I couldn't resist – I had to write one more post about the Ring. The title comes from the famous observation about the end of Wagner's often-arduous Ring Cycle (frequently taking 18 hours to perform in its entirety). Opera Theatre of Pittsburgh performed it in "merely" 10 hours (though not through speed-singing, but through judicious elision of recitative), yet even that amount of singing was a sufficient effort that the part of Brünnhilde was played tag-team. With classical big-boned Wagnerian sopranos carrying more than their fair share of heft, the immolation scene at the close of Götterdämmerung is the final opportunity for these larger-than-life ladies to sing their Teutonic hearts out, and more than one dazed operagoer has noted the veracity of the statement "it ain't over 'till the fat lady sings". So how delightful then, for us to be treated not to the stereotypical heavy horned-helmet headed heroines (try saying that three times fast), but rather a sprightly pair of svelte sopranos singing the rôle of Brünnhilde.

I have to agree with Mark Kanny's review. The Brünnhilde in The Valkyrie was fierce and emotional. I felt her thrill of battle and equally her pain and later joy with Wotan. Likewise the Brünnhilde in Twilight of the Gods was powerfully human in her love, betrayal, and redemption. It was so much more than I had expected it to be. How wonderful then, to also put the old "fat lady sings" adage to lie!

But fat or thin, helmetted or bewigged, Brünnhilde sings on the pyre in the immolation scene. Valhalla is in ruins, The Rhinemaidens have their ring, and Yggdrasil has been chopped up, yet what of Wotan? Brünnhilde was made mortal and (one would think) died, yet Wotan is still a god. Can the immortal gods die? It seems to be a rather paradoxical concept, so...

After Wagner, Whither Wotan?

Myths and legends are good at battles, ascendancies and deaths, but the sought after clarity of the denouements seem to be lacking. In the ancient Greek world, when you died you didn’t go to heaven or hell. If you were mortal, whether you were good or bad you died and went to the Underworld. There you became a shade, and lost your voice forever. Not much to look forward to, especially if you were a Hector, an Achilles, or a Socrates! Even mighty Herakles (who is granted apotheosis after he immolates himself) is never heard from again, in spite of living with the gods themselves.

Comic books (or as I insisted before, "Graphic Novels") are equally wishy-washy about endings. Unless a character is killed fatally dead-to-death with no saving-throw, they usually manage to re-appear in a later episode, minus some memory or some power, and more often than not, minus a lot of believability.

So with the destruction of the old order (and in spite of promises, the new order is no better), what's an immortal to do? The trouble with being a god is that you've got no one to pray to...

In Small Gods, Terry Pratchett (from whom I also purloined the last line of the previous paragraph), postulated that gods need worshippers to live. The more worshippers a god has, the more powerful it is. Conversely, a god with no worshippers is a pitiable thing – small, unnoticed (yet still immortal), an unworshipped god eventually diminishes into nothingness, a gnat buzzing away in the subconscious minds of men, ever more strident yet less and less heard. So it was, perhaps, that Wagner envisioned the mighty gods of Valhalla after the promised new order arose. I am an insufficient scholar to know for sure – I just read fun books.

Neil Gaiman also postulates that a god's power decreases with a decline in followers. In American Gods, though, he goes one step further. Much as Willie Sutton robbed banks because "that's where the money is", so the old gods travel to the New World, because that's where the faithful are. Worshippers have declined in the Norse countries, so Wotan comes to America, where the old ways still survive (if perhaps in a closeted form), and the young are more impressionable, and more likely to follow a grizzled old one-eyed man with a penchant for ravens.

According to some, even the motto of Kaiser Wilhelm II is related to Wotan. Gott Mit Uns (God [is] with us) got a bad reputation in WW-II as the slogan of the Wehrmacht, but it was used in WW-I, and before that is found on 19th century Prussian coins, 17th century Swedish medals, 14th and 15th century battle cries, and so on back into time...

Up to now I have been quoting fiction and speculation, but I have one more factual tidbit for you. I waited until Wednesday to post this last article for a reason. The word Wednesday derives from the Old English Wodnes dæg (Woden's Day), and thence from the Old Norse Óðinsdagr. It doesn't matter what you call him – Óðinn, Odin, Woden, Wotan, or his other dozens of names. He's not pining for the fjords and he isn't pushing up daisies. He's not even resting. He's here.