NORDISTICA TARTUENSIA 20

Folklore in Old Norse –

Old Norse in Folklore

Edited by
Daniel Sävborg and Karen Bek-Pedersen
NORDISTICA TARTUENSIA 20
Folklore in Old Norse – Old Norse in Folklore
Edited by Daniel Sävborg and Karen Bek-Pedersen
Tartu 2014

SERIES EDITOR:
Daniel Sävborg, Professor, University of Tartu

ADVISORY BOARD:
Åsa Arping, Associate Professor, University of Gothenburg
Ásdís Egilsdóttir, Professor, University of Iceland
Staffan Hellberg, Professor, University of Stockholm
Pernille Hermann, Assistant Professor, University of Aarhus
Eike Schnall, Associate Professor, University of Bergen

© Authors, 2014

ISSN 1406-6149
ISBN 978-9949-32-704-1

University of Tartu Press

www.tyk.ee
 List of contents

Daniel Sävborg, Karen Bek-Pedersen

Folklore in Old Norse – Old Norse in Folklore. Introduction 7

Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir
The Other World in the Fornaldarsögur and in Folklore 14

Stephen A. Mitchell
Continuity: Folklore’s Problem Child? 41

Thomas A. DuBois
Anatomy of the Elite: “Learned” vs. “Folk” in the Analysis
of Avowedly Pre-Christian Religious Elements in the Sagas 59

Karen Bek-Pedersen
Reconstruction: On Crabs, Folklore and the History of Religion 83

Annette Lassen
The Old Norse Contextuality of Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss:
A Synoptic Reading with Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta 102

Camilla Asplund Ingemark

The Trolls in Bárðar saga – Playing with the Conventions
of Oral Texts? 120

Ralph O’Connor
Bárðar saga Between Orality and Literacy 139

Eldar Heide
Bárðar saga as a Source for Reconstruction of Pre-Christian
Religion? 170

Author presentations 181

 Folklore in Old Norse – Old Norse in Folklore. Introduction

Folklore in Old Norse –

Old Norse in Folklore.
Introduction

Daniel Sävborg, Karen Bek-Pedersen

University of Tartu, University of Southern Denmark

For a long time, supernatural elements in the Old Norse saga literature
(from the 13th and 14th centuries) were highly neglected among scholars.
The sagas were famous for their “realism” and most scholars tended
to focus on aspects and elements that would fit this view, which in-
cluded valuable studies on feuds and the social and societal structure
of the sagas, but left little room for encounters with Otherworld beings.
Works and genres that incorporate more than sporadic supernatural
and fantastic motifs were seen as peripheral anomalies and were tucked
away in the background. Such elements were usually explained as late
features and were, in fact, seen as signs of the degeneration of Old Norse
Literature (see for example Sigurður Nordal 1953: 261). At least part of
the explanation for this focus can probably be found in the contempo-
rary trends and personal views and convictions of the scholars behind
such studies. During the last few decades, however, this has changed.
The fornaldarsögur, with their focus on encounters with giants, trolls
and other monsters, are the subject of recent studies collected in the
three volumes in the series edited by Ney et al. 2003, 2009 and 2012,
and the Otherworld motifs were likewise discussed in many of the con-
tributions in McKinnell et al. 2006. Several articles and monographs on
giants (Schulz 2004), trolls, dwarves (Ármann Jakobsson 2008, 2005)
and other similar beings have been written in recent years, and this
clearly bears witness to the new interest in these aspects of Old Norse
literature. Moreover, it also reveals what can be gained from a more
nuanced approach to the study of saga literature; despite the many
overlaps and dividing lines between the genres into which sagas have
traditionally been grouped in the academic context, it is only fair to say
that sagas broadly speaking present a world-view that pays attention to
much more than realism, hard facts and objective truths. Supernatural,

7
DANIEL SÄVBORG, KAREN BEK-PEDERSEN

fantastic, symbolic and metaphorical aspects are present with what one
might justifiably call folkloric tenacity.
There is no doubt that studies such as those mentioned above have
deepened our understanding of especially the fornaldarsögur. The
Íslendingasögur, however, have not been examined as fully and have not
been equally successfully explained regarding the supernatural motifs
that also these texts contain. One of the main reasons for this is their
“realistic” character and their setting in an Icelandic society, which
has in the eyes of many a scholar seemed difficult to reconcile with en-
counters with Otherworld beings. Scholars tend to divide the Íslendin-
gasögur into two groups, one “classical”, consisting of sagas based on
oral tradition, perceived as fundamentally historical and focusing on
socially orientated conflicts between Icelanders, and one “post-classi-
cal”, consisting of sagas that are regarded as fictitious works written
by creative authors, focusing on fantastic events and influenced by the
fornaldarsögur. Vésteinn Ólason 2007 is a typical representative of this
view. The basis of this view is that supernatural elements in Íslendin-
gasögur are seen as exceptions and as signs of fiction. Other scholars,
however, have noted that supernatural beings could just as well have
been regarded as reality by medieval Icelanders and these scholars have
questioned the exceptional character of this type of episodes. Ármann
Jakobsson 1998 represents this view. Ármann and Vésteinn nonetheless
share a literary-comparative method wherein Otherworld motifs in the
Íslendingasögur are analyzed in the light of other sagas, both fornal-
darsögur and other Íslendingasögur. This has resulted in a significantly
increased knowledge of the sagas as literary works, but it has not solved
the problem of how Otherworld stories were conceived.
During the 20th century, Old Norse philology has been strongly
textually oriented. This is especially evident in saga scholarship where
the book-prose ideology of the “Icelandic School” turned the question
of the origins of individual sagas into an issue of direct influences from
other written works. This focus has had certain methodological ad-
vantages in terms of reducing the scope for unwarranted assumptions
and speculative reconstruction. But it has also meant that folkloristic
knowledge and methods have been neglected. Scholars have generally
failed to take account of the extensive material of later records of folk
belief and folklore. An important purpose of the present volume is to
emphasize the relevance of these sources and methods for Old Norse
studies, to disclose what sorts of results may be achieved this way, but

8
 Folklore in Old Norse – Old Norse in Folklore. Introduction

also to maintain an awareness of what the limitations are and through

discussion try to solve the problems inherent to this approach.
The traditional type of comparative method in Old Norse thus
concerns comparison of texts to other texts, and the texts discussed are
Old Norse texts that are compared to each other in order to establish
relationships; one of the texts is supposed to throw light on the other
and make an interpretation possible as well as function as the starting
point for the analysis. This is the basis of the so-called rittengsl method,
which is employed in all the saga introductions to the standard Íslenzk
fornrit editions of saga texts, and this has been the standard method in
saga research in general.
This method has, as mentioned, been successful and has made it
possible to establish certain relationships and fi xed points for inter-
pretation and understanding, not least with regards to some patterns
in the descriptions of the Otherworld (for example Ármann Jakobsson
2008, 2009, Schulz 2004). But it also leaves numerous aspects unex-
plained. In many cases, motifs and concepts cannot be explained by
merely pointing to influences from other preserved texts, but they can
in several cases be greatly clarified by being considered in the light of
recordings from much later periods instead. One example of this is the
Ingjaldr episode in Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss, which lacks Old Norse par-
allels, but has close parallels in Norwegian folk legends recorded in the
20th century (edited in Strompdal 1939: 49). In some cases, specific tex-
tual parallels from other sagas have been suggested by scholars, while
much closer parallels are found in later records, and the Old Norse texts
which have previously been seen as having influenced one another di-
rectly should rather be regarded as oral variants of the same story, also
recorded at a later stage. One example is the Járngrímr encounter in
Sturlunga saga, which Jonna Louis-Jensen claimed was influenced by
the description of the encounter between the blacksmith and Óðinn
in Böglunga sögur (Louis-Jensen 2009), although much closer parallels
are found in folk legends from Bohuslän and Värmlandsnäs, recorded
in the 20th century (edited by Bergstrand 1947: 11–12 and Bergstrand
1962: 12–14); cf. Sävborg 2014 [in print]). These Swedish legends prob-
ably represent a story that was known in medieval Iceland and which
constitutes the common root of the Járngrímur and the Óðinn episodes
in the two separate sagas. Generally, an oral background to motifs and
episodes in the sagas seems likely much more often than is indicated in
the saga introductions of Íslenzk fornrit.

9
DANIEL SÄVBORG, KAREN BEK-PEDERSEN

I many cases, the folkloric parallels might supplement the inves-

tigations founded on more traditional philological methods. Ármann
Jakobsson 2008 has listed and examined the different descriptions of
trolls in the saga texts and tried to establish and analyze the Old Norse
conception of the look, peculiarity and function of trolls. This investi-
gation significantly increases our knowledge, but an inclusion of later
Scandinavian material and theoretical concepts from folkloristics (not
least the distinction between Sage and Märchen) would most probably
solve several of the remaining questions.
Folkloristics also supplies us with theoretical models created for
the kind of material encountered in a living tradition, which means that
it has the potential to provide greater knowledge of how the stories were
perceived by contemporary narrators and audiences. This gives the the-
ory and the conception of the supernatural a stronger basis in empirics
and certainty of knowledge than does the literary theory usually used
in examinations of the supernatural motifs in Old Norse literature. Old
Norse scholarship has, in short, much to gain from becoming a great
deal more familiar with the folkloristic concepts and models.
A few scholars have gone about analyzing the basic view of the
supernatural in Old Norse literature and interesting contributions
have been produced by e.g. Mundal 2006 and Mitchell 2006, who have
used the concepts of ‘supernatural’ vs. ‘fantastic’ to explain different
perceptions of truth. An approach that has been rare in these contexts
is, however, the folkloristic approach. There are scattered references to
Max Lüthi in Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir 2006 and Mitchell 2006,
mainly to describe the distinction between fornaldarsögur and Íslend-
ingasögur, but folkloristic concepts have hardly been used in the anal-
ysis of Íslendingasögur. An interesting attempt made by John Lindow
1986 to use Lauri Honko’s description of the Otherworld encounter in
the Ingrian memorats was never followed up. Daniel Sävborg (2009)
made an analysis of the Otherworld encounters in the Íslendingasögur
using Max Lüthi’s analysis of One-dimensionality (vs. Two-dimension-
ality). Sävborg 2014 argues for the use of late-recorded folk legends as
comparative material in the study of Íslendingasögur in addition to the
contemporary saga literature. These approaches are to a large extent
followed up in this volume.
In the present volume, eight articles are collected all of which de-
velop further the bringing together of Old Norse philology and folklore
studies and they discuss and test methods in order to shed new light on
the supernatural in Old Norse literature. The articles all treat the issue

10
 Folklore in Old Norse – Old Norse in Folklore. Introduction

of literary/learned/written tradition on the one hand vs. oral/folk tra-

dition on the other. All of them also deal, completely or partially, with
supernatural motifs and beliefs in Old Norse. The ways in which these
eight articles approach and combine these issues are nonetheless dif-
ferent. Thomas A. DuBois, Stephen Mitchell and Karen Bek-Pedersen
examine these matters from a general point of view albeit through
concrete examples, while the remaining five authors focus on specific
genres or works: Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir on the genre of fornal-
darsögur broadly speaking and Ralph O’Connor, Camilla Asplund In-
gemark, Eldar Heide and Annette Lassen all focus on one individual
Íslendingasaga, namely Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss. In the case of this par-
ticular saga, which is a striking example of how easily the saga genre
incorporates both literary and folkloric elements side by side, Lassen
mainly conducts the traditional literary study of textual comparison
but, less traditionally, emphasizes the supernatural elements, which
are frequently neglected in the studies of the genre of Íslendingasögur,
while Asplund Ingemark, on the other hand, avoids this kind of textual
comparison and instead analyzes the supernatural motifs and story
patterns from the point of folkloristic theory. O’Connor tries to estab-
lish the balance between written and oral sources for the saga and its
supernatural motifs, while Heide examines a possible ancient and pre-
Christian tradition behind the same motifs. When presented side by
side, as they are here, these four articles on Bárðar saga illustrate just
how greatly our knowledge about one saga can be enhanced by shining
light onto it from all different disciplines: folklore, philology, history of
literature and of religion.
Notable are the attempts from two of the authors to use folkloristic
theory to throw light onto the supernatural within Old Norse sagas.
This is the main object of Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir’s analysis of
the fornaldarsögur as a genre and this is also the object of Camilla As-
plund Ingemark’s article on the allegedly “post-classical” Bárðar saga
Snæfellsáss. Both these authors are pioneers in using this theoretical
approach on a genre and on a saga, respectively, traditionally seen as
fundamentally literary, but discussed in these articles also in terms of
their oral character.
The long-term perspective in itself, which is a condition for con-
necting medieval Norse texts with later folklore records, is discussed
in the volume by three of the authors. Stephen Mitchell focuses on the
degree of continuity of beliefs in Scandinavia and examines the sources
where such continuity seems to be present. Karen Bek-Pedersen and

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DANIEL SÄVBORG, KAREN BEK-PEDERSEN

Eldar Heide both discuss the possibilities for reconstruction. Heide fo-
cuses mainly on the potential reconstruction of pre-Christian beliefs
about guardian spirits, local deities and supernatural beings by com-
bining high medieval saga texts with late-recorded folklore and later
learned information. Bek-Pedersen raises a number of fundamental
theoretical questions about reconstruction of lost stories, traditions
and beliefs on the basis of combining Old Norse texts and fragments
with later sources.
By presenting these eight articles together here, we hope to make
clear that there are still many avenues to explore, that well-known ap-
proaches and methodologies from other disciplines can be useful and
valuable to the study of saga texts and, indeed, that much can be re-
vealed by research that is open to this blending together of traditionally
separate disciplines. It is obvious that the various academic fields each
employ useful and valuable methods and strategies. We hope herewith
to show that not one field is more useful or more valuable than any
other but, indeed, that the way forward towards a more nuanced, more
comprehensive and better understanding of the sagas lies in the com-
bined forces of different disciplines.

Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir. 2006. “On Supernatural Motifs in the Fornaldar-

sögur.” In: The Fantastic in Old Norse/Icelandic Literature. Sagas and the
British Isles: Preprint Papers of The Thirteenth International Saga Confer-
ence, Durham and York 6th–12th August, 2006. eds. John McKinnell, David
Ashurst and Donata Kick, 33–41. Durham: The Centre for Medieval and
Renaissance Studies
Ármann Jakobsson. 1998. “History of the Trolls? Bárðar saga as an Historical
Narrative.” Saga-Book 25/1: 53–71.
–. 2005. “The Hole: Problems in Medieval Dwarfology.” Arv: Nordic Year-
book of Folklore 61: 53–76.
–. 2008. “Vad är ett troll? Betydelsen av ett isländskt medeltidsbegrepp.” Saga
och sed 2008: 101–117.
Honko, Lauri. 1964. “Memorates and the Study of folk Beliefs.” Journal of the
Folklore Institute, vol. 1: 5–19
Íslenzk fornrit vol 1–14. Reykjavík 1933–1991.
Lindow, John. 1986. “Þorsteins þáttr skelks and the Verisimilitude of Super-
natural Experience in Sagan Literature.” In: Structure and Meaning in Old
Norse Literature: New Approaches to Textual Analysis and Literary Criti-
cism, eds. John Lindow et al. 264–80. The Viking Collection 3. Odense:
Odense University Press.
Louis-Jensen, Jonna. 2009. “Odin i Skagafjörður: Járngrímr-episoden i Íslen-
dinga saga.” In: Greppaminni: Rit til heiðurs Vésteini Ólasyni sjötugum,

12
 Folklore in Old Norse – Old Norse in Folklore. Introduction

eds Margrét Eggertsdóttir et al., 259–67. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka bók-

menntafélag.
Lüthi, Max. 1992. Das europäische Volksmärchen: Form und Wesen. 9th ed.
Tübingen.
McKinnell, John et al. 2006. The Fantastic in Old Norse/Icelandic Literature.
Sagas and the British Isles: Preprint Papers of The Thirteenth International
Saga Conference, Durham and York 6th–12th August, 2006. Durham: The
Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies.
Mitchell, Stephen. 2006. “The Supernatural and other Elements of the Fan-
tastic in the fornaldarsögur.” In: The Fantastic in Old Norse/Icelandic
Literature. Sagas and the British Isles: Preprint Papers of The Thirteenth
International Saga Conference, Durham and York 6th–12th August, 2006.
eds. John McKinnnell, David Ashurst and Donata Kick, 699–706. Dur-
ham: The Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies.
Mundal, Else. 2006. “The Treatment of the Supernatural and the Fantastic in
Different Saga Genres.” In: The Fantastic in Old Norse/Icelandic Literature.
Sagas and the British Isles. eds. John McKinnnell, David Ashurst and Do-
nata Kick, 718–726. Durham: The Centre for Medieval and Renaissance
Studies.
Ney, Agneta, Ármann Jakobsson and Annette Lassen. 2003. Fornaldarsagor-
nas struktur och ideologi. Uppsala: Swedish Science Press.
–. 2009. Fornaldarsagaerne, myter og virkelighed: studier i de oldinslandske
fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums Forlag.
–. 2012. The Legendary Sagas: Origins and Development. Reykjavík: Univer-
sity of Iceland Press.
Sävborg, Daniel. 2009. “Avstånd, gräns och förundran: Möten med de över-
naturliga i islänningasagan.” In: Greppaminni: Rit til heiðurs Vésteini
Ólasyni sjötugum, eds. Margrét Eggertsdóttir et al., 323–349. Reykjavík:
Hið íslenzka bókmenntafélag.
Sävborg, Daniel. 2010. “Scandinavian Folk Legends and Icelandic Sagas.” The
Retrospective Methods Network Newsletter, vol. 1.
Sävborg, Daniel. 2012. “Fornaldarsagan och den ‘efterklassiska’ islänningasa-
gans uppkomst.” In: The Legendary Sagas: Origins and Development, eds.
Ármann Jakobsson, Annette Lassen, Agneta Ney, 323–349. Reykjavík:
name of publisher.
Sävborg, Daniel. 2014. “Scandinavian Folk Legends and Post-Classical Íslen-
dingasögur.” In: New Focus on Retrospective Methods, eds. Eldar Heide and
Karen Bek-Pedersen. Folklore Fellows Communications 307. Helsinki:
Academia Scientiarum Fennica. [in print].
Vésteinn Ólason. 2007. 2007a. “The Fantastic Element in Fourteenth Century
Íslendingasögur: A Survey.” Gripla 18: 7–22.

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AÐALHEIÐUR GUÐMUNDSDÓTTIR

The Other World

in the Fornaldarsögur and
in Folklore
Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir
University of Iceland

Abstract:
In this article, the Icelandic Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda (the legendary sagas
of the North) will be examined and compared to folk and fairy tales, with
emphasis on their supernatural characteristics, or what might be called the
‘Other World’. Before the comparison takes place, the article discusses the
Other World in the fornaldarsögur, as well as the main characteristics of fairy
tales. The questions are different in nature, but the intention is first and fore-
most to shed some light on the question of whether or not theoretical frame-
works borrowed from folklore studies can be productive when applied to the
fornaldarsögur. Another question is whether the terminology used affects the
results. The article is divided into five main parts: 1) The concept of the ‘Other
World’ in literature: theoretical appoaches and terminology, 2) The ‘Other
World’ in the Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda; 3) The narratological method-
ologies of Folkloristics; 4) A comparison of the fornaldarsögur and fairy tales
with regard to structures and the meaning of the ‘Other World’; and finally
5) A conclusion.

The Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda, a category within Old Norse litera-

ture mostly written in the 13th and 14th centuries, were frequently based
on earlier poetry and/or oral tradition and, as is evident from the name
of the category, they deal with the Nordic past. Despite substantial and
comprehensive recent scholarship on this material,1 however, only a
few scholars have studied the oral background of these works, that is,

1
See, for example, Fornaldarsagornas struktur och ideologi 2003; Fornaldar-
sagaerne: Myter og virkelighed 2009; and The Legendary Sagas: Origin and De-
velopment 2012, just a few examples of a number of works in which scholars have
been studying these sagas in recent years. Not all of them, however, agree on the
definition of the ‘genre’ or how many texts should be considered as ‘actual’ forn-
aldarsögur, see, for example, Quinn et al. 2006. The present author is currently
engaged in a project dealing with the fornaldarsögur and has published several
articles on their background in history and medieval art (for example, Aðalheiður
Guðmundsdóttir 2012 a; 2012 b; 2012 c). On the origins of this category as litera-
ture, see Torfi H. Tulinius 2002: 44–69.

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 The Other World in the Fornaldarsögur and in Folklore

their relation to oral tradition.2 In the following discussion, I intend to

approach this topic by examining and comparing the fornaldarsögur
to folk and fairy tales, placing emphasis on their supernatural char-
acteristics, or what we might refer to as the ‘Other World’. My ques-
tions here are different in nature, but first and foremost I mean to shed
some light on the question of whether or not theoretical frameworks
borrowed from folklore studies can be productive when applied to the
fornaldarsögur.3

The ‘Other World’ in Literature: Terminology

Readers who encounter Old Norse literature for the first time soon real-
ise that quite a number of texts make use of settings and motifs that
pre-suppose a belief in (or a literary convention employing) dimensions
of reality beyond those of ordinary experience: revenants, enchanted
objects, supernatural beings, magicians, spells, etc. In many cases, the
encounters with the supernatural take place in a supernatural dimen-
sion, a different world, and for convenience, we sometimes refer to the
realm of supernatural beings and events, that is, the setting of super-
natural motifs of various types, collectively as ‘the Other World’.4
The part played by supernatural motifs and the idea of another
world vary widely from one literary genre to another and also the
concepts involved are of very different types and may also vary in
the way they appear within individual texts. The kind of world-view
that reflects ideas from a pre-Christian culture, such as that of Norse
mythology, is for instance quite different from what we find in tales of
miracles, such as those in the biskupasögur (the sagas of the Icelandic
2
For example Buchholz 1980; Mitchell 1991. On oral elements in Gautreks saga, see
Rowe 1998, and Westerdahl 2004, and in the ‘Hrafnistumannasögur’, see Leslie
2010. For a general discussion on orality in Old Norse literature, see Gísli Sigurðs-
son 1997.
3
The present article originated in work done in preparation for the first meeting of
the Old Norse Folklorists Network in Tartu in 2011. There, I contributed to a dis-
cussion on the role of the Other World for the authors and audiences of Old Norse
literature. The subject was examined from different perspectives, as the main pur-
pose of the meeting was to discuss various questions concerning the topic (based
on a list of questions constructed by Daniel Sävborg and Karen Bek-Pedersen, the
organisers of the meeting).
4
For a more thorough definition of the ‘Other World’, see McKinnell 2005: 4–5 and
Lindow 1995. See further Power 1985. For an index of supernatural motifs in the
fornaldarsögur, for other early Icelandic literature, see Boberg 1966. In my present
project (see note 1), I have compiled a database of supernatural motifs in the forn-
aldarsögur. The database is not yet accessible; for further information, see: http://
uni.hi.is/adalh/fornaldarsogur-norðurlanda/gagnagrunnur/

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AÐALHEIÐUR GUÐMUNDSDÓTTIR

bishops), not to mention descriptions of another world in visionary lit-

erature (dream visions; leiðslur), which were primarily written in order
to remind people of the torments of Hell and exhort them to turn their
attention towards Heaven and how to attain it through good behaviour.
Other genres of saga literature that we might wish to compare from the
perspective of the supernatural include konungasögur (the kings’ sagas),
Íslendingasögur (sagas of Icelanders), Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda and
the indigenous Icelandic romances – riddarasögur.
In the case of a comparison between Norse mythology and the
biskupasögur, the differences in the presentation of the Other World are
in many respects determined by the different premises of the old reli-
gion versus Christianity. But in both cases, the role of the supernatural
dimension is more often than not that of highlighting the superiority of
the divine against the temporal and, in the case of Christian literature,
to establish certain ethical values. However, there are other kinds of
works, such as the Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda, that reflect both ele-
ments, where Christian authors treat various kinds of subject matter
originally rooted in pre-Christian ideas and earlier narratives.5 In this
kind of literature, the supernatural dimension is not necessarily divine:
it is far more characterised by the fact that human beings have up to a
certain point gained access to the Other World, and it seems that the
gap between mortal men and the unknown dimension has diminished
to a certain degree. In her book Fantasy: The Literature of Subversion,
Rosemary Jackson says (1981: 19):
In a secularized culture, desire of otherness is not displaced into alter-
native regions of heaven or hell, but is directed towards the absent
areas of this world, transforming it into something ‘other’ than the
familiar, comfortable one.
Various scholars have addressed the different kinds of world-views pre-
sented in different genres of saga literature. Stephen A. Mitchell, for
example, outlined the nature of their ideal types on a two-scale model,
from factual to fabulous, and more traditional to less traditional.
According to his scale, the Íslendingasögur are defined as highly trad-
itional and highly factual, whereas the fornaldarsögur are defined as
a highly traditional and highly fabulous kind of sagas (1991: 16–17).
Else Mundal is also among those who argue that manifestations of
the supernatural vary from one literary genre to another, and argues
that we should actually make a distinction between what we call the
5
Treatment by Christian authors of pre-Christian ideas is discussed in, for ex-
ample, Ferrari 2012: 274–83.

16
 The Other World inin the
the Fornaldarsögur
Fornaldarsögur and in Folklore

‘supernatural’, on the one hand, and the ‘fantastic’ on the other. In

short, she believes that the difference between these two terms can be
expressed as follows:
– Supernatural: ‘The supernatural deals ... with beings and phe-
nomena that are not subject to natural laws’ (2006: 718). Mundal believes
that the supernatural existed in the Old Norse world-view, and in fact
that belief in the supernatural was important in Old Norse society, and
therefore we can find many examples of the supernatural in all kinds of
saga literature, whether it is ‘realistic’ or not. Belief in the supernatural
includes, for example, a belief in miracles, a belief that people might be
brought back from the dead and a belief that certain figures of folklore,
such as mara and tröllriða (which caused nightmares) were, in fact,
sorceresses. In this world-view, certain kinds of magical objects are
admitted, such as weapons and clothes (2006: 721–23). In other words,
magicians, and magic itself, can feature in narratives and constitute a
natural part of the society depicted. The main point here is that people
(or the people depicted in a given narrative) actually thought it possible
that these things really existed. We might say that Mundal’s ideas here
resemble what other scholars have termed magic realism.6
– Fantastic: ‘The fantastic,’ according to Mundal ‘... deals with
beings and phenomena that do not belong to the real, experienced
world, but rather to imagination and fantasy’ (2006: 718). Here, we have
a great range of magical objects, such as magic potions, magic stones,
flying carpets and so on. Mundal argues that the descriptions of magi-
cal objects ‘are more fantastic in the fornaldarsögur and the indigenous
riddarasögur than in the sagas of the Icelanders’ (2006: 719, 723). In
other words, people did not believe in the fantastic, which is why the
fantastic is ‘much more frequent in texts which tell about events that
happened long ago and far away’ (2006: 720). Consequently, she believes
that the fantastic could easily be included in the literature of the Late
Middle Ages. This would be typical for the fornaldarsögur, where ‘the
line of demarcation between the natural and the fantastic is not clearly
marked. The hero can travel to the lands of trolls and he can use magical
objects as if they were the most ordinary things’ (2006: 724).
In short, we might say that Mundal includes the supernatural as
part of the normal, or what she calls the experienced, world, while the
fantastic is bound to the imaginary world of fiction. Their respective
locations might be portrayed as shown on ill. 1:

6
Cf. Hans Jacob Orning 2010, and especially his discussion of the ‘magical world
view’ (2010: 8). See also Eremenko 2006: 217 and Hansen 2009.

17
AÐALHEIÐUR GUÐMUNDSDÓTTIR

E
Everyday life:
- love/mmarriage Fantastic
F c
(ffiction/ cf.
c the
- war world
w of
- religio
on fo
ornaldarrsögur)
- the suupernattural

Ill. 1. The supernatural vs. the fantastic.

To follow this up, we may well agree that there is a fundamental differ-
ence between phenomena such as a miraculous cure by a god or a saint
(‘supernatural’) and a cure by a forest demon with a magic wand (‘fan-
tastic’). However, the contrasting features are not always so clear, and
eventually we have to face the question of what criteria to use to distin-
guish between them.7 Here, we might for example ask whether it is not
natural to include folk belief and superstition – and thus the existence
of a wide range of supernatural beings – as part of the everyday world?
Is it not, for example, probable that people could have believed in the
existence of jötnar? What premises did people in the 13th and 14th cen-
turies have for not believing in the existence of such beings? In medieval
times, wild realms – forests, deserts, mountains – were unexplored and
remote places that were unknown, apart from the accounts available in
various descriptions of the world. According to these, there were giants
and dog-headed people; there were Cyclops and even people with an
eye in the middle of their chests (for example Wittkower 1942: 160–63).
As late as the early 17th century, an Icelandic annalist recorded that a
Dutch woman gave birth to a child in the shape of a dog (Björn Jónsson
1922: 197). As all these phenomena were accepted by the Church as pos-
sible creations of God (Wittkower 1942: 167–68; cf. Sverrir Jakobsson
2005: 47–72 et passim; Arngrímur Vídalín 2013), why would people not
have believed in the existence of jötnar, trolls, revenants, blámenn, ber-

7
Mundal is aware of these difficulties (cf. 2006: 724–25). Vésteinn Ólason believes
that ‘fantastic phenomena’ are not easy to define, and makes ‘... no attempt to draw
a line between the supernatural and the imaginary’. He uses the term ‘fantastic’ in
a way similar to Mundal, but with the proviso that: ‘I shall look upon such motifs
as fantastic, although my feeling is that moderate exaggeration is part and parcel
of narrative art and cannot qualify as a fantastic element; the line goes somewhere
between the unlikely and the impossible’ (2007: 8). See further discussions in
Sävborg 2009: 329, 343–44.

18
 The Other World inin the
the Fornaldarsögur
Fornaldarsögur and in Folklore

serks, dwarves and elves – and even dragons and finngálkn? The medi-
eval audience of the sagas did of course view the world differently from
readers in the 21st century and their ideas about the supernatural reflect
attempts to explain unknown phenomena.8
The prologue to the 14th century Göngu-Hrólfs saga, states that
those who trúa því einu, er þeir sjá sínum augum eðr heyra sínum
eyrum, ‘believe only what they see with their own eyes or hear with their
own ears’ are foolish (Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda: III 237). A similar
statement is made in the indigenous riddarasaga, Sigurðar saga þögla
(Sigurðar saga þǫgla: 95). Whether or not such strictures are anything
more than conventions, or self-ironic comments,9 the important point
here is not to assume that people in medieval times saw the world with
our eyes. Therefore, the natural question that arises from Mundal’s dis-
tinction between the supernatural and the fantastic is to what extent
the ‘fantastic’ belongs to folk belief? Or maybe we should rather ask: Is
the ‘fantastic’ perhaps, in some way, part of the real world? Or better
still: Are the phenomena in question ‘fantastic’ at all? At this stage, I
believe it could be helpful to take a brief look at the term ‘fantastic’
itself and consider the extent to which the terminology and definitions
employed by researchers end up shaping the results they obtain.
Most authors who have studied the term fantasy, and ‘fantastic’
literature distinguish between what is usually termed ‘marvellous’ lit-
erature (see below), including romances and fairy tales, and ‘fantastic’
literature (aka. ‘Fantasy’, including stories by authors such as Edgar
Allan Poe and Franz Kafka), and indeed ‘the fantastic’ is commonly
used to refer to ideas that emerge in literature from the 19th century
and onwards.10 The ‘fantastic’ has been defined as something that
cannot exist and cannot or could not have happened, from the per-
spective of modern man (Jackson 1981: 7, 21–22; cf. Todorov 1975:
33); it is therefore not the most suitable term in medieval studies,11
8
For further discussions, see Ármann Jakobsson 1998: 54–56.
9
See discussion on truth-claims and apologiae in saga literature in Sverrir Tómas-
son 1988: 245–60 and O’Connor 2005: 136–41 et passim.
10
There are exceptions from this, and Eric S. Rabkin claims that fantastic genres
are not restricted to the Fantasy (i.e. ‘fantastic’ literature), as the term ‘fantastic’
constitutes more than a single genre, for example, the fairy tale, and in certain
cases, escape literature. He claims that a fantastic world offers us an escape from
our own world by ‘making a fantastic reversal of the rules of our world’ (Rabkin
1977: 59, see further 54, 73, 117–18, 189). In his book, The Fantastic in Literature,
he, however, never includes medieval romances in his definitions of the fantastic.
11
Hence, it does not come as a surprise that some Old Norse scholars have rejected
the term ‘fantastic’ in recent studies. In his article on ‘magic reality’ in the fornald-
arsögur, Hans Jacob Orning believes that, even if the fornaldarsögur include tales
of supernatural heroes, monsters and magic, we should not treat them as fantasies

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even if it is encountered increasing frequently, not least since the 13th

International Saga Conference in 2006: The Fantastic in Old Norse/
Icelandic Literature. Sagas and the British Isles. In ‘marvellous’ works,
however, people imbue the unknown, the ‘other’, with supernatural
qualities, and there is a fundamental difference between the two. As
Rosemary Jackson says: ‘Movement into a marvellous realm transports
the reader or viewer into an absolutely different, alternative world, a
‘secondary’ universe’ (Jackson 1981: 42, cf. 24, 32–33, 35). In this way,
the supernatural in ‘marvellous’ works does not provoke any ‘reaction’
in the reader’s mind, since within the text, it is accepted (Todorov 1975:
42–43, 47, 54; Lindow 1986: 280).
Marvellous, as referring to ideas in medieval literature, is, in itself,
not a simple term and has been divided into three different categories
(Stevens 1973: 100–102):12
1) The purely mysterious, that is, things we cannot explain, such
as talking animals, etc.
2) The strictly magical, that is, when the marvellous is controlled
by man. Witches, wizards and warlocks belong here as the
operators of magic and, hence, so do magical objects.
3) The miraculous, that is, when the marvellous is controlled by
God.
Apart from the riddarasögur, or some of them at least, the various
genres of Old Norse literature cannot, of course, be classified as ‘mar-
vellous’ literature, but may include marvellous features, whether these
are mysterious, magical or miraculous. In my opinion, the above cat-
egorisation can be helpful in understanding the supernatural nature of
the sagas as it explains the basic nature of the marvels instead of their
subjective and/or culturally dependent credibility. Hence, I believe that
it does matter whether or not we use the term ‘fantastic’ when dealing
with Old Norse literature, not least because it is hard to draw a clear line
between individual perceptions of reality, religion, folk belief, supersti-
tion and the ‘fantasy’ of different individuals, and changing norms with
regard to these concepts in different societies during medieval times.
In order to examine this in a more concise context, and demonstrate
since they exhibit remnants of folk belief wherein magic had an important role
(Orning 2010: 10); what has been termed ‘fantastic’ here can, in other words, be
closely akin to the supernatural and, in some cases, it may even be impossible to
distinguish between the two concepts. See further John Lindow, who claims that
Tzvetan Todorov’s theory on fantastic literature is irrelevant to medieval literature
(1986: 275), and Arngrímur Vídalín (2013).
12
Tzvetan Todorov chooses to distinguish between four varieties of the marvellous,
in addition to its pure state (1975: 54–57).

20
 The Other World inin the
the Fornaldarsögur
Fornaldarsögur and in Folklore

how blurred such a distinction really is, let us now turn to the for-
naldarsögur and their world-view, bearing in mind that ideas about
another world can be different both in kind and in the proportions they
assume within individual works. In what follows, and in order to shed
light on the supernatural/marvellous nature of the fornaldarsögur, we
will emphasise the symbolic meaning of the Other World.

The ‘Other World’ in the Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda

There is a common consensus among scholars of Old Norse literature
that medieval audiences knew different kinds of literature and would
thus probably have had different attitudes towards individual genres
or categories. According to Torfi H. Tulinius, the audience of the for-
naldarsögur expected to hear about supernaturally strong charac-
ters acting in a world of wonders, while the audience of, for example,
Sturlunga saga, expected to hear about characters similar to themselves
in nature and living in the same world (2000: 250).13 This is, in fact, in
accordance with the above discussion, for example with Else Mundal’s
view in which she considers the Other World of the fornaldarsögur to
be characterised by motifs and magical objects that are ‘more fantas-
tic’ than, for instance, those in the sagas of Icelanders (2006: 719; cf.
Clunies-Ross 2009: 317). But what is it that characterises the Other
World in the fornaldarsögur?
First, it should be noted that the distinction between these worlds,
the more natural one and the Other World, is far from being clear.
Sometimes, however, the division between the two worlds is to some
extent geographical, such as when the heroes sail to the north and east
and become further and further distanced from the known world, the
Norse world of Scandinavia.14 In other instances, the division can be
made by features in the landscape itself, for example by water, such as
a lake, fog or islands (Heide 2011: 58), or by the transfer of the scene of
action to a distinct location, such as the inside of a cave or a mound.
In some ways this is a different world, a world of trolls and magical
beings, but still it is far from being a homogeneous Other World. It is

13
Cf. the discussion in Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir 2006.
14
These territories include, for example, Jötunheimar, Geirröðargarðar, Bjálkaland,
and some Finnish regions (for instance Kirjálabotnar), along with even more re-
mote areas, such as Indíaland, Tattaría, and the river Jordan. These realms are in-
habited by humans and animals with magical abilities, by supernatural beings and
imaginary races, for example giants, dwarves and trolls (Eremenko 2006: 221). See
also Vésteinn Ólason 1994 and Leslie 2010: 208.

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inhabited by various kinds of supernatural beings, but some of these

beings resemble us in a number of respects, in the same way as the
various creatures of Norse mythology do.15 How could it be otherwise?
What are the inhabitants of these places but the expression of vague
ideas about remote nations and therefore, to a certain extent, a creation
of people’s imagination?
If we try to create a boundary between what is realistic and what is
unrealistic – or more or less realistic, according to what Norse people
in the 13th and 14th centuries considered possible or not – is it not likely
that some beings which we would consider on ‘our side’ of the division
would end up on the other side, while others, which we might think
should be on the other side, would end up closer to us here?

‘our side’ ‘the other side’

While giants and dwarfs are, for example, beings from another world,
they nevertheless possess many human characteristics (cf. Schjødt 2010)
and may therefore partially be on ‘our side’; on the contrary, völvur
‘prophetesses’ are indeed of this world, even if they can appear to be
closely akin to supernatural or magical beings from ‘the other side’.
Where, for example, would Ögmundr Eyþjófsbani, Örvar-Oddr’s worst
enemy in Örvar-Odds saga, fit into such a two-sided model (Fornaldar
sögur Norðrlanda: II 207–208)? Is he perhaps an example of the type
of being mentioned in the prologue of Göngu-Hrólfs saga, which says
that some men are semi-supernatural? – that is to say, they are pos-
sessed by evil spirits, as they have hræríng haft af óhreins anda íblæstri,
‘been disturbed and imbued with an unclean spirit’ (Fornaldar sögur
Norðrlanda: III 237). In a similar vein, trolls can be human (as applies
to witches and wizards of medieval literature), as well as supernatural
(Ármann Jakobsson 2008: 52–53). Further, we could even say, at least
in many instances, that the ‘supernatural’ beings of the far northern
areas of Scandinavia resemble the actual inhabitants of those areas
during the Middle Ages, that is to say the Lapps (the ‘Sámi’), who lived
in the wild mountains and were known for their accomplishments in
magic (Sverrir Jakobsson 2005: 249–56; Mundal 1996). In other words,
humans and supernatural beings in the fornaldarsögur are far from
being black and white opposites, even if they can, obviously, play the
15
Jens Peter Schjødt discussed the diversity of ‘supernatural’ beings of Norse myth-
ology at the conference Gods and Goddesses on the Edge: Myth and Liminality in
the North, held in Reykjavík, 12th–13th November, 2010 (Schjødt 2010), and stressed
the vague boundaries between gods, supernatural beings and humans.

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the Fornaldarsögur
Fornaldarsögur and in Folklore

distinctive role of villain (a ‘black’ character), helper (a ‘white’ char-

acter), or some other stereotype (cf. Propp 1968: 79–80). In addition
to this, some supernatural beings can also change during the course
of the story, as occurs with Brana, the half human flagðkona (giant-
ess) in Hálfdanar saga Brönufóstra, who attacks Hálfdan when they
first meet (as might be expected), but later on becomes his friend and
helper (Fornaldar sögur Norðrlanda: III 572 ff.). Another kind of change
occurs when a man becomes supernatural, as is the case with Árán in
Egils saga einhenda, who is Ásmundr’s sworn brother and compan-
ion, but after his death becomes a haugbúi (mound dweller) who fero-
ciously attacks Ásmundr and tears off both of his ears (Fornaldar sögur
Norðrlanda: III 375–378).
In the fornaldarsögur, what we may call – and have referred to
as – ‘the Other World’ becomes part of the hero’s action zone and is
usually inhabited by forces that he must confront and conquer. One of
the functions of this world is thus to enable the hero to attain a higher
level of achievement or development, entering the ranks of the superhu-
man and rendering his deeds worthy of perpetual memory. Frequently,
the hero meets his otherworldly opponent in a one-to-one combat, as
for example when Hálfdan Eysteinsson fights against Selr (a þurs) and
kills him (Fornaldar sögur Norðrlanda: III 546–647). Another common
conflict situation is where the hero, either alone or with a band of com-
panions, fights against groups of ogres that are hostile to humans or
are perceived as posing a threat to them, as when Sörli sterki and his
men are attacked by twelve big, black fellows who are very different from
the human beings (blámenn) described in Sörla saga sterka (Fornaldar
sögur Norðrlanda: III 411–12). But why should it be so important to the
hero to deal with beings from another world?
As John E. Stevens pointed out in his book Medieval Romance,
the marvels that occur within a story are necessary for its progres-
sion, as the hero cannot prove himself superior to ordinary people
without supernatural or non-human occurrences and circumstances.
Men simply cannot be heroes and ‘supermen’ within the grey everyday
world we usually inhabit (1973: 97–98) and therefore this is a neces-
sary element in order to create a good story. This is exactly the case in
many of the fornaldarsögur and is, for example, the motive behind the
frequent journeys of the protagonists of the ‘Hrafnistumannasögur’,
that is, Ketils saga hængs, Gríms saga loðinkinna, Örvar-Odds saga and
Áns saga bogsveigis, who all travel to the far north of Scandinavia to

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fight and conquer trolls, jötnar and other kinds of supernatural beings
(Leslie 2010).
Alexey Eremenko, who has studied the ethical values of the fornald-
arsögur, prefers to call their supernatural dimension ‘the magic world’
(2006: 221–22). He believes that the magic world is characterised by
the fact that it is chaotic, that it is without moderation, and that it is
first and foremost a world where the laws and customs of the world
of ordinary human experience do not apply. In the chaotic world, the
inhabitants have, among other things, the ability to change shapes, pass
through the earth, control the weather, etc., and people are allowed to
use magic freely without moral considerations. Therefore, Eremenko
considers the magic world as some kind of free action zone for the hero
where the law serves his egoistic purposes rather than the social obliga-
tions he is tied to in his real world (the cosmos) where order prevails.
Since his aim is to examine the ethics of the two worlds, he argues that
the hero’s journey is meant to develop him morally; that is, the protago-
nist goes from cosmos to chaos where he then deals with his opponents
without being subject to the ordinary limits imposed in the familiar
world. When he finally returns to his proper home, the cosmos, he has
reconciled himself with its prevailing values (Eremenko 2006: 220–22).
The journey of the hero can be pictured as on ill. 2:

The Maggic
world
• cosm
mos • co
osmos
• chaos
The
e Real The Real
W
World World

Ill. 2. The journey of the hero.

While it is disputable whether the hero adopts the moral values of the
Other World completely, despite his various actions within that zone,
Eremenko is surely right when he claims that it is essential for the hero
to oppose chaos. On the other hand, it is not necessary to view the hero’s
actions and deeds as having a solely egoistic purpose, that is, as not also
serving his social obligations; on the contrary they are also for the good
of the entity he belongs to. The purpose of the hero’s journey is thus not
only to come to an agreement with the dominant values of his commu-
nity, but also, and not least, to deal with chaos, the imminent danger it

24
 The Other World inin the
the Fornaldarsögur
Fornaldarsögur and in Folklore

faces. Reading the symbols here, what is actually taking place is that the
hero is dealing with a chaotic world that must be brought to order. His
role is to fight against the destructive forces that threaten the cosmos, in
other words the ‘dragon’, the ‘trolls’ or other types of monsters or ogres,
to defeat them and establish or defend the security of his own world.
Looking at the hero’s conflict with destructive forces from another
world from the symbolic point of view, we might ask what forces are
actually being dealt with in the fornaldarsögur. As already mentioned,
the otherworldly beings are, in fact, nothing more than the creation of
human imagination and, as Robert Scholes has already pointed out,
imaginary beings and ogres are not something we cannot imagine.
In his book Structural Fabulation, he says: “No man has succeeded in
imagining a world free of connection to our experiential world, with
characters and situations that cannot be seen as mere inversions or dis-
tortions of that all too recognizable cosmos (1975: 7).”16 Therefore, these
beings could be said, in a sense, to be part of ourselves. We tend to
locate the unknown and the things that frighten us in another world;
nevertheless they are in reality part of ourselves because all that we
do is to project human properties onto the world of the imagination.
In this way, otherworldly beings are part of the storytelling world we
create in order to express ourselves, in the form of narratives, about
things that are important to us.
All in all, I believe that supernatural beings are in fact represen-
tations of human qualities and that some of them are therefore projec-
tions of negative, threatening or potentially destructive or disruptive
elements within the human psyche, which is exactly why it is so impor-
tant for us to confront them, always with an ultimate victory. It may
be that stories with marvellous characteristics, like the fornaldarsögur,
are defined as pure fiction, but they are nevertheless important because
their whole existence and their activity is dependent on our own reality
(cf. Rabkin 1977: 28). As a creation of human imagination, the Other
World has a certain reality and similarly its inhabitants, representing
perceived enemies in most cases are, in the same way, human in a cer-
tain sense. And since these enemies are projections of the less desirable
parts of ourselves, it seems fair to argue that encounters with other-
worldly creatures in these stories represent tensions and confrontations
in the real world or, as Eremenko puts it, the ‘hero has to confront and
overcome the ethics of the Magic world inside his own soul’ (2006:
16
Cf. ‘Narrative worlds constructed linguistically (or visually, as in film) may depart
from the reality of our experience in many ways, but they do not depart from it
more than our everyday imagination might allow’ (Dancygier 2012: 200–1).

