#they perform the ceremony on the mountain where his shrine is and quite a few youkais and demons are attending

[oh-gh0st]

while i wait for food im gonna write the second part of youkai lore

[lucytara]

Yeah I get wanting some variation in your writing and whatnot. Hmm.

Gold. "I defy you. I defy your god. The laws of the universe said my love was gone from me. I said watch me save her." Bumbleby.

Have fun!

it’s possible. that i went. a little overboard with this prompt. 

"I defy you. I defy your god. The laws of the universe said my love was gone from me. I said watch me save her."

All four candles are lit in the corners of the small room, wicks burning purple and melting black wax. Her offering sits in a dish at the feet of the small statue - an old, worn piece of paper, bent and torn around its edges - and she herself kneels in the center of the floor, her hands clasped.

“I’ve never done this,” she begins, “but my name is Yang Xiao Long, and I humbly request an audience.”

Nothing happens, though she isn’t sure what she would’ve expected even if it had; the flames flicker with her unsteady heartbeat, the blood in her ears crashing as if waves in a storm. For some reason it’s embarrassing, calling on a higher entity who decides to put you through to voicemail.

She tries again, and aims for theatrical exaggeration; maybe the gods like a bit of a show. If she’s making a fool of herself, she might as well do it brilliantly. “O, Great Goddess! I call upon thee - All-Knowing Ruler of the Dead, Empress of the Night, Most Holy Lady of Darkness, Reigning Queen of Entropy--”

“I think that’s probably enough,” a voice comes from in front of her, amusement evident beneath its tone. “What was that one in the middle? ‘Empress of the Night’? I might keep that.”

Her head whips up towards the sound, and a woman in a deep purple cloak is leaning against her own statue, arms crossed and watching her performance with a look that can only be described as shameless delight. Gorgeous black hair framing golden eyes, like the sky wrapping itself around stars; the statue doesn’t do her justice.

“Oh my God,” Yang says, sitting back on her heels. All the preparation and rehearsing she’d done isn’t enough to conquer the shock of a beautiful, unearthly woman appearing in front of her and--

“Yes, I get that a lot.”

--mercilessly mocking her.

“Well, Yang Xiao Long?” the woman continues. “Why have you called upon me?”

“How do you know my name?” Yang says stupidly.

“I’m a god,” the goddess replies, a smile pulling at a corner of her mouth. “I’m the all-knowing ruler of the dead or whatever. Also, you said your name when you summoned me.”

“Fuck,” Yang says, struggling to regain her composure and failing spectacularly. “I - yeah. Right. Okay. Is it rude to swear in front of gods? And what do I call you?”

“I’ll allow it,” the woman says. “And you can call me Blake.”

“Blake,” Yang repeats; her hands open and close like a nervous tick. The name is a heavy weight in her mouth, settling her into steadiness. “I’ve come to request guidance.”

“Guidance?” Blake repeats, and gently lifts the note from the offering dish, turning it carefully around her hands without opening it to read it - she doesn’t need to. Yang registers faint surprise in her expression; yes, she’d assumed the sentimentality would fetch a rather large price. “This is quite the payment.”

“It’s the last note I have from someone who loved me,” Yang says. “I figured it would be sufficient.”

Those bright, inquisitive eyes glance over to her, and now the playing field has been reversed: intrigue and curiosity outweigh Yang’s atrocious initial delivery.

“Stand, please,” Blake commands softly. “I want to get a good look at you.”

Obediently, Yang rises to her feet, and with an odd jolt realizes she’s a few inches taller than the goddess. It’s unexpected, and it seems to unnerve Blake for a moment, too. Or maybe that’s the candlelight, throwing shapes and colors, turning the room cavernous. Maybe Blake is shrinking and she’s growing. Maybe once she was so tall the entire world trembled beneath her feet.

“You already have power,” Blake says, circling her curiously, and now she’s seeing what isn’t visible, looking for handprints on her soul. “You have been claimed. Whom do you answer to?”

“I didn’t receive this power from a god,” Yang says quietly. “I’ve had it as long as I can remember.”

“That’s impossible,” Blake says, and her gaze is piercing into Yang’s heart; she sees its strength, but she sees its scars, too. And its emptiness. There is plenty of that.

“Touch me,” Yang says. “You’ll find no prior claim.”

“I don’t need to.” Blake takes another step closer to her, the way you’d inspect a painting in a museum. Hands at her sides, cautious of glass and rope. “I can see your aura. But it’s impossible.”

“I’m looking for something,” Yang says, and Blake glances up, briefly meeting her eyes. “I don’t know what it is. But I’ve been looking for something for what feels like my entire life.”

Quizzical, now. One by one the candles are burning down. The room is collapsing in on them, or perhaps that’s simply the god in front of her, looking like she’d dive into Yang’s veins and unravel her if it were permitted.

“Why me?” Blake asks finally. “You know what I’m the goddess of, don’t you?”

“You guard death,” Yang says, her voice impossibly gentle; dusk flows river-like from her mouth. There is a world Blake can almost see. “But you can’t guard death without also guarding life, right? I don’t know what I’m looking for, but whatever it is, I imagine you encompass it.”

“Poetic,” Blake responds, and waits further. “I would like the truth, please. Our time is running short.”

There’s no point in playing games with gods. “The truth is stupid,” Yang says bluntly, and the corner of Blake’s mouth tilts again.

“Try me.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Yang says, and Blake’s eyebrows raise in amusement. Bold, reckless, and absolutely pushing her luck to the furthest corners it can inhabit. “Accept me as yours, and when the time is right, I will tell you the truth.”

“Is the truth that powerful?” Blake says, curious despite herself.

The last candle flutters, throwing shadows from Yang’s eyelashes to her cheek. “I think it is.”

--

“Welcome back, Empress of the Night,” Ruby says upon her return to the Kingdom, giving her an exaggerated bow. “I hope you enjoyed your summon, My Lady of Perpetual Darkness.”

“What the hell was that about?” Weiss asks. “I haven’t even heard you crack a joke for, like, a millennia, and suddenly you’re the court jester?”

“She was amusing,” Blake says, shrugging. “Usually people are so timid and terrified. I felt like having some fun.”

“You?” Weiss says dubiously.

“Shut up, Weiss,” Ruby says. “You mustn’t speak that way to Our Patron Saint, Duchess of Death.”

“Now you’re not even trying.”

“Don’t you both have work to do?” Blake says, ending the interrogation before it can really begin. She’s not sure she’d have the answers for them, anyway.

--

Yang journeys east.

Find me again, Blake had said. The closer you get to my temple, the more I can see of you. She’d brushed aside Yang’s bangs, touched a single finger to her forehead. It felt like a teardrop, or a meteor shower. It felt like digging up a grave, or chiseling into stone. It felt like the last explosion. It felt like the first breath.

You are mine, Blake had said, and something about it had felt far too right.

She crosses from Sanus to Anima, spends days traversing forests and mountains, fending off bandits and monsters. Eyes flashing red and fire licking up her skin. Aura glowing golden before breaking. There is something wrong with the trees, she thinks; there is something wrong with the sky. Like I’m looking at them from the wrong side.

Nobody is there to answer her, and not for the first time, she wonders how she came to be so alone.

--

Blake watches Yang’s power unveil itself from above. Yang is hers, now, and though she can’t make house calls to the world below without a summon, she at least has instant access to her claims. There aren’t many of them, and Yang is different.

It reminds her of the God of Vengeance, almost - how he absorbs power before returning it, strike by vicious strike - but Yang’s is personal, sacrificial. She feels the pain before she can utilize it, and her anger is never cruel, her actions never misplaced. And she doesn’t complain.

Sometimes, Blake wishes she would: she can hear when she’s being talked to, even if she can’t respond. Every prayer, every curse, every devastation, every hope.

She waits for the sound of Yang’s voice, but it never comes.

--

There’s a small shrine in a village called Shion, which is still weeks out from the docks where she can potentially get a ferry to Menagerie, but the locals are kind, and honor her far too greatly for being touched by their ruling god. They direct her to their place of worship deep in the woods, and leave her without looking back. It’s a sacred thing, a bond between a god and their chosen, and law forbids them from watching her ceremony.

Yang pulls the candle from her pouch, lighting it at the foot of the shrine. She kneels down on the stone, worn with the imprints of a thousand prayers, and says, “Blake.”

“I was wondering when I’d hear from you again.” The voice comes almost immediately, as if its owner had been waiting to be beckoned.

It’s still a bit of a shock, though she’s much better prepared for it this time. “Hi,” Yang says, and stops there before she can fuck it up.

“Hi,” Blake says, and seems to be amused against her will. More guarded, less open. Yang can read the warning signs, but she’ll cut them off at the source.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she means it, getting to her feet. “If I waited too long to contact you, I mean. I’m...not familiar with this area.”

“Don’t worry,” Blake says, lowering her arms. “It’s only been a few weeks. I won’t smite you until at least a month.”

Yang laughs, and unexpectedly to the both of them, Blake goes deadly still. Her body language says Yang’s done something wrong, but her expression says she’s hearing music.

The candle is burning. The moment can turn itself over gently, if Yang knows how to guide it. She keeps her smile on, but makes it quiet. “You know, I didn’t expect the Goddess of Death to have a sense of humor.”

It seems to work. “I like to surprise people,” Blake says, and moves closer. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You never talk to me,” she says, pretending to be in control of something she clearly isn’t. “Why not?”

Only the forest speaks for a moment, branches creaking, leaves rustling. And then: “Do you want me to?” Yang asks.

“It’s...something people tend to do,” Blake says slowly. “But not you.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Yang says.

“It’s not a bother.” The words come out too quickly, tone too reassuring. Blake’s own want is what laces the conversation, rather than Yang’s uncertainty. That’s a new, dangerous line.

Yang takes a careful step forward, her eyes lowered to the ground as if in apology; they raise slowly, trailing over Blake’s form until meeting her gaze. Looking for lines she’s crossed, and should step back over; searching for lights that say go. Instead, she only finds an intense, hungry confusion - I want it without understanding what it is.

“You know,” she murmurs, “these statues - they never do you justice.”

And she lifts a hand to Blake’s cheek, hesitating over her skin - is that Blake’s catch of breath, or is it the wind? - before gently cupping it in her palm. She could lose an arm for this; touching a god without being explicitly asked is the greatest sin a mortal can commit, but Blake only stands there, unmoving, eyes wide and lips parted, the moon sitting in the hollow of her throat.

“Blake,” she whispers, and it can only be a god’s strength keeping her voice steady, “I’m never not thinking of you.”

The candle goes out.

--

Nobody is waiting for her when she returns. This is how gods give each other gifts - by saying, no, I see everything but I didn’t see you.

--

Yang starts talking to her, and changes her routes so that rather than taking the most direct path to Menagerie, she’s able to stop at some of the smaller shrines on the way. There are only two more, and she hasn’t called Blake since Shion. Yang hopes she’ll still come.

“Isn’t it strange,” Yang says, “how much easier it is to think about someone than to talk about them? I think about you differently than I can talk about you. I don’t even know if that makes sense.”

No response; not that she expects one. At this point, she assumes Blake’ll just kill her if she gets too annoying. Maybe a tree will fall on her, or she’ll do something embarrassing like trip over a rock and break her neck. “I can’t remember much about my life. I know there were people I loved, but I can’t see their faces. I must’ve traveled a lot; I don’t like sitting still. I don’t know how old I am, or even when my birthday is.” She’s never admitted this before; never admitted she came to lying on the ground, with only her name left ringing in her skull and a note in her pocket.

“I think you’re beautiful,” she tells the warm night air. “That’s what I was trying to say. Before. Blake, I think you’re beautiful.”

A star shoots across the sky, light trails leaving imprints against the swirling blue-purple-black of the galaxy, but it must be a coincidence.

--

Another shrine, another candle. This one burrowed into the side of a mountain, a dome of a room with a hand-woven rug for kneeling, several long benches behind. The statue sits against the far wall, centered.

“They’re getting better,” Yang says, getting to her feet. “This one, at least, gets your eyes right.”

“Hm,” Blake says, pressing her lips together. She moves to stand next to Yang rather than in front of her, and they both examine the statue together. “I suppose you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“Were the compliments too much?” Yang asks, impressed with how light her voice sounds. She nudges Blake’s elbow with her own. Oh, she’ll see how much distance she can cross. She’s already walked miles - she’ll swim oceans, too. “You said you wanted me to talk to you.”

“I didn’t say that,” Blake denies unconvincingly, and then pauses. “And in regards to your first question - I didn’t say that, either.”

Yang could tease her - so even gods like being called pretty, huh - or she could be brave, turn to Blake, take her face in both of her hands and lean in--

“Yang,” Blake says, and does step one of that plan by turning to her. “What do you want from me?”

Maybe the idea’s overwhelmed her to the degree that she can no longer see its risks - its potentially horrible, literally life-ending consequences - and that's what drives her to do it. Maybe it’s that Blake is looking at her like a poem; something beautiful, not to be understood by anyone but the artist who made her.

“What would you do if I kissed you?” Yang says, as if it were merely an interesting, hypothetical concept to explore and not the end of the world. “Is that possible, even if you wanted me to?”

This room is warm and close and silent. The clay is cracking where the floor meets the walls. A tunneled-through skylight is the only thing that keeps Blake from swallowing the place in shadows, instead coating them in an amber, dream-like glow. Like if you mixed the two of them together, you’d still be left with light.

“I think,” Blake murmurs, “we’re both going to have to find that out.”

Step two of her plan. Both of her hands cupping Blake’s cheeks. She’s strangely aware of her lifelines - do they mean anything to you, she wants to ask, does my life mean anything to you now and if it doesn’t, will my death - she leans in, their noses brushing, Blake’s breathing as if she needs to, Yang isn’t and she does; teach me about magic, teach me about memory, tell me how I knew you before I knew myself--

Blake kisses her, tired of her caution and hesitancy, lips parting and fists knotting around the fabric of her shirt. Yang expects them to crash together, like comets. She expects them to crumble and collapse under the impact, buried in the ruins of each other and suffocating. She expects them to decay there, reveling in their own destruction.

What she doesn’t expect is sunlight.

Her skin set aflame, Blake’s tongue in her mouth, hands traveling from her face to her lower back and pressing close - somewhere a rule is being written about the gods and desperation - Blake pulls away, gasps, her fingers begging for Yang’s heart.

“This power,” she says, mesmerized, staring at things only she can see, golden gossamer roots running up Yang’s veins. “Where did you get it?”

“I don’t know,” Yang breathes out, and kisses her one last time before the candle burns out. “But I swear I’ve never felt closer to finding out.”

--

Nobody attempts to stop her from barging through God’s door. Weiss and Ruby, Sun and Neptune; they all avert their eyes. I see everything, but I do not see you.

“What is she?” Blake asks, standing before them with her head bowed. “Please, God. I need to know.”

“If you weren’t already sure,” God says, “you wouldn’t be here.”

She hates it when they’re right.

--

Yang hits the docks; situated on the outskirts of a fishing village called Ito, and with constant transport to Menagerie, their shrine to Blake is the largest one yet.

“And this one?” Blake asks, before Yang has even begun to pray.

“How did you do that?” Yang says, staring up at her, startled. “Are we, like, super close now?”

“Shut up,” Blake says, but she’s smiling. She extends a hand, helping Yang to her feet. “Your soul calls me. You barely even have to light the candle, anymore.”

