The Wihtwara book talk at the barns
·
Introduction: short
precis about each book
·
History of research:
Bede and Tacitus: who wins out!
·
Read out Bede and the
massacre
·
Read out Tacitus:
·
The Suevi: tribes in
Cimbric peninsular, read them out: they are the Wihtwara, Meonwara and the
Cantwara.
·
How the Suevii lived.
·
So close to Nerthus: a
heartbeat away from the spirits of the animals they called fylgia:
familiars.
BEDE
Chapter xvi How the island received Christian inhabitants,
and two royal youths of that island were killed immediately after baptism.
After Caedwalla has possessed himself of the kingdom of the Gewisse, he also took the Isle of wight, which until then was entirely given over to idolatry, and by cruel slaughter endeavoured to destroy all the inhabitants thereof, and to place in their stead, people from his own province.: having bound himself by a vow, although he was not yet, as is reported, regenerated in Christ, to give the fourth part of the land. And the booty,. To our Lord, if he took the island. Which he performed by giving the same to the lord, to the use of bishop Wilfrid, who had accidentally come hither from his own nation. The measure of that island, according to the computation of the English, is of twelve hundred families, and accordingly the bishop was given land of three hundred families.
TACITUS
THE WHITE AUGURY
HORSES OF THE WIHTWARA
This is not folk lore.
This is folk fact!!!! But is so amazingly true.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Þæt meolc-hwít augurs: The
milk-white auguries
Tacitus (69)
Tacitus wrote in his chronicle, Germania, a
passage describing the milk-white augury horses of the Suevii.
In common with other nations, The Suevii
(Germans) are acquainted with the practise of auguring from the notes and
flight of birds, but it is peculiar to them, (Suevii) to derive admonitions and
presages from horses also.
“Certain of these animals, milk-white, and
untouched of earthly labour, are pastured at the public expense in the sacred
woods and groves. These, yokes to a consecrated chariot, are accompanied by the
priest, and king, who attentively observe their manner of neighing and
snorting: and no kind of augury is more credited, not only among the populace,
but among nobles and priests. For the latter consider themselves as the
ministers of the gods, and the horses, as privy to the divine will.”
However, there is still much to share about The
Wihtwara. One of the most empowering passages from Tacitus, who in my opinion
is a true chronicler without the hidden agendas of much later Christian based
writers like Gildas and Bede.
I have a deep love for the white horse, indeed
any white animal that is seen now is venerated as sacred. So, our pagan
Ancestors, the Wihtwara, knew full well the link to the gods. In Native
American legend, when the White buffalo re-appears it will mark the return of
their spirituality near exterminated by “the blue man”. In 1993, a white
buffalo named Miracle was born. And now we see the growth of the “Rainbow
Warriors” peace makers and earth protectors, prophesied by Black Elk, as they
gather under the “Rainbow Tree”, from all races and colours: Multifaith.
We have only just recently been given reports of
a pure white, brown eagle (buzzard) seen on Wihtland! We are entering powerful
transformative time. And this year white bluebells have been witnessed for the
first time!!!
CHAPTER TWENTY
Þæt meolc-hwít augurs: The
milk-white auguries
Tacitus (69)
We entered the stables, where the
sack of dried apples was stored, hanging up on the timber wall.
He met with all his horses, each
one gave him a joyous welcome, the dried apples spent, his hands wet with horse
spit. He patted and stroked, nuzzled those who spoke with him. He was head to
head with the great white stallion whose age defied us, and then came the hoof
stamping, snorting and tail swishing.
Eileifer broke away.
“He is telling me the mother earth
is changing. They can feel it now, but we two-legged fail to feel this change
coming. We skip too fast over our mother, he says. We will suffer for it again
and again”
“What change?” I spoke up alarmed
that it may be the vision coming now, to our lives.
“Drought I believe”, Eileifer said
softly,” drought, then famine. Or too much rain, which will mulch our crops.
Torrents of rain in this valley will flood the Ceasterwics and Tunstedes.
If we act now, we may save us from the famine that may follow.”
“Dagrun my Cwèn, your days
of being a Wítega Cwèn and Sãcerde are not yet over. Yet I had
seen you, sitting contentedly at your weaving in my great hall, big-bellied
with our child, your women around you, making our beorn’s clothes”
“I will have a special cold room
built, layered with stone where you can keep your healing potions and herbs,
but above I will have a solar, a room where Sunni is in her power, where you
will heal and work with your ailing visitors!”
“Oh, Eileifer!” I exclaimed, so
overjoyed, “I will be so glad to leave my underground cell! It is a sore and
cold place to sleep.”
