The Wihtwara were not alone on Wihtland
The Durotriges were one of the Celtic tribes living in Britain prior to the Roman invasion. The tribe lived in modern Dorset, south Wiltshire, south Somerset and Devon east of the River Axe and the discovery of an Iron Age hoard in 2009 at Shalfleet, Isle of Wight gives evidence that they may also have lived in the western half of the island. There is growing evidence[1][2] to suggest that women held relatively high status in the tribe due to several factors including: high status grave goods[3] found predominantly in female graves and the society being matrilocal.[1] .
<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Durotriges>
The following two narratives gives an in depth descriptive of the wise men and women of the Durotrige living in Freshwater.
and the gathering of the cynren with the Regni in the Meon Valley.
THE WIHTWARA DYNASTY
BOOK THREE
Chapter three
Þæt Forewítegian
fram þæt Durotrige
The prophecy of the
Durotrige
Æsc led the way into the dank forest, each footfall sinking
into squelching mud, thoroughly thawed by warming rays of Sunni sitting in a
cloudless sky. He had spent all his young life within its green embracing drýcrǽft,
had talked with Ælfen of all shades and hostilities. Learnt
deep healing from the plants and trees. And suddenly felt a growing frustration
towards his fæder, who had not.
As soon as he could place one foot before another without
falling on his face, it was his Mōdor who had led them both into the
forest magic, his little brōðor scampering around his feet. His fæder
had remained where he was happiest, in his slèan, being creative, a Drýcræftig
smiððe.
Now his fæder was banging his way through, arms
flaying about, getting scratched and sore, swearing very badly in ancient
Norse. The trees were hostiles here. Even he felt unnerved. They had
intertwined their long branches in an intricate weave that made prisoners of
men very quickly. Æsc brushed away a lump of melting branch snow that landed
neatly on his eyes, depriving him of all sight.
“Forstoppian,” he shouted, “Stop Fæder, just
stop! Stay here for a few moments while I go on alone. I need to find signs,
any signs of animal tracks, human tracks, anything to ease our way.” Eyvindr
stopped dead as if the air had suddenly escaped his lungs. Extending his arm to
a nearby tree leaning on it for support, he muttered, “Go, Æsc, Go mín beorn.”
He eased down to sit against the trunk, a bed of brown soggy forest detritus
cushioning his fall. Eyvindr sighed, deeply. Within his creative mind he was no
older than his son. His bones were telling him another story. He eased his
panting breath and surveyed the sculptured maze before him. The skeletons of
these ancients were giving him their story.
There was a family of oaks about him. He was resting against
the grandfather. He noticed at least four varieties of lichen cohabiting on the
old grandfather. Each had a curative remedy. He turned around to see the oak’s
offspring, of which there were many. As in all ancient forests, the trees
adapted to reach Sunni. These youngsters spiralled skyward with abandon and did
not mimic the old one at all. In fact, Eyvindr realised, they resembled
towering beech trees. Then he noticed a
miracle of Nerthus that made him regret, just for a moment, his passion for the
Smiððe.
There were beech trees in amongst the oak. Not just
haphazardly sprung from the earth, but chosen as if in divine union, the beech
and oak had seeded together, grown together, and embraced in an eternal twining
of their branches. His attention was so drawn to the loving union, he did not
register the change in the birds’ calling. He did not hear the massive crunch
and rustle of winter leaves and twigs. When he did, it was too late.
A massive spiky, long-tusked boar swayed out from the forest
detritus and blackthorn bushes. Eyvindr, whose heart had now truly stopped,
raised himself to full height battened against the tree as if the oak would
have his back and maybe kick the boar to next yule. He reached for his bow and
found an empty space. Groaning audibly, he looked up to see if the lowest
branch was in reach.
The boar found the human sound intriguing and stopped,
grizzled head to one side, just looking. Eyvindr decided those cold black
pincer eyes had impaled themselves on his soul forever. His instinct told him
to shout. He filled his lungs and screamed and hollered old Norse swear words,
bunching his fists and waving them at the boar. The expression of surprise on
the boar’s face was only matched by the ferocious snarl and the digging-in of
squat hooves as he charged towards Eyvindr. The speed was ferociously fast.
Eyvindr had no time to even think his last thoughts when he felt the impact of
tusk and gristle on his leg, blood pouring and pain shooting to his heart. He
fell and was immediately twisted about as the boar set in to finish his kill.
Eyvindr opened his mouth, and this was now a scream of pure terror.
As darkness crept around his peripheral vision, he heard a
thwack and a thump, followed almost immediately by another. The boar fell away
from him and opening his eyes briefly, he saw two sturdy arrow shafts impaled
in the boar’s chest, so close together, one had almost split the shaft of the
other. Eyvindr recognised his son’s arrow, but the other was unknown to
him. He felt a pure wave of love for Æsc
swamp his consciousness before he lost vision altogether.
… … … … … … … … …
The first sensation Eyvindr became aware of was the acrid
stench of tallow smoke coupled with the wet stench of damp wool. He felt warm.
Was he in Neorxenawang? Had he died?
Somewhere in his very ancient memory, he knew these smells,
knew the place and it was not Nerthus’ meadow. He felt someone squeeze his left
shoulder, and in turning found no one there. But he did know his Èacen
Ðriddafæder was.
Eyvindr’s eyes sprang open to see he was lying on a thick
bed of sheepskins near a roaring fire, whose spirals of flame and smoke danced
up towards a smoke hole so high in the pointed roof, he thought he should
orchestrate the dance with music. He felt light-headed. He was not in pain, but
equally not himself either. He turned to
see a man, the most ancient of men, wrinkled in every part and tattooed
everywhere else, sitting nearby, but not too close. He was chatting to someone
by his side. Eyvindr called out. It was his son Æsc who smiled over to Eyvindr
and brought his hands together in acclaim. Fæder had woken up! Eyvindr
made to sit up, and the pain simply overwhelmed him. He fell back and darkness
welcomed him yet again.