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218).17 In the end, it makes no difference whether the supernatural

beings belong to folk belief, superstition or fantasy, as in all cases they
function on an essentially symbolic level.
If we take a closer look at this symbolism from the perspective of
human relations, they can be smooth and easy; where they are difficult
we sometimes choose not to understand the other party. Opponents
are distanced; they are even perceived as not being human in the same
sense as we regard ourselves as being human. The mere ability to define
our enemies in this way, for example our violent opponents in war, can
make it easier for us to deal with them and the same can also be said
about our inner destructive tendencies. When children become really
angry and upset, a common technique we use to calm them down is
to say something like: ‘Don’t let the nasty demon take control of you.’
In our stories, evil demons, giants, witches, ogres and dragons are
destructive powers and the narratives basically describe how they are
vanquished or kept in check. The world of heroic deeds is a world where
people are faced with threatening situations and overcome them. And
even where the world of heroic deeds is represented as the Other World,
or a ‘secondary universe’, it lies within our imagination; and because it
is part of our selves, it is also part of our real world. In other words, the
marvels are real, just as the ‘fantastic’, as defined by Mundal, is real.
With these considerations in mind, it is now time to take the dis-
cussion to the next level. Is the world of the fornaldarsögur in fact partly
a symbolic world of inner and outer destructive powers, and if so, how
can we approach a topic of this type – the idea of another world? This
question leads us, at least partly, to our opening question: whether
discipline-specific methodologies could be usefully employed outside
their traditional fields. I think there are probably quite a number of dif-
ferent answers to this question, but in order to shed light on the prob-
lem, I would like to narrow the question somewhat by turning to one
of the questions asked at the Tartu meeting (see note 3), and ask: ‘Are
the concepts of Sage and Märchen [that is, legend and folktale] useful
and relevant for the understanding of saga literature?’18 Thus, instead
of considering methodologies from various fields of study, we will now
focus on folklore and narratological approaches.

17
Cf. Orning, who claims that the fornaldarsögur could ‘serve as outlets for tensions
and themes which were topical in people’s minds’ (2010: 12).
18
About the concepts Sage and Märchen, see Lüthi 1986: 1–3 et passim and Sävborg
2009: 325–26, 341, 346–47.

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the Fornaldarsögur
Fornaldarsögur and in Folklore

Folkloristic and Narratological Methods

Regarding medieval Icelandic literature, it seems clear that the authors
used not only literary motifs but also folk and fairy tale motifs from
oral tradition. It is commonly believed that the less ancient the text,
the more folktale motifs it will contain. Some people regard some of
the more recent sagas as hardly more than a jumble of folktale motifs
and the late fornaldarsögur have been called Abenteuersagas in German
(for example Schier 1970: 77–78) and sometimes ævintýrasögur (lit.
fairy tale sagas) in Icelandic. The same development, more or less, took
place also with regards to the indigenous riddarasögur, and even the
Íslendingasögur or individual episodes within them, as we can see, for
example, when Else Mundal, in her aforementioned paper, calls the
dragon that Björn Hítdælakappi fights against in his 13th century saga
‘more of the fairy-tale type’ than dragons in the heilagara manna sögur
(legends of the church) (2006: 718).19 In this way we tend to lump the
more recent sagas together with Märchen, that is, folk or fairy tales
(Icelandic ævintýri).
In the light of this, it might be expected that, as ‘folktale material’
became more visible in saga literature, the authors, not least those of
the later fornaldarsögur, would subsequently have brought their works
nearer to folktales, thereby reducing the narratological differences
between the two genres. Could we, for example, argue that the late
fornaldarsögur are folktales, disguised as literature? And if so, should
we not be able to use the research methods that have been employed
by folklorists on the fornaldarsögur too? This might be tempting since
folktales undeniably constitute a field of folklore that has received a lot
of analytical attention.20 It is therefore a question whether we can take
it for granted – because of this similarity – that the Other World – in
other words, the supernatural or the marvellous – plays the same role
in the late fornaldarsögur as it does in the folktales. To be able to answer
this, we need to compare the basic characteristics of fornaldarsögur and
those of folktales, or, to be more exact, fairy tales, sometimes defined as
‘wonder tales’ and ‘tales of magic’ (Icelandic undra- or kynjaævintýri,
German Märchen or Zaubermärchen), the most common folktale cat-
egory in Iceland.21

19
Cf. Sävborg 2009: 334–35 and Vésteinn Ólason 2007: 17–18.
20
For a critical overview of various theories on folktales, see Holbek 1987.
21
Most folklorists use the term folktales as a more inclusive term than fairy tales. For
a discussion of this, see, for example Aarne and Thompson 1961 and, in the case of
Icelandic fairy tales, Einar Ól. Sveinsson 1929.

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In addition to their folktale motifs, the fornaldarsögur also include

several distinctive oral elements and in some instances we find narra-
tives within other works dealing with the same material, such as ear-
lier poetry and Gesta Danorum, written by Saxo Grammaticus around
1200. In a number of instances, the authors cite similar narratives that
are now lost or may never have been written down, as occurs, for exam-
ple, in Bósa saga ok Herrauðs, Hálfdanar saga Eysteinssonar and Illuga
saga Gríðarfóstra (Fornaldar sögur Norðrlanda: III 216, 556, 648). Some
of them also claim that they are relating the storytelling material in
a different fashion to others, as occurs with the composer of Göngu-
Hrólfs saga (ibid.: 363). In his book Heroic Sagas and Ballads, Stephen A.
Mitchell says: “... the fornaldarsǫgur are something “more” than folk-
lore, yet something “less” than wholly innovative works. They are, in
fact, an unusual blend of inherited, borrowed, and individually crafted
materials (1991: 26).” For this reason, it is difficult to determine how a
‘typical’ fornaldarsaga is composed and, in fact, they are different in
nature. However, we can probably all agree that they usually resemble
other kinds of sagas, at least in terms of structure and the narrative
mode (see, for example, Righter-Gould 1980; Hallberg 1982) – even
if these things can obviously vary between individual sagas; the most
important feature in comparison to folktales is that they are episodic
(for example Quinn et al. 2006: 285). Folktales, on the other hand, are
characterised by a very simple, non-episodic structure. And as the form
of the folktale is important in this comparison, let us recall what a folk-
tale, and more importantly, a fairy tale, is.
Unlike the fornaldarsaga, which constitutes a literary genre, a folk-
tale or Märchen is an oral narrative, meaning that it has circulated orally
for a long time, from generation to generation, and has been adapted
by successive communities in the course of its dissemination, both in
time and space. In this way, the folktale is shaped by the community
and common experience, which means that its authorship cannot
be ascribed to any one individual (for example Dégh 1989: 49–53).22
Sometimes, the world described in fairy tales is simply referred to as the
‘fairy tale world’ and it corresponds to what has been called a ‘second-
ary universe’, as in the discussion above. To quote Tzvetan Todorov:
“... the fairy tale is only one of the varieties of the marvellous, and the

22
This does, naturally, not mean that all folktales were untainted by the written
word. Many of them were eventually written down, and the written variants could
then easily affect oral variants. See Lüthi 1986: 19–20.

28
 The Other World inin the
the Fornaldarsögur
Fornaldarsögur and in Folklore

supernatural events in fairy tales provoke no surprise: neither a hun-

dred years’ sleep, nor a talking wolf...” (1975: 54).23
Folktales have been categorised into so-called types, each type
having its own number, and the ‘tales of magic’ (aka. fairy tales) are
listed as ATU 300–749; for example, we might take The Dragon-Slayer,
which is designated as type 300 according to the international cata-
logue The Types of the Folktale (Aarne and Thompson 1961: 88–90;
Uther 2004: 174–75).24 Even though each type may have been preserved
in several variants in various different cultures, there is always a fi xed
underlying core that is common to them all, while the surface of the
narrative may vary and pick up colouring from the environment in
which the tale is told in any given instance. The way the folktale takes
its shape is therefore mostly different from the way that a fornaldarsaga
is created, which is usually on the writing desk of its author, that is to
say the one who composes the literary work. Naturally, the process of
composing a fornaldarsaga must have been varied, as some of them
may be almost entirely fictitious, while others are based on oral nar-
rative material. Yet others may lie somewhere in between. Their final
compositional form, however, is always established by an individual.25
In the course of its long process of development, the fairy tale is
honed into a very rigid form and it usually begins with an opening for-
mula like ‘Once upon a time’, followed by the actual plot. It is charac-
terised by a simple pattern in which, at the beginning, there is a bal-
ance that is then disturbed. This leads to a state of disorder, which the
hero must deal with, and the tale cannot reach its end until balance is
restored; if the tale-teller feels like it, he or she can always add a closing
formula and tell us that the hero and his or her mate ‘... lived happily
ever after’. As the fairy tale always begins and ends in such a state of
balance, we could mimic its structure by taking a thread, tying a knot

23
The Swiss folklorist Max Lüthi maintains that the world of the fairy tale is gov-
erned by its own special principles and distinguished by a certain one-dimension-
ality that is independent of our definitions of what should be regarded as real or
unreal and natural or supernatural. He also claims that the action within the fairy
tale is not divided between two worlds and that the world of the fairy tale is one-
dimensional; the Other World – the marvellous dimension – is in fact the only
world of the fairy tale (Lüthi 1986: 1–10).
24
The first type-index was published in 1928 by Antti Aarne; this was later increased
by Stith Thompson and the type numbers were marked with their initials: AT.
The type numbers of the most recent edition, revised and increased by Hans-Jörg
Uther, are marked ATU.
25
The debate on the question of the role played by Icelandic saga-writers or compos-
ers is indeed complex; the distinction between the one who composes a text and
the one who copies it is usually not clear (O’Connor 2005: 115 ff., 123; see also
Vésteinn Ólason 2004: 117 ff.).

29
AÐALHEIÐUR GUÐMUNDSDÓTTIR

on it and then untying it. The fi xed form thus corresponds to a basic
elementary structure.26
The basic structure of the fairy tale can be depicted as a ‘semiotic
square’, representing the so-called basic structure of signification (cf.
la structure élémentaire de la signification), proposed by the linguist
Algirdas Greimas, who claimed that the signification is dependent on
contrary oppositions.

S ––––––––––→ S1

←––––––––––

S̅ 1 S̅
Ill. 3. Greimas’ ‘semiotic square’.

Greimas’ groundbreaking theory is not particularly recent, certainly

no more so than other important theories in fairy tale research. Still, it
is far from outdated, even if most current scholars choose to ignore it
as they ignore other earlier theories of the narratologists. Nevertheless,
it is of great importance to the understanding of fairy tales as well as
being quite useful to our understanding of narratives and literature in
a broad sense.27
According to Greimas’ square, the hero needs the villain, just as
the villain needs the hero, because without these opposite agents there
would be no conflict and without conflict there would be no story
(Greimas 1987: 63–83; cf. Kristensen 1976: 90–93). One of the things
that belong to this basic structure is the symbolism and one could easily
say that the fairy tale is indeed a world of symbols. As pairs of con-
flicting agents, cf. Greimas’ model, the opponents in the fairy tale are
strictly standardised. Kings and queens, princes and princesses, talk-
ing animals, witches and trolls, heroes, dwarves and other participants
in the events of the plot are first and foremost symbols of common
26
Cf., for example, Axel Olrik’s epic laws, concerning the opening of the tale and the
ending (1965: 131–40), and Holbek 1987: 323 ff.
27
For more recent theories on narratology, see, for example, Dancygier 2012: 6–8.

30
 The Other World inin the
the Fornaldarsögur
Fornaldarsögur and in Folklore

qualities, as Vladimir Propp and others since have pointed out, rep-
resenting the various aspects of human character (Nyborg 1983: 14; cf.
Jacoby 1992: 4; Dégh 1972: 64; Propp 1968: 79–83). The fairy tale is then
characterised by conflicts between these character types, which always
follow a certain oppositional pattern until the conflict ends with the
victory of the hero over evil or destructive powers. In other words, the
characters’ actions are determined by their systematically defined roles
and the same can be said about the use of magical objects that assist
the hero on his way to the invariable happy ending. Let us explain this
by a simple and actual fairytale type. In ATU 300, the story begins in
a status quo where the hero is safe and sound. Soon he learns that a
dragon has demanded a princess for a wife (S̅ ), which leads to the state
of a princess in danger (S1). The hero rescues the princess by slaying the
dragon (S̅ 1) and thereby changes the situation from danger to safety, or
status quo, again (S). The structural pattern of the tale is thus {cosmos >
destructive powers > chaos > the hero > cosmos}.
As fairy tale characters are of a standardised nature and are defined
in advance by their function, it is not really they themselves who appeal
to us, but rather the structural pattern to which they belong; a pattern
we long to hear again and again. The reason why we are so strongly
affected by the structure is possibly because of its general nature, even its
biological nature, as can be seen from the theories of the anthropologist
Claude Lévi-Strauss. In his studies of the structural nature of myth, he
asked whether man had invented myth, that is, its structure, or whether
myth were innate to man: in other words, whether the simple structure
of myth could be of the same origin as the basic structure of language.28
The fundamental idea here is that the basic structure of signification, and
thereby also the basic structure of narrative, belongs to the biological
functioning of the human brain; this would correspond to theories by
linguists such as Noam Chomsky (2008: 347–67) and other scholars
of cognitive science.29 If we accept that this narrative structure belongs
28
Cf. ‘I therefore claim to show, not how men think in myths, but how myths operate
in men’s mind without their being aware of the fact’ (Lévi-Strauss 1969: 12). Lévi-
Strauss considered the myth to be a language by nature, cf. ‘myth is language’, and
claimed that it has a timeless structure (1967: 205). The structure of the myth is
basically the same as that of the fairy tale and, indeed, Lévi-Strauss chose to ig-
nore the distinction between myths and fairy tales and compared his research on
myths to Vladimir Propp’s research on the structure of fairy tales in order to find
a common method of interpretation for both genres. See further discussion, and
criticism, in Holbek 1998: 35–36 and 346–48.
29
Not only does Chomsky consider language as belonging to the funtions of the
brain; he refers to the ability to speak as ‘a language organ’ and says: ‘It could be,
then, that the recursive computational system of the language organ is fi xed and

31
AÐALHEIÐUR GUÐMUNDSDÓTTIR

to our system of thought, one could even say that it is, like language,
a tool of expression that helps us to survive. In other words, we need
the structure of the semiotic square for the tension that it creates by its
movement from balance to imbalance and the pleasure it gives us when
it releases the tension by resolving oppositions (cf. Dundes 1976: 85).30
As the structure thus represents a desired state of stability, it seems rea-
sonable to ask whether it might have something to do with maintaining
people’s mental stability.
To explain further how the basic structure of the fairy tale affects
the audience, we may assume that the fi xed form creates certain expecta-
tions in those who listen to the tale or read it and that this has a decisive
influence on their comprehension.31 According to psychoanalysts who
have studied fairy tales, we unconsciously objectify our thoughts and
personal problems when we read or hear fairy tales; by following the
hero through his or her trials and tribulations, we deal with the prob-
lems in our subconscious minds. This process, in which the listeners
or readers follow the hero on his or her journey through the semiotic
square, may result in their being directed towards independent think-
ing that helps them find solutions to their own problems. The remark-
able thing about fairy tales is that they always present an outcome in
which, for example, the villain is punished while the hero is established
as the winner by marrying into a royal family or receiving some other
kind of reward (Jacoby 1992: 8; Bettelheim 1989: 27–28, 63, 143–44),
such as when the rescued princess is offered to the dragon slayer in
marriage. It is probably this part of the structure – the good outcome –
that is, or can be, the most important to us, that is, to know that a good
solution will follow on from our difficulties and to have this constant
assurance that our world will become complete, whatever happens (for
example Joosen 2011: 125). This is in fact the most important message
determinate, an expression of the genes, along with the basic structure of possible
lexical items’ (2008: 366). According to a paper he gave at the University of Iceland
on 21st September 2011, he considers that grammar, or men’s ability to express
themselves through language, originated in a mutation; this strengthens his own
and other scholars’ ideas that the system of thought behind language must be bio-
logical (Eiríkur Rögnvaldsson 2011). Even if Chomsky believes that language is
structured by certain units, his theories are in some ways different from the earlier
theories of the structuralists as he believes that there are no limits to how people
can make use of the units.
30
Various scholars have pointed out the basic human need for narratives, for ex-
ample the need to ‘share information and to arrive at social, and also linguistic,
norms in the process’ (Dancygier 2012: 17).
31
Cf., for example, Axel Olrik’s epic laws (1965: 131–40).

32
 The Other World inin the
the Fornaldarsögur
Fornaldarsögur and in Folklore

that fairy tales have presented to people throughout the centuries. And
from this we can conclude that the pattern we follow in the basic struc-
ture of signification can work for our mental health, that the reason for
the fairy tale’s happy ending is our desire to live in a harmonious world
and therefore also to correct the situation when something upsets our
sense of order. Just like the hero of the fornaldarsaga, the fairy tale hero
seeks to impose order on chaos.
The most important thing about the fairy tale is that its meaning is
determined by our unconscious interpretation in response to the struc-
ture. Thus, the role of the fairy tale is not only to entertain us, but also
to help us to deal with the challenges of our lives, both internal and
external, and – as Mario Jacoby says in his article on the Jungian inter-
pretation of fairy tales – ‘they have something to say about the mystery
of being human’ (1992: 8). This leads to the question of whether we can
say the same of the fornaldarsögur. Does the Other World serve the
same function in the fornaldarsögur and in folklore?

Fornaldarsögur and Fairy Tales: A Comparison

In the discussion above, the question was raised of whether it were pos-
sible to argue that the late fornaldarsögur could actually be folktales
disguised as literature? And if this were so, whether it would not be
possible to use the research methods that have been employed by folk-
lorists on these fornaldarsögur? Let us now consider these two ques-
tions. We have already discussed the Other World in the fornaldarsögur,
as well as the main characteristics of fairy tales and the importance of
their simple narrative structure. As we have seen, the Other World in
the fornaldarsögur is, or can be, a symbolic world depicting inner and
outer destructive powers in a way similar to that employed in the fairy
tale, both making use of marvellous materials. Nevertheless, if we give
credit to the essential nature – the structure – of the fairy tale, as described
above, we also have to consider the structure of the fornaldarsögur.
While it is evident that not all fornaldarsögur share the same structure,
they tend to be of an episodic nature and the individual episodes are
usually interlaced. Consequently, their structure is comparable to other
kinds of saga literature and different from the single-stranded thread of
fairy tales. While the fairy tale characters belong to the structural pat-
tern of their story and are thus either black or white – as is shown by the
‘semiotic square’ – the characters of the fornaldarsögur, like other liter-
ary characters, are usually more complicated and can actually appeal

33
AÐALHEIÐUR GUÐMUNDSDÓTTIR

to us in different ways, not because of the structure they belong to, but
because of their individual characteristics; most of them are, in other
words, not merely black or white, as was argued above.
Even though we can certainly regard the literary author as a story-
teller in a broad sense, as the person who presents the story to the audi-
ence, his role is different from that of the teller of a fairy tale. Instead
of receiving the symbolic core of the fairy tale in order to transmit it
to the next person, the author of the fornaldarsaga takes his material
from other kinds of literature as well as from oral tradition and braids
it into an integrated whole where many elements can be accommodated
within the overall structure of the literary work. While the teller of fairy
tales is completely bound by the basic structure, as described above –
a structure that defines the meaning of his tale (for example Propp
1968: 112–13) – the author of the fornaldarsaga can use his selected
material far more freely, even if he writes his story within a certain
frame (Ferrari 2912: 373–74) and, although he is part of a community,
his work will always remain the product of an individual mind. This is
what Barbara Dancygier has in mind when she says (2012: 18):
Written narratives capitalize on these narrative constructions, but
they are gradually freed from the worry about anyone’s capacity to
retain the story in its entirety, and narrative form becomes more and
more complex.
For this reason, the fornaldarsögur – as well as other literature – must
appeal to us in a different way from the fairy tale with its simple struc-
ture that belongs to our system of thought and speaks to our uncon-
scious minds; folklore and literature are, basically, different in nature.
This means, that despite their oral characteristics, the fornaldarsögur
cannot be regarded in the same way as fairy tales. In other words, even
a late fornaldarsaga is not a folktale or a fairy tale in literary guise.
In all, we cannot say that the function of the fairy tale is the same
as the function of the Other World in literature, even though they share
marvellous elements; consequently, the function of supernatural motifs
within the two categories is not identical either. To compare the later
fornaldarsögur with fairy tales on the grounds that their authors make
use of marvellous motifs (‘folktale’ or ‘fairy tale’ motifs) does not mean
that the fornaldarsögur – no matter how variously combined they may
be – obey the same epical laws. The epical laws governing the fairy tale
are usually confined to oral narratives (for example Olrik 1965) and the
fairy tale is, in a sense, a manifestation of the fundamental structural
pattern that is natural to man. As the fornaldarsaga is an expressive

34
 The Other World inin the
the Fornaldarsögur
Fornaldarsögur and in Folklore

form that is different from the fairy tale in this respect, we should be
cautious in comparing the fornaldarsögur, or for that matter other kinds
of medieval literature, with folktales, even though they can obviously
incorporate some of their marvellous characteristics as well as those of
other literary genres and oral narratives, since endless possibilities for
combining legendary material are available to the authors.
The argument that the late fornaldarsögur are not folktales dis-
guised as literature does not mean that we cannot compare their Other
World (as defined above) to the world of fairy tales, because both of
them are of marvellous nature. Therefore, we should be able to adapt
many research methods employed by folklorists for use on the fornald-
arsögur, as long as we do not take it for granted that they obey the same
rules as does our comparative material. Naturally, all stories can help
us to understand the world and ourselves better (Dancygier 2012: 19),
but nevertheless, folklore and literature are subject to different prem-
ises and because of their different structure they appeal to their audi-
ences in different ways. While the dragon that the fairy tale hero fights
against in ATU 300 plays a significant role in the structural pattern of
the fairy tale and fits neatly into its basic structure of signification as the
factor that disturbs the status quo, the author of the fornaldarsaga can
allow himself to sprinkle his story with countless fights against ogres
and beasts, which are thus not actually of the ‘fairy tale type’, strictly
speaking, even if they are of marvellous nature. Taken as a whole, on
the other hand, these dragon fights can form part of the hero’s develop-
mental story, while some of them are clearly added in so as to make the
saga longer. Consequently, if we set out to analyse the fornaldarsögur
using narratological methods, such as the semiotic square, we would
have to take the destructive forces in each saga together with the heroic
deeds and fit them into the model as a whole, where the pattern {cosmos
> destructive powers > chaos > the hero > cosmos} repeats itself and
may even be scattered between episodes.
While this implies that the role of the hero of the fornaldarsaga is
similar to that of the folktale hero in his constant fight against destruc-
tive forces, it does not mean that the complex literary form has the
same effect on us as the simple structure of the fairy tale, even if it
is possible that individual episodes might function in a similar way.
Generally, however, the fornaldarsaga can be much more complicated
and contain a more finely graded greyscale where, as has already been
mentioned, both humans and supernatural beings are far from being
black and white contrasts and therefore do not function in the same

35
AÐALHEIÐUR GUÐMUNDSDÓTTIR

way within the overall structure of the narrative. Further, they often
include parodic elements as well as move from one level of truth-value
to another (O’Connor 2005: 131–32). Still, there is nothing that should
prevent us from using folkloristic and/or narratological approaches
towards the literature, at least in part, as long as we realise from the
outset that we are working with a different kind of material.

Conclusion
Earlier in this article the question of whether discipline-specific meth-
odologies could be usefully employed outside of their traditional field
was raised. I think the answer to this is positive and that the above com-
parison of the fornaldarsögur and folktales has identified the cautions
that must be observed in such work. The important thing is to realise
what it is that distinguishes the sagas from the comparative material in
each given instance and then to adapt the individual methodologies to
accommodate their distinctive features.
Another question was whether the terminology we use can affect
our results. This is probably the case. In the above discussion, the Other
World of the fornaldarsögur was considered to be of the same marvel-
lous nature as the world of the fairy tale, yet having a different function
as expressed in its structure. Regarding the marvellous dimension, it
does not really matter whether people believed that some things were
possible and others not, whether trolls, dragons, dwarfs and revenants
really existed or not, and whether they were of the supernatural or the
‘fantastic’ kind; they simply belong to the language of the mind. While
they represent the ‘other’, they represent ourselves and our conception
of the world we live in.32

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the Fornaldarsögur
Fornaldarsögur and in Folklore

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 The Other World Continuity:
in the Fornaldarsögur and in Folklore
Folklore’s Problem Child?

Continuity: Folklore’s Problem Child?

Stephen Mitchell
Swedish Collegium for Advanced Study,
Uppsala, and Harvard University

Abstract:
This essay examines the role of continuity in the study of medieval Northern
popular cultural. Among other issues, it questions: the nature of continuity
as a concept; the roles “tradition” and “continuity” have played in the devel-
opment of folklore studies historically (e.g. Finnish Historical-Geographic
Method, the “superorganic”) and their value today in relation to, e.g., memory
studies and performance theory; and the use, and the misuse, of such tools
over time, including by the National Socialists. I note that that the value of our
ability to employ continuity as a scientific concept rests on our ability to dem-
onstrate and evaluate four factors, namely, communality, variation, continuity
and function. Importantly, far from being static, the role of continuity in the
telling or enactment – the ‘doing’ – of folklore, is a dynamic, communicative
and re-contextualized conception of inherited materials.

Introduction
Few topics play a more central role in the way scholars have thought –
and, in some cases, continue to think – about medieval folk cultures
than has the issue of continuity.1 The possibilities of making useful and
empirically grounded connections over time between and among cul-
tural documents, understood broadly, are indeed enticing, especially
for those focused on northern Europe, where unbroken chains of tra-
dition might lead us from our late medieval data back into the deep
past, to the earlier worlds hinted at in the writings of Adam of Bremen,
Rimbert, even Tacitus, as well as to the recoverable outlines of late Iron
Age material culture revealed by modern archaeology.
Thus, with luck and hard work, it was hoped, the continuity argu-
ment might fill the interstices of our textual data, and, correspondingly,
1
My comments here build on and extend my presentations at the 2011 meeting of
the Old Norse Folklorists Network in Tartu, Estonia, and the Folklore Roundtable
in 2012 at the 15th International Saga Conference at Aarhus University, Denmark,
as well as several previously published works (especially 1991; 2000; 2007; 2009;
2012). I am very grateful to Barbro Klein, John Lindow, Jens Peter Schjødt, and
several anonymous reviewers for their helpful comments on earlier drafts of this
paper.

41
STEPHEN MITCHELL

clothe the postholes and other echoes of “lived lives” of countless dig
sites in cultural context and human values. By means of continuity
and tradition, scholars could make the leap from, say, the thin gruel
of an insouciant reference by a Latin author or the settlement design of
some immiserated polar outpost all the way forward to the spectacular
“thick descriptions” provided by 13th- and 14th-century Icelandic sagas
and other writing.2 Thus, in the first case, Paul the Deacon’s 8th-century
story of how Frea tricks Godan into giving victory to the Lombards
over the Vandals can be better understood against (and, in turn, give
a more comprehensive understanding of) the 13th-century prose intro-
duction to the eddic poem Grímnismál (see Martin 2000). And in the
second instance, one can appreciate how the discovery of the so-called
Þjóðhildarkirkja, the chapel at Brattahlíð in Greenland, which, accord-
ing to the traditions recorded in Eiríks saga rauða, was built – not with-
out controversies – for Eiríkr’s wife, Þjóðhildr, allows that discovery to
become much more than the unearthing of the foundation stones of
just another úthús (cf. Þórhallur Vilmundarson 1961).
This is heady stuff, and one need not be hopelessly romantic to see
that such connections can have important consequences – the fasci-
nating recent debates surrounding the figures from Lejre and Uppåkra
(Christensen 2010; Helmbrecht 2012) are only some of the latest discov-
eries to underscore the significance and consequences of the continu-
ity argument. It is, however, also clearly difficult terrain to untangle
from, on the one hand, the seemingly futile but intellectually-driven
search for authenticity, to borrow the evocative phrase used by Regina
Bendix in her important study of folklore’s social and academic roots
(1997), and, on the other hand, the echoes of a field which, like its sister
disciplines, archaeology and physical anthropology, was all-too-easily
seduced by National Socialism’s racially-motivated hyper-nationalism.3
With post-war awareness, it is difficult indeed to read, for example,
the works of a man like Otto Höfler on our topic, although he was

2
On such traditions, their durability (i.e. continuity) and purpose, see Gísli Sig-
urðsson 2002; 2004. I note at this juncture that although some writers are content
simply to wave off such parallels in the historical record as mere accidents or co-
incidences (without, it is important to add, suggesting alternative explanations), I
find such stances unsatisfactory, to put it mildly.
3
Bendix 1997; for an excellent overview of the relationship of these disciplines to
Nazi ideology, see e.g. Arnold 2006 (especially on the so-called Cinderella expla-
nation); Lixfeld 1994; and the essays in Dow and Lixfeld 1994, and on the related
area of runology, Andersson 1995. For additional analyses, especially with regard
to the Nordic situation, see the essays in Raudvere, Andrén and Jennbert 2001; and
Garberding 2010.

42
 Continuity: Folklore’s Problem Child?

certainly a scholar capable of great insights.4 A follower of Rudolf

Much’s views about the continuity of Germanic traditions and cul-
ture and himself a prolific writer on the topic, Höfler was, one has to
believe, a much more enthusiastic supporter of the Third Reich than
the relatively neutral post-war judgment of him as “merely” an intel-
lectual fellow traveler (geistiger Mitläufer) makes him sound. When his
observations about scientific matters, often of real substance and inter-
est, are held up against such moments as his urging that a broad image
of German origins capable of overcoming the occasional ‘breaks’ in its
development be created (or shaped, designed, and so on: zu gestalten),
the resulting dissonance between scholarship and political activity,
made all the worse by his dedication to the cause of National Socialism,
easily makes one question the quality and motivations of all his judg-
ments.5 I raise this point, not to pull at the sutures of wounds from an
evil era back before most of us were born, but exactly because this his-
tory is the moral and biographical predicate that has shaped many of
our personal, and institutional, reactions to discussions of continuity
since the middle of the last century,6 and it has no doubt also played its
role in the view many folklorists have developed about continuity in
recent years.7

4
Of course, Höfler is far from the only example, the best-known and most influen-
tial figure in this group surely being Jan de Vries.
5
The final gobsmacking sentence of his address reads: “Wenn es der Forschung
gelingt, das Schema, in dem unser vorwissenschaft liches Geschichtsdenken
befangen ist, zu berichtigen und ein Großbild unserer Herkunft zu gestalten,
das über allen ‘Brüchen’ der Entwicklung die alles übergreifende Einheit unseres
Lebens gerecht zum Bewußtsein bringt – dann wird eine solche Klärung unseres
geschichtlichen Selbstbewußtseins nicht Leben zerstören, sondern ein Dienst am
Leben sein,” Höfler 1938: 26; cf. Höfler 1937. See e.g. the critique in Behringer 1998
and the literature cited there.
6
Cf. the comments in Gerschenkron 1971, which highlight some of the important
differences between the German and Anglophone experiences with this issue.
Many years ago, my own anodyne (and, I suppose, typically American) views of
the consequences of the continuity debate – a perspective I would characterize as
broadly positivistic and historicist – came up against those of a departmental col-
league, a gentle, older scholar of medieval drama, and, significantly, a childhood
survivor of the fire-bombing of Dresden: as I came to perceive, he simply could
not accept a purely academic discussion of continuity. Having grown up in, and
survived, a world shaped by the perversions of such views, he regarded all discus-
sions – and uses – of the tradition and continuity question as politically charged
and deeply suspect.
7
Of course, many times this is a matter of where one’s intellectual heart is, but
this knotty history may help explain (although not fully address) the eschewing in
recent decades of the past as a research area by many folklorists, who, under vari-
ous theoretical guises, deeply, too deeply some may think, embrace an emerging
paradigm of intellectual presentism. Cf. the remarks by Strömbäck 1979, as well as
my own attempts to contextualize this debate in Mitchell 2000.

43
STEPHEN MITCHELL

These are all important factors in modern receptions, perceptions

and discussions of continuity, and I admit that I raise all of this in a
slightly confessional mode, precisely because I do believe in both the
empirical reality of some continuities and traditions within northern
Europe (although I hasten to emphasize, not in any blanket fashion or
with any predetermined political perspective on their value); moreover,
I am also convinced that such provable links to past practices, belief
system, codes of behavior, linguistic usages, and so on offer us useful
data points and insights into the study and understanding of the past.
Thus, I start, and end, my thinking about this issue with the view
that even if such concepts as continuity and tradition have been abused
by some and employed toward horrible ends, or have been determined
to be intellectually suspect or unfashionable by others, the facts remain
what they were: traditions exist; there are connections and continuities
over time; these realities influence behaviors, as they have always done;
and if we want to understand those bygone worlds, then we must figure
out what to do about, and with, such materials as key access points to
historical cultures.8

The Place of Continuity in Folklore Studies

In giving a tour of Harvard to a German colleague some years ago, I
had just pointed out that hallmark of the American college campus,
a building about which tales of a peculiar, even bizarre, bequest by
the donor circulate. Enraptured by the strangeness of it all, I assume,
my colleague burst out excitedly, “I love it! It’s like Britain – it makes
no sense, but it’s tradition!” That remark is no doubt unintentionally
uncharitable both to a very great nation and a very durable cultural
concept, but it reflects the sort of view about the nature of folklore once
held by luminaries in the field.
After all, to many early scholars, folklore was that cultural oddity
that did not fit in or make sense in modern society, e.g. the supersti-
tion about the number thirteen or the business about the black cat and
bad luck; in other words, folklore was understood to be like the famous
scene Andrew Lang paints of the flint spearhead being found in a
freshly plowed field, viz. – a cultural artifact from the past that emerges
unthinkingly and awkwardly in, and into, the present.
8
Cf. Gailey 1989: 144, “Dan Ben-Amos put the situation succinctly when in a con-
ference in 1984 he noted that ‘In folklore studies in America tradition has been a
term to think with, not to think about’.”

44
 Continuity: Folklore’s Problem Child?

Or in Lang’s own words: “There is a form of study, Folklore, which

collects and compares the similar but immaterial relics of old races, the
surviving superstitions and stories, the ideas which are in our time but
not of it” (1893: 11; emphasis added), to which he adds:
…the student of folklore soon finds that these unprogressive classes
retain many of the beliefs and ways of savages, just as the Hebridean
people use spindle-whorls of stone, and bake clay pots without the
aid of the wheel, like modern South Sea Islanders, or like their own
prehistoric ancestors. The student of folklore is thus led to examine
the usages, myths, and ideas of savages, which are still retained, in
rude enough shape, by the European peasantry. Lastly, he observes
that a few similar customs and ideas survive in the most conserva-
tive elements of the life of educated peoples, in ritual, ceremonial,
and religious traditions and myths. Though such remains are rare in
England, we may note the custom of leading the dead soldier’s horse
behind his master to the grave, a relic of days when the horse would
have been sacrificed (Lang 1893: 11).

Of course, the concept of tradition, with its inherent sense of agency

etymologically secured (< to hand over, deliver, entrust, and so on), has
given rise to any number of attempts at dissection, both its place in the
study of folklore, and as part of grander schemes for the illumination
of history and human nature.9 By contrast, the more amorphously con-
structed concept of continuity (< hold together) has, it seems to me, been
much less subject to analysis, but the two ideas can never be entirely
divorced from each other. I want to mention just a few approaches
which I have found useful in considering the kinds of materials that
history and the archives have serendipitously bequeathed to us and
which suggest how we might fruitfully investigate these concepts.
One important early strand of this discussion concerned the so-
called “superorganic.” This neologism, used first in 1862 by the British
sociologist Herbert Spencer, was enthusiastically embraced by, and is
now more frequently associated with the works of, Alfred Kroeber.
At its heart, and appearances notwithstanding, the concept of the
superorganic is largely concerned with agency; it is an attempt to give
expression to the reality of “social life or culture,”10 by contrasting the
“cultural society of man” with the “cultureless pseudo-society of the

9
Cf. from the folklore perspective, e.g. Ben-Amos 1984; Bronner 2000; Gailey 1989;
Glassie 1995, as well as from such adjacent fields as sociology, e.g. Shils 1981.
10
Kroeber 1918: 634, who suggests as possible synonyms, “the civilizational or
superorganic or, better, superpsychic.” Cf. Kroeber 1917.

45
STEPHEN MITCHELL

ants and bees.”11 It is not difficult, of course, to see how Kroeber’s for-
mulation – [a] “body of ‘superorganic products’ that is carried along
from individual to individual and from group to group independent of
the nature of these individuals and groups” – would find ready accept-
ance in the folkloristics of the early 20th century, as well as in allied
disciplines, as a useful means of conceptualizing both tradition and
continuity, especially when viewed in the context of folklore’s emerg-
ing theoretical paradigm, subsequently codified as Die folkloristische
Arbeitsmethode (Krohn 1926).12
The work, aims, and methods of this view of folkloristics, what we
today call the Finnish Historical-Geographic Method, clearly antici-
pated and overlapped with the concept of the “superorganic.” Already
in the 19th century, Julius Krohn had developed a view of Finnish folk
poetry that, although very interested in, for example, the biographies
of its practitioners, nevertheless understood the materials as in some
sense possessing an existence ‘above’ or ‘beyond’ the level of the indi-
vidual. As Jouko Hautala writes: “Julius Krohn thought of folk poems
as if they were organisms independent of their carriers: nobody had
created them, but they have originated spontaneously, under the influ-
ence of psychological laws, and their development has also followed
laws which work in an almost mechanical manner” (quoted in Köngäs-
Maranda 1963: 77). The hallmarks of the Finnish School – its careful
documentation of materials, the organization of these materials into
motif-indexes (and the usefulness of Inger Boberg’s Motif-Index of
Early Icelandic Literature, even if incomplete, is not lost on anyone in
our field), the search for archetypes, and so on – are well-known and
famously became the dominant approach to folklore in the early 20th
century. Subsequent critiques have naturally tended to focus on the
rather intellectually arid aspects of the approach and drawn pictures,

11
“That the social insects do not learn or acquire knowledge as groups; that they
totally lack tradition; that substantially all their activities are inborn and deter-
mined by organic heredity, or depend on individual psychic experience acting
upon hereditary faculty; in short, that they totally lack any body of ‘superorganic
products’ that is carried along from individual to individual and from group to
group independent of the nature of these individuals and groups,” Kroeber 1918:
643.
12
To some extent, Kroeber’s views draw on, and look to mediate, the opposing per-
spectives of Spencer, Durkheim and Boas. See also the discussion and literature in
Mitchell 2007 and 2012, where I have attempted to tease out the possible contin-
ued usefulness of Kroeber’s ideas in several Nordic-themed essays.

46
 Continuity: Folklore’s Problem Child?

not wholly undeserved, of a remote and uncaring view of folklore and

its users.13
On the other hand, at a time when Lang and many others viewed
folklore almost exclusively as a survival from the past, and at the same
time Kroeber was developing his views of the superorganic, Kaarle
Krohn, as Elli-Kaija Köngäs-Maranda has noted (1963: 78): “clearly
objected to the survival theory and stressed the point that folklore is
an integral part of folk life and carried on by the force of its function.”
Folklore as cultural goods may still have been conceived as existing
independently of (‘above’, ‘beyond’, and so on) individuals but, on the
other hand, it did not exist outside of society or the experiences of those
who make up such communities.
In a key reconsideration of the superorganic in the late 1940s,
David Bidney took up exactly this issue – and added, so far as I know, a
new term to our vocabulary, the mentifact, described by him as a con-
ceptual symbol “comprising language, traditions, literature, moral, aes-
thetic and religious ideals.”14 And very importantly, he argued:
cultural objects per se, whether artifacts, socifacts or mentifacts, are
but inert, static matériel or capital for cultural life, and that of them-
selves they exert no efficient, creative power. Only individuals or soci-
eties of men can spontaneously initiate and perpetuate cultural pro-
cesses which may result in superorganic cultural achievements, and

13
Indeed, if one’s only experience of the results of the Finnish Historical-Geographic
method were, e.g., Archer Taylor’s Black Ox study, one could certainly be forgiven
for having strongly sceptical views about the interpretive possibilities of such an
approach: many details and much hard work, one imagines, but exactly what is the
intellectual pay off ?
14
I have no idea who originated this term and its cousin, sociofact (or socifact), but
certainly the widely bruited about view (e.g. Wikipedia’s entries for “Mentifact”
and Huxley himself as of the date of this writing, 3rd February 2013) that mentifact
“is a term coined by Sir Julian Sorell Huxley” in his 1955 editorial in The Yearbook
of Anthropology cannot be correct, given that already in 1947 Bidney uses the word
without bothering to note its origins. Neither The Oxford English Dictionary nor
any other dictionary I have been able to consult lists the term. On the other hand,
given Huxley’s fame as a popular science writer, the fact that his essay states the
following undoubtedly contributed to the notoriety of the term:
…a culture consists of the self-reproducing or reproducible products of the
mental activities of a group of human individuals living in a society. These
can be broadly divided into artifacts – material objects created for carrying
out material functions; sociofacts – institutions and organizations for provid-
ing the framework of a social or political and for maintaining social relations
between its members; and mentifacts – mental constructions which provide
the psychological framework of a culture and carry out intellectual, aesthetic,
spiritual, ethical or other psychological functions (Huxley 1955: 16–17).

47
STEPHEN MITCHELL

hence there can be no autonomous cultural process independent of

human intelligence and voluntary effort… (Bidney 1947: 384).

Although the soci- or sociofact appears to have had some scholarly trac-
tion, the idea of the mentifact is not one that seems to have found much
favor with either humanists or social scientists. It is not difficult to see
how the mentifact proceeds from the theory of the superorganic and
looks to cover some of the same territory, like it explaining the persis-
tence of beliefs, narrative and behaviors over time, and how it still – the
deeply wrong-headed notion of these materials as “inert” and “static”
notwithstanding – suggests a useful analytic tool in other ways. And as
Bidney’s comment underscores, there is no inherent conflict between
the continuity of such cultural goods across time and the necessary
input of individuals who tell, use, and ‘own’ such goods.
Although not concerned exclusively with folklore as such for the
most part, a series of important discussions about the nature of memory
and past awareness, of mnemohistory, has contributed importantly to
this debate through the past century.15 In fact, it would seem obvious
that to a high degree the notion of memory would be paramount to the
study of continuity in folklore, yet that “obvious” fact is not much in
evidence, much of the work in this area having been developed by social
historians working within a Durkheimian framework.16 From Maurice
Halbwachs’ innovative studies of collective memory and the social con-
struction of memory (1925; 1950), to the notion of ethnic memory and
its focus on pre-literate-normative societies (e.g. Le Goff 1988), to the
discussion of cultural memory, the handing over [!] of meaning across
generations, and the idea of communicative memory between individu-
als (e.g. Assmann 1992; 1995; 2006), memory studies provide a very
productive framework for the consideration of the transmission and
preservation of traditions.17
Among these broad categories of theories with important ramifi-
cations for considering the traditions of past societies, I will mention

15
On this issue, see especially DuBois 2013, as well as, more generally, the other es-
says in Hermann and Mitchell 2013.
16
In fact, memory studies has deep roots within the social sciences, going back to
Emile Durkheim and extending from Frederic Bartlett to Maurice Halbwachs to
Fredrik Barth; it holds that remembering is always social in that those semiotic
systems with which we are inculcated by our interactions throughout life shape
not only what, but how, we remember.
17
On the ramifications of memory studies for medieval Norse studies in general,
see the essays in Hermann and Mitchell 2013; Hermann, Mitchell and Agnes S.
Arnórsdóttir 2014; and, e.g., Hermann 2009, on the significance of these findings
for the study of Old Norse literature.

48
 Continuity: Folklore’s Problem Child?

just one more, an approach to folklore that looks to put the telling or
enactment of folklore, the ‘doing’ of folklore, at its center, that is, a view
of folklore that promotes a dynamic, communicative and re-contex-
tualized conception of past materials.18 The various approaches I am
somewhat awkwardly gathering together in this group developed to a
significant degree as dissatisfied responses to what was understood to
be the overly positivistic approaches of earlier scholars, as exemplified
by those associated with the Finnish School. Thus, as two of its advo-
cates write: “A second major shift of perspective captured by the notion
of performance occurred in folklore, founded on a reorientation from a
traditionalist view of folklore as reified, persistent cultural items – texts,
artifacts, mentifacts – to a conception of folklore as a mode of commu-
nicative action” (Bauman and Briggs 1990: 79; emphasis added).
As the authors’ tone makes apparent, this approach was to a great
extent developed in reaction, and even in opposition, to earlier theoreti-
cal orthodoxies, or as Bauman himself had earlier reasonably summa-
rized his, and many others’, frustration with this older ossified image
of folklore as: “…collectively shaped, traditional stuff that could wander
around the map, fill up collections and archives, reflect culture, and so
on” (Bauman 1986b: 2). Instead, he notes: “[m]y concern has been to go
beyond a conception of oral literature as disembodied superorganic stuff
and to view it contextually and ethnographically, in order to discover
the individual, social, and cultural factors that give it shape and mean-
ing in the conduct of social life.”19

Continuity and Old Norse Folklore

The significance of the analytic stance Bauman advocates, which draws
inspiration from performance studies, speech act theory, communica-
tion theory, studies of living oral traditions (so-called “oral theory”),
and a variety of other approaches, has been profound, not least in
Bauman’s own work, when, for example, he applies these ideas to Old
Norse cases (1986 a; 1992). And one readily sees the effects such enlight-
ened approaches as “oral theory” have had among those working in

18
Within Old Norse studies, important applications can be found in, e.g., Bauman
1986 a, 1992; Gunnell 2001; DuBois 2006. For an overview, see Mitchell 2013.
19
Bauman 1986 b: 2; emphasis added. See my comments on this point in Mitchell
2012, and for an excellent example of this question in the Nordic context, see the
treatment of Grýla in Icelandic, Faroese and Shetland seasonal traditions in Gun-
nell 1995: 160–78.

