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An Old Norse Saga Guide to Surviving the Holidays

Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year, but between treacherous weather, family politics, and dietary decisions, it can also be a tricky time to navigate. To help you get through the season, here are some top tips from the Old Norse sagas on surviving the holidays.

Drinking with the Devil. Reykjavík, Stofnun Árna Magnússonar í íslenskum fræðum, AM 673 a III 4to (Teiknibók), 18v. Image from handrit.is

Pick the right day to celebrate

If you lived in the Middle Ages, deciding when to host your winter festivities could be tricky. For a long time, as Scandinavia gradually converted to Christianity, the winter months saw the coexistence of two different Yule festivals: Christian Christmas and pagan Jól. The latter was likely celebrated differently across the region but said in one king’s saga, Hákonar saga góða, to begin on midwinter night and continue for three nights. These diverging celebrations became a point of friction during the conversion process so, around the middle of the tenth century, the Christian Norwegian king, Hákon the Good, attempted to consolidate the two. According to his saga, he decreed that ‘observance of Yule should begin at the same time as Christian people observed Christmas’ (97).

Although not without its challenges, this was a clever move. We can see its legacy several decades later in Óláfs saga helga, which describes the changing customs of a man named Sigurðr:

During the pagan period, he was accustomed to hold three sacrificial banquets every year, one at the winter nights, the second at midwinter, the third in the summer. And when he accepted Christianity, he still kept up his established custom with the banquets. Then, in the autumn he held a great party for his friends, and also a Yule feast in the winter and then again invited many people; a third banquet he held at Easter. (127)

Once you’ve settled on a date to celebrate, make sure you invite the right people – and if you get an invitation to someone else’s Yule-feast, it’s bad form to not show up. Some time after Sigurðr’s death, his brother Þórir invited his son Ásbjǫrn to a Yule feast, but Ásbjǫrn refused the invitation. Þórir took this as a personal slight and in return made such great mockery of Ásbjǫrn and his expeditions that Ásbjǫrn sullenly ‘stayed at home during the winter and went to no parties’ (131). A sad fate indeed.

Choose the perfect gifts

To be a powerful king in medieval Scandinavia, you had to surround yourself with groups of loyal retainers who would feast with you, fight for you, and uphold your rules. This loyalty needed to be rewarded, and Yule was the perfect time for kings and other powerful men to shower their best retainers with gifts. There’s even a term for gifts given in this season: ‘jólagjǫf’. In Óláfs saga helga, for instance, it is said that the king had a custom of ‘making great preparations, […] gathering together his treasures to give friendly gifts on the eighth evening of Yule’ (199). One of these gifts was a beautiful gold-adorned sword, given to his skald Sigvatr. This was said to be a fine, enviable treasure, though perhaps not as enviable as Óláfr’s earlier gift to Brynjólfr, which he received with a rather unimaginative verse:

Bragningr gaf mér
brand ok Vettaland.

The ruler gave me a sword and Vettaland (an important estate). (51)

Yule-gifts were also an important way to cement friendships and alliances in Scandinavian and Icelandic society, for which clothes appear to have been a popular choice. According to Laxdæla saga, King Haraldr Fairhair once gifted Óláfr Peacock ‘an entire suit of clothes made from scarlet’ (30). Even more impressive is a set of Yule-gifts exchanged between the Norwegian Arinbjǫrn and the Icelander Egill in Egils saga:

As a customary Yuletide gift, [Arinbjorn] gave Egil a silk gown with ornate gold embroidery and gold buttons all the way down, which was cut especially to fit Egil’s frame. He also gave him a complete set of clothes, cut from English cloth in many colours. Arinbjorn gave all manner of tokens of friendship at Yuletide to the people who visited him, since he was exceptionally generous and firm of character. (134)

Of course, before you splash out on expensive swords or clothes, you need to make sure the receiver is worthy of your gift. This is what King Raknarr did on the eve before Yule in the semi-legendary Bárðar saga snæfellsáss, entering the hall of King Óláfr Tryggvason, decked out with armour, helmet, sword, gold necklace, and gold ring. After going round the room to no response, he finally announces scathingly: “Here have I come and nothing at all has been offered to me by this great figure. I shall be more generous for I shall offer to award those treasures that I have here now to that man who dares to take them from me — but there is no one like that here.” (261)

Raknarr’s passive aggressive gifting strategy may not be the best example to follow, particularly as he turns out to be a reanimated corpse who must be slain by the hero Gestr. Instead, why not take inspiration from the troll-woman Hít in the same saga (254), whose Yule party favor for Gestr is a wonderfully loyal dog!

Feast and be merry!

