ALVIS TRAMPED ALL THE WAY from the world of the dark elves to Asgard. He hurried towards Bilskirnir and in that hall he saw the god he was looking for, but he did not recognize him. “I’ve come for my bride,” the dwarf said bluntly. “It’s taken long enough to get here, I must say, and now it’s high time that Thrud graced her new home. Everyone will say I can’t wait for my wedding night, but I don’t mean to hang around here any longer than I have to.”
“Who are you?” asked Thor. “Or should I say, what are you? Why is your nose so pale? Do you sleep in a grave mound and keep corpses company?” Thor considered Alvis. You look like a kind of monster. You certainly won’t be the one to marry Thrud.”
The dwarf drew himself up to his full height, such as it was. “I am Alvis,” he said, “and there’s nothing I do not know. I live way down under a hill, my home is a cavern hewn out of rock.” Then the dwarf testily brushed aside this talk with a sweep of his hand. “I’ve come to claim Thrud — the agreed price for my work and for many weapons. Let the gods not break their oath!”
“I’ll break it,” said Thor indignantly. “I know nothing of this promise.” He stalked down the hall and then called out, “A father has the last word as to whom his daughter marries. It’s up to him and him alone.”
“So who are you then, hero?” demanded Alvis. “And what kind of right do you think you have over my radiant bride? You’re nothing but some vagabond, seldom noticed, little known.” The corners of Alvis’s mouth twitched. “Which woman had to be bought with rings before she would bear you?”
“I,” said the god very slowly, and his eyes flashed so that Alvis began to quail, “am Thor the Hurler; I am the wide wanderer; and I am Odin’s son. You’ll never win and marry my daughter if I can help it.”
“Ah!” said Alvis, and he smiled a pallid smile. “Well, I’ll soon win your good will and your consent. I long for your snow-white daughter and I’ll Struggle for her.”
“Wise guest,” said Thor, “I won’t be able to stand in the way of your love if you can answer whatever I ask you about all the world? Tell me, Alvis! You’re the dwarf who knows everything about our fates and fortunes: what is the name for the land, that stretches all around us, in each and every world?”
“Men call it Earth,” the dwarf replied. “The Aesir say Field and the Vanir say the Ways. The giants name it Evergreen and the elves Grower. The most holy gods call it Clay.”
“Tell me, Alvis! You’re the dwarf who knows everything about our fates and fortunes: what is the name for the sky, child of the ocean, that we can all see, in each and every world?”
“Men call it Heaven,” the dwarf replied. “The gods say the Height and the Vanir say Wind Weaver. The giants name it High Home, the elves Fair Roof and the dwarfs Dripping Hall.”
“Tell me, Alvis! You’re the dwarf who knows everything about our fates and fortunes: what is the name for the moon, that we can all see, in each and every world?”
“Men call it Moon,” the dwarf replied, “but the gods say Mock Sun. It’s known in Hel as Whirling Wheel. The giants name it Rapid Traveller, the dwarfs Gleamer and the elves Time Teller.”
“Tell me, Alvis! You’re the dwarf who knows everything about our fates and fortunes: what is the name for the sun, that we can all see, in each and every world?”
“Men call it Sun,” the dwarf replied. “The gods say Orb and the dwarfs Dvalin’s Delight. The giants name it Ever Bright, the elves Fair Wheel and the sons of god All Glowing.”
“Tell me, Alvis! You’re the dwarf who knows everything about our fates and fortunes: what is the name for the clouds, that hold the rain, in each and every world?”
“Men call them Clouds,” the dwarf replied. “The gods say Chance of Showers and the Vanir say Wind Kites. The giants name them Hope of Rain, the elves Weather Might, and in Hel they’re known as Helmets of Secrets.”
“Tell me, Alvis! You’re the dwarf who knows everything about our fates and fortunes: what is the name for the wind, that ranges far and wide, in each and every world?”
“Men call it Wind,” the dwarf replied. “The gods say Waverer and the most holy gods call it Neigher. The giants name it Wailer, the elves Roaring Traveller, and in Hel it’s known as Blustering Blast.”
“Tell me, Alvis! You’re the dwarf who knows everything about our fates and fortunes: what is the name for the stillness, the settling peace, in each and every world ?”
“Men call it Calm,” the dwarf replied. “The gods say the Quiet and the Vanir say Winds’ Hush. The giants name it the Sultry, the elves Day’s Lull and the dwarfs Day’s Refuge.”
“Tell me, Alvis! You’re the dwarf who knows everything about our fates and fortunes: what is the name for the sea, on which men sail, in each and every world?”
“Men call it Sea,” the dwarf replied. “The gods say Smooth-lying and the Vanir say Waves. The giants name it Eel Home, the elves Drink Stuff and the dwarfs call it the Deep.”
“Tell me, Alvis! You’re the dwarf who knows everything about our fates and fortunes: what is the name for fire, that burns for men, in each and every world?”
“Men call it Fire,” the dwarf replied. “The gods say Flame and the Vanir say Wave. The giants name it Hungry Biter, and the dwarfs Burner. In Mel it’s known as the Hasty.”
“Tell me, Alvis? You’re the dwarf who knows everything about our fates and fortunes: what is the name for the wood, that grows for men, in each and every world?”
“Men call it Wood,” the dwarf replied. “The gods say Mane of the Field and in Mel it’s known as Seaweed of the Hills. The giants name it Fuel and the elves Fair-limbed. The Vanir call it Wand.”
“Tell me, Alvis! You’re the dwarf who knows everything about our fates and fortunes: what is the name for the night, daughter of Narvi, in each and every world?”
“Men call it Night,” the dwarf replied. “The gods say Darkness and the most holy gods say Hood. The giants name it Lightless, the elves Sleep’s Soothing and the dwarfs the Weaver of Dreams.”
“Tell me, Alvis? You’re the dwarf who knows everything about our fates and fortunes: what is the name for the seed, sown by men, in each and every world?”
“Men call it Barley,” the dwarf replied. “The gods say Grain and the Vanir say Growth. The giants name it Edible, the elves Drink Grist, and in Hel it’s known as Slender Stem.”
“Tell me, Alvis! You’re the dwarf who knows everything about our fates and fortunes: what is the name for ale, that men quaff, in each and every world?”
“Men call it Ale,” the dwarf replied. “The gods say Beer and the Vanir say Foaming. The giants name it Cloudless Swill, and in Hel it’s known as Mead. Suttung’s sons call it Feast Draught.”
Thor said, “I’ve never known one person to be the mine of no much ancient wisdom.” He smiled at his guest, a long slow smile, and he slowly nodded his head. “But your own tongue has trapped you, Alvis. The sun’s rays arrest you.”
The dwarf whirled round but it was already too late.
“The sun’s rays arrest you,” gloated Thor, “and they turn you into stone. And now the sun shines in my hall once again.”
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