Krampus, Yule time, skóggángr and penitance of the wicked

 Whether you call it Chrismas time or Yule time, there is no denying of the fact that these are special times. Being fed up with the clash of religions and all the ranting and self-entitlement going on on the web and elsewhere, I took some time to contemplate: What is it that makes this time special, and what do all the opponents have in common? The answer is quite easy. Remove the names and all that paraphernalia and you have one fact. Up until the 21st of December, which was the original date for Chrismas eve, the nights become ever longer, and the 21st. December as the winter solstice is the longest night. It is the triumph of darkness, if you so will-and its ultimate defeat. But darkness and light are both necessary sides of the same coin... no winter, no summer, no death, no life. The birth of the light unfathomed (Sól invictus) was allegorically transponed into the birth of Christ, but contaminated with a lot of ancient pagan beliefs, customs and traditions, one of which is the "Chrismas demon". In the Alps and in the South of Germany, there still is the figure of "Krampus", a word which derives from Old High German "Krampa"/ "Krampan", Old Gothic: "Krampja", meaning claw /claws, a horned spirit with a load of fangs and claws.


(source: Mörk djevels, Ennstal, Steiermark, Austria)

While in Christian times everything with horns on is evil, the Krampus actually acts as a bringer of morale, even in a Christian sense. Krampus is a part of St. Nicolas host, something like the minion who takes the evil children to hell. Krampus was said to be a descendant of Loki, son of Hel, but also derives from the horned Gods of nature. One aspect is the holly king.



(Source: https://scontent-amt2-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/1743556_234785993373145_1520561743_n.png?oh=671d55cc72782d00bd00ca3b777a65e3&oe=5AD1FC17)

The holly king is the "green man" of English folklore and shares a lot of similarities to Cernunnos, the horned god, Herne the hunter, Robin Goodfellow and others.


(image source: Wikipedia)

Back to the figure of Krampus. He is never depicted as outright evil, but as a kind of negative psychopomp and acting as a cautionary mythological figure. The Krampus is a wood sprite (said to live in the deepest woods) in some traditions, and stands for the violent forces of nature. In a different place on this blog I have already referred to my presumption or theory that the Norwegian "Trolls" might have something to do with the "skóggángr mannar", the wood-walking men, people who had been banished from society due to a sentence, denying them the privilege to be a part of human society any longer. With the Krampus, however, I found a striking example of a Mongolian shaman costume:


(image source: pinterest)

This costume shares a lot of similarities to the Krampus costume. These are: Horned mask, sound-producing implements, a "shaman´s whip" (in the case of Krampus the bundle of birch twigs serves the same purpose besides being used to punish nasty children), staff (often a Krampus also holds a staff with bells on), shaman´s sword:



(image source: pinterest)

bells and drum. The shaman in Mongolian society, while being called a holy man, often came to shamanism via a mental illness or any other character trait that distinguishes him from the norm. He is ab - normal in a purely descriptive sense. Often he is a person of higher intellect and education, but not necessarily so. In most cases he lives away from the community of other men. Robinson (1985) postulated a correlation between introversion and emotional intelligence, just to mention it along. In any way, the shaman is seen as someone sitting on the hedge between the worlds. Having had the privilege to converse and make closer acquaintance with a genuine Mongolian shaman several years ago I can say that this quite certainly distinguishes a genuine shaman from all those self-entitled morons running around selling their so-called dream-travels. That gentleman was extremely practical-minded and saw his spirituality in much the same way in which he put up to everyday tasks. He was actually quite down-to-earth, but also had the capacity of having "one foot in the spirit world", as he put it.

In Mongolian society, the shaman is living apart from human society, not because he is despised or in any way banished, but because he is dangerous in a sense, dangerous because of a power that elevates him from human society. He is not entirely human, but able to share characteristics with spirit and animal. He is the one who talks to the world of spirits. In Saami culture, there are stories of shamans you could only look at through an iron ring to be able to survive their gaze.

The Krampus is something that lurks in the darkness and stands for the dark half of the year. Like trolls and dwarves, like elves and dragons, like white women and death itself, he stands for the uncivilized, for the woods, for the counterworld of civilization. In Arthurian romance we find the hero venturing into the woods where adventures, monsters and fair maiden dwell, to test his fortitude and then return as initiated to the court. It is a rite of initiation. 

