434: Norse Mythology: The Old Man and the Stick

This week, on Myths and Legends, we're back in Norse myth with the story of Skeethy. We'll see what happens when the smartest famous guy in the world gets called a Valhalla to fix a problem for Odin, and that, if you're riding with Thor on his goat chariot, you probably shouldn't eat weak old fish right before the trip. The creature this time is yet another reason not to litter. You might get pulled under the water by an octopus shark with hands. This is Myths and Legends, episode 434, The Old Man and the Stick. This is a podcast where we tell stories from mythology and folklore. Some are incredibly popular tales you might think you know, but with surprising origins. Those are stories that might be new to you, but are definitely worth a listen. At long last, we are back in Norse myth. We burned through those stories very early on in the podcast, with Ragnarok being episode 80. We always have the sagas of course, but it is nice to be back in the world of Thor, Odin, Loki, Freya, Heimdall and others. What we call Norse myth was the predominant religion of the Nordic countries, in Northern Europe up until the 9th or 10th century, and we only have a few sources for it. The most comprehensive written by a Christian in the 13th century. Today's work was written in the 15th or 16th century, but we'll get to all that in the wrap up. Today, we take a trip along the world tree to Asgard to solve a problem that takes a famous smart man. Or a smart famous man. What's the difference? Well, you'll see. But before we get to Skeethy, our hero, we'll check in with Odin, who is still out looking for recruits to fight for him at the end of the world. Odin was flying home in the form of an eagle, having gone to go claim the last of the Volsungs. He kind of forgot there were still some of those guys milling around out there. Hamdir and Sorley worked Sons of the Queen, Guthrun, who worked them up to kill their half-sisters murderer. They also gave them a cryptic message to not harm the stones on the road. The boys kept asking what was up with their mom's eye. Did she have something in it? She said no, those are winks. Don't harm the stones on the road. They shrug. Mom's so weird. Must be her tragic childhood. They let their mom's weirdness go, but they did not let the dismissive stranger that they met on the road go when he was rude. Kind of. He said something cryptic about being a stepping stone. He too had a weird habit of winking. Must have been allergies. He didn't have to worry about those allergies anymore though, because allergies don't affect the dead. When they arrived at the domain of Jormenrech, the king who murdered their sister, Svon Hilder, they bravely killed him in his sleep. Or meant to. Wanting to make it last and savor the revenge, they cut off his hands and feet first, and then they found themselves wrestled to the ground by housecarls. Turns out when you cut off someone's hands and feet, they scream. A lot. Swearing, Hamdir remarked that Erper, their half-brother they were supposed to meet on the road but who never showed, wouldn't have made this mistake and just cut off the head. Sorely, the other brother, you know, just remembered how their mom said not to kill stones on the road, and that guy called himself a stone, and, oh, we accidentally killed our half-brother. This is the worst result of a road murder of all time, Hamdir said. As the housecarls were trying, to no avail, to stab both brothers in the face. He was wrong, of course, because the story of Oedipus is a thing, and because the assassins, the Supervol song bros, were actually enchanted. No weapon forged by human hands could bite them. They were invincible. Uh, why not just throw rocks at them? The one-eyed wanderer who was not Odin said, he opened every conversation by denying he was Odin, so that issue should be settled. Forever, it was a little weird that they were so obsessed with him, he meant Odin. Throw rocks at the boys, just throw rocks at them. So that's how Hamdir and Sorely died, and they were claimed by Valkyries to go to Odin's ever-expanding hall, Valhalla, to prepare for the end of the world. On Odin's flight back, though, he spotted something. Wait, seriously? Those guys were still at it? Hoggni and Hethyn. It was a long story, one we've actually partially told on this podcast. To recap, Hoggni had a daughter named Hildur, and Hoggni was a great king. Hethyn was also a great king, but he wasn't above a little light kidnapping when it came to wooing his future spouse. Really stretching the word wooing. I say light kidnapping because, while yes, Hethyn did invade Hoggni's kingdom and take Hildur by force, she, apparently, wasn't into it but didn't dislike Hethyn, presumably. Let's assume all the motivations of the daughter in question were detailed fully because they definitely mattered to the medieval writers, but were just lost to time. Can't really think of any other reason why it wouldn't be included. Hoggni was not happy about Hethyn kidnapping his daughter, and followed word of the pair across the sea to the Orkney Islands in modern-day Scotland. Sloshing to the shore flanked by dozens of his best warriors to find his daughter, Hoggni found her waiting. Hildur informed her father that her betrothed Hethyn did not desire reconciliation, and Hoggni should prepare for battle. So Hoggni drew his sword, dainleaf. Hey, woo, Hethyn said, jogging to meet the warriors at the shore. Wow, nice sword. We, I, you know, I think we got off on the wrong foot since I kidnapped your daughter. Let me just say I don't want any bad blood. Dad, when you marry someone, you marry their family. So you want gold? Way too much gold? Huh? Huh? Hoggni's side. Yes, of course. Why didn't you come to me sooner? I heard you wanted to kill me, so I already drew dainleaf. Oh, it has a name too? That's so cool. Ethan bit his lip. Oh wait, wait, wait, wait. Is it dwarven made? Don't tell me it's dwarven made. I, I just