Lombards – Yarnspinning and Storyweaving

Notes to Lopichis’ Spell

The Context

This spell is based on a short episode in Paul the Deacon’s Historia Langobardorum, at the end of Book 4, Chapter 27. The main narrative at this point of the History tells of the sack of Forum Iulii (now Cividale del Friuli, at the foot of the Alps in north-eastern Italy) by the Avars (sometime in the early 600s, either 602, or 611, or somewhere in between, depending on which historian you read). It is a key moment in the main narrative of Langbard history because the future King Grimoald performs his first acts of heroism. Paul the Deacon’s own ancestor, Lopichis, was made prisoner during the sack and taken to the Avars’ lands in Pannonia, the old Roman Province corresponding, more or less, to Hungary today. Sometime later he managed to flee his captors and return to Italy, with supernatural aid. Paul inserts Lopichis’ story into the main narrative almost apologetically, and these two short pages are particularly dense in those little clues – such as the supernatural aid mentioned above – that show us (in my view) Paul is really abridging these stories, and removing or downplaying non-Christian elements that could jeopardize his conscience as a Benedictine Monk. How these can be interpreted is anybody’s guess – in this spell I have had my personal shot at it (notes on my specific interpretations below), but I do not presume to really know what such details meant to Paul or his family members. To my mind it was essential to ‘fill out’ these elements in order to create a complete and cohesive oral tale: the goal of this whole project.

The framing narrative – Arichis at Charlemagne’s Court

I could not assume the identity of Paul the Deacon as storyteller in my project, because he would have the same limitations in an oral setting as he has in a written context: not wanting to fully represent the pagan elements in his stories. But Paul had a brother, Arichis, whom he dearly loved (‘Arichis’ appears to be the Langbard equivalent of our ‘Henry’, and survived into medieval Italian as ‘Arrigo’ – now it has been replaced with ‘Enrico’). During Paul’s own lifetime, the Langbard kingdom was invaded by Charlemagne and his Franks in 774. Arichis took part in a rebellion against their new overlords, led by Rotgaud, the duke of Forum Iulii, which culminated in defeat at the Battle of Brenta in 776[1], when Arichis was taken prisoner and removed in bondage to the Frankish lands.

Thus, in a way suggested to me by the story of Marco Polo telling the story of his travels in prison in Genoa, Arichis is singing and speaking the spells of his people to listeners at the halls of Charlemagne where he is held in bondage. I imagine him held there in honour as a noble prisoner, and not relegated to some dungeon, and his listeners are curious courtiers, visitors, court functionaries, and so forth. The Frankish king and first Holy Roman Emperor, Charlemagne, is called Karol in the spell itself, which is what he probably called himself, and at this time (approximately 783 CE) he had not yet received the epithet ‘the Great’ and had not yet been crowned emperor.

Some years later, Paul the Deacon became one of the foremost scholars at Charlemagne’s court in Aquisgrana (now Aachen), and found time among his court duties to plead for his brother’s release in a moving poem composed in Latin. For the purposes of my narration, I have supposed that Paul also composed a variant of the poem as a song in the Frankish tongue, or at least, a Germanic dialect intelligible to them, in order to spread the sentiment of pity for his detained brother as widely as possible. You can find Paul’s poem in the original Latin below. My translation is a rather compressed form, as the latter part of the poem seemed to me to be partly redundant to the needs of a storyteller. Regarding the music: the starting point for the melody was the opening phrase of Vaughan Williams’ I have trod the upward and the downward slope, from his Songs of Travel song cycle on poems by Robert Louis Stevenson. I later developed the melody in a manner reminiscent of plainsong-inspired secular song. Why? Well, Paul the Deacon himself, as a monk, would have been most familiar with the genre that we call today ‘Gregorian Chant’, and I imagine this would have influenced his tastes as a composer of songs, too. Also, the song’s subject is sober and plaintive, with a suitable appeal to divine providence at the close, which also makes me think he would craft the music to be at least a little ‘holy’ sounding.

How did the Langbards and Franks (and Saxons and Bavarians, for that matter) speak to each other?

Of course, that two brothers from Friuli, in Italy, at one end of Charlemagne’s empire could make themselves understood at Aachen, at the other end of that empire, is far from obvious to us today. If you grow up in Cividale del Friuli, as Paul and Arichis’ home is now known, you may learn German, but you are just as likely to only speak Italian, and have no way of speaking with people in Aachen. You may have studied the common lingua franca – English – and be able to use that instead. What about 1,300 years ago?

Paul gives us a hint in the final chapter of Book I of his Historia:

But the name of Alboin was spread far and wide, so illustrious, that even up to this time his noble bearing and glory, the good fortune of his wars and his courage are celebrated, not only among the Bavarians and Saxons, but also among other men of the same tongue in their songs.[2]

In other words, both at the time of Alboin (this passage describes the 560s) and at the time of Paul’s writing (800 circa) the Langbards, Bavarians and Saxons, and others still, considered themselves to speak a single tongue, and shared a corpus of heroic songs. I’m no linguist, of course, but it seems Paul is saying that, to some degree at least, the divergence of many regional Germanic languages had not yet progressed so far as to make them mutually unintelligible.

Lopichis’ forebear Leupchis: a flashback to the invasion of Italy

Paul the Deacon justly begins his family tale with a flashback to the first of his ancestors to settle in the family home in the Duchy of Forum Iulii, a certain Leupchis. He refers to Leupchis and his family being among those fara (large kinship group? clan?) that settled Friuli with its first Langbard duke, Gisulf, at the time of Alboin’s invasion of Italy (568 CE). For this reason, I have fleshed out this flashback with an episode from earlier in Paul’s Historia, in Book II Chapter IX, describing how Alboin entrusted Friuli to Gisulf, his nephew and most trusted man, and Gisulf accepted on condition he could hand-pick the men who would remain with him. Thus, it is as though Paul is telling us that his ancestor Leupchis was a particularly worthy man.

Langbard Paganism?

Many of the Langbard Spells will be dealing with pagan elements and, in the earliest ones in chronological order, outright Germanic paganism. Unfortunately, I have very little to go by in trying to evoke a fleshed-out version of these pagan elements in my Spells. And yet, I believe it is necessary to do so in order to recreate at least the mood and overall effect of Langbard oral history, as it might have been. We really only have one overtly pagan story (Gambara’s Spell) and a large number of veiled hints in Paul the Deacon’s book. I have attempted to fuse these hints with Lombard, and Italian folklore in general, and with scholars’ ideas (still more confused than the original sources) of what early Germanic paganism might have been like, often based on archaeology and/or the Scandinavian sources like the Eddas. I make no pretence at reconstructing the real myths and beliefs of the early Langbards: that would be impossible, and futile. Nor am I interested in reconstructed Germanic Paganism as a religion. What I am attempting to do is recreate a belief framework that is at least plausible, rather than leave a gaping hole in the stories where superstitions, beliefs, myths, legends and religious ideas would once have been. I am not recreating an ancient belief system: for storytelling purposes I am creating a false one, based on faint hints left over by a real one.[3]

Lopichis’ birth: Norns, White Ladies, and Goldhorn

At the birth of Lopichis I have described a sort of ritual in which ‘soul-water’ is used to bathe the newborn baby’s feet, and in this moment a Norn spirit visits him, called Wulderada. What I mean by soul-water is later explained clearly in Gambara’s Spell. The Norns are minor female deities, best known from later Norse literature as the equivalent of the Three Fates of Greek mythology, although there are many more than three attested. What I am really referring to in my story, is an earlier manifestation of minor female deities in Germanic culture, the Matres and matrones (mothers and matrons), known by this Latin expression because they are only attested in archaeological remains. I am following the idea put forward by some scholars that the Norns are a later, literary manifestation of the same tradition. The concept is that a female spirit visits newborn babies, casting their fate from birth. I have imagined a Norn spirit called Wulderada, the hypothetical sister of the surely attested Wuldered, the Bowman. He is my version of Ullr, (rendered as Wuldor in English), whose name means ‘glory’, and who seems over time to have become a sort of winter deity in Scandinavia, wearing skis, for example. Interestingly, in the Poetic Edda he is reported living in a yew grove (appropriate for a bowman) in a way also reminiscent of the Greenman traditions. Later in Paul’s history, and in my Langbard Spells, we will meet a Bavarian queen called Walderada (also Valdrada), daughter of a Langbard king and the mother of the much more famous Theodolinda. I have supposed that her name is the Langbard form of Wuldered’s hypothetical sister. Wulderada in my spell is called the ‘mother of all help’ because Paul the Deacon says that Lopichis chose to escape captivity at the inspiration of the ‘Author of Mercy’ – clearly a reference to the Christian god or perhaps the Virgin Mary, but it made me think of the hypothetical Norn called Eir, and I chose to run her together with Wulderada in my story.

Regarding minor female deities like the Norns, a similar concept is found in folklore from the Alps above Paul’s home of Cividale del Friuli. Here, among the same mountains the Langbards passed through in order to reach Italy, we find the wonderful Slavic tale of Goldhorn[4], a pure white chamois buck with golden horns who guards a flock of pure white chamois does, which may only be milked by the White Ladies, beautiful white-haired and pagan mountain maids who help women birth babies and foretell the newborn’s future. Arichis speculates that the White Ladies are akin to the Norns (as speculated by modern scholars including Monika Kropej). In one variant of the story of Goldhorn, a young hunter whose fate is to try and win the hand of his love by hunting the magical chamois was visited by a White Lady at birth. In Lopichis’ Spell I have made the old Slavic woman referred to by Paul the Deacon, who nurses Lopichis back to health in the mountains, a White Lady. I am dealing with the story of Goldhorn in a fuller way in my children’s novel Quis, also published on this blog.

