The Midgard serpent on another planet - or, Adventures in medievalism, part 8

 

Space may be the final frontier, but it's made in a Hollywood basement 

- Red Hot Chili Peppers, Californication 

I forget who first made this point, but the monsters of science fiction and stories about space travel are ultimately drawn from the monsters of the classical and medieval imaginations, transposed to a new frontier once the Earth had been mapped and all continents were known to the map-makers. As a consequence, numerous stories set in space contain recognisable elements from medieval narratives. A quick glance at the front pages of science fiction magazines, for instance, will show many variations on the theme of male hero rescues a woman from a monster. This is the typical damsel in distress, which had many configurations throughout the Latin Middle Ages, and the most enduring iconographical depiction came in the pictorial narratives of Saint George rescuing Princess Alexandra from the dragon. In its turn, this particular story also owed much to Perseus rescuing Andromeda, as well as other similar tales. Space medievalism, therefore, is a fruitful topic of study, and one that I hope will see much more focus in the coming years. 

Recently, I was reminded of this transposition of imaginary beings to worlds beyond our own planet. I have been reading the Norwegian comic book Ingeniør Knut Berg (Engineer Knut Berg), which was created in 1941, in the second year of the Nazi occupation of the country. The comic was written by Hallvard Sandnes (whose pen name was Vigleik Vikli) and drawn by Jostein Øvrelid (whose pen name was Ronald Stone). The series recounts the adventures of the eponymous protagonist, his fiancé Aima - princess of the utopian country Kalimanko located in East Central Asia - and their companions. Starting out as an earthbound picaresque narrative with elements of science fiction, the adventures were eventually brought into space. Notable sources of inspiration include Flash Gordon and Lost Horizon. 

The comic was - and still is - written in Nynorsk, a written language more often associated with traditional poetry, hymns, and lyrical descriptions of nature than with technological fantasies. To me - as a writer in Nynorsk - it is delightful to see what are now very old-fashioned words and turns of phrase used alongside robots and spaceships.  

This being a Norwegian comic, its world is necessarily described through the Norwegian cultural frame of references. Perhaps the best example of how this frame of reference affects the interpretation of the new discoveries on distant planets can be found in albums 14 and 15, which were published in 1956 and 1957 respectively. Here, Knut Berg's spaceship approaches the unknown reaches of the planet Uri, where he and his companions suddenly encounter a sea-beast rising its head through the water. In order to express the consternation of the interplanetary travellers, the narrator states that the beast looked like nothing on earth, and the closest would be the legend of the Midgard serpent. According to Norse mythology, this serpent - Jormungand - encircled the world, and would kill, and be killed by, the god Thor at Ragnarok. 

The beast reminiscent of the Midgard serpent is a reminder that the new is typically interpreted or imagined through the old. In order to describe what has hitherto not been seen, it is necessary to fall back on the familiar images and names. It is this mechanism that has brought the names and stories of old worlds into new ones, and the reason why - for instance - there is a Pacific Island nation named the Solomon islands, or the figure of Santiago Matamoros became Santiago Mataindios in Latin America. Space. This kind of transposition - of filtering the information from one world through a frame of reference belonging to a different world - is both common and unexpected. But because it is so common, it is also easily forgotten. Consequently, we easily forget that we understand the new and the unknown imperfectly, because we force it into a framework that was not built for what we are encountering. Studying this mechanism means that we become less arrogant in our meetings with new information, and better disposed to understand that which is new on its own terms. 

The king shot an arrow - a runic inscription from Sogndal, Norway

 

Last weekend, I made a roadtrip through parts of Sogn, a district that covers both the northern and southern shores and inlands of Sognefjorden, the largest fjord in mainland Norway. This is an area which contains a lot of historical survivals that are of great interest to a medievalist, and in some upcoming blogposts I will write about some of the many medieval monuments encountered along the way. 

The first example is a rune stone from Sogndal, which currently is housed in a glass case. We do not know when the stone was first erected, and what it was meant to commemorate. The inscription is known by its ID number N 386, and a transcription and a translation into English can be found here. It is dated to around 1100, and reads "King Olaf shot between these stones". The text indicates that there once stood a second standing stone in the area, but this is now lost. 

The text does not give any indication of which king is referenced. By c.1100, there had been three kings of Norway named Olaf. Closest in time to the inscription is Olaf III (r.1067-93), whereas Olaf II (r.1015-28) and Olaf I (r.995-1000) had long since become legendary figures about whom many stories were told. Olaf II had also been recognised as a saint since 1031, the year after his death at the Battle of Stiklestad. 

