INTRO
 
Welcome to CHAPTER 53 of the Kinsmen Die podcast, home of fantasy fiction based on Norse mythology that’s written and read by me, Matt Bishop.

In this podcast I read my first novel, Kinsmen Die, one chapter at a time. And, with each episode, when it makes sense, I provide some commentary about the source materials I’ve referenced in the text.

This week we’re back with Frigg. Her last chapter was tumultuous — Baldr had another of his dreams and Odin was able to save him. This chapter moves that plot line forward.

Chapter Fifty-Three
Frigg
“Was he dead, Odin?”
Frigg rode beside her husband along the Upper Road. Sól slipped behind a cloud, and she shivered. The path they took led up from the longhouses, the clutch of buildings where the city elders gathered, and Gladsheim’s main hall to the hilltop clearing in the old forest that had become Idunn’s Grove.
He looked sideways at her, one eye lost in shadows. “I was able to bring him back.”
“But was he dead?” Her heart skipped a beat as her horse, Haukr, slid on a slick stone.
Sleipnir whinnied. It sounded too much like laughter. Haukr shook his mane and whinnied back, indignant.
A glint of ice on the old crumbled wall to her right caught her eye. That wall had once been all that stood between the newly settled Aesir and the Vanir warriors who had stormed up Gladsheim’s central hill. Eventually, the Vanir and Aesir made peace. But from what Odin had said at Ithavoll, such a peace would never be possible between the Jotunn and Aesir—even though that’s exactly what had grown between their peoples since he’d been gone.
She tore her eyes from the wall and found Odin’s gray eyes had settled on her. A light smile graced his lips.
She shrugged and waved a hand toward the wall. “Just thinking about war.” And death. And a consuming fire. But she kept those thoughts to herself even as a small voice inside her wondered why she had yet to see a vision of Odin’s death.
Odin followed her gesture and grunted, his gray eyes as cool and as unfathomable as deep water.
“So?” she asked.
“Eh?”
“My question. Did Baldr die this morning?”
Odin frowned and stood in his stirrups, one of Ullr’s wonderful inventions, to stretch his legs.
She reached out and swatted his shoulder. “Would you just answer me!”
His wintry version of their son’s grin broke across his face. He settled back into his saddle. “His body was alive. I could feel his heart thumping, but his spirit had slipped away. I had to draw it back.”
“So he was dead.” She drew her feathered cloak more tightly about her shoulders.
He shook his head. “Not entirely. His spirit hadn’t yet embarked for the Naglfar; it can’t until his body dies. So he was trapped on the shores of the Gjoll, which is why I asked what he could remember.”
She shuddered. After their marriage, he’d taken her up to the High Seat, shown her the scar in his side and told her what he’d done to get it and why. Then he’d taught her how to sit upon the High Seat and shown her where to look—and where not to. Where the Gjoll poured back into the Ginnungagap was one of those places.
She shook off the memory. Odin was still speaking. “... stop by Baldr’s tree on the way.”
“Wait, what?”
He winked a bright gray eye at her. “With all that’s happened, I wasn’t able to slip away—and you certainly weren’t. And after this latest dream of his, planting new fruit may help.”
Every Midwinter since Baldr’s birth, she and Odin (or herself alone) would ride to Baldr’s tree to bury some of Yggdrasil’s fruit. Just as the fruit kept them young, so too did it keep the tree vigorous and the mistletoe it sheltered.
“I didn’t realize you’d brought them with you,” she said. Which proved how distracted she’d been thanks to all that’d happened in the last two nights.
“And this trip down to Mimir is worth the time?”
“Absolutely. Mimir spends most of his time swimming through the realms. He sees much that’s hidden.”
And yet he cannot pierce the future’s veil. Apparently that burden is mine, shared only by those three witches below and the dead.

