17:43 Dec 21 2018
Times Read: 733
Don’t follow me; not tonight. That holly-haired hag of wintertide is lurking ‘round the edges of these forbidden lands, and only shecan properly eulogize the lonely mystic I’m about to put in the ground. I wouldn’t wait up. This is not a death ritual to be rushed, after all, and that old, salty crone will most certainly take her time, master of the pregnant pause that she is, and I won’t be returning without dirt-caked hair, creaking bones, and eyes aged to perfection by this harsh moonlight.
Take a good look at me now, friend. This night is sure to witch the winter right into my veins. My flesh will ice-over in slow-spreading blue spiderwebs of frost, my heart will beat in a rhythm so slow only the trees can hear it, and I’ll become a still, living altar to the longest night.
The thin-boned trickster junipers and arrogant oaks will wrap their roots around my legs and pull me under then, and the mountain ash will drop its potent berries on my humble grave. The hag-priestess will start her speech, heard only by the ghosts of storytelling pagans who love a good funeral, curious raptor birds bored by the hunt, and, of course, those beloved mighty trees who knew this dead one better than any lover she ever let between her thighs.
“Here lies the heathen-poet of Yule,” that wintry granny will begin. “She could always be found at midnight, haggard face graced by alow-burning oil lamp’s glow, pouring aching, blood-red words onto the page and sipping mulled wine straight from the bottle. There was no romance in it, of course, and these long-stretching nights were a circle cast by the old gods to contain the darkest art, I think.”
The ghosts would chuckle then, and the snow owls would bob their heads in bemusement.
“Save your pills and prayers for those who need them,” the hag would continue. “This woman knew exactly what she was doing, and she’s sure to conjure some worm-riddled word-witchery beneath this hallowed ground. That pitiful solstice sun will rise, as it always does, her flesh will thaw, and she’ll ascend from the grave more alive than she’s ever been with filthy underworld tales slow-spilling from her lips just in time for New Year’s Eve. Blessed she isto be buried in this holy nest of root and dirt, is she not? Here, she finds those outlaw stags and bitter cardinals as muse, letting her frigid skin be licked alive by the under soil critters and gestating a sinner’s bible written by wild spawn in her frozen womb. Surely, this annual death will find her well, and she’ll wake a more rebellious seer-poet with twisted rhymes quickening in her belly, a humbler witch with fewer secrets and better stories.”
They’ll all leave me right there then, my stone-boned fingers stretching moonward out of the ground. The hag will pat my head,tucking me into my tomb like a tender-hearted grandmother puts her babes to sleep, and I’ll wait to be warmed by winter suns and strong-brewed verses.
Until Solstice, my lover, my friend. May this swelling moon grace your dream-visions with starlit indigo skies and somber wind-kissed evergreens, and may the longest night be an ancient cave where your greatest art will be shadow-mined by your ancestors and whisper-planted into your ears while you sleep.
And so it is.
COMMENTS
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MrLivingDead
22:18 Dec 22 2018
A few months? Is that all?
KarminaTheDarkAngel
04:29 Dec 23 2018
LOL well ok no but ... 1 day is bullshit