols. (Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1858). 2 Ásdís Egilsdóttir, Biskupa sögur. 3 Peter Foote, ed., “Jóns saga helga,” in Sigurgeir Steingrímsson, Ólafur Halldórsson, and Foote, Biskupa sögur, cclxxi. 4 Ásdís Egilsdóttir, Biskupa sögur, 104, 120, 127; Sigurgeir Steingrímsson, Ólafur Halldórsson, and Foote, Biskupa sögur, 263. “Grímr himself told Bishop Páll of this miracle, and people had great respect for this sign, those who heard about it.” “And this miracle soon was related throughout the country, and everyone praised God and the blessed Bishop Þorlákr.” “And then he himself realized that he was finally whole, and he himself related this miracle to Bishop Páll, so that many people listened and everyone praised almighty God who makes such glorious things happen through his servant, Bishop Þorlákr.” “Now the word of mouth grew about the holiness of Bishop Jón, and many people had great comfort from their ailments and beautiful signs of his intercession with the almighty God. And now man tells man about these great news, and soon they were famous . . . everyone thinks this of great significance.” 5 William D. McCready, Signs of Sanctity: Miracles in the Thought of Gregory the Great (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 1989), 185–86. 6 McCready, Signs of Sanctity, 117, 175. 7 Ásdís Egilsdóttir, Biskupa sögur, 107, 139. “Then there was a wondrous thing.” 8 Jón Jóhannesson, Magnús Finnbogason, and Kristján Eldjárn, eds., Sturlunga saga, 2 vols. (Reykjavík: Sturlungurútgáfan, 1946), vol. 1, p. 276. “Arnórr said: I have had many minor ailments this summer. But when I heard from the Reykdælir that they needed support, all discomfort vanished, so I now feel no pain. You will call this a miracle, said Sighvatr. Such I call an event and not a miracle, said Arnórr.” 9 Peter Foote, “Secular Attitudes in Early Iceland,” in Aurvandilstá: Norse Studies, Viking Collection 2 (Odense: Odense University Press, 1984), 45–46; Úlfar Bragason, Ætt og saga: Um frásagnarfræði Sturlunga eða Íslendinga sögu hinnar meiri (Reykjavík: Háskólaútgáfan, 2010), 61–62. 10 Ásdís Egilsdóttir, Biskupa sögur. “But this event happened much against the expected, so that they felt it unlikely that the bank would be cleared in a day even though several people took part. They became very relieved at this sign and thanked almighty God and his blessed

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saint Bishop Þorlákr, and Grímr himself told Bishop Páll of this miracle, and people had great respect for this sign, those who heard about it.” 11 Ásdís Egilsdóttir, Biskupa sögur, 109; Sigurgeir Steingrímsson, Ólafur Halldórsson, and Foote, Biskupa sögur, 256–60, 266, 278. “And then the mother missed the boy and became fearful . . . and they felt they had reclaimed their son from death, those to whom he belonged. “Her father was full of sorrow over her ill health . . .” “And when night fell, she began with great sorrow to ask for the intercession of the holy Bishop Jón.” “And after this he began to cry due to his grief and misery . . . Áslákr became much relieved for his health.” “He felt he was most afraid of the man and dared not speak to him. He felt this event was of great significance.” “And she tearfully asked for improvement in health, but for Bishop Brandr and not for herself.” “And people were much relieved by this event.” 12 Ásdís Egilsdóttir, Biskupa sögur, 111, 113, 117, 122, 126. “This miracle was thought to be of great significance by all who knew about it, and they praised God and the blessed Bishop Þorlákr.” “And this was seen as the most beautiful miracle to those men who knew.” “And the priest himself in his own mind thought this the biggest and most beautiful miracle of the blessed Bishop Þorlákr.” “People saw this as a beautiful miracle.” “This miracle was then declared in the church, and people sang Te Deum, and all the bells were rung, and everyone who knew praised God and the blessed Bishop Þorlákr.” “Everyone who was present thought this event was of great significance, and Bishop Páll participated in the pledge with others, and he thought this miracle was even more significant than everyone else since he could see its significance more clearly than others.” 13 Sigurbjörn Einarsson, Guðrún Kvaran, and Gunnlaugur Ingólfsson, eds., Íslensk hómilíubók: Fornar stólræður (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1993), 63. 14 Sigurbjörn Einarsson, Guðrún Kvaran, and Gunnlaugur Ingólfsson, Íslensk hómilíubók, 70, Matt. 25:41. “They will then never fear anything.” “Rejoice now and be merry but not in my sight.” 15 Rom. 15:32; Phil. 2:28 16 Rom. 14:17 17 Sigurbjörn Einarsson, Guðrún Kvaran, and Gunnlaugur Ingólfsson, Íslensk hómilíubók, 271. “And when Jesus literally made wine from water as witnessed by his disciples, then he also made wine spiritually in the eyes of their minds in that he turned their hearts from faithless Jewry to his own faith. And when they were pleased outwards by the literal wine, they were also pleased within from the spiritual wine which is the love of Christ.” 18 Ásdís Egilsdóttir, Biskupa sögur, 119. 19 Jónas Kristjánsson, Um Fóstbræðrasögu (Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 1972), 240–46. 20 Glending Olson, Literature as Recreation in the Later Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1982), 39–89. 21 Guðrún P. Helgadóttir, “Introduction,” in Hrafns saga Sveinbjarnarsonar, ed. Guðrún P. Helgadóttir (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987), xci–cviii.

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22 Donald Weinstein and Rudolph M. Bell, Saints and Society: The Two Worlds of Western Christendom (Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 1982), 146–47. 23 Evelyn Sherabon Firshow and Kaaren Grimstad, eds., Elucidarius, in Old Norse translation (Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 1989), 40. “He is therefore called the smaller world because he had flesh of earth, his blood of water, breath of air, and warmth of fire. His head was round in the shape of the globe. In it are two eyes like the sun and the moon in the sky. In his breast are coughs and panting like winds and thunder in the air. His belly takes fluids like the sea accepts lakes. His feet carry the body like the earth carries all the weight.” 24 Jón Sigurðsson and Guðbrandur Vigfússon, Biskupa sögur, 150; Jón Sigurðsson and Guðbrandur Vigfússon, Biskupa sögur, 217.

Bibliography Ásdís Egilsdóttir, ed. Biskupa sögur. Vol. 2. Íslenzk fornrit 16. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2002. Firshow, Evelyn Sherabon, and Kaaren Grimstad, eds. Elucidarius. In Old Norse translation. Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 1989. Foote, Peter, ed. “Jóns saga helga.” In Sigurgeir Steingrímsson, Ólafur Halldórsson, and Foote, Biskupa sögur. Foote, Peter. “Secular Attitudes in Early Iceland.” In Aurvandilstá: Norse Studies. Viking Collection 2. Odense: Odense University Press, 1984. Guðrún P. Helgadóttir. “Introduction.” In Hrafns saga Sveinbjarnarsonar, edited by Guðrún P. Helgadóttir. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987. Jón Jóhannesson, Magnús Finnbogason, and Kristján Eldjárn, eds. Sturlunga saga. 2 vols. Reykjavík: Sturlungurútgáfan, 1946. Jón Sigurðsson and Guðbrandur Vigfússon, eds. Biskupa sögur. 2 vols. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1858. Jónas Kristjánsson. Um Fóstbræðrasögu. Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 1972. McCready, William D. Signs of Sanctity: Miracles in the Thought of Gregory the Great. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 1989. Olson, Glending. Literature as Recreation in the Later Middle Ages. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1982. Sigurbjörn Einarsson, Guðrún Kvaran, and Gunnlaugur Ingólfsson, eds. Íslensk hómilíubók: Fornar stólræður. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1993. Sigurgeir Steingrímsson, Ólafur Halldórsson, and Peter Foote, eds. Biskupa sögur. 1st ed. Íslenzk fornrit 15. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2003. Úlfar Bragason. Ætt og saga: Um frásagnarfræði Sturlunga eða Íslendinga sögu hinnar meiri. Reykjavík: Háskólaútgáfan, 2010. Weinstein, Donald, and Rudolph M. Bell. Saints and Society: The Two Worlds of Western Christendom. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 1982.

Andrea Maraschi

Þórgunna’s Dinner and Other Medieval Liminal Meals: Food as Mediator between this World and the Hereafter Abstract: This contribution represents a literary-anthropological analysis of Þórgunna’s nightly apparition scene in the Eyrbyggja saga. This has been deconstructed and compared with other medieval tales of encounters between nonhuman entities and the living that are similarly based on the exchange/offering/ sharing of food, leading to a substantial reinterpretation of Þórgunna’s identity. Suddenly, a racket coming from inside the house wakened them. In the middle of the night, they slowly got up, their legs shivering in fear. The noise did not stop: someone had broken into the farmhouse. The larder: the thief was in the larder. Still half numb, they steeled themselves but, as they approached the pantry, an unexpected vision shocked them: whoever was standing before their stunned eyes was no burglar. That tall, naked woman intent on cooking was, without any doubt, Þórgunna. (ÍF 4, 144)

Þórgunna was a ghost, a draugr—even though she is never addressed as such in the text; actually, at the end of the nineteenth century the Icelandic folklorist Jón Árnason classified her as an apturganga (revenant)1—an undead person who was not raised by someone with magic.2 Be that as it may, she is the first of a series of sinister apparitions that we read about in Eyrbyggja saga and that are mostly defined as reimleikar (hauntings).3 Eyrbyggja saga was probably written around 1230 at the monastery of Helgafell, but the events it narrates span from the late ninth to the eleventh centuries: therefore, the Christianization of the island is a formative fact of its narrative context.4 The aim of the present article is to analyze the role of food and of food-related rituals and practices as a means of interaction between the living and the dead or other supernatural entities in medieval times, https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-005

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and attention will mainly be focused on the figure of Þórgunna for two reasons: because of the practical and symbolic implications of her appearance after death, and because the role she plays in these circumstances has much to do with humanity and little to do with blood, vengeance, or even the “paranormal.”5 By deconstructing this specific episode and emphasizing the common traits it seems to share with other medieval narratives, I aim to highlight the positive function of food in stories of encounters between humans and entities from other worlds and thus to partially restore the honor of the latter—or, at least, of those entities who interacted with the living through food and food-related practices. The narratives discussed in this article have been selected because they all feature scenes where the contact between the living and such entities is established through giving, sharing, offering, and serving food and drink. At the same time, and most interestingly, the respective typological characteristics and narratological purposes of these texts span from edifying stories written by Christian churchmen and vernacular tales meant to entertain and amuse the public to folklore legends: therefore, they summarize and reflect a cross section of the concepts that are linked with the hagiographical tradition and with pre-Christian and popular beliefs about encounters between humans and ghosts, revenants, spirits, and gods. Predictably enough, liminal meals could lead to either happy or bad endings, as is to be expected of situations where inhabitants of such opposed worlds happen to share moments, places, or, more simply, come into contact with each other. Nonetheless, meals and food sharing often feature in medieval literature as meeting places, as rhetorical stages for paranormal encounters. Focusing on food, then, will hopefully help us bring to light new perspectives on medieval conceptualizations of humanity, as it will allow us to pay attention to the very occasions when the living and the dead gathered together. After all, “ghosts” (here defined generally as dead returning either in dreams or actual visions) have historically carried negative connotations in many cultures, and this has been for good reasons: depicted as malevolent, homicidal, brutal, bloodthirsty (both metaphorically and practically), and vengeful,6 their relationship with the living evidently was not meant to be peaceful and harmonious. But is this true with respect to Þórgunna as well? In order to answer this question, we must first go back to square one.

Hospitality and Identity Þórgunna had not always been a ghost. As we read in chapters 50 and 51 of Eyrbyggja saga, in the year 10007 a merchant ship coming from Dublin made

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landfall at Dǫgurðarnes; among the passengers was a woman from the Hebrides— our Þórgunna—who was carrying elegant and refined bed linen. The moment Þuríðr, húsfreyja of Fróðá, saw the bed linen, she yearned to get her hands on it: she found Þórgunna and, after Þórgunna refused to sell any of her beautiful possessions, Þuríðr invited the Hebridean woman to stay at her house, where Þórgunna would work to pay for her lodging. Later that summer, after a mysterious shower of blood rain—hardly a good omen in medieval times8—that hit Fróðá and no other place, Þórgunna fell gravely ill and, sure she would soon die, asked Þóroddr—Þuríðr’s husband— to burn her bedclothes after her death and to carry her body to Skálholt for burial (this site was to become the center of Icelandic Christianity.) Þóroddr was not able to keep his promise entirely, as his wife Þuríðr swiftly persuaded him that they should keep the refined bed linen for themselves. Still, he and some trusty men prepared themselves for the burial journey, and when at nightfall they ran into a storm, sought refuge at a farmstead just outside Skálholt. The farmer, however, went straight to bed, neither greeting his guests nor giving them anything to eat or drink. Then, in the middle of the night, the party was awakened by a noise as if someone were fumbling about in the darkness . . . and here we are back where we started. Bewildered and scared, they stood and stared in silence at the naked body of Þórgunna as she cooked the food (matr), entered the hall, and laid the table, on which she eventually set the fare. Although this scene may puzzle the modern reader, its meaning was immediately grasped by both the party and the farmer: the latter had violated the laws of hospitality,9 a dishonor that had been associated with beastliness and barbarity since very ancient times. Many centuries earlier, Homer had theoretically divided the world and its inhabitants into three tiers: not surprisingly, the Phaecians—described as pious and hospitable— inhabited the uppermost level, while the Cyclopes—cannibals and violators of hospitality10—were assigned the lowest tier.11 The farmer could hardly have read the Odyssey, but nevertheless he immediately reassured Þóroddr and his companions about their stay: they were given food, dry clothes, and everything else they needed. Only then did Þórgunna leave the hall to go back to where she had come from. They all sat at the table, blessed the food, and sprinkled the house with holy water, and the food did not do them any harm, though cooked by a draugr. The following day, Þórgunna’s body was buried in Skálholt.

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Þórgunna and Parallels in Medieval Literature To better understand the supposed singularity of Þórgunna’s apparition, her role will be now analyzed on the basis of the stereotypical qualities of draugar and of other medieval ghosts and “entities,” especially those involved in liminal meals and food rituals to answer the question12 whether the typology of these episodes served a merely narratological function or mirrored an actual belief system, and therefore a shared mental attitude towards liminal meals, the living, and the dead: after all, the human psyche itself is the abode of what we today call “paranormal,” and it would be imprudent simply to relegate “paranormal” scenes like this one to the domain of fiction.13 First and foremost, Þórgunna was a woman; more specifically, she was a Christian woman, and given the aim of this contribution, these two attributes are important. It would be impossible to discuss critically the medieval bias against women here,14 especially in light of the recent revaluations of the subject in posthumanities studies.15 After the introduction of Christianity, in the late Middle Ages women were often associated with negative notions and practices such as witchcraft by Christian churchmen: in 1486–87, when the first edition of the famous handbook for prosecuting witches known as Malleus maleficarum was published, women were considered to be more easily “tainted with the Heresy of sorceresses” than men,16 just because witchcraft was thought to be “governed by carnal lusting, which is insatiable in them.”17 In the particular case of Þórgunna, in the 1950s Einar Ólafur Sveinsson observed that there was likely a link between her and the women who used to appear in dreams during the Sturlung era (ca. 1200–62) and that were interpreted as ill omens.18 Curiously, just like our draugr, their appearance could also be accompanied by blood rain. There are, however, many facets to the aforementioned medieval antiwoman bias: among them, one may include the link between women and magic. In the medieval north, some forms of magic like seiðr19 were considered “stereotypically feminine.”20 Certain kinds of so-called “superstitious beliefs” could likewise be associated with women: in the 1230s—basically during the same years in which Eyrbyggja saga was being written down—the Bishop William of Paris dwelt with a superstitious cult that was apparently in vogue at the time and that attracted mainly women, namely the cult of Abundia.21 According to elder women, Abundia and her retinue of flying female spirits— the “nighttime ladies”—visited households and bestowed wealth and an abundance of food on them.22 To William, this seemed pretty logical. On the one hand, the nighttime ladies were evil just because they were feminine spirits. On the other hand, women were naturally predisposed to credulity.23 Traces of the cult of Abundia seem to date back to at least the Roman age, under different

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guises but with very similar characteristics: the cult was alternatively devoted to the princess Herodias, the goddess Diana,24 the mysterious Satia (often an alternative name for Abundia), or the witches Holda and Perchta.25 In his Corrector, Burchard of Worms (ca. 1020) mentioned the “sisters,” while in the allegorical French poem the Roman de la Rose (ca. 1270), Nature scolds women for having a propensity to believe they themselves are part of Abundia’s retinue and to wander with her during the night.26 Now, however incongruous the comparison between the many variations of Abundia and Þórgunna may appear, I believe that the role of the former can help us contextualize that of the latter. Indeed, the medieval nighttime ladies bestowed abundance on one condition: food for food.27 In the thirteenth century, the Franciscan Berthold of Ratisbon condemned a series of superstitious beliefs held by the Bavarians, among which was a belief in the nahtwaren (people who wander at night), the nahtvrouwen (the ladies of the night), and in all flying nocturnal spirits. According to Berthold, they all were demons. He also did not forget to add: “Nor should you prepare the table anymore for the blessed ladies.”28 As he remarked in another sermon, “The foolish peasant women indeed believe that the ladies of the night and night-walking spirits visit their homes and they set a table for them.”29 Do ut des, nothing for nothing. However, since well before the Middle Ages people had offered all sorts of foods to their gods or to whomever else they thought could bring them wealth and good luck.30 Among them were the three Roman Parcae (also known as Fatae and in Greece as Moirae) who were believed to control human destiny. These found their Nordic counterparts in the Norns or the Schicksalsfrauen (fate women). Unsurprisingly, in his penitential Burchard31 noted that “at certain times of the year”32 quaedam mulieres (again, credulity and superstition rhyme with woman) would set a table in their house with food, drink, and three knives in order to curry favor with the tres sorores.33 Going back to the time of the composition of Eyrbyggja saga, the Italian hagiographer Jacopo da Varagine (d. 1298) narrates that St. Germain of Auxerre (d. 448) saw some people setting the table again after dinner for, as they told him, the bonae mulieres who traveled by night; a few hours later, he himself saw a crowd of demons in human shape appearing to join the feast.34 Compared to the previous cases, the episode with Þórgunna already gains a significantly different meaning. Despite the cultural background of the anonymous writer, who was certainly a Christian, and despite Þórgunna’s gender, not only does she “bring abundance” (in her own small way, of course), but she does not ask for anything in return.35 Or does she? Technically speaking, the reason behind her apparition is twofold. On a microlevel, Þórgunna wants to make sure that her corpse-bearers’ journey is comfortable. On a macrolevel, she

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cares about the fulfillment of Þóroddr’s promise or, in other words, about her soul. It is not yet time to make an assessment of her perceived selfishness or selflessness, but what we know for sure is that Þórgunna is not thoroughly benevolent; in fact, a series of tragedies afflicted the estate at Fróðá after her death. If none of the adjectives listed above is appropriate, one that surely fits Þórgunna is persistent: indeed, she soon came back to lay claim to her beautiful bed linen, which she had not forgotten about in the slightest (chap. 53). This time, though, she did not manifest directly as herself, but indirectly in the form of a seal. The animal appeared and struggled up through the floor of Þóroddr’s living room, from where it glared up at Þórgunna’s precious bedclothes; only Kjartan, the son of Þóroddr, was able to chase it away.36 This might lead us to conclude that the figure of Þórgunna roughly matches that of the typical draugr after all.37 Even if she cannot be considered a brutal murderer, Þórgunna does bring death to Fróðá. Even though she is not a beastly man-eater, she haunts the estate where she had lived the last days of her life. But, then again, if one wants to analyze the function our draugr “personally” serves—that is, when she deals with food38—her characteristics are considerably less dreadful and draugr-esque:39 while cooking, she is no more dangerous than the average housewife,40 and she is no enemy of the living.41 Two observations paradoxically support this idea. For one, Icelandic ghosts are arguably different from their western European counterparts from the same period. Secondly, they are undoubtedly selfish and reluctant to give up their goods.42 However, this pattern does not seem to apply to the episode of Þórgunna’s dinner. The narrative suspense underlying her nighttime apparition is not related to her behavior: she calmly cooks and serves dinner to her corpse-bearers who, in turn, stand petrified before the naked specter. Her corporeality—with the consequent ability to prepare food for human beings—is far from Augustine’s idea of ghosts as “spiritual images.”43 Clearly, Þórgunna was not trying to poison Þóroddr and his companions. The sign of the cross they made over the food was an already well-established ritual in the Middle Ages, if Augustine himself condemned the “superstitious” practice of crossing sacrilegious food in the early fifth century.44 In the sixth century, Gregory of Tours told a curious story about two priests (an Arian and a Catholic) who held a “competition” to see who was faster at blessing (and then marking) the dishes they were being served, so as to prevent the other one from eating them.45 Evidently, crossing courses was a way to Christianize and purify them, which in the case of Þórgunna’s episode is particularly sensible, since the cook was from the world of the dead. The mouth was considered a gate in all respects, and who knows who or what may have passed through it, and for what purpose:

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Gregory the Great recounted that one day, in an Italian monastery, a nun went into the garden, plucked a lettuce leaf, and ate it, whereby a demon who was sitting on the plant entered her body, just because she had forgotten to bless it by means of the signum crucis.46 However, the importance of the gesture itself should not instill doubt about Þórgunna’s good intentions. To better understand the narratological facets of Þórgunna’s scene, it is fundamental to note that other ghosts or undead of medieval literature proved benevolent when food was their means of interaction with the living. Food and food-related rituals naturally lent themselves to putting the living and the dead into contact. An example is featured in the same Eyrbyggja saga (chap. 54), in which the death of Þóroddr and his companions at sea is described. Their corpses were not found, but at Yuletide, during their erfi (funeral banquet),47 they returned in the form of ghosts, went into the hall, and took a seat by the fire; they continued to reappear every evening until Yuletide was over. Of course, their apparition brought sickness and death, as happened with Þórgunna: the former especially characterizes them as bodies in decomposition, a typical characteristic of Scandinavian draugar and twelfth-century English revenants.48 However, as in Þórgunna’s case, they looked harmless, and at first people interpreted their presence as an auspicious portent instead of feeling scared. Christianity had not yet discarded the old beliefs, as the author himself remarks, and the fact that ghosts were coming to drink their own burial ale was considered a good omen. The “action” of sitting around the same table and sharing food still matched the positive connotation of the Latin term convivium (banquet), from cum + vivere, “to share life,” “to live together.” Interestingly, though, it is much easier to find occurrences of benevolent male—rather than female—ghosts in medieval literature, as we can see in a late-thirteenth/early fourteenth-century vernacular story that is featured in the Latin collection entitled Gesta Romanorum, the main purpose of which was probably to provide entertainment and moral guidelines.49 Tale 161 is set in an English forest where knights and huntsmen used to go hunting. This forest was inhabited by a smiling spirit.50 The spirit would appear from the woods and give the men a drinking horn filled with a mysterious but delicious nectar, along with a napkin to wipe their mouths, as soon as they felt thirsty. The entity did this “nec mercedem pro obsequi expectabat,” without expecting any reward: that was his job, the function in the world of the living that God had assigned him as penance for his sins. Like in Þórgunna’s scene, the interaction between the living and the dead—when taking the shape of an offering of food—is without cost and serves the purpose of honoring the laws of hospitality: the ghostly mountain dweller takes care of his guests like Þórgunna wanted the farmer to do, before personally making up for his lack of cordiality.51 But, even more importantly, a feeling of tension underlies both the stories. In Eyrbyggja

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saga, Þórgunna need not say a word: her corpse-bearers and their rude host sense that they should not meddle with her, simply doing as she suggests, and thereby bowing to an unknown, unknowable, and therefore frightening will. Behind his gracious manners, the ghostly butler of the Gesta Romanorum tale also requires obedience to an unspoken rule, which likewise pertains to hospitality: in fact, when one day an unusually unkind knight refused to give him back his drinking horn, a much lower law—that of men—punished him, and King Henry himself was informed about the crime. The main peculiarity of ghost tales in which the dead offer food to the living is probably the fact that the exchange, though spontaneous and unselfish, is often accompanied by a sense of anxiety: however enjoyable the situation may be, it is still a matter of gathering together members of different states of being. Conviviality cannot tear down the barriers dividing life from death. This is why one night in 1349 the inhabitants of Cyrenbergh (Lower Hesse) heard a horrific noise.52 In this story of a “remarkable event,” written by the German Dominican Henry of Erfurt (d. 1370) and included in a chronicle of his times, some of the townspeople insisted on staying at the same local inn where a light-hearted ghost named Reyneke and his ghostly cohorts were usually offered room and board. While clearly perturbed, the host let them stay. That night, however, a preternatural racket arose from the darkness and petrified the human guests, who were told by Reyneke that the commotion had been caused by their insistence on spending the night: humans should not meddle with ghosts, no matter if they look cheerful. It did not matter if, as Reyneke told them, he and his associates were Christians, and it did not matter if one day Reyneke himself prepared a delicious lunch of wheat bread, wine, beer, roast, and boiled meat for a human guest who dropped by the inn. Whether or not Henry of Erfurt’s intention was to follow the suggestion by Gervase of Tilbury (d. ca. 1228), according to whom mirabilia (tales of marvels) should serve the purpose of stimulating theological and philosophical speculation around the causes of similar encounters,53 the tale of Reyneke shows that a Christian ghost may have known politeness and good manners, but that did not make him/her any less of a ghost. In this sense, within the context of her apparition in the pantry, Þórgunna does not really recall the stereotype of the Icelandic draugr, nor that of the eastern European vampire.54 Rather, she seems to be part of a distinct category consisting of phantoms who want to establish a positive interaction with the living for different reasons. This is not to say that the author of Eyrbyggja saga was following a certain literary tradition while drafting chap. 51 of his text but, on the contrary, that the inveterate association of food with the concepts of sharing and communion may have led authors from different areas and with

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different literary aims to imagine that the encounter between the living and the dead could be “less spectral” and “more human” if food was their means of connection. In the fourteenth-century allegorical Pèlerinage de vie humaine, for instance, the French Cistercian Guillaume de Diguilleville tells of his dreamlike journey to Jerusalem, where he saw many ghosts waiting on living people during a banquet: unlike the unscrupulous dead of the famous legend The Three Living and the Three Dead, here the ghosts serve the living “doulcement et devotement.”55 This is not surprising. The human and supernatural worlds have long been linked through food in a two-way exchange. Among the numerous examples are the food miracles that medieval saints traditionally worked after their death,56 such as those performed by Þorlákr, the Icelandic bishop of Skálholt (d. 1193):57 providential catches of seals and fish, wondrous fermentations of ale, predictions concerning the weather, and so on. Tales of this kind had the precise intent of teaching the faithful that God was always ready to help them by means of his own helpers and to assist both his followers’ terrestrial bodies and their souls.58 We also have evidence that the living used to share food with their dead relatives, either by literally feeding them at their graves or by arranging funerary banquets. In the first case, archaeological findings have cast light on the Greek and Roman custom of providing tombs with “feeding tubes” so that food offerings could reach the dead. Food offerings were widespread in northern Europe as well. Pots of food and drink sometimes representing provisions for the journey of the dead to Valhǫll have often been found at pre-Christian Scandinavian burial sites.59 In the second case, and especially among the Romans, the funerary ritual may have included up to five banquets.60 Funerary banquets were common in medieval times, too: in Eyrbyggja saga we saw Þóroddr and his companions attending their erfi. Landnámabók, in turn, tells of the magnificent arval that was arranged for the noble Hjalti by his sons Þorvaldr and Þórðr, to which nearly 1,200 people were summoned.61 Moreover, in a famous passage of his Confessiones, St. Augustine mentions the traditional offerings of “pultes et panem et merum” (porridges, bread, and wine) to the churches built in memory of the saints (called refrigerium62), a custom that would later be forbidden by the Bishop of Milan Ambrose because they often took the shape of luxurious banquets rather than solemn rituals.63 Augustine’s mother, who used to bring canistra of food to celebrate the saints in Africa, was herself once reprimanded by the door-keeper of the cathedral of Milan.64 A halfway case is a well-known scene from Norse mythology—namely, that of Þórr’s dinner at Þjálfi’s farm.65 Snorri relates that on their way to Jötunheimr Þórr and Loki stopped by a farm to revive themselves with a good meal. That is,

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to make a meal of Þórr’s magical goats that he could resurrect as many times as he wanted.66 Despite being guests, then, the gods took care of supper, inviting the farmer and all his family to join them. However, Þjálfi broke one thigh bone to suck out the marrow, consequently making one of Þórr’s goats lame after its prodigious resurrection the following day. This episode brings us back to the seventh century, for as Maurizio Bertolotti has brilliantly shown,67 according to the later Historia Brittonum (ninth century) Germain of Auxerre worked the exact same wonder:68 One day, a humble servant of Benli, the iniquitous king of Britain, invited Germain and his attendants over for dinner to his house and, having no cattle except for one cow and a calf, he decided to kill the latter. Before eating, Germain told his tablemates not to break a bone of the calf. The next morning it was found alive, standing by its mother.69 The temporal, spatial, and contextual distance separating these legends from Þórgunna’s apparition in Eyrbyggja saga should not draw attention away from their internal, shared features. In Snorri’s Edda, the underlying tension is due to Þjálfi’s naivety (or simply to his greed?): he incenses Þórr, but the god decides to spare the lives of his hosts (again, meddling with nonhuman tablemates is not advisable, as a rule.) The miracle of St. Germain, in turn, proves that God’s powers—however unlimited—do not only consist of spectacular partings of the sea or wondrous celestial phenomena. They also serve the cause of the humble person. The rhetorical importance of such an idea emerges in medieval Icelandic hagiography as well: the motif of rewarding the poor for their hospitality70 is quite recurrent in Guðmundr Arason’s vitae, where the Virgin Mary is often seen acting as a “generous provider’’ (“Máría launi þér”71). In this sense, the powerful Þórr, the holy Germain, and the spectral Þórgunna are much closer to each other than one might initially suspect. To employ Homer’s taxonomy, the god, the saint, and the ghost are more human than a human like the farmer from Skálholt. As for the latter, his behavior makes him look—in his own small way—like the huge Cyclopes, a violator of hospitality.

Ghostly Housewife The end of the wonders of Fróðá marks the end of our story (chap. 55). The chieftain Snorri goði advised the community to resort to the traditional legal device known as dyradómr (door-doom): each draugr was summoned, given judgement, and eventually chased away forever. It is probably in this concluding section that the anonymous author shows how atypical his saga is compared to other Íslendingasǫgur.72 The hero Snorri goði does not employ brute force.73 He prefers

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drawing upon wisdom and law, which not even dreadful draugar can elude. The function of the hero has changed in accordance with the social and cultural framework of the author.74 As for Þórgunna, her part in this story ends as she had wished: her bedding was finally burned by Kjartan, and she could rest in peace. She did not even need to be judged by the court. But maybe it is time for us to evaluate her behavior in the court’s stead? Overall, Þórgunna’s character is contradictory, to say the least: she is, simultaneously, the cause of all calamities and the solution to marginal (but culturally significant) issues, a revenant and a helper, a threat and a relief. After all, it is fair to remark that her malevolent manifestations are triggered by Þuríðr’s greed. Her seemingly bipolar disposition may be explained by the observation that the very context surrounding Þórgunna’s supper has both literary and anthropological precedents.75 From this viewpoint, and rhetorically speaking, our draugr cannot act as a proper draugr while cooking food. She cannot be a cannibal, nor a vampire: she is honoring hospitality, as the Homeric Phaecians did. In Eyrbyggja saga and in many other medieval narratives, food-related practices tend to carry positive values like sharing, abundance, and reception, concepts that have a lot to do with humanity and little with monstrosity.76 Actually, our paranormal encounter is shocking because of its normality, not because of its paranormality. Besides, it is worth noting that the episode seems shocking to modern readers probably because of a basic methodological and cultural error: the supernatural and the paranormal likely did not stand outside human society in the past as one is tempted to think nowadays. Jacques Derrida observes that “the stranger . . . is not only someone to whom you say ‘come,’ but ‘enter,’ enter without waiting, make a pause in our home without waiting, hurry up and come in, ‘come inside,’ ‘come within me,’ . . . occupy me, take place in me. . ..”77 Host and guest establish an epidermic complicity, a reciprocal and genuinely human “transubstantiation.” This constitutes an almost a magical operation that is, at the same time, a symbol of humbleness and generosity. Interestingly, in the Gospel of Matthew the concept of hospitality is used to allegorize the Kingdom of Heaven: “Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in.”78

This scene highlights a very basic action that earns the highest of rewards. “I consider the Þórgunna story a myth,” social anthropologist Knut Odner stated in the early 1990s:79 the story is a metaphor with a “core meaning” that is “linked analogically to a human problem.”80 Actually, there is little doubt

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that the whole sequence of events concerning Þórgunna is based on a fundamental binary opposition as structural anthropologists would define it: that between the dead and the living. Nonetheless, the present contribution has tried to underline the fact that Þórgunna transcends this very opposition by acting as a mediator. Odner was probably right when arguing that Þórgunna can harmonize with this world as well as with the hereafter by virtue of her marginality,81 proposing the existence of an underlying layer of “coded messages” in LéviStraussean fashion.82 These arguments notwithstanding, I believe that food and eating also play a major role in bridging the opposition between life and death and that our story contains a more direct equation that is similarly relevant from an anthropological perspective: food = sharing = humanitas. When J. Alan Mitchell observed that “a dining table is a scene of bodily incorporation and physical absorption, where incommensurable things cross, catalyze, and consume one another in ways that are considered productive and sometimes perverse,”83 he was not thinking of liminal meals, but his assertion still works in our case. “Dining collects and connects multiple bodies,” he says,84 this being its primary social function. Food, I add, can also connect bodies from different worlds and strip them of their respective Otherness. There is one last thing to say about the protagonist of our story. Despite being a draugr, and however fictional her draugr-esque features might be, Þórgunna is also wonderfully alive. Eileen A. Joy notes that readers and listeners have the power of animating texts and their characters.85 Characters are “like symptoms, as well as transitive signifiers, of the human.”86 In fact, our draugr embodies a fundamental, positive quality of womanliness in medieval times: by taking care of hospitality, she signifies womanliness itself. Honoring guests was not a burden, but rather a privilege that was the reserve of queens and princesses in central and northern Europe,87 and of noble creatures such as the valkyries in Valhǫll. Unlike other female, nonhuman figures in medieval literature such as Abundia and the nighttime ladies, the tres sorores, or the lamias, Þórgunna’s gender is anything but a negative factor during her interaction with humans via food and cooking. No hostile bias affects her since, contrary to her aforementioned counterparts, that very interaction appears to be essentially disinterested and unselfish. In this, her connotation is no different from that of male, nonhuman (or more-than-human) characters such as the ghostly butler of the Gesta Romanorum, Reyneke, St. Germain, or even Þórr: conviviality and sharing transcend biologically dictated prejudices. Free giving—that is, giving without constraints—is a fundamental Christian attitude towards one’s “neighbor,” so much so that in this instance it has given an undead being her humanity back. In fact, in the same world where superstitious beliefs in female spirits were openly condemned, the body of a Hebridean

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woman who materialized in the shape of a wraith was buried at Skálholt, a mainstay of Christianity in Iceland. Despite the fact that the relationship between the gender and the narratological function of revenants/ghosts/undead needs to be further analysed, the present article has shown that positive interactions between the realms of the living and the dead often feature male rather than female protagonists. For this, and for many other reasons that I have briefly mentioned, chap. 51 of Eyrbyggja saga proves to be much more stratified than it might seem. Whether or not this brief analysis has been able to restore Þórgunna’s honor, it has nonetheless tried to emphasize her profoundly human— rather than spectral or bestial—features. It is not surprising that her humanity coincided with the most basic human needs and rights. Þórgunna and the author of her story, both Christians, could have heard about the first miracles of Christ according, respectively, to John and Mark: the turning of water into wine at Cana,88 and the healing of Simon’s mother-in-law89 so that she could serve them dinner. Such wonders, too, concern sharing, hospitality, eating together: they are, first and foremost, beautiful examples of Christ’s human nature, rather than of his “supernatural” character.

Notes 1 Jón Árnason, Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og æfintýri, 2 vols. (1862–1864; Leipzig: J. C. Hinrich), 227. 2 Ármann Jakobsson, “Vampires and Watchmen: Categorizing the Mediaeval Icelandic Undead,” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 110, no. 3 (2011): 282. 3 Ármann Jakobsson, “Vampires and Watchmen,” 282, 284. 4 Ármann Jakobsson, “The Taxonomy of the Non-Existent: Some Medieval Icelandic Concepts of the Paranormal,” Fabula 54, nos. 3–4 (2013): 207; Paul Schach and Lee M. Hollander, trans., Eyrbyggja saga (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1959), xx. 5 Here to be understood not only as phenomena which cannot be explained according to scientific laws (standard definition), but also as a “detachment from normality,” from values and needs which are typical of human life. 6 David Keyworth, Troublesome Corpses: Vampires & Revenants from Antiquity to the Present (Southend-on-Sea: Desert Island Books, 2007), 28, 34. 7 A particularly important year for Iceland, since in that year the Alþing officially formalized the conversion of the island to Christianity, as the author of the saga immediately reminds us. 8 John S. P. Tatlock, “Some Medieval Cases of Blood-Rain,” Classical Philology 9 (1914): 442–47; Paul E. Dutton, “Observations on Early Medieval Weather in General, Bloody Rain in Particular,” in The Long Morning of Medieval Europe: New Directions in Early Medieval Studies, ed. Jennifer R. Davis and Michael McCormick (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), 167–80. 9 See Matilda Tomaryn Bruckner, Narrative Convention in Twelfth-Century French Romance: The Convention of Hospitality, 1160–1200 (Lexington: French Forum, 1980) for an analysis of this motif in twelfth-century French romance. See also Peggy McCracken, “The Floral and the Human,” in

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Animal, Vegetable, Mineral: Ethics and Objects, ed. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen (Washington, DC: Oliphaunt Books, 2012), 65–90. 10 Note that Cyclopes share physical characteristics and other beastly features with Icelandic giants. See Ármann Jakobsson, “Identifying the Ogre: The Legendary Saga Giants,” in Fornaldarsagaerne: Myter og virkelighed, Studier i de oldislandske forn-aldarsögur Norðurlanda, ed. Agneta Ney, Ármann Jakobsson, and Annette Lassen (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2009), 181–200. 11 Hyun Jin Kim, “The Invention of the ‘Barbarian’ in Late Sixth-Century BC Ionia,” in Ancient Ethnography: New Approaches, ed. Eran Almagor and Joseph Skinner (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2013), 27. 12 I want to thank Ármann Jakobsson sincerely for his precious incentives with regard to these aspects. 13 Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You: Paranormal Activity in the Medieval North (punctum books, 2017), 21. 14 Susan M. Stuard, ed., Women in Medieval Society (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1976); Nel Noddings, Women and Evil (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), 43 ff.; Joan Y. Greg, Devils, Women, and Jews: Reflections of the Other in Medieval Sermon Stories (New York: State University Press, 1997), 83–168; Lisa M. Bitel, Women in Early Medieval Europe, 400–1100 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002); Jenny Jochens, Women in Old Norse Society (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995); Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir, Women in Old Norse Literature: Bodies, Worlds, and Power (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). 15 Cohen, Animal, Vegetable, Mineral; J. Allan Mitchell, Becoming Human: The Matter of the Medieval Child (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2014). 16 Henricus Institoris and Jacobus Sprenger, Malleus maleficarum, ed. and trans. Christopher R. Mackay, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 2, 122. 17 Henricus Institoris and Jacobus Sprenger, Malleus maleficarum, 2, 122. 18. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, The Age of the Sturlungs: Icelandic Civilization in the 13th Century (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1953), 101; Knut Odner, “Þórgunna’s Testament: A Myth for Moral Contemplation and Social Apathy,” in From Sagas to Society: Comparative Approaches to Early Iceland, ed. Gísli Pálsson (Enfield Lock: Hisarlik Press, 1992), 132. 19 Seiðr was taught to Óðinn by a female goddess, Freyja, whose people— the Vanir—were known for this skill. 20 Ármann Jakobsson, “Two Wise Women and Their Young Apprentice: A Miscarried Magic Class,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 122 (2007): 50–51; François-Xavier Dillmann, Les magiciens dans l’Islande ancienne: Études sur la représentation de la magie islandaise et de ses agents dans les sources littéraires norroises (Uppsala: Kungliga Gustav Adolfs Akademien för svensk folkkultur, 2006), 450; Andrea Maraschi, “Hunger Games: Supernatural Strategies Against Hunger in the Medieval North,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 133 (2018): 29–51; Andrea Maraschi, “Eaten Hearts and Supernatural Knowledge in Eiríks saga rauða,” Scandia: Journal of Medieval Norse Studies 1 (2018): 25–47. 21 Nancy Caciola, “Breath, Heart, Guts: The Body and Spirits in the Middle Ages,” in Demons, Spirits, Witches: Communicating with the Spirits, ed. Gábor Klaniczay and Éva Pócs, vol. 1 (Budapest: CEU Press, 2005), 21. 22 Not surprisingly, Abundia was frequently portrayed holding sheaves of wheat or corn (Jürg Meyer zur Capellen, The Roman Portraits, ca. 1508–1520, vol. 3 of Raphael: The Paintings [Landshut: Arcos Verlag, 2008], vol. 3, p. 264). 23 Caciola, “Breath, Heart, Guts,” 22; Nancy Caciola, Afterlives: The Return of the Dead in the Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2016), 161.

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24 “Diana is the Devil,” Grand Inquisitor of Spain Thomas de Torquemada would still claim at the end of the fifteenth century (Jeffrey Russell, Witchcraft in the Middle Ages [Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1972], 235, n.). 25 Carlo Ginzburg, I Benandanti: Stregoneria e culti agrari tra Cinquecento e Seicento (Torino: Einaudi, 1966); Alan E. Bernstein, “The Ghostly Troop and the Battle Over Death,” in Rethinking Ghosts in World Religions, ed. Mu-chou Poo (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 115–62. 26 George W. Dasent, Popular Tales from the Norse (New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1904), cxvi–cxxiii; Hans Peter Broede, The Malleus Maleficarum and the Construction of Witchcraft (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2003), 103. 27 Broede, The Malleus Maleficarum and the Construction of Witchcraft, 103; Claude Lecouteux, Phantom Armies of the Night: The Wild Hunt and the Ghostly Processions of the Undead (Rochester: Inner Traditions, 2011), 16. 28 Lecouteux, Phantom Armies of the Night, 14–15. 29 Lecouteux, Phantom Armies of the Night, 14–15. 30 Bernadette Filotas, Pagan Survivals, Superstitions and Popular Cultures in Early Medieval Pastoral Literature (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 2005); Jennifer W. Knust and Zsuzsanna Várhelyi, eds., Ancient Mediterranean Sacrifice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). 31 This same superstitious belief is mentioned in the Arundel Penitential (tenth to eleventh century): “Qui mensam praeparaverit in famulatu parcarum, II annos peniteat” (Hermann Joseph Schmitz, ed., Das Poenitentiale Arundel, in Die Bussbücher und die Bussdisciplin der Kirche, vol. 1 [Mainz: Verlag von Franz Kirchheim, 1883], 460). 32 Filotas, Pagan Survivals, Superstitions and Popular Cultures in Early Medieval Pastoral Literature, 77. Bernadette Filotas suggests this may be a reference to New Year’s Eve: however, this was a critical time of the year, and other “pagan” rituals involving food were also said to take place on that day. See Filotas, Pagan Survivals, Superstitions and Popular Cultures in Early Medieval Pastoral Literature, 164 ff. 33 Burchard of Worms, Decretorum libri viginti, vol. 140 of Patrologia Latina, ed. Jacques-Paul Migne (Paris: Garnier, 1880), 971. We do not actually know whether the common people were thinking about the Roman Parcae, though. 34 Jacobi a Voragine, Legenda aurea, vulgo Historia Lombardica dicta, ed. Theodor Graesse (Lipsiae: Impensis Librariae Arnoldianae, 1850), 449. As noted by Bernadette Filotas, this detail is not featured in St. Germain’s first Vita (fifth century). 35 Cf. McCracken, “The Floral and the Human,” 85. 36 Kirsi Kanerva, “The Role of the Dead in Medieval Iceland: A Case Study of Eyrbyggja saga,” Collegium Medievale 24 (2011): 23–49; Kjartan G. Ottóson, Fróðárundur í Eyrbyggju, Studia Islandica 42 (Reykjavík: Bóka-útgáfa menningarsjóðs, 1983); cf. Philippe Walter, “Thorgunna: The Selkie from Ireland,” Journal of World Mythology and Folklore: Festschrift in Honour of Claude Thomasset 7 (2014): 71–78. David Keyworth notes that this sort of topos may be linked with the fact that seals as sea-mammals symbolized the dual nature of undead corpses, who also were split between two worlds (Keyworth, Troublesome Corpses, 29). 37 Jean-Claude Schmitt, Ghosts in the Middle Ages: The Living and the Dead in Medieval Society, trans. Teresa Lavender Fagan (Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 1998), 12; Keyworth, Troublesome Corpses, 34–35. 38 Ármann Jakobsson, “The Fearless Vampire Killers: A Note about the Icelandic Draugr and Demonic Contamination in Grettis saga,” Folklore 120, no. 3 (2009): 308.

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39 Hilda R. Ellis Davidson, The Road to Hel: A Study of the Conception of the Dead in Old Norse Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1943); Nora K. Chadwick, “Norse Ghosts,” Folklore 57 (1946): 50–65 and 106–27; Gabriel Turville-Petre, The Origins of Icelandic Literature (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1953); Gabriel Turville-Petre, Myth and Religion of the North: The Religion of Ancient Scandinavia (London: Weidenfield and Nicolson, 1964); Kathryn Hume, “From Saga to Romance: The Use of Monsters in Old Norse Literature,” Studies in Philology 77, no. 1 (1980): 1–25. 40 In this case, Kathryn Hume’s model—according to which monstrous and supernatural beings serve the purpose of defining the role of the hero— does not apply (Hume, “From Saga to Romance”). 41 Andrew Joynes, Medieval Ghosts Stories: An Anthology of Miracles, Marvels and Prodigies (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2001), 121 ff. 42 Ármann Jakobsson, “Vampires and Watchmen,” 299–300. 43 Schmitt, Ghosts in the Middle Ages, 17–26. 44 Augustine of Hippo, “Sermones suppositii: De Diversis,” in Migne, Patrologia Latina, vol. 39, 2271, sermo cclxxviii. 45 Gregory of Tours, Liber in gloria Martyrum, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores rerum Merovingicarum, ed. Bruno Krusch, vol. 1 (Hannover: Hahn, 1885), 91. 46 Gregory the Great, Dialogues, trans. Odo John Zimmerman (New York: Fathers of the Church, 1959), 18; Andrea Maraschi, “Cibo e miracoli nella letteratura agiografica altomedievale (Italia centrale, VI–VII sec.),” Proposte e Ricerche 71 (2013): 157–58. 47 “En er þessi tíðendi spurðusk til Fróðár, buðu þau Kjartan og Þuríðr nábúum sínum þangað til erfis” (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds., Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr, Íslenzk fornrit 4 [Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935], 148). 48 Keyworth, Troublesome Corpses, 38. 49 Joynes, Medieval Ghosts Stories, 181. 50 Hermann Oesterley, ed., “De deo pro suis beneficiis semper regratiando,” in Gesta Romanorum (Berlin: Weidmann, 1872), 541–42; Christopher Stace, Gesta Romanorum: A New Translation (Manchester: Manchester University, 2016). 51 A typical pattern for medieval ghost stories (Schmitt, Ghosts in the Middle Ages, 1–4). 52 August Potthast, ed., Liber de Rebus Memorabilioribus sive Chronicon Henirici de Hervordia (Göttingen: Dieterich, 1859), 279. 53 Gervase of Tilbury, Otia Imperialia, ed. and trans. Sheila E. Banks and James W. Binns (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 558–59; Joynes, Medieval Ghosts Stories, 62; Paul Rousset, “Le sens du merveilleux à l’époque féodale,” Le moyen âge 62 (1956): 25–37; Lorrain Daston and Katharine Park, Wonders and the Order of Nature: 1150–1750 (New York: Zone, 1998), 25–26; Jacques Le Goff, Pour un autre Moyen Âge, Tel 181 (1978; Paris: Gallimard, 2004), 455–76. 54 Here I refer to the comparison suggested by Keyworth, Troublesome Corpses, 97; see also Ármann Jakobsson, “The Fearless Vampire Killers,” 308, 310; Jan L. Perkowski, The Darkling: A Treatise on Slavic Vampirism (Columbus, OH: Slavica Publishers, 1989), 54 55 Schmitt, Ghosts in the Middle Ages, 212–13; Ashby Kinch, Imago Mortis: Mediating Images of Death in Late Medieval Culture (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 109–44. 56 Andrea Maraschi, “I miracoli alimentari di San Colombano: L’originalità, la tradizione e la simbologia,” Studi medievali 52, no. 2 (2011): 517–75; Maraschi, “Cibo e miracoli nella letteratura agiografica altomedievale (Italia centrale, VI–VII sec.)”; Hippolyte Delehaye, The Legends

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of the Saints: An Introduction to Hagiography, trans. Virginia M. Crawford (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1962); Ásdís Egilsdóttir, “Introduction to Hungrvaka,” in Biskupa sögur, ed. Ásdís Egilsdóttir, vol. 2, Íslenzk fornrit 16 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag), 1–43; Kirsten Wolf, The Legends of the Saints in Old Norse-Icelandic Prose (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2013). 57 Ásdís Egilsdóttir, ed., Jarteinabók Þorláks biskups in forna, vol. 2 of Biskupa sögur, Íslenzk fornrit 16 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag), 103–40. 58 Maraschi, “I miracoli alimentari di San Colombano,” 520–21. 59 Anders Andrén, “Behind ‘Heathendom’: Archaeological Studies of Old Norse Religion,” Scottish Archaeological Journal 27, no. 2 (2005): 115; Fredrik Svanberg, Decolonizing the Viking Age: Death Rituals in South-East Scandinavia AD 800–1000, vol. 2, Acta Archaeologica Lundensia: Series in 4° 24 (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 2003); Else Roesdahl, “Pagan Beliefs, Christian Impact and Archaeology: A Danish View,” in Viking Revaluations: Viking Society Centenary Symposium 14–15 May 1992, ed. Anthony Faulkes and Richard Perkins (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1993), 128–36. 60 Dennis E. Smith, From Symposium to Eucharist: The Banquet in the Early Christian World (Minneapolis: Fortress Press), 41–42; J. Rasmus Brandt, Håkon Ingvaldsen, and Marina Prusac, Death and Changing Rituals: Function and Meaning in Ancient Funerary Practices (Oxford: Oxbow, 2015). 61 Einar Arnórsson, ed., Landnámabók Íslands (Reykjavík: Helgafell, 1948), 214. 62 Augustine of Hippo, “Confessiones,” in Migne, Patrologia Latina, 32:vi, 2, 719–20. 63 Augustine of Hippo, “Epistolae,” in Migne, Patrologia Latina, 33:xxii, 6, 92; Augustine of Hippo, “De civitate Dei,” in Migne, Patrologia Latina, 41:viii, 27, 255–56. 64 Augustine of Hippo, “Confessiones,” vi, 2, 179. 65 Snorri Sturluson, Edda: Prologue and Gylfaginning, 2nd ed., ed. Anthony Faulkes (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2005), 44. 66 A typical characteristic of many mythological, identity-marking animals. See, e.g., Massimo Montanari, Il cibo come cultura (Roma-Bari: Laterza, 2004), 13; Kristina Jennbert, Animals and Humans: Recurrent Symbiosis in Archaeology and Old Norse Religion (Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2011), 121 ff., and; Eve Jackson, Food and Transformation: Imagery and Symbolism of Eating (Toronto: Inner City Books, 1996), 49. 67 Maurizio Bertolotti, “Le ossa e la pelle dei buoi: Un mito popolare tra agiografia e stregoneria,” Quaderni storici 41 (1979): 470–99; Jean-Claude Schmitt, “Les Traditions folkloriques dans la culture médiévale,” Archives de sciences sociales des religions 52, no. 1 (1981): 5–20. 68 As Clive Tolley has shown, the motif of the resurrected goats is unique to Norse tradition, but it seems to have origins dating back to prehistoric hunting societies. See Clive Tolley, “On the Trail of Þórr’s Goats,” in Mythic Discourses: Studies in Uralic Traditions, ed. Anna-Leena Siikala Frog and Eila Stepanova (Helsinki: Finnish Literature Society, 2012), 82–119. 69 Theodor Mommsen, ed., Historia Brittonum cum additamentis Nennii, in Chronica minora: Saec. IV. V. VI. VII, vol. 3 of Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Auctores antiquissimi 13 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1898), 174. 70 On the motif of the offering of animal food to gods who visit humans in mythological tradition, see Cristiano Grottanelli, “Ospitare gli dei: Sacrificio e diluvio,” Studi storici 25 (1984): 847–57. The author also addresses the matter of the breaking of animal bones, noting that there seem to be no precedents in Biblical tradition and in the ancient Greek world. 71 Joanna A. Skórzewska, Constructing a Cult: The Life and Veneration of Guðmundr Arason (1161–1237) in the Icelandic Written Sources (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 144.

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72 Bernardine McCreesh, “Structural Patterns in the Eyrbyggja Saga and Other Sagas of the Conversion,” Medieval Scandinavia 11 (1978–1979): 271–80. 73 Valeria Micillo, “Aspetti del fantastico e del mostruoso nella saga,” AION 20, nos. 1–2 (2010): 88; Vésteinn Ólason, “Family Saga,” in A Companion to Old Norse-Icelandic Literature and Culture, ed. Rory McTurk, Blackwell Companions to Literature and Culture 31 (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, 2005), 108. 74 Joynes, Medieval Ghosts Stories, 156. 75 Jacques Derrida and Anne Dufourmantelle, Of Hospitality, trans. Rachel Bowlby (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000); Conrad Lashley, Paul Lynch, and Alison J. Morrison, eds., Hospitality: A Social Lens (Oxford: Elsevier, 2007). 76 For more on the rhetorical and practical significance of the table, see Mitchell, Becoming Human, 117–74. 77 Derrida and Dufourmantelle, Of Hospitality, 123; also cited in McCracken, “The Floral and the Human,” 79. 78 Matt. 25:34–35. 79 Odner, “Þórgunna’s Testament,” 125. 80 Odner, “Þórgunna’s Testament,” 134. 81 Odner, “Þórgunna’s Testament,” 135; with reference to Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger (London: Routledge / Kegan Paul, 1966). 82 Odner, “Þórgunna’s Testament,” 135. 83 Mitchell, Becoming Human, 142. 84 Mitchell, Becoming Human, 142. 85 Eileen A. Joy, “You Are Here: A Manifesto,” in Cohen, Animal, Vegetable, Mineral, 162–63. 86 Joy, “You Are Here,” 163–64. 87 Andrea Maraschi, Un banchetto per sposarsi: Matrimonio e rituali alimentari nell’Occidente altomedievale (Spoleto: Cisam, 2014), 118–21; see also Maurice Hamington, ed., Feminism and Hospitality: Gender in the Host/Guest Relationship (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2010). 88 John 2:1–11. 89 Mark 1:29–31.

Bibliography Biblical quotations are from the New International Version, NIV. Andrén, Anders. “Behind ‘Heathendom’: Archaeological Studies of Old Norse Religion.” Scottish Archaeological Journal 27, no. 2 (2005): 105–38. Augustine of Hippo. “Confessiones.” In Migne, Patrologia Latina, vol. 32. Augustine of Hippo. “De civitate Dei.” In Migne, Patrologia Latina, vol. 41. Augustine of Hippo. “Epistolae.” In Migne, Patrologia Latina, vol. 33. Augustine of Hippo. “Sermones suppositii: De Diversis.” In Migne, Patrologia Latina, vol. 39. Ármann Jakobsson. “Identifying the Ogre: The Legendary Saga Giants.” In Fornaldarsagaerne: Myter og virkelighed, Studier i de oldislandske forn-aldarsögur Norðurlanda, edited by Agneta Ney, Ármann Jakobsson, and Annette Lassen, 181–200. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2009.

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Ármann Jakobsson. “The Fearless Vampire Killers: A Note about the Icelandic Draugr and Demonic Contamination in Grettis saga.” Folklore 120, no. 3 (2009): 307–16. Ármann Jakobsson. “The Taxonomy of the Non-Existent: Some Medieval Icelandic Concepts of the Paranormal.” Fabula 54, nos. 3–4 (2013): 199–213. Ármann Jakobsson. The Troll Inside You: Paranormal Activity in the Medieval North. punctum books, 2017. Ármann Jakobsson. “Two Wise Women and Their Young Apprentice: A Miscarried Magic Class.” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 122 (2007): 43–57. Ármann Jakobsson. “Vampires and Watchmen: Categorizing the Mediaeval Icelandic Undead.” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 110, no. 3 (2011): 281–300. Ásdís Egilsdóttir, ed. Biskupa sögur. Vol. 2. Íslenzk fornrit 16. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2002. Ásdís Egilsdóttir. “Introduction to Hungrvaka.” In Biskupa sögur, 2:1–43. Ásdís Egilsdóttir, ed. Jarteinabók Þorláks biskups in forna. Vol. 2 of Biskupa sögur, 103–40. Íslenzk fornrit 16. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag. Bernstein, Alan E. “The Ghostly Troop and the Battle Over Death.” In Rethinking Ghosts in World Religions, edited by Mu-chou Poo, 115–62. Leiden: Brill, 2009. Bertolotti, Maurizio. “Le ossa e la pelle dei buoi: Un mito popolare tra agiografia e stregoneria.” Quaderni storici 41 (1979): 470–99. Bitel, Lisa M. Women in Early Medieval Europe, 400–1100. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Brandt, J. Rasmus, Håkon Ingvaldsen, and Marina Prusac. Death and Changing Rituals: Function and Meaning in Ancient Funerary Practices. Oxford: Oxbow, 2015. Broede, Hans Peter. The Malleus Maleficarum and the Construction of Witchcraft. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2003. Bruckner, Matilda Tomaryn. Narrative Convention in Twelfth-Century French Romance: The Convention of Hospitality, 1160–1200. Lexington: French Forum, 1980. Burchard of Worms. Decretorum libri viginti. Vol. 140 of Patrologia Latina, edited by JacquesPaul Migne, 537–1058. Paris: Garnier, 1880. Caciola, Nancy. Afterlives: The Return of the Dead in the Middle Ages. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2016. Caciola, Nancy. “Breath, Heart, Guts: The Body and Spirits in the Middle Ages.” In Demons, Spirits, Witches: Communicating with the Spirits, edited by Gábor Klaniczay and Éva Pócs, 1:21–39. Budapest: CEU Press, 2005. Chadwick, Nora K. “Norse Ghosts.” Folklore 57 (1946): 50–65 and 106–27. Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome, ed. Animal, Vegetable, Mineral: Ethics and Objects. Washington, DC: Oliphaunt Books, 2012. Dasent, George W. Popular Tales from the Norse. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1904. Daston, Lorrain, and Katharine Park. Wonders and the Order of Nature: 1150–1750. New York: Zone, 1998. Davidson, Hilda R. Ellis. The Road to Hel: A Study of the Conception of the Dead in Old Norse Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1943. Delehaye, Hippolyte. The Legends of the Saints: An Introduction to Hagiography. Translated by Virginia M. Crawford. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1962. Derrida, Jacques, and Anne Dufourmantelle. Of Hospitality. Translated by Rachel Bowlby. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000.

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Dillmann, François-Xavier. Les magiciens dans l’Islande ancienne: Études sur la représentation de la magie islandaise et de ses agents dans les sources littéraires norroises. Uppsala: Kungliga Gustav Adolfs Akademien för svensk folkkultur, 2006. Douglas, Mary. Purity and Danger. London: Routledge / Kegan Paul, 1966. Dutton, Paul E. “Observations on Early Medieval Weather in General, Bloody Rain in Particular.” In The Long Morning of Medieval Europe: New Directions in Early Medieval Studies, edited by Jennifer R. Davis and Michael McCormick, 167–80. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008. Einar Arnórsson, ed. Landnámabók Íslands. Reykjavík: Helgafell, 1948. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson. The Age of the Sturlungs: Icelandic Civilization in the 13th Century. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1953. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds. Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr. Íslenzk fornrit 4. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935. Filotas, Bernadette. Pagan Survivals, Superstitions and Popular Cultures in Early Medieval Pastoral Literature. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 2005. Gervase of Tilbury. Otia Imperialia. Edited and translated by Sheila E. Banks and James W. Binns. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002. Ginzburg, Carlo. I Benandanti: Stregoneria e culti agrari tra Cinquecento e Seicento. Torino: Einaudi, 1966. Greg, Joan Y. Devils, Women, and Jews: Reflections of the Other in Medieval Sermon Stories. New York: State University Press, 1997. Gregory of Tours. Liber in gloria Martyrum. In Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores rerum Merovingicarum, edited by Bruno Krusch, vol. 1. Hannover: Hahn, 1885. Gregory the Great. Dialogues. Translated by Odo John Zimmerman. New York: Fathers of the Church, 1959. Grottanelli, Cristiano. “Ospitare gli dei: Sacrificio e diluvio.” Studi storici 25 (1984): 847–57. Hamington, Maurice, ed. Feminism and Hospitality: Gender in the Host/Guest Relationship. Lanham: Lexington Books, 2010. Henricus Institoris and Jacobus Sprenger. Malleus maleficarum. Edited and translated by Christopher R. Mackay. 2 vols. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Hume, Kathryn. “From Saga to Romance: The Use of Monsters in Old Norse Literature.” Studies in Philology 77, no. 1 (1980): 1–25. Jackson, Eve. Food and Transformation: Imagery and Symbolism of Eating. Toronto: Inner City Books, 1996. Jacobi a Voragine. Legenda aurea, vulgo Historia Lombardica dicta. Edited by Theodor Graesse. Lipsiae: Impensis Librariae Arnoldianae, 1850. Jennbert, Kristina. Animals and Humans: Recurrent Symbiosis in Archaeology and Old Norse Religion. Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2011. Jochens, Jenny. Women in Old Norse Society. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995. Joy, Eileen A. “You Are Here: A Manifesto.” In Cohen, Animal, Vegetable, Mineral, 153–72. Joynes, Andrew. Medieval Ghosts Stories: An Anthology of Miracles, Marvels and Prodigies. Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2001. Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir. Women in Old Norse Literature: Bodies, Worlds, and Power. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Jón Árnason. Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og æfintýri. 2 vols. 1862–1864. Leipzig: JC. Hinrich.

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Kanerva, Kirsi. “The Role of the Dead in Medieval Iceland: A Case Study of Eyrbyggja saga.” Collegium Medievale 24 (2011): 23–49. Keyworth, David. Troublesome Corpses: Vampires & Revenants from Antiquity to the Present. Southend-on-Sea: Desert Island Books, 2007. Kim, Hyun Jin. “The Invention of the ‘Barbarian’ in Late Sixth-Century BC Ionia.” In Ancient Ethnography: New Approaches, edited by Eran Almagor and Joseph Skinner, 25–48. London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2013. Kinch, Ashby. Imago Mortis: Mediating Images of Death in Late Medieval Culture. Leiden: Brill, 2013. Kjartan G. Ottóson. Fróðárundur í Eyrbyggju. Studia Islandica 42. Reykjavík: Bókaútgáfa menningarsjóðs, 1983. Knust, Jennifer W., and Zsuzsanna Várhelyi, eds. Ancient Mediterranean Sacrifice. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. Lashley, Conrad, Paul Lynch, and Alison J. Morrison, eds. Hospitality: A Social Lens. Oxford: Elsevier, 2007. Le Goff, Jacques. Pour un autre Moyen Âge. Tel 181. 1978. Paris: Gallimard, 2004. Lecouteux, Claude. Phantom Armies of the Night: The Wild Hunt and the Ghostly Processions of the Undead. Rochester: Inner Traditions, 2011. Maraschi, Andrea. “Cibo e miracoli nella letteratura agiografica altomedievale (Italia centrale, VI–VII sec.)” Proposte e Ricerche 71 (2013): 145–67. Maraschi, Andrea. “Eaten Hearts and Supernatural Knowledge in Eiríks saga rauða.” Scandia: Journal of Medieval Norse Studies 1 (2018): 25–47. Maraschi, Andrea. “Hunger Games: Supernatural Strategies Against Hunger in the Medieval North.” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 133 (2018): 29–51. Maraschi, Andrea. “I miracoli alimentari di San Colombano: L’originalità, la tradizione e la simbologia.” Studi medievali 52, no. 2 (2011): 517–75. Maraschi, Andrea. Un banchetto per sposarsi: Matrimonio e rituali alimentari nell’Occidente altomedievale. Spoleto: Cisam, 2014. McCracken, Peggy. “The Floral and the Human.” In Cohen, Animal, Vegetable, Mineral, 65–90. McCreesh, Bernardine. “Structural Patterns in the Eyrbyggja Saga and Other Sagas of the Conversion.” Medieval Scandinavia 11 (1978–1979): 271–80. Meyer zur Capellen, Jürg. The Roman Portraits, ca. 1508–1520. Vol. 3 of Raphael: The Paintings. Landshut: Arcos Verlag, 2008. Micillo, Valeria. “Aspetti del fantastico e del mostruoso nella saga.” AION 20, nos. 1–2 (2010): 71–94. Migne, Jacques-Paul, ed. Patrologia Latina. 217 vols. Paris: Garnier, 1844–1855. Mitchell, J. Allan. Becoming Human: The Matter of the Medieval Child. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2014. Mommsen, Theodor, ed. Historia Brittonum cum additamentis Nennii. In Chronica minora: Saec. IV. V. VI. VII, vol. 3 of Monumenta Germaniae Historica, 147–93. Auctores antiquissimi 13. Berlin: Weidmann, 1898. Montanari, Massimo. Il cibo come cultura. Roma-Bari: Laterza, 2004. Noddings, Nel. Women and Evil. Berkeley: University of California Press,1989. Odner, Knut. “Þórgunna’s Testament: A Myth for Moral Contemplation and Social Apathy.” In From Sagas to Society: Comparative Approaches to Early Iceland, edited by Gísli Pálsson, 125–46. Enfield Lock: Hisarlik Press., 1992

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Oesterley, Hermann, ed. “De deo pro suis beneficiis semper regratiando.” In Gesta Romanorum, 161. Berlin: Weidmann, 1872. Perkowski, Jan L. The Darkling: A Treatise on Slavic Vampirism. Columbus, OH: Slavica Publishers, 1989. Potthast, August, ed. Liber de Rebus Memorabilioribus sive Chronicon Henirici de Hervordia. Göttingen: Dieterich, 1859. Roesdahl, Else. “Pagan Beliefs, Christian Impact and Archaeology: A Danish View.” In Viking Revaluations: Viking Society Centenary Symposium 14–15 May 1992, edited by Anthony Faulkes and Richard Perkins, 128–36. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1993. Rousset, Paul. “Le sens du merveilleux à l’époque féodale.” Le moyen âge 62 (1956): 25–37. Russell, Jeffrey. Witchcraft in the Middle Ages. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1972. Schach, Paul, and Lee M. Hollander, trans. Eyrbyggja saga. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1959. Schmitt, Jean-Claude. Ghosts in the Middle Ages: The Living and the Dead in Medieval Society. Translated by Teresa Lavender Fagan. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 1998. Schmitt, Jean-Claude. “Les Traditions folkloriques dans la culture médiévale.” Archives de sciences sociales des religions 52, no. 1 (1981): 5–20. Schmitz, Hermann Joseph, ed. Das Poenitentiale Arundel. In Die Bussbücher und die Bussdisciplin der Kirche, chap. 4, 1: 432–65. Mainz: Verlag von Franz Kirchheim, 1883. Skórzewska, Joanna A. Constructing a Cult: The Life and Veneration of Guðmundr Arason (1161–1237) in the Icelandic Written Sources. Leiden: Brill, 2011. Smith, Dennis E. From Symposium to Eucharist: The Banquet in the Early Christian World. Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Snorri Sturluson. Edda: Prologue and Gylfaginning. 2nd ed. Edited by Anthony Faulkes. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2005. Stace, Christopher. Gesta Romanorum: A New Translation. Manchester: Manchester University, 2016. Stuard, Susan M., ed. Women in Medieval Society. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1976. Svanberg, Fredrik. Decolonizing the Viking Age: Death Rituals in South-East Scandinavia AD 800–1000. Vol. 2. Acta Archaeologica Lundensia: Series in 4° 24. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 2003. Tatlock, John S. P. “Some Medieval Cases of Blood-Rain.” Classical Philology 9 (1914): 442–47. Tolley, Clive. “On the Trail of Þórr’s Goats.” In Mythic Discourses: Studies in Uralic Traditions, edited by Anna-Leena Siikala Frog and Eila Stepanova, 82–119. Helsinki: Finnish Literature Society, 2012. Turville-Petre, Gabriel. Myth and Religion of the North: The Religion of Ancient Scandinavia. London: Weidenfield and Nicolson, 1964. Turville-Petre, Gabriel. The Origins of Icelandic Literature. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1953. Vésteinn Ólason. “Family Saga.” In A Companion to Old Norse-Icelandic Literature and Culture, edited by Rory McTurk, 101–18. Blackwell Companions to Literature and Culture 31. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, 2005. Walter, Philippe. “Thorgunna: The Selkie from Ireland.” Journal of World Mythology and Folklore: Festschrift in Honour of Claude Thomasset 7 (2014): 71–78. Wolf, Kirsten. The Legends of the Saints in Old Norse-Icelandic Prose. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2013.

Marion Poilvez

A Troll Did It?: Trauma as a Paranormal State in the Íslendingasögur Abstract: How does trauma transpire in a text? In the Íslendingasögur, paranormal activities and traumatic experiences seem to share an uncanny resemblance. Both are incomprehensible, disruptive, repetitive, relentless, reluctant, and contagious. Their similarity designates the paranormal as a narrative mode for traumatic experiences. The Sagas of Early Icelanders have long been considered realistic, objective literature. In style, they contrast with their contemporary continental counterparts that explore, in verses and using numerous adjectives, the ins and outs of the human emotional spectrum. Thousands of vernacular verses on love, jealousy, grief, martyrdom, epic achievements, and moral dilemmas have made Iceland’s laconic, prosimetrical literature about sheep, leadership, legal procedures, feuds, and the occasional troll appear quite insensitive. In such narratives, emotional statements seem quite expendable. It is no coincidence that the latest surveys in The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas—entitled “Style,” “Emotions,” and “Paranormal,” respectively—each starts their overview by raising this very issue posed by the apparent realism and objectivity of the saga style, most particularly in the Íslendingasögur.1 The three entries point out the unease with which scholars have traditionally approached the sagas as literature. They also agree that the issue has more to do with our own rationality (meaning our contemporary expectations or the comparisons we draw to other medieval texts) than with the sagas themselves. All advocate approaching the sagas on their own terms. As a result, their common concerns raise legitimate questions about the connection among style, emotions, and the paranormal in the sagas. Following their consensus, the present inquiry aims to articulate paranormal activities by examining their relationship to our most difficult emotions: traumatic experiences. In sagas, trauma is regularly mentioned in connection to monsters, yet its paranormal potential is still yet to be fully developed. In his most recent publication on trolls, Ármann Jakobsson states: “The paranormal is primarily located in the human psyche. Thus, rather than venturing beyond the human mind, a more insightful exploration of the paranormal might begin by rather venturing towards and even into it.”2 The violent background behind the rise of saga-writing allows us to question whether the sagas are a traumatic literature, a theme that is https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-006

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gaining momentum within the study of medieval Icelandic literature.3 Indeed, many paranormal encounters are first and foremost violent encounters. Keeping in mind the warnings on applying western contemporary conceptions to premodern mentalities,4 I will examine trauma through how it arises within the texts themselves, aiming to shed light on traumatic memory and its transmission in the Íslendingasögur, as recent studies confirm the potential of such interaction-based approaches where the paranormal is concerned.5

Disruption from Within The saga-style rarely provides open statements on emotions and thoughts, instead only hinting at them through behaviors and actions.6 This is also a recurrent aspect of paranormal activities described in the sagas: they are difficult to define in themselves, not often commented on, and manifest mostly through disruptive actions.7 Similarly, trauma has no firm definition,8 and its history as a concept started with the observation of disruptive behaviors and other intrusive phenomena in war veterans.9 Therefore, Freud’s first insights on trauma started with the consequences of violent encounters on humans, and these are echoed quite eerily in some paranormal scenes from the sagas. Egils saga, for instance, gives a description of the effects of shape-shifting (also equated to being a berserker), thereby confirming the unstable naming of paranormal beings/states.10 In chapter 27, the saga explains that: Svá er sagt, at þeim mǫnnum værit farit, er hamrammir eru, eða þeim, er berserksgangr var á, at meðan þat var framit, þá váru þeir svá sterkir, at ekki helzk við þeim, en fyrst, er af var gengit, þá váru þeir ómáttkari en at vanða. Kveld-Úlfr var ok svá, at þá er af honum gekk hamremmin, þá kenndi mœði af sókn þeiri, er hann hafði veitt, ok var hann þá af ǫllu saman ómáttugr, svá at hann lagðisk í rekkju.11

It is interesting to note that Kveld-Úlfr’s paranormal state manifests only temporarily. Similarly, combat trauma can leave soldiers with a temporary state of fatigue.12 Indeed, previous to this description, the saga lingered on a graphic description of a violent fight in which Kveld-Úlfr engaged. As he became frenzied (hamaðisk hann), “reiddi hann upp bryntrǫllit ok høggr til Hallvarðs í gegnum hjálminn ok hǫfuðit, ok sǫkk allt at skapti; hnykkði hann þá svá hart at sér, at hann brá Hallvarði á lopt ok sløngði honum útbyrðis.”13 During the attack, he used a battle-axe named bryntrǫll, a demonstration of yet another interesting paranormal association involving violence.14 In comparison, Skalla-Grímr, his

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son, is said to only have swept the prow clean and killed Sigtryggr, and no account is given of his condition afterward. Later on, Skalla-Grímr displays a similar disposition to shape-shifting. Yet, this time what is supposedly a battle-related fit erupts in a familial setting at Borg, his farmstead, during a game with two twelve-year-olds, one of whom was his own son Egill. Those surrounding Skalla-Grímr face dramatic consequences: Þat var eitt sinn um vetrinn, er á leið, at knattleikr var at Borg suðr í Sandvík; þá váru þeir Þórðr í móti Skalla-Grími í leiknum, ok mœddisk hann fyrir þeim, ok gekk þeim léttara. En um kveldit eptir sólarfall, þá tók þeim Agli verr at ganga; gerðisk Grímr þá svá sterkr, at hann greip Þórð upp ok keyrði niðr svá hart, at hann lamðisk allr, ok fekk hann þegar bana; síðan greip hann til Egils.15 Luckily, Egill’s foster-mother Þorgerðr brák intervenes, pointing out to Skalla-Grímr: “Hamask þú nú, Skalla-Grímr, at syni þínum.”16 Skalla-Grímr will eventually kill her, and Egill will retaliate for the murder of his friend and foster-mother by killing Skalla-Grímr’s favorite farmhand. Skalla-Grímr was about to kill his own son over a ball game. What could earlier be considered combat trauma in Kveld-Úlfr now reaches a new level and becomes akin to post-traumatic stress disorder17 as the battle-frenzy explodes in an unexpected, familial—even playful—setting. Skalla-Grímr is unable to control the battle-fits that pervade his daily life. Is this because he can trace his lineage to the shape-shifter Kveld-Úlfr? One could argue that this paranormal condition is not just transmitted by blood and lineage, but also through what often comes with it—namely, repeated exposure. Adding to the debate on nature vs. culture and social monstrosity developed by Rebecca Merkelbach,18 one could argue that the sagas show that violence can be transmitted, that violence is contagious, infectious, and beyond filial transmission, which marks yet another similarity with paranormal activities.19 Victims of violence are likely to perform violence themselves and therefore to perpetuate a vicious circle of intergenerational trauma.20 In fact, Egill himself is described as big as a troll,21 therefore becoming associated with troll imagery,22 which may be a consequence of his previous exposure to familial violence. Egils saga has been proven to be a gold mine for the study of emotions,23 and psychological readings of the saga abound,24 especially regarding the themes of loss, grief, and old age.25 Egill’s (paranormal) exposure to violence adds another layer of complexity to the emotions conveyed in his saga. Another saga rich in complex emotions and disruptive, uncontrollable behaviors is Grettis saga, in which Grettir’s likeness to a troll echoes Egill’s. While journeying in Norway, Grettir dramatically causes the accident that will make him an outlaw upon his return to Iceland. Grettir’s crew is trapped by bad weather and frost. In the distance, they see the light of a fire, and Grettir reluctantly attempts a

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vigorous swim to retrieve fire for his companions: “Grettir ræðr nú inn í húsit ok vissi eigi, hverir fyrir váru. Kuflinn var skýldr allr, þegar hann kom á land, ok var hann furðu mikill tilsýndar, sem troll væri.”26 Grettir’s trollish features erupt against his will, much like the uncontrollable symptoms of trauma. The reference to trolls also echoes his first murderous deed when, still as a child (like Egill), he kills Skeggi over a bag of food.27 When asked who performed the deed, Grettir answers with a skaldic poem: “Hygg ek, at hljóp til Skeggja / hamartroll með fǫr rammri.”28 His audience understands that an actual troll did it, while Grettir in fact designates his axe (hamartroll) as the responsible party in a metonymical move. Once again, the weapon is a tool of violence semantically associated with paranormal activities, and it could be used, as in this instance, in a transfer of responsibility.29 Grettir sterki, the famous outlaw, has been the subject of many investigations that have examined his monstrous tendencies and involvement with various beings inhabiting Iceland’s landscape (such as Þórir the half-troll). Grettir’s outlaw status makes him a disruptive agent par excellence, and his disappearance from the public scene makes him an easy vessel for supernatural elements.30 However, the impact of the abuse during his childhood has also been stressed as a starting point in his progression towards becoming a social monster.31 Here again, violence and the paranormal are knitted together in a single character through their common disruptive and transgressive features. The same traumatic/paranormal features can be observed in murderers, for instance.32 Therefore, long before trauma was scientifically assessed, sagas described strikingly accurate traumatic responses in individuals and linked them with paranormal features. However, these keen observations did not always directly involve paranormal activities or behaviors, such as in the very disturbing account of physical and psychological torture in Svarfdæla saga. Yngvildr sees her own children being beheaded in front of her. Their murderer, Karl, wipes their blood on her shirt.33 The saga follows years of torture during which Karl on several occasions sold Yngvildr abroad as a slave, waiting for her to break. She does crack eventually and is then brought back to her kinsmen. However, the saga concludes that she may have committed suicide, a comparatively rare event in the Sagas of Early Icelanders.34 It is said that “ok kunnu menn þat eigi at segja, hvárt hon hefir gipt verit, en sumir segja, at hon hafi tortímt sér af óyndi.”35 Her story is striking for its likeness to the description of a PTSD patient who only commits suicide once they have reached safety, proving again the devastating effects of trauma.36 However, there is no direct involvement of the paranormal here. The whole episode seems at first glance to be a sharp psychological analysis by the sagas. Still, some of the events that are happen in parallel to those outlined above have a paranormal link; for instance, the

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violent revenant Klaufi is still haunting his kinsmen before, and after, the episode. Indeed, the effects of a traumatic event in literature may be dispersed and manifested in many forms, and they may not always be associated in obvious ways to the traumatic event itself.37 This assertion allows us to take a closer look at revenant activities and traumatic experiences.

Relentless Hauntings Beyond the paranormal/traumatic behaviors described with respect to individuals, sagas also mention paranormal activities in the shape of invasions from the outside.38 Hauntings are a recurrent motif in the supposedly realistic Íslendingasögur genre. A seal, a revenant, or an unidentified phenomenon/creature can invade the farmstead, with some returning continually and claiming more lives until a solution (or a savior) is found. Much like trauma fractures the experience of time and space,39 revenants’ very existence breaks not only the laws of nature, but also social and territorial laws.40 Transgression and trespassing are at the core of revenants’ doings in the sagas. Once again, the narratives are focused on what revenants do—that is, what damage they cause to society—rather than what they are. In the case of the individual undead, Merkelbach has analysed how their antisocial disposition as living men is connected to their disruptions as undead.41 The wrong they do to society is monstrously increased once they come back to haunt the living. We could add that their marginal and antisocial features also involve violence. Vikings, berkerkir, and shape-shifters announce, by their very characterization, violent and potentially traumatic events to come, such as attacks on farmsteads, random killings, duels, kidnapping, and rape.42 Branding characters as such before they become revenants may make a point about violence, too. No longer bound by natural laws or social coercion, their violent dispositions come unhinged, and their potential for violence becomes apparent, for they can no longer be controlled by regular means such as laws or peer pressure. The fact that characters’ antisocial features are transmitted and enhanced in their undead forms feels uncannily like the workings of violence and trauma. Violence generates violence and can be transmitted. In that sense, victims of trauma are more likely to reproduce and display violent behavior if not given help to overcome their past.43 This gets us closer to understanding another aspect of hauntings: their contagious force, this time outside the family. Along with paranormal activities/transformations, violence is also transmitted to the next victim, and the next, and so forth. The violence perpetrated by revenants

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also has the power to break the boundaries between life and death through traumatic memories. Trauma lies in the relentless hauntings of the present, not in the events of the past,44 and this is where violent men turned into revenants take their strength. Again, paranormal transmissions and the work of trauma seem to follow the same strategy, echoing Jǫkull Barðarson’s warning to Grettir before the latter meets with Glámr: “En illt mun af illum hljóta—þar sem Glámr er. . ..”45 Moreover, paranormal attacks are not just singular violent events. They are repeated and relentless. These relentless hauntings are put in perspective through comparison with a tragicomic episode in Grettis saga that echoes both the infliction of trauma and of the paranormal. Years after his fight with the revenant Glámr, Grettir finds what appears to be a paradise-like shelter, a valley in a hidden glacier.46 There, he lives in peace with paranormal creatures— namely, with Þórir, a blendingr (meaning half-troll, half-human).47 As an outlaw, Grettir’s survival depends upon constant worry about food, shelter, and safety. In the paranormal valley Þórisdalr, all his needs are satisfied: he has food, shelter, safety, and even entertaining company thanks to Þórir’s daughters. Yet, his ideal paradise is also haunted: Half vætt mǫrs var í dilkinum, en hann var þó ǫllu betri. En er Mókolla missti dilks síns, fór hon upp á skála Grettis hverja nótt ok jarmaði, svá at hann mátti enga nótt sofa; þess iðraðisk hann mest, er hann hafði dilkinn skorit, fyrir ónaðum hennar.48

Mókolla stands on the roof in a comic reenactment of Glámr’s haunting, much like revenants and other paranormal beings do when they haunt a farm and ride (ríða) the roof. Through a tragicomic analogy involving a sheep, the story unveils the pain and distress connected to haunting activities. Grettir’s emotional response is difficult to understand, considering his portrayal and the heroic deeds he accomplished throughout the saga. Yet, change in one’s relationship to the world and of one’s perception is also the result of traumatic experience.49 A sheep’s anger is disproportionally felt by Grettir because of his traumatic experiences. Soon after, the prosperous valley is described as gloomy, and Grettir, against his best chances at survival, will leave it.50 Relentlessness is also embodied by the curse Glámr places on Grettir, shadowing Grettir’s every move since their meeting. On top of becoming an outlaw, Grettir’s legal sentence is doubled by this curse, which manifests as an everlasting presence in front of his eyes. As Glámr says: “Þá legg ek þat á við þik, at þessi augu sé þér jafnan fyrir sjónum, sem ek ver eptir, ok mun þér þá erfitt þykkja einum at vera, ok þat mun þér til dauða draga.”51 Even though we are not provided with descriptions of how Glámr looks when he is supposed to (re) appear to Grettir, we have the effects: the fear of the dark and the fear of being alone.52 Through their relentlessness, curses also bring traumatic experiences

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and paranormal activities closer together.53 For instance, Gísli Súrsson, another famous outlaw, also has his legal sentence doubled by a paranormal feature, a magic rite (seiðr) that makes him so restless that he is not able to find peace anywhere in the land.54 Gísli also becomes afraid of the dark (myrkfælinn), a word and concept rarely mentioned within the corpus.55 Finally, Gísli’s restlessness is also literal: the second half of his saga is disrupted by recurrent nightmares of two women promising him two different futures in the afterlife. Many interpretations have been given on the identity and meaning of these two women.56 The prerogative and beauty of literature (and of art in general) lie in the fact that a motif can convey several meanings simultaneously. It could be argued that Gísli’s nightmares where he is being bathed in blood are also connected to the physical (and moral) violence he went through when his best friend Vésteinn was killed and he was obliged to avenge Vésteinn by killing his brother-in-law Þorgrímr in his own sister’s bed.57 The bed is an important feature in the hauntings here; it is a site of trauma58 as not only the place where both secret murders happened but also where the dream-women come to visit Gísli. Like in Grettis saga, the trauma is also reenacted in a tragicomic scene where Gísli must hide inside Refr’s bed in order to escape his enemies.59 In this sense, both trauma and paranormal beings have a mnemonic function60 and make the past an everlasting present.

Reluctance Gísli’s oneiric experiences also reveal another shared feature of both the paranormal and trauma: the difficulty/reluctance, or even the impossibility, of directly accessing the overwhelming experience and describing it. Trauma is certainly incomprehensible and indirect at first,61 and it generates a discourse that destabilizes language and demands a blurred vocabulary and syntax.62 When dreaming about Vésteinn’s death, Gísli refuses at first to share the content of his dreams. He will later reveal that he had a dream about the events: Nú bar þat til nýlundi á Hóli, at Gísli lætr illa í svefni tvær nætr í samt, ok spyrja menn, hvat hann dreymði. Hann vill eigi segja drauma sína. [. . .] “Draum dreymði mik” segir Gísli, “fyrri nótt ok svá í nótt, en þó vil ek eigi á kveða, hverr vígit hefir unnit, en á hitt horfir um draumana. Þat dreymði mik ina fyrri nótt, at af einum bœ hrøkkðisk hǫggormr ok hjøggi Véstein til bana. En ina síðari nótt dreymði mik, at vargr rynni af sama bœ ok bíti Véstein til bana. Ok sagða ek því hvárngan drauminn fyrr en nú, at ek vilda, at hvárrgi réðisk.” Ok þá kvað hann vísu.63

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Þorkell presses him to describe the dream in more detail, saying: “Hversu bersk Auðr af um bróðurdauðann; hvárt grætr hon mjǫk?”64 Gísli, obviously annoyed, answers: “ ‘Opt spyrr þú þessa, frændi’ segir Gísli, ‘ok er þér mikil forvitni á at vita þetta.’ ”65 He then proceeds to explain his wife’s grief with two other skaldic stanzas.66 Dreams were one of Freud’s favorite places to look for psychoanalytical material,67 and they also have been widely interpreted in the saga corpus. They are places of prophecy that use mythological and paranormal creatures, but they are also places of emotion and anxiety.68 Gísli, after being declared an outlaw for committing a launvíg (secret murder), tells his haunting dreams to his wife Auðr, both in prose—as if to translate them to her— and, most importantly, again in skaldic verses.69 Skaldic verses reappear regularly in the corpus when violent, overwhelming events take place or need to be talked about, as with Þórarinn in Eyrbyggja saga. He takes part in very violent hostilities in which several men die.70 His wife Auðr loses her hand during the attack, and Þórarinn is accused of being responsible for the deed. Back home, Þórarinn is asked about the events. This is followed by an accumulation of skaldic stanzas (sixteen in total, known as the “Máhlíðingavísur”), in which Þórarinn is pressured into giving more details but only answers through skaldic verses. For example: Knátti hjörr und hetti, hræflóð, bragar Móða, rauk of sóknar soeki, slíðrbeittr staðar leita; blóð fell, en vas váði vígtjalds náar skaldi, þá vas doemisalr dóma dreyrafullr, of eyru.71

According to Torfi H. Tulinius, who discusses the poetics of trauma, the episode shows an understanding of the nature of trauma and its effects. Þórarinn is not introduced as a poet, and the verses appear suddenly. Torfi argues that several features of skaldic poetry—the use of the third person to refer to oneself, the acute use of senses, the recurrent references to body parts—point towards the memory of a traumatic experience expressed through the complex art of the dróttkvætt stanza format.72 Again, Þórarinn is not directly connected to a paranormal event, but paranormal activities do surround his episode. Right before the hostilities, a summons for night-witching (kveldriða) is made to Geirríðr.73 Right after the skaldic episode, a magical hide-and-seek episode takes place that ends with Katla being stoned to death.74 As a matter of fact, the whole

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Eyrbyggja saga has often been singled out for its high proportion of paranormal activities.75 It could be argued that the simple use of skaldic poetry itself enters the realm of the paranormal. Skaldic verses are dependent on the use of mythological and/or paranormal creatures to build kennings, for instance. Their very structure uses material linked to paranormal activities, creating statements as ambivalent and ambiguous as Grettir’s trollish answer to his first murder.76 Moreover, paranormal creatures seem to be keen on using skaldic verses during violent encounters, such as in the stanzas known as “Hallmundarkviða” in Bergbúa þáttr.77 The undead tend to recite poetry from their graves and even give inspiration to skalds in the making, for example in Þorleifs þáttr jarlsskálds.78 In form, inspiration, and performance, skaldic poetry is closely connected to paranormal activities in Iceland.79 Therefore, both the characters facing violent/traumatic events and paranormal beings tend to use verses in direct speech, strengthening the underlying idea behind the present comparisons: traumatic states and paranormal states are intertwined in the saga world. In a way, trauma and trolls speak the same language. Many more examples of the uncanny use of skaldic verses connected to violence would deserve attention.80 These verses are not only used to preserve the memory of a violent event (and its traumatic aftermath), but they also appear to discuss violent events on the spot, as in Gísla saga during a duel resulting in maiming.81 The prosimetrum form itself, with its eruption of cryptic poetry that contrasts with the objective statements from the prose passages, creates the awkward impression of a fragmented memory that the saga is trying to reconstruct. In some cases, a violent event is so overwhelming that the memory of it is completely suppressed or erased.82 This could be compared to Bergbúa þáttr, where the farmhand cannot remember a word of the poem uttered by a paranormal being.83 Therefore, it could be argued that the reluctance to directly describe paranormal beings is not only a trait of the Íslendingasögur as a literary genre, but could also have roots in its traumatic memories.84

From Trolls to Tradition This inquiry owes a lot to our contemporary interest in traumatic experiences, survivors’ voices, and healing. For this reason, I argue that not all traumatic experiences are to be told through paranormal activities, and not all paranormal activities emerge from a traumatic experience. Arguing for a systematic connection would simply deny the essence of their power, namely their unpredictability

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and unknowability. Both have many ramifications, each surfacing in different ways in each narrative, yet their similar modus operandi put them easily into—if I may say—the same bed. Both trauma and the paranormal are connected to violent, overwhelming events. They have no direct understanding; they are unexpected and disruptive, repetitive, relentless, difficult to express, and at the same time contagious. Yet, as much as a troll could be a witch, an undead, or a troublemaker,85 trauma could take many shapes and haunt texts in different ways. Trolls are defined by what they do, what they disturb, without letting themselves be caught in a rational category, and trauma functions in the same way. How we approach monsters and/or trauma is concomitant to the times we live in, and the means of expression at our disposal. Still, traumas and trolls do not limit themselves to haunting individuals. With trauma theory and literature, we are looking at more than simply potential expressions of individual traumas through monstrous metaphors. In his earliest writings, Freud explored how tradition and history emerged from trauma.86 Since then, theories on trauma have debated the complex ways in which cultures build and transmit collective traumas. In that sense, history is also a history of trauma: “History, like trauma, is never simply one’s own, [. . .] history is precisely the way we are implicated in each other’s traumas.”87 Through narratives such as the sagas of Icelanders, trolls and other paranormal beings became a consensual way to relate to violence and traumatic experiences, turning a traumatic experience into a paranormal experience. The troll was born of trauma, and trauma was channeled through the troll.88 Once their contagious nature invaded the way of telling stories, their origins and meanings became intertwined. The connection between traumas and trolls can be said to be similar to the type scene. As has been argued recently about house burnings (a violent and collective event), the network of influence and borrowing gets lost in the construction of the typical scene. Long past and recent house burnings influence each other in their oral and textual retelling.89 Did a house burning account from the Sturlung age influence the description of a house burning scene set in the Saga age? Or is it the other way around? How much does a type scene influence the way the saga audience will experience a similar event? Similarly, trolls enclosed traumatic memories of a relentless past invading the present, which may have in turn influenced and indeed created the way Icelandic culture relates to its own contemporary traumatic experiences. The paranormal was one way to experience trauma, and in that sense, it was an expression of traumatic experiences on their own terms.

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Notes 1 Daniel Sävborg, “Style,” in The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, ed. Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson (New York: Routledge, 2017), 111–26; Christopher Crocker, “Emotions,” in Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson, The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, 240–52; Miriam Mayburd, “The Paranormal,” in Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson, The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, 265–78. 2 Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You: Paranormal Activity in the Medieval North (punctum books, 2017), 22. 3 Torfi H. Tulinius, “Trauma, Memory, and the Construction of the Past in Poetry and Sagas,” ed. Jürg Glauser, Pernille Hermann, and Stephen Mitchell (Berlin, De Gruyter 2018), 250–255; Torfi H. Tulinius, “Skaði kennir mér minni minn: On the Relationship between Trauma, Memory, Revenge and the Medium of Poetry,” in Skandinavische Schriftlandschaften: Vänbok til Jürg Glauser, ed. Klaus Müller-Wille et al. (Tübingen: Narr Francke Attempto, 2017), 129–35. See also Steven Shema, “Grímr-Visaged War: Viking Age Battle, With an Eye to Performance” (master’s thesis, University of Iceland, 2014). 4 Mayburd, “The Paranormal,” 266. 5 Mayburd, “The Paranormal,” 266–67; Rebecca Merkelbach, “Dólgr í byggðinni: The Literary Construction and Cultural Use of Social Monstrosity in the Sagas of Icelanders” (PhD diss., University of Cambridge, 2016), 9. 6 Sävborg, “Style,” 116. On this topic, see also Kirsi Kanerva, Porous Bodies, Porous Minds: Emotions and the Supernatural in the Íslendingasögur (ca. 1200–1400), Annales Universitatis Turkuensis 398 (Turku: Turun Yliopistan Julkasuja, University of Turku, 2015). 7 Mayburd, “The Paranormal,” 271; See also Ármann Jakobsson, “The Taxonomy of the NonExistent: Some Medieval Icelandic Concepts of the Paranormal,” Fabula 54, nos. 3–4 (2013): 199–213. 8 Cathy Caruth, Unclaimed Experience: Trauma, Narrative, and History (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2016), 11. The definition of trauma has been the subject of many studies, as in Charles R. Figley, ed., Trauma and Its Wake, 2 vols. (New York: Brunner-Mazel, 1985–1986). 9 Caruth, Unclaimed Experience, 11, 57–59. Caruth discusses trauma using Sigmund Freud, “Beyond the Pleasure Principle,” in The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, trans. James Strachey et al., 24 vols. (London: Hogarth, 1953–1974). 10 Ármann Jakobsson, “The Taxonomy of the Non-Existent,” 212; Ármann Jakobsson, “The Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch: Meaning of troll and ergi in Medieval Iceland,” Saga-Book 32 (2008): 67. For a recent analysis of berserkir, see Rebecca Merkelbach, “Eigi í mannlegu eðli: Shape, Monstrosity and Berserkerism in the Íslendindasögur,” in Shapeshifters in Medieval North Atlantic Literatures, ed. Santiago Barreiro and Luciana Cordo Russo (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 83–106). 11 Sigurður Nordal, ed., Egils saga, Íslenzk fornrit 2 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1933). “It is said that people who could take on the character of animals, or went berserk, became so strong in this state that no one was a match for them, but also that just after it wore off they were left weaker than usual. Kveldulf was the same, so that when his frenzy wore off he felt exhausted by the effort he had made, and was rendered completely powerless and had to lie down and rest” (Bernard Scudder, trans., Egil’s saga [London: Penguin Books, 2004], 48).

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12 Howard Fabing, “On Going Berserk: A Neurochemical Inquiry,” American Journal of Psychiatry 113, no. 5 (1956): 236. Cited and discussed by Lily Geraty, “Berserk for berserkir: Introducing Combat Trauma to the Compendium of Theories on the Norse Berserker” (master’s thesis, University of Iceland, 2015), 40–41. 13 Sigurður Nordal, Egils saga, 69. “[H]e wielded his axe and struck Hallvard right through his helmet and head, sinking the weapon in right up to the shaft. Then he tugged it back with such force that he swung Hallvard up into the air and slung him over the side” (Scudder, Egil’s saga, 45). 14 Weapons are obviously objects of violence, and they sometimes become active agents in triggering killings. On the personalisation of weapons as a vessel for guilt, see Marion Poilvez, “Those Who Kill: Wrong Undone in the Sagas of Icelanders,” in Bad Boys and Wicked Women: Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature, ed. Daniela Hahn and Andreas Schmidt (Munich: Herbert Utz Verlag, 2016), 46–47. 15 Sigurður Nordal, Egils saga, 101. “Once during the winter there was a ball game at Borg, in Sandbik, to the south. Egil and Thord played against Skallagrim, who grew tired and they came off better. But that evening after sunset, Egil and Thord began losing. Skallagrim was filled with such strength that he seized Thord and dashed him to the ground so fiercely that he was crushed by the blow and died on the spot. Then he seized Egil” (Scudder, Egil’s saga, 68). 16 Sigurður Nordal, Egils saga, 101. “You’re attacking your own son like a mad beast, Skallagrim” (Scudder, Egil’s saga, 69). 17 Combat trauma happens while in combat or shortly after. It can eventually develop into post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) if the disruptions continue for a long time and in noncombat contexts. See Zahava Solomon and Mario Mikulinger, “Combat Stress Reactions, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Somatic Complaints Among Israeli Soldiers,” Journal of Psychosomatic Research 31, no. 1 (1987): 132. 18 Rebecca Merkelbach, “Engi maðr skapar sik sjálfr: Fathers, Abuse and Monstrosity in the Outlaw Sagas,” in Hahn and Schmidt, Bad Boys and Wicked Women, 59–93. 19 Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You, 133–34; Merkelbach, “Dólgr í byggðinni,” 42. See also Ármann Jakobsson, “The Fearless Vampire Killers: A Note about the Icelandic Draugr and Demonic Contamination in Grettis saga,” Folklore 120, no. 3 (2009): 307–16. 20 Children exposed to domestic violence have a higher risk of becoming victims or perpetrators of domestic violence themselves (even though not all children exposed to domestic violence become perpetrators, and not all perpetrators of domestic violence were exposed to violence as children). See Cathy Spatz Widom and Helen W. Wilson, “Intergenerational Transmission of Violence: Its Manifold Faces,” in Violence and Mental Health, ed. Jutta Lindert and Itzhak Levav (Dordrecht: Springer, 2015). 21 “mikill sem troll” (Sigurður Nordal, Egils saga, 178). 22 Ármann Jakobsson, “Beast and Man: Realism and the Occult in Egils saga,” Scandinavian Studies 83, no. 1 (2011): 31–32. 23 Ármann Jakobsson, “Egils saga and Empathy: Emotions and Moral Issues in a Dysfunctional Saga Family,” Scandinavian Studies 80, no. 1 (2008): 1–18. 24 Torfi H. Tulinius, Skáldið í skriftinni: Snorri Sturluson og Egils saga, Reykjavíkur Akademíunnar og Hins íslenska bókmenntafélags (Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2004); Torfi H. Tulinius, The Enigma of Egill: The Saga, the Viking Poet, and Snorri Sturluson, trans. Victoria Cribb, Islandica 52 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2014), 275–88. 25 See the collection of articles in Laurence de Looze et al., eds., Egil the Viking Poet: New Approaches to Egil’s saga (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2015).

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26 Guðni Jónsson, ed., Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, Íslenzk fornrit 7 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936), 130. “Grettir now made his way into the house, not knowing who was there. His cloak was all icy when he got ashore and he was absolutely huge to look at as if he were a troll” (Anthony Faulkes, trans., Three Icelandic Outlaw Sagas [London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2004], 155). 27 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 47. 28 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 47. “I think the hammer-troll [axe] came into rather violent contact with Skeggi a little while ago” (Faulkes, Three Icelandic Outlaw Sagas, 98). 29 Poilvez, “Those Who Kill,” 21–24. 30 Mary Sandbach, “Grettir in Thórisdal,” Saga-Book 12 (1937): 98. 31 Merkelbach, “Engi maðr skapar sik sjálfr,” 65–76; Merkelbach, “Dólgr í byggðinni,” 46–67, 155–62. 32 Poilvez, “Those Who Kill,” 25–53. 33 Jónas Kristjánsson, ed., “Svarfdæla saga,” in Eyrfirðinga sǫgur, Íslenzk fornrit 9 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1956), 195–96. 34 Another case is to be found in Vatnsdæla saga, where two chieftains commit suicide after getting the news of Ingimundr’s death. However, I would not draw parallels between the two cases, as the chieftains’ act resembles an act of exaggerated aristocratic allegiance rather than an act of despair (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Vatnsdæla saga, Íslenzk fornrit 8 [Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1939], 62–64). 35 Jónas Kristjánsson, “Svarfdæla saga,” 206. “No one could say for sure whether she was given in marriage, but some say that, in despair, she committed suicide” (Viðar Hreinsson, ed., The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales, 5 vols. [Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing, 1997], 192). 36 Caruth, Unclaimed Experience, 63. 37 James Berger, “Trauma and Literary Theory,” Contemporary Literature 38, no. 3 (1997): 572. 38 For an analysis of the supernatural environment, see Miriam Mayburd, “The Hills Have Eyes: Post-Mortem Mountain Dwellings and the (Super)natural Landscape in the Íslendingasögur,” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 10 (2014): 129–154. 39 Caruth, Unclaimed Experience, 4–5. 40 See William Sayers, “The Alien and the Alienated as Unquiet Dead in the Sagas of the Icelanders,” in Monster Theory: Reading Culture, ed. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), 258. Cited and analyzed by Merkelbach, “Dólgr í byggðinni,” 32–35. 41 Merkelbach, “Dólgr í byggðinni,” 36. 42 Merkelbach, “Dólgr í byggðinni,” 97–103. 43 This also echoes the shape-shifting features transmitted in Egill’s lineage discussed above. 44 Caruth, Unclaimed Experience, 4; Berger, “Trauma and Literary Theory,” 573. 45 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 117. “ ‘Only evil can come of evil’ in the case of Glam” (Faulkes, Three Icelandic Outlaw Sagas, 146). 46 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 198–99. 47 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 200. It is interesting to note that the paranormal being is introduced, “Svá hefir Grettir sagt. . .” (“according to Grettir. . .”), giving full credit (and thus responsibility) to Grettir himself for the paranormal account. 48 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 200. “There was half a hundredweight of suet in the lamb and it was better than anything. But when Mokolla found her lamb gone, she went up onto Grettir’s hut every night and bleated so that he could not sleep at all at night. Because

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of her distress he felt the greatest regret for having slaughtered the lamb” (Faulkes, Three Icelandic Outlaw Sagas, 202). 49 Caruth, Unclaimed Experience, 4. 50 “Þá þótti Gretti þar svá daufligt, at hann mátti þar eigi lengr vera. . .” (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 200–201). “Then Grettir found it was so dull there that he could stay no longer. . .” (Faulkes, Three Icelandic Outlaw Sagas, 202). 51 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 121. “I also lay this upon you that these eyes of mine will be always before your sight, and you will find it hard to be alone and this will bring you to your death” (Faulkes, Three Icelandic Outlaw Sagas, 149). 52 “Á því fann hann mikla muni, at hann var orðinn maðr svá myrkfælinn, at hann þorði hvergi at fara einn saman, þegar myrkva tók; sýndisk honum þá hvers kyns skrípi, ok þat er haft síðan fyrir orðtœki, at þeim ljái Glámr augna eða gefi glámsýni, er mjǫk sýnisk annan veg en er” (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 122–23). “He noticed this great difference in himself, that he had become a person so afraid of the dark that he dared go nowhere on his own after it got dark; there appeared to him then all sorts of apparitions, and it has since been used as a saying that ‘Glam has lent someone his eyes’ or ‘they have been given gloomsight’ when things seem very different from what they are” (Faulkes, Three Icelandic Outlaw Sagas, 150). The fear of the dark is likely the reason why Grettir also chose to go to an island (instead of staying in the valley), even though he would be easily spotted by farmers on Drangey. The potential sunlight there was probably the longest possible, thus reducing the opportunities for his fear of the dark to emerge. Yet again, a rather relentless ram was mentioned on Drangey, but this time in a more playful and needy way, as if the traumatic responses were weakening over time. One crucial difference on Drangey that may affect Grettir’s traumatic responses was the supportive company of his brother Illugi. See Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 237–38. 53 Kirsi Kanerva also makes the point that the concept of misfortune, ógæfa, is connected to emotions such as guilt (Kirsi Kanerva, “Ógæfa as an Emotion in Thirteenth-Century Iceland,” Scandinavian Studies 84, no. 1 [2012]: 1–26). 54 “Þat er næst til tíðenda, at Bǫrkr kaupir at Þorgrími nef, at hann seiddi seið, at þeim manni yrði ekki at bjǫrg, er Þorgrímr hefði vegit, þó at men vildi duga honum” (Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson, eds., Gísla saga, Íslenzk fornrit 6 [Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1943], 56). “The next thing that happens is that Bork pays Thorgrim Nef to work a spell, that there should be no help for the man who had killed Thorgrim, however much men might want to give it to him, and there should be no rest for him in the country” (Faulkes, Three Icelandic Outlaw Sagas, 30). 55 Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson, Gísla saga, 104. 56 Paul S. Langeslag, “The Dream Women of Gísla saga,” Scandinavian Studies 81 (2009): 47–72; Christopher Crocker, “All I Do the Whole Night Through: On the Dream of Gísli Súrsson,” Scandinavian Studies 84, no. 2 (2012): 143–62. 57 Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson, Gísla saga, 52–54. According to Caruth, trauma can be defined as an ethical relation to reality (Caruth, Unclaimed Experience, 91–92). 58 Caruth, Unclaimed Experience, 56. 59 Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson, Gísla saga, 86–87. 60 Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You, 93. 61 Caruth, Unclaimed Experience, 5, 27. 62 Berger, “Trauma and Literary Theory,” 573.

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63 Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson, Gísla saga, 43–46. “Now a strange thing happens at Hol that Gisli sleeps badly two nights together, and they ask him what he has dreamed. He will not tell his dreams. . . . ‘I dreamt a dream,’ says Gisli, ‘the night before last and again last night, and I shall not say from the dreams who did the killing, although they point to that. I dreamt the night before last that out of a certain house slid a viper, and it stung Vestein to death. The next night I dreamt that a wolf ran out of the same house and bit Vestein to death. And I have not told either dream before now because I wanted nobody to interpret them.’ Then he spoke a verse” (Faulkes, Three Icelandic Outlaw Sagas, 22–24). 64 Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson, Gísla saga, 47. “How does Aud take the death of her brother? Does she weep much?” (Faulkes, Three Icelandic Outlaw Sagas, 24). 65 Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson, Gísla saga, 47. “You keep asking this, brother” says Gísli, “and you have a great curiosity to know” (Faulkes, Three Icelandic Outlaw Sagas, 24). 66 Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson, Gísla saga, 47–48. 67 Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams, cited and discussed by Caruth, Unclaimed Experience, 93–94. 68 As, for instance, the dreams in Björn Sigfússon, ed., Ljósvetninga saga, Íslenzk fornrit 10 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1940), 58–61, 85–86. For Gísli’s emotional abuse and skaldic stanzas, see also Merkelbach, “Dólgr í byggðinni,” 58. 69 Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson, Gísla saga, 70–73, 75–77, 94–96, 102–10. 70 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds., Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr, Íslenzk fornrit 4 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935), 33–40. 71 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 39. “Steel-piercing shafts / screaming songs of battle / swooped upon my helm / and gold-rimmed shield: / my glittering screen / stained red with gore-paint / the battle-plain soaked / crimson in the blood-storm” (Hermann Pálsson and Paul Edwards, trans., Eyrbyggja saga [London: Penguin Books, 1989], 56–57). 72 Torfi H. Tulinius, “Trauma, Memory, and the Construction of the Past in Poetry and Sagas.” 73 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 29. 74 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 51–54. 75 Torfi H. Tulinius, “Sagas as a Myth: The Family Sagas and Social Reality in 13th-Century Iceland,” in Old Norse Myths, Literature and Society, ed. Geraldine Barnes and Margaret Clunies Ross (Sydney: Centre for Medieval Studies, 2000), 532. 76 Several murderers conceal their crimes in skaldic verses or cryptic discourse, such as Grettir, Gísli, or Kroka-refr. See Poilvez, “Those Who Kill,” 39–46 77 Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, eds., “Bergbúa þáttr,” in Harðar saga, Íslenzk fornrit 13 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1991), 443–50. Other occurrences include the revenant Klaufi in Jónas Kristjánsson, “Svarfdæla saga,” 189–90. The draugr Sóti initiates a dialogue in skaldic verses with Hörðr during their fight (Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, Harðar saga, 41–44). 78 Þorleifs þáttr jarlsskálds in Jónas Kristjánsson, Eyrfirðinga sǫgur, 228. I am not equating the writing struggle, stressful though it may be, with a traumatic experience. The paranormal encounter from Þorleifs þáttr jarlsskálds shows a general uneasiness about finding the proper words to capture crucial memories, such as in the creation of a eulogy poem. 79 This obviously differs from the context of the Norwegian court.

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80 Such as in Víga-glúms saga in Jónas Kristjánsson, Eyrfirðinga sǫgur, 53, 81. 81 Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson, Gísla saga, 10–11. 82 Cathy Caruth, ed., Trauma: Explorations in Memory (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995), viii; Bessel A. van der Kolk, “Trauma and Memory,” Psychiatry and Clinical Neurosciences 52, no. 1 (September 1998): 52–64. 83 Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, Harðar saga, 450. On that episode, see Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You, 43. 84 Tulinius, “Sagas as a Myth,” 531–32. 85 Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You, 19. 86 Sigmund Freud, Moses and Monotheism, trans. Katherine Jones (New York: Vintage Books, 1939); cited and analyzed by Caruth, Unclaimed Experience, 68. 87 Caruth, Unclaimed Experience, 67. 88 Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You, 163. 89 yoav tirosh, “Feel the Burn: Lönguhliðarbrenna as Literary Type-Scene,” Średniowiecze Polskie i Powszechne 9 (2017): 30–44.

Bibliography Ármann Jakobsson. “Beast and Man: Realism and the Occult in Egils saga.” Scandinavian Studies 83, no. 1 (2011): 29–44. Ármann Jakobsson. “Egils saga and Empathy: Emotions and Moral Issues in a Dysfunctional Saga Family.” Scandinavian Studies 80, no. 1 (2008): 1–18. Ármann Jakobsson. “The Fearless Vampire Killers: A Note about the Icelandic Draugr and Demonic Contamination in Grettis saga.” Folklore 120, no. 3 (2009): 307–16. Ármann Jakobsson. “The Taxonomy of the Non-Existent: Some Medieval Icelandic Concepts of the Paranormal.” Fabula 54, nos. 3–4 (2013): 199–213. Ármann Jakobsson. The Troll Inside You: Paranormal Activity in the Medieval North. punctum books, 2017. Ármann Jakobsson. “The Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch: Meaning of troll and ergi in Medieval Iceland.” Saga-Book 32 (2008): 39–68. Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson, eds. The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas. New York: Routledge, 2017. Berger, James. “Trauma and Literary Theory.” Contemporary Literature 38, no. 3 (1997): 569–82. Björn K.Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson, eds. Gísla saga. Íslenzk fornrit 6. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1943. Björn Sigfússon, ed. Ljósvetninga saga. Íslenzk fornrit 10. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1940. Caruth, Cathy, ed. Trauma: Explorations in Memory. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995. Caruth, Cathy. Unclaimed Experience: Trauma, Narrative, and History. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2016. Crocker, Christopher. “All I Do the Whole Night Through: On the Dream of Gísli Súrsson.” Scandinavian Studies 84, no. 2 (2012): 143–62.

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Crocker, Christopher. “Emotions.” In Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson, The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, 240–52. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed. Vatnsdæla saga. Íslenzk fornrit 8. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1939. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds. Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr. Íslenzk fornrit 4. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935. Fabing, Howard. “On Going Berserk: A Neurochemical Inquiry.” American Journal of Psychiatry 113, no. 5 (1956): 409–15. Faulkes, Anthony, trans. Three Icelandic Outlaw Sagas. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2004. Figley, Charles R., ed. Trauma and Its Wake. 2 vols. New York: Brunner-Mazel, 1985–1986. Freud, Sigmund. “Beyond the Pleasure Principle.” In The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, translated by James Strachey, Anna Freud, Alix Strachey, and Alan Tyson. 24 vols. London: Hogarth, 1953–1974. Freud, Sigmund. Moses and Monotheism. Translated by Katherine Jones. New York: Vintage Books, 1939. Geraty, Lily. “Berserk for berserkir: Introducing Combat Trauma to the Compendium of Theories on the Norse Berserker.” Master’s thesis, University of Iceland, 2015. Guðni Jónsson, ed. Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar. Íslenzk fornrit 7. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936. Hahn, Daniela, and Andreas Schmidt, eds. Bad Boys and Wicked Women: Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature. Munich: Herbert Utz Verlag, 2016. Hermann Pálsson and Paul Edwards, trans. Eyrbyggja saga. London: Penguin Books, 1989. Jónas Kristjánsson, ed. Eyrfirðinga sǫgur. Íslenzk fornrit 9. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1956. Jónas Kristjánsson, ed. “Svarfdæla saga.” In Eyrfirðinga sǫgur. Kanerva, Kirsi. “Ógæfa as an Emotion in Thirteenth-Century Iceland.” Scandinavian Studies 84, no. 1 (2012): 1–26. Kanerva, Kirsi. Porous Bodies, Porous Minds: Emotions and the Supernatural in the Íslendingasögur (ca. 1200–1400). Annales Universitatis Turkuensis 398. Turku: Turun Yliopistan Julkasuja, University of Turku, 2015. Kolk, Bessel A. van der. “Trauma and Memory.” Psychiatry and Clinical Neurosciences 52, no. 1 (September 1998): 52–64. Langeslag, Paul S. “The Dream Women of Gísla saga.” Scandinavian Studies81 (2009): 47–72. Looze, Laurence de, Jón Karl Helgason, Russell Poole, and Torfi H. Tulinius, eds. Egil the Viking Poet: New Approaches to Egil’s saga. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2015. Mayburd, Miriam. “The Hills Have Eyes: Post-Mortem Mountain Dwellings and the (Super) natural Landscape in the Íslendingasögur.” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 10 (2014): 129–154. Mayburd, Miriam. “The Paranormal.” In Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson, The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, 265–78. Merkelbach, Rebecca. “Dólgr í byggðinni: The Literary Construction and Cultural Use of Social Monstrosity in the Sagas of Icelanders.” PhD diss., University of Cambridge, 2016. Merkelbach, Rebecca. “Eigi í mannlegu eðli: Shape, Monstrosity and Berserkerism in the Íslendindasögur.” In Shapeshifters in Medieval North Atlantic Literatures, edited by Santiago Barreiro and Luciana Cordo Russo. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 83–106.

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Merkelbach, Rebecca. “Engi maðr skapar sik sjálfr: Fathers, Abuse and Monstrosity in the Outlaw Sagas.” In Hahn and Schmidt, Bad Boys and Wicked Women, 59–93. Poilvez, Marion. “Those Who Kill: Wrong Undone in the Sagas of Icelanders.” In Hahn and Schmidt, Bad Boys and Wicked Women, 21–58. Sandbach, Mary. “Grettir in Thórisdal.” Saga-Book 12 (1937): 93–106. Sayers, William. “The Alien and the Alienated as Unquiet Dead in the Sagas of the Icelanders.” In Monster Theory: Reading Culture, edited by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, 242–63. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Scudder, Bernard, trans. Egil’s saga. London: Penguin Books, 2004. Shema, Steven. “Grímr-Visaged War: Viking Age Battle, With an Eye to Performance.” Master’s thesis, University of Iceland, 2014. Sigurður Nordal, ed. Egils saga. Íslenzk fornrit 2. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1933. Solomon, Zahava, and Mario Mikulinger. “Combat Stress Reactions, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Somatic Complaints Among Israeli Soldiers.” Journal of Psychosomatic Research 31, no. 1 (1987): 131–37. Sävborg, Daniel. “Style.” In Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson, The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, 111–26. tirosh, yoav. “Feel the Burn: Lönguhliðarbrenna as Literary Type-Scene.” Średniowiecze Polskie i Powszechne 9 (2017): 30–44. Torfi H. Tulinius. “Skaði kennir mér minni minn: On the Relationship between Trauma, Memory, Revenge and the Medium of Poetry.” In Skandinavische Schriftlandschaften: Vänbok til Jürg Glauser, edited by Klaus Müller-Wille, Kate Heslop, Anna Katharina Richter, and Lukas Rösli. Tübingen: Narr Francke Attempto, 2017. Torfi H. Tulinius. Skáldið í skriftinni: Snorri Sturluson og Egils saga. Reykjavíkur Akademíunnar og Hins íslenska bókmenntafélags. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2004. Torfi H. Tulinius. The Enigma of Egill: The Saga, the Viking Poet, and Snorri Sturluson. Translated by Victoria Cribb. Islandica 52. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2014. Torfi H. Tulinius. “Trauma, Memory, and the Construction of the Past in Poetry and Sagas.” Edited by Jürg Glauser, Pernille Hermann, and Stephen Mitchell. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2018, 250–255. Tulinius, Torfi H. “Sagas as a Myth: The Family Sagas and Social Reality in 13th-Century Iceland.” In Old Norse Myths, Literature and Society, edited by Geraldine Barnes and Margaret Clunies Ross, 526–39. Sydney: Centre for Medieval Studies, 2000. Viðar Hreinsson, ed. The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales. 5 vols. Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing, 1997. Widom, Cathy Spatz, and Helen W. Wilson. “Intergenerational Transmission of Violence: Its Manifold Faces.” In Violence and Mental Health, edited by Jutta Lindert and Itzhak Levav. Dordrecht: Springer, 2015. Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, eds. “Bergbúa þáttr.” In Harðar saga, 441–50. Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, eds. Harðar saga. Íslenzk fornrit 13. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1991.

Sarah Bienko Eriksen

Traversing the Uncanny Valley: Glámr in Narratological Space Abstract: This article explores the often cited “doubleness” of the outlaw-hero Grettir and the revenant Glámr. Using cognitive-semiotic theory, the article proposes that a shift in internal focalization—widely believed absent from the sagas—from Grettir to Glámr creates a narratological uncanniness that accounts for their seeming likeness.1

The Haunted Reader Glámr, one of the most famous of all medieval Icelandic fiends, has been characterized as a particularly effective monster,2 the turning point of Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar,3 the key to understanding the saga’s eponymous hero,4 and even as Grettir’s double.5 The interest Glámr generates is remarkable considering that he fights Grettir just thirty-five chapters into a ninety-three chapter story, an early position for such a climactic figure to feature. In this regard, he rather recalls Grendel, who famously overshadows the monsters he precedes. Given that so many scholars cite the Glámr encounter as uniquely meaningful, the question emerges as to how this meaning is generated and “felt” by the reader. In other words, how can we approach the Glámr episode as a paranormal encounter not for Grettir, but for the reading audience? Instead of seeking answers in these narrative components of Grettis saga, turning to its narratological arrangement6 can yield new insights. The budding field of cognitive semiotics holds that variation within a text’s narratological structure can itself be a means of meaning-making7—that is to say, that deviation from a narratological baseline makes unique demands upon the (normative) reader’s attention, thereby generating meaning beyond the level of narrative content. Employing theory and technique from this field, this study will demonstrate that Glámr produces a remarkable reading experience because of his extraordinary movement through “narratological space,” here measured as the distance at which saga figures are kept from the reader. In so doing, the study will navigate between the various layers of textual subjectivity that constitute the saga, particularly as they are generated by internal focalization8—a phenomenon widely regarded as virtually nonexistent in saga narrative.9 The presence of internal focalization is paramount to this study in that it indicates that there is a mind https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-007

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from within which to focalize, and as such, it is intimately connected with how subjectivity manifests through text.

Saga Spaces Before the study proper begins, it must be iterated that space10 is a particularly valuable concept with which to investigate the monsters of Grettis saga. Locating the Old Norse Other has been an academic endeavor at least since the Prose Edda, and while space does not, ironically, permit a full overview of conceptualizations of Old Norse cosmography, spatial approaches have notably risen to the fore on account of the structuralism of recent decades.11 Although scholarship is moving away from structuralism and the axial models, even those with more fluid methodologies agree, at the very least, that the Other originates Elsewhere.12 Simply put, Old Norse space matters insofar as it keeps Us from Them. This is particularly pertinent to an outlaw saga, where issues of status, non-belonging, and monstrosity are amplified by the fact of geographic exile. In his study of how “place is one of the primary factors in the creation and maintenance of ideological values,” Cresswell13 observes that metaphors of displacement actively shape modern social rhetoric by encouraging antagonism toward undesirable individuals.14 Considering that medieval outlawry was a far more overt version of what Cresswell sees with respect to modern society, we must then take seriously the fact that Grettis saga refers to an outlaw as an outlying man, a forest-man, a wolf who rightly belongs outside the human realm among the creatures of the wild.15 Given the interplay of space and identifiers of (non)humanity in the medieval Icelandic context, the spatial analysis that has already been done on Grettis saga at the narrative level can thus benefit from expansion to the narratological level, which evidences much the same division between the human and nonhuman realms.16 To illustrate this tendency, this study will look at meaning effects arising from the reader’s distance from the textual subject in five paranormal encounters. Acknowledging the impossibility of reconstructing medieval responses to Grettis saga with true fidelity,17 this particular study presumes a modern audience and approaches the text as a work of fiction with the intention of shedding light on our own engagement with the medieval sources.

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Close Encounters Grettir’s earliest paranormal encounter, which occurs when he robs the burial mound of Kárr the Old, is a useful study in how the saga tends to present character consciousness narratologically. The first feature of note is that the scene develops in phenomenological accord with Grettir’s exploration: Gekk Grettir þá í hauginn; var þar myrkt ok þeygi þefgott. Leitask hann nú fyrir, hversu háttat var. Hann fann hestbein, ok síðan drap hann sér við stólbrúðir ok fann, at þar sat maðr á stóli.18

Here, information about the mound’s contents only comes to light as Grettir investigates: he enters, seeing and smelling; he explores the mound, uncovering its layout and the bones; he feels the chair, discovering a body. It is thus clear that Grettir internally focalizes the scene’s action, allowing the reader to “borrow” his senses and co-discover the barrow. Internal focalization can also manifest through the absence of information. Here, the use of the impersonal passive grammatical construction in Old Norse has particularly interesting implications. Unlike the passive voice, which turns object into subject, the impersonal passive omits the grammatical subject entirely. In the Kárr scene, for example, it is said that “as [Grettir] walked out of the barrow, [something] gripped him tightly,” but a more grammatically faithful rendering might read, “as [Grettir] walked out of the barrow, was gripped to him tightly.”19 This use of the impersonal passive, which describes action without agent, aligns perfectly with Grettir’s phenomenological and epistemological experience: in the dark, ostensibly alone, and facing the exit, Grettir cannot see what has grabbed him from behind, experiencing a purely kinesthetic force whose source is as yet undetermined. This constitutes yet another manifestation of internal focalization through Grettir, as logically there is nothing stopping the pasttense narrator,20 who already knows the story’s outcome, from freely revealing the mysterious grabber to be the revenant Kárr. Kárr’s grammatical subjectivity is thus inversely proportional to the textual subjectivity of our human protagonist. By standing unobtrusively aside and granting access to a character’s mind, the narrator places the reader “inside” the story world rather than on the outside looking in. This immersion into character consciousness erases the distance between reader and character, minimizing the sensation of mediacy and allowing for the possibility of self-identification with that character.21 Although internal focalization through saga characters is not comprehensive and the narrator does speak with his own voice and external perspective, the saga frequently slips into Grettir’s mind, rendering him the most narratologically “central” (i.e., the closest and most accessible) figure—as only befits his role as the story’s protagonist.

