Wednesday, 12 December 2012

A nasty little Winters Tale...

I don’t know how this story ends.

Its one thing that I sit here, spinning my words, spinning a spell, letting the little Arachne’s live when I see them, so that they will help me with the web.

Its one thing that I call upon Tyr, with his hard eyes and the cut of the sword of absolute justice that goes both ways.  That Odin, on back of Sleipnir rides in just for the joy of a scrap, because I asked.  That Thor will always defend the small man against the large and powerful oppressor.  Its one thing that I call them, most vehemently, and explain the situation in this season of ice and frost.  I explain that the Ice Giants are filling this small part of our world with lies that cloud and bank over everything so that we cannot see the land anymore, and before us it cracks.

Its another thing that I create a mood with several songs, several melodies and run it through my head until a story plays there: a powerful archetypal story where someone glows with the force of integrity and shines with the truth, getting bigger every moment as those who shout their falsities cower and shrink, their biting insults and twisted acid blowing back in their own faces as the warriors I have called throw thunder and wield swords, ravens, dogs, wolves.

I can feel the battle as it rages back and forth and up and down that room far away.  I can feel the liars telling their merry stories, barking and snapping like the dogs they are, and the supposedly neutral listener taking his notes that bias toward the powerful and refuse to listen to any other than the official story.

I close my eyes and I can see, in a strange almost cartoon form, this battle surging.  I can see the Gods fighting for us, I can see the evil men with their tarnish of grey and spitted red over them, smiling and fighting back.  They are not afraid. I feel their confidence, their arrogance is a stink I can see, like heavy dark furs covered in fat.

But I don’t know how this story ends.

I watched it for almost 2 hours.  Then quite abruptly I felt it stop.  I felt the energy I was putting through it, holding the line, I felt it falter and …stop.  I felt, I hope it was not so, I felt our side conceding something. I hope this was tactical only.  A move.

Battles remotely fought are of course difficult to view.  But it turns out I was accurate of the time it ended.  The warrior Gods pulled back and breathed heavily and the opponents vanished from the room.  The skirmish was over.

They gird him now, my loved one, and we wait for the result of today’s war fought with words in a boardroom; and with Gods and love and music on another level.  By sage and lavender, by story told through in tarot form, by the binding of purple ribbons and grey silk cloth…I know how the fate should be spelled.  But casting for another, however close…

I don’t know how this story ends.  I know it is not over.  I know we did not use all our weapons, or take this battle to a wider plane, a bigger room.  But this means we still can.  I think they think we don’t have the nerve.

In the meantime, I think on the two liars who propagated this whole story’s start. I think on their smallness, their viciousness, their attacks even within this battle that was not supposed to be a battle today (though I knew it would be).  I hope that the supposedly neutral witness was taken aback by the venom of his colleagues; the violence of the words used against the man with no union representative, the man invited to a meeting to make his side of events, and then not really allowed to.

I think on those men.  I think they need mirrors set round them, reflecting in.  I think their acid juices should eat them from within.  I think I hate, and I do not forgive.  Not yet.  I hope the one who witnessed on their side has eyes to see.

Tyr will see Justice done yet.  Thor will protect, as that is what Thor does.  Odin will ride back for us.

But I don’t know how this story ends.  A winter’s tale where the wolves howl, but as yet, who they will eat is unclear.  Are they Odin’s wolves?  Will Fenris be bound at the expense of Tyr’s hand?  Or are they just a pack from the dark side of the forest, hungry for anything warm as they are cold through and through and have no warm blood of their own so steal another’s?

I don’t know.  I sing the songs, I weave the words, I see the battle.  I see another will come.  This was just the first engagement.

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