Solstice blaze

The sun is setting here after a glorious almost warm day. It doesn’t feel like December. We haven’t even lit the stove yet. The photo is one from the Samhain fire. It’s too early to light the solstice fire yet. For Earthweal.

bonfire3

This luminous day of lizard walls,
nasturtium-fired and rose scented
waxes in sun spots
on wet grass and cloud passing.

Not a breath of air stirs the mild gold,
wet leaves brown and truly dead,
the last spindle tree leaves,
red banners;

not a scritch-scratch
of chill bramble-frost,
no white crispness beneath the hedge.
Earth simmers still; embers glow.

But this luminous day dies
before it has had time to stretch
and claim both hillsides at once
in bright arms,

the longest night encroaches,
creeping shadow-stealthy
as the day breathes in
and then out.

Kindling awaits the match
for the day’s last breath to flare
and blaze, an ephemeral sun,
lest we forget.

#writephoto: Wether in winter

This Winter Solstice story is one I included in my blog post for the Long and Short Reviews Winter Blogfest. You can read the whole post here, and if you leave a comment you have a chance of winning a digital copy of ‘Revelation’.

Sue’s Thursday photo prompt is the perfect illustration, so what better excuse could there be for posting the story twice?

Yes, I know, it’s an awful pun, ‘wether’ and ‘sheepish’ but I decided to leave it in.

thaw

Long ago, in the land of the Northmen, as the longest night of the year was beginning, Gudrun was sent to bring in the last of the wethers. He was the biggest, wildest of the curly-horned sheep and a right royal pain in the arse. Gudrun wrapped her thick cloak tight about her and trudged through the snow up to the oak copse where she suspected he would be, gorging himself on the last of the acorns. She called and whistled, more to keep the wild beasts away than with much hope that the daft sheep would come.

The copse was empty. The wind blew flurries of snowflakes between the tree trunks and Gudrun cursed. Beyond the oaks was empty heathland until the fjord dropped away abruptly, and the sea crashed dark and wicked below. It would be just like the gormless creature to have fallen over the edge and be stuck on a ledge. Sure enough, after a quick search, the setting sun through the clouds along the horizon showed her the wether’s neat prints. Snow clouds hid the sun, and the wind whined, and in its voice, she heard another sound—someone calling faintly.

She ran across the heath that sloped down to the sea, to where the last rowan tree clung to the rocky soil before the slope became bare rock that tumbled into the waves.

“Who’s there?” she called into the wind, fearful that on this long night, the Draugr would be abroad.

“Gudrun? Tis Sigurd Two-Wolves. Take care, the rocks are as treacherous as sin!”

Gudrun picked her way to the broken edge and peered down a narrow goat track. In the middle of a group of scrubby trees, the yellow-eyed wether, straddling a pair of legs, was glaring up at her. With the last of the light to guide her, Gudrun clambered down to the outcrop that had stopped Sigurd’s fall. He raised himself feebly on his forearms, and she caught her breath. A ray of sun picked out the red of his hair and turned it to flame. His eyes glittered, with fever or with something else, she couldn’t say. Though they had been children together, she had never before realised how beautiful he was, and the expression in his eyes, she had never seen in a man’s eyes before. He needed her. Not in the way men usually need women, but he needed her because he was weak and helpless. She knelt down by his side. Her hands twisted a fold of her cloak, itching to touch him, to find out where the pain was.

“It was the wether,” he said sheepishly, “and I almost had him. Then he jumped, and I went with him.” He looked along his body. “The ankle. Nothing to weep over, but I’d best wait for the light before trying that track again.”

Gudrun ran her hand down his leg and had the satisfaction of seeing how he stirred. Gently, she lifted his leg from the rocks that imprisoned it in a twisted position. He cried out and she felt power and pleasure and compassion all at the same time.

“We’ll not be moving from here this night,” she said.

“You’ll stay with me, the dark night through?” he asked, although he must have known the answer.

“This night and every other, if you asked me,” Gudrun whispered as she wrapped them both in her cloak. The wether settled down, sheltering them from the wind, until the sun goddess birthed a daughter to light the first day of the new year.