Body–Object Networks in Myth and Poetry

The attribution of agency and names to objects in Norse myth (e.g., the ring Draupnir, the ship Skíðblaðnir) has led scholars, such as Sara Ann Knutson, to draw larger conclusions about how medieval Scandinavians themselves conceived of objects.1 ‘When Objects Misbehave’, p. 256. While I agree that there is cultural significance in how objects are portrayed in mythic narratives, two qualifications are helpful. Firstly, the naming of mythic objects should be contextualised within poetic tradition and praxis, with which myth is intertwined in our extant sources. For example, personal names of mythic objects can function as heiti (poetic synonyms):2 Heiti provide additional vocabulary for the poet to use, providing variation in verse, as well as helping the poet meet the alliterative and rhyming demands of skaldic metres. Gungnir (Óðinn’s magical spear) is used as a heiti for a spear in kennings which take a weapon as their determinant, such as the battle-kenning ‘clash of Gungnir’.3 Snorri Sturluson, Háttatal 52, SkP III, 1161: ‘hlymr Gungnis’. In its wider verse context, Gungnir rhymes internally with ‘stǫng’ to provide the skothending (‘half-rhyme’), demonstrating the utility of heiti for skalds. In turn, this use of personal names for objects allows the poet to pull a kenning referent into a specific mythic frame: for example, Ormr Barreyjarskáld refers to gold as ‘the residue of Draupnir’, evoking the self-multiplying property of Óðinn’s ring, Draupnir;4 Ormr Barreyjarskáld, Fragments 1, SkP III, 320: ‘dróg Draupnis’. while Einarr skálaglamm Helgason describes his poem as ‘the ale-sea of Óðrœrir’,5 Einarr skálaglamm Helgason, Vellekla 1, SkP I, 285: ‘ǫldrhaf Óðrœris’. using the name of one of the mythical vats containing the mead as his determinant.6 The name Óðrœrir (‘inciter of poetry’) also appears in Hávamál (107, 140), where it seems to refer to the mead itself, and some scholars suspect that the description of Óðrœrir as a vessel is Snorri’s invention (J. Lindow, Norse Mythology: A Guide to Gods, Heroes, Rituals and Beliefs (Oxford, 2002), p. 252; Frank, ‘Snorri and the Mead’, p. 161). The prevalence of personal names for mythic objects in Snorra Edda may therefore be just as reflective of the productive interaction between mythic and poetic traditions – of the utility of objects having personal names for the composition of skaldic poetry – as it is of the fact that, in Knutson’s words, ‘Scandinavians recognised and attributed enough great meaning to objects in cosmic and mundane realities to warrant the act of supplying personal names’.7 ‘Myth and Materiality’, p. 41.

Secondly, the issue of objects and animacy often hinges on the significance of craftsmanship. While some objects are introduced without an ‘origin story’, others sit within a wider narrative about their crafting by dwarves and their acquisition by the æsir. For example, the self-propelling Skíðblaðnir ‘er hann gǫrr af svá mǫrgum hlutum ok með svá mikilli list at hann má vefja saman sem dúk ok hafa í pung sínum’ (‘is made from so many parts and with such great skill that it can be folded together like cloth and kept in a pocket’).8 Gylf., ch. 43 (p. 46) (my emphasis). These objects are portrayed as products of extraordinary ingenuity, acquiring unique identities through their crafting, suggesting that an object’s animacy and personhood may be understood as emerging situationally, in connection with the maker’s artistry.9 This aligns with Julie Lund’s discussion of animism in Viking Age mortuary contexts: ‘animism in this context by no means implies that all animals and objects are considered as having personhood and agency. Notably, personhood emerges in a given context of a specific time and place’. ‘Connectedness with Things. Animated Objects of Viking Age Scandinavia and Early Medieval Europe’, Archaeological Dialogues 24.1 (2017), 89–108 (pp. 99–100).

