From last month, I continue the tale of Thor’s Journey to Utgard with another sixteen stanzas, and the poem is now three-quarters finished. Next month will bring the final 17 stanzas, in which you’ll see how Thor fares against Elli, and what’s been going on the whole time with these strange contests. Enjoy!
Out to the course,
Utgardaloki
and the troop then went
to test this feat.
A lad named Hugi
lined up for the race,
lean and lanky
was this little man.
The race started,
the running was fierce,
but ahead way far
did Hugi finish.
Time he still had
for turning around
to face Thjálfi
at the finish line.
The king urged Thjálfi
to increase his effort
on a second race,
though not seen at all
were any as fast
from out that hall.
The next race started—
no closer it went.
A bolt-shot back
was the boy straining,
when Hugi finished
and hailed the crowd.
A final and third
foot-race was run,
though Thjálfi’s chances
looked thinner than ever.
O’er half-way behind,
when Hugi finished,
was striding Thjálfi
struggling to run.
With this contest ended
it had come the time
for far-famed Thor
to perform some skill.
The big bold one
then boasted he’d drink;
the horn of the court
that the hall-mates used
was taken forth
to try Thor’s thirst.
The king declared
the character of this horn.
If drained in one draught,
well drunk it was,
though two of draughts
some took to finish.
But none was so terrible
to need more than three
—though long it looked—
to lay down this horn.
Thor took the horn,
so thirsty he was,
and gulped and gulped
till gasping for air.
Yet little-changed
was the level in the horn,
surprisingly slight
for his powerful gulps.
The king thought it good,
though not counted excessive
but guessed that more
great Thor should’ve drunk.
And quite surely now
he’d quench his thirst
and drain the horn
on draught number two.
Much greater gulps
the god of thunder
swallowed this time
to assail that horn.
Yet un-emptied it was,
though well under the rim.
Had Harðvéurr held back,
the hall-ruler asked?
The chieftain thought
that champion not great;
Sönnung was wroth
and seized the horn
for a fullsome draught
with furious gulps.
More difference it made,
but undrained it remained.
He would try no more
and returned the horn;
not slight had seemed
those swigs to him.
He asked what game
would be offered next.
The sovereign of the hall
then said of a cat.
The lads of the hall
would try lifting it up,
though too simple it seemed
to suggest before.
A gray cat ran out,
and great was its size.
Thor took at its belly
and thrusted up his hand.
But up arched the cat
for all Thor stretched,
and at his upper limit,
only one paw
came off the ground
at the end of the try.
Rym was too short
to raise that cat.
The king had expected
that kind of result.
Vingþórr was wroth,
and would avenge by wrestling:
for a doughty opponent
he dared that hall.
But undignified to do,
all would deem it.
Yet the ruler reckoned
and racked his brains,
finding a fighter
in his foster mother,
an old woman,
and Elli was her name.
Many she’d defeated
with a might like Thor.
[The concluding part four follows next month. This poem previously appeared on my Patreon site in July 2023.]
Copyright © 2024 Eirik Westcoat
The Skaldic Eagle 