can't. I'm so jealous. I want the dwarves to make a sword for me too, but they're so hard to catch because they hate being like enslaved and forced to make things. Yes, they are crafty. It's a good sword, Hoggni said, admiring the blade. It never fails its stroke and must cause a man's death every time it's drawn. Moreover, the wound heals not if one be scratched with it. Ethan said, oh, cool. That's, that's neat. That's real neat. Hoggni looked at him. What? He was gushing over the sword and then just stopped. I, I, you know, I really, I don't want to make this a thing, dad, but it's just, it's a little inconsistent is all. What is inconsistent? Hoggni glared and looked nervously at a sword. Oh, well, okay. So let's let's parse this out. It hits every time. Great. A scratch from it won't heal. Also great. But do you see how those two things don't really fit together? Hot cheeks, framed Hoggni's snarling teeth as Ethan continued. And I mean, some of us don't need magic swords. From what I hear, you're boasting a lot about your sword, but not your skills. So, well, we're fighting to the death. And they were. Hoggni and Dane's leaf would take a life and many others that day. But so would Ethan and his side. They fought all day as Odin sat next to Hildre, watching. And they do this every day. Same conversation and everything. Odin said as the last member of Hoggni and Ethan's Viking warriors lay dying at dusk, almost down to the word Hildre side and rose. Waving her hands, the magic she knew snaked from her person to each and every one of the corpses on the battlefield. Severed hands crawled to their owners, gaping wounds zipped back up. Death became sleep as they shambled back to their boats and camps. How many times have you too many? Way too many. Hildre interrupted Odin. Yeah, I mean, I know. I was here the first time you revived them, Odin said. I thought, oh cool, she knows Sather Magic and it'll be like a metaphor for the destructive rage that these undying cycles of revenge can bring, kind of. I also got bored and went off to do other stuff. But didn't you leave or only revive one side? Well when it comes to only reviving one side, the magic doesn't really work like that. And I can't sail a ship on my own, so I need at least one of them and I'd like it to be my dad, so here we are. Sather scooped her knees up into an embrace and put her chin on them. Alright, I'm calling it. Odin slapped his own knee and rose. Dead, dead, dead. They're all dead. Odin pointed. They all got to go to Valhalla. Hildre could come too, she didn't even have to die. Shrugging, Hildre said, sure. Okay. Putting fingers on either side of his mouth, Odin whistled. Valkyries, come and get these guys. Clean up an Isle Hoy. And turned with a grin. Because the island they're on is named Hoy, but it's also an Isle that needs to be cleaned up so it works in both ways. You know what, never mind it, it sounded better in my head. The hands of the beggar are stretched toward the bishop, as the man passed. The bishop left only a shadow, and that for just a moment. Some pious man you are. Finding their way to the bishop's ear through Skeethy's crooked teeth and greasy beard, the words halted the man. Fine fabrics and fur spun over the stones, as the bishop studied the vagrant, resting on the bricks of the church, his church. What did you just say? The bishop asked, holding up a hand to silence the priest that walked behind him. Some pious man you are. Skeethy looked left and right. And who are you? What have you done? I'll tell you who I am. I am a pious man. I was raised in the church and became a priest. I was so pious that I'm now a bishop. The bishop said, flecks of spit growing more numerous with the volume of his voice. This drew more eyes from the surrounding stalls and citizens. Oh, sorry, I think we might have our anachronistic wires crossed here. That was sarcasm. Skeethy, the beggar said. I meant that you're not pious because you don't give to the poor. Me? Hold on, let me think. Who was it that said you should give to the poor? Oh yeah, God, Skeethy said, shaking his head. Also, you best watch who you're talking to. I stood toe to toe with Odin. For God, so yeah. Maybe the bishop saw that the optics of getting into a shouting match with a beggar in the street who claimed to fight Odin weren't great. Maybe he was just tired. Whatever it was, the bishop turned and told the priest that he was walking with to resume speaking. Start from the beginning, though. He hadn't been paying attention to any of that. You met Odin, a voice chimed behind the bishop. A glance over his shoulder and he could see the child emerging from behind a stall to go speak with the beggar. More people were gathering. Oh, I did. I was taken to Asgard by Thor himself because Odin needed me, Skeethy said. Taking his arms out wide and standing to his feet. Would you like to hear the story of how I, Skeethy, saved Valhalla? A wave of head nods radiated out from the child, saved for the bishop standing there like a rock in the stream. He... this could get out of hand. Skeethy, this beggar, was a troublemaker. And while the bishop reckoned that he couldn't do more to Skeethy than life had already done, he might need to assert control over the situation. And to do that, he needed to stay. Flatfish, Skeethy asked, pulling something from his... Butterpig, Skeethy saw the child inspecting it. It was a big, greasy leather bag that he carried his food in. It was kind of shaped like a pig. No takers, Skeethy laughed. Their loss. It wasn't. But the beggar looked up to the sky. You know what? He was actually eating flatfish from the old Butterpig that night, too. We'll get into Skeethy's epic tale of heroism and indigestion, but that will be right after this. It can be a struggle to know what to get mom for Mother's Day. Flowers are nice, a fruit basket, sure. But what if it was more than one day? One moment. What if it could last a whole year and, at the end of it, you could have a physical book full of stories that only she could tell? Here's how it works. Each week, Storyworth sends a question about her life. There are pre-written questions you can write your own, and there are so many ways for her to respond. 