Of light in the darkness

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Oh, there’s more! Starry stuff, that is.

Did you catch the month-name we use for the Bakcheion calendar? (Hint: it’s here.)

That’s right – Στέφανος, the month of Flower Crowns.

As in the one Ariadne wore when she and Dionysos first celebrated Anthesteria:

As the author of the Cretica says, at the time when Liber came to Minos with the hope of lying with Ariadne he gave her this crown as a present. Delighted with it, she did not refuse the terms. It is said, too, to have been made of gold and Indian gems, and by its aid Theseus is thought to have come from the gloom of the Labyrinth to the day, for the gold and gems made a glow of light in the darkness. (Hyginus, Astronomica 2.5)

Hail Dionysos Nyktelios!

Are you wandering in darkness?
Are you drowning in your shame?
Are you weary, or sick and tired
of living in the blackness of this age?
Come with me
and meet the one
who makes the night like day.
And bow before him,
and adore this king
who bears our shame.
Come with me
and meet the one
who makes the night like day.
And bow before him,
and adore this king
who bears our shame.
Come with me
and meet the one
who makes the night like day.
And bow before him,
and adore this king
who bears our shame.
Everything will change
Everything will change
Everything will change
Everything will change

a white day for slaves

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One of the reasons that Óðr has been on my mind of late is because we have entered the White Season according to the Bakcheion calendar, during which Dionysos:

acts out the role of the Magician come from a strange and distant land, bringing wonders and radical transformation in his wake. He knows the songs and ceremonies to awaken and release, and he is followed by a triumphant procession of Nymphs and Satyrs whose ecstatic revelry chases off barrenness, stagnation and malignant or at least mischievous Spirits from the land and his people.

This is the Season in which Anthesteria falls (at this point it’s only a couple weeks away! 11-13 Stephanos or 4-6 February by the common reckoning) and the overlapping feast for Erigone, the Hanged Maiden:

Nor did the morn of the Broaching of the Jars pass unheeded, nor that whereon the Pitchers of Orestes bring a white day for slaves. And when he kept the yearly festival of Ikarios’ child, thy day, Erigone, lady most sorrowful of Attic women, he invited to a banquet his familiars, and among them a stranger who was newly visiting Egypt, whither he had come on some private business. (Kallimachos, Aitia 1.1)

And the reason that made me think of Óðr is found in Hyginus’ Astronomica:

§ 2.2.1 LESSER BEAR: Aglaosthenes, who wrote the Naxica, says that she is Cynosura, one of the nurses of Jove from the number of the Idaean nymphs. He says, too, that in the city called Histoe, founded by Nicostratus and his friends, both the harbour and the greater part of the land are called Cynosura from her name. She, too, was among the Curetes who were attendants of Jove. Some say that the nymphs Helice and Cynosura were nurses of Jove, and so for gratitude were placed in the sky, both being called Bears. We call them Septentriones.

§ 2.2.2 But many have said that the Great Bear is like a wagon, and the Greeks do call it amaza. This reason has been handed down: Those who, at the beginning, observed the stars and supposed the number of stars into the several constellations, called this group not “Bear” but “Wain,” because two of the seven stars which seemed of equal size and closest together were considered oxen, and the other five were like the figure of a wagon. And so the sign which is nearest to this they wished to be called Bootes. We shall speak of him later on. Aratus, indeed, says that neither Bootes nor the Wain has these names for the reason above, but because the Bear seems, wagon-like, to wheel around the pole which is called North, and Bootes, is said to drive her. In this he seems to be considerably in error, for later, in connection with the seven stars, as Parmeniscus says, twenty-five were grouped by certain astronomers to complete the form of the Bear, not seven. And so the one that followed the wagon and was formerly called Bootes, was now called Arctophylax [Bear Watchter], and she, at the same time that Homer lived, was called Bear. About the Septentriones Homer says that she was called both Bear and Wain; nowhere does he mention that Bootes was called Arctophylax.

§ 2.4.1 BEAR-WATCHER: He is said to be Arcas, the son of Jove and Callisto, whom Lycaon served at a banquet, cut up with other meat, when Jupiter came to him as a guest. For Lycaon wanted to know whether the one who had asked for his hospitality was a god or not. For this deed he was punished by no slight punishment, for Jupiter, quickly overturning the table, burned the house with a thunderbolt, and turned Lycaon himself into a wolf. But the scattered limbs of the boy he put together, and gave him to a certain Aitolian to care for. When, grown to manhood, he was hunting in the woods, he saw his mother changed to bear form, and did not recognize her. Intent on killing her, he chased her into the temple of Jove Lycaeus, where the penalty for entering is death, according to Arcadian law. And so, since both would have to die, Jupiter, out of pity, snatched them up and put them among the stars, as I have said before. As a result, Arcas is seen following the Bear, and since he guards Arctos, he is called Arctophylax.