Once you’ve bought and wrapped your presents, the next step is to plan your menu. The sagas are full of Yule feasts, although they rarely provide specific details of what is actually eaten. At one point in Eiríks saga rauða, for example, Eiríkr is hosting a number of voyagers over the winter at his home in Greenland, but starts to become gloomy as Yule approaches for he does not have the resources to throw them all a proper holiday feast. One of the voyagers, Karlsefni, comes to his rescue, offering him use of their provisions:

“[...] We’ve malt and flour and grain aboard our ships, and you may help yourself to them as you will, to prepare a feast worthy of your generous hospitality.”

Eirik accepted this. Preparations for a Yule feast began, which proved to be so bountiful that men could scarcely recall having seen its like. (11)

What exactly was in that grand feast goes entirely unstated, but it clearly involved some kind of malt, flour, and grain.Hákonar saga góða does suggest that horse meat was an important part of pagan Yule and other feasts. One winter, the saga relates, King Hákon attended a Yule feast with a large number of farmers from Þrándheimr, where he was very reluctantly forced to eat a few pieces of horse-liver and ‘drank all the toasts that the farmers poured for him without the sign of the Cross’ (102). It’s never good to offend your hosts — especially when they are armed.

One way to get into the sacred spirit of Christmas in advance of the gluttony to come is to fast in preparation. Indeed, not doing so could have dire consequences. In Grettis saga, the ill-tempered Glámr demanded meat from his wife on the eve of Yule. She tried to dissuade him, saying, “It’s not the Christian custom to eat on this day, because tomorrow is the first day of Christmas. It is our duty to fast today.” (101) Glámr scoffed at this, claiming a preference for the old pagan ways, and tucked into his meat. That very night, he was found dead in the snow and, even worse, eventually rose again to haunt the area.

As Christianity became the dominant religion in Scandinavia, later kings were less accepting of the old customs. One winter, King Óláfr the Holy got word that the farmers of Innþrœndir had been holding forbidden midwinter sacrificial feasts, and summoned a representative to explain themselves. But the quick-thinking man had the perfect excuse:

“We held,” he says, “Yule banquets and in many places in the districts drinking parties. The farmers do not make such scant provision for their Yule banquets that there is not a lot left over, and that was what they were drinking, lord, for a long time afterwards. At Mærin there is a large centre and huge buildings, and extensive settlements round about. People find it good to drink together there for enjoyment in large numbers.” (117)

The king remained suspicious, but could not fault the farmer’s logic. For, if there’s one thing about Christmas that everyone can agree on, it’s the importance of alcohol.

Drink… but not too much

When King Hákon the Good ordered the convergence of Yule and Christmas, he had one condition of how to celebrate: each person was to consume a measure of ale (16.2 litres, according to one estimate) and celebrate for as long as the ale lasted, or else pay a fine (97).

Drinking is a key component of most Yule feasts described across the sagas. Even core principles like seeking vengeance for fallen kin must come second. In Hákonar saga herðibreiðs, for instance, King Ingi relates that he told one man about the killing of another, sure that he would be spurred to vengeance, but ‘those people behaved as if nothing was as important as that Yule drinking feast and it could not be interrupted’ (227).

In fact, throughout the sagas, Yule-drinking (‘jóla-drykkja’) causes all sorts of problems. According to Óláfs saga helga, a Yule drinking competition in Jamtaland naturally led to bickering between Norwegians and Swedes, and the spilling of secrets as ‘the ale spoke through the Jamtr’ (172). In Eyrbyygja saga, Þórólfr bægifótr got his thralls drunk at Yule and convinced them to burn down an enemy’s house (168–69). The troll-woman’s Yule-feast in Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss steadily deteriorated as the drinking got heavier, leading to a rowdy game, a bloody nose, and a long feud (253).

Even without alcohol, Yule became a time of battle and slaughter throughout the sagas of kings. It is only in Magnúss saga blinda ok Haralds gilla that the two titular warring kings accepted a Christmas truce ‘because of the sanctity of the time’, although Magnúss did use this opportunity to fortify his town and ‘no more than three days over Yule were kept sacred so that no work was done’ (175).

This is a good example for academics everywhere: as much as we might feel the need to work over the holidays, there comes a time to put down our books, buy some gifts, and feast with family, friends, and nemeses — even if it is for just three days over Yule. If you manage to do so, you might just make it through the season alive.

Ashley Castelino, DPhil
Public Humanities Postdoctoral Fellow 
Medieval Institute, University of Notre Dame 

Bibliography

Bard’s Saga [Bárðar saga snæfellsáss]. Translated by Sarah M. Anderson. In The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, edited by Viðar Hreinsson. Vol. 2. Leifur Eiríksson, 1997.

Egil’s Saga [Egils saga]. Translated by Bernard Scudder. In The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, edited by Viðar Hreinsson. Vol. 1. Leifur Eiríksson, 1997.

