I Kenned It Would Rain!
Posted: Tuesday, 15 May 2007 |
And it is! The big coohide is propped up ootside against the wall, and the rainwater will help soften the skin, so I`m no complaining ower much, plus of course the rain will help fill the water barrels, which we use for drinking water for the geese, hens and ducks.
I am being awfy lazy this year...the garden is hardly being worked at a`...*blushes*...this is doon tae twa or three things though....work, I am snowed under it and havenae the time tae dig or plant onything....and mair work...still snowed under and havenae the physical energy tae spend on the garden...it`s no` a wee garden see, and needs a lot o` time.
Still though we`re keeping it tidy, if no` planting onything. And the geese are the best grasscutters in the world, the lawn looks like a bowling green and is just noo dotted wi` bluebells and daffodils, all o` which were awfy late up this way but at last put in an appearance. It`s a fine thing, tae bring in frae ootside a bonny bunch o` flowers and put them in a vase near the window so the heat frae the sun scents the room wi` them.
Yesterday, standing at the kitchen sink doing the dishes, I watched the nesting goose and the main gander...she was standing at the hatch o` the hutch, and he was gathering up bits o` straw wi` his beak and pushing them ahind him, so the goose could pick them up and put them ontae the nest in the hutch. But he must nae hae been working fast enough for her, because every so often she would reach oot wi` her beak and gie him a right hard peck on the backside! He did work faster after that! I thought it was funny though...truly, he is `henpecked`....:D
I love dogs...am totally, utterly, a dog person! But sometimes they can be a handful...yesterday, we had visitors, and I was just telling Lassie off for being a pest..she plants her nose twa inches frae your face and demands attention!...so she decided no` tae pester the visitors and tae tak` a flying leap onto me lap! And she is nae lightweight! So after I let oot a feeble "whooof" which was in reality, the air gaun oot me lungs but she might hae mistook it for a friendly doggy greeting, she proceeded tae lick me face clean!
Me dog loves me! I just sometimes wish she would only show it wi` a wag o` her tail or a friendly woof....
I`m gaun tae put some pics on when I get me digicam back frae me daughter, wha I loaned it tae. I hae some o` me warp weighted loom, and the nesting goose, and others. :)
I am sneaking in a wee story here....it was written for Jul and is heathen, which is nothing to do wi` the David Bowie cd (which, noo Carol has mentioned I will hae tae gaun off and find and listen tae) but is Norse heathen, so I dinnae ken if folks will get it, but never nae mind if no`.....
"Inside the longhouse, there was relative quiet. The men shuffled feet and muttered amongst themselves as the women moved quietly from hearth to the small closed off space behind the skins.
In there, the woman on the bed writhed and twisted, a rag wrapped stick atween her teeth. The old woman looked at her....if she birthed the bairn before dawn rose, there was hope...hope she would live, hope the bairn would live...she looked at the sweat soaked face and limbs, saw the deepening lines of strain set upon the woman, still almost only a child herself, saw the fatigue and weariness in every set of her...,
The younger women looked among themselves and quickly lowered their eyes...they thought they waited only for death to visit her, for the Helhag to take her portion this night. But, they went through the motions...hot, pine scented water was carried in from the hearth. Rags were soaked in it and placed gently upon the writhing woman. Bells were continuously, quietly, rattled to keep evil wights at bay. All was as it should be.
Except the length of time this bairn was taking to be born.
Out in the hall, a murmur arose. The men looked towards the door, which closed in a whirry of snow and sleet and bone chilling wind. As the snow settled, a man walked forward to the hearth.
Hush fell upon the men of the longhouse. The stranger, given shelter by the laws of their kind from the storm, was known to them.
Big he was, a giant of a man even by northmen standards. Fierce he was, a fighter of a man, even by northmen standards. In his walk the thunder of an army rumbled forward. In his sudden laughter at their silence, the thunder of the skies rumbled forth.
From his honoured place in the only armed seat beside the long hearth, the chief rose and stepped aside. Indicated for the stranger to take his place, and with a curt gesture, saw that a horn of warmed and spiced mead was pressed into the visitors hand.
The murmuring of the men began again. It is not for us here to say what they said.
This is the bairns story.
