The Advent Sunwheel - Living in Season

The 

Advent 

Sunwheel 

by Helen G. Farias 

with a few additions from Waverly Fitzgerald 

Originally published by 

Juno’s Peacock Press 

Clear Lake, WA 

1989 

This edition published by 

Priestess of Swords Press 

www.schooloftheseasons.com 

2005

ADVENT CEREMONIES FOR THE SUN 

ADVENT means "the coming or arrival, especially of something awaited for 

or momentous". It springs from the same root as "adventure". Since the 5th 

century of the Common Era, when the birth of Christ was declared to have 

occurred on December 25, Advent has been called the period of awaiting the 

anniversary of his birth. But in that era, December 25 was understood to be 

the Winter Solstice, the day of Sol Invictus (the Invincible Sun). Nowadays, 

astronomers pinpoint the precise moment each year: sometimes December 

21, sometimes 22 is the true Solstice. 

Pagans (including Goddess people, people of the Earth religion, Wiccans) await no anniversary but 

rather the rebirth of the Sun, a real event that occurs every year, when our daystar journeys to the far 

north and hides from our sight for all but a few hours of the day. At the time of the Winter Solstice 

(called Midwinter because November 1, Samhain, is the beginning of Winter in our system, while 

February 1, Imbolc, is the end), the sun lingers in the north for about a week, appearing still. Solstice 

means "sun-standstill." 

Advent Sunday in the sense most people know it today is defined as the first of the four Sundays in 

Advent, the Sunday closest to St. Andrew's day, which is November 30. (St. Andrew, one of the 

apostles, is now the patron saint of Scotland, and a legend of the middle ages 

declares he was killed upon a cross saltire, which is shaped like an X. This, 

curiously enough, is the same shape as the rune of the Scandinavian Goddess 

Gefjon (Freya) - "gifts" - and when surrounded by a circle becomes the doublestrength 

sun symbol of the Yule period, which to the Norse of Scandinavia and 

Scotland extended from late November through early January). The four Advent 

Sundays are those that precede Christmas or Yule. 

Every Sunday of Advent, Christ worshippers light a candle set within a wreath of greenery. Modem 

writers admit that, "like the Pagan festivals that preceded it [and accompanied and follow it, we might 

add], Christmas celebrates the triumph of light over darkness, promising hope in the midst of 

despair… the feasting… meant to sustain us through the last bitter lap of winter." This custom is 

clearly Pagan in origin, regardless of how sincerely adopted by the later faith. The greenery, the 

circular wreath-shape, and most of all the fire of the candles all embody potent Earth-based 

symbolism. The Advent which the people of the Goddess and the God now openly celebrate again is 

the Advent of the Sun. 

But upon what day should we begin our Advent? It depends on whether we want to retain December 

25 as our Solstice day (since it was the original Pagan solstice), or prefer rather to be scientific about 

it. (Several old holy days of the Christ religion, based as usual on the substrata of Earth religion 

sunfeasts- days such as March 25, "Lady Day," June 24, "St. John's Day," and September 29, 

"Michaelmas" - all arose out of this earlier system of reckoning). That is a private decision, based on 

many personal factors, and no one can dictate to anyone else what it should be. 

Sometimes, there will be no difference between the dates of Pagan Advent Sunday and Christian 

Advent Sunday. When Christmas falls on a Thursday or Friday and the Solstice falls on either the 21st 

or the 22nd, then the Advents are the same. And they're the same if Christmas falls on a Wednesday, if 

the Solstice falls on the 22nd (since the 21st would then fall on a Sunday, the last Sunday before both 

the Winter Solstice on the 22nd and Christmas on the 25th. This is easier to comprehend while looking 

at sample calendar months). More often, though, Pagan Advent will begin a week earlier than the other 

one.

Just as the day of St. Andrew is a marker for Christ-worshippers, so the day of St. Catherine is our 

marker. Catherine's emblem is a fiery wheel. She was (and perhaps still is) honored by her women, the 

"spinsters" and lacemakers of Paris--. women who occupied their time, and made their living, by 

twirling spindles and bobbins: like the Sun Goddess, whose myth says she sits on a rock and spins in 

the hours before dawn (this is a Norse myth, and France of course was conquered by the Norse, hence 

the term Norman French). Her day is November 25. We can say, then, that almost always it will be the 

Sunday following St. Catherine's day that begins Pagan Advent (the exception occurs when the 

Solstice falls on both the 21st and a Saturday; in that event, Pagan Advent Sunday will be November 

24, the Sunday preceding Catherine's Day). The easiest way to find the correct day is simply to look at 

the calendar, however. 

It is no accident that the days on which the candles of the advent wreath are lit are Sundays. This day 

is the day of the Sun. Whether the ancestors of northern Europeans (from whom most of our other 

Yuletide customs descend) ever honored the Sun (or Moon) on a particular day is moot. After all, the 

old Teutons and Celts counted by nights and winters, not days and summers. (The months were named 

for moons). A survival of this is the use of the terms "Eve" (the night a feast begins) and "Night" (the 

night a feast concludes), as in, for instance, Christmas Eve and Twelfth Night, December 24 and 

January 6th respectively. But long before the Common Era the first day of the week was attributed in 

the Near East to the rulership of the Sun. We light the candles of the sun on the days of the Sun, to 

lend it strength even as the sun's power appears to wane. 

The shape of advent wreath is most often round, with four candles set at 

equal intervals around the perimeter. Brass advent wreaths can be 

purchased in hobby and gift shops. These hold dinner candles, and if the 

custom is followed of allowing the lit candle to burn all day, the first might 

easily be gone before the last is lit. Therefore, a constructed wreath that 

uses fatter candles might be better (but if these are used be sure to use 

candle dishes to protect the table surface from hot wax). Since the old 

Norse calendar mark for Winter solstice is a circle containing a dot, which 

later became a circle containing a cross, we might prefer to add a fifth 

candle, the candle of the Sun in the center, to be lit on the Solstice Day (December 21 /22 or 25). 

Lines of greenery might be added to form the cross-bars of the X within the wreath. In this shape, the 

first candle to be lit should be the candle of the east, the second, the candle 

of the south, the third, of the west, and the fourth, the candle of the north. 

Another wreath shape is the very female triangle, illustrated here, used in 

Germany and Scandinavia and built from apples and dowling. (Sometimes 

these are hung like candelabras). 

The custom is to light the first candle on Advent Sunday, and to let it bum all 

the rest of that day, or night (until you got to bed). The next Sunday, the first 

candle is relit and then the second, to bum for the rest of the day. On the third 

Sunday, the first two candles are lit, plus the third, and so forth, until on the 

last Sunday before the Solstice Day all the candles are alive. Solstice itself might be marked by lighting 

all the Advent candles plus a center candle.

THE CEREMONIES OF THE ADVENT OF-THE-SUN 

To hold your own Advent-of-the-Sun ceremonies, establish a time in advance for the rite, a time 

when everyone will be home and relaxed. The late evening, right before bed, would be good, or early 

morning. Let the household know that this will be the time for the Advent Wreath every sun-day until 

Solstice. Bring out ahead of time any ritual food and drink you wish to include (not all traditional 

Yuletide fare is sweet, only about 90% of it), and have the story of the day in place, plus plenty of 

copies of the lyrics to the chosen carol. (Or you may prefer to begin a tape or record of traditional 

music in the background). Also have ready a long taper-style match and match box. 

Gather around the table where the Advent Wreath resides, and if possible lower the electric 

lights so that there's plenty to read by but no glare. All hold hands for a moment, and breathe deeply to 

ground and center, adding whatever visualizations are preferred. Cast a Circle or not, as feels best. The 

designated reader or readers can then begin the story of the day. (A reading order, which complements 

the choices of carols and foods recommended for each day, is given below but need not be followed). 

Have plenty of water ready for the readers to drink, because their throats will get dry from time to time. 

When the story is finished, your family or group may wish to discuss it, or you may want to sing 

the caro1(s) of the day. While singing (or listening quietly to recorded music in the background), the 

chosen Lightbringer for that sun-day will strike the match and light the candle. Lower the electric lights 

further, if possible, and gaze upon the light in meditation for a while. When the meditation period ends 

naturally, raise the lights (or light other candles and lamps) and turn your attention to the ritual food 

and drink. You may want to discuss the meaning of the foods' shapes and ingredients (refer to" Advent 

Sweets"), and/or make a small ritual of sacrifice or communion with the Goddess or God or Force 

represented by the food (oranges, apples and nuts are good Sun and Goddess foods, for those who 

eschew sweets). Finally, open the Circle if one has been cast, and hold hands again to ground and 

center in silence and companionship. The Ceremony is complete. 

A Few Solstice Customs: 

Most Christmas Eve rituals as carried out by the worshippers of Christ revolve around the Midnight 

Mass. In France, this evening is called Revéillon (from the verb "to awaken"), and a large and elegant 

supper is served, complete with the rich chocolate roll called Bûche de Noël, the Yule log.. In 

Provence (northern France), it's traditional to offer thirteen sweets as the dessert course. The number, 

of course, is sacred to the Goddess. One might prefer to substitute thirteen symbolic foods, both 

sweet and savory (to avoid total sugar crisis). When a meal is served before midnight, meat is 

traditionally forbidden: but not fish. The Polish vigil or Wigilia offers as the first food broken pieces 

of a transparent rice wafer called the Oplatekt, which has been blessed by the Christian priest of the 

parish. The shortbread or bannock would seem to be the obvious original here, and could easily be 

used again. The Mother or Priestess, or any appropriate person, would offer the bannock to the 

Goddess (and the God, if that is your tradition) and energize (bless) it, then pass it around with the 

ritual phrase. The Poles also set an extra place for the Holy Spirit. Since the Goddess is present at our 

rituals, a place at table, or perhaps a decorated chair in which no one sits that night, would be a proper 

show of respect. This is the night the Yule log is lit, using a small piece left over from last year's Yule 

log. This "needfire" has magical properties, and all who participate in bringing in the log and lighting 

it participate in its good luck. The Swedes and Norwegians Christians throw open their doors on 

Christmas Eve morning and shout, "Welcome Christmas," and we shout "Welcome Yule!" Be sure to 

place a sheaf of grain on a pole (or an elevated dish of seeds) outside for the birds; in Scandinavia, 

the julnek

A Suggested Order of Reading, Carols, and Food 

On the first Sunday in Advent, light the candle of the east and: 

Read the first story, "Holle and Holler," on a sun-day near to the Feast of Catherine of the Flaming 

Wheel (November 25), the day when women in France whose occupation is spinning made a 

procession with an elected Queen at their head. Or so it used to be. Lace is the symbol of the day. 

Sing: The Holly and the Ivy, Deck the Halls and 0 Tannenbaum (0 Fir Tree). 