Erik the Red’s Saga [Eiríks saga rauða]. Translated by Keneva Kunz. In The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, edited by Viðar Hreinsson. Vol. 1. Leifur Eiríksson, 1997.

The Saga of Grettir the Strong [Grettis saga]. Translated by Bernard Scudder. In The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, edited by Viðar Hreinsson. Vol. 2. Leifur Eiríksson, 1997.

The Saga of the People of Eyri [Eyrbyggja saga]. Translated by Judy Quinn. In The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, edited by Viðar Hreinsson. Vol. 5. Leifur Eiríksson, 1997.

The Saga of the People of Laxardal [Laxdæla saga]. Translated by Keneva Kunz. In The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, edited by Viðar Hreinsson. Vol. 5. Leifur Eiríksson, 1997.

Snorri Sturluson. Hákonar saga góða. In Heimskringla, translated by Alison Finlay and Anthony Faulkes. Vol. 1. Viking Society for Northern Research, 2011.

Snorri Sturluson. Hákonar saga herðibreiðs. In Heimskringla, translated by Alison Finlay and Anthony Faulkes. Vol. 3. Viking Society for Northern Research, 2015.

Snorri Sturluson. Óláfs saga helga. In Heimskringla, translated by Alison Finlay and Anthony Faulkes. Vol. 2. Viking Society for Northern Research, 2014.

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The Riddle of Grendel’s Monstrous Mother: Echoes of Scylla in Beowulf?

Grendel’s mother has long been regarded by scholars as the least monstrous of the three—not being an obvious vampire-cannibal like Grendel nor a fire-breathing dragon. Her vengeful response to the death of her son, and her decision to continue the feud between the Grendelkin has been regarded as ethical (within the broader context of warrior ethos), legal (within the context of early medieval Norse and English laws), and even heroic (aligned with the heroism as depicted in the poem).

Grendel’s mother tries to stab Beowulf. Illustration by J.R. Skelton, 1908.

While I would generally agree with this broad characterization of Grendel’s mother, and there is no doubt that her actions mirror those of any avenging warrior in Beowulf, to erase her monstrosity seems to ignore at least some of the evidence. While I do not find her maternity at all indicative of abject horror (indeed quite the opposite as it is her identity as “mother” that humanizes her in my view), certain terms used to describe her and indeed everything from her association as Caines cynn “Cain’s kin” (107; 1261-65) and the hellish descriptions of her lair suggest some measure of monstrosity embedded in her character. And for this Halloween, we will spend some time unpacking the nature of her monstrosity.

I would contend that the main reason scholars argue about Grendel’s mother’s monstrosity and characterization is because of her enigmatic design. As I point out in my dissertation, riddles encode Beowulf, and, in my opinion, employ riddling rhetorical strategies, especially imitation, equivocation, esotericism and paradox. These obfuscations help account for the many irregularities observed in the poem the scholars have scratched their heads over for more than a century and help explain why often the heroes looks like the monsters—and the monsters like the heroes.  

Grendel’s mother battles Beowulf. Illustration by John Howe, 2006. All rights reserved.

Because of the influence of riddling rhetorical strategies on Beowulf, turning to the Anglo-Latin enigmata tradition is an especially fruitful practice, especially in explorations of monstrosity in the poem. Indeed, monsterized riddles have long been a feature starting with the late classical enigmatist, Symphosius, who establishes the Anglo-Latin tradition, includes numerous riddles on wondrous creatures, such as the phoenix (Enigma 31). Similarly, Aldhelm’s enigmata also feature numerous monsterized riddles, in some cases the solution is a wondrous creature (as with Symphosius’ paradoxical phoenix-riddle), in other cases the mundane is made monstrous through imitation, and the monsterization is another mechanism of obfuscation (as in Aldhelm’s Enigma 97 solved nox). Even Boniface, whose riddles center on vices and virtues, monsterizes his vice-riddles in the mode of Prudentius’ Psychomachia, a popular classroom text in early medieval English which depicts vices as monsters in an allegorical epic.

Ira’s sword shatters on Patientia’s helmet, then the enraged Ira dies by her own blade (c.900, Bern, Burgerbibliothek, Codex 264, p.79).

But what does this have to do with Grendel’s monstrous mother? Let’s start with her introduction and the complex portrait it paints:

Þæt gesyne wearþ,
widcuþ werum,   þætte wrecend þa gyt
lifde æfter laþum,   lange þrage,
æfter guðceare:   Grendles modor.
Ides aglæcwif   yrmþe gemunde,
se þe wæteregesan   wunian scolde,
cealde streamas,   siþðan Cain wearð
to ecgbanan   angan breþer,
fæderenmæge.   He þa fag gewat,
morþre gemearcod,   mandream fleon,
westen warode. 