“I have been astounded that you
have survived at all in that dirt hole you call home!” Eileifer laughed.
As we strolled towards the mead
hall, we saw a little lad bending to clear horse muck from the field.
“My lord, it is the young stripling
boy I spoke of to you. His name is Eastmund.
If it pleases you, we should greet
him, Giese?”
Eileifer nodded, and I felt a surge
of uncertainty come over me. What if he does not take to the boy, or the boy
may not feel comfortable with him, although I found that idea strange. Who
could fail to like my Cyng!
And so, it was, we found ourselves
an unlikely trio of horse-lovers who needed to like each other before any
contract made the light of day. I hailed the boy, who came loping over, his
gait awkward and ungainly. That huge mop of straw- coloured hair, curly and
knotted, bounced sideways with each lurch of his twisted limbs.
I saw in peripheral sight, my lord
glance at me. I could not gauge his feelings.
Eastmund came to stop before us,
shoulders sagging, as if expecting instant reprimand followed by pain.
Instead Eileifer knelt, so he was
at eye level with the lad.
He reached forward to pull the mane
of straggled hair from his eyes. Eastmund flinched and instinctively stepped
backwards. Cruelty had embedded into his poor life for so long, he may not even
remember a loving touch from any man.
“Eastmund”, Eileifer said softly,
“look at me. Straight in the eye, beorn, and tell me what you see”
The young lad took a long time to
obey, and I expected my Cyng to command obeisance. But he did not utter
one word, just waited patiently for Eastmund to lift his gaze away from the
dirt. In the very shyest of ways, one eye peeked from behind his locks. It was
shockingly blue and quite piercing, as if his soul when opened, went searching
for truth. This lad still lived in hope, his eyes not all glazed over in
forlorn sadness.
I felt hope stirring, that this
contract between man and boy would be a rich one for them both.
Suddenly, Eastmund spoke, a slight
lyrical voice, with a cadence that was almost like a song.
“You see beyond what is,” he said,
softly, but with clarity.
Eileifer rocked back on his heels,
and pondered the boy before him. Eastmund’s deformity would be something of a
physical hindrance. Caring for the full herd of sacred whites demanded physical
fitness. Would he be up to that challenge?
I knew Eileifer would be travelling
along these ` lines of thought before he reached his decision.
“That was well said, young sir,” he
commented, head slightly to one side as if weighing it all up finally to reach
a decision. He reached forward to hold the lad by the shoulders, and this time
Eastmund did not flinch. Eileifer brushed the tangled hair from the lad’s eyes
“If you are to live, eat and
breathe with my sacred companions here, needs must, you show respect to them by
meeting them eye to eye. How, in the name of all the gods, can they reach you
if you hide your very soul from them? You will have your hair sheared, then we
will meet again, whereupon, we will put you through some paces. Go with my Cwèn
now, to have the job done, before I change my mind”, he said, but with a
definite grin. He had decided.
And so, we went to carry out the Cyng’s
ruling! And an excellent job it was indeed, after I had hunted down my seax,
honed to a sharp edge, I sheared off those locks. Eastmund was never to be seen
in quite the same way again. He sat on my stool, in the cold dampness of my
underground hūs, taut and overstrung like a doe in the hunt. But I was
pleased with him, for his face was beautiful, even- featured and clear of pox.
And I told him so. His smile was broad and strong. I knew then that the horses
would bond with him.
I sent him back to his mother, belly full of warming porridge.
A family debate, a big discussion, had arisen only hours after the most tumultuous time for our Warinni tribe. The dust had hardly settled, when tempers rose. I chose to stay silent. Who would represent our tribe at the ðing?
My Fæder, Folkvarthr was
Hèahwita, High Councillor and required to attend. Similarly, Eystein as Chief
Thane was expected to bring his presence to the Ancestor circle. But Eyvindr,
my younger brother, was a Wítega and scōp, wise man and story
teller. Who would regale our mead hall with those stories for sumors to
come, if not our Eyvindr?
And then, for the women, it was
between my Mōdor and myself. Only one of us could attend. We chose to
simply choose each other and burst out laughing at the whole drama of it! We
loved each other too much to quarrel over such a thing, but men have a
different blood running through their veins where ego and arrogance ruled. I
went to my beloved and pleaded for him to intervene.
“Hah!” he exploded, without
hesitation,” my beautiful Cwèn, do you seriously believe I would come between
two warring Warinni’s? I prefer my two arms intact, and legs to move me
forward! Think again, sweeting!”
I did. “Would conferring with a
fourth party settle the argument, with all body parts intact, and it would be
binding?”
“Explain”, Eileifer looked
intrigued.
