Freyja taught you well, Sigyn, her ways of allurement
and of gratifying any desire the mind might conceive,
the sorcery of the garden and of the kitchen, the mysteries
of managing the purse and an orderly run household,
and everything that goes into keeping a husband healthy,
happy and satisfied, both in and out of bed. Things that
your mother, or perhaps your aunty, should have guided you through.
But as always your sister was there to fill in the holes, and many a time
has skillful-tongued Loki proclaimed his indebtedness to Njördsdottir
for your schooling, O Goddess of Ladybug Delight,
but in truth you were a very apt pupil, especially when it came
to matters of the boudoir. Truly Loki is a lucky God,
and he knows it too, which perhaps is why he does not go about
siring lines of doughty Heroes, Kings, and Magician-Poets like Óðinn,
Heimdallr, Þórr and Freyr. (Though, in fairness, if he was hung like Freyr
it would be a terrible sin not to put it to good use.) And so I hail you
exquisite example of wifeliness and hometender extraordinaire,
and ask your blessings upon the heads and hearts of each member
of our household and in looking to your fine example
we all shall prosper and get lucky.

I hail you Sigyn, for your heart was strong
and large enough to accept the other wife
of your husband and all their monstrous brood
into your happy home and life, and you shared
in the children’s rearing as if they had come
from your very own womb, no matter how savage
and nerve-fraying they could be. Under your loving
but stern direction they grew large and powerful,
the constant companions of Narvi and Váli
and oh, what mischief the lot of them got up to!
Once the pup Fenris chased Ratatoskr up a tree
and then could not get down again, and another time
you nursed Jörmungandr through a terrible toothache,
and you even talked a teenaged Hela out of her room
when she was angry with Angrboða
for not letting her date a boy from Niðavellir.
The challenge of parceling out Loki’s time and affection
you met with dignity, grace, understanding and good humor,
as well as a great deal of careful communication,
something even Gods cannot escape. What’s more,
you came to love She of the Ironwood as deeply
as you care for your own dear sister Freyja.
And so I ask that your blessings and guidance flow
always into our home and help me to show the same
consideration and kindness to my deeply cherished ones.

O dolorous Sigyn I pray, you who have endured
what no soul should ever have to – the laying to rest
of your parents and your children both.
The latter sorrow has oft been on the lips of poets,
but even the precious names of those who bore you
have disappeared from among mortal men.
The High One may have seen what happened,
Heimdallr may have heard, and the Queen of the Gods,
Frigga too may know, but if so she will speak not a word
of the matter, for it is too covered in grief and bitter tears
to revisit. Instead your story begins
with a child of astounding beauty, hair in tight braids
and clutching a stuffed wolf doll to her tender breast,
staggering into the Vanic lands with her linen dress torn
and stained with soot and blood. So Njörðr found her
near the shores of the great sea, and scooped her up
in his big, strong arms. He stroked her back and whispered
kind things to her as he carried her home
and placed her in the care of his daughter lovely Mardöll,
close to being the girl’s agemate. She made her laugh and shared
her pretty dresses, dolls and other playthings with the girl
while Njörðr armed himself and went out to investigate
what had happened to her parents and if need be
to avenge them. Whatever the Terror of the Deep discovered
he kept it to himself and raised the fosterling
as his own adored and true daughter, naming her Victory Girl
for what she had gone through to join his clan.
These mysteries are yours, Sigyn,
and teach us why family is so dear to you.

Sometimes all that it takes, Sigyn you know all too well,
is just one bad day and a single match tossed
to bring the whole shithouse burning down.
Everyone focuses on Laufey’s son, brand him
a dangerous troublemaker and hold you up
as his support and longsuffering, dutiful spouse
– and sure, you are – but do they ever stop to consider
what sort of Goddess that sort of God would wed?
Oh, you love to laugh, and often he would make you –
but you love watching the powerful squirm even more,
especially when what they most wish to remain secret
is brought into the light. And you would don masks with him,
and roam the streets together in noisy revel, egging him on
to perform more clever and daring pranks, jokes
and assorted buffoonery until he went too far.
Nor did you leave his side when the brawling started,
but instead drew your blade and leapt right in,
kicking more Æsir than ever your husband did,
and biting more too! What, do people think your name
just an ironic sobriquet – it’s truth in advertising,
and you’ve more than lived up to it. When the Jötnar
stormed Ásgarðr in retaliation for the flyting of Þjazi
you took up ash-spear and buckler to fend them off
and sent three or possibly four to Hel just by yourself.
So hail to you, Goddess of the mighty arm and withering laugh,
and Sigyn I pray, stand with us in our time of distress
and protect this home just as fiercely from all its foes,
mortal and otherwise.