Many gods have objects and animals associated with their persons: Freyr’s sword and his boar Gullinborsti; Þórr’s hammer, gloves and power-belt; Óðinn’s spear Gungnir, his ring Draupnir and his ravens; Viðarr’s shoe; Freyja’s necklace; Iðunn’s apples; Rán’s net. Scholars often emphasise the symbolic nature of these objects, approaching them primarily as external markers of the gods’ natures and activities.13 See Clunies Ross (Prolonged Echoes I, p. 73). Mjǫllnir, for instance, is frequently read as a symbol of ‘military and sexual power’ (see, e.g., J. McKinnell, ‘Myth as Therapy: The Function of Þrymskviða’, Medium Ævum 69 (2000), 1–20 (p. 4)). By focusing on their material roles, however, we see how objects not only represent but actually shape mythic identities. Freyr’s sword and Þórr’s hammer exemplify this interplay, as the gods’ separation from these objects directly impairs their mythic functions, revealing how power resides as much in material artefacts as in bodies.

Freyr’s sword appears in the narrative of his bridal quest for the giantess Gerðr, when he lends Skírnir the sword for the wooing mission. Gylfaginning and Skírnismál reveal why the sword is so prized: it fights independently. While Snorri’s phrasing suggests that the sword’s attributes are unconditional (‘Þat var svá gott sverð at sjálft vásk’ – ‘that was such a good sword that it fights by itself’),14 Gylf., ch. 37 (p. 31). Skírnismál indicates that its properties are contingent on the wisdom of its wielder:

Skírnismál’s reading implies a reciprocal relationship between object and owner, where the sword’s efficacy reflects the wielder’s character.16 Weapons that respond to the qualities of their users are also found in saga literature. In Kormáks saga (ch. 9), Kormákr and the borrowed sword Skǫfnungr are incompatible in temperament: ‘Skǫfnungr er tómlátr, en þú ert óðlátr ok óðlundaðr’ (ed. Einar Ól. Sveinsson, p. 235: ‘Skǫfnungr is deliberate, but you [Kormákr] are impatient and impulsive’). Loaning his sword to Skírnir leaves Freyr weaponless for the fight at Ragnarǫk – a vulnerability that Loki prophetically mocks in Lokasenna.17 Ls. 42 (p. 416): ‘seldir þitt svá sverð;/ en er Múspells synir/ ríða Myrkvið yfir,/ veizta þú þá, vesall/ hvé þú vegr’ (‘you also gave away your sword, but when Muspell’s sons ride over Myrkviðr, you don’t know then, wretch, how you will fight’). Cp. Gylf., ch. 51 (p. 50). As Knutson observes, Freyr’s loss of his sword reflects an expectation that each god and material alike contribute symbiotically to the mythic order.18 Knutson, ‘When Objects Misbehave’, p. 269.

Þórr’s dependence on Mjǫllnir is even more pronounced. In Þrymskviða, the hammer’s theft drives the narrative, threatening both Þórr’s masculinity and his wider mythic role as ‘verjandi Ásgarðs’ (‘defender of Ásgarðr’).19 Skm., ch. 4 (p. 14). Without his hammer, Þórr is forced to retrieve it by impersonating Freyja, journeying to Jötunheimar as the bride of the thieving giant. Þórr adopts Freyja’s accoutrements to aid his performance (stanzas 15–17), a feminisation that he fears will disturb his social identity:

However, the comedic persistence of Þórr’s ‘masculine’ traits despite his outward trappings (his great appetite for mead and food, his terrifying eyes), and the continued use of kennings underlining his masculinity (as Óðinn’s son and Sif’s husband),21 Stanzas 21 and 24. in the poem serves to reassure the audience of the ‘unconvincing’ nature of his feminine performance.22 Cross-dressing is prohibited in Grágás; given this legal context, the illusory nature of Þórr’s performance may have been important in the poet’s rendering of gender models (J. Frankki, ‘Cross-Dressing in the Poetic Edda: Mic muno Æsir argan kalla’, SS 84.4 (2012), 425–37 (p. 433)). Þórr’s reunion with his hammer marks the climax of the narrative, in which the object is returned emphatically to his person, placed ‘í meyjar kné’ (‘into the maiden’s [Þórr’s] lap’).23 Þrk. 30 (p. 427). This enables the public reconstitution of his masculinity: once the hammer returns, he sheds his disguise and violently puts an end to the wedding-farce.