49
STEPHEN MITCHELL

disparate and often archaic traditions, such as Gregory Nagy and the
late John Miles Foley.20 And as the example of all three of these scholars
makes apparent – pointedly, Bauman as well – there is no inherent con-
flict between respect for the older empirical data and the application
of modern theoretical stances. In other words, the occasionally heated
and even hyperbolic rhetoric of an emerging theoretical position not-
withstanding, there is no reason to throw the baby out with the bath-
water: one can take forward-leaning theoretical views of the materials,
yet at the same time recognize that some of the traditional approaches
to folklore studies (e.g. motifs and motif-indexes) can continue to be
useful tools.21
In my own attempts several decades ago to struggle with these
issues in the case of the Icelandic fornaldarsögur, a set of texts whose
signature characteristic, I argued, was their perceived continuous rela-
tionship to Nordic traditions, I looked to resolve the question of what
tradition meant by pointing to several factors: that the narratives were
shared within the Icelandic community (communality); that they were
anything but ossified but rather showed a great deal of individualiza-
tion and reworking (variation); and that they had roots going back over
time in their Nordic environments (continuity). Moreover, I argued that
these texts did not merely exist in some sort of vacuum but rather were
important psychological tools in the arsenal of the colonized late medi-
eval Icelanders and could be, and were, used in the service of both their
authors’ and sponsors’ personal ends and to support an embryonic
sense of nationalism (Mitchell 1991: 44–46 et passim, and the literature
cited there). Thus, the genealogies of leading Icelanders (e.g. Ari fróði,
Haukr Erlandsson, Steinunn Óladóttir) are sometimes carefully tied to
the heroic figures who people these texts (Mitchell 1991: 123-25), point-
ing to a fourth important aspect, function.
In an attempt to capture the essence of this argument, I used a bio-
logical metaphor in Heroic Sagas and Ballads as a means of explaining
continuity and tradition in the case of narratives and beliefs, an image
to which I would like to return, demonstrating what I had in mind with
a single, more recently developed example.22 Walking in a field or forest,
20
The examples here are voluminous, but to mention just a few, Nagy 1990 and 1996,
and Foley 1991 and 1995.
21
See e.g. the essays in the special issue (volume 34) of The Journal of Folklore Re-
search on “Tools of the Trade: Reconsidering Type and Motif Indexes.”
22
On the historical dangers involved in using such metaphors, see Valdimar Tr.
Hafstein’s intelligent arguments (2000); on the other hand, I do not sense that
this one falls afoul of his warnings. I should note that I owe this useful metaphor
to conversations long ago with my wife, Kristine Forsgard, an ethnobotanist by

50
 Continuity: Folklore’s Problem Child?

or in our own yards, we are likely to encounter the sight of mushrooms

growing, often large clumps of them, sometimes “arranged,” seemingly,
in so-called “fairy rings.” Yet those mushrooms (or other fungi) are
only the most visible signs of something much larger taking place out
of sight. For unseen by our eyes, yet existing virtually everywhere in
temperate climates, is the truly active, vegetative part of the fungus,
the so-called mycelium, made up of fine filaments, the hyphae, run-
ning through the soil (or other medium). It is this part of the organism
which under various conditions will form a so-called “fruiting body”
and push up as a cluster of mushrooms (cf. Mitchell 1991: 179–81).
In a similar vein, I would argue (and have),23 the parallel situation
can (but need not) obtain in our materials and, again, can offer us one
avenue for understanding them. As folklorists interested in medieval
Nordic materials, we are necessarily in possession of data points only,
and very, haphazardly preserved over time – information recorded by
one circumstance or another but before modern times, surely not as the
result of anything like a scientific process. Therefore, we must necessar-
ily learn to work with serendipitously recorded information.
To take what I believe to be a remarkable example of this process
in our historical materials, of this metaphor in action, several late 15th-
century Swedish trials involve accusation of rituals and the worship of
Odin in the Stockholm-Uppsala area (cf. Mitchell 2009). These trials
are also generally connected not only with charges of apostasy from the
authorities but also with attempts on the part of the accused to acquire
wealth. Are such trials “mere” coincidences, or do they fit larger pat-
terns? And if larger patterns emerge from the empirical data, are we
justified in hypothesizing how they may have suited the arsenals of
survival with which medieval and early modern Swedes sought to arm
themselves against poverty and starvation? I certainly believe we are,
and in pursuit of such an explanation was astonished to discover that
in the centuries after these late medieval trials very similar scenarios
emerged from the archives: a 16th-century Swedish chronicler states
that people who amass wealth “serve Odin”; an early 17th-century trial
in Småland concerns a man who goes through a ritual pledging himself
to Odin in order to get money; and a late 17th-century commentator,
training, who first drew my attention to the similarities between tradition and the
way mycelium functions. The fact that I am writing up these notes as I work at The
Swedish Collegium for Advanced Study in buildings originally given by Gustav III
in honor of Carl Linnaeus, the “flower king,” only strengthens my sense that this is
a particularly apt parallel.
23
Most directly in Mitchell 1991; 2007; 2009; 2012, although I have understood this
to be a useful strategy in other instances as well, if more obliquely (e.g. 2011).

51
STEPHEN MITCHELL

also in Småland, notes in marvelous detail that those who want to get
rich invite Odin to their homes, and even cites examples of those who
found temporary success from such rituals; and there are other similar
modern data points. All of these cases involve both Odin and wealth,
and when we look back in time at the evidence, the association appar-
ently made by early observers between this god and the Roman god of
commerce and trade, Mercury, takes on added significance, as do refer-
ences in the medieval record to Odin’s association with wealth (e.g. a
14th-century runestick from Bergen which invokes Odin in an attempt
to recover lost wealth [B 241 M]; Ynglingsaga’s statement that Odin
knew about hidden treasures).
In other words, I believe we have here a parallel to our mycological
analogy: just as mycelium may run through the ground without devel-
oping into a fruiting body, and then suddenly erupt into a clump of
mushrooms, so too here, I suspect, there has existed a tradition accord-
ing to which Odin was connected with wealth and therefore appealed
to by people in order to acquire riches; moreover, it was a tradition that
continued over a number of centuries, at least from the medieval period
until the 18th century, if not both earlier and later. Or so I have argued
based on the evidence.
After all, what else could such data points mean? They are con-
sistent in their references to Odin and wealth, not merely random
references to the name or the like. Could they all possibly be “mere
coincidences”? Are they simply proof of the so-called “infinite monkey
theorem”? Or is there not more to the fact that the data just happen
to line up correctly, by which I mean they are coherent, fit known or
discoverable patterns, and are explicable based on empirical data? As
opposed to a nihilistic world whose alternative explanation must rest
on randomness and chaos, Occam’s razor looks pretty attractive in my
view.

Conclusion
I purposefully gave this essay, “Continuity: Folklore’s Problem Child?”,
a contentious title. This decision grew from my desire to address what
appears to me to be a difficult moral and intellectual issue for our field,
as well as the resulting trend in modern folklore studies away from
considerations of temporality – that is, continuity and tradition. As I
suggested above, historically this may be due to some degree to the evil
ends to which the field was put by National Socialism. In that case, that

52
 Continuity: Folklore’s Problem Child?

continuity has indeed been a problem results, of course, from those

who have misused it, not from any inherent flaw in the concept or the
sorts of information it can offer us.
But the tendency to avoid such concepts as continuity (and the
historical component as a whole) may have other roots as well. Thus,
for example, in an influential article, Robert Georges and Alan Dundes
formulate a concept of tradition that notably relies mainly on multi-
formity and, importantly, tends to leave aside the temporal dimension,
certainly so as a necessary ingredient in any event:
By traditional we mean that the expression is or was transmitted
orally and that it has or had multiple existence. Multiple existence
means that an expression is found at more than one period of time
or in more than one place at any one given time. This multiple exist-
ence in time and/or space usually, though not necessarily, results in
the occurrence of variation in the expression (Georges and Dundes
1963: 117).

Of course, this perspective, it could be argued, may be especially rel-

evant to American and other immigrant-dominant situations, or per-
haps, less intellectually, this was just the opening salvo in the attempt
within the sharp-elbowed academic world to hive folklore as a disci-
pline off from history and language departments.24
But even for those whose research interests are entirely focused on
popular culture and the “now,” it cannot be without important eviden-
tiary value that a cultural entity can be shown to have existed over time
within the community that has, practices, tells or otherwise uses an
item of folklore, even though that may in itself be insufficiently explan-
atory, of course. An obvious example of this point to me would be the

24
The intellectual, and administrative, independence of folklore as an academic field
has been at the heart of much debate and strife, in the United States at least as
much as elsewhere. For an excellent overview of the early history of the discipline
in the U.S., see Zumwalt’s 1988 American Folklore Scholarship, whose sub-title, A
Dialogue of Dissent, underscores the often fractious nature of this history. Cf. the
remarks in Dorson 1972, which are mainly of interest today as a rather under-, or
even ill-, considered view of the issue. With regard to the desirability of identify-
ing “American folklore,” rather than “folklore in America,” it seems obvious to
me that Dundes and Georges are looking for an efficient means of removing the
study of American folklore from its Old World swaddling clothes, the sort of view
reflected in the remarks by William Wells Newell in his 1888 description of what
the work should be of the newly founded Journal of American Folklore, where he
famously cites various categories of folklore in America, that is, “the fast-vanish-
ing remains of Folk-Lore in America, namely: (a) Relics of Old English Folk-Lore
(ballads, tales, superstitions, dialect, etc.). (b) Lore of Negroes in the Southern
States of the Union. (c) Lore of the Indian Tribes of North America (myths, tales,
etc.). (d) Lore of French Canada, Mexico, etc.” Newell 1888: 3.

53
STEPHEN MITCHELL

ritualized exchange of insults, so-called ‘dozens’ (‘sounding’, ‘woofing’

and so on), a phenomenon well-studied over the decades with respect
to modern American youth culture (and even commercialized in the Yo
Momma TV series), but with important roots and analogues in Africa
(e.g. Ewe halo) and Europe (e.g. Old Norse senna).
In the hope of avoiding being branded theoretically retrograde,
let me note that I heartily and emphatically approve of and embrace
emerging approaches to our material, but with the difference that I
do not want to do so at the price of losing what was best about the
old alliance between folklore och filolgi, a view I note that I share with
many others (e.g. Bauman 1996; cf. Mitchell 2000). With that thought
in mind, I want to close this brief theoretical perambulation by quoting
a man who perhaps knew more about the nature of tradition in the Old
Norse world and the possibilities of continuity than anyone else of his
day, Dag Strömbäck.
Shortly before Strömbäck’s death in 1978, in contrasting the folk-
lore studies on which he had been nurtured with the emerging trends
of the mid-70s, where tradition and continuity were being actively
demoted as windows into the thought world of folklore, he wrote: “I
willingly admit that my heart is captured more by the study of tradi-
tions from olden times, particularly from the Middle Ages, and by the
approach which interweaves historical fact, philological interpretation
and textual criticism” (Strömbäck 1979: 10–11). Here, I think Strömbäck
had, as was so often the case, the bons mots. But perhaps not the last
ones: for one can share, and accept the value of, Strömbäck’s love for
“historical fact, philological interpretation and textual criticism,” and
marry that perspective to folklore’s modern search for meaning. In my
opinion, both views are enhanced by a proper appreciation of folklore’s
“problem child”, continuity.

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58
 Anatomy of the Elite

Anatomy of the Elite:

“Learned” vs. “Folk” in the Analysis
of Avowedly Pre-Christian Religious
Elements in the Sagas
Thomas A. DuBois
University of Wisconsin-Madison

Abstract:
This paper seeks to explain the passage of knowledge between oral and writ-
ten channels in the production of the sagas through a close analysis of eight
characteristics of cultural background and education that seem to have been
typical of the producers of the sagas. The writers of the sagas were apparently
from wealthy, aristocratic backgrounds, closely associated, either personally
or through familial ties, with clerical institutions like churches and monaster-
ies. Highly literate in Latin as well as Norse, they tended to privilege written
accounts over oral in determining what they believed to have happened in the
past. At the same time, they took a lively interest in the folk customs of their
neighbors and in local place names, and they reveled in issues of genealogy
and family history. They viewed Iceland within a wider Nordic perspective,
in which Norway occupied a central role. They fully expected that God and
demons occasionally communicated with people through dreams and por-
tents, and they allowed their understandings of present Christian practices to
color their imaginings of religious practices of the past, which they attempted
to reconstruct through analysis of skaldic and eddic poetry, interpretation of
placenames, and observation of local folk customs.

The task of this essay is to explore the distinction, actual or putative,

between “learned” and “folk” tradition. Of course, when scholars use
these terms about items of tradition – be they beliefs or practices or
narrative details of one sort or another – they are actually engaging
in an act of mental shorthand. What we really mean when we say that
something is a “folk tradition” (as opposed to a “learned” tradition) is
that it has either its source and/or its transmission within small, infor-
mal face-to-face communities outside of officially designated frame-
works for the preservation and transmission of knowledge. A folk
source might be a local community or family that remembers a former

59
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member through particular narratives or ritual acts. Folk transmission

can attach to items that come from such folk sources, but can equally
entail items of official knowledge or lore that are simply passed on
through informal, oral channels. In the modern practice of the Rosary,
for instance, we find lots of informal norms for how to perform this
devotion in groups: the prayers are official and rigorously memorized
and are performed verbatim, but the practice of how they are performed
communally varies from place to place or culture to culture. There
is an Irish way to say the Rosary, a German way, an American way,
etc. So too, as the Estonian ethnomusicologist Urve Lippus (1992) has
shown, Swedish-speaking Estonian parishes from coasts and islands
of northwest Estonia possessed written song books that they used in
their church services, but the melodies that they sang the songs to were
passed on without any written notation. Effective worship in Sunday
services thus entailed both literate skills and competence in the local
oral tradition. Such practices demonstrate that modes of oral transmis-
sion – of learning from others within the practice of an act – can be
found in every aspect of human life, from the most profane to the most
sacred.
When talking about “learned” or “folk” tradition, we are thus
not referring so much to particular items or elements of tradition,
but rather, to the degree to which the materials preserved in medieval
manuscripts reflect oral sources or oral transmission, despite the obvi-
ous and unmistakable fact that they eventually entered, or reentered,
written tradition through their incorporation into the manuscripts we
have at hand. And because this question of transmission has more to do
with writers and their lived contexts than with the texts they eventually
produced, I believe a fundamental first step in exploring this topic lies
in appraising exactly what we can know about the people who created,
amassed, or copied medieval materials. We must examine these rela-
tively shadowy producers of texts as performers, and view their result-
ant manuscripts as instances of performance. By focusing attention on
these actors rather than exclusively on the lore they recorded, we can
begin to understand in a different way the processes of textual produc-
tion and transmission that they participated in and the workings of oral
as well written culture in their lives.
As noted above, virtually everything we have surviving in medi-
eval texts can be said to come to us via formal channels, at least in the
final instance. Learned men (and to some extent also women) wrote
the items down in the most advanced and expensive technological

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 “Learned” vs. “Folk” in the Analysis of Avowedly Pre-Christian Religious Elements in the Sagas

framework available to them, ensuring that they survived intact until

today. To some extent, later antiquarian and folkloristic recordings of
orally performed legends or lore can serve as valuable corroborating
evidence for these textual accounts, demonstrating at least the continu-
ation of face-to-face recounting of such materials within later Nordic
cultures. Of course, these notations do not necessarily evince a purely
oral transmission history, either: in many cases, as with manuscript
notations, they more probably represent a continued back and forth of
influence between oral and written channels over time, with lore read
in books or performed aloud, evaluated and eventually internalized by
audiences and then re-performed in writing or orally by subsequent
audience members-turned-performers. This interplay between oral and
written channels was likely to be important particularly for the highly
literate readers and writers who produced the saga materials left to us, as
I detail below. But the cross-cultural ethnographic examination of the
uses of reading and writing in oral societies illustrates powerfully the
tremendous importance written sources can have in the repertoires of
even predominantly illiterate people, particularly in a culture in which
reading and writing hold high prestige. Items contained within written
sources become performed aloud and circulated in face-to-face retell-
ings, just as oral lore becomes captured and thus seemingly elevated by
inclusion in new written texts, phenomena which we can sometimes
glimpse in the sagas (Mitchell 1991: 94–104).
Just as research in folklore studies teaches us that “lore” jumps
easily and continually between oral and written channels of trans-
mission, so the ethnography of reading demonstrates that performers
make particular statements about themselves and their understandings
of knowledge and value through the choices they make regarding the
use of oral vs. written materials in their own performances. When we
focus attention on the producers of manuscripts that survive in vellum,
parchment or paper, or more remotely, on those individuals who first
committed to writing the passages that become recopied, reordered,
and reinterpreted in later manuscripts, it becomes evident that we are
dealing with learned persons, perhaps the most learned in their own
original circles of acquaintance. At the same time, it also becomes clear
through the comparison of sagas or other texts that such writers dif-
fered from each other regarding the degree to which they chose to rely
on existing learned texts or opted instead to draw on more informal,
oral sources for corroboration, contradiction, or completion of their
narratives. These differing proclivities likely had much to do with the

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writers’ understandings of oral and written traditions in general, their

views of their present role as a writer, and the prevailing views of their
communities and audiences regarding the narrative at hand, or regard-
ing writing in general.
A few of the most famous of these writers of saga materials are
known to us, and we can learn much, as I will indicate below, by look-
ing at what is known concerning people like Snorri Sturluson. But I also
hope to suggest more general characteristics of such writers, offering
what I refer to here as an “anatomy of the elite.” I hope to shed light
on the persons in general who created or recreated or copied medieval
sagas and other works that become our main source of evidence regard-
ing Nordic pre-Christian religions. I hope in the pages that follow to
sketch what we can glean concerning the typical characteristics of these
elite, and how these characteristics affected the things they read and
wrote. I believe that we can formulate, at least to some extent, a profile
of the elite Icelander of the 13th and 14th centuries in the same way that
we can profile writers (journalists or politicians, or recognized authori-
ties) of our own era and cultures, using our knowledge of their prevail-
ing backgrounds, concerns, and ideals as an understood filter through
which all their materials must be viewed.
In the following pages, I present eight characteristics of cultural
background and education that I suggest may have been typical of the
producers of the sagas. Together these factors created, I posit, a particu-
lar way of thinking about Nordic society and about the past, particu-
larly the fading past of the pre-Christian era. Saga writers made deci-
sions regarding their inclusion or exclusion of textual or oral evidence
on the basis of their status and identity as Christian elite at the very
periphery of Christendom. With careful attention to the likely social
characteristics of the writers themselves and an awareness of the mate-
rials they choose to include or suppress in their portrayals of the pre-
Christian past, I believe we can come to better understand the contours
of the imagery of the non-Christian traditions they depict.

1. The Elite were Wealthy Aristocrats

I must admit that for a very long time, I have taken comfort in Peter
Brown’s (1981) argument in his great work The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise
and Function in Latin Christianity that the distance between the ordi-
nary medieval guy-on-the-street and the upper echelons of clerical or
royal life was not as great as it becomes in the late medieval or modern

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 “Learned” vs. “Folk” in the Analysis of Avowedly Pre-Christian Religious Elements in the Sagas

periods. In the Icelandic context, this assumption has squared well with
the overt discourse of the sagas, which seem to portray a society built
exactly on notions of basic equality between all landowning male resi-
dents, regardless of wealth or family. There is much relevance to this
view, as both Jesse Byock (1988) and Jón Viðar Sigurðsson (1999) have
shown, and saga scholars have tended to accept it without question.
Certainly texts like Hrafnkels saga or Auðunar þáttr seem predicated
on class differences, but scholars have tended to see them as reflections
of the basic social mobility of landowning men in a society ruled by
the imperfect, but decidedly collective, decision-making of the Althing.
In a recent and fascinating reappraisal, however, Orri Vésteinsson
(2007) has used later medieval tax records and a quantitative study of
characters and locales mentioned in the Íslendigasögur and Sturlunga
saga compilation to shed light on the realities of wealth differential in
Icelandic society during the Commonwealth era. In a manner similar
to what Tangherlini (1994) finds in his now classic quantitative study
of Evald Tang Christensen’s collected legends, the realities of the situa-
tion are not entirely identical to the imagined images presented in texts
or studies. Orri Vésteinsson shows that, in fact, the number of farms
and farmers mentioned in even those texts seemingly bristling with
extra characters, such as the Sturlunga saga compilation, represents
only a tiny portion of the people and places actually in existence. Orri
Vésteinsson writes:
In the region of Eyjafjörður (including Fljót and the western half of
Þingeyjarþing), there were about five hundred farmsteads, but the
sources only contain information about the political allegiances of
thirty-seven householders. In Dalir there were 180 farms and there
the sources contain information on the allegiances of just fifteen
households (2007: 123).

Poor farmers did not qualify as thingmen and play a role in the sagas
only occasionally, when they figure coincidentally in the life of a wealth-
ier or more powerful neighbor or chieftain. Orri Vésteinsson concludes:
The Sturlunga compilation and Árna saga biskups deal almost exclu-
sively with the rich – the wealthy landowners and well-off independ-
ent householders – and shed virtually no light on the majority of the
householders in the country, the three quarters that occupied farm-
steads with tax values less than 24 hundreds (2007: 125).

This is interesting information to take into consideration when

looking at the sagas as an ethnographic source. To what extent did

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these writers reflect the viewpoints of ordinary Icelanders, what we

might call the 13th century “99 percent”? When we consider the tone of
works like Völsa þáttr or Bósa saga, this inherent class difference sheds
interesting light on the representation of peasant belief and the likely
social and experiential distance between the characters described and
the writers who give us the descriptions. We also come to understand in
a different light the narrated fortunes of saga heroes, who are welcomed
into royal courts in Denmark and Norway, where their fathers’ names
are recognized and where seats of honor are readily given. These are the
experiences of aristocrats, however egalitarian the discourse of the sagas
might seem. We need to take into account Orri Vésteinsson’s charac-
terization of Commonwealth Iceland as a “divided society,” when con-
jecturing about Nordic pre-Christian religions in general. Certainly, we
have long recognized that gods like Óðinn were interests of aristocrats
and warriors and that humbler gods like Þórr may have appealed to
other levels of society. But Carrie Roy (2011), in a recent analysis of the
Gripping Beast motif, suggests that the religious concepts of impor-
tance among more ordinary people in the region may have focused on
entirely different concepts than these gods, such as breath and health,
means of holding in one’s inherent powers and protecting oneself from
invading, hostile attacks through protective amulets and procedures.
Whatever the case, I wonder whether we have fully conceptualized the
social and regional variation that is likely to have existed in pre-Chris-
tian Nordic religious traditions, given the fact that our writings come
from and reflect only one class within the wider social makeup of the
region.

2. The Elite Were, or Knew Personally, Many Clerics

This fact stems directly from the close connection between aristocrats
and the priesthood in medieval Icelandic life. Here let us indeed look
at Snorri Sturluson as an example, simply because the details of his
life are so well described by his nephew Sturla Þorðarson. After his
father quarreled with a priest, Snorri was fostered at Oddi, the estate
of Jón Loftsson, himself a deacon, son of the priest Jón Sæmundson,
who in turn was son of the priest Sæmundr fróði. (On his mother’s
side Jón was grandson of King Magnus Barelegs). Jón resisted Bishop
Þorlákr Þorláksson’s attempts to limit aristocratic control of the bish-
ops (simony), a conflict aggravated by Jón’s romantic relationship with
Bishop Þorlákr’s sister Ragnhild. Snorri’s foster brother Páll became

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 “Learned” vs. “Folk” in the Analysis of Avowedly Pre-Christian Religious Elements in the Sagas

a bishop, and Snorri himself married a woman (Herdís) whose father

(Bersi auðgi) was a priest. Snorri had close relations over time to Bishop
Guðmundr Arason as well as King Hákon Hákonarson (the grandson
of priest-turned-monarch, King Sverrir).
As Orri Vésteinsson shows in his study of Icelandic aristocrats,
farms of sufficient size and wealth in Iceland generally had a church
of their own, and the largest estates also had a parish associated with
such churches. In Eyrbyggja saga (ch. 49), the writer notes: ...þat var
fyriheit kennimanna, at maðr skyldi jafnmọrgum mọnnum eiga heim-
ilt rúm í himnaríki, sem standa mætti í kirkju þeiri, er han léti gera,
‘It was the assurance of the clerics that each man would have places
for as many men in heaven as could stand in the church the man had
built’, (1935: 136). These estate-based churches, benefices, tended to be
awarded to sons or other kin and constituted important social plat-
forms for aristocratic life. Given that celibacy was not practiced among
these clerics, there were no social impediments whatsoever to taking
on a priestly calling, and it seems that many a worldly aristocrat did so.
As Jón Hnefil Aðalsteinsson has shown (1997: 39), ecclesiastical regu-
lations from Norway eventually forbade the simultaneous holding of
both clerical office and a goðorð, but both walks of life must have offered
similar pathways to power and influence. Learning to read and write,
perhaps with study in England (often Lincoln) and occasional journeys
to Paris or Rome, clerics became well-versed in the language and litera-
ture of the continent, sometimes, if we are to believe Sturla Þorðarson’s
account of Bishop Guðmundr, reciting many long prayers in Latin each
day (Sturlunga saga 1946: 401). Aristocrats, who did not assume church
office in adult life, could often do so in old age, retiring to a monas-
tery to live out their final days (Byock 2001: 338). This was custom-
ary throughout Europe (Vauchez 1993) and of course in the rest of the
Nordic region, where, for instance, St. Birgitta and her husband Ulf first
retired to the Cistercian monastery at Alvastra after a full secular life
in Sweden. That Birgitta eventually planned an order for aristocratic
women to join further reflects this tendency (DuBois 2008).
As a result of all of this concourse between the secular and cleri-
cal world, the writers of the sagas were well acquainted with the key
genres of religious life of the time: the vitae of saints, compendia of
miracles, compilations of exempla and other works of pastoral guid-
ance. As Lars Lönnroth (1969; 1976), Carol Clover (1982), John Lindow
(2001), Margaret Clunies Ross (1998) and many others have shown,
these were genres that deeply influenced saga writers, both in terms

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of overall narrative form and sometimes in terms of narrative detail as

well. Such would have been the case regardless of whether the writers
in question were themselves clerics or instead secular men who com-
piled – or caused to be compiled – sagas for their own edification and
gratification (for further discussion, see Gísli Sigurðsson, 2004: 22).
We can also note that this close association with clerics probably
influenced the way in which these writers imagined pre-Christian
religious practitioners. Jón Hnéfill Aðalsteinsson explores the issue of
Christian perception in his discussion of saga accounts of goði ritual
practices, including the use of a twig in splattering blood during the
blot ceremony depicted in Eyrbyggja saga. There the writer specifically
compares the twig to the parallel device in a Christian priest’s ritual
apparatus, the aspergillum (Jón Hnéfill Aðalsteinsson 1998: 37). At the
same time, as Jón Hnéfill Adalsteinsson shows, the goði of the 10th cen-
tury seems to have had both social and spiritual duties, the latter of
which he ceded to Christian priests during the conversion. The duties of
sacrifice described in Ulfljótr’s Laws and Grágás seem to indicate winter
rituals, not necessarily at the same sites used for thing assemblies in
the summer. Such accords well with archaeological evidence which
Thomas McGovern and colleagues (2007) have uncovered at Hofstaðir,
where long-term evidence of periodic livestock decapitation has been
documented for the 10th century, ending abruptly with the building
of a church at the site about 140 meters away. At the same time, saga
writers do not furnish many details of such spiritual activities among
goðar before the conversion and instead tend to depict them as purely
social and legal authorities as they were to become after the national
conversion. Perhaps this portrayal reflects their later role in the Iceland
that the saga writers lived in and knew. But if saga writers occasion-
ally describe pre-conversion goðar as essentially political leaders with
only a tangential relation to religious practice, it may also be, perhaps,
because Christian priests and bishops of their day were often political
leaders with only tangential relation to religious practice. The example
of the saga writers’ present day must have had profound influence on
what writers viewed as feasible, interesting or important to record.
As Víðar Pálsson (2008) has pointed out in his summary of recent
scholarly approaches to Snorri’s Edda, Icelandic writers of the 13th cen-
tury tended to toe the ecclesiastical line in attributing pre-Christian
religious beliefs to confusion regarding natural theology, euhemeristic
memories of ancient heroes, or demonology. In keeping with Romans 1:
19–20, medieval writers saw the ancients as having sensed the grandeur

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 “Learned” vs. “Folk” in the Analysis of Avowedly Pre-Christian Religious Elements in the Sagas

of God in nature but locating this sense of deity in trivial spirits and
idols. Alternatively, in keeping with Wisdom 14, the gods of the pagans
were interpreted as former heroes that had been deified over time. Or,
finally – especially when figures like Óðinn resurface in the Christian
era – they could be interpreted as demons. The sagas often reflect one or
more of these views, presenting pre-Christian lore from an interpretive
framework erected within, and consonant with, Christian theology.
But such clerical explanations did not preclude aristocrats from
occasionally embracing pre-Christian imagery and employing it in their
presentations of self. Snorri Sturluson, or his father, called his booth at
the Althing Valhöll, a name which cast himself as a modern-day equiv-
alent of the ancient god of political intrigue, poetry, and wisdom. In the
Sturlunga compilation, we read of the men of Loftr biskupsson using a
spearhead said to be the very Grásiða of Gísla saga (Víðar Pálsson 2008:
132). The spear is used again later by Sturla Sighvatsson and eventually
by Gisurr Þorvaldsson, each man apparently comfortable with imagis-
tically aligning himself with ancient magic and heroism despite close
relations with clerics and a seeming close embrace of religious ortho-
doxy. Indeed, if it were not for this willingness of artistocratic Icelandic
writers to dabble in the “misguided” or “mistaken” or even “demonic”
glimmerings of the past, we would have much less material to work
with regarding the pre-Christian beliefs and narratives of the region.

3. The Elite Valued Literary Evidence Over Oral

As might be expected of persons closely tied to the Church and its
workings, the writers of the sagas seem to accord written texts par-
ticular value in their renderings of local or royal history, even when
various formerly oral genres (such as skaldic poems) enjoy high regard
as source material.
Sometimes saga writers make explicit reference to the sources they
have used in their works and the degree to which these belong to oral
or written worlds. Occasionally, as Stephen Mitchell (1991:104) has
shown, saga writers seem intent on enunciating a “legitimizing pedi-
gree” for their works. More in passing, the author/compiler of the nar-
rative we have come to know as Orkneyinga saga mentions his posses-
sion of differing accounts of the same event, the eventual fate of Earl
Páll of Orkney. In one account, the farmer and Viking raider Sveinn
Ásleifarson is said to have permitted Páll to go into hiding, reporting
back to authorities in Orkney that the earl had been physically maimed

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THOMAS A. DUBOIS

and was thus no longer capable of acting as a ruler. But then the writer
of the text states:
Eptir þat fór Sveinn Ásleifarson til Orkneyja, en Páll jarl var eptir
í Skotlandi. Ok er þetta frásọgn Sveins um þenna atburð. En þat
er sọgn sumra manna, er verr samir, at Margrét hafi ráðit til Svein
Ásleifarson at blinda Pál jarl, bróður sinn, ok setja í myrkvastofu, en
síðan réði hon til mann annan at veita honum þar líflát. En eigi vitum
vér, hvárt sannara er, en þat er mọnnum kunnigt, at aldri síðan kom
hann til Orkneyja ok ekki ríki hafði hann á Skotlandi. (Orkneyinga
saga 1965: 170).
‘After that Sveinn Ásleifarson left for Orkney, while Earl Páll
remained in Scotland. And this is Sveinn’s account of the event. But
certain other men tell a much worse story: that Margrét plotted to
have Sveinn Ásleifarson blind Earl Páll, her brother, and imprison
him, and then compelled another man to take his life. We cannot say
which of these accounts is more accurate, but it is known that he [Páll]
never returned to Orkney, nor did he rule in Scotland.’

So too, Snorri Sturluson, one of the great redactors and interpreters of

medieval Norse mythology and history, occasionally makes evident the
fact that he has access to multiple, potentially conflicting sources of
information, some of which may be written, and others oral. Of Þórr’s
dealings with the Miðgarðsormr, recounted in the Edda, for instance,
Snorri notes: En Þórr kastaði hamrinum eptir honum, ok segja menn at
hann lysti af honum họfuðit við grunninum. En ek hygg hit vera þér satt
at segja at Miðgarðsormr lifir enn ok líggr í umsjá, ‘Thor cast his hammer
after it, and men say that he struck off its head down at the bottom of
the sea. But I rather think that the Miðgarð serpent is still alive and
inhabits the outer sea’, (Faulkes 1982: 45). Confronted with conflicting
accounts of the fate of the serpent, Snorri chooses to cast one as more
likely, acknowledging nonetheless his cognizance of multiple variants
in what “men say.” So too, in recounting the death, or at least the final
disappearance, of King Óláfr Tryggvason in his Heimskringla, Snorri
writes: ok eru þar margar frásagnir um ferðir Óláfs konungs gọrvar síðan
af sumum mọnnum…, ‘and there are many accounts told later by other
men concerning King Óláfr’s deeds’, (ch. 112, Heimskringla 1941: 368).
Snorri seems to be aware of conflicting reports regarding Óláfr’s fate
because such are acknowledged in skaldic poems that he has at his dis-
posal, but he may have heard such legends from oral narration as well.
In other cases, however, it is only through comparison of Snorri’s
version of a story with that found in other texts from his time that
we are able to identify elements that Snorri has learned about from

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 “Learned” vs. “Folk” in the Analysis of Avowedly Pre-Christian Religious Elements in the Sagas

oral sources and then incorporated into his work. In recounting the
story of King Haraldr hárfagri’s early career (Heimskringla 1941:
125–7), for instance, as I have shown elsewhere (DuBois 2013), Snorri
includes details not found in other textual accounts, ones which may
have been drawn from local oral tradition concerning the royal hall
at Toftar (Tofte). In Snorri’s account, the young King Haraldr is com-
pelled through drinking a magic potion to fall in love with a Sámi
girl Snæfríðr, whose father has set up his hut across a gully close to
the royal hall. The couple’s eventual marriage, according to Snorri,
resulted in a number of sons, one of whom was counted as an ances-
tor of King Hákon Hákonarson, the Norwegian monarch under whom
Snorri labored during his life. These events connect Haraldr’s sons with
workers of magic and extend the non-Christian pedigree surround-
ing Haraldr and his career. None of the surviving written sources
recount this history in precisely the way that Snorri does, while within
Norwegian oral legendry, the landscape at Tofte bears placenames and
lore that directly relates to these events. Tofte lay on the pilgrim route to
the grand cathedral at Nidaros, the resting place of King St. Óláfr’s holy
relics. King Hákon Hákonarson had set up a chapel there for the use of
pilgrims and also perhaps in acknowledgement of the site’s purported
importance in his own geneaology (Dahl et al. 2009: 24). It is thus likely
that Snorri, or at least his nephew Sturla, would have visited the royal
hall there, and that the particular constellation of events contained in
Snorri’s account owe their existence in part to Snorri’s hearing of leg-
ends concerning the site. That Snorri does not make his source here
clear may reflect his ambivalence regarding incorporating non-textual
sources of information into his texts, an attitude that seems indicated
by the ways he refers to hearsay evidence in the above accounts: oral
sources, outside of skaldic poems, are not called attention to when they
are considered credible, but only when they are discounted.

4. The Elite Could Take a Lively Interest in the Folk Customs

of their Neighbors
At the same time that elite writers show a hesitance regarding the
inclusion of non-textual evidence in their works, they also occasion-
ally evince a strong interest in the curious customs and practices of
their neighbors. Given their literacy and their close connection with
the clerical world, writers had access to the tools and evidence needed
to recognize in their surroundings the signs of local folk culture and

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THOMAS A. DUBOIS

possible continuities of pre-Christian practices in daily life. Many of

these customs were no doubt accepted unquestioningly by the unlet-
tered peasants of the region, but they become for the writers of the sagas
topics of discussion and, occasionally, unease.
Sometimes the incorporation of such seemingly pre-Christian
details into saga narratives is accomplished in passing, and with little
apparent concern. In Gísla saga, for instance, two burial customs are
described at key moments of the tit-for-tat serial killing that consti-
tutes the core action of the narrative. When Þorgrímr presides over
the burial of Vésteinn, he declares: ‘Þat er tízka,’ segir hann, ‘at binda
mọnnum helskó, þá er þeir skulu ganga á til Valhallar, ok mun ek þat
gera við Vésteinn’, ‘’It is customary,’ he said, ‘to tie Hell shoes onto men,
so that they may go to Valhalla, and I intend to do so for Vésteinn’’,
(Gísla saga 1903: 32). Later, once Þorgrímr has in turn been murdered,
his body is placed in a ship burial, with a large stone placed inside the
ship in order to keep it in place. These activities are said to have been
undertaken eptir fornum sið, ‘according to ancient custom, (Gísla saga
1903: 42). As Wiberg (1937) points out, neither of these acts is discussed
in detail and it is easy to imagine that the saga writer assumes they will
be familiar to his audience (see also DuBois 2006: 75). Given that they
are included in a narrative that unfolds in the pre-Christian past, it is
also likely that the writer means them to be seen as customary elements
of pagan burial practices, practices that survive to his present day. A
similar detail regarding the burial of Þórólfr bægifótr in Eyrbyggja saga
(1935: 92) displays the same matter-of-fact tone. In order to ensure that
the deceased Þórólfr will not return to haunt the household, his body
is removed through an opening made in the wall, an Icelandic funer-
ary custom that remained common in rural Iceland into the modern
era. The inclusion of the custom within the narrative marks it as a pre-
Christian holdover, at least in the eyes of the saga compiler. Yet it is also
evident that the writer expects his audience to recognize and under-
stand the act, which is not further glossed in any way. In this way, the
writer calls attention to the pagan remnants that are a part of ritual life
and gives over his text to the recording of customs that he must have
known primarily through informal, folk channels.
In the priest Jón Þórðarson’s inclusion of a tale of an evening horse
phallus ritual in rural Norway, on the other hand (Völsa þáttr), the
learned compiler of Flateyjarbók makes evident his disapproval of the
depicted practice as a scurrilous or laughable pagan holdover, which is
rightly suppressed by an indignant King St. Óláfr (Flateyjarbók 1944,

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II: 441–2). The writer states that the account occurs í einu fornu kvæði,
‘in an old song’, (ibid. 441). The same high dudgeon is evident in the
writings of the compiler of the Latin Historia Norwegiæ, who includes
a full chapter concerning Sámi magical practices in order to condemn
them. He writes: Hec de Finnorum innumeris prestigiis carptim excerpsi
et quasi quasdam notulas tam prophane secte plus remotis proposui, ‘I
have selected these random samples from the Finns’ countless illusions
and put down, as it were, brief notes concerning this unholy band for
the benefit of those who live farther away’ (original and translation,
Historia Norwegie 2003: 64–5). Such disapproval is understandable,
given the writers’ elite background and clerical identities. Yet it can
prove frustrating for the modern scholar hoping to glimpse the very
rituals and practices, which the writers viewed as so objectionable.
In this light, one cannot help but feel affection for the writer of
Bósa saga, who tries to have it both ways: castigating the practices he
includes with seeming indignation, and yet detailing them nonetheless.
When describing the confrontation of the sorceress Busla with King
Hringr, for instance, he writes:
Þetta kveld hit sama kom Busla í þat herbergi, sem Hringr konungr
svaf í, ok hót upp bæn þá, er síðan er kölluð Buslabæn, ok hefir hún
víðfræg orðit síðan, ok eru þar í mörg orð ok ill, þau sem kristnum
mönnum er þarfleysa í munna at hafa; en þó er þetta upphaf á henni…
(Bósa saga 1893: 15)
‘That same evening, Busla came to the quarters where King Hringr
was sleeping and said a prayer that has been called “Busla’s Prayer”
ever since. And it has become famous everywhere, and there are many
evil words in it unsuitable for Christian mouths. But here is how it
begins…’

The same tendency recurs a little later in the text, as Busla unleashes
her second spell:
Busla lét þá frammi annan þridjung bænarinnar, ok mun ek láta þat er
öllum þarfleysa at hafa hann eptir, er þó má svó sízt eptir hafa hann,
at hann sé eigi skrifaðr; en þó er þetta þar upphaf á…(Bósa saga 1893:
18)

‘Then Busla said the second part of her prayer, but I consider it unsuit-
able to repeat it. And it is less likely to be repeated if it is not written
down. All the same, this is how it starts…’

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THOMAS A. DUBOIS

And finally, the writer finishes off the account with yet more indica-
tions of unsuitable incantations, described and partly quoted:
Hóf hún þá upp þat vers, er Syrpuvers er kallat, ok mestr galdr er í
fólginn, ok eigi er lofat at kveða eptir dagsetr, ok er þetta þar í nærri
endanum… (Bósa saga 1893: 19)
‘Then she started saying the verses that are called the “Syrpa Verses,”
which possess the most powerful magic, and which no one is permit-
ted to sing after sunset. And this is a part that comes near the end…’

The writer’s seemingly outraged tone acts as a useful cover, allowing

him to include textual details that he evidently found curious and com-
pelling, despite their running counter to proper Christian practice.
From this point of view, one may note that Christian textual traditions
directed clerical writers toward such an interrogation of local lore:
especially regarding either demons or saints, writers were to record in
writing instances of vernacular practice so that higher authorities could
ratify or condemn them. The sagas’ inclusion of seemingly pagan ele-
ments becomes a sign of a process of surveillance in which the elite
were seemingly constantly involved.

5. The Elite Cared a Great Deal about Family Lines

The final passage of Njáls saga details the marriage of Kári Sölmundar-
son to Hildigunnr Starkaðardóttir, former wife of Höskuldr Hvitanes-
goði. We read of the mysterious death of Flosi (he sailed out to sea in
an un-seaworthy boat and was never heard of again) and then of Kári’s
various descendents. With his first wife, Helga Njálsdóttir, he is said
to have had the children Þorgerðr, Ragnheiðr, Valgerðr, and Þorðr, the
latter of whom died with his foster parents Njáll and Bergþora in the
Burning. With Hildigunnr, the widow of the man he had helped kill,
Kári had the sons Starkaðr, Þorðr, and Flosi, the latter of whom became
the father of Kolbein, who er ágætastr maðr hefir verit einn hverr í
þeiri ætt, ‘is one of the most notable men ever in that extended family’
(Brennu-Njáls saga 1954: 464). When we come upon this statement at
the end of a very long saga, it should cause us to reappraise, retrospec-
tively, the way the saga has been constructed.
Similarly, the ending statement of Orkneyinga saga suggests clearly
the reasons for the prominence of Sveinn Ásleifarson in the final third
of the narrative:

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 “Learned” vs. “Folk” in the Analysis of Avowedly Pre-Christian Religious Elements in the Sagas

Eptir fall Sveins skiptu synir hans arfi með sér, Óláfr ok Andrés. Þeir
gerðu it næsta sumar eptir, er Sveinn var látinn, gaflhlọð í drykkjuskála,
þann inn mikla, er hann hafði áttan í Gáreksey. Andrés, sonr Sveins,
átti Fríðu, dóttur Kolbeins hrúgu, systur Bjarna Orkneyingabyskups
(Orkneyinga saga 1965: 289).
‘After the fall of Sveinn, his sons Óláfr and Andrés inherited his estate.
The summer after Sveinn died, they put up partitions inside the great
drinking hall that Sveinn had owned on Gáreksey [Gairsay]. Andrés,
Sveinn’s son, married Fríða, daughter of Kolbeinn hruga, and sister of
Bjarni, Bishop of Orkney.’

These narratives were not detached from the here-and-now, in other

words: they were produced in particular community contexts where
likely writers, financiers, or audience members of the sagas in ques-
tion could trace their ancestry back to one or more of the characters
described in the narratives. Depicting a character as a staunch upholder
of pagan beliefs or Viking ways, or as men possessed of prudence and
a fervent Christian faith held not only possible historical significance
but also profound social and cultural implications for the saga writer’s
present day, implications that we need to keep in mind when reading
the sagas as sources of evidence.
It is also clear from this point of view that the sagas are not demo-
cratic surveys of all the various settlers and locales of Commonwealth
Iceland. They follow particular family lines, probably because the
writers of the sagas wished to celebrate a particular set of ancestors
in their own familial past or in the ancestry of a prominent patron
or ally. In Íslendinga saga, the ancient skaldic poet and warrior Egill
Skallagrímsson appears to one of the farmhands of Snorri Sturluson in a
dream vision, urging that Snorri, his descendent, not abandon the farm
at Borg for a new residence at Reykjaholt (Reykholt). Egill recites a verse
in praise of Borg, but Snorri decides to move nonetheless (Sturlunga
saga 1946: 241–2). The passage reminds us of the fact that Egill’s story
survives not only because of his memorable and beautiful poems, but
also because of the status and motivation of his descendents. And this
factor must be recognized in virtually all of the sagas that deal to any
degree with the events and families of Iceland.

6. The Elite Saw Iceland within a Wider Nordic, and

Specifically Norwegian, Context
The aristocratic Icelander of the 13th century was accustomed to think
of Iceland not as a remote backwater, but rather, as a key element of a

73
THOMAS A. DUBOIS

wider Norwegian political scene. In fact, the North Atlantic held great
importance to the mainland. Kings like Haraldr Gilli (r. 1130–36; from
Ireland or the Hebrides) and Sverrir (r. 1184–1202; from the Faroes)
demonstrate that kings of Norway could hail from the provinces, and
both Orkney and Iceland were of great importance in the royal politics
of the 13th century.
In the sagas, heroes or merchants often travel to Norway or to the
islands off the coast of Scotland (the Hebrides, Orkney, and Shetland
islands) and often from there to Rome and back. But travel to other
parts of the Nordic world seems to have been less frequent, and we
can often sense that the narratives related to, say, Northern Norway,
Sweden, Finland, the Baltics, Ireland, or France are sketchy at best and
sometimes downright erroneous. Even the geography of Denmark
seems mangled in some sagas (e.g. Jomsvikinga saga).
Icelanders were viewed as skilled poets and historians, and both
Snorri and his nephew Sturla were commissioned to produce works
for the Norwegian crown. As Gísli Sigurðsson has shown (2004: 4),
Icelanders acquired a reputation for this kind of work, and Saxo, too,
praises the island for producing men of diligence and learning out of its
impoverished and barren landscape. At the same time, Icelandic writ-
ers were aware of their country’s status as a relic area, where old knowl-
edge and even an older form of the once-shared Northern tongue pre-
vailed. Snorri says that he has been led to write his Edda because people
are fast forgetting the old lore behind the various kennings and verses
of skaldic and eddaic tradition. By the 13th century, Íslendinga saga’s
Gizurr makes a clear distinction between Norwegian and Icelandic lan-
guage. Gizurr is compelled to take an oath that he will leave Iceland for
Norway. Placing his hand on the Bible, he asks whether he should recite
his oath in norrænan or in íslenzkan. When his interlocutors leave the
decision up to him, Gizurr decides to make his oath in Norwegian
since: er ek skal þangat fara, ‘I shall be travelling there’, (Sturlunga saga
1946: 414).
This combination of political importance and cultural and lin-
guistic conservatism pervades the sagas, and we should appraise them
as reflecting upon these factors frequently and self-consciously in the
texts that survive. Interestingly, although the writers show evident
pride in their countrymen’s poetic conservatism, when it comes to
describing holdover practices of old pagan beliefs, they seem to prefer
to attribute these to people in other parts of the Norwegian realm. In
Völsa þáttr (described above) the shameful horse phallus ritual is said

74
 “Learned” vs. “Folk” in the Analysis of Avowedly Pre-Christian Religious Elements in the Sagas

to have occured in a remote village of Northern Norway (Flateyjarbók

1944–45 II: 442). Similarly, the writer of Eiríks saga rauða situates an
elaborate seiðr ritual in distant Greenland (1935: 206–9). Such is not
to say that the saga writers never depict pagan rituals as occurring in
Iceland, for they certainly do. Yet as Bernadine McCreesh (1978–79)
suggests, the Iceland depicted in the sagas is a place where Christianity,
once established, has found a firm embrace. As McCreesh shows, sagas
that narratively straddle the time of Conversion often use the image of
the change of faith as a key device, marking the narrative’s villains as
more villainous and its heroes as more heroic. Rather apologetically, the
saga writer of Grettis saga notes: En þó at kristni væri á landinu, þá váru
þó margir gneistar heiðnar eptir, ‘Even though Christianity had come to
the land, there were still many heathen sparks left behind’, (1936: 245).
Wherever they occur, pagan practices are depicted not as the work
of virtuous heroes and family lines at the center of the sagas, but rather
of irascible old timers, underhanded shady characters, or dangerous
foreign immigrants. Thus, we read in Grettis saga of the plotting old
woman Þuríðr, who remembers the magic practices of the pre-Chris-
tian days and uses her spells to ensure Grettir’s death (1935: 245–50).
In Eiríks saga, it is the incorrigible Greenlander Þórhallr the hunter
who shamelessly brags of his having obtained a whale to eat through a
prayer to his fulltrúann, ‘trusted partner’, Þórr, much to the consterna-
tion of his Christian associates (1935: 225). In Laxdœla saga, fatal and
shameful magic is performed by a family of Hebridean sorcerers, newly
arrived to Iceland but ultimately unwelcome (1934: 95–100). In Völsa
þáttr, the unseemly horse phallus rituals are carried out by ignorant
farm folk.

