Tales of the Wild and the Wonderful [1825]

by Mary Diana Dods

From wild Hecla’s burning cells,
Where the giant mother dwells,
Who to Lok, in days of yore,
Sin and death and horror bore—
From the Geyser’s boiling springs,
We soar, upborne on rushing wings,
Singing louder as we go,
Blow, ye wild winds, louder blow!

Up from the Dolstein still rise we,
Where about us rolled the sea,
And beneath, for ever whirled,
The master spirit of the world—
From the raging Dofrefeld,
Where green Niord’s feast is held—
From the land of eternal snow,
Blow, ye wild winds, louder blow!

We come, we come! the forests wave,
As above their tops we rave.
Blow winds, blow! the crashing tree
Of our might shall the witness be;
The staggering ship, and the broken mast,
Heaving, rended, sinking last;
And the crash of falling towers,
Speak our presence, and our powers.
Blow winds, blow! to heaven ascending,
Clashing, crashing, crushing, rending,
Wrath on earth and ocean pouring,
O’er the scared world, raging, roaring.

“The storm is indeed terrific now,” said Ildegarda; “I can almost see it in the air, as it scatters the clouds before it: look how the waters rise to meet it, roaring with the fury and force of a cataract!” Amid the uproar, she thought she distinguished other noises than those of the tempest—a sound like the howls and shrieks of pain: she noticed the circumstance to Brandomann. “You are right,” he replied; “look yonder, where a desperate battle is waging, in despite of this scene of tempest. A bear has swum from his mountain territory of Hilseggen to prey upon the flocks of Suarven, one of the few islands in this gulf which is inhabited; a single gallant shepherd has attacked him, but I fear the bear has the mastery: see! the shepherd has lost his staff, and the monster grapples with him closely—he hugs him fiercely!—Is there no way by which I can save him? What, ho! shepherd!—what, ho!—loosen yourself from the grasp of your enemy and fly—stand on the very edge of the rock, and let him spring against you!—So, so—the fellow fears me no less than the bear, yet he obeys—he is crouching—his enemy runs—plunges—ah! ah!—he has lost his balance and dashes headlong into the stream—well, run, shepherd!—He stays not to sing the death-song for his foe.—Good night, friend bear, you will sup with the fish of the Maelstrom to-night!” While they looked on, they beheld the savage animal struggling for his life against the dreadful current, but in vain; borne onward, despite of his roarings, he was soon over the terrible pool, and then whirled rapidly round, till he was sucked down into the bosom of the dismal gulf, which, sages have written, penetrates the globe. Ildegarda pitied the poor bear, whose love of mutton had occasioned him so miserable a fate; but a new wonder now claimed her attention and diverted her thoughts from his sorrows: this was another island, slowly arising from the bottom of the lake, and covered with sea-weeds, becoming stationary at no great distance from Moskoe. Before Ildegarda could point it out to her companions, Serimnor advanced hastily towards Brandomann. “There is mischief abroad, dear brother,” said he; “this storm is not of Niord’s raising. Some friend beloved of Odin, and abhorred of Lok, is certainly in danger; for look who are sporting in the tempest.” He pointed to the bosom of the gulf and to the rocky shore of Otterholm. In the centre of the one, Ildegarda beheld the head of a monstrous serpent reared above the waves, and surveying with fiery eyes the distant sea; and on the other a hideous wolf, with his attention fixed in the same direction, and howling in concert with the storm. The princess shuddered, and, for the first time in her life, drew nearer to Brandomann for protection. “You have nothing to fear, dearest,” said he, “from these monsters whom you behold; they are indeed your foes and mine, for they are the children of Lok, and the enemies of Odin; but they have no power over you, and mine, by the gift of their conqueror, is greater than their own. He whom you see in the waters is the giant snake, whose folds of sin encircle the guilty earth, and who now, from its centre, is bidding defiance to some noble foe of his evil father. Fenris the wolf-dog, guard of hell, appears only when mischief is in the air, to increase, by his cries and the horror of his form, the fears and the danger of his victim. I deem some hapless vessel has approached too near this coast during the calm, and now the storm will drag it to destruction. But let us watch—Hugo and Mumin, stretch out your pinions—fly over the waters, and tell me what you descry.” The messengers of Odin obeyed—they flew over the bosom of the lake—then out towards the boundless and ungirt ocean: suddenly they returned. “A sail! a sail!” said Hugo. “A gallant ship!” cried Mumin; “the whirl has surely caught her, she comes on so rapidly.” Soon, very soon, she neared, and drove onwards, visible to all. Brandomann grasped his club: “Some bold adventurers,” said he, “doubtless, who seek to land upon this island in defiance of the will of Odin; if so, they are lost indeed, for the king of Valhalla has resigned them to the power of the infernals.” It was frightful to mark the force with which the ship drove on. “They make for the island which has just risen from the lake,” said the princess. “Death will too surely greet them there,” replied Brandomann; “for that is no land, but the snare of fiends to beguile; it is the dreadful Kraken, that monster of the deep, who, when the vessel touches him, will sink, and draw it with him”—And the vessel was near the monster, when a piercing shriek from Ildegarda arrested the thoughts of Brandomann. “It is my father!” she cried—“it is my father!—I know his banner—he seeks me on this island—have mercy, Odin!—Oh, Brandomann, if thou lovest me”—“If I love thee!—lo! now I disobey the will of Odin for thee!—judge, then, how dear thou art!” He started from her side, sprung upon Sleipner, darted from the rock, and the next instant Ildegarda beheld his giant form stemming the torrent with a power equal to its own. The wolf beheld him and ran howling away, while a single blow from his mighty club drove the grim serpent beneath the waves, to howl his disappointment in Niftheim. Ildegarda heard none of the consoling speeches addressed to her by her friends; her ear—her eye—her heart, were all with Brandomann: she shrieked aloud. “He will not reach it ere it touches the Kraken,” she cried, “and then all help will be in vain.” “Not so, dear princess,” replied Serimnor; “he acts with the power of Odin, and will save your father; and then what will not his generosity deserve?” “My life—my love!” distractedly replied the wretched Ildegarda, totally incapable of accepting any consolation, and only alive to the danger of her father. “Oh, Odin! save him!” she cried; “and thou, thou the nameless!—the mighty in strength—the blind invincible—preserve the faithful Brandomann!” At this instant the Kraken sunk—the hoof of Sleipner had touched him—and Brandomann sternly approached the vessel: a band of warriors, headed by her father, prepared to oppose him, and Ildegarda beheld their bright weapons gleaming above his head. At this sight, “Harm him not,” she exclaimed; “ye know not whom ye strike!” But the next instant shewed her the folly of her fear and the mighty power of her lover. Heedless of the flashing swords, Sleipner sprung among the warriors, whose arms were now useless in their deadened hands, and Brandomann stood upon the deck, sternly reproving their presumption, and commanding the gallant ship to return home to Denmark. The vessel obeyed—the warriors knew the eight-legged steed of Odin, and were silent; but Haquin accused aloud the murderer of his daughter, for he judged he beheld the lord of the Maelstrom. “Thy daughter lives,” replied the terrible Brandomann; “but she is mine: at her entreaty I have saved thy forfeit life—but approach no more the island forbidden by Odin to mortal foot, else will I resign thee to the fate thy presumption will incur, and which, but for thy daughter’s tears, thou wouldest ere now have tasted. Hence, Haquin, and learn submission!”

