The Way of Wyrd

by Brian Bates

  ‘Stay where you are,’ he whispered urgently. ‘This is a place of power. Feel the power with your body. Grip the rocks with your fibres.’

  Wulf continued to hold me while I sat on the edge of the precipice. Gradually I became aware of a strange feeling. The crashing sound of the water became transformed into a bodily sensation, as if it were coming up through the hillside and setting up a vibration deep inside me.

  The sun set very slowly, finally dipping below the distant stubble of treetops in a blaze of orange. The light faded and the moon appeared above us like a silver ghost. Wulf began to talk, softly.

  ‘When I leave you, Brand, you must sing for your guardian, singing your own song. That way the guardian spirit will find you.’

  I looked at him, startled. I desperately wanted to do as he said, but I did not know how. I had no idea what to sing I started to protest, but Wulf interrupted.

  ‘Sing your own song, Brand. Do not worry about the words, just make the sounds that come to you. The spirits will understand.’ He gripped my arm ‘You must do it, Brand. You must! If you do not sing you will see only visions of death. You must sing to replace this bleak prospect with the ecstasy of the spirits. I cannot tell you what to sing or how to sing. It is your guardian spirit we are seeking. It must be your song.’

  I felt cheated. Wulf had not even hinted that I might have to sing and because I did not have appropriate words or sounds already learned, I was thrown into confusion.

  ‘The songs you need are within you,’ Wulf insisted, in a mixture of exhortation and encouragement. ‘You will know the words when the time comes, for the essence of your guardian spirit is already within you. Float your word-hoard on the waves of wyrd; the power to release your guardian spirit lies within you alone.’

  Suddenly Wulf laughed unexpectedly and the sound startled me.

  ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘You are tying yourself in knots with tension. Relax and your guardian spirit will cut through the fog of your life like a sunbeam.’

  I looked at Wulf and tried to smile, but I was so nervous I could not control my face. I felt my cheeks quivering and trembling

  Wulf chuckled merrily. ‘You look like an owl trying to devour its prey,’ he said. ‘I believe the owl spirit must have chosen you.’

  I laughed nervously. It felt wonderful to laugh and tension drained from me. I began to think that perhaps I could do it. Perhaps the words would come to me when I needed them

  Suddenly Wulf fell flat on his back and uttered a strange, long scream, ‘Haaayeeee...’ from deep within his throat. I stared at him through the soft dusk haze, paralysed by fear. I could not move.

  Wulf had adopted a rigid posture on the ground, his feet tucked back far under his body, a gurgling sound coming from his throat. Then his whole body trembled, he seemed to force himself slowly into an upright sitting position, spat hard onto the ground and swung his face towards me. His eyes looked large and wild, watching me almost with bewilderment like a scared animal.

  ‘Your spirits will soon be here,’ he rasped, his jaws opening and shutting with a strange, snapping motion. ‘The spirits will soon be here, and I must leave you. Sing, Brand. Sing!’

  He reached out and squeezed my arm, once, hard. Then he was gone. He disappeared so abruptly that I did not see him leave. I peered towards the shrubbery at the edge of the ridge, but the moon slipped behind clouds and I was looking at shifting shadows. I sat alone in the gathering darkness.

  For a time I sat motionless. The hilltop was silent. I could hear not a sound, save for the gentle murmur of the breeze. Then, quite abruptly, the sky was lit again by pale moon-glow and at that instant I shivered violently as if I had suddenly grown cold. The air around me was mild, but my body was strangely chilled. I stood and began clapping my arms around me to beat some warmth into my body, then I began running in small circles and gradually I felt better. The movement felt very good, but whenever I stopped I became extremely agitated and my body itched and twitched uncontrollably. I jumped about in the moonlight for a long time, until the sweat dripped from my face and I could hear my breath coming in hoarse, rasping gasps. I became fascinated by the rhythmic sound of my breathing and then I began to grunt with each breath. The sound was comforting. Each time I breathed out, I added louder voice to the gasp and after a while the grunting sounds came very freely, like the monotonous barking of a dog. Spellbound by the sounds, I began to vary the sound-breathing out with a groan, a gasp, a shriek. The sounds seemed to take over from me, varying themselves, rising and falling in pitch, now louder, now quieter, echoing around the ridge as the night closed in.

