INTRO   Welcome to CHAPTER 34 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, I provide some commentary about the source materials I’ve referenced in the text. Today, we’re back with Odin. We’d last left him in his longhouse talking to his wife Frigg as they argued about various things — his long absence from Gladsheim and how that left Frigg ruling alone, something that she’s heartily sick of. They also discussed the Jotunn and their unprovoked attack on Hals which Vidar is now investigating. Let’s do this. Chapter Thirty-Four Odin Odin sat heavily in Sleipnir’s saddle; perhaps slipping out of bed had not been the best decision. Whatever anger Frigg had set aside last night might burn all the brighter for waking alone in their bed. Sleipnir’s hooves clopped a dull eight-hooved rhythm against the ramp that led down alongside Yggdrasil to Ithavoll. The Alvar had fashioned the ramp in that prior time when the Alvar and Svartalvar had used their skills alongside one another instead of against each other. The faint scents of the dewy grasses into which Yggdrasil sunk her roots wafted upward on the back of the ever-present, ever cool breeze. Odin dragged his hand along the trunk, his skin alternately gliding across and then tugging on the rough bark. Life drummed through Yggdrasil’s ancient trunk as strongly as through his own limbs. Unbidden, memories arose of those distant days when he and his brothers had found a crack in the rock of the hill that they eventually named Gladsheim. The crack led to a tunnel, which they followed, losing track of time and location, until they reached this world, and its impossible sky, beneath their realm. His palm crossed a too-soft patch of bark, startling him back to his surroundings. He clucked his tongue, and Sleipnir stopped. A soft patch? He touched the reins to Sleipnir’s neck, and she turned around—the ramp was wide enough for three of Thor’s chariots to ride side by side. He rode upslope a few paces, his left hand dragging along Yggdrasil’s trunk, searching for that soft patch. There it was. He pressed his thumb into the bark; it crumbled and broke away. He coughed at the rot-stink that assaulted his nose. Rotting bark on Yggdrasil? Its outline was several handspans wide and maybe a spear’s length tall, though it was difficult to measure. He drew his knife and pressed the blade into the wood. It sank in easily right to the hilt. He turned his head from the stench of decay and it occurred to him that he had no idea how thick Yggdrasil’s bark was—at least the length of his knife, but it must be thicker. He wiped the blade and sheathed it. And did the rot go deeper, all the way to the center? Was it elsewhere? He craned his neck to stare up Yggdrasil’s trunk. All he could see was the bole. Thousands of stars glinted in the blackness above, behind, and below him. By their absence, he knew where the branches to the other realms, and his High Seat, lay, dark headlands in the sea. He withdrew one of his spindles, charged with witchthread, and called Gungnir to hand. He unscrewed the cap on Gungnir’s cross guard, slotted the spindle, and replaced the cap. Sleipnir clomped her hooves impatiently on the heavy wooden planks of the road. He thumped her neck. “Just a few moments more, then we’ll be off again.” She shook her mane and snorted. “Yes, I know you’re thirsty. I’ll be quick.” The spindle rattled as he unspooled several arm lengths of witchthread. Holding the thread pinched between thumb and forefinger, he withdrew his silver shears. He clipped the witchthread, replaced the shears, and let one end of the thread dangle free. Beginning to sing, he cast that strand up toward the rotten bark. His fingers danced and the thread tangled intricately to form a rune. As he finished his song, the rune incandesced. Now he would be able to find this spot when next he sat on his High Seat and looked out over the realms. In finding it again, maybe he could discover something about it that would let him find other areas of decay. It seemed unlikely that he had stumbled across the only bit of rotten bark. Sleipnir whinnied and stamped two of her forefeet in equine impatience. “All right, all right,” he said. He patted Yggdrasil’s bark. Don’t worry. I’ll figure out what ails you. He clucked his tongue, and Sleipnir turned again down the path toward the misty grove from which Yggdrasil grew. She surged into a brisk trot. Odin laughed—uppity horse—and reflexively tightened his legs. Like Sleipnir’s hoofbeats, his laugh was quickly swallowed by the surrounding emptiness. They were in no real hurry, but Sleipnir wanted to move, so he let her. More time before the council wouldn’t hurt. Not that additional time with the Norns meant more answers—or any at all. He snorted. He would be lucky to get one question answered. And so they rode on, Sleipnir’s hooves beating a regular cadence against the stout planks. A swirl in the air brought