Eat: Springerle, Cavalucci de Siena or Poppy Seed Horseshoe. Have on hand oranges, apples and nuts. 

Drink: Glühwine or Cider. 

On the second Sunday in Advent, light the candle of the south and: 

Read the second story, "Hildur's Ride," on a sun-day near to the Feast of Barbara of the Flowering 

Branch (December 4), when young women in northern Europe pick a bare cherry branch- forsythia 

would do as well- and place it in warm water, if it blooms by Yule, they know that good luck will 

follow in the next year. Grain is the symbol of the day. 

Sing: Gloucestershire Wassail and The Boar's Head Carol. 

Eat: Danish Advent Pretzels or Vanilla Pretzels, and oranges, apples and nuts. 

Drink: Wassail or Cider. 

On the third Sunday in Advent, light the candle of the west and: 

Read the third story, "The Ice Ship", on a sun-day near to the Feast of Lucy the Lightbringer (December 

13), when at dawn the eldest daughter of each household crowns herself with lingonberry leaves and 

candles, serving coffee and lussekatter rolls to her parents and family. The X-rune is the symbol of the 

day. 

Sing: Santa Lucia and Maria Wanders Through the Thorn. 

Eat: Lussekattr or Lucia GingerSnaps, plus apples, oranges or tangerines, and nuts. 

Drink: Julglögg or Cider. 

On the fourth Sunday in Advent, light the candle of the north and: 

Read the fourth story, "Sul's Return", on the sun-day closest to the Feast of the Sun's Nativity, the day 

of Sulis who is also Saule and Sol and Sunna and many others: Midwinter, the Winter Solstice, Yule. 

Sing: The Carol of the Three Mothers and Jingle Bells. 

Eat: Moravian White Sugar Cookies (or another simple cookie) in deer shape, Stags' Antlers, or Scottish 

Shortbread. 

Drink: Eggnog or Cider. 

HAVE A MERRY YULETIDE!

Light the candle of the east 

The first Sunday in Advent 

Read the first story, "Holle and Holler," on a sun-day near to the Feast of Catherine of the Flaming 

Wheel (November 25), the day when women in France whose occupation is spinning made a 

procession with an elected Queen at their head. Or so it used to be. Lace is the symbol of the day. 

Sing: The Holly and the Ivy, Deck the Halls and 0 Tannenbaum (0 Fir Tree). 

Eat: Springerle, Cavalucci de Siena or Poppy Seed Horseshoe. Have on hand oranges, apples and nuts. 

Drink: Glühwine or Cider.

1. The Holly and the Ivy 

Now both are full well grown 

Of all the trees that are in the wood 

The Holly bears the crown. 

Chorus: 

Oh the rising of the Sun, 

the running of the Deer, 

The playing of the sweet organ, 

Sweet singing in the choir. 

2. The holly bears a berry 

As red as any blood 

For that women bleed but once a month 

So we bless this holy flood. 

Chorus 

The Holly and The Ivy 

Improved Lyrics: H.G. Farias 

Since the Winter Solstice celebrated the birth of a divine child long 

before the era of Christ, it is reasonable to sing about the holiness of 

mothers' bodies, as the following improved lyrics do. (It is documented 

that in societies in which women's blood mysteries are not suppressed, 

men are not as a group belligerent and violent.) Nothing could possibly 

improve the first verse and chorus, however, which remains as 

traditionally sung. There are two musical versions to this, one English, in 

a major key (the better known), and one French, in a minor key. Whether 

holly and ivy are "male" and "female" plants, or the reverse, or both 

"female" (mythically speaking) is not agreed upon. 

3. The holly bears a flower 

As white as Lady Moon. 

Women do resolve for to conceive 

So we bless this holy womb. 

Chorus 

4. The holly bears a prickle 

As sharp as any thorn, 

Just as women feel keen middlepain 

Ten moons e'er a child is born. 

Chorus 

5. The holly ever grown green 

So fair for all to see. 

Maiden, Mother, Crone go all serene 

Ever round their holy tree. 

Chorus

Deck the Halls 

This classic Welsh carol is also a New Year's carol, and one that celebrates the flaming Yule log. The 

lyric about following in merry measure also suggests the origin of all carols—they were originally 

meant to be danced. Although I don't know of any particular dance steps that go with this carol or any 

others, but you might try inventing a round or contra dance, to fit the lyrics. 

--Waverly Fitzgerald 

Deck the halls with boughs of holly 

Fa la la la la la la la la! 

'Tis the season to be jolly 


Don we now our gay apparel 


Troll the ancient Yuletide carol 


See the blazing Yule before us 


Strike the harp and join the chorus 


Follow me in merry measure 


While I tell of Yuletide treasure 


Far away the old year passes, 


Hail the new, ye lads and lasses 


Sing we joyous all together 


Heedless of the wind and weather 

Fa la la la la la la la la!

SPRINGERLE 

The name refers in German to a vaulting horse. The horse is sacred to Odin, Frey and Freya. Volvas, 

priestesses of Freya, transformed themselves shamanistically into mares. When people didn't wish- for 

whatever reason- to sacrifice a horse (for instance) at the Julfest, they sacrificed instead images of a 

horse, and thus the springerle was born. Although springerle molds and rolling pins are covered with 

flowers, birds and what appear to be abstract designs today, at one time they were dominated by images 

of horses or riders. There is a collection of springerle molds in Stuttgart containing pieces dating to the 

15OOs. Doubtless they were made before that as well, in some form. 

Some recipes leave out the baking soda and butter, but I think they're hard enough as it is without 

tempting Fate or the toothfairy. If you don't care for the taste of anise or licorice, don't necessarily shy 

away from these. Personally, I detest licorice candy, but the delicate, cool and haunting fragrance of 

aniseed that tinges these wonderful, archaic little cookies is a different thing entirely. These are quite a 

bit of work. I only make them once a year. I love them. 

4 eggs 

2 c. sifted powdered sugar 

3-½ to 5-½ cups flour (as needed) 

1 teaspoon baking soda 

¼ teaspoon salt 

¼ cup butter, melted 

Aniseed (a spice can's worth or less), lightly crushed 

Special tool: springerle pin or mold. 

Beat eggs till light. Gradually add sugar, beating on mixer's high speed until batter is like a soft 

meringue. Combine flour, soda, and salt. Stir in the melted butter. Blend flour gradually into batter. 

Cover and refrigerate for three to four hours. 

Divide dough into quarters. On a floured surface roll each section to an eight-inch square. Let stand a 

minute. Dust springerle rolling pin or mold with cornstarch; roll or press dough hard enough to make a 

clear design. Cut cookies apart. Place on a lightly floured piece of waxed paper which has been 

sprinkled with aniseed; cover and let stand overnight. Next day: grease cookie sheets and sprinkle each 

with 2 teaspoons aniseed. Brush excess flour from cookies, and rub their undersides lightly with cold 

water. Place on sheets and bake at 300° until pale yellow, 15 to 20 minutes. Makes about 4 dozen.

CAVALUCCI DE SIENA 

"Little horses" (cavalucci) refers to the picture originally stamped onto these cookies. The following is 

adapted from a recipe which in turn was adapted from a 19th c. Italian source. 

1-1/2 cups sugar 

1/2 cup water 

1/3 cup finely minced candied orange peel 

1 heaping teaspoon aniseed 

1 teaspoon cinnamon 

1/2 to 3/4 cup ground walnuts 

2-3/4 cups flour, approximately 

Special Tools: candy thermometer (optional), mortar and pestle (or facsimile), rolling pin, oval cookie 

cutter (about 1-3/4" by 1-1/4") or cookie stamp (or springerle board or rolling pin). 

Combine sugar and water in a heavy saucepan. Bring to a boil and cook rapidly without stirring until 

mixture forms a thread when a spoon is lifted out of it, or when it reaches 230° on a candy thermometer. 

Quickly fold in orange peel, anise seeds which have been crushed to release their oil, cinnamon, ground 

nuts and enough flour to make a smooth dough. Turn onto a lightly floured board, and when mixture is 

cool enough to work, knead until smoothly blended, adding more flour if necessary. Roll out to 1/4- to 

1/2-inch thickness and cut into ovals, or roll with springerle rolling pin (or stamp with springerle mold) 

and cut cookies apart. 

Place on a buttered and floured cookie sheet and bake at 275° for 40 to 50 minutes. Cookies should be 

dry but should not take on color. They will be moist in the center. Store in airtight container. Makes 4 to 

5 dozen. Adapted from Sheraton's Visions of Sugarplums.. 

A German and Scandinavian festive punch. 

Juice and rind of 2 lemons 

2 cups water 

8 to 10 cloves 

HOT WINE PUNCH: 

GLUHWEIN OR GLEE WINE 

1 2-inch stick cinnamon 

3 tablespoons sugar 

1 quart red Bordeaux-type wine 

Strain lemon juice and cut the thin rind into fine slivers. Place in enameled saucepan with water, spices 

and sugar. Bring slowly to a boil, add wine and heat thoroughly but do not boil. Serve hot in heated 

punch cups. Makes about 12 servings. From Sheraton, Visions of Sugarplums.

MAKOS PATKO: POPPY SEED HORSESHOES 

A Hungarian sweet--the highlight of the Yuletide sweet table- which is made just like several other 

European holiday breads, but in a unique shape. Doreen Valiente points out that the lucky horseshoe is 

actually a crescent form; its fortunate aspect is a gift of the Moon Goddess, ruler of magic. The twin 

images of lunar crescent and horse appeared together on coins minted by the Iceni tribe, a British tribe 

led by Queen Boudicca in the first century C.E. Natalie K. Moyle speculates that the horse--because it 

does not figure in prehistoric art but appears in later conservative art forms (such as embroidery and 

pysanky and baking)--is the soul animal of the patriarchal pastoral-nomads who overcame the Goddessworshipping 

agriculturalists of Old Europe. If so, it took over some, but not all, of the roles of the bird, 

the soul animal of the Old Europeans but which had many more adjacent meanings as well. 

Filling 

3/4 pound poppy seeds 

1/.2 cup sweet butter 

1/2 cup honey or sugar (or combination of both to 

taste) 

1/2 cup chopped raisins 

Grated rind of 1 lemon or 1/2 orange 

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon, or to taste 

Optional flavorings: 1 grated sour apple or 2 T apple butter or 1/2 cup chopped walnuts 

The night before you plan to make this cake, cover the poppy seeds with boiling water and let them soak 

until the following morning, or wash and parboil them for 30 minutes just before grinding. Drain 

thoroughly and grind seeds in a poppy-seed grinder, or pulverize them in the blender. Only use fresh 

seeds, as they go rancid after a while. Cream the butter with the honey/sugar. Combine with cream, 

poppy seeds and other ingredients. Variation: Omit butter and cook ground poppy seeds with 2 cups 

milk and the honey/sugar until the mixture is thick. Then stir in the other ingredients. 

