The legend of the dwarves of Finking

Besides the grey and steady waves of the Volme river, in the vicinity of the village of Dahl, there rise the crags of Finking, the Finkinger Lei.

Legend has it that once upon a time there was a shepherd, young in years, herding his sheep on a meadow above the crags, when he all of a sudden saw a dwarven child playing with a crown adorned with gold and set with gems, and sparkling in a sudden twilight, for mist arose. When the dwarven child in its robes of exquisite fabric, hemmed with silver and stitched with gold, caught sight of him, it shied in terror and fled, and left the crown tumbling to the floor.

Now always the wise were set sparsely amongst the human race, and thusly the shepherd took the crown and rejoiced in its value of gold and silver and sparkling jewels and all the things he could buy from all the money he could make with it, and he stood there in amazement, his herd and duty  forgotten in the rising mist.

And higher rose the mist... and thicker grew the clouds, and like a breath of stone and dewy twilight it rose, rose like a being from the crags of Finking. Rose up, obscuring the rocks and the meadow. ever thicker the mist became, his tendrils rising like feelers, like fingers creeping, seeking for a soul.

And amidst the mists he suddenly saw a rising aureole of light, dimly lit at first, but it was as if a gate had opened in the ever-thickening mist, and on a trail of twilight there strode an astounding figure. A dwarf he was, but warlike; upon his brow there rested a helm of wrought steel and artful gems, of knotworked silver and a filigree of gold. Thick his beard fell down upon his gleaming breastplate, braided and well-groomed... his chainmail was a flicker and tinkle of silvery stars, and he was armed with sword and axe, with seax and dagger of exquisite manner, but strange to look at with the eyes of humans.

And nearer he strode from amidst the mist, on a path of twilight, and terror filled the shepherd´s heart, as the kinglike dwarf said with a booming growl:

"Give back what you found or death will be upon you!"

In terror, the shepherd handed over the crown, and the dwarf took it and vanished as if into thin air.

And as all of a sudden the mists cleared, the shepherd realized that he stood at the edge of the crags and had been walking as if in a dream when the dwarf addressed him and that the dwarf´s voice had saved him from a long and shattering fall down the crags.

This was one of the few times the dwarves interfered with humans. But there is another legend, told in hushed voices amongst the elders of Dahl, and it is as if they were afraid of something or someone, and they do not like to talk about it openly, and this is the legend of the Blacksmith of The Lei.

For it was long, long time ago, in the earliest of the days of man´s memories, when there was a blacksmith working in the village of Dahl. He was a blacksmith as blacksmiths generally are, not a good man and none too bad, either. He went about his work, and was no excellent master, but not too bad, either.

This master had an apprentice, and this apprentice was something special. He always stocked up the charcoal before his master could even tell him to do so, minced to exactly the same grain. He also fetched the water without the need to tell him. As a boy, he was the best helper with the bellows, and when he first was allowed to use the sledge, he also excelled at that. His master never needed to tell him twice, and often he even bested his master, so it was him who was doing most of the work soon, and better than his master could even dream of. But his master was content to receive his apprentice money and hesitated to pronounce him journeyman. But alas, the parents of this apprentice were very poor and often went hungry to pay for his apprenticeship, and there came a day when the young smith talked to his master and begged him to pronounce him free so he could make a living from his work.

But the master, thinking of all the money he had earned from this apprentice, still did not pronounce him free. The apprentice begged, he pleaded, and after he had had no success he demanded to be pronounced journeyman, and their voices grew loud, and the knuckles were white on their fists, and they yelled at each other, and the master threw his apprentice out of the smithy in shame.

And he went to the Hogreve, the head of citizens, to achieve a pronounciation as journeyman smith as to earn money for his starving parents, with no effect. Thus his mother died from hunger, and his father was taken by the plague, and the poor and tiny house the family had inhabited was given to others.

And it was when his little property was all taken away, and he just had one copper coin, one iron and one silver coin left, barely enough for a sip of wine and a piece of bread, when he stepped out on the loamy street, that a very strange figure stepped towards him from the shadows of the dusk; a woman she was of strange countenance and unusual bearing, leaning on a knotted staff, and she was carrying a basket. Upon brushing him with the hem of her shoulder scarf, she murmured as if to herself:

"When thou hast but a sip of wine and one comb of honey, go to the crags in the darkest of nights, and the crags shall open for thee upon the words that are written on the river´s waves".

Of course, he did not heed these words much attention. Like all the other villagers, he had heard the legends of the dwarven kingdom, but like all the other villagers he thought it best to be inside come dusk. He had heard the tales of blacksmiths along the river talking in hushed voices of the mannekens grísebaorts coming in the darkness of the night, when the sickle moon was shining, to grind and hone the scythes and knives and the swords and daggers for the few noblemen and rich merchants, and doing a work far excelling the capabilities of mortal smiths, but never paid those tales much attention. For to his master´s place they had never come. Those stories were good to hear in the inn, with a mug of beer and the hearth fire blazing, while the autumn wind shook at the shutters, but there was work to be done and sorrows to be had.