The reference to a shot - presumably with an arrow - is difficult to explain. One hypothesis is that the king shot an arrow in order to decide on a place where a church should be built. The rune stone - or rather, the standing stone with a runic inscription added later - stands close to the location of Stedje Church, a nineteenth-century replacement for the stave church that stood on the same spot in the Middle Ages. Decisions being left to divine intervention or fate such as this one are a typical motif of folktales and medieval hagiography alike. Since both Olaf I and Olaf II were regarded as missionary kings, stories about the founding of churches were often attributed to them. 

What is particularly important about the runic inscription, however, is not whether it refers to the founding of a church or whether it has a different meaning. Rather, the inscription shows that already by c.1100, stories that connected famous but departed kings to a specific locality were already in circulation close to a century after the oldest of the three possible candidates. The story might have been based on old oral accounts, perhaps even an actual historical event, but decades - perhaps an entire century - had passed before someone saw the need to commit this story to writing. As a medium for this message, the carver decided to use an old standing stone that was central to the story, but which had not been erected for the sake of carrying the kind of monumental memorialisation that is typical for rune stones. In short, the inscription provides a glimpse into the evolution of stories that grow and develop outside centralised, authoritative text production, which by c.1100 was mainly overseen by ecclesiastical and monastic groups.  

The person carving these runes might have remembered Olaf III, and it is possible that it was this king who ordered a church to be founded. After all, new churches were built by both secular and ecclesiastical agents throughout the eleventh and the twelfth centuries. However, it is likely that the kind of church-building story most likely to be committed to written memory would concern a church erected in the early Christianisation period, i.e. during the reign of either Olaf I or Olaf II. If so, this would be an event taking place long before the carver of the runes had been born. In this case, the inscription shows the pull of stories, and how these stories - and perhaps also their implication for local identity - excite people and move them to become keepers of memory in one way or another. In this instance, by carving runes on an old menhir.

All in all, we can only speculate about the origins of this runic inscription. Its content suggests to us the importance of history and the desire to commemorate the past. Seen in the context of other written records from eleventh and twelfth-century Norway, we might understand this as a part of a growing concern with fastening history to the material world in order to preserve it for future generations. The inscription is, in other words, a testament to the importance of stories.  

The Stedje stone looking towards Stedje Church

Centuries of history in one picture

The old adage about a picture saying more than a thousand words sometimes rings true with particular force. As I was walking my youngest sister's dog this morning, I was struck by how a simple matter of perspective and framing could serve to summarise centuries of history in a single picture. This happened as we walked the typical route on our shorter walks, which takes us along the innermost bay of the fjord and to one of the rivers that runs into the fjord at its southernmost point. I have seen the views along this route more times than I can count, and I know its various details well enough to recognise any seasonal changes or any oddities that appear. Today, however, I nonetheless noticed, as if for the first time, that at one of the angles along the route, the history of life in the fjords became telescoped into a single contrast. This view is shown in the picture below. In the foreground is an old boathouse which is now on the verge of collapsing. The boathouse itself is not that old - probably only from the mid-1900s - but it represent the kind of infrastructure and the type of wooden boats that were the main mode of fishing and transport for the better part of the past millennium. 

On the other side of the fjord is a shipwright. This was founded in the 1950s, and it is currently one of Norway's leading producers of carbon fibre hulls, focusing mainly on vessels for transport and tourism in the Norwegian fjords. This shipwright grew out of the older tradition of building wooden boats, but represents a new technological reality which is far removed from the framework in which this tradition emerged.  

My paternal grandmother used to say that her generation - she was born in 1912 - was the one generation who had witnessed the most significant changes in the course of one lifetime. Since become a professional historian, I have had many opportunities to see the truth of this, but few times have this truth become more apparent in a single picture such as this one. 

 

The Stiklestad sanctuary ring

This week, I have been in Stiklestad and Trondheim for work, since this is the Saint Olaf festival which culminates on July 29, and which is celebrated in both these places. The festival celebrations at Stiklestad included several very interesting talks, one of which concerned a door ring which was most likely produced locally in the twelfth century. Such rings are often referred to as sanctuary rings, since those who held on to the ring and asked for sanctuary had the right to receive it. 

The iconography of the ring is typical of the period, but the exact meaning of the various components remains uncertain. The serpents that have latched on to the crossbeam by which the ring is fastened to the plate with serrated edge are common representations of evil. However, they also represent the kind of cunning that Christ adviced his disciples to imitate in their preaching, so that they would know when to leave a place due to hostility. The human head with its cleft beard might be seen as representing those that seek sanctuary, captured as it is by the evil of the temporal world. Yet the head might also represent uncivilised, evil people, as long beards are often found among the so-called beard-pullers, which are humans representing heathendom in medieval art. 

