Blood is not Thicker than Water; Brotherhood in Gisli Sursson's Saga

“Gisli Sursson’s Saga” follows the life of outlaw Gisli Sursson, who avenges the murder of his fictive brother Vestein, and lives the life of an outlaw as consequence for seeking this blood price. The saga is fueled by vengeance, in particular, vengeance stemming from strong filial bonds: Vestein’s kinsmen scramble to avenge his murder, following their filial obligation to right the wrong done to him. The saga repeats this dedication to familial loyalty, with minor figures wronged, and their family members exacting revenge. These events show the modern reader the significance of common ancestry, an exceptionally strong vertical bond in medieval Icelandic society. Gisli demonstrates a staunch dedication to filial obligation throughout the saga, expecting his kin to uphold these same values as he does, with the same enthusiasm and to the same extent. As the saga unfolds, Gisli discovers that his brother Thorkel neither shares these sentiments nor wishes to conform to his standard of ethics. Thorkel’s presence in the saga introduces and develops this moral dissonance, which drives a wedge in their relationship and ultimately forces Gisli to reconsider his unconditional trust in blood bonds.



In spite of this eventual decay of their relationship, Gisli and Thorkel begin the saga with a close kinship born from blood relation and loyalty to their father and name. After their father’s death, they continue to work Hol, their father’s farm, a manifestation of their commitment to his legacy and filial bonds. Cohabitation and cooperation at Hol represents an idealized vision of brotherhood, a status quo for the brothers to return to even after they have split off on sea voyages and gained their own wealth independently of one another. Tensions between the brothers build: Thorkel overhears their wives speculate about marriage infidelity, and he himself feels as if labor at Hol is unfairly divided at Gisli’s detriment. Thorkel proposes that they split the property on these grounds, but Gisli remains committed to the belief that “‘…What brothers own jointly is best seen together’” (“Gisli Sursson’s Saga,” Page 511). In this interaction, the value that the brothers place, respectively, on the power of filial bonds is exposed. While Gisli affirms their brotherly connection with legal ownership of property, regardless of unfair labor divisions, Thorkel approaches their living arrangement as a matter of business, an economic partnership that can be terminated to the benefit of both parties involved. While Gisli is initially content with letting blood bonds unconditionally dictate their financial relationship, he agrees to the split and then comes to realize that he is “...none the worse for the loss” (512). This shows that closeness between siblings is not unconditionally beneficial, and that default adherence to this vertical bond does not always yield positive results. By proposing and executing this split, Thorkel shows Gisli that brotherhood is no more significant or meaningful than any other social or economic bond, and that blindly making decisions on the grounds of filial loyalty is illogical and impractical.

Gisli’s adherence to the vertical relationships—fictive, rather than filial here—prompts him to kill Thorgrim, whom he believes to have killed Vestein. Consequently, this forces Gisli to live as a fugitive of the law, and turns to Thorkel for help. Over the years, Thorkel conditions for direct aid do not change: he will give Gisli money and goods, but will not harbor him or provide anything that may come as detriment to himself. To Gisli, this is far less than a brother deserves to receive, and tells Thorkel repeatedly that “‘I would never have treated you as you have treated me’”—Gisli believes that Thorkel wrongs him by forsaking his brotherly duties (Page 535). Through this, Thorkel shows Gisli that brotherhood is vulnerable to the forces that break other relationships apart: this perceived mistreatment fuels the discontent between them, ultimately driving them apart. Just as brotherly love cannot persuade Thorkel to provide Gisli shelter, it cannot persuade Gisli to forgive and rebuild their kinship. Thorkel rejects brotherly duties, and Gisli lets this rejection destroy their loyalties, showing that brotherhood is not unconditionally strong as Gisli previously believed.

Gisli internalizes Thorkel’s cruelly realistic lesson. When Vestein’s sons, Berg and Helgi, kill Thorkel in vengeance, they too become outlaws and, after spending time on the run, seek Gisli for help and refuge, just as Gisli did with Thorkel in the years before. Gisli refuses aid, saying that he “‘…could not bear to see [his] brother’s killers…’” (Page 544). While it appears that refusing to help his brother’s murderers is evidence for Gisli’s continued respect for familial obligation, the action is, in fact, a great slight against brotherly love. As the sagas repeatedly show, men in medieval Iceland are expected to slay their kinsman’s killers as vengeance—by these societal standards, Gisli should be eagerly pursuing Berg and Helgi. Having his wife Aud turn the away from the farm is not an act of brotherly love—rather, it defies the very concept by denying Thorkel revenge. Here, Gisli does not refuse the boys help out of love for Thorkel, but instead spares their lives to befoul the kinship that he once shared with Thorkel. By showing his unwillingness to avenge his own brother’s death, Gisli reveals that his bond with Thorkel has weakened over time, and that familial bonds are not invincible and unconditional, and are just as fragile as interpersonal relationships that do not have a blood connection.

