The snow piled up, deep and heavy, hour upon hour, erasing detail and leaving the world stark, with soft mounds where cars used to sit and a silence that the neighborhood rarely knew.
On a gently curving street outside of Columbus Ohio, music swirled and swelled from a house lit by candles and hurricane lanterns.
The power was not out but there is magic in fire.
Around a table of yew wood, its edges still rough with bark, a dozen creatures gathered and you would be forgiven if at first glance you mistook them for humans.
What you would fail to guess from their appearance would be that they were family. So varied in size, complexion, demeanor, build and dress that they seemed more a motley collection of actors brought together for a single dinner party. A party at which costumes were required but everyone misunderstood the theme.
Three great, sweating stoneware jugs sat on the table and everyone had a vessel of some kind in front of them and though they drank from them in great draughts, none of their cups, horns, goblets or mugs ever grew empty, such was the generosity of the house.
A long stone counter was covered with food of every description from half devoured geese to a pot of thick, wine dark stew and baskets of Asian pears and loaves of rich, dark, flavorful bread that smelled of molasses and leeks.
Roughly carved wooden bowls filled with pickles, rich butter, apple preserves and a dozen kinds of jam and jelly filled in spaces between the larger platters and there was enough pie, cake and pastry to put any bake sale on the planet to shame.
Plates piled high had been set aside to be cleaned up at another time, and those who gathered there passed flasks and mason jars of private concoctions from hand to hand to be sipped and marveled at, or winced at in mock disgust. Mockery was always followed by another sip though, just to be sure.
Should you be fearless or foolish enough to sneak close enough to listen in, you would not know the language in which they sang, nor would the tune seem familiar. It is not one of those universal melodies that changes lyrics with the shifting times. These songs had been sung, unchanged since the first mound was raised and where they are given voice, such magic comes to reside that no harm can befall those that sing, nor those they love.
Feet have danced on that table. Wars planned around it. Bonds and babies made upon it. A thousand, thousand meals have been served on its scarred and beautiful surface. Hands have been shaken above it, knives have been passed hand to hand below and if one makes an oath and then knocks upon its surface, the oath becomes unbreakable.
The walls of the room hang with rack after rack of weapons in an infinite variety. Swords, hammers, axes, maces, morning stars and spears, many of which have seen blood in battles that have changed the very course of existence.
But in the center of the table rests a spear that carries within it the soul of all those gathered there.
Its broad, dark blade ripples in the light, seeming almost liquid, its reticulated pattern, like wood grain.
Its blade is not smooth but is made of dozens of curved toothlike edges curving back toward the haft. One has only to look at the weapon and imagine it entering a body to shudder at the idea of trying to remove it.
Beardless and powerful, squat and strong, a dark haired man sits at the head of the table and the spear sings for him only. But it exists to protect them all and so it is treated as an honored guest, as is the goddess it houses who though often hungry for blood will accept song and a draught of wine should the night call for it.
With the storm slowing the world to a halt outside, the gathered mark this, the longest night of the year with a revel that will carry on until dawn, when the thirteenth of their number will join them.
In the moments after dawn they will welcome him, still smelling of the earth from which he emerged. His wide antlers will drip melting snow into the blankets and furs before the crackling applewood fire and they will gather around him, warm and joyous to welcome him back for his season.
The slightest and smallest of those gathered will tiptoe up and tie copper oak leaves from the longest curls of his hair and beard and all will offer him food and wine until his voice, silent for half a year as he slept in the earth, returns.
And then he too will sing.
And somewhere, down, down, down, past where his brother, the holly leaves shining silver in his hair, sleeps, somewhere deep and distant, Spring will hear him and begin to return.
It will take moons, but they have time and he has his family to enjoy and so he sings and one by one, they join him in the song, the oldest of them all and they will remember why…
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2021 Lance Cheuvront
WordPress.com
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