INTRO
 
Welcome to CHAPTER 57 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.

Frigg and Odin discovered that the "heart" of Baldr's mistletoe had been cut out and removed. When Baldr was born, Frigg and Odin had placed Baldr's spirit into that mistletoe by means of an ancient Jotunn blood magic. They did this because the Norns had told Odin that Baldr would die. By placing Baldr's spirit in the mistletoe, they made him impervious to all harm. Odin's hypothesis is that Baldr is "dying" at night b/c the mistletoe has been messed with. They don't know who did it or why, which is why Frigg and Odin rode down to visit Mimir.

Mimir, it turns out, wasn't all there -- and not just b/c he's just a head w/o a body. Odin followed Mimir's trail into the spirit realm where he found Mimir held prisoner. Odin freed Mimir but not without getting wounded.

While this was going on, Frigg was basically twiddling her thumbs and dreaming of the day she and Odin can leave Gladsheim behind and sail off into the sunset. This is where we find her.

Chapter Fifty-Seven
Frigg
At a thud like a sack of barley hitting the ground, Frigg’s gaze snapped down from the distant canopy of stars above Mimir’s glade. Her husband lay on the ground.
The whites of Mimir’s eyes rolled away, replaced by his familiar, sharp gray eyes. In a hoarse, urgent voice, Mimir said, “Quick, help him.”
She pushed herself up and stumbled toward Odin. He lay on his side, water from Mimir’s little waterfall splashing against him.
“Check his head,” Mimir said.
She grabbed Odin’s shoulder and rolled him gently toward her. He flopped over limply. One side of his face was a bleeding ruin.
She fought down the shock—he’d said it could be dangerous—but she hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t been so injured since...several nights ago when he’d fought the spirit from the well.
“Sword wound,” Mimir said. “Draugr’s bone weapon. The thing was deadly. Odin was lucky.”
She grabbed Odin under the armpits and, grunting with the effort, dragged him out from under Mimir. She propped his head up on his discarded cloak.
“Frigg, cut some rags and bring them to me,” Mimir said. “Quickly.”
Heart pounding from hauling Odin the short distance, she glanced back toward the bubbling pool even as she slipped her slender knife from its sheath. What could she do if that spirit rose now or sent the draugr after her? She didn’t even know if that was possible. And why had Odin fought draugr? She cut off the sleeves of her dress, the wet fabric twisting and bunching under the knife.
“Good. Come here, but get more cloth first,” Mimir said. Then he opened wide to let water pool in his mouth.
The bottom third of her dark red dress fell victim to her knife’s bright, narrow blade. When she’d torn it free, she brought all the rags to Mimir. A smell like burning pine and stewing apples assaulted her nose, making her want to sneeze.
Not sure what to do, she lifted her hands toward Mimir’s wet, withered skin, which was entirely covered in fine runes of varying sizes. His thick gray hair was plastered against his skull. He looked right at her, winked, and then spat the water onto the proffered cloth.
She recoiled, anger bubbling up. Even in a time like this, Mimir was disgusting.
“Oh, stop it. It’s the fastest way to transfer some of the effect of the charms keeping me alive to the rag. Hold that cloth higher.” Then his mouth snapped shut, and after a moment, he spat again.
Rags drenched, she stepped back to Odin and began cleaning the gore from his face. He moaned quietly, his hands flexing and twitching each time she gently pressed around his cheek and eye, then moving up to wipe around the wound’s raw edges.
Gradually, she revealed his forehead’s ruin. He’d been cut to the bone, and it looked like his skull was itself scored, maybe even broken. His skin was swollen and bruised; blood flowed freely. She packed the wet cloth against the wound and applied pressure.
“How bad is it?” Mimir asked.
“Pretty bad. What happened?”
“A draugr stabbed him in the face.”
She threw an angry glance at him.
He blinked. “Oh.” He quirked his lips, which she realized was his version of shrugging. “It was a trap. Both for me and him. I suppose I was the bait.”
She wiped her red, wet hands on her dress, picked up her slender-bladed knife and cut more cloth from her dress’s shrinking hem. She sheathed her knife, undid her belt, whipped it through the sheath’s loops, and then dropped both belt and blade to the ground. She gathered the fresh rags in her hands and stepped back to Mimir. “More water.”
Moments later, she was back at Odin’s side, removing the bloodied compresses and tossing them into the stream below Mimir. She set the new ones in place, snatched up her belt, and ran it around his head, cinching the compresses against his wound.
“Looking any better?” Mimir asked.
She laughed, short and sharp. “Better? I suppose. The bleeding and swelling have slowed, but the bone feels broken. I need to get him to Baldr.”
“You’re on your own there,” Mimir said.
Frigg threw another angry glare at him.
“What? How am I supposed to help?”
Of course he couldn’t. And she couldn’t move Odin alone. “How did this even happen? You were both spirits.”
“What happens to the spirit happens to the flesh,” Mimir said, as if that explained everything.
She sighed and rubbed her eyes, shifting so she sat cross-legged to ease the growing ache in her knees.
“He fought draugr, like I said. And they were all wielding bone blades. When made right, those can cut spirit as easily as flesh.”
She opened her eyes and looked at Mimir. “None of this makes any sense. Why were you captured? By whom? Where were you held? And why were draugr there?”
“I can’t answer all of that for certain,” he said, blinking to clear streaming water from his eyes. “But I know where I was.”
“And where was that?”
Odin groaned and tried to sit up as he woke.
She put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Lay still.”
Odin moved his head slightly and winced, lids drooping back down again.
“Help me lean against the root.” He pressed his hands into the wet, flattened grasses around them. He pushed himself up, trying to hold his head steady and grimacing as he did, his face grayish green.
She frowned but helped him move backward. His face grew grayer with every heartbeat, even as the rags tied to his head reddened. She ran a hand tenderly across his dark hair.
Once he was settled, she said, “Let me change those rags out now. You’re not looking well. I think that sword cracked your skull.”
He reached up and touched the rags around his head. “These were soaked in the waters?”
She nodded.
“Apparently, the healing charms I cut into Mimir’s flesh can be transferred to others. At least somewhat.”
“And they’d probably work better if you’d be still,” she said.
He gave a small shrug of assent and winced. “So, Uncle, Angrboda’s house?”
“Why not wait a bit until some color comes back into your face? You look more like your uncle than you should,” she said, pressing gently down on his shoulder.
Mimir sighed. “Angrboda’s house.”