Gisli’s saga is an analysis of family dynamics, and Thorkel’s presence in the saga initiates further discussion on the roles and obligations of brothers in their society. Thorkel, who decides to leave Hol and later refuses to fund Gisli’s outlawry, shows a self-centered and independent worldview, acting as a foil to his brother, who defaults to obeying the obligations attached to brotherhood. Compared to Gisli, Thorkel does not hold filial loyalty in high regard, and does not see blood bonds as any stronger than other societal or economic bonds. Throughout the saga, pursuit of vengeance and its consequences weaken the loyalties between Gisli and Thorkel, showing the vulnerability in a vertical bond otherwise presented as unwavering and resilient. Thorkel’s interactions with Gisli show that filial bonds are just as fragile as horizontal bonds, requiring loyalty, respect, and kindness to survive. Under Thorkel’s influence, Gisli comes to understand that the blood bond of siblings is not unconditionally beneficial. By presenting Gisli with his dissenting opinion on the duties and implications of blood bonds, Thorkel initiates and encourages his brother’s development towards a more independent way of thinking, less reliant on generalized social norms that he previously followed.

Works Cited 

“Gisli Sursson’s Saga.” The Sagas of Icelanders: a Selection. Pref. Jane Smiley. Trans. Katrina C. Attwood. New York: Viking, Penguin Group, 1997. Print.

Poetry and Honor in the Saga of Gunnlaug Serpent-tongue

In the “Saga of Gunnlaug Serpent-tongue,” two poets, Gunnlaug Serpent-tongue and Hrafn Onundarson, travel the courts of lords and kings to sing their praises in verse. The poetry not only demonstrates the skill of the skalds that compose them, but also indulges their subjects by exaggerating their achievements to cast them in a favorable light, suggesting that a man’s accomplishments—the amount of slain foes, gold gifted, mouths fed—do not directly influence his reputation. Rather, their society judges the worth of a man—lord or skald or otherwise—not by how the sum total of his good qualities, but rather how others’ perception of these good qualities stands against the reputations of similar men. Examination of the poetry and their context within the saga demonstrates the importance (and perception) of honor in medieval Scandinavia.


Gunnlaug and other poets supply praise and adulation that their lordly hosts demand through verse. A lord's honor and reputation are paramount—only with these can he earn the respect of his followers and the deference of his fellow lords abroad. While in London, Gunnlaug identifies King Ethelred’s desires to be both exalted by his men and to stand strong, distinct, and respected from other kings and lords, and addresses them specifically in his poetry. In his first poem to Ethelred, Gunnlaug declares “‘…the army’s in awe and agog/at [Ethelred], as at God,’” affirming his men’s adoration for him while drawing a divine comparison in one well-crafted verse (“The Saga of Gunnlaug Serpent-tongue, Poem 3). Ethelred rewards these exaltations with finery and hospitality, and also begs Gunnlaug to stay when he intends to continue his travels, showing that a talented skald is a valuable asset. In his farewell poem to Ethelred, Gunnlaug refers to him as “…the point-goddess’s son…” while styling other lords as “…shapers of war/and…earls of lands…” (Poem 5). Gunnlaug’s flatters Ethelred by relating him to valkyries, but refers to the other lords in terms of their earthly duties, thus inflating the king’s sense of importance. Gunnlaug's kennings lavish Ethelred with praise, lifting his accomplishments and reputation among men both in his London court and beyond to a higher, godlier status. The poetry introduces godly glamor into prose that is otherwise mundane, making the atmosphere grand and valiant. Just so, skalds spin factual events into works of art that demand esteem for their subjects and benefactors, great lords for who honor and the knowledge of that honor is a requisite for respect.

