Freitag, 11. März 2011
The birth of a seax-gone off my rocker just a tiny bit;-)
Then something went wrong, and the billet was forgotten. The smithy was closed, and the remaining material taken to fill the trails in the near woods, which belonged to the Funcke family since many generations. There, submerged in the dark and once rich soil, it rested, and wind and weather passed upon it. Rain beat upon it, as did the sun, and the seasons passed like days over this steel. And it waited. It had not forgotten the fiery heat of the forges´flames, and in spite of cold and toil of winter, there, deeply vibrating in its innermost elemental heart, there was the force of the song still. The song of flames it was, and the ringing, singing song of hammer upon anvil, and even below, there was another song... and this was the song of steel itself, crying violently in utter silence, a dragon´s scream.
It was a moonlit night in winter (No, really, it was!;-)) when I was on a walk returning home. The forest was enchanted, and there was no snow yet, but there were the flowers of frost shining like elven stars in the twilight, delicately yet with a fierce glow to it. It is strange, that sometimes you just walk there laughing, even if it´s dark, and sometimes, on some rare few occasions, there is something different. This was one of those nights. It was the night when I found this billet, half embedded in the ground. It took some real work to get it out, but it has spoken to me ever since. I took it home, and it rested for two years on a shelf not doing anything, even forgotten some time.
Then I went for a winter walk into the frozen hills, to a most ancient tree, and the inspiration came to me to forge a seax to express my feelings towards the atmosphere of my true home, the place where the Saxons were born, and where Widuchind fought his battles against the upcoming Christian belief. It were the Seax that gave the name to the tribe, and I wanted to forge one myself. One that meant a song to be sung. A myth to be born.
My family, as far it can be traced back, has either Saxon as well as Frankish roots. It were the Frankish that brought the belief of peace by slaughtering men, women and children, and doing this to the Saxons by beheading them on the wood of the "Irminsul", their holy tree. Please note that this is not a rant against Christian belief or any belief whatsoever, for the Saxons where no stranger to some plain old bloodshed either.
But the Seax was a tool for them, and to me it means more than just a knife. It is ambiguous, as many long knives are. It carries the potentiality of death as well as life. It carries the potential of hate as well as love. I want to express the love for those hills with this work, for the mentality of those strange bastards that live there;-). And I will give a hint, that, as Widuchind did in times long passed by, there is the potential of rebellion as well.
When the NSDAP gained reign over Germany, many people of the Sauerland region (those hills of home) just kept on doing what they did. Some even met in secret, and some let common sense hinder many cruel deeds. They were even more conservative than the fascist bastards, mind you, but some good came from that. I am proud that my family belonged to those who tried a mild resistance in those days, meeting in secret for sessions of the Socialistic Democratic Party (SPD). And NO, I am not a communist, nor a socialist, nor a fascist.
(i have a deep suspicion towards words ending on -ism, -ist, -istic, -ology and the like, they nail me down and do not allow any movement any more)
I believe their power, the power of those people came from the dark and rich soil and gave them the guts to carry on, not because they wanted to be heroes. Some peasants even were members of the NSDAP and managed to undermine many cruel deeds still, but not because they wanted to. They were rooted in the soil, and their common sense did not allow them to go off their rocker as many people in the cities did. (that´s not to say all of the city people were mad!). Please forgive me, if I miss the mark to express my feelings. It´s a very difficult topic for me, but one that belongs to being German-unfortunately. I studied "Rune - Lore" at Bochum University with Prof. Dr. Else Ebel for some years, and I loved it. I had to explain to anyone and everyone I were no fascist just for this fact, just because a madman with a funny moustache got his dirty fingers tangled in things he did not half understand fifty years ago! Rant over and out;-).
I want you to know, that, even if we are headed into a very similar direction as the fascist movement in those days (forbidding raw milk and investigating that with SWAT teams), there is a kind of rebellion that is always possible; a power rooted in the soil. The same powers that stood behind the NSDAP try to gain dominion again, and now they are doing this worldwide and in a much more subtile way.
In the dark and rich soil there lies submerged the screaming steel, long neglected or even forsaken. But it remembers the searing flames, deep in its heart.
There is no fathoming the dark earth, the ancient hillsides, the ever-growing trees. Even if they could be destroyed, or forbidden, the wind will still blow, and the sun will still shine, and there will always be room for common sense, for dreams, and for love, and for the simple, good things in life. And out of the feeling of love I set out to Volker´s place to give a form to that ancient billet, which you can see in the picture above. It is not tempered yet, and I have to do some filing and sanding and have to drill in some rivet holes. No power tools here, I hope...
Lóme autánen, utulié n aure! (Night shall perish, (for) day will be!(Elvish by J.R.R.Tolkien, free after: The Silmarillion)
Many of you readers are freaks in a strange world. Do not forget you´re right about the woods, about the trees. Do not forget the dark soil in your soul, and maybe it takes over sometimes, leaving you hopeless.
There´s steel, and there´s fire in the dark.
Borne on cinders,
Flint and tinder,
The wind descends unto the shades of grey.
A roaring cry beyond frosty realms.
Born in embers,
Ice and fire,
Rising high the salmon in the river red,
Come now hither,
From the ashes,
Spirit of steel, I invoke your cry!
Borne on cinders,
Becomes a blade.
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