Category Archives: random thoughts

the culture of tolkien

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Readers, I am so excited about The Lord of The Rings movie coming out!

I was talking to a friend at work, and I mentioned some of the background mythology for this story. He wanted more information about it. Well, I started to write an email, and I couldn’t stop. It’s more of a blog post. Here you are:

Beowulf is one of the oldest books in ancient English (Anglo Saxon) still around. Originally, literacy in the British Isles was concentrated in Latin, since Latin was the language of their ruling elite, the Romans.

Although the Brits had their own language and writing (known as runes), they mostly relayed their cultural stories through word of mouth (oral tradition). Beowulf is only one of these stories, and it is highly treasured because it is one of the very few peeks we have into the culture of the Anglo-Saxons (MY people-transparently white child that I am).

I know of two main reasons why more stories didn’t survive:
one, the advent of Christianity created an unfavorable environment for stories about pagan deities. The British Isles, and especially Ireland, really embraced Christianity when it arrived. Some of the stories were christianized, and deities and legendary heroes got cleaned up into “saints.”

Beowulf has some christianizing in it too.

But the second reason is because of the Norman invasion.In the 11th century, I think, the French came in and enslaved (enserfed?) all the Anglo-Saxons. The Roman empire had long been dead, although Latin was still the Lingua Franca. But Anglo-Saxon writing and speech was what ordinary people used to communicate. When the French took over, they insisted that everyone speak French. Servants only spoke English to each other. And naturally, they had limited time to chew the fat. The complicated grammatical structure of Anglo-Saxon got mushed into a quicker, less nuanced speech. Anglo-Saxon wasn’t really taught; if a person went to be educated, they learned Latin or French. The Anglo-Saxon words that survive in English today are servants words. Swine for a live pig, but the Norman Pork for the meat (the only part that the Lord of the manor would see). Interestingly, all the cuss words survive.

Some of that Norman/Anglo-Saxon antagonism is played on in Monty Python’s Holy Grail. You’ve seen it, I imagine.

But English was saved, as a language, when Chaucer decided to write his “Canterbury Tales” in English. His patrons were Norman nobility, and there was a current of thought at the time which said that nothing poetic could come from this servant language. But the Canterbury Tales were written entirely in English, and this bold statement on the part of Chaucer encouraged many others to attempt the same. Shakespeare would never have written the way he did if not for Chaucer.

Of course, after Shakespeare all kinds of things happened. He was part of the renaissance, then the Age of Reason (aka the age of revolutions: American, French) happened. Then the Romantic period followed that, reacting to the cold idealization of reason. The Romantic period focused on the beauty of nature, and the transformative power of love and higher emotions. Nature elicited those emotions, so nature (with or without the concept of the Christian God, which had suffered some blows during that “reason” period), nature was raised as a saving mercy. The beauty of nature was a place of refuge and a reminder of the beauty of life, a sort of reassurance that good things endure. Thoreau, who wrote Walden, was on the tail end of the American Romantic period.

But then the INDUSTRIAL AGE began. English and American capitalists started raping and pillaging NATURE for fun and profit. Actually, all kinds of capitalists were doing it, not just the English-speaking ones.

Also, around this time, Darwin and other naturalists starting coming up with plausible theories that did away with the need for a benevolent deity. “Survival of the Fittest” was a philosophy that knocked the stuffing out of the idea of nature as a beautiful restorative refuge. Nature wanted to kill you, so that it could eat you. And if you couldn’t thrive, it was probably just as well that you died. One less weak genetic contributor.

How horrifying! You can imagine the slow, sick realization of all these things. The Victorian English ended up focusing primarily on appearances. Keeping a stiff upper lip, doing your duty for your country, and not upsetting society. America also had strong middle-class bourgeois tendencies. Certainly, we were happy to keep any new immigrant class “in their proper place”, often using the new Darwinistic philosophies to justify the mistreatment of other nationalities and the prejudicial racist treatment of African-Americans. “Nature” had made things hard, and the dominant culture took their dominant status as their natural (god-given?) right.

