Forgotten Ground Regained
Winter at its midmost. In his weakness the Sun,a doddering dotard, had dared to creep forth,rising late from his bed, to limp a short spaceup the hill of heaven. Soon, his heart quailinghe must tire, totter down, turn again to his rest.A passion of pity ‧ overpowered me at the sightof the god so disgraced, whose glory in summerhad lightened the land, lifted up our spirits with brightness and beauty, the bounty accorded himby the Lord of life, light-bestower, bringer of blessing. In that blissful seasonall green things that grow, grass in the meadows,herbs of the wilderness, worts of the gardens,all that flowers and bears fruit ‧ in farm-field or woodlandhad leapt into life; by that Lord’s powerall beasts had bred, the bull at his urginggot calves on the kine, cocks trod their hens;men mastered maidens. But for me sufficed notsuch cheerful worship, chosen and dedicatedfor a service more sacred ‧ when the season should change.
The moment was come now. The might that had cherished us,the Lord, the Life-Giver, beleaguered by darkness,ailed now in anguish. From of old it was spoken,how at Yule of the year ‧ he must yield him to Death,that quells even gods, and quicken the springtimeno more in the middle-earth, save if men in devotionrestore again life ‧ to the Lord who bestowed it,to the giver of all good ‧ yielding again his own:For the life of the herds ‧ a horse or a bull,of our bread and or beer ‧ for the barley and the wheatour fields had brought forth, and our folk moreovermust seek among their sons ‧ the sacrifice properfor the life of man. On me the choice fell.This was wherefore I walked ‧ in worship and gloryto the place appointed, set apart and hallowedfor the keeping of that custom, as the counsel of dreadthat our forefathers followed ‧ we fulfilled in our turn.Behind me I heard ‧ a high-pitched outcry,a woman in her weakness ‧ wailing a lament.Mourn me not, Mother, for each man must dieand better in this battle ‧ where the bliss of the summer,prosperity for our people, is the prize to be won,than stretched in the straw, stricken with age,a dastard death ‧ that is deemed by warriors.
High above men’s houses, on the holy mountainwas that sacred spot ‧ the Spirit of all lifedeigned to indwell. None could doubt who saw itthat holiness haunted ‧ that hallow of the god,eldest of oak-trees, of all in our landthe greatest in girth, the ground he overshadowedbroader than a mead-hall, branches far-spreadingthe timbers of its roof. Towering he upliftedhis head in the heavens, hearing and conversingin whispers with the winds ‧ in words that men knew not,runes of the High Ones; roots in the deep earthfixed and fastened ‧ firmly and securely,moveless in the mould, where mortals honored him;and betwixt these twain ‧ a twilight country,a life-haunted labyrinth ‧ of leaves and branchesbewildering the sight. So seemed he in his prime,noble and awful. Now, the oppressorsDeath and the Dark, are driving him hard,strongly as he strives. Stripped by the frost-giantsof his green garment, his ground-shadowing limbsbare as old bones, when the blizzards mock himhow wildly he wails, weeping the dire lossof his vigour and fruitfulness: Not in vain have you calledon your servants for succour: Your suffering endurebut a little while, Lord, and your lack shall be made good.As we approached the place, plainly we could see himhigh on his hill-top, the holy one standinggaunt as a gallows ‧ before the gloomy heavensas we climbed ever closer. Then a clamour broke outas terror overtook us: The Tree’s self was moving,coming toward us. With a cry like a man groaningit faltered, it fell: Into four parts shatteredit lay, what was left of it, low on the earth’s face,riven and in ruin, irrevocably felled,and the heavens above the hill ‧ were horribly emptywhere its form had filled them, save for the figure of a manwho stood by the stump, still and unafraid,and held in his hand ‧ the haft of a felling-axethat had struck that stroke: The stranger who called himselfWinfrith the Well-Doer, who willfully had departedinto exile from his England, for some oath that impelled himto dwell in danger ‧ in a distant land.So he came to our country, where he called upon our peopleto attend to strange tales, teaching a new doctrine,to the few who would follow him. Folk for the most partheard him not nor heeded, holding that his babblewas witless and wandering. When he warned that at this seasonhe would dare such a deed, no danger had we feared,but reckoned that he raved, bereft of his senses.
Now we stood stone-still, and in stark horrorgazed into that gap ‧ where our god had been steadfastsince middle-earth’s making, till a man had struck himone blow with his blade, and broken the powerwe had feared and fostered. At first for a little whilehorror kept us hushed. Then I heard a voice arise,a mourning moan, as of one mad with terror:“Winter has won, and the world is doomed,We can send no sacrifice. Summer cannot return,No drawing-out of days, but the drear twilightshall linger and lengthen, the light and the comfortfade still and falter ‧ until they fail at the end.Never growth, never green, never grain for the reapers,but dearth and darkness, and death unescapablewith no god to be our guardian.” Grim answered another:“And all the work of this wizard, this wanton destroyer:Shall the foeman go free, fleering and gloating overhis harvest of harm? Have at him! Kill him!Though all vows are now vain, let one victim and the lastblacken with poured blood ‧ the bole that he has severedand be the first to feel ‧ the fate that he has called down!”Not a man of us moved. Mighty as was our anger,no weapon was drawn, for the world as we had known itwas shattered in the shock, all sureness was gone,nor were men of one mind. Many there were who reasoned,the Life-Lord being lost to us, his laws were unmadethat would call on us to kill the cause of our ruin.Let him wend where he would. What worth to us now,when the deed was done, were the death of the destroyer?
