Further Reflections on the Hárbarðsljóð

TW: sexual assault/rape

Last night, the Hárbarðsljóð kept me up. I don't think about the poem all that often, other than as a reference to the fact that Thor has a hall for the peasants and thralls who die, as another marker of how he stands for the weak and the forgotten, for the every man rather than the kings and men of power.

But last night, after Dr. Ford's testimony and the Kavanaugh defense, a piece of the poem came vividly into focus--and suddenly it wasn't so funny anymore. It wasn't something I could dismiss or ignore or push aside any longer.

These particular lines:

Harbarth spake:
30. "Eastward I was, | and spake with a certain one,
I played with the linen-white maid, | and met her by stealth;
I gladdened the gold-decked one, | and she granted me joy."
Thor spake:
31. "Full fair was thy woman-finding."
Harbarth spake:
32. "Thy help did I need then, Thor, | to hold the white maid fast."
Thor spake:
33. "Gladly, had I been there, | my help to thee had been given."

These lines sound very much like two men boasting and congratulating one another on their conquests, and not only that--it sounds very much like Thor is talking about gladly helping Odin hold a woman down while he rapes her.

Suddenly, I wasn't sure if I could trust Thor.

Those of you who have been following the blog for forever know that Thor is pretty much my patron god. I'm Heathen and my faith in Thor has gotten me through a LOT over the years. Even before I recognized who he was, he was beside me, lending me strength to face my greatest struggles and my hardest moments. Thor is... one of the two most important things in my life. Half of a binary sun around which my life orbits. Questioning that faith, that trust, is not a small thing for me. Not at all.

I can take you through any number of mental gymnastics, a handful of theories that excuse Thor's general behavior in this poem on the whole--that the poem, a flytting poem, is basically meant to be a hit job on his character, to show him as useless and worthless, to undermine the faith of his followers in a time when Christianity was pushing hard against pagan faith traditions. Or point out the fact that the lore and the myths are not divinely inspired gospel, but written by men, copied and recopied imperfectly much later, and in this particular case, was probably preserved BECAUSE it takes shots at Thor.

I can tell myself, and you, that this does not in any way align with the Thor I have come to know--that it is at complete odds with the god who stands beside me, and I can remind myself that I have always believed that both the gods change with us, AND as we change, our understanding of the gods changes too. This poem might well just be a reflection of the culture of the time and nothing more, an attempt to see mankind in the divine, and as we have grown, we are more able to see PAST our own reflections to the deeper truth of their character and their presence.

But it doesn't take away these verses. Or the others, where Thor shows an overeager interest in Odin/Harbarth's sexual conquests. It doesn't make it hurt less to read these words as they spill from the lips of the god I love.

It doesn't make it any easier to realize that in a thousand years, nothing has changed. Because a thousand years ago, men were still boasting of their conquests, laughing together about the pleasure they took at the expense of some woman along the way.

I don't know what any of this means. How to reconcile it, really or fully, with my experience of Thor and my faith. I expect I'm going to be wrestling with that for some time. But I'm not going to pretend that the suggestion of sexual violence isn't there. Not in the past--not when it is something we are still fighting against so desperately in the present.

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A Most Glorious Adventure (With Delicious Lobster Bisque and a Viking Ship)

The Draken was mostly put to bed for the winter when we went to see her at Mystic Seaport on Leif Erikson's Day, the deck cleared and the sail stowed and bits of the decking pulled up to allow them to get down into the hold and clean her thoroughly and pump the last of the water out -- but she was BEAUTIFUL, all the same.

Maybe in the spring before she sails on and away, I'll get to see her again all decked out properly for a voyage, and the day won't be quite so miserable and wet and rainy. But the wet and the rain did make the hot Lobster Bisque soup taste that much better going down after we'd gotten our tour and had a chance to get out of the spitting wind.

It seemed fitting though, somehow, to tour a viking ship on such a stormy day. And it sure offered some amazing perspective on those Norse and Icelandic voyages made during the Viking age. Voyages like the ones that Freydis and her brothers made, both with Eric the Red, their father, and apart from him.

In DAUGHTER OF A THOUSAND YEARS, Freydis doesn't encounter any storms on her journeys to Vinland, but she sailed through her share of them when she followed her father to Greenland -- half the ships who followed Eric the Red from Iceland to his new colony in Greenland never made it to the shore, after all, and one of Leif the Lucky's stories involves him fishing out the survivors of a wreck from the water on his way back home.

Going to see the Draken, talking to the crew who sailed her with a modern electrical pump to bail out the water that they took on along the way (because the deck isn't sealed, and any water that lands on it just ends up filling the hold),  who when I asked "what did the Vikings do about the water they took on?" replied "they sank!" was a poignant reminder of how dangerous it was to sail in those days. Heck, it's still dangerous to sail in ours!

Which is all to say that those Norsemen and Icelanders -- going exploring or a viking, either way -- they were stupid brave.

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Why DAUGHTER OF A THOUSAND YEARS Matters so MUCH to Me.