  Suddenly I stopped. I could hear a voice singing and turned around to look for Wulf, but the ridge was deserted. Alarmed, I dropped to a crouch and stared wildly into the darkness, the singing louder and closer now. With a sense of shock, I realized that my lips were moving. It was my voice I could hear—I was singing my song.

  At first I did not know what I was singing. The words forced my mouth and lips into a rhythm, my tongue into a shape. The words sang through me. Sometimes the sounds I made frightened me and I would grip the ground with my fingers and wait for them to pass. Other times, the sounds were soft, sylph-like and melodic. Then after a time I heard words I understood, though their meaning was still a mystery.

  Earth-cooler is the power

  who covers the sun like a shield,

  And allows the spirits protection

  to travel here on the wind.

  All-wise maiden who sits at Earth’s rim,

  Knower of secrets, guardian of runes,

  From you flows swift the shuttle.

  In your hands the reel is turned

  And the copper shafts clatter,

  The silver comb resounds,

  and the fibres of wyrd are woven.

  Wind-weaver at Earth’s rim,

  send the power of guardian spirits,

  send the sleep-bringer and dream-spinner

  to guide me to the land of spirits,

  and show me the wonder of wyrd.

  I sang softly for a longtime, well into the night. I had stopped singing long before I realized it and just sat in stunned silence. The singing had had a devastating effect on me, as if I had opened myself to the entire world and no longer had any secrets, any memories of which others knew nothing even any identity as a person. It seemed as if I had told every thing in my interminable song and there was nothing else of importance left in my life. I felt utterly exhausted. Then something much worse happened. Slowly, with the stealth of an assassin, the realization crept upon me that I had failed. I had sung my song and my guardian spirit had not come to me. The full realization hit me like a dagger in the heart and I crumpled to the ground in a heap.

  Far into the night, alone on the ridge, I wept bitterly and prepared to die.

  Eventually I stopped and rolled over on my back, all energies completely and utterly spent. My stomach ached and I rubbed it gently with my right palm. A warm, good feeling crept over me, or rather it emanated from my stomach and coursed through my body and along my limbs, making my fingers and toes tingle. I could hear my breathing slow and steady now, as if I were sleeping. But I knew that I was not sleeping for my mind was sharp and alert.

  Suddenly the sky was split in two by a flash of lightning and the land rumbled with answering thunder. Rain begin to drizzle, then sleeted down, the wind blowing it directly into my face. Lightning flashed again across the sky and thunder growled menacingly. But this time it did not stop: the thunder kept rumbling rolling and groaning. The very air around me seemed to take on the scent of danger and I began to feel very afraid. Water poured down my face and ran in a thin stream off the end of my nose; I wiped my face with my wet sleeve and peered around the ridge for shelter but I could see nothing I was looking into a cloak of water. Then the long continuous painful rumble of thunder seemed to roll up the hill and I could feel the ground trembling beneath my feet. Absurdly I braced myself against the rocks, trying to stabiliz
e the ground, breathing in panic-stricken gasps. Desperate for shelter, I remembered the burial mound above the ridge and squinted up at the rocky entrance squatting on top of the hill: it glared silently into space, hoarder of souls from ages past and now, according to Wulf, witness to the weaving of the Wyrd Sisters. I took a few steps towards the rear of the small plateau, beneath the mound, and it disappeared behind the brow of the hill. The thunder boomed again and without hesitation I began to climb the rocks towards the entrance to the burial mound. I was doomed already and had nothing to lose. I feared nothing. In the moonlight, footholds materialized and disappeared just as quickly; twice I almost fell and my fingers ran wet with blood from gripping sharp edges. I struggled on to the top of the hill and crept closer to the mound until I could make out the entrance. Moonlight glinted off a pile of flint rocks, their bases buried by grass, moss and ferns. I crawled in amongst the boulders which formed the entrance and crouched down for shelter. The wind moaned through the gaps between the rocks and I flattened myself back against them and waited for the storm to die down.