A love story, and an escape aided by two pagan deities

Paul does not tell us what Lopichis did in his life of bondage in Avar Pannonia. I have imagined that Lopichis is sold into bondage with a family of boatmen, whose work is to ferry people across a long lake, that they don’t wish to walk around. I know that the portion of Hungary/Croatia settled first by the Langbards and then by the Avars is a land of water, crossed by many rivers and punctuated by many lakes. I have not really chosen any particular lake for this story, the lake it refers to may even be a simple broadening out of a river that has since disappeared. Why did I imagine boatmen on a lake? Let’s see if I can map out the mental connection.

In Paul’s story of Lopichis, our young hero carries a bow and a quiver of arrows after escaping bondage in Pannonia. As you will see, this plays a particularly important role at the end of the tale. My thought was: how did he come to have this bow if he was an escaped prisoner? Knowing that the arrow was a symbol of freedom among the Langbards (more on this in Gambara’s Spell), I decided that he had not stolen, but won the bow and arrow as a token of freedom for some deed done. Thus Wulderada, the Norn who visits Lopichis at birth, foresees such trouble in his future that she calls upon her brother, Wuldered the Bowman to bless him, too. With his help, Lopichis will escape bondage in Pannonia. I was intrigued by the theory that Ullr/Wulder is a possible mythological character blended with the (historical?) figure of William Tell, that charismatic superhero of medieval folklore[5]. In the best-known version of the story, William Tell escapes bondage by being the only boatman capable of piloting his captor across a lake in a storm. Being a romantic at heart, I turned this into a love story reminiscent of Hero and Leander of Greek legend. Lopichis’ reward for taking his master across the lake in a storm is an arrow to symbolise his freedom and… a bow to go with it.

Why should the arrow symbolise his freedom? Well, as Paul the Deacon himself tells us at the beginning of Chapter 13 of Book 1:

In order that they might increase the number of their warriors, confer liberty upon many whom they deliver from the yoke of bondage, a that the freedom of these may be regarded as established, they confirm it in their accustomed way by an arrow, uttering certain words of their country in confirmation of the fact.

This custom is also attested in the Edict of Rothari, of which later spells will speak. In short, it was the first formal writing-down of Langbard customs, ordered by King Rothari, with the help of the Eldermen of his people. It is explained that this ritual took place at a crossroads.

224 – On manumission

…The lord shall first hand the servant over to the hand of another freeman and confirm it by formal action. And the second man shall hand the servant over to a third in the same manner, ad the third shall hand him over to a fourth. And this fourth man shall lead him to a place where four roads meet and give him an arrow and whip, and say: “from these four roads you are free to choose where you wish to go”.[6]

Ah, if only lawmakers today were as poetic as Rothari’s Eldermen gathered in Pavia in the year 643! I like to imagine that the exact words uttered were in fact a short alliterative spell, and I will try to find an excuse to insert it into a future spell.

A half-remembered family song

A completely new element I have added to the story is the ‘Avar Boatman’s Song’, with made-up nonsense words. It comes out of the reflection that real families, like mine and yours, dear reader, do have these family legends passed down from generation to generation, and not only: we even have family songs. These may be little variants on well-known songs, variants arising, for example, from a child not being able to pronounce some of the words properly, or muddling up the meaning of a verse. In the case of my own family, we have a little song that probably comes from a Vaudeville show my great- (or great-great-?) grandmother saw, and remembered, and sang it to her children, and it has come down to us.

Tea now, for me now, me like-ee cup of tea!
Johnny Bully drink-ee beer,
Frenchie drink-ee wine so dear,
Chinaman no, he will ne’er do so,
Chinaman drink lots of lovely tea!

I wanted to enrich the sense of tradition in Paul and Arichis’ family with a half-remembered song Lopichis brought back from his time among the Avars, and settled on this melody, which I originally wrote years ago for theorbo while studying at the Conservatorium of Milan. I think it has a sea-chanty-esque feel…

The wolf and Tiuz, the Wolf-bitten

Easily the most-discussed element in Lopichis’ story as written by Paul the Deacon is the wolf that comes to his aid as he crosses the Alps in search of his home in Italy. It is a sublime moment of storytelling that unexpectedly rises into the near-mythical register. The reason why this is discussed a great deal is a little complicated, so I’ll try to break it down. The ancestral name of the Langbards upon leaving their homeland at the beginning of their migration-age saga was ‘Winniles’ (more on this in Gambara’s Spell). Some scholars have explained this name as meaning ‘war-dogs’, or ‘wild-dogs’ or ‘fighting-dogs’ or ‘glorious-dogs’. I’m no linguist, and I frankly wouldn’t know. What is clear to me is that the earliest tales of the Langbards feature a few episodes that quite rightly lead to speculation that the dog was in some way the totemic animal of the early Winniles. I will write more about this in the notes to Gambara’s Spell, which deals with the most important and most widely discussed episode among these. For now, suffice to say that I have supposed that the warrior-culture of the Langbards was, in its origins, associated with the god Tiuz (Tiwaz, Tiw, etc), later replaced as primary focus of worship by Odin (Wotan, Woden, and for the Langbards ‘Godan’). I have adopted the (much later attested) association of Tiuz with the wolf and the image of him as one-handed, with one of his hands bitten off by a wolf. Am I explicitly equating dog and wolf in Langbard mythology? Not quite. Perhaps there is some distinction, for example, wolf in war and dog in peace… but more on this in the notes to Gambara’s Spell, where the most telling episodes occur.[7]

The rose-bush, the Ash Tree, and Godan’s wisdom

There is no doubt in my mind that trees, and plants in general, played an important part in the belief system of the Langbards. Unfortunately, Paul himself, as usual, only drops obscure hints in this regard, and the most explicit of all references he makes to ‘tree magic’ is right here, in this tale about his family origins. When Lopichis finally returns to his family home in Forum Iulii, he finds it has become overgrown with brambles, and an ash tree has grown up through the roof. Anyone who has ever had any interest in Germanic mythology will immediately perk up their ears at the species of tree: Yggdrasill, the world tree… the wood used to make spears, the primary weapon of warriors and associated with Woden/Godan… Irminsul, the revered tree of the Saxons destroyed by Charlemagne… There can be no doubting its symbolism. It is, I think, no coincidence that this is the second moment in the family-history tale in which Paul’s narration rises to the mythic register, and it is exquisite.

After some days he entered Italy and came to the house in which he had been born, which was so deserted that not only did it have no roof but it was full of brambles and thorns. And when he had cut them down he found within the walls a large ash-tree, and hung his quiver upon it. He was afterwards provided with gifts by his relatives and friends, and rebuilt his house and took a wife.

I don’t know about you, but that makes shivers run up my spine. “…and hung his quiver upon it.” In a single gesture, the adventure in the wild, with the bow and the wolf, is brought to a most significant ending, the weapon of his survival hung upon the most sacred tree in the world. Wow. And coming as it does after cutting through brambles and thorns… in the best tradition of Sleeping Beauty (is this the oldest Germanic version of the motif?)

I have elaborated a meaning for this extraordinary tale, that is suitable to our narrators, Paul and his brother Arichis: the wolf adventure elevated them to the rank of Hariman (warrior, chosen by Tiuz/Tiwaz), and the ash-tree marked them as Eldermen (keepers of the oral tradition, ‘long beards’ chosen by Godan/Woden). That is my interpretation, and I think it’s a damned good one.

For the curious, I wish to add two references to the plants above you may not be familiar with, being exceedingly obscure. I’m particularly proud of discovering the first, linked with tree-magic. In the 1570s, the great Carlo Borromeo, cardinal and later saint, partially in an effort to spare Milan the rigours of the Inquisition, clamped down on pagan rituals (so that the Inquisition would not have to do it for him, and in much less pleasant ways), including the planting of trees at crossroads at the calends of May.[8] To be sure, which kind of trees are not specified, but the place they are planted is, and it is the same significant place where the manumission of slaves and prisoners took place, the crossroads. To my mind, this place represented ‘the wide world’, and embraced all possibilities, in the Langbard imagination. Thus, the tree planted there may well have been, at least originally, an ash tree, the world-tree.

What about the rose bush? Paul the Deacon refers to brambles and thorns, which is not so specific. I have made it a rose bush on the strength of a very obscure text dealing with Langbard history, known as the Codex Gothanus, a 9^th-century text written at Fulda, in modern day East Germany.[9] In it, the seeress Gambara (see Gambara’s Spell) proclaims that thorns will become roses, and with this vision in mind leads her people out of their ancient homeland of Scandan. Since Paul mentions thorns, I have decided they are roses, which completes the tie-in with Sleeping Beauty quite nicely (though I am aware that the rose-bush may be a late addition to the Sleeping Beauty story).

VERSUS PAULI AD REGEM PRECANDO.[10]
Verba tui famuli, rex summe, adtende serenus,
Respice et ad fletum cum pietate meum.
Sum miser, ut mereor, quantum vix ullus in orbe est;
Semper inest luctus tristis et hora mihi.
Septimus annus adest, ex quo nova causa dolores
Multiplices generat et mea corda quatit.
Captivus vestris extunc germanus in oris
Est meus, afflicto pectore, nudus, egens.
Illius in patria coniunx miseranda per omnes
Mendicat plateas ore tremente cibos.
Quattuor hac turpi natos sustentat ab arte,
Quos vix pannuciis praevalet illa tegi.
Est mihi, quae primis Christo sacrata sub annis
Excubat, egregia simplicitate soror:
Haec sub sorte pari luctum sine fine retentans
Privata est oculis iam prope flendo suis.
Quantulacumque fuit, direpta est nostra supellex,
Nec est, heu, miseris qui ferat ullus opem.
Coniunx est fratris rebus exclusa paternis,
Iamque sumus servis rusticitate pares.
Nobilitas periit miseris, accessit aegestas:
Debuimus, fateor, asperiora pati.
Sed miserere, potens rector, miserere, precamur,
Et tandem finem his pie pone malis.
Captivum patriae redde et civilibus arvis,
Cum modicis rebus culmina redde simul;
Mens nostra ut Christo laudes in secla frequentet,
Reddere qui solus praemia digna potest.