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His tall, lanky frame never let him be much of a drinker, and it did make finding beds difficult, but he wouldn't have to find a bed, not tonight. Even though he was in the house of a prominent farmer, who heard of how much help he was to Thorgyll's down the road, a farmer with beds to spare, Skeethie curled up on the stones and laid his head on the warm, slippery pillow that was butter pig. Knowing that he was still a few minutes from having to answer the rumbles in his abdomen, he closed his eyes, handed his worries to the growing fuzziness of his inebriation, swore off eating three week old flat fish out of butter pig again, and fell asleep. For exactly fifteen seconds. A flash and a rumble, and Skeethie awoken a panic, oh no! After a quick look down and seeing that the worst had not, in fact, happened, he breathed, okay, it was just a thunderstorm. Hmm, that came on quickly, he had just been outside, it was a nice summer night. A balmy sixty Fahrenheit, fifteen Celsius, and clear. While mentally parsing meteorological peculiarities, he glanced around the room and noticed some social peculiarities. Or physical. He wasn't sure what had gone wrong when everyone in the room was frozen in the middle of what they were doing, but everyone in the room was frozen in the middle of what they were doing. Butter pig hanging off of his back, Skeethie grabbed a mead horn from the hand of the host. It slid out, but the man's hands remained there, six inches from his mouth. Skeethie poked the hand and then tried to move it, it was locked in place. Even the fingers, no! That pinky finger snapped right off, oh my gosh! Skeethie nearly threw up and just let the pinky that was still attached by skin, dangle there to heal on its own. A flash and another rumble, and the doors at the end of the longhouse flew open. As soon as the wind snaked past all the candles and flame, whisking them away to nothing. There, in the doorway, a man stood nearly as tall as Skeethie. Sparks crackled through his scraggly hair, arcing from the hammer tucked in his belt. Outside, two goats chewed the grass in front of the man's chariot. You, you're, Skeethie pointed. Thor, the stranger asked. Always nice to meet a fan. Skeethie cocked his head as his eyes adjusted to the moonlight. Oh, well, he kind of expected Thor to be taller and buffer and blonde-er. Taking a deep breath, Thor said that he was a little annoyed that that's what people always led with. He was an acer, an actual god. He controlled lightning and had a magical goat chariot that doubled as an all-you-cared-to-eat-daily-goat buffet. No, please focus on the fact that he was a little scraggly and had red hair. Thor from mythology has red hair. Please get over it. Hey, I love scraggly. Skeethie pointed to his own wild hair and his grease-madded beard. Nodding with approval at Skeethie's sense of style, Thor informed the beggar that the acer knew all about him. They, they do? Skeethie was confident, sure, but even that seemed like a stretch. After famous, Thor said, as if he was stating that the sky was blue or that he had a canonical shard of whetstone lodged in his forehead from his fight with Hrung near the giant. King Odin has called on you to feast with him. He will give you gold for reconciling a dispute. Famous, it turns out, to the acer, at least, was just a numbers game. Remember that this was the Middle Ages and most humans only knew, like, I don't know, 20 to 50 people tops. Skeethie had been traveling the country out of necessity since he was, well, a boy. And while, yes, people like kings or yarls or even scalds, court poets, might be more famous when they were going down their list looking for the smartest famous person, Skeethie's name came up first. Skeethie was pretty smart, so while he might be able to see the error in their methodology and that he might be famous and he might be smart but he wasn't famous for being smart, he was smart enough to not correct the error and told the God of Thunder that he would be happy to help. Skeethie tiptoed across the room. None of these guys were going to wake up while he was here, he had gathered that much, but he didn't want another pinky incident. Making it to the door, he found that he was nearly eye to eye with the God of Thunder. He was maybe a little bit taller, though our wave skeethied to the chariot. Skeethie stepped aboard and the goats pulled the pair into the night. Skeethie had to hand it to Thor. The guy was tough, goat hooves galloped across the glacier fields, and the wind felt like it was slicing at Skeethie's face. You want a goat? Thor yelled out over the wind. Do you have one? Skeethie yelled back as best as he could, through his teeth that were chattering on the verge of shattering. Two, Thor yelled. They regenerate each morning, so goats always on the menu. Also it's the only thing on the menu. Skeethie said he thought that Thor said, coat. He didn't want to eat the equivalent of the man's engine. They absolutely needed that to move. Thor laughed. Yes, that does make sense. So I guess sorry, maybe later. You're a smart one. We had a guy who helped out with stuff like that. That's actually why we need you. The Northern Lights lit Thor's pleasantly smiling face. Uh, I have to ask, what happened to your last smart one? Skeethie said as he tried to position his butter pig in front of him to block any of the wind. Oh, Thor looked surly. Loki used to be cool. But like, a bud you can't tell about your plans to wipe the giants? The Yatnar from the Nine Worlds without him getting all judgy is not a bud at all. Thor was yelling now, despite the wind dying down. I mean, a friend who's willing to try to set you right even at the risk of the friendship