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Article ID: 12903
Age Group: Adult
Days Up: 1,697
Times Read: 2,183
RSS Views: 30,191
Author: Ed Novem Grey
Posted: October 26th. 2008
Times Viewed: 2,183
The hills look dark, shadowed by the clouds rushing in. How different after the summer’s scorching heat, the wildfires smoke? Pregnant with rain, heavy swirls, I wait for them to crash themselves upon the river. The ducks and ospreys begin to hide even as the bass start to surface for another tasty, bug meal.
They said it was the remnants of a typhoon that blew through Taiwan, the winds grew stronger, the rain poured in sheets. I lit up the fire and sat in the flickering dark. Pulling open the door, I watched the rain through the screen. Black and swift it drove on the deck, the river, the redwoods. Still furious, I could hear the voices of those previously taken in the gusts. I pulled out the crystal and set my eye.
Swift, secret sigils, drawn of accordance with their natures, not mine. Swirling loops, harsh lines, dots undefined. They Know of the mysteries and whisper to me in my dreams and waking eyes. A fleck, a beckoning, a trace of blood, tea, or ground and they whisper the deep from under the mound. Come to me, teach me, link me to the other side and grant me the patience to see, to draw, and to find.
Such difference in understanding those wind sylphs have apart from us. So alien, so flowing, rushing through these needled dens. Fennel and frankincense, an agreeable influence to this talisman of the Pleiades, so set the watch, so set the eye, and go beyond.
What hope is there for those who wander in the night, down dark lit roads, through driving rain? The wild carrot bends its flowered head, drenched in the driving fall. The needles blow off the redwoods, a summer’s dryness, silent carpeting. The rain falls as the Fallen, driving down the dust, uncovering the deep glens and sacred songs that have been encrusted through the summer.
Later, I sit and stare into the fire’s flames, drying myself and remembering the Smith’s secrets. How can one approach that which they are, yet have forgot? The mists of time swirl, the same as the fog of Ana’s breath, yet We continue to endure. Deep forest memory, waves licking the beach, harsh desert sun. I open my brown skinned tome and read out loud to those who have been listening.
Flames, flames, my Tubal workings. Old craftsman, iron blood of my veins, You who have worked the majesty of our Craft. Horns and hoops, crowns and crooks, the tools of differentiating us from the beast. Yet vilified, yet needed, misunderstood in your red hot forges, I blow on the bellows, I steep the red hot alloy in the icy spring. Alloy to ally, my inferno King.
Emerald trees, roots, and branches, reach ever further into the mysteries, above and below. I walk into the forest, the old ones of millennium stand watching, swaying, gathering the morning fog. I gather too, the lichen, the detritus that they grant my shaman’s eye as I range over mountaintop to valley. Simple nothing to most, but in my azure eyes, the mandala comes together. I Know.
Slick rocks in the dawn, broken branches, the wind calls over the hills. If you listen close, you can hear it approaching, slowly gathering the treetops in its path. Suddenly a deep roar, and it is upon you and over you. A glimmer of the Eastern Lord in your eyes, redwood needles flickering about, and it is down the hillside. A crash, and a tree weakened falls in the valley below, an offering of the forest to the sylphs.
On this latest crest, on this fallen redwood, there is an offering of white sage tied with red string. So, there are Others about on this misty, drop flecked day. I honored the gift, hum to the wind swept trees, and climb down the Path.
Drop, drop, the acorns of the live oaks, twisted and spun by the years. Lichen drenched, moisture bent, they lean out over the sides of the mountain. The madrones deftly hide amongst them, a flash of red, a peel of bark. One I find that is obviously a Faery tree, has a well in the middle that leads down, down. I leave an offering in the well. Look kindly upon this childe of the Goddess; look kindly my Queen of Elphame. The wind rises as if to answer me.
My breath flows silently in and out as I watch the tides. I wonder, wonder about these ancient giants. Burn scarred, century scared, by man, by world. I see the ancient pasts I arise in, the burning woad, and the tree hollowed drum. By what fetish have I maintained, by what roaring stream have I dived in?
There is a place, where the Old Ones dwell. They pay not much attention to even this wanderer of the worlds. I know of a waterfall, deep in song, that trickles through the moss covered rocks and seeks its end. How can we do but different? The stones that are worn away become sand, the sand washes on the beach, yet the sand is still of the mountain. We cannot glimpse the sand for the mountain, the stream has carried it, and the river has joined the ocean. Yet the rain returns.
I saw a silvered stag’s head, drenched in wine or was it blood? Altered natures regardless, the eyes sank deep within my soul. Grazing on starlit fields, seeking the choicest sedges and grasses. Nourish your Kin and they may leap strong, though hunters seek in valley and dale, you still rush to fly with the wind. Go, my strong ones, here I bury the skull adorned with shells and thread, so that you may be plentiful once more and draw your swiftness to my bow.
Ancient flesh of the gods, empower me, ensorcel me, guide my eye and hand and heart. I come as one Seeking, as one before the fires of old and the fires yet borne. I stare into the flickering fire, into the sustaining rain, under the midday sun.
I call upon You, Old Ones, deep in the hills and shadowed in the forest. I dance in the dark and bask in the light. Pigments, sticks, bone, and threads adorn my hair and stand my Arte. I cry to the Heavens and praise the Depths; I am whole within the Goddess’s breath.
Copyright: Ed Novem Grey (2008)
Ed Novem Grey
Location: Davis, California
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