“The white horses of course,
horse-talker!” I laughed and immediately saw the answer had been given. Let Sãwol
give the answer.
And so, it was, that same day, at
early twilight, the white horses saw a very rare event indeed. The Warinni host
with their Cyng traipsing over field and meadow to the paddock where the
horses enjoyed their life of leisure and loving care of Eastmund.
The lad had changed greatly, in
thanks to Eileifer, who kneeled to greet him as ever, and was rewarded by the
hugest grin and a warm hug. There was no trace of the embedded fear about him
now. New clothes had been made for him by the weaving women and they spoilt him
with food baskets and honey. His pale blue eyes glowed for now we could clearly
see both, as could his friends, the white horses, his wayward hair kept in
check. He lived at the stables. His mother would visit him regularly as she loved
him dearly as her only son, but the father never came. Of that we were
thankful. I believe Eastmund saw Eileifer as his father now.
“Eastmund,” Eileifer said, putting
his hand through the lad’s tousled hair, “how are my royal chargers? Do they
talk with you, and what are they saying, beorn?”
“Ahh, we have good times, my Lord,”
he answered, easily, confidently, “They play games with me. They change their
signals, and my mind has to skip about, keeping up with them! The old one is
worse. But I will get the better of him, sire!”
My Warinni family looked on, and I
sensed approval and a warming towards my husband-to-be, for he was a Eudose, of
royal Wōden’s blood. Yet, our wonderful All Father had many sides, and they saw
now, that Eileifer, nephew to the Wihtleig Cyng had inherited the gentle
aspect of Wōden, the healer and Wiseman. Most certainly a hearth Cyng
and not a warrior. “Talk before swords”, as my Mōdor often quoted in the
heat of a man- scrap.
Eileifer spoke with Eastmund, who
smiled broadly and scampered over to the aging white stallion, who skipped a
step when he saw him coming. It was coded language and beautiful to watch. The
old horse obviously loved this lad for he bowed his great head down to reach
Eastmund, who joined him head to head. Then the dance began, footfalls
backwards, stamping foreleg, with muscles rippling and nostrils snorting in an
intricate dance of signals and feelings.
Then suddenly they both halted, in
a frozen moment, the stallion broke free, muscles juddering in a wave of fear,
snorting loudly with a stream of hot breath escaping into the warm meadow air,
he galloped to the far edge of the paddock, staying frozen to the wicker fence.
Eastmund ran as fast as his stunted
legs would allow, loping from side to side, he reached Eileifer heaving for
breath.
“What ails the old giant?” Eileifer
asked looking deep into Eastmund’s eyes, “The truth beorn, and quickly!”
“My Lord, I cannot say for sure. It
is all muddled. The fear got in the way for me to know rightly. The Warinni
family will face a tragedy. That I know. The old one saw something happening
that will injure them forever. Nothing will be the same after this. And it is
soon.”
Eileifer sighed deeply. “Go tend
the old one”, he said, “Take some fresh apples from the stable.”
He made back towards us, then
turned around, “And Eastmund”, he shouted,” Well done young sire! You have the
full respect of your Cyng!”
For a moment, I thought Eastmund
would simply burst with pride, as his chest blew out, and the huge smile filled
his face. He turned and loped off to the stables and we were faced with the
dilemma that could not be answered.
Wyrd flowed in an ever-intricate weave, for Aslaug, who was our Ealdmōdor
could not attend the ðing, her chest was ailing her and I felt anguished
that I had not attended her with herbs. Our relations had been poor at best
since the Drímeolce gewita when Elíse, the young priestess in training,
had followed her heart, recently disappearing from our ceasterwic with
her beloved, Dǽgberht from the Reudignians.
So, it fell to me to be Spakōna
for our ceremonial ðing. That set me to focus on all the preparations
within the stone circle. Mōdor elegantly elected to withdraw from the
family fray, to allow my brother Eyvindr to attend, saying she would much
prefer to hear the dramatic Telling from him, as the Suevian story-teller, in
the new mead hall.
In this first book we see Woden growing up as a child demi-god. Known then as Wotan. He shows himself to be way ahead in years and very precocious. He grows and excels in all aspects. There comes the time, which is recorded, for him to embrace the ultimate test.
He must go to the tree of Life, Yggdrasil
and hang for several days. And it is here that the Ancient ones from deep
within the Mother Earth release the sacred and powerful Runes, (the oldest
alphabet ever recorded). They hold magical powers, each one coming with a sound
and colour to embed themselves in the God.
Woden survives this test and
becomes the Æll
Fæder, able to heal, he becomes a
master healer. He becomes a poet and a peacemaker able to negotiate skilfully. And
he becomes the saviour of souls.