The sound of the ocean knocks on the door; the smell tackles the windows. Above, the seagulls are crying out, angry at all the fish they can’t have. Yang says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Blake says, and kisses her. Soft and chaste. Something so human and so immortal. “I missed you.”

“I’m your favorite, aren’t I?” Yang teases, her fingers catching Blake’s chin in her hands.

“No,” Blake says, and for the first time, smiles with her teeth. Oh, this is happiness. “I do this with everyone who requests my presence. I’m very popular.”

“I can imagine,” Yang says, brushing a thumb across her bottom lip. “So what else are you the god of?”

“You had a few of them right,” Blake says nonchalantly, settling against Yang’s body. She could be taller, if she wanted to be, but there’s so much beauty to see when looking up. “Night, and all things within it. Darkness, shadows. Death.”

“What else?” Yang says, watching her mouth shape every letter.

“Forgiveness, and justice,” Blake murmurs. Oh, there’s a fine print for this, and she’s violating every word. “Promises,” she continues. “Seduction.”

Hook, line - a heavy wave rattles the walls; oh, the sea, the sea! - Yang shudders against her mouth, salt sinking into her blood. Leaves her bouyant and floating, the earth bubbling up beneath her. Rising and rising and rising.

“Shockingly,” Yang says, letting Blake press kisses into the crook of her neck, “I don’t find that hard to believe.”

--

“God,” Blake finds herself standing before them once again, hands clasped and head bowed. She speaks formally in the presence of God, as is customary of respect. “Please, God. I am supposed to be guiding her, but I fear all I’ve done is lead her astray. I need to know where she came from, and where she is going.”

“Blake,” God says, and touches the top of her head with their hand, “she is close to your temple. Look at her, and tell me what you see.”

--

Menagerie is a busy, populated island, and Blake’s temple is the primary reason for that. Pilgrimages are made from around the world to pray at her shrine and leave offerings at her feet. Protect me from loss, help me navigate my grief, let me fulfill my promise.

Yang is none of those things. And when the keepers of the temple ask the reason for her journey, she says, “I am in love with her.”

“You have been touched,” one says, and bows to her upon entry. “You have as long as the goddess is willing to give you.”

The heavy doors close, but the room shimmers, firelight glittering over golden-accented walls. A large moon is carved into the marble floor, crossing over a sun. Before her is the largest, most intricately carved statue of Blake she’s ever seen, and it looks exactly like her.

Yang kneels.

“You know,” Blake says from behind her, “you don’t have to do that anymore.”

“No,” Yang says. “But it - it’s been a long journey. And I’m only here because of you.”

  Blake’s footsteps echo, her boots stopping at the north point of the sun. “How do you feel?”

It’s enough to make Yang smile. “I know you heard me,” she says pointedly, but her amusement is apparent. “You hear everything I say.”

“I thought I’d give you the chance to tell me yourself.”

For the last time, Yang rises to her feet. Blake’s eyes glitter, mischievous and playful. She looks as she always has, but clearer, somehow; defined and resolute. She carries the truth in the way she extends a hand, in the way she searches for Yang’s mouth. When they kiss, Yang swears she can see another world.

“I’ll tell you something better,” Yang says. “The truth.”

She leans down, bumps their foreheads together. Blake’s arms loop around her neck automatically. Oh, Yang thinks, if I were the god of anything, I’d want it to be habits.

“So what’s the truth?” Blake asks.

“The truth,” Yang says unshakably, “is that it was you. I woke up with no memory and a note, and somehow, I knew I had to find you. The only thing I’ve been searching for is you.”

It’s you, she says. It’s you. You. You.

--

“God,” Blake says, and this time God is ready for her.

“Blake Belladonna,” God says, and inclines their head. “Come. Show me what you have.”

In her hands is a small slip of paper, worn and ripped around the edges. “It is a note,” she says, and unfolds it gingerly. “It is a note, God, in my handwriting.”

“And what does it say?” they ask.

“Find me,” Blake recites, “and I promise I’ll bring you home.”

“Well,” God says whimsically, “you are the Goddess of Promises.”

--

Tears build in the corners of her eyes, shipwrecks gaining water. “Yang,” Blake whispers, and now that she is close, she can see everything. Meteors falling from their showers; the day the sun went out. “Yang. I’m sorry. I’m so, so--”

“Shh,” Yang murmurs, pressing her lips into Blake’s hair. “What are you apologizing for? I found you, and you brought me home.”

--

“Oh, this is exciting,” God says. “I so rarely get to come to Remnant on business.”

“God,” Yang says, and bows her head. The temple doors remain locked; Blake’s hand is clutched tightly in her own. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you, Yang Xiao Long,” says God. “You fell in the last war, over five-hundred years ago. Do you remember this?”

“Yes,” she says. “I was trying to protect my sister.”

“And what happens when a god falls?”

“We forget them,” Blake says. “Their power is forfeit; they are erased from our memories, and our world.”

“It is not a law of justice, but a law of reality,” God says. “Or it was, previously. Only you did not forget immediately, Blake Belladonna. I did not know it was possible for two souls to be so intrinsically bound that they leave traces in the other, but you did not forget, just long enough to leave her a message. It took five hundred years for Yang to fall to earth, and when she awoke, she did not forget, either.

“Gods are made, and this means that what we are gods of can change,” they continue. “Blake, you were not previously the Goddess of Death. You became it because you believed that Yang had died, and no god had as strong a connection to loss as you. Your power became a beacon, just as it now will be a beacon for Remembrance.

“And you, Yang Xiao Long,” God says. “Goddess of the Sun, of Loyalty, of Sacrifice. You were many things. And now you are the Goddess of Rebirth.”

[dianasson]

The Uses of Blood

by Zeph Craven @dianaandpansson

A dear friend of mine, Marz (@HillbillyOracle on Tumblr) asked me about how blood has been used traditionally in witchcraft and magic and I decided to go all out with my response! Naturally, the traditions I’ll talk about here are from around Europe and European-derived cultures in the Americas, as these are the areas with which I have the most experience and feel qualified to speak about. Even this is limited by what has been written in English or Italian, which means I’m missing a lot of material! Of course, some of the following will be gory, bloody, or violent so please read with discretion (and TW: blood, animal abuse, violence). Many traditional uses of blood are inherently related to animal sacrifice or drawing blood from animals – I am not suggesting or condoning violence towards animals or people, only presenting the history and traditions as they have survived and as I best understand them.

The manners in which blood has been used in religion and mythology, or for magic and power, are both varied and continuous throughout European cultures. Some of these traditions have carried on, even if secluded to remote regions of Europe’s mountains, while others have truly fallen into obscurity. Witches, magicians, folklorists, classicists, and anyone who has seen a violent movie about cults will be familiar with a few topics covered here – if not in detail, then at least in dramatic atmosphere.

Sacrificial Blood The most common and widespread use of blood is as an offering to a spirit or deity. A simple and broad-sweeping discussion is best applied here; but I promise to not speak so generally in the following sections. Sacrificial blood is most often spilled from the neck of an animal – which is usually raised, treated, or traded in a sacred or special way. The animal might also be adorned with special ritual garbs, garlands, or ointments for the slaughter. While it is common in domestic and in secretive ceremony to offer up your own animal, in public or temple ritual the process of bringing the animal to the spirits and collecting its blood is almost always officiated by a priest or high-level initiate of some kind. This is a difficult and powerful act that must be overseen by someone trained in sacrifice, which is definitely practical to an extent – you have to know how to cut a throat – but I think the status of the officiant is mostly indicative of the intimacy and sanctity of such an offering. The moment of death is often celebrated by onlookers or participants, or else mourned as if their beloved were being slain. The blood may be spilled onto or into an altar or sacrificial pyre, or let flow into the water or soil at a sacred site such as a bog, hill, or field of repute. Frequently, the blood is collected instead. In many traditions, the blood of a sacrificed animal is sacred in itself – and the sacred is useful.

Sacrificial blood, being inherently hallowed, is an ancient and widespread tool for blessing. In fact, the English word “blessing” likely traces back to the word bledsian or ‘blood-sain’ (i.e. to hallow with blood). The blood gathered from a living sacrifice might be poured or sprinkled onto statues, walls, animals, or people. The sprinkling might be executed with a branch, rod, or sprig of a sacred herb. In chapter four of The Eyrbyggja Saga, the description of the temple notes that the bowl and rod used for sprinkling blood were kept on the altar-like stall in the center of all the god representations. Clearly, these tools were integral to the regular ceremonies of the temple.

Blood from a sacrificed animal is also a powerful, though complex, agent of purification. In ancient Greece, it was used to purify a shrine or temple 1  - frequently pig’s blood was applied as in Apollo’s case, while doves were common for Aphrodite, who abhorred swine. Purification with sacrificial blood would be accompanied by many rituals: supplications, prayers, offerings, and a disposal of the polluted remnants or lumata. It is important to note that not all blood was considered holy or ‘pure.�� In fact, the prime example of this kind of purification in Greece was almost a balancing of bloods: the sacrificial blood washed away the miasma or “pollution” of immoral bloodshed, such as murder. A murderer might suck out the blood of their victim and spit it forth repetitively to expiate the corruption of their crime. It wasn’t the physical blood of violence that needed cleansing, so much as the foul vengeful spirit of the person and the event, what we might now call ghosts and trauma. The animal’s lifeblood was sprinkled on the hands of the murderer where impure blood had shed, and then washed away. Some length of time (inconsistent through history and region) had to pass between the crime and the cleansing, and during that time the killer was somehow excluded from society. Though it is not difficult to make sense of this paradox, cleaning blood with blood was criticized even in the times of its practice. 2 In the previous example, the mechanics are only paradoxical if read hyper-literally. It is not as though any two insignificant bloods cancel each other out by contact; instead, it is something holy and potent that overpowers something wicked and polluted. Just as household cleaning agents must be engineered to bind to the dirt or oil they cleanse, there may also be some link between sacred blood attaching to dirty blood: the ‘like-affects-like’ principle making sacrifice a potent solution for this particular kind of miasma. There were epithets of deities that presided specifically over this ritual of purification and reintegration, called catharsis or κόθᾰρσῐς (kótharsis). According to Oxford Reference:

“The god who presided over purification from blood‐guilt was Zeus Katharsios, ‘Of purification’; this role derived from his general concern for the reintegration into society of displaced persons (cp. Zeus ‘Of suppliants’ and ‘Of strangers’). Apollo too could be seen as a ‘purifier of men's houses’ because his oracle at Delphi regularly gave advice on such matters.”

Violent bloodshed, childbirth, death, and corpses could all pollute a person or place with miasma, and sacrificial blood was only one tool of many for cleaning it away. Interestingly, the violent bloodshed of battle was less important and could simply be washed off. 3  With no greater significance is the trauma and poison of war-blood treated now. Later, on the outskirts of Greek cult-influences, menstrual blood was considered a pollutant that must be purified before entering temples – along with many other bodily fluids such as semen – yet menstrual fluids were rarely written of at all. 4 Some ‘scientific’ texts from this period suggest that menstruation is a form of purification itself, which could indicate why some might have considered the expulsed fluids impure. There are ancient Roman writers that speak of menstrual blood as a destructive force, in many ways that actually sound quite useful. However these are not the documentations of practices – rather products of solitary musings on agricultural metaphysics. These writers weren’t documenting, they were thinking ‘out-loud.’ Yet, it is not a far stretch to suppose that menstrual blood may have been considered a form of miasma in later Mediterranean sacred structures, especially looking at the modern practices of purification by sacrificial blood in some mountain communities of Georgia (Pshavi, Xevsuri, and Svaneti), which have strict taboos around menstruation in ritual structure, village composition, and social functions such as hunting. 5 These areas of Georgia were not once so distant from the cultures of the Greek empire, Colchis being a notable region of these mountains where the story of Jason and the Golden Fleece took place. In this story, Colchis is the kingdom of the infamous sorcerer Aeëtes and his daughter Medea, the witch, for whom Circe herself performed a purification of miasma by pig’s blood with prayers to Zeus of Suppliants. 6 The Kartvelian societies, in modern-day Georgia, were conquered in succession by Persia, Greece, and Rome. Where these rituals have survived (though some have supposed they were reinvented) in Georgia, the ganatvla sacrifice is carried out by a priest in a space kept pure and guarded with taboo, in the presence of St. George, his female partner, and/or other “children of God” (xvtisšvilni). Healing and benediction are prayed for as the bovid’s life spills over the supplicant’s arms, and this good blood is thought to drive out bad blood and impurities. One of the primary impurities is menstrual blood, and menstruating people are made to leave the general border of the village and pass their cycle in designated huts on the outskirts of the community.

In Xevsureti, the purification of religious spaces with sacrificial blood is so vital that they have creatively managed to introduce blood on structures restricted to humans. There are certain buildings so pure that even the highest priests cannot go near them, yet they soak snowballs in blood from the sacrifice and launch them at the walls from afar in blessing. 7 However, impure blood, such as the blood of a cat, might be spilled to sever the link between community and divinity, as seen in the ballads of the Zurab Cycle.

Well into the 20th century, rural Ireland would have been familiar with the bleeding of geese, cockerels and hens, pigs, or goats (though geese were most popular) on the eve of Martinmas (Nov. 11th). The animal would be offered to St. Martin and its blood spilled and sprinkled around the household, with some variation county to county. It was almost always spilled at the doorstep or on the doorposts, but often sprinkled in the corners of the house or kitchen as well, and this pattern was mimicked in the stables. Crosses were sometimes made with the blood on the floor and on the foreheads of the family members. Once, it would have been common in some counties to soak up the blood with cotton. This object was then hung up in the rafters, or else pressed against the body to relieve pains. The whole ritual kept out sickness and danger for the year. The reasoning behind the sacrifice, as well as the choice in animal, shifted frequently – usually having some connection to how the saint was killed, or else being a specific sickly animal promised earlier to St. Martin in exchange for its continued health until Martin’s Eve. Though blood-pudding was a relatively common dish, there were frequently taboos about using this sacrificed blood for consumption. Many good examples of this celebration can be found in the Duchas National Folklore Archive. Dr. Billy Mag Fhloinn has argued that this Martinmas blood-sacrifice is a remnant of older Samhain traditions – as the shift to Gregorian calendar would put November 11th (modern) around October 30th in the Julian calendar. I hesitate to indulge this theory, as I do not see all pivotal rituals, games, and social functions transferring dates to match the contemporary calendric year except this singular rite, but Mag Fhloinn himself is hesitant and cautious enough. I think it highly plausible that this is a purely Irish-Catholic ceremony, incorporating rituals that inherently reveal the functions of the natural world according to older Irish world-views: in other words, that blood sacrifice as a means of purification and protection was not in contradiction with the sanctity of God and the Church. It just worked, so it kept on.

