legend

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Kringlans Kalender 2019 / Meru’s Wisdom, Dec 10th

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 ”Stop, stop, stooooop! Aouch! This caftan is about to rip to pieces if you don’t stop!”

Wizards body had started convulsing in a strange way first. Star knew that if she were to stop shaking the large wand right now she would hurt him more than if she continued.

His whole face had started turning a very deep shade of blue. She had to get him back to the silvery white shade. She kept on rattling, growling, only listening to the ssssing of the aurora borealis and nothing else.

Boom! Thug! Patsch!

Wizard was lifted up in the air. Vertical. Twisting, turning, swaying for a while. Slowly floating just above the treetops.

Star put the wand, now forever marked by her fangs, down. She looked up. The Milky Way seemed to move. She gently howled as if she was whispering, scanning the morning sky with her eyes. The shimmery movement came closer, the shape of a white dragon taking form as it breathed a cloud of softness underneath the feet of Wizard, allowing him to gently descend, feet landing on the pebble beach.

”What is this?” he shook his head, tousled hair flaying in the wind, beard moving along. ”What is going on? Why are you jerking me out of a very important interdimensional job?”

”Because your even more important interdimensional task is right here. In this valley. At this water. With all of us. Pinecones and Moonstones, remember?”

”Pincecones and Moonstones? Already ? I mean, we have waited many different time measurements for this. I just hoped it would not be yet.”

Wizard looked Star directly in the eyes, waved to the dragon who  had just landed on the island just at the outlet of the fjord. ”And pinecones and moonstones are just the beginning….”

Star shifted forwards, gently put her nose in his palm, her way of giving a cuddle.

”Wolves and Wizards always meet at the dawn, the old legends sing my old friend. This time Wolves and Wizards will meet with Dawn”.

Cecilia Götherström, Dec 10th 2019

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Kringlans Kalender 2019/ Meru’s Wisdom, Dec 1st

A new star is born

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The wintercoat thickened. Like a new layer of atmosphere along this cold ball of lightning. Out of nothingness came life, came light, came a mist as if breathed through the voice of the void. Bright, strong, finely filigraphicially painted across a velvety canvas of the universe.

It´s song sung itself into existence, in to living. What had begun like a seed, like a wish, like an idea, a longing, a spiralling small funkle of snakey energy had started curling in upon and around itself. Spiralling while fuming. Moving faster and faster in an intriquate yet messy pattern, spinning its own being in to life. Not a sparkle and bang like fireworks on new years day. More like a sneaky, slow, quiet, first breath of a sly dragon escaping it´s passage , becoming its own life form ,its own master, its own creation.

It was felt. So strong was the notion of a new star just born that it was impossible to turn any heads away from what was not awaited any more but birthed in to being right now.

Strong. White. Whiskery. Slow. Sly. Clever. Knowing.

Star.

 

– Cecilia Götherström

 

 

 

 

 

by

Häxdans

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Röken virvlade upp ur skålen.
Små snirkliga banor av tall-rosor, mossa, myrra och grönkålsblad lindade i insvurna löften spred sig i den fuktiga vårnatten.
Vargen ylade i bakgrunden. En dieseldriven skuta puttrade genom den släta vattenytan utan att det egentlige märktes.
Ur gräset steg en vind fram. Virvlande, dansande, smygande, sprattandes och sedan stilla igen.
”Ssshhhhh”, hördes det ur luften. ”Ssshhhhhh”.
”Lyssna på tystnaden,” viskades det ur stenblocken vid vattenbrynet.

”Bom, bom, bom, bom.”
Det trummades ur träden.

”Bom, bom, bom, bom.”
Det kom närmare.

Skäggiga, bröst-platts-klädda krigare med kjolar virvlande runt benen steg trummande fram ur ingenting.
De följdes av skira, starka, kvinnor i vitt, purpurrött och himmelsblått, med långt hår, kort hår, krokiga ryggar, stolta hållningar, unga händer och gamla klor i en brokig massa.

Alla dessa händer bar på något. Något man inte såg med blotta ögat, men kände och förstod med hjärtat.

”Bom, bom, bom, bom.”

Karlarna stannade vid vattenbrynet. De banade vägen, bröt upp sin formation så att kvinnorna, sönerna och döttrarna kunde skrida fram till vattnet.

Tusentals händer höll röken och något som bara kunde förklaras med ordet ”Sanningen” i vårat i bland så fattiga språk.

”Sanningen” rörde sig, den bars i alla dessa händer, den andades, den flöt, den böljade och bågnade.

”Bom, bom, bom, bom.”

Hela skaran klev ner i vattnet. Krigarna först. Sannings-bärarna direkt efter.
Sanningen följde.

Trummorna skaldade en rytm starkare än det starkaste hjärta. Händerna dansade ner Sanningen mot vattenytan, där den flöt ovanpå ytskiktet – röken spred sig utåt, uppåt, framåt, tillbaka mot skaran.
Den steg, den sjönk, den delades och satt samtidigt ihop. Den omfamnade trumbärarna, händerna, trumpinnarna, den färdades in genom näsor, tårkanaler och strupar.

Tår spreds, fötter trummade rytmiskt mot marken, mot havsbotten, mot sten, mot gräs, mot vatten, mot jord.

Himlen steg upp, och kom samtidigt tillbaka ner som en bakvänd tsunami som först drar sig tillbaka för att sedan kväva allt i sin väg.

Sanningen dansade.

Cecilia Götherström, maj 2014