Dagrun Wahl is a Spakōna (spiritual
healer) and she is charged with becoming a ‘Watcher’ (wraith spirit) to record
the wisdom of the Runes to place them in the Longstone for ever for generations
to come.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
YGGDRASILL
I
became conscious again as a shimmering wave of energy, lush and tickling,
washed over me. I gasped as I saw a young fox, all eyes and nose, with a green
and amber aura, lick my “face.” Then to the side of me I caught Wōden, as his
spirit self, glowing that beautiful purple colour, changing to bright yellow,
as he laughed at my awakening. The spirit of the fox, its colours and energy,
sped back into its body and he loped off. Not before giving me one backward
glance to offer his acceptance.
I
“floated” upwards, or so I thought, as I must have laid out just like my
physical body would have done.
“Come,
Watcher”, Wōden said lightly, “Follow me”, as he too loped off into the forest.
I spent a few minutes concentrating my vision. The physical world became
clearer. It was a crisp-looking morning. Early dawn was sharp, with glistening
patterns of early frost on the leaves. And the pattern in spirit was so
different from the previous day. Angular, and almost totally still. I
understood, in that moment, the feeling we have in the winter world, of time,
nature, all creatures reducing movement, standing still. It was Wryd that dictated it so. The filigree
of Wryd was more delicate than the
pattern of the frost. I marvelled at the spider-like threads that spun to join
all in a static dance of immeasurable beauty.
The
light yellow of Sunni gave way to a
deepening yellow that became almost amber, as grey clouds grew into a
thunderous dark blue. The billowing wind grew to ruffle the smooth surface of
the lake, and before Sunni disappeared
behind the rainclouds, she sent her colours to dance on the little waves.
Wōden
had covered himself in fur. A hood now eclipsing his face. This boy-god looked
for all the world like a forest trapper. I urged myself forward to meet his
swift pace as he leapt and strode over the forest floor of bushes, ferns and
dead, fallen trees. I almost felt the chill set upon the earth, so glad that
“almost” was as far I would go. Wōden did not veer left as I had expected him
to, for that would surely have taken him to the mountain path where Frídr has
led them years ago. His Raven guides and Wolf would be waiting to greet him and
it was this adventure I anticipated keenly. Anticipation is a dangerous
feeling, for living in the Now forbade it. I squashed it down hard, before it
got troublesome. I was learning.
Beyond
the shingle of the foreshore, ferns grew and water-loving trees had grown to
huge girth and towering branches. Willows dipped their yellowing leaves into
the lake water, rustling now in the growing wind. Wōden dipped under them and
stopped for a few minutes to soak in the beautiful healing energy of willow.
She is Nerthus in another form. And I knew he was silently praying to her. I
saw him hold his arms aloft. He had thrown back his hood and I saw clearly the
intense expression as he prayed to her. I felt an energy build of deep violet,
a deep compassionate love. I saw his
colour change to a deep golden yellow. It was the first time the deep purple
had left him. The flow of Wryd
concentrated in a swirl around him. He was receiving her energy and her
protection. It was the most beautiful sight I had beheld in a long time. I
waited. After some while, and with regret, the energy dissipated and Wōden came
out from his willow hiding place. We continued. I kept totally silent for now I
was certain that words were not just inadequate, but entirely useless.
He
veered left, quite suddenly, away from the lake’s foreshore, striding over
woody detritus in something of a hurry. There was a definite destination in
mind and we wove around the growing number of tall ash trees which peppered
this forest landscape. Thunōr had opened the sky. Shards of freezing rain were
pounding into the earth and Wōden became a hunched moving bundle of soggy fur
as we raced past the trees. The rain came to me in spinning sparks of light. To
say it nearly obliterated my vision would be true enough and I had to strain my
mind to focus beyond the rain. Ash is the tree of fire, and the rain, ice. Fire
and Ice, I thought. The very elements of life, fusion and creation. Was it
significant, then, that Wōden’s Ancestors were, at this moment, focusing him to
that primeval force?
He
faltered for a moment, and sat down on a twisting mass of roots from a giant
beech tree. She sheltered him from the rain and he paused to take breath. There
was a cluster of these queens of the forest. A nurturing feeling of safety lay
amongst her branches and curling roots.
Suddenly
a filigree of spider-like silver strands came snaking out from each of bulbous
roots and twirled around our boy-god. A myriad gathering of Ælfs and Wights appeared, translucent, shimmering. The women were utterly
beautiful and delicate. They came beside him, silently, stroking him with tiny
hands or staring with wide trusting eyes. He saw them and smiled.