***

Frigg hugged her knees. Angrboda had been Loki’s first wife. They’d had three children, all of whom had been banished from Gladsheim because of a doom foreseen by the Norns. After that exile, Angrboda had declared herself divorced from Loki and vanished deep into the Iron Wood. After a little while, perhaps ten years, she’d died. It was one of those topics that was never mentioned.
“So, you were trapped in Angrboda’s house?”
Odin had slipped back into unconsciousness. His color had improved to a yellowish gray and his lips were a bloodless line. Perhaps she should just try to fetch Sleipnir now. It’s a good thing they’d brought the big mare rather than simply flown down here as they often did.
“Indeed. It was a clever trap, first for me and then for him,” Mimir said.
She looked up at Mimir. “Set by whom? Was it that thing that attacked Odin before?”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to. Odin didn’t have a chance to explain. The draugr attacked right after he found me. What attacked Odin?”
She nodded and laid a hand on Odin’s cheek. “Before Ithavoll, several nights ago, he rode down alone to first speak with the Norns—”
“And wasted his time, right?”
She nodded again. “He said he stared down into Urdr’s well. Something came up—I saw it—and he said, Odin I mean, said that it had lured him…his spirit…down into the well. But Odin resisted and turned back. That’s when whatever is below us attacked him. Nearly killed him.”
Mimir pursed his lips. “Aha, that’s interesting. There is a dark place underneath us into which Yggdrasil extends her roots. Or maybe it exists because of Yggdrasil’s roots. Either way, it’s there. And it’s not a place I go. Not anymore.”
“But something does live down there?” She hugged herself and glanced back over one shoulder at the bubbling pool, as if the very thing they were talking about would choose right then to appear.
“Yes. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve seen its effects on Yggdrasil. Rot and decay have spread throughout her trunk and branches. Maybe it’s that thing below, or maybe it’s something else. I can’t say for certain because—like my nephew who is, apparently, smarter than he looks—I’ve always fled when I sensed it stalking me.”
“So is this thing below the one threatening Baldr? The Norns told us once, told Odin—”
“I know what they told him. I believe the gift you and Odin gave to Baldr at his birth prevented the death they foresaw. It also probably caused Hodr’s blinding, but—”
His words hit her like Thor’s hammer. She and Odin had caused Hodr’s blinding?
“Stop, Mimir. What do you mean?”
He flashed a quick grin. “Baldr should have died when that snow bear spat venom on him. It was a matron. It would’ve killed any one of us.”
“But Baldr didn’t die because we protected him.”
“And where did that stream of venom go?”
Right into Hodr’s face and burned his eyes from his head. Guilt leaped over the gunwales of her grief.
She had done it. She had saved Baldr only to blind Hodr.
“You couldn’t have known, Frigg. And it’s just an idea that we can’t prove. Maybe Hodr would’ve been blinded in some other way, if it was his doom to be blinded. But never mind me, I shouldn’t have even said anything.”
Never mind? She stared down at her hands, stained with Odin’s blood. No, she couldn’t have known—unless she had thought to ask what else would happen because of her choices. Unlike the Norns she could only glimpse the future. If she could see more, though, maybe she could have…. No, that wasn’t true. She’d tried to change the dooms she’d foreseen, but those she’d sought to help had still died in the manner she’d foreseen. Unless, it was her choices, her actions, that had set those dooms in motion.
“No,” she said, “I don’t believe that. I won’t believe it.”
“What’s that?” Mimir asked. 
“You’re saying that our choices don’t matter.”
“No, Frigg,” Mimir said, a sad expression on his wet face. “I’m saying that we might not have any choice at all.”
If that were true, then she wasn’t responsible for Hodr’s blinding. But then she also wasn’t responsible for anything good, either. She couldn’t believe that. She would not. Odin wouldn’t, either.
Nor did dwelling on any of it do any good. She had to focus on problems she might be able to fix. If that were possible.
“So, Mimir, tell me again how you got trapped in Angrboda’s house.”
A light smile that stopped just short of mocking her graced his lips. She fought the urge to knock his head into the pool.
“Black worms erupted from the ground and attacked me—simple to avoid, but they were the distraction. The real threat was a warped bit of root. The worms herded me, and before I realized what was happening, the roots peeled off the ground and ceiling and tangled around me.”
“And you couldn’t leave?”
“No. The tree’s roots were magicked. They kept me from leaving,” he said. “And every night, the draugr emerged. The first few nights they tried to kill me, but the worms kept them away. Then they stopped.”