the smell of fresh, clean grass. Sleipnir whinnied and tossed her mane. She smelled it too, apparently. She increased her speed, and Yggdrasil’s trunk on his right blurred. He crouched lower over her neck and let the rhythm of her eight pounding hooves clear his mind. Soon, Sleipnir turned into the last gentle curve as the ramp followed the course of one of Yggdrasil’s massive roots. With the loom of the trunk behind them and a straight path before them, she moved smoothly into a gallop that echoed throughout the glade. *** With a thump that jarred Odin’s teeth, Sleipnir landed in the damp, tall grasses. The scent of crushed grasses burst around him. Inhaling deeply, he grinned and drank it in. White mists flowed above the thick green grass, each looking more vibrant because of the contrast between their colors. White moths fluttered among the mists. Sleipnir began to slow, almost prancing with eagerness as they headed toward the Norns’ dwelling. Odin peered ahead. Urdarbrunnr, the wide knee-high stone well in which the waters from Niflheim’s roaring cauldron bubbled up, appeared first out of the undulating mist. Next, the gold-topped peak of the Norn’s longhouse broached the mist like a ship’s prow. The scratch-scratch-scrape of the Norn’s chisels at work reached him. Stopping before the wet gray stones of Urd’s Well, Sleipnir tossed her head and stomped her eight hooves, then turned in a half circle. “Well, hold still so I can get off.” She snorted but stopped moving. He threw a leg over the saddle, slid down, and thumped into the thick grass. He looped the reins around the saddle horn and strode the few paces to Urdarbrunnr. He sat on the cool stone, his trousers growing wet with the dampness. Beside him stood a lean, elegant ewer and a wide low dish, both of untarnished silver. Across from him, white moths, wings opening and closing, covered the stone like snow as they drank from the drops of water dotting the well’s rim. He picked up the ewer, leaned forward, and dipped it into the rippling water. The water burbled and popped, tiny echoes of Hvergelmir’s giant roar, the ultimate source of the world’s eleven mightiest rivers and more besides. He lifted the full ewer out of the well, picked up the platter, and set it on the thick green grass. Sleipnir whinnied and moved closer. He began filling the platter even as she clopped forward, nose lowered, to drink noisily. “Watch it, you big cow,” Odin said, scratching her ears. She flicked her tail, dismissive. She raised her head, whinnied again, and pawed the grass next to the now-empty platter. “Thirsty indeed, eh, girl?” He refilled the platter, emptying the ewer. She bent to drink. Odin set down the ewer and stroked her neck. Left hand trailing across her gray hide, he undid the girth strap and pulled the saddle, its pad, and the bag with the device in it from her back. He retrieved a brush and ran it through her matted, sweaty hair. Finished, she raised her huge gray head and sighed horsily as he removed her bridle and bit. He thumped her side and stroked her nose. “Off you go. But come when I call, eh?” She snorted, shook her mane, and trotted off. He grinned as the immense eight-legged daughter of Loki’s loins gamboled through the green grasses, trailing a roiling cloud of white moths. As ever, he shuddered at the thought not only of Loki’s becoming a mare but of submitting to the builder’s horse. He couldn’t argue with the results, though. Loki had gotten them out of their bargain, just as his efforts had gotten them out of—and into—many similar situations. With the fading of Sleipnir’s gambols, the faint scratching and scraping noises of the Norns’ tools pressed back in on the glade. Grin now entirely gone, he squared his shoulders and strode toward the sound’s source amid his own cloud of white moths. He shooed the one that perched on his shoulder. Before long, the low golden roof of the Norns’ longhouse became visible, nestled into the corner of Yggdrasil’s vast trunk and the immense root on which he had just ridden. He strode more quickly when the house itself came into view, along with the stone table set to one side and close to Yggdrasil’s bole. Three black-clad figures stood behind the table. The ever-present scraping and scratching noises grew louder the closer he got. The sound was oddly heavy, as if some giant were piling stones on his chest. Ages ago, he’d often come with questions for these three women, these Norns, supposed priestesses of the Slaughtered Mother. He had never found their temple, though he had looked. Unless this was it—the stone table, the well, and the tree. His hands bunched into fists so tight it took effort to relax them. As he understood it, the Norns scraped the doom of all folk into the bits of Yggdrasil’s bark that they removed and replaced. What he knew from experience, though, was that they never directly answered his questions. When they answered at all, it