“That became manifest, widely known to men, that an avenger still lived after the hostile one, for a long time, after war-grief: Grendel’s mother. A lady, a fearsome woman remembered misery, he who must inhabit the terrible-waters, the cold streams because Cain became the edge-slayer to his only brother, kin of the same father. He then went hostile, marked by murder, fled the joys of men, inhabiting the wilderness.”

Beowulf, 1255-65.

The first term used to describe Grendel’s mother emphasizes her desire for vengeance. The narrator names her a wrecend “avenger” (1256) —an appropriate title considering her entire characterization is framed by revenge and feuding—and her motive is thrice repeated almost verbatim and with language that could apply equally to avenging heroes in the poem (1276-78, 1339-1340, 1546). Moreover, Grendel’s mother’s is thrice described as wif “woman” (1259, 1519, 2120,) and even twice as an ides “lady” (1259, 1351) establishing gender as one of the pillars of her characterization, alongside her roles as avenger and mother. Kinship ties are further emphasized when Grendel’s mother is described as Grendles maga “Grendel’s female relative” (1391) and twice as Grendles mæg “Grendel’s kinsman” (2006, 2353), which account for her desire for revenge in upholding the warrior ethics and continuing the feud between the Danes and the Grendelkin.

Beowulf fights Grendels mother Gareth Hinds
Beowulf fights Grendel’s mother. Illustration fromm Gareth Hinds graphic novel, Beowulf (2007). All rights reserved.

Moreover, like the monstrous vices in Prudentius’ Psychomachia and Boniface’s Enigmata, the avenger—Grendel’s mother—is clearly wondrous and monstrous in certain descriptions of her. She and her lake monsters are wæteregesa “water-terrors” (1260). Grendel’s mother is called se broga “the terror” (1260), and together with her son, she is described as mihitig manscaða “man-slayer” (1339), micle mearcstapa “great marked-wanderer” (1348), dyrna gast “secret spirit” (1357), ælwiht “alien thing” (1518), thrice as ellorgæst “foreign spirit” (1349, 1617, 1621) and even deofol “devil” (1680). She is even described as a merewif mihtig “mighty mermaid” (1519), aglæcwif “fearsome warrior woman” (1259) or wif unhyre “untamed woman” (2120), grundwyrgenne “ground wolf” (1518) and twice is characterized with the compound a brimwulf “sea-wolf” (1506, 1599).

It is my contention that descriptions of Scylla—a classical monster, famously featured in the Odyssey and popular in Anglo-Latin literature contemporary with Beowulf—likely influence the characterization of Grendel’s mother, a riddle embedded in the poetic compounds used to describe her and in the depiction of her monstrous lair.

Scylla as a maiden with a kētos tail and dog heads sprouting from her body. Detail from a red-figure bell-crater in the Louvre, 450–425 BC. This form of Scylla was prevalent in ancient depictions.

Scylla is a monstrous sea creature from Greek mythology, known for inhabiting a narrow strait opposite the whirlpool Charybdis. She often has multiple heads with each head bearing a set of sharp, ravenous teeth. Scylla’s body is a woman’s often combining serpentine, aquatic and canine features. She emerges from a rocky cliffside and narrow passage where she lives. She preys on passing sailors, snatching them from ships with her many heads and her “sea dogs” which accompany her. Once a beautiful nymph, she becomes cursed and exiled.

Scylla is the riddle-subject of Aldhelm’s Enigma 95 (solved Scilla) and is featured in his prose De uirginitate (X). Aldhelm’s Enigma 95 describes Scylla as follows:

Ecce, molosorum nomen mihi fata dederunt
(Argolicae gentis sic promit lingua loquelis),
Ex quo me dirae fallebant carmina Circae,
Quae fontis liquidi maculabat flumina uerbis;
Femora cum cruribus, suras cum poplite bino
Abstulit immiscens crudelis uerba uirago.
Pignora nunc pauidi refereunt ululantia nautae,
Tonsis dum trudunt classes et caerula findunt.
Uastos uerrentes fluctus grassante procella,
Palmula qua remis succurrit panda per undas,
Auscultare procul quae latrant inguina circum.
Sic me pellexit dudum Titania proles,
Ut merito vivam salsis in fluctibus exul.

“Look, the Fates gave me the name of dogs—thus does the language of the Greeks render it in words—ever since the incantations of dread Circe, who stained the waters of the flowing mountains with her words, deceived me. Weaving words, the cruel witch deprived me of thighs together with shins, and calves, together with knees. Terrified mariners relate that, as they impel their ships with oars and cleave the sea, sweeping along the mighty wave while the tempest rages, where the broad blade of howling offspring that bark about my loins. Thus the daughter Titan [scil. Circe] once tricked me, so that I should live as an exile—deservedly—in the salty waves.”