“I’m confused. The worms and roots were the trap? Or the draugr?”
“I think the draugr were just there, maybe part of Angrboda’s coven. The trap for me was certainly the worms and the roots. Regardless, I was held prisoner before a set of shelves that Angrboda or maybe one of her witches had cut into the wall.”
This was getting harder to follow by the moment. “Shelves? Mimir, I don’t see how—”
“There were six recessed shelves, each with a different symbol carved in oak,” he continued, ignoring her. “The first was a wolf sitting upright. The second was a sleeping serpent coiled around itself. The third was a woman, judging by its shapeliness.”
That was obvious enough. “So, carvings of Angrboda’s three children?”
“Yes, and believe me, I had plenty of time to inspect them. Though I do wonder how long I was there.” He rolled his eyes and under his breath said, “Not that it matters, since this is the joy I return to.”
She held up a hand. “So you went looking for the origin of Baldr’s dreams and ended up trapped inside Angrboda’s house?”
“Yes.”
“I still don’t understand.” Angrboda had every reason to hate Odin. But Baldr? Baldr had still been in her belly when Angrboda’s children had been exiled. If Angrboda were somehow involved or behind it all—and she was dead now—then that begged the question: What role had Loki played? He’d submitted to the exile of his children, but only after Odin had made sure that Loki heard the prophecy from the Norns’ lips.
“I don’t either, yet, but if you’d allow me to finish?”
“Of course, Uncle. My apologies.”
“Thank you. Now there were several other carvings, too. One was a cauldron. I’m guessing it was the Roaring Cauldron itself since, well, I don’t see why a regular pot would be included in a ritual, if that’s what this was, except if one—”
“Uncle….”
Mimir cleared his throat. “Of course. On the top left shelf rested a finely woven net—the only one that wasn’t a carving—and nets are usually one of Rán’s symbol. The top right carving looked like a fang. I don’t think it was a wolf fang, since Fenrir was already represented, nor was it her other son, Jorm, for the same reason. Probably.”
“So the fang refers to something else, then?” she asked. “And is there a reason why you’re telling me all this?”
“Because I think it was a spell, focused by, empowered by, the symbols and what they represent,” he said, triumph in his voice.
Her stomach clenched. Was this, then, the origin of Baldr’s dreams? Angrboda was behind it all? She’d certainly hated Odin enough, but the timing was all wrong. Not only was Angrboda a hundred winters dead, but Baldr’s mistletoe had been recently cut.
“Was there any mistletoe in this shrine?”
“Not that I saw,” Mimir said. “Why do you ask?”
“Because the heart of Baldr’s mistletoe had been cut out. Recently. We discovered it right before we rode down to see you. Odin said that was why Baldr was having those dreams.”
Mimir pursed his lips and closed his eyes. She averted her gaze from the livid red runes cut into his eyelids. “No, I don’t recall any mistletoe. It didn’t look like anyone had even been in the longhouse—or that section of it, at least—for a very long time.”
“You’re sure you didn’t see any?”
“Yes. I agree with Odin—these episodes of Baldr’s are likely a result of his mistletoe being cut. Whoever did it physically removed a large portion of his spirit. That he’s still alive suggests they haven’t destroyed it.”
She heard the unspoken ‘yet’ in his tone.
Then Mimir carried on as if he hadn’t just contemplated the death of her son. “No, I believe I was looking at an old spell. And at the center of the design, where you put the spell’s target, was an arm ring of gold. It was dusty and begrimed, but I recognized it. I’m sure you will, too. One end had a pair of raven heads, and the other—”
“A pair of wolf heads.” She glanced down at Odin’s right wrist even as her fingers traced the heavy coil of gold that looped around her own arm. “Draupnir?”
“Draupnir.”
Why would Angrboda use Draupnir to target the spell? All the jarls wore a copy of Draupnir as both a mark of their loyalty to the Alfather and their status. Angrboda had worn one herself, before she’d flung it at Odin.
“Wouldn’t a charm with Draupnir as its focus target everyone wearing the ring? And what was the spell supposed to do?”
“I don’t know, and yes,” Mimir said. “In reverse order. The fang statue was in the spot where you’d place the spirit being entreated. The rest of the carvings were to ground the caster, to show their reason for making contact, so to speak, and provide additional power, beyond whatever witchthread the witch used to create the spell in the first place. Figuring out what that fang symbolizes is the first step in puzzling out the spell’s effect.”
“And how are we supposed to do that?”
Odin spoke, his voice a startling, angry rasp. “I’m going to drag Angrboda’s spirit out of the Gap and ask her.”