The ring is, in short, at one and the same time legible and illegible to us. We understand its function, we are familiar with the individual iconographical elements, but we do not have the knowledge to put those elements into the kind of semiotic totality that would have been well-known among those who might one day have need of such a ring. This beautiful piece of metalwork and craft is, therefore, another reminder that some types of understanding lie just beyond our reach because those things we seek to understand are no longer part of our everyday world. 

Serendipity as method, or - The case for reading broadly

 

Sometimes they stand too near the problem. Often, if a person looks at something very closely he can see a few things more clearly, but the shape of the whole thing escapes him

- Edgar Allan Poe, The Murders in the Rue Morgue

 

After close to fifteen years as a professional medievalist, I remain hesitant about giving advice to students and younger colleagues. Academia has undergone so many changes, has seen so many trends come and go, and has sustained repeated damage from governments and funding institutions. Even though I am still relatively early in my career, the factors that helped me succeed when starting out as a freshly-defended MA are not necessarily relevant in the current climate. And as someone who has witnessed a lot of bad, outdated advice – however well-intentioned – doled out to either myself, colleagues or my generation of medievalists, I am painfully aware that such advice can sometimes lead dangerously astray or serve as a testament to the gulf between those who have secured permanent positions and those who might never be able to do so. Giving advice as an academic, therefore, can be something of a poisoned chalice.

 

There is, however, one advice that I will give unhesitatingly, unreservedly, and even unprompted. That advice is to read broadly, no matter your topic, your field, or your discipline. In academia, there is a widespread and often unspoken assumption that in order to become an expert on your topic, you have to dig deep and only dig deep. In an academic environment tainted both by the perverse logic of business and by the centre-of-the-box thinking of funding bodies, it is very easy to fall into the trap of thinking that you should not waste time reading what is not immediately relevant to what you are working on at the moment – whether it is for a particular course, a dissertation, or a thesis. You dig deep, you become an expert, and you show that expertise by presenting information gleaned both from the sources and from the secondary literature. But the problem of digging deep without also minding the breadth is that you become very isolated.

 

The idea that you need to be laser-focused on your particular topic in order to be a good academic is a misguided approach to transforming information into knowledge, and converting data into understanding. When starting out as an academic, you do not know enough about your topic to evaluate which source texts or which studies are going to be useful for your analysis. Much like you cannot draw a map of a road until after you have travelled to its end, you do not have the expertise at the beginning that you are going to have at the end of your degree. After all, the whole point of doing an MA or a PhD is to expand your knowledge and increase your expertise so that you are better prepared for the work that lies ahead of you, no matter whether that work is related to academia or not. 

 

Because we do not know what aids our analysis until after the analysis is done, the laser-focus approach to reading means that it is very easy to miss connections that can only be made when looking beyond where the laser is pointing. It is not impossible to get good results by myopically staring at the most relevant material – it is, indeed, frequently done – but that approach is absolutely no guarantee that you will get the best result, or even the result for which you are hoping. Due to the uncertainty of how analytical breakthroughs are made – because they are unique events that depend on the material contained in the analyst’s brain – we are best prepared for making such breakthroughs by reading beyond the confines of one’s chosen topic. Reading broadly is a way of shifting focus away from your main object and thereby seeing that object in a different light. It might be helpful to learn, for instance, that there are cases similar to yours in the vast repository of available historical information. It is healthy to be reminded that no matter how unique your material is, the finiteness of human imagination and creativity means that it is far less unique than you at first might be tempted to believe. In short, reading broadly allows you to situate yourself in a much broader context, which in turn enables you to understand how your topic is unique and also how it is not. Good analysis depends on both these types of understanding.  

 

The fact that we do not know from the onset what reading we need to do in order to make fruitful connections can at times be daunting. It is easy to worry that you are going to miss a text that will give you the one connection you need for your breakthrough. It is easy to become obsessive and turn the virtue of reading broadly into the vice of reading everything. Consequently, it is also important to embrace serendipity as method when setting out to read broadly. Because there is no single solution for how you should read in order to do the analysis you want to do, to have those revelations that allow you to move the state of the art a few inches further, and to allow you to say something new and valuable on the topic at hand. This means that instead of reading everything, you read a bit here and a bit there, waiting for the revelations to come. And when they do not come, you make do with good old-fashioned gruntwork. 

Recently, I was reminded of how reading broadly and applying serendipity as method can be immensely rewarding. Earlier this year, I bought El Diccionario de lugares utópicos [Dictionary of utopian places], edited by Juan Pro and published by Silex in 2022. It can be downloaded as a PDF here. This dictionary is a wonderful resource for anyone working on utopian thinking, and I have spent many hours this summer poring over several of its entries. What prompted the purchase of this book was that I am working on an article on violence in utopian societies, co-authored with a friend of mine. Several of the dictionary’s entries have proved very useful, but since I also want to read the book in its entirety I have also spent time on entries further removed from our topic. 