I call out to Sigyn, the Goddess who loves
the way moonlight reflects off the rainbowy scales
of swift salmon struggling against the current,
and how the white teeth of wolves shine in the gloom
as they race through snowy woods and lift their shaggy throats
in salute to wide-ranging Máni, and when lightning bugs flit
and dance around like elegant Álfar or the fiery wheels
in Nótt’s purple cloak, and the stillness of those long hours
before golden-haired Sól shows herself when anything
seems possible, even an end to your husband’s endless torment.
Hear me, Lady, as your husband hears you when you return
from having emptied the bowl and you tell him of all
these beautiful things, and weave soothing myths from them
to distract from the searing pain, and though it does not
he appreciates the effort and bears it all manfully, for your sake;
this is my prayer, O Sigyn who so delights in the nocturnal
that you named your own son after Nótt’s giant father,
soon may you be able to stand again in Loki’s firm embrace
enjoying these and countless other dark sights together.

Radiant Hermes who shines gloriously
from a dark, damp cave
like the liquid gold brought in tribute
by Nymph-loving bees,
the glint of treasure piled up,
the sudden flash of insight,
glittering sequins and confetti
of a skillful street performer
hoping to make it big,
and the eyes of a dog on the porch
watchful for thieves and strangers,
I pray to you, friend of Dionysos
the Midnight Sun, adviser and Leader
of a third of his numerous Host,
bless this house which reveres you
and never tires of singing your praises
or making plentiful offerings to you.

O Muses, lift your melodious voices in praise
of grace-giving Hermes and his Lady,
the loud-crying Brimo who administers justice
to the souls in Haides. They met, it is said,
in a field of rushes beside a swiftly-eddying river
where the Good Shepherd had brought his charges down
for watering, and she had come to collect flowers and plait
crowns for her Queen and double Persephone
of the lovely harvest feast. While the flock munched
and drank and wandered shoreside, Hermes talked her up
and helped her find the prettiest flowers to pluck;
their hands touched, as each reached to grab
the same purple narcissus, then their eyes connected
in longing, and finally they were on the ground,
removing the hindrance of their clothing
while the animals around them
went about their oblivious business,
and all was right with the world.
For it is never wrong, O Maidens Nine,
to laud Hermes Nomios, the Lord
of Mount Kyllene and bearer of the long staff,
tireless, potent, expert searcher and keen interpreter of signs,
who does not forget or leave one hanging dry
or all tangled up, and in brambles.

I call to our rite the Hermes
who is Master of the games
of life and war, daring and devastating
Lord who wields the net and hunts
by moonlight, leading from the mound
a phantom host with baying hounds,
hungry for blood and terror. He wears a red
tunic and white Thracian hunting boots,
black cape and wolf’s head for a cap,
and as the ghostly God rides out a crow
and albino dog follow close behind.
The Giants fear him, and the Titans too;
all those in the Underworld bend the knee
when he comes to visit the Zeus Below,
and he’s always well-received in wine-rich Nysa.
So let us all greet and hail the savage Argeiphontes,
protector of our home and infallible guide
through the twists and turns of our labyrinthine lives.

Hermes the interpreter, intercessor,
and inconvenience eliminator I pray,
you who bear messages to and from
men and Gods and the dead
and make signs for us to find
in books, on billboards,
through songs and overheard snatches
of random conversation,
Hunt Master and pattern finder,
manipulator of meaning
and expert navigator of chaos and flux,
help me as once you came to the assistance
of waywinding Odysseus when he was
on the isle of the lovely sorcerous Queen
from the faraway barbarian North.
You gave him the flower that Óðr
once went in search of
which can transform even the stoniest of hearts,
taught him techniques for unbinding enchantments,
told him clever words to say
and how she liked a man who acted
direct, dominant and assertive,
and so it went well for him.
He did not become like one
of those wretched, sniveling, powerless beasts
who like to gorge themselves on soybeans
and wallow in filth, ignorant
of their true identities and potential.
Hermes, if it is within your power I pray,
likewise spare my people from such an ignoble fate.
It’s one thing to be lovely-thighed Kirke’s oinking footstool,
far worse to be reduced to a servile state by nothing,
bad politics, marketing and modernity.

Hear me, O Hermes the wise contriver,
weaver of deceit, inventor of the written word
and of commerce and lawsuits, you who design
religious rites and were first to map the stars,
crafter of the lyre, measurer of the sports field,
one who lays the foundations for temples and helps
us maintain the necessary boundaries in our lives
and world, calculator of distances, differences and probability,
instructor in philosophy, mathematics, science and magic;
hear me, I pray, through the din of confusion and uncertainty
and show me the way to order myself rightly with the Gods
that I may know my purpose and how best to proceed
in every situation and obstacle that comes my way,
and more, grant me clarity of vision, ingenuity
and creativity, and most importantly will and agency
that I may turn all adversity into opportunity,
as you, Hermes, so elegantly do.