Lapidge and Rossier, Aldhelm: The Poetic Works, 91.

In this riddle, solved Scylla (Scilla), Aldhelm emphasizes her canine connection, and gives a reference to her origin in Greek mythology and her transformation at the hands of the witch, Circe. There is also mention of the danger she poses to any who sail by her watery abode, alongside her “howling offspring that bark” about her an further threaten wayward travelers.

Scylla and Glaucus by Peter Paul Rubens (ca. 1636)
Scylla and Glaucus by Peter Paul Rubens (ca. 1636). Musée Bonnat-Helleu.

Scylla also appears twice in the Liber monstrorum (I.14, II.19), where she is described in detail. This first mention from Liber monstrorum I.14 in the section on humaniod monsters is as follows:

Scylla monstrum nautis inimicissimum in eo freto quod Italiam et Siciliam interluit fuisse perhibetur capite quidem et pectore uirginali sicut sirenae, sed luporum uterum et caudas delfinorum habuit. Et hoc sirenarum et Scyllae distinguit naturam quod ipsae morifero carmine mauigantes decipiunt et illa per uim fortitudinis marinis succinta canibus miserorum fertur lacerasse naufragia.

“It is reckoned that Scylla has been the monster most hostile to sailors in that channel which washes between Italy and Sicily, having indeed the head and chest of a maiden (like the sirens), but the belly of a wolf and the tail of dolphins. And what distinguishes the nature of the sirens from Scylla is that they deceive seamen by their deadly song, whilst she with the strength of her force, girt about with sea-dogs, is said to have mangled the wrecks of the unfortunate .”

Orchard, Pride and Prodigies, 266-67.

This description emphasizes her superlative hostility [inimicissimum]—similar to Grendel’s mother’s characterization as an aglæcwif “fearsome warrior woman” (1259) or wif unhyre “untamed woman” (2120). Emphasis on the narrow channel where Scylla resides shifts to her hybrid representation with “the head and chest of a maiden (like sirens) but the belly of a wolf and the tail of a dolphins” (fuisse perhibetur capite quidem et pectore uirginali sicut sirenae, sed luporum uterum et caudas delfinorum habuit). This establishes Scylla as a woman-canine-marine creature, combining “maiden” (virgo), “wolf” (lupus), and “dolphin” (delphinus) parts. Moreover, she is twice compared to the treacherous sirens, while explaining that unlike the sirens, who use song to ensnare their victims, Scylla uses force, violence and her mighty strength, with her “sea-dogs” (marinis canibus) to take down unfortunate sailors who enter her domain.

Scylla, relief sculpture on a pair of terracotta plaques with glass inlays, late 4th century BCE; in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City, Sandra Brue Gift, 1998 (accession no. 1998.210.1, .2); www.metmuseum.org.

In the second section, centered on bestial monsters, there is an entry on the sea-beasts of Scylla. Liber monstrorum II.19 reads as follows:

fingunt quoque poetae inmari Tyrrheno ceruleos esse canes, qui posteriorem corporis partem cum piscibus habent commune. Ipsis quoque Scyllam ratem Ulixis lacerans marinis succincta canibus describitur.

“the poets also image that there are azure dogs in the Mediterranean, the hind parts of whose bodies they share with fish; also girt round with these same sea-dogs Scylla is described tearing apart the ship of Ulysses”

Orchard, Pride and Prodigies, 266-67.

This entry focuses on the “azure dog” (ceruleos canes) or “sea dogs” (marinis canibus) of Scylla, which are described as featuring canine heads and legs, but “the hind parts of whose bodies they share with fish” (qui posteriorem corporis partem cum piscibus habent commune) making them a canine-marine hybrid creature. Scylla is directly mentioned in connection with her accompanying sea-monsters, and the passage directly references the struggles of Odysseus [i.e. Ulysses] when he encounters Scylla on his epic journey home.

Asteas - Europa on the bull - Dionysos with satyrs and maenads and Pan - Montesarchio
Paestan red figure calyx-crater showing Scylla wielding a trident (ca. 350 BCE). Museo Archeologico Nazionale del Sannio Caudino, Montesarchio. 

The key features of Scylla’s narrow channel are present also in the monster-mere found in Beowulf which is the home and hall of the Grendelkin. Grendel’s Mother’s lair is described in the poem as follows:

Hie dygel lond
warigeað, wulfhleoþu,   windige næssas,
frecne fengelad,   ðær fyrgenstream
under næssa genipu   niþer gewiteð,
flod under foldan.

“They [Grendelkin] inhabit the secret land, the wolf-slopes, the windy narrows, the dangerous fen-path, where the mountain stream cascades downward under the cover of cliffs, the flood under the land.”

