There was a time not
long ago, when man believed.
When morals were
held in hand alongside faith, and people were content to surrender to
powers beyond their mortal capability, for a divine favor.
And life is always
harsh.
The people of the
village of Onslo knew it well.
Stuck like a limpet
on a sea rock, the village rooted against a steep slope, close to the
highest peaks of Mount Vunio.
On its feet, the
thick cloud blanket kept the village away from an old, forgotten
world beneath. The Cloud Gods were not remembered fondly, or
hatefully there. In such a place their names were nothing more than a
distant memory.
Someone else's tale.
But for the people
of Onslo, the giants carried a relentless winter on their backs. And
spring, was something that had to be earned, by blood and sweat and
sacrifice.
They believed that
bird eyes hanged high on the branches of a pine tree revealed hunting
prey, and that the backbones of dead animals should be buried in the
snow, so they can return when the time comes. Piles of small stones
and red ribbons guarded the passage to the forest, keeping the winter
spirits away. Everyone wore blue markings across the face, to
communicate with each other, while the heat of a breath was too vital
to be wasted on mere speech.
They believed in
what they did. A path towards survival which held no room for
churches or for priests. Of them, they had no need.
They carried their
lives with a ritualistic devotion to the simple and the mundane,
filled with respect and fear of something both sacred and unhallowed:
The old stone well
in the middle of the village.
A large rock was
covering its mouth and a thick layer of snow concealed it from sight.
No villager looked or walked around the well, nobody mentioned it in
their discussions. Instead, they lowered their heads, but not out of
ignorance.
It was because they
knew that underneath the snow and the rocks, through the hollow caves
and below the mountain's feet, the well led to the ever-burning fires
of the underworld.
Inside the lair of
the beast.
And it wasn't yet
time to release its habitant.
They were bound to a
cruel punishment, for a sin nobody remembered committing, even though
their memories went way back and all of them counted dozens of
winters upon their snow-white hair.
For there were no
young people in Onslo.
None, except an
infant boy, the baker's son who hadn't yet seen his first season.
Aloof of his people's fate, he clung to his mother's wrinkled chest,
whose tears while giving birth had since frozen on her cheeks.
It was a miracle
they had said.
A gift from the
Gods.
With renewed hope
the villagers of Onslo counted the days. The bad ones; with the
snowstorms and the slashing winds, and the worse; when the
winter-wolves wouldn't leave without a bloody offering. Time was
passing and gratitude was paid for every moment of serenity they had
put behind their backs.
Until, one day, a
small bird flew over to the village and sat upon the frozen well. Its
feathers were like the cloudless sky, pure and radiant, and inside
its beak carried a pine cone.
The villagers
noticed the bird and hurried to lock themselves inside their houses,
bolting behind them windows and doors.
The time had come.
The bird dropped the
pine cone and flew away. Its flapping wings seemed to take away all
sound, as it disappeared inside the forest.
Silence loomed above
the village like a thick cloud of tar, muffling every bit of sound
with its suffocating presence. Men and animals alike, frozen into
statues of flesh, exchanged only scared glances, in mute
anticipation.
So when the earth
started to shake, even in the slightest shiver, everyone was able to
tell.
The beast was on its
way.
With a thunderous
blast the rock which covered the well was smashed into a thousand
marbles. And from inside came the beast, with coat dark as night and
eyes red as hate. It was the Black Goat. The Devil's offering.
The snow melted
under the Black Goat's cloven hooves, revealing a soil rotten and
sick. Gurgling sounds came out of its bloated belly and a hissing
breath out of its watery mouth.
A savage and
malevolent creature it was. It would mindlessly tear apart anyone
foolish enough to cross its path, but would not feast on mere humans.
Their meat was tainted and their blood smelled of fear, while the
beast craved for more exalted flavors. With wide steps, it crossed
the village, cleaving behind it a trail of decay.
It entered the
forest and put its dripping snout down to the ground, to find food to
fill its empty stomach. With prying moves it followed the meal's
smell through ice and snow. It was one of dirt and mold, but made the
beast shiver with insatiable hunger. The scent, led it to the
entrance of the deep forest. A dense wall of rocks stretched above
and away, and in the middle two frozen trees formed an arch bearing
ancient carvings. They reflected the snow's glare, glittering with an
eerie light.
The beast though,
wouldn't bring itself to pass through the arch.
It stopped, and not
out of fear. For the beast knew no fear. Nor out of intellect, for it
could not discern the forest's watchful traps. Animal instinct alone,
controlled its every move.
Its nose was wildly
sniffing the ground and in maniacal rage, the beast started to dig
the snow.
Soon after, its
feral instincts paid off with a great sight.
The Swine God was
sleeping underneath.
The beast had never
eaten before and the unfamiliar feel of starvation was demanding to
be quenched. So, it woke the Swine God from his slumber, opened wide
its hungry mouth, and before he could react, swallowed him whole.
Invigorated, the
beast gave out a loud cry of hysterical pleasure, as the feeling of
satiation ran through its body.
But it did not stop
there to rest or to sleep.
After having gained
strength from its meal, it passed through the arch. Slowly fading
away, like being absorbed by its menacing form, the carvings were
unable to harm it anymore.
Inside the deep
forest the beast pressed on, and did not stop, until it came across
the frozen lake.
In the middle, lying
on a rock, the Elk God was dreaming of greenless meadows. The moat of
fragile ice surrounding her, stretched to the shore like a
crystalline water lily.
