1. Introduction.

The epigraphic sources surveyed in this monograph are usually termed amulets by runological scholars. The inscription carriers include pendants or plates of copper, iron, lead, or bronze, pieces of jewelry, worked pieces of bone and sticks or crosses of wood (p. 2). The title of the book makes it clear that its focus rests on “magic” runic inscriptions. “Magic” is regarded as a common denominator of various objects with runic legends including stone monuments (see section 2).

Apart from the introduction, conclusion, and an index, the volume contains nine chapters: 1. Gods and Heroes (pp. 15–39), 2. Love, Fidelity, and Desire (40–70), 3. Protecting and Enabling Charms (71–101), 4. Fertility Charms (102–115), 5. Healing Charms and Leechcraft (116–162), 6. Pagan Ritual Items (163–183), 7. Christian Amulets (184–210), 8. Rune-stones, Death, and Curses (211–232), and 9. Runic Lore and Other Magic (233–253). Thirteen of a total sixteen illustrations of inscription carriers have been drawn by Mees himself (fig. 1–5, 7–12, and 15–16). On a related point, it remains unclear which part of the book is written by MacLeod or Mees.

2. Typological Approach.

The typological comparison between different epigraphic traditions forms the groundwork of this study. Taking their departure from Graeco- Roman amulets, the authors (p. 2) stress that new insights are gained by a broad comparative methodology:

In essence, this interdisciplinary approach leads to a typology with five basic amulet text-forming elements (p. 82):

These formal items are used as a key to the runological analysis. For example, the Thames scramasax (pp. 71–72, 82) is interpreted as a LETTER SEQUENCE + NAMING EXPRESSION. Similarly, the Lindholmen amulet (pp. 72–73, 92–93) is analyzed as a NAMING EXPRESSION + LETTER SEQUENCE + CHARM WORD, and the Nydam shaft text (pp. 81– 82, 92) is considered a LETTER SEQUENCE + SYMBOL. In my view, this general typology is the strongest part of the book, which otherwise arouses a number of methodological questions when it comes to the presentation of individual inscriptions (see section 5). Besides, the authors do not mention Thompson 1975, which also provides a component analysis. Noting the uniformity of Upplandic memorial inscriptions, Thompson (1975:11–21) established a four-part analysis: 1. Memorial formula, 2. Prayer, 3. Addition, and 4. Signature.

3. Runes and Magic.

MacLeod and Mees state critically: “runic studies today evince a tendency to seek to deny any magical element whatsoever in runic inscriptions, an extreme and unnecessary reactive approach to the failings of earlier investigators” (p. 12). However, there are also reserved scholars today allowing for the notion of magic. Nedoma (1998), for example, confines the realm of “magic” to curse formulas and functionally related inscriptions, and Düwel and Heizmann (2006), in an article on fuþark inscriptions, likewise acknowledge the magic element. In essence, the fuþark in its entire representation with 24 (or later 16) runes symbolizes completeness as well as order, and by means of the inscription carrier—the “magic” object—this notion was passed on to the human (also dead) or non-human addressee to take a positive or negative effect (see Schulte 2006b:50, with references).

Despite this consensus, however, it is not clear why inscriptions such as the Kragehul lanceshaft (pp. 77–78), the work-song on the whetstone from Strøm (p. 77), or the memorial stone from Istaby (p. 115) are included in a work on runic amulets. Invoking their five-part typology, the authors argue that “the similarity of the type of inscription found on amulets of a portable nature to those which appear on some early rune- stones once again underlines the religious aspect of the early Germanic amulet tradition” (p. 115). Evidently, this approach runs the risk of circular reasoning. As regards the relation between magic and writing, the work would have gained by a reference to Frankfurter 1994, which assesses “magic” texts in a functional perspective (see Schulte 2006a).

4. Roman Impact on Runic Writing?

It is a salient trait of the work that it emphasizes the differences between runic and classic epigraphic traditions (for example, pp. 12, 231). Following the authors, “the assumption that there is a pronounced Roman influence in early runic epigraphy is not credible at least in terms of magico-religious texts” (p. 254). My assessment of Latin-Old Runic linguistic contacts independently supports this view (see Schulte 2005b). Indeed, the lack of runic curses that are directly comparable to classic defixiones or binding spells makes high-scale influence unlikely. But the authors go even further suggesting: “this finding speaks against a Roman origin for the runes themselves, but also the various attempts to show that Imperial Roman (or even provincial) influences are to be recognized in Germanic religion and myth” (pp. 254–255). In my view, this argumentation is strained. Devising a writing system is an intentional act of a small elitist group, possibly only one individual, and a Roman prototype of the Germanic fuþark may well be considered on runographic grounds (for example, Düwel 2004:137–138). For a competing—Phoenician—approach to the origin of the runes, see Vennemann 2006.

