Episode 90 – Cloak and Dagger – Myths Your Teacher Hated

Episode 90 Show Notes

Source: Norse Mythology

This week on MYTH, we’re going to talk about some Norse poetry. You’ll discover why you shouldn’t bet on little boys, why you shouldn’t trust cryptic messages, and why squirrels make good insult messengers. Then, in Gods and Monsters, the gods go to war. This is the Myths Your Teacher Hated podcast, where I tell the stories of cultures from around the world in all of their original, bloody, uncensored glory. Modern tellings of these stories have become dry and dusty, but I’ll be trying to breathe new life into them. This is Episode 90, “Cloak and Dagger”. As always, this episode is not safe for work.
We haven’t visited with our old friends the Norse gods in a while, so I thought it was high time we reconnected. This particular tale comes from the Grimnismal, which can be found in both the Codex Regius and the Arnamagnaean Codex, dating to the 10th century at the earliest, though parts of it come from several centuries later when it was finally written down. The version that I’m using as the basis of this episode comes from the Norse Myths collection from Kevin Crossley-Holland.
Long ago, Hraudung was the king of the Goths. The great king had two sons: Agnar and his younger brother Geirrod. One day, when Agnar was 10 and Geirrod was 8, the two brothers decided to surprise their father with a fish for dinner. The two brothers gathered up their poles and their tackle and went out rowing on the open water in their rowboat. Being young, they hadn’t thought to worry about the weather before setting out, which was unfortunate since a storm was brewing. Before long, the winds were gusting hard across the waves, driving the small rowboat far out to sea until the two boys could no longer see the shore. They were tempest tossed across the water for hours until the gloom of the storm darkened to true night. Geirrod cowered with his brother, who pretended to be as brave as he could as darkness stretched across the sea.
Neither was prepared when their tiny rowboat was suddenly dashed against a rocky outcrop and smashed to pieces on a strange shore. Sputtering and coughing, they splashed out of the chilly water and onto the sand, waves breaking around their legs. The two boys looked around and saw absolutely nothing that looked familiar. They were completely and utterly lost. They found a spot beneath some shrubbery and huddled for warmth until they fell asleep.
In the morning, a poor peasant man stumbled across the boys as he was heading out himself to go fishing. It was obvious that the boys were lost and in need of help, so the man took the boys home with him to his wife, who welcomed them before the roaring fire. With nowhere else to go, Agnar and Geirrod were happy to accept the couple’s hospitality for the rest of the winter. Agnar spent most of his time with the woman while the younger brother Geirrod stuck by the peasant man, who took the boy under his wing as a foster son. They walked the land together often, speaking of many things, and the man taught the younger boy much of what he knew. When winter gave way to spring, he gave Geirrod a new boat that he had carved, built, and covered in pitch over the previous weeks. The couple loved the two boys, but they knew that their real parents would be missing them. It was time for them to go home, now that the winter was done.
The man and the woman walked the brothers down to the sea shore to bid them farewell. The woman fussed over Agnar and the man put a fatherly arm around Geirrod’s shoulders to offer him some final words of advice. Everyone said their goodbyes, and then the two boys pushed the boat out onto the waves. The winds were kinder this time of year and the man’s advice on finding their way home had been good. Before the day was over, they were sailing their new boat up to Hraudung’s landing.
Geirrod was crouched in the prow and, as soon as they were close enough, he snatched up the oars and leapt ashore. Agnar was a little confused but held out a hand to his brother for assistance in pulling the boat up to the landing and joining him on shore. With a snarl, Geirrod instead shoved the boat hard back towards the open sea. “Fuck off! Go where the trolls will find you!” Agnar could only watch in shock and betrayal as he drifted back out on the waves with no oars to row himself ashore. I mean, maybe he could have tried swimming for it, but shock is a hell of a thing and besides: I wouldn’t be surprised if Geirrod was willing to bash his older brother’s head in with an oar if he was pushed to it.