 

Admittedly, reading entries from a dictionary of utopian places when co-authoring an article on utopian thinking does not qualify as reading broadly, even though some of the entries in question have pertained to times and places very far removed from the scope of the article. But the revelations I experienced when perusing entries on the fringes of relevance for this particular article had nothing to do with it. Instead, I suddenly encountered formulations and key points that allowed me to get a much better understanding of a very different topic.

 

For two forthcoming publications, I am again delving into the cult of saints in medieval Norway. I am particularly interested in the ways in which specific cults enabled elite groups to formulate a vision of a golden age in order to legitimise attempts to recreate that past golden age in the present. This way of manipulating history is a universal feature of human history, and although this manipulation unfolds in a unique way in medieval Norway, its unfolding is not wholly alien to other similar manipulation projects. Consequently, as I was reading about the role of the Inca Empire in modern-day Peruvian utopianism, I encountered a formulation by a Peruvian historian that fitted perfectly into an analytical point that I had tried to put into writing. The contexts of the two topics are of course very different, emerging as they have from unique historical trajectories. Nonetheless, because humans can only seek power in so many ways, the contexts were sufficiently similar that I was able to use one to illuminate the other. 

 

There is a particular joy in embracing serendipity as method. Rather than worrying about whether you are missing any of the important texts pertaining to your topic, you can read beyond your field with a clear conscience, knowing that there is no single revelation to find, and acknowledging that revelations can strike from many different directions. It is impossible to say whether it will come from a study on a very different topic, from a novel, from a poem, or from a comic book. By reading broadly and expanding your frame of reference, you are better suited to catching such connections that might help you strengthen and deepen your analysis. Consequently, there are no wrong turns to make, no wasted pages, no lost hours – everything you read prepares you for receiving the revelations that lurk somewhere in the sum total of human writing. Reading broadly, and aiming for serendipity, are the two best approaches for ensuring that those revelations can be recognised as such. 

A new publication on local history

 

Two weeks ago, the households of my native village of Hyen received this booklet in their mailboxes. It is a publication that celebrates the 150th anniversary of the local church, which is one of the historical and cultural centrepoints of the village. Aside from its importance as a religious house and a landmark in the fjordscape, it also serves as a reminder of our identity as an oft-forgotten backwater that has to speak loudly for its rights. This new church was built in 1875 and consecrated the year after, which was the culmination of a political process that had gone on for decades. In the nineteenth century, Norwegian governments were very economically minded when it came to the care of rural parish churches. A demand that functioning churches had to accommodate a certain number of people led to the destruction of the vast majority of the country's medeival stave churches, most of which were small and dark. Similarly, a village like Hyen was considered too small to warrant its own church. While there was a church in the Middle Ages, it is likely to have been decommissioned after the Reformation, and in the period c.1600-1876, the villagers had to row to the next fjord in order to attend services. The story of the drawn-out effort to build a church in the village is emblematic of how small rural communities often have to spend much time and money to make themselves heard. 

I was asked to write a contribution to this booklet, and I was very happy to do so. Although the booklet is dedicated to the modern church, its long-gone medieval antecessor is none the less an important part of its story, so I wrote a three-page overview of what we know about the church and the village in the Middle Ages. 

Contributing to a volume like is one of the great joys of being a historian. While this is the kind of publication that yields zero points when it comes to those bibliographies that have to be submitted as part of applications for academic jobs, it is a text that is academically solid and that will be read by a much wider number of people than any of my professional articles. In terms of outreach, this little piece on local history might be something of the most important work I have ever done. 

Saint Julian in a fragment - chance survivals, canonicity, and the cult of saints in medieval Scandinavia

 

Much of my research deals with questions pertaining to the cult of saints in medieval Scandinavia. This is a topic that labours under the double-edged problem of having both very few surviving sources - making it difficult to make strong claims about certain questions - as well as such a wide variety of source types, making it difficult to have the required expertise to use all these sources together. Concerning the cult of saints, we know that there were many more sources used and produced in medieval Scandinavia than those we have access to today. The surviving sources have, therefore, provided a skewed sense of the saints venerated by the medieval Scandinavians, as well as the stories told about those saints. Due to the source situation - combined with the nationalistic tilt embedded into the foundations of medieval studies in each Scandinavian country - we have a tendency to focus on the cult of native saints, especially the royal saints. Aside from the biblical saints and the most famous of the early Christian saints - especially Laurentius, who was patron saint of the Church of Lund, which became a metropolitan see in 1104 - there has been relatively little work done on the veneration of the saints less known in our own time. Judging from surviving materials, we have a pretty good idea of how popular and important these famous saints were. But we cannot really know whether some of the saints that we consider minor today were, in actuality, major saints throughout the Scandinavian Middle Ages, or at least within one time period or within one milieu. 