***

They left their horses tucked behind a still-green clutch of bushes and walked into the intermingled grove of green yew trees, bare ash and oak trees, and tall rune-carved stones. Fresh snow and old ice clung to the trees, stones and made the footing treacherous. She could taste the threat of new snow in the cold air.
Three paths led through the thick grove, one to Aegir’s Temple, one to the stone arch marking the road down to Ithavoll, and the third to Heimdall’s tower which, a mere sixteen winters ago, had been his daily post. Heimdall stood there looking and listening for the glint of spears or the thudding of boots that meant enemies of the Aesir were on the march. Now, he listened from beneath a table and saw nothing but the bottom of a cup.
She and Odin walked a winding route around and around the hill’s crown, making sure to confuse their path. The precaution was probably pointless, but since no one was barred from the grove, it was still the safest course.
They passed dozens of random trees. “Good enough?”
A pair of birds called out from high above, black against the cloudy morning sky.
“Yes, no one’s around.” He motioned for her to lead the way.
She looped around another pair of yew trees until she reached a tall oak, its bare limbs reaching high. Loaded with snow, golden mistletoe nestled in the main fork of the trunk.
Odin knelt and began clearing the snow so he could dig. She tucked her hands beneath her armpits as the small shovel bit the frozen earth.
She looked around the tree and at the ground, and then she ran her gaze up the trunk, along the main branches, and to the golden crown of mistletoe.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’m always rushed when I come here alone, anxious to bury the fruits and get back before I’ve been missed. Not an easy feat.”
He grunted and went back to digging.
She laid a gloved hand on the tree’s thick bole and began walking around it, sometimes looking up to the spreading branches and the cloudy sky and back down again. “How long will it live, do you think?”
The shovel’s bite stopped. Odin rested his forearms on the shovel’s handle, considering. “As long as we keep burying Yggdrasil’s fruit, they will live as long as each other.”
The shovel bit again. He made another neat pile beside the hole.
“And us? Will we also live forever?” She was thinking of the new silver threads that appeared in her hair every Midwinter and vanished after she ate the fruit. But always a handful remained behind. She’d noticed, too, that frost had also touched Odin’s hair and beard.
He shook his head and made one last pile of dark earth. “Not as long.”
Sól chose that moment to break through the morning’s clouds and shine down on them. Shadows sprang up, stark against the snow. A squirrel chittered down at her, maybe lured out by the sunlight. She smiled up at the fat, indignant reddish-brown thing—and then hissed in a sharp breath as she spotted the raw edges of severed branches in the mistletoe’s heart.
She leaped into the lowest branches. The bark dug into her fingers even through her gloves as she hauled herself up, feet scrabbling on the trunk. The squirrel fled, jumping from one branch to another.
“What’s wrong?” Odin called out.
She planted a boot against a higher branch and stood, climbing higher toward the mistletoe. Her boots skidded here and there against the snow and underlying ice, but she kept going.
His voice came again from below. “Frigg! What did you see?”
“I’m not sure,” she called back down. But she knew exactly what she’d seen. She just couldn’t believe it.
What remained of the mistletoe hung just out of arm’s reach. She grabbed high and pulled herself another body length up into the tree. Snow, lichen, and bark crumbled beneath her boots. Level with the mistletoe now, precariously perched, she tugged off her gloves and dropped them. Below, she heard Odin spit and curse. She glanced down and saw him following her up.
Sól slipped out again and illuminated the full extent of the damage done to the mistletoe.
The world seemed to spin around her. She must’ve cried out, because, distantly, she heard Odin swear again. “I’m nearly there,” he shouted.
But it didn’t matter. What could he do?
She breathed out, closed her eyes. When she felt steadier, she opened her eyes to take in the damage. It had been well disguised—unnoticeable from a distance and from below thanks to the heavy snows of the past weeks—but the cuts were there, just the same. The mistletoe’s heart had been cut out. How had she not seen this before now?
She leaned in. The bare stems were weathered from exposure. Beneath her thumb, the raw edges felt smooth, not rough as they would have been from an animal’s gnawing teeth. Cut. By someone who knew not to use skymetal.