§ 2.4.2 Some have said that he is Icarus, father of Erigone, to whom, on account of his justice and piety, Father Liber gave wine, the vine, and the grape, so that he could show men how to plant the vine, what would grow from it, and how to use what was produced. When he had planted the vine, and by careful tending with a pruning-knife had made it flourish, a goat is said to have broken into the vineyard, and nibbled the tenderest leaves he saw there. Icarus, angered by this, took him and killed him and from his skin made a sack, and blowing it up, bound it tight, and cast it among his friends, directing them to dance around it. And so Eratosthenes says: Around the goat of Icarus they first danced.

 

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§ 2.4.3 Others say that Icarus, when he had received the wine from Father Liber, straightway put full wineskins on a wagon. For this he was called Bootes. When he showed it to the shepherds on going round through the Attic country, some of them, greedy and attracted by the new kind of drink, became stupefied, and sprawling here and there, as if half-dead, kept uttering unseemly things. The others, thinking poison had been given the shepherds by Icarus, so that he could drive their flocks into his own territory, killed him, and threw him into a well, or, as others say, buried him near a certain tree. However, when those who had fallen asleep, woke up, saying that they had never rested better, and kept asking for Icarus in order to reward him, his murderers, stirred by conscience, at once took to flight and came to the island of the Ceans. Received there as guests, they established homes for themselves.

§ 2.4.4 But when Erigone, the daughter of Icarus, moved by longing for her father, saw he did not return and was on the point of going out to hunt for him, the dog of Icarus, Maera by name, returned to her, howling as if lamenting the death of its master. It gave her no slight suspicion of murder, for the timid girl would naturally suspect her father had been killed since he had been gone so many months and days. But the dog, taking hold of her dress with its teeth, led her to the body. As soon as the girl saw it, abandoning hope, and overcome with loneliness and poverty, with many tearful lamentations she brought death on herself by hanging from the very tree beneath which her father was buried. And the dog made atonement for her death by its own life. Some say that it cast itself into the well, Anigrus by name. For this reason they repeat the story that no one afterward drank from that well. Jupiter, pitying their misfortune, represented their forms among the stars. And so many have called Icarus, Bootes, and Erigone, the Virgin, about whom we shall speak later. The dog, however, from its own name and likeness, they have called Canicula. It is called Procyon by the Greeks, because it rises before the greater Dog. Others say these were pictured among the stars by Father Liber.

§ 2.4.5 In the meantime in the district of the Athenians many girls without cause committed suicide by hanging, because Erigone, in dying, had prayed that Athenian girls should meet the same kind of death she was to suffer if the Athenians did not investigate the death of Icarus and avenge it. And so when these things happened as described, Apollo gave oracular response to them when they consulted him, saying that they should appease Erigone if they wanted to be free from the affliction. So since she hanged herself, they instituted a practice of swinging themselves on ropes with bars of wood attached, so that the one hanging could be moved by the wind. They instituted this as a solemn ceremony, and they perform it both privately and publicly, and call it aletis, aptly terming her mendicant who, unknown and lonely, sought for her father with the god. The Greeks call such people Aletides.

And to make things even more interesting, give Viking Stranger-Kings: the foreign as a source of power in Viking Age Scandinavia by Andres Minos Dobat and The Stranger King and Rock Art by Michael Rowlands a read. 

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Iconography can be tricky

Artistic renderings of Óðr are few and far between, likely because of the paucity of information on him in the lore. So it was kind of cool to stumble across this image from Mythology Wiki

Óðr

Except … uh … is it just me, or does that look uncomfortably like an idealized rendering of a certain failed Austrian art student? Must be why Heathens have to grow beards

Anyway, I much prefer this for Óðr:

Berkserker 

Wild Ukrainian dances for the God of Song

L. M. Hollander, The Old Norse God Óðr in The Journal of English and Germanic Philology, Vol. 49, No. 3 (Jul., 1950)
Against this theory, Falk raised the objections that the name of Óðr is not instanced in early Old Norse and that any transition Adonis>Óðr would call for etymological justification; also, that the meaning ‘raging, mad’ ill agrees with the character of Baldr. To account, then, for the name of Óðr, Falk calls attention to a passage in Martianus Capella’s (early 5th century) poem De nuptiis Philologie et Mercurii, translated into Old High German by Notker Labeo. There, in the hymn to the sun god, the sun god is celebrated under his various names; last, as Biblius Adon. This is glossed by Notker as Biblius cantans. In other words, Notker interprets Adon as αδων, present participle of Attic αιδω ‘to sing.’ This, Falk surmises, may have been the common medieval interpretation of the name of Adonis; which, then, translated into Old Norse, would be Óðr; which as a noun also signifies ‘song, poetry.’