This is actually amazing, considering the contradiction of blood as a purifying agent (mentioned previously) was such a severe point for philosophers and theologians over a thousand years prior, though that ilk is by definition less concerned with what is practical. Blood sacrifice is inherently dramatic. Like orgies, infanticide, and cannibalism, Greeks and Romans eventually used the image of blood sacrifice as a polemic tool for propaganda against Pagans, Jewish communities, and more distant cultures. Most especially utilized was the image of far-off ‘barbarians’ sacrificing humans, a point that some Roman historians used to criticize their own history [read: chart their sophistication.] By the 3rd Century CE – things are getting a little Christian now – even animal blood sacrifice was brought into suspicion in the high seats of Roman imperial religion, scholarship, and governance. Pythagoreans and Platonists moved away from the older practical applications of purification as a directly effective ritual, bringing catharsis to a metaphysical, philosophical, and eventually psychological light. 8

Initiation by Blood Unspecific to tradition, there are some initiatory rituals that call on blood (be it from sacrificed animals, the initiate, or even divine blood) to be reborn. A striking example of this is the taurobolium: an initiation of priests into the cult of the goddess Cybele, who came from Asia Minor where she was worshiped for millennia under unknown names. Her oldest appearance is from around 6,000 BC in Phrygia, though the detailed descriptions of this ritual come from later Roman writers after her cult had travelled to that peninsula, where she was called Ma’tris Magnae (Great Mother) or Ma’tris Deum (Mother of Gods). 9 In English, she is often referred to as Magna Mater but I’ve always found that bothersome; I think if you’re going to use a Latinate name then use the real Latin name! If that’s too hard, just translate it and call her Great Mother. Her cult was perhaps most infamous for its priesthood of male eunuchs and its castrated-animal sacrifices – very threatening concepts to the imperial patriarchy.

The initiate would stand in a pit that had been covered by planks of wood, in which holes had been made, and a sacrificial bull would be lowered onto the planks. As the initiate covered his ribbon-crowned head with his toga, the bull was killed and its blood released by spear thrusts and tugs that widened the wounds. The initiate would emerge from the pit, unrecognizably drenched in hot, smelly blood. According to Prudentius, the blood was even expected to be let into the mouth, which strikes me as indicative that you are not only purging outside influences with the holiness of the sacrifice but also inner impurities and insufficiencies, making your whole self ready for service to the Great Goddess. Some accounts say a goat or ram might be killed in conjunction with the bull as a sacrifice to Ma’tris Magnae’s lover, Attis. Both animals would be castrated. 10

One brief example from the Greek Magical Papyri (Papyri Gracae Magicae, or PGM) describes a ritual of initiation into the mysteries of magic by drinking the blood of a white cockerel (or rooster) before jumping into the Nile. 11 Submersion into natural, especially sacred, bodies of water is common in initiation rituals throughout Europe and the Mediterranean, but this is a pretty unique application of cockerel blood. White and black cockerels are common fauna in Euro-centric magical recipes along with cats, goats and rams, owls, lapwings, and doves or pigeons. A white cockerel has the properties of a high masculine divinity, of an upper-worldly or celestial persuasion, and might therefore be used in magic for success, love, conquering, protection, or appealing to that same divinity. In this initiation ceremony, we might understand the consumption of its blood as integrating these properties to the self, alongside a purification and rebirth in the sacred river.

Jumping forward about 1,200 years, we see a very different use of blood in a very different kind of initiation. Isobel Gowdie gave a confession in 1662 to crimes of witchcraft near Auldearn, Scotland. She gave many vivid accounts of her illicit outings with the Devil, the fairies, and her coven. The following scene describes the renunciation of her baptism and the ritual of being re-baptized by the Devil:

“Margaret Brodie, in Aulderne, held me up to the Divell, until he re-baptised me, and marked me in the shoulder, and with his mouth sucked out my blood at that place, and spouted it in his hand, and sprinkling it upon my head and face, he said, ‘I baptize ye, Janet, to my self, in my own name!’”

Janet is the new name bestowed upon Isobel by the Devil here, her un-Christian name you could say. Her own blood is applied, in place of the baptismal water or oil. It is noteworthy that the blood is sucked into the Devil’s mouth before being used to anoint her, perhaps cycling it through his divinity and imbuing it with ‘unholiness.’ This initiation might be seen as necessary for a witch to work with the Devil. Since the Catholic ritual of baptism is a cleansing of sins and an exorcism of the Devil in its own right, it might prevent such ungodly powers working within a person. In this light, the consumption and sprinkling of Isobel’s blood may function as a re-administration of sin into her soul, thus severing her connection with God.

Another 277 years later, and an ocean away, we find a new kind of blood in the initiation of witches and magicians. There is blood to be found in folk stories of witches sacrificing animals (black cats and black cockerels) to the Devil for initiation and ensuing magic throughout the Appalachian and Ozark Mountains, yet the most fascinating example is neither a direct sacrifice nor an ingredient. A story from Wise County, Virginia recounts how a young man gained his powers. After eight mornings of rigorous ritual process:

“On the ninth morning, he took his gun and the silver bullet with him. He shot the bullet toward the sun as it came up over the ridge. They had told him that if the sun looked as if it were dripping blood as it came up, then he would be a witch.”

The ninth morning didn’t present him with all the required signs of confirmation, and it took him two full years to complete his initiation as a ‘conjure man.’ Shooting the sun follows many clearly chthonic and sacrilegious rituals, which might indicate that this is a metaphor of wounding God and denouncing him. The dripping blood is confirmation of the initiate’s power to stand against the Christian God, who was once frequently associated with solar imagery. This is truly speculative, yet if the symbolism holds in context, this would be an example of divine blood within initiatory divination. 12

Bloody Witchcraft Now that we’ve dipped our toes into early modern witchcraft, let’s go in deeper. When the image of the early modern witch is merged with the image of blood, one might first jump to the scenes of paranoia previously listed: orgies, infanticide, and cannibalism. Thanks to twelfth century theologians and sixteenth century Protestants, we can now add dramatic demonic sacrifice to that list. Despite the excitable and repetitive fanfare of the Witch Craze, there are many intriguing elements of blood-work in witchcraft to be examined besides the initiations discussed previously.

In late 1500s England, it was common knowledge that familiar spirits (i.e. beings provided to a witch or magician by the Devil, God, its previous owner, or the monarchy of Fairy to help with magic and mischief) might be fed with blood from the witch’s body. While milk, bread, or butter was the most common offering, blood remained a more fanatical portrayal for the popular culture of the courts and taverns. It was common knowledge that a witch might feed their familiar spirit with blood let from the mark left on them by the Devil, perhaps at initiation. 13

In continental Europe, examples abound of witches that feed on blood from quite ancient to very modern folklore. The definition of “witch” is blurred in this context: they might be incorporeal beings that can afflict, abduct, and loot not unlike the fairies, sucking the blood from men and babes in the night. 14 The witch may instead be your very tangible neighbor: unlikeable and affronting, who frequents Sabbats and wets their gullet with blood while feasting on infant corpses before dancing erotically for the Adversary. There is an association with witches and the creature strix (screecher), as blood-sucking entities 15 that find victims in the night. Through evolution or syncretism the strix became strigoi, and was related with vampyr, and vrykolakas: creatures of a sorcerous nature that thrive on human blood and remains. Incorporeal, animal, or humanoid witches might feed on blood for power and longevity. The latter might use it to attain those non-human shapes. Witches in the Balkans were said to use children’s blood as an ingredient in their transformative ointments and unguents 16  – though infant fat was far more common elsewhere on the continent, I doubt much effort would have been made to wash clean their diabolical cooking lard so we can bet on some blood in there too. In Scandinavian witch trials, there is an example of the blood and pelt of a cat being adorned to take on its very form. 17 For witches, blood is sustenance and life or it is a gory detail in scenes of taboo ceremony. If the story of any particular witch’s ritual incorporates elements of more Abrahamic magic, then its use of blood will align better with those covered in the grimoire section below. As Matteo Duni discusses throughout his book Under the Devil’s Spell, the intersection of witches and literate magicians in early modern Europe was broader than many suppose, and these folks talked and traded secrets quite a lot.

Blood as Medicine Blood has medicinal functions as well as diabolical. In older Euro-centric medical thought, our blood might carry forces within it that induce illness. The spiritual and the scientific were not so juxtaposed once, and it may have been a build-up of that hot, red humor or a malefic presence in the blood that caused a fever, high blood pressure, apoplexy, and/or headaches. The persistent cure was letting that excessive/bad blood out of the body: i.e. bloodletting.

Some cures prescribe blood as a magico-medical ingredient. In County Kerry, Ireland a swelling or injury in the leg could be cured by taking the blood from a cat’s ear and drawing a ring with it around the affected area. There was also a belief in some areas of the country that the blood of people in certain families could cure specific diseases, for example folks with the last name of Cahill could make symbols with the blood of their little finger and speak a prayer to cure someone of “wild-fire” disease. The blood of a black cat could cure the same affliction. In the Pennsylvania-Dutch magico-medical text Long Lost Friend, we find a cure for epilepsy in drinking the blood of a dove.

Blood in Divination A common form of divination in North and Central America is divination by egg, or oomancy. The egg is passed ritualistically over the patient’s body before being cracked into water. The signs that the floating whites and yolk make can be read to tell fortunes or diagnose problems. Any spots or streaks of blood in the mixture are considered an incredibly bad omen.

The shades of the dead around the ancient Mediterranean would feast on spilled blood, and the blood of all-black animals was an efficacious offering to them. In the Odyssey, most-likely written down in the 8th century BC, Circe gives Odysseus advice for consulting with the dead: in a particular cave, a trench was to be dug (a proper altar for underworldly spirits) into which libations of milk, honey, sweet wine, water and barley grain were made. Finally, sheep were led to the edge of the pit where Odysseus cut their throats and let the dark blood spill in, all the while making prayers to dwellers in the house of Hades. He stands with his sword between the pit of blood and the shades when they come, postponing their desire to feast on it and tantalizing them until he receives his intended counsel. Over 2,000 years later, this ritual of consorting with the dead has survived in the grimoire of Arthur Gauntlet, though understandably changed and with a subtly different interpretation on the means of summoning:

“Now these souls…are easily allured by the [body-] like vapours, liquors and savours. From hence it is that the souls of the dead are not called forth, without blood, or the putting of some part of the forsaken body & we perfume with fresh blood in the calling forth of Shadows, with the bones of the dead, and flesh, with Eggs, Milk, honey, Oil and the like which attribute a fit means for the souls to assume their bodies.” 18

Around the 1st century BC, Varro also mentions the pouring of blood into a divination bowl to draw the spirits of the deceased – who see much more than we – to the diviner. 19 Blood in Magic In magic, the main uses of blood draw on its continued association with its original host. An animal’s blood may be included in a spell because of that animal’s magical properties and associations. A person’s blood contains their essence and maintains a link with the target or the spell-caster respectively, which is manipulated through ritual. The connection with the source of blood, or perhaps the implied sacrifice, also gives power to writing magical words and symbols.

Personal effects are bodily fluids or trimmings that are included in spells to increase the power of the ritual. For example, a figure of a person made in wax or clay would have some power over the target just by being shaped and named for them. However, the inclusion of blood, hair, or nail clippings dramatically increases the efficacy of the magic. Even personal items, such as bits of clothing, are useful, though much more so if they’ve soaked up some of the target’s sweat. The blood of the spell-caster might be administered to their victim, disguised in food or drink, as a consistent method of forcing love and seduction. Sometimes the type of blood fed to a victim is unspecific: sometimes it is menstrual, and other times it is even an animal’s. Usually, the latter would be a dove or pigeon, which are associated with Venus.

Blood could also be used in undoing magic and breaking spells. In Hungary, 1730, a Mrs. Mihály Jóna presented a cure for the evil eye to her patient: the mother was to procure three drops of blood from the little finger of the person who “saw” her daughter (gave her the evil eye) and to drip it into her daughter’s eyes. This would relieve her of the illness that the evil eye caused. 20 In early modern England there was a rather specific belief that a witch sighting their own blood would have all their spells broken. This obviously led to some relatively violent attacks on suspected witches. Perhaps a callback to the previously discussed purification by sacrificial blood, a Devon cunning-woman named Agnes Hill performed this ritual to cure a woman of sickness by witchcraft:

“Hill then said we must kill the cock, and desired her mother to cut its throat, which she did with a razor. The cock was held over the new earthen pan, holding the fasting water [her mother’s urine] and the blood, which was mingled together, and then put over the fire to boil. Hill then cut open the cock, and took out its heart, and told her mother to stick seven new pins into it, likewise seven new needles, and nine blackthorn prickles. The ash wood was put on the fire under the pan, the heart was hung up to roast before the fire, and it was afterwards thrown into the fire, pins, needles, and all.” 21

Here the cockerel’s older associations with the sun, success, and conquering might be invoked to drive away the malefic influences of the witch. Perhaps the celestial masculine divinities of which it was once symbolic were even replaced by or subtly aligned with the Christian god of Agnes’ time in 19th century Devonshire.

The weightiest source of blood-use in magic comes from the grimoires of continental Europe, Iceland, and England. Sometimes, the application of specific animals’ blood seems to break from the overall patterns, and the text itself can seem to be sewn together from opposite ends of missing sentences. The way these tomes were passed on was often by hand-copying each word, and the transference of some very ancient rituals over the span of many hundreds of years has surely let some material and context fall into the cracks of history. Due to the overwhelming and obscure specificities of the material, these examples will be found predominantly in the post-script notes.

Properties of animals in folk magic and grimoire traditions directly correlate to the applications of their blood. To quote Agrippa, in a hyper-literal example, “It is also believed that the blood of a bear, if it be sucked out of her wound, doth increase strength of body, because that animal is the strongest creature.” 22 Every animal has some magical properties, but these associations definitely change over time and by location. There are very common animals, and persistent patterns, that allow parallels and conclusions to be drawn. In continental European and American folk magic for example a cat might represent a woman and a dog might stand for a man. Bits of those animals are used to affect their respective genders and provide a symbolic link to the magical targets. In the Balkans, blood of a dog and cat were sprinkled on the path between wandering husband and his paramour to cause dislike between them, which could be read differently as the essence of two animals that like to fight being used to cause discord. The color of the animals would have likely been relevant, but this is not included in the account. 23 In the continental and English grimoires there is usually an implied proper procedure for procuring blood from an animal – not just where to cut, but when, and accompanied by which exorcisms, etc. That blood was used in the consecration of sorcerous ritual tools; as an ingredient in or as itself a magical ink; combined into a perfume with herbs and other fleshy or mineral bits; mixed into oil to make a lamp; or anointed as a refreshing face-mask!

If the blood must come from the magician, it is almost always drawn from the little finger, or else it does not specify. The magician’s own blood is used for writing sacred words and incantations, mostly in love spells and cures – though in at least one instance for the conjuration of spirits with a more arcane intention. In Long Lost Friend there is a different sort of love administered, with the magician feeding a dog their blood to create an instant bond between the two.

However, Icelandic magic uses the magician’s blood drawn from specific and varied areas of the body such as certain toes or fingers, or the thigh. Blood would be traced into carved symbols and words on wood, bone, skin, or stone. One example is how the witch Þuríðr uses magic to defeat a great Icelandic hero, rubbing her blood into runes on a beached log while speaking a charm, and walking around it counter-clockwise. 24

Bloodstains Blood leaves a mark: that has always been said. Places of great bloodshed are sacred to the spirits of Mars in grimoire magic. They are also very feasible settings for raising the dead. However, the most famous and infamous bloodstains are a break from the previous sections; 25 they are not made from animals or mortals. When the blood of gods is spilled, there is a creation to it and a power to it. Jesus, Chronos, and Prometheus all had blood spill from them in torture or death. Whatever this blood touched was changed; adding colors to animals, plants, and minerals, or else creating powerful new flora that have great use to any magician. The spilling of the blood of Jesus is a pervasive and consistent image in magical charms and prayers of all sorts. It is his blood that is consumed in the wine of every communion ritual. In the Prose Edda, the gods of the Æsir and Vanir formed a peace treaty, and from the spittle of their treaty they created a man of pure wisdom named Kvasir, who entertains them and travels the world answering many riddles and questions. The dwarves, Fjalar and Galarr, who value little above what they can create and forge, pulled Kvasir aside, slitting his throat and draining his blood into vats of honey for making mead. This mead carried his wisdom, scholarliness, and poesy forever through his blood. It was once said that whoever had a genius for poetry had drunk from this mead. In 20th century Irish manuscripts from the Duchas archive, there are many entries about bloodstains from violent deaths where the ugliness of the crime was so wicked the blood refuses to be cleaned. There are also many stains on stones and churches from martyred priests that likewise never fade, in which we see a touch of the divine. The blood of the otherworld neighbors, the fairies, has also stained many a stone throughout Ireland’s counties, said to be the sign of a battle between the Good Neighbors. Whether it’s godhood, otherworldliness, or extreme violence, some blood doesn’t wash away – my sympathies to Lady Macbeth.

