INTRO   Welcome to CHAPTER 71 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 Odin. Last time, Odin stopped beside the river of death…the Gjoll…to harvest and refine witchthread. That’s the power source for one of the types of magic he knows…seidr. Much like we found his son, Hodr, on the road…we now find Odin on the road…but a very different one. Chapter Seventy-One Odin Astride Sleipnir, Odin rode down the winding trail from the rocky heights toward the snow-covered forest below. The Gjoll wound half-seen through that forest and, eventually, into the cold, misty land where Loki’s daughter Hel had been exiled. And in that land was a bald hill where he had watched Loki raise a barrow for his wife, Angrboda. That was where he would raise the dead witch to speak with her. But for now, his eye was closed and he looked inward. Angrboda knew him, and though he would compel her speech—true words, as he’d told Frigg—the Norns also spoke true words. As did he, usually. But both he and the Norns hid meaning within those true words, as could the dead. Particularly those dead spirits who hated him. He would need a disguise. Trusting himself to Sleipnir, he stepped from his mind into a spirit-skiff that rocked beneath his weight and from the slapping waves of the misty waters. One hand on the steering oar, he leaned forward, and unfurled the sail. It dropped, banging limp against the mast. The wind picked up, stirred his cloak and then bellied the sail. Gathering way, this skiff of his mind smacked against the rushing water and threw a fine white wave. Beneath the sail, he guided the skiff toward the one longship—a dark blot beneath a white sail—that always sailed these waters. His disguise would not only have to fool the witch but Garm, too. It would be best not to let the hound’s mistress, Hel, know that he tread the shores of the Gjoll. Not that he feared her—much less a coven of witches—but why antagonize without need. His mind-skiff thumped against the longship’s tall, long side. Rope in hand, he clambered up the ship’s toenail-colored, slick side, slipped through a gap in the racked shields and dropped to the deck between two rows of dead crewmen hauling on their oars. He tied the rope off, then traced a rune on the inside of the nearest shield to mark the spot. It began to shed a faint golden light. Most of the dead men and women around him worked the ship in the finery their families had provided. Some were arrayed for battle, while others wore embroidered robes—traders, maybe, or rich farmers. They sat shoulder to shoulder with thralls clad in filthy shirts and trousers who looked as if they might have dropped dead in a field and been rolled into a pit. Most of the dead he could see were old, but he knew from experience that once he moved about the longship, he would see all ages. Some of the dead were warriors who had died upon the battlefield, armor rent and ragged, skulls split, limbs missing. Yet they, too, hauled upon their oars. He touched the foreheads of several nearby. It wasn’t the face that mattered but the thoughts and memories. He needed those to run strong and deep, like a fast river, so he could submerge his own mind beneath theirs and not be discovered. But none of these would do. Simple lives of simple people—nothing wrong with that, but he could hardly hide himself beneath their memories. Odin sidled out into the aisle between the port and steering-board side of the longship. The rows of the dead stretched fore and aft along both sides. The tree-like mast was behind him and obscured his view of the ship’s bow and the wyrm-figurehead mounted there. He held his hands out to each side, moved down a row touching his fingers to the foreheads of those in the next row. Memories mingled with his. This one died upon the gallows; this one in alley, alone, cold, and shivering. He stepped forward. This one died in a blaze of pride, blood painted across his face; this one beneath a slaver’s whip; this one because she’d lost hope. He stepped forward again. More deaths. Forward again. More deaths. This was taking too long. He had to be back and disguised before Sleipnir drew Garm’s attention. He looked over the dead as he might a battlefield, looking for that betraying glint of sunlight upon a spear. He strode through more death, just as when he’d hung himself upon Yggdrasil, pierced and screaming, and found that this place, this river upon which the dead sailed, existed. He strode on, a hundred faces behind him and a thousand or more to go. He walked on through the terrible, terrifying, sobering field of grinning