The Geirrøðr-narrative (which appears in Skáldskaparmál and in the skaldic poem Þórsdrápa) similarly emphasises Þórr’s reliance on objects. In Skáldskaparmál, Þórr journeys to giantland without his weapons due to Loki’s machinations. In place of his absent possessions, Þórr borrows substitutes from a troll-woman named Gríðr: her ‘megingjarða ok járngreipr […] ok staf sinn er heitir Gríðarvǫlr’ (‘power-belt and iron-gloves […] and her staff which is called Gríðarvǫlr’), three objects which correspond to his characteristic accessories (power-belt, iron-gloves/grippers and hammer).24 Skm., ch. 18 (pp. 24–5). Þórr’s iron-gloves appear only in Snorra Edda. They are referred to as járnglófar (‘iron-gloves’) in Gylfaginning (RTW; U has járngreipr) and járngreipr (‘iron-grippers’, perhaps iron tongs for blacksmithing?) in the Geirrøðr-narrative in Skáldskaparmál (RTWU). Given their absence in eddic and skaldic verse, the grippers may have been developed from details in Þórsdrápa 18 (which is quoted at this point in Skáldskaparmál), in which a piece of iron is flung between Geirrøðr and Þórr, received by the greipar brjósti (‘breast of the grip [HAND]’). Þórsdrápa offers a variant account of the weapons involved: in stanza 10, Þórr is equipped with ‘vǫlr Gríðar’ (‘staff of Gríðr <troll-woman>’),25 Eilífr Goðrúnarson, Þórsdrápa 10, SkP III, 96. but in stanzas 16–20, he fights using an iron bolt from Geirrøðr’s forge, while in stanza 20 he wields a ‘dreyrgum hamri’ (‘bloody hammer’).26 Ibid. 20, SkP III, 119. Clunies Ross suggests that the iron bolt in Þórr’s hand becomes the hammer Mjǫllnir, and thus Þórsdrápa provides an alternative origin for the hammer than that given later in Skáldskaparmál (where Brokkr crafts the hammer for Þórr).27 ‘An Interpretation of the Myth of Þórr’s Encounter with Geirrøðr and his Daughters’, in Speculum Norrroenum, ed. Dronke, Guðrún P. Helgadóttir, Weber and Bekker-Nielsen, pp. 370–91 (p. 388). If this is the case, then both Þórsdrápa and Þrymskviða close with the (re)uniting of Þórr with his hammer. Snorri’s emphasis on the theft and recovery of Þórr’s possessions, which is otherwise absent in the extant text of Þórsdrápa, may reflect his broader interest in the relationship between the æsir and mythic materials.28 If Þórsdrápa does indeed provide an origin story of Mjǫllnir, Snorri may also have introduced the theft in his account of the Geirrøðr-narrative to avoid contradicting himself later, when he gives his own account of Mjǫllnir’s creation.

These stories explore the dangerous ruptures that occur when gods are separated from their possessions: Freyr’s separation from his sword seals his fate at Ragnarǫk; Þórr’s separation from Mjǫllnir disrupts his identity and impedes his ability to perform his mythic role. Julie Lund, in her examination of Viking Age burials and personhood, finds that in ritual acts of mound-breaking the removal of objects associated with the deceased served to alter the person’s identity.29 ‘Fragments of a Conversion: Handling Bodies and Objects in Pagan and Christian Scandinavia, AD 800–1000’, World Archaeology 45.1 (2013), 46–63 (pp. 51–2). Perhaps a similar understanding of object–owner interdependence underlies these mythic narratives in which vulnerability is rooted in the loss of possessions, with personhood dispersed across bodies and objects.