7. The Elite Expected Supernatural Communications from

both God and Demons through Dreams and Other Portents
The account mentioned above of a dream communication from Egill
Skallagrímsson illustrates the importance of dreams as a source of
insight or prophecy in the sagas. Significantly, it is a hired hand who has
the dream, not Snorri Sturluson himself. In this respect, the instance is
much like other saga accounts, in which supernatural visions are placed
in the eyes or testimony of humble farmhands or female kin rather than
in the minds of aristocratic progenitors themselves. In Eyrbyggja saga,
for instance, the passage of Þorsteinn þorska-bítr (cod-biter) into his
afterlife in an ancestral hall within Helgafell is confirmed by a vision of

75
THOMAS A. DUBOIS

one of Þorsteinn’s shepherds, who sees the mountain open up one night
while he is out tending the herd (1935: 19). In Íslendinga saga, prophe-
cies relating to the fortunes of Sighvatr come through the dreams of his
daughter Steinvör, who sees in her dream a vision of a deserted cattle
pen with a severed human head lying in it (Sturlunga saga 1946: 421).
Soon after, the saga’s stated author Sturla Þórðarson has a dream in
which he sees himself standing with kinsmen at his ancestral estate
of Hvammr beside a tall cross. A sudden landslide crushes many of
his family members, including Vigfúss Ívarsson, but some manage
to escape. Sturla’s interlocutor, Sturla Sighvatsson, states reassuringly
that: oft verðr sveipr í svefni, ‘often disturbing things happen in dreams’,
(Sturlunga saga 1946: 421), yet subsequent events prove Sturla’s fore-
boding dream only too true. The account is followed by a long litany
of other presages regarding the impending battle, in which various
local figures, from farmers and farmwives to farmhands and priests, all
have dreams that lead them to recite ominous poetic stanzas about the
impending doom (Sturlunga saga 1946: 424–8).
Dream apparitions of Christ or the saints were fully expectable
within Christian tradition, and saga characters are indeed occasion-
ally visited in their dreams by saints or other holy figures. In Íslendinga
saga, Gizurr has a vision that his kinsman Bishop Magnús will stand
alongside him in battle (Sturlunga saga 1946: 429); those hearing of the
dream are cheered by the image, and Gizurr himself quips: Betra þykkir
mér dreymt en ódreymt, ‘It seems better dreamt than undreamt’. At the
same time, characters sometimes have occasion to glimpse pre-Chris-
tian figures as well, and these are less reassuring. The farmhand’s vision
of Egill Skallagrímsson described above is paralleled by that of a young
priest’s wife Jóreiðr living at Miðjumdál. In her dream, the eddaic char-
acter Guðrún Gjukadóttir repeatedly appears to her in dreams to com-
municate prophecies concerning the fall of Eyjólfr Þorsteinsson. When
Jóreiðr expresses anxiety at being visited by a pagan apparition, Guðrún
retorts: Engu skal þik þat skipta...hvárt ek em kristin eða heiðin, en vinr
em ek vinar míns, ‘It should not be of concern to you...whether I am
Christian or heathen, but that I am a friend to my friends’, (Sturlunga
saga 1946: 424–8).
Merrill Kaplan (2011) has explored Flateyjarbók accounts of visita-
tions by a disguised Óðinn, in which the god is depicted as a demon
seeking to mislead the Christian leaders he visits. Here, the encoun-
ters occur in the characters’ waking state, and the god addresses high
status men rather than simple farmhands or girls. Yet the danger of

76
 “Learned” vs. “Folk” in the Analysis of Avowedly Pre-Christian Religious Elements in the Sagas

misleading communication is always present when consorting with the

supernatural, and figures like Jóreiðr are depicted as justified in their
anxiety. Recorded prophetic dreams on the other hand – i.e. dreams
that a saga writer has taken the time to record and recount, be it from
other written sources or from local oral tradition – are seldom presented
as wrong in the sagas: there would be little narrative point in recording
prophecies that turned out to be false. It is thus with great irony that
an overconfident Sighvatr awakens in a sweat from his unsettled sleep
in the aftermath of the various dream portents recorded above, strokes
his chin, and states: Ekki er mark at draumum, ‘There is no significance
to dreams’, (Sturlunga saga 1946: 430). The attack on his estate begins
soon after.

8. The Elite were Prone to Using Placenames and

Etymologies as Evidence
Lastly, I point out that the writers of the sagas availed themselves of
a whole range of evidence in creating their works, not least of which
were word etymologies and placenames. Isidore of Seville’s works
confirmed for all medieval writers the aptness of explaining history
through recourse to word etymologies, however fanciful or errone-
ous these might seem by later linguistic standards. When Snorri tells
us that the goddess Vár is in charge of vows, we must understand his
statement as likely shaped by etymology. Placenames as memorials
to narrative events pervade the sagas, as Carol Hoggart details in her
paper “A Layered Landscape” (2010). Certain sites become the focus of
numerous or important narratives: the farms of famous settlers, hills or
mountains of prominence as natural landmarks or locations of mon-
asteries, significant bodies of water or buildings. It is tempting to read
these accounts as signs of an existing oral tradition that the saga writer
drew upon in writing a particular saga or þáttr. On occasion, however,
as Einar Olafur Sveinsson showed in connection with the mountain
Lómagnúpur (a case further explored by Gísli Sigurðsson 2004: 25),
such topographic localizations could, in fact, sometimes represent
ecclesiastical lore from Latin literature relocated and naturalized upon
the Icelandic landscape in the process of creating a saga.
This example would caution us to examine placename lore with
caution when looking at the sagas, but we can note a counterexample
in the localization of Blåkulla and Jungfru placenames in Swedish folk
legendry. In fact, as both Stephen Mitchell (2013) shows in his recent

77
THOMAS A. DUBOIS

study of medieval Scandinavian witchcraft and Noel Broadbent (2010:

60) demonstrates in his archaeological examination of a Jungfru site in
Northern Sweden, the German Blocken or Blocksberg did not simply
become relocated idly to a neutral site in coastal Sweden. Rather, the
international motif of the place of witches’ Sabbath became located in
a place already associated with supernatural occurrences, in the case
of Blåkulla, with an island off the coast of Öland connected with ship-
destroying female spirits. Noel Broadbent has shown that medieval
Swedish labyrinth sites tend to occur near places where the community
seems to have perceived past pre-Christian supernatural activity, such
as the ruins of fortresses or other settlement sites interpreted as the
dwelling places of witches or other beings. So the localization of con-
tinental lore did not occur randomly, nor is it devoid of ethnographic
significance in the investigation of pre-Christian traditions.

In closing, let me note that sometimes appraising the interrelations

of these complex influences on the saga writers’ agenda and interests
makes for difficult analysis. This fact is illustrated well in the memorable
story of Hrútr Herjolfsson of the opening chapters of Njáls saga. Hrútr
journeys to Norway as a young man, where he becomes for a while the
kept man of the aging nymphomaniac Queen Gunnhildr. Gunnhildr
uses magic to help Hrútr recover his stolen inheritance, and when he
eventually decides to return to Iceland so as to marry his promised
bride, she gives him an arm ring that causes him penile dysfunction
whenever trying to have sex with his wife. Where does this story come
from, and what can we say about its images of magic? Ursula Dronke
(1981) in her study of adult saga sexual themes in Njáls saga, notes that
the characterization of Hrútr may have something to do with the fact
that his name means “rut,” or in other words, the period of extreme
virility in seasonally reproductive species like reindeer and goats. The
name Hrútr must have been remembered in the locale because of the
farm Hrútstaðir, and it may represent simply an elaborate etymolo-
gizing of the placename and its original character. But of course, as
Dronke points out, there really was a historical Hrútr, and he seems to
have been famous for his prodigious number of children, appearing –
according to an account in Landnámabók – at one Althing with no less
than fourteen of his sons in tow (Dronke 10). This was by all accounts
impressive, but probably also humorous, given his name. So perhaps
the story has more to do with attested local and family history, par-
ticularly of a singularly prominent family descended ultimately from

78
 “Learned” vs. “Folk” in the Analysis of Avowedly Pre-Christian Religious Elements in the Sagas

Ketill flatnefr, Hrútr being Ketill’s great great grandson, great grand-
son of Auðr/Unnr in djúðúðga (an important early settler of Iceland),
and brother of Höskuldr Herjolfsson, father of Óláfr pái, one of the
men responsible for establishing Christianity in Iceland and perhaps
a kinsman of one or more of the people who wrote or first listened to
Njáls saga or the earlier Laxdaela saga, in which Hrútr also appears.
Etymology, placenames, regional history, family tradition, ecclesiasti-
cal history – all seem potentially at work behind the scenes. But, as
Catharine Rider (2006) has shown in her book Magic and Impotence in
the Middle Ages, the image of Hrútr and his magically induced impo-
tency also ties in with clearly established and extensive clerical litera-
ture concerning demonic attacks on the male reproductive apparatus.
Penile dysfunction, it turns out, is a major topic in ecclesiastical lit-
erature, a point explored as well in Andrew Hamer’s (2008) Groningen
dissertation, “Njáls Saga and its Christian Background: A Study of
Narrative Method.” So the seemingly intensely local and Icelandic story
of Hrútr Herjolfsson also somehow draws on or participates in conti-
nental discourse concerning witchcraft and its attacks on male sexual
performance. Which of these influences is responsible for Hrútr as we
find him in the early chapters of Njáls saga? I suggest perhaps all of
them. For in the eyes of the elite Icelander that I have been describ-
ing, these various strands could all come together into a single com-
plex web that the writer hoped to make as effective and informative as
possible. In their performances of saga texts, Icelandic writers merged
seamlessly and with great eagerness materials drawn from sources that
we can term as oral and written, local and international, secular and
religious. All these elements become united in the performance, and
shed light (hopefully positive light) on the writers who produced the
accounts, writers to whom we later scholars owe a tremendous debt of
gratitude.

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Institutt for musikk og teater.
Lönnroth, Lars. 1969. “The Noble Heathen: A Theme in the Sagas.” Scandi-
navian Studies 41/1: 1–29.
–. 1976. Njáls Saga: A Critical Introduction. Berkeley: University of California
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McCreesh, Bernadine. 1978–79. “Structural Patterns in the Eyrbyggja saga
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McGovern, Thomas H. et al., 2007. “Landscape of Settlement in Northern
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–. 2013. Witchcraft and Magic in the Nordic Middle Ages. Philadelphia: Uni-
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 Reconstruction: On Crabs, Folklore and the History of Religion

Reconstruction:
On Crabs, Folklore and
the History of Religion1
Karen Bek-Pedersen
University of Southern Denmark

Abstract:
The article discusses the possibilities as well as limitations of successfully
reconstructing pre-Christian religion and mythology through the aid of
late-recorded folkloric material. Supported by a couple of somewhat unu-
sual, but nonetheless thought-provoking, analogies the article presents some
examples of recent research incorporating exactly this sort of reconstructive
work. While maintaining a favourable attitude towards such reconstructive
endeavours, crossing the field of Old Norse studies with that of folklore stud-
ies, the article also highlights certain reservations about the problems that
reconstruction inevitably throws up. A recently proposed methodology for
how to reconstruct Old Norse beliefs using late-recorded evidence is summa-
rized and discussed and additional suggestions made for an improved version
of this methodology. Finally, the article raises the important issue of what
can be expected from reconstructions and it also questions the problematic
notions of authenticity and originality.

It is difficult now to reconstruct Norse religion – as difficult, in fact, as if a latter-

day archaeologist were forced to reconstruct Christianity from an excavation
that yielded only a fourteenth-century crucifix, a piece of Victorian stained
glass, and a twentieth-century Christmas-tree light.” Charles Dunn (1969: xv)

Picture a crab.
As is well known, a crab is a crustacean with ten legs, two of which
are claws, – but what is less well known is what happens when a crab
grows and its shell begins to feel too tight. The shell does not grow, so
how does the crab?
I have not seen it myself, but I have it from a friend who is also the
owner of a fish tank into which a few years ago he put a crab.2 This crab
1
I am grateful to Jørgen Mürhmann-Lund and Thomas Kvist Nielsen, both at the
University of Aarhus, for reading through and commenting on drafts of this
article.
2
I am grateful to Ian Crockatt, University of Aberdeen, for the tale of his now late
crab.

83
KAREN BEK-PEDERSEN

would often sit at the top of a plant where it was very visible and could
snip at the fishes as they passed by. But it was a shy crab and, try as he
may, my fish-tank-owning friend never managed to touch it with his
hands; it would slip away too quickly. Then, one day, the crab did not
move at all. It sat there on a leaf at the top of a plant, completely still,
and my friend was wondering what it was doing – until he realized
that he was, in fact, not watching the crab at all. He was looking at the
exoskeletal structure of the crab while the former contents of the shell
were keeping a low profile underneath the densest cluster of foliage,
apparently aware of being terribly vulnerable.
Somehow, the crab had slipped out, leaving its shell – including
legs, claws and under-body – absolutely intact, only empty.3 Inside its
shell, a crab is extremely soft, which is obviously what makes the moult-
ing process possible in the first place, but what was so striking about
this particular instance was that it turned out to be impossible to find
the hole through which the crab had extricated itself.4 Normally, the old
shell would break apart into several pieces.
This crab story serves to highlight the two poles of one of the axes
around which the issue of reconstruction turns, namely form versus
contents:
1) An empty external skeleton, however convincing the resemb-
lance, is not a crab.
2) A crab without its external skeleton is not quite a crab either.
The external skeleton gives that characteristic hard, crab-shaped surface
to the contents and makes them recognizable as a crab while the con-
tents give life and meaning to the structure. This interplay between two
equally necessary, albeit very distinct, aspects is somewhat like the way
in which, for example, skaldic poetry works in Old Norse tradition – a
rare, but nonetheless relevant comparison: External structure in metre
and rhyme and internal meaning in kennings and heiti are equally
important parts; if either is missing then the whole is not recognizable
3
It is, indeed, an intricate process for crabs to moult (Weis 2012: 78–83, Plate 21 A,
B, C). The central part of the process is explained thus: “At molting, the softened,
old shell cracks along a weak seem on the animal’s back. The crab must now extri-
cate itself from the old shell, taking along all its mouthparts, gills, legs, eyestalks,
and other body parts (…). Imagine yourself in a suit of armor that cracks down the
back, from which you have to get out without using your hands to pull…” (Weis
2012: 79).
4
This would normally be possible since the empty shells tend to break apart (Weis
2012: 78). I did not seek out information on this for the original paper presented in
Tartu, December 2011. Besides, Ian Crockatt’s experience was that he was unable
to work out how the crab had exited its old shell since this remained entirely intact
(perhaps due to the very calm waters of the fish tank).

84
 Reconstruction: On Crabs, Folklore and the History of Religion

as skaldic poetry.5 It is a kind of exoskeletal poetry wherein the form

constitutes an integrated part of the contents and a sharp segregation
between these two aspects would be artificial.
But there is another axis to consider when reconstruction is in
focus, namely the issue of part versus whole – and the crab may illus-
trate this point, too. If you find a piece of a crab-shell on the beach you
immediately reconstruct the rest of the creature in your mind – imag-
ine a live one scuttling away while waving its claws defensively at you –
and you can do this from even just a small fragment of a claw or a leg.
Not much is needed to realize what sort of fragment it is you have found
as long as you are familiar with crabs and this is, of course, the cru-
cial factor: that you know beforehand what a complete crab looks like.
Whether or not you have prior knowledge of the creature in question
is what determines your ability to reconstruct it, as a mental picture or
as a physical object. Most of us know about crabs or at least about the
kinds of crabs that are commonly found today; with regards to skaldic
poetry we are also rather well equipped since a wealth of such poems
have survived to such an extent that we are able to recognize fragments
of skaldic poems for what they are, even if the context is lacking. Our
task with regards to pre-Christian beliefs is a more complex sort of
mental, linguistic and belief-related archaeology.
This is partly due to the fact that we are highly unlikely to find the
kinds of crabs we go looking for in Old Norse belief traditions alive;
the species is, if not extinct, then has at least evolved over the past 1000
years. We do, however, find occasional remnants or descendants of such
Old Norse crabs, a fact that relates to the all-important issue of continu-
ity of tradition through extended periods of time.6 Such descendants
are usually of different shapes and sizes in comparison to their ances-
tors, their genealogical descent may not constitute a straight or direct
line and they often come in various shades of folklore that has been
collected across Scandinavia since the 1800s – some more, others less
reminiscent of the colourings and shapes of the fossils we have from
Old Norse tradition.7
The point of discussion in the present essay is the extent to which
and the circumstances under which this sort of ‘late descendants’ may
5
I am grateful to Ian Crockatt for his description of skaldic poetry as ‘crustacean
poetry’ and for allowing me to paraphrase it here (his seminar at University of
Aberdeen May 5th, 2011; personal communication December 10th, 2012).
6
See Mitchell 2014 (this volume).
7
Descendants of skaldic poetry can be traced in the form of, for example, rímur,
allowing for the study of how metrical forms develop and how narrative material
changes along with it.

85
KAREN BEK-PEDERSEN

be used to shed light on early, often incomplete, source material –

or not.
It has been amply shown in many previous studies that there are
clear and close links between Old Norse and late folkloristic traditions,
e.g. Bugge (1896) who treats the eddic Helgi-poems in terms of their
relationship to Irish and Old English traditions, to Saxo and espe-
cially to much later Scandinavian ballads, among many other aspects
the links between Helgakviða Hundingsbana II and the Danish ballad
Fæstemanden i Graven (DgF 90) collected in the 1800s (ibid. 200–18)8;
Strömbäck (1970: 255–63) who considers Old Norse, 18th century Sami
and 19th century Swedish traditions on werewolves, showing marked
parallels between the early and late material; Ström (1991: 344–5) who
refers to a Swedish harvest tradition from around 1900 that involved
Óðinn and the Wild Hunt in the form of a saying used when sudden
gusts of wind came by, cautioning children to beware of Óðinn – this
existed within living memory of Ström’s informant when the informa-
tion was recorded in 19759; Mitchell (2009) who discusses a 15th century
Swedish trial involving beliefs in Óðinn10 (see also below); Heide (2011)
who presents post-medieval material on the Ash Lad, known from
numerous folktales, that throws new light on the Old Norse mytho-
logical figure of Loki in the sense that there are a great many overlaps
between the two characters – the cunning Ash Lad and the enigmatic
Loki; Gunnell (forthcoming) who not only provides an example of late
folkloristic material shedding light on Old Norse beliefs in the form of
burial mounds being revered, he also provides a staunch and enlight-
ened defence of this sort of use of folkloristic material (see also below).
This brief list shows that the idea is by no means new, nor is the
undertaking futile. The question, therefore, is not whether late ver-
sions of early belief traditions exist. They do. The question is to what
extent such folkloric crabs can help us reconstruct Old Norse crabs, so
to speak, partly in terms of gathering enough pieces to put together a
whole crab, partly in terms of understanding how that Old Norse crab
lived and moved. As the above comparison to skaldic poetry argued,

8
Towards the ending of Helgakviða Hundingsbana II, stanzas 43–49, Sigrún goes
to her bellowed Helgi’s grave mound and meets the living corpse of her dead lov-
er there and the details given in the eddic poem are remarkably similar to those
presented in the ballad, DgF [Danmarks gamle Folkeviser] 90 A and B, when the
bereaved woman Else is visited by her dead lover Åge (Grundtvig 1856: 492–7).
Bugge treats many other parallels, too.
9
The Swedish saying recorded by Ström (1991: 345) is: Pass jer, glyttar, ellers kom-
mer Odin å tar jer!, ‘Watch out, children, or Odin will come and take you!’.
10
On this material, see moreover Mitchell 2011.

86
 Reconstruction: On Crabs, Folklore and the History of Religion

the external and internal aspects are inextricably intertwined: concrete

structures constituting form and formal aspects and metaphysical
frameworks constituting mind-stuff.11
In the case of Old Norse religious beliefs, we must keep in mind
that the material we now have at our disposal (mainly narratives) has
not necessarily been passed down to us for the purposes of convey-
ing knowledge about religion. Except for some runic inscriptions, all
that has been written down about pre-Christian religious expression
in Scandinavia has been written down in Christian times; therefore,
we can in fact be relatively certain that the reasons for preserving such
material are unlikely to have been purely ethnographic. In other words:
while form, structure and exterior aspects may resemble closely the
pre-Christian counterparts, the attitude towards the contents may be
very different in Christian times.
In terms of narrative versions of myths, the pattern of a story is typ-
ically relatively easy to preserve, to recognize and to emulate, whereas
the spirit and meaning of the contents are much less constant factors,
prone to change from one context, time, narrator or listener to another;
even to the degree of conveying quite different meanings and morals.12
An example of this sort of adjustment is the story of Gunnarr
helmingr in Ögmundar þáttr dytts ok Gunnars helmings from the 14th
century Flateyjarbók, which clearly adopts a very ironic stance towards
Gunnarr’s adventures among the Swedes.13 Although the story appears
to contain some elements of genuine heathen practices and to reflect
actual beliefs linked to the worship of Freyr in Sweden (such as the
priestess and the annual chariot ride through the local areas), it is told
from a decidedly Christian (more specifically Norwegian) point of view

11
The notion of mind-stuff is borrowed from the early 20th century astrophysicist
Arthur Eddington who employs this term in order to describe the precedence
of mental over physical experience of the world (Eddington 1928: 276–82): “The
mind-stuff of the world is, of course, something more general than our individual
conscious minds; but we may think of its nature as not altogether foreign to the
feelings in our consciousness. The realistic matter and fields of force of former
physical theory are altogether irrelevant – except in so far as the mind-stuff has
itself spun these imaginings. The symbolic matter and fields of force of present-
day theory are more relevant, but they bear the same relation that the bursar’s
accounts bear to the activity of the college” (Eddington 1928: 276). I do not con-
sider the mental experience as more real than the physical, but I find the notion of
mind-stuff highly useful.
12
See also Harris (2008: 26). Various kinds of narrative forms have various kinds
of flexibilities; especially prose is open to modification in tone, vocabulary and
similar aspects since the frame is not as rigid as is the case with poetry.
13
This example is taken from Harris’ analysis of the þáttr (Harris 2008). Flateyjar-
bók (Gks 1005 fol) is dated to c. 1387–95 (ONP).

87
KAREN BEK-PEDERSEN

and adopts a mocking, even satirising, stance towards heathendom

and, by implication, towards the Swedes.14 The result of this blend is
that it can be hard to distinguish how much is genuine pre-Christian
tradition and how much is the medieval, Christian narrator’s exag-
gerations, re-interpretations and distortions. Whose mind-stuff is con-
veyed and what sense it made to the person conveying it are questions
to which answers may potentially be found on more than one level – the
Old Norse and the medieval level.15 The scribe recording this particu-
lar narrative seems to have mocking and moralistic intentions with his
work, but behind that veneer there is a more heartfelt religious level to
certain aspects of the story about Gunnarr and we know this because
we have comparative material that lends us some access to that level.
Had neither För Scírnis nor Germania been preserved, too, we would
probably not have been able to discover this deeper layer of the story.
With respect to Old Norse mythology and religion, one of the
major issues is exactly the question of what sense the sources held for
those to whom they presented a living faith. Translating the remaining
snippets into a coherent and meaningful belief-picture is a core issue.
An example of the kinds of jigsaw puzzles we are now left with is the
splintered myth about a struggle over Brísingamen between Loki and
Heimdallr of which several fragments survive:
A. Haustlöng 9 refers to Loki as Brísings goða girðiþjófr, ‘thief of
Brísingr’s good belt’ (Skáldskaparmál 1998: 32).16
B. Skáldskaparmál 16 refers to Loki as þjófr Brísingamens, ‘thief
of Brísingamen’, which is a necklace (Skáldskaparmál 1998:
20).17

14
Harris (2008: 26). The priestess and the chariot ride recall e.g. Tacitus’ 1st century
description of the Nerthus cult in Germania 40 (Tacitus 1970: 134–5 [Germania is
written in 98 AD, ibid. 25; but only survives in manuscripts from the 15th century,
ibid. 153]). Arguably, there are also correspondences between Ögmundar þáttr
and the eddic poem För Scírnis since both portray a ‘substitute’ for Freyr: Skírnir
and Gunnarr helmingr; in both cases the substitute’s identity remains unknown
to the woman in the narrative, in neither case is the substitute himself a god and
both narratives contain a strongly sexual theme. För Scírnis is found in Konungs-
bók (Gks 2365 4to), c. 1270 (ONP) and, under the name Skírnismál, in AM 748 I a
4to, c. 1300–1325 (ONP).
15
This sort of double resonance is well known and much discussed, for example with
regards to Snorra-Edda; see e.g. Abram 2009 and Kure 2010 (esp. pp. 19–41).
16
Haustlöng was composed by the 9th century Norwegian skald Þjóðólfr ór Hvini
17
Snorra-Edda, of which Skáldskaparmál is part, is found in three manuscripts:
Uppsalabók (DG 11) c. 1300–1325, Gks 2367 4° c. 1300–1350 and AM 242 fol
c. 1350 (ONP).

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 Reconstruction: On Crabs, Folklore and the History of Religion

C. Skáldskaparmál 20, Gylfaginning 35 and Þrymskviða 13, 15 and

19 all refer to Freyia’s necklace as Brísingamen (Skáldskapar-
mál 1998: 30; Gylfaginning 2005, 29; Edda 1962: 113).
D. Sörla þáttr 1–2 (in Flateyjarbók) says that Loki steals Freyia’s
necklace, here unnamed, at Óðinn’s request (Fornaldarsögur
Norðurlanda I 1959: 367–370).
E. Húsdrápa says that Loki and Heimdallr fight over an object
called hafnýra, ‘sea-kidney, thought to be Brísingamen
(Skáldskaparmál 1998: 20).18
F. Skáldskaparmál 8 says that Loki and Heimdallr, in the shape
of seals, fight over Brísingamen (Skáldskaparmál 1998: 19).
G. Skáldskaparmál 8 refers to Heimdallr as mensœkir Freyju,
‘bringer of Freyia’s necklace’ (Skáldskaparmál 1998: 19).
H. Gylfaginning 51 says that Loki and Heimdallr fight and kill
each other at Ragnarök (Gylfaginning 2005: 51).
I. Additionally, Beowulf 1197–1201 provides an Old English ref-
erence to an apparently similar story wherein Hama steals
Brosinga mene from Eormenric’s hall (Beowulf 2008: 42).19

These bits of information provide us with sufficient evidence to say that

a myth about a struggle between Loki and Heimdallr once existed, that
it seems to have been an event of cosmic dimensions and importance,
that Freyia played a significant part in at least some versions and that
a necklace, in most cases Freyia’s, is the object fought over. But any
greater clarity regarding the significance of the Brísingr-object, be it
necklace or belt, remains unexplained. The reason for or outcome of
the struggle is likewise unclear and the reference to Loki and Heimdallr
appearing in the shape of seals is enigmatic. Moreover, the relation-
ship between the Old Norse fragments and the Old English reference in
Beowulf is obscure. Having only parts and not a whole complicates our
understanding of both form and contents.
Quite literally, we have a collection of random lines from differ-
ent variants of a once coherent poem – enough for us to realize that
such a ‘poem’ did exist and to perceive the vague contours of a plot, but
not sufficient for us to translate those randomly preserved lines into a
coherent entity. Or, to return to the analogy employed above, we seem
to have here several legs belonging to the same crab, but without having
18
Húsdrápa was composed by the 10th century Icelandic skald Úlfr Uggason.
19
This poem is preserved in the Nowell Codex (part of the Cotton Vitellius A. xv
compilation), dated to c. 1000 (Beowulf 2008: clxii). For references to the Brísingr-
object, see also Lexicon Poeticum (1931: 65) and Simek (1993: 45–6).

89
KAREN BEK-PEDERSEN

a clear view of how the crab once came together as a whole – the body
that joins the legs together is missing. Without a clear view of what the
crab is supposed to look like, chances of establishing how it lived and
moved are restricted.
Moreover, with this concrete example we encounter directly the
question of what exactly could be meant by ‘the same crab’. Do we
intend for this to refer to a particular species of which many individu-
als once existed, not unlike the way in which oral tradition is likely to
preserve many variants of any one narrative? Or do we mean hereby
to refer more specifically to one single, individual crab, more like the
way in which written tradition tends to ascribe authority to one canon-
ized version? The question is crucial since the answer to it outlines the
entire framework for our reconstructive exercises in the first place. The
former understanding of what constitutes ‘the same crab’ would allow
for a series of drafts to be considered on equal terms, whereas the latter
would seem to require one authoritative standard version.
Given the nature of the fragmentary mythological evidence, it
would seem unwise to attempt the reconstruction of one individual
crab and rather more realistic to opt for reconstructing a proto-type
for the species as a whole. Our problem with the example of Heimdallr
and Loki, however, is similar to that of many a fossil collector, namely
that we appear to have more left-side claws than any one crab would
be expected to possess (a necklace, a belt and a ‘sea-kidney’)20, but are
there any right-side ones? Those familiar with the look of, for exam-
ple, fiddler crabs will be aware of the dangers of assuming that left and
right claws are necessarily mirror images of one another.21 Moreover,
we have a mysterious Old English leg that seems to fit neither the left
nor the right side of the Old Norse crab in question and is probably best
regarded as belonging to a more or less distant cousin.
It is exactly in this sort of case that later folklore material consti-
tuting outcrops of the same underpinning tradition might just help
to clarify or at least suggest ways in which the fragments of a splin-
tered myth could be joined up and translated into a more coherent
whole.22 Unfortunately, there is, to the best of my knowledge, no later
Scandinavian folklore material relating to this specific myth, but a

20
The necklace, belt and ‘sea-kidney’ may ultimately be the same object since the use
of synonyms, kennings and heiti constitutes a fundamental principle in skaldic
poetry.
21
Fiddler crabs famously have one claw much bigger than the other. There are some
100 different kinds of fiddler crabs (Weis 2012: 15).
22
See also Heide 2014 (this volume).

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 Reconstruction: On Crabs, Folklore and the History of Religion

closer look at two of the previously mentioned examples will serve to

prove the point.
Both examples are directly relevant to the – potential – reconstruc-
tion of pre-Christian religious beliefs in Scandinavia. The first exam-
ple is intended here to show how late-recorded narrative material can
provide missing pieces as well as serve as a reminder of the premises
on which we ought to consider Old Norse belief traditions. Gunnell
discusses the many folk legends attached to burial mounds in especially
Norway, focusing on 19th century traditions involving offerings made
to such mounds and arguing that this possibly reflects pre-Christian
beliefs in ancestral spirits. Carefully noting that folklore is, indeed, lore;
that is, “material that is respected enough to be passed down, some-
times over a very long period indeed, but also material that depends on
human memory (with all the problems that entails)” (Gunnell, forth-
coming), Gunnell goes through a number of different folk legends that
involve burial mounds, both so-called migratory legends that have an
international existence and are therefore encountered in many differ-
ent places as well as so-called memorates that are much more firmly
rooted in the local landscape and are often regarded as having taken
place within living memory of the person recounting the legend.
Gunnell (forthcoming) focuses especially on memorates involving
burial mounds that were seen by the local population as being ‘inhabited’
or ‘lived in’ by beings that had to be respected, either by not being dis-
turbed, thus rendering the soil on and around the mound an area out of
bounds for humans and livestock, or by being recipients of food stuffs or
other offerings. Such locally orientated narratives underline a view of the
landscape that is unlikely to have originated in Christianity; instead, they
seem to convey ideas about ‘sacred landscapes’ that find parallels in Old
Norse traditions as recorded in medieval literary sources – for instance
the álfar mentioned in Kormáks saga (1939: 288) and the landvættir men-
tioned in Íslensk hómilíubók (Hauksbók 1892–4: 167), both from the 14th
century, as well as offerings made to haugar and hörgar in Gulaþingslög
(Den Eldre Gulatingslova 1994: 52) and beliefs in grave mounds in Guta
saga (1999: 4–5), both from the 13th century (examples from Gunnell,
forthcoming). It is exactly this sort of parallel that can provide valuable
insights into religious activities during ancient times. While the late-
recorded folkloric material can only rarely show directly or precisely
what beliefs, forms of worship or rituals that actually took place in pre-
Christian Scandinavia, it sometimes highlights likely answers to ques-
tions about religious expression in ancient times.

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KAREN BEK-PEDERSEN

What is important, then, about 19th century folklore is, Gunnell

argues, not that it is necessarily based on real memory attached speci-
fically to individual local sites, but instead that traditions about, for
example, burial mounds actually seem to have some basis in ancient
truth. He says that: “the most useful aspects of the study of folklore
… are not that it provides important source material (…). Even more
valuable is that folkloric material from the past offers ways of under-
standing the pre-literate pre-Christian world in which oral tradition,
superstition, long-standing custom and local contextually based varia-
tion and adaption were key features of daily life, just as they were in the
rural society of the nineteenth century” (ibid.).
This example of the connection between early and late traditions,
between 19th century folklore and pre-Christian beliefs, emphasizes
that the scholar who has an awareness of late-recorded folklore and is
willing to include it in some cases acquires not only a broader, but also
a deeper perspective onto Old Norse traditions – provided, of course,
that an appropriate understanding of the possibilities and limitations of
either type of source is maintained.
The second example concerns the well-known pre-Christian deity
Óðinn and is intended here to show how late comparative material can
reflect on as well as broaden our perception of Old Norse belief tradi-
tions. Mitchell focuses on the issue of continuity in his exposition of
late 15th century Swedish material recording the trial in Stockholm of
a certain man known as Ragvald Odinskarl, referring to: “the appar-
ent continuity of certain Odinic traits in Swedish popular and learned
tradition” (2009: 266). The legal records from which Mitchell draws his
material refer to individuals who confessed to have worshipped Óðinn
in the hope of thus acquiring wealth: Ragvald Odinskarl was tried for
church theft in Stockholm in 1484 and the records mention that he had
worshipped Óðinn for seven years; Erick Clauesson was tried and exe-
cuted for apostasy in 1492 and again it is said that he had worshipped
Óðinn (ibid. 272); in 1632 there was a court case from Småland against
a man called Jöns who had worshipped Óðinn for the sake of money
(ibid. 278). Moreover, Mitchell refers to a runestick from late 14th cen-
tury Norway (N B241) containing a text that invokes Óðinn in order to
discover the name of a thief (ibid. 275) and to Olavus Petri’s En Swensk
Cröneka from the late 1530s, which mentions that some people wor-
shipped Óðinn in the belief that he was able to grant wealth (ibid. 277)
as well as to later 17th century evidence of similar traditions continuing
to exist in Sweden.

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 Reconstruction: On Crabs, Folklore and the History of Religion

What I mean to do by reiterating Mitchell’s cautiously and clev-

erly treated material here is to highlight this as an example of late-
recorded traditions that contribute significantly to our picture of the
Old Norse deity Óðinn as he is portrayed in early medieval sources
(rich though that picture be already). The late-recorded material con-
stitutes, as Mitchell puts it, “testimony to the belief that Odin controls
affluence” (ibid. 276), a belief that continued to exist for centuries after
Christianity became the only permitted religion. But it not only proves
that certain strands of pre-Christian beliefs refused to go away; these
same strands also reflect back on the early medieval source material,
drawing attention to an aspect of the figure of Óðinn that seems rather
less prominent in the portrait that for example the Eddas paint of him.23
It recalls, however, Tacitus’ statement in Germania 9 that the Suebi wor-
ship Mercury above all (Tacitus 1970: 108), an interpretatio romana that
is generally taken to refer to the Germanic deity Woden whom we know
in Old Norse as Óðinn. Mercury was exactly god of financial gain as
well as of travel, eloquence and poetry in classical tradition, traits that
are also linked to Óðinn.24 In this sense, pre-Norse and post-Norse
material in the shape of Tacitus’ Germania and the Swedish court cases
can both be said to underscore Óðinn’s concerns with money, riches
and wealth.
This example of how early and late traditions link up shows that
the generally accepted notion that pre-Christian beliefs were not eradi-
cated immediately on, shortly after or even centuries after the accept-
ance of Christianity in Scandinavia should be taken very seriously. It
also emphasizes that late-recorded folklore may, in fact, contain pieces
of information that can shed an otherwise unobtainable light on Old
Norse traditions.
Both examples reiterated here prove that there is, indeed, some-
thing to be said for reconstructive ventures and, to maintain the anal-
ogy employed above, for what folkloric crabs can tell us about Old Norse
crabs. Moreover, both Gunnell and Mitchell treat material that is valu-
able with regards to actual beliefs – that is, not only for the form and
shape of the crab in question, but also for its living, moving contents.

23
Ynglinga saga 7 mentions that Óðinn knew about all hidden treasures as well as
spells to open rocks and mounds, allowing him to enter and take what he wanted
(Ynglinga saga 2007: 11).
24
The correspondence between Óðinn and Mercury is supported by the fact that
these two deities have lent their names to the same weekday, namely Wednesday,
in their respective language regions (mercredi in French and similar in other Ro-
mance languages).

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KAREN BEK-PEDERSEN

In other words, these two examples – late reverence of burial

mounds and late worship of Óðinn – can be said to constitute success-
ful translations of curious details from modern and early modern times
into meaningful suggestions for an enhanced understanding of early
material. Although it is by no means unproblematic, this type of trans-
lation definitely has a place in modern research on Old Norse religion.
Heide (2009) has recently proposed a methodology for how to go
about reconstructing Old Norse beliefs through the aid of late-recorded
evidence, arguing that the ability to demonstrate the validity of such
late sources is key. Such demonstration may, he argues, take the form
of establishing how late material can explain early material in consist-
ent and plausible ways; of cultural fossils such as place-names, which
are essentially “petrified fragments from pre-Christian times, handed
down to us through centuries and still telling us about religious con-
ditions back then” (ibid. 364–5); of elements and motifs that cannot
be derived from Christianity, for example linguistic terminology
with obvious pagan roots; of neighbouring cultures acting as a kind
of ‘freezer’ that may be consulted for supporting evidence or missing
links, such as using 18th and 19th century records on Sami religion as
comparative material in the study of Old Norse belief traditions; of ele-
ments or motifs that have a wide geographical and/or temporal distri-
bution, suggesting that it is unlikely to constitute a recent borrowing.
The overview is brief, but that does not detract from its useful-
ness. The points outlined by Heide may be seen as a source-critical
filter through which late material must pass in order to prove its valid-
ity – keeping in mind, of course, that his overview is a working guide
for assessing, not a definitive set of criteria for proving. Nor is it to be
regarded as exhaustive.
Furthermore, Heide notes that since reconstruction based on late
evidence is not only done, but also very widely accepted indeed in the
field of linguistics – where ancient linguistic forms or even more or less
whole languages are reconstructed on the basis of modern language
forms – then why should it not be possible to employ similar meth-
odologies for other aspects of culture, such as religious beliefs? The
question is highly relevant and it seems to me that the answer must be
that, provided the necessary attention is given to source critical issues,
then this is, in fact, possible. Finally, Heide also raises the question of
which is worse: uncertain possibility (i.e. the use of late and therefore
contestable source material) or certain impossibility (i.e. discarding all
post-medieval and with this any potentially explanatory or otherwise

94
 Reconstruction: On Crabs, Folklore and the History of Religion

valuable information that may have survived the centuries) (ibid. 363).25
Clearly, he favours the former approach and it seems unreasonable not
to agree with him in this.
Even so, my defence of reconstructive ventures in the study of
pre-Christian Scandinavian beliefs must necessarily be accompanied
by some cautionary remarks since there are, in terms of what may be
expected of results based on reconstructive work, a number of issues
that must be kept in mind. I have spoken above of the rendering of
disjointed snippets of information into coherent and meaningful pic-
tures as a kind of translation and translation is, to my mind, a fair anal-
ogy to employ since it presents a set of problems not unlike the ones
facing us when it comes to reconstruction: both situations throw up
similar questions that must inevitably be asked as well as answered.
With the intention of discussing some of the merits and drawbacks of
such research, I want to add to Heide’s arguments by discussing what
the translation analogy is able to highlight in terms of methodological
issues as well as expectations for possible outcomes.
Anyone who has done translation will know that there is one major
issue that needs to be clarified before embarking on the task, namely
the distinction between metaphrase and paraphrase.26 The question
of what kind of translation is wanted, requested or required has to be
addressed before work can begin. Metaphrase is essentially ‘a speaking
across’, whereas paraphrase is ‘a saying in other words’. Metaphrase,
then, emphasizes word-for-word exactitude, often with less regard for
the overall picture, whereas paraphrase requires an emphasis on the
whole that in turn frequently means less formal exactitude in terms of
individual words and images. As is evident, the differences between the
two approaches are significant and I find this rather useful as an anal-
ogy of what can be expected of the ways in which late-recorded folklore
may be useful to the study of Old Norse religious expression.
25
In addition to this, Heide (2009: 361–2) points out several instances where ex-
planations based on late evidence are accepted as a matter of course and with no
apparent need to justify the reliance on post-medieval sources. Th is certainly pro-
vides food for thought for those critical of reconstructive endeavours in the field
of Old Norse religion.
26
The distinction between metaphrase and paraphrase was described by the high-
ly influential 17th century poet, translator and playwright John Dryden (Walker
1987: 160); especially Dryden’s Preface to Ovid’s Epistels (ibid. 155–64) and Preface
to Sylvae (ibid. 246–58) deal with his views on translation theory. See also Steiner
(1975: 251–61). Dryden included a third type of translation: imitation, which is a
rather loose translation digressing from the original not only in vocabulary and
meaning, but also in other aspects (Walker 1987: 160). Apparently, Dryden did not
care much for this sort of work, nor is it a type of translation that I will consider
here.

95
KAREN BEK-PEDERSEN

An example of the distinction between metaphrase and para-

phrase is made clear through the difficulties involved in translating
poetry, especially poetry that hinges on form and structure, such as
skaldic poetry, because this requires that not just external features, but
also internal contents be preserved if the translated version is to merit
the designation ‘skaldic poetry’. Translators approaching such tasks by
means of metaphrase are likely to produce a very accurate rendition
of the literal meanings of the words used in the original poetry, but
also to do this at the cost of breaking down the formal structure of
the poetry and render it in prose, thus making a completely different
beast of the piece. Translators adopting paraphrase as their approach,
however, will retain the external guise of rhymes, alliterations, rhythms
and other formal aspects, but at the cost of literal equivalence in terms
of the vocabulary employed. It is rare indeed that both form and con-
tents can be translated with the same degree of formal exactitude; the
translator is forced to a greater or lesser extent to choose between the
two approaches and this means that results will inevitably be skewed in
one way or other. An absolute or complete translation is utopian since
the process is essentially one of re-making; the original is remade in a
new language, for a new audience, in a new context.
This conclusion is valid also for the issue at hand here, namely the
reconstruction of pre-Christian beliefs. In these terms, the metaphrasal
translation corresponds to attempting to piece together for instance a
single, concrete ritual in rather literal terms – or to reconstruct one
individual crab – whereas the paraphrasal translation maintains that
reconstructions must be qualified in ways that only rarely allow for
very direct and concrete conclusions to be drawn, but are able instead
to provide rather more nuanced suggestions – that is, they attempt
to reconstruct the general species, not the individual crab. The latter
approach would in many cases appear preferable.27
One of our main problems when we attempt to translate the
incomplete evidence for Old Norse religion and mythology into coher-
ent pictures of the mind-stuff contained in the source material is that,

27
Meulengracht Sørensen (1991: 243) has expressed a similar opinion: Den anden
mulighed er et opbrud fra de kildekritiske positioner. Det betyder, at sandhed må
erstattes med sandsynlighed, i nogle tilfælde endda kun med mulighed. Her kom-
mer syntesen til at rangere højere end data, fordi historie drejer sig om at forstå og
ikke kun om at konstatere, og det er kun i syntesen historien kan forstås, ‘The other
option is a break from the source-critical positions. This means that truth must be
replaced with probability, in some cases even with mere possibility. Here, synthe-
sis will rank higher than data, because history is about understanding, not only
about proving, and it is only through synthesis that history may be understood.’

96
 Reconstruction: On Crabs, Folklore and the History of Religion

unlike translators, we do not have (or sometimes do not know whether

we have) the whole of the original at our disposal; it is rare to find such
complete remnants as my friend’s crab left behind in the fish-tank.28 In
a sense, then, we must not imagine that we will ever be able to reach
absolute and conclusive results. The exercise of combining early and
late source material requires a rigorous and source-critical methodol-
ogy that will weed out chance resemblances, ‘false friends’ and fakelore.
This approach will not produce as firm foundations as would better and
more sources from Old Norse, but it would seem preferable to the alter-
native – which is to give up and abandon the study altogether.29
There is always uncertainty about whether reconstructive transla-
tions will produce correct, accurate and true results recognisable to the
‘original’ audiences or tradition bearers as ‘the same crab’, so to speak.
Ultimately, we cannot know for sure whether our experiments result in
pure gold or merely in amalgamated dross30, but if due care and atten-
tion is paid to the limitations of the sources at hand then likelihoods
and probabilities can give us very enlightening indications of the ways
in which religious beliefs were expressed in pre-Christian times as well
as what those beliefs may have consisted in. Expecting to strike gold,
as it were, is an ambitious aim to maintain. Moreover, the question of
whether there ever was such a thing as Old Norse ‘gold’ or whether it
was always more or less impure ‘dross’ is perhaps not as trivial as it may
appear at first. What I mean by this is that alongside an awareness of
the fact that late-recorded evidence is unlikely to provide direct links
back to early, but rather to suggest, hint at and imply possible answers,
we must also be alert to the fact that the early traditions, which we wish
to obtain an enlightened understanding of, were not static. Instead,
they had a degree of fluidity in the form of regional variations, changes
and developments over time as well as constant adjustments, adapta-
tions and influences. The traditions we are attempting to reconstruct
were themselves continuously being revised, which means that we are
aiming at a target in motion – while we try to pin down the ‘original’
Old Norse crab, the creature itself never actually stood still.
Exactly the question of ‘originality’ or ‘authenticity’ sometimes
becomes the stumbling block for reconstructive endeavours, since the
28
Moreover, we translate Old Norse belief-related traditions not into active, living
beliefs, but into an academic study of historical and cultural significance for the
21st century. The motivation behind our translations and reconstructions are dif-
ferent from the motivation behind the originals.
29
See also Heide 2014 (this volume).
30
Here, I am paraphrasing Ian Crockatt who has referred to the craft of composing
poetry as turning ‘dross into gold’ (personal communication October 24th, 2011).