The Durotrige elder studied Eyvindr’s dormant form for a few
moments before turning to Æsc with a concerned look on his wrinkled face.
“Bydd coes
eich tad yn cymryd peth amser i iachau. Nid yw'n ifanc ac rwy'n ofni y bydd y
clwyf yn gwledda,
"
“ Your
father’s leg will take time to heal. He is not young and I fear the wound may
fester.”
“It is his
pilgrimage to walk in the footsteps of his Èacen Ðriddafæder,” Æsc
replied, “We should be at Lãfadún with the Warinni kindred!” he continued, “I
thank you for coming to his aid.”
“Oh you would
have killed that boar without my help,” Gobãn answered with a wry smile,
stroking his cheek thoughtfully, “and it is I who is thankful and honoured to see Young Eyvindr grace our
roundhouse. I remember his great grandfather when I was an incredibly young
lad. I feel him here now, looking over his son, willing him to get well.”
Æsc got up, moving over to hold his fæder’s hand, “He
is burning up, Old One,” as he placed his hand on Eyvindr’s brow, “what can be
done now?”
“Bèibhinn,” Gobãn called, “Quickly, our Warinni kin is in
fever!”
An older tattooed Durotrige woman came scurrying over
holding a bunch of herbs, a clay pot containing an acrid- smelling potion, her
aging face fixed in a grim expression. Æsc began holding his breath, his
stomach knotting as he watched his fæder slip further into
unconsciousness.
She knelt by Eyvindr, shushing the son away with a sweep of
her hand. No words were spoken. Æsc retreated to sit with Gobãn, his eyes not
leaving his fæder.
She eased the dark sticky poultice of large leaves and
a herb mulch, clicking her tongue
quietly and eying the wound with pinched eyes. The smell of putrefaction
reached Æsc and he gagged. She cleaned the wound up and reached for a leather
pouch tied to her waist. Opening it up, Æsc stared in some horror as maggots
plopped on to the festering wound, settling themselves down to gorge on the pus
now building around the swollen gash in Eyvindr’s leg.
Bèibhinn turned to Æsc, “If this does not work, your fæder
will lose his leg. We must cut it off,” she pronounced, not brokering any
debate. “Two moons, pray!”
Æsc just buried his head in his hands, shoulders shaking, and cried, praying to Wōden in between choked breaths.
The next morning saw bright sunlight warm the bodies and hearts of all in the tiny Durotrige settlement. Really just three longhouses remained of their once-thriving village. It was peopled by elders and those not seen fit to emigrate back to the mainland shores where consolidated kin were building better trade and prospects for the young ones.
Æsc was seen wandering aimlessly amongst the roundhouses,
nodding in respect to the inhabitants but not offering conversation. They
understood and respected his reticence. His fæder was still in a fever,
swimming Wyrd midstream, with short bursts of consciousness and incoherent
ranting. Æsc found himself in a likewise state of emotional turmoil, except he
could not escape into sweet unconsciousness. His fæder’s wish to meet
with the last of the island Durotrige was timely. No doubt about that, but Æsc felt almost
uncontrollable anger that his fæder had not met the challenge at all
well. And pity for him, that his pilgrimage had ended with not one word spoken
to the Old One he so wished to meet. Now, it seemed Wyrd had dealt a bigger
challenge that he had no power over at all. His fæder’s life or his
limb.
The small heath where the roundhouses occupied flat green
pasture, was steadily being encroached upon by the burgeoning forest. Some
trees overhung the tall roofs, smoke gently spiralling upwards through the bare
branches. The snap of winter left breaths in a spiral of vapour to offer up as
an icy companion to the smoke, despite the Sunni gifting her rays. The only respite was the spirit-lifting
birdsong, as their domain was ever bountiful, and they gave thanks. Æsc realised why the Old Ones refused to leave.
They remembered the old sounds of Nerthus, the sounds sung in ancient times and
which the birds relived every day. And again, sadness gripped him at the
passing. He was passing by the same opening where they had entered the village,
when his eyes shot wide open and brought his arms out in greeting. Striding
towards him was Wihtgils, flanked by his oath sworn, Eardwūlf and Deorwine. And
limping visibly behind them, came his brōðor Ãc boasting a black eye and
several bruises. Æsc bowed to his Cyng and after the Suevian arm clasp,
he strode towards a quite damaged brother, hugging him too fiercely, Ãc
releasing a groan as delicate muscles got squeezed.
“Hwæt gebyrian æt þú unwita brōðor?”
“What happened to you, foolish brother?”
“Salians!”, Ãc growled back.
“Forstoppian!”, the Cyng ordered, “Tell me
where Eyvindr is?”
Æsc quickly recounted
the challenge of the boar and the injury, “He is in a great fever.”
“Nã, nã NÃ!” Wihtgils hollered, striding towards the
roundhouse. “Respect, my king,” Æsc called, “These are elders, ‘Ancient Ones’.”
“Deorwine, go forward and request permission to enter. Your sweord
man!” Wihtgils halted in his step and took the war swords, placing them on the
ground. After the formality of acceptance and entry to the longhouse was
observed, Wihtgils found himself staring down at a mound of sheepskins that
shook and quivered spasmodically, giving the only indication that Eyvindr was
still alive. The aging wise woman was bent over the mound chanting in prayer to
her gods.
“Cyng of Wihtland,” came the deep gravelly voice of
Gobãn, “you are welcome in my home. There is nothing more to be done, except
wait. One more moon and we shall know if he loses the leg.
