INTRO
 
Welcome to CHAPTER 85 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 Odinsson. We were last with Vidar in Ch 83 in Hodr and his friend, the smith Lopt, stood in line outside the Great Hall of Gladsheim waiting to get in. Hodr had second thoughts about meeting his father and family on this night, Midwinter, so he decided to leave and come back another day. Lopt agreed.

Let’s rejoin them now.


You can find me online at: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Matt-Bishop/author/B073NK4HDC 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-Five
Hodr
“All weapons must be left by the entrance. None permitted inside.”
Hodr recognized the voice. It was Fimafeng, his family’s thrall and longtime steward. He hunched his shoulders and turned slowly away from the loud, old man’s voice. Doing so meant he faced a bright torch—which he could see and feel—so he shuffled a little sideways to put Lopt between himself and the approaching steward.
Fimafeng had been a younger man when Hodr had left Gladsheim, blind and angry. It was possible he wouldn’t recognize him, but it was also safer not to risk it. Lopt himself had guessed at Hodr’s identity, so it wouldn’t be hard for Fimafeng—who knew Hodr well—to recognize Odin’s blind, spear-carrying son.
Fimafeng’s voice grew louder still. “We celebrate with stones this year, fresh from the river bed. Smooth and round. Guaranteed to fly straight. And don’t worry, there’s more than enough to drink if you find your aim too accurate.”
A general cheer followed the last statement. Hodr swore at himself. Had he left even a few moments earlier, he could’ve have avoided this entire situation. Stepping out of line now would only draw attention to himself.
Fimafeng’s raw, old man’s voice was nearer still. It grated on his ears. The man’s throat had to burn with every word. “But you must leave your weapons by the door. The women won’t fight, not tonight, eh? No one will touch them—the weapons, I mean. Knives are fine, so long as they stay in their scabbards. Until later, of course.”
Ribald laughs and jeers followed that remark.
Spear in hand, Hodr slowly angled himself still further away till the torch’s heat was on one side of his exchanging the torches’ heat for the night sky’s empty cold.
Lopt brayed laughter at something, staggered backward, and bumped into Hodr who stumbled into the men behind them. Drinking horns clattered against the stones beneath their feet. 
Shouting—“you spilled my ale” and “get me another you bastard”—the men shoved Hodr and he staggered forward into Lopt who himself shouted, “My fault entirely, my good karls, I will happily fetch you more drinks!”
“Everything all right here?” Fimafeng said. He was right in front of them.
Hodr realized now that Lopt’s accidental bump had turned him back toward the street; the torchlight he’d avoided now fell full upon him even as Lopt squatted to retrieve the horns he’d indirectly knocked from the men’s hands while continuing to babble slurred apologies to those he’d jostled.
Hodr guessed that he hadn’t been recognized—at least not yet—because Fimafeng was focused on the bumbling smith’s antics. So, very slowly, Hodr sidled forward and edged sideways toward the cool darkness in between the torches.
“Yes, everything’s fine, just my clumsy old hands, that’s all.” Lopt stood, stumbled backward and bumped into Hodr yet again. “Seems I need a new drink—and one for all my friends here who’ve suffered for my clumsiness.”
Thanks to the gray sight granted by his spear, it seemed that Fimafeng’s remained focused on Lopt and those around him. So, Hodr froze, hoping to remain unnoticed.
“It happens, but don’t let it come to drawn blades,” Fimafeng said, his tone more bored than angry. He jerked a thumb back the way he’d come. “The drinks stall just over the rise is closest.”
“Thank you, sir,” Lopt said. To Hodr, he said, “I’ll go fetch a pair of drinks.”
Fimafeng stepped back, giving Lopt space, and looked directly at Hodr. He watched puzzlement furrow Fimafeng’s brow, then the old thrall’s jaw dropped and he gasped in recognition. Hodr’s stomach fell. Thanks to the stupid, clumsy smith, he’d no choice but to face his father tonight.
“Jarl Hodr, is that you?” Fimafeng said, raising one hand to cut the torch’s glare.
Lopt seemed to freeze in mid-stride, perhaps wondering what he should do—or maybe the bastard felt guilty that it was his clumsiness that had revealed Hodr’s presence.
Hodr forced his lips into what he hoped was a smile. “Fimafeng! I thought I recognized your voice.”
“It is you!” Fimafeng exclaimed, surprise turning to delight. “But why are you waiting in line? Come with me. I’ll escort you right up to the hall.”
Hodr waved a hand. “No, no. No need for that. I’m happy to wait my turn along with these good folk.”
Fimafeng snorted. “Hár Frigg would have my ears if I left you waiting out here. And after so long, too. You’ve hardly changed from the young man I remember, unlike me, eh?” He gestured. “Come on, then. The Almother—and your sister and brother—will be delighted you’ve arrived. Hermod especially, I think. You may not recognize her after all these winters! Fights like Thor, I tell you.”
Hodr could not help but hear the gasps and shocked expletives of those sober enough to overhear their conversation. The murmurs rolled in afterward, low waves eroding the beach: “Rán, take me, but it’s true, the Alfather did have a blind son” and “Who’s that?” and “Why that’s the hero of the Old Bridge?” and “You mean that actually happened?” and “’Course it did you dimwit!” and “What’s a son of the Alfather doing out here with us?”
Hodr took a deep breath, forced his shoulders to relax, and stepped toward Fimafeng, making a show of tapping the spear before him.
It seemed he would be seeing his family tonight after all. “Too kind of you, Fimafeng. My friend here, smith Lopt, will be joining me.”
A momentary pause, and then Fimafeng said, “Well, of course, welcome, my good smith. If you’ll both follow me, please.”
Lopt’s hot fingers dug into Hodr’s elbow and, in a low voice, he said, “I am so very sorry about that, jar—I mean, Hodr.”