I was reminded of this issue earlier this spring, when I was at the Danish National Archives in Copenhagen to research some manuscript fragments. In one of the boxes I had ordered was the upper part of a two-columned page from a twelfth- or early-thirteenth-century manuscript, the text of which is the saint-biography of Julian Martyr, also known as Julian of Le Mans. The fragment is well known in medieval studies and I have seen it mentioned and analysed several times. It is most likely produced in Scandinavia, probably in Norway, and it is a important witness to the earliest stages of native Norwegian manuscript production. The content of the fragment, however, has received much less attention than its codicological, palaeographical and iconographical aspects. This text provides a very good starting point for reflecting on the state of our knowledge about the cult of saints in twelfth-century Norway.

Rigsarkivet, Fr. 251

Rigsarkivet, Fr. 251

Saint Julian was a third-century bishop of Le Mans. Since he was martyred during the heroic age of Christianity in what was later to become France, his cult and his figure appear to have been important elements not only of Le Mans' own identity but also the identity of France as a kingdom having received special divine attention. This kingdom-wide identity was also propped up by the cults of Saint Dionysius of Paris, of Saint Remigius and the Holy Ampulla, and eventually also the cult of Saint Louis IX. The early date of Julian's life and martyrdom also meant that he was included in several early martyrologies and calendars, and his cult was disseminated far and wide. 

In Scandinavia, there are few surviving traces of Julian in the sources. For example, the only sources from Sweden, as far as I am aware, are twelve calendars that contain his feast-day, which is celebrated either on January 26 or Janaury 27. Since most calendars used in medieval Sweden have survived only as fragments, however, the actual number of calendars containing his feast-day was significantly higher. In any case, no other sources are known - not sculptures, not altarpieces, not wall-paintings. I know of no sources from medieval Denmark, although I have not yet checked whether his feast is included in the late-medieval printed breviaries. In Breviarium Nidrosiense, the breviary printed in Paris in 1519 and aimed at the entire Norwegian church province, his feast is not included. In other words, Saint Julian of Le Mans appears to have been virtually unimportant in the cult of saints in medieval Scandinavia. 

However, Saint Julian was at least known, if only in the monastic or ecclesiastical community in which the manuscript containing his passion story was used. We do not know what community this was, but it is likely that the manuscript was a collection of saints' lives produced for - and perhaps at - one of the leading religious centres of twelfth- or early-thirteenth-century Norway. My own hunch is that the original manuscript was a typical hagiographical collection that was used during the Matins of the feast-day of the saints included in the collection. Matins was the divine service in the middle of the night, and it was during this service that the saint was venerated with a liturgical office which included both chants and readings from the saint's biography. The original manuscript, therefore, is likely to have contained the legends of several other saints aside from Julian. 

What, then, are we to make of the inclusion of Saint Julian of Le Mans in this hypothetical, now-lost hagiographical collection. Probably not much. Such collections were typically compiled from available materials, and those materials tended to contain those stories and legends that were widely accessible rather than those which were particularly important to a specific diocese or church province. Put differently, the legend of Saint Julian was sufficiently widespread that it was easy to get hold of. Its appearance in Norway reflects Julian's general canonicity as a saint in Latin Christendom by the late twelfth century rather than the importance of his cult among Norwegian Christians. 

On the other hand, the fact that Julian's legend was available in Norway and accessible at one - if not more - major religious centre should be taken seriously. What happens at such an institution when the available hagiographical material is limited? Do those stories that are available become more important than they otherwise would be? Can the cult of Saint Julian have been strengthened at this institution simply because the clerics or monastics who comprised the institution's community were familiar with his legend? Very likely, because cults tended to be shaped by the personal devotion of those who were part of the veneration of saints at religious centres. Surges in a saint's popularity could be shaped by events that were interpreted as intercession from that saint, it could be shaped by dreams of individuals, of the constant, long-term pressure from exposure to the saint's story. We see this happen in the cult of Edward the Confessor, for instance, whose main promoter before the 1160s was the figure of Osbert of Clare who believed himself to have been healed due to the saint-king's intercession. Might not a similar causality - however imagined - also not affect the cult of a well-known but otherwise not particularly important saint-bishop? 

We do not have any evidence to suggest that the knowledge of Julian's legend made an impact on his cult in medieval Norway. And personally, I do not think it did, simply because this possibility hinges on our knowledge of one sole surviving fragment. However, this reflection is not primarily about Julian or his cult, but about how our ideas about canonicity and the cult of sains is shaped by the chance survivals of sources. The fragment containing part of the prologue of Julian's saint-biography proves that he was known somewhere in medieval Norway, and for at least a period, even if that period might only be the generation of clerics or monastics that first made use of this manuscript. 

