Golden was her hair, pure gold like the flowering broom. White was her skin, whiter than hawthorn flowers on May day. Red were her lips, blood-red like hawthorn berries, and bittersweet was her kiss, like sea-bucktorn honey. Fragrant was her skin, like the first breeze of a newborn spring, full of hope and blossoming love.
Simply she dressed, and quiet was her life in a little house by the forest. Spirits came to sing at nights, forest folk came by when the leaves withered, to bring her spices and tales from far beyond.
Dreams she spun into yarn, threads the color of skies at night, grasses by sunset, threads as fine as silken petals of mountain flowers, threads the color of honey, hope and happiness.
Wood gave her fruit and roots, and colors for winter clothes, owls gifted her feathers for cloaks, wild rabbits and foxes brought her berries.
Wild honey and thyme, dandelion wine, rosebud oil… Milk, peppermint, daffodils and those strange azure blue flowers they call winter’s kiss. Millions of scents and fragrances lingered in the air, and any travelling folk was glad to sell her wool or linen on exchange for the things she made.
Time went on, and happy she was in her little house by the wood, until a stranger came. Dark was his glance, pale was his skin, sternly he watched her.
She welcomed him, and gave him an ointment for his aching back, she cured his hands, callused and bruised. She sang to him, and he slept like a babe for the first time in years.
Simply she lived, and his crimson cloak didn’t frighten her. Were she different , she’d run as soon as she saw him, but she didn’t.
He saw no threat in her, he inspected her ointments and balms, and found no fault in them being no stranger to herbal medicine himself. Yet…
Wild roses and hawthorn, Honey and thyme Sea buckthorn and broom…
The fragrance remained. She was gone.
He left by the nightfall, taking her scarf and ointments with him. He felt bitter and he knew his nightmares would return.
Her voice followed him to the gates of Toledo. Her fragrance haunted him years after. When he could no longer bear it, he found a small bottle amongst the things he took from her house that night. The label was gone, the scent so faint he couldn’t place it.
Now, before we dive into the subject, you need to bear in mind that witchcraft as a phenomenon originated long before Russia became Russia. Magic dominated the land when there was no talk of Christian faith, princes and Kiev Rus’, centralized power, central heating and pop music. People before 988 were divided into tribes, much like those of the Native Americans, Celts and all the rest of them. Each tribe had a chief and each tribe had, unsurprisingly, a healer, a sort of bard (guslyar, if he played the gusli, a type of string instrument akin to the harp, or skazitel, boyan- if he used his voice alone to tell tales), and sometimes a relative of the druids- the volkhv- not to be confused with a volk (wolf) would come to predict the future, talk to the gods and provide counsel.
Wikipedia tells us that…
A volkhv or volhv (Cyrillic: Волхв; Polish: Wołchw, translatable as wiseman, wizard, sorcerer, magus, i.e. shaman, gothi or mage) is a priest in ancient Slavic religions and contemporary Slavic Native Faith (Rodnovery).
There is an old legend about one prince, called Oleg, who met a volkhv one day while riding out. As the custom dictated, the prince (Knyaz in Russian), addressed him accordingly to know his fate:
Do tell me the truth, o beloved of gods, What lurks in the shadows before me…
Of course, that’s a bit too metaphorical- in reality, our knyaz merely asked what was in store for him. The old man frowned and answered that Oleg’s doom would come from the horse. Oleg, being the military man, and by the way, the real historical character ( ruled in Kiev and previously Novgorod before Christian times, around 9th century) , thought the horse in question was his own. He loved the beast, but mind you, the volkhv couldn’t be wrong, so Oleg decided he’d part with the horse. Just in case.
Many years have passed, the knyaz was still very much alive and pretty disillusioned with fortunetellings, I guess. While traversing the glen, he stumbled upon the skull of a horse, and stepped on it saying something along the lines of
‘O shall I be afear’d of thou?’
Little did he know that a snake rented the said skull for a weekend, and wasn’t happy about being treaded upon by a boot, albeit the princely one. It ventured out to tell the knyaz off. Oleg was no parslemouth, so he didn’t quite catch that, and planted his heel deeper. The snake bit him, and that’s how the knyaz met his fate.
Mysterious power of the volkhvs was much feared. Nobody knew where it came from, whether it came from the gods or some dark powers, but it was clearly there. Those bearded men in long cloaks and dresses, yielding staffs, knew their stuff. They rocked. Perhaps they were the first ever linguists, being able to communicate with animals and birds, foresee the future, brew various potions and heal all sorts of sicknesses. But, being a magical know it all had a price. They lived in secluded spaces, they practiced magic and rarely came out, preferring their own company.