Odin’s shadow opposite her dimmed the mistletoe’s gold. “Probably used silver, either a knife or maybe shears like mine.” He leaned in closer. “Done a while back, I’d guess. Maybe in summer, when the cuts would’ve been hidden by the tree’s leaves.”
Two nights ago had been the first time she’d come to Baldr’s tree since last winter. She only ate Idunn’s fruits once each year, so there was no reason to come more often. There was good reason to only come once each year—less chance their secret would be discovered.
“Is this what the dreams were showing, then? That his mistletoe was cut?”
His gray eyes, serious and thoughtful, met hers. Reflexively, she reached up and brushed her cheeks. Dry. That was good.
“I don’t know. It does seem likely, though.”
“How can you not know? All that time you spend away, seeking new wisdom—always seeking.” Always away.
His expression softened slightly; his fingers gently gripped her arm. “This was your people’s magic, not mine.”
“Our people are one and the same, Odin!” She hadn’t realized she’d shouted until the echoes came back at her.
“Not if they hurt our son.”
She blinked. No, of course not.
“You think the Jotunn are behind this?”
“Who else?”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot, Odin.”
But who else was there? The Jotunn and Aesir had been fighting each other ever since Odin and his brothers had killed Ymir—until the end of the Last War. The Vanir were friends, as were the Alvar. Odin had taken the Svartalvar far away. And it was Baldr’s missions of mercy to Jotunheim that had helped foster the current peace.
“The Jotunn are just the most obvious culprits. You’ve met this Skrymir and Vafthrudnir. They’re not stupid. And harming Baldr isn’t in their best interests.”
“No, they’re not,” he said. “But we have several  hundred winters of experience behind us. What’s obvious to us may seem the height of intrigue to them.”
“Maybe, but why destroy Háls? The Skrymir had to know sending Thor to level one of their towns would be the least of our responses.” She gestured at the cut mistletoe. “And, again, why do this to Baldr? He’s helping them. And most importantly, how would they even know to do this?”
He shrugged. “Spies.”
“I don’t talk about what we did or where this is, and we’ve only ever had a single conversation about this tree that could’ve been overheard.” Aside from Heimdall. He knew their secret.
“Maybe that one mistake was enough. Maybe you were followed.”
But not him? She bit back a retort and instead thought back over the past twenty winters. Twenty visits here. She tried to push her memory further back. Maybe she’d seen an old woman when she’d ridden back down or a few groups of people. Maybe. Gladsheim’s main temple was up here; people were free to come and go.
“It’s not impossible, I suppose, but I’m careful.”
“I know,” he said with a quick, mirthless smile. “Come on, let’s climb down.”
As she clambered down, bark and ice crumbling beneath her boots, she turned the question over in her mind. Who else could mean Baldr harm? Did he even have enemies? After his brother had been blinded, Baldr had laid down his weapons. Every warrior he’d ever fought had long ago passed back into the Gap, except those few among the Aesir and Vanir. The Jotunn loved him nearly as much as the Aesir did.
The only person she could think of was Hodr—and she hated herself for the thought. Hodr had been angry because Baldr couldn’t heal his eyes. He had always resented his brother’s invulnerability. But he never would have wished real harm on his brother, much less acted on it, would he?
No. He wouldn’t. Nor did Hodr know about this oak tree or the mistletoe. Aegir’s love, Hodr had only been a baby when she and Odin had had that one thoughtless conversation.
She pushed the idea away. She’d sat on the High Seat and watched Hodr long enough and often enough to see that he’d had found a place for himself. A woman. And, hopefully, some peace.
As her boots hit the ground, a thought struck her. “What about that thing that attacked you?”
“From the Urdarbrunnr?” Odin dusted his hands off, considering. “If it can reach through waters besides those directly linked to the well, then maybe. If it can’t, then it would have to possess someone, as I assume it meant to do with me. And it would still have to have known our secret.”
“Could it have witnessed the ritual?”
He shrugged. “It’s not impossible.”
“I can’t think of anyone else. That conversation we had was nearly two hundred winters ago. Even the thralls who might’ve overheard are long dead.”
 “They could’ve passed the secret on, but why would they have wanted to harm Baldr?” He gave a wan smile. “Now, if it were me...”
She looked up into the crook of the tree at the cut mistletoe. “One thing’s certain. Until we figure out who cut the mistletoe, we need those we trust to stay very close to Baldr.”