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Tempering this narratological closeness to Grettir are occasional dips into other minds. For instance, when Grettir finally succeeds in throwing Kárr to the ground, the man awaiting him above ground hears the commotion and flees because he “ætlaði, at Grettir myndi dauðr.”22 Practically speaking, this thought report, yet another inroad to consciousness, allows the reader to understand and sympathize with the behavior of a terrified bystander.23 Counterintuitively, however, it comes at a time not when Grettir’s safety is threatened, but when his victory is imminent, thus preventing the man’s fear from heightening the scene’s suspense in any way; if anything, its positioning within the plot only underscores the man’s mistakenness in fearing for Grettir. In a story deeply concerned with the misunderstood nature of its main character, this moment and others like it subtly reinforce a key message: though the world may doubt Grettir, we, the privileged insiders, need not. Crucially, at no point does the revenant Kárr display even the briefest glimpse of consciousness to the reader; there is no internal focalization, access to thought, or speech (itself a construction of consciousness) on his part. In contrast to the humans present in this scene, Kárr the Old remains completely removed from the reader. He is an outsider as much within the saga’s narratological arrangement as within the medieval Icelandic worldview, which prevents the reader from identifying with him in any way and thereby vigorously defending his position as an Other. Layered narratological structures produce more elaborate meaning effects in Grettir’s encounter with a dozen berserkers. As the warriors approach a farmstead defended by Grettir, the narrator warns of their utter brutality—so when the warriors pass most of the evening locked in pleasant banter with Grettir, it is quite possibly the last thing the reader has been led to expect. In what initially seems like civilized, human, conscious behavior, the berserker warriors speak the part of gracious guests, essentially playing house with Grettir and the terrified women in his care; however, because their speech is a mechanism of deceit, it remains utterly divorced from their consciousness, denying rather than granting interior access. Moreover, there is no meaningful access to the berserkers’ thoughts, for although we are told that they, for instance, don’t know where something is, are tired, or think a door has closed by itself, these are practical rather than personal revelations, giving no hint as to their savage plans. Juxtaposing an abundance of exteriority with a void of interiority, the bizarrely dialogic nature of the scene generates an ironic tension between the berserkers’ cordial behavior and their hideous intent. The narratological discrepancy suits the berserker figure beautifully, for beneath the thin veneer of their humanity lurks an animal core. This becomes clear once the berserkers “grunar þá nú, hvárt eigi munu vera svik í”24 from Grettir, our final—and only meaningful—point

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of entry into their mind: the warriors “kemr á þá berserksgangr ok grenja sem hundar”25 after which they offer no further speech, thought, or internal focalization. As all semblance of berserker humanity evaporates, a narratological gulf appears between them and the reader, suggesting that what remains of the warriors is utterly alien. Interestingly, this same narratological misdirection applies to Grettir, for although we initially see that he senses the danger presented by the berserkers,26 after this, access to Grettir’s mind is lost: he spends the evening exchanging pleasantries with the men, giving no indication of the violence he has in store for them until they have already fallen into his trap.27 In emulating the berserker, Grettir thus mirrors him narratologically: to hide among monsters, he too must “empty” himself below a deceptive dialogic surface. Only when honest combat begins does the text once more align with Grettir’s consciousness.28 In a much simpler narratological arrangement, Grettir later defends another farmhouse from a troll woman. As she enters the house, the troll woman spots Grettir and, foregoing speech,29 proceeds to attack; she is, without question, a monster, just as Grettir is clearly our hero. This monster-man dualism is reinforced narratologically, beginning with the troll woman’s arrival: “Þá er dró at miðri nótt, heyrði hann út dynur miklar. Því næst kom inn í stofuna trollkona mikil; hon hafði í hendi trog, en annarri skálm heldr mikla.”30 Here the stage is set in phenomenological accord with Grettir’s aural and visual experience, introducing first a noise outdoors, then the troll woman’s entrance, and finally her bizarre appearance. Opening the scene via Grettir’s consciousness places the reader squarely in the camp of the human protagonist, further emphasizing the troll woman’s Otherness as she encroaches upon the human realm. The scene continues, “Hon litask um, er hon kom inn, ok sá, hvar Gestr lá,”31 which would seem like reciprocal focalization through the eyes of the troll woman if not for the word “Gestr,” a pseudonym by which the household knows Grettir. There is no reason the troll woman would know this pseudonym or associate it with the stranger before her.32 As Grettir has no reason to internally self-identify as “Gestr,” this must then be the narrator speaking. In other words, where one might logically expect the troll woman to overtake the lens of focalization, the narrator intercedes, maintaining the distance between reader and nonhuman antagonist. The most we see of the troll woman’s mind is when we are told that she “wanted” or “intended”33 to drag Grettir out of the house, demonstrating basic faculties of desire or intent but otherwise doing little to relate her to us as a creature. Unlike with the berserkers, there is no mistaking the troll woman for human—even if only on the surface. Our closest brush with paranormal consciousness in the saga’s lesser known monster battles occurs at the end of an encounter beneath a waterfall, a

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scene rich in perspective changes. Bookended by the perspective of the priest awaiting him,34 the encounter is otherwise internally focalized by Grettir as he explores beneath a waterfall and finds a cave,35 limiting the reader to the perspective of the least informed character still following the action. This is especially effective given that Grettir, unlike the narrator, does not know what he is about to face, producing an emotional climax for the reader when Grettir sees “at þar sat jǫtunn ógurliga mikill; hann var hræðiligr at sjá.”36 As Grettir moves in for the attack, a fascinating switch occurs: “En er Grettir kom at honum, hljóp jǫtunninn upp ok greip flein einn ok hjó til þess, er kominn var.”37 Because Grettir is only a new arrival for the giant, and not for the reader or narrator, the moment must be internally focalized through the giant’s eyes, placing the reader inside the mind of a paranormal Other and narratologically rendering Grettir the outsider—the intruder. Without skipping a beat, however, the narrator continues, “því at bæði mátti hǫggva ok leggja með því; tréskapt var í; þat kǫlluðu menn þá heptisax, er þann veg var gǫrt.”38 This interjection by the suddenly overt narrator withdraws us not merely from the mind of the giant but from the story world entirely: only someone far removed from this time and place would require such clarification. Nevertheless, the encounter’s brief peek through the eyes of an Other—as well its brusque interruption—demonstrates the power that narratological distancing has in moving the reader between scenes and subjectivities. Using these four paranormal encounters, we can thus establish a narratological baseline for Grettis saga with roughly the following parameters: a relatively unobtrusive narrator employing frequent internal focalization through saga characters increases immersion, placing the reader “inside” the text; access to character consciousness—whether through internal focalization, thought, or (non-deceptive) speech—likewise brings a character “closer” to the reader; and lastly, by and large Grettir stays near at hand, his human companions make occasional approaches (usually demonstrating their lack of understanding), and nonhuman characters are kept at a safe distance.

Grettir and Glámr: A Narratological Dance With this baseline in mind, we can now turn to the Glámr encounter to observe its unusual narratological development. The scene opens typically. As Grettir hides in wait beneath a cloak, his internally focalized experience—rife with the impersonal passive construction—sets the stage:

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Ok er af myndi þriðjungr af nótt, heyrði Grettir út dynur miklar; var þá farit upp á húsin ok riðit skálanum ok barit hælunum, svá at brakaði í hverju tré; því gekk lengi. Þá var farit ofan af húsunum ok til dura gengit; ok er upp var lokit hurðunni, sá Grettir, at þrællinn rétti inn hǫfuðit, ok sýndisk honum afskræmiliga mikit ok undarliga stórskorit.39

This scene is initially focalized through Grettir’s hearing,40 as indicated by the fact that the source of the commotion is withheld until the revenant becomes visible to Grettir,41 after which point Grettir’s vision overtakes the focalization, assessing the revenant as a hideous, distended goliath and emphasizing its visual Otherness. After the revenant walks into the room, Grettir’s human perspective continues to frame the scene: Glámr is not merely tall but towers against the rafters; Glámr does not look but glares inside. In a firsthand perspective mediated through Grettir, we see Glámr as a stupid brute, banging dully on the roof and moving grotesquely through the house. The revenant’s entrance is thus consistent with the monster-as-outsider quality of the saga as a whole. In a similar reading, Swinford42 also observes that Grettir’s point of view introduces this encounter; however, he then states that “there is no reciprocal revelation of Glámr’s perception. The narrative simply returns to the omniscient viewpoint.”43 This is simply not the case, for the following passage is partially internally focalized through Glámr and even gives insight into his thinking, though unspoken: Glámr sá, at hrúga nǫkkur lá í setinu, ok rézk nú innar eptir skálanum ok þreif í feldinn stundar fast. Grettir spyrndi í stokkinn, ok gekk því hvergi. Glámr hnykkði í annat sinn miklu fastara, ok bifaðisk hvergi feldrinn. Í þriðja sinn þreif hann í með báðum hǫndum svá fast, at hann rétti Gretti upp ór setinu; kippðu nú í sundr feldinum í millum sín. Glámr leit slitrit, er hann helt á, ok undraðisk mjǫk, hverr svá fast myndi togask við hann.44

In a narratological tug-of-war that mimics the struggle over the cloak, the scene’s perspective shifts in and out of Glámr’s mind. First, the revenant observes “some pile” indicating that the hidden Grettir is focalized through—but not comprehended by—the monster. The next sentence names Grettir and divulges his secret activity, thus leaving Glámr’s uninformed perspective. Glámr’s perspective returns when he tries to pull the cloak and finds that it “didn’t budge,” a kinesthetic experience divorced from the knowledge that Grettir holds the other end. When the cloak tears and the two finally confront each other face-to-face, Glámr is “astonished,” which is not only his first thought report in the entire saga,45 but also reveals an evaluating intelligence behind what Grettir mistakes for brute monstrosity. The two combatants then battle their way out the front door and into the saga’s most famous scene as Grettir pins Glámr to the ground as the moon emerges from behind the clouds. The moon, whose significance has been emphasized by

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many scholars, has logic-defying narratological features which rupture the scene’s perspective, for not only does it actually emerge in two descriptions, but each description unfolds along a different timeline: Fell [Glámr] svá opinn ok ǫfugr út ór húsunum, en Grettir á hann ofan. Tunglskin var mikit úti ok gluggaþykkn; hratt stundum fyrir, en stundum dró frá. Nú í því er Glámr fell, rak skýit frá tunglinu, en Glámr hvessti augun upp í móti, ok svá hefir Grettir sagt sjálfr, at þá eina sýn hafi hann sét svá, at honum brygði við.46

In the first description, the combatants fall and the clouds then drift to and fro, implying the passage of time. In the second, however, the clouds part at the same instant that Glámr falls and looks up, seeming to rewind to the beginning of the scene. Given that the sagas of Icelanders are thought to “never state in advance what will happen later, and never describe the same events more than once,”47 the moment begs the question: from whose perspective do we see the moon(s), and why do they break from a linear, phenomenological unfolding of the scene? Before identifying the focalizer(s), it is worth noting that the sudden appearance of the moon is a striking visual departure for the saga, reflecting a major shift in attention on the part of the assessing consciousness:48 as the moon overtakes the scene, the narrative scope, or visual field of the text, changes from the human-centric “average” level to the cosmic “macro” level.49 Since average scope is the bedrock of a work constructed around human activity, this zooming out wrests narratological focus away from the human individual, perfectly echoing Grettir’s sudden loss of agency: “Þá sigaði svá at honum af ǫllu saman, mœði ok því, er hann sá, at Glámr gaut sínum sjónum harðliga, at hann gat eigi brugðit saxinu ok lá náliga í milli heims ok heljar.”50 Furthermore, the fact that glámr is an archaic term for “moon”51 implicitly aligns the shift from human to cosmic with Glámr’s sudden surge of magical power, again diminishing the human agent. From here it is perhaps easiest to begin with an explanation of the moon’s second appearance, which coincides with Glámr’s looking up and is thus internally focalized through his wild stare. Importantly, Grettir, who is facedown and fixated upon Glámr’s eyes,52 cannot see the moon, excluding him from an experience shared by narrator, monster, and reader; in this moment, he is truly alone. In fact, Grettir’s narratological expulsion pre-enacts Glámr’s curse, a passage of direct speech which is not only one of the longest in the saga but also completes the trend of shifting narrative focus from Grettir toward an increasingly realized Glámr. The curse ends: “Þá legg ek þat á við þik, at þessi augu sé þér jafnan fyrir sjónum, sem ek ber eptir, ok mun þér þá erfitt þykkja einum at vera, ok þat mun þér til dauða draga.”53 The curse thus threatens Grettir in the story world with what he has already suffered narratologically: his eyes locked on Glámr’s, Grettir

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is banished from a community of shared experience and subsumed by forces that surpass his own. So what do we then make of the first description of the moon? In narratologically defying the rest of the scene’s chronology, it casts a “strangeness”54 over the events below: human action grinds to a halt, exemplified by Grettir’s paralysis, while moon-time flows indifferently overhead, lending a sense of cosmic inevitability to a curse which likewise defies natural law. In terms of focalization, the temporally distended veiling and unveiling of the moon is what Glámr will see while reciting his curse to Grettir, thereby inflicting a preemptive visual hallucination upon the reader. As the narrator later reports, for anyone who is “ljái Glámr augna eða gefi glámsýni, er mjǫk sýnisk annan veg en er.”55 The encounter’s troubling finale is thus a narratological masterstroke: by showing the hallucinatory moon through Glámr’s eyes, the text ultimately curses the reader with “Glámr’s sight” as much as it does Grettir himself. In a work that highly privileges the human perspective, keeping the monstrous Other at bay from the reader, Glámr’s narratological development is extraordinary. Drawing the reader ever deeper into his consciousness, Glámr evolves from thrashing brute to a perceiving, thinking, articulating entity, swelling with agency as he narratologically unseats the hero. And given that the revenant’s perception gradually overtakes the experience of the scene, Grettir’s encounter with Glámr thus haunts the reader’s vision much as it does Grettir’s own.

Traversing the Uncanny Valley While Glámr’s commandeering of the reader’s attention can be explained through narratological deviation, it still does not answer the question as to the ultimate meaning effect of his movement through narratological space. This study proposes that the effect is horror, and while this may seem like an obvious statement to make about a zombie, it does not suffice to let narrative content supply narratological conclusions. After all, though the encounter meets every one of Carroll’s56 narrative requirements for horror, so does Grettir’s battle with Kárr the Old,57 a scene which does not elicit the same response. Narrative features would thus not necessarily seem to engender strong emotion on their own. Instead, the scene’s horrific potential springs from Glámr’s bizarre narratological synthesis of humanity and monstrosity, plunging him into a textual “uncanny valley” capable of eliciting fear and revulsion. The uncanny—“that species of the frightening that goes back to what was once well known and has

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long been familiar”58—is a concept which frequently emerges in analyses of Glámr, and it is easy to see how Freud’s theory, with its doppelgangers, cadavers, and automatons, might serve in the analysis of a walking corpse. However, a more neglected area of the theory holds that a reader’s expectations also come into play: a talking doll in a work of realism is an entirely different matter than one in a fairy tale. Freud further states that the text’s point of view can affect our experience of the uncanny, implicitly bringing narratology into the mix. This combination of expectation and narratology are indeed precisely what cognitive semiotics seeks to investigate. Further, where it concerns the uncanny, the role of expectation has been studied extensively outside the narrative context in recent decades. According to roboticist Masahiro Mori, who first observed the socalled uncanny valley59 effect in 1970, the more an anthropomorphized object such as a robot becomes humanlike in physical appearance and/or movement, the higher a real human’s comfort level rises in response—to a point; however, once the object significantly approximates but fails to achieve human identicality, a person’s comfort level will plummet “from empathy to revulsion,”60 thus falling into a metaphorical valley. With the growing prevalence of computer-generated human images in film and video games, strong interest in the uncanny valley has arisen outside the field of robotics,61 and the phenomenon has been observed in response to computer-generated faces both among humans62 and monkeys63—the latter suggesting an evolutionary rather than cultural basis. And while the reaction has been theorized to stem from various evolutionary drives regarding pathogen avoidance, human empathy, and mate selection,64 the mechanism behind it seems to be a matter of cognitive dissonance,65 for though the sharp contrast between two very dissimilar things may startle, it neither invites nor disappoints the anticipation of similarity; a near match, however, both provides and denies a sense of familiarity, creating tension and ultimately arousing aversion. Study of the uncanny valley is currently limited to the technological replication of human likeness,66 but this study moves to expand it to the artificial humanity generated through textual subjectivity. In the case of Grettis saga, movement between narratological spaces shapes the reader’s experience of textual subjects: the narratological center is largely reserved for Grettir, our human protagonist, and other humans usually enter it as a further means of characterizing Grettir. The saga’s narratological center is thus responsible for generating Grettir. In the Glámr encounter, however, a walking corpse, “blár sem hel, en digr sem naut,”67 gradually overtakes this position, supplanting Grettir as the protagonist and thereby filling a role with which the audience should ordinarily be able to identify. In turn, Glámr pushes Grettir into the role of the narratological outsider, a space usually reserved for the nonhuman Other. This

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profound swap not only presages Grettir’s subsequent outlawry and descent into monstrosity68 but also helps explain why the two figures appear to become doubles at this moment. And yet, Glámr inhabits the saga’s center imperfectly, for as he grows in narratological humanity, so too does he swell with paranormal strength. In short, Glámr approximates, but fails to achieve, human identicality,69 thereby falling into a textual uncanny valley. While applying the modern concept of the uncanny—especially in Mori’s technological framework—to a medieval text may seem dangerously anachronistic, the uncanny is indigenous to the very language of Old Norse: the noun lík, which means both likeness and corpse, is cognate with líkja (to resemble) and survives in modern iterations such as the Danish lige, ligne, lig, the German gleich, gleichen, Leiche, and the English like, liken, lich. Further, if the human responses behind the uncanny valley effect are indeed biological in origin, Glámr’s uncanny displacement of Grettir may have horrified the medieval reader in much the same way as the modern. The consequences of finding this phenomenon in literature may be all the more profound if one considers its participatory nature: in a narratological intrusion that echoes his original contagion with revenancy,70 Glámr infects the saga’s human center both intra- and extra-textually, thrusting Grettir into the position of monstrous outsider while forcing the reader to self-identify with monstrosity. The tension here between the comfortably human and the threateningly nonhuman is greater than the sum of its parts, for it produces not the shocking horror of the alien Other, but the creeping horror of an Other who nearly, but imperfectly, resembles oneself.

Notes 1 A version of this article appears in my MA thesis for the University of Iceland. See Sarah Bienko Eriksen, “Traversing the Uncanny Valley: Monstrosity in the Narrative and Narratological Spaces of Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar” (master’s thesis, University of Iceland, 2015). 2 Kathryn Hume, “From Saga to Romance: The Use of Monsters in Old Norse Literature,” Studies in Philology 77, no. 1 (1980): 1–25. 3 Kirsten Hastrup, Island of Anthropology: Studies of Past and Present Iceland, The Viking Collection 5 (Odense: Odense University Press, 1990). 4 Robert Cook, “The Reader in Grettis Saga,” Saga-Book 21 (1985): 133–54. 5 Hume, “From Saga to Romance”; William Sayers, “The Alien and the Alienated as Unquiet Dead in the Sagas of the Icelanders,” in Monster Theory: Reading Culture, ed. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), 242–63; Ármann Jakobsson, “The Fearless Vampire Killers: A Note about the Icelandic Draugr and Demonic Contamination in Grettis saga,” Folklore 120, no. 3 (2009): 307–16.

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6 Mine is not the first attempt to access the medieval Icelandic world of the paranormal through a narratological reading. See, e.g., Rory McTurk, “The Supernatural in Njáls saga: A Narratological Approach,” Saga-Book 23 (1993): 28–45. 7 For examples of the cognitive-semiotic approach applied to literature, see,e.g., Peer F. Bundgaard, “Means of Meaning-Making in Literary Art: Focalization, Mode of Narration, and Granularity,” Acta Linguistica Hafniensia 45, no. 1 (2008): 68–84; Peer F. Bundgaard, “Significant Deviations: Strange Uses of Voice are One among Other Means of Meaning Making,” in Strange Voices in Narrative Fiction, ed. Per Krogh Hansen, Stefan Iversen, and Henrik Skov Nielsen (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2011), 83–100. To my knowledge, the only other application of cognitive semiotics to the field of Old Norse-Icelandic literature thus far is Jacob Andrew Malone, “Vessel and Voice: A Cognitive Semiotic Approach to the Prophetic Voice of Vǫluspá” (master’s thesis, University of Iceland, 2015). 8 As opposed to external focalization, or outside-observer perspective, internal focalization is perspective stemming from within the mind of a character (Gérard Genette, Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method [Oxford: Blackwell, 1980]). 9 In a survey of works on saga style, Sävborg cites external focalization as a characteristic saga feature. Sävborg does admit that there are “cases” of internal focalization, citing only Anne Heinrichs’s 1974 study, but concludes that it is “doubtful” (Daniel Sävborg, “Style,” in The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, ed. Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson [New York: Routledge, 2017], 113) that it occurs with any regularity. 10 Many scholars of philosophy and anthropology favor the word “place” over “space,” arguing that the latter is an abstraction that does not reflect a phenomenological understanding of the world. While the phenomenology of textual subjectivity is key to this reading, the word “space” is better suited to the concept of narratological distance and will be preserved here. For more on the space-place debate, see, e.g., Edward S. Casey, “Between Geography and Philosophy: What Does It Mean to Be in the Place-World?,” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 91, no. 4 (2001): 683–93; Tim Ingold, Being Alive: Essays on Movement, Knowledge, and Description (New York: Routledge, 2001). 11 Much of this scholarship on Old Norse cosmography has been dominated by the axial model, famously codified in Eleazar Meletinskij, “Scandinavian Mythology as a System, Pt. 1,” Journal of Symbolic Anthropology 1 (1973): 43–58; Eleazar Meletinskij, “Scandinavian Mythology as a System, Pt. 2,” Journal of Symbolic Anthropology 2 (1974): 57–78. Important contributions and revisions to Meletinskij’s model have been made by Kirsten Hastrup, “Cosmology and Society in Medieval Iceland: A Social-Anthropological Perspective on World-View,” Ethnologia Scandinavica 11 (1981): 63–78; Jens Peter Schjødt, “Kosmologimodeller og mytekredse,” in Ordning mot kaos: Studier av nordisk förkristen kosmologi, ed. Anders Andrén, Kristina Jennbert, and Catharina Raudvere (Lund: Nordic Academic Press / Svenska historiska media, 2004), 123–33; Margaret Clunies Ross, Prolonged Echoes, vol. 1 (Odense: Odense University Press, 1994), particularly chapter 7. 12 E.g., Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, “Monster Culture (Seven Theses),” in Cohen, Monster Theory, 3–25; Ármann Jakobsson, “Where Do the Giants Live?,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 121 (2006): 101–12. 13 Tim Cresswell, “Weeds, Plagues, and Bodily Secretions: A Geographical Interpretation of Metaphors of Displacement,” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 87, no. 2 (1997): 330–45. 14 Cresswell, “Weeds, Plagues, and Bodily Secretions,” 334. 15 Yi-Fu Tuan, Landscapes of Fear (New York: Pantheon Books, 1979), Kindle edition.

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16 For example, Helen Damico, “Dystopic Conditions of the Mind: Toward a Study of Landscape in Grettissaga,” In Geardagum: Essays on Old English Language and Literature 7 (1986): 1–15; Eleanor Barraclough, “Inside Outlawry in Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar and Gísla saga Súrssonar: Landscape in the Outlaw Sagas,” Scandinavian Studies 82 (2010): 365–88. 17 Stacie Friend, “Fiction as a Genre,” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 112, no. 2 (2012): 179–209 and Svend Østergaard and Peer F. Bundgaard, “The Double Feedback Loop and the Parameter Theory of Text Genres,” in Reflections upon Genre: Encounters between Literature, Knowledge, and Emerging Communicative Conventions, ed. Jan Engberg (Tübingen: Narr Francke Attempto, 2014), 11–39 indicate that genre imposes significant top-down constraints on reading, thereby affecting attention and, with it, meaning. The Icelandic sagas’ genre status has been widely contested throughout the history of their scholarship (see Theodore M. Andersson, “From Tradition to Literature in the Sagas,” in Oral Art Forms and their Passage into Writing, ed. Elsie Mundal and Jonas Wellendorf [Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 2008], for an overview), and modern audiences surely conceptualize and read the sagas differently than medieval audiences did. 18 Guðni Jónsson, ed., Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, Íslenzk fornrit 7 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936), 57–58. “Grettir went into the barrow; it was dark there and not at all goodsmelling. He searched around to see how it was laid out. He found horse bones, then he bumped into the back of a chair and discovered that a man sat there.” 19 “Er hann gekk útar eptir hauginum, var gripit til hans fast” (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 58, emphasis added). While hann is the subject of the first clause, there is no nominative (pro)noun corresponding with “var gripit” in the second, leaving no grammatical subject. 20 It should be acknowledged that ascribing a cohesive narrator or narrating instance to a medieval text risks anachronism. For example, in his study of textual subjectivity in Middle English works, A. C. Spearing, Textual Subjectivity: The Encoding of Subjectivity in Medieval Narratives and Lyrics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005) instead proposes the idea of distributed empathy, wherein focalization operates like a camera lens free to occupy the perspectives it pleases, including internal ones. Since an exploration of this idea exceeds the scope of this study, for now it is simply a matter of convenience to say that there is a past-tense, external, largely covert “narrator” in Grettis saga who can be classified as a heterodiegetic (Genette, Narrative Discourse) teller who sometimes employs the reflective mode (Franz K. Stanzel, “Teller-Characters and Reflector-Characters in Narrative Theory,” Poetics Today 2, no. 2 [1981]: 5–15). 21 This is one means of producing “displaced immediacy” in a text (Wallace L. Chafe, Discourse, Consciousness, and Time: The Flow and Displacement of Conscious Experience in Speaking and Writing [Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 1994]). 22 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 58. “Thought Grettir must be dead.” 23 Chafe, Discourse, Consciousness, and Time. 24 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 67. “Begin to suspect trickery.” 25 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 67–68. “Then go berserk and howl like dogs.” 26 When they first arrive, we are told, “Ekki þótti honum þeir friðliga láta” (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 63); “It did not seem to [Grettir] that they came in peace.” Since the assessing consciousness lacks the narrator’s knowledge, this is Grettir’s own nonverbal indirect thought. 27 Whether or not the reader guesses Grettir’s ruse is debatable. Cook, “The Reader in Grettis Saga” does not believe the modern reader knows Grettir well enough at this point in the saga

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to see through his deceit, but this certainly would not have been the case for the original audience. 28 Grettir’s battle against the dozen berserkers begins in relatively striking detail but gradually deteriorates into an wearisome flurry of non-specificity, discouraging emotional engagement and ultimately estranging (see Bundgaard, “Means of Meaning-Making in Literary Art”) the reader. This development mimics an exhausting and likely dissociative combat experience, as Grettir too eventually tires and goes home. 29 Trolls are perfectly capable of speech in the Old Norse world. For example, in Skáldskaparmál the poet Bragi has a poetry battle with a troll woman (Anthony Faulkes, trans., “Skáldskaparmál,” in The Uppsala Edda [London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2012], 202–3). In Grettis saga, Grettir is suspected or accused of being a troll even after speaking (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, e.g., 184, 211). The lack of speech in this instance is thus not merely a practical constraint. 30 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 212. “As midnight drew near, [Grettir] heard great noises outside. Then, into the room came a huge troll woman. She had a trencher in one hand and a rather large knife in the other.” 31 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 212. “She looked around when she came in and saw where Gestr lay.” 32 The word Gestr here may admittedly also be gestr, merely some guest to the farmstead, which would allow for the possibility that this is indeed the troll woman’s perspective. However, this reading would seem more likely with the inclusion of the definite article and the exclusion of the coincidental pseudonym. 33 “Hon vildi draga hann út ór bœnum” (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 212, emphasis added). 34 When Grettir dives down the waterfall, the priest looks down “í iljar honum ok vissi síðan aldri, hvat af honum varð” (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 215); “At the soles of his feet, thenceforth never knowing what became of him.” Grettir’s soles, visually and textually disconnected from his body, are clearly focalized through the priest, placing the reader in the mind of the scene’s least informed character and heightening suspense as Grettir enters the unknown. Focalization returns to the narrator as it is revealed in advance that the priest will never learn Grettir’s fate. At the end of battle, Grettir disembowels the giant: “Ok er prestr sat við festina, sá hann, at slyðrur nǫkkurar rak ofan eptir strengnum, blóðgar allar. Hann . . . þóttisk nú vita, at Grettir myndi dauðr vera” (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 215–16); “And as the priest sat by the rope, he saw some strands sweep down the channel, all bloodied. To him . . . it seemed certain Grettir must be dead.” These unidentified “strands” are clearly the misinformed perspective of an outsider—who, as in the barrow scene, flees when Grettir’s victory is all but certain. 35 “Grettir kafaði undir forsinn, ok var þat torvelt, því at iða var mikil, ok varð hann allt til grunns at kafa, áðr en hann kœmisk upp undir forsinn. Þar var forberg nǫkkut, ok komsk hann inn þar upp á. Þar var hellir mikill undir forsinum, ok fell áin fram af berginu. Hann gekk þá inn í hellinn, ok var þar eldr mikill á brǫndum” (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 215); “Grettir swam under the waterfall, which was difficult because of the strong whirlpool, and had to dive all the way along the bottom before he could come up on the other side. There was a large outcropping, which he climbed up. There was a huge cave under the waterfall where the river fell from the cliff. He went into the cave, where a great log fire burned.”

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36 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 215. “That an enormous giant sat there. He was terrifying to behold.” 37 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 215, emphasis added. “When Grettir came at him, the giant leapt up, grabbed a pike, and swung at he who had arrived.” 38 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 215. “Because [with the pike one] could both strike and stab. It had a wooden handle. Men called it a heptisax back then when it was made that way.” 39 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 119, emphasis added. “And when it was maybe a third of the way through the night, Grettir heard great noises outside; then was traveled up onto the house and ridden the hall and kicked with the heels so that it creaked in every timber. This went on for a long time. Then was traveled off of the house and gone to the door, and when was opened up the door, Grettir saw that the revenant stuck its head in, and it seemed to him hideously large and extraordinarily distended.” 40 Although the image of sitting astride the roof and kicking one’s heels may seem too specific to be focalized through a character who can only hear what is happening, this is typical revenant behavior in the Old Icelandic world; Grettir would therefore be perfectly capable of imagining the specific activity producing these sounds. 41 In fact, the impersonal passive seems characteristic of the roof-riding revenant motif in the sagas. After the death of Þórólfr bægifótr in Eyrbyggja saga, for example, “urðu menn ok þess varir, at opt var riðit skálanum” (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds., Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr, Íslenzk fornrit 4 [Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935], 93, emphasis added); “People also became aware that frequently was ridden the hall.” 42 Dean Swinford, “Form and Representation in Beowulf and Grettis saga,” Neophilogus 86 (2002): 613–20. 43 Swinford, “Form and Representation in Beowulf and Grettis saga,” 617. 44 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 120, emphasis added. “Glámr saw some pile lying on the bench, moved into the hall, and tugged hard on the end of the cloak. Grettir braced himself against the footboard and didn’t move. Glámr pulled again much harder but the cloak didn’t budge. The third time, he tugged with both hands so hard that he sat Grettir up on the bench; they tore the cloak asunder between them. Glámr looked at the strip he held and was astonished that someone could pull so hard against him.” 45 Glámr first appears three chapters earlier as a living man eventually killed by a meinvættr, or evil being, only to become an even more powerful monster himself. The living Glámr is characterized through direct, indirect, and referred-to speech as well as description, but never thought report (Chafe, Discourse, Consciousness, and Time). Up until this moment, the undead Glámr is even less accessible to the reader, as he is mostly visible by the trail of corpses left in his wake. 46 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 121. “[Glámr] fell out of the house onto his back with Grettir on top of him. The moonlight outside was strong and framed by thick clouds; they covered and uncovered it in turns. As Glámr fell, the clouds drifted away from the moon and Glámr glowered up at it. Grettir himself has said that this is the only sight that ever rattled him.” 47 Vésteinn Ólason, Dialogues with the Viking Age: Narration and Representation in the Sagas of Icelanders, trans. Andrew Wawn (Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1998), 96.

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48 Leonard Talmy, “A Cognitive Framework for Narrative Structure,” in Typology and Processes in Concept Structuring, vol. 2 of Toward a Cognitive Semantics (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2003), 417–82. 49 Average scope denotes a human scale (e.g., a basic description of a room), and macro scope denotes a larger-than-human scale (e.g., a sweeping overview of a landscape); see Talmy, “A Cognitive Framework for Narrative Structure.” 50 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 121. “He then went so limp—not only from exhaustion, but also because he saw Glámr leering at him—that he couldn’t move his sword and lay there between life and death.” 51 See, e.g., Sveinbjörn Egilsson, Lexicon Poeticum: Antiquæ Linguæ Septentrionalis, ed. Finnur Jónsson (Copenhagen: S. L. Møllers Bogtrykkeri, 1931). 52 It should be noted, as Torfi H. Tulinius has done, that the image of Glámr peering at the moon is focalized through Grettir; internal focalization is not exclusive to Glámr at the end of the battle. However, this reading disagrees that “the narrative becomes increasingly focalized on Grettir” (Torfi H. Tulinius, “Returning Fathers: Sagas, Novels, and the Uncanny,” Scandinavian-Canadian Studies/Études Scandinaves au Canada 21 [2012–2013]: 10) in this scene, especially as the doubled image of the moon Grettir cannot see is so descriptively dominant. 53 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 121. “This I lay upon you: that these eyes will always be before your sight, and that this will make it difficult for you to be alone, and that will lead you to death.” 54 More accurately, this is a “topological strangeness” (Bundgaard, “Significant Deviations”) in which the “speaking voice,” as yet unidentified, is temporally displaced from the rest of the scene. 55 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 123. “lent Glámr’s eyes, or given ‘Glámr’s sight,’ much appears a different way than it is.” 56 Noël Carroll, The Philosophy of Horror, or Paradoxes of the Heart (London: Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2004), Kindle edition. 57 This is not to suggest that Grettis saga belongs to the horror genre, but rather to recognize that Carroll’s criteria are relevant to the scene’s horrific potential. According to Carroll, the production of art-horror requires a spatially alien, categorically interstitial monster of paranormal or science-fiction origin that is both threatening and disgusting and that elicits a horror reaction from the text’s human characters. Both revenants in Grettis saga qualify, as they are paranormal monsters, neither living nor dead, which live beyond human borders, frighten and attack their human neighbors, and are said to stink and repulse. Moreover, because Carroll states that it is not events but monsters which engender horror, the fact that Glámr curses Grettir is not grounds for arguing why he is more frightening than Kárr. 58 Sigmund Freud, The Uncanny, trans. David McLintock (London: Penguin Books), 124. 59 Note that Jasia Reichardt, Robots: Fact, Fiction and Prediction (London: Thames & Hudson Limited, 1978) supplied Mori’s phenomenon with the name “the uncanny valley” by drawing on Freud. 60 Masahiro Mori, “The Uncanny Valley,” trans. Karl F. MacDorman and Norri Kageki, IEEE Robotics & Automation Magazine, 2012, 98–100. 61 For example, research has been conducted on how best to utilize the uncanny valley in the production of horror video games (Tinwell and Grimshaw 2010). 62 Karl F. MacDorman and Hiroshi Ishiguro, “The Uncanny Advantage of Using Androids in Cognitive Science Research,” 7, no. 3 (2006): 297–337; Angela Tinwell et al., “Facial Expression

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of Emotion and Perception of the Uncanny Valley in Virtual Characters,” Computers in Human Behavior 27, no. 2 (2011): 741–49. 63 Shawn A. Steckenfinger and Asif A. Ghazanfar, “Monkey Visual Behavior Falls into the Uncanny Valley,” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 106, no. 43 (2009): 18362–66. 64 MacDorman and Ishiguro, “The Uncanny Advantage of Using Androids in Cognitive Science Research.” 65 Indeed, the results of a study conducted with fMRI machines indicate that when the human brain responds to uncannily human robots, a neurological conflict occurs in the processing of visual information (Ayse Pinar Saygin et al., “The Thing That Should Not Be: Predictive Coding and the Uncanny Valley in Perceiving Human and Humanoid Robot Actions,” Social Cognitive Affective Neuroscience 6, no. 4 [2011]: 413–22). 66 At least, I have not seen it studied outside of this context. 67 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 112. “Black as hell and big as an ox.” 68 For more on Grettir as a monstrous figure, see, e.g., Kathryn Hume, “The Thematic Design of Grettis saga,” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 73 (1974): 469–86; Janice Hawes, “The Monstrosity of Heroism: Grettir Ásmundarson as an Outsider,” Scandinavian Studies 80 (2008): 19–50; Rebecca Merkelbach, “Monstrous Families, Familiar Monsters: On the Use of Stories about Outlaw Heroes in the Íslendingasögur” (Miðaldastofa Háskóla Íslands, University of Iceland, Reykjavík, March 26, 2015). 69 Hume argues that the reason indigenous monsters like Glámr make more effective monsters is in part because of their familiarity, for “little or no inner tension can develop in an audience that has no expectations” (Hume, “From Saga to Romance,” 15). However, Hermann Pálsson argues that Glámr is a foreign loan. If Hermann is correct, then perhaps we can argue that Glámr’s narratological resemblance to Grettir is what in fact provides his unsettling familiarity. 70 As Ármann Jakobsson points out, Glámr becomes a revenant when he is infected by an evil being—and is presumably capable of passing this infection on to Grettir (Ármann Jakobsson, “The Fearless Vampire Killers”).

Bibliography Andersson, Theodore M. “From Tradition to Literature in the Sagas.” In Oral Art Forms and their Passage into Writing, edited by Elsie Mundal and Jonas Wellendorf, 7–17. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 2008. Ármann Jakobsson. “The Fearless Vampire Killers: A Note about the Icelandic Draugr and Demonic Contamination in Grettis saga.” Folklore 120, no. 3 (2009): 307–16. Ármann Jakobsson. “Where Do the Giants Live?” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 121 (2006): 101–12. Barraclough, Eleanor. “Inside Outlawry in Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar and Gísla saga Súrssonar: Landscape in the Outlaw Sagas.” Scandinavian Studies 82 (2010): 365–88. Bundgaard, Peer F. “Means of Meaning-Making in Literary Art: Focalization, Mode of Narration, and Granularity.” Acta Linguistica Hafniensia 45, no. 1 (2008): 68–84. Bundgaard, Peer F. “Significant Deviations: Strange Uses of Voice are One among Other Means of Meaning Making.” In Strange Voices in Narrative Fiction, edited by Per Krogh Hansen, Stefan Iversen, and Henrik Skov Nielsen, 83–100. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2011.

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Carroll, Noël. The Philosophy of Horror, or Paradoxes of the Heart. London: Taylor & Francis eLibrary, 2004. Kindle edition. Casey, Edward S. “Between Geography and Philosophy: What Does It Mean to Be in the PlaceWorld?” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 91, no. 4 (2001): 683–93. Chafe, Wallace L. Discourse, Consciousness, and Time: The Flow and Displacement of Conscious Experience in Speaking and Writing. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 1994. Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome. “Monster Culture (Seven Theses).” In Cohen, Monster Theory, 3–25. Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome, ed. Monster Theory: Reading Culture. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Cook, Robert. “The Reader in Grettis Saga.” Saga-Book 21 (1985): 133–54. Cresswell, Tim. “Weeds, Plagues, and Bodily Secretions: A Geographical Interpretation of Metaphors of Displacement.” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 87, no. 2 (1997): 330–45. Damico, Helen. “Dystopic Conditions of the Mind: Toward a Study of Landscape in Grettissaga.” In Geardagum: Essays on Old English Language and Literature 7 (1986): 1–15. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds. Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr. Íslenzk fornrit 4. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935. Eriksen, Sarah Bienko. “Traversing the Uncanny Valley: Monstrosity in the Narrative and Narratological Spaces of Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar.” Master’s thesis, University of Iceland, 2015. Faulkes, Anthony, trans. “Skáldskaparmál.” In The Uppsala Edda, 124–249. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2012. Freud, Sigmund. The Uncanny. Translated by David McLintock. London: Penguin Books, year? Friend, Stacie. “Fiction as a Genre.” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 112, no. 2 (2012): 179–209. Genette, Gérard. Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method. Oxford: Blackwell, 1980. Guðni Jónsson, ed. Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar. Íslenzk fornrit 7. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936. Hastrup, Kirsten. “Cosmology and Society in Medieval Iceland: A Social-Anthropological Perspective on World-View.” Ethnologia Scandinavica 11 (1981): 63–78. Hastrup, Kirsten. Island of Anthropology: Studies of Past and Present Iceland. The Viking Collection 5. Odense: Odense University Press, 1990. Hawes, Janice. “The Monstrosity of Heroism: Grettir Ásmundarson as an Outsider.” Scandinavian Studies 80 (2008): 19–50. Hermann Pálsson. “Glámsýni í Grettlu.” Gripla 4 (1980): 95–101. Hume, Kathryn. “From Saga to Romance: The Use of Monsters in Old Norse Literature.” Studies in Philology 77, no. 1 (1980): 1–25. Hume, Kathryn. “The Thematic Design of Grettis saga.” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 73 (1974): 469–86. Ingold, Tim. Being Alive: Essays on Movement, Knowledge, and Description. New York: Routledge, 2001. MacDorman, Karl F., and Hiroshi Ishiguro. “The Uncanny Advantage of Using Androids in Cognitive Science Research.” 7, no. 3 (2006): 297–337.

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Malone, Jacob Andrew. “Vessel and Voice: A Cognitive Semiotic Approach to the Prophetic Voice of Vǫluspá.” Master’s thesis, University of Iceland, 2015. McTurk, Rory. “The Supernatural in Njáls saga: A Narratological Approach.” Saga-Book 23 (1993): 28–45. Meletinskij, Eleazar. “Scandinavian Mythology as a System, Pt. 1.” Journal of Symbolic Anthropology 1 (1973): 43–58. Meletinskij, Eleazar. “Scandinavian Mythology as a System, Pt. 2.” Journal of Symbolic Anthropology 2 (1974): 57–78. Merkelbach, Rebecca. “Monstrous Families, Familiar Monsters: On the Use of Stories about Outlaw Heroes in the Íslendingasögur.” Miðaldastofa Háskóla Íslands, University of Iceland, Reykjavík, March 26, 2015. Mori, Masahiro. “The Uncanny Valley.” Translated by Karl F. MacDorman and Norri Kageki. IEEE Robotics & Automation Magazine, 2012, 98–100. Reichardt, Jasia. Robots: Fact, Fiction and Prediction. London: Thames & Hudson Limited, 1978. Ross, Margaret Clunies. Prolonged Echoes. Vol. 1. Odense: Odense University Press, 1994. Sayers, William. “The Alien and the Alienated as Unquiet Dead in the Sagas of the Icelanders.” In Cohen, Monster Theory, 242–63. Saygin, Ayse Pinar, Thierry Chaminade, Hiroshi Ishiguro, John Driver, and Chris Frith. “The Thing That Should Not Be: Predictive Coding and the Uncanny Valley in Perceiving Human and Humanoid Robot Actions.” Social Cognitive Affective Neuroscience 6, no. 4 (2011): 413–22. Schjødt, Jens Peter. “Kosmologimodeller og mytekredse.” In Ordning mot kaos: Studier av nordisk förkristen kosmologi, edited by Anders Andrén, Kristina Jennbert, and Catharina Raudvere, 123–33. Lund: Nordic Academic Press / Svenska historiska media, 2004. Spearing, A. C. Textual Subjectivity: The Encoding of Subjectivity in Medieval Narratives and Lyrics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. Stanzel, Franz K. “Teller-Characters and Reflector-Characters in Narrative Theory.” Poetics Today 2, no. 2 (1981): 5–15. Steckenfinger, Shawn A., and Asif A. Ghazanfar. “Monkey Visual Behavior Falls into the Uncanny Valley.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 106, no. 43 (2009): 18362–66. Sveinbjörn Egilsson. Lexicon Poeticum: Antiquæ Linguæ Septentrionalis. Edited by Finnur Jónsson. Copenhagen: S. L. Møllers Bogtrykkeri, 1931. Swinford, Dean. “Form and Representation in Beowulf and Grettis saga.” Neophilogus 86 (2002): 613–20. Sävborg, Daniel. “Style.” In The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, edited by Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson, 111–26. New York: Routledge, 2017. Talmy, Leonard. “A Cognitive Framework for Narrative Structure.” In Typology and Processes in Concept Structuring, vol. 2 of Toward a Cognitive Semantics, 417–82. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2003. Tinwell, Angela, Mark Grimshaw, Debbie Abdel Nabi, and Andrew Williams. “Facial Expression of Emotion and Perception of the Uncanny Valley in Virtual Characters.” Computers in Human Behavior 27, no. 2 (2011): 741–49. Torfi H. Tulinius. “Returning Fathers: Sagas, Novels, and the Uncanny.” ScandinavianCanadian Studies/Études Scandinaves au Canada 21 (2012–2013): 18–39. Tuan, Yi-Fu. Landscapes of Fear. New York: Pantheon Books, 1979. Kindle edition.

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Vésteinn Ólason. Dialogues with the Viking Age: Narration and Representation in the Sagas of Icelanders. Translated by Andrew Wawn. Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1998. Østergaard, Svend, and Peer F. Bundgaard. “The Double Feedback Loop and the Parameter Theory of Text Genres.” In Reflections upon Genre: Encounters between Literature, Knowledge, and Emerging Communicative Conventions, edited by Jan Engberg, 11–39. Tübingen: Narr Francke Attempto, 2014.

Anna Katharina Heiniger

On the Threshold: The Liminality of Doorways Abstract: This article explores how the anthropological concept of liminality can be applied to the corpus of the Íslendingasögur and how this unprecedented, interdisciplinary discussion contributes to the understanding of the sagas themselves, both regarding their interpretation as well as their narrative structure. The analysis focusses on episodes that take place at a threshold, the symbol of liminality.

Introduction This article provides an introduction to the definition of liminality as put forward by Arnold van Gennep (1873–1957) and Victor Turner (1920–83). This is followed by an analysis of two crucial events in Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar (abbr. GS) and Eyrbyggja saga (abbr. EbS) that frame a liminal time period in both sagas. In each saga, the events discussed (fights and the dyradómr, respec1 tively) revolve around a door, the very epitome of liminality. Within Old Norse studies, liminality has only received increased interest during the past few years. Accordingly, relatively few publications deal exclusively and intensively with the topic. With regard to the corpus of the Íslendingasögur, this problem might partly have its roots in the fact that neither van Gennep’s nor Turner’s understanding of liminality can be applied directly and in unmodified form to the sagas. Nevertheless, an analysis from the perspective of liminality can give interesting insights to and lead towards a more nuanced understanding of individual sagas or even of saga literature in general. When undertaking research on liminality it is important to keep in mind that liminality is a modern concept that does not have an equivalent in medieval culture. Hence, all models and interpretations in the context of liminality are assumptions, which can be argued for or argued against to a greater or lesser extent. An accurate reconstruction of what the (historical) Norsemen might have perceived as liminality, however, is almost impossible.

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Arnold van Gennep and Victor Turner on Liminality Within society, an individual assumes various roles and statuses throughout life. While having a certain status is a fairly safe condition, assuming a new status is often considered a dangerous crisis situation. Countless (traditional) societies have thus developed rites that accompany these changes, and in his famous monograph Les rites de passage (1909), Arnold van Gennep terms them rites of passage. They safeguard a ritual subject when passing from one social status or role into a new, often structurally higher, and more prestigious position. Although different in nature,2 examples of such crises or transitions include when a woman becomes a mother (for the first time), when a boy becomes a man and/or a warrior, or when a person assumes office as a leader of a community. Van Gennep visualizes the concept of rites of passage by comparing society to a house.3 The individual rooms represent various social (sub)groups and statuses, and throughout life a person moves through a various number of these rooms. The basis of all rites of passage is thus a physical, territorial journey consisting of the threefold sequence of rites of separation, transition rites, and rites of incorporation. The rites of separation isolate ritual subjects from4 their former groups and lead them into the middle phase of the passage rites. During the ensuing rite of transition ritual subjects are caught between the pre-ritual and post-ritual category without clearly belonging to either: they are no longer part of their previous group but have not yet properly attained their new status. Van Gennep names this ambiguous state of in-betweenness liminality. Inspired by the image of the territorial passage within the house, van Gennep conceives of the transition phase as a (figurative) threshold and thus bases his neologism liminality on the Latin term limen (liminis, nt.), which translates as ‘threshold, barrier, beam’: “Precisely: the door is the boundary between the foreign and domestic worlds . . . Therefore to cross the threshold is to unite oneself with a new world.”5 While caught in the transitional phase, ritual subjects are often considered invisible or dead and not yet reborn. During this time, the ritual subjects are prepared for becoming full and adequate members of the new group that they are about to join. Only when the ritual subjects have satisfactorily completed all preparations—which occur as part of the liminal phase, the rites of incorporation—do they safely assume their new social role, position, or status. In the 1960s, the liminal phase became of great interest to the Scottish anthropologist Victor W. Turner (1920–1983). In contrast to van Gennep—who defines liminality solely as the mid-phase in passage rites—Turner considers liminality to

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be an inter-structural situation, the famous and, that occurs in any transitional period between two stable, structural states.6 In this context Turner emphasizes that society is not a rigid, static structure but rather a system that is in constant flux and undergoes continuous changes. However, these changes can only take place if there is not only structure but also a second force at play. He thus introduces the concept of anti-structure as a complementary force that engages in a constant dialectical process with structure and so contributes to society’s flexible shape. Although mutually exclusive, structure and anti-structure form “an essential and generic human bond, without which there could be no society.”7 According to Turner, structure,8 which is coterminous with daily life, is characterized and organized first and foremost by a clear cut hierarchy that involves the presence and general acceptance of heterogeneity and inequality, as expressed through names, ranks, titles, status distinctions, etc. During any one phase of life, an individual participates in several differently oriented groups and institutions, and it is the collective sum of all these groups that amounts to a whole personality. Anti-structure, on the other hand, is the realm of “the unbounded, the infinite, the limitless,”9 and hence it is mainly characterized by a complete lack of structural features. Unfortunately, Turner is neither very clear nor very consistent when it comes to the definition and differentiation of the terms antistructure, communitas, and liminality. While communitas is a social modality and denotes the homogeneous, coequal relationship among the (ritual) subjects, liminality refers exclusively to the transitional mid-phase of rites of passage. All three key concepts share the fate of terminability, since none of them can manifest itself and become a stable condition. Eventually they all have to give way to structure and heterogeneity. Turner repeatedly emphasizes the ambiguity and paradox of liminality. The liminal subjects are suspended between two structural positions, belonging neither to their former state nor yet to the next. They remain a part of both: “The coincidence of opposite processes and notions in a single representation characterizes the peculiar unity of the liminal: that which is neither this nor that, and yet is both.”10 So, liminality ultimately expresses a temporary undefined identity that is in the process of reaching and developing a new shape. As early as his PhD thesis, Schism and Continuity in an African Society: A Study of Ndembu Village Life (1957),11 Victor Turner describes the concept of the social drama, which includes the notions of structure, liminality, and anti-structure. While acknowledging variations of the basic pattern, he claims “that the social drama is a well-nigh universal processual form and represents

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a perpetual challenge to all aspirations to perfection in social and political organization.”12 The social drama consists of four phases, and the whole process is triggered by a breach—the first phase—that mostly encompasses “the infraction of a rule of morality, law, custom, or etiquette, in some public arena.”13 This infringement knocks a community’s equilibrium out of balance. During the second phase, the situation worsens, and the breach possibly still expands. In order to limit the social gap, adjustive and corrective mechanisms come into play that seek to solve the conflict and restore the equilibrium during the third phase. The major task of the corrective phase is to spot and clarify aspects that were insufficiently defined prior to the crisis and thus caused the breach. Because of these indeterminate aspects, the corrective phase of the social drama is associated with liminality or with the transitional phase in rites of passage, respectively. It is this period that offers a platform to shape and steer the outcome of the ongoing process, a key period of transition and (re-)creation. The fourth and final phase of the social drama does not necessarily result in a happy ending. Turner sketches two possible outcomes: either the former equilibrium is restored, or the community accepts that the social drama has caused an “irreparable breach”14 that forces the community to come up with a new structure and organization.

Difficulties when Applying the Concept of Liminality onto the Old Norse Corpus At first glance, liminality appears to be a fairly straightforward concept that describes a non-structural state. On closer inspection, however, the concept proves intricate and elusive, especially when trying to pinpoint and analyze it in order to develop a tool that can be transferred to data sets other than anthropological ones. Given liminality’s evasiveness, a careful modification of the concept must take the nature and context of the target texts into account. Despite liminality’s alleged universal character, it is necessary to consider how the concept can be modified to be fruitfully applied to Old Norse literary studies. Especially with regard to temporal distance and context differences, the gaps between liminality’s original anthropological context and medieval (fictional) literature are manifold and considerable. While liminality is a scholarly term and concept that was defined and developed within twentieth-century anthropology and was first and foremost applied to real-life data (i.e., to ethnographic field

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work), the Old Norse Íslendingasögur constitute a completely different corpus. Not only do they date back to the thirteenth to fifteenth centuries, but they are also examples of literary fiction. Unfortunately, the problematic applicability of this term has often been neglected by scholars in Old Norse literary studies, which has resulted in studies based on insufficient definitions of liminality and confusion over how it is to be defined. As a consequence both a suggestion on how to adapt liminality for the field as well as a systematic and comprehensive study of liminality in the sagas are still lacking.15 Due to its comparatively marginal role, the understanding of the concept and its particular usage remain in most cases insufficiently defined.16 It is often unclear what exactly the scholars understand by liminality—i.e., whether they agree with van Gennep or Turner, or whether they build on a different or adapted understanding of liminality. Such individual usage may suit single studies, but it neither allows for nor leads to a more overarching conceptualization that could be applied on a much broader scale in the field. While these intricacies are of a more general and theoretical nature, a more immediate methodological problem arises when it comes to the concept’s adaptation to saga literature: both van Gennep and Turner developed their understanding of liminality by analyzing single phases or constituents of rituals. When examining the sagas, however, it soon becomes apparent that they do not offer depictions of rituals. Indeed these narratives are unexpectedly tacit regarding ritualistic events and actions. Several scholars—among others Clunies Ross17 and Schjødt18—have pointed to the lack of ritual depictions in Old Norse literature: “transitional or initiation rituals, which we can find in all religions, are . . . not described in any early Scandinavian text in a way that gives us a detailed picture of the sequence of the ritual.”19 With regard to saga literature in particular, Terry Gunnell notes that “the sagas can hardly be regarded as presenting a comprehensive overview of social behaviour,”20 which includes ritual actions. This characteristic trait of the sagas, however, should not be considered a deficit, as they are not ethnographic texts. Despite their deceivingly realistic style, the sagas do not aspire to provide a window into the past for modern readers. As the approach to liminality through ritual actions is barred to us, scholars have opted to address the topic by looking at places where rites of passage could potentially take place; in the present study, this will be thresholds and doorways. Neither van Gennep nor Turner provide any help in this matter because neither of them establishes or defines a specific kind of place that is genuinely liminal. Van Gennep is an ardent advocate of the relativity of the sacred, “the pivoting of the sacred.”21 The sacred is a quality

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that depends on context and can only evolve and be determined for a specific situation. Thus, the sacred is not a stable quality, neither temporally nor spatially. Although liminality and the sacred stand in an ambiguous relationship,22 they both have aspects of relativity and temporality. Victor Turner for his part writes: “I have tried to eschew the notion that communitas [i.e., liminal phase] has a specific territorial locus.”23 Therefore, liminality is not bound to specific locations but can appear at any place, for its emergence depends entirely on social actions. As no predefined set of the features of liminal places is available, the most basic liminal qualities that are put forward in this study are selected from van Gennep and Turner and applied to the material at hand. Combing through the works of van Gennep and Turner to compile a set of the most central characteristics of liminality, seven qualities can be identified. Neither scholar, lists these features as a fixed set of what qualifies liminality. The seven selected qualities encompass the characteristics of liminality that are referred to the most.24 Thus, in a liminal phase: 1. interactions and events mostly occur in remote places or at locations that are spatially segregated from the daily environment; 2. normal daily life is temporarily suspended because liminal activities unfold outside of the social structure; 3. a sense of otherness25—which encompasses supernatural and magical elements—intrudes and/or predominates; 4. the liminal subject is treated as invisible or dead; 5. a figure undergoes some sort of change or transformation, and this is often triggered deliberately; 6. paradoxes and ambiguities emphasize the state of in-betweenness and express that the liminal (ritual) subject falls between categories, or rather belongs simultaneously to more than one category; 7. and whatever has been achieved through a liminal phase is irreversible— i.e., the pre-ritual state can never be reached again. Analyzing a selection of episodes revolving around, or at least in the vicinity of, doors and thresholds on the basis of the seven criteria will show where and how modifications for further research on liminal space are required. In addition, it is also necessary to query whether all the criteria have to be met for a place to be liminal, whether a place is genuinely liminal, or rather in what situations a place is associated with or evokes a liminal situation.

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The Liminal Potential of Thresholds and Doors My discussion is probably best initiated by focusing on the epitome of liminal places, namely the threshold. Arnold van Gennep was by no means the first to note the symbolic importance of thresholds and with it that of doors and doorways. Many scholars before and after van Gennep have pointed out the importance of these architectural elements: Door and threshold are deep metaphors in almost all sedentary cultures and languages of the world—to paraphrase Lakoff and Johnson (1980), they constitute metaphors we live by. The near-universal metaphorical significance of the door, while impossible to date, probably developed early in human history, because of the door’s vital role as a border between the inside and outside of inhabited space.26

In her relevant and comprehensive article on doors and doorways, Marianne Eriksen points out that a doorway is “simultaneously a place and a non-place.”27 It is a non-place to the extent that it can both hinder and promote movement. The doorway acts as a (transitional) place if it is considered to be a space of its own. Consequently, passing through a doorway triggers the most different perceptions and experiences in the person who passes through it: “In short, the power of the doorway lies in its ability to effect and affect our embodied, sensory experience of space and relations.”28 Indirectly echoing van Gennep’s pivoting of the sacred, Eriksen further adds that “this does not imply that each and every crossing of a threshold constitutes a liminal ritual—but rather that passing through a doorway is an embodied everyday experience prompting numerous social and metaphorical implications.”29

Fights in the Doorway in Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar Grettis saga Ásmundarson presents two scenes that emphasize the door as an important barrier, separating familiar and protected indoor space from dangerous and unpredictable outdoor space. In chapter 35, Grettir fights the revenant Glámr. In chapters 64 and 65, he fights the tröllkona (trollwoman) at Sandhaugar. The utterly violent revenant Glámr has not only been riding the houses but also breaking down doors at the farm of Þórhallsstaðir when Grettir arrives: “Duraumbúningrinn allr var frá brotinn útidurunum, en nú var þar fyrir bundinn hurðarflaki ok óvendiliga um búit.”30 The following night, Glámr launches another attack on the farmhouse. As soon as Glámr and Grettir start fighting, Glámr tries to

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pull Grettir out of the house, but Grettir does his utmost to resist because he anticipates that this change of scenery would be to his detriment.31 But because Glámr is so strong, he manages to drag Grettir into the entrance hall, a liminal space which is neither completely inside nor completely outside and therefore essentially a space of transition. Grettir struggles against Glámr with all his might and tries to overcome the revenant by pushing himself against a stone close to the door frame: “Hann [Grettir] hleypr sem harðast í fang þrælnum [Glámi] ok spyrnir báðum fótum í jarðfastan stein, er stóð í durunum.”32 Despite all his efforts, Grettir cannot keep himself indoors. He is dragged out of the house, falls, and lands on Glámr who has fallen backwards and thereby smashed the doorframe. The fierce fight continues outside, until the moon peeks through the clouds and Glámr curses Grettir, where upon Grettir kills the revenant in one last energy-draining effort. Much later in the saga, Grettir enters a similar fight against a highly aggressive and dangerous tröllkona who has repeatedly attacked the farm of Sandhaugar. Again, Grettir thinks that he has never fought such a strong beast.33 Like Glámr, the tröllkona soon hauls Grettir out of the house: “Hon dró hann fram yfir dyrrnar ok svá í anddyrit; þar tók hann fast í móti. Hon vildi draga hann út ór bœnum, en þat varð eigi, fyrr en þau leystu frá allan útiduraumbúninginn.”34 Not until the tröllkona has towed him to the edge of the nearby cliffs can Grettir launch a counterattack and manage to toss her down the gorge. The similarities between the two fight scenes are striking and call for further consideration. In both cases it can be assumed that the door is a parting element and therefore passing through it significantly affects the action and the power balance between the two fighters. Both times it is stated clearly that Grettir would rather fight indoors—in the protected area of the home, civilization, and human domination. The intruders appear especially vicious as they enter the safe space of the home and thus violate the inhabitants’ sense of shelter and invulnerability.35 When fighting the supernatural invaders, Grettir soon realizes that he stands a chance only as long as they are fighting indoors. The saga thus describes the strenuous fight in the transitional antechamber and in the vicinity of the door in a comparatively detailed fashion. Although Grettir defends himself with all his might, he is pulled outside into the chaotic part of the world where his adversaries have their origins. Interestingly, neither Glámr nor the trollwoman can (physically) overcome Grettir, in spite of their more advantageous position outdoors. Grettir triumphs, however both times barely escaping with his life. Regarding the seven liminal qualities, the fight against Glámr features four of these characteristics, namely otherness, change, irreversibility, and paradoxes/ambiguities. An element of ambiguity enters the scene because of the famous statement that Grettir “lá náliga í milli heims ok heljar.”36 The fight with

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the trollkona, on the other hand, is comparatively straightforward and features merely three liminal qualities, namely otherness, change, and irreversibility. In light of the relatively few matches with the seven characteristics, neither fight scene proves to be highly liminal. Nonetheless, the two scenes are closely interlinked and pivotal in the saga narrative. Considering both scenes in the context of the whole saga, it is striking that the remarkable events which deeply influence Grettir and which in turn characterize the saga happen between these two þreskǫldr-incidents. Prior to the fight with Glámr, Grettir pursues the life of a typical saga hero: he gets involved in skirmishes, travels abroad, and fights beasts of all sorts. It is the fight with Glámr that is decisive and changes Grettir’s fate for good: Grettir is accused of having killed the sons of Þórir í Garði (chap. 38); the ordeal in front of King Óláfr fails (chap. 39); Grettir’s father dies (chap. 42); Grettir’s brother Atli gets killed, and Grettir avenges him (chap. 45 and 48); Grettir is outlawed at the Alþingi although he is not present (chap. 46); Þorbjǫrg in digra saves Grettir from being hanged (chap. 52); Grettir meets Hallmundr (chap. 54 and 57); Grettir spends some time on Arnarvatnsheiði (chap. 55), and later on moves to Þórisdalr for a while (chap. 61). After having fought the two trolls at Sandhaugar (chap. 65–67), Grettis saga ends rather quickly but not nearly in such a spectacular and fastpaced fashion as in the previous narrative strands: Grettir retreats to Drangey, makes his appearance at the Hegranessþing, and is killed soon after. Interestingly, both big fights happen in the context of the Christian Yule festivities. This is no mere coincidence but rather an expression of the religious struggle that repeatedly surfaces in Grettir’s biography: while the Glámr episode (chap. 32) is dominated by (sinister) pagan forces, Christian values prevail in the Sandhaugar episode (chap. 64–65). Between the two parallel fight scenes, Grettir appears as a restless figure hovering “milli heims ok heljar.” He is driven by two disparate forces, namely his (legal) adversaries and Glámr’s curse. Grettir’s restlessness eventually also results in spacelessness since he is not given the privilege to stay at any one place for a longer period of time. But as soon as he is pronounced an outlaw, the curse and the verdict alternately force Grettir to be on the run; either he has to escape his fears or his foes.37 In Grettis saga, the whole time of Grettir’s outlawry is neither equally important for nor equally characteristic of the saga narrative. Encompassing the alldecisive and most characteristic events, the actual kernel of the saga lies between the two prominent fight scenes. On the level of the saga’s structure and considering the phases of liminality and the effect of the curse as a whole, the aforementioned two doors seem to disappear and lose their importance. Yet, the fight scenes in the doorway remain significant to the plot. Although neither proves to be highly liminal, the doors still mark the beginning and the end of Grettir’s most

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troublesome and liminal time period, a period packed with the exciting episodes that Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar is known for in the first place.

Two Instances of a dyradómr (Door-Court) Two further instances of prominently featuring doors are the examples of the dyradómr (“door-court”) in Eyrbyggja saga. The dyradómr is a unique juridical institution found in Old Norse culture. Unfortunately, neither literary nor legal sources reveal much about its nature and structure. It can be gathered, however, that the dyradómr is a mostly spontaneously summoned private court, which has full legal efficaciousness despite the exclusion of public authority.38 The plaintiff has to present the accusation at the door of the defendant, and an assembly of men deliver the judgement on the spot, or more precisely on the threshold, on the limen. Scholars agree that the dyradómr as it is represented in the sagas was a relic and most likely no longer in practice at the time the sagas were written down: “Möglicherweise bewahrt die Saga hier die Erinnerung an eine Einrichtung, die im Rechtsleben der späteren Freistaatzeit, vor allem im 13. Jahrhundert, nur noch geringe Bedeutung hatte.”39 Unfortunately, the preserved evidence of dyradómr is very scarce, in fact the saga corpus features only two examples40 that are to be found in Eyrbyggja saga (chap. 18 and 55). In chapter 18, Þorbjǫrn digri of Fróðá suspects Þórarinn svarti of Mávahlíð of having stolen his horses. With a couple of men, Þorbjǫrn rides to Mávahlíð and wants to conduct a house search, which he is not granted. The accuser then convokes a door-court and publicly charges Þórarinn of the horse theft. Eptir þetta reið Þorbjǫrn heiman við tólfta mann. . . . Síðan fóru þeir í Mávahlíð, ok var Þórarinn ok heimamenn í durum úti, er þeir sá mannferðina; þeir kvǫddu Þorbjǫrn ok spurðu tíðenda. Síðan mælti Þorbjǫrn: “Þat er várt ørendi hingat, Þórarinn,” segir hann, “at vér leitum eptir hrossum þeim, er stolin váru frá mér í haust; vilju vér hér beiða rannsóknar hjá yðr.” . . . Eptir þat setti Þorbjǫrn duradóm og nefndi sex menn í dóm; síðan sagði Þorbjǫrn fram sǫkina á hendr Þórarni um hrossatǫkuna.41

It is rather unfortunate for the modern reader that the preparations for the dyradómr are dropped as, triggered by an insult, a fight between the two parties ensues. Thus, the episode only confirms, or at least suggests, that the dyradómr lives up to its name by being held at the door, but apart from that it does not shed light on the further proceedings of a dyradómr. Of much more interest, therefore, is the dyradómr in chapter 55. Throughout one winter, the farm at Fróðá is haunted by two groups of revenants. The first

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group includes people who all died rather mysteriously from an illness. They have turned into revenants and are headed by Þórir viðleggr. The other group, which is led by Þóroddr skattkaupandi, consists of men who drowned on a fishing trip and whose bodies have never been washed ashore. Both groups start making their appearance in the evening and intrude into the home space of Fróðá. They behave like living beings: upon entering the house, they wring out their wet clothes or brush the soil off their clothes, respectively. Then they make themselves comfortable at the fireplace, forcing the people to retreat to another room. Neither group of revenants is violent as such, but their persistent appearance scares the inhabitants nonetheless. When the Fróðá people are at loss what to do about these gatecrashers, Snorri goði suggests a dyradómr. Kjartan, Snorri’s nephew, and Þórðr kausi, Snorri’s son, then accuse the revenants of haunting the farm without permission and thus jeopardizing people’s lives and health. Without much ado, every revenant is individually sentenced and legally forced to leave the house for good. The revenants comment on the sentences, but they make their exit one by one through the door where the dyradómr is not held. Eptir þat [the burning of Þórgunna’s bed-hangings] stefndi Kjartan Þóri viðlegg, en Þórðr kausi Þóroddi bónda, um þat at þeir gengi þar um hýbýli ólofat ok firrði menn bæði lífi og heilsu; ǫllum var þeim stefnt er við eldinn sátu. Síðan var nefndr duradómr ok sagðar fram sakar ok farit at ǫllum málum sem á þingadómum; váru þar kviðir bornir, reifð mál og dœmd; en síðan er dómsorði var á lokit um Þóri viðlegg, stóð hann upp ok mælti: “Setit er nú, meðan sætt er.” Eptir þat gekk hann út þær dyrr, sem dómrinn var eigi fyrir settr. . . . Síðan gengu þeir Kjartan inn; bar prestr þá vígt vatn ok helga dóma um ǫll hús. Eptir um daginn syngr prestr tíðir allar ok messu hátíðliga, ok eptir þat tókusk af allar afturgǫngur at Fróðá ok reimleikar.42

This scene is remarkable for various reasons. Firstly, the episode reveals a bit more about what is required for a dyradómr to take place than the previous example: a complaint is put forward, witnesses make statements, the proceedings are summarised, and a sentence is pronounced. In order to underline its legal validity, the saga adds that everything happens “sem á þingadómum.” Above all, however, it is astounding—at least to a modern audience—that a legal institution is employed successfully to take action against revenants. One reason for this procedure has its roots in the concepts of the living corpse (lebender Leichnam) and the living dead (lebender Toter), respectively.43 According to Germanic traditions, the returning dead were granted ordinary juridical rights and treatment because the living dead were neither considered identical with the corpses, nor were they linked to any kind of concept of soul; instead, they were considered real and very similar to their living “predecessors.”44 This point of view led to “die Lehre vom rechtlichen Fortleben des Toten”45 that centers on the

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idea that the dead remain “ein belebter Körper mit ähnlichen Bedürfnissen, Trieben und Fähigkeiten wie vor dem Tode.”46 The dead can thus demand to be treated as full members of society, which is not least also expressed in the legal sphere.47 Consequently, a revenant can both file a lawsuit as well as be accused of an offence:48 “Wiedergänger, die sich im Diesseits ergehen, müssen sich den Gesetzen der Lebenden unterwerfen.”49 Therefore, the two revenant groups can be sentenced for going about the farm without permission and thus endangering people’s life and health. Despite the effectiveness of the pagan legal proceedings50 Kjartan and Þórðr kausi use Christian means to ensure that the farmhouse is both legally as well as spiritually a safe place again and that the revenants do not come back. Only after the priest has fulfilled his duties does the saga explicitly state that the appearance of revenants ceased for good.51 The threshold of the dyradómr, or rather the door that the revenants use when they leave, is simultaneously the symbolic threshold that the revenants have to pass over in order to get from the sphere of the living to the realm of the dead. Interestingly, though, the revenants do not leave through the door at which the dyradómr is held but instead through another door. Maurer argues that the dyradómr was most likely held at the so-called karldyrr (“men’s door”),53 which could serve as a setting for legal procedures.54 However, it is purely down to speculation whether the revenants actually leave through the women’s door. Klaus Böldl does not agree with considering the door as a “Übergangszone zwischen dieser und nächster Welt.”55 For him the dyradómr confirms, above all, the legal order and system. Arguing against the transition of the revenants as the core of the scene, Böldl insists on a more rational and down-to-earth interpretation: “Wie die anderen Isländersagas erzählt auch die Eyrb. von der Entstehung und Bewältigung von Krisen.”56 This statement echoes Turner’s social drama, a device that is designed to restore the social equilibrium. Indeed, both elements— the transition of the revenants and the re-establishment of the social and consequently legal order—are part of Eyrbyggja saga’s social drama, which culminates in this door-court scene. Accordingly, it is not God’s assistance but rather social factors that eventually terminate the Fróðárundr: “Nicht durch himmlischen Beistand, sondern durch den Einsatz sozialer, also intramundialer Kräfte wird auf dem Hof Fróðá der destruktive Eingriff der Jenseitskräfte abgewendet und die menschliche Lebenswelt verteidigt.”57 However, Böldl’s rational view on the second dyradómr is not fully conclusive. The new social equilibrium at Fróðá can only be established once the revenants have been dealt with, that is, when they have been banned from the world of the living and forced to pass into the Otherworld. Indeed, Böldl himself has pointed to “die Homologie von sozialer

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und kosmischer Raumsemantik,”59 which implies that social stability can only be achieved if the cosmic order is well-balanced and vice versa.58 A comparison of the two dyradómr episodes reveals that they diverge considerably in their respective distribution of liminal qualities. In fact, the only shared and potentially liminal feature is the temporary suspension of daily life. Apart from that, the situation hardly allows for generalizing remarks or new insights about the door-court. The scenes neither deal with similar cases (horse theft versus sentencing revenants), nor does the saga relinquish detailed information about the proceedings of a dyradómr (six men are nominated as judges versus everything is done “sem á þingadómum”). The only (non-liminal) aspect these scenes have in common is that in both cases the issue at stake needs to be dealt with immediately and cannot be postponed. As no result is achieved in the horse theft case, the threshold only evinces liminal qualities and fulfills its Gennepian purpose in the revenant case. The dyradómr (in chap. 55) takes place at the farm itself and thus is not spatially segregated. The transformation happens primarily with the revenants who are expelled from the sphere of the living and (most likely) enter the world of the dead for good. During the dyradómr the daily life in Fróðá is momentarily suspended, both because of the revenants’ presence as well as because the court is taking place. A sense of otherness has intruded and is still present in the form of the revenants. The paradoxical and ambiguous qualities of the situation hinge first and foremost on the state of the revenants, who are neither dead nor truly alive; they are temporarily caught in an intermediary state, which will be resolved once they enter the realm of the dead. Until then, they are liminal. Last but not least, the proceedings and the result of the dyradómr are irreversible, and thus normal and undisturbed daily and social life at Fóðá can be reestablished in the best Gennepian and Turnerian manner. By and large, the dyradómr in the revenant case constitutes the corrective phase of the social drama and is therefore an expression of liminality. Though the two dyradómr scenes do not mirror each other as closely as the fight scenes in Grettis saga, it is nonetheless worthwhile to scrutinize the two scenes from Eyrbyggja saga together as two narrative cornerstones of the work.61 These scenes also fulfill a framing function: what happens between chapters 18 and 55 constitutes the core of Eyrbyggja saga. These chapters contain the very actions for which the saga is best known, and they bear witness to a fairly turbulent social life on Snæfellsnes that involves various parties striving for control and power. It has often been noted that it is an intricate task to trace and define Eyrbyggja saga’s overall narrative structure. While some episodes and scenes clearly form a unit—or at least permit some links to be made—others appear detached and

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isolated. Yet it is repeatedly the figure of Snorri goði who is involved (or at least appears) in the majority of episodes, be it as the main or a marginal character. But besides Snorri goði, there is also another less prominent protagonist who merits our attention: Kjartan at Fróðá. In her article “The Role of the Dead in Medieval Iceland,” Kirsi Kanerva draws attention to Kjartan’s role, particularly in the context of the Fróðárundr.60 Although the saga does not directly state this fact, Kjartan is the offspring of Þuríðr’s extramarital relationship with Bjǫrn Breiðvíkingakappi. Kjartan’s role of social outsider is often accounted for by this fact of official fatherlessness. The Fróðárundr with the revenants as shadows of the past61 give Kjartan the opportunity to prove himself by tackling these difficulties and re-establishing the social equilibrium. Hence, the dyradómr is not only the most efficient means to get rid of the revenants, but for Kjartan himself it also acts as “a rite of passage, a journey of a boy into manhood.”62 Advised by his uncle Snorri goði, Kjartan sets up the dyradómr at Fróðá and sentences the revenants, as described in the quotation above. By exercising this power, Kjartan succeeds in reducing the social turbulences, and regarding his origin and identity, he earns Snorri goði’s approval in a first step towards social acceptance and integration. While the father issue is not resolved until towards the end of the saga when Bjǫrn Breiðvíkingakappi has Kjartan sent a sword as a symbol acknowledging his paternity (cf. EbS, chap. 64), Kjartan’s role in the course of the second dyradómr can nonetheless be regarded as his rite of passage. After the revenants’ disappearance, the saga states quite explicitly that he has become the new respected master of Fróðá and keeps the farm prosperous.63 It is also conceivable that Kjartan follows in Snorri goði’s footsteps as a valued member of the region, since Snorri moves away from the peninsula and chooses to settle in the Dalir region after the second dyradómr. Seen from this perspective, the dyradómr represents the meeting point of former and new law enforcement: Snorri goði makes one of his last appearances, while Kjartan re-establishes social order and thus paves his way to take the (political) stage in (northern) Snæfellsnes. Hence the dyradómr episodes function as a frame for the major scenes for which the saga is famous. In both cases, it is the people from Fróðá who are involved in the scene. While the first dyradómr revolves around an instance of animosity between Fróðá and Mávahlíð, Mávahlíð soon disappears from the picture after Katla and Oddr are killed, thus leaving the focus on Fróðá. In the view that Eyrbyggja saga’s plot only properly advances after the first dyradómr and draws to a close relatively soon after the second dyradómr, it can be claimed that Eyrbyggja saga first and foremost portrays social life at Fróðá, both with regard to internal tensions as well as to conflicts with other parties.

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Conclusion The discussion in this article has revealed that both Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar as well as Eyrbyggja saga have their most characteristic core narrative framed by mirroring episodes that revolve around a door. While the individual door episodes do not present themselves as particularly liminal and thus confirm van Gennep’s notion of the pivoting of the sacred, they nonetheless clearly demarcate a liminal period. During this liminal period many crucial things happen that eventually lead to the renegotiation and reorganization of the social order. The doors involved therefore lead into and out of the liminal, troublesome period. To what extent this pattern can be found in other Íslendingasögur still needs to be explored. Nevertheless, the present article illustrates that the anthropological concept of liminality can be a helpful in terms of analyzing the Íslendingasögur, albeit not as much on the narrative level as on the narratological and structural level.

Notes 1 This paper was written in 2016/2017 in context of my PhD thesis “On the Threshold: Experiencing Liminality in the Íslendingasögur” that was defended at Háskóli Íslands in 2018. The thesis discusses how the concept of liminality can be adapted and amended to allow for a fruitful application to the literary genre of the Íslendingasögur and how this application contributes to the understanding and interpretation of these sagas. 2 Rites of passage can accompany crises of a. biological nature (e.g., pregnancy, adolescence, etc.), b. social nature within a group (e.g., initiation, assuming a new office), or c. they concern issues between different groups/societies. 3 Arnold van Gennep, The Rites of Passage, trans. Monika B. Vizedom and Gabrielle L. Caffee, with an introduction by Solon T. Kimball (Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 1960), 26. 4 Male (pro)nouns are used as generic terms unless explicitly stated otherwise. 5 Gennep, The Rites of Passage, 20. 6 Victor W. Turner, The Forest of Symbols: Aspects of Ndembu Ritual (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1967), 93–94. 7 Victor W. Turner, The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1969), 97; italics in the original. 8 “By ‘structure’ I mean . . . ‘social structure’ . . . a more or less distinctive arrangement of specialized mutually dependent institutions and the institutional organization of positions and/or of actors which they imply” (Turner, The Ritual Process, 166–67). Turner’s term ‘social structure’ implies that even if a structure breaks down and ceases to exist, people are held together by the independent, social aspects of society (Victor W. Turner, Dramas, Fields and Metaphors: Symbolic Action in Human Society, Symbol, Myth and Ritual [Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1974], 515). 9 Turner, The Forest of Symbols, 98. 10 Turner, The Forest of Symbols, 99.

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11 Here the edition from 1996 is quoted. 12 Victor W. Turner, “Social Dramas and Stories about Them,” in Performance: Critical Concepts in Literary and Cultural Studies, ed. Philip Auslander, vol. 3 (London: Routledge, 2003), 118. 13 Turner, “Social Dramas and Stories about Them,” 116. 14 Victor W. Turner, Schism and Continuity in an African Society: A Study of Ndembu Village Life (Oxford: Berg, 1996), 92. 15 Regarding liminality, many scholars turn to Jens Peter Schjødt, Initiation between Two Worlds: Structure and Symbolism in Pre-Christian Scandinavian Religion, trans. Victor Hansen, The Viking Collection: Studies in Northern Civilization 17 (Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark, 2008). In his detailed study on elements of Norse mythology, Schjødt approaches the topics of initiation and liminality from the perspective of a historian of religion. 16 The problem of scant definitions partly arises from misunderstandings about the concept, which result in many cases in an (over-)simplified rendering and use of liminality’s features. Most common is the uncommented and incorrect use of liminal as a synonym for adjectives such as “supernatural”, “marginal,” or “hybrid”. It goes without saying that these terms are semantically very close. All the same, using these terms synonymously is recommended. Hence not all elements that modern scholars term “liminal” within Old Norse literature are consistent with van Gennep’s and Turner’s ideas. 17 Margaret Clunies Ross, “Närvaron och fråvaron av ritual i norröna medeltida texter,” in Plats och praxis: Studier av nordisk förkristen ritual, ed. Kristina Jennberg, Anders Andrén, and Catharina Raudvere, Vägar til Midgård 2 (Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2002), 13–30. 18 Jens Peter Schjødt, “Myths as Sources for Rituals: Theoretical and Practical Implications,” in Old Norse Myths, Literature and Society, ed. Margaret Clunies Ross, The Viking Collection: Studies in Northern Civilization 14 (Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark, 2003), 261–78; Schjødt, Initiation between Two Worlds. 19 Schjødt, Initiation between Two Worlds, 328. 20 Terry Gunnell, The Origins of Drama in Scandinavia (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1995), 86. 21 Gennep, The Rites of Passage, 12. 22 The most basic paradox liminality evinces is its relationship to sacredness. Intuitively, liminality is connected to sacredness, a notion which elicits associations of safety, peace, and purity. Although ritual subjects move in a sacred space, they are also moving in a sphere that is dominated by strong and unprecedented forces. Therefore liminality is also linked to danger and pollution. The boundary between the sacred and the profane, or between anti-structure and structure, thus serves the double function of safeguarding both spheres from each other. 23 Turner, The Ritual Process, 126. 24 A more detailed discussion of these liminal qualities can be found in the works by van Gennep and Turner. 25 I am aware that the term otherness opens up a whole new field of discussion, which, however, will not be explored here. In this article, otherness mainly serves the needs of a contemporary audience to differentiate between rational and paranormal elements, a distinction of modern origin that is not congruent with medieval perception. Further, it is important to note that liminality is neither coterminous with the supernatural nor with magic. 26 Marianne Hem Eriksen, “Doors to the Dead: The Power of Doorways and Thresholds in Viking Age Scandinavia,” Archaeological Dialogues 20, no. 2 (2013): 188, italics in the original; reference to George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Metaphors We Live By (Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 1980).

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27 Eriksen, “Doors to the Dead,” 189. 28 Eriksen, “Doors to the Dead,” 189. 29 Eriksen, “Doors to the Dead,” 189. 30 Guðni Jónsson, ed., Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, Íslenzk fornrit 7 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936), 119. “The frame had been smashed right away from the door to the house and makeshift boards had been put in its place” (Viðar Hreinsson, ed., The Saga of Grettir the Strong, vol. 2 of The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales, trans. Bernard Scudder [Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing], 106). 31 “En svá illt, sem at eiga var við Glám inni, þá sá Grettir, at þó var verra at fásk við hann úti” (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 120); “But difficult as Glam was to deal with indoors, Grettir saw he would be even harder to handle outdoors” (Viðar Hreinsson, The Saga of Grettir the Strong, 106). 32 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 120. “He suddenly thrust himself as hard as he could into the wretch’s arms and pressed both feet against a rock that was buried in the ground of the doorway” (Viðar Hreinsson, The Saga of Grettir the Strong, 106). 33 “Fengizk við þvílíkan ófagnað fyrir afls sakar” (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 212); “And he felt he had never fought such a powerful beast before” (Viðar Hreinsson, The Saga of Grettir the Strong, 152). Grettir makes similar statements after having fought the bear (chap. 21) and of course Glámr (chap. 35). 34 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 212. “He suddenly thrust himself as hard as he could into the wretch’s arms and pressed both feet against a rock that was buried in the ground of the doorway” (Viðar Hreinsson, The Saga of Grettir the Strong, 106). 35 According to Anna S. Beck, “every room in the longhouse can be assigned a depth value according to the minimum number of steps that must be taken to access that particular room. . . . The room placed deepest in the structure is often the hall, and there is never direct access from the outside into the hall” (Anna S. Beck, “Opening Doors: Entering Social Understandings of the Viking Age,” in Dwellings, Identities and Homes: European Housing Culture from the Viking Age to the Renaissance, ed. Mette Svart Kristiansen and Kate Giles, Jutland Archaeological Society Publications 84 [Højbjerg: Jutland Archaeological Society, 2014], 134–35). Monsters or revenants that intrude into the hall are the most dangerous and hideous, as they intrude into the heart of the home and of protectiveness. They are thus highly disturbing, not least psychologically. 36 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 121. “He lay there on the brink of death” (Viðar Hreinsson, The Saga of Grettir the Strong, 107). The phrase literally translates as, “he lay between the world and hell.” 37 For a discussion of the inner disruption of the figure of Grettir, cf. Anna Katharina Heiniger, “On the Threshold: Experiencing Liminality in the Íslendingasögur” (PhD diss., University of Iceland, 2018). 38 Konrad Maurer, “Altisländisches Strafrecht und Gerichtswesen,” in Vorlesungen über altnordische Rechtsgeschichte, vol. 5 (Leipzig: A. Deichert, 1910), 327. 39 Klaus Böldl, “Anmerkungen,” in Die Saga von den Leuten auf Eyr (Eyrbyggja Saga), ed. Klaus Böldl, SAGA: Bibliothek der altnordischen Literatur (Munich: Eugen Diederichs Verlag, 1999), 162. For further reading, see also Konrad Maurer, “Zwei Rechtsfälle aus der Eyrbyggja,” Sitzungsberichte der Philosophisch-Philologische und Historische: Classe der königlichen bayerischen Akademie (Munich) 1 (1896): 3–48. 40 Strictly speaking, the full-text search for (modern Icelandic) dyradómur also gives a hit for Lnb (in chap. 79 of the Sturlubók version) and Heiðarvíga saga (chap. 12). However, both cases refer to the instances in EbS: Lnb points to the case of the horse theft (chap. 18), and Heiðarvíga

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saga alludes to the revenant scene (chap. 55). The full-text search was conducted on the webpage Íslenskt textasafn, provided by Stofnun Árna Magnússonar. 41 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds., Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr, Íslenzk fornrit 4 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935), 34–36. “After that, Thorbjorn rode from home with eleven men. . . . Then they rode to Mavahlid were Thorarin and his men were outside, and they watched the party approaching. They greeted Thorbjorn and asked his news. ‘Our purpose in coming here, Thorarin,’ said Thorbjorn, ‘is to look for the horses that were stolen from me last autumn. We would like to make a search of your property.’ . . . After that Thorbjorn established a door-court and named six men to judge the case. Thorbjorn brought a charge of horse-theft against Thorarin” (Viðar Hreinsson, ed., The Saga of the People of Eyri, vol. 5 of The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales, trans. Judy Quinn [Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing], 145). 42 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 151–52, my emphasis. “After that Kjartan summonsed Thorir Wood-leg, and Thord Cat summonsed the farmer Thorodd for walking around the homestead without permission, and depriving people of both their life and health. Everyone sitting by the fire was summonsed. A door-court was held and charges were pronounced, with the whole procedure following that of a court at an assembly. Decisions were made, and cases summed up and judged. When the sentence was being passed on Thorir Wood-leg, he stood up and said, ‘I sat here as long as I could.’ After that, he went out through the door at which the court was not being held. . . . Then Kjartan and his companions went inside. The priest carried consecrated water and sacred relics around the whole house. The next day the priest sang all the prayers and celebrated mass solemnly, and after that all the revenants and ghosts left Froda” (Viðar Hreinsson, The Saga of the People of Eyri, 202–3). 43 On the discussion of lebender Leichnam and lebender Toter, cf. Reinhard Bodner, “Wiedergänger,” in Reallexikon der germanischen Alterumskunde, ed. Heinrich Beck et al., vol. 33 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2006), 598–604; Leander Petzoldt, “Nachzehrer,” in Reallexikon der germanischen Alterumskunde, ed. Heinrich Beck et al., vol. 20 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2002), 486–87; Leander Petzoldt and Oliver Haid, “Lebender Leichnam,” in Reallexikon der germanischen Alterumskunde, ed. Heinrich Beck et al., vol. 18 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2001), 165–69. 44 Petzoldt and Haid, “Lebender Leichnam,” 166. 45 Per Edwin Wallén, Die Klage gegen den Toten in nordgermanischen Recht, Rätthistoriskt bibliotek 5 (Lund: Håkon Ohlssons Boktryckeri, 1958), 300. 46 Neckel in Wallén, Die Klage gegen den Toten in nordgermanischen Recht, 301. On the revenants’ needs and abilities, cf. Bodner, “Wiedergänger,” 599. 47 Wallén, Die Klage gegen den Toten in nordgermanischen Recht, 302. 48 Wallén, Die Klage gegen den Toten in nordgermanischen Recht, 302–3; cf. also Maurer, “Altisländisches Strafrecht und Gerichtswesen,” 376. 49 Klaus Böldl, Eigi einhamr: Beiträge zum Weltbild der Eyrbyggja und anderer Isländersagas, Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde 48 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2005), 132. 50 To what extent the dyradómr is a truly pre-Christian institution is almost impossible to reconstruct. EbS does not mention any religious elements in the context of the dyradómr, rather the saga emphasizes its juridical aspects, which apply to supernatural beings as well. 51 “Ok eftir þat tókusk af allar aptrgǫngur at Fróðá ok reimleikar” (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 152); “And after that all the revenants and ghosts left Froda” (Viðar Hreinsson, The Saga of the People of Eyri, 203).

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52 On karldyrr, cf. Richard Cleasby and Gudbrand Vigfusson, An Icelandic-English Dictionary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1874). 53 Maurer, “Altisländisches Strafrecht und Gerichtswesen,” 376. 54 Böldl, Eigi einhamr, 131. 55 Böldl, Eigi einhamr, 132. 56 Böldl, Eigi einhamr, 133. 57 Böldl, Eigi einhamr, 132. 58 The close link between the social and cosmic order actually adds considerably to the powerful status of Snorri goði. It is he who suggests the door-court in order to get rid of the revenants. Thus, his advice initiates the new equilibrium both for the human social sphere as well as the cosmic sphere. 59 Note that EgS features a very similar internal structure, which is not tied to a specific place but to the introduction of two figures with the same name. Torfi H. Tulinius, The Enigma of Egill, 25–37 elaborately demonstrates that the appearance of the figures named Ketill structure the whole saga narrative. While four men called Ketill, all of them rather minor figures, make their appearance in EgS, only two of them form the structural parallel to EbS and GS, namely Ketill blundr (chap. 39) and Ketill gufa (chap. 77). More importantly, however, is their function as staging posts that demarcate the core parts of Egill’s life (i.e., his travels abroad) and hence of the saga. In terms of liminality, Egill’s childhood and his old age appear as fixed sociostructural roles, while Egill’s life as a seafarer and warrior proves most eclectic. So far this basic structure of mirroring scenes or figures has only been detected for EbS, GS, and EgS; it is therefore of great interest, whether other Íslendingasögur feature the same structural peculiarity. In any case, these observations strongly suggest that these arrangements are the result of authorial intention, whether conscious or not (Torfi H. Tulinius, The Enigma of Egill, 29). 60 Kirsi Kanerva, “The Role of the Dead in Medieval Iceland: A Case Study of Eyrbyggja saga,” Collegium Medievale 24 (2011): 23–49. 61 Kanerva, “The Role of the Dead in Medieval Iceland,” 38. 62 Kanerva, “The Role of the Dead in Medieval Iceland,” 44. 63 “Um várit eptir undr þessi tók Kjartan sér hjón ok bjó at Fróðá lengi síðan ok varð inn mesti garpr” (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 152); “In the spring after these marvels, Kjartan took on new servants and lived at Froda for a long time after that, and he turned into the greatest of champions” (Viðar Hreinsson, The Saga of the People of Eyri, 203).

Bibliography Beck, Anna S. “Opening Doors: Entering Social Understandings of the Viking Age.” In Dwellings, Identities and Homes: European Housing Culture from the Viking Age to the Renaissance, edited by Mette Svart Kristiansen and Kate Giles, 127–38. Jutland Archaeological Society Publications 84. Højbjerg: Jutland Archaeological Society, 2014. Bodner, Reinhard. “Wiedergänger.” In Reallexikon der germanischen Alterumskunde, edited by Heinrich Beck, Sebastian Brather, Dieter Geuenich, Wilhelm Heizmann, Steffen Patzold, and Heiko Steuer, 33:598–604. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2006.

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Böldl, Klaus. “Anmerkungen.” In Die Saga von den Leuten auf Eyr (Eyrbyggja Saga), edited by Klaus Böldl, 151–82. SAGA: Bibliothek der altnordischen Literatur. Munich: Eugen Diederichs Verlag, 1999. Böldl, Klaus. Eigi einhamr: Beiträge zum Weltbild der Eyrbyggja und anderer Isländersagas. Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde 48. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2005. Cleasby, Richard, and Gudbrand Vigfusson. An Icelandic-English Dictionary. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1874. Clunies Ross, Margaret. “Närvaron och fråvaron av ritual i norröna medeltida texter.” In Plats och praxis: Studier av nordisk förkristen ritual, edited by Kristina Jennberg, Anders Andrén, and Catharina Raudvere, 13–30. Vägar til Midgård 2. Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2002. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds. Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr. Íslenzk fornrit 4. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935. Eriksen, Marianne Hem. “Doors to the Dead: The Power of Doorways and Thresholds in Viking Age Scandinavia.” Archaeological Dialogues 20, no. 2 (2013): 187–214. Gennep, Arnold van. The Rites of Passage. Translated by Monika B. Vizedom and Gabrielle L. Caffee. With an introduction by Solon T. Kimball. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 1960. Guðni Jónsson, ed. Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar. Íslenzk fornrit 7. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936. Gunnell, Terry. The Origins of Drama in Scandinavia. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1995. Heiniger, Anna Katharina. “On the Threshold: Experiencing Liminality in the Íslendingasögur.” PhD diss., University of Iceland, 2018. Kanerva, Kirsi. “The Role of the Dead in Medieval Iceland: A Case Study of Eyrbyggja saga.” Collegium Medievale 24 (2011): 23–49. Lakoff, George, and Mark Johnson. Metaphors We Live By. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 1980. Maurer, Konrad. “Altisländisches Strafrecht und Gerichtswesen.” In Vorlesungen über altnordische Rechtsgeschichte, vol. 5. Leipzig: A. Deichert, 1910. Maurer, Konrad. “ZweiRechtsfälle aus der Eyrbyggja.” Sitzungsberichte der PhilosophischPhilologische und Historische: Classe der königlichen bayerischen Akademie (Munich) 1 (1896): 3–48. Petzoldt, Leander. “Nachzehrer.” In Reallexikon der germanischen Alterumskunde, edited by Heinrich Beck, Sebastian Brather, Dieter Geuenich, Wilhelm Heizmann, Steffen Patzold, and Heiko Steuer, 20:486–87.Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2002. Petzoldt, Leander, and Oliver Haid. “Lebender Leichnam.” In Reallexikon der germanischen Alterumskunde, edited by Heinrich Beck, Sebastian Brather, Dieter Geuenich, Wilhelm Heizmann, Steffen Patzold, and Heiko Steuer, 18:165–69. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2001. Schjødt, Jens Peter. Initiation between Two Worlds: Structure and Symbolism in Pre-Christian Scandinavian Religion. Translated by Victor Hansen. The Viking Collection: Studies in Northern Civilization 17. Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark, 2008. Schjødt, Jens Peter. “Myths as Sources for Rituals: Theoretical and Practical Implications.” In Old Norse Myths, Literature and Society, edited by Margaret Clunies Ross, 261–78. The Viking Collection: Studies in Northern Civilization 14. Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark, 2003.

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Torfi H. Tulinius. The Enigma of Egill: The Saga, the Viking Poet, and Snorri Sturluson. Translated by Victoria Cribb. Islandica 52. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2014. Turner, Victor W. Dramas, Fields and Metaphors: Symbolic Action in Human Society. Symbol, Myth and Ritual. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1974. Turner, Victor W. Schism and Continuity in an African Society: A Study of Ndembu Village Life. Oxford: Berg, 1996. Turner, Victor W. “Social Dramas and Stories about Them.” In Performance: Critical Concepts in Literary and Cultural Studies, edited by Philip Auslander, 3:108–33. London: Routledge, 2003. Turner, Victor W. The Forest of Symbols: Aspects of Ndembu Ritual. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1967. Turner, Victor W. The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1969. Viðar Hreinsson, ed. The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales. 5 vols. Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing, 1997. Viðar Hreinsson, ed. The Saga of Grettir the Strong. Vol. 2 of The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales, translated by Bernard Scudder. Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing. Viðar Hreinsson, ed. The Saga of the People of Eyri. Vol. 5 of The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales, translated by Judy Quinn. Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing. Wallén, Per Edwin. Die Klage gegen den Toten in nordgermanischen Recht. Rätthistoriskt bibliotek 5. Lund: Håkon Ohlssons Boktryckeri, 1958.

Sean B. Lawing

The Burial of Body Parts in Old Icelandic Grágás Abstract: This chapter investigates a curious statute in medieval Iceland’s laws requiring the burial of found body parts according to proper Christian ritual. Hardly an Icelandic idiosyncrasy, the phenomenon reflects eschatological discussions occurring more broadly in medieval Christendom regarding the role of the body at the time of the Last Judgement.

Introduction A discussion of the paranormal will naturally at some point intersect with the uncanny, a term used to indicate a numinous and complex set of otherworldly feelings and perceptions arising from an encounter with something strange and unexpected, something that is simultaneously macabre, unsettling, eerie, disturbing, disorienting, and frightening.1 My research into Old Norse society—and the present article—fits into this category quite well;2 I have largely concerned myself with a particular and rather unsavory style of violence depicted in Old Icelandic sagas and Old Norse laws. This involves intentional mutilations, amputations, and assorted injuries inflicted on opponents for the purposes of degrading, humiliating, or otherwise incapacitating them. This phenomenon, which I refer to collectively as disfigurement, was according to the Old Icelandic saga compilation known as Sturlunga saga particularly prevalent in thirteenth-century Iceland. Indeed, the political unrest during this period, the so-called Age of the Sturlungs or Sturlungaöld, is characterized by relatively large scale aggressions in which competing magnates routinely command their subordinates to chop off the hands or legs of captives as a form of reprisal for aiding the enemy, directly or indirectly. The profusion of limbs generated by such brutal measures gives one pause to wonder just what happened when the dust settled. How did Icelandic society, in fact, process these extraneous body parts? Were they discarded—thrown into the trash pile? Were they burned? Or were they perhaps kept? It is a loose end and worth considering, this problem of disposal. Certainly, Christian laws for Iceland recorded in the thirteenth-century law book referred to as Grágás,3 go to lengths to prescribe the proper handling and preparation of the dead for burial— who, where, at what times, and by whom. https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-009

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The relevant Grágás article, “Um lik førslor,”4 stipulates that all Christians have the right to burial in the churchyard. And yet Grágás also legislates against impure corpses with its usual penchant for classification, intoning: “There are four types of corpses that may not be buried in the churchyard.”5 Naturally, only those not under some ban, meaning neither the excommunicated nor the outlawed, may find a resting place in consecrated earth. Baptism, in addition, is a fundamental criterion.6 Suicides are likewise interdicted from Christian burial unless they repent before their last breath is out. Funeral services are withheld from these, and these categories are relegated to a no-man’sland for burial, a bowshot from any field, pasture, home field wall, or source of running water to farms.7 Bringing such corpses into a church desecrates it, as does carrying into it the naked dead or their bloody bodies.8 Beyond who may and who may not be buried in the churchyard, Grágás contains provisions for the actual transport of the deceased to the church, noting that heirs have primary responsibility, followed by the householder with whom the dead resided. And, in the case of a body washed up at sea,9 on a lakeshore, found in the mountains, or on a pasture, the nearest householder possessing at least two servants is obliged to attend to the corpse. Scenarios are likewise elaborated for corpses, such as those of vagrants, found at district boundaries. In such cases, the course of flowing water determines to which church the body is to be taken. Those conveying the dead, moreover, have a right to accommodation at farms that lie along the route. Refusal of lodgings or interfering with the transporting is punishable by a three mark fine. Similarly, the owner of the burial church may not refuse burial of a person there or else he faces legal censure. Priestly responsibilities and duties are outlined here as well. Priests are obligated to accompany a body while being conveyed, or at least as far the commune’s boundary if a burial church lies within it. Priests must, in addition, oversee the burial itself and perform the required ceremonies, that is, sing the funerary service líksöngr. Recompense to the priest is specified at twelve ells for the grave and six ells for the service, infants at half that rate. An exception is made for the impoverished, who are permitted to pay according to ability, at no cost if need be. Burial is permitted on all days of the year excluding Easter Day and Christmas Day. Grágás even goes so far as to make provisions against overhasty burial. One should wait for a corpse to cool completely before burying it, and it is a case of murder to do so while there is yet breath in its body: “Lik scal ecci grafa aþr kólnat er. Ef maþr grefr lik aþr kalt er. oc verþr hann sekr um þat. iij. morkom. oc a sa sök er vill. Ef men hrapa sva greft at qviþr ber þat. at aund væri i briosti manni. þa er hann var niðr grafenn. oc verþr þat at morþe þa.”10

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These laws and stipulations imply a wholeness of bodies. What about parts thereof? Medieval Iceland’s legal theorists appear to have considered this eventuality with the same carefulness applied elsewhere. Among these laws in Grágás pertaining to attending the dead, we find the following: K. § 262 um lik song: Ef finz af like cristins manz at syngva scal lík söng allan yfir ef ser merki á hvart verit hevir carl maðr eða kona. Sva scal scipa et sama ef menn vita vist af hvers liki er þat er fundit er þott eigi se merki a hvart verit hafe karl eða kona nema noccot hafe þes verit um hag hans at fyrir þær sacir scyli eigi syngia licsöng yfir like hans.11

Despite what appears to be a straightforward provision for performing Christian ceremony over a bodily fragment,12 a slew of questions nonetheless arises. For instance, if a part is to be buried, where was the rest of the body? Was the person dead? That is, was the part buried in lieu of a presumably missing body? Or were the dismembered pieces of the living also accorded ceremony and sung over by a priest? If this is so, is there some as yet unexcavated site in North Iceland that bears witness to the carnage of the Sturlungaöld, a graveyard of arms and legs? The overriding question, and the one that this article attempts to address, is: Why accord Christian burial to a body part in the first place? Of specific interest is discerning what this particular passage in Grágás can tell us regarding the beliefs and sensibilities of medieval Icelanders.

The Byzantine Last Judgement Insight into this particular Grágás law comes from an unusual source. In 1959, Selma Jónsdóttir published an analysis of carved wood panels from ca. 1200 recovered from a farm in North Iceland. Her breakthrough study, An 11th Century Byzantine Last Judgement in Iceland (1959),13 is equal parts scholarship and detective work. In it, Selma Jónsdóttir uncovers a surprising connection between the panels and the End of Days doctrine of the Eastern Orthodox Church referred to as the Byzantine Last Judgement. Selma Jónsdóttir theorizes that the panels, now on display at the National Museum in Reykjavík, originally adorned a hall built around 1070 at Flatatunga in the Skagafjörður district, which was apparently still standing in the nineteenth century.14 At some point, several of the panels were removed and integrated into the structure of the nearby farm at Bjarnastaðahlíð.15 Selma Jónsdóttir reconstructs the images found on the Bjarnastaðahlíð panels into a whole based on the extant fragments, supplemented by descriptions and sketches made by visitors to Flatatunga and Bjarnastaðahlíð throughout the nineteenth century.16

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The result of Selma Jónsdóttir’s reconstruction is an iconography that bears an unmistakable shared identity with continental representations of the Last Judgement found in manuscripts, murals, and plaques.17 Horizontal panels depict Christ at the top, presiding over the Last Judgement accompanied by archangels and apostles. Beneath, angels sound trumpets causing animals on land and fishes in the sea to regurgitate pieces of the human bodies they had consumed: hands, feet, torsos, heads. The blessed are shown at the left being led to Christ’s throne while the damned are herded into hell, first by angels and next by tormenting demons. In hell, those condemned are tortured in flames and devoured by monsters. Satan sits on his throne with the Antichrist on his lap, surrounded by the disembodied heads and dismembered limbs of the damned.18 This particular depiction of the Last Judgement, characteristic of the Byzantine or Eastern Orthodox Church, is meant to strike the fear of God into its viewers and excite in them a penitent attitude derived from terror at the prospect of eternal damnation.19 The eleventh-century mosaic in the basilica church at Torcello, Italy20 is the most famous example of the Byzantine Last Judgement’s reproduction in western Christendom21 and the one after which the Bjarnastaðahlíð panels appear to have been modeled. More recently, Hörður Ágústsson revised Selma Jónsdóttir’s theory,22 reordering some of the panels and proposing for their site the cathedral at Hólar, North Iceland,23 ostensibly commissioned by Jón Ögmundsson, bishop of Hólar from 1106–21.24 This would push the dating of the panels later than Selma Jónsdóttir’s estimate, to ca. 1110–20. With these emendations, Selma Jónsdóttir’s identification of the Bjarnastaðahlíð panels as a depiction of the Byzantine Last Judgement is considered authoritative. Germane to the present discussion are the ideas in that depiction concerning the fate of fragmented bodies when the dead prepare themselves to stand before Christ and his Judgement.25

Disfigured but not Damned Selma Jónsdóttir attributes the existence of Byzantine ideas in eleventh-century Iceland to visits made by foreign priests,26 in particular the so-called ermskir bishops mentioned in Ari Þorgilson’s Íslendingabók and other sources.27 The origin and identity of these bishops has been the subject of considerable dispute.28 Whether they hailed from Armenia, Ermland (Poland), or were Basilian eremites or Paulician heretics, Icelandic sources suggest, at any rate, that non-Latin speaking priests had been in Iceland around the same time the Bjarnastaðahlíð

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panels are thought to have originated, that these priests were of a different confession than the Roman one, and that they were likely Eastern Orthodox.29 Regardless of the role visiting priests might have played in inspiring the Bjarnastaðahlíð panels, the medieval West—and this includes Iceland—was already receptive to the iconographic program of the Byzantine Last Judgement.30 Of particular interest to medieval theologians were Byzantine depictions of the regurgitation and reassemblage of the blessed at Christ’s Second Coming and conversely the division and dismemberment of the damned in hell.31 Based on Scripture, the resurrection and reassembling of the body at the Last Judgement was an accepted feature of Christian eschatological doctrine ever since the early Church.32 Yet a point of theological debate just as old was the nature of the physical body and its significance for the afterlife. On the one hand, there was the view that the body was a mere vessel for the soul. Its purpose complete upon death, the body was, in this view, of no further consequence. The contrasting view saw material continuity as vital. The selfsame physical body inhabited during life would be resurrected for Judgement and subsequently glorified for Heaven or condemned to hell.33 Caroline Walker Bynum has written extensively on the topic of bodily resurrection and fragmentation in medieval Europe.34 She has demonstrated that the argument for “material continuity” especially captivated medieval scholastics and prompted them to construct elaborate, hylomorphic models to account for the physical and spiritual union of the body. This was achieved primarily through reverse engineering, exploring the ramifications of the doctrine of the Last Judgement and applying it to various lines of inquiry.35 At the time of the Last Judgement, what exactly constituted the essential numerical material of an individual, and could it be lost or gained? If a person unknowingly consumed what had been the essential matter of another person, for instance by eating a fish that had eaten a human, was that person a cannibal?36 While such questions might seem to us today to possess the flavor of academic absurdity, they were nonetheless serious matters and approached with intellectual rigor. One can point to legislation in Grágás, by way of example, that appears to address this type of fringe concern, specifically cannibalism by eating certain kinds of animals such as carrion birds that might have consumed human flesh, a prohibition that applies even to their eggs.37 On a pragmatic level the Church increasingly reinforced the material continuity argument as dogma. In fact, the first Canon of the Fourth Lateran Council summoned by Innocent III in 1215 insists on an individual’s resurrection within the selfsame body inhabited during life.38

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In the Manner of the Germans Thus, in practice the medieval Christian attitude towards the body can be characterized as dualistic, as believing both in the distinctness of the soul with respect to the body while at the same time insisting on absolute identity.39 In this model God is a great puzzle master. At the time of the Last Judgement, the dead would arise—whether decomposed, fragmented, turned to dust, or scattered— to be reassembled and reconstituted as whole.40 In a certain sense, given this doctrine of reassemblage, the state of the body after death would have little significance.41 Accordingly, the practice of moving bodies—often decomposed to bones—from the churchyard to catacombs, crypts, or charnel houses was well established, with little regard paid to their unity or identification.42 Iceland’s Grágás, too, makes similar provision for relocating the bodies and bones of the dead from a church that had been moved or so damaged as to be unusable (K. § 3). The bones are, in fact, treated as items of value—those doing the digging are to do so methodically and carefully, working their way from the outside in as if they were searching for money.43 Upon their transport to the new churchyard, it is up to those conveying them to decide if the bones should be interred individually or in a mass grave.44 In light of God’s awesome power to locate and reassemble fragmented bodies and equally inspired by the division of saints and their relic-based cults, the eleventh through fourteenth centuries saw a rise in interest with respect to dividing up the dead as part of the burial process.45 In northern Europe in particular, the custom of dismembering the body and burying it at several locations, some parts in the proximity of saints, ad sanctos, others with family members, and still others at monasteries or churches was pervasively practiced by the elite, and not only by the lower nobility but by kings and queens of England, France, and Germany as well.46 The practice began in the eleventh century and arose seemingly on pragmatic grounds, that is, to facilitate the return of the bodies of those who died far from their lands and estates, while participating in the Crusades for instance.47 The body was prepared mos teutonicus (in the manner of the Germans), and included the corpse’s evisceration, defleshing through boiling in wine or water, and finally its dismemberment.48 Practical aspects aside, ad sanctos burials represent an attempt by the elite to both emulate saints and to benefit from their holiness via proximal burial.49 Folk belief in the continued vitality of the body after death would have only strengthened the appeal, which in part lay in popular attitudes towards the body-in-death as vestigially still alive. In the case of saints and saints’ relics, the whole of the saint was thought to reside in each part, even the minutest, from which emanated a heavenly power capable of miracles (Bynum 1991, 280).

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Complementing this notion was the perception that in each body part the saint’s self also resided.50 This phenomenon was not limited to saints, however, for popular belief similarly held that the self survived within the dead body for a period of time after death.51 Corpses in this context, though, were more likely objects of dread than adoration as they might return as revenants, vampires, or evil spirits.52 In Icelandic sagas, it is the malicious who are particularly liable to return from the grave as revenants, or draugar.53 Indeed, as if in echo of this, Old Norse laws relegate the exiled and reprehensible dead—outlaws, traitors, murderers, truce-breakers, assassins, highwaymen, and thieves—to burial in an unconsecrated no-man’s-land where they can do no further harm.54 The parallel between saints and revenants is an interesting one, and it is worth extending its discussion briefly. An indicator and criterion of sainthood is the incorruptibility of the flesh.55 Some saints’ bodies do not decompose but rather retain a lifelike coloring and suppleness. Revenants might similarly exhibit this characteristic; however, the revenant’s enduring flesh is taken not as a miracle of God but rather as result of conspiring unholy forces.56 In the case of the undead, special measures could be enacted to re-kill them. Icelandic sagas attest to disinterment and cremation (e.g., Eiríks saga, chap. 6; Eyrbyggja saga, chap. 34) or removing the head and positioning it between the corpse’s legs as particularly effective methods (Grettis saga, Svardœla saga, Bárðar saga, Fljótsdœla saga, and Áns saga ins bogsveigis).57 Thus, in contrast to a saint’s power, a revenant’s influence ceases with dismemberment rather than being amplified, a circumstance that accentuates the victory over fragmentation of the glorified and conversely the vanquishing of the damned through their dismemberment. Returning to ad sanctos burials, not all embraced the trend. In 1299 Pope Boniface VIII, alarmed that one of his cardinals had made provision for such a burial, issued the papal bull Detestande Feritatis (known also as De Sepulturis) decrying the practice in the harshest terms and forthwith excommunicating any who followed the burial method.58 Boniface VIII insisted on simple burials near to the place of death with the body intact.59 Supporters of Pope Boniface’s view pointed out that division was unprecedented in the burials not only of the Church Fathers but of Jesus himself.60 The paradox of Pope Boniface’s position in light of saint worship is clear,61 yet it seems that a blind eye was cast in that direction in the interest of “pious practice.”62 Pope Boniface VIII’s decree ultimately failed to end ad sanctos burials.63 If anything it sharpened demand, since only those powerful enough to receive a special papal dispensation might be buried thus, in effect highlighting their status.64 Nonetheless, his stance drew attention to the perceived excesses, namely the iniquity between the rich and the poor. While the elite might have their organs, heads,

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and limbs interred at various churches or monasteries, simultaneously receiving prayers for their souls from multiple houses in return for an accompanying donation, the poor would by contrast have no similar hope of shortening their time in perdition, an advantage gained purely by virtue of wealth.65 I am unaware of any ad sanctos burials in Iceland. Grágás does, however, show sensitivity to this issue by stipulating that all graves cost the same regardless of their distance in the churchyard from the church.66

Last Rites If we return to the Grágás law concerning the burial of body parts, providing a found hand, foot, or torso proper rites is understandable within the larger context of Christian theology, specifically the eschatological formulation of the Last Judgement. If a body part of a Christian washed up on the shore, for example, that part represented the whole and vice versa. Though God would reassemble each person entirely at the time of resurrection by drawing together every scattered particle, recovered human remains should by rights lie in consecrated ground, duly catalogued amongst other Christians awaiting Christ’s return and either salvation or damnation. This was, moreover, an eventuality that continued to solicit the attention of Icelandic clergymen. Although the earliest manuscript of Grágás, Konungsbók (ca. 1250), situates “Um líksöng” among a miscellany of articles near its end, later manuscripts integrate the article among its burial laws proper, indicating the matter was no archaism but received consistent attention.67 Indeed, statutes issued by Bishop Jón Sigurðsson of Skálholt in 1345 expand considerably upon the Grágás’ passage, providing for the finding of a bodiless head or conversely a headless body: § 34 Þo at höfut finniz af manni eitt saman þa a yfir þui at syngia. Enn þo at höfut [f]inniz eigi af manni oc bere skynsamir menn kenzl a likam. þa skal hinn andadi eigi missa firir þat embættis sins. Enn ef einn huerr limur. hönd edur fotur edur nöckut annat bein edur holld finnz sierliga, þa er eigi greint huort þar skal yfir syngia edur eigi. enn þo se allt j kirkiugardi grafit þat er finnz af likam kristins manz ef sa atti at kirkiu at liggia.68

Moreover, in the circumstance that the corpse’s reproductive members are missing or too damaged to determine the body’s sex, it should be accorded the funeral service of a man since that service takes preeminence in Scripture: § 35 Ef finnz af liki kristins manz vti eins huers stadar oc se suo miög vanadr likaminn at eigi siai getnadarlimina. huort karlmanz lik er edur konv. enn menn viti vist at sa edur su

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sem vti vard atti at kirkiu at liggia þa a yfir at syngia. Enn þat er eigi greint huort yfir konu skal syngia edur karlmanni. Enn þar sem ef er a huort er, truir eg karlmanz tegvndina þvi hier firir eiga at setiaz. þuiat hun er hueruitna j helgum ritningum firir huort tueggia sett.69

One cannot help but wonder at the context of the bishop’s statutes, or why he might have needed to adjust existing prescriptions.70 The curious case of burying body parts, nevertheless, demonstrates that Iceland was no backwater of Christendom. It was abreast of theological discussions and actively participated in them. Pious Icelanders carefully considered the spiritual ramifications of clerical action or inaction and sought to address a variety of scenarios, elaborating and anticipating special cases, some of which they might even have encountered.71 A question posed at the start of this article still stands: is there some as yet undiscovered site in North Iceland that bears witness to the violence of Sturlunga saga? It is perhaps a macabre thought. If Grágás law is any indicator, Icelandic priests would have done their pastoral duty, seeing to the proper disposal of the dead, whether whole or in parts. After all, when it comes to providing for the eternal soul in anticipation of its physical reassemblage and resurrection at the Last Judgement, even the humblest piece of human body ought to be properly laid to rest.72

Notes 1 Sigmund Freud famously elaborated on the uncanny in his essay “Das Unheimliche” (1919), attempting to define not only its range of expression but also its origins. Freud’s study, which continues to resonate not only in Hollywood monster-making but also in the fields of robotics and prosthesis development (Masahiro Mori, “The Uncanny Valley,” trans. Karl F. MacDorman and Norri Kageki, IEEE Robotics & Automation Magazine, 2012, see; Stefania Sansoni et al., “The Aesthetic Appeal of Prosthetic Limbs and the Uncanny Valley: The Role of Personal Characteristics in Attraction,” International Journal of Design 9, no. 1 [2015]: 67–81), was built upon the work of Ernst Jentsch, whose “Zur Psychologie des Unheimlichen” (1906) saw the uncanny as originating from a sense of intellectual uncertainty turned to fright by fantastic imagination—when presented with something unknown, indiscernible, foreign, or new. Freud dwells upon the same catalysts for the uncanny as Jentsch: death, corpses (dismembered and whole), the living dead, ghosts, spirits and related forms such as wax-figures and automatons. While agreeing with Jentsch’s analysis, Freud delved more deeply into the phenomenon, identifying a forked source for the uncanny. Unsurprisingly, Freud attributes one source of the uncanny to anxieties linked to repressed infantile complexes (e.g., narcissism, castration-complex, wombfantasies, etc.). But, Freud asserts, the more prevalent cause is the reemergence of primitive beliefs when we are confronted with something amounting to Jentsch’s criterion of intellectual uncertainty. When this occurs, we cast aside modern, educated sensibilities about objective reality

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and return via primal memory to an earlier, animistic worldview in which the universe is inhabited by spirits and guided by unseen forces and unknowable agencies. In Freud’s estimation, therefore, the uncanny is above all irrational and superstitious in nature. Those most susceptible to succumbing to its effects are adherents to a worldview in which not only magic and witchcraft belong but also the belief in God, the soul, and an afterlife. Given the context of his remarks, it is not difficult to postulate medieval Europe and its observance of Christianity as an ideal candidate for the belief system he describes. 2 Certainly, there is ample evidence to corroborate the existence of the uncanny in the European Middle Ages. In medieval Iceland, the focus of the present volume, one can readily discern it in narrative sources. The various hauntings described in Eyrbyggja saga, for instance, rise to the uncanny, as does the effect in Fóstbræðra saga of a disembodied head on the men who possess and would jeer at it (chap. 18). Furthermore, if, as Freud cites, dismembered limbs, hands, feet, and decapitated heads would have particularly evoked the uncanny, the violent thirteenth century would have afforded medieval Icelanders ample opportunity to experience the feeling. 3 The principal manuscripts of Grágás are Konungsbók (GKS 1157 fol., ca. 1250) and Staðarhólsbók (AM 315 fol., ca. 1270). Konungsbók is predominantly used here and abbreviated as K. 4 K. § 2; Vilhjálmur Finsen, ed. and trans., Grágás: Islændernes lovbog i fristatens tid, udgivet efter det kongelige Bibliotheks Haandskrift, vol. 1 (Copenhagen: Brødrene Berlings Bogtrykkeri, 1852), Edition and translation of the Konungsbók (GKS 1157 fol.) text, 7–12. 5 “Fiogur ero lik þau er eigi scal at kirkio grafa” (Vilhjálmur Finsen, Grágás, 12). 6 See Bertil Nilsson, De sepulturis: Gravrätten i Corpus iuris canonici och i medeltida nordisk lagstiftning (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 1989), 228–55. 7 “þat lik er eigi a at kirkio lægt. þat scal þar grafa er fir se tún garþi manz. enn i aurskotz helgi við. oc hvartki se akr ne eng. oc eigi falli vötn af til bölstaþa. oc synva eigi liksong yfir” (Vilhjálmur Finsen, Grágás, 12). 8 “Lik scal eigi bera i kirkio. bert eþa bloþuct” (Vilhjálmur Finsen, Grágás, 7). Only prime signed infants are accorded the special dispensation of burial just outside of the churchyard, where consecrated and unconsecrated earth meet: “Ef barn andazk primsignt. oc hefir eigi verit scírt. oc scal þat grafa við kirkiu garð út. þar er mætisk vigð mold oc ö vigð. oc syngva eigi liksong yfir” (K. § 1 Vilhjálmur Finsen, Grágás, 7). 9 K § 218 “Um vag rek” deals with corpses and their property washed up on the seashore. The corpses should be taken above the high water mark (Vilhjálmur Finsen, ed. and trans., Grágás: Islændernes lovbog i fristatens tid, udgivet efter det kongelige Bibliotheks Haandskrift, vol. 2 [Copenhagen: Brødrene Berlings Bogtrykkeri, 1852], Edition and translation of the Konungsbók (GKS 1157 fol.) text, 133). 10 Vilhjálmur Finsen, Grágás, 8–9. 11 Vilhjálmur Finsen, Grágás, 215–16. “K. § 262 Concerning the Funeral Dirge. If any part of a Christian’s body is found, the funeral dirge is to be sung over it if it can be visibly determined to have been a man or a woman. The same shall occur if people know with certainty whose body it is that was found even if there is no visible indicator of it having been a man or a woman, unless something has occurred with regard to the person’s spiritual state (i.e. excommunication or ban that prohibits Christian burial) for the sake of which the funeral dirge should not be sung.” 12 It is unclear precisely which aspect of the funeral ceremony the term líksöngr indicates here, i.e., whether a specific element or the funeral service in its entirety is meant. My sense is the latter. The medieval Christian funerary practice involved several ritual components

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beginning with the Last Rites. After death, the body was conveyed to the church where services for the repose of the deceased’s soul, the “Office of the Dead,” were performed, beginning with prayers (vespers, matins, lauds), followed the next day with mass and absolution, after which the body was transferred in procession to the graveyard for burial. Singing and chanting are used throughout the funeral (see Denis Renevey, “Looking for Context: Rolle, Anchoritic Culture, and the Office of the Dead,” in Medieval Texts in Context, ed. Denis Renevey and Graham D. Caie [New York: Routledge, 2008], 193–95). 13 Selma Jónsdóttir, An 11th Century Byzantine Last Judgement in Iceland (Reykjavík: Almenna Bókmenntafélag, 1959). Published in Icelandic as Selma Jónsdóttir, Byzönzk dómsdagsmynd í Flatatungu (Reykjavík: Almenna Bókmenntafélag, 1959). 14 Selma Jónsdóttir, Byzönzk dómsdagsmynd í Flatatungu, 47, 82. The construction of the hall is described in Þórðar saga hreðu, and it was ostensibly built by Þórðr hreða himself in the tenth century (Selma Jónsdóttir, Byzönzk dómsdagsmynd í Flatatungu, 37). 15 Selma Jónsdóttir, Byzönzk dómsdagsmynd í Flatatungu, 47. 16 These include Jónas Hallgrímsson, Sigurður Guðmundsson, Kristian Kålund, Sigurður Vigfússon, Daniel Bruun, and Þorkell Þorkelsson (Selma Jónsdóttir, Byzönzk dómsdagsmynd í Flatatungu, 37–45). 17 Selma Jónsdóttir, Byzönzk dómsdagsmynd í Flatatungu, 15–25. 18 Selma Jónsdóttir, Byzönzk dómsdagsmynd í Flatatungu, 27–35. 19 Selma Jónsdóttir, Byzönzk dómsdagsmynd í Flatatungu, 76–78. 20 The Cathedral of Santa Maria Assunta. 21 Caroline Walker Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption: Essays on Gender and the Human Body in Medieval Religion (New York: Zone Books, 1991), 286–87; Caroline Walker Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1995), 188–90. 22 In part based on Kristján Eldjárn’s earlier objections that Selma Jónsdóttir had underestimated the scale of the panels and that they were too large (9 × 2.2 m) to have been intended for a hall (Hörður Ágústsson, Dómsdagur og helgir men á Hólum: Endurskoðun fyrri hugmynda umfjalirnar frá Bjarnastaðahlíð og Flatatungu [Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1989], 65–70). Hörður, in addition, uses sketches of the Bjarnastaðahlíð panels that came to light in 1975 that were originally drawn in 1875 (Hörður Ágústsson, Dómsdagur og helgir men á Hólum, 33–40). These confirm the eleventh-century Torcello mosiac in Italy cited by Selma Jónsdóttir (Selma Jónsdóttir, Byzönzk dómsdagsmynd í Flatatungu, 16–20) as the likely principal reference for Hólar’s Byzantine Last Judgement. 23 Hörður Ágústsson, Dómsdagur og helgir men á Hólum, 65–70. 24 Hörður Ágústsson, Dómsdagur og helgir men á Hólum, 74–80, 98–110. 25 As current object labels accompanying the panels’ exhibition at the National Museum of Iceland in Reykjavík reflect. A conference organized by the Arnamagnean Institute, the National Museum, and the Theological Institute of the University of Iceland was held May 2–3, 2008 at the National Museum to coincide with the exhibition of the Bjarnastaðahlíð panels entitled “A Nordic Apocalypse, The Hólar Judgement Day and Völuspá: A Conference at the National Museum of Iceland.” The exhibition was entitled On the Final Day: A Byzantine Judgement Day Image from Hólar. The conference proceedings were published as Terry Gunnell and Annette Lassen, eds., The Nordic Apocalypse: Approaches to Völuspá and Nordic Days of Judgement, Acta Scandinavica 2 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013). 26 Selma Jónsdóttir, Byzönzk dómsdagsmynd í Flatatungu, 76–77.