O Hermes who protects the pantry and cupboard,
the stove and sink, the parlour and bedroom, the library
and womens’ quarters, the porch, the door and all
of the windows – hail to you, Guardian God that
keeps things running smoothly within and bars the way
to poverty, illness, misfortune and wrath as well
as all the wicked and destructive entities
who are responsible for stirring such nasty things up.
None can outsmart you, or best you physically,
and even among the Gods only Hekate comes close
to rivalling your magical might. The home that keeps
your shrine always full of incense, food offerings
and most importantly plentiful libations such as
a thirsty, road-weary traveler might enjoy
will see their fortunes and standing in the community flourish,
for you are most kind, generous and hospitable O Lord
Hermes, son of Maia and loud-thundering Zeus the King.

I hail Hermes who has traveled wide
and mastered many wiles along the way,
he whose form is as changeable
as his mind is guileful, lover of puzzles, tricks,
games of skill and games of chance;
magician and executioner, informant and extortionist,
thief and problem-fixer, babysitter and trusted adviser
– there is no task too small or too large
that you cannot bring to a pleasing resolution,
O friend of Gods and friend of men.
You grease the wheels, find what others cannot,
make what we least expect occur, and know all the right words
to persuade, lull, compel and excite as you please.
Panoptic Argos, long-haired Hippolytos, the bearish
and guest-devouring brothers Agrius and Oreius,
the Thessalian witches who sought to rape Selene,
those xenophibic Lydians together with their expat king
Pelops the benefactor-slayer – all these can attest
your might and glory, Lord, for each in their turn
felt the unsuspected sting of your implacable wrath,
God who journeys by moonlight, swift as raven’s wing,
unseen unless he wishes to be – to you I turn my voice,
Hermes who hears the prayers of those in need,
and answers.

Hail to the beautiful God,
Máni, son of Mundilfari,
master of glamour, seduction
and all the numerous arts of deception
whose power causes young love
to blossom, and old love to feel
new again. With a smile in your eyes
and wise counsel clinging like honey
to your lips, you have seen it all
and are surprised by nothing
the heart can contain or the mind contrive;
whatever it is we desire, you can help us
attain it – and if that’s not possible,
cause forgetfulness to settle upon us like a fog,
and stir up longing for the novel in our breast.
When is better for the singing of love songs,
or strolls through the park, a fine dinner out
or dancing with friends at the club
than when the fair face of Máni
shines down upon us? Friend of Freyja,
confidant of Frigg, and wingman of Óðinn
when he goes courting alliances in the nine realms,
yours is the power of fantasy – especially the
shadowy, forbidden kind we dare not speak of
in polite company – sweet dreams that linger
in the morning light, sexual personae
and games of chance and chase which make
embodied existence so much fun. All this
is your domain, O gleaming Trickster,
and so I pray, always help keep things interesting
and exciting for me, and for those whom I love.

I transfer …
… that headache that won’t go away …
… pain in every limb and member …
Gnawing hunger …
… the taste of cinders, ash and defeat.
O Hermes, Messenger of the Gods deliver this …
… bind … powerless.
… drag down … the one who cries …
… gnashing …
Darkness.
Fear.
Doubt.

Image from here. 

Speaking of Máni, Galina left the following comment on the Day IV Hymn:

i love how you bring the Byzantine and Scandinavian sources together here!

How that happened is an interesting story, actually!

The names for my Máni cycle come from Skáldskaparmál chapter 55, which contains a list of the God’s kennings and heiti or epithets:

The lunar planet is called Moon, Waxer, Waner, Year-Teller, Mock-Sun, Fengari, Glamour, Haster, Crescent, Glare. [Tungl: máni, ný, nið, ártali, mulinn, fengari, glámr, skyndir, skjálgr, skrámr.]

Now one of these words is not like the others. Fengari is the Old Icelandic form of the Byzantine Greek Φεγγάρι, “Moon.”

I was curious how that had happened – Varangians, perhaps? – so I did some digging and … made it about three clicks before I got sucked into a myth I don’t believe had ever been put to ink or pixel before. The last site I visited was Wikipedia’s article on Fengari, specifically this bit:

Fengari, also known as Saos (Greek: Σάος or Φεγγάρι) is the tallest mountain in the Aegean island of Samothrace, Greece, with an elevation of 1,611 metres (5,285 ft). The previous name of the mountain, Sàos, which means safe is still used in some maps. The current common name, though, is Fengari or Fenghári and it means moon. According to a local legend, anyone who stands at the top of the mountain during the night of a full moon will see something that they wish coming true. During classical antiquity, this mountain was very useful for sailors’ navigation, due to its relative height and prominence. In legend, Poseidon watched the Trojan War from the peak.

