this morning as the frost melted in the bake of the sun, as the heads of crocus dreamed of warmer weather i sat to write this. inspired by a written account by a roman general over 2000 years ago. it tells of the people of the land where i live in the Netherlands, when all was forest. they had been subjugated by the romans for a time willingly and peacefully. the soldiers began to take more than their share and also killed, raped and maimed. after this treatment the locals fought back. all that is told is they were the people of badhuwena’s forest. badhuwena their female deity. i have wondered how peace loving, land loving, willing subjects metamorphosed to a fierce group who pushed the romans from this fragment of the world. who led them? this is what emerged.
the silver tree old magja sniffed into the cold morning. dawn had perched across the trees like a dark blue bird hovering before the moon. her great grey hound, alleuw sprung out of her cabin into the snow, his breath rising white against the violet air. his excitement gave her courage for the trail. this winter had been so hard for her curving bones that a trip out so early into snow, well that was perilous. but she, matriarch and prayer woman of the settlement had spoken. she must take this journey. it was her task and hers alone. as she walked through the vast land of trees toward it's core, the remembering of all that lead to this rushed to meet her, each shuffle another image, a sharp sensation. the men from rome. the taxes. the starvation. the violence. the children dying. a flood of emotions took her breath. she leaned against an ancient pine whose top she could not see. she thought of her sisters granddaughter erla beaten and left by the river. her father finding her there. erla laid out in their roundhouse. what was left of her now only bone. oh she had only seen thirteen curves of sun across the sly! magma hoarse cry echoed across the trackway. tears meeting the pure snow below her, her sorrow silvery in the nearing light. alleuw snuffed at the ground and licked at the salty remains. then, like a faint song, magja was sure she could hear erla's laughter in the movement of the trees. yes, she was on the spiral way now. the track that travelled ever inwards to the dark purl of wood, her destination. the snow was deep and rose up past her sheephide boots but her dog knew to make a path for her ahead. she put her head into the wind and set further on her pilgrim way. the wind cut her like ice. keep going you only have yourself to blame. she was here in this merciless white because of a dream. she had received it the night of erla's dying, she had seen the snow. the dark yew, shining silver. she heard that honoured name whispered, the guardian of their home. she awoke and gathered all the matriarchs from the spiral way. all the settlements under their guardian’s protection. she the eldest gave the command. they brought all the silver they had and as they hung buzzard wings and heron skulls from the roundhouse rafters above the loom, burned rosemary in the fire pit and salted the flame, the women spun a long thread. twined it over the soft yet sturdy nettle weave, spun too with songs, names and offerings made by all; man, woman and child. for it was the prayer of the whole people spoke. one by one they sang and whispered their lament in the roundhouse. and as the days became moons and the prayer became unutterable and heavy, each sorrow bitten story mixing with the totems and symbols held for generations by her people were sewn on to thirteen cloths. this was her quest, as eldest, to make that sacrifice and journey to the yew. after many hours magja approached the senescent tree. husky boughs like small waves reaching out to her. ice hanging from every branch. along some higher branches were the frozen remnants of other prayers from sunnier days. it was the first time she had beheld the shrine in winter since her quickening. her stomach trembled. who was she to call the guardian here, she was just an old woman, too old with not enough sense. she looked up at the hollow within the yew's unspeakable trunk. could she see a slight glint of silver? i will finish this she shouted to alleuw, his eyes orange fires in the dim shade. magja began her final spiral. weeping now, touching each hallowed branch she could reach, trailing her fingers around the arching hollow each finger venerating every grain and shadow. whispering. singing. her tears freezing to ice upon her cheeks. she tied each cloth, sewn with the motif’s of this place, buzzard wing. heron beak. wolf, silver fox. the shining woman. she wrapped herself in her fox cloak made a small fire sitting close to the time hollowed trunk shaped like a primordial door. who would open it to her? she waited. she would know what to do when she left this place. or she would never leave. that was her sacrifice. as the embers dimmed and the pale shafts of day found their way though the canopy, she heard it, the buzzard’s hunger, the rattling cry. alleuw wined. into the hard white ground she whispered one last time the name of their beloved guardian. Badhuwena. there was eternity of silence like a held breath that seemed to cover the whole world. she could feel now the roots under her shudder. a ferocious wind blowing and the whole dark arborescence lighting in a flash of silver. thirteen cloths swinging wildly with a fierce glint of hope. magja’s eyes hurt from its terrible brightness, from the unrelenting fury. now her own. and as she strode home, with alleuw following closely behind, back uncurling and straightening. firming and lengthening. younger than many a sun's turning. she bore a message to her people. they were to fight.
thank you for reading so far. and here is the cover for the winged moon print edition 1. available to buy this coming wednesday! i’ll be sending a short further letter then and returning a week later with the online version.
until then
warm toes and hearts
Jai Michelle
What a stunningly written, deeply moving, beautiful story! 🩶
Beautiful story!