The Book of Were-Wolves by Sabine Baring-Gould (free ebook novel .TXT) 📖

our union must be broken. I will give you the

ring which is under my left hand. You will see the troop of hunters

to-morrow coming to seek me; and when I am dead go to the king, and

ask him to give you what is under the beast’s left front leg. He will

consent.’

 

“He spoke to her of many other things, till the bear’s form stole over

him, and he went forth a bear. She followed him, and saw that a great

body of hunters had come over the mountain ridges, and had a number of

dogs with them. The bear rushed away from the cavern, but the dogs and

the king’s men came upon him, and there was a desperate struggle. He

wearied many men before he was brought to bay, and had slain all the

dogs. But now they made a ring about him, and he ranged around it.,

but could see no means of escape, so he turned to where the king

stood, and he seized a man who stood next him, and rent him asunder;

then was the bear so exhausted that he cast himself down flat, and, at

once, the men rushed in upon him and slew him. The Carle’s daughter

saw this, and she went up to the king, and said,—‘Sire! wilt thou

grant me that which is under the bear’s left fore-shoulder?’ The king

consented. By this time his men had nearly flayed the bear; Bera went

up and plucked away the ring, and kept it, but none saw what she took,

nor had they looked for anything. The king asked her who she was, and

she gave a name, but not her true name.

 

“The king now went home, and Bera was in his company. The queen was

very joyous, and treated her well, and asked who she was; but Bera

answered as before.

 

“The queen now made a great feast, and had the bear’s flesh cooked for

the banquet. The Carle’s daughter was in the bower of the queen, and

could not escape, for the queen had a suspicion who she was. Then she

came to Bera with a dish, quite unexpectedly, and on it was bear’s

flesh, and she bade Bera eat it. She would not do so. ‘Here is a

marvel!’ said the queen; ‘you reject the offer which a queen herself

deigns to make to you. Take it at once, or something worse will befall

you.’ She bit before her, and she ate of that bite; the queen cut

another piece, and looked into her mouth; she saw that one little

grain of the bite had gone down, but Bera spat out all the rest from

her mouth, and said she would take no more, though she were tortured

or killed.

 

“‘Maybe you have had sufficient,’ said the queen, and she

laughed.”—(Hrolfs Saga Kraka, c. 24-27, condensed.)

 

In the Faroëse song of Finnur hin friði, we have the following

verse:—

Hegar íð Finnur hetta sær. When this peril Finn saw,

Mannspell var at meini, That witchcraft did him harm,

Skapti hann seg í varglíki: Then he changed himself into a werewolf:

 

Hann feldi allvæl fleiri. He slew many thus.

 

The following is from the second Kviða of Helga Hundingsbana (stroph.

31):—

 

May the blade bite,

Which thou brandishest

Only on thyself,

when it Chimes on thy head.

Then avenged will be

The death of Helgi,

When thou, as a wolf,

Wanderest in the woods,

Knowing nor fortune

Nor any pleasure,

Haying no meat,

Save rivings of corpses.

 

In all these cases the change is of the form: we shall now come to

instances in which the person who is changed has a double shape, and

the soul animates one after the other.

 

The Ynglinga Saga (c. 7) says of Odin, that “he changed form; the

bodies lay as though sleeping or dead, but he was a bird or a beast, a

fish, or a woman, and went in a twinkling to far distant lands, doing

his own or other people’s business.” In like manner the Danish king

Harold sent a warlock to Iceland in the form of a whale, whilst his

body lay stiff and stark at home. The already quoted Saga of Hrolf

Krake gives us another example, where Bödvar Bjarki, in the shape of a

huge bear, fights desperately with the enemy, which has surrounded the

hall of his king, whilst his human body lies drunkenly beside the

embers within.

 

In the Vatnsdæla Saga, there is a curious account of three Finns, who

were shut up in a hut for three nights, and ordered by Ingimund, a

Norwegian chief, to visit Iceland and inform him of the lie of the

country, where he was to settle. Their bodies became rigid, and they

sent their souls the errand, and, on their awaking at the end of three

days, gave an accurate description of the Vatnsdal, in which Ingimund

was eventually to establish himself. But the Saga does not relate

whether these Finns projected their souls into the bodies of birds or

beasts.

 

The third manner of transformation mentioned, was that in which the

individual was not changed himself, but the eyes of others were

bewitched, so that they could not detect him, but saw him only under a

certain form. Of this there are several examples in the Sagas; as, for

instance, in the Hromundar Saga Greypsonar, and in the Fostbræðra

Saga. But I will translate the most curious, which is that of Odd,

Katla’s son, in the Eyrbyggja Saga.—(c. 20.)

 

“Geirrid, housewife in Mafvahlið, sent word into Bolstad, that she was

ware of the fact that Odd, Katla’s son, had hewn off Aud’s hand.

 

“Now when Thorarinn and Arnkell heard that, they rode from home with

twelve men. They spent the night in Mafvahlið, and rode on next

morning to Holt: and Odd was the only man in the house.

