 Chapter 21 of the Frithioff Saga This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Frithioff Saga by Ferdinand Schmidt. Translated by George Upton. The Reconciliation. No peace was there yet in Frithioff's heart, as fire had once consumed the temple, so within him still blazed the flames of his remorse that, by his act, had Baldur's earthly dwelling been destroyed. He taking himself to his father's grave mound, he sat all night alone upon the cairn, deceiving Baldur to smile upon him once again. And below in the darkness a wondrous vision grew before his eyes. In Baldur's grove he saw a gleaming temple slowly rise. But scarcely had he gazed upon it in amazement, when again twaswallowed in the gloom of night. Roused by fresh hope of winning the offended God's forgiveness, he hastily returned to Ring's dominions and summoned architects to plan for the building of a new temple. Just as he had seen it in his vision, should the home of Baldur actually rise. So filled was he with this one thought that nothing else had power to move him, neither feast nor chase, nor sounding minstrel lay. At last the work was finished. And like the far famed shrine of Upsall, the great temple stood a wonder to all eyes. A brazen portal richly carved led to the sanctuary. Two rows of lofty columns supported the arching roof, like a great shield of gold. Facing the doorway stood the high altar, hewn from a single block of northern marble and polished with rare skill. Round about it were graven runes of solemn import. Above in a spacious niche was Baldur's august image, wrought olive, pure as silver. On a rocky hillside rose the building, its reflection mirrored in the sea below, while round about on three sides stretched a smiling valley, known as Baldur's Dale. Leafy groves adorned the flowery meadows. No sound but happy-buried songs broke the silence. All nature breathed a peace. With deep emotion frithy off trod these holy precincts. Twelve rosy cheek maidens, priestesses of the temple, robed all in white, advanced to the high altar, enchanted a holy song and praised up Baldur. They sang how beloved was the gentle god by every creature, and when he fell by evil loki's malice, how heaven itself with earth and ocean wept. And as leaning on his sword the hero listened, the dark shadow that so long had laid upon his spirit lifted. Tender memories of his childhood woke within him, while calm and serene as the moon in the skies of summer, Baldur the good looked down upon him, and filled his soul with peace. Then with slow steps approached the high priest of the temple, not young and fair like the god at whose shrine he worshipped, but tall and majestic, his noble features stamped with heavenly mildness, engrazed with flowing beard and locks of silver. With unwanted reverence frithy off bent his haughty head before the seer, who thus began, Welcome, son frithy off to this holy temple, long have I look for thee to come for force. Though restless over land and sea it wanders, turns ever, worried, home again at last. What did the mighty Thor when thus to Judenheim, the giant's kingdom? Yet despite his godlike belt and magic gauntlets, the giant king still sits upon his throne. Evil itself a force, yields not to evil. Virtue without strength is but child's play, the glancing sunbeam on the shield, a wavering shadow on the earth's broad breast. Yet neither may strength without virtue long survive. It consumes itself, like rusting sword in some dark grave mound, a debauch from which he who yieldeth to it, wakens with shame. Behold the mighty earth, it is the body of Ymir, the world giant from whom all strength proceeds. It's rushing streams, his blue veins. It's iron and brass, his sinews. Yet all is barren, bare and empty till heaven's bright sun rays stream upon it from afar. Then springs the grass, fair blossoms deck the verdant meadows in fresh leaves, the trees, the swelling buds burst forth, all nature breathes, new life from the abundant earth. Thus it is with man's strength. It yields not but blessing when transfigured by the heavenly rays of virtue. What the sun is to the earth was balder to Vahala. His pure soul was the gem that fastened the wreath divine. When slain by evil Loki, he descended to pale hell's realm. Odin's wisdom straight began to languish, and the strength of might he thought had dwindled. The prison forces of evil, once mastered by the gods, stirred in their abyss. The dragon Needhog gnawed at the roots of the tree of life, and its leafy crown fast withered. Again the war broke out, twix good and evil, the strife that through all creation still endures. This is but the emblem of what passes in every human breast. Hast thou forgotten my son those days when balders dwelt within thy spirit? Pure then was every thought and feeling, thy whole life glad as a woodland songsters dream, and every child does balder reappear in each that is born doth hell restore her victim. But in each soul is also found the blind god Holder. Evil is ever born blind, like the bear cub, in darkness it enraps itself, while good goes clad in shiny robes of light. Loki still creepeth busily about to guide the hand of murder, with balder dyes the strength of heart and spirit. And anew the struggle in man's breast begins. Virtue sits hopeless, mid the shadows, as the fair god and the darkness of the underworld. So hath it been with thee frithy off? Passion and thirst for vengeance rose within thee, and balder's temple sank to earth and ashes. Now thou seekest atonement, but notice thou its meaning rightly. Nay boldly meet my gaze and turn not pale, O youth. But one atoner is there on earth, his name is death. All time itself is but a troubled stream from vast eternity. Atonement came from the all fathers thrown to restore us, thither purified. The high gods, too, have sinned. Their day of battle, the twilight of the gods, is their atonement, and from their fall a higher life shall rise. Bloody is that day. Bloody is the day that sees their strife with the powers of evil. The golden comb cock that sits on Odin's golden palace shrily called to arms. Bursting his chains, up springs the giant wolf from the abyss. The earth enveloping serpent writhes in fury, boiling and foaming. The sea o'erflows the land. The whole earth shakes. Mountains crash together. The tree of life groans and trembles. And terribly the shades that hover about the path of the dead. On the corpse ship, made from the nails of the unburied dead, Loki, the wolf Fenris, and the giant Hyramur ride to join the battle. On come the