Outside the longhouse, an army camped. No ordinary army this, but one of chancy steeds and dangerous wights, no ordinary army this, but one that rode the winds and hidden tracks of the barrow mounds. Draugr and elvenfolk sat around campfires untouched by the storm, eating and sharing talk.
It is not for us here to say what they said.
This is the bairns story.
In the small tented off area, the woman spat out the rag wrapped stick and began to scream. The old woman bade the younger ones to hold down her limbs, for she tried to rise from the sweat soaked bedding and run from her pain and fear.
All grew quiet around the longhouse, the screams taking an unearthly quality in their ferocity, like to the whelping cries of the Helhounds they were. Breath was held now, and all listened as in harsh guttural tones the old woman began the birthing chant.
Too late now, she thought, if it all went wrong. Too late now, she thought, if Hel had chosen this one for her own.
It would be as it must.
The birthing womans face turned of a sudden pale and the old womans heart juddered in her bony chest as she thought the womans shade might leave this scene yet...but with a great and shuddering breath she bore down, and in that moment all of her young life`s force was brought into play in birthing her bairn.
For the first time in her life, the old woman attended the birth with her eyes tight shut....her ears alone listened to the slithering of the bairn leave the womb, to the exhausted bone deep sigh of the woman, to the quick and practiced movements of the young attendants as they bore up the bairn to see if it lived, to tie the cord, to clean blood and snot from the bairns nose.....
opening her eyes she saw their own shining eyes look at her. The form they held was lifeless, blue skinned and foreign to this world. Thankfully exhuasted and unaware, the woman who had birthed a dead bairn lay deeply asleep, and the old woman thanked the gods for that small mercy, not wanting to hear the mourning cries so soon.
But this is the bairns story.
The skin curtain was pulled back and in before the visitor came a gust of chill winter wind, with the scent of lightning with it, the scent of the mountain peak and the rock that holds the elflight in its bones. He walked in and the old woman strengthened her back to meet his gaze as the young attendants ran out to the waiting men in fear.
He regarded her closely, this mortal woman who had no fear in her eyes of him. Bright blue eyes that told of sparking fires from cloven hooves across the darkening skies met faded, grey ones and held.
Silently she held the bairn to him, a pathetic blue piece of flesh, already stiffening in the cold winter air.
Steam rose gently from the corpse as blood dried. They had not cut the cord yet...it hung loosely, not pulsing, from the bairn to the mother lying limply across damp and crumpled blankets.
But this is the bairns story.
As his breath misted the air before her, she watched his arm sweep a cloak of furs across the body of the bairn. Watched a large, gentle hand lay across the belly of the bairn. Watched his bright eyed face lean closer to the bairn. Watched his breath mist over the tiny body of the bairn.
Watched the bairn come to squalling, mewling life, watched the skin lighten to a healthy, ruddy hue, watched the legs twitch and kick, the arms reach out clutchingly for something to grab hold of.
With a laugh that rocked the house tree, he turned and strode from the longhouse, taking with him a scent of northern forests, the musky, deep scent of rutting stag, the ozone sharp odour of lightning....
But this is the bairns story.
The woman on the bed awoke and reached for her bairn. Tenderly the old woman placed him on her breast, and as the mother touched every part of him to make sure he was whole, hail, and right, the old woman sank onto a stool beside the bed, exhausted.
Smiling now, she watched the mother acknowledge her own son, watched as she guided him to breast to drink, watched as he suckled greedily, nothing of death marking him now, a lusty, hearty son for the folks.
After a while the mother handed the bairn to the old wife and sank back into the blankets, to sleep a more natural sleep.
With the bairn wrapped in a richly woven piece of cloth, the old woman threw back the skins and walked to the hearth space. All were here who needed to be...the chief and his sons, their wives and daughters, all the folk who made up the importance of this clan, gathered to see the bairn, gathered to see the future of their folk.
With old and aching arms she lifted the bairn aloft for all to see. They laughed delightedly as he yelled in objection.
She spoke one word. "Thorsson".
And the bairns story begins. "
I am being awfy lazy this year...the garden is hardly being worked at a`...*blushes*...this is doon tae twa or three things though....work, I am snowed under it and havenae the time tae dig or plant onything....and mair work...still snowed under and havenae the physical energy tae spend on the garden...it`s no` a wee garden see, and needs a lot o` time.