[1] Paolo Diacono, Profilo bio-bibliografico, Appunti delle lezioni del corso di Letteratura Latina Medievale (Modulo 2), Università degli Studi di Palermo – Facoltà di Lettere e Filosofia, Corso di Laurea Triennale in Beni Culturali, Corso di Laurea Magistrale in Scienze dell’Antichità, Anno accademico 2012-2013, (prof. Armando Bisanti)

[2] Alboin vero ita praeclarum longe lateque nomen percrebuit, ut hactenus etiam tam apud Baioariorum gentem quamque et Saxonum, sed et alios eiusdem linguae homines eius liberalitas et gloria bellorumque felicitas et virtus in eorum carminibus celebretur.

Paul the Deacon, Historia Langobardorum, Book I, Chapter XXVII. English translation by William Dudley Foulke (Ed. Edward Peters, University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003

[3] For an interesting and exhaustive discussion of Langbard belief systems and the difficulties in reconstructing them, see Gasparri, Stefano, La cultura tradizionale dei longobardi. Struttura tribale e resistenze pagane, Fondazione CISAM, Spoleto 1983.

[4]

KROPEJ, Monika. The Goldenhorn in Slovenian folk belief tradition. Cosmos, ISSN 0269-8773, 2011, 27, str. 31-60.

[5] Rochus von Liliencron, Historische Volkslieder der Deutschen, vol. 2 (1866), no. 147, cited by Rochholz (1877), p. 187; c.f. Bergier, p. 70–71.

[6] Translated by Katherine Fischer Drew, The Lombard Laws, The University of Pennsylvania Press, 1973.

[7] The best articles to read concerning the nexus Langbards/Winniles/wolf/dog are: Kemp Malone, “Agelmund and Lamicho” In his Studies in Heroic Legend and in Current Speech. Ed. by Stefán Einarsson and Norman Eliason. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde and Bagger. pp. 86-107. Orig. publ. 1926.; and Joseph Harris, “Myth and Literary History, two Germanic examples” in Oral Tradition, 19/1 (2004): 3-19. The former is the original conceptual work on the subject, dense and difficult, the second gives an easier to read summary of the conclusions of the former. Malone himself builds on Rudolf Much, “Der Germanische Osten in der Heldensage.” Zeitschrift für deutsches Altertum und deutsche Literatur, 57 (1920), 145-176.

[8] Stefano d’Amico, Spanish Milan: A City within the Empire, 1535-1706, 2012, Palgrave Macmillan, New York. See Chapter 4, The Second Rome.

[9] I have used the translation in appendix in William Dudley Foulke, History of the Lombards, (Ed. Edward Peters, University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003

[10] Archivio della Latinità Italiana del Medioevo, Carmina, resource/3472

Lopichis’ Spell

May 13, 2021May 13, 2021 by Ivan Fowler Categories: The Langbard SpellsTags: Aachen, animal magic, Aquisgrana, Arichis, Ash tree, Avars, Carlo Boromeo, Charlemagne, Cividale del Friuli, Edict of Rothari, Folklore, Forum Iulii, Franks, Friuli, Fulda, Gambara, Germanic folklore, Germanic paganism, Goldhorn, Historia Langobardorum, I have trod the upward and the downward slope, Langbobards, Leupchis, Lombard Laws, Lombards, Lombardy, Lopichis, Norns, Odin, Pannonia, Paul the Deacon, plant magic, Rothari, Seeress, Slavic folklore, Sleeping Beauty, Tiwaz, Triglav, Ullr, Vaughan Williams, White Ladies, Woden, Wotan, Wulder, Yggdrasil

What are the Langbard Spells?

Who are the Langbards?

Very simply, they were a group of people who, over hundreds of years, moved from northern Europe down to what is now Hungary and thence into Italy. The only certain date we have for this migration is their arrival in Italy in 568 CE (though some of them had been there before, and some may have stayed there after earlier visit, so arriving slightly earlier than the main body of the Langbards). They were a composite people, built up over hundreds of years of fighting and winning battles with other peoples, which they absorbed into their own human mass by means of a form of serfdom and through subsequent emancipation into the wider community. They called themselves the Langbards, and their language was Germanic, and though not enough of it survives to be completely sure, it was most likely West Germanic. They represent a kind of human snowball rolling slowly but ever more powerfully through Europe over hundreds of years, until its mass and momentum were sufficient to invade a land as large and as sought after as Italy (though they never really held the entire peninsula, they did hold most of it.) Once there, they established a Kingdom that lasted until it fell to Charlemagne in the year 774, so roughly 200 years. During most of that time, the administrative capital was Pavia, just south of Milan in what is now appropriately called Lombardy (see the naming issue below), and the royal palace here was the habitual residence for most of the kings. I say “here”, because I live in Pavia.

Paul the Deacon Fanfiction – oral re-telling, from memory

Let’s be clear about this: all stories are, in some way or another, fanfiction, like it or not. Dante from Virgil, Virgil from Homer, and I don’t know Homer’s direct inspiration, but of course he had it. So, let me be completely honest and upfront about this: in creating these oral stories I’m drawing in a huge way upon an Early Medieval Latin history by a proud Langbard and devout Benedictine monk, Paul the Deacon. His work is called Historia Langobardorum (History of the Langbards).

Scholars have always hotly debated its origins and nature. Is it a condensed version, in Latin, of Germanic oral history, perhaps alliterative sagas? Is it simply a rehash of diverse written sources, many of which have been lost? Is it a mix of history and Paul’s own imagination? Was it written with a personal, or perhaps political agenda shaping the stories?

Now, I don’t presume to know the answers, and believe no one ever will, short of inventing a time-machine. If you ask for my personal opinion, I would say it is a blend of all of these explanations, but with a preponderance of the first: in other words, much of it (and perhaps all of the really memorable narrative passages) are condensed versions, in Latin, of Germanic oral history, likely originally in the form of alliterative sagas. Why do I think that? For a totally un-historical, un-scientific, but nevertheless very good reason.

I have told a few fragments of Paul the Deacon’s stories orally several hundred times over a ten year period, as Master History Walker of The Original History Walks® of the Cultural Association Il Mondo di Tels, Pavia. Essentially, in the context of educational walking tours of Pavia, for school kids, I have verbally recounted some parts of Paul’s stories that relate to the city. During History Walks, I have also recounted some of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales several hundred times, too, and many other stories besides. I think all guides and storytellers know what I mean when I say that, after you tell a story many, many times, you settle into a way of telling it that suits the oral medium. It is very different to simply reading from a book (especially reading from a guidebook!) You subtly rearrange things so that someone who is listening, without any visual aid like a presentation or a poster, can follow and enjoy the story you are telling. As a professional oral storyteller, I’ve done this many times. With the narrative fragments of Paul the Deacon’s stories, it just isn’t necessary. They are already in the perfect form for oral storytelling. I don’t believe that’s a coincidence. They are, in my un-provable and unscientific opinion, a translation into Latin of an established oral tradition that was alive and well in his time.

Paul hints at the existence of a wider body of song and oral storytelling several times. Here is a telling example, from the end of Book I of his History, talking about the heroic king Alboin who first led his people into Italy:

But the name of Alboin was spread far and wide, so illustrious, that even up to this time his noble bearing and glory, the good fortune of his wars and his courage are celebrated, not only among the Bavarians and Saxons, but also among other men of the same tongue in their songs.[1]

However, and this is fundamental to my project, I am also pretty sure that Paul severely edited the stories, cutting out elements that in some way offended his Christian faith or simply his sense of what was appropriate to a history. There are two main reasons why I think this. The first is the character of Gambara. She appears to be a seeress, and a kind of legendary mother of the Langbard people, and her story is the first that Paul tells. She has two sons with alliterative names (a common element in many Germanic origin stories) and she interacts with the goddess Fream (Frigg/Freya) in a way that corresponds with what is generally understood about early Germanic seeresses. However, Paul tells her (pagan) story almost unwillingly, introducing it as ‘a ridiculous tale told by the ancients’, and tells it in a compressed and abridged form. How do we know it is compressed and abridged? Because the same tale is, fortunately, told in another key Langbard document, attached as a kind of prelude to Rothair’s Edict, a book containing the law code published in Pavia in 643 CE. Here it is in a more complete, detailed, and narratively satisfying form. This, to me, makes it plain that Paul abridged the stories where he found pagan elements he did not agree with. I also believe he cut out other important stories altogether, because they did not correspond to his idea of what constitutes history. For example, the Hildebrandslied is an alliterative heroic song that linguists believe originated in Langbard Italy in the 7^th century or before, and was then told in other Germanic lands in translations and variants. The Song of Hildebrand survives as a fragment, that appears to relate to the corpus of sagas and songs built around the court of Gothic King Theodoric/Theudereik/Dietrich von Bern. That would be appropriate, because Theodoric conquered and ruled Italy with his Goths before the Langbards arrived, and the Langbard kings resided in the palace Theodoric built in Pavia, where Paul the Deacon, incidentally, studied as a young man. Here’s the thing: Paul himself makes no mention of Hildebrand, and does not recount his tragic tale. I guess it didn’t fit in with his history. Therefore I believe he selected specific tales from a broader corpus of oral storytelling, and most likely abridged them until they could fit into a history written in good conscience by a devout Christian monk.

