Post #29.12, Thurs., February 24, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

          “Auldouff? This is no deer. Couldn’t you see it was Ezra?”

         “What?  You mean, this isn’t a deer?” Auldouff is still holding the bloody arrow he just withdrew.

         “No you idiot, it’s Ezra. How is it that you pulled the arrow, without even noticing it was Ezra you shot?”

         “You can put him out of his suffering with your blade.”

         “I can’t kill a man. He is looking right at me. We’ll suffer a Christian curse if he dies. Believe me Christian curses are far worse than any fairy pranks. Their underworld is Hell.”

         “The Christians don’t know him. They won’t notice.”

         “This is what we have to do. One of us should stay here to scare off the vultures and wolves, and the other should find the Christians.”

         “I’ll go for the Christians because I can tell them it was simply an accident.”

         “Be back by nightfall. These hills are surely haunted.”

         Dear God, did you mean to send those Christians of Annegray into a place with a fearsome darkness? Please stay close.  Waking and sleeping I don’t know of hours passing.  Heinrique is using his blade to whittle a stick. He is sitting near but looking out across the hills. I can’t tell if the darkness that is settling in is my vision alone or if it is already dusk. A wolf howls from a distant hill and Heinrique pulls his fleece closer around his shoulders. I feel the chill of fever drawing my life and releasing it as though I no longer need warmth. I’m remembering now the child’s flute, the little practice tune that played for me in an earlier time and danced me back from death to life – the peaceful meadow of healing herbs where my children, each in their own way, were candles of love and kindness.

         Awake I am again, and Auldouff returns breathless, having run ahead of the Christian monks he found.

         “Heinrique! Good you are still here!  I have to tell you the horrors of it!  The howling banshee was right in my path. I saw her even in the daylight, I saw her. I told her we needed Christians to come, so she went away and sent them to follow me.” We hear the wolves howl. “Listen, she is keening for his death right now!”

         “It’s only wolves, Auldouff. It’s alright now. And I see the Christians are coming.”

         The darkness is on all of us.

(Continues Tuesday, March 1, 2022)

Post #29.11, Weds., February, 24, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         Today, we set out again for the hunt. And again, all I really want is to find that group of Christians they say are in these hills. On our first venture into the mountains I did see a cairn marking a trail for pilgrims, but I haven’t seen any other person who might know more of this than these pagan hunters. I was told the place where the Irish father and his followers have a community is a ruin of a fortress called Annegray.  If I would see another person at least I could ask for direction. These mountains are a forested wilderness and I can’t even guess how vast.

         Auldouff is a good distance ahead of us, Heinrique is still within my sight and here is a meadow with some deer grazing. Maybe Auldouff was right about a deer disguise.  I seem to be able to move in fairly close to them even though they are alert to danger and listening in my direction. Then again, I guess Heinrique was right, as soon as one sniffs the air they bolt – leaping away in ever direction as fast and far as they can. Just now Auldouff rises up from the brush ahead of me, with his bow drawn, first aiming and missing a deer then notching another arrow and aiming straight at me, eye-to-eye, as though I were a partridge in hiding. Surely he sees I’m not prey. But he releases his arrow straight to … it must be close to my heart, I can’t catch my breath. Now here I am lying like a slain creature wrapped in the skin of the animal who once met this same fate.

         Auldouff calls Heinrique to bring his blade because he thinks he’s wounded a buck. Auldouff comes nearer and he sees I am conscious so he says it was an accident. “You looked just like a deer to me, though I’ve never seen one face to face like that before.” He reaches to draw out the arrow, and I plead for him not to, but it is too late.  Now there will be so much bleeding.

         “I had to get my arrow back. Heinrique will stop the hurt. Don’t worry Ezra.” He backs off.

         Heinrique is here now, and Auldouff is at a distance. “What have you done, Auldouff?”

(Continues tomorrow)

Post #29.10, Tues., February 22, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         We leave the camp for the steeper walk into the hills ahead with a buckskin we use for shelter slung over my back because Auldouff thinks the deer won’t fear us if they don’t see our clothing. Since my tunic and cowl are of brighter colors Auldouff thinks I need a disguise. I don’t mind the extra weight, it’s more warmth on this frosty morning.

         I guess Auldouff’s theory of a deer’s point of view is something like God noticing the first sin in the garden because the people were wearing clothing. [Genesis 3:7-10]

         I’ve learned that one of the rumored magical features of the Vosges is that the animals of this wilderness might give up their wild ways and follow certain people. It’s said by Christians and maybe pagans too that Father Columbanus tames wolves and he even ousted a bear from her cave. [Footnote] And maybe Auldouff expects me, a Christian, to run with the deer and tame them for easier kill.