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27 Ari cites the visit of foreign bishops in Iceland, five of whom he says claimed to be bishops, thereby voicing his doubt that they were. Of these, two hail from German-speaking lands, Örnulfr and Goðiskálkr, and three are referred to as ermskir, namely Ábrahám, Pétrús, and Stéphánús. Christian laws in Grágás corroborate Ari’s testimony by forbidding Icelanders from taking sacraments or rites from either hermskir (Armenian), or girskir (Greek) priests, though permitting attendance at services held by them (Selma Jónsdóttir, Byzönzk dómsdagsmynd í Flatatungu, 77; K. § 6; Vilhjálmur Finsen, Grágás, 22). Hungrvaka offers further corroboration, noting that foreign bishops had visited Iceland during the tenure of Bishop Ísleifr Gizurarson (1056–80), preaching in a more lenient manner than Ísleifr. As a result, the archbishop of Hamburg-Bremen Adalbert (1043–72) sent a letter banning Icelanders from attending their services since these men had either left for Iceland without his permission or had been excommunicated (Selma Jónsdóttir, Byzönzk dómsdagsmynd í Flatatungu, 77; Bernhard Kahle, ed., Kristnisaga: Þáttr Þorvalds ens víðfǫrla, þáttr Ísleifs biskups Gizurarsonar, Hungrvaka, Altnordische Saga-Bibliothek 11 [Halle: Max Niemeyer], 92). 28 Torgeir Landro reviews the various hypotheses concerning the ermskir/hermskir bishops (Torgeir Landro, “Kristenrett og kyrkjerett: Borgartingskristenretten i eit komparativt perspektiv” [PhD diss., University of Bergen, 2010], 64–65) as does Selma Jónsdóttir (Selma Jónsdóttir, Byzönzk dómsdagsmynd í Flatatungu, 76–78). Margaret Cormack likewise discusses the case and sides with those who interpret ermskir literally as “Armenian” (Margaret Cormack, in West over Sea: Studies in Scandinavian Sea-Borne Expansion and Settlement Before 1300, ed. Beverley Ballin Smith, Simon Taylor, and Gareth Williams, The Northern World [Leiden: Brill, 2007], 227–34). See also Magnús Már Lárusson, “Um hina ermsku biskupa,” Skírnir 133 (1959): 81–94; Sverrir Jakobsson, “Strangers in Icelandic Society 1100–1400,” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 3 (2007): 141–57; Ildar H. Garipzanov, “Wandering Clerics and Mixed Rituals in the Early Christian North, c. 1000–c. 1150,” The Journal of Ecclesiastical History 63, no. 1 (2012): 1–17. 29 Selma Jónsdóttir, Byzönzk dómsdagsmynd í Flatatungu, 78–82; Landro, “Kristenrett og kyrkjerett,” 64–65; Anthony Faulkes and Alison Finlay, eds., Íslendingabók: Kristni Saga, The Book of the Icelanders: The Story of the Conversion, trans. Siân Grønlie (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2006), 27n78. Landro, for instance, sees an Eastern influence in Old Norse baptismal rites (Landro, “Kristenrett og kyrkjerett,” 41–68). See also Ildar Garipzanov, “Early Christian Scandinavia and the Problem of Eastern Influences,” in Early Christianity on the Way from the Varangians to the Greeks, ed. Ildar Garipzanov and Oleksiy Tolochko (Kiev: Institute of Ukrainian History, 2011), 17–32; Thomas DuBois, Nordic Religions in the Viking Age, Middle Ages Series (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1999), 34–35, 152–54. 30 Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 280–84; Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336, 280–84. Hörður’s later dating of the Bjarnastaðahlíð panels would invalidate the role the so-called Armenian bishops might have played. A variety of alternate vectors, as Hörður notes, would likewise readily explain a Byzantine influence in Scandinavia and Iceland, such as cultural ties between Iceland via Norway and the archbishopric at Lund with Gotland, Kiev, and the Byzantine Empire (Hörður Ágústsson, Dómsdagur og helgir men á Hólum, 40–56, 97–98). Hörður, in addition, points out Jón Ögmundsson’s travels south to Rome for his ordination and his contact there with Monte Cassino, which Selma Jónsdóttir had stressed as a nexus of Byzantine eschatological imagery in the West (Hörður Ágústsson, Dómsdagur og helgir men á Hólum, 81–92; Selma Jónsdóttir, Byzönzk dómsdagsmynd í Flatatungu, 65–73). Hörður proposes Jón Ögmundson returned to Iceland with drawings of the Torcello mosaic, which were used to fashion the Bjarnastaðahlíð panels (Hörður Ágústsson, Dómsdagur og helgir men á Hólum, 97–110).

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31 Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 284, 287. 32 E.g., I Corinthians 15:1–54; Luke 21:18. 33 Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 240; Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336, 157–85. Both views hold contradictions. Augustine, for instance, was an adherent of the first view, but he left unreconciled the venerations of saints’ bodies, sidestepping the issue by citing their usefulness as memorial devices, objects of contemplation, and sources of miracles (Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 262; Katharine Park, “The life of the Corpse: Division and Dissection in Late Medieval Europe.” The Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences 50 (1995): 123–24). A tactic of Rome regarding early martyrs was to scatter their dismembered pieces to thwart early Christians’ adoration of them. These followers, even though they discounted the physicality of their religious heroes, nevertheless went to great lengths to collect and reassemble them (Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 268–69, 419n95). 34 Relevant to the discussion on Iceland, Bynum adduces Selma Jónsdóttir’s study as evidence of the transmission of the Byzantine Last Judgement to far flung lands (Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 284; Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336, 196). 35 Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 253–64; Elizabeth A. R. Brown, “Death and the Human Body in the Later Middle Ages: The Legislation of Boniface VIII on the Division of the Corpse,” Viator 12 (1981): 239–44. 36 Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 242–44. 37 “Klö fogla scolo men eigi nýta. þa er hræ klo a. . .þar ero eg æt undan þeim fuglum þar er foglar eru ætir” (Vilhjálmur Finsen, Grágás, 34). 38 Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 240. “He will come at the end of the world to judge the living and the dead and will render to the reprobate and to the elect according to their works. Who all shall rise with their own bodies which they now have that they may receive according to their merits, whether good or bad, the latter eternal punishment with the devil, the former eternal glory with Christ” (Henry Joseph Schroeder, Disciplinary Decrees of the General Councils: Text, Translation, and Commentary [London: B. Herder Book Company, 1937], 238). 39 Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 247, 266; Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336, 155, 229–30. 40 Tertullian of Carthage, writing in the third century, quotes Enoch 61.5 when countering arguments that only those properly entombed would be resurrected for Judgement (Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 267). “But lest the proclamation should seem to be made with regard to the resurrection only of such bodies as are entrusted to tombs, you find it written: ‘And I will command to the fish of the sea and they will give forth the bones that have been eaten, and I will make joint fit with joint and bone with bone’ ” (Tertullian, Concerning the Resurrection of the Flesh, ed. and trans. Alexander Souter, Translations of Christian Literature [New York: The Macmillan Company, 1922], 76–77). 41 Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 268. 42 Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336, 203–4. 43 “Oc leita sva beina sem þeir myndi fiár ef ván væri i garþinum” (Vilhjálmur Finsen, Grágás, 13). The officiating priest is required to provide holy water and to sing over the bones. 44 “þar er rett hvartz vill at gera eina grof at beinum eþa fleiri” (Vilhjálmur Finsen, Grágás, 13; see also William Ian Miller, Bloodtaking and Peacemaking: Feud, Law, and Society in Saga Iceland [Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 1990], 222–23). 45 Brown, “Death and the Human Body in the Later Middle Ages,” 224–25, 267.

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46 Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 269–70; Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336, 293; Brown, “Death and the Human Body in the Later Middle Ages,” 233. A variation on the theme is the so-called heart burial, where only the heart (and not the inner organs) is removed and buried separately from the body. On heart burials, see Estella Weiss-Krejci, “Heart Burial in Medieval and Early Post-Medieval Central Europe,” in Body Parts and Bodies Whole, ed. Katharina Rebay-Salisbury, Marie Louise Stig Sørensen, and Jessica Hughes, Studies in Funerary Archaeology 5 (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2010), 119–34. 47 Brown, “Death and the Human Body in the Later Middle Ages,” 226–28. 48 Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 203–6; Park, “The life of the Corpse: Division and Dissection in Late Medieval Europe,” 112. A parallel is described in Icelandic sources. According to “Grœnlendinga þáttr,” if someone expired while on a hunting expedition far away from any settlement, the practice was to deflesh the bones by boiling the body, so they could be transported to a church for burial (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds., Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr, Íslenzk fornrit 4 [Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935], 273–93). 49 Brown, “Death and the Human Body in the Later Middle Ages,” 225. 50 Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 254, 285; Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336, 204–5. 51 Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 266; Park, “The life of the Corpse: Division and Dissection in Late Medieval Europe,” 117–18, 119, 126, 130; Brown, “Death and the Human Body in the Later Middle Ages,” 223, 266–67. 52 Park, “The life of the Corpse: Division and Dissection in Late Medieval Europe,” 117. 53 A famous example of an Icelandic revenant, or draugr, concerns the hauntings of Þórófr bægifótr in Eyrbyggja saga. Þórólfr bægifótr was a “víkingr mikill” before arriving in Iceland— an occupation that often carries villainous overtones in Íslendingasögur. Indeed, Þórólfr owes his byname, bægifótr, to an injury he received in a duel he instigated for the purpose of wresting land away from an old man, Úlfarr kappi, who was a comrade-in-arms of Þórólfr’s uncle Geirröðr and to whom the latter gave land in Iceland (chap. 7, 8). This act of treachery is followed by others, the culmination of which is that Þórólfr returns from the dead as a revenant. On malicious revenants and the undead in Old Icelandic sagas: Ármann Jakobsson, “The Specter of Old Age: Nasty Old Men in the Sagas of Icelanders,” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 104 (2005): 297–325; Ármann Jakobsson, “Vampires and Watchmen: Categorizing the Mediaeval Icelandic Undead,” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 110, no. 3 (2011): 281–300; Vésteinn Ólason, “The Un/Grateful Dead: From Baldr to Bægifötr,” in Old Norse Myths, Literature and Society, ed. Margaret Clunies Ross (Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark, 2003), 153–71. 54 Cf. Kristinréttur Árna Þorlákssonar, § 11 in Haraldur Bernharðsson, Magnús Lyngdal Magnússon, and Már Jónsson, eds., Járnsíða og kristinréttur Árna Þorlákssonar (Reykjavík: Sögufélag, 2005), 156. Further, see my discussion of the earliest Norwegian Christian laws and their prescribed exposure and then burial of infants born with severe congenital impairments. In certain cases, these birth defects are taken as evidence of infernal agency (Sean B. Lawing, “The Place of the Evil: Infant Abandonment in Old Norse Society,” Scandinavian Studies 85, no. 2 [2013]: 133–50). 55 Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 267, 285. 56 When Þórólfr bægifótr is disinterred in Eyrbyggja saga by his son Arnkell goði in order to put an end to his hauntings, Þórólfr’s body is found to be uncorrupted. “Þeir fóru upp yfir

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hálsinn ok kómu í Þórsárdal ok til dysjar Þórólfs, brjóta dysin ok finna Þórólf þar ófúinn, ok var hann nú inn illiligsti” (Ch. 34; Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson 1935, 94–95). 57 The latter is an instance of apotropaic magic. Possibly related is Gulaþingslög § 241 (Rudolph Keyser and Peter Andreas Munch, eds., Norges gamle love indtil 1837, vol. 1 [Christiania: Chr. Gröndahl, 1846], 80–81), which forbids positioning a corpse on the ground with the head between the legs. I discuss this passage and its relation to the Old Norse insult tradition níð in Sean B. Lawing, “The Forest Please of Rockingham: A (Re)Discovered Instance of Sculptural Níð,” The European Journal of Scandinavian Studies 44, no. 1 (2014): 20–42; see also Folke Ström, On the Sacral Origins of the Germanic Death Penalties, Kungliga Vitterhets historie och antikvitetsakademiens handlingar 52 (Stockholm: Tevens proefschrift, 1942), 167–71. 58 Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 269–70; Park, “The life of the Corpse: Division and Dissection in Late Medieval Europe,” 113, 115; Brown, “Death and the Human Body in the Later Middle Ages,” 221–23, 248. 59 Brown, “Death and the Human Body in the Later Middle Ages,” 221–22. 60 Brown, “Death and the Human Body in the Later Middle Ages,” 241–43. 61 Park, “The life of the Corpse: Division and Dissection in Late Medieval Europe,” 113. 62 Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 263. 63 Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, 270; Brown, “Death and the Human Body in the Later Middle Ages,” 244. 64 Brown, “Death and the Human Body in the Later Middle Ages,” 252–62. 65 Brown, “Death and the Human Body in the Later Middle Ages,” 244, 265–67. 66 “Leg scolo øll vera iafn dýr. hvart sem ero nær kirkio eþa fir. i kirkio garþe” (K. § 3; Vilhjálmur Finsen, Grágás, 9). 67 Cf. Staðarhólsbók § 47 Vilhjálmur Finsen, ed. and trans., Grágás efter det Arnamagnæanske Haandskrift nr. 334 fol., Staðarhólsbók (Copenhagen: Gyldendalske Boghandel, 1879), 57; and Skálholtsbók § 26 Vilhjálmur Finsen, ed. and trans., Grágás: Stykker, som findes i det Arnamagnæanske Haandskrift nr. 351 fol., Skálholtsbók, og en række andre haandskrifter (Copenhagen: Gyldendalske Boghandel, 1883), 42. The provision does not appear, however, in the next generation of Christian laws of ca. 1275, referred to as Kristinréttur Árna Þórlákssonar, hence perhaps the need for Bishop Jón Sigurðsson to readdress the issue. 68 Jón Þorkelsson, ed., Diplomatarium Islandicum: Íslenzkt fornbréfasafn, sem hefir inni að halda bréf og gjörnínga, dóma og máldaga, og aðrar skrár, er snerta Ísland og íslenzka menn, vol. 2, 1253–1350 (Copenhagen: S. L. Möllers, 1893), 799. “§ 34 Even though only the head of a person is found, it should be sung over. Moreover, when the head is missing from a person but knowledgeable people still recognize the body, the departed should not suffer the loss of this holy service. But, if some limb—hand or foot or other bone or fleshy part—is found separately, it is not stipulated whether it should be sung over or not. Still, let all parts of a Christian that are found be buried in the churchyard if they by rights ought to lie there.” 69 Jón Þorkelsson, Diplomatarium Islandicum, 799. “§ 35 If part of a Christian’s body is found out of doors and the body is in such a poor state one cannot tell from looking at its sexual organs whether it was a man or a woman but people know with certainty that the person who had been out, he or she, had the right to lie in the churchyard, then the body should be sung over. Still, it is not stipulated whether a woman’s or man’s funeral dirge ought to be sung. Yet, wherever it is doubtful, I believe a man’s type ought to be used because of the two it is given eminence in the Holy Scripture.” 70 Lára Magnúsardóttir discusses this set of statutes in conjunction with the bishop’s authority to clarify existing laws but not promulgate new ones (Lára Magnúsardóttir, Bannfæring og

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kirkjuvald á Íslandi 1275–1550 [Reykjavík: Háskólaútgáfan, 2007], 379–80). Bishop Jón Sigurðsson likewise clarifies emergency baptism in the case of a difficult birth, presumably breach or posterior presentation. If the situation is such that it seems unlikely that the child will come free from the birth canal, the priest or whoever is present should baptize and name a body part of the child that is exposed. Should the child survive, it should be baptized and named a second time as if the first baptism had not occurred (Jón Þorkelsson, Diplomatarium Islandicum, 798). This baptismal strategy is clearly focused on making sure the child can be buried in consecrated ground. 71 Situational improvisations, while clever, might nevertheless equally lead to improper handling of the dead, which could—at least according to Icelandic sagas—lead to their return as unquiet spirits. In Eiríks saga rauða, it is ironically the reanimated corpse of Þorsteinn Eiríksson, a circumstance made possible by a miraculous dispensation of God, who instructs his wife Guðríðr of such dangers. First, he warns of burying men in unconsecrated ground with little or no funerary rites: “Er þat engi háttr, sem hér hafa verit í Grœnlandi, síðan kristni kom hér, at setja menn niðr í óvígða mold við litla yfirsöngva” (chap. 6; Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 216). Next, he further admonishes against circumventing burial requirements with technical flourishes: Greenlanders are said to have been in the practice of burying their dead in unconsecrated ground and then attempting to hallow it by pushing a pole into the earth until it meets the dead person’s chest and pouring in holy water: “Sá hefði háttr verit á Grœnlandi, síðan kristni kom þangat, at menn váru grafnir á bœjum, þar sem öndinum dauða, en síðan, er kennimenn kómu til, þá skyldi upp kippa staurinum ok Hella þar í vígðu vatni ok veita þar yfirsöngva, þótt þat væri miklu síðar” (chap. 6; Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 217). Vanherpen touches on these Greenlandic burial observances as contrasting with proper Christian ones (Sofie Vanherpen, “Remembering Auðr/Unnr djúp(a) uðga Ketilsdóttir: Construction of Cultural Memory and Female Religious Identity,” Mirator 14, no. 2 [2013]: 68–69). 72 The Roman Catholic Church continues to provide for the burial of limbs and body parts without performing funeral rites. Related to eschatological beliefs, it was only in 1963 and Vatican II that cremation was permitted, though with reservations (Canon 1176, § 3). An explicit ban on cremation—including that of amputated limbs—was previously put in place by papal decrees and canons in 1886 (i.e. Canon 1203, § 1; 1240, and 1212) due to a rising interest in the burial method that was fostered by dissenting and pro-cremation groups (see Simone Ameskamp, “Fanning the Flames: Cremation in Late Imperial and Weimar Germany,” in Between Mass Death and Individual Loss: The Place of the Dead in Twentieth-Century Germany, ed. Alon Cofino, Paul Betts, and Dirk Schumann [New York: Berghahn Books, 2008], 102–5).

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Ármann Jakobsson “Vampires and Watchmen: Categorizing the Mediaeval Icelandic Undead.” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 110, no. 3 (2011): 281–300. Brown, Elizabeth A. R. “Death and the Human Body in the Later Middle Ages: The Legislation of Boniface VIII on the Division of the Corpse.” Viator 12 (1981): 221–70. Bynum, Caroline Walker. Fragmentation and Redemption: Essays on Gender and the Human Body in Medieval Religion. New York: Zone Books, 1991. Bynum, Caroline Walker. The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336. New York: Columbia University Press, 1995. Cormack, Margaret. In West over Sea: Studies in Scandinavian Sea-Borne Expansion and Settlement Before 1300, edited by Beverley Ballin Smith, Simon Taylor, and Gareth Williams, 227–34. The Northern World. Leiden: Brill, 2007. DuBois, Thomas. Nordic Religions in the Viking Age. Middle Ages Series. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1999. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds. Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr. Íslenzk fornrit 4. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935. Faulkes, Anthony, and Alison Finlay, eds. Íslendingabók: Kristni Saga. The Book of the Icelanders: The Story of the Conversion. Translated by Siân Grønlie. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2006. Freud, Sigmund. “Das Unheimliche.” Imago: Zeitschrift für die Anwendung der Psychoanalyse auf die Geisteswissenschaften 5/6 (1919): 297–324. Garipzanov, Ildar. “Early Christian Scandinavia and the Problem of Eastern Influences.” In Early Christianity on the Way from the Varangians to the Greeks, edited by Ildar Garipzanov and Oleksiy Tolochko, 17–32. Kiev: Institute of Ukrainian History, 2011. Garipzanov, Ildar H. “Wandering Clerics and Mixed Rituals in the Early Christian North, c. 1000–c. 1150.” The Journal of Ecclesiastical History 63, no. 1 (2012): 1–17. Gunnell, Terry, and Annette Lassen, eds. The Nordic Apocalypse: Approaches to Völuspá and Nordic Days of Judgement. Acta Scandinavica 2. Turnhout: Brepols, 2013. Haraldur Bernharðsson, Magnús Lyngdal Magnússon, and Már Jónsson, eds. Járnsíða og kristinréttur Árna Þorlákssonar. Reykjavík: Sögufélag, 2005. Hörður Ágústsson. Dómsdagur og helgir men á Hólum: Endurskoðun fyrri hugmynda umfjalirnar frá Bjarnastaðahlíð og Flatatungu. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1989. Jentsch, Ernst. “Zur Psychologie des Unheimlichen.” Psychiatrisch-neurologische Wochenschrift 8, no. 22 (1906): 195–198, 203–205. Jón Þorkelsson, ed. Diplomatarium Islandicum: Íslenzkt fornbréfasafn, sem hefir inni að halda bréf og gjörnínga, dóma og máldaga, og aðrar skrár, er snerta Ísland og íslenzka menn. Vol. 2. 1253–1350. Copenhagen: S. Möllers, 1893. Kahle, Bernhard, ed. Kristnisaga: Þáttr Þorvalds ens víðfǫrla, þáttr Ísleifs biskups Gizurarsonar, Hungrvaka. Altnordische Saga-Bibliothek 11. Halle: Max Niemeyer. Keyser, Rudolph, and Peter Andreas Munch, eds. Norges gamle love indtil 1837. Vol. 1. Christiania: Chr. Gröndahl, 1846. Landro, Torgeir. “Kristenrett og kyrkjerett: Borgartingskristenretten i eit komparativt perspektiv.” PhD diss., University of Bergen, 2010. Lawing, Sean B. “The Forest Please of Rockingham: A (Re)Discovered Instance of Sculptural Níð.” The European Journal of Scandinavian Studies 44, no. 1 (2014): 20–42.

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Daniel C. Remein

Paranormal Prose: “Para-Narrative” and Ice in the Icelandic Sagas Abstract: This essay explores the function of ice in narratives of the paranormal in the Icelandic sagas, developing an eco-theoretical account of ice as a “geomaterial prosody of human realities” that haunts the prose of the paranormal as a mode of reference to the natural world. There are no living narratives except for flowing transports broken up, then, by these sudden impacts. Michel Serres1

Spooky Ice for Sale The bulk of the narrative of the fourteenth-century Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss is set on a slim ring of marginally inhabitable land that skirts its way between the mountain Snæfell and the sea, under the imposing Snæfellsjökull glacier that hangs over the bulb-like end of Snæfellsnes in western Iceland. In modern times, this shrinking—and relatively small, but still aesthetically majestic—glacier has attracted the interest of enthusiasts of the paranormal, providing the fantastical point of access to the earth’s core in Jules Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth and a supposed center of mystical energy for various forms of popular spiritualism even into the present. The current Icelandic tourism “klondike” has not failed to appeal to both modern and medieval narratives of this icy hulk in order to exploit the imbrication of New Age spiritualism, long-abiding romantic constructions of “Nature,” and certain brands of popular recreational “environmentalism” in attracting tourism revenue. And Bárðr—the part-human, part-troll, part-deity main character of Bárðar saga—has not been exempt from this process. Although Bárðar saga remains relatively peripheral to the “classical sagas,” and, at best, difficult to access in translation for English-speaking readers,2 visitors who take advantage of the companies that offer varying levels of access to the glacier itself are likely to read about Bárðr and his supernatural relationship to the glacier in the growing corpus of popular tourist literature marketed to eco-tourists and outdoor recreation-seekers. The Lonely Planet guide, for example, promises “eerie views” of the ice, describes the “haunting” quality of the glacier as part of an “ethereal realm,” and cheerily https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-010

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guides tourists to points of interest associated with Bárðr as a “guardian spirit” of the peninsula—not least among them Ragnar Kjartansson’s ungainly statue of Bárðr in Arnarstapi.3 Guide to Iceland, a popular online tourism guide, offers a five-part guide to “The Magical Snæfellsnes peninsula” (emphasis added) and a more detailed guide to Bárðr-related sites, which claims, perhaps overconfidently, that “the faith in the protection of Bárður Snæfellsás is still alive”—going so far as to note that “psychics talk about seeing and sensing a great spirit in Snæfellsjökull glacier, who protects the west coast of Iceland and all air traffic and ships between Europe and North America.”4 Even the more staid, and presumably scientifically (or at least naturalistically) oriented map of “Snæfellsjökull National Park and Nearby Areas” published by the Environmental Agency of Iceland (available from the National Park Gestastofa in Hellnar in several languages), links Bárðr with an appeal to the glacier’s supernatural associations in the contemporary world.5--> Such tourism literature makes a particular kind of fetishized commodity of the glacier and its “place” within the new Icelandic global tourism market, transforming the much more slippery (and weirder) ways that ice conditions something like the paranormal within the narratives of the Íslendingasögur into a fixed place with presumed universally salient characteristics. The resulting monetizable “experience” of the glacier sublimates literary complexity into a spiritualism that dovetails nicely and safely with the “picturesque”—in tandem with, and in order to transform, the paranormal of the sagas into surplus value in the economy of global eco-tourism. However, in the text of Bárðar saga, the paranormal qualities of the glacier emerge only in terms of what Ármann Jakobsson and Miriam Mayburd have described as a kind of undecidable hierarchy between the “superhuman power, or subhuman primitivism” that results in a post-human-like subsumption of the human into territory.6 After killing his nephew in what turns out to be premature grief for his daughter, Bárðr realizes that “at sakir ættar minnar ok harma stórra ber ek eigi náttúra við alþýðu manna,”7 and subsequently disappears into a cave in or under Snæfellsjökull. The subsequent quasihagiographical account of Bárðr’s glacial-dwelling activities as an áss does render “the sprawling Snæfellsjökull,” as Mayburd explains it, “a deeply anchored áss in its own right, holding the region together and supporting its entire geological structure”; but the paranormal cast of the saga depends not so much on a spiritualizing logic or an assumed metaphysics of place as on a more complex account of the relationship of human inhabitants to the physical terrain, radicalized such that it threatens “a breakdown in the very category of humanity.”8 Since Bárðr is after all generally helpful to the inhabitants of the peninsula, the creepiest thing about him may be the ease with which he disappears, simply going or turning (“sem hann muni í jöklana horfit hafa”)—poof!—into the glacier with an

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effortlessness that suggests that we might just as easily do the same, but with much grimmer results.9 In this sudden disappearance, this vanishing—this movement aside and out of view of history10—the paranormal quality of this ice lies, perhaps paradoxically, in a certain evasive normality, in a lateral positioning that underscores the para in the paranormal.

How To Look for Ice in the Sagas Indeed ice might seem in general surprisingly shunted aside by the sagas—neither often-mentioned nor often so near to the supernatural in the sense of being or becoming coextensive with a creature like Bárðr; and yet, as I argue below, although they rarely explicitly refer to it, the sagas are eerily full of ice, the paranormal effect of which disturbs the supposed fixity of “place” as an ecological category and displaces “normal” human reality. The apparent lack of interest in making reference to ice in these narratives may strike the reader possessing even a passing familiarity with the climates and geography of Iceland and Greenland as odd.11 That is, a distinct paucity of ice in the Íslendingasögur (in episodes set in Iceland, but also in those set in Greenland) may seem eerily strange enough on its own as to tempt one to consider whether the ostensible avoidance of the topic is not itself a little paranormal, almost calculated to provoke the reader into speculation about how frozen water might haunt this corpus in ways adjacent to expected modes of prose narrative reference and, consequently, invisible to routine critical protocols for narrative prose. The most salient examples of attention to ice in the sagas render its elision elsewhere only more perplexing. In Grœnlendinga saga, Bjarni Herjólfsson explains to his crew that a land (which Leifr Eiríksson was later to explore) cannot be Greenland, “því at jǫklar eru mjǫk miklir sagðir á Grœnlandi.”12 Indeed, in recounting that Eiríkr sails by way of “jǫkli þeim, er heitir Bláserkr,”13 Eiríks saga rauða similarly lends an important navigational function to the glacial ice of Greenland while simultaneously suggesting (with the help of a slippery toponym) the vast extent to which such ice can overwhelm land, which must in turn be thought of as “under,” or even metaphorically “clothed” by it. Given the importance accorded to ice in a rare moment like this, it is thus perplexing that elsewhere it seems as if no one remembered to mention the hulks of frozen water that dominate Greenland’s landmass, or rest threateningly in the Icelandic highlands, occasionally erupting into a devastating jökulhlaup. We should hesitate, however, to interpolate this strange ice-myopia into the often-rehearsed account of the sagas as narratives exclusively preoccupied

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with the social and uninterested in the landscapes that contemporary tourists find so irresistible.14 In contrast, Eleanor Rosamund Barraclough’s analysis of toponyms as a way to examine the interaction of medieval Icelandic literature with a temporally and culturally multiple natural world begins by “rejecting the unconsidered perception [in saga-criticism] of landscape as a primarily visual, literally ‘picturesque’ phenomenon,” and thus arrives at her account of a corpus in which “myth, history, cultural memory, and physical topography are interwoven to create a culturally meaningful mapping of the country, at the heart of which lies the Icelandic landscape and its inhabitant’s interaction with it through both space and time.”15 Building on Barraclough’s deprivileging of the visual in thinking about the relationship of sagas to the “natural world,” we might additionally assert, from the perspective of disability studies, that expecting narrative reference to the natural world to register exclusively in terms of visual perception fails to grasp the possibility that narrative can comprehend non-sighted modes of human interaction with localities and terrain.16 One might even argue that that whether one moves over earthly terrain by foot, prosthetics, or both, a more primary perceptual mode with respect to earthly locomotion—common to sighted and nonsighted persons alike—lies in the proprioceptive and the tactile, and that we will need to feel and disorient our way towards a prose that, perhaps indirectly, marks unseeable diagetic milieus. It is in this spirit that in her analysis of postmortem dwelling in the sagas, Miriam Mayburd powerfully demonstrates that despite “the absence of explicit ‘landscape’ descriptions in Icelandic sagas,” the sagas nevertheless register and cognitively process the physical landscape—and Icelanders’s dread of its Otherness—as a paranormal entity in itself.17 Further studies critique classical constructions of both the temporal and geographic fixity of “place” as necessary qualities of a supposedly obvious and natural category—the assumption of which can obscure (and stabilize or preemptively close) the relationship of the sagas to the natural geographies of Iceland. Drawing on Kirsten Hastrup’s work on Grettis saga, Gillian R. Overing’s and Marijane Osborn’s criminally neglected study of landscape, literary tourism, and place points out the extent to which overlapping social and juridical space within Icelandic geography can register in the sagas along an inside-outside axis that is legible only negatively.18 Such contradictions are only further concretized in saga characters like Grettir Ásmundarson, who “turns the inside out, the outside in, and confuses the boundaries of both.”19 By filtering their own literary tourism through various strains of late twentieth-century critical theory, Overing and Osborn emphasize the critical slipperiness of the capacity especially afforded by Iceland to visit sites in the present that (however “accurately”) might be feasibly or plausibly “believed” as “the very place” invoked, framed, referred to, or

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constructed by such narratives.20 Taken in tandem with the contradictory ease by which these same texts can also seemingly attach to other places (a process of mutual translation and re-translation of text and place that Osborn designates as “translocation”), this referential, spatial, and temporal (im)mobility underscores the extent to which modes of reading that attempt to co-locate such texts and geographies, or to stabilize their modes of reference to particular localities, inevitably veer towards vertiginous metonymic slippages: “these crossings and projections of stories upon the land betray a metonymic relationship between past and present, old and new, and persons supposed to have been in the place where one stands now.”21 Archaeologists Douglas Bolender and Oscar Aldred argue that, from the perspective of medieval and Viking-age Icelandic archaeology, practices that assume fixities of place in constructing the relationship between Icelandic sagas and Icelandic geography risk “eliding the transitory processes that generated past materialities.”22 Instead, as Bolender and Aldred explain, the perspective gained from broader archaeological surveys yields accounts of the relationships of sagas and landscape in “processes that begin from the middle out”: “In this view, place is not necessarily a fixed location but rather imbricated in the relational entanglements and mobilities that enfold space, place and time together, sometimes at places but often along the non-place zone or transitory spaces.”23 The possibility that the sagas may more strongly and more strangely bear the marks of a relationship to geography and to the natural world in general in terms of proprioceptive movements (textual, narrative, historical, geographical) and their modulation will prove crucial to an understanding of ice, and the paranormal, in the sagas. Accordingly, we can assume in advance that any ice in the sagas is likely to stand in a metonymic relationship (or, rather, series of mobile metonymic slippages) both with its possible range of paranormal associations and with a given sagatext and/or narrative itself. Such ice would indeed elude positivist modes of identifying reference, and it might not register as part of a supposedly stable, visually troped, narrative setting. If there is invisible ice haunting the sagas, it may referentially code as indirect, metonymic, or “para”-narration of tactile or proprioceptive phenomena traversing sensory, social, and geographical space within paranormal/narrative prose.

Haunted By Ice Thus, in some of the most troubling accounts of revenant hauntings in the sagas, ice also haunts the edges and interstices of the narrative, unseen. In both Eiríks

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saga rauða and Grœnlendinga saga (if in two slightly different accounts), Guðríðr and her husband Þorsteinn Eiríksson stay the winter in Lýsufjörður, Greenland with a farmer also named Þorsteinn and his wife (called Sigríðr in Eiríks saga rauða and Grímhildr in Grœnlendinga saga). With slightly different details, each saga tells how the farmer’s wife dies when an illness sweeps through the settlement, soon after which her corpse reanimates in a threatening manner before Þorsteinn Eiríksson then also dies—his corpse also reanimating and even delivering a prophecy to his wife. Grœnlendinga saga mentions in passing that Grímhildr (the other Þorsteinn’s wife) falls ill despite being “ákafliga mikil ok sterk sem karlar”,24 rendering it all the more troubling when she begins to try to put on her shoes after death, leaving Guðríðr trapped inside the winter-bound house with an ailing husband and this threateningly large revenant. In the Eiríks saga rauða account, the haunting activity begins even before the death of the farmer’s wife. When Guðríðr tries to help an ill Sigríðr (the other Þorsteinn’s wife) to the outhouse, she halts at the open doorway, warning Sigríðr, “Vit hǫfum óvarliga farit, ok áttu engan stað við, at kalt komi á þik.”25 Sigríðr, too, refuses to go any further, but not on account of the cold; rather, she sees all those who have already died of the illness—as well as herself and Guðríðr’s notyet-dead husband—in a group “fyrir durunum” (“before the door”), being threatened by a man with a whip.26 Sigríðr describes this scene, unsurprisingly, as “slíkt hǫrmung at sjá.”27 Then, after Sigríðr dies, Þorsteinn Eiríksson (nearly dead himself at this point) sends for help from his namesake, the farmer, because, as the indirect discourse reports him saying, “þar væri varla kyrrt, ok húsfreyja vildi fœrask á fœtr ok vildi undir klæðin hjá honum.”28 An eerie freeze lurks at the perimeter of this haunted space, especially in the dark-humored understatement that permeates the report of Sigríðr’s attempt to climb into bed with Þorsteinn Eiríksson: the indirect speech undersells the weirdness and paranormal quality of the event (“þar væri varla kyrrt”),29 and the relatively formal reference to Sigríðr as the húsfreyja subtly calls attention to the added awkwardness of her status as married (or, formerly married, in life) to the other Þorsteinn—underscoring, with a certain uncomfortable ridiculousness, a potential slippage between necrophilic humor and mundane horror hemmed in by the icy weather (the dead woman, after all, may simply want to warm her feet). And on a larger narrative scale, in both of these accounts, ice invisibly attaches itself to, or perhaps locks in, the advent of a spectrum of paranormal activity. In the Grœnlendinga saga account, a disorienting crossing brings Þorsteinn and Guðríðr to Lýsufjörður, where winter, and presumably sea ice, force them to land in the first place.30 The Eiríks saga rauða account has the couple come to Lysufjord on purpose, with intent to stay;31 but in both cases, it is taken for granted that winter and sea ice keep them trapped there even as illness devastates the community.

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More importantly, perhaps, both sagas seem to go out of their way to avoid naming ice as one of the conditioning factors of the hauntings. As P.S. Langeslag notes, in Eiríks saga rauða the reanimated corpse of Þorsteinn complains to Guðríðr about Greenlandic burial customs, which occasions a substantial commentary on the subject by the narrator to the overall effect of suggesting that the hauntings take place as a result of insufficiently Christian burials in unconsecrated ground.32 Yet, Langeslag argues, Missing from the account is the key piece of information that inhumation was and remains a complicated affair in Greenland. Even in locations where soil is plentiful, snow and frozen topsoil hinder the digging of graves in winter, while permafrost in many places precludes the creation of graves more than a few feet deep even in summer.33

And if Eiríks saga rauða suggests that the Greenlanders were placing a stick in the ground at the site of a burial to facilitate consecration of the grave with holy water when a priest could visit later on,34 Langeslag notes that “the Greenlandic variant, to drive in the stake immediately upon burial, may be understood not just as a way of creating a channel for the holy water, but also as means of locating the body below the cover of snow.”35 It is all the more suspicious then that the narrator references the former practice, especially since, in both sagas, not even this level of provisional “burial” seems to be attempted. In Grœnlendinga saga, Grímhildr’s corpse is left in the house as the other Þorsteinn goes to look for a fjöl (board) on which to lay it, presumably to more easily move it outside.36 Yet, by no means does this suggest that the farmer has plans to bury her soon. Once Þorsteinn Eiríksson dies, the other Þorsteinn—while embracing a presumably terrified Guðríðr, “gengt líki Þorsteins”—offers to take the body to Eiríksfjörður in the spring, and eventually has the body taken down to the ship until the journey.37 In Eiríks saga rauða, the other Þorsteinn has a kista (coffin, box) made for his wife, but he does not attempt to dig any kind of grave right away—going instead to check on the day’s fishing, and later (after her corpse tries to climb into bed) pledging to watch over her and his namesake’s corpse during the night (when Þorsteinn Eiríksson’s corpse reanimates).38 Both bodies are eventually taken to Eiríksfjörður for burial, in the spring.39 Both sagas thus studiously avoid any direct mention of the basic condition for all this trouble: that the ground is frozen. At the same time, the ostensibly passing references to winter, to cold, or to an inability to sail—if one takes them at all as indicators of a setting that appeals to a full sensorium—point metonymically towards the ice adjacent to each of these phenomena. As the prose thus indirectly invites speculation about ice itself, episodes of more obviously paranormal phenomena begin to function as metonyms for ice: not for ice as a passive element of “setting,” but for the drama of ice, slipping along eerily beside the narrative.

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As Langeslag notes, sagas set in Iceland do on occasion make explicit mention of the ways that ice can get in the way of proper burials and lead directly to hauntings.40 In Eyrbyggja saga (in which, elsewhere, during the battle of Vigrafjörður, ice is directly described and plays a rare prominent role), after the death of Þórólfr bægifótr, people seem to realize only too slowly—“en er á leið sumarit”41—that “Þórólfr lá eigi kyrr,”42 and that Þórólfr’s insufficient burial has precipitated a string of increasingly dangerous hauntings.43 It is only after “er þeli var ór jǫrðu”44 that Þórólfr’s son Arnkell can arrange to rebury his father and put an end to the threat of the hauntings.45 Yet even here, the prose is careful to link the terror of that winter to the more obviously paranormal creatures, or even to the humans responsible for the insufficient burial. The narrator leads us into the episode behind a haunted funerary procession, explaining, “at yxn þeir, er Þórólfr var ekinn á, urðu trollriða”46 Then, partway through the account, the narrator identifies a living person on whom the other characters place the blame (at least in a legal, financial sense), reporting, “þótti mǫnnum Arnkell eiga at ráða bœtr á”47—and inserting, by the same stroke, a subtle distance between the opinion reported and that of a narrative voice reluctant to conclusively determine a cause for the events. Leaving this speculative narrative space to hover around and between all of the conditioning elements of the episode (rendering even elements of a supposedly passive “setting” as potential agents of drama), the prose of the “obviously paranormal” in the saga thus quietly displaces ice into a kind of “para-narrative” that invisibly crystalizes around a single farmhouse—all at the moment when “Arnkell bauð þeim ǫllum til sín, er þat þótti vildara en vera annars staðar”.48 Here, the drama of ice runs hauntingly adjacent to the narrative prose. Preventing the humans from undertaking the reburial that would put an end to the hauntings, ice looses a flow of ghosts that freezes living persons in place—circumscribing those who flee their farms within what the saga leaves us to imagine as Arnkell’s increasingly constrictive farmhouse. Even without a haunting, the sagas can subtly suggest that the interior of a farmhouse during the winter can harbor an uneasiness that borders on the creepy—such as the winter recounted in Egils saga, in which Egill and Skallagrímr spend months cooped up in the house without speaking to each other after each has killed someone dear to the other.49 During Þórólfr’s hauntings, it is not the dead who are frozen in place, confined under the turf. Rather, the ghosts and the dead walk freely, congregating in the dark and the cold, and compelling, by contrast, the icy confinement of the living: they are stuck in cold, smoky, turf-roofed buildings that eerily emphasize the unimaginable nearness of the living to the dead and the unreal possibility that such life is indeed normal earthly life. The narrative invisibility of ice in the sagas can have precisely this paranormal force: not as a supernatural being, but in setting normal life, regular mundane being, beside itself.

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The Normal, Para-Ice (or, Ice and the Prose Syntax of the Paranormal) In Flóamanna saga, the narrative confronts ice as just such a claustrotropic paranormal force that hems in and infiltrates the supposedly human world. When the newly pious Þorgils accepts an offer of the best land in Greenland from Eiríkr the Red, he sets sail along with his pregnant wife Þórey, their household, and a second party led by the pagan-sympathetic Jósteinn. Their ship has a hard crossing and wrecks—presumably on Greenland’s then unpopulated eastern side—“undir Grænlandsjöklum í vík nökkurri við sandmöl.”50 Here, the two parties find themselves pressed for time (“Þá var vika til vetrar”)51 in a provisional dwelling that will prove physically and socially insufficient, and surrounded by ice on a terrifying scale: Jöklar miklir gengu tveim megin víkrinnar. Þeir gera sér nú skála ok í þverþili; búa nú sínum megin hvárir . . . Hann bað sína menn vera hljóðláta ok siðsama á kveldum ok halda vel trú sína. Þórey var mjök þunguð. Þat er sagt, at Jósteinn ok hans menn gerðu mikit um sik ok höfðu náttleika með háreysti.52

Here, the paratactic syntax typical of the sagas releases the setting into an uncertain and active relationship with the drama, inviting the speculative reader to note the stark contrast between, on the one hand, the scale and restrictive circumference of the encompassing glaciers, and on the other, the tiny hut into which they compress these two badly matched groups of people—at once separated and rendered intimate by the shelter’s (probably) flimsy, sound- and smell-porous divider (of cloth? or skin?). The scene opens cinematically—with an establishing shot of the giant ice-forms, followed by tighter shots of the shelter—until tactile and proprioceptive pressures overwhelm the sense of the visible. The prose underscores the impossibility of the social situation by not spelling out the conflict arising between Þorgils’s piousness and the contrasting behavior of Jósteinn and his party—information given in sentences between which the narrator quietly reminds the reader of Þórey’s pregnancy, placed now as if in the precise chiastic center of concentric syntactic and icy rings of unbearable confinement that displace the inhuman chill of the glacier (with all of its force and pressure) into the flimsy partition at the center of the hut. The “para-paranormal” social dynamics of ice-induced confinement discussed above are similarly at work here: the paranormal associations of ice do not emerge from a fixed “place,” but in its regulation of (failed) attempts at human mobility. Yet, in this case, the saga treads less lightly in associating ice with the paranormal. When the more decidedly paranormal hauntings begin, they are certainly exacerbated by an inability to provide sufficient burials as a result of the freeze; however,

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crucially, the narrator takes care to position this narrative shift not as a leap to an ontologically distinct realm, but rather as a continuum of events that displace the assumed position of the human social world. Thus, the initial installation of the more decidedly paranormal within the heart of the human shelter occurs before anyone has died—during a deceptively pleasant day of “veðr gott” (good weather) on Christmas (a typical time for hauntings) that allowed everyone to be outside during the daytime:53 Jólamorgun var veðr gott, ok váru menn úti um daginn ok heyrðu óp mikit í útnorðr. Ok kemr annarr dagr í jólum. Þorgils háttar snemma, ok er þau höfðu sofit svefn, kom Jósteinn inn ok hans menn, ok er heldr mikit um þá; ok er þeir váru niðr lagztir, er drepit högg mikit á dyrr. Þá mælti einn þeira: “Góð tíðindi munu nú vera,”—ok hljóp út, ok varð hann þegar ærr, en um morguninn deyr hann. Svá ferr annan aptan, at maðr ærist ok kallast sjá hinn hlaupa at sér, er áðr dó.54

The first possible hint of paranormal activity becomes clear only in hindsight, when the full-blown hauntings invite the reader to speculate that the earlier loud noise heard off in the distance during the otherwise calm (and almost-toopleasant) Christmas morning was actually the howl of some approaching occult being. That the narrative bothers to mention that Þorgils and his company continue to turn-in early might suggest that Þorgils simply knows how to read that howl and can tell that something paranormal is just over the horizon. The pressure of the paranormal then increases by degrees until normal reality is radically displaced. The events that follow this initial incident of frenzy and death—the haunting the next day, a string of deaths from sickness, and a period after Christmas when all these dead walk again55—might seem to retroactively confirm that this knock at the door registers the arrival of a paranormal entity. Nevertheless, the narrator remains reticent about the ultimate cause of the dangerous disturbances. As Ármann Jakobsson argues, “in medieval Iceland, the identification of the occult was an endeavor fraught with contradiction.”56 Here, the narrator plots the points of an alternative account of causation at each turn, summoning not an image of a ghost, but an invisible sense of the chill, weight, and scale of the surrounding ice. Þorgils’s early bedtime, for example, can of course be explained solely as a result of his piety. On the morning of that first howl, everyone is enjoying the weather outside, and the howl is as likely to be the cry of one of Jósteinn’s company running wild as that of some paranormal being. Immediately before the knock at the door, Jósteinn’s company is making a ruckus; so, when the narrator neglects to specify from which side of the shelter the doomed man answers the knock (at least in this version of the text),57 we are left to wonder whether the knock itself comes from a member of one party or the other, as prelude to either prank or

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reprimand. Again, so far no one has died—so whatever thrusts the man who answers the door into a deadly frenzy, it is not a revenant corpse. However we may interpret the cause of this character’s behavior, whatever is outside the door is not mentioned or described. Still, the episode has already made clear the tactile and proprioceptive sensations of what surrounds and surmounts this tiny hut— framed by the doorway, inducing this man to madness and death: the space and pressure of the ice. Not long before, during the nicer weather, there was perhaps some brief relief. Now, stuffed back inside the tiny shelter, regular human reality is squeezed and displaced while the portal out leads only to a massive icy prison. The crushing pressure of the ice felt from the doorway is worse, and more rigorously paranormal, than a revenant. It would be, if only perversely, normal for a revenant to be terrifying, but the capacity for mere (if huge) ice to rewire the human social world in this way seems to bring the terror to a new pitch. With glacial ice as the literal horizon of these paranormal shifts, explicit references to sea ice following the discussion of the more conventional hauntings effectively bracket the entire episode with ice. After the more standard account of walking-dead hauntings that cease when the relevant corpses are burned, the prose evinces an even more crushing sense of unreality in the ominous report that, “Nú líðr á vetrinn, ok máttu þeir eigi burt leita fyrir ísum.”58 Following this statement, the narrative scale contracts, compressing the normal reality of an entire year and reducing the account of the following winter to just a single sentence that unceremoniously registers yet another death, before finally—like a refrain this time—once again drawing attention to a reality-bending horizon of ice: “Annan vetr andaðist Guðrún, systir Kols, ok gróf Þorgils hana undir rúmi sínu, ok er várar, megu þau ekki í burt komast.”59 Again disrupting normal end-of-life and burial practices, now the ice forces Þorgils to bring the dead—quite literally—into the midst of the living even as the prose condemns the party, with a cruel casualness, to yet more time in the ice. As Miriam Mayburd explores, in the sagas, “the conception of the dead living on in the mounds and mountains” tends to collapse “spatial boundaries between the dead, and the living.”60 Yet here, on account of this ice-confinement, this phenomenon is inverted and redoubled as the dead die not into an otherworldly space, but into the ground of the living. For Þorgils, the classic comparison of nightly sleep with death is eerily underpinned and nearly literalized by the actual body of a dead relation resting below him. At this point, the invisibility of ice serves to underscore the superfluity of mentioning it as it creeps into each moment of the diagesis. Although now free of supernatural antagonists, ice displaces the party’s normal human reality, installing in its place a laterally positioned a-reality that freely streams through the very heart of the shelter as the characters are frozen in place.

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In these metonymic and paratactic spaces, the prose of the sagas thus leaves to speculation not only a hauntingly lateral mode of reference that characterizes the relationship of the sagas to the natural world, but also the ways that ice constitutes a paradigm of the paranormal and its capacity to yield a claustro-tropic space that exerts invisible pressures on the human sensorium, human mobility, and human sociality. Such ice dislodges the normal into the “to-the-side-ness” of the para-, into whatever non-place, whatever ungovernably prepositional, denominalizing, de-substantializing circuit may be shunted quietly into (non)life by/ as the para-. Paradoxically, in its capacity to freeze in place, ice in the sagas signals and is signaled by a terrifying ex-stasis (whether of life or of prose). Ice becomes the paranormal in extremis: a non-appropriable, lateral modulation of the flows and spatialities of the “normal” human world, registered only in the spectral space beside normal narrative prose, yet more unsettling than any revenant.

Coda: Beside the Flow of Ice On the other side of this paranormal confining pressure, ice moves, freely circulates, flows, and transports, radically rearranging the relations and displacements discussed above. Such ice returns us to Bárðar saga, where we began— not, however, to the supposedly fixed position of Snæfellsjökull, but to a precarious fragment of circulatory, buoyant ice. In one of the more narratively far-fetched elements of the saga, Bárðr’s daughter Helga finds herself on some ice just off the shores of Snæfellsnes, pushed adrift by her cousins in the heat of an adolescent game. After the ice breaks off and floats out to the ice pack, Helga manages to get up onto an ice floe on which she speedily floats all the way to Greenland, landing safely at the most prominent farm in the Eastern Settlement. Because Helga is Bárðr’s daughter (thus descended from a blend of humans, trolls, and giants) and so “neither troll nor human,”61 her unlikely journey to Greenland may seem like a blend of a human hardship, trollish power, and narrative convenience. The entire journey is accomplished in a few brief sentences. Rak þá jakann út til hafíssins; fór Helga þá upp á hafíssin. Ina sömu nótt rak ísinn undan landi ok út í haf. Hon fylgdi þá ísinum, en hann rak svá ört, at innan sjau daga kom hon með ísinum til Grænlands.62

Helga’s disappearance provides Bárðr—who reasonably assumes that she has died—with a motive for killing his nephew and subsequently retreating into the glacier. Ármann Jakobsson is right to explain that this inclusion also functions

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as an attempt to construct a point of contact between Bárðr’s family and human Icelandic history via the reference that it generates to Brattahlíð.63 But, in addition to these narrative exigencies, and beyond its status as a possibly fanciful, even romance-derived narrative device (it has a smack of l’aventure about it), this incident also opens up a conceptual space between the paranormal of Snæfellsjökull and a mobile fragment of anonymous ice. The prose is here perhaps even more restrained than “usual” for the sagas, using mostly generic verbs of motion for both Helga and the ice. Yet, amidst this even-toned reporting, one verb subtly registers the more specific paranormal temperature of the episode, indicating precisely how Helga travels with the ice: she does not sail, journey, or generically “go.” Instead, the saga recounts that Helga actively accompanies (fylgja) the ice, using a verb that recalls the activities of the paranormal beings called fylgjur—a term that, as Ármann Jakobsson points out, refers less to a specially gendered or specific type of paranormal figure than to “the relationship that certain paranormal beings share with human individuals or families.”64 In the sagas, fylgjur do sometimes take the form of a woman, but often appear in the shape of various animals.65 So what distinguishes fylgjur is not a consistent taxonomic kind, but rather, “their function, their intrinsic entanglement with a certain person or family.”66 Here, given Helga’s miraculously safe and speedy delivery to Greenland, one might be tempted to think of the ice as the accompanying guardian, but Helga reverses this relationship. Given Helga’s paranormal parentage, her capacity to function does not, on its own, surprise. But that the object with which she is entangled might be an anonymous piece of ice instead of a human person thematically suggests a response to ice that is quite alien to the terror in the episodes described above—without divorcing ice from its associations with the paranormal. This entanglement underscores that Helga’s trollish side overlaps with the mineral world more than that of normal people, allowing her to embrace an alternative, lateral relationship to ice, accompanying it into the space beside the normal referentiality of saga-prose.67 In ghosted, unsighted narratives, ice in the sagas—whether confining, flowing, buoyant, heavy, sluggish, or swift—is paranormal in its modulating force as a geo-material prosody of human realities: the prosody of a kind of ecologically porous prose. The para-narrative prose of ice in the sagas haunts the prose of the paranormal in displacements and modulations of viscosity that demand the kind of “philosophy of prepositions” that philosopher Michel Serres has continually proposed.68 The paranormal quality of ice in the sagas, or the narration of the paranormal as a result of ice, takes shape as the conceptual space of how the paranormal regulates narrative prose in the metonymy and displacement by which ice is summoned so furtively into the sagas. In the sagas, ice occupies the

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space of a thought beside the paranormal that points to reality as what is precisely and eerily beside narrative and thought.

Notes 1 Michel Serres, Biogea, trans. Randolph Burks (Minneapolis: Univocal, 2012), 149. 2 On the historical and generic “peripheral” status of the saga with respect to the “classical” texts, see Ármann Jakobsson, “A History of the Trolls? Bárðar saga as an Historical Narrative,” Saga-Book 25, no. 1 (1998– 2001): 71. The most readily available English translation of this text can be found only in the costly and relatively rare Leifur Eiríksson Publishing collection, see Sarah M. Anderson, trans., “Bard’s Saga,” in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales, ed. Viðar Hreinsson, vol. 2 (Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing), 237–266. 3 Brandon Presser, Carolyn Bain, and Fran Parnell, Iceland, 8th ed. (Singapore: Lonely Planet, 2013), 151, 153. 4 Régina Hrönn Ragnarsdóttir, “Bárður Snæfellsás—The Mythical Protector of the Snæfellsnes Peninsula in West-Iceland,” Guide to Iceland, accessed July 5, 2017, https://guidetoiceland.is/ connect-with-locals/regina/bardur-snaefellsas-the-mysterious-protector-of-the-snaefellsnespeninsula; see also Régina Hrönn Ragnarsdóttir, “The Magical Snæfellsnes Peninsula,” Guide to Iceland, Parts 1–5, accessed July 5, 2017, https://guidetoiceland.is/connect-with-locals/regina/ the-magical-snaefellsnes-peninsula. 5 Guðbjörg Gunnarsdóttir and Ragnhildur Sigurðardóttir, Snæfellsjökull National Park and Nearby Protected Areas [in English], ed. Jón Örvar Geirsson Jónsson, Map, Environmental Agency of Iceland, Reykjavík, 2009: “The Saga of Bárður Snæfellsás reports that Bárður gave up on human company and walked into the glacier. Many have since regarded him as guardian of the area. The glacier has inspired many authors, poets, and artists throughout the ages. Some believe the glacier to be one of the seven largest centers of spiritual sources in the world.” 6 Ármann Jakobsson, “The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly: Bárðar saga and Its Giants,” Medieval Scandinavia 15 (2005): 9; Miriam Mayburd, “The Hills Have Eyes: Post-Mortem Mountain Dwellings and the (Super)natural Landscape in the Íslendingasögur,” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 10 (2014): 139. 7 Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, eds., “Bárðar saga Snæfellsás,” in Harðar saga, Íslenzk fornrit 13 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1991), 119. “Because of my family and great sorrow I do not share the nature of normal men.” 8 Mayburd, “The Hills Have Eyes,” 138–39. 9 Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, “Bárðar saga Snæfellsás,” 119. 10 See Ármann Jakobsson, “A History of the Trolls? Bárðar saga as an Historical Narrative,” 69: “This was inevitable and Bárðr knew it from the outset; this is one more factor making his saga a tragedy . . . Bárðr has no offspring [remaining at the end of the saga]. He is history.” 11 References throughout this essay to Icelandic sagas that are set partially or entirely in Greenland should not be taken as part of any historical claims concerning Norse Greenland; rather, their usefulness to this essay lies precisely in the way that saga narratives about Greenland reflect the perspective of medieval Icelandic writers and prose traditions. 12 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds., “Grœnlendinga saga,” in Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr, Íslenzk fornrit

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4 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935), 246. “Because there are said to be very big glaciers in Greenland.” 13 “The glacier which is called Dark-shirt.” Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds., “Eiríks saga rauða,” in Eyrbyggja saga, 200, and see 200n2. Here I follow the Hauksbók reading. The Skáholtsbók gives a different name (or, alternately, the text recounts Eiríkr navigating by way of a different glacier), Hvítserkr. The name Hvítserkr is notable in this context in that it also occurs in the ca. 1590 Skáholt Map (our current knowledge of which rests on a 1669 copy by Þórlak Þórlaksson) as a site on the eastern coast of Greenland (by modern cardinal directions, i.e., not near the Norse Eastern Settlement) and in navigational directions appended to a version of the notoriously controversial Ívar Bárdarson’s Description of Greenland. Debates about whether the latter text may constitute evidence for actual historical sailing routes, shifting routes to Greenland in response to changes in sea ice patterns (or their potential stakes)—or if the later cartographical tradition of Hvítserkr is invented based on earlier narrative traditions (and thus not reflective of historical routes)—are not my concern here. The point is that whatever the historical reality of either Hvítserkr or Bláserkr as Norse Greenlandic place-names, the text emphasizes the navigational importance of sighting a glacier-bound land it thinks of as distinct enough to grant an evocative toponym in the form of “(Color)-Shirt,” metaphorically cloaking the land under the ice as the more prominent (and perhaps only visible) topographical phenomenon. Ice is here a fixed point, and a covering. Cf. Kirsten A. Seaver, Maps, Myths, and Men: The Story of the Vinland Map (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2004), 56–59; Kirsten A. Seaver, The Frozen Echo: Greenland and the Exploration of North America, ca A.D. 1000–1500 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1996), 84. 14 Oren Falk, “The Vanishing Volcanoes: Fragments of Fourteenth-Century Icelandic Folklore,” Folklore 118 (2007): 6. 15 Eleanour Rosamund Barraclough, “Naming the Landscape in the Landnám Narratives of the Íslendingasögur and Landnámabók,” Saga-Book 36 (2012): 79, 80, 99. Barraclough argues that an exclusive focus on “clear-cut narrative functions of landscape and the natural world of the sagas” within the context of the “famously utilitarian” style of saga-narration can risk obscuring “the greater significance of the landscape for the Norse-Icelandic texts and medieval Icelandic culture and identity more generally, while at the same time, a decontextualized attention to toponyms can be equally “problematic” (79–80). The essay rationalizes the turn from landscape determined as “picturesque” seemingly on more historicist than eco-critical, phenomenological, or disability studies grounds, pointing out the modern construction of the English landscape derives not from OE landscipe (land-quality, region), but from the Dutch landschap—a term for a genre of painting (80; citing Nicholas Howe, “Two Landscapes, Two Stories: Anglo-Saxon England and the United States,” in Natures Past: Environment and Human History, ed. Paolo Squatriti [Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2002], 232). 16 See a growing body of medievalist work on disability studies in the context of ecological thought, e.g., Richard H. Godden, “Prosthetic Ecologies: Vulnerable Bodies and the Dismodern Subject in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight,” Textual Practice 30 (2016): 1273–90. On the ways that environmentalism has created social injustices for disabled bodies, see Sarah Jacquette Ray, The Ecological Other: Environmental Exclusion in American Culture (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2013). I would also point out that the primacy of vision in formulations of human and literary interaction with landscape should be dispensed with for any number of even more general methodological and hermeneutic reasons, inclusive of the fact that only the most facile sense of literary-critical commonplaces such as “imagery” or “description”

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could be taken to transparently indicate that reading necessarily makes consistent and explicitly visual impressions in a reader’s mind. 17 Mayburd, “The Hills Have Eyes,” 130, 148: “The collapsing of spatial boundaries between the dead, the living, and the paranormal ‘others’ inhabiting the physical terrain around them causes a breakdown of the very category of human. The other-world of the dead is thus rendered a physical part of this-world, with no clear boundaries to mark them apart and with the living caught somewhere on its premises.” Elsewhere, Mayburd has gone further, arguing that even the so-called “classical” sagas are not devoid of the paranormal, because the land itself functions as a paranormal entity even in these ostensibly “realist” narratives (Miriam Mayburd, Cognitive Contingencies: Íslendingasögur’s Speculative Realism and the Value of Uncertainty, Conference Presentation, ICMS, Western Michigan University, May 11, 2017). 18 Gillian R. Overing and Marijane Osborne, Landscape of Desire: Partial Stories of the Medieval Scandinavian World (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1994), 68; citing Kirsten Hastrup, Culture and History in Medieval Iceland (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985), 60, 144. 19 Overing and Osborn, Landscape of Desire, 68–69. 20 Overing and Osborn, Landscape of Desire, 89; on “feasible” vs. “authentic” places, see Overing and Osborn, Landscape of Desire, xvii. 21 Overing and Osborn, Landscape of Desire, 89; on “translocation,” see 79–82, and for more on translating reader/place/text, see xvi. In making this particular point, Overing and Osborn draw on a kind of critical pastiche of major thinkers on space, which they develop over the course of the book, often invoking conflicting perspectives without resolution—fitting them together dialogically and sometimes even in a kind of negative dialectics. These include: Yi Fu Tuan’s analysis of the relationship between body, language, space, and self (42, 46), set uneasily against Frederic Jameson’s analysis of space as “supremely mediatory” between the individual and the state (46), de Certeau’s analysis of “operations on places” (46), and Bourdieu’s dialectic of habitat and habitus (45), all crossed with an analysis of feminine desire by way of Kristeva, negotiating a (not uncritical) desire for landscape. 22 Douglas J. Bolender and Oscar Aldred, “A Restless Medieval? Archaeologies and SagaSteads in the Viking Age North Atlantic,” postmedieval: a journal of medieval cultural studies 4, no. 2 (2012): 136–49. 23 Bolender and Aldred, “A Restless Medieval? Archaeologies and Saga-Steads in the Viking Age North Atlantic,” 143. Turning to an analysis of Grettis saga and the tradition of Grettir stones, Bolender and Aldred further contend, “the notion of the farmstead as a node in an active and interconnected world is inherent in the sagas themselves” (146). I should emphasize that the archaeological perspective here, rooted in an anthropological disciplinary horizon, necessarily contains this inquiry within an interest in the specifically human world. 24 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, “Grœnlendinga saga,” 258. “really big and strong as a man.” 25 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds., “Eiríks saga rauða,” 214. “We have come [to the door] recklessly, and you don’t have the wherewithal to face the cold [lit. you do not have the strength, because the cold comes to you].” 26 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, “Eiríks saga rauða,” 215. The Skáholtsbók MS identifies the man with a whip as Þorsteinn, Hauksbók has verkstjórinn (the overseer), see 215n1. 27 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, “Eiríks saga rauða,” 215. “Such a grief to see.”

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28 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, “Eiríks saga rauða,” 215. “It was hardly restful, and the woman of the house wanted to get herself up on her feet and wanted [to get] in under the bedclothes with him.” 29 “It was hardly restful.” 30 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, “Grœnlendinga saga,” 257: “Þau velkði úti allt summarit, ok vissu eigi, hvar þau fóru. Ok er vika var af vetri, þá tóku þeir land í Lýsufirði á Grœnlandi í inni vestri byggð” (They were tossed-about out at sea the entire summer, and did not know where they went. And then it was a week into winter when they took to land in Lysufjord, in Greenland, in the Western Settlement). 31 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, “Eiríks saga rauða,” 214. 32 Paul S. Langeslag, Seasons in the Literatures of the Medieval North (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2015), 125–26: “Þorsteinn gives specific instructions to burn one body in particular as the sole cause of all the hauntings.” See, Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, “Eiríks saga rauða,” 217: “Sá hafði háttr verit á Grœnlandi, síðan kristni kom þangat, at men váru graftnir á bœjum, þar sem ǫnduðusk, í óvígðri moldu. Skyldi setja staur upp af brjóst inum dauða, en síðan, er kennimenn kómu til, þá skyldi upp kippa staurinum ok hella þar í vígðu vatni ok veita þar yfirsǫngva, þótt þat væri miklu síðar.” 33 Langeslag, Seasons in the Literatures of the Medieval North. 34 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, “Eiríks saga rauða,” 217. 35 Langeslag, Seasons in the Literatures of the Medieval North, 127. 36 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, “Grœnlendinga saga,” 258–59. 37 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, “Grœnlendinga saga,” 258–59. “next to/ across from Þorsteinn’s corpse.” 38 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, “Eiríks saga rauða,” 215. 39 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, “Eiríks saga rauða,” 217. 40 Langeslag, Seasons in the Literatures of the Medieval North, 127. 41 “But as summer passed on/drew to a close.” 42 “Þorolfr did not lie still.” 43 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 93. I find the specific language of this example, here and in the quotation below, particularly illuminating. Langeslag’s notes in his discussion of supernatural events associated with winter in the sagas provided me with the reference. See Langeslag, Seasons in the Literatures of the Medieval North, 127n75. 44 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 94. “When the freeze/ frost/ice was out of the ground.” 45 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 93. 46 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 93. “That the oxen, when Þórólfr was carted away, became troll-ridden.” 47 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 94. “Arnkell seemed to people to have the responsibility to make compensation for it.” 48 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 94. Because Þórólfr’s ghost seems to not make trouble wherever Arnkell is staying, Arnkell takes this on as his attempt to make compensation for the threat and damage of the haunting during the winter while reburial remains impossible. The dynamics of the “grey” transcorporeal and undead ecology that Jeffrey Jerome Cohen discuses with respect to Glámr in Grettis saga might suggest, alternately, the nomenclature of a kind of “grey narrative”—with all its potential fecopoetic implications—correlating the “undead matterial from which we construct our worlds” to the undead ice from which we construct saga-prose. See Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, “Grey,” in

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Prismatic Ecology: Ecotheory beyond Green, ed. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2013), 284–85. “Arnkell invited them all to his [farm], those who thought it a better choice than to be in another place.” 49 Of the understatement with which Egils saga quietly produces this atmosphere of domestic horror, Ármann Jakobsson writes, “Nothing is said about how this tension affected the household: that has to be imagined. Borg was a farmstead, but any Icelandic farm during the Middle Ages would be a constricted space, especially during the bleak winters. The atmosphere would have been claustrophobic, even if it were not dominated by two large men with overwhelming personalities vigorously ignoring each other. After all, three people are dead, and these deaths remain present in the heavy silence.” See Ármann Jakobsson, Nine Saga Studies: The Critical Interpretation of the Icelandic Sagas (Reykjavík: University of Iceland Press, 2013), 157. 50 Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, eds., “Flóamanna saga,” in Harðar saga, 282. “Under the Greenland-glaciers in a certain bay against the gravelly shore.” Following the main text of the Íslenzk fornrit edition, I refer throughout solely to the “shorter” and “complete” redaction of this saga. 51 “There was a week until winter.” 52 Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, “Flóamanna saga,” 282–83. “Huge glaciers went along both sides of the bay. They then constructed a temporary shelter for themselves—and one with a partition: then each group lived on their own side . . . He [Þorgils] instructed his men to be kept to themselves and well-behaved in the evenings, and to keep their faith well. Þórey was very pregnant. It is said, that Jósteinn and his men behaved grandly/loudly amongst themselves, and held night-games with a shouting clatter.” 53 Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, “Flóamanna saga,” 284. For a recent overview of the winter hauntings motif in medieval Icelandic literature, see Langeslag, Seasons in the Literatures of the Medieval North, 114–28. 54 Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, “Flóamanna saga,” 284–85. “There was good weather on Christmas-morning and the men were outside during the day, and they heard a big howl from the northwest. And the second day of Christmas came. Þorgils went to bed early, and when they [Þorgils and his company] had fallen into slumber, Jósteinn and his men came in, making a ruckus; and when they had laid down, then a big knock struck on the door. Then one of them said: “now this must be good news”—and leapt out, and he immediately went mad/frenzied, but in the morning he died. So went the next evening: that a man became mad/frenzied, and cried out that he saw the one who already died leap out at him.” 55 Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, “Flóamanna saga,” 285. 56 Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You: Paranormal Activity in the Medieval North (punctum books, 2017), 69. 57 The surviving fragmentary witness of the longer redaction seems to suggest that this man was one of Jósteinn’s party, or perhaps Jósteinn himself. See Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, “Flóamanna saga,” 284. 58 Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, “Flóamanna saga,” 286. “Then the winter drew to an end and they could not find a way out because of the ice.” 59 Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, “Flóamanna saga,” 286. “The next winter, Guðrún, Kol’s sister, expired, and Þorgils dug her grave under his own bed area, and when spring came, they could not get away.” 60 Mayburd, “The Hills Have Eyes,” 132, 148. 61 Ármann Jakobsson, “A History of the Trolls? Bárðar saga as an Historical Narrative,” 64.

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62 Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, “Bárðar saga Snæfellsás,” 114–15. “The ice-floe then drifted out to the sea-ice-pack; Helga went up onto the sea-ice-pack. That same night the ice drifted away from land and out to sea. She accompanied the ice, but it drifted so fast that within seven days she came with the ice to Greenland.” 63 Ármann Jakobsson, “A History of the Trolls? Bárðar saga as an Historical Narrative,” 63–64. 64 Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You, 96; see also Ármann Jakobsson, “The Taxonomy of the Non-Existent: Some Medieval Icelandic Concepts of the Paranormal,” Fabula 54, nos. 3–4 (2013): 199–213. 65 Zuzana Stankovitsová, “Following Up on Female Fylgjur: A Re-Examination of the Concept of Female Fylgjur in Old Icelandic Literature,” in Paranormal Encounters in Iceland, 1150– 1400, ed. Ármann Jakobsson and Miriam Mayburd (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, in this volume), 245–261. 66 Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You, 96. 67 In contrast to the fearful construction of ice detailed above, this ice-centric figuration may point to the reparative sense of “going glacial” as a form of “composition” with ice that Lowell Duckert finds in various genres of travel writing from the early modern period into more recent modernity, set in opposition to modern adversarial and anthropocentric representations of ice. See Lowell Duckert, “Glacier,” postmedieval: a journal of medieval cultural studies 4 (2013): 68–79. 68 Michel Serres, Conversations on Science, Culture, and Time, trans. Roxanne Lapidus, with a commentary by Bruce Latour (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1995), 127.

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Stankovitsová, Zuzana. “Following Up on Female Fylgjur: A Re-Examination of the Concept of Female Fylgjur in Old Icelandic Literature.” In Paranormal Encounters in Iceland, 1150–1400, edited by Ármann Jakobsson and Miriam Mayburd. Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 2020. Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, eds. “Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss.” In Harðar saga, 99–172. Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, eds. “Flóamanna saga.” In Harðar saga, 229–327. Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, eds. Harðar saga. Íslenzk fornrit 13-. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1991.

Andrew McGillivray

Encounters with Hliðskjálf in Old Norse Mythology Abstract: This chapter investigates the mythological site Hliðskjálf, how it is encountered by Norse paranormal characters, and its attributes across the mythological corpus. The author contends the site actively constructs mythical space and, by connecting center and the periphery, represents the prevailing geocentric cosmology contemporaneous to source composition and early transmission.

This chapter is concerned with the actions of certain members of the æsir that occur at a specific place. This place appears in several myths, is referred to as Hliðskjálf, and can be considered a site at which paranormal encounters take place. Through an analysis of all of Hliðskjálf’s functions in the myths in which it appears, information about the spatial construction of the cosmos in Old Norse mythology will be uncovered that relates to medieval scientific conceptions of the cosmos that placed earth at the center. In thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Iceland the narratives of Old Norse mythology were no longer believed to represent any religious truths, but they did serve as windows into the past, lenses through which medieval antiquarians and cultural enthusiasts viewed their ancestors’ beliefs. These stories also served as entertainment and possibly as models that allowed storytellers to play out their own understanding of the cosmos. Surviving narratives of paranormal encounters involving Hliðskjálf can lead us to conclude that in medieval Iceland people were quite interested in how one part of the cosmos connects with another, and in particular where the center of the cosmos was located. During the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the geocentric model of the cosmos had not yet been displaced by the heliocentric model, and thus the earth was still believed to be the center of the cosmos.1 The æsir live in Ásgarðr, which is located in the center of Miðgarðr, and at the center of Ásgarðr is Hliðskjálf. From Hliðskjálf the most powerful gods can see far into the distance, and from this place they can even transport themselves. The textual accounts of Hliðskjálf suggest that the site had several functions. It functioned as a telescope, enhancing the sight of those who entered it. It also functioned as a teleportation device, for from it Óðinn transports himself to other parts of the cosmos. The vanir god Freyr also uses Hliðskjálf, and in one myth he sends his servant to a distant land as a result of what he has seen https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-011

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from Hliðskjálf. In another account, Óðinn is said to hear sound from very far away while in Hliðskjálf. Hliðskjálf is a compound word, in which hlið means “gate” or “gateway” and skjálf means “shelf.” Together these two words combine into “gateway-shelf.”2 The mythological sources support this literal interpretation, for it is used as a gateway into other worlds, and from it the characters look into the distance as they might from a shelf on the side of a mountain. The word accurately represents the function of the object. Hliðskjálf appears to refer to an elevated opening between worlds.3

To Whom Does It Belong? The source in which Hliðskjálf is named most often is the Edda of Snorri Sturluson.4 In Snorra Edda, Hliðskjálf appears as a setting in Gylfaginning chapters 9, 17, 34, and 50, where it is initially introduced as a place in Ásgarðr belonging to Óðinn.5 Later in Gylfaginning, Freyr uses the site, and his use of it results in Skírnir’s mission to jötunheimr to requisition the giantess Gerðr’s love, and the giantess herself, on behalf of his master. Toward the end of Gylfaginning, Óðinn uses Hliðskjálf to locate Loki after the traitor mischievously causes Baldr’s death. The use of Hliðskjálf by Freyr and then Óðinn in Gylfaginning begins with sight into the distance and results in travel to another part of the cosmos, either to jötunheimr or to somewhere outside Ásgarðr. By entering the space, the occupier sets in motion a paranormal movement between worlds or parts of the world. Hliðskjálf also appears among the prose insertions of both principal manuscripts of eddic poetry, the Codex Regius manuscript (GKS 2365 4to) as well as the AM 748 manuscript (AM 748 I a 4to).6 In these manuscripts Hliðskjálf functions as a setting in the prose introduction to Grímnismál, during which Óðinn and Frigg use the site, and in the introduction to Skírnismál, during which Freyr uses it. The storyline in the prose introduction to Grímnismál does not appear in Gylfaginning. While sitting in Hliðskjálf, Óðinn and Frigg look out into Miðgarðr, and this act results in Óðinn’s travels away from Ásgarðr.7 In the prose introduction to Skírnismál, Hliðskjálf is the seat or platform from which Freyr sees into jötunheimr. This narrative presents the same story as the one in chapter 34 of Gylfaginning.8 As in Gylfaginning, the place functions first as a device to enhance sight and then as a platform from which movement is made into another part of the cosmos. The term Hliðskjálf also appears in skaldic poetry in all of the primary manuscripts of Snorra Edda (Codex Regius, Codex Wormianus, Codex Upsaliensis, and

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the post-medieval Codex Trajectinus). In the Skáldskaparmál section it is found as a component in a heiti (poetic synonym) for Óðinn: Þat kvað Þórólfr: Sagði hitt er hugði Hliðskjálfar gramr sjálfum hlífar styggr þar er hǫgnir Háreks liðar váru.9

The heiti for Óðinn is “Hliðskjálf’s ruler,” and the poet, who is given the name Þórólfr in several Snorra Edda manuscripts, is only known from this one stanza.10 In Hallfreðar saga the word Hliðskjálf is again used as a component part in a heiti for Óðinn: Fyrr vas hitt, es harra Hliðskjalfar gatk sjalfan, skipt es á gumna giptu, geðskjótan vel blóta.11

In these two examples from skaldic poetry, Hliðskjálf belongs to Óðinn. Thus, both an intital survey of the narrative passages from Snorra Edda and the eddic poetry manuscripts along with the instances in skaldic poetry attach the site to Óðinn. The only deviation from this rule is the use of it by Freyr. Freyr does not actually leave Ásgarðr after his use of Hliðskjálf, as Óðinn does, but he does travel to another world through his messenger Skírnir who undertakes the journey for him, perhaps as a proxy.12 Freyr is never depicted as equal to Óðinn in the extant sources, for in the sources Óðinn is consistently depicted as the most powerful of the gods, and it is therefore most likely that Hliðskjálf belongs to him. Frigg, who joins Óðinn at the site in the prose introduction to Grímnismál, may only be able to access the site while in the company of her husband.

Dual Location and Specific Uses Hliðskjálf appears to be in two places simultaneously; one of these places is on earth and one is in the heavens. The disjointed location of the space is representative of its function of connecting the characters who enter it with another part of the cosmos. Not only does the space transport Óðinn (and possibly an aspect of Freyr) from one place to another, first by sight and then by movement, but it is itself in more than one place, as many places were thought to be in the medieval world.13

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After the mythological creation story is narrated in Gylfaginning, Hliðskjálf is named. Specifically, in chapter 9 the Odinic Hár reveals that after creating the world: Þar næst gerðu þeir sér borg í miðjum heimi er kallaðr er Ásgarðr. Þat kǫllum vér Troja. Þar bygðu guðin ok ættir þeira ok gerðusk þaðan af mǫrg tíðindi ok greinir bæði á jǫrðunni ok í lopti. Þar er einn staðr er Hliðskjálf heitir, ok þá er Óðinn settisk þar í hásæti þá sá hann of alla heima ok hvers manns athœfi ok vissi alla hluti þá er hann sá.14

Ásgarðr is here situated on earth, which in the medieval period was the center of the cosmos, and therefore Hliðskjálf is also on earth, within the walls of the earthly Ásgarðr-Troy. This passage reveals it is Óðinn’s use of Hliðskjálf that enables him to see through all worlds, and not only can Óðinn see all, but he understands all that he sees. This implies that the site has a cognitive or psychic function, and it accords with Óðinn’s characteristic use of things exterior to himself to enhance his wisdom. In chapter 17 in Gylfaginning, conflicting information is presented about the location of Hliðskjálf. In this part of the narrative, Gangleri—an Odinic figure who questions three other Odinic figures, namely Hár, Jafnhár, and Þriði— has asked about the places that can be described that are in heaven. While listing many of the spectacular residences and sights of the heavenly Ásgarðr, Hár reveals “þar er enn mikill staðr er Valaskjálf heitir. Þann stað á Óðinn. Þann gerðu guðin ok þǫkðu skíru silfri, ok þar er Hliðskjálfin í þessum sal, þat hásæti er svá heitir. Ok þá er Alfǫðr sitr í því sæti þá sér hann of allan heim.”15 These two descriptions differ in two important aspects. While the former situates Hliðskjálf on earth in Ásgarðr-Troy, the latter situates Hliðskjálf in the heavenly Ásgarðr. In the former, Hliðskjálf is the name of a place where Óðinn’s throne is located, whereas in the latter, Valaskjálf is the name of the place and Hliðskjálf the name of the throne located inside of the place. In both cases, Hliðskjálf is in Ásgarðr, which in Gylfaginning is situated on earth in one instance and in heaven in another. Either way Ásgarðr is at the center of the cosmos; it might thus connect the earth and the heavens. In both instances, the site is firmly connected to Óðinn: it is either his throne or the place where his throne is located.16 The first active use of Hliðskjálf by a character in Gylfaginning occurs in chapter 37 when Freyr enters it. The two earlier instances are descriptions of where Hliðskjálf is located and a description of how Óðinn uses it. The scene relayed in chapter 37 is described by Hár as follows: Gymir hét maðr, en kona hans Aurboða. Hon var bergrisa ættar. Dóttir þeira er Gerðr er allra kvenna er fegrst. Þat var einn dag er Freyr hafði gengit í Hliðskjálf ok sá of heima alla, en er hann leit í norðrætt þá sá hann á einum bœ mikit hús ok fagrt, ok til þess húss gekk

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kona, ok er hon tók upp hǫndum ok lauk hurð fyrir sér þá lýsti af hǫndum hennar bæði í lopt ok á lǫg, ok allir heimar birtusk af henni. Ok svá hefndi honum þat mikla mikillætti er hann hafði sezk í þat helga sæti at hann gekk í braut fullr af harmi. Ok er hann kom heim, mælti hann ekki, hvárki svaf hann né drakk; engi þorði ok krefja hann orða.17

Freyr uses Hliðskjálf in this passage to see into other worlds, and while looking into the distance his sight settles on the north, on jötunheimr.18 His use of Hliðskjálf leads to contact being made with that other world. What is most interesting here, and what is lacking in the prose passage that introduces Skírnismál, is the moral judgment made by the speaker, in this case Hár, who states that it is because Freyr uses Hliðskjálf with mikla mikillætti (arrogance) that he becomes sorrowful. Terry Gunnell argues that in this case Hliðskjálf factors into the narrative action of Gylfaginning, and Freyr’s usurpation of Hliðskjálf is instrumental to the plot: “This leads to Freyr’s search for Gerðr, and the ultimate loss of his sword, which finally results in the god’s death at Ragnarök.”19 It is possible Freyr may not have usurped Hliðskjálf, as he may have had a legitimate claim to the high seat in a variant myth that does not survive, although in Gylfaginning Óðinn is presented as the highest of the gods. Gabriel Turville-Petre argues that, rather than trust in Snorri’s Olympus-like hierarchy, “it would probably be truer to say that both Óðinn and Freyr, as well as Týr, Þórr, Ullr and many other gods were at some time and in some place supreme.”20 Even though Gylfaginning presents Óðinn as supreme and the eddic and skaldic evidence clearly indicates Óðinn’s ownership of Hliðskjálf, it is still possible to consider Freyr’s use of the space as legitimate as he is able to enter the space, and there are no other myths that survive of other characters wrongfully entering Hliðskjálf. Freyr’s use of Hliðskjálf is an instance where a powerful god uses a tool for a specific purpose, to see far into the distance, and his use of the place results in the loss of his sword. In chapter 50 in Gylfaginning, Hár tells the story of how Óðinn uses Hliðskjálf to locate Loki after the the death of Baldr. Loki has run away from Ásgarðr due to the gods’ anger at his involvement in Baldr’s death. Loki hides on a mountain close to Fránangrsfors (Franang’s Falls). The æsir find Loki by using the tool that so helpfully connects them to the periphery: “Þá sá hann at Æsir áttu skamt til hans ok hafði Óðinn sét ór Hliðskjálfinni hvar hann var.”21 The connection between sight and subsequent movement is consistent in narratives that depict an encounter with Hliðskjálf. Hliðskjálf appears as a dynamic narrative element in the prose introduction to Skírnismál in much the same narrative presented in chapter 37 of Gylfaginning: “Freyr, sonr Njarðar, hafði einn dag setzk í Hliðskjálf ok sá um heima alla. Hann sá í jǫtunheima ok sá þar mey fagra, þá er hon gekk frá skála

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fǫður síns til skemmu. Þar af fekk hann hugsóttir miklar.”22 Freyr then becomes lovesick and must pay Skírnir with his sword so that his servant will go and demand Gerðr’s love for his master. Freyr is unable to use Hliðskjálf for any immediate benefit to himself; he must wait while his servant completes the mission that began as a result of his use of Hliðskjálf as a telescope.23 Freyr creates a difficult situation for himself in the long term. The most dire consequence is that Freyr loses his sword in the transaction, and he and the æsir will feel its loss keenly when they battle the jötnar at Ragnarök. Freyr’s loss of his sword in the transaction does not drive the grand mythological narrative forward toward Ragnarök, but it influences the events that take place as part of Ragnarök. Once Óðinn has located Loki in chapter 50 in Gylfaginning, the gods travel to the traitor’s hiding place and bind him. This brings the narrative closer to Ragnarök, for the binding of Loki is a precondition for Loki to break those bonds, and the breaking of these bonds signals the oncoming destruction. These scenes are instrumental to the construction of space within the mythological cosmos and to connecting spaces within the cosmos. Hliðskjálf is the highest point in the cosmos, and it is used to connect Ásgarðr with other parts of the cosmos, and perhaps to connect the earthly Ásgarðr with the heavenly Ásgarðr.24 In the prose introduction to Grímnismál, Óðinn and Frigg sit in Hliðskjálf and use it to look into Miðgarðr. The scene is narrated as follows: Óðinn ok Frigg sátu í Hliðskjálf ok sá um heima alla. Óðinn mælti: ‘Sér þú Agnar fóstra þinn, hvar hann elr bǫrn við gýgi í hellinum? En Geirrøðr fóstri minn er konungr ok sitr nú at landi.’ Frigg segir: ‘Hann er matníðingr sá at hann kvelr gesti sína ef honum þykkja of margir koma.’ Óðinn segir at þat er in mesta lygi. Þau veðja um þetta mál.25

As a result of this discussion Óðinn makes a journey into the human world to find out for himself how Geirrøðr treats his guests. Frigg makes the journey more difficult for him by alerting Geirrøðr to the impending arrival of a suspicious guest. What is different here from Freyr’s use of Hliðskjálf is that, unlike Freyr, Óðinn is able to directly travel from Hliðskjálf to the land or lands that he sees from the site, whereas Freyr sends his servant on his behalf. Not only does Hliðskjálf clearly belong to Óðinn in the narratives that survive, he is the god who can most effectively use the site to his advantage.

Connection with Seiðr Hliðskjálf has been equated with a seiðhjallr due to its depiction as an elevated place from which certain members of the æsir can see into faraway parts of the

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cosmos and use the site to connect with those far-off places.26 A seiðhjallr was a platform in a residence from which a seiðmaðr or seiðkona (sorcerer or sorceress, respectively) would see into the future and be able to influence the course of events. Gylfaginning does in one instance situate Hliðskjálf in Valaskjálf, a residence of Óðinn. If Freyr’s use of it is to be seen as an intrusion into Óðinn’s private space, this argument is possible. The connection between Óðinn and Hliðskjálf then reinforces the possibility that Hliðskjálf is a seiðhjallr, as Óðinn is reported to have practiced seiðr in chapter 7 in Ynglinga saga and in stanza 24 in Lokasenna. Furthermore, the uses of Hliðskjálf by Óðinn and Freyr influence the course of events in the mythological cycle. Clive Tolley is one critic who argues for a clear association of Hliðskjálf with a seiðhjallr. He describes a seiðhjallr as follows: “A raised platform, described as ‘high’ in Hrólfs saga kraka ch. 3; the seiðkona sat on it during the performance of seiðr, but it could accommodate a number of people.”27 Tolley uses the etymology of Hliðskjálf as proof for the argument that it functions as a seiðhjallr, and he further reinforces the association with reference to Óðinn’s command over Hliðskjálf. Tolley’s interpretation that more than one individual could enter Hliðskjálf can be supported by the example of Óðinn and Frigg using it together, although Frigg does not travel from the site into another part of the cosmos. Tolley continues that, with respect to a seiðhjallr, “the chief comparable item in myth is Hliðskjálf, ‘Gateway shelf.’ A hlið is a gateway or wide gap, and hence a way through to somewhere else; clearly here this was conceived as situated on a skjálf, either a platform or a geological shelf.”28 On the use of the site by Freyr, Tolley argues that this strengthens a case for Hliðskjálf as a site for seiðr: Skírnismál provides an arguably somewhat more shamanic element, in the form of Hliðskjálf, the apparatus from which Freyr looked into the other worlds and glimpsed Gerðr; this parallels the seiðhjallr, the raised platform used by seiðkonur, such as the prophesying seeress of Hrólfs saga kraka ch. 3, and also the raised hill used by a sorcerer in pagan Sussex in the seventh century, as related by Eddius Stephanus in his Vita Wilfridi ch. 13. Moreover, Skírnir, in effecting the mission springing from Freyr’s own deep desire for Gerðr seen from afar, acts as an alter ego of Freyr himself; thus the dispatch of Skírnir in Freyr’s stead parallels the shaman’s sending out of his soul to the underworld.29

In all scenes in which Hliðskjálf appears, it connects spaces within the cosmos.30 Tolley argues that Hliðskjálf rightly belongs to the vanir, rather than to Óðinn and the æsir, and thus Freyr is not using it without warrant, as Hár states in chapter 37 in Gylfaginning. Tolley states how among his many names “Óðinn also bears the name Skilfingr. This is likely to be an encroachment on the ambit of the vanir, especially Freyr and Freyja, as indeed is his ownership of Hliðskjálf; in Skírnismál, after all, it is Freyr who uses the apparatus in the only myth where it serves a dynamic purpose within what might be termed a religious context.”31

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Óðinn’s use of Hliðskjálf in chapter 50 in Gylfaginning and in the introductory prose to Grímnismál is no less dynamic, however, and none of these examples is “religious” in the form they are preserved. They represent what may have once been genuine myths that were gathered (or invented) by Christian scribes in thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Iceland.32 Tolley’s great contribution to the debate about Hliðskjálf is to point out that Freyr’s use of it may be legitimate, and Óðinn’s claim to the site therefore should be problematized. Óðinn uses Hliðskjálf effectively because seiðr is involved, although in chapter 4 of Ynglinga saga and stanza 23 of Völuspá it is said that the vanir—and in particular Freyja—brought seiðr to the æsir. Freyr logically has a right to Hliðskjálf, which is why the narrative of his using the site exists, for Freyr is a member of the vanir, and Freyr and Freyja are siblings. It is precisely because of their connection to seiðr that Óðinn and Freyr are most closely associated with Hliðskjálf.33 It is similarly logical that Frigg participates in the activity at Hliðskjálf, as females are often associated with seiðr and she is Óðinn’s wife, although she does not travel to another part of the cosmos after using it. However, Frigg does send a message to Geirrøðr after she uses Hliðskjálf, and this movement by proxy accords with Freyr’s sending Skírnir to jötunheimr on his behalf. What makes the narratives associated with Hliðskjálf distinct from other seiðr narratives is that—rather than seeing the future course of events, or in fact changing the course of future events (although events are influenced by their use of the site)—Óðinn and Freyr primarily use Hliðskjálf to see into the distance and then to travel to the places they have seen. The paranormal encounters that take place at Hliðskjálf occur in the present and may influence the future, but they do not predict it.

Other Encounters In the sources in which Hliðskjálf is an integral part of the action (the select chapters from Gylfaginning and the prose introductions to Grímnismál and Skírnismál), the site functions as a tool for the gods to gather information, and it also moves characters from one location to another. Hliðskjálf appears in a few other sources, and as this chapter addresses encounters with the site in Old Norse mythology, a full survey should be completed. In Atlakviða a passage is presented in which a comparison is possibly made to the site: Land sá þeir Atla ok liðskjálfar djúpa, Bikka greppar standa á borg inni há . . .34

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It is likely that the Gjúkungar see tall lookout towers as they approach Atli Buðlason’s court. The Atlakviða poet might have used the image of the tall observation tower, which is how Hliðskjálf appears in the myths, to convey to the audience that the brothers are approaching a powerful opponent whom they should be wary of. Hliðskjálf does not necessarily need to be thought of as a static place that does not move from Ásgarðr, especially when a reference to it appears in a heroic source, for it may equally be considered as any place from which sight into distant lands takes place that results in a subsequent movement to the sighted location. The Gjúkungar, as is known from the legend, succumb to Atli’s power and lose their lives. Hliðskjálf also appears in stanza 10 of Hrafnagaldur Óðins (Forspjallsljóð), a late eddic poem not preserved in any medieval manuscripts. This example presents additional insight into how Hliðskjálf was used by the gods in mythological sources: Galdr gólo, gaundom riþo Rögnir ok regin at ranni heimis; hlustar Óþinn Hliþskiálfo í, let braut vera lánga vego.35

Hliðskjálf is used by Óðinn to gather information, and he is said to have traveled there with the use of magic poles in yet another example of Óðinn employing external devices to assist him in his actions. Óðinn uses Hliðskjálf in this narrative not only to see far into the distance but also to listen to and to amplify sounds from far away.36 Clearly this encounter with Hliðskjálf demonstrates that as time passed, interpreters of myth in Iceland continued to associate Hliðskjálf with Óðinn. Fjölsvinnsmál is another eddic poem not preserved in any medieval manuscript, and it contains a possible reference to Hliðskjálf in stanzas 33 and 34. This reference provides further insight into the origins of the structure of Hliðskjálf, but there are varying interpretations of the stanzas. Sophus Bugge provides the following version of the two stanzas in question: Vindkaldr kvað: “Segðu mér þat, Fjölsviðr! er ek þik fregna mun ok ek vilja vita: hverr þat görði,

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er ek fyr garð sák innan, ásmaga?” Fjölsviðr kvað: “Uni ok Iri, Bari ok Ori, Varr ok Vegdrasill, Dori ok Uri, Dellingr, Atvarðr, Liðskjálfr, Loki.”37

Bugge then provides the following rendering of the last two half lines in stanza 34 in his notes: “Dellinger at var þar / liðskjálfar loki.” He follows this with the statement: “Une—Delling var med ved det Arbeide at lukke liðskjálf.”38 Bugge’s interpretation is that stanza 34 is comprised of a list of dwarves who were present when the construction of Hliðskjálf was completed. However, when compared to the version of stanza 34 from the Íslenzk fornrit edition, there is a difference: Uni ok Íri, Bári ok Óri, Varr ok Vegdrasill, Dóri ok Óri, Dellingr at var þar, Liðski, Álfr, Loki.39

Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason interpret the final line as comprised of the names of dwarves, rather than as a reference to Hliðskjálf’s construction. In this interpretation the site that can be seen inside of the enclosure referred to in stanza 33 might be any of the halls of Ásgarðr. It is not possible to state conclusively which interpretation is correct, however it is likely that stanza 34 would include the name of a site in response to the question asked in the previous stanza.

Conclusion In the medieval period Hliðskjálf was a narrative setting from which select members of the æsir (Óðinn, Frigg, or Freyr) could look out and then travel from, entering another part of the cosmos. Óðinn makes the journey from Hliðskjálf himself, Freyr sends a proxy, the shining Skírnir, on his behalf, but Frigg does not travel from the platform to another part of the cosmos, although she does send a message to a distant land after she has used the site. The connection between sight and subsequent movement presents early and fantastic

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examples of the use of a telescope and a teleportation device by the Norse gods. Hliðskjálf is an important tool for the gods, and in Hrafnagaldur Óðins, a late eddic poem, it is even used as a listening device. In all these instances there is a psychological aspect, in that the senses are used in a heightened form to gather information (via sight and hearing), and this information gathering is followed by physical movement to a far-off place. The use of such a paranormal tool undermines the powers of the gods: it illustrates how they must rely on external sources for their powers, or at least that they need external sources to amplify them. However, a case could be made that their ability to use such paranormal tools demonstrates their superiority. Hliðskjálf is a site of paranormal encounters located at the center of the mythological cosmos as it is presented in the medieval sources. In the medieval period, the cosmos was geocentric. With Hliðskjálf at the center of the earth or the heavens, or of both, it is thus perfectly located to reach all parts of the cosmos, for it is located as close as possible to as many points as possible on the periphery. The only beings who enter Hliðskjálf are select members of the æsir. For thirteenth- and fourteenth-century audiences the myth would have served to entertain and to reinforce this geocentric cosmic model.

Notes 1 Robert K. DeKosky, “Copernicus,” in Knowledge and Cosmos: Development and Decline of the Medieval Perspective (Washington, DC: University Press of America, 1979), 149–75. It was Nicolaus Copernicus (1473–1543) who first introduced the heliocentric astronomical system to medieval thought. 2 Geir T. Zoëga, A Concise Dictionary of Old Icelandic, Medieval Reprints for Teaching 41 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2004), 202. See also Stefan Brink and John Lindow, “Place Names in Eddic Poetry,” in A Handbook to Eddic Poetry: Myths and Legends of Early Scandinavia, ed. Carolyne Larrington, Judy Quinn, and Brittany Schorn (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 183. Jan de Vries provides the following definition for the compound word: “Odins Thron” or “Aussichtsturm” (Óðinn’s throne or observation tower). To arrive at this meaning, he supplies the following definitions for the individual words: for hlið, “Öffnung” or “Zwischenraum,” “Tür” or “Tor” (opening or gap, door or gate), and skjálf he defines as “shelf,” but perhaps with some elevation, such as “Höhe, Bergspitze” (height or altitude, mountain top) (Jan de Vries, Altnordisches etymologisches Wörterbuch, 2nd ed. [Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1977], 237–38). 3 The range of etymological interpretations of the word is wide. See, for example, Anne Holtsmark, Studier i Snorres Mytologi (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1964), 39; Erik Björkman, “Skjalf och Skilfing,” Namn och bygd 7 (1919): 174–75; Vilhelm Kiil, “Hliðskjálf og seiðhjallr,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 75 (1960): 90. John Lindow writes that “the name Hlidskjálf appears to mean something like ‘doorway-bench,’ or perhaps ‘watchtower’ ” (John Lindow, Norse Mythology: A Guide to the Gods, Heroes, Rituals, and Beliefs [Oxford: Oxford University Press,

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2001], 176). This chapter is concerned with the function of Hlíðskjálf more than its etymological origins, so these differences are not expanded upon. The exact etymology of Hliðskjálf remains somewhat enigmatic in the literature, and as E.O.G. Turville-Petre has written, “the names Hliðskjálf, Válaskjálf and Skilfingr might imply little more than that Óðinn and his sons were lords of the rock” (Gabriel Turville-Petre, Myth and Religion of the North: The Religion of Ancient Scandinavia [London: Weidenfield and Nicolson, 1964], 64). See also Rudolf Simek, Dictionary of Northern Mythology, trans. Angela Hall (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1993), 152; Magnus Olsen, Ættegård og helligdom: Norske stedsnavn sosialt og religionshistorisk belyst, 2nd ed. (Bergen: Universitetsforlaget, 1978), 274–84; L. Fr. Läffler, “Svänska ortnamn på skialf,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 10 (1894): 167. 4 Snorri Sturluson, Edda: Prologue and Gylfaginning, 2nd ed., ed. Anthony Faulkes (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2005). 5 Peter Friedrich Suhm, Om Odin og den hedniske Gudlære og Gudstieneste ude Norden (Copenhagen: Brødrene Berling, 1771), 66; Annette Lassen, Odin på kristent pergament: En teksthistorisk studie (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums Forlag / Københavns Universitet, 2011), 38 n. 28, 302. Suhm was an early interpreter of the site, and he viewed Hliðskjálf allegorically, as an element in Old Norse mythological texts that ultimately presents a euhemerized Óðinn as God (Alfǫðr) and Hliðskjálf as a symbol of God’s omniscience. In Suhm’s interpretation Óðinn is thus clearly not a pagan deity but a representation of the Christian God. Lassen contends that Óðinn is depicted as divine due to certain attributes, Hliðskjálf being one. 6 Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, eds., Eddukvæði, 2 vols., Íslenzk fornrit (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2014), vol. 1, pp. 19– 25. 7 Terry Gunnell writes that “the Grímnismál introduction is so complete in itself that it could have been drawn from a separate source in the form of an independent prose tale, or þáttr” (Terry Gunnell, The Origins of Drama in Scandinavia [Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1995], 194). On Skírnismál, Ursula Dronke similarly argues that “the prose prologue outlines an initial situation for the story which is not needed for the plot. We do not need to be told that Freyr sat on Hliðskiálf and saw into Giant Realms: he tells us himself that he saw into ‘Gymir’s courts’ (6/1–3)” (Ursula Dronke, ed. and trans., “Introduction and Commentary to ‘Skírnismál’,” in Mythological Poems, vol. 2, bk. 1 of The Poetic Edda [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997], 386). 8 The prose passages of Skírnismál and the corresponding narratives in Snorra Edda manuscripts may even derive from a common source. Gunnell writes that “Snorri’s acquaintance with the verse of Fáfnismál, Lokasenna, and Skírnismál as preserved in the Codex Regius and AM 748 manuscripts would thus appear to have been highly limited. It is a different matter, however, if the wording of the prose passages in the poems under discussion is compared with that contained in the relevant passages of Snorri’s Prose Edda. Such a comparison reveals not only very close textual similarities, but also the fact that the material of the Codex and AM 748 prose passages rarely strays beyond the framework set by Snorri” (Gunnell, The Origins of Drama in Scandinavia, 222–23). Paul Bibire argues that “Snorri’s account of the story of Freyr, Skírnir and Gerðr in Snorra Edda, while in no instance in serious conflict with that in Skírnismál, omits much, and also contains a few elements not found there. These are mostly trivial, or their source is apparent (e.g. the derivation of Gerðr’s mother from Hyndluljóð). Nonetheless the story is transformed” (Paul Bibire, “Freyr and Gerðr: The Story and Its Myths,” in Sagnaskemmtun: Studies in Honour of Hermann Pálsson on His 65th Birthday, 26th May 1986, ed. Rudolf Simek, Jónas Kristjánsson, and Hans Bekker-Nielsen [Graz: Hermann Böhlaus, 1986], 35).

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9 Snorri Sturluson, Edda: Skáldskaparmál, ed. Anthony Faulkes, 2 vols. (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1998), vol. 1, pp. 11. “The lord of Hliðskjálf said to himself what he thought when the forces of shield-shy Hárekr were slain” (Clive Tolley, Shamanism in Norse Myth and Magic, 2 vols. [Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum Fennica, 2009], vol. 1, p. 546). 10 Snorri Sturluson, Edda, vol. 2, p. 293. Faulkes notes the following about the verse and the poet Þórólfr: “[He is] only known from here, and nothing further is known of the poet whose name is given as Þórálfr in W [AM 242 fol] [and] B [AM 757 a 4to], as Þorvaldr in U [DG 11]. His date is uncertain and the context of the verse is obscure” (Snorri Sturluson, Edda, vol. 1, p. 160). 11 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Hallfreðar saga, Íslenzk fornrit 8 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1939), 157. “It was different in former days, when I made fine sacrifices to the mindswift (change has come to the fortunes of men) Lord of Hlidskjalf himself” (Viðar Hreinsson, ed., “The Saga of Hallfred the Troublesome Poet,” in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales, trans. Diana Whaley, vol. 1 [Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing], vol. 1, p. 235). 12 Magnus Olsen, “Fra gammelnorsk myte og kultus,” Maal og minne, 1909, 20. Olsen contends that Skírnir represents one aspect of Freyr, brightness, and that Freyr as the sky god may have been the foremost god in ancient tradition. Olsen further argues that Freyr may be more ancient than Óðinn and that Freyr’s use of Hliðskjálf in the prose that comes before Skírnismál supports this. This conclusion runs contrary to most of the evidence supplied by the sources, which associate Hliðskjálf with Óðinn more than with Freyr, with the exception of the prose introduction to Skírnismál. It is possible that as time passed Óðinn became more prominent in the Old Norse mythological pantheon. For more on Olsen’s theory and its reception, see Lotte Motz, “Gerðr: A New Interpretation of the Lay of Skirnir,” Maal og minne 3–4 (1981): 121–36; Turville-Petre, Myth and Religion of the North, 174–75. 13 On the duality of medieval place, Mircea Eliade argues that “the world that surrounds us, then, the world in which the presence and the work of man are felt—the mountains that he climbs, populated and cultivated regions, navigable rivers, cities, sanctuaries—all have an extraterrestrial archetype, be it conceived as a plan, as a form, or purely and simply as a ‘double’ existing on a higher cosmic level” (Mircea Eliade, The Myth of the Eternal Return: or, Cosmos and History, Bollingen 46 [Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1954], 9). 14 Snorri Sturluson, Edda, 13. “Next they made a stronghold for themselves in the middle of the world, and it was called Asgard. We call it Troy. There the gods lived together with their kinsmen, and as a result many events and happenings took place both on the earth and in the sky. One place there is called Hlidskjalf [Watch-tower]. When Odin sat in its high seat, he could see through all worlds and into all men’s doings. Moreover, he understood everything he saw” (Jesse Byock, trans., The Prose Edda [London: Penguin, 2005], 18). 15 Snorri Sturluson, Edda, 20. “There is also the great place called Valaskjalf; it belongs to Odin. The gods built it and roofed it with pure silver. Inside the hall is Hlidskjalf, as this throne is called. When All-Father sits in this seat, he sees over all the world” (Byock, The Prose Edda, 28). 16 Holtsmark writes that “Det må ha vært dette Snorre har sett for seg når han skulle gi et billede av den øverste gud, som i æsenes vranglære heter Odin og sitter i Hliðsiálf. Det blir da forvandlet fra vakttårn til høysete. At trollmannen blant gudene hadde et magisk høysete som gjorde ham synsk, er ikke mere enn rimelig” (Holtsmark, Studier i Snorres Mytologi, 42). 17 Snorri Sturluson, Edda, 30–31. “Gymir was the name of a man whose wife, Aurboda, came from the family of the mountain giants. Their daughter was Gerd, the most beautiful of all women. One day Frey entered Hlidskjalf and looked out over all the worlds. When he looked to the north he saw a dwelling with a large splendid house. A woman was walking up to the house. When she raised her arms to unlock the door, the light glanced off her arms, both into

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the air and on to the sea, and because of her the whole world brightened. For his arrogance of having sat himself in the holy seat, Frey was made to pay, and he went away overcome with sorrow. He was silent when he returned home. He neither slept nor drank, and no one dared speak to him” (Byock, The Prose Edda, 45). 18 Ármann Jakobsson, “Where Do the Giants Live?,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 121 (2006): 106–8. 19 Gunnell, The Origins of Drama in Scandinavia, 230. 20 Gabriel Turville-Petre, “The Cult of Freyr in the Evening of Paganism,” Proceedings of the Leeds Philosophical and Literary Society 3, no. 6 (1935): 318; see also Jöran Sahlgren, “Sagan om Frö och Gärd,” Namn och bygd 16 (1928): 2. 21 Snorri Sturluson, Edda, 48. “Suddenly he saw that the Æsir were only a short distance away— Odin having discovered Loki’s whereabouts from Hlidskjalf” (Byock, The Prose Edda, 69). 22 Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, Eddukvæði, vol. 1, p. 380. “One day Frey, the son of Njörd, had seated himself on Hlidskjálf, and looked out across all the worlds. He saw into Giant’s Domain and saw there a beautiful girl, as she walked from her father’s hall to the storehouse. From that he had great sickness of heart” (Andy Orchard, trans., The Elder Edda: A Book of Viking Lore [London: Penguin, 2011], 59). 23 Stephen A. Mitchell, “Fǫr Scírnis as Mythological Model: Frið at kaupa,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 98 (1983): 110. 24 H.R. Ellis Davidson solves the problem of how Hliðskjálf can be in two places simultaneously by placing it on the axis mundi that connects the various realms of the cosmos: “Odin’s seat, Hlidskjalf, seems to have been up in the Tree itself, since from it he could look down into all worlds” (Hilda R. Ellis Davidson, “Scandinavian Cosmology,” in Ancient Cosmologies, ed. Carmen Blacker and Michael Loewe [London: George Allen and Unwin, 1975], 181). 25 Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, Eddukvæði, vol. 1, p. 367. “Odin and Frigg sat on Hlidskjálf and looked out over all the worlds. Odin said: ‘Do you see Agnar, your foster-son, raising children with a troll-wife in a cave? But Geirröd, my foster-son, is a king and now rules over his land.’ Frigg said: ‘He’s mean with food, and abuses his guests, if he thinks too many have come.’ Odin called that the greatest lie, so they placed a wager on it” (Orchard, The Elder Edda, 50). 26 See, e.g., Kiil, “Hliðskjálf og seiðhjallr,” 85. 27 Tolley, Shamanism in Norse Myth and Magic, vol. 1, pp. 544–45. 28 Tolley, Shamanism in Norse Myth and Magic, vol. 1, p. 545. 29 Tolley, Shamanism in Norse Myth and Magic, vol. 1, p. 139. 30 Stephen A. Mitchell, “Blåkulla and Its Antecedents: Transvection and Conventicles in Nordic Witchcraft,” alvíssmál 7 (1997): 81–100. Mitchell explores the related supernatural notion of transvection, practitioners of which traveled out to gather information with supernatural aid. 31 Tolley, Shamanism in Norse Myth and Magic, vol. 1, p. 547. 32 Annette Lassen adds that “I mytologien findes der en lokalitet, Hlidskjalf, som ifølge Snorri er Odins højsæde. Herfra kan man se alle verdener og vide alt, der sker. Når Snorri kalder dette sted et højsæde, forbindes ikke alene blikket, men også selve synskheden med magt. Men i modsætning til de magtfulde personer, som man ellers møder i den norrøne litteratur, er de synske og spådomsudøvende personer som regel kvinder. Spådomsevne opnået ved sejd er forbundet med det kvindelige, eller ‘ergi’, dvs. Umandighed” (Annette Lassen, Øjet og blindheden i norrøn litteratur og mytologi [Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums Forlag / Københavns Universitet, 2003], 28).

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33 Ursula Dronke, on Óðinn and Freyr, writes that the “traditions of the two gods overlap in so far as their natures do” (Ursula Dronke, “Art and Tradition in Skírnismál,” in English and Medieval Studies: Presented to J.R.R. Tolkien on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday, ed. Norman David and C. L. Wrenn [London: George Allen and Unwin, 1962], 267–68). 34 Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, Eddukvæði, vol. 2, p. 375. “Atli’s land they saw, with its deep-set watchtowers, Bikki’s men standing on the high fortress . . .” (Orchard, The Elder Edda, 211). 35 Sophus Bugge, ed., Norræn fornkvæði: Islandsk Samling af folkelige Oldtidsdigte om Nordens Guder og Heroer almindelig kaldet Sæmundar Edda hins fróða (Christiania: P. T. Mallings Forlagsboghandel, 1867), 373. “Rögnir (Óðinn) and the gods chanted spells, rode on magic poles to the dwelling place (or roof) of the world; Óðinn listens in Hliðskjálf, he said the route was a long journey” (Annette Lassen, ed. and trans., Hrafnagaldur Óðins (Forspjallsljóð), with an introduction by Annette Lassen [London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2011], 86). 36 Lassen, Hrafnagaldur Óðins (Forspjallsljóð), 9–18. 37 Bugge, Norræn fornkvæði, 348–49. “Svipdag: ‘Tell me, Much-wise, because I’m asking you, and because I want to know; who of the sons of the Æsir made that thing I can see within the enclosure?’ Fiolsvinn: ‘Uni and Iri, Iari and Bari, Var and Vegdrasil, Dori and Ori—and Delling was there too, the completer of the lookout’” (Carolyne Larrington, trans., The Poetic Edda, Revised [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014], 265). 38 Bugge, Norræn fornkvæði, 446. “Uni—Dellingr were present when the work on Liðskjálf was completed.” 39 Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, Eddukvæði, vol. 2, p. 447.

Bibliography Ármann Jakobsson. “Where Do the Giants Live?” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 121 (2006): 101–12. Bibire, Paul. “Freyr and Gerðr: The Story and Its Myths.” In Sagnaskemmtun: Studies in Honour of Hermann Pálsson on His 65th Birthday, 26th May 1986, edited by Rudolf Simek, Jónas Kristjánsson, and Hans Bekker-Nielsen, 19–40. Graz: Hermann Böhlaus, 1986. Björkman, Erik. “Skjalf och Skilfing.” Namn och bygd 7 (1919): 163–81. Brink, Stefan, and John Lindow. “Place Names in Eddic Poetry.” In A Handbook to Eddic Poetry: Myths and Legends of Early Scandinavia, edited by Carolyne Larrington, Judy Quinn, and Brittany Schorn. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016. Bugge, Sophus, ed. Norræn fornkvæði: Islandsk Samling af folkelige Oldtidsdigte om Nordens Guder og Heroer almindelig kaldet Sæmundar Edda hins fróða. Christiania: P. T. Mallings Forlagsboghandel, 1867. Byock, Jesse, trans. The Prose Edda. London: Penguin, 2005. de Vries, Jan. Altnordisches etymologisches Wörterbuch. 2nd ed. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1977. DeKosky, Robert K. “Copernicus.” In Knowledge and Cosmos: Development and Decline of the Medieval Perspective, 149–75. Washington, DC: University Press of America, 1979. Dronke, Ursula. “Art and Tradition in Skírnismál.” In English and Medieval Studies: Presented to J.R.R. Tolkien on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday, edited by Norman David and C. L. Wrenn, 250–68. London: George Allen and Unwin, 1962.

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Dronke, Ursula., ed. and trans. “Introduction and Commentary to ‘Skírnismál’.” In Mythological Poems, vol. 2, bk. 1 of The Poetic Edda, 386–414. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed. Hallfreðar saga. Íslenzk fornrit 8. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1939. Eliade, Mircea. The Myth of the Eternal Return: or, Cosmos and History. Bollingen 46. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1954. Ellis Davidson, Hilda R. “Scandinavian Cosmology.” In Ancient Cosmologies, edited by Carmen Blacker and Michael Loewe, 172–97. London: George Allen and Unwin, 1975. Gunnell, Terry. The Origins of Drama in Scandinavia. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1995. Holtsmark, Anne. Studier i Snorres Mytologi. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1964. Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, eds. Eddukvæði. 2 vols. Íslenzk fornrit. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2014. Kiil, Vilhelm. “Hliðskjálf og seiðhjallr.” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 75 (1960): 84–112. Larrington, Carolyne, trans. The Poetic Edda. Revised. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014. Lassen, Annette, ed. and trans. Hrafnagaldur Óðins (Forspjallsljóð). With an introduction by Annette Lassen. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2011. Lassen, Annette, Odin på kristent pergament: En teksthistorisk studie. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums Forlag / Københavns Universitet, 2011. Lassen, Annette, Øjet og blindheden i norrøn litteratur og mytologi. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums Forlag / Københavns Universitet, 2003. Lindow, John. Norse Mythology: A Guide to the Gods, Heroes, Rituals, and Beliefs. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Läffler, L. Fr. “Svänska ortnamn på skialf.” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 10 (1894): 166–72. Mitchell, Stephen A. “Blåkulla and Its Antecedents: Transvection and Conventicles in Nordic Witchcraft.” alvíssmál 7 (1997): 81–100. Mitchell, Stephen A. “Fǫr Scírnis as Mythological Model: Frið at kaupa.” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 98 (1983): 108–22. Motz, Lotte. “Gerðr: A New Interpretation of the Lay of Skirnir.” Maal og minne 3–4 (1981): 121–36. Olsen, Magnus. “Fra gammelnorsk myte og kultus.” Maal og minne, 1909, 17–36. Olsen, Magnus. . Ættegård og helligdom: Norske stedsnavn sosialt og religionshistorisk belyst. 2nd ed. Bergen: Universitetsforlaget, 1978. Orchard, Andy, trans. The Elder Edda: A Book of Viking Lore. London: Penguin, 2011. Sahlgren, Jöran. “Sagan om Frö och Gärd.” Namn och bygd 16 (1928): 1–19. Simek, Rudolf. Dictionary of Northern Mythology. Translated by Angela Hall. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1993. Snorri Sturluson. Edda: Skáldskaparmál. Edited by Anthony Faulkes. 2 vols. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1998. Snorri Sturluson. Edda: Prologue and Gylfaginning. 2nd ed. Edited by Anthony Faulkes. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2005. Suhm, Peter Friedrich. Om Odin og den hedniske Gudlære og Gudstieneste ude Norden. Copenhagen: Brødrene Berling, 1771. Tolley, Clive. Shamanism in Norse Myth and Magic. 2 vols. Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum Fennica, 2009. Turville-Petre, Gabriel. Myth and Religion of the North: The Religion of Ancient Scandinavia. London: Weidenfield and Nicolson, 1964.

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Turville-Petre, Gabriel. “The Cult of Freyr in the Evening of Paganism.” Proceedings of the Leeds Philosophical and Literary Society 3, no. 6 (1935): 317–22. Viðar Hreinsson, ed. “The Saga of Hallfred the Troublesome Poet.” In The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales, translated by Diana Whaley, 1:225–53. Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing. Zoëga, Geir T. A Concise Dictionary of Old Icelandic. Medieval Reprints for Teaching 41. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2004.

Sandra Ballif Straubhaar

“Ok flýgr þat jafnan”: Icelandic Figurations of Böðvarr bjarki’s Monster Abstract: The beast killed by Böðvarr bjarki at the king’s court in Hrólfs saga kraka is largely analogous to Beowulf ’s Grendel. However, despite similar predatory habits and similar roles in the narratives, the two monsters featured as villains are morphologically quite different: the former flies, while the latter walks. The present case study comes from the legendary saga Hrólfs saga kraka.1 We know that it was a popular saga, as it is preserved in no less than forty-four known early modern manuscripts, most of which are Icelandic (several are Norwegian). Hrólfs saga kraka links a series of stories (þættir) happening in and around the court of the legendary Danish king Hrólfr kraki. Earlier versions of these legendary narratives of kingship and warfare in Scandinavia are postulated to date back to the European Migration Age (i.e., before 800 AD), and they have cognate relationships with other early northern European narratives, notably those found in the Old English poem Beowulf and the Latinophone histories of Danish kings by Saxo Grammaticus. I will discuss below only a single vignette from these interwoven stories—namely, the monster’s attack on the Danish king’s celebration venue. In Hrólfs saga kraka, the attacking monster is eventually slain by one of the king’s champions, the shape-shifter Böðvarr bjarki who manifests in his (rare) guise as a bear to defend his king in the final battle. The mead hall attack occurs in the saga some time before the shapeshifting-under-stress battlefield scene, and it has more international analogues than the latter; however, in every one of the three cognate narratives I will be looking at—Beowulf, Saxo, and Hrólfs saga kraka—an ursine element is present, in the protagonist, the antagonist, or both. My intent here is to explore the Icelandic figuration of the attacking monster in the Old Norse version of the story, Hrólfs saga kraka. The saga text is younger than the other two texts—potentially 500 years younger than Beowulf, and 300 years younger than Saxo—and a case can be made that the monster figure undergoes a modernization process with the passage of time: from a shambling giantlike humanoid brute, to a monstrous bear, to a medieval (European-style) dragon. The configuration of the monster-slaying hero, on the other hand, with his degree of greater or lesser bear-kinship, fluctuates much less.2 The action of Hrólfs saga kraka is set mostly in the northern quadrant of the island of Sjælland, in Denmark. Although the earliest surviving manuscript https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-012

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of Hrólfs saga kraka dates from the seventeenth century, an earlier manuscript is recorded (in a charter) as existing in the monastery library at Möðruvellir in Hörgárdalur in 1461. There is no compelling reason to doubt that the saga was originally recorded in Iceland sometime in the late Middle Ages, possibly between 1230 and 1450, like many of the other legendary sagas (fornaldarsögur), and that its earliest manuscripts have been lost. The beast (dýr) that attacks the mead hall at king Hrólfr’s court in Hrólfs saga kraka is introduced in the following manner:3 Ok sem leið at jólum, gjörðust menn ókátir. Böðvar spyrr Hött, hvörju þetta sætti; hann segir honum, at dýr eitt hafi þar komit tvo vetr í samt, mikit ok ógrligt, ok hefir vængi á bakinu, ok flýgr þat jafnan; tvö haust hefir þat nú hingat vitjat ok gjört mikinn skaða, á þat bíta ekki vopn, en kappar konúngs koma ekki heim, þeir sem at eru einna mestir. Böðvar mælti: ekki er höllin svá vel skipuð, sem ek ætlaði, ef eitt dýr skal hèr eyða ríki ok fé konúngsins; Höttr sagði: Þat er ekki dýr, heldr er þat mesta tröll.4

In the tenth-century manuscript of the Old English poem Beowulf—the earliest of our three texts in which a monster attacks the celebrations of a Danish king during the dark time of the year—the attacker is given a unique personal name: Grendel, which possibly means “grinder.” There are some observable commonalities shared by the three predators in the present study. All of them (Grendel in Beowulf, and the two unnamed creatures in Saxo Grammaticus and in Hrólfs saga kraka) are potential man-eaters whose victims owe fealty to a king of the Skjöldung dynasty enthroned in Sjælland and bearing an Hr-name (R in Latin: Rolvo). All three of these beings are, in their turn, killed by a foreign hero bearing a B-name who hails from a still more northerly place across an ocean (Norway or Sweden) and whose name and disposition is covertly or overtly bearlike. These narratives may thus be regional derivations that stem from the same, widely known motif. However, despite their similar predatory habits and similar roles in their respective narratives, the physical features of the attacking monsters are described and appropriated in quite different ways. Grendel is said by the Beowulf poet to be a swamp-dwelling descendant of Cain, son of Adam, this ancestry thus making him some kind of humanoid (“mǣre mearcstapa, sē þē mōras hēold, fen ond fæsten . . . Cāines cynne”).5 However, Grendel’s manifestations in Beowulf are more opaque than those of the Hrólfs saga creature, for the latter’s physical characteristics and habits of motion are only hinted at, not explicitly described. We are told, for instance, that Grendel is a mearcstapa, a border-stepper, and so presumably bipedal like a man. Moreover, the poem alludes to Grendel having two arms, since the hero succeeds in tearing one of them off, thus further underscoring Grendel’s anthropomorphic qualities.