  The night sky was blanketed by fast-moving swirling grey cloud which blotted out the moon. As I watched the clouds forming I realized with an eerie sense of dread that the shine on the rocks was not moonlight but soft light chinking between the rocks, apparently coming from inside the mound. And what I had taken for the sound of wind through the rocks became voices, muffled and wailing. Mesmerized by the slits of light, I stood upright and crawled over rubble deeper into the rocky entrance. The light and noises stopped suddenly, though the wind howled around me and ghost-like storm clouds blanketed the moon completely. I peered through the cracks in the rock, but could now see nothing I pressed my ear against the entrance, but no sounds rose above the wind. Then the wind seemed to change direction and suddenly I heard all the noises of a weaving room; clanking thumping and bumping whirring and clacking I stooped and peered through a crack between the rocks blocking the opening. Then I saw a most astonishing sight; I was staring into a high vaulted chamber, well lit and stacked with flax-lines, spindles, reels, yarn-winders, stoddle, beams, press, comb, weft, wool comb, roller, cranks, shuttles, seam-pegs, shears, needles, beaters—in fact, everything that could be associated with looms and weaving I struggled to get a clearer view and then I saw them.

  Three women were sitting at a large loom, busily weaving. All three had their backs to me, but I could see that they had longhair hanging loosely and were wearing white tunics or robes. I knew they were the Wyrd Sisters. They were weaving on upright looms, with clay loom-weights tightening warp threads and a weighted iron weaving sword for beating up the surface of woven material. But as I stared through the gap at the looms, things began to change. The strands of the loom glistened in the soft light and with a wave of revulsion I realized that they were human entrails. The clay loom-weights turned into men’s heads and the shuttle was a bloodstained arrow.

  Suddenly, the sounds stopped. I looked at the women and my heart stopped too. All three were staring directly towards me.

  With a shriek I scrambled away over the rocks and tried to climb quickly down the precipice, kicking wildly for footholds, gasping and rasping for breath. Half-way down, I fell. The drop seemed to last an age and then I crashed into shrubbery where I lay very still for a moment, hardly daring to move. The only sensation I had was as if someone was pulling on my stomach very hard. I eased myself up and slowly crawled out of the shrub. I closed my eyes and shook my head to clear it and it was then that I realized why my stomach felt strange: with a thrill of understanding I realized that I had fallen along a fibre and that was what had saved me.

  The rain had almost ceased and lay in the air like a heavy mist. The sky began to clear. The moon eased into view and poured wet, twinkling light down through the mist. I looked into the shrubbery from which I had just crawled. The moonlight illuminated the leaves, glistening wetly, and as I watched, I suddenly saw that one of the shiny leaves had become detached and seemed to be shining directly at me. I stared at it in fascination. The bright spot began to grow in size and intensity and I had to squint to keep it from blinding me. Suddenly it disappeared and another equally bright spot replaced it, just a few inches to the right. Then, in an instant, I realized that I was looking at a hawk, a beautiful, powerful bird. It was perched on a branch, perhaps four feet from the ground, its eyes glittering as it turned its head to look at me. As I watched it, I began to tremble with excitement, until my body fluttered like a leaf in the wind.

  The hawk glided silently from the branches and perched on the edge of the precipice. Slowly, I walked towards it, my heart hammering in my chest. Above the river, huge clouds rolled through the grey sky, twisting and turning watching my every movement. Then they eased away again from the moon and the river shimmered far below like a bejewelled belt of silver lying across the forest.

  I stepped on to the rocky spur and stood next to the hawk which stood motionless, waiting for me. My guardian had arrived and I knew what I must do. I took ten steps backwards, shut my eyes tightly and looked into the darkness. Almost immediately I saw a fibre, arcing skywards high over the valley towards the horizon. I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, launched myself towards the precipice and jumped.

  A Sorcerer’s Soul

  I SOARED over the edge of the precipice, felt the ground drop away beneath me and then began to plummet out of the sky towards the river far below. Tumbling and spinning clutching at the air, glimpsing the river rushing up to meet me, I knew I would surely die. Suddenly my arms trembled violently and I stopped spinning. My arms trembled again and I soared through the air, the wind whistling and whining around me and I realized I was climbing into the sky. My body felt as light as a feather and every time I trembled my arms, the river valley dropped further into the distance. I had an exhilarating intoxicating sensation of speed and I pushed my head further forward to cut into the wind.