All alone, Geirrod walked up to the hall of his father. It didn’t take long for news to reach him that his father, King Hraundung, had died over the previous winter. What had happened to his mother was unclear. The Goths had been debating amongst themselves who was to take the king’s place when the young prince sauntered in. He soon found himself in a crowd of well-wishers who hung on his every word of his perilous journey. They marveled that he had returned to them safe and sound and mourned that his older brother, heir to the throne, had perished, drowned at sea many months before. Everyone agreed that it was only proper that Geirrod be crowned the new king of the Goths, and all of his father’s loyal men swore allegiance to him. His father had been a great man, so great things were expected of him – even more so after his incredible journey and miraculous return. Unfortunately, Geirrod was every bit the petty little shit who had betrayed his brother and as he grew older, it soon grew clear to all and sundry that Geirrod was a terrible king. He was prone to fits of rage when he wasn’t being a cruel, petty tyrant, and his awful reputation soon spread throughout the Norse lands.
Some time later, Odin and Frigg sat on the peak of Hlidskjalf, the high mountain where Odin made his seat and from which he could see all of the nine realms. As is often the case in myths of this kind, the random man and woman who had taken in the foundling boys were none other than Odin and Frigg in disguise. On this particular day, they were checking up on their foster sons Agnar and Geirrod. Odin laughed. “Do you see our foster sons, wife? Agnar, who you taught, is in a filthy cave fucking an ogress. He’s the father of awful brutes like some kind of beast. Meanwhile my ward is a frickin’ king! He rules over a great kingdom, not some wretched cave.” So in case you were wondering whatever happened to poor abused Agnar, now you know.
Frigg sighed. “I do indeed see them, husband. Geirrod is such a stingy asshole that when guests come to visit him while he is already busy entertaining, he pretends to welcome them, has them imprisoned, and then tortures them! I wouldn’t be quite so proud of him if I were you.” Odin leapt to his feet. “That is nothing but vile slander!” “If you’re so sure, then how about a little test?” Having made such a bold declaration, Odin really couldn’t do anything but agree to Frigg’s terms. In short order, her maidservant Fulla was on her way to Midgard, the mortal world, to seek out King Geirrod with a message – ‘Beware of a magician who has come to your kingdom to do you harm. He means to lay a foul spell on you. In this way will you know him: even the fiercest dog will cower from him, afraid to leap at him.’
Now as it so happened, Odin was right. For all that Geirrod was a tinpot dictator with an anger management problem, he was a generous host to guests. You couldn’t trust him as far as you could throw him, sure, but no guest was ever turned away from his table. Fulla was thus granted an audience with the king and delivered her message, which Geirrod took to heart. He told his men to be on high alert for the man who dogs would not attack. If anyone found such a man, he was to be detained immediately.
It didn’t take long for just such a man to present himself to Geirrod’s hall. Dressed in a dark blue cloak, the man called himself Grimnir, which means Hooded One. Other than his name, Grimnir refused to say anything about himself. He refused to answer any questions about where he had come from, where he was going, or his reasons for being in this kingdom. He refused even to engage in basic courtesies or to exchange pleasantries. In short, he was being a total asshat and incredibly suspicious to boot. Geirrod became angry with this cryptic stranger, and honestly I’m not sure I blame him. With such an unsubtle warning and a rude asshole in the mix, it’s kind of fair to get pissed off. He remembered Fulla’s warning and declared “if you refuse to speak, you must have reason not to.” Grimnir said nothing, refusing to confirm or deny the king’s dark suspicions. “Very well. If you will not speak of your own free will, then I will make you speak.” Naturally, Grimnir said nothing.
As you might guess of a king with a temper, Geirrod wasn’t bluffing. Since Grimnir still refused to speak, he was hauled away by the guards, trussed up on a long pole, and hung on a roasting spit over a pair of roaring fires like a pig at a barbecue. He was promised that he would hang there, baked in the searing heat, until he spoke. For eight days he hung there, silent and unyielding.
