Progress on Maandevos-Maandevos wiärd báren!

In the thicket, under the crescent moon... the fox is hiding on its prowl.

In the dark soil, rich and of musky scent, a bar of steel did hide for decades...

Steel it is of skillful provenience, ardent and valiant, and yet pitted deeply by the ravaging rust; once it was smelted to achieve true temper... and the smiths laboured with all their might to produce a bar from the ingot, a chisel from the bar of steel. It was used to near extinction, beaten and battered and ground anew until little did remain of it... decades of hard use and pounding it saw... and then it hid in the tracks of deer and the wild boar. The owl flew above the soil where it was hidden, and the fox trod over it on its hunt.

And the crescent moon shone.

And in the tracks of fox and boar, of deer and hare I saw it, submerged in the musky earth, where death and life reign supreme. The forge was lit with roaring fire, and again a smith did labour long and carefully to pound the metal and forge into it the fangs of the fox, the light of the crescent moon, the graceful and lithe roebuck and the furious boar.

As of yet, it has seen no temper and no quench - but soon the time will come when it will be lying in the roaring embers to incorporate the mighty fire, too.

Thus it will sing.

Thus it will bite.

Skóggángr

Maybe you know this feeling: The woods call you, call you out into their solemn embrace. They call you in your everyday business, in work and leisure, and some of you listen. But the call grows more intense. You adapt to the woods, that is what you do and have to do, if you want to move swiftly and silently in their realm, and the trees grow into your heart and soul. You watch the animals and listen to the murmur of the creeks, and they tell you tales alien to mankind´s endeavours so far removed from the actual world. The wind in the treetops cradles you in its eternal lullaby, and something happens to you.

In ancient times in the North, people found guilty of severe crimes were banned from the community of man. In times when life was at bay at a blink of an eye, this was absolutely necessary to ensure a working community. They were deemed inhumane, called "vargr" (a grim connotation of "ulv", meaning wolf) or skóggángr (woodsroamer). Science is still going on about the term skóggángr, but it seems to be referring to someone deliberately leaving the community of men.

In our times something has happened. The tides have turned. While in former times survival meant to fight nature for survival, now we are faced with an altogether different matter. We as human beings have deprived the world of all magic, have exploited nature to an extent that the desolation threatens our own life. The seas are littered with toxic and nuclear waste, and it might be argued that the recent shift of the poles has something to do with the erection (pun intended) of super-high skyscrapers on critical balance points. No wolves roam the woods, and if a bear chances to come by, it is called a psychotic problem-bear and shot to mincemeat. We even try to kill nature in ourselves by domesticating and stupefying humans to an extent that many youth are not even capable of survival in a civilized surrounding.

But it is YOU who is called by the woods. They might be subject to forestry commission and business. They might be domesticated and seem to be tame, but believe me, they are not. Their call is violent, and tragedy and triumph happen every year, month, week, day, second ticking away not with the pulse of a clock, but the pulse of the almighty mother, earth. Spring and winter, summer and autumn are but a breathing in and out there. Your individuality does not tip the scales even a tiny bit, but your soul weighs heavy there. It coincides with the pulse and breathing of the dark, rich soil. It blossoms with the flowers and withers with the winter.

And you get a notion that this might be the real life after all.

Then you return to your everyday endeavours, a changed human being, and you notice the everyday wrongness of life. All too soon you notice all your energy you won in the woods is spent, and when you feel exhausted, you hear the call again. And you return, and the roots of ancient trees yet unborn grow deep into your heart. Alien you become to the ways of those cyborgs and zombies that call themselves human and that delight in preying on their fellow beings while preaching denaturation and trying to establish a peace that is no peace, but numbness, ignorance, and indifference. By stealing away all dream they try to become immortal in indifference.

But there is no immortality of the body, and dynamics and change is the immortality of the soul. Metamorphosis is the law of nature, never ceasing to grow and blossom. Violent is the creativity of that dream, unfathomable by the ways of the Grey God they pray to. And thus they make this world.

You try to fight them. But you cannot fight with their weapons.

And so again you run into the woods. Is this escapism?

I do not think so. In fact, I think that it is in the woods that we find the weapons to fight with. Roaming the woods, being banned from a society of zombies and cyborgs is no longer a sentence, but a privilege.

