There is wood but no flames; striking flint under the overhand seems an unnecessary thing these days and I ask if campfires are what calls the spirits or if the spirits call the campfires and it does not really matter when I ponder it longer.
Stones and bones and endless lakes do not require flame for light, for warmth, nor do the woods — only the living and those that remember a living think of flame. And sometimes then, only when it threatens their homes.
So I forego the campfire and sit upon the log someone dragged out to sit on while they watched hungry flames eat the air and dead in front of them. Crow has gone off to do crow things and She will be back soon. Perhaps with another bauble, perhaps with nothing more than words.
I emerged from the bramble gate, crawling out on my hands and knees the soft loam giving way to my weight before springing back, erasing any sign of my passing. Thorns teased at my clothes, my skin while rending neither.
Part of me wished the thorns had taken more liberties with both fabric and flesh.
You survived, They said as I stood, brushing off decayed leaves and detritus from my palms and trousers. Excellent.
Seeking new places to set campfires within the wode. The old ones leave the ashes cold even where they gather and that is a sign I am meant to move on. And so I pass their hollows and dream deeper and older to ancient wooden trails where even the night finds it hard to take a hold. Into the before, when even the old ones had yet to be born.
It is Crow and Ash and Stone. Mountain waters gather in pools that go deep on the forever and the raindrops find their way to this dismal home. Water always finds a way, for it is married to Stone.
You know how it is. Sometime you just feel a little more crow, is all. People think you have to feel raven all of the time, but piss on that. Occasionally I feel more crow.
More than usual, lately, to the point that I wonder if I am maybe crow pretending to be raven. Or, possibly… a sideways shift…
I might be fox, but three of them woke me up with their screaming last night under my window, so I’m not so certain I am not fox. Seems mighty rude to wake someone up when they are sleeping just to tell them they are fox. Yet — I feel more fox because of it and that’s because they’ve made my full yard their hunting grounds of late. Not that I can complain, except when they wake me up to say, “Hey, fox brother, come hunt with us after midnight. A juicy mouse for you if you come outside.” Except in blood-curdling scream in the voice of an 8-year old. And not in English.
Crow is laughing at that this afternoon. “Goodness, kid. They got you to thinking they were just some neighborhood younglings when they woke you up. Best. Joke. Ever.”
I flipped them off. More giggle fits.
”You know, I was meant to be working on being Stone. A spider told me so.”
”Yeah. About that. Fox, you see, had other plans.”
”Obviously.”
“Well, sweet dreams. I hope the fox screams don’t keep you up tonight.”
And they flew off, laughing.
”Well maybe I don’t feel very crow either,” I shout out at them. “Maybe I feel more fox than Raven, Stone OR Crow. How does THAT make you feel?”
”Sounds sensible to me,” muttered Mr. Waddles, the resident possum as he waddles away. “Fox has always got something up their sleeve. I’m not sure you can ignore them. Even if you try.”
And then he crawled under the shed and munched grubs.
There is a temptation to go, dig a deep hole, lay under autumn skies, and let red and gold cover me before comes the fresh snow. Listen to crowing of crowns and screaming of the foxes. To listen to worms heading to slumber below.
ymmi on spun webs watches.
“What means this to you?” they ask.
I shrug. Surprised, in a way, of ymmi watching. “I am becoming Wode,” I say.
“You’re becoming silly, if you don’t mind us saying,” says ymmi. “You are already elder Wode. Wode as hell, as they said. What you need is Stone.”
“I am becoming Stone, too.” It seemed a fair thing to say. I was not going anywhere.
At first, it wasn’t for lack of trying. I would go to the usual place, sit down and wait for the fire to light itself. It remained stubbornly unlit. Without fire to draw them, nothing was drawn. I might have taken it upon myself to light the flames but, in the strange rules of the place when it comes to starting fires, I am entirely ignorant.
Something about the campfire and the silent ghosts feels more burden than gift, so I slap my knees to signal that I need to get moving along as we do in the upper midwest, vocalize the requisite “welp” and stand. A few of the spirits turn their grey eyes to me, grant me a lingering look and then those empty eyes return to the flames. Not even a farewell wave then — the winter cold must be slowing them down today. Or maybe it is the daylight’s glare across the fresh snow that makes them blind. We gather in the late morning, although it isn’t without precedent. They prefer the glow of the flames against the backdrop of night, I’ve been told, but they will never turn down a flame lit in their honor if there is one burning in their area.
I don’t bother with any parting words. Not out of spite, but respect. I am mirroring their inclinations.
You’re learning, says Raven. A bit soft in the head, but at least you’re progressing.
I put another piece of kindling in the flames, keeping the fire. It’s fire season in the forest. While there is no big risk of flames causing mass destruction here, of all places, I try to be mindful of the possibility and restrain the firebug inside. It seems like that critter has vacated anyway, which is just fine by me. My inner firebug got me into as much trouble as fun over the years and I’m tired of manufactured crises.
I pick up the rain-soaked branch, examine it and hope that by doing so it becomes dry enough to begin. That kind of hope is futile when the weald wants rain. And, today the forest wants the rain. I chuck the piece of firewood to the pit and wander down one of the myriad paths branching out from one of the myriad firepits of the wode, all of which are the same firepits and yet all have their own accord.
A fog had descended on camp. It happens at times and, when it does, the fog reflects the flames in such a way that the immediate surroundings appear aglow but the campfire is quickly swallowed by the thick fog standing a few dozen yards away. I did not expect anyone to find me tonight as a result of being well within the betweens. So I warmed my hands and contemplated the thorns still visible on one side of the clearing: daggered things that would have screamed of a sepsis incurred within hours of being pricked by their sharp tips.
The weald likes to keep its secrets. I may be the nominal warden of this place, but that does not mean that I know anything more than I need to about the darker spaces within. Of course, if there were need of the blackthorn’s protection, I would find I could slip within the hedge’s folds like a chickadee or wren. The weald protects its own as much as it wards.
That is when a familiar and small voice spoke in my left ear.
Hey, they said. Thought you could stand some company.