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The third instance of a man-devouring monster troubling the Danish court is found in Saxo Grammaticus’s Gesta Danorum, dating to the late twelfth century or possibly the early thirteenth. The mead hall is only partially present here, in the form of a textually adjacent wedding feast. Yet it appears to adhere to the same formula of hero-monster confrontation that features in Hrólfs saga kraka, as both texts depict the hero ordering his companion to drink the monster’s blood after it is slain. In Saxo’s chronicle, this monster happens to be a plain old bear whose monstrosity is exhibited only in its size, for it is said to be exceedingly huge (“Ursum quippe eximiae magnitudinis obvium”).6 However, neither the humanoid Grendel in Beowulf, nor the monstrous bear in Saxo Grammaticus, is endowed in their corresponding narratives with wings or the power of flight. Böðvarr bjarki’s beast in Hrólfs saga kraka, by contrast, has wings on its back and is described as “always flying.” Is it then, just possibly, not a native early Scandinavian figure at all, but in fact a continental European image from the later Middle Ages, namely, a winged dragon? As I hope to demonstrate below, the Icelandic authors and audiences of Hrólfs saga kraka from the fifteenth (or even thirteenth) century to the early modern period are very likely to have been so familiar with images of continental European-style winged dragons to have them in their mental visual lexicons. Emphatically unlike the wingless Fáfnir—the legendary treasure-nesting foe of Sigurðr who is still to this day commonly mislabeled a dragon, despite the Old Norse texts referring to him in slithering, serpentlike terms—Sigurðr’s alleged “dragon,” tellingly called an ormr (worm) in the prose of Völsunga saga, is essentially an earthbound lizard, more primal in its form than a high medieval European winged dragon. Fáfnir’s default verb of motion, after all, is not fljúga, but skríða: Reginn mælti: gjör gröf eina ok sezt þar í; ok þá er ormrinn skríðr til vatns, legg þá til hjarta honum, ok vinn honum svá bana, þá fyrir fær þú mikinn frama.7

We may gain a glimpse of how Fáfnir was imagined in mid-eleventh-century Scandinavia in the form of the so-called Sigurd rock carving (Sö 101), found in Ramsund in Jäder, near Eskilstuna, Södermanland, Sweden.8 This carved depiction, sprawling across a great flat rock surface at Ramsundsberget, features a wingless and legless serpentlike body stretched like a curving frame to enfold the scene of its own slaying, with Sigurðr on the inside running the creature through with a sword amid other visual references. Serpents are a common motif in the Ringerike-style stone carvings, their pliable bodies serving as suitable frames for runic texts. Like in the aforementioned Sö 101, which belongs to the same category, their bodies tend to be legless and lithe, their terminal points forming the tendrils so characteristic of this style.9 In

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the second half of the eleventh and in the early twelfth centuries, this serpent art was perfected in the form of the Urnes style, named after the intricately carved stave church in Urnes, Norway, but the style was in evidence throughout Scandinavia. As this carving style emerges, its curving serpentine lines become increasingly more elegant and lithe, giving the impression of intricate, vine-like intertwining. The serpent heads are consistently long-jawed and streamlined, almost entirely filled by almond-shaped eyes. In such Urnes representations, serpents are often endowed with a single visible hind leg, braced as if to support the elaborate interlaced structure of their curving bodies.10 While these slithering wingless worms are clearly not the sort of creature the scribes of Hrólfs saga kraka had in mind when composing the mead hall episode, given this creature’s explicit ability to fly, some Swedish rune-stone dragons do, in fact, have wings.11 At least seven Swedish rune stones with winged serpents are known to exist, dated as contemporaneous or slightly later than the Sö 101 carving and similarly located in Uppland. Two such rune stones, U 295 from Skånela church and U 305 from Bensta, show clearly marked feathers on the wings, while U 887 from Skillsta has feathered wing details quite similar to those found on (roughly contemporary) Norwegian stave-church portals.12 It appears that a new style of “worms” with wings was on the rise in late eleventh and early twelfth-century Scandinavia, if rune-stone art is anything to go by.13 To say that medieval Icelandic saga scribes were unlikely to have visited Södermanland or Uppland is an understatement. Where might their newfangled mental image-hoard of winged dragons—unlike Sigurðr’s Fáfnir, but similar to the worms on some of the younger runestones—have possibly come from? Looking more closely at samples of medieval Scandinavian serpent carvings from the eleventh and twelfth centuries, several observations may be drawn. Their copious placement on church properties, and indeed their incorporation in the churches’ portals, suggests that both this carving style and its zoomorphic theme was generally regarded as regional art, free of explicitly pagan undercurrents and thus posing no obstacle in ecclesiastical contexts.14 What’s more, vernacular Scandinavian portal carvings incorporated into church architecture become in themselves a curious blend of traditions, where Viking art meets the Romanesque.15 Erla Bergendahl Hohler has identified forty independent high medieval Norwegian stave-church portals exhibiting what she calls a “three-dragon motif” of the “Sogn-Valdres” design, incorporating three interwoven Romanesque winged dragons at the top. They are termed “Romanesque” because of their similarity to dragon sculptures from Romanesque-era stone churches in southern Europe. The dragons on the left and right sides of these stave-church portals have legs as well, most likely two each whereby, seen from the side, they look like a single leg.16

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Erika Sigurdson notes that there would have been approximately 330 parish churches in Iceland in the High Middle Ages, and given the close relations between Iceland and Norway at the time—Iceland was by then under Norwegian rule—it is not too far-fetched to suggest that such churches would most likely have been decorated in a similar way to those in Norway.17 Unfortunately, none of those 330 churches remain standing, but the famous Valþjófsstaður door in Fljótsdalur, surviving from that time and on permanent exhibit at the National Museum of Iceland, certainly once adorned one of them.18 Its surface is sectioned into two large circles, each populated by carvings. The bottom circle features four Romanesque-style dragons, which fill its diameter as an intertwined knot and share some conceptual visual similarities with the Sogn-Valdres dragons in Norway. The upper circle is even more striking and pertinent for the present discussion as it contains a depiction of a knight slaying a dragon with explicitly carved feathered wings sprouting from its back, its legged body twisting in agony around the decorative vines as it tries in vain to bite them. Both the continental European dragon iconography and the adjacent lion in the same scene have led to the interpretation of this carving as a reference to the romance of Yvain, the LionKnight, a narrative that, although continental in origin, was circulating in Iceland among other riddarasögur.19 What, then, of the airborne beast from Hrólfs saga kraka? The descriptive phrase “flýgr þat jafnan” (it is always flying) is intriguing in this context. Could we interpret this phrase to mean that Böðvarr bjarki’s winged saga beast— always depicted aloft and never described as crawling or slithering on the ground—is a similar continental romance image, arriving to Iceland on the wings of chivalric narratives? There are numerous examples in medieval art from all across Europe showing dragons of exactly this type; they are winged but legless wonders, generally depicted in the process of being slain by St. Michael the Archangel or by St. George. There is also place in the late medieval continental mental lexicon for monsters with wings and legs who are emphatically not dragons but walk upright like men—common visual representations of the devil and other hell spawn. The progeny of Cain is intriguing to consider in this context, and Grendel himself may be semantically entangled in these aesthetics. But the Hrólfs saga’s monster is definitely not the Devil, since it is quite mortal and can be slain. One other medieval European symbolic creature that is “always flying” but does not inhabit the world of stories is the martlet (merlette) bird of medieval English and French heraldry, portrayed without feet since it is always in the air. However, a martlet (however large) could hardly have been conceived of as terrifying by the legendary king Hrólfr kraki and his heroes, and it is hard to imagine one devouring men and cattle.

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Given all the above, it may be concluded that the beast slain by Böðvarr bjarki, this monster that “has wings on its back and is always flying,” was conceived by the editors and scribes of Hrólfs saga kraka in late medieval and early modern Iceland as a European Romanesque winged dragon, with or without legs. Both types, after all, are found on the Sogn-Valdres-style church doors in Norway, like the one from Ål in Hallingdal. Winged dragons with definite legs are found on the Valþjófsstaður door in Iceland. What I hope to have demonstrated above is one small element of the maturing process of one story, or fragment of a story. As our narrative has moved through time as well as space (from the Continent to Iceland), it has changed its clothes, following the fashions of human imagination. The mead hall monster at the court of king H-, slain by hero B-, has morphed from a shambling anthropoid troll, or possibly a bear, to a much more elegant—and probably more frightening—winged dragon like the ones seen in religious, allegorical, and symbolic art from the High Middle Ages and later. And this dragon is not unlike the dragon slain by Ketill hœngr in a younger legendary saga, written down by Icelandic scribes whose imaginations have already passed through the paradigm shift. Ketill’s dragon (or rather “salmon” as it is probably scaly) not only flies, but it breathes fire as well, as the following description attests: En er hann var kominn eigi allskammt í burt frá bænum, sér hann dreka einn fljúga at sér norðan úr björgunum; hann hafði lykkju ok sporð sem ormr, en vængi sem dreki; eldr þótti honum brenna úr augum hans ok gini . . . .20

Paul Acker points out that Ketill’s dragon is called both an (old-style) ormr and a (new-fangled, continental) dreki in this passage, which acknowledges the earlier paradigm, but also shows that it has crossed the threshold between the two styles.21 There is an early fourteenth-century Icelandic family saga, Þorskfirðinga saga, that shares some genre-DNA with the legendary sagas like Hrólfs saga kraka, Ketils saga hœngs, and Völsunga saga. Its hero, Gull-Þórir (Gold-Thórir), an adventurer from Þorskafjörðr in the Westfjords of Iceland, pursues and kills a nest of flying dragons (flugdrekar, or “flying dragons,” unlike the earlier wingless Fáfnir) who sleep on their treasure and who were once human (entirely like Fáfnir). Oddly enough, these dragons retain enough of their humanity to wear helmets and brandish swords. Þórir and his allies kill them and take their gold, but eventually Þórir cocoons with his chests of captured treasure and turns into a dragon himself. These dragons, explicitly named (drekar), are comparatively more modern than Böðvarr bjarki’s primitive “beast.” As for the flying (and fire-breathing) dragon who hovers over the second half of Beowulf and seems to arrive too early, given the above evidence, for its

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own story matrix, two clarifications may be offered: first, that this is not the story fragment whose imagery-development this study has plotted; and second, that perhaps England may be granted fashion-vanguard status by virtue of its having enjoyed a closer geographical proximity to European cultural centers than Iceland did.

Notes 1 The Saga of Hrólfr the Pole-Ladder, i.e., Rolf the Skinny. 2 Consider the ursine elements present in these heroes’ names, with Beowulf translating literally from Old English as “bee-wolf” (a kenning for “bear”), whereas Bjarki (called Biarco in Saxo Grammaticus) signifies “little bear” in Old Norse. 3 All following translations are my own. 4 Carl Christian Rafn, ed., “Hrólfs saga kraka,” in Fornaldar sögur Norðrlanda eptir gömlum handritum, vol. 1 (Copenhagen: H. F. Popp), 69. “And as Yule-time approached, the men grew unhappy. Böðvar asks Höttr how this has come to be. Höttr tells him that a certain beast has come there for two years in a row, large and frightening. ‘And it has wings on its back, and it’s always flying. For two autumns now it has come here to visit, causing much harm. Weapons can’t bite it, and the king’s champions—even the best ones of all—don’t come home.’ Böðvar said: ‘This hall isn’t as well staffed as I would have thought, if just one beast can wipe out the king’s kingdom and livestock.’ Höttr said: ‘This isn’t just any beast. It’s the most monstrous of all creatures.’ ” 5 Robert Dennis Fulk et al., eds., Klaeber’s Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburg, 4th ed., Toronto Old English Studies 21 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008), lines 103–4, 107. 6 Saxo Grammaticus, Saxonis Grammatici Historia Danica, ed. Peter Erasmus Müller, vol. 1 (Copenhagen Sumtibus Librariæ Gyldendalianæ, 1839), 87. 7 Rafn, “Hrólfs saga kraka,” 159. “Reginn said: ‘Dig a ditch and put yourself in it, and when the worm crawls down to the water, strike upwards, at his heart. That way you’ll kill him, and win great fame’ ” (emphasis mine). 8 A detailed image of this carving may be found in the photographic appendix provided in David M. Wilson, Viking Art (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1966), plate lxi a. See also Klaus Düwel, “On the Sigurd Representations in Great Britain and Scandinavia,” in Languages and Cultures: Studies in Honor of Edgar C. Polomé, ed. Mohammad Ali Jazayery and Werner Winter (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1988), 133–156. 9 David M. Wilson, “The Development of Viking Art,” in The Viking World, ed. Stephan Brink and Neil Price (London: Routledge, 2008), 332. 10 Wilson, “The Development of Viking Art,” 334–37. A visual reference to the decorated Urnes stave church in Norway may be found in Wilson, Viking Art, plate lxix. 11 Paul Acker argues for Fáfnir’s potential “wingedness” on the basis of Völsunga saga’s report that Sigurðr stabs him in the bœxl (arm-pit, or wing-pit), yet it must be emphasized how vague and not wholly reliable such terminology can be: whales are said to have bœxl as well. See Paul Acker, “Dragons in the Eddas and in Early Nordic Art,” in Poetic Edda: Essays on Old Norse Heroic Legend, ed. Paul Acker and Carolyne Larrington, Routledge Medieval Casebooks (New York: Routledge, 2013), 54, 57.

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12 Tarrin Wills, ed., “Nottingham Rune Dictionary: A Dictionary of Vikign Age Rune Stones,” accessed July 10, 2018, http://skaldic.abdn.ac.uk/db.php?if=runic%5C&table=database% 5C&view=runic. 13 Acker, “Dragons in the Eddas and in Early Nordic Art,” 60–62. 14 Wilson, “The Development of Viking Art,” 335. 15 Kristine Ødeby, “Through the Portal: Viking Motifs Incorporated in the Romanesque Style in Telemark, Norway,” Papers from the Institute of Archaeology 23, no. 1 (2013): 15. 16 Erla Bergendahl Hohler, Norwegian Stave Church Sculpture, Analytical Survey Catalogue, vol. 1 (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1998), 37. One of the most celebrated of these portals is the now-demolished twelfth-century Torpo stave church at Ål in Hallingdal. Details of its intricate carvings may be found in Roar Hauglid, Norske Stavkirker (Oslo: Dreyer, 1969), 106–7. 17 Erika Sigurdson, The Church in Fourteenth-Century Iceland: The Formation of an Elite Clerical Identity (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 65. This suggestion is put forward by Ola Storsletten, “Arkitekur på Island,” Store norske leksikon, June 12, 2017, accessed July 10, 2018, https://snl. no/Arkitektur_p%5C%C3%5C%A5_Island, an open-access online cultural database. 18 Björn M. Ólsen, “Valþjólfsstaðahurðin,” Arbók hins íslenzka fornleifafélags, 1884, 24–37. 19 Richard L. Harris, “The Lion-Knight Legend in Iceland and the Valþjófsstaðir Door,” Viator 1 (1970): 125–45. 20 Carl Christian Rafn, ed., “Ketils saga hœngs,” in Fornaldar sögur Norðrlanda eptir gömlum handritum, 2:111. “But [Ketill] had not gone much of a distance from men’s houses when he saw a dragon flying out of a cliff to the north. It had coils and a tail like a worm, but wings like a dragon. He thought that burning flames were coming out of its eyes and mouth.” 21 Acker, “Dragons in the Eddas and in Early Nordic Art,” 55. I might argue, conversely, that we need to guard ourselves against the post-Linnaean idea that one specific name pertains to one and only one specific creature when we are talking about medieval creature taxonomy.

Bibliography Acker, Paul. “Dragons in the Eddas and in Early Nordic Art.” In Poetic Edda: Essays on Old Norse Heroic Legend, edited by Paul Acker and Carolyne Larrington. Routledge Medieval Casebooks. New York: Routledge, 2013. Björn M. Ólsen. “Valþjólfsstaðahurðin.” Arbók hins íslenzka fornleifafélags, 1884, 24–37. Düwel, Klaus. “On the Sigurd Representations in Great Britain and Scandinavia.” In Languages and Cultures: Studies in Honor of Edgar C. Polomé, edited by Mohammad Ali Jazayery and Werner Winter, 133–156. Berlin: De Gruyter, 1988. Fulk, Robert Dennis, Friederich Klaeber, Robert E. Bjork, and John D. Niles, eds. Klaeber’s Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburg. 4th ed. Toronto Old English Studies 21. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008. Harris, Richard L. “The Lion-Knight Legend in Iceland and the Valþjófsstaðir Door.” Viator 1 (1970): 125–45. Hauglid, Roar. Norske Stavkirker. Oslo: Dreyer, 1969. Hohler, Erla Bergendahl. Norwegian Stave Church Sculpture. Analytical Survey Catalogue. Vol. 1. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1998. Rafn, Carl Christian, ed. Fornaldar sögur Norðrlanda eptir gömlum handritum. Copenhagen: H. F. Popp, 1829–1830.

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Rafn, Carl Christian, ed. “Hrólfs saga kraka.” In Fornaldar sögur Norðrlanda eptir gömlum handritum, vol. 1. “Ketils saga hœngs.” In Fornaldar sögur Norðrlanda eptir gömlum handritum, vol. 2. Saxo Grammaticus. Saxonis Grammatici Historia Danica. Edited by Peter Erasmus Müller. Vol. 1. Copenhagen Sumtibus Librariæ Gyldendalianæ, 1839. Sigurdson, Erika. The Church in Fourteenth-Century Iceland: The Formation of an Elite Clerical Identity. Leiden: Brill, 2016. Storsletten, Ola. “Arkitekur på Island.” Store norske leksikon. June 12, 2017. Accessed July 10, 2018. https://snl.no/Arkitektur_p%5C%C3%5C%A5_Island. Wills, Tarrin, ed. “Nottingham Rune Dictionary: A Dictionary of Viking Age Rune Stones.” Accessed July 10, 2018. http://skaldic.abdn.ac.uk/db.php?if=runic%5C&table=database %5C&view=runic. Wilson, David M. “The Development of Viking Art.” In The Viking World, edited by Stephan Brink and Neil Price, 323–40. London: Routledge, 2008. Wilson, David M., Viking Art. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1966. Ødeby, Kristine. “Through the Portal: Viking Motifs Incorporated in the Romanesque Style in Telemark, Norway.” Papers from the Institute of Archaeology 23, no. 1 (2013): 1–19.

Arngrímur Vídalín

Demons, Muslims, Wrestling Champions: The Semantic History of Blámenn from the Twelfth to the Twentieth Century Abstract: This article explores the semantic history of the Old Norse-Icelandic word blámaðr. While scholars have traditionally focused only on its core meaning, “black African,” this article aims to illustrate how more complicated layers of meaning surround the word and its use in Old Norse literature.

Introduction As important as terminology is, especially in scholarship, we all too seldom stop to wonder whether the terms we use are understood by everyone in the same way, or whether the terms themselves may in fact mean different things in different contexts.1 For example, we might happen upon a trǫll in a narrative about heroes from Scandinavia and picture some nasty creature out of The Hobbit who is both clumsy and stupid and either bursts or turns to stone at sunrise.2 Upon closer inspection, the trǫll may turn out to be something else entirely; it may be a person, an outlaw, a sorcerer, or an aptrganga (i.e., the walking dead).3 The saga reader thus partakes in a kind of Todorovian situation involving the fantastic, unsure of what is being described, and whether it is a supernatural entity or not.4 The aim of semantic studies of medieval literature is to shed light on this nuance of meaning and to attempt to find a common denominator to all instances of the same word. The term blámaðr is one such word that the reader, if a native speaker of Icelandic, would at first glance presume to know the meaning of; non-native speakers might make do with a definition from a dictionary and by these means reach the same understanding. As the following examples illustrate, the semantics of blámaðr are much more complicated than has often been postulated, perhaps to such a degree that the term threatens to transgress the capabilities and purposes of traditional dictionaries. Blámenn belong to the class of the barely classifiable: to the monsters. In recent years, studies of the paranormal in medieval literature have increased in both volume and depth, illustrating that alterity can appear in many different guises, whether based on gender, race, origin, appearance, religion, or even https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-013

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diet.5 Blámenn can belong to one individual category of “otherness” or to many at the same time, all depending on context. While the nuance of these different layers of assigned characteristics and meanings cannot be analyzed in full detail in the following pages, the paranormal and even supernatural proclivity of the blámaðr forms the basis for all aspects of the present article. This is important as it not only allows us to better understand how medieval Icelanders viewed others, but through this contrast with the monstrous other, also how they viewed themselves. Ultimately the medieval Icelandic worldview was derived from Christianity,6 including the idea that the peripheries of the earth were inhabited by monsters and other hordes of the damned, so the present article also sheds light on the Icelandic history of mentalities. This study is meant to address both the meaning and narrative placement of blámenn in Icelandic literature, from the earliest known examples in the twelfth century down to the twentieth century. This includes a motif that has survived in oral narrative from the fourteenth century at least, when it was first put to parchment, down to modern times. First and foremost, this is a study of semantics. Proper literary analysis of each individual case, however lacking at present, will not be much further satisfied here. This is not a problem in itself, but an opportunity for those who seek to investigate the matter in the future. First, the article discusses the elusive meaning of the term before giving examples of different kinds of descriptions of blámenn in the sources. The first of these parts deals with neutral or positive descriptions of blámenn; the second discusses blámenn when the term is used to connote demons; the third part discusses blámenn as heathen or berserker characters; the fourth part explores the motif of the blámaðr as a wrestling champion; and the fifth part compares descriptions of blámenn to descriptions of blemmyes. By exploring these different facets of the complicated semantics of blámaðr, this article aims to further our understanding of this paranormal, monstrous figure that is so prominent in such diverse medieval Icelandic writings as the Íslendingasögur, riddarasögur, konungasögur, fornaldarsögur, dýrlinga-, postula-, and byskupasögur, learned Christian and/or encyclopedic writings, and even in modern folktales derived from the sagas. This semantic study will hopefully provide a new starting point for future research into the enigmatic blámenn.

A Term of Transgressive Meaning A problem arises when blámaðr is presumed to be a single word that carries a single meaning. Thus, editors of dictionaries have had varying degrees of difficulty

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defining the word, clouded by their own modern understanding of the term. The modern Icelandic dictionary gives the meaning blökkumaður (black man) and stresses that the word is often used in a humorous way. This is a fairly accurate, albeit simplified, definition of the modern meaning and usage of blámaður. It should perhaps not come as a surprise, then, that this is what most readers of Old Norse literature have also taken to be the medieval meaning of the word. The Cleasby-Vigfússon dictionary gives the meaning: “a black man,” “negro,” i.e., “an Ethiopian.” Cleasby-Vigfússon further states that blámenn are distinguished from the Saracens and Arabs, and that in romances they are mentioned as a kind of berserker.7 Meanwhile Johan Fritzner seems to have had great trouble unifying the many sources for the word as they absolutely do not agree on what blámenn are, but this does not stop him from giving the overall meaning as “a person who has an entirely black body, especially used to denote negroes or Ethiopians.”8 The Ordbog over det norrøne prosasprog has a more nuanced definition, giving both the meaning “black person, negro (of people from various parts of Africa),”9 and “of a devil.”10 However, the meaning is even more complicated than this definition indicates. These mostly modern definitions of blámaðr have prevailed in scholarship and influenced the interpretation of this medieval term, and so the Old NorseIcelandic term is invariably taken to mean a black African.11 The latest example of this relevant to the current study is the index of the folklore collection Íslenskar þjóðsögur og sagnir assembled by Sigfús Sigfússon. The last volume of the second edition published in 1993 included the short item: “Blámenn, see Negrar” (i.e., negroes).12 At the same time, blámenn have not been thoroughly researched as a literary construct, nor has the meaning of the word itself been sufficiently investigated. Ásgeir Blöndal Magnússon does not even venture an opinion in his Íslensk orðsifjabók, referring only to Bláland as denoting Ethiopia; although this is at least a partially correct observation, it is not an etymological one and thus feels out of place in an etymological dictionary.13 Blámaðr is in many cases a translation of the Latin word aethiops, which refers to the people of Ethiopia and was a fairly general term for the entire landmass south of Egypt and the Sahara. Concordantly, Ethiopia is sometimes referred to as Bláland, although geographically matters are a bit more complicated than this.14 The author of Barlaams saga og Jósafats quotes Jeremiah 13:23: “Well did the prophet speak of you, when he said: if the blámaðr (i.e., Ethiopian) can change his black skin or the leopard its freckled fur, so may you do the same, though you are accustomed to evil.”15 Vitae patrum or Heilagra feðra æfi speaks of dökkvan blámann (a dark blámaðr), a translation of aethiopem nigrum, in a small parable on hubris and humility. Given that in this and a number of other descriptions there seems to be an interest in skin color, an interest that indeed seems to lie at the very heart of the term blámaðr, one of the first questions asked regarding

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blámenn tends to concern the meaning of the prefix blá-, which means “blue” in modern Icelandic. While Kirsten Wolf has looked into the subtle differences between blár and svartr (black)—establishing that there are clear, though somewhat conflicting, tendencies in the usage of the words, for example, with blár more often used in connection with fabrics16—the results do not seem to aid us at present in understanding the word blámaðr, save for the open-ended meaning of blár as a dark color. To illustrate this problem, blámenn are very frequently said to be svartir in addition to their implied blár quality, with biki svartari (blacker than pitch) and other such descriptions frequently employed, so there is little help to be found in the difference between black and blue in a case where the same creature seems to be both.17 The color blár may, however, indicate supernatural qualities and especially a connection with the demonic, as aptrgǫngr are frequently said to be blár sem hel ok digr sem naut (blue as hell and big as a bull).18 This link will be examined more closely below. The term in and of itself thus yields little meaning when removed from the context of each individual instance of a blámaðr. A closer analysis of the textual evidence is therefore necessary.

Neutral and Positive Descriptions of Blámenn One problem when analyzing blámenn is that the texts describing them seldom do so in detail. They have been poorly defined from the earliest written sources, and many times the reader is ill-equipped to make assumptions as to what the term is meant to denote. For example, Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar says that “[kom] sendimaðr friðreks keisara er Mattheus het með mǫrgum agiætum giǫfum. Með honum komu vtan v. blamenn” (a man named Matheus came, sent by Emperor Friðrekr carrying many great gifts. With him came five blámenn).19 Not only is a description of their distinguishing feature lacking, but what the relationship of the five blámenn is to Matheus is also unclear. The blámenn might be slaves, and they might even have been intended as gifts to King Hákon. Conversely, they could just as well be in the service of Matheus or Emperor Friðrekr, or Matheus’s equals and traveling companions. It may be considered more likely that the blámenn of this episode were meant for display at the court of King Hákon, but it is impossible to verify and regardless of one’s reasoning, we remain none the wiser about the role of the blámenn in Hákonar saga. There are not many positive descriptions of blámenn, but they do exist.20 Klári saga tells of the nobleman Eskelvarð, son of the king of Bláland, who is thought to be quite dashing and rich and is talked of as “herrann blálenski”

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(the Blálandic lord). Eskelvarð, however, is only the pseudonym of the Saxonian prince Clárus, devised by the clever Master Perus.21 A similar case presents itself in Mágus saga jarls where hinn Hálfliti maðr (i.e., the two-colored man) appears, the son of a blámaðr and a Scandinavian mother, with one side of his body resembling his mother and the other his father. Yet this is only the clever disguise of Earl Mágus himself.22 It thus seems that the most positive descriptions of any blámenn are in fact descriptions of a Caucasian pretending to be one. This may be seen as foreshadowing for what follows below. There are a few neutral narratives concerning blámenn in addition to the one in Hákonar saga. Stjórn I tells of Moses’s conquest of Bláland and his marriage to a Blálandic princess named Peokilla. While this marriage is evidently practical rather than romantic, Moses still cares a great deal about Peokilla. When he must depart from Bláland he makes two necklaces imbued with magical properties. The necklace he gives to Peokilla has the power of erasing her memory of loving him, while the necklace that Moses carries is that much more powerful, a memento of his lost wife.23 This is surprisingly romantic. Moses is later lambasted for this marriage by his sister Mary, not because of his betrayal of Peokilla but because of her inferior nationality. God punishes Mary by giving her temporary leprosy.24 This passage in Stjórn is a translation of Numbers 12, in which Miriam (i.e., Mary) and Aaron oppose Moses for his marriage to a Cushite woman. However, the aforementioned tale of the necklace and Moses’s abandonment of Peokilla is not in the Bible. Another rather positive description of a blámaðr, in that the blámaðr is an innocent boy who is wrongfully accused of a crime, appears in Karlamagnús saga. The blámaðr in this story is a poor young boy who “was not fair to look at for his body was all blue as coal.”25 The evil Mílon, advisor to the king, picks the starving boy up from the street with the promise of food and drink. While the boy thinks this generosity is unbefitting, Mílon leads him on and then spikes his drink so that he loses consciousness. He then lays him in the bed of the naked queen, who is herself lying there prepped in much the same fashion after a disturbing, yet failed rape attempt, and takes off the boy’s clothes as well. Mílon then has the king brought in to witness the adulterous betrayal of his queen. The king is shocked at the sight of his naked wife in the arms of a blámaðr, but he is reluctant to do anything about it. Mílon eggs him on incessantly until the king complies with Mílon’s wishes and takes the blámaðr’s head off with his sword. At this precise moment a miracle happens, as for each drop of blood pouring out of the young boy’s neck a candle is lit, and the king says in realization: “God knows, Mílon, that you have had me wrongfully martyr him.”26 Here concludes the very short list of known neutral or positive descriptions of blámenn in Old Norse literature. It is quite indicative of the overall connotation

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of the term that the only blámenn awarded any grace in their narratives are the ones who in reality were Europeans in disguise. The less positive examples will now follow.

Blámenn as Demons The oldest examples I have found of the term blámaðr are in the postulasögur (sagas of the apostles), which are among the oldest writings extant in Old Norse. In these sagas, blámaðr connotes some sort of demon, as has previously been discussed by Simonetta Battista, Kirsten Wolf, and Richard Cole, who all use the examples of Bartholomeus saga and Tveggja postola saga Símons ok Júdass.27 In fact, “demon” and “Ethiopian” are the most common meanings of the word blámaðr, and interestingly they are not mutually exclusive: if the word means demon it also means Ethiopian in every case I have found, whereas the same is not necessarily true the other way around. The two aforementioned postulasögur are the oldest examples of the word blámaðr that I have found. Bartholomeus saga has been extant since c. 1250–1275 and Tveggja postola saga Símons ok Júdass since c. 1250–1300, so it is uncertain which one of these two narratives is older. Both contain much the same narrative about blámenn who are strictly not of human form, but horrible demons. In the older redaction of Bartholomeus saga, Bartholomeus exorcises a blámaðr out of an idol worshipped by the people of Indíaland, whereas in the younger redaction it is a shadow, skuggi, which rather seems to confirm the reading that this is a demon: Eptir þat geck ut or scurþgoþinu ogorlegr blamaþr biki svartari, harðlundlegr oc hvassnefiaðr, siðskeggiaðr oc svart skeggit oc illilict, harit svart oc sitt, sva at toc a tær honum, augun sem elldr væri i at sia, oc flugu gneistar or sem af vellanda iarni. Or munninum oc nausunum for ut sva sem brennusteins logi, oc honum varo vengir oc fiaðrar sva sem clungr oc þyrnar, hendr hans varo bundnar a bak aptr meþ iarnlegum bondum.28

Both descriptions describe the same black figure almost verbatim, i.e., with a long beard, fiery eyes, and horrible wings. In the saga of Símon and Júdas we encounter the same narrative where horrible blámenn, blacker than ravens, are exorcised from heathen idols: Þa mællte Simon við solar likneski, en Judas við tungl: “Þu hinn vesti anðe, er tælldir þenna lyð! gak þu ut or likneski þesso ok briot þat, ok sva kerro þess.” En er þæir hòfðu þetta mællt, þa sa allr lyðr tva hræðiliga blamenn hrafne svartare ganga ut or likneskionum, ok ylldo þæir grimmre roddo ok bruto skurðgoðin.29

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All of the examples of blámaðr meaning demon are from vitae or dýrlingasögur, written over a long period, and in all translated sagas the word blámaðr is a translation of the Latin word aethiops. We may assume that if it was not common vocabulary among Icelandic Christian scribes, the indigenous Maríu saga and Guðmundar saga biskups got the word and its meaning from these translations. In Maríu saga we find this disturbing description of a deacon’s vision: Hann gengr inn ok ser milli þeira manna, er standa hryggir yfir hinum audga manni otalliga blamenn stora ok hrædiliga. Voru þat myrkra hofdingiar dioflar. Einn þeira var miklu stærri enn adrir, hans raust var hrædilig ok ogurlig asionan, hann hafdi i hondum ser storan iarnkrok ok krækti honum gegnum kuerkr hins audga mannz. Þessi vesla ond, sem nv var at komin eilifum dauda, ottazt miok, matti nv eigi fe eda veralldligr rikdomr hana leysa fra pinu. Daudinn þrongvir miok þessum auma manni, stirdna færnir ok allr likaminn, hann gnistir tonnvm, ennit ok andlitid folnar, enn briostid andvarpar mædiliga. Þessi blamadr dregr at ser hardliga þann krok, er hann hellt aa. hinn siuki madr remiar hrædiliga, ok suo let hann sitt vesla lif. Þeir, sem hia standa, leggia saman hans augu ok uarir ok nasir, ok gera mikit hareysti ok grat reytandi sitt haar, enn þo fa þeir eigi hialpat þeiri veslu sal med þessum hlutum. Sem diakninn ser þetta, fellr hann nærr i ouit ok þegar vitrazt honum drottning meyianna ok fadmar sinn vin suo segiandi: “Minn kærazti, ottazt eigi! þessir veslu andar skulu ecki mega þier meina, ok þeira illzka skal þier eigi mega illt gera, þuiat þier er fyrirbuin eilif dyrd.”30

Even though some of these sources are among the oldest examples known at this time, it cannot be said that the demonic is necessarily closer to the original meaning of the word blámaðr than other factors. Instead, we need to keep all meanings in mind for each case. This is not least important due to the fact that the meaning of blámaðr grows more complicated upon further inspection. What can be inferred from this, however, is that in the earliest extant examples, blámaðr seems to have been a concept borrowed from Continental literature and given an Icelandic name. Comparative research between this use of blámaðr and the Latin aethiops has yet to be undertaken, but this would undoubtedly shed more light on the matter.

Blámenn as Heathens and Berserkir Blámenn frequently appear as heathen hordes ready to fight the heroes of the narrative, sometimes fighting alongside berserkir, and sometimes they are themselves berserkir.31 The term “heathen” is here meant to denote anyone who, from a medieval Christian perspective, does not conform to the Christian faith or its ideals.32 This is most evident in the kings’ sagas (konungasögur) and Icelandic indigenous romances (riddarasögur).

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Fagrskinna and Morkinskinna are thirteenth-century manuscript compilations containing kings’ sagas. Fagrskinna speaks of both blámenn and serkir, which might at first glance be taken to mean an undefined group of heathens, but on closer inspection instead refers to Moors.33 It is also clear that the heathens which Sigurðr Jórsalafari conquers in Morkinskinna are Moors, but they are also called blámenn.34 The meaning of blámaðr is thus very different in these konungasögur than in the hagiographies, even though the hagiographies themselves allow for a wide range of meaning. Heilagra þriggja konunga saga, for example, goes out of its way to mention that blámenn are Moors (“fyrer honvm mvnv morar. en þat erv blamenn at skilia. verda sin hne beyiande. og oviner hans skvlv hann hrædazt”),35 so the ostensibly Christian literature encompasses “Moor”, “Ethiopian,” and “demon” as the meaning of blámaðr. Vitae patrum predicts that wolves shall be born amongst sheep, the lion and the ox will live harmoniously, and that Bluelandic men (blálenzkir menn) will take up a life of the cloth, as Bláland shall inevitably become a domain of Christ,36 which indicates at least that blámenn are in this narrative considered unlikely candidates for conversion. Orkneyinga saga then says that blámenn keep company with the saraceni, “those whom we call Mahomet’s heretics” (“það köllum vér Maúmets villumenn”),37 and it seems that this refers to Moors as well. If not, it at least denotes Muslims (“Saracens”). Blámenn as heathens is by far the single biggest category of meaning, and incidentally it is in this context that their relationship with berserkir is most apparent. Most of the time berserkir are nondescript army fodder brought into the narrative for cutting down by the heroes. Vilmundar saga viðutan says that “berserkir may have arrived for blámenn had been spotted in the army” (“þótti mönnum sem berserkir mundu við landið komnir því að blámenn sást í liði þeirra”). This turns out to be a correct assessment, for when the army shows up “most of them were blámenn and berserkir” (“var víða þakinn völlurinn af hans her og voru flest blámenn og berserkir”).38 In some cases it is even made clear that blámenn are indeed berserkir, for instance in Hektors saga where an army has many blámenn blacker than earth (“iorðu svartari”) who cry like wolves, and their leader is “the berserkr named Baldúlfr, who was the ugliest, mightiest and strongest of them all.”39 In Sturlaugs saga starfsama the same person is interchangeably described as a blámaðr and a berserkr. Blámenn are frequently counted among berserkir, bannsettar þjóðir (condemned nations), and illþýði (evil people), and they are often likened to trǫll and described horribly: “Then two blámenn rode towards him. They were evil-looking, yellow were their teeth and blue their faces and hands and all bare parts of them one could see, except for their eyes: they were white” (“þvi nǫst riða at honvm.ii.

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bla Menn. Þeir voro illiligir, gvlar voro tenr þeirra, en blat andlit ok sva henðr ok þat allt, er bert matti sia a þeim, nema avgv: þav voro hvit”).40 Blámenn thus serve as the designated other in many a narrative, as a standin or a precursor for the condemned peoples (i.e., bannsettar þjóðir) of Revelation who shall fight alongside the Antichrist during the Apocalypse.41 They are conflated with just about any negative quality, with berserkir, and with other negative figures. More examples will be recounted below that belong to a more specific category of meaning, while also pertaining to this one.

Blámenn as Wrestling Champions There is an interesting motif, which has not yet been analyzed in any detail,42 in which blámenn appear as barely human figures whom the protagonist must wrestle with. The motif appears in three Íslendingasögur, two fornaldarsögur, and a wide selection of tales in the folklore collections of Konrad Maurer (1823–1902), Jón Árnason (1819–1888), Sigfús Sigfússon (1855–1935), Ólafur Davíðsson (1862–1903), and others. It is a motif inasmuch as it follows a strict structural pattern: the protagonist incites the anger of a powerful person (a king, earl, etc.) who makes him wrestle with a blámaðr, and the fact that his opponent is a blámaðr is always the greatest shock factor of the story, sometimes introduced as if spoken by a Bond villain: “Now you shall fight with my blámaðr” (“skaltu nú fásk við blámann várn”).43 The blámaðr is said to be the property of this man—“blámaðr hans,” or “hann hefur blámann þann”—and the blámaðr is then brought forward and released like a hound upon the protagonist. Our hero has conveniently received a warning and some equipment for his protection beforehand, consisting of a wrestling suit, a magical shirt, a highly specialized weapon for killing blámenn, or maybe just some good advice, and with this he defeats the blámaðr. An exception in the medieval corpus is Sturlaugs saga starfsama, where our heroes face their enemies and among them is a blámaðr who also is a berserkr, as noted above. The wrestling match, nevertheless, always follows the same routine: the blámaðr is stronger, and our hero must desperately try to figure out a way to come out on top lest he be killed. Eventually he manages to move the blámaðr towards a rock or other protrusion in the field and to break the blámaðr’s back on it, pulling him down upon it to break his chest. In this case, the hero must jump on the blámaðr to give the fatal blow or stoop to killing him with “unheroic stranglings and squeeze him to death” (“fúlmannligum kverkatökum ok kreisti hann til dauðs”),44 as Hörðr in Hjálmþés saga does. In three of the five medieval narratives containing the wrestling motif, the blámaðr

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is also called trǫll, and in the fourth, Sturlaugs saga, he is also called a berserkr. The blámaðr tends to be more like an animal than a man in these narratives. He screams and throws a fit and does not seem to possess any language. As the property of the powerful man, he resembles a colonial slave. Late Icelandic folklore is no different. Maurer, while also noting that similar clashes with blámenn occur in the sagas, splits the narrative into three phases: 1. A farmer falls out with a foreign merchant, who unleashes a blámaðr upon him, whom he must wrestle. The farmer receives good advice and wool to cover himself with so that the blámaðr cannot get a proper grip on him, eventually killing the blámaðr by breaking his back on a rock in the field. 2. The merchant is angered when he finds the farmer alive and unleashes a dog on him. Again, the farmer receives advice and special equipment and kills the dog. 3. The merchant is as angry as ever and threatens to kill the farmer, who receives advice and half a grimoire from the otherworld, which will kill anyone who possesses both halves at once. Having been told that the merchant owns the other half, the farmer throws the grimoire at the merchant’s ship, which immediately sinks, killing everyone on board.45 Many tales of this type have survived thanks to the efforts of the previously named collectors, but Maurer does not indicate if he had heard of other variations of the wrestling motif. It is especially noteworthy that he uses the exact word blámaðr (with Old Norse -r instead of the -ur ending). Most of the stories are centered on a man who humiliates the powerful man (a captain, first mate, merchant etc.) by defeating him in a game of strength or another test of character, and in these cases we are probably dealing with the same tradition; indeed, some of the protagonists are recurring characters in different versions of the narrative. In all these stories the man receives special equipment such as a knife or a sheep’s skin, and with this he either first fights a blámaðr and then a ferocious dog, or vice versa. The fight is usually not described in detail except that the man kills both the blámaðr and the dog with little ado. In one story, the blámaðr is called a jötunn, and great emphasis is put on both his and the dog’s mouths: they scream, they foam at the mouth, their jaws are gaping, and they receive a knife down their throats. In fact, so little distinction is made between the blámaðr and the animal that the narrative borders on conflating the two. We might switch the dog for the blámaðr, or the other way around, without noticing the difference. Sometimes the hero must fight a bear or, in one particularly interesting case, a lion,46 much like Finnbogi rammi who must wrestle a bear, a strange figure named Álfr, and finally a blámaðr.47

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The emphasis on the mouth is sometimes even greater than in the aforementioned narrative. The farmer Páll sterki meets a blámaðr who runs toward him with his mouth wide open. Ingjaldur á Kálfaströnd stands on the pier removing the packaging from a ten pound piece of butter when all of a sudden a blámaðr, “terrifyingly big and ugly,” runs towards him with a gaping mouth, and Ingjaldur responds by throwing the piece of butter at the blámaðr who catches it with his mouth while still attacking. In one folktale that does not include the wrestling motif, the protagonist witnesses a restrained blámaðr in the hold of a ship. The blámaðr is so large, with a mouth in proportion to his overall size, that he has to be fed by three men at once, who literally shovel porridge into his gaping mouth. There are too many folktales to go into any detail here,48 but in general the blámaðr is depicted with racial contempt as a colonial monster that does not possess many human traits. He is kept as a wild animal among dogs, bears, and lions, ready to be unleashed upon some hapless dockworker in an Icelandic fishing village, as outlandish as that sounds. Blámenn are not described in a particularly detailed fashion, but it is likely that in the nineteenth century the term had already begun to exclusively denote dark-skinned Africans, in line with the modern dictionary definition. Thus, in the case of the modern use of the wrestling motif, we find the blámaðr unequivocally equated with a barbarous black monster from Africa, whereas in the medieval narratives that fostered these younger tales the meaning is not so certain, although it does not seem at all unlikely that a similar meaning lies at the core of the wrestling motif.49

Blámenn as Blemmyes Kirjalax saga says that: Solldan kongr hefir oflyianda her allra kynia ok þioda, blamanna ok iotna, ok skringilgar skepnur med hrædiligum ásionum, ok hafa sumir augu a brioste ok bringu ok eru haufud-lauser, sumir eru en haufut-lauser ok hafa mun ok naser á herdar blaudum, sumir hafa eyru svo micil, at þeir mega hylia sig i, sumir hafa hundz hòfut ok geyia sem hundar. Þeir hafa i dromundunum marga fila ok kastala med hernum ok eru þeir til þess ætladir hinir hrædiligu iotnnar ok skessiligu skrimsl ok blamenn at fylgia fram filunum i orostu ok hræda svo menzka menn bædi med hrædiligum rauddum ok grimligum ásionum, ok med þessu vinnr hann sigr aa aullum þiodum.50

Here an assortment of Plinian monsters, which includes the panotii with their long ears with which they can cover their whole bodies and the dog-headed

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cynocephali, is listed, and an interesting connection is made between blámenn and blemmyes, who are a headless people with faces in their chests. They found their way into Icelandic writing through Pliny’s Natural History, Augustine’s City of God, and Isidore’s Etymologies.51 Blemmyes are often said to live in Ethiopia—for example, according to the Hereford map from ca. 130052—and there seems in general to be no distinction made between blemmyes, Ethiopians, and other Africans. In fact, blámenn and blemmyes belong to the same realm; blámaðr is often a translation of aethiops, and blemmyes usually live in Ethiopia. Learned Icelandic writings from the fourteenth century contain descriptions of the lands of the world and the peoples inhabiting them. Primary examples include Hauksbók, Stjórn I, and the encyclopedia of ms. AM 194 8vo, sometimes referred to as Alfræði íslenzk I. AM 194 says that lamnies, that is to say blemmyes, live in Indíaland and are without a head: “þeir hafa munn ok augu aa briosti ok braar. Adrir hafa svira, en augu aa herdarblaudum.”53 A picture of blemmyes, cynocephali, and other monsters is preserved in the Physiologus fragment AM 673a I 4to.54 In Stjórn I the description differs a little bit. In this text the lemnia live in Libya, and it is said that Ethiopia is called Bláland by Icelanders and is thus named after the color and physical appearance of the people living there, “hueria er solin brennir sakir sinnar naueru,”55 though to be fair Stjórn I says the exact same thing about Mauritania: “Mauritania hefir nafn af suòrtum þeirra manna lit sem þar byggia. þiat mauron kalla Girkir þat sem suart er.”56 The distinction between African countries once more seems to be rather vague, as already discussed above, and the greatest offender is Hauksbók, which describes blemmyes in much the same way as the other two works but only states that they live in Africa, while emphasising that panfagi (those who eat everything) live in Bláland.57 The uncertain, yet vaguely African geographical origin of blemmyes is similar to the geographical diversity of blámenn. The phonological similarity of the words is also striking. Phonological imitation of this sort and false etymological explanations are widespread in Icelandic, for example, the imitated pílagrímur (pilgrim) from Latin peregrinus. It is perhaps unlikely that this is the case here, but the fact that the two were conflated to some degree indicates the possibility, however slight. There is one particularly striking instance in Maríu saga where the devil appears before a monk in the guise of a blámaðr, who is later described as the blámaðr as appearing to have hands standing out of his earholes in a similar fashion to the descriptions of blemmyes.58 This does not necessarily mean that blámenn are blemmyes, or that blemmyes are always blámenn, even though both are without a doubt monsters from Africa, but it does perhaps underline the variable meaning of the term blámaðr in the Middle Ages and how differing ideas about monsters residing on the

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peripheries of the known world have been mixed together in the great cauldron of learned writing and other forms of literature in Iceland from the advent of writing into the twentieth century.

Some Concluding Remarks The word blámaðr seems to have had a very wide range of meaning in the Middle Ages, becoming more contracted and precise in later centuries so that in the nineteenth century the word first and foremost came to denote a “black or African man,” as the modern Icelandic dictionary defines it; this is substantiated by at least one independent account written between 1845 and 1852.59 The connection to the beastly and to jǫtnar and trǫll is still there in the youngest narratives, and it is possible to be quite certain that modern dealings between the Icelandic average Jón and blámenn either have their origins in the wrestling motif of medieval notoriety or in independent representations of an older oral tradition. We do not know how old this representation really is, but the oldest known example is Finnboga saga ramma, extant in Möðruvallabók from around 1330, while the oldest source of the word blámaðr itself is around eighty years older, from ca. 1250 in Bartholomeus saga and Tveggja postola saga Símons ok Júdass. When the word came into being is not known, and neither can an “original” meaning be attached to it. The meaning of the word blámaðr in the Middle Ages, as this overview has shown, was quite multifaceted: – Blámenn could be trǫll, strong as trǫll, or trǫllslegir (i.e., like a troll), jǫtnar, berserkir, and great as giants, stupifyingly big, black, muscular as bulls, and strong. – They are often animal-like: they froth at their wide open mouths, and have claws. They make horrible noises; they are summoned and set on people like dogs; and sometimes they are referred to in the neutral gender to indicate their status as less than human: “This does not seem like a man to me. To me it looks more like a troll” (“Ekki sýnist mér það maður. Trölli sýnist mér það líkara”). This carries far greater effect in Old Norse/ Icelandic than it does in English.60 – Blámenn are horrible to look at: they are evil-looking, terrible, ugly, fearsome, big, small, hairless, with yellow teeth, blue on their bodies, and blacker than the earth. They have eyebrows that hang all the way down to their noses, yellow eyes like a cat’s, teeth like cold iron, and they stink just like other demonic figures, such as Glámr from Grettis saga.61

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– “Blue as hell and broad as a bull” (“Blár sem hel ok digr sem naut”) seems to be a fixed phrase used to describe blámenn and other creatures with supernatural affinities, such as the aptrgǫngr Þórólfr bœgifótr and Glámr after the latter has been killed by a trǫll. This indicates a connection between blámenn and evil spirits. The devil appears in the guise of a black, small blámaðr. Myrkrahǫfðingjadjǫflar and blámenni can mean the same thing, and blámenn can be accursed and miserable spirits, demonic and hellish. – Blámenn appear to have some link to black magic (fjǫlkynngi), just like trǫll. Finnbogi rammi notices that the blámaðr he is wrestling with is “[magically] intensified in no small way” (“magnaðr ekki lítt”). The Blálandic king Margari’s mother Obskura can take on the forms of various creatures, as her name might suggest. Atremon, the captain of the army of blámenn and berserkir in Hektors saga, is more akin to trǫll than to humans and is also very fjǫlkunnugr. – Blámenn are heathens, Moors, and working with Mahomet’s heretics; they are exterminated and thrown down into Hell to let the devil have them. They are the opposite of “men of peace” (friðmenn). They often make up a fearless army, which nonetheless retreats when their leader is killed. Blámenn, like trǫll, are with few exceptions put in a negative light in the sources. They are evil and the opponents of true faith. Where they originate can be a minor detail when they are deployed as a standard filler-monster to add to a narrative. In Heimskringla, for instance, they are not from Africa but from Scythia.62 It suffices that they are exotic and different from Nordic people. They belong to the periphery, and they are among the worst enemies of Christianity, regardless of whether they are men or demons. Blámenn share many characteristics with trǫll, and if we compare the term with the many meanings of trǫll it becomes apparent that blámenn can, in most instances, be said to fit the same profile. Following the numbering of semantic categories put forth by Ármann Jakobsson, blámenn are the following. They are sometimes jǫtnar, a relatively poorly defined creature from the otherworld that resides in the wilderness and has a human form but is grim in appearance (1). They are often of great size and possess immense strength (2). They are frequently fjǫlkunnugir like trǫll (3), and they are sometimes evil spirits or demons, who can likewise be trǫll (4). Blámenn can be berserkir, who are often described as trǫll (5), and the use of the word is generally negative, sometimes even used as an insult (6). Blámenn are alien (8), and the word can denote certain characteristics, such as lack of language, frothing, and beastly behavior (9). Animals can be trǫll, making the beastly properties of blámenn particularly interesting (13). Heathen vættir can be trǫll, which also seems relevant in the cases where

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blámenn is used as a term describing heathens (14). Trǫll may mean both the one who conjures up an evil being and the being itself, such as the blámaðr of Finnboga saga (15). And finally, blámenn, like trǫll, demons, warlocks, and heathens, are the greatest enemies of Christianity and the true faith (17).63 In sum, we see that blámenn share at least twelve out of seventeen semantic categories with trǫll. Ármann notes in one of his categories that combatready blámenn can be trǫll (11), which in light of the present study may now be seen as evident. Medieval blámenn are trǫll, and as such they belong to the realm of the demonic, the magical, and the monstrous. They are inhuman, heathen adversaries of Christian protagonists. The modern narratives concerning blámenn are vestiges of this old tradition, set in a new type of society in which general knowledge of the world has become greater. The meaning of the word blámaðr has become narrower with time, coming to denote black men from Africa and finally becoming a derogatory term unfit for use except in etymological analysis and studies of the texts in which it is preserved. Understanding the purpose of blámenn in Old Norse literature is imperative to our understanding of the narratives in which they are described. Their interchangeable, sometimes inherently mixed demonic and less-than-humanstatus is indicative of pre-racial thought in Icelandic literature, and thus still holds importance for modern epistemology and metaphysics of self: how we view ourselves, and why. The social function of dehumanization is serious business, one that has evolved alongside mankind since the dawn of history. Understanding how this process worked in the Middle Ages can tell us a great deal about medieval Iceland and the modern era at the same time. This study has focused on semantics, as that must be the starting point from which future research should emerge. Closer studies of individual cases of blámenn in light of critical theory should follow.

Notes 1 This article is indebted to the good people at the Ordbog over det norrøne prosasprog (ONP), who work under the auspices of Den Arnamagnæanske samling and Nordisk forskningsinstitut at the University of Copenhagen. The word-index by sigla and chronology they have amassed (at onp.ku.dk) is an immense and indispensable tool that has made my research a great deal easier. For reasons of easy cross-reference, all citations to primary sources in this article are to the editions used by the ONP, with comparison in some cases to other editions, except for the cases which are not listed by the ONP. This will make it easier for others to review the great number of cases examined here and to test my interpretation of them. Likewise, I am obliged to Orðabók Háskóla Íslands for the very useful text index (corpus.arnastofnun.is), to Terry Gunnell and his team behind

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Sagnabrunnur (sagnabrunnur.com/grunnur) for their indispensable database of most, if not all, collected Icelandic folktales, and to Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir and her Ævintýragrunnur, which was not yet online at the time of writing this article. 2 Cf. J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit, or There and Back Again (London: HarperCollins, 1996), 32–39. The familiar troll narrative is also prominent in late Icelandic folklore as well as in other northern European countries. Cf. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Um íslenzkar þjóðsögur (Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1940), 150–51; John Lindow, Trolls: An Unnatural History (London: Reaktion Books, 2014), 65–67. 3 Noted by Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Um íslenzkar þjóðsögur, 143–45. More recently by Ármann Jakobsson, “Hvað er tröll? Galdrar, tröllskapur og samfélagsóvinir,” in Galdramenn: Galdrar og samfélag á miðöldum, ed. Torfi H. Tulinius (Reykjavík: Hugvísindastofnun Háskóla Íslands, 2008), 95–119; Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You: Paranormal Activity in the Medieval North (punctum books, 2017). 4 Cf. Tzvetan Todorov, The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre, trans. Richard Howard (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1975); Arngrímur Vídalín, “Some Thoughts on the Supernatural, the Fantastic and the Paranormal in Medieval and Modern Literature,” in Folk Belief and Traditions of the Supernatural, ed. Tommy Kuusela and Giuseppe Maiello (Copenhagen: Beewolf Press, 2015), 7–26. 5 Most recently illustrated by Miriam Mayburd, “The Paranormal,” in The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, ed. Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson (New York: Routledge, 2017), 265–78. See also Ron Mallon, “Constructing and Constraining Representations: Was Race Thinking Invented in the Modern West?,” in The Construction of Human Kinds (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 15–47; Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, Medieval Identity Machines (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2003); Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, Hybridity, Identity, and Monstrosity in Medieval Britain: On Difficult Middles (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 11–42; Cord J. Whitaker, “Race-ing the Dragon: The Middle Ages, Race and Trippin’ into the Future,” postmedieval: a journal of medieval cultural studies 6, no. 1 (2015): 3–11; Robert Bartlett, “Medieval and Modern Concepts of Race and Ethnicity,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 31, no. 1 (2001): 39–56; Thomas Hahn, “The Difference the Middle Ages Makes: Color and Race before the Modern World,” Journal of Medieval and Modern Studies 31, no. 1 (2001): 1–37; Dorothy Hoogland Verkerk, “Black Servant, Black Demon: Color Ideology in the Ashburnham Pentateuch,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 31, no. 1 (2001): 57–77; Sara Ahmed, “Race as Sedimented History,” postmedieval: a journal of medieval cultural studies 6, no. 1 (2015): 94–97; Pete Biller, “Proto-Racial Thought in Medieval Science,” in The Origins of Racism in the West, ed. Miriam Eliav-Feldon, Benjamin Isaac, and Joseph Ziegler (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 157–80; Richard Cole, “Kyn/Fólk/Þjóð/Ætt: Proto-Racial Thinking and Its Application to Jews in Old Norse Literature,” in Fear and Loathing in the North: Jews and Muslims in Medieval Scandinavia and the Baltic Region, ed. Cordelia Heß and Jonathan Adams (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015), 239–66; Sophie Rose Arjana, Muslims in the Western Imagination (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015); David Livingstone Smith, Less than Human: Why We Demean, Enslave, and Exterminate Others (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2012). 6 Cf. Sverrir Jakobsson, Við og veröldin: Heimsmynd Íslendinga 1100– 1400 (Reykjavík: Háskólaútgáfan, 2005). 7 Richard Cleasby and Guðbrandur Vigfússon, An Icelandic-English Dictionary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1874).

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8 Johan Fritzner, Ordbog over det gamle norske sprog (Christiania: Feilberg & Landmark Forlag, 1862–1867). “Menneske, som er sort oversit hele Legeme, især brugt om Negre eller Æthioper.” 9 “Sort person, neger (om personer fra forskellige dele af Afrika).” 10 “Om en djævel.” 11 Cf. Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, ed., Heimskringla, vol. 1, Íslenzk fornrit 26 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1941), 10, n. 1, where he explains that Bláland it mikla means “the land of blámenn in Africa” (“land (lönd) blámanna í Afríku”). Cf. Sverrir Jakobsson, Þorleifur Hauksson, and Tor Ulset, eds., Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar, Bǫglunga saga, Magnúss saga lagabœtis, vol. 2, Íslenzk fornrit, 31–32 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2013), 118, n. 3, where the explanation given is: “blámenn: black men” (“blámenn: blökkumenn”). Richard Cole, “Racial Thinking in Old Norse Literature: The Case of the Blámaðr,” Saga-Book 30 (2015): 26 views blámenn in ethnic terms and thus also gives the meaning “black man”, while acknowledging Battista’s study of blámenn as demonic beings. When giving a public lecture on this subject at the University of Iceland in November 2014, I was inundated with questions presuming this meaning, some of which bordered on racism. Even while explaining the manylayered meaning of the word blámaðr, an Icelandic audience had trouble thinking outside of the pervasive modern meaning they were used to. 12 Sigfús Sigfússon, Íslenskar þjóðsögur og sagnir, 2nd ed., vol. 11 (Reykjavík: Þjóðsaga, 1993), 608. 13 Ásgeir Blöndal Magnússon, ed., Íslensk orðsifjabók (Reykjavík: Orðabók Háskólans, 1989). 14 There are several descriptions of the layout of Bláland or Ethiopia in Old Norse literature. See, e.g., Reidar Astås, ed., Stjórn: Tekst etter håndskriftene, vol. 1, Norrøne Tekster 8 (Oslo: Riksarkivet, 2009), 140– 52; Finnur Jónsson and Eiríkur Jónsson, eds., Hauksbók: Udgiven efter de Arnamagnæanske håndskrifter no. 371, 544 og 675, 4° samt forskellige papirshåndskrifter af det Kongelige nordiske oldskrift-selskab (Copenhagen: Thieles Bogtrykkeri, 1892–1896), 153–56; Kristian Kålund, ed., Alfræði íslenzk: Islandsk encyklopædisk litteratur, Cod. mbr. Am. 194, 8vo, vol. 1 (Copenhagen: S. L. Møllers Bogtrykkeri, 1908), 6–7, 10. 15 The original modern translation of the Bible into Icelandic published in 1908 was based on the first complete translation of the Bible into Icelandic by Guðbrandur Þorláksson, printed in 1584 and colloquially known as Guðbrandsbiflía. Guðbrandur’s Bible included blámaður in the quoted passage and so did the modern translation until the new Icelandic translation was made available in 2007, where the term used is the less objectionable núbíumaður. 16 Kirsten Wolf, “The Color Blue in Old Norse-Icelandic Literature: Sagas and the British Isles,” Preprint Papers of the 13th International Saga Conference, Durham and York 6th–12th August 2006, ed. John McKinnell, David Ashurst, and Donata Kick, 2 vols. (Durham: Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2006), 1071–80. 17 I must therefore disagree with Richard Cole’s assessment that the phrase biki svartari is such a rare occurrence in the literature that it in itself demonstrates intertextuality between Bartholomeus saga and Gylfaginning (Cole, “Racial Thinking in Old Norse Literature,” 31–32). It is, in fact, quite a frequently used idiom. We find it in various redactions of Njáls saga, describing an apparition (“hann var svartr sem bik; honum sýndisk hann svartr sem bik”). A trǫllkona in Ketils saga hængs is said to be “svört, sem bik væri”. A ring in Hálfdanar sögu Brönufóstra is “svartr sem bik.”In Blómstrvalla saga, there is a male finngálpt, according to its description a kind of manticore, with a beard “sítt ok svart sem bik,” akin to a description of a beard in Þiðreks saga af Bern that is also “svart sem bik.” Furthermore, Dínus saga drambláta describes an army of men from under the sun (i.e., Africans) who are “suarter sem byk,” and later they are referred to as “þesser suørtu riddarar.” An intriguing difference may be found in Sigurðar saga

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þǫgla where risar (giants) are said to be “biartir sem bic.” This is likely a misspelling as the idiom is quite frequent in Old Norse literature. As noted by Cole, the same idiom is used to describe “Saracens or Ethiopians in the chansons de geste” (Cole, “Racial Thinking in Old Norse Literature,” 31– 32; cf. Cohen, Medieval Identity Machines, 201), and it may be noted as an aside that it is still widely used in modern English (pitch black) and Icelandic (biksvart). 18 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds., Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr, Íslenzk fornrit 4 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935), 169–70; Ármann Jakobsson, “Íslenskir draugar frá landnámi til lúterstrúar: Inngangur að draugafræðum,” Skírnir 184 (2010): 204–5; Torfi H. Tulinius, “Framliðnir feður: Um forneskju og frásagnarlist í Eyrbyggju, Eglu og Grettlu,” in Heiðin minni: Greinar um fornarbókmenntir, ed. Haraldur Bessason and Baldur Hafstað (Reykjavík: Heimskringla, 1999), 292–97. 19 Marina Mundt, ed., Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar, etter Sth. 8 fol., AM325 VIII 4to og AM 304 4to, Norrøne tekster 2 (Oslo: Norsk historisk kjeldeskrift-institutt i kommisjon hos Forlagsentralen, 1977), 136. 20 I must disagree with Richard Cole’s assessment of the blámaðr insofar as a “survey of Old Norse-Icelandic literature reveals none who is particularly pleasant” (cf. Cole, “Racial Thinking in Old Norse Literature,” 35), pointing out instead that exceptionally few of them are. 21 Gustaf Cederschiöld, ed., Clarus Saga: Clari Fabella (Lund: Karolinska Institutet, 1879), 11. 22 Gustaf Cederschiöld, ed., Fornsögur Suðrlanda: Magus saga jarls, Konraðs saga, Bærings saga, Flovents saga, Bevers saga (Lund: Berlings, 1884), 34–35. 23 Carl Richard Unger, ed., Stjorn: Gammelnorsk bibelhistorie fra verdens skabelse til det babyloniske fangenskab (Christiania: Feilberg & Landmarks Forlag, 1862), 254. 24 Unger, Stjorn, 324–25. 25 “Eigi var fagr yfirlits, sakir þess at hann var allr kolblár á sinn líkama.” (Carl Richard Unger, ed., Karlamagnus saga ok kappa hans: Fortællinger om Keiser Karl Magnus og hans Jævninger i norsk Bearbeidelse fra det trettende Aarhundrede [Christiania: H. J. Jensen, 1860], 54–56) 26 “Það veit guð, Mílon, at þú hefr látit mig gera hann helgan af röngu” (Carl Richard Unger, ed. 54–56). 27 Cf. Simonetta Battista, “Blámaðr, Djǫflar and Other Representations of Evil in Old Norse Translation Literature: Sagas and the British Isles,” Preprint Papers of the 13th International Saga Conference, Durham and York 6th–12th August 2006, in McKinnell, Ashurst, and Kick, The Fantastic in Old Norse/Icelandic Literature, 113–22; Wolf, “The Color Blue in Old NorseIcelandic Literature”; Cole, “Racial Thinking in Old Norse Literature.” 28 Carl Richard Unger, ed., Postola sögur: Legendariske fortællinger om apostlernes liv, deres kamp for kristendommens udbredelse, samt deres martyrdød (Christiania: B. M. Bentzen, 1874), 763. “After that a terrifying blámaðr, blacker than pitch, walked out of the idol, grim-looking and sharp-nosed and long-bearded. And the beard was black and evil-looking, the hair black and long, so that it reached his toes; the eyes were as if fire burned in them and sparks flew out of them as from boiling iron. Out of his mouth and nostrils a fire akin to sulfuric flame roared, and on him were wings and feathers like bramble and thorns. His hands were tied behind his back with iron fetters” (Author’s translation). 29 Unger, Postola sögur, 791. “Then Simon spoke to the sun idol, Júdas to the moon idol: ‘You, wretched spirit, who tricked these people, walk out of this idol and break it and its carriage.’ And as they had spoken this, the people saw two horrible blámenn, blacker than ravens, walk out of the idols, shrieking in terrible voices, and break the idols.”

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30 Carl Richard Unger, ed., Mariu saga: Legender om jomfru Maria og hendes jertegn, vol. 1 (Christiania: Brögger & Christie, 1871), 985–86. “He walks in and sees, in between the men who stand mourning the wealthy man, countless blámenn, big and terrible. They were minions of the devil. One of them was much larger than the others. His voice was horrible and his countenance frightening. He had in his hands a large iron hook, with which he hooked through the throat of the wealthy man. This poor spirit, now at the edge of its eternal death, is filled with dread. Now neither gold nor worldly wealth can free him from his torment. Death now threatens this lowly man. His feet become rigid as does his whole body. He gnashes his teeth. His forehead and face grow paler, whereas his breast sighs wearily. This blámaðr pulls the hook he is holding roughly towards him. The sick man groans horribly, then perishes, ending his miserable existence. Those standing by him close his eyes and his lips and nostrils, and they react with misery and crying, pulling their hair, but even still they can not help this miserable soul by doing so. As the deacon sees this he almost faints, and at this moment a vision of the queen of maidens appears to him, who hugs him dearly saying: ‘My dear, do not be afraid! These wretched spirits will not be able to harm you, and their evil cannot affect you, for eternal glory awaits you’” (Author’s translation). 31 This relationship has been analyzed to some extent in Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir, “Um berserki, berserksgang og amanita muscaria,” Skirnir 175 (2001): 317–53. 32 This in itself can lead to a conflation with the monstrous, as has been explored in Arngrímur Vídalín, “‘Er þat illt, at þú vilt elska tröll þat’: Hið sögulega samhengi jöðrunar í Hrafnistumannasögum,” Gripla 24 (2013): 173–210. 33 Finnur Jónsson, Fagrskinna: Nóregs kononga tal, Samfund til udgivelse af gammel nordisk litteratur 30 (Copenhagen: S. L. Møllers Bogtrykkeri, 1902–1903), 330. 34 Finnur Jónsson, Morkinskinna, Samfund til udgivelse af gammel nordisk litteratur 53 (Copenhagen: S. L. Møllers Bogtrykkeri, 1932), 384. 35 Agnete Loth, ed., “Heilagra þriggja konunga saga,” in Reykjahólabók: Islandske helgenlegender, vol. 1, Editiones Arnamagnæanæ (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1970), 10. 36 “Vargar munu fæðaz með lömbum, óarga dýr og uxi munu báðir samt seðiaz sadum. Ver saam ok þar, segir sæll Jeronimus, blalenzka menn med munkalifnadi ok marga af þeim umfram gangandi aðra munka í siðsamlegri bindindi og krafti hugarins, svo að þeim sýndiz fyllaz su ritning er sva segir: Blaland mun til Kristz koma fyrir hans hendr” (Carl Richard Unger, ed., “Vitae patrum,” in Heilagra manna søgur: Fortællinger og legender om hellige mænd og kvinder, vol. 2 [Christiania: B. M. Bentzen], 393–94). 37 Sigurður Nordal, ed., Orkneyinga saga, Samfund til udgivelse af gammel nordisk litteratur 40 (Copenhagen: S. L. Møllers Bogtrykkeri, 1913– 1916), 249. 38 Agnete Loth, ed., “Vilmundar saga viðutan,” in Late Medieval Icelandic Romances, vol. 4, Editiones Arnamagnæanæ, Series B (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1962–1965), 172–73. 39 Bjarni Vilhjálmsson and Guðni Jónsson, eds., “Sturlaugs saga starfsama,” in Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda, vol. 2 (Reykjavík: Bókaútgáfan Forni), 327. 40 Gustaf Cederschiöld, ed., “Konraðs saga keisarasonar,” in Fornsögur Suðrlanda, 62. 41 This is analyzed in detail in Arngrímur Vídalín, Skuggsjá sjálfsins: Skrímsl, jöðrun og afmennskun í lærdómshefð íslenskra sagnaritara 1100– 1550 (Reykjavík: Hugvísindasvið Háskóla Íslands, 2017). 42 Inger Boberg lists blámenn under motif F527.3 in her motif index, but she does not mention the wrestling motif. It must be said, however, that her work was incomplete at the time of her passing, so that a complete index would likely have included this motif. Some other scholars have noted the recurrence of this type of narrative but not compared them or made attempts at

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analyzing or interpreting them. For example, Jóhannes Halldórsson discusses the motif in his preface to Kjalnesinga saga with respect to Gunnars saga Keldugnúpsfífls: “Að efni er sagan þó um fátt nýstárleg, flest efnisatriði kunn úr öðrum sögum . . . Sagt er frá leikum, rannsókn á bæ, goða, sem vill ráða verðlagi á varningi kaupmanna, drápi bjarndýrs, sem skilur mannamál, flutningi særðs manns í vagni, orrustum við menn og tröll, glímu við blámann. Slíkar frásagnir eru svo algengar, að torvelt er að henda reiður á nánum skyldleika við aðrar sögur” (Jóhannes Halldórsson, ed., Kjalnesinga saga, Íslenzk fornrit 14 [Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1959], lxxi). “In content the saga is not very original, most of its features are known from other sagas . . . It details games, an investigation at a farm, a chieftain who wants to control the pricing of the merchants’ wares, the killing of a bear who understands human language, the transport of a wounded man on a wagon, battles with men and trolls, and a wrestling match with a blámaður. Such narratives are so common that it is difficult to show how they relate to other sagas.” 43 Johanna Arina Huberta Posthumus, ed., Kjalnesinga saga: Academisch proefschrift (Groningen: M. De Waal, 1911), 56. 44 Bjarni Vilhjálmsson and Guðni Jónsson, eds., “Hjálmþés saga ok Ölvis,” in Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda, 3:270. 45 Konrad Maurer, Isländische Volkssagen der Gegenwart: Vorwiegend nach mündlicher überlieferung gesammelt und verdeutscht (J. C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung, 1860), 99–100. 46 Hannes Þorsteinsson et al., eds., Huld: Safn alþýðlegra fræða íslenzkra, vol. 2 (Reykjavík: Sæbjörn Jónsson, 1935–1936), 171–84. 47 Jóhannes Halldórsson, ed., “Finnboga saga ramma,” in Kjalnesinga saga, 274–83. 48 Overall I have found twenty-two folktales in which a blámaðr appears, fourteen of which are centered on the wrestling motif. There are more still to be found. This motif will be dealt with separately in a future publication. 49 This kind of racial thinking lies at the heart of Richard Cole’s study, suitably entitled “Racial Thinking,” the presence of which in Old Norse literature has been neglected but not entirely uncounted for, as Cole illustrates (Cole, “Racial Thinking in Old Norse Literature,” 23–24). 50 Kristian Kålund, ed., Kirialax saga, Samfund til udgivelse af gammel nordisk litteratur 43 (Copenhagen: S. L. Møllers Bogtrykkeri, 1917), 28. “King Soldán has a fearless army of all kinds of peoples: blámenn, jötnar, and strange beasts with horrible features. Some have eyes in their chest and are headless, others are headless with a mouth and nostrils on their shoulder blades, some have such great ears that they may cover themselves in them, others have dogs’ heads and bark like dogs. They have in their ships many elephants with castles for the army, and for this purpose the horrible jötnar and monstrous monsters and blámenn are to follow the elephants into battle and to frighten men with terrible voices and cruel features, and with this he conquers all nations.” 51 Cf. Arngrímur Vídalín, “‘Er þat illt, at þú vilt elska tröll þat’”; Arngrímur Vídalín, “From the Inside Out: Chronicles, Genealogies, Monsters and the Makings of an Icelandic World View,” (Turnhout: Brepols, 2018), 143–174, Arngrímur Vídalín, Skuggsjá sjálfsins, 87–93. 52 Naomi Reed Kline, Maps of Medieval Thought: The Hereford Paradigm (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2001), 143–64. 53 Kålund, Alfræði íslenzk, 34–35. “They have a mouth and eyes on their chest. Others have but a neck and eyes in their shoulder blades.” 54 Cf. Halldór Hermannsson, ed., The Icelandic Physiologus, Facsimile edition with an introduction (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Library, 1938), 26; Arngrímur Vídalín, “On the Inside Out.” Jónas Kristjánsson identified some of these in his Eddas and Sagas: Iceland’s Medieval Literature, trans. Peter Foote (Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2007), 130–31.

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55 “Whom the sun burns due to its proximity.” 56 Unger, Stjorn, 93–96. “Mauritania is named by the black color of the people living there, for Greeks call that mauron which is black.” 57 Finnur Jónsson and Eiríkur Jónsson, Hauksbók, 165–66. 58 Unger, Mariu saga, 809–10. 59 This is the Ritgjørd tilheyrandi spendýrafrædi by Jón Bjarnason. There he speaks of the kinds of man, the fifth category of which “eru kalladir negrar, edur blámenn, sem byggja sudur álfu heimsins. Kolsvartir á lit, hár og hörund, med stutt og dún mjúkt hár. Á hörundid gljáir sem silki. Þeir eru dökkjarp eigdir, flat nefjadir, vara þykkvir og hvít tentir. Konur þeirra eru svo brjóst sídar ad þær géta slett þeim aptur á herdar sér annars hánga þaug ofan fyrir nabla. Sumir negrar géfa af sér ódauns stækju” (Cf. Árni H. Kristjánsson and Sigurður Gylfi Magnússon, Bóndinn, spendýrin og fleiri undir alheimsins: Alfræðiverk fyrir alþýðu sem Jón Bjarnason frá Þórormstungu í Vatnsdal vann á árunum 1845–1852, Sýnisbók íslenskrar alþýðumenningar 17 [Reykjavík: Háskólaútgáfan, 2014], 96–97). The fifth category “is called negroes, or blámenn, who reside in the southern continent of the world. Black as pitch is the color of their hair and skin, and they have short hair that is soft as down. Their skin gleams like silk. They have dark auburn eyes; they are flat-nosed, thick-lipped, and have white teeth. Their women have such long breasts that they can throw them over their shoulders, otherwise they hang down to the navel. Some negroes emit a horrible stench.” 60 Jóhannes Halldórsson, Kjalnesinga saga, 57. 61 Ármann Jakobsson, “Íslenskir draugar frá landnámi til lúterstrúar,” 198. 62 Finnur Jónsson, ed., Heimskringla: Nóregs konunga sǫgur af Snorri Sturluson, Samfund for udgivelse af gammel nordisk litteratur 23 (Copenhagen:S. L. Møllers Bogtrykkeri, 1893–1901), 10. 63 Ármann Jakobsson, “Hvað er tröll? Galdrar, tröllskapur og samfélagsóvinir,” 105–11.

Bibliography Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir. “Um berserki, berserksgang og amanita muscaria.” Skírnir 175 (2001): 317–53. Ahmed, Sara. “Race as Sedimented History.” postmedieval: a journal of medieval cultural studies 6, no. 1 (2015): 94–97. Arjana, Sophie Rose. Muslims in the Western Imagination. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015. Arngrímur Vídalín. “‘Er þat illt, at þú vilt elska tröll þat’: Hið sögulega samhengi jöðrunar í Hrafnistumannasögum.” Gripla 24 (2013): 173–210. Arngrímur Vídalín. “From the Inside Out: Chronicles, Genealogies, Monsters and the Makings of an Icelandic World View,” Supernatural Encounters in Old Norse Literature and Tradition, edited by Daniel Sävborg and Karen Bek-Pedersen, 143–174. Turnhout: Brepols, 2018. Arngrímur Vídalín. Skuggsjá sjálfsins: Skrímsl, jöðrun og afmennskun í lærdómshefð íslenskra sagnaritara 1100–1550. Reykjavík: Hugvísindasvið Háskóla Íslands, 2017. Arngrímur Vídalín.“Some Thoughts on the Supernatural, the Fantastic and the Paranormal in Medieval and Modern Literature.” In Folk Belief and Traditions of the Supernatural, edited by Tommy Kuusela and Giuseppe Maiello, 7–26. Copenhagen: Beewolf Press, 2015.

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Astås, Reidar, ed. Stjórn: Tekst etter håndskriftene. Vol. 1. Norrøne Tekster 8. Oslo: Riksarkivet, 2009. Ármann Jakobsson. “Hvað er tröll? Galdrar, tröllskapur og samfélagsóvinir.” In Galdramenn: Galdrar og samfélag á miðöldum, edited by Torfi H. Tulinius, 95–119. Reykjavík: Hugvísindastofnun Háskóla Íslands, 2008. Ármann Jakobsson. “Íslenskir draugar frá landnámi til lúterstrúar: Inngangur að draugafræðum.” Skírnir 184 (2010): 187–210. Ármann Jakobsson. The Troll Inside You: Paranormal Activity in the Medieval North. punctum books, 2017. Árni H. Kristjánsson and Sigurður Gylfi Magnússon. Bóndinn, spendýrin og fleiri undir alheimsins: Alfræðiverk fyrir alþýðu sem Jón Bjarnason frá Þórormstungu í Vatnsdal vann á árunum 1845–1852. Sýnisbók íslenskrar alþýðumenningar 17. Reykjavík: Háskólaútgáfan, 2014. Ásgeir Blöndal Magnússon, ed. Íslensk orðsifjabók. Reykjavík: Orðabók Háskólans, 1989. Bartlett, Robert. “Medieval and Modern Concepts of Race and Ethnicity.” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 31, no. 1 (2001): 39–56. Battista, Simonetta. “Blámaðr, Djǫflar and Other Representations of Evil in Old Norse Translation Literature: Sagas and the British Isles.” Preprint Papers of the 13th International Saga Conference, Durham and York 6th–12th August 2006. In McKinnell, Ashurst, and Kick, The Fantastic in Old Norse/Icelandic Literature, 113–22. Biller, Pete. “Proto-Racial Thought in Medieval Science.” In The Origins of Racism in the West, edited by Miriam Eliav-Feldon, Benjamin Isaac, and Joseph Ziegler, 157–80. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009. Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, ed. Heimskringla. Vol. 1. Íslenzk fornrit 26. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1941. Bjarni Vilhjálmsson and Guðni Jónsson, eds. Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda. Reykjavík: Bókaútgáfan Forni, 1943–1944. Bjarni Vilhjálmsson and Guðni Jónsson, eds. “Hjálmþés saga ok Ölvis.” In Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda, 3:229–82. Bjarni Vilhjálmsson and Guðni Jónsson, eds. “Sturlaugs saga starfsama.” In Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda, 2:309–55. Cederschiöld, Gustaf, ed. Clarus Saga: Clari Fabella. Lund: Karolinska Institutet, 1879. Cederschiöld, Gustaf, ed. Fornsögur Suðrlanda: Magus saga jarls, Konraðs saga, Bærings saga, Flovents saga, Bevers saga. Lund: Berlings, 1884. Cederschiöld, Gustaf. ed. “Konraðs saga keisarasonar.” In Fornsögur Suðrlanda. Cleasby, Richard, and Gudbrand Vigfusson. An Icelandic-English Dictionary. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1874. Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome. Hybridity, Identity, and Monstrosity in Medieval Britain: On Difficult Middles. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006. Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome. Medieval Identity Machines. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2003. Cole, Richard. “Kyn/Fólk/Þjóð/Ætt: Proto-Racial Thinking and Its Application to Jews in Old Norse Literature.” In Fear and Loathing in the North: Jews and Muslims in Medieval Scandinavia and the Baltic Region, edited by Cordelia Heß and Jonathan Adams, 239–66. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015. Cole, Richard.“Racial Thinking in Old Norse Literature: The Case of the Blámaðr.” Saga-Book 30 (2015): 21–40.

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Einar Ólafur Sveinsson. Um íslenzkar þjóðsögur. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1940. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds. Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr. Íslenzk fornrit 4. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935. Finnur Jónsson. Fagrskinna: Nóregs kononga tal. Samfund til udgivelse af gammel nordisk litteratur 30. Copenhagen: S. L. Møllers Bogtrykkeri, 1902–1903. Finnur Jónsson. ed. Heimskringla: Nóregs konunga sǫgur af Snorri Sturluson. Samfund for udgivelse af gammel nordisk litteratur 23. Copenhagen: S. L. Møllers Bogtrykkeri, 1893–1901. Finnur Jónsson. Morkinskinna. Samfund til udgivelse af gammel nordisk litteratur 53. Copenhagen: S. L. Møllers Bogtrykkeri, 1932. Finnur Jónsson and Eiríkur Jónsson, eds. Hauksbók: Udgiven efter de Arnamagnæanske håndskrifter no. 371, 544 og 675. 4° samt forskellige papirshåndskrifter af det Kongelige nordiske oldskrift-selskab. Copenhagen: Thieles Bogtrykkeri, 1892–1896. Fritzner, Johan. Ordbog over det gamle norske sprog. Christiania: Feilberg & Landmark Forlag, 1862–1867. Hahn, Thomas. “The Difference the Middle Ages Makes: Color and Race before the Modern World.” Journal of Medieval and Modern Studies 31, no. 1 (2001): 1–37. Halldór Hermannsson, ed. The Icelandic Physiologus. Facsimile edition with an introduction. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Library, 1938. Hannes Þorsteinsson, Jón Þorkelsson, Ólafur Davíðsson, Pálmi Pálsson, and Valdimar Ásmundsson, eds. Huld: Safn alþýðlegra fræða íslenzkra. Vol. 2. Reykjavík: Sæbjörn Jónsson, 1935–1936. Jóhannes Halldórsson, ed. “Finnboga saga ramma.” In Kjalnesinga saga, 274–83. Jóhannes Halldórsson, ed. Kjalnesinga saga. Íslenzk fornrit 14. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1959. Jónas Kristjánsson. Eddas and Sagas: Iceland’s Medieval Literature. Translated by Peter Foote. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2007. Kline, Naomi Reed. Maps of Medieval Thought: The Hereford Paradigm. Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2001. Kålund, Kristian, ed. Alfræði íslenzk: Islandsk encyklopædisk litteratur. Cod. mbr. Am. 194, 8vo. Vol. 1. Copenhagen: S. L. Møllers Bogtrykkeri, 1908. Kålund, Kristian, ed. Kirialax saga. Samfund til udgivelse af gammel nordisk litteratur 43. Copenhagen: S. L. Møllers Bogtrykkeri, 1917. Lindow, John. Trolls: An Unnatural History. London: Reaktion Books, 2014. Loth, Agnete, ed. “Heilagra þriggja konunga saga.” In Reykjahólabók: Islandske helgenlegender, vol. 1. Editiones Arnamagnæanæ. Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1970. Loth, Agnete, ed. “Vilmundar saga viðutan.” In Late Medieval Icelandic Romances, vol. 4. Editiones Arnamagnæanæ, Series B. Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1962–1965. Mallon, Ron. “Constructing and Constraining Representations: Was Race Thinking Invented in the Modern West?” In The Construction of Human Kinds, 15–47. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016. Maurer, Konrad. Isländische Volkssagen der Gegenwart: Vorwiegend nach mündlicher überlieferung gesammelt und verdeutscht. Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung, 1860.

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Mayburd, Miriam. “The Paranormal.” In The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, edited by Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson, 265–78. New York: Routledge, 2017. McKinnell, John, David Ashurst, and Donata Kick, eds. The Fantastic in Old Norse/Icelandic Literature: Sagas and the British Isles. Preprint Papers of the 13th International Saga Conference, Durham and York 6th–12th August 2006. 2 vols. Durham: Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2006. Mundt, Marina, ed. Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar, etter Sth. 8 fol., AM325 VIII 4to og AM 304 4to. Norrøne tekster 2. Oslo: Norsk historisk kjeldeskrift-institutt i kommisjon hos Forlagsentralen, 1977. Posthumus, Johanna Arina Huberta, ed. Kjalnesinga saga: Academisch proefschrift. Groningen: M. De Waal, 1911. Sigfús Sigfússon. Íslenskar þjóðsögur og sagnir. 2nd ed. Vol. 11. Reykjavík: Þjóðsaga, 1993. Sigurður Nordal, ed. Orkneyinga saga. Samfund til udgivelse af gammel nordisk litteratur 40. Copenhagen: S. L. Møllers Bogtrykkeri, 1913–1916. Smith, David Livingstone. Less than Human: Why We Demean, Enslave, and Exterminate Others. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2012. Sverrir Jakobsson. Við og veröldin: Heimsmynd Íslendinga 1100–1400. Reykjavík: Háskólaútgáfan, 2005. Sverrir Jakobsson, Þorleifur Hauksson, and Tor Ulset, eds. Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar, Bǫglunga saga, Magnúss saga lagabœtis. Vol. 2. Íslenzk fornrit, 31–32. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2013. Todorov, Tzvetan. The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre. Translated by Richard Howard. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1975. Tolkien, J. R. R. The Hobbit, or There and Back Again. London: HarperCollins, 1996. Torfi H. Tulinius. “Framliðnir feður: Um forneskju og frásagnarlist í Eyrbyggju, Eglu og Grettlu.” In Heiðin minni: Greinar um fornarbókmenntir, edited by Haraldur Bessason and Baldur Hafstað, 283–316. Reykjavík: Heimskringla, 1999. Unger, Carl Richard, ed. Karlamagnus saga ok kappa hans: Fortællinger om Keiser Karl Magnus og hans Jævninger i norsk Bearbeidelse fra det trettende Aarhundrede. Christiania: H. J. Jensen, 1860. Unger, Carl Richard, ed. Mariu saga: Legender om jomfru Maria og hendes jertegn. Vol. 1. Christiania: Brögger & Christie, 1871. Unger, Carl Rikard, ed. Postola sögur: Legendariske fortællinger om apostlernes liv, deres kamp for kristendommens udbredelse, samt deres martyrdød. Christiania: B. M. Bentzen, 1874. Unger, Carl Rikard, ed. Stjorn: Gammelnorsk bibelhistorie fra verdens skabelse til det babyloniske fangenskab. Christiania: Feilberg & Landmarks Forlag, 1862. Unger, Carl Rikard, ed. “Vitae patrum.” In Heilagra manna søgur: Fortællinger og legender om hellige mænd og kvinder, 2:335–488.Christiania: B. M. Bentzen. Verkerk, Dorothy Hoogland. “Black Servant, Black Demon: Color Ideology in the Ashburnham Pentateuch.” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 31, no. 1 (2001): 57–77. Whitaker, Cord J. “Race-ing the Dragon: The Middle Ages, Race and Trippin’ into the Future.” postmedieval: a journal of medieval cultural studies 6, no. 1 (2015): 3–11. Wolf, Kirsten. “The Color Blue in Old Norse-Icelandic Literature: Sagas and the British Isles.” Preprint Papers of the 13th International Saga Conference, Durham and York 6th–12th August 2006. In McKinnell, Ashurst, and Kick, The Fantastic in Old Norse/Icelandic Literature, 1071–80.

Kent Pettit

The New Faith vs. The Undead: Christmas Showdowns Abstract: Grettis saga and Eyrbyggja saga present sinister reanimated corpses that could represent for Icelanders the last vestiges of paganism. Their Christmastime appearances might also indicate opposition to Christ’s nativity. This article examines these “zombie apocalypses” and attempts to answer questions raised by the reappearance of the dead.

Introduction Contests between Christianity and pagan beliefs are common in Icelandic sagas and folk legends. Most of these take place during and shortly after the conversion era, at a time when remnants of pre-Christian culture were still present. Christian doctrines and rituals only gradually came to be embraced, and a presumably long period of accommodating the old religious practices and allowing them to coexist with the new rites and habits was the official religious policy of the time. Conversion at an individual and personal level was generally a slow process. In saga and folkloric literature, monstrous opposition to the faith reared its head most fiercely and frequently during this time of upheaval. In the midst of this transitional period, if recently converted Christians in such literary works lapsed back into paganism, they sometimes left themselves particularly vulnerable to assaults from malevolent creatures because their defense and means of combating anti-Christian monsters were removed or otherwise compromised. In these stories, the failure to properly observe fasts and feast days invites harassment. Pagan monsters take every advantage if they can undermine the Church, the faithful, or the advancement of conversion. These episodes, particularly those featuring reanimated corpses, indicate intentional diabolical attacks that can only be countered through Church action, priestly or otherwise. Such religious intervention includes the use of Christian gestures, traditions, symbols, sacraments, and sacramentals.1 Conversion to Christianity has threatened and angered the pagan and demonic forces that are now on the defensive in Iceland. Responsibility falls on the Church to restore order. The fledging Icelandic priesthood, employing their intercessory rites, are sometimes called upon to combat attacks of the undead and to cleanse the places and spaces of their hauntings. These supernatural encounters end up as spiritual https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-014

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battles between good and evil, the Church and the demonic undead. Grettis saga and Eyrbyggja saga contain some of the best examples of these clashes.

The Showdown with Glámr in Grettis saga The most prominent and the fiercest undead creature in Grettis saga is Glámr, an antisocial shepherd eventually turned murderous revenant monster. Even before his death, the foreboding Glámr is inordinately large, physically powerful, irascible, unlikable, and bizarre in appearance.2 Shortly before his death, he arrives to work for a farmer named Þórhallr. Þórhallr owns a haunted farm in Forsæludale, in northwestern Iceland. Upon arriving on the job, Glámr informs Þórhallr, “‘Ekki hræðumk ek flykur þær,’ sagði Glámr, ‘ok þykki mér at ódaufligra.’”3 However, he promptly reveals his poor manners and unlikable nature when he abruptly and threateningly warns his employer, “‘því at ek em skapstyggr, ef mér líkar eigi vel.’”4 On top of these intimidating and repellent qualities, Glámr is fiercely antiChristian. Having moved to Iceland the year before, he is from Sweden, the last Scandinavian country to convert to Christianity.5 Unconverted, like most of his countrymen at the time, Glámr is especially hostile to the Christian faith that was still new to Iceland in the early eleventh century, the time in which this saga takes place. No one is as negative toward the faith as Glámr. He makes known his disdain for this new religion and its practices, particularly the Christmas Eve fast: “Kirkja var á Þórhallsstoðum; ekki vildi Glámr til hennar koma; hann var ósǫngvinn ok trúlauss, stirfinn ok viðskotaillr; ǫllum var hann hvimleiðr.”6 He is most offensive to Þórhallr’s unnamed, devout wife. On Christmas Eve, he demands his food, but she informs him that it is their duty to not eat on this fast day. Glámr retorts, “‘Marga hindrvitni hafi þér, þá er ek sé til einskis koma; veit ek eigi, at mǫnnum fari nú betr at heldr en þá, er men fóru ekki með slíkt; þótti mér þá betri siðr, er menn váru heiðnir kallaðir, ok vil ek hafa mat minn, en engar refjur.’”7 In response, Þórhallr’s wife warns, “‘Víst veit ek, at þér mun illa farask í dag, ef þú tekr þetta illbrigði til.’”8 At this, “Glámr bað hana taka mat í stað, kvað henni annat skyldu vera verra. Hon þorði eigi annat en at gera, sem hann vildi; ok er hann var mettr, gekk hann út ok var heldr gustillr.”9 Such words and behavior during his life, particularly those insulting to Christianity, perhaps foreshadow his godless hostility in his (un)death. After he is killed that Christmas Eve night by an unknown creature, his body is discovered the next morning, and the search party sees that the corpse’s appearance

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is even more hideous than Glámr’s appearance had been in life. It is dark blue in color and has become so bloated that it has swelled to the size of an ox.10 Glámr’s hostility and fierce abhorrence to Christianity during his life might be connected to his reanimation in death and represent a certain sinister opposition to Christ’s Nativity. In addition, Ármann Jakobsson points to Glámr’s offensive body odor that is present even shortly before his death. This stench could mean that “his demonic nature had revealed itself long before his death.”11 At the very least, Glámr’s sins and general disposition before death might leave him vulnerable to demonic possession after death. More physical evidence quickly surfaces that Glámr’s beliefs and behavior in life are reaping retributive consequences in death. Once his body is found (but before he reanimates), his enormous corpse is mysteriously prevented from being taken down to the church on both the first and second days of Christmas. His seemingly inanimate body somehow refuses to be moved to the church.12 He is, therefore, unable to enter the church in death, just as he refused to in life. Interestingly enough, on the third day and attempt to retrieve his body, a Catholic priest accompanies the villagers, but this time, they cannot find the corpse at all. Possibly sensing an evil presence, and perhaps even somehow foreseeing Glámr’s imminent undead return, the priest refuses to go out with the group on the fourth day. It is only then that the body is immediately found, when the priest is not with the search party. Glámr could also be resisting the priest’s presence. If he has gone from harboring hostility to Christ and the Church in life to becoming some kind of unholy being in death, Glámr might very well consider the priest to be a threat because of who and what he represents. In horror literature and film, monsters, the undead, and evil and ghostly spirits sometimes feel threatened by or otherwise avoid Christianity. Vampires are a classic example of this phenomenon. The Christmas Eve Vigil Mass is only hours from the time that Glámr speaks words insulting the faith, denigrating the liturgy, and threatening the devout Christian wife of Þórhallr, and it is even less time removed from when Glámr is killed. However, he cannot approach the church, where the Blessed Sacrament, which is the actual physical body of Christ in the Catholic tradition, is contained. Neither will his corpse draw near to any place where the Mass celebrating the birth of Christ and mankind’s consequent salvation that Christ’s birth represents is taking place. In essence, this undead corpse boycotts one of the most important feasts of the liturgical year. A more affable shepherd named Þórgautr eventually gets hired as Glámr’s replacement, and the walking dead Glámr promptly kills him on Christmas Eve the next year, once again while everyone else is at Mass.13 At this point, the text announces that “tíðamenn tǫlðusk undan ok sǫgðusk eigi mundu hætta sér út í

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trǫllahendr un nætr.”14 This fear could very likely be connected to avoiding Glámr. Ármann suggests that terminology of dark creatures in the sagas is sometimes ambiguous enough that the word troll is another name for the undead, rather than a name for wild ogres.15 Even more compelling is that the people in the Church virtually expect dark creatures, possibly the undead, to be lurking during the Christmas Eve vigil. These Christians perhaps expect sinister, supernatural opposition to the Nativity of the Lord, the solemn feast day of God becoming corporeally human. The Incarnation is a new concept to the Icelanders in the story, and the doctrines within this new religion, which promise to eventually bring about a seismic shift in worldview and culture, could be a clear indication to evil monsters that a new spiritual and supernatural authority is on the scene. Consequently, the monstrous and undead forces of evil feel threatened. What makes Glámr particularly spine-chilling is his affiliation with the satanic and demonic. Ármann suggests that the undead are often associated with hell, evil, and paganism.16 When Gréttir eventually kills Glámr, he cuts his head off and places it against his buttocks. This particular act perhaps also signifies Glámr’s satanic nature because “the rear end is often considered to be the demonic ‘other face’ of humanoids.”17 In addition, William Sayers points out that Christian theology lumped draugar into the same category as trolls and elves: creatures that were actually demons or demonically inspired.18 There is no Icelandic saga in which that association is truer than in Grettis Saga. The text implies that Glámr’s reanimation has to do with “óhreina anda” (an unclean spirit)19 that now possesses him, which makes his corpse “posthumously active” and subjects him to “demonic influence.”20 This Old Norse phrase is frequently used in ecclesiastical and theological contexts, suggesting that there is indeed a demonic spirit in the Christian sense of the term that reanimates Glámr.21 Kanerva suggests that the unknown creature that kills Glámr is indeed an evil spirit and that Glámr is an example of Satan inhabiting corpses of the dead.22 There has been no further sign of whatever has killed Glámr, perhaps because this malevolent spirit possesses him upon killing him, “a clear case of demonic transmission.”23 Glámr is an uncomfortable undead reminder of the competing forces of ancient paganism and newly arrived Christianity in Iceland. He is an offensive holdover in a society straddling the shadowy border between the past and present, pagan and Christian. More particularly, his impious objections to the faith and to the celebration of Christmas Mass followed by his demonic reanimation and destructiveness demonstrate a very real threat to the Church.

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Eyrbyggja saga Eyrbyggja saga depicts even more undead monsters. Likewise, we learn more about the Conversion and the nature of the early Icelandic Church. Everyone in Iceland is baptized, and the Alþing has adopted Christianity by law, but this saga specifically mentions the scarcity of Christian priests and how difficult it is to find any to celebrate the Mass.24 Bernardine McCreesh discusses how Christianity is a major theme for this saga and that the Conversion is the “central pivot” of the saga, especially relating to the paranormal and the revenants: they are more than a “mere embellishment,” but rather function as a consequence for sin.25

An Infestation of the Walking Dead An omen in the form of a half-moon appears in the wood paneling of the living room wall at Fróðá. The moon keeps circling round the living room, going back and forth, remaining in everyone’s sight every evening for a week, until a man named Þórir Wood-Leg, who is staying there at the time, announces that it is a sign foretelling deaths.26 Shortly afterward, a shepherd there begins to act strangely, muttering to himself and behaving generally disagreeably. After retiring early one evening, he is found dead the next morning. After this, extensive harassment at the hands of the undead begins in the household. One night, when Þórir Wood-Leg goes out to use the privy and is returning to the house, the undead shepherd blocks the doorway. When Þórir walks away, the shepherd attacks him, picking him up and throwing him against the door. Þórir initially only suffers a shock and some bruises, but he quickly becomes ill and dies. At this point, a reanimated Þórir and the undead shepherd who killed him begin to be seen together roaming around, consequently provoking much terror among the living. A total of six people subsequently fall ill and die.27 The undead in this episode include some draugar that are as disruptive as Glámr. These creatures bring about such a plague that, at least in this way, they parallel the zombie apocalypses of contemporary horror fiction. In addition, Vésteinn Ólason believes that these draugar possess certain spiritually demonic qualities resulting from the influence of Christianity on the sagas and that this is as true about the creatures in this episode in Eyrbyggja saga as it is with Glámr in Grettis saga.28 These draugar harass the residents at Fróðá during a distinctly low point in the spiritual maturation of in their relatively new Christian faith. The text is

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very careful to note that these events take place “komit at jólaföstu, en þó var þann tíma eigi fastat á Íslandi.”29 Given the context and the explicit nature of this statement, these words do not seem to be a random aside. Rather, this observation about the people’s liturgical and personal observances seems to fit right alongside the disturbing events unfolding at Fróðá. Perhaps the failure to properly observe the Advent season is indeed reaping spiritual and temporal consequences, namely this crisis of the dead coming back to life and committing actions of murder and mayhem against the living. These attacks and appearances occur especially when proper Christian observances that would otherwise expel them are not observed. Just as with Glámr, the sinister and mysterious manifest once again near the Nativity. The repeated appearances in Eyrbyggja saga of several groups of draugar at Advent and Christmas provide further evidence of this theory. What makes the situation worse is that there seems to be no supernatural force for good that would be around to stop these walking corpse invasions and attacks. Þóroddr and a crew of six men drown on their way back to Fróðá after procuring dried fish at Nesi. The bodies are never found, though the boat and the fish wash ashore. On the first night of the funeral feast, the drowned but reanimated corpses of the men show up and are at first happily welcomed by the household because they are believed to have been “mǫnnum vel fagnat at Ránar.”30 The next sentence is an immediate commentary on this belief in Rán’s reception of and influence on the dead, a holdover from Old Norse paganism: “en þá var enn lítt af numin forneskjan, þó at menn væri skírðir ok kristnir at kalla.”31 A backsliding into paganism is abundantly clear here. Belief in a pagan sea goddess is obviously still present, even though the members of this household should be faithful to their baptism, practicing Christianity, and spurning any association whatsoever with Old Norse deities. Once again, the text clearly states that all of these events happen shortly before Christmas, indicating that the timing is not coincidental and that the lapses in faith and the consequential visitations of the undead are connected to the holy days. In addition, the presence of Þóroddr the draugr and the walking corpses accompanying him does not turn out to be as much a source of joy as the living members of the household had initially assumed it would be. These dripping-wet draugar walk across the house and take over the living room. They have decidedly less affable personalities than they had in life, ignoring the greetings of their own bereaved family members and chasing former loved ones from the living room. The undead arrive and stay every night, sitting next to the fire until it begins to die. These unwelcome visitations continue well after the funeral feast ends, with the dead settling down at the fire every night and wringing the water out of their clothes.32

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Events grow even darker still when the undead Þórir Wood-Leg, accompanied by his own entourage of six walking corpses, enter the house as well. Just as the clothes of Þóroddr and company are soaked with water, the clothes of Þórir’s group are covered with dirt. The living room is now filled to capacity with the living dead! Þóroddr and his men wring the water out of their clothes, while Þórir and his group remove the dirt and sod off theirs, and then they start throwing the mud at the other group of undead. By now, the living have been completely banished from the living room, and so they create their own space and build a fire in a different room. Much to their dismay, both groups of the undead follow them there, too. This harassment continues night after night.33 However, this long and unwanted visitation of the undead during what should have been the Advent fast and the Christmas feast is a direct result of the failure of the people to follow the prescriptions for liturgical observance. Apparently, the disturbing activities of the draugar have become more common, to the point that they run off the farm many more people who fear for their lives. There had been thirty servants, but eighteen have died, and five more have fled. Only seven servants are still on the job at midwinter.34 The situation suggests that no one is staying dead! What is bringing all the dead back to life? There again seems to be a strong connection between the undead and the household’s sins. Likewise, the relentlessness, unfriendliness, and invasiveness of the returning dead add to their overall sinister and harassing personas. In any event, after many days of continuous paranormal encounters with the walking dead and a long, drawn-out infestation of his house, Kjartan goes to seek the advice of his uncle, Snorri, on how to handle the matter. A few years beforehand, Snorri, who had once been known as a pagan priest, had pushed for the adoption of Christianity in Iceland more than anyone else in the Westfjords.35 The author describes Kjartan as the only one whom the undead fear. He is notably the one person in the household who later initiates action and rises up to take back the house from the undead, obtaining a priest, which was sometimes difficult in eleventh- century Iceland, to drive out the draugar. Kjartan is the one person who understands the true spiritual nature of the battle against these sinister beings, at least to an extent. A Christian priest is staying nearby at Helgafell. He had been sent to Snorri by Gizur the White, one of the island’s chief evangelists. Snorri sends this priest with Kjartan back to Fróðá, along with Snorri’s son and, in a possible (and not-sounholy) parallel to the groups of six draugar, a group of six additional men. They formulate a battle plan. Snorri recommends “sækja þá menn all í duradómi, er aptr genguæ bað prest veita þar tíðir, vígja vatn ok skripta mǫnnum.”36 Interestingly, on the way back to Fróðá, they also round up the neighbors to accompany them to confront the draugar. Presumably, everyone in the region

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needs additional catechization and deeper devotion to the faith. The more people who repent and begin to take doctrine, morals, and piety more seriously, the better life and society will be and the more equipped the group will be to take on the threatening menace of the undead. Additionally, the more that Christianity is practiced and the more widespread and frequent the reception of the sacraments is, the greater the numbers of Christians and the greater the presence of the Catholic Church to combat the undead. The group arrives at Fróðá on Candlemas Eve. Candlemas is the Feast of the Presentation of the Lord at the Temple and falls on February 2, indicating that the draugar have been infesting the house for over five weeks. The fact that they are still present on Candlemas, the day celebrating the infant Christ’s dedication to the Jewish tradition, could also further suggest that they rise from the dead and haunt in order to oppose the Incarnate Christ, who as a corporeal infant, is dedicated to God. Meanwhile, the horde of walking dead is still in the living room unable to be driven out because no one until now has had the wherewithal to employ against them the theological knowledge and tools of their faith. By the time the “rescue party” arrives at Fróðá, Þúriðr has fallen ill to the same disease as the others who have died and reanimated. Kjartan then summons Þórir Wood-Leg to trial “at þeir gengi þar um hýbýli ólofat ok firrði menn bæði lífi ok heilsu.”37 The rest of the dead, along with Þórir, are summoned to this trial. The proper procedure for an Icelandic law court is followed here, even for the dead. There is a jury, eyewitness testimony, and cases summed up for deliberation.38 Only the authority of a church- sanctioned court following Icelandic law and the power of a follow-up house blessing are able to expel them: the dispensing, reception, and use of the sacraments and sacramentals to spiritually cleanse the house and all the people. These measures and rites are the only remedy for defeating the undead, and apparently, they are enough to convince those being harassed that the undead will be dealt with effectively. In this episode, such liturgical formulas seem very efficacious toward driving out evil forces and turning the people back toward pious practices. As Þórir Wood-Leg’s sentence is read, he stands up and protests, “Setit er nú, meðan sætt er.”39 His declaration might suggest that as long as there is this backsliding into paganism—that is, the failure to properly carry out liturgical observances at Advent and allowing heathen beliefs to prevail— the undead will remain. It could actually be up to the Christians to rise to the occasion, cast off their old pagan ways, and spiritually take control of their own house. Interestingly, Þórir’s response also reveals that the Icelandic undead tend to retain some level of postmortem intelligence and are not entirely like our modern conception of mindless zombies.

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During another sentencing, one convicted corpse merely concludes, “Fara skal nú ok hygg ek, at þó væri fyrr sæmra.”40 It seems like he knows he has been caught, particularly when he is confronted by a Christian law court and the observance of Christian rites. Next, a dead woman named Þórgrima galdrakinn (Witch-Face) reacts in a similar way as Þórir: “Verit er nú, meðan vært er.”41 The text describes how each one is sentenced, gets up, makes a statement, and leaves. None of them want to go, but they have no choice. Þóroddr is the last, commenting, “Fátt hygg ek hér friða, enda flýjum nú allir.”42 He knows that he is essentially guilty, but only Christianity and the orderly actions of Christian men can “convict” him and remove any comforts he has enjoyed since entering the house. After this orderly court adjourns and all of the undead have been cast out, “bar prestr þá vígt vatn ok helga dóma um ǫll hús. Eptir um daginn syngr prestr tíðir allar ok messu hátíðliga, ok eptir þat tókusk af allar aptrgǫngur at Fróðá ok reimleikar.”43 The effective remedies for dealing with walking corpses are a church-sanctioned court, and after that, the sacraments and sacramentals used to spiritually cleanse and fortify the house and all the people. The priest sprinkles holy water to draw a more effective boundary between the living and the dead, the good and the evil, and the angelic and the demonic. These actions are the weapons needed to defeat the undead in this episode. The sufficiency of these legal and liturgical remedies (hence, the undead never return to Fróða) might be the reason that there is no need for cutting off their heads and placing them near the buttocks. William Sayers minimizes the importance of the Christian rites and sacraments in this scene. He comments, “Christian rites of exorcism are introduced, but in reality have only a complementary effect to the clearing of the house through this native Icelandic legal ploy.”44 While it is true that the priest’s actions are complementary to the court proceedings, Sayers implies that the Christian rites are not all that efficacious but are sort of an afterthought. He does not clearly explain why the Christian rites have “only a complementary effect.”45 The Icelanders must view them as necessary here, or they would act as if the “legal ploy” were enough. The household goes to all this trouble to make sure the liturgical observances and the sacraments are celebrated in lieu of their failure to mark Advent, and we then hear that no undead ever again haunted there. When the rites are neglected, the dead wreak havoc, but when they are upheld, the dead leave and do not return, especially when the house is cleansed. The importance of holy water is particularly apropos in this instance because it is one of the most common weapons utilized throughout the history of the Church for contending against satanic forces. It is used in exorcisms and house blessings, and its

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presence and role in this scene, along with its reputation for repelling the demonic, indicates an acute spiritual warfare unfolding in the house at Fróðá. To change the course of events in Fróðá from evil and dangerous to holy and prosperous, Christ and the Church apparently have an extraordinary and authoritative power over the undead and paranormal in this episode, and these attacks and hauntings might also be one last gasp of paganism in Eyrbyggja saga. The people fall back into the old ways in times of crisis and loss, and the consequences are sinister. The evil dead return during these times of backsliding. They haunt and kill people when Christianity is not actively practiced but leave at once when the Church exercises authority over them.

Christian Remedies to Dark Creatures in Icelandic Folktales Icelandic folk legends also depict dark creatures defeated by the Church, and some of these tales take place at Christmastime. “Troll’s Stone” tells of a troll couple that tries to entice and destroy the priest Eirík and his herdsman. Eirík is too powerful for them, and through his fervent prayers, he is able to protect himself and his herdsman. On Christmas Eve, the troll-wife sends her husband out to retrieve their evening fish. The husband freezes to death on the ice, and the wife goes out to find him. Once she does, she gets the fish and races for home. However, Christmas Day breaks, and the Kirkjubœr church bells ring, and she turns to stone.46 The text states that everyone knows that church bells are fatal to trolls. This incident also seems to highlight another time in which weapons of the Church defeat monstrous creatures, namely Eirík’s prayers and the church bells. “The Night-Troll” features another haunting on Christmas Eve. Every year, the person who stays behind to look after the farm while everyone else goes to Christmas Eve Mass ends up dead or driven insane.47 We learn that a Night Troll (i.e., a creature that roams about during the night but turns to stone in the daylight) is responsible for these killings and disturbances. However, a young maiden who stays at the farm one year for the Christmas Eve Vigil turns back the troll after a series of lullabies and retorts, including a final one spoken by the girl: “Turn to stone.”48 When those attending Mass return to the farmhouse on Christmas morning, they find an enormous stone standing in front of the house, but the young maiden reports that she saw nothing but only heard the voice attempting to seduce her. Everyone concludes that the stone had been the troll.49

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Several folk legends also involve elves and their own hostility to Christianity. In the tale of “Una the Elfwoman,” Una is an elf that becomes a maidservant to a farmer named Geir. She always avoids church, specifically Christmas Eve Mass. Geir realizes that her elfish and pagan nature has kept her from going to church.50 “The Crossways” presents a legend that evil elves come from every direction on Christmas Eve to a certain crossing of roads, from which can be seen four churches, one in each direction. They promise riches and take the likeness of loved ones. If one resists them all night long and then shouts in the morning, “Praise be to God! His daylight filleth the heavens!” the elves will disappear and the promised riches will belong to the one who resists. However, the one who gives in to the elves’ temptation before dawn goes mad.51 The pious resistance to temptation and the vocalized praise to God on Christmas morning defeat the evil elves. Terry Gunnell has examined this Christmas Eve haunting motif. He particularly traces the stories that depict an individual staying behind to watch over the homestead while everyone else goes to Mass and who consequently must contend with hostile supernatural visitors. Gunnell claims that this tradition goes back to a pre-Christian idea that paranormal spirits or creatures break into the natural world once a year at Midwinter.52 He suggests that the reanimated dead are connected to this phenomenon. In fact, draugar are the earliest recorded of these sinister creatures to have come about at Christmastime (in Grettis saga and Eyrbyggja saga), and their accounts are much older than those folk legends featuring elves and trolls.53 The Christmas undead accounts were written down long after the conversion era. If draugar were pre-Christian (and we have no proof that they were), then the Christian saga writers may have appropriated this tradition from pre-Christian times and connected the Christmas visitors to the demonic.54 According to Gunnell, the later creatures (i.e., elves and some trolls) often try to coax the person left behind into performing lessthan-virtuous deeds, but their evil natures can be traced back to those of the dead.55 Legends of hostile corpses were indeed widespread across northern Europe, especially in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, when both Icelandic and English writers unearthed hosts of reanimated corpses, hordes of the undead, united in their hostile opposition to the Church. It might even be possible that the Icelandic accounts of draugar were influenced by these English sources that were obviously Christian in nature. After all, there was considerable contact between Iceland and England at this time, which included some of the burgeoning Icelandic clergy studying in English monasteries under Anglo-Saxon and AngloNorman theologians and scholars.56

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Icelandic clerics could have heard reports of the kind that English clerics such as William of Newburgh received and recorded, borrowed them, and shared them with saga authors when they returned home to their monasteries in Iceland. The English undead would have simply been adapted into the saga tradition, with the Christmas aspects emphasized to have the evil, reanimated corpses provide a nice contrast to the benevolent Incarnation of Christ. Such an explanation is not any more unlikely than the Yuletide draugar being rooted in unattested pre-Christian material. All of the Old Norse/Icelandic literature that we possess was written down by Christian- trained scribes after the Icelandic conversion. Grettis saga and Eyrbyggja saga were committed to parchment after William of Newburgh penned his Historia Rerum Anglicarum and were open to his influence.

Conclusion This chapter has not intended to make the claim that the patterns of antiChristian behavior shown by Glámr and the undead at Fróðá is how all draugar in the entire saga tradition behave. Likewise, the ways by which they are dispensed are not to be taken as a paradigm for the destruction of draugar in all other sagas or tales. My study has not intended to be a formulaic and comprehensive description or to claim that this is how draugar and the Church always operate together. What I am proposing is that these phenomenon at Christmas and the consequent methods of dealing with them are what unfold in Grettis saga and Eyrbyggja saga, namely the victory of the Incarnate Christ and the Christian Church over the demonic undead that haunt during the Christmas and Advent seasons. For my argument, it therefore does not matter if a draugr is not put down by the Church in some other saga or work of literature. Such plot elements or other draugr events do not negate the power of the Church to put down the walking dead in the texts examined in this chapter because a universal claim is not being made here about all revenants in medieval texts. Regarding the specific undead addressed in this chapter, what makes their appearance near the Advent fast, the Nativity, and the Christmas feast days especially significant? Their reanimation at Christmas is not inconsequential, and the Christmas Eve Vigil particularly seems to draw out the murderous undead or otherwise evil monsters, as indicated by both the sagas analyzed and the folktales. Arguably, the undead return to life in opposition to the incarnated Christ, who has been born into the world in corporeal form and who subsequently dies, resurrects, and thereby defeats Satan and his forces. Though

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these sagas do not state this theological theme explicitly, the undead unquestionably appear on this feast day that is, at least following the Conversion, officially devoted to the birth of Christ. The reanimated dead disrupting the celebration of Christ’s birth could originate from a pre-Christian idea about the dead coming forth at the Winter Solstice (though, again, there is no evidence of this). They could also reflect influences from English accounts of the undead, with the saga writers appropriating the revenant creature to demonstrate sinister forces opposing the celebration of the Feast of the Nativity. Whatever the case, these godless monsters appear on the scene during one of the holiest days in the Christian calendar. These creatures that reanimate, in some ways a perverted mirror image of the Resurrection, could be interpreted as an “undead battalion” of Satan’s demonic forces near the time of Icelandic conversion. In a sense, these minions are threatened by the incarnation and birth of the Corporeal God who will be resurrected to destroy Satan. Such attacks likely relate to the Nativity representing the coming of new life, both of God Incarnate and of the new spiritual life that he brings to the faithful. Such divine and eternal life might threaten the evil of an undead or sinister existence roaming the transitory earth. Bizarre paranormal phenomena would not be the last word in the minds of the saga authors. In the horror stories they set forth, the undead disruptors become the defeated, the new faith and new society overcoming the threats of the old, with its spiritual darkness, demonic dead, and impiety. The horror turns into edifying triumph. These stories that deal with the undead provide a picture of a supernatural battle that, in Christian theology, is usually invisible in everyday life. Yet, these pictures of spiritual warfare and supernatural beings are visible, vivid, and tangible. Tales of such visible warfare were perhaps written for thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Icelanders in order to strengthen their faith in the invisible power of God to destroy the equally invisible legions of Satan, thus inspiring daily resistance to evil in their own mundane lives. It was in the usual routines of their daily lives that their religion was lived out on the practical level. They lived in a time and place that was beset by isolation, poverty, and extreme weather. It was there and then and in these conditions that they fought their own battles, battles perhaps not as sensational as those against the demonic walking dead, but battles nonetheless. They had to contend against struggles that were more universal, more common, and perhaps even more dangerous and deadly. These were the same battles that all of humanity must face: illness, death, temptation, discouragement, and vice. Forgetfulness could perhaps be added to this list of weaknesses to be overcome: the tendency to forget one’s own heritage and how one’s ancestors

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had come to faith, along with the hardships and threats they endured to remain faithful to Christ and the Church. Unholy draugar might have reminded the sagas’ audiences of all of these things and inspired them to a deeper faith and hope in God.

Notes 1 Whereas sacraments are the Seven Sacraments as defined by the Catholic Church, the term sacramentals refers to consecrated objects or symbols such as the sign of the cross, holy water, sacred chrism, relics, or blessed rosaries. 2 Guðni Jónsson, ed., Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, Íslenzk fornrit 7 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936), 109. 3 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 110 “‘No spirits frighten me,’ said Glámr, ‘and it seems interesting to me at that.’” All translations are mine, unless otherwise noted. 4 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 110. “I am in an angry mood, if things are not to my liking.” 5 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 109. 6 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 110–11. “A church was at Þórhallstead; Glámr did not attend its masses; he hated chanting and was irreligious, morose, and widely disliked; he was offensive and repugnant to everyone.” 7 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 111. “‘You all keep many superstitions, but I see nothing to come of it; on the contrary, I do not think that men fare any better now than before, when no men went about in such a way; it seemed to me those days were better than the latest days, when men were called heathen, and I want to have my food, but no tricks.’” 8 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 111. “‘I certainly know that today will go badly for you, if you take to this bad practice.’” 9 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 111. “Glámr commanded her to get the food on the spot, saying that another word would be the worse for her. She dared not speak another word but to act according to that which he wanted; and when he was satisfied, he went out and was rather foul.” 10 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 112. 11 Ármann Jakobsson, “Vampires and Watchmen: Categorizing the Mediaeval Icelandic Undead,” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 110, no. 3 (2011): 292. 12 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 112–13. 13 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 114. 14 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 114. “The praying men backed away and said they must not risk themselves out during the night around the hands of trolls.” 15 Ármann Jakobsson, “Vampires and Watchmen,” 283. 16 Ármann Jakobsson, “Vampires and Watchmen,” 286–87. 17 Ármann Jakobsson, “Vampires and Watchmen,” 292. 18 William Sayers, “The Alien and the Alienated as Unquiet Dead in the Sagas of the Icelanders,” in Monster Theory: Reading Culture, ed. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), 257–59. 19 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 122.

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20 Kirsi Kanerva, “From Powerful Agents to Subordinate Objects? The Restless Dead in Thirteenth- and Fourteenth-Cenutry Iceland,” in Death in Medieval Europe: Death Scripted and Death Choreographed, ed. Joëlle Rollo-Koster (London: Routledge, 2017), 46–47. 21 Kanerva, “From Powerful Agents to Subordinate Objects? The Restless Dead in Thirteenthand Fourteenth-Cenutry Iceland,” 48–49. 22 Kanerva, “From Powerful Agents to Subordinate Objects? The Restless Dead in Thirteenthand Fourteenth-Cenutry Iceland,” 51. 23 Ármann Jakobsson, “The Fearless Vampire Killers: A Note about the Icelandic Draugr and Demonic Contamination in Grettis saga,” Folklore 120, no. 3 (2009): 311. 24 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds., Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr, Íslenzk fornrit 4 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935), 136. 25 Bernardine McCreesh, “Structural Patterns in the Eyrbyggja Saga and Other Sagas of the Conversion,” Medieval Scandinavia 11 (1978–1979): 273. 26 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 145– 46. 27 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 147. 28 Vésteinn Ólason, “The Un/Grateful Dead: From Baldr to Bægifötr,” in Old Norse Myths, Literature and Society, ed. Margaret Clunies Ross (Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark, 2003), 167. 29 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 147. “Around the Christmas fast, nevertheless there was not fasting in Iceland at that time.” 30 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 148. “Very welcomed as followers by Rán,” the sea goddess. 31 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 148 “But there was still at that time a little bit of old witchcraft learned, though men were baptized and called Christian.” 32 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 149. 33 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 149. 34 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 150. 35 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 136. 36 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 151. “That the men pursue all of the walking dead at a door judgment and that the priest be directed to offer Mass there, to consecrate water, and to hear the confessions of the attendants.” 37 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 151. “On account of walking there, trespassing around the home, and removing from men both life and health.” 38 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 151– 52. 39 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 152. “I sat there, as long as there was agreement.” 40 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 152. “I should go now, and yet, I think that I might have before.” 41 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 152. “I have been here, as long as it was allowed.” 42 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 152. “I think there is little peace here, and so we will all flee now.” 43 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 152. “Then the priest carried holy water and holy relics around the whole house. On the next day, the priest sang all the prayers and the solemn Mass, and after that, all the walking dead and hauntings stopped at Fróðá.”

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44 Sayers, “The Alien and the Alienated as Unquiet Dead in the Sagas of the Icelanders,” 249. 45 Emphasis mine. 46 Jón Árnason, Icelandic Legends, trans. George E. J. Powell and Eiríkur Magnússon (London: Richard Bentley, 1864), 122–24. 47 Jacqueline Simpson, ed., Icelandic Folktales and Legends (Stroud: The History Press, 2004), 94–95. 48 Simpson, Icelandic Folktales and Legends, 95. 49 Simpson, Icelandic Folktales and Legends, 95. 50 Simpson, Icelandic Folktales and Legends, 80–84. 51 Simpson, Icelandic Folktales and Legends, 99–100. 52 Terry Gunnell, “The Coming of the Christmas Visitors. . .: Folk Legends Concerning the Attack on Icelandic Farmhouses Made by Spirits at Christmas,” Northern Studies: The Journal of the Scottish Society for Northern Studies 38, no. 1 (2004): 51. 53 Gunnell, “The Coming of the Christmas Visitors. . .,” 51–52, 71. 54 Kanerva, “From Powerful Agents to Subordinate Objects? The Restless Dead in Thirteenthand Fourteenth-Cenutry Iceland,” 46–51. 55 Kanerva, “From Powerful Agents to Subordinate Objects? The Restless Dead in Thirteenthand Fourteenth-Cenutry Iceland,” 56–59. 56 Orri Vésteinsson, The Christianization of Iceland: Priests, Power, and Social Change, 1000–1300 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 28, 152.

Bibliography Ármann Jakobsson. “The Fearless Vampire Killers: A Note about the Icelandic Draugr and Demonic Contamination in Grettis saga.” Folklore 120, no. 3 (2009): 307–16. Ármann Jakobsson. “Vampires and Watchmen: Categorizing the Mediaeval Icelandic Undead.” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 110, no. 3 (2011): 281–300. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds. Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr. Íslenzk fornrit 4. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935. Guðni Jónsson, ed. Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar. Íslenzk fornrit 7. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936. Gunnell, Terry. “The Coming of the Christmas Visitors. . . Folk Legends Concerning the Attack on Icelandic Farmhouses Made by Spirits at Christmas.” Northern Studies: The Journal of the Scottish Society for Northern Studies 38, no. 1 (2004): 51–76. Jón Árnason. Icelandic Legends. Translated by George E. J. Powell and Eiríkur Magnússon. London: Richard Bentley, 1864. Kanerva, Kirsi. “From Powerful Agents to Subordinate Objects? The Restless Dead in Thirteenth- and Fourteenth-Cenutry Iceland.” In Death in Medieval Europe: Death Scripted and Death Choreographed, edited by Joëlle Rollo-Koster, 40–70. London: Routledge, 2017. McCreesh, Bernardine. “Structural Patterns in the Eyrbyggja Saga and Other Sagas of the Conversion.” Medieval Scandinavia 11 (1978–1979): 271–80. Orri Vésteinsson. The Christianization of Iceland: Priests, Power, and Social Change, 1000–1300. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000.

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Sayers, William. “The Alien and the Alienated as Unquiet Dead in the Sagas of the Icelanders.” In Monster Theory: Reading Culture, edited by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, 242–63. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Simpson, Jacqueline, ed. Icelandic Folktales and Legends. Stroud: The History Press, 2004. Vésteinn Ólason. “The Un/Grateful Dead: From Baldr to Bægifötr.” In Old Norse Myths, Literature and Society, edited by Margaret Clunies Ross, 153–71. Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark, 2003.

Zuzana Stankovitsová

Following up on Female fylgjur: A Re-Examination of the Concept of Female fylgjur in Old Icelandic Literature Abstract: Through a close reading of the primary sources, the article challenges the conventional idea that female fylgjur represent a distinct taxonomical category of paranormal beings by arguing that the dichotomy between animal and female fylgjur has been established by scholarship rather than being founded in the medieval textual sources.