 The light dies, and the forests are covered in twilight. Moonlight reigns supreme, and if you really venture into the woods in actual these days, chance is, you will be faced with darkness sooner or later. It is quite realistic that even on a short bimble in winter you will be having a problem with falling dark. Now I love being outdoors in the woods, and I also do it in winter, and I long ago learned that a handtorch is of little use in nocturnal forests.

 There is something soothing as well as terrifying in the falling night in the forest. The terrifying thing is that things awake that were asleep at daytime. The trees move and creak, and, being rapt of other notions, your stimulated hearing makes a show of even the faintest of noises-of the rustling of dry leaves in a breeze, of the hooting of an owl and the stealthy stride of the fox.

 You can still see the faint outline of light, but the forest grows ever darker.

 And in the twilight, unseen wonders emerge.

 The message of the Krampus is that there is terror lurking beyond, a terror that is not evil, but violent in its magnificience. It contains wonders unfathomable by man and not made for man to hold. Like the fairy gold or the elf - shit at the end of the rainbow ;-) as a positive connotation, there are monsters hiding in the darkness, spirits like the wood - devil. They belong to the dark side of the year, into winter and autumn. They are dangerous to even look at, but come with a message.

 In our world, however,we have lost this balance. We have banished the dark forces of nature from everything and thusly also robbed the force of light of its power. We know not how it is to huddle besides a fire while outside the wolves and winds howl through the chimney. We like to have a hot drink in winter-on the couch, while watching TV. But we do not know anymore how it feels to have a fire going in a cold winter storm and getting warm and closing one´s fingers around a steaming hot mug of cocoa while around one the storm is driving snow against one´s lean-to. We do not know anymore how it is to walk through a dark forest, when your imagination and your mind lead you on a different path.

To me, Chrismas season, or Yule tide, if you so will, always was a war between the dark and the light forces. The message of the winter solstice is simple: Do not despair-after the darkest night the light will return again, and a different year is born anew.

Now our society puts a lot of emphasis on stating that we are the good ones. We are praying to the forces of light, we bring other cultures the "light of civilization", the enlightenment movement has convinced us finally that there are no gods and no god at all.

Let me put it this way: St. Nicholas and Krampus do not agree at all. ;-) What we have done to nature and our fellow human beings, and what we are doing even now as I write, is worthy of the worst of the bad guys. We do not need to fear any devil anymore; we were better to fear ourselves.

 But there are good news-or bad, that depends on your perspective. The old myths currently somehow rewrite themselves. Somehow old Krampus jumped out of the box this year, being all the rage (pun intended). If you listen, he might have a message for you.

I personally feel that Krampus has a lot to do with Skóggángr. Having had a hearty fill of mankind just recently, with all the frustration and shitstorming going on as usual, I was feeling disgusted and again I thought the fault was that of the others. My shitty job, my shitty employer, my so-called friends that turned out to be absolute morons again, all their fault, isn´t it? But it´s not. It´s all mine. I thought I was a social guy and did a lot for others and forgot myself as usual and still got mobbed. Now I get mobbed since I went to a Kindergarten, and ever since, with no exception whatsoever. All by perfectly normal guys, and it does not help me any that I always was right in the end. The truth is, I do not belong into the enclaves of mankind. I grew up in a forest. The terrors of the wildwood are soothing for me. I talk to spirits and dance under the moon. I am wild, and I always was. I walk paths in moonlight that others would not dare even considering in broad daylight.

No, this is not braggery, but merely a fact, and a fact I could live without or maybe not. In fact, I cannot be anyone else than I am, with the exception of the many things I have to work on and work on.

 This is my world, the world of twilight. I do fairly well in the world of daylight, but this is where I belong.

 I walk out of their world deliberately, and I return to tell the tales, as I do with this post.

 That Mongolian guy laughed hard when I asked him to tell me what I was, what he saw in me, and he just said that I would see in time.

"Sympathy with the Devil", if you so will, but is it? I daresay Krampus can take you for a wild ride. He will die, and his death is right and righteous and necessary for the birth of light, but he is the psychopomp that can lead modern man into the woods still, into the actual woods as well as into those of your mind, where fairy tales are born. Oh yes, some get lost in the process and chucked to hell... but even hell is a far more agreeable destination than the world we are about to create. And the hell of legend always is a purgatory, a place of initiation. Skóggángr is something that somehow occured to me. The term just fascinated me, and I daresay there is a lot more to it to be discovered.

Become a creature of the wildwood. And walk the world of man to remind them that you´re dangerous, not because you mean harm to anyone, but because it is your very personality and character. Become dangerous not like a mass - murderer or lunatic is. But because you are one with a wolf, an owl, or winter. Be Yule, and Yule will reward you with the gift of light in the darkest hour.

