In The Witch-Tower
by Alfgeir Starkhendr
(Being my best rendition of the vision in which Freyja first appeared to me, showing me how She and Odhinn (here called by a few of His names) work Their magic together. Brísingamen is Her necklace, Gunndlodh is one of Odhinn's other lovers, Odh is Freyja's Husband, long gone missing.--Alfgeir Starkhendr, aka Bill the Witch Doctor)
Well I know
Thee, Wandering One
Wending where Thou wilt
Yet when Thou goest by My gate
Gladly I will guide Thee hither
No grinning girl will I send out
To greet Thee, but I Myself
Will bring Thee the brimming brew
Sweet mead to moisten Thy mouth
And a kiss sweeter still for Thy soul
Come beneath My
mighty boughs
Grimnir, come within My gardh
Greatly giving Thy three gifts—
Runes and Redes and Roaring Ale
So eager am I
under Mine eaves
To welcome Thee warmly
Wide-armed and willing
Let Me lead through leafy bowers
Bring Thy steps to stony stair
Rising to My twisted tower
Tarry not amid My trees, but
Free from fetters, fearless follow
Come in, come
in, come bide awhile
Well Thou knowest how to wend
Thy way between My wards and webs
Not for Thee are My thorns thickly
Woven; I as any Wood-Wife
Gladly glisten now before Thee
Amber-wet in cleft of pine
Walk the way
well-laid and loving
Come then up My spiral path
Find Thee now within Mine hall, and
Hie Thee to its harrow-heart
Here gainsay Me not what Thou gavest Gunnlodh—
Dark-cloak, I deem Thy need be as dire!
Come to Me,
within My coils of
Brísingamen burning brightly
On My breasts, twin tongues flickering
Licking up in love's fire feasting
Now 'tis Thee in ring of fire
Bound, but I can set Thee free
For the runes Thou sharest freely
Thou hast given self to Self
For the ways We will be working
Thou must offer Self to Me
Wouldst Thou
now as wood become,
Feeding flames that laugh in lust?
Come be coal bare to My burning
Naked to My need-fire's longing
Come, gainsay Me not what Thou gavest Gunnlodh—
Dark-cloak, I deem Thy need be as dire!
From throat to
thigh I am as honey
To Thy runewise tongue-blade flicking
Carve upon Me with Thy kisses
Thy Golden Eagle, give wings to glory
Falcon feathers move beneath Me
Unfurling, enfolding, wings beat as one
Fanning flames between Our breasts
And kindling the forge—come, now let Us work
Anvil am I,
awaiting the iron
Let Thine hammer set Me to singing
Our forge-glow glimmering through Mine hall
Fast will I hold and rise to Thee ringing
Till idis and alf dance upon My mound
By the red-gold light of all love-haunted harrows
Now, gainsay Me not what Thou gavest Gunnlodh—
Dark-cloak, I deem Thy need be as dire!
Together held
tight, Our talons entwined
Now will I trace Thy rune stave risted
Göndlir, Thy wand will never know redder
Than the oil of My Rose pressed in Our love
Blessed by My Bloom, Thy runes need no blood.
Odhinn! I have
named Thee
And though I do love Thee for Thyself
'Tis not for Thee Mine heart doth ache this eve
For rightly Thou remindest Me
Of that other Wanderer
For Whom My tears yet fall, fiery golden
For Whom yet bloometh the Rose of Mine heart
Now, clasp Me close, and make Me to remember
Now, clasp Me close, and make Me to forget
Whirling
within, the might ariseth
Waxing, waiting, driving faster
Now there is neither help nor halting
Only onward, deeper delving
Till Thine hammer findeth My mark
And from this spark setting fire to soul
Making molten that red gold flowing through flesh
Till lightning-lashed, with thunder's throat
I wail Our will on the winds of wyrd
I am the harrow
hot by Our art
O'erflowing with Thine offering
I am the forge of every Craft
Anvil singing with Thy strength
Splitting spiral-tower spinning
Spells upwelling, now o'erspilling
Flinging fires high from holy forge
Now We hurtle, screaming skyward
Awestruck by Our brightness rising
Stars are stilled on the roads of night
Wyrd now wingeth forth to the Worlds
As mists on the moors, as wisps on the winds
Come, Mine
Odhinn, fare We forth
On the winds between the Worlds
Gathering all the ghosts who wander
Taking them into Our train
Riding o'er every land, lake and wood
Town and mound and hill and dale
Tremble all the fearful ones while
True folk bless Us on Our paths
Runes Thou hast
to write Thy will
O'er that of fool or foe
Weaving webs where'er I will
I entangle all foresworn
Mighty Thy stave to stir Thy will
Strong My strands to bind My spell
None know the Power of Our Forge
The fearful beauty of Our Craft
None may work wyrd as We do
None may guess what ends We have
Wyrd now wingeth forth to the Worlds
As mists on the moor, as wisps on the winds.
Artwork by Victor Moreau.