II. Meat, Memory and Motivation: Ingestion and the Human Subject

Consider Guðrún’s forced consumption of a psychoactive drink intended to erase her memories of past injustices and coerce her into marriage:4 Gðr II 23; Vǫls., ch. 34; Dráp (p. 352). this potion combines organic matter5 Earth, seawater, blood, herbs, nuts, entrails and pig liver. Vǫls., ch. 34 (pp. 62–3). with linguistic potency (‘í því horni váru ristnir hvers kyns stafir’ – ‘in the horn every kind of rune-stave was engraved’)6 Ibid. to reorient Guðrún’s emotions and will. What is eaten does not just enter the body; it reconfigures the person irrevocably. These acts of ingestion blur the human–nonhuman boundary by folding animal and plant matter into the body – a problem that medieval theologians also confronted when debating whether food was converted into human flesh, and if so, how eating animals might impact one’s resurrected form.7 E.g., Peter Lombard, Gilbert of Poitiers, Thomas Aquinas. See Steel, Animals and Violence, pp. 108–18.

In turn, meals in the cycle don’t just reshape identity; they shift where agency lies: potent meals and draughts that alter cognition, memory and disposition push characters past social and moral thresholds. Particularly in Vǫlsunga saga, these victuals serve as catalysts for acts of betrayal and violence, remoulding how the audience judges characters’ actions and their culpability. The result is a marked shift from the eddic poems’ focus on heroic choice, towards a vision of the human as open and manipulable.

This suggests that consumed matter remains tied to its origins, even after assimilation: though the human flesh (hræ) is converted into pig-flesh (holld), it retains traces of its former identity. Therefore, a pig that has eaten human flesh must shed the weight it put on before it can be safely eaten, to avoid ‘cannibalism by proxy’.9 Humans are also prohibited in Grágás from eating any carrion creatures, the penalty being lesser outlawry. These laws underscore the belief that humans are altered, indeed contaminated, by what they eat, whilst pointing to a taboo around cannibalism that sharpens the thematic significance of anthropophagy in the Sigurðr-cycle.

There are three episodes of anthropophagy in the cycle: Sigmundr’s brothers are eaten by a she-wolf (identified, as discussed earlier, by the internal audience in Vǫlsunga saga as Siggeir’s human mother); Sigurðr eats the heart of Fáfnir, a man-turned-dragon; and Atli is fed his sons. Across these episodes, a pattern emerges: deliberate anthropophagy is mitigated by presenting either the consumer or the consumed in animal form – Siggeir’s mother eats Sigmundr’s brothers whilst in wolf-form, while Sigurðr eats Fáfnir-as-dragon, rather than Fáfnir-as-man. By contrast, Atli’s direct anthropophagy is unintentional: he only learns what he has eaten after Guðrún’s revelation. This pattern reflects the cultural horror of deliberate anthropophagy: the act is rationalised by presenting either the consumer or the consumed as being in animal form, already other-than-human.

Atli’s unwitting consumption of his sons captures the fascination of eddic poets, appearing in Guðrúnarkviða II, Atlakviða and Atlamál. In Guðrúnarkviða II and Atlakviða, the boys’ flesh is blended with honey, an ingredient in a larger recipe, and both descriptions employ the alliterative pairing of hjǫrtr and hunang: ‘hjǫrtu hugða ek þeira/ við hunang tuggin’ (‘I thought I chewed their hearts with honey’)10 (p. 361). and ‘hjǫrtu hrædreyrug/ við hunang of tuginn’ (‘hearts, carrion-bloody, [you] chew with honey’).11 (p. 380). In Atlamál, the hearts are roasted and served as appetisers, with the poet again emphasising the physicality of consumption by reiterating the verb tyggva (to chew):

By transforming humans into ‘ǫlkrasir’ (‘ale-morsels’),13 Akv 38 (p. 380). Guðrún strips her sons of individual identity: their preparation as banquet snacks anonymises them into indistinguishable chunks of meat. This rendering – or rather, revealing – of human as meat levels the human with the animal, such that Atli cannot differentiate human flesh from kálfr (calf-meat). As Gilles Deleuze puts it, ‘meat is the common zone of man and beast, their zone of indiscernibility’.14 Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, trans. D. W. Smith (London, 2003), p. 21. The Sigurðr-cycle exploits this shared materiality, with acts of anthropophagy exposing the constructed boundaries of human identity.