So, what I am doing is this: based on Paul the Deacon’s narrative, but integrated with related folk-tales from Lombardy/Italy, or with related folkloric and literary elements drawn from across the Germanic traditions, trying to recreate an oral history not as I think it was told in reality (that is forever lost to us), but at the very least with a spirit and atmosphere akin to the way it was told in reality. To attempt to achieve this, I am not writing the stories down until they are finished. So, the entire creative process happens orally and mnemonically, normally during walks I take in the countryside around Pavia, where I live, or while I iron or do similar menial tasks. I literally tell/sing the stories to myself, many times, until they settle into a form I am satisfied with, part alliterative, part prose, part song, and then I record them, and only then do I write down the result. My goal is to achieve something akin to the atmosphere and style of the oral storytellers upon whom Paul based the narrative portions of his History.

Why Langbards? (and not Lombards, Longobards, Longobardi, Langobardi, Longbeards, Heaðobards…)

Well, the name literally means Longbeards. You will find them in most encyclopedias as Lombards, sometimes qualified as the Ancient Lombards. The trouble with using the word Lombards is that the modern inhabitants of Lombardy, Italy, are also Lombards. And they have very little in common, except a geographical home, with the people in these stories. Paul the Deacon calls them in Latin Langobardi, specifically stating that in their own language Lang = Long and Bard = Beard. The ‘O’ in the middle of Langobardus is required by Latin phonetics, and probably wasn’t part of the original word. The declined endings after the ‘D’ are required by Latin grammar, so what we are left with is Langbard. Of course, we could call them Longbeards, and be done with. But that would, I feel, reduce the mystical, mythical feel surrounding a name which, as you will discover in Gambara’s Spell, has divine origins. Heaðobards is a probable Old English variant, found in Beowulf and the Widsith, but is too distant from what they called themselves, and from what most people call them today… so Langbards it is.

Why Spells?

I confess to being one of those people who actually read dictionaries for pleasure. I admit it here and now, I spend more time reading dictionaries than I do novels or stories. My favourite is called www.etymonline.com, an etymological dictionary of the English language. I was looking for a word that could have had a similar meaning for those ancient people who were ancestors of both the Langbards and me (I am Australian of majority English descent). Tale was too connotated with certain historical literary models, particularly The Canterbury Tales, and also implied something spoken or written and not sung (at least to my ears). Story is of Latin origin… What about spell?

spell (n.1)

Old English spell “story, saying, tale, history, narrative, fable; discourse, command,” from Proto-Germanic *spellam (see spell (v.1)). Compare Old Saxon spel, Old Norse spjall, Old High German spel, Gothic spill “report, discourse, tale, fable, myth;” German Beispiel “example.” From c. 1200 as “an utterance, something said, a statement, remark;” meaning “set of words with supposed magical or occult powers, incantation, charm” first recorded 1570s; hence any means or cause of enchantment.

Yes! It has the right meaning to describe what I want to do, existed in Proto-Germanic, the language presumably spoken by those ancestors I mentioned, and today it also has associations with causing magic to occur through song, which was something very real for the Langbards, as you will discover listening to these tales.

The tales abound with wars, cruelty, bloodshed, shape-shifting, omens, prophecies, drugs and hallucinations, strong female characters, poison, gods, music, wonders, magic… There is even a dragon at one point. So, please listen on if you think this is your cup of tea.

Come, sit in the warm and listen well,
As I sing and speak a Langbard spell…

[1] Alboin vero ita praeclarum longe lateque nomen percrebuit, ut hactenus etiam tam apud Baioariorum gentem quamque et Saxonum, sed et alios eiusdem linguae homines eius liberalitas et gloria bellorumque felicitas et virtus in eorum carminibus celebretur.

Paul the Deacon, Historia Langobardorum, Book I, Chapter XXVII. English translation by William Dudley Foulke (Ed. Edward Peters, University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003

April 12, 2021April 12, 2021 by Ivan Fowler Categories: The Langbard SpellsTags: Aio, Alboin, Ambri, Ancient Lombards, Assi, Assipiti, Bear warrior, Fream, Freja, Frigg, Gambara, Germanic legends, Germanic mythology, Godan, Goldhorn, Hame, Ibor, Leupchis, Lombardic, Lombards, Lombardy, Longobardi, Lopichis, Norns, Odin, oral history, Paolo Diacono, Paul the Deacon, Seeress, Slavic folklore, storytelling, Tiwaz, Triglav, Winils, Woden, Wolf warrior, Wolf-hame, Wulderada, Wuldered

Gambara’s Spell

The second of the Langbard Spells, oral storytelling of the history of the Ancient Lombards, a Germanic people who occupied much of Italy for nearly two hundred years after the fall of the Roman Empire.

AD 783. Arichis is a prisoner of the Frankish King Karol (Charlemagne). While in prison, he is sitting by a crackling fire, telling his listeners the incredible stories of his people, from their mythical origins in Scandana, an island of the far north, to their ultimate downfall at the hands of King Karol of the Franks (Charlemagne).

This is Gambara’s Spell, the tale of the Seeress who, together with her sons Ibor and Aighio, first led her people on their epic journey.

“…and so, from that day on the Winils became the Langbards, and with Godan’s blessing began the battle.”

Come, sit in the warm and listen well,
As I sing and speak a Langbard Spell.

Now that you have heard the story of my family, and you know my right to be a teller of these tales, I would go back, back to Gambara’s Spell, the oldest of all sung among my people. Gambara was a seeress, a wielder of the wand, and held to be the wisest of all among the Winnils, and the Winnils were the fore-fathers of the Langbards. But, as I told you last time, among us we always say that every tale must begin with either a mother or a father; and so it is with Gambara’s Spell: we must begin with the spell of King Sheave, shining Sheave, the Boat-Borne, the first father of all seven kindreds who dwelt in the island of Scandana, the hallowed of hallowed places in the faery Neverlands of the north. But why, I hear you ask, why do we call him ‘shining Sheave, the Boat-Borne’? Well, if you listen to my song, soon you will know.

To our Fathers of old, from the farthest ocean,
a boat came sailing out of the burnished sun,
waning in the West.

With wings outspread on the winds of Spring,
a hallowed eagle came hurrying from the East,
an omen overhead.

By the wind swiftly blown, over wild breakers,
on the strand it rose, till its stem rested
on shingled shores.

In fear and wonder to the fallow water
men hastened to marvel in the half-light
at the boat on the beach.

Gleaming-timbered in the golden twilight
It lay where the sand meets the lowering sky,
A burden in its bosom.

A slender boy lay asleep in the boat,
his limbs were rosy, his locks were raven,
his face was fair.

His sleeping head was softly held
on a sheaf of cut and shimmering corn,
from far-off fields.

In golden ware, gleaming water
stood still beside him; strung with silver –
a harp of horn.

From boat to hall they bore him high,
and laid him sleeping, alone to slumber,
on blanketed bed.

And night wore away. New awakened
over Earth and Men the early morn;
and day came dimly.

They strode indoors, then stopped in daze;
fear and wonder filled the watchmen;
the guest was gone.

They sought him, un-resting, till the sun, rising,
over land came blazing, light blinding,
shadows shedding.

Then upon a swarded hill, they saw him:
he stood on high, still and hale,
at his feet the shining fallow sheaf,
his harp in hand.

A song began, both sweet and bold,
with words and music weaving marvels,
wonder wakening.

Then Maids and Wives, Men and Wise,
Greybeards, and youths in golden years,
all thronged enthralled.

They bowed and cried and blessed his coming
to their native shores. They named him Sheaf,
the Boat-Born.

His name is sung in the North ever since,
for king he was, crowned with wheat,
a great gift-giver.

He raised on that hill a royal hall,
of wood well-carven the walls were wrought,
golden gabled.

Words he taught them wise and true
long forsaken laws of fairness,
and runes for writing.

Midst music and song, mead and spells,
both boons and penance he bestowed and passed,
judging justly.

Where wastes had lingered on wild lands,
now burnished wheat in the breezes whispered,
fresh food for his folk.

And riches he lavished, reward of labor,
from sowing and ploughing, seeds of plenty,
hoarding harvests.

His warrior bands did well as he bade,
ever roaming fearless, reaving and fighting,
harvesting hoards.

Sheaf our forebear, Shield of his folk,
of princely sons was proud sire,
father of fathers.

The Franks and Gepids, the fierce Goths,
the Angles and Saxons, the able Swedes,
Seven his seed:

The last, the Winnils, lovers of war,
the wild Hounds, the Wolf-hamed
ever fear they struck where fearless they strode,
swords swinging.

When his years lay wearily, youth worn away,
silent came Sheaf to the sea’s shore,
and beheld the boat that hence had born him.
He sailed into the mist, and was seen no more.

The time of King Sheave was one of plenty, of new life and new riches. But where, I hear you ask, where lies that Island of Scandana, the most hallowed of all hallowed places? Well, as the songs tell us, it lies among the cold seas of the far north. In the Elderman’s tongue, salt-water is called soul-water, for it is said that the ghosts of new-born babies spring from the ocean waves. So, too, sea-birds are called soul-birds. And so, of course, an island lying amid the seas is a place where new life abounds, perhaps too much new life! All the new-born babies were brighter and fairer than the fathers and mothers who made them. But all too soon they grew up, and came to long for new lands to till, and fresh timber for new halls and homes. But, on an island there is no new land, no fresh timber. And so the doom was cast that three of the seven kindreds who dwelt on Scandana must take ship, and leave those shores forever. Straws would be drawn, and those who drew the three short straws would have to leave.

When Gambara heard this news, she went out to the hidden places, and there she stewed the stem, and smoked the seed, and chewed the wort, and foresight came to her of all the days ahead of her people. Then she went back to the Winils, and told them: “I have seen it. Where now the way is thick with thorns, there roses will blossom, red as blood. Let us take ship of our own accord. Let us be the first to leap out over the waves towards new lands. I have seen our path, and proudly will I stand upon the prow and steer us over the silver seas.”