5. Scrutiny of Individual Runic Texts.

The authors blame Nordicists for their etymological bias and linguistic onesidedness as they “still tend to rely on A. Noreen 1923,” which is an Old Norse reference grammar (p. 2, note 3). They highlight Antonsen's (1975) structural grammar, but do not list his monograph from 2002. Neither is Krause 1971 included, although this work functions as a provisional reference grammar in much runological research. The authors' broad approach is coupled with a transliteration method and individual analyses of runic inscriptions that few modern runologists—in Scandinavia and elsewhere—will welcome. They are obviously not classing themselves as “sceptical runologists.” In a now famous discussion, Page (1999:12–15) made a distinction between skeptical and imaginative runologists. In the book under review, the imaginative part is conspicuous, and it is not indicated which readings and interpretations are (in)secure. In fact, many presentations and textual analyses in this volume are in need of comment.

Let us turn to the Danish Ribe cranium first (pp. 25–27). The authors state that “[t]he Ribe text is a ‘transitional’ inscription which predates the Viking period” (p. 25). This is certainly incorrect. Linguistically, the Ribe cranium inscription, around 725 C.E., has undergone significant sound changes of the transitional period, and its graphemic system witnesses the parsimony of the younger, reduced fuþark with only 15/16 runes (Schulte 2006b:48). The authors' confusion is partly based on their equation of the two a-runes, A and a in standard transliteration (see below). To illustrate the authors' working method, their rendering of the Kragehul lanceshaft is compared to Krause 1971 and Antonsen 2002:

Example 1a is largely based on outdated works such as Jóhannesson (1923:94–95) and Noreen (1923:381). Note that the macron is missing in several instances, for example, haite for haitē (< Gmc. ⁺-ai) ‘I am named-MEDIO-PASSIVE’, or gaize for gaizē (< Gmc. ⁺-ai) ‘spear-DAT.SING’. While the first line seems least controversial, the second and third lines are conjecture at best. According to the authors, the term gagaga ‘roar’ is etymologically related to the sequence gaois ‘howler’ on the Gotlandic inscription from Mos, which in turn is said to be similar to imitative English words like cackle and gargle (p. 78). Thus, gagaga is put on a par with hagala ‘hail’, since “both have their reflection in other amuletic inscriptions as charm words” (p. 78). Other such runic charm words identified by MacLeod and Mees are alu, ehwaz, laukaz, līna, laþu, maga, tuwa, and wju (see index, p. 271). One basic problem, however, is that we do not know what gagaga (the triple bind-rune ga) actually means: interpretations range from an ideographic abbreviation (Antonsen 1975:no.15) to a prefix formation ga-ga(n)ga ‘follower’ with retained ga- (Grønvik 1996:51–55). Both Krause (1971:152–153) and Makaev (1996:38) stress that any linguistic interpretation of the triple bind ga is likely to be doubtful.

The sequence gahellija (recte: gahelija) is compared to OHG gahelli ‘resounding loudly’. This is improbable since there is a lacuna between gahe and lija as indicated in 1b and 1c above. Here, as in several other instances, conjecture is presented as plain fact. For details, see Schulte 2005a:243–244.

The lack of critical analysis is also seen in the Blekinge legends (pp. 111–115, 222). MacLeod and Mees (pp. 112–113) render the Stentoften inscription as follows:

The transcription in 2 is a modified one with epenthetic vowels dropped, for example, briutiþ for bAriutiþ ‘breaks’ (ON brýtr). This procedure is questionable for a number of reasons. The standardization presupposes that epenthetic vowels are correctly identified; in the third line, see the problematic form hideR, stemming either from Germanic +haidiz ‘brightness of the sky’ (Krause 1971:119) or from +haidra ‘clear, bright’ (Antonsen 2002:305–306). Most importantly, vowel epenthesis in Transitional Runic has little to do with parasite vowels such that this normalization seems unfounded (Schulte 2006a:122–125).

There were two different a-runes in Transitional Runic: a(nsuz) ‘god’ and ā(ra) from jāra ‘year’ reflecting the loss of initial /j/. But these two a-runes (usually transliterated a, A) are not distinguished under 2. Compare niuhA versus niuha (both written niuha) in the first line of the Stentoften text. In their linguistic analysis the authors reject Santesson 1989, arguing that her approach “is problematic grammatically” (p. 113, note 20). However, they do not provide reasons for their claim, nor do they mention that one of the fortes of Santesson's interpretation is that it explains the two different a-runes in the introductory line: nasal /ã/ in hã(n)gestumR < Gmc. +hangistumz ‘stallions-DAT.PL.’, but non-nasal /a/ in haborumR < Gmc. +haßrumz ‘he-goats-DAT.PL.’ with -o- as an epenthetic vowel (cf. Antonsen 2002:303–304). In my view, Santesson (1989) is favorable to the traditional interpretations, including the one forwarded by MacLeod and Mees (for linguistic details, see Schulte 2006c:402– 403, 410–411).