But the warm room of the tiny house was gone, and a violent snow had fallen, and the longest night came with bitter frost. And thus he stood near the river´s waves, with a small sickle of the moon shining above and mist was rising from the meadows, and the stars were sparklingly, piercingly bright in the dark and frostbitten sky. He thought of Chrismas, and that it would be his last, and that he was faced with certain death, when he looked at the trail that the moon´s light had laid upon the river´s waves. And there he saw what he thought to be a strange scripture written on the waves´flow, ever changing, ever dancing.

Now he was not adept at reading, but he was quick of mind, and he had copied many sketches from the merchant´s sketchbook that he kept with him to show how things had to be made, and so he copied the writings as fast as he could with his pen knife into his hand. Still it was not fast enough to behold the changing scroll of water, but he had a feeling that he was right, and this feeling was strong enough.

And, concealing the blood on his hand, from the nearby inn with his last copper, iron and silver coin he bought a small flask of wine and one honeycomb and a piece of stale bread. The bread he ate, for he was starving. And wine and honey he took with him, and planned to celebrate his last Chrismas night before the crags of Finking.  And to the foot of the crags he came, and up he climbed, for all of a sudden he felt a great urge to climb, as if a voice was calling him, boomingly and growlingly deep, as if the rock itself had found a voice.

And there, he opened the flask of wine and put the honeycomb on a shale of rock, and, following the sudden need, he pressed his bleeding hand with the runes of the flowing water carved into it, against the blood-red face of the rock.

Ever deeper the mists rose from the meadows, from the face of rock, creeping from the crevices, covering the ivy-clad walls. Ever deeper the silence grew, and it was the silence of a darkness beneath the mountainside. It spilled from the foot of the towering crags, spilled into his bones and being, into his heart and soul. How long he rested with his hand pressed against the face of rock, he could not tell me afterwards, and he had the impression that he was there, crouching before the crags, in a void of space and time, waiting, waiting, waiting-for what?

And was it a second, or an hour, a century, or an aeon?

There, on the side of the crags of Finking, the smith´s apprentice crouched, and it seemed to him that season after season was just a short breath under the stars.

Then there was a screeching voice and a sharp crack and a sound as if a key was turned in a lock, an iron key in a copper lock, a copper key in a silver lock, a silver key in a golden lock, a lock of rock unfastened, and deeper the mists became.

And the light shone bright like the light at the root of the mountain.

Thus cracked open the gates of Finking, and the crags opened wide to perceive him in.

Little is known about what he saw and felt and learned, and thirteen moons danced a circle ere he returned. He told me of his adventures, but he let me swear secrecy upon the exact things he learned, and not permitted am I to tell you; but there came a day when the sickle moon was high upon the crags of Finking, when he returned all of a sudden, taller than he was, and with a mighty beard and clad in black clothes of stern fabric. He carried a knife of strange manufacture that glistened like steel does not. Straight to the smithy he strode, and to the Hogreven he went. And from him he bought the smithy, and paid in specie all of the costs. The master of old had run down the workshop and had been driven from the property, but with the work of his own hands he made the smithy prosper again. And there was a time of good look and fortune, when the farmers and peasants, the merchants and noblemen bought his tools, for his scythes and knives cut steel like straw.

But greed prospers well amongst humans, and there often was a woman of strange and unwomanly bearing coming to visit, and people saw them  sitting alongside on the bench come dusk and holding their strange council, and this woman was said to be a witch.

Came the time when the old dean retired after a long period of care for his fold, and a new dean was proclaimed and invested. And he ruled with terror where the old dean had ruled by kindness and mercy and a gentle hand. So he sent out his servants to pursue witches, and women were burned and buried alive, and men burned and broken on wheels of iron for being werewolves... and they also set out to capture that strange woman, but to no effect, for no one seemed to know where she was living nor when she would be there. Midwife had she been for a lot of children, but she came and went as like to a mist.

It was about that time when the new dean ordered a knife from the blacksmith, and he made it well and after a strange pattern, and he made it from a steel no one had ever seen made in Dahl. And it had a sleek and slender blade that was glistening in a dull grey. So sharp was it, that it could split a woman´s hair, and yet so hard that one could cleave iron with it; and yet it would not break, how much one would abuse it. And the dean was amazed but did not want to pay the prize, but made a ridiculous offer. And the smith demanded the dean to give the knife back to him.

But the dean ordered his servants to bind him, and arrested him for witchcraft, stating that no natural means could make a knife like this, and he was to be broken on a wheel of iron and thrown into the dungeon.