It
was then, I realised, and knew beyond all doubt, that a great trial was nearly
upon him. Of a possible sacrifice that would require all his courage. They all
knew but he did not: I guessed the primordial forces might pull him asunder. The rune for ice suddenly sat in front of my
vision and stayed for a few seconds before fading away. Then the rune for Sunni
appeared, glowing in front of me. When I looked to Wōden he was oblivious.
He
does not know the runes! I exclaimed, silently. And I knew he was now in the
process of re-birth.
He
gently lifted himself up bowing to the dryad gathering, thanking them in a
strange language. Striding forward again with renewed vigour, we pounded
through the ash tree copse. We came very suddenly to an open plain of coarse
grass and fern. The air had again cooled, the rain turning to sleet. Moving
across the plain, I saw a large hare sitting up looking directly at us, ears
erect with whiskers alert. His eyes large and staring with great intent. Wōden
tipped his hood in acknowledgement.
Maybe
the Ælfs has sent knowledge to this
patriarchal hare of Wōden’s approach.
Beyond
the hare was a guardian hawthorn tree, as knarled as any ancient I had ever
seen, blood red berries were hanging from its branches in such heavy profusion,
the old tree bent and creaked in the breeze. It sent swirls of light snow in a
dance of white.
Wōden
beat onwards through the growing mist. His staff dug heavily into the ground
with each step. The Hare remained dormant. I looked beyond to see his true
destination. The real reason for the hare and hawthorn guardian tree.
Then
I saw it. Yggdrasill.
Rising
like some ancient monster, a huge monument of old wood and knarled branches. It
grew in a protected and covered cliff quarry. The largest ash tree I had ever
seen. It surpassed the chieftains’ oaks
in diameter. It was beyond age in mortal time. As we drew nearer, I could see
it had survived two lightning strikes. But it had lived on to reach this
unbelievable size. Huge sprays of yellowing leaves hung on the topmost branches
only barely visible for its unfathomable height. The huge trunk had myriad footholds
on its twisted, swerving troughs of ancient bark growth, ascending skyward to a
neck-cracking height. Clusters of seed wings, blackening and ready to fly
earthward, all the new growth, suspended, waiting, adding energy spirals I
could now see and understand their movement. It was the moment of birthing in
process.
And
I could hear the deep rumbling and rhythmic heartbeat of this ancient ash tree.
Knowing too it was the heartbeat of our Foldè
Mōdor. And it quickened sharply as Wōden began his slow approach, feeling
his way forward in reverence to the Ancient One. In return, the tree gave a
shooting display of colours from deep within its girth to ascend around its
branches in a swirling rhythm of green, pale blue sapphire, turquoise and deep
yellow.
This
was the tree of creation where mankind was born.
And
it was welcoming his son home.
… … … … … … … … …
Wōden
had thrown his soaking furs in a pile at the base of the tree and placed an
oiled cotton over the top. He was climbing. Each stride taking him into the
depth of the old tree, and so high I could now barely see him. Just flashes of
his purple aura skipped past my inner vision. It was the only clue I had as to
where he was in Yggdrasill. And there
he remained. I settled myself down to wait. It became the longest test of
patience in my life. And there were moments of frustration that I had to fight
hard to overcome and not be hurled back into my own time.
I
“slept” for several twilights, or so I guessed. It was certainly not my place
to intrude. Yggdrasill is male. The Elm is the woman’s tree of creation, but I
began to feel a tendril of energy wrap around me and a link made, allowing me
to enter a little way into this re-birthing. I was certain I heard a rumble of
laughter come from Yggdrasill!
I
was given permission travel down into the depths of his roots deep underground.
And so deep for this ancient one that I felt I was near the centre of the
Earth! And so, near the lake water, I marvelled at the distance his roots
travelled to find that water.
Nerthus! I exclaimed, He is
co-joined with our Goddess. His balance is water and his feminine principle is
abiding with our mother in the element of water. I remembered so clearly the
loving dance that enriched the old oak, when Nerthus came to that old dragon oak
by her sacred pool. And how love was born there, in that twilight, so many
moons from now in the future time. It is the primordial sacred dance of life.
I
was truly beginning to understand and it really came as no surprise when I saw
Wōden appear, glowing a deep yellow and transforming into a serpent as he
writhed down the enormous root beside me. The only part of him that remained
the same were those ice-blue eyes, his whole body now a shimmering cascade of
yellow and ochre scales spiralling around his serpent body as he descended into
the water to meet with his mother.
“Watcher”,
came the deep voice, “look, learn and remember, dear one!” I held my breath in
wonder.