As scholars we need to be very careful in assuming that the canon of literature that we imagine today based on the survival of sources is necessarily the same as the canon of literature of the Middle Ages. Indeed, we know very well that the so-called bestsellers of medieval Latin Christendom - such as the Imago Mundi of Honorius of Autun, or the Sententiae of Peter the Lombard - receive much less attention from and are much less accessible to modern readers than works such as Beowulf, which only survives in one single manuscript. The modern medieval canon is, in other words, very different from the medieval medieval canon. Similarly, the cult of saints as we understand it today might have been configured somewhat differently in the Middle Ages, with saints now lost to us or ignored by us having much greater prominence than we will ever know. 

Rigsarkivet, Fr. 251

Rigsarkivet, Fr. 251

Questions of continuity - sacred landscapes, Stiklestad, and the Christianisation of Norway

One of the perennial questions when teaching or researching medieval Norway is whether the introduction of Christianity was a sudden rupture or a gradual process. These days, most scholars that I know favour a slow development in which Christianity was familiar to pagan Norwegians. Knowledge about stories, symbols and practices was available through contact with merchants and royal households abroad, and several of the slaves that were kept on Norwegian farms were taken from Christian societies. While the pagan Norse religion was dominant, there was some sort of co-existence between the two religions, and individuals no doubt embraced various hybrid forms where elements of both religions were combined in their rituals, prayers and the symbols that they either wore as jewellery or that they carved into their possessions. It was only with the rise of the Norwegian bishop and the gradual establishment of some sort of a church organisation in the early eleventh century - a process that would culminate with the establishment of bishoprics around 1070 - that Christianity attained religious monopoly in Norway. 

While the history of institutional religion in Norway is largely uncontested, the nature of belief and religion remains a matter of debate. There is a tendency to imagine that paganism remained a vibrant element of Norwegian religion throughout the Middle Ages, and one common version of this claim is the idea that the old Norse gods continued as part of the religious practices in the guise of saints. This claim is unsubstantiated and is based on a severe misunderstanding of what the cult of saints was, and how familiar it would have been to the Norwegians long before the official Christianisation of the country in the first decades of the eleventh century. 

I was reminded of these issues on Monday as I was then being shown around the museum complex of Stiklestad, which is where King Olaf II was killed in 1030, and which became one of the two main cult sites associated with him following the proclamation of his sainthood the year after. (The second main cult site was his shrine in Trondheim.) When the battle in 1030 happened, Stiklestad had been a centre of both religious and secular power for several generations, and several grave mounds are found within the radius of a kilometre from where a twelfth-century church is now standing - the spot where Olaf was believed to have been killed. Such grave mounds are found across all of Norway, and they were sites of some kind of ancestor worship or veneration.  

The museum complex at Stiklestad provide very striking evidence that the sacred landscapes of Christianity were being made in a landscape that was already sacred to the pre-Christian Norse religion. On what was once a high river bank, an old burial mound is still visible and this was once the centre of a sacred landscape where the pagan populace held ceremonies and turned to their ancestors for protection. In the eleventh century, a new sacred landscape was established, centred on the field where Olaf had died. There might have been ereceted a wooden church at this early stage, but the current stone church was first built in the twelfth century. As seen in the pictures below, from the mound we can see the church, and to medieval Christians the mound might have been less covered in birches and more of a visible reminder of the religious practices that had been in place in earlier generations, and which the saint-king had reportedly sought to eradicate.  

The question of continuity becomes more urgent in a place like this. The mound remained through the shift from a pagan to a Christian sacred landscape. What the mound represented was removed - sometimes forcibly, sometimes by long neglect - but the mound itself was allowed to remain. This continuity of existence is perhaps not as surprising, given that the local aristocrats - chieftains and wealthy, powerful farmers - were related to those who rested in the mounds. While paganism was no longer allowed, and proably soon fell into disuse, the kinship between the living and the mound-resting dead was still keenly felt for as long as that family stayed on the ancestral land. In this sense, there was a kind of continuity in place. But the new generations embraced Christianity and by the twelfth century we have little reason to believe that the ordinary Norwegians had much understanding of the pagan cosmos within which those who dwelled in the mounds or those who had erected the mounds had understood themselves. Rather, the mounds were now part of a Christian sacred landscape. Those who rested there awaited the same kind of last judgement as did the living, and it is easy to imagine that to many of the Christian Norwegians there was some concern about the salvations of the soulds of their ancestors. It is also to be expected that the Christians turned to their ancestors for protection or help, especially since a belief in revenants is attested in many later Old Norse texts. But the kind of continuity that we find in a landscape was this was one of relationships, of kinship, not one of religious practice. Saint Olaf became the intercessor of the god of the new faith, and whatever help the ancestors could provide was little compared to the saints' ability to ask God for miracles to be wrought for the benefits of the living. The nature of the dead was different in the new faith, and that difference did not allow for the kind of functional continuity that some have imagined. Put differently, it would be very difficult for a long-deceased pagan to take on the function of a saint who had gained access to God's heavenly court through their manner of dying or their manner of living. 