Torfi Tulinius discusses how alcoholic intoxication is used to influence character portrayal in Vǫlsunga saga, identifying the problem of intentionality as one of the key axes on which the text turns.15 E.g., Sigmundr’s drunkenness is instrumental in the death of his son, Sinfjǫtli. He links this theme to contemporary Christian theology, which entailed an approach to sin and absolution where motives weigh as heavily as deeds.16 Matter of the North, p. 158. Building on this, I argue that the prominence of psychoactive victuals in Vǫlsunga saga serves two purposes: redeeming transgressive characters in the audience’s eyes by absolving them of culpability (in line with the problem of intentionality), and deepening the thematic exploration of human entanglement with the nonhuman world.

The alliterative phrase meinblandinn mjǫðr could refer literally to poisoned drink, or more figuratively to malignant advice or malicious utterance, in keeping with the liquid metaphor of speech and knowledge in eddic tradition.19 For instance, in Lokasenna Loki vows to create discord among the æsir, ‘ok blend ek þeim/ svá meini mjǫð’ (Ls. 3 (p. 409): ‘and I blend their mead with harm’): his harm-blended mead is decidedly verbal rather than liquid, since he creates conflict through the speech-act of the senna. Translators of the saga are inconsistent in how they interpret meinblandinn mjǫðr, depending on its context: in Finch and Byock’s translations, it is translated in this verse context as ‘poisoned mead’,20 Finch, Vǫlsunga, p. 37; J. Byock, trans., The Saga of the Volsungs: The Norse Epic of Sigurd the Dragon Slayer (London, 2002), p. 69. but in Brynhildr’s later analysis of Guðrún’s nightmares, it is translated as ‘bewitched/drugged mead’.21 Byock, Saga of Volsungs, p. 77; Finch, Vǫlsunga saga, p. 46. This shift likely stems from an awareness of what happens in the subsequent chapter, where Grímhildr gives Sigurðr a drink ‘ok við þann drykk munði hann ekki til Brynhildar’ (‘and because of that drink he did not remember Brynhildr’).22 Vǫls., ch. 28 (p. 47). The chapter in question opens with the heading ‘Sigurði var blandat óminnisǫl’ (‘the drink of forgetfulness was blended for Sigurðr’):23 Ibid. (p. 46). through intervention at the extradiegetic level of chapter heading (and repetition of the phrase ‘meinblandinn mjǫðr’ in verse and prose contexts), the narrator-compiler conflates the toxic mead described in Brynhildr’s recitation with the forgetfulness-potion given to Sigurðr by Grímhildr (two drinks that need not be one and the same).

The evocative term óminnisǫl, like meinblandinn mjǫðr, blends orality with liquidity. Minni refers not only to ‘memory’ but also to a ‘memorial cup/toast’, and there is a strong link between drink and solemn vows in Old Norse literature, such that acts of heitstrenging (swearing of a vow) accompany almost every minni (memorial libation).24 C. Riseley, ‘Ceremonial Drinking in the Viking Age’ (unpublished MA dissertation, University of Oslo, 2014), pp. 4, 36. The idea of performative speech binding a person to action is therefore also embedded in the term; within this framework, the óminnisǫl can be read not merely as an ‘ale of unremembering’, but an ‘ale of unvowing’ – a liquid that dissolves Sigurðr’s oaths to Brynhildr at the same time as it erases them from his memory.