It was the “enlightened” and “modern” way of thinking. Do your duty, do the right thing for no other reason that that it was right. Until World War one happened. Then the “right thing” led to all kinds of wrong things. Thousands and thousands of good people, young upstanding soldiers died fighting for the meaningless cause of a few miles, a few feet of dirt.

The soldiers got really close to nature then. Sitting for months in their foxholes, seeing nothing but dirt, mud, excrement and the bodies of their mates decomposing nearby.

When it was all over, not much had changed but their attitudes. The “modern” way of thinking now meant utter disillusionment. It is no accident that the era was called “The Depression.” God was irrelevant, nature meaningless, and hope was scarce.

It was during this period of time that J.R.R. Tolkein conceived the story of Middle Earth.
You thought I was never gonna take it back around, didn’t you?

Now, most of what _I_ know about concerns the cultures that speak English–America and England. To have the full picture, I will eventually have to learn more about Germany. Because the Germans were REALLY the ones who pursued heroic legends and folks tales. They started it much sooner than the English did. Remember the Brother’s Grimm fairy tales? Now that people have started to study fairy tales more extensively, we have found that they are STUNNINGLY similar across cultures. I think I read that almost every culture has a Cinderella story, which is my personal favorite.

But the German stories were very close to English stories. We actually are a Germanic people, sharing a culture with the folks over there in what’s now called Germany. Wagner also took a well-known Norse legend and made it into his Ring Cycle.

Did I say “ring”? Why, yes I did! It’s the same ring from essentially the same story that Tolkien was ripping off of.

But let me focus on Tolkien again. He was a Medieval scholar at Oxford, and he was probably one of the weirdest guys there. He hung out with C.S. Lewis, of Narnia fame, while he was there. I”ve been to the pub in Oxford where they all hung out. They would have a pint and read their writing to each other. Tolkien was obsessed with the Medieval legends; he has also published a version of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, translated for the Middle English. He knew all the stories live he was living in them.

I think he tried to live in them. I have read that he wrote the Lord of The Rings series in a made-up language (elfin, maybe?) and then TRANSLATED it into modern English.

COOkOO!

But it is my opinion that he was trying to escape into another world. This one wasn’t offering much, and he wanted to retreat into a place where heroism and courage and honor still counted.

You notice, I”m sure, that one of the characteristics of a “fantasy novel” is that it takes place before any industrialism. About the most technological they get is a windmill.

And Tolkien was the one in the English language that created the foundation of a complicated fantasy world.His universe is extremely fleshed out. He is as obsessed as you want to be. And many of his fans today are quite obsessed.

But see, he wrote these books in a particular place in time.They were moderately popular in his time, because people felt an affinity for the world that he had created. The novels are complicated. They begin in the middle, the way life does. The characters do something that will have an effect beyond the scope of the novel. They have done something lasting and meaningful. Their heroism is not wasted or twisted into evil ends, as was the heroism of the WWI soldiers.

Basically, Tolkien was calling on the power of myth, the myths that had evolved and been honed through generations of wise and intuitive storytellers. He knew the myths of his culture forward and back; and he dramatized them anew for modern sensibilities.

Society was sick and needed to hear a story. The story they needed was essentially the one we needed all along. Moses, Homer, and wise clan leaders told the stories. Tolkien put it in the language modern readers could understand, with the structure we were used to now. We didn’t use poetic chants…We use dialogue and description.

We don’t use campfires so much. We use ink and paper.

As I said, the Lord of the Ring was moderately popular when Tolkien first published it. But it wasn’t until the hippies rediscovered it that it went platinum, so to speak.

The hippies were sick of the old ways, and they BELIEVED in a new order. Frodo’s heroism was possible for them, they knew it! Hope was everywhere, and so were the Hobbit books.

This is also when the fantasy book market opened up.

NOW, with all that intro
(I am nothing if not thorough)
I would like to propose some of the original myth stories to be read by a fan of fantasy.

