Читать книгу Treasury of Norse Mythology: Stories of Intrigue, Trickery, Love, and Revenge - Christina Balit - Страница 9

The frost giant Ymir emerged from the melting rivers of Ginnungagap. A daughter sprang from his sweaty armpit; a son, from his feet. The sweet-tempered cow Audhumla licked at the ice until she uncovered the head of the first god, Buri.

CREATION

The north was frozen—snow and ice, nothing more. It was called Niflheim. It was the embodiment of bleakness.

The south was aflame–ready to consume whatever might come. It was called Muspell. It was the embodiment of insanity.

Between them lay a vast emptiness. It was called Ginnungagap. It waited.

In the midst of the northern realm, water bubbled up—in the spring known as Hvergelmir. From it ran 11 rivers, straight down into the void, filling the northern part of Ginnungagap. The cold rivers slowed and thickened, like icy syrup, but a venomous kind of syrup. One that matched the desolate cries of the haunted winds.

The southern part of Ginnungagap was hot, though. Muspell kept it molten, like lava.

So when the gusts from the northern part met the heaving heat from the southern part, the middle of Ginnungagap grew almost balmy. The icy rivers thawed just enough to drip over that wide middle part.

That was enough: The frost giant Ymir stepped out of those drops. From the sweat of his left armpit grew a frost giant son and daughter. Ymir’s feet rubbed together, and another frost giant was born. Ymir’s every move, every thought, resulted in more frost giants. And all of them were spitting mean. What else could they be, given the bitter source of the very liquid in their veins?

Heavenly Movements

The moon and sun

People used to think the sun and moon crossed the sky. But in 1543 astronomer Nicolaus Copernicus argued that the Earth circles the sun, based on his observations of constellations and a lunar eclipse. Later astronomers Tycho Brahe and Johannes Kepler made astronomical measurements, which led to Kepler’s laws of planetary motion around the sun. In 1609 astronomer Galileo Galilei invented the telescope and added support to Copernicus’s model based on observations of the planet Venus.

The ice of Ginnungagap kept melting as the air grew milder. It formed a cow, a huge good-natured beast, from whose udders spurted four milk rivers. Her name was Audhumla. She stood in the middle of the glistening blocks of salty ice, and like any good cow, she immediately started licking. She licked all day long, until, under her great rasping tongue, hair appeared out of the ice. She licked all the next day, until a whole head appeared. By the evening of the third day, an entire being stood there. He was Buri, the first god.

Buri soon had a son named Bor, and Bor married the daughter of a frost giant and fathered three sons, the grandchildren of Buri: Odin and Vili and Ve.

Now the trouble began: The sons of Bor and the gang of frost giants hated each other. Inevitably, perhaps, for the world was still such an inhospitable place, ice on one side, fire on the other, that hate found a natural home there. Bor’s sons killed Ymir.

The blood of that ancient frost giant surged out over Ginnungagap and drowned all the other frost giants—all but two: Bergelmir and his wife. They got in their boat and let the gory current carry them where it would.

But now the sons of Bor found themselves with this enormous corpse, and they recognized the possibilities: Life could come from death. That could be the circle of things. So they used every part of the slain Ymir to create many worlds. His blood made seas and lakes. His flesh made earth. His bones formed mountains. His teeth became rocks and pebbles.

Ymir’s hollowed-out skull made the sky, and the three sons of Bor took the maggots crawling in Ymir’s rotted carcass and created small creatures called dwarfs. They set a dwarf under each of the four corners of this skull-sky to hold it up, arching over the earth. One dwarf was called Nordri—North; one, Austri—East; one, Sudri—South; one, Vestri—West. The other dwarfs ran off to live in the rocky caves. They became skilled craftsmen. It was they who wrought the decorative treasures of the gods.

The three sons of Bor killed the frost giant Ymir and used his body parts to create worlds and the objects within those worlds. From his skull they made the sky.

But there was still more of Ymir’s body to exploit. The sons of Bor threw his brains up into the sky to form clouds. They stole embers from Muspell and created the sun and moon, and from the sparks they made all the many stars.

With Ymir’s eyebrows they made a wall to keep out the giants. The land outside that wall was called Jotunheim, and the only two giants left alive settled there. The land inside that wall was called Midgard.

So now the land of Midgard was protected from giants, from ice, from fire, and it had sweet air above. It grew green with leeks and fragrant clover. Trees shot up, spruce and elm and ash. The gods, who had grown in number, wandered over this land. From two pieces of driftwood on the seashore, three gods created a man and a woman, the first humans. Odin put his mouth to theirs and gave them Ond—Breath—so they could live and love. Hoenir gave them Od—Mind—so they could understand and laugh. Lodur gave them La—Sense—so they could appreciate beauty. And that lone man, Ask, and that lone woman, Embla, set about having children to populate the land of Midgard.

The giantess Night, of the blackest hair, and her son Day, of the blondest hair, rode chariots across the sky. Later their chariots would be guided by humans, and the savage wolf Skoll with his brother wolf would chase them.

Meanwhile, the giants were having children, too. One giant woman had raven black hair and skin the hue of tree bark. To touch her was to shiver. Her name was Night. She had a son with hair that looked like the tips of the flames in Muspell and skin the color of Audhumla’s milk. To touch him was to smile. His name was Day. Their contrast fascinated Odin—he couldn’t resist; he set Night and her son Day in two chariots that race across the sky, the one after the other. Night’s chariot horse is Hrimfaxi, with frost clumped in his mane. Day’s chariot horse is Skinfaxi, with sparkles flying from his mane.

A human living in Midgard had children that were stunningly beautiful, as beautiful as anything the gods had created. He called his daughter Sun and his son Moon. Such audacity was a grave mistake. In fury, the sons of Bor snatched them and made Sun guide the chariot of Day and Moon guide the chariot of Night. The chariots are always in a hurry because each is chased by a savage wolf, sons of a giantess witch who lives in Ironwood Forest to the east of Midgard. The wolf Hati Hrodvitnisson goes after Moon—he will run Moon down in the end, at the cosmic battle of Ragnarok. The wolf Skoll snaps and growls behind Sun. In the end, he will catch her, too.

That’s how it all began. That’s how it all will end.