97
KAREN BEK-PEDERSEN

link between Old Norse motifs, elements and traditions and their later
folkloristic counterparts has a tendency to be regarded along the lines
of the alchemical relationship between pure elements on the one hand
and impure amalgams on the other. Purity has an immense attraction
and we often fall into the trap of searching for some ‘original’, ‘authen-
tic’ or ‘pure’ version of this or that item that comes under our scholarly
scrutiny. But the validity of viewing the early and late material we work
with in such contrastive ways is very context specific and depends to a
large extent on what we are attempting to achieve by bringing together
disparate kinds of sources. The truth of the matter remains that much
of what constituted Old Norse religion, mythology and tradition is itself
best described as – well, folklore.31 The notion of once pure traditions
that have undergone some sort of ‘descent into folklore’ is therefore
not entirely fair to maintain. It is true that traditions generally tend
to morph and change and transform themselves during the course of
time, but this is in fact the natural state since culture is a continuous
and ongoing process, not a finished product.
This, of course, does not detract from the problems that affect schol-
arship attempting to carry out reconstructive research by employing
late sources to shed light on early material, but it highlights the fact
that we are working with drafts and variants rather than ‘originals’ –
not only with regards to late, but also to early material. And whether
we are searching for crabs or for gold, similar questions and concerns
arise and demand to be addressed with serious consideration: On what
conditions is it reasonable to reconstruct? What criteria must be met
in order for reconstructions to be regarded as valid? What is achieved
through reconstruction that is not otherwise achieved? And finally,
should problems to which we find no immediate solutions prevent us
from embarking on reconstruction ventures in the first place?
What we tend to come away with are drafts, limited conclusions
that may be perfectly valid until new pieces of evidence come to light
and disturb our hitherto neatly drawn pictures.32 The reconstructive
drafts that we are capable of producing can be very enlightening, but
with them comes always the danger of being dazzled by the light – if,
indeed, light is what it is – and of becoming stubbornly convinced that
we have struck gold and have found the one true way of putting the
31
This point has been splendidly made by Terry Gunnell (forthcoming).
32
Emily Lyle discusses the highly relevant, but not often mentioned issue of “the
particular ethical concern that affects us as scholars … This is the ongoing search
for truth”, stating that: “as scholars, we have to seek the truth with the necessary
energy to fi nd it out” (Lyle 2007: 15).

98
 Reconstruction: On Crabs, Folklore and the History of Religion

pieces together. Our drafts therefore require of us a very high degree of

professionalism, because new methodologies, new paradigms and new
generations of scholars are likely to produce different, perhaps even
more convincing results; not final results – never final results – but new
drafts.
This is a point to emphasise.
Drafts may be all we ever get to – but then again, drafts may be all
that ever existed.

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101
ANNETTE LASSEN

The Old Norse Contextuality of

Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss:
A Synoptic Reading with
Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta
Annette Lassen
University of Copenhagen

Abstract:
The article discusses the Old Norse textual context of Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss,
i.e. the context of the different narratives preserved in writing from Icelandic
Middle Ages, on the one hand, and, on the other, the codicological contexts
of Bárðar saga. Bárðar saga’s uniqueness in the context of both family sagas
and legendary sagas is demonstrated. But Bárðar saga does resemble other
Old Icelandic sagas. The article shows that the general Christian ideology of
the saga and a number of its episodes form a parallel to the great saga of Óláfr
Tryggvason, which was copied out in an existing manuscript (AM 61 fol.) at
the Helgafell monastery approximately at the same time when Bárðar saga was
probably written there. The article puts forward the thesis that Bárðar saga is,
consequently, influenced by this saga.

Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss is a family saga (Íslendingasaga) said to be

somewhat peripheral to this generic group and to belong among the
younger family sagas, sometimes referred to as ‘post-classical’ sagas.
The saga is dated to c. 1350 (see Jón Skaptason and Phillip Pulsiano
1984: xv; Simek and Hermann Pálsson 1987: 31). Even though it begins
in Norway and nearly ends there as well, the events of the saga mostly
take place in Iceland, hence the classification as Íslendingasaga. The saga
is, however, more preoccupied with, and contains more supernatural
material, than the average Íslendingasaga. The main person in the first
half of the saga, Bárðr, is partly descended from trolls; his father is a
troll, while his mother is a human being.1 At a certain point in his story
1
Bárðr’s father, Dumbr, is tröll on his mother’s side and risi on his father’s side. This
article is not preoccupied with the definition of the often overlapping categories
of tröll, risi, jötunn, etc. The categories are discussed in e.g. Ármann Jakobsson
2008; Arnold 2005 and Schulz 2004. The use of the term “troll” in this article is a
mere imitation of the Old Icelandic tröll, which is the most frequently used term
in Bárðar saga (in comparison to risi, flagð and óvættr).

102
 TheOld
The OldNorse
NorseContextuality
ContextualityofofBárðar
Bárðarsaga
sagaSnæfellsáss
Snæfellsáss

(after brutally killing his two nephews), Bárðr leaves human society,
and, the saga claims: ‘people on Snæfellsnes took him to be almost a
god, making vows to him for their salvation’ (Þeir trúðu á hann náliga
þar um nesit ok höfðu hann fyrir heitguð sinn, Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss
1991: 119). The Icelandic landscape of the saga is inhabited by trolls or
supernatural beings to an extent not seen in other family sagas. The
ideology of the saga is, at the same time, overtly Christian. Indeed, a
major character of the saga is the missionary king, Óláfr Tryggvason,
who converts Bárðr’s son Gestr to Christianity, whereupon Bárðr kills
him. The conversion of Gestr only takes place when he has realised that
the help of his father Bárðr is inadequate in the battle against the dead
Raknarr, who inhabits a pagan burial mound. Gestr thus realises that
the power of the Christian King Óláfr is great and accomplishes what
the pagan Bárðr cannot. Only with the help of Óláfr can Gestr defeat
the evil, heathen Raknarr. Put plainly, the saga teaches its readers and
listeners, that heathenism is weak and evil, while Christianity is power-
ful and good.
In this article, I shall discuss the Old Norse contextuality of Bárðar
saga. By Old Norse contextuality I mean, on the one hand, the textual
landscape of the Icelandic Middle Ages to which Bárðar saga belongs,
and, on the other hand, the codicological contexts in which we find
Bárðar saga in the medieval manuscripts. As we shall see, Bárðar saga
may appear unique among the Íslendingasögur, but it does have many
resemblances to other Old Icelandic sagas, particularly the saga about
the misionary king and apostle of the North, Óláfr Tryggvason.

Manuscripts of Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss

In attempting to circumscribe the Old Norse contextuality of Bárðar
saga, one could begin at the sources, i.e. the manuscripts wherein the
saga has been preserved. The complete Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss is not
found in any medieval manuscript and the manuscripts preserving
parts of the saga are relatively young. The oldest fragment is found
in AM 564 a 4to dated to around the beginning of the 15th century
(1390–1425).2 These two leaves are believed to have belonged to a much
larger manuscript, the so-called Pseudo-Vatnshyrna. Three surviving
parchment fragments are thought to be closely related to AM 564 a
2
Here and elsewhere in the article, I follow the manuscript datings in the indi-
ces of A Dictionary of Old Norse Prose, available at <http://dataonp.hum.ku.dk/
mscoll_d_menu.html>

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4to, but recent editors of Bárðar saga (Þórhallur Vilmundarson and

Bjarni Vilhjálmsson 1991; Jón Skaptason and Phillip Pulsiano 1984)
nevertheless agree that they are independent of that manuscript. These
fragments are: AM 162 H fol. (two parchment leaves from the first half
of the 15th century), AM 489 4to (ten parchment leaves from around
1450), and finally AM 551 a 4to (a single parchment leaf preserving the
end of the saga and believed to have been written around 1500). AM 162
H fol. and AM 489 4to are believed to be copies of the same original and
AM 551 a 4to to represent an abbreviated version.
The complete text of Bárðar saga has only been preserved in young
paper manuscripts. The most recent editors of the saga, Þórhallur
Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, concluded that of these,
AM 158 fol. (c. 1650) comes closest to the lost original of Bárðar saga
(Þórhallur Vilmundarson 1991: lxxii). Editors of the saga agree that it
has independent textual value, apart from the aforementioned manu-
scripts, and this is accordingly the manuscript from which the largest
part of the text has been taken in all existing text-critical editions of
the saga. The state of the manuscripts should serve, however, as a warn-
ing about reading Bárðar saga as an unproblematic medieval text. The
existing editions present us with a reconstruction of the saga which,
strictly speaking, never existed outside of the editions.

The Codicological Contexts of Bárðar saga

The contents of the medieval manuscripts, the codicological contexts
of Bárðar saga, may provide a glimpse of the reception of the saga
through the knowledge they offer of the preferences and interests of
the compilers. Unfortunately, most medieval manuscripts of Bárðar
saga are fragmentary. Nonetheless, we possess knowledge about the
contents of three of the medieval manuscripts containing Bárðar saga.
Most importantly, scholars have succeeded in reconstructing the con-
tents of Pseudo-Vatnshyrna, to which the fragment AM 564 a 4to origi-
nally belonged. This manuscript contained Landnámabók (Melabók),
Vatnsdæla saga, Flóamanna saga, Eyrbyggja saga, Bárðar saga, Þórðar
saga hreðu, Bergbúa þáttr, Kumblbúa þáttr, Draumr Þorsteins Síðu-
Hallssonar, Gísla saga, Víga-Glúms saga and Harðar saga (McKinnell
1970: 331–334). The texts contained in this manuscript all deal with the
history of Iceland, even though none of them can be termed historiog-
raphy in the modern sense. The majority of sagas in this manuscript
would traditionally fall within the group of the younger Íslendingasögur

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(Vatnsdæla saga, Flóamanna saga, Bárðar saga, Þórðar saga hreðu

and Harðar saga), while three of the sagas in Pseudo-Vatnshyrna are
believed to belong to an earlier period of saga writing (Eyrbyggja saga,
Gísla saga and Víga-Glúms saga). All the sagas, with the exception of
one: Gísla saga, and all the þættir of Pseudo-Vatnshyrna are preoccu-
pied with supernatural or pagan matters. Bergbúa þáttr is, like Bárðar
saga, a rare example of an Íslendingasaga or -þáttr, in which someone
encounters a giant or troll at home in Iceland.
The context of Bárðar saga in AM 489 4to is quite different from
that of Pseudo-Vatnshyrna. This manuscript contains Bárðar saga,
Kyrjalax saga, Hrings ok Tryggva saga, Flóress saga ok Blankiflúr,
Tristrams saga ok Ísondar and Ívents saga (incomplete). Here Bárðar
saga is the only Íslendingasaga, the other texts being two indigenous
riddarasögur (Kyrjalax saga and Hrings saga ok Tryggva) and three
translated riddarasögur (Flóress saga ok Blankiflúr, Tristrams saga ok
Ísondar and Ívents saga). Of these, only Hrings saga ok Tryggva and
Bárðar saga tell a story featuring trolls. The context in this manuscript
is more difficult to explain than AM 564 a 4to and the choice of sagas
seems more haphazard.
AM 551 a 4to contains Bárðar saga, Víglundar saga and Grettis saga.
Víglundar saga and Grettis saga are both considered late Íslendingasögur.
Víglundar saga is a courtly saga, which shows no interest in the super-
natural. There is, however, a relationship between Víglundar saga and
Bárðar saga. In Víglundar saga there is a reference to Bárðr, and in
Bárðar saga to Víglundr. Thus, it has been suggested (Finnur Jónsson
1941: 86), that the writer of Víglundar saga was also the writer of Bárðar
saga, even though this cannot be proven. The last saga of AM 551 a 4to
is Grettis saga, a saga in which the supernatural interest is both obvi-
ous and well-known. Grettis saga relates one of the rare encounters in
the Íslendingasögur with a troll in the Icelandic landscape – outside of
Bárðar saga, and, of course, Bergbúa þáttr. Finally, AM 162 H fol. is a
fragment containing only Bárðar saga and nothing is known about its
possible contents apart from that saga.
The contents of the medieval manuscripts of Bárðar saga support
the dating of the saga to the late medieval period of saga writing. The
contents of Pseudo-Vatnshyrna and AM 551 a 4to further point to an
interest in the pagan past and supernatural elements. In the sagas of
these manuscripts, the supernatural is generally connected to pagan-
ism or lack of Christian faith and is, accordingly, evil. This is true of
Flóamanna saga, where Þorgísl, who is one of St. Þorlákr’s ancestors,

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and his men are attacked and haunted by the evil Þórr, on their way to
Greenland; and it is likewise true of Grettis saga, where Glámr before
his death refuses to fast at Christmas. The majority of the sagas in these
manuscripts, together with Bárðar saga, are thus likely to have been
produced and perused within a late medieval Christian milieu.

Possible Sources for Bárðar saga

Scholars have long acknowledged that the writer of Bárðar saga had
access to a number of books and sagas and many of these have been
identified. First of all, there are passages in Bárðar saga, which have
been copied virtually unaltered from the Sturlubók redaction of
Landnámabók (Jón Skaptason and Pulsiano 1984: xxi–xxii; Þórhallur
Vilmundarson 1991: lxxvi). A little more than two hundred characters
are mentioned in Bárðar saga and circa half of these are also mentioned
in Sturlubók (Jón Skaptason and Pulsiano 1984: xxii). Those who do
not appear in Sturlubók are, according to Jón Skaptason and Pulsiano,
mostly trolls and other supernatural or fictional characters (e.g. Bárðr
himself, Kolbjörn, Ámr, Glámr, Hetta, King Dumbr, Raknarr, Krókr
and Krekja). Only a few characters, who are not mentioned in Sturlubók
are, according to Pulsiano and Jón Skaptason, unique to Bárðar saga.
These are Bárðr and his son Gestr, Þórðr, Þorvaldr and Sólrún and
Skeggi’s daughter Þórdís, the mother of Gestr (ibid. 1984: xxii).
Apart from the Sturlubók redaction of Landnámabók, the writer
of Bárðar saga seems also to have known a great deal of sagas and
þættir. According to Jón Skaptason and Pulsiano, he knew Hálfdanar
þáttr svarta ok Haralds hárfagra, which is preserved in Flateyjarbók.
This þáttr tells of Haraldr’s upbringing at Dofri’s cave, which is rem-
iniscent of Bárðr’s upbringing at the same place. Bárðr’s dream in
Dofri’s cave is, furthermore, similar to queen Ragnhildr’s prophetic
dream in Hálfdanar saga svarta in Heimskringla (ch. 6; ibid. 1984: xxii;
Þórhallur Vilmundarson 1991: lxxix). In the dream, she holds a tree
whose branches are so big that they cover all of Norway. The writer may
also have known Áns saga bogsveigis since the wife of Þorkell bundin-
fóti is descended from Ánn (Jón Skaptason and Pulsiano 1984: xxii).
Two chapters, 10–11, indicate that the writer knew Grettis saga inde-
pendently from Sturlubók (ibid. 1984: xxii; Þórhallur Vilmundarson
1991: lxxvii). Two characters mentioned in Bárðar saga, Laga Eiðr and
Miðfjarðar Skeggi, are among the lead characters of Þórðar saga hreðu
(Jón Skaptason and Pulsiano 1984: xii–xxiii). As mentioned above, the

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writer is likely to have known Víglundar saga which also takes place in
the same area. The writer of Bárðar saga may, furthermore, have known
Harðar saga, Kjalnesinga saga, Flóamanna saga, Eiríks saga rauða and
perhaps Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta in its Flateyjarbók redac-
tion (Þórhallur Vilmundarson 1991: xxii–xxiii, lxxix, lxxvii). Besides,
Pulsiano and Jón Skaptason have suggested that there is a parallel
between Gestr’s descent into Raknarr’s barrow and Beowulf’s descent
into Grendel’s lair, and between Raknarr’s entrance into Óláfr’s court
and the Green Knight’s into King Arthur’s court. The writer of Bárðar
saga is, however, unlikely to have borrowed the parallel directly from
Beowulf, which he can hardly have known in writing (or, indeed, in an
oral form). Similar descents are, in fact, also described in Grettis saga,
Orms þáttr Stórólfssonar and Samsons saga fagra (Jón Skaptason and
Pulsiano 1984: xxiii–xxiv). The descent into Raknarr’s barrow may also
be inspired by Harðar saga ok Hólmverja, in which Hörðr with Óðinn’s
help descends into Sóti’s barrow in Gautland. Harðar saga was, as men-
tioned, among the sagas found in Pseudo-Vatnshyrna together with
Bárðar saga. It has been suggested, that inspiration for Bárðr’s char-
acter may have been sought in chapter 19 of Landnámabók, where it is
mentioned that a man, Þorsteinn Grímsson, received vows of devotion
after his death on account of his popularity (Landnámabók [Hauksbók]
19, 1968: 59). Scholars have further found parallels in Fóstbræðra saga,
in the miracles of Þorláks saga helga in yngri (ch. 54), in Exodus 14, and
in Michaels saga. In Exodus, Moses opens a path through the water, as
does the priest Jósteinn in Bárðar saga. In Fóstbræðra saga, Þormóðr
calls upon Óláfr in a fight, as does Gestr in his fight against Raknarr in
Bárðar saga (though they do not call upon the same Óláfr).3 In Michaels
saga, mountains are consecrated to Michael, and in the Old Icelandic
drawing book, Teiknibókin (AM 673 a III 4to), Michael is depicted
in a cloak with a spear, which has been seen as reminiscent of Bárðr
Snæfellsáss (Þórhallur Vilmundarson 1991: lxxvii–lxxviii, xcii–xciii).
Even if we do not accept every detail in this short survey of the
hypotheses on the sources of Bárðar saga, the survey nevertheless
clearly demonstrates that the saga writer functioned within a learned
milieu (cf. Jón Skaptason and Pulsiano 1984: xiii). The majority of the
sources claimed by scholars for Bárðar saga show an obvious interest in
pagan matters from a Christian ideological standpoint. The Christian

3
According to Þórhallur Vilmundarson, this is a parallel to Hallfreðar saga (ch. 7)
where Hallfreðr calls upon God due to the advice of King Óláfr Tryggvason (1991:
lxxvi).

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ideology is evident in Hálfdanar saga svarta, Kjalnesinga saga, Grettis

saga, Flóamanna saga, Fóstbræðra saga, Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en
mesta and Hallfreðar saga – not to mention, of course, Michaels saga
and Exodus. The sources and Christian idelogy of the text point to a
cleric as the writer of Bárðar saga, as has been suggested by Þórhallur
Vilmundarson (1991). The sources and parallels of the saga that have
been identified by scholars and editors correspond perfectly with the
contents of two of the manuscripts in which Bárðar saga has been pre-
served. Of these, Pseudo-Vatnshyrna contained Landnámabók (the
Melabók-reaction), Þórðar saga hreðu, Flóamanna saga and Harðar saga.
Apart from these, it contained sagas with a typically Christian inter-
est in the pagan or supernatural, i.e. Vatnsdæla saga, Eyrbyggja saga,
Bergbúa þáttr, Kumblbúa þáttr and Draumr Þorsteins Síðu-Hallssonar.
Indeed, Pseudo-Vatnshyrna contained the only two Íslendingasögur in
which the pagan god Óðinn plays an active part: Harðar saga and, of
course, Bárðar saga (cf. Lassen 2011). AM 551 a 4to contains Víglundar
saga and Grettis saga in addition to Bárðar saga. While Víglundar saga
is a courteous saga, Grettis saga shows a marked interest in monstrosity
in the Icelandic homeland. It is evident that the scribes or compilers of
these two manuscripts have had a particular interest in the supernatu-
ral and the pagan past of Iceland as forming a contrast to the Christian
present. This interest can also be detected in the sources of Bárðar saga
and, not surprisingly, in Bárðar saga itself.

Bárðar saga in the Context of Íslendingasögur

As we have seen, there are many Íslendingasögur among the sources of
Bárðar saga. Still, the saga is often said to belong only marginally to this
genre because of its focus on the supernatural. The main supernatu-
ral characters of Bárðar saga are trolls. The most frequent supernatural
beings of Íslendingasögur are draugar or aftrgöngumenn, the revenants
of deceased people (in e.g. Flóamanna saga, Njáls saga, Laxdæla saga,
Eyrbyggja saga, Grettis saga, Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings, Eiríks saga rauða
and Kumblbúa þáttr). Only in a very few Íslendingasögur, apart from
Bárðar saga, does a Nordic god play an active part in the narrative.
In Flóamanna saga, Þórr makes an appearance and Freyr in Víga-
Glúms saga, although the two gods only appear in dream-visions. In
Harðar saga ok Hólmverja, as mentioned briefly above, Óðinn appears
in Gautland. In the beginning of Flóamanna saga, Óðinn is further-
more mentioned as king of Ásgarðr in a genealogy at the beginning of

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the saga. In Bárðar saga, both Óðinn and Þórr appear: Óðinn (calling
himself Rauðgrani) on a ship in Dumbshafit and Þórr (calling himself
Grímr) on a ship off the shore of Snæfellsnes (chs. 8 and 18).
We only encounter trolls or giants in a few Íslendingasögur and
Íslendingaþættir other than Bárðar saga. In Brandkrossa þáttr, we
encounter cave dwellers, but the þáttr terms them men and not trolls.
In Kjalnesinga saga, a saga preoccupied with the conversion to Christia-
nity – just as Bárðar saga, we meet the troll Dofri, who fosters Haraldr
hárfagri. As mentioned above, the passage about Bárðr’s stay in Dofri’s
cave is believed by some to be borrowed from Kjalnesinga saga. However,
Dofri lives in Norway and Kjalnesinga saga mentions no trolls in Iceland.
In Bergbúa þáttr, on the other hand, which takes place a little north of
Snæfellsnes, more specifically in Djúpafjörðr in the southern area of
the Vestfirðir, we do meet a supernatural being in a cave. This þáttr
was also contained in Pseudo-Vatnshyrna. The þáttr tells of a peasant,
Þórðr, who wants to go to mass and sets off with his housecarl. When
it begins to snow heavily they seek shelter under a cliff where they find
the opening of a hitherto unknown cave. During the night, there is a
terrible noise and some being approaches them. The only thing they
can see is something that looks like two full moons; they reckon this
to be the eyes of the creature. The creature recites twelve stanzas about
its lonely wanderings, its dwelling place and the hostility of Þórr. In
the stanzas, the creature reveals that it is a giant. In the last stanza, the
giant advises the two men to learn the stanzas by heart. Þórðr does this,
but the housecarl does not. A year later Þórðr moves his farm closer to
the church and the housecarl dies. In Grettis saga, a saga contained in
AM 551 a 4to, which also features Bárðar saga, Grettir fights and kills a
female troll who harasses the farm during Christmas (ch. 65). The fight
takes place in northern Iceland, at Sandhaugar in Bárðardalr. A much
more friendly encounter with a troll (termed a blendingr and þurs) takes
place in chapter 61. In a secret, beautiful and fertile valley that Grettir
mysteriously discovers in the glacier Geitlandsjökull, Grettir has fun
with the daughters of the blendingr Þórir. As if perhaps to stress that
the story is untrue, the writer claims that ‘Grettir has said so, that a
half-troll called Þórir has ruled over this valley’ (Svá hefir Grettir sagt,
at fyrir dalnum hafi ráðit blendingr, þurs einn, sá er Þórir hét; Grettis
saga 1956: 200). To mark the location of the valley, Grettir is said to
have raised a flat stone, made a hole in it and ‘stated the following, that
if one put his eye toward the hole in the stone, then one would be able
to see the canyon leading from Þórisdalr’ (sagði svá, ef maðr legði auga

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sitt við raufina á hellunni, at þá mætti sjá í gil þat sem fellr ór Þórisdal;
ibid. 201). In other words, the source is claimed to be Grettir himself,
not the writer of the saga. These are, to my knowledge, the only trolls
in the Icelandic landscape of the Íslendingasögur and -þættir outside
of Bárðar saga. But neither Bergbúa þáttr nor Grettis saga otherwise
display a particular resemblance to Bárðar saga. Let us, therefore, take
a look at another Old Icelandic genre.

Bárðar saga in the Context of Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda

Bárðar saga is, not surprisingly, often said to resemble the fornaldar-
sögur Norðurlanda because of its partiality to the supernatural. A
number of motifs are shared by Bárðar saga and the fornaldarsögur,
i.e. trolls eating human flesh (Bárðar saga 1991: 153; Ketils saga hængs
1944: 156; cf. Schulz 2004: 174); a troll holding prisoner a princess who
ends up marrying the human hero (Bárðar saga 1991: 148, though here
she is not the daughter of a king; Þorsteins saga Víkingssonar: 1944:
6; Bósa saga ok Herrauðs 1893: 107; Egils saga einheinda ok Ásmundar
berserkjabana 1927: 353: cf. Schulz 2004: 176).
The fornaldarsögur is the group of sagas in which the Nordic gods
most often intervene in the narrative and in the greatest variety of guises
(cf. Lassen 2011). The main god appearing in these sagas is Óðinn. In
Bárðar saga he preaches paganism to Óláfr Tryggvason’s priest, Gestr
and his men, thus acting as a kind of tempter, and he is recognised as
such by the priest who hits him on the head with his crucifi x whereupon
he falls into the water and never surfaces again. In the fornaldarsögur,
Óðinn often gives advice and has the power to decide who falls in battle
(cf. Lassen 2011). In Hrólfs saga kraka, Óðinn, in the guise of a peasant
called Björn, tests King Hrólfr’s men before turning against him in his
final battle. In Völsunga saga, Óðinn helps and advises the Völsungar
and decides their destiny. In Örvar-Odds saga, Óðinn, calling himself
Rauðgrani, gives advice to Örvar-Oddr. In Skjöldunga saga, Óðinn,
under the name of Brúni, gives Haraldr hilditönn advice about battle
formations and decides his death. In Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks, Óðinn,
in the guise of Gestumblindi, tests and defeats king Heiðrekr in a riddle
contest. Finally, in Gautreks saga, Óðinn appears as Grani, the foster-
father of Starkaðr whom he tricks into killing his king, Víkarr (Lassen
2011, 152–174). Apart from Gautreks saga, Þórr does not play an active
part in the fornaldarsögur.

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The examples from the fornaldarsögur above are not exhaustive.

Still, it is obvious that the way Óðinn appears in these sagas does not
resemble the way he appears in Bárðar saga. And neither does Bárðar
saga resemble a fornaldarsaga ideologically. In Bárðar saga, Óðinn
tempts a priest who defeats him by hitting him with a crucifi x. Only
in Hrólfs saga kraka is Óðinn identified as the devil. But he never
acts as a tempter in this group of texts. Óðinn does appear in a simi-
lar way, however, in the sagas about the two missionary kings, Óláfr
Tryggvason and Óláfr helgi. Christian ideology is most often implicit
in the fornaldarsögur, since these sagas take place before the conversion
to Christianity in the Nordic countries (cf. Lassen 2011). This is not the
case in Bárðar saga; here, Óláfr Tryggvason plays a major role in the
second part of the saga, which deals with Gestr and his conversion to
Christianity. Let us, therefore, take a look at Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar.

Bárðar saga and The Great Saga of Óláfr Tryggvason

Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar naturally constitutes the Old Norse con-
textuality of Bárðar saga because the king plays an important role in
the saga. Óláfr Tryggvason is said to have christianised Norway, the
Faroes, Orkney, Shetland, Iceland and Greenland. Accordingly, the
Benedictine monk Oddr Snorrason of Þingeyrar Abbey, who wrote
the oldest saga about Óláfr, called him the apostle of the North. Óláfs
saga Tryggvasonar exists in different versions. Oddr Snorrason᾿s saga
was originally written in Latin in the latter part of the 12th century,
although it is only preserved in an Old Norse translation. Here there
is an abundance of supernatural elements. Although many of these
have been omitted in the Heimskringla-version, such elements are pre-
sent in the youngest version of the saga, which is believed to have been
composed around 1300: Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta or The Great
Saga of Olaf Tryggvason, partly on the basis of another Latin work,
written by another Benedictine monk at Þingeyrar Abbey: Gunnlaugr
Leifsson. It is in this version of Óláfs saga, which is closest in age to
Bárðar saga, that we find a number of þættir with an obvious focus on
paganism. It exists in two redactions: One is preserved in AM 61 fol., a
manuscript also containg Óláfs saga helga and which has been edited
by Ólafur Halldórsson (1958–2001). The other (extended) redaction is
preserved in Flateyjarbók (GKS 1005 fol.). I have compared Bárðar saga
to Óláfs saga in AM 61 fol., in Ólafur Halldórsson᾿s edition. The part
of the manuscript containing Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar is dated to c.

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1350–1375. I shall discuss in more detail below the special significance

of this manuscript for the origin of Bárðar saga.
In Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta, Óðinn acts in a way compa-
rable to Bárðar saga in that he appears several times as an evil tempter.
The first time is when the king stays at Ögvaldsnes in Norway. At night-
time, an unknown guest arrives. He amuses the king by telling stories
about the pagan kings of ancient times. The king refuses to go to bed,
even though the bishop urges him to do so in order not to miss prayers
in the morning. The next morning, the unknown guest is nowhere to
be found. In the kitchen, the guest has given the cooks some meat to
prepare. Only then does the king realise that the guest was the devil
himself, in the guise of Óðinn, and that he wanted to trick the king into
staying awake so that he would miss prayer (Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en
mesta 1961: 86–90). The second time Óðinn appears, the ship Ormrinn
inn langi is being built. This episode, which is not in AM 61 fol., is found
as an interpolation in the Flateyjarbók redaction of the saga. The king’s
men cannot find timber long enough for the keel of the great ship. An
unknown man arrives and offers them an enormous piece of timber
for the keel. The king, however, recognises this as a gift from the evil
Óðinn and when he chops it through, a poisonous snake appears (Óláfs
saga Tryggvasonar en mesta 1961: 173–174, variants). In both these
instances, Óðinn is recognised by the king as a tempter. In the great
saga about the holy Óláfr Haraldsson, also preserved in Flateyjarbók
but not AM 61 fol., Óðinn appears in a way that is even more remi-
niscent of Bárðar saga. Here, he tempts the king, who recognises him
whereupon he hits him in the head with his book of hours (Flateyjarbók
1862: 134–135). In Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta, Þórr also appears
in a (Odinian) fashion, resembling his appearances in Bárðar saga. He
appears as a young, red-haired man asking to come on board the king’s
ship. He relates that the country was originally inhabited by giants of
whom two females survived and terrorised the human inhabitants,
until they called upon Þórr who killed them. Thus, Þórr kept peace
with his hammer until Óláfr Tryggvason came along, Þórr says. He
then grins at the king and throws himself overboard, never to be seen
again (Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta 1961: 135–136). A little later
in the saga, two of the king’s men encounter a group of trolls in a cave
who enumerate their unhappy dealings with the king (ibid. 138ff.). In
the Great Saga about the Holy Olaf, preserved in AM 61 fol., we also
encounter trolls. In chapter 131, sleeping merchants are attacked by a
female troll who eats some of them before she is finally killed (Den store

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saga om Olav den hellige: 407–408). The entrance of Raknarr into the
king’s hall, in Bárðar saga, also has a parallel in Helga þáttr Þórissonar,
which is found in Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta. Helgi Þórisson has
been abducted by Guðmundr of Glæsisvellir. During Christmas, Þórir
arrives at the king’s hall with two of Guðmundr’s men. When the king
offers the two men a drink that has been blessed by the bishop, they
become angry and pour down the drink. The light goes out and there
is a terrible noise. When the light comes back on, the men have disap-
peared and three of the king᾿s men have died. In Bárðar saga, Raknarr
leaves behind an evil or terrible (illr) smell. When the smell disappears,
many men lie as if dead or in coma until the king reads a prayer over
them and they wake up. But all the dogs, except two, are dead (Bárðar
saga 1991: 160–161).
A peculiar parallel is found in Þorvalds þáttr tasalda, contained in
Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta, in the story of Bárðr digri in Uppland,
an old pagan reluctant to be converted. None of the men whom the king
has sent to convert Bárðr has returned from him, even though, as we
are told, he is not a great sacrificer. The king then sends Þorvaldr to
convert him. In a dream the king gives Þorvaldr a cloth with a letter on
which God᾿s name is written. Þorvaldr fights Bárðr and with the aid of
the king᾿s letter he defeats him. Þorvaldr is the first to overcome Bárðr,
therefore Bárðr understands that a greater power is helping him. Until
this moment, Bárðr has believed in his own power and strength, but he
now realises that he may have been wrong. Bárðr travels with Þorvaldr
to the king, where he is baptised alongside all of his men. A little later he
becomes ill and expires, dressed in his white baptism gown (Óláfs saga
Tryggvasonar en mesta 1958: 95–102). The character of this short narra-
tive is called Bárðr, just like the main character of Bárðar saga, and he
dies in his white baptism gown, just like Gestr, the son of Bárðr, who is
killed by his pagan father. In his saga, Bárðr touches Gestr’s eyes, saying
that he shall lose them for abandoning the religion of his forefathers
(Illa hefir þú gert, er þú hefir látit trú þína, þá er langfeðgar þínir hafa
haft, ok látit kúga þik til síðaskiptis sakir lítilmennsku, ‘You have acted
in an evil way by abandoning your faith that your ancestors had and
by letting yourself be coerced into converting because you lack charac-
ter’; Bárðar saga 1991: 170). This reproach is furthermore reminiscent of
the words spoken by a number of pagans, reluctant to be converted, in
Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta. The pagans argue that they will not
abandon the religion of their kin and ancestors, even though the word-
ing is not a direct parallel (e.g. ... er þu uill at verr hafnim aatrunadi þeim

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er varir feðr ok alt forellri hefir halldit fyrir oss, ‘since you require of us
that we abandon the faith that our fathers and all of our ancestors had
before us’, and ... at kasta þeim aa trunadi. er minir frændr ok lang feðgar
hafa halldit, ‘to cast aside the faith of my relatives and my ancestors’;
Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta 1958: 33 and 156).
The examples from Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta demonstrate
that the saga shares its Christian ideology as well as its interest in pagan
matters with Bárðar saga. There are several striking parallels between
the two sagas. Both sagas show a clear interest in the pagan past – and
in both sagas the pagan past functions as an inadequate and evil con-
trast to Christianity, which is both potent and good. Bárðr sets out at
the beginning of his saga as a good protagonist, helping the people of
Snæfellsnes. But when Christianity comes along, he is shown to be
powerless. As a pagan figure, whom the locals of Snæfellsnes call upon,
Bárðr even shows himself to be evil when Christianity has prevailed. In
the first part of the saga, the pagan god Þórr proves powerless when he
is confronted with Bárðr. But in the second part of the saga, Bárðr him-
self is powerless when he opposes the evil Raknarr. In the same way,
Óðinn is impotent when confronted with a priest or the missionary
kings. Only the Christian God is omnipotent, according to these sagas.
In the Christian world, there is no room for Gestr either. A partial
descendant of trolls, he is by definition a blendingr. He embodies both
the pagan past and the Christian present. The same is true of Bárðr
digri in Óláfs saga. His connection to the pagan past is too strong for
him to live on as a Christian. Therefore both of these characters must
die once they have been baptised. Given the many parallels – substan-
tial and ideological – between Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss and Óláfs saga
Tryggvasonar en mesta, it does not seem unlikely that Bárðar saga was
written in a cultural environment similar to Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en
mesta, i.e. in a clerical and learned milieu.

Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta in AM 61 fol. and

the Helgafell Monastery
As mentioned above, some of the interpolations into the great sagas of
the two kings Óláfr contain striking parallels to Bárðar saga. Some of
these parallels are also found in Oddr Snorrason’s version, although
not the important Þorvalds þáttr tasalda. As mentioned above, Óláfs
saga Tryggvasonar en mesta is the youngest version of the saga about
Óláfr Tryggvason. It is preserved in AM 61 fol., a manuscript that also

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preserves The Great Saga of the Holy Óláfr Haraldsson. This manu-
script is dated to c. 1350–1375, approximately the time when Bárðar
saga is believed to have been written. In a study of manuscripts writ-
ten at the monastery of Helgafell in Snæfellsnes, Ólafur Halldórsson
identifies the hand of AM 61 fol. with a hand in some of the manu-
scripts that were written at Helgafell (1966). Given the great degree of
learning and wide reading of the saga writer, the saga must have been
written at a learned centre where there was access to a rich collection
of books. The ideology of Bárðar saga, furthermore, is appropriate for
a monastic environment. Because of the bookishenss of the writer of
Bárðar saga, Jón Skaptason and Phillip Pulsiano, and later Þórhallur
Vilmundarsson, have proposed that Bárðar saga was, indeed, written
at the Helgafell monastery (Jón Skaptason and Pulsiano 1984: xcix;
Þórhallur Vilmundarson 1991). This is a persuasive theory. The saga
writer obviously displays a Christian attitude to the pagan matter of
the saga and the saga takes place in the neigbourhood of the monas-
tery. The Augustinian monastery of Helgafell was initially, in 1172,
established on the island of Flatey in Breiðafjörður, only to be moved
to Helgafell a few years later, in 1184. During the 14th century, when
Bárðar saga was written, the Helgafell-monastery owned land and fish-
ing rights in Snæfellsnes, although there were disputes about some of
its areas. The monastery possessed a large collection of books. Shortly
after the monastery had been established, before 1200, it already owned
120 books (Diplomatarium Islandicum, vol. I, 69, p. 282), and, by the
end of the 14th century, it owned 35 books in Old Norse – and almost
120 in Latin (Diplomatarium Islandicum, vol. IV, 199, p. 170–171). In
1966, Ólafur Halldórsson was able to identify some of these books by
the scribal hands. Among the books at the Helgafell-monastery was
AM 61 fol., containing the great sagas of the two Óláfrs with many
parallels to Bárðar saga. Another manuscript that Ólafur Halldórsson
identified as being from Helgafell, AM 73 b fol., also contains Óláfs saga
helga with interpolations from Bjarnar saga Hítdælakappa, Fóstbræðra
saga and Laxdæla saga. All three sagas take place in the same part of
Iceland and fairly close to Helgafell Abbey. Among the other sagas and
texts that Ólafur Halldórsson (1966: 51–52) was able to place at this
monastery are lawbooks (Codex Scardensis, AM 156 4to), a number
of heilagra manna sögur (AM 233 a fol., AM 238 fol. VII) and postola
sögur (AM 239 fol., AM 653 a 4to, Codex Scardensis), Stjórn, Rómverja
saga, Alexanders saga, Gyðinga saga (AM 226 fol.). Manuscripts con-
taining Jóns saga helga and Guðmundar saga góða (AM 219 fol. and

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AM 383 IV 4to) are also believed to have been written at Helgafell (ibid.
1966: 52). Kings’ sagas, other than the great sagas of the two Óláfrs, may
also have been written there: Sverris saga, Hákonar saga Sverrissonar,
Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar and Magnús saga lagabætis (in AM 325 X
4to and AM 325 VIII 3a 4to; ibid. 1966: 52). Finally, it must be added
that Flateyjarbók (GKS 1005 fol.) is likely to have at least been in touch
with the scriptorium at Helgafell, since its illuminations are thought to
be made by the same artist who illuminated AM 226 fol., which accord-
ing to Ólafur Halldórsson was produced at Helgafell.
Even though the bulk of texts produced at the Helgafell monastery
is ecclesiastical, Ólafur Halldórsson’s survey of the manuscripts testifies
to a much broader literary interest than merely theological. Besides the-
ological works and hagiography, the monastery possessed several his-
torical works: konungasögur, Íslendingasögur and histories translated
from Latin, such as Alexanders saga and Rómverja saga. The broad lit-
erary interest of the scriptorium fits with Bárðar saga. Among its paral-
lels and sources are both theological texts and Icelandic and Norwegian
historical works or sagas. As I have attempted to show, the most strik-
ing parallels are found in Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta, which is
itself a hybrid work placed between ecclesiastical and secular interests.
According to Ólafur Halldórsson, this saga was originally composed
around 1300, on the basis of older writings on Óláfr Tryggvason. Then
the saga seems to have been copied out at the Helgafell monastery, in
AM 61 fol., around the time when Bárðar saga is believed to have been
written, 1350–75. Since Óláfr Tryggvason plays an important role in
the latter part of Bárðar saga, it is not unlikely that the writer of Bárðar
saga borrowed from or was inspired by the narratives in Óláfs saga –
even with regard to the still existing manuscript, AM 61 fol. True, we
cannot point to direct verbal parallels between Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar
en mesta and Bárðar saga, but such verbal parallels are hardly neces-
sary. Stories about Óláfr Tryggvason being tempted by Óðinn, tales of
trolls and newly baptised men expiring in their baptismal gowns, may
have been retold at Helgafell. Such stories may, in turn, have inspired
the imaginative writer and sophisticated stylist of Bárðar saga.

Conclusion
The preserved codicological contextuality of Bárðar saga is primarily
that of post-classical Íslendingasögur with a clear focus on the pagan
and the supernatural from a Christian ideological standpoint. Many

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of the Íslendingasögur, such as those found in two of the medieval

manuscripts in which Bárðar saga is preserved, are sagas containing
parallels to elements in Bárðar saga, sagas which scholars have consid-
ered to be sources for it. These sagas spring from similar textual cul-
tures. Nevertheless, Bárðar saga is different from most Íslendingasögur.
Trolls inhabit areas close by and pagan gods intervene in this narra-
tive, which is preoccupied with the conversion to Christianity. In this
respect, the saga is more reminiscent of kings’ sagas, particularly Óláfs
saga Tryggvasonar en mesta. Here, we encounter trolls and tempting
pagan gods in Norway. The Christian king overcomes them all, as he
does in Bárðar saga. Bárðar saga and Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta
furthermore share an interest in supernatural elements, paganism and
clearly exhibit their Christian ideology. Bárðar saga is an entertaining
and learned saga, full of Christian motifs and concepts, which point to
a clerical writer. The saga is likely to have been written at the Helgafell
monastery, as proposed by Jón Skaptason and Pulsiano (1984) and by
Þórhallur Vilmundarson (1991). At this monastery, the closest paral-
lel to Bárðar saga was also copied out, i.e. Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en
mesta in AM 61 fol. at approximately the same time. It is not unlikely
that stories about Óláfr Tryggvason were circulating at the monastery
and thus found their way into Bárðar saga. Consequently, these two
sagas provide a glimpse of the activities and interests of a scriptorium
of Western Iceland between c. 1350 and 1400, and they show how local
material from the surroundings in Snæfellsnes could be shaped in
accordance with learned literary models. This highly literate, clerical
and entertaining context is the Old Norse contextuality in which I pro-
pose we study Bárðar saga.

References
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translated from the Icelandic with introduction and notes by T. M. Anderson.
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Tryggvasonar or The Oldest Saga of Saint Olaf?” Journal of English and
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Ármann Jakobsson. 2008. “Hvað er tröll? Galdrar, tröll og samfélagsóvinir.”
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Arnold, Martin. 2005. “Hvað er tröll nema þat? The Cultural History of Troll.”
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Tom Shippey, 111–55. Medieval and Renaissance Text and Studies 291.
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Finnur Jónsson. 1941. Den oldnorske og oldislandske Litteraturs Historie.
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Flateyjarbók: En Samling af norske Konge-Sagaer med indskudte mindre
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Guðbrandur Vigfússon and C. R. Unger. 1860–1868. Oslo: P.T. Malling.
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Landnámabók. 1968. ed. Jakob Benediktsson. Íslendingabók, Landnámabók,
29–397. Íslenzk fornrit 1. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag.
Jón Skaptason and Phillip Pulsiano. 1984. “Introduction.” In: Bárðar saga
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Schulz, Katja. 2004. Riesen: Von Wissenshütern und Wildnisbewohnern in
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Íslenzk fornrit 13. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag.
Þorláks saga helga. 1978. ed. Jón Helgason. Byskupa sögur. EA A 13: 2. Copen-
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CAMILLA ASPLUND INGEMARK

The Trolls in Bárðar Saga –

Playing with the Conventions of
Oral Texts?
Camilla Asplund Ingemark
Åbo Akademi University

Abstract:
This paper argues that the folktales and legends used to construct the plot of
Bárðar saga have been twisted and transformed in a parodic manner in the
saga. Using folklorists Charles Briggs and Richard Bauman’s theory of inter-
textual gaps, which posits that individual texts never wholly coincide with
their generic models, and that the proximity or distance between a text and
its model can be manipulated in various ways, the analysis focuses on how the
author of the saga manipulated this distance between his own literary rendi-
tion of the stories and the folk narratives current in his environment. With
four episodes in the saga as case studies, the text in Bárðar saga is compared to
similar instances in other sagas and in later Scandinavian folk tradition. The
paper also touches on the relation between the Otherworld and the human
sphere, in a comment to Daniel Sävborg’s work on this topic.

Bárðar saga, dated to the 13th or 14th century, is a fascinating work in

many respects, both from a literary and folkloristic point of view. Being
most famous for introducing trolls as its main characters – and thus
differing markedly from other sagas in its principal cast of charac-
ters – it holds out the promise of containing a rich treasure trove of Old
Icelandic folklore. It has also been read as such, by Ármann Jakobsson
(1998–2001), for example, in his “History of the Trolls? Bárðar Saga as
an Historical Narrative”. Notwithstanding, as I hope to show in this
article, Bárðar saga is not a work that can be taken at face value as a
faithful representation of the Icelandic folklore of its time. This much
said, I do deem it perfectly feasible that the author used folklore cur-
rent in his environment, but that the adaptation to his literary purposes
profoundly transformed this folklore in ways that suggest his primary
motive was not that of a collector of tradition in any modern sense, but
rather of an author who chose to draw on folklore to make his points,
whatever these might have been. Without a fuller knowledge of the

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context in which the saga was produced, however, these are rather dif-
ficult aspects to assess and it is not my intention to offer any definitive
conclusions on this subject.
Here, I analyse Bárðar saga from the perspective of a folklorist spe-
cialising in 19th and early 20th-century oral traditions, i.e. I approach
the saga as an outsider to Old Norse studies. This implies that my inter-
pretation of the saga primarily rests on an understanding of folkloric
material conditioned by my knowledge of these later traditions and that
it may not necessarily coincide with that of its original audience. From
the point of view of Old Norse scholars, this approach will undoubtedly
be anachronistic, but I have nevertheless tried to circumvent some of
these problems by attempting to establish the existence of counterparts
to later Scandinavian traditions in the medieval Icelandic context,
whereever possible.1 In some cases, my interpretations are more hypo-
thetical and may require further substantiation, revision or disproval
by experts in the field.
Thus, I propose that the author of Bárðar saga deft ly exploited –
and twisted – the generic conventions of oral narrative genres (inter
alia) in constructing his work, and that his audience also recognised
this, being equally well-versed in the oral traditions of their day (cf.
Gísli Sigurðsson 2004: 129–130, 148, 154–155 et passim). This would
be a necessity in order for them to appreciate the delicate construction
of the text. In earlier research, the curious mixture of an occupation
with genealogy and place-names on the one hand and stories about
trolls on the other proved puzzling, and, more recently, interpretations
of the saga have tended to fall into two categories: those stressing its
nature as a principally historical work (Ármann Jakobsson 1998–2001)
or as a chiefly parodic one (Barraclough 2008). The views presented in
this article are indebted to both interpretations, but are more inclined
toward the latter. Notwithstanding, this paper would not have been
possible to write without the solid groundwork provided by Ármann
Jakobsson’s (1998–2001, 2005) studies on the saga, but differs from
these in highlighting the parodic features of the use of folklore in the
saga, just as Eleanor Barraclough has done with the parodic qualities
of the literary material employed; conversely, she does not discuss the
folkloric aspects of the saga.

1
I thank the two anonymous reviewers for their invaluable comments which have
significantly improved the argument of this article; I have followed their advice to
the extent it has been possible within the limited timeframe at my disposal. Any
remaining errors are, of course, my own.