         Heinrique argues that deer pay no attention to our fashion. They sniff the air for predators and they stand very still and twitching their ears to listen for us. Either way, I am creeping through the forest wearing a heavy buckskin trying to keep completely silent and downwind from whatever makes these deep hoof prints in the mud.

         Suddenly, ahead of us a huge buck leaps up and Auldouff’s arrow knocks it to the ground. Heinrique uses his sharp blade as clean as any rabbi would for the slaughter. We return to our campsite with the kill. The creek is thawing already and we can’t depend on the cold to keep the kill, so we must work now to soak the hide and set up some spits over a smoky fire to prepare the meat, then we will cover over the smoker with the wetted hide before we head back for the hunt. The brothers are hoping for another hard freeze this winter to save us all this work with the next kill but the season is already changing.

         I’m getting a bit impatient with the hunters, I think because I have come here with a different purpose than they.  And our differences are weighing on all of us.  I am pretty sure these hunters would gladly leave me with the Christians if they could.

[Footnote] Sellner, Edward C. Celtic Saints and Animal Stories: A spiritual lkinship, (NewYork: PaulistPress) 2000 .pp.52-54.

(Continues tomorrow)

Post #29.9, Thurs., February 17, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         Today we’re hunting partridge for food and feathers. Heinrique studies the mud patches where the meadow wears thin and he studies the earth along the barren mud banks of the creek looking for partridge tracks. Auldouff plunders through the brush hoping to stir them from sheltering places close to the ground.

         Heinrique speaks, “This whole bevy of partridge must be onto us by now. They’ve moved on or else they’re hiding too well. They just don’t forget these fellows with arrows coming often, picking them off one at a time.”

         We walk on following the creek into a piney wood as the earth slopes more and more from meadow toward mountain. Auldouff blunders on ahead. Heinrique is on his slow search for detail and I am a distance behind noticing the beauty of this nature. It seems winter hardened and stripped bare anything that once lived to set this season’s empty silence. Then I notice a quivering stalk in the grasses by a fallen log, and on closer look I’m staring straight at a large partridge staring right back at me too close to me for it to fly, trapped by his own shelter, completely depending on my human numbness, possibly blinded by its rote stillness. But my one arrow makes us a feast. As I am gathering the bird Auldouff has just stirred a flapping bew ahead of us, and in an instant several partridges are perching on far distant branches. By the time I’ve caught up with the brothers they’ve wasted several arrows missing the birds.

         Their pattern of hunt, now that we have one bird, is to set their base camp here before we begin the climb into the mountains where they will find the larger prey they seek, the deer and the boar. So here we spend a few days hunting up a few more birds, preparing arrows, and making a sledge to haul some yet unseen great kill back to the tribe and to lighten our travel of these buckskins and fleece we’ve brought for shelter.

         My prayer at this fireside is silent. Dear God, my prayer is for the spirit of that other life that stood perfectly still and looked me in the eye, that I made into food with my arrow. Let me remember the life gift as we are all living with shared spirit. Thank you God, Christ, Spirit, whatever names we make to sort it all out. Amen.

(Continues Tuesday, February 22, 2022)

Post #29.8, Weds, February 16, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         I lay my fleece under the thatch roof of the hunters, Auldouff and Heinrique, while the thief, who is now known to these people by a name is welcomed into the shelters of the women of this tribe. And the white berries of the mistletoe ritual affirm the magic still works for them.

         This new morning the hunters pack light travel bags and take up their quivers of arrows. I have my bag, and only the one arrow that was probably in these quivers before it was offered to quill the evils of the underworld in the gift of rabbit. It is no secret I am ill prepared for the hunt. Leaving on the same path the thief and I followed yesterday we find our bows still hanging in the limbs of the tree. Of course, Auldouff nudges his brother for a rude remark about the greenwood stick I’m calling a bow.

         “I can learn from you Auldouff, how to make a proper bow, and I will listen carefully to your instruction for making the arrows. One of you must be an excellent fletcher.” I humbly yield.

         “We both are.” answers Heinrique,

         “But how would you know an arrow from a stick?” adds Auldouff.

         “I know because this arrow that I found while following your tribe was probably the work of one of you, and it is an excellent arrow.” I string my greenwood stick, and notch the arrow on the string, then I draw the bow and the arrow takes a quick straight path precisely into a piece of dead wood. They’re surprised and possibly impressed. But with nearly six hundred years to learn many things and lots of time to practice each thing, one would suppose I would have outgrown my need for such a prideful display of my talents. But really, aren’t we all waiting for me to show off a bit?