“Come sit with us, share our food and ale.” Neither Æsc nor
Ãc felt hungry, their appetite shot away with anxiety for their fæder.
But Wihtgils and his men held no such qualms. Ãc recounted to his brother the
attack by Salians and how he was saved by the Wihtgils ‘watcher’.”
Wihtgils settled into the warmth of the food, ale, and
hospitable company, wiped his mouth looked around the small group gathered in
circle around a fire, whose flames lit up their faces in sharp shadows,
accentuating the age of the Old Ones. All eyes were upon the Cyng.
“I will give you our ancestor Telling about your near
relatives,” Wihtgils turned to smile appreciatively at the two young men,
destined beyond doubt to become oath-sworn warriors for the Cyng. He
stared contemplatively at the dancing flames and taking a deep intake of breath
began the Telling that was embedded within his soul from early childhood. This
should have happened for these two young men, but better late than never, he
thought. Their hidden forest lives gave them skills no longer required. But
courage most certainly was a skill they needed.
“The Romans imposed a false name on your tribe across the
big sea, the Varnii,” he began, twisting slightly on the skins, making himself
comfortable, “The Romans were liars, cheats, fornicators, and all manner of
evil could be traced back to them, those bastards.
“But our people never succumbed to them. We are the
descendants of Ing, the oldest god, son of Manna. And we are people of the
water. We lived near or even on the sea. Most of the Suevii, lived along the
coastlines all the way to Denmark. We lived deeply in the Spirit world. Nerthus
and Wōden, Thunōr, Freya, Tiw knew our fealty, our passion and dedication.
Above all, they knew our essence of intent and it was wholly peaceable, until
we were riled! The Menapians and the Frisians are our kindred. They became our cynren
as our people migrated down the coastline to meet them, and we joined. Our
spirits are the same. In joining we lost nothing of our passion for commerce,
trade, and culture. The confederacy of seven tribes joined those of the
Frisians. We all became the Suevii.”
Wihtgils paused to take a draft of ale, quietly wishing he
had brought mead. He must allow the Telling to sink into the souls of these
young men. Each aspect to be savoured enabling the Telling to be passed to
future generations. He looked over to Eyvindr, the most talented Drýcræftig
Smiððe in the Wihtwara, whose magical work was now in jeopardy. He must
recover. An offering was needed. Wihtgils returned his thoughts to the Telling.
“Friesland became the earliest place for an entirely new
movement, the consequences of which are destined to ripple across so many
countries. This country was occupied towards the sea by a people wholly
maritime, excepting the narrow land between the Rhine and the Vahal, of which
the Salian Franks had become possessed. The nature of this marshy soil, in
comparison to the sands of Westphalia, Guelders and North Brabant, was not more
strikingly contrasted than the character of their people.
“The Franks, who had been for a while under the Roman sway
showed a compound of the violence of savage life and the corruption of
civilized society. They were covetous and treacherous, but made excellent
soldiers and at this epoch, which intervened between the power of imperial Rome
and that of Germany, the Franks might be morally considered as a borderer on
the frontiers of our time. The Suevii, uniting in himself the distinctive
qualities of German and navigator, was moderate and sincere, but merciless in
his rage. The number of Franks who still entered service of the empire
diminished the real force of that nation, and naturally tended to disunite it.
Therefore, in the subsequent shock of people against people, the Suevii
invariably gained the final advantage.
“They had no doubt often measured their strength in the most
remote times, since the Franks were but the descendants of the ancient tribe of
Sicambes and others, against whom the Batavians had offered their assistance to
Cæsar. Under Augustus, the inhabitants of the coast had in the same way joined
themselves with Drufus, to oppose these, their old enemies. It was also after
having been expelled by the Freislanders from Guelders, that the Salians had
passed the Rhine and the Muese but in these last hundred moons, the two peoples
recovering their strength, the struggle recommenced, never to end!
“At least between the two descendants of each,” Wihtgils
turned to Æsc and Ãc, “Now do you understand why you were set upon. Just for
being who you are?”
“It is believed, and is true that it was the Varnii, whose
true name is the Warinni, our loyal and distinguished race of Suevii who struck
the decisive blow on the side of the Saxons. Embarking on board a numerous
fleet, they made a descent in the ancient isle of the Batavians, at that time
inhabited by the Salians, whom they destroyed. Julian the Apostate, who was
then with a numerous army, pursuing his career of early glory in these
countries, interfered for the purpose of preventing the expulsion, or at least
the utter destruction of the vanquished. But his efforts came to nothing. The
Salians appear to figure no more in this part of Friesland.
“The defeat of the Salians by the Warinni is true. There is
no doubt, and they are your near cousins, Ãc and Æsc, and have settled near the
mouth of the Rhine. Visit them!”
Wihtgils paused for the whole scenario and its importance to
sink in. His tribe was Nuithone, and the Warinni were kindred in every way. He
was Cyng to the whole coastal region and the isle of Oghgul. And he was Cyng
of the coastal region here in Britannia and Wihtland with Cant being a place he
visited. The Meonwara, the Cantwara and Wihtwara were all his kindred. Yet the
Nuithone and the Warinni that had made their home here was, and always would
be, the true bloodline to Wōden and to Ing. The Ingavonii, the water people,
all blood, all part of the Suevii whole.
Gobãn had been sitting motionless, listening with focused
intent. He had not heard this Telling and it excited him tremendously. Yet he
gave nothing away except momentarily his eyes, almost eclipsed in deep
wrinkles, became very unfocused, with a rapid movement signalling he was
journeying into Wyrd.