TRY
Beowulf
Sigurd the Dragon Slayer
Tales of King Arthur
All fairy tales
the Grimm fairy tales
fairy tales of any culture, particularly of the culture you are from
(if you are an American mutt like me, go for ALL the cultures that are in your mix)
The Iliad & The Odyssey
Gilgamesh
the Aenid (although, that’s an artificial myth, just like Tolkien’s)
Greek Drama (yeah, like Oedipus Rex)

All these are a little difficult to engage, because they are not told in the way we are used to. We are accustomed to being entertained in certain set ways, for plots to move in certain patterns. These stories pre-date those templates.

But they are worth the trouble of reading. You will find that they stay on your mind in ways you didn’t expect. And they don’t go away. The images stay, working as metaphors that give you handles on life’s confusing moments.

That’s what they are supposed to do.

And for learning more about myths, as a topic, I cannot more highly recommend Joseph Campbell.

the myth and science of santa

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My friend Tantek had some stuff to say about Mythology and Science.

The story of the Priest scientifically explaining that Santa could not possibly deliver all the toys in one evening is pretty ironic. Imagine! I’m sure the priest wanted to scientifically disprove Santa’s existence in order to move the emphasis back to the TRUE reason for Christmas, which is the arrival of the omnipotent GOD in the form of a human baby concieved by a woman who had never engaged in sex.

Scientifically, it is impossible for Santa to exist!
Science is a wonderful thing. I love Science, and I know people who love it even more. It is SO NICE to have proof, and be absolutely sure. If you are wondering about something, just throw some science at it, and out pops the answer.

Well…sometimes. When you are wondering what temperature water boils at, science is your tool. When you are trying to figure out how many CD’s you can fit in the bookshelves you just inherited from your grandma, get out a measuring tape and a little science in the form of math, you have it.

But when you want to know how the world came into existence, science can’t give you an absolute answer.

In order to use science, you have to be able to repeat the experiment. And we have not been able to create another world like the one we are in now.

Yet, here we are. The question remains. At that point, we have to lay down the tool of science and take up another: mythology.

Myths are humanity’s way to address those portions of our experience that lay mostly beyond our reach.
Because there are so many things that we encounter in life, which we know intuitively to be much larger than the fragment we have experienced. We know that we are only encountering a small percent of what the whole entails.

Such as…
Love. We have all encountered some of it, but we know that there is so much more to this experience of love that we cannot have in our lifetime.

or Courage

and especially Truth

These are things we know, but have difficulty grasping and expressing.

And if we cannot even express the problem, the facts of the matter, how on earth are we going to find a way to design and implement a repeatable experiment?
Science cannot exist in this realm.

Not as we now understand scientific method.

But we have found other ways of giving shape to the unknown. We tell stories.
Important stories. Stories that are so important, we can’t even say or fully know their importance even as we impart them.

Mythology gives structure and shape to higher things. It is invaluable. It gives us hope and courage to look for answers to any question we can concieve.

And if we did not have the courage to feed our curiousity, science would not have been developed.

It is a worthy thing to attempt large questions. It is wise to use the best tool. But it looks foolish to try to force the inappropriate tool when the correct tool lies within reach.

Science and Myth are not inherently in conflict. You just have to use them wisely.

fools of gotham

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Some friends and I were wondering the other day, “How did New York City get to be called Gotham?”

We were in San Francisco, looking at some statues scattered all around. It reminded us of the Batman movies, where the city was filled with spooky gothic architecture and art.
“This looks like Gotham City,” someone said.
“Yeah, but we’re in San Francisco. Gotham is supposed to be New York.”
“I wonder why they call it Gotham?”

That was the extent of it. But today I ran across something on a website www.writingclasses.com.