            Heinrique and Auldouff each take a turn testing my bow. It really is nothing more than a green stick, and I choose not to explain that the so-called ‘magic’ is simply years of practice.

         This day the other two don’t walk ahead of me. I seem to be accepted now as one of the hunters as we search a very specific target for our first day out. Heinrique says we are hunting partridge today, for food we can carry with us, and feathers for making arrows.

(Continues tomorrow)

Post #29.7, Tuesday, February 15, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         The village is just ahead. It’s a nestling of thatched round houses common among Celtic people. I’ve seen these also on the Island where Bishop Patrick set his Christian communities. There is a wide swath of these people it seems.

         Here I am looking for those hunters assigned by Guldilyn to mentor me in hunting and hopefully to help me find the Vosges Mountains and the Irish Christians. The thief will, no doubt, be looking for loot here in this village to add to his burden. He is already wandering away to meet the women. Wait a minute. Now that may be a perfect synchronicity, the answer to my selfish prayer of how to rid myself of this thief. First I should speak to their druid.

         Here he is, still in his ceremonial white robes — like the weasel changing his coat to white for the winter.

         “Druid Balfour…”

         “So it is you, Ezra! We trusted you, but you ran from your duty. I thought you drowned but Guldilyn said you’re an able swimmer so you meant to run away.”

         “I can explain…” And maybe I have a defense because I was brought up in a Jewish home where the marriage bond is sacred; so of course, I’m not of a presence to plant my seed amid the last women of this pagan tribe just to insure its continuation. And yes, “I escaped.” But he has no interest in my explanation. He interrupts my thought.

         “We didn’t take you in just to give you hunting lessons. Of course you have a duty to our tribe!  We gave you shelter and you gave us, what?”

         “I understand. So now I’ve brought you this other man. See him there near the well? He’s already eyeing your women, and he has a whole sledge of treasures, gifts you yourself would give to elves for good luck. He will enrich your tribe. But let this be our secret. You will need to work your magic on him. Guide him in your ways, and surely your fertile daughters will bear lots of beautiful children maybe with his golden curls.”

         The druid takes a long moment to ponder, then breaks into a jovial smile, a welcoming grin it is, as he grips my shoulder, and calls forth the hunters. They are instructed to take me on to the Vosges.  Thank you, God.

(Continues tomorrow)

Post #29.6, Thurs., February 10, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         As I hang my bow with the others the first breeze of early spring turns the winter drear to mist; so now behind us in the eastern sky is the great bow across the heavens. First it seems a vision, with pale, surreal shades of tender color. But the thief sees it too so I know it is a thing of earth. It is both mystical and tangible. The rainbow marks a place where the things of earth cross over into the untouchable mystical. Thank you God.

         I’m driven to song – and there are so many ways to sing of the rainbows.

         The thief never joined in singing, even in the chorus; he only scowled at me.

         My defense, “I thought that song just needed to be sung.”

         “That’s the trouble with you, you’re always just singing out loud. It’s very odd.”

         “It wouldn’t be odd if two of us were singing. Singing is a privilege of shared wonder. It’s very ancient.”

         We walk on in silence toward the village.

[Footnote] This lyric is offered here with the writer’s permission. Happy Birthday, today, Mariah.

(Continues Tuesday, February 15, 2022)

Post #29.5, Weds, February 9, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         It’s a long slog in the cold rain. The thief complains incessantly about his load only reminding me he is indeed a thief with a sour attitude. If I choose to help him drag this excess he will rob me while I’m doing his work.

         Now we come upon a tree still winter-naked but draped in the bows of hunters or warriors. Each bow is well made, well-tempered ready to be strung for the hunt. I suppose this means we are very near the pagan village.

         Without even a wonder the thief leaves his sledge and runs to the tree to gather up the loot.

         “What are you doing?” I ask with accusation.

         “I’m harvesting bows, Ezra, man. This is the strangest fairy gifting I’ve ever found!”

         “I don’t think this is meant as a gift to quill the evils of the underworld.  I think we are very near the village and this is where they hang up their bows.”

         “Why would they hang their bows on a tree outside the village?  That makes no sense. What if robbers come to their village?  They would need these.”

         “You mean one robber, don’t you?”

         “Okay, one robber and a Christian. How will they defend themselves?”

         “I think the hanging up of the bows is an ancient symbol of peace.  They don’t bring their weapons into their homes because they are telling any visitors they are unafraid. Weapons are a sign of fear. [Blogger’s note]  Hanging up weapons is very ancient sign of peace.”

         “So they leave their weapons on a tree for their attackers to be armed when they are not?”

         “Well, yes, it is a statement of courage.”

