Forgotten Ground Regained

Imprisoned by Nidud, a king of the Swedish folk, the elf Volund was hamstrung and forced to work for the king, creating treasures. But Volund has a plan. He will get his revenge, and then he will escape, hamstrung or not. This poem leavaes it to the reader to deduce exactly how (though if you want more detail, the original is in the Poetic Eddas).

Volund's Revenge

One lost libertyby loosened bondsthat snidely snippedwere snaring trammels:caught by the cuttingof cords away,release of bondagelaid it upon him.
Feeblest fibres,fastest shackles:restraints strongestby their stripping off;a cunning craftsmanwas crippled and maimed:harsh hamstringinghobbled Volund.
There stands a smithyon Staith-by-the-Sea,a nest where Volundis narrowly caged:ebbtide apartan island-prisonwhen the firth is drownedas the flood rises.
Limping lamelyhe lights the hearth,blasts on bellowstill the banked charcoal,redhot with rage,is a roaring furnace;hefts the handlesof hammer and tongs.
Bloomeries brood.At the broiling foundry,in sultry smotherfrom sumps under,he quickens the lodesin quarried veinstone,he smelts his oresfor the smithy’s womb.
The molten metals,milked through runners,course into cruciblesto be cast as ingotsin the molding matrix;he mounts the anvil,fettles the firepit,he fans the coals.
Sweat-besmirched swarthe swings his hammer — through smoke-swelterof smouldering fumes,shoot showering sparksfrom the shocks of the sledge—beats billets and pigsto bars of iron.
Struck slabs are steepedwith a steaming hiss,sluiced slag-drossyin the slake-bucket;heated, hammered,hardened and quenched:stubborn the steel;stark and bitter.
‘I waddle webfootedlyfor my wiles,’ he laughed,‘since Nidud's numbingknee-handiwork!’But the queen’s counselsare cold always:‘Far from tame yet,what you found in the woods.’
Sly, sleeplessly,he slaves at the anvilin blinding billows,in blistering heat,yet the heat and hungerin the heart of the smithburn more fiercelythan the blazing furnace.
Night nor by dayhe never ceases:hobbled but unhalting,at it hammer and tongs;the empty islandechoes clangingyet what beats in his brainbangs still louder.
Stooped and stumpingin stilts he ploysthe tricks of his trade;trains craftsmanshipto transmute uglymatter to beauty,earth, air, and fireinto artefact:
Redgolden rings.Razor-tempered,hardened and honedhoards of weaponry:blades blood-eddiedwith braided swirlsand waves weldedin the weave of steel
acid-etched with venom;anger-whetted;his feud is forgedinto folded metal;bent on broodingshe beats the anvil:he would wreak a wonderwrought in vengeance.
Man-manacled Elf,his mind’s on the wifehe tried to tame;trapped and pining,he kept hiddenthe cloak she yearned for;now her wedding-bandis worn by another.
Devising visionsof revenge perfected,his wrongs rightedin a richer design,he would mend the brokento better than newby a great breakingof againmaking.
His mind’s modellinga masterpiece,Elf-artfulnessfor all his rancours:he keenly tinkersclever contraptions;and in the deafening dungeonhe dreams of swans.
Shapes shirts of mail,shining hauberksskilfully linkedlike scales of fishes;cloisonnés clinchin clustered latticejewels joininggemstones and glass
Now with plucking pincershe plies his skills,gouging gimlets,grating drillbits,and bone-buffers;blades for flaying;the scabbed scalpel;the scraping saw;
anneals and sintersenamels fusingmillefioriand mother-of-pearl;tooth of walrus,tusk of narwhal,with elk-antlerand aurochs’ horn
Filigrees enfoldfine-traceriedembedded panelsof bright-chequeredfoil-lustrous facets;in fretworked cellsgleam glazed spanglesand glowing amber.
He assembles scenesof sword-dancers;warriors grapplingwith wolves and bears;narrates an arrayof heroic legendry,to people with picturesplates on helmets
He twists patternsof twining serpentsset seething fastin silver wire:their lashing coilsare locked foreverin gold with garnetsfor glaring eyes;
and toils overintaglios,carving cameosin costly stone;shaved out of shell,shimmering inlayslodge in socketswith a lacquered sheen
dazzling broochesfor a daughter’s breast:ivoried orbswith ogling crystals;and (round the rimsromping wolfcubs)paired fine gobletsfor fond parents
Today he dawdlesin the dunes of the shoreon stumping crutches;he studies the gullsas they escape to the sky,skirling, soaring.He is beachcombingfor birds’ pinions.
Copyright © Rahul Gupta, 2023
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