As it so happened, Geirrod had a ten year old son of his own by now who, in a show of shocking bad taste, he named Agnar after the brother he had betrayed and presumed dead. It was a gesture that went over well with the court, especially when the boy grew up to be everything that his father was not – compassionate, friendly, and kind. As the prince and heir, he more or less had the run of the place and so no one tried to keep him out of the great hall where Grimnir was being tortured. The young boy felt the stranger’s agony as though it were his own, such was his good-hearted nature. Everyone else ignored the scene since, after 8 days of this, it was old news. They went ahead and feasted in the great hall, eating and drinking until pretty much everyone was drunk, passed out, and snoring. Through the stillness crept little Agnar. He approached the bound man through the singeing heat of the flames and offered him a drinking horn brimming with good ale. Quietly, he told the stranger that he was sorry, that his dad was wrong to torture Grimnir like this.
Grateful for the small mercy, Grimnir drained the horn. By now, the fires had grown close enough that the cloak he wore smoldered, just on the edge of catching fire. He met the boy’s eyes with a mysterious smile and then looked around the hall. And Grimnir began to speak. “Back, flames! You burn too fierce and my poor cloak is almost afire, the fur almost scorched. For eight miserable nights now I’ve waited here, ignored by every last one of you assholes except for Agnar alone! I hereby decree that Geirrod’s son will be hailed as the king of all the Goths and the Burgundians henceforth!” He once again met the boy’s eyes which were now wide with shock. “Hail, Agnar! The Lord of Men greets you. I promise that you will be better rewarded for one little drink than any other man.”
He turned to the hall at large, the drunk men rousing to the booming thunder of his voice. What follows is a litany of the notable entities and places of the Norse world, and a pretty interesting one that gives a pretty good rundown on a lot of key concepts. “Hear me all and heed me well! The land where the gods and the elves dwell is hallowed; Thor will live there in Thrudheim until all the gods are dead and gone, but the other gods have their own halls there as well. Ull lives in Ydalir, a land of dales where the yew trees grow and in bright Alfheim live the light elves. The gods gave that place to Freyr long ago when he cut his very first tooth. The third is Valaskjalf, the Hall of the Slain, and was built by the god who dwells there with his own two hands, thatching the roof in silver.
“Fourth is Sokkvabekk, the land of the sinking floor. Cool, murmuring water laps its borders and each day, Odin and Saga drink joyfully there from their golden goblets. In Gladsheim, the home of gladness, stands Valhalla vast and glittering gold in the bright sunlight. Odin presides over that proud hall, choosing the slain men to join him within its walls. Each morning, they rise and arm themselves, then spend the day slaughtering each other in the great courtyard until none are left standing. Each evening, they rise from the bloody earth to celebrate the day’s deeds in a grand feast. Valhalla is easy to spot with its roof made of shields laid across spears, with breast plates littering the benches. A wolf lurks by the western door with a proud eagle hovering above.
“The feasts are the stuff of legends (literally, in this case) thanks to the work of Andhrimnir in cooking the sweet flesh of the boar Saehrimnir in a great black cauldron. It is the finest food in all the worlds, though few men ever get to taste it. The War Father feeds his great wolves Freki and Geri hunks of meat in his hall, but wine alone is enough to slake the needs of Odin himself. The ravens Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory, are loosed each morning to soar over Midgard. I always fear that Thought will not find his way home again, but I fear even more the loss of Memory. The great torrent Thund roars down beside Valgrind, Valhalla’s outer gate, the sun dancing in the rippling water. The rushing river runs so deep and wild that even the dead fear they are unable to cross it safely.
“Beyond Valgrind lies the inner doors to Valhalla, sacred and ages old though few know how to work the bolts. The great hall itself has 540 doors; when the time comes at last to face off with the great wolf Fenrir, son of Loki, 800 warriors will march out of each door, marching shoulder to shoulder with a battle cry on their lips.
