INTRO
 
Welcome to CHAPTER 55 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 Hodr. Last time we were with him, he had enjoyed his first night outside the way house where he lives with his girlfriend, Alara. He is visited by Geri, one of Odin’s wolves, who had brought a fresh fruit from Yggdrasil’s boughs. Hodr was strongly temped to eat of the fruit but smoke blown into his face discouraged him. He appears to be faced with a choice.

Chapter Fifty-Five
Hodr
“Again, I simply cannot apologize enough for the injuries my horse caused,” Lopt said in a voice that made Hodr’s skin crawl. “I am hugely relieved to see you up and about.”
Hodr shifted in his chair, his fingers tapping the cool sides of his stoneware cup. Behind him, Alara’s way house was in full flow for the evening. Many traders were bustling through Ifington, trying to finish one last trip to Gladsheim before Midwinter or get home before the bad weather set in. And if the tickle in his nose was any guide, they were right to rush.
“It was an accident,” Hodr said. “Had I been paying more attention, I would’ve heard the warnings sooner.”
“Maybe, maybe,” Lopt said. “Still, I regret it, particularly since it happened to you.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.” He hoped the man wasn’t about to say what he dreaded might be coming. He heard Lopt edge closer.
“You’re Jarl Hodr, hero of the Old Bridge.”
How had this smith recognized him? He shook his head slowly. “Named for him. But I’m not him. I’m far too young.”
“I heard the story from my father who had it from his older brother who was there, in the very battle that saved this city. You absolutely fit the description.” Lopt edged closer still, and when he spoke, his voice was hard for even Hodr to hear. “Hodr, son of Odin, held the bridge alone against a warband of Jotunn reinforcements. Alone! He didn’t fall even when a snow bear spat its venom into his eyes, searing them from his head. Only when he had killed the beast, with hands as strong as the Thunderer’s, did he fall.”
Holding a forced smile, Hodr cocked his head to listen for any murmurs from the crowd behind him—whispers that might suggest Lopt had been overheard. “I’m not him,” Hodr said. Not anymore. He was Hodr the Blind. Hodr the Wanderer. Hodr the Outcast. He could no more wield a spear and stand in the wall than he could dodge a wild horse. But even as he thought it, the wiser part of his mind objected.
He’d left Gladsheim angry, jealous, and ashamed. And now that he was here in Ifington with Alara, he was becoming Hodr the Happy.
Lopt’s fingers drummed an odd rhythm on the table. “Your secret is safe with me, Jarl.”
Hodr leaned in. “Don’t use that title. It’s not mine.”
“Only because you walked away from it, or so the stories say.”
“I am not him.” His whisper cut through the laughter and conversation surrounding their table. “And why would it matter if I was? Why is it important? Jarl Hodr, if he exists, is not important.”
“Not important?” Lopt barked a short laugh. “If it wasn’t for him, Ifington would probably be a Jotunn stronghold now. Again. No, his sacrifice—your sacrifice—helped make this town what it is today.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Lopt rapped the table once. “No, it’s not. Everything comes down to the actions of a few people who are in the right place at the right time. The Norns scratch and paint the doom of all into Yggdrasil’s bark—yours, mine... everyone’s.”
Hodr shook his head. “The Aesir make their own doom.”
Lopt grabbed his elbow, his hand rough and strong, and gave a warm squeeze. “Only a son of Odin would say that. So I am right?”
A warm flush spread up from where Lopt grabbed him. Hodr frowned it away and pulled his arm back. “Lower your voice, smith.”
“Of course, Jarl, of course,” Lopt said, delight shining in his voice. “And may I say it’s an honor to meet you.”
“An honor to meet a maimed warrior whose name has withered in the shadows cast by his brothers?” Hodr sniffed. “The jarl I was no longer exists. I’m simply blind Hodr. Just a man. It’s taken me a lifetime to make my peace with it. But I have, and now I’m ready to reforge my name just as you might a broken blade.”
Alara’s laughter floated above the rougher sounds of the traders. He smiled as he heard it realizing, in that instant of her mirth, that what he’d said was true.
“I can see that, Jarl—”
Hodr raised a finger.
“Apologies,” Lopt said, his voice heavy with respect, like an overladen cart. “It’s clear to me that you have. I’m honored to have met you. I wish you continued long life and every happiness.”
Hodr’s smile faded. He followed the sound of Alara’s voice around the wide hall as she moved among the traders, laughing with them while delivering food and drink.
“Did I say something wrong?” Lopt asked. “If I caused offense...”
“It’s nothing,” Hodr said with a shake of his head. His thoughts fled to the heavy, round burden in his rucksack. He hadn’t eaten any of it, nor had he mentioned it to Alara.
“My wife and I have two boys,” Lopt said. “Honestly, I’m surprised she hasn’t divorced me by now, what with the time I spend away or in the forge banging away at metals. Woodworking too, these days, as my strength’s begun fading. But I’ve taught my sons the trade I learned, so that, at least, will continue. Hopefully, I’ve driven all the flaws I see in me out of them, but who knows what new ones I’ve hammered in, eh?”
Hodr nodded, but his mouth watered at the thought of the fruit’s skin popping as he bit into it.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Jarl, but are you two—you and the mistress here—you know...”
“Married?” Hodr shook his head.
“You seem happy with her,” the smith said, as if he hadn’t heard, “and I’m sure her father would be thrilled to have her marry so well—”
Hodr raised a hand, cutting off the smith’s words. He shifted slightly so he faced Lopt.
As if anticipating a rebuke, Lopt said, “Jarl, if I went too far, let me—”
Hodr shook his head. “It’s not that simple. For one thing, she doesn’t have any family except her brother.”
“I see, but that doesn’t necessarily complicate a marriage. If I may, Jarl, do you get along well with the brother?”
The smith squeezed Hodr’s forearm, his hand warm and strong, in a companionable gesture as he asked, in a hushed voice, “And does he know who you are?”
Hodr flushed as he remembered the strength that had burned through him as he fought the Jotunn vanguard to a standstill on the Old Bridge. He’d held the bridge alone with a spear till it had shattered, and then axe and shield until they, too, had broken—
His eyes burned anew as the sight in his mind’s eyes shifted to the snow bear and its spit, that thick blob of green-black venom as it seemed to take forever before it splattered across his broken shield and then burned through it. That shield, broken though it was, had saved his life…and ruined it as much as the venom that had eaten his eyes and ravaged his face. 
A sudden need for the taste of Yggdrasil’s fruit rushed through him. His stomach gurgled and his mouth watered. He picked up a cup and turned toward the kegs, breaking contact with the smith’s hand, and poured himself a mouthful of the sweeter of the ales. He drank it down quickly and wiped his mouth with the back of one shaking hand.
“Ja—your pardon—Hodr, are you all right?”
He wiped sweat from his face. “Of course. Just thirsty. Can I pour you another? On me.”
“Don’t mind if I do. Thank you, my friend.”
Hodr listened for the scrape of Lopt’s cup on the table, picked it up and filled it. He ignored the sweat dampening his lower back and armpits. He daubed at his upper lip and forehead with his sleeve.
“It has grown warm in here,” Lopt said. “Feels like my forge right before I really get to work.”
The smith took a loud sip from his fresh cup. “If I may, in all the many winters I’ve stayed at this way house, I can’t say I’ve ever seen the mistress as happy as these last few. Have you thought about putting yourself forward to the brother? I bet he approves.”
“It’s not that simple,” Hodr repeated.
“What could be simpler? You like her, she likes—”
He made his tone sharp and struck at the humor in Lopt’s voice. “How old am I, Lopt?”
Lopt was quiet for a long moment. “I see what you mean, Jarl.”
He leaned toward the smith. “Do you? I held the Old Bridge before it was called ‘old’ – and it was dozens more years before there was a New Bridge. And that alone was probably twenty winters before you were born. Nothing is simple for me or my family.”
Lopt said nothing. He could barely hear the smith breathing above the anger pounding in his ears. He might curse Rán for taking his eyes, but her husband had strengthened his other senses.
“Apparently I have a gift for offending you,” Lopt finally said. “Which is the opposite of my intent, especially since I’ve already caused you much injury. But if you’d allow one further piece of unasked for advice—no matter how strong the magic that keeps you young, you’re still a man, with a man’s needs and a man’s desire to have his name remembered.”
The smith tapped the table twice and stepped away. Alara’s sweet voice rose above the crowd’s din and the pounding anger in his ears. She bid Lopt a good night.
Did he still wish to be remembered?
In a quiet voice, Hodr said, “Yes, I think so.”

OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 55 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it.

Hodr spoke with the smith Lopt — that was the dude whose horse trampled Hodr. Lopt apologized and it seems he figured out that Hodr was the original Hodr — defender of the Old Bridge. This interaction awakened memories in Hodr of the man he’d been and brought this choice he appears faced with into focus.

Next week, we’re back with Vidar.

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 55

A measure of wisdom each man shall have,
But never too much let him know;
For the wise man's heart is seldom happy,
If wisdom too great he has won.

Larrington, Verse 55
Averagely wise a man ought to be, never too wise;
for a wise man’s heart is seldom cheerful, if he who owns it is too wise.

Again, an awkward translation from Larrington. Usually Bellows is the more challenging one simply b/c he uses older language and more poetic phrasings.

Kodratoff in his much more literal translation has this:

Not over-much wise
should be each human being, never (striving) towards wisdom;
because the heart of the wise man becomes seldom merry
if he is ‘on’ (or ‘in’) all-wisdom.

Stanza 53 begins a sequence in which Odin speaks about people being wise, acquiring wisdom and how wise they should strive to become. Stanza 56 concludes the sequence, so I’ll discuss all this then but I’ll tease it now — for me, these three stanzas were the key to unlocking Odin’s character and motivations, but they’re not him “in the moment” so to speak, but him looking back on his long life and giving his advice, based on his experiences, to whoever hears his voice or reads his words.

Thanks for listening.