***

Raucous laughter spilled out through the hall’s entryway. The broad, tall doors bound with iron and decorated with gold and silver towered on either side of him as if he were walking down into the earth rather than into a hall full of celebrating Aesir. Astride the laughter’s back, rode the heat from the cooking fires, the roasting of boar and snow-deer and fish, the sweat of hundreds and the yeasty tang of beers and ales. He felt ill—not just at the thought of going into the hall, at once so familiar and so foreign, but at the prospect of confronting his father…not to mention the rest of his family.
“Just a moment more, Jarl Hodr,” Fimafeng said, returning from inside the hall. “I’ve informed Hár Frigg that you’re here; she asked that you be shown in directly. We’re just waiting for the doorway to clear.”
Fimafeng gestured for the pair of wardens on either side of the doors to step forward and bar the path. “Keep everyone out until I come back.”
Hodr’s hand grew sweatier on his spear. He dumped the dregs of his unfinished wine on the dirt, tucked the horn behind his belt, and tugged his overtunic straight. Then he switched the spear to his other hand and wiped his sweaty palm on his chest. Any minute now, he’d be standing before his family.
“Ready, Jarl?” Fimafeng asked, a genuine smile on his face. “I know it’s been a very long time, but they are delighted to see you.”
Hodr swallowed, ignored the sweat beading on his forehead, and forced a smile. “My thanks, Fimafeng.”
To Lopt, he said, “Wait here. It’s best I meet everyone alone. I’ll send Fimafeng back for you.”
“Of course, Jarl.” Lopt’s words sounded a little slurred. He clutched Hodr’s elbow with hot fingers that brought new sweat to Hodr’s armpits. “I look forward to being introduced to your family—and I’m terrified at the prospect.”
His sickly, drunken belch did little to settle Hodr’s nerves.
Hodr jerked his elbow free and stepped into the hall’s wet heat. The celebratory din had dulled into background noise, the steady slap of water against a ship’s sides, even as his heart pounded in his ears.
Tapping the boards before him with his spear, he focused on the details of his surroundings. The entryway was a spear’s length long and wide, and—wait, the boards were new. When he’d last been here, the hall’s floor had been packed dirt strewn with ashes.
A sharp intake of breath cut through the background noise. His mother. He heard a pair of rushed steps, and then he was crushed in his brother’s embrace. He barely kept hold of his spear.
In his ear, Baldr whispered, “I’m so glad you’re back, Hodr. We’ve missed you.”
He felt a smile forming on his lips as he returned Baldr’s embrace. His breath became shaky, as if he’d been hit in the stomach.
Baldr released him and stepped back, keeping one hand on his shoulder.
“Baldr, I just wanted to apologize for—”
His brother’s hand tightened warmly on his shoulder and, like Sól herself shouldering up over the mountains, he felt the kindness of his smile. Baldr made a dismissive gesture with his free hand. “All in the past, Hodr. It’s just good that you’re back.”
Hodr could dimly see his brother beckoning someone to come closer. “And here’s someone who’s been dying to see you again.”
Hodr heard the hesitant scuff of boot leather before the strong, clean-lined face of a young woman swam into hazy view. Her hair was pulled into a warrior’s braid.
She smiled shyly at him. “Do you remember me, Hodr?”
He cocked his head, matching her voice to the memory of a young woman’s. “Forget you? Never!”
She hugged him, strongly enough to creak his ribs. She was tall, like him, and smelled of oil and skymetal, just like the young woman she’d been. Hermod had been so fascinated with weapons and armor that even as a child she’d practiced beside him with toy swords, shields, and spears. She kissed his cheek, held him tighter, then retreated.