Pastry: 

3 envelopes (or cakes) yeast 

1/2 cup lukewarm water 

1/3 cup sugar 

3/4 cup milk 

1/2 cup unsalted butter 

1 teaspoon salt 

Grated rind of 1 lemon 

Juice of 1 lemon 

2 whole eggs 

2 egg yolks 

Sprinkle or submerge yeast in lukewarm water, add 2 tablespoons sugar and set in a warm place until 

mixture foams (about 10 minutes). Scald milk and to it add butter, remaining sugar and salt. Stir until 

butter melts. Cool to lukewarm and add lemon rind and juice. Combine 2 cups flour, yeast, eggs and 

milk mixture and beat thoroughly. Gradual1y add enough of the remaining flour to make a smooth but 

pliable dough. Turn out on a floured board and knead for about 10 minutes, adding flour if needed, until 

dough is smooth and elastic and forms surface blisters. 

Gather dough into a bal1, place in a floured (or buttered) bowl, dust top with flour and cover lightly. Set 

to rise in a warm place until doubled in bulk- about 1 to 1-1/2 hours. Punch down, knead 2 or 3 minutes 

and rol1 out to a rectangle a little less than 1/4 inch thick (a table is a good place to work; modern 

counters are too narrow). Spread filling over dough and roll up jelly-roll fashion. Bend roll gently into a 

horseshow shape and slide onto a buttered baking sheet (or cut in half and place each half in a 9-inch 

loaf pan or on a baking sheet). Let rise again. If you want to ice the roll, brush it with lukewarm water 

before baking. Otherwise, brush it with egg glaze. Bake at 350° for about 45 minutes, or until golden 

brown. Cool completely before icing (see LUCIA GINGER SNAPS for icing recipe).

Holler and Holle 

A Story of the Winter Spirits for Advent-of-the-Sun 

This is the story of the twin aspects of Yule whom we know as Freya and 

Frey, or St. Lucy and St. Stephen, or St. Barbara and St. Nicholas, or 

Mother Christmas and Father Christmas. Two more are Holle and Holler. 

Out of the Blizzard 

Once there was a ruler, a crowned king, who 

gave up his throne and went away to become a 

poet and magician. Some say the prince he had 

deposed came back and won the seat beside the 

Queen again. Or perhaps he simply tired of 

ruling. So this king-no-more found himself a 

quiet valley where yew trees grew, dark and 

somber, far in the north where the magicians live, 

and he made himself a house there which he 

called Ydalir, “Yew Dales.” He was a hunter 

sometimes—yews make the best bows—and in 

his spare time he invented snowshoes and then 

skis, to get around better in the deep snow that 

covered his valley for six months out of the year. 

This king, when he had been king, was named 

Uller, which means “The Magnificent,” and he 

was indeed a fine specimen, very tall and 

handsome, with a dark beard and dark, blue eyes. 

Sometimes other poets came by, and they 

confided to him that there was now a cruel tyrant 

in the east who had armies and priests at his 

disposal. This ruler, who was himself both soldier 

and priest, was making it impossible for the poets 

to sing their songs. The poets were called 

Minnesingers, and they sang to and about their 

beloved, the Goddess Minne, whom Uller had 

once known as Lofn, “Love.” “We are a 

priesthood, too, Uller,” they told him, “but we are 

dispossessed. Now we wander.” 

Uller invited those who wanted to winter with 

him to make themselves useful and teach him 

their songs, for he realized that to praise the body 

and soul of Love was his true calling. “All acts of 

love and pleasure are my rituals,” She said 

Herself in an ancient manuscript, and this theme 

Uller wove round and round in his lays. 

He learned a great deal from his brother-poets, 

and he prospered from their kind and gentle 

company. In turn, he taught them how to feed 

themselves by killing the creatures of the wintry 

forest and eating their flesh. One traveler from the 

distant north urged him to make peace with the 

soul of each creature killed. This person was a 

shaman, and through his powerful intervention, 

good fortune came to Ydalir and no enmity was 

stirred up between the men and the beasts. 

One day in the depth of winter, when the white 

Sun was above the horizon for only a few short 

hours and the long shadows were blue on the 

white crust, Uller took a chance and walked far 

up the side of the mountain 

towards the north. He was about to return, having 

found nothing to hunt but a rabbit, when he 

caught sight of a beautiful snow-white hind, a 

deer that seemed unreal in its opaque perfection 

but which bounded away from him in a flurry of 

crunching snow like any animal that flees the 

hunter. He set off in pursuit, striding like the wind 

on his snowshoes which were almost skis. The 

sun was setting, but he now believed he was 

almost near enough to get off one good shot and 

bring down his prey. He notched his bow, but 

paused suddenly at the thought of destroying such 

beauty for mere food, hungry though he was, and 

as he paused a furious blizzard suddenly 

descended on him out of a clear sky. 

Next the dark of night fell, and he was plunged 

into terror and blindness. Obviously that had been 

no ordinary hind, but he was too busy trying to 

find his way back down the mountain without 

freezing to death to wonder much about it except, 

fleetingly, why it had chosen to lure him to his 

death. 

Then, looming out of the swirling madness of 

the snowflakes buzzing like bees around his head, 

there appeared a giant woman on an impossibly 

tall white horse. She glowed with her own light. 

Like the deer, this vision was of white on white, 

but for her shadowy face. The blazing sight of her 

hurt Uller’s eyes. The woman was as big as Uller 

himself, and he was, as we have heard, 

magnificent. 

She laughed as he stared up at her, 

dumbfounded and staggering. “Mount up, fair 

Uller, and ride!” she said clearly. Then she 

reached down her hand to him and pulled him 

onto her horse’s back behind her. They were 

immediately launched into the fury of the storm, 

flying over the frozen treacherous fields as 

though across a well-swept racecourse. Uller held 

on tightly to the horsewoman—she was swathed 

in deep fur from head to foot—and closed his 

eyes against the stinging snow, since there was no 

hope of seeing where they were going anyway. 

He heard the woman laugh and shout 

encouragement to her mount. Her laughter 

vibrated against his chest. 

After they had traveled this way for a long 

time, the pace slowed and the woman bent her 

head to pass beneath the snow-laden boughs of a 

huge tree. Uller dipped his head as well, but snow

still fell down his neck. There was sudden quiet. 

The blizzard was gone. 

“Dismount, fair Uller, and be at peace,” said 

the jovial woman. Uller did what he was told, 

though he had not been ordered around so much 

since he was a little boy. 

The place he was in gradually took on form as 

his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. The 

light in the cave was cast from the marvelous 

woman and her horse. The cave was crude and 

damp, yet draped in beautiful furs. A giant bow 

hung on the wall. There were low stone tables, 

and on the tables cups made of crystal: whether 

glass, or ice, Uller could not tell. A furry white 

dog lay in one corner, its tail thumping gently, 

watching him. 

“Refresh yourself, handsome man, and be 

warmed by the fire,” said the woman, and where 

there had been a bare floor before, now there was 

a blaze crackling in a round hearth. He took the 

cup she offered him, and drank the mead. Its chill 

was sweet, but warmed him nonetheless. 

“Lady, your hospitality and good will have 

saved me—a long walk, I’m sure,” said Uller. 

The Lady only grinned more broadly at him. 

She was perhaps a trifle taller than he. Uller 

straightened his back and lifted his chin slightly, 

slipping into the regal pose he had dropped years 

before when he had forsaken kingship and 

embraced poetry. 

“I would know your name and your dwelling’s 

name, so that I may send you a thank-you gift.” 

“You’re not home yet,” she said. 

“But I’ll surely reach home,” he said with 

confidence. Minstrels are even more self-assured 

than kings. 

“What would you like best?” she said softly, 

coming closer to him until he could feel her sweet 

warm breath on his lips. He swallowed once. 

“If I dared, Lady, I would be your lover, and 

give you my home.” 

She smiled widely again, and patted his cheek 

once, lightly. Then she stepped away, turning to 

the fire. Her dog came up and she stroked its 

head. Uller stood stock still, as if enchanted. 

Which, he reflected, he probably was. 

She looked back over her shoulder, past the 

dazzling fur collar of her mantle, and smiled, a 

little less gaily this time. 

“My breasts are white like these mountains 

which are mine, but white with milk and not for 

you. I need no home of yours—mine is far better. 

This—“ and she indicated the fabulous cave with 

a sweep of her hand—“is no more than a stable, a 

place to leave wet boots and curry the horses.” 

She crooked her finger at him and he came up to 

her. “Let me show you something,” she said, and 

she reached out toward the fire. As Uller followed 

the movement of her hand he saw three diverging 

paths open up inside the flames. One led to a 

place of feasting and carousing, presided over by 

a large man with a white beard and a stern 

expression. He held a whip in his hand but the 

feasters ignored this. The sight reminded him of 

the mead hall where he had ruled once, and the 

old man looked very like the king he had 

deposed, but he also resembled the pictures he’d 

been shown of the warrior-priest who lived in the 

east and forbade the worship of Goddess Love. 

The second way led to a region that was cold 

and without movement. He saw a strange old 

woman there, with a face like a jester’s mask, half 

white and half black. She reclined in a black 

curving chair, and seemed to glower out of the 

fire directly into Uller’s eyes, regarding him with 

a faint sardonic smile. She looked curiously 

familiar. 

The third way led to a place whose aspect 

transformed constantly. He saw sparkling 

snowfields and soaring alps, with daggers of ice 

depending from a tree like the one he’d recently 

ducked under. This dissolved into swaying fields 

all yellow-green in the sunshine, sprinkled with 

pink and yellow wildflowers. There were children 

running across the springtime scene. The image 

shifted again, and russet strands of wheat bent 

their heads beneath laden apple trees. Finally, he 

saw a hall lit with sparkling candles, where 

handsome women and radiant men played harps 

of ebony and gold. 

Uller found himself staring at the fire. It was 

nothing but red flame. 

The Three Roads 

“What were those roads I saw?” he croaked at 

last, hoarse with wonder. 

“The first,” said the White Woman—for so 

Uller though of her, though she was very dark, 

her fame almost black, but gleaming with 

highlights, “the first is that place where mortals 

go between lives, to rest and gain strength for 

their next go-round on the wheel. Those who 

don’t choose to think about their next test—or 

opportunity—spend their time there, until a new 

situation draws them in. The second,” she 

continued, seating herself on a couch strewn with 

tapestry pillows and patting the seat next to her, 

“is the quiet resting place of thoughtful souls who 

wish to make wise choices and do the most good 

for all concerned, who consider the debts they 

owe and the credit they can draw upon. They seek 

to leave the wheel sooner than later.” 

“The Lady there has something of your face in 

hers, I thought,” ventured Uller, joining her. 

“A relative,” she replied, smiling. This was not 

precisely reassuring. 

