The Power of Mythos in Ritual
After days of ritual work and preparing, I look down at my horn and for a moment I stare into its contents seeing back over some 2000 years when this very sacrifice was made.
There is a collective pause, as time bends and the old is transposed onto the new with an audible snap and shimmer.
I and my Spa sisters had summoned the Nornir, we sang the songs and welcomed the Old Man as we agreed to an exchange and gifting as old as time.
I saw many other rites I have helped to perform for this time of ending and the beginning of winter’s touch.
Cold, still, somber walks through veiled labyrinths, a full plate for the silent Ancestors, many Utiseta on frozen mounds and offerings for the Alfs.
I hear the timeless hopes, fears or needs chanted, screamed, and sobbed out to the otherworld’s since the First Seeker climbed into the Gallows to know more.
The fire flickers and breaks my dream, and I place the horn on the Altar. I see through eyes of another and proceed with my two sisters of What Is Becoming and What Is, and without emotion but full of purpose, I, as What Must Be, grasp the Man and lead him high enough into the branches to be seen as the sacrifice he wishes to become; together we as the Nornir bind him to his fate.
As the Sisters of Wyrd we read him in turn his entire Story, his own words why this act of Sacrifice is being relived.
Through the eyes of Her as I hold the song, waiting for my time to tell His tale; I see a glint of terrible beauty in this ancient deed, and I as She asks the One Eyed “have you known more? Even now, you who are with many names and faces?”
I see the Human Man’s face as it flickers in our need fires flame reflection. Smooth, serenely quite, almost dead.
I look harder, and a form appears, eyes wide open intensely staring: and I am blasted with a passion, a grim but euphoric determination to continue to live -only if His self sovereignty is realized so His Ancient Sagas can continue to be told, thereby thawrting Death.
I knew, somehow, with the telling and re-living of His most heroic feat, immortality for Him is realized and shared by those who know the tales.
It is my time to speak and I ask Him his own questions asked by Himself so long ago, does he know how to call them, to carve them, to name them, to send them?
One last time I look upon Odin on his windswept Tree, and once more the power roars up from a time older than memory and he whispers, “yes, you know Volva that I do. And by honoring this timeless Sacrifice, so do you.”