Boldly Boniface ‧ braved our anger,flinched not nor fled, but faced our hatredwith will unwavering. Watching from his standpointhe beheld and heard us ‧ hanging back irresolutewithout strength to strike him. Striding towards ushe clearly declared ‧ his claim to victory.“Look now where it lies, brought low and abolished,the wood that you worshipped! To ward you from harmyou prayed and implored it, paying it in men’s bloodthe fee of your fears, that had not force in itself.to stave off from its stem ‧ the steel of an axe-blade.False and unfounded ‧ was the fear that tempted youto such devilish deeds, death of the innocent,neighbours and kinsmen ‧ needlessly slaughtered.Be free now from fear! Have faith and believeThat Life’s true Lord ‧ is a loving father,granting ungrudgingly ‧ the gifts of the harvestfrom his unfailing fullness. He enforces no price,having need of nothing, who is nature’s source,and holds in his hards ‧ both the heavens and the earth."
Some welcomed his words: women for the most part,mothers and maidens ‧ whose menfolk in past yearshad been given to the god. Their grief-wounded heartssickened of sacrifice, sought not nor cared fora proof of his promises. The prudent, and the desperate,looked now for leadership ‧ to the lord of our people,cunning in counsel, for the course we would followwas his duty to deem ‧ in doubtful matters.He wielded his word-hoard: “As to whether this deed was ill-done or well done, I am unable to tell,nor what fate shall befall us ‧ who must fail to renderwhat men have deemed to be due ‧ since the days of our forefathers.When a carle is killed ‧ the custom has been everthat the heirs that live after him ‧ are in honour boundto further the feud, for father and brothertaking violent vengeace ‧ as virtue demands.If the tales speak true ‧ the tree that lies slaughteredwas the guise of a god; the grievance aginst his slayer,the feud for his felling ‧ falls then to his own kind.Mortals in such matters ‧ meddle at their peril!And what if the words ‧ of this Widsith be true,And the Lord that he looks to, who laid him the taskOf wreaking his wrath ‧ on a rival for our worshipis the wielder of the worlds? What woes shall they sufferwho by force offend ‧ against his faithful servant?It were wise to wait, watching the outcome,and see if the spirit-world ‧ send their own vengeance,bring ruin on the ravager; or raise to life again,unharmed and whole, the holy oak-treein proof of their power; or by portent or signgrant us some guidance ‧ to what were good for us to do.Or if Boniface abide, blessed with fair fortune,And the seeds that must be sown ‧ with no sacrifice offeredas in the years of yore ‧ still yield us a harvest,we may tell by such tokens ‧ that truth is in his claimthat his god is the greater, and it were good for our peopleto listen to his lore ‧ and learn the new customs.Hold we our hands then ‧ from hasty actionsthat may bring us to bale, let us bide our time.Leave Weird to her work, for her will is more powerfulthan any mind of man ‧ or might of the gods.”Duly did we therefore ‧ what he deemed to be best,and the canniest course. Some carped at this judgmentthat harmed not the hated one; yet they harkened my voice.For I, who of all men ‧ was most angered at heart,spoke for his sparing. It was to spill my own blood,a life that was laid down ‧ loyally and freely,this company had come there, not in cold despairand mirthless mockery ‧ to mangle the carcaseof a faithless foe ‧ beside a fallen tree-trunk.
We left him aloft there, lone on the summit,as we wandered away; and I walked down the hindmost,on feet that felt ‧ as if fixed on backwardsas we traced out in terror ‧ a track forfendedwhere my weird had not willed ‧ I should walk again ever.Coming among cottages, I cowered away furtivelyto shelter in some shippon, shrank from men’s dwellingslest harm should haunt ‧ the house roof that covered me,or folk at fireside, afrighted at sight of me,drive me from their doors, who was a dead man by right.Yet there came to me kinsfolk; who, kindly and welcoming,led me back to lodge with them, to the life I had thought endedwhen my doom was dealt to me, that duty now lost.So I moved among men, and made as if to live again,in the white-pale winter-gloom ‧ that wanly spread overdays that should not have dawned for me, and I dared not believe in them.It seemed, even so, that the sun’s hours grew more,Or at least were no less, though lowering cloud-banksconcealed his setting ‧ and made secret his rising.
Copyright © Pat Masson, 1994.
First published in Forgotten Ground Regained: A Journal of Alliterative Verse, New Series, Issue 2, Spring, 2024, with the permission of her family.
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