Post by Jan on Jan 20, 2006 13:26:50 GMT -5
The chill frost of the morning still lay white upon the ground and although a few leaves remained on the oak trees, most lay in crunchy mounds in the meadow. Red berries festooned the branches of the Thorn, Holly and Rowan, and under the rocks creeping things lay waiting for the sun to warm them into life again.
Her people sat huddled by the fire, telling jokes and watching the stags fighting in the mist on the hillside.
The new drum, fashioned from white deer hide with garlands of snail shells, was finally tight and dry enough to tune, and Marni knew that she would be called to lead the Dance tonight. It was the start of the Blood Month. It was time for the Gathering.
She wore feathers for the Gathering that night ~ Goose and Owl and Hawk. By the light of the full moon, she drummed at the firelight and the men scratched images of the Hunt on the walls of the cave… Elk and Pony, Boar and Bull. The living flames of the fire made the forms come to life, and they seemed to fly with the wind, with the fear of death in their eyes. Arrows lodged deep within their hides, she could almost smell the blood of the kill. The herbs burning on the fire, the fermented fruit drinks and the heart-beat sound of her drum worked their magic on the Hunters, and they Travelled with their Shaman leaders to the Land of the Spirit-Hunt.
At the first hint of brightness in the Eastern Skies, a cry went up from the camp. A Word of Power, a Victory Call. The hunters left with painted faces, to reap in the flesh harvest – food enough to see the tribe through the bitter months ahead. Marni knew that with her mate leading the hunt they would just HAVE to return successful.
As they disappeared into the mists of the newly born day, Marni hung up her drum and lay down under her skins to sleep. Her dreams were patterned with images of the night before. The firelight, the dancing, the stories of winters long past, and the magical beat of her Drum.
She woke around mid day, the cold chill of winter in her bones, despite the watery sunshine. Children played in the still-warm ashes of the dying fire whilst their mothers sewed skins together, their babies clutched to their breasts. She stroked her gravid stomach, and crooned to her own child, kicking within.
It would be half a moon at least until the men were back. Then the hard work would begin…. Skinning, cooking, hanging the smoked meat up to dry until it resembled leather and tasted worse…drying and curing the hides to make winter clothing and blankets to the steady beat of her Drum and the songs of the hunters recalling their kills.
And sometime in the depths of the winter ahead, while the snow storms threatened to bury them alive in their caves, she’d cry in anguish, cursing all men in general and hers in particular as her firstborn made its appearance by the dancing light of the fire.
* * *
The biting wind cut through her skins and she shivered as she awoke to see the shroud of snow blanketing the hillside. A full moon and a half had passed since the hunting party went. They were never this late. The elders sat round the fire, smoking solemnly, concern etched deep on their brows. Tonight, although she was so close to her time, Marni would again play the drum, while they implored the Spirits to bring home their lost ones …. Supplies were almost gone now, and they faced a cruel and bitter starvation without the flesh harvest.
Her drum seemed to have a life of its own that night… its rhythms taking the tribe to new heights of awareness as she implored the spirits to show her what had happened to her people. The hypnotic beat and the dance of the flames moved Marni to new realms…
She was in the forest. The rest of the herd were feeding peacefully around her. The scent of the trees, the earth, the fallen leaves coloured her mind and she stamped her hooves. She needed to run. She needed to go. Find her people, her mate.
The tribes~folk caught a brief glimpse of the white deer, skipping through the campsite, dancing round the fire to the beat of Marni’s drum, before disappearing into the depths of the night.
The white deer ran onwards, dainty black hooves, hitting the ground like drum beats, ever onwards into the night. She could smell the blood of the Harvest, food enough to see them through the dark times…but at what cost? There was something else in the air… some tang of danger on the wind. And then she saw!
The shock of revelation spiralled her back to her human form and she lay confused, breathless and beaded with sweat as the first light of a brand new day coloured the storm clouds on the horizon and patterned the snowfields. The footprints of a deer were all around the campsite, and her new drum lay broken by her feet.
The sound of a horn echoed hauntingly through the hills….at last they come! Children ran out into the hills, scanning the snowfields for their fathers and brothers. But through the advancing snow storm came the sounds of grief…pain, despair… She rose, knowing already what to expect as they brought her man into the camp, mortally wounded and close to death…. He looked into her eyes as she gazed down at him… “The child” he whispered, “Name him for me… Today I am like the winter storms, but like the springtime rains I shall return”
* * *
The new drum, fashioned from white deer hide with garlands of snail shells, was finally tight and dry enough to tune, and Marni knew that tonight she would again wear the feathers and lead the Dance as the men scratched images of the Hunt on the walls of the cave…
Her son, Winter, stood tall and proud. He looked so like his father, she smiled. Tonight, he would join the other men by the fireside. And by the light of the newborn morning he would go with them on his first hunt.