“And the third?” 

She dropped her eyes. 

“What did you think of it?” she asked, 

playing casually with a pretty golden jewel. It 

was shaped like a sprig of leaves with a cluster of 

opal berries, and hung from her girdle, as more 

often hung a spindle or a bunch of keys from the 

belt of a clan mother or house woman.

“It attracted me, Lady. I felt my heart 

contract when I beheld that place with its dread 

heights and tender meadows. Each change caused 

sensations more poignant to me than the last. I 

would love to hear the harping that the fire could 

only show in silence.” He spoke earnestly but a 

little pompously, wanting to impress her. 

“You have a choice,” she said, looking up 

suddenly. “If you can find the key that leads to 

my realm, it can be yours as well as mine, to rule 

together. You could be a king again, Uller, with 

no wars to fight, a king in the oldest sense who is 

kin to all, a loving parent, not a fearful tyrant— 

which is to say, a tyrant full of fear, as tyrants 

always are.” 

Uller blushed but looked at her steadily. He 

accepted his past, though he would prefer not to 

repeat it. 

“Or,” she continued softly, “you can go 

home to your brothers and compose a lay about 

the White Woman of the Mountain and live safe 

in Ydalir until you die an old man in your bed. I 

can promise you a safe passage,” she said, and 

Uller could not tell if she meant a safe passage to 

his home, or a safe passage to the Land of the 

Dead. 

“I will find the key, Lady. Only tell me your 

name.” 

“But that’s part of the game, Uller!” she 

cried, suddenly switching moods and slapping 

him on the knee. “Find the Key and tread the 

game, Follow me and learn my name!” 

The next thing Uller knew he was walking 

through his own front door. 

Uller’s Search 

Uller sought out every magician and volva 

and spákona and seer and shamanka he could 

find, every shaman and every sibyl. He spoke to 

little old women in their huts, Finn women and 

Lapp women; he talked to clear-eyed children. He 

tracked down a hermit in the woods and stirred 

his stew for him. He learned a great many secrets, 

and people came to say he knew rune magic: he 

now carried a bone on which he had carved spells 

so potent he could sail the sea in it. But that 

wasn't what he wanted. Everywhere he looked 

and listened for a clue to the Key that unlocked 

the door of the woman he privately thought of as 

Skadi, "The Dark One." He found nothing. 

By Gaukmanúd, or Cuckoo Month, he had 

turned away from his search and decided to 

pursue other avenues of study, hoping that if he 

forgot about the problem for a while, it might 

come to him in some unlooked-for-way. He had 

already learned a long time ago that this was a 

principal technique of magic. 

Thus, he was walking through a meadow one 

day with an elderly woman of his acquaintance 

named Beartha. She was a middle-woman, or 

midwife as they say, who with child and mother 

make a working triad to create easier births. She 

knew all the helpful and baneful herbs and she 

was teaching a few of them to Uller; he repaid her 

trouble with eggs and milk and fish. Suddenly 

that day she stopped and clutched his sleeve. 

"There," she said, pointing to a single oak 

dominating the grassy slope. "There you will find 

the bough of gold, the password to the realms of 

treasure." Uller only looked at her in amazement. 

"The password is written in letters of greenleaf 

and twig but it will open the door, all right. 

Maybe this is the key you've been pestering us 

about all spring, Uller. I thought you meant a 

creature of bronze or iron. And so you did, but 

you didn't know there were other kinds of keys, 

did you? Well, there it is, hanging on that oak, but 

there's a trick to it, naturally." 

Uller was a grown man and he knew better 

than to hurry a dignified person like Beartha, who 

enjoyed spinning out a lesson. He looked 

respectful and waited for her to continue. 

"It only turns to gold when the sap has left it, 

so as the strength of one sort leaves it, strength of 

another kind enters. That is the strength of the 

Upperworld leaving to make way for the strength 

of the Underworld. But they do say you can go 

straight into the side of a mountain if you have 

this talisman, and find gold, too, since like draws 

like. However!" She held up a bony finger and 

peered into this face, "That little vine which is 

such a favorite of the misselthrush that we call it 

mistel-toe—it's no good to you for treasurefinding 

if you don't pluck it at the right time. It's 

like fern seed that way. What you need is a 

golden sickle, shaped like the new moon, and you 

have to be there when the Full Moon of 

Midsummer is in the center of the southern sky. 

That's when you cut it, and no other time, if you 

want it to work for you." 

Uller nodded solemnly, remembering all her 

words. 

"Then you store it wrapped in fine linen until 

Harvest. It should have turned to pure gold by 

then. That's when you can seek your golden 

treasure. Now, for this knowledge I want an extra 

measure of milk." 

"Good Beartha, you can have the entire cow, 

for I won't need it anymore!" cried Uller with joy, 

and he did a quick ringdance with the old lady 

right there in the meadow, while the goats 

watching in astonishment. 

Uller accomplished all that he had been told 

to do, and having said goodbye to the doorposts 

and roofbeams of his beloved Ydalir, he set off 

under the Harvest Moon. He fled the fields of 

wheat where people worked together in the 

moonlight cutting and binding the sheaves before 

the rains could come and spoil it. He was sure 

that they would wonder, no doubt with some 

resentment, why he wasn't breaking his back 

harvesting too. He climbed the mountain to the 

north as he remembered it, searching for the

enormous tree that guarded the dark woman's 

door. 

And he found it. 

The mistletoe that he drew from its cloth had 

dried to a golden color. It now looked exactly like 

the jewel that had dangled from the chain at 

Skadi's belt. It quivered in his hand when he 

swung it in the right direction, and when he 

pressed it against a standing stone by the tree, the 

rock melted like the illusion it was. And there 

stood the Lady, in a soft linen dress with a golden 

torc about her throat, welcoming him with her 

arms wide. 

Holle's Tales 

In the time to come, which seemed to go on 

forever yet to be no time at all, the dark woman in 

white initiated Uller into her mysteries. She told 

him that he had won the game and so might call 

her Holda. From this time forth she would call 

him Wuldor, which she told him meant "Glory," 

because she gloried hi his love and faithfulness. 

Holda means "Kindly," she said, but also 

"Hidden." Nevertheless, in spite of all this careful 

naming, the people of the surrounding lands 

usually spoke of them as Holle and Holler. 

All around Holle were many children. The 

child who had still been a nursling when Holda 

rescued Holler from the blizzard was a stripling 

now, for children grow fast under the hill. She 

told Holler how she finds the souls of lost 

children: the abandoned ones, the ones too sick to 

live in the world, the ones who are brutalized or 

worse. She follows their whimpers and tucks each 

small soul inside a strawberry, flying with it to 

her home, where she nurses it and fosters it. Then 

she teaches the child to harp and sing, and to 

dance in the moonlight. 

But she gives all children their names in the 

Naming Ceremony. 

In their homes the older children of the 

village gather round the crib of a newborn, with 

the parents looking on but not too close. The 

children raise cradle three times and each time 

call out "Holle! Holle! What shall the child's 

name be?" And on the last lift, Holle shouts down 

the chimney, or sometimes through an open 

window, the name of the baby. And that's how 

girls and boys get their names, at least in that part 

of the world. 

Holle told Holler a story which clearly 

distressed her, since it was about the way she had 

withdrawn her good influence from a nearby 

valley. She had been in the habit of ploughing the 

fields for the people, and the children all came 

along behind with watering cans. Everything they 

touched, of course, grew lush and prospered. All 

Holle expected in return for this service was the 

occasional offering of milk, pancakes at the right 

season, and of course respect for her elder and 

holly trees. A kind word now and then was 

always appreciated, naturally. But even this the 

thoughtless people of that valley could not seem 

to manage. They denied the good work that Holle 

and her children did, they cut down elders to clear 

the land and never even begged pardon, they 

laughed at the traditions. Even when they saw 

Holle herself walking through the fields in the 

early morning, her white cape spread out behind 

her like mist, they gave her no greeting but just 

stared cowlike and turned away. Once when 

bathing in the river at noon, she had disappeared 

under the water as is her custom, but a boy threw 

a rock at the place where she had dived. That was 

the last straw. 

That night she had the children pull the 

plough across the field one last time—it had a 

broken handle—and though they were weeping at 

having to leave this dear valley which they had 

tended for so long, she was adamant. They stood 

thus on the banks of the River Salle, she tall and 

stately, the children tear-streaked and miserable. 

The ferry came over to them and she swept 

aboard, the children lugging the plough. The 

ferryman was none too pleased to see them, but 

there were no other passengers that late at night, 

and the lady looked rich enough. As he ferried 

them to the other side she set about with a 

whittling knife to mend the handle of the broken 

plough, and the chips flew like feathers in a 

whirlwind, so fast did she work. It was all fixed 

by the time the ferry bumped against the other 

bank, and she herded the children off, still pulling 

the plough. 

"Here, where's my fare?" the man shouted 

angrily as the grand lady stepped down. 

Wordlessly she pointed to the chips on the deck. 

"You can't be serious?" he sneered. But she 

only pointed again, and something in the force of 

her gesture and her stern face made him pick up 

three of the larger pieces and pocket them, 

grumbling resentfully all the while. The rest he 

swept overboard with his hand. 

The lady and her children disappeared into 

the night, and she never appeared to the people of 

the Saale Valley again. Nor did their crops ever 

flourish properly from that time on. As for the 

ferryman, he felt in his pocket the next day for a 

piece of string, and found something hard and 

smooth—pulling out three gold pieces, stamped 

with a woman's face. His family lived 

comfortably on that wealth until he died. They 

say that in the autumn you can see the reflection 

of the rest of Holle's gold at the ford when the sun 

sets behind it. 

Holle sighed as she told the story, and Holler 

held her hand. But her mood brightened before 

long, for she had a lot of work to do and she 

enjoyed doing it. 

Holler worked beside her sometimes, but she 

also taught him special tasks that became his 

alone. 

It is Holler, for instance, who spreads the 

blanket of snow across the fields at the beginning

of winter in the north regions, to protect them 

from the cold throughout the long dark months. 

And sometimes he leads the Hunt across the 

skies, just as Holle does. Some people think that 

it's just the sound of the storm, or of wild geese or 

swans passing, but really it's the Wild Hunt flying 

home to Holle's Mountain to harp and sing. 

Holle's own duties are more varied. She 

favors lovers, and if a maid or a youth goes 

outside on the Eve of Midwinter and shakes the 

Elder Tree, Holle will come to them. They must 

say, "Sweet Elder, I shake, I shake! Tell me ye 

dogs that wake, where is my lover tonight?" Then 

Holle will send her white dogs in the direction 

she knows the lover will be sure to come from 

one day, and snaps her fingers at them. They bark 

obediently, and the petitioner hears, possessing 

now a bit of knowledge to take inside and sleep 

on. 

