Author: Andy Syddell

How came I here, to this place, on this night, first of nine?
Rough bark grazes my skin; I reach for the ash pole, shaft of the blood fish.
The wound worm bites, I bleed; my gift to the soil falls as warm rain in this chill
While the rope holds, binds and burns with its need to contain me.
Stripped bare, hanging, moved by the breeze I am all that I ever was and will be.
My up is down, down up; sound and colour blend as I sway in this night become day.
I watch each leaf shake and tremble as they dance to the wind, every colour and hue.

A journey begins, the price is paid, destination unknown the plans are laid

How far shall I travel no Wight portends, what will I find on this road without end?

First comes the Fee, bright coins glowing
Sheep in the fold, cattle lowing.
Concealed in my pocket I carry my wealth
From those that would have it and trouble my health.
Men become dragons, treasures are hidden,
Jealously hoarding a sparkling midden.
Have just enough that your kin want for nought,
Value the worth of the things that it bought.
Too much of anything brings anger and strife
But a man’s modest wealth is a boon to his life.

In the early part of the last third of the last century, a curious thing came to pass. Like the sap rising in a tree in the springtime of the seasons, the Old Gods felt the same rising as need fire amongst the folk, on all sides of the Atlantic Ocean and all at the very same time, seeking the mysteries of their ancestral heritage.

And so it was once again that a great Wellspring came into being, and from this Wellspring issued forth many more streams. Now this ground was frozen and they found it was very hard, cold and restrictive, almost impenetrable and strewn with rocks, stones, and all manner of hindrance and obstruction.