Fylgjur are among the plethora of paranormal beings that we encounter in Old Icelandic literature. Although they often might not play as prominent a role in the narrative as some others—sometimes they receive as little as a brief mention—they are recurrent throughout the corpus. Definitions in dictionaries and reference works distinguish between two kinds of fylgjur in the sense of a paranormal being: animal fylgjur and female fylgjur.1 In this article, I discuss the concept of female fylgjur as it emerges from the primary sources. Through a close reading, I challenge the established idea that they represent a distinguished taxonomical category and instead argue that the dichotomy of the concept has been established by scholarship rather than being founded in the textual sources on fylgjur. The focus of the article remains on the representation of these figures in literary sources, rather than providing a folkloristic analysis of the beliefs these texts may reflect.

Fylgjur in Previous Scholarship Fylgjur have received comparatively little exclusive attention in scholarship; they have typically been discussed within the context of larger topics. The idea that fylgjur appear either in the form of animals or as women was established already in the nineteenth century, although the two manifestations were not then treated as distinct categories of beings. Scholars such as Konrad Maurer2 and Eugen Mogk3 viewed fylgjur as the personification of a person’s soul, which can take on animal form but is thought of as a feminine being that can be passed on to a relative and function as a protective attendant spirit. This approach reflects the

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attempt to accommodate ideas from various sources and unite them under one definition. The treatment of fylgjur as manifestations of the soul, an alter ego, dominates in the work of Wilhelm Henzen4 and Dag Strömbäck.5 Other scholars, such as Rieger,6 Blum,7 and Hempe8 see fylgjur exclusively as ancestral spirits, autonomous beings connected to a family and exerting a protective function. Fylgjur appearing in animal form are dismissed as incorrectly or falsely associated with the concept. Folke Ström,9 on the other hand, regards the animal fylgja to be the original idea, which later merged with the distinctly female dísir, and thus gave rise to the female fylgjur as inheritable attendant spirits connected to the family. The dichotomy of animal and female fylgjur as two distinct categories of beings was definitively established by Else Mundal’s Fylgjemotiva i norrøn litteratur.10 The book is the most comprehensive and systematic study devoted to the subject of fylgjur in Old Norse literature, and it has therefore gained authoritative status. Similarly to previous scholars, Mundal views animal fylgjur as outer souls constantly accompanying individuals and thus inherently tied to them.11 However, Mundal considers the female fylgjur to be independent attendant spirits connected to the human—or rather the family—in a looser way.12 She concludes that “vi har å gjere med to innbyrdes heilt ulike motiv. . . . Desse to skapningane har . . . ikkje stort meir enn namnet sams.”13

Approaching the Paranormal: Fylgjur in the Source Material What stands out in most of previous scholarship is the number of textual instances presented as evidence—particularly relating to female fylgjur—that feature beings referred to in various other ways—e.g., hamingja, dís, and others.14 This raises some concerns about methodology, as such an approach presupposes a definition already at hand, one which is then used to identify the evidence. In his article “The Taxonomy of the Non-Existent,” Ármann Jakobsson has argued that the paranormal cannot be categorized in the same way as living species, for it originates in the human mind. By their very nature, paranormal beings are confined to the realm of the intangible, which increases the importance of our terminology for them: A living creature may not need a name or a word to ensure its existence but that does not apply to the non-existent creatures, and thus there is no paranormal being independent

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of our vocabulary for it. The paranormal is created in thought and in words and thus the vocabulary used to encapsulate it is of paramount importance.15

The first step in establishing what fylgjur are is to examine the primary sources for the occurrences of the word and to determine how it is used and what sort of beings it refers to. The words fylgja (N. sg.), fylgjur (N. pl.) as well as compounds containing one of these forms as their second part are mentioned in thirty-five passages in twenty-two different medieval Icelandic texts:16 Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa (chap. 25), Breta sögur (chap. 38), Gunnlaugs saga ormstungu (chap. 2), Helgakviða Hjǫrvarðssonar, Hrólfs saga Gautrekssonar (chs. 7 and 12), Hrólfs saga kraka (chap. 2), Ljósvetninga saga (chs. 11, 16, and 20), Njáls saga (chs. 12, 23, 41, and 69), Orkneyinga saga (chap. 6), Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta (chap. 64), Saga Ólafs Tryggvasonar (chs. 3, 5, and 17 in the S-redaction and chap. 8 in the A-redaction17), Sigurðar saga þǫgla (chs. 9 and 35), Sturlunga saga: Íslendinga saga (chap. 70), Sturlunga saga: the Króksfjarðarbók redaction of Þórðar saga kakala (chap. 25), Sverris saga (chap. 118), Sǫgubrot af fornkonungum (chap. 2), Vatnsdœla saga (chs. 30 and 42), Völsunga saga (chap. 4), Þiðranda þáttr ok Þórhalls, Þórðar saga hreðu (two different compounds in chap. 7), Þorskfirðinga saga (chap. 6), Þorsteins saga Víkingssonar (chap. 12), Örvar-Odds saga (chap. 4).

Fylgjur imagined or appearing as animals can be found in twelve cases. A certain degree of variation can be established between the individual instances, but they share several common traits: the animals mostly appear in dreams,18 with a single fylgja being associated with a particular individual. Their appearance foreshadows upcoming events of a predominantly negative nature, such as attacks or death. They are thus employed as literary tools, functioning in the same way as other types of prophecy, often disclosed in dream form.19 However, it is much more difficult to pin down the supposedly female fylgjur. In one case, the beings identified in the text as fylgjur are simply described as men. The scene bears a strong resemblance to dreams featuring animal fylgjur and can thus best be regarded as a variant of this type.20 But most of the other sources remain curiously silent on the outward appearance of the beings referred to as fylgjur. In twenty of the examples, the text only provides information about their effect or alludes to their potential or characteristics. The sources suggest that they are either invisible and immaterial, only perceivable by people with second sight. These fylgjur are all categorized by Mundal as female,21 and her argument is based on their supposed ability to act autonomously as protective family spirits. However, the sources provide little evidence of this claim.

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Fylgjur as Female Protective Spirits? Independent action and a protective function are the key arguments for a separate category of female fylgjur, thus setting them apart from animal fylgjur. Yet, when examining fylgjur whose outward appearance is not specified, one finds that they have little impact within the narrative. Indeed, the only time these paranormal creatures have an effect are in scenes involving a so-called atsókn (lit. “attack”),22 in which the sudden onset of tiredness, yawning, or falling asleep is attributed to the influence of an adversary’s fylgja.23 Whilst such an atsókn is a manifestation of hostile intentions and can be understood as an interference, it never has any decisive influence on the development of the plot. A physical reaction is attributed to the influence of fylgjur, but it would be a stretch to postulate that they provide help or even protection in a conflict situation, thus acting as protective spirits. In fact, there is no reason to look at these fylgjur as inherently different from those appearing as animals in dreams. Their presence heralds someone’s arrival, often with hostile intentions, but the visual of the dream is substituted with the physical sensation of sudden sleepiness, for which it is difficult to find a natural explanation.24 The same pattern, where fylgjur indicate either someone’s approach or a threat more generally, can be discerned in further examples, although in these texts there is no mention of any physical influence of the fylgjur. In all of these cases, the usage of the motif is consistent with many of the dreams containing animal fylgjur.25 In a few examples, a value judgement is passed about the strength of someone’s fylgja. In Þorskfirðinga saga (chap. 6), Steinólfr is warned not to provoke Þórir “þar sem þínar fylgjur mega ei standazt hans fylgjur,”26 and in Vatnsdæla saga (chap. 30) the sons of Ingimundr are said to have “rammar fylgjur.”27 This has been taken to mean that the beings must be thought of as autonomous protective spirits. However, the sagas do not indicate any intervention on the part of the fylgjur; their involvement starts and ends with the remark. This is also the case in Ljósvetninga saga (chap. 20), where the stumbling of a horse is attributed to enemy fylgjur in an attempt to explain the incident.28 As Turville-Petre29 has argued about the latter two examples, the meaning of the word in these passages is abstract rather than concrete. The statements are vague allusions to the paranormal that serve to stress the seriousness of the situation, by extension underlining the power of the men with which it is associated. Þórðr’s statement in Þórðar saga hreðu (chap. 7) that „er ekki mark at mínum ættarfylgjum, ef eigi týna nökkurir frændr Orms fyrir mér lífi, áðr [en] ek lýk nösum“ seems to be similarly abstract in nature.30 Again, there is little indication that the expression ættarfylgjur should be understood as personified family attendant spirits,31 yet the passage is often cited to demonstrate that (female) fylgjur

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could be inherited. It is noteworthy that the compound ættarfylgja only appears in one other text, namely in the H-recension of Jóns saga Hólabyskups ens helga.32 The same passage in the S-recension of the saga instead uses the word kynfylgja,33 for which Cleasby and Vigfússon give the primary meaning “a family characteristic, peculiarity.”34 This interpretation makes perfect sense for Þórðr’s words, expressing both a resolution to fight and a confidence in his skills, which can be understood as a family trait.35 Whilst underlying ideas about paranormal beings connected to individuals may have influenced the word choice in these last examples, the fylgjur they mention remain elusive and abstract. As such, it is impossible to draw any conclusions as to how they might have been imagined as personified beings, let alone to ascertain if they were thought of as anthropomorphic female beings, as has often been postulated. There are, in fact, only two passages featuring female beings referred to as fylgjur:36 Þiðranda þáttr ok Þórhalls and Helgakviða Hjǫrvarðssonar. However, as I demonstrate below, both are far from straightforward and unproblematic.

Þiðranda þáttr ok Þórhalls Þiðranda þáttr ok Þórhalls forms part of Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta in Flateyjarbók and is set in the context of Iceland’s conversion to Christianity.37 The narrative takes place during the autumn feast at the farm of Síðu-Hallr. Þiðrandi, not heeding warnings to stay indoors, answers knocking on the door. Stepping outside he “sá, at þar váru konur níu, ok váru allar í svörtum klæðum ok höfðu brugðin sverð í höndum. Hann heyrði ok, at riðit var sunnan á völlinn. Þar váru ok níu konur, allar í ljósum klæðum ok á hvítum hestum.”38 The blackclad women reach him first, and Þiðrandi is killed in battle with them. The following morning, when his body is found, Þórhallr—who has foretold that a prophet would be killed during the feast—explains that: Geta má ek til, at þetta hafi engar konur verit aðrar en fylgjur yðrar frænda. Get ek, at hér komi siðaskipti, ok mun þessu næst koma siðr betri hingat til lands. Ætla ek þær dísir yðrar, er fylgt hafa þessum átrúnaði, nú hafa vitat fyrir siðaskipti ok þat, at þær munu verða afhendar þeim frændum. Nú munu þær eigi una því at hafa engan skatt af yðr, áðr þær skiljast við, ok munu þær hafa þetta í sinn hlut, en hinar betri dísir mundu vilja hjálpa honum ok kómust eigi við að svá búnu.39

The text provides a comparatively detailed description of these figures: they are female, clad in robes, riding on horses, and armed with swords, thus displaying valkyric characteristics. Þiðrandi sees them whilst he is awake, and contrary to other fylgjur they seem to be tangible: the hooves of their horses are audible as

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they hit the ground, and by pointing out that Þiðrandi “varðist vel ok drengilega”40 the text suggests that they engaged and killed him in a physical battle. These female beings are connected to Síðu-Hallr’s family, but they clearly act autonomously, following their own agenda. They can be protective, but they can also turn against members of the family. In all of these points they correspond to Mundal’s understanding of female fylgjur. However, it is striking that the vocabulary employed to describe these figures is not consistent throughout the text; the beings are referred to as fylgjur and dísir as well as simply as konur. Their main features—their warrior-like appearance, taking tributes from their wards, abandoning and killing them—are all at odds with the image of fylgjur emerging from the majority of the sources, but they are reminiscent of other female paranormal beings, particularly dísir.41 In this context, it is also noteworthy that the incident from Þiðranda þáttr is referenced in Njáls saga (chap. 96) and clearly attributed to dísir.42 According to Strömbäck, the inconsistency in the employed vocabulary might indicate that—at least for the composer of the text—the words were largely synonymous and thus interchangeable.43 This, in turn, suggests that the signifiers would not have been perceived as strict terms with precise definitions, let alone as taxonomical categories.44 Þiðranda þáttr is atypical in its portrayal of dísir as connected to different belief systems,45 which may have called for a renegotiation of the vocabulary. The signifier fylgja is employed in its semantically wide sense as “paranormal follower,” an aspect inherent in the lexical meaning of the noun. Paired with the feminine grammatical gender, the connection to female beings lies close to hand. As such, it seems to be reflecting the function of these beings—as the attendant spirits following the family as well as a specific religion—rather than a taxonomical category.

“Helgakviða Hjǫrvarðssonar” The second example is even more obscure. The poem “Helgakviða Hjǫrvarðssonar,” preserved only in the Codex Regius manuscript of the Poetic Edda, narrates the story of its eponymic hero in prosimetric form. Shortly before Helgi’s final battle, a prose passage informs us that Helgi suspects his impending death “ok þat at fylgjur hans hǫfðu vitjat Heðins, þá er hann sá konuna ríða varginum.”46 This statement is followed by stanza 3647 of the poem, which reads: Reið á vargi, er rekkvit var, fljóð eitt er hann fylgju beiddi;

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hon vissi þat at veginn myndi Sigrlinnar sonr á Sigarsvǫllum.48

The woman referred to in this stanza has been introduced previously in another prose part, which recounts her meeting with Helgi’s brother Heðinn. Returning home through a forest one Yuletide evening, he “fann trǫllkonu; sú reið vargi ok hafði orma at taumum ok bauð fylgð sína Heðni.”49 There are several incongruences between the prose passages and the verse. Most notable is the discrepancy in number: the fylgjur in the prose appear in the plural, although there is only one woman. Scholars have attempted to explain this disagreement in various ways, although none of them provide a straightforward reading.50 Similarly to Þiðranda þáttr, the text alternates between fylgjur and trǫllkona in the prose, and fljóð51 in the verse. The matter is further complicated by differences in the narrative itself. Although the prose is unambiguous about Heðinn meeting a trǫllkona on a wolf who offers to follow him, the verse is more enigmatic. Firstly, as Klaus von See et al. have pointed out, it is inconclusive as to whom the woman on the wolf has met: no names are mentioned, and the masculine pronoun hann may as well refer to Helgi rather than Heðinn.52 Furthermore, the verb beiða “to request something from someone” in the phrase fylgju beiddi suggests that the woman asked him to follow her, rather than her offering to follow him,53 which challenges the idea of her being Helgi’s attendant spirit. Several scholars have argued that the prose commentaries interwoven into the poem are younger than the stanzas, perhaps even composed by the redactor of the Codex Regius.54 If one only reads the verse, a lot of information from the narrative is certainly missing, but in regards to Helgi’s suspicions about his upcoming death, the text makes perfect sense: as Heðinn expresses his regret over having asked for Helgi’s bride (st. 33), Helgi absolves him of his guilt by declaring that he was challenged to a duel and does not expect to return (st. 34). Stanza 36 then provides the explanation: Helgi knows this due to his encounter with the woman on the wolf, who asked him to follow her. The prose commentary connects the stanzas and fills in the gaps in the narrative. As such, it is possible that, to a degree, the prose reflects the commentator’s own interpretation of the verses. The image of a woman riding on a wolf, sometimes with snakes as reins, is known from other sources,55 which suggests that the motif was a common one. It is mostly associated with giantesses, with the signifier trǫllkona appearing in Heimskringla.56

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Her connections to fylgjur is, however, obscure. The image is unparalleled in other sources mentioning them, and her request directed at the male hann in stanza 36 to follow her contradicts the idea of an attendant spirit. By contrasting the scene with Þiðranda þáttr, it is questionable to what degree this woman would have been perceived as a protective spirit. Ármann Jakobsson argues that a “troll is always negative and it is always alien.”57 The word trǫllkona would thus carry an inherently negative meaning. See et al. argue that all instances of women riding wolves are in some way related to death.58 If we understand stanza 36 as narrating her encounter with Helgi, this would explain his suspicion about his impending death and even suggest an interpretation of the line er hann fylgju beiddi—as an invitation to the afterlife. However, the prose identifies Heðinn as the one who encountered the woman,59 thereby obscuring the reason for Helgi’s doubts about surviving the duel, voiced by him in stanza 34. The reference to fylgjur—again in an abstract form—may have been inserted to compensate for this loss by using a literary trope drawing on underlying ideas about a connection between fylgjur and impending death, manifested in some of the source material.

Other Paranormal Female Beings as fylgjur? As mentioned above, a range of female paranormal beings has been identified by scholars as female fylgjur, although other signifiers are employed in the primary sources to refer to them. Some instances are more commonly associated with the concept and treated as exemplary, and these shall therefore be discussed shortly. Chapter 11 of Hallfreðar saga relates the last moments of the eponymous saga hero. As Hallfreðr is lying on his deathbed aboard his ship, a woman appears, walking on the water behind the ship. The passage reads: Hon var mikil ok í brynju; hon gekk á bylgjum sem á landi. Hallfreðr leit til ok sá, at þar var fylgjukona hans. Hallfreðr mælti: “Í sundr segi ek ǫllu við þik.” Hon mælti: “Villtu, Þor60 valdr, taka við mér?” Hann kvazk eigi vilja. Þá mælti Hallfreðr ungi: “Ek vil taka við þér.”

The text suggests that we are dealing with Hallfreðr’s paranormal attendant. She appears just before his death, and as he renounces her, she offers to follow other members of the family: first Hallfreðr’s brother and then his son, who ultimately accepts her. She is personified, anthropomorphic, visible not only to the person she attends but also to others, and she demonstrates independent action by offering to follow other members of the family. Like in Þiðranda þáttr, the fylgja in this episode displays valkyric traits as she is clad in armor.

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A parallel is often drawn between this episode from Hallfreðar saga and a scene in Víga-Glúms saga, in which Glúmr dreams that a woman so huge that her shoulders touch the mountains is walking toward his farm. He concludes from the dream that his maternal grandfather in Norway must have passed away, and the woman—referred to as his grandfather’s hamingja—has come to attend him.61 Although this time the spirit appears in a dream, the parallels to Hallfreðar saga are numerous.62 The woman is described as big and wearing a helmet, which again suggests warrior-like equipment. She had been attached to Glúmr’s ancestor, upon whose death she seeks out his descendant and is then passed on to him as a symbolic inheritance. The text of the saga notes that Glúmr invites her into the farmhouse, which suggests that she needs to be actively accepted by him. Both of these paranormal figures fulfill Mundal’s definition of a female fylgja as an autonomous being that can be inherited and that is thus connected to the family rather than to an individual. However, these defining characteristics also set both figures apart from the fylgjur that emerge from the sources as invisible, not personified beings showing little independent action. In this context, it is noteworthy that the figure in Hallfreðar saga is referred to as a fylgjukona, which has in much of previous scholarship been taken as synonymous with the signifier fylgja, or indeed as an exemplification of its female subcategory. However, the noun fylgjukona primarily appears with the meaning of fylgikona (concubine), with Hallfreðar saga being the only example where the signified is a paranormal female being.63 Furthermore, as it is a determinative compound, the head is the second member, i.e., kona (woman), which is defined by the first member fylgju- (following), and her femininity is thus put in focus. Therefore, I suggest viewing the word as an explicit expression of the woman’s function as a paranormal follower or attendant, similar to the usage of the signifier fylgja in Þiðranda þáttr in addition to dís and kona. The distinction between fylgjur and female attendant spirits appears clear in Vatnsdœla saga. As mentioned above, the sons of Ingimundr are said to have “rammar fylgjur,” which are not specified in further detail. However, the saga also mentions a “kona sú, er fylgt hafði þeim frændum.”64 She appears to Þorsteinn in his dreams three nights in a row and dissuades him from attending a feast, saving him from a landslide that buries the farm where it is held. There is a clear discrepancy between the fylgjur in plural—suggesting that the brothers together have several, perhaps each one of their own, and the singular woman, who appears to be common to all of them. The woman indisputably functions as a protective spirit. She appears to Þorsteinn multiple times until he decides to not attend the feast; his survival is thus a direct consequence of her independent actions. Whilst the verb fylgja is used to express her connection to the brothers, it is not indicative of a link between her and the fylgjur alluded to in chapter 30. Instead, there seem to be

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two different and clearly separated concepts at play, fylgjur as well as a protective female being attending the family.

Conclusion In this article, I have argued that Old Icelandic literary sources offer very little in favor of the idea that female fylgjur were perceived of as a distinct category of paranormal beings. Departing from the notion that the vocabulary employed to describe these figures is essential to our understanding of the paranormal, and after surveying the corpus for the word fylgja and its derivations, it becomes apparent that the beings referred to as such are predominantly not provided with a description of their outward appearance, or they are described as animals. The textual instances featuring fylgjur far from provide a clear picture of these beings, where each instance would neatly fit into a precise definition. The concept seems fluid and adaptable, although fundamentally relying on the idea of a paranormal entity tied to an individual, often perceived as a person’s forerunner. The semantic field of a fylgja—by virtue of its close relation to the verb— could be widened to a more general ‘paranormal attendant’ and applied to other paranormal beings attached to humans. Likewise, it could be reduced to an abstract concept, personifying certain qualities of a person to whom it is linked. Mundal’s definition is indeed abundantly attested to by the paranormal female figures in the sources. They appear as independent beings with an agency, are loosely associated with an individual or family, can be inherited, and exert a protective function. They can interact with humans verbally and physically, and thus they appear to be much more concrete and tangible than the beings referred to as fylgjur, with which they have little in common. This makes the association more than questionable. An analysis of the primary sources has shown that there is no reason to believe that a category of “female fylgjur” existed in the Middle Ages. Instead, the concept seems to have been created by scholarship by magnifying singular examples, rather than having its roots in medieval thought. These paranormal female figures have, as Else Mundal put it, “i mangel av noko betre”65 received the label fylgja, which has since become pervasive. Whilst a terminology is important for our analysis and understanding of the source material, our own categories should not be superimposed over the medieval material, as they retrospectively shape our perceptions of it. Therefore, it is essentially counterproductive to apply the word fylgja to female attendant spirits, even for the lack of anything better.

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Notes 1 Folke Ström, “Fylgjur,” in Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder fra vikingetid til reformationstid, ed. Jakob Benediktsson and Magnús Már Lárusson, vol. 5 (Reykjavík: Bókaverzlun Ísafoldar, 1960), 38–39; Else Mundal, “Supernatural Beings 4: Fylgja,” in Medieval Scandinavia: An Encyclopedia, ed. Phillip Pulsiano and Kirsten Wolf (New York: Garland, 1993), 624– 25; Rudolf Simek, Religion und Mythologie der Germanen (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2003), 202–3. 2 Konrad Maurer, Die Bekehrung des Norwegischen Stammes zum Christenthume: in ihrem geschichtlichen Verlaufe quellenmäßig geschildert, 2 vols. (Munich: Christian Kaiser, 1855–1856), 267–71. 3 Eugen Mogk, “Mythologie,” in Grundriss der Germanischen Philologie, ed. Hermann Paul, vol. 1 (Strasbourg: Karl J. Trübner, 1891), 982–1138. 4 Wilhelm Henzen, Über die Träume in der Altnordischen Sagalitteratur (Leipzig: Verlag von Gustav Fock, 1890). 5 Dag Strömbäck, Sejd: Textstudier i nordisk religionshistoria (Stockholm: Hugo Gebers Förlag, 1935); Dag Strömbäck, “The Concept of the Soul in Nordic Tradition,” in Sejd och andra studier i nordisk själsuppfattning (Hedemora: Gidlunds Förlag, 2000), 220–72. 6 Max Rieger, “Über den nordischen Fylgienglauben,” in Zeitschrift für deutsches Altertum und deutsche Litteratur, ed. Edward Schroeder and Gustav Roethe (Berlin: Weidmannsche Buchhandlung, 1898), 277–90. 7 Ida Blum, Die Schutzgeister in der altnordischen Litteratur (Zabern: Buchdruckerei A. Fuchs, 1912). 8 Heinrich Hempel, “Matronenkult und Germanischer Mütterglaube” in Kleine Schriften: zur Vollendung seines 80. Lebensjahres am 27. August 1965, ed. Heinrich Matthias Heinrichs. (Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 1966), 13–34. 9 Folke Ström, Diser, nornor, valkyrjor: Fruktbarhetskult och sakralt kungadome i Norden (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1954); Folke Ström, Nordisk hedendom: Tro och sed i förkristen tid (Götenborg: Gumpert, 1961). 10 Else Mundal, Fylgjemotiva i norrøn litteratur (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1974). 11 Mundal, Fylgjemotiva i norrøn litteratur, 43. 12 Mundal, Fylgjemotiva i norrøn litteratur, 96. 13 Mundal, Fylgjemotiva i norrøn litteratur, 11; “We are dealing with two completely different motifs. . . . These two creatures do not have. . .much more than their name in common” (unless otherwise stated, all translations in the article by the author). 14 Cf. the registry of female fylgjur in Mundal, Fylgjemotiva i norrøn litteratur, 63–65. 15 Ármann Jakobsson, “The Taxonomy of the Non-Existent: Some Medieval Icelandic Concepts of the Paranormal,” Fabula 54, nos. 3–4 (2013): 207. 16 The data are the result of my own examination of the literary corpus supported by the registries in Mundal, Fylgjemotiva i norrøn litteratur, 26–27, 63–65 as well as results from the Ordbog over det norrøne prosasprog at http://onp.ku.dk/ (accessed September 9 2014). 17 Additionally, chap. 13 in the A-redaction preserves a text almost identical to chap. 17 in the S-redaction, and it has therefore not been counted as a separate instance. 18 The only exception is the scene in Njáls saga, chap. 41, where the fylgja appears as a vision whilst the person is awake.

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19 On dreams see, for example, Georgia Dunham Kelchner, Dreams in Old Norse Literature and their Affinities in Folklore (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1935); Paul Schach, “Symbolic Dreams of Future Renown in Old Icelandic Literature,” Mosaic 4, no. 4 (1971): 51–73; Gabriel Turville-Petre, “Dreams in Icelandic Tradition,” in Nine Norse Studies (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1972), 30–51. For a discussion of animal fylgjur see Mundal, Fylgjemotiva i norrøn litteratur, 26–62, as well as more recent studies by William Friesen, “Family Resemblances: Textual Sources of Animal Fylgjur in Icelandic Saga,” Scandinavian Studies 87, no. 2 (2015): 255–80 and Timothy Bourns, “Between Nature and Culture: Animals and Humans in Old Norse Literature” (DPhil thesis, University of Oxford, 2017). 20 In Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa, chap. 25, Björn dreams about being attacked by six men, who—as the dream is interpreted—are referred to as manna fylgjur. Similarly to many other dreams featuring fylgjur, the dream serves to foreshadow an upcoming attack on the dreamer. 21 Cf. the registry in Mundal, Fylgjemotiva i norrøn litteratur, 63–65. (Sigurður Nordal and Guðni Jónsson, eds., “Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa,“ in Borgfirðinga sǫgur, íslenzk fornrit 3 [Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1938], 177–8). 22 The atsókn has been extensively discussed in terms of belief in the soul, see Strömbäck, Sejd: Textstudier i nordisk religionshistoria, 152–56; Strömbäck, “The Concept of the Soul in Nordic Tradition,” 220–24; Eldar Heide, “Spirits through Respiratory Passages” in The Fantastic in Old Norse/Icelandic Literature. Sagas and the British Isles: Preprint Papers of The 13th International Saga Conference Durham and York 6th–12th August 2006, ed. John McKinnell, David Ashurst, and Donata Kick, 2 vols. (Durham: Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2006), 350–58. 23 This is the case in Njáls saga, chap. 12, when at Ósvífr’s approach “tók Svanr til orða ok geispaði mjǫk: ‘Nú sœkja at fylgjur Ósvífrs’ ” (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, Íslenzk fornrit 12 [Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1954], 37). Similarly, in Þórðar saga hreðu, chap. 7, before a confrontation Þórðr “kvað sér svefnhöfugt og kvað sækja at sér ófriðarfylgjur.” (Jóhannes Halldórsson, ed., “Þórðar saga hreðu,” in Kjalnesinga saga, 2nd ed., Íslenzk fornrit 14 [Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2007], 195). The same effect is potentially described in the Króksfjarðarbók redaction of Þórðar saga kakala, which tells of a man being warned that “þar fara óvina fylgjur,” upon which he “kvað sik syfja mjök. Ok er hann vildi upp standa, fell hann af út sofinn” (Jón Jóhannesson, Magnús Finnbogason, and Kristján Eldjárn, eds., Sturlunga saga, 2 vols. [Reykjavík: Sturlungurútgáfan, 1946], vol. 2, p. 287). A similar effect is described in chap. 17 of the S-redaction of Oddr Snorrason’s Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar, in which a Finn knows of King Ólafr’s approach and relates that “miǫk þungt hefir mér verit í dag síðan þú komt við land, ok eigi fara litlar fylgjur fyrir þér, ok optast hefi ek sofit” (Ólafur Halldórsson, ed., “Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar eptir munk Odd,” in Færeyinga saga, Ólafs saga Odds. Íslenzk fornrit 25 [Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2006], 188). Additionally, passages in several other sagas involving sudden tiredness in unusual circumstances could be connected to this, although they do not explicitly state the cause of the sudden tiredness. 24 Lasse C. A. Sonne, “Leksikografiske studier I: Substantivet fylgja,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 124 (2009): 5–30 has recently argued for several instances of fylgjur to be understood as fleshand-blood supporters rather than paranormal beings. However, his argumentation falls short on several points, such as not explaining the sudden tiredness in scenes with an atsókn. 25 The affinity to the animal fylgjur has also been noted by Mundal, Fylgjemotiva i norrøn litteratur, 73. 26 “because your fylgjur will not be able to withstand his fylgjur” Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, eds., “Þorskfirðinga saga,” in Harðar saga, Íslenzk fornrit 13 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1991), 191.

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27 “strong fylgjur” Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Vatnsdæla saga, Íslenzk fornrit 8 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1939), 83. 28 Björn Sigfússon, ed., Ljósvetninga saga, Íslenzk fornrit 10 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1940), 101. 29 Gabriel Turville-Petre, “Liggja fylgjur þínar til Íslands,” in Saga-Book of the Viking Society, vol. 12 (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1945), 119–26. 30 Jóhannes Halldórsson, “Þórðar saga hreðu,” 194. 31 Katrina C. Atwood chose to translate the expression as “my family’s luck,” thus also opting for an abstract meaning (Katrina C. Atwood, “The Saga of Thord the Menace” in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, including 49 tales, vol. 3, ed. Viðar Hreinsson et al., 5 vols. [Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing, 1997], 362–96). 32 Peter Foote, ed., Jóns saga Hólabyskups ens helga, Editiones Arnamagnæanæ, Series A 14 (Copenhagen: Den Arnamagnæanske Kommission, 2003), 153. 33 Foote, Jóns saga Hólabyskups ens helga, 48. 34 Richard Cleasby and Gudbrand Vigfusson, An Icelandic-English Dictionary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1874), 366. 35 Cf. Turville-Petre’s arguments about the kynfylgja in Völsunga saga (chap. 4), in TurvillePetre, “Liggja fylgjur þínar til Íslands,” 125–26, which may also be applied to Sigurðar saga þǫgla, chap. 9. 36 The fact that few beings referred to as fylgjur are explicitly described as female has previously been pointed out by Clive Tolley, Shamanism in Norse Myth and Magic, 2 vols. (Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum Fennica, 2009), 229, although the study lacks a thorough or systematic analysis. 37 For a detailed analysis of the conversion aspect see Dag Strömbäck, Tidrande och diserna: Ett filologiskt-folkloristiskt utkast (Lund: Carl Blom, 1949); Ármann Jakobsson, “Conversion and Sacrifice in the Þiðrandi Episode in Flateyjarbók,” in Conversions: Looking for Ideological Change in the Early Middle Ages, ed. Leszek Słupecki and Rudolf Simek, Studia Medievalia Septentrionalia 23 (Vienna: Fassbaender, 2013), 9–21. 38 Sigurður Nordal, ed., Flateyjarbók, vol. 1 (Reykjavík: Flateyjarútgáfan, 1944), 467: “And he saw that there were nine women, and all wore black clothes and had drawn swords in their hands. He also heard someone riding onto the field from the south. There were also nine women, all in lightly-colored clothes and on white horses.” 39 Sigurður Nordal, Flateyjarbók, 467–68; “I would guess that these women were no others than the fylgjur of you and your kinsmen. I reckon that there will be a change of custom (i.e., faith), and soon a better custom shall come to this country. I think that the dísir of those of you, who have followed the current faith, have now predicted the change of custom, and that they shall be rejected by the kinsmen. Now they will have disliked that they have not received a tribute from you before they separate, and they will have taken this as their share, and the better dísir wanted to help him, but could not do so just yet.” 40 Sigurður Nordal, Flateyjarbók, 476: “He defended himself well and bravely.” 41 Strömbäck, Tidrande och diserna, 25–31; Terry Gunnell, “The Season of the Dísir: The Winter Nights and the Dísarblót in Early Scandinavian Belief,” Cosmos 16 (2005): 117–49. 42 “Synir Halls á Síðu váru þeir Þorsteinn ok Egill, Þorvarðr ok Ljótr ok Þiðrandi, þann er sagt er, at dísir vægi” (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Brennu-Njáls saga, 239); “The sons of Hallr at Síða were Þorsteinn and Egill, Þorvarðr and Ljótr, and Þiðrandi, of whom it is said that the dísir killed him.” 43 Strömbäck, Tidrande och diserna, 23.

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44 As has been observed by several scholars, the signifier dís could be used as a broad concept denoting a range of paranormal female figures, cf. Jan de Vries, Die Götter, Vorstellungen über den Kosmos, Der Untergang des Heidentums, vol. 2 of Altgermanische Religionsgeschichte (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1957), 297; Mundal, Fylgjemotiva i norrøn litteratur, 79–83; Ármann Jakobsson, “Conversion and Sacrifice in the Þiðrandi Episode in Flateyjarbók,” 16. 45 Cf. Karen Bek-Pedersen, “Black and White Dísir: From Þiðrandi to Michael Scott,” Cosmos 28 (2012): 1–15; Luke John Murphy, “Herjans dísir: Valkyrjur, Supernatural Femininities, and Elite Warrior Culture in the Pre-Christian Iron Age” (master’s thesis, University of Iceland, 2013). 46 Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, eds., Eddukvæði, 2 vols., Íslenzk fornrit (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2014), vol. 2, 267: “and that his fylgjur have come to Heðinn, when he saw the woman riding on a wolf.” 47 In some editions, the stanza is numbered 35. The present article follows the numbering in the Íslenzk fornrit edition (2014). 48 Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, Eddukvæði, vol. 2, 267. “On a wolf there rode, / when dusk it was, / A woman who fain / would have him follow; / Well she knew / that now would fall / Sigrlin’s son / at Sigarsvoll” (Henry Adams Bellows, trans., The Poetic Edda [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1936], 287). 49 Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, Eddukvæði, vol. 2, 266. ‘[He] found a troll woman, she rode on a wolf and had snakes for reins and offered to follow Heðinn.” 50 Rieger suggested that with fading mythological ideas people would stop differentiating between singular and plural (Rieger, “Über den nordischen Fylgienglauben,” 283). Mundal understands the troll woman as one of Helgi’s multiple fylgjur, with the fylgð she offered Heðinn in the prose passage referring to the others (Mundal, Fylgjemotiva i norrøn litteratur, 77). It has also been proposed that the plural refers to the woman and the wolf together, or that it represents a scribal error (cf. Klaus von See et al., Heldenlieder: Helgakviða Hundingsbana I, Helgakviða Hiǫrvarðssonar, Helgakviða Hundingsbana II, Kommentar zu den Liedern der Edda 4 [Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Winter, 2004], 560). 51 Glossed by Cleasby and Vigfusson as a poetic word for “woman” (Cleasby and Gudbrand Vigfusson, An Icelandic-English Dictionary, 161). 52 See et al., Heldenlieder, 390, 560. 53 See et al., Heldenlieder, 390, 567–68. 54 See et al., Heldenlieder, 401; see also Terry Gunnell, “Eddic Poetry,” in A Companion to Old Norse-Icelandic Literature and Culture, ed. Rory McTurk, Blackwell Companions to Literature and Culture 31 (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, 2005), 88; Bellows, The Poetic Edda, 273. 55 Cf. See et al., Heldenlieder, 534–35, 567; John McKinnell, Meeting the Other in Norse Myth and Legend (Cambridge: DS Brewer, 2005), 113–15, 152 56 Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, ed., “Haralds saga Sigurðarsonar,” in Heimskringla, vol. 3, Íslenzk fornrit 28 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1951), 177. 57 Ármann Jakobsson, “The Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch: Meaning of troll and ergi in Medieval Iceland,” Saga-Book 32 (2008): 107. 58 See et al., Heldenlieder, 380, 567. 59 Thus the prose offers an explanation of Heðinn’s pledge to get Helgi’s bride for himself and alludes to the passive phrasing in stanza 33 (See et al., Heldenlieder, 536, 566). 60 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., “Hallfreðar saga,” in Vatnsdæla saga, 198. “She was big and in armour; she walked upon the waves as if on land. Hallfreðr looked there and saw that it was his fylgjukona. Hallfreðr said: ‘I dissolve all ties with you.’ She said: ‘Do you, Þorvaldr, want to take me on?’ He said he did not want to. Then Hallfreðr the younger said: ‘I want to

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take you on.’ ” It is to be noted that this passage only appears in the M-redaction of the saga (Mǫðruvallabók), whereas the redaction found in Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta offers a slightly different account of Hallfreðr’s death. In the Íslenzk fornrit edition, however, the two versions have been conflated (Bjarni Einarsson, “The Last Hour of Hallfreðr vandræðaskáld as Described in Hallfreðarsaga,” in Proceedings of the Eighth Viking Congress, Århus 24–31 August 1977, ed. Hans Bekker-Nielsen, Peter Foote, and Olaf Olsen [Odense: Odense University Press, 1981], 219–20). 61 Jónas Kristjánsson, ed., “Víga-Glúms saga,” in Eyrfirðinga sǫgur, Íslenzk fornrit 9 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1956), 30–31. 62 It is interesting to note that the episode in Hallfreðar saga is referenced by Jónas Kristjánsson to explain the concept of hamingja (Jónas Kristjánsson, “Víga-Glúms saga,” 31 n. 1). 63 Ordbog over det norrøne prosasprog, A Dictionary of Old Norse Prose (Copenhagen: Den arnamagnæanske kommission, 1989). 64 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Vatnsdæla saga, 95; “the woman that had followed the kinsmen.” 65 Mundal, Fylgjemotiva i norrøn litteratur, 83–84; “for lack of anything better.”

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Jónas Kristjánsson, ed. “Víga-Glúms saga.” In Eyrfirðinga sǫgur, 1–98. Íslenzk fornrit 9. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1956. Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, eds. Eddukvæði. 2 vols. Íslenzk fornrit. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2014. Kelchner, Georgia Dunham. Dreams in Old Norse Literature and their Affinities in Folklore. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1935. Loth, Agnete, ed. “Sigurðar saga þǫgla.” In Late Medieval Icelandic Romances, 2:95–259. Copenhagen, 1963. Maurer, Konrad. Die Bekehrung des Norwegischen Stammes zum Christenthume: in ihrem geschichtlichen Verlaufe quellenmäßig geschildert. 2 vols. Munich: Christian Kaiser, 1855–1856. McKinnell, John. Meeting the Other in Norse Myth and Legend. Cambridge: DS Brewer, 2005. Mogk, Eugen. “Mythologie.” In Grundriss der Germanischen Philologie, edited by Hermann Paul, 1:982–1138. Strasbourg: Karl J. Trübner, 1891. Mundal, Else. Fylgjemotiva i norrøn litteratur. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1974. Mundal, Else. “Supernatural Beings 4: Fylgja.” In Medieval Scandinavia: An Encyclopedia, edited by Phillip Pulsiano and Kirsten Wolf, 624–25. New York: Garland, 1993. Murphy, Luke John. “Herjans dísir: Valkyrjur, Supernatural Femininities, and Elite Warrior Culture in the Pre-Christian Iron Age.” Master’s thesis, University of Iceland, 2013. Ordbog over det norrøne prosasprog. A Dictionary of Old Norse Prose. Copenhagen: Den arnamagnæanske kommission, 1989. Ólafur Halldórsson, ed. “Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar eptir munk Odd.” In Færeyinga saga, Ólafs saga Odds, 123–362. Íslenzk fornrit 25. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2006. Þorleifur, Hauksson, ed. Sverris saga. Íslenzk fornrit 30. Reykjavík: Hið Íslenzka fornritafélag, 2007. Rieger, Max. “Über den nordischen Fylgienglauben.” In Zeitschrift für deutsches Altertum und deutsche Literatur, edited by Edward Schroeder and Gustav Roethe, 277–90. Berlin: Weidmannsche Buchhandlung, 1898. Schach, Paul. “Symbolic Dreams of Future Renown in Old Icelandic Literature.” Mosaic 4, no. 4 (1971): 51–73. See, Klaus von, Beatrice La Farge, Wolfgang Gerhold, Debora Dusse, Eve Picard, and Katja Schulz. Heldenlieder: Helgakviða Hundingsbana I, Helgakviða Hiǫrvarðssonar, Helgakviða Hundingsbana II. Kommentar zu den Liedern der Edda 4. Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Winter, 2004. Sigurður Nordal, ed. Flateyjarbók. Vol. 1. Reykjavík: Flateyjarútgáfan, 1944. Sigurður Nordal and Guðni Jónsson, eds. “Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu.” In Borgfirðinga sǫgur, 49–107. Íslenzk fornrit 3. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1938. Sigurður Nordal and Guðni Jónsson, eds. “Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa.” In Borgfirðinga sǫgur, 109–211. Íslenzk fornrit 3. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1938. Simek, Rudolf. Religion und Mythologie der Germanen. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2003. Sonne, Lasse C. A. “Leksikografiske studier I: Substantivet fylgja.” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 124 (2009): 5–30. Ström, Folke. Diser, nornor, valkyrjor: Fruktbarhetskult och sakralt kungadome i Norden. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1954.

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Ström, Folke. “Fylgjur.” In Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder fra vikingetid til reformationstid, edited by Jakob Benediktsson and Magnús Már Lárusson, 5:38–39. Reykjavík: Bókaverzlun Ísafoldar, 1960. Ström, Folke. Nordisk hedendom: Tro och sed i förkristen tid. Götenborg: Gumpert, 1961. Strömbäck, Dag. Sejd: Textstudier i nordisk religionshistoria. Stockholm: Hugo Gebers Förlag, 1935. Strömbäck, Dag. “The Concept of the Soul in Nordic Tradition.” In Sejd och andra studier i nordisk själsuppfattning, 220–72. Hedemora: Gidlunds Förlag, 2000. Strömbäck, Dag. Tidrande och diserna: Ett filologiskt-folkloristiskt utkast. Lund: Carl Blom, 1949. Tolley, Clive. Shamanism in Norse Myth and Magic. 2 vols. Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum Fennica, 2009. Turville-Petre, Gabriel. “Dreams in Icelandic Tradition.” In Nine Norse Studies, 30–51. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1972. Turville-Petre, Gabriel. “Liggja fylgjur þínar til Íslands.” In Saga-Book of the Viking Society, 12: 119–26. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1945. Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, eds. “Þorskfirðinga saga.” In Harðar saga, 229–327. Íslenzk fornrit 13. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1991.

Rebecca Merkelbach

Dólgr í byggðinni: Meeting the Social Monster in the Sagas of Icelanders Abstract: Monstrosity has long been regarded as only a physical category in medieval literature and culture as well as possessing an inherent essentialism. This article aims to challenge both of these ideas, instead offering a reading of monstrosity as a fluid spectrum based on contemporary monster theories, and as a concept that, in the Íslendingasögur, depends more on behavior than on looks. Monsters cannot be contained. They are everything that the human mind, despite being every monster’s creator, cannot grasp or comprehend—everything that does not fit into neat categories, everything that cannot be encompassed by the binary oppositions of known and unknown, human and animal, the Self and the Other. And yet, humans have always tried to create structures that encapsulate the monstrous offspring of their psyche, structures that are supposed to enable them to reign in these products of their imagination and come to terms with all those dark and frightening things that are outside of ordinary human experience. For this reason, theories of monstrosity have existed since antiquity as an attempt at categorizing the uncategorizable. For, as Jeffrey Jerome Cohen put it in his influential “Monster Culture (Seven Theses),” “[monsters] are disturbing hybrids whose externally incoherent bodies resist attempts to include them in any systematic structuration.”1 Thus, theories of monstrosity themselves can never account for the total of monstrous expression in human culture, “no singular approach to monsters can encompass the diversity of threats they pose for human culture.”2 For scholars of monstrosity, the question is whether these theories are useful, whether they aid our understanding of the form and function of monstrosity in a given cultural context. This is the issue I want to address in the present article: whether theories of monstrosity can provide a tool for reading medieval Icelandic culture through the monsters it bears.3 The particular expression of Icelandic monstrosity that will be the focus of this investigation is that of the Íslendingasögur,4 a genre whose paranormal and monstrous features have long been ignored by scholarship, and which are now finally being recognized, as this volume shows. Thus, I hope to add not only to the discourse of monster studies but also to that of saga scholarship by bringing the two fields together.5 Since the Íslendingasögur are a genre of medieval literature, it would seem logical to look to medieval theories of monstrosity first when trying to account https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-016

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for any monsters encountered in these narratives. However, one does not come across the monstra addressed by late antique and early medieval scholars like Augustine, Isidore, or Pliny, on whom the former both drew, particularly frequently in this genre: only the einfætingr Karlsefni and his men encounter in Greenland is a representative of the monstrous races.6 Moreover, as Jennifer Neville observed in her discussion of monsters in Old English poetry,7 medieval theories of monstrosity do not account for the depiction of and intra-textual interactions with monsters like Grendel or his mother in Beowulf: they are not marvelous; according to Augustine they could be considered human;8 and they do not seem to portend the future. I would argue that one faces similar difficulties when trying to read the Íslendingasögur through the lens of medieval monster theories, since creatures that elicit wonder and portend the future are mostly encountered in dreams and apparitions, while revenants—who must be monstrous in their undeath—are not experienced as wondrous or portentous.9 Thus, I suggest that contemporary theories of monstrosity might be more useful when approaching Íslendingasögur monstrosity, and Neville’s perspective on the social dimension of Old English monsters will prove particularly valuable. First, however, it is necessary to establish what types of characters would qualify for “monsterhood” in this saga genre. In the present context, the medieval Icelandic category of troll or trǫll would seem particularly suited to this kind of investigation, since this creature is, according to Ármann Jakobsson, a force of danger and chaos, an embodiment of the Other, the unknown.10 Thus, they appear to be fairly close to the monstrous which, in Cohen’s words, is also “an incorporation of the Outside, the Beyond.”11 And like the monster, the troll too “refuses easy categorisation,” for it is not one but many. After all, the concept of troll is not as narrowly defined in medieval Scandinavia as it came to be in later centuries.12 Ármann Jakobsson lists a total of thirteen types of characters that the term encompasses: “a troll may be a giant or mountain-dweller, a witch, an abnormally strong or large or ugly person, an evil spirit, a ghost, a blámaðr, a magical boar, a heathen demi-god, a demon, a brunnmigi or a berserk.”13 This is an oddly mixed group that includes religious (demons, pagan gods), physical (giants, mountain-dwellers), and ethnic Others (blámenn). Above all, however, it includes a lot of characters that, at first glance, may appear to be purely human. Thus, Martin Arnold states that that the term troll is used to provide a “description for some worrying or abnormal characteristic of a human,”14 explicitly linking the human and the trollish. Indeed, the term is used more frequently to describe revenants and magic-users than the mountain-dwelling ogres we have come to understand as denoted by it.15 Interestingly, troll is not used to describe what a creature is, because trolls can be all sorts of things, but to describe what it does (being anti-social) and

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what effect these actions have (disruption). According to Ármann, “a troll may be categorised by trollish behaviour,”16 but what exactly constitutes such behavior needs to be explored. Moreover, since even in medieval Iceland potentially monstrous trolls escape easy categorization, it might prove useful to look at subgroups of this elusive category individually. I therefore chose to consider the human trolls—the categories “witch,” “abnormally strong or large or ugly person,” “ghost” (or revenant), and “berserk”—under the heading of monster and to use the contemporary monster theories that come with the term. These theories are useful since they provide us with an idea of what monsters are and what they do: they are “transgressive hybrids” whose “propensity to shift,” to cross boundaries of time and space, makes them dangerous.17 They are culturally relevant, “embodiment[s] of a certain cultural moment,”18 and “always bound to specific socio-cultural contexts, and within them, signify the issue that most matters to the people they haunt.”19 Thus, they must be read within the context of the time at which they arise. Because of their transgressive tendencies and cultural specificity, monsters are able to “do a great deal of cultural work”:20 in other words, they demarcate the boundaries of society, culture, religion, and gender, making sure these boundaries are not crossed. They allow an exploration of the concerns and anxieties of a culture that are otherwise unspeakable, that cannot be directly addressed. And they provide a space for escapist fantasies where the kinds of behavior that are not tolerated within the dominant society can be lived out. Monsters are, therefore, “good to think with,” and I would argue that this applies to the human trolls of the Íslendingasögur as well. However, these contemporary theories also have their limitations, and the most prominent for my concerns is the fact that they all deal with physical monstrosity, with monstrous bodies. Thus, Cohen talks about the “externally incoherent bodies” of monsters,21 Hurley states that “their outwardly horrifying appearance illustrates the consequences of behaving differently,”22 and Musharbash even notes that “monstrousness is marked through monstrous bodies.”23 Especially this last statement is absolute, and it does not allow for multiple approaches to monsters, the “system allowing polyphony” Cohen demands.24 But we need a different approach, a different system, to account for the human trolls of the Íslendingasögur. For, while abnormally strong, large, or ugly people, revenants, and berserkir could to some extent be accounted for using a theory of physical monstrosity,25 the case is not so simple with respect to practitioners of magic, many of whom are ordinary men and women at first glance. To develop this different approach that can account for non-physical monstrosity, it is useful to go back to Jennifer Neville’s observations about monstrosity in Old English poetry. The central point of Neville’s argument is her statement that “merely being Homo sapiens does not grant human status in Old

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English texts: human status is conferred on the basis of conformance to social rules.”26 This is clear in the case of Grendel who, as a descendant of Cain, could be called “human”—and who is referred to as wer (man) (line 105) and healðegn (hall-thane) (line 142), both obviously human epithets.27 However, as someone who turns so decidedly against other humans that he even engages in cannibalism, and who renders the hall, the symbol of society,28 useless, he is clearly monstrous: “He is a monster . . . because he also breaks those boundaries [of social norms], intrudes into human society, performs acts forbidden by society, and thus threatens society’s very existence.”29 What makes Grendel monstrous is therefore that he oversteps social boundaries: he does not pay wergild for his killings, he disrupts human interaction, he does not acknowledge the power of the local ruler, and so on. Because of these crimes, his potential to humanity, to humanness, is forfeit: he lives outside of the human community and their protection. Many of these considerations are, as I will argue below, also true of Grettir: he frequently oversteps social norms, stealing from farmers and occupying land that does not belong to him. This moves him further away from the human society he once belonged to. What causes monstrous change in these contexts is therefore not being or appearance, but behavior and interaction. Thus, just as with the trollish behavior of trolls, it is the monstrous behavior of monsters that matters in the Íslendingasögur. It is important to note that, in order to qualify for “monsterhood,” someone has to commit acts of social deviation that disrupt and endanger society on a fundamental level: “Monsters do not threaten individuals only, but society as a whole.”30 Thus, in order to identify a potential social monster, one has to look for indications that acts of a societally threatening nature have been performed.31 After all, it is the social monster’s rejection and/or active transgression of social laws that make them a hybrid: someone who is (or was) human but has now taken a step outside of the human community. Transgression of the laws of nature and culture therefore provide a significant first step in determining a character’s potential to monstrosity. Moreover, it is also intimately related to the various forms of disruption—social, economic, natural, genetic—that monstrosity causes, and that one needs to consider. Neville also draws attention to the fact that “the line between human beings like Heremod and monsters like Grendel can be both very fine and transgressible.”32 This suggests that monstrosity may not be a clear-cut concept at all, but it may instead operate on a fluid spectrum,33 raising the question on what an individual’s status as monster is contingent in such a model. For if one assumes the existence of degrees of monstrosity—if one considers revenants more monstrous than, say, outlaws, berserkir, and magic-users as not exhibiting the same kind and extent of monstrosity—there must be a further dimension that

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assigns monstrous status to one character but not to another. This would make it possible to determine when a problematic character is socially disruptive to a monstrous degree rather than being a mere nuisance. Asa Simon Mittman argues that “a monster is not really known through observation; how could it be? How could the viewer distinguish between ‘normally’ terrifying phenomena and abnormally terrifying monstrosity? Rather, I submit, the monster is known through its effect, its impact.”34 Since not all monsters are equally monstrous, since what one culture might consider monstrous could be ordinary for another, and since even within the same culture, different monsters can be monstrous in different ways, the impact a monster has on those who encounter it is what remains for the monster to be judged by. It is this impact, this effect of the monster’s interaction with society, that will direct a particular society’s assessment of a potentially monstrous figure. Thus, it turns out that “‘monsters’ are matters of perception.”35 For a saga character to be regarded as monstrous, the society inside the saga has to perceive him or her as such. Monstrosity is therefore ultimately conceived of as based on behavior and interaction: the monster acts, society reacts. Thus, when trying to determine whether a character in the Íslendingasögur who belongs to the category of troll can also be considered monstrous, one has to look at this character’s actions and the impact they have on the people who encounter said character. In the rest of this article, I want to test this approach on a character whose monstrosity may appear doubtful, controversial even, since he is also one of the family sagas’ greatest heroes: Grettir Ásmundarson.36 This problematic character thus serves as a particularly interesting example for an exploration of monstrous action and interaction. Grettir’s potential to monstrosity emerges early on in his life since he already has a negative economic impact when he is first tasked with herding animals on his father’s farm. While this economic disruption is arguably played out in the context of his father’s abuse,37 there is an ambiguity present in his character that makes it impossible to determine what causes Ásmundr to treat his son badly, and that reveals a violence and rashness to Grettir’s actions that will cause him trouble in later life. These traits are already visible during his adolescence—Grettir passes as a potential berserkr in Háramarsey without any problems—but first turn into a real problem when Grettir insists on fighting Glámr despite his uncle’s warning—and this fight and the curse Glámr puts on Grettir lay the foundations for his misfortune. These destructive behavioral patterns are nowhere more visible, however, than in the scene that ultimately leads to Grettir’s outlawry. With his frozen coat giving him the appearance of a troll, Grettir ræðr (bursts) into the house without considering those inside.38 He behaves like Grendel in his attacks on Heorot,39 and

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the result is similar: the house is destroyed, and the people inside killed. These events could still be ascribed to bad luck, or ógæfa, but they also already show that Grettir is moving closer to the paranormal—he is turning into a trollish hybrid. Thus, after he is infected by Glámr’s curse and so becomes tied up in the “chain of malign supernatural activity” at work in Forsæludalr,40 Grettir moves away from humanity, first transgressing the laws of society—albeit involuntarily—by killing innocent people, and later by quite literally moving in with trolls. The visible manifestation of this association with the paranormal is Grettir’s fear of the dark that stems from him being able to see “hvers kyns skrípi,”41 at the same time removing him from ordinary human experience and making human company a necessity. Thus, one transgression into the realm of the paranormal facilitates the second transgression outside of the norms of human society, and he is legally cut off from society when he is declared an outlaw. Through his violation of human laws and his association with the paranormal, Grettir becomes a transgressive hybrid—he becomes a potential monster. The social dimensions of his monstrosity are then played out during Grettir’s outlawry. In this context, economic disruption is the strongest indicator of his monstrosity, and this is an issue that enters the narrative soon after the declaration of the sentence and his return to Iceland. When Grettir roams Ísafjǫrðr, he “lét . . . sópa greipr um eignir smábœnda ok hafði af hverjum þat, er hann vildi,”42 and, in doing so, he “gerði mǫrgum harðleikit.”43 He also considers himself so far superior to these farmers that he does not keep watch, and this overconfidence on his part eventually enables the farmers to overwhelm him and tie him up. The episode stresses repeatedly that these smábœndr suffer from Grettir’s predations, and I will return to this below. In an almost Gulliveresque scene, the farmers eventually manage to overcome the sleeping Grettir. He only escapes because Þorbjǫrg digra is able to save his life due to her superior social status, and she makes him promise to leave her farmers alone. However, since he does not manage to find permanent support or a place where he can stay—either because “bar jafnan eitthvert við, þat er engi tók við honum,”44 or because he does not want to pull his weight on the farm of a relative45—Grettir soon resorts to stealing again.46 He turns into a kind of highwayman, lurking near what is nowadays called Kjalvegur, where “var nú eigi traust, at hann tœki eigi af mǫnnum plǫgg sín.”47 Only Skapti’s advice that stealing does not befit a man like Grettir, and that “‘væri allt betra um at tala, ef þú ræntir eigi,’”48 puts a temporary stop to Grettir’s predations, and he tries to better his ways. However, due to the problems he has caused, even his friends and kinsmen now become more and more reluctant to take him in. Bjǫrn Hítdœlakappi, for example, remarks that “hann ætti svá sǫkótt um allt land, at menn myndi forðask bjargir við hann.”49 Bjǫrn himself only takes

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Grettir in on the provision that he leaves Bjǫrn’s men alone, although he is free to raid Bjǫrn’s opponents—and this he does until the problem comes to a head in a battle in which Grettir kills ten and fatally wounds five of his enemies. Eventually he is forced to leave, but the saga tells us that “hélt Bjǫrn ok vináttu við hann, en þó fækkuðusk heldr vinir Bjarnar fyrir þetta, er hann lét Gretti þar vera.”50 Bjǫrn therefore suffers the consequences of Grettir’s actions, just as much as the farmers whom Grettir haunts. The clearest example of Grettir’s economic impact, however, is probably his stay on Drangey. As soon as Grettir reaches the island, we hear of the eighty sheep that the farmers of Skagafjǫrðr keep there because of the good grazing conditions.51 To mitigate Grettir’s potentially disruptive influence, they try to strike a bargain with Grettir. But Grettir utters the fateful words, “‘heðan fer ek eigi, nema ek sé dauðr um dreginn,’”52 refusing to leave or return the farmers’ belongings. To the farmers, he therefore becomes a vargr:53 like a wolf among the sheep, Grettir takes what he wants, and there is no way for the farmers to get rid of him. This makes it easy for Þorbjǫrn ǫngull to buy up a large part of the island—but under the condition that he should “koma Gretti á brottu.”54 Two observations can therefore be drawn from this episode: firstly, that the farmers of Skagafjǫrðr consider Grettir a disruptive and dangerous force on their doorstep, and secondly, that economic considerations drive Þorbjǫrn ǫngull to try to overcome Grettir in whatever way possible.55 From these episodes, a pattern emerges: Grettir takes from people what he wants without consideration for their needs. He regards himself as superior because of his greater physical strength, and he uses it to negatively impact the communities on whose margins he moves. Through this abuse of the very strength and superiority that at other times allow him to protect society from forces more monstrous than himself, he becomes monstrous in his own right. When he lurks next to the Kjǫlr road, he behaves similarly to Glámr, whose hauntings prevent the farmers of Vatnsdalr from pursuing their everyday business,56 and Grettir’s theft of sheep, especially on Drangey, is as severe a threat to economic prosperity in the area as, for example, Þórólfr bægifótr’s killing of animals. As Janice Hawes states, “this parallel to the non-human world emphasizes the danger that Grettir now poses to his society. Sheep-stealing may seem to be a trivial act for such a strong man, but it can threaten the livelihood of a farm-based society like medieval Iceland.”57 Grettir’s presence in an area therefore has a severely disruptive impact on the lives and livelihoods of the local community; his actions quite literally threaten these communities’ existence. It is in these contexts that the local farmers start to perceive Grettir as a monster, i.e., when they react to Grettir’s economically disruptive actions. This reaction, the farmers’ perception, is generally expressed by the voice of public

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opinion, the voice of the community that is used to approve or condemn a character’s actions.58 The utterances of this voice can therefore be used to assess a potential monster’s impact on the communities on whose margins it moves, thus fulfilling Mittman’s condition that monstrosity can only be understood through its effect on those who encounter it. Therefore, during the Ísafjǫrðr episode, and as soon as the saga has introduced Grettir’s actions in the area by stating that he “gerði mǫrgum harðleikit,”59 the perspective changes: the saga now relates that “þótti flestum þungt undir at búa,”60 and the farmers “sǫgðu, at sá dólgr væri kominn í byggðina.”61 Thus, with the shift in perspective, a shift in narration occurs as well: instead of telling of events, the saga now narrates the community’s perception, which is uttered by public opinion (þótti flestum and sǫgðu). This depiction is similar to the narration of events in Skagafjǫrðr after Grettir settles on Drangey. When the farmers learn that he will release neither the island nor the sheep grazing on it to their owners, the same shift of perspective and narration occurs, and the farmers’ perception is related: “þótti mikill vágestr kominn í Drangey,”62 and “sǫgðu þeir heraðsmǫnnum, hverr vargr kominn var í eyna.”63 The local farmers’ perception, expressed through public opinion, therefore confirms that stealing or sitting on other people’s property is not a minor nuisance, but severely disruptive, as it does not affect individuals but the wider community. It therefore emerges that Grettir’s actions exhibit what Mittman terms “abnormally terrifying monstrosity,” causing him to be perceived as a monster. To the farmers, he becomes a dólgr and vargr: he is no longer fully human but turns into a monstrous, haunting presence on the fringes of society. What can also be seen in Grettis saga is that public opinion can not only be used to confirm the actions of a disruptive character as monstrous; it can also be used performatively to assign monstrous status to an ontologically liminal character—to someone whose status as monster is not clear. Thus, when the farmers of Ísafjǫrðr and Skagafjǫrðr call Grettir a dólgr and vargr, he becomes a fiend and wolfish criminal in their eyes, losing his humanity. The clearest example of ascribing monstrous status and thereby constituting reality through the use of public opinion occurs during the scene that leads to Grettir’s outlawry, and in this instance, perception is based on appearance as much as on behavior. As noted above, due to his frozen cloak and his enormous size, “var hann furðu mikill tilsýndar, sem troll væri. Þeim, sem fyrir váru, brá mjǫk við þetta, ok hugðu, at óvættr myndi vera.”64 In their fear, the inhabitants therefore think that he is a malevolent paranormal creature rather than a human being. They go further, however. Rather than just perceiving, they also react to his appearance as they might to that of an actual troll or óvættr: they attack him. Because of his actions and because of the reaction they elicit in the inhabitants,

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Grettir is no longer human. It therefore seems that, in the eyes of those in the house, Grettir has turned into a monster, and he is treated accordingly. Tragically, in the end their perception of Grettir is confirmed by his anti-social, destructive behavior: the house is destroyed and its inhabitants killed. Grettir becomes the monster people saw in him. Public opinion can therefore do more than just confirm a character’s disruptive actions to be monstrous; it can assign monstrous status to someone who is perceived to be monstrous, whether this is objectively the case or not. Because the people who encounter him, and the farmers who suffer from his disruption, call Grettir a troll and dólgr, he becomes a monster, and society’s reaction—the attempts on his life—conform to this perception: a monster can never be “left alone,”65 it always has to be removed for society to resume normal functioning. This also shows that the interaction between the monster and society is not one-sided: just as much as the monster makes an impact on society, society—through public opinion—can also make an impact on someone it perceives as monstrous. Thus, it emerges that, as Ármann Jakobsson notes, “being a troll is not a self-constructed identity.”66 Rather, it is an identity that is imposed on individuals who, due to their transgressiveness and their disruptive behavior, come to be perceived as threats to society—they turn into monsters in the eyes of those whose lives they disrupt. In order for a character’s potential for social monstrosity to be fulfilled, therefore, monstrous action is not sufficient. Instead, within the reality of the Íslendingasögur, the monster’s actions against and interactions with society, and society’s reaction to the monster, must both be present to form the dialogue from which social monstrosity is then constituted. The monsters of this genre are therefore firmly embedded in the social fabric even though they move along its margins; without a society to perceive its disruption, there would be no monster. Monstrosity in the Íslendingasögur is therefore never separate from the social dimension these narratives are so famous for: it is part of this social dimension, inseparably entwined with it in a complex web of interaction, perception, and communication. Thus, the study of the monstrous and the paranormal can ultimately shed light on the social dimension of the sagas since the one cannot exist without the other. Therefore, while neither theories of monstrosity nor saga society can adequately encompass the monsters who transgress their narrow confines and break the rules and norms, the social monsters of the Íslendingasögur are contained by the structures that comprise the story-world of the genre as a whole: the feuds, inheritance disputes, kinship struggles, marriage quarrels, law suits, and fights over grazing rights that the Íslendingasögur mostly consist of. While Kathryn Hume still stated in 1980 that “the family sagas’ focus on social

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conflict suits modern predilection in a way that giants and dragons do not,”67 we now know that there is no dichotomy, no clear-cut binary opposition, between the two: the paranormal and the social dimensions of the sagas are, ultimately, two sides of the same coin. Without trolls, there is no society. Without society, there are no trolls.

Notes 1 Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, “Monster Culture (Seven Theses),” in Monster Theory: Reading Culture, ed. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), 6. 2 Mary Kate Hurley, “Monsters,” in Handbook of Medieval Culture, ed. Albrecht Classen, vol. 3 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015), 1182. 3 Cf. Cohen, “Monster Culture (Seven Theses),” 4. 4 All quotations from the Íslendingasögur are taken from the Íslenzk fornrit editions. All translations are my own. 5 While the paranormal in saga literature has received quite some attention in recent years—not least from Ármann Jakobsson—the study of monsters is not as well developed. Apart from Kathryn Hume, “From Saga to Romance: The Use of Monsters in Old Norse Literature,” Studies in Philology 77, no. 1 (1980): 1–25, only the unpublished doctoral thesis of Alistair McLennan addresses saga monstrosities (Alistair McLennan, “Monstrosity in Old English and Old Icelandic Literature” [PhD diss., University of Glasgow, 2009]). He chose a comparative view that brings together Old English poetry and Icelandic saga literature and therefore only addresses revenants and outlaws. The present article draws on my recently published doctoral research, which is the first study that attempts to present a more comprehensive view of monstrosity in the Íslendingasögur; see Rebecca Merkelbach, Monsters in Society: Alterity, Transgression, and the Use of the Past in Medieval Iceland (Kalamazoo/Berlin: Medieval Institute Publications/De Gruyter, 2019). 6 On the monstrous races, see John Block Friedman, The Monstrous Races in Medieval Art and Thought (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1981), 190. On the einfætingr in Eiríks saga rauða, see Rudolf Simek, “The Medieval Icelandic World View and the Theory of Two Cultures,” Gripla 20 (2009): 190. 7 Jennifer Neville, “Monsters and Criminals: Defining Humanity in Old English Poetry,” in Monsters and the Monstrous in Medieval Northwestern Europe, ed. Karin E. Olsen and L. A. J. R. Houwen (Leuven: Peeters, 2001), 103–22. 8 As descendants of Cain and “rational, mortal animals”; see Neville, “Monsters and Criminals,” 110. 9 Cf. Daniel Sävborg, “Avstånd, gräns och förundran: Möten med de övernaturliga i islänningasagan,” in Greppaminni: Rit til heiðurs Vésteini Ólasyni sjötugum, ed. Margrét Eggertsdóttir (Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2009), 323–49, who discusses the “distance markers” used to denote an experience as supernatural or fantastic. In this context, the experience of wonder is paramount. Dream experiences like those of Gísli during his outlawry, or Flosi’s dream after the burning of Njáll, are used as foreshadowing devices and thus, in a way, foretell the future. An exception to this is the bergbúi (mountain dweller) in Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, eds., “Bergbúa þáttr,” in Harðar saga, Íslenzk fornrit 13 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1991), 450, who is considered an undr (wonder) by

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the humans who encounter him. Ármann Jakobsson discusses this encounter at length in his recent book, Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You: Paranormal Activity in the Medieval North (punctum books, 2017). 10 See Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You, 17–19. He views trolls as situated on one extreme end of a binary opposition of known and unknown, human and non-human, and although he considers these poles to be intimately entwined, he does not consider the shades of grey that may often be found between them. This is probably where our approaches to the same creatures differ the most. 11 Cohen, “Monster Culture (Seven Theses),” 7. 12 On various trolls across Scandinavian literature and folklore, see John Lindow, Trolls: An Unnatural History (London: Reaktion Books, 2014). 13 Ármann Jakobsson, “The Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch: Meaning of troll and ergi in Medieval Iceland,” Saga-Book 32 (2008): 52. 14 Martin Arnold, “‘Hvat er tröll nema þat?’ The Cultural History of the Troll,” in The Shadow Walkers: Jakob Grimm’s Mythology of the Monstrous, ed. Tom Shippey, Arizona Studies in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance 14 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2005), 52. 15 Ármann Jakobsson, “The Taxonomy of the Non-Existent: Some Medieval Icelandic Concepts of the Paranormal,” Fabula 54, nos. 3–4 (2013): 201. 16 Ármann Jakobsson, “The Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch,” 52. 17 Cohen, “Monster Culture (Seven Theses),” 6–7. 18 Cohen, “Monster Culture (Seven Theses),” 4. 19 Yasmine Musharbash, “Introduction: Monsters, Anthropology, and Monster Studies,” in Monster Anthropology in Australia and Beyond, ed. Yasmine Musharbash and Geir Henning Presterudstuen (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014), 12. 20 Asa Simon Mittman, “Introduction: The Impact of Monsters and Monster Studies,” in The Ashgate Research Companion to Monster Studies, ed. Asa Simon Mittman with Peter J. Dendle (Farnham: Ashgate, 2012), 1. 21 Cohen, “Monster Culture (Seven Theses),” 6. 22 Hurley, “Monsters,” 1167. 23 Musharbash, “Introduction,” 11. 24 Cohen, “Monster Culture (Seven Theses),” 7. 25 Especially Musharbash’s approach that supplements the idea of the monster as a physical hybrid composed of several distinct categories of being with a concept of monsters being “more or less than the category itself” (Musharbash, “Introduction,” 9). This would account for exceedingly large, strong, and ugly people as well as berserkir, whose excessive battle rage and strength could be argued to contribute to their monstrosity. Some revenants are also described as being physically monstrous in that their bodies are swollen, heavy, and undecomposed. A living character whose body can be argued to be monstrous is Klaufi (Jónas Kristjánsson, ed., “Svarfdæla saga,” in Eyrfirðinga sǫgur, Íslenzk fornrit 9 [Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1956], 162). 26 Neville, “Monsters and Criminals,” 117. 27 He is of course also referred to by a variety of monstrous designations, but it is this ambiguity about his ontological status that makes him an interesting starting point for a discussion of human and social monsters. References to Beowulf are from Robert Dennis Fulk et al., eds., Klaeber’s Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburg, 4th ed., Toronto Old English Studies 21 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008). 28 See Kathryn Hume, “The Concept of the Hall in Old English Poetry,” Anglo-Saxon England 3 (1974): 63–74.

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29 Neville, “Monsters and Criminals,” 117. 30 Neville, “Monsters and Criminals,” 112. 31 Neville suggests that one such act would be stealing, and it is indeed behavior found frequently with respect to social monsters in the Íslendingasögur: Grettir, Hörðr, and several magic-users (like Kotkell and his family) steal and therefore cause trouble to the local community. Other monsters economically impact society in a different way; e.g., revenants who kill farmhands and animals, making farming and thus prosperity impossible. 32 Neville, “Monsters and Criminals,” 118. 33 To conceive of monstrosity not as based on a binary but on “ambiguity and unpredictability” that demands a non-essentialist approach was first suggested by Margrit Shildrick, Embodying the Monster: Encounters with the Vulnerable Self (London: SAGE Publications, 2002), 3. 34 Mittman, “Introduction,” 6; emphasis original. 35 Stephen T. Asma, On Monsters: An Unnatural History of Our Worst Fears (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 10. 36 In this analysis, I am reading Grettir against his saga’s “narrative voice,” as Ármann Jakobsson called it in a personal communication. Grettir is also the hero of his saga and is often treated as such; as much as he harms local communities, he can also benefit them. This beneficial impact on society is rewarded by society’s perception of his actions, moving him closer to humanity. Grettir’s movement between monstrosity and humanity, depending on his interaction with society, thus also shows that monstrosity is indeed not a fixed but a fluid concept. 37 See Rebecca Merkelbach, “Engi maðr skapar sik sjálfr: Fathers, Abuse and Monstrosity in the Outlaw Sagas,” in Bad Boys and Wicked Women: Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature, ed. Daniela Hahn and Andreas Schmidt (Munich: Herbert Utz Verlag, 2016), 69–72. 38 Guðni Jónsson, ed., Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, Íslenzk fornrit 7 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936), 130. 39 See Andy Orchard, Pride and Prodigies: Studies in the Monsters of the Beowulf Manuscript (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer), 155–56. 40 William Sayers, “The Alien and the Alienated as Unquiet Dead in the Sagas of the Icelanders,” in Cohen, Monster Theory, 251. 41 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 123; “all kinds of phantoms.” 42 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 166; “carried off all of the small farmers’ belongings and had from each what he wanted.” 43 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 166; “treated many people harshly.” 44 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 172; “always something happened so that they did not take him in.” 45 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 173–74. 46 The word used is ræna (to raid), not stela (to steal), and while raiding has a less negative effect on Grettir’s honour, the impact on the farmers is the same. 47 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 175; “it was not certain that he would not take people’s luggage from them.” 48 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 178; “ ‘everything would now be better to consider, if you did not steal from people.’ ” 49 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 186; “he had now so many quarrels with people throughout the country that people would avoid giving him protection.” 50 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 198; “Bjǫrn upheld his friendship with Grettir although his friends became rather fewer because he allowed Grettir to be there.”

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51 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 225. 52 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 228; “‘I will not go away from here unless I am carried off dead.’” 53 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 229. 54 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 236; “get rid of Grettir.” 55 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 245; “Leitaði hann allra bragða við at stíga yfir Gretti” (“He sought all sorts of schemes to overcome Grettir”). 56 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 113. 57 Janice Hawes, “The Monstrosity of Heroism: Grettir Ásmundarson as an Outsider,” Scandinavian Studies 80 (2008): 31. 58 I discuss this aspect in more detail in “Volkes Stimme.” 59 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 166; “treated many people harshly.” 60 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 166; “to many it seemed difficult to have to put up with this.” 61 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 167; “they said that this fiend had come into the settlement.” 62 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 228; “they thought that a very dangerous/terrible guest had come to Drangey.” 63 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 229; “they told the people of the district, what a wolf/criminal had come to the island.” 64 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 130; “he looked terribly huge, as if he were a troll. The people inside were very startled and thought it was an evil creature”; emphasis mine. 65 See Neville, “Monsters and Criminals,” 112. 66 Ármann Jakobsson, “The Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch,” 51. 67 Hume, “From Saga to Romance,” 1.

Bibliography Arnold, Martin. “‘Hvat er tröll nema þat?’ The Cultural History of the Troll.” In The Shadow Walkers: Jakob Grimm’s Mythology of the Monstrous, edited by Tom Shippey, 111–55. Arizona Studies in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance 14. Turnhout: Brepols, 2005. Asma, Stephen T. On Monsters: An Unnatural History of Our Worst Fears. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. Ármann Jakobsson. “The Taxonomy of the Non-Existent: Some Medieval Icelandic Concepts of the Paranormal.” Fabula 54, nos. 3–4 (2013): 199–213. Ármann Jakobsson. The Troll Inside You: Paranormal Activity in the Medieval North. punctum books, 2017. Ármann Jakobsson. “The Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch: Meaning of troll and ergi in Medieval Iceland.” Saga-Book 32 (2008): 39–68. Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome. “Monster Culture (Seven Theses).” In Cohen, Monster Theory, 3–25. Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome, ed. Monster Theory: Reading Culture. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Friedman, John Block. The Monstrous Races in Medieval Art and Thought. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1981.

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Fulk, Robert Dennis, Friederich Klaeber, Robert E. Bjork, and John D. Niles, eds. Klaeber’s Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburg. 4th ed. Toronto Old English Studies 21. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008. Guðni Jónsson, ed. Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar. Íslenzk fornrit 7. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936. Hawes, Janice. “The Monstrosity of Heroism: Grettir Ásmundarson as an Outsider.” Scandinavian Studies 80 (2008): 19–50. Hume, Kathryn. “From Saga to Romance: The Use of Monsters in Old Norse Literature.” Studies in Philology 77, no. 1 (1980): 1–25. Hume, Kathryn. “The Concept of the Hall in Old English Poetry.” Anglo-Saxon England 3 (1974): 63–74. Hurley, Mary Kate. “Monsters.” In Handbook of Medieval Culture, edited by Albrecht Classen, 3:1167–83. Göttingen: De Gruyter, 2015. Jónas Kristjánsson, ed. “Svarfdæla saga.” In Eyrfirðinga sǫgur. Íslenzk fornrit 9. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1956. Lindow, John. Trolls: An Unnatural History. London: Reaktion Books, 2014. McLennan, Alistair. “Monstrosity in Old English and Old Icelandic Literature.” PhD diss., University of Glasgow, 2009. Merkelbach, Rebecca. “Engi maðr skapar sik sjálfr: Fathers, Abuse and Monstrosity in the Outlaw Sagas.” In Bad Boys and Wicked Women: Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature, edited by Daniela Hahn and Andreas Schmidt, 59–93. Munich: Herbert Utz Verlag, 2016. Merkelbach, Rebecca. Monsters in Society: Alterity, Transgression, and the Use of the Past in Medieval Iceland. Kalamazoo/Berlin: Medieval Institute Publications/De Gruyter, 2019. Mittman, Asa Simon. “Introduction: The Impact of Monsters and Monster Studies.” In The Ashgate Research Companion to Monster Studies, edited by Asa Simon Mittman with Peter J. Dendle, 1–14. Farnham: Ashgate, 2012. Musharbash, Yasmine. “Introduction: Monsters, Anthropology, and Monster Studies.” In Monster Anthropology in Australia and Beyond, edited by Yasmine Musharbash and Geir Henning Presterudstuen, 1–24. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014. Neville, Jennifer. “Monsters and Criminals: Defining Humanity in Old English Poetry.” In Monsters and the Monstrous in Medieval Northwestern Europe, edited by Karin E. Olsen and L. A. J. R. Houwen, 103–22. Leuven: Peeters, 2001. Orchard, Andy. Pride and Prodigies: Studies in the Monsters of the Beowulf Manuscript. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer. Sayers, William. “The Alien and the Alienated as Unquiet Dead in the Sagas of the Icelanders.” In Cohen, Monster Theory, 242–63. Shildrick, Margrit. Embodying the Monster: Encounters with the Vulnerable Self. London: SAGE Publications, 2002. Simek, Rudolf. “The Medieval Icelandic World View and the Theory of Two Cultures.” Gripla 20 (2009): 183–98. Sävborg, Daniel. “Avstånd, gräns och förundran: Möten med de övernaturliga i islänningasagan.” In Greppaminni: Rit til heiðurs Vésteini Ólasyni sjötugum, edited by Margrét Eggertsdóttir, 323–49. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2009. Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, eds. “Bergbúa þáttr.” In Harðar saga, 441–50. Íslenzk fornrit 13. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1991.

Christopher Crocker

Even a Henchman Can Dream: Dreaming at the Margins in Brennu-Njáls saga Abstract: Several prominent figures experience significant dreams at pivotal moments in the thirteenth-century Brennu-Njáls saga. This article, however, deals with dreams that appear at the social and/or narratological margins of the narrative. It examines how such dreams are used to bring different kinds of meaning to the text.1 I am going by a dream that I had in the night only a little while ago. It looks as though you were right not to wake me up. Socrates2

Platonic Socrates, imprisoned and awaiting his execution, is roused one morning by his wealthy friend Krito, reluctant though the latter is to wake the sleeping prisoner having nothing other than the news of Socrates’ imminent death with which to greet him. Upon waking, however, and receiving the news, Socrates is quick to refute the eyewitness accounts that the ship from Delos will arrive on that same day, ensuring that he will suffer his execution on the next. To counter the claim, Socrates cites a dream in which a beautiful woman dressed in white appeared and told him that he will reach fertile Phthia in three days. Thus, Socrates contends, he is certain that he has not one but rather two days left to live.3 “Plato has constructed the opening of his dialogue,” the classicist and poet Anne Carson writes, “in such a way as to align the realms of waking and sleeping, drawing our attention to an active boundary between them—active because it leaks.”4 The particular leak described in this passage bears witness to an association between the experience of dreams and the events of waking life, similar traditions of which can be dated back to the earliest surviving human writings. Such traditions variously persisted throughout the Middle Ages and into the later Romantic period, and they survived well into the twentieth century, forming, for example, an important cornerstone of both the Surrealist movement and the development of psychoanalytic theory.5 Diverse, ever changing, and not nearly universally avowed, this tradition survives even today not only in popular beliefs concerning the hidden or coded significance of dreams—commonly now regarded as superstitious— but also, for example, in recent theories concerning the supposed evolutionary function of dreams in providing the opportunity for dreamers to rehearse certain scenarios that can prepare them—regardless of their species—for threats that they might face during waking life.6 Even if such a https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-017

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theory were to gain wide scientific acceptance, it is unlikely that it would put an end to the seemingly endless and heterogeneous search for both the significance and the source of dreams that humans and the societies in which they live have sought to uncover since time immemorial. Amidst this continuous, though hardly homogeneous tradition, notions of an active or leaky boundary separating the events of waking life and sleep abound in medieval Icelandic writing, with many particular leaks described, for example, in the anonymously authored and predominantly prose texts collectively termed the Íslendingasögur, or Sagas about Early Icelanders (hereafter referred to simply as the sagas for the sake of brevity).7 These sagas—though purporting to record the early history of Iceland roughly from its settlement in the late ninth century to the early eleventh century,a period often referred to as the söguöld (Saga Age)—are now generally thought to have first been written down during the thirteenth, fourteenth, and even fifteenth centuries. On account of this apparent vast temporal lapse between the time of the events the sagas purport to describe and that of their preserved description, it is difficult to assert that they provide explicit details of any particular strand of a tradition asserting a permeable boundary separating human dreams from the events of waking life, neither with respect to the mostly pre-Christian Icelandic period of the Saga Age nor that of the post-Conversion society in which the sagas were written. Of course, the written sagas were pre-dated by and indebted to the oral transmission of much of the traditional material that they relate, which may date back to the time of the events described in the sagas, but which cannot be considered factual in any strict sense of the word. Distilled and developed both through oral transmission and the writing process itself, the sagas thus constitute a collective kind of creative or interpretive literary historiography, based on received and varied traditions, but also transformed by the innovations of the saga writers themselves. While the written sagas thus might reveal some interesting, though nebulous, details about the lived past, they—arguably, more significantly— provide an important understanding of the society in which the sagas were first written down. Namely, the sagas disclose much about later perceptions of early Icelandic society based on how the saga writers variously sought both to present this past and to maintain its significance within their own present, simultaneously offering what they thought others would like to, expected to, or ought to hear about this collective cultural and historical legacy.8 Given the varied and complex prism of influences through which the written sagas were shaped, and with respect to dreams in particular, it is important to note that during the same period in which dreams were variously asserted to convey significance toward the events of waking life—which is to say, since the

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time of the earliest surviving writings—the remarkable phenomenon of dreaming was simultaneously approached with a great deal of scepticism. Indeed, dating back to antiquity and the time of the early Christian church, as well as throughout the Middle Ages, many influential thinkers and theologians sought to limit the popular practice of seeking significance in dreams to all but the privileged few, including, for example, Christian Saints and certain royal figures.9 The tension between these two largely conflicting but not entirely contradictory traditions seems to rely upon the perception that human dreams constitute a kind of experience that is somehow different from the normal or expected sequence of the events of waking life; they thus represent a paranormal experience, albeit a fundamentally human one. There are several instances in which sceptical attitudes toward the supposed significance of dreams are expressed in the sagas, though the dreams described always seem to be significant to waking life in one way or another. This, in turn, might suggest that they can be traced back to pre-Christian Icelandic or Norse traditions in some way, although it may be impossible to discover precisely how.10 How saga writers describe and discuss this fundamental, yet paranormal aspect of human experience, one characterized by its fundamental distinction from the events of waking life but nonetheless connected to these events by some kind of nebulous, active, or porous boundary, can safely—if perhaps not exclusively— be analyzed within the above mentioned framework; that is to say, this analysis reveals what the written sagas might tell us about how the past was represented in thirteenth-, fourteenth-, and even fifteenth-century Iceland. In this respect, the dreams described in the sagas might also be analyzed not—or not only—as some gathering of isolated incidents amongst so many others but rather as particular and particularly situated elements of the narratives in which they were preserved and still appear. Thus, when such elements either commonly or prominently appear in relation to certain narrative figures—for example, Gísli in his eponymous Gísla saga Súrssonar—it is crucial to explore and analyze how these elements function and what kind of meanings they invite within the wider context of the saga. While such an approach may seem obvious with respect to those prominent figures, including Gísli, situated at or near the narrative and/or social center of a given saga narrative, it is no less illuminating—though perhaps less commonly executed—to approach in this same way those situated at its narrative and/or social margins. Exploring and analyzing in this way two dreams only briefly described and/or discussed in Brennu-Njáls saga, for example, reveals important insights into the ways in which dreaming—this fundamental, yet paranormal aspect of human experience—conveys meaning in both in their respective episodic contexts and as important and meaningful parts of the narrative whole.

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Dreaming of Death Brennu-Njáls saga, first written down during the late thirteenth century and recounting events said to have taken place nearly three centuries prior, is populated by a dizzying cast of women and men, young and old, locals and foreigners, slaves, laborers, farmers, and chieftains. The narrative even includes a number of European kings and various other noble women and men, many of whom are historically documented elsewhere, while others are only to be found in, and were perhaps fashioned for, this work alone.11 The vast scope of the saga, however, does not preclude the narrative’s tendency to focus intimately on a variety of private moments and exchanges experienced or shared by its diverse cast. This includes the explicit description or reference to several dreams, the mention of which surely must have resonated in some way with a medieval audience accustomed to the personal and private experience of their own dreams. Among these dreams are those experienced by prominent men, landowners, chieftains, and nobles such as Hǫskuldr Dala-Kollsson, Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi, Flosi Þorðarson, and Gilli jarl in the Hebrides, which are all associated with death or malice in one way or another.12 The dream that the chieftain Flosi Þorðarson experiences, for example, appears shortly after his principal participation in the act of arson from which the saga gains its name. It precedes the protracted deaths of many of his cohort, offering a prelude to the dire and even apocalyptic tone that pervades the latter part of the saga, when the particular fallout from the burning still remains somewhat uncertain, yet threatens to overwhelm the whole of society.13 The episode also provides a poignant reminder of the profound burden that Flosi must bear for his leading role in this infamous act, helping also to render his among the most emotional and complex of the many narrative threads from which the saga is woven.14 The sweeping and multifaceted significance of Flosi’s dream seems fitting given the prominence of his status both in the society described in the saga and in the narrative itself. The ill-fated verkstjóri (overseer) Kolr, however, who first appears shortly after Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi’s marriage to Hallgerðr Hǫskuldsdóttir and in the context of a feud between Hallgerðr and Bergþóra, the wife of Gunnarr’s close friend Njáll, presents a rather different story. During the escalating trading game, in which the two women take turns ordering the deaths of a member of the other’s household, Kolr plays his part dutifully, though not without some nuance. After reluctantly accepting Hallgerðr’s order to kill his counterpart Svartr—ominously remarking that he will accept the task “þat er þó líkast, at ek gefa mik við” (though it seems likely that I will pay for it)—he commits the act and returns to inform Hallgerðr of his accomplishment. Hallgerðr reassures him, remarking “skal ek

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þik varðveita, at þik skal ekki saka” (I’ll take care of you so that no harm will come to you). Kolr, however, responds, “Vera má þat . . . en hinn veg dreymði mik þó, áðr ek vá vigit” (That may be . . . though I dreamt another way before I did the killing). Despite the healthy compensation that Gunnarr pays to Njáll to account for Svartr’s death, Kolr is promptly slain by a man called Atli at Bergþóra’s behest, thus completing the first retributive cycle of the women’s feud.15 Unlike several other dreams referred to in the saga, including Flosi’s above mentioned dream, Kolr’s dream remains entirely unrecounted in the saga, leaving no indication of its precise details. However, the narrative provides a clear indication that, at least for Kolr, the dream carries a specific kind of significance for the events of his waking life: namely, things will not turn out for him as Hallgerðr suggests, echoing the remark that he had made prior to accepting the task that he would “pay for it” in some way. For the brief period during which his life hangs in the balance, the exchange that Kolr and Hallgerðr share following Svartr’s death thus raises a number of interesting questions, perhaps the least compelling of which, however, concerns Kolr’s mortality. In fact, while the contradiction that arises from their dialogue clearly indicates that Kolr is neither long for the saga nor its world, Kolr’s rejoinder does not in fact respond to an explicit assertion that he will live but rather to Hallgerðr’s claim that she will manage to keep him safe from harm. Thus, the absence of the precise details of the dream seems to highlight a kind of uncertainty and tension centered not—or at least not primarily—on the question of Kolr’s mortality but on whether Hallgerðr will prove unable, unwilling, or perhaps altogether unconcerned with keeping her promise to Kolr? This question resonates with an already established and recurring element of Hallgerðr’s character. In an earlier encounter with her foster-father Þjóstólfr, for example, after he has killed her second and beloved husband Glúmr, Hallgerðr greets the news of her husband’s death with a bout of laughter and tells a joke, before sending Þjóstólfr off to her uncle Hrútr and to his own certain death. Bearing some similarity to Kolr’s reluctance to accept Hallgerðr’s assurance that she will keep him safe from harm, Þjóstólfr here expresses significant doubt when Hallgerðr advises him to seek out her uncle’s help, remarking “eigi veit ek [. . .] hvárt þetta er heilræði” (I don’t know [. . .] whether this is good advice).16 The contradiction in this encounter is again primarily a semantic one, but it is also intensified by Hallgerðr’s somewhat suspect reaction—her laughter and her joke—to what must be unwelcome news. This fatal encounter had arisen from a violent argument between Glúmr and Hallgerðr, following which it is said that she “unni honum mikit ok mátti eigi stilla sik ok grét hástofum” (loved him greatly and could not control herself and wept loudly). When Þjóstólfr soon arrives and expresses his malicious intents Hallgerðr commands, “Ekki skalt þú þessa hefna [. . .] ok engan

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hlut í eiga, hversu sem með okkr ferr” (You shall not avenge this [. . .] and have no part of how [things] go between us). Þjóstólfr makes no recorded reply, but it is said that he went away and, notably, glotti við (grinned).17 Smiles and laughter in the sagas—as in modern society—can carry many different meanings and seem to appear both consciously and unconsciously to suit or reflect a number of different purposes. In the same saga Skarpheðinn Njálsson, for example, is said also to have glotti við (grinned) and to have cracked a joke in response to his mother’s urging that he and his brothers seek vengeance after they have been publicly slandered. It is, however, said that, simultaneously, “spratt honum svieti í enni, ok kómu rauðir flekkar í kinnr honum” (sweat burst out on his forehead, and red flecks came onto his cheeks). Hallgerðr’s laughter seems to be of a kind with Skarpheðinn’s grin, though she appears to be slightly more successful in masking her inner feelings, whereas Þjóstólfr’s grin seems to be blatantly wicked.18 This aspect of Hallgerðr’s character is similarly apparent following her marriage to her first husband Þorvaldr, a man that she considers an unworthy match and to whom she was married against her will. During the wedding feast, however, Hallgerðr is described as allkát (totally cheerful), and later when Þorvaldr’s father asks his son how things are going between them his son replies, “Vel [. . .] alla blíðu lét hon uppi við mik; ok máttú sjá mót á, er hon hlær við hvert orð” (Well [. . .] she is kind to me in every respect; and you can see it in how she laughs at every word). Þorvaldr’s father, however, demonstrates an awareness of the varied significance of laughter, and perhaps Hallgerðr’s in particular, when he counters his son’s claim, remarking that “Eigi ætla ek hlátr hennar jafngóðan sem þú [. . .] en þat mun þó síðar reynask” (I don’t think her laughter as good as you do [. . .] though it remains to be seen). Failing to state outright or perhaps even to recognize clearly the purpose behind Hallgerðr’s ubiquitous laughter, its ambiguity—to father and son, if not to the saga’s audience as well—is soon undone when Hallgerðr contrives Þorvaldr’s death only a short time later.19 This thread seems ultimately to lead back to a memorable scene at the unconventional opening of the saga from Hallgerðr’s childhood. She is said to be playing on the floor with some other young girls when Hallgerðr’s father Hǫskuldr asks his brother Hrútr what he makes of the girl and if he thinks her to be beautiful, drawing forth Hrútr’s famous reply: “Œrit fǫgr er mær sjá, ok munu margir þess gjalda; en hitt veit ek eigi, hvaðan þjófsaugu eru komin í ættir várar” (She is beautiful enough to look at, and many will pay for this; but what I don’t know is how a thief’s eyes have come into our family).20 While it is perhaps not clear at this moment what the unexpected appearance of these “thief’s eyes” will entail—although Hallgerðr will later play a part in an act of thievery that carries great consequences21—it is soon apparent that Hrútr, himself introduced as a manna vitrastr (the wisest of men), was able to

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discern and describe what becomes an essential aspect of Hallgerðr’s depiction in the saga, the conflict between her outward appearances and her innermost feelings and purposes.22 The brief exchange between Hallgerðr and Kolr may seem to carry little significance in the narrative as a whole. The slave Kolr arrives in the saga without any mention of the kind of genealogical baggage for which the sagas are renowned, exiting just as swiftly, and seems to lack a particular historical basis; rather, it is likely that he was fashioned either by an “author” or by the conventions of narrative to serve his particular role in the story as another of Hallgerðr’s subservient henchman.23 Apart from his position at the farmstead Kolr’s only defining characteristic is one ascribed to him both by the narrator of the saga and Hallgerðr herself, each of whom declare him to be it mesta illmenni (the most wicked of men).24 It remains the case, however, that it is only at Hallgerðr’s persistent urging that Kolr commits the killing that he comes to pay for with his own life. With limited space given to Kolr’s life and death, the mention of his dream thus seems to befit his marginal status within the narrative as a whole, if not also in the context of the society that it depicts. While it may be the case that the anticipation of Kolr’s death serves to inspire a kind of pathos among the saga’s audience, it seems that the primary significance of the exchange that he shares with Hallgerðr has little to do with his own life—the end of which is certainly and swiftly approaching—but rather with how exchange provides an opportunity to reinforce a prevailing aspect of Hallgerðr’s character. The precise significance that Kolr draws from the experience of his dream is never stated outright. It is only said to contradict—at least in his mind—Hallgerðr’s claim that she will keep him safe from harm. The dream’s partial details, seemingly contingent upon Kolr’s marginal status both in the narrative itself and in the society that it depicts, thus activate the minds of the saga’s audience through their metonymic potential and power. They encourage the audience to pause and consider Kolr’s capacity to counter Hallgerðr’s claim, relying of course upon his own inference and the common association between dreams and impending death in this and other saga writing, actively participating in the creation of the saga narrative’s meaning.25

The silence of sleep Kolr’s only brief, parenthetic mention of the dream, which he invokes to counter Hallgerðr’s claim that she will manage to protect him, indeed seems to befit his status as a marginal figure within both the society described in the

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saga and within the narrative as a whole. While there are several other prominent figures in the saga—in contrast to Kolr—who describe various elaborate and seemingly significant dreams, it is not the case in this or in other saga writing that only the dreams of those situated at the margins of a given narrative, and perhaps also of the society it depicts, warrant only cursory mention. At a later stage in this same saga a similarly parenthetic mention of the experience of troubling dreams appears, one expressed if not by a central figure then by one of the more important supporting characters in the latter part of the saga. In this instance, after awaking to find her husband Hǫskuldr Hvítanessgoði missing from the bed, Hildigunnr Starkaðardóttir first alerts, then calls upon the members of the household at Ossabœr to seek him out, uttering the words, “Harðir hafa draumar verit ok eigi góðir, ok leitið þér at honum Hǫskuldi” ([My] dreams have been difficult and not good, and go look for him, Hǫskuldr). After they have searched the house in vain Hildigunnr gets dressed, and with two men she enters the garden only to discover her husband’s lifeless corpse there. Hildigunnr is then approached by a nameless shepherd who identifies her husband’s killers, following which she gathers the cloak, Flosanautr (Flosi’s gift), that Hǫskuldr was wearing when he was killed—a gift from her uncle, the above mentioned Flosi Þorðarson—together with his spilt blood and places the garment in a chest for safekeeping. The focus of the narrative then shifts away from Ossabœr—though not for good—as the news of the killing spreads across the region and toward the preliminary stages of the ensuing legal battle and the introduction of several new figures into the saga narrative who will play important roles in the many hostilities arising as a result.26 Hǫskuldr’s death is one of the most lamented of the many deaths described in Brennu-Njáls saga.27 It constitutes both the execution of a singular plan, though admittedly one with its own lengthy prehistory, and an act that initiates a legal process that dramatically and ultimately fails, leading to the burning at the farmstead at Bergþórshváll, and all that ensues from this monumental event. This scene at Ossabœr and the discovery of Hǫskuldr’s corpse thus advances the narrative along the path toward the burning and that which ensues from it, but although brief it is not an entirely simple or perfunctory step toward greater events. Furthermore, Hildigunnr’s vague invocation of her “difficult and not good dreams” play a key role in this aspect of the brief, yet moving scene. From the first moments that she emerges from her sleep, it is clear that “nature’s soft nurse” had in fact brought Hildigunnr no comfort at all. In fact, sleep seems to have provided her with anything but forgetfulness, but rather with a kind of profound, but as of yet unexplained, insight into the events of her waking life. Hǫskuldr’s seemingly unexpected absence, Hildigunnr’s explicit reference to her difficult or disturbing dreams, and her reluctance (or perhaps only

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indifference) to disclose their particular details or the insight that she seems to have drawn from them infuse this scene with a palpable degree of tension. It is important to note, however, that while seemingly unexpected, Hǫskuldr’s absence cannot be considered entirely unexplained—at least as far as the saga’s audience is concerned—as the event of his death was described in elaborate detail in the scene immediately prior to this one. Rather than absolute uncertainty concerning Hǫskuldr’s whereabouts, the tension that presides over the early morning events at Ossabœr depends on a kind of two-fold irony. On the one hand, the saga’s audience is well aware of the inevitable outcome of the search for Hǫskuldr and, were it possible, capable of explaining the details not only of his unexpected absence but also his death. On the other hand, Hildigunnr’s omission of the particular details of the difficult or disturbing dreams to which she refers—and with these words she seems equally to address the saga’s audience and the members of the household at Ossabœr—creates a similar incongruity concerning the precise connection between her husband’s unexpected absence and the dreams that seem to fuel the search for Hǫskuldr. The dreams were revealed to Hildigunnr alone in the silence of her sleep, and their contents remain exclusively her private knowledge. Hildigunnr may appear to be perplexed upon waking to discover an empty space where she expects her husband to be, a state that persists until the inevitable discovery of his corpse. However, the solution to this riddle, to which the saga’s audience already has certain knowledge, is perhaps not beyond Hildigunnr’s reach until the corpse’s discovery on account of the typical connection between dreams and death in this saga and in the saga tradition more. Thus the intriguing, and in fact never fully resolved, mystery in this brief scene concerns not—or not only—the question of Hǫskuldr’s whereabouts; rather, it rests on the seeming incongruity between the knowledge that the audience feels privy to—the exclusive nature of which Hildigunnr’s reference to her troublesome dreams somewhat undermines, inviting speculation about the details of these unrecounted dreams—and the particular significance that Hildigunnr has drawn from them. Thus, while the search for Hǫskuldr is driven by the mystery of his whereabouts, its urgency and the tension that presides over the scene within the context of the saga is at least in part contingent also upon the impulse to resolve the incongruity introduced by the only incomplete details of Hildigunnr’s difficult and disturbing dreams, by their perhaps purposeful marginalization in this brief yet poignant scene. “No other experience,” Anne Carson writes, “gives us so primary a sense of being governed by laws outside us. No other substance can so profoundly saturate a story in compulsion, inevitability, and dread as sleep can.”28 Although

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the scene at Ossabœr opens with Hildigunnr leaving behind a troublesome bout of sleep, her immediate, comparatively imprecise invocation of the difficult or troublesome dreams that she had experienced and their apparent connection to her husband’s otherwise surprising absence ensures that sleep lingers over this scene, at least until the search for Hǫskuldr has come to an end. The unrecounted details of these dreams, like those that Kolr omits during his aforementioned exchange with Hallgerðr shortly before his own death, leave something of a void, wherein the saga’s audience must use their own interpretive powers to participate in the creation of the meaning of the saga narrative.29 Seeming to rely once again on the familiar association between dreams and death, the marginalized details of Hildigunnr’s dream may appear not to befit her important role in this stage of the saga. Certain aspects of Hildigunnr’s subsequent reaction to the discovery of her husband’s lifeless corpse may seem considerably subdued by modern standards of grief and mourning, perhaps even coldly unemotional. After the identity of Hǫskuldr’s killers has been revealed to her, Hildigunnr offers only a kind of proverbial assessment, stating that “Karlmannligt verk væri þetta . . .ef einn hefði at verit.”30 The emotional impact of the scene is, however, established through her fearful search for her missing husband, initiated by the mention of her troublesome dreams, and the discovery of Hǫskuldr’s body proves to provide a kind of anticipated release, not least of the tension and uncertainty of the two-fold irony mentioned previously. When Hildigunnr then finally gathers Hǫskuldr’s cloak together with his blood and places it in a chest for safekeeping, her actions bear a rather serene and ceremonial aspect, and they point toward a future moment—when the narrative focus returns to the farmstead at Ossabœr— when his cloak and his blood will undoubtedly reappear, resulting in one of the most profoundly emotional scenes in all of saga writing.31 This brief scene appears near the middle of the saga, and within the context of the saga narrative as a whole the event of Hǫskuldr’s death constitutes a pivotal point of no return, something of a bridge, amounting to both a culmination of events and an act that initiates a long sequence of events that themselves culminate in the arsonical attack referred to in the saga’s title. Hildigunnr’s discovery of her husband’s body, and the public identification of the killers, represent the first step in the subsequent legal battle that advances this action, but the way in which the scene is described renders it more than simply a necessary transition toward these greater events. In fact, in addition to the symbolic nature of his death, the search for and discovery of Hǫskuldr’s body after his death has already been described in elaborate detail, renders his killing unlike many others in the saga and perhaps offers some degree of insight upon an aspect of death and grief rarely explored in this and other sagas. While the discovery of his

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corpse is perhaps not entirely contingent upon Hildigunnr’s passing mention of the troublesome dreams that she had experienced, there is nevertheless an implied connection between the two events. However, in this instance the event itself uncommonly precedes the dream to which it bears connection.32 Lifting the obscurity, however, of the knowledge that Hildigunnr seems to have gained from these dreams proves an ultimately impossible task, but this does not mean that their mention is somehow superfluous and their effect negligible. The marginalization of their precise details is, in fact, crucial to their particular impact. It is this ambiguity surrounding the implied connection between the two events that gives pause to the saga’s audience, who are asked to not only consider the potential incongruity between what they know of Hǫskuldr’s whereabouts and the uncertain knowledge that Hildigunnr has extracted from her dreams, but also to simultaneously measure both the profound emotional impact of this near universally loved and almost saintly figure’s death along with its wider social and political implications.

Words better left unsaid The dreams described or at least referred to in Brennu-Njáls saga all reflect a familiar kind of tradition—whether a lived or a literary one—emphasizing an active boundary between dreams and the events of waking life across which dreamers always manage to “bring a bit of difference back with [them] from the sleep side.”33 In this and other saga writing, the kind of “difference” that the dreamers bring back from the sleep side of things is often rather clear in its implications for their own or others, waking lives, although in many instances further comment or—as is the case with Flosi’s aforementioned dream—an explicit interpretation is necessary to determine a dream’s precise significance. More often than not this difference seems to infuse the story with a firm sense of apprehension, fear, and dread, given the apparent connection these dreams share with impending adversity or death. This is even the case, like in the examples discussed above, when the precise sense of the difference the dreamer brings back from the sleep side of things is little more than inferred from the context in which a dream is referred to, even in simple passing or dismissive remarks.34 To convey significant meaning within its narrative context a reference to dreams or the act of dreaming in the sagas need not present a complex system of rich symbols, nor a powerful central series of images, nor in fact any specific images at all, as one might expect. Still relying, however, upon that familiar tradition —whether lived or literary—of emphasizing an active or porous boundary between

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dreams and waking life, in such instances when dreams are relegated to—or even beyond—the margins of a saga narrative, their meaning or significance may in fact be contingent upon the absence of their particular details. Though a rather prominent figure herself in Brennu-Njáls saga, Hildigunnr’s difficult and disturbing dreams, for example, go—perhaps unexpectedly—entirely unrecounted in the saga, beyond the margins of the narrative. It may indeed be the absence of their precise details, of words better left unsaid, that provides pause and lends the brief scene a sense of tension; this, in turn, underlines the significance of Hǫskuldr’s death, while simultaneously offering a brief window on its personal and emotional impact. Kolr, on the other hand, must be counted among the most marginal of figures in both the society that the saga depicts and the narrative itself, and thus it is perhaps remarkable that the saga’s audience gains at least a brief glimpse of his private inner life through his invocation of an ominous dream. It remains the case, however, that while Kolr is presented as more than simply a mindless, anthropomorphized instrument of death, his primary function within the narrative is to serve as a lens through which a prevailing aspect of Hallgerðr’s character can be expressed. This brief foray into both the social and narrative margins of the saga thus provides an opportunity to reinforce a significant aspect of the central narrative from a different but crucially corroborative perspective. These unrecounted dreams, placed at or even beyond the margins of the saga narrative, nevertheless bear witness to and capitalize on the familiar tradition referred to above. They demonstrate not necessarily a simplistic, or even lazy, but rather an inspired variation on how the sagas “author” exploited this seemingly fundamental but also paranormal aspect of human experience to add profound and different kinds of meaning to the narrative. This is sometimes achieved with just a few simple words and, perhaps even more interestingly, with words left unsaid. As a work of narrative art Brennu-Njáls saga is generally remarkable—though not exclusively so among medieval saga writing—on account of how the saga’s narrative deftly navigates between landmark events and intimately personal and private moments, presenting a strikingly rich image of a world in which even a lowly henchman like Kolr can dream.

Notes 1 An earlier version of this study was presented during Hugvísindaþing (The Congress of the Humanities) at the University of Iceland on March 16, 2013. 2 Plato, “Crito,” in The Collected Dialogues, ed. Edith Hamilton and Huntington Cairns, trans. Hugh Tredennick (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1961), 29. 3 Plato, “Crito,” 28–29.

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4 Anne Carson, Decreation (New York: Vintage Books, 2005), 37–38. 5 For an overview of some of the varied and multicultural traditions of humans seeking and finding significance in their dreams, see, e.g., David Shulman and Guy G. Stroumsa, eds., Dream Cultures: Explorations in the Comparative History of Dreaming (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999). 6 See, e.g., Annti Revonsuo, “The Reinterpretation of Dreams: An Evolutionary Hypothesis of the Function of Dreaming,” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 23 (2000): 877–901. 7 Descriptions of dreams and notions of their apparent significance appear in nearly every kind of medieval Icelandic writing, from sagas about kings and prominent church figures to the contemporary Sturlunga saga compilation, not to mention heroic and mythological poetry and prose; for an extensive—though by no means exhaustive—sampling of many such examples, see Alexander Argüelles, “Viking Dreams: Mythological and Religious Dream Symbolism in the Old Norse Sagas” (PhD diss., The University of Chicago, 1994), 229–421; Georgina Dunham Kelchner, Dreams in Old Norse Literature and their Affinities in Folklore (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1935). 8 See Pernille Hermann, “Concepts of Memory and Approaches to the Past in Medieval Icelandic Literature,” Scandinavian Studies 81 (2009): 287–308; see also Barbara Rosenwein, Emotional Communities in the Early Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2006), 193, 196, from where this phrasing is borrowed. 9 See Steven F. Kruger, Dreaming in the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 17–56. The Church could not entirely preclude the notion that God or his agents could communicate to people through dreams since such phenomena play a role at several key moments in scriptural writing; for a list of references to and descriptions of dreams in the Holy Scriptures, see Jacques Le Goff, “Christianity and Dreams (Second to Seventh Century),” in The Medieval Imagination, trans. Arthur Goldhammer (Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 1988), 229–31. 10 On skeptical views toward the significance of dreams found in Old Icelandic writing, including but not limited to the Íslendingasögur, see Christopher Crocker, “Gunnlaugs saga ormstungu and the Discourse of Dreams in Icelandic Saga Writing” Scandia Journal of Medieval Norse Studies 1 (2018): 69–96. Interestingly, although referring to a number of biblical references to significant dreams in a number of his works, Chaucer seems to show a general disdain for certain other traditions concerning the significance of dreams that were current during the Middle Ages. However, this attitude may not be entirely representative; see Marjorie Harrington, “‘That swevene hath Daniel unloke’: Interpreting Dreams with Chaucer and the Harley Scribe,” The Chaucer Review 50, nos. 3–4 (2015): 315–67. 11 See Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, “Formáli,” in Brennu-Njáls saga, ed. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Íslenzk fornrit 12 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1954), v–clxii. 12 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, 64–65, 155–56, 346–48, 459–60. 13 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, 346–48. The description of Flosi’s dream seems to share distinct details with a dream described in Gregory the Great’s Dialogues, perhaps bearing witness to the saga’s “author” having known and having been influenced by Gregory’s work (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Á Njálsbúð: Bók um mikið listaverk [Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1943], 8–13; see also Gregory the Great, Dialogues, trans. Odo John Zimmerman [New York: Fathers of the Church, 1959], 31–32). 14 See Christopher Crocker, “To Dream is to Bury: Dreaming of Death in Brennu-Njáls saga,” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 114, no. 2 (2015): 283–90.

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15 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, 92–97. For further reading on the mechanics of this feud, see William Ian Miller, ‘Why is Your Axe Bloody?’ A Reading of Njáls saga (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 73–108. 16 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, 50. 17 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, 48. The two men had already grown to resent each other, and Hallgerðr’s father Hǫskuldr had warned Glúmr about Þjóstólfr’s troublesome nature before the marriage was agreed upon, also seeking Hallgerðr’s consent to the arrangement (43–44); see also Miller, ‘Why is Your Axe Bloody?’, 44–48. 18 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, 114; see also Kirsten Wolf, “Laughter in Old Norse-Icelandic Literature,” Scripta Islandica 51 (2000): 93–117. 19 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, 33–35. It should be noted that the same Þjóstólfr who later kills Glúmr was also the instrument of Þorvaldr’s death, although Hallgerðr’s own uncle Hrútr considers her to have “ráðit honum banann” (plotted his death) (39). 20 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, 7. 21 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, 122–23. 22 Though beyond the scope of the present study, several scholars have addressed the way in which gender, sexuality, and power are depicted in the text, all important elements when considering how Hallgerðr is characterized and how her actions and intentions might be interpreted; see, e.g., Helga Kress, “Manndom og misogyni: Noen refleksjoner omkring kvinnesynet i Njåls saga,” Gardar 10 (1979): 35–51; Ursula Dronke, “The Role of Sexual Themes in Njáls saga” (lecture, The Dorothea Coke Memorial Lecture in Northern Studies Delivered at the University College of London 27 May 1980, London, 1980); and Ármann Jakobsson, “Masculinity and Politics in Njáls saga,” Viator 38, no. 1 (2007): 191–215. 23 Although the frequently-encountered name Kolr is not entirely generic in this and other sagas, the pairing of Kolr (Coal, or Coal Black) with his victim Svartr (Black)—whose names seem to be indicative of their shared social status and sinister nature—seems to befit the first and lowliest stage of the escalating tit-for-tat game played out between the two women (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, 92). 24 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, 92, 93. 25 See Ármann Jakobsson, “Some Types of Ambiguities in the Sagas of Icelanders,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 119 (2004): 37–53. 26 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, 280–82. 27 A man called Runólfr Úlfsson, for example, remarks that Hǫskuldr “hefir meir en saklauss veginn verit, ok er hann ollum monnum harmdauði” (was more than innocent when killed, and he is mourned by everyone) (289). Lars Lönnroth contends that the details and the staging of Hǫskuldr’s death, which takes place during a spring morning as he is sowing grain, is such that “the narrator is deliberately creating a medieval passio” (Lars Lönnroth, Njáls Saga: A Critical Introduction [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976], 96; cf. Miller, ‘Why is Your Axe Bloody?’, 197–200). Furthermore, the apparent connection between the unrecounted dreams that Hildigunnr experiences and the discovery of her husband’s corpse might coincide with the common Christian hagiographical topos that reveals the location of a martyr-saint’s dead body through a dream (see Le Goff, “Christianity and Dreams (Second to Seventh Century),” 223). Kristján Jóhann Jónsson, on the other hand, while acknowledging Hǫskuldr’s piety, has drawn a connection between the description of his death and that of Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi’s (Kristján Jóhann Jónsson, Lykillinn að Njálu [Reykjavík: Vaka-Helgafell, 1998], 176–77). 28 Carson, Decreation, 35–36.

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29 Ármann Jakobsson, “Some Types of Ambiguities in the Sagas of Icelanders,” 51. 30 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, 282. “This would be manly work . . . if one [alone] had done it.” 31 On this later scene in which Hildigunnr goads Flosi to seek out blood vengeance for Hǫskuldr’s death, see Carol J. Clover, “Hildigunnr’s Lament,” in Cold Counsel: Women in Old Norse Literature and Mythology, ed. Sarah M. Anderson with Karen Swenson (New York: Garland, 2002), 15–54; Miller, ‘Why is Your Axe Bloody?’, 200–6. 32 Earlier in the saga Hǫskuldr Dala-Kolsson similarly experiences a dream that seems to bear a connection to an event that takes place either prior or concurrently to his experience of the dream, though the concern here is not a matter of life or death (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, 64–65). 33 Carson, Decreation, 38. 34 Although not in reference to any particular dream, in Brennu-Njáls saga Skarpheðinn Njálsson tells his father that he and his brothers, “lítt rekju . . . drauma til flestra hluta” (reckon little . . . by dreams in most things) shortly following Hǫskuldr’s death (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, 295); on other remarks of this kind in medieval saga writing, see Crocker, “The discourse of dreams in medieval Icelandic saga writing,” 77–85.

Bibliography Argüelles, Alexander. “Viking Dreams: Mythological and Religious Dream Symbolism in the Old Norse Sagas.” PhD diss., The University of Chicago, 1994. Ármann Jakobsson. “Masculinity and Politics in Njáls saga.” Viator 38, no. 1 (2007): 191–215. Ármann Jakobsson. “Some Types of Ambiguities in the Sagas of Icelanders.” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 119 (2004): 37–53. Carson, Anne. Decreation. New York: Vintage Books, 2005. Clover, Carol J. “Hildigunnr’s Lament.” In Cold Counsel: Women in Old Norse Literature and Mythology, edited by Sarah M. Anderson with Karen Swenson, 15–54. New York: Garland, 2002. Crocker, Christopher. “The discourse of dreams in medieval Icelandic saga writing.” Scandia Journal of Medieval Norse Studies 1 (2018): 69–96. Crocker, Christopher. “To Dream is to Bury: Dreaming of Death in Brennu-Njáls saga.” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 114, no. 2 (2015): 261–91. Dronke, Ursula. “The Role of Sexual Themes in Njáls saga.” The Dorothea Coke Memorial Lecture in Northern Studies Delivered at the University College of London 27 May 1980, London, 1980. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson. Á Njálsbúð: Bók um mikið listaverk. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1943. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed. Brennu-Njáls saga. Íslenzk fornrit 12. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1954. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson “Formáli.” In Brennu-Njáls saga, v–clxii. Gregory the Great. Dialogues. Translated by Odo John Zimmerman. New York: Fathers of the Church, 1959. Harrington, Marjorie. “‘That swevene hath Daniel unloke’: Interpreting Dreams with Chaucer and the Harley Scribe.” The Chaucer Review 50, nos. 3–4 (2015): 315–67.

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Helga Kress. “Manndom og misogyni: Noen refleksjoner omkring kvinnesynet i Njåls saga.” Gardar 10 (1979): 35–51. Hermann, Pernille. “Concepts of Memory and Approaches to the Past in Medieval Icelandic Literature.” Scandinavian Studies 81 (2009): 287–308. Kelchner, Georgina Dunham. Dreams in Old Norse Literature and their Affinities in Folklore. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1935. Kristján Jóhann Jónsson. Lykillinn að Njálu. Reykjavík: Vaka-Helgafell, 1998. Kruger, Steven F. Dreaming in the Middle Ages. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992. Le Goff, Jacques. “Christianity and Dreams (Second to Seventh Century).” In The Medieval Imagination, translated by Arthur Goldhammer, 193–231. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 1988. Lönnroth, Lars. Njáls Saga: A Critical Introduction. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976. Miller, William Ian. ‘Why is Your Axe Bloody?’ A Reading of Njáls saga. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014. Plato. “Crito.” In The Collected Dialogues, edited by Edith Hamilton and Huntington Cairns, translated by Hugh Tredennick, 27–39. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1961. Revonsuo, Annti. “The Reinterpretation of Dreams: An Evolutionary Hypothesis of the Function of Dreaming.” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 23 (2000): 877–901. Rosenwein, Barbara. Emotional Communities in the Early Middle Ages. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2006. Shulman, David, and Guy G. Stroumsa, eds. Dream Cultures: Explorations in the Comparative History of Dreaming. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. Wolf, Kirsten. “Laughter in Old Norse-Icelandic Literature.” Scripta Islandica 51 (2000): 93–117.

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A Normal Relationship?: Jarl Hákon and Þorgerðr Hǫlgabrúðr in Icelandic Literary Context Abstract: The paper explores the relationship between Hákon jarl and Þorgerðr Hǫlgabrúðr in medieval Icelandic sources, particularly focusing on their encounter in Jómsvíkinga saga. Their portrayal in various sources suggests that, while modern readers view their relationship as paranormal, the medieval audience may have held the opposite opinion.

Introduction We do not come across many paranormal encounters in Jómsvíkinga saga. The saga does not include a hero who has to fight with dragons or serpents, dwarfs do not feature, ghosts are nonexistent, and there are no lions or other animals helping the saga hero on some kind of a quest; not even a berserk is allowed to join the party. However, there is one prominent exception to this lack of the paranormal, which occurs when Jarl Hákon Sigurðarson sacrifices his son to gain help from his supernatural ally, Þorgerðr Hǫrðatroll, in the battle against the Jómsvikings.1 This incident raises a few questions. Firstly, it is worth asking if this is remarkable at all. Does it matter that there is only one incident in the whole saga that the modern reader would categorize as paranormal? The answer to this question leads to other more fundamental questions: what is the difference between normal and paranormal for the saga’s thirteenth-century audience? And at the same time, where do the boundaries between fiction and history lie? I will argue that the literary context of the thirteenth century is essential in order to resolve these issues and to shed light on the couple, Jarl Hákon and Þorgerðr. This paper will furthermore contribute to the contextualization of Jómsvíkinga saga. The saga is generally believed to be one of the oldest preserved sagas in Iceland. The oldest extant manuscript (AM 291 4to) has been dated to ca. 1300, which is older than the extant manuscripts of, for example, the sagas of Icelanders and the legendary sagas. Peter Foote has argued that it is a copy from a manuscript written in 1220–30.2 The textual tradition is actually quite complex; the saga has been preserved in five different versions, but I will not dwell on these versions here.3 Instead, in https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-018

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this article I will base my discussion on AM 291 4to, which has been edited twice, in Copenhagen in 1882 and in Reykjavík in 1969.4 Jómsvíkinga defies the traditional categories of medieval Icelandic literature; that is to say, it is neither a Kings’ saga nor a saga of Icelanders nor a legendary saga nor a romance. Both its complicated textual tradition and the problem of its categorization have received a fair amount of attention from scholars, but no scholarly consensus has ever been reached.5 In my recent study of the text I come to the conclusion that the saga cannot belong to one category and should be regarded as an early saga, a production of the period in which the Icelandic and Old Norse literary tradition was not yet fully established; I conclude that it combines features from the Kings’ sagas, sagas of Icelanders, and legendary sagas.6 The plot of Jómsvíkinga saga takes place in Denmark, Norway, and Vindland in the tenth century.7 Prominent historical characters appear in the saga, for example, the Danish kings Haraldr blátǫnn (“bluetooth”) Gormsson and Sveinn tjúguskegg (“forkbeard”) Haraldsson and the Norwegian kings Haraldr gráfeldr (“grey-cloak”), Jarl Hákon, and the Norwegian queen mother Gunnhildr. The main subject of the saga is the legendary stronghold of Jómsborg, the Jómsvikings. In the saga, the Danish chieftain Pálna-Tóki establishes Jómsborg when the king of Vindland, Búrizláfr, offers him the district and asks him to defend his country and kingdom. Jómsborg becomes a place where young Danish men go to prove their manhood. The stronghold of Jómsborg gains fame and fortune by harrying lands, and the Jómsvikings are in fact the only vikings that play a main role in an Icelandic saga, albeit as a group rather than as individuals. When Pálna-Tóki dies and the Danish jarl Sigvaldi takes over, it marks the beginning of the downfall of the Jómsvikings. Sigvaldi takes them to a funeral feast in Denmark where King Sveinn makes sure the Jómsvikings drink excessively and agree to play a game of vows, during which they vow to attack Norway and fight Jarl Hákon. Hákon had stopped paying tribute to Denmark when King Haraldr converted to Christianity. The next day the Jómsvikings, suffering from hangover and loss of memory, realize they cannot gain a reputation for breaking their vows and head to Norway for their final battle, known as the battle of Hjǫrungavágr or sometimes Jómsvíkingabardagi, where the paranormal scene mentioned above takes place.

The Battle of Hjǫrungavágr In chapter 34, toward the end of the saga, the Jómsvikings are fighting Jarl Hákon Sigurðarson of Norway in a battle known as the Battle of Hjǫrungavágr or simply

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the Jómsvikings’s battle (Jómsvíkingabardagi). This event marks the end of the legendary brotherhood of the Jómsvikings. Jarl Hákon realizes that he and his party are losing the battle, which calls for desperate measures. Hákon withdraws from the battle and heads to an island nearby called Prímsigð.8 Once ashore he heads into a great forest and finds a clearing where he kneels down, faces north, and calls upon his protector Þorgerðr, who in this version of the saga is both called Hǫrðatroll and Hǫrðabrúðr. Hákon asks Þorgerðr for help to win the battle, but she does not listen, for according to the saga she is angry with him, and he is aware of it. We are not told in any explicit terms why. When Þorgerðr does not respond to his calls, he tries to offer her various sacrifices in order to please her, but she will not be bought. He gets even more desperate and offers her human sacrifices, but still she refuses. Finally, he offers her his seven-year-old son Erlingr, a fine and promising boy. That suffices, and Þorgerðr accepts his son as a sacrifice and agrees to help Hákon in his battle, along with her sister Irpa. Hákon returns to his ship and encourages his men with increased confidence. Within minutes, dark clouds gather, and a violent hailstorm breaks out. The storm is so great that some men can hardly stand upright, and soon they begin to freeze. One of the Jómsvikings realizes that Hákon’s men are accompanied by Þorgerðr who shoots arrows from each of her fingers, taking down one man with every arrow. Fight as they may, the Jómsvikings do not stand a chance against the hailstorm. Their leader Sigvaldi shouts out that they never agreed to fight with trolls, and they retreat. Hákon’s men manage to capture some of the Jómsvikings, and many of them are executed in an unforgettable scene at the end of the saga. Hákon can happily return to life without paying tribute to Denmark. According to the saga, Hákon and his men would never have defeated the Jómsvikings without this paranormal assistance. The saga does not explain to us who Þorgerðr is, and it sounds as if it is the most natural thing for Hákon to call her to his aid. It is therefore interesting to explore further why the saga accepts these paranormal sisters and their bewitched storm as a causal explanation when there are no other paranormal encounters in the saga. At the same time, the fact that Hákon sacrifices his son may strike the modern reader as a somewhat extreme action to take, even though it is certainly not the only brutal incident of the saga.

