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The Tale of Osred Gleeman

In the days of Osbert, King of the Hwicce, there was among his hearth-companions a certain man who knew no songs, and indeed, was wholly lacking in gleecraft, and the name of this man was Osred.

When, at a feast, he would see the harp approaching, when each would take it in turn to sing for the others, he would arise, and leave the beer-hall, and go to sleep in the cow-byre instead.

On one such occasion, he went to the cow-byre, and there fell asleep. There he dreamt that someone stood before him, and addressed him, and called him by name.

Osred, he said, sing me something.

He answered, saying, I cannot sing. That is why I left the beer-hall and came here: because I cannot sing.

Once again the speaker said, Nevertheless, you must sing for me.

Of what shall I sing? asked Osred.

Sing to me of Beowulf, he said.

Thereupon, he began to sing, and this is what he sang:

Beowulf I sing, best of kings,

guest of Hrothgar, Grendel's bane:

of all kings, keenest to glory,

of all men, liefest to love.

When he awoke, he remembered this stave, to which he soon added more staves in a like manner.

Then he arose, and went to his lord at his gift-stool, and told him of this dream, and of the gift which he had received. Then he sang for him the staves which he had made, and all who heard them wondered at their sweetness and beauty.

Sing to me of Sigemund Wyrm's-bane, said the king, and so he undertook the task and went away, and in the morning he sang to them of Sigemund and of his mighty wyrm-slaying.

Sing to me now of Shield Sheaving, said the king, and so, in the next morning, he did.

So it is that Osred received the gift of gleecraft, which consisted of this: that whatever tale he heard, he could in one night turn it into the finest staves, such that all who heard them marveled and longed to hear more, like some prize cow who grazes and, chewing her cud, in the morning produces the sweetest and creamiest milk, which all long to drink.

Long years he dwelt in the hall of Osbert, King of the Hwicce, and was accounted among the foremost of gleemen, and many rings he received from him.

Indeed, do we not sing his songs to this very day?

 I wonder what the old North European ancestors would have called asparagus, had they known of it. Considering the ways along which the old tribal imaginations were wont to run, I'm guessing, probably, “spear-grass.”

It even kind of sounds like “asparagus.”

Oh asparagus, most ephemeral of seasonal delicacies. The Red Crests savored it back in old Romeburg days, of course: “quick as boiled asparagus,” Augustus Caesar was wont to say.

(Anyone who has ever tried to poach asparagus will understand that this means very quickly indeed.)

Things look different now, of course. Driving through rural Germany in the Spring some years back, I saw fields and fields and fields of asparagus, mostly for the domestic market. Per capita consumption of asparagus (spargel) is higher in Germany than anywhere else in the world.

Just about every restaurant where we ate that Spring had a separate asparagus menu tucked into the regular menu. You could put together an entire meal for yourself from one of these, with asparagus in every course—appetizer, soup, salad, entree—even, incredibly, dessert.

Savor while ye may, O ye lovers of Spring. Like Spring herself, asparagus season will soon pass by … just as quick as boiled asparagus.

An altar is a place of power—your personal power—where you can make magic. It should be an expression of your deepest self, filled with artifacts that hold personal resonance. Allow your altar to be a work in progress that changes with the seasons and reflects your inner cycles.

To create your altar, find a small table and drape it in richly colored, luxurious fabrics—perhaps red satin or a burgundy velvet scarf. Take one red and one pink candle and arrange them around a sweet-smelling incense such as amber, rose, or jasmine. Decorate your altar with tokens that represent love to you: a heart-shaped chunk of ruby glass, potpourri made with rose and amethyst, a photo of your lover. Fridays are the time for spelling love, right before dawn. Before you light your candles, anoint them with a love oil you select from the following pages.

I grew up steeped in a Christian idea of worship: as humble devotion paid to a perfect, all-powerful God. Such devotion could feel inspiring, promising a kind of ultimate consummation.

But it depended on a level of belief I could not sustain, and dogmas I could not accept. I needed God to be perfect, but reading the Bible put that deeply in question. In the end Christianity seemed to limit my experience rather than complete it.

