“I do not want you to sleep,” he said. “I would like to talk to you. I would like to hear you sing some more.”
“I do not want to sing.”
“Come . . . You will feel better when you are dry and fed.” He held out his hand. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet. She wrung out the skirts of her dress and he waited, his head tipped, listening to her. When he turned to go, she followed him.
2
SIDES
Hod worked like he’d gutted a fish a thousand times, and when she offered to help, he bade her sit, telling her it would be easier for him if she kept the space around him clear.
“I know what I am doing . . . but I can’t see what you are doing. So you sit still and stay out of my way. You can talk to me. I am tired of my own thoughts.”
“I don’t like your name,” she said, surprising them both.
“I am named for a god.”
“Which god?”
“Hod.” He laughed and she winced.
“I don’t know this god. Are you teasing me? My brothers used to tease me. They were very good storytellers. They would persist until I believed them, and then they would laugh when I did.”
“I am not teasing you. Arwin does not allow such things . . . though I have tried. He is almost as ill tempered as you are.” His voice was kind, and a smile played around his mouth.
“You are teasing me now.”
“No. Just trying to soften the truth. Where are your brothers? Where is your family? You said your mother was dead. Are your brothers dead too?”
“They are all dead. They grew ill, one after another.”
“You didn’t?”
“I did. But I got better. They did not.”
“You are still very frail.”
“Yes. I am easily tired. And I am even smaller than I was before.”
“Why were you on the sea?”
She did not want to talk about the sea or what had come before. She shook her head and then remembered that he couldn’t see her.
“Tell me the story of Hod,” she insisted.
“Me . . . or the god?”
“Both. But first . . . the god. I still do not think he is real.”
“I do not know if he exists . . . but he is real,” Hod said.
She shook her head but found herself fighting a smile at his play on words.
“Do you know Odin?” he asked.
“I know Odin.”
“And Thor?”
“Yes. His hammer makes the thunder.”
“Then you know about Loki.”
“I have heard his name. But I do not know Hod.”
“Hod was a son of Odin. But . . . like me . . . he was blind.” He was silent then, and she waited for more. She found she liked this story—and believed it.
“Did Hod have a weapon like Thor?” she asked.
“Arwin says his lack of sight was his weapon.”
“How?”
“Everyone underestimated him. No one paid him any mind. They thought him weak . . . vulnerable, but Arwin believes our weaknesses and our strengths are the very same thing. Two sides of the same sword.”
She didn’t understand, but she didn’t question him, and Hod continued with his story.
“Odin had many sons. Our land—Saylok—is named for one of his sons. I will tell you his story too, if you like.”
“I have not heard of him either.”
“Some are more well known than others, and some are not known at all. Some were hated, some beloved. Most beloved was Baldr, who was so loved by his mother that she convinced every living thing to agree not to harm him, though she forgot to negotiate with the lowly mistletoe. Even the fates looked kindly on Baldr and would warn him of all attempts to harm him before the attempts were made.
“Odin’s son Loki hated that Baldr was loved and that he was simply tolerated. He too wanted to be loved, but instead of spending his energy making himself useful and worthy of Odin’s affection and esteem, he spent his days trying to find the one thing that would destroy Baldr. Loki sent women to seduce Baldr with lips stained with the berries from the mistletoe. He sent warriors with weapons fashioned from the boughs. But all were unsuccessful because Baldr knew their intentions. Loki visited the Norns, the fates, at the base of Yggdrasil, the tree of life, and they laughed at his efforts. ‘You cannot kill him, Loki,’ they cackled.”
Hod made his voice sound like a crone’s, and Ghisla snickered. He was a good storyteller.
“Loki asked, ‘If not me, who can?’ But the Norns did not know. They said, ‘We can only see what can be seen.’ Loki thought that an odd response, and he left the fates with their riddle in his head. He puzzled over it for days until he came across Hod, who was hunting in the woods with his bow. He noticed how Hod listened for his prey, but never saw his arrows fly . . . or fall. Loki realized he had the answer to his riddle.”
“A blind god . . . hunting?” Ghisla thought that unlikely.
“I hunt. I fish. I do many things,” Hod said, slicing the fish he’d caught and placing it on the grate above the glowing coals.
“What did Loki do then?” she asked, sheepish.
“Only a god could kill Baldr . . . Only another god could get close.”
“But why would Hod kill Baldr? Was he jealous too?” she interrupted again.
“No. But Loki thought he could trick Hod. Fate would not see him coming, because Hod would not know what he was about to do.”
“The Norns could not see what Hod did not see?” she asked, trying to understand.
“Yes. If Hod did not intend to kill his brother . . . and if he did not even know he had . . . then the fates would not see it either. And they would not be able to warn Baldr.”
“We can only see what can be seen,” she parroted, and shivered a little. “I do not like the Norns.”
“Loki and Hod went hunting. Loki told Hod to shoot. Hod believed he was killing a beast. He shot Loki’s arrow, made of mistletoe, through his brother’s heart. The beloved Baldr, killed by a blind man.”
Ghisla gasped. She had not expected such an abrupt and tragic ending.
“Poor Hod,” she whispered. “How evil of Loki.”
“Yes . . . well. Loki was chained to a rock for eternity with a poisonous snake hanging over his face, dripping venom into his eyes. And that is where I got my name,” Hod replied with finality, his story ended.
He threw the fish entrails onto the flame and washed his hands and his blade in a little pool that continuously renewed itself and emptied into crevices unknown. It was no bigger than a man’s shield—not big enough for submersion of someone bigger than a babe—but it was a fascinating luxury in the stony enclosure.
“What happened to Hod after he killed Baldr?” she asked as he joined her once more beside the grate.
“His father banished him, and the heavens wept for the loss of two of Odin’s sons: Baldr and Hod. Two gods . . . inextricably linked.”
In the dirt he drew a character—two half moons, back to back, one that opened to the left and one that opened to the right. An arrow bisected the first crescent, and its shaft penetrated the second through the back.
“That is the story of the blind god, Hod, and this”—he tapped the ground—“is his rune. It is a good story, no?”