Tag: icelandic sagas

One interesting thing about the bowstring incident in Njal’s Saga is how differently men and women tend to react to it:

At this moment Thorbrand Thorleiksson leaped up on the roof and cut through Gunnar’s bow string … By this time Gunnar had wounded eight men and killed two. Then he received two wounds, and everyone said he flinched at neither wounds nor death.

He spoke to Hallgerd: ‘Give me two locks of your hair, and you and your mother twist them into a bowstring for me.’

‘Does anything depend on it?’ she said.

‘My life depends on it,’ he said, ‘for they’ll never be able to get me so long as I can use my bow.’

‘Then I’ll recall,’ she said, ‘the slap you gave me, and I don’t care whether you hold out for a long time or a short time.’

‘Everyone has some mark of distinction,’ said Gunnar, ‘and I won’t ask you again.’

I first noticed in Iceland that when I asked about Hallgerður, men tended to have very quick responses: “She was a bitch.” “She was a bad, bad woman.” Women tended to hesitate, think more, and then say things like, “She was a strong woman.” “Women aren’t like they were in the sagas now.”

When I came home, I noticed similar reactions among American men and women to the story. When I tell it (and one of the hazards of my having written worked on Thief Eyes is that I pretty much will talk about Hallgerður and the sagas to anyone who stands still too long), the men tend to sort of give a low whistle, or take a step back, or say words to the effect of “that’s harsh,” or in some other way express, pretty quickly and instinctively, that same sense that Hallgerður was a bitch.

But from the women I tell this story too? There’s a wider range of reactions, but under them all, I’m beginning to understand that there’s an undercurrent of admiration.

When I tell the story here, I don’t, of course, give the whole chain of events that led to that slap–Hallgerður sounds a little more of a victim when the passage above is given in isolation. But even so, the other day I finally articulated one of the things that makes Hallgerður’s action seem so … I want to say transgressive, though maybe that’s too strong a word. Radical, certainly.

It’s that women are trained, from an early age, not to say no, never to put their needs ahead of others, and to always be available when others need them. So when Hallgerður says no, at the very moment when someone needs her most–it is transgressive. She crosses a line we’re trained, from an early age, not to cross even when far less than someone’s life is at stake. We’re taught not to cross it even when someone’s discomfort is at stake.

I can sort of see Hallgerður’s contemporary counterpart telling her friends over coffee after the battle was long over how she really never wanted to give up her hair, how she really ought to have divorced that bastard Gunnar years ago and now she was stuck with him forever, but given the situation, what choice did she have? And all her friends would sigh with her and offer comfort and reassure her that of course she had no choice. And then they’d go on to complain to each other about men in general, and how there was just nothing to be done about them.

Not Hallgerður. By the time we get to the bowstring incident in Njal’s Saga, I think very few readers would say they like her, exactly. To say she was a difficult woman is an understatement. But when she says no at that moment when she’s most expected to act for others, not herself … it’s horrifying, yes … but it’s also daring, and compelling, and so for many of us there’s that admiration, too.

This is fascinating to me. I think I need to keep thinking about it.

So last week, lnhammer and I dropped in on dancinghorse‘s Camp Lipizzan, where sartorias, coraa, metteharrison, rachelmanija, and tcastleb were happily riding and critiquing together for the week. Somehow discussion turned to the sagas, then drifted away to other more fannish things, then drifted back to the sagas. Along the way someone said, hey, wouldn’t it be cool to have a saga fan community? And we all agreed it would.

So feel free to come play over at the new sagafans community. Serious and not-so-serious conversation (as well as fanfic) all encouraged!

Just stumbled upon this bit of (not uncommon) sentiment about Hallgerður–from the 1922 Literature of the World, by William Lee Richardson, Jesse M. Owen, but expressing a sentiment that can still be found echoed in college papers online today:

It does not surprise us that when Gunnar, her husband, infinitely her superior in every way, is hard beset and seeks her aid, she refuses to lift a finger, but answers in a cold, contemptuous way and calmly sees him die. Very different is that loyal wife of Njal in the same saga. She is offered her freedom, but she elects to be burned to death with her husband. “I was given away to Njal young,” said Bergthora, “and I have promised him this, that we should both share the same fate.”

Referring to Hallgerður’s refusing Gunnar two locks of her hair for his bowstring, of course. Posted mostly because it occurs to me that Hallgerður might have a few sharp words to share about the notion that choosing to quietly burn to death beside your husband makes you a good person (not to mention about the blithe assumption that Gunnar is her superior).

And now I’m thinking that in some alternate history somewhere, Bergþóra does not burn by her husband’s side, but puts all her energy into getting out of her burning house–and into getting her grandson, who chooses to burn with her and Njál, out with her. With bonus points if she goes on to help seek vengeance for her husband and sons’ deaths.

And this is why we need Njála fandom. Because I totally want to read about that Berþóra. 🙂

(ETA: Alternately, maybe Bergþóra tries to get herself and her grandson out, and fails, and only afterwards do men start telling versions of the story in which she chose her death, rather than risked her life …)

So via incandragon I found mention of a series of very old-school-looking romances about vikings and navy seals and time travelers. And I thought, this could be the sort of stuff that’s so bad it’s fun, and I began looking them up.

I could just get past the covers, which involved half-naked men draped in furs and half-naked women dressed in bits of flowy silky fabric, in spite of what I know about period clothing. I could get past the plot descriptions themselves. I could almost get past the mention of “hard-bodied warriors.”

It was the mention of “fair maidens” that did me in. (As in, “swept back to an era of hard-bodied warriors and fair maidens.”)

