The Longest Night
Dec. 21st, 2023 01:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootTomorrow, by one second, is the shortest day.
Tonight is the longest night.
Tonight, I put it in the ground, whatever it may be, to let that sense of earth and sky and under and dark slip across everything, not because of some primitive metaphor for evil or wrongness but because it is time.
I am impatient. What have I been able to do other than rest and bitch about resting for the past few months? Rest is dull. I want to do! But the time says no and poor donkey body says no, and I mustn't get caught up in the poetry of waking light, though I have a plan for that one extra second tomorrow. I will spend that second early.
Now I am going to try an experiment. I am going to automatically write a story here, changing little afterwards but typos; it will not be good but it will be a random act of creation. I probably need it.
Once there was an old woman, who lived under a tree in a wood.When the sun went red and the snow came, she would huddle among the roots, and if badgers came by snuffling for shelter, she would let them stay with her, knowing how neat they are. When the foxes came, she let them stay despite their scruffy habits, because they would sing and talk all night. When the unseelie passed, she filled egg cups full of mead for them, and when the seelie rode by she would do exactly the same. And when she slept, rats and mice and rabbits nibbled on the corn she still had woven into her hair from Harvest Home.
But one night, she woke and her den was empty and extremely cold. She looked at her hands as they seized in front of her like pale hooks, and when she clutched down at her body, she saw that all her shoes and shawls and petticoats and gloves had been gnawed away by the little hungry folk. Only her hair fell thick across her torso, and she saw with dismay that it was long and white, that she was old.
She ventured outside, covered only by her hair, and even it could not help her sliding on the frozen earth. Snow had already started falling and night time had come. She looked at her feet, shrivelling blue like the claws of ravens. 'I cannot stay here,' she said to the night. An owl in the tree tops looked at her with eyes like huge jewels. The woman sank back into her den. She could neither stay nor go without dying, and the cold was already clasping her bones. She made to go outside, saying, 'let the stars be my company if I must die...' But she could not will herself to do it. It occurred to her that in all her years and the days and the nights of her, she had never known a night so cold as this. Then her eyes suddenly lit on a small glittering insect among the tree roots. It slipped over one and under another, but she could make out its trajectory downwards. This intrigued her, as she had scraped out her den herself, and knew its limits in every direction. Where then, was the little beast going?
Even as she followed, she found the old pool that long ago fed the tree. In her strength she had drained it, lest it rot upwards. Empty it lay, and the little beast scrabbled beneath and disappeared. But when the woman placed her hand on it, the bottom of the pool was dry and... she could hardly believe it... warm. Or warmer than she was, warmer than her breath, or her hands when rubbed. She sat on it and splayed across it and pushed her face against it and her toes into it, and while it could not get rid of all the cold, yet she could swear that there was improvement. When she pushed her fingers down into the mud, it was warmer yet. So she began to dig.
She noticed more of the little glittering insects scuttling over her hands. The earth came up in dry clods, and she noticed some substance flaked across her fingernails, black and grey and white. It was only when she sniffed it that she realised it was ash. Then she came across a huge thick horizontal trunk that roiled between the little insects, with ash all over it. Lifting it she realised she held no root but the scaled width of some creature, and the hole she had been digging collapsed right underneath her, sending her down among many more coils.
Covered in earth and ash she lay choking. The creature's body was as warm as a roaring fire, yet its skin was easy to the touch. 'If I am to be eaten,' thought the woman, 'at least I shall die cooked. I shall feel warmth for one more time.' But the wyrm did not eat her. It looked puzzled, and flickered its tongue around her face and hair until she grew bold and asked for its name.
'I am Niddhoggr,' said the strange serpent, its coils shining gold and black, 'and my work is the destruction of the world tree. I am here to sleep now and eat in time to come. What are you?'
'I am old and cold,' said the woman, ' cold unto death. Let me sleep here in the warm til the sun returns!'
'On the day I eat this tree' said Niddhoggr, 'neither sun nor moon shall return.'
The woman thought a while. 'When will that be?' She asked. The beast looked confused, so she tried another question. 'What do you eat until then?'
'Nothing,' came the swift reply, ' and the pool I drank from has dried up. I am thirsty.'
'Give me some of your old skin a moment, and lift me to the hole through which I fell. There is something I can do for you,' said the old woman.
The beast let her peel off some of its old scales, and as her fingers loosened, she was able to fashion them into something like the wineskins she had seen the gypsies lift to their lips when they wandered the woods singing. When this was done, the wyrm lifted her out of its lair of ash and warmth, and she scrambled up the hole, through her den, to the outside where she filled the bota with perfect pristine snow. She brought it back and the serpent melted it, and drank. The old woman did this many more times until the wyrm said 'enough!'
'Well then,' she said, 'I can do this whenever you need, if you will just let me sleep here now.'
By way of answer, the creature wreathed its warm coils around her, breathed on her, and sent her into a long sleep. It never drank again, for the Fimbulwinter was upon the world and the serpent's time was close. Once that winter had all in its grips, Niddhoggr ate the world tree and died of its glut with the woman still asleep in its coils. She ended as the heart of it went out, their bones mingled under the ever enriching earth.
Long was that night.
But a morning came and a Spring too. The same earth fed half-lost seeds which grew into a forest untouched by the ruin of Ragnarok. The trees swayed in their strength, knowing nothing of the woman and the wyrm and the elder tree who fed them once. But the wind remembered, and the birds learned, and when snakes and children returned to the woods, they listened to the songs as though everything was new.
To the longest night; May it be full of stars and stories for you.
Tonight is the longest night.
Tonight, I put it in the ground, whatever it may be, to let that sense of earth and sky and under and dark slip across everything, not because of some primitive metaphor for evil or wrongness but because it is time.