was in riddles that only became clear after the fact. There had only been two exceptions, the threat to Baldr and the threat Loki’s children had posed. “Beware the children of Loki, for they will cause even the heavens to burn.” And, “In the golden bough shall Baldr find shelter from death and life.” Even as those remembered words arose in his mind like a black wyrm from the depths, he wondered if he had made the right choices all those winters ago. They’d done what the Norns had advised. But now, with Baldr’s disturbing dreams and corpse-like stupor, he wondered just how sheltered his son was from death. If the Norns were wrong in that, then perhaps they’d been wrong in other things. Which meant he’d been wrong, and that idea kindled his anger at being here at all into a blazing fury—him, a supplicant to these three. Pack-Father, is there danger? came Freki’s thought. As ever, Geri had acted more impulsively and was nearly to him, having sprinted. We come, Wing-Father, spoke Huginn. Muninn’s mind-voice echoed her brother’s. No, I’m all right. All of you stay where you are. Turn back, Geri. Odin felt the wolf slow until he sat, panting, to wait. Huginn and Muninn, fly to the Breach. Tell me what is happening there. We go, said Huginn. Freki and Geri, stay at Ithavoll. Wait for the jarls. They’ll arrive soon. Do not come to me while I speak with the Norns. He felt Geri’s growl rumble through his mind, and then Freki, her mind like a whip, put Geri in his place. We obey, she said. Thank you. He resumed his slow walk forward and forced a light smile to his lips. Wisps of smoke curled up through the roof-holes of the Norns’ house. Their stone table stood so near to Yggdrasil’s immense trunk that the Norns could walk a few paces behind them, tug free a fragment of bark, return to the table to scratch and paint their runes onto the bark, and then return to the tree, pressing the borrowed bark back into the bare spot. How they always pulled off a fragment free of runes was a mystery. The tree couldn’t be growing that quickly. It never moved. Never swayed. It just…was. There was some subtle magic at work behind this place and this tree and these Norns. The thought tugged at the edges of his forced smile. He stopped a spear’s length from the table and clasped his wrists behind his back. The Norns wore simple dresses of earthy browns and blacks with little in the way of ornamentation, the slight gleam of a necklace here or an earring there. One tucked a loose strand of brown hair back behind an ear. Each moved spryly, as if they were young, but the Norns had worked in this glade since some time after Ymir’s death more than three hundred winters ago. Their brushes clinked against the stoneware that held the red paint they used. He waited a dozen heartbeats for them to acknowledge him. Could these be the same three women as all that time ago? He was still here, thanks to Yggdrasil’s fruit, so why not them? He waited another dozen heartbeats. They still didn’t look up. By degrees, his smile grew colder. If they were different women, the older ones must have instructed the newer ones in how best to infuriate him. So he spoke the usual formal greeting. “Three maidens, mighty in wisdom, I greet you and beg pardon for my interruption. As ever, I come seeking knowledge.” Immediately, three very different voices spoke all at once. The first was high and piping like a child. The second, mellow and strong, was the voice of a mother who had brought life into the world. The third’s voice sounded like tree limbs creaking in a winter gale; she sounded like one who’d witnessed many lives passing back into the Ginnungagap. Not unlike him, in a way. “And we greet you, father of the slain, Valfather, in the old language.” “Why do you greet me so? ‘Father of the slain?’” Scratch-scrape-scratch. They still hadn’t looked up at him. The old-sounding one spoke. “You call yourself Alfather. Does that not mean ‘father of all’? And if all, does that not also mean the father of those slain?” He waited for more, forcing the smile back onto his face despite the muscle that clenched in his jaw. That’s not what his title meant; which they must know, if they knew anything at all. “But why greet me so when you must know why I came?” Heartbeats passed. When no answer came, he pressed forward. “I come with questions, as always, wise Norns. May I ask them?” He waited. His cheeks began to ache from holding the smile. When no answer came, he asked. “First, I ask the meaning of a dream—or insight into it, at least. It is a dream of the impossible, the death of my son Baldr. Do you know of this dream?” “We do,” the Norns said. “Does it mean what it seems to—that my son will die? Or does it hint at something else?” “May it not do both?” “But Baldr cannot die. Frigg and I prevented it, as you warned…as you advised…so long ago. Just a few nights ago, he was struck a blow that would’ve killed nine Aesir, that