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In order to investigate the author’s adaptation of folklore in the

saga, I examine four episodes in Bárðar saga in terms of the folk narra-
tives and generic models I think they might be evoking. Finally, I briefly
discuss the relation between the Otherworld and the human world as
represented in the saga. This part is intended as a comment to the dis-
tinction Daniel Sävborg has made between two different perspectives
on encounters with the Otherworld in Old Norse literature, one draw-
ing on the folktale genre, the other on the folk legend genre.
Here, I regard genre as a flexible framework in line with Charles
Briggs and Richard Bauman’s (1992) theory of intertextual gaps. Briggs
and Bauman characterise genre as an abstract model that people use
and manipulate when they produce new texts. This model is based on
earlier instances of the genre – real texts that the individual producing
the new text has encountered – but it is abstract in the sense that none
of these texts ever correspond completely to the model. The model is
a conglomeration of features, from which the individual selects cer-
tain ones and omits or suppresses others (Briggs and Bauman 1992:
147–149).
This imperfect fit between text and model is envisioned as a gap,
a specifically intertextual gap. Thus, the model is understood as a kind
of intertext, an earlier text that significantly contributes to the mean-
ing of the new text.2 The intertextual gap can be minimised, implying
a desire to keep as close to the generic model as possible, or it can be
maximised, implying a distancing of text and model. When the gap
is minimised, the genre is often perceived to carry cultural authority
and minimisation is a way of endowing your own text or performance
with that authority. Maximisation, on the contrary, is usually associ-
ated with the positive evaluation of artistic invention in modern fiction,
but it is also relevant for parody, in both literary and oral contexts. One
way of maximising intertextual gaps is to manipulate the contents of a
tale- or legendtype, for example in order to frustrate the expectations of
the audience (ibid.; Ingemark 2004: 218–252). I think this may be hap-
pening in a number of instances in Bárðar saga.

2
In a folkloristic context, use of the term intertext does not necessarily imply liter-
ary derivation, the term is also employed for oral texts (see e.g. Ingemark 2004;
Tarkka 1993).

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Bárðr’s Mixed Heritage

In the beginning of the saga, the ancestry of its hero, Bárðr, is described.
The importance of his mixed, and somewhat tangled, heritage for story
development in the saga has been emphasised in previous scholar-
ship (Ármann Jakobsson 2005; Barraclough 2008) where it is used to
explain his, as well as his children’s, behaviour and choices in life, both
in the saga itself, and in the scholarly literature. However, the initial
focus on his ancestry additionally serves to orient the audience toward
a specific generic model that is also attested elsewhere in Old Norse
literature (e.g. Hálfdanar saga Brönufóstra), namely the taletype ATU
650A Strong John:
He [king Dumbr, Bárðr’s father] was come of the race of giants on
his father’s side, and it is a well-nourished people and larger than
other men, but his mother was come of the race of trolls […] He [king
Dumbr] abducted from Kvænland Mjöll, daughter of Snær the old, and
possessed her. She was a very beautiful woman and nearly the largest
of all women, of those who were human. When they had spent a winter
together, Mjöll gave birth to a son; this son was sprinkled with water
and given a name, and was called Bárðr, since so had Dumbr’s father,
the giant Bárðr, been named. This boy was both big and well-nourished
to look at, so that men thought they had not seen any fairer man…
(Bárðar saga 1991: 101–2 [ch. 1])3

In later Scandinavian tradition, the first episode of this taletype is also

told as a legend, and it is listed as E36 The Son of the Forest Spirit in
Bengt af Klintberg’s recent The Types of the Swedish Folk Legend (2010).
In this taletype, a female supernatural creature conceives a child with
a mortal man and this child often possesses extraordinary physical
strength. The mother usually raises the child for much of his childhood,
but hands him over to his father when he is approaching adulthood
or when a certain period of time has elapsed. In traditional tales, his
appetite is often gargantuan, as in the following tale from the Swedish-
speaking areas in Finland, collected in the late 19th century:
Once a smith went to the forest to search for some hoops. As he came
there, he met a hill troll, who wanted to sleep with him. The smith
didn’t want to do this, but since she followed after him, he fulfilled her
wish. When he had slept with her, she said he should throw his axe
into the rock. He did as she wished, but when he was about to lift it
up, he couldn’t make it budge. Consequently, he went home and left it
there. The hill troll was pregnant and carried the foetus in her womb
3
Translations are my own unless otherwise stated.

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CAMILLA ASPLUND INGEMARK

for five years. When five years had passed, she gave birth to a boy. For
five years she kept him with her, but when these years had passed, she
told her son to try and see if he could get the axe out of the rock. The
boy took it and drew it out. As he got it out, his mother told him to go
to his father’s smithy, and he would recognise him; it was now time
for him to provide for him for five years, when she had provided for
him for five years. The boy did as she wanted and went away. When he
arrived at his father’s smithy, he asked him if he couldn’t be allowed
to become an apprentice. “Yes”, the smith said, and as he saw the axe,
he recognised it, and his son, too. He then made him hammer on the
iron, and the boy was in his father’s house for five years. Each time they
were getting to work, the boy asked: “How hard should I hammer?”
“Sufficiently hard”, the smith said. When five years had passed, the
boy asked his father once again, as they went to the smithy one morn-
ing: “How hard should I hammer?” “Hammer as hard as you can”, the
smith answered; he was getting tired of his constant questions. Then
he hammered as hard as he could, and the anvil and the tree stump
[it was standing on] sank into the earth. As he ate so incredibly much
that they had difficulties providing for him, the smith sent him to the
parson as a farmhand when five years had passed.
(R 62:19–20)4

In the Old Norse saga, the father, Dumbr, is a supernatural creature

and the mother, Mjöll, is human, and thus the roles have been switched
compared to the traditional tale.5 They are also married and conse-
quently the child is not illegitimate, which is an important point in the
traditional narrative in later periods and also in Old Norse variants.6 In
Hálfdanar saga Brönufóstra, for example, Brana, the offspring of a giant
and an abducted human princess, conceives a child with the human
hero, Hálfdan. When they part, she states that she will bring him the
child if it is a boy, but since it turns out to be a girl, she never does
(McKinnell 2005: 239). Since these conditions do not obtain in Bárðar
saga at this point, however, they are not really favourable for introduc-
ing a variant of the tale here. The saga is appealing to the generic model
embodied in the tale, but defers the actualisation of a variant of the
story. This may be viewed as a form of maximisation of intertextual

4
Collected by Jakob Edvard Wefvar from Isak Rönholm in the village of Helsing-
by, municipality of Korsholm, Ostrobothnia, Finland, sometime in the 1860s to
1880s.
5
To complicate things, Mjöll is not fully human in other sources; in Flateyjarbók
she is also said to belong to a family of nature spirits (Ármann Jakobsson 2005:
7–8).
6
This is a crucial element in all Finland-Swedish variants, for instance, of this tale-
and legendtype that I am familiar with. See Bygdeminnen 1910: 34f.; Nyland 1887:
41–48; R 58; SLS 35: 18.

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 The Trolls in Bárðar Saga – Playing with the Conventions of Oral Texts?

gaps, by frustrating the audience’s expectations of being introduced to

the tale. Since the story pattern was so well-known in medieval Iceland
(see references and discussion below), it is highly feasible that the
author’s deviations from the pattern were deliberate and that the audi-
ence could catch this furtive reference to the generic model.
When the saga finally gets around to telling the story, in chapters
11–12, it is with a twist. Bárðr arrives at the house of Skeggi, the former
lover of his unmarried daughter Helga, disguised as a man named
Gestr. He seduces Skeggi’s daughter Þórdís (in revenge?) and a child is
born out of wedlock, which finally meets the conditions set for the tale:
Þórdís, Skeggi’s daughter, was then fifteen years old. Some men said
that Gestr had seduced her in the winter. In the summer Gestr went
away and thanked Eið [Skeggi’s son] for the stay. But as summer
passed, Þórdís swelled under the belt, and in the autumn she was
released from her burden in the shieling. It was a boy, beautiful and
big; she poured water on the boy and said he was to be named after
his father, and he was called Gestr. The next day a very large woman
came into the shieling and offered to take the boy and foster him.
Þórdís allowed her this. A little later she and the boy disappeared;
this was actually Helga, Bárðr’s daughter. Gestr grew up with her for
some time.
(Bárðar saga 1991: 140 [ch. 11])

The genders are still switched; Bárðr is semi-supranormal, while Þórdís

is human, and this requires some modifications to the story, as John
McKinnell (2005:172–176) has also noted in his discussion of this story
pattern. In actual fact, the narrative in Bárðar saga deviates on several
points from that in other sagas (Örvar-Odds saga, chs. 18 and 21; Ketils
saga hængs, chs. 3–4; Kjalnesinga saga, chs. 12–14 and 18), so much so
that Eleanor Barraclough (2008: 22) suggested that the affair between
Helga and Skeggi was a better candidate for following the pattern than
that of Bárðr and Þórdís. The most important of these points is that, in
the other sagas, the girl is a supranormal creature and she seduces the
human hero, whereas in Bárðar saga the supranormal Bárðr seduces
the human girl Þórdís.7
This means that Bárðr’s daughter Helga has to step in as foster-
mother in order to remove the boy to the sphere of his father, as the
7
The evidence for an Old Norse counterpart to later legends involving a supernatu-
ral father and human mother seems to be rather scarce, as far as I have been able
to ascertain. In most stories of this type, the child simply stays in the human world
with his mother and never enters the world of his father. Thus, even if this pattern
existed in medieval Iceland, the saga would still depart from the expected course
of events.

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CAMILLA ASPLUND INGEMARK

story would traditionally be expected to run, and as it indeed does in

the other sagas mentioned. In Örvar-Odds saga and Kjalnesinga saga,
the hero and the giantess agree in advance on sending the son to the
father when the boy reaches a certain age, and in Ketils saga hængs
she simply shows up without advertising her pregnancy beforehand.
Ironically, Helga is then set to foster a boy who is both her own brother
and the grandchild of the lover who abandoned her. Subsequently,
Gestr is returned to his mother and the human sphere at the age of
twelve (Bárðar saga, chs. 11–12). As it turns out, he possesses consider-
able physical strength.
We must ask ourselves whether this introduction of Helga as fos-
ter-mother is just a concession to the demands of the saga’s story or
whether it has deeper implications. Appealing to simple expediency is,
however, problematic. Since Gestr seems to be living with Helga only
at this stage in the story, his removal to the supranormal sphere cannot
be explained as a way of bringing him closer to Bárðr and into his tute-
lage; Bárðr does not teach Gestr until after his sojourn with his mother.
Ármann Jakobsson (1998–2001: 64), for his part, attached symbolic
significance to this aspect of the story; he regarded this as Helga’s ulti-
mate role in the saga, the fulfilment of a nurturing role for a childless
woman. Although this seems to me an overstatement, I think he is cor-
rect in drawing attention to this aspect of the saga.
I think the introduction of Helga functions as a maximisation
of the gap between the oral model and the rendition of the saga; she
is assuming the wrong role and the normal order has been breached.
Eleanor Barraclough has observed that Helga is a somewhat reluc-
tant foster-mother (Barraclough 2008: 25) and it is no wonder for this
could have been her story. She could have been the semi-supernatural
mother seducing a mortal man, Skeggi, and then giving birth to a son
to raise in his infancy and subsequently send to his father when he is old
enough. Yet this never happens in the saga, which is probably why John
McKinnell did not include Helga and Skeggi in his discussion of the
pattern in the first place. In the other sagas incorporating this pattern,
there is offspring of the union (McKinnell 2005: 173–174).
Ármann Jakobsson views the saga as an essentially tragic tale
of a trollish clan that fails to reproduce successfully. Although their
attempts to do this might not be as frantic as his arguments suggest
(Ármann Jakobsson 1998–2001: 64), and even allowing that Eleanor
Barraclough might be correct in pointing to the ambiguity in the last
sentences of the saga, leaving the issue of any offspring on Gestr’s part

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 The Trolls in Bárðar Saga – Playing with the Conventions of Oral Texts?

undecided (Barraclough 2008: 33), it is nevertheless striking that Helga

is deprived of her proper reproductive role in the narrative pattern.

The Story of Þórðr and Sólrún

Skeggi’s daughter Þórdís later married Þorbjörn and they had two sons,
Þórðr and Þórvaldr (Bárðar saga ch. 11). One day, Þorbjörn’s sheep dis-
appeared without a trace and his father-in-law, Skeggi, advised him to
let his sons search for them. In so doing, Þórðr is lost in a thick fog:
And when he had walked a while, such a thick black fog was gather-
ing, that he saw nothing around him; and when it was least expected,
he perceived that a person was near him in the fog. Þórðr went that
way, and when he drew near, he saw that it was a woman. She seemed
beautiful and shapely and not larger than of medium height. But when
he intended to approach her, she disappeared from him so swift ly that
he could not grasp with his eyes what had become of her in the fog.
(Bárðar saga 1991: 148 [ch. 14])

The idea of the supernatural speed of supranormal creatures is not

uncommon in oral legends. It is particularly associated with forest spir-
its, perhaps for the simple reason that they were expected to be wander-
ing around in the forest, especially at dusk or at night, attending to their
business. It is also common in personal experience stories, or memo-
rates to use an older term. The following example, collected in the town
of Lund in Sweden, represents an account of a personal encounter with
a male spirit, which is later identified as a brownie (tomte) by the nar-
rator’s father:
Once, when I was a child, I was going to buy snuff for my father. It was
in the evening. I ran off as fast as I could. No shoes did I wear, I ran
barefoot. When I had run some distance I saw a man walking ahead
of me on the road. I intended to catch up with him, so I increased my
speed. Yet no matter how swift ly I ran, I never managed to catch up
with him. The distance between us remained always the same. At a
turn of the road, where a turf of grass lay directly by the road, I lost
sight of him.
(LUF 968: 18)8

The continually equal distance between the parties is a motif frequently

emphasised, as well as the sudden disappearance of the stranger. In
later oral traditions, it clearly signals an encounter with the supernatu-
ral. Thus, invoking these motifs might be a way of implying that Sólrún
8
Collected by A. Petrus Persson from Gustaf Pettersson, born in 1859 in Västra
Torsås, the province of Kronoberg, Sweden. Pettersson was then living in Lund.

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is a troll. However, much later in the story, we learn that she is human;
this first impression of her as supranormal is patently false. Once again,
the author appeals to a generic model, that of the oral belief legend, only
to maximise the intertextual gap by making a disclaimer further on in
the story.9
Ármann Jakobsson has followed other scholars in pointing to the
resemblance between the story of Þórðr and Sólrún and traditional tales
(Ármann Jakobsson 1998–2001: 66). In the tales of later periods, for
example ATU 301, three princesses have been abducted by a troll and
the hero either happens to find them accidentally or consciously sets out
to search for them. The hero combats the troll and manages to kill it.
When the princesses have been saved from the troll’s den, which tends
to be situated underground, the companions make off with them and
leave the hero trapped under the earth. Eventually, he escapes, is recog-
nised as the real rescuer of the princesses and his deceitful companions
are punished. This is the general outline of the plot given in ATU 301; in
practice, individual variants can incorporate episodes from many other
taletypes and dispense with some of those listed above.
Old Norse tradition had its own culture-specific version of the pat-
tern, which differs from the more generalised one described above on
one crucial point. In John McKinnell’s treatment, it has been divided
into two, one moulded on the prototype of Þórr’s conflict with the giant
Geirröðr and his daughters (the ‘Þórr pattern’), the other being the
Bear’s Son pattern. The passage in Bárðar saga is classified as an exam-
ple of the ‘Þórr pattern’ (McKinnell 2005: 126–131), which involves the
hero or his associate being tricked into visiting the troll; the hero is
often assisted by a friendly giantess; the associate (sometimes the hero)
has a sexual partner; a dangerous river must be forded to get to the oth-
erworld; the fights with the ogres usually take place in their caves; the
hero has no or very primitive weapons (ibid. 126–127).
In Bárðar saga, the story begins with the troll/giant Kolbjörn
promising to wed his “daughter” Sólrún to a human male with the aim
of luring him into a trap and killing him (Ármann Jakobsson 1998–
2001: 66; Boberg 1966: 118, 120, 139, 145, 232).10 In the saga, this man
is Þórðr, who will be Gestr’s associate in McKinnell’s interpretation, as
9
An alternative interpretation is that it is a blind motif, but I do not think this is
the case here. It fits well into the general pattern for maximising manipulations of
intertextual gaps.
10
Motifs F531.3.15 Giants’ awful amusements playing with men’s lives; F531.6.7.2.1
Giant steals from man; G11.2 Cannibal giant; G512.7 Backbone of ogre’s old mother
broken; R169.11 Unknown helper(s) emerge(s) in the last moment and turns out to
be well known in Boberg.

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 The Trolls in Bárðar Saga – Playing with the Conventions of Oral Texts?

is Þórðr’s brother Þorvaldr. Before this episode, Bárðr and Gestr had
visited the troll-woman Hít who gave Gestr his fighting dog Snati; thus,
Hít would function as the helper. When they arrive at Kolbjörn’s cave,
they find Sólrún tied to a chair by her hair (Boberg 1966: 230) and they
release her.11 The dangerous river-crossing is replaced by a land journey
and the first fight takes place inside Kolbjörn’s cave, while the second is
outdoors when they are escaping with Sólrún. Both fights are carried
out without weapons (McKinnell 2005: 127–128).
Variations on this pattern occur in two other sagas, Orms Þáttr
Stórólfssonar (chs. 8–9) and Gríms saga loðinkinna (chs. 1–2) while sev-
eral other sagas combine elements from both sub-patterns (McKinnell
2005: 127; McKinnell 2009: 205). Compared to later oral traditions, the
assignment of the sexual partner to an associate rather than to the hero
is quite peculiar; in later tradition, you would expect the hero to be the
one to win the princess.
In my first reading of the saga, I viewed Þórðr as the hero and Gestr
as his helper; this was perhaps prompted by Ármann Jakobsson’s appli-
cation of Algirdas Julien Greimas’ actant model on the story, with Þórðr
as the subject and Gestr as the helper (Ármann Jakobsson 1998–2001:
66). If for a moment we allow ourselves to follow the thread of the later
generic model, this would mean that Gestr too was deprived of a nar-
rative slot involving procreation. Since this taletype can be combined
with Strong John, Gestr could in principle have been the one to rescue
Sólrún and marry her. However, McKinnell’s version of the pattern
practically has the same effect since it assigns the sexual partner to the
associate; the end result is the same.
The companions of the hero are often described as more or less use-
less to the hero when it comes to the fight; this is not really the case with
Þórðr and Þorvaldr, who fight valiantly. In later tradition, you would
also expect the companions to desert the hero, but that does not happen
at this point in Bárðar saga. That element is postponed until the end of
the saga when Gestr has travelled to Norway and is attempting to break
into the burial mound of the terrible Raknarr. By once again deferring
part of the story, the author frustrates the expectations of the audience:
Then they let Gestr sink into the mound, and the priest and other men
held the rope. It was fift y fathoms down to the floor of the mound.
Gestr had wrapped himself with the cloth given by the king and
girded himself with the shortsword. He had the candle in his hand,

11
R111.2.3 Princess rescued from giant’s cave when she is fettered to a chair by her
hair; cf. Hálfdanar saga Brönufóstra ch. 5.

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CAMILLA ASPLUND INGEMARK

and it was lit when he came down. Gestr now saw far and wide in the
mound. […]
It is now to be told of those who were at the mound at the time these
wonders occurred, that all of them were driven to madness except the
priest and Gestr’s dog; he never left the rope. When Gestr tied himself
to the rope, the priest drew him up with the aid of the dog, with all the
treasure and welcomed Gestr and it seemed to him he had received
him back from Hell; they went where their men were fighting, and the
priest sprinkled water on them. Then they got their senses back.
(Bárðar saga 1991: 166, 168–9 [chs. 20–21])

In this context, this deferred element of McKinnell’s ‘Þórr pattern’ is

then combined with the other sub-type he discusses, the Bear’s Son
pattern. However, there are significant deviations from the expected
course of events, in ways that contribute to the emphasis in this last part
of the saga on the supremacy of the Christian faith over paganism and
its representatives.

The Story of Gestr and Raknarr

The Old English epic Beowulf is the most famous example of the Bear’s
Son tale and several parallels in Old Norse literature have been discussed
in scholarship. This episode in Bárðar saga is one of them (Ármann
Jakobsson 1998–2001: 67–68), others include the well-known accounts
of Glámr and the troll-woman in Grettis saga (chs. 32–35, 64–66); since
both Raknarr and Glámr are draugar, the affinity between these and
the Bear’s Son tales is important, as Magnús Fjalldal has pointed out
(Magnús Fjalldal 2013: 546–548).12 In this taletype, there are usually
two fights between the hero and the opponent: in the first, the opponent
enters a human dwelling, wreaking havoc and killing people, and in the
second, the hero enters the abode of the opponent. In the first combat,
the hero is being dragged into a ravine or something similar and one
of the opponent’s arms is torn off. Since the opponent’s dwelling tends
to be situated in water, the hero must pass a lake or waterfall. In the
second fight, a magic sword is used by the hero to vanquish the oppo-
nent; often there are two opponents, usually one male and one female.
When the second opponent has been killed, there might be a bright
light within the dwelling. As the hero prepares to leave the domain of
his opponents, he brings treasure with him and he comes back to the
surface without help (McKinnell 2009: 203).
12
In fact, Fjalldal is very critical of the aptitude of Icelandic parallels to Beowulf
involving trolls.

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 The Trolls in Bárðar Saga – Playing with the Conventions of Oral Texts?

In Bárðar saga, it is unclear whether there is a first, preliminary

fight. Before Gestr and his companions arrive at the island on which
Raknarr’s mound is located, they have encountered a wild bull who
tried to gore Gestr. However, a long time seems to pass between these
events: winter turns into spring, so they might not be so intimately con-
nected as to form part of the same struggle with a supranormal oppo-
nent transforming himself into an animal. If that is the case, the cus-
tomary direction of aggression has been reversed: since the opponent
is usually the aggressor, moral blame is imputed to him, but here Gestr
and his companions are the aggressors.
Even if the episodes were related, there is an inversion of the
common pattern: the hero is supposed to physically harm the oppo-
nent, but Gestr is unable to fend for himself in the encounter with the
bull and Jósteinn the priest must step in and strike the bull with his
crucifi x to make it disappear (Bárðar saga ch. 18). As Raknarr’s mound
is situated on an island, Gestr and his companions must then pass over
the sea to get there (ibid. ch. 19). They dig through Raknarr’s mound
twice, but it is magically closed at night and Gestr is able to enter only
after Jósteinn has kept vigil over the mound:
Raknarr then inclined his head with its helmet towards him. Gestr
took it, and next Gestr removed his coat of mail, and Raknarr was
docile. All valuables did he receive from Raknarr except the sword,
for when Gestr took it, Raknarr rushed up and ran at Gestr. Then
he seemed neither old nor stiff. Then the candle given by the king
had burnt out as well. Raknarr was so furious, that Gestr was wholly
driven back. Gestr then thought he saw his death as sure. All those
who were on the ship [Raknarr’s men] stood up. Gestr then thought
it was enough. Gestr then called on his father Bárðr for help, and
a little later he came, but could do nothing. The dead handled him
roughly, so that he managed to come nowhere near. Then Gestr prom-
ised Him who had created heaven and earth to take the faith King
Óláfr announced, if he came away with his life from the mound. Gestr
firmly beseeched King Óláfr, that if he managed more than he him-
self, he would help him. After this Gestr saw King Óláfr come into the
mound with much light. At the sight of this Raknarr was so horrified,
that all strength drained from him. Then Gestr went so firmly at him,
that Raknarr fell on his back, with the help of King Óláfr. Then Gestr
hewed the head off Raknarr and put it by his buttocks. All the dead
sat down at Óláfr’s arrival, each in his place. When this labour was
finished, King Óláfr disappeared from Gestr’s sight.
(Bárðar saga 1991: 167–8 [ch. 20])

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CAMILLA ASPLUND INGEMARK

In this fight, too, Gestr cannot successfully defend himself and

he is on the verge of perishing under Raknarr’s savage attacks. If the
story went according the pattern, Gestr should best Raknarr by himself,
without any outside help, and certainly without the help of a Christian
saint; in Beowulf, Beowulf was offering his assistance to the helpless
King Hroðgar, not vice versa as in Bárðar saga. Even Bárðr, for all his
might, proves ineffectual and Gestr’s conversion to Christianity might
signal not only the abandonment of the pagan religion of his father, but
the supercession of the old type of strongman hero with a new heroic
ideal, that of the Christian saint. Whether this was done to appease
Church authorities, as Ármann Jakobsson seems to suggest (Ármann
Jakobsson 1998–2001: 68), or whether it sprang from deeply felt con-
viction, is difficult to tell. In any event, the bright light appearing at
the death of the second opponent in the traditional pattern has been
replaced with the bright light emanating from King Óláfr as he enters
the mound.
When Gestr has been baptised, Bárðr appears in a dream and blinds
him. Gestr then dies of his injuries (Bárðar saga ch. 21). According to
McKinnell, stories incorporating the patterns he identifies tend to close
on a tragic note: the hero will die, yielding in the face of insuperable
odds (McKinnell 2005: 126). For Gestr, this heroic death comes very
quickly.

The Story of Ingjaldr’s Fishing Trip

After Bárðr’s withdrawal into the mountains, his friend Ingjaldr at
Hvoll suffers serious losses due to the depredations of the troll-woman
Hetta. When he pursues her, she manages to escape, but promises him
compensation: she will show him the way to plenteous fishing banks.
This is done in a verse, which has parallels in later Norwegian legends
(Sävborg 2010: 46–47). Ingjaldr sets out for the fishing bank next morn-
ing and receives a good catch, but then his troubles begin:
A little later a dark cloud drifted up from Ennisfjall, and spread
swift ly. Next the wind came and snow with frost. Then Ingjaldr saw
a man in a boat, and he pulled in fish briskly; he was red-bearded.
Ingjaldr asked him his name; he said he was named Grímr. Ingjaldr
asked, if he did not want to go to land. Grímr said he was not finished,
“and you must wait, until I have loaded the boat.”
(Bárðar saga 1991: 126 [ch. 8])

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 The Trolls in Bárðar Saga – Playing with the Conventions of Oral Texts?

The weather worsens and Ingjaldr is on the verge of death. He calls

on Bárðr to help him and is miraculously saved; he even regains full
health.
This story has been recognised as a variant of a common medieval
miracle story (Óláfur Lárusson 1944: 176, cited in Ármann Jakobsson
1998–2001: 63).13 In its entirety, it has no counterpart in later oral tradi-
tions that I am familiar with, but I would nevertheless argue that oral
legends have an impact on the narrative: they shape Ingjaldr’s interpre-
tation of the events. Thus, my suggestion is that Ingjaldr believes he is
participating in a legend-like story, even though he is in fact part of a
miracle story.
The concept of the horizon of expectations (Jauss 1982) is usu-
ally applied to the reception of narrative – to readers and listeners –
and not so much to characters within narratives, but this is an aspect
that merits some attention. Stories function both as models of action
(Polkinghorne 2013; af Klintberg 1999) and of perception and interpre-
tation (Ingemark 2007), for the audience as well as for the characters
within the story. Ingjaldr truly believed that Hetta wanted to repay him
for the livestock she had killed and Bárðr chides him for his credulity.
With the exception of Bárðr and his family, and the troll-woman Hít
who is Bárðr’s friend, the trolls in the saga seem to be quite consistently
evil-minded in a way they are not in later traditions (Ingemark 2004:
98–120), so Bárðr may be right in reproaching him. However, in later
traditions there are instances of trolls giving humans compensation for
financial losses; Bengt af Klintberg lists such a type as K240 Trolls give
farmer billygoat for damaged field. In this legend, the goats of the trolls
have come into a farmer’s field and damaged his rye. The trolls then
give him a billygoat as compensation.
If similar legends were in circulation in medieval Iceland, Ingjaldr
does not come across as overly credulous. If he interprets Hetta’s offer
as well-intended, it is in accordance with the generic model of such a
legend. Thus, the author would be appealing to two different generic
models simultaneously and, even though one predominates eventually,
we cannot really know how things will evolve until we reach the end of
the episode.

13
Since I have not been able to access the original publication, it has not been pos-
sible to expand on this subject.

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CAMILLA ASPLUND INGEMARK

The Otherworld and the Human Sphere

An important aspect of the folklore of trolls is the relation between the
Otherworld and the human sphere. Since Daniel Sävborg has examined
this in depth, I restrict myself to a few remarks that complement his
fuller analysis (Sävborg 2009). In Icelandic sagas, the relation between
the worlds takes two principal forms, as Sävborg rightly notes, taking
his cue from Max Lüthi’s distinctions between the worlds of the folktale
and the legend. One form resembles the folktale, as the human world
and the supranormal sphere are not portrayed as distinct realms: they
essentially belong to the same world. No boundary between the worlds
has to be crossed and an encounter with the supernatural is not repre-
sented as out of the ordinary or frightening (Sävborg 2009: 324–325).
The other form is more akin to the oral legend; the otherworld
and the human world are very distinct realms and, when the boundary
between them is transgressed, this is often emphasised in some way. The
otherworld is also difficult to access; not just anyone can find his way to
the troll’s domain. Furthermore, the encounter with the supranormal
creature can also instil fear or astonishment (Sävborg 2009: 323–326).
Sävborg discusses several instances in Bárðar saga in which there
is a marked distance between the worlds: Oddr’s encounter with Bárðr
in the fog when he is invited to a Yule feast, and Þórðr’s encounter with
Kolbjörn, also in foggy weather. According to Sävborg, the fog func-
tions as a boundary or intersection between the worlds (Sävborg 2009:
338–339). The encounter of Ingjaldr with Þórr in the fog is similar in
many respects (Sävborg 2009: 340).
However, the Otherworld is not always portrayed as a distant realm.
The saga shifts between representing the trollish world as continuous
with our own and as a distant domain. While Bárðr is still in Norway
where he is fostered by Dofri, the giant of Dovrefjell (Bárðar saga ch.
1), the fact that humans can place their sons in fosterage with him sug-
gests that his world is fully accessible to them. This is in full accord with
Sävborg’s findings: events taking place in Norway employ the folktale
scheme of one common world since Norway is distant enough to repre-
sent another world as it is (Sävborg 2009: 344–346).
As Bárðr moves to Iceland, his world is wholly integrated into the
human world; otherwise he could not function as a first settler, which
is his principal role in the first part of the saga. It is only after the dis-
appearance of his daughter Helga on an icefloe, on which she was car-
ried to Greenland, that his world separates from the human one and he
sets up residence in a large cavern among the glaciers. From this point

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 The Trolls in Bárðar Saga – Playing with the Conventions of Oral Texts?

onward, he assumes more supernatural characteristics and turns into

the guardian spirit of the area, the capacity in which Ingjaldr calls on
him (Bárðar saga chs. 3–6).
The first time Þórðr encountered the giant Kolbjörn, there was
a distance between the worlds: the boundary had to be crossed in a
fog. When Þórðr comes to Kolbjörn’s cave to attend his wedding with
Sólrún, the human world and the otherworld seem closer: Þórðr and his
brother find the cave easily and there is no obvious boundary between
the worlds (Bárðar saga chs. 14–15). Thus, the relation between the
worlds shifts in the course of the narrative, depending on the require-
ments of the plot.

Bárðar Saga – Parody, History or a Bit of Both?

To summarise, a tentative conclusion seems to be that Bárðar saga con-
sistently invokes a multitude of oral genres and narrative types, and that
the author juggles them with both ingenuity and quite a lot of humour.
More often than not, the reader finds her expectations thwarted in
some sense; we think we know where the narrative is heading and then
it veers off in another direction. This implies that Bárðar saga is a much
more sophisticated text than has sometimes been recognised; it is all
too easy to be blinded by the fantastic presence of trolls and not see the
handiwork that goes into the construction of the text. Even Ármann
Jakobsson, though otherwise demonstrating admirable acumen in his
analysis of the saga, dismisses it as “an unlikely candidate for the Nobel
Prize in Literature” (Ármann Jakobsson 1998–2001: 53). He neverthe-
less champions its status as a work of history rather than of pure fiction.
Whether the aforesaid ingenuity and humour are to be taken as
indications of a more general ludic design in the saga, as argued by
Eleanor Barraclough (2008: 16, 30 et passim), is perhaps premature to
determine given our limited knowledge of the situational context in
which the saga was produced, but it is apparent that it is characterised
by subversions of both literary and folkloric patterns. I would, however,
hesitate to call it a complete spoof, for a number of reasons of which
some are of a more general nature, others are specific to Bárðar saga.
Identifying parody in cultures of the past, or in traditional cultures, can
be a delicate matter; it is perhaps all too easy to impose modern notions
of the nature of fiction on them (cf. O’Connor 2006). Conversely, think-
ing them incapable of producing parody can be equally erroneous.
When I have pointed to parodic features in the saga, I have resorted to

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CAMILLA ASPLUND INGEMARK

the methodology used by most other scholars, namely the analysis of

inconsistencies in the text (cf. Willson 2009). This method has its own
pitfalls, of course; whether some features are truly intended as parodic
or are just playing with the conventions of traditional forms for some
other purpose can be problematic to assess (Willson 2009).
As for the saga-specific reasons, both Ármann Jakobsson and
Eleanor Barraclough emphasise the role of the saga in constructing a
history of the Snæfellsnes region (Ármann Jakobsson 1998–2001: 55;
Barraclough 2008: 31–35) and I am inclined to concur. The liberal use
of historical legend in the first part of the saga suggests a historicising
ambition; attaching these legends – the use of which I have not touched
upon since Ármann Jakobsson does it so well – to identifiable places in
the landscape endow these with a history and make this history acces-
sible to the lived experience of the residents of the area when they recall
the narrative in that particular place (cf. Eriksen 1999: 50). Secondly,
even though the parodic features are prominent in the work, they are
not so prominent as to make interpreting the work as a chiefly histori-
cal one wholly unfeasible.
As for whether the saga was intended as fiction or history, I would
suggest that it was intended as both – or neither. I think it might be
either using fiction to create history or using history to create fiction.
In that sense, it shares a vital characteristic with the oral legend: it mar-
ries the impulses of history and fiction as Paul Ricoeur has defined
them (Ricoeur 1990: 102). On the one hand, it develops what Ricoeur
calls imaginative variations on the constitution of historical time as the
mediator between lived time and cosmic time: the author articulates a
fictive experience of time that is not bound by the historian’s ambition
to represent the past in a scientifically tenable manner. On the other, it
utilises the tools favoured by history in constructing historical time: it
appeals to the idea of the succession of generations as a bridge between
mortal (individual) time and public (social) time, and to the concept
of traces of the past surviving in the present in the form of concrete
manifestations in the landscape (Ricoeur 1990: 104–126, 127–141). The
importance of genealogy and the naming of the landscape in the saga
can be viewed as expressions of these tendencies. Be that as it may,
Bárðar saga, with its elusive and memorable characters, will no doubt
continue to puzzle scholars for many years to come.

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 The Trolls in Bárðar Saga – Playing with the Conventions of Oral Texts?

References
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Folkkultursarkivet
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LUF 968
Kulturvetenskapliga arkivet Cultura, Folkloristiska samlingen
Åbo Akademi University, Åbo
R 58, R 62

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Narrative.” Saga-Book 25/1: 53–71.
–. 2005. “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly: Bárðar saga and Its Giants.”
Medieval Scandinavia 15: 1–15.
Barraclough, Eleanor Rosamund. 2008. “Following the Trollish Baton sin-
ister: Ludic Design in Bárðar Saga Snæfellsáss.” Viking and Medieval
Scandinavia 4: 15–43.
Bárðar saga. 1991. eds. Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson.
Harðar saga […]. Íslenzk fornrit 13. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska fornritafélag.
Boberg, Inger. 1966. Motif-Index of Early Icelandic Literature. Copenhagen:
Munksgaard.
Briggs, Charles and Bauman, Richard. 1992. “Genre, Intertextuality, and
Social Power.” Journal of Linguistic Anthropology 2/2: 131–172.
Bygdeminnen 1910. Bygdeminnen 2. Vasa: Närpes folkhögskolas elevförbund.
Eriksen, Anne. 1999. Historie, minne og myte. Oslo: Pax forlag.
Ingemark, Camilla Asplund. 2004. The Genre of Trolls. The Case of a Finland-
Swedish Folk Belief Tradition. Åbo: Åbo Akademi University Press.
–. 2007. ““Värre än en mördare.” Folktron som tolkningsmönster i Fritiof
Nilsson Piratens Historier från Färs.” In: Folkliga föreställningar och folklig
religiositet: Festskrift till professor Ulrika Wolf-Knuts, eds. Lena Marander-
Eklund et al., 119–128. Åbo: Åbo Akademis förlag.
Jauss, Hans Robert. 1982. Toward an Aesthetic of Reception. Minneapolis:
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af Klintberg, Bengt. 1999. “Sägner som modeller för handlande.” Saga och sed
1999: 15–26.
–. 2010. The Types of the Swedish Folk Legend. Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum
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Magnús Fjalldal. 2013. Beowulf and the Old Norse Two-Troll Analogues.
Neophilologus 97: 541–553.
McKinnell, John. 2005. Meeting the Other in Norse Myth and Legend.
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–. 2009. “The Fantasy Giantess. Brana in Hálfdanar saga Brönufóstra.” In:

Fornaldarsagaerne. Myter og virkelighed, eds. Agneta Ney et al., 201–222.
København: Museum Tusculanums forlag.
Nyland 1887. Nyland 2, ed. G. A. Åberg. Helsingfors: Nyländska afdelningen.
O’Connor, Ralph. 2006. Icelandic Histories & Romances. Stroud: Tempus.
Óláfur Lárusson. 1944. “Undir jökli: Ýmislegt um Bárðar sögu Snæfellsáss.”
Byggð og saga: 147–179.
Polkinghorne, Donald. 2013. “Narrative Identity and Psychotherapy.” In:
Therapeutic Uses of Storytelling. An Interdisciplinary Approach to Narration
as Therapy, ed. Camilla Asplund Ingemark, 21–41. Lund: Nordic Academic
Press.
Ricoeur, Paul. 1990. Time and Narrative 3. Chicago and London: University
of Chicago Press.
Sävborg, Daniel. 2009. “Avstånd, gräns och förundran. Möten med de över-
naturliga i islänningasagan.” In: Greppaminni. Rit til heiðurs Vésteini
Ólasyni sjötugum, ed. Margrét Eggertsdóttir, 323–349. Reykjavík: Hið
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–. 2010. “Scandinavian Folk Legends and Icelandic Sagas.” The Retrospective
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Tarkka, Lotte. 1993. “Intertextuality, Rhetorics and the Interpretation of
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Institute of Folklore.
Uther, Hans-Jörg. 2011. The Types of International Folktales. A Classification
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Willson, Kendra. 2009. “Parody and Genre in Sagas of Icelanders.” In: Á
austrvega: Saga and East Scandinavia. Preprint Papers of The 14th Inter-
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 The Trolls in Bárðar Saga – Playing
Bárðarwith
sagathe Conventions
between Oralityofand
OralLiteracy
Texts?

Bárðar saga
between Orality and Literacy
Ralph O’Connor
University of Aberdeen

Abstract:
This article makes some preliminary moves towards an exploration of the
blend of text-derived and oral ‘matter’ in Bárðar saga as part of a unified liter-
ary whole. It argues that oral-literary dichotomies (oral or literary, history or
fiction, legend or fairytale, compilation or literary creation) are unhelpful in
approaching sagas like this. It reassesses the philologically oriented source-
critical approach by examining more closely the range of alleged textual
sources for the saga and the varying forms of evidence for such influence in
the saga itself. A more fluid approach to ‘textual influence’, one which does not
rule out oral transmission, is recommended. It then argues for a correspond-
ing methodological caution as regards ‘folklore influence’. It briefly examines
a recent reassessment of the ‘post-classical’ Íslendingasögur (including Bárðar
saga), which rejects the notion that they are merely literary fictions and which
proposes folk legends as these sagas’ basis, and it suggests some refinements to
this proposition. The article concludes by sketching some possible directions
for future, more holistic studies of this saga as a purposeful literary work.

In this article I will discuss the nature of Bárðar saga as a literary work.
As in the version I delivered at the Old Norse Folklorists Network
symposium in Tartu in December 2012, my aim is to provoke debate
and discussion rather than to provide a comprehensive or authorita-
tive treatment of one or more aspects of the saga’s literary status.1 My
overall goal is to urge the importance of viewing the saga as a whole
and as a purposefully constructed literary work, regardless of how
successful or not it appears to twenty-first-century readers as a liter-
ary work.2 I will begin by setting against each other two recent and
1
I would like to thank Daniel Sävborg and Karen Bek-Pedersen for inviting me to
give this paper at the second trollology symposium in Tartu, 1–2 December 2012,
and for inviting me to take part at the first symposium. For helpful comments on
earlier drafts of this paper, I am grateful to Karen Bek-Pedersen, Ármann Jakobs-
son, Annette Lassen, Rudolf Simek and especially to Daniel Sävborg.
2
Most previous studies of Bárðar saga have shied away from treating it as a liter-
ary whole, focusing instead on isolated aspects and often denigrating the saga’s
overall coherence. There are a few exceptions (leaving aside the present volume).
Ármann Jakobsson’s groundbreaking study (1998) insightfully discusses the

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RALPH O’CONNOR

contrasting ‘origin-oriented’ approaches to Bárðar saga, which have

significantly advanced our understanding of certain aspects of the text
and have contributed to debates about the oral and literary contexts
of saga writing. These approaches are often framed around convenient
dichotomies (oral or literary, history or fiction, legend or Märchen, pro-
heathen or pro-Christian, compilation or literary work), which raise
important research questions but can become distorting straitjackets if
worn for too long. Having discussed these approaches, philological and
folkloristic in turn, I will then briefly sketch some possible directions
for future, more holistic studies of this saga.

The Literary Context: Textual or Oral?

Since the nineteenth century, Bárðar saga has traditionally taken its
place as a prime example of what are usually termed the so-called ‘post-
classical’ Íslendingasögur or family sagas. The sagas comprising this
group are, in chronological order of manuscript attestation, Finnboga
saga (1330–70), Orms þáttr Stórólfssonar (1387–95), Þorsteins þáttr
uxafóts (1387–95), Flóamanna saga (1390–1425),3 Þórðar saga hreðu
(1390–1425),4 Harðar saga (1390–1425),5 Bárðar saga (1390–1425),
Stjörnu-Odda draumr (1391–5),6 Gull-Þóris saga or Þorskfirðinga saga
(1400), Svarfdæla saga (1450), Kjalnesinga saga (1450–1500), Grettis
saga (1475–1500),7 Víglundar saga (1500), Fljótsdæla saga (1600–50),8
author’s overall historical strategy. The introductions to two English translations
make brief and divergent cases for the saga’s aesthetic, not just historical, coher-
ence (Jón Skaptason and Pulsiano 1984: xv–xxi; O’Connor 2006: 65–73). A superb
and detailed literary analysis of the saga’s design, successfully recuperating it as a
‘valuable part of the saga corpus’, has been produced by Eleanor Rosamund Barra-
clough (2008: 16). The present discussion draws on all three studies.
3
Extant in two slightly divergent recensions.
4
Extant in two highly divergent recensions.
5
Extant in two slightly divergent recensions.
6
The manuscript dated here is Vatnshyrna, which has been lost, but as Már Jónsson
(2012) has shown, Árni Magnússon’s 1686 copy is probably a trustworthy repre-
sentative of the original. On Stjörnu-Odda draumr; see also O’Connor (2012).
7
Grettis saga used often to be classified as ‘late classical’, partly because it is widely
held to be a masterpiece and therefore not to be grouped with the allegedly second-
rate ‘post-classical’ sagas. This spurious distinction confirms that, as with the late-
Latin counterpart from which it derives, the label ‘post-classical’ often implies
a decline in quality as well as a later date, although the label is today used more
neutrally.
8
This saga is referred to in some older scholarship as Droplaugarsona saga hinn
meiri. Daniel Sävborg (2009: 329 n. 9) excludes this saga from a comparative
analysis of post-classical sagas on the grounds that it is en eftermedeltide pastisch
snarare än en genuin, medeltida islänningasaga, ‘a post-mediaeval pastiche rather
than a genuine mediaeval Íslendingasaga’, citing Kristian Kålund and Kurt Schier

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 Bárðar saga between Orality and Literacy

Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings (1600–1700), Gunnars saga Keldugnúpsfífls

(1600–1700), Jökuls þáttr Búasonar (1600–1700) and a clutch of shorter
þættir including Kumlbúa þáttr and Bergbúa þáttr (both 1390–1425).9
According to the standard view, these sagas were written two
or more generations after Iceland gave up its sovereignty to Norway,
from 1300 onwards. The new saga authors were less concerned with
writing serious and realistic reconstructions of feuds and peacekeep-
ing in settler society drawing (in part) on oral tradition, which we
find in the earlier ‘classical’ family sagas, and more concerned to write
unrealistic but entertaining heroic fantasies, drawing on their wide
knowledge of earlier texts and of the new (or newly popular) fantastic
genres of the fornaldarsögur and indigenous riddarasögur. In its nega-
tive form, seeing the sagas as ‘fabrications’, this view goes back to the
Scandinavian and Anglophone scholarship of the 19th and early 20th
centuries, from Guðbrandr Vigfússon to Einar Ólafur Sveinsson.10 A
less pejorative assessment of ‘post-classical’ sagas as self-conscious, fan-
tastic and entertaining literary fictions has been offered by Vésteinn
Ólason (1992–3: vol. 2, 143–60; 1998: 83, 184–90), and in similar vein
some sustained literary-critical rehabilitations have recently been per-
formed by Philip Cardew (2000: 1–128), Martin Arnold (2003) and
others, each focusing primarily on just one of the sagas listed above.11
The common ground here, which remains virtually unchallenged
in assessments of the corpus as a whole,12 is an emphasis on these sagas’
fundamentally literary, textual inspiration: they are either careless
patchworks, or conscious parodies, of a range of existing written texts.
This emphasis on textual borrowing (often coupled with words such as
‘derivative’) dominates most of the entries on individual ‘post-classical’
sagas in Phillip Pulsiano’s and Kirsten Wolf’s encyclopaedia Medieval
Scandinavia (1993) and Joseph Strayer’s enormous Dictionary of the
Middle Ages (1982–9) (from which Bárðar saga is unaccountably absent,

who have also asserted this view. This exclusion seems somewhat unjustified given
that Fljótsdæla saga survives in a manuscript which could be as much as half a
century earlier than the earliest witnesses of three other allegedly mediaeval post-
classical Íslendingasögur, and bearing in mind that imitation and parody of ear-
lier sagas are commonly held to characterize post-classical sagas in general. I am
grateful to Daniel for sending me a copy of his article. For perceptive analysis of
Fljótsdæla saga in the context of orality-textuality debates, see Gísli Sigurðsson
(2005: 294–5).
9
My datings are taken from Helle Degnbol et al. (1989).
10
For example, Gudbrand Vigfusson (1878: vol. 1, lxii–lxiv), from whom I quote
‘fabrications’; Nordal (1953: 126); Einar Ólafur Sveinsson (1958: 126).
11
See also Wolfe 1973; Kalinke 1994; O’Connor 2012.
12
If one can call it a corpus: see discussion below.