That there was some continuity in a landscape like Stiklestad is only to be expected. But this was not the resisting paganism of the modern imagination. It was a continuity of historical knowledge, of respect for ancestors, but a respect and knowledge that was also shaped by the awareness that the ancestors could neither replace nor enter into fellowship with the saints. Rather, the ancestors were no doubt respected and memorialised, but within a Christian sacred landscape and within a Christian understanding of history. As the country became Christianised, so, too, was the landscape, and this changed how those who inhabited the landscape - whether living or dead - understood themselves in the grand scheme of things. 

 

Saint Olaf in Aarhus, part 2 - the lost church

As I mentioned in the first blogpost of this series, I have a particular fascination with the development of the cult of Saint Olaf of Norway in medieval Denmark. He was a ubiquitous figure in the Danish cult of saints, often taking on a more kingdom-wide importance than most of Denmark's native saints. Why he came to overshadow these local figures is a question with which I am still grappling, and to get a better sense of this development I am constantly seeking to learn more about the cult and its dissemination throughout the medieval Danish kingdom. 

Last month, I was able to do some more exploring as I went to Aarhus. This was one of the main cities of medieval Denmark, and one its episcopal centres. The city expanded in the late eleventh and throughout the twelfth century, and in this period the cult of Saint Olaf appears to have become rooted in the religious life of Aarhus. The early history of the cult in Aarhus is unknown. The earliest trace is a stone church which is mentioned in a letter of donation from 1203, and this church was excavated in the twentieth century. Unfortunately, the excavation yielded little of concrete information regarding the early stage of the building's history. It is tentatively dated to the early thirteenth century, but it is likely that a church dedicated to the Norwegian saint was in place in Aarhus before the 1200s. The remnants of a Romanesque baptismal font believed to have belonged to the church, and currently placed witihin the church walls, strengthens this suggestion since this style was superseded by the Gothic in the course of the thirteenth century. 

We do not know when the cult of Saint Olaf arrived in Aarhus. It might have arrived through veterans from the battle of Hlyrskov Heath in 1043 when an army of Norwegians and Danes under the leadership of King Magnus I fought against the Wends. According to a tradition recorded in the twelfth century, Magnus was aided by his sainted father, who had been declared a saint by episcopal authority in 1031, the year after his death. This tradition is likely to stem from eleventh-century stories, and the fact that Magnus commissioned coins with images of Saint Olaf minted on them after the battle suggests that a veneration of Olaf as a battle-helper was in place already in the 1040s. These stories might have travelled north to Aarhus shortly after the battle. However, it is also possible that the cult was spread by merchants. Aarhus was a thriving mercantile centre throughout the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and excavations in the city centre have revealed several stoneware items produced in Norway. The cult might have been spread by Norwegian and Danish merchants alike. 

Whatever the history of Saint Olaf's cult in Aarhus, it is likely to have been in place well before the year 1200. One strong indication of this is the history of Aarhus' own native saint, Niels, who died in 1180. His early cult is likewise obscure, but in the early thirteenth century the Aarhus cathedral chapter applied for his canonisation. The application failed, but a local cult seems to have persisted, and a memorial to Saint Niels is located right next to the ruins of Saint Olaf's Church (but this is a topic for a later blogpost). This little episode is important because it teaches us two key points: First of all, Aarhus did not have a known native saint until 1180 at the earliest. Secondly, the canonisation attempt in the early thirteenth century suggests that the cult of Saint Niels might not have been widely popular but rather an ecclesiastical phenomenon. These two points lead us to the hypothesis that in the period leading up to the death of Saint Niels, and indeed up to the failed canonisation attempt, there was no local figure in Aarhus who could attract the kind of veneration that was shown towards Saint Olaf, and so it was easier for the foreign saint to become a favourite saint among the populace of Aarhus. Other factors are also likely to have played a significant part, such as Olaf being appealing to many social groups rather than just one, but the lack of saintly competition from saints with a stronger local connection must be considered an important factor.  

Today, the excavated outline of the church wall can be seen in a plot of land that serves as a minute city park. When I visited in late March, the crocuses were blooming, and there was a serenity which was immensely enjoyable. Situated at the waterfront, overlooking parts of Aarhus harbour, it is also easy to be reminded that this church might have been particularly well situated for merchants, which in turn reminds us that they are likely to have been instrumental in either introducing the cult, sustaining it, or both. 