Just as a lord requires a strong reputation to gain respect from his vassals, the layman seeks respect and deference from his peers. In the saga, Gunnlaug loses his betrothal to Helga to another well-regarded poet, Hrafn Onundarson, which he takes as a great dishonor. Following the Althing, Gunnlaug and Hrafn agree to meet one another in single combat over the right to Helga’s hand—while they do not come to blows in this altercation, they, as poets, exchange verses that make clear their intent to triumph in battle. Gunnlaug is first to speak and beseeches “‘God grant the poet victory,’” in which the poet referenced is Gunnlaug alone (Poem 17). By excluding Hrafn from this epithet, Gunnlaug shows his arrogance—he does not recognize Hrafn as an equal, though they are peers in every respect, well-regarded poets from well-regarded families. In contrast, Hrafn identifies this slight in his verse, saying, “ ‘The poet doesn’t know which poet will rejoice…”’ (Poem 17). He extends to his foe the courtesy that was denied him, but follows shortly with a promise to tell Helga “…tales of her man’s bravery…’” (Poem 17). This identifies Hrafn alone as Helga’s rightful husband, mimicking Gunnlaug’s discourtesy with a similar but lawfully justified rebuttal—this is not just a ploy to bolster his masculine ego, but is a tactic to affirm his status as the more honorable, less petty man. In these two poems, Gunnlaug inflates his self-esteem by demeaning his foe, who in turn recovers himself by acknowledging and undermining the insult. This exchange of poetry, meant to defame one another (and retaliate against defamation), illustrates the importance of maintaining status and saving face between two equally regarded skalds.

When a battle of verses becomes insufficient to settle their differences and satisfy their egos, Gunnlaug and Hrafn turn to single combat—both perish from their injuries. Following the duel, the spirits of both Gunnlaug and Hrafn appear to their respective fathers with misleadingly noble and magnificent versions of the outcome. Lofty kennings run rampant: Gunnlaug claims his death is due to “…the war-twig of valkyrie’s thorns…” while Hrafn is cut down by “…the Odin of swords…” and reinforce the gloriously heroic atmosphere of the saga (Poems 23, 24). By framing their duel with such grandeur, both men glorify their accomplishments, making their deaths seem heroic and supernatural in spite of their mortal causes. In Gunnlaug’s verse, he cites his foe: “‘…Hrafn hit me…,’” but does not directly mention him by name when he discusses his own death (Poem 23). Likewise, Hrafn fails to identify Gunnlaug as his slayer, opting for a legendary reason for his death. In spite of this, their fathers Illugi and Onund seek each other for recompense, unconvinced by their sons’ compositions. The poems that they receive from their deceased sons are a plea for recognition and fatherly pride, disguised by a deceptively heroic and grand tone imparted by the lavish kennings. Their final testimonies reveal little of the battle’s final outcome, and the lofty references to divine beings show that the poets intended to impress their fathers with their gloriously warrior deaths, even if they are not entirely accurate.

In life and in death, poets Gunnlaug and Hrafn use their craft to manipulate the truth to acclaim some—kings, earls, themselves—at the expense of others. They convert fact into lofty, exaggerated half-truths to bring distinction to those the poem serves. The use of verse in the saga reinforces the concept of honor as relative, not absolute. To the figures in the saga, honor is a tangible commodity, an inherent and integral, but elusive facet of one's character. A man's reputation is not quantifiable, but rather gauged by how his vassals, kinsmen, peers, and strangers perceive him in relation to other similar figures. The poetry contain the most biased and subjective material within the saga, indulging their subject’s innate desire for honor and esteem. Just as they delight the lords they praise, they cast a glorious, exalting light over the events in the saga, affirming the heroic tone of the work while solidifying the theme of the constant, obsessive pursuit of honor and esteem, the very measure of a man’s relative value in that society, abstract and transient concepts expressed through poetry.

Works Cited

“The Saga of Gunnlaug Serpent-tongue.” The Sagas of Icelanders: a Selection. Pref. Jane Smiley. Trans. Katrina C. Attwood. New York: Viking, Penguin Group, 1997. Print.

“The Skeleton in Armor” Diagnostic Paper—Land and Sea

Last week, I started my summer class to kill off the rest of my Reading and Composition requirement for the university. I picked the easiest and most interesting course I could (Scandinavian R5B), and this was the first assignment. It is a travesty.

           

The thrilling and brutal life of a Viking of old, free from common law, is the fodder for Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “The Skeleton in Armor.” Roused from death, the spirit of a long-dead Viking appears to the narrator as a skeleton in armor, entreating him to tell his tale true. Longfellow’s poem speculates on the Norse origin of Newport Tower in Rhode Island, identified in the accompanying plates, and attributes its construction to a heavily romanticized, tragic saga of a Viking of old. The Viking’s declaration of his life story is rife with metaphors and motifs, the most prevalent of which are references to water in the form of ice and sea, and land, in stone halls and forests. Water and its many forms is a recurring motif that conveys the changes that the Viking and his environment undergo throughout his life—combatant images of sea and land relate the Viking’s struggle between his true nature as a chaotic, lawless marauder, and his desire for a steadfast and grounded love with a lady. 

