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?”
She frowned. “Why would Arwin name you Hod?” It seemed almost cruel.
“He says I must learn from his example.”
“Huh. And why did Arwin name you . . . and not your parents?”
“I had a different name once, I suppose. But I do not know what it was. I was very small when I came to live with Arwin.”
“You live here . . . in this cave, all the time?”
“Arwin is the cave keeper. There is one cave keeper in each clan.”
“I did not know caves needed keeping,” she said, doubtful, though