might have even killed me. But he lives.” “And yet all things die, Valfather.” Not if he could help it. “So you’re saying he will die, then? That runs counter to what you said all those winters past. Has the doom you’ve seen changed?” No response, but the scraping of their chisels. His smile slipped a little further. His hands clenched into fists, one hand locked around his other wrist. “Have you now scratched his death rune?” Tools clinked dully against stone as the Norns set them down. In that moment, the glade’s quiet became oppressive. Sweat beaded on his lip. It dripped cold down the small of his back. The Norns stared at him, three women, long brown hair braided, all wearing identical simple clothing and identical expressionless faces—despite one being old, one middle-aged and one young. “I ask a second time, Wise Norns. Have you scratched the death rune for my son Baldr?” Their faces were more still than the lake east of Gladsheim. They seemed to reflect his own forced smile and his rage, contained like a bear in a deep pit. “His doom hasn’t changed, Valfather. No more will we say. To silence, we would return.” He spoke through a clenched jaw. “You will not say?” “It is not so marked that you learn the dream’s true meaning from us.” “Marked?” “Here, upon the bark,” said the old one, tapping the piece before her even as all three spoke. The three-toned chime of their voices was more difficult to understand now. It was as if he’d been struck on the head and everything around him was a little off—a ripple through one’s reflection in a lake. “I don’t care what’s etched where. A third time I ask—I demand—that you tell me what Baldr’s dream means.” “And a third time, we say no.” The Norns picked up their tools and went back to work. Odin blew out a long slow breath. He unclenched his hands and rubbed his palms, using the few moments to steady himself. Like a shield, his smile went back up. Spear-like, his words struck out. “Then tell me then why the Jotunn attacked Háls. Three times I ask it.” The old-sounding Norn, the one on the right, looked up. In winter’s voice, mocking the unpreparedness of men, she said, “Is it not obvious, Valfather? The Jotunn hate the Aesir.” “Yes, but why did they attack now? With this peace in place?” The middle Norn spoke with the mother’s mellow voice. “Peace between Aesir and Jotunn is merely the time between conflict.” She looked down, dipped her brush in the red paint, and with quick, sure strokes, painted runes upon the bark her sister had placed before her. “So war comes again?” The sound of their work answered him. Fists clenched tight behind his back, he asked his last question. “On my ride down here, I found a patch of rotten bark. What caused it?” The first Norn put down her chisel and looked up at him. Her high piping voice clashed with her grave expression. “As a child, did you learn more from doing or more from being told?” A smile wavered across the unshadowed lower half of her face, then hid itself as she looked back down and resumed her work. She was dismissing him. Him. So that was it. Again they refused to answer his questions? Quicker than an ill-made sword, his temper snapped. His sight dimmed at the edges, and he surged forward, riding the wave of his anger like a warship grounding against the shore. His hands came up almost by themselves, as if he meant to slam them down on the table or maybe reach across it to grab one of these hens by her neck and wring an answer, a genuine answer, from her clucking throat. All three Norns looked up at him then, hands raising, fingers dancing as if along a witchthread. A wind whipped up around them, visible only in the flapping of their dresses. It caught him around the waist and flung him away—but not before he heard one of them say, “Nor is it time for that.” OUTRO Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 34 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it. We were with Odin as he descended to Ithavoll, had a conversation with the Norns and then got slapped when he got uppity. There is a ton of stuff going on in this chapter, so let’s get started! Yggdrasil This is the world tree, as envisioned by the Norse. I chose to portray it as a literal tree that exists in another dimension. From Odin’s perspective, he rides down alongside it to Ithavoll where I placed the Norns, their house and their table. The first portion of the word is Yggr…which means something like “Terrible.” That is also one of Odin’s names — it’s what the Jotunn, including Loki, call Odin throughout my books. The second element means “horse.” That could mean a literal horse, like Sleipnir, or it could be a kenning — and refer to the tree on which Odin sacrificed himself to himself. Many animals live upon Yggdrasil. We’ll meet some of them throughout my series. There are various, contradictory accounts of how many roots Yggdrasil has and where they go…and how many realms Yggdrasil