"Gwybod
hyn, Bydd y Salmau yn dod yn gynar o Gaul, bydd y cyfan o'r tir yn eu . A chi,
chi Saxons, chi Warinni, a'u gorfodi ar eu gyrfa waedlyd o goncwest, fydd yn
dod yn feistri ar y tir hwn, bydd hynny'n cael ei alw'n Lloegr ar ôl eich
llwyth Anglii. Felly, gwybod hyn, a'i gofio'n dda. Dechreuasoch fel dau lwyth
dibwys, yn brwydro am gornel o bridd corsiog, a byddwch yn cario eich casineb
cyfatebol ymlaen am byth. Byddwch yn penderfynu ar ffawd iawn Ewrop y
Rhufeiniaid yn obsesiwn am gyhyd."
“Know this,” he spoke into the silence and grabbed
everyone’s attention, “these Salians will become the conquerors of Gaul, the
whole of the land will be theirs. And you, you Saxons, you Warinni, who forced
them on their bloody career of conquest, will become the masters of this land,
that will be called England after your Anglii tribe.
“So, know this, and remember it well. You began as two petty
tribes, battling for a corner of marshy earth, and you will carry your
reciprocal hatred onwards forever. You will decide the very destiny of Europe
the Romans obsessed about for so long.”
There was a terrible silence, with only the soft crackle of
flames and the spitting of sparks from the wood glowing a soft white. Someone
in the circle coughed and people shifted, suddenly feeling discomfort.
Gobãn spoke again, this time his voice resonating around the
timber and wattle walls, to soar upwards, escaping through the smoke hole for
all the gods to hear.
“ Clywch fi!
Duwiau a Suevii. Bydd fy ngwaed yn
gwneud i'ch gwaed lifo. Clywch fi! "
“What did he
say?,” hissed Æsc to Bèibhinn.
“He is warning you,” Bèibhinn spoke quietly, “Hear me! Gods
and Goddesses of the Suevii. My blood will make your blood flow. Hear Me!”
The Regni tribe lived on the eastern side of the island. the island was in those ancient days three islands, Frescshwaetr Ealond, Middle Ealond, Everlant Ealond. The Regni occupied Orhamm and Breredingas. Their capital on the mainland was Chichester.
The most fascinating aspect of these peoples' was their ongoing linking to the Roman incursion, their welcoming of the Romans onto their land and melding into the Roman culture so they became client kings.It is this aspect that strongly links the Regni to the building of Brading Villa, the upgrading of it to create a superb recreation of Roman villas in Antioch etc.
The only tribal area Cogidubnus definitely ruled was the Regni.[24] Tacitus says "quaedam civitates Cogidumno regi donatae" ('certain civitates were given to King Cogidumnus')[25] and remarks on his loyalty. Some have assumed that Cogidubnus must also have ruled over the civitates of the Belgae and
From <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Regni#Client_kingdom_(early-late_1st_century)>
he tribe’s existence is traced to the city of Chichester. During the Roman era, Chichester was a Civitas Capital, indicating it was a minor capital city governing a small tribal region. While maps typically indicate the Atrebates as the tribe occupying Chichester, the name of the city suggests the Regini actually controlled the area.[2]
Chichester's Roman name, Noviomagus Reginorum, is widely accepted to translate as “New Market,” but the meaning of Reginorum has been a subject of debate. Originally interpreted as “The People of the Kingdom,” i.e., the people of Cogidubnus’ client kingdom, a comparison with other civitas capitals reveals a different meaning. For instance, the tribal capital of the Durotriges tribe in Dorset (Dorchester) is Durotrigium, corresponding to the land of the Durotriges. This naming convention is also seen in other regional capitals like Atrebatum (Silchester) within Atrebates territory and Belgarum (Winchester) in Belgae territory. Applying this pattern to Chichester suggests that Reginorum should be understood as “New Market, Land of the Regini”.[3][4] Regnini or Regni is believed to come from a Brythonic word Regini (and the Gaulish and Old Welsh word Regin) meaning the “proud ones” or the “stiff ones.”[5]
From <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Regni#Client_kingdom_(early-late_1st_century
A Dioscuri fram wundrian
A Dioscuri of wonderment
Wèoh Lèah
On Ðam Beorga
For the last two twilights, the Meonwara from the very edges
of the hundreds, were arriving at Ðam Beorga. The Regni joined in groups
as they camped together, each in accord. The elders sat together over the mead
cup trying to recall the last time a Thyng of this magnitude had been
called. More importantly, why? The storm had receded somewhat, though still
threatening to enliven the proceedings once more.
A Regni elder of indeterminate age, his weathered and
wrinkled face that hid his eyes, now mere slits, was pondering the question,
swallowing the last dregs of a huge mead cup.
The shadows danced on his face as flames from the large fire,
took some wind and weaved energetically. There was no doubt amongst them. The
gods were present, alive, and waiting.
“The last time, I was a bit of a boy,” the Regni elder
commented, softly, in reminiscence, a calm look suffusing his face. “They were
happy times. I grew in honour and kinship with my clan. We had respect. Then
one day word travelled, and fast. The Romans were on the march across Gaul, to
reach our shores. They were bringing legions with a commander who had a new
voice. Religious talk they called it. About this Jesus and the one god. Nothing
happened about it. The Romans here just carried on worshipping their gods and
we honoured ours.
“I think we are about to encounter the same now. But this
will be different. I can feel our gods and goddesses amassing around us. They
never did that before!”
Wihtgils and Eyvindr were sitting near to the Regni, but
with their own small fire. It was a private moment. Nonetheless, they overheard
the conversation. Wihtgils stared intensely into the flames. He heaved a sigh,
growling at the back of his throat.
