Tuesday, 17 May 2011
Sweet Mead and the Cunning Arte
All lies quiet and still within the walls of our home, beloved family safe and warm beneath the blanket of night, recharging the tired and weary bones, to rest and to sleep in order to face the morning sun and all the trials he may bring once again.
There is no such repose for this one however, as the heavy heads of his own kin lie with eyes shut, minds flying into the realm of dreams, there is work for the Cunning man to do.
Heavenly wonders remain obscured by the cloud as the early summer winds threaten to remove the fresh leaves from the tall branches of the trees, thick trunks weighed down with the flowing sap sway and bend to the rhythm of the world, echos of that beating heart as it pulses across this land, the sky, a Granite and slate tapestry reflects in awe the geology of this county, yet beyond this heavenly canopy I see her shadow, still cast, she lies upon the path I need to take, so as moth to the flame I go, and with great joy I accept her as my guide.
Along the well worn track I trudge, fully laden with feast and fuel, night birds throw silhouettes above my head, silent still in their flight yet a welcome company all the same, further across the fields and down to the woodland edge I go, Celeste lights my way and the White thorn that graces my chosen spot now fat with over ripe blossom serves to mark my destination, a beacon to bring me home.
The Oss stands tall, bejeweled in the finery of the season, ever present companion to this one, guardian of the rose and finest of steeds, patiently it stands to watch, as from the axis the compass unfolds, to the East I place the spear.
No circle is cast, this is a flower that must open, and open she does, one petal at a time until she stands sublime beneath the veiled nocturnal glory.
As the sacred Fire springs into life my mind journeys far to the lands of my dearest family who will kindle blazes of their own on this night, across the hills and moors of our island we are one, together within this act of devotion and celebration, and though we may appear the solitary creatures of the night we are never so, as by these acts we are united as kin.
The Mill turns to the beat of the pulse, the sacred wood burns and above the sounds of our babbling brook there are names upon the wind, Hecate, Hermes, Lillith, Lucifer, Cerridwen, Cernunnos, Nerthus, Ing and Pan, words that travel through the ether as they have done so for all of mankind's history, the sound of the witch blood awakened in the souls of mankind.
Continuing within the round, the rose lies fixed and stationary, it is as though the whole world turns on this point, that it is my compass that remains fixed and the land spins around it, from my steady view point I feel no motion as the trees and bushes continue to pass my eyes, I am strangely removed from our world and existing beyond, outside of space and time, an observer of things that happen in another world perhaps another time.
A leap of faith and over flame I grab the spear and hold it aloft, my being a surge of energy as the worlds collide, movement stops, and the ground almost shakes in its wake, somewhere close by I hear there is another who does dance within the midnight shadows, yet on the pulse continues, waves of pure sound that match my every move, thump, thump, thump as the Spear strikes the dry earth, I match the beat, I am the beat and we are the same, that primeval force that will persist even when the Sons and Daughters of Cain have long since departed this Land.
United in one, Spear and Cauldron, the sweet mead cast to the watchers and a shared meal with the divine, I attempt to replace this holy weapon to the earth from which I took it and I am told in no uncertain terms that it is now mine to wield.
The journey home is longer, a stop made and an offering to Hecate is placed at the crossroads, I turn my back and walk away, never to look behind.
The Cunning Arte of the may tide complete for another year.