Three Twisted Knots

From Clutie:

Listen, my darlings, for we are a winter story now. We are a rush of ice. We are a hush of snow. We are a song of wind. We are a forest, sparse or dense, living our roots and leaves, calling for the sleep of renewal, the rest of a season, the gathering of roots for our silent convocation, the conversation only the rootborn can join.

Now, you say, Clutie, demifae, how can you know what the rootborn are talking of?

The answer of course is, I cannot. But I can invoke its protector and place him in the hollow of the deepest roots in Awenia. I can bring the child of Eikþyrnir to dance in our forest.

But you will not see him. You will not see the protector himself. I can only show you an image, to remind you that beneath us this congress continues. He himself is busy, grazing upon the leaves that fall from our soul tree, whispering the tales of winter to the wind, dancing when it suits him.

But you will not see him. Instead, see this image we called upon a master to craft of bluestone, who symbolises in his silence all that passes beneath.

And if you see a stag, our stag or a walking stag, a white stag, a dancing stag, a stag of seven tines? Remember here he is the guardian, the walker, the story of the beginning and the end. You will not see him, but you may see his form, his shadow, all his shadows.

Who is he? Only the protector of souls, and I will give you an old song so that you know. Revere the image, understand the song.

I am a stag: of seven tines,

I am a flood: across a plain,

I am a wind: on a deep lake,

I am a tear: the Sun lets fall,

I am a hawk: above the cliff,

I am a thorn: beneath the nail,

I am a wonder: among flowers,

I am a wizard: who but I

Sets the cool head aflame with smoke?

I am a spear: that roars for blood,

I am a salmon: in a pool,

I am a lure: from paradise,

I am a hill: where poets walk,

I am a boar: ruthless and red,

I am a breaker: threatening doom,

I am a tide: that drags to death,

I am an infant: who but I

Peeps from the unhewn dolmen, arch?

I am the womb: of every holt,

I am the blaze: on every hill,

I am the queen: of every hive,

I am the shield: for every head,

I am the tomb: of every hope.

—The Song of Amergin

Notes & Credits:

• The Stag: Harshlands, Stag Statue*, Bluestone, now at Anthem
• The Lanterns: The Looking Glass, The Shrine Tree Lanterns
• The Roots: The Looking Glass, The Shrine Tree Roots
• Shot on site at the Awenian Sacred Grove: the feast set is from the recent dumb supper for Samhain. The stones in the Awenia Sacred Grove are the Harshlands Ritual Grove. The Harper statue in the background is The Last Hope from the Fantasy Faire region Dangarnan. In the distance, you can see Awenia Town, where you would be most welcome. Visit Awenia.
• If you have not yet met Clutie, she is the de facto spokesfae of the Awenia demifae, a powerful glamourist. She has never forgotten any magic, but if she did, she would have forgotten more than (nearly) anyone knows.