death. A hat caught his eye, wide-brimmed and unusual. He remembered seeing its like among his brothers’ peoples to the west. He strode toward its wearer. The dead man’s face was deep brown even in this light, his nose broad and his lips full. His belly was split wide open. Odin touched the man’s brow. Memories of sailing across a tumultuous green sea foaming with tall, white-crested waves. The man’s ship…his ship…bucked beneath him—up, down, and sideways. In the memory, he looked over the man’s shoulder…his shoulder…and saw a black thundercloud stacked high. Dark green waves chased him. The ship ran fast, bow plunging and surging like a racing stallion’s head. Sailors clung to lashed oars and ropes. Some were aloft, trying to reef the sail so it wouldn’t split or, worse, snap the mast. This man whose memories he beheld, this wayfarer, clung to the sternpost and watched a long, sleek vessel in their wake turn broadside to the pursuing waves and founder. The Wayfarer shouted orders and flung himself against steering oar. Sleipnir’s whinny bubbled up into Odin’s awareness. He was needed. Odin sprinted forward through the man’s memories to the moment of his violent end—and reeled back in surprise. Them? How? Sleipnir whinnied again, more urgently. Odin shook himself free of the Wayfarer’s memories and then sat down into the dead man, shaping his own spirit so that it fit within the dead man’s. When he stood, he wore the dead man’s spirit as if it were his own. He’d plumb this man’s memories later but now, he must return to his body. He focused on his rune he’d drawn between the shields and drew himself toward it as he might drag himself along a length of rope. The entire distance he’d traveled aboard the ship of the dead passed by him in an instant. When he reached the golden rune, he dropped over the side into his skiff and pushed off. Again Sleipnir whinnied. He swore, exhaled, and summoned a gale that sent him careening back to the shores of his mind. *** The world rocked about Odin. He steadied himself against Sleipnir’s strong neck, arched before him like a ship’s prow. The mare stood still on the path. A hound’s baying, deep and loud, throbbed in the air. He patted Sleipnir’s neck. “It’s all right, girl. Thank you for bringing me back.” He reached into his satchel for one of his newly charged spindles. He unspooled nine arm lengths of thread, clipped it free, and flung it outward, fingers dancing. He crooned a song, pulling the dead man’s thoughts, memories, and appearance from within his mind and made them real and substantial with the witchthread he wove around himself. He also cast his net around Sleipnir so that her appearance would also change. When he had it right, he spoke a word and tied the knot. The hound bayed again, much closer now. But he and Sleipnir were hidden. With one hand, thick-veined and deep brown, he lifted the dead man’s wide-brimmed hat and ran a hand across his bare scalp. A weight of rings tugged at his ears, and they jingled as he moved. He had left the patch over his eye, thinking it might aid his disguise. He now wore a heavy, red tunic over a lighter blue shirt with yellow stitching beneath. His thick white breeches were tucked into knee-high leather boots. Sleipnir stomped in place and shook her new mane and whinnied in evident displeasure. She had shrunk in size, her eight legs blended into four. He patted her neck again. “Just a temporary change.” His voice was more melodic than his usual scratchy rumble. In the near distance, the deep-throated howl sounded again. He should have enough time for one more necessary change. He clipped free another arm’s length of thread, replaced the spindle and shears, and called Gungnir to him. He sent the thread out, fingers dancing, new voice singing. When he spoke the final word, Gungnir shimmered into a plain wooden staff. He tugged his broad-brimmed hat low over his eye, sagged in the saddle, and clucked his tongue. As Sleipnir started forward, he sank his spirit down beneath the dead man’s and let those borrowed memories float upon the surface. *** The dead man, a former sailor, stared up into the hound’s eyes that burned black with canine rage. The hound’s huge nose twitched. The slavering jaws parted, threatening with huge white teeth. The nag the sailor rode had stumbled to a halt. Only his hands, tight on the reins, kept her from bucking and panicking. It wasn’t so much the hound’s sudden appearance that stoked his own panic but the stench of old blood, black and matted, upon the hound’s chest. It roiled his stomach worse than the dead fish reek of his ship’s deck, worse than the open-gut gore of the towns he and his crew had often sacked. What kept that panic from blooming into a raging fire was a calm whisper from very deep within him. It wasn’t his own voice that whispered, though. It was another’s. Be calm. You’re a messenger. Show the token. So he did, holding up the silver token that even this hound must respect. He was proud that his hand only shook a little. Foul coppery breath wafted over him. His nag shied, but he kept her under control. The huge teeth loomed closer, rotted flesh visible in the nooks and crannies. Sharp-nailed paws dug into the road, gouging furrows in the packed dirt and small stones. This is Garm. He wards the path, but you have my token. Even as he heard those words, the disc caught the light and shone silvery. Garm drew back. He sniffed again, a small windstorm. Then as quickly as he had appeared, Garm ran down the ravine and vanished in the gloom and firs. Well done, Wayfarer, the voice whispered. The Wayfarer stood in the stirrups and peered over the trail’s edge. He could just make out the hound leaping back down the rocky slope to the low road that wound among the fir tree on the valley floor. A procession of witchlamps lined the low road that led to the bridge. Shadowy figures marched along the road. Every so often, some bundle or another would catch the witch light and gleam gold or silver—treasures laid by the wayside. These are the recently dead. You’ve nothing to fear from them nor anyone in this land, for you carry my token. Ride on. The Wayfarer tapped his heels on his nag’s sides and slapped the reins. The frightened horse refused to move, so he kicked her sides. The nag seemed inclined to buck, but instead snorted and clopped forward on the road down to the sickly trees, drab grasses and the mist-covered river. Death behind, death ahead, with me the bridge between. OUTRO Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 71 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it. In this chapter, Odin projected his spirit into the spirit realm, much like he did when he rescued his uncle Mimir, and voyaged to the ship of the dead. Those of you who know Norse myth, or who played the Legion xpac of World of Warcraft, will know the name of this ship. Since I chose not to name the ship in this book, I’ll keep that minor secret for now. Odin’s horse Sleipnir is said to know the way to Hel as well as Odin does, which is why I have him completely trusting her as goes into the spirit knowledge. Odin has more than 100 names in Norse myth. He is the god of the dead, of war, of magic, of poetry. He was called by those different names because they represent different aspects of his character. They are different personas. Obviously those personas could just be coming out of who he is, but maybe…because Odin is driven by the need to know…and because he had once sacrificed himself to himself to gain knowledge, and power, maybe he also gained power over the dead that he didn’t have before — which I hinted at in the scene. The dead know things people alive do not — both in the normal sense but also because they are, in this universe, spirits who exist outside of the normal flow of time. We know he can summon the dead back to life, indirectly, and we know that he can create the undead — his uncle Mimir — so this scene was an opportunity to show Odin entering the spirit world and find a dead spirit that he could use to take on a different persona … learn something new to him and disguise himself at the same time. That’s some of my thought process in creating this chapter. Also, Odin is often portrayed as wearing a wide-brimmed hat. So this scene is the origin story of Odin’s hat. There’s also a bit of world building; I’m trying to show that the world is much bigger than this sliver occupied by the Aesir, Jotunn and Vanir. The huge hound that confronts Odin is Garm. In Norse myth, Garm is sorta like Cerberus in Greek myth. He is described as the “hound of Hel” both in my book and in the myths. I put a little twist on Garm which isn’t revealed until the second book. Next week, we’re back with Frigg for more on the murder investigation. 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 71 The lame rides a horse, the handless is herdsman, The deaf in battle is bold; The blind man is better than one that is burned, No good can come of a corpse. Larrington, Verse 71 The lame man rides a horse, the handless man drives a herd, the deaf man fights and succeeds; to be blind is better than to be burnt: a corpse is of no use to anyone.