While these phrases are rich with polysemy, the narrator-compiler’s use of the drink is straightforward enough: the potion serves to excuse Sigurðr’s culpability, portraying his betrayal of Brynhildr as involuntary, while at the same time casting Grímhildr as the text’s villain, at least in Brynhildr’s eyes (‘Hon veldr ǫllum upphǫfum þess bǫls er oss bítr’ – ‘she caused the whole onset of this misfortune which now bites us’).25 (p. 52). In the extant poems of the Poetic Edda, by contrast, Brynhildr does not blame Grímhildr for her suffering, instead finding fault with Atli;26 Gðr. I 25. Gunnarr;27 Sg. 57. and the Gjúkung heirs at large.28 Hlr. 5. The only eddic poem that makes Grímhildr culpable is Grípisspá, a putatively late composition: the terminus ante quem is c. 1250, and the terminus post quem is the time of composition of Fáfnismál and Sigrdrífumál (Kommentar V, 148). Similarly, Snorri’s account does not attribute an instrumental role to Grímhildr. As narrative traditions evolved, Grímhildr may have increasingly borne the brunt of the blame for Sigurðr’s actions (as a wicked stepmother archetype, a familiar figure in fornaldarsögur and riddarasögur).29 E.g., Hjálmþés saga, Vilmundar saga and Hrólfs saga kraka. This shift coincided with a transformation of the ambiguous meinblandinn mjǫðr of eddic tradition into an unequivocal forgetfulness-potion, accounting for Sigurðr’s deception of Brynhildr.30 Vǫlsunga saga’s óminnisǫl is analogous to – and perhaps ultimately derived from – the ‘meinsamligan drykk (‘harmful drink’) given to Guðrún by Grímhildr in chapter 34. Both share cognitive effects along with the same purpose: Grímhildr uses these potions to secure dynastic alliances through advantageous marriages. Unlike Sigurðr’s óminnisǫl, Guðrún’s drink appears in eddic verse.

The saga-narrator not only foregrounds the transformative role played by harm-blended drinks in key narrative events, but also develops the psychological changes caused by consuming animal flesh, when compared to the versions of the story preserved in Skáldskaparmál and the Poetic Edda. After Sigurðr burns his finger while roasting Fáfnir’s heart and inadvertently tastes its blood, he gains the ability to understand bird-speech.31 Vǫls., ch. 19 (p. 33). A nearby nuthatch advises him to eat Fáfnir’s heart, in order to ‘verða hverjum manni vitrari’ (‘become wiser than other men’).32 Ibid. (p. 34). Sigurðr complies, and saves the leftovers, later feeding them to his bride, Guðrún. The narrator does not explain Sigurðr’s motive, but observes that after eating the heart, Guðrún becomes ‘miklu grimmari en áðr ok vitrari’ (‘much grimmer and wiser than before’),33 Vǫls., ch. 28 (p. 48). a detail absent in Skáldskaparmál and the Poetic Edda.

While we learnt from the nuthatch earlier in the saga that wisdom is gained by consuming Fáfnir’s heart, Guðrún’s newfound grimness is striking. This property, which Guðrún alone gains through the meal, can be understood in the context of the narrator’s wider programme of providing ‘chemical’ motivations for characters’ more abhorrent behaviours. Guðrún’s grimness is explicitly linked to her most heinous acts later in the saga, such as her instigating role in the downfall of Sigurðr and the Gjúkungar: she cruelly reveals Sigurðr and Gunnarr’s deception to Brynhildr, at which point, Brynhildr pointedly tells Guðrún, ‘hefir þú grimmt hjarta’ (‘you have a grim heart’).34 Vǫls., ch. 30 (p. 51). When she kills her children and serves them to Atli, he similarly declares ‘Grimm ertu’ (‘you are grim’).35 Vǫls., ch. 40 (p. 73). Acts of consumption thus influence our understanding of character motivation and moral responsibility, with Guðrún’s grimness subtly associated with her contamination through animal flesh.