Sleipner plunged into the waters, and the vessel, now removed beyond the power of the whirlpool, sailed back to Denmark, while Brandomann returned to Ildegarda, by whom he was received with a welcome far surpassing his hopes or expectations. He said nothing, however, of the important service he had just rendered her; and this delicate conduct, which did not pass unobserved by the princess, created for him an advocate in her bosom stronger than his own entreaties, or those of all his friends united, could have done. She saw how tenderly Brandomann loved her, but she saw also that he was resolved not to give her pain; and, to say the truth, she could not help being pleased by this circumstance: for her gratitude, great as it certainly was, was yet not sufficiently powerful to make so cruel a sacrifice to his happiness. By the time he had landed, the storm had passed from the face of heaven, and all was as calm upon the bosom of the waters as if the fiends of Niftheim had not been raging within it but a few moments before; the party returned to sup in the palace, and all things went on as pleasingly as usual. Days, weeks, passed away, but Ildegarda, no longer wretched in submitting to the sentence she had once thought so cruel, took little heed of time, except to notice the first day of the month, which presented to her anxious eyes the person and occupations of her father. Twice, successively, she had seen him in his tent, surrounded by heroes, amid preparations for war; he was cheerful, and appeared to be encouraging the spirits of a young man, whom Ildegarda knew to be prince Harold, and who, with a gentle, downcast look, was listening to his observations: this was confirmed to her by the accounts of Brandomann, whose cares to lighten her anxieties and anticipate her wishes sensibly affected the generous daughter of Haquin. She took increased delight in his conversation; and he, from whose presence she was at first so anxious to fly, was now frequently summoned to relieve solitude by his cheering conversation. She was herself surprised at the change; and could she have shut from her bosom the thought of her early and beautiful love, Brandomann, even in person, would not have been disgusting. As it was, he daily grew less odious, and daily grew the princess more contented with her lot; the happy society of the marble palace met nightly, and mirth, and song, and tale, gave wings to the cheerful hours.

PART IV.
THE RETURN.

Wilt thou begone?

Shakspeare.

One night when the conversation particularly turned upon the exploits of the ancestors of Ildegarda, Sleipner, who possessed a natural love of noble actions, inquired of the boar whether king Uffon was constant in his attendance upon the nightly festival of the hall of Odin? “He is so, frequently,” replied Serimnor; “but he takes more delight in the combat of the morning—from that he is never absent:—but what an extraordinary history is his!” continued the boar; “it is necessary that he should be in Asgard, for its inhabitants to believe it.” Ildegarda’s attention was aroused; she had never heard of her ancestor, and she entreated Brandomann to indulge her curiosity. He took up his harp immediately—for he appeared to have no occupation so delightful as to obey her slightest wish—and thus related to her the legend of Uffon the Merciful:—

LEGEND OF UFFON.