When the Winils heard this, their hearts were lifted, and they were glad, and willingly they took ship. And being the first to leave, they also took the finest and fastest of the three ships. Well, the Goths would not be outdone, and very soon they too took the second of the ships, and the second best. And so but one ship was left, and only one short straw needed to be drawn. The kindred who drew that straw were called the Gepids, and it was a fit name, for ‘Gepid’ in the Elderman’s tongue means ‘sluggish’.

Now, the tale is told that as the Winil ship, ahead of the others, plied the ocean waves, from the top of a wind-tossed wave there sprang a soul-bird, a dove. It flew above the heads of all, and off into the south. Gambara cried: “Let us follow beneath its wings, for that way our path lies.” And so it was that the ship, at last, following under the wings of the sea-bird, came to a land our forefathers called ‘Scoringa’. When they saw this new land, their hearts were glad, for it was a broad, gentle plain, rich in green, a good place.

Now why, I hear you ask, why did the Winils change their name to ‘Langbards’? Well, that tale is linked with Gambara and with the land of Scoringa, for the folk who dwelt in the neighbouring lands all about were under the yolk of one people, the Wandals. And just as the Winils were lead by two brothers, Ibor and Aighio, the sons of Gambara, so too the Wandals were lead by two brothers, Ambri and Assi. Their fathers had won them much land, and now they were too proud to work, too proud to till their own land. And so they lived of bread baked by the other peoples all around, they were not true warriors like their fathers before them, they were shameful spear shakers and rowdy shield rattlers. Thinking they could easily strike fear into the hearts of the Winils, they sent word to Ibor and Aighio, saying: “yield to us each year one tenth of your toil, and you will be spared the spear.”

Well, of course, Ibor and Aighio thought no longer upon this threat than an eagle thinks of being eaten by an ant. Straightway they sent word back: “fight we will.”

The Wandals had not looked for this answer, and they were unready. And so, that night, they sent their worship to Godan, the father of all good, begging him to let them win the day against the Winils. And thus spoke Godan unto them: “When Golden Eastara lifts her head above the world, by her light I will behold the worthy.” And to Ambri and Assi, what Godan had said seemed clear: they must merely be the first upon the field at dawn. ‘Eastara’ in the Elderman’s tongue, is ‘the dawn’, and she rules that time of year when darkness and hunger come to an end, and new life springs up all around. And that is the time of year when Harimenn set forth to find new wars to wage in far-off lands.

When word of Godan’s doom reached the Winils, Ibor and Aighio thought straightway to send their worship to Tiuz, the lord of war, the wolf-bitten warden of the Winils. But Gambara stayed their hand, saying: “This wants a woman’s teasing touch.”

So that night, Gambara stewed the stem and smoked the seed and chewed the wort, and sent her worship to Fream, Fream the goddess and wife of Godan. “Oh, Gladsome Fream,” said she, “please let us win the day tomorrow.”

Fream, by way of an answer, told Gambara a riddle. Yes, that’s right, a riddle! I guess here, in the halls of King Karol… maybe you don’t know it. But in our lands, every child can sing you this riddle as well as they sing you the days of the week. Here, this is how it goes, let’s see if you can fathom it:

Keys unfasten them, uncut they never fall,
Weave them and wind them, that’s the wherewithal,
Make what maidens pluck in their plight,
Let Hairmen and Harimen hail Lady Light!

There, what do you make of it? Well, in truth, I think the last two lines give the game away, but I’ve known the answer all my life: Gambara had only just heard it… All that day, and long into the night, she and her sons, Ibor and Aighio, weighed it over in their minds without coming any closer to fathoming its meaning. Already, dawn was drawing near, and an old warrior, whose name was my own, Arichis, came to Gambara and to her sons, saying: “My lady, my lords, what news? It is nearly day, and we must don our helms for war, and heft our weapons.” Gambara spoke to him, saying: “Reckon thou upon this riddle, and tell us the truth of it if you may, good man.” And then she sang the riddle to him.
Well, old Arichis scratched his bald head, and twisted his fingers in his woven beard, and said: “I am no Elderman, I am no seeress’ son, my mind is too lame to unlock this one.”
Now, as Gambara saw him scratch his bald head like that, and twist his fingers in his woven beard… and when he said the word ‘unlock’… suddenly, a flash of insight came to her, and she rushed from the tent, calling to her all the women of the Winils. When they had gathered together before her, she cried aloud in a great voice: “Women of the Winils, loosen the locks of hair on your heads, wind them and weave them about cheek and chin until you boast beards to make grown men green with envy!”
For that is the answer to the riddle: you see, keys unfasten locks, and the only locks that never fall are the ones on a woman’s head. Weave them and wind them to make what maidens pluck in their plight… well, when a pretty maiden finds a few hairs growing upon her chin, that’s a terrible plight for her, isn’t it? And so she plucks them out. So, the women of the Winils must weave their hair into beards like a man, and then these ‘Hairmen’, together with the Harimen, must hail Lady Light, Eastara, just as Godan had said.
Now, you truly understand just how highly the Winils thought of Gambara when you think that, as dawn finally broke, these women wearing woven beards joined hands with their husbands and greeted the day, and nobody laughed at the sight.
Now, the old tale goes that Fream, during the night, had turned around the bed where her husband lay asleep, so that he was facing the East, and then she shook him roughly awake. When poor Godan had thrown off the sleep in his eyes, and looked out, he said: “Who are those longbeards?”
Fream, as quick as a fox, said: “My husband, you have just given them your own Never-Name, will you let them bear it now for one day and no more? Let them win this fight, and bear that name for ever more, and for hundreds of years men will sing of the Longbeards!” Of course, Godan was not just a wise god, he was a wise man as well, and would not say no to his wife when she was in the right. And so, from that day on, the Winils became the Longbeards, and now with Godan’s blessing began the battle.
Leaping as quick as lions, the Langbards came, burning over the bowed helms of the Wandals, hot like a flaring flame, searing on a winter wind! Swords threshed limb from limb, their spears spared no one, like thunder their feet upon the Earth, the trees trembled in the ground’s grip, and their foes fell back in dire awe from the death-light in their eyes!
The day was won. The Langbards were free.
When the fighting was done, Gambara bade the Harimen left alive take the spears of their fallen fellows and set them upright in the ground above their graves. And then she sang a spell to hasten them on their way to the Ghastengarda. As the spell came to its close, a dove came sailing out of the northern sky and, swooping and diving, it went on its way to the south. Just as she had done that day on the ship, Gambara told them: “We must follow beneath her wings, for that way lies our path.” And indeed, soon afterwards, the Langbards, new-named, went on their way ever southwards.
Ever since the day of the fight against the Wandals, when we earned our name, we have always set spears in the ground upright, to show where our fallen Harimen lie. And we have always set upon the point of those spears a wooden dove, gazing away to the south. For this reason, we call the field of a battle an ‘ash-field’, for ash is the wood of our spears, the most hallowed wood in the eyes of Godan.
Now, you might be thinking that the Langbards were none to pleased to be on their way once more. Surely, having won their new land in Scoringa, they would be happiest to dwell there awhile. In truth they were not too dismayed, they had suffered greatly the pangs of hunger there, and were glad to be on their way once more. The trouble was that, to the south, there lay a great wood, and in the wood there lived another folk called the Assipites. When the Langbard scouts first went under the trees, they found that the Assipite scouts were ready and waiting. When the scouts came back, and told Ibor and Aighio what they had found, the two brothers would not wait to speak of it with their mother. It must be said that their pride was pained by what had passed, for they had seen time and again that their people followed their mother more than they followed the brothers, and now they were yearning for deeds to prove themselves in the eyes of the Harimen.
And so, that evening, they bade the tents be spread out far and wide over the plain, and fires be lit fit for a host a hundredfold their number. And then the donned the hallowed wolf-pelts of Tiuz. They told the men: “Now, make such a wailing and crying as a hundred wolves howling to the moon!” And then they tore among the trees, rending flesh with red fangs, reaving and wreaking havoc, freezing hearts with fear!
When they were done dishing out death, they stopped on the edge of the woods, and cried out in a great, fell voice: “Hinder not our host in its passing, lest we slake our thirst upon your slain in their throes of death in a dour glut of gut and gore!”
Now, when the two brothers came back to the camp, their mother met them, and her mood was foul: “Fie upon you, my children,” she said, “the ways of the wolf are no longer ours. Longbeards we are, we bear the Never-Name of Godan himself, Tiuz is no longer the lord of our ways. We must look to Godan, the ways of the wisdom.”
At first the two brothers were wrathful to hear such words, but as the night grew long, they understood what they had done, and swore never to wear the wolf-hame again. These were now things of the past. Well, the next day, out of the woods came the king of the Assipites, and by his side an Elderman bearing a mead-cup, to show they came not for a fight, but for a moot. Ibor and Aighio and Gambara came forth to meet them. The Assipite king said: “Great is the fear among my men after what happened last night, and none wish to wage war upon you. But there is one among us, a bear-skin bearer, stronger than the strongest of men, and he will fight for all. Thus I challenge you: let your bravest and best fight with him. Should your man win, you will pass unhindered through our woods. Should our man win, you will go back from whence you came.” And then the king took the mead-cup, and drank a deep draught from it, and offered it to Ibor and Aighio.
Now, of course, in front of all their men, how could the two brothers say no? They would pass for cowards. And yet their heart was heavy to drink form the mead-cup and seal the deal. No longer could they don the wolf-hame, as they had sworn, and even should they do so, a wolf pack might hope to bring down a bear, but a lone wolf will always flee from such a foe. And so, the Gairethinx gathered, and set to choosing a man to face the bear-skin warrior of the Assipites. And it was then that a mere Haldien stepped forward, a slave. He was a Wandal man, taken but weeks before in the great fight when the Langbards had won their name. He said: “I will fight this man on behalf of all of you, but I ask one boon: let it be known that I fight for my freedom, for among my people I was born a Hariman, and I would not die a Haldien among yours.” And then his eyes, wandering, met those of a fair maiden of the Langbards, a Hariman’s daughter, and her eyes met his, and to all it was plain: he would fight not only for his freedom from bondage, but for the right to marry a Hariman’s daughter, for he and she were in love. Gambara, seeing this, spoke to the Gairethinx, saying: “Did I not say once that where the way is thick with thorns, there roses will blossom, red as blood? Is the blood of a Wandal not red as the blood of a Langbard? Let this man fight for his freedom, and fight for our right to go onwards.”
And as Gambara bade, so it was done. The Wandal man was given his weapons once again, and when the bear-skin warrior came forth to meet him, and screaming, scramsax in hand, he leapt lunging and with a single strike, felled his foe to the ground! And once again the day was won, and the Wandal wed his Langbard love.
And ever since that day it has been our way to free the best and the bravest of the men we take in battle. They swell our ranks and make us stronger. And thus is the sign of their freedom: one morning, in the spring, they are taken to a crossroads where a hallowed Oaktree grows. An arrow is placed in their hand and a spell is sung, and then they are full-free.
Now the Langbards went through the woods of the Assipites, and onwards to new lands, but every time they stopped and dwelt for a short time, the soul-bird would fly out of the north and onwards to the south, and they knew the time had come to move on. And ever it was so until the great king Authari came to the southernmost tip of land, and then our wanderings stopped, in our homeland of Italy. But during those long years, those hundreds of years, moving from home to home, my forebears took heart in the song of our people: Gambara’s Spell.