 

“Katla sat on the high seat spinning yarn, and she bade Odd sit beside

her; also, she bade her women sit each in her place, and hold their

tongues. ‘For,’ said she, ‘I shall do all the talking.’ Now when

Arnkell and his company arrived, they walked straight in, and when

they came into the chamber, Katla greeted Arnkell, and asked the news.

He replied that there was none, and he inquired after Odd. Katla said

that he had gone to Breidavik. ‘We shall ransack the house though,’

quoth Arnkell. ‘Be it so,’ replied Katla, and she ordered a girl to

carry a light before them, and unlock the different parts of the

house. All they saw was Katla spinning yarn off her distaff. Now they

search the house, but find no Odd, so they depart. But when they had

gone a little way from the garth, Arnkell stood still and said: ‘How

know we but that Katla has hoodwinked us, and that the distaff in her

hand was nothing more than Odd.’ ‘Not impossible!’ said Thorarinn;

‘let us turn back.’ They did so; and when those at Holt raw that they

were returning, Katla said to her maids, ‘Sit still in your places,

Odd and I shall go out.’

 

“Now as they approached the door, she went into the porch, and began

to comb and clip the hair of her son Odd. Arnkell came to the door and

saw where Katla was, and she seemed to be stroking her goat, and

disentangling its mane and beard and smoothing its wool. So he and his

men went into the house, but found not Odd. Katla’s distaff lay

against the bench, so they thought that it could not have been Odd,

and they went away. However, when they had come near the spot where

they had turned before, Arnkell said, ‘Think you not that Odd may have

been in the goat’s form?’ ‘There is no saying,’ replied Thorarinn;

‘but if we turn back we will lay hands on Katla.’ ‘We can try our luck

again,’ quoth Arnkell; ‘and see what comes of it.’ So they returned.

 

“Now when they were seen on their way back, Katla bade Odd follow her;

and she lea him to the ash-heap, and told him to lie there and not to

stir on any account. But when Arnkell, and his men came to the farm,

they rushed into the chamber, and saw Katla seated in her place,

spinning. She greeted them and said that their visits followed with

rapidity. Arnkell replied that what she said was true. His comrades

took the distaff and cut it in twain. ‘Come now!’ said Katla, ‘you

cannot say, when you get home, that you have done nothing, for you

have chopped up my distaff.’ Then Arnkell and the rest hunted high and

low for Odd, but could not find him; indeed they saw nothing living

about the place, beside a boar-pig which lay under the ash-heap, so

they went away once more.

 

“Well, when they got half-way to Mafvahlið, came Geirrid to meet them,

with her workmen. ‘They had not gone the right way to work in seeking

Odd,’ she said, ‘but she would help them.’ So they turned back again.

Geirrid had a blue cloak on her. Now when the party was seen and

reported to Katla, and it was said that they were thirteen in number,

and one had on a coloured dress, Katla exclaimed, ‘That troll Geirrid

is come! I shall not be able to throw a glamour over their eyes any

more.’ She started up from her place and lifted the cushion of the

seat, and there was a hole and a cavity beneath: into this she thrust

Odd, clapped the cushion over him, and sat down, saying she felt sick

at heart.

 

“Now when they came into the room, there were small greetings. Geirrid

cast of her the cloak and went up to Katla, and took the seal-skin bag

which she had in her hand, and drew it over the head of Katla. [1]

Then Geirrid bade them break up the seat. They did so, and found Odd.

Him they took and carried to Buland’s head, where they hanged him…

. But Katla they stoned to death under the headland.”

 

[1. A precaution against the “evil eye.” Compare _Gisla Saga

Surssonnar_, p. 34. Laxdæla Saga, cc. 37, 38.]

 

CHAPTER IV.

 

THE ORIGIN OF THE SCANDINAVIAN WEREWOLF.

 

One of the great advantages of the study of old Norse or Icelandic

literature is the insight given by it into the origin of world-wide

superstitions. Norse tradition is transparent as glacier ice, and its

origin is as unmistakable.

 

Mediæval mythology, rich and gorgeous, is a compound like Corinthian

brass, into which many pure ores have been fused, or it is a full

turbid river drawn from numerous feeders, which had their sources in

remote climes. It is a blending of primæval Keltic, Teutonic,

Scandinavian, Italic, and Arab traditions, each adding a beauty, each

yielding a charm, bat each accretion rendering the analysis more

difficult.

 

Pacciuchelli says:—“The Anio flows into the Tiber; pure as crystal it

meets the tawny stream, and is lost in it, so that there is no more

Anio, but the united stream is all Tiber.” So is it with each

tributary to the tide of mediæval mythology. The moment it has blended

its waters with the great and onward rolling flood, it is impossible

to detect it with certainty; it has swollen the stream, but has lost

its own identity. If we would analyse a particular myth, we must not

go at once to the body of mediæval superstition, but strike at one of

the tributaries before its absorption. This we shall proceed to do,

and in selecting Norse mythology, we come upon abundant material,

pointing naturally to the spot whence it has been derived, as glacial

moraines indicate the direction which they