I.

There was a halo round
The golden crown which shone on Vermund’s brow,
The light of many noble deeds—
Some deathless flowers
From heaven’s immortal tree,
(The abode of changeless destiny,)
Were wreathed
Around his conquering sword:
But years rolled on, and age
Silvered his golden locks—
And then a darkness fell
Heavily on him,
Veiling the beauty of his later day—
For Lok in hate,
Or envy, breathed on him a withering curse—
And he grew blind!

II.

He was a childless man,
And to the gods he prayed
That his own royal diadem might fall
Upon a kindred brow.
He asked a son—
And Odin granted to his agony
The son he craved.
Again the evil one
Blighted the bud of joy—
He laid his dark hand on the infant’s head,
And left its evil shadow on his brain—
He grew an idiot boy!

III.

The Saxon king,
A wild, fierce warrior, heard of Vermund’s grief,
And he did rage to snatch, with greedy hand,
The sceptre of the blind.
Madly he poured
His thousands o’er the land;
The red steel clashed—
The curling fire ran—
The ravens fed
On beauty, and the eagles gorged on strength.
The blind prince trembling heard
His people’s dying groan!

IV.

The Saxon king
Rode, like the thunderbolt, his mighty steed
To the sad Danish camp.
He mocked the king—
And to his peers, with haughty action, said,
“Doth it become
The noble sons of Odin thus to bend
The knee before a blind man, and a fool?”

V.

“Out on thee, wretch!”
The sightless prince exclaimed;
“It more becomes the warrior to protect
Than scorn the weak and aged!—
Mighty!—to thee—
Thee! whom we fear to name—
Thee! strongest pillar of great Odin’s throne—
Thee! dark, but terrible!—whose woe I bear—
Thee! whose most awful name
The reckless echo dares not repeat, and we
Shudder as we pronounce!
HODER!—I call on thee!—
Be thou the judge
Between this wretch and me!”

VI.

The Saxon heard
And shrunk at that dread name—
The nobles groaned—
The father wept, and clasped,
To his chilled heart, his dumb and idiot boy.
When, lo! a wonder!—
His sacred tears fell on the youthful brow
Like holy rain upon the scorched up earth,
And upward to the sun of glory sprung
The buried seeds of intellect—
He spoke!—

VII.

“Ha! scoffer!” said the boy, “didst thou not know
The blind and weak are sacred?”—
His eye shone
With a miraculous light—
“Hark! Saxon churl!
I summon thee unto the field of death—
I, the dumb idiot—I will meet thee there,
And on thy craven bosom write a truth,
That Vermund hath a son—Denmark a prince,
Who will protect their glories!”

VIII.

The day came—
And Uffon’s fiery chariot bore him forth
Unto the battle field—
Less bright—less beautiful
Is Balder when, from Lidscialf’s diamond steps,
He rises to illuminate the worlds
Which wheel caressingly around him—and
Gallantly rode the Saxon.
But the king—
The blind—the father—where is he? He sits
On yonder rock, high o’er the foaming sea,
There to await the battle.
Should he fall—
His own—his only one—
Ocean will catch his form,
And hide his griefs for ever.

IX.

It was a deadly fight
Between the Saxon and the Dane;
And once
There was a scream, as if the inspired boy
Was lost, for he had sunk upon his knee—
But he beheld his father’s sightless eye
Upturned in agony—
And he arose—and then
Another sound was heard—a mighty shout—
The scorner of the blind was slain!

X.

The son—he flew,
A bounding reindeer, to his father’s arms—
He paused—
They were upraised,
In attitude of thankfulness;
His lips
Were pale, and still, and smiling—
But—his heart
Had broke in that fierce struggle—
He was gone—
Heimdaller’s wings were shadowing him, as o’er
The wondrous bridge he trod;
Valkyries bore
His spirit to the foot of Odin’s throne,
To tell of Uffon’s glory.

XI.

Nameless one!
This justice was thy deed—
We worship thee,
Although we love thee not!

“No, truly,” said Serimnor, on the conclusion of the legend; “that would be quite impossible either for heaven or earth: but glory to the good Uffon—few warriors in Valhalla are more esteemed than he. The skull of the impious Saxon is now his drinking cup; and his father, restored to sight, beholds the pledge of victory with undying felicity: and, in the combats and martial sports of the morning, the battle between his noble son and the Saxon is daily renewed, to gladden him with the sound of conquest and triumph over his shadowy foe.” “Look, Serimnor,” said the horse of Odin, interrupting him impatiently, as a bright flash of lightning darted into the hall and played against his head for a moment; “Look, we are again outstaying our time—the son of Rinda is shooting his brilliant arrows, and one has already touched you: let us obey the summons, and not provoke him to make his fatal shafts unerring.” “Away, then!” cried Heidruna. The ravens flapped their wings—Brandomann rose—and the hall was cleared in a moment.