The Mirth of the Mead-Hall: Classic Viking Jokes and Riddles

There were in the Isles of the far North, two brothers, Sigund and Vanhiemr, who ruled the neighboring kingdoms of Hugin and Munin. Oft betimes, they would pass one another while surveying their bordering lands. On one occasion, near the hour of Baldr’s funeral, at Biersmund, where the rainbow bridge to Hamdal is said to have its Earthly end (though none in these sad times knows the exact spot) the two did cross paths. “How be you, Good Vanhiemr?,” cried Sigund. “What news of your royal house?”

“My world is dark, Sigund Strong-Arm!” lamented Vanheimr, “Famine haunts my lands and war hath drained my gold!”

“Dear brother, take heart,” assured the calm King Sigund with the wisdom of Fenrir, Bringer of Peace, “Your tale could be far worse.”

Soon once again in the great forest called Cairndell, the royal kinsman did meet, this time on the Eve of Svartalfhien.

Sigund again hailed Vanhiemr. “What news have you, dear brother?” quoth he.

“Oh brother, my fate grows ever blacker,” intoned the hero of Jotnar. “My castle has burned and my queen has died.”

Again with the simple calm liken to that of Signe, Volsung’s daughter, in the great poem that bears her name, Sigund consoled his brother. “Dear Vanhiemr, slayer of Riedmar the Dragon,” he began, “By Odin, Loki, and Gentle Haeinrir, things could be far, far worse!”

Not more than ten days later, near the fearsome abodes of the Black Elves, the brothers did meet a third time. Upon seeing the other, the benighted King Vanheimer cried out in fear and supplication. “Good brother, truly the Vanir have cursed me and the Aesir are deaf to my pleas! The crone Wysowir, who is never wrong, has looked deep into the magic pool at Gdnestak and foretold that I will be dead by Mid-Winter’s Day. A bane of cruel affliction rots my heart.”

Sigund, though the younger of the brethren, smiled and soothed Vanheimr, who from Queen Hunding’s self-same womb had sprung. “Things,” he said, “could be far worse!”

“How?!!” bellowed Vanheimr, “How in the blessed name of Asgard’s legions could things be far worse?”

“Precious brother, blood of my blood, fellow heir to the wealth of Andvarl,” answered steady Sigund, “They could have happened to me!”

Published in: on October 17, 2008 at 6:53 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The Mirth of the Mead-Hall: Classic Viking Jokes and Riddles

Although the great wooly mammoth has long been gone from the lands of the North, still the lore of the mammoth hunt survives among our people in song, story, and, of course, humorous after-dinner anecdotes.

After the flagons have made at least a dozen rounds of the table, by tradition, the host will rise and, after beating his spear upon his shield to silence the hall, will turn to the oldest warrior present. Addressing him, the host will say, “Brave Hrothgar (or whomever), it has been many winters since our spears were wetted with the blood of the wooly mammoth, so long, in fact, that many of these young fools (to this there are always groans and retorts) know not the way of hunting the great beast. Pray tell us, wise one, how do you catch a mammoth?”

The graybeard will then stand, as well, and after acknowledging the hospitality of his host (and ignoring the hijinks of the youths), will respond thus.

“To catch a mammoth, it is necessary first to dig a great hole and then fill it with wood and ash. Then you take a bag of dried peas and line them up around the hole. Then, when the mammoth goes to take a pea, you kick him in the ash-hole!”

Although the Vikings are justly famed for their fierceness and manly disdain of sentiment, if the speaker has become so addled with mead or years that he cannot recall the entire joke, oft times the entire hall will join in the reciting of it so that the old man need not feel the burning sting of shame for his womanish weakness.

Published in: on April 14, 2008 at 10:00 am  Leave a Comment  
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The Mirth of the Mead-Hall: Classic Viking Jokes and Riddles

The galley captain Sigsmund Sigsmundsen and two of his sailors, Bertheld and Grimwert, were shipwrecked on the wild Færeyjar Islands where naught but savages dwell. As they lay upon the shore, thanking Great Odin for sparing their lives, they were seized by the wild men of the place and brought to their chief, who was called Ulu.