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RALPH O’CONNOR

unlike all the other longer ‘post-classical’ sagas).13 If the ‘post-classical’

sagas were indeed written later than the ‘classical’ sagas in their extant
forms (an unproven assumption in the case of most Íslendingasögur,
which survive only in 14th-century and later manuscripts), then there
would be good reasons to treat them first and foremost as the result of
literary engagement with other texts, since more texts were available in
the major literary centres by 1300 than before. However, in an impor-
tant recent discussion of the ‘post-classical sagas’ as a group, Daniel
Sävborg (2012) has shown that the stylistic and thematic criteria previ-
ously used to assign a post-1300 date for these sagas do not stand up
to scrutiny. Instead, he suggests that several of these texts were almost
certainly composed in the 13th century alongside other ‘classical’ sagas
and that the differences between the two groups are much less sharp
than the ‘classical / post-classical’ dichotomy implies. In any case,
regardless of where one stands on the question of dating, the domi-
nance of the textualist approach in discussions of these texts has meant
that the possibility of living oral tradition as an important source for
them (unlike their classical forebears) has often been ignored or down-
played, as Sävborg (forthcoming) has pointed out elsewhere.
Bárðar saga is unusually rich in folk motifs, and I will discuss this
aspect of the text below. But it is also widely held, like most of the other
sagas listed above, to have been written by someone with access to a
large library of sagas and other texts. Its most recent editors concur in
suggesting the monastery of Helgafell as a likely place of composition
(Jón Skaptason and Pulsiano 1984: xiii; Þórhallur Vilmundarson 1991:
lxxvi–cvii),14 and if a monastery is required this one makes the most
sense, as Annette Lassen emphasizes in her contribution to the present
volume. However, the main evidence for this saga having been writ-
ten in a monastery is the large number of borrowings from other texts
sometimes claimed for it. It contains a number of near-verbatim par-
allels with, and paraphrases of, long passages in the Sturlubók recen-
sion of Landnámabók which show beyond doubt that the author of
Bárðar saga had access either to this text or to a text very closely related
to it and copied passages into his saga (Jón Skaptason and Pulsiano
1984: xxi–xxii). Aside from this, however, the evidence for specifi-
cally textual influence from most of the other sources proposed, in a
13
For further discussion of the standard view of these sagas, see Sävborg (2012: 22–
7).
14
The edition of Bárðar saga in the latter volume is the work of Bjarni Vilhjálmsson
as well as Þórhallur, but Bjarni died four years before the book was published; the
introduction is Þórhallur’s alone.

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 Bárðar saga between Orality and Literacy

mode which would require a library (i.e. copying from a manuscript

rather than half-remembering an oral delivery), is problematic. And,
as Þórhallur Vilmundarson (1991: xcix–ci) himself points out in one
of the most sustained attempts yet to argue for Helgafell as the place
of composition, the recension of Landnámabók most closely associated
with Helgafell is not Sturlubók but Melabók, which is known to have
been present in the monastery’s library in the early to mid-14th century,
but was not used by the author of Bárðar saga. Þórhallur goes on to
offer the counter-argument that Sturla Þórðarson, the alleged author or
editor of the Sturlubók recension, lived quite near Helgafell in his old
age (the unspoken implication being that perhaps he gave the monas-
tery a copy of Sturlubók or wrote it at the monastery); but the mismatch
does render the case for Helgafell somewhat equivocal. Also equivocal,
I suggest, is the case for a large library of sagas and other texts having
been necessary for the saga’s composition, which underpins Þórhallur’s
and most subsequent accounts of the saga’s sources, including Lassen’s
in this volume (99, 108).
The longest recent discussion of these putative textual sources is by
Þórhallur in his introduction to his and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson’s Íslenzk
fornrit edition, in a section on efnis- og orðalagstengsl, ‘verbal and mat-
erial links’ (Þórhallur Vilmundarson 1991: lxxvi–lxxix). After discuss-
ing the Landnámabók borrowings, he lists fifteen sagas and þættir which
display episodic or verbal parallels with Bárðar saga,15 og er í þeim til-
vikum sennilegt, að Bárðar saga hafi yfirleitt þegið efnið frá öðrum, ‘and
in these instances it is likely that Bárðar saga generally took the mate-
rial from the others’ (Þórhallur Vilmundarson 1991: lxxvi). Þórhallur,
admittedly, does not state here that he is thinking specifically of tex-
tual borrowing, but this is strongly implied by his casual mention of
written texts halfway through this section (in a discussion of lost saga
sources at 1991: lxxviii), by the fact that the influence of oral tradition
and storytelling is relegated to a separate section later in his introduc-
tion (1991: lxxix–xcviii),16 and by the ‘bookprose’ assumption implicit
within the Icelandic School source-critical procedure – of which the
Íslenzk fornrit editions are the most prominent embodiment – that
15
Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar, Hallfreðar saga, Eiríks saga rauða, Flóamanna saga,
Fóstbræðra saga, Kjalnesinga saga, Grettis saga, Harðar saga, Eyrbyggja saga,
Þórðar saga hreðu, Hálfdanar saga Brönufóstra, Örvar-Odds saga, lost sagas about
Lágálfr, written sources about Guðrún Gjúkadóttir, and (possibly) a lost version of
Hálfdanar saga Eysteinssonar. Þórhallur also cites the biblical book of Exodus as a
source: see discussion below.
16
This section is entitled ‘Munnmæli – örnefni – þjóðhættir’ (‘Oral tradition –
placenames – folklore’).

143
RALPH O’CONNOR

verbal borrowings from other sagas must be textual unless otherwise

specified, since ‘freeprose’ oral sagas are held not to have existed in the
13th and 14th centuries.17 Þórhallur’s list of potential sources is, in most
cases, not backed up with much discussion of each example, still less
any consideration of modes of transmission, relative manuscript dating
and the like. A more analytical discussion of his examples will there-
fore be helpful.
Lists like that in footnote 15 look intimidating to those who are
not intimately familiar with all the texts mentioned, but none of the
texts except Landnámabók is discussed in enough detail by Þórhallur
to demonstrate influence either way, whether by textual or oral means.
I limit myself to sources proposed by him, for reasons of space and
because his is the most detailed discussion. Some turn out to be plau-
sible as potential sources, some rather less so, and all require careful
consideration about possible modes of transmission.
The saga author was clearly a highly literate individual, as the
Landnámabók borrowings demonstrate. It is a priori plausible that
other literary texts served him as sources besides Landnámabók. Lassen,
for example (this volume), makes a good case for the influence of 14th-
century sagas about Óláfr Tryggvason and St. Óláfr in her contribution
to the present volume, adducing parallels which extend beyond single
isolated motifs and share a possible connection with Helgafell.
Of the possible sources listed by Þórhallur, one of the more likely
is Hálfdanar saga svarta, which existed in textual form in various dif-
fering recensions by the end of the 14th century. Chapters 6 and 7 of
the Heimskringla version (early 13th century) contain two dreams about
the kingship and Christianization of Norway which closely resemble
Bárðr’s dream in the giant Dofri’s cave in chapter 1 of Þórhallur’s text of
Bárðar saga.18 The parallels apply to content, interpretation and details
of wording (Heimskringla I: 90–1; Bárðar saga: 104). The most plausible
explanation is that the author of Bárðar saga patterned Bárðr’s dream
on this example, as Þórhallur (1991: lxxix) has suggested. However, it
is very freely adapted and therefore does not allow us to judge whether
this patterning took place as a result of hearing or reading Hálfdanar
saga svarta, nor which version he heard or read. On this last point, a
17
If, as is still possible, Þórhallur did not mean to imply specifically textual relation-
ships in this section, the following discussion will still be of value in discussing
explicitly the evidence for, and plausibility of, such borrowings, since he provides
no means of judging either way.
18
The chapter-divisions in the extant manuscript-texts differ fairly widely and these
divergences are reflected in the modern editions and translations based on differ-
ent combinations of the surviving manuscripts..

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 Bárðar saga between Orality and Literacy

further complication is introduced by the representation of Haraldr

hárfagri, in this same episode of Bárðar saga, as a fosterling of Dofri,
and a concluding reference to an otherwise unknown Haralds saga
Dofrafóstra. The Heimskringla version of Hálfdanar saga svarta contains
no references to Dofri; on the other hand, a later version of this saga
preserved as Hálfanar þáttr svarta in Flateyjarbók (1387–95) goes into
detail about Dofri’s relationship to Haraldr, but this later version has
only one (the second) of the two dreams included in the Heimskringla
version and lacks all the references to symbolic trees and flowers which
Bárðar saga shares with the first dream in the Heimskringla version
(Flateyjarbok: vol. 1, 563). Borrowing from some now-lost intermediate
version of Hálfdanar saga svarta or Haralds saga hárfagra seems the
likeliest explanation, but this example goes to show how even an appar-
ently clear case of textual borrowing has to be hedged about by caveats.
Another of the more likely sources in Þórhallur’s list (1991:
lxxvii) is Grettis saga. Shared wording in the introduction of Þorbjörn
öxnamegin in chapter 11 of Bárðar saga (Bárðar saga 1991: 138) and
chapter 30 of Grettis saga (Grettis saga 1936: 100) raises the possibil-
ity of textual borrowing by the author of Bárðar saga, although the
words in question are so basic and conventional (the character’s name,
residence, father’s and grandfather’s names) that one cannot entirely
rule out the two sagas’ drawing on regional legends about the killer of
Grettir’s brother. Furthermore, the borrowing itself could have taken
place as a result of hearing rather than reading Grettis saga, since parts
of the passage in Bárðar saga paraphrase rather than replicate the
matching passage in Grettis saga, and this is unlikely to have been a
deliberate departure from a received text:19 Þórbjörn never makes an
appearance in the events of Bárðar saga and no significant change of
meaning results from the divergent wording (unlike, say, the changes
made in Bárðar saga to the Landnámabók extracts, which usually do
affect the meaning, concern characters who do play a role in the story,
and are thus probably deliberate departures from a text we know the
author had before him).
The possibility that Grettis saga (in some form) was a source for
this passage in Bárðar saga lends no weight to Þórhallur’s further sug-
gestions (1991: lxxvii) of borrowings from Grettis saga. He suggests that
Grettir’s use of the disguise-name Gestr (‘guest’) provided Bárðar saga
19
Examples include garpr mikill (‘great warrior’) versus the slightly stronger inn
mesti garpr (‘the greatest of warriors’); er numit hafði Hrútafjörð (‘who had taken
[land in] Hrútafjörðr’) versus the vaguer er þar nam land (‘who had taken land
there’).

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RALPH O’CONNOR

with the false name used by Bárðr when visiting Miðfjarðar-Skeggi,

‘Gestr’; but the use of that name by mysterious visitors is a stock device
in a number of other sagas. He also suggests that a passing reference to
the wrestling feats of the giant Hallmundr of Balljökull in Bárðar saga
must also come directly from Grettis saga, where Hallmundr proves
stronger than Grettir; but no mention is made of wrestling in Grettis
saga, and strength is a common attribute of giants, so there seems no
need to posit textual influence. Hallmundr is known independently in
the probably 13th-century poem Hallmundarkviða preserved in Bergbúa
þáttr and predating Grettis saga (Þórhallur Vilmundarson 1991: ccvi–
ccx), and the author of Bárðar saga seems to have been collecting as
many folkloristic giants as possible in this part of the saga. Finally,
Þórhallur mentions that both Helga Bárðardóttir and Grettir stay for
a time at Hjalli in Ölfus, which tells us little more than that Hjalli in
Ölfus was a popular temporary residence.
On this last point, Þórhallur mentions (in passing) a further
instance of somebody staying with Þóroddr goði at Hjalli in Ölfus
which presents a better case for possible borrowing or allusion than
Grettis saga, namely the shorter recension of Flóamanna saga (which
survives in the same manuscript as the earliest extant text of Bárðar
saga). In chapter 7 of Bárðar saga, Helga Bárðardóttir is forcibly taken
away from her lover Miðfjarðar-Skeggi by her father, but has no joy
living with him and goes away to various places, including Hjalli in
Ölfus where she is Þóroddr’s guest. The saga relates how a Norwegian
visitor liked the look of her and tried to get into bed with her; she beat
him off, but later vanished away again, grieving for her lost love (Bárðar
saga 1991: 122–4). In chapter 30 of Flóamanna saga, a different Helga is
introduced as Þóroddr’s daughter and is made to marry the saga’s main
protagonist, the ageing Þorgils Örrabeinsstjúpr. She is mjök fálát, ‘very
unhappy’, about this. Later she leaves her new home to visit her kins-
men at Hjalli, refusing to return to her husband’s home; he then turns
up fully armed and takes her back home by force (Flóamanna saga 1991:
315–16). Þórhallur (1991: lxxvii) alludes to unspecified similarities in
orðalag, ‘wording’, between the two episodes, but these are not evident;
the similarities relate to basic plot elements, worked up in very different
ways in the two sagas. The coincidence of these similarities with the
shared location and (admittedly very common) woman’s name suggests
a possible relationship between the two stories, but there is insufficient
information to tell whether this was from one text to another (in either
direction) or through the shared use of variant oral traditions about

146
 Bárðar saga between Orality and Literacy

goings-on at Hjalli. The shared manuscript context of the two earliest

texts of the sagas in question points in one direction; the citation in
Bárðar saga of a third, apparently oral variant about female visitors at
Hjalli (Guðrún Gjúkadóttir, discussed below) points in the other.
One has to be particularly careful with fleeting parallels, especially
when they involve stock plot-devices found in a number of sagas and
folktales. When it comes to most of the other sagas and tales listed by
Þórhallur as potential sources, the parallels turn out on closer inspec-
tion to be insufficient to argue for direct borrowing, especially textual
borrowing. To take one of the more superficially striking parallels:
in chapter 2 of Bárðar saga, we are told that King Haraldr hárfagri
demanded tribute from high and low alike, in a passage which closely
resembles a similar passage about King Haraldr in chapter 4 of the
A-redaction of Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar. Both passages occur just
before the protagonist decides to leave Norway and settle in Iceland:
Bárðar saga: sá skyldi engi maðr vera í milli Raumelfar suðr ok
Finnabús norðr, sá er nökkurs var ráðandi, svá at eigi gyldi honum
skatt, jafnvel þeir, sem saltit brenndu, svá sem hinir, sem á mörkinni
yrktu. (Bárðar saga 1991: 106–7)
there was to be no-one with any power at all, between Raumelfr in the
south and Finnabú in the north, who did not pay tribute to him, no
less those who burned the salt than those who worked in the forests.
Egils saga: skylldu aller buendr vera hans leiglendíngar, sua þeir er
a morkina ortu ok salltkarlarner ok aller veiðimenn, bæði á sio ok
landi. (Egils saga 2001: 7)20
all husbandmen were to become his tenants: both those who worked
in the forests, and salt-men, and all hunters by sea and land.

If this were a word-for-word parallel, like most of the borrowings from

Landnámabók, there would be a good case for textual borrowing here.
But what we have here is the same concept, in the same narrative situ-
ation and function, but couched in significantly different wording and
slightly divergent meaning (‘all husbandmen’ is not quite the same
thing as ‘those with any power at all’). This combination of similar-
ity and difference suggests one of three possibilities: (1) the author was
either drawing on his own memory of having heard Egils saga; (2) both
Egils saga and Bárðar saga were adapting a common proverbial phrase
about the overweening tyranny of Haraldr, which was after all one of
20
The C-redaction preserves very similar wording here. On this passage and for
comparison with Haralds saga hárfagra in Heimskringla, see Boulhosa (2005:
11–12 of online text).

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RALPH O’CONNOR

the most widespread of Iceland’s origin-myths; (3) Bárðar saga used an

image of Haraldr’s tyranny which had been coined in Egils saga but had
since passed into proverbial usage as a result of the popularity of Egils
saga.
There is, as Þórhallur points out, a striking resemblance between
the names of the two Scottish runners Haki and Hekja who accompany
Þorfinnr karlsefni to Vinland in chapter 8 of Eiríks saga rauða and the
two magicians Krókr and Krekja who accompany Gestr to the Arctic
wastes in chapter 18 of Bárðar saga (Eiríks saga rauða 1935: 223). The
similarity can hardly be coincidental, especially given the shared North
American destination and their shared function as gifts from Óláfr
Tryggvason (although the couples’ actions are very different: Þorfinnr’s
helpers successfully scout the new land, whereas Gestr’s helpers are
swallowed up by the earth when trying to get some treasure). The unu-
sual garment worn by the two Scots, described as a kjafal with a hood
on top and kneppt saman milli fóta, ‘fastened together between the legs/
feet’,21 recalls the unusual garment worn by the mysterious Rauðgrani/
Óðinn in the same chapter of Bárðar saga, described as a skauthekla,
‘hooded cape’, and as kneppta niðr í milli fóta sér, ‘fastened between
his legs/feet’ (Barðar saga 1991: 163).22 The other parallels mentioned
by Þórhallur with Eiríks saga are looser, but concern the same chapter
of Bárðar saga: the apparition of the bellowing demonic bull, against
whose skin Gestr’s axe breaks (Bárðar saga 1991: 162–4; Þórhallur
Vilmundarson 1991: lxxvii), may recall two separate episodes in chap-
ter 11 of Eiríks saga, one in which an ordinary bull bellows and fright-
ens off the native Americans, and another in which a native American
tries to use a Greenlander’s axe on stone and breaks the axe (Eiríks saga
rauða 1935: 228, 230; Eiriks saga rauða: texti Skálholtsbókar 1985: 429,
430). By themselves these parallels are unimpressive, but combined with
the coincidences of the couples’ names and the odd garment, some rela-
tionship between the sagas seems likely. Overall, however, the parallels
are too disparate for conscious literary allusion or library-based textual
influence to be the most plausible scenario. It seems more plausible that
the author of Bárðar saga had read or heard Eiríks saga rauða some time
previously, and now – writing a new account of an Arctic voyage in the
days of Óláfr Tryggvason – he freely recombined certain details half-
remembered from that saga in the more overtly supernatural ambience

21
Probably legs, as these two individuals are supposed to run fast.
22
For the variant texts of Eiríks saga, see Eiríks saga rauða 1935: 223 (quoted here)
and Eiríks saga rauða: texti Skálholtsbókar 1985: 424 (kneppt í milli fóta).

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 Bárðar saga between Orality and Literacy

of Raknarr’s Arctic. It is also possible that the names Krókr and Krekja
and the details about the garment in Bárðar saga come from divergent
oral traditions about Vinland voyages, which manifest themselves dif-
ferently in the two extant sagas, and that the other, vaguer parallels
are merely coincidental, but the presence of all four parallels (however
vague) in the same chapter of Bárðar saga makes this less likely.
In these four examples, the influence of other sagas is either likely
or at least arguable, but the method of transmission need not involve
the studying of a text, and so the size of the putative library needed to
produce Bárðar saga shrinks accordingly. This uncertainty is further
brought out in a clear example of biblical influence, the parallel between
Jósteinn’s parting of the waters in Helluland (ch. 21) and Moses’s part-
ing of the Red Sea in the biblical book of Exodus (14:21–2) (Bárðar saga
1991: 169). Would the author have needed physical access to the biblical
text or to a Norse adaptation like Stjórn to draw this parallel? Moses’s
parting of the waters would surely have been familiar enough to such
a literate and theologically aware man that he could have thought of it
without having to use a monastic library. The polarity frequently drawn
between oral and literary sources is often a red herring: the Bible may
seem the ultimate textual source (certainly the most prestigious, in
mediaeval Scandinavia), but many of its individual stories became part
of the oral culture of the Christian community and were freely drawn
on in narratives, poetry and sermons alike. This point may sound like
splitting hairs, but it reminds us that the textual environment of liter-
ary production included (and still includes today) texts received aurally
and in individuals’ memories, not just texts sitting on the author’s desk.
In some of Þórhallur’s other cases, oral tradition seems a more
plausible source than the saga itself. For example, chapter 10 of Bárðar
saga alludes briefly to the central event in Harðar saga:
Sjá Torfi ... réð mest fyrir drápi Hólmsmanna, ok var þar fyrirmaðr
Víga-Hörðr, systurson Torfa, ok Geirr, er hólmrinn er við kenndr,
Geirshólmr. (Bárðar saga 1991: 132)
This Torfi ... figured most prominently in the killing of the Holm-
dwellers. Their leader Killer-Hörðr, Torfi’s nephew, was there, as was
Geirr after whom the holm is named Geirshólmr.

Þórhallur (1991: lxxvii) takes this passage as evidence that the author
hafi þekkt Harðar sögu, ‘had used Harðar saga’, which, he adds, is like-
wise full of place-name etymologies. However, the information given
here is so basic to the story of Hörðr that it could just as easily derive

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RALPH O’CONNOR

from oral traditions about Hörðr’s death which fed independently into
Harðar saga.23 The inclusion of this information about Hörðr could have
been prompted by the reference to an older (now lost) saga of Hörðr and
Geirr which the author of Bárðar saga could have read in the Sturlubók
recension of Landnámabók, but which does not mention their deaths
(Landnámabók 1968: 76).24 This suggestion combines oral and literary
intertextuality without insisting on the need for all the information
given to be copied from a written source.
When Þórhallur suggests lost or unspecified texts as potential
sources, alarm bells ring even louder. Chapter 7 of Bárðar saga contains
a narratorial aside about Helga Bárðardóttir, to the effect that:
Hon þá vetrvist at Hjalla í Ölfusi, en ekki Guðrún Gjúkadóttir, þó at
þat segi nökkurir menn, hjá þeim feðgum Þóroddi ok Skapta. (Bárðar
saga 1991: 123)
It was she who took winter lodgings with Þóroddr and his son Skapti
at Hjalli in Ölfus, and not Guðrún Gjúkadóttir, although some people
say so.

Þórhallur suggests that this reference to the legendary Guðrún gætu ...
bent til ritaðrar heimildar, ‘could indicate written sources’, but no writ-
ten sources survive localizing Guðrún at Ölfus. The argument from
silence is bold, especially given that the narrator seems to refer here
specifically to hearsay (þat segi), and given that Guðrún was an excep-
tionally well-known figure from Norse legend. I see nothing in the
passage to suggest written sources. An orally circulating story seems a
more likely source, or (without positing any ‘source’ properly speaking)
simply the author’s desire to imbue Helga with a tragic, legendary aura
consistent with her grieving and doomed role.25 Similar doubts apply
to the lost written saga of Lágálfr which Þórhallur says was the source
23
The same applies to the parallels between Bárðar saga and the second recension
of Þórðar saga hreðu, cautiously mentioned by Jón Skaptason and Pulsiano (1984:
xxii–xxiii). These parallels amount to the fact that Miðfjarðar-Skeggi and Laga-
Eiðr appear in both sagas. Jón and Pulsiano concede that ‘there is no indication
that the Bárðar saga author knew [Þórðar saga] in its surviving form’, but there is
also no indication that the saga-author knew Þórðar saga in any form: these two
characters appear elsewhere in Landnámabók and classical saga literature, and
thus presumably also figured in oral tradition.
24
For discussion, see Þórhallur Vilmundarson (1991: xvii). As noted by the editors at
Bárðar saga: 132 n. 5 (see also 81–2 n. 2), Landnámabók is also the source of the in-
formation about the Hellismenn given in the same passage, which was cited by Jón
Skaptason and Pulsiano (1984: xxiii) as possible evidence for the author’s knowl-
edge of a lost version of Hellismanna saga (a post-post-classical Íslendingasaga
based on Landnámabók and folktales and written by Gísli Konráðsson in 1830).
25
On the role of Guðrún in Icelandic folklore, see Óláfur Lárusson (1944: 168–70).

150
 Bárðar saga between Orality and Literacy

for the author’s summary of Lágálfr’s adventures in chapter 9.26 Here,

we are told that Lágálfr took part in wrestling competitions, fought a
shapeshifter called Skeljungr and played a trick on a farmer to make
a sack of meal fall on his head. All this sounds very folktale-like, but
Þórhallur simply asserts that it is útdráttur úr ritaðri frásögn, ‘summa-
rized from a written saga’. No evidence is offered, only a cross-reference
to Joseph Gotzen – who, in fact, considered the Lágálfr story excerpted
in Bárðar saga to derive from oral tradition and nowhere suggests that
the author of Bárðar saga encountered it as a written text (Þórhallur
Vilmundarson 1991: xvii; Gotzen 1903: 31–5).
Þórhallur (1991: lxxix) also points out parallels with plot-devices
in various fornaldarsögur, again asserting that Bárðar saga was prob-
ably the borrower in most cases. He likens the appearance of Rauðgrani
(Óðinn) on board Gestr’s ship to the appearance of Rauðgrani (Óðinn)
as a helper and blood-brother to Örvar-Oddr in Örvar-Odds saga; but
Rauðgrani does not appear in any of the 14th-century recensions of
Örvar-Odds saga, only the much later and expanded third recension
(‘A’ in Boer’s edition; Örvar-Odds saga 1888: 125), extant in a mid-15th-
century manuscript and likely to have been composed after Bárðar
saga.27 In any case, the coincidence of name is not enough to argue
for influence either way, given the frequent appearance of Óðinn as an
unsought-for and often somewhat ambivalent adviser (sometimes with
other names ending -grani). More plausibly, he likens the trolls’ impris-
onment and heroes’ rescue of Sólrún (Bárðar saga 1991: 150–8) to the
maiden Hildr’s imprisonment by trolls and rescue by the hero in chap-
ter 5 of Hálfdanar saga Brönufóstra (Fornaldar sögur norðurlanda 1950:
vol. 4, 299–300). Both episodes feature a beautiful woman sitting on a
chair in a cave with her hair tied to the chairposts, but the surrounding
story-pattern is highly conventional and widespread in Icelandic sagas
and folklore, and the same could well be true of the hair-chair motif.
Þórhallur seems to acknowledge this point by mentioning that the same
troll-abduction-rescue pattern appears in the first recension of Bósa
saga (also surviving in 15th-century manuscripts), but he still gestures

26
Elsewhere in his introduction (Þórhallur Vilmundarson 1991: lxxxii), Þórhallur
mentions the Lágáfr material as part of the folklore known to the saga-author,
without registering any inconsistency.
27
For discussion, see Lassen (2011: 125–8, 168–71). Lassen’s analysis suggests that
the coincidence of name between the two men Rauðgrani is outweighed by much
closer resemblances in narrative function between the Rauðgrani of Bárðar saga
and an Óðinn-figure in Harðar saga on the one hand, and between the Rauðgrani
of the third recension of Örvar-Odds saga and other fornaldarsögur on the other
hand (see especially the tabular comparisons at Lassen 2011: 127, 175–6).

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RALPH O’CONNOR

vaguely towards the likelihood that Bárðar saga’s author hafa þegið slíkt
efni úr fornaldarsögum, ‘took such material from fornaldarsögur’, as if
the author had somehow borrowed from both sagas at once. Textual
borrowing is here being confused with the quite different notion of the
use of conventional story-patterns found across a whole subgenre of
tales – a notion which in fact makes textual borrowing difficult to argue
(especially in sagas as rich in the stock devices of legendary allusion and
Märchen patterns as the fornaldarsögur).
Even if textual influence is mooted (as it could be with the hair-
chair motif), there is no evidence of which direction it took beyond
the attestation of the surviving manuscripts; neither Hálfdanar saga
Brönufóstra nor Bósa saga survives in texts before the second half of
the 15th century, whereas Bárðar saga is extant from a manuscript dated
to 1390–1425. The second half of the 15th century is also the period
when our earliest extant text of Hálfdanar saga Eysteinssonar was writ-
ten, and here Þórhallur is happy to acknowledge that the latter saga
probably did borrow its information about Raknarr and his ship from
Bárðar saga rather than the other way around (although he reserves
the right to posit ex nihilo a lost older version of Hálfdanar saga from
which this information could have been borrowed by both Bárðar saga
and the extant Hálfdanar saga) (Þórhallur Vilmundarson 1991: lxxix).
He is also prepared to grant the likelihood that if there is a textual rela-
tionship between Bárðar saga and Víglundar saga (whose earliest extant
manuscript dates from about 1500), then Víglundar saga was probably
the borrower (Þórhallur Vilmundarson 1991: lxxviii).28 No reasons
are given for considering Hálfdanar saga Eysteinssonar and Víglundar
saga to be significantly later than Hálfdanar saga Brönufóstra and Bósa
saga, so the possibility that all these sagas are younger than Bárðar
saga deserves to be factored into judgements about the number of texts
available to the author of Bárðar saga. His necessary library continues
to dwindle.
The same consideration applies to the possibility of a textual rela-
tionship between Bárðar saga and Kjalnesinga saga, which likewise
does not survive in manuscripts before the second half of the 15th cen-
tury. Both Bárðr in Bárðar saga (ch. 1) and Búi in Kjalnesinga saga (chs.
13–14) stay with the giant Dofri and enter into a sexual liaison with his
daughter, a parallel close enough to warrant the notion of borrowing,
28
The two sagas share similarities in an episode involving rowing out to fish and a
supernaturally induced storm (on which episode see below), but they also share
cross-references to each other’s main characters, suggesting that neither Víglundr
nor Bárðr were the outright invention of their saga authors.

152
 Bárðar saga between Orality and Literacy

but (as a single motif) not enough to compel such a view, let alone with
the earlier-attested saga as the putative borrower. Þórhallur’s other
parallels (1991: lxxvii) between the two sagas are not at all close: Búi
hiding in a cave on the mountain Esja (ch. 4) is no more comparable
with Bárðr’s cave-dwelling proclivities than all the other hiding-places
to which outlawed heroes escape in sagas and folktales, and the deadly
pain inflicted by Bárðr on his son Gestr’s eyes in punishment for his
abandonment of the old faith does not resemble, in purpose or effect,
the pain inflicted by Búi’s foster-mother on Búi’s eyes to prevent him
from going too close to danger (ch. 10) (Kjalnesinga saga 1959: 29–34, 14,
25). Both motifs – dwelling in caves and causing pain to eyes by super-
natural means – appear in a number of sagas and other stories, and, if
(as most scholars agree) both Bárðar saga and Kjalnesinga saga are rich
in folktale story-patterns, it seems more plausible that both were draw-
ing on a common stock of narrative devices in these instances rather
than on specific texts in front of them.
The same is true of the motif of King Óláfr Tryggvason coming
to the aid of those who call on him. One of the potential sources men-
tioned by Þórhallur is Hallfreðar saga vandræðaskálds, on the strength
of an episode in which Hallfreðr calls on the ‘White Christ’ of Óláfr
Tryggvason for help during a struggle with a robber and successfully
overcomes him.29 This corresponds to the episode in Bárðar saga (ch.
20) in which Gestr prays to both the Creator and Óláfr Tryggvason for
help during his struggle with the undead Raknarr, promising to con-
vert to Christianity if he comes out alive (Bárðar saga 1991: 168). The
case for borrowing is weakened by the fact that Óláfr functions in many
sagas and þættir as an honorary saint capable of helping those who call
on him: recall Þorsteinn skelkr, stuck in the lavatory with a demon
until Óláfr Tryggvason rings the church bells to save him. The story-
pattern used in the narratives about both Gestr and Hallfreðr is a stock
device in mediaeval hagiography; it also underlies several earlier quasi-
hagiographic episodes in Bárðar saga in which Bárðr himself comes to
the aid of those who call on him (one of which, his rescue of Ingjaldr
from shipwreck in chapter 8, bears a striking resemblance to an episode
in the younger Þorláks saga helga, set in nearby Alftafjörðr, and may
reflect the influence of local legends [Óláfur Lárusson 1944: 175–6]).
The rescue of Gestr in Bárðar saga, with Óláfr’s sudden appearance

29
This episode is in chapter 7 of the Möðruvallabók text of Hallfreðar saga and in
chapter 9 of the version incorporated into Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar in AM 61 fol.;
for both texts, see Hallfreðar saga 1977: 70–1.

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RALPH O’CONNOR

as a shining angel and an explicitly demonic opponent, is much more

overtly hagiographic than the rescue of Hallfreðr, which takes place
prosaically: Hallfreðr simply grabs his (ordinary human) enemy and
throws him down, and the only supernatural element is that we are told
he was helped by God and by the luck of King Óláfr.
The remaining parallel mentioned by Þórhallur as part of his list
of possible sources is so unlike the corresponding passage in Bárðar
saga that it does not really count as a parallel at all, let alone a potential
source. Þórhallur (1991: lxxvii) likens the narrative of Gestr Bárðarson’s
northern voyage with the fact that a person calling himself Gestr accom-
panies Þormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld from Norway to Greenland in chapter
20 of Fóstbræðra saga (Fóstbræðra saga 1925–7: 140–1), but the shared
elements which can be isolated here (a Norwegian king called Óláfr,
the name Gestr, a voyage to the Arctic northwest) are outweighed, on
reading the chapters in question, by the differences at every significant
level of the narrative. In Fóstbræðra saga, unlike Bárðar saga, Gestr is
not the main protagonist of the episode; he and Þormóðr in Fóstbræðra
saga are going to avenge someone in Greenland rather than to collect
treasure in Helluland; Þormóðr has to seek permission from St. Óláfr
to depart, rather than (like Gestr Bárðarson) being commanded to go
by Óláfr Tryggvason; and neither the voyage itself nor what follows
in Greenland contain any supernatural apparitions or anything else
remotely resembling the episode in Bárðar saga.
The seventeen literary sources in Þórhallur’s list, then, divide up
as follows. Two are certain or very likely to have been read as texts
while composing the saga: Landnámabók and a version of Hálfdanar
saga svarta. These two texts represent, I think, the minimum contents
of his library. The remainder were not necessarily available to him as
written texts. Three of these (short passages in Grettis saga, Flóamanna
saga and the book of Exodus) may have been available to the author
of Bárðar saga as texts, but, when the limited nature of their parallels
is scrutinized, could equally have been available in his memory, from
previous reading or hearing. This leaves the maximum likely contents
of the author’s library at five texts. The remaining twelve texts are, I
think, unlikely to have been used by him as texts during composition.
Seven are more likely to have been available to him in half-remembered
form (from having read or heard a saga) or in oral tradition: these are
Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar, Eiríks saga rauða, Harðar saga, Þorláks
saga helga, one episode in Kjalnesinga saga, a story about Guðrún
Gjúkadóttir, and stories about Lágálfr. One more (the hair-tied-to-chair

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 Bárðar saga between Orality and Literacy

motif in Hálfdanar saga Brönufóstra) could possibly be related textually

to the Solrún episode in Bárðar saga, but if so, Hálfdanar saga is the
likely borrower, and shared influence from a common fairytale motif
is more plausible. As for the remaining sagas, one presents no parallels
worth speaking of (Fóstbræðra saga), and the others share individual
motifs and stereotypes with Bárðar saga which draw on a common
stock, so a basis in oral tradition is again just as likely as the remember-
ing of a detail in any one saga. This last group includes the third recen-
sion of Örvar-Odds saga, Bósa saga, several episodes in Kjalnesinga
saga, several episodes in Grettis saga, and Hallfreðar saga; all but the
last of these texts in any case significantly postdate Bárðar saga in their
manuscript attestation and display no other signs that they were com-
posed before it.
This investigation of a range of possible textual sources weakens
the argument that Bárðar saga must have been composed in a monastic
library, and that its author’s knowledge of earlier narratives must derive
from ‘wide reading’, as Lassen puts it in the present volume (115). Lassen
herself concedes that oral mediation (albeit within the monastery walls)
may account for some of the close parallels between Bárðar saga and
the longer saga of Óláfr Tryggvason which constitute her primary case-
study (Lassen, this volume: 116). My investigation also suggests that
arguments for textual influence cannot rely on mere lists of parallels,
but need to address the extent and nature of the parallels in question
and to consider the likely mode of transmission in light of the available
manuscript evidence. On this basis, assessments of the likelihood of
influence and whether it took textual or other form will ultimately rest
on a scholar’s individual judgement: readers may find my own judge-
ment overly sceptical or overly credulous in individual instances, but
the methodological issues in question may not be ignored. We philol-
ogists pride ourselves on our ability to focus rigorously on the hard
evidence of extant texts and what may be deduced about their textual
predecessors, and in an Icelandic context have often tended to dismiss
connections with oral tradition (especially that collected in later cen-
turies) as insufficiently rigorous; but our notion of what constitutes
adequate evidence of textual borrowing has sometimes lacked rigour.
Bárðar saga’s status as an eclectic and self-conscious literary work is in
no way diminished by these considerations, but rather increased: the
author drew on texts available to him, but he also lived in an environ-
ment in which saga-reading, storytelling and general chit-chat about

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settlers and supernatural beings were aspects of everyday life.30 He was

therefore also able to draw on his memory of texts he had heard or read
and his knowledge of oral traditions circulating in his time.

The Folktale Context: Märchen or Legend?

The importance of oral tradition in the composition of Bárðar saga has
been acknowledged by many scholars, not least Þórhallur himself in
the section which follows his discussion of textual sources. Sävborg has
drawn attention to this aspect of Bárðar saga in his forthcoming article
‘Scandinavian Folk Legends’ in order to dispute the over-emphasis on
textual borrowing in studies of the ‘post-classical’ Íslendingasögur and
to question the notion that these sagas are so very different from their
‘classical’ cousins.31 Sävborg is particularly concerned to rebut the view
that the ‘post-classical’ sagas owed their special character primarily to
the influence of written fornaldarsögur: he argues that not only is it dif-
ficult to find textual parallels for certain episodes in these sagas, but that
folk legends collected in recent times, both in Iceland and in mainland
Scandinavia, often present very close parallels. He gives two examples
to support this point: the short tale Bergbúa þáttr, and the episode in
Bárðar saga where Ingjaldr is lured out to sea by the witch Hetta, which
closely resembles modern Norwegian fishing legends. The modern folk
legends cannot, of course, be sources for texts written half a millen-
nium earlier, but the closeness of the parallels suggests to Sävborg that
similar folktales could have been sources for these two narratives, and
by extension that the supernatural motifs in post-classical sagas in gen-
eral are more likely to derive from folklore than from texts.
Sävborg’s study provided the initial spark for my own investigation
into the putative textual sources of Bárðar saga. The implications of his
argument for the study of sagas’ parallels in modern folklore have also
been enlarged on in a recent lecture by Eldar Heide (2013).32 Having
reassessed Þórhallur’s examples of textual influence in a rather criti-
cal spirit, and thus provided further ammunition for Sävborg’s argu-
ment against a ‘text-only’ view of the post-classical Íslendingasögur,
then, it is only fair to Þórhallur to cross-examine in similar vein some

30
For similar methodological observations applied to Irish sagas and Classical lore,
see Hillers 1999 and Hillers 2014, both of which have fed into the present discus-
sion.
31
I am very grateful to Daniel Sävborg for sending me a copy in advance of publica-
tion.
32
This lecture was originally delivered at the 15th International Saga Conference in
Århus in August 2012.

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 Bárðar saga between Orality and Literacy

aspects of Sävborg’s own arguments concerning putative oral sources,

and to attempt to reach a middle ground on which scholars of either per-
suasion can continue to discuss the background and making of ‘post-
classical’ Íslendingasögur like Bárðar saga.
The boldest claim in Sävborg’s article is that the evidence he
cites shows (to quote his concluding sentence) that ‘several post-
classical Íslendingasögur, probably most of them, are, as are the classical
Íslendingasögur, generally based on oral tradition’ (Sävborg forthcom-
ing). This claim can be understood as meaning ‘in terms of supernatu-
ral motifs’, since this is the focus of Sävborg’s study, but even if the
statement is qualified in that way (as it is not in Heide’s more general
version of the statement [Heide 2013: 87–8]), it seems too large a claim
to be based on just two pieces of evidence. Certainly, it makes sense
for the two texts examined in Sävborg’s article, and these two exam-
ples challenge critics studying other ‘post-classical’ sagas to be wary
of assuming that oral tradition – especially folk legends – played only
a minor part in their composition. And, of course, a short article of
this kind has no space to discuss more than two examples (alongside
a third from Sturlunga saga). But more work needs to be done before
one can suggest that what applies to Bergbúa þáttr and one episode in
Bárðar saga is likely to apply to ‘most of’ the nineteen texts listed at
the beginning of this article. As Sävborg has elsewhere acknowledged,
we are dealing with an extremely heterogeneous spectrum of sagas,
ranging from texts which cannot easily be distinguished from ‘classi-
cal’ sagas at one end to texts resembling some of the more fantastic
fornaldarsögur at the other. To call Bárðar saga a ‘fairly typical post-
classical Íslendingasaga’ (Sävborg forthcoming) assumes that there is
such a thing as a typical ‘post-classical’ Íslendingasaga, but I doubt this.
A group which includes not only the giant-legend Bergbúa þáttr and the
local legends and Otherworld adventures of Bárðar saga, but (among
others) the burlesque feud-narrative of Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings,33 the
anti-feud story of Þórðar saga hreðu, the picaresque and desupernat-
uralized adventure-tale Króka-Refs saga (Willson 2006; Wolfe 1973;
Arnold 2003), the complex and tragic tales of Búi in Kjalnesinga saga and
the outlaw Hörðr in Harðar saga, the ambivalent heroic biographies of
Þorgils in Flóamanna saga and Finnbogi in Finnboga saga, the carefully
plotted and realistic regional feud-narrative Fljótsdæla saga, the com-
bination in Svarfdæla saga of a supernaturally riotous feud-narrative
with a shockingly violent shrew-taming tale, the pastiche fornaldarsaga
33
On novelistic self-consciousness in this saga, see Halldór Guðmundsson (1990).

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RALPH O’CONNOR

sitting within a humdrum 12th-century frame-tale in Stjörnu-Odda

draumr (O’Connor 2012), and the fairytale adventures with trolls in
distant lands enjoyed by the heroes of Gunnars saga Keldugnúpsfífls
and Jökuls þáttr Búasonar cannot be characterized as a whole by pick-
ing out two examples out of several hundred episodes of supernatural
encounter, however suggestive those episodes are individually.
More analytical spadework, taking the sagas equally into account
and treating them in the round rather than only in terms of isolated
motifs, is therefore needed before generalizations can be even tenta-
tively offered, or else there is a risk of replacing one unwarranted set of
generalizations with another. On this front, Sävborg himself has shown
the way forward: his two detailed studies of the ‘post-classical sagas’
in relation to the ‘classical’ ones are now essential reference-points for
further work in this field (Sävborg 2009, 2012). Further research along
the lines of Sävborg’s provocative paper on folk legends might usefully
bring into the discussion sagas which are not (unlike Bárðar saga and
Bergbúa þáttr) already widely recognized as rich in folklore content,
but which are instead usually seen as purely literary inventions, such as
Stjörnu-Odda draumr and Þórðar saga hreðu.34
Sävborg’s argument that the post-classical Íslendingasögur are
‘generally based on oral tradition’, just like their ‘classical’ cousins,
goes further than just pointing to folklore as a source. With the folk-
lorist Max Lüthi he distinguishes between two kinds of oral tradition
involving supernatural encounters, namely ‘folk legend’ and ‘folktale’.
To avoid confusion with the common use of the word ‘folktale’ in
English (including in the present article) as an umbrella-label covering
both kinds, I will designate this second kind with Lüthi’s own German
label Märchen (‘fairytale’), which is more familiar in saga criticism and
widely associated with late mediaeval Icelandic fornaldarsögur and rid-
darasögur (e.g. Glauser 1983). In a folk legend, the human’s encounter
with the Otherworld is marked by a narrative distancing-effect such as
doubt, wonder, fog or a dream-framework, thus making the story seem
more plausible as traditional history, whereas in a Märchen the ‘Other’

34
Sävborg’s paper focuses less on folklore in general and more on the possibility of
folk legends – whole narratives – as sources for the two narratives he discusses.
He rightly observes that this aspect of Bárðar saga and Bergbúa þáttr (and pos-
sibly other sagas, too) deserves more attention. Nevertheless, it is important to
note that Þórhallur Vilmundarson’s four-page discussion of the textual sources
of Bárðar saga is dwarfed by his twenty-page consideration of the folklore which
he clearly considers to be its most important type of source, and his discussion of
Bergbúa þáttr is dominated by an assessment of traditional beliefs about the giant-
protagonist (Þórhallur Vilmundarson 1991: lxxix–xcviii, ccvi–ccx).

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 Bárðar saga between Orality and Literacy

is typically introduced without any distancing effect and is understood

by the tale’s audience as fictional (Lüthi 2005: 8–12). As Sävborg (2009)
has shown in his detailed study of the world-Otherworld boundary in
classical and post-classical Íslendingasögur, this distinction between
legend and Märchen throws up some real continuities between the
two groups of Íslendingasögur, which is overlooked when scholars
unthinkingly label the latter group as generically ‘more interested in
the supernatural’ than the former. The post-classical sagas’ interest in
supernatural motifs does not distinguish them from the classical sagas,
because, firstly, several classical sagas (Eyrbyggja saga, Egils saga, Eiríks
saga rauða, Njáls saga, Laxdæla saga, Vatnsdæla saga) contain various
legend-type episodes involving sorcery, shapeshifting and the walking
dead. Secondly, several classical sagas (the longer recension of Gísla
saga, Vatnsdæla saga, Kormáks saga, Bjarnar saga Hítdælakappa, Eiríks
saga rauða) contain overseas episodes with legend- or Märchen-type
supernatural encounters. Thirdly, some post-classical sagas (Þórðar saga
hreðu, Króka-Refs saga and all but the opening episode of Fljótsdæla
saga) downplay or rationalize any supernaturalism in a manner com-
parable to the most realistic of the classical sagas.
Sävborg’s paper ‘Scandinavian Folk Legends’ (forthcoming) like-
wise emphasizes the continuities between classical and ‘post-classical’
sagas, seeing them (rightly, in my view) as stories intended as something
more like history than fiction. However, he does so by taking Lüthi’s
distinction between legend and Märchen in a direction that throws
up other problems along the way: first, by endorsing Lüthi’s assertion
that Märchen are always fictional, and second, by asserting that the
‘post-classical’ Íslendingasögur are essentially legend-like rather than
Märchen-like, with little or no influence from the fornaldarsögur. Both
views present incidental but important difficulties.
On the matter of fictionality and Märchen episodes in sagas, it is
worth remembering one of the main points made in Sävborg’s study
of boundary-markers and reiterated in Camilla Asplund Ingemark’s
contribution to the present volume: namely, that the narrative frame-
work of Lüthi’s ‘legend’ type, with its distancing markers, tends to be
used when the supernatural encounter described takes place in Iceland,
whereas the Märchen-pattern (found in many fornaldarsögur and rid-
darasögur) tends to occur when the encounter takes place a long way
from Iceland in places where extraordinary creatures and phenom-
ena are more to be expected (Sävborg 2009; Asplund Ingemark, this
volume). This geographical principle makes it difficult to map the

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legend-Märchen dichotomy onto our modern history-fiction dichot-

omy. If weird and wonderful things were expected to take place in
distant lands, why should stories about such things (such as we find
in many Märchen) necessarily always have been taken as fiction, as
Sävborg (forthcoming) asserts? The prologues and epilogues to the
extant late-mediaeval Icelandic Märchensagas (both riddarasögur and
fornaldarsögur) suggest that the truth of such wonders was energeti-
cally debated, not that they were assumed by everyone to be factually
untrue.35 To judge from the Icelandic literary evidence, the presence of
distancing markers in legend-type stories may reinforce the historio-
graphical narrative stance of the overall saga (however entertaining),
but the absence of such distancing-markers did not necessarily mean
that an opposite claim of fictionality – of deliberate fabrication – was
being made. Rather, the two kinds of narrative framework are two dif-
ferent ways of dealing with plausibility when representing extraordi-
nary phenomena. In other words, there is no problem with the notion
that folk legends are basically historical narratives, but Märchen could
have been presented or understood as historical in certain contexts as
well: they were not self-evidently fictional. Sävborg’s point about the
continuity between classical and ‘post-classical’ sagas is not affected by
this consideration, indeed is strengthened by it; but this consideration
calls for a more critical use of Lüthi’s dichotomy.
On Sävborg’s second point, it is not clear to me that the post-clas-
sical sagas as a group can be characterized as essentially legend-like
rather than Märchen-like. (Again, if we blur the sharp history-fiction
dichotomy implicit in Lüthi’s legend-Märchen model, as discussed
above, then this objection does not necessarily affect Sävborg’s view of
these sagas as essentially historical, but it is important in its own right.)
Rather, individual sagas vary in their relative proximity to legend and
Märchen and often mix both modes strategically. Sävborg (2009) has
himself pointed out in his earlier study that Märchen-type encounters
with the supernatural are prominent in the many episodes in post-
classical Íslendingasögur which are set abroad, such as the fights with
trolls in Gunnars saga and Jökuls þáttr and the hero’s conversation with
the bear in Finnboga saga. As he observes there, several post-classical
Íslendingasögur contain examples of both Märchen- and legend-types
of encounter with the ‘Other’.