As we saw in Chapter 1, the ‘dividual’ nature of personhood in Norse myth is predominantly explored through male bodies, and it is fascinating that the loss of a divine possession has significantly worse narrative consequences than the loss of a body-part. In contrast, mythological women not only remain corporeally whole but can loan their objects with no adverse effects, as Quinn observes: figures such as Freyja and Rán freely lend out their falcon-skins and nets ‘without the absence of the object apparently diminishing them in any way’.30 ‘Gender’, in The Pre-Christian Religions of the North: Histories and Structures, ed. J. P. Schjødt, J. Lindow and A. Andrén (Turnhout, 2020), pp. 509–27 (p. 525). This divergence underscores the systemic association between male personhood and material possession in the mythic world.

Skaldic kennings provide further insight into the relationship between personal identity and objects, and the gendered nuances of this relationship. In man-kennings, objects from the semantic fields of WEALTH (e.g., gold, ring, riches), BATTLE (e.g., weapon, armour) and SEAFARING (e.g., ship) frequently serve as determinants, while agentive nouns predominate as base-words – men are flingers of gold, painters of swords, riders of ships, givers of rings.31 ‘Expressions for Male/Man’, Skaldic Project, https://skaldic.org/m.php?p= kenning&i=135 [accessed 26 September 2023]. Woman-kennings, by contrast, draw their determinants from the semantic fields of GARMENT/JEWELLERY (e.g., headdress, fabric, gold, jewellery) and DRINK/DRINK-VESSEL (e.g., ale, wine, goblet, drinking horn),32 ‘Expressions for Woman’, Skaldic Project, https://skaldic.org/m.php?p=kenning &i=143 [accessed 26 September 2023]. and position women as loci for objects, using a goddess-name or a topographical feature as base-word (e.g., ‘Nanna falda’ (‘Nanna <goddess> of headdresses [WOMAN]’)33 Kálfr Hallsson, Kátrínardrápa 10 (SkP VII, 938). and ‘fit dags fyllar’ (‘meadow of the day of the sea [GOLD > WOMAN]’)).34 Anon., Liðsmannaflokkr 10 (SkP 1, 1028). Active roles for women appear only in drink-distribution kennings (e.g., ‘veitiselja víns’ – ‘offering-willow of wine [WOMAN]’).35 Kálfr Hallsson, Kátrínardrápa 42 (SkP VII, 958). These patterns echo the gendered object dynamics seen in myth, with men depicted as active wielders, and women as repositories or intermediaries for valuable items.

Conversely, some objects enhance agency, dissolving clear distinctions between ‘active user’ and ‘passive object’. In the following examples, agency is not depicted as an inherent property of an individual but as a distributed phenomenon – a relational enactment.38 I use this term to refer to the portrayal of agency not as an inherent attribute of a person or thing, but rather as generated through a web of interlocking processes between people, things and places. This conception of agency as ‘enactment’ is indebted to the new materialist work of Karen Barad (Meeting the Universe Halfway: Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning (Durham, NC, 2007)). Consider, for instance, the relationship between Þórr, his iron-gloves and hammer: Snorri explains that ‘Þeira má hann eigi missa við hamars skaptit’ (‘he [Þórr] cannot be without these [the iron-gloves] when using the shaft of the hammer’).39 Gylf., ch. 21 (p. 23). This flat ontology treats all actants – human or object – as equally significant in producing an outcome: Þórr’s feats are achieved through this interdependent network of entities. Similarly, Þórr’s megingjǫrð (power-belt) amplifies his ásmegin (god-strength): ‘er hann spennir þeim um sik þá vex honum ásmegin hálfu’ (‘when he buckles it on himself then his god-strength grows in him by half’).40 Ibid. While ásmegin appears to be intrinsic to Þórr, its efficacy depends on physical interaction with the belt, demonstrating how bodily capabilities are enabled through objects.41 We see the megingjǫrð in action in the Útgarða-Loki narrative (Gylf., ch. 45 (p. 38)) and in the Geirrøðr-narrative (Skm., ch. 18 (p. 25)); Þórsdrápa 8 also links the belt with Þórr’s ásmegin.