The Pagan Ruler Hákon is a well-known character in the medieval Icelandic corpus and ruled in Norway in the late tenth century, even though he is always referred to as a jarl

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and not a king. Apart from Jómsvíkinga saga, Hákon features in the Kings’ sagas Fagrskinna, Heimskringla, and Ágrip af Nóregskonungasǫgum as well as in the sagas of Icelanders Egils saga and Njáls saga. According to some narratives, including Jómsvíkinga saga, Hákon and King Haraldr Gormsson of Denmark betrayed the Norwegian king Haraldr gráfeldr, which ended in the king’s death. Following the death of King Haraldr, Hákon became the most powerful man in Norway until the return of King Ólafr Tryggvason.9 The attitude toward Hákon in the sagas varies, but it is largely negative. He is said to have participated in treacherous deeds together with the queen mother Gunnhildr; in some instances, he is called “jarl inn illi” (the evil earl), and he is infamous for his treatment of women, especially in his later days. In Ágrip it reads: Ok sat með ríki miklu ok óvinsælð mikilli ok margfaldri, er á leið upp, ok með einni þeiri, er hann dró til heljar, at hann lét sér konur allar jafnt heimilar, er hann fýsti til, ok var engi kvenna munr í því gǫrr ok engi grein, hvers kona hver væri eða systir eða dóttir.10

In both Heimskringla and Flateyjarbók, however, Hákon is described as a popular ruler who is favored by farmers, and it is asserted that it was only in his last years that his popularity diminished. Fagrskinna’s description is likewise not entirely negative; Hákon is represented as more courtly than most other men, well-spoken, and generous.11 We learn that Hákon took the initiative in trying to prevent Ólafr Tryggvason from returning to Norway because that would mark the end of Hákon’s rule. Ólafur Halldórsson points out that, in this respect, Hákon’s character resembles the motif of the man who suspects how his life might end and tries everything in his power to prevent this from happening. Invariably, despite all his best efforts, his suspicion comes true.12 This can result in a great loss or in death, even a humiliating death, and accordingly in some sources Hákon dies in a pigsty. In Ágrip, his death is explained at the end: “Ok lauk svá saurlífismaðr í saurgu húsi sínum dǫgum ok svá ríki.”13 More importantly, most of the sagas emphasize that Hákon was not a Christian.14 Hákon was reputed to have been baptized with King Haraldr in Denmark, and the king gave Hákon orders to take priests and learned men to Norway to convert the country. But as soon as Hákon was out of Haraldr’s sight, Hákon let all the Christians go and returned to Norway firmly committed to paganism. He is seen practicing heathen rituals in several sources, and in many of these the mysterious Þorgerðr makes an appearance.

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The Paranormal Partner Þorgerðr seems to have been quite a famous character because she appears in several Old Norse sources; however, they all have in common that they do not reveal much information about her. It is also not clear what her second name was originally, and this has been the subject of some debate. Four different forms have been found of the first part of her second name: Hǫlga-, Hǫrða-, Hǫlda-, Hǫrga-.15 The second part is either -brúðr or -trǫll. Hǫlga- is the first part most commonly used when referring to her, which could be due to the explanation found in Snorra-Edda where it is stated that her father’s name was Hǫlgi, the founder of Hálogaland.16 Norman F. Blake argues that this explanation is plausible and that Þorgerðr might have been a tutelary goddess, worshipped by Hákon’s family and the people in his vicinity, and as Hákon’s power grew, the worship of Þorgerðr spread. Blake compares the element -brúðr with the goddesses Freyja and Skaði who are called Vanabrúðr and goðbrúðr.17 He points out that they were worshipped at cult ceremonies and that Þorgerðr might likewise have originated as a cult goddess.18 Gunnhild Røthe reaches a similar conclusion when she argues that Þorgerðr’s status developed from her position as a venerated foremother of the Háleygjar family.19 Her status would then have developed into the role of the fylgja of the family. Else Mundal’s definition of fylgja certainly suffices to describe Þorgerðr’s role according to the preserved sources.20 In her analysis of the fylgja motive, Mundal differentiates between two types of fylgjur, the animal and the female. She describes the female thus: Ho har i høgste grad eigen identitet og vilje. Ho er ikkje ein del av personen som det umælande fylgjedyret, men tilhøyrer ei verd utanfor mennesket si verd og kan derifrå gripe inn for å hjelpe mennesket sitt. Kvinnefylgja er på ingen måte eit spegelbilete av det mennesket ho følgjer, ho står fritt i tilhøvet til dette og kan forlate det om ho vil. Kvinnefylgja kjem ikkje til denne verda saman med mennesket og døyr ikkje saman med det, men synest å leve ævelig. Ho går frå ættled til ættled og er knytt til ætta meir enn til einskilmennesket.21

Mundal understandably does not include Þorgerðr in her study since she is neither called fylgja nor dís nor hamingja, which are the other two main words used to describe these beings.22 These hypotheses about Þorgerðr being primarily the fylgja of Hákon and his family from Hálogalandi can explain the instances where the first part of her name is Hǫlga-. Røthe furthermore explains the form Hǫrga-, which can mean ‘a cult site’ or “a place for worshipping,” and discusses the possibility of Þorgerðr’s cult having originated with the veneration of her burial mound. She cites examples showing that the word Hǫrgr can mean “a mound.” Therefore, it is possible that

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her cult developed from an affiliation with a certain burial mound to formalised worship in the cult houses we find in medieval sources.23 In any case, descriptions of a hof or cult houses dedicated to Þorgerðr are provided by several sagas, namely Njáls saga, Færeyinga saga, and Harðar saga ok Hólmverja. The most detailed account can be found in the so-called Greatest Saga of Ólafr Tryggvason. In Njáls saga, we learn that Hákon and his friend Guðbrandr of Dalir own the second finest temple in Norway.24 It is dedicated to Þorgerðr and can only be entered when Hákon is present. In Færeyinga saga, another temple decorated with gold and silver is described as the finest temple of all.25 Hákon takes Sigmundr Brestisson to this temple and tells him that he must present Þorgerðr with a ring to earn her trust; Hákon also states that she is his main supernatural ally. In Harðar saga, we also find a temple dedicated to Þorgerðr, but in this case no connection with Hákon is stated.26

Happily Ever After? In the Greatest Saga of Ólafr Tryggvason, we find a highly interesting portrayal of the relationship between Hákon and Þorgerðr. This portrayal in fact occurs after Hákon’s death when King Ólafr Tryggvason enters a house that is obviously dedicated to Þorgerðr. The house is described as beautifully furnished, and in it they find a statue of a woman dressed in the finest clothes, arrayed in gold and silver. As a Christian, the king does not recognize her, and his men explain to him that if he had ever laid eyes on Þorgerðr he would know that this was a statue of her. Needless to say, the king destroys this icon and her house and keeps the garments and jewelry for himself.27 What is most interesting in the scene are the words the king’s men use when they explain who Þorgerðr was. One man describes her as the greatest friend of Hákon. Another explains that Þorgerðr had lost her husband whom she loved so dearly, referring to Hákon. The third man sees the stripped statue and asks why she has lost all the beautiful clothes that Hákon had given her to show his love. These words—friend, love, and husband—all suggest a relationship close to the hieros gamos motif, and Gro Steinsland and Folke Ström have in fact argued this.28 But returning to the scene in Jómsvíkinga saga, why would Hákon need to sacrifice his son to gain Þorgerðr’s help, and why should she be angry with him at this point? The latter question is hard to answer, for the saga does not even hint at a possible reason. It is plausible that it is connected to Hákon’s conversion earlier in the saga. He was baptized alongside King Haraldr Gormsson of Denmark after losing a battle with the Emperor Ótta who had been

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determined to convert Denmark to Christianity. Hákon, who was supposed to bring the new belief to Norway, reverted back to heathendom on his way home. Even though Hákon reverted soon after the conversion, that it took place at all might be reason enough for Þorgerðr to feel betrayed. To win her back, she demands a strong token of dedication, and in light of the sources that suggest an intimate relationship between them, the sacrifice may be interpreted as a demonstration that Hákon loves Þorgerðr more than his own youngest son. The sacrifice itself has parallels in other narratives. Human sacrifice is certainly not a common motif in medieval Icelandic literature, but a few different texts provide some examples. Kristni saga and The Greatest Saga of Ólafr Tryggvason both relate the story of how the Icelandic pagans sacrificed two men from each quarter of Iceland to the gods in the hope that Icelanders would not be christened at the millennium parliament. In chapter 10 in Eyrbyggja saga we find a description of a certain “Þórs steinn, er þeir menn váru brotnir um, er til blóta váru hafðir, ok sér enn blóðslitinn á steininum.”29 Landnámabók also describes this stone.30 A further instance of human sacrifice can be found in one version of Landnámabók, where Þórólfr heljarskinn’s settlement is mentioned briefly with the blunt statement, communicated neutrally and without any judgement, that he sacrificed humans.31 The same can be said about Eyrbyggja saga and Jómsvíkinga saga: it cannot be deduced from the text whether the act of sacrificing a human is considered worse than any other kind of sacrifice. In Vatnsdæla saga, however, when Þórólfr heljarskinn is introduced, the point of view is obviously negative. Þórólfr heljarskinn is said to be a “big trouble-maker and an unpopular man” and that the “suspicion was that he offered up human sacrifice, and no man in the valley was disliked more than he was.”32 Jón Hnefill Aðalsteinsson has studied sacrifice in the Old Norse tradition extensively, and he argues that the oldest secular texts, such as Íslendingabók and Landnámabók, treat sacrifice neutrally because the writers respect their historical sources, approaching them without judgement. In the oldest, translated Christian texts, however, he detects a different opinion and claims that sacrifice is seen as wrong in these works. Aðalsteinsson suspects that these narratives had a great influence on those who wrote sagas that include sacrificial episodes, and as more time passed since the conversion in Iceland, the more negative the attitude toward human sacrifice grew. Apart from Jómsvíkinga saga, in all of the aforementioned sources the person sacrificed is unspecified. In Ynglinga saga, however, we find a human sacrifice where the person is identified and yet another where children are sacrificed. In chapter 15, the Swedes sacrifice their king Dómaldi to stop famine in the country. When the Swedes sacrifice their king, they have already tried other types of sacrifice. First they sacrificed cattle, and nothing changed; next

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they sacrificed anonymous humans, and still life did not improve. Finally, they sacrifice the king himself, which proved helpful.33 The escalation of this scene is interesting and reminds us of Hákon’s dilemma when he seeks help from Þorgerðr. Chapter 25 of Ynglinga saga furthermore narrates the story of King Aun who sacrificed his son to Óðinn in order to gain long life. According to the saga, Óðinn promised him ten years for every son Aun would sacrifice. Eventually Aun had sacrificed nine of his sons and was so old that all he could do was lie in his bed, drinking from a horn like an infant. When he wants to sacrifice the tenth son, the Swedes forbid him to do so, with the result that Aun dies.34 In the Icelandic translation of the Dares Phrygius version of Trójumanna saga, which was most likely known in Iceland by the end of the twelfth century (as Veraldar saga testifies), King Agamemnon sacrifices his daughter Ahniletha to get a favorable wind; this is an act that reminds us even more of Hákon’s sacrifice.35 And of course, the biblical account of Abraham almost sacrificing his son Isaac could have been influential, but the fact that God hinders the sacrifice makes it different from all other instances in medieval Icelandic literature. The difference between a human sacrifice and any other sacrifice seems, then, to be one of degree rather than of essence—from the few instances we have examined, it is not regarded as worse than other types of sacrifice. The nature of the sacrifice is also a matter of degree; Ynglinga saga, Trójumanna saga, and Jómsvíkinga saga show us that in times of dire need, the sacrifice has to be substantial. Thus, when Hákon sacrifices his son, it is a testament to how important help from Þorgerðr and victory over the Jómsvikings is to him. The son is the currency needed in this particular context.

The Audience In order to shed light on the inclusion of this paranormal scene in Jómsvíkinga saga, it is important to note that its portrayal of Hákon and Þorgerðr can only be understood by gathering sources and piecing the information together. Even when all the main sources are taken into account, the figure of Þorgerðr and her relationship with Hákon is quite nebulous. Whether the relationship between Hákon and Þorgerðr can be interpreted as hierogamy, or if Þorgerðr should rather be regarded as Hákon’s fylgja, it is noteworthy that the relationship between Hákon and Þorgerðr was well-known and is represented in different sagas without much explanation. Just as in Jómsvíkinga saga, Þorgerðr is hardly ever introduced, and her role never explained fully. As a result, it may be assumed that to

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a late medieval audience it would not have come as a surprise that Hákon enlists her aid in order to win the battle against the Jómsvikings. These results turn the focus to the border between normal and paranormal as well as the difference between history and fiction. The demarcation of these concepts must be viewed on the basis of medieval reception rather than modern understanding. The medieval audience should also be considered a complex group, and it is not advisable to assume that everybody believed the stories they heard but to keep in mind that at least some may have. This notion is a part of a debate on the fictionality of Icelandic sagas in general, a topic that has been much discussed amongst both saga scholars and other saga readers for decades. Jómsvíkinga saga is traditionally not included as an important historical source and understandably so: even though historical characters and events form the background of the saga, it is apparent to the modern reader that the saga is largely fictional. However, there are several indications that the saga was treated as a historical source in the Middle Ages. Sagas that are often considered more serious literature, such as Heimskringla and Fagrskinna, include material from Jómsvíkinga saga. Whether they made direct use of the saga or an unknown source, thisit shows that the saga’s content was not dismissed in its entirety as fiction. Flateyjarbók supports this notion. The exposition of Flateyjarbók is clearly historical,36 and the inclusion of Jómsvíkinga saga in the saga of King Ólafr Tryggvason suggests that the authors believed it to be a relevant piece in the king’s history. The redaction of Jómsvíkinga saga in Sth. Perg. 4to nr. 7 may reflect a different attitude toward the saga as it is preserved in the company of other sagas, mainly legendary sagas, and the redaction of AM 510 4to supports this view. However, the manuscript context can be interpreted as representative of how the medieval audience may have viewed the saga. It is not necessary to assume that it was regarded either as a historical saga or as fiction. It may have been regarded as both, and it is furthermore possible that people could believe some of the saga, but not all of it. Another important factor is that throughout the centuries, the understanding of what is possible in the real world and what is not has altered dramatically. As Hayden White has argued in detail, early historians were not influenced by modern realism and saw historical writing as literary art.37 Fancy did not exclude fact. The possibility that saga authors may have wished to entertain their audience while relating historical events should not be disregarded either. When the relationship between Hákon and Þorgerðr is read in light of a broader context than the Jómsvíkinga saga alone, it can give us a glimpse into how the medieval audience may have perceived the scene. Of course we can neither assume that the audience knew all the stories on Hákon and Þorgerðr

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nor can we preclude that pieces are missing from the story as it can be read from its extant sources. Scrutinizing the sources can, however, give one an idea of the frame of reference that the audience had. The paranormal scene in Jómsvíkinga saga may thus have lead some of the audience to regard the relationship between Hákon and Þorgerðr as normal and believable.

Conclusion When Hákon heads to the island Prímsigð to try and get help from his ally Þorgerðr, the fact is mentioned in Jómsvíkinga saga without any further explanation as to who Þorgerðr is or why Hákon chooses to call on her. There is also no condemnation implied in the text when Hákon sacrifices his son. By exploring other thirteenth-century sources we see that Jómsvíkinga saga is not unique in this respect—as a general rule, the audience is never told explicitly who Þorgerðr is or what her role is, and human sacrifice is seen as an ordinary aspect of the past. This suggests that a medieval audience would recognize Þorgerðr, and her name alone would evoke a wider context. When Hákon sacrifices his son to gain help from the trǫll Þorgerðr, the key to the episode is Hákon’s paganism. Both in Jómsvíkinga saga and other sources Hákon’s paganism is emphasized. Although the Jómsvikings do not appear as representatives of Christianity or even as practicing Christians, they are, as far as we know, all Danish and therefore by default Christians. Hákon is portrayed repeatedly in medieval Icelandic literature as a figure who represents the fading past, remaining loyal to the old and outdated belief system. Depicting Hákon as a pagan who communicates with the undefined supernatural figure of Þorgerðr consequently puts Jómsvíkinga saga in a clear context with other Icelandic sagas from the thirteenth century. It furthermore draws attention to the relationship between Þorgerðr and Hákon that seems to have been well established enough to refer to without the context, highlighting the fact that the saga’s original audience belonged to a different culture to modern-day readers. A complex group of audiences could have understood a scene that modern readers perceive as paranormal as a normal part of their real-life existence.

Notes 1 Ólafur Halldórsson does, however, interpret one other scene as a possible paranormal encounter, namely, when King Haraldr Gormsson goes to bed with Saum-Æsa, daughter of Atli

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svarti. He believes that the father and daughter might be some kind of troll. His conclusion is convincing, but the saga does not state this overtly. Saum-Æsa and Atli are not called trolls, and the daughter is simply “mikil vexti.” See Ólafur Halldórsson, “Sagan handan sögunnar,” Gripla 12 (2001): 83–85; cf. Ólafur Halldórsson, ed., Jómsvíkinga saga (Reykjavík: Prentsmiðja Jóns Helgasonar, 1969), 107–8. 2 See Peter Foote, “Notes on Some Linguistic Features in AM 291 4to (Jómsvíkinga saga),” Íslensk tunga 1 (1959): 28–29. On dating the manuscript, see Hreinn Benediktsson, Early Icelandic Script as Illustrated in Vernacular Texts from the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries (Reykjavík: Manuscript Institute of Iceland, 1965), 14–15; Kristian Kålund, Katalog over den Arnamagnæanske håndskriftsamling, 2 vols. (Copenhagen: Glydendal, 1889–1894), 538. 3 See Þórdís Edda Jóhannesdóttir and Veturliði Óskarsson, “The Manuscripts of Jómsvíkinga saga: A Survey,” Scripta Islandica 65 (2014): 9–29. The difference between the preserved versions is discussed in more detail in my PhD thesis, see Þórdís Edda Jóhannesdóttir, “Jómsvíkinga saga: Sérstaða, varðveisla og viðtökur” (PhD diss., University of Iceland, 2016), 29–48. 4 Carl af Petersens, ed., Jómsvíkinga Saga: Efter Arnamagnæanska handskriften, N:o 291. 4:to i diplomatariskt aftryck (Copenhagen: Berlings Boktryckeri, 1882); Ólafur Halldórsson, Jómsvíkinga saga. All references to the saga are to the latter edition. Since the completion of this article, a new English translation by Alison Finlay has been published, as well as a new Icelandic edition by Þorleifur Hauksson and Marteinn H. Sigurðsson in the Íslenzk fornrit series. The saga is also currently being edited for the Íslenzk fornrit series. 5 On categorization, see, e.g., Torfi H. Tulinius, The Matter of the North: The Rise of Literary Fiction in Thirteenth-Century Iceland, trans. Randi C. Eldevik (Odense: Odense Universitetsforlag, 2002), 191–216; Ólafur Halldórsson, Jómsvíkinga saga, 51; Melissa A. Berman, “The Political Sagas,” Scandinavian Studies 57 (1985): 113–29. On the textual tradition, see Gustav Indrebø, Fagrskinna, Avhandlinger fra universitetets historiske seminar 4 (Kristiania: Grøndahl, 1917), 56–57; Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, Om de norske kongers sagaer (Oslo: Dybwad, 1937), 202; John Megaard, “Studier i Jómsvíkinga sagas stemma: Jómsvíkinga sagas fem redaksjoner sammanlignet med versjonene i Fagrskinna, Jómvíkingadrápa, Heimskringla og Saxo,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 115 (2000): 125–82; Jakob Benediktsson, Arngrimi Jonae Opera Latine Conscripta, vol. 4, Bibliotheca Arnamagnæana 12 (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1957); Gustav Storm, “Om Redaktionerne af Jomsvikingasaga,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 1 (1883): 235–48; Heinrich Hempel, “Die Formen der Iómsvíkinga saga,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 39 (1923): 1–58. 6 Þórdís Edda Jóhannesdóttir, “Jómsvíkinga saga,” 179–95. 7 Vindland in Old Norse refers to an area of modern Poland and Germany that lies near the southern shore of the Baltic Sea. 8 On the place names and the location of the battle, see John Megaard, “Hvor sto ‘Slaget i Hjǫrungavágr’? Jomsvikingeberetningens stedsnavn og Sæmundar fróði,” Alvíssmál 9 (1999): 29–54; cf. Ólafur Halldórsson, “Mostur og Sæla,” Gripla 6 (1984): 101–12; Ólafur Halldórsson, “Um Jómsvíkinga,” Lesbók Morgunblaðsins, August 16, 1986. 9 Cf. Chris Abram, Myths of the Pagan North: The Gods of the Norsemen (London: Continuum, 2011), 127–42. 10 Bjarni Einarsson, ed., Ágrip af Nóregskongungasögum: Fagrskinna — Nóregs konunga tal, Íslenzk fornrit 29 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1985), 16. “He ruled imperiously, and as time passed, grew more unpopular, particularly because—and this led to his death—he considered all women whom he desired equally available to him, making no distinction as to who was whose wife or sister or daughter” (Matthew Driscoll, ed. and trans., Ágrip af Nóregskonungasögum: A

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Twelfth-Century Synoptic History of the Kings of Norway [London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2008], 21–23). In the Norwegian synoptics in Latin, Hákon’s philandering is not mentioned, but all the Icelandic sources include it. 11 Bjarni Einarsson, Ágrip af Nóregskongungasögum, 104. Folke Ström has also argued that Hákon is depicted in a positive way in skaldic poetry but believes that the poetry might originate as a propaganda composed by skalds who served Hákon, see Folke Ström, “Poetry as Instrument of Propaganda: Jarl Hákon and His Poets,” in Speculum Norroenum: Norse Studies in Memory of Gabriel Turville-Petre, ed. Ursula Dronke et al. (Odense: Odense University Press, 1981), 440–58. 12 Ólafur Halldórsson, “Af Hákoni Hlaðajarli Sigurðsynni,” Gripla 15 (2004): 181–82. 13 Bjarni Einarsson, Ágrip af Nóregskongungasögum, 17. “And thus a man who had lived a life of filth ended, in a house of filth, his days and his rule” (Driscoll, Ágrip af Nóregskonungasögum, 25). See also Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, ed., Heimskringla, vol. 1, Íslenzk fornrit 26 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1941), 297; Ólafur Halldórsson, ed., Færeyinga saga: Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar eptir Odd munk Snorrason, Íslenzk fornrit 25 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2006), 198–202. Hákon’s death is not described in the same way in all sources, cf. Sverrir Tómasson, “Dauði Hákonar jarls,” Gripla 15 (2004): 189–91; Ólafur Halldórsson, “Af Hákoni Hlaðajarli Sigurðsynni,” 179–80. 14 Cf. Abram, Myths of the Pagan North who remarks that Hákon’s paganism was his most notable characteristic in Old Norse sources. 15 See N. F. Blake, ed. and trans., The Saga of the Jomsvikings (London: Thomas Nelson, 1962), 51. 16 Finnur Jónsson, ed., Edda Snorra Sturlusonar, Íslenzk fornrit (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1931), 142. 17 Finnur Jónsson, Edda Snorra Sturlusonar, 126; Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, eds., Eddukvæði, 2 vols., Íslenzk fornrit (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2014), 370. 18 See Blake, The Saga of the Jomsvikings, 51. 19 Gunnhild Røthe, “Þorgerðr Hölgabrúðr: The fylgja of the Háleygjar Family,” Scripta Islandica 58 (2007): 33–55. 20 Else Mundal, Fylgjemotiva i norrøn litteratur (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1974), 84. 21 “She has very much her own identity and will. She is not a part of a person like the speechless animal fylgja, but belongs to a world outside, from where she emerges into the human world to help. The female fylgja is in no way a reflection of the person she follows; she is free of them and can abandon them if she likes. The female fylgja did not come into this world together with her human and does not die with them but seems to live forever. She moves from generation to generation and is bound to family rather than to individuals.” 22 See, for example, the register in Mundal, Fylgjemotiva i norrøn litteratur, 65–68. 23 Røthe also provides an overview of more hypotheses on the origins of Þorgerðr, see Røthe, “Þorgerðr Hölgabrúðr.” 24 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, Íslenzk fornrit 12 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1954), 210. 25 Ólafur Halldórsson, Færeyinga saga, 50. 26 The editors of Harðar saga suggest that her presence in the saga might be explained in terms of family relations to Hákon. Grímkell’s father came from Orkadalr in Trondheim, which is the next farm to Hlaðir where Hákon was from; they also point out that according to Landnámabók, Grímkell’s mother was Hákon’s granddaughter. See Þórhallur Vilmundarson

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and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, eds., Harðar saga, Íslenzk fornrit 13 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1991), 51. 27 See Guðbrandur Vigfússon and Carl Richard Unger, eds., Flateyjarbók: En samling af norske konge-sagaer med indskudte mindre fortællinger om begivenheder i og udenfor Norge samt annaler, Udgiven efter offentlig foranstaltning, 3 vols. (Christiania: Malling, 1860–1868), vol. 1, pp. 407–8. 28 Gro Steinsland, Det hellige bryllup og norrøn kongeideologi: En analyse av hierogamimyten i Skírnismál, Ynglingatal, Háleygjatal og Hyndluljóð (Oslo: Solum, 1991), 220–26; Folke Ström, “Hieros gamos-motivet i Hallfreðr Óttarssons Hákonardrápa och den nordnorska jarlavärdigheten,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 98 (1983): 79. Nora Chadwick calls Þorgerðr Hákon’s “supernatural wife” because of this scene in Flateyjarbók, see Nora K. Chadwick, “Þorgerðr Hölgabrúðr and the trolla þing: A Note on Sources,” in The Early Cultures of the North-West Europe, ed. Cyril Fox and Bruce Dickins (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1950), 409. 29 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds., Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr, Íslenzk fornrit 4 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935), 18. “Thor’s stone, across which men’s backs were broken when they were sacrificed” (Viðar Hreinsson, ed., The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales, 5 vols. [Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing, 1997], vol. 5, p. 138). 30 Jakob Benediktsson, ed., Íslendingabók Landnámabók, 2 vols., Íslenzk fornrit 1 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1968), 126. 31 This statement is only preserved in the so-called Melabókaslitur of Landnámabók, see Jakob Benediktsson, ed., Skarðsárbók: Landnámabók Björns Jónssonar á Skarðsá, Rit Handritastofnunar Íslands 1 (Reykjavík: Háskóli Íslands, 1958), 94. 32 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Vatnsdæla saga, Íslenzk fornrit 8 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1939), 46. Translation from Viðar Hreinsson, The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, vol. 4, p. 22. 33 Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, Heimskringla, vol. 1, pp. 31–32. 34 Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, Heimskringla, vol. 1, pp. 47–49. 35 Jonna Louis-Jensen, ed., Trójumanna saga: The Dares Phrygius Version, Editiones Arnamagnæanæ Series A 9 (Copenhagen: Reitzel, 1981), 78. 36 Kolbrún Haraldsdóttir, “Innhald og komposisjon i Flateyjarbók,” Nordica Bergensia 23 (2000): 95–96. 37 Hayden White, Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978), 122–23.

Bibliography Abram, Chris. Myths of the Pagan North: The Gods of the Norsemen. London: Continuum, 2011. Berman, Melissa A. “The Political Sagas.” Scandinavian Studies 57 (1985): 113–29. Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, ed. Heimskringla. Vol. 1. Íslenzk fornrit 26. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1941. Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson. Om de norske kongers sagaer. Oslo: Dybwad, 1937. Bjarni Einarsson, ed. Ágrip af Nóregskongungasögum: Fagrskinna — Nóregs konunga tal. Íslenzk fornrit 29. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1985. Blake, N. F., ed. and trans. The Saga of the Jomsvikings. London: Thomas Nelson, 1962.

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Chadwick, Nora K. “Þorgerðr Hölgabrúðr and the trolla þing: A Note on Sources.” In The Early Cultures of the North-West Europe, edited by Cyril Fox and Bruce Dickins, 397–417. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1950. Driscoll, Matthew, ed. and trans. Ágrip af Nóregskonungasögum: A Twelfth-Century Synoptic History of the Kings of Norway. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2008. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed. Brennu-Njáls saga. Íslenzk fornrit 12. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1954. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed. Vatnsdæla saga. Íslenzk fornrit 8. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1939. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds. Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr. Íslenzk fornrit 4. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935. Finnur Jónsson, ed. Edda Snorra Sturlusonar. Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1931. Foote, Peter. “Notes on Some Linguistic Features in AM 291 4to (Jómsvíkinga saga).” Íslensk tunga 1 (1959): 28–29. Guðbrandur Vigfússon and Carl Richard Unger, eds. Flateyjarbók: En samling af norske kongesagaer med indskudte mindre fortællinger om begivenheder i og udenfor Norge samt annaler. Udgiven efter offentlig foranstaltning Christiania (Oslo): Malling, 1860–1868. Hempel, Heinrich. “Die Formen der Iómsvíkinga saga.” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 39 (1923): 1–58. Hreinn Benediktsson. Early Icelandic Script as Illustrated in Vernacular Texts from the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries. Reykjavík: Manuscript Institute of Iceland, 1965. Indrebø, Gustav. Fagrskinna. Avhandlinger fra universitetets historiske seminar 4. Kristiania: Grøndahl, 1917. Jakob Benediktsson. Arngrimi Jonae Opera Latine Conscripta. Vol. 4. Bibliotheca Arnamagnæana 12. Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1957. Jakob Benediktsson, ed. Íslendingabók Landnámabók. 2 vols. Íslenzk fornrit 1. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1968. Jakob Benediktsson, ed. Skarðsárbók: Landnámabók Björns Jónssonar á Skarðsá. Rit Handritastofnunar Íslands 1. Reykjavík: Háskóli Íslands, 1958. Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, eds. Eddukvæði. 2 vols. Íslenzk fornrit. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2014. Kolbrún Haraldsdóttir. “Innhald og komposisjon i Flateyjarbók.” Nordica Bergensia 23 (2000): 94–115. Kålund, Kristian. Katalog over den Arnamagnæanske håndskriftsamling. 2 vols. Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1889–1894. Louis-Jensen, Jonna, ed. Trójumanna saga: The Dares Phrygius Version. Editiones Arnamagnæanæ Series A 9. Copenhagen: Reitzel, 1981. Megaard, John. “Hvor sto ‘Slaget i Hjǫrungavágr’? Jomsvikingeberetningens stedsnavn og Sæmundar fróði.” Alvíssmál 9 (1999): 29–54. Louis-Jensen, Jonna. “Studier i Jómsvíkinga sagas stemma: Jómsvíkinga sagas fem redaksjoner sammanlignet med versjonene i Fagrskinna, Jómvíkingadrápa, Heimskringla og Saxo.” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 115 (2000): 125–82. Mundal, Else. Fylgjemotiva i norrøn litteratur. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1974. Ólafur Halldórsson. “Af Hákoni Hlaðajarli Sigurðsynni.” Gripla 15 (2004): 175–85. Ólafur Halldórsson, ed. Færeyinga saga: Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar eptir Odd munk Snorrason. Íslenzk fornrit 25. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2006.

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Ólafur Halldórsson, ed. Jómsvíkinga saga. Reykjavík: Prentsmiðja Jóns Helgasonar, 1969. Ólafur Halldórsson. “Mostur og Sæla.” Gripla 6 (1984): 101–12. Ólafur Halldórsson. “Sagan handan sögunnar.” Gripla 12 (2001). Ólafur Halldórsson. “Um Jómsvíkinga.” Lesbók Morgunblaðsins, August 16, 1986. Petersens, Carl af, ed. Jómsvíkinga Saga: Efter Arnamagnæanska handskriften. N:o 291. 4:to i diplomatariskt aftryck. Copenhagen: Berlings Boktryckeri, 1882. Røthe, Gunnhild. “Þorgerðr Hölgabrúðr: The fylgja of the Háleygjar Family.” Scripta Islandica 58 (2007): 33–55. Steinsland, Gro. Det hellige bryllup og norrøn kongeideologi: En analyse av hierogamimyten i Skírnismál, Ynglingatal, Háleygjatal og Hyndluljóð. Oslo: Solum, 1991. Storm, Gustav. “Om Redaktionerne af Jomsvikingasaga.” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 1 (1883): 235–48. Ström, Folke. “Hieros gamos-motivet i Hallfreðr Óttarssons Hákonardrápa och den nordnorska jarlavärdigheten.” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 98 (1983): 67–79. Ström, Folke. “Poetry as Instrument of Propaganda: Jarl Hákon and His Poets.” In Speculum Norroenum: Norse Studies in Memory of Gabriel Turville-Petre, edited by Ursula Dronke, Guðrún P. Helgadóttir, Gerd Wolfgang Weber, and Hans Bekker-Nielsen, 440–58. Odense: Odense University Press, 1981. Sverrir Tómasson. “Dauði Hákonar jarls.” Gripla 15 (2004): 187–94. Torfi H. Tulinius. The Matter of the North: The Rise of Literary Fiction in Thirteenth-Century Iceland. Translated by Randi C. Eldevik. Odense: Odense Universitetsforlag, 2002. Viðar Hreinsson, ed. The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales. 5 vols. Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing, 1997. White, Hayden. Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978. Þórdís Edda Jóhannesdóttir. “Jómsvíkinga saga: Sérstaða, varðveisla og viðtökur.” PhD diss., University of Iceland, 2016. Þórdís Edda Jóhannesdóttir and Veturliði Óskarsson. “The Manuscripts of Jómsvíkinga saga: A Survey.” Scripta Islandica 65 (2014): 9–29. Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, eds. Harðar saga. Íslenzk fornrit 13. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1991.

Gunnvör S. Karlsdóttir

Priest Ketill’s Journey to Rome Abstract: The episode of Priest Ketill’s journey to Rome is an innovation that was interpolated into version C of the Saga of Bishop Guðmundur Arason the Good, probably written by an Icelandic Benedictine abbot around 1330. The aim of this paper is to discuss the episode’s essence and origin and to try to trace its path into the saga from a collection of exempla written at the beginning of the fourteenth century. Ever since the nineteenth century, and well into the twentieth, scholars claimed that medieval Icelandic literature was absolutely original in almost every respect and scarcely colored by European influence. This attitude was mainly rooted in the romantic nationalism of the early nineteenth century. In the last decades, however, this approach has been questioned, and the aim of this paper is to show how cleverly fourteenth-century Icelandic hagiographers indeed adapted their work to follow contemporary trends in European hagiography. The tale of Priest Ketill has all the hallmarks that scholars used to frown upon. It was seen as an unfortunate superstitious flaw in an otherwise sound and realistic historical text, even if some did admit that the episode was stylistically an elegant piece of literature. In this article, I will take a closer look at this text before moving on to questions about its essence and origin in order to try to trace its winding path into the saga of Guðmundur Arason. Guðmundur Arason the Good was bishop of Iceland’s northern diocese from 1203 until his death in 1237. The seat of the bishopric was at Hólar in Hjaltadal. Eight centuries after his death, Guðmundur is still famous in Iceland, mainly for blessing wells all over the country, from which people would draw water for healing purposes and as protection against evil. Guðmundur lived during the troubled period of Icelandic history known as the Age of the Sturlungs, a period well-documented in contemporary sources. The primary source of information on his origins, youth, and years of priesthood before he became bishop is Prestssaga Gudmundar Arasonar. The main source about his journey to Norway to be consecrated after he was appointed bishop is Hrafns saga Sveinbjarnarsonar, while Íslendinga saga by the saga writer Sturla Þórðarson relates his years as a bishop. All of these sagas are now preserved in the compilation known as Sturlunga saga, which was made toward the end of the thirteenth century. A further four sagas were written about Bishop Guðmundur by four different authors at the beginning of the fourteenth century, all based on the sources in Sturlunga as well as on other sources, some of https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-019

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which are entirely unknown. These four sagas of Guðmundur are now known by the initials GA, GB, GC, and GD, according to their closeness to the Sturlunga sources.1 In the early fourteenth century, the leading writers of bishops’s lives worked in the Benedictine monastery at Þingeyri in the northern diocese.2 They were followers of a literary movement that differed greatly from earlier bishops’ lives in Iceland and that was characterized by a deeply emotional and extravagantly elaborate style reminiscent of Latin rhetoric and by long digressions from the story. Due to its having its centre at Þingeyri monastery, this movement has been called the “Northern Benedictine School,” even though no connection with Benedictine theology is implied. Known authors of this movement are Árni Lárentíusson, the translator of Dunstanus saga; Abbot Arngrímur Brandsson, who is thought almost certainly to have written GD as well as many other works; and Bergur Sokkason, a monk at Þingeyri monastery. Bergur, who later became abbot of the Benedictine monastery at Munka-Thverá in Eyjafjörður, is thought to be the author of GC and other works.3 The movement is first evidenced in the south of Iceland at the turn of the twelfth century with cleric Grímur Hólmsteinsson’s translation of the saga of John the Baptist. Guðmundur Arason is remembered for his personality as well as for his part in the fall of the Icelandic commonwealth. Scholars’ opinions of him differ so greatly that it is hard to believe they are referring to one and the same man. From his early years as a priest, Guðmundur showed outstanding kindness and generosity toward the poor. Word of his miracles spread during his lifetime and even before he became bishop, and this led to the common people referring to him as “the Good.” Despite being known for his kindness and for performing miracles, however, there were other sides to Guðmundur’s character. He was a determined advocate of the Gregorian ecclesiastical policy regarding power—as was Þorlákur Þórhallsson, bishop of Skálholt, a generation earlier—together with other bishops in Europe. Guðmundur fought hard for the church’s judicial power in its own affairs, and he proved to be a tough and uncompromising adversary to his opponents. The savage disputes with the heads of most of the leading families in the commonwealth that resulted from the bishop’s demands at the beginning of the thirteenth century were dealt with by the archbishop of Nidaros between 1214 and 1218. In Iceland as elsewhere in Europe, the church succeeded in having its demands accepted. Relations between the bishop and the ruling chieftans in Iceland, however, continued to deteriorate as they clashed over other matters. It was the bishop’s custom to travel constantly around the country and stay at farms for varying lengths of time. Much to the dismay of the farmers, he was accompanied on his travels by a large following of the destitute and numerous bands of disorderly young men over whom he had little control. The farmers tired of accommodating

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and feeding the bishop’s followers, who could easily number over a hundred. A love of travel was not the only reason for the bishop’s absence from his seat at Hólar: he was often forced to flee with his followers. It is clear that his relations with secular leaders were difficult, and in 1222 he was summoned once more to a meeting with the archbishop. In 1220, Tumi Sighvatsson, the son of a Sturlunga chieftan, had occupied Hólar and forced the bishop and his followers to leave. The bishop’s men killed Tumi one night, and the bishop fled fled with a group of supporters to Grímsey, an island on the Arctic Circle off the northern coast of Iceland. Sighvatur Sturluson, Tumi’s father, along with Sturla, his son, collected a group of men together to avenge Tumi’s death. The ensuing battle on Grímsey was one of the bloodiest battles of the Sturlung period.4 Bishop Guðmundur’s men suffered heavy losses, and both parties were summoned to face the archbishop. There is no mention in GA and GB of what happened during this later summons other than that many noteworthy events took place.5 The author of GC, on the other hand, claims to have in his possession a written account by a named source, by an elderly priest at Draflastadir called Helgi, who is nonetheless not known from any other sources. The main novelty of Helgi’s account is the tale of Priest Ketill’s mission at the papal curia on behalf of Bishop Guðmundur. The narrative is a curious fusion of, on the one hand, historical details and phrases that reflect common procedure at the papal court and, on the other, fictional events that shed light on the author’s literary style and hagiographical purpose. After the Grímsey battle, “Icelanders” (referred to thus by the writer of GC) composed a written indictment in thirty-three parts against Guðmundur. Members of the Sturlunga clan went in person to Norway to follow up the claims, although these documents have not been preserved.6 The archbishop came to the conclusion that Guðmundur’s deviation from the righteous path into deep ignorance was such that ecclesiastical law would relieve him of the honor of being a bishop. The archbishop claimed that since it was beyond his power to pass judgement in Guðmundur’s case, he would have to apply to the pope for a written ruling on whether Guðmundur could continue to hold his episcopal seat.7 In fact, it is likely that the archbishop also referred Guðmundur’s case to the pope in writing during the winter of 1225–26, although there are no documents to prove this. The actual circumstances of the appeal are not given. Cases were referred for arbitration to various papal offices according to their nature, as was the custom at this time when matters concerning bishops fell directly under the jurisdiction of the pope in accordance with ecclesiastical law. The same was true of violence toward clerics.8 Although bishops served in office until their death, there were circumstances in which ecclesiastical law allowed them to resign, such as loss of health, insufficient knowledge, bad conscience, blunders, other

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people’s grudges toward them, and scandalous behavior (debilis, ignarus, male conscius, irregularis, quem mala plebs odit, dans scandala, cedere possit).9 Sources make it clear that Guðmundur’s opponents had put his life in danger and that his followers’ murder of Tumi Sighvatsson and the bishop’s involvement in one of the bloodiest battles of the Sturlung age had been serious errors of judgement on his part, despite the fact that Guðmundur himself had not been armed. Due to his age and a disability in his leg, Guðmundur was not able to travel.10 Early in 1226, or more precisely at Candlemas, he passed the task on to a cleric in his service called Ketill, about whom the saga says only that he was said to be the son of Mánár-Oddr. Mánár-Oddr is not known from sources, but if he did exist he was probably connected with Máná at Tjörnes, in northeast Iceland.11 Ketill was said to be “clever about many things but learned about few,”12 in other words, he knew little Latin. Despite this, and even though it was both difficult and expensive to obtain a papal ruling, Guðmundur chooses Ketill for the trip. To make things worse, there is a suggestion that the archbishop’s council of clerics deemed the bishop to be incapable of conducting correspondence in Latin, and in cases such as this, a formal petition for papal arbitration had to be in writing and in ecclesiastical language. The ways of the world are harsh, but Guðmundur put matters in the hands of the Virgin Mary, and after some hesitation Ketill sets off, poorly clad, without money, and filled with certainty that the Virgin will look favorably upon him and the bishop.13 Nothing is said about Ketill’s travels until he arrives in Rome on Maundy Thursday, which fell on April 16 in 1226, and takes a room near the Basilica of St. Peter. This was around the time that the court of the Frankish king also arrived in Rome, although this is not mentioned in any known sources. Ketill learns that the pope will soon hold a large tribunal where various matters will be put forward for arbitration. He decides with trepidation to attach himself to the king’s retinue as it makes its way to the tribunal despite being nervous of all the ornate clothing, which was “so full of splendour that words could scarcely describe it.” Reaching the tribunal, Ketill sees two men kneeling in front of the pope and holding the edges of a piece of cloth between them. It was on this cloth that all matters that had already been deemed to fulfill the legal prerequisites for consideration must be placed. The appeal brought by the Frankish king was the first to be laid on the cloth. The priest Ketill is standing humbly at the back of the crowd and therefore decides to throw Guðmundur’s letter in the direction of the cloth while beseeching Mary in prayer to guide the letter to the right place. Mary does not fail him, and the letter lands in the middle of the cloth at the pope’s knee.14

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Despite the absurdity of the author’s description of papal administration, some details are accurate, such as the rejection of appeals not fulfilling the legal conditions for arbitration. In reality, the delivery of appeals to the pope and the final ruling were complex administrative affairs within the church, and they were processed by officials in a series of stages.15 Matters do not improve when it comes to delivering the ruling. When, after some time, no news of the priest’s appeal has been forthcoming, Ketill hears a voice coming from one of the towers of the Basilica of St. Peter early in the morning of Ascension Day. He runs with all haste to the tower and hears someone say through the window, “Nuntius Godemundi episcopi de Islandia si presens est, veniat.” Dredging up what little Latin he knows, Ketill answers, “Sum,” “ek em sá.”16 At that moment a hand emerges from the window holding a letter and gesturing for someone to receive it. Ketill spreads out his coat, and the letter lands in the middle of it. He races at full speed to his rooms, understanding that this is the pope’s ruling, or bulla as the author calls it, written to the archbishop of Nidaros.17 Calling out for Bishop Guðmundur’s representative was one of the formalities within the papal court for the delivery of written rulings, but other rulings are literally thrown to the wind through the church window.18 Arngrímur Brandsson, who later used Ketill’s tale almost word for word in his version of the saga, felt obliged to mention that, as a rule, matters were not dealt with in this way, especially “án fjár eða flutnings.”19 In reality, the delivery of a papal ruling to its receiver was no less of a complex administrative affair than the delivery of an appeal and took place in the office of a special official of the ecclesiastical chancery, a so-called bullator. In the thirteenth century, the phrase “bréf með bulla páfa” (letter with the pope’s bulla), or simply bulla, could refer to various papal documents.20 Guðmundur’s appeal must have been a request for an exemption for continuing in the bishopric, and rescriptum was specifically used about certain requests for exemption on which the pope was both allowed and expected to give an opinion.21 Having obtained the ruling, Ketill heads directly for the archbishop’s court in Nidaros, and—if the timing in the saga is to be believed—he has by that point only been traveling for a third of the time that his entire journey takes. It was common practice in papal rulings to include a clause naming which church officials should see that the articles of the rulings were carried out. For this reason, the archbishop and the council of clerics could expect there to be instructions in the pope’s letter of ruling to Guðmundur.22 The conclusion of Ketill’s tale echoes this rule. When Guðmundur and the archbishop read the letter more carefully it comes to light that the pope mentions “serhverja grein,” or each paragraph, but finally passes the power to make a ruling on Guðmundur’s case to the archbishop and, at the same time, expresses the wish that God would

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create such bishops elsewhere. Guðmundur is pardoned by the archbishop. Furthermore, the archbishop sends his written and sealed confirmation to Iceland, and the author of GC names witnesses who saw and heard the contents of the letter.23 No documents proving the papal ruling or the letter that the archbishop sent to Iceland have been preserved. The witnesses the author mentions, however, are known from sources. Jón the Red, archbishop of Nidaros (1267–82), is said to have known of the letter and to have told Reverend Koðrán Hranason about its contents when he was assistant to Jörundur Thorsteinsson, bishop at Hólar (1267–1313). He might well have met Archbishop Jón.24 Concepts and phrases from judicial procedure in the curia are used alongside knowledge of how complex it really was to obtain a papal ruling in certain matters. Mention is made of well-known events, persons, and witnesses, but the author refers to written accounts by a source whose existence cannot be proven at all. Scholars discovered the likely model for Ketill’s tale some time ago. In 1882–83, the German scholar Hugo Gering published a collection of medieval adventures or exempla from Icelandic manuscripts, Islendzk æventyri: Isländische Legenden, Novellen und Märchen.25 He had noticed that a series of thirty-six exemplary stories all have a similar style, and he had attributed these to a collection of exemplary stories by Jón Halldórsson, bishop of the southern diocese at Skálholt (1322–39).26 Gering identified the scribe as the α-author.27 Bishop Jón belonged to the order of preachers and had lived in their monastery in Bergen since childhood.28 One of the vows of the preachers was to eradicate sinful life, and to this end they worked outside the monastery and often traveled in groups, preaching morality, especially in towns and cities. To make their teachings more accessible to the common people, they used exemplary stories (exempla) and other worldly narratives, adapting them to their own message and so bridging the gap between the spiritual and the worldly.29 Over the years, these stories were made into collections that preachers carried with them. Among the work of the αauthor is the exemplum Skálefra, “Of a priest and a bell-ringer.”30 Gering pointed out the similarities between this adventure and Ketill’s tale, as did Einar Ólafur Sveinsson sixty years later.31 The parallels are too great to be ignored. A powerful priest sends a bell-ringer in his service to Rome in order to obtain a papal pardon for the misdemeanor of drinking themselves senseless and becoming involved in a bloody fight. The bell-ringer sets off, ill-prepared and filled with doubts just as Ketill was, but he has many adventures, fulfills his task, and obtains the pope’s pardon. The message of the story is thus that he who repents in all sincerity and puts his fate in the hands of greater powers will be given a just hearing in the papal court, the pope being the representative on earth of the crucified Christ. Parallels can even be seen in the wording of passages in the two stories. One example will suffice here: the pope’s concluding words in Guðmundur’s case. In

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GC, Guðmundur’s misdeeds were the result of “his mercy and ignorance,” while in “Of a priest and a bell-ringer” they were “because of ignorance more than evil.”32 There are some medieval manuscripts of compilations of exempla preserved in the Árni Magnússon manuscript collection in Iceland, some of which are believed to originate from Bishop Jón’s collection. The oldest manuscript in which the story is found is AM 657 a-b 4to, which dates from around 1340–90.33 It also exists in AM 624 4to from around 1500, which contains one of four exempla accredited specifically to Jón by the scribe in the prologue. It also contains various details concerning the role of the adventures. The intention of “he who put this little book together” is said to be to lead readers from vice to “good joy.” In church literature, the phrase “good entertainment” or “good joy” did not imply, as one might expect, amusement but instead referred to the purpose of granting men spiritual joy and supplying them with edifying models of the Christian way of life.34 But the prologue also mentions that the contents may appear more “humorous than spiritual”: this is done because it was necessary to spice up the material so that readers would not prefer material that might endanger the health of their souls.35 While the story “Of a Priest and a Bell-Ringer” is an exemplum, the Ketill’s tale has some of the hallmarks of a miraculum in vita, even if it is an unusual one. Miracles of this kind differed in form and function from miracula post mortem, which were the ultimate proof of a saint’s sanctity, as the former illustrate the saint’s virtues in his or her lifetime.36 In this case, Mary is beseeched for help in critical situation: Ketill becomes her tool and her intermediary, while it is the future saint and worker of miracles Bishop Guðmundur who benefits from this. There is thus a certain change both in roles and in other details. Ketill, who is both ignorant and dressed in tatters but nonetheless humble in his belief, is grotesquely contrasted to the learned officials of the papal court and the extravagantly dressed courtiers of the king. The narrative has the feeling of a travesty, making it even clearer that the bishop is favored by God regardless of the law. The story is both unusual and amusing, but humorous miracles also had their place within the literary tradition of hagiography. “Merry miracles” or joca sanctorum were well-known long before the preacher brothers’ movement was founded at the beginning of the thirteenth century, and they could take various forms. As Benedicta Ward has pointed out, the miracles themselves were not the butt of jokes, since they were no laughing matter, and the possibility of heavenly intervention in the concerns of earthly men even less so. Their purpose, however, was the same: to arouse interest, to get the attention of listeners, and to be “edifying as well as amusing.”37 Ward has drawn attention to the fact that in the eleventh century Bernard of Angers used “merry miracles” to appeal to the laymen

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he termed rusticus intellectus. Ward was of the opinion that he probably meant laymen from the upper classes of society no less than common people. On the other hand, church authorities disapproved of joca, and for this reason it is generally thought that they were mainly written for the ears of those who came from the same region as the saint.38 Ketill’s tale not only shows that Bergur Sokkason knew the story “Of a Priest and a Bell-Ringer,” but also that he knew the method of transforming an exemplum into a hagiographical text that would capture his audience’s attention. In GC, there is also a worldly story that was likely to have appealed to laymen presented in the guise of a miracle story: the narrative of Bishop Guðmundur defeating the worm monster at Hjörungavogur is clearly based on narratives of Jómsvíkingar.39 The supposed author, Abbot Bergur Sokkason, also translated the saga of St. Nicholas, and it has been pointed out that here an exemplary story is used in a similar way to the works by brothers in the order of preachers.40 Both Christine E. Fell and Sverrir Tómasson have called Berg Sokkason an enlightener of the common people since the narrative is told in such a way that most listeners would understand despite not being clerics.41 This also fits in with the changing role of saints’ vitas within the church. Older vitas were first and foremost intended to spread the word of God among commoners through plain language, but after Christianity had become established and the proselytizing purpose of these stories ceased, one of the writers’ main aims was to strengthen the faith of common people.42 Confessors’ vitas showed a virtuous way of life in a particularly powerful way, but they had to appeal to those who heard them if they were to be effective. “Of a Priest and a Bell-Ringer” and Ketill’s tale also differ in another important way. The Virgin Mary does not feature at all in the exemplary story, whereas she has substantial influence in Ketill’s tale. Bishop Guðmundur puts his fate into Mary’s hands on Candlemas, one of the Virgin’s holy days, and setting off on his journey, Ketill puts his trust in the hope that she will favor him. The High Middle Ages saw a pronounced rise in Marian devotion, in which the Cistercians played an important part. The Cistercian order was founded in Cîtaux in France at the end of the twelfth century as a Benedictine reform movement. Abbot Bernard of Clairvaux laid the foundation for the order’s worship of Mary, and his theories were quite influential outside the order in western countries during the twelfth century.43 In the early Middle Ages Mary played an essential role in redemption, but by the twelfth century she was seen as the human mother of an infant and the preeminent role model for women. This view of Mary is reflected in an invocation that has its origins with the Cistercians and soon spread: “Our Beloved Lady.”44 Mary’s role in Ketill’s episode and in GC generally may perhaps be linked to Cistercian ideas. Sources

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agree that Guðmundur was sincere in his admiration of Mary. Sagas of Guðmundur, however, also show how Mary’s importance increases as the sagas become more distanced from the original Sturlunga sources, despite the fact that they are all written within a period of about fifty years. The Virgin Mary is mentioned four times in GA, namely in the version of the saga that has been classed as an ecclesiastical biography and that does therefore not have the same role as a bishop’s life. The name of Mary appears twenty times in GB, the saga version written around 1320 that scholars believe is the earliest variant of bishop Guðmundur’s life. GC is thought to have been written slightly later, sometime between 1320 and 1345. Here Mary is mentioned at least forty-six times, and the phrase “Our Lady” also appears. This phrase and the phrase “Our Maiden” is even more common than the name Mary in GD, which was probably written around the middle of the fourteenth century.45 Although references to Mary clearly differ between GB and GC, and could very well show a Cistercian influence, it is hard to pin down where or how Bergur could have come under the influence of their written tradition. The Cistercians’ influence spread far beyond their own order, and Marian devotion was common and widespread in Iceland at the beginning of the fourteenth century. Nowhere is it mentioned that Bergur lived abroad, and there was no Cistercian monastery in Iceland. There had, however, been close contact between the Þingeyri monastery and monasteries in Norway, in particular with the Benedictine monastery at Nidaros.46 It may also be mentioned that the invocation “Our Lady” also appears quite often in the “Vision of Elisabeth of Schönau,” which is also to be found in GC and is believed to be closely related to an English version preserved in Cistercian manuscripts.47 In 1973, the manuscript scholar Stefán Karlsson came to the conclusion that the α-author was the aforementioned author of GD, Arngrímur Brandsson, who served under Jón.48 Little is known with certainty about Arngrímur’s life. He spent some time as abbot of the Benedictine monastery at Þingeyri, although it can be seen from the Icelandic annals that in 1358 he had joined the order of preachers despite the fact that they had no monastery in Iceland.49 For some time it was thought that Arngrímur was the author of Ketill’s tale since GC was not known until around 1960. This would have seemed evident since Arngrímur favored the preacher order. This is, however, problematic, even though the exemplum “Of a Priest and a Bell-Ringer” most probably came from Arngrímur. But it is Bergur Sokkason who transforms it into the story of Priest Ketill’s journey to Rome in GC, and it is this rewriting that Arngímur used some years later in his version of the story, GD. However, in this case it is Arngrímur who is connected to the preacher order, and the conclusion that Bergur favored the theological ideas of the Dominicans is a weak one: the method points to the

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influence of their literary tradition, and what is puzzling is the source of this influence. Even less is known about Bergur’s life than about Arngrímur’s. The most likely explanation would seem to be that he became acquainted with Jón Halldórson’s collection of exemplary stories through Arngrímur because of their connection with the monastery at Þingeyri, which at this time was the centre of the writing of bishop’s lives in northern Iceland. Annals, however, point to Bergur having left Þingeyri for the monastery at Munka-Thverá before Arngrímur came to the northern diocese of Hólar.50 Yet the possibility that they knew each other before Bergur wrote the story can of course not be ruled out. There are no sources that point to a direct link between Bergur and Bishop Jón, although it is clear that they both had connections with Brother Lárentíus Kálfsson at Þingeyri, later bishop at Hólar, and brother Árni, his son, who was also a writer of bishop’s lives. At Þingeyri, Bergur was also a contemporary of Einar Hafliðason, who later wrote the saga of Lárentíus. Einar was consecrated by Jón and had lived at Skálholt. One of these three could easily have become acquainted with Jón’s collection of exemplary stories and passed this knowledge on to Bergur.51 The saga of Priest Ketill’s journey to Rome sheds light on innovations in Icelandic bishops’ sagas in the second quarter of the fourteenth century. The model for the saga can be traced to an exemplum by the α-author Arngrímur Brandsson and is very likely a part of Bishop Jón Halldórssson’s collection of exemplary tales. The adaption of the tale shows that the author was aware of the technique of humorously disguising an exemplum in a bishop’s life in order to get his audience’s attention (especially that of laymen). It also shows that this method was not limited to writers from the Dominican order. The story of Ketill’s journey is furthermore an illustration of an increasing emphasis on the worship of Mary, the Mother of God, which can possibly be traced to Cistercian influence or even to both of these religious movements. English translation by Anna Jeeves

Notes 1 GA is an ecclesiastical biography, while the latter three are bishops’ lives. GA and GD, along with part of GB, are in Jón Sigurðsson and Guðbrandur Vigfússon, eds., Biskupa sögur, 2 vols. (Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1858). All references are to this edition with the abbreviation BS I and II. A younger edition is Guðni Jónsson, ed., Byskupa sögur, 3 vols. (Reykjavík: Íslendingasagnaútgáfan, 1948). Then there is Stefán Karlsson’s digitized text of GA, Stefán Karlsson, ed., Guðmundar sögur biskups, Editiones Arnamagnæanæ, Series B 6 (Copenhagen: C. A. Reitzel, 1983). GC is preserved in two partial paper manuscripts from the seventeenth century, AM 395 4to and Sth. papp. No. 4 4to, probably both descending from the

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same medieval manuscript, which is now lost. It has never been printed in full, except for the concluding chapter in Peter Foote, “Bishop Jörundr Þorsteinsson and the Relics of Guðmundr inn góði Arason,” in Studia Centenalia in Honorem memoriae Benedikt S. Þorarinsson, ed. Benedikt S. Benedikz (Reykjávik: Typis Isafoldianis, 1961), 98–114. Guðmundar saga A, B, C and D will be published in 2020 by Hið íslenzka fornritafélag and references to GC are to the chapter in this forthcoming edition (Guðmundar saga, Íslenzk fornrit [Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, forthcoming]). An English edition of GA is Gabriel Turville-Petre and E. S. Olszewska, trans., The Life of Gudmund the Good, Bishop of Hólar (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1982). 2 The diocese of Hólar is in Skagafjarðarsýsla, but Þingeyrar are in Húnaþing, which is the adjacent county to the west. 3 Stefán Karlsson, “Guðmundar sögur biskups: Authorial Viewpoints and Methods,” in Stafkrókar: Ritgerðir eftir Stefán Karlsson gefnar út í tilefni af sjötugsafmæli hans 2. desember 1998, ed. Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson (Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 2000), 16. All references will be to this edition, reprinted from Workshop Papers, vol. 2 (1985), 983–1005;. See also Stefán Karlsson, “Icelandic Lives of Thomas à Becket: Questions of Authorship,” in Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson, Stafkrókar, 143; Sverrir Tómasson, “Guðmundar sögur Arasonar,” in Íslensk bókmenntasaga, ed. Vésteinn Ólason, vol. 2 (Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1993), 261. 4 See Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, “Baráttan um Vestfirði á Sturlungaöld,” in Ársrit Sögufélags Ísfirðinga, ed. Jón Þ. Þór and Veturliði Óskarsson (Ísafjörður: Sögufélag Ísfirðinga, 2003), 53–65. Of an army of 400 men, forty were killed in Grímsey. During the Sturlunga Age, only the battle of Hauganes 1246 (Hauganesfundur) was bloodier. 5 Jón Sigurðsson and Guðbrandur Vigfússon, Biskupa sögur, vol. 1, 534 (GA); Jón Sigurðsson and Guðbrandur Vigfússon, Biskupa sögur, vol. 2, chap. 109 (GB). 6 Guðmundar saga, chap. 97 (GC); see also Jón Sigurðsson and Guðbrandur Vigfússon, Biskupa sögur, vol. 2, chap. 47. The letters between the archbishop and the Icelandic chieftains are not preserved but were very likely written all the same. 7 Guðmundar saga, chap. 97. 8 Walter Ullmann, A Short History of the Papacy in the Middle Ages, 2nd ed. (London: Taylor & Francis, 2004), 236–37. 9 http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/12774a.htm. 10 At this time Bishop Guðmundur would have been about sixty-two years old. 11 Guðmundar saga, chap. 98 (GC), Stefán Karlsson’s footnote. 12 Guðmundar saga, chap. 97 (GC). 13 Guðmundar saga, chap. 98 (GC). 14 Guðmundar saga, chap. 98 (GC); Jón Sigurðsson and Guðbrandur Vigfússon, Biskupa sögur, vol. 2, 123 (GD). 15 For more about papal ruling, see, e.g., Ullmann, A Short History of the Papacy in the Middle Ages, 227–50. 16 “I am he.” 17 Guðmundar saga, chap. 98 (GC); see also Jón Sigurðsson and Guðbrandur Vigfússon, Biskupa sögur, vol. 2, 123–24 (GD). 18 For papal rescripts, see Giulio Silano, “Rescripts” (1988). 19 Jón Sigurðsson and Guðbrandur Vigfússon, Biskupa sögur, vol. 2, 125 (GD). “Without money or presentation.”

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20 Since Innocentius III, four different offices dealt with rescripts. One of them was bullatores or bullarii. http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/03052b.htm. See also John J. James, “Bull,” in Dictionary of the Middle Ages, ed. Joseph Reese Strayer, vol. 2 (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983). 21 Silano, “Rescripts.” 22 Silano, “Rescripts.” 23 Guðmundar saga, (GC). 24 Guðrún Ása Grímsdóttir, ed., Biskupa sögur: Árna saga biskups, Lárentius saga biskups, Söguþáttr Jóns Halldórssonar biskups, Biskupa ættir, vol. 3, Íslenzk fornrit 17 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1998), 314–17, 320–22, 329, 336; Guðmundar saga, chap. 100 (GC), Stefán Karlsson’s footnote. 25 Hugo Gering, ed., Islendzk æventyri: Isländische Legenden, Novellen und Märchen, 2 vols. (Berlin: Halle, 1882–1883). 26 Stefán Karlsson, “Icelandic Lives of Thomas à Becket: Questions of Authorship,” in Proceedings of the First International Saga Conference, ed. Peter Foote, Hermann Pálsson, and Desmond Slay (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1973). 27 Gering, Islendzk æventyri, vol. 2, xxvi. 28 The first Dominican house in Norway was established in Nidaros in the years 1228–30 and in Bergen 1243–46. See https://snl.no/Dominikanerordenen. A few Dominicans are mentioned in Icelandic sources, but a Dominican house was never established in Iceland. 29 Jarl Gallén, “Dominikanordenen,” vol. 3, 174–85; Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, “Forspjall,” in Leit ég suður til landa: Ævintýri og helgisögur frá miðöldum (Reykjavík: Heimskringla, 1944), xv. 30 Gering, Islendzk æventyri, vol. 1, 267–72. 31 Gering, Islendzk æventyri, vol. 2, 206; Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Leit ég suður til landa, 301. 32 Guðmundar saga, chap. 100 (GC): “þat misgjörði stærst sem gjörðiz sakir miskunnar ok fáfræði”; Gering, Islendzk æventyri, vol. 1, 270: “sem þú munir slíkt tilfelli gjört hafa meirr af fávizku en illvilja.” 33 See, e.g., Bragi Halldórsson, ed., “Inngangur,” in Ævintýri frá miðöldum, vol. 1 (Reykjavík: Skrudda, 2016), 25; Jonna Louis-Jensen, ed., “Enoks saga,” in Opusculua, vol. 5, Bibliotheca Arnamagnæana 47 (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 1975), 12. 34 Sverrir Tómasson, Formála íslenskra sagnaritara á miðöldum: Rannsókn bókmenntahefðar (Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 1988), 130–31. 35 Gering, Islendzk æventyri, vol. 1, 3–4: “ok þótt nökkut samfljóti í bæklingi þersum þat er meirr sýniz kátligt en stórum heilagligt, þá olli því meirr várkynd ok heil ástundan þers sem samsetti, at helldr skylldum vèr heyra þetta samfengit en hallaz út af til þers einhvers er ekki hefir í sèr utan sekt ok synd.” 36 For miracles in Icelandic bishops’ vitas, see Diana Whaley, “Miracles in the Biskupa sögur: Icelandic Variations on an International Theme,” in Samtíðarsögur: Níunda alþjóðlega fornsagnaþingið, Akureyri, 31.7–6.8.1994, ed. Sverrir Tómasson, Stefán Karlsson, and Ásdís Egilsdóttir (Reykjavík: Forprent, 1994), 848–49. 37 Benedicta Ward, Miracles and the Medieval Mind: Theory, Record and Event, 1000–1215, The Middle Ages (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1987), 211–23. 38 Ward, Miracles and the Medieval Mind, 112. 39 Guðmundar saga, chap. 104 (GC). Toward the end of Jómsvíkinga saga it says that Búi the Big had transformed into a sea serpent that was seen by the bay protecting its chests of gold. See Ólafur Halldórsson, ed., Jómsvíkinga saga (Reykjavík: Prentsmiðja Jóns Helgasonar, 1969), 205.

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40 Sverrir Tómasson, “Norðlenski Benediktínaskólinn,” in Tækileg vitni: Greinar um bókmenntir, Gefnar út í tilefni sjötugsafmælis hans 5. apríl 2011 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2011), 354–55. 41 Christine Fell, “Bergr Sokkason’s Michaels saga and Its Sources,” Saga-Book 16 (1962–1965): 371. 42 Sverrir Tómasson, “Erlendur vísdómur og forn fræði,” in Íslensk bókmenntasaga, ed. Vésteinn Ólason, vol. 1 (Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1992), 472. 43 Edward Ortved, Cistercieordenen og dens klostre i Norden (Copenhagen: J. H. Schultz, 1927). 44 Ludwig J. Lekai, Geschichte und Wirken der weissen Mönche: Der Orden der Cistercienser, ed. Ambroisius Schneider (Cologne: Wienand, 1958), 78; see also Selma Jónsdóttir, Saga Maríumyndar (Reykjavík: Menningarsjóður, 1964),30–31. 45 Gunnvör S. Karlsdóttir, “Guðmundar sögur biskups: Þróun og ritunarsamhengi” (PhD diss., University of Iceland, 2017), 219–22. 46 Gunnar F. Guðmundsson, ed., Íslenskt samfélag og Rómakirkja, vol. 2 of Kristni á Íslandi, ed. Hjalti Hugason and Sigurjón Einarsson (Reykjavík: Alþingi, 2000), 215–16. 47 Stefán Karlsson, Sagas of Icelandic Bishops: Fragments of Eight Manuscripts, Early Icelandic Manuscri[ts in Facsimile 7 (Copenhagen: Rosenkilde / Bagger, 1967), 37. Stefán refers to Kurt Köster, “Elisabeth von Schönau: Werk und Wirken um Spiegel der mittelalterlichen handschriftlichen Überlieferung,” in Archiv für mittelrheinische Kirchengeschichte, ed. Ludwig Lenhart and Anton Ph. Brück, vol. 3 (Speyer: Jaegerschen Buchdruckerei, 1951), 243–315; Kurt Köster, “Das visionäre Werk Elisabeths von Schönau: Studien zur Entstehung, Überlieferung und Wirkung in der mittelalterlichen Welt,” in Lenhart and Brück, Archiv für mittelrheinische Kirchengeschichte, 4:79–119; see also Ruth J. Dean, “Elizabeth, Abbess of Schönau, and Roger of Ford,” Modern Philology 41, no. 4 (1944): 209–20. 48 Stefán Karlsson, “Icelandic Lives of Thomas à Becket,” 147–48. Stefán Karlsson claimed that GC was the main source of GD, if not the only one. See Stefán Karlsson, Guðmundar sögur biskups, 153–71. 49 Gustav Storm, ed., Islandske annaler indtil 1578, Udgivne for det Norske historiske kildeskriftfond (Christiania: Grøndahl & Søns Bogtrykkeri, 1888), 225, 405–6. 50 Storm, Islandske annaler indtil 1578, 211, 222. 51 Other examples show that the authors mentioned here shared their sources with each other, or at least that they all had access to them. Bergur and Einar both seem, for instance, to have had access to sources regarding the translation of Gudmundur’s relics and its procedure.

Bibliography Bragi Halldórsson, ed. “Inngangur.” In Ævintýri frá miðöldum, vol. 1. Reykjavík: Skrudda, 2016. Dean, Ruth J. “Elizabeth, Abbess of Schönau, and Roger of Ford.” Modern Philology 41, no. 4 (1944): 209–20. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson. “Forspjall.” In Leit ég suður til landa. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson. Leit ég suður til landa: Ævintýri og helgisögur frá miðöldum. Reykjavík: Heimskringla, 1944.

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Fell, Christine. “Bergr Sokkason’s Michaels saga and Its Sources.” Saga-Book 16 (1962–1965): 354–71. Foote, Peter. “Bishop Jörundr Þorsteinsson and the Relics of Guðmundr inn góði Arason.” In Studia Centenalia in Honorem memoriae Benedikt S. Þorarinsson, edited by Benedikt S. Benedikz, 98–114. Reykjávik: Typis Isafoldianis, 1961. Gallén, Jarl. “Dominikanordenen,” 3:174–85. Gering, Hugo, ed. Islendzk æventyri: Isländische Legenden, Novellen und Märchen. 2 vols. Berlin: Halle, 1882–1883. Guðmundar saga. Íslenzk fornrit. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, forthcoming. Guðni Jónsson, ed. Byskupa sögur. 3 vols. Reykjavík: Íslendingasagnaútgáfan, 1948. Guðrún Ása Grímsdóttir, ed. Biskupa sögur: Árna saga biskups, Lárentius saga biskups, Söguþáttr Jóns Halldórssonar biskups, Biskupa ættir. Vol. 3. Íslenzk fornrit 17. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1998. Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson, ed. Stafkrókar: Ritgerðir eftir Stefán Karlsson gefnar út í tilefni af sjötugsafmæli hans 2. desember 1998. Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 2000. Gunnar F. Guðmundsson, ed. Íslenskt samfélag og Rómakirkja. Vol. 2 of Kristni á Íslandi, edited by Hjalti Hugason and Sigurjón Einarsson. Reykjavík: Alþingi, 2000. Gunnvör S. Karlsdóttir. “Guðmundar sögur biskups: Þróun og ritunarsamhengi.” PhD diss., University of Iceland, 2017. James, John J. “Bull.” In Dictionary of the Middle Ages, edited by Joseph Reese Strayer, vol. 2. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983. Jón Sigurðsson and Guðbrandur Vigfússon, eds. Biskupa sögur. 2 vols. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1858. Jón Viðar Sigurðsson. “Baráttan um Vestfirði á Sturlungaöld.” In Ársrit Sögufélags Ísfirðinga, edited by Jón Þ. Þór and Veturliði Óskarsson, 53–65. Ísafjörður: Sögufélag Ísfirðinga, 2003. Köster, Kurt. “Das visionäre Werk Elisabeths von Schönau: Studien zur Entstehung, Überlieferung und Wirkung in der mittelalterlichen Welt.” In Lenhart and Brück, Archiv für mittelrheinische Kirchengeschichte, 4:79–119. Köster, Kurt.. “Elisabeth von Schönau: Werk und Wirken um Spiegel der mittelalterlichen handschriftlichen Überlieferung.” In Lenhart and Brück, Archiv für mittelrheinische Kirchengeschichte, 3:243–315. Lekai, Ludwig J. Geschichte und Wirken der weissen Mönche: Der Orden der Cistercienser. Edited by Ambroisius Schneider. Cologne: Wienand, 1958. Lenhart, Ludwig, and Anton Ph. Brück, eds. Archiv für mittelrheinische Kirchengeschichte. 10 vols. Speyer: Jaegerschen Buchdruckerei, 1949–1958. Louis-Jensen, Jonna, ed. “Enoks saga.” In Opusculua, vol. 5. Bibliotheca Arnamagnæana 47. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 1975. Ortved, Edward. Cistercieordenen og dens klostre i Norden. Copenhagen: J. H. Schultz, 1927. Ólafur Halldórsson, ed. Jómsvíkinga saga. Reykjavík: Prentsmiðja Jóns Helgasonar, 1969. Selma Jónsdóttir. Saga Maríumyndar. Reykjavík: Menningarsjóður, 1964. Silano, Giulio. “Rescripts.” 1988. Stefán Karlsson, ed. Guðmundar sögur biskups. Editiones Arnamagnæanæ, Series B 6. Copenhagen: C. A. Reitzel, 1983. Stefán Karlsson. “Guðmundar sögur biskups: Authorial Viewpoints and Methods.” In Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson, Stafkrókar, 153–171. Reprinted from Workshop Papers, vol. 2 (1985), 983–1005.

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Stefán Karlsson. “Icelandic Lives of Thomas à Becket: Questions of Authorship.” In Proceedings of the First International Saga Conference, edited by Peter Foote, Hermann Pálsson, and Desmond Slay. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1973. Stefán Karlsson. “Icelandic Lives of Thomas à Becket: Questions of Authorship.” In Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson, Stafkrókar, 135–52. Reprinted from Proceedings of the First International Saga Conference, ed. Peter Foote, Hermann Pálsson, and Desmond Slay (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1973). Stefán Karlsson. Sagas of Icelandic Bishops: Fragments of Eight Manuscripts. Early Icelandic Manuscri[ts in Facsimile 7. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde / Bagger, 1967. Storm, Gustav, ed. Islandske annaler indtil 1578. Udgivne for det Norske historiske kildeskriftfond. Christiania: Grøndahl & Søns Bogtrykkeri, 1888. Sverrir Tómasson. “Erlendur vísdómur og forn fræði.” In Íslensk bókmenntasaga, edited by Vésteinn Ólason, 1:519–71.Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1992. Sverrir Tómasson.. Formála íslenskra sagnaritara á miðöldum: Rannsókn bókmenntahefðar. Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 1988. Sverrir Tómasson.. “Guðmundar sögur Arasonar.” In Íslensk bókmenntasaga, edited by Vésteinn Ólason, vol. 2. Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1993. Sverrir Tómasson.. “Norðlenski Benediktínaskólinn.” In Tækileg vitni: Greinar um bókmenntir, Gefnar út í tilefni sjötugsafmælis hans 5.apríl 2011, 345–58. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2011. Turville-Petre, Gabriel, and E. S. Olszewska, trans. The Life of Gudmund the Good, Bishop of Hólar. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1982. Ullmann, Walter. A Short History of the Papacy in the Middle Ages. 2nd ed. London: Taylor & Francis, 2004. Ward, Benedicta. Miracles and the Medieval Mind: Theory, Record and Event, 1000–1215. The Middle Ages. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1987. Whaley, Diana. “Miracles in the Biskupa sögur: Icelandic Variations on an International Theme.” In Samtíðarsögur: Níunda alþjóðlega fornsagnaþingið, Akureyri, 31.7–6.8.1994, edited by Sverrir Tómasson, Stefán Karlsson, and Ásdís Egilsdóttir. Reykjavík: Forprent, 1994.

Ingibjörg Eyþórsdóttir

“Darraðarljóð” and Its Context within Njáls saga: Sorcery, Vision, Leizla? Abstract: In this paper, the poem “Darraðarljóð” that is preserved at the end of Njáls saga is looked at from three points of view: its origin in Nordic and Gaelic mythology, its place within the saga, and the viewpoint of the time of Njála’s composition in the thirteenth century. It is discussed whether the text can be defined as a vision, using theories from vision literature, with main focus on the West Nordic concept of leizla. “Darraðarljóð” is a poem that is preserved in all the medieval manuscripts of Brennu-Njáls saga, where it can be found near the saga’s end. Furthermore, Njála is the only place where the poem is preserved. Since the same cannot be said of all the poems within the saga, it can be argued that “Darraðarljóð” is particularly tightly connected to Njál’s saga.1 The poem is composed in the Eddic meter fornyrðislag, which is one of the two main meters of Eddic poetry. The meter is epic and is most often used to narrate some kind of mystical or otherworldly occurrence.2 It can accordingly be found in mythical poetry in Konungsbók eddukvæða-Codex Regius (GKS 2365 4to.) as well as in many epic and conversational poems in the Legendary Sagas (Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda), and fragments of mystical stanzas in a similar poetic meter are preserved in parts of Sturlunga saga. Poetry in this meter can thus be found outside Konungsbók eddukvæða, and the scholarly consensus is to consider many of these poems part of the corpus of Eddic poetry. “Darraðarljóð,” however, is not always included in that corpus.3 In Njáls saga, “Darraðarljóð” is situated immediately after the Battle of Clontarf, which may be considered the climax of the saga—or, at least, of the saga’s latter half. In the poem, women that bear names that have their origins in Nordic mythology weave a bloody tapestry and foretell the progress of the battle. The main opponents are the Irish King Brjánn, or Brian Borumá, who was a Christian, and Sigtryggr silkiskegg, or “silk beard,” who sought reinforcement from his allies Earl Sigurðr of the Orkneys and the heathen Viking chieftain Bróðir. Some scholars have considered the poem to have been composed shortly after the battle, before it was clear that Brjánn had won, even if he himself was killed.4 But the poem may also be considerably older than the time described in the saga—namely, the late tenth and early eleventh centuries, or at least older

https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-020

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than its written recording in the twelfth century. There is an approximately 250year gap between the events of the narrative and the recording of the saga, so it is possible to view the poem from three different points in time; that is to say, from the perspective of the poem itself and its mythical past; from the point of view of the poem’s frame narrative and the wonders that surround it within the saga; and lastly, from the perspective of the time of the saga’s composition. All three perspectives will be discussed here, with the main emphasis placed on the last point of view. The poem is placed within a þáttr— a tale, or part of the saga—that has been called Brjánsþáttr. The Battle of Clontarf, or Brjánsbardagi, is at the center of this tale. The events leading up to the battle, the battle itself, and the events that follow it are the subject of the þáttr. Fifteen men that participated in the burning of Njáll, or Njálsbrenna, died in the battle, which explains its importance within the saga. Supernatural events are abundant in the tale, and they seem to be more prominent in Brjánsþáttr than elsewhere within Njáls saga.

“Darraðarljóð” and Njáls saga: The Different Time Aspects of the Poem The first viewpoint to be considered is that of the poem itself, its mythical background, and possible role. The meter is Old Germanic, and in the poem women who have their origins in Nordic mythology weave a strange, bloody tapestry out of human entrails with a loom that is driven by weapons and that uses men’s heads as warps.5 But the Valkyries of “Darraðarljóð” are also closely related to their Gaelic counterparts, female battle demons that use weaving as a tool.6 By looking at the medieval Irish text on the Battle on Clontarf entitled Cogadh Gaedhel re Gallaibh, it can be said that the grotesque, splatter-like discourse in “Darraðarljóð” might have roots in Gaelic medieval literature and myths, rather than in Norse mythology.7 The poem was most likely transmitted as part of oral culture until it became attached to the events of Njáls saga and was finally recorded in writing as a part of this work. In the first stanza, the kenning “vinur Rannvés bana” can be found. It can be interpreted in two ways. The most obvious is “the female friends of Óðinn”—or even “the female friends of the gallows”—which could be a metaphor for friends of the loom that is used to weave death. Another possibility is that the women weave a bloody tapestry that is dedicated to or consecrated by Óðinn. In both cases, the women can therefore be interpreted as Valkyries. The second interpretation of the kenning could be that the loom itself is Óðinn’s friend as it is

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a tool of death.8 The word valkyrjur appears in the sixth stanza, and in the poem six women are mentioned by names that are known from mythic and heroic poetry as well as from fragments of stanzas from contemporaneous sagas. These names have connections to the Valkyries of Vǫluspá, where six Valkyries are named just before the killing of Baldr in stanza 30 in Konungsbók eddukvæða. Three of the names are the same in “Darraðarljóð” and in Grímnismál.9 It is therefore obvious that the poem represents the women as Valkyries— as women with Valkyries’ names who choose who dies in battle—and they weave the bloody battle on their deadly loom. The cloth they weave is grey and red, the colors of entrails and blood, and the women describe the process of their work as well as the battle they invoke at the same time; they support the young king (“hinn ungi siklingr”) and they depict the slaying of his enemies in their tapestry. In the poem’s epilogue, the women tear the tapestry to pieces and then ride off in two opposite cardinal directions—six ride off to the north and six to the south. In the frame narrative, twelve men of uncertain gender are seen, but only six women are mentioned in the poem proper. Many aspects of the poem can be interpreted as a sacrifice or sorcery performed for victory: the weaving itself, the tearing of the woven fabric, the chanting, and the timing of the ritual at the liminal time when winter meets summer during a historical period when only these two seasons had been defined.10 The tearing of the tapestry after the poem is finished points to a ritual or blót, since this act is evinced elsewhere in this same context—in other words, as a part of a magical act.11 The meter of the poem is unusually rhythmic, and the Valkyries chant or sing the incantation accompanied by the strong rhythm of the weaving loom, which gives it a further aura of sorcery. The second point in time I consider is that of the saga itself—namely, when the poem becomes a distinct part of the narrative of Njáls saga. There it is a part of an incident seen by Dǫrruðr at Caithness in Scotland early in the morning on Good Friday on April 23 in 1014. He witnesses it at the very moment the battle takes place in another country, at Clontarf near Dublin in Ireland. But the battle does not end with the young Nordic king’s victory, as could be anticipated from the poem, but with the victory of Brjánn, or Brian Bóruma, the king of Ireland, who is an old man at the time of the battle and a devout Christian. The latter is obvious from the fact that he doesn’t participate in the battle because of its timing: he abstains from fighting on Good Friday, but he prays fervently nearby instead. Brjánn is slain in the battle, but according to all the sources he is considered the victor all the same. The name Dǫrruðr does not appear in any other context, neither within Njáls saga nor anywhere else. It might therefore be a later explanation by someone who was not familiar with the meaning of the word dǫrruðr. The poem’s refrain “vindum vindum vefr darraðar” has been translated “we wind and wind the web

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of spears.”12 All the same, it is not clear whether this refers to the pattern made by many spears, or rather to the spears’ shafts in the air at the same time, or to the woven banner carried before an army in battle.13 Many marvels and wonders occur before and after the battle. Symbols from Nordic as well as Gaelic myths are in evidence in the events leading up to the battle. The poem itself is mainly composed of heathen Nordic myths, although it contains some characteristics of Gaelic mythology. However, the wonders that occur after the battle are evidence of the strong influence of medieval hagiographic and Christian vision literature. This mixture of myths is of great interest and underlines that “Darraðarljóð” originates where myths of all these origins have been a living source. When feelings of uneasiness and horror need to be expressed, dramatic myths of different origins, as well as hagiographic literature, form the building material. This leads the reader directly to the third aspect of time: the time the saga itself was composed. It has been estimated that Njála was written around 1270–80. The saga writer’s perspective is therefore a late-thirteenthcentury one.14 These three points of view are of course heavily interlaced, but before I address the main subject of this article, the saga writer’s standpoint will receive closer examination. The events within Brjánsþáttr, with my main focus falling on chapter 157 in Njáls saga, will then be clarified. I also investigate the purpose of the poem and other mystical happenings that occur, both before and after the battle of Clontarf, with respect to the saga narrative.

Brjánsþáttr and its Course of Events Traces of hagiographic discourse may be found in many instances of Njáls saga. For example, the narrative takes on the appearance of Christian legends when describing the lives and deaths of its noble saga protagonists.15 Medieval secular writing was in perpetual dialogue with theological texts – which is not surprising, as literacy and book culture arrived to Iceland together with Christianity and most of those who mastered the art of writing were in the Church’s service. Traces of these subtle influences may be observable in many sagas, more so in terms of conceptual ideas than in the use of language or in the method of the narrative. Njáls saga has long been considered by critics as exhibiting the most traces of Christian philosophy and outlook on life, even if the saga’s style does not overtly demonstrate signs of hagiographic oratory.16 Brjánsþáttr is a striking example where these stylistic influences come through, and although it is beyond the scope of present chapter to consider hagiographic discourse of Njáls saga in its

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entirety, a closer focus on this particular scene will reveal nuanced insights upon the whole. In Brjánsþáttr, the two areas of literary influence are quite prominent: on one hand the vernacular and mythological matter, and on the other hand the learned theological discourses and vision literature. The mythological motifs come through most lucidly in events leading up to the battle, within the battle itself, and in “Darraðarljóð.” The same may be said of the frame narrative, but there great emphasis is placed on the word “see”—and, specifically, what Dǫrruðr sees—so that his vision is centralized, which points to the Christian roots of the events that take place after the battle. The poem is narratively situated within the saga as taking place directly after the battle, and the events that follow are full of supernatural happenings. Lars Lönnroth points out that in the last chapters of Njáls saga, hagiographic motifs are at their most obvious within the saga.17 I extend this observation to argue that supernatural phenomena of any kind— be it Christian or heathen, Norse or Gaelic—are the most prominent in Brjánsþáttr within Njáls saga as a whole. In the events leading up to the Battle of Clontarf, Sigtryggr the Silk Beard recruits Earl Sigurðr of the Orkneys together with fifteen men that participated in the Burning of Njáll, who had fled to the Orkneys with Flosi Þórðarson after the deed. Sigtryggr is also encouraged by his mother to get reinforcement from the Viking chieftains Bróðir and Óspakr. Both of these chieftans are heathen, but they differ in many ways. Óspakr, who is said to be “heathen and the wisest of men” (“heiðinn og allra manna spakastur”), has never been a Christian and is a worthy representative of the “noble heathen” type. By contrast, Bróðir had been a Christian; he was once an ordained deacon but had lost his faith. He is said to be guðníðingr, guilty of profanity, and thus a traitor. He is also “very skilled in sorcery,” weapons do not harm him, and he has many characteristics of a true scoundrel.18 It is thus better by far to be a noble heathen than a renegade who has lost his faith, a fact that becomes obvious when Bróðir is the one who ultimately kills Brjánn. In the events leading up to the battle, strange hardships confront Bróðir and his men. For three nights in a row they wake up from a great noise. On the first night boiling blood rains down on them, and many men die in every ship. The next night, their swords leave their sheaths of their own accord, and the weapons turn against their owners. Many men also die in every ship that night. On the third night, ravens with claws and beaks of iron attack Bróðir’s ships, and again many men die that night. The explanation for these cryptic attacks comes from Óspakr, and he speaks in the Christian hagiographic tradition: When blood rained down on you, it meant that you will shed the blood of many men, both your own and that of others. When you heard great noise, it meant that you will

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witness the breaking-up of the world—you will die soon. When weapons attacked you, it meant you will be in a battle. When ravens attacked you, it meant that the fiends whom you trusted will drag you down to the torments of hell.19

The weapons that fight by themselves seem to stem from Gaelic mythology, but weapons that fight by themselves because they are bewitched are also mentioned in Þorleifs þáttur jarlaskálds.20 The iron-beaked and iron-clawed ravens that attack Bróðir’s men can be found in medieval hagiographic writings. Birds, Valkyrie-like women that look like birds, or women that are birds are both Gaelic and Nordic supernatural beings connected to war.21 They seem to point straight to the Valkyries of “Darraðarljóð,” and they form a bridge between the prologue leading up to the poem and the poem itself. The blood rain can be found in stories from all over Europe, as blood pours down in The Story of the People of Eyri, (Eyrbyggja saga), Njál’s saga, and the Iliad alike.22 Óspakr interprets the events, and his explanation of the last episode is the most important here. His interpretation of the ravens’ attack is that they are representatives of heathendom that have turned against their own followers in this way—i.e. “fiends whom you trusted will drag you down to the torments of hell.”23 Their own religion has turned against them as they are about to contravene laws even heathen men respect. It is interesting to see how the story turns heathen symbols against heathendom’s own dwindling followers in this way. The language is the learned speech of hagiography and visions; the building material comprises heathen myths. Óspakr converts to Christianity as soon as he has interpreted these mystical occurrences, and he joins Brjánn’s army. “Brodir tried through sorcery to find out how the battle would go, and the prediction was that if the battle were fought on Good Friday, Brian would be killed but have victory, and if they fought before Good Friday, all those who were against Brian would be killed.”24 Bróðir chooses to fight on Good Friday, and in the end, he is the one who slays Brjánn. His punishment is unusually cruel and unheard of in Icelandic medieval literature, but it strangely echoes “Darraðarljóð.” “Ulf Hraeda cut open his belly and led him around an oak tree and in this way pulled out his intestines. Brodir did not die until they had all been pulled out of him.”25 As we recall, intestines were used for yarn in the poem. So here we have the material needed for the Valkyries’ weft, even if the weaving itself had already taken place when Bróðir’s entrails were being unravelled. After the battle, many traces of hagiographic discourse can be found in the text. Hrafn (Raven) the Red, one of Earl Sigurdr’s men, flees. He had earlier refused to carry the Earl’s banner—with a picture of ravens on it—since everyone who did so had died.

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Hrafn the Red was chased out into a river and there he thought he saw hell down below and devils trying to drag him down to them. He spoke: “This dog of yours has run twice to Rome, Apostle Peter, and would run there a third time if you let him.” Then the devils turned him loose, and he got out of the river.26

In this passage, the motifs from vison-literature are obvious. Demons in rivers that try to drag people down into their depths are quite common. The storytellers of these visions are usually led through the hinterworld, where they see condemned souls walking over the narrow bridges that connect the two worlds together. If they fall into the river, they have to fight demons and devils of various kinds, and those who are lucky will manage to crawl to the shore on the other side.27 Hrafn, who is not in an otherworldly river, escapes similar demons by mentioning his two previous pilgrimages to Rome and by promising the third one. When the battle of Clontarf is over, the introduction to “Darraðarljóð” begins, followed by the poem. Traces of hagiographic or vision literature cannot be found here, as has already been stated, but in the latter half of the tenth stanza we find an interesting twist: “May he who listens / learn from this / the tones of spearwomen / and tell them to men.”28 Such instructions to the audience are not found elsewhere in Eddic poetry, and they seem to have been produced under the influence of medieval leizla, in which people being led are asked to tell about the things they have witnessed when they return to the real world. After the poem is over and the women have ridden away, six to the south and six to the north, we read about more wonders that happen after the battle. “Similar events happened to Brandr Gneistason in the Faeroes.”29 Neither Brandr nor the Faroes appear in the saga elsewhere. The saga continues: At Svínafell in Iceland blood appeared on the priest’s cape on Good Friday, and he had to take it off. At Tvotta on Good Friday a priest thought he saw a deep sea next to the altar, and he saw many terrifying sights in it, and it was long time before he was able to sing mass again. In Orkney this happened: Harek thought he saw Earl Sigurd together with some other men. Harek took his horse and rode to meet the earl, and people saw them come together and ride behind a hill. They were never seen again, and no trace of Harek was ever found. Earl Gilli in the Hebrides dreamed that a man came to him and gave his name as Herfinn, and said he had come from Ireland. The earl asked him for news, and Herfinn spoke this:30 Var ek þar, er bragnar bǫrðusk; brandr gall á Írlandi: margr, þar er mœttusk tǫrgur

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málmr gnast í dyn hjálma; sókn þeira frá ek snarpa; Sigurðr fell í dyn vigra; áðr téði ben blœða; Bríann fell ok helt velli.

The dream-man Herfiðr (Herfinn) does not appear anywhere else, but the stanza tells of the men that fell in the battle of Clontarf, with Earl Sigurðr the only one who is named. The last line “Brian fell too, but won” concludes the tale; in spite of Brjánn’s death, he and his army won the battle.31 The stanza tells us what “Darraðarljóð” overlooks—but echoes Bróðir’s prediction before the battle and may be the reason why some scholars came to the conclusion that the poem had been composed in the short period between Brjánn’s death and the time when it became clear that the Irishmen had won the battle. There may also be a possibility that the poem may be sorcery from an earlier time. The place names in the stanza are all connected to Njála in one way or another: Svínafell is Flosi’s farm, and Þváttá (Tvatta) is Þorsteinn Síðu-Halls son’s farm, who followed Earl Sigurðr to the battle. The Orkneys were also crucial in the events leading up to the battle. It has been assumed that the narrative of the battle itself might stem from Þorsteinn son of Síðu-Hallr, who participated in the battle, and was one of few Icelanders that survived. Kerthjalfadr, Brjánn’s foster son, did not kill him, although he had the opportunity when Þorsteinn stopped during his escape to tie his shoelace. A witty remark probably saved him at that moment.32 Many of the wonders above are connected to Þorsteinn, his kin, and their homes. Njáls saga is the only place where “Darraðarljóð” is preserved, and therefore it is necessary to pay attention to the saga itself, its style, possible model, and building material. The saga mostly uses the traditional language of the Sagas of Icelanders: words are few, sentences short, and the syntactic structure simple. The saga style is also tied to formulas, which reflects the saga’s background in oral culture and its ties to the saga corpus. But in a few places, very verbose and colorful language appears, which seems to originate in hagiographic and vision literature. In addition to this verbal style, ideas from medieval Christian literature can be distinguished, which is in accordance with the time it is thought the saga was first written down, in the late thirteenth century.

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Vision or Leizla: What is the Difference? Many scholars writing about “Darraðarljóð” use the term “vision” to describe the poem and its frame narrative without defining the concept or elucidating on it any further. For example, Heusler and Ranisch state that it is a Visionsgedicht of Eddic origin, a heathen poem, and by that they assume that visions do not have to be from a Christian source. Others agree with this assertion and classified the poem both as a vision and as witchcraft.33 It is now timely to push this line of inquiry further – namely, are the events of the poem sorcery, conducted secretly in the dyngja (bower, enclosure) and witnessed by Dǫrruðr, or is the very poem itself his vision? If the latter is the case, does the Nordic concept of leizla apply? Could the poem perhaps be both, or even all of these options? Are the definitions of vision and leizla confined only to medieval Christian literature, or can these concepts be utilized in broader contexts? In St. Augustine of Hippo’s De Genesi ad litteram, in which he writes about the meaning of Genesis, Augustine defines three different types of sight: visio corporis, or corporal, normal sight; visuo intellectualis that “occurs when God is seen in His own nature, as the rational and intellectual part of man is able to conceive of him”; and spiritual sight, or visio spiritualis seu imaginaria, which is somewhere in between. “[It] combines aspects of both these types, given that here one sees not a body, but an image of a body. Here the imagination plays a crucial role.”34 It is interesting to note that the imaginative and fantastic emerge with sight that lies between corporal and godly vision. In this context, it is necessary to keep in mind that the Latin concept of imagination is a translation of the Greek concept fantasia (φαντασια). The Greek verb that the noun stems from, phainô (φαινο), means “to show, enchant, make visible,” and therefore it can be assumed that what is now considered as fantastic phenomena were observable under this kind of sight. The meaning of these words is thus interchangeable.35 It can therefore be the case that the “imagination is . . . as potentially misleading as it is wonderful.” It is further described that this kind of vision did not necessary have to stem from God.36 St. Augustine points out that John’s Revelation is a vision of this kind. Notions such as these emphasize the possibility that Dǫrruðr’s vision and others that are not a part of the Christian literary canon can be classified as “visio spiritualis seu imaginaria.” Dǫrruðr is awake when he has his vision; he sees things that can be described both as misleading and as strange, and the vision is very powerful. It also emphasizes that there is no exclusion of faiths involved. Christians as well as followers of other faiths can experience visions. It would therefore be a simplification of the phenomenon of experiencing visions to look only to Christian literature and culture,

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even from St. Augustine’s point of view. But let’s keep in mind that Augustine is not discussing literature, but only the three different kinds of sight. Another tripartite division is closely related to Augustine’s—namely, the three stages of consciousness: waking state, dream state when asleep, and some kind of coma or hypnosis, which is a somewhat mystical condition that falls between the other two. Traveling outside the body happens in that intermediary state; people can travel long distances in a dreamlike condition while the body lies as if asleep. Narratives of shamanistic traveling can be found in old Icelandic literature, notably Ynglinga saga; in this text, while sleeping Óðinn travels long distances in a dreamlike state.37 In Vatnsdæla saga, three Finns are sent to Iceland by a Finnish sorceress to find an amulet owned by the future settler Ingimundr Þorsteinsson. The amulet is found hidden in the land he will later inhabit.38 From these and similar stories, it is clear that between sleep and being awake there exists a coma-like state that cannot exclusively be connected to Christianity or to Christian literature, at least not more than it can to any other religion. Jonas Wellendorf has defined five different characteristics that have to be fulfilled in a sight (vision) before it can be called leizla. He builds his description on Dinzelbacher’s definitions. They are: 1. the person who experiences the leizla has to have the notion that they are traveling to another world; 2. the person visits many different places; 3. a superhuman power causes the experience; 4. it happens in a coma-like state; and 5. it must be possible to describe in words.39 These five categories are then divided into two groups. In the first group are tales that fulfill all five conditions. In the latter group, two characteristics are missing: the notion of traveling to another world, and the superhuman powers that cause the vision. The former group, with all five qualities fulfilled, was more common in the literature of the Early and High Middle Ages, and the latter group, where two qualities are missing, in the Late Middle Ages.40 Accordingly, the concept of visio applies to the literature of the former group. The concept of revelatio applies to the latter—to visions where the viewer, usually a young maiden, does not feel that she is transferred to another place, the vision simply comes to her, and she may even have caused the vision herself.41 Pure visions and revelations thus fall within the latter group. They happen when the seers remain in their original locations (visions come to them instead of removing them elsewhere), when they experience revelation, and when they may even have pursued the revelation in some way. As Wellendorf has pointed out, visions and the related literature are a reaction to people’s anxiety concerning the afterlife. “The hereafter was a subject of great importance since it was believed that every man would then be punished or rewarded according to his merits.”42 Therefore people were curious and terrified at the same time, and they were anxious to find out what would happen to them after the end of their life on earth.

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Icelandic Vision Literature and Leizla Not much is preserved of vision literature from the Icelandic Middle Ages that fulfills all five conditions for the leizla category. One of the main characteristics of the genre is how similar the stories all are, even if their outer form may vary, and originality is completely absent. This was considered an advantage. The closer the story was to the formula, the better, as it was considered more likely to be true or real and thus also more likely to be taken into the hagiographic canon.43 A few leizla, or visions that fulfill all five categories, were translated from Latin into Icelandic, but only one originally written in Icelandic has survived. It is called Rannveigar leizla, and it is a part of Guðmundar saga Arasonar (The Saga of Guðmundr Arason the Bishop). Rannveig was the concubine of a priest and had before that been associated with another. She was therefore a sinful woman. It happened that in the eastern fjords of Iceland, probably in the year 1199, she fell into a trance of some kind. When she awoke in the evening, she related that she had seen what can best be described as as vision, and at its end she was told to report to the highest clergy what she had seen—and most of all, to tell her story to Guðmundr Arason. She should impart that he was the most competent candidate for the bishopric. He became bishop in the north of the country shortly afterwards, and it is most likely that this story was meant to support him for that office. The descriptions of her experience fall within the five categories of leizla.44 Despite there being few visions that fulfill all categories of leizla in west Nordic literature, if we can step away from that narrow definition, we find a few poems of both Christian and heathen origin that fall within the broader definition of vision literature. Two Christian poems, one Norwegian and one Icelandic, have many characteristics of vision literature. In neither of them do we find a guide— which is not considered a necessity in the narrower definition of leizla. “Draumkvædet,” the best known Scandinavian vision poem, was first recorded in Norway in 1840, but it had existed in some form as oral poetry from the Middle Ages. It has been classified as leizla, and it has been argued that the guide may have disappeared from the poem over the course of time. In “Draumkvædet,” Olav Åsteson falls into a deep trancelike sleep, and he travels over high mountains and deep valleys without a guide. In the beginning, he tells the story himself, but in the latter part, the narrative is impersonal.45 The other poem is the medieval “Sólarljóð,” which is preserved in manuscripts from the seventeenth century, but the poem itself is considered much older. Its third and last part has many characteristics of leizla; in these passages, the dead father of the narrator describes other worlds and otherworldly experiences to his son.46

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It is obvious that the discourse of leizla and vision literature was well known to the inhabitants of the west Nordic region, and since the genre was at its peak during the High Middle Ages, it was surely known to the scribe of Njáls saga. Poems that have many of the characteristics of visions do not necessarily have to be part of hagiographic literature. In Icelandic/Old Norse literature, we can point out a few within the corpus of Eddic poetry, both the ones found within the seminal Konungsbók eddukvæða and the ones from elsewhere. Vǫluspá, the opening poem of Konungsbók eddukvæða, is one of them. According to one reading of the poem, the vǫlva is sitting outside (útiseta) when Óðinn brings to her the prophesy of ragnarǫk. Vǫluspá can thus easily be classified as a revelation.47 In stanza 57 of the Konungsbók eddukvæða’s version and stanza 52 of Hauksbók’s version, we see a new and better world emerge from the sea after ragnarǫk.48 In Baldursdraumar or Vegtamskviða—a poem of fourteen stanzas preserved in a manuscript from the fourteenth century—we hear of Óðinn traveling to Hell, where he resurrects a vǫlva for the purpose of asking her to interpret difficult dreams his son Baldr has been having. Óðinn goes by himself, awake and not in a trancelike sleep, even though he does that elsewhere.49 His journey is in many ways similar to that of Orpheus, who goes to Hades to try to regain his wife who died from a snakebite. Óðinn learns that his son is doomed to die, and he cannot reverse his fate—no more than Orpheus can regain his Eurydice from the kingdom of the dead. A similar journey is described in other Eddic poety: in Helreið Brynhildar, another fourteen stanza poem, preserved in Kongungsbók eddukvæða, and Norna-Gests þáttr. The difference is that Brynhildr is dead when she travels to Hell and does not return.50 If a difference between Christian and heathen myths—Nordic and Greek—can be highlighted, it is that in non-Christian visions people (e.g., Orpheus, Óðinn) can travel awake and fully conscious to otherworldly places, while in most of the Christian genre, people are expected to fall into a trancelike sleep and experience the journey in that state, or someone, even a dead relative, speaks to them. Dǫrruðr looks through a window and sees women weave their bloody tapestry, fully conscious and wide awake, but that does not change his vision.

The Supernatural and Njáls saga’s Ending “Darraðarljóð,” preserved within Njáls saga, is a poem about sorcery and witchcraft rather than a leizla. But it is also a part of the vision and paranormal experience of Dǫrruðr on Good Friday, a day that is marked by death in Christianity at a time when the boundaries between worlds are uncertain. Dǫrruðr’s vision—the

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heathen Valkyries, their weaving and chanting, and their riding north and south afterwards—is also an irrevocable part of Njáls saga, and within the saga, it forms a part that is full of strange and supernatural occurrences that are all connected to the Battle of Clontarf. The poem can be interpreted as a vision of another world, even Hell, where heathen forces predict the victory of their king, but as the saga shows us, the prophecy is not fulfilled, and the sorcery fails. Wonders, leading up to the battle, stem from Gaelic as well as Nordic myths, as was stated earlier, and most of the events after the battle have roots in Christian leizla and vision literature. Thus, Brjánsþáttr as a whole can be interpreted as one magnificent leizla, of which Dǫrruðr’s vision, occurring at the time of the battle, is only a small part. This leizla has roots in three different sources that were familiar to the society in which the saga takes place. The boundaries between the natural, the explainable, and the supernatural seem to have been quite vulnerable and easily disrupted in the Middle Ages—for heathens as well as for Christians—and this possibly remained the case long into the early modern period. Every incident and act had a purpose and meaning, and within the boundaries, order and equilibrium usually ruled. Outside these boundaries there was chaos, which had to be kept at bay and which was kept back when order was maintained. If the equilibrium was disturbed in some way—by war, natural disasters, disease, or even excessive and outrageous behaviour— chaos gained the upper hand. The supernatural was thus a part of the world and very real. This can be seen in many places in Old Norse literature, in poems and sagas as well as in literature from other parts of the world. Vǫluspá’s description of the disasters leading up to ragnarǫk and the New Testament’s Book of Revelation, which predicts the Apocalypse, are both good examples. Prophecy on an apocalyptic scale—as can be seen in sagas such as The Saga of the People of Eyri (Eyrbyggja saga) and Sturlunga saga, where it rains blood and people have bad dreams,have a strong connection with Brjánsþáttr and all its omens.51 “Darraðarljóð” and Brjánsþáttr are situated near the end of Njáls saga. In its last two chapters, Kári Sǫlmundarson gets to the finale of his long-winded revenge for the burning of Njáll and his family, whereby Kári’s wife and son were killed. Fifteen men that participated in Njálsbrenna died at the Battle of Clontarf, and Kári manages to run the last one to ground and kill him in Wales. Thereafter, he travels south, most likely to Rome, on a pilgrimage of repentance. After his absolution, Kári returns to Iceland where he at last reconciles with Flosi Þórðarson Svínafellsgoði, who was one of the initiators of the Burning of Njáll and who had also just returned from a pilgrimage to Rome. Kári marries Hildigunnur, Flosi’s niece and the widow of Höskuldur Hvítanesgoði, who was slain by Njál’s sons and Kári’s brothers-in-law. Höskuldr’s killing can be seen as the beginning of the latter part of the saga, and it can be said, with some exaggeration, that everything

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thereafter leads up to the saga’s end, which focuses on revenge and at last forgiveness in a very Christian spirit.52 The leizla of Brjánsþáttr can therefore be interpreted as the prediction of an ending of an era—of the old order—after which comes forgiveness and a new beginning, from the saga writers’ point of view. This is in accordance with Óspakr’s interpretation of the horrifying events Bróðir and his men experienced: “When you heard great noise, it meant that you will witness the breaking-up of the world.” That is to say, the breakup of the world as he knew it, for “you will die soon” follows directly.53 Fear of the Apocalypse was a constant concern in the Middle Ages, and no lesser than that of the afterlife. After the turn of the millennium, when the Christian world believed that the end of the world was nigh, it was a constant threat. The Last Days would be full of bad omens similar to those seen in leizla and visions. This is clearly illustrated by Book of Revelation, in which St. John’s vision was, as pointed out earlier, interpreted as “visio spiritualis seu imaginaria.”54 It is of great interest that even St. John’s revelation, which predicts the Apocalypse itself, is not categorized as wholly divine, or as a visuo intellectualis. It “occurs when God is seen in His own nature, as the rational and intellectual part of man is able to conceive of him,” but it “can therefore happen that the ‘imagination is . . . as potentially misleading as it is wonderful.’ ”55 It can therefore be concluded that omens that predict occurrences on an apocalyptic scale do not have to be classified by origin. The myths that depict what will happen when equilibrium is disrupted are equally impressive and equally quoted, be they of Nordic, Gaelic, or Christian origin. The Battle of Clontarf is at the end of a long string of conflict, combat, killings, and revenge; these are occurrences that have disrupted the necessary equilibrium, and they can be seen as the climax of the saga. After the Battle itself and, at last, Kári’s repentance, the world can find balance again. The ending of Njála can thus be seen as a new beginning—it can even be said that it mirrors Vǫluspá, in which the world goes under, but a new world emerges when order has been restored. Forgiveness has conquered revenge, at least for the time being. And then the story repeats itself.

Notes 1 Guðrún Nordal, “The Dialogue between Audience and Text: The Variants in Verse Citations in Njáls saga’s Manuscripts,” in Oral Art Forms and Their Passage into Writing, ed. Else Mundal and Jonas Wellendorf (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2008), 185–202. 2 Óskar Halldórsson, Bragur og ljóðstíll (Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1977), 37–38.

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3 Andreas Heusler and Wilhelm Ranisch, Eddica Minora, Dichtungen eddisher Art aus den Fornaldarsögur und anderen Prosawerken (Dortmund: Druck und Verlag von Fr. Wilh. Ruhfus, 1903). Heusler and Ranisch as well as some other scholars include the poem within the Eddic corpus—i.e., Ursula Dronke in her edition of the Heroic Poems. Other scholars have not included “Darraðarljóð” in their editions—i.e., neither Gísli Sigurðsson, ed., Eddukvæði (Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1998) nor Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, eds., Eddukvæði, 2 vols., Íslenzk fornrit (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2014). 4 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, “Formáli,” in Brennu-Njáls saga, ed. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Íslenzk fornrit 12 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1954), xlvii; Heusler and Ranisch, Eddica Minora, Dichtungen eddisher Art aus den Fornaldarsögur und anderen Prosawerken, xlix. 5 Elsa E. Guðjónsson, “Járnvarðr Yllir: A Fourth Weapon of the Valkyries in Darraðarljóð?,” Textile History 20, no. 2 (1989): 185–197. About different parts of the loom. 6 Matthias Egeler, Celtic Influences in Germanic Religion: A Survey (Munich: Herbert Utz Verlag, 2013), 108–16; A. J. Goedheer, Irish and Norse Traditions about the Battle of Clontarf (Harleem: A.D. Tjeenk Willink & Zoon N.V., 1938), 79–85. 7 Anne Holtsmark, “Vefr Darraðar,” Maal og minne 2–4 (1939): 96; James Henthorn Todd, ed. and trans., “Cogadh Gaedhel re Gallaibh: The War of the Gaedhil with the Gaill, or, The Invasions of Ireland by the Danes and Other Norsemen,” in Rerum Britannicarum Medii Aevi Scriptores; or, Chronicles and Memorials of Great Britain and Ireland During the Middle Ages (London: Longmans, Green, Reader, and Dyer, 1867), 183. 8 See, i.e., Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Brennu-Njáls saga, 455n. The word vinur has the same appearance in masculine singular and feminine plural. Here it makes more sense to interpret it as feminine plural, but both possibilities are mentioned. 9 Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, Eddukvæði, 299, 375. 10 Erling Monsen, ed., “Ynglinga saga,” in Heimskringla, or the Lives of the Norse Kings (Cambridge: W. Heffer & Sons, 1932), 6. In the saga, the mythical beginning of Heimskringla, the tale tells of when Oðinn set law in his land. One of the items described is when to sacrifice, or blót: “Near winter’s day they should sacrifice for a good season, in the middle of winter for a good crop, and near summer’s day it was the sacrifice for victory.” 11 Jón Hnefill Aðalsteinsson, Blót í norrænum sið: Rýnt í forn trúarbrögð með þjóðfræðilegri aðferð (Reykjavík: University of Iceland Press, 1997), 150–58; Karen Bek-Pedersen, “Are the Spinning Nornir Just a Yarn? A Closer Look at Helgakviða Hundingsbana I 2–4,” in The Fantastic in Old Norse/Icelandic Literature: Sagas and the British Isles, Preprint Papers of the 13th International Saga Conference, Durham and York 6th–12th August 2006, ed. John McKinnell, David Ashurst, and Donata Kick, 2 vols. (Durham: Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2006). 12 Robert Cook, ed. and trans., Njál’s Saga, with an introduction by Robert Cook, Penguin Classics (New York: Penguin Classics, 2001), 304. 13 Many scholars have tried to explain the word dǫrruðr, for example, Holtsmark, “Vefr Darraðar”; Klaus von See, “Das Walkürenlied,” Offprint, Beträge zur Gesichte der deutschen Spreche und Literatur 81 (1959); Russell G. Poole, Viking Poems on War and Peace: A Study of Skaldic Narrative (1991). The most likely explanations are a spear, a spear’s shaft, or the banner carried before armies in battle. 14 See Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, “Formáli,” lxxv–lxxxiv. He points to the age of the earliest manuscripts as terminus post quem (around 1300) and phrases from the lawbook Járnsida as terminus ante quem, but it replaced Grágás in the years 1271–74.

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15 The life and death of Höskuldr Hvítanesgoði and Njáll at Bergþórshvoll are good examples (Cook, Njál’s Saga, 207, 229). 16 Lars Lönnroth, Njáls Saga: A Critical Introduction (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976), 104–05, 113–16. 17 Lönnroth, Njáls Saga, 131. 18 Cook, Njál’s Saga, 299; Lönnroth, Njáls Saga, 63–64, 233–34. 19 Cook, Njál’s Saga, 300. 20 The þáttr is a part of Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar in Flateyjarbók, I, 233–234. 21 Goedheer, Irish and Norse Traditions about the Battle of Clontarf , 83, 100; Egeler, Celtic Influences in Germanic Religion, 108–16; Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Brennu-Njáls saga, 446–47n4. Here it is stated that weapons that fight by themselves can also be found in Bósa saga og Herrauðs, but this author does not agree with that interpretation. 22 Viðar Hreinsson, ed., “The Story of the People of Eyri,” in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales, 5 vols. (Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing), 197; Kristinn Ármannsson and Jón Gíslason, eds., Ilíonskviða, vol. 1 of Kviður Hómers, trans. Sveinbjörn Egilsson (Reykjavík: Bókaútgáfa menningarsjóðs), 206, 325. The Icelandic translation of the Iliad is used here. See also Ingibjörg Eyþórsdóttir, “Darraðarljóð — gluggi til annarra heima: Galdur, seiður leiðsla eða sýn?” (Master’s thesis, University of Iceland, 2014), 107–10. 23 Cook, Njál’s Saga, 300. 24 Cook, Njál’s Saga, 301. 25 Cook, Njál’s Saga, 303. 26 Cook, Njál’s Saga, 302. 27 Jonas Wellendorf, “Visions and the Fantastic,” in McKinnell, Ashurst, and Kick, The Fantastic in Old Norse/Icelandic Literature, 53–54. 28 Cook, Njál’s Saga, 306. Translation of “en hinn nemi, / er heyrir á / geirfljóða hjóð / ok gumum segi!” (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Brennu-Njáls saga, 548). 29 Cook, Njál’s Saga, 307. 30 Cook, Njál’s saga, 307. 31 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Brennu-Njáls saga, 459–60; translation by Cook, Njál’s saga, 307–308. When swords screamed in Ireland and men struggled, I was there many a weapon was shattered when shields met in battle. The attack, I hear, was daring; Sigurd died in the din of helmets after making bloody wounds Brian fell too, but won. 32 Cook, Njál’s Saga, 302. 33 Heusler and Ranisch, Eddica Minora, Dichtungen eddisher Art aus den Fornaldarsögur und anderen Prosawerken, li. Eiríkur Magnússon called the poem “the legend of the vision of the socalled Dorruðr” (Eiríkr Magnússon, ed. and trans., Darraðarljóð [Coventry: Curtis & Beamish, 1910], 4). Anne Holtsmark agrees with this (Holtsmark, “Vefr Darraðar,” 93; Anne Holtsmark, “Darraðarljóð,” in Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder fra vikingetid til reformationstid, ed. Jakob Benediktsson and Magnús Már Lárusson, 22 vols. [Reykjavík: Bókaverzlun Ísafoldar, 1957], 667; See, “Das Walkürenlied,” 2).

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34 Alastair Minnis, “Medieval Imagination and Memory,” in The Middle Ages, vol. 2 of The Cambridge History of Literary Criticism, ed. Alastair Minnis and Ian Johnson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 245; Wellendorf, “Visions and the Fantastic,” 44–46. 35 Wellendorf, “Visions and the Fantastic,” 1026–27. 36 Minnis, “Medieval Imagination and Memory,” 243, 246; Jonas Wellendorf, Kristelig visionslitteratur i norrøn tradition (Oslo: Novus, 2009), 44. 37 Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, ed., “Ynglinga saga,” in Heimskringla, vol. 1, Íslenzk fornrit 26 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag), 5. 38 Örnólfur Thorsson, ed., “The Story of the People of Vatnsdal,” in The Sagas of Icelanders: A Selection, with an introduction by Jane Smiley (London: Viking, 2000), 205. 39 Peter Dinzelbacher, Vision und Visionsliteratur im Mittelalter (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1981), 12–28; Wellendorf, Kristelig visionslitteratur i norrøn tradition, 59. 40 Wellendorf, Kristelig visionslitteratur i norrøn tradition, 41. 41 Dinzelbacher, Vision und Visionsliteratur im Mittelalter, 13–28; Wellendorf, Kristelig visionslitteratur i norrøn tradition, 40–43, 58–59. How that happens is not discussed by Wellendorf. 42 Wellendorf, “Visions and the Fantastic,” 1025. 43 Wellendorf, Kristelig visionslitteratur i norrøn tradition, 59–60. 44 Guðni Jónsson, “Guðmundar saga Arasonar,” in Biskupa sögur, vol. 2 (Reykjavík: Íslendingasagnaútgáfan, 1981), 229–34. 45 Olaf Bø, “Draumkvædet,” in Jakob Benediktsson and Magnús Már Lárusson, Kulturhistorisk leksikon för nordisk middelalder, 303; Jonas Wellendorf, “Apocalypse Now? The Draumkvæde and Visionary Literature,” in Mundal and Wellendorf, Oral Art Forms and Their Passage into Writing, 135–49. 46 “Sólarljóð,” has been the topic of, e.g., Alexander Baumgartner, ed. and trans., Das altnordische Sonnenlied (Sólarljóð): Ein christlicher Gesang der Edda (Freiburg: Herder’sche Verlagshandlung, 1888); Njörður P. Njarðvík, ed., Sólarljóð (Reykjavík: The Institute of Literary Research, Menningarsjóður, 1991); Hermann Pálsson, ed., Sólarljóð og vitranir um annarlega heima (Reykjavík: Þrös, 2002). 47 Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, Eddukvæði, 1298, stanza 28. 48 Gísli Sigurðsson, Eddukvæði, 57, 378; Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, Eddukvæði, vol. 1, 306, stanza 57, 315, stanza 51. 49 Baldursdraumar (Dreams of Baldur) is not a part of Konungsbók eddukvæða, but it is usually classified as a part of the Eddic corpus. It can be found in a manuscript from the beginning of the fourteenth century, AM 748 I 4to. 50 Gísli Sigurðsson, Eddukvæði, 287–90; see also Óvíd, Ummyndanir, ed. and trans. Kristján Árnason (Reykjavík: Mál og menning), 275–76. 51 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds., Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr, Íslenzk fornrit 4 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935), 140; Örnólfur Thorsson, ed., Sturlunga saga, 2 vols. (Reykjavík: Svart á hvítu, 1988), 410–15, 674–77. 52 Cook, Njál’s Saga, 309–10. 53 Cook, Njál’s Saga, 300. 54 Wellendorf, Kristelig visionslitteratur i norrøn tradition, 44. 55 Wellendorf, “Visions and the Fantastic,” 1031; Wellendorf, Kristelig visionslitteratur i norrøn tradition, 44–46.

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Bibliography Baumgartner, Alexander, ed. and trans. Das altnordische Sonnenlied (Sólarljóð): Ein christlicher Gesang der Edda. Freiburg: Herder’sche Verlagshandlung, 1888. Bek-Pedersen, Karen. “Are the Spinning Nornir Just a Yarn? A Closer Look at Helgakviða Hundingsbana I 2–4.” In McKinnell, Ashurst, and Kick, The Fantastic in Old Norse/ Icelandic Literature. Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, ed. “Ynglinga saga.” In Heimskringla, 1:9–83.Íslenzk fornrit 26. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag. Bø, Olaf. “Draumkvædet.” In Jakob Benediktsson and Magnús Már Lárusson, Kulturhistorisk leksikon för nordisk middelalder. Cook, Robert, ed. and trans. Njál’s Saga. With an introduction by Robert Cook. Penguin Classics. New York: Penguin Classics, 2001. Dinzelbacher, Peter. Vision und Visionsliteratur im Mittelalter. Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1981. Dronke, Ursula, ed. and trans. Heroic Poems. Vol. 1 of The Poetic Edda. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1969. Egeler, Matthias. Celtic Influences in Germanic Religion: A Survey. Munich: Herbert Utz Verlag, 2013. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed. Brennu-Njáls saga. Íslenzk fornrit 12. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1954. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson. “Formáli.” In Brennu-Njáls saga, v–clxii. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds. Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr. Íslenzk fornrit 4. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935. Eiríkr Magnússon, ed. and trans. Darraðarljóð. Coventry: Curtis & Beamish, 1910. Gísli Sigurðsson, ed. Eddukvæði. Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1998. Goedheer, A. J. Irish and Norse Traditions about the Battle of Clontarf. Harleem: A.D. Tjeenk Willink & Zoon N.V., 1938. Guðjónsson, Elsa E. “Járnvarðr Yllir: A Fourth Weapon of the Valkyries in Darraðarljóð?” Textile History 20, no. 2 (1989): 185–197. Guðni Jónsson. “Guðmundar saga Arasonar.” In Biskupa sögur, vol. 2. Reykjavík: Íslendingasagnaútgáfan, 1981. Guðrún Nordal. “The Dialogue between Audience and Text: The Variants in Verse Citations in Njáls saga’s Manuscripts.” In Mundal and Wellendorf, Oral Art Forms and Their Passage into Writing, 185–202. Hermann Pálsson, ed. Sólarljóð og vitranir um annarlega heima. Reykjavík: Þrös, 2002. Heusler, Andreas, and Wilhelm Ranisch. Eddica Minora, Dichtungen eddisher Art aus den Fornaldarsögur und anderen Prosawerken. Dortmund: Druck und Verlag von Fr. Wilh. Ruhfus, 1903. Holtsmark, Anne. “Darraðarljóð.” In Jakob Benediktsson and Magnús Már Lárusson, Kulturhistorisk leksikon för nordisk middelalder, 667–68. Holtsmark, Anne. “Vefr Darraðar.” Maal og minne 2–4 (1939): 74–96. Ingibjörg Eyþórsdóttir. “Darraðarljóð — gluggi til annarra heima: Galdur, seiður leiðsla eða sýn?” Master’s thesis, University of Iceland, 2014.

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Jakob Benediktsson and Magnús Már Lárusson, eds. Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder fra vikingetid til reformationstid. 22 vols. Reykjavík: Bókaverzlun Ísafoldar, 1956–1978. Jón Hnefill Aðalsteinsson. Blót í norrænum sið: Rýnt í forn trúarbrögð með þjóðfræðilegri aðferð. Reykjavík: University of Iceland Press, 1997. Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, eds. Eddukvæði. 2 vols. Íslenzk fornrit. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2014. Kristinn Ármannsson and Jón Gíslason, eds. Ilíonskviða. Vol. 1 of Kviður Hómers, translated by Sveinbjörn Egilsson. Reykjavík: Bókaútgáfa menningarsjóðs. Lönnroth, Lars. Njáls Saga: A Critical Introduction. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976. McKinnell, John, David Ashurst, and Donata Kick, eds. The Fantastic in Old Norse/Icelandic Literature: Sagas and the British Isles. Preprint Papers of the 13th International Saga Conference, Durham and York 6th–12th August 2006. 2 vols. Durham: Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2006. Minnis, Alastair. “Medieval Imagination and Memory.” In The Middle Ages, vol. 2 of The Cambridge History of Literary Criticism, edited by Alastair Minnis and Ian Johnson. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. Monsen, Erling, ed. “Ynglinga saga.” In Heimskringla, or the Lives of the Norse Kings. Cambridge: W. Heffer & Sons, 1932. Mundal, Else, and Jonas Wellendorf, eds. Oral Art Forms and Their Passage into Writing. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2008. Njörður P. Njarðvík, ed. Sólarljóð. Reykjavík: The Institute of Literary Research, Menningarsjóður, 1991. Óskar Halldórsson. Bragur og ljóðstíll. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1977. Óvíd. Ummyndanir. Edited and translated by Kristján Árnason. Reykjavík: Mál og menning. Poole, Russell G. Viking Poems on War and Peace: A Study of Skaldic Narrative. 1991. See, Klaus von. “Das Walkürenlied.” Offprint, Beträge zur Gesichte der deutschen Spreche und Literatur 81 (1959). Todd, James Henthorn, ed. and trans. “Cogadh Gaedhel re Gallaibh: The War of the Gaedhil with the Gaill, or, The Invasions of Ireland by the Danes and Other Norsemen.” In Rerum Britannicarum Medii Aevi Scriptores; or, Chronicles and Memorials of Great Britain and Ireland During the Middle Ages. London: Longmans, Green, Reader, and Dyer, 1867. Viðar Hreinsson, ed. “The Story of the People of Eyri.” In The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales. 5 vols. Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing. Wellendorf, Jonas. “Apocalypse Now? The Draumkvæde and Visionary Literature.” In Mundal and Wellendorf, Oral Art Forms and Their Passage into Writing, 135–49. Wellendorf, Jonas. Kristelig visionslitteratur i norrøn tradition. Oslo: Novus, 2009. Wellendorf, Jonas. “Visions and the Fantastic.” In McKinnell, Ashurst, and Kick, The Fantastic in Old Norse/Icelandic Literature, 1025–33. Örnólfur Thorsson, ed. Sturlunga saga. 2 vols. Reykjavík: Svart á hvítu, 1988. Wellendorf, Jonas, ed. “The Story of the People of Vatnsdal.” In The Sagas of Icelanders: A Selection, with an introduction by Jane Smiley. London: Viking, 2000.