A stranger to someone - a view of Norway from Salamanca

 

los raudos torbellinos de Noruega 

- Luís de Gongora, Soledades 

In the library of the University of Salamanca there are four globes, donated in the eighteenth century. They are known as the "round books", and the story goes that they were called that because the library would only accept donations in the form of books. They are displayed in the main room, available to visitors, and last year I was able to see them again when I was visiting Salamanca for a conference. 

Whenever I see early modern globes or maps of the world, I am naturally drawn towards Norway. Over the years, I have seen a lot of different premodern and early modern depictions of my native country, and I am always fascinated how these depictions deal with the rather complicated outline of the Norwegian coastline. The degree to which the map fits the terrain is an interesting starting-point for understanding what kind of cartographical information existed about Norway at the time, and very often it will become evident that to a lot of continental cartographers Norway was not very well known, at least compared to what one might expect given the relative proximity between the big map-making centres and Scandinavia. 

These maps are sources to Norwegian history, at least as long as we ask the right questions. On a non-academic level, the maps also serve as good reminders that one will always be a stranger to someone, that our known world will seem alien to someone else. In our own age, when information - if not necessarily knowledge - is easy to come by, it can also be easy to forget that our ideas about other parts of the world rarely fit with reality. And to see oneself from the outside, to see Norway from Salamanca through eighteenth-century eyes and map-making hands, is a useful reminder of the gap between perception and reality. And this is a good thing to keep in mind, both for academics and for non-academics alike. 

On the eve of Saint Peter's Chair - a pattern breaking?

 

Five years ago, I was living in my native village and I wrote a blogpost on how the feast of Cathedra Petri, or Saint Peter's Chair, on February 22 was regarded as a seasonal turning point in Norway. This year, I am once again living in my native village, and just as I did five years ago, I have been noting how climate change causes the old patterns to break. These were the patterns that allowed for such seasonal rules of thumb, where the deviations from year to year were not sufficiently significant that the pattern could be said to be incorrect. This year, however, winter has been unusual in the fjords. For a month - from early January to mid-February - we had no precipitation. The absence of snow caused waterways to freeze and huge ice formations took shape along the roads, where roadwork had cut through subterranean trickles and exposed them to the cold air. 

Yesterday, on the eve of Saint Peter's Chair, my youngest sister, her dog, and a mutual friend went for a walk on the ice during two hours of waning light. Recently the weather had changed and we got a few days of snow, followed by a downpour which turned the ice atop the lakes into slush. So far, this was according to the old pattern. It was said that Saint Peter would cause lakes and harbours to thaw, and this belief was illustrated by the saying that he tossed warm stones into the water to unfreeze it. For this reason, both the date and Saint Peter himself were referred to as Per Varmestein, Peter Warmstone.  

Walking on the ice after such shifts in the weather proved to be an odd experience. Before the rain had set in, strong winds had blown the dry snow into small drifts, meaning that some parts of the ice were covered in snow - which then turned to slush - while other parts were uncovered, leaving the rainwater to freeze into a top layer of the already thick lake ice. Consequently, when we walked on the ice, the top layer cracked - either rapidly or in a slow-yielding motion like a fleshy membrane, depending on how cold that part of the lake was - and it did sometimes feel like we were constantly on the verge of falling into the water. Then we would occasionally drill a hole into the ice to measure the thickness of the old layer, and this proved invariably to be somewhere between 40 and 50 centimetres. For reference, ten centimetres of ice is usually sufficient for walking safely.  

What made the experience even more atmospheric was that in the three-day period before the rain set in, the snow had caught the tracks of crossing animals - mostly foxes - and the rain had essentially fossilised these proofs of lives otherwise unseen. At one point, we could even smell the rancid, sickly stench of a fox - they are in heat at the moment, as one of them loudly made clear a few days ago - and the world around us was closer. This is also part of the old pattern. 

Today, as I write this, on the feast of Saint Peter's Chair, the weather has again changed. The thaw and rain we were promised has turned into snow, and I have recently been shovelling the driveway in anticipation of much more to come during the night. As I was shovelling, I met a friend and neighbour, who is also a fellow medievalists, and she remarked that she had not been on the ice because according to the old runic calendars, this was not a day when you could expect to be saved from the water if you went onto it. Normally, I would agree, but yesterday's experience combined with the ongoing snowfall made me hesitate. It does not look like we are losing access to the ice just yet. The question is whether this is the pattern breaking in a rather unexpected way, or whether we are just within that margin of deviation which means that the old pattern is still in place.