The way we look at blood in ritual has undergone many cycles of change and of repetition, traces of which can be seen in our current cultures. From practical applications, and cosmological ramifications, to a prop on a stage of fear, there are examples from literal thousands of years ago through to this past Sunday. Sacrifices and stains surround us, and we walk around with this potent fluid sloshing through our bodies, invisibly waiting to be tapped and put to use in casting enchantments or feeding our secret spirits. I hope this has been illuminating to you, in some degree, and I beg forgiveness for any major oversights or misinterpretations in this text. Be nice to your pets please. See post-script for endnotes, and for examples of blood in grimoire texts.

Examples from the Grimoires:

In no particular order, here are examples of blood in grimoire texts. Where unspecified, assume the blood is applied as ink. Enjoy.

From the Greater Key of Solomon: Book II – Many sorcerous tools are dipped in various bloods as part of their preparation. A ceremonial white-handled dagger is sanctified in blood of a gosling bird and the juice of a pimpernel and engraved before being wrapped in white silk. The famous black-handled knife used to strike fear in the heart of spirits should be dipped in blood of a black cat with juice of hemlock and engraved before being wrapped in black silk. The ritual sickle is dipped in blood of magpie and juice of mercury-herb. This text also has a procedure on the proper purifications, rituals, and prayers needed to take blood from a bat and other animals for use in magic. There are instructions for general animal sacrifice and it does specify that the animals should be virgins (yes in the sexual sense), and it includes words that should be said later when spilling the blood in Chapter XXII. Book I – The blood of a black hen is used on hare skin to prevent a hunter from his bounty. Blood and fat of a dead man are used in an oil lamp to reveal hidden treasure. For spells of trickery and deceit the ‘pen of art’ should be dipped in the blood of a bat previously procured in the correct manner for use. Pentacles – Blood of a screech owl in conjunction with a swallow pen is to be used for the Second Pentacle of Jupiter, and the blood of a bat in the Seventh Pentacle of Mars.

From the Black Pullet: The magician’s wand is stained with lamb’s blood in its creation and sanctification.

From Agrippa: Perfumes – Blood of a white cockerel for Sun perfume, goose blood for Moon, bat for Saturn, stork or swallow for Jupiter, blood of a man and of a black cat for Mars, pigeon (or dove) for Venus (boar’s blood in Arthur Gauntlet), and magpie for Mercury.

From the Sword of Moses: No.55 Uses your own blood as ink on an egg for a love spell and No.64 Uses your own blood as ink on both your doors for the same. How embarrassing!

From the 6th and 7th Books of Moses: Writing magical circles with the blood of young white doves for the inquisition and enslaving of spirits, and the blood of butterflies for writing the seals of the Seven Great Princes who are nature and treasure spirits.

8th Book of Moses: Baboons blood is used in a spell to send dreams to your target.

From the Lemegeton I: Goetia: Writing another seal for binding spirits with the blood of a black cockerel that has never mated with a hen.

From the Grimoirum Verum: Your own blood from your little (Mercurial) finger for writing the conjurations of spirits, the use of white pigeon (dove) blood to inscribe names of the Hebrew God on a mirror for divination, and To Make a Girl Dance in the Nude, which involves the blood of a bat on a blessed stone over which mass has been said. It is a very unpleasant spell: “She will undress and be completely naked, and will dance increasingly until death, if one does not remove the character; with grimaces and contortions which will cause more pity than desire.” Quite disturbing!

From Grimoire of Honorius: While creating a sacred lambskin to avoid perversion and corruption from the demons the magician will engage upon, the lamb is sacrificed, but the magician must make an effort not to spill the blood of the sacrificial lamb onto the earth. Perhaps this is an avoidance of old-pagan blood-sacrificial dirtiness, or avoidance of telluric impurity?  

From SLOANE MS 3824 (called the Book of Treasure Spirits by Rankine): The invocation symbol for the spirit Mamon is drawn in lapwing or black cat blood, and in discovering a treasure trove the blood of a black cockerel is used variously as ink.

From the Book of Gold: Psalm 43 can be written in bird’s blood to destroy an enemy, Psalm 59 in billy goat’s blood for releasing the bonds of your own actions, Psalm 60 in white cockerel blood to bring back your wife, Psalm 90 in dove blood to protect and embolden fearful children, and Psalm 103 is written in bat or black hen blood for a love spell. Psalm 136 should be drawn in menstrual blood to stop blood – the phrasing in the text implies this may be a charm to staunch menstrual bleeding specifically.

From the Grimoire of Arthur Gauntlet: Bat blood to make spent money return; dove blood in a protection spell; blood from the finger of the magician in a cure for the falling sickness; ant eggs and blood of a white hen anointed on face let you see wonders; blood of a lapwing, white owl, raven, mole, hen etc. (super-bloody-murder-bath) for finding and conversing with familiar spirits; bat’s blood onto an apple before it falls, given to eat as a love spell; cockerel and sparrow blood written on a candle to summon a woman to it; white pigeon blood on green silk to attain the love of all people; bleed a bat with glass or flint and write “J” and touch to target who shall follow you, this can be tested first on a dog; and the blood of a turtledove written as a charm on virgin parchment and sewn into a pouch to be worn for success in playing dice.

Book of Oberon: This is really drawn from many older texts, but just to give this book some light – the blood of a lapwing may be suffumigated with lignum aloes to produce visions of spirits. For shooting competitions there is a ritual that includes dipping the arrows in the blood of your left finger.

From Papyri Graecae Magicae: # IV 1928-2005 – Serpent blood ink for binding a restless dead spirit with Helios for love magic, the following entry uses blood of an ass, eel, and falcon similarly. #IV 2145-2240 – Uses the blood of someone who died violently mixed with myrrh resin on bay leaf for an oracular divination.

From the Galdrabók: No. 34 Is a love spell placing worm or serpent blood where the target will walk over it along with other charms. No.45 Requires blood drawn from the big toe and right hand of the magician, which should be smeared on the yarrow herb as well as the required staves, in a spell to uncover a thief. No. 46 Is the famous fart rune, for which blood should be drawn from the thigh. 47 Also requires blood from the big toe to create the Helm of Hiding.

From Kreddur: No.15 Discover a thief using blood from under the left-hand middle finger to draw the appropriate staves.

Endnotes:   1 Parker, Robert. Miasma: Pollution and Purification in Early Greek Religion. Oxford, Clarendon Press/Oxford University Press, 1986, pp. 27-30. 2 Ibid, p. 372. 3 Ibid, p. 114 4 Ibid, p. 101. 5 Tuite, Kevin. “Highland Georgian Paganism – Archaism or Innovation?” Annual for the Society of the Study of the Caucuses, Université de Montréal, 1996, pp. 284. Parker, Robert. Miasma: Pollution and Purification in Early Greek Religion. Oxford, Clarendon Press/Oxford University Press, 1986, p. 370 6 Tuite, Kevin. “Highland Georgian Paganism – Archaism or Innovation?” Annual for the Society of the Study of the Caucuses, Université de Montréal, 1996, p.6 7 Fraser, Kyle. “Roman Antiquity: the Imperial Period.” Cambridge History of Magic and Witchcraft in the West, edited by David J. Collins, S.J., Cambridge University Press, p.133. 8 The distinction between Pythagorean pagans and sorcerous polytheists is mentioned by Porphyry, in an analysis of blood/flesh sacrifice vs. ascetic and moral acts of devotion. 9 Turcan, Robert. The Cults of the Roman Empire. Oxford, Blackwell Publishers Ltd., 1996, p.28. 10 Ibid, p. 52. 11 The Greek Magical Papyri: In Translation. Edited by Hans Dieter Betz. University of Chicago Press, 1986, PGM IV. 26-51, pp. 37-38. 12 Combs, Josiah Henry. “Sympathetic Magic in the Kentucky Mountains: Some Curious Folk-Survivals.” The Journal of American Folklore, vol. 27, no. 105, 1914, p. 329.   13 Wilby, Emma. Cunning Folk and Familiar Spirits. Chicago, Sussex Academic Press, 2013, pp. 82 & 109. Along with milk and bread by around In 1566, Joan Prentice let her familiar, Bid, suck blood from her cheek before bed. In 1582, Margery Sammon’s mother told her that the familiar the latter passed on must be given milk, if not they would suck her blood instead. 14 Scottish and Manx fairies, if not appeased by offerings of fresh water and bread, might drink your blood instead. 15 Perhaps screech owls or bats. 16 Vukanović, T.P. “Witchcraft in the Central Balkans I: Characteristics of Witches. Folklore, Vol.100, 1989, p. 12. 17 Willumsen, Liv Helene. “Children Accused of Witchcraft in 17th-Century Finnmark.” Scandinavian Journal of History, vol. 38, 2013, p. 27. 18 The Grimoire of Arthur Gauntlet, edited by David Rankine. Avalonia, 2011, p. 208. 19 Gordon, Richard. “Good to Think: Wolves and Wolf-Men in the Graeco-Roman World.” Werewolf Histories, edited by Willem de Blécourt, Palgrave Macmillan, 2015, p. 45. 20 Kristóf, Ildikó Sz. “The Social Background of Witchcraft Accusations in Early Modern Debrecen and Bihar County.” Witchcraft and Demonology in Hungary and Transylvania, edited by Transylvania Gábor Klaniczay and Éva Pócs, Palgrave Macmillan, 2017, p. 35. 21 Davies, Owen and Easton, Timothy. “Cunning Folk and the Production of Magical Artefacts.” Physical Evidence for Ritual Acts, Sorcery and Witchcraft in Christian Britain, edited by Ronald Hutton, Palgrave Macmillan, 2015, p. 214. 22 Agrippa, Henry Cornelius. Three Books of Occult Philosophy or Magic, edited by Willis F. Whitehead, Hahn & Whitehead, 1898, p. 73. 23 Vukanović, T.P. “Witchcraft in the Central Balkans I: Characteristics of Witches. Folklore, Vol.100, 1989, p. 15. 24 Mitchell, Stephen A. Witchcraft and Magic in the Nordic Middle Ages. Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011, p. 94. 25 Perhaps excepting the Appalachian witch’s ritual evidence discussed in the Initiation section. Image Credits (in order): Blood in water. source unknown (anyone know it?), accessed via google images Feb. 3rd 2020. Blood saining, from Beowulf and Grendell (2005), dir. Sturla Gunnarsson. accessed via Facebook, Feb. 1st 2020. Bainbridge, Alexander, 2015. Mindia toasts the memory of Iakshar after the sheep sacrifice, Beer and blood sacrifices: meet the Caucus pagans who worship ancient deities, Indipendent.co UK, accessed Feb. 1st 2020. Bleeding for St. Martin, posted in 2005 on Sligo Heritage, original source unknown, accessed Feb. 1st 2020. Taurobolium, or Consecration of the Priests of Cybele under Antoninus Pius (Detail).Engraving by Bernhard Rode (undated, ca. 1780). Accessed via Wikipedia Feb 3rd. 2020. Witches being baptized by the Devil, or Tiercement le confirme en cette opinion luy grauant de ses ongles le front pour d'illec tollir le Chresme & signe baptismal. (Fig. 5.). Woodcut. Accessed via Project Gutenberg Feb. 3rd 2020. Blood in wine glass, source unknown (again, anyone?), accessed via google images Feb. 1st 2020. Blood on hand, source unknown (again?), accessed via Giphy Feb. 3rd 2020. Crown of thorns, (possibly) @Doug21, 2007, on Flickr, accessed via Flickr Feb. 3rd 2020.

[ron-inn]

Week 3: Black Smoke

     Kenji doesn’t know the protocol for calling on an ancient god—that was more of Masami’s expertise as one of the village’s senior shugenjas, the magic wielders who could connect to the spirit realm and commune with its inhabitants.  The old legends were super vague on instructions: just travel east until you couldn’t anymore, then two more days to reach the Forbidden Lands; cross the Bridge of Sorrows until you reached the Temple of Ancients; boom, wake up a god.  The legends didn’t go any further, so Kenji just wings it and also lights the candles surrounding the stone altar in the back. He waits for the black smoke to rise up midway to the ceiling before he unsheathes the sword and starts calling out names of power, trying to enunciate them exactly the way Masami did whenever she had to perform the annual Rite of Seals for the village. 

     Then, something responds.

     “Who Is It… That Calls Us… From Our Slumber?” The multitude of voices speaks in a jumbled, echoey collective.  It is neither male nor female, but the deepest instinct inside Kenji knows that this being is very old, very powerful, and very ready to strike him down if he doesn’t explain right now why he marched into its resting place and started waving a mystical sword around, yelling for “the Captive God” and “Dormin the Sky-Render” to wake up.

     “Hi, Kenji here.  Grandson of the grandson of Nakamura the Brilliant and all that.  I’ve also got this ‘Sword that Cuts the Heavens’ that’s supposed to call upon you.  Anyways, I’m here because I want you to help me save this girl,” Kenji answers back.

     “Who?” 

     “Masami.  She was sacrificed for a fate she didn’t deserve, to ‘save Hyuga’ from ‘unimaginable doom and destruction.’”  Kenji snarls sarcastically and has to stop himself from spitting on the floor to show exactly what he thinks of Satsuma’s prophecy.  He continues, “Her spirit was separated from her body but I grabbed her before they could continue the ritual. ’S not right to happen to her.  So now I’m here because I heard you can do the impossible.” 

     He looks over to the stone altar he had gently laid Masami’s small body upon; she was still clothed in those ceremonial white robes. If one could ignore the barely audible rattling breaths and the ice-cold, ghostly pale skin, he could swear it was like she was just sleeping. 

     Kenji looks back and narrows his eyes at whatever’s talking to him from up high. “So, Dorma or Dormin-kami , or whatever fucking kind of god you are, how about you do your magic jumbo shit and tell me how to get her soul back?”

     The voices boom and roll: like thunder, like earthquakes, like the powerful echo of Satsuma’s voice whenever the Guardian Lion God seized control of him in the throes of visions.  “It Is Not That Simple… Our Powers… Have Wasted Away… Since We Were Sealed Here…  Many Of Your Human Lifetimes Ago… You Must Free… The Fragments Of Our Power… From The Shadowed Colossi… Only When… We Are At Our Fullest… Can We Bring Back The Soul… Of The One You So Care For…”

     Those voices then tell him of six massive guardians scattered across this vast land, represented by the mighty stone statues lining the path leading up to the altar.  Every time one was slain, its corresponding statue would shatter and release some of Dormin’s power. Kenji puzzles over some of the descriptions that the voice(s) listed off.  A spirit causing mudslides and quakes? He can probably find it in the mountain range he saw in the distance while crossing the bridge to the temple. A spirit inhabiting the bones of an ancient general?  Shouldn’t be too hard to find a giant walking skeleton. And maybe that spirit of boats and salt is hidden at the bottom of some lake. But a spirit of greed and a spirit of manipulation and illusions?  A spirit still yet pure? Where the hell is he supposed to find those? A small part of him wishes Akane or Toshio were here to help him solve this riddle—they were always the smarter ones—but he crushes that thought as quickly as it forms.  Kenji knows he couldn’t drag anyone else into this taboo the moment he swiped the legendary sword from the village’s shrine.  

