Two moons ago, for Samhain, along with a few other Saxon ruffians, and their maidens, we went off to sit at the barrows for the Wild Hunt. November 2 was the night proper of the Lunar Samhain, the dying of one celestia cycle and waxing of the next. First, we drove up to the medieval style tavern in West Kennet and traipsed through Avebury and the standing stones. I stopped awhile at one of the larger stones, attempting to ask it exactly how it became to be. A cold mass, a subtle vibration, the fungal starch leeching all over it’s many faces. Then we walked on, into the dark so thick it enrobed us, cold as liquid wind seeping under our garments. There were booms of tank firing far in the distance that carried over the hills, as Craig put it ‘modern Thor’. And flashes of light in the sky which I still think of as his forge, sheets of light being thrown away from the anvil as he hit it with solid metal. I have had a peculiar feeling as far back as I can remember in my young age, probably being 3 or 4, of the Gods either wrestling, or dropping something, making loud thunder. It is interesting how it has carried this far into my life.
We tumbled across some raised grass ridges, lightly illumined by a pale glow, showing shadow and lunar light making out it’s form. It was the mind map labyrinth, with helix half circles and rotating spirals that led us rotating like madmen through to its center and out the outer side. In Scandinavia they used to be marked with stones, built by fishing communities to trap malevolent winds, and trolls, but are found almost universally, in Greece, Nepal, India, South America, Australia, Egypt and Java. Wodhanaz raised this one, and forced us to leave the ego behind, become inspirited with odhr, and come out through the quantam side of the mind.
We walked on, bewildered to the bare rooted beech trees, steadfast on the hill, rustling like the sound of the chariot through cloud at Godspeed. Whispers of runa in their branches. Craig spoke to Odin, and we all gazed star-ward for the dust trails of the Oskorei. Following then, the chalk line, discoursing the Kurgan and Scythian mythos and funerary rites, coming back out beside the first sarsen stone, Ymir’s bones. Riding on through the avenue of smaller stones and stopping off the road of the West Kennet long barrow, with Silbury Hill looming in the foreground like the tumulus of 108 Einherjar and their horses.
Jeering like folkyngir, wandering through the flint covered farmland on the way to the barrow entrance. Met to the sound of three bodhran, we had company. We set up in the two front chambers, and then huddled into one, lighting the Ganja incense, and burning the death staves, while Craig called on the Draugur Odin, Valdr Galga, with black gealdor, James and I keeping a pulse with the skin drum and hollow bone. Lucy chimed a Tibetan bowl, sending frequencies swirling within the alcove. Unfortunately the others stayed much longer than expected, playing on and on with a Celtic/druid style rhythm that was fairly distracting and more fitting for a tribal dance ceremony, it just didn’t seem right. The dead are slow movers. Craig and James, went out and started yelling for Oden and his ghostriding wain to come and take them with him, then we followed and went mad with trance to the beat of a horse galloping drumbeat. A fair amount of the ganja smoke already working through us, falling over, of the barrow, and stepping in anti-syncopated patterns across the turf, shivering and barefoot.
Lying on the rampart, one-eyed stargazing and watching as the celestial vault moved in the night fog around Tyr’s star. A firey blaze shot across the black ether, and burned up as quickly as the embers do the exposed air. This was a special moment for all of us. Wotan and Freyja had were gaining, Sleipnir set on fire, and riding roughshod across the Shire. We went back into the barrow, where a cap stone rest in one portal, and sat away from each other. Consuming the binaural dream beat again, our faces distorted by the Fenrir candleflame, incense smoke and a mix of corpsepaint, barrow mud, and char. 3 knocks, thrice timed, Ansuz mouth silenced. Then we exited the barrow, all but Craig, making provisions for the draugs, at the enclosed room. We left, reeking of must, and millennial old filth.