flame giants, their swords gleaming like the red glow of the forge. Over the rainbow bridge they gallop, with a frightful crash it breaks beneath their horses' tread. The heavens are rent asunder. Thunder peals sound from pole to pole. The shouts of terrified mortals mingle with the groans of the dwarfs who pale and trembling cower in their rocky caverns. But already have the gods and heroes don their shining armor, and led by Odin crowned with his gold circlet and shaking aloft with gleaming spear over Vigrid's boundless plain, they move in mighty train. They are arrayed against each stand the hosts. And the strife begins. Spears hiss, swords clash, the battle cries of gods and giants fill the air, and furious bellowing of the serpent and the howling of Fenris shake the dome of heaven. One by one the gods are slain, but not avenged do they perish, for the powers of evil also fall to rise no more, while from the flames of the world they rise to higher life. I, though the stars fall from the heavens and the earth is buried deep beneath the waves, yet newly born, the abode of man once more arises from the water. A new sun shines on smiling mean and golden harvest. Then shall those golden runic tablets, lost in times far dawning and graven with the wisdom of the gods, again be found amid the springing grass. Struggle and death are but the fiery proof of virtue, atonement another birth to higher life. The best, the happiest part of our existence, lies beyond the grave mound. Low and deep stained with guilt and error is all we find in heaven's starlit dome. This life too hath its atonement, dim type of that still higher yet to come. Earth is but heaven's shadow, human life the outer court of Baldur's heavenly temple. Decked with purple as the proud steed led to sacrifice, a symbol rightly read that blood is the red dawn of every day of grace, yet by the sacrifice of no other may thine own guilt be redeemed. The wrongs that man commits he must himself atone for. The sacrifice all father demands from thee, more sweet to him than blood and reek of victim, is thy fierce hate and burning vengeance offered on the altar of thy heart. If thou slay not these, then little will this proud arched temple serve thee. Not with parlour of stones mayst thou atone to Baldur. First, with thyself and with thy foe, be reconciled. Then frithia, shalt thou have the bright gods pardon. Here now what wondrous news hath reached us from the south. There, so tis said, was a new Baldur, born of a pure virgin, sent by the great old father to lead men to atonement. Peace was his war cry, his bright sword, love. Crowning his helm the dove of innocence. Pure was his life, and pure were his teachings. Dying he forgave. Palms wave above his far-off grave, but still his teaching spread from veil to veil, melting hard hearts, joining hand to hand, upraising such a realm of peace as never yet was seen upon the earth. But little I know of this creed, alas. Yet often better moments dimly I gaze upon its streaming light, and loud my heart proclaims to me, the time will come when it shall also spread through all the north. Level then will be our grave mounds, lost in the stream of time, our names, while other men shall flourish, other chieftains reign. The happier race, who then shall drink from the new lights shining goblet. I greet ye in the spirit. Hail, all hail, despise us not whose eager gaze hath ceaselessly sought the radiant light of heaven. Scorn not those to whom the divine ray was, still wrapped in veiling shadows. The All-Father hath many envoys, he himself is one. Fithioff, thou hatest Bailey's son. But wherefore, because proud of their descent from Semming, Odin's royal offspring, they did refuse their sister's hand to thee? But birth is chanced, thou sayeth, not merit. Know, my son, man, ever boast of fortune, not of merit. Thou art proud of thy strength and of thy glorious deeds, but this thou give thyself this force. Was it not Thor who strung thy sinewy arm firm as the oak limb? Is it not God's sprung courage that throb so joyously within thy breast? Beside thy cradle the norm's sang hero's songs to thee. Thus are thy noblest gifts no merit, but thy fortune, of no more worth than that of which the princes boast. Condemn not, judge not, others pride. The none will judge thine own. King Helge is no more. What? Helge dead? cried Fithioff, starting. Where and how came ye to his death? While thou continued the priest went building here this temple, he as thou knowest did undertake a foray against the Finns. Within their borders on a barren mountain peak there stood an ancient temple of the heathen Jumala. It was closed and abandoned, and none for many years had ever crossed its threshold. Above the portal, tottering to its fall as it appeared, was placed an idol of the God. And an old tradition handed down from sire to sire said, whoever first should enter in the temple should Jumala behold. No sooner did Helge hear this, blind with rage, he scaled the barren steep, bent on destroying the hated deities abode. He found the key still in the door, thick covered oar with rust. Grasping the moss-grown posts he shook them fiercely, and thereupon with tremendous crash down plunged the image of the heathen God. And thus did Helge view the dreaded Jumala. Now Haftan, rules alone, give him thy hand, Fithioff, sacrifice thy hatred in this holy shrine. Thus saith Baldr, and I his high priest, this demand of thee, refuse in vain will be thy efforts to avert his God-like wrath. Here Haftan entered the doorway, and with doubtful glance, lingered on the threshold of the temple. But Fithioff unbuckled Angrivedal from his side, and placed it with his shield against the altar. Unarmed he approached his enemy and said kindly, In this strife he is noblest who first doth offer his hand in pledge of peace. Flushing deeply, Haftan daught his iron gauntlet, and with a firm hand-clasp the two heroes sealed their reconciliation. Now the high priest removed the curse that had rested on Fithioff since the burning of the temple. And as he joyfully raised his head, no longer an outlaw, low, Ingeborg entered, radiant in her bridal garments, and robed in royal ermine. With tears in her beautiful eyes, she sank trembling in her brother's arms. But Haftan tenderly transferred his burden to Fithioff's faithful breast, and kneeling before the altar of the pardoning Baldr, with joined hands the long-parted lovers sealed their nuptial vows. End of Chapter 21. End of the Fithioff Saga by Ferdinand Schmidt, translated by George Upton.