O! The fields and forests and swarded fells,
Where the swaths of sweet-grain softly sway
At the setting sun, how the wind sings,
And whips the waves to shimmering white.
O! The sheltering shores where silvery shines
From sighing seas the light of souls.

From nameless Neverlands of the faery North
Fair and fearless, a Soul-bird fared,
And soaring sailing, a Dove all-seeing,
Over dark deeps it winged and dived.
“O! Whither now, wending, the Gairethinx wanders?
Will you guide us?” Cried Gambara, seeress of Godan.

Sailing southward from our heartland of Scandan,
Our homes and hearths now dim and hollow,
To dwell and die afar our doom;
From our fields, and forests, and swarded fells.
O! Swift as you swoop and sail I swear,
So shall we seek to follow you South.

“Yet shall we yield in our dreams to yearning,
For the deathless door, at the close of day,
Cleansed and clothed in Night’s good cloak.
O! The nameless Neverlands of the faery North.
O! Our fields and forests and swarded fells.”
O! The nameless Neverlands of the faery North.”

April 5, 2021 by Ivan Fowler Categories: The Langbard SpellsTags: Aio, Alboin, Ambri, Ancient Lombards, Assi, Assipiti, Bear warrior, Fream, Freja, Frigg, Gambara, Germanic legends, Germanic mythology, Godan, Goldhorn, Hame, Ibor, Leupchis, Lombardic, Lombards, Lombardy, Longobardi, Lopichis, Norns, Odin, oral history, Paolo Diacono, Paul the Deacon, Seeress, Slavic folklore, storytelling, Tiwaz, Triglav, Winils, Woden, Wolf warrior, Wolf-hame, Wulderada, Wuldered

Quis – Chapter 3

The Treasure of the River

Illustrations by Francesca Duo

The ground was soft. And just as well, too, because we fell right on our bottoms, but weren’t hurt. What? We fell on the ground? Shouldn’t we have fallen into water? Well, my friends, we were inside a world of story: the Ghastengarda, father had called it. In that world, every kind of magic is possible. And now we found ourselves on wet grass that was so cold it was almost frozen, and around us the fog was thinning out. In the space of a few breaths, in fact, it cleared so much we could see all around us. We were un a small rise, in the middle of some leafless winter bushes, and luckily our fathers were about twenty paces away, lower down. We hid behind those bushes to watch. Our fathers were speaking with…

…a boy as beautiful as an angel and as cheerful as the sun. It was as though the best and brightest child of the richest nobleman of the city had had a hundred perfumed baths, then put on clothes that had been washed a thousand times, and… and I don’t know, I just can’t describe how… clean he was. And likeable. You couldn’t help but love him after a single glance. As we found out later, his name – and a rather odd name at that – was Quis.

Now he was speaking with them. Matteo’s face was as wonder-struck as ours, but my father seemed completely at ease – actually, he was enjoying his cousin’s surprise a little, I think. The angelic boy was pointing to something further away, down, down, toward the river. Because, you see, we were up high on the banks of the Ticino, I believe quite close to San Salvatore, outside the walls. To the left, in the distance, I recognised the Roman bridge, and nearer to us were brick-makers’ huts and fishermen’s boats.

…never have I seen such greed in a king,

The boy was saying.

For gold, jewels, belongings, for everything!
He took it all, from each and every subject,
Leaving them bitter, in poverty most abject,
And now that he’s fled in the face of battle,
At last they’ve seen his true face and mettle.
But what does he care? His only thought
Is for taking his treasure without getting caught.

Now, here’s two more incredible things about Quis: how he speaks. It seems like a nursery rhyme. I don’t know how he does it, I’ve tried and I can’t. A first rhyme might come to me easily, but if I try to keep going I trip over my tongue and that’s the end of it. The second thing is: when you are inside the Ghastengarda you can hear him everywhere, no matter whether he’s two feet from you, or a thousand. And he doesn’t shout, not at all! He speaks softly, and you can always hear him.

Meanwhile, Pietro and I were watching, and I have to admit, we were both scared. Now we had been magicked away beyond the city walls and, what’s more, beyond our own time! Because the brick-makers and the boatsmen down on the banks of the Ticino were all dressed like people out of old fairy tales, like the people in the oldest wall-paintings in the oldest churches of the city, the ones left the way they were after the great earthquake of years ago, half crumbled and ruined. And the city, from what we could see of it from there, was different, too. It was smaller, with more wood and less bricks, and there were no towers. Let me tell you again, we were scared!

What were we to do? Come out of the bushes and show ourselves, and let ourselves be punished a bit, or stay hidden and wait to follow our fathers back home to our own world at the journey’s end, and somehow try to get away with it? What would you have done?

Just watch him beg, grovel, entice,
While his heart within has turned to ice…

It was Quis again. Just who was he talking about?

Now we saw that the boatsmen were talking with a tall, rather fat man, who was half bald. He was dressed like a poor man, but his fingers, which looked like little sausages, bore thick gold rings, with huge coloured gems, that he could obviously no longer get off. He seemed to move with difficulty and was sweating… even though the air was very cold.

“…but you must obey, I am your king! Take me to the far side, straight away…”

“But Your Majesty…” said one of the boatsmen, a youth with a shy air. The other, older and more cunning, roughly cut in.

“What majesty, stupid boy? I can only see a fat, arrogant man wearing rags. Does a king go about dressed like that?”

Quis was amused by the scene:

My, my! Isn’t stubbornness a curse?
And cowardly greed just makes it worse!
You used to dress as commoner to spy
On your folk in the city: ‘twas a clumsy lie.
They always saw through you, it wasn’t hard,
So now you would try it again, they’re on guard.
Though all you are seeking is a helping hand,
Of course they won’t do as you haughtily command!

Now we heard other voices, crying out: “It’s him! It’s him! Apripert the greedy! Aripert the coward! In the name of the Lord, capture him!”

And from the plain beneath the city walls came soldiers wearing the strangest armour and carrying round shields, just like in the very oldest wall paintings. They were brandishing long spears, and were furious. The man with the golden rings turned as white as quick-lime and started running towards the river. Well, I say running… he sort of waddled, like a duck on land… do you know what I mean? With many a wail and a moan, he plunged into the freezing water, and began whinging like a puppy dog.

The angry soldiers got to the riverbank when he was already deep in the water, trying to swim. They stopped: there was clearly no point in trying to follow him, his doom was sealed. Quis sadly shook his head.

What astonishing effect has desperation!
Even the laziest will run if it’s from strife;
But is it the treasure you stole from your nation,
That you choose to save now, or your life?
Alas! Your pockets are leaden for all the gold inside,
The river flows swiftly, will you reach the far side?

Indeed, right in the middle of the river, we saw the current dragging the man away, and he was no longer able to keep himself afloat. Incredibly, he was no longer even trying to swim. He just held his arms up out of the water, with gold coins, rubies and sapphires clutched in his hands. Soon he went down.

The soldiers stayed to watch a little longer, but he didn’t come up again.

“He has punished himself for us.” Said one.

Just then, we heard a raven crying, caaaaw, caaaaw! We looked up. It made me think of the fog-raven in the alley way in Pavia, but then I saw that this one was older, its head nearly bald, with grey feathers beneath its wings. It slowly wheeled overhead, and called again… caaaaw, caaaaw! When we looked down again… we were no longer on the river.

“The treasure of the river? The treasure of the river… Nonsense!”

What? Who was talking? Where was I? What had happened? Oh, how confused I felt! We were not on the rise above the river anymore. Pietro and I were under an old walnut tree, and it was spring time, because its leaves were only tine, and of the lightest green, the very first of the year. But how? What had happened? We had entered no magical fog this time… quite simply, we were there.

“Your father made fun of both you and your brother, gullible as you are!”

It was a woman’s voice, coming from a poor little wooden hut, all crooked and leaning to one side, with a roof that seemed ready to cave in from one moment to the next. A narrow window opened in the wall closest us. Outside the window stood our parents and Quis, eavesdropping.

“What treasure of the river? How could my father have let me marry you? How could he? He abandoned me here, to this life of misery, surrounded by stinking fish… for ever!”

“My dear, don’t say these things,” came a man’s voice. “My father didn’t lie. Every day we take a piece of the treasure he was talking about to the markets…”

“Treasure? Is that what you call a basket of… of… tiny alborelle fish?”