Into the woods we walk. Into a dream we walk.

But under the treetops, near the stream, the clover sprouts, and under the pillars of the tree´s stems, the dream prospers.

Pathways we walk, ostracized by mankind, to become something old and something new, over old hills and farther away than just the distance.

And this is what skóggángr means to me now. It is a mere word, but it is taking roots, slowly, but securely, in the dream of the forest in my heart.

The buzzard flies above this forest, scanning the ground for its prey. Wolves return from the exile. Oh, yes, they are dangerous. Yes, they might threaten the life of wildstock and tame animals and humans alike. Yes, I would not want to get on the wrong side of them. But then they are of my kind. As is the owl, that stealthy hunter in the night.

This is the essence of skóggángr: Being one with the hunters and the prey, with river and stream. With the wind and the storm and the shadowy mists in the night. With the sun shining warm upon the meadows and twinkling in the stream, but also with the piercingly hard and frosty starlight in the midnight sky.



And with both sides united in the shady twilight.

The sun might sink beyond the hills: Darkness falls. But there is no Evil lurking here, for the Evil man fears is not the truth; man in itself has become the worst enemy. So we unbecome human. So we dream another life. So we deliberately walk into the thrall of the forest´s spirits, for there is nothing to be feared but the utter void of grey. Skóggángr we become. Forest we become.



Behind the gates there is a spring waiting. Behind the mist-enchanted sun, behind the circles of passage spring dwells.

There is art in this hope, there is hope in this art.

This is a new way.

This is a war to be fought, a hunt to be feasted.

Run with the night. The hunter´s moon is rising.

Carving on Úlenfang done-for the most part, that is...

So, I did the carving of an owl ornament I wanted to do on Úlenfang´s reindeer antler handle. Fitted some mosaic pins, too, for eyes. I am not too fond of the outcome, especially when I compare it to the magic troll´s art, but then I have never said I am an artisan, did I ;-)?

But it grows on me, and I have to refine it some, still, and there will be some runes added. The eyes give  a bit of a mad expression to the owl... and this suits me*ggg*. Overall, I love the knife´s balance and rock-solid feel. It just falls into your palm and fits snugly there. The carving gives you a good orientation in darkness. The blade (ancient crucible steel I found in the woods) cuts and slashes extremely well, and this steel gives a very, very fine edge with hair-splitting sharpness to be achieved. The Kopis shape makes it also very able for woodworking tasks. I guess I will forge another;-)...

Úlenfang es baren;-)-úlenfang is born

 Nu es et sao wiet: De Úlenfang es baren. Un ek hebb lang simulaiert, bu ek dat dingen namen sull. Was et béo-chaoineadh? Ne, dat kan ik nümmes utspreken, met dise snaaksche spraoke Gälsch, un denne maakt de Wickerske;-) wider ökel van mi.. Sao bin ek to de sprake van mine hiäme kommen un nenn dat dingen nu Úlenfang. Nu kan man fraogen, bat dat allt sull, un seggen: Bat dem ein sine Úl es dem annern sine nachtegall. Hat dat aber allt auk en vordel: Goldemaar het mik dat eisen gebben un kan mik darbi auk verstaon;-), un dan kan hiä auk op platt den Namn verstaon.

Un borümmes de Úle? Kan ik iu ein döneken vertellen. Als ik nu latse mandag in steingarten was om mid de bekloppten dat Flitzepeed - Training te maken, hebb ik de Uhu saien in de wand, un hiät hiä ein bussard in de klaven! Un ik will ennit un nümmes kenn mid deze klaven maken... un de kneip es en dorstig lemmel, sao vil kann ek seggen. Maot ik nog ne Úl binnen tellichen, dann es et daon.

Translation: Now it´s done: Úlenfang is born. And long have I thought how I should name that thingy. Was it béo chaoineadh? Now, that, I cannot pronounce, with this funny language Gaelic;-), and then the magic trolll will make fun of me again;-). Thus I took the language of my home and have taken to call it Úlenfang (Owl´s fang). Now you ask, what the fuss is about that name, and say: One man´s owl is the other´s nightingale. But there´s one advantage (in the bargain): Goldemar had given me the iron, and while he can understand me ;-), now he can understand the language, too.