     “Hunting, huh?”  Kenji muses as he swings himself up onto his horse and draws out the sword, holding it high above his head for the metal to catch the sunlight as Dormin instructed.  He watches the beam of magic shoot forward from the blade and into the distance, smiling when he sees a pillar of light erupt in response. “Well, that won’t be too bad, I’m pretty good at stabbing, hacking, and making sure things stay down.”

     “Ikuzo, Kiso-chan!”  And with that, they’re charging forward to kill the first guardian.  

     The smoke from their first target doesn’t feel that horrible, just sears down his throat and into his lungs like he’s just inhaled burning coals, just leaves him reeling and dizzy as if he took one of Hatch’s famous haymakers to the temple.  But by the time he watches the black smoke erupt from the fourth guardian’s corpse and rush into his nose and mouth yet again, he’s starting to really hate it.  His chest feels like someone’s ripping open his rib cage, his sore arms are pulsing with new black veins,  and his head is pounding worse than an all-night drinking sesh with his friends and barrels of Ume-Ume’s “special” brew.  He’s also trying to ignore the solid bump that’s starting to sprout from his head.

     “Ack, Kami,” he curses God as he hacks up something thick and dark, leans over to the side to spit the sludge from his mouth as he rides on.  The sleeve he wipes his mouth on is already streaked with black and blood and other nasty things he can’t think about right now. “No wonder why Momoko never let me try smoking,”  Kenji mumbles as he reminisces about all the times the village doctor lectured Jun whenever she caught the guardsman on a break with his ivory pipe and tobacco satchel.

     Two more to go is the only thought that overrides all the aches, pains, and fears in his mind. He urges Kiso to ride faster to the next pillar of light, using the shine emanating from the Sword that Cuts the Heavens to keep them on course. He thinks, Just hold on Masami , I’m almost done.  Then I’ll wake you up, you can scream “ baka” at me all you want and I’ll laugh like before.  You can finally give me that gift you promised me for the Rite of the Silver Moon .

     Kenji doesn’t know how he made back to the Temple after killing the last guardian (he thought for sure he wouldn’t be able to survive when the guardian started crumbling and Kenji hung onto the sword still embedded in the giant’s weak point on its head as they started falling down, down, down).  He sobs when he sees Kiso, limping but still alive after she bucked him off to save him from the fifth demon’s jaws that had ambushed them. He completely ignores the sonorous voices of Dormin, the rumbling delight evident in the chorus as It thanks him for what he’s done. He just keeps resting against Kiso and weeping into her mane, relieved that he didn’t lose his only other companion on this crazy, stupid quest.  

     When he looks up at the sound of horse hooves and rustling armor, there’s a group wearing the colors of his old village, maneuvering around the shattered blocks of stone from fallen titans to approach him at the base of the altar’s steps.  Kenji laughs upon seeing the faces of his friends, now grimly waiting to kill him. There’s Vice-Captain Kohaku (well, probably “Captain" now that Kenji fucking ran from his village and effectively resigned from his position), looking at him with those same stern eyes and disappointed frown on her face.  There’s Hatch—he looks good with that new armor but judging by the way he squirms and shifts atop his horse, Kenji knows the brawler is itching to trade the heavy lacquer plate for the light karate gi he favors.  Toshio is off to the side, looking at him with almost pity in his green eyes, but Kenji knows that he wouldn’t hesitate to nail him with a few of his steel shuriken and rifle bullets.  And there, at the front, the Demon Slayer herself—Kenji begins to bellow with laughter even harder when he sees that it’s his best friend, Akane, leading the group.  

     He wipes away the tears, flings his arms wide open, and grins with that old Kenji flair for dramatics.  “Hey! Nice of you guys to join me at this party, but I don’t recall sending out invitations!” Judging from Kohaku’s and Hatch’s horrified expressions (Akane’s and Toshio’s faces remain impassive as per usual), he must make for quite the sight: torn clothing, bloody and banged up body, arms pitch-black up to the shoulders, a full bone-horn protruding from his forehead, and black smoke swirling around him like some sort of evil aura.   

     “Kenji.”

     At that single word, his smile drops and he watches Akane dismount and walk forward.

     “You know what happens now.  You broke the rules,” she says.

     “Funny, I thought you of all people would have hated being tied down by rules, especially when they hurt people you love.”

     “Satsuma threatened to go after Momoko.  I didn’t have a choice.” Oh, Akane, always straight to the point, especially when it comes to her wife.  Kenji both fumes with wrath and aches with understanding at her words. The pulsing in his arms speeds up and the haze in his mind gets worse as he wants to strike out and beat that calm determination off her face.

     Kenji barks out a bitter laugh.  “Well, guess who didn’t have a choice either!  Oh wait, Masami wants her soul trapped in the spirit realm while her body rots!” Can’t they see? He thinks, That this is what Satsuma and his god wanted?  To convince everyone that her sacrifice was the “only” way to save Hyuga?

     Akane stops a couple of feet away from him, warily watching the sword by his side, calculating as always what her foe will do next.  “She did want this.  You were supposed to respect her choice.”

     “ I was supposed to protect her! ” he roars.  (He doesn’t want to remember the tight-lipped resignation on Masami’s face when Satsuma first marked her for damnation; he doesn’t want to recall the fiery argument they had the night before the ceremony.)  “ That’s the duty of the Captain.”  He looks over at Kohaku, who has stayed oddly silent this whole exchange, and shoots her a lopsided smirk.  “Sorry, Kohaku. I guess that makes me a failure, huh? I hope that you can do better than me now that I’m gone.”

     Kohaku bows her head and murmurs, “I will never be like you.”  At the same time, Hatch cries out one last useless request for Kenji to come back with them with Masami, tears streaming down his face.  Toshio continues to look at him with indescribable emotions swirling in his dark green eyes. Honestly, why didn’t the ninja take the shot?  Kenji knows he made for such an open target when trying not to break down completely in Kiso’s presence. Perhaps Akane held Toshio back. He’s grateful if she did.

     It means she remembers that pact she made with him years ago: when they were young, wild, and oh-so-afraid of their capacity to kill.  Of being alone at the end of the slaughter.

     Kenji turns back at Akane.  Upon his attention, she draws her katana and shifts into Gedan, a basic low stance favored by her Alligator Style for its powerful counter-attacks.  Instinctively, he shifts into Jōdan, an aggressive, overhead stance of the Firefly Style.  They wait. It’s an old routine, as familiar as a lullaby to a child.  He’ll swing downward first, she’ll sidestep and aim a slash to his arm, he’ll pivot to block her sword and force her back with a shove, she’ll leap back to analyze him for openings but he’ll press forward with wild swings that will break her focus and force her to defend. They’ll switch off.  He knows he’s always been stronger and more resilient, but she’s more agile and has the sharpest instincts for finding weak points. They’ve always been equally matched, a constant push-and-pull that has never known an end.

     But this isn’t a training duel in the village fields and this isn’t a battlefield where they stand back-to-back, cutting down whichever enemies foolishly rush them. Now Kenji and Akane face each other to witness which is stronger: their promises to their loved ones or their promises to each other.  Perhaps this was inevitable, for loyalty and bonds built over years to gradually crumble away to dust with each clash of their swords.   

     What a mess.  

     Kenji sighs.  It’s not a dead man’s sigh of regret when the body releases its last gasp for forgiveness and peace.  No, it’s a sigh of tired endurance, of indomitable will; a breath loosed into the air before it rises and condenses into storm clouds that break open and unleash heaven’s wrath.  He smiles. “I’m guessing it makes sense that they brought you out to kill one last demon, but you better be prepared for the fight of your life!  I won’t go down without giving it my all!”

     Akane simply nods.  “Goodbye, old friend.”

     Kenji replies to her unspoken words, “I’m sorry too.” 

     And he thinks, And I’m sorry, Masami. Guess you’ll have to wait a little longer to give me your gift.  I’m sure it’s beautiful, whatever it is.

     And so, what else can he do but to charge forward?

----------------

A03 LINK:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20848121/chapters/49974308#workskin

[kemetic-dreams]

Religion

The Luo people believe in a Supreme being and creator God known as Jok. 

Driberg in Okot (1971:50) explains that the idea of the word Jok to a Lang‘o  (Luo) is "The sum total of the long departed souls merged into one pre-existing deity called Jok, a plurality of spirits merged into one person of a single godhead, a spiritual force composed of innumerable spirits, any of which may be temporarily detached without diminishing the oneness of the force." Ogot 1961 noted that the word Jok was found in various forms in all Nilotic languages and that for the Shilluck Juok and Nyikang are the most general explanatory concepts. Jok accounting for the existence of nature or reality and Nyikang for the way in which it is ordered and interpreted.

 Jok mal created and maintains the world, while Juok piny determines how and for what purpose the God‘s gift should be utilized by man. For the idea of Jok among the Lang‘o and Acholi (Hayley1947), it was a neutral power permeating the universe, neither well nor badly disposed towards mankind, unless made use of by man. Lang‘o religion was the conception of this Jok power, and their magic was the practice by which man uses jok power. 

The world to Acholi (Wright) was one vast plain enclosed by the vault of the sky, charged throughout with magical force. The force is released by change from its static condition which then becomes fluid and powerful as seen in lightning, whirlwind, curious mountains and rocks. The Lang‘o (Harley) attributes anything of an unusual nature and unusual occurrences to some aspect of jok power. This included abnormal births, peculiarly shaped stones, hills, rain, hail, lightning, locusts and earthquakes. They (Hayley and Wright) noted that it was not the hills or forests that formed the objects of worship; these were mere shrines, the abode of Jok. When lightning struck a house in a village, or when rain failed or hail, locust destroyed crops, prayers were offered to jok and sacrifices made to ancestral ghosts, just as other troubles occurred. But they were not sparks of jok power. Whirlwinds were regarded as jok in transit. Twins were regarded as jok. The spiritual part of man, the only part which survives death, is jok. Hence, to the Nilotes Jok is not an impartial universal power; it is the essence of everything, the force which makes everything what it is, and God Himself. The Greatest Jok is life force in itself. Above all force is God, Juok of Jok mal which is followed by the famous chiefs of the old such as Nyikang’ among the Shilluck and Podho among the Kenyan Luo. Next to come are the dead followed by specialists like ajwaka (ajuoga), medicine men and prophets who are believed to have special jok power. The specialists are followed by ordinary mortals, then animals, plants and finally, inanimate objects (Okot, ibid.:55).

The ajwaka/Ajuoga may be possessed by a spirit which helps him or her to divine; the witch la-jok also has jok power in him. And to have more jok power meant to be a more dangerous witch. The dead among the Luo are mostly forgotten, except those that believed to be troublesome. Such are referred to as cen, vengeance ghosts. The ghosts of certain animals such as elephant, lion and leopard are feared. Certain inanimate objects used by sorcerers to harm their victims such as lugaga (gagi). But, these are not considered as bits of jok power.

Jok Possession

Outstanding feature of the religious activity of the Luo was the annual feast at the chiefdom shrines. Each chiefdom had a shrine on a hill, in a dark forest or by a riverside. Some of the shrines were unusual natural phenomena or outstanding landmarks in the landscape. Some of the larger chiefdoms had more than one shrine at which they offered sacrifices. Among the lowland Alur the jok possessed one of the chief‘s wives in each reign; she then had duties in the service of the jok. Jok Lokka of Koc in Acholi possessed the priest who was also the medium. Jok Langol of Padibe caused the person possessed to become barren. Jok Lamwoci of the Payira caused barrenness in men, and insanity in women. Jok Lalangabi of Palaro made the possessed person hate members of the opposite sex, so that he or she remained a bachelor or spinster for life, or if married, divorce followed soon after Lalangabi had fallen on one of the couple. Few shrines were founded by chiefs. In fact, most of the chiefdom shrines and Jok originally belonged to commoner clans who continued to provide the line of priests. When chiefs visit or go to the village of priests they lose their normal prerogatives. Moreover the chiefdom Jok that possessed persons did not possess members of the chief‘s clan. Almost every force which can affect human beings may be and has been spiritualized. The elemental power of nature, sun, moon, rain, thunder and lightning, lakes and rivers and forests and deserts, all have been conceived of as spirit and have become objects of worship and sacrifice. The Luo did not offer sacrifices to the rocks or forests or rivers, they did not worship the spirit of the hills or forests or rivers, but Jok whom they believed lived in the caves or in the middle of the dark forest or by the riverside. Areas around these places were sacred grounds. No one might urinate, defecate, drive the blade or the butt of his spear into the earth. The duties of a priest were burdensome, dangerous and profitless. Ibaana (Crazzolara) means a person chosen and at times possessed by Jok. The Lang‘o put the phenomena of possession by ghosts in the province of Jok Nam which is contrasted with Jok Lang’o. Nam refers to riverine peoples: Pa-Luo, Nyoro and those bordering the Nile and Lake Kyoga. Ajwaka (Driberg) who dealt with diseases caused by Jok Nam were abanwa or abani (plural) who were men or women possessed by Jok Nam.

Spirit Possession

When according to the diviner, ajwaka, ill-health or misfortune was due to certain spirits other than ancestral or chiefdom jok, the situation was dealt with by inducing the offending spirit to possess the victim, and then depending on whether the particular spirit was friendly or hostile, it was allowed to stay in the victim or sent to where it belonged, or killed and destroyed. The preliminary examination of the patient usually took place at the home of the ajwaka, but the spirit possession ceremony, yeng’ng’o jok, shaking jok, was held at the home of the patient.

Education by Proverbs

The Luo elders use proverbs intensively for the education of their children and grandchildren. Every child in turn is expected to learn these proverbs, even though some of them are quite difficult to understand. Examples of some Luo proverbs and their meanings:

1. "Jarakni jamuod nyoyo gi kuoyo" (Don`t go shares in the flesh before the buffalo is dead, since he fights in the bush). This means one should not be rushing in life. Patience is everything. 2. "Alot muchayo ema tieko kuom" (The hen begins as an egg, man as blood). It means even an insignificant work is still of a value done nothing at all. 3. "wadu en wadu" (Blood is thicker than water 4. "Kik nyany nyang kapod in epige" (Do not abuse crocodile while you are still in its water). It means one should reflect on the consequences of his action whilst still indebted to somebody or under authority. 5. "Yath achiel ok los bungu" (One tree has never made a forest). It means it is always good to be united. 6. "Kik iwe ngowo man piny to odhi ni man malo" (He who stands on the ground sees the fruit better than the man up in the tree). It means we should respect everyone`s point of view.