“Sixth is Thrymheim, the place of uproar set high in the mountains where the giant Thiazi once lived. Now his daughter Skadi, who was Njord’s bride, dwells there. Seventh is the Broad Splendor of Breidablik, home of blessed Baldur, its beautiful country untainted by evil or darkness of any kind. Next is Himinbjorg, the Cliffs of Heaven, and none other than Heimdall, lord of the rainbow Bifrost Bridge is master of that realm. The watchmen of the gods sits there in his high hall, drinking mead and looking out over the worlds.
“The Ninth belongs to Freyja and is called Folkvang, the Field of the Folk. It is she who decides what mortals may enter her hall Sessrumnir, choosing amongst the slain with Odin and picking those she thinks best. Tenth is Glitnir, its silver inlaid roof held aloft by pillars of shining red gold. There you will find Forseti sitting in judgment and resolving disputes. The eleventh lies in the harbor of Noatun where Njord, the blameless ruler of men dwells in his timber temple. In Vidi, a land of wide grassy plains and small saplings, rides Vidar who will only leap off his steed once he has found his father’s killer to exact his bloody vengeance.
“Back at Valhalla (a place near and dear to my heart), there is a goat named Heidrun grazing the grass. She nibbles at the sheltering leaves of Laerad and is milked each day, giving forth sweet golden mead into a bottomless pitcher. The deer Oak-Thorned also wanders the fields and munches on Laerad’s leaves and from his branching horns drop a steady stream in the Roaring Cauldron Hvergelmir from which flow all the rivers in all the nine worlds: Slow and Broad, Sekin and Eikin; Cool and Loud-Bubbling and Battle Defiant, Fjorn and Rin and Rinnandi; Gipul and Gopul the Old and the Spear-Teeming; Vin and Holl and Tholl, Grod and Gunnthorin! These are the rivers that make their way across the wide plains of Asgard.
“But of course there are more rivers! Vin and Vegsvin that know where to travel, Nyt and Naut that sweep people away. Nonn, Hronn, Slid, Hrid, Sylg, Ylg, Vid, Van, Vond, Strond, Gjoll, and Leipt – these are the waters that course through Middle Earth (and yes this is where Tolkein got the name), cascading from Midgard down into the depth of Hel.
“Each day, the gods meet in council at the Well of Urd and Thor has to wade across the rivers Kormt and Ormt and the two Kerlaugs. All of the gods make their way across Heimdall’s Bifrost on their steeds Joyous and Golden, Shining and Swift, Silver-Maned and Sinewy, Gleaming and Hollow-Hoofed and Gold Man and Light Feet! The great ash tree Yggdrasill, the world tree, has three roots. One is embedded deep inside Niflheim, a second in Jotunheim, and the third in Midgard.” The next bit is absolutely true and also absolutely adorable. “In this great tree lives Ratatoskr the squirrel who spends all of his time scurrying up and down the tree, carrying messages between the eagle perched at the tippy top and the serpent Nidhogg the Corpse Sucker way down in Niflheim. Insults, mostly are what he carries. With him are foul serpents feasting on the roots of the great tree: Goin and Moin, sons of the gnawing wolf; Grabak and Grafvolluth, the Bewilderer and the Bringer of Sleep. Four great stags munch on the branches: Dain, Dvalin, Duneyr, Durathror. Between them all, Yggdrasill suffers, its branches chewed, its roots gnawed, and its trunk rotting.
“Valkyries walk amongst the warriors in great Valhalla, bring mead to me and my chosen warriors: Shaker, Mist, Time of the Axe,and Raging trade off filling my brimming cup while Warrior, Might, Shrieking, Fettered Host, Screaming, Spear Bearer, Shield Bearer, Wrecker of Plans, and Kin of the Gods bring it to the eternal warriors.