“Before passing away, my father made me and my brother promise to work hard every day with our nets to search for the treasure of the river. E so, every day we take more and more fish to the markets. Soon we’ll have enough money to fix the roof, and maybe build a new room…”

“You didn’t understand what he meant, husband! I’ll give you one more chance. But this time I won’t leave the matter in your hands. I’m going to the woods-witch, Edburga, she owes us a favour. I’ll be back soon.”

And we heard a door shut – actually it sounded more like a door breaking – and a tall, proud, blonde woman with dark eyes strode angrily away from the house. Our fathers and Quis followed her at a discreet distance, not to be noticed. Quis commented, laughing:

My, my! Isn’t stubbornness a curse?
And ambition can only make it worse!
If she goes to the witch of the wood,
Whining about fish,
Demanding a wish,
There will surely come of it no good!

Once again, Pietro and I looked at each other. What should we do? Follow them?

“Let’s go,” he said, “and show ourselves to them. Come on, Faro, that’s enough now. Let’s give ourselves up, our fathers will give us a few smacks, and that’ll be the end of it. I don’t want to get lost and get stranded forever in this place… this time… this world… Well, I don’t know quite what it is.”

“No, come on, we’re going really well. All we have to do is keep an eye on them. Sooner or later they’ll go back home, and when they do we can follow them without being seen, as though nothing ever happened.”

Pietro was far from convinced, but I gave him no time to think.

“Let’s go, Pietro, we don’t want to lose sight of them.”

It was true, our fathers and Quis were disappearing into the woods. Pietro gave me an uncertain look, but he came.

Quis had spoken of a wood-witch called Edburga. Who was she? We would soon find out she was an extremely old woman, who spoke strangely and lived in a little cottage beneath a towering, majestic black poplar. Well, I say cottage, but that makes you think it was made of wood, at least. But instead of walls and a roof there were only old woollen cloaks hung about branches, one next to the other and sewn together, and then covered with feathers of every size and colour. It was a kind of feathered tent. It was surely the strangest house I had ever seen. But there was no doubt about it: it was the right house for a woods-witch.

Edburga was sitting on the ground and wore an ancient woollen cloak that was also covered with feathers, and she wore a blindfold. She had lit a fire and was roasting something. From the smell it must have been fish.

The fisherman’s wife went up to her.

Quis and our fathers kept well hidden, and we kept double hidden, once from our parents and once from the fisherman’s wife.

“Edburga,” the wife said without so much as a ‘good day’, “my husband and his brother brought you that fish you’re cooking, didn’t they?”

The witch smiled under her blindfold.

“Good day to you.”

“I said, my husband and his brother brought you that fish, didn’t they?”

“All the fishermen bring me something from time to time. Is your husband’s name Picaldo, and his brother’s Pacoldo? Two fine boys.”

“Picaldo’s father used to bring you fish, too, didn’t he?”

“To be sure, as did his grandfather. Wise and generous men, they were.”

“Then you owe us… I don’t know how many hundreds of fish, over generations… Enough is enough! They say you’re a powerful witch. Let’s see. When I got married, my father-in-law promised that Picaldo and Pacoldo would find treasure in the river. Instead, every day they bring home the smallest fish to be found in the river, the alborelle, and no treasure at all. I’m sick and tired of it. From now on, you must make them fish the great enchanted sturgeon that swallowed the treasure of King Aripert, that the storytellers sing of!”

After a long silence, the witch replied:

“Are you sure, my girl? The alborelle are tastier than sturgeon, have you ever tried them in marinade?”

“Don’t take me for a fool! I want to live like a normal woman, in a decent home, with decent clothes. Do as I say, and you will have paid back all the fish of ours you have eaten.”

“Very well, then, I will do as you demand. But you must give me a hair from your head.”

“A hair…? Oh, yes. For the magic, of course!” And with a grimace, she plucked on of her long blonde hairs from her head. She gave it to the witch, and we saw her hand tremble a little. She was not nearly as sure of herself as she made out to be.

The old woman now did something truly strange: she held the hair between two fingers and blew gently all along its length. The… she let it drop. What happened next made me shiver… the hair began to move by itself, as though it was a worm. It wormed its way into the ground. Down, down, down it went, until it was all gone. Then, with a determined expression, the witch began to dig with her bare hands, and soon drew forth from the soil a big, fat earthworm, just the same length as the hair.

As she watched, the wife was as fascinated as she was disgusted. The witch, calm and sure, whispered something to the worm, which stopped wriggling and calmed down. After a few moments a bird – a thrush, I think it was – flew out of a nearby bush and came to rest on the witch’s hand. It took the earthworm in its beak and flew away.

“Is that your magic done, witch?” Asked the fisherman’s wife. She was clearly struck by it all, but at the same time disappointed.

“That is my magic done.” Nodded Edburga.

“Very well, then. Goodbye.”

And with that, the woman went off as quickly as she could.

Caaaaw, caaaaw!

We heard the raven call overhead one more. We looked up at those black and grey wings… we blinked… and we were no longer by the wood-witch Edburga’s house.

March 24, 2021March 24, 2021 by Ivan Fowler Categories: Quis, a novel for kidsTags: Ancient Lombards, Archangel Michael, Basilica di San Michele, Basilica di San Michele Maggiore, Francesca Duo, Ghibellines, Guelphs, Ivan Fowler, King Aripert, Lombards, magic, masons, Pavia, Quis, Sunken treasure 1 Comment

Lopichis’ Spell

The first of the Langbard Spells, oral storytelling of the history of the Ancient Lombards, a Germanic people who occupied much of Italy for nearly two hundred years after the fall of the Roman Empire.

“…and could bear his hunger no longer. Seeing no other way, unwillingly, he strung his bow and readied an arrow, then loosed it at the wolf that was leading him.”

Come, sit in the warm and listen well,
As I sing and speak a Langbard Spell.

I am Arichis, and my people are the Langbards. From the duchy of Forum Iulii, at the foot of the Italian Alps, I come. So why, why, I hear you ask, am I here, in Aquisgrana, in the heart of the Frankish lands, at the halls of the Frankish King Karol? Well, seven long years ago, I took part in an uprising, together with many of my fellow Harimenn, spear and horse warriors, led by our duke, Rotgaud. We rose up against Frankish rule in our Lanbard homeland. King Karol of the Franks, with one hand, quashed our uprising, and with the other took ever more of our land and goods.

Many of my fellows were slain, but I was not. I was brought here in bondage, far over the Alps, far over the Frankish lands, all the way to Aquisgrana. So, here I am, a hostage to ensure the goodwill of my people.

And so I wait, I wait for the time to go home again. And I am sure that time will come, thanks to my brother, my brother Paul, perhaps you have heard of him. Yes, Paul is an Elderman, foremost among the Eldermenn of my people, and he is also held to be among the wisest of the wise, here at King Karol’s halls. Paul is a teacher, a writer, a singer of songs, a maker of spells. With his teaching, with his writing, with his singing, little by little, he is paying the price of my wergild. And one day, thanks to him, I am sure I will go back to my homeland, to my family.

Paul came here, to the halls of Aquisgrana, not long ago. And with him, he brought a song, a song made and crafted just for me, to beg my freedom from King Karol. It is a beautiful song, and now it is heard at every hearth, in every home in Aquisgrana. But it moves me to tears every time I hear it, because it brings sad news of my family.

Listen, mighty king, to this your servant’s song,
Look ye, mild and kind, upon my sorrow and sadness.
Wretched am I, unworthy of the smallest good;
Writhing am I in woe, and smarting in grief.
Seven years have passed since that shameful hour
Did pierce me with pains and shake my heart.
Seven years have passed for my brother in bond.
Stranded and stricken, his breast broken and bare.
His beloved wife lives waiting in our land,
Begging for every want, trembling and in tatters.
Four boys must she feed and clothe,
With rough old rags and filthy clogs.
Our beloved sister, bride of Christ long since
Is blinded by weeping and bereavéd wailing.
Warily I watch over this slender innocent,
Wearily we wait, our sibling again to see.
In hardship and heartache, I beg of you this boon,
Listen, mighty king, to my sorrowful spell,
Have mercy upon misery, and end our ills,
Let me bring back my brother to hearth and homeland.
Our soul in praise of Christ is cleansed;
I sing and pray for this gift you alone may grant.

That is Paul’s song. It makes me weep, to hear this news of my… my boys, my wife, my sister. But… but, I have hope. I know that one day, perhaps soon, I will go home.

Well, while I am waiting, what shall I do?

Now, my brother Paul has sworn to write a book, to write a book of the spells of our people, the Langbard Spells. He calls it a history. I am happy, but I know Paul will never tell our tales the way our father, and grandfather, and great and great-great grandfather told them, for Paul is a good man, a good and sweet man, my brother, but… he is a good Christian monk, and… he will never be able to tell our spells the way they should be told. His Christian conscience will cleanse them of everything his faith cannot abide by. Now, I have no prowess with the pen to match his, that much is sure. But I can speak and sing the spells.

How, I hear you ask, how dare I take this task upon myself, when I am but a Hariman, a warrior, not an Elderman, not a teller of tales. Ah, but, you see, all the men in my family have this right. We are both Eldermenn and Harimenn, both tellers of tales and warriors of spear and horse. You see, my great-great-great grandfather was chosen, both by Tiuz, the Wolf-Bitten, the Lord of War, and by Godan, the Long-Bearded, the Lord of Lore. If you will listen, I will tell you his tale first: the Spell of Lopichis.

Now, among my people we say: all tales begin with a father or a mother. And so it is with Lopichis. This tale must begin with his father, whose name was Leupchis.