***

Frigg held the witchlamp as high as she dared. Odin walked just in front of her, back bent with the effort of keeping the Alvar-made shaper pressed against Yggdrasil’s root. Under the shaper’s magic, Yggdrasil’s wood flowed like water. They walked inside a moving bubble of the shaper’s magic. The tree’s guts opened before them and then closed behind. 
“Almost through, Frigg,” Odin said over his shoulder, voice tight with effort.
Sweat rolled down her back. More sweat beaded on her upper lip; she wiped it with her sleeve. She rolled her shoulders, trying to relieve the ache of holding the witchlamp.
But nothing could relieve the ache that had built in her heart during the ride down Yggdrasil into Ithavoll. Baldr had come through the fire on the ship unharmed. That meant he was still protected. It had to. Yet now he’d had another dream, perhaps the worst one yet. Odin said that the damage to the mistletoe was the likely cause of those dreams. So Baldr was protected still, but still dying? Was that what her visions meant?
With a creaking groan, the root in front of them ebbed to reveal Mimir’s glade. Odin stepped down into the knee-high grasses and turned around, keeping the shaper pressed against Yggdrasil. His face dripped sweat.
Would Mimir have answers for them? Could he have seen who or what was behind all this? Too many questions. Too many mysteries. And why was all this happening now?
She lowered the witchlamp and reached out a hand to steady—
“Stop!” Odin said. “You’ll lose your hand to the shaper’s magic.”
She snatched her hand back and stepped unsteadily into the cool freshness of the glade.
Odin relaxed, pulled the shaper away and the tunnel closed with the rushing sound of waves rolling in. Or of fire devouring timber.
But she mustn’t think of flames. Or ships. She walled those thoughts away. “I’m sorry. My mind’s elsewhere.”
“I can’t imagine why.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. He wiped his face, replaced the shaper in his satchel and met her eyes, his smile already gone. “You ready for this?”
She nodded. As useful as Mimir’s counsel could be, speaking with him usually tried her patience. She straightened her shoulders and put on the calm face she had learned to use for meetings with Gladsheim’s various factions.
Together, they walked toward the glade’s center, where Mimir waited. The glade looked like a longship—a sharp bow where they had entered, a wide belly, and a tapered stern—except that the root rose much higher on either side than the low gunwales of a longship.
The grass was the same brilliant green it was everywhere in Ithavoll. The sky above was the familiar black, dotted with starry specks and the long, glowing trails of Muspell’s sparks.
Very long ago during the Aesir-Vanir war, Odin had not only shaped this glade, but he’d also shaped channels in the root along which water flowed in a series of waterfalls. Mimir’s head sat in one of the notches like a carved statue set against a wall. He and Odin looked similar: strong nose, high cheekbones, and deep-set gray eyes. Mimir’s beard was very long, though, and it clung to the bark.
She waited beside Odin, both of them expecting to hear Mimir’s voice, deep and slow. But no greeting came except the water’s song. It flowed over Mimir’s rune-etched head, across his closed lips, and down, where it pooled in a wide stone bowl set against the root. From there, the water fell again, creating a stream that flowed to a wide pool maybe a pair of spear lengths from the root.
Cool mist brushed the bare skin of her neck. She glanced sidelong at Odin. His expression had grown concerned. Mimir’s eyes were closed, red runes bright on his closed lids.
“Uncle?” Odin asked.
No response.
He released her hand. “Stay back,” he said. “Keep watch.” He stepped quickly to where Mimir’s head rested and put his hands on the wet wood.
She turned and drew her knife, holding the long, bright blade at the ready, and slid into the fighting stance she’d learned so long ago. Not that she’d used it recently. Her palm was damp on the leather-wrapped hilt. Her eyes darted around the glade, from the tall slab of root ringing her in to the lush green grass spread underfoot to the sharp reflections in Mimir’s pool.
