Coming of the Winter King
September 1st
A ritual for 2024 written collaboratively.
⇤ The Funeral of the Sun King - The Arrival of the Winter King - St Wenceslaus Day ⇥
Pre-Preparation
Use the word 'uhtceare' as a meditation mantra. 'Uhtceare' was an Anglo-Saxon expression for the 'sorrow before dawn', when you lie awake in the darkness and worry about the day ahead [uht-kay-ara; the 'h' is as in 'loch'].
Along with its unforgettable description of the eerie space this woman inhabits, the poem also locates her very precisely in time, offering two almost unique words which transport the reader into the exact moment of her sorrow. First is uhtcearu, a compound which means ‘sorrow before dawn’ or ‘grief at early morning’. In Old English uht is the name for the last part of the night, the empty chilly hours just before the dawn, an especially painful time for grief and loneliness (as well as other kinds of threat: the dragon in Beowulf is called an uhtfloga, a creature who flies before dawn). The word suggests the sting of waking to the memory of sorrow, or the anxiety of lying awake in the early morning, worrying over what the day will bring.
Timing
The ideal time for this rite is the hour before the dawn; aside from that, any time which is best for you
Decor
- Right side: sacred clutter representing the King
- Left side: sacred clutter representing the Changeling
- Center: representations for the ritual as a whole, including perhaps some kind of gate or castle
Preparation
Meditate on the qualities of the character(s) you will be embodying in this rite, visualising emotions, characteristics and qualities. Consider: bitter courage, hope, relief, endurance, grim resilience.
Be an active participant throughout - be bringing the meaning to what you speak, and imagining the scene around you as you hear.
Prelude to Winter
Often, every daybreak, alone I must
bewail my cares. There’s now no one living
to whom I dare mumble my mind’s understanding.
I shrouded my giver in dark earth
and wended away worrisome,
weather-watching the wrapful waves,
hall-wretched, seeking a center,
far or near, where they might be found,
in some mead-hall, who knows of my kind,
willing to adopt a friendless me,
though they be joyful enough.
- Tell me, how does Winter Come?
- Winter comes as sagging in the air, white-frosting on wood
Winter is fear to light a fire as the body-warmth ebbs away
Winter is the scrabbling of rats no stonework keeps at bay.
Who will warm the mead-cup and dry the sodden air?
Tell me, in turn, how winter comes?
- winter is burning, the neglected hillsides dreadful kindling.
Winter is the world's works turned to ash and bitter ruin.
Winter comes in smokes, hoarse-throated and hungry.
Who will defend us from the fire all around?
The Coming of the King
- Who is this who is coming?
- I see a bale of seasoned kindling lashed by rain, and nothing more
- I see the furs of last years slaughter stretched on a rack, and nothing more
- I smell dried apples in the storehouse, and nothing more
- I hear the creak of deadwood in the forest, and nothing more.
- I hear the laughing wind, and nothing more.
- I see a band of horses in the bare branches, like a a warrior band.
- I hear their hoofbeats in the battering of raindrops
- I know the banners are riding high among the wind
- I know the dawn will come in the glinting of brasses
I witness the coming of the King
The Arrival of the King
The King Speaks
Roofs are fallen, ruinous towers,
the frosty gate with frost on cement is ravaged,
chipped roofs are torn, fallen,
undermined by old age. The grasp of the earth possesses
the mighty builders, perished and fallen,
the hard grasp of earth, until a hundred generations
of people have departed.
Still the masonry endures in winds cut down
in this world. The wise one, they stay patient:
not too heart-heated, not so hasty to harp,
not too weak-armed, nor too wan-headed,
nor too fearful nor too fey nor too fee-felching,
and never tripping the tongue too much, before it trips them.
That one bides their moment to make brag,
until the inner fire seizes its moment clearly,
to where their secret self veers them.
A man should know how many logs
And strips of bark from the birch
To stock in autumn, that he may have enough
Wood for his winter fires.
He welcomes the night who has enough provisions
Short are the sails of a ship,
Dangerous the dark in autumn,
The wind may veer within five days,
And many times in a month.
Foolish is he who frets at night,
And lies awake to worry'
A weary man when morning comes,
He finds all as bad as before
For these things give thanks at nightfall:
The day gone, a guttered torch,
A sword tested, the troth of a maid,
Ice crossed, ale drunk.
The Oath
- Take up the key to our hall, King within the winter, for I know with you beside me, another year will come.
- Rise in strength, for no man survives winter alone, and I have need of your courage.
Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.
Let us go inside to inspect the stores laid down and make plans - for we shall endure. Now, our work begins.
The Prayer
Lord, walk in winter's night
beside me to the firelight;
As you are strong, so shall I be,
keep my neighbour well and we
together keep the dark at bay,
until it is Midwinter's Day.
Protect this house: from floor to wall,
and wall to beam, and dwellers all.