For you people like me who wonder about things, here’s their story:

The Wise Men of Gotham [were], in English legend, wise fools, villagers of Gotham, Nottinghamshire, Eng. The story is that, threatened by a visit from King John (reigned 1199-1216), they decided to feign stupidity and avoid the expense entailed by the residence of the court. Royal messengers found them engaged in ridiculous tasks, such as trying to drown an eel and joining hands around a thorn bush to shut in a cuckoo. Hence, the king determined to stay elsewhere. The “foles of Gotham” are mentioned in the 15th-century Wakefield plays. Merrie Tales of the Mad-Men of Gottam, a collection of their jests, was published in the 16th century.
© Copyright 1994-1999 Encyclopædia Britannica

How Gotham Came to Be a Reference to New York City
Washington Irving applied the name to New York in an issue of a humorous magazine named Salmagundi. The name, by Washington Irving’s time, had long been associated with stupidity, even though the original story was actually about a kind of twisted cleverness. Washington Irving thought this just the name to give to a city which he believed was inhabited by fools.
© Copyright 1996-2000 Michael B. Quinn from World Wide Words

Park Your Car in Harvard Yard

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Park Your Car in Harvard Yard by Israel Horovitz, produced by LA theater works

This was labelled as a COMEDY, which is completely incorrect. According to classical definitions, comedy ends in a marriage. Tragedy ends in death. Well, this ended in death.

You make the call.

Perhaps we’ve progressed beyond classical definitions, and find death the funniest thing we’ve ever heard?

Probably not. But there were a few funny moments in this play. Mostly not, though.

It’s set in Massachusetts, a place that makes me think of my friend Christy. She lived there for a year. That’s the east coast, the OLD part of America. They have a sense of the social class that we don’t have as well defined here.

Imagine! Your family being in one area for generations, and all of them doing the same sort of work. Dock work, maybe. Or some kind of unskilled manual labor. Having the same few miles that you know. And not knowing at all how to get past them.

I don’t respect those sorts of boundaries, I consider them a dare most of the time. As in, “I can’t? Who says I can’t? I’ll show you!”

Anyway, the high school teacher that everyone was afraid of, for years and years, is finally on his deathbed. He needs someone to help him. And this woman comes to be his housekeeper until he dies.

She is his former student, only she doesn’t tell him that right away. Some part of her hopes he will remember, but knows bitterly that he will not.

They have more things binding them together, being in the same place for so long, than you would expect.

He is full of rage and regret at how his life turned out.
She is too. And she actually blames him for a lot of it. Her ticket out was education, but he flunked her and slammed that door.

I’m mad at him too, for her. He should have been a better teacher, and tried to help them learn. He should not have held the bar so high and mocked his students when they could not pass it.

I think he was trying to illustrate dramatically how SUPERIOR he was to them.

But she should have kicked harder against her lot, if she really didn’t like it.

At the end, though, they were both in the same neighborhood, they both endured the same cold winters.

How different are we, really?
These two were quite similar.

He was trying to die, which is a difficult thing. She was trying to live, which can be much harder at some times than at others.

REFLECTIONS OF MYSELF

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Looking for something else, I stumbled upon a notebook musing from a few years ago:

I like best to see my face reflected in a window at night. The outline is clear, but the details are less distinct. It’s such an accomplished [self-contained] pleasure, admiring my own reflection.

I once asked a man, at the beginning of a new romance, when we were first shyly revealing the traits we found marvelous and fascinating in each other, “Don’t you think I see you differently than you see yourself?”

He considered and replied, “It’s only natural. I know myself better than you do.”

It was so easy for me to admire and cherish him. But he to himself and me to myself–it’s not as easy. We know the blemishes.

When I look into a mirror–a clear flat, distinct and well-lit reflection–my eyes seek our all the imperfections. I put my face right close and examine all the planes and crevices. I wonder what I’m looking for? Don’t I know my face already? I don’t linger over the good features, but I move straight to mottles in my skin, or to my crooked teeth. Are my eyebrows incorrect? And which standard should I choose?

I want to believe I am beautiful. I want it so very badly. Because if I am beautiful, I will be loved. And if I am loved, then I will live in the sunshine and nothing can be wrong.

I don’t undersatnd this trap, a slippery slop to never-fulfillment. What if I am loved, but am not beautiful? What if it rains on me and the ones who love me? It must be a flaw in me. When hard times come, it must be because I am not loved enough. But who could love me enough? I am not beautiful enough for that kind of love.