Martina Ceolin

Paranormal Tendencies in the Sagas: A Discussion about Genre Abstract: Observable tendencies in Old Norse-Icelandic sagas to portray the paranormal are analyzed from a genre perspective. This assessment confirms the feasibility of approaching genre in saga studies using descriptive and dynamic methods. The value of this approach is anticipated and emphasized in a brief survey of the current debate about genre in the sagas. This article aims to investigate, from the perspective of genre, how Old Icelandic sagas portray the paranormal. It will be explored how, if at all, observable tendencies to represent such content can be associated with genre delineations. This will allow for reflection on the merits and the limits of saga genre distinctions in modern literary criticism as well as on the changing critical attitudes toward the paranormal that have characterized recent saga scholarship. The study will be preceded by a survey of past and current issues in discussions of saga genre that concern not only generic distinctions but also the notion and the definition of genre itself; it will thereby consider the implications of applying modern theoretical frameworks to the study of medieval texts. It will come to light, for example, that behind scholars’ disagreements over genre there are often in fact different conceptions of genre that impair the discussion as well as static approaches to the matter that sacrifice the vibrancy of the saga as a literary form. Thus, this paper will stress the need to revise both the concept of genre and the approaches to it within saga studies, arguing that the treatment of the paranormal in the sagas may play a role in this sense.

Modern Genre Debate: An Overview The notion of literary genre has been repeatedly questioned over the last two hundred years, especially with regard to meaning, validity, and function. The modern debate about genre originated during the Romantic period, when genre was first seriously questioned on both a historical and a philosophical basis.1 One major development that occurred during that period was that genres were no longer considered as immutable, universal categories, as had been customary https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-021

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within classical genre theory.2 Rather, genres came to be regarded as historically determined entities that were capable of change, whereby they evolved by interacting both with each other and with the historical context in which they had come into being. This assumption of generic evolution, however, had not dismissed the static approach completely, for genres were still studied in a prescriptive, normative way as exemplified by “the nineteenth-century ‘scientific’ method of studying literary works as biological species, each one classified with a Linnaean taxon and slotted into an evolutionary scheme.”3 At the same time, the idea that it was possible to ignore altogether the discussion about genres was explicitly formulated, and this idea was carried to extremes later on, especially by proponents of Modernism.4 In the twenty-first century such distrust of genre began to subside, giving way to a reexamination of the theoretical basis of the notion of genre, which has been often accompanied by the adoption of more descriptive attitudes to the study of genre.5 The study of genre within saga scholarship fits in well with the outlined debate, as it has been a matter of great concern over the last two hundred years. The possibility of dividing the Old Norse-Icelandic saga corpus into distinct genres has been among the most hotly debated issues; equally hotly debated was the adequacy of the customary taxonomy (konungasögur, Íslendingasögur, samtíðarsögur, fornaldarsögur, þýddar riddarasögur, frumsamdar riddarasögur, and heilagra manna sögur) to account for the heterogeneity of the corpus. The existence and possible types of saga subgenres and the generic ‘markers’ that should be adopted in order to identify and distinguish saga genres and subgenres have also been much discussed. Criticism concerning saga genres has also changed its nature over the last two hundred years. It is well-known that in the nineteenth century criticism largely comprised value judgements, with the consequence that the study of certain types of sagas was promoted at the expense of others, depending on dominant tastes and ideologies.6 Interestingly, increased evaluative criticism brought about a critical reanalysis of all types of sagas, regardless of hierarchies of aesthetic value. Recently, and especially in the last forty years, the validity of the customary taxonomy has been more seriously challenged.7 For example, it has been maintained that the currently accepted saga genre distinctions prove unsatisfactory as an aid to our understanding of the sagas, notably in the cases of those texts that could fit into multiple genre groups, or that display sections that describe different narrative scenarios.8 What is more, most of the labels used to describe the sagas, such as Íslendingasögur and fornaldarsögur, are modern constructs that derive from the first printed editions of the sagas, published at the beginning of the nineteenth century. This is not to mention the responsibility of saga

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editors for influencing, or even shaping, modern generic distinctions.9 Therefore, the appropriateness of applying modern labels, and thus notions of genre, to literature from the past like the sagas has also been challenged, as it has now become evident that genre is inherently culture- and history-bound. Medieval perceptions of what we now understand as “genre”—or, at least, a recognition of the existence of various saga types—can be inferred from the texts themselves and from their manuscript contexts. At times, this is more direct, as suggested by the use of a few labels such as konungasaga (kings’ saga) and skrǫksaga (untrue saga) within the works themselves.10 Other times, medieval perceptions of what we now understand as “genre” can be inferred, for example, by the quality of the content preserved within each codex.11 Often, thematic unity seems to have been the criterion according to which certain sagas were grouped together. However, we cannot be sure that a similarity of themes was regarded as constitutive of genre—assuming that a notion of genre similar to ours existed at all. Indeed, it is often the case that sagas containing similar themes but describing different narrative scenarios are also preserved together.12 In any case, it is certainly valuable to appreciate the contents of individual codices as organic wholes, especially from the perspective of genre,13 even though such an approach has often been neglected. Recently, the debate has also centered upon the question of whether it is at all adequate to divide the surviving saga corpus into distinct genres. Research seems split between scholars who think genre is important and those who assume that significant research can be done with a specific corpus, rather than a genre of sagas on the basis, for example, that a corpus does not allow for the hazardous identification of generically “hybrid” sagas.14 More recently, the notion of genre itself has been brought under further scrutiny.15 The major critique has been that a certain notion of genre is usually taken for granted by saga scholars and then, when actually explicated in detail, diverse definitions are given.16 In any case, sagas still appear to be assessed in a normative way, according to prescriptive notions of genre based on classical genre theory. Consequently, an inclusion/exclusion pattern is often applied, as exemplified by the identification of the aforementioned generically “hybrid” sagas, which presupposes the existence of “pure” genres. Clearly, such a pattern is hardly applicable to the extant saga corpus, which is heterogeneous by its nature. Theories concerned with a historical definition of genre and its development and more descriptive stances have been adopted to overcome the problem.17 Thus, by considering genres not as impermeable and stable categories, but as permeable and mutable entities, heterogeneity could be seen as a constitutive aspect of genre formation and development, and not as a mix or a lack of distinctive generic features. In this way, saga genres could be seen as

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“intrinsically dynamic, as categories of literary expression that change over time and, as such, display varying amount of variability in content and form.”18 On the one hand, a more dynamic approach to genre in saga scholarship is needed—namely, one that would take account of the fact that genres are historically determined, mutable, and permeable entities. On the other hand, though, it cannot be denied that meaningful patterns are useful when working with literature, if kept in mind that these patterns are always arbitrary and conventional. For example, modern generic distinctions may still be useful within saga research, insofar as we do not accept them as given but use them as a reference system and employ a critical approach. What follows is an attempt to explore such new possibilities, whereby the paranormal, by possibly functioning as a principle that characterizes and differentiates saga narratives—and thus as a generic marker—may contribute, along with other principles, to approaching saga genres more dynamically.

The Paranormal and Genre Affiliation As mentioned above, the crucial question about the generic markers that should be used to indicate genre affiliation—and thus distinction—has been given special attention within the debate. The customary grouping of sagas is based on two major criteria: namely, the temporal and the geographical setting of the action central to the narrative discourse. The Bakhtinian term ‘chronotope’ has been used to indicate their artistic interrelatedness.19 In turn, the chronotope seems to be closely connected with other features characterizing textual “worlds,” such as thematic and stylistic qualities.20 This information is usually concentrated in the opening sections of the sagas, or in the first chapters, whereby the addressee senses the narrative program at the start by recognizing and interpreting a set of signs, the generic markers, that trigger—and at times play with—expectations. It is true that signs of genre affiliation can be found later in the narratives as well, notably in those texts that combine multiple textual worlds in clearly recognizable ways, such as late medieval sagas. Therefore, one should remain receptive to these cues throughout the whole textual experience. Thus, on the one hand each saga genre by and large keeps to specific setting conventions, and on the other hand more complex saga discourses are also preserved. However, they are not properly accounted for by considering the standard set of generic markers only. Among the scholars who support this assumption, Bampi21 maintains that the intended message and purpose of the

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narrative should also be considered, especially when distinguishing between sagas that are set in the same temporal and geographical frame, such as the earlier and the later Íslendingasögur.22 Such additional features are important indeed, even though they may not always be easy to identify. By building on Fowler’s23 work on genre, Rowe24 argues that a larger number of features should be considered when identifying, and thus distinguishing, saga genres. Among them are: A distinctive representational aspect (narrative, dramatic, lyric, descriptive, meditative, etc.), a common external structure, and specific elements from the generic repertoire. The repertoire may include a particular size, scale, subject, set of values, mood, occasion, attitude, setting, set of characters, structure of the action, style, metrical structure, and task for the reader.

Rowe clarifies that this is not to be intended as a way of restructuring the current taxonomy, but it would allow our genre analysis to be refined, especially when dealing with those texts that more than others defy genre-affiliation, such as, again, late medieval sagas. Such an approach may be useful, but its complexity may stand in the way of its adoption in studies of saga genre. Torfi Tulinius25 has proposed an interesting alternative. Tulinius’s approach considers a set of generic markers that are meant to describe the saga corpus in a more dynamic way—namely, the five principles of “genealogy,” “geography,” “religion,” the “supernatural,” and “social status.” By assuming that the sagas are organized according to these principles, it would become clearer how the texts form a dynamic literary system in which the interaction between narrative worlds is vital and engenders meaning.26 It is to the “supernatural” that attention will now be given, specifically to how its representation in the sagas can be associated with genre delineations. Torfi Tulinius’s conception of the supernatural corresponds to what has been alternatively designated the “paranormal,” a term Clunies Ross, for example, suggests favoring when referring to “phenomena that cannot be accounted for empirically.”27 Ármann Jakobsson concurs that the term ‘paranormal’ should be preferred to ‘supernatural,’ in that the latter “takes its stance in terms of nature and suggests something that is above or beyond it, rather than a part of it.”28 ‘Paranormal’ would be “a slightly better term since it has fewer connotations and has its roots in human experience rather than in nature, ‘paranormal’ describing what is outside of its (normal/usual/expected) range.” It is the term ‘paranormal’ that gains preference here. What is perhaps most interesting about the paranormal from the perspective of genre is that, in the texts in which it plays a significant role, there are certain tendencies in the way it is portrayed that can be associated with genre delineations. Tulinius has worked on this generic aspect, while considering the

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conventional grouping of sagas, and he noticed that “when the supernatural intervenes in the contemporary sagas, it is usually in the form of dreams or visions, and its direct impact on human affairs is very rare. In the fornaldarsögur, on the other hand, direct contact with the supernatural is the rule.”29 In the world of religious texts, “the supernatural is characterized as either divine or diabolical,” whereas in the vitæ “it is in general less spectacular and treated in a more circumspect way.”30 In their representation of the paranormal, the Íslendingasögur “seem to occupy an intermediate position in the generic system, as there remains a reluctance to describe direct contact with [it].”31 Such reluctance to describe direct contact with the paranormal, then, should be attributed to the fact that these specific sagas “take place in historical time and in places their authors knew, [which] seems often to have inhibited them from allowing such events in their stories, even though they are more frequent than in the contemporary sagas and there are distinct differences in this matter between individual sagas” anyway.32 The differences in sagas’ narrative treatments of their respective paranormal contents continue in large part to dictate the sagas’ generic delineations in literary scholarship. What receives less attention is the contingency of such generic delineations upon particular pre-established criteria of what is, or is not, a given critic is willing to consider as paranormal. Closer scrutiny of such interpretative decisions in secondary scholarship therefore plays a role in reevaluating current approaches to genre in the saga corpus. My analysis is especially concerned with the sagas that defy strict genre demarcations, such as the aforementioned late medieval sagas. Among them, the sagas that have been termed “postclassical”/later/younger Íslendingasögur occupy a prominent place. Besides the problems concerning the labelling of this subgenre, scholars disagree on the distinctive characteristics that would affiliate the texts falling under this hypothetical subgroup, and therefore they also disagree on which sagas to include.33 This, in turn, derives from the difficulty in finding recurrent traits that would make them a group, as they particularly challenge genre identification, and thus the current taxonomy as well. If, on the one hand, their affiliation with the Íslendingasögur is determined above all by the chronotope, the conventions characterizing the same Íslendingasögur are, on the other hand, often distorted or played upon, while a change in character can also be detected. For example, the hero is beyond reach, while hyperbole, parody, and unresolved tensions often dominate the narrative. According to Arnold this is evidence of “a different consciousness from that of earlier generations,”34 which can be explained by considering the historical context in which these texts were produced, that is, post-1262 Iceland. One of the ways in which the complexities of these sagas are constructed is by incorporating elements that characterize other textual scenarios, notably

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those described by the fornaldarsögur and the riddarasögur. According to Arnold it is exactly “the use of romance topoi and motifs in the post-classical Íslendingasögur [that enables] the delineation of extreme possibilities and remarkable individual characteristics.”35 This supports the assumption that the current grouping system of sagas may still be useful, if it is regarded as a conventional frame of reference and not as a rigid classification system, for it allows us to better appreciate the singularity of these late medieval texts as well as the fact that their compilers seem to have consciously exploited and played with extant narrative conventions, both to create specific effects and to give their texts a deeper meaning.

The Case of Gull-Þóris saga Among the later Íslendingasögur, an interesting case study is constituted by Gull-Þóris saga, also known as Þorskfirðinga saga, since it is set mainly in Þorskafjörður in the Icelandic Westfjords. Probably composed early in the fourteenth century and believed to have been based on an older *Þorskfirðinga saga, it is preserved in one medieval vellum codex only, AM 561 4to (c. 1390–1410), which also contains two other Íslendingasögur (Reykdæla saga and Ljósvetninga saga) and three rímur—an interesting context from a generic point of view.36 The saga is challenging from a genre perspective, notably because it displays sections that clearly describe different narrative worlds. Interestingly, the episodes that take place in Iceland contrast markedly with the scenes that are set abroad, which is valid for the treatment of the paranormal as well. Indeed, its quality differs depending on whether the setting is Icelandic or nonIcelandic. For example, when the protagonist Þórir Oddsson is in Iceland, the paranormal is of a kind that is typically found in the Íslendingasögur—namely, sorcery like shape-shifting and magic spells. For instance, in the first chapter of the saga two women, Kerling and Þuríðr drikkin, are described as skilled in sorcery (margkunnig and mörgu slegin, respectively), and in chapter 14 Kerling is explicitly described as a shape-changing witch (hamhleypa). In chapter 17, further paranormal elements appear: before a battle ensues, Kerling hides the attackers’ ship with a concealment helmet (huliðshjálmr) so that they can proceed unseen across the fjord. Then the battle takes place, and there is mention of another spell and of a counter spell: Þeir Þórir urðu sárir mjök, því at vápn þeira bitu ekki. Þá sá Þuríðr drikkinn, at Kerling fór um völlinn at húsabaki ok hafði klæðin á baki sér uppi, en niðri höfuðit, ok sá svá skýin á milli fóta sér. Þuríðr hljóp þá út af virkinu ok

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rann á hana ok þreif í hárit ok reif af aftr hnakkafilluna. Kerling tók í eyra Þuríði báðum höndum ok sleit af henni eyrat ok alla kinnfilluna ofan, ok í því tóku at bíta vápn Þóris, ok urðu þá mjök skeinusamir.37

In the same chapter, a connection can be made between Þuríðr drikkin and a sow attacking Kerling. Earlier in the saga (chap. 10) a similar episode of shape-shifting takes place after Þórir and some of his foster-brothers try to burn to death the killers of their first foster-brother (Már Hallvarðsson) inside their house in Iceland: Tóku húsin skjótt at brenna, ok er fallin váru flest húsin ok menn gengu út, þeir er grið váru gefin, sá þeir Þórir, at svín tvau hlupu eins vegar frá húsunum, gyltr ok gríss. Þórir þreif einn raft ór eldinum ok skaut logbrandinum á lær galtanum, ok brotnuðu báðir lærleggirnir, ok fell hann þegar. En er Þórir kom at, sá hann, at þar var Askmaðr. Gekk Þórir af honum dauðum, en gyltrin hljóp í skóg, ok var þat Katla.38

There is mention of one last episode of shape-shifting that takes place when the characters are in Iceland. It concerns Þórir himself after he has found out that his son has died. Indeed, toward the end of the saga we read that: Þóri brá svá við þessi tíðendi, er hann frétti, at hann hvarf á brott frá búi sínu, ok vissi engi maðr, hvat af honum væri orðit eða hann kom niðr, en þat hafa menn fyrir satt, at hann hafi at dreka orðit ok hafi lagizt á gullkistur sínar. Helzt þat ok lengi síðan, at menn sá dreka fljúga ofan um þeim megin frá Þórisstöðum, ok Gullfors er kallaðr, ok yfir fjörðinn í fjall þat, er stendr yfir bænum í Hlíð.39

This type of event, though, is not usually seen in the Íslendingasögur, and the compiler himself suggests that the related events are open to question (“þat hafa menn fyrir satt”).40 The part of the saga that concerns the útanferð, a trip Þórir and his fosterbrothers take to Norway during the reign of King Harald Fair-hair, displays traits that are more typical of the fornaldarsaga narrative, and which concern the treatment of the paranormal as well. When the fellowship is in Hálogaland—and thus close to Finnmǫrk, the magical periphery of the North,41—the foster-brothers decide to break into a mound, and just beforehand Þórir has a revelatory dream. Such dreams are a recurrent feature in the Íslendingasögur, but here the episode displays peculiar characteristics that are reminiscent of the fornaldarsögur.42 In the dream Þórir converses with Agnar, the berserk who owns the mound and the wealth inside it. Since it turns out that they are kinsmen, Agnar scolds Þórir for trying to rob him but nonetheless provides him with magical gifts that will be useful to him later on: Þá dreymdi Þóri, at maðr kom at honum mikill í rauðum kyrtli ok hafði hjálm á höfði ok sverð búit í hendi. Hann hafði um sik digrt belti ok þar á góðan kníf ok glófa á höndum. Var þessi maðr mikilúðligr ok virðuligr.

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Hann mælti reiðuliga til Þóris ok stakk á honum döggskónum ok bað hann vaka ok mælti: “Ills manns efni ertu, er þú villt ræna frændr þína. En ek vil,” sagði inn komni maðr, “gera til þín verðleikum betr, því at ek em bróðir feðr þíns ok sammæðr við hann. Ek vil gefa þér gjafir til þess, at þú hverfir aftr ok leitir annarra féfanga. Þú skalt þiggja at mér kyrtil góðan, þann er þér mun hlífa við eldi ok vápnum, ok þar með hjálm ok sverð. Ek skal ok gefa þér glófa þá, er þú munt enga fá slíka, því at liði þínu mun óklaksárt verða, ef þú strýkr þeim með. Þessa glófa skaltu á höndum hafa, þá er þú bindr sár manna, ok mun skjótt verk ór taka. Kníf ok belti læt ek hér eftir, ok þat skaltu jafnan á þér hafa. Ek mun ok gefa þér tuttugu merkr gulls ok tuttugu merkr silfrs.”43

Later Agnar tells Þórir where to find more gold, but that the gold will not bring him luck. In order to get it, he should travel up North (to Finnmǫrk and Dumbshaf) and find the cave where a viking named Val took all his gold and afterwards became a dragon, along with his sons; they all now watch over the gold. After the dream, Þórir awakens, and the magical gifts of his helper are truly beside him. Afterwards, the quest to the North begins and is successful until Þórir and his companions reach the notorious cave: Þeir Þórir tendruðu ljós í hellinum ok gengu þar til, er vindi laust í móti þeim, ok slokknuðu þá login. Þá hét Þórir á Agnar til líðs, ok þegar kom elding mikil frá hellisdyrunum, ok gengu þá um stund við þat ljós, þar til er þeir heyrðu blástr til drekanna. En jafnskjótt sem eldingin kom yfir drekana, þá sofna þeir allir. En þá skorti eigi ljós, er lýsti af drekunum og gulli því, er þeir lágu á. Þeir sá, hvar sverð váru, ok kómu upp hjá þeim meðalkaflarnir. Þeir Þórir þrifu þá skjótt til sverðanna, ok síðan hljópu þeir yfir drekana ok lögðu undir bægsl þeim ok svá til hjartans. Þórir fekk tekit hjálminn af inum mesta drekanum, ok í þessi svipan þrífr inn mesti drekinn Þránd lang ok fló með hann út ór hellinum ok þegar hverr af öðrum, ok hraut eldr af munni þeim með miklu eitri.44

It is interesting to note that the wonders that took place in Norway are scarcely mentioned when the foster-brothers return to Iceland. Thus, it is clear that this saga displays certain tendencies when describing the paranormal that vary according to the geographical setting of the events. Paranormal episodes taking place in Iceland are of the types usually found in the Íslendingasögur, and therefore more acceptable to the Icelanders of the time who lived in that same space; by contrast, paranormal events taking place outside Iceland—in Norway in this case—are amplified and resemble more the descriptions of paranormal events that appear within the fornaldarsögur, the only difference being that they are set in a temporal framework that is closer to the compilers than to the mythical past in which the fornaldarsögur are usually set. Cardew argues that, on the whole, within the saga “there does seem to be a sense of sceptical attitude toward the fantastic . . . . The saga’s narrative, indeed, relishes the possibilities of this scepticism, even . . . to the point of pastiche.”45 It

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may well be that the saga is humorous and plays with conventions, which is typical of late medieval works. What is perhaps most interesting about this is that the effect is created via the combination of different narrative worlds that are almost juxtaposed as if in contrast with each other. This seems to suggest that the compiler consciously constructed the narrative, which would imply that he had regarded the various narrative worlds as distinct.46 At the same time, this allows for the paranormal to function as a signal of genre. To support this hypothesis, a brief analysis of a saga customarily belonging to another genre, but which also displays a combination of diverse textual worlds, will follow.

The Case of Þorsteins saga Víkingssonar Þorsteins saga Víkingssonar is usually grouped among the fornaldarsögur, but it displays sections that are very much distinct from each other and as such represent different narrative worlds. Probably composed around 1300, it is preserved in multi-genre codices that date typically from the fifteenth century.47 The three main sections of the saga, as identified by Ferrari,48 exhibit the characteristics of different saga narrative types, which by and large correspond to the riddarasögur (chap. 2–8), the Íslendingasögur (chap. 10–15a), and the fornaldarsögur (chap. 15b–25) of the current taxonomy. Interestingly, in the section that most resembles the Íslendingasögur the paranormal consists, for example, of prophetic dreams that in some cases feature the appearance of animal fylgjur, which often appear in dreams of characters in the Íslendingasögur (e.g., Gísla saga and Harðar saga).49 In the section that follows (chap. 15–25) there is mention of weather-magic caused by an evil sorceror (Ógautan, chap. 16 and 19), which is also often found in the Íslendingasögur (e.g., Gísla saga and Harðar saga). However, most of the paranormal elements contained in this section are those that usually characterize the fornaldarsögur, such as magical objects (e.g., a ship called Elliði that understands human speech) and paranormal creatures like a helpful dwarf (Sindri). Therefore, in this saga, as in Gull Þóris saga, the changing treatment the paranormal is granted seems to correspond with changes in narrative world, which suggests that the compiler regarded those worlds as distinct and that he consciously constructed the narrative by playing with extant conventions. In turn, this reinforces the assumption that the paranormal may function as a textual signal of genre, notably in those cases in which it plays a significant role. According to Ferrari, the tendency to juxtapose different narrative worlds finds explanation in the fact that, in such cases, the compiler “makes no definitive choice at the beginning of the writing process with regard to the genre of

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his own text. On the contrary, he has recourse to different genres . . . conventionally related to each setting,” depending on narrative developments.50 Thus, the combination of multiple narrative worlds should not be seen as a sign of incoherence, as was often maintained in the past when late medieval sagas were simply dismissed as such (e.g., by Finnur Jónsson). On the contrary, it may be regarded as a literary technique the compiler disposed of and adopted in order to create certain effects or to accord the narrative a deeper meaning, while also playing upon different ‘horizons of expectation.’ An analysis of one of the manuscript contexts of Þorsteins saga, whereby the contents of the codex in question are regarded as a whole, may enhance the exploration of genre. Building on Ferrari’s work,51 Lethbridge analyses the Eggertsbók context of the saga (AM 556 a-b 4to, c. 1475–99), which consists of a combination of different narrative types that by and large correspond to the fornaldarsögur, Íslendingasögur (notably the útlagasögur, or “outlaw sagas”), and riddarasögur groups.52 Lethbridge argues that, by reading the fornaldarsaga in question alongside the other saga narratives, numerous generic connections (structural, thematic, and motivic) can be established between the texts as they are found in that specific manuscript context. For example, she argues that “when Þorsteins saga and the other riddarasögur narratives in Eggertsbók . . . are read alongside the more serious outlaw saga narratives, the sombre elements in these supposedly frivolous narratives are brought out with greater intensity.” Furthermore, she maintains that “if we can assume that some element of conscious choice was involved in the process of bringing these seven sagas together . . . we can better appreciate how—in this case—Þorsteins saga communicates certain serious moral or ideological messages and is not pure entertainment.” Lethbridge concludes that examining sagas in their manuscript contexts can result in a better understanding of generic development, which is truly significant.

Concluding Remarks The analysis of the study of genre within saga scholarship revealed that a redefinition of genre and new, more dynamic approaches to it are needed to investigate the matter properly. While progress has been recently made, disagreement about what genre is and a normative approach to the study of the saga corpus from the perspective of genre is still present in the work of scholars. If saga genres were understood in such a way that the focus would lie more on the relational aspect of the texts—which is crucial given the fact that their interactions generate meaning—the assumption that genres are porous, mutable,

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and clearly dependent on cultural and historical circumstances would be reinforced, as would the view that heterogeneity is constitutive of genre formation and development. At the same time, a dynamic and more descriptive approach to the study of genre in saga scholarship would be permitted. Moreover, either passively accepting or categorically dismissing the current saga genre distinctions is inadvisable. The customary taxonomy can continue to be useful, especially from an interpretive point of view, as demonstrated above, provided that we use it as a conventional reference framework and not in a normative way— that is, to classify the sagas within strict categories—while continuing to interrogate it. For example, the analysis of the changing treatment the paranormal is granted in the sagas has revealed that, if the current taxonomy is considered, some sagas that were dismissed as incoherent in the past can actually be reevaluated as carefully constructed narratives, whereby their compilers made use of and played with extant conventions, and thus with their audience’s knowledge of these very same conventions, to create specific effects and give their texts a deeper meaning. At the same time, the assessment from the genre perspective of paranormal tendencies in the sagas where they play a significant role has also revealed that associations between the same tendencies and genre delineations can often be made. Therefore, the paranormal may function as a principle that indicates in which saga narrative world one is being led, and thus as a feature allowing the reader to differentiate the various textual worlds of the saga corpus. Together with the study of other organizing principles that function as textual signals of genre—such as the geographic principle or the chronotope proper—the assessment of the paranormal could thus contribute to a revised approach to the saga corpus that views saga genre in a more descriptive and dynamic way, while allowing to better account for its characteristic heterogeneity. Clearly, it remains valid that each saga should be analyzed in its own right, as containing not only generic traits but also individualizing elements, and thus as heterogeneous in its own way. Manuscript contexts should also be considered as well as extra-literary factors, such as socio-cultural contexts like those concerning the production, the transmission, and the reception of the sagas.53 In any case, the analysis of genre within the saga corpus remains a complex and controversial matter, if not a paranormal experience in and of itself.

Notes 1 Especially by Georg W.F. Hegel in his renowned lectures on aesthetics (1817–29, later published as Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik, 1835–38) and by Friedrich W. J. Schelling and August W. Schlegel (Cesare Segre, “Generi,” in Avviamento all’analisi del testo letterario [Torino:

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Einaudi, 1985], 240– 44; David Duff, “Introduction,” in Modern Genre Theory, ed. David Duff, Longman Critical Readers [London: Longman, 2000], 3–6). 2 For example, it had been previously possible “to judge a work written in, say, 1750 by rules formulated in the fourth-century BC, or to deny the existence of a new genre on the grounds that Aristotle didn’t define it” (Duff, “Introduction,” 4). 3 Judy Quinn, ed., “Interrogating Genre in the Fornaldarsögur: Round-Table Discussion,” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 2 (2006): 292. 4 Notably by the Italian philosopher Benedetto Croce (especially in the Fundamental Theses of his Aesthetic, 1900), who argued that the whole doctrine of genres is “a ‘superstition’ of ancient classical origin, which ‘survives to contaminate modern literary history’ and to deceive us as to the true nature of the aesthetic” (Duff, “Introduction,” 5). 5 For a detailed introduction to the origins of modern genre theory, see Duff, “Introduction,” 1–24. 6 As exemplified by the great importance attributed to the Íslendingasögur during what has been termed—not without disagreement—“Icelandic national romanticism,” as in this context the sagas clearly satisfied nationalist criteria (Martin Arnold, The Post-Classical Icelandic Family Saga [New York: Edwin Mellen Press, 2003], 87–90). 7 See, for example, the debate between Andersson, Harris, and Lönnroth in the 1975 issue of Scandinavian Studies, and the debate on the fornaldarsögur in the 2006 issue of Viking and Medieval Scandinavia (Quinn, “Interrogating Genre in the Fornaldarsögur”). For a detailed introduction to the current debate, see Massimiliano Bampi, “Genre,” in The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, ed. Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson (New York: Routledge, 2017), 4–7. 8 Elizabeth Ashman Rowe, “Generic Hybrids: Norwegian ‘Family’ Sagas and Icelandic ‘Mythic-Heroic’ Sagas,” Scandinavian Studies 66 (1993): 540; Bampi, “Genre,” 6. One of the sagas that scholars have identified as a “borderline” text from a genre perspective is, for example, Hrólfs saga Gautrekssonar, a fornaldarsaga that has also been labeled a riddarasaga. One example of a saga that displays sections describing different narrative scenarios is, for instance, Þorsteins saga Víkingssonar, a fornaldarsaga that switches to the Íslendingasaga and the riddarasaga modes according to narrative need (see below). 9 See, for example, Ármann Jakobsson, “The Life and Death of the Medieval Icelandic Short Story,” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 112, no. 3 (2013): 257–91 concerning the þættir, and Philip Lavender, “The Secret Prehistory of the Fornaldarsögur,” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 114, no. 4 (2015): 526–51 concerning the fornaldarsögur. 10 Margaret Clunies Ross, The Cambridge Introduction to the Old Norse-Icelandic Saga, Cambridge Introductions to Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 28; Terje Spurkland, “Lygisǫgur, skrǫksǫgur and stjúpmæðrasǫgur,” in The Legendary Sagas: Origins and Development, ed. Annette Lassen, Agneta Ney, and Ármann Jakobsson (Reykjavík: University of Iceland Press, 2012), 453–57. 11 For example, Möðruvallabók (AM 132 fol.) solely contains texts that are now labeled as Íslendingasögur, while AM 343a 4to preserves material that would now be included among either the fornaldarsögur or the riddarasögur groups. On the medieval perception of what are now labeled as fornaldarsögur, see Ármann Jakobsson, “The Earliest Legendary Saga Manuscripts,” in Lassen, Ney, and Ármann Jakobsson, The Legendary Sagas, 21–26; Stephen A. Mitchell, “Definitions and Assessments,” in Heroic Sagas and Ballads (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991), 21–22.

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12 As exemplified by Eggertsbók (AM 556 a-b 4to, c. 1475–99), which preserves texts that contain similar themes, but that are now regarded as either Íslendingasögur, riddarasögur, or fornaldarsögur, if not as a combination of all of these (see below). 13 Emily D. Lethbridge, “The Place of Þorsteins saga Víkingssonar in Eggertsbók, a Late Medieval Icelandic Saga-Book,” in Lassen, Ney, and Ármann Jakobsson, The Legendary Sagas, 396–400. 14 Elizabeth Ashman Rowe, “Fabulæ i þeim bestu sögum: Studies in the Genre of the Medieval Icelandic Mytho-Heroic Saga” (PhD diss., Cornell University, 1989), 8; Quinn, “Interrogating Genre in the Fornaldarsögur,” 291–93. 15 See, for example, Bampi, “Genre,” 7. 16 For example, according to Rowe, “Fabulæ i þeim bestu sögum,” 11, “the notion of genre as something that identifies and communicates, rather than defines and classifies, is a valuable one.” According to Torfi H. Tulinius, “The Matter of the North: Fiction and Uncertain Identities in Thirteenth-Century Iceland,” in Old Icelandic Literature and Society, ed. Margaret Clunies Ross, Cambridge Studies in Medieval Literature 42 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 527, “genres are an important element in the communication between authors and readers,” as they guide and influence the reader in interpreting the texts. Fulvio Ferrari, “Possible Worlds of Sagas: the Intermingling of Different Fictional Universes in the Development of the fornaldarsögur as a Genre,” in Lassen, Ney, and Ármann Jakobsson, The Legendary Sagas, 271 uses the term ‘genre’ not “to refer to the classical genre-theory, but to a more flexible and nonexclusive interpretation of the concept, intended mainly as a set of textual signals and instructions activating different ‘horizons of expectations’ in the audience.” For the notion of ‘horizons of expectations,’ see Hans Robert Jauss, “Theory of Genres and Medieval Literature,” in Modern Genre Theory, ed. David Duff (1970; London: Longman, 2000), 130–32. 17 See, for example, Jauss’s study of literary genres in the European Middle Ages (Jauss, “Theory of Genres and Medieval Literature,” 131), where he argues, among other things, that “literary genres are to be understood not as genera (classes) in the logical senses, but rather as groups or historical families. As such, they cannot be deduced or defined, but only historically determined, delimited and described.” For its application to the study of genre within the saga corpus, see, for example, Bampi, “Genre,” 7. 18 Bampi, “Genre,” 7. 19 A term Bakhtin himself borrowed from mathematics and applied to his study of the novel to indicate the artistic inseparability of time and space, forming a “concrete whole” (see Mikhail M. Bakhtin, “Forms of Time and the Chronotope in the Novel,” in The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, ed. Michael Holquist [1937–1938; Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981], 84–85). 20 According to several literary theoreticians, the notion of textual ‘world’ is strictly related to that of ‘genre,’ in that genres evolve in different kinds of worlds—for example, in “possible” ones (Umberto Eco, The Role of the Reader: Explorations in the Semiotics of Texts [Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1979]) or in “fictional” ones (Thomas G. Pavel, Fictional Worlds [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986]). See Tulinius, “The Matter of the North,” 527–28; Ferrari, “Possible Worlds of Sagas,” 272. 21 Bampi, “Genre,” 8. 22 ‘Earlier’ and ‘later’ refer here to the supposed time of writing of these sagas. 23 Alastair Fowler, Kinds of Literature: An Introduction to the Theory of Genres and Modes (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982). 24 Rowe, “Generic Hybrids,” 540–42.

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25 Tulinius, “The Matter of the North,” 252. 26 For the study of individual works and literary genres as constituting dynamic systems, see the contributions of Russian Formalists (notably Jurij Tynjanov, “The Literary Fact,” in Duff, Modern Genre Theory, 29–49), and their subsequent elaboration in Polysystem Studies (especially Itamar Even-Zohar, “Polysystem Theory Revisited,” Papers in Culture Research, 2005, 38–48). For the application of these studies to medieval Icelandic literature, see, for example, Massimiliano Bampi, “Literary Activity and Power Struggle: Some Observations on the Medieval Icelandic Polysystem after the Sturlungaöld,” in Textual Production and Status Contexts in Rising and Unstable Societies, ed. Massimiliano Bampi and Marina Buzzoni (Venice: Edizioni Ca’ Foscari, 2013), 59–70. 27 Clunies Ross, The Cambridge Introduction to the Old Norse-Icelandic Saga, 97. 28 Ármann Jakobsson, “The Taxonomy of the Non-Existent: Some Medieval Icelandic Concepts of the Paranormal,” Fabula 54, nos. 3–4 (2013): 199. 29 Tulinius, “The Matter of the North,” 254–56. 30 Tulinius, “The Matter of the North,” 254. 31 Tulinius, “The Matter of the North,” 255. According to Torfi Tulinius, the episodes in Grettis saga that concern Glámr as a revenant exemplify this reluctance as direct contact with the paranormal being is delayed while the tension progressively increases. 32 Tulinius, “The Matter of the North,” 255; cf. Torfi H. Tulinius, The Matter of the North: The Rise of Literary Fiction in Thirteenth-Century Iceland, trans. Randi C. Eldevik (Odense: Odense Universitetsforlag, 2002), 181, 227. 33 Gudbrand Vigfusson, Sturlunga saga Including the Íslendinga saga of Lawman Sturla Thordsson & Other Works, vol. 1 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1878), xlii–lxiii subdivided the Íslendingasögur into “greater,” “minor,” and “spurious,” and included some of the sagas in question in the last two groups. Sigurður Nordal, “Yngstu sögurit,” in Fornar Menntir, vol. 2 (1953; Kópavogur: Almenna bókafélagið, 1993), 455–57 grouped these late medieval texts under the label “fimmti flokkur Íslendinga sagna,” among the yngstu sögurit. Stefán Einarsson, “The Family Sagas,” in A History of Icelandic Literature (New York: The John Hopkins Press, 1957), 150–51 was one of the first to reevaluate these sagas, which he labeled ‘post-classical’ and later also síðbornar sögur (Stefán Einarsson, “Íslendingasögur,” in Íslensk bókmenntasaga, 840–1960 [Reykjavík: Snæbjörn Jónsson, 1961], 186–87). He subdivided them into those written in an innovative spirit (such as Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss, Finnboga saga ramma, Kjalnesinga saga, KrókaRefs saga, Víglundar saga, and Þórðar saga hreðu) and those characterized by a tendency to rewrite or embellish older sagas (including Harðar saga, Hávarðar saga, Svarfdæla saga, and Þorskfirðinga saga), a proposition that has been influential in recent research on the same texts. Arnold, The Post-Classical Icelandic Family Saga, 145–47, for example, considers Stefán Einarsson’s study in his monograph on the same sagas, which he still terms ‘post-classical.’ Vésteinn Ólason, who has studied the Íslendingasögur extensively, also labels these late medieval sagas as ‘post-classical’ (Vésteinn Ólason, “Íslendingasögur,” in Medieval Scandinavia: An Encyclopedia, ed. Phillip Pulsiano and Kirsten Wolf [New York: Garland, 1993], 333–36), as well as unglegar Íslendingasögur and “sögur af köppum og kynjum” (sagas of champions and kinfolk, my translation), while including them in the einstakar Íslendingasögur subgroup (Vésteinn Ólason, “Einstakar Íslendingasögur,” in Íslensk bókmenntasaga, ed. Vésteinn Ólason, vol. 1 [Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1992], 80–160). It does not come as a surprise, then, that the lists of sagas that the various critics have proposed as belonging to this subgroup of the Íslendingasögur differ considerably. 34 Arnold, The Post-Classical Icelandic Family Saga, 145–47, 230–32.

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35 Arnold, The Post-Classical Icelandic Family Saga, 231. 36 See http://handrit.is/is/manuscript/view/is/AM04-0561. 37 Guðni Jónsson, ed., “Þorskfirðinga saga,” in Íslendinga sögur, vol. 4 (Reykjavík: Íslendingasagnaútgáfan, 1978), 372–73. “Þórir and his men were wounded badly, because their weapons would not bite. Then Thurid Drikkin saw Kerling walking around behind the house with her clothes pulled up and her head bent down, looking backwards through her legs at the clouds. Thurid then leapt out of the fortification, attacked her, and grabbed her hair, tearing the flesh off the back of her neck. Kerling grabbed Thurid’s ear with both hands and tore off the ear and the flesh of her cheek below it. And at that moment Þórir’s weapons began to bite, and they did a lot of harm” (Viðar Hreinsson, ed., “Gold-Þórir´s saga,” in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales, trans. Anthony Maxwell, 3 vols. [Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing], 355). 38 Guðni Jónsson, “Þorskfirðinga saga,” 358. “The buildings quickly caught fire, and when most of them were burned down and the people who were offered a truce had come out, Þórir and his men saw two pigs running in the same direction away from the buildings, a sow and a hog. Þórir grabbed a piece of wood out of the fire and threw the burning log at the hog’s thigh. Both legs were broken, and it fell on the spot. Now when Þórir got there, he saw that it was Askmann. Þórir killed him, but the sow ran off into the woods. It was Katla” (Viðar Hreinsson, “Gold-Þórir´s saga,” 346). 39 Guðni Jónsson, “Þorskfirðinga saga,” 382. “Þórir was so startled when he heard the news that he disappeared from his farm. No one knew what happened to him or where he ended up, but people believe that he turned into a dragon, and lay down on his gold chests. It also happened for a long time afterwards that people saw a dragon flying down from the mountains above Thorisstadir—at the place called Gullfoss (Gold Falls)—and over the fjord to the mountain that rises above the farm at Hlid” (Viðar Hreinsson, “Gold-Þórir´s saga,” 359). 40 Phil Cardew, “The Question of Genre in the Late Íslendingasögur: A Case Study of Þórskfirðinga saga,” in Sagas, Saints and Settlements, ed. Gareth Williams and Paul Bibire (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 26. The episode may as well be a later addition. 41 Hans Jakob Orning, “The Magical Reality of the Late Middle Ages: Exploring the World of the fornaldarsögur,” Scandinavian Journal of History 35, no. 1 (2010): 5 reminds us that Finnmǫrk “was considered an extremely dangerous and unpredictable area, where anything could happen.” 42 Interestingly, Lars Lönnroth, “Dreams in the Sagas,” Scandinavian Studies 74, no. 4 (2002): 455–64 maintains that dreams in the Íslendingasögur are of a different nature and have a different function to dreams in the fornaldarsögur. 43 Guðni Jónsson, “Þorskfirðinga saga,” 343. “Þórir dreamed that a tall man in a red tunic approached him wearing a helmet and holding an ornamented sword. He wore a thick belt with a good knife attached to it, and he wore gloves on his hands. The man was imposing and splendid. He spoke angrily to Þórir, jabbing him with the chape of his scabbard and telling him to wake up, and said, ‘You are not much of a man if you would rob your kinsman, but I will treat you better than you deserve, for I am your father’s half-brother born of the same mother as he. I will give you gifts if you turn back and pursue booty elsewhere. You will receive a fine tunic from me, which will protect you from fire and weapons, and a helmet and a sword as well. I will also give you gloves the like of which you’ll not find anywhere, for your men will remain unharmed if you stroke them with the gloves. You must wear these gloves on your hands when you bind men’s wounds, and soon the pain will subside. I leave the knife

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and belt here, and you must always wear them. I will also give you twenty marks of gold and twenty marks of silver’ ” (Viðar Hreinsson, “Gold-Þórir´s saga,” 339). 44 Guðni Jónsson, “Þorskfirðinga saga,” 347. “Þórir and his men lit a torch in the cave and walked on until they encountered a gust of wind and the torch was extinguished. Þórir then called on Agnar for support, and immediately lightning flashed from the cave’s entrance. They continued for a while by that light until they heard the dragons breathing. But as soon as the lightning reached the dragons, they fell asleep. There was, however, no lack of light when the gold on which the dragons were lying shone out. They saw some swords, with the hilts pointed at them. Þórir and his men then quickly grabbed the swords, ran over the dragons, and thrust their swords in under their wings and through to the heart. Þórir managed to remove the largest dragon’s helmet. In that instant, the dragon grabbed Thrand the Tall and flew out of the cave with him, and then one dragon after another, spewing poisonous fire out of their mouths” (Viðar Hreinsson, “Gold-Þórir´s saga,” 340). 45 Cardew, “The Question of Genre in the Late Íslendingasögur,” 27. 46 Cf. Torfi H. Tulinius, “Landafræði og flokkun fornsagna,” Skáldskaparmál 1 (1990): 142–56 who discusses how other late medieval sagas such as Samsons saga fagra and Víglundar saga exploit and play with their audience’s knowledge of the different properties of the various textual worlds, notably the geographic property, to give their narratives a deeper meaning. 47 “Multi-genre” from a contemporary perspective. Notably, AM 152 1-2 fol. (c. 1300–1525) preserves Íslendingasögur, riddarasögur, fornaldarsögur, and homilies. Eggertsbók (AM 556 a-b 4to, c. 1475–99) preserves Íslendingasögur, riddarasögur, and fornaldarsögur. 48 Fulvio Ferrari, “La Þorsteins saga Vikingssonar e la questione dei generi,” Studi Nordici 1 (1994): 18. 49 Ferrari, “La Þorsteins saga Vikingssonar e la questione dei generi,” 19; Lethbridge, “The Place of Þorsteins saga Víkingssonar in Eggertsbók, a Late Medieval Icelandic Saga-Book,” 389–90. 50 Ferrari, “La Þorsteins saga Vikingssonar e la questione dei generi,” 23. 51 Ferrari, “La Þorsteins saga Vikingssonar e la questione dei generi.” 52 Lethbridge, “The Place of Þorsteins saga Víkingssonar in Eggertsbók, a Late Medieval Icelandic Saga-Book,” 396–400. 53 See Tulinius, “The Matter of the North,” 536–37; Bampi, “Genre,” 9–11; cf. Bampi, “Literary Activity and Power Struggle.”

Bibliography Arnold, Martin. The Post-Classical Icelandic Family Saga. New York: Edwin Mellen Press, 2003. Ármann Jakobsson. “The Earliest Legendary Saga Manuscripts.” In Lassen, Ney, and Ármann Jakobsson, The Legendary Sagas, 21–32. Ármann Jakobsson. “The Life and Death of the Medieval Icelandic Short Story.” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 112, no. 3 (2013): 257–91. Ármann Jakobsson. “The Taxonomy of the Non-Existent: Some Medieval Icelandic Concepts of the Paranormal.” Fabula 54, nos. 3–4 (2013): 199–213. Bakhtin, Mikhail M. “Forms of Time and the Chronotope in the Novel.” In The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, edited by Michael Holquist, 84–258. 1937–1938. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981.

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Bampi, Massimiliano. “Genre.” In The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, edited by Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson, 4–14. New York: Routledge, 2017. Bampi, Massimiliano. “Literary Activity and Power Struggle: Some Observations on the Medieval Icelandic Polysystem after the Sturlungaöld.” In Textual Production and Status Contexts in Rising and Unstable Societies, edited by Massimiliano Bampi and Marina Buzzoni, 59–70. Venice: Edizioni Ca’ Foscari, 2013. Cardew, Phil. “The Question of Genre in the Late Íslendingasögur: A Case Study of Þórskfirðinga saga.” In Sagas, Saints and Settlements, edited by Gareth Williams and Paul Bibire, 13–28. Leiden: Brill, 2004. Clunies Ross, Margaret. The Cambridge Introduction to the Old Norse-Icelandic Saga. Cambridge Introductions to Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Duff, David. “Introduction.” In Duff, Modern Genre Theory, 1–24. Duff, David, ed. Modern Genre Theory. Longman Critical Readers. London: Longman, 2000. Eco, Umberto. The Role of the Reader: Explorations in the Semiotics of Texts. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1979. Even-Zohar, Itamar. “Polysystem Theory Revisited.” Papers in Culture Research, 2005, 38–48. Even-Zohar, Itamar. “Possible Worlds of Sagas: the Intermingling of Different Fictional Universes in the Development of the fornaldarsögur as a Genre.” In Lassen, Ney, and Ármann Jakobsson, The Legendary Sagas, 271–88. Ferrari, Fulvio. “La Þorsteins saga Vikingssonar e la questione dei generi.” Studi Nordici 1 (1994): 11–23. Fowler, Alastair. Kinds of Literature: An Introduction to the Theory of Genres and Modes. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982. Gudbrand Vigfusson. Sturlunga saga Including the Íslendinga saga of Lawman Sturla Thordsson & Other Works. Vol. 1. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1878. Guðni Jónsson, ed. “Þorskfirðinga saga.” In Íslendinga sögur, 4:335–82.Reykjavík: Íslendingasagnaútgáfan, 1978. Jauss, Hans Robert. “Theory of Genres and Medieval Literature.” In Modern Genre Theory, edited by David Duff, 127–47. 1970. London: Longman, 2000. Lassen, Annette, Agneta Ney, and Ármann Jakobsson, eds. The Legendary Sagas: Origins and Development. Reykjavík: University of Iceland Press, 2012. Lavender, Philip. “The Secret Prehistory of the Fornaldarsögur.” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 114, no. 4 (2015): 526–51. Lethbridge, Emily D. “The Place of Þorsteins saga Víkingssonar in Eggertsbók, a Late Medieval Icelandic Saga-Book.” In Lassen, Ney, and Ármann Jakobsson, The Legendary Sagas, 375–402. Lönnroth, Lars. “Dreams in the Sagas.” Scandinavian Studies 74, no. 4 (2002): 455–64. Mitchell, Stephen A. “Definitions and Assessments.” In Heroic Sagas and Ballads, 8–43. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991. Orning, Hans Jakob. “The Magical Reality of the Late Middle Ages: Exploring the World of the fornaldarsögur.” Scandinavian Journal of History 35, no. 1 (2010): 3–20. Pavel, Thomas G. Fictional Worlds. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986. Quinn, Judy, ed. “Interrogating Genre in the Fornaldarsögur: Round-Table Discussion.” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 2 (2006): 275–96. Rowe, Elizabeth Ashman. “Fabulæ i þeim bestu sögum: Studies in the Genre of the Medieval Icelandic Mytho-Heroic Saga.” PhD diss., Cornell University, 1989.

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Rowe, Elizabeth Ashman. “Generic Hybrids: Norwegian ‘Family’ Sagas and Icelandic ‘MythicHeroic’ Sagas.” Scandinavian Studies 66 (1993): 539–54. Segre, Cesare. “Generi.” In Avviamento all’analisi del testo letterario, 234–63. Torino: Einaudi, 1985. Sigurður Nordal. “Yngstu sögurit.” In Fornar Menntir, 2:453–57. 1953. Kópavogur: Almenna bókafélagið, 1993. Spurkland, Terje. “Lygisǫgur, skrǫksǫgur and stjúpmæðrasǫgur.” In Lassen, Ney, and Ármann Jakobsson, The Legendary Sagas, 453–57. Stefán Einarsson. “Íslendingasögur.” In Íslensk bókmenntasaga, 840–1960, 168–87. Reykjavík: Snæbjörn Jónsson, 1961. Stefán Einarsson. “The Family Sagas.” In A History of Icelandic Literature, 136–51. New York: The John Hopkins Press, 1957. Torfi H. Tulinius. “Landafræði og flokkun fornsagna.” Skáldskaparmál 1 (1990): 142–56. Torfi H. Tulinius. The Matter of the North: The Rise of Literary Fiction in Thirteenth-Century Iceland. Translated by Randi C. Eldevik. Odense: Odense Universitetsforlag, 2002. Torfi H. Tulinius. “The Matter of the North: Fiction and Uncertain Identities in ThirteenthCentury Iceland.” In Old Icelandic Literature and Society, edited by Margaret Clunies Ross, 242–65. Cambridge Studies in Medieval Literature 42. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Tynjanov, Jurij. “The Literary Fact.” In Duff, Modern Genre Theory, 29–49. Vésteinn Ólason. “Einstakar Íslendingasögur.” In Íslensk bókmenntasaga, edited by Vésteinn Ólason, 1:80–160.Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1992. Vésteinn Ólason. “Íslendingasögur.” In Medieval Scandinavia: An Encyclopedia, edited by Phillip Pulsiano and Kirsten Wolf, 333–36. New York: Garland, 1993. Viðar Hreinsson, ed. “Gold-Þórir´s saga.” In The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales, translated by Anthony Maxwell, 335–59. 3 vols. Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing.

Shaun F.D. Hughes

Reading the Landscape in Grettis saga: Þórhallur, the meinvættur, and Glámur Abstract: Questioning the silences in the narrative, combined with a close examination of the landscape, suggests that the hauntings affecting Þórhallur in Grettis saga are the result of his violating an agreement with the landsvættir in order to accommodate his extensive flocks. In killing the creature, Glámur in the process takes over the task of driving Þórhallur from his farm.1 The relationships between human societies and the landscapes within which they find themselves situated have never been neutral, especially in pre-modern times.2 When the first English settlers arrived in Australia in the late eighteenth century, they found the environment featureless and forbidding. It was for them a terra nullius, an empty land, yet for the indigenous inhabitants that “empty land” throbbed with totemic life on which the social and political history of the kin-group was inscribed, only to be coaxed into meaning by those who had the skills and knowledge to interpret the signs.3 When the first settlers from Norway and the Hebrides came to Iceland they found indeed a terra nullius (if one discounts the possible settlements of Irish monks, which seem to have become washed away with the tides). For these first settlers the landscape was totally without meaning, but even while the landscape may have been empty and unintelligible, it did not mean that it was uninhabited. Before moving on to my main argument, however, I would first like to clarify two formulations that I have found useful in establishing my interpretations: “human human beings” as opposed to “nonhuman human beings,” and “Civilization” as opposed to the “Wilderness.” I am not making any claims that my conclusions can be read back in time to explain “pagan” realities, nor that they attempt to reflect anything other than the understanding of these matters at the time the sagas were written down and as the events were thus understood by subsequent generations of readers.4

Definition 1: Human Human Beings and Nonhuman Human Beings In both Old Norse and Old English the default or generic term for a humanoid being is maður/menn, monn/menn, which I will here translate as “human being.”5 In Alvísmál 13.4–6, Alvís is asked: “hverso máni heitir, / sá er menn https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-022

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siá, / heimi hveriom í.”6 The same syntax is used in 23.4–6. This is interpreted as follows: “Das Wort menn bezieht sich in diesen beiden Frage-Strophen— anders als in der Antwort-Strophen—somit auf alle ‘menschengestaltigen Wesen’ (Menschen, Götter Riesen, Alben, Zwerge).”7 But when one had to be more specific, then humankind was referred to as mennskir menn as in Sigurdrífumál 18.4: “sumar hafa menzkir menn.”8 Menn already means “human beings,” but here it is qualified by mennskir (human): “Dieser Ausdruck ist auch in Gr[ímnis]m[ál] 31 bezeugt und dient zur Unterscheidung der Menschen von anderen menschengestaltigen Wesen (Götter, Riesen, Alben, Zwerge), die ebenfalls als menn (wörtlich ‘Männer’) bezeichnet werden.”9 While it would have been possible to refer to the other humanshaped beings as *ómennskir menn, or “nonhuman human beings,” this phrase does not appear to be used. Instead, Old Norse seems to prefer the term vættir10 as this passage from Ívents saga demonstrates.11 Kalebrant recounts his adventures to the court, including his encounter in a great forest with a hideous blámaður (Ethiopian) who is the herdsman of a rampaging herd of wild bulls and leopards. Kalebrant asks him: “Hvárt ert þú maðr eða andi eða önnur vættr? Hann svarar: Slíkr maðr er eg sem þú máttu sjá.”12 Kalebrant wants to know what he is facing, a human being (maður) like himself or some other creature. The blámaður will only admit to being likewise a maður, but he refuses to specify further whether he is human or nonhuman. This dialogue only makes sense given the wordplay on maður possible in Norse, and it is an expansion of the French original, in which Calogrenanz only asks the “vileins, qui resanbliot Mor”13 if he is a human being (hom) or not. The narrator of Grettis saga makes further qualifications among different kinds of vættir. When Þórhallur meets with the lawspeaker Skafti Þórrodsson, Skafti notes: “Þar mun liggja meinvættir nökkur, er menn eru tregari til at geyma síðr þíns fjár en annara manna.”14 And when Grettir’s maternal uncle, Jökull Bárðarson, warns Grettir against tackling the revenant Glámur, he characterizes him as an óvættur:15 “er ok miklu betra at fásk við mennska menn en við óvættir slíkar.”16 Finally in chapter 78, Grettir shows his distain for the old woman Þuríður, the foster-mother of Þorbjörn öngull, when he becomes aware of her in the boat that has brought Þorbjörn on a fruitless errand to get Grettir to leave Drangey: “Fussum þeiri gørningavætti.”17 The semantic force of the word here is within the general discourse of abuse, without reference to one sort or another of human being.18 In the Old English context, the compiler of Beowulf asserts that Grendel is a descendant of Adam’s son Cain (and therefore by implication a human being).19 He continues: “Þanon untydras20 eal onwocon / eotenas ond ylfe

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ond orcneas,21 / swylce gigantas.”22 This list of the descendants of Cain who are all menn but “nonhuman human beings” parallels the list of similar creatures from the Eddic poems already mentioned.

Definition 2: The Wilderness and Civilization, or Nonhuman Human Beings and Space Eleazar Meletinskij argued persuasively in his article on “Scandinavian Mythology as a System” that space in the Old Norse world was organized not only vertically (the heavens, middle earth, the region of Hel, arranged along the axis of Yggdrasill, the world ash-tree), but also horizontally on the macro-level between Miðgarður and Útgarður as well as on the micro-level, that is the realm of lived experience, between innangarðs and útangarðs.23 Kirsten Hastrup has discussed the implications of this model particularly in terms of cosmology, and I am in agreement with her arguments.24 However, Hastrup sees a coalescence “of garðr (fence) and garðr (farmstead, enclosure),”25 whereas I think her definition of innangarðs is too restrictive and that the term refers to both the home farmstead, the home hay-field (tún), the out-lying hay-fields (engjar) and possibly even the shieling (sel)—i.e., all those areas over which human human beings (mennskir menn) may be said to have sovereignty.26 In this sense, innangarðs represents what Hans Peter Duerr calls “Civilization” and útangarðs, his “Wilderness.”27 The latter term has the convenience of being confirmed in Middle English in exactly the meaning under discussion. In the fourteenth-century poem Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Gawain sets out to search for the Green Knight’s chapel. His journey takes him from the “Civilization” of King Arthur’s court to a place the author identifies as “þe wyldrenesse of Wyrale” (“the Wilderness of the Wirral”). There he encounters fierce foes of an indeterminate nature, plus dragons, wolves, wodwos or forest trolls, bulls, bears, boars, and last but not least giants.28 The nonhuman humans encountered by Gawain are the counterparts of the vættir that inhabit the Icelandic Wilderness. The boundary between the two spaces is flexible and negotiable, and Civilization has a tendency to spread into the space formerly claimed by the Wilderness. This usually presents no or very few problems, so long as the creatures of the Wilderness have the opportunity to organize their resettlement on their own terms.29 But when the proper forms are not observed, then things can turn ugly, as road builders in particular have experienced in Iceland down to the present day.30 From the first settlement of Iceland it was recognized that the land was inhabited by beings usually referred to in general terms as landvættir (commonly translated as “guardian spirits”). Before the first settlers could take possession

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of their land, there were certain rituals that had to be undertaken to appease the landvættir. Dag Strömbäck, Ólafur Briem, and Kristján Bersi Ólafsson have assembled the surviving records and commented on them.31 Since they deal with a period anterior to the one we are concerned with, it suffices to say that the arrival of Christianity may have put an end to many pagan customs, but it did not put an end to the belief in the landvættir and their interactions with mennskir menn. While these beings were for the most part content to live in the Wilderness, they nevertheless did lay claim to certain objects and patches of land in the settled regions and guarded their rights and privileges to these very zealously, inflicting dire punishments on those who violated their prohibitions. The most widespread of these phenomena came to be known as álagablettir (patches of land that are off limits usually because they are the property of the huldufólk, or elves) and bannblettir (patches of land that are not to be mown for the same reason), phenomena also known in the Irish traditions under the name of geis (pl. geasa).32 Árni Óla published a district-by-district collection of these traditions in 1968, and even though most of the stories are relatively recent, there is no reason to doubt this is a custom of considerable antiquity.33 Iceland’s geographical location on the 65th parallel north and the resulting climatic conditions have meant that the balance between Civilization and the Wilderness has been maintained for over a millennium.34 During warming periods enterprising individuals have ventured forth to establish farmsteads on the heaths and other marginal lands,35 but when the weather cycle turned cold again, the inhabitants of these farms, animals and humans, starved to death if they were unable to return to the valleys and coastal areas.36

Trouble in Forsæludalur As recounted in Grettis saga, Þórhallur Grímsson lived at Þórhallsstaðir in Forsæludalur on the west bank of the Vatnsdalsá River.37 The farmstead was probably established by his grandfather Þórhallur Friðmundarson, whose father Friðmundur was considered a landnámsmaður (first settler) who established a farmstead called Forsæludalur, the southernmost settlement in Vatnsdalur.38 Þórhallur Grímsson is said to have been a very wealthy man, “mest at kvikfé” (mostly in terms of livestock),39 and that no one is said to own as much gangandi fé (i.e., sheep) as he does. He is not a höfðingi (chieftain), but a skilríkur bóndi (respectable farmer).40 The narrative continues: “Þar var reimt mjög.”41 Like the compiler of Beowulf, the compiler of Grettis saga is an expert in avoiding giving necessary information, yet free with details that are peripheral to the narrative.42

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Where is exactly is the þar (there) where this haunting takes place? It is certainly not at the farmstead on the banks of Vatnsdalsá. And why is it that wherever this place is, it is haunted? A haunting is almost always the result of some prior event, yet the saga compiler has nothing to say about what might have happened.43 But there is a clue. The mention of the haunting comes almost immediately after the mention of Þórhallur’s many sheep.44 There is a slip of paper in the manuscript of the Jarðabók (Registry of Farms), compiled by Árni Magnússon and Páll Vídalín between 1702–12, that refers to what is called Þórhallastaðir. There it states that this farmstead has been uninhabited for 200 years or more, and that it would be hopeless to resettle it as the home hayfield and nearby meadows have been ruined by rockslides—and one might add by erosion caused by the river.45 But even in the Early Middle Ages there would only have been limited grassland available close to the homestead, and one can make a case that this was reserved for Þórhallur’s dairy cattle.46 The hauntings are to be taken seriously, as they prevent Þórhallur not just from getting a shepherd, but from getting one “svá að honum þœtti duga” (such as it seemed to him to be sufficient),47 although the saga is silent on exactly what Þórhallur expected from a shepherd beyond taking care of the sheep and being unfazed by the haunting. When Þórhallur asks for advice from the wise and learned, no one is able to give him advice “er dygði” (which would be sufficient).48 Sufficient for what? Again the saga text is silent on exactly what kind of advice Þórhallur is looking for. On one occasion at the Þing he goes to the law-speaker Skafti Þóroddsson for advice. Skafti is in no doubt about where the roots of the problem lie, attributing Þórhallur’s difficulties to a meinvættir, a nonhuman human being (and I would argue that this is something Þórhallur is well aware of).49 Skafti mentions that he has just the fellow for dealing with creatures like that—one of his own shepherds, large and strong, but not likely to be popular. Like Beowulf, he is from Sweden.50 And like Beowulf and Grettir, he stands head and shoulders above other people and has (as will be revealed) a talent for dealing with issues affecting the border regions between Civilization and the Wilderness.51 Þórhallur is looking for his horses when Glámur the shepherd comes to meet him. Þórhallur offers him the job, and when Glámur asks if there are any problems associated with it, Þórhallur replies: “Reimt þykkur þar vera” (it seems to be haunted there).52 Glámur’s reply is: “Ekki hræðumk ek flykur53 þær . . . ok þykkir mér at ódaufligra.”54 The two agree on terms of employment and after Glámur departs, Þórhallur finds his horses in the very place he had already looked.55 Glámur comes at the appointed time and is exactly as Skafti described him, an excellent shepherd, but not someone with developed social graces, nor any respect or interest in Christianity. Now we can turn to the question of where Þórhallur kept his many sheep, if they were not close to Þóhallsstaðir?

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A large number of sheep would not be an issue during the summer as many hundred sheep could range on Grímstunguheiði. The problem would be finding enough grass to provide hay for such large numbers over the winter. I have

Figure 1: Forsæludalur looking north. The farm Forsæludalur is in the middle foreground to the right of the river where it curves around a westward pointing tongue of land— the beitarhús, Kvisthagi, is on the opposite bank. In the middle distance, the river curves around a second westward pointing tongue of land. The farm, Sunnuhlíð, is on the right and the ruins of Þórhallsstaðir on the opposite bank. In the foreground to the right, Friðmundará enters Vatnsdalsá. Dalfoss appears as a white line in Vatnsdalsá. Photograph (2016) by Mats Wibe Lund. Used with permission.

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Figure 2: Vatnsdalsá looking south. Dalfoss in the middle foreground. On the left, Friðmundará enters Vatnsdalsá which then bends to the right revealing Skessufoss with its pool clearly visible. Grímstunguheiði is to the right of the river. In the distance on the horizon is Eiríksjökull. Photograph (2016) by Mats Wibe Lund. Used with permission.

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already ruled out the home field at Þórhallsstaðir, as the hay that it produced would be used for the dairy cattle. The possibility of further grassland to the north would be prevented by the boundary with the next homestead Grímstunga, while the availability of outlying meadows to the south along the river would be limited because of the narrow gorge (Vatnsdalsárgil) out of which Vatnsdalsá emerges. However, there is a large grassy area to the south higher up and opposite the farm Forsæludalur.56 There was tenant farming here in the mid-eighteenth century under the name Litladalur,57 and this would have been a prime site for Þórhallur to build a beitarhús or outlying sheep-shed and hay-barn as his flocks increased.58 Such a sheep-shed was probably little different from those built in the north of the country well into the twentieth century. The walls would have been of turf with a garður or jata (manger) down the middle. The hay was stored in a walled structure (tóft) attached to the rear of the sheep-shed but accessible from the inside, within which the hay would be stored.59 As the building was very cramped, the shepherd would have to let the animals out before attending to filling the manger, and it was also the custom to let the animals forage for a time.60 When Þóhallur needed to add to winter housing and increase his hay gathering, he would have moved further south beyond Litladalur along the high ridge above Vatnsdalsárgil where there are grassy meadows along the southern edge of the deep ravine in which Vatnsdalsá flows—the ravine is so deep and precipitous that the river often disappears from sight from the heights above. In this area, Þórhallur may have built one or more buildings to accommodate his large flock. There is no indication of how far south he might have gone, but it is possible that he went even past the place where Vatnsdalsá bends to the west, after having been joined by the Friðmundará River flowing into it from the east, to where there is a waterfall; although it cannot be seen from the south bank of the river, it is one of five that bring Vatnsdalsá down from Grímstunguheiði to the valley floor below.61 Although it is the smallest of the five waterfalls, it flows through a ker (deep pool). It was thought in the early centuries of settlement that such pools were the natural home of female trolls, or skessur. There are numerous examples of this throughout Iceland—including in Víðidalur, the valley to the west of Vatnsdalur. There the Víðidalsá River exits a narrow ravine with a twostep waterfall that marks the southernmost limit of the salmon run in that river. The large pool at the base of the falls was supposed to be the home of a skessa called Kola who lived there enjoying the salmon.62 Kola seems to have been fairly benign, and the waterfall, the ravine, and other landmarks are named after her as well as the nearby farm, Kolugil. Therefore it is not surprising that such a creature should have been associated with the waterfall hidden deep in the ravine through which the Vatnsdalsá flows. However, this creature is not given a name, only

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being referred to as a meinvættur; in fact, the sole description offered is one that refers to the size of the creature’s footprints. But local tradition has not been so reticent. The hidden waterfall has been identified as the creature’s home and named appropriately Skessufoss, although it is impossible to tell whether this tradition is recent or not.63 This creature must have imposed a bannhelgi or geis on the patch of grass high above its home in the ravine below, and certainly a ban against mowing the land and possibly too about placing any structures on or near this area.64 This must be the spot meant by the “þar” in “þar var reimt mjök” (it was severely haunted there). Furthermore, there must have been a sheep-shed in the vicinity, otherwise Glámur would not have had to go so far south along the river. This is the place where he wrestles the meinvættur in a struggle that will lead to their mutual destruction. Local tradition also identifies a mound called Glámsþúfa at this spot as the place where Glámur was buried.65 And this is the same place where a year later Glámur kills his replacement, Þorgautur. I believe all this happens because Þórhallur has “violated a Contract with the Otherworld” and encroached into the Wilderness without the prior permission of those already living there. The wise and learned are not able to give him advice “er dygði” (which would be sufficient [to deal with the problem]), because the only advice that would be effective would be for Þórhallur to withdraw from this area—and that, apparently, he is not prepared to do. Matters come to a head at Christmas time. As Árni Björnsson notes: “Í engan annan tíma ársins er á ferðum slíkar grúi af tröllum, forynjum, draugum, afturgöngum og öðru illþýði sem a jólum.”66 For Glámur, Christmas is like any other day of the year, as it is for the animals he takes care of. He bullies Þórhallur’s wife into feeding him, even though she protests that it is a day of fasting. Glámur has other concerns. This time of the year is particularly busy for him as it is fengitími, the time the rams are put to the ewes,67 and Glámur would have had his hands full regulating these activities as well as feeding the sheep in presumably more than one sheep-shed. At Þórhallsstaðir, people can hear him calling out to the sheep in the earlier part of the day when he is, say, at the sheep-shed at Litladalur, but less so as the day progresses as he has presumably moved further south. That night there is a bad storm, and Glámur does not return as expected. The next day when a search is made, sheep are found scattered about, and while the description here is somewhat vague, it seems clear that they are in the vicinity of the meadow up from the waterfall, not in the area across the river from Forsæludalur. Glámur lies there dead, and the best they can do is drag him to the edge of the ravine. Like Beowulf in his fight against the dragon, Glámur faces his adversary on its own turf, and like Beowulf he is able to vanquish his opponent, but only at the cost of his own life. Whereas

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the creature had previously frightened away Þórhallur’s shepherds without causing any fatalities, this time a fully fledged attack takes place because Glámur puts up aesistance. The meinvættur is mortally wounded and is never detected again. Glámur is killed, but as they say in vampire and zombie narratives, he is “infected” by his encounter with this nonhuman human being, so that he is reanimated to carry on the hostilities that existed between the meinvættur and Þórhallur, becoming an afturganga, a revenant or orc-neas.68 While not technically a draugur, he is a prototype for various species of draugar that are found in the folktale collections in which he is a kind of uppvakningur or sendingur—that is to say, he has been animated and directed with hostile intent against a particular household.69 Grettis saga seems to suggest that Glámur attacks the entire district, but while he may terrify the whole of Forsæludalur, he attacks primarily Þórhallur’s family and household. After they flee further down the valley, Glámur will eventually drive all the other inhabitants out of Forsæludalur, returning it in effect to the Wilderness.70 Yet he does not seem to be able to go beyond the end (Tunga) of Tungumúli,71 the ridge or mull which separates Forsæludalur from Hóllkotsdalur to the east. This suggests that Forsæludalur was originally part of the meinvættur’s territory (and would be another argument for the creature’s home waterfall having been Dalfoss rather than Skessufoss), and that Þórhallur’s violation of the bannhelgi also means the cancellation of all the other agreements that allowed human human beings to establish their presence in the valley. But this, too, is in a sense a violation of the balance that exists between the Wilderness and Civilization because such a ban on settlement is unsustainable. Glámur’s effectiveness as the guardian of the valley is geared to the seasons; he is strong in the winter and weakest in the long daylight hours of summer.72 Þórhallur puts up with Glámur’s depredations during the rest of the winter, and enough of his sheep must have survived after the death of Glámur for him to consider hiring a new shepherd the following summer. A ship arrives at Húnavatn at midsummer73 and on board is a man, foreign in origin, and of enormous size and strength. He is looking for work, and the word seems to have spread through the surrounding districts, because Þórhallur rides down to the coast to check matters out. After meeting this man called Þorgautur, he offers him the job as shepherd. Their conversation is similar to that between Þórhallur and Glámur twelve months earlier. This time Þórhallur says: “Svá skaltu við búask . . . sem þar sé ekki veslingsmönnum hent að vera fyrir apturgöngum þeim, er þar hafa verit um hríð, en ek vil ekki þik á tálar draga.”74 Again there is here the marked lack of specificity. The word “revenant” is used in the plural—does Þórhallur imply by this that both the meinvættur and Glámur are responsible for the problems, which is in a sense exactly what is going on? And the place where

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all of this takes place is referred to twice by no more than “þar.” In his response, Þorgautur echoes the reply Glámur gave at his hiring: “Eigi þykkjumk ek upp gefinn, þó að ek sjá smáváfur; mun þat eigi öðrum dælt, ef ek hræðumk, ok ekki bregð ek vist minni fyrir þat.”75 In contrast to Glámur, Þorgautur is popular at Þórhallsstaðir. On Christmas Eve he goes out to attend to the sheep. There is no mention of food or fasting, just an expression of concern on the part of the housewife and a jocular riposte on the part of Þorgautur. He may sneer at Glámur, but like Grettir he will discover that there was “meiri ófagnaðarkraptr með Glámi en flestum öðrum aptrgöngumönnum.”76 When Þorgautur does not come home at the expected time, people go to mass. Afterwards Þórhallur wants people to go out to search for Þorgautur as it is apparently a fine night, but they refuse, and Þórhallur himself “treystisk . . . eigi at fara” (did not dare to go), which was probably quite sensible on his part.77 The next day Þorgautur is found dead lying on Glámur’s mound on the edge of the ravine. He is buried in the churchyard at Þórhallsstaðir,78 and that is the end of his story. Glámur kills Þorgautur for violating the bannhelgi, but he has no reason (nor the autonomous will) to turn him into an afturganga. His quarrel is with Þórhallur and his household alone.79 This he expresses soon afterwards by killing the cowherd at Þórhallsstaðir and making life there so difficult that Þórhallur and his family move north up the valley to safety. It is at this point that Glámur drives the remaining inhabitants out of Forsæludalur. But that summer Þórhallur stubbornly returns to his farm. However, in the autumn as the nights lengthen Glámur returns to harass him, singling out this time his daughter, who dies from the persecution.80 Þórhallur has no hope of hiring a shepherd that winter, but as the winter nights approach, signaling the end of summer and marking the traditional time, in the saga at least, when a new shepherd would have arrived to take up his post, Grettir Ásmundarson rides from Bjarg, first to Víðidalur, and then to Tunga, his uncle’s farm situated at the entrance to Forsæludalur.81

Conclusion This in effect concludes what one might call the Icelandic part of this narrative—that is to say, the part of the narrative that grew out of an interaction between the landscape and events. In being so specific to a particular location, there are few stories in the older literature quite like it. Studies in the past that have concentrated on the conflict between Glámur and Grettir have usually failed

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to emphasize sufficiently that the quarrel is actually between Þórhallur and the meinvættur, a quarrel into which Glámur is inserted and which he prolongs until his own death.82 At that point the whole matter becomes moot. Presumably, Þórhallur repaired his homestead, hired a new shepherd, and continued to overwinter his flocks in one or more beitarhús south of Þórhallstaðir, this time without incident, and therefore of no interest to the story teller or anybody else. When Grettir enters the picture the narration ceases to rely on homegrown narratives but returns to its adaptation of international motifs, stories which have parallels elsewhere, such as in Beowulf.83 Grettir’s encounter with the trolls at Sandhaugar in Ljósavatnshreppur in Bárðardalur, while it has similarities to the events in Forsæludalur, does not match the surroundings properly—that is, the story does not grow out of the landscape but is imposed upon it. The waterfall, if it is Goðafoss, is too far away, and there does not seem to be any waterfall of suitable size on the Eyjardalsá river that runs in the hills behind Sandhaugar.84 The meinvættur in Forsæludalur is a memory of the landvættir and the tensions that must have been felt as human human beings began to settle this previously unknown land. The composition of Grettis saga is usually assigned to a date in the fourteenth century because it is argued that the “historical” foundations of the narrative have been “contaminated” by extraneous and fantastic material. Vésteinn Ólason in his section on the Íslendingasögur in the standard history of Icelandic literature classifies Grettis saga with the “younger” family sagas: “Annar svipur85 er yfir þessum sögum en þeim fornlegu.”86 That may very well be. But it needs to be remembered that the saga writer has not entirely abandoned the fiction that he is writing history, and in doing so he has not forgotten the landvættir such as Hallmundur,87 Þórir from Þórisdalur,88 and the meinvættur in Forsæludalur, who once guarded their realms assiduously, but who were also accommodating to the strangers who arrived in their midst from out of the ocean.

Notes 1 This essay is dedicated to the memory of Sigurður Sigurmundsson (1915–99) and Elín Kristjánsdóttir (1917–2002) from Hvítárholt, Hrunamannahreppur, and Lárus Björnsson (1889–1987) from Grímstunga, Áshreppur, Vatnsdalur, who taught me to appreciate the rhythms of Icelandic rural life and who revealed that there are narratives embedded in landscapes. 2 Other scholars who have raised the issue of landscape in particular with regard to the Íslendingsögur and Fornaldarsögur include Torfi H. Tulinius, “Landafræði og flokkun fornsagna,” Skáldskaparmál 1 (1990): 142–56; Ian Wyatt, “Narrative Functions of Landscape in the Old Icelandic Family Sagas: Settlement in the Viking Period,” in Land, Sea and Home: Settlement in

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the Viking Period, ed. John Hines, Alan Lane, and Mark Redknap, Society for Medieval Archaeology Monograph 20 (Leeds: Maney, 2004), 273–82. Helen F. Leslie, “Border Crossings: Landscape and the Other World in the Fornaldarsögur,” Scripta Islandica 60 (1990): 119–35 regards the supernatural and the encounters with supernatural creatures as intrusions into the “real world.” Here I am arguing that they are part of it. For an introduction to the use of landscape in Grettis saga, see Eleanor Barraclough, “Inside Outlawry in Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar and Gísla saga Súrssonar: Landscape in the Outlaw Sagas,” Scandinavian Studies 82 (2010): 365–88; Helen Damico, “Dystopic Conditions of the Mind: Toward a Study of Landscape in Grettissaga,” In Geardagum: Essays on Old English Language and Literature 7 (1986): 1–15. 3 In his bestselling volume Bruce Chatwin, The Songlines (New York: Viking Penguin, 1987) introduced this “maban (indigenous) reality” to an international audience, but Krim Benterrak, Stephen Muecke, and Paddy Roe, Reading the Country: Introduction to Nomadology, Revised ed. (1984; Freemantle: Freemantle Arts Centre Press, 1996) had already shown how local people around Broome, Western Australia “read” the countryside. See also Stephen Muecke, Textual Spaces: Aboriginality and Cultural Studies (Kensington: New South Wales University Press, 1992). In 1992, in the case of Mabo v. Queensland the High Court of Australia stripped the concept of terra nullius of its legal standing, thereby empowering indigenous communities still occupying their land to claim title to it. See Henry Reynolds, The Law of the Land, 3rd ed. (Camberwell: Penguin Australia, 2003). Note that the term “nomadology” was used in a different sense by Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, “Nomadology: The War Machine,” trans. Brian Massumi (New York: Semiotext(e), 1986); Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987), chap. 12. The Australian-born feminist philosopher Rosi Braidotti, who quotes from Chatwin’s Songlines, combines both senses in her project, Rosi Braidotti, Nomad Subjects: Embodiment and Sexual Difference in Contemporary Feminist Theory, 2nd ed. (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011). 4 For an essay addressing the understanding of Grettis saga through time, see: Kirsten Hastrup, “Tracing Tradition — An Anthropological Perspectives on Grettis saga Ásmundarson,” in Structure and Meaning in Old Norse Literature: New Approaches to Textual Analysis and Literary Criticism, ed. John Lindow, Lars Lönnroth, and Gerd Wolfgang Weber, The Viking Collection 3 (Odense: Odense University Press, 1986), 291–313. 5 See Janice Moulton, “The Myth of the Neutral ‘Man’,” in Sexist Language: A Modern Philosophical Analysis, ed. Mary Vetterling-Braggin (Totowa, NJ: Littlefield, Adams, and Co., 1981), 100–15. If man is gender-neutral then statements such as, “man has two sexes./Some men are female” (Moulton, “The Myth of the Neutral ‘Man’,” 111) should be possible. 6 “What is the moon called, that which human beings see in each world.” 7 Klaus von See et al., Götterlieder: Vǫlundarkvið, Alvíssmál, Baldrs draumar, Rígsþula, Hyndlolióð, Grottasǫngr, Kommentar zu den Liedern der Edda 3 (Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Winter, 2000), 332. “The word menn in both these question-stanzas—other than in the answerstanzas— refers therefore to all human-shaped beings (humans, gods, giants, elves dwarves).” 8 “Some [runes] have human human beings.” 9 Klaus von See et al., Heldenlieder: Frá dauða Sinfiǫtla, Grípisspá, Reginsmál, Fáfnismál, Sigrdrífumál, Kommentar zu den Liedern der Edda 5 (Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Winter, 2006), 589. “This expression is also attested to in Grímnismál 31, and serves to distinguish humankind from other human–shaped beings (gods, giants, elves, dwarves), which likewise are referred to as menn (humans).” This distinction is also found in Old English, for example, in the sermons of Aelfric of Eynsham (fl. ca. 955-ca. 1010). In his “Parable of the Vineyard”

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homily: “Dominica septuagesima,” Malcolm Godden, “Dominica septuagesima,” in Ælfric’s Catholic Homilies: The Second Series, Early English Text Society, S.S. 5 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979), 47, ln. 188–98, he says, “Swa micel werod menniscra manna sceal astigan þæt heofonlice rice, swa fela swa ðæra gecorena engla on heofonon belifon æfter ðæra modigra gasta hryre” (“so great a troop of human human beings shall ascend to the heavenly kingdom, as so many remain of the chosen angels after the fall of the proud spirits”). This passage is taken from Gregory the Great’s Gospel Homily 34, which reads “ad quam tantum credimus humanum genus ascendere, quantos illic contigit electos angelos remansisse” (See Malcolm Godden, Ælfric’s Catholic Homilies: Introduction, Commentary and Glossary, Early English Text Society, S.S. 18 [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000], 386). David Hurst translates this as, “We believe that as many of the human race ascend to there, as there were chosen angels who happened to remain there” (see Gregory the Great, Forty Gospel Homilies, trans. David Hurst, Cistercian Series 123 [Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 1990], 289). However, when Aelfric draws upon the same passage from Gregory in his homily, “Dominica III post Pentacosten,” Peter Clemoes, “Dominica III post Pentacosten,” in Ælfric’s Catholic Homilies: The First Series, Early English Text Society, S.S. 17 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 374, ln. 103–4, he translates thus: “of mancynne swa micel getel astige” (“of humankind so great a number will ascend”), which is closer to the Icelandic and Norwegian adaptation of this homily, which reads, “En því er trúandi, að jafnmikill fjöldi mannkyns skal koma til himins dýrðar sem þar eru englar Guðs fyrir” (“And for this reason it is believed that an equally large number of humankind shall come to the glory of heaven as there are angels of God at first”) (see Sigurbjörn Einarsson, Guðrún Kvaran, and Gunnlaugur Ingólfsson, eds., Íslensk hómilíubók: Fornar stólræður [Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1993], 133; Britta Olrik Frederiksen, “Til engleafsnittet i Gregors 34. evangeliehomilie i norrøn oversættelse,” Opuscula 7 [1979]: 85–86). 10 Vættur/véttur is cognate with Old English wiht (Ásgeir Blöndal Magnússon, ed., Íslensk orðsifjabók, 3rd ed. [Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1995], 1138, 1157), a word best translated as “creature” as it often glosses Latin animalia. But it can also apply to human beings. It is used twice in Beowulf, first at line 120 where Grendel is called a “wiht inhælo” (a misfortunate/evil creature) and again at line 3038 where Beowulf’s men see from afar a “syllicran wiht” (a more strange creature), that is, the dragon (see Robert Dennis Fulk et al., eds., Klaeber’s Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburg, 4th ed., Toronto Old English Studies 21 [Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008], 7, 103). All diacritics have been omitted. For an alphabetical list of vættir, see Árni Björnsson, Íslenskt vættatal (Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1990) and for their geographical dispersion throughoutIceland district by district, Alda Snæbjörnsdóttir, Tröllaspor: Íslenskar tröllasögur, 2 vols. (Reykjavík: Skrudda, 2010–2011). For the convenience of modern travelers, the volumes Jón R. Hjálmarsson, Skessur, skrímsli og furðudýr við Þjóðveginn (Reykjavík: Almenna bókafélagið, 2004) and Jón R. Hjálmarsson, Draugasögur við Þjóðveginn (Reykjavík: Forlagið, 2015), point out the spots associated with various vættir close to the Ring Road (Highway 1). 11 Even though this saga only survives in a vellum manuscript from the fifteenth century, it was translated into Norse in the middle of the thirteenth century at the court of King Hákon IV Hákonarson (1204–83). 12 Eugen Kölbing, ed., Ívents saga, in Riddarasögur: Parcevals saga, Valvers þáttr, Ívents saga, Mírmans saga (Strassbourg: Trübner, 1872), 79, ln. 13–14. “Are you a human being or not, or a spirit or some other nonhuman human being?” He answers: “I am such a human being as you are able to observe.”

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13 “Churl who resembled a Moor.” Mario Roques, ed., Le Chevalier au lion (Yvain), Les Romans de Chrétien de Troyes 4 (Paris: Champion, 1965), 9, ln. 286; “ ‘Va, car me di / se tu es boene chose ou non.’ / Et il me dist qu’il ert uns hom / ‘Quiex hom ies tu?’—‘Tex con tu voix’ ” (“ ‘Come, tell me if you are a good thing or not.’ And he tells me that he is a human being. ‘What kind of human being are you?’—‘Such as you observe’ ”) (Roques, Le Chevalier au lion (Yvain), 11, ln. 326–29). 14 Guðni Jónsson, ed., Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, Íslenzk fornrit 7 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936), 109. “Some harmful creature must lie there when people are more reluctant to take care of your sheep than those of other people.” The same term is used twice later on in the same chapter to refer to the creature apparently killed by Glámur (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 112). Meinvættur must mean some unspecified nonhuman human being that causes harm. 15 This seems a more generic term than meinvættur, although both terms are used in Guðni Jónsson, ed., “Hallmundarkviða,” in Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 204, st. 55.5, 56.2, where they appear to be used as synonyms for beings who cause harm. Óvættur is an exact cognate with early Middle English unwiht. While this is frequently used in religious writing to indicate a demon or the Devil, in the early thirteenth-century poem The Owl and the Nightingale, it is used by the nightingale three times as a term of abuse for the owl and translated variously by Neil Cartlidge as “mutant” (line 33), “unnatural creature” (line 90), “perverse creatures” (line 218). See Neil Cartlidge, ed. and trans., The Owl and the Nightingale (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 2001), 2, 4, 7. 16 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 117. “It is also much better to take on human human-beings than such evil nonhuman human beings.” While in modern Icelandic works (and in my essay, Shaun F. D. Hughes, “The Evolution of Monster Fights: From Beowulf versus Grendel to Jón Guðmundsson lærði versus the Snæafjalladraugur and Beyond,” in Telling Tales and Crafting Books: Essays in Honor of Thomas H. Ohlgren, ed. Alexander L. Kaufman, Shaun F.D. Hughes, and Dorsey Armstrong, Studies in Medieval and Early Modern Culture 24 (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, 2016), 49–91), Glámur is usually referred to as a draugur, Ármann Jakobsson rightly points out that nowhere in the saga is he so referred to in this way (Ármann Jakobsson, “Vampires and Watchmen: Categorizing the Mediaeval Icelandic Undead,” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 110, no. 3 [2011]: 284). After reviewing the medieval evidence in the section “The Old Norse Term Draugr” (Ármann Jakobsson, “Vampires and Watchmen,” 283–85), Ármann comes to the conclusion that “the meaning of this word in mediaeval Icelandic is far from straightforward” (Ármann Jakobsson, “Vampires and Watchmen,” 285), and his conclusions are summarized under nine headings in Ármann Jakobsson, “Vampires and Watchmen,” 299–300. With reference to the comment on 281 that Jón Árnason did not write the foreword to his Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og æfintýri, 2 vols. (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrich, 1862–1864), this was because Jón’s Formáli did not arrive in Leipzig in time to be printed. It was subsequently published as a viðbætir (supplement) to the reprint edition, Jón Árnason, Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og ævintýri, 2nd ed., 2 vols. (Reykjavík: Sögufélag, 1925–1939), vol. 2, pp. 709–19. While Jón has a few comments on his deviations from the classification system used by Konrad Maurer (Jón Árnason, Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og ævintýri, vol. 2, pp. 716–17), nowhere does he discuss the second category draugasögur, which is Ármann’s focus. 17 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 248; “phooey on the sorceress.” Here vættur, like the Middle English unwiht in The Owl and the Nightingale, is being used as a term of abuse. 18 At one time gørninga vættur may have been no more than a descriptive kenning (a creature of sorceries, i.e., one who practices sorcery) as in the synonymous phrase vitta vættur used by

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the Norwegian poet Þjóðólfur úr Hvíni (fl. ca. 900). See Edith Marold, ed., “Ynglingatal,” in Poetry from the Kings’ Sagas: From Mythical Times to c. 1035, vol. 1, bk. 1, Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages 1 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2012), 12, st. 3.2. However, because the vættur is Drífa, the daughter of the Saami king Snjár inn gamli, she may count as a nonhuman human being from an Old Norse perspective. 19 At one point early in the poem, Grendel is characterized as a wonsæli wer (unfortunate man; wer = early loan from Latin vir) (Fulk et al., Klaeber’s Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburg, line 105a). 20 This is a negated form with i-mutation of tudor, which has a range of meanings including progeny of animals, plants, and (human) children. 21 The first part of this word is from Latin Orcus, God of the Underworld or personified death, while the second part neo is cognate with Old Norse nár (corpse) (Ásgeir Blöndal Magnússon, Íslensk orðsifjabók, 658). This is the only occurrence of the word in Old English, and no tales survive which give any clue to what kind of creature might be referred to here, but the meaning of personified corpse or revenant seems clear enough. 22 Fulk et al., Klaeber’s Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburg, lines 111–13a. “From him [Cain] arose all evil progeny, ettins and elves and walkers-after-death, likewise giants.” 23 Eleazar Meletinskij, “Scandinavian Mythology as a System, Pt. 1,” Journal of Symbolic Anthropology 1 (1973): 43–58; Eleazar Meletinskij, “Scandinavian Mythology as a System, Pt. 2,” Journal of Symbolic Anthropology 2 (1974): 57–78. 24 Kirsten Hastrup, Culture and History in Medieval Iceland (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985). 25 Hastrup, Culture and History in Medieval Iceland, 141. 26 Páll lögmaður Vídalín (1667–1727) defines garðs-bóndi in Norway in this way: “sá, sem í borgum eður kaupstöðum heldur stórt hús, heitir garðsbóndi, og garður heimili hans, en í hèraði heitir það stór jörð, eður höfuðból, . . . Hús heita í borginni það, sem hjá oss heita smærri jarðir” (“he who in cities or market towns possesses a large house is called a householder, and the garður is his home, but in the countryside that is the name for a large farm or manor. . . . In the city what are referred to as hús [houses] refer to the smaller farms among us [i.e., in Iceland]”) (Páll Vídalín, Skýringar yfir fornyrði lögbókar þeirrar er Jónsbók kallast, ed. Þórður Sveinbjörnsson [Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1854], 207). Note that Grettir’s halfbrother Þorsteinn drómundur who lives in Túnsberg is called a garðsbóndi (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 82). 27 Hans Peter Duerr, Dreamtime: Concerning the Boundary between Wilderness and Civilization, trans. Felicitas Goodman (Oxford: Blackwell, 1985), first published as Hans Peter Duerr, Traumzeit: Über die Grenze zwischen Wildnis und Zivilisation (Frankfurt am Main: Syndikat Autoren- und Verlagsgesellschaft, 1978). See further Hughes, “The Evolution of Monster Fights: From Beowulf versus Grendel to Jón Guðmundsson lærði versus the Snæafjalladraugur and Beyond,” 69–72. This pairing goes under various names as Meletinskij points out: “The opposition of Midgard-Utgard is undoubtedly the realization of the elementary semantic opposition of the ‘familiar’ and the ‘foreign, and in a less obvious form of the systematized and the unsystematized (in ca. Lévi-Strauss’s terminology—‘culture’ and ‘nature’), city and desert (analogically ‘house’—‘forest’), the centre and the periphery, the nearby and the distant’ ” (Meletinskij, “Scandinavian Mythology as a System, Pt. 1,” 46–47). 28 J. R. R. Tolkien and E. V. Gordon, eds., Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, 2nd ed., ed. Norman Davis (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1967), lines 701, 715–23. Another advantage of the opposition “Civilization—Wilderness” is that it continues to be a useful concept for understanding European colonial expansion, as part of the rationale put forward by David Livingston (1813–73)

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for European intervention in Africa under the guise of the “3 Cs”: Commerce, Christianity and Civilization. See Thomas Pakenham, The Scramble for Africa, 1876–1912 (New York: Random House, 1991), xxii; Urs Bitterli, Die ‘Wilden’ und die ‘Zivilisierten’: Grundzüge einer Geistes- und Kulturgeschichte der europäisch-überseeischen Begegnung, 3rd ed. (Munich: Beck, 2004). 29 In the folklore tradition, communication on these matters usually takes place through dreams. 30 Valdimar Tryggvi Hafstein, “Hjólaskóflur og huldufólk: Íslensk sjálfsmynd og álfaheims samtímans,” in Þjóðerni í þúsand ár?, ed. Jón Yngvi Jóhannsson, Kolbeinn Óttarsson Proppé, and Sverrir Jakobsson (Reykjavík: Háskóla-útgáfan, 2003), revised version of, “The Elves’ Point of View: Cultural Identity in Contemporary Iceland,” Fabula 41 (2000): 87–104. 31 Dag Strömbäck, “Att helga land: Studier i Landnáma och det äldsta rituella besittningstagandet,” in Folklore och filologi: Valda uppsatser, Acta Academiae Regiae Gustavi Adolphi 48 (Stockholm: Lindquist, 1970), 133–65, first published in Efraim Liljeqvist, ed., “Att helga land: Studier i Landnáma och det äldsta rituella besittningstagandet,” in Festskrift tillägnad Axel Hägerström den 6 september 1928 (Almqvist & Wiksell: Uppsala, 1928), 198–220; Ólafur Briem, “Landvættir,” in Heiðinn síður á Íslandi (Reykjavík: Bókaútgáfa menningarsjóðs, 1945), 71–90; Kristján Bersi Ólafsson, “Landvættir og álfar,” Andvari 4 (1962): 260–71. 32 Patrick S. Dineen, ed., Foclóir Gaedhilge agus Béarla: An Irish English Dictionary, Revised edition (1934; Dublin: Educational Company of Ireland for the Irish Texts Society, 1975), 530, translates geis as “a solemn injunction, esp[ecially] of a magical kind, the infringement of which led to misfortune or even death,” and Ralph O’Connor, The Destruction of Da Derga’s Hostel: Kinship and Narrative Artistry in a Medieval Irish Saga (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 72, calls the geis “a Contract with the Otherworld.” 33 Árni Óla, Álög og bannhelgi (Reykjavík: Setberg, 1968); and Terry Gunnell, “The Power in the Place: Icelandic Álagablettir Legends in a Comparative Context,” in Storied and Supernatural Places: Studies in Spatial and Social Dimensions of Folklore and Sagas, ed. Ülo Valk and David Sävborg, Studia Fennica Folkoristica 23 (Helsinki: Finnish Literature Society, 2018), 27–41. Ólafur Briem mentions the “Landdísarsteinar” found in numerous places in Ísafjarðarsýsla (actually the report comes from Mýrahreppur in Dýrafjörður), which were believed to be inhabited. The picking of plants or the mowing of grass was banned in their vicinity, children were forbidden to play around them, and in general one was expected to behave respectfully when in the area (Ólafur Briem, “Landvættir,” 85). This is closely based on the report sent to the Commissionen for oldsagers opbevaring in 1818 by Jón Sigurðsson (1759–1836), pastor at (Stóra) Garður in Mýrahreppur. See Sveinbjörn Rafnsson, ed., Frásagnir um fornaldarleifar, 1817–1823, 2 vols., Rit 24 (Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 1983), vol. 2, 418, no. 10. A century later, these numerous stones have been reduced to two, named after two women, Landdís and Þuríður, who froze to death on their way back to the farm from milking the cows. See Helgi Guðmundsson and Arngrímur Fr. Bjarnason, “Landdísar- og Þuríðar-steinar,” in Vestfirzkur sagnir, 3 vols. (Reykjavík: Guðmundur Gamalíelsson, 1933–1949), vol. 2, p. 387. The information here was collected in 1930 from Ívar Einarsson (b. 1840) from Kotnúpur in Dýrafjörður and others in Mýrarhreppur. 34 Even today, when housing projects and industry have built on the lava fields and other Wilderness areas of the southwest, whole districts such as Snæfjalla-, Grunnavíkur- and Slettuhreppar in Ísafjarðarsýla (which had a combined population of 663 in 1842 spread over fifty-four farms) no longer have any permanent human occupation. See Jón Johnsen, Jarðatal á Íslandi, með brauðalýsíngum, fólkstölu i hreppum og prestaköllum, ágripi úr búnaðar-töflum 1835–1845, og skýrslum um sölu þjóðjarða á landinu (Copenhagen: S. Trier, 1847), 202–6. The same is true of marginal regions such as Laxárdalur in Húnavatnssýsla.

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35 The most spectacular example of this is probably Björn Eysteinsson (1848–1939), who in a time of bad weather and economic hardship believed he would be better off on the high heath rather than in the valley and established a farm near the headwaters of the Vatnsdalsá River, twenty kilometers from the nearest farm. He and his family lived there from 1886 to 1891, during which time they prospered. See Björn Þorsteinsson, ed., Sjálfsævisaga Björns Eysteinssonar (Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1980), 74–90. 36 Trausti Jónsson, Veður á Íslandi í 100 ár (Reykjavík: Ísafold, 1993) gives a month-by-month analysis of the weather in Iceland 1893–1993, although it begins too late to show the effects of the cold spell which began with the winter of 1880–81. See the section “Veðurlag á Íslandi síðustu 170 ár,” Trausti Jónsson, Veður á Íslandi í 100 ár, 219–23 and chart no. 6 on 219 showing the range of temperatures at Stykkishólmur, 1822–1991. Hannes Finnsson, Mannfækkun af hallærum, ed. Jón Eyþórsson and Sigurður Nordal (Reykjavík: Almenna bókafélag, 1970), in a work first published in 1796, surveys the cycles of famine and starvation from 1056–1791. The difference between these early periods and the cold spell 1880–1918 was that instead of starving to death, people on marginal holdings had the option of emigrating to North America. 37 Forsæludalur (Shadow Valley) is an offshoot from Vatnsdalur to the south. It is aptly named, as for fourteen weeks during the winter no sunshine reaches the farm Forsæludalur at the end of the valley, located high above and to the east of Vatnsdalsá. 38 Landnámabók calls Friðmundur landnámsmaður in Forsæludalur, one of the slaves of Ingimundur gamli, landnámsmaður in Vatnsdalur. Jakob Benediktsson, ed., Íslendingabók Landnámabók, 2 vols., Íslenzk fornrit 1 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1968), vol. 2, pp. 218–19. However, Vatnsdæla lists him as one of the followers of Ingimundur who accompanied him, and who brought with them great wealth. See Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Vatnsdæla saga, Íslenzk fornrit 8 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1939),37–38. 39 This could include cows, horses, and sheep. 40 The possibility of Þórhallur’s great-grandfather having been a slave may account for the less than favorable view people seem to have of him. When at the Þing Þórhallur goes to look for his horses instead of sending someone to do it for him, the saga compiler comments: “af því þykkjast menn vita, at hann var ekki mikilmenni” (from this people seemed to recognize that he was not a person of quality) (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 109). 41 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 108. “It was severely haunted there.” 42 For example, noting that Þórhallur has two ljósbleikur (light dun-colored) horses. Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 109. This tendency to omit important details is also noted by Torfi H. Tulinius, “Framliðnir feður: Um forneskju og frásagnarlist í Eyrbyggju, Eglu og Grettlu,” in Heiðin minni: Greinar um fornarbókmenntir, ed. Haraldur Bessason and Baldur Hafstað (Reykjavík: Heimskringla, 1999), 295–99. Torfi sees it as a way to increase narrative tension, but in this case it may also be self-censorship, an unwillingness to say too much about matters that Christianity would be uncomfortable with or hostile to. 43 “A ghost appears when he has some business; there is always a logical premise behind the haunting” (Ármann Jakobsson, “Vampires and Watchmen,” 288). 44 Árni Magnússon and Páll Vídalín, Jarðabók, 2nd ed., 13 vols. (Reykjavík: Sögufélag fyrir Hið íslenska fræðafélag í Kaupmannahöfn, 1980–1990), 8:285. 45 Árni Magnússon and Páll Vídalín, Jarðabók, 8:285. 46 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 115 reveals that Þórhallur has a herdsman and a cowshed close to the main farm. 47 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 108.

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48 I take it that the meaning here is that the problem is not the hiring of a shepherd, but getting rid of the haunting and its source, which in turn suggests that Þórhallur is well aware of what is going on, although the saga itself is silent on the details. 49 Skafti is silent on what may be the reason behind the meinvættur’s depredations. 50 Torfi H. Tulinius points out that coming from Sweden is in itself an ominous sign (Torfi H. Tulinius, “Framliðnir feður,” 294). 51 Why Glámur is in Skafti’s employ in the first place, and why he is almost eager for Þórhallur to take this shepherd off his hands, are matters the lawspeaker keeps to himself. See Hermann Pálsson, Grettis saga og íslensk siðmenning (Hof í Vatnsdal: Bókaútgáfan Hofi, 2002), 38. Hermann links the meinvættir in Forsæludalur with the afturganga Selkolla in Guðmundar saga biskups, but the two share nothing in common, neither in terms of their origins, their motivations, nor their behavior. See Shaun F. D. Hughes, “‘Who is Selkolla, What is She?’ Disentangling Traditions in the Sagas of Guðmundur Arason,” forthcoming, 52 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 110. Again the imprecise use of þar (there). 53 The word flyk is being used as a taunt, but, that being said, the word’s exact meaning is not clear. It seems to be related to words meaning “rag” or “snowflake”—that is, to something insubstantial. This is reflected in the translation I have chosen. See the discussion of flyka and flyksa in Ásgeir Blöndal Magnússon, Íslensk orðsifjabók, 196. 54 “I am not afraid of those will-o’-the-wisps . . . and it seems to me to make things less dull.” 55 “Fann Þórhallr hesta sínum, þar sem hann hafði nýleitat” (Þórhallur found his horses there where he had newly searched) (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 110). This suggests there is something uncanny about this meeting. In Hrafnkels saga, Einar Þorbjarnasson—on the back of Freyfaxi, the horse he was forbidden to ride— finds his missing sheep at the end of the day, after a long and fruitless search, in the very place he had first looked: “En er hann kemr ofan at Grjótteigi, heyrir hann sauðajarm fram með gilinu, þangat sem hann hafði riðit áðr” (But when he comes down to Grjótteigur [Rocky-Meadow], he hears the bleating of sheep along the ravine, there where he had ridden before) (Jón Jóhannesson, ed., “Hrafnkels saga Freysgoða,” in Austfirðinga sögur, Íslenzk fornrit 11 [Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1950], 103). See also Torfi H. Tulinius, “Framliðnir feður,” 294–95. 56 For a description of this region, see Jón Eyþórsson, Austur-Húnavatnssýsla, Ársbók 37 (Reykjavík: Ferðafélag Íslands, 1964), 161–63; Jón Torfason, Húnaþing eystra frá jöklum til ystu stranda, Ársbók 80 (Reykjavík: Ferðafélag Íslands, 2007), 45–53. 57 Jón Johnsen, Jarðatal á Íslandi, með brauðalýsíngum, fólkstölu i hreppum og prestaköllum, ágripi úr búnaðartöflum 1835–1845, og skýrslum um sölu þjóðjarða á landinu, 234 mentions that Skúli Magnússon’s unpublished Jarðabók of 1760–69 records Litladalur as being occupied, but this site is not recorded in the listing and description of farms in Árni Magnússon and Páll Vídalín, “Vatnsdalshreppur fremri,” in Jarðabók, 8:273–303, nor in the published census takings of 1703, 1801, 1816, and 1845. Like Forsæludalur on the other side of the river, the site would have suffered from a lack of reliable portable water: “Forsæludalur . . . Vatnsból ilt og erfitt af miklum skorti” (The well is poor and troublesome because of its great inadequacy) (Árni Magnússon and Páll Vídalín, Jarðabók, vol. 8, 287; see Sigurður J. Líndal and Stefán Á. Jónsson, eds., Húnaþing, 3 vols. [Blönduós: Búnaðarsamband Austur-Húnvetninga, 1975–1989], vol. 2, 340). In 1944 a large outlying sheep-shed, or beitarhús, for 350 sheep was built there along with adjacent hay-barns, and the name was changed to Kvisthagi (Sigurður J. Líndal and Stefán Á. Jónsson, Húnaþing, vol. 2, 348). The home field there is measured at twelve hectares. 58 On the beitarhús, see Jónas Jónsson frá Hrafnagili, Íslenzkir þjóðhættir, 3rd ed., ed. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson (Reykjavík: Ísafold, 1961), 100. See also the chapter by Guðmundur

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Þorsteinsson frá Lundi, “Fjárhúsgerð,” in Horfnir stafshættir frá liðnum öldum, 2nd ed. (Reykjavík: Örn og Örlygur, 1990), 148–56. On the characteristics of those sheep-sheds built in the north of the country, see Jónas Jónsson frá Hrafnagili, Íslenzkir þjóðhættir, 471–72. 59 When the tóft was full, it was then roofed over. See Jónas Jónsson frá Hrafnagili, Íslenzkir þjóðhættir, 86. 60 See Jónas Jónsson frá Hrafnagili, Íslenzkir þjóðhættir, 100. 61 From south to north, these are Skínandi, Kerafoss, Rjúkandi, Skessufoss, Dalfoss. 62 Árni Björnsson, Íslenskt vættatal, 86, and the stories collected in Alda Snæbjörnsdóttir, Tröllaspor, vol. 1, pp. 221–22. 63 However, it is equally plausible that the vættir was associated with Dalfoss, the large, handsome waterfall at the head of Forsæludalur that marks the limit of the salmon run on Vatnsdalsá (compare the story of Kola in Víðidalsá already mentioned). When asked what might have killed Glámur, the searchers report they “rakit hafa spor svá stór, sem keraldsbotni væri niðr skellt þaðan frá, sem traðkrinn var, ok upp undir björg þau, er þar váru ofarliga í dalnum” (had followed footprints as large as if the bottom of a barrel had been slammed down, from there where the trampling was and up under those cliffs which were there in the upper part in the valley) (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 112). I take the cliffs in the upper part of the valley to mean the triangular projection of the south bank of Vatnsdalságil at the point where the Friðmundará meets Vatnsdalsá. This appears to be the point where the creature descended to the riverbed below, and it is approximately equidistant from Dalfoss and Skessufoss. The “upp” is ambiguous. It may mean “up towards the heath”— i.e., south—which would mean that the bannhelgi was on one of the meadows west of Dalfoss. Or “upp” may mean in the direction of human settlement—i.e., north — which would mean the bannhelgi would have been on the land opposite Skessufoss. “Undir” suggests that the men were able to see the bloody footprints in the snow from the previous night’s storm on the narrow strip of land beside the river at the bottom of the cliffs. For the purposes of this essay I will adhere to the traditional interpretation and place the disputed land opposite Skessufoss, although I find the argument that the waterfall should be Dalfoss particularly persuasive, both in terms of geography and practicality. 64 John Revell Reinhard, The Survival of Geis in Medieval Romance (Halle am Saale: Max Niemeyer, 1933) has identified twenty-three different kinds of geasa in the Irish material (Reinhard, The Survival of Geis in Medieval Romance, 54–56), including the geis involving place (Reinhard, The Survival of Geis in Medieval Romance, 68–87). There are place names in Ireland such as Drumgesh (the ridge of the geis) and Tumgesh (the burial mound of the geis), but unfortunately no traditions are reported that would cast light on how these places came to be so named. Reinhard, The Survival of Geis in Medieval Romance, p. 74; Patrick W. Joyce, The Origin and History of Irish Names of Places, 3 vols. (1898–1913; Dublin: Éamonn de Búrca, 1995), vol. 3, pp. 323, 594. 65 In the map on the scale 1:100,000 prepared by the Danish Geodætisk Institut based on aerial photographs made in 1937–38, Glámsþúfa is identified at approximately 20°, 5’W and 65°, 17’N (see N. E. Nørlund, Islands kortlægning: En historisk fremstilling, Geodætisk Instituts Publicationer 7 [Copenhagen: Einar Munksgaard, 1944], map 44, “Grímstunga”). The same map marks a home field across the river from Forsæludalur, but it does not give it a name. In a map on the same scale published in 2005, Glámsþúfa is placed too far away from the edge of the ravine and from Skessufoss, and the beitarhús opposite Forsæludalur is identified as an abandoned farm named Kvisthagi (see Örn Sigurðsson, ed., Íslands atlas [Reykjavík: Edda, 2005], map 51).

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66 “At no other time of the year is on the prowl such a swarm of trolls, specters, ghosts, revenants, and other evil doers than at Christmas” (Árni Björnsson, Jól á Íslandi, Sögurit 31 [Reykjavík: Ísafold, 1963], 141). Terry Gunnell, “‘Komi þeir sem koma villja . . .’: Sagnir um innrás óvætta á jólum til forna á íslenska sveitabæi,” in Úr manna minnum: Greinar um íslenskar þjóðsögur, ed. Baldur Hafstad and Haraldur Bessason (Reykjavík: Heimskringla, 2002), 191–209 looks at a variety of these stories, particularly those in the folktale collections. See also Andreas Nordberg, Jul, disting och förkyrklig tideräkning: Kalendrar och kalendariska riter i det förkristna Norden, Acta Academiae Regiae Gustavi Adolphi 91 (Uppsala: Kungliga Gustav Adolfs Akademien, 2006). 67 Björn Halldórsson í Sauðlauksdal says: “Í 10. viku vetrar hleypa menn hrútum til ásauðar, nema men hafa nóg hey og vænti eftir góðu vori, þá viku fyrr” (people put the rams to the ewes the tenth week of winter [Christmas Week], unless they have enough hay and are expecting a good spring, then the week before) (Björn Halldórsson, Atli, in Rit Björns Halldórssonar, ed. Gísli Kristjánsson and Björn Sigfússon [1780; Reykjavík: Búnaðarfélag Íslands, 1983], 198). Guðmundur Einarsson notes: “Fengitíminn fer eptir því, hvernig ástætt er í hverri sveit venjulega með veðráttufar að vorinu. Fæstir munu hleypa fyrri til en 9. viku vetrasr, ok fæstir síðast en í 11 . . . Annars mun það víðast venja að hleypa til fyr of síðar í 10. víku vetrar eða síðast í desembermánuði og byrjar sauðburðurinn í miðum maímánuði” (Seasonal breeding varies according to what the situation is usually in each district with respect to weather conditions in the spring. It is least usual to put the ram to the ewes before the ninth week or after the eleventh week of winter . . . Otherwise it is generally the custom to put the rams to the ewes around the tenth week of winter or at the end of December, and lambing will begin in the middle of May) (Guðmundur Einarsson, Um sauðfjenað [Reykjavík: Ísafold, 1879], 12). “Hér á landi er hleypt til ánna á tiltölulega stuttu tímabili að vetrinum . . . Aður fyrr var jafnan farið með hrút í ærnar um jólaleytið” (In this country the ewes are bred during a relatively short period in the winter . . . In the past, the ram was always put to the ewes around Christmastime) (Ragnhildur Sigurðardóttir, ed., Sauðfjárrækt á Íslandi [Reykjavík: Uppheimar, 2013], 147–48). See also Jónas Jónsson frá Hrafnagili, Íslenzkir þjóðhættir, 101–2, 164–65. 68 The motif of a person killed by a revenant becoming themselves a revenant is also found in Eyrbyggja saga, where in chapter 34 it is said that all those killed by the revenant Þórólfur bægifótur from Hvammur in Þórsárdalur in Helgafellssveit were afterwards seen in his company (Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds., Eyrbyggja saga: Brands þáttr ǫrva, Eiríks saga rauða, Grœnlendinga saga, Grœlendinga þáttr, Íslenzk fornrit 4 [Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935], 94). See Ármann Jakobsson, “The Fearless Vampire Killers: A Note about the Icelandic Draugr and Demonic Contamination in Grettis saga,” in Nine Saga Studies: The Critical Interpretation of the Icelandic Sagas (Reykjavík: University of Iceland Press, 2013), 129, reprinted from Folklore 120, no. 3 (2009): 307–16. 69 Jón Árnason collects such stories under subsection 2 of his category “Draugasögur” (Stories of Ghosts) (Jón Árnason, Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og ævintýri, vol. 1, pp. 317–54). 70 William Sayers, “The Alien and the Alienated as Unquiet Dead in the Sagas of the Icelanders,” in Monster Theory: Reading Culture, ed. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), 242–63 considers the economic consequences of a haunting such as Glámur’s, which “constitute[s] a substantial net loss to the rural economy” as it does “not cause wealth to circulate in the community, but cut[s] it off at its source” (Sayers, “The Alien and the Alienated as Unquiet Dead in the Sagas of the Icelanders,” 259). 71 Grettir’s uncle Jökull Bárðarson had his farm, Jökulsstaðir, on the very end of Tungumúli. The site had been abandoned as a farm for centuries, but it was still used for a sheep-shed in the

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early eighteenth century. Árni Magnússon and Páll Vídalín, Jarðabók, vol. 8, 289; see also Sigurður J. Líndal and Stefán Á. Jónsson, Húnaþing, vol. 2, 336. 72 Ármann Jakobsson identifies one of the functions of the Icelandic ghost as that of “watchman” (Ármann Jakobsson, “Vampires and Watchmen,” 289). Here it is not treasure that is being watched over, but territorial privileges. 73 Vatnsdalsá flows into Húnavatn, which empties into Húnafjörður at Húnaós where the ship presumably landed. 74 “So you must be prepared for the fact . . . that it is no place there for a weakling on account of those revenants which have been there for a time, and I don’t wish to deceive you.” 75 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 113. “I wouldn’t consider myself out for the count even though I see a small specter; that will not be easy for others, if I am to be afraid, and I will not give up my job for that.” The term váfa (modern Icelandic vofa) refers to the specter or apparition of a dead person, although the váfa is considered relatively harmless compared to a draugur. See the stories “Vofan,” taken from a manuscript written by Sæbjörn Egilsson á Klyppstað (1837–94), and “Héðinsfjarðar-vofa” from a manuscript by Gísli Konráðsson (1787–1877) in Jón Árnason, Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og ævintýri, vol. 1, pp. 283–83, 289–90. Þorgautur’s use of the word suggests that he knows exactly what is going on and that it is a disparaging reference to Glámur. As such, it is in line with his being highly amused (allkátigligur) at Glámur’s riding the house at Þorhallsstaðir and his comment that Glámur would have to get a whole lot closer “ef ek hræðumk” (if I am to be afraid) using the very same wording he had employed earlier (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 113). 76 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 121. “More harmful power in Glámur than most other revenants.” But it is the meinvættur who possessed the real ófagnaðarkraptur by being able to animate Glámur’s corpse and to enlist him in her quarrel against Þórhallur. Glámur’s ófagnaðarkraptur at this point is the fact he can speak. 77 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 115. 78 This is what the saga implies, but there is no record of there ever having been a church at Þórhallsstaðir. 79 Although the encounter between Glámur and Grettir lies outside the scope of this essay, the malevolent consequences of their encounter are perhaps other than they seem. In her essay, “The Monster in Me: Social Corruption and the Perception of Monstrosity in the Sagas of Icelanders,” Quaestio Insularis 15 (2014): 22–37, Rebecca Merkelbach argues that Grettir is “infected with monstrosity” by Glámur (Merkelbach, “The Monster in Me,” 30, see also 25). If this is the case, I would argue that this “infection” is of another order than what happens to Glámur after his encounter with the meinvættur or to those attacked by the revenant Þórólfur bægifótur (see footnote 68 above). Outlawry and misfortune are not in and of themselves indicators of monstrosity, and the matter is further muddied by Merkelbach’s failure to define her concept of “social monster” (Merkelbach, “The Monster in Me,” 36). This oversight is rectified in her essay, Rebecca Merkelbach, “Volkes Stimme: Interaktion als Dialog in der Konstruktion sozialer Monstrosität in den Isländersagas,” in Stimme und Performanz in der mittelalterlichen Literatur, ed. Monika Unzeitig, Nine Miedema, and Angela Schrott (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2017), 257–60. However, given her definition, which is very usefully and cogently argued, I would argue that Grettir was a social monster before his encounter with Glámur, and that he did not need Glámur to “infect” (anstecken) him with monstrosity by means of his voice (Merkelbach, “Volkes Stimme,” 262). 80 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 116. In Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, Eyrbyggja saga, 93–95, Þórólfur bægifótur dies in a pique after losing an argument over Krákunesskógur, first with Snorri goði and then with his son Arnkell. Despite all the

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precautions taken, he becomes a revenant and terrorizes the district in much the same way that Glámur does. He particularly singles out the húsfreyja at Hvammur (presumably his wife), and despite her putting up a strong resistance, she too finally succumbs and dies. For more on Þórólfur, see Klaus Böldl, “Der solitäre draugr: Þórolfr Bægifótr,” in Eigi einhamr: Beiträge zum Weltbild der Eyrbyggja und anderer Isländersagas, Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde 48 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2005), 117–24; also Ármann Jakobsson, “Vampires and Watchmen,” 295–98; Ármann Jakobsson, “The Specter of Old Age: Nasty Old Men in the Sagas of Icelanders,” in Nine Saga Studies, 47–51, 71–77. 81 It seems unlikely that Grettir and Glámur fight at Christmas as Gunnell states: “Komi þeir sem koma vilja,” (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 191, 195). Chapter 34 begins, “er mjög var komit at vetrnóttum” (when it was quite close to the winter nights [the last two days of the 26th and the final week of summer]) (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 116). At this point, Grettir sets out from Bjarg, which is on the other side of Miðfjarðarháls from Víðidalur, and he makes only two stops, neither of them apparently for any extended time, before arriving at Þórhallsstaðir, one might guess maybe even during the veturnætur. Glámur attacks three nights later. Note that in the saga the veturnætur are used five (or six) times as the starting points of movements within episodes in the saga. Glámur agrees to begin his tenure as Þórhallur’s shepherd at this time (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 110) as does Þorgautur (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 114). Grettir sets out just before this time to deal with Glámur (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 116) and arrives close to the veturnætur at Reykjahólar after having killed Þorbjörn øxnamegin (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 159). Gísli Þorsteinsson waits in his ship all autumn before heading off a little before the veturnætur on his ill-fated attempt to deal with Grettir at Fagraskógafjall (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 190). And while MSS AM 551 A, 4to and AM 556 A, 4to say that after leaving Bjarg, Grettir and Illugi travelled around visiting their kin and supporters “haust fram til vetrar” (through the autumn to winter) before leaving for Drangey (Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 224), AM 152 fol. has instead “fram til veturnótta” (until the winter nights), which is arguably the preferable reading. 82 In his analysis of this episode, Arngrímur Vídalín, The Supernatural in Íslendingasögur, The Nordic Middle Ages 1 (Reykjavík: Tower Press, 2012), 127–32, mentions neither Þórhallur nor the meinvættur. See the section on “Episodic Time in Grettis saga” in Shaun F. D. Hughes, “Chronicle and Episodic Time in Grettis saga,” forthcoming, 83 Viðar Hreinsson characterizes the anomalous structure of Grettis saga when compared to the other Íslendingasögur as an example of what Mikhail Bakhtin termed “hybridization” (blöndun) because of the integration into the narrative of elements from romances and other stories (Viðar Hreinsson, “Hver er þessi Grettir?,” Skáldskaparmál 2 [1992]: 78–80). Magnús Fjalldal, The Long Arm of Coincidence: The Frustrated Connection between Beowulf and Grettis saga (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998) provides a necessary corrective to a scholarly predilection, now largely subsided, to find parallels between Beowulf and episodes in any number of Icelandic sagas. But he is not convincing in his argument that there is no connection at all between the two texts. There are too many similarities between Beowulf’s encounters with Grendel and Grendel’s mother and the meeting of Glámur and Grettir at Þórhallsstaðir, as well as the episode at Sandhaugar, for them to be dismissed as just coincidence. 84 See Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, ch. 64–67, 209–19; for a recent analysis, see Arngrímur Vídalín, The Supernatural in Íslendingasögur, 99–104. 85 I would be remiss if I did not mention that in addition to meanings like “countenance, appearance,” svipur also means “apparition, ghost, phantom.”

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86 Vésteinn Ólason, “Íslendingasögur og þættir,” in Íslensk bókmenntasaga, ed. Vésteinn Ólason, vol. 2 (Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1993), vol. 2, p. 143. “These sagas look different compared to the old ones.” 87 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 175–78, 183–85, 198–205. 88 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 198–201.

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Magnús Fjalldal. The Long Arm of Coincidence: The Frustrated Connection between Beowulf and Grettis saga. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998. Marold, Edith, ed. “Ynglingatal.” In Poetry from the Kings’ Sagas: From Mythical Times to c. 1035, vol. 1, bk. 1. Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages 1. Turnhout: Brepols, 2012. Meletinskij, Eleazar. “Scandinavian Mythology as a System, Pt. 1.” Journal of Symbolic Anthropology 1 (1973): 43–58. Meletinskij, Eleazar. “Scandinavian Mythology as a System, Pt. 2.” Journal of Symbolic Anthropology 2 (1974): 57–78. Merkelbach, Rebecca. “The Monster in Me: Social Corruption and the Perception of Monstrosity in the Sagas of Icelanders.” Quaestio Insularis 15 (2014): 22–37. Merkelbach, Rebecca. “Volkes Stimme: Interaktion als Dialog in der Konstruktion sozialer Monstrosität in den Isländersagas.” In Stimme und Performanz in der mittelalterlichen Literatur, edited by Monika Unzeitig, Nine Miedema, and Angela Schrott, 251–75. Berlin: de Gruyter, 2017. Moulton, Janice. “The Myth of the Neutral ‘Man’.” In Sexist Language: A Modern Philosophical Analysis, edited by Mary Vetterling-Braggin, 100–15. Totowa, NJ: Littlefield, Adams, and Co., 1981. Muecke, Stephen. Textual Spaces: Aboriginality and Cultural Studies. Kensington: New South Wales University Press, 1992. Nordberg, Andreas. Jul, disting och förkyrklig tideräkning: Kalendrar och kalendariska riter i det förkristna Norden. Acta Academiae Regiae Gustavi Adolphi 91. Uppsala: Kungliga Gustav Adolfs Akademien, 2006. Nørlund, N. E. Islands kortlægning: En historisk fremstilling. Geodætisk Instituts Publicationer 7. Copenhagen: Einar Munksgaard, 1944. O’Connor, Ralph. The Destruction of Da Derga’s Hostel: Kinship and Narrative Artistry in a Medieval Irish Saga. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. Ólafsson, Kristján Bersi. “Landvættir og álfar.” Andvari 4 (1962): 260–71. Ólafur Briem. “Landvættir.” In Heiðinn síður á Íslandi, 71–90. Reykjavík: Bókaútgáfa menningarsjóðs, 1945. Pakenham, Thomas. The Scramble for Africa, 1876–1912. New York: Random House, 1991. Páll Vídalín. Skýringar yfir fornyrði lögbókar þeirrar er Jónsbók kallast. Edited by Þórður Sveinbjörnsson. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1854. Ragnhildur Sigurðardóttir, ed. Sauðfjárrækt á Íslandi. Reykjavík: Uppheimar, 2013. Reinhard, John Revell. The Survival of Geis in Medieval Romance. Halle am Saale: Max Niemeyer, 1933. Reynolds, Henry. The Law of the Land. 3rd ed. Camberwell: Penguin Australia, 2003. Roques, Mario, ed. Le Chevalier au lion (Yvain). Les Romans de Chrétien de Troyes 4. Paris: Champion, 1965. Sayers, William. “The Alien and the Alienated as Unquiet Dead in the Sagas of the Icelanders.” In Monster Theory: Reading Culture, edited by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, 242–63. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996. See, Klaus von, Beatrice La Farge, Wolfgang Gerhold, Eve Picard, and Katja Schulz. Heldenlieder: Frá dauða Sinfiǫtla, Grípisspá, Reginsmál, Fáfnismál, Sigrdrífumál. Kommentar zu den Liedern der Edda 5. Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Winter, 2006.