And
so, this was the first re-birthing of Wōden into a god, happening in the depths
of that sacred lake, and in the form, that united Nerthus and Wōden, as
mother and son. I saw, all but briefly, a joining of two serpents, one yellow,
and one violet, male and female, in the dance of life. And that I imprinted in
our hãlig stãn for all times to come.
The
warmth and love of that encounter radiated outwards, towards all Life, and to
me, sitting quietly, as a wraith, I bathed in that energy. The opposing
elements of fire and ice colliding in the chaos of creation, was yet to come to
Wōden. But here at this moment, all
Life was in harmony and balance, water and earth twisting in a carousel of
motion that birthed Love upon which all Life depended.
And
I also knew in an instant of recognition that this would be waiting for us when
we make that last journey to Neorxenawang,
all of us who walked and lived and prayed to Folde Mōdor, our Earth Mother Nerthus.
Wōden
had achieved the first miracle of becoming a serpent, changing his gifted
life-form for another and one that equalled his Mother.
Eventually
after what seemed an eternity, they parted. He came back so swiftly, I did not
see the going of him, back upwards to the sky. I followed and felt aged and
slow even though I had no body to slow me. Perception is everything I decided,
in the long moments it took me to breathe imagined air again! He had somehow
sharpened his awareness and responses to such an extent he became more than
human now. And of course, those ice-blue eyes sparkled with mischief on seeing
me eventually arrive at the spot where I had sat for so long.
…
… … … … … … … …
Ice
shards were forming on the edges of the branches. Everything was still. The
earth was holding her breath. The translucence of the frozen water, that icy
solid matter, that normally I would think utterly beautiful, was but a dull
reflection to what I now saw in spirit. A shining, delicate and complex pattern
of light traces wove the building blocks of snowflakes, interlinking, joining
up everywhere. The colours of blue, turquoise light yellow danced on the forms,
and they were so deep, multiplying in numbers back to Yggdrasill who stood large and firm, against their delicate tracing
of Life in the deep cold. It was so very cold.
I
was worrying after Wōden as he had
left his warming furs still in a heap at the base of the tree. He was out of my
sight. I concentrated so hard to see him with spirit vision. But there was
nothing I could feel or see. I then began to feel frightened. It was this
feeling that made my whole vision wobble. It was my emotions again, getting the
better of my wraith status of being. So, I quelled it, with huge determination.
Fear is the opposite of Love, and it taught me the most valuable lesson. That
spirit life is governed by the energy of love in every sense of that word.
He
has closed his physical body down, I reasoned to my panicked mind. And it
worked. Vision came back. And it was good that it did, for without any warning,
the entire world erupted in flashes of lightening that completely lit up Yggdrasill. From the very uppermost part
of the Ancient One, I glimpsed Wōden, in sharp relief against the white heat.
It sizzled down towards him and the tree. I heard the deep crack, and felt the
whole tree shudder in shock. It shook as the enormous power of Surt, the giant
of fire, coursed down its body and into the ground at my feet.
This
is not a re-birthing, I thought. This is the original Birthing of the
Beginning!
This
is the re-enactment of the Creation. The land of ice, meeting through the nine
rivers, the land of Fire, Muspelheim, and the first Jotun was made, called
Ymir.
As
I thought this, I saw the life-forms of ice and those intricate shapes in
spirit begin to melt and dissolve. The shards of ice melted to large drops onto
the ground before me, making puddles that erupted with each new drop landing.
It became like a shower of rain. The beautiful life-forms, like snowflakes,
just dwindled and disappeared as if they had never been.
Then,
so suddenly, I heard the crashing of branches. The snapping of leaves, as Yggdrasill shuddered visibly. I heard
the long sharp scream of our boy-god as he fell from the World Tree downwards,
ever falling from that high perch, where he had sat for many heart-aching
twilights.
And
there was absolutely nothing I could do as he hung, helplessly, unconscious,
upside down, blood dripping from a wound, with his leg caught and completely
bound by a thin young branch that had twisted around his thigh.
My
spiritual heart in my wraith body just stopped. I held breath I did not own.
Somewhere deep within my soul a scream began. It echoed upwards and out to the
ethereal world I now inhabited.
“Ealdmōdor! Gèoc, Gèoc!
Wōden
is be-slægan, hè is forþ-fering!
Gecwèman
becuman
Ãhreddan
him gecwèman”
Grandmother
help, help
Wōden
is slain, he is dying,
Please
come, save him please!”
Within
the intake of breath, I felt strong arms wrap around me. I felt her kiss on my
cheek, and felt her love simply soak into my wraith body. And I wept spirit
tears of relief.
She
held me for many moments while I calmed down.