Following Antonsen (1975:86), the authors favor the segmentation herma-lās instead of herma-lāsaR ‘protectionless’ (< Gmc. +-lausaz). This presupposes that both a-syncope and assimilation +-saR > -sR > -ss must have occurred. But the assimilation of final -sR > -ss is not evidenced in -lausR on the roughly contemporaneous Björketorp stone under 3 below. Also, the name form HariwolfaR in the second line of the Stentoften text supports the standard reading her(a)maløsaR (or rather her(a)mal[demptyv ]saR). These instances show that the treatment of single runic inscriptions in this book appears somewhat superficial.

In the case of the syntax, the final sentence in 2 is ungrammatical (saR cannot be interpreted as a dative object), and there are other inconsistencies in this translation, which will not be discussed here. These problems concern the parallel Björketorp text as well (pp. 113–114):

As far as the textual relations between 2 and 3 are concerned, the view is expressed that “the [Stentoften] text is deficient in some aspects […]: haplography has reduced the alliterating expression rūnō runo [recte ronu] ‘a run of runes’ to rūnōno, and the expected preposition ūti ‘out, from, because of’ has been left out” (p. 113). Linguistically, this analysis is imprecise because ti ‘outside’ (< Gmc. ⁺ūtai) is an adverb, and “deficiency” is far from what characterizes the relation between Stentoften and Björketorp. In Schulte 2006a, I argue that the textual style of the Stentoften text is condensed and elliptical in relation to the modernized, monumental Björketorp version. Thus viewed, the two versions show different styles due to different functional pragmatics.

The authors go on to state that “there are […] several spelling differences that separate the Björketorp from the Stentoften rune-stone, either indicating different spelling traditions, incompetence, or more probably developing or different dialects” (p. 113). But here a desideratum would be a systematic crosslinguistic analysis of curse formulas (see Fraenkel 1939). In my view, the reason for this variation lies in the text-type of the curse itself. Among its salient features, cross- linguistically, are ellipses, haplologies, and condensed sentence structure, including assimilations and sandhi phenomena (see Schulte 2006a).

6. Metrical Analysis.

The book presents a number of charms with alliteration and other metrical traits. A general reliance on the sourcebook of McKinnell and Simek 2004 with its literature seems obvious. References to metrical studies such as Kabell 1978 and Naumann 1998 are missing. Among these metrical inscriptions are a copper plate from South Kvinneby on the Swedish island of Öland (pp. 27–28), a rune-stick from Schleswig (pp. 32–33), several rune-sticks from Bergen (pp. 57–60), a stick from Tønsberg (p. 147), as well as the older runic inscription from Noleby (p. 181), the Strøm whetstone (p. 77), and the Gallehus horn (p. 175–176). A case in point is the Strøm whetstone, which is adequately described as a work-song (p. 77). In addition, Krause (1971:166) notes: “Der ganze Text hat die Gestalt eines rhythmisch gleichsilbigen, alliterierenden Arbeitsgesanges.” [The whole text conveys the structure of a rhythmic, unisyllabic, and alliterative work-song.] Moreover, the structure of the Strøm inscription is strictly trochaic. It is worth mentioning that there are stylized pieces of larger work-songs in Old Norse literature, such as the Eddic lay of Grottas˛ngr or the weaving song of Darraðarljóð, which are not included in the discussion.

7. Conclusion.

This ambitious project with its broad “magic” focus has both its marked strengths and weaknesses. It is a strength that, despite their similarities, the fundamental differences between Germanic curses and other ancient traditions of defixiones are acknowledged: “Yet nothing quite like the ancient tradition of curse-tablets has been found in Germanic tradition” (p. 231, with references). While the interdisciplinary focus on Germanic- Mediterranean epigraphy may be regarded as a clear plus, it entails a major weakness: a cursory and uncritical reading of several runic inscriptions with arbitrary linguistic analyses. As their starting point, MacLeod and Mees address the “first law of runodynamics” that “for every inscription there shall be as many interpretations as there are runologists studying it” (p. 1). They further state that “a lot of what passes for expert runic interpretation has too readily strayed into the fantastic in the past, and never more so than in considerations of runic legends that appear on amulets and other similar items” (p. 1). While it seems easy to launch such general criticism, it is obviously hard to do better.

In fact, even if the broad “magic” approach is accepted, the linguistic part of the work does not stand close scrutiny. Nowhere is it indicated which interpretations the individual analyses are based on. When scrutinizing the authors' working methods, the impression arises that McKinnell and Simek 2004—a fairly uncritical compilation of “magic” runic inscriptions written by non-runologists—is their basic source. What is worse, readings and interpretations of single inscriptions bear witness to the lack of methodological rigor and reservedness (see 1 above on the Kragehul lanceshaft). Finally, the assessment of “magic” runic inscriptions, historically and linguistically, calls for further inquiries.