Duergarbok: The Dwarves of the Northern Tradition

The Duergarbok

The Dwarves of the Northern Tradition

Susannah Ravenswing

Asphodel Press

12 Simonds Hill Road

Hubbardston, MA 01452

The Duergarbok: The Dwarves of the Northern Tradition

© 2019 Susannah Ravenswing

Cover Art © 2019 Diana Coe (cronecommunications.com)

All rights reserved. Unless otherwise specified,

no part of this book may be reproduced in any form

or by any means without the permission of the author.

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Dedication

I dedicate this book to Fuensanta Arismendi Plaza.

Although I never had the pleasure of knowing her,

I honor her as a grandmother-in-spirit

and offer this book in her honor.

She did much to heal the rift

between Duergar and Man.

Preface

Anyone familiar with Norse or Germanic lore has read of Thor’s mighty magical hammer Mjölnir, and of Gungnir, the spear born by Odin which always strikes its target. The old tales tell of fair Freyja’s golden necklace Brísingamen, the sailing ship owned by Freyr which folded down to pocket-size, and remarkable Draupnir, the All-Father’s generous golden arm ring which gave forth eight identical rings on every ninth day. From whence came these notable objects, so exquisitely wrought and powerfully enchanted? For all their powers and gifts, neither the high Aesir nor the fertile Vanir possessed these skills and thus they turned to the master craftsmen of Svartalfheim, the Duergar.

Who are the Duergar, those canny, crafty underground dwellers referenced in Heathen lore as the makers of magic rings and sacred spears? Do we look to that source as we seek to understand these beings today? Scholarly sources are often conflicted as to the nature of the Duergar for a number of reasons. Galina Krasskova, Heathen scholar and author, noted in personal correspondence (July 19, 2018), It is helpful to remember that the sagas and the Eddas were recorded by a Christian poet and politician at least two hundred years after conversion. They were never meant to record Heathen practices and beliefs, but to aid Christian skalds in comprehending kennings, often based on our cosmology, the sense of which they were losing with the new religion.

Do we turn, then, to the later folk tales of Germany, Scandinavia and Britain? Here we encounter clever beings, short of stature, often capable of blessing or cursing the farmers and villagers who came in contact with them. And what of the writings of J. R. R. Tolkien, whose fictional works were so strongly grounded in folklore and which have shaped our modern concepts of Dwarves? Are the Duergar simply fictional beings, metaphors for some primal creative process, or do they exist as beings endowed with a rich culture and complex heritage? Numerous references in folklore as well as historical accounts of encounters with the Duergar suggest we should look deeper into our own experiences with this elusive race that seems to figure so prominently in the creative heritage of Northern European peoples.

Always known for their wariness in dealing with other races who have often sought to exploit them, the Duergar have noted the increased interest in Heathenism and the spiritual traditions of the North and seem to be making a renewed effort to engage with those individuals who exemplify the values they esteem and whom they deem kinsmen. As it grows increasingly likely that explorers of the Nine Worlds may encounter a Duerg, it seems appropriate to gather together some of what we know in the hopes of avoiding the social and ethical faux pas of those who have preceded us. In that hope, it is the intention of this author to explore the Duergar through the personal experiences and encounters of contemporary Heathens and practitioners of Northern Tradition Shamanism.

Susannah Ravenswing

North Carolina

May 2019

Introduction: A Voice at the Table

I lie on the rough ground next to a huge oak tree, one of two that grow in our side yard. I am four years old and a cleft in the tree before me reveals where the old tree is partially hollow. Within that arch, growing down from the rotting wood, is what I now know as Lion’s Mane Mushroom, Hericium erinaceus, an important medicinal fungi. I know him as Mr. Mushroom. When my mother asks why I am lying on the ground with my face in a tree, I tell her the truth: I am having a conversation with Mr. Mushroom and his wife. She shakes her head, firmly informing me no one lives in the tree, and when I insist that indeed someone does and that he also has a wife, she pronounces that I have far too much imagination. I now know that I was engaging with the vaettir or animating spirit of the mushroom.

We lived in the isolation of a large state park where my father was the superintendent. My mother cut and sewed our clothes, knitted and embroidered with meticulous skill. I watched as my father hand carved the big redwood signs for the park during quiet winter months, and in his rare moments of free time, built furniture and carved toys for me. That I, too, was a Maker, was apparent from an early age. When other children would have asked for toys, I begged for oil paints and sculpting clay, leather and small beads.

There, I roamed the forest freely. Lacking others as playmates, I was a true child of Nature, sensitive to the living spirits of the world around me. I built tiny halls of sticks, bark, and moss for the Faery Folk who lived along a particularly magical section of stream, and learned to call deer and wild birds to me. I was also an early reader and in a region rich with ancient native artifacts, I developed a fascination with archaeology, devouring scholarly books on early civilizations. I discovered a gift for sensing where such artifacts lay beneath the leaf litter and intuited where glittering clusters of quartz crystals hid in pockets among the boulders. I could picture the item in my mind and then walk to where it lay, not realizing that this was in any way unusual.