Had that spirit attacked from the pool again? The waters here were all one with the Urdarbrunnar. She edged closer, heart thumping faster. Had there been a warning before it attacked the last time? Odin hadn’t said. All she could see was the bright-speckled black sky, a few moths flitting about, and—
“He’s not here.”
She held her stance and kept her eyes on the pool. As long as she’d known Odin, the head of his dead uncle had rested here. “What do you mean?”
He sighed, and she heard him step back. “Well, he’s here, obviously, but his spirit is elsewhere. And has been for some time, I’d guess.” He touched her arm. “What are you doing?”
She gestured with her chin at the pool. “The spirit...”
“Probably not. Mimir has a bit less to offer than I.”
She glanced at him, took in his smile, and relaxed. He was joking?
“Really?”
He shrugged. “Just trying to lighten the mood before I tell you what I have to do.”
“You’re going after him.”
He nodded. “Have to. Even if we didn’t need his wisdom, he’s family, and he’s in trouble.”
“So, you’re what...” She gestured toward Mimir, wiggling her fingers. “Going wherever he did?”
He nodded, quick and sharp. “I can follow the link between his flesh—what’s left of it—and his spirit. Think of it as a rope between a cleat and a sail.”
She sheathed her knife. “All right, what do I need to do?”
He looked at her, one eyebrow raised. “Stay here.”
“No. I’m going with you.”
He smiled and shook his head. “You don’t know how.”
“Teach me.”
He laughed. “It’s not that simple.”
She put her hands on her hips and set her jaw.
“Can you send your spirit out into the world?” he asked, his tone infuriatingly gentle. “Can you find your flesh again once your spirit is realms away? Can you trace the flow of Yggdrasil’s life? Do you know how to protect your spirit? Or how to fight as one?”
They both knew she couldn’t. “I can learn.”
“Maybe in a few winter’s time, but not in a single morning,” he said. “Look, if you’re here with my body, I can focus on finding Mimir. You may think that staying here isn’t helpful, but if my body is killed while I’m gone, my spirit will flutter away like that same sail blown free in a gale.”
“Why not pull my spirit from my body, like you threatened Heimdall?”
He shook his head. “The shock would probably kill you. And if it didn’t, I’d have two problems instead of just this one.”
“So I’m supposed to just stand here and wait?”
“Call it that if you want, but keeping my body safe is important. I wouldn’t do this without someone standing guard.” He pointed down at the water. “You were right to suspect the spirit’s involvement. These waters are the same as those beneath Urdarbrunnr. I don’t know if it’s responsible for this, but maybe it can sense where I am.”
She gestured at the rippling pool. “That thing nearly killed you. How am I supposed to fight it? All I have is my knife.”
“You saw how effectively I fought it. Use your wits.”
The spirit had told her they would talk again—or had it said she would see it in one of her visions? She frowned, trying to remember its exact words.
“Look, there’s no need to be afraid. I’m sure Mimir’s just gotten himself caught in a current and can’t get back. It can happen.”
She snorted and met his gray eyes. “I’m not afraid, Odin. I just don’t like standing around and waiting.”
“Who does? In this particular instance, it’s necessary.” He unclipped his cloak and tossed it aside.
“And what if you don’t come back?”
“Leave and get Baldr.” He dug in his bag, withdrew the shaper, and handed it to her. “And send word to Freyja.”
Realization struck. He wasn’t patronizing her. The thing in the well wanted his body. If it possessed him, he needed her to kill him.
“I understand,” she said, her voice serious.
He kissed her quickly on the cheek. “I thought you might.”
He crossed to stand in front of Mimir, glanced back at her, and winked. “Just don’t strike too quickly. I know you’re still angry with me.”
She answered with a faint smile. “How long will this take?”
“I’ll be back before you know it.”

