Kindling a Fire

Tired from a long and arduous journey through the thicket you arrive at your chosen destination. A small clearing near a long forgotten cave at the very heart of the woods.  Amidst oaks, rowans and other trees you take a deep breath. Your cheeks bruised by some rebellious shroud, your ears cold as ice. The air is cold and lies heavy in your lungs, it tastes of moss. Slightly nervous and slowly starting to regret your journey you  look back and try to catch a glimpse of the trail you just followed. Not a hint of it to be found. Nothing.

No trail but the Trail…

Now or never. You take off your worn out backpack. Your numb fingers unpack your belongings and arrange them before you. The dim light of your flashlight grows weaker by the second, and the hazy clouds of your condensing breath blinding your already dwindling eyesight.

No light but the Light…

Engulfed in what feels like a void of black tar you lower your now useless flashlight. Fear creeps up your spine. The sound of the forest, so unfamiliar and threatening. You close your eyes, trying to find a safe place within yourself. There is nothing safe out here. Nor within.

You open your eyes and wait for them to adjust to the lack of light.  You unsheathe your knife,  a gift forged by your fathers brother . Stumbling in the dark you draw a circle on the moist and leaf-clad floor with its hilt. Big enough for two.  Once, twice, thrice . Against the sun. Deep. Deeper. Done.

No castle but the Castle…

After a while the cold temperatures force you to continue. You baptize a fist full of poplar twigs, gathered weeks ago, with sweet smelling spirits.  The temptation to lick the poisonous liquid off your fingers  a constant companion. You place the twig in your small iron cauldron and set them alight. A beacon of light, shining bright. The world changes, the woods come alive.

No life but Life…

And now?  You tread. Clasping your hand tightly around a forked bone. A  deviled drum pounding deep within your chest. You tread the mill and wait. For what? For whom? For how long? You tread and wait. Staring over your left deeply into the fire to ignore the darkness around. You tread and wait. Hearing the woods sing its bizarre and ophidian song. You tread and wait and stare.

The fire dies. Thick smoke rises to the skies, carrying a strange perfume to realms beyond. Your heart skips a beat. You stumble over your feet. Your lips blue, your eyes bright. He is there. Behind the smoke. Behind the iron womb. Darkness flees, the bonds to your earthen vessel loosen and you continue your journey. A journey down the wytches track…

feu-de-camp-sur-fond-noir

Advertisements