Captain Sigsmund greeted the chief in a cordial manner, explained his misfortune, and asked that the chief and his people shelter the men until another Viking galley should pass. Ulu, who was seated on a throne made of narwhal tusks and was naked to the waist despite the freezing air, listened to the captain’s plea in silence. When Sigsmund had finished, the chief regarded the three Norsemen for a moment and then pronounced his judgment.

“You are spies and trespassers,” said Ulu, “And you have but one choice, death or beiggi!”

After sharing an apprehensive look with his crewmen, Sigsmund flatly denied that his men were spies and explained that any trespass was unintentional. As proof, he pointed to their sorry half-drowned state, all to no avail. Ulu simply repeated his offer, “Death or beiggi.”

“What, may I ask, Great Chief,” inquired the captain, “is beiggi?”

“It is our word for “brother,” the chief replied. “Beiggi is our rite of brotherhood.”

“Then I shall have beiggi,” cried Bertheld, whereupon Ulu’s savage tribesmen fell upon him and wrapped him in a filthy sheepskin. Then, after he had been placed in the center of a circle of the strongest and fiercest warriors, each one used him brutally as a man uses a woman. After all of the warriors had abused Bertheld in this way, they made water upon him, a final indignity which pushed the sailor over the brink of madness.

Ulu, who had laughed and clapped his hands throughout the ordeal, then turned to his two remaining captives. “So, brave captain, what shall it be? Death or beiggi?”

Grimwert turned to Sigsmund and said, “Help me, captain! I have but 17 winters and I am not ready to die!”

Hearing this pitiful entreaty, Ulu, mocking the boy, said to his warriors, “Do you hear that? He does not want to die. So he must want…beiggi!

The warriors roared in delight and, after wrapping him in another filthy sheepskin dragged the whimpering boy into the circle and repeated the ritual that Bertheld had endured only with each warrior taking two turns this time. When it was over, Grimwert lay insensible on the ground, mewling like an infant.

Ulu, who had joined in the abuse of Grimwert, drew up his trousers and turned to Sigsmund. “It is your turn now, captain. What shall it be for you, then? Death or beiggi?”

Sigsmund Sigsmundsen, who had shown his courage in many a battle and great storm, drew himself up to his full height and faced his captor coldly. “The just man knows no fear of the afterlife, Ulu,” he said defiantly. “For me, I choose death.”

There was a gasp and then a great murmuring, as Ulu’s tribesmen beheld for the first time the great spirit for which the Vikings are famed throughout the world. Ulu was taken aback.

“Very well,” he grunted, clearly displeased. “You shall have death.” Then, brightening, he shouted, “But first, beiggi!”

Published in: on April 7, 2008 at 10:00 am  Leave a Comment  
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The Mirth of the Mead-Hall: Classic Viking Jokes and Riddles

Although the proud Vikings claim to be first and best in everything, even they must admit that, when it comes to the consumption of ale, mead, and other intoxicating spirits, the wild Celts of the West are at least their equals.

In the rare occasions when Viking and Celt meet in friendship, such as before an attack on a mutual enemy or to celebrate a dynastic wedding, this joke is always told.

Padraig the Bold was besieging the castle of his brother-in-law, the devious Earl of Kilkenny, to avenge a slight occasioned by an unequal exchange of gifts at the feast of St. Brian Borodain.

As the days became weeks and Padraig gave no sign of lifting the siege, the men of the castle guard began to gird for battle. Padraig’s men could hear the pounding of the blacksmith’s hammer as he forged new weapons and the grinding of his wheel as he sharpened the old ones. Each day horsemen would make a foray, going further and further from the castle gate and then rushing back to the safety of the portcullis when the fighting grew too fierce.