***

Frigg shuddered as Odin leaned forward and touched his lips to Mimir’s forehead. It looked too intimate. His hands tightened on the wet, rough bark of the notch in which Mimir’s head sat. Then his body stiffened, and he went completely still.
She took a few steps to one side. Mimir’s withered, wet, rune-covered face was slack, as if he were asleep—or dead. Water ran from the bark above onto Odin, wetting his face and beard and pouring down his chest.
She sighed, turned away, and threw a wary gaze around the glade. Nothing but swirling mist, dancing moths, and the steady trickling noise of water.
She began walking the oblong circle of the glade from where Odin stood, lips pressed to Mimir, to the rune stone that marked the entrance, then around to the rune stone at the opposite side. The stone was cold beneath her trailing fingers. She ran her hand against the rough, damp bark of Yggdrasil’s root. It rose maybe twice her height above her. Climbable, but with a thought, she could take a falcon’s shape and fly up the bole to the passage into Gladsheim.
She stopped by the aft rune stone to check Odin and Mimir. Bubbling pops from the wide, clear pool in the center of the glade called for her attention. As she stared, the image of Baldr’s burning face kindled in her mind. She pressed fingertips into closed eyes, trying to press the memory away.
When she opened her eyes again, the grass was so green it hurt. She turned her back to the pool and stared up at the soothing brown of Yggdrasil’s root. She was an ant staring up at a longship’s mast.
A particularly loud pop made her spin round, her hand falling to her knife. She glanced at Odin and Mimir. They hadn’t moved. She strode to the pool and hesitated for only a pair of heartbeats before looking down into the clear water. Aside from the ripples caused by the upwelling water and the inflowing stream, she saw only the reflected sky, her face, and the small stones lining its bottom.
The pool’s center was black and deep, like a throat leading to some gullet. Was there another world beneath her feet? They had ridden from Gladsheim down Yggdrasil to this place where the Norns lived, but when she looked up, she saw the sky—which obviously couldn’t be possible if they were actually under Gladsheim’s hill.
A bubble popped again. Startled, she jumped back. After a heart-pounding moment, she glanced at Odin. No change. So much for this happening quickly.
The thought of his stepping down as Alfather bubbled up in her mind. Now that would be a change. They could leave Asgard in Baldr’s and Nanna’s hands—both were inexperienced, but capable. Then she and Odin could ride out, or maybe sail on Skidbladnir to see new shores. Set foot on new land.
The first twenty winters of her life had been spent in the heavy tents and deep stone caves of wintry Utgard. The last several hundred had been spent in the comparatively lush green forests and spreading plains of Asgard. She’d ridden the waves southward along the coast to warm Alvheim and steamy Vanaheim. But Odin had told her of still hotter places where the ground itself, burned and dusty, rolled away into the horizon.
She glanced over at him, still locked in that too-intimate embrace, and suppressed a shudder. She hopped over the stream and moved toward the cloak he’d thrown against Yggdrasil’s root.
Odin would never step down. But if she could help Baldr and Nanna succeed, maybe he would truly consider it. Maybe.
She looked down at her hands, smooth, long-fingered, and tawny—so unlike her father’s blunt, calloused hands. At first, she would have a hard time working Skidbladnir’s ropes, but once her hands toughened, it wouldn’t be a problem. And she could always work the steering board, setting the course she wanted.
That thought brought a smile to her face even as a gurgling pop from the pool drove it away again. When nothing more happened, she looked back at Odin, where nothing was also happening, and then back down at her hands.
They could always bring a crew of thralls to work the ship. No, not thralls, not more mouths to feed. Not more ears to overhear or eyes to stare back at them. Just the white-and-red patchwork sail snapping in the wind, the rise and fall of the deck beneath her feet, and her husband working the sails, smiling back at her while she worked the steering board, warm frothy seawater spraying up over the gunwales and into her face.
She closed her eyes and tried to fix the rippling sail in her mind’s eye, aflame with Sól’s fleeing light. It slid into the charred and tattered sail, driving her son’s death ship upon the Gjoll’s choppy waters. She gasped, trying now to push the memory away, even as Odin’s smiling face twisted into their son’s, white teeth bared in a rictus grin below hair that burned brighter than a torch.
A sob ripped its way out, and she covered her mouth as if there were someone there to overhear her. She brought her knees up and hugged them tight, ducked her head, and let the tears flow.
Abdicate and sail away? Not when her visions—those forced upon her—always came true.

OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 53 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it.

Frigg and Odin got to the root of Baldr’s problem. We learned that:
- the halves of the apple, along with another entire fruit of Yggdrasil, are buried at the base of oak tree
- that fruit powers the spell keeping Baldr invulnerable, keeps the tree alive and the mistletoe in which Baldr’s spirit was hidden
- we learned that most of that mistletoe had been cut away and removed. Odin thinks that’s causing Baldr’s dreams
- the theft of the mistletoe had been hidden to delay its discovery

To get answers, Odin and Frigg venture down Yggdrasil to where Odin’s uncle Mimir resides. It’s not entirely clear in the sources that Mimir is actually uncle, but there was enough implied in the myths that Mimir could have been Bestla’s brother — Bestla is Odin’s mother.

Mimir is discussed in Snorri’s Ynglinga Saga, as told in his Prose Edda. And all of this is exactly what happened in my books.

The Aesir sent Mimir and Hoenir to the Vanir. The Vanir were impressed with how handsome was, so they made Hoenir their chief. But, whenever Mimir wasn’t around, Hoenir couldn’t answer any questions or make decisions. He was kinda dumb.

So, thinking this was an insult, — sending a dumb guy to be their chief — the Vanir killed the smart guy (Mimir) and sent his head back to the Aesir.

Odin preserved Mimir’s head and often consulted that zombie head for wisdom and advice.

In the myth’s Mimir’s head is typically found at or near Mimir’s Well…which the sources might conflate with Urdabrunnar. In this chapter we see that the waters in the pool within Mimir’s glade are the same as those feeding Urdabrunnar…which is why Odin and Frigg are both worried about that spirit attacking again.

Next week, we’re back with Odin.

Until then, if you have the time and inclination, please rate and/or review the podcast — that helps boost the show’s visibility. As does sharing it.
  
As always, I’m going to read from both the Bellows and Larrington translations of the Havamal, the sayings of the High One, Odin himself.

Bellows, Verse 53

A little sand has a little sea,
And small are the minds of men;
Though all men are not equal in wisdom,
Yet half-wise only are all.

Larrington, Verse 53
Of small sands, of small seas, 
small are the minds of men; 
thus all men aren’t equally wise: 
half wise, half not, everywhere.

This is another stanza where the meaning's obscure.

Kodratoff in his commentary provides the following explanation, which I've distilled.

Because you can see the entire shore, you know the body of water is small -- a pond or small lake, for example.

Similarly, human beings are equally small b/c Odin, as a god, can see them in their entirety.

But Odin acknowledges that some people are wiser than others. In his estimation, maybe half of humans will acquire wisdom during their lives. The other half will stay "small minded" -- like the small-shored pond -- during their lives.

Based on what we see happening in the world today, I think Odin's optimistic.

Thanks for listening.