Thus came the evening of his emprisonment, and a small and piercingly bright sickle moon was shining... and through the grates he could see a faint glimmer of silver and hear a faint song like silver and a growling groan from the bosom of the bare earth he was lying on.

Come the morn. Opened the door.

And empty lay the dungeon, with not a trace left of the blacksmith of the Lei.

But sometimes, if you read carefully the scripture written upon the moon´s trail on the water, you might be able to see them dancing. Are they the dwarves of the Kingdom? And can you see the witch and the smith amongst them?

So many tales, tales in tales spiralling to a weave, a fabric of spirals, tales to be heard and tales to be told in the golden halls...

...beneath the Finking´s root. 

And I fear this is the reason the people of Dahl do not like to tell.

(to be continued)

A hike with CUTIE;-)

 When I was in Marburg, the magic troll and I set out to do some hike to our favourite place... it has become sort of a tradition to have a look if things are all in place... and those Marburgian hills are simply beautiful.

 In case you wondered how she gets all her gear around, the 4 - people tent is in her bag as well as a car, a railway station, a chainsaw, an entire goldsmithy, a carpenter´s shop, and some other things to be treated discreetly, including a worm hole and another universe. She told me the secret, but I have sworn to keep silent. That much I can say that she once had a friend called Aoífe...

She loves chicken...*ggg*

 The light was radiant and warming our hearts... we do not want any gems of treelight...

 ...for it´s there all the time.

 This is the view towards the Marburgian castle. It is nice to dream that artists and writers like Clemens Brentano, the REAL Grimm brothers, Goethe, Schiller, Hermann Hesse and many more went for a stroll into the same hills. I find Marburg breathes this atmosphere still. The fairy tales are alive and well there.

Take for instance this horse head. Okay, so you all know it from other posts, but I am just fascinated by the idea that someone just gets out into the woods with his chainsaw and does some fun carving and then leaves it there. In my hometown few even consider doing this (most are not even capable of spelling their own name correctly, let alone doing something with their hands not ordered by the long-time-unemployed-integration program), and most certainly would not do it for free. If they would, the authorities would hunt them down as easy prey, for they are just artists without being licensed and could be jailed much easier than the professional criminals (bankers, head citizens, pimps, drug dealers).

Over here, someone just gets out and does it, and does it lovingly. Of course there was a tiny badge advertising you could buy stuff like this, but hey, that´s a small price to pay for a bit of enchantment in the woods near the city. And everywhere around people keep telling tales and legends, doing it naturally and consciously, telling and listening. Talk about culture and cultural diversity without sacrificing the soul to Mammon. paying tribute, maybe, but doing no shortcuts. This is beautiful.

 As is this;-).

 We took to the deeper woods, and who might be living here?

 Found some spruce sprouts for syrup and tea.

 Hello, ancient, how do?

 There was a birdhouse in the stem of that old tree and a stand for watching and servicing it.

 Beside the trail a spring waited with blossoms of Iris...

 Over hill and yonder dale we went....

 It is traditional to ahve a cuppa tea, and here´s one of those shots...

And beside the trail I found some Jasper for applications in knife handles or summat...

 And home again we went, through those green, green meadows....

A beautiful stroll. Thanks, my wonderful magic troll, for those wonderful outings...

News from the shop and the deep, deep woods...

 Long time, no post, and a load of things that have happened. Suffice to say, life´s not getting easier, but I refuse to give up;-). Something very great first, however: It was not a week after Willy and the magic troll learned my camera had gone the way of all earthly things that they both respectively gave me a camera they had to spare. No high-end pictures, but pictures you´ll get, first from projects going on. Topmost is the new Nessmuk I started some time ago, fitted with ramshorn scales. Spring steel, selective temper and scales I am a bit disappointed of, for they are looking a bit crappy still. Then a knife I am very fond of, a danascus from ancient file and crucible steel. Brass, reindeer antler, yew from the old garden of my old home, and a copper buttcap. You can see the quench line very distictively and the blade, even with a rather thick convex bevel, is hair-poppingly sharp.

 Then a fully integral compact bush knife proto with a tempered buttcap that can be used to hammer nails home (which I tested;-)) and a thick tang that even without scales can be used with no harm to your hands. The blade supports my weight;-). It´s made from spring steel with a selective temper. The tang is drilled out to achieve a better balance. Guess it will get some stag scales or something like that...

Next in line is an integral Kopis/En-Nep out of crucible steel I found in the woods. Not tempered yet, I am still about on the finish. By the way, I have, except for drilling, used no power tools.

 "Found in Myrk´s wood";-), another integral loosely modeled after a German hunting knife. I am really fond of it, crucible steel from the woods again, 90x4mm, burned stag antler, riveted against a brass buttcap. The handle will see a carving, maybe of an eagle owl, which is of some spiritual significance to me.