Sometimes, networks of bodies and objects evolve into permanent integrations, as seen in Sif’s golden headpiece. After Loki chops off Sif’s hair (as discussed in Chapter 1), Þórr commissions the dwarves to craft a golden replacement, ‘er svá skal vaxa sem annat hár’ (‘which shall grow like other hair’).42 Skm., ch. 35 (p. 41). This integrated headpiece blurs the distinctions between the artificial and organic: ‘haddrinn var holdgróinn þegar er hann kom á hǫfuð Sif’ (‘the hair was grown to the flesh when it came onto Sif’s head’).43 Ibid. (p. 42). The evocative term holdgróinn also appears in the fourteenth-century riddarasaga Dínus saga drambláta,44 On redactions and manuscripts of this saga, see Jónas Kristjánsson, ed., Dínus saga drambláta, p. lxiv. The term holdgróinn is also used to describe the fusion of Brynhildr/Sigrdrífa to her armour (see Chapter 4). where flesh-fused horns become embedded in Dínus and his men’s skulls as a form of punishment. The saga emphasises the men’s discomfort – the horns are ‘sua saar at þeir þottuz huergi mega lata uit snerta’ (‘so painful that they felt in no way could they touch them’)45 DínDr (ed. Jónas Kristjánsson), p. 45. – with the holdgróinn horns violating personal and species boundaries. Unlike Sif’s prosthetic hair, they are a source of pain and embarrassment, and must be removed from the body. These differing responses suggest that the problem was not with the merger itself, but with the social valency of the objects merged with the body.46 It may also be important that in the Sif’s hair episode, the headpiece replaces a ‘lack’, whereas in Dínus saga, the horns do not make the body heill, but rather augment and thereby ‘other’ it. The term holdgróinn is polyvalent, literally ‘grown to the flesh’ and metaphorically ‘inborn, ingrained’. The latter meaning is exemplified in the usage of the term in Viðrøða æðru ok hugrekki,47 Mistitled in the Hauksbók MS as Viðræða líkams ok sálar (60r–1v). This text is a translation of the Pseudo-Senecan dialogue De remediis (E. A. Rowe, ‘Literary, Codicological, and Political Perspectives on Hauksbók’, Gripla 19 (2008), 51–76 (p. 59)). where it translates Lat. ‘innatus’ (‘innate’), and refers to behaviours that, while embodied, emerge from habit rather than nature.48 Hauksbók, efter de Arnamagnæanske håndskrifter no. 371, 544 og 675, 4◦ samt forskellige papirhåndskrifter, ed. Eiríkur Jónsson and Finnur Jónsson (Copenhagen, 1892–6), p. 306: ‘þat er svmvm hvndvm holldgroið at oft geygia þeir saklavst ok er þat meiR af illri veniv en af nattvrv’ (‘It is ingrained in the flesh for some dogs that they often bark without cause and that is more from bad habit than from nature’). Cp. the Latin original, L. Annaei Senecae opera quae supersunt, Volumen III, ed. F. Haase (Berlin, 1886), p. 450. Holdgróinn objects therefore provoke reflections both on the ‘natural’ bounds of the body, and the degree to which behaviour and identity inhere in the flesh.