itself is really probably someone you want in your life. Skeethie mused aloud. Then he realized that Thor was glaring at him. Skeethie cleared his throat. Sorry, he was thinking about just a different situation entirely. Loki should definitely be more supportive of his genocide. That was not cool. He did not support Thor part. Thor glowered and then softened. You're alright, Skeethie. Skeethie could acknowledge that saying that felt bad, but being pushed out of the chariot into the freezing ocean would feel worse. The shores of Norway approached quickly and then they were underneath the chariot as it slowed. On the beach in the middle of the night, an old man sat. You there, Thor pointed. Crossed arms rested on the belly of the prophet, sitting on a stool. Yep, Omathur said. The way is open for a few more hours, just across Norway, Denmark, Finland, and then into Asgard beyond, quote, the world of Asia. Ugh, you guys really need to update your maps. Good work, Thor called out. I know, Omathur rejoined. It's so special about this dweeb that your dad had to wake me up in the middle of the night to watch these paths along the world tree. A, quote, necklace is more special than him. Not even a nice one. You keep my name out of your mouth, Skeethie pointed. I didn't say your name, Omathur called back. I don't know it because I don't care who you are, no one does. The Acer are going to chew you up and spit you out. Stop the chariot, Skeethie commanded Thor. One looping butter pig and reaching for his staff. Thor thought they probably should get on the road, but he wanted to see how this played out, sure. You want to go? Omathur said. Oh, hold on, his foot was asleep. I want the whole thing, Skeethie leapt from the chariot and then winced at that thing where you land flatfooted and the pain shoots up your leg. I'm sorry, what? Omathur asked. What, you said, you want a piece of me and I said I want the whole thing? He said, and he did want the whole thing. Omathur rolled his eyes and Skeethie raised his staff and attacked. Life isn't a D&D attribute sheet because it's not a zero sum game. There's something of a false dichotomy between intelligence and strength. From nerds who do enough research in their teens to understand how building muscle works, to middle-aged men with divorced guy energy and beyond, anyone can get jacked. Just because you're the smartest person in the world doesn't mean that you also can't be the strongest. That is not the case in the current situation, though. Skeethie was not strong. His constitution modifier was high because he had a lot of stamina and grit, but that blow bounced off Omathur, barely even leaving a welt. Omathur was a strength guy, but his dexterity and therefore speed were low, so he had trouble hitting Skeethie. He caught the staff the next time Skeethie swung it, wrenched it from the beggars' hands, and tossed it on the rocks. Thor had been watching fights for years, even fights that could barely be called fights, like when Vikings raided monasteries. He called out to the pair that this was making him sad like even those fights didn't manage. There was way too much slapping and attempted biting here. Spending the chariot, he grabbed Skeethie, pulled him in, thanked Omathur, and sped off east toward the world of Asia. Thor and Skeethie were in the forest until they weren't. Tree roots found their way to the surface until they joined together. It's then became like the trunk of a tree that had fallen and half submerged in the dirt, but stretched still onward, joining others of that size until the entire forest floor was bark. When the shadow of the wood gave way to shimmering, glorious light, Skeethie knew they were no longer on Midgard. Middle Earth, but not that Middle Earth, no worries, Tolkien Estate, no infringement here. They were no longer in Midgard, the world of the humans. They were traveling along the world tree, Yggdrasil. They were in Asgard. Wessening, the roots separated and submerged until Thor and Skeethie were riding along a verdant field, with the city of the Aesir shining in the distance. Skeethie looked back and only saw the endless expanse of the Asgardian realms behind him. You're probably wondering, hey, what about the Bifrost Bridge and Idris Elba and all that? For reasons we'll touch on a little bit later that are pretty relevant to today's plot, the authors of the medieval Norse sagas are a little cagey when it comes to the divinity of the Aesir. There are versions of this myth where Odin is not a god, but instead a king in Asia, a faraway land. The story doesn't mention them taking the Bifrost, but I also don't like Odin as just a king because that's not the story I'm telling. Many of the sagas of heroes just slip into other realms. They mostly find themselves inexplicably in Jotunheim. Many of the Jotunhar find their way to Midgard, as in the story we told not too long ago. I thought that by using these sorts of rifts along the world tree, I could keep it somewhat faithful while also ignoring the writers' attempts to water down Norse myths so they could actually tell the story in a Christianized Iceland and Scandinavia. They rode past the city gates and Skeethie marveled at the towers that shined like gold. The massive houses in the pristine streets that weren't absolutely flowing with human excrement like those in medieval Europe at this time. Up ahead, a long house grew. We have time. We should get you dressed. Thor said, as he pulled his goats over. 