“So you’ve finally returned to us, Hodr,” his mother said, her voice rolling in like a warm ocean wave. “And to think your sister and I were just talking about you.”
When she stepped into the shadows of his sight, her eyes were black pits, but he could see her bright smile and wide-open arms. What hit him harder was the relief and happiness that throbbed in her voice. And when she embraced him, he couldn’t help but bury his face in her shoulder. He couldn’t cry, but he still wept, shoulders heaving as he held his mother tight.
When he pulled away, she let him go. Baldr and Hermod both watched, 
Her hands came up to rest lightly on his cheeks. “I am so very happy that you’re back, Hodr. It’s been far too long.” She ran her thumbs across the cloth tied round his eyes and then rested her hands on his shoulders. “After tonight, we’ll have time to sit and talk. I want to hear all about this Alara of yours.”
Hodr’s mouth sagged open. His mother smiled kindly and gave him a little shake. “Your father’s not the only one keeping an eye on you. She seems good for you, but I’ll want to meet her just the same.”
“She’s wonderful, and the main reason I’m here,” he said, smiling. “Where is father?”
Baldr shook his head and a look, like a small cloud drifting past the sun, crossed his face before he shook it away. “He’ll be back soon, I’m sure. He’ll be sorry to have missed your homecoming.”
His mother edged back, one hand lingering on his shoulder before falling away. Worry entered her voice. “He rode down to the Gjoll’s shores looking for answers to a question that’s troubled us for months now. He said he’d be back before now, but...”
Before the silence grew, Hermod spoke. “There’s been a lot going on. I’ll walk with you to a table and tell you about it.”
“I’d enjoy that,” Hodr said, feeling a smile spread across his face. He raised the spear slightly and jerked a thumb back toward the open door. “I should give this over. Fimafeng was very insistent that all weapons should be set aside.”
“Nonsense. You need it,” Baldr said. “Keep it with you.”
“Better to not have an exception made for me, I think,” he replied. He tapped the spear, following it the few steps to the wall. “And besides, Hermod will get me seated. And when her duties pull her away, I’ve a friend who can help me. He was kind enough to bring me here. He also crafted this spear and gave it to me, but that’s a long story too. May I introduce him?”
“We want to hear all about what you’ve been doing,” his mother said. “And I’m sure Hermod shares my curiosity over Alara. Tomorrow we’ll sit together and talk, just the four of us, assuming your father isn’t back.”
Her voice became cooler and more distant. “But for tonight, please show my son’s friend in, Fimafeng. Any friend of his is a friend of ours.”

OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 85 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it.

Not much happening myth-wise in this chapter. Through a bit of bad luck and drunken silliness, Hodr’s plan to slip away was foiled. It turned out to be a much pleasant reunion and his father wasn’t there after all.

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 85
In a breaking bow or a burning flame,
A ravening wolf or a croaking raven,
In a grunting boar, a tree with roots broken,
In billowy seas or a bubbling kettle,

Larrington, Verse 85
A breaking bow, a burning flame,
a gaping wolf, a cawing crow, 
a grunting pig, a rootless tree, 
a rising wave, a boiling kettle,

These stanzas sound odd because they begin a 
sequence that runs through Stanza 89 in which Odin lists dangers that should be avoided.

In Kodratoff’s commentary, he prefaces the stanza with the phrase “Do not give your whole trust to…”

But, that phrase is not explicit in any of the stanzas.

Note that the wolf may refer to Fenrir, Loki’s son.
The tree with broken roots may refer to Yggdrasil…and we saw, during Vidar’s vision in Ch 81…that something lurks among those roots. 

Thanks for listening.