You wave me goodbye at the boundary. Before me the rocky terrain, behind me – the forest of green, coolness and calm.
Go to him. He is waiting.
That means leaving you, I say. You smile reassuringly. No, you say, I shall never leave you. But you must go to him. His wisdom is infinite, his touch is might. Go to him, he is waiting.
I wanted to see him, I say. Two years ago. He didn’t want me then. He said it was too early. He pointed me to you.
It was early, you agree. But you’ve gone far since then – and he is pleased with you.
Pleased how? What have I done? I ask, and you smile again.
You have spoken. You speak – and openly- about us. You bring us closer to those who need us. Isn’t it enough to please us? You do what you promised- that alone is rewarding. Go to him, descend. You have nothing to fear.
I follow the rocky path towards the cave in the distance. Wide-watered river runs at its mouth, dark and alluring, cold to the touch.
Cross the water, the voice commands. Deep as the waters before me, solemn and sad, yet filled with compassion and knowledge. Cross the boundary. I am waiting.
I step into the river. One movement at a time, the water stings at first, then tingles, then- caresses. Cold turns to silky warm, only to become almost searing – yet somehow I know it is simply an illusion.
Good, the voice says approvingly. He taught you well, Gwyn. Descend now. The time has come. The wheel has turned.
The wheel has turned. Means it is time to learn again. And I am ready. Even if I think I’m not.
He greets me by the hall entrance. Tall, proud, pale, with dark hair falling down his shoulders, he is majestic and distant, as the stars, yet close as the closest friend might be.
His face seems to shine in the darkness, much like Gwyn’s, yet his eyes are the color of deep water- sapphire blue and dark green, dimmed amethyst and malachite, smoky quartz and agate. These eyes are heavily lidded, under dark and slightly curved brows, and it seems they can see your innermost thoughts.
When he speaks, they glisten, and a smile never touches his lips. His voice is quiet, yet I feel it can be thunderous if needed.
Dressed in silvery grays and blacks, he stands there, looking at me, and I feel humbled yet drawn to him. And he knows it.
The one who crossed the Annwfn, does not belong to the world of the living. If you failed, I would not have let you come here. But you have crossed the boundary. I shall lead you from here. For long or not – we shall see. But here you are – and you shall remain here until you’ve learned.
He looks at me and I feel how the surrounding hall turns and swirls before me. It spins, and all I see is his glance, bluish green, piercing, knowing.
That is Arawn, Lord of Annwfn, Lord of shadows, king of deep waters and caverns, Guardian of the Cauldron.
I follow the trail of cards,trail of thoughts that are no longer mine. I follow it into the void, into nothingness, to find you.
I follow the trail of memories, trail of words that echo in my soul. I follow it into the depth, into the darkness, to bring you to life.
I follow the trail of vines, trail of candles that burn too dimly. I follow it into the sunset, into the midst of night to see you again.
I follow the trail of whispers, trail of sighs, that escape my lips and blend with the forest breath. I follow it into the waves, into the dark waters, to feel your presence.
I follow the trail of songs, trail of tales that are retold in hushed voices. I follow it into the ancient books,into the wisdom of the olden days, to hear you again.
I follow the trail of tears, trail of blood, that nurtures my heart. I follow it into the Wild, into the storm, to gain myself back.
I follow the trail of flowers, trail of leaves that dance in the wind. I follow it into the hollowed hills, into the crystal caves, to talk to you.
I follow the trail of ink, trail of perfumes, that weave tapestries in my mind. I follow it into the abandoned halls, into the ballrooms that are no longer there, to catch a glimpse of your smile.
I follow the trail of ivy leaves, trail of hawthorn blooms that shine in the moonlight. I follow it into the past, into the times that never change, to bring you back to me.
I follow the trail of moonbeams, trail of stardust, that vanish too quickly before me. I follow it into the golden lands, into eternity, to become your shadow.
I follow the trail of hopes, trail of fears, that cannot be forgotten. I follow it into death, into rebirth – to regain my wings.
Meet me there, wherever you might be- for I cannot make it alone.
I am broken, see? Your love is killing me, killing me as I know myself. My dreams do not resemble a kaleidoscopic waltz, they are dark, troubling and leave me empty by the morning.
I hate myself for being that vulnerable. I hate being me, you know. I hate it all and I don’t want to face it again.
You watch me from the shadows, my Lord. You watch me warily, wearily, silently. Your eyes are like golden amber covered in mist. You watch me and your face is solemn. Do you hear me,my Lord, I hate it! And what’s more, I hate myself for being here.
Hear me out, my Lord. I keep my word as well as I can. My head is burning. My heart shattered. I cannot feel what I once felt and it’s killing me.
Reinvent myself, you say. The wheel has turned, the circle is complete, you say. But what do you mean by that, my Lord?
Godspouse. Shaman. Priestess. Awenydd. Humbled by your presence. Destroyed and reborn, denied and kept safe. I am all that, and yet I don’t know who I am.
Speak, my Lord. Tell me what I need to know. I am so tired, so worn out by emotions and weight of my former self.
Talk to me, my Prince of mists, talk to me, for I wait here. Under the hawthorn tree. As always.
They ask me what you are like. They ask me how I perceive you. They ask me, what life with you is like. They ask me so many questions, when they hear of you, but mostly they want to know what you feel like.