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For the first time in his life, Skeethie was speechless. His beard was still scraggly, but now it shadowed resplendent robes and cloaks. The place was a marvel. Beams that seemed to stretch on for miles held floor upon floor of feasting warriors. Mead that flowed from the udders of a goat that lived on the roof, down wooden troughs passed all who might dip their cup for a drink, ended in a basin at the bottom, one that was never in danger of overflowing. The clash of swords and slosh of drink kept the men both sharp and complacent until the day they were needed, until the end of the world, when the wolf and the serpent would comfort them from beyond the enclosure. But that day would not be this day. This was a day of celebration because Skeethie had come to solve all of their problems. Or at least the main one. Thor pointed out everyone on the first floor. Ragear-tier and Hroth-crocky, Osmund, Ragnar-Lothbrook and Ragnar-Sons including Ivar the Boneless, Regan the Dwarf made it somehow, and was sitting next to Thorstein Mansion Might, the Viking that was bigger than doors. Sigurd Hrings sat feasting at a table with his sons, though always within view of a darkened corner, populated only by two hateful reptilian eyes that looked out on the heroes. What's with all that? Skeethie pointed. Thor looked nervously. That was Fafnir. Covered him back in episode 3a. My dad didn't technically invite him here, so that's his corner. We don't talk about the Fafnir corner. Skeethie didn't recognize them, but he knew the Volsung family when he saw them. Seen up near Odin, Frigg, Freya, Heimdall, Tyr and the others. It would have been a grand and stately photo-op, if not for the shouting. He took my daughter, Hogney shouted, spit flinging on Odin's table, but this was before Jermtheory, so they were all actually pretty okay with it. She wants to be with me, heathen yelled back. Who cares what she wants? That's not a value we have in this time period. Hogney shouted back. Scandinavia is surprisingly progressive when it comes to the rights of women in the Middle Ages when compared to the rest of medieval Europe and beyond. Heathie rejoined. That's a very low bar, Hogney yelled. Agreed, but I'm still going to marry your daughter after being betrothed to her in life. Over my dead body, again, Hogney called out and made to draw his weapon. Thor turned to whisper to Skeethie, this is where you come in. You solve this and you're the guest of honor. You can ask anything you want of my dad. Odin's eye widened when he spotted Skeethie. Everyone, this was Skeethie. Oh yeah, Skeethie, let's all focus on this and not all the yelling and stuff from Midgard. You know, I am clever, but I hear you're the smartest famous person on earth. Odin blinked. Skeethie actually couldn't tell if it was a wink or a blink. Didn't matter, he would take the compliment. Thank you, all father, Skeethie bowed. Now I have something to ask of you, Odin rose. This fur cloak swishing as he freed an arm to put it around Skeethie. In God's name, I pledge to do anything you ask. Skeethie stood up tall. Odin paused. Oh, we actually don't talk about that here. Not a big deal. You didn't know, but now you do. Oh, I'm so sorry. Skeethie swallowed hard. Yeah, like I said, not a big deal. I understand you're sorry. Not as sorry as you're going to be if you do it again. Odin laughed. Just joking. Just joshing. Okay, but don't do it again. I'll smack you right in the mouth. So Odin continued. Before we get down to it, I heard you lost a staff on the way here. Skeethie realized that yeah, he did. That jerk in Norway took it. I've had the dwarves working on something just for you. Odin stretched out his arm. Swinging open, the heavy doors revealed a dwarf striding through, carrying a new staff for the smartest famous man. Skeethie felt it. It was light, but even just tapping the ground, he cracked a stone on the floor of Valhalla. Wow. He wouldn't have any issues dealing with snarky profits now. He was sorry about the stone, by the way. Don't worry about that. The dwarves will fix it. They love meaningless toil for others. Odin said and then clapped. Loki! Loki, wearing both a grimace and the cause of that grimace, Skeethie's butter pig entered the room. We heard you had a weird greasy bag called a butter pig. It was stuffed with rotting food and shaped like a pig. We didn't know quite what to do with it, so I just dumped out everything in there and had Loki fill it with butter. A tear almost came to Skeethie's eye. He had never seen butter pigs so healthy and butterful. Loki handed him the bag and then just went to throw out all those clothes because they were practically transparent with the grease. The haul clapped for Odin's generosity. Now I presume Thor has filled you in on our little hiccup. I have one more thing to ask of you all, Father. Skeethie turned and announced to the haul. Oh my, kind of just gave you a staff of amazing craft dwarf ship and topped up your weird pig bag, but sure, one more thing Odin said for the haul to hear. I desire a wife. Skeethie strode. Sure, you have your pick. Anyone but my mistress Freya and Frey, my wife, I probably should have led with her. Odin backtracked. Skeethie leaned in, speaking once again only to Odin. I went, hildre the slender. Wow, I'm not sure where this is going. Odin began to grow worried. That's why I'm the most famous smart man. Skeethie whispered with a wink. Smartest famous man, Odin corrected, but you better be sure about this. Oh, I'm sure. Skeethie looked as bright to be, to be, over. Odin informed the man that it would need to be cleared by her father. The fact that it wasn't last time had led to so much drama. You think I would have lasted this long if I couldn't butter up rich guys? They act like they're so smart and worldly and wise, but they care about one thing. Watch this. Skeethie whispered as he patted Odin's chest with the back of his hand and sauntered over. My lord. Skeethie bowed. I humbly request your daughter's hand in marriage. Three simultaneous, what? of various pitches and intensities erupted from Hogney, Heathen and Hildre. She is betrothed to me, Heathen shouted. Technically you stole her and you were mean about my sword. So no, she's not, Hogney said. Wait, is that your sword? Skeethie pointed. An amazing sword. The only thing that would make it cooler is if it had a name. Hogney smiled. Well get ready. After about 15 minutes of listening