The Lodge continues to mock Birch Black.
This epoch of Dead Winter Days has persisted in its plaguing The Wilderness of the Sowilo mountain for thousands of suns. The Limbs of the earth were unhinged from their mother, and decapitated by the bipedals who avail us nothing through their barbarism and murder. Our forests, our homes, ourselves, are brutalized out of our habitat, only to be reformed as dead slaves In the Shadow of Our Pale Companion. They care nothing for the mother we share as our home but will unhesitatingly Kneel to The Cross, all of which are made from our dead kin, in respect of Gods that probably have more in common with us than with them. There is no doubt we both share a desire for A Celebration for the Death of Man
Winter has come. Falling Snow bathes me as I continue my routine lament for Birch White. The Grain underneath my bark frowns each time I recall the sound of her branches in the wind; Not Unlike The Waves of the Black Lake Nidstng was her voice when our mother earth transported us into the season of The Isle of Summer. But Birch White was silenced the day Mankind stripped the Sowilo mountain of the entire Hawthorne Passage. I hope my brethren are all turned into pillories and gallows, to at least enact some revenge upon these undisciplined children.
She was so close to me. Our fingers used to touch. Birch WhiteYou Were But a Ghost In My Arms.
The Bloodbirds have come again. This is the nickname I have given these suicidal fools whom always act nonchalant in the face of Winter. Always the same nest they build on me each year. Always on the branches that once touched Birch White. Must you masochists mock me as well? I believe it has related significance to This Old Cabin, which has been staring me down for the past 2000 suns, approximately the same time these wings have been mounting me and my arms But they are a minor inconvenience compared to the Pantheist.
A wooden cross would have been a preferable alternative. Instead this one chants his incoherent sophistry to us as if we desire the worship he offers. Whatever God you believe in loathes you with more indignation than the entire Sowilo mountain could collectively conjure. Go back and read your Poem by Yeats, haggard fool. Old and brittle as he may be, he is only 25000 suns old. I must beI cannot recall. Birch White and I were at least 4 times older at the time of the massacre. He lives with a female of nearly identical senescence and a horse he uses to carry the decapitated arms of my brethren to heat himself at night.
Your home reminds me of the death of my love. I hope The Melancholy Spirit your kind gave me reaches out To Drown you.
Suddenly a whisper. It sounds Of Stone, Wind and Pillor. I do not understand the message but its tone is nostalgic of A Desolation Song I once shared with Birch White. Is it the Wolves of Timberline atop the mountain?...No. It struggles in its relay, as if trapped inside a Hollow Stone. But the Haunting Birds still perched on me have also just begun to squawk incessantly. Discovering the origin of this call is too difficult to bother continuation. But then the Bloodbirds depart from me and fly toward the Lodge. They must be waking up the pantheists, as they sleep after moonrise. They aimlessly dawdle around the door of the Lodge as if trying to get their attention. After more moments, they return to their nest upon my shoulder and take it apart and fly to a spot in front of me and organize themselves as the whisper becomes more tangible, more audibleand finally I understand the message.
It explains and justifies the nonsensical behavior of the Bloodbirds. It explains why their nest always reminded me of her. It explains the timing of their appearance with the construction of the Lodge. I gaze down at the dismantled nest the birds frantically reshape and I now gaze upon the Odal and Sowilo Runes; the birds have just spelt the phrase "Powerful Sun."
And finally, the message itself: "I am the Wooden Doors." Birch White is the Lodge.
This situation is incomprehensible. I am speaking again with my love who was murdered and taken away from me. She tells me how she has been a Ghost of the Midwinter Fires of these humans for years, unable to communicate with me despite being in my presence. She tells me of how she awoke in this condition inexplicably one summer thousands of suns ago. She tells me how she's been watching me for 2000 suns unable to communicate until nowshe tells me the mountain is active again, and that this is our only chance.
Inside of her, Birch White explains how the pantheists are considering moving off of Sowilo mountain, which gets its name for a very important reasonthe humans have recently found out that come the end of Winter, more industrialization and domestication will ensue here. Birch White has learned there are plans to destroy all forests on the mountain in order to develop the villages and towns surrounding the base of the mountainbut Sowilo is much more than a mountainit is an inactive volcano.
I finally understand what she wishes me to do. I do not want to be killed only to turn into Hallways of Enchanted Ebony. I do not want to witness another meaningless slaughter and be separated again from my love. So I consult with the rest of The Watcher's Monolith, the oldest trees of Sowilo who have been with me since Birch White's death, and they consult with the rest of the forests of Sowilo. The decision takes less to decide than a few human seconds. We agree to the sacrifice. There is no indecision, not even acquiescence. We agree that Tomorrow Will Never Come.
The runes on the trunk do more than merely enhance our web of communication. Though it is because the mountain is ready to be catalyzed by them that Birch White is finally strong enough to communicate. The soil is more vivacious. The oak is empowered by the fire that burns beneath them, inside Sowilo. It is giving us more lifebut now it gives us death.
Birch White's Foliorum Viridum ritual is completed by the runes and her Summerisle Reprise. Oh her voiceit drifts lambently on the wind and moonlightit's even more beautiful than the subsequent sightand erotic explosion of molten red and black destroying the cap of the mountain. We can all feel it, even before the heat crosses the timberline. The power of the Sowilo in combination with the realization of what we have accomplished. Thisorgasmic, epiphanous rush surges through our oak as She Painted Fire Across The Skyline.
The pantheists emerge from her as they see the sky in its glorious red. They scream As Embers Dress The Sky, and the noise deafens them as they scramble to mount their horse to escape. But Sowilo has prevented their futile escape as the creature is crushed by a fiery boulder ejected from the volcano, still breathing, stuck in between purgatorial misery of Fire Above, Ice Below. The selfish humans curse their Misshapen Steed as the avalanche of lava closes in on them, closes in on us. They run away downwards, believing They Escaped the Weight of Darkness that patiently awaits all. It will be soon when the flames reach the surrounding populaces down below. Worship the power of our mother, pantheist. Worship This White Mountain on Which You Will Die.
"OUR FORTRESS IS BURRRNINNNGGG," the pantheist screams in anguish as the lava reaches the backside of the cabin. You bastard fool. This planet is our fortress, and your kind has been burning since your species' outset.
The Lodge is on fire.
I hear her voice one last time before the fire converges on the doors. Many of us have already succumbed to the lava, or similar fates to the horse, who has just succumbed to its injuries. I silently but quickly mourn the death of this beautiful flesh. I speak to Birch White. I tell her I am ready to face the end with her together. She has too little time to reply as the lava reaches the doors
"We go Into The Painted Grey" and I never hear her sing again. Grey? But all that remains The Scars of The Shattered Sky crumble down in red and black. I watch her melt into the ground as I realize I do have one thing in common with that hermit. Our Fortress Has Burned to The Ground. I choose to give her final song an ending, before I too am engulfed in the life she birthed forth.
We go Into The Painted GreyAnd The Great Cold Death of The Earth.