“The mighty steeds Arvak and Alsvid, Early Waker and All Swift, have the unenviable task of pulling the sun across the sky. Many ages past, the gods took pity on the poor beasts and put bellows under their yokes to blast away the worst of the heat. Before them, striding as a great shield goes Svalin. If ever he falters in his task, the mountains and even the open sea will burst into flames from the terrible heat he beats back. Behind them all runs Skoll the wolf, who will chase them forever until he one day catches the sun and devours her whole in the Iron Wood. Hrodvitinir’s son Hati is the dread wolf that chases the moon in turn.
“As for the earth you walk on, it was made from the flesh of Ymir, scion of the giants, and the ocean is made from his blood. The hills are his bones, the trees his hair, and the dome of the sky is his skull. His eyebrows, the gods forged into the great mountain wall that forms Midgard as a haven for men beneath the great swirling clouds formed from his brain. But enough recitation – I’m still close to roasting here. Ullr, god of archery, and the other gods will smile on the first man to reach into these flames and aid me. They could all see my plight if one of you would just push the cauldron aside for me.
“No? None of you? None will help me?” The strange figure looked up towards the heavens. “Long ago, the sons of the mighty dwarf Ivaldi built Skidbladnir, the greatest ship there ever was as a gift for Freyr. Yggdrasill is the greatest of all the trees, Odin the greatest of all the gods, and Sleipnir the greatest of all the horses. The Bifrost is the lord of bridges and Bragi is the lord of the word-smiths. Hobrok is the best hound anyone could ask for and Garm the fiercest hound. I have raised my face to the gods and they have heard me, all those mighty beings who drink at the giant of the sea Aegir’s banquet.
“Still none of you move? I will tell you my name. I am Grim and I am Gangleri. I am the Raider and the Helmeted One, the Pleasant One and the Third. Some call me Thud or Ud, but also I am the Death Binder and the High One. I am Sad and Svipall and Sangetall. Men call me Glad of War and Spear Stabber, the One-Eyed, the Flame-Eyed, and the Worker of Evil. Fjolnir am I called and Grimnir, the Hooded One. I am Sigfod and Hnikud. I am the Allfather. I am Atrid and the God of Cargo. Never since I first set foot in Midgard and showed myself to men have I been called by only one name, for I am many things.
“Here in Geirrod’s hall, I am known as Grimnir, and Asmund knows me as Gelding. When I traveled on a sledge, I was called the Keel Lord, but at the council of the gods, I am Thror. Vidur is the name they shout when I ride into battle, and the gods know me as Equally High, Fulfiller of Desire, Shouter, and Spear Shaker, as Gondlir the Wand Bearer and gray-bearded Harbard. To deceive the giant Sokkmimir, famous son of Midvitnir, I took the names of Svidur and Svidrir before I slew him.” The hooded figure looked at young Agnar and then turned the full weight of his terrible gaze on King Geirrod. “You have made a terrible mistake, Geirrod. You have drunk yourself senseless and now you have lost it all. You are alone. Neither I nor any of my slain warriors will lift a finger in your defense now.
“You did nothing with the wisdom I gave you all those years ago. You trusted a messenger you should have ignored and you have been betrayed. Now, I see my friend’s sword bared and covered in blood and gore. I, Ygg, the Terrible One, will soon lay claim to your broken and bloody body. Your life is at an end, Geirrod. The Norns have nothing to offer you but death. Look at me. Look at me! Know me, and know that I am Odin. Draw your sword and test me if you dare!
“Once, I was the Terrible One, the Thunderer, the Wakeful and the Shaker. I have been the Wanderer and the Voice of the Gods, the Father and the Bewilderer and the Bringer of Sleep. Now, I am Odin. All these names are my name. All these names are one name. All these names are me.” Feeling quite wide awake now, King Geirrod sat and listened to this litany. His sword lay across his lap, half drawn at the initial outburst but once he heard his guest announce that he was Odin (which I’m sure you guessed a long time ago), he leapt to his feet and hurried to free him. It was a very poor idea to piss off Odin. Alas, the sword slipped from his drunken fingers and fell hilt-first to the ground. Geirrod stumbled over his own feet and fell, landing with a cry of agony on the blade that just so happened to be pointed directly at him. In a gout of blood, he fell to the floor skewered by his own sword and died as everyone watched. When the people looked up again, Odin was gone. Agnar was immediately hailed as king, and he ruled wisely and well for many years.