to how cool Hogney's sword was and how cool Hogney was for having such a cool sword, Hogney looked the 60 year old vagabond up and down and then asked why the man wanted to marry his daughter. Well, I'll be real. I hardly care about her. I just want to be your illustrious family. I truly don't think it gets the honor or respect it deserves. It did. He was getting special treatment from Odin, the all father in Valhalla, but the irony of people who kind of make it their whole life and personality to seek after fame and glory seems to be that to them there is no such thing as enough fame and glory. So Skeethie was speaking this man's language. Odin turned to Hildre, asking the young lady what she thought of the match. Well, I have pledged myself to Heathen, though I had just been kidnapped so there was no small amount of duress in that pledge. I'm also really tired though, so with my father's consent to it, I do not scorn Skeethie. Really, Heathen said, this is how it ends, huh? You rejecting me for a 60 year old beggar? He's the most famous smart man on Midgard. Hogney, the dad, piped in. Smartest famous man, Odin corrected. Once again, that was a really important point. Even still, Heathen said, I just, it was worth fighting and dying day after day for you as I learned that we did but never actually experienced. But all that was worth it if you loved me back. Now though, I'll find something, someone else to live for and die for. Heathen said as he opened his arms and closed his eyes. What are you doing? Odin asked. I'm ready to go back. Heathen opened one eye. Oh, that's not something you can do. You died, like, a lot. You can stay here and party until the end of the world though. Odin gestured to the consolation party. Nice, Heathen grinned, and went off to go fill his cup. And just like that, the eternal feud between Heathen and Hogney was over. Skeethy, the smartest famous man on Midgard, had solved it. He extended his, the story tells us, grimy hand to Hildre. And Odin began the wedding ceremony. When it was over, Odin provided the dowry, India, and presented the couple to sporadic claps. And praise for the couple was strained through grimaces. There were whispers, of course, but it was the words that sparked the trouble. When Sif whispered to Thor, Skeethy looks rather loudish to me, and that whisper found Skeethy's ear, the vagabond, who, yeah, did look rather loudish, gasped and instinctively crossed himself to ward off the evil of the remark. Heimdall, Odin said with a nod, and Heimdall, who was standing next to Skeethy, smacked him in the mouth. What in God's name was that? Skeethy said as he spat out blood and a tooth? He got in a lot of fights. He couldn't lose too many more of those. With another nod from Odin, Heimdall hit Skeethy, this time with a closed fist, laying him out on the floor. How dare you hit my kin, I just met! Hogney, his father-in-law, cried out, raising his axe and bringing it down on Heimdall's armor. It glanced and chipped, little more than scratching the surface. But Heimdall took it as the offense that it was, and smashed his drinking horn over Hogney's head. Like World War I, a chain of alliances and family ties drew the entirety of the room, and soon Valhalla, into conflict. Those that feared for Odin and resented anyone attacking the Acer attacked Hogney's kin, who also had their own alliances and family ties, drawing all of them into the web of destruction. Skeethy, for his part, wasn't going to take this disrespect lying down. When he regained consciousness, he decided to test out his new staff. He immediately respected the craft dwarf ship, when he put it through the chest of a famous Norse hero from the sagas. The fight got bloody, for a room of guys who were already technically dead. Sigurd, the most famous of the Volsungs and the hero of legend, drew Gram, the magic sword, and in an instant, though no one would have been able to tell, the darkened corner that held Fafnir was silent. The sword had a lengthy history, told in episodes 3A through 3D, I believe. But broken and reforged, it was wielded by Sigurd when he slew Fafnir. Now it was coming down hard on Skeethy's new staff. But that was all it did. Slowly cracking a second time, the sword rang out on the dwarf in metal, but stopped. With the sweep of his arm, and the magical staff, mostly the magical staff, Skeethy cracked the stones of the nearby foundation with Sigurd's body. With this, the dragon in the corner rose. Fafnir wasn't an acer, vaneer, dwarf or elf. He wasn't a frost or fire giant. He was something beyond comprehension and a danger even to Odin and Thor. And he was coming for Skeethy. We can't know what was going on in Fafnir's mind, but maybe the old scar on his belly was burning when he watched the sword that killed him fail against a scraggly wanderer. The room fled from the dragon's poisonous breath. Fafnir reared in victory, that he would be vindicated by defeating the man who had defeated the man who had defeated him. The dragon went down for the bite, the killing blow, and stopped. After the first heaving, Skeethy held the staff aloft, pinning it between the gum and the dragon's largest tooth. Skeethy grinned. Sigurd had to dive out of the way when Fafnir, flung by the staff, hit the wall. And as the dragon scrambled shamefully back to the shadows, Skeethy, still catching his breath, looked down. A giant tooth had landed by his side. He scooped it up and shoved it into his pocket. Odin, fighting off one of his own warriors, called to the Acer. They had made a grave error inviting Skeethy to Valhalla. They must force him out. Those allied with Skeethy and Hogney resisted, but everyone parted for him. Thor, Mjolnir crackled as he took it from his belt, and, striding forward, Skeethy backed up to the door. A yell and a crack from inside Valhalla blew open the doors and windows as the form of Skeethy rolled to a stop on the stones. Still holding the staff, Skeethy rose to his feet as he inspected it. Even