And why the owl? There is a story. When I was at the rock garden last Monday, I saw the eagle owl nesting there, and it had a bussard in its claws! And while I would not want to make any further acquaintance with these claws, this knive has a thirsty blade, that much I can safely say (it already cut me twice..). Now I still have to do the owl carving in the handle, and it is done.

Note: This is the language native to my homeland, which dates back to the old saxon language and is still spoken in many villages of the Sauerland region. By the way, the "Sauer" in the name has nothing to do with being sour, but with *Dhiudha, Theudo->People, reduced to "Siuer- / Suer - land", i.e. the "land of the people". Some have the theory that by the "people" the "niflungar" / "Nibelungen" are meant, the "little folk" native of the region, dwarfs and elves of a very ambivalent character. There are many tales giving them credit as skilled and stealthy helpers of blacksmiths, but also warning of the imminent danger in having contact with them. If you have ever stood atop a Sauerland mountain after the rain and you see the mists arise from the green hills around you, you can feel their presence still. They live in the deep woods, their plants are oak, holly and yew, deer and fox and hare, owl and raven do not shun their step.

Concerning the language again, if you look closely you will notice many similarities to modern English, and the similarities are even more obvious when you compare it to Anglo - Saxon (the language e.g. of the Béowulf epic poem of the early medieval ages). vertellen->to tell maaken->to make was->was and so forth. It also shares many characteristics with the Dutch language.

Now to business: Blade is ancient crucible steel I found in the woods, as you can see it shows a pattern and a strange hamón. Blade is 12 cm long and has a distal taper from 8 mm to the tip.

 The tang is riveted against a flower out of mokume gane that has to be polished and etched still. When I filed it, file dust gathered in the epoxy leftover around the tang, and, following an impulse, I put some more on.

Here you can see the taper of the blade. The handle is reindeer antler.

It´s still a work in progress, and I am taking my time with it. It has a kind of spiritual aspect as well making it. It is for me as well as for the Niflungar, for I have changed sides long ago;-).

In twilight resolved

In twilight resolved

No more

To the villains

I will kneel

Nevermore

Under the crescent

Of the new moon

By the owls´flight in the gloom:

No more 

In the daylight

Let the twilight

Embrace my soul

No more 

To the villains

I will kneel

Nevermore

And by holly,

And by yew,

By the thirteen

Silver arrows

Find my resolve

Know what to do

By the ancient

Bow of crystal,

By the vessel

Of the void;

By the spiral

On an old hill,

By the houses

Old and high...

In the shadow

I be walking

hear the owl´s song

In my soul:

No more

To the villains

Shalt thou kneel

Nevermore...

Path of the huntress...

 On Tuesday I simply needed to get out into the woods. I wanted for the silence and solitude of the green, of the song of the wind in the treetops of pine, spruce and fir. Of the cry of the buzzard and the sight of roe deer in the distance. Of rain and earth, and of twilight. I did not have much energy, so I did not the biggest of hikes, but hitched the bus and rode out to the hills. I immediately vanished in the thicket, and it was as it always is: It felt as if a leaden blanket was taken from my shoulders. The woods welcomed me with warmth and silence and a twilight pleasing to my eye. They embraced me with their solitude and the virility of the sprouting green. And spring is definitely on the rise; birds were tweeting and fluttering about, I spotted a hare looking at me from ten metres distance (and fumbled my camera, which refused to work...). And the ever-present buzzard was gliding above in a beautiful chute through the treetops.

 I climbed a steep slope. Everywhere I saw the tracks of wild pigs and the desolation they left in their quest for insects, snails, mushrooms and roots and leftover acorns. And in the ruts they plowed with their snouts, tiny plants were sprouting and a myriad of insects was scurrying about.

 Then I came across this owl cast, and I imagined this stately huntress gliding through a starlit night, a silent shadow amongst the deeper shadows of the night. I imagined twilight-wan feathers and a solemn hooting, and I imagined I was on her trail that day.