Flax concerns Holle continually. She wears 

linen in the summer, and naturally has to be sure 

that it's made right, which means attention to the 

blue-flowering flax. She takes care of it six days a 

week, but on the seventh she lets Holler worry 

about it, just because she needs a rest. 

Once Holle noticed that the women in her 

neighborhood (which spanned many mountain 

ranges and valleys) never seemed prepared to 

take a rest themselves. She set a good example, 

taking the seventh day off, but they toiled on, 

often long into the night, washing and scrubbing 

and baking and chopping wood, spinning and 

weaving and tending the sick, feeding the 

children and everyone else seven days out of 

every week. 

So she made a rule, and strictly enforced it: 

no spinning whatsoever during the waxing moon 

that spanned Winter Solstice. And if she found 

even a tiny bit of flax left on the spindle when she 

came by at the end of that time (which people 

now call the Twelve Nights, or sometimes the 

Thirteen Nights), she would throw cinders all 

over it and ruin it. Worse than that, she put about 

a rumor that she might very well also slice open 

the belly of any woman foolish or stubborn 

enough to leave the flax wound on her spindle, 

and stuff it all in a bundle right inside of her and 

stitch it up again. But since her knife was very 

dull and short, she wouldn't be able to do even 

that if the belly in question were well-stuffed 

already with pancakes, Holle's feast-food. So that 

way she got them to not only stop work and relax 

a little at the Winter Holiday, but eat well for 

once too. 

With all those children, Holle is constantly 

having to turn their winter bedding (though in 

summer they sleep in elder groves), and when the 

snow flies people say, "Oh look, Holle is shaking 

her featherbed." 

In the warmer months she has a lot of 

laundry to take care of, and when the rain comes 

people turn their hat brims down and say 

philosophically, "Well, Holle must be washing 

her veil." 

The Return 

Once, when Holler, or Uller, or Wuldor, had 

been gone from the world for seven years, he 

decided to visit it one last time to see if he missed 

anything about it too much. He was strolling 

along one day with his harp on his back when he 

came across the train of the cruel tyrant he had 

opposed when he was a minstrel-wizard in 

Ydalir. The tyrant saw him and instantly 

recognized a fellow king (as he thought) merely 

by his bearing, and asked Uller to join him for a 

glass of wine. When in the course of conversation 

Uller mentioned that he lived now with Mistress 

Holda Under-the-Hill, in what the tyrant might 

know as the Horselberg, the tyrant laughed at 

him. 

"You've lost your soul, man! You've no more 

chance of redemption than—why, than this staff 

of mine has of setting forth buds!" And the tyrant 

pounded his staff on the floor and laughed some 

more, his tall conical hat nearly falling off his 

head. 

Uller simply shrugged, finished his wine and 

thanked the fellow for it, and took his leave. He 

went straightaway back to Holda, having found 

the world a foolish place after all. 

But three days later the tyrant was talking to 

his ministers, and one of them cried out, "My 

Lord! Thy staff!" Everyone gazed in awe at the 

gold-tipped staff, for it was covered with almond 

blossoms budding forth from its smooth sides. 

The tyrant took one look at it and instantly 

realized that Uller had the protection of a power 

much greater than his own. He sent his knights in 

every direction to seek the minstrel-king. But 

they never found him. 

Since then Holler has not left Holle again, 

and though she is gone from home quite often, he 

knows she will never leave him either. Their 

favorite work is done at Midwinter, when they 

distribute abundance to the people of their lands. 

In some places they drive through the towns or 

stop at lonely farms between the hours of nine 

and midnight. When you hear the crack of a whip 

followed by sleigh bells disappearing in the 

distance, go outside; you'll find their gifts for you 

there on the doorstep. 

Or sometimes they dress up in rich clothing: 

Holle will wear a fine linen cap, a starched bodice 

covered with pearls and a silk apron over her soft 

woolen gown, and Holler will don a long furtrimmed 

cloak. In this guise they will pace the 

streets and visit folk, handing out small presents 

and large blessings. The people in their kindly 

ignorance may say, "Here come Mother Lucy and 

Father Yule!" but it's really Holle and Holler. 

They are walking the world as always, 

looking after their people, together. 

— Helen Farias © 1989

Light the candle of the South 

The second Sunday in Advent 

Read the second story, "Hildur's Ride," on a sun-day near to the Feast of Barbara of the 

Flowering Branch (December 4), when young women in northern Europe pick a bare 

cherry branch- forsythia would do as well- and place it in warm water, if it blooms by 

Yule, they know that good luck will follow in the next year. Grain is the symbol of the 

day. 

Sing: Gloucestershire Wassail and The Boar's Head Carol. 

Eat: Danish Advent Pretzels or Vanilla Pretzels, and oranges, apples and nuts. 

Drink: Wassail or Cider.

Like "Deck 

the Halls," this 

medieval carol 

seems to 

predate 

Christianity 

(especially if 

you 

understand the 

reference to 

Lord applying 

to the Lord of 

the 

household). It 

is sung while 

carrying in the 

boar's head, 

the prime dish 

of the 

Midwinter 

feast. 

The pig is the 

sacred animal 

of the 

Goddess—it 

was a frequent 

offering to 

Demeter and 

the boar was 

particularly sacred to Freya, the Norse Queen of Heaven. On New Year's eve in Vienna, 

pigs are let loose at midnight in crowded restaurants and all the patrons scramble to touch 

the pig to garner good luck for the coming year. In private homes, a marzipan pig 

suspended from the ceiling with a gold piece in its mouth, is a substitute. 

The Latin translated: 

Quod estis in convivio (as you are in good company) 

Caput apri defero (The boar's head we bring) 

Reddens laudes Domino (giving praises to the Lord) 

servire cantico (serve it singing) 

In Teginensi atrio (In the Queen's Hall) [at Oxford] 

--Waverly Fitzgerald

Wassailing Songs 

Like the New Year carolers of the Ukraine, wassailers in the British Isles go from house 

to house, singing songs which ask for a blessing of abundance upon the household. This 

is a magical service for which they are compensated with generous food and drink. 

Often they carry around a decorated punch bowl, dressed up with garlands and ribbons. 

Wassail is an old Saxon toast, perhaps as old as the fifth century, meaning "Be thou hale" 

or "in good health." It derives from the same root word found in health and holistic. 

Wassailing also refers to the custom of going out to the trees in the orchard to honor them 

for providing the fruit used to make the cider. One tree is selected to represent them all. 

Its branches are dipped in the cider, a piece of cake soaked in cider is placed in its 

branches and some of the cider is sprinkled around its roots. Sometimes mummers 

perform ritual dances showing the tree how to produce more fruit; in Somerset, people 

joined hands and danced around the tree in a ring, singing a song. Here is one such song: 

Here's to thee, old apple tree 

when thou may bud 

and thou may blow 

and thou may have apples enow. 

There are many versions of this wassailing song. I've provided the more common lyrics 

and the music on the other side of this page. I like the variation below because of their 

affectionate references to the farm animals and the crops. It seems clear that these songs 

were improvised on the spot and adapted to suit the names of the subjects. 

Wassail, wassail, all over the town! 

Our toast it is white and our ale it is brown 

Our bowl it is made of the white maple tree 

With the wassailing bowl we'll drink to thee. 

So here is to Broad May and to her broad horn 

May God send our Master a good crop of corn 

And a good crop of corn that we may all see 

With the wassailing bowl we'll drink to thee. 

And here is to Fillpail and to her left ear 

Pray God send our mistress a happy New Year 

And a happy New Year as e'er she did see 

With our wassailing bowl we'll drink to thee. 


ADVENTKRINGLER-ADVENT PRETZELS 

A pastry from Denmark, where the pretzel shape is the baker's 

sign. The pretzel derives from an ancient Pagan symbol 

marking the Winter Solstice, found on primstavs (calendar 

sticks). It began as a circle containing a dot (the circle being, 

perhaps, the sun's course, while the dot represented the earth, 

as proposed by Mimi Sheraton? This would suggest that the 

Old Norse were far ahead of Galileo). When made as a dough 

offering, the dot became a cross; when it was later made from 

one strip of rol1ed dough, it assumed the shape of the pretzel known today. Pretzel or 

bretzel meant "an arm ring," obviously referring to the original circular shape, but 

apparently not the calendrical association. It seems to belong to a class of symbols quite 

apart from the angular runes. 

Pastry: 

2 envelopes or cakes yeast 

½ cup lukewarm water 

2 Tbsp sugar 

3/4 teaspoon salt 

Grated rind of lemon 

3/4 cup sostened butter 

4 to 5 cups flour 

Filling: 

4 Tbsp butter 

3/4 cup fine granulated sugar 

1 cup blanched, finely chopped almonds 

1 egg white, lightly beaten 

Topping: 

1 well-beaten egg plus the extra yolk 

13 sugar cubes, coarsely crushed 

3/4 to 1 cup coarsely chopped unblanched almonds 

Sprinkle or submerge yeast in lukewarm water, add one tablespoon of the sugar and set 

aside in a warm place until the mixture foams (maybe 10 minutes). Beat 2 eggs well and 

add to yeast mixture along with salt, lemon rind and the remaining tablespoon of sugar. 

Gradual1y work in the softened butter and enough flour to make a firm but pliable dough. 

Knead well for 10 minutes, or until the surface blisters and dough is smooth and elastic. 

Place in a floured bowl, dust top with flour, cover lightly and set to rise in a warm comer 

for about 25 minutes, or until puffy but not quite doubled in bulk. Punch down, knead 

lightly for 2 or 3 minutes and roll into a long strip, about 4-1/2 inches wide and 1/4 inch 

thick. This will make a huge pretzel about 2 feet in diameter. If you don't have a baking 

sheet large enough for that, divide dough in half and make two12 inch-wide pretzels. 

(However, the large strip will have a better shape and make a more impressive display). 

To make the filling, rub butter, sugar and nuts together until crumbly. Sprinkle down the 

center of the dough strips. Fold one edge of the dough over one third of the way. Bring 

the other edge over to close the rol1, sealing the edges with egg white. Gently flip the roll 

over onto a lightly buttered baking sheet, so the seam is on the bottom. Trim ends and 

bring them together, drawing them into the middle of the circle to form a pretzel. Don't 

twist or knot the strips. Seal ends to inside of the pretzel's arc, using egg white. Cover 

loosely and set to rise for 20 minutes. 

Brush with beaten egg and sprinkle with crushed sugar and nuts. Bake at 450° for about 

20 minutes, or until light golden brown. (Adapted from VoSP.)

WASSAIL: 

BE WHOLE! BE HEALTHY! 

The wassail bowl was originally a cup passed around to the assembled guest (such as the 

cup that is passed in a Circle). The custom of spicing ale has been popular in England, 

especially at Yule, since the medieval period. By the way, the toast floating on the 

wassail is the "toast" we drink today. In medieval Scandinavia, "St. Thomas' Day," 

December 21 (one of the days now recognized as the actual solstice, the other being Dec. 