And remember to fill your boots with leftovers from the feast for Krampus and put them outside! You never know... ;-)

Frost and freedom

 Again I felt this urge again. I had to get out, out into a world where things are just what they are. Where a fact is a fact and Amsterdam is not the capital of Berlin. Where there is no peace, sure, but certainly no war, and lunacy dies a sorry death. For a rabid fox or racoon will die, ultimately.

There is frost, and the trees are still and breathe but slowly. It is a hard time for birds and deer and fox and hare, for racoon and rabbit. Frost rides heavily and reigns like death. And yet, its crystals reflect the light, ever so fragile, and the darkest night has just passed, and the days get longer.

At the trailhead I met a deer. It just passed by ever so slowly. Another, passing from the dale, shied and sprinted away, clouds of snow trailing up from its flight. There was a simple beauty to both behaviours, a power in the stride and the flight of both of them, and it conveyed a deep meaning to me-but it would be futile to try to describe it.

The forest lay dark and still and adorned with the jewellish twinkle of crystal beauty. The wind bit hard down on my face, and still I coveted its touch.

 Words get frozen in a poet´s mouth. Words become crystals that fall and shatter with a sound, twinkling ever so faintly, and yet ringing like a roar in my weary mind.

 ...

 On I walked, to the top of a hill, entwined in a crystal cobweb´s dream... a song in my heart, faint yet strong.

 There are no answers given in the twilight, and no respite from the lunacy and rabies that has befallen man. But frost has come and frost will go.

 And tracks afield run from thicket to thicket and tell me the runes of the forest.

 To the hilltop. To a hawthorn in ornate needles and thorns of winter. Do not sleep under the hawthorne tree, they say, or you will never be the same again. And I laugh. I laugh at their fears and their want. For I DID sleep under the hawthorn tree, under a new moon, a sickle of silver.

 I laugh at their plight and their wars. My heart is armed with thorns and swords of frost and tongues of fire. I unbecame human long time ago.

 Welcome to the realm of frost and twilight. Welcome, ye wicked, to the treacherous trails of winter...

Where your worst nightmares dwell.

Dirt and steel, a cold butt and a cuppa tea;-)

Okay. I looked outside. The sun was shining. On the lane that passes beneath my window road riders and mountainbikers passed with minimum attire. Then I looked at my  belly and my hips. And felt for my legs. It was then I came to a conclusion.

 I discussed the pros and cons and what ifs thoroughly, and finally gave my sluggishness a thorough kicking up the spine. And saddled my bike. And made for the woods.

We will learn that my decision had some consequences. But I am not talking about that yet.

So, off with me, and I was right glad to be outside, the sun was warming me and all was grand in wonderland. I took the long way along the lane to get in the miles and do some basic endurance training. I recently had some problems with my heart and lungs, but only until I took up riding again, and even my thrombophilic legs did what they were supposed to do... it felt good to spin the cranks and casually rolling alongside the lake. Careful not to pass the anaerobic threshold, I took the turn into the woods, and all was silent. I was wondering because there were no one else in the woods that day. By that time the sun was not shining so much any more, but I thought "hey, it´s still good and warm, weather´s not going to be that bad" and went on my merry way.

Near the top of the hill I passed by the ruin of this ancient mill, and there I paused to smell the roses...

 ...or shall I say the steel???! Blimey, where´s my hacksaw when I need it? Beside the ruin there lay the remnants of an ancient carriage or sled. Nearly still in working order...;-)

 More spring steel in spring... this is a treasure trove that certainly will see me again!

 All was still above the crumbling walls. Inside the walls there was an old oven and a hearth and the remnants of a bed all strewn about the place. It was a weird sight to behold the passing of that place, all taken back by the forest´s ancient might.

 I was somewhat torn apart between the joy of finding those resources and the melancholy of the crumbling place.

 ....

 The trees around the place looked crooked and torn, but the atmosphere was still light and warm.

 Looking around, I saw a herd of roe deer in the far distance, but, as usual, I fumbled my camera and thusly, no pics of roe deer but an empty forest: Just buy yourself a roe-deer play figure and move it across the screen to get the full picture...;D.

