Two evenfalls ago, I sat with Stag. He was found on the other side of the Cattle field, his haunt was the marsh, and his life was ended by the insignificant with a bullet. I dis-entwined the grasses and snow that bury it’s head, and raised it aloft. One tine on the left side had broken off, at an undiscerning time, and the antler though partially healed over, was bleeding down the mantle of the skull. I carried the ally across the fields to a pond, then a hillock, then onto a circle grove of larch trees. This ring of trees is surely heathen, and I have come across similar spectacles since I have lived here. The first time I sat in the ring was during the night, when I heard brother Owl. I took the stag through the circle, with it’s hollow in the middle, and stalked back towards the bunkhouse with the crown on my back, and cleaned it of it’s remaining flesh and left it dry in the wind before moving Him inside.
Later that night I took Stag out to the tree ring, with herbal smoke I sat again, waiting to hear the voice, I saw the clear division between the mountain and the dead forest, I saw the astral dear watching headlights, it told me to protect their kind, warn them of danger, throw the bullets in the river. A grouse cackled at me from afar, and for the moment I thought they would congregate in the hollow of the tree ring. I looked and sat with Stag. Rain pouring now, dripping from my long hair and the black metal logos in the trees, and the blood seeping tines, Runes written there in branches outlined in mist and moss. I see the moribund deer walking in a dead forest. This is where the spirit dwells in winter. Inhaling, exhaling, more aromatic smoke plumes. The dusk is overhead, I take up the ally with new respect, and return to the farm.
With skull in hand, resting up to my bone shrine, the antler bled even more, dark red, nearly purple, sticky, sweet blood, I tasted it twice and stared into the void of its eyes. I took out the carven antler runes I had risted the day before, waiting for the stain. Blood. I knew. The vial would be enough, with an Icelandic crow feather, delicately, I filled the hollow tip like a calligraphy pen and filled the carved runes with the essence and gave them life, and gifted the Runes, and communed with the moribund relic before me, and Odin, my own Self. I lie with stag, the ripe smell of it’s skull and blood dripping out of the antlers intoxicating my senses. A near swooning, and a banishing ritual of poison and shadow. 24 runes of :RED: carved into the vertebrae of the world tree itself, into talismans of the wild. A couple droplets fall onto the bandana holding the runes, concentric patterns imagining the mind. A lot is made, two Runes revealed . So I thought of my thinking, and thinking thought me.
I slept… in Ginnungagap of Dream, Into the Depths I Stared..