 Deeper, ever so much deeper I went into the woods, sometimes lit by a pale sun, sometimes grey with the cloudy light. I walked silently, but with little effort, my thoughts and feelings echoing through my mind and my heart. The trail went on and on, and sometimes I spotted the hare in the distance. Yonder hills I went and then into a valley seldom trodden. You can find traces of human history there, but now it´s little known, and there were times I remember well when you could not find it on the map. It´s funny how man believes just because he can draw maps that he knows every place... and sometimes forgets to calculate. Nowadays it´s laid out on the map, but it is just too small to matter. You cannot make money with it, so they neglect it. I am the richer for it. On I walked and followed the trail marked by hare and owl droppings, deeper into that valley. And, resting on the ground, under a tree marked with owl droppings, I found this treasure:

 A sheep´s horn, and the skull of a tiny raptor, which I take to be a baby weasel, plus its bones and fur.

 I left the skull, and took home the sheep´s horn, and wandered on on the trail... is this a piece of badger fur? I don´t know, really...

 And who might be living under this stump?

The trail went on and on, and did time pass, or did space, or was it me or the world that turned? Moss covered the tree trunks, and ancient roots clawed at the soil.

 This is the skull of the weasel. It is conveying meaning to me, but the story it tells in itself is sufficient. It has been prey to the owl or an even bigger bird of prey.

I returned to the roar and din of civilisation. I took the bus home with a somewhat surreal feeling, and I had funny dreams that night...

´Shrooms hike with the mad one;-)

Kai called the other day and was being bored, and I cannot allow for Kai being bored, so I made him fetch me and we drove out into the woods;-) to get us some mushrooms and herbs. As is, we cracked the jackpot and found a piece of woodland brim full with those tiny licce creatures, bay boletus, red caps, boletus and birch boletus.

Funny were those two little fellows growing out of the same mycelium.

Don´t have a clue what those are, but they were very purple;-). We tried to define them with a book, but were crap at it, so we left them be. Any suggestions as to what this might be?

I also wanted to share this vibrantly red maple leaf with you... I love those colours of autumn. It is as though nature is exploding in colours, as if every bit of energy is spent into a vibrant grandeur. Makes me want to do the same in my old age, for I have always thought autumn to be a metaphor for human life´s old age.

There was an abundance of fly agaric. Those are valuable hints, because they are often growing near boletus and other related shrooms.

...and they are beautiful...

...looks like egg and tomato with remoulade...;-)

...or Santa;-) flying through the air....never drink reindeer urine, or else you end up high as a kite *ggg*.

We came across this slightly deranged comfrey. Comfrey is a very valuable plant in organic gardening, bettering the ground balance and fertilizing, the leaves and blossoms serving as an antiseptic and for ointments. In fact, comfrey is reputed to even have a healing effect on bone fractures, and medieval doctors even stated that " cut meat which is cooked in a pot with comfrey, will mend". If you want to use it, however, NEVER use it internally, and never prolong the use over four weeks in a row.

Kai enjoying a drink in the sunlight-enchanted woods.

...and beautiful were the light, golden and vibrant and yet mild.

Kai found some ´shroom... big brute, tiny ´shroom, I say*ggg*.

Ah, yes, and I HAVE NOT anything going on with fly agarics. I simply love the colour. Really. I do.*ggg*

On the trail, we came across this harvesting machine. I am not overly fond of the term "Harvesting when trees are concerned, no, Sir, not at all. But as is, we live in an area where forests are cultivated. The storm "Kyrill" may have taught the forest management over here a thing or two about the resilience of monoculture, but other than that, there are still too many monocultures around if you ask me. A matter of time (or the next tempest, if you so will;-)).

Then we visited this lordly spruce tree. Under its roots were a load of bay boletus. I paused a bit and spared some thoughts for it, and we raced on through the thicket, just for the fun of running through the underbrush and practicing our getaway prowess;-). There would me more tales to tell still, and every step in the woods tells a story, but those ones we found most interesting:

Owl or other bird of prey cast. This is the other side of autumn, and of nature in itself-the neverending cycles of the hunt, the feast, of life and of death, of joy and sorrow. The strong prey on the weaker, until they get stronger or learn to be more cunning-but all are provided for.

We got to the car with a load of mushrooms and many strong impressions, we had a lot of good-natured talk, and shared a lot of joy and sorrow. Thanks, bro, it was a great outing, and I wish you the very best for the weeks to come!