“I don’t know how to fight this coming war, Eyvindrson,” he
said, almost whispering, looking round to stare into Eyvindr’s face, searching
for an answer.
“I cannot fight this war. This strange war of the Word! What
does that mean?”
“I am your Wita Wítega,” Eyvindr answered, “and I
have no idea!”
“This Germanus, and how dare he use the name of our feared
warrior clan!” Wihtgils spluttered with sudden vehemence, “This priest from
Rome. This anger makes me want to pull out my sacred sweord. Challenge
him cleanly on the field of battle. I can see the whites of his eyes as I send
him to Valhalla, or wherever his kind go!”
The fire was beginning to dwindle. They both looked over to
the Regni elder circle, shared a knowing look between them and together, after
heeling the little fire to glowing cinders, went over to join them. They eased
in beside the ancient elder who turned to greet them.
“Wilcume Cyng fram þæt Meonwara” he said in their
Suevii tongue “Welcome to our humble circle this night.”
“Regni elder,” Wihtgils began, “We overheard you, your talk
of this Jesus and the one and only god. My Wita Wítega,” he continued,
pointing to Eyvindr, “has been given a vision of times to come, which
foretell of many invaders of the Word, travelling from Rome. They will bring
our people to their knees, forsaking our Earth mother Nerthus and our gods and
goddesses. That is the purpose of this Thyng tomorrow twilight.”
“Geðoncian þu,” the old one muttered back, “Thank
you. We too have been given visions. We have a spakōna here, a Wahl of
the Warinni who has been visioning for a while now. So, we know this is
especially important and we are grateful to the Meonwara Cyng for
calling this forward.”
“What is your spakōna’s name?”, Eyvindr blurted out,
suddenly alert and leaning forward for the answer.
“Why, it is Heidrun Wahl”, he replied, suddenly looking
closer and studying Eyvindr through his half-closed eyes. There was still
immense power behind his gaze.
Eyvindr shot bolt upright, extending his arm, palm upwards,
almost in supplication.
“Wíþ Nerthus fæðm! The Nornia must be here!” he
exclaimed, a broad smile lighting up his face, hitherto so withdrawn and tense.
Ever since the corougle incident.
“I am Eyvindr Wahl. My Èacen ðriddafæder comes to me.
And he is brōðor to our ancestor Dagrun Wahl. I look forward to meeting
with your Heidrun Wahl!”
“She is not my Heidrun Wahl! But indeed, young
sire!”, the elder chortled lightly, echoed by his Regni companions.
A long silence followed. The old Regni leant forward to poke
more life into the fire, sending up sparks and collapsing dying wood. He stared
intently. Shapes in the white-hot mass, moved and jostled with each other until
they settled. A deep growl escaped from him and several muttered words in
Regni. Wihtgils was leaning forward, staring intently into the face of the
elder.
“A sharp and real truth has come to hit you sideways, old
man!” the elder began, turning to face the Cyng “You will not be
entering Valhalla with a dripping sweord to feast on the mead with Odin.
You are a true battlefield warrior of the old ways. But no more. You will end
your days in peace. In Neorxenawang Nerthus Meadow. And you have seen it
too. Nerthus came to greet you did she not?”
Eyvindr’s eyes shot open on that remark. And his gaze fell
to the ground.
“This coming war will be a battle of the mind. Your mind is
as sharp as your sweord mín Cyng. They will be as clever with their
words as you have been with your sweord!”
He leant forward until he was nearly touching the Cyng’s
face and looked deep into his soul. Those slits-for-eyes were radiating a light
and a power that made Wihtgils with eyes wide open, stare right back.
“And with respect you are already here,” the elder whispered
gently, “in Nerthus’ meadow. You know it.” He moved back and rocked a little in
amusement, his arms folded on his lap, “Why do you think so many spakōna,
wita wítega, high priests and priestesses of all tribes and clans
gravitate to this Meon Valley? Because this is Neorxenawang as Wihtland
is Nerthus’ Grove!”
“Giese, Ælfþryð, my wíf will be pleased to
hear that”, Wihtgil chimed back, nodding.
The Regni elder burst into high laughter, his ample folds of
muscle and fat gyrating with each guffaw. Wihtgils looked dumbfounded.
“Your wíf has known this for quite a while”, the old
one returned with a smile, “it’s just taken you a long while to catch up!” He
shifted his weight manoeuvring his body to obey an upward movement and slapping
the Cyng on the shoulder.
“It is time for rest now. We have an especially important day ahead of us. Wilcume to Þæt Mèonæ Cyng of þæt Wih
The day dawned overcast, tempting in a storm. In the drafty
hall that was their accommodation, they stared into the mead stains that were
layers deep, muddying the trestle table where the royal party sat discussing
the Thyng in all its complexity. Eyvindr sat staring silently at the
opened box that held Wōden’s Golden Eye. His soul was as open and as vulnerable
as the golden statue he had created. His life had led up to this moment.
He thought of Æðestãn and Sunngifu, without whom none of this would have
materialized. Then, by sheer devilment, Wilburg appeared, before him, smiling
and beckoning, she was so real, he gasped.
“What ails you?” Wihtgils asked.
“Ohh, I’m trying to place exactly where we will show the
golden-eye”, he responded, reaching out to touch the head. He knew every curve
and shape.
“You have not seen the Wèoh Lèah”, the Cyng stated as
he twisted his long grey hair expertly and vigorously into the suevian knot,
clamping it firmly on to his right side. He winced at the final tug of the
knot, “It sits above þæt Mèonæ on the ridge sacred to the distant
Ancestors. Their Byrgels rings follow in a line to our moot.
Exactly as we have on Wihtland. Our Þvyþacumb.”
Wihtgils looked more closely at his pensive wita wítega.