Fair maidens in flowy silky gowns, swooning in the arms of their men. (Thinks of Hallgerður, and Guðrún, and any number of others.)

No one should be allowed to write this stuff without reading the sagas first.

… don’t steal a horse unless you’re a really good poet. Good poetry is the only thing that will keep it from going badly for you if the owner finds you.

Am reading the Saga of Gunnlaug Serpent-Tongue (Gunnlaugs saga ormstungu) and enjoying it more than Hrafnkel Frey’s Godi.

Interesting to watch how I feel about the extensive genealogies that often proceed the introduction of new characters change as I keep reading. At first it was: “Okay, another genealogy, skim skim skim skim skim.” Then, later: “Ah, a long list of names, I’ll just settle on into the saga as I read them, and hey, some of these names are kind of amusing, too.” But more and more it’s becoming, “Oh, hey, I know these people,” with the sense that I can immediately place this saga in the context of other sagas I’ve read, because the scene has been properly set. Which must be closer to how the original audience for the sagas heard them, and part of why those genealogies were there in the first place.

I also love the way the sagas sometimes break the folklore tropes I think I know from other traditions.

Early on in this saga, Þorsteinn tells his wife, Jofrid, that if she gives birth to a daughter, the child must be set out to die, because he’s hoping to avoid the consequences of a dream about men dying on account of that daughter. His wife instead tells her shepherd to take the child away.

Uh, oh, I think. I’ve heard this story. This is the start of some Greek tragedy. It’s the start of any number of tragedies.

So the shepherd brings the child to Þorsteinn’s sister Þorgerður, who has it raised by some of her tenants.

Time passes.

A long time, I think, right? Like just long enough for the child to become an adult and cause trouble, right? I know this story.

Well, no, actually only six years. At which point Þorgerður says to Þorsteinn when he’s visiting one day, See that girl over there?

Yeah, Þorsteinn says, Your daughter has clearly inherited our family’s good looks.

Your daughter, actually, Þorgerður tells him.

Wait, I think, you’re going to have all the tragedy kick in when the girl is only six? That’s harsh.

Huh, Þorsteinn says (more or less). Guess you and my wife have pulled one over on me. Well, what happens will happen. I’ll just take my daughter home with me, then. What did you say her name was again?

Wait, what?

(Sound of folklore trope shattering.)

I’m sure there’ll still be tragedy–we still have Þorsteinn’s prophetic dream to contend with. But it will have nothing at all to do with Þorsteinn’s attempt to kill the child, which everyone quickly forgets.

Right. When unsure what to read next, it’s clearly time for another Icelandic saga. 🙂

This one is Hrafnkels saga Freysgoða—The Saga of Hrafnkel Frey’s Godi–which gets brought up a lot when reading about the sagas. I can see why–it’s both short and very neatly constructed, a sort of textbook case of how blood feuds work in sagas. (Though for the lawsuits, not so much. We just hear “Sam prosecuted his case to the full extent of the law” and, essentially, won. Which left me going, “Wait! Where are all my twisty obscure legal details? What kind of an AlÞing is this?” But never mind that.)

So anyway, as with saga feuds in general, the story begins with small things: a powerful goði (chieftain) with a horse he’s sworn no one but him will ride; the inevitable man who rides the horse anyway; the kin of the dead men who refuse the settlement the goði offers, find themselves too weak to prosecute a case against him, and so need to get an equally powerful goði from another part of the country on their side instead. They win their case (though we never know exactly how), but treat the loser badly in turn, and so things keep escalating.

And then the saga also becomes an interesting study in how blood feuds can be short-circuited–because the whole reason the saga is short is that, when the winner of the lawsuit’s brother is killed, and he goes to his goði allies seeking support once more, those allies pretty much say nope, sorry, we’ve had enough, have enough life. So the winner of the lawsuit, with that support withdrawn, has no choice but to give up and quietly live out the rest of his life, and so the saga ends.

Though part of me keeps thinking of this as the story of a man who was overly fond of his horse. 🙂

Hrafnkel has one animal in his possession that he valued more than others. It was a dun stallion with a dark mane and tail and a dark stripe down its back, which he named Freyfaxi. He dedicated half of this horse to his friend Frey. He had such love for this stallion that he made an oath to bring about the death of any man who rode it without his position.

I’m still wondering just how one dedicates half a horse to a god. (Don’t gods generally prefer whole horses?) But the part that at once amused and sort of moved me was when the horse, having been ridden without permission, returns home to its master.

The stallion was so soaked in sweat that it was dripping off every hair. He was splattered with mud and terribly exhausted. He rolled over some nine times, and after that gave a great neigh. He then set off down the track at great speed …

When the stallion reached the door he neighed loudly. Hrafnkel told one of the women who was serving at the table she should go out, ‘because a horse neighed, and it sounded to me like the neigh of Freyfaxi.’

She went to the door and saw Freyfaxi in a very dirty state. She told Hrafnkel that Freyfaxi was outside the door, looking thoroughly filthy.

‘What should the champion want that he should have come back home?’ said Hrafnkel. ‘This does not mean anything good.’

He then went outside and saw Freyfaxi and said, ‘I don’t like the way you’ve been treated, my foster-son. But you had your wits about you when you told me of this. It will be avenged. Go to your herd.’

The combination of “my foster-son” and “it will be avenged” make it seem very much as if Hrafnkel–an otherwise difficult man at this point in the saga–were talking not to a horse, but to a beloved kinsman. Which one can read as funny or touching or both, depending.