22), was the day to brew the Christmas ale. People went from house to house tasting each 

other's brew (so that the day was more commonly called Thomas the Brewer). December 

25 was originally considered the solstice, the birthday of the invincible sun. 

1 quart ale 

1 teaspoon cinnamon 

5 or 6 pieces cracked ginger or 1 tsp 

powdered ginger 

2 cups sherry wine 

Juice and zest of 1 lemon 

Sugar, to taste 

2 slices toasted bread 

6 or 8 roasted crab apples or 2 to 3 roasted 

large apples 

Heat ale in an enameled saucepan until it is just below the boiling point. Stir in spices, 

sherry, lemon juice, slivered rind and sugar. Stir until sugar dissolves, then cover and 

steep over low heat for 20 to 30 minutes. Never boil! Pour into heated punch bowl. Add 

toast and apples. Ladle into warm punch cups. Makes about 12 serving. 

Variations: Thirteen small well-beaten eggs may be beaten into the hot wassail before the 

apples are added. Brown sugar and beer may be used (an 18th c. version) instead of white 

sugar and ale. The English Farmers' Wassail, suitable for wassailing the apple trees, calls 

for hard cider in place of ale and 1 cup dark rum for the sherry. A non-alcoholic Cider 

Wassail substitutes sweet apple cider for the ale and sherry

Hildur's 

Ride 

A Retold Tale for 

Advent-of-the-Sun 

Once there was a woman called Hildur 

who worked as a housekeeper for an upland 

farmer. His name was Egill and his farm, 

Stein or Stony, was a handsome place with 

big, red-painted buildings. Hildur organized 

things well, making sure everything was wellcared 

for and smooth-running, but she was 

quiet, even taciturn, and she kept to herself. 

No one knew a thing about her family, for she 

had appeared one night out of a winter storm 

looking for shelter, and had never let out a 

peep of personal history. Since everyone in 

the district was knit together by ties of kinship 

and fosterage, it was frustrating to have a 

loose marble rolling around in Hildur, but 

nobody could do anything about it. Here she 

was, and here she seemed determined to stay. 

The minister from the town, miles below, 

trudged up to talk to her once on the 

unseemliness of it- a woman alone, living in 

the household of an unmarried farmer, 

surrounded though she might be by other 

servants and farmhands, with no family to 

speak for her. . . . Hildur had a strong 

personality, if a silent one, and she had 

merely glowered at the priest until he went 

away, his white ruff drooping in the rain. 

All went well for Egill except for one 

important point: he couldn't keep a shepherd. 

That is, he hired them one after the other, but 

they all died. And they all died in the same 

mysterious way, on the same mysterious 

night: the Eve of Yule, when something 

apparently attacked them in their beds and 

frightened the life right out of them for they 

would be found the next morning unmarked 

and stone cold. EgiII had stopped looking for 

shepherds, for the experience had begun to 

wear him down. 

But one day a hearty, rough-looking 

fellow with a canny eye strolled up to the 

door and asked to be taken on to care for the 

sheep. "I like sheep," he explained, "and 

sheep like me." Egill refused immediately, but 

the man persisted, so Egill broke down and 

told him why the thing was impossible. 

"Nonsense," said the shepherd. ''That won't 

happen to me!" and he pressed and cajoled 

and jollied Egill along until the farmer gave 

in, but with strong misgivings. So Magnus the 

shepherd became a part of the household. 

But then came Yule. It was the custom 

for some people to hold a Midnight Vigil, 

with candles and chanting to watch for the 

spirit-return, the rekindling that happened on 

this deepest of nights, while other people 

gathered to sing hymns and listen to their 

minister read to them out of a holy book of 

theirs. But no matter where they were bound, 

temple or church, they must travel for many 

miles if they dwelt in one of the hill-farms 

like Stein. And to arrive in time, they must 

leave before the shepherds returned from the 

fields. In most such cases, the shepherd would 

stay behind to guard the house- from Elves, 

who liked to break in, it was said, and dance 

and eat on this Eve. Someone must burn lights 

all over the farmhouse and outbuildings, 

leaving all the doors open, and sweeping well. 

The formula must be repeated too: "Let them 

come who wish to come, and let them go who 

wish to go, and do no harm to me or mine." 

Food might be set out, just in case the Elves 

got past all these precautions and found 

nothing to sup on. An angry, hungry Elf is a 

force to be reckoned with. 

On Stein, however, the shepherd had no

such duties, for Hildur always stayed behind- 

to prepare, as she said, for the feast and the 

company expected next day. Even when the 

Vigilers returned, she would still be up and 

about, and they heard her calm footsteps as 

they got ready for bed and sank into sleep. 

So this night, Magnus had nothing to do 

but settle, make a good meal, which he ate 

with Hildur in companionable silence, and be 

off to his bed. As he ate, he watched the 

housekeeper, for it seemed to him that she 

was agitated. She dropped things now and 

then, made little exclamations that were 

unlike her, looked over her shoulder 

nervously, and watched him in return. He saw 

that no lamps were burning, nor was she 

sweeping and muttering the formula. Still. 

''Worried about the Elves, Hildur?" he 

asked suddenly. She started. 

"Elves!" She laughed shortly, without 

humor. "Oh, yes, you could say that I'm 

worried about the Elves. You could say that." 

And she looked at him frankly, full in the 

face, for perhaps the first time since he'd 

known her. 

Now, this Magnus knew a little 

something about the secret commonwealth. 

For instance, he had already made friends 

with the nissar that guarded the farm house 

and the stables, for like the housecat he could 

see them as they sat upon the roofbeam or 

lounged by the hearth. He himself possessed a 

smooth pebble of rosecrystal given him by a 

friendly volva, something she said would 

render him invisible in times of danger. He 

had seen the Elves trooping once at New 

Year's—from a safe distance—and it seemed 

to him that there was a quality to the face of 

this woman Hildur that reminded him of those 

Elves. Just—something. A feeling he got 

from the expression in her eyes, perhaps. He 

realized he had been exchanging stares with 

her for quite a while. 

"Yes, Magnus," she said as he shook his 

head to clear it, "1 am worried about the 

Elves. And I must do something." With that 

she turned away and began to knead dough. 

He left the table and went for a walk. 

It was bitter cold, but the night was fine. 

The stars shone upon the glistening snow, and 

from their heights they seemed to revolve in a 

stately joyous dance, buoyant and deliberate 

as the tides of the sea. For him tonight they 

were not simply a spangled curtain hung 

across the sun, but a set of doorways and 

passages that drew him up, in and through. 

There was a depth to the starry star. He stood 

in the snow looking up and thinking until he 

got tired. Then he went to bed. 

But not to sleep. No. He had been giving 

more than a little thought to the lamentable 

demise of each of his predecessors, and had 

decided that their first mistake was probably 

falling asleep. He left his clothes on, even his 

boots, and went around drawing the glyph of 

Algiz, the Elk, above every door and window 

for protection. This rune would keep out any 

truly evil influence, his volva friend had told 

him. Thus protected, he rolled himself in his 

blankets and lay awake to see what the night 

might bring. 

He considered various things to while 

away the time. He considered the vikivaki 

planned for the day after tomorrow. Lots of 

women there, all dressed up. Food. Lots of 

dancing- he was a good dancer. He would 

wear his new wool jacket with the silver buttons. 

Perhaps the stag-mummers would come. 

. . . 

There was a sound. Someone was 

entering the room. 

Magnus closed his eyes and breathed 

slowly, as if in sleep, but peered between his 

lashes to see what the candlelight might show 

him. It was Hildur. She was looking at him 

and sighing, and then she was fitting a bridle 

on his head and a bit in his mouth. 

As soon as she touched him, he knew he 

could no longer resist. She willed him to rise 

with no more than a word, and then she was 

astride his back and they were rising up, up 

and through the roof as though it were smoke,

out upon the nightwind and upwards towards 

the stars. He stretched his arms out to tread 

the sky, which he felt almost as though it 

were a road beneath his. . . beneath his. .. 

hooves. His golden hooves. Magnus squealed 

once half terrified and half elated, elated, a 

proper pig-like response. For he had become a 

golden-bristled boar, tusked and powerful and 

glittering like a great yellow star pacing the 

firmament. Upon his back Hildur rode, 

murmering encouragement in his ear, urging 

him on, on. 

They journeyed thus from east to west, 

from one side of the sky to the other. Finally 

they came to the rim of a vast crater. Hildur 

breathed in Golden-Bristles' ear and he 

plunged right over the side, spiraling like a 

bird into its cavernous depths. But there, in its 

center, was an island in a lake, and to this 

island they flew, landing roughly by a tall ash 

tree. Hildur descended, petting Golden 

Bristles and praising him while she tied his 

bridle to the trunk of the ash. Then she ran off 

through the grove. 

Magnus swam up slowly out of the mind 

of GoldenBristles, striving to shake off the 

identity of the magic boar. Slowly he pushed 

and pawed and shook his head until he was 

able to wriggle out of the bridle, and as it fell 

to the ground, he fell also, stunned to find 

himself once more in man shape. After a 

moment he reached into his pocket and 

clutched his rose-quartz pebble, the token of 

invisibility. He moved off through the trees, 

after Hildur. 

In the distance he could hear, long before 

he could see it, a huge crowd, merry and gay. 

There was singing, there were trumpets very 

high and clear. He came upon a host of Bright 

Elves, glittering and fantastic as stars, 

engaged in festivation beneath tall feathery 

trees. They danced—those that danced—upon 

a green lawn that stretched in every direction. 

Many others were clustered round a dais 

where a magnificent woman sat beside a 

magnificent man, and several elven children 

clung to them, but especially to the woman, 

who caressed them and pulled them close to 

her. Sometimes she lifted her hands to the 

populace, who cheered and threw flowers in 

response. 

Though there was much in the way of 

delightful comestibles, Magnus was careful 

not to eat a thing. He concentrated on 

invisibility and tried to stay out of the way of 

dancers and strollers. But he overheard many 

conversations. 

"Remember that Torgun? The tussewoman 

who married Thorn, the human brute? 

He treated her pitifully, and she just endured 

it—tusse-folk can be so patient you want to 

scream. I met her often by the well and tried 

to talk some sense into her, but she just shook 

her head. Now I think she was plotting it all 

along!" 

"Plotting what? I remember something 

about it but not the details." 

"1 only mention it because our blessed 

Queen has something about her that reminds 

me of Torgun. What happened was that one 

day Thorri was cursing and swearing—usual 

for him—because he couldn't get a horseshoe 

he'd made to fit right. Torgun listened to this 

racket as long as she could stand it, and 

finally—well, you know how strong she 

was— she walked up and snatched it right out 

of his hands, saying, 'This is how it's done,' or 

something to that effect, and then she wadded 

it up in her hands like bread dough." 