And the hymn kind of composed itself from there.

Oh, neat fact! Hjúki and Bil, Máni’s attendants, are thought to be the basis for the Jack and Jill figures from English folklore. I included them since the Hymn was set on Samothrace as a nod to the Divine Twins who likewise attend Kasmilos. (For the purpose of assonance, without necessarily implying any sort of syncretic interpretatio.)

OK, maybe it’s only interesting to me. 

I raise a horn of the best sheep’s milk
to you Máni, who in your wide travels
have found no mountain more pleasing
to you than ancient shining Sàos, pinnacle
of Samothrace in the sacred Aegean sea;
from its summit one can behold the Troad
where once you fought beside Grímnir
and his valorous son Þórr, who drove the invading
Danaäns back with flaming hammer
and ash-spear that always strikes true.
They say that on nights when the Moon shines
full on the peak that two youths bearing a bucket
on a pole between them may be glimpsed
braving the steep and treacherous shepherd trails
in search of you, your fosterlings and attendants
Hjúki and Bil, who have filled the bucket with ouzo
from local stills, graciously offered to the Savior God.
For sailors use the promontory to navigate by
when thick clouds obscure the sky, and those
who are wise listen for the sound
of your komboloi clacking like thunder
to bring them safe into the harbor.
Since Byzantine times the mount has ceased to be
known as Sàos, but after you has been named Φεγγάρι.
And so I ask that you watch over me and mine
as we go out into the world, and Máni I pray,
always show us the clear way back home.

I sing of Máni of the crescent blade
whirled in lethal rapture during his martial dance
faster than eye can follow and sharp as desire,
good for cutting the throats of foes,
striker of vital organs and splitter of sinews
and bone, tested and found true
against God and Giant, Dragon and Dwarf,
Elf and man and countless others
who would threaten the harmonious order
the son of Mundilfari was charged
with upholding by Allfather Óðinn.
He crashes through the pitched line
astride his dun steed, howling his battlesong
as the stalwart scatter and scream or are trampled
in the muddy field washed with streams
of black blood shed by the Warlord in White.
Hail Máni, savage defender of the radiant walls
of all-holy Ásgarðr which shall not fall
so long as the Good God draws breath.

I greet you White Ás with the obsidian face,
and eyes that see into the most secret places of one’s heart;
Mock-Sun they call you, Máni who has forgotten
even how to laugh. You are near to exhaustion
and ragged from running, weary from the weight
of the suffering worlds and ready to just let
the devouring void overtake you. But you don’t.
Even if we can’t see you in the sky, tomorrow
or the day after we shall glimpse the curve of your blade
as you rush once more into the frenzy and din of life.
But tonight, rest. We will stand vigil through the long night
and keep the wolves from your door. Drink, eat,
refresh yourself wanderer; always will you be welcome
in this home of ours.

None other than Óðinn proclaimed
that the descendants of Askr and Embla
should invoke you Máni who makes things wane,
whenever barbed, stinking malice should come
between two or more of us; you know how to cut off,
pluck out, unweave, decontaminate, soothe
and repair malice-caused hurt and damage,
and more important still, you can teach us
how to remain always vigilant, caring
and communicative so that such poison
never again seeps into our treasured relationships.
And should the maliciousness come from outsiders
may you reflect it back upon them Máni
with your mirror-surfaced shield and radiant kopis
that thirsts for the blood of the wicked and deceitful.
And in return I shall keep the first of each month
in feast for you, and recite your hymns nightly.

Many-named, multiform, magnificent
Máni I beseech you, whom even
the Gods approach when they wish
to be told the year and the secrets it holds,
you who wear a belt of clacking beads
strung across your narrow dancer’s hips
for the calculation of days and weeks,
whose knowing fingers bear rings
of silver and opal, feet sheathed
in white slippers that curve at the toe,
Sól-bleached bones braided into your long,
long hair purple as the breast of Nótt,
with silken trousers woven for you
by the three Spinsters in the cave by the lake
where Daeg comes to bathe and rejuvenate,
and a constellation-spangled ermine cloak
hanging from your smooth, curved, futharked shoulders,
crowned with electrum and grey ash covering your face;
so they find you attired, when Óðinn
and his glorious kin seek out the counsel
of the far-seeing and sooth-saying Sorcerer God.
Reveal to me Máni, I pray, what I must do
and know to be wise, pious, hospitable and lucky
this day, this week, this month and this year
drawing closer, ever closer
through my deeds and reflections
to our people’s Holy Powers
and Beloved Ancestors.