Finally, as dawn broke one month to the day after Padraig first laid siege to his brother-in-law, all Kilkenny’s men rushed from the castle and engaged Padraig’s men on foot and on horse. Padraig, knowing the character of his opponent, suspected a ruse. Having instructed his men to be on the lookout for anyone attempting to escape from the castle, he was rewarded when his brother-in-law, dressed as an old crone, was brought to his tent after having been found attempting to paddle across the moat in a leaky coracle.

Disgusted by the other man’s cowardice, Padraig struck Kilkenny a mighty blow with his sword hilt (saying he did not deserve the blade), mortally wounding him. As Kilkenny lay dying he looked up at his brother-in-law and spoke.

“Cousin,” he said, in a faint voice, “I would be reconciled to thee before I go.”

But Proud Padraig would not hear of it. “I would sooner bless the horns of Satan himself than make peace with one as weak and womanish as thou.”

“Still,” said Kilkenny, “There is a very fine cask of ancient Breton cider in my keep. All I ask is that ye drink of it and, when ye do, that ye pour a little on my burial mound.”

“Aye,” said Padraig, “That I shall do. But I hope you will not mind if I pass it through my kidneys first.”

And, laughing heartily, he pulled out one of the earl’s eyes and fed it to his mastiff, Gaeltrnact, which means “Battle Cry of the Celts” in the language of that people.

Published in: on March 31, 2008 at 10:00 am  Comments Off  
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The Mirth of the Mead-Hall: Classic Viking Jokes and Riddles

The Moorish corsairs are known chiefly among the Vikings for their reputation as ruthless but stout-hearted pirates and for their larger-than-average man parts.

A tale is often told of a great sea battle between the Norseman Ólafur Egilsson, called by some the “Windmaster,” and the Ottoman captain Murat Reis. After fighting at close quarters for a day and a night just off the coast of the fair isle of Vestmannaeyjar, Viking axe against Moorish scimitar, the two ships had lost many of their crew but neither had gained the upperhand. Separated by an undersea current, the two ships, Egilsson’s longship, Odin’s Spear, and the Moor’s galley, the Princess of Algiers, were sailing side by side, twelve cubits apart.

Egilsson, whose prowess in battle was only exceeded by his boasting about it, called over to his dusky-hued foe. “Ahoy, good captain,” he shouted. “Since you are too much of a coward to fight me, I shall relieve my bladder, so that you may sail through my piss!” Saying this, he turned away from the other ship, unbuttoned his trews, and proceeded to make water over the side. Not finished with his taunts, he called out, “By Thor’s hammer, that water is cold!”

Murat Reis, who had likewise taken down his pants and begun pissing over the far side of his ship, replied, “And deep, too!”

Emboldened by their captain’s display of wit, the Barbary pirates defeated the Vikings and enslaved all they did not kill. Egilsson was castrated and his member thrown into the sea with a final taunt from his captor. “I hope you are grateful, good captain,” Reis said with mock courtesy, as the Viking lay bleeding on his deck. “For this is the only way your tiny pink pizzle will ever plumb the depths of any ocean!”

Published in: on March 24, 2008 at 10:00 am  Comments Off  
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The Mirth of the Mead-Hall: Classic Viking Jokes and Riddles

In today’s sea-faring age, jokes about the enchanted forest of Mmithrahar are sadly out of fashion. Whenever a graybeard rises in the mead-hall and begins to tell a tale of Mmithrahar, the young warriors are prone to groan or fart audibly or make sounds that simulate farts to indicate their disapproval. It is this disrespect for the past and its traditions that some believe will lead, in time, to the downfall of the Vikings and their vast empire which spans the horizon.

And so, at the risk of boring the youngsters, here is a brief anecdote about an amusing event that took place in the magic forest, which has been tailored to the shortest possible length to allow it to fit within the tiny modern attention span, which is no larger than a sea urchin’s shell.

As St. Gudrund’s Day approached, it was the custom in some parts of the Kingdom of Jarrow, which was bordered by the great dark forest of Mmithrahar, for couples, old and young, to venture into the forest to seek cloudberries ripening in the hollows. But those who enter Mmithrahar seldom emerged unchanged. In addition to the elves, trolls, and hobgoblins that are said to live among the trees and in their branches, the forest itself is filled with a magical mist that befuddles both sight and mind.