The Lay of Grimnir is a common poetic form for the Norse oral tradition. In part, it is a collection of names and descriptors meant to act as a mnemonic device to help the poet recall all of the other tales mentioned within. This tale mentions many such stories, though not all have survived the long years, such as the reference to the giant Sokkmimir, which survives nowhere else. It also does a good job of demonstrating the use of eddic poetry, a form that relies heavily on alliteration and kenning, complex referential names that only make sense if you already know who or what is being referred to. Audiences at the time would have understood the references being made, but the oblique nature of the form makes interpretation difficult for modern readers. Odin’s recitation at the end also dips a toe into the flyting tradition (which fans of Assassin’s Creed Valhalla will recognize), a form of insult poetry not unlike modern rap battles, where the winner was decided by crowd reaction (or death by self-impalement in this case). And so, with Geirrod firmly put in his place, it’s time for Gods and Monsters. This is a segment where I get into a little more detail about the personalities and history of one of the gods or monsters from this week’s pantheon that was not discussed in the main story. This week’s casus belli is Gullveig.
For all that Odin is touted as the wise, all-seeing Allfather, he was by no means omniscient. Despite his powerful magics, earned by sacrificing his eye for knowledge and hanging himself from the dread tree Yggdrasil, he made plenty of mistakes (as we saw in the main story). Likewise, he goofed when the witch Gullveig came to visit. Along with the other Aesir, Odin listened in horrified disgust as she spoke at length about her love for gold. And I do mean at length. This witch loooooved gold, lusted after it even. The Aeisir got real uncomfortable real quick and, after conferring amongst themselves, decided that the world would be a better, happier place without Gullveig in it. Being gods, they wasted no time. Odin ordered her seized, tortured, and stabbed a bunch with spears. Not cool, dude.
Even more not cool, they dragged her broken and bleeding body and hurled her onto the fire raging at the center of the hall, burning her to a grisly death at last. Being a pretty powerful witch, the murder didn’t exactly take. Once she finally died, she rose up again and stepped out of the flames whole and reborn. The Aesir weren’t having that, so they promptly tossed her back into the flames and burned her to death again two more times. After she walked out of the flames alive and unharmed for the third time, the Aesir realized that something strange was going on. Awed by this obvious display of power, the Aesir named her Heid, the Gleaming One and let her go. Heid or Gullveig, whichever name you prefer, was a powerful seer, an enchantress of magic wands, and a caster of potent spells. She was known for being a mistress of the darkest magics, the quintessential evil witch.
When the Vanir, a different and opposing group of gods, heard how the Aesir had treated Gullveig, they were furious. To be fair, that was a pretty blatant violation of guest right for the crime of – talking too much about gold. Yup, that’s a huge overreaction. The Vanir were thus utterly justified in swearing bloody vengeance on the Aesir for attempting to murder one of theirs with basically no provocation. Odin might not have predicted this reaction (although he probably should have), but from his high seat on Valaskjalf he saw the Vanir secretly preparing for war and soon the Aesir were also polishing their shields and sharpening their spears. Before long, armies from both godly groups marched on each other. As they neared, Odin cast his spear into the Vanir host, kicking off the Aesir-Vanir war, the very first war the world ever saw.
From the beginning, the Vanir kicked Aesir ass, gaining ground steadily and reducing the stout walls of Asgard to rubble with their powerful spells. Under Odin’s leadership, the Aesir rallied and pushed back into Vanaheim. It didn’t take long for both countries to be devastated by the warfare and only slightly longer for everyone to be sick of it. Battles raged back and forth, but neither side could gain enough of an advantage to strike the finishing blow. The war seemed endless.
