In the days when the sea lay nearer to men than it does now, Óðinn went forth alone and took upon him the likeness of a grey fisherman. He had a net of hemp and bone-weight, and no man knew from whence it came.
He went out where no boats go, and cast his net into the deep water.
And when he drew it up, it was heavy.
Not with fish, nor with whale, nor with any good thing of the sea, but with tar and black pitch, foul and clinging, as though the ocean itself had begun to rot in secret. It moved not as living things move, yet it was not without malice; for it held to the net as if it had purpose.
Óðinn looked upon it long, and spoke:
“This is not of my making. Nor of the making of any who yet live.”
And he cast it back into the sea.
He cast it a second time.
And again it returned, heavier than before.
Then Óðinn cast it aside upon the stones, thinking it drift-wood and wreckage, and went his way.
But the thing was not ended thereby.
Far to the north, where the forests stand old and the wind speaks in the tongue of the Sámi, there was a sacred reindeer, white of hide and without blemish. It was not counted among the herds of men, nor driven by any hand, but was held to be holy in the old manner of the land.
This reindeer the thing found.
And it took it.
And in taking it, it learned shape.
At first it went as the deer goes, though ill and stumbling, as one who remembers a body not his own. Then it walked among the woods and was not at rest.
The spirits of the herd would not have it, for it was neither beast nor spirit, but something set between.
So it was cast out.
And being cast out, it learned wrath.
And it began to slay.
It slew men in the forest. It slew those who called upon the old gods. It slew those who did not call upon them.
And it did not cease.
For it did not yet know what ceasing was.
When Óðinn saw what had come of his casting-away, he came again to the shore.
And he did not come as fisherman, but as that which binds and names.
And he stood before the thing, and spoke thus:
“You are neither Æsir nor Vanir.
You are neither of Miðgarðr nor of Svartálfaheimr.
You are what remains when things are forgotten too many times.”
And he fought it there upon the cold ground.
Not as men fight, but as fate fights what would escape it.
Long was the struggle, and harsh, and no man wrote the measure of it.
And in the end, Óðinn broke its wandering.
Then Óðinn bound it, and set it under law, and said:
From that time it is called Andskotarnir, and some men say it is a beast, and some say it is a spirit, and some say it is only a tale told to frighten those who go too far into the woods.
But those who keep the old places know otherwise.
For it does not break its bonds.
And it does not seek to break them.