Poetry & Song of the Hwítmerscingas
The Lay of Little John
The first part of Scéarptóð’s Spell
Little John was a remarkable blacksmith and a magician of rare gifts. He learned his craft from masters in the hills of Appalachia and as far away as the Maghreb. His secrets were taught to only a few; although he died in 2016, his legacy continues through his apprentice.
It was Little John who forged the langseax of Hwítmersc. After its first blót, the cynn’s lord named it Scéarptóð—“fang”—for the greedy blade has a habit of nicking anyone who draws it. Some of the iron used in its forging was mingled with swine’s blood during the making; it has proved a most worthy blade for offering blót.
This poem and song opens the blade’s saga. Its second part—how Sigegyfu found Scéarptóð and brought it to Hwítmersc—is still rattling around in Cynemund’s head.
Forma Stave: Iohannesleóð
Bold syllables mark the stresses.
Hundred grim man-slayers· he’d made in his day;worthy edge-friends· for bold wermen forged.Friend of the fire god· sage son of southlands,beheld an omen· a blade must be born.
Iron bars brittle· with rusty steel billets,brought them together· to be bound and bent.Might it was lacking· that mass of cold metal,sedge-maker sought out· the soul of a boar.
Under a full moon· with flickering forge flames,Wove Little John· runic words to Weland.Thunder-drums thumping· his thirsty throat-cutter,slew that bold swine· at the sooty-god’s stow.
Bloody work’s bounty· was filling his blótorc,wily-god witnessed· that wonder filled work.Dwarvish wrought dwalecraft· and elder smith’s dwimmer,boiled down the blood· to a black iron bloom.
Betwixt twisted bars· that bloom was then beaten,shaper with scínlác· set blade with boar’s shade.Sparks flew and smoke spewed· with speed he did hammer,deftly he drew out· the desired shape.
Edge was ground after· and then bathed in attor,wyrm-faded ripples· in weapon were seen.Struck hard with his stamp· maker’s mark kissed the steel,An arrows bound ring· a rune of renown.
Worthed he at anvil· on Weland’s great wéofod,set down the sedge· drifting softly to sleep.In sweven he saw· that swarthy dream-seeker,a frithy-end’s friend· for that brand foremost.
Mists on the dream-moor· his mind there meandered,through darkened thickets· and thorny path’s tread.Up on a hill· overlooking his ríce,fearless and haughty· a hart over-horned.
Unmatched that deer· in both deed and in daring,Steadfast he stood there· hooves stomping with glee.Moody young bucks· fought mighty moor-stepper,he’d fend them off fiercely· that wóde-touched Fréa.
Shoulders without shields· would clash and then shatter,head-swords met hart-spears· slaught spilled under hoof.Winter’s wind came· and the wig-beast grew weary,sharp gars he shed· left them for the shaper.
Wandered ‘pon waking· to find the dropped weapon,lost piece at last found· mid’st harvest leaves.Hewed the hart’s horn· of its heaven-wending tines,dull they’d become· from the deer battle-dance.
Bedecked that grip· with a yellow brass bolster,set the sedge fast· in its trustworthy seat.Wrapped then in leather· that boar-wrathful weapon,flaxen-haired maiden· with frith mains came forth.