And so it was that two warriors, Berns and Brand, veterans both of the many campaigns of the King Of Jarrow, Verdric the Vainglorious, happened upon one another in the woods. Both drew their swords but when each saw that the other was his comrade-in-arms, he sheathed his weapon and embraced him like a brother.

“How is it, Brave Berns, that you come to be in yon wood?” asked Brand.

“Why, Good Brand, I have become separated from my wife while gathering cloudberries. One minute she was by my side and the next she had vanished. Curse this bosky place and its faerie airs!” Berns replied.

“By Odin’s beard!” cried Brand. “The very same thing happened to me. I have been searching for my bride for, lo, this past hour and yet she is nowhere to be found.”

“Tell me, brother,” said Berns, “What does she look like?”

Brand thought a moment, then answered. “She is young, about 20 winters in age, and fair. Her legs are long and well-formed, her breasts full and high, her waist is slender, and yet her rump is round and pleasing. And what of your wife? What does she look like?”

“Fie on her!” cried Berns. “Let’s look for yours!”

Published in: on March 17, 2008 at 10:00 am  Comments Off  
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The Mirth of the Mead-Hall: Classic Viking Jokes and Riddles

Though n’er the cleverest of maids, Princess Dortamund was exceedingly fair. Her blonde hair (which the artists who painted her portraits oft likened to gold) cascaded past her shoulders and down her back.

Though many a swain had asked her father, King Harald Half-Dirk (for so he was called because his blade was either half out of its sheath or half in the body of his foe, so warlike was he!) for her hand, Dortamund refused them all.

As a test of her true love, she asked each the same question; but none had yet answered it to her satisfaction and so were sent away.

One day, a young Viking lord from the far-off Isles of the East arrived at Harald’s great castle, known then and now as Danehelm, determined to make fair Dortamund his bride. This Viking lord — Gar was his name — was renowned across the seas for his bravery and cunning. It was said that there was no feat he could not perform if he set his mind to it.

After paying his respects to her father and asking his permission for her hand, Gar, in due course, called upon the princess, who was making a fairy circle of daisies with her ladies-in-waiting.

“Dortamund, fairest of the fair,” said the Viking, “I have come to ask you to plight your troth with mine, to be my bride and the mother of my children.”

The princess regarded her suitor with a coquettish smile playing at the corner of her lips. “I should be honored to be your wife, good sir. But only if you can answer for me but one question.”

“Ask any question you wish and I shall answer true,” he said.

“Very well.” Dortamund stood up (it must be said that, when she did so, she accidentally stepped on her fairy circle and ruined many hours of work) and dusted off her hands. “What time is it?”

Gar, who had been prepared for a diabolical riddle of some type, was startled by the simplicity of the question. Being a master mariner, he was able to judge the time to within ten minutes of that shown by a sundial. After looking carefully at the position of the sun, he answered, “I make it about 2:45.”

“You see,” said Dortamund turning to her ladies-in-waiting. “That’s the problem. Every time I ask the question, I get a different answer.”

Published in: on March 10, 2008 at 10:00 am  Leave a Comment  
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The Mirth of the Mead-Hall: Classic Viking Jokes and Riddles

Because the gods are so much more powerful than men, their disputes are as much greater than those of you and I as the sun is to a single candle.

In Gardaniki, the Varangians say that the great thunderstorms which come at the end of the summer before the harvest-tide are but the sound of Frigg, first wife of Great Odin, Lord of the Gods, throwing her magic crockery at her wayward husband.

Speaking of Frigg and Odin, it is told that one day, weary of her husband’s dalliance with the Earth Goddess Jord and the giantess Grid, Frigg arrived at Valaskjálf, Odin’s silver palace, with
a duck under her arm.

Odin, who had left the bewitching water sprite Rinda in his bed, greeted his wife at the door with some measure of apprehension.

