When Odin walks the Earth – the Wanderer of the Wilderness – he carries magic with him – you can see where his footprints lie. Springing from them grow great plants, at the edge of woodlands, in forest glades, beside the streams and waters of deep valleys – tall wrapped round with huge pale leaves, like Odin’s cloak -straight, tall stalks like Odin’s Spear – bright rayed flowers like Odin’s Ring – beautiful, mysterious, and full of magic.
Elfwort, some call this plant, and whisper of strange powers – Elecampane others call it – the Sun plant that cures the ills of Winter. Of old our fore-sires called it Spearwort, for Odin’s Spear, and deemed it sacred. Protection it gives against elf-shot and evil visitations. It cures the death-sending of enemies and calls back wandering souls.
They say that it lives, as a man lives, and wields the potent mysteries of Alfheim. Deep magic it holds, but equal power it bears to guard itself from ill. It must be stalked and taken, and danger waits the careless hunter.. Your cause is just. When you have need of Spearwort you start your spell on Odin’s Day, at a time when the Moon is full. Clean well your knife, and bless it with the names of the Aesir. Face to the North and call for Odin’s aid. Go forth to hunt it when the Sun has set. Speak not to Elf nor man, nor beast as you pass by, but keep your silence, and ever turn your mind towards your task
You go to the deep woods, to the grove beside the spring, for there it grows. You have no light but moonlight, and shadows flicker as you move. Leaves rustle. Owls call. The night is dank and chill.
A silence falls about you, a listening silence. Around your feet a mist begins to rise, a white mist, damp and clinging like the sweat of corpses, and it strikes your heart with fear You stand and thrust your Will into the dimness. Within your mind you cry “Hail Spearwort! I come in a just cause!” You drive the mist away.
You walk towards the grove. Time slows. Slowly you lift your feet Heavy they seem, as if you walked through water. Slowly you move towards the grove. The moonlit trees creep past. You stumble – and halt. Roots or vines have caught your feet and hold; and tighten, and draw you down. They move like serpents with a sliding twist
Your Will falters. You see Spearwort before you – great pale leaves – round golden flowers all moonlit pale -and by it stands a shape, a form like humankind; hooded and cloaked and leaning on a staff
It seems the spirit of the plant stands there, a fell power to vanquish you – and yet about the head shines soft and clear, the glory of a brighter World.
The vines around you tighten, crush. Screaming of Need – – you break the spell of silence. “Help me, Wolf Lord; for my cause is just!”
He smiles, and fades into the darkness. Your fetters fall away. You lunge and strike. “Forgive me, Brother, but my need is great!”
The knife still close within the wound you bear your captive home – with reverence, not in triumph. Vengeance and Victory will be yours.
Hail to the Master of Magic!
Hail to the Lord of Wolves!
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