The Tale of Glam
A poem by Caitlin Christiana Wintour

The Tale of Glam: Documentation for an Original Poem
Synopsis: The Tale of Glam
The Tale of Glam: Full version of original poem, loose Anglo Saxon verse form

I dedicate my original poem to the people of medieval Iceland, who gathered around the fires at night to tell ghost stories, and who firmly closed their sturdy doors against the coming of the night.

Wealthy was Thane Thorhall when one year
a deadly winter deepened in his land.
At first the thane felt no fear, though
thickly moved the mists over hill and fen.

For that same winter a wight, a violent
ghost, came to foul Thorhall's fair land.
Death-walked the wight in wretched Shady-vale
cursing the living with lonely death,
green-cloaked valleys now grim and stained
with shepherds' blood. Sun that had shone on
Thorhall's good land lost to the glooming.
Wild darkness, wraith-rode ruin.

So did Thorhall to Althing come
to seek a shepherd scornful of danger.
Found he grim-faced Glam, great in stature
with a hero's heart but a heathen soul.
For godless was Glam, and surly,
a hater of holiness, harsh as north storms.
Warned him of the wight but no warning Glam heeded.
"No fright have I for fearful sight"
said Glam growling, "Gladder is life
for the seeing." His shepherd found,
straightway they sped to Shady-vale.
Throughout the summer silent were the vales
where Glam kept guard, no ghostly foe faced,
no serpent-son to sear and slay.
Summer and autumn swiftly turned to winter.

Then hard on the holy eve of Yule
a wailing wind withered warmth
and madly moaned its midwinter cry.
Blasphemous was Glam, galling the folk
with rude rantings and revels ill-done.
Shepherd unshriven, shrieked there was no God.
Heathen in a holy hour, Glam strode
into the darkness. Deep was the snow
and deep the mist over moor when Glam
heard a dire cry in the dark where
waited the wight, wintery-born.
Glam returned not that night nor any
as living man.

At sunrise, searchers sought the shepherd.
In high hills they happened on his
wandering sheep, shivering and afraid.
Then folk foundered, faces blanched,
stared at the sight of savage battle.
Of the wight, no sign save bloody footprints
big as barrels hobbling down a rocky
slope, where they shrank and vanished.
Glam's body lay against a rock, huge
corpse blue and big as a bull,
signs and symbols of soulless undead,
the fearful draugr.

No more would any man watch the sheep
but ran from haunted hills and hellish sight.
For the newborn wight walked abroad in
darkness and in day. The draugr rode
on houses as if they were horses,
shook and shivered the fire-halls.

The call for a hero heralded far.
Many heard the tale told but none would
come, fearing for their lives.
Then one man heard, and hearing, came.

Grettir the Strong was he, no shepherd far
from lonely mere and mountain stream.
But a hero of men hardy and fearless.
Grettir headed his horse north to
Shadyvale. Saw he a sad land and
empty, the sheep scattered and
the town forsaken. Torn were the roofs
from Glam's damned dancing and
splintered the doors from draugr's haunts.

So Grettir came to thane's great hall
and hid himself in the high rafters.
At midnight the the monster came
clawing deep the carven doors and
bursting in to break and slay.
Grettir loathed what lurked below him,
and with fiery curse crashed to the floor.
His strong arms seized the wight
to shatter and break the bone-walker.
But no mere man this monster was,
and hard-pressed was the hero to live.
And so they fought in the fire-hall
twisting and grappling, Glam and Grettir.
Hurled each other outside to the street

where Glam halted, hesitated.
Dead eyes stared at the sky-disk,
pale as bones and pallid it shone,
filling wight's eyes with white moonlight.
His doom was come, so cursings howled Glam.
"Under dead moon death takes me.
Yet fell is your fate, fey warrior.
Comes the dark in dread and terror,
for my gaze will go before you,
dead eyes watching woeful sight
until you run mad. Unmade are you."
Then Grettir grew strong with strength enough.
His sword flashed and felled the beast,
and draugr crumpled dead again.

Thorhall greatly thanked Grettir,
and they gave glory to God.
they burned Glam's body to coals
and buried the wight where no man goes.
And Grettir the Strong grew in fame,
and many praised his prowess and deeds.
But to be alone in the dark he would not dare.

The Tale of Glam: Documentation for an Original Poem
Synopsis: The Tale of Glam
The Tale of Glam: Full version of original poem, loose Anglo Saxon verse form