When I see myself in the night-window reflection, I am less distinct. I don’t have to see the confusing minutia of my appearance. I can be pleased with the outline. I can love myself, forgive the imperfections. I can have what I so crave and not be indebted to someone else.

VOLSUNGA SAGA 6

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Sigurd Part VI

At last, Sinfjotli was considered old enough by Sigmund to enact revenge upon Seggeir for Volsung’s death. Sigmund and Sinfjotli had been creating havoc in King Seggeir’s kingdom long enough; they wished to strike at the heart of their enemy.

Signy brought them into the palace, to begin their attack on her husband. But as they were waiting, one of Signy’s two young children ran into the room where they were hiding. He was chasing a toy, and he saw the two fierce men. He ran back to Seggeir’s chamber and told his father what he had seen.

Seggeir understood the significance of what the child said and prepared himself for attack. Signy discovered what had happened, and dragged her children to her brother and son: “These children have betrayed you,” she told Sigmund. “I suggest you kill them.”

Really, since he had killed the first two boys, it’s not so surprising that she would say this. I mean, it follows what happened before.

But maybe Sigmund was feeling guilty, or who knows what. He said, “I am loth to kill children of yours, even if they have betrayed me.” And he stood there.

Young Sinfjotli didn’t have this constraint of feeling. He killed his siblings right then and there.

The next thing you know, Seggeir has launched his attack. Sigmund and Sinfjotli have arrived at their hour of revenge, and they fought harder and stronger than ever before. But they could not prevail against Seggeir’s numbers, and he tied them up and threw them in jail.

While they sat there all day and night, Seggeir devised a special way for them to die. He built a traditional cairn, or burial mound. As a special torture, he put a huge stone slab through the center of the mound. He put the men into the burial mound, one on each side of the stone. He intended this to bury them alive, together but unable to help one another.

However, right before the mound was sealed, Signy managed to throw an armload of straw into the opening. But Seggeir sealed it up tightly, pleased to have devised this painful and humiliating death for his long enemies.

Sinfjotli looked through the straw. He said to Sigmund, “It looks like we won’t have to worry about food for a while, because my mother has thrown in some ham with the straw.”

But then he felt it; the hilt of Sigmund’s sword! He couldn’t see because of how dark it was, but this sword was unmistakable.

Sinfjotli plunged the sword into the slab of rock dividing the mound. Sigmund grasped the other end and they sawed their way through the slab. As soon as the slab was spilt, they worked together to hack and saw their way out of the burial mound.

They were free.

It was nighttime, and they made their way back to the hall to find Seggeir. Everyone was asleep, so they gathered fuel and firewood. They intended to set the great hall on fire and burn the king and all his men with it.

When they felt the heat and the smoke, the men in the hall woke up. The king demanded to know who had set the fire.

Sigmund rose up to accuse him. “Here I am, Sigmund, and my sister’s son, Sinfjotli. Now you know that all the Volsungs are not dead, and we remember that you are the one who killed our father.”

Signy came out to stand with her family against Seggeir:” Now you know that I have not forgotten who plotted to kill my father. I had our two youngest sons killed because they were not eager enough to avenge Volsung. Here is Sinfjotli, my child and Sigmund’s. He was conceived while I was disguised as a sorceress. His blood comes from a daughter and a son of Volsung, and he was always eager to kill you for your betrayal of my father.”

Sigmund put out his hand to lead his sister out of the burning hall, but she stopped him.

“I have worked for nothing but revenge. I have had my children killed for it, and devoted my whole life to it. I was unwilling to marry Seggeir, but now I will willingly die with him. It is all I am fit for.”

And she walked back into the fire, saying farewell to Sigmund and Sinfjotli. She died with everyone in the hall.

SENSE OF THE CENTURIES

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I’m sure Sigurd would approve of the weekend I just had. Not a lot of killing, but excellent feasting and fellowship.

I’ve been TOO bogged down, and I have thoroughly missed hanging out with friends old and new. This Thanksgiving was a friend thanksgiving rather than a family one. It was very very nice.