Death and Afterlife

Among the Luo, it is believe that when a person dies his or her spirit or soul goes to the underworld after few days or weeks. The underworld is determined to be the centre of the Earth, at the bottom of the sea, and at a distant steppe down below the mountains. Luo people believe that death comes from God and He alone has control over life and death. When someone dies Luo people just say ""Ekaka nose wacho" (It is how He has decided),  "Ekaka nose kor" (That was what was predicted) or "Nyasaye okowe" (God has taken him). Some deaths are considered to be abnormal death of persons whose body houses Jachien (troublesome spirits). A person who commits suicide is feared that he may become a ghost. The body of Ngamodere ( suicide man) had to be punished by whoever comes to his funeral. Because it is a taboo to commit suicide. The body of Ngamodere is slashed by a twig from the Powo tree. This is done to remind its Tipo (spirit) that it was the fault of his own man, and not someone else. If a person commit suicide on a tree, that tree is immediately cut down and burned. On Ngamotho e Pi (Death on sea), it is considered that ones Juok had preferred to live in the water. It is therefore proper to bury the one who died at sea closer to the sea. It is also necessary to bury the body of one who dies in water, Japi, must be buried by the Lake or waterside. Luo, a Western Nilotic people, perform a series of rituals and many feasts for the dead because of their strong fear and respect for the dead. The Luo attitude towards their burial place evidently shows how they fear and respect the deceased ancestors Luo people perform a total of about fourteen rituals for one deceased. All rituals are performed only when elderly men died, and a certain number of rituals are omitted depending upon age, sex, and marital status of the deceased. First, I will provide a list of a series of rituals in successive order of their occurrence, and then explain each ritual.

1) Death announcement 2) Vigil (budho) 3) Grave digging (kunyo) 4) Burial (iko) 5) Accompanying the spirit of the deceased to the former battleground (tero buru matin) 6) Shaving (liedo) 7) Mourners’ departure for their houses (kee) 8) Serving a meal to the deceased and its family by married women (yaodhoot) 9) Serving a meal to the deceased and its family by married women (tedo) 10) Going to the former battleground with the spirit of the deceased (tero buru maduong’) 11) Visiting the widow’s natal home (tero cholla) 12) Dividing articles left by the deceased (keyo nyinyo) 13) Remembrance (rapar) 14) Serving a meal to the family of the deceased by affines (budho)

[gardenofkore]

“Palermo, Thursday, April 5, 1787.

[...] S. Rosalia, the patron saint of Palermo, is so universally known, from the description which Brydone has given of her festival, that it must assuredly be agreeable to my friends to read some account of the place and the spot where she is most particularly worshipped.

Monte Pellegrino, a vast mass of rocks, of which the breadth is greater than the height, lies on the north-west extremity of the Bay of Palermo. Its beautiful form admits not of being described by words; a most excellent view of it may be seen in the Voyage Pittoresque de la Sicile. It consists of a gray limestone of the earlier epoch. The rocks are quite barren, not a tree nor a bush will grow on them; even the more smooth and level portions are but barely covered with grasses or mosses.

In a cavern of this mountain, the bones of the saint were discovered, at the beginning of the last century, and brought to Palermo. The presence of them delivered the city from a pestilence, and ever since S. Rosalia has been the Patron Saint of the people. Chapels have been built in her honour, splendid festivals have been instituted.

The pious and devout frequently made pilgrimages to the mountain; and in consequence a road has been made to it, which, like an ancient aqueduct, rests on arches and columns, and ascends zigzag between the rocks.

The place of worship is far more suitable to the humility of the saint who retired thither, than are the splendid festivities which have been instituted in honour of her total renunciation of the world. And perhaps the whole of Christendom, which now, for eighteen hundred years, has based its riches, pomps, and festival amusements, on the memory of its first founders and most zealous confessors, cannot point out a holy spot which has been adorned and rendered venerable in so eminent and delightful a way.

When you have ascended the mountain, you proceed to the corner of a rock, over against which there rises a high wall of stone. On this the Church and the monastery are very finely situated.

The exterior of the church has nothing promising or inviting; you open its door without any high expectation, but on entering are ravished with wonder. You find yourself in a vast vestibule, which extends to the whole breadth of the church, and is open towards the nave. You see here the usual vessel of holy water and some confessionals. The nave is an open space, which on the right is bounded by the native rock, and on the left by the continuation of the vestibule. It is paved with flat stones on a slight inclination, in order that the rain water may run off. A small well stands nearly in the centre.

The cave itself has been transformed into the choir, without, however, any of its rough natural shape being altered. Descending a few steps, close upon them stands the choristers' desk with the choir books, and on each side are the seats of the choristers. The whole is lighted by the daylight, which is admitted from the court or nave. Deep within, in the dark recesses of the cave, stands the high-altar.

As already stated, no change has been made in the cave; only, as the rocks drop incessantly with water, it was necessary to keep the place dry. This has been effected by means of tin tubes, which are fastened to every projection of the rock, and are in various ways connected together. As they are broad above and come to a narrow edge below, and are painted of a dull green colour, they give to the rock an appearance of being overgrown with a species of cactus. The water is conducted into a clear reservoir, out of which it is taken by the faithful as a remedy and preventative for every kind of ill.

As I was narrowly observing all this, an ecclesiastic came up to me and asked whether I was a Genoese, and wished a mass or so to be said? I replied upon this that I had come to Palermo with a Genoese, who would to-morrow, as it was a festival, come up to the shrine; but, as one of us must always be at home, I had come up to day in order to look about me. Upon this he observed, I was at perfect liberty to look at everything at my leisure, and to perform my devotions. In particular he pointed out to me a little altar which stood on the left as especially holy, and then left me.

Through the openings of a large trellis work of lattice, lamps appeared burning before an altar. I knelt down close to the gratings and peeped through. Further in, however, another lattice of brass wire was drawn across, so that one looked as it were through gauze at the objects within. By the light of some dull lamps I caught sight of a lovely female form.

She lay seemingly in a state of ecstasy—the eyes half-closed, the head leaning carelessly on her right hand, which was adorned with many rings. I could not sufficiently discern her face, but it seemed to be peculiarly charming. Her robe was made of gilded metal, which imitated excellently a texture wrought with gold. The head and hands were of white marble. I cannot say that the whole was in the lofty style, still it was executed so naturally and so pleasingly that one almost fancied it must breathe and move. A little angel stands near her, and with a bunch of lilies in his hand appears to be fanning her.

In the meanwhile the clergy had come into the cave, taken their places, and began to chant the Vespers.

I took my seat right before the altar, and listened to them for a while; then I again approached the altar, knelt down and attempted to obtain a still more distinct view of the beautiful image. I resigned myself without reserve to the charming illusion of the statue and the locality.

The chant of the priests now resounded through the cave; the water was trickling into the reservoir near the altar; while the over-hanging rocks of the vestibule—the proper nave of the church—shut in the scene. There was a deep stillness in this waste spot, whose inhabitants seemed to be all dead-a singular neatness in a wild cave: the tinsel and tawdry pomp of the Roman Catholic ceremonial, especially as it is vividly decked out in Sicily, had here reverted to its original simplicity. The illusion produced by the statue of the fair sleeper—which had a charm even for the most practised eye:—enough, it was with the greatest difficulty that I tore myself from the spot, and it was late at night before I got back to Palermo.”

Johan Wolfgang von Goethe, Travels in Italy

September 4th - Feast of S. Rosalia

[memorylang]

Meeting My Mongol Host Family | #40 | July 2020

As the second of my summer 2019 throwback trilogy, this time I detail experiences in rural Mongolia. As with my first summer throwback, these events took place in between summer adventures I’d shared last year. You can dive straight into the new stuff or read the past stories here: first weeks in Mongolia, comparisons to previous travels in Asia, my 22nd birthday and a trip to the capital and day-in-the-life moments. 

Ceremonial Greetings for Foreigners in Mongolia

By my second week of June 2019, I've moved in with a Mongolian host family. We live in northern-central Mongolia’s Номгон /Nomgon/, a tiny town, home to only 2200 people. The town sits on one side of a two-lane paved road linking provinces. Across the road stands a fairly lone mountain, also named Номгон. Women aren’t to climb it, which is common for more sacred mountains. A large expanse of idyllic alternating crop fields spread between the road and the mountain, which has a Soviet train track before it. 

Besides the picturesque fields, rails and peak visible in the distance, my town’s main feature is its box-shaped two-story school building. I think Soviets built it when they partially developed this area in the 1970s, but it’s painted lime green now. My fellow few Peace Corps Trainees in this town and I spend most of our days at school. 

I spend extra time around our school, too, since my host parents work there. In fact, I first met them at school. When my fellow Trainees and I first arrived, we experienced ceremonial greetings with our host parents. 

The sunny Saturday, June 8, my training cluster mates and I disembark our compact yellow bus to a small concrete area in front of the school. Here we find identically costumed children of all ages performing in unison for us. Mongolian families stand around the perimeter, watching. As our Resource Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV) would explain to us, Mongolian events always begin first with a series of song and dance performances.

The children dress in bright-colored traditional outfits. During one performance, a group in yellow with cyan play traditional stringed instruments. In another performance, dancers in seemingly pink with white for girls and green with white for boys perform moves reminiscent of traditional activities in Mongolia’s nomadic culture. After the performances, we hear a welcome speech from the school director (Mongolia’s equivalent of a principal). Then we follow inside our Resource PCV and a Mongolian we’ll later learn is one of our teachers. 

My peers and I take seats at desk benches around the left edge of the room, with wide windows to our backs. Before us sit little bowls of candies and ааруул /ahh-roll/, lightly sweetened dairy-based nibbles. We’d learned just days before  within Peace Corps culture sessions that these are common treats with Mongolian hospitality. 

One by one, my peers and I get called to the front of a classroom for individual ceremonies introducing us to our host parents. Many host parents are young, around their mid-30s, which often sets us Trainees only about 10 to 15 years apart from them. My host folks are a tad older, though. 

I step up to the front and greet mine. They’re in their late 40s, though their skin looks more worn than I'd have expected. They present me with a long blue scarf of possible silk (called a хадаг /hah-dahg/), along with a bowl of fermented mare’s milk. The sour mare’s milk is called айраг /ai-rahg/, with its ‘ai’ part sounding like ‘apple.’ 

Anyway, I’m a klutz, so I spill the айраг on the хадаг. Thankfully, my host parents are humorous, kind and loving. They forgive my blunder, we get a photo, and I seat again. Afterward, outside, we heave my luggage from the Peace Corps bus to their car. On a bumpy ride in under five minutes, my host mom swerves between potholes to reach my host family’s tiny house. 

My Mongol Host Family, June 2019

Peace Corps counties vary in how they arrange housing and training. In Peace Corps Mongolia, we stay with a host family for three months in a rural part of the country before transferring to our two-year site, which is either rural slightly urban. There we live alone during our service. Some Trainees spend their host family summer in a Mongolian ger, others get a room in a house, and still others get a sort of shack on a host family’s property. I got a living room that had a lockable door, which makes it count as a Peace Corps room. My bed was a long couch. This is quite normal and lovely. 

Although in English, I’d be the host son of my host family, in Mongolian, I’m the American son of my Монгол /Mongol/ family. So I’ll just call my host parents my Mongol parents instead. Dad translates to “аав” /ahhv/ while Mom is “ээж” /ehhj/. 

My Mongol аав /ahhv/ is rather thin and shorter than me. He works as the local school's жижүүр /jee-JURE/. Translated as "steward," his job crosses between watchman, desk attendant and handyman. I see him some mornings on my way past his simple desk while walking to my language classroom. 

My Mongol ээж /ehhj/ is a much stronger and bigger person than my Mongol аав. She teaches elementary school students. She's one of the few people in town to own a vehicle, so on rainy days she sometimes drives me to school, letting me skip my five-minute walk. 

Like many vehicles in Mongolia, though, this one’s a fairly compact one from Korea. Opposite of America, the driver's seat is on the right side of the car. Despite this difference, drivers in Mongolia still drive on their roads’ right sides. Again, this is fairly common. 

Besides my host parents, I also have host siblings. Younger siblings, regardless of gender, translate to “дүү” /dew/ in Mongolian. We also call both our younger host cousins and other younger children we address, “дүү” /dew/. To identify genders, we use Mongolian’s equivalent of “male дүү” and “female дүү.” Neat! 

Anyway, within my host family, I have a rebellious 20-year-old male дүү and a mysterious 17-year-old female дүү. The teenage sister darts from sight my first weekend here. But, with Google Translate’s help, my college-aged brother explains she’s really shy. I hope she’ll open up. I also have a Mongol cousin I assume is somewhere between 11 and 12 years old. This дүү is energetic like me and ostensibly fearless, so he takes me on adventures before his return the city, mid-summer. 

Rad Culture Quirks, June 2019

My energetic дүү came to greet my Peace Corps neighbor and me on our walk home from our first day of school. Along the way, my дүү kept making this neck slit motion with his finger, all excited. I felt perplexed. 

Moments after I get home, I learn my host family’s brought a live goat or lamb to be cooked this evening for the ceremonial meal. Those intestines sure take getting used to, but I persevere. I later learn from my local teachers that my host family felt ecstatic that I tried everything! 

As weeks go by, my cohort peers and I get used to seeing the occasional animal skulls and severed hooves in the dirt our walks around town. I find these less exciting than the time we saw, from our Peace Corps bus windows, a herder in the grassy hills guide animals by offroading a Prius. Usually, we’ll see herders riding motorcycles or simply horses when they’re not on foot. Mere days before, an American Peace Corps Mongolia staff member warned us we’d witness Mongolians with a Prius do things we’d never seen. 

Anyway, the bus rides were just for transit between cities. For much of our training, we stick to our towns. 

In town, among the first features I notice is the abundance of teeny brownish birds that hop about then move like a cloud. My host mom calls them something like ‘bolchimer.’ But, Googling “бөлчимэр шуувууд” gets me nowhere. Perhaps they’re Eurasian wrens. I often see them during mornings while praying my rosaries. 

My host family and local teachers really respect my time for spiritual practices. These help center me amid changing conditions. Often, when locals ask what I do in my free time, I say I pray and journal. Indeed, I often keep a rosary on me during the day. My host family started assuming if I was alone in my room, I was probably praying. That felt nice. 

A Chinese-American in Mongolia

After Mongolians learn a bit about me, they tend to regard me as an Asian-American, who just happens to speak Chinese, to have been to China and to have family there. 

I notice a slight disconnect about me being ethnically Chinese. Evidently, I don’t look too obviously one ethnicity or another. I later read that Mongolians had traditionally held nationality solely in terms of the father’s side. In that sense, I’d be entirely American. 

I also share photos from an album I’ve filled of my American and Chinese families, close friends, student life and travels. Every photo including a friend who’s female and Asian, they take her to be my girlfriend. Alas, I’m not that special. 

To avoid possibly problematic situations, though, I only discuss my ethnicity, religion and politics when locals ask. (They really want Andrew Yang to win the election.) That said, since I mention I’m Catholic, some Mongolians would me ask about Biblical stories, usually from a literary standpoint. I’m happy to oblige. Though, I'm often more curious about Mongolian practices, such as the respecting of stone pile shrines I see atop mountains. I love learning from locals.

At last, I’ve a few stories to share from host family life and the countryside! Hopefully, you get some laughs and clearer ideas of how I spent my summer with limited internet. It felt quite memorable! Prepare for the outdoors. 

The Boy on His Horse, June 2019

Before I left the States, my thesis mentor said Mongols are very resourceful and resilient. Peace Corps staff told us, as Volunteers, we must be likewise. 

On the last day of June, my host family had taken me on a weekend trip to the countryside, where they introduced me to family friends who live in white dome-shaped gers (yurts) as herders. As we drove to leave, though, our car got stuck in the marshy mud. We tried using a large, firm log we found to push the car up. That broke the branch, but I found it a worthy effort. 

After a while, my host parents sent me and my teenage sister to wait elsewhere while they spent the remaining sunlight to haul their car out with help from strong locals. 