taking a hit from Mjolnir, there wasn't even a mark on it. Spitting out two of his teeth, he could not say the same for himself. The Acer stood before the doors of Valhalla, with Odin, Freya, Tyr, Thor, and others, though battered themselves, ready to fight to the end. But not if they didn't have to. Leave, now, Thor commanded. Skeethy spat out another tooth, ready to staff and said, No. He could see a worried glance pass between the most powerful beings in Asgard. Well, not without Butterpig, at least, he yelled. What? Odin turned to his son. Butterpig, it's his greasy bag that he has, Thor said with a shrug. Loki, Freya yelled and Loki answered. He was actually outside of Valhalla. Coming back, he had missed the whole fight. Go get this jerk's grease hog bag. Butterpig, Skeethy yelled. I literally just changed. Loki said before he leaned in here and wait, were they fighting in there? He missed it? Then with a grumble, Loki said that he would go get the pig bag. A minute or so later, Loki emerged with Butterpig, itself still laden with potent Asgardian butter, which was once again making a slick sheen on Loki's shirt. And in it to Thor, he announced that he would go change. Again. I'll take that, Skeethy held at his hands. Yeah, you will, and never come back, Thor threw the bag. Skeethy caught the Butterpig in the chest and, as he staggered backward, he thought he saw, under his feet, the road shift and break into a whole spectrum of colors. That was the last thing he remembered. Skeethy awoke to weeping. He was lying in the grass. It was day and the sky was a dull gray, not the golden warmth of Asgard. He knew that he was back home, on Midgard. As he sat up, his tongue found another tooth that was about to go and he ripped it out. Next to him, a man lay screaming. Another worker on the farm. His arm dangled at revolting angles. Two more were still unconscious. No, no, no, stop! One cried as another dog went for Butterpig. They were too late. Too rich for mortal stomachs, or at the very least, mortal dog stomachs, that dog joined all the others that had been lured to Butterpig in death. Skeethy had to hear his own story second hand, after he hobbled to a nearby town on a fractured leg. Every breath in agony, through several broken ribs. The men sleeping in the hall had found him out there. Shrieking about the old gods, in the small hours of the morning. When someone finally tried to subdue him, he attacked. They sicked the dogs on him, but all of them died by the poison that Skeethy carried in his bag. Five men who tried to stop Skeethy, if they weren't dead already, would need a miracle to recover. No one went after Skeethy because no one dared fight him. He traded some stone he had in his pocket to the physicians, to let him remain in their care, claiming it was the tooth of Fafnir the Dragon of Legend. I believe the doctor sold it to the Cathedral in Hohler. They carved part of a crozier out of it, Skeethy laughed, as the crowd around him in the city stood wrapped at his story. The irony wasn't lost, that a bishop's staff would be the tooth of a great dragon, vital and symbolic yet completely unknown by everyone who saw it. The bishop of the city, who had been standing there sighed, okay, I'm just gonna say it. You ate too much fish that went bad, got drunk, and had a weird dream. Obviously, the bishop said, looking around. Is it Skeethy's eye twinkled? Yes, the bishop replied. Are you sure? Skeethy smiled. Yes, extremely. Okay, let's look at the two possibilities. On one hand, you ate rotten fish and had a dream. On the other, you were called to Asgard by Thor, married a woman a third your age, and beat up a dragon. The bishop looked around to the crowd. I mean, really? Was he the only one who was seeing this? It was obvious to everyone what actually happened, but their shoulders deflated with a collective sigh. The stories were fun. They captured something that everyone felt was slipping away from their lives. For a moment, there had been magic in the world again. With murmurs, the crowd began to dissipate and the bishop sneered. Then he looked at Skeethy and tossed the man a few coins. His work done, Skeethy rose. Hugging butterpig to his side, he put his cloak on and picked up the dwarven staff that had been underneath it, the one that he used as a walking stick, and heard the gasp from a nearby child. He responded with a wink and then hobbled off down the road. A few minutes later, he hobbled back. Oh wait, the staff! That's how I can prove it! Look at my nice staff, everyone! But everyone who had listened to the story and had the context for it was now gone. Now he was just a man shouting in the street to no one about his walking stick. After a few more minutes, Skeethy finally gave up and continued on down the road. The story is interesting to me because it explores the tension between a Christianized Iceland and its Norse past that it still took pride in and held in high esteem. Whether from trying to reconcile it with their true beliefs or to help those beliefs fit into society, the writers that chronicled Norse myth a lot of times made the choice to cloak the Acerian euphemism, where as we talked about, they made Odin an earthly king in Asia land or whatever they called it. I've always wondered how much of the inherent silliness of Norse myth was the Christian writers' additions and how much of it was part of the mythology. For instance, like we mentioned, Thor has a whetstone lodged in his forehead and there was the story where he massacred a wedding party while dressed as the bride. Odin pooped himself one time, he was so scared while flying away as a bird. Horse lokeys attempt to lure a male horse away so that the Acer could get a free wall backfired and he gave birth to Odin's eight-legged horse, Sletnir. That question though is kind of a moot point because for the writer of today's story, hundreds of years after the sources were put down to paper by Christians, the silliness is part of the