Since I also did a lot of christmas shopping this weekend, I was feeling far more benevolent than usual. Well, according to lots of experts, a lot of us were feeling the Christmas spirit.Sales are supposed to be way up this weekend. I am looking forward to the pleasure in my friend’s and family’s eyes when they open the presents I get them.

I am a very social animal. Being around good friends revitalizes me. I now feel all recharged and ready to tackle new things. This, In reference to my blog, has caused me to look again at all the books I am in the MIDDLE of reading.

I’m still in the middle of
The Proud Tower, by Barbara Tuchman.
MiddleMarch by George Elliot
The Prophet by Khalil Gibran
The Battle for God by Karen Armstrong
The Pleasure of Finding Things Out by Richard Feynman
The Prince by Machiavelli

Hmm…There’s more, but I’m not at home and I don’t remember what they are.

I just finished reading, but have not yet reviewed:
The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen
Catch 22 by Joseph Heller
The Voyages of Dr. Dolittle by Hugh Lofting

All of these I think are very worthy of being reviewed, but they are meatier than I have time to just dash off..Interestingly, Dr. Dolittle is the trickiest.

But what I am really excited about is this poster they are selling at the library…It is a poster/timeline/graph of all the major musical composers since the 1400s. It gives their names and their major works and places them in proximity with other contemporary composers.

This is tremendous! I mean, It’s not like this information didn’t exist before. But sometimes, the way information is presented can make all the difference.

I believe that music can convey the sense of an idea or an emotion in ways that other mediums cannot. I may say to you, “the 1600s in Europe was a time of humanistic exploration, with intense interest in rational exploration and characterized by a sense of self-confidence.”

That’s very dry.

But if I hear the music from that period, and put it into the context of what I know of the history and literature and art and architecture of the period, music can add a depth and fullness and richness to my partly formulated understanding. I am looking for that click, that “Oh!” moment, the moment when the discrete facts coalesce into a fluid understanding.

I would like to have a sense of the progression of the last 6 centuries. It takes much less time to listen to music than it does to read large tomes.

VOLSUNGA SAGA 5

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Sigurd Part V

I warn you ahead of time, this part of the story is quite strange. I’m only telling it like it was told me, but you can make of it what you will.

Sigmund and Sinfjotli decided to go on a few adventures before planning their vengeance on Seggeir. They figured they had time. Besides, Sinfjotli was young and needed toughening up. To this end, they went around being bandits in the woods, killing and robbing people.

One day, when they were out looking for people to rob, they found a house, with two men asleep in it. The house had all kinds gold and treasure in it, and the men were covered with rings and such.

But above the men, there were two wolfskins. I don’t know if our Volsung men had figured this out beforehand, but the wolfskins were enchanted. As you have probably figured out though, they were not really men to step back and think anything over. They grabbed the wolfskins and tried them on.

Instantly, the skins became part of them. Lo and behold, our heroes had become what are now known as a werewolf. They ran and howled. Sigmund decided that they should look for more men to kill and rob. Sinfjotli and he separated, with the understanding that they would not take on more than 7 men without calling to the other for help.

Next thing you know, Sigmund runs into 7 guys. He howls for help, and Sinfjotli comes running. Between the two of them, they finish them off really quickly and separate again.

Next thing, Sinfjotli runs into 11 men, but he won’t howl for help. Maybe he was trying to impress Sigmund, maybe he thought Sigmund was being a wuss for calling for help even when there were under the agreed upon number of men, whatever. We lay into the eleven men, and slashed and snapped and fought and eventually kills them.

But he is badly wounded. Sigmund finds him, and realized what happened. He was so angry that he bit Sinfjotli’s throat.

That didn’t really help matters. He managed to pick Sinfjotli up, and drag him to their underground home. He realized then that he couldn’t get the wolfskin off, and he howled in frustration. He sat by Sinfjotli, trying to figure out what to do.

As he waited, he saw these other woodland creatures fighting. One of them bit the other’s throat, just like he had bitten Sinfjotli’s. Then he scampered off, returning with a leaf that he placed on the wound. The formerly wounded creature sprung up again, completely well.