Sensing the perils
underneath the lake's crackling surface, the beast made rounds around
it to find safe footing towards the sleeping God. But the ice would
always break and the beast's legs began to ache from the biting cold
waters.
So the beast decided
to try a different path.
It moved away from
the lake, back to where the treeline was. Then, it lowered its head,
hit the ground and ran. With furious galloping it reached the shore
and leaped across the lake.
Like a catapult
stone, the beast tossed itself through the air and with its heavy
hooves landed on top of the Elk God's head. The repulsive sound of
bone cracking echoed through the forest, as brains and eyes poured
out of her shattered skull. The beast pulled out her magnificent
horns and wore them like a savage king's crown on its head.
Dead God blood was
pouring inside the lake, and as it spread, the lake became solid.
Like a red, flat rock it would remain, untouched by time and seasons,
to remind of innocence lost.
The forest waved
like a white hay field, as the cold winds bent the tree tops, and the
beast headed for its next prey.
The Bear God lied in
realms of torpor, hidden in a cave. Smelling the ill-bearing stench
of his enemy, he rose up to defend himself. He was brave and fierce,
but the beast had readied itself for this encounter and flaunted its
horns. It dodged the sharp claws of the Bear God and stopped his
deadly fangs. With an unstoppable charge, it impaled him against the
roof of the cave, and the mighty bear's guts spilled all over the
beast's black pelt. In sacrilegious brutality, the beast wore the
Bear God's internals around its neck and painted its face with his
blood.
It had now the
courage to face its final enemy.
Living at the
highest peak of mount Vunio, inside the eldest willow tree, crowned
with ivy vines and holding a pine cone staff, the king was waiting
for his promised offering.
When the Black Goat
reached the ancient willow and witnessed the colossal wooden pillar
of hollows and gnarls its bark formed, it hesitated for a moment. The
towering branches concealed the sky, replacing it with a globe of
evergreen leaves, and their light dressed the roots in emerald
colors.
The ancient bark,
was then ripped in half and from its infinite circles,
He-who-comes-out-of-the-tree appeared.
The goat-legged King
and the bringer of delirium. He-of-the-grapes and killer of goats.
His transcendent
skin glowed with a velvet glaze as he stood bare, in all his phallic
glory, before the beast.
Both were bound by
an ancient pact, to take part in this primeval choreography, and only
one was destined to come out unchanged.
So, the beast and
the king hit their hooves against the blessed soil and charged each
other.
Many times were the
beast's horns blocked by the king's wooden staff and such as many did
they pierce his fragile flesh. The air became heavy with the acidic
smell of vinegar coming out of the king's wounds. Intoxicated from
the odors and delirious from the battle, they kept fighting in a
glorious dance, as their minds met inside the trance.
The realms of the
king were infested with poisonous vines and spider webs and shadows.
There, he was hiding between grapevines and moonlight, moving around
like thin air to trick the beast. Every time it almost put its horns
inside the king, his image would vanish and he would emerge in a
different place.
Restlessly, the
beast dashed and failed and cried in frenzy, for many desperate
hours, but in the end it got tired. In a broken pace it stumbled. It
slipped on a puddle of wine and fell.
The king saw the
beast down and broke his illusion. He raised his pine cone staff and
brought it down against the beast's belly. It cut wide and deep, and
from inside the open stomach the Swine God's half eaten carcass
poured out.
The beast was
helpless on the ground, unable to fight back and the king took its
head in his hands and broke both of its antlers.
The Black Goat cried
in painful agony.
It twitched and
moaned as he did.
He pulled the bear's
guts around its neck. He pulled them firmly, until it breathed no
more.
The beast was dead,
and around its corpse, the king gathered his followers. Like him,
they were half goat and half man. They came out of the tree playing
on pan flutes and singing in enchanting voices. And as they did, the
king took a knife and started to skin the beast. He sliced and pulled
the black pelt off its body, from waist to head.
Wearing the Black
Goat's pelt around his shoulders, the king begun to sing. His voice
sounded like a thousand ringing bells and streams pouring into
waterfalls. Colorful like a peacock and powerful like a mountain. He
chanted in the All-Mother language, of ashes and dust, of curses and
of sacrifice. A price paid, for nothing given.
He stopped above the
beast and with a word which came out of his lips like the faintest
breath, asked it to rise.
And the beast came
back to life. It opened its newborn eyes and witnessed its divine
transformation. Its bottom half was still hoofed and furry, but his
upper half was now human, only for the two small horns protruding
from its forehead.
It joined the merry
company, and before their king, all started to dance, drunk from his
sweet wine. In spirals and in circles, in couples and in chaotic
combs, they communicated with their bodies, lost inside nature's
primal ways. They danced until the morning. They danced the dance of
rebirth.
#
When the first light
of dawn came, it spread throughout the forest like a green flame,
melting the ice and heating the land. The birds were the first ones
to awake and in cheerful chirping they hurried to announce:
Winter was no more.
Back in the village
of Onslo, the rooftops of the houses were dripping with melting snow
clanging against the metal pipes. The people, they all knew that
winter was over, but none of them tried to go out. They kept inside
their houses, unmoving.
Still, waiting for
one last thing.
A sound of a door
unlocking, followed by unwilling steps against the muddy soil, broke
the silence. The baker's wife came out of her house, holding her
little boy in her frail arms.
She headed for the
open well, singing with a broken voice:
My dearest child I
leave you now
your pure soul I
forsake
and let the devil
take it
for one more spring
I pray.
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