myth. But back to today's story, as someone who has read a lot of legendary sagas, there were more references here to saga heroes than I've ever seen in one place, more than I included for sure. The author clearly loved the folklore and knew their stuff. While at first the story struck me as a rebuke of Norse myth, what with a Christian wanderer with no discernible strength laying Valhalla low, I think there's something more nuanced here. The story is a very important one, including dangerous Odin, and the Thor that massacred the giants, the gods that would lead to the world ending in fire and blood, and their values of fatalistic honor and violence were incompatible with the world that was taking shape for the Icelanders in the late Middle Ages, early modern period. The chieftains and the Commonwealth was gone, and Iceland had come under the rule of Norway and, critically, the influence of the church. I initially read this story as a warning, that there was a conflict coming between the old ways and the new, and in the ensuing battle the old gods would lose. In reality though, the old gods had already lost. Even the tooth of the great dragon, Fafnir, had been carved into a crozier, wielded by a Christian bishop. And Christianity in this story isn't represented by an army of heavenly angels, or an irresistible loving carpenter, but skeethy. It's a slow, persistent, unglamorous change. The gods don't fall to a hero, but an old man with a stick, who keeps invoking God not out of true belief, but just because that's what he's always done, that's the world in which he lives. In that light, for me, the story doesn't read as a condemnation of the old Norse ways, but more of an elegy for a world that was almost gone. An elegy masked by the violence and humor that was yet another remnant of times gone by. Next week, we're back in the story of Knights, and we'll see that no good deed goes unpunished when a knight rejects a proposition from the queen, and is forced to be a fairy woman's secret boyfriend. Speaking of knights, as you know it out now, Myths and Legends has a book coming out. Yes, it's a book series on King Arthur, which is one of the most popular topics we've covered on this show. And the first of those books comes out December 1st. It's called For the King, and it is about much more than just a king. So much more. The exciting part is that the publisher is doing a giveaway on Goodreads. This is a chance to read the book before it comes out, and have a print copy before it's even for sale. We have a link in the show notes on the website, on our social media, or you can just go straight to Goodreads, search for For the King by Carissa Weiser. This Goodreads giveaway is open now through May 24th, so don't delay. Enter today for a chance at a free print copy of our debut novel, For the King, before it's too late. Good luck. And thank you so much. The creature this time is the Lusca from the Bahamas. Full disclosure, my only knowledge of blue holes until about 5 minutes or so ago was from the game Dave the Diver, so this is a journey for both of us. Blue holes are exactly what they sound like. Blue holes in the water. Basically, you have normal ocean, normal ocean, normal ocean, hole that seems to be endlessly deep with strange currents and caves that can present lethal challenges to even seasoned divers, then back to normal ocean. There are worldwide phenomenon with famous blue holes in Egypt and Belize and other places, but the Bahamas has the highest concentration of them as well as the deepest. There are other dangers in the blue holes though, mainly the Lusca. The Lusca is a sea monster that's 75 feet or 23 meters long and it's half shark and half octopus. I'm not sure where the slider lands between the two. If it's everything we stereotype sharks to be, i.e. toothy bloodthirsty killers, that's also super smart and can squeeze through the smallest of openings, or if it's a thoughtful and shy soft-bodied mollusk that inherits the shark's inability to stop moving or also will drown. My money is probably on the first because the second one would be a terrible guardian. We'll get more into the guardian bit in a moment, but what stands out to me is that, according to folklore, this creature has also been called the Bahamian term for him of the hands, which has led some people to speculate that at the end of each tentacle is a human-like hand. Which is weird because I'm not sure it's necessary. I've never looked at an octopus and thought that, hey, there's something that will be bad at grabbing things. And it's not like it needs those fingers to play the clarinet or something, though I don't know what it gets up to in its spare time and I think it's great to have meaningful hobbies that help you grow as a person or dangerous cryptid. Anyway, back to the guardian part. Diving has never been my thing, but my dad was actually a certified rescue diver and every diver I've met loves nature and takes ocean conservation super seriously. That is not the case for all humans, though. See the 79,000 metric tons of plastic floating in the Great Pacific garbage patch? The Lusca, it seems, really wants to keep those blue holes blue. It can anchor itself up to 120 feet in the water, reach up and grab people from ships, dragging them 10 stories under the water and drowning them, tucking them away in a cave so the body will never surface. There isn't any indication as to what provokes the Lusca and the fact that countless people aren't being pulled under by a giant octopus shark makes me think it's a pretty high threshold. That being said, probably crunch up the water bottle and save it for recycling back on shore, because tossing it over the side of the boat could be hazardous to your health. And if you see weird squishy octopus hands feeling around your boat, maybe hurry up and get that scuba equipment on. That's it for this time. Myths and Legends is by Jason and Carissa Weiser. 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