Sigmund ran out to try and find the leaf! He saw a raven flying overhead, with a leaf. The raven dropped it, and Sigmund was able to take it back and heal Sinfjotli with it.

Both of them were pretty happy about this. They decided to lay low until they could get rid of the wolfskins. As soon as they were able to shuck them off, they burned them.

All this time, Sigmund never realized that Sinfjotli was not Seggeir’s son. Sinfjotli was always very anxious to get revenge on Seggeir.

VOLSUNGA SAGA 4

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Sigurd Part IV

Signy went to Seggeir, privately, and said, “I think you shouldn’t kill my brothers right away, but you should put them in stocks. For my sake, please don’t kill them quite yet.”

Seggeir mocked her, “You are crazy! It is far worse for your proud brothers to be put in stocked that to be merely killed. I am happy to do what you ask; they should suffer more.”

Seggeir had a big tree trunk in the forest made into stocks that would fit all ten of the brothers at once. He clapped all of them in the stocks and left them there in the woods.

At night, they were still there, helpless. A huge hungry wolf found them, and ate one of them.

In the morning, Signy’s man told her what had happened. She was horrified and filled with grief, but there was nothing she could do. Every night, the wolf came back to eat another brother. At last, only Sigmund, her twin was left.

This time, Signy sent her man to Sigmund, with some honey. She told him to smear the honey all over Sigmund’s face and to put some in his mouth. This done, he went away and left Sigmund to his fate.

Naturally, the wolf came back again for her supper. But this time she smelled the honey. She licked it all off Sigmund’s face, and was beginning to lick the honey out of the inside of his mouth. Sigmund was ready for this, and when her tongue licked into his mouth, he bit down hard and wouldn’t let go.

The wolf jerked back in pain, and kicked at the tree to get away. The tree broke, freeing Sigmund. But he still wouldn’t let go! He clung onto the struggling wolf until her tongue ripped out, and she died.

Some people say that the wolf was Seggeir’s mother, who was a witch and could turn herself into other creatures. Could be. But Sigmund took care of her!

So now he is free! He ran into the woods and stayed there. Signy sent men to find out where he was, and when she found out, she went to him.

Together, they made him a cozy home in the ground in the woods. Sigmund stayed there for quite a while.

But King Seggeir thought he had killed the whole Volsung family. But Signy turned inside herself, plotting revenge.

She had two sons by Seggeir. When the oldest was ten, she sent him to see Sigmund, to see if he could help Sigmund take his revenge on Seggeir.
Sigmund received the boy, and talked with him for a while. Then he gave him a sack of flour and asked him to make bread while he went out to gather firewood.

This was just a test for the boy.

When Sigmund came back, he asked where the bread was. The boy said, “There was something in the bag, and I didn’t want to open in.”

Sigmund lost all respect for the boy, because he had no courage. He knew that the boy would be no help avenging their family.

When he saw Signy next, he told her that. Signy said, “Kill him them. I have no more use for him.” And Sigmund did.

When he next boy was old enough, the same thing happened to him.

Signy despaired of finding the proper man to help Sigmund take revenge upon Seggeir. She was sitting in her chamber, trying to decide what to do about it, when a sorceress of great skill came in to see her.

Signy saw her opportunity: “Change shapes with me!” The sorceress agreed. After all, Signy was the queen.

So they switched shapes, and the sorceress stayed in the palace. The king never knew it wasn’t Signy.

But Signy, in the shape of the sorceress, was off to the woods to see Sigmund. I’m only telling you what happened.

Signy went up to Sigmund’s door, “Please,” she said, “I am a poor woman, cold in the woods. Please let me in and give me shelter.”

Sigmund let her in and treated her well. He never had any idea that it was his sister. He fed her dinner and looked closely at her. She seemed like a fine woman to him. You can imagine what happened next. He asked her to sleep with him, and she did.

For three nights, they were together. Then Signy left to go back to the castle. She met with the sorceress and changed shapes again. No one ever knew.

But now she had a baby. He was the child of Sigmund. She named him Sinfjotli when he was born. As he grew up, he was strong and looked all Volsung. Well, he was.