If you've been with me on the blog for any length of time, you probably know how much I love Norse Mythology. So when my editor suggested they'd like to see something non-Bronze Age from me for my next contracted book, leaping into the Viking Age seemed like really the only logical choice. And when they asked me if I'd consider writing a dual narrative -- with two timelines -- I almost immediately knew what I wanted to use for connective tissue between the two time periods. I knew that if I was going to write about a pagan Freydis, that I absolutely 100000% was going to write about a Heathen woman in our contemporary world alongside her.

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And when I told other people that was what I wanted to do, how I wanted to weave these threads -- I don't actually know what I expected. But I didn't actually expect people (with the best of intentions!) to tell me I shouldn't do it. I didn't expect to be discouraged. I didn't expect to hear that writing an explicitly non-Christian protagonist in a contemporary setting could kill my book, would kill my book, because people might organize against it and pile on bad reviews. I didn't expect my family and friends to suggest I play it safer with maybe just an Atheist instead of a Heathen, if I *had* to include a non-Christian main character in the contemporary half of my book.

I didn't expect to find out that people in my life don't think there is room for a person who shares my faith to appear in a work of fiction. Not if I want it to sell. Not if I want to be successful.

Imagine that.* Take a minute and think about it. How would you feel if someone told you to write yourself and the people like you out of your story? That including yourself and people like you on the page would mean failure. Would mean people dumping 1-star reviews all over your release just because you were daring to write a book that reflected a different experience than their own. Imagine learning that people maybe don't think you deserve a place at the table at all. That in the complex tapestry of literature, there is no room for you. You're better off just being erased and replaced. You're better off erasing and replacing yourself, and maybe it'd be better for that character to believe in nothing at all rather than believe in your gods or share in your faith.

I wrote the book anyway. I wrote it and I poured myself into it, and all my fears, and all the opposition, and all the hurt. I wrote it and I kept writing it even before I knew I had my editor's complete approval. And I promise you, there were months of stress and anxiety and terror that I'd invested everything into a book that wouldn't be accepted, and at the end of it, I'd have to write something else instead or destroy the book to make it more "acceptable" to "the market."

But my editor loved it. She loved the book even before she knew I was Heathen, like Emma. Then she loved that it was personal -- that it FELT personal and real -- she didn't ask me to tone down my Heathenry. She didn't ask me to erase my faith or my SELF from the book. She just did everything she could to support me, to give DAUGHTER all the care and attention it deserved to put its best foot forward. And I can't tell you how grateful I am, how relieved, how thrilled that I'm able to offer this book to the world, to my fellow Heathens (who may still, naturally, find fault in my portrayal, because Heathenry is so variable.)

That doesn't mean I'm not still afraid.

I am still afraid that the other voices, the other people are right. That because I included myself and my explicitly non-Christian faith in this book, it will fail. I will fail. I am still terrified that there is no room for me to exist in our literary world. That maybe I would have been better off erased.

I hope I'm wrong.

I hope that you'll all prove me wrong. And every one of you who buys this book -- who loves it, or just likes it, or at the very least respects and supports it even if it isn't your personal cuppa -- you are my hero and my lifeline. You are beacons of light and warmth. You are everything good in this world, and the only thing I hope is that there are enough of you to make it clear to my editor, to my publisher, to the literary WORLD that there is always room for one more at the table -- that readers are not only willing, but eager to make that room.



*If you're a minority of any kind -- by creed or race or orientation or gender -- you probably don't have to imagine this scenario because I'm sure it's already been your life story. 

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Imaginary Friends (I)

After my musings regarding imaginary friends on twitter recently, I decided it was time to share a (longer) short story I'd written exploring the idea of the imaginary when it blurs with something... less so. 

After 4 years as a free read, and an extended period in wide release as an ebook, I've decided to move this novelette into Wide Release! Head on over to Amazon to read or buy it for just 1.99! Or find it on pretty much any other e-tailer of your choice!

But here's a teaser/sample for you to whet your appetite! 

Six.
I woke to a creak of floorboards and pulled the blanket up over my head, holding my breath while I listened hard. My mind whirled with men in black, faces masked, creeping through the house. Daddy, why did you leave me alone? He’d come home and find me gone, stolen away with the furniture and the television and the oven and all my toys.

I hiccupped on a sob and everything swam with tears. I wanted my daddy. I wanted my mommy, who was never coming back. I wanted someone, anyone, to keep away the noises in the night. I didn’t want to be stolen away!

“Shh,” a voice said, low and soothing. “I’m here. It was just the house settling, nothing more.”

I peeked out from underneath the blanket and the mattress groaned softly as a weight settled beside me. A warm hand touched my shoulder and I saw the shape of a man. Donar. My hero. My protector. My friend. The tightness in my throat eased and I pulled the blanket down, gasping for fresh air.

“Go back to sleep, Anna,” the shape said, a finger brushing the tears from my cheek, making my skin tingle. “You’re not alone.”

Even though it was a lie, I believed him. Donar was always right.


