Welcome to CHAPTER 78 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 who, the last time we saw him, had taken the shape of a dead man named Wayfarer. Odin took this disguise so that the dead witch Angrboda, whom he summoned, would not recognize him — because she hates Odin for what he did to her and her children. Odin wants to speak with Angrboda because he believes she might know and perhaps be directly involved in what is happening to Baldr. Remember that Baldr cannot be hurt because his spirit was placed in mistletoe and hidden. But, someone had found that mistletoe and cut out its heart which is why Baldr is having those deathly dreams. Frigg is also having visions of a dead Baldr speaking to her from a burning ship. 

In the last chapter, the Wayfarer and Yelena struck a deal — he would tell her the story of his death. In return, she would truthfully answer his questions regarding Baldr.

Let’s rejoin them now.

Chapter Seventy-Eight
Odin
A faint smile lurked in the corners of the witch’s eyes. The silence grew bowstring-taut between them. She seemed to savor it. Máni had slipped below the western sea; Sól’s fingertips brushed the eastern sky.
The Wayfarer broke the silence. “With respect, great lady, you know the power of the bargain we made. I would prefer you speak freely, but if you force my hand I will compel you.”
“Oh, I’ll speak, Wayfarer. I’m just wondering, do you truly want to know what I know?”
“What I want has nothing to do with it. The Valfather bade me ask—and return with answers.”
The witch smoothed her fine black hair, caught it up in the circle of thumb and forefinger and draped it over one shoulder. She began to plait its length.
The gesture was so like that of a living woman that the Wayfarer chose to wait for Angrboda to continue. Odin’s mind, submerged beneath the Wayfarer’s ocean of memories swam upward, a dead-eyed wolf of the sea.
As dawn’s reddish rays clawed their way through the sickly trees behind the witch. Her sharp gaze seemed to pierce the veil of the Wayfarer’s memories and stare into those dead black eyes beneath them.
She finished her braid, smoothed her dress, and clasped her hands together. “Know my words as true, Wayfarer, for our bargain compels it. Gjoll’s mistress prepares a seat of honor for Baldr.”
Odin, that dead-eyed sea-wolf beneath the Wayfarer’s memories thrashed as if struck by a harpoon. The Wayfarer himself couldn’t help but gape and stumble backward.
“Oh, yes, Wayfarer,” Angrboda continued, emphasizing his name, even as she drifted closer to the barrier that had flared when she had tested it before. A hand’s breadth away, she said, “The mead here is brewed for Baldr. Hel prepares a welcoming feast. The long benches have been dragged into her drab hall, now made bright with rings of gold and silver. She adds a tall chair atop her own platform to honor Ygg’s bright, beautiful son. Eljudnir will, for a time, be warmed with gold’s yellow glow.”
Lit by the red dawn, her smile reminded the Wayfarer of the bloody froth that lingered on the ocean after those scaly-backed monsters had eaten his shipmates. As if she could sense the turmoil within him, her smile widened.
“That’s not possible,” the Wayfarer said. “All know that bright Baldr cannot be harmed.”
She laughed. “Of course it’s possible. All things die. Aesir. Jotunn. Everyone and everything eventually sets sail upon the Gjoll.”
The Wayfarer brandished his staff as if it were a spear. Golden flames erupted from its tip. “How? How does the Valfather’s son die?”
“A twig.” She giggled. Her eyes lingered on the staff just as the smile lingered on her face. “The merest branch cut from the golden bough. Far-famed will that branch become.”
The Wayfarer shook his head. “What? You speak in riddles, witch.”
But Odin knew exactly what Angrboda meant. He swam higher till the Wayfarer himself was little more than a threadbare sail. Odin urged the Wayfarer to say, “But who? Who would kill Baldr? Who wants him dead?”
“Oh come now, father of magic, I know you,” Angrboda said. “I can sense you there below the surface of this dead wayfarer’s memories. Clever, father of the slain—and it might have worked on some witch who hated you less. But show yourself, and let’s end this game, for unwilling have I spoken. I would again be still.”
Odin, the dead-eyed wolf of the sea flexed his tail and broached the surface of the Wayfarer’s memories. Odin stepped from the Wayfarer’s guise as one might step from shadow into light. The dead man’s ragged clothes and cloak fell away as Odin’s leathers and dark blue cloak reappeared. He kept only the broad-brimmed hat.
Back to the ship of the dead, Wayfarer. You served me well, and I will reward you for it.
Golden fire burned away the rude staff the Wayfarer had held, and Gungnir emerged. Odin drove the spear into the barren soil. Golden fire kindled in the grasses and raced out to find and merge with the patterns and runes he had carved earlier.
Angrboda flinched within the burning square. Her gaze darted from corner to corner, rune to rune. She had nowhere to go.
“And I know you, Angrboda, mother of three monsters,” he said in a voice as hot as the flames he’d summoned. “I seek from you all the answers to my questions. Tell me this, who wields the branch? Who kills my son? Is it your husband?”
“Unwilling have I spoken. I would again be still.” She set her jaw and glared defiantly at him. Dawn’s red light pooled atop the hill’s bare crown.
“You will speak, Angrboda! You will answer all my questions!” He raised Gungnir, and the golden flames tightened around Angrboda.
She squirmed from the heat, clutching herself tight. “Unwilling have I spoken. I would again be still.”
He lowered Gungnir’s blade toward her, and the golden flames embraced her like a lover. She collapsed, screaming, a writhing tangle of spectral limbs.
“Does Loki kill my son?” he thundered. “Speak, witch, and the agony ends.”
He let her burn for the space of nine heartbeats. Her shrieks reverberated atop the bare hill. Then he grounded Gungnir, and the golden flames retreated to circle like wolves around her.
Angrboda gasped and hunched in on herself, clutching her tattered clothing to her along with the swirling mists. She pushed herself up and met Odin’s eye. Her voice was husky with pain. “Your eldest son by Frigg wields the far-famed branch.”
Odin staggered away from the specter and the golden fire. He stared unseeing at the tops of the trees, at the rainswept, distant mountains to the north. His eyes moved westward toward the windswept sea, whitecaps just visible—that same sea over which the ship of the dead sailed.
Hodr would kill Baldr?
She turned away, cupping bare elbows in trembling fingers. The mists flowed in toward her. Her dead flesh, blackened from the flames, began knitting itself back together. “Unwilling have I spoken. I would again be still.”
Her words barely registered. Hodr would kill his brother? It couldn’t be true—must not be true. Why would he kill his brother? Because Baldr was protected and he was not? Because he lost his eyes yet Baldr lost nothing? How had he even learned Baldr’s secret? No one knew it except Frigg and himself.
No, Angrboda had to be lying. He spun back and lowered Gungnir. The flames rushed in, ravenous wolves.
Her screams echoed as she thrashed and burned.
“Tell me the truth, witch!”
He withdrew the predatory golden flames and she lay still, breathing heavily among the tendrils of mist that wriggled across the blackened circle.
She pushed herself up on scorched limbs. The morning mist slithered toward her; her scorched flesh grew whole. Her dress, what was left of it, shifted like a limp sail. Head lowered, her voice in tatters, she whispered, “Unwillingly have I spoken, Ygg, but every word of it was true. You know the power both of your summoning and our bargain.”
She met his gaze. “And know that I saw through your disguise almost immediately. Why do you think I agreed to hearing your Wayfarer’s tale? I wanted you to know in this moment that my words were true—were twice true. Three times true.”
He said nothing. Even if she was lying about seeing through his disguise, his power and their agreement ensured anything she said had to be true. She’d spoken cryptically, nastily, but her meaning was clear.
Hodr would kill Baldr.
He stared unseeing at the mist that continued to flow toward Angrboda, hiding her bare, burned flesh and helping it heal.
Hodr must have figured out—somehow—that the mistletoe harbored Baldr’s spirit. He also must have figured out a way to turn a fragile plant into a weapon.
But that was the how.
The why escaped him. Was it because Hodr had been blinded while his brother was spared? Or was it that Hodr resented—hated—that his father and mother preferred their firstborn over him?
Odin dismissed the golden flames and pulled his power back from the runes. “One last question before I allow you to rest, mother of grief. In your vision of what’s to come, who wins vengeance for this deed?”
Angrboda rose to her feet, clutching the remnants of her soiled, burned dress to her. Venom tinged her words. “You would hear the rest of my prophecy?”
“Of course I want to hear the rest.” How else could he stop it from occurring.
His missing eye throbbed, and something furtive danced in the edges of that eye’s sight. The eye he’d sacrificed was beginning to open.
Learn the future. Stop it. Change it. Whatever was necessary. He’d need three nights—fewer, if he pushed—to return to Gladsheim, but since he had no further need of a disguise he could call Huginn and Muninn and send them ahead to Frigg with what he’d learned. He could shout till he lost his voice—perhaps that drunk fool would hear. Either way, Frigg could protect Baldr—and send someone to Ifington to stop Hodr.
His heart began to pound again, not with fury as it had moments before, but with hope. Even so, that feeling was nearly swamped by confusion when Angrboda spoke again.
“Rind’s son—your son Vahle—at one night old will win vengeance for your dead son. He will not wash his hands nor comb his hair till he brings the slayer of Baldr to the flames.”
Odin stared at her. This was the rest? Who was Rind? He would have a son by her?
He opened his mouth to demand more, but she spoke first.
“You’ve had your prophecy, son of Burr. I will say no more. No matter what you do. Ride home now.” She drew herself up, the mist pooling about her bare feet, her eyes flashing like knives. “And be proud, Ygg, for no one shall seek me again till my lover wanders free from his bonds, and his cousins, the devourers, come to the last strife.”
Angrboda raised a hand, but not in farewell. “May your path home be long and fraught with peril, oathbreaker.”
Too late he realized what all those tendrils of mist she’d pulled in had been. Even as he raised Gungnir, a dull throbbing struck him in the head. He staggered. His hands grew heavy, as if he’d spent a day plying the oars.
He had been deceived. The mists may have healed her but she now used them for a much more terrible purpose.
A cloud passed before Sól; gloom fell like a net over the hilltop. Over his mind. A black bird in the trees squawked and clattered up into the dull air. The beat of its wings sounded like laughter.
He used Gungnir to steady himself and looked up at Angrboda. She stood, half naked, pale flesh still burned and scorched, mist pooling about her feet and flowing from her to him. She wore a look of triumphant smug hatred.
“What did you do, witch? You can’t bind me. Not in life, and certainly not in death.”
“No, I can’t—but I didn’t need to bind you, Ygg, just delay you.” A triumphant smile spread across her face.
He spoke a rune word that rumbled like distant thunder. “Back to your barrow, witch!”
She flinched and scuttled back into her dank barrow.
He looked up, seeking Sól, but she was lost behind the heavy pall of gray skies. His head throbbed, and his feet dragged in the dead grasses. White mist dragged at his boots. His shoulders hunched beneath the burden of the colorless clouds.
He leaned heavily on Gungnir. He just needed to reach Sleipnir. Then she could carry him to... to where, again? Gladsheim. Yes. Home.
Sleipnir rose like a gray cliff before him. She whinnied as he placed a hand on her neck and brought the reins back over her head.
“Let’s ride quickly, Sleipnir, back to...”
A heavy, cold rain began to fall. The man settled his broad-brimmed hat more firmly on his head, set one foot in the stirrup, and hauled himself up onto the giant horse.
The horse shook her mane and pranced. Dead grasses and white mist twined their way around her legs.
“Easy now, girl,” the man said, thumping her neck.
He clucked his heavy tongue, and the gray horse started forward, picking a muddy road through a dark forest. That was the way back to...
Where was he headed? 
Anywhere would do.
For he was a wayfarer and this gray horse, his ship.

OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 78 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it.

This scene is a continuation of my adaptation of Baldrs Draumr, one of the poems in the Poetic Edda. In that poem, a disguised Odin summons the spirit of a dead seeress and asks her questions about Baldr’s dreams — in the poem Baldr dreams that he dies: “Why baleful dreams to Baldr had come.”

So, Odin rides down to Niflhel…which is where Hel resides…to summon the dead witch’s spirit. I chose to make that witch Angrboda.

In the poem, Odin encountered Garm. He rode to the witch’s grave and “magic he spoke and mighty charms, Till spell-bound she rose, and in death she spoke:

“Here for Baldr the mead is brewed,
The shining drink, and a shield lies o'er it…”

It’s at that point in the poem that Odin, as the Wayfarer, is shocked and disturbed at what the witch tells him — so he presses her for more info.

“Who shall the bane of Baldr become,
And steal the life from Othin's son?"  

And she answers: “Hoth thither bears the far-famed branch,
He shall the bane of Baldr become,
And steal the life from Othin's son.”

Odin goes on to press her for more info, which I tried to dramatize in a cool way.

In stanza 13, the witch sees through Odin’s disguise: “Vegtam thou art not, as erstwhile I thought;
Othin thou art, the enchanter old."

It’s not clear in the poem when she knows it is Odin. So, I tried to do the same across both Ch 76 and Ch 78 by hinting that Angrboda was sensing something “off” about the Wayfarer.

In Ch 76’s commentary I’d said that the witch in the poem was not Angrboda…but I’d forgotten this line from the poem:

No wise-woman art thou, nor wisdom hast;
Of giants three the mother art thou."

The footnotes in Bellows’ translation ignore that second verse, but those three giants are likely Fenrir, Hel and Jorm. I probably didn’t reach that conclusion on my own…so I must’ve read it somewhere and I’ve forgotten where.

So that’s why Angrboda is the witch Odin summoned.

Finally, both the poem and the chapter end with Angrboda cursing Odin.

"Home ride, Othin, be ever proud;
For no one of men shall seek me more
Till Loki wanders loose from his bonds,
And to the last strife the destroyers come."

I strengthened the curse for narrative purposes…which will become apparent…while also slightly weakening the prophecy by removing Loki’s name and replacing it with “lover.”

And one final note, the word “Eljudnir” means “the one dampened by rain.” It is the name of Hel’s hall.

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.

Again, there’s some weird numbering going on across the different translations, but as I mentioned last episode, this will resolve itself soon.

Bellows, Verse 78
Cattle die, and kinsmen die,
And so one dies one's self;
One thing now that never dies,
The fame of a dead man's deeds.

Larrington, Verse 77
Cattle die, kinsmen die, 
the self must also die;
I know one thing which never dies: 
the reputation of each dead man.



Thanks for listening.