 Then I was back on my bike, and took the singletrail to the hilltop. And while I did that, clouds gathered. And more of them. And yet more of them. And they turned pitch black in colour. And it started to rain. Then to drizzle. While I put on my rain jacket, I met a horseback rider, and after some polite greetings she uttered "shitty weather, ain´t it?", and I replied somewhat naively "that´s okay, it´s still winter after all". If only I had had a clue then.

 Then it started to hail. And to snow. Actually, I was glad that the hail was turning to snow, because those acorn sized pellets of ice actually DID hurt, even if you´ve got a helmet on.;-)

 Towards the hilltop I rode, catching snowflakes with my mouth and singing the marching song of Fiach MacHugh. Fortunately no one was there to be insulted;-D. It´s funny, when conditions get that foul, I always have to laugh. I felt alive then, and pensive at the same moment. How come we feel most alive when the going gets that rough?

 On the hilltop, beside the fire road, I sat down on a stump and watched the driving snow.

And had a sip of tea. It is funny, how the taste of tea in the cold weather and the woods gives you the feel of coziness even in a snowstorm. I cuddled into my plain windbreaker (not much to cuddle in, I admit), and let my thoughts wander with the driving storm.

But, being aware that the conditions were actually going worse and I had no spare clothes with me (yap, it happens to all of us from time to time, and I am not proud of it). I rode on to the city of Hohenlimburg to shortcut the ride and all the while revelled in my toughness and badassedness...

...but only until I hit the road where the icy storm hit me with all its might, and in combination with the oft-quoted ice water down the butt it made me want to cry and grunt with hypothermia. For once there was no overcoming it. My hands were freezing until I felt them no more, and I stopped frequently to avoid frostbite while putting them under my armpits to warm up. I certainly looked an outright fool, but I like to keep my hands as they are.

It was a shivering and a freezing frenzy getting along the lane,  frequently stopping and drinking the hot tea that was left in tiny pinchs to aid keeping warm.

But suddenly I was home, in my warm attic-turned-home, with a warm full bath and hot cocoa and tea and a load of spiced pasta, and all was well again. Okay, my hand joints do ache a bit still, but that will fade eventually.

Blimey, I look forward to summer.;-)

My history of knifemaking-found some old steel

Rummaging through my attic-turned -home, I came across these three old knives. I made them way back, when I still lived in the forest, and they all have a story to tell. The first one on top was made when I still had no forge whatsoever. On the topmost meadow above our garden, at the edge of the dense woods, I loved to sit beneath a rowan tree, and beneath its roots I had found an old billhook knife. The handle was rotten away, and it was rust-eaten almost beyond recognition, but, the blade being very thick in the spine, still offered plenty of material to make a Bowie knife from.I took a hacksaw with a tile-cutting wire to it, and then the rest was done with a water - cooled roto - grinder and grit paper. I then fitted a piece of copper as a guard, and a handle out of yew and stag antler, which an acquaintance of ours gave to me. The tang is glued in and peened over an inlaid brass plate. The knife has so far seen some 15 years of hard use and is still in good condition. It measures in at some 16cm, the spine is 4mm thick.

The next one I made in the scagel style. I am still quite fond of those Scagel knives, even if I am somewhat less of the opinion that he invented "custom knives", for this was done all over the world in village smithys and frontier smithys alike. The blade is made (forged) from an old car bolt wrench, quite thin at 2,5 mm, and tempered in an urine concoction after the "Curicus and offenhertzig wein artzt" (1782), resulting in a bainite temper. It is very flexible, yet holds an edge extremely well. After 12 years of hard use I only but recently redid the grind, but only to change the edge geometry. The handle is made from stag antler, mountain pinion and leather washers. the mountain pinion is a piece of root that had been washed up a torrent in a mountain creek near "my home away from home", the place where I used to stay each year-a cabin high up in the Styrian mountains, the Ursprungalm. I brought it home as a souvenir, and then decided to put a bit of a sentiment into this knife.

Still below is the youngest of the trio, some 9 years old. It is made from an old wall anchor I found in the ruin of an ancient manor high above the Volme valley. It was winter then, and a snowstorm was blowing hard. Seeking shelter, I went into the ruin, and there it was, rusted deep. It shows no strucure, but the carbon content is high enough to make for a blade, that, tempered in the aforementioned urine concoction, cuts iron bolts. Some years ago, I removed the original scales, which were ebony, but so lousily fitted they cracked, and filed the tang and drilled it to accomodate a lanyard hole. Then I put some oak scales on from the last blank my father prepared before he became too sick to do any woodworking at all. Also a bit of a sentiment, if you so will. This is one of the blades I forged in winter, under a starlit sky, with the cat owls hooting and the ice howling on the lake. I treasure the memory even more than the knife itself, but more so since this time will never come back. It measures in at some 95 mm with a very sturdy spine, some 7 mm thick. I put a hollow grind on it, so that it cuts well enough, though it is a bit overbuilt. Never really sharpened it the whole time through, just some stropping is all.