The saga extends its exploration of how ingested matter transforms human disposition and will in the figure of Guttormr, whose consumption of animal flesh and ale sets the stage for fratricide. Guttormr eats roasted snake- and wolf-flesh (again, note how the wolf appears in the context of kin-slaying), blended with ale (‘við mungáti’), under the influence of Grímhildr’s persuasions (‘fortǫlur Grímhildar’). This concoction makes him angry and belligerent enough (‘œfr ok ágjarn’) to agree to kill his brother-in-law.36 Vǫls., ch. 32 (p. 58). His reliance on animal intoxication underscores his cowardice and complicates questions of culpability, as it remains unclear whether his intoxication was voluntary or coerced. By having Guttormr eat mood-altering meat prior to murder, the narrator presents his transgressive actions as no longer strictly human. By withdrawing agency in this way, the narrator erases a key differentiator between the categories of human and animal: the capacity for rational, self-determined action, in accordance with human skynsemð and skilning.

Where these mind-altering victuals are key in Vǫlsunga saga’s plot development, they are absent in Snorri’s version of the story (suggesting that they were either not known to Snorri, or not deemed relevant to include in his telling). In the wider context of Skáldskaparmál, Snorri’s recounting of the story serves to elucidate kennings for gold and poison; indeed, the only beverage that appears in Snorri’s version is poison: quoting a verse from Bragi inn gamli, he explains that the Vǫlsungs’ resistance to poison underlies the kenning-pattern ‘drink of the Vǫlsungs [POISON]’.37 Skm., ch. 42 (p. 50). The one act of transformative consumption that does occur in Snorri’s account is Sigurðr’s accidental tasting of Fáfnir’s heart-blood, by which he understands bird-speech.38 Skm., ch. 40 (p. 46). Unlike in the Poetic Edda and Vǫlsunga saga, neither Sigurðr nor Guðrún consume Fáfnir’s heart.

The second mind-altering substance Sigurðr ingests in the Poetic Edda is the memory-draught (minnisveig) offered by Sigrdrífa during her recitation of runic and gnomic wisdom.42 This memory-drink parallels the minnisǫl (memory-ale) Freyja seeks to give Óttarr in Hyndluljóð (45) so that he will be able to recall the giantess’s recitation. In Sigrdrífumál, the minnisveig is denoted by this name only in a prose interjection.43 Sd. (p. 313). Within the verses, Sigrdrífa’s sacred mead is composed of liquor and language (‘Bjór fœri ek þér […] fullr er hann ljóða/ ok líknstafa’ – ‘beer I give you […] it is full of spells and favourable letters’);44 Sd. 6 (p. 314). it appears to refer figuratively to Sigrdrífa’s recitation itself, rather than to an additional drink designed to aid Sigurðr’s memory.

There is no reference to an óminnisǫl administered to Sigurðr in the Poetic Edda. While this may be a result of the eight-leaf lacuna in the Codex Regius (which perhaps covered the material preserved in chapters 24–31 of Vǫlsunga saga),45 Kommentar VI, 127–9. According to Theodore Andersson, the drink of forgetfulness existed in a hypothetical poem *Sigurðarkviða in meiri contained in the lacuna (‘The Lays in the Lacuna of Codex Regius’, in Speculum Norroenum, ed. Dronke, Guðrún P. Helgadóttir, Weber and Bekker-Nielsen, pp. 6–26, p. 14). the extant poems that do treat Sigurðr’s deception of Brynhildr (Grípisspá and Sigurðarkviða in skamma) forego mention of memory potions. These poems therefore present Sigurðr as a more complicated figure than in Vǫlsunga saga, with no involuntary intoxication to exculpate him in the deception. While Grípisspá emphasises Grímhildr’s treacherous involvement in Sigurðr’s betrayal and does state that Sigurðr will forget about Brynhildr, the poem presents his selective amnesia not as an inability to remember due to intoxicating drink, but simply a failure to recall his oath:

While some scholars have read Grípisspá’s stanza as an oblique reference to a forgetfulness-potion,47 See Kommentar V, 188. Sigurðr’s failure to remember Brynhildr could equally be attributed to Grímhildr’s manipulations and, as Sigurðr fears, perfidiousness on his own part (‘sér þú geðleysi/ í grams skapi?’ – ‘do you see fickleness in the prince’s disposition?’).48 32 (p. 291).