Objects can also mediate shifts between human and animal categories. For instance, when Loki borrows Freyja and Frigg’s falcon-cloaks in Snorra Edda, he is transformed into a bird: whilst wearing Freyja’s cloak in the narrative of Iðunn’s abduction from Ásgarðr, Loki carries Iðunn ‘in his talons’.49 Skm., ch. G56 (p. 2): ‘í klóm sér’. Similarly, in the Geirrøðr-narrative (discussed above), he is referred to as a ‘fuglinn’ (‘bird’) when he is captured by Geirrøðr, who only ascertains Loki’s non-avian identity by his eyes.50 Skm., ch. 18 (p. 24). Snorri’s consistent use of ‘valr’ (‘falcon’) as the first element of the compound (‘valshamr’),51 Skm., ch. G56 (p. 2); Skm., ch. 18 (p. 24). For discussion of the term hamr, see Chapter 5. with which he refers to Freyja and Frigg’s falcon-skins, emphasises the animal component of the objects, aligning with his understanding of the objects as prompting bird-transformation.

Other sources, such as Þrymskviða and Haustlǫng, depict falcon-skins as flight-enabling garments that enhance but do not necessarily transform the wearer: here, the terms ‘fjaðrhamr’ (‘feather-skin/shape’) and ‘flugbjalfi’ (‘flight-skin/hide’) are used. When Loki borrows Freyja’s fjaðrhamr to fly to giantland in Þrymskviða, the sound of the cloak is a refrain bookending his trip (‘Fló þá Loki,/ – fjaðrhamr dunði – ’: ‘Loki then flew, the feather-skin resounded’).52 Þrk. 5, 9 (pp. 422–3). This focus on the aural quality foregrounds the properties of the fjaðrhamr itself, as an appendage that mediates rather than erases anthropomorphic identity. In Haustlǫng 12, Loki also dons a flugbjalfi:

Loki is aukinn (enhanced) by the flight-skin, suggesting that this object acts as a technology that supplements Loki’s body, enabling flight. The variation in the presentation of falcon/feather-skins reveals distinct conceptions of empowering objects, whether as transformative assemblages (as in Snorra Edda, where the hamr prompts animal transformation) or as supplemental technologies (as in Þrymskviða and Haustlǫng). From a phenomenological perspective, falcon-cloaks and flight-skins are technologies that mediate the gods’ experience of the material world: they are incorporated into the body’s schema, extending the gods’ embodied experience of and agency within their environment.

Agency is also distributed across anthropomorphic and animal bodies in the example of Óðinn and his ravens, Huginn and Muninn (whose etymons are generally interpreted as representing ‘Thought’ and ‘Memory’):54 S. A. Mitchell, ‘Óðinn’s Ravens’, in Handbook of Pre-Modern Nordic Memory Studies: Interdisciplinary Approaches, ed. J. Glauser, P. Hermann and S. A. Mitchell (Berlin, 2019), pp. 454–62 (p. 454). See also K. Heslop, ‘Minni and the Rhetoric of Memory in Eddic, Skaldic, and Runic Texts’, in Minni and Muninn: Memory in Medieval Nordic Culture, ed. P. Hermann, S. A. Mitchell and A. S. Arnórsdóttir (Turnhout, 2014), pp. 75–107.

The ravens function as perceptual extensions of Óðinn (since they tell Óðinn what they see and hear) and, as their names suggest, as extrasomatic visualisations of the cognitive processes of thinking and remembering. While this distribution of agency and cognition benefits Óðinn, it also exposes him to the loss of the essential cultural resources of thought and memory, since he cannot ensure the return of the ravens:

This feared loss would compromise Óðinn’s ability to perform his function as god of wisdom: as Pernille Hermann puts it, Óðinn’s ‘inability to handle the required arts of memory […] would be identical to amnesia at a cultural level’.57 ‘The Mind’s Eye: The Triad of Memory, Space and the Senses in Old Norse Literature’, European Journal of SS 47 (2017), 203–17 (p. 213). This network is paradigmatic of the mythic outlook on distributed personhood and agency: the network both empowers the god (affording new opportunities for knowledge acquisition) and it highlights his vulnerability (extending cognitive processes beyond the bounds of the body risks their injury or loss).