         “It has to be a trick.”

          “I can see why you would only see a threat or a trick. It’s a different kind of power than simply flexing muscle and taking things by force. It’s the peaceful dare not to fight. I see it as a sign of welcome; it is the accepted vulnerability of peacemaking as dangerous as it may seem to you.”

         The thief still thinks it’s a trick, but apparently he’s decided not to steal these and he’s putting them back. I believe it’s a sign of peace, so I hang my bow on a low branch, also.

[Blogger’s note] This notion that weapons—guns in modern example– are a sure sign of fear has been proven in American courtrooms when a shooter is exonerated because he cried and said he was afraid and so he killed people. Weapons speak of fear, not of power, not of courage.

 (Continues tomorrow)


Post #29.4, Tues., February, 8, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         I ask the thief, “Do you know how to soften a skin for shoes? Its how I made my shoes.”

         “Why? I can just demand your shoes from you. So what gift did the pagans leave here? Did you already steal their fish?”

         “There were no fish and the crows beat us to the rabbit so I hunted this new rabbit for both of us.” Silently we eat. There is no good night when we only worry what the other will take.

         “Good night.”

         Awake under this red morning sky in the shivers of a cold winter’s rain I gather my things and I see where the thief sleeps near the fire in a fine shelter of skins and fleeces. He already has shoes, so his envy for mine won’t be solved by my generosity. And he’s hoarding a huge heap of useless booty.

         The rains leave me longing for springtime as I go quietly on my way. Softness hints in a bog where I stop for rest and find a grub for the fish hook and some fern heads barely unfurling just under the leafy mat. Later I will share this feast of fish and fern.

         He catches up and now I see how he travels. He tows his booty on a sledge. And he looks at my little traveler’s bag and accuses me of hiding a stash.

         “Is your bag heavy?” he asks.

         “Very light, though I’ve just added a fresh fish and some fiddleheads we can share for our supper.”

         “So you did steal the fishhook. I’d like to have a look in your bag and see what other gifts to the fairies you’ve stolen along the way.”

         “No.”

         “You have a fine bow I see. Did you find that left as a talisman at a pagan campsite too?”

         “Speak for yourself. I cut this bow from a sapling maple. It’s still greenwood, hardly taught enough to be useful. Since I plan to follow the hunters into the mountains I may need a bow in time.”

         “If it isn’t a good bow, then how did you hunt the rabbit we ate?”

         “Maybe the rabbit was slow or had bad eyesight and he didn’t see me until I was very close. Maybe we ate a slothful rabbit. Maybe we will be slothful now.”

         “Not I, I’m only slowed by this heavy load and you haven’t even offered to help. How do you claim to be a Christian?”

(Continues tomorrow)


Post #29.3, Thurs., February 3, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         Asking prayers aren’t forbidden by Jesus. But as I think of these things I recall my own asks for food or shelter and often I pray and ask for someone else’s healing. God who speaks in shared love sometimes answers with the coincidence of that thing I ask being given immediately. Often God answers my prayer by giving me empathy for others with my own need, so by acting on my love for them, both needs are met. At times my asks teach me through kindness from others. And sometimes God’s answers seem delayed, ‘wait and see.’

         Dear God, Thank you for your always answers. May I find in your love signs, not magic, always and ever. Amen.

         This new morning is the February tease of spring. The thief is still here this morning. He is trying to catch a fish without a net or a hook. So I have time to go on alone over the top of this hill and arrive at the next campsite of the pagans well ahead of him. The noontide sun is barely edging westward when I arrive at the next abandoned campsite.

         Again, the coals are still warm and a gift for the fairies was left. This time it would’ve been a fresh rabbit with the arrow but the crows are already gnawing at the meat. Now the arrow with the iron tip is another useful thing to add to my riches — the fishhook and the line — that child-sized sickle I found in the ashes made from Nic’s blade — all little iron gifts to let me survive without community in this wilderness.

         By the time the thief arrives it’s nearly dark. My things are hidden in a scant shelter I wove from brush in a place out of sight. And I’m waiting by this fire turning a new rabbit on a spit. I can share the meat with this man, and I’ve already set aside the skin so he can make his own winter shoe.

         He blames me, “I’m so late coming because I was looking for you!  You just seemed to vanish into thin air, along with all your goodies – your fleece, and your warm shoes.”

         “And I thought, good thief, that you had no regard for those who vanish into thin air – the elves and fairies and such.”

         “You’re nothing like the myth of one of those, Ezra. You are Christian; Christians don’t vanish; they elude.”

         “And so I did, and so I shall.”

(Continues Tuesday, February 8, 2022)