 Then I made a lanyard mojo for rún iarann, an EDC utility knife out of Zwissler damascus, tank cannon and tank bearing steel, and bog oak with a burgundy colour. Silver, agate, brass, and a merlin´s tail feather.

Talking of "Myrk´s wood", you asked for it, and here it comes: Another unlikely Fimbulmyrk tale:

Last week I was completely burned out from work, work and more hard work, deaths in my family, a distance relationship, no resources at all, and having no actual perspective in the so- called "real world", you know, the one that destroys nature for money, toodles and plays around with genetics, bionics and warfare and generally knows no god but the ego... coming to think of it, it in itself has no perspective, but you know what I mean.

So, what to do?

Off with me into the deepest woods I could find. Searching for counsil and comfort by the trees and the spirits. It wasn´t long into the hike that I realized buzzards were circling ahead, some five or so, crying madly as I have never heard before. Following them I ventuered ever deeper into the woods. There it was I found a buzzard´s skull, and paying my respect, I took it with me.

Now I am currently researching the local legends about the elven or dwarven king Goldemar / Volmar, the mythical builder of Volmarstein castle and counsellor of Neveling of Hardenberg, lord of Hardenstein castle, a trickster and a mythical figure presumeably dating back to an older local deity. At one point I had a strong vision, when I encountered a herd of roe deer, a HUGE one, in fact, with some twenty roe deer all in all, heading into my direction. I then imagined rather savagely looking dwarves with features more "trollish" than anything, led by one dwarf with an antlered crown of brambles, blackthorn, and ivy riding on their backs. Vivid imagination can do that to you, yap*ggg*, and it is a rather adventurous way to become a part of the myth yourself. Of course, it is difficult to keep your feet on the ground afterwards, but, to be honest, what would I win if I did so? Wading in the muck? So, I have decided long ago, I´d rather have an interesting and somewhat psychologically dangerous life than none at all wading through the swamp that others created for me to live in. When out now in the woods, where he might as well have been sighted, too, as a local legend of the "Hünenpforte" might hint to, I was in a pensive mood about all those stories and tales of old, and I thought about the wanderer, coming from Schwelm and meeting a dwarf (king?) there, providing him with a fox as a guide through the underground to the giant´s passageway in Hohenlimburg. This is another story which I have told here.But as I wandered in a mood of contemplation and fancy, there it lay, half submerged in the rotten leaves of an autumn gone by, autumn itself in its waning paleness: The skull of a fox. It was a shock, for the outside and the inside world melted into each other, and, I cannot tell it any other way, the otherworld opened for me. I therefore do not exactly know;-) if this was a vision, but the next shock was about to come: A giant boar, with bristles as hard and strong that "an apple might stay stuck upon them" passed along a ridge of the terrain, as real as it can be, but with something more about it. If I have to explain this, I will never succeed, if you understand this, I don´t have to explain anything. Okay, I said, laughing at myself, while I was staying where I was (you do not want to cross a boar in autumn, do you? Not with an at least adequate weapon at hand...;-)), and payed him my respect mentally. All the while the buzzards were still crying madly above. When Mr. boar had gone on his merry way, I went on mine, following the cries above. Even deeper in the woods I found another treasure; as I rounded a callused spruce tree and climbed over a fallen beech that had sprouted new trunks from the fallen stem, I came to a very peaceful place. There a spring rose from a meadow, and above there stood an ancient hazel tree. Into the trickling creek it threw its fruits, green and nourishing. And the water flowed on endlessly, for joy of being and for the fruits of the hazel of fine mast falling into it. It was a place of great peace and comfort. It felt like home, I cannot tell it any other way, and there I rested in meditation, and the hours just flowed, but I did not notice. I realized that I had somehow fallen out of time there, when I learned it was becoming quite late already. But I simply walked on afterwards, following the trail of deer and the trail of my myth within... the story that dwells and thrives in all of us, the dragon that we all could ride - if we dared. This dragon is wild and savage, too, it´s not all light, but sometimes very dark. It can bite our head off in a flash, but we are able still to make our peace with it. We the can thrive as a dragon, and the fire in our spines will carry us over the storm-ridden skies into a golden dawn, where we can find words to create ourselves, to invent our life. Thus was the path into the green, into the twilight wood, the realm, where the one with the antlered crown walks, hunter and prey at the same time, the goddess´ strong-horned consort... thinking this, I was actually not surprised to find a piece of a roe - deer´s skull with a piece of antler on it.

Oh yes, I returned to civilization. I took the bus, and bought a beer, and some junk food. But my imagination has run wild, and I´m aware and proud of it. It is hard to regain your composure afterwards. It is always an act of balance, and chance is, you can get mad by being as I am. Maybe I am mad, but I have not done harm to anyone, and won´t, if I do not have to at all.

But it´s better to be mad than a moron.;-)