Nearing the third hour since we got stuck, my host sister and I were walking back across the marshes near sunset. As we walked, a younger Mongolia boy on his horse was chatting with my дүү. His family had been helping ours dig out the car. 

I didn’t understand most of their conversation until the boy on his horse asked where I'm from. My host sister and I replied America. He seemed surprised I spoke Mongolian, so I said my usual qualifier, "жоохон жоохон" /jaaw-hawn/ (only a little). 

Then then boy asked my host sister whether I was something like, "Хятад-Америк хүн" /Hyatad-Amerik hoon/. I hadn’t heard this phrase before. It seemed to me something like “Chinese-American.” 

My дүү shook her head and replied she didn't know. I felt confused. For three weeks, we’d known each other. Shouldn’t she know? I wondered, maybe she was just covering for me. After all, many Mongolians despise Chinese people. Peace Corps generally advises us not to bring up being Chinese. But, my day felt long, and I didn’t feel like hiding. 

So I smiled to the boy and replied, "Тийм" /teem/, I am. 

And the boy on his horse didn’t seem too surprised. I felt relieved. A local had for the first time recognized my mixed ancestry on sight—And no harm came. 

During late July, my Mongol ээж /ehhj/ would explain to me that her relatives had lived in China (the Inner Mongolia region, I believe). That day, we shared stories about our families’ lives in Mongolia’s neighbor nation. I had a great host family. 

How to Bathe Without Running Water, Summer 2019

By late June and into July, I've grown used to bathing with my түмпэн /tomb-pen/ (washbasin). Here are the steps.

First, my host family or I start by boiling water with the electric kettle in the kitchen/dining area. We take one of many identical plastic stools and set my түмпэн basin on top. I’m usually set-up on the linoleum hallway floor serving as our house’s entryway. From here, I fill my түмпэн /tomb-pen/ basin with three or four pans of cold water from our family's barrel we cart refills into each week. 

By the time I’ve finished filling my түмпэн /tomb-pen/ with cold water, I've usually set my orange bar of soap, yellow shampoo bottle and blue hand towel beside me, on top of my host family’s semi-automatic washing machine. They used to have me practice outdoors, but nowadays they have me wash inside. 

Next, I take the water kettle off its heater and pour about three-fourths of its contents into my түмпэн. This cuts the cold water, making it go from frigid to warm. Then I retrieve a little cold water from the barrel for my rinse pan and pour in boiled water from the kettle to make the rinse pan warm, too. 

Next, bathing! I take off my shirt and glasses, bend down to dip my hair in the water to soak it, and cup water to splash over my arms. I lean over my түмпэн the whole time. Next, I squirt shampoo between my fingers, rub that around my hair, behind my ears and all around my neck. Then, I take the bar of soap between my hands and lather that down and up my back, up and down my arms, plus across my chest and my face. Afterward, I take my rinse pan and pour the warm water over me before drying off with my little towel. I used to be very bad at rinsing all the shampoo out. 

Shirt and glasses back on, I remove my түмпэн basin from the seat, set the basin on the ground, then I sit in the seat. Up next, I set my legs one-at-a-time into the түмпэн. I soak, lather, rinse and repeat. This part reminds me of Catholic Holy Week services when we wash each other's feet. I dry off again, dump out my түмпэн in the yard, move my cleaning things back to my room, then I’m done! The cycle repeats about three times a week. 

Capital Adventures, July 2019

During my cohort’s train trip to the capital around my birthday, I experience my second encounter with someone who suspects I’m Chinese. 

While aboard the overnight train, I was wearing my Chinese cultural shirt with the 漢 Hàn character on it, from my summer before in China. My Peace Corps peers and I were walking down the car to reach our beds. A child seemed surprised when my fellow Trainees explained I'm American, not Chinese—Neat experience. 

Unrelated to ancestry, I also enjoyed borrowing a few books from Peace Corps Mongolia’s lending library. These help me learn more about Mongolia’s vast geography. The one region I didn’t look into was a more urban place that I figured wasn’t on the table for our potential assignments. 

Besides borrowing books, I also got to hug Peace Corps staff again! That’s always a pleasure. I really missed hugs. Later that month, we celebrated with a cake to commemorate July birthdays like mine! 

And lastly from the capital adventure, my peers and I explored a Tibetan Buddhist monastery. Its iconography looked a bit too gory and sensual for me. Later with my host family in July, I saw a Buddhist statue in Дархан /Darhan/, the nearest major city, and found that one tamer. 

All things considered, my first capital adventures went well! 

Language Oasis, July 2019

Long before I felt integrated into the rural community where I trained and taught during the summer, I hadn’t realized how starved I’d felt from not speaking Chinese. Here’s a wholesome story. 

Since I came to Mongolia being originally considered for Peace Corps China, I spoke Chinese. But I worried—I heard many Mongolians dislike Chinese people. I’d probably few opportunities to speak the language. So, I focused strictly on trying to figure out Mongolian. 

At one of many dusks during July, my second month in Mongolia, I was playing volleyball with my primary and secondary students on our basketball court, while my host sister talked to her friends. We usually saw the same kids every night. But this night was different. 

One of my high school students, who speaks the best English, approached me with someone new. My student said her friend studies in Darkhan, which was why the girl hasn’t attended lessons I teach with my fellow Peace Corps Trainees. But, her friend studies Chinese. 

I had the most unbelievable conversation! 

I suddenly spoke Chinese again, with my student’s friend. But, I juggled Chinese with occasional Mongolian words, since they were top-of-mind the past two months. Then, when my student would speak, I responded to her in English. To the young children gathering around, I spoke Mongolian. (They asked if I was speaking Japanese, haha.) Wow! 

As for what we talked about, the Chinese-learning friend asked what I thought of Mongolia and the children. Mongolians usually ask me these. But, her Chinese skills surpassed many Mongolians' English. I felt relieved to speak my truest joys to a Mongolian who understood my words. I love feeling understood. 

The sun fell fast, for time flew. My host sister approached, handing back my language notebook and jacket, signaling time to head home. My student and her friend left with an elated trilingual farewell. 

I hadn’t seen those students since the summer. But, I never forgot their kindness. 

When Peace Corps Mongolia staff requested we Trainees write our placement preferences, I declared my interest in interest in using my Chinese skills, too, to serve Mongolians. The joy I felt being able to engage with that half of myself, I realized, could profoundly sustain me. 

Chinese Food and Mongolia, July 2019

Fake news tends to circulate Mongolian media about Chinese poisoning food and products sent to Mongolia. While there’s possibly truth to some claims, many feel reminiscent of fake stories spread across Facebook in the U.S. about Russia. Still, some moments in Mongolia reminded me of China with twists. 

My host family had taken me to Darhan to visit one of their friends and have delicious homemade soup dumplings with them. Then, they left me alone for a while. I noticed on the toothpicks label Chinese characters of my Chinese family's home province 湖南省。But, when I mentioned it, the Mongolians around me insisted it was Korean or Japanese. That felt weird. 

On a brighter note, sometimes simply the way I eat carries more Chinese tendencies than I once thought. For example, my Mongolian host family usually asks me to mix my food when I have a plate of many things. But since my Chinese studies abroad, I’ve usually kept things separate, as Chinese tend to. Mongolians also seem pretty surprised whenever I order hot water at restaurants, rather than either tea or cold water. Hot water, again, is more a Chinese thing. 

Mongolians even use the Western standard of forks and knives. They have sliced bread, in addition to rice and noodles. When Mongolians taught me the Mongolian word for chopsticks, they added that these are used by Chinese, Japanese and Korean people, not Mongols. 

The cultural quirks aren't problems for me, just observations. I figure most of these had Soviet influences. Food notions were among my last reflections about China during my 2019 summer in Mongolia’s countryside. 

Trials of Nature’s Commode, Summer 2019

This last story’s more for the gag, but it’s a Peace Corps staple experience. Welcome to the outhouse, among the first of many Peace Corps challenges. Luckily, I'd never lost a shoe or a phone like some people!  

Let’s zoom back to the morning. I’ve risen from the couch in my host family’s locked living room where I sleep. Unlocking my door and unlatching our house’s wooden front door, I’ve stepped outside into the pre-dawn morn. Thankfully, I've avoided the guard dog and crossed the yard to the outhouse. 

Most days, I simply knock on the outhouse’s metal door first. Then I open it to let the birds shoot out. (They used to spook me the first few times.) Then I enter. It's a long, long way down. At night, I cannot see the bottom. Over this towering chasm is but a plank. There is no chair. I stand aboard the plank while closing the door. The door doesn't lock, of course. If it's windy, I balance holding the door closed by its handle. It's only blown open once, but luckily no one was near!

Then I, as one would expect, remove the undergarments, assume a proper squat and try to take care of business. Thighs aching, I then rise from the business, toss my waste paper in a bucket to my left, return my undergarments, shove open the door (which often gets jammed), then I begin the journey back to the house, avoiding the dog and sometimes geese. Inside, I use our water dispenser to wash my hands—again, since we lack running water. But, it’s all doable. 

This routine gets complicated on mornings after rain, since the outhouse gets bugs crawling around. One morning, I saw both a daddy-long-legs and a centipede! At least the door stays closed better after rain since the frame’s made of wood. 

Of course, there are exceptions. Many Mongolian yards lack doors to the outhouses. Some places lack outhouses entirely. In those cases, we just use sand in the woods. Privacy is overrated, maybe. Just cover your tracks, and you're fine. Good times. 

Coming Soon: Language Today and August Throwback!

Woohoo! You made it through the wild times. 

I have one more summer 2019 throwback story queued, featuring host family farewells and Peace Corps Mongolia Swear-In experiences. Prior to these, I’ll catch you up on another round of how I’m faring amid COVID-19 in the States. I’m pleased to announce an exciting project! 

Till then, August 9 marks the birthday of my late mother. I’ll be reflecting as usual. Take care, friend!

If you’d like more from last summer starting out in Mongolia, see these:

Summer’s Peace Corps Training Months 1 through 3 | May, June, July, August

My First Days in Peace Corps Mongolia | #37 | June 2020

Refresh Abroad as Student and Teacher | #1 | June 2019

Meeting My Mongol Host Family | #40 | July 2020

Horses and Global Adventures | #2 | July 2019

22nd Birthday! Наадам, City and Countryside | #3 | July 2019

Typical Day in the Training Life | #4 | August 2019

Farewells for 2019 Summer’s End | #41 | August 2020

As always, you can read from me here at DanielLang.me :)

[witsyo]

Sun and Moon 3

Link to Story on Ao3

Year 17, Month 8, Day 16

“Take a deep breath for me,” Basille murmured, listening to the rattling struggle as the child’s chest rose incrementally. It pained her to hear it, to feel through the hand on this boy’s skin what she had been able to see from across the room.

Caroline had instructed them to visit this family, see to this child and do what they could. Then, she had sighed, sat forward and looked between them. “There won’t be much that you can do.”

There was always hope, Basille knew, but there wasn’t much of it here. Even the child’s mother, when she had greeted them at the door, had seemed to know that. She’d welcomed them inside, eyes only briefly locking on Basille’s blue hair before she led them up to her son’s room. They had passed other children in the halls, all having the light coloring and eyes of their mother, but the height of a father that they had yet to come across.

Laila, her name was, and the boy’s name was James.

He was sweet, only around four or five, and his hands had immediately gone to Basille’s hair as she had kneeled in front of him. “It’s pretty,” he’d coughed. “Mommy, look at her hair! Are you the moon?”

Laila was still standing in the back of the room, but Basille couldn’t quite look at her, didn’t really want to see the tears she knew had to be in her eyes as she performed this examination.

“James,” Halle said, holding out her hand and placing it over Basille’s. She realized that her fingers were shaking, and appreciated Halle’s subtle comfort before she pulled away, leaving the other softly touching the boy. “Are you hurting anywhere?”

“Yeah,” he said. “In my breathing. And when I cough.”

Halle nodded, glancing back at her. They had already found that he had a fever, and the sight of his ribs poking against his skin had nearly brought tears to her eyes. It was obvious what he had, and they both knew there was nothing they could do to stop the inevitable. Basille wasn’t sure they could even prolong it, or that she wanted to.

“What do you like to do, James?” Halle asked, turning back to him as Basille opened her treatment pouch. Laila had mentioned that the boy had trouble sleeping at night, and that, at least, she knew how to help with. She began pulling out pouches of dried herbs, laying them out in front of her along with a set of glass bottles.

“I like stories,” he said, and I like to play horses with Camen. He’s my brother.”

“We met him downstairs,” Halle said with a smile, leaning back briefly to grab one of the pouches Basille had laid out. She examined the inside quickly, then murmured, “Do you have yarrow?”

Basille nodded, pulling it out and handing it to Halle. James continued as she pulled out a few leaves from each pouch, seeming happy enough despite his plight. “He’s a good brother. He’s going to be a horseman one day, and I’m going to feed them for him! They’re really good, you know. I fed papa’s horse an apple yesterday.”

“You did?! That’s quite exciting.” Halle sat forward, and Blue smiled despite herself. She’d never met someone who had a better bedside manner, a trait that was surprising in someone usually so blunt and sarcastic.

Lifting his tongue, James let Halle place the herbs beneath it. He made a face, taking a moment to adjust to the feeling before he said, “Mommy says I’m very good at taking my medicine.”

“That you are. You’re very brave.”

“I know,” James said, nodding self-assuredly as Halle grinned at him. “I used to cry when I would take it, and I bit Grelda from the market when I was a baby.”

“I knew you were a troublemaker!” Halle cried, and he giggled, the laughter dropping into a bout of coughs. Halle helped him turn onto his side, holding a handkerchief below his mouth. Basille had to stop herself from flinching at each wracking breath, concentrating on mixing her herbs as Halle rubbed the boy’s back.

When he calmed, Halle helped him to lay back down, standing slowly as Basille finished her work. “Well, James, we need to head home. I hope to see you again soon.”

“You too!” he said, and grinned happily. “You’re very funny.”

“Why, thank you,” she said with a little bow and grin.

“Moons?”

Basille looked at him, forcing what she hoped was a gentle smile onto her face. Children often called her by part of her title, their wide-eyed understanding of her going no deeper than what they’d been told in their legends. “Yes, James?”

“Do you think that the goddesses may save me, now that you’re here?”

The atmosphere in the room grew dark, and Halle turned away from the boy to hide her fallen face. Basille took a deep breath, cursing Caroline for putting them into this situation. “I don’t know. The goddesses work as they will, sometimes, but I’ll do my best to help you feel okay.”

He nodded, seeming satisfied with that answer, and the door burst open before she could elaborate further, a pair of older children hovering just inside and staring at them with wide eyes.

“Go ahead,” Halle said in a conspiratorial whisper. “You can play.”

With whoops of joy, they stormed into the room, surrounding their brother and talking animatedly about an apparently massive beetle they’d found outside the house. Basille smiled, stoppering the bottles and picking up her bag to follow Halle and Laila outside the room.

This was the part she was much better at than Halle.

“Laila,” she said gently as they left the earshot of the room. “I am so sorry, but--”

“We already know there’s no saving him,” she murmured, eyes clouding over for a moment before she took a deep breath.

Surprised, Basille found herself at somewhat of a loss for words. “We’ll help you treat his symptoms, continue to visit with him if you would like us to. His time in this world can be made more comfortable. And here,” she handed over the glass bottles, now filled with a mixture of dried herbs. “Before bed, brew this into a tea and have him drink it. It will help him sleep.”