''They're powerful, those tusse-women. . . 

." 

"You could see him beginning to think, 

for once in his churlish life, that perhaps he 

ought to treat her just a little bit better from 

now on, if he didn't want to wind up like that 

horseshoe. That was while the wife he'd 

preyed on for so long molded the shoe right 

onto the hoof with her little bare hands. I was 

there, though he couldn't see me. I laughed, I 

tell you." 

"Her name has remained in that family, I

elieve." 

"It has, and her blood has improved the 

line considerably. . . . " 

The two Elves moved on. Magnus looked 

again at the Queen on the dais. She was very 

far away, but surely he had seen her before. 

He slid between Elves, capering wildly to 

avoid some Elf who would be surprised and 

surely displeased to collide with empty air. 

''The Queen looks so lovely. I forget from 

year to year how beautiful she is," he heard a 

lady remark on one side. 

"She must surely have found a way by 

now to escape the curse," said her companion. 

''The King does not do well without her." 

Magnus struggled on, higgledy-jiggledy, 

until he was near enough to the thrones to see 

the monarchs' faces clearly. A handsome man 

with a sorrowful face, a face from which even 

present joy couldn't ease the lines of grief. A 

noble woman, tall and erect, crowned with 

gold: Hildur. 

Magnus sneaked up behind the dais 

and pressed himself against it, eavesdropping. 

"Has she softened, my Aunt?" asked 

Hildur in a hopeless tone. 

"She has not." The king's voice was grim, 

full of dislike. "Gryla and her coterie are if 

anything more self-righteous than before. 

With every passing tide they become more 

odious to me. I'd like to drop them in the sea." 

"Risky, my dear," murmured Hildur. 

"Your Grandmother was mad, I think, to 

allow those Churchers in, those of the Book. 

Children of Lilli, Gryla calls us now, and the 

more we don't flock to her cold little church 

the more she threatens us with perdition. Of 

course, I go there all the time—I must, Hildur, 

in case my piety might persuade her to lift her 

evil curse. But I can never be good enough, it 

seems. Never good enough." 

"She is afraid- yes, Kari, darling, I'll still 

be here when you get back, go find some 

sugarplums—she's afraid; I see it all around 

me in the Human Lands. She has identified 

the Evil and now she wants to stamp it out. 

But what if the force she serves won't reward 

her when she succeeds? It hasn't so far, of 

course; she's quite miserable, poor thing. But 

this she blames on us and our pleasure, our 

'evils'. I tell you, there are humans just like 

her down below. Pathetic. They have much 

too much power. They take power." 

"What will you do?" There was a 

rustling, as though they had leaned together or 

embraced. 

"Since Mother's death, Gryla has stood in 

the place of the mother to me. She was never 

Queen, but she's the Duchess and daughter of 

Grandmother Ilsa—she has great power. The 

moment I sat in this seat, she blasted me with 

that cursed curse of hers, which she claims is 

only for the good of my soul—as though 

Elves had souls! We are souls, we are not 

fragmented and—" 

"No theology right now, please, 

sweetheart. I agree with you, I know all this; 

we have so little time." 

"Darling." 

A pause, while Magnus tried not to 

squirm. He disliked this spying, but suspected 

that his life depended on it. The king and 

queen sighed then. 

"1 can do—I don't know yet what.I can 

do. I hardly know my own power. I wait, and 

watch, and listen. I wait some more. All year I 

dwell on the situation here, while I sweep and 

scrub and mend for that farmer. And when I 

get here—nothing happens. I am forced to 

return by Gryla's curse, and she prays, we 

weep, the children wail." The Queen sighed 

again. 

Suddenly the air was rent by a shriek of 

rage. 

''Treason! Trespass! Foul filth!" 

The party sounds abruptly stopped, as 

though turned off at a spigot, and Magnus 

turned around slowly to find that one old Elf 

Woman was pointing at him with an 

expression of loathing on her wizened face. 

As she pointed, he could feel his invisibility 

gradually fading, and the Elves blinked and

stared as he came into view. 

The old woman—like a tusser-woman, 

surprisingly strong—seized Magnus by the 

ear and hauled him around to the front of the 

dais. 

''This, your Majesty," she spat, "this was 

leaning against your throne and spying. You 

brought this here with you to foul our holy 

precincts, and no more proof of your 

depravity need I provide! If you had ever 

hoped to be free of my ban, give up hope 

now, for all my sacrifice on your behalf has 

been in vain." 

"But Aunt," Hildur spoke soothingly, 

innocently, "it was only according to the 

conditions of your—your ban that I brought 

the creature here at all. He must have—why, 

he must have wandered away from the Tree 

where he was tied. I'll take him back again, all 

will be well—" 

"No! He must be destroyed. Thou shalt 

not suffer a spy to live. It is written!" 

And Gryla lifted her long-fingered hands, 

while Magnus cringed in amazement and 

horror, as though to blast him from the face of 

heaven. 

But suddenly Queen Hildur stepped in 

front of him She thrust the other woman's 

arms down so that the charge struck the 

ground in a burst of flame that rose up around 

them both. 

The Elves cried out in terror, the King 

shouted, Magnus rolled out away. And out of 

the flames the figure of Hildur rose, golden 

and radiant, immense, growing and growing 

until it filled the dancing ground, her head 

topping the trees and ascending towards the 

sky. The pious Gryla keened as she was 

plucked from the flames, now dying around 

the Great Queen's ankles, and lifted into the 

sky in Hildur's hand. 

"In exchange for all the sorrow and 

suffering you have laid upon my family and 

me and all our people," whispered Hildur in a 

voice like a rainstorm, "1 give you this Gift." 

She brought the little figure towards her 

mouth, and Magnus screamed, "No, God, no!" 

But the Queen only opened her lips and 

gently breathed upon the Duchess, who 

slowly ceased flailing her arms and legs and 

hung limp. Then Hildur put her down by 

Magnus on the withered grass, and the 

shepherd saw that Gryla slept peacefully, with 

a pleasant smile on her face. When he looked 

up at the Queen, he found to his amazement 

that she was no taller than she had ever been, 

and she was leaning over him with concern. 

"I'm afraid this night has asked a lot of 

you, my friend. Don't worry, we'll see to you 

soon." 

"But the Duchess- what happened? I 

don't understand. Please tell, Lady, please 

don't let me die in ignorance." 

''You silly, you're not going to die. Of 

course I'll tell you. You have done us a great 

favor with your courage and sturdy human 

curiosity. We are in your debt—you shall 

always have my friendship. Come and join 

us." She moved toward the King and sat with 

him on the edge of the dais. 

"That was magnificent," the King was 

saying. "What did you do? How did you do 

that?" But Hildur only shook her head and 

shrugged, smiling. To Magnus she turned and 

told the story: 

''The Duchess found religion in her 

mother's home, for there was a Churcher who 

had been brought to live in the Old Queen's 

palace and he taught the children much. My 

mother never was too influenced by him, for 

she was learning queenship and was very 

busy, but Aunt Gryla took it all in. She was 

insecure anyway, Mother said, and his threats 

and promises found a place in her heart. 

When I was about to take the throne, upon my 

mother's passing, the Duchess Gryla emanded 

I renounce all Elven ways and profess the 

Church. Well, I couldn't do that. It would 

have been false. But when I refused she 

cursed me—placed a 'ban of pity' on me, she 

said—and with her magic decreed that I must 

travail in the land of the Church until I saw

the error of my ways. One night and one night 

only would I be allowed to return and visit my 

darlings and my people. I had to ride the 

Golden Boar to and fro, but of course it could 

not be my sweet Ottar, who had loved to sport 

among the stars with me before this disaster 

befell us. No, he must stay and rule without 

me as best he could. So, I had to find another, 

and it was the shepherd I chose, because he 

was there. But he died, poor man. Weak heart. 

Like the others. Shepherding as a career must 

be bad for the heart." 

As the queen patted Magnus kindly on 

the shoulder, an Elf noticed the Duchess 

coming around and helped her to stand. The 

queen stood also and faced Gryla on the grass. 

''That was—" the Duchess wheezed, 

cleared her throat, and started again. ''That 

was the Breath of Love you breathed on me, 

wasn't it?" 

''Yes, Aunt," said Hildur calmly. She and 

the Duchess looked at one another quietly. 

Then the Duchess extended her hand, almost 

hesitantly. 

"1 have been a foolish old woman—a 

foolish young one, for that matter—and I 

repent of my . . . my unkindness to you. Only 

a Great Queen, like my Great-Grandmother 

Helga the Tall—you remember the legends 

about her, but they were true—only such a 

one could have saved me from myself with 

love. It takes tremendous power and fortitude. 

I. . . " she paused. '1 didn't know who you 

were, my dear. I thought you were only an 

Elf. But you have been visited by the power 

of She Who Is Life, and you have proved a 

worthy vessel. I lift my ban," and the Duchess 

knelt to kiss the Queen's hands, sitting back 

on her heels to make the necessary gestures 

and mutter the words that released Hildur 

from the curse. When the spell was done even 

Magnus could feel a loosening of tension, as 

though the entire court and all its people had 

been bound in an invisible net that held them 

caught, like fish. Doomed fish. 

Later, as the Elves celebrated, the Queen 

remarked that even when reformed the old 

Duchess retained the language and outlook of 

the Churchers: "worthy vessel," "only an Elf," 

"1 repent". But Gryla had lost her fear and 

anger, it had been dissolved by the heat and 

sweetness in the Breath of Love, so from that 

point on she read through her Book only to 

pick out the bits of poetry in it, descriptions of 

pleasant gardens and so forth. She was a 

changed Elf, and that was that. 

The Queen gave Magnus a fabulous ring 

of gold, and she charged him with the task of 

taking her story back to Human Land, with 

special greetings and apologies to Egill the 

Farmer. Far from fearing he would die of 

terror, Magnus actually begged to be turned 

once more into Golden-Bristles in order to fly 

across the sky. Hildur leapt on King Ottar, 

who shifted into boar, and she now needed 

nothing more than a touch (so secure was she 

in her powers) to transform Magnus into 

Ottar's twin. The bridle was left lying against 

the Tree. The three of them dashed across the 

sky and on and on until they reached the edge 

of morning, where looking down Magnus saw 

his own bed far below him, spinning like a 

leaf in an eddy. Squealing farewells he 

descended. . . 

He awoke the next morning with Egill 

and his household—minus Hildur—standing 

around him anxiously. He stretched and 

grinned, and wished them all a Merry Yule. 

And it was said that Magnus the Herder 

was a fortunate man from that day on, for 

every project he touched turned to gold, every 

relationship he forged brought him happiness 

and respect, every idea he voiced proved 

sound. 