As far back as I can remember, I was both blessed and cursed with psychic ability and profound empathy. I sensed things before they would happen, heard the thoughts of others and felt their pain. By then, I knew about shamans, those individuals in indigenous cultures who served their communities as healers and intercessors with the spirit world. I often wished I had been born into such a culture, believing that in such a community, my quirks would be viewed as gifts and I would have received the training by some tribal Elder I so deeply craved. I had no one to validate my reality, no one to teach me the importance of grounding myself through an energetic connection with the earth or how to shield myself from the thoughts and energies of others. On a visceral level, I knew what I was meant to be but not how to get there.

My passion for history drew me toward the cultures of the ancient and medieval world, especially the intricate, sacred objects and talismans created by craftsmen who accomplished extraordinary works of art with primitive tools. By my mid-teens I’d begun teaching myself metalsmithing, creating jewelry inspired by the mythology and cultures of the past. By my early twenties, my work was being exhibited in notable southeastern galleries and museums.

My other talents drew me toward mysticism and alternative forms of spirituality, but my early encounters with the Sacred in Nature continued to inform my values and beliefs. Part-time work as a program coordinator for a New Age spiritual center exposed me to the shamanic traditions of Central and South America, which resonated deeply for me. I studied with visiting Elders and joined in a program that placed cuttings of endangered rainforest plants with partner gardeners in order to insure they did not become extinct. By then, my jewelry studio was located in a tiny building that also functioned as my greenhouse, and I worked there, immersed daily in the perfumes and spirit songs of sacred plants. The spirits of these plants also contributed to my shamanic training, and I began to experience remarkable lucid dreams of wandering the Central American jungles with various spirit teachers. I studied massage and energy work and began to divide my time between my shamanic practice and the sacred gold and silverwork I had become known for. To me, it was all inter-related.

In 2000, after many years of searching, my husband Eric and I purchased a remarkable tract of land in the Saura Hills of northwestern North Carolina which we came to call TwoTrees. From the beginning, we considered the resident spirit of the land, also known as the genus loci or by the Old Norse term landvaettir, as the third partner in our marriage. We spent months getting to know the property, studying how the sun and moon moved across the terrain, seeking to understand how we could eventually live there with minimal impact on the magical woods. I designed a small passive solar Craftsman-style cottage and with the guidance of our landvaettir, sited it and carefully supervised its construction. This renewed and deepened my intimate relationship with Nature and re-awakened memories from my childhood, that rich chord now resonating at a higher octave.

It was during this time that I found myself increasingly drawn to Norse culture and exploring the shamanic techniques common to the people of Eurasia and ancient Scandinavia. My lucid dreams shifted from the sweltering rainforests to the stark and stony landscapes of northern Scotland and Norway. I began to experience visitations from the Norse Vanic Gods Frey and Freyja, along with others I could not yet identify. Not long afterwards, I learned that Northern Tradition shaman Raven Kaldera was seeking sacred smiths to create elements for a shamanic breastplate. I reached out to him and we began a correspondence that eventually led to an invitation to become his apprentice, which I did in the fall of 2015. I felt like I’d found my way home.

As my studies drew me ever deeper into the Northern Tradition, I grew increasingly conscious of a particular guiding presence attending me when I sat at my workbench, a presence that expressed itself through intuitive prompts to utilize a specific tool or technique, to approach a given design challenge a certain way. And I listened. In December of 2015, I undertook the crafting of a silver-mounted drinking horn as a Yule gift for my husband. This project profoundly challenged my technical and design capabilities, and I called upon the Duergar, the Great Makers, for guidance, offering a heartfelt vow in exchange. Although that story is recounted in detail elsewhere in this book, it opened a doorway, calling me into relationship with one of the most reclusive races in Northern lore.

Late in the summer of the following year, I traveled north to New England to attend a gathering of Northern Tradition spirit-workers, shamans and practitioners. The presentation topics were varied, including Norse cosmology, lore and practical skills. Classes referenced the Aesir, Vanir and Jotun races, even the Alfar. In the midst of an afternoon lecture, I felt a stalwart Presence behind my left shoulder and heard a deep, somewhat irascible Duergar voice remark, "We also want a seat at the table! A heavy hand clapped me on the back and the Presence spoke again, this time more emphatically. We want a voice!"

Knowing that the Master Makers of the Nine Worlds have a reputation for being very protective of their culture, skills and works, I wondered, Why now? Why me??

The Duerg behind me continued, "Much of what humans have written