Leupchis was born in Pannonia, the old Roman province, for that is where our people, the Langbards, dwelt before coming into Italy. Now, he was barely more than a boy the year our great king, Alboin, chose to lead his people out of Pannonia, over the Alpine passes, and into Italy. Alboin left the lands of Pannonia behind us to our neighbours, and oft allies, the Avars. The Avars are a cruel and wild people, of horse and spear. Indeed, it was they who taught us the art of warfare on horseback. Alboin did not fully trust the Avars, and in this he was wise. He asked of them a boon, that for two hundred years, should they wish to do so, the Langbards would be able to go back to Pannonia to dwell. Then, he led our people into Italy.

The first strong-place the Langbards came across in Italy was Forum Iulii. Alboin knew he must entrust this strong-place to his best man, his bravest, truest and wisest leader. And so, he spoke with his nephew, Gisulf. Now, Gisulf they called Marpahis, which is ‘horse-bridler’, or ‘horse-tamer’, for he was a master in these arts. Alboin spoke with him, and asked him if he would become a harithiugan. Ah, that’s an old word now, for today we call them dukes.

Alboin said: “Gisulf, my nephew, will you be the harithiugan of Forum Iulii? Will you guard our backs, will you guard the Alpine passes against new waves of foes?”

Gisulf said: “My uncle, my king, I will. But I ask of you one right. To pick, to choose the faras who will settle this land with me. For only the truest, the best and the bravest men may take this task upon themselves.”

And Alboin said yes.

Among the faras that Gisulf chose was that of Leupchis, and it was a wise choice, for Leupchis became a strong and worthy man, and above all, a great father. Four boys he had, and then four daughters, and then one more boy was born, and that was Lopichis.

It is said that no lesser Norn-spirit watched over his birth than Wulderada, the Mother of Kindness and Help. As she washed his baby feet with the soul-water, she foresaw all the days of his life to come, and she knew, her help alone was not enough. And so, she sang out to her brother, Winning Wuldered, the Bowman, and he came, and marked the baby with his arrow.

Little Lopichis grew well, but he was still just a small child when Wulderada’s sister, Weird the Unknowable, struck, and she proved that Alboin had been wise not to trust the Avars, and that Wulderada had been wise to call upon her brother, Wuldered. The Avars swarmed over the Alps, like angry bees, and laid waste all about them in the duchy of Forum Iulii. The men were slain, the women and children taken into bondage, and brought back with the Avars to Pannonia. Among them was Lopichis.

Now, it came to pass that Lopichis was sold into bondage in Pannonia with an Avar family that lived upon one of the great lakes. For that is a land of rivers and lakes, and many of these lakes are very, very long, and rather than walk around them, the people wish to be ferried across. And this family was a family of boatmen. So Lopichis, as he grew and worked for them, became a boatman. Ah, not just a boatman: he became the best of the boatmen beholden to that family.

Now, I will not say he was happy, for he remembered his homeland, and he yearned ever to go back. However, it was not all bad, and he remembered a song from those days, a boatman’s song that he learned in the Avar tongue. Now that song has been in our family ever since. I sang it as a boy, my brother did, my sister, my father when he was a boy, and his father before him.

Heilech kantera heilech ho,
Eren heilech hochtera kantera ho,
Eren heilech hochtera…

Heilech kantera hochtera kantera
Heilech hochtera kantera hochtera
Heilech hochtera kantera hochtera
Heilech hochtera ho.

Heilech kantera heilech ho,
Eren heilech hochtera kantera ho,
Eren heilech hochtera ho!

What blissful memories of childhood!

I wonder what an Avar would think if they could hear it sung by us today? For who knows how the words have become mangled by over a hundred years of being sung by Langbard boys who did not speak a single word of their tongue. I’m sure an Avar would not understand it one little bit. But this song is a treasure of our family, for it reminds us of Lopichis. An Avar boatman’s song.

Well, Lopichis had grown to become the best of the boatmen beholden to that family. And it came to pass that his master’s young son, Laigan was his name, fell in love. He fell in love with an Avar maid who lived on the far side of the lake. Well, this maid was a proud, proud girl, and even though her father wanted to give her to Laigan, she said: “I will take him as my betrothed, but I ask one boon. For ninety-nine days he must come to see me every single day, without fail, and every single day he must kiss me on the hand. On the one-hundredth day, he may kiss me on the lips, and I will be betrothed to him.”

Girls!

But Laigan, he was so smitten with her, that he said yes. Now, this oath was taken in Spring, and the fair weather was coming, and everything was well. For ninety-nine days he rowed over the lake, he saw his young beauty, and then he kissed her on the hand. But of course, come the one-hundredth day, Winter was in the air, and the foulest weather, the foulest weather they had ever seen upon the lake, blew up from the East. Laigan was afraid. He knew he had not the skill to boat his way across the lake in that weather. One by one, Laigan bade all the boatmen beholden to him to take him across the lake, but none dared: bar one. For in that moment, Wulderada, Mother of Help and Kindness, spoke to Lopichis in his heart, and he said: “I will do it. But I ask this of you: I ask my freedom.”

Laigan was so smitten, he said: “yes, I will give you your freedom.”

And then Lopichis told him: “among my people, the Langbards, the token of freedom is an arrow.”

“Very well,” said Laigan, “I will give you also an arrow, if that is the token you want.”

“Thank you,” said Lopichis, “but what good is an arrow without a bow? Will you also give me a bow?”

“If you wish, I will also give you a bow, but now, now Lopichis, let us go.”

And so Lopichis rowed his master across the lake, and as soon as he set foot upon the far side, he took his bow, he took his arrow, the token of his freedom, and he left. Off he went, into the wilds.

And, what of Laigan? Well, I have no doubt he kissed his beauty on the lips, and I have no doubt they wed. But that is not our story; we must follow Lopichis, for he was on his way home.

For seven days he walked towards the mountains, following the course of the Drava river. He had no money, he had nothing to eat, and he was starving. On the seventh day, he came to the spring from which the Drava river flows. Now, he had nothing left to follow, he knew not where to go. But, a wild wolf came to him in the forest.

At first he was afraid, he strung his bow and readied his one arrow. But the wolf did not leap upon him. No, it looked at him, then it walked on a little way into the forest, stopped, and looked back at him, as though he should follow. When Lopichis did follow, the wolf walked off another little way, stopped, and looked back at Lopichis again.

And so it went on. Lopichis followed the wolf, his new guide, up, up, high into the Alps. But, he still had no food, he had not eaten for ten days. He became weak, and could bear his hunger no longer. Seeing no other way, unwillingly, he strung his bow and readied an arrow, then loosed it at the wolf that was leading him, hoping to slay it, and eat it.

Only much later would he come to know that this was no ordinary wolf; it was a Winil Hound, and no plain arrow loosed by a man could slay it. Seeing the wolf run off into the wilds, he swooned where he stood.

And then he dreamed. And in his dream, Winning Wuldered, the Bowman, came to him, saying: “why, why do you lie there on the land, sleeping amid the snows? Rise up, seek out the arrow you loosed, for that way lies Italy.”

And so, summoning up all the strength that was in him, Lopichis rose up and sought out his arrow, and went on the way the arrow pointed. Sure enough, after less than a day’s walking, he came across a village, a village of Slavs who lived there. When he caught sight of the village, he fell where he stood, swooning once more in the snow.

When he awoke, he thought he had died and gone to the Ghastengarda for good. For there, standing over him, was an old lady, her hair the whitest of white, her eyes the deepest of blue, and she took him in, and nursed him. It is said that she was among those White Ladies of whom so many Slavic tales tell. I think they have some kinship with the Norn-spirits, for they watch over babies as they are born, and foretell the days of their lives to come.

At first, she gave him but little food, for too much too soon would surely kill him. And day after day, week after week, she nursed him back to health. Finally, the White Lady told Lopichis: “young Langbard, you are well enough to go on to your homeland. Here, take these.” And she gave him his bow and arrow. She said: “I found them in the snow where you had fallen. But I fear one arrow will not get you very far. So here, here is a quiver full. You may use them to hunt for food in the mountains. But, there is one beast you may not shoot, for he is the Goldhorn, a great mountain goat, the greatest of them all, pure white like the snow, with golden horns. Him you may not shoot.”

Lopichis agreed. He said: “I thank you White Lady for all you have done for me, and I hope, one day, one of my sons, or one of my sons’ sons may return your kindness.” And then, he went on, on his way, back to Forum Iulii.

And it is true that in the mountains he used his bow and arrows to hunt, and one day as he was walking, he even saw, far off, a great mountain goat, greater than any he had ever seen, with golden horns. But he wisely chose not to try and get close enough to loose an arrow at it.

He went on, and finally he came home.

When Lopichis arrived in our lands, he found that our house had been abandoned. In fact, a great thorny rose bush had grown up all about it. It took him many days to cut his way in, to where the house stood. And there, in the hall, he found the roof had caved in, and growing up, high into the sky between the walls, was an ash tree. He reached out, and hung his quiver full of arrows upon the lowest branch of the ash, and as he did so, great knowledge cam to him. At last he understood that, while he had walked in the mountains, he had been chosen. The wolf was a token from Tiuz, the One-Handed, the Wolf-Bitten Lord of War, and the ash tree, the ash tree in his home, a token from Godan, the Long-Bearded, the Lord of Lore.

Thanks to Tiuz, he and his children, and all their children to come, had been chosen as harimenn, but thanks to Godan, his children and all their children to come had been chosen as eldermenn. And so that is my right too.

And with this right I will, if you wish to listen, sing and speak for you the spells of my people, the Langbard Spells.

January 30, 2021February 1, 2021 by Ivan Fowler Categories: The Langbard SpellsTags: Alboin, Ancient Lombards, Germanic legends, Germanic mythology, Godan, Goldhorn, Leupchis, Lombardic, Lombards, Lombardy, Longobardi, Lopichis, Norns, Odin, oral history, Paolo Diacono, Paul the Deacon, Slavic folklore, storytelling, Tiwaz, Triglav, Woden, Wulderada, Wuldered