The last incident of the series is perhaps the one least widely known; but a parallel may be cited from one of Saxo's stories (p. [286] f.). A certain Danish king named Gormo[395] was an ardent explorer. Above all he desired to visit the abode of Geruthus (Geirröðr), which lay beyond the ocean in a land of perpetual darkness. Taking with him as guide an experienced traveller, named Thorkillus, he set sail with three ships and made his way beyond Halogaland (the north of Norway). There, having lost its way in a storm, the expedition came to be in want of food. Eventually they arrived at an island which contained herds of extremely tame cattle. Against the advice of Thorkillus the mariners slaughtered a large number of these. The following night they were attacked by monsters, one of whom declared that they would not be allowed to sail away until they made compensation for the losses they had inflicted on the herd of the gods. In order to save themselves they had to give up one man from each ship.
It will be seen that this incident bears a general resemblance to the slaughtering of the cattle of Helios, and we need scarcely hesitate to regard both stories as variant forms of a folk-tale. As to its origin we are not altogether without evidence in the Northern case. In Alcuin's Vita Willebrordi, I cap. 10, it is stated that a certain island (now Heligoland) was entirely sacred to a god named Fosite. So great was the sanctity with which it was regarded that no one ventured to touch any of the animals which grazed upon the island. The violation of the sanctuary, in this and other respects, cost one of St Willebrord's companions his life. Hence there is no need to doubt that a basis of fact underlies the stories of islands in which animal life was held sacred—just as in holy woods throughout the north of Europe. It is scarcely impossible that similar island sanctuaries may once have been known in the Mediterranean.
The subsequent course of the story has a certain affinity with that of Circe. After leaving the island Gormo and his men sailed in safety to the farther part of Permland, where they were met by a giant named Guthmundus[396], the brother of Geruthus, who invited them to his house. Thorkillus strictly enjoined his companions to abstain from all food and drink offered them, even from the fruits which grew in the garden, and to avoid contact with members of the household. Those who yielded to temptation, as a few eventually did, would have to spend the rest of their lives among monsters. There is no actual transformation as in the story of Circe; but this in itself is a widely known incident in folk-tales.
When the travellers at length reach the abode of Geruthus the scene, though horrible in every way, seems to be a variety of the Enchanted Castle rather than a parallel to the home of Hades[397]. We have seen above that the poems Hákonarmál and Eiríksmál may in a sense be compared with the two Nekyiai; for Valhöll is the abode not only of the chief god but also of the spirits of fallen warriors. But here we have to deal with elaborate conceptions of court poetry which are further removed from the spirit of the true folk-tale than either of the passages in the Odyssey[398]. A better parallel to the first Nekyia is perhaps to be found in another of Saxo's stories (p. [31]). Once upon a time, when King Hadingus was feasting, there appeared to him a woman who was carrying hemlocks. She wrapped him in her mantle and took him with her underground in order to show him where the hemlocks grew. On the way they passed through a dark cloud and then along a well-worn path, where they saw many men richly attired. After viewing the sunny regions where the hemlocks grew, they crossed a rapid river and then saw two armies engaged in desperate conflict. The woman told Hadingus that these were men who had been slain by the sword and continually rehearsed the manner of their death. They are obviously to be connected with the einheriar of Old Norse poetry—the slain warriors who dwell in Valhöll and spend their days in combat—though possibly this passage represents a more primitive form of the idea. It is to be observed that Saxo himself explicitly interprets the story as a visit to the region of the dead.
Stories of this kind are to be found in many parts of the world—among peoples as widely apart as the Algonquins, the Zulus and the Maoris[399]. There can be little doubt that to a large extent the first Nekyia belongs to the same category. At the same time of course I do not mean to imply that it is wholly to be regarded as a folk-tale. In the interview with Agamemnon and his companions (vv. 385-564) we find ourselves in much the same world of ideas as is presented to us in Eiríksmál and Hákonarmál. Again, it is to be remembered that the object of Odysseus' journey was to consult the spirit of Teiresias, and this is perhaps the original kernel of the story. Such an idea however may be derived from ancient religious observances rather than from a folk-tale. Herodotus (V 92) records that Periandros, tyrant of Corinth, about the close of the sixth century, sent an embassy to the oracle of the dead (νεκυομαντήϊον) on the river Acheron in Thesprotis, in order to consult the spirit of his wife Melissa. After making all allowance for antiquarian and etymological speculation[400] it seems probable that this oracle did influence the conceptions of the home of the dead current in Greek poetry.
It would appear then that in the composition of the first Nekyia we have to take account of the influence of at least three different elements—court poetry, folk-tale and religious (necromantic) observances. If we are right in supposing that Aeolis was the true home of all Homeric poetry, the absence of any precise geographical indications is easily accounted for. During the centuries which intervened between the end of the Heroic Age and the beginning of the historical period there is extremely little evidence, whether traditional or archaeological, for communication with distant lands; and it is likely enough that at that time Thesprotis was as unfamiliar as Egypt to the inhabitants of Aeolis. Few scholars will dispute that the geographical indications throughout the story of Odysseus' wanderings are both vague and contradictory. Sometimes he appears to be in the west; sometimes again he is following the track of the Argo—presumably in the Black Sea. That is after all the kind of confusion which might reasonably be expected from poets who were dealing with traditions of voyages made long before in regions now altogether forgotten.
The ascription of supernatural properties to men or animals is not a very striking feature in Homeric poetry—unless we include under this head stories of exaggerated prowess. As an example we may cite Il. XIX 404 ff., where one of Achilles' horses speaks and prophesies his master's death. Incidents such as the flame on the same hero's head in Il. XVIII 205 ff. and the changes in Odysseus' appearance (Od. XIII 429 ff., etc.) are attributed to the direct action of deities. On the other hand exaggeration is common and often carried out systematically. Among such cases we must include the feats of valour performed by some of the combatants, and also presumably the numbers of the forces stated in the catalogues, if we admit that the story of the siege of Troy has any historical foundation.
On the whole it appears that those elements in the Homeric poems which may quite safely be derived from myth or folk-tale resemble the corresponding elements in Teutonic heroic poetry very closely. We may perhaps doubt whether the gods ever figured so conspicuously in Teutonic poetry as they do in the Iliad and Odyssey; but the difference between the two cases is one of degree only. In the use made of folk-tales the difference is very slight. It remains for us now to consider whether the remaining elements in the poems—their main groundwork in fact—should be regarded as of similar origin in both cases.