Beowulf, 1357-61.

This description emphasizes the dangerous narrows and the crafty cliffs surrounding the monstrous abode and in this way echoes Scylla’s watery domain. In this passage are numerous references to the steep and narrow geography, especially in descriptions of the wulfhleoþu windige næssas “wolf-slopes (and) windy narrows” (1358), and fyrgenstream under næssa genipu, “a mountain river under the cover of cliffs” (1359-60). As Beowulf enters the waves, he finds himself, like those caught by Scylla in the Odyssey, in a violent struggle for his life at the hands of a ferocious woman who pulls him to the depths of her haunted lake. The narrator explains how:

Bær þa seo brimwylf,   þa heo to botme com,
hringa þengel         to hofe sinum,
swa he ne mihte,         no he þæs modig wæs,
wæpna gewealdan,   ac hine wundra þæs fela
swencte on sunde,         sædeor monig
hildetuxum         heresyrcan bræc,
ehton aglæcan.         ða se eorl ongeat
þæt he in niðsele         nathwylcum wæs,
þær him nænig wæter         wihte ne sceþede,
ne him for hrofsele         hrinan ne mehte
færgripe flodes;         fyrleoht geseah,
blacne leoman,         beorhte scinan.
Ongeat þa se goda         grundwyrgenne,
merewif mihtig .

“When she came to the bottom, the sea-wolf bore the prince of rings to her hall, so he could not, no matter how brave he was, wield weapons, but so many wonders afflicted him while swimming, many a sea-beast poked the battle-armor with battle-tusks, harassed the fearsome assailant (Beowulf). Then the man perceived that he was in some kind of hostile-hall, where no water could harm them at all, nor could the sudden grasps of the flood touch them because of the roofed-hall.  He saw firelight, pale illumination brightly shining. Then the good one (Beowulf) perceived the bottom-wolf, the mighty sea-woman.”

Beowulf, 1506-1519.

Henry Justice Ford “Beowulf battles with Grendels Mother” (1899).

In reading this passage from the poem, we can observe numerous parallels between Grendel’s mother and Scylla, which I believe suggests that the classical monster, frequently featured in Anglo-Latin texts, may have influenced the depiction and characterization of Grendl’s mother. Just like with Scylla’s channel, the monster-mere in Beowulf includes sea-creatures that attack anyone who enters their watery lair. Both Scylla and Grendel’s mother are ancient, cursed and exiled monsters, the former as a result of a witch’s curse, the latter is prediluvian, cursed and marked as kin of Cain. Grendel’s mother seems to travel with sea-beasts (nicoras) which resemble Scylla’s sea-dogs. Both Scylla and Grendel’s mother are hybrid women monsters—featuring both canine or lupine characteristics (as indicated by her description as brimwulf “sea-wolf” and grundwyrgenne “bottom-wolf”) characteristics and piscine or serpentine characteristics (as indicated by her description as merewif “mermaid”). And, both Scylla and Grendel’s mom occupy a craggy narrow passage that is terrifying and dangerous for sailors or sea-men.

While I would not push so far as to contend that Grendel’s mother is intended as a literal representation of Scylla, and while I agree with others who have observed her ethically complex characterization, it seems plausible—even probable—that the famous Scylla could have influenced her enigmatic monsterization. At the very least, many counted among the learned audiences of Beowulf in early medieval England would likely have discerned the numerous and noteworthy parallels between these two monstrous women.

Richard Fahey, PhD
Medieval Institute
University of Notre Damme

Selected Bibliography

Acker, Paul. “Horror and the Maternal in Beowulf.” Publication of the Modern Language Association 121.3 (2006): 702-16.

Aldhelm. Aldhelm: The Poetic Works. Translated by Michael Lapidge and James L. Rosier. Dover, NH: D. S. Brewer, 1985.

—. Aldhelm: The Prose Works. Translated by Michael Lapidge and Michael Herren. Cambridge, UK: D. S. Brewer, 1979.

Fahey, Richard. “Enigmatic Design and Psychomachic Monstrosity in Beowulf.” Dissertation: University of Notre Dame, 2020.

Hennequin, M. Wendy. “We’ve Created a Monster: The Strange Case of Grendel’s Mother.” English Studies 89.5 (2008): 503-23.

Klaeber’s Beowulf, 4th Edition. Edited by Robert D. Fulk, Robert E. Bjork and John D. Niles. Toronto, ON: University of Toronto Press, [reprint] 2009.

Kiernan, Kevin S. “Grendel’s Heroic Mother.” In Geardagum 6 (1984): 13-33.

Lockett, Leslie. “The Role of Grendel’s Arm in Feud, Law, and the Narrative Strategy of Beowulf.” In Latin Learning and English Lore: Studies in Anglo-Saxon Literature for Michael Lapidge (I), edited by Katherine O’Brien O’Keeffe and Andy Orchard, 368-88. Toronto, ON: University of Toronto Press, 2005.

