Historical Setting, cold unknown
Even in these new times called future there can be a madman pretending to be a ruler.
He billows on to Oos, or Us, (does spelling even matter?)
“Now, we can’t even return him to the bogs; he’s been brought up from the depths and he is watching me! If we would return him, he would take his awe to Hell with him and the gods would know me then as their retribution and there would be no more gods.”
Hearing this rant, knowing that of all the stories I tell in my many years of mortality, this may be of least important when considered next to the true things of life. After all, I’ve seen beauty and empathy, laughter and warmth. I know grief and fearless love – and the great, invisible, pelt of love, covering all of Creation with new life, always rising creative. Breath — air — invisible sustenance of life — earthly metaphor of Spirit — Heaven needs no imagination of another time to be with us. Dear God, keep us in courage, always longing for beauty and finding it to be so. Amen.
The russet raging blathers on, “There is no returning him back to the pagan gods now. Let’s go, Oos. I’ll have him sacrificed to the úlfr.”
Now I am alone under the sky.
The slant of winter bright on the white snow makes a nearly bright sky, as I am moving through the crisp clarity of a winter’s day on a sled laden with meat gifts for a god. Fully awake now, still hungry and thirsty – I seem to share this common lot with a carcass of deer, as we are both waiting to be eaten. The dead deer and I are hauled a long distance probably as food for a god somewhere else. Now we are left off here in some particular place in the snowfield.
I awake with the soft tongues of miniature wolves licking my face. Of course, this god úlfr to whom is given this sacrifice of a deer and me, is wolf (úlfr). In my helpless state I was put out here in the wilds to be food for them. I’ve known of this Pagan custom. And now, here I am, wrapped in a deer carcass awaiting the feast of me.
These are pups. Their tiny yips and not quiet howls – still trusting the food gift without the hunt — as I myself seem to trust the life gift so easily forgetting the grace. Dear God, thank you.
(Continues tomorrow)
Lazarus Ink 