Different, I say.
He is different. Shining, like a million stars, fragrant as summer, misty as the late hours of October. Glorious, thunderous, loving, wise and romantic, harsh and confident, soft spoken and humorous, yet dangerous in anger
He is different. Unpredictable like the storm, distant at times and almost tangible round midnight. Light yet serious, somber and understanding.
He is different. The Prince of mists, Lord of shadows, king of Faerie. Master of the Great Hunt, Guardian of the Cauldron, Warden of the wilderness. Mentor, whose wisdom is infinite. Lover and guide, spouse and father.
He is different. Dark is he to those who run from him, yet to those who look for him, he is light itself. He does not trust easily, and his trust is not easily earned.
He is different. His loyalty is unbroken, his passion – unending. His serenity is absolute, his wrath – cold as ice, quick as the arrow in flight. His compassion is beyond measure, his love knows no boundaries.
He is different. Loving him is easy, surrendering to him is like finding yourself in the middle of the storm. Life with him is a waltz among colourful threads of unravelling yarn – one step at a time, and the music is silent.
He is different. And he teaches us to be. Ever changing yet true, light yet serious. He teaches us to be him – but as we cannot approach his might and majesty, he teaches us to forgive ourselves for being faulted, flawed, imperfect. Mortal.
I will weave you a tale of million notes. I will weave you a fragrance nobody has seen. Of vetiver, vervaine, patchouli and myrrh, of frankinsence and last summer blooms.
I will weave you a legend, reflecting my soul. Of pine, and of green oaken moss. I will weave you a legend you’ll never forget. Of cinnamon, clove, vanilla and spice.
I will weave you a song, that will ring in midair. Of violets, roses, of lilies and spruce. I will weave you a song that will last a whole year – of daffodils, almonds, of aspen and lavender, fir and juniper trees.
I will weave you a tapestry, silken and fine. Of holly and thorn, and fair fleur d’orange. I will weave you a tapestry, equalled by none – of melissa, and mint, and of rosemary leaves.
I will weave you a fragrance- of forests and lakes and of mountains high. I will weave you a fragrance nobody has known – of ivy and hawthorn, to crown you again.
Follow the spiritdance. Let it lead you like the wind, from the lower world into the middle, from the middle into the higher.
Follow the spiritdance. Run with the coyote. Soar with the eagle. Follow the trail of the stag, spread your wings with the falcon, sparkle with the colibri. Hail the night with the voice of the crow.
Follow the spiritdance. Burn with the brightest flame, ebb and whisper like the water in the creek, fly free like the winds of time.
Follow the spiritdance. Honour the dead, learn from them. Celebrate the living and connect them with the ones who are gone. Dance between the worlds, create the new universe.
Follow the spiritdance. Hear the drum beating wildly, see the blade flashing in the mists. Listen to the rattle singing away the nightmares and calling in the rain.
Follow the spiritdance. Be the gracious Rainmaker, pierce the skies and the sky with the eye of the Seer, become the wise Time master, weave the tapestry anew as the Earthkeeper. Shine like the child of the stars, who knows no boundaries.
Follow the spiritdance. Cross the rainbow, climb the Tree of Life to the highest boughs, behold the wildest storms and lightnings, dive into the deepest cosmos, become one with the stars. Respect the moon cycles and sing praise to the sun.
Follow the spiritdance. Find the hidden trails of the forest, drink in the serenity of great wilderness. Embrace the hidden. Stay loyal to the universal truth.
He is staring at me from the green. His hair – mass of foliage, twigs and feathers, his eyes – amber green, sky-blue and gold, luminous and glowing.
When he speaks, his voice is harsh, hoarse and raspy, as the breaking bark, wood crackling in the fire. His lips immobile, yet the voice comes out, distinct, loud as the raven’ s croaking.
He is the Wyllt, the man of the woods, the one who guards the forest, the Wild Herdsman, the wandering prophet. He is the Wyllt – cloaked in feathers, moss and remnants of the luxury once present.
He is the Wyllt. The grim warden of the mysteries, the one who knows all and never tells. His words are sharper than swords, they fall on the ground piercing it like daggers.
He is the Wyllt,yet he has multitude of names. He has assumed many forms and guises since the people first beheld him. He was Myrddin, he was Taliesin, he was Arawn and Gwyn ap Nudd, Cyledr and Oisin. They called him The Horned one, they called him The Lord of the woods.
Many names equal many lives, yet not many souls. Many names equal many faces,yet not many joys. He had his share of revels and hunts, wars and masks. He has seen blood spilling freely on the ground, members torn, wounds open. He has seen it all and his conscience rebelled against it.
He has seen it all, and his mind protested against it. And he escaped, running into the Wild, where rains soaked him, where thorns and brambles torn his clothes. He has lost his life and gained a new one. And he became the Wyllt.
He stares at me from the darkest part of the woods, from the shadows of my mind. He stares at me, grimly, silently, menacingly, for he knows how hard the last step is. He knows – and he knows I have less power than he thought.
He stares at me and everything starts spinning as our eyes meet. ‘Step in, go on, venture further’ he croaks. ‘He is waiting’. And I know who he means by it, I know- and though I long for the unity, I still tremble.
He is waiting. Go on.
And I make the final step, becoming one with the Wyllt with his eyes of gold and sky blue…
Into the Unknown 