  The moon seemed bright as the noon sun and far below in the river valley I could see movement everywhere, as sharply and clearly as if it were taking place on the back of my hand. Trees jerked around in the night wind, the river surged and poured down the valley like a living breathing creature and everywhere in the clear spaces in the forest small nocturnal creatures scurried about in the moonlight.

  I stretched my arms and immediately soared higher on the wind, flying North towards Earth’s Rim like an arrow shooting through the sky with no earthly impediments to surmount. I followed the twisting line of the river, far below, until it broke up into tributaries and poured into the sea I headed out over sea lying black and deep far below, white foam-flecked waves sparkling in the moonlight. But as I sped through the sky the sea took on a deep green hue and I could see fish swimming below the surface, each shining brightly like a jewel.

  Then my body shuddered and for an instant I seemed to meet some distant part of myself—a falling spinning Middle-Earth bound aspect of me. It felt like a pinprick of pain and immediately I lost height; then the wind caught my wings, I soared upward and the contact was gone.

  Eventually I reached land again, a familiar landscape although I could not remember having been there before. Each landmark pulled at a chord of recognition as I swept over Grassy Inlet, climbed above Boundary Ridge, across Monster’s Pit, through the Ivy Grove, then flying high to clear Eagle Ridge, plummeting and skimming over the ford in the Wooded Hollow and the Lily Brook, soared again to clear Middle Ridge and dropped once more to pass above the Giant Crab Apple Tree. Every feature of the landscape seemed to connect with some deep, forgotten memory which did not quite return but signalled in my mind that it was there.

  Then I sped towards some hills and each time I topped one hill, a taller one rose in the darkness and I had to beat my wings powerfully in order to climb higher and higher. Finally, looming ahead above the creeping mists of dawn was a mighty mountain, the top lost in clouds, its sides coated with heavy forest. When I reached the lower slopes I glided down to land lightly in the branches of an anc
ient oak I knew that I had journeyed into the spirit-world.

  Looking up, I could see higher peaks covered with snow. In the other direction, down the mountainside, the distant forest lay blue in the light of early dawn. Directly below the oak tree, a narrow path led through the trees and up towards the top of a small rise. I decided to follow the path and trembled my wings, but nothing happened. Puzzled, I trembled them again, harder, but lost my balance, tumbled from the branches and landed sprawling in the grass, realizing without surprise or concern that I was back in my usual body. I crawled to my feet unhurt and began walking up the path. The trees looked silvery as they caught the first glimmers of dawn sun, and the path was slippery with dew.

  Soon I crested the small hill. The track sloped down towards a valley, cutting through the trees straight as a furrow from a giant’s plough. I stopped and gazed down the path. A short bow-shot distance down the path a small cottage or hut nestled half-hidden in the trees, roof-thatch dipping low to the ground, smoke rising from the smoke-hole and curling away in the early morning breeze. The cottage fitted so perfectly with the surroundings that it slipped into invisibility, then back into sight with the tricks of the dawn light.

  I strolled slowly down the hill towards the tiny building I did not feel afraid, but my heart raced with excitement. Ducking under a low porch, I knocked on a heavy oak-plank door. There was no reply and no sound of movement from within, so I cautiously lifted the latch and pushed open the door. Inside the light was soft, the smell of wood and straw inviting as I stepped onto the threshold. The walls were hung with domestic utensils: cauldron, kettle and ladle sat near the burning fire and in one comer a wooden, iron-ringed tub, a cheese vat and a small pile of punnets. At the back of the room, raised from the earth floor by a low shelf, were stacked bags, sieves, a flour basket, honey-bin and yeast boxes. Down a side-wall ran a raised platform with a mattress. The room was generously scattered with benches and stools and two fine, high-backed chairs were tucked neatly under a low table. Above the table a lantern hung from the central beam. It was all simple, basic and beautiful. I walked to the table and sat down in one of the chairs to wait.