Orchard, Andy. A Critical Companion to Beowulf. Cambridge, UK: D.S. Brewer, 2003.

—. Pride and Prodigies: Studies in the Monsters of the Beowulf-Manuscript. Toronto, ON: University of Toronto Press, 1995.

Sayers, William. “Grendel’s Mother, Icelandic Gryla, and Irish Nechta Scene: Eviscerating Fear.” Proceedings of the Harvard Celtic Colloquium 16 (1996): 256-68.

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The Medieval Fable of The Fisherman and the Fish

Fishing is a huge industry worldwide; every year about 1 to 2 trillion wild fish are caught, representing vastly more animal deaths than the annual slaughter of terrestrial vertebrates such as cows and chickens. Overfishing is a serious crisis. According to the UN’s Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO), in 2024, about 37% of monitored fish stocks across the globe were overfished. Additionally, a 2018 FAO report indicated that nearly 60% of fish stocks were “maximally sustainably fished,” meaning that these fish populations were being exploited to the very edge of sustainability.1 Regulations and guidelines aim to reduce “illegal, unreported and unregulated” (IUU) fishing, in order to mitigate the devastating effects of overfishing and maintain populations of these animals for future human use, but IUU fishing is still extremely widespread in practice.

Fish illustration in Der Naturen Bloeme, National Library of the Netherlands, KA 16, fol. 115r.

Below, I translate and discuss a medieval fable, that of The Fisherman and the Fish (Perry Index 18). The Fisherman and the Fish has a decidedly anti-conservationist bent. It depicts an individual fisherman who is angling (fishing with a line), seemingly for his own table rather than for recreation or profit. Though the man’s catch is given a speech, the fisherman gets the last word, saying that the more prudent thing is to kill and eat even a small fish that one has already caught, rather than to hold out for a larger one that may or may not come. Though the fable suggests we are meant to agree with the man’s judgment, I find the fish’s plea to the fisherman—one of many examples in fable where a vulnerable character begs a more powerful one for their life—quite affecting.

This version of The Fisherman and the Fish is by Avianus (ca. 400 CE); it is preceded by a Greek version by Babrius.2 I provide a Latin text of Avianus, and an English translation, below.

De piscatore et pisce
Piscator solitus praedam suspendere saeta
exigui piscis vile trahebat onus.
sed postquam superas captum perduxit ad auras
atque avido fixum vulnus ab ore tulit,
“parce, precor” supplex lacrimis ita dixit obortis;
“nam quanta ex nostro corpore dona feres?
nunc me saxosis genetrix fecunda sub antris
fudit et in propriis ludere iussit aquis.
tolle minas, tenerumque tuis sine crescere mensis:
haec tibi me rursum litoris ora dabit:
protinus immensi depastus caerula ponti
pinguior ad calamum sponte recurro tuum.”
ille nefas captum referens absolvere piscem,
difficiles queritur casibus esse vices:
“nam miserum est” inquit “praesentem amittere praedam,
stultius et rursum vota futura sequi.”3

The Fisherman and the Fish
A fisherman, who was accustomed to catch his prey hanging on a line,
drew up a little fish of paltry weight.
But after he had brought up the captive into the air above,
and a wound pierced through its hungry mouth,
the pleading fish said, “Spare me, please,” with tears springing up,
“for how much benefit will you get from my body?
Just now a fertile mother has spawned me under stony grottoes,
and told me to play in our own waters.
Remove these threats; I am young, let me grow up for your table.
This edge of the shore will give me to you again.
Soon, when I have fed on the depths of the vast sea,
I will come back fatter to your rod, of my own accord.”
The fisherman, replying that it would be a sin to set the caught fish free,
laments the hard conditions of fortune:
“It’s a shame,” he said, “to let go of the prey in hand,
and even more foolish to pursue future wishes again.”

The fish’s plea makes both an appeal to reason and an appeal to emotion. He reasons that his meager body is now of little worth as food, and that in time, once he has grown, he will make a better meal. He further suggests a sort of bargain: he will return “willingly” (sponte) to the fisherman when he is a well-grown adult.  

As for emotion, the little fish, in his abject entreaty, describes himself rather pathetically. The fish having been spawned“just now” (nunc) implies that he is very young and small indeed. Anthropomorphic touches, such as the fish’s tears, and the detail that his mother has told her children to “play” (ludere) in the waters, could prompt readers’ sympathy for the creature. The prospect of a playful “child-fish” having his life cut suddenly short is a pitiful one.