Eyvindr was staring into middle distance, unblinking.
“There will be but a few twilights now and you can relieve
yourself of this huge burden,” Wihtgils burst into Eyvindr’s reverie, “Look at
my wíf’s expression. She is quietly bubbling over with her suppressed
joy at seeing our sons again after so long! But you, Eyvindrson, you cannot
look your family in the eye. Can you?”
Eyvindr shut his eyes against this truth. This boulder was
growing within him, ever larger, seated deep within his gut. But it would not
squash the light within his soul. Wilburg was that light.
“Do what your own will tells you,” the Cyng
continued, “but hold a steady heart, with me, at my side, until I give you
leave to go. Do you understand?”
Eyvindr spared a moment for this to sink in, in respect to
Wihtgils.
“Giese, mín Cyng,” he replied, bowing slightly in
assent. Then shifting his stool back, scraping the rush floor, he stood up to
walk over to his family, who were deep in discussion at the far end of the mead
trestle table.
Æsc was in deep discussion with his brother, bordering close
to argument.
“Ãc, you have an over-inflated regard towards your
predicament with those thralls, you know. The Thyng is not intended to
thrash this out for you. This Thyng is a serious ceremonial, gathering
all souls and all gods and goddesses to us, both Regni and Meonwara, the
biggest ever, I would fathom.”
“Fæder, help me here,” he turned to Eyvindr, who sat
next to his younger son, and he could feel the anger pulsating around him.
“Ãc, look at me beorn,” he began. Ãc was shielding
his eyes, then taking a deep breath, stared at his father, who for a second saw
his own reflection in his younger son.
“Take a step back please, I beg you,” he began, resting his
hand on Ãc’s forearm, “My vision, and that of others, here, show dark times
ahead for us. We need to be prepared. Listen to what Dagrun Wahl must tell us.
Listen to Wihtgils.
“If there is time allowed, I’m sure Wihtgils will attend to
lesser matters.”
“They are not lesser matters to either me or the Salian
thralls,” he shot back, eyes flaring again.
Eyvindr looked over to the Salians, crouching in the corner
of the mead hall, deep in conservation with each other.
“It doesn’t need the Thyng to resolve this,” Eyvindr
continued with his line of thinking, “What is holding you back from freeing
them? You own them, you can free them.”
“Oh, Thunor’s balls, I don’t want to just free them!” Ãc
exploded, “I want to know why they attacked me, and I need an apology,
from their heart!”
“Then get a pair of balls yourself, brōðor,” Æsc shot
over in some exasperation, “Now is the perfect time. Talk to them. Find out the
root of this, before we all trudge up the hill to higher matters. Then it will
be too late!”
Ãc placed both hands on the table and stood up, his giant’s
stance obvious. He was a Warinni. He was about to find out a piece of his
history hitherto unknown. And it may not be to his liking at all.
The Wahl family looked over as the discussion began. They
were too far away to eavesdrop so Eyvindr settled back to hear his wíf
and dohtors resume their talk of Roman roads, endless barley fields with
the Roman water wheel just dormant, waiting, for the harvest. They were
enthusing about þæt Mèonæ with such sparkle entering their eyes, he
realised, with a sharp pang, that their woodland life was receding swiftly from
them.
He turned to Æsc. “Tell me beorn, did you ever meet
this priest Germanus on your travels to Powys?”
“Thank the Æll Fæder,” he exclaimed, “Nah! but I
heard enough to know he is a relentless bully and tormentor of people’s minds.
He has an entourage, priests who follow him and they encircle the tunstede
villagers, calling our gods and goddesses demons, who allow child murder,
fornication, and rape. And then offer the gentle and kind god Jesus, who
forgives all sins, provided everyone renounces their old gods.”
“That is the evil of my vision from Èacen ðriddafæder,” Eyvindr
replied, “exactly that, and it is coming for us!”
All was interrupted, stopped, as voices dropped to a silence
that wafted across the crowded hall, as three blasts from the horn, each louder
and longer calling the Thyng to begin. The energy within the mead hall
changed as abruptly as the horn had sounded. They shuffled silently in an
order, out of the hall and began the long walk up the steepest incline to the
sacred ground honoured for thousands of years by their Ancestors.
A Dioscuri fram wundrian
A Dioscuri of wonderment
Wèoh Lèah
On Ðam Beorga
Thunōr, amongst all the gods present, was raging. Eyvindr’s
head was beginning to throb, mid-temple and in rhythm with each gust of wind.
Still halfway up the ascent, with crowds huddling together against the
buffeting wind, he squinted over to his treasure, the golden eye, being
transported by Brennos and Acco. By request, it turned out. He looked over to
his son, Ãc, who was giving nothing away after the discussion between them,
earlier, in the corner of the mead hall. Eyvindr held nothing against the two
Salians, save that they beat his son to a near pulp. He had a strong feeling it
was a ‘sins of the fathers’ issue.
On reaching the summit, he stopped abruptly, not to admire
the vista around him, stunning as it was, but to bend down, hands on both
knees, drawing breath into heaving lungs. He looked over to see Wihtgils doing
the self-same thing, grimacing as he waved his hand for his Wita Wítega
to join him.
“Eyvindr,” Wihtgils called out, against the wind, “Look at
this scene. Is it not sublime? Over there, look, you can see your beloved
sacred Isle.”
And see it, he did. His heart nearly stopped beating for a
second. He suddenly felt her presence next to him. “How does she do that?”
he silently questioned, seeing Wihtland sitting gracefully on the sea,
supremely feminine as the Grove of Nerthus should be. With Wilburg, there,
waiting for him. Eyvindr looked away, and in turning, Wihtgils’ expression did
not escape him either. If Thunōr could be trapped in a face, Wihtgils had
achieved it!