But they would never harm the white deer guardian that would always haunt their steps.
Her people sat huddled by the fire, telling jokes and watching the stags fighting in the mist on the hillside.
The new drum, fashioned from white deer hide with garlands of snail shells, was finally tight and dry enough to tune, and Marni knew that she would be called to lead the Dance tonight. It was the start of the Blood Month. It was time for the Gathering.
She wore feathers for the Gathering that night ~ Goose and Owl and Hawk. By the light of the full moon, she drummed at the firelight and the men scratched images of the Hunt on the walls of the cave… Elk and Pony, Boar and Bull. The living flames of the fire made the forms come to life, and they seemed to fly with the wind, with the fear of death in their eyes. Arrows lodged deep within their hides, she could almost smell the blood of the kill. The herbs burning on the fire, the fermented fruit drinks and the heart-beat sound of her drum worked their magic on the Hunters, and they Travelled with their Shaman leaders to the Land of the Spirit-Hunt.
At the first hint of brightness in the Eastern Skies, a cry went up from the camp. A Word of Power, a Victory Call. The hunters left with painted faces, to reap in the flesh harvest – food enough to see the tribe through the bitter months ahead. Marni knew that with her mate leading the hunt they would just HAVE to return successful.
As they disappeared into the mists of the newly born day, Marni hung up her drum and lay down under her skins to sleep. Her dreams were patterned with images of the night before. The firelight, the dancing, the stories of winters long past, and the magical beat of her Drum.
She woke around mid day, the cold chill of winter in her bones, despite the watery sunshine. Children played in the still-warm ashes of the dying fire whilst their mothers sewed skins together, their babies clutched to their breasts. She stroked her gravid stomach, and crooned to her own child, kicking within.
It would be half a moon at least until the men were back. Then the hard work would begin…. Skinning, cooking, hanging the smoked meat up to dry until it resembled leather and tasted worse…drying and curing the hides to make winter clothing and blankets to the steady beat of her Drum and the songs of the hunters recalling their kills.
And sometime in the depths of the winter ahead, while the snow storms threatened to bury them alive in their caves, she’d cry in anguish, cursing all men in general and hers in particular as her firstborn made its appearance by the dancing light of the fire.
* * *
The biting wind cut through her skins and she shivered as she awoke to see the shroud of snow blanketing the hillside. A full moon and a half had passed since the hunting party went. They were never this late. The elders sat round the fire, smoking solemnly, concern etched deep on their brows. Tonight, although she was so close to her time, Marni would again play the drum, while they implored the Spirits to bring home their lost ones …. Supplies were almost gone now, and they faced a cruel and bitter starvation without the flesh harvest.
Her drum seemed to have a life of its own that night… its rhythms taking the tribe to new heights of awareness as she implored the spirits to show her what had happened to her people. The hypnotic beat and the dance of the flames moved Marni to new realms…
She was in the forest. The rest of the herd were feeding peacefully around her. The scent of the trees, the earth, the fallen leaves coloured her mind and she stamped her hooves. She needed to run. She needed to go. Find her people, her mate.
The tribes~folk caught a brief glimpse of the white deer, skipping through the campsite, dancing round the fire to the beat of Marni’s drum, before disappearing into the depths of the night.
The white deer ran onwards, dainty black hooves, hitting the ground like drum beats, ever onwards into the night. She could smell the blood of the Harvest, food enough to see them through the dark times…but at what cost? There was something else in the air… some tang of danger on the wind. And then she saw!
The shock of revelation spiralled her back to her human form and she lay confused, breathless and beaded with sweat as the first light of a brand new day coloured the storm clouds on the horizon and patterned the snowfields. The footprints of a deer were all around the campsite, and her new drum lay broken by her feet.
The sound of a horn echoed hauntingly through the hills….at last they come! Children ran out into the hills, scanning the snowfields for their fathers and brothers. But through the advancing snow storm came the sounds of grief…pain, despair… She rose, knowing already what to expect as they brought her man into the camp, mortally wounded and close to death…. He looked into her eyes as she gazed down at him… “The child” he whispered, “Name him for me… Today I am like the winter storms, but like the springtime rains I shall return”
* * *
The new drum, fashioned from white deer hide with garlands of snail shells, was finally tight and dry enough to tune, and Marni knew that tonight she would again wear the feathers and lead the Dance as the men scratched images of the Hunt on the walls of the cave…
Her son, Winter, stood tall and proud. He looked so like his father, she smiled. Tonight, he would join the other men by the fireside. And by the light of the newborn morning he would go with them on his first hunt.
But they would never harm the white deer guardian that would always haunt their steps.