The skeleton is the spirit of a vicious Norse sea-rover: Longfellow affirms his relationship with the ocean through frequent use of metaphors associated with water and its many forms. The first is that the Viking’s death is frozen calm. The narrator thaws him from death, drawing speech “…like the water’s flow/Under December’s snow…” (Longfellow, lines 13-14); his resurrection is a transition from tranquility to action. Similarly, Longfellow, by describing the Viking’s childhood along the “…wild [Baltic]…the half-frozen Sound…,” indicates that a sheet of ice, calmness and purity, barely restrains the uncontrollable sea that the child will grow into (26-30). The subsequent stanzas detail his adult life as a marauding Viking, and the water imagery changes: the “…dark sea…” described in the context of the “…souls that spend…the hearts that bled…” suggest that his adulthood is tumultuous and chaotic compared to the placid frozen Baltic of his youth (43-47). Longfellow’s metaphors create a vivid dramatization of a Viking’s violent and reckless existence, while his tales of “…stormy [seas]…” that seduce a timid but curious maiden, thus establishing the Viking’s inherent nature as a being of uncontrollable, free chaos (58).

While Longfellow’s use of water to convey the changes in the Viking’s life and environment is evident, he also uses the sea as a foil to frequent mentions of land, particularly forests and buildings. The Viking is no beast of land—he is a seafarer at heart, unrestrained by and uncommitted to the traditions and laws that hold true on solid ground. As such, the trees and structures that stand on the earth represent order and stability that directly conflict with the free and vicious sea, the true nature of the Viking. In spite of this powerful identity, the Viking is willing to relinquish his freedom for love: he exchanges his vows with his fair maid under the cover of “…the forest’s shade…” far from his beloved sea (67). Even more, the Viking stands in the very bastion of order and civilization when he asks Hildebrand for the maiden’s hand—the “…father’s hall/Shields…upon the wall…” reflects the Viking’s own commitment to forsaking his roving ways, to abide by the laws of the land, to settle and commit to the contract of marriage (73-74). However, Hildebrand’s refusal compels the Viking to fly back to his natural element, and carries the maiden off, defending his spoils in a violent and harrowing sea battle against her father. The struggle between the two aspects—the land, his desire wed and commit to his love, and the sea, his inherently transient and wild Viking persona—continues when they make landfall in what Longfellow suggests is Rhode Island. There by the sea, he erects a tower as a testament to his love, solidifying his willingness to cast aside his bold, seafaring ways for a tender, steadfast life with his lady. By placing every instance of the Viking’s temptation to settle and cast away his plunderer’s lifestyle in the forests or behind walls, Longfellow uses images of land and sea to show the Viking’s conflict between his bold nature and his desire for committed, dedicated love.

The conflict sees no resolution, even after “…the storm was o’er…” and they make landfall (130). The shore is “…cloud-like…,” indicating an uncertain future straddling between the warring desires that Longfellow have land and sea represent (131). While free from the law and order of rightful marriage in Hildebrand’s court, the Viking is forced to adopt a straightforward, honest, land-bound life for the sake of his lady. The “…lofty tower…stands looking seaward…,” showing that though the Viking agrees to live reliably and responsibly, he still craves the bold and unruly pirate’s life, and the conflict is still unresolved. With the death of his lady love, his heart becomes “…still as a stagnant fen…” (146). This is a return to the water metaphors, but is a far cry from the bold seas that he once was. The fen, a brackish marsh half-claimed by land and sea both, mirrors the half-frozen Sound of his youth—his wild spirit is restrained, but this time, he is defeated. Robbed of his wife, his sole motivation for turning away from the sea, the Viking seeks his last battle. “Clad in…warlike gear…,” the Viking takes his own life in the forest, a marriage between his two warring worlds as a final attempt to make sense of what his life had become (150).

The Viking dies a long way from home, from both his beloved Northland and his true and natural state of being. His land-bound and domestic life, so unlike his Viking’s life, becomes meaningless and dull in his lady’s death, and he faces his own end dressed for battle, but with no adversary but himself. He dies in conflict, and it is from this conflict that he, as a skeleton in armor, rises to recall his life. Only after acknowledging his wrongs to others and his internal war does he find reprieve. In death, “…from the flowing bowl/Deep drinks the warrior’s soul…”—the Viking reclaims his identity. This last invocation of the water imagery affirms the savage, unshackled Viking warrior image that Longfellow cultivated throughout the poem.