“My
child, you must know in your heart, even if your mind forbids it, that Wōden is
not destined to die here. Not this day. He is about the business of becoming a
god, child. Remember, please, why you were brought here! I will summon help.”
“The
ravens, Ealdmōdor! Call the ravens,
please. Ask them to fly to find Frídr. She knows them, remember, you told me
that in the Telling!”
“Giese! It is already done. Look Dagrun.”
Banking
sharply around the wide girth of Yggdrasill
came Huginn and Muninn, their wings
beating in rhythm. The rain hurling off their silken wings in a dance of
droplets. They were majestic, beautiful, and now as I saw them in spirit form,
a full radiance of colours, only hinted at in body. They settled at the base of
the tree. Ealdmōdor spoke to them,
they answered with the tapping of their feet and a loud caw of acceptance.
I
saw Wōden twitch, then pull his arms up to cross over his chest. They saw it
too and took off to circle gently around him, wings touching him as they banked
off at a frightening speed to fetch help.
“Dagrun,
beorn,”, Ealdmōdor spoke so softly to me, and I knew she was about to leave,
“Be strong, so strong in the coming times. You have much to witness. It will be
but a flashing of seconds, and then you can return to your beloved Eileifer. He
is waiting patiently caring for your sleeping self to wake up. He knows, so do
not fret.”
“Now
listen, above all hwæt! For those
sounds you are about to hear must be remembered. The signs you see must be
remembered and the symbols. For this part, Dagrun, is the most important for
the future generations, it must go the stones, intact. Do you understand?”
“Giese!” I replied, as I felt her spirit
withdraw. Then she was gone.
…
… … … … … … … …
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Wuldortanas: The Glory Staves
The Runes
I
knelt on the ground after her leaving, feeling emotions far more than was good
for me. I was trembling in the aftermath of that shock, and seeing his swaying
body dangling helplessly from the World Tree. There was nothing I could do, and
in that helplessness, my vision dimmed. And I did not see “Them” come. It was
the sound that arrived a mere few seconds after their appearance. I lost
seconds in awareness and understanding.
Each
symbol, shining and exuding this glow of silver light, had a sound, a low thrum
of its own singular identity. Like the beating of a heart, these signs came
from deep within the spiritual world, unseen and unknown to even ghosts and
wraiths. And with them came complex layers of meanings and feeling, shown in
tangible thought forms and colours that radiated feelings. Each one was a
moving, audible sculpture of knowledge. And they were making their way towards
Wōden.
He
remained motionless, save for the slight swaying of his body, as it caught the
rhythm of Yggdrasill. His arms, still
tightly held across his chest, were holding what life-force he had left. Then,
the miracle happened, and made me focus so intently, I missed not a second of
wisdom growing before my eyes.
The
Ancestors were sending the runes to their God. The twenty-four-fold pattern
which lies at the very root of the world. The shapes and sounds of the
“Might’s” were descending on the prone figure of Wōden.
And
as it should be, Ansuz was the first rune to appear in a moving solid rhythm
towards Wōden, shining in the violet of his own energy. Ansuz itself, may have
spoken first of the dead forebears whose Might was still worked on the living.
And
it was so fitting that Ansuz named Wōden as his. The Goths call their
ancestor-ghosts Anses.
The
living symbol moved closer to Wōden, and so subtly disappeared within him. I
saw Wōden move, his body shake, and his head move from side to side. That
beautiful violet energy shimmered again around him and I knew he was alive. And
that he would live. The gift from the Anses was his breathe.
Yet
so much more was gifted to Wōden that day.
Fehu
came next, with the soft sound of F, rotating gently and shimmering in gold.
There were whirlpools of energy circling around it giving a feeling of powerful
energy. This next Rune entered and Wōden trembled with the might of it.
There
came a pause. It seemed like an interval, a waiting time for the physical body
of the god to adjust. His eyelids flickered for a moment and I thought he would
open his eyes. But his vision was totally centred on the inner world. I felt
the energy of his brain come alive, working furiously to hold the wisdom. I, on
the other hand, was slow and only taking in feelings. I hoped it would be
enough.
Ūruz
came, slowly, meandering forward, like some slow beast, who could, so it was
said, become fast and furious when threatened. Manly vigour was attached to
this symbol. The Auroch honoured. And on entering the god figure now, gave him
that stature also.
Þurisaz
came forward as a skipping dancing giant of a wizard, who sang the sound of þ
in a trill alternating with a deep bass. The iridescent colours altered with
each turn. This symbol denoted shape-shifting and mischief. As it entered our
dormant god, I saw him smile, the creases appear around his mouth and a dimple
flash for all to see. A devilish humour came with this rune.