connects to. There are also different accounts of how many realms there actually are. I simplified it a bit. And I won’t go too much into it now because spoilers! Recall that Odin discovers a place of rotten bark which he then marks. This is important…and a direct reference to stuff in the myths. Odin rides on a ramp that’s wide enough for three of Thor’s carts. That ramp was placed there by the Alvar and Svartalvar. How it was placed and built relates to their different approaches to magic. More on that later. Ithavoll In the Voluspa, one of the poems in the Poetic Edda, Ithavoll is cited as “the meeting place of the gods.” I chose to place it at the base of Yggdrasil. We’ll visit Ithavoll shortly. The Norns Voluspa, verse 19, Larrington translation An ash I know that stands, Yggdrasill it’s called, a tall tree, drenched with shining loam; from there come the dews which fall in the valley, green, it stands always over Urd’s well. “Loam” is a type of fertile soil You can see from that verse why I depicted everything as misty and wet and very green Also, the roots of Yggdrasil reach down into the cold, misty realm of Niflheim, so I wanted that influence there, too. Urd’s Well in Old Norse is Urdabrunnar. In the myths there are several wells of importance. The well next to which Odin sat is Udr’s Well. More on that in an upcoming chapter. Another well is Mimir’s Well. We’ll also encounter that one in a future chapter. Water — lakes, rivers, seas, wells — are usually symbolic of the unconscious mind…of the spirit. Diving into them can mean a journey into that realm. There are three Norns Voluspa, Verses 20 and 21, Larrington From there come girls, knowing a great deal, three from the lake standing under the tree; Urd one is called, Verdandi another— they carved on a wooden slip—Skuld the third; they laid down laws, they chose lives for the sons of men, the fates of men. The Bellows translation reads: “Three maidens, mighty in wisdom…” Notice that’s exactly how Odin first addresses the Norns Skuld: what ought to happen Verdandi: "becoming" or "happening" Urdr: what has happened According to Simek, the names of the Norns are all different tenses of the verb “to be” Notice the verse says “carved on wood” … in the Bellows translation it is “on wood they scored” Which is why I have them using chisels to cut something into the bark of Yggdrasil … which they remove and replace. At this point Odin’s not sure what they’re carving beyond the “doom of all men.” We also hear a bit of the prophecy the Norns spoke. Those lines come from myth, but the phrase “the golden bough” is a reference to the book by Sir James Frazer — The Golden Bough. A passage in there unlocked a plot puzzle for me. Saying more would be spoilers! Also, the Norns name Odin: “Valfather” … father of the slain. That’s the first time in the book he’s called by that name. Deliberately. I have Odin asking three times; repeating things three times is a common convention in fairy tales and myth. Beetlejuice…Beetlejuice… The Slaughtered Mother This is partly my invention. The slaughtered mother is the divine cow Audhumbla. She is part of the Norse creation myth that involves Ymir who fed from her milk. Audhumbla licked the first man, Buri, from primordial ice and salt. Buri is the grandfather of Odin, Vili and Ve. Some of this was incorporated as backstory into my books. Multiple Loki Allusions This chapter has Odin thinking about Loki — his dalliance with the Builder’s horse, Svadilfari. The product of that union was Sleipnir. But Odin’s also thinking about how much trouble Loki causes…and how much trouble he also gets them out of. Odin’s Familiars He has 2 wolves, Freki and Geri And 2 ravens: Huginn and Muninn Sending the ravens flying to the Breach was a reference to how Odin sends his ravens out every morning to gather information for him; every evening they return to him and tell him what they saw and heard. +++ Next week, we’re back with Vidar Odinsson for a bit of the ole rough and tumble. Before then, if you have the time and inclination, please take a few moments to rate and/or review the podcast — that provides valuable feedback for me and helps boost the show’s visibility. As does sharing it. And if you’re so inclined, shoot me an email at mattbishopwrites@gmail.com. I’d love to hear from you.    As always, I’m going to read from the Havamal, sayings of the High One, Odin himself. As usual, I’ll be reading from Bellows and Larrington. You’ll be glad to know that Odin has finally stopped lecturing us on how to behave during feasts. Bellows, Verse 34 Crooked and far is the road to a foe, Though his house on the highway be; But wide and straight is the way to a friend, Though far away he fare. Larrington, Verse 34 It’s a great detour to a bad friend’s house, even though he lives on the route; but to a good friend’s house the ways lie straight, even though he lives far off. Thanks for listening.