Each village had it’s own brand of magic though, and the villagers knew the difference between practitioners.
Now, we’ve met a volkhv. There were also charodeys – relatives of spellcrafters. Chary, you see, is the old Russian word for a charm or spell. We can deduce they used word as a magical unit. Usually, charodeys had a shadowy reputation due to their mysterious nature. They were educated to an extent, not like your usual kolduni – closer to wizards- who could be black or white in terms of craft. White folk did herbs, remedies and protection, healed the cattle as well as humans, got paid in goods such as milk or bread, and were closer to healers/midwives than the academic folk. Their knowledge was rooted in the knowledge of nature and natural remedies, their job was to help. Village wizard (koldun derevensky, to scare you with more Russian)lived alone, his house would be somewhere on the outskirts, and he’d be happy about it.
Black koldun would live further away, deal with topics such as privorot (making someone fall in love) , death, negative magic and everything a white koldun wouldn’t even dream of doing. Those were the folks who frequented pogosti- cemeteries, using the soil, bones and whatnot for their charms. They were thought to have friend on the other side, such as leshy (forest guardian), kikimoras , rusalki (a cross between a healthy banshee and a hag, and a mermaid), the spirits of the dead, ancestors and dark nature spirits.
Ancestor magic was always a big part of Slavic witchcraft as well as the spirituality. The spirits of the ancestors were called schury, and the offerings would be left for them often to guarantee the support of the ancestors. The custom made it into the modern days – Radonitsa is celebrated on the second week after Easter, mainly by the eastern Orthodox church, and usually it’s the day to clean the graves, leave offerings and candles, pray and remember the dead. The closest analogy would be the Welsh Ysbrydnos, I believe, as we do not traditionally celebrate All Hallows.
Folk traditions were incorporated into church traditions if they were positive ones, like Radonitsa. Maslenitsa – the pancake making festival of banishing the winter- precedes the Easter if we mean the pagan festival, taking place 8 weeks before the Orthodox Easter which is a migrating holiday, and can occur in April or May, depending on the calendar. Anyways you need the first full moon after the spring equinox to place it. In old days, Maslenitsa was sacred to Veles, Slavic deity of cattle, a cousin to Mercury- and rival of Perun. It’s difficult, I know.
Moving on. Apart from kolduni and charodei, we had vedmy – female practitioners who could easily be bad or good, volshebnitsy and volshebniki- same goes, but with a fairy tale twist, veduni – a sort of village wizards, who dabbled in fortunes and fate.
For the last few days I’ve been thinking about things I never actually ever thought of- surprisingly, it feels as if all the veils, curtains and whatnot suddenly fell down, revealing the burning bridges and ruined edifices. Much like the Tower card from your good old trusty deck, but with a tinge of the Devil, feasting inside. You know it’s done, the scouring, the ransacking, the pillaging and the result is before you. You didn’t do it, it happened overnight- and now you can only gape at the landscape, wondering…
I never gave much thought to the state of beliefs or paganism here. Don’t get me wrong, I knew full well how bad it was, but the more serious and complex your practice becomes, the more thought you give to the state of things. Before prince Vladimir of Kiev, the one we know as Yasno Solnyshko – which would be Good Old Vladimir, or The Kind One, who’s like the sun – decided to marry the byzantine princess, who was a Christian- paganism dominated the realm. People worshipped old gods back in 988, when Vladimir faced the choice- either marry the princess and baptise everyone, or find a wife and military support elsewhere. They say, global baptism happened overnight, with old idolischa- pagan idols, that is – and kapischa (meaning, sacred grounds, pagan worship sites) destroyed by fire and Vladimir’s men. Mind you, they were pagan themselves, and it must have been pretty hard knocking everything down. However, the transfer went smoothly, people were baptized in the great rivers, literally 1000 at a time, The prince got himself a princess and lived happily ever after. But the faith remained. In deep and dark forests people still left offerings to Perun, Mara, Svarog and the rest, they still saved the wooden idols, albeit their homes now had the red corners- spaces allocated for icons, candles or lampades. Christianity and paganism existed side by side.
In time, the Rus – Kiev Rus- became more and more Christian, it grew into the country we now know as Russia. But the people suffered more than one faith crisis, forced upon them by the government. It doesn’t mean they stopped believing, it means christianity though forbidden, bloomed in the cellars and closed spaces. People were, in the words of Leonard Cohen, waiting for a miracle to come. And it did. Harsh conditions made new saints. New saints acquired new following, and more miracles followed.
The Soviet times brought on a new phenomenon, called the extrasensory world. Somber looking men charged water from the tv screens, curing diseases at the same time. Weird ladies claiming to be the last assyrian queens, made the large colliders stop, and the general secretary Brezhnev’s diseases mysteriously disappear. For a second. Or two.
Mark me, the phenomenon wasn’t really much of a phenomenon- in prince Vladimir times we had the volhvy – aka magi, mich like the Celtic druids, who lived in secluded spaces and could do magic and prophesy. But TV made them bigger, and people were still hungry for weirdos- the more the merrier, the weirder the better. People worshipped them, those guys on screen, as there wasn’t much to worship around. The power guys scared the hell out of people, or made them question many a thing, but the magic still captivated the minds.
The 2000s brought us the next big thing – the Psychic battles. Crowds of nerds, out of work actors and hereditary crazies poured in to dazzle with their extraordinary powers. Later on, they would be churning millions while doing nothing. As the battles progressed, it looked as though Russia was full of magicians and witches – excons, thieves, guys with basic education of 3 grades, and all of them of course were the great gatsbys and illusionists, psychics and shamans. In Britain, the show failed after a single season. Here, it ran for 22 seasons. Get the gist?
The worst thing is, they are popular. People believe them. People want to be them. That’s what we got. Mystics and prophets- remember The life of Brian – sages and idiots- or as we used to call them, startsy – the holy men, that is, and yurodivye – holy fools – are still here. Today they wear designer clothes, write foolish books and give presentations on the subject of magic and psychic powers. They are magic, but they fail every single test. They are magic but they can’t do a thing. And yet they talk.
That’s the soil. When wicca became popular, people loved it here. Although it has a weird taste of second rate fish, it still attracts. Biodiversity is the key I guess. New age is still a big thing here, and nothing can be done. Asatru sometimes sound like nazis, neo pagans- like hippies on weed.
I’ve been running a celtic community on Russian social network for 6 years, and it’s not a picnic. To get to people you have to battle ignorance, which is our next best virtue. To get to people you have to battle hard. Still going strong, yet it cringes me.
It is fine to feel sadness. Whatever you feel is genuine, whatever you feel is real. Purification starts with emotions. Emotions heal the soul, when they come from your true self.
Herbs heal the body just like the emotions heal the heart and mind. No one is born impassive, no one is born indifferent, no one is born empty. Emotions are born with us, gods and men alike. Some say gods are emotions with human faces. I say, gods are pure emotions. We are ruled by passions and pains, same as you, but our nature seldom changes.
Healing starts inside. Healing stems from the desire to be whole, the desire to be complete. Healing has many faces, and sometimes it starts with a smile and twinkle in the eye.
Everyone can be a healer, be it a master herbalist, child or a friend. Best healers are silent, best healers are those who care.
No two pains are the same, no healers are alike. We are different, yet all women have the power to heal.
Becoming a healer means starting with yourself. Heal yourself with kindness and care, become complete- and proceed to healing your loved ones.
Fathers and daughters, mothers and sons, brothers and sisters- all have their own pains and grudges. Come to me and I will teach you compassion. Come to me and I will teach you how to heal your families.
Come to me and see yourself as I see you blessed one, come and be healed.
You deserve it. You were born to be whole. Be whole.
When they say – adapt, be nimble, keep your head down, I say – be strong. Does a willow break in the wind, does a reed? Bend, but do not break. Dance with the winds, never bowing to them.
When they say – descend, become one with the shadows, I say – make the shadows bright. Lift your wings, break through the dark, shine out to those in need.
When they say – keep your temper, don’t ever struggle, let them do what they will, I say- fight those who want to weaken you, take up arms against those who seek to overthrow and overpower you.
When they say – close your eyes, let yourself be blinded with prejudice, silenced by fears, I say – open your eyes, see the reality for what it is. Don’t let the fear take hold of you.
When they say – be silent, do not speak unless spoken to, I say – speak up and speak out. Do you not know you are always spoken to, do you not know your voice matters? Do not let them take it away.
When they say – be like everyone else, I say- celebrate yourself. Your beauty lives in many a thing, like the beauty of water, the beauty of each new spring. Let it shine.
I am telling you this, Áine, daughter of Manannan, The queen of the Fair folk, Consort of Crom, Lover of Lugh.
I am telling you this, For I have many guises- And so do you, For we are of the same womb.
Into the Unknown 