As war weariness grew amongst both groups of gods, talk of truce began. Leaders of the Aesir and the Vanir met in a neutral place to talk it out. The discussion quickly turned to blame, and they argued bitterly about where the fault lay. I mean, the Aesir were definitely guilty; the question was whether they were the only guilty party or whether both sides were owed some form of tribute. After much debate, they finally arrived at a fair compromise: both sides would send two of their leaders to live amongst the other as proof of their earnest desire to live in peace. Basically, they were hostages.
From the Vanir came Njord and his son Freyr, making their way to Asgard along with Njord’s daughter Freyja (goddess of love and beauty) and Kvasir, wisest of the Vanir (from way, way back in Episode 4). The Aesir accepted this little party, though they were more than a little skeeved out by the fact that Freyr and Freyja were the children of Njord and Njord’s sister, which – fair. In accordance with the truce, Njord and Freyr were appointed as high priests, tasked with making the appropriate sacrifices, while Freyja was made a sacrificial priestess. In return, she taught the Aesir everything she knew of magic, which as we have seen was in common use in Vanaheim.
In return, the Aesir sent tall Honir and wise Mimir to live with the Vanir. Honir was a handsome, strapping kind of guy, charismatic and friendly, so Odin and his people thought he would make a great leader in peace and in wartime. Mimir was incredibly clever, as wise as Kvasir and second to none in cleverness. The Vanir happily accepted the emissaries and immediately appointed Honir as one of their leaders, with Mimir at his right hand as his chief advisor.
They were a real dynamic duo, working together in harmony. Unfortunately, Mimir was definitely the brains of the operation. Honir was kind of a himbo and utterly helpless on his own. When he was brought into council meetings by himself, he was worthless. Any time someone asked his advice, he always replied that maybe everyone else should decide. It was probably good advice, but not terribly useful.
The Vanir began to suspect that they had been tricked and had gotten the shit end of the post-war stick. Mimir might be a match for Kvasir, but Honir was no Njord, let alone a Freyja or a Freyr. Suspicion turned to fury and then to thoughts of vengeance. Again. Cause that worked out so well the first time. They seized Mimir, who had done nothing at all wrong, and threw him to the earth before hacking off his head. That’s rough, buddy.
The severed head was handed off to a messenger to be carried back to the Aesir from whence he had come. Odin received his friend’s head sadly. Maybe he reflected on how he had tried to kill Gullveig for no good reason (much like poor Mimir), but probably not. Mostly, Odin decided that this simply would not fucking do. He took Mimir’s head, smeared it in herbs and oils to preserve it and keep it from ever decaying. Cradling it in his arms, the High One sang charms over the severed head bringing it back to some form of life and giving it back the power of speech. Thus, Mimir’s wisdom became Odin’s wisdom, available to his ears only – truths unknown to any other being. Except of course anyone who has played as Kratos in the fabulous God of War game, where Mimir shows up to offer advice and snark in equal measure.
That’s it for this episode of Myths Your Teacher Hated. Keep up with new episodes on our Facebook page, on iTunes, on Stitcher, on TuneIn, on Vurbl, and on Spotify, or you can follow us on Twitter as @HardcoreMyth and on Instagram as Myths Your Teacher Hated Pod. You can also find news and episodes on our website at myths your teacher hated dot com. If you have any questions, any gods or monsters you’d want to learn about, or any ideas for future stories that you’d like to hear, feel free to drop me a line. I’m trying to pull as much material from as many different cultures as possible, but there are all sorts of stories I’ve never heard, so suggestions are appreciated. The theme music is by Tiny Cheese Puff.
Next time, we’re going to get some stories of animal enemies from the Maya. You’ll see that some kings are elected, that being pretty isn’t the same as being honest, and that being naked is bad for your health. Then, in Gods and Monsters, Coyote is going to try to earn his Certified Super Genius bona fides. That’s all for now. Thanks for listening.