Apart from the feeling that I must have done something right with the making of these knives, they make me wonder, and I ask myself: Do I have put those years and the armour the sentiment in these artifacts gave me for my heart put to good use? Sometimes it feels I wasted my time stargazing and dreaming. This is when I have to work at the office or have to make do with what´s left in my cupboard for food at the end of the month. But in general, I´d rather do it the same way again, and do not have real regrets. Yes, I can see more in a tree, or a squirrell, or  a bird, or a rock, than some Monsanto employee might. Bu they´re the ones f***** up the planet in a big style. Would not say that I don´t, but I guess my footprint´s a bit smaller on this earth. No, I do not regret, and even if it sometimes feels I can go not one step further, I take out those things I made long ago. And I play them in my hands, and remember the stars, and the winterwind, and the hunting owls. And even if it is a grim smile that is on my lips then, a smile it is. For even if those knives would not last, or be taken from me, noone will ever take the dream from me.

The raven´s day...

 Yesterday I simply wanted to get out of the city, and thus I took the bus to the hills. When I was just seated, someone called my name, and who stood there? Harald, the guy who taught me the very beginnings of the real side of the craft. He corrected my scrollwork, showed me many projects, and last but not least showed me how to forge-weld the steel. Once we worked together in a museum, where we both fared not too well. I was mobbed out, and he was kept low. An accomplished craftsman, all he was told to do was ridiculous work. If he did a good job, he was yelled at. It´s not my opinion alone, it was also stated in an article in the Hephaistos, a blacksmith´s magazine where the museum was called the "Phantasialand der geknechteten Handwerker" (event park of enslaved craftsmen). Anyway, Harald had a hard time, and was sick for a long time, and I put a lot of energy into him which ultimately lead to a break in our relationship, for I could not help him in any other way. I respect him, for he managed to get a hold on his problems. We had a chat of old times together and a cuppa coffee, and he showed me a striker knife he made from chainsaw chain damascus after a drawing I made long ago. By the way, the writing are hieratic runes I developed long ago... as a writing version of the carved Futhark rune forms. The knife he made is not exactly the one on the sketch, but I like it nonetheless. have to do it myself soemtime soon! We talked a bit longer about this and that, about dreams and pains and plans on life, and then I went on my merry way. I hope Harald will continue on the great path he is on, and I hope we can do this again sometime. Maybe we will meet in the smithy, where this guy simply belongs, and it´s my turn now to give something back.

 The hills called loudly. Winter is still restinging heavily upon the snow-ravaged-land, but spring is already on the way. The sun shone, not warm yet, but sun it was.

 Into those snowy woods I went, still in winterly, deadly silence... but this silence was broken by the tweeting of some birds already fluttering around and calling to the sky for spring to come.

 Dark it rests still, the cloak of the ancient, ice-cold lord, but the golden bough is sprouting already. Everywhere plant´s hips were sprouting, and there was an atmosphere of a violent breakthrough in spite of all the ice.

 The creek was singing aloud under the veil of ice that still covers its waters.

 Towards the lake I came, that lake I passed along so many times, where I passed my childhood and the days of my youth, and as often as I have seen it, so many faces did it bear. Never did it look the same, and the older I get, the more I see it with a sense of awe. I have never travelled far, have not seen many countries, but I have seen the worlds within the world, the multiplying faces of nature that never get to any end, that spring forth with violent vigour...;-)(alliteration is fun).

 ...
And as I walked on, the trail besides the lake, I came to the hillside of the birch grove I like so much, deep in thought and in a sense of wonder, and I bowed towards the four places of the wind and the law of the universe, and to the spirits, and the forces of the land, when in the distance I heard two raven croak, and it was a hair-rousing experience, in a good sense of the word. Oh, I remember, and I think, and thus Huginn and Muninn might fly within my soul...

 I sat there, on top of the hill, and time passed, or not, and I meditated on past and the flow of time, on the burden of the years and the dance of youth within my step that´s springy still, but nearing old age with every stride.

 I drank a cuppa tea, and let the sun sink, sink lower still...

And through the twilit woods I made my way home.