I left God behind, but not the need to worship, to taste the exaltation of reverence. As a refugee from mainstream religion, to whom could I bow?

Here, at your magical power source, you can “sanctify your love.” Collect your tools as well as meaningful symbols and erotic iconography, and prepare for the sacred rituals of love.

Supplies:

In Which Our Intrepid Blogger Makes Some Really Bad Puns and Denies Being Anti-Kemetic

Who? Me? Anti-Kemetic? Gods, no. I'm not anti-Kemetic. Seriously, one of my best friends is. Kemetic, that is.

Yes, it's true: I do call him my “effete shaveling.” Hey, he calls me his “vile Asiatic.”

But that's not anti-Kemetism, just what passes for humor in the pagan community.

(Why “vile Asiatic”? Well, because, when the bristles hit the breeze, my sympathies—such as they are—lie with the Hyksos, not the Egyptians. I suppose it's remotely possible that some of my ancestors actually were Hyksos.)

Yes, it's true that I did once describe Kemetic ritual as being “props-intensive,” but that's not anti-Kemetism, either.

Listen, I'll tell you a story.

The Golden Barque of Isis

Say what you will about Odun and the old Sabaean Temple of Chicago back in the 70s—and I've heard the stories, just like everyone else—their craftsmanship was immaculate. They're the ones that made the Golden Barque of Isis: just like the processional shrines that they used to use in ancient Egypt.

When the Sabaeans moved from Chicago to New Orleans, my Kemetic friend Sirius inherited the Golden Barque and he, in turn, brought it to the Return to Avalon festival. The spectacular Barque of Isis procession that he staged there in the 90s was by far one of the most memorable rituals of that festival's entire 13-year run.

I had the honor to be one of the Barque's bearers that day. I'll never forget the sight of the Processional Way, lined with people, all dressed entirely in white. As someone remarked at the time, only Sirius could possibly have turned out so many witches all in white.

Along with the other Barque-bearers, I was kitted out in a white kilt and nemes (= head-cloth: think King Tut). Bare-chested, be-kohled, I looked like something out of C. B. deMille; at least until the moment that we lifted the Barque's carrying poles to our shoulders.

“Um...Sirius...ah...this kilt isn't long enough.”

After a quick reconnoiter, he smiled and patted my shoulder.

This Night of the Witches (heks, meaning “witch” in Dutch and nacht meaning “night”) was created originally out of the need to overlay a Christian rite onto a Pagan festival that was hard to abolish. In Germany it was called Hexennacht, in Scandinavia Walpurgis Night. At the end of winter, people wanted to celebrate and hurry on the coming of spring, and bonfires would be lit to drive out the spirits of winter and also reflect the return of the light and warmth of summer. However, this became the fires that would burn the witches, or at the very least keep them at bay while they travelled on to a night of revelry on The Brocken in Germany.

For on this night, the Christians said that the witches gathered on the Hexentanzplatz (the Witch’s Dance Floor) which is a high plateau in the Harz mountains of Germany. Some believe this place to be an old Saxon gathering place/cultic site, which was later banned by the Franks and given its current name. According to the Christians, after the witches gathered at Hexentanzplatz they then travelled to The Brocken, the highest peak in the Harz to dance away the night with the Devil. This is thought to reflect an old Saxon custom of leaving animal and possibly even human sacrifices on the mountain to the god Odin (or Wotan, as he was probably known then).[1]

Known as Walpurgis Night (Walpurgisnacht) in the Christian calendar, this festival was created to commemorate the English nun, Walpurga and her mission to Christianise the heathens. She is said to have been canonised on 1 May 870AD. Thus Walpurgis Night fell around the same time as the pre-Christian festivals, and thus transformed them, at least for a time.

In the period of Romanticism, after the hysteria of the witch burnings died down, there was a revival across Europe of the old folk customs and lore. This brought Heksennacht, the Witch’s Night back to many countries in various forms, falling on the 30^th April.

Today, across Germany and other European countries,as well as throughout Scandinavia, this festival is still celebrated.