Each Yule he toasted the stars. Any who 

asked him heard that he attributed his good 

luck and prosperity to the friendship of 

Hildur, Queen of the Elves. 

-Helen Farias 

Based on the old Icelandic folktale, 

"Hildur (or Hild), Queen of the Elves."

Light the candle of the west 

The third Sunday in Advent 

Read the third story, "The Ice Ship", on a sun-day near to the Feast of Lucy the 

Lightbringer (December 13), when at dawn the eldest daughter of each household 

crowns herself with lingonberry leaves and candles, serving coffee and lussekatter rolls 

to her parents and family. The X-rune is the symbol of the day. 

Sing: Santa Lucia and Maria Wanders Through the Thorn. 

Eat: Lussekattr or Lucia GingerSnaps, plus apples, oranges or tangerines, and nuts. 

Drink: Julglögg or Cider.

Santa Lucia 

The radiant light-bringing goddess still appears in the darkness of the winter, bearing the 

gift of light and food in her hands, even if she is now known as Saint Lucy or Santa Lucia 

instead of Juno Lucina or Freya. This song is sung to the tune of the traditional 

Neapolitan song of the same name. The lyrics are by Arvid Rosen and the translation is a 

bit awkward in places. 

If you prefer, try these alternative verses (from a tape of Yule carols performed by the 

Greenwood Singers, a Seattle pagan chorus): 

Santa Lucia 

Thy light is glowing Through 

darkest winter night 

Comfort bestowing Dreams 

for the future bright 

Comes in the morning light 

Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia 

Through silent winter gloom 

Thy song comes winging 

To waken earth anew 

Glad carols bringing 

Come now, 0 Queen of Light 

Wearing thy crown so bright 


At my house, we usually sing this version, written by my daughter Shaw: 

Darkness is at its peak, But light is on its way 

Springtime is coming soon, Winter will fade away 

She brings light to our house She brings joy to our lives 


Santa Lucia 

Yuletide foretelling 

Fill hearts with hope & cheer 

Dark fears dispelling 

Bring to the world again 

Peace and good will to men 



MARIA WANDERS THROUGH THE THORN 

Though couched in Christian terms, this lovely song clearly portrays the procession of the 

numinous pregnant Goddess. Germany, late 15th century. Lyrics are traditional. 

A little investigation through carol books (such as The Trapp Family Book of Christmas 

Songs, NY 1950) will turn up the music, or check out your carol records. It's in a minor key. 

1. 

Maria wanders through the thorn, 

Kyrie eleison, 

Maria wanders through the thorn, 

That seven years no bloom has born. 

Jesu et Maria. 

2. 

What 'neath her heart doth Mary bear? 


A little child doth Mary bear, 

Beneath her heart he nestles there. 

Jesu et Maria. 

3. 

As with the child she passes near, 


As with the child she passes near, 

red roses on the thorn appear. 

Jesu et Maria.

LUCIA GINGER SNAPS 

The dough of these Swedish cookies is easy to work with. The cookies are pale yellow like the 

warm winter light Lucia brings to ornament the night. These are probably found on the trays 

Lucia carries along with her coffee and "cats". They are appropriate for cutting into fancy shapes 

and decorating with piped icing. Consider shapes such as pigs (Freya, Lucia's alter ego, rides a 

golden-bristled boar), cats (Freya is Mother of Cats), horses (Freya and especially Frey compete, 

through their worshippers, in horse-riding competitions at Yule), stars (she is found in the 

constellation commonly called Orion dominating the Midwinter Night), angels or ladies, suns 

(Lucia brings back the light of the sun), moons (like all Goddesses, the moon is sacred to Lucia- 

Freya through women, whose part she always takes), and hearts (a version of the yoni and an 

emblem of love). 

1-112 cups heavy sweet cream 

2-1/4 cups brown sugar, firmly packed 

3/4 cup molasses 

1/3 cup dark com syrup 

1 tablespoon ginger 

Grated rind of 1-1/2 lemons 

2 tablespoons baking soda 

6 to 7 cups flour, as needed 

Whip cream until almost stiff. Combine sugar, molasses, syrup, ginger, lemon rind and baking 

soda and mix thoroughly. Pour into cream and beat for 10 minutes by hand, 4 minutes in an 

electric mixer. Add 5 cups of flour and blend in thoroughly. Beat in remaining flour gradually 

until dough is just smooth enough to handle but still soft and pliable. Wrap in waxed paper and 

chill several hours or overnight. 

Roll out to 1 /2-inch thickness on a lightly floured board. Cut into fancy shapes with cutters 

about 2-1 /2 inches wide. Place on a lightly buttered cookie sheet and bake at 275° for about 12 

minutes, or until evenly golden brown. When cool, ice. Makes about 5 dozen. (Adapted from 

VoSP) 

Decorative Sugar Icing: 

2 egg whites 

3 to 3-1/2 cups confectioners' sugar 

1 teaspoon lemon juice 

Pinch of salt 

Food coloring (optional) 

Beat egg whites, and gradually add salt, lemon juice, and 3 cups sugar until the mixture 

stands in stiff peaks. Add more sugar only if necessary to make a stiff paste. Mix in food 

coloring (divide the batch into smaller portions if you want more than 1 color). Half fill a 

pastry tube fitted with a narrow tip, and pipe your design onto each cookie, holding the tip 2 

to 3 inches from the cookie's surface. You can also spread the icing with a knife. It hardens 

quickly, so if you wish to decorate with sprinkles, do it immediately.

1 bottle (750 ml.) red Bordeaux-type wine 

1/4 cup sugar cubes 

1/3 cup schnapps or vodka 2 slices fresh ginger 

2 Tbsp. blanched almonds 

]ULGLÖGG 

The old calendar stick (primstav) sign for Lucia's Day, December 

13, was usually a flame, but on at least one old primstav the symbol 

is a beaker. This punch combines both. 

2 sticks cinnamon 

1/2 teaspoon cardamom seeds 

6 to 8 cloves 

1/3 cup raisins 

Combine wine, ginger and spices in a saucepan. Heat to simmer. Remove from heat, cover and 

let stand 3 to 4 hours. To serve, heat the glögg almost to a boil. Heat vodka in a separate 

enameled pan. Pour glögg into a punch bowl and place a metal grate over bowl. Moisten sugar 

with a little vodka and place on grate. Ignite remaining vodka and keep pouring it over the sugar 

(which will flame) until it's all melted into the glögg. Place raisins and almonds in 6 small mugs 

or glass cups, and ladle in the hot glögg. Makes 3-1/2 cups. (OCTAVA, Harvest /Samhain '88)

THE ICE SHIP 

A Story of the Lightbringer for Advent-of-the-sun 

Here is the story of the coming 

of the Ice Ship as my mother's 

grandmother told it to me. And now I 

tell it to you, my daughter's children. 

Once there was a famine along 

the shores of Lake Vanarn. The 

crops had been poor. the cattle 

sickly, the fishing disappointing. The 

days shortened. the nights lengthened, 

until it seemed that there was 

nothing but night. 

Women grew weary of watching 

their children's plumpness dwindle, 

of watching their old parents wither. 

Some of the younger men 

disappeared, gone a-viking, or so 

they boasted. But everyone knew no 

longboats sailed in the depth of 

winter. 

Our lake is vast, almost a 

hundred miles long, but every day its 

film of ice grew firmer. The mothers 

held their littlest children on their 

laps, shawls 

wrapped round like wings, and 

whispered stories about Gefjon. 

Gefjon had made the Lake. She 

pulled it right out of the breast of 

Mother Earth. She harnessed her 

four sons, witched into oxen, and 

drove them round and round, until 

the plough bit so deep that the clod 

came loose altogether. She guided 

them south, laughing and shouting, 

and then she dragged that clod right 

down to the shore and shoved it out 

to sea. Now you can see the clod, where the sun shines down in summer, floating there. Sjaelland, 

they call it, the Isle of Zea.

These and other stories like it kept our 

minds off our hunger. We heard them, 

picturing the event, the filling of the gaping 

hole of heaven, the oxen pulling whole forests 

away. All the time we san little songs to 

ourselves. Mostly we thought about the 

Midwinter feast. Surely then there World be 

rich food and sweet spicy ale. At Midwinter, 

we children know, this pain would end. 

Our parents despaired of survival. 

When finally the Longest Night arrived, 

we had no energy to protest the lack of feast. 

It was Freya's Day, thirteenth day past the 

Crescent, and the thirteenth moon of the year. 

We could hear no sound anywhere, see no 

movement, just silent white snow and starry 

black night. The people just sat. 

But one young girl felt drawn to push 

open the door and stare up at the frozen sky. 

And as she stared, she saw a curious sparkling 

form swoop down from misty Hulda's Street. 

It disappeared behind the Island lying just 

offshore. She called to her parents and ran 

outside, down the road towards the lake. They 

followed, pulling on skin capes, a sense of 

strangeness consuming them. At the same 

time others came out of their cottages, as 

though responding to a silent bell. 

Gliding out from behind the Island came 

a highprowed ship, shimmering and 

scintillating in the moonlight It was unlike 

any ship we had ever seen, for it rode the ice, 

and was pulled like a sleigh by four great 

yellow cats. 

Its sheets were raised and it sailed along 

singing faintly, ice to ice, for it was crystal of 

ice itself from stem to stem, a carven longboat 

of liquid shadows and lustrous angles. The 

sails shimmered and billowed in the waiting 

air, as though made of wind. 

A radiant figure stood in the bow, 

illuminating the ship's path as the moon lights 

her own track across the sea. We could now 

see it was a woman in white, her head and 

shoulders caught in light, now silver, now 

golden. As the apparition hummed closer and 

closer, more villagers crunched down to the 

frozen beach, trying to muffle the sound of 

their steps in the thick snow. My mother stood 

behind my brother and me, her hands on our 

shoulders. We huddled together and stared, 

but I recall that we had few words to spare. 

The Lady of the Ice Ship was tall and 

strong-looking. Two thick braids of corncolored 

hair hung down her breast. A circlet 

of gold bound her temples. She wore upon her 

shoulders a garment out of fable: a cape of 

feathers, bright as the snow, rimmed with fur 

that gleamed like the white winter sun. The 

fur was studded with sparkling ice crystals. 

Beneath the cape her white linen gown was 

belted with a girdle of silver, at the very 

center of which depended a spindle made of 

gold. She wore amber eardrops. Heavy golden 

bracelets. And glinting at her throat, great 

beads of amber set between golden crescents. 

In her upraised hand she held a lamp. In 

the other, a deep curving drinking horn. 

The padding cats, their paws like clubs 

but tufted with silky fur, drew the Ice Ship to 

the very edge of the rigid lake. I could hear 

their claws clicking as they turned the great 

boat till it was nearly parallel to the shore. It 

faