Welcome to CHAPTER 83 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, the son of Odin and Frigg. 

We were last with Hodr in Ch 80, which showed him arriving in Gladsheim with the smith Lopt. You’ll recall that Hodr has gone to Gladsheim to speak with Odin about two relationships: Hodr’s dalliance with Alara and the fruit of Yggdrasil, which prolongs his life.

As readers, we know several things:
1) Odin is not in Gladsheim
2) Angrboda said that Hodr would kill Baldr.

Let’s rejoin Hodr now.

You can find me online at: https://mattwritesmyths.com/ The show's public site is here: https://rss.com/podcasts/fensalirpodcast-kinsmendie/ The source for my short reading from Snorri’s Prose Edda is here: https://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/pre/pre04.htm The source for my reading from the Havamol is here:https://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/poe/poe04.htm Larrington’s translation of the Havamol can be found where books are sold online.

Chapter Eighty-Three
Hodr
With the heat of torches warming his face, Hodr stared off into the evening chill, savoring the sights granted by the spear Lopt had given him. He held a cooling horn nearly full of mulled wine. He had no taste for its heavy spices and sickly sweetness, but he kept holding it so Lopt or passing strangers wouldn’t press another into his hand.
Last night, they’d delivered the smith’s last shipment of weapons to a bored-looking Einherjar. Since morning, they’d been wandering the many streets Gladsheim had added in the fifty-odd winters he’d been gone. Not only had the lowest tier bulged past the wall like a fat man’s belly beyond his belt, but the second tier had several new districts packed with longhouses around what had become a bustling marketplace. The upper tier, where they now stood, had sprouted new buildings beneath the dominating presence of both the Great Hall and Heimdall’s tower above. 
And in his limited, dim sight, all he could really see beyond a few spear length’s distance were moving, swaying shadowy men and women who passed along the road or huddled around the warmth of the hundreds of torches that lined the roads, and the braziers and bonfires that marked nearly every intersection. A small army of thralls must be needed to keep them all blazing away. 
Lopt jabbered at him, laughed, and took a long pull from his own horn of wine. 
Hodr smiled, raised his horn in reply, and faked a sip. The sickly-sweet spicy smell turned his stomach.
It wasn’t the city he remembered. It wasn’t a city he even liked very much, not tonight, at least, not on Midwinter when the number of folk inside the walls numbered more than the fleas on wild hound’s back.
A sharp cackle from up the line drew his attention. The heat from the nearby torches grew hotter on his face. Someone staggered out of line and vomited.
The Great Hall loomed before him. This line was simply to get in. They’d stood here, shuffling slowly forward for the last eitt and more. All to get packed in and stand shoulder to shoulder with his fellow Aesir when he could simply walked up, shown his arm ring and been escorted to his father. He could’ve done so at the gate. Lopt had certainly urged him to, but he wasn’t ready.
And, if he were honest, that’s really why he stood here, half freezing half sweating. Better to present himself tomorrow, after all the attention on his brother died down.
A clump of drunken, singing shadows bobbled past, soon lost in the general, celebratory din.
Lopt staggered backward into him. Hodr fumbled to steady the sodden fool—he shouldn’t have agreed to any of this—but Lopt’s strong, hot hand gripped his elbow.
Unbidden, a sweet memory of Nanna—skin pale as cream, long golden hair tinged sunset red, and eyes the color of new grass beneath a spring snow—surfaced. There’d been a time when he and his brother had almost fought over her.
He shook the memory off as he shoved Lopt away.
“Apologies, my friend, I wasn’t looking, fool that I am,” Lopt said. “The line’s moved forward a few paces. You must not have seen—er, heard—their footsteps above all this, eh?”
Hodr shrugged. “My mind was elsewhere.”
“No doubt looking forward to seeing your father and mother again, eh? And your brother, of course.”
“Not seeing, so much.” He stepped forward before the grumbles of “Look alive there!” behind him in line became angrier.
“Ah, yes. My apologies, Jarl. You get around so well it’s easy to forget your, uh, condition.”
Aside from the cloth tied around his eyes. In a low voice, he said, “I’ve told you, don’t use my title.”
Lopt swore. “I just keep doing it, don’t I? It happens when I’m nervous. I get forgetful. My wife used to say, ‘Lopt, you’re a grown man. A successful one. No need to be nervous around folk.’ But this here situation is entirely different. Meeting the Alfather and Hár Frigg? Baldr and Nanna? And many of the other jarls, I’d expect. Who wouldn’t be nervous?”
The smith slapped his hand down on Hodr’s and squeezed warmly, giving him a friendly shake. “Maybe I’ll go get another horn of wine. I could use a little more, just to steady myself. How about you?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.”
Hodr listened to him crunch away across the packed snow. And then he focused on the chill breeze and the soft roar of the torches rather than the voices hammering all around him.
Moments later, Lopt’s footsteps returned. He drank noisily. “Do you know where they got these spices for the mulled wine? I tell you, they’re delicious.”
A man in front of them, who seemed to be waiting for someone to return, answered. “I heard the Alfather brought back a dozen packets of exotic stuff from the south.”
“That’s where Jarl Baldr’s district is, right?” Lopt said, a slight slur adding a sibilance to his words.
The man laughed. “Further south than that—still looking for his brothers, they say.”
“There are people further south?” Lopt asked. Hodr heard him smack his lips. “Well, I don’t mind saying, I hope he goes back soon. This is really excellent stuff.”
The stranger laughed. Hodr saw him reach out and thump Lopt on the shoulder.
The line shuffled forward a few more paces.
“So now that you’ve seen the line, Lopt,” he said, “how much farther do we have to go?”
The smith’s lips smacked again. “Hard to tell, since the line curves and goes over the rise. Not sure where the hall’s entrance is. But at least a hundred or so people in front of us.”
The great hall, the largest in the city, could hold five times that number and servants besides. Hodr remembered climbing its tall columns, carved to resemble trees, to jump and swing from the rafters and beams. He used to bring food stolen from the kitchens beside the hall and then scramble up high to enjoy it.
“I was wondering—not that I mind enjoying the streets of Gladsheim or the evening air—but why haven’t you”—Lopt cleared his throat, stepped closer, and continued in a whisper—“you know, just walked up and announced yourself?”
The same, entirely fair, question asked yet again. He discarded a few nasty responses before saying, “I left on bad terms. I’m not overeager to present myself. And now that I’m here, I’m wondering if I shouldn’t have waited until after Midwinter. Not the best time to surprise everyone.”
Lopt staggered as he reached out to grip Hodr’s arm in one strong, hot hand. “I totally understand. If you prefer, we can head back down and find a spot in one of the other halls. I’m only here because of you, after all.”
Hodr grunted, met the smith’s gaze with his blind face, and nodded. “We have some time still before I have to decide.”
“Whatever you want is fine with me.” Lopt lifted his cup in a salute, burped, and took another drink. “Just happy to be here. Tell this story for winters to come!”
He took a sip of his own wine, hoping to counter the dryness in his mouth. It tasted better cold. Though it seemed a good plan to encourage the smith to get so drunk that he’d have to escort him back to their way house. Meeting his parents could wait a night or so. Alara knew where he’d gone and that it might be some weeks before he returned.
A new voice, loud, bored, and familiar rang out above the din of conversation around him. “... all weapons must be left by the entrance. None permitted inside.”
His fingers tightened reflexively around the spear. Yes, this meeting should happen another night.
OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 83 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it.

Not much happening myth-wise in this chapter. I will say that in Saxo Grammaticus, one of the sources I chose to exclude in favor of focusing on the Poetic and Prose Eddas, Hodr and Baldr fought over Nanna. It’s a little more nuanced than that in Saxo, but that’s the source of Hodr’s fond recollections of Nanna. 

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 83
By the fire drink ale, over ice go on skates;
Buy a steed that is lean, and a sword when tarnished,
=/=/=
The horse at home fatten, the hound in thy dwelling

Larrington, Verse 83
By the fire one should drink ale, one should slide over the ice, buy a lean horse and a rusty blade,
fatten the horse at home and the dog at someone else’s.

So, this stanza doesn’t make much sense. Why buy a lean horse or a tarnished sword? Here is Kodratoff’s explanation.

…these lines go per pair, the second half of which is opposed in a certain way to the first, which gives spice and meaning to the stanza.
Thus, we comfortably drink beer in the warmth, but we slip on ice either by falling down, or by slipping at high speed on ice-shoes.
Thus, we buy a slim horse that is not burdened with fat, but we must buy a sword which has been soiled (as 81 already stated) and that is ‘burdened’ with blood and knows what is to bring death.
Thus, we keep and fatten at home a horse, because its strength can be anytime useful, whereas a dog is left alone outside, in order to correctly fulfill its role of home guardian.

Kodratoff summarizes the preceding with this: 

“Drink your beer, buy a slim horse, and keep it at home without using your magic, you will however need magic to easily glide on ice, to acquire a killer sword and to handle your dog is such a way that it makes the difference between enemies and friendly guests.”


Thanks for listening.