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See, Klaus von, Beatrice La Farge, Eve Picard, and Katja Schulz. Götterlieder: Vǫlundarkvið, Alvíssmál, Baldrs draumar, Rígsþula, Hyndlolióð, Grottasǫngr. Kommentar zu den Liedern der Edda 3. Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Winter, 2000. Sigurbjörn Einarsson, Guðrún Kvaran, and Gunnlaugur Ingólfsson, eds. Íslensk hómilíubók: Fornar stólræður. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1993. Sigurður J. Líndal and Stefán Á. Jónsson, eds. Húnaþing. 3 vols. Blönduós: Búnaðarsamband Austur-Húnvetninga, 1975–1989. Strömbäck, Dag. “Att helga land: Studier i Landnáma och det äldsta rituella besittningstagandet.” In Folklore och filologi: Valda uppsatser, 133–65. Acta Academiae Regiae Gustavi Adolphi 48. Stockholm: Lindquist, 1970. First published in Efraim Liljeqvist, ed., “Att helga land: Studier i Landnáma och det äldsta rituella besittningstagandet,” in Festskrift tillägnad Axel Hägerström den 6 september 1928 (Almqvist & Wiksell: Uppsala, 1928), 198–220. Sveinbjörn Rafnsson, ed. Frásagnir um fornaldarleifar, 1817–1823. 2 vols. Rit 24. Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 1983. Tolkien, J. R. R., and E. V. Gordon, eds. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. 2nd ed. Edited by Norman Davis. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1967. Torfi H. Tulinius. “Framliðnir feður: Um forneskju og frásagnarlist í Eyrbyggju, Eglu og Grettlu.” In Heiðin minni: Greinar um fornarbókmenntir, edited by Haraldur Bessason and Baldur Hafstað, 283–316. Reykjavík: Heimskringla, 1999. Torfi H. Tulinius. “Landafræði og flokkun fornsagna.” Skáldskaparmál 1 (1990): 142–56. Trausti Jónsson. Veður á Íslandi í 100 ár. Reykjavík: Ísafold, 1993. Valdimar Tryggvi Hafstein. “Hjólaskóflur og huldufólk: Íslensk sjálfsmynd og álfaheims samtímans.” In Þjóðerni í þúsand ár?, edited by Jón Yngvi Jóhannsson, Kolbeinn Óttarsson Proppé, and Sverrir Jakobsson. Reykjavík: Háskólaútgáfan, 2003. Revised version of, “The Elves’ Point of View: Cultural Identity in Contemporary Iceland,” Fabula 41 (2000):87–104. Vésteinn Ólason. “Íslendingasögur og þættir.” In Íslensk bókmenntasaga, edited by Vésteinn Ólason, 2:24–163. Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1993. Viðar Hreinsson. “Hver er þessi Grettir?” Skáldskaparmál 2 (1992): 77–106. Wyatt, Ian. “Narrative Functions of Landscape in the Old Icelandic Family Sagas: Settlement in the Viking Period.” In Land, Sea and Home: Settlement in the Viking Period, edited by John Hines, Alan Lane, and Mark Redknap, 273–82. Society for Medieval Archaeology Monograph 20. Leeds: Maney, 2004. Örn Sigurðsson, ed. Íslands atlas. Reykjavík: Edda, 2005.

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Trolling Guðmundr: Paranormal Defamation in Ljósvetninga saga Abstract: To understand sexual defamation in the Icelandic sagas more comprehensively, this article surveys the paranormal attributes attached to Guðmundr inn ríki in Ljósvetninga saga and how they are used to “throw shade” on his character. One’s very humanness can be called into question through association with the paranormal. The whole country seethed and bubbled with gibing and jeering like a witches’ cauldron.1

Although he was a dominant man who fascinated popular Icelandic imagination during his lifetime and subsequently,2 Guðmundr inn ríki was not wellliked in his own neck of the woods. With great power comes great palatability, and his fellows from the Eyjafjǫrðr region seemed to have disliked Guðmundr’s hedonic ways. While we can catch glimpses of this in “Ǫlkofra þáttr,” and even in his overall positive portrayal in Brennu-Njáls saga,3 nowhere is Guðmundr’s character defamed, humiliated, and ridiculed as much as in Ljósvetninga saga. From accusations of sodomy, cowardice, and heavy-handedness, to slapstick humor at his expense, an ambiguous death scene, and unfavorable comparisons to his enemies, if ever a saga could be accused of mobbing, Ljósvetninga saga would be it. In a 2016 publication titled “Argr Management: Vilifying Guðmundr inn ríki in Ljósvetninga saga,”4 I tried to show the mechanics behind the sexual defamation of this powerful chieftain, and how his character portrayal was a clear manifestation of the figure of an argr man.5 Medieval Icelanders excelled at finding original and colorful ways to defame their enemies.6 When the men from Viðadalr wanted to humiliate the Miðfirðingar, they described them as different parts of a mare’s body, an obvious insult in a society where comparisons with female animals were forbidden by law.7 When Guðmundr dýri’s enemies wished to humiliate him, they compared him to a hornless ewe that sits on a peace-throne (fríðstóll), secluded from the world.8 When Skarphéðinn wants to insult Flosi, he throws black trousers at him and suggests he wear these during his next sexual encounter with a giant who uses him as a woman every nine nights.9 Similarly, the authors of Ljósvetninga saga were no small fry when it came to sexual defamation,10 and the saga spares no efforts when it comes to the humiliation of its main protagonist/antagonist Guðmundr Eyjólfsson inn https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-023

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ríki. Guðmundr is portrayed as a coward, volatile, easily manipulated by men, disloyal to his kin-group, humiliated by sexual insults, and, finally, suspected to have actually engaged in sexual activities with other men. These characteristics, I hoped to show, come together under the heading argr.11 Guðmundr’s enemies wanted him humiliated,12 and since it could not be proved that he was a woman, they chose the next best thing—a man who had chosen to be used as one. But one factor was missing from my investigation, relegated to the periphery of my argument: what I called the “paranormal element” involved in the description of Guðmundr inn ríki.13 This article aims to fill in that gap and thus to further problematize the concept of argr. Carol Clover’s popular attempt at disposing of the masculine-feminine binary system has resulted mostly in reaffirming (and perhaps even strengthening) “the very universalized, polarizing gender binary that has so often been applied uninterrogated in earlier saga studies,”14 since the masculine gender is used as the prism through which all behaviors are judged.15 In addition, the reliance on the problematic one-sex model of Thomas Laqueur as the basis for her one-gender model collapses the argument’s foundations.16 Bjørn Bandlien and Miriam Mayburd’s recent discussions of Old Norse gender through its correspondence with the paranormal, though, seem to lead the way to a better understanding of the gender perceptions behind these texts. By adding monstrosity to the mix, gender binaries now appear more multifaceted and less fixed. Gender roles were negotiated through the agency of the paranormal; Mayburd shows this through the various applications of seiðr in Old Norse literature and culture, and more specifically through the literary portrayal of Hervör in Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks. Bandlien exposes the various competing forms of masculinity that were in operation in the Old Norse world and how these were related to monstrosity.17 In a recent article, Ármann Jakobsson examines the magical attributes of the character Þorgrímr nef from Gísla saga Súrssonar, shedding light on the connections between being tröll and being ergi.18 A tröll can be both a magical being and the person who has summoned this magical being through magic. A man who exhibits ergi, though usually associated with unconventional sexuality, can also be one who practices magic.19 “Magic,” Ármann Jakobsson writes, “is thus ergi in that it is anti-social and evil, as well as queer.”20 This establishes a connection among the qualities of being magical, being of perverse sexuality, and being monstrous. And as Rebecca Merkelbach has recently shown, monstrosity and humanity were also not binaries, but they were instead placed on a continuum and constantly negotiated and renegotiated.21 In light of these debates, then, the question of Guðmundr inn ríki’s representation in Ljósvetninga saga needs to be reexamined through the specific prism of the paranormal elements of his characters. Guðmundr’s interaction

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with the paranormal could be argued to further fuel his argr image, his genderbending bringing him a step closer to the monstrous. As Rebecca Merkelbach points out, monstrosity could be determined by social consensus,22 and it was the Ljósvetninga saga authors’ intent to shape public opinion in a way that facilitates this. Following Mayburd’s argument, the gender transgression is connected with the paranormal transgression, and while Guðmundr’s tröll-ness is far from the only thing that establishes him as argr, it certainly supports his gender-bending, his ergi. Before continuing this debate, it is important to understand what we are talking about when we talk about Ljósvetninga saga. This question is much less trivial than it would initially appear, given that what we now call Ljósvetninga saga is actually a composite of two divergent redactions. Ljósvetninga saga is one of the Íslendingasögur relating the events of the tenth and eleventh century in Iceland. The main character throughout the first two thirds of the saga is Guðmundr Eyjólfsson inn ríki, and the emphasis is on his clash with Þorgeirr Ljósvetningagoði’s sons. The remaining third tells of their descendants’ continued dispute. The redaction that is preserved in AM 561 4to has been referred to by editors as A, while the redaction that originates from AM 162 c fol. and later post-medieval paper manuscripts—of which there are around fifty—is referred to as C.23 A is shorter than C, is fragmentary, and in its present state does not contain the þættir (or short episodes), which have traditionally been regarded as less connected to the main plotline. Much scholarly energy has been spent on trying to understand which of the redactions had been closer to the ‘original’ Ljósvetninga saga. If scholars such as Björn Sigfússon and Hallvard Magerøy gave precedence to the A-redaction,24 others such as Adolfine Erichsen and Theodore Andersson preferred the C-redaction of the text.25 Both redactions will be considered in this paper, though care will be taken to point out when the differences between these redactions are of import. Luckily for us, both redactors seemed to exhibit a dislike for Guðmundr’s character.26 The key chapter for this discussion of Guðmundr inn ríki’s portrayal is the A-redaction’s chapter 11a / 11b and the C-redaction’s chapter 21,27 and it is placed in the section of the saga in which both redactions are very similar in their wording, except for slight variations that one finds just as easily in the manuscript transmission of most sagas. This chapter is the final chapter to feature Guðmundr, and it takes place after he has killed his enemy Þorkell hákr Þorgeirsson, and failed to gain vengeance for his slain co-conspirator Rindill. The chapter begins with Guðmundr’s encounter with Drauma-Finni, a son of Þorgeirr Ljósvetningagoði and brother of Þorkell hákr, and thus his enemy. Guðmundr declares his wish that Finni interpret his dream, which Finni bluntly refuses. Guðmundr assuages Finni with a gift (or bribe) of a golden ring, and

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then relates his dream, which involves the ominous floating head of Þorkell hákr. Drauma-Finni interprets the dream as a reflection of Guðmundr’s fear of retaliation, and he guesses that at some point vengeance will indeed come against his family. Guðmundr then travels north to the farm of Tjǫrnes, where his C-redaction arch-nemesis Ófeigr Járngerðarson bullies him out of his seat of honor by threat of force,28 showing off the strength of his fist. It is then related that Guðmundr was a friend of the witch Þórhildr, and that he one day approaches her and asks if there will be vengeance against him for killing Þorkell hákr. She tells him to come back another time, and when he returns she wears breeches, a helmet, and yields an axe; she takes him to the fjord with her. Once there, she strikes the water twice and ascertains that no man will avenge himself upon him, but that there will be dire consequences for his sons. Afterwards it is related that the farmer Þórhallr visits Drauma-Finni to consult with him on the contents of a dream. Finni shoos him away by threat of force and tells him to go relate the dream to Guðmundr. In the meantime, Guðmundr’s brother Einarr dreams of an ox that visits the Mǫðruvellir farm and falls dead next to Guðmundr’s seat of honor. Einarr implies that this is a fylgja. Guðmundr then approaches Mǫðruvellir himself, tracing the same steps as the ox from Einarr’s dream. When he sits at the seat of honor, Þórhallr tells him his dream, and after Guðmundr complains to his wife three times that the milk she serves him is not warm, he leans back and dies. Einarr is called to come and treat the body, and then he tells Þórhallr that Drauma-Finni must have sensed the power of his dream and sent him to Guðmundr for this reason. To avoid confusion, this chapter will here be referred to as chapter 21.

Back to the Future: Guðmundr as forspár In the 1995 X-Files episode “Clyde Bruckman’s Final Repose” written by Darin Morgan a serial killer terrorizes the fortune tellers of Minnesota, killing off those that he deems to be incompetent false prophets. Fortune tellers have indeed been the irk of society since biblical times, when the Hebrew kings quarreled with their prophets almost as much as with foreign enemies, and God Himself seems to almost rejoice at the downfall of His disgruntled prophet Jonah. There is nothing singular or surprising, then, about the fact that Old Norse society, though occasionally finding prophets and fortune tellers useful, would be uncomfortable around people with a knack for telling the future.29 It is clear that not all seers were equally condemned, otherwise it would be difficult to explain the choice of the fourteenth-century Lárentíus saga’s author Einarr Hafliðason to describe Lárentíus—as well as his own father Hafliði—with

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the word forspár (a person with an ability to see the future).30 One of the most famously forspár figures in saga literature is Njáll Þorgeirsson, who is most wellknown for having been burnt alive in his house alongside his sons, wife, and grandson. Much unlike the author of Ljósvetninga saga, the author of BrennuNjáls saga seems to always take his protagonist’s side, even when he makes some morally dubious decisions.31 When he is introduced in the saga, alongside his many positive traits we learn: “en sá hlutr var á ráði hans, at honum óx eigi skegg.”32 This lack of a beard awards Njáll with much mockery, perhaps even anticipating his final destiny: as if anticipating the fire, Njáll’s beard comes pre-burnt, like the Ankh-Morpork alcoholic beverage that makes its drinker inebriated before—rather than after—its consumption. William Sayers argues that Njáll’s lack of a beard and his status as forspár are connected, since it seems that in order to gain a spiritual ability one must sacrifice something in the same realm. According to this explanation, Njáll sacrifices something manly—his ability to grow a beard—so that he may better understand the workings of other men.33 That the lack of a beard serves a perhaps functional purpose, however, does not make it any less of a source of humiliation for him and his family.34 But Njáll’s status as forspár is never a reason for mockery in the saga. Guðmundr inn ríki can also see into the future. While the word forspár is not used to describe him, various events in the saga suggest that he shares the abilities of some of those who are described elsewhere with this term. The so-called þættir of Ljósvetninga saga’s C-redaction are where Guðmundr’s seer abilities are implied. In “Ófeigs þáttr,” after Ófeigr chides him for his lack of moderation, Guðmundr responds, “Þetta er harðla vel talat, sem ván er at þér. Er þat ok víst satt, at ek hafa þetta gǫrt. En athuga er vert, hvárt þú munir vera í móti mér, er mín sœmð liggr við. Ok er þat víst.”35 This initially appears to simply be the words of an offended person— as they also probably are36—and Ófeigr treats them accordingly. However, when Ófeigr meets with Guðmundr’s brother Einarr, the latter states that things usually follow Guðmundr’s spár (prophecies).37 Guðmundr’s words thus change from the petty reprisal of a man whose honor was hurt into a prediction or prophecy by someone who is forspár. Guðmundr is no false prophet. In “Vǫðu-Brands þáttr” Ófeigr supports Þorkell Geitisson, who is in a legal dispute against Guðmundr, and manipulates events in a manner that hurts Guðmundr. Ófeigr arranges matters so that Einarr joins their side through a marriage contract involving his daughter Jórunn in order to force Guðmundr into accepting mediation. Ironically, Einarr attributes his agreeing to play along with the arranged marriage to Guðmundr’s forspár: “enda hefir Guðmundr góðs spáð Jórunni dóttur minni, ok ganga jafnan eptir spár hans.”38 When Guðmundr learns of the marriage pact, he reminds Ófeigr of his prophecy from “Ófeigs þáttr.”39 Guðmundr is thus established as one

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whose predictions come true. Andersson and Miller point out that Guðmundr’s talents are not consistent.40 However, even one who is as forspár as Njáll had his occasional failings,41 and the shortcomings of Guðmundr’s abilities do not equate to him having none at all. Similarly to Njáll, Guðmundr’s prophesizing is not a source of straightforward shame for him. Indeed, as Sverrir Jakobsson has pointed out, a man of high status would actually gain respect from his being forspár, as is apparent from the description of Snorri goði as “vitrastur maðr á Íslandi þeirra er eigi váru forspáir.”42 Moreover, Sverrir argues that much of the ability to predict that a forspár man such as Njáll displays is not of a magical nature, but rather a product of “heilbrigða skynsemi” (“healthy” commonsense).43 While a galdramaðr (magician) would be seen as a destructive force in society and easy to turn into a scapegoat,44 the forspár man actually represented an elite, similar to the learned people of the Christian period.45 Thus, this forspár-status Guðmundr receives would initially seem to elevate him rather than add to his character’s defamation. Notice, however, that throughout the text the word forspár is never used to describe Guðmundr. It is possible that Guðmundr’s abilities should be understood as having more of an occult nature to them. It could be helpful to cautiously consider that during the Viking Age, the practice of seiðr, which involved an element of telling the future, “brought with it a strange kind of dishonour and social rejection, combining cowardice and general ‘unmanliness’ with suggestions of homosexuality.”46 Brit Solli suggests that those who practice seiðr were part of a third sex,47 like their shaman counterparts, and that transgressing into the feminine sphere is a part of what made their magic possible.48 Mayburd suggests that the practitioner of seiðr moves to different parts of the gender spectrum through their interaction with the paranormal, thus acquiring ergi. These observations of course correspond with Sayers’s argument regarding Njáll’s sacrifice of his beard, as discussed above. Though Guðmundr’s prophetic acts cannot be compared directly to that of seiðr, it is worth considering the fact that in the society in which this saga was composed, a dichotomy between the manly ruler and the unmanly practitioner of seiðr existed, at least in the work of Snorri Sturluson. According to Bandlien, Snorri may have exaggerated this dichotomy,49 and the association between seiðr and transgressive masculinity may have varied throughout the Iron Age,50 but this does not contradict the fact that some people who wrote—and read or listened to—the sagas during the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries had this notion. The association with the heathen practice of seiðr is also interesting in light of Bandlien’s comment that “clerics had a long-standing missionary tradition to marginalize heathen

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men for their lack of rationality and moderation.”51 These two qualities were indeed something the authors of Ljósvetninga saga attribute to Guðmundr.52

Guðmundr and his Fantastic Friends As Ármann Jakobsson points out, the term tröll could apply to heathen enemies of Christianity,54 and from the very beginning of the saga we learn of Guðmundr’s connection with two major pagan figures: Hákon jarl and Þorgeirr Ljósvetningagoði.53 Hákon jarl, under whom Ljósvetninga saga suggests Guðmundr served as a retainer, is famously pagan, so much so that after he was forced to convert to Christianity by Haraldr Blátönn, he reverted to paganism once he was out of harm’s way.55 Also, his supposed sacrifice of his son Erling during the fight against the Jómsvíkings shows his perceived dedication to heathen practices.56 In chapter 52 of Oddr munkr Snorrason’s Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar, we learn that Hákon jarl is considered a friend to the trolls who allowed them to practice their ways undisturbed.57 Calling Þorgeirr Ljósvetningagoði a ‘major pagan,’ however, could be seen as problematic, since he is usually mentioned in Icelandic historiography as the man who prevented a civil war by denouncing his pagan religion and choosing Christianity to rule over all. But it is important not to forget that he was chosen as the arbitrator between the pagan and Christian Icelanders while he himself was still pagan, and there are some that suspect that his choice of Iceland’s religion was the result of a bribe.58 It is also told in Íslendingabók, Oddr’s Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar, Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar hin mesta and Kristni saga that Þorgeirr allows the continued practice of the pagan eating of horse flesh and the exposure of unwanted children.59 It is easy then to argue for a parallel of sorts between the two men, Hákon and Þorgeirr. Both take up Christianity for manipulative, selfserving reasons; Þorgeirr puts in the loophole that will allow him to continue practicing his worship of the heathen gods; if we do not hear of this, it is possibly because it is meant to be secret by Þorgeirr’s own decree. Both are willing to sacrifice their sons; Þorgeirr by doing battle with his sons (in the name of Hákon jarl!), and Hákon jarl by sacrificing his son.60 Guðmundr’s opposition to Christianity is perhaps best emphasized in the C-redaction’s “Vǫðu-Brands þáttr,” where one of Guðmundr’s opponents is Þorsteinn, the son of the Christian leader Síðu-Hallr Þorsteinsson. It is also telling that in a saga that deals with the Ljósvetningar and takes place during the period of conversion, there is a curious lack of mention of this major historical event. This absence is made even more awkward by the fact that the C-redaction’s

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“Þórarins þáttr,” for example, notes that Eyjólfr Guðmundsson, and his father Guðmundr inn ríki, were hirðmenn (courtiers) of the saintly king Ólafr helgi,61 clearly indicating that Guðmundr had converted at some stage to the “new” religion, like most of his contemporaries. Guðmundr makes frequent use of helpers with magical qualities. The saga’s author notes, for example, that he was a great friend of Þórhildr the pagan witch, who is introduced into the saga as “forn í lund.”62 When the two meet, Guðmundr asks her whether or not there will be vengeance for his killing of Þorkell hákr. Dressed in breeches, a helmet, and carrying an axe, she asks Guðmundr to join her in the fjord: “Hon óð út á vaðlana, ok hjó hon fram øxinni á sjóinn, ok þótti Guðmundi þat enga skipan taka.”63 Þórhildr then replies: “Eigi ætla ek, at menn verði til at slá í mannhefndir við þik, ok muntu sitja mega í sœmd þinni.”64 When Guðmundr insists that she tell him if revenge will be brought upon his sons, she hits the water again, “ok varð af brestr mikill ok blóðigr allr sjórinn.”65 The practice of divining the future by the use of axes seems to have been practiced in Scandinavia by the vǫlur.66 Þórhildr’s dress is also an obvious sign of gender transgression, of the kind needed to divine the future, to practice seiðr.67 Indeed, as Þórhildr predicts, it is not a man that eventually brings about the death of Guðmundr, but Drauma-Finni Þorgeirsson, whose connection to the paranormal differentiates him from a bona fide man. Sverrir Jakobsson argues that the dream interpreter’s powers are actually in understanding the symbolic meanings of dreams rather than seeing the future,68 thus the assertion that dream interpreting is necessarily connected with the paranormal is far from certain. Indeed, there is an interesting parallel between the saga’s mention that Drauma-Finni was “maðr skyggn” (a man of good eyesight) and the Credaction’s use of the same words to describe Einarr Eyjólfsson, Guðmundr’s brother.69 As both men are dream interpreters, both demonstrate an understanding of the paranormal. However, in Finnboga saga ramma we learn about Finni that “var hann spakr maðr ok vitr. Hann var eigi sammæddr við aðra sonu Þorgeirs; hann var finnskr at móðurkyni, ok hét Leikný móðir hans.”70 That Finni was considered a foreigner lowered his social status and made him more easily defined, and used, as an Other.71 It is worth considering that Guðmundr’s downfall is eventually brought about by paranormal means. As Ármann Jakobsson has argued in regards to Grettis saga, “monster fighters . . . are not and can never be normal,”72 they are always outside of society. They are always an Other. Finni is arguably not entirely a man, to the same degree as Guðmundr is not. This is emphasized by the ominous, paranormal forebodings that lead up to Guðmundr’s death and subsequently the way his body is treated: “Síðan kom Einarr þar ok veitti honum nábjargir ok umbúnað.”73 As Andersson and Miller note, this treatment of a dead person’s body is something

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readers of the sagas usually encounter in the context of ghost hauntings.74 These connections that Guðmundr has throughout his life thus establish that there is something that could be regarded as problematic and Otherly about him.

Dream a Lethal Dream of Me “Warm milk? Gross.”75

It was neither sword nor axe but finally a dream that finished off Guðmundr inn ríki. Dreams are abundant in saga literature, and these often involve the death of the dreamer or someone connected to them.76 In Ljósvetninga saga, however, these are death-dreams with a vengeance, the dream itself not only prophesizing death, but actually appearing to be its cause. REM sleep is not exclusively for people with paranormal connections, and indeed many characters with unproblematized masculinity in the sagas experience dreams. Nonetheless, the dreams that appear in the final chapter of Guðmundr’s life seem to invite some interesting questions, drawing attention to the sense of Otherness that surrounds him. The first of these cases is in chapter 21 when Guðmundr relates his dream to Drauma-Finni after essentially bribing him: “Ek þóttumk ríða norðr um Ljósavatnsskarð, ok er ek kom gagnvert bœnum,77 þá sýndisk mér hǫfuð Þorkels háks á aðra hǫnd hjá mér, þá er at bœnum vissi. Ok er ek reið norðan, sat hǫfuðit á annarri ǫxl mér, þeiri er þá horfði við bœnum. Nú stendr mér ótti af þessu.”78 Drauma-Finni explains the floating head as a reminder to Guðmundr of Þorkell hákr, and the fear that overcomes him with the knowledge that his relatives are close by in the surrounding farms. The immediate irony of this situation has already been pointed out above: Guðmundr’s approaching Finni and the contents of his dream essentially egg the brother on to take vengeance. The retelling and interpreting of a dream are key to its meaning. That Guðmundr gives Finni, of all people, the role of the interpreter could either reflect a loss of common sense due to anxiety, or on the other hand a sly—yet poorly executed—attempt to bribe a representative of the Ljósvetningar into letting go of their resentments.79 As William Ian Miller shows, the contents of a dream are under the control of the person telling it, and through its retelling they have the power to both enlist and manipulate their audience.80 It may then be possible to argue that Guðmundr wants to enlist Finni’s help through the act of recounting his distressing dream.

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The way this dream is told makes it clear that it is a subjective experience, since it is told from the mouth of the dreamer himself.81 Therefore, although Old Norse dreams contain clearly paranormal aspects that could be interpreted as a message from an Other World,82 they also very much reflect the psyche of the dreamer.83 It does not take a psychoanalyst to conclude that Guðmundr’s dream reflects a tortured soul, perhaps filled with regret for the murder he has committed, but mostly filled with fear of the consequences.84 The floating head in Guðmundr’s dream is just as unnerving to a modern audience as it would have been to a medieval one, and Guðmundr’s loss of common sense following the experience is understandable. Later on, after Þórhallr approaches Drauma-Finni and is shooed away to Guðmundr, it is related that “Einarr bróðir hans lagðisk niðr ok sofnaði. Hann dreymði þat, at oxi gengi upp eptir heraðinu, skrautligr ok hyrndr mjǫk, ok kom á Mǫðruvǫllu ok gekk til hvers húss, er var á bœnum, ok síðast til ǫndvegis ok fell þar niðr dauðr. Síðan mælti Einarr: ‘Slíkt mun fyrir miklum tíðendum, ok eru þetta mannafylgjur.”’85 Fylgjur, discussed elsewhere in this volume,86 often appear in dreams.87 Fylgjur that prophesize death or an imminent attack are a common occurrence in the Íslendingasögur, either dreamed by the attacked or by someone who is associated with them. The fact that Guðmundr traces the fylgja’s steps—as well as that entering every building of the farm was his habit88—certainly implies that it is Guðmundr’s,89 and it is interesting that later on in Ljósvetninga saga, we come across another dream where an ox fylgja appears. Eyjólfr, the son of Guðmundr inn ríki, describes the following dream to his foster-father: “Dreymt hefir mik í nótt. Ek þóttumk ríða norðr um Háls, ok sá ek nautaflokk koma í móti mér. Þar var í oxi einn mikill, rauðr. Hann vildi illa við mik gera. Þar var ok griðungr mannýgr ok mart smáneyti. Þá kom yfir mik þoka mikil, ok sá ek eigi nautin.”90 The interpretation given by Eyjólfr’s foster-father is highly reminiscent of his uncle Einarr’s words: “Þat eru manna fylgjur, óvina þinna.”91 When an Einarr of Þverá appears in the following scene, it becomes clear that the similarity of this phrasing is no coincidence. Whether or not this is Guðmundr’s brother or Einarr Jarn-Skeggjason remains uncertain, but he is clearly there to invoke Einarr Eyjólfsson.92 The outcome of Eyjólfr’s dream is foggy because in ‘reality,’ once his enemies pass him by, Einarr of Þverá strikes Eyjólfr’s saddle with an axe, causing him to fall. Axes and oxen seem to come together in both chapters. Perhaps this is more than a coincidence. In the A-redaction, when Hákon jarl wants to enlist Guðmundr and Þorgeirr’s help at the beginning of the saga, he sends them “hatt girzkan ok taparøxi.”93 Thus, when Þórhildr strikes the water with an axe, the bloody water could symbolize the bloody repercussions of the feud for Guðmundr’s descendants,94 but it could also be regarded as a symbol for the axe

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that initially caused the feud in the A-redaction and for the viðarøxi that will kill Koðrán Guðmundsson in the C-redaction.95 The C-redactor drives this connection home through Einarr of Þverá’s use of an axe to stop Eyjólfr from doing battle with the Ljósvetningar.96 Further, the helmet Þórhildr puts on might also refer to the “hatt girzkan” given to Guðmundr by Earl Hákon. Considering the many parallels between the two chapters, it is interesting that the cattle fylgjur represent here the Ljósvetningar rather than the Mǫðruvellingar.97 That is not to say that the earlier fylgja is not Guðmundr’s. But the fact that the same animal is used to represent a person from the Mǫðruvellingar’s opponents could, at least in the C-redaction of the text, imply a certain intentional ambiguity surrounding the fylgja that appears before Guðmundr’s death, which might also explain why Einarr is somewhat aloof as to whom the ox fylgja belongs to, using a proverb where an actual warning would be more helpful. Even Guðmundr’s fylgja would thus be contaminated with a hint of hostility. Instead of simply being a warning or an imposing omen, the dreams described in Ljósvetninga saga actively contribute to Guðmundr’s death. It has been acknowledged that dreams, with their connection to the paranormal, their striking imagery, and foreboding consequences, often cause a sense of unease—or uncanniness—in the text.98 Our fears of the paranormal come true in Ljósvetninga saga, and Guðmundr is in the eye of the storm. His dream compels him to approach Finni and spark the Mǫðruvellingar’s old hostility toward him. Einarr’s dream—in the C-redaction—connects Guðmundr’s death to his enemies, and it also gives his death a sense of inevitability. And, finally, we are left with Þórhallr’s lethal but ultimately unrecounted dream. What it reveals to Guðmundr, or what power it had, will forever remain a mystery. Perhaps this is simply a plot device, a McGuffin,99 meant to add an ominous air to the narrative with no hidden meaning. But it clearly had its effects. When Einarr declares of his brother that “kaldr hefir hann nú verit innan, er hann kenndi sín eigi,”100 he is saying that there is something eerie about Guðmundr’s body, something that is not quite right. He was dead before he was dead. He was a troll.101

Of Monstrosity and Men At one of the more charged and pivotal moments in Brennu-Njáls saga— when Flosi, enraged by the ambiguous silk garment, implies that Njáll Þorgeirsson is a woman rather than a man—Skarphéðinn Njálsson angrily retorts, “meguð þér þat vita, at hann er karlmaðr, þvó at hann hefir sonu getit við konu sinni.”102

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Similarly, Guðmundr has quite a few children of his own, and his status as a sexed male cannot be contested on these grounds. Guðmundr fits the general triad definition of medieval masculinity—“impregnating women, protecting dependants, and serving as provider to one’s family”103—quite well, so his enemies needed to search for different ways to hit him where it hurts.104 His masculinity needed to be attacked from different angles, and the established connection with the paranormal helped to achieve this. As Bjørn Bandlien points out, the insult of níð defamations “concern[s] the transgressing of the border between the centre and the periphery, or the human and the monstrous, as much as that between male and female.”105 An Other’s life was generally more readily taken,106 which could explain why exaggerations that were clearly invented would be taken so seriously.107 If a man like Guðmundr is figured to be an Other, his life could be forfeit, since he is less than a man. Guðmundr was neither the first nor the last powerful man to be attacked in this way, as demonstrated in the example provided by the English king Richard III: “Culture gives birth to a monster before our eyes, painting over the normally proportioned Richard who once lived, raising his shoulder to deform simultaneously person, cultural response, and the possibility of objectivity.”108 It could be suggested that a person whose body would be manipulated thus could become a symbol for sexual deviance as well. An ergi man would therefore be in danger of not only being considered a woman, but also of being considered a monster. The structure of Ljósvetninga saga’s chapter 21 makes it clear that these elements work together to create an image of Guðmundr as something that is other than a man. The story of the different dreams that anticipate Guðmundr’s death are interrupted by a story about how Ófeigr Járngerðarson humiliates him one last time. As Guðmundr occupies Ófeigr’s seat of honor at the farm of Tjǫrnes, Ófeigr responds with a display of his powerful fist, asks Guðmundr to comment on it, and suggests that if he does not want it to strike him, he should vacate his seat. The humiliation that Guðmundr suffers is closely tied with Ófeigr’s superior masculine body and his own fear.109 In a text that expends much energy on the defamation of its main character, Guðmundr’s paranormal ties and his unmanliness are thus regarded as going, figuratively, hand in hand. These kinds of texts help us understand the near obsession medieval Icelanders had with being regarded as manly. It was not only the danger of being seen as a woman that scared them, but perhaps more so the chilling and perilous prospect of becoming an Other in the eyes of others.

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Epilogue: David Lynch as Author of Ljósvetninga saga “Dick Laurent is dead.”110 “Monica was very pleasant, she had brought friends, we all had a coffee. And then she said the ancient phrase, ‘We are like the dreamer, that dreams then lives inside a dream.’ I told her I understood, and then she said, ‘but who is the dreamer?’ ”111 In David Lynch’s 1997 Lost Highway Fred—an LA saxophonist—is awaiting execution for the murder of his wife Renee, played by Patricia Arquette. At one point, he disappears from his cell, and a young car mechanic called Pete is found in his stead. Pete has no memory of what happened and why he is there, and he is released into the custody of his loving parents. The dazed Pete reacclimatizes to his life and is reunited with his young and much-in-love girlfriend. Soon afterwards, he meets Alice, the mistress of the menacing mob boss Mr. Eddy. Alice is also played by Patricia Arquette. Pete strikes up a dangerous love affair with Alice that leads to several deaths and to Pete’s broken heart. Some characters from the Fred segment of the film return with new names, some characters appear that are meant to mirror characters from the other segment, and others return to fill the same role. Pete eventually turns back into Fred, and the movie ends with his body distorting as it fills with an electric glow, implying both his anguish over the murders he committed and his execution. The second segment—if one can have the audacity to try and explain a David Lynch film112—can be seen as Fred’s attempt to justify to himself or to deal with the murders he committed. Taking on the position of the virile young Pete, Fred imagines himself seduced and manipulated into killing by Alice/Renee, but he cannot escape the consequences of his deeds for long. When analyzing the structure of Ljósvetninga saga, Theodore Andersson stressed that the saga was exceptional in that it had two climaxes, or “Twin Peaks,” to continue the Lynch comparison.113 After Guðmundr’s death, Ljósvetninga saga takes a sharp turn and tells the story of Guðmundr’s sons Eyjólfr and Koðrán. Most of the C-redaction paper manuscripts end with the fragmentary Þórarins þáttr ofsa, which cuts off abruptly as Eyjólfr Guðmundsson sets off on horseback to kill a man. What is odd about this part of the saga is that people keep popping up who should be long dead or at any rate inactive, such as Þorkell Geitisson, Þórir Finnbogason, and even king Knútr inn ríki.114 In addition, different characters with similar names appear serving a similar function to their

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namesakes: Einarr of Þverá Járnskeggjason knocks Eyjólfr off a horse to prevent him from foolishly attacking the Ljósvetningar and breaking an agreed truce; a certain Finni makes vague statements about fylgjur;115 and an unruly son called Höskuldr and a Brandr make trouble in the district. While sagas can be bad at chronology, these repetitions litter this part of Ljósvetninga saga to such an extent that one can argue they are not signs of bad time keeping, but rather that they serve a representational purpose. Ljósvetninga saga is a piece of medieval literature. Therefore, some avenues of interpretation are closed off, clearly inconceivable by both the saga’s authors and scribes, as well as its implied audience. But let us suspend our disbelief for a moment and enter a thought experiment; what if Ljósvetninga saga was a modern creation written by David Lynch? How then could chapters 22 to 31 be read? Guðmundr inn ríki is a man living with the trauma of a murder he committed, one which manifested in a grotesque and violent manner.116 He is dealing with the aftermath of that murder, the death of his friend and ally Rindill, and his own violence that almost brought upon the incineration of his wife and son. In addition, the bullying by and unfairness of his brother have haunted him all his life. Before his death, Guðmundr inn ríki is told a dream. In true Lynchian form, this dream is not described to us. Rather, it is shown: Guðmundr is now a younger, virile version of himself, Eyjólfr Guðmundsson. He bullies his brother Koðrán out of their shared inheritance, eventually causing his death. The death pains him, of course, but it is also convenient; now he has full claim over his father’s inheritance. Eyjólfr is a fighting man who does not shy away from battle even when the odds are against him, and he commands loyalty and respect from most of his kin-group. He manages to outlaw his enemies, and there are very few consequences for the killing he commits. But, in a fashion that is also true to Lynchian form, reality seeps through. Eyjólfr suffers from a propensity to lose control of his horse (one fall too many eventually gives him a limp), exposing the impotency of the great chieftain. Characters from the past keep appearing and distorting the realism of the dream; for example, Þorsteinn inn rammi excels in the battle of Kakalahóll. Hlenni the Blind predicts trouble in the district as a result of Eyjólfr’s actions. Knútr inn ríki reminds the audience what the nickname “inn ríki” truly means, and how worthy a man needs to be to really own it. The saga ends abruptly, with Eyjólfr riding his horse, on his way to commit another violent act. Guðmundr hears the dream and realizes his own failings as a human being, the death and misery that he has caused. He takes a few sips of milk and dies. Credits roll with a blá velvet curtain in the background. This reading of the narrative is not foolproof because it is an improbable interpretation of a medieval text. But it also reveals to us the power of the

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paranormal, the power of dreams, and the gnawing questions that remain when we are left with an unrelated dream and a character who does not pay for his deeds. It helps us question whether saga characters are necessarily there to reflect a historical truth or if they are there instead to create an artistic one. The sagas and the paranormal have more to say about the experience of being human than we are sometimes willing to acknowledge.

Notes 1 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, The Age of the Sturlungs: Icelandic Civilization in the 13th Century (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1953), 91, quoted in Frederic Amory, “Speech Acts and Violence in the Sagas,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 106 (1991): 77. 2 Gísli Sigurðsson, “The Immanent Saga of Guðmundr ríki,” in Learning and Understanding in the Old Norse World: Essays in Honour of Margaret Clunies Ross, ed. Judy Quinn, Kate Heslop, and Tarrin Wills, trans. Nicholas Jones (Turnhout: Brepols Publishers, 2007), 201–18. 3 Paul Schach, “Character Creations and Transformations in the Icelandic Sagas,” in Germanic Studies in Honor of Otto Springer, ed. Stephen J. Kaplowitt (Pittsburgh, PA: K & S Enterprises, 1978), 265–67; Theodore Andersson and William Ian Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland (Redwood City, CA: Stanford University Press, 1989), 85–90; Gísli Sigurðsson, “The Immanent Saga of Guðmundr ríki,” 210, 214. 4 yoav tirosh, “Argr Management: Vilifying Guðmundr inn ríki in Ljósvetninga saga,” in Bad Boys and Wicked Women: Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature, ed. Daniela Hahn and Andreas Schmidt, Münchner Nordistische Studien 27 (Munich: Herbert Utz Verlag, 2016), 240–72. 5 Discussing the substantive ergi, its associated adjective argr, and its metathesis ragr, Preben Meulengracht Sørensen treats it as signifying “a quality or tendency. The man who is argr is willing or inclined to play or interested in playing the female part in sexual relations” (Preben Meulengracht Sørensen, The Unmanly Man: Concepts of Sexual Defamation in Early Northern Society, trans. Joan Turville-Petre [Odense: Odense University Press, 1983], 18). For a discussion of the term, see tirosh, “Argr Management,” 255–58. 6 E.g., Amory, “Speech Acts and Violence in the Sagas,” 74–77. 7 Gudbrand Vigfusson, Sturlunga saga Including the Íslendinga saga of Lawman Sturla Thordsson & Other Works, vol. 1 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1878), 230; Amory, “Speech Acts and Violence in the Sagas,” 75–76; Sørensen, The Unmanly Man, 24. 8 Gudbrand Vigfusson, Sturlunga saga Including the Íslendinga saga of Lawman Sturla Thordsson & Other Works, 149, 151; Amory, “Speech Acts and Violence in the Sagas,” 76. 9 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga, Íslenzk fornrit 12 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1954), 314. 10 In the present article the word ‘author’ indicates a conscious design and therefore an agency with respect to the text; the plural form is used due to the redaction issue discussed later. 11 However, they are by no means the sole way to represent this kind of character. Cf. Alison Finlay’s reading of Þórðr in Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa, Alison Finlay, “Níð, Adultery and Feud in Bjarnar saga hítdælakappa,” Saga-Book 23 (1991): 176–77.

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12 I am referring both to his tenth- and eleventh-century contemporaries and to those in the thirteenth and fifteenth century who put his story down in writing, whatever their agenda might have been. 13 This decision unintentionally echoed the nineteenth- and twentieth-century emphasis on the so-called realism of the Íslendingasögur. See Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You: Paranormal Activity in the Medieval North (punctum books, 2017), 50–52, 73, 188 n. 76, 189 n. 78. 14 Miriam Mayburd, “‘Helzt þóttumk nú heima í millim. . .’: A Reassessment of Hervör in Light of Seiðr’s Supernatural Gender Dynamics,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 129 (2014): 123 n. 3; cf. Carol J. Clover, “Regardless of Sex: Men, Women, and Power in Early Northern Europe,” Representations 44:1–28. 15 Mayburd, “‘Helzt þóttumk nú heima í millim. . .’,” 123 n. 3. 16 Cf. Thomas Walter Laqueur, Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud (Cambridge, MA, 1990), and the review of his book by Park and Nye (“Destiny is Anatomy,” Essay Review of Thomas Laqueur: Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud, The New Republic, February 18, 1991, 53–57) as well as Joan Cadden’s reexamination of the topic (The Meanings of Sex Difference in the Middle Ages: Medicine, Science, and Culture, Cambridge History of Medicine [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993]), which was received as “an excellent antidote for the totalizing discussion in Thomas Laqueur’s Making Sex” (Katharine Park, “Review of Joan Cadden: Meanings of Sex Difference in the Middle Ages: Medicine, Science, and Culture,” Journal of the History of Biology 28 [1995]: 553). See also Bjørn Bandlien’s discussion of Clover’s one-gender model in Man or Monster? Negotiations of Masculinity in Old Norse Society, Acta humaniora 236 (Oslo: University of Oslo, 2005), 10–11. 17 Bandlien, Man or Monster? Negotiations of Masculinity in Old Norse Society. 18 Ármann Jakobsson, “The Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch: The Meanings of troll and ergi in Medieval Iceland,” in Nine Saga Studies: The Critical Interpretation of the Icelandic Sagas (Reykjavík: University of Iceland Press, 2013), 93–123. 19 Ármann Jakobsson, “The Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch,” 109–10. See also Sørensen, The Unmanly Man, 18–20. 20 Ármann Jakobsson, “The Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch,” 118. 21 Rebecca Merkelbach, “The Monster in Me: Social Corruption and the Perception of Monstrosity in the Sagas of Icelanders,” Quaestio Insularis 15 (2014): 22–37. 22 Merkelbach, “The Monster in Me,” 32. 23 AM 561 4to is commonly dated to ca. 1400, and AM 162 c fol. to ca. 1420–50 (Ordbog over det norrøne prosasprog, A Dictionary of Old Norse Prose [Copenhagen: Den arnamagnæanske kommission, 1989], 454 and 433, respectively). 24 Björn Sigfússon, Um ljósvetninga sögu (Hafnarfjörður: Ísafoldarprentsmiðja, 1937); Hallvard Magerøy, Sertekstproblemet i Ljósvetninga saga (Oslo: Aschehoug, 1956); as well as Björn Sigfússon, ed., Ljósvetninga saga, Íslenzk fornrit 10 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1940). Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson has argued, following an analysis of AM 561 4to, that the extant A-redaction manuscript would have included neither the þættir, nor the story of Guðmundr’s son Eyjólfr and his struggles with the Ljósvetningar, though it is certainly possible that both were included in an earlier copy of this redaction. Cf. Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson, “AM 561 4to og Ljósvetninga saga,” Gripla 18 (2007): 67–88. 25 Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, esp. 64–74. In the preface to their translation of Ljósvetninga saga a clear division is made between Miller and Andersson’s role in the writing process, and while Miller contributes much to understanding the inner

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workings and logic of the saga text itself, his discussion of issues of redaction is minimal. See Adolfine Erichsen, “Untersuchungen zur Liósvetninga Saga” (PhD diss., Friedrich-WilhelmsUniversität Berlin, 1919). Noteworthy is that Erichsen herself considers the þættir to be interpolated, and the introduction to have been corrupted and rewritten, cf. Erichsen, “Untersuchungen zur Liósvetninga Saga,” 63–70, 81–87. 26 Not every student of Ljósvetninga saga would subscribe to that statement. Cf. discussion in Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 66. 27 Although in AM 561 4to a new chapter starts when the witch Þórhildr is introduced (though the capital letter is no longer visible), Björn Sigfússon in his Íslenzk fornrit edition chose to keep the C-redaction chapter order, which includes the story of Finni and the story of Guðmundr’s death in the same chapter. The difference is not major from a literary analysis standpoint (Richard F. Allen, Fire and Iron: Critical Approaches to Njáls saga [Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1971], 66), though as we will see there is something narratalogically appealing in framing the story of Ófeigr’s physical humiliation of Guðmundr between two paranormal stories. 28 Ófeigr is a significant thorn in Guðmundr’s side in the so-called þættir that appear only in the C-redaction of the saga. 29 Cf. William Ian Miller, “Dreams, Prophecy and Sorcery: Blaming the Secret Offender in Medieval Iceland,” Scandinavian Studies 58, no. 2 (1986): 107–8. 30 Árni Björnsson, ed., Laurentius saga biskups, Rit Handritastofnunar Íslands (Reykjavík: Ísafold, 1969), 59, 136. 31. See yoav tirosh, “Víga-Njáll: A New Approach Towards Njáls saga,” Scandinavian Studies 86, no. 2 (2014): 222–25. 32 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Brennu-Njáls saga, 57; “but there was one thing about him: no beard grew on him” (Robert Cook, ed. and trans., Njal’s Saga, with an introduction by Robert Cook, Penguin Classics [New York: Penguin Classics, 2001], 35). 33 William Sayers, “Njáll’s Beard, Hallgerðr’s Hair and Gunnarr’s Hay: Homological Patterning in Njáls saga,” Tijdschrift voor Skandinavistiek 15, no. 2 (1994): 12. 34 Ármann Jakobsson, “The Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch,” 213, n. 25. 35 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 120–21, “These words are well spoken . . . as was to be expected from you. It is indeed true that I have done as you say. But it is worth considering whether you will be against me when my honor is at stake; it certainly appears so” (Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 143). All subsequent translations of Ljósvetninga saga come from Andersson and Miller. 36 Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 106. 37 Björn Sigfússon, Um ljósvetninga sögu, 121. 38 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 136. “Gudmund has prophesied auspiciously about my daughter Jorun, and his prophesies are always fulfilled” (Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 158). Cf. Miller, “Dreams, Prophecy and Sorcery,” 106–7. 39 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 135–36. 40 Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 158, n. 63 41 tirosh, “Víga-Njáll,” 213–14. 42 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Brennu-Njáls saga, 287. “The wisest of the men in Iceland who could not foretell the future” (Cook, Njal’s Saga, 192). Sverrir Jakobsson, “Galdur og forspá í ríkisvaldslaugu samfélagi,” in Galdramenn: Galdrar og samfélag á miðöldum, ed. Torfi H. Tulinius (Reykjavík: Hugvísindastofnun Háskóla Íslands, 2008), 74.

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43 Sverrir Jakobsson, “Galdur og forspá í ríkisvaldslaugu samfélagi,” 75. See also William Ian Miller, ‘Why is Your Axe Bloody?’ A Reading of Njáls saga (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 62–72. 44 Miller, “Dreams, Prophecy and Sorcery,” 111. 45 Sverrir Jakobsson, “Galdur og forspá í ríkisvaldslaugu samfélagi,” 80–82. 46 Neil Price, “Sorcery and Circumpolar Traditions in Old Norse Belief,” in The Viking World, ed. Stefan Brink and Neil Price (London: Routledge, 2008), 245. 47 Sex and gender seem to be conflated in this discussion. 48 Brit Solli, “Queering the Cosmology of the Vikings: A Queer Analysis of the Cult of Odin and “Holy White Stones”,” Journal of Homosexuality 54, nos. 1–2 (2008): 197–99; see also discussion in Bandlien, Man or Monster? Negotiations of Masculinity in Old Norse Society, 59–69. 49 Bandlien, Man or Monster? Negotiations of Masculinity in Old Norse Society, 69. 50 Bandlien, Man or Monster? Negotiations of Masculinity in Old Norse Society, 90. 51 Bandlien, Man or Monster? Negotiations of Masculinity in Old Norse Society, 351. 52 Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 98–117. 53 This subchapter’s title is a reference to the 2007 comedy Superbad, wherein an illicit houseguest is assaulted by the host when he tries to make a phone call. The host questions him with the words: “You calling your friends, your fantastic friends?” This line remains unexplained and can put the viewer ill at ease or even fill them with a sense of the unheimlich. Who are these friends he is supposedly calling? What is fantastic about them? Clearly it reveals past tensions between the houseguest and the host, possibly explained in the draft written by screenwriter Seth Rogen at the age of thirteen. 54 Ármann Jakobsson, “The Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch,” 102; cf. Bandlien, Man or Monster? Negotiations of Masculinity in Old Norse Society, 152–64. 55 Bjarni Guðnason, ed., “Knýtlinga saga,” in Danakonunga sögur, Íslenzk fornrit 35 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1982), 95. 56 Neil Price, The Viking Way: Religion and War in Late Age Scandinavia (Uppsala: Department of Archaeology / Ancient History, University of Uppsala, 2002), 347. 57 Ólafur Halldórsson, ed., “Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar eptir Odd munk Snorrason,” in Færeyinga saga: Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar eptir Odd munk Snorrason, Íslenzk fornrit 25 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2006), 291. See also Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You, 55–60. 58 Siân Grønlie, trans., Íslendingabók: The Book of Icelanders (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2006), 25, n. 71. 59 Jónas Kristjánsson et al., eds., “Viðauki II,” in Biskupa sögur, 2 vols., Íslenzk fornrit 15 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag), 357; Jónas Kristjánsson et al., “Viðauki II,” 365; Jónas Kristjánsson et al., eds., “Kristnitaka,” in Biskupa sögur, 171; Jónas Kristjánsson et al., eds., “Kristni saga,” in Biskupa sögur, 36. In Brennu-Njáls saga, however, these two practices are forbidden unless done secretly. This difference in the wording of the law is noteworthy in a saga whose main protagonist is a murderous father who clandestinely sets in motion his sons’ untimely and fiery deaths. This creates a parallel of sorts between Njáll Þorgeirsson and Þorgeirr Ljósvetningagoði, both of whom contend with their sons. To remind the readers, these are the very same sons who are accused of breaking the newly established law of eating horse flesh by smearing their mouths with horse excrement (Miller, ‘Why is Your Axe Bloody?’, 105; Ármann Jakobsson, “The Big Black Cats of Vatnsdalr and Other Trolls: Talking about Shapeshifting in Medieval Iceland,” in Shapeshifters in Medieval North Atlantic Literature, ed.

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Santiago Barreiro and Luciana Cordo Russo 43–52); this connection will be explored in more depth by the present author elsewhere. 60 It is important at this point to note that the present author does not have delusions about the sagas representing an exact historical truth; I do not think of the characters as living human beings (although both Þorgeirr and Hákon jarl most certainly were) whose exact actions have been inscribed onto fifteenth-century manuscript pages. Rather, my approach tries to read the lives of these characters in the way that the various audiences, the oral transmitters, and the manuscript redactors would have imagined them. This approach allows, of course, for multiple interpretations of the text we have at hand; this is not a bad thing. I have frequently left the cinema understanding a film entirely differently from my friend who was sitting right there next to me. Perhaps it was the angle from which we saw the film, perhaps it was our different moods on that day, or perhaps it was my friend’s superior of intelligence that gave us these divergent cinematic experiences. 61 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 144. 62 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 59. “[S]he was still a heathen in spirit” (Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 199). 63 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 59. “She waded out into the shallows and struck her ax into the water, and Gudmund could observe no change” (Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 200). 64 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 59. “I don’t think there will be men to take up vengeance against you. You will be able to maintain your honourable position” (Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 200). 65 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 60. “There was a loud crash and the water turned all bloody” (Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 200). 66 Price, The Viking Way, 262. 67 Cf. Mayburd, “‘Helzt þóttumk nú heima í millim. . .’,” 146–47. 68 Sverrir Jakobsson, “Galdur og forspá í ríkisvaldslaugu samfélagi,” 79. 69 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 9, 30. 70 Jóhannes Halldórsson, ed., “Finnboga saga,” in Kjalnesinga saga, 2nd ed., Íslenzk fornrit 14 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2007), 268. “He was a wise man and something of a seer. He did not have the same mother as Thorgeir’s other sons; his mother’s name was Leikny, and he was Finnish on her side” (Viðar Hreinsson, ed., “The Saga of Finnbogi the Mighty,” in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales, vol. 3 [Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing], 229). Finnboga saga ramma shares one extant medieval manuscript with Ljósvetninga saga (the fifteenth century AM 162 c fol.), and it is quite possible that it had shared more. In Landnámabók we just hear that his mother is called Lekný/Lækný and that she is útlend rather than Finnish (Jakob Benediktsson, ed., Íslendingabók Landnámabók, 2 vols., Íslenzk fornrit 1 [Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1968], 273 Sturlubók, ch. 241, Hauksbók ch. 206). It is possible that Finnboga saga added that she is Finnish to add some flare. The fact that Finni is Finnish comes in a scene where the name Finnbogi is passed on by its rightful owner to Urðarköttur, so perhaps the choice of the mother’s origins had something to do with this name repetition. This is pointed out to show that an awareness of Finni’s ancestry, even if not mentioned in Ljósvetninga saga, would have been known to the saga’s audience—to its fifteenth-century audience, at any rate. 71 Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You, 101–11. 72 Ármann Jakobsson, “The Fearless Vampire Killers: A Note about the Icelandic Draugr and Demonic Contamination in Grettis saga,” in Nine Saga Studies, 133.

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73 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 61. “Einar arrived and closed Gudmund’s eyes and nostrils and attended to his corpse” (Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 201). 74 Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 201, n. 138. 75 Wes Craven, dir., A Nightmare on Elm Street (Los Angeles: New Line Cinema, 1984). 76 Paul Schach, “Symbolic Dreams of Future Renown in Old Icelandic Literature,” Mosaic 4, no. 4 (1971): 51–52; Christopher Crocker, “To Dream is to Bury: Dreaming of Death in Brennu-Nj áls saga,” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 114, no. 2 (2015): 267. 77 In the A-redaction the farm is not named, but the C-redaction names it as Øxará, Þorkell hákr’s farm. See Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 58, n. 1. 78 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 58. “I dreamed I was riding north through the pass at Ljosavatn, and as I came opposite the farm at Oxara, Thorkel Hake’s head appeared on the side of me which was facing the farm. And, when I rode from the north, the head sat on my other shoulder, still facing the farm. This has now filled me with fear” (Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 198). See also an analysis of this scene in Franziska Groß, “‘Þá veiztu ekki til’: Disregarded Dream Interpreters in Íslendingasǫgur,” in Bad Boys and Wicked Women: Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature, ed. Daniela Hahn and Andreas Schmidt, Münchner Nordistische Studien 27 (Munich: Herbert Utz Verlag, 2016), 190–92. 79 Indeed, it is possible that Guðmundr did not realize what he was doing by approaching Finni. Throughout Ljósvetninga saga, Guðmundr exhibits an extreme disregard and misunderstanding of kinship connections, the climax of this being the scene where he threatens to burn his son and wife inside a farmhouse where the killer of his spy and hot-pot companion Rindill is hiding (Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 111–12). 80 Miller, “Dreams, Prophecy and Sorcery,” 106. 81 Crocker, “To Dream is to Bury,” 275. 82 Lars Lönnroth, “Dreams in the Sagas,” Scandinavian Studies 74, no. 4 (2002): 462. 83 Christopher Crocker, “All I Do the Whole Night Through: On the Dream of Gísli Súrsson,” Scandinavian Studies 84, no. 2 (2012): 145. 84 Cf. Guðbrandur Vigfússon and Frederick York Powell, eds., Origines Islandicae: A Collection of the More Important Sagas and Other Native Writings Relating to the Settlement and Early History of Iceland, 2 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1905), vol. 2, p. 349: “One notes, not without pleasure, that this one scene of not unprovoked slaughter haunts Gudmund to his dying day.” 85 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 60. “His brother Einar lay down for a nap and fell asleep. He dreamed that a magnificent ox with great horns went through the district and came to Modruvellir, going to each building on the farm and lastly to the high seat, where he fell dead. ‘This must signify great tidings,’ Einar said, ‘such are the fetches of men’ ” (Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 200–1). 86 See Zuzana Stankovitsová’s article in the present volume. 87 E.g., Gabriel Turville-Petre, “Dreams in Icelandic Tradition,” Folklore 69, no. 2 (1958): 98–101. 88 One finds it hard to read this passage without invoking Freud’s famous interpretation of doorways: “Who, for instance, would have suspected the presence of a sexual wish in the following dream before it had been interpreted? The dreamer gave this account of it: Standing back a little behind two stately palaces was a little house with closed doors. My wife led me along the piece of street up to the little house and pushed the door open; I then slipped

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quickly and easily into the inside of a court which rose in an incline. Anyone, however, who has had a little experience in translating dreams will at once reflect that penetrating into narrow spaces and opening closed doors are among the commonest sexual symbols, and will easily perceive in this dream a representation of an attempt at coitus a tergo (between the two stately buttocks of the female body). The narrow passage rising in an incline stood, of course, for the vagina” (Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams, ed. and trans. James Strachey [1899; New York: Basic Books, 2010], 407–8). Italics in original. Thanks to Amir Kotler. 89 Turville-Petre, “Dreams in Icelandic Tradition,” 100, certainly believes so. 90 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 85. Square brackets in ÍF edition. “I seemed to be riding north by Hals, and I saw a herd of oxen coming toward me. In it was a large reddish ox, intent on doing me some harm. There was also a vicious bull and lots of smaller animals. Then a thick fog came over me and I could not see the oxen” (Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 224). This scene is only preserved in the C-redaction, as discussed above. 91 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 85. “Those are the fetches of your enemies” (Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 224). 92 Andersson and Miller read him as Einarr Eyjólfsson, while Björn Sigfússon reads him as Einarr Jarn-Skeggjason, both not seeing this issue as problematic and thus not explaining their choice (see indexes of both editions). Knocking Eyjólfr off his horse is “classic” Einarr Eyjólfsson, and it corresponds with his behavior with Guðmundr, especially since defending the outcome of a settlement is at stake; it would be less fitting conduct for a þingmaðr of Eyjólfr like Einarr Jarn-Skeggjason. 93 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 6. “A Russian hat and a battle-ax” (Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 125). Although Andersson and Miller’s translation is based on the C-redaction, they choose to translate this as well (with the use of square brackets), perhaps due to Miller’s interest in gift exchange. 94 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 60, n. 1. 95 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 80. 96 The place names Øxará (Þorkell hákr’s abode) and Øxnadalsheiði are mentioned in chapters 21 and 26 respectively of the C-redaction, which also contributes to the mirroring of chapters. 97 The idea of fylgjur tied to families rather than individuals has been a long history of problematization. Moreover, this concept was connected with female fylgjur rather than animal ones. On the concept of female fylgjur, see Zuzana Stankovitsová’s article in the present volume. 98 See Crocker, “To Dream is to Bury,” 265, 275–76, 282–83. 99 François Truffaut, Hitchcock-Truffaut, revised edition, trans. H. G. Scott (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1985), 138–39. 100 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 61. “He must have been cold inside already since he felt nothing” (Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 201). 101 The scope of the present article does not permit discussing the implications of Guðmundr’s cold body in light of medieval medical perceptions of sex differences, but these would certainly help to further the Otherness of Guðmundr’s body upon death. 102 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Brennu-Njáls saga, 314. “You can tell he’s a man because he has had sons with his wife” (Cook, Njal’s Saga, 210). 103 Vern L. Bullough, “On Being a Male in the Middle Ages,” in Medieval Masculinities: Regarding Men in the Middle Ages, ed. Clare A. Lees (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota

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Press, 1994), 34. Certainly, his threatening to burn his family (see footnote 61) makes it clear that he was not the most stable of patriarchs. 104 These “enemies” were not just Guðmundr’s contemporaries who questioned his masculinity, but the saga’s author/s and redactors as well. It is interesting to consider why those living during the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries would continue to bear a 200to-400-year-old grudge, but that question cannot be explored presently. Cf. Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, xlii–l; Barði Guðmundsson, Ljósvetninga saga og Saurbæingar (Reykjavík: Bókaútgáfa Menningarsjóðs, 1953). 105 Bandlien, Man or Monster? Negotiations of Masculinity in Old Norse Society, 350. Monstrosity is often connected with problematic gender. Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir argues that the giantesses in the sagas “articulate sexual taboos and their aggressive sexuality” is meant to invoke all kinds of promiscuous behavior, including “male sexual passivity” (Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir, Women in Old Norse Literature: Bodies, Worlds, and Power [New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013], 77). In this she follows Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, who has said that the monster is the embodiment of sexual practices permitted only to it (Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, “Monster Culture (Seven Theses),” in Monster Theory: Reading Culture, ed. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen [Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996], 14). Cohen stresses the uniqueness of the female monster of “Norse tradition,” but maintains that although the giant’s body is usually male, it often shares much with the feminine and the maternal (Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, Of Giants: Sex, Monsters, and the Middle Ages, Medieval Cultures 17 [Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999], xii). 106 Sandra Ballif Straubhaar, “Nasty, Brutish, and Large: Cultural Difference and Otherness in the Figuration of the Trollwomen of the Fornaldar sögur,” Scandinavian Studies 73, no. 2 (2001): 118. 107 Alison Finlay, “Monstrous Allegations: An Exchange of the ýki in Bjarnar saga Hitdœlakappa,” Alvíssmál 10 (2001): 21–44. 108 Cohen, “Monster Culture (Seven Theses),” 9. 109 Arguments that Guðmundr is at this point old and frail are negated by the fact that Ófeigr is his likely contemporary, given that he has been an active player in the saga (in both redactions) from its beginning in the late tenth century. 110 David Lynch, dir., Lost Highway (Los Angeles and Paris: CiBY 2000 / Asymmetrical Productions, 2000). 111 David Lynch and Mark Frost, “Part 14,” Twin Peaks: The Return, dir. David Lynch (New York: Showtime, August 13, 2017). 112 For a discussion of attempts at reviewing Lost Highway and Lynch’s work in general, see Justus Nieland, “David Lynch Swerves: Uncertainty from Lost Highway to Inland Empire by Martha P. Nochimson (review),” Cinema Journal 55, no. 3 (2016): 165–71. For a specific, compelling, and straightforward interpretation of Lost Highway (based on the film’s script and rough cut), see David Foster Wallace, “David Lynch Keeps His Head,” in A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments (Boston, MA: Little, Brown and Company, 1997), 150–51, 154–61. 113 Theodore Murdock Andersson, The Icelandic Family Saga: An Analytic Reading (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1967), 252–61. 114 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, xxvii. 115 Björn Sigfússon, Ljósvetninga saga, 100–1. 116 On the way that trauma and the paranormal interact in the Íslendingasögur, see Marion Poilvez’s article in the present volume.

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Craven, Wes, dir. A Nightmare on Elm Street. Los Angeles: New Line Cinema, 1984. Crocker, Christopher. “All I Do the Whole Night Through: On the Dream of Gísli Súrsson.” Scandinavian Studies 84, no. 2 (2012): 143–62. Crocker, Christopher. “To Dream is to Bury: Dreaming of Death in Brennu-Njáls saga.” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 114, no. 2 (2015): 261–91. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, ed. Brennu-Njáls saga. Íslenzk fornrit 12. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1954. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson. The Age of the Sturlungs: Icelandic Civilization in the 13th Century. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1953. Erichsen, Adolfine. “Untersuchungen zur Liósvetninga Saga.” PhD diss., Friedrich-WilhelmsUniversität Berlin, 1919. Finlay, Alison. “Monstrous Allegations: An Exchange of the ýki in Bjarnar saga Hitdœlakappa.” Alvíssmál 10 (2001): 21–44. Finlay, Alison. “Níð, Adultery and Feud in Bjarnar saga hítdælakappa.” Saga-Book 23 (1991): 158–78. Freud, Sigmund. The Interpretation of Dreams. Edited and translated by James Strachey. 1899. New York: Basic Books, 2010. Gísli Sigurðsson. “The Immanent Saga of Guðmundr ríki.” In Learning and Understanding in the Old Norse World: Essays in Honour of Margaret Clunies Ross, edited by Judy Quinn, Kate Heslop, and Tarrin Wills, translated by Nicholas Jones, 201–18. Turnhout: Brepols Publishers, 2007. Groß, Franziska. “‘Þá veiztu ekki til’: Disregarded Dream Interpreters in Íslendingasǫgur.” In Bad Boys and Wicked Women: Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature, edited by Daniela Hahn and Andreas Schmidt. Münchner Nordistische Studien 27. Munich: Herbert Utz Verlag, 2016. Grønlie, Siân, trans. Íslendingabók: The Book of Icelanders. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2006. Gudbrand Vigfusson. Sturlunga saga Including the Íslendinga saga of Lawman Sturla Thordsson & Other Works. Vol. 1. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1878. Guðbrandur Vigfússon and Frederick York Powell, eds. Origines Islandicae: A Collection of the More Important Sagas and Other Native Writings Relating to the Settlement and Early History of Iceland. 2 vols. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1905. Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson. “AM 561 4to og Ljósvetninga saga.” Gripla 18 (2007): 67–88. Jakob Benediktsson, ed. Íslendingabók Landnámabók. 2 vols. Íslenzk fornrit 1. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1968. Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir. Women in Old Norse Literature: Bodies, Worlds, and Power. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Jóhannes Halldórsson, ed. “Finnboga saga.” In Kjalnesinga saga, 2nd ed. Íslenzk fornrit 14. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2007. Jónas Kristjánsson, Sigurgeir Steingrímsson, Ólafur Halldórsson, and Peter Godfrey Foot, eds. Biskupa sögur. 2 vols. Íslenzk fornrit 15. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2003. Jónas Kristjánsson, Sigurgeir Steingrímsson, Ólafur Halldórsson, and Peter Godfrey Foot, eds. “Kristni saga.” In Biskupa sögur. Jónas Kristjánsson, Sigurgeir Steingrímsson, Ólafur Halldórsson, and Peter Godfrey Foot, eds. “Kristnitaka.” In Biskupa sögur. Jónas Kristjánsson, Sigurgeir Steingrímsson, Ólafur Halldórsson, and Peter Godfrey Foot, eds. “Viðauki II.” In Biskupa sögur.

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Laqueur, Thomas Walter. Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud. Cambridge, MA, 1990. Lynch, David, dir. Lost Highway. Los Angeles and Paris: CiBY 2000 / Asymmetrical Productions, 2000. Lynch, David, and Mark Frost. “Part 14.” Twin Peaks: The Return. Directed by David Lynch. New York: Showtime, August 13, 2017. Lönnroth, Lars. “Dreams in the Sagas.” Scandinavian Studies 74, no. 4 (2002): 455–64. Magerøy, Hallvard. Sertekstproblemet i Ljósvetninga saga. Oslo: Aschehoug, 1956. Mayburd, Miriam. “‘Helzt þóttumk nú heima í millim. . .’ A Reassessment of Hervör in Light of Seiðr’s Supernatural Gender Dynamics.” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 129 (2014): 121–64. Merkelbach, Rebecca. “The Monster in Me: Social Corruption and the Perception of Monstrosity in the Sagas of Icelanders.” Quaestio Insularis 15 (2014): 22–37. Miller, William Ian. ‘Why is Your Axe Bloody?’ A Reading of Njáls saga. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014. Miller, William Ian. “Dreams, Prophecy and Sorcery: Blaming the Secret Offender in Medieval Iceland.” Scandinavian Studies 58, no. 2 (1986): 101–23. Nieland, Justus. “David Lynch Swerves: Uncertainty from Lost Highway to Inland Empire by Martha P. Nochimson (review).” Cinema Journal 55, no. 3 (2016): 165–71. Ordbog over det norrøne prosasprog. A Dictionary of Old Norse Prose. Copenhagen: Den arnamagnæanske kommission, 1989. Ólafur Halldórsson, ed. “Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar eptir Odd munk Snorrason.” In Færeyinga saga: Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar eptir Odd munk Snorrason. Íslenzk fornrit 25. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2006. Park, Katharine. “Review of Joan Cadden: Meanings of Sex Difference in the Middle Ages: Medicine, Science, and Culture.” Journal of the History of Biology 28 (1995): 551–53. Park, Katharine, and Robert Nye. “Destiny is Anatomy.” Essay Review of Thomas Laqueur: Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud. The New Republic, February 18, 1991, 53–57. Price, Neil. “Sorcery and Circumpolar Traditions in Old Norse Belief.” In The Viking World, edited by Stefan Brink and Neil Price, 244–48. London: Routledge, 2008. Price, Neil. The Viking Way: Religion and War in Late Age Scandinavia. Uppsala: Department of Archaeology / Ancient History, University of Uppsala, 2002. Sayers, William. “Njáll’s Beard, Hallgerðr’s Hair and Gunnarr’s Hay: Homological Patterning in Njáls saga.” Tijdschrift voor Skandinavistiek 15, no. 2 (1994): 5–31. Schach, Paul. “Character Creations and Transformations in the Icelandic Sagas.” In Germanic Studies in Honor of Otto Springer, edited by Stephen J. Kaplowitt, 237–79. Pittsburgh, PA: K & S Enterprises, 1978. Schach, Paul. “Symbolic Dreams of Future Renown in Old Icelandic Literature.” Mosaic 4, no. 4 (1971): 51–73. Solli, Brit. “Queering the Cosmology of the Vikings: A Queer Analysis of the Cult of Odin and “Holy White Stones”.” Journal of Homosexuality 54, nos. 1–2 (2008): 192–208. Straubhaar, Sandra Ballif. “Nasty, Brutish, and Large: Cultural Difference and Otherness in the Figuration of the Trollwomen of the Fornaldar sögur.” Scandinavian Studies 73, no. 2 (2001): 105–23. Sverrir Jakobsson. “Galdur og forspá í ríkisvaldslaugu samfélagi.” In Galdramenn: Galdrar og samfélag á miðöldum, edited by Torfi H. Tulinius, 73–84. Reykjavík: Hugvísindastofnun Háskóla Íslands, 2008.

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Sørensen, Preben Meulengracht. The Unmanly Man: Concepts of Sexual Defamation in Early Northern Society. Translated by Joan Turville-Petre. Odense: Odense University Press, 1983. “The Saga of Finnbogi the Mighty.” Viðar Hreinsson, ed. Translated by John Kennedy. In The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales, vol. 3. Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing. tirosh, yoav. “Argr Management: Vilifying Guðmundr inn ríki in Ljósvetninga saga.” In Bad Boys and Wicked Women: Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature, edited by Daniela Hahn and Andreas Schmidt, 240–72. Münchner Nordistische Studien 27. Munich: Herbert Utz Verlag, 2016. tirosh, yoav. “Víga-Njáll: A New Approach Towards Njáls saga.” Scandinavian Studies 86, no. 2 (2014): 222–25. Truffaut, François. Hitchcock-Truffaut. Revised edition. Translated by H. G. Scott. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1985. Turville-Petre, Gabriel. “Dreams in Icelandic Tradition.” Folklore 69, no. 2 (1958): 93–111. Wallace, David Foster. “David Lynch Keeps His Head.” In A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments. Boston, MA: Little, Brown and Company, 1997.

Védís Ragnheiðardóttir

“Meir af viel en karlmennsku”: Monstrous Masculinity in Viktors saga ok Blávus Abstract: This article examines the portrayal of masculinity in the chivalric saga Viktors saga ok Blávus. After winning a duel, the protagonists lament their actions, stating that they were unmasculine. The article argues that what made the behavior unmasculine was the protagonists’ unwillingness to follow societal norms, resulting in them performing monstrous masculinity. Medieval masculinity is a growing topic of study within the field of Old NorseIcelandic studies. Most studies on this topic have focused on the presentation of pre-Christian masculinity in the Íslendingasögur (sagas of Icelanders) as imagined by thirteenth-century Icelanders, with scholars generally viewing all deviation from masculine norms as feminine, effeminate, or passive homosexual behavior, thus relying on a normative dichotomy between male and female. The idea of a dichotomy between man and monster, the subject of a study by Bjørn Bandlien (2005), opens the debate up further, allowing us to move past the axis of man-woman to look at men not from the perspective of femininity but from the point of view of deviant masculinity. Although Bandlien analyzes Old NorseIcelandic sagas of various genres and centuries, he does not discuss the late medieval Icelandic riddarasögur (chivalric sagas), despite their great potential for valuable insights. In this article, I will focus on how masculinity is portrayed in the Icelandic riddarasaga Viktors saga ok Blávus, traditionally dated to the late fourteenth century. The saga follows the adventures of the eponymous sworn brothers as they seek honor and renown, but after partaking in—and winning—a duel, the protagonists remark that their actions were not manly. In the following pages I aim to establish what exactly it is that Viktor and Blávus find unmanly about their actions. I will show that various aspects of their behavior align them more with monstrous beings than chivalric men, and that their remark thus reveals that a man can transgress hegemonic masculinity by performing deviant, monstrous masculinity. I will argue that the author of the saga purposefully staged this transgression, providing his audience with an anti-model of behavior while simultaneously strengthening the hegemonic masculinity of the new Icelandic elite.

https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-024

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Of Monsters and Men If there is any one theme that can be claimed to pervade all saga genres, it is masculinity. But, what exemplifies a masculine man is not the same throughout the saga corpus. Virtues of strength, bravery, and wisdom are highly valued in all genres, and masculinity is largely measured by performance in battle and courage in the face of death.1 The words of Bjǫrn Hítdœlakappi, the hero of the eponymous saga of Icelanders, reflect this atmosphere well. When King Valdimar of Garðaríki asks his men to take his place in a duel (or a holmgang), nobody is ready to volunteer for fear of death, except Bjǫrn, who reacts with these words: Hér sé ek alla ódrengiligast við verða síns herra nauðsyn; en því fór ek af mínu landi, at ek vilda leita mér frægðar. En tveir eru kostir fyrir hǫndum, annarr at fá sigr með karlmennsku, þó at þat sé ólíkligt, við þann sem at berjask er, en hinn er annarr, at falla með drengskap ok hugprýði, ok er þat betra en at lifa með skǫmm ok þora eigi at vinna konungi sínum sœmð.2

Bjǫrn barely escapes with his life, but his enterprise earns him honor (sœmð), respect (virðing), great renown (stórlig frœgð), and last but not least the epithet kappi (champion). Other characteristics can be regarded as either masculine or unmasculine depending on the genre. For example, in the Íslendingasögur and fornaldarsögur (legendary sagas), sexual exploits are seen in a favorable light, whereas in the heilagra manna sögur (saints’ sagas) and many of the riddarasögur, translated as well as Icelandic, a man’s ability to control his sexual urges is seen as a positive trait.3 Another example of the different performances of masculinity among these groups of texts is the way emotions are expressed; whereas crying can be seen as an unmanly trait in the Íslendingasögur, it is not uncommon for men to cry in the riddarasögur.4 The Icelandic riddarasögur stand out as presenting a new kind of masculinity, influenced by church doctrine and courtly ideology, that was emerging in thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Iceland.5 Just as in the Íslendingasögur and the fornaldarsögur, the men of the Icelandic riddarasögur seek honor and renown through battles and fights, but in the Icelandic riddarasögur, men must obey strict behavioral guidelines on their quest. In European romance, male behavior is firmly governed by a chivalric code of honor, which dictates behavior toward both men and women. This code presents a set of rules on how a fight between honorable men should proceed. Among the most important aspects of these rules are fair combat conditions and an opportunity for a nonfatal resolution.6 These rules of engagement are generally followed in single combat in the Icelandic riddarasögur. The heroes are merciful men who fight honorably, give quarter to

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their noble opponents, form sworn brotherhoods with their equals, and by doing so strengthen the homosocial order.7 However, when the opponents are wholly evil, monstrous beings, such as berserkers, blámenn (black men), heathens, and supernatural beings who threaten the normal social order, the rules do not apply as killing them is for the greater good. Likewise, these monstrous beings do not follow any such code. The difference between noble heroes and evil monsters is also reflected in their differing use of magic. The most common form of magic in the Icelandic riddarasögur is natural magic, that is to say, objects such as weapons, rings, and stones imbued with (super)natural powers. Receiving help from magicians and supernatural beings, such as dwarfs and giants, is also quite common.8 But although heroes commonly use magic, there are strict rules about its use. Magic and magical help is mainly used in bridal quests to help the hero procure a wife and to enable heroes to overcome monstrous beings and restore the natural order. Any use of magic against an honorable man in battle is unacceptable as it breaks the honor code by creating unfair combat conditions. Supernatural beings and social others, on the other hand, use magic indiscriminately. Another thing that distinguishes monstrous beings from heroes is their pride, or superbia. In medieval thought, superbia was considered the mother of all sin and the worst of the seven cardinal sins.9 The corresponding cardinal virtue to superbia was humilitas, or humility. Humilitas is at odds with a warrior culture that privileges honor, renown, and prowess, for in such a culture, men seek these things for their own egocentric reasons. In a process analogous to what happens in other European romances, the monstrous beings of the Icelandic riddarasögur take on many of the qualities that exemplified a man’s man in pre-Christian heroic culture, including sexual prowess, a warrior virtue, and egotistical behavior.10 In Old Norse-Icelandic literature, this is perhaps best exemplified by the berserker, whose uncontrolled behavior is portrayed in a positive light in skaldic poetry but in the thirteenth- and fourteenth-century sagas has become what Bjørn Bandlien calls a “stereotyped character that was a symbol of a threat to the household society.”11 Although a search for honor and renown may seem at odds with a Christian value system, a Christian hero can seek them, but he must do so in God’s name and for the good of the community. He must take on the role of the miles dei, or God’s warrior, fighting monsters and non-Christians.12 The heroes of the Icelandic riddarasögur are milites dei. When they set out seeking honor and renown, they earn it by ridding the world of evil: by fighting berserkers, heathens, giants, and other monstrous beings, thus working for the greater good. If we compare this to Bjǫrn Hítdœlakappi’s holmgang, we see the difference clearly. In his speech, Bjǫrn

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focuses on himself rather than his king; it is his honor that he must protect by not refusing to fight, not that of the king’s. Furthermore, his opponent is not a berserker or a heathen prince demanding the king’s domain. On the contrary, he is a close relative of the king who has an equal right to the kingdom and is portrayed in a positive light. This fight is certainly no fight for the glory of God; it is entirely egocentric for all parties involved. In an exaggerated version of the same heroic values, the berserker and other monstrous beings of the romances think of only themselves and their wants and needs. The uncontrolled, extreme excess of the monstrous beings represents masculinity gone too far—a monstrous masculinity.13 In her book on giants in medieval German, English, and French literature, Tina Marie Boyer states that within the context of literary texts from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, monstrosity is “a fluid concept that can be outlined on a spectrum of courtly behavior.”14 Although Boyer mainly focuses on how monstrous beings can become courtly if they adhere to the courtly rules, I would argue that this can also be applied the other way around. What sets the knights of the Icelandic riddarasögur apart from monstrous beings is their ability to control their aggressive and egocentric behavior. If they lose this ability or ignore the established chivalric honor code, they risk performing monstrous masculinity, aligning them more closely with monstrous beings than chivalric knights. Thus, the monstrous beings are not only authorial tools meant to give the heroes the opportunity to earn their masculine stripes by providing them with worthy opponents, they are also the antithesis of the hero. As the monstrous beings do not follow the behavioral norms decided by society, their behavior reveals what happens when these norms are not followed: unbridled violence and egocentrism that upsets the social order.15

“Meir af viel en karlmennsku” Viktors saga ok Blávus tells of the adventures of Viktor and Blávus—namely, of their travels seeking fame and fortune through battles as well as their respective bridal quests. Viktor’s father, the King of France, dies and Viktor, his only son, assumes rule of the country. However, he performs poorly as king, nearly bankrupting the country by hosting decadent feasts. Humiliated, Viktor leaves his kingdom and places his mother in charge until it will be possible for him to return (“þar til at honum yrdi aptur kuomu audit”).16 Although it is not stated outright, the phrasing suggests that Viktor can only return once he has proven himself worthy to rule again. By depleting the kingdom’s riches, he has shown that he is not mature enough to rule a kingdom and must now head off to

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reclaim his honor. Soon after leaving, Viktor comes upon a man who challenges him to a duel. Viktor accepts but arrogantly warns the man that no one has dared challenge him for many years. The two men duel for a long time until they decide they have been proven equal, whereupon they become sworn brothers. At this point both Viktor and his new friend Blávus are following the chivalric honor code—they are performing masculinity correctly. This very typical fight scene shows that the author of the saga is in complete control of the romance genre and its conventions, including the chivalric honor code.17 Therefore, any deviation from the convention is likely to be imbued with meaning. Following the duel, Blávus invites Viktor to stay with him at his castle. One day they see a splendid fleet sail into the harbor. They strike a deal with Samarjón, the owner of the fleet: in exchange for lands and castles from Blávus, they get the fleet and all of Samarjón’s men, along with his trusted advisor Kódér. The sworn brothers wish to go out in search of adventure and ask Kódér where they can find the greatest warriors to test their prowess against. He points them in the direction of the herkóngar (war kings) Randver and Ǫnundr but adds that they are too big of a challenge for Viktor and Blávus. The herkóngar are not only stronger and better fighters than Viktor and Blávus, but they furthermore possess dwarf-made weapons, a brynþvari and a kesja, which have the property that every day their owners may choose one man to be killed by each weapon. In spite of these words of warning, Viktor and Blávus are sure that fate is on their side, and besides, as Viktor says, reflecting the old heroic ideal, gaining glory is more important than living a long life. Viktor and Blávus are confronted by the reality of their decision when they see Randver and Ǫnundr’s large army. Their uneasiness with their decision is clear and they implore Kódér to help them as all their honor is at stake (“nu liggr allr heidrinn vid”).18 Kódér chastises them for not knowing their own limits and says that if they insist on continuing with this plan, they are showing more arrogance than anyone has ever seen. He furthermore mocks them with the fact that when push comes to shove, they do not trust their own abilities: “enn nu sie ek at þit þick[i]zt allz ecki yckr ein hliter.”19 Their arrogance deflated, nothing remains but cowardice, and the sworn brothers turn to magic. Viktor and Blávus, with the help of Kódér, seek the help of the maker of the herkóngar’s weapons, the dwarf Dímus. He creates a pair of weapons that look the same, but are soft and without powers, and swaps them out under the cover of darkness. He also creates weapons for Viktor and Blávus that are spellbound to kill Randver and Ǫnundr. Despite all this magical assistance, Viktor

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has great trouble with his opponent, although he does manage to evade Randver’s blows. Eventually, Randver commands his weapon to kill Viktor, unaware of Dímus’s deceit, and strikes at Viktor’s shield, but the brynþvari is so soft that it does not even make a dent. However, the thrust is so powerful that Viktor and his shield bearer would have been pushed off the holmgang pelt had Dímus not made himself invisible, caught them, and propped them up. By the rules of holmgang, placing an animal pelt on the ground marks the space on which the duel is fought, and stepping out of this boundary would have resulted in Viktor’s automatic defeat and humiliation.20 Having been propped up, Viktor seizes the opportunity and deals Randver a deadly blow. The fight between Blávus and Ǫnundr proceeds in the same manner, with Ǫnundr unable to harm Blávus because of the dull weapon, and Dímus preventing Blávus and his shield bearer from falling off the pelt. After having slain the herkóngar, Viktor and Blávus reflect upon the deed: B(lauus) m(ællti) þa litil frægd hefer mier aukizt j þott at ek hafa Aunund at velli lagt. þuiat þat var meir af viel en karlmennsku. satt er þat kuad V(ictor) at sidr war ek jafn Randuer at hann hefdi lagit at jordu slika.ij. sem ek er ef suika laust hefdi verit.21

Let us try to dissect what it is that the sworn brothers find so unmanly about their victory. The words they use, vél (trickery) and svikalaust (without deceit), are very telling. The pair feels they have won by way of trickery rather than masculinity. This trickery involves magical objects and help from magical beings, but as was discussed earlier, heroes of the Icelandic riddarasögur regularly use magical weapons, and they often get help from magical beings without it ever being seen as unmasculine. Does Viktors saga ok Blávus present another view where all magical assistance makes you unmanly? That does not seem to be the case as Viktor and Blávus both use magic later in the saga, against another opponent in a fight and against a maiden king. So why is this particular instance of using magic unmanly? Before we answer this question let us analyze the second pair of duels Viktor and Blávus instigate. Soon after they have killed and buried Randver and Ǫnundr the sworn brothers are ready to go out again and, as before, they ask Kódér to find them a worthy opponent. This time around he tells them about the berserkers Falr and Sóti of Cyprus, who are blue as hell and big as bulls. Not only are they berserkers, but they are also shapeshifters who can take the shape of various animals and spew poison. When challenged to a duel the berserkers become furious that Viktor and Blávus have the gall to confront them, mirroring Viktor and Blávus’s earlier arrogant attitude. These are no courtly men but fjandar (fiends) and skrattar (devils). Again, Viktor and Blávus ask Kódér for help, which they receive. Kódér gives

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them clothing that protects them from the berserkers’ poison and advises them to use the swords Dímus had given them, for their edge cannot be dulled. It is not the use of magic per se that is unmanly, it is against whom it is used that is important. The use of magic against Falr and Sóti is permitted without breaking the chivalric honor code, as killing the berserker-shapeshifters is a service to the greater good. Whereas Falr and Sóti are clearly monsters, Randver and Ǫnundr are honorable men. This is even reflected in the names the author chooses for them. The herkóngar bear the names of the heroes of old from the heroic legends, whereas Falr and Sóti are names of evil and marginal beings—berserkers and vikings, dwarfs and sorcerers.22 The herkóngar are handsome, a common mark of nobility in the romances.23 They possess more nobility (drengskapr) than anyone else, but perhaps most significantly, they have worked hard to rid the world of social others; they kill berserkers and have cleared the Baltic Sea of vikings. These men are not only brave and honorable, they provide a great service to the region. When Viktor and Blávus challenge them, their nobility is further emphasized. We are reminded of their non-monstrous appearance: they are big, strong, and well-formed. They welcome Viktor and Blávus kindly, inquiring about their errand. When informed that the sworn brothers seek to meet them in a holmgang, they do not reply with arrogance or anger but rather suggest that they join forces instead. But when Viktor and Blávus insist on meeting them in battle, they make it clear that they will not keep them alive if they are determined to die.24 It is clear that Randver and Ǫnundr should not be killed if the chivalric honor code is to be followed, but Viktor and Blávus do not let this stop them. They are determined to test their courtly prowess against the most famous men in the world—no less will do.

Monstrous Masculinity Viktor is a young man who has failed as a king and is on a quest to prove himself man enough so that he can go back home. He has bankrupted his country by excessive spending, and the first chance he gets he reveals his prideful heart by claiming to Blávus that no man has dared challenge him for several years. Blávus is no less proud, as he shows later in the saga. In fact, the sworn brothers’ superbia, immoderation, and overbearance are themes of the saga, as Einar Ól. Sveinsson has noted.25 Semantically and thematically these character traits are connected, and all of them appear in the monstrous beings of romance.26 Their overweening, egocentric self-confidence leads Viktor and Blávus to make

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bad decisions in their search for renown and honor. They want to fight the most famous men, and nothing will stop them. When they realize that they are likely to lose their lives, their confidence falters. Unlike Bjǫrn Hítdœlakappi, who faced his foe even though he was not confident about his chances of being victorious, Viktor and Blávus resort to magic and cheating. Where Bjǫrn only saw two options, to win victory with karlmennska or to die bravely and nobly trying, Viktor and Blávus see a third—to win by any means possible. By resorting to trickery against honorable men, the sworn brothers go against societally established honor codes that determine what it is to be a man. Real men show humility, they show moderation in their behavior, and they do not kill noble opponents. When the sworn brothers have won their respective fights against Randver and Ǫnundr, they realize their folly. They have not acted in a masculine manner. This does not mean that they have acted in a feminine manner, rather Viktor and Blávus have traversed the bounds of normative masculinity, moving closer to the monstrous masculinity of the berserkers. They are proud, they use magic against noble opponents, and they do not follow the honor code by allowing for a nonfatal outcome. As Viktor and Blávus quickly realize, performing masculinity is like walking a tightrope, and in their desperate attempt to be real men, they went too far, slipping into monstrosity. The author of Viktors saga ok Blávus seems to have been well aware of the conventions of the romance genre. He would know that a battle between honorable men like Viktor and Randver should not end in death, that the fight should be fair, and a nonfatal way out should always be available. The author purposefully portrayed Viktor and Blávus in the manner he did; he chose to have them cheat in battle, to use magic against noble men, and to showcase pride and excess. He was trying to tell his audience something about what it means to be a man. But instead of presenting a model of the perfect man, as many of the chivalric sagas do, the author of Viktors saga ok Blávus chose to present an anti-model of behavior.27 The Icelandic riddarasögur portray a new kind of masculinity marked by Christian and chivalric value systems. These new ideals were a part of the group identity of a new Icelandic aristocracy that sought to differentiate itself from the common people by establishing norms and values of their own.28 A part of this new masculinity is to show humility, which Viktor and Blávus fail to do when they resort to trickery. When it comes to their second fight, their outlook has changed. Kódér warns them that despite having magical garments and swords that cannot be dulled, the two of them cannot win unless fortune (auðna) is on their side. Despite it looking like they might have again bitten off more than they can chew, Viktor and Blávus head unafraid into battle, placing their trust in God’s mercy. When Falr boasts to Viktor that he could kill ten men

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like Viktor in one blow, Viktor calmly answers that fortune will decide who among them will live longer.29 Viktor’s superbia has given way to humilitas. He has returned to the realm of accepted masculinity. He shows he is a miles dei who kills monstrous beings and who trusts in God’s mercy, and he is rewarded for it.30 That he has been successful is evident by his immediate return home to France where he is welcomed back warmly.

Conclusion The worldview and values of a society or a social group are reflected in its literature, whether consciously or subconsciously, and it can be argued that romances provide us with an even deeper understanding than more realistic genres. The reason for this is the fact that the romances’ distance from reality gives authors greater freedom to discuss sensitive topics that would be impossible to address in more realistic genres without alienating the audience. In the Icelandic riddarasögur, being a man means following strict codes of behavior, and in Viktors saga ok Blávus, the audience is shown what happens when a man does not follow the rules. The monstrous beings of the Icelandic riddarasögur, similarly to their counterparts in other European romances, portray the darker side of human nature. If what separates a man from a monster is his chivalric behavior, it stands to reason that by exhibiting unchivalrous behavior a man can become a monster. Whereas in most of the Icelandic riddarasögur we are merely shown the darker side of human nature in the monsters themselves, in Viktors saga ok Blávus the heroes become the monsters. Here, the author staged behavioral transgression, providing his audience with an anti-model of behavior, by showing what happens when a man does not follow the chivalric honor code, thus strengthening the hegemonic masculinity of the new Icelandic elite.

Notes 1 See, for example, Ásdís Egilsdóttir, “Með karlmannlegu hughreysti og hreinni trú,” in Fræðinæmi, ed. Ármann Jakobsson et al. (Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2016), 146–56; Ásdís Egilsdóttir, “Esja’s Cave: Giantesses, Sons and Mothers in Kjalnesinga Saga,” in Fræðinæmi, ed. Ármann Jakobsson et al., 120–30; Ármann Jakobsson, “Sannyrði sverða: Vígaferli í Íslendinga sögu og hugmyndafræði sögunnar,” Skáldskaparmál 3 (1994): 42–78. For an overview of the depiction of masculinity in various genres, see Bjørn Bandlien, Man or Monster? Negotiations of Masculinity in Old Norse Society, Acta humaniora 236 (Oslo: University of Oslo, 2005).

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2 Sigurður Nordal and Guðni Jónsson, eds., “Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa,” in Borgfirðinga sǫgur, Íslenzk fornrit 3 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1938), 111–211, “Here I see everyone responding very cravenly to his lord’s need. But I left my country because I wanted to win fame for myself. There are two possible outcomes: one, to win victory courageously, unlikely though that may be against such an opponent; the second, to die bravely and nobly, and that is better than to live with shame, not daring to win honour for one’s king” (Finlay, Alison, trans., “The Saga of Bjorn, Champion of the Hitardal People,” in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales, ed. Viðar Hreinsson, vol. 1 [Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing, 1997], 255–304, 260). 3 Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir, “‘How Do You Know If It Is Love or Lust?’ On Gender, Status, and Violence in Old Norse Literature,” Interfaces 2 (2016): 189–209; Ásdís Egilsdóttir, “Með karlmannlegu hughreysti og hreinni trú”; Henric Bagerius, “Mandom och mödom: Sexualitet, homosocialitet och aristokratisk identitet på det senmedeltida Island” (PhD diss., Göteborgs Universitet, 2009), esp. 134–40, 165–67. See also his article based on his thesis, Henric Bagerius, “Romance and Violence: Aristocratic Sexuality in Late Medieval Iceland,” Mirator 14, no. 2 (2013): 79–96. 4 Kirsten Wolf, “Somatic Semiotics: Emotion and the Human Face in the Sagas and Þættir of Icelanders,” Traditio 69 (2014): 125–45; Carolyne Larrington, “Learning to Feel in the Old Norse Camelot?” Scandinavian Studies 87, no. 1 (2015): 79–94. 5 Bagerius, “Romance and Violence.” In his analysis, Bagerius includes some fornaldarsögur as they share many characteristics with the Icelandic riddarasögur. This is, in my opinion, very sensible. Although I use the generic terms of the traditional generic system of Old Norse-Icelandic literature, I acknowledge that the system is somewhat problematic. Further study of masculinity in the various genres could shed light on the generic debate, but that is beyond the scope of this article. 6 Heidi Breuer, Crafting the Witch: Gendering Magic in Medieval and Early Modern England (New York: Routledge, 2009), 33. 7 On the importance of homosocial relationships in the Icelandic riddarasögur, see Bagerius, “Romance and Violence.” 8 For an overview of the use of magic in the Icelandic riddarasögur, see Inna Matyushina, “Magic Mirrors, Monsters, Maiden-kings (the Fantastic in Riddarasögur),” in The Fantastic in Old Norse/ Icelandic Literature: Sagas and the British Isles, Preprint Papers of the 13th International Saga Conference, Durham and York 6th–12th August 2006, ed. John McKinnell, David Ashurst, and Donata Kick, 2 vols. (Durham: Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2006), 660–70. 9 Richard Newhauser, “Introduction,” in In the Garden of Evil: The Vices and Culture in the Middle Ages, ed. Richard Newhauser (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 2005), vii–xix. The most extensive study on the vices is Morton J. Bloomfield, The Seven Deadly Sins: An Introduction to the History of a Religious Concept, with Special Reference to Medieval English Literature (Michigan: Michigan State University Press, 1967). 10 For this process in European romance, see Tina Marie Boyer, The Giant Hero in Medieval Literature (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 38. 11 Bandlien, Man or Monster?, 125. For his discussion of the berserker, see esp. 95–98 and 121–26. 12 Boyer, The Giant Hero in Medieval Literature, 32–39. 13 Boyer, The Giant Hero in Medieval Literature, 34–35; Breuer, Crafting the Witch, 38. 14 Boyer, The Giant Hero in Medieval Literature, 50. 15 Boyer, The Giant Hero in Medieval Literature, 26–28; Breuer, Crafting the Witch, 34.

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16 Jónas Kristjánsson, ed., Viktors saga ok Blávus (Reykjavík: Handritastofnun Íslands, 1964), 5. 17 In another article, I discuss the forest as a limen to maturity in Viktors saga ok Blávus. This use of the forest further demonstrates the author’s familiarity with romance conventions. See, Védís Ragnheiðardóttir, “Late Medieval Icelandic Chivalric Sagas,” in La matiére arthurienne tardive en Europe, ed. Christine Ferlampin-Acher (Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2020), 755–62. 18 Jónas Kristjánsson, Viktors saga ok Blávus, 15. 19 Jónas Kristjánsson, Viktors saga ok Blávus, 16. “But now I see that you do not trust your own abilities.” Translations are mine unless otherwise stated. 20 Jónas Kristjánsson, Viktors saga ok Blávus, 24–28. This can be surmised by the context and by a comparison with holmgangs in other sagas. According to Kormáks saga, stepping one foot off the pelt is considered yielding and stepping two feet, fleeing. For a discussion, see Jesse L. Byock, “Hólmganga,” in Medieval Scandinavia: An Encyclopedia, eds. Phillip Pulsiano and Kirsten Wolf (New York: Garland, 1993), 289–90. 21 Jónas Kristjánsson, Viktors saga ok Blávus, 27. “Blávus then said: ‘Little has my glory increased even though I have killed Ǫnundr, as that was more by way of trickery than masculine bravado.’ ‘It is true,’ said Viktor, ‘that I was no equal to Randver. He would have killed two men equal to myself if no deceit had been involved.” 22 Einar Ól. Sveinsson, “Viktors saga ok Blávus: Sources and Characteristics,” in Jónas Kristjánsson, Viktors saga ok Blávus, clviii. 23 Lars Lönnroth, “Kroppen som själens spegel: Ett motiv i de isländska sagorna,” Lychnos, (1963–1964): 24–61. 24 Jónas Kristjánsson, Viktors saga ok Blávus, 22. “Ran(duer) kuad þa nu mundu rada. munu vit ecki hallda lijfi j yckr ef þit vilit ecki annat en deyia.” 25 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, “Viktors saga ok Blávus,” cxcvii–cxcviii. 26 Boyer, The Giant Hero in Medieval Literature, 42. 27 On the romances as models and anti-models, see Bagerius, “Romance and Violence.” 28 This can be seen in, for example, the popularity in Iceland of the Norwegian Speculum regale (Konungs skuggsjá) and the Hirðskrá, a collection of laws for the Norwegian court, as well as the great interest in riddarasögur. 29 Jónas Kristjánsson, Viktors saga ok Blávus, 31. 30 Many scholars have connected the Old Norse-Icelandic words for fate with a heathen worldview. Lars Lönnroth has shown that many of these terms are increasingly common in the later texts that are heavily influenced by Christianity. He states that in these texts, the term seems to imply God’s mercy. This seems to me to be clearly the case in Viktors saga ok Blávus. Lönnroth, “Kroppen som själens spegel,” 29.

Bibliography Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir. “‘How Do You Know If It Is Love or Lust?’ On Gender, Status, and Violence in Old Norse Literature.” Interfaces 2 (2016): 189–209. Ármann Jakobsson. “Sannyrði sverða: Vígaferli í Íslendinga sögu og hugmyndafræði sögunnar.” Skáldskaparmál 3 (1994): 42–78.

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Ásdís Egilsdóttir. “Esja’s Cave: Giantesses, Sons and Mothers in Kjalnesinga Saga.” In Ármann Jakobsson, Gunnvör S. Karlsdóttir, Sif Ríkharðsdóttir, and Torfi H. Tulinius, Fræðinæmi, 120–30. Reykjavík, Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2016. Ásdís Egilsdóttir. “Með karlmannlegu hughreysti og hreinni trú.” In Fræðinæmi, edited by Ármann Jakobsson, Gunnvör S. Karlsdóttir, Sif Ríkharðsdóttir, and Torfi H. Tulinius, Fræðinæmi, 146–56. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2016. Bagerius, Henric. “Mandom och mödom: Sexualitet, homosocialitet och aristokratisk identitet på det senmedeltida Island.” PhD diss., Göteborgs Universitet, 2009. Bagerius, Henric. “Romance and Violence: Aristocratic Sexuality in Late Medieval Iceland.” Mirator 14, no. 2 (2013): 79–96. Bandlien, Bjørn. Man or Monster? Negotiations of Masculinity in Old Norse Society. Acta humaniora 236. Oslo: University of Oslo, 2005. Bloomfield, Morton J. The Seven Deadly Sins: An Introduction to the History of a Religious Concept, with Special Reference to Medieval English Literature. Michigan: Michigan State University Press, 1967. Boyer, Tina Marie. The Giant Hero in Medieval Literature. Leiden: Brill, 2016. Breuer, Heidi. Crafting the Witch: Gendering Magic in Medieval and Early Modern England. New York: Routledge, 2009. Byock, Jesse L. “Hólmganga.” In Medieval Scandinavia: An Encyclopedia, edited by Phillip Pulsiano and Kirsten Wolf, 289–90. New York: Garland, 1993. Einar Ól. Sveinsson. “Viktors saga ok Blávus: Sources and Characteristics.” In Viktors saga ok Blávus, edited by Jónas Kristjánsson, cix–ccx. Reykjavík: Handritastofnun Íslands, 1964. Finlay, Alison, trans. “The Saga of Bjorn, Champion of the Hitardal People.” In The Complete Sagas of Icelanders: Including 49 Tales, edited by Viðar Hreinsson. Vol. 1, 255–304. Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing, 1997. Jónas Kristjánsson, ed. Viktors saga ok Blávus. Reykjavík: Handritastofnun Íslands, 1964. Larrington, Carolyne. “Learning to Feel in the Old Norse Camelot?” Scandinavian Studies 87, no. 1 (2015): 79–94. Lönnroth, Lars. “Kroppen som själens spegel: Ett motiv i de isländska sagorna.” Lychnos, (1963–1964): 24–61. Matyushina, Inna. “Magic Mirrors, Monsters, Maiden-kings (the Fantastic in Riddarasögur).” In The Fantastic in Old Norse/Icelandic Literature: Sagas and the British Isles, Preprint Papers of the 13th International Saga Conference, Durham and York 6th–12th August 2006, edited by John McKinnell, David Ashurst, and Donata Kick, 660–70. 2 vols. Durham: Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2006. Newhauser, Richard. “Introduction.” In In the Garden of Evil: The Vices and Culture in the Middle Ages, edited by Richard Newhauser, vii–xix. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 2005. Sigurður Nordal and Guðni Jónsson, eds. “Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa.” In Borgfirðinga sǫgur, 111–211. Íslenzk fornrit 3. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1938. Védís Ragnheiðardóttir. “Late Medieval Icelandic Chivalric Sagas.” In La matiére arthurienne tardive en Europe, edited by Christine Ferlampin-Acher, 755–62. Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2020. Wolf, Kirsten. “Somatic Semiotics: Emotion and the Human Face in the Sagas and Þættir of Icelanders.” Traditio 69 (2014): 125–45.

Index Abraham 302 Abundia 52, 53, 60 Adam 194, 368 Agamemnon 302 Age of the Sturlungs, see Sturlungaöld Ágrip af Noregskonungasögum 298 Alfræði íslenzk 214 Alvísmál 367 Alþing, Alþingi 39, 41, 61, 117, 231 Ambrose (Bishop of Milan) 57 Andersson, Theodore M. 397, 400, 402, 407 Áns saga bogsveigis 137 anthropocentricity 2, 169 apturganga, see revenant Ármann Jakobsson 5, 71, 105, 152, 160, 162, 163, 168, 216, 217, 229, 230, 246, 252, 264, 265, 271, 351, 396, 401, 402 Arngrímur Brandsson, Abbot 312, 315, 319, 320 Arngrímur Jónsson the Learned 1 Árni Björnsson 375 Árni Lárentíusson 312 Árni Magnússon 371 Árni Óla 370 Arnórr Tumason 41, 46 Ásgarðr 175–180, 183, 184 Atlakviða 182, 183 Aun (king) 302 Baldr 176, 179, 329, 338 Bampi, Massimiliano 350 Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss 137, 151, 152, 162, 361 Barlaams saga og Jósafats 205 Bartholomeus saga 208, 215, 219 Battle of Clontarf 14, 327–331, 333, 334 Beowulf 193, 194, 195, 198, 199, 264, 368, 370, 371, 375, 378, 380 Bergbúa þáttr 79 Bergþóra Skarphéðinsdottir 13, 282, 283 Bernard of Clairvaux 318 berserk, berserkr, berserker 72, 81, 92, 93, 102, 204, 205, 209–212, 215, 216, https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513862-025

264–267, 295, 354, 423, 424, 426–428, 430 biskupasögur, byskupasögur 204 Bjarni Herjólfsson 153 Bjǫrn Breiðvíkingakappi 122 Bjǫrn Hítdælakappi 268, 422, 423, 428 Björn Sigfússon 397, 415 blámenn 203–226, 264, 423 blood rain 14, 51, 52, 331, 332 blót 177, 301, 329 Böðvarr bjarki 193–195, 197–199 Boniface VIII 137, 143 Book of Icelanders, see Íslendingabók Book of Revelations 339, 340 Book of Settlements, see Landnámabók Brennu-Njáls Saga, see Njáls saga Breta sögur (Historia regum Britanniae) 247 Brjánn (king), Brian Borumá 327, 329, 331, 332, 334 Brjánsbardagi, see Battle of Clontarf Bróðir (Viking chieftain) 327, 331, 332, 334, 340, 355, 404 Bugge, Sophus 183, 184 Bynum, Caroline Walker 135, 143 Cain 194, 197, 266, 368, 369 Carroll, Noël 97, 104 Carson, Anne 279, 287 Cartesianism 22, 23, 25 Christmas 132, 160, 168, 227–243 chronotope 350, 352, 358 Cistercian order, the (Cistercians) 57, 318–320 City of God (De Civitate Dei) 214 Clover, Carol 396, 410 Clunies Ross, Margaret 113, 351 Codex Regius (Snorra Edda manuscript) 176, 250, 251, 327 Codex Trajectinus (Snorra Edda manuscript) 177 Codex Wormianus (Snorra Edda manuscript) 176 Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome 167, 263–265, 416

434

Index

Cole, Richard 208, 219, 220, 222 cyclope 51, 58, 62 Darraðarljóð 15, 327–345, 338, 339. Davíð Erlingsson 10 defamation 395–406 demon, demons 13–15, 53, 55, 134, 204, 206, 208–210, 215–217, 227–231, 235–239, 264, 328, 333, 381 dís, dísir 246, 249, 250, 253, 257, 299 Dómaldi (king) 301 Dominican order, the, Dominicans 56, 319, 320, 322 Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde 11 draugr, draugar 14, 31, 49, 51, 52, 54–56, 58–60, 85, 137, 144, 230–234, 237, 238, 240, 375, 376, 388 Drauma-Finni, see Finni Þorgeirsson dream, dreams 2, 3, 14–16, 41, 42, 50, 52, 57, 77, 78, 85, 247, 248, 253, 264, 272, 279–294, 333, 336, 338, 339, 352, 354–356, 397, 398, 402–409, 414, 415 Dunstanus saga 312 dýrlingasögur, saints’ lives 209, 318 Eggertsbók 357, 360 Egils saga 72, 73, 158, 168, 298 Einar Ól. Sveinsson 52, 316, 320, 427 Einarr Eyjólfsson 398, 399, 402, 404, 405 Eiríkr rauði Þorvaldsson 153, 159, 165 Eiríks saga rauða 137, 146, 153, 155–157 Erichsen, Adolfine 397 exempla, exemplary story 311, 316–318, 320 Eyjólfr Guðmundsson 402, 404, 405, 407, 408 Eyrbyggja saga 22, 26–28, 33, 34, 49, 50, 52, 53, 55–59, 61, 78, 79, 103, 109, 118, 120–123, 137, 140, 158, 227, 228, 231, 232, 236–238, 301, 332, 339, 387 Fáfnir (serpent) 195, 196, 198, 199 Fagrskinna 210, 298, 303 Finnboga saga ramma 215, 217, 402, 413, 418 Finni Þorgeirsson, Drauma-Finni 397, 398, 402–405, 408, 411

fjandar 426 Fjölvinnsmál 183 Flateyjarbók 249, 298, 303 Fljótsdæla saga 137 Flóamanna saga 159 Flosi Þórðarson 13–15, 282, 283, 286, 289, 291, 293 focalization 89–97, 100–104 Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda 5, 194, 204, 211, 221, 327, 348, 352–357, 379, 422, 430 Fóstbræðra saga 11 Freud, Sigmund 72, 78, 80, 98 Freyja 12, 62, 181, 299 Freyr 175–182, 184, 186, 187, 189 Frigg 176, 177, 180–182, 184, 188 fylgja, fylgjur 245–262, 299, 302, 306, 356, 398, 404, 405, 408, 415 gandreið 12–14 Gennep, Arnold van 109, 110, 113–115, 121, 123, 124 genre in saga scholarship 3, 4, 5, 101, 123, 347–365 Gering, Hugo 316 Gesta Danorum 195 Gesta Romanorum 55, 56, 60 giant 14, 62, 94, 102, 103, 162, 187, 215, 220, 264, 272, 369, 379, 382, 395, 423, 424 giantess 176, 251, 416 Gísla saga Súrssonar 79, 281, 356, 396 Gísli Súrsson 77, 78, 281 Glámr 26, 27, 33, 34, 76, 84, 89, 94–99, 103, 104, 105, 115–117, 125, 167, 215, 216, 228–232, 238, 240, 267–269, 361, 367, 368, 371, 375–378, 381, 385–389 Gospel of John 43 Gospel of Luke 43 Gospel of Mark 61 Gospel of Matthew 59 Grænlendinga saga 153, 156, 157 Grágás 131–149, 431 Grendel 89, 193–195, 197, 264, 266, 267, 368, 380–382, 389

Index

Grettir Ásmundarson 73, 74, 76, 79, 83–85, 89, 91–99, 101–105, 115–117, 125, 154, 230, 266–271, 274, 275, 368, 371, 377, 378, 388, 389 Grímhildr 156, 157 Grímnismál 176, 177, 180, 182, 186, 329, 379 Grímur Hólmsteinsson 312 Guðmundar saga, Guðmundar sögur 39, 45, 209 Guðmundr Arason 39, 41, 58, 337, 311, 312 Guðmundr dýri Þorvaldsson 395 Guðmundr Eyjólfsson inn ríki 395–420 Guðríðr Þorbjarnardóttir 156, 157 Gull-Þórir, Gold Thórir 198 Gull-Þóris saga 198, 247, 248, 353 Gunnarr Hámundarson of Hlíðarendi 15, 282, 283, 292 Gunnell, Terry 5, 113, 179, 186, 217, 237, 389 Gunnhildr (queen mother) 296, 298 Gunnlaugs saga ormstungu 247 Gylfaginning 176, 178–182, 219 hagiography 3, 40, 50, 53, 58, 152, 210, 311, 313, 317, 318, 330–334, 337, 338 Hákon jarl Sigurðarson 295–309, 401, 404, 413 Há>konar saga Hákonarsonar 206, 207 Hallfreðar saga vandræðaskálds 177, 252, 253, 259 Hallgerðr Höskuldsdottir 282–285, 288, 290, 292 “Hallmundarkviða” 79 Haraldr blátönn (“bluetooth”) Gormsson 296, 298, 300, 304, 401 Haraldr gráfeldr (“grey-cloak”) 296, 298 Haraldr hárfagri (“Fair-hair”) 354 Harðar saga ok Hólmverja 300, 306, 356, 361 Hastrup, Kirsten 154, 369 Hauksbók 24, 214, 338 Hávamál 13 Heimskringla 216, 251, 298, 303 Hektors saga 210, 216 Helgakviða Hjörvarðssonar 247, 249, 250–252 Helreið Brynhildar 338 Heorot 267

435

Herfiðr (dream-man) 334 Herodias 53 Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks 396 Heusler, Andreas 335 hieros gamos 300 Hildiglúmr Runólfsson 11–15, 17 Hildigunnr Starkaðardóttir 286–289, 292, 293 Historia Brittonum 58 Hjálmþés saga 211 Hjalti Skeggjason 12 Hliðskjálf 175–191 Hobbit, The 203 holmganga 422, 423, 426, 427, 431 Holy Trinity, the 10 holy water 51, 143, 146, 157, 235, 240 Homer 51, 58, 59 Hörður Ágústsson 134 Höskuldr Dala-Kollsson 282, 284, 292, 293 Höskuldr Hvítanessgoði 286–290, 339 Hrafn the Red 333 Hrafnagaldur Óðins (Forspjallsljóð) 183, 185, 189 Hrafns saga Sveinbjarnarsonar 311 Hrólfs saga Gautrekssonar 247 Hrólfs saga kraka 181, 193–198, 247 huldufólk 370 Hume, Kathryn 271 Iliad, the 332, 342 Innocent III 135, 322 Isaac 302 Isidore of Sevilla 214, 264 Íslendingabók 401 Íslendingasögur 12, 15, 71, 72, 74, 80, 75, 79, 109, 113, 123, 127, 144, 152, 153, 204, 211, 263–267, 271, 280, 291, 348, 351–357, 359–363, 378, 389, 397, 404, 410, 414, 416, 421, 422 Íslensk hómilíubók, see Old Icelandic Homily book Ívents saga 368 Jacopo da Varagine 53 jartein 39–42 joca sanctorum 317, 318 Jökull Bárðarson 76, 368, 387

436

Index

Jómsvíkinga saga 295–309, 318, 322, 401 Jón Árnason 49, 381 Jón Halldórsson, Bishop 316, 320 Jón Helgason 14 Jón Hnefill Aðalsteinsson 301 Jón Ögmundsson 39, 134, 142 Jón Sigurðsson 1 Jón the Red, Archbishop 316 Jóns saga Hólabyskups ens helga 249 Jörundur Þorsteinsson, Bishop 316 Jötunheimr 57, 176, 179, 182 Kanerva, Kirsi 23, 29, 122, 230 Kári Sölmundarson 339, 340 Karl Jónsson 41 Kárr the Old (revenant) 91, 92, 97, 104 Ketill Oddsson, priest 311–325 Ketils saga hængs 198, 219 kings’sagas, see konungasögur Kirjalax saga 213 Kjartan Þóroddsson at Fróðá 54, 59, 119, 120, 122, 126, 127, 233, 234 Knútr inn ríki 407, 408 Koðrán Guðmundsson 405, 407, 408 konungasögur, konungasaga, kings’ sagas 5, 204, 209, 210, 296 Kristni saga 301, 401 Krito 279 Kveld-Úlfr Bjálfason 72, 73, 81 Landnámabók 57, 301 landvættir 369, 370, 378 Laqueur, Thomas Walter 396 Laxdæla saga 28 Legendary Sagas, see Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda Leifr Eiríksson 153 leizla 327, 337–340 Lévi-Strauss, Claude 60 liminality 4, 25, 49–70, 109–118, 121, 123–125, 127, 129, 270, 329 Ljósvetninga saga 247, 248, 353, 395–420 Lokasenna 181, 186 Loki Laufeyjarson 57, 176, 179, 180, 184, 188 Lönnroth, Lars 17, 292, 331, 359 Lynch, David 407–409

Magerøy, Hallvard 397 Malleus maleficarum 5 Maríu saga 209, 214 Mary mother of Jesus, Virgin Mary 58, 314, 317, 319, 320 masculinity 396, 400, 403, 406, 416, 421–432 Maurer, Konrad 120, 211, 212, 245 Mayburd, Miriam 152, 154, 161, 396, 397, 400 McCreesh, Bernadine 231 meinvættur, meinvættir 367, 368, 371, 375, 376, 378 Merkelbach, Rebecca 73, 75, 263, 388, 396, 397 Miðgarðr 175, 176, 180, 369 Miller, William Ian 400, 402, 403, 410 miracle, miracles 2, 3, 39–48, 57, 58, 61, 136, 137, 207, 312, 317, 318, 322 Mittman, Simon 267 Möðruvallabók 215 Mogk, Eugun 245 monstrosity 59, 73, 90, 95, 97, 99, 195, 263–268, 270–274, 388, 396, 397, 405, 416, 424, 428 Morkinskinna 210 mountain-dweller 15, 264 Mundal, Else 246, 247, 250, 253, 254, 256, 258, 299 nahtvrouwen (“ladies of the night”) 53 nahtwaren (“people who wander at night”) 53 Njáll Þorgeirsson from Bergþórshvoll 13, 14, 15, 282, 283, 328, 331, 399, 400, 405, 412 Njáls saga 11–16, 247, 250, 255, 256, 279, 281, 286, 289, 290, 298, 300, 327–331, 334, 338, 339, 396, 399, 405 Norna-Gests þáttr 338 Óðinn 62, 175, 176–187, 189, 302, 328, 336, 341 Odyssey, the 51 Ófeigr Járngerðarson 398, 399, 406, 411 Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar 247, 249, 259, 401

Index

Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta, The Greatest Saga of Ólafr Tryggvason 247, 300, 301 Ólafur Davíðsson 211 Ólafur Halldórsson 298, 304 Old Icelandic Homily book, Íslensk hómilíubók 42, 43 Olympian gods 16 Orkneyinga saga 210 Orpheus 338 Óspakr (Viking chieftain) 331, 332, 340 Other, the, Otherness 30, 60, 90, 92–95, 97–99, 114, 116, 117, 121, 124, 154, 204, 263, 264, 402, 403, 406, 415 Páll Vídalín 371 phlebotomy bloodletting physical topography 21, 154 Pliny the Elder 214, 264 Prose Edda (Snorra-Edda) 13, 90, 186 psychoanalytic theory 279 Ragnar Kjartansson 152 Ragnarök 179, 180, 338, 339 Rán 232, 421 Rannveigar leizla 337 realism 10, 11 72 98 408, 410 revenant, aptrganga 21, 26–29, 31, 49, 50, 55, 59, 61, 75, 76, 85, 89, 91, 92, 95, 97, 103–105, 115, 116, 118–122, 125–127, 137, 144, 155, 156, 161, 162, 203, 206, 216, 228, 231, 235, 238, 239, 264, 265, 266, 272–274, 361, 368, 376, 377, 382, 387, 388, 389 Reykdæla saga 353 Richard III 406 riddarasögur 5, 197, 204, 209, 348, 353, 356, 357, 359, 360, 363, 421, 422–424, 426, 428–431 Roman de la rose 53 Sagas of Icelanders, see Íslendingasögur saints’ lives, see dýrlingasögur Saxo Grammaticus 193–195 Sayers, William 230, 235, 399, 400 Sayers, William 230, 235, 399, 400

437

Schjødt, Jens Peter 113 See, Klaus von 251 seiðr (magic) 52, 62, 77, 180–182, 396, 400, 402 Selma Jónsdóttir 133, 134, 141 Serres, Michel 151, 163 Síðu-Hallr Þorsteinsson 249, 250, 334, 401 Sigfús Sigfússon 205, 211 Sighvatr Sturluson 41, 46, 313 Sigmundr Brestisson 300 Sigurðar saga þögla 219, 220, 247, 257 Sigurðr Fáfnisbani 195, 196, 199 Sigurðr Jórsalafari 210 Sigurdrífumál 368 Sir Gawain and the Green Knight 369 Skafti Þóroddsson 368, 371, 385 Skáldskaparmál 102, 177 Skalla-Grímr Kveld-Úlfsson 72, 73, 82, 158 Skarphéðinn Njálsson 15, 284, 293, 395, 405 Skírnir 176, 177, 180–182, 184, 187 Skírnismál 176, 179, 181, 182, 186, 187 skrattar 426 skrǫksaga (untrue saga) 349 Snorra Edda 176, 177, 186, 299 Snorri goði Þorgrímsson 58, 119, 122, 127, 388, 400 Snorri Sturluson 186 Socrates 279 Sögubrot af fornkonungum 247 Solli, Brit 400 sorcery, sorcerer, sorceress 52, 181, 203, 327, 329, 331, 332, 334, 338, 339, 353, 356, 381, 427 St. Agustine of Hippo 40, 54, 57, 143, 214, 264, 335, 336 St. George 197 St. Gregory the Great (Pope Gregory I) 40, 55, 380 St. Michael the Archangel 197 St. Paul 43 Stark, Laura 23, 24, 29, 30 Stefán Karlsson 319, 320 Steinsland, Gro 300 Stjórn 207, 214 Ström, Folke 256, 300, 306

438

Index

Strömbäck, Dag 246, 250, 370 structuralism 10, 17, 90 Sturlaugs saga starfsama 210, 211, 212 Sturlunga saga 131, 139, 247, 311, 312, 319, 327, 339 Sturlungaöld (“the Age of the Sturlungs”) 52, 80, 131, 133, 311, 313, 314, 319 surrealism 279 Surtr (giant) 13 Svarfdæla saga 74, 361 Sveinn tjúguskegg (“forkbeard”) 296 Sverrir, King of Norway 41 Sverrir Jakobsson 400, 402 Sverris saga 247 Torfi H. Tulinius 5, 78, 104, 351, 360, 361, 384, 385 trauma 4, 71–88, 408, 416 Trojan War, the 16 Trójumanna saga 302 Tumi Sighvatsson 313, 314 Turner, Victor 109–114, 120, 121, 123, 124 Turville-Petre, Gabriel 179, 186, 248, 321 UFO 2 uncanny valley 97–99 Útgarðr 369 vættir (see also: meinvættir, landvættir) 216, 368, 369, 380, 386 Valdimar, King of Garðaríki 422 Valhöll 57, 60 Valþjófsstaður door, the 197 vampire 137 Vatnsdæla saga 83, 248, 301, 336, 384 Verne, Jules 151 Vésteinn Ólason 184, 231, 361, 378 Viktors saga og Blávus 421–432 Vilmundar saga viðutan 210 Virgin Mary, see Mary vision, visions 3, 12–14, 17, 50, 95, 209, 255, 319, 327–345, 352 “Vöðu-Brands þáttr” 399, 401 Völsunga saga 195, 198, 199, 247

Völsunga saga 195, 198, 247 Völuspá 13, 182, 329, 338, 340 Ward, Benedicta 317, 318 weather 21, 22, 25, 26, 29, 156, 160, 161, 239, 356, 370, 384 Wedding at Cana, the 43, 61 White, Hayden 303 William of Newburgh 238 witchcraft 52, 140, 335, 338 Wolf, Kirsten 206, 208 X-Files, The 398 Yggdrasill 369 Ynglinga saga 181, 182, 301, 302, 336 Þiðranda þáttr ok Þórhalls 247, 249–253, 257 Þjálfi 57, 58 Þórarinn svarti Þórólfsson 78, 118 Þorbjörn öngull 269, 368 Þórðar saga hreðu 141, 247, 248, 256, 361 Þorgeirr Hávarsson 11 Þorgeirr Ljósvetningagoði 397, 401, 404, 412, 413 Þorgerðr Holgabrúðr (Hörðatröll) 295–309 Þórgrima galdrakinn 245 Þórgunna (ghost) 49–56, 58–61, 119 Þorkell Geitisson 399, 407 Þorkell hákr Þorgeirsson 397, 398, 402, 403 Þorlákr Þórhallsson, Bishop 39, 41, 45, 57, 312 Þorleifs þáttr jarlsskálds 79, 85, 332 Þormóðr Bersason 11 Þórólfr bægifótr, Þórir Wood-Leg 26–28, 34, 103, 144, 158, 167, 216, 269, 301, 387–389 Þórr 57, 58, 60, 179 Þorskfirðingasaga, see Gull-Þóris saga Þorsteinn Eiríksson 146, 156, 157 Þorsteinn Síðu-Hallsson 334, 401 Þorsteins saga Víkingssonar 247, 356, 357 “Ölkofra þáttur” 395, 339, 340 Örvar-Odds saga 247