Still though we`re keeping it tidy, if no` planting onything. And the geese are the best grasscutters in the world, the lawn looks like a bowling green and is just noo dotted wi` bluebells and daffodils, all o` which were awfy late up this way but at last put in an appearance. It`s a fine thing, tae bring in frae ootside a bonny bunch o` flowers and put them in a vase near the window so the heat frae the sun scents the room wi` them.
Yesterday, standing at the kitchen sink doing the dishes, I watched the nesting goose and the main gander...she was standing at the hatch o` the hutch, and he was gathering up bits o` straw wi` his beak and pushing them ahind him, so the goose could pick them up and put them ontae the nest in the hutch. But he must nae hae been working fast enough for her, because every so often she would reach oot wi` her beak and gie him a right hard peck on the backside! He did work faster after that! I thought it was funny though...truly, he is `henpecked`....:D
I love dogs...am totally, utterly, a dog person! But sometimes they can be a handful...yesterday, we had visitors, and I was just telling Lassie off for being a pest..she plants her nose twa inches frae your face and demands attention!...so she decided no` tae pester the visitors and tae tak` a flying leap onto me lap! And she is nae lightweight! So after I let oot a feeble "whooof" which was in reality, the air gaun oot me lungs but she might hae mistook it for a friendly doggy greeting, she proceeded tae lick me face clean!
Me dog loves me! I just sometimes wish she would only show it wi` a wag o` her tail or a friendly woof....
I`m gaun tae put some pics on when I get me digicam back frae me daughter, wha I loaned it tae. I hae some o` me warp weighted loom, and the nesting goose, and others. :)
I am sneaking in a wee story here....it was written for Jul and is heathen, which is nothing to do wi` the David Bowie cd (which, noo Carol has mentioned I will hae tae gaun off and find and listen tae) but is Norse heathen, so I dinnae ken if folks will get it, but never nae mind if no`.....
"Inside the longhouse, there was relative quiet. The men shuffled feet and muttered amongst themselves as the women moved quietly from hearth to the small closed off space behind the skins.
In there, the woman on the bed writhed and twisted, a rag wrapped stick atween her teeth. The old woman looked at her....if she birthed the bairn before dawn rose, there was hope...hope she would live, hope the bairn would live...she looked at the sweat soaked face and limbs, saw the deepening lines of strain set upon the woman, still almost only a child herself, saw the fatigue and weariness in every set of her...,
The younger women looked among themselves and quickly lowered their eyes...they thought they waited only for death to visit her, for the Helhag to take her portion this night. But, they went through the motions...hot, pine scented water was carried in from the hearth. Rags were soaked in it and placed gently upon the writhing woman. Bells were continuously, quietly, rattled to keep evil wights at bay. All was as it should be.
Except the length of time this bairn was taking to be born.
Out in the hall, a murmur arose. The men looked towards the door, which closed in a whirry of snow and sleet and bone chilling wind. As the snow settled, a man walked forward to the hearth.
Hush fell upon the men of the longhouse. The stranger, given shelter by the laws of their kind from the storm, was known to them.
Big he was, a giant of a man even by northmen standards. Fierce he was, a fighter of a man, even by northmen standards. In his walk the thunder of an army rumbled forward. In his sudden laughter at their silence, the thunder of the skies rumbled forth.
From his honoured place in the only armed seat beside the long hearth, the chief rose and stepped aside. Indicated for the stranger to take his place, and with a curt gesture, saw that a horn of warmed and spiced mead was pressed into the visitors hand.
The murmuring of the men began again. It is not for us here to say what they said.
This is the bairns story.
Outside the longhouse, an army camped. No ordinary army this, but one of chancy steeds and dangerous wights, no ordinary army this, but one that rode the winds and hidden tracks of the barrow mounds. Draugr and elvenfolk sat around campfires untouched by the storm, eating and sharing talk.
It is not for us here to say what they said.
This is the bairns story.
In the small tented off area, the woman spat out the rag wrapped stick and began to scream. The old woman bade the younger ones to hold down her limbs, for she tried to rise from the sweat soaked bedding and run from her pain and fear.
All grew quiet around the longhouse, the screams taking an unearthly quality in their ferocity, like to the whelping cries of the Helhounds they were. Breath was held now, and all listened as in harsh guttural tones the old woman began the birthing chant.
Too late now, she thought, if it all went wrong. Too late now, she thought, if Hel had chosen this one for her own.