Sigurðarkviða in skamma offers another window into the love triangle between Gunnarr, Brynhildr and Sigurðr, placing particular emphasis on the norns’ intervention in Brynhildr’s fate and the destructive force of her desire for Sigurðr. The account of Sigurðr’s arrival at Gjúki’s court, and of his wooing of Brynhildr on behalf of Gunnarr, mentions neither potion nor deception by Grímhildr. Rather, the poem foregrounds the exchange of oaths and the promise of Guðrún in marriage (as well as a hefty dowry): ‘Mey buðu honum/ ok meiðma fjǫlð’ (‘they offered him a girl and a great deal of treasure’).49 2 (p. 335). While it is clear from stanza three’s aside that Sigurðr wanted to marry Brynhildr (‘hann um ætti,/ ef hann eiga knætti’),50 3 (p. 335). there is no indication that his inability to do so is due to a forgetfulness-potion.

Similarly, in Sigurðarkviða’s depiction of Guttormr’s killing of Sigurðr, while Guttormr does consume wolf- and snake-meat before committing the murder, the poem does not reveal what effects the meal has on his disposition, if any. He is repeatedly referred to, through litotes, as ‘óbilgjarn’ (‘the undaunted/resolute one’);51 21–2 (p. 339). the ease with which he agrees to kill his brother-in-law and the rapidity with which he carries out the murder (‘Dælt var at eggja/ óbilgjarnan/ stóð til hjarta/ hjǫrr Sigurði’ – ‘It was easy to egg on the undaunted man; the sword stood in Sigurðr’s heart’)52 21 (p. 339). contrast his reluctance and inefficiency in Vǫlsunga saga, where there is more discomfort over the idea of Guttormr willingly committing fratricide.

And what about the portrayal of Guðrún in the Poetic Edda? Where in Vǫlsunga saga, eating Fáfnir’s heart makes Guðrún wiser and grimmer, in the Poetic Edda, the effects of the meat (which are mentioned only in the prose introduction to Guðrúnarkviða I)53 P. 327. are the same for her as Fáfnir’s blood was for Sigurðr, affording her access to bird-speech. Nonetheless, Guðrún’s ‘grimness’ is a leitmotif in the latter poems of the heroic Poetic Edda, in no small part due to the alliterative pair formed by grimm and Guðrún:

Far from being a result of ingesting animal flesh, her grimness and wisdom are portrayed as decidedly human upshots of her emotional trauma. In the final poems of the Codex Regius – which depict Guðrún as a double figure, simultaneously exemplary and horrific in her pursuit of vengeance – Guðrún’s ‘grimness’ is directed in destructive ways towards her own children. In Atlamál, Atli calls Guðrún ‘grimm’ for butchering their sons;55 Am. 84 (p. 397). while in Guðrúnarhvǫt, Guðrún incites her sons to avenge their sister’s death (leading in turn to their deaths), with the poet focusing on the steely quality of Guðrún’s mindset and her ferocity of speech:

The eddic poems turn on the tension between self-determination, on the one hand, and the social contracts that underpin human relationships, on the other, resulting in a world in which ‘Maðr hverr lifir at munum sínum’ (‘each person lives according to their desires’), however destructive.57 Od. 34 (Eddukvæði II, 371). By contrast, the approach to motivation and responsibility in the cycle has been substantially reshaped by the Vǫlsunga saga-narrator: heroic will and self-determination are withdrawn, with characters drugged through psychoactive food and drink. By linking transgression to consumption, the saga shifts how we judge characters’ morally dubious actions, at the same time as creating a vision of the human subject as fundamentally malleable.