Þæt Mèonæ snaked below them like a silver serpent, as
it reached Èast Mèonæ and the very source of the spring, constantly
birthing the river. The willows and alder trees edging the water’s course, were
swaying relentlessly in the growing storm. Their swerving dance matched the
young barley crops at Sûð Beretún, which offered a huge tapestry in
motion. The whole valley was alive. The gods had signalled their presence.
On Ðam Beorga, the entire Meonwara and Regni land all
around could be witnessed by anyone who stood there. A Dioscuri of wonderment.
There was no better place to hold a Thyng. The Ancestors knew well
enough where to honour their dead. The circular gerihte burial mounds
ran in a line across the apex of Ðam Beorga.
The sky, this day, had deep, dark-grey clouds building so
intensely, they were nearly touching the sacred ground. A mist began to roll
over the figures lining many deep in a growing circle around the very last
burial mound. A fire built high enough to meet the clouds, was sparking,
throwing almost incendiary parts of itself to ignite wherever the sparks
landed.
And in the dead centre, stood the wooden box holding the
golden eye statue within. It had been safely kept hitherto, but Eyvindr felt a
roll of nerves skitter down his spine. He made for the box, and stood there, as
guardian until the Thyng was done.
The Regni elders had gathered in a clutch and had been in
preparation for most of the day. Their conversation was muted, even guarded at
times. Wihtgils felt impelled to join them. It was after all his decision to
call the Thyng in the first place. Hidden behind the group, keeping well
into the shadows, stood a very tall woman. And she was ancient, but with the
straight spine of a much younger woman.
Wihtgils turned and called to Eyvindr, “Wita Wítega,
give the guarding of your golden eye to the thralls. Come over here.”
Eyvindr spied the woman, leaving the shelter of the elders.
As he walked over, his soul gave a lurch as she moved forward, staring straight
into him. Without an atom of doubt remaining, he knew he was meeting his
Ancestor, Dagrun Wahl, in this lifetime. They seemed to gravitate towards each
other, time in suspension. Both of equal height, giants by any other
description. Her hair was now silvered with a few streaks of the copper brown
that was still Eyvindr’s colour. Her beauty was unmarred with too many creases
and wrinkles. Her eyes, wide and loving searched his, wandering over his face.
She reached out and gently touched his cheek.
“Mín brōðor, Ic am Heidrun Wahl,” She whispered,
smiling, “Wè gemètan ongèan. Húmeta mín ferhð is ãgalan. Hit is wunderlíc!
“My brother, we meet again. How my heart is singing. It is wonderful.”
Eyvindr’s eyes widened as his own heart opened. He felt
himself stretch, his spine clicking into place. Only now did he realise he had
been slouching. Only now, that he had not smiled, or felt truly safe in another
woman’s company. Wilburg meant risk and desire, Friðuswiþ, frustration and
repression.
“I am feeling my Èacen ðriddafæder beside me now”, he
said clearly, “Eyvindr Wahl gives the visions to my soul to do with them what I
must do.”
“It is my Ðriddamōdor who walks with me, Dagrun Wahl,
Eyvindrson,” Heidrun replied with a startling smile, showing clean white teeth
that belied her age, “She who ran from the Romans that terrible night at
Berandinzium Villam. She came here to Þæt Mèonæ. Many a Telling around
the fire has kept her voice and wisdom alive. It is my nefene, my
namesake, who carries the spirit within, who will become spakōna. She
will confront these so-called “men of god”. And she will be ready!”
Time was held in suspension as they looked deep into their
souls and held each other in the Suevian embrace. Eyvindr felt a surge of
energy charge through his body. He braced his legs to stop himself from
falling, it was so powerful. The insights that came with it, left him gasping.
Again, he saw the future. And his role was exactly as it should be. The leaden
weight in the pit of his gut was gone. The river of Wyrd flowed through him
showing a future that was always meant to be.
And that future was with Wilburg Wahl and the boy, Æðestãn.
“I do not have a nefene,” he said, “but I have a fōster
lytling who…”
Heidrun put her finger to his lips to hush him, “I know brōðor. It has all been foretold. Now, let us be the voice by which our dear ancestors will speak. This twilight Thyng will be long remem
Þæt Mèonæ Thyng
The great horn, its gold filigree catching the fire’s
flames, glinted in the night sky, as the Regni elder held it to his lips and
emptied his aging lungs with practised skill. They would have heard it on
Wihtland. The energy instantly intensified as this was the call to their Gods
and Goddesses.
Wihtgils moved forward to the centre of the deep human
circle, enclosing the ancestor burial. It was at least six rows deep. Large,
shielded torches were held high and the night was truly illuminated. Below the
upstretched hands, stood souls, waiting, hoping for enlightenment from the gods
and ancestors both.
Wihtgils raised both
his arms high in supplication and raised his voice to match. That voice held a
bellowing timbre that travelled the breadth of the circle and beyond. Skywards
to Thunōr and Wōden.
“Erce, Erce, Erce, Folde Mōdor, Æll Fæder, Wōden,
Thunōr, Tiw, Freya, Sunni und Mōnã, wilcume æt þes Thyng þæt Wèoh Lèah.
“Wè are ealswã a ðèodscipe, þæt Suevii und Regni, hold
æt þu úre Ieldran, Drytens und Grydens.
“Nūðã wè are ðrèagen þurh an florãd. A beadu ongèan
úre gelèafa und úre drohtnung.
“Tæcan ūs æt bringan sige ongean úre feondscaða!”
“Hail, Earth mother, All Father, Wōden, Thunōr, Tiw,
Freya, Sunni and Mōnã. Welcome to this Thyng at Wèoh Lèah.