In terms of natural history, the premise of the fable—at least according to the fish’s speech—is that the fish is small (and of little worth to humans nutritionally or economically), but only because he is a very young member of a species that grows considerably larger. While the fish was spawned in “just now” (nunc), “under stony grottoes,” (sub antris saxosis), his life cycle entails feeding and growing in the sea, then returning once again to the same place, where he could perhaps be caught once more by the same fisherman. The word litoris in line 10 can mean the beach or sea shore, but it could also refer to a river bank.4 If one interprets it as the latter, the fish could be of an anadromous species (i.e., a type of fish which spends its adult life in the sea but returns to rivers or streams in order to spawn; examples of anadromous fish include salmon, sturgeon, and some smelt. Babrius’s version takes place at the sea shore). Avianus’s version of the fable doesn’t specify what kind of fish this is, only that he is currently a juvenile. Later versions deem the fish a flatfish or turbot (rombus)5 or pickerel (smaris).6

Fish illustration, British Library, Add MS 36684, fol. 27v.

Intriguingly, in a version of the fable found in the fourteenth-century Dialogus creaturarum, the little fish promises to bring the man a whole school of other piscine victims with him when he returns. In this version, the fish also persuades the man to cut off part of his tail, so that he can be identified when he comes back. The fish reneges on his promise to bring others along with him, and is killed by the man when he is caught for the second time.7

The moral of The Fisherman and the Fish runs rather contrary to the morals of some others (which is often the case in such a heterogeneous and adaptable genre). For example, in the fable of The Goose with the Golden Eggs, which I posted about a few months ago, the moral is to not be greedy and hasty, and, I argued, perhaps not to push nature past sustainable limits. In The Fisherman and the Fish, by contrast, the choice endorsed is to kill an animal as soon as the opportunity presents itself, regardless of whether this is an optimal use of natural resources (i.e., achieving “maximum yield”), because the future is unpredictable.

Fables often focus on interactions between individuals of different species, rather than commenting on species as collectives or populations (though there are exceptions, e.g., The Hares and the Frogs, The Frogs Asking for a King). The fable of The Fisherman and the Fish, too, represents a single encounter between two individuals. However, perhaps we can see this fable as a kind of microcosm of relationships between humans and wild fish. Fishing is essentially the last bastion of wild-caught food, for the majority of humanity, and, as mentioned above, we are exploiting these animals to their limits and beyond. Considering this fable versus The Goose with the Golden Eggs, this fable may speak to a harsher and more opportunistic approach to exploiting “wild” natural resources, compared to exploiting domestic animals and crops. Domestic animals and crops require the expenditure of human labor to raise or cultivate, for one thing, which may make them seem like more of an investment; perhaps, too, animal slaughter or crop harvesting is also viewed as more reliable, more under human control, than the outcome of a fishing or hunting expedition.

Though overfishing has increased significantly in the last several decades, the genesis of unsustainable practices can be found in the medieval period, argues Richard C. Hoffmann. “By the end of the Middle Ages, essential elements for present-day global fishery crises were in place in European waters…. Overexploitation, habitat destruction, selective predation on large or prestigious species, and human competition without regard for the resource were all part of medieval experience.”8 While The Fisherman and the Fish is a brief text and a small example, compared to Hoffmann’s sweeping environmental history, I think this fable can nevertheless be seen in light of medieval (and post-medieval) beliefs and practices regarding fish as natural resources.

Linnet Heald
PhD in Medieval Studies
University of Notre Dame

  1. Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, The State of World Fisheries and Aquaculture 2018, p. 12. ↩︎
  2. Ben Edwin Perry, ed. and trans., Babrius and Phaedrus: Fables, Loeb Classical Library 436 (Harvard University Press, 1965), pp. 10–13. ↩︎
  3. Latin text from J. Wright Duff and A. M. Duff, eds., Minor Latin Poets, Volume II, Loeb Classical Library (Harvard University Press, 1934), p. 712. English translation is my own. ↩︎
  4. Charlton T. Lewis and Charles Short, A Latin Dictionary (Clarendon Press, 1879), s.v. “lītus.” ↩︎
  5. Charlton T. Lewis and Charles Short, A Latin Dictionary (Clarendon Press, 1879), s.v. “rhombus.” ↩︎
  6. Lewis and Short’s Latin dictionary defines smaris as “a small sea-fish of inferior quality.” Taxonomist Carl Linnaeus, in the mid-18th century, used smaris as the species name for a particular fish, the deep-body pickerel (Sparus smaris, now called Spicara smaris). ↩︎
  7. Francisco Rodríguez Adrados, The History of the Graeco-Latin Fable (Brill, 2003), vol. 3, p. 747. ↩︎
  8. Richard C. Hoffmann, The Catch: An Environmental History of Medieval European Fisheries (Cambridge University Press, 2023), p. 413. ↩︎