Raiðō
swiftly moved in next. A rider taking to the road. The swift traveller and
smart communicator. The sound was like a vibrating r, tongue against the roof
of the mouth. It reminded me so much of our prayer chant as we travelled to the
Nerthus Grove, taking the chariot to her. It entered Wōden to gift him the
power of speed.
And
with Kènaz came the burning element of Fire. The Rune was a torch flickering in
reds and yellows. A symbol for Wōden giving controlled energy. It hovered over
his upturned face. Then quite suddenly Wōden moved his arm, took the flaming
symbol as a torch, before it entered him to become part of his growing soul.
The
cross of the Gebō rune came twirling into view, circles of violet, purple, pink
and amber, gyrating around the vortex, as a deep golden hue held the centre.
The energy of giving, selflessly, of sacrifice in giving and honouring the
brave and good in giving, spun in unison around this beautiful symbol.
They
had never been just a symbol, I thought, as we had come to see the runes. Not
at all: they were living, sentient beings of spirit. We use them in rite and
ceremony, abiding by the lore handed down, but we had lost the vibrancy of drycrǽft magic, they hold. I committed a vow to re-live these moments in my life.
And to share it with others.
Gebō
spun into the heart-centre of Wōden. With each rune drycrǽft, his body and his soul was strengthening. This rune above all of them, excepting his
naming rune, gave him great vitality, as I literally saw him spin with the
motion of the “giving” rune, the “Might’s” gift to their god.
Wunjō
came spiralling in towards Wōden, the colours of sapphire blue and sap green
joining together in a dance of balanced colours. Like our Foldè Mōdor, Nerthus and the Sky god, earth and air, co-joined. Yet
it was the sound of W that opened my heart, for it was the sound of my people
in harmony, that precious twilight of the ðing,
where the gods gave us our name Wihtwara,
the seven tribes joining and uniting in common purpose. Knowing now, the living
being that is the rune Wunjō and of the sheer galdor-drycrǽft, I felt a deeper appreciation of the gift bestowed
on us that night.
Hœgl
and ísaz came together with the low pitch sound rumbling forward as H and I,
hurtled towards Wōden. He flinched and took the energy, swift, chaotic and
cold, as the first winter rune. And ísaz as the last. Hail suddenly fell from
the sky and hit him like tiny arrow barbs. I believe, if he had not been given
the strengthening energy of the previous runes, he may not have survived this
onslaught. He burrowed his head tighter into his chest, and the cross of his
arms over his chest became even stronger. Hœgl and ísaz entered him, the hail
passed. I saw him relax.
A
few more heartbeats passed before Nauðiz, the bent cross, stopped: hanging in
mid-air before Wōden. The energy coming from this winter rune, was perhaps the
hardest of all. Negative feeling swamped me, and I was just the “Watcher.”
There were no colours vibrating around this symbol. Just a muddy mixture of
foggy density that carried little or no light. It is the antithesis of Wunjō.
It waited. For it was the ultimate test for Wōden. The emotions that accompany
the worst deprivation was about to assault his body and his soul. And I felt
heart-sorrow wash over me.
It
was so sudden, when that rune Nauðiz sped towards him and bury itself within
the dormant form. Wōden reacted instantly by buckling his body against the
impact. He swayed to and fro, trying to escape it. But there was no escaping
it. A long, low howl came from him, building to a crescendo of pain, both
physical and mental, taking his battered soul back to his origins. There was no
place that rune did not reach. The Mights were testing him to the core. I saw
him go limp. I howled for help, silently, cutting across the void, I just hoped
the Ravens heard and sped onwards to reach Frídr and Vermundr.
Then
the miracle was created, by Wōden, with the will of Wōden and the love of his
mother, Nerthus. This would be a Telling for endless generations to come, I
knew for certain he had now achieved the hard-fought status of a god in the
eyes of the ancestor Mights.
Before
me, as an eye witness, I saw Wōden create a rune of his own making. Wunjō lay
at its centre, but he multiplied those to become four-sided and rotating slowly
with the rhythm of the heartbeat of Yggdrasill. Colours of green and blue
radiated around. Then he added the rune yet to come, and I knew this was from
his Mother. Algiz grew on the four corners and was again duplicated. This beautiful
structure spun slowly and encompassed the hanging god completely. He was
trapped within, and yet safely hanging there. Then I saw him transform into the
serpent, his mother’s form, those blue-eyes opened momentarily, set against the
shimmering amber scales. He opened his mouth wide, shrieking as he did so. Nauðiz, that hardest of all runes, shot from
his gaping mouth, disappearing from whence it came.
Wōden had created the first galdor-drycrǽft, the ægishjãlmar, protection and the great power were now his.