“Greetings, Frigg, queen of the Aesir and goddess of the sky!” Odin exclaimed.

“This is the pig I’m fucking,” said Frigg.

“But, dear wife, that is not a pig,” replied Odin. “Upon my magic spear Gungnir, which never misses its target, I swear that it is a duck.”

“I was talking to the duck,” said the goddess.

Published in: on March 3, 2008 at 10:00 am  Leave a Comment  
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The Mirth of the Mead-Hall: Classic Viking Jokes and Riddles

Because he comes from Elfhelm to take sick and dying children to the afterworld, few tales of the Elfking are considered jolly enough for the mead-hall. Still, there is one story of a child who got the better of the Elfking that has become something of a Mead-hall classic.

It seems that young Prince Egvart had always been a sickly child. When the weather was fine, his nurses, acting on the instructions of their master, Egvart’s father, King Sissingall the Strong, would take the boy down by the banks of the River Llul. It was thought by Sissingall and his wizards, astrologers, and alchemists that the humours in the river air might strengthen the boy.

And so it was one day, that Egvart, lying by the river, began to cough. With each cough the Elfking came one step closer until he was right next to where the boy prince lay. Catching sight of the Elfking, Egvart cried out but, because he was already so close to the afterworld, none could hear him. Turning to the Elf, the Prince said, “Begone! I am not ready yet to go with you!”

The Elfking laughed. “But I heard you calling me with your wracking catarrhal wretching. Surely, you should have come with me long ago!”

The child struggled and cried out again. “Nay! Nay!” he called. “Father! Mother! Save me!”

“They cannot save you now, boy,” saith the Elfking. “But since you are so eager to stay in the dreary world of the living, I will make you an offer that may allow you to remain here for some time.”

“I accept! I accept!” said Egvart.

“Do you not wish to know my terms?” said the King.

It was then when Egvart realized that he had made a terrible mistake. Still, though but a child, he was resolved to live up to his wager. He asked the terms.

“If you can riddle me a riddle to which I know not the answer you may stay. But, if I know the answer, then you must come with me and your sister Friuli, as well,” the Elfking replied.

Knowing now that there was more than his own life at stake, the boy pondered a very great while until the Elfking told him that he must ask his riddle or forfeit his chance.

At last the boy spoke.

“Know you,” he asked, “the mead horn of Baldric the Bold, who is huntsman and man-at-arms to my father?”

The Elfking yawned and regarded his fingernails with disinterest. “Yes, of course, what of it?”

“And know you how it keeps his drinking water cool in August when Baldric has been out trailing a wounded elk for an entire afternoon in the blazing sun?” the boy asked.

“Yes, yes.” Again the Elfking yawned.

“So you also know then that when Baldric hunts wolves in the sunless dark of winter and carries with him fiery Hgrinalgar, the liquor distilled from cloudberries, to keep his strength up for the chase, the Hginalgar is as hot when the moon rises as when the moon sets,” said Egvart.

“I suppose,” said the Elfking impatiently. “What is your point? I have many other children to meet this afternoon. I have no further time for this foolishness.”

“Then my riddle is this: the mead horn keeps what is cold cold and what is hot hot…”

The Elfking’s ears suddenly pointed straight up as he realized his peril. “Er, yeeeees,” he said cautiously.

“Well,” the boy asked triumphantly, “How do it know?”

And so the Elfking left the banks of the Llul empty-handed and Egvart grew old enough to inherit his father’s crown several years later when Sissingall fell in battle. Egvart the Clever (for so he was called after outwitting the Elfking) ruled for a summer and an autumn before succumbing to a fever at the age of 15.

Published in: on February 25, 2008 at 10:00 am  Leave a Comment  
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The Mirth of the Mead-Hall: Classic Viking Jokes and Riddles

How many Saxons does it take to relight a torch?

Twelve. One to hold the flame and 11 to turn the ladder!

Published in: on February 25, 2008 at 10:00 am  Leave a Comment  
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