Even before he was ten, Signy sent him to Sigmund. He went through the same bake-bread-while-I-gather-firewood scenario. When Sigmund came back, the bread was all ready for him.

Sigmund asked him if he had found anything in the flour. Sinfjotli replied, “I suspect there was something, but whatever it was, I just mixed it in with the bread.”

Sigmund was delighted with this response. He said, “You might not want to eat this bread for dinner tonight. You kneaded in the most poisonous snake into the bread.”

Sigmund ate the bread, though. He was tough enough to stand any poison. Sinfjotli could only stand external poison; he couldn’t eat it.

VOLSUNGA SAGA 3

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Once the sword was out of the tree, everyone could see it was finer and more beautiful than they had even thought. Everyone admired it.

King Seggeir really wanted the sword. He said to Sigmund, “I’ll give you three times its weight in gold for that sword.”

I think this really shows that Seggeir was an idiot. Everyone in the hall knew that the sword was special, not something you just buy. Sigmund was meant to have it, and that’s why he was the only one who could pull it out.

Sigmund turned Seggeir down, “ You could have taken the sword from where it stood, no less than I did, if it were meant for you to carry it; but now that it has come first into my hands, you will never get it, even if you should offer me all the gold you own.”

Well. Seggeir did not like that answer one bit. He thought that Sigmund was being a snotty-nose punk and that he had no right to talk that way or even THINK that way about him, the mighty King Seggeir.

But he kept a straight face. He already knew how to lie. He didn’t say much more about it. But he decided he had to leave.

This was totally rude! Wedding feasts were supposed to go on for days and days. It gave everyone a chance to celebrate, and the family a chance to say goodbye to their daughter or sister. King Seggeir tried to cover up how rude he was being by saying, “You all must visit my kingdom soon. Everybody! Bring all your friends and servants and whoever you want! In three months, okay?”

Volsung and his family agreed to come, and Seggeir left with Signy.

Now this is where is gets sad. King Volsung and all his sons got ready and came when they promised, suspecting nothing. But when their boats reached King Seggeir’s kingdom it was dark.

Signy was waiting for them. She snuck up to see them, because she had to warn them.

She told her dad, “Seggeir has been waiting for you, but he has gathered together a huge army to fight with you and kill you. You must turn around at once. Gather up your armies and come back prepared to meet with him in battle! Otherwise, you will be trapped by his lies and surprise attack!”

But Volsung seemed to have a habit of not listening to his only daughter. He made light of the situation and got all heroic and fatalistic. This is exactly what he said:

“All peoples bear witness that unborn I spoke one word and made the vow that I would flee neither fire nor iron from fear, and so I have done until now. Why should I not fulfill that vow in my old age? Maidens will not taunt my sons during games by saying that they feared their deaths, for each man must at one time die. No one may escape dying that once, and it is my counsel that we not flee, but for our own part act the bravest. I have fought a hundred times, sometimes with a larger army and sometimes with a lesser on. Both ways I have had the victory, and it will not be reported that I either fled or asked for peace.”

Stubborn Volsung! He was being very brave, but I don’t think he was being very smart. In those days, our people felt like peace was another word for coward, or “not good enough to win.” He wouldn’t go back and regroup.

Signy was completely upset; she cried and said she wanted to stay with them and not go back to the wicked Seggeir. But her father told her that her duty was with her husband, no matter what happened with the battle.

She left, crying and distraught, to go back to her husband.

Volsung and all the brothers armed themselves and got ready for the war they knew would be happening. As soon as they stepped off the boat in the morning, they walked into Seggeir’s army.

Wow, they fought like the best, hacking and slashing their way through the ranks of the enemy. They had gone through the ranks eight times and were turning around to do it again, when Volsung fell. The brothers looked around, and realized that their father was down and the rest of their ranks were all down except for themselves, the ten sons of Volsung.

The odds were too great. Seggeir’s men captured them, and took them away bound in chains.

Signy heard about it pretty quickly. She was full of grief that her father was dead, but since her brothers were still alive, she wanted to do anything she could think of to help them.