***

Frigg tightened her belt around the freshly wetted rags and brushed her hand across her husband’s cheek. Then she leaned in, kissed him, and made to stand. “I’ll go get Sleipnir now.”
“How’s it look?” he asked, his voice tight with restrained anger.
It was no wonder he was angry. If Angrboda were involved somehow in all of this, what did that say about Loki? It certainly had looked as if he’d put his past behind him by marrying Sigyn and having children with her, but Loki was as inscrutable as her husband.
“Better, but I think these waters have done about all they can,” she said. She waggled her fingers, miming what he did while singing one of his charms. “Couldn’t you just...”
“Heal myself?” He shook his head and tapped his satchel. “I could, but I used the last of my power on Baldr this morning.”
“You don’t carry extra spindles?”
“I do, but I used them all, first getting to Vidar and saving him, then saving Baldr.” He opened his eyes and grinned weakly. “It’s been a busy week.”
True enough. Nor was she fooled by his grin. The wicked glimmer of anger was too visible in his eyes.
He dug in his satchel, withdrew the shaper, and set it in her hands. “I’ve called to Sleipnir. She’ll be right outside this glade.”
“You’ll be all right here while I do that?”
“What could go wrong?” He gestured at Mimir. “Besides, I have my uncle to watch over me.”
She kissed him again, impatient to get moving now that he was awake again. “All right. Just rest. I’ll be back shortly.”
He smiled again and closed his eyes. “Be sure to hold the shaper high when you bring Sleipnir through. And push hard against the root. The tree pushes back.”
Doesn’t everything?

OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 57 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it.

Frigg tended to Odin’s head wound while Mimir expounded on some weird ritual that was conducted at Angrboda’s house. Frigg wondered if the ritual had to do with Baldr’s issue, but Mimir thinks the two things are unrelated. Frigg also thought that if Angrboda was involved then maybe Loki was, too. 

Odin woke up during this exchange and said that he would find out — by raising Angrboda from the dead.

Frigg then left to bring Sleipnir so that she could get Odin back up to Gladsheim where Baldr could tend to Odin’s wounds.

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 57

A brand from a brand is kindled and burned,
And fire from fire begotten;
And man by his speech is known to men,
And the stupid by their stillness.

Note that a “brand” is an old timey word for a torch…the kind that burns, not a flashlight like those wacky British people say.

Larrington, Verse 57
One brand takes fire from another, until it is consumed, a flame’s kindled by flame;
one man becomes clever by talking with another,
but foolish through being reserved.

Kodratoff disagrees with how Bellows and Larrington translated the last two stanzas. 

His translation is as follows:

A brand ignites another one until it burns out and a flame kindles another one.
A human being teaches how to speak to another human being, but self- conceit teaches nothing but loneliness and sulkiness.

He goes into a discussion that basically claims “stupid” or “foolish” is incorrect. He prefers “self-conceit” but also says that arrogance could be another way to translate the Old Norse word “dul.” 

As I am not an ON scholar, I cannot comment.

But I can offer an alternative interpretation. People learn from each other. This who are so arrogant, or self-conceited enough to think they know everything don’t feel the need to engage with others in discourse.

I don’t know if that explanation’s any better than the others, but again, Odin seems to have seen through to the spirit of this age in which we live.

Thanks for listening.