I am impatient. What have I been able to do other than rest and bitch about resting for the past few months? Rest is dull. I want to do! But the time says no and poor donkey body says no, and I mustn't get caught up in the poetry of waking light, though I have a plan for that one extra second tomorrow. I will spend that second early.
Now I am going to try an experiment. I am going to automatically write a story here, changing little afterwards but typos; it will not be good but it will be a random act of creation. I probably need it.
Once there was an old woman, who lived under a tree in a wood.When the sun went red and the snow came, she would huddle among the roots, and if badgers came by snuffling for shelter, she would let them stay with her, knowing how neat they are. When the foxes came, she let them stay despite their scruffy habits, because they would sing and talk all night. When the unseelie passed, she filled egg cups full of mead for them, and when the seelie rode by she would do exactly the same. And when she slept, rats and mice and rabbits nibbled on the corn she still had woven into her hair from Harvest Home.
But one night, she woke and her den was empty and extremely cold. She looked at her hands as they seized in front of her like pale hooks, and when she clutched down at her body, she saw that all her shoes and shawls and petticoats and gloves had been gnawed away by the little hungry folk. Only her hair fell thick across her torso, and she saw with dismay that it was long and white, that she was old.
She ventured outside, covered only by her hair, and even it could not help her sliding on the frozen earth. Snow had already started falling and night time had come. She looked at her feet, shrivelling blue like the claws of ravens. 'I cannot stay here,' she said to the night. An owl in the tree tops looked at her with eyes like huge jewels. The woman sank back into her den. She could neither stay nor go without dying, and the cold was already clasping her bones. She made to go outside, saying, 'let the stars be my company if I must die...' But she could not will herself to do it. It occurred to her that in all her years and the days and the nights of her, she had never known a night so cold as this. Then her eyes suddenly lit on a small glittering insect among the tree roots. It slipped over one and under another, but she could make out its trajectory downwards. This intrigued her, as she had scraped out her den herself, and knew its limits in every direction. Where then, was the little beast going?
Even as she followed, she found the old pool that long ago fed the tree. In her strength she had drained it, lest it rot upwards. Empty it lay, and the little beast scrabbled beneath and disappeared. But when the woman placed her hand on it, the bottom of the pool was dry and... she could hardly believe it... warm. Or warmer than she was, warmer than her breath, or her hands when rubbed. She sat on it and splayed across it and pushed her face against it and her toes into it, and while it could not get rid of all the cold, yet she could swear that there was improvement. When she pushed her fingers down into the mud, it was warmer yet. So she began to dig.
She noticed more of the little glittering insects scuttling over her hands. The earth came up in dry clods, and she noticed some substance flaked across her fingernails, black and grey and white. It was only when she sniffed it that she realised it was ash. Then she came across a huge thick horizontal trunk that roiled between the little insects, with ash all over it. Lifting it she realised she held no root but the scaled width of some creature, and the hole she had been digging collapsed right underneath her, sending her down among many more coils.
Covered in earth and ash she lay choking. The creature's body was as warm as a roaring fire, yet its skin was easy to the touch. 'If I am to be eaten,' thought the woman, 'at least I shall die cooked. I shall feel warmth for one more time.' But the wyrm did not eat her. It looked puzzled, and flickered its tongue around her face and hair until she grew bold and asked for its name.
'I am Niddhoggr,' said the strange serpent, its coils shining gold and black, 'and my work is the destruction of the world tree. I am here to sleep now and eat in time to come. What are you?'
'I am old and cold,' said the woman, ' cold unto death. Let me sleep here in the warm til the sun returns!'
'On the day I eat this tree' said Niddhoggr, 'neither sun nor moon shall return.'
The woman thought a while. 'When will that be?' She asked. The beast looked confused, so she tried another question. 'What do you eat until then?'
'Nothing,' came the swift reply, ' and the pool I drank from has dried up. I am thirsty.'
'Give me some of your old skin a moment, and lift me to the hole through which I fell. There is something I can do for you,' said the old woman.
The beast let her peel off some of its old scales, and as her fingers loosened, she was able to fashion them into something like the wineskins she had seen the gypsies lift to their lips when they wandered the woods singing. When this was done, the wyrm lifted her out of its lair of ash and warmth, and she scrambled up the hole, through her den, to the outside where she filled the bota with perfect pristine snow. She brought it back and the serpent melted it, and drank. The old woman did this many more times until the wyrm said 'enough!'
'Well then,' she said, 'I can do this whenever you need, if you will just let me sleep here now.'
By way of answer, the creature wreathed its warm coils around her, breathed on her, and sent her into a long sleep. It never drank again, for the Fimbulwinter was upon the world and the serpent's time was close. Once that winter had all in its grips, Niddhoggr ate the world tree and died of its glut with the woman still asleep in its coils. She ended as the heart of it went out, their bones mingled under the ever enriching earth.
Long was that night.
But a morning came and a Spring too. The same earth fed half-lost seeds which grew into a forest untouched by the ruin of Ragnarok. The trees swayed in their strength, knowing nothing of the woman and the wyrm and the elder tree who fed them once. But the wind remembered, and the birds learned, and when snakes and children returned to the woods, they listened to the songs as though everything was new.
To the longest night; May it be full of stars and stories for you.
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Date: 2023-12-21 03:40 pm (UTC)Sigh.
Blessed Solstice, friend.
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Date: 2023-12-21 04:19 pm (UTC)Blessed Solstice, friend X
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Date: 2023-12-21 06:50 pm (UTC)You are an amazing writer!!!!!! 💓💓💓
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Date: 2023-12-23 06:35 am (UTC)You are very kind XXX
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Date: 2023-12-23 04:44 pm (UTC)