10 thoughts on “The Red and the White of the Solstice Fire

  1. Wren

    A wonderful reminder of our kinship with Earth and our fellow creatures. Tomorrow night the constellation of the Virgin will rise at midnight from the eastern horizon, along with Arcturus the shepherd and the other animals of the zodiac to await the birth of the Sun and its return to the north regions. Thank you for all you do, JA! Your various “translations” are a work of love and much appreciated!

    Like

  2. The version you linked to seems to have a chunk missing from the end. Here is a link to the full version and here is the remaining text to it:

    Time is short. The Solstice is almost upon us. Your own world is calling you back.
    HUNTER: Shaman, will the sun be reborn?
    SHAMAN: This time, this time. But if the trees are killed, and the seas are poisoned, who knows? When clouds can bring death and not life, who knows?
    HUNTER: Shaman, you must help them. You are the bringer of gifts. The magician.
    SHAMAN: What will you have? Remember, I cannot guarantee the future. One day a time may come when you wait for a dawn that fails to happen. And you too will grope and shiver in the dark, as your ancestors once did. What I can give you is your own heritage which you have forgotten. Feel the load on your back. It is the weight of vanished worlds. A gift and a burden from a thousand generations past. You cannot lay it down until the last breath eases from your shoulders and it passes to your children. You cannot refuse this gift. Thoughts, once formed, cannot be unthought. Experience cannot be unlearnt. But I promise you, the Shaman will always be by your side to help you carry it.
    WOLF: His magic is in your dreams. Inescapable.
    PRIESTESS: Oh, Littleblood! Hiding from the mountains in the mountains. Wounded by stars and leaking shadow. Eating the medical earth. Oh Littleblood! Little boneless, little skinless. Ploughing with a linnet’s carcass, reaping the wild wind and threshing the stones. Oh Littleblood! Plumbing in a cow’s skull. Dancing with gnat’s feet. With an elephants nose, with a crocodile’s tail. Grown so wise, so terrible. Sucking death’s mouldy tits. Sit on my finger, sing in my ear, Oh Littleblood!
    SHAMAN: Go now. Back to your own world. But never again will you forget me. I am the Shaman. The priest. The keeper of the game, whom some choose to call Father Christmas. Whenever you see an old man with a white beard wearing a red suit and riding in a sleigh pulled by reindeer, the chains which bind you to your past will tighten, and you will feel again the pounding heart, the ache of the chase, the smell of blood warm on the snow. Red and white, blood on the snow.
    Come to me, and you shall see the rebirth of the sun. The glorious Solstice. I am the Shaman. Remember. Whom some call Father Christmas. To me.

    Liked by 2 people

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