35
For discussion of these passages, see O’Connor 2005. Sävborg simply states that
the more Märchen-like fornaldarsögur were ‘perceived as pure fiction’ (Sävborg
forthcoming), as if this matter were uncontroversial.

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 Bárðar saga between Orality and Literacy

This mixing of folktale genres is characteristic of Bárðar saga,

whose author has been shown by Asplund Ingemark (this volume)
to have been unusually knowing in his manipulation of folktale pat-
terns generally. The supernatural encounters in the middle part, set in
Iceland, mainly feature the ‘legend’ pattern, with distancing markers
such as creatures appearing from thick fog (Bárðar saga 1991: 134–5,
148). But the first two chapters of the saga narrates the dealings of the
men of the Arctic north with þursar (ogres), risar (giants), trolls and
other supernatural beings in a very matter-of-fact way, without any dis-
tancing markers: instead of meeting a giant in the mist, in the first line
of the saga we meet a giant called Mist (Dumbr), with nothing nebu-
lous about him (Bárðar saga 1991: 101–5). Likewise, the last part of the
saga, also set in the Arctic wilderness, features various supernatural
encounters of the Märchen type, where supernatural things just pop
up out of nowhere. Nobody is surprised when Krókr and Krekja are
swallowed up by the earth, when an enchanted bull comes snuffling
up to the tent and tries to gore Gestr, or when Óðinn turns up, dressed
to kill, only to be sent overboard by a whack with a crucifi x (Bárðar
saga 1991: 163–4). These events are described in such a matter-of-fact
way that they are almost cartoon-like, by contrast with the mysterious
apparitions of Bárðr and other creatures in the wilderness of Iceland.
Furthermore, Märchen story-patterns are mixed with legend-patterns
in the episode involving the rescue of Sólrún from her trollish abductor
Kolbjörn (chs. 14–16). The humans’ first encounter with these two indi-
viduals is mysterious to begin with, involving apparitions in the mist
and the unexplained disappearance of sheep (Bárðar saga 1991: 146–9);
but, having got his human protagonists into the trolls’ cave, the narra-
tor indulges in Märchen-style plot-patterns (paralleled in fairytale-style
fornaldarsögur like Hálfdanar saga Brönufóstra, discussed above) such
as the damsel in distress, love at first sight, and the slapstick antics of
the trolls and ogres who assemble for the wedding – and not least that
stock character found throughout Germanic legend and saga, the mon-
ster’s formidable mother (Bárðar saga 1991: 150–8).
These examples suggest that even this saga, rich as it is in folk
legends, cannot easily be prised apart from the fairytale world of the
Märchen and the later fornaldarsögur, however rich it may be in the folk
legends which (as Sävborg argues) contribute to its essentially histori-
cal purpose and character. As Sävborg (2009: 347) has observed in his
earlier study, Lüthi’s distinction between legend and Märchen works

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RALPH O’CONNOR

much better for short narratives like folktales than it does for large-
scale texts, especially sagas, which are hybrid by their very nature.

Conclusion: Bárðar saga as Literature

One reason why it seems risky to use a simple, dualistic scheme like
Lüthi’s to work up a sense of the literary character of Bárðar saga is
that Otherworldly encounters are more than just an incidental (and
therefore usefully diagnostic) narrative feature of the text. On the con-
trary, they constitute its main subject. In a more sustained and intense
manner than any other Íslendingasaga, Bárðar saga explores, analy-
ses, questions, and worries over the nature of the relationship between
humans and the supernatural beings that surround them and their his-
tory. It does so in a complex and ambivalent way, and Lüthi’s tools are
too blunt an instrument to make sense of the meanings which result.
The challenge here is to remain sensitive to the construction of the saga
as a whole, not just to its component parts. Limitations of space prevent
me from engaging in such a discussion now, but I will illustrate my
point with one example.
The first chapter, featuring Dumbr and the ogres, is delicately bal-
anced against the last major episode in the saga, when Gestr and his
companions journey out beyond Dumbshaf to visit Raknarr’s grave-
mound. Both episodes lack distance-markers, as has been mentioned.
But while that last episode presents the supernatural as wholly other –
polarized between the utterly demonic figure of Raknar and the utterly
angelic figure of Óláfr – the opening episodes present the supernatural
as ontologically no different from the natural, in a way which is distinct
from both legend and Märchen genres. Dumbr and his enemies are not
really supernatural at all. This attitude is reinforced by the narrator’s
almost Linnaean interest in the natural history and classification of
these various beings: what makes tröll, þursar, risar and other creatures
distinct from each other and from humans. Their differences have less
to do with any supernatural power or identity than with variations in
size, mood and appearance – they are races, not orders of supernatu-
ral being – and intermarriage between them and humans is seen to
be a normal occurrence in the far North of olden times, despite the
humans’ tendency not to like monsters. As Ármann Jakobsson (2005)
has shown, Bárðar saga is interested to an unusual extent in defining
these races as consistently as possible.

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 Bárðar saga between Orality and Literacy

I do not believe this interest to have been merely antiquarian. I sug-

gest that the saga as a whole has been constructed, as both history and
literature, in part to explore imaginatively the question of how the rela-
tionship between humans and other intelligent beings changed from
the level playing-field depicted in the opening chapters to the mor-
ally polarized situation depicted in the encounter with Raknarr – or,
put another way, how the ‘Other’ became first supernatural and then
demonic. Bárðr embodies some of these changes in his own person,
beginning life as a human with giant and troll ancestry, then taken
south, fostered by a mountain-dweller, settling Iceland as a human,
and eventually leaving the human community and becoming an
Otherworldly being in his own right, first as a protector of his kith and
kin, and later – when he knows his time is over – as a vengeful destroyer
of his own son, like the demonic dísir who kill Þiðrandi Síðu-Hallsson
in the Flateyjarbók text of Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar (Flateyjarbok I,
1860–8: 418–21). The role of Christianity in polarizing the ethical land-
scape of the North seems clear: supernatural beings have no place in
Norway under the new faith, and are driven northwards to the Arctic
wilderness, where they are either trivialized or demonized in the light
of Christianity. Taken by itself, the Raknarr episode seems to preach
the message summarized by Lassen (this volume: 107): paganism is ‘an
inadequate and evil contrast to Christianity, which is both omnipotent
and good’. But this message is made ambivalent by being framed as the
last episode of a longer and more complex history.36 Christianity and
paganism do not represent a binary opposition to begin with, but we
see them become binary. The framing of the Raknarr episode makes
its meaning very different to its analogues in the longer sagas of St.
Óláfr and Óláfr Tryggvason, where similar stories are framed as part
of a heroic missionary endeavour. In Bárðar saga, the superiority of
Christianity is never in doubt, but its triumph is set against the tragedy
of Gestr’s death and the larger loss of human interaction with supernat-
ural beings, which comes about in the wake of the new religion. In the
longer saga of Óláfr Tryggvason, the short þættir of Helgi Þórisson and
Þiðrandi Síðu-Hallsson strike momentary tragic notes as necessary sac-
rifices in a larger triumphal salvation-history (Rowe 1998). But in a saga
whose main characters are trolls, this balance of triumph and tragedy is
the other way around. Bárðar saga explores the questions it poses about
the supernatural world in a complex and ambivalent manner, juxtapos-
ing different viewpoints and tropes in order to provoke reflection rather
36
Other aspects of this tension are ably explored by Barraclough (2008: 25–9, 35–9).

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RALPH O’CONNOR

than merely to preach a simple message. In this sense, its function is

like some of the more enigmatic folk legends about elves, writ large.
Nor is this just a story about new versus old religions. When Bárðr
retires into the glacier, his reasons for doing so are not solely the fact
that he was ‘other’ by nature; that is a contributing reason. The other
reason mentioned for his change of mood is much more personal and,
as it were, human: his grief at the disappearance of his daughter Helga
and his alienation from his brother as part of that grief. He moves out
of human society sakir ættar minnar ok harma stórra, ‘because of my
ancestry and my great grief’ (Bárðar saga 1991: 119). The foregrounding
of Bárðr’s grief at the point when he disappears from society helps to
situate the concept of ‘turning troll’ within a wider spectrum of differ-
ent kinds of alienation and exile, putting flesh and blood on an appar-
ently supernatural phenomenon and preventing it from being objecti-
fied or reduced as monstrously ‘other’ in the manner, say, of Gull-Þórir’s
transformation into a dragon at the end of Þorskfirðinga saga (see Evans
2005: 243–59). By the same token, the juxtaposition of the uncanny
concept of ‘turning troll’ with more familiar experiences of alienation
such as grief, exile and unrequited longing underlines the genuinely
transformative power – in both positive and negative senses – of such
experiences.37
To ensure that the audience digests this point, the saga author does
not stop at presenting Bárðr’s complex feelings at this turning-point in
his career, but distributes and repeats some of these forms of alienation
among his other characters. These characters echo or prefigure Bárðr’s
withdrawal by retreating to the wilderness: Svalr and Þúfa turn troll
and have to be killed because of their antisocial behaviour (Bárðar saga
1991: 113); the self-willed Gróa moves into a cave because she gets fed up
with her husband (ibid. 112); and her polar opposite, the passive victim
and bride Sólrún, is stolen from her family in Greenland and kept as
a slave in an ogre’s cave (ibid. 151–2). The most complex of this saga’s
linked gallery of exiles is Bárðr’s own daughter Helga, who experiences
several forms of exile in succession: she is sent adrift to Greenland,
where she becomes the lover of Skeggi but is looked at askance by the
local community (ibid. 115). The first piece of direct speech in the whole
saga is her verse of longing for her home on Snæfellsnes, a poem which
consists almost entirely of placenames (ibid. 115–16). Skeggi takes her
back to Iceland with him, but she is soon afterwards taken home by her

37
Insightful remarks on Bárðar saga as a study in estrangement and dislocation are
offered by Arnold (2005: 133).

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 Bárðar saga between Orality and Literacy

father, and her next poem expresses her longing for Skeggi (ibid. 122).
The saga does not mention Skeggi putting up any resistance to Bárðr’s
removal of Helga from his household, but Helga is not willing to stay at
her father’s house. From this point on she is rootless, wandering from
one place to another, optast í hreysum eða hólum, ‘mostly in caves and
mounds’ (ibid. 122). Like Bárðr and the other creatures, she fades into
the landscape as an invisible presence, an image of grief as archetypal
and inconsolable as Guðrún Gjúkadóttir herself.
Consider also that, before his retreat into the glacier, Bárðr has been
repeatedly displaced from one homeland after another, driven twice
out of Dumbshaf by feuds with ogres and driven out of Halogaland by
the tyranny of King Haraldr; that after his retreat into the glacier, as
Ármann Jakobsson (1998) has shown, he tries repeatedly but unsuc-
cessfully to perpetuate the blending of his kind with humans; and that
his final appearance as a kind of avenging demon at his son’s baptism
suggests that his final destination will be Hell, the very quintessence of
exile. To be a troll is to be permanently on the move, displaced, shut out
from lasting human contact.38 The saga can be seen, not just as a saga
about the Otherworld, but a study in alienation for which otherworldly
beings are a perfect embodiment of the theme, just as Gísla saga and
Grettis saga explore a similar theme embodied in the outlaw and the
monster-fighter. Thinking of the saga in this way may help explain why
so many readers find it so haunting.
In conclusion, Bárðar saga is coherent, not merely as a factual
account of the extinction of the trolls (Ármann Jakobsson 1998: 70),39
but also artistically, as a work of historical (or pseudo-historical) litera-
ture which explores a set of themes by playing on the conventions of
both oral and textual narrative forms familiar to its audience.40 History
was, after all, a form of imaginative literature in the Middle Ages, and a
history like this could afford to be unusually imaginative without being
taken as a mere fable. There is much more to be said about the saga’s
overall artistic coherence, which I have not had space to argue as fully
as it deserves; but I wish to emphasize that this coherence is achieved
not in spite of the mass of different materials which the author has
38
Compare Arnold (2005: 142) on the Hrafnistumanna-sögur: ‘To be troll is to be of
a remote place and a remote past that worries the present’.
39
Note, however, that Ármann’s analysis of the saga emphasizes its constructed na-
ture as narrative. For further discussion of the literary nature of historical writing,
see Ármann Jakobsson 2013: 17–18.
40
The saga author’s purposeful play on oral narrative forms is beautifully docu-
mented in Asplund Ingemark’s contribution to this volume, which converges with
mine on several points.

165
RALPH O’CONNOR

included, but – as its treatment of the exile theme suggests – by means

of the purposeful juxtaposition of different materials, narrative strands
and apparently random pieces of information. Its author was eclectic
but purposeful: there is no need for us to limit our investigation of his
work to textual or oral contexts alone, and every reason to examine it
through both lenses at once. Bárðar saga is a complex and (for all the
recent upsurge of interest) still relatively unstudied saga: much work
remains to be done on interpreting the meanings and connotations
of individual episodes, and this will inevitably shape our developing
interpretation of the text as a whole. This is no easy task and calls for the
combined strengths of both philologists and folklorists.

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ELDAR HEIDE

Bárðar Saga
as a Source for Reconstruction
of Pre-Christian Religion?
Eldar Heide

Abstract:
This article discusses the value of Bárðar saga as a source for the reconstruc-
tion of pre-Christian religion. The title’s question mark should be stressed.
Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss is certainly not one that stands out as a valuable
source for the reconstruction of Old Nordic religion since it is considered a
late saga and is dominated by fantastic and clearly fictitious elements. But, it
is argued, some information, especially on cosmology and the supernatural
beings inhabiting the local landscapes, probably is valuable. That information
must be used with caution, because it seems to be ‘contaminated’ by liter-
ary inventions. The saga’s references to pre-Christian gods – Bárðr’s byname
Snæfellsáss, the Óðinn-figure Rauðgrani, and the references to Þórr and
Frigg – seem too problematic to be of any use.

I. I will start with a few thoughts on our source situation and our alter-
natives. A fact that is often not realized is that how strict we should be
about our sources depends upon what alternatives we have. Some schol-
ars adopt an absolutist stand on source criticism: only ‘reliable’ sources
should be accepted, always. But is this not a self-delusion? Is it possible
to maintain such a claim when working with the Nordic Middle Ages?
Ideally, when studying Nordic pre-Christian religion, we should only
use contemporary sources from within the Nordic pre-Christian cul-
tures, sources that explain the whole breadth of the Old Nordic religion
in every detail. But, as we all know, we do not possess plentiful sources
of that kind.
Regarding many of the gods, we have quite a bit of information that
seems fairly reliable, mostly from Eddic and skaldic poetry and Snorra
Edda. However, there are other aspects of the old religion that must
have been important but are virtually left out in the ‘standard’ sources
for the religion. Regarding these parts of the religion, it seems that we
have two options: We can give up and, in many cases, that is what we
should do. But in other cases, we can attempt to supplement our evi-
dence with more problematic material. When this option is viable, I
believe we ought to do that, although it will not give us certain results,

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 Bárðar Saga as a Source for Reconstruction of Pre-Christian Religion?

because when studying these questions, it is unrealistic to demand cer-

tainty. Were we to demand certainty above all, we could only study very
few questions and the research field would more or less be closed down.
Instead, I think we should try to identify the most probable explanation
or model of understanding given the body of information that we have
at hand. This means that a student of Old Scandinavian religion should
not ignore Bárðar saga, although it is certainly not an important source
for that study since much of the information it presents that seems to
be relevant probably is not. But concerning certain aspects of the old
religion, Bárðar saga is nonetheless interesting.

II. I will now discuss some passages from the saga that may yield
information on the old religion, especially the gods. The most obvious
example is Bárðr’s byname Snæfellsáss, allegedly given to him when he
moved into a cave below the Snæfellsjökull glacier combined with the
information that people started worshipping him as their god (heitguð)
at this point, because he was able to help many people (Bárðar saga
1991: 119–29, 142). Does this reflect a tradition of local gods in addi-
tion to the central gods, Þórr, Óðinn and the others? I find this idea
problematic because we are dealing here with a quite isolated instance.
Troll-like beings living in mountains do not normally function as gods.
On the contrary, they are dangerous (e.g. Fljótsdœla saga 1950: 225–29;
Grettis saga 1936: 215–16; Gunnars saga Keldugnúpsfífls 1959: 360–61;
Egils saga einhenda 1954: 343); people try to stay away from them, as is
also the case with other trolls in the saga, especially in the latter part.
To be sure, Bárðr is half human, genetically (Bárðar saga 1991: 101–02),
but he was raised by a troll (ibid. 103, 119) and ends up living like a
troll (ibid. 119–21), so when he becomes the Snæfellsáss, he seems to be
perceived more as a troll than as a human. One could argue that sup-
port for understanding the Snæfellsáss as one of the æsir is found in the
local god-like beings Þorgerðr Hǫlgabrúðr / Hǫrðabrúðr / Hǫrgatroll
in several Old Norse texts (see Røthe 2007) and Óláfr Geirstaðaalfr in
Flateyjarbók (II 1944–45: 74–78). But to me it seems that these beings
either are not analogous when we take a closer look at them, or the
passages describing them contain so little information that we cannot
say anything about them. Þorgerðr Hǫlgabrúðr was connected to a
cultic building with a depiction of her inside it and this makes her very
different from Bárðr. Óláfr Geirstaðaalfr became an alfr after he was
buried, which also is very different from Bárðr, because Bárðr is not
dead when he allegedly becomes an áss, and alfar in general are more

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ELDAR HEIDE

closely connected to the departed than are trolls. A possible parallel

could be the Svínfellsáss mentioned in Njáls saga (ch. 123, Brennu-
Njáls saga 1954: 31). The name is parallel to Snæfellsáss – ‘the áss of
NN mountain’ – but we have no information that he was venerated
like a deity; the little information that we have on him indicates that
he is a rather unpleasant figure, something like a troll: Skarpheðinn
insults Flosi by claiming that Flosi is the bride of the Svínfellsáss every
ninth night, being turned into a woman by him.1 The explanation for
the bynames Snæfellsáss and Svínfellsáss could be a folk etymological
association between áss ‘a god’ and áss ‘a hill’ (people could think that
an áss ‘god’ was a being that lived in an áss ‘hill’). But it could also be
irony. At the end of Bárðar saga, there is a stanza that compares the
sons of Hjalti to æsir – they were so well dressed that people thought
they were æsir (ch. 22, Bárðar saga 1991: 171–72). This appears to be
some sort of joke and it is conceivable that the names Snæfellsáss and
Svínfellsáss were coined with similar irony. These suggestions may well
be wrong, but the important part is that they still illustrate that the
Snæfellsáss motif is too problematic or uncertain to throw light on the
Old Norse gods, at least at the present state of research – although there
is every reason to believe that some supernatural being was associated
with the Snæfellsjökull mountain, as it is one of the most prominent
mountains in all of Iceland.
The second eye-catching example is the verse pronounced by the
troll-woman Hetta in chapter 7 of the saga, giving the bearings for the
fishing spot Grímsmið (Bárðar saga 1991: 124–25):
Róa skaltu Fjall firða
framm á lǫg stirðan;
þar mun gaurr glitta,
ef þú vilt Grímsmið hitta,
þar skaltu þá liggja –
Þórr er víss til Friggjar –; (variant: Þórr er vinr Friggjar )
rói norpr enn nefskammi
Nesit í Hrakhvammi.

This verse is complicated and in all likelihood partly corrupt, so I will

not supply it with a complete translation. For our question, the inter-
esting part is the stál, ‘parenthetical clause’, in line 6, which translates
as ‘Þórr is certain to Frigg’ or ‘Þórr is Frigg’s friend’ in an alternative
variant. Is this verse evidence that Frigg could be understood as Þórr’s
1
Því þá – ef þú ert brúðr Svínfellsáss, sem sagt er, hverja ina níunda nótt ok geri han
þik at konu (Brennu-Njáls saga 1954: 31).

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 Bárðar Saga as a Source for Reconstruction of Pre-Christian Religion?

wife, an alternative tradition to that of Frigg being Óðinn’s wife since

in Iceland Þórr was the main god, not Óðinn (Turville-Petre 1964: 90
ff.; Brink 2007)? This does not seem likely, because this information is
completely isolated, and the supernatural character Grímr, who turns
up just after this stanza, appears to be a mixture of Þórr and Óðinn:
he has a red beard, associating him with Þórr, but Grímr is a common
name for Óðinn (Falk 1924: 14). It also does not fit that the Þórr-like
Grímr functions as a representative of evil trolls, which he does in this
passage, because in other sources, Þórr’s most fundamental character-
istic is exactly his opposition to trolls. Thus, Bárðar saga’s information
about Þórr seems confused.
Another possible example is that, right after Bárðr and his people
came to Iceland, they sacrificed for good luck in a cave (blótuðu … til
heilla sér, Bárðar saga 1991: 111). This, however, is miniscule informa-
tion to go by and there is no particular reason to believe it is authentic.
There is also the account of Rauðgrani, who is Óðinn in disguise
and who assists Gestr in the quest for the treasure belonging to the
living dead (haugbúi) Raknarr in Helluland, but who fails because he
is not powerful enough (ibid. 160–69). This occurs in a part of the saga
that functions mostly to demonstrate that the pagan religion is a delu-
sion, so the context certainly does not support the trustworthiness of
this information. The description conforms to a presentation of Óðinn
which is frequent in the legendary sagas (Røthe 2010; Lassen 2011). This
does not necessarily render it trustworthy as such, but it seems worth
pointing out that the disguised and treacherous Óðinn is also found in
the Eddic poetry (e.g. Grímnismál, Sæmundar Edda 1867: 75–89) and
Snorra Edda (e.g. the myth of Óðinn, Gunnlǫð and the mead of poetry,
Edda Snorra Sturlusonar 1931: 83–85), so there is reason to believe that
this version of Óðinn did, indeed, form some part of pre-Christian
beliefs. Even so, Bárðar saga does not give us more information about
this facet of Óðinn than we know from other and better sources.
I conclude that Bárðar saga does not tell us much of what we usu-
ally think of as Old Nordic religion.

III. However, Old Nordic religion was not only about the gods who were
venerated by populations spread out across large geographical areas. In
addition to these gods, supernatural beings inhabiting the local land-
scape and the cosmological notions connected to them must have been
important to people. Thus, such beings constituted a significant part
of Old Nordic religion although non-historians of religion are perhaps

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ELDAR HEIDE

not accustomed to this perspective – because Christianity has led to an

understanding of religion proper as primarily concerning the central,
universal part while the rest is regarded as spurious superstitions and
popular beliefs.
I have in mind beings like the landvættir, ‘land spirits’ or ‘nature
spirits’, who live in groves, (lundar), mounds (haugar) or waterfalls
(forsar) according to the Norwegian Gulaþing law (Nyare kristenrett,
Norges gamle Love 1846–95 II: 326–27; trúa at landvættir sé í lundum,
haugum eða forsum, ‘believe that land spirits inhabit groves, hills or
waterfalls’), and of which mountains and hillocks were full, according
to Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar (Heimskringla I 1941: 316; fjǫll ǫll ok hólar
váru fullir af landvættum, sumt stórt en sumt smátt, ‘all mountains and
hillocks were full of land spirits, some large and some small’), or who
live in cairns and caves and give prosperity when receiving sacrifices,
according to Hauksbók (1892–6: 167),2 and alfar who live in mounds
and cure people when receiving sacrifices, according to Kormáks saga
(1939: 288); and the spámaðr / ármaðr who lives in a boulder near the
farm and secures prosperity in Þorvalds þáttr víðfǫrla (2003: 61–68)
and Kristni saga (2003: 7–8); troll, risar ‘giants’ and the like who live
in caves, mountains, gorges and similar places according to many
sources (e.g. Fljótsdœla saga 1950: 225–26; Grettis saga 1936: 215–16;
Gunnars saga Keldugnúpsfífls 1959: 360–61; Egils saga einhenda 1954:
343), and the bergbúi ‘rock dweller’ who multiplies a farmer’s flock in
Landnámabók (1968: 330).
Bárðar saga seems to give quite a bit of information about bergbúi-
like beings. To a remarkable extent, it tells of trolls and the like living
in the wilderness, in caves, prominent mountains or glaciers, canyons,
waterfalls, etc. (Bárðar saga 1991: 111–12, 119, 124, 128, 130, 144, 149),
and of the names and locations of these dwelling places, providing
many details on how they can be dangerous to people and their live-
stock, how humans find entrances to their dwellings only when they are
lost in fog, darkness or drifting snow (ibid. 134–35), and how they live
isolated from humans (in the last part of the saga; see IV below).
For many reasons, most of this probably reflects pre-Christian
notions. Firstly, as Stefan Brink (2001: 88) points out: there is no reason
to believe that the pagan Scandinavians lacked the ‘pantheon’ of spir-
its that we know from later sources. Secondly, it is hard to see how

2
Normalized: Sumar konur eru svá vitlausar ok blindar um þurft sína at þær taka mat
sinn ok fǿra á hreysar út eða undir hella ok signa landvættum ok eta síðan til þess at
landvættir skyli þeim þá hollar vera ok til þess at þær skyli þá eiga betra bú en áðr.

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 Bárðar Saga as a Source for Reconstruction of Pre-Christian Religion?

these beliefs could have come from Christianity and learned literature
since the descriptions given there correspond poorly to the Old Norse
accounts (and to later Scandinavian accounts, which, on the other hand,
correspond well to the Old Norse accounts), and because the Church
would have opposed the introduction of such beliefs rather than facili-
tated it. Thirdly, the terminology is native (troll, risar, bergbúar, jǫtnar,
etc.) and many of the terms can easily be demonstrated to be ancient.
For example, the Sami word jiehtanas (Kåven et al. 1995: 269; Sveen
2003: 55) must have been borrowed from a Proto-Scandinavian form
of jǫtunn (namely *etanar; *etanaz in an alternative spelling. Jǫtunn
reflects a variant *etunar). Fourthly, very similar beliefs and practices
are found in neighbouring cultures, such as in Finno-Ugric parts of
Fenno-Scandia (e.g. Manker 1957; Sveen 2003; Itkonen 1946: 70 ff.),
even in the far (north-)east (ibid.); there, too, in connection with a native
terminology. Fift hly, beliefs in giants and monsters living in or belong-
ing to mountains and caves are found all over the world, independently
of Christianity and Medieval European learned literature.3 Why should
we derive such beings from these sources here in Scandinavia?
Notions of trolls and other local supernatural beings and the cos-
mological ideas connected to them seem to have lived on, not much
changed, into Christian times and partly even into modern times. This
is understandable, because such beliefs are not in direct competition
with the essential Christian beliefs and practices. In the Christian para-
digm, they are not an alternative, they are something else than the faith
in God and the saints and the rituals that followed this faith. Therefore,
Christianity would not necessarily displace them.
Based on combined evidence of the kind just exemplified, we can
be quite confident that bergbúi-type traditions existed in pre-Christian
times. But if we want a fuller understanding of them, we have to turn
to late Old Norse texts, like Bárðar saga (and to some degree even folk-
lore recorded in post-medieval times). This means that Bárðar saga and
other late texts can play a role in the reconstruction of this part of Old
Nordic religion in the sense that they can contribute to a more complete
picture of the everyday side of Old Nordic religion.

3
E.g. Scylla among the Classical Greek (Price and Kearns 2003: 502); Yamanba /
Yama-uba in Japan (Ashkenazi 2003: 237, 290–91); Agngalo in the Philippines (Ra-
mos 1971: 71), Nargun in south-eastern Aboriginal Australia (Massola 1965: 155
[Thanks to Bernard Mees, Melbourne, for help with this reference.]), or Trawum
among the Indians living in the Cordilleras of South America (Kössler-Ilg 1956:
68–70).

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ELDAR HEIDE

Much of the useful information I have mentioned concerns points

in the landscape where supernatural beings can be encountered and
it is thus connected to cosmology in a wide sense. The saga also con-
tains other interesting information of this kind. I have previously used
Bárðar saga’s information on the location of Raknarr’s grave in the
latter part of the saga in an article on a specific aspect of the cosmology
of Old Nordic religion, namely how the otherworld is so often located
on the other side of water (Heide 2011). Raknarr’s grave is located in
Hellulands óbygðir, on an islet connected to the mainland with a reef
flooded at high tide and passable only at low tide (Bárðar saga 1991:
160–69). It is hard to find a more liminal location: at the extreme out-
skirts of the world, on the border to the otherworld, one could say, and
in addition it is in the ocean where it shifts back and forth between this
side and the other side due to the tide. I used this information because
such ideas did not come from Christianity, even if the moral of this
part of the saga is definitely Christian. Such ideas of liminality seem
to be ancient as well as essential to religious cosmology throughout
the world. Among the Sami, sacrificial sites are often located on islets
separated from the mainland by a shallow sound that can be forded
(Manker 1957: 24; Heide 2011: 74) – as if they belong to the otherworld
because they are islands, but also belong to this world because you can
go there on foot – such islets are therefore even more liminal than ordi-
nary islands.
Bárðar saga also provides examples of a different type of liminal
marker that hides points of passage to the otherworld: low visibility in
the form of fog, drifting snow and darkness created by supernatural
beings for their own needs (Bárðar saga 1991: 124, 133–34, 148). Again,
this idea is not something that stems from Christianity or learned lit-
erature, but seems to be ancient, so Bárðar saga’s examples can supple-
ment our picture of this.

IV. I do not claim that everything Bárðar saga tells us about trolls or
cosmology comes close to pre-Christian beliefs. On the contrary, essen-
tial troll motifs in Bárðar saga seem to be literary inventions. One sus-
picious trait of Bárðar saga is that trolls and humans live completely
side-by-side. Humans and the different kinds of trolls mix freely, as
humans of different races might do, and they even emigrate to Iceland
together on board the same ship (ibid. 108–111). This seems unparal-
leled (as is also noted by Ármann Jakobsson 2005: 2). In other accounts,
trolls and humans certainly interact and they sometimes even have

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 Bárðar Saga as a Source for Reconstruction of Pre-Christian Religion?

children together (e.g. Kjalnesinga saga 1959: 33–34; Örvar-Odds saga

1954: 274–75), but there is a very distinct barrier between them; trolls
belong in a different world, typically in distant places that are difficult
to visit (e.g. ibid.). One example of Bárðar saga’s lack of this barrier is
that Þórðr is able to locate again the entrance to the troll Kolbjǫrn’s
cave and to walk right in (Bárðar saga 1991: 150). In the rest of the
saga (e.g. ibid. 134–35), in other texts and in the popular traditions, the
entrance to the otherworld is hidden or inaccessible in other ways – e.g.
Bergbúa þáttr (1991: 450). It is also conspicuous that it is Bárðr’s father
who is a troll. Normally, in mixed relationships, it is the mother who is
a troll (Meulengracht Sørensen 1977; Steinsland 1990; Steinsland 1991
[1989]). Accordingly, Bárðar saga represents a violation of the pattern,
although exceptions to the rule are found in some other sources, too
(Hversu Noregr byggðist 1954; Fundinn Noregr 1954). In the last part of
the saga, the trolls maintain their normal distance to humans. It also
seems unparalleled that the saga distinguishes between risar, þursar,
troll and so on. In other accounts, and in popular traditions through-
out the Nordic countries, these are different terms for the same beings,
or at least it is impossible to distinguish between them. As mentioned
above, the Snæfellsáss motif is also somewhat suspicious. The idea
that, on moving into the glacier, Bárðr becomes the god (heitguð) of
Snæfellsness and people start worshipping him because he can help
them, bears some resemblance to Snorri’s euhemerism in Ynglinga
saga and Gylfaginning (Edda Snorra Sturlusonar), which originates in
learned literature (Dronke and Dronke 1977).
In spite of such probable inventions, it seems that much of Bárðar
saga’s information on trolls and cosmology can help us get a more com-
plete view of pre-Christian religion. In fact, there may be information
valuable to our purpose even in motifs that clearly are literary inven-
tions. The story about the quest for Raknarr’s grave in the latter part of
the saga clearly is fiction and serves to demonstrate that the pagan reli-
gion is a delusion, but the ideas behind the location of Raknarr’s grave
nonetheless seems to be pre-Christian, although they have become
adopted into a Christian world-view.

V. It is also possible to use late texts in an indirect way, by under-

standing them as comparative material, which does not directly say
anything about the questions we are looking to answer, but which may
give us ‘keys’ that can potentially unlock our essential material. We
can pick up inspired ideas from texts generally deemed unreliable and

177
ELDAR HEIDE

apply these to more reliable texts in order to see whether these make
sense in a new way when approached with such new ideas in mind. In
other words, we can use problematic texts as a background for asking
questions to the best texts. Schjødt has advocated this way of using leg-
endary sagas (Schjødt 2000: 38). One possible such ‘key’ in Bárðar saga
could be the byname Snæfellsáss, the notion of local deitiess that the
local population would rely on. I am sceptical about the case of this
particular byname, but the question may well be worth considering
more in-depth. Snæfellsáss (and Svínfellsáss) can also inspire us to re-
question other aspects of the category áss, especially its demarcation in
relation to other mythical beings.
Another possible ‘key’ is Bárðar saga’s depiction of the role of
jǫtnar within the old religion. Røthe (2010) points out that, in the leg-
endary sagas, the giants fulfi l a more important role than in the Eddic
poetry and Snorra Edda, and in this respect, Bárðar saga follows the
legendary sagas. One reason for the heavier emphasis on giants in the
late texts could, of course, be that the traditions had degenerated when
they were composed. But, in many cases, it is worth having another
look at the best sources to check whether we may have overlooked
something regarding the giants, their role(s), within (popular) beliefs
and their social organisation.

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Author presentations

Author presentations
Author presentations
AÐALHEIÐUR GUÐMUNDSDÓTTIR
Docent in Folkloristics at the University of Iceland (http://uni.hi.is/adalh/).
Her research interests focus on Old Norse literature, Manuscript studies,
Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda, Folktales, Ballads and rímur, the History of
dance and the History of magic. Her publications include the monographs
Úlfhams saga, 2001, and Strengleikar, 2006, as well as numerous articles,
the most recent include “Gunnarr and the Snake Pit in Medieval Art and
Legend”, Speculum 87/4, 2012, and “Saga motifs on Gotland picture stones:
The case of Hildr Högnadóttir”, Gotland’s Picture Stones: Bearers of an
Enigmatic Legacy, Gotländsk arkiv, 2012.

Address:
Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir
University of Iceland, Faculty of Social and Human Sciences
Gimli, Sæmundargata
101 Reykjavik, Iceland
e-mail: [email protected]

ANNETTE LASSEN
Ph.D., associate professor at The Arnamagnæan Institute, University
of Copenhagen. Her publications include two monographs within the
field of Old Norse literary history and mythology (Øjet og blindheden i
norrøn litteratur og mytologi, 2003, and Odin på kristent pergament: en
teksthistorisk studie, 2011) and a textcritical edition of the postmedieval
Eddic poem, Hrafnagaldur Óðins (Hrafnagaldur Óðins; Forspjallsljóð.
Edited with Introduction, Notes and Translation, 2011). She has coedited
scholarly anthologies on the legendary sagas (2003, 2009, 2012), Völuspá
(2013) and edited an anthology on the reception of the Old Norse literature
in 19th century Scandinavia, Germany and Great Britain (2008) and a com-
plete Danish translation of the sagas of Icelanders (2014) .

Address:
Annette Lassen
Nordisk Forskningsinstitut, Den Arnamagnæanske Samling
Københavns Universitet, Njalsgade 136
2300 København S, Denmark

181
AUTHORpresentations
Author PRESENTATIONS

CAMILLA ASPLUND INGEMARK

Ph.D., Docent in Folkloristics at Åbo Akademi University, Finland. She
defended her doctoral dissertation The Genre of Trolls: The Case of a
Finland-Swedish Folk Belief Tradition in 2005, and has published work
on Ancient Greek and Roman folklore (2004), Finland-Swedish histori-
cal legends (2009) and edited a volume on therapeutic uses of storytelling
(2013). Currently she is finishing a book on the verbalisation of emotion in
Ancient Roman folk narrative, Representations of Fear, co-authored with
Dominic Ingemark.

Address:
Camilla Asplund Ingemark
Folkloristik, Åbo Akademi, Fabriksgatan 2
20500 Åbo, Finland

ELDAR HEIDE
Independent scholar. He has a Ph.D. in Old Norse studies and has espe-
cially worked on Old Scandinavian religion, linguistic developments from
Common Scandinavian onwards, and maritime aspects of the Old Norse
texts, but he has also published research within onomastics, etymology,
Old Norse literature, Sami religion, and folkloristics. Methodological con-
siderations are central in most of his work, and he has especially worked
on retrospective methodology and broad and combined approaches,
making use of material and arguments from various disciplines. Heide
initiated the Retrospective Methods Network in 2009. His major publica-
tions include ‘The early Viking ship types’, 2014; ‘Loki, the Vätte, and the
Ash Lad: A Study Combining Old Scandinavian and Late Material’ 2011;
‘Contradictory cosmology in Old Norse myth and religion – but still a
system?’, 2014; and the monograph Gand, seid og åndevind, 2006.

Address:
Eldar Heide
Kringlebotn 120
5225 Nesttun, Norway
Email: [email protected]
Website: http://eldar-heide.net/

182
 Author presentations

KAREN BEK-PEDERSEN
Ph.D., External Lecturer, University of Southern Denmark. Her research
interests focus mainly on Old Norse and Celtic religion and mythology.
She has been a lecturer in Scandinavian Studies at the University of Edin-
burgh and the University of Aberdeen and has taught Old Norse mythol-
ogy and religion at the Univeristy of Århus. She currently teaches Old
Norse religion at Religious Studies, University of Southern Denmark. Her
publications include the monograph: The Norns in Old Norse Mythology,
2011, and numerous articles of which the most recent are: “Insular Celtic
Religion”, 2013, and “St Michael and the Sons of Síðu-Hallur”, 2012.

Address:
Karen Bek-Pedersen
Religious Studies, University of Southern Denmark
Campusvej 55, 5230 Odense M, Denmark

RALPH O’CONNOR
Professor in the Literature and Culture of Britain, Ireland and Iceland
at the University of Aberdeen, where he is affiliated to the Centre for
Scandinavian Studies. His research focuses on the saga literature of thir-
teenth- to sixteenth-century Iceland, the saga literature of eighth- to thir-
teenth-century Ireland, and relations between the natural sciences and
traditional narrative, dramatic and poetic genres from the nineteenth
century to the present, especially in Britain. He is the author of Icelandic
Histories and Romances (2002) (which contains his translation of Bárðar
saga), The Earth on Show (2007) and The Destruction of Da Derga’s Hostel
(2013), and the editor of Science as Romance (2012) and Classical Literature
and Learning in Medieval Irish Narrative (forthcoming, 2014/15), as well as
various articles on fictionality, kingship ideology, creationism, dinosaurs
and temptresses.

Address:
Ralph O’Connor
Department of History, University of Aberdeen
Crombie Annexe, Meston Walk, Aberdeen AB51 5DE
Scotland, UK

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Author PRESENTATIONS

STEPHEN MITCHELL
Professor of Scandinavian and Folklore. His research addresses a wide
variety of genres and periods of Nordic culture and literature, centering
on popular traditions of the late medieval and early modern periods, in
recent years, especially on such areas as witchcraft and magic. Among
other works, he is the author of Witchcraft and Magic in the Nordic Middle
Ages, Heroic Sagas and Ballads, and of the medieval section of A History
of Swedish Literature. He has been a Fellow of the Swedish Collegium
for Advanced Study in Uppsala, the Viking and Medieval Center of the
University of Aarhus, and Harvard’s Radcliffe Institute for Advanced
Studies, as well as a working member of The Royal Gustav Adolf Academy
in Uppsala.

Address:
Stephen Mitchell
Professor of Scandinavian and Folklore, Harvard University
Barker Center 353, 12 Quincy Street
Cambridge MA 02138 USA

THOMAS A. DUBOIS
Professor of Folklore and Scandinavian Studies at the University of
Wisconsin-Madison. His research focuses on the interrelations of Norse,
Sámi, and Finnish cultures in the past and present and on the interrela-
tions of oral and written traditions in Nordic cultures. His publications in
this area include the monographs Nordic Religions in the Viking Age (1999),
Lyric, Meaning, and Audience in the Oral Tradition of Northern Europe
(2006), and the edited volume Sanctity in the North: Saints, Lives, and Cults
in Medieval Scandinavia (2008).

Address:
Thomas A. DuBois
Department of Scandinavian Studies, University of Wisconsin-Madison
1306 Van Hise Hall, 1220 Linden Drive
Madison WI 53706 USA

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NORDISTICA TARTUENSIA
ISSN 1406-6149

Series editors
Vol. 1–18 Stig Örjan Ohlsson
Vol. 19– Daniel Sävborg

1. Juhan Tuldava, Lärobok i estniska. Grammatik. Texter. Övningar. Par-

lör. Pangloss, Tallinn, Estland, 1997. ISBN 9985-809-43-2. [Tryckt i Vil-
nius.]

2. Stig Örjan Ohlsson, Urban Hiärne and Cartesian Phonetics. Ambla,

Lund, Sverige. 1997. ISBN 91-971740-4-1.

3. Hercules. Ett sångspel av Georg Stiernhielm och Samuel Columbus.

- Utdrag ur ett Spel om Hercules wägewahl, efter Nils Beyers utgåva, i
svensk originaltext samt översättning till estniska av Jaan Kaplinski;
- tvåspråkiga introduktioner av Stig Örjan Ohlsson och Bernt Olsson;
- illustrationer till Hercules av Sven Ljungberg.

4. Stiernhielm 400 år. Föredrag vid internationellt syposium i Tartu 1998.

Red. Stig Örjan Ohlsson och Bernt Olsson. Stockholm 2000. ISBN 9985-
4-0148-4.

(Äv. utg. som nr 50 i Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitets Akade-

miens serie Konferenser.)

5. De skandinaviska länderna och Estland. Skandinaaviamaad ja Eesti.

The Scandinavian Countries and Estonia. (Proceedings of the Internation-
al Conference dedicated to Prof. Stig Örjan Ohlsson on his 60th Birthday
in December 1999, at the University of Tartu, Estonia.) ISBN 9985-809-86-
6. [Pangloss, Tallinn 2002.]

6. Kristel Zilmer. Kristne runeinnskrifter i dynamisk sammenheng: teks-

tuelle utviklingslinjer og kulturhistorisk kontekst. En studie med utgang-
spunkt i broinnskrifter. Magisteravhandling. Tartu 2000. ISBN 9985-4-
0233-2. [Tryckt i Tartu, 2002.]

7. Svenska språkets historia i Östersjöområdet. Studier i svensk språkhistoria

7. Konferensrapport från Den sjunde sammankomsten för svensk språk-
historia. Red. Svante Lagman, Stig Örjan Ohlsson och Viivika Voodla.

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AUTHOR PRESENTATIONS

Tartu 2002. ISBN 9985-56-706-4. [Sättning Rätt Satt Hård & Lagman HB,
tryckt i Tartu.]

8. Perspectives On Text and Context. Report from an international sym-

posium held at the University of Tartu, Estonia, 17-18 May, 2002. Ed. Kris-
tel Zilmer, Stig Örjan Ohlsson. Tartu, 2003. ISBN 9985-56-761-7. [Tartu
University Press.]

9. Madis Kanarbik. Ormsö. De estlandssvenska böndernas kamp mot

godsägarna under 1700- och 1800-talet. Tartu, 2003. ISBN 9985-4-0368-1
[Sättning Rätt Satt Hård & Lagman HB, tryckt i Tartu.]

10. Svensk-estnisk ordbok. ISBN 9985-68-154-1.

11. Anu Laanemets. Dannelse og anvendelse af passiv i dansk, norsk og

svensk. Tartu 2004. ISBN 9985-4-0422-X.

12. Kristel Zilmer. He drowned in Holmr’s Sea – his cargo-ship drifted to

the sea-bottom, only three came out alive. Records and Representations of
Baltic Traffic in the Viking Age and the Early Middle Ages In Early Nordic
Sources. Tartu, 2005. ISBN-9949-11-089-0.

13. Die baltischen Länder und der Norden. Festschrift für Helmut
Piirimäe zum 75.

Geburtstag. Red. Mati Laur, Enn Küng, Stig Örjan Ohlsson. Akadeemiline
Ajalooselts, Tartu, 2005. ISBN 9949-13-208-8.

14. Dialogues with Tradition: Studying the Nordic Saga Heritage. Ed. Kris-
tel Zilmer. Tartu, 2005. ISBN 9949-11-267-2. [Tartu University Press.]

15. Litterära kontakter mellan Norden, Baltikum och Ryssland. Fö-

redrag vid internationell konferens i Tartu 19-21. maj 2005. Red. Stig
Örjan Ohlsson, Siiri Tomingas-Joandi. Tartu, 2005. ISBN-10 9949 11 303 2
/ ISBN-13 978 9949 11 303 3. [Tartu University Press.]

16. Tiina Mullamaa, Rootsi keele õpik. Lärobok i svenska. Atelje Guernica
OÜ, Tartu, 2006. ISBN-10 9949-13-685-7.

17. Den otidsenlige Urban Hiärne. Föredrag från det internationella Hi-
ärne-symposiet i Saadjärv, 31 augusti - 4 september 2005. Red. Stig Örjan
Ohlsson, Siiri Tomingas-Joandi. Tartu, 2008. ISBN 978-9985-4-0539-0.

18. Kalle Kroon. Historia kring godset Sadjerw. Saadjärve mõisa ajalugu.
Tartu, 2009. ISBN 978-9985-4-0580-2.

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 Author presentations

19. Litteratur och film. Samband och samspel ur skandinaviskt per-

spektiv. Red. Esbjörn Nyström, Ingunn Stokstad, Katrin Kangur.
Tartu, 2011. ISBN 978-9949-19-930-3.

20. Folklore in Old Norse – Old Norse in Folklore. Edited by Daniel Säv-
borg and Karen Bek-Pedersen. Tartu, 2014. ISBN 978-9949-32-704-1.

187