Nine.
“I’ll be back to take you to school in the morning,” Daddy said, tucking me into bed. “If you need anything, you call Mrs. Philips next door, all right? The number is right here, next to the phone.” He held up the receiver, then set it down on my nightstand. “Sleep tight.” He kissed my forehead. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

“Good night, Daddy.” I hugged his neck. “See you in the morning light.”

He turned out the lamp and pulled the door shut behind him, leaving only the whirling rainbow glow of the nightlight. Footsteps shifting from carpet to linoleum, the jingle of his keys, the door opening, then closing, and the click of the lock. I threw off the blanket and went to the window, watching him back out of the driveway, the headlights flashing in the rain.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” Donar asked.

I made a face at his reflection in the glass. “I just wanted to see Daddy.”

He ruffled my hair. “Now you’ve seen him off, back under the blankets.”

I sighed and crawled into my bed. “Will you tell me a story, at least?”

“Of course.” He tucked the blankets under my chin and sat down at the foot of the bed. “Which story would you like to hear?”

This was our ritual, Donar’s and mine, and I couldn’t sleep without it on the nights that Daddy left me to work. He had two jobs now, since Mommy died, and I saw more of Mrs. Philips than I did him. And Donar of course, but he didn’t count because nobody saw Donar but me.

I’d told Mrs. Philips about him once, but she said I was too old for imaginary friends, and if I didn’t stop seeing him, she was going to tell my daddy to take me to the doctor. Donar and I talked about it later and we decided it would be better if I didn’t say anything to anyone else. I asked him why I’d have to go the doctor, and he got real quiet and sad and I wished I hadn’t said anything at all before he answered.

“To make you stop seeing me,” he said. “With tests and medicines, if necessary. But I promise you, if you don’t want to see me anymore, you only have to tell me so, and I’ll go away without any of that. All right?”

“Why would I want you to go away?” I asked him.

He half-smiled. “One day you’ll realize that no one else has any friends like me, and you’ll want to be like them, maybe. Or else you just won’t remember me anymore, because you don’t need someone to keep you safe at night.”

I thought the whole thing was silly. How could I forget Donar? Who would tell me stories until I fell asleep? Who would get me water in the middle of the night, after I dreamed the house burned down, and Mommy was still inside? And I was sure I didn’t want anyone else making me forget him, so when Mrs. Philips asked about him a few weeks later, I told her he’d gone away, back to his stone palace with his magic goats.

“Tell me about the princess who can turn into a bird and fly away,” I said to Donar. “Don’t her cats ever try to catch her and eat her? Mrs. Philips has a cat and it’s always trying to catch birds.”

Donar smiled, the rainbow nightlight turning his beard purple. It was almost orange in daytime. “She becomes a very large bird. So large the cats worry she’ll eat them instead. Do you remember how she turns into a bird?”

...

Read More on Amazon!  Or Elsewhere!

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Postcards from Asgard, Available November 27th!

You've heard me talk about Postcards from Asgard off and on, and you've probably seen the cover below amongst my other books, for your goodreads additions (or subtractions I suppose!) -- well, I'm officially here to say that this paranormal romance novella will be live in paperback and ebook on November 27th! But you can pre-order it now for kindle and have it auto-delivered to your device for some delightful post-turkey pre-turkey-coma reading on Thanksgiving Day.

Want to know more? Here's some back of the book blurbage for your reading pleasure:

Ordinarily, Gwen likes goats, even makes her living by milking them, but these two are some kind of devil-spawn, and one of them is pawing the ground, horns aimed at her gut. The fact that they were followed by a blonde farmhand with a much too charming smile isn't all that much of an improvement, either.

But Thjalfi makes himself useful. He's lean and smart, with a warmth in his pale blue eyes that makes her shiver, and she can't deny that he has a way with her horses. He seems to have a way with her, too.

There's just one problem: Thjalfi's a slave, a bondservant to the god of thunder, Thor, and no matter how far they fall in love, he can't stay.

But this so-called god who owns him? He's about to learn just how far a Midwestern girl will go to free the boy she loves.

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So basically, if you need a #ThorLove fix for your post-Fate of the Gods hangover, grab Postcards from Asgard for some lighter fare to ease the transition to Thor-free fiction, and I hope that Thjalfi becomes your favorite Icelandic teacher, in the meantime, too! (He's definitely mine!) But you don't have to take my word for it:

"In Postcards, Ms. Dillin takes an old myth and turns it into a beautiful contemporary love story. Gwen was strong and stubborn -- her reaction [...] was authentic, believable, and all together hysterical."
-- S.T. Bende, Author of the Elsker Saga

And with this post, I officially declare the blog on HOLIDAY HIATUS! With the possible exception of Santa Theseus's arrival, with some news after Thanksgiving. Don't want to jump on the Santa bandwagon too soon, after all!

See you in January blogfriends! And a Happy Holiday of every shape and style to you and yours in the meanwhile!

(You can get it in paperback now!)
(And Kindle is live!)

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