Why am I always late? I should have come home earlier to have time to dry my hair after the bath and the sauna, now the thin linen dress shoulders are dampened by my wet hair. I will probably catch a cold like this. But it feels great being clean, the neutral smell of the ash soap and the fresh scent of the birch leaves used in the sauna all over my body. I still feel a bit raw on the skin by the rapping of the birch twigs.
Fingers find the circular serpent pendant while walking the familiar path in the dark, taking comfort in its weight against the chest. That's the only thing, except the simple white linen dress, that's allowed for the ritual. Feet stride along naked, having left soft leather sandals at the sauna door. Goosebumps prickle up arms, nipples hardening under the tunic in the gathering cold air of the evening. The forest casts in shadows, the last fading light barely filtering through the dense trees.
The sound of footsteps behind. Glancing back reveals no one following the winding trail to the ritual site. Yet again, the distinct rustle of the underbrush and footsteps. The fine hairs on the neck prickle. I am sure there is someone following me though none can be seen. Positively it's not an animal, but it's not a person either.
The torch-lit clearing comes into view, flickering firelight dancing over the ancient stones with their patterns painted red. Turning, peering back into the gloom between the trees, focusing. The follower is nowhere, no sign of its presence. But I am sure, someone lurks there, just out of sight.
Standing very still, straining all senses. Tasting the air with forked tongue, detecting the familiar musk of the forest - and something else, something sharp just beyond perception. The presence prickles at the edge of awareness, impossible to pinpoint. It watches and waits just outside the firelight, obscured even to my heightened senses.
Suppressing a shiver, biting my lip, turning back to the ritual space. The Jorma siblings and other figures shuffle about, preparing the rite. Torches throw wild shadows between the stones. Moving slowly to join them, still lingering on knowing with certainty that something followed here through the night woods. And it is not yet ready to reveal itself.
— — — —
The night air hums with anticipation as we gather at the stone circle under the light of the full moon. I take my place in the inner ring of initiates, all dressed in simple white robes. Mikael stands across from me, looking pale but determined. It makes me smile as I realize that he is biting his lip, just like me. The flickering torchlight paints our faces in shifting patterns of shadow and orange glow.
As we move, the inner ring clockwise and the outer circle move counterclockwise, the Jorma siblings begin chanting in an ancient tongue passed down through generations. We hum and pase our steps to enhance the ritual, to wake the old worm as they say. The syllables and guttural sounds both soft and sinister, conjuring images of serpents, blood, and sacrifice. A charge builds like an approaching thunderstorm. My fingers tingle and my skin feels hot like in a fever.
Östen lifts a the bronze ceremonial blade, grabs Mikaels hand and makes a small slice on his palm. Bright red blood wells up as Annalie presses a wooden bowl to catch the offering. Dark droplets spatter into the old vessel, the same as once held my blood. I can taste the tang of iron mingles with woodsmoke. Annalie mixes Mikael's blood with the contents of the iron pot - boar's blood, charred rowan, and bone shards. She passes the bowl to Mikael and instructs him to drink. He looks so scarred, eyes wide open and he looks straight at me like asking for help. But its all on him now, he needs to do this, there is nothing I can do. His throat bobs as he swallows the viscous concoction, face twisting with revulsion. Dark streaks runs from his face and stains the white robe.
The siblings continue their guttural chanting, weaving a spell with cadence and tone. We move faster and faster, someone is stumbling in the outer, the older people cannot keep up. The very air feels alive, shadows dancing wildly beyond the firelight. An electric charge makes my forked tongue tingle. Suddenly, a cry of alarm escapes Mikael. His eyes go wide with terror, pupils dilating until they engulf the irises. We all stop, panting, chests heaving.
Mikale begins murmuring as if conversing with phantom voices only he can hear. I can taste the pain, he is sweating and grimacing. I want to run to him, to shake him free of the hallucinatory visions, but remain rooted in place. We all do. After agonizing minutes, Mikael goes silent, swaying unsteadily. He lifts his head and I glimpse his eyes - they have changed. The blue irises now appear fractured, shot through with hair-thin strands of glowing gold. His gaze seems to straight through us, into the unseen. He has been altered in some fundamental way, he knows now. The siblings behold him with reverence, and so the rite concludes, the charged atmosphere fades along with the chanting. But we all feel it - nothing will be the same for Mikael. The abyss has left its mark upon him, like it once did on me. I wonder with uneasy curiosity what mysteries and madness he witnessed beyond the veil, I know from experience though it's hard to remember how strange the visions are.
— — — —
As we make our way back through the silent woods, I study Mikael’s face in the dim moonlight. His eyes are distant, as though still partially in the world below. But underneath this, I sense a deep unease within him. His mouth, still red from the blood he drank, his brows knit ever so subtly and his cut hand held tightly to his stained robe.
When we reach the edge of the trees, Mikael stops and looks at me. Then he speaks for the first time since the ritual. “I saw...things...beyond the tree's roots, inside and under the ground,” he murmurs, uncertainty clouding his fractured gaze. “Terrible, wondrous things, tendrils trying to break through, I don't understand, they had faces and arms but not like us.” He looks at me then, conflict plain on his face. “I do not know if I am ready for this burden.”
His words pierce me, giving voice to my own feelings. I want to comfort him, but I too feel the growing misgivings taking root within. If our gifts came only from the divine, why this lingering pain and fear? Why the unsettling and unspeakable vision, what does the Lindworm want from us?.
I squeeze Mikael’s hand in shared understanding. We continue on in contemplative silence through the deep night shadows. For the first time in years I remember the visions from my own initiation. I taste the mold and the root, I see the deformed warped bodies and the faceless creeping white tendrils. Is this really what I want to be part of, what is the purpose?
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