“We are as a people, the Suevii and Regni, loyal to you,
our Ancestors, Gods and Goddesses.
“Now, we are threatened by an invading force. A war
against our Faith and way of Life.
“Teach us to bring victory against this war with men who
use words as swords.”
The dark clouds were bubbling deeper in the night sky.
Eyvindr’s eyes widened as he saw the flashes of lightning streak behind them.
He felt the hairs on his arms rise. And his memory of that night when Thunōr
visited the Yggdrasil in Ytene Weald was forged back into his conscious mind.
He had to act, quickly. Wihtgils mouthed for him to go. He sped across the
sanctified ground to reach the box that held the golden eye. He ripped
fingernails to open the box. The gold sculpture lay bound in protective hemp.
“My Wita Wítega, Eyvindr Wahl has received visions he
needs to share with you all,” Wihtgils hollered as the wind had picked up, his
voice losing against the ascendancy of Thunōr’s force “Heed his words!”
Eyvindr knew if he did not speak the vision now, Thunōr
would do it for him! He reached down and unravelled the golden eye, suddenly
lifting it high above his head. Swivelling around so all could witness it, and
on hearing the gasps that accompanied the showing, the flames of the torches
illuminating the golden head weaving long shadows as he moved in a circle, he
heaved the almightiest breath into his lungs and spoke:
“The tears from our Æll Fæder, Wōden are held within
this head of the purest gold,” Eyvindr cried out. The wind suddenly died down.
He took another breath. Everyone could hear the sky crackling wildly with just
a second’s breath between each one.
“His tears came from the Halíg Stãn that holds part
of his spirit on our sacred Isle, Wihtland. I witnessed this, and I was given
the vision He gave me. I must share with you now, else the skies will open for
sure.
“I have seen our children and their children’s children on
their knees in supplication to an avenging god. One that demands their fealty
over all other Gods and Goddesses. Our worship of Nerthus, our Earth Mother
will be denied, punished cruelly in ways you cannot imagine now!
“This god demands our children worship only him! Men will
come from Rome to barter our souls away. They will not use the sword. This will
be a war of words. And we will lose our Ancestors and our Gods, and our
Goddesses forever!”
Eyvindr’s voice broke, he croaked those last words, bending
his head, as he lowered the golden eye and hugging it to his heart. He turned
to see his son Æsc suddenly stand beside him, holding a flame bright and strong
close to golden-eye.
“This attack on our way life, our faith, is much closer than
you think”, Æsc shouted, straining his voice to be heard on top of Wèoh Lèah.
“As I speak to you, there is a priest from Rome, his name is Germanus. He is
preaching and cajoling, threatening good people in Powys with eternal damnation
if they do not give up their Gods and Goddesses to this one exclusive god and
this son they call Jesus Christ. Beware of that name! He will be coming here!”
He turned to see
Heidrun join him. She was standing erect and tall, reaching out to the circle,
she spoke loud and clear.
“You warrior men who live by the sword suffer a great
perplexity, a confusion. Did you not know that confusion is the first rule of
war? That is your enemies’ first victory before you even draw sword from
scabbard. These warriors of the Word, you will not see the whites of their
eyes, as you expect on the field of battle.
“These warriors preach love and compassion of their
exclusive male god yet practise hate and vilification.
“They love to hate! It is a form of pure madness they
indulge in. Yet the seeds of this madness will be planted in the minds of many
men and women. Seductive words.
“This war is invisible. Just realise the followers of this
god, crucified his son, and made that act sacred! That is the essence of the
prayers of your enemies.
“I ask you, implore you, to take this into your heart, your
soul, for it will be the making of a victory in times to come.
“You must think! And think again. An astute mind is the only
weapon against the onslaught to come.
“They will not respect Nerthus. They will try to destroy
Her! They will try to destroy the very ground we walk upon!”
The shriek of the wind that followed became deafening and
frightening. Thunōr, who had threatened to speak all day, let rip. Lightning
shot to the Earth. The Earth Mother was being reborn. Again, it came and this
time Eyvindr felt the charge of power reach his body. The night of Yggdrasil
was repeating itself. He crunched to the Earth covering the golden eye in
almost helpless protection. He waited to be shot with Thunōr’s bolt as sure as
the sun would rise. But no pain. Why no pain, he asked himself? Then he felt
the warmth of bodies above and around him.
Time stood still. Frozen. Wèoh Lèah. The weight above
him eased and he felt movement. A random thought suddenly entered his head,
“Well, it will ensure that this Thyng will get talked about every
firelight Telling!”
He was covered by his son, and Heidrun Wahl. They eased
themselves up to look around. Suddenly Heidrun shot away to join the elders.
Eyvindr found he could not move. Not because he was injured, but purely to be
with, and protect his golden effigy of the Æll Fæder. He was staring
into space, re-living that night when his protection of Yggdrasil had nearly
cost him his life. He felt a shadow cross him. Wihtgils hovered nearby.
“My eternal thanks to you,” the Cyng said quietly,
“You have carried the twilight with honour, and so has your son.”
“Hmm,” replied Eyvindr, “This Thyng will be talked
about for generations to come!”
“Exactly!” Wihtgils shot back, “Who could ask for more?”
“Eyvindrson,” Wihtgils gently stroked his back, “You have
never been on the blood fields in your entire life. But I tell you, your sons
will be. I cannot guarantee their safety. They may be awful warriors. But it is
in hands of the Nornia. And you can be sure Wōden will be there. You must
strengthen your spine, my wita wítega.” He heaved himself up, wincing at
the sudden pain. Wihtgils, Cyng of the Wihtwara and Meonwara and
Cantwara, walked slowly away disappearing into the night.
… … … … … … … … …
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