It would be as it must.
The birthing womans face turned of a sudden pale and the old womans heart juddered in her bony chest as she thought the womans shade might leave this scene yet...but with a great and shuddering breath she bore down, and in that moment all of her young life`s force was brought into play in birthing her bairn.
For the first time in her life, the old woman attended the birth with her eyes tight shut....her ears alone listened to the slithering of the bairn leave the womb, to the exhausted bone deep sigh of the woman, to the quick and practiced movements of the young attendants as they bore up the bairn to see if it lived, to tie the cord, to clean blood and snot from the bairns nose.....
opening her eyes she saw their own shining eyes look at her. The form they held was lifeless, blue skinned and foreign to this world. Thankfully exhuasted and unaware, the woman who had birthed a dead bairn lay deeply asleep, and the old woman thanked the gods for that small mercy, not wanting to hear the mourning cries so soon.
But this is the bairns story.
The skin curtain was pulled back and in before the visitor came a gust of chill winter wind, with the scent of lightning with it, the scent of the mountain peak and the rock that holds the elflight in its bones. He walked in and the old woman strengthened her back to meet his gaze as the young attendants ran out to the waiting men in fear.
He regarded her closely, this mortal woman who had no fear in her eyes of him. Bright blue eyes that told of sparking fires from cloven hooves across the darkening skies met faded, grey ones and held.
Silently she held the bairn to him, a pathetic blue piece of flesh, already stiffening in the cold winter air.
Steam rose gently from the corpse as blood dried. They had not cut the cord yet...it hung loosely, not pulsing, from the bairn to the mother lying limply across damp and crumpled blankets.
But this is the bairns story.
As his breath misted the air before her, she watched his arm sweep a cloak of furs across the body of the bairn. Watched a large, gentle hand lay across the belly of the bairn. Watched his bright eyed face lean closer to the bairn. Watched his breath mist over the tiny body of the bairn.
Watched the bairn come to squalling, mewling life, watched the skin lighten to a healthy, ruddy hue, watched the legs twitch and kick, the arms reach out clutchingly for something to grab hold of.
With a laugh that rocked the house tree, he turned and strode from the longhouse, taking with him a scent of northern forests, the musky, deep scent of rutting stag, the ozone sharp odour of lightning....
But this is the bairns story.
The woman on the bed awoke and reached for her bairn. Tenderly the old woman placed him on her breast, and as the mother touched every part of him to make sure he was whole, hail, and right, the old woman sank onto a stool beside the bed, exhausted.
Smiling now, she watched the mother acknowledge her own son, watched as she guided him to breast to drink, watched as he suckled greedily, nothing of death marking him now, a lusty, hearty son for the folks.
After a while the mother handed the bairn to the old wife and sank back into the blankets, to sleep a more natural sleep.
With the bairn wrapped in a richly woven piece of cloth, the old woman threw back the skins and walked to the hearth space. All were here who needed to be...the chief and his sons, their wives and daughters, all the folk who made up the importance of this clan, gathered to see the bairn, gathered to see the future of their folk.
With old and aching arms she lifted the bairn aloft for all to see. They laughed delightedly as he yelled in objection.
She spoke one word. "Thorsson".
And the bairns story begins. "
Posted on Hermit Life at 08:01
Comments
Is the past tense 'kenned' or 'kent'? And Is this the sort of grammatical debate this site is looking for, he asked,beginning a sentence with a conjunction?
calum from The Reading Room Fivepenny Library
I have asked for a book of Norse mythology for my birthday so you have inspired me. I do remember doing something about Thor at school though . . Seriously though, you have a lot of talent.
alix from love your stories
Wow! Is all I've got to say. :) Thanks Hermit, that was fantastic.
Ellie from from speechless with admiration
Wordpictures to treasure stripped to the bone and without soggy sentimentality.....Hermit for Bard!
Flying Cat from The Little house off the Prairie
Calum, I wouldnae ken, being sure folks hae gathered by noo grammar is no` me strong point ;-) but do ye ken, there is a `kenning` in Auld Norse, which is the telling o` something in a different descriptive way, like calling the ocean a silver road, and the like? I often wonder if the Scots ken, and that kind o` kenning, are related.
Hermit from Sanday
FANTASTIC!! they just get better and better, thanks
carol from basking in the sun
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