Tag: campfires

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.

We haven’t sat for a while, them and I.

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.

And, sometimes, it rains.

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.