Laila nodded, holding the bottles tightly before she quietly said, “Caroline told me that you needed to learn this skill, the both of you. To be able to comfort someone who you cannot save. I hope we can help you. The presence of the gods in our home will do more good than we could hope for on our own, I should think.”

Basille was used to hearing that, smiled softly in response. “I hope that we can bring your family comfort.”

“If you don’t mind, ma’am,” Halle said, “How is it that you secured our presence here? To ask for the queen of moons herself, and me as well, and to receive both of us? I’ve never known even coin to be able to buy that.”

Oh, Basille could just kill her, she was so rude sometimes.

Laila just laughed in surprise, then cleared her throat, glancing at Basille. “My husband was a friend to the queen of moons, many years ago. This is an old debt to him being repaid.”

“And me?” Halle asked, and Basille couldn’t restrain herself from sinking an elbow into the other’s side.

“You are her companion, are you not?” Laila said, then smiled between them. “And Caroline said that you’re a far sight better with children.”

Halle grinned at that, rubbing the place Basille had hit her. “Fair enough. Is there anything else we can do for your family?”

“Return to us,” was all she said, then nodded in thanks. “I’ll see you out. When should I expect you again?”

During the walk home, Basille’s face was hidden deep under a hood. Often, she would just walk through the town for everyone to see, speaking with the people and listening to requests for blessings, for healing. It was good, to let them know her, to let them know they could ask her for these things. Her entire purpose was to prove their kindness to the gods, and to do that, she had to spend time with them.

Today, though, she didn’t want their kindness.

“Do you think--” she started to say, but Halle answered before she could finish the thought.

“No. It’s consumption, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Halle sighed, and Basille felt her arm loop around her own, pulling her a step closer as they walked. “This really will be a lesson in losing someone as kindly as we can.”

~~~

Year 17, Month 8, Day 18

The halls of the temple were quiet, the priestesses gathered for some ritual or another in the main prayer chamber. Basille would often be a part of these ceremonies, but today they hadn’t asked for her to join them, so she was aimlessly wandering. Halle was gone, out visiting one of her patients in Skies Haven, so Basille had virtually nothing to entertain her.

The outside of the temple was imposing, white marble towering up a mountain, but Basille had always loved the inside. There was still a lot of marble in the entry hall and the townspeople's prayer room, but as you got further into the building, you encountered whole hallways of light tapestries covering the walls, tiny rooms for growing herbs where vines tangled over the windows and turned the light filtering through into a spotted green.

This was home, had been for centuries, even if she couldn’t remember it. The temple had been built somewhere around her 20th life and had been maintained by the goddesses and the priestesses that now served them. Some of the tapestries decorating the halls had apparently been woven by none other than herself. You could usually tell which ones they were, using too much gold thread that stuck out in uneven lumps. Art was apparently not her strong suit.

Basille’s feet guided her up the side stairs, climbing up and up, past her rooms, past the shrines, all the way up until she reached the roof. Taking a deep breath, she pushed through the door.

The roof was pure white, a short wall surrounding the expanse of it. The carvings in the wall were depictions of the goddesses, Cerulean’s curly hair dominating a scene just to Basille’s left. It depicted her cupping the chin of a woman whose face was scored out of the rock, as though it  had been broken away by mistake. Basille walked to it, fingers tracing the dip and wishing, not for the first time, that she was allowed to see proof in the images, her own face looking up to the goddess of the sky so that she could know with surety that it was really her.

Ah, but she knew it was. It was something she could feel in her chest, especially as she turned around to look at the flat slab of raised marble standing in the center of the roof.

It was the only thing with color here, blue and gold twisting around the rim and painted into the delicate carvings of a sun and a moon, the patterns twisting together where they met in the middle. There were columns at each corner, supporting a thin overhang. She knew that in the final year, it would be decorated with ribbons and offerings. There were a few paintings of it, and she had written about it in a few of her journals. How beautiful it was, how it almost distracted her from the dread of being apart from Reinne yet again.

Basille took a deep breath, then crossed the floor. Her bare feet padded against the smooth marble, hands shaking as she reached for the cold table. There was always a sense of fear, with this, staring down at a place she had died so many times before.

Her fingers met the place her head would lay, and she let out a rush of breath. Before she could think better of it, she wrapped herself in her cloak, climbing up and laying in the place she knew she would be sacrificed.

There were barely more than two years left, now. She liked to pretend it didn’t terrify her, that she was okay with dying. Of course she wasn’t. She wanted to stay here, to remember Halle and Caroline and everyone she’d ever helped. But… this was important. There was no doubt of that. And Reinne was supposed to make it all worth it.

Swallowing, she reached up to rub her own neck. There was an axe bound to one of the four columns, a long dagger to another. The dagger was for Reinne, but the axe…

The priestesses hadn’t explained the meaning of her tattoo to her until just a few years ago. She didn’t know how she had missed it until then, but knew she’d never even considered the idea of it being her death mark. It was so beautiful, all twisting lines and symbols of the moon. When Reinne came, she would get two, one on her back and one on her wrist.

That was the only thing that made the thought, bearable, wasn’t it? They hadn’t died a single life without Reinne’s hand cupping her cheek, foreheads pressed together. It was terrifying, but at least she was dying alongside the only person that really mattered. It was worth the fear, to never have to lose her.

At least, that’s what the journals said.

Basille turned onto her back, squinting up at the sky as the sun came out from behind a cloud.

She wondered if it would hurt.

It was unfair, she thought for the thousandth time. It was something she’d read in one of her journals, a horrible realization that had taken her far too long to work out and write down. This was the goddesses’ punishment for her. Reinne had lived sixty-three unique and varied lives, having no idea what was coming for her until the moment they were reunited. She was experiencing the world, seeing the way it was changing and growing, because the only thing she’d ever done wrong was to die, and that hadn’t been her fault. Basille had been the one bold enough to ask a goddess for a miracle.

She was cursed, she thought. Cursed to never escape her own death.

The sound of the door opening made Basille jump, sitting up halfway and mouth opening with an excuse she hadn’t yet formulated. Caroline stood in the doorway, looking at her in shock, and Basille felt her face flame.

“I was just… thinking,” she explained weakly, sitting up and scooting to Reinne’s side of the table so that she could dangle her legs over the side.

Caroline was still staring at her, then laughed shortly, shaking her head and looking at the ground. “I’ve never known you to do this before. Do you come up here often?”

“No,” she said truthfully. She did come up, sometimes, but just to look. She’d certainly never quite been able to convince herself to lay on the table before.

“You usually avoid this place.” Slowly, Caroline approached, fingers lighting softly along the rim of the table. “I didn’t think you’d ever liked worrying about it.”

Nodding, Basille let out a soft exhale. She didn’t, but... “I don’t mind it, I suppose. It’s inevitable, and I think I’m happy to do it if it means fulfilling my destiny. That’s what the journals say, over and over. ‘It’s worth it’. No matter how scared I am, my life is for a purpose, and I’ll be rewarded before it’s over.”

Caroline just watched her for a long moment. “It’s amazing, how different you are from life to life, and yet always so much the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were… This is the fourth life I’ve known you. The first, I couldn’t see you, but the second, you were so demure. Willing to let the wind blow you wherever it would go. Last time, you drove me to the end of my wit, hiding away with that man and refusing to speak to any of us when you came back. And now…” she shook her head. “But you’re always brave. Always self-assured and kind. Your voice always sounds the same, and sometimes you’ll say the same little phrases or move the same way you always have. It’s disconcerting.”

“You’re telling me,” Basille laughed, leaning forward to put her chin in her hands. “I wish I could remember.”

“I don’t think you do.” It was said kindly, but Basille frowned, deciding not to press the issue. They were both quiet for a long moment, then Caroline leaned back against one of the columns. “How does it go with the boy in Skies Haven?”

“James?” she asked, and Caroline nodded. Basille sighed, unhappiness worming its way through her heart. “He’s too sick to save. Why must we do this, Caroline? Why do we have to watch him die, what help could we be?”

“It’s necessary, Basille,” she said softly, reaching out to brush a hair out of her face. “The queen of moons is most often a healer, and I’m glad that you enjoy helping the people, but this is a necessary part of being a healer. It’s an important lesson, one you can’t get away from. You’re always going to lose people.”

“But a child?” she protested. “And the child of a mysterious old friend at that.”

Caroline was quiet for a long time, seeming to be searching for words. Basille let her, not wanting to push the issue when she had no idea what kind of answer she could possibly be looking for.

“Let Halle take the lead, my dear,” she finally said. “She’s good at this, and I know it’s harder for you to be the one at the forefront. Watch what she does, and learn from her. That’s all I ask.”

How she had made it through any of her lives without Halle, she had no idea.

“Fine,” Basille said, then straightened and hopped down from the table. She felt her cloak catch against the carvings as she walked to the axe on the column across from Caroline. Hesitantly, she reached up, touching at the metal of the blade and flinching despite herself. She looked back to see Caroline watching her worriedly, forced a smile onto her face. “It seems a bit dull.”

Caroline choked out a laugh, disbelief flashing across her face before she was shaking her head. She held out a hand.

“Come downstairs, Basille. I’ll have someone sharpen it.”

[crowsurvivalcom]

Everything There Is To Know About Nodachi | Plus Buying Guide

The Nodachi was used as the long, two-handed field sword of the Japanese samurai warriors. The blade length of this sword was more than 90cm long, making it one of the longest swords of its time. The soldiers preferred to use these swords in battlefields because of their sheer length and accuracy. However, when compared to the other swords, the nodachi wasn’t used extensively due to various reasons. In this article, we will see some of the fundamental aspects of the Nodachi.

Odachi or Nodachi?

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The terms odachi and nodachi were interchangeably used, giving us room to think if these were similar swords. The only difference that could have been between these types is their length. In the Japanese dialect, nodachi meant “wild,” and odachi meant “big.” Therefore, in reality, a nodachi was nothing but a wild, long sword that was used with great efficiency by foot soldiers and against cavalry, on the battlefields. It is believed that the nodachi originated during the Heian Period.

In the earlier days, only the most skilled samurai warriors were given the responsibility of wielding and using the nodachi. This was because it was extremely difficult to draw the long nodachi from one’s back and use it against one’s opponents. Though they were used sparingly due to their size, their performance was top-class. Their cutting accuracy was way beyond the other swords like the katana. It was popularly believed that the nodachi could cut a soldier and his horse in two, with a single blow. The sword’s size made it impossible to use it indoors.

Why was the nodachi used infrequently?

As mentioned above, the abnormal size of the nodachi made it very difficult for swordsmiths to get a proper forging on it. Of all the Japanese samurai swords, the nodachi was the most difficult for forging. It was a huge challenge for the smiths to apply heat treatment and quenching uniformly all through the length of the sword. If the carbon steel used for the swords weren’t evenly spread, it reduced the efficiency of the sword. While most other swords like the katana and wakizashi could be drawn from the waist, the nodachi had to be drawn from the back. Soldiers found it extremely difficult to draw this long sword from their backs, especially during critical times on the battlefield. So they started to hold this sword by hand and combat attacks quickly.

Also, the nodachi required only exceptionally skilled warriors to wield it. While the samurai class of people was very talented, most of them weren’t experts in wielding a sword that had the caliber of a nodachi. Making the nodachi was a very time-consuming and costly process, which is why this sword wasn’t made in large numbers. For the polishing process, this sword had to be hung from the ceiling or kept in a still position. The other small-sized swords could be easily moved over polishing stones to get their polishing done. However, in the case of a nodachi, the sword polisher had to move the sword to complete his work. Over the years, swords that were quite smaller (like the naginata and nagamaki) were introduced. These small swords had reasonable degrees of accuracy, and it was no surprise that they slowly replaced the nodachi.

Where were they used?

We saw in the previous sections that the Nodachi was used in the open battlefields as a long field sword against opponents and cavalry. Apart from this, they were also used for ceremonial purposes, where they made an offering to a particular Shrine. As their practical purpose in battles faded away after a few years, they were mainly used for religious and ceremonial purposes only. In those days, the nodachi or the odachi swords were also used to show off the amazing talent and workmanship of swordsmiths. After 1615, the nodachi swords weren’t used extensively, because there were not many battles that were conducted post this era. So, all the available records point out to the use of this sword before this period. During the Heian period, there was already another sword that was being used by the court nobles for ceremonial purposes. This sword was called the Gijo-Tachi. Hence, a new name, Nodachi, was given to the long, field swords, so that people could know the difference between the two.

Connection with mythology

Due to their extreme length and weight, the nodachi swords were believed to be used by the Gods during as early as 5th century. People believed that a sword that measured close to 100cm couldn’t have been practically used by a normal human being. To add fuel to these believes, two swords, both measuring about 117cm and 137cm respectively, were unearthed from old mountains in Japan. These swords were believed to have been offered to the Gods during the 5th century, and their visual appeal and gigantic size closely resembled the Nodachi swords. It was believed that the kings made an offering of this sword to the Gods, who then used it to end a battle. Even during the battles, many samurai warriors offered these field swords to their favorite Gods to help them win wars.

Are they use in today?

Though the practical use of Nodachi swords has been stopped today, we can see the use of oversized field swords at same places. In the Chinese martial arts form of Pa Kua Chang, students are trained to wield a long-sized weapon efficiently and use it to attack the opponents. This martial arts technique is heavily impressed by the use of nodachi and other long tachi (swords) forms that were used by the Japanese samurais many centuries ago. In Japan, the Shadow School or the Kage Ryu is the only martial arts school that still practices and trains its students to use the long field swords technique. In their system, these long swords are known as choken, which is nothing but a modern-day adaptation of the century-old Nodachi.

Norimitsu Odachi: Legendary Giant Sword

Norimitsu Odachi

Originating from Japan, the Norimitsu is an Odachi sword of gigantic proportions. Due to it’s imposing size it’s not at all surprising that several legends and theories have sprung up around it, even going so far as to suggest that the sword was wielded by giants. Specific details are rather scarce as to the origins of the sword, we know it was likely forged during the 15th century, and we know it measures nearly 13 feet in length and weighs in excess of 32 lbs. The rest of the swords history is something of a mystery but we can make educated guesses as to its likely uses given what we know about the culture at the time.

Forging an Odachi

Popular culture means that Japanese swords are well known throughout the western world, with many claiming that Japan has produced some of the finest swordsmiths the world has ever seen. Many sword designs have come out of Japan, but it’s not at all surprising that the Katana is famous of them all, this largely due to its association with the Samurai class. Regardless, there are a multitude of less well-known swords that have come out of Japan over the years, which includes the odachi or nodachi.

Could the Norimitsu Odachi Actually be Used in Combat?

A small number of the population believe that the Norimitso Odachi may have actually been used by a giant race of Japanese Warriors. This theory is of course rather far-fetched and the more believable and likely scenario is that the sword was intended for ceremonial or decorative purposes.

The skill and workmanship required to forge such an exceptionally large sword hint that the sword make have actually been made to demonstrate a particular forges prowess. It’s therefore likely the sword would have been on show in order to advertise the swordsmiths skill. Alternatively, the sword may have been commissioned by a wealthy individual in order to make an offering to the gods. Another large Odachi has found in locations and in circumstances which suggest that they were part of a ritual offering.

What to Look for When Buying an Odachi

As with almost any type of sword, it’s important to consider the steel it’s made out of. While stainless steel is perfectly acceptable for a cheap display only piece, some form of high carbon steel is preferred when looking for a functional sword.

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source http://crowsurvival.com/everything-there-is-to-know-about-nodachi-plus-buying-guide/