“…little is known of the Fair Folk, although the old tales endure through all times. In the age of popular doubt and imminent technical progress the ancient superstitions survive and thrive, and it is not quite clear how and why. What is now called whimsical and fancy, once held sway over the minds and souls. We know so much, yet so little- and it grieves those who still travel the Hawthorn paths of the Fae…”
~Reverend Rhys Jones’s notebook, 1825
Be wary, mortals, For you know less Than a new born babe That is trying to breathe.
Be wary, mortals, For we’ve been here Long before the times Of your first born.
Be wary, mortals In our woods, For ours is green Of the wild and true.
Be wary, mortals: We still endure In water’s depth And the paths of yore.
Be wary, mortals: Fair Folk lives on, Unnoticed yet there, As long before.
Be wary, mortals: There comes a day When we still live And your kin is gone.
Be wary, mortals: Stay indoors On darkest nights Of the brightest noons.
Be wary, mortals: Do not intrude When no one’s waiting To welcome you.
Be wary, mortals, Keep ye in mind: Where there is lie, There will be a fight.
Be wary, mortals: The Fair Folk knows The twists and turns Of the lives and fates…
The Hunt approaches: Hear the breezes moan, The trepidation in the autumn air. The Hunt approaches: Hear the hunting horns Triumphant in the fields all bare.
The Hunt approaches: Tearing up the skies It rages through the mist and rain. The Hunt approaches: Hear the gasps and sighs Of spirits and the souls in pain.
The Hunt approaches: Sunset never fades On armour made of finest steel. The Hunt approaches: See the swords and spades Aglow in darkened autumn chill.
The Hunt approaches: See the Lord of Fae Appearing by the ancient Tor. The Hunt approaches: Do not venture where It harvests all forgotten souls.
Deep in the shadow The power lies. Deep in the darkness The wisdom stirs. Those who do follow, Find their rewards, Those who dare not Shall find their grave.
Deep in the womb Of mother earth Pathways are hidden That lead to me. Do not be frightened, And you shall see Me in the splendour Of ancient trees.
Crooked they call me, Bent and damned, Yet I give hope And the golden grain, Bloody they call me, Yet I sustain Those who believe And those who stay.
Crom is my name, I linger deep, My children come From twilight woods, I am the Lord Of the shade and bone, Crom is my name And I see all.
Vargen ylar i nattens skog (The wolf is howling in the forest of the night) Han vill men kan inte sova (He wants to, but cannot sleep) Hungern river i hans varga buk (The hunger tears his wolven stomach) Och det är kallt i hans stova (And it’s cold in his burrow)
Du varg du varg, kom inte hit (Wolf, wolf, don’t you come here) Ungen min får du aldrig ( I will never let you take my child)
Vargen ylar i nattens skog (The wolf is howling in the forest of the night) Ylar av hunger o klagar (Howling out of hunger and moaning) Men jag ska ge’n en grisa svans (But I will give him a pig tail) Sånt passar i varga magar (Which suits a wolven stomach) Du varg du varg, kom inte hit (Wolf, wolf, don’t you come here) Ungen min får du aldrig ( I will never let you take my child)
I remember Heimdallr singing it. Long are the nights of the North, loud is the howling of wolves, too hungry to hunt. At Himinbjorg, it was safe. At Himinbjorg, no wolf would dare to get you. Thor would venture out to hunt, and so would the others – Vidar, Odin, Vali, and Skadi. They would leave at dusk and return days after, and Frigg would be busy someplace else – with her maids, or by Odin’s throne, waiting and biding time weaving. She had no time for me, so I would be with the one who had it.
Heimdallr. The ever patient, the calm, the kindest of all I ever knew. Heimdallr. The tutor, the friend, the father I always dreamed of. Heimdallr. The only one of the Aesir, who would be taking care of young ones, me included.
I remember being huddled up in wolf skins, in woolen blankets smelling of lavender and milk, in his great bed, listening to the wolves howling outside Asgard. Afraid of the wolves, as any child would be, I clutched his hand.
‘They will never get us, will they, Heimdallr?’ ‘Oh no, yngling, ‘ he would answer, ‘no wolf would dare come here. No need to be scared of wolves outside. The only wolves that can hurt you, are the ones inside’ ‘Odin’s wolves?’ I’d venture, and he would smile. ‘ These are the eyes of the Allfather, Hodr. They will never hurt you. But no trust shall be placed on Loki, Laufey’s son. Keep that in mind’.
Loki was weird back then, with his flaming hair and mischief all over him, but he’d never hang out with us – he was a loner. Much as I was, but I had Heimdallr, who really loved me.
Children were safe with Heimdallr – even the new ones, even the strangers like Freyr and his sister. He used to tell us stories, he sang to us at night. He guarded us. He was the father figure to me – for my father was too far away, too high up, too distant. My mother, I thought, never cared much for me. She had other things to do.
But I had Heimdallr.
‘Sing to me’ I’d ask him, and he would gladly oblige. His voice had that strange quality, of honey and steel, – warmth was its core, but not everyone knew that, as Heimdallr remained silent for the most time. Freya loved listening to him, sitting by his feet, her green eyes flickering like the cat’s in the candlelight. Freyr loved his stories – but I loved him the most, for being Heimdallr.
And then, one day, Baldr was born. Goldenhaired, shimmering, so beautiful that even the darkness fled before him. My mother loved him to the death, as did everyone around. But she would entrust him to Heimdallr – as he was the best teacher and the best nanny – as Odin once said – among the Asgard folk.
And I would bring him to Himinbjorg, a bundle of white, green and gold, and Heimdallr would take care of him, never forgetting me. And he would sing the Vargsangen, and Baldr would sleep in his lap, and I would dream with my eyes open, listening to his voice.
Heimdallr was home. Heimdallr was safety. And no wolf would get us.
And in time, I would sing to Baldr, and he would cling to me. I was his favorite brother, the one who never left him alone. I taught him to throw knives, to fish and run faster than the wind. I taught him to read and write, and carve little wooden boats. I taught him everything Heimdallr taught me once – but I forgot we should never trust Loki.
I taught him to sing Vargsangen, the Wolfsong – and he would sing it to his son one day. I told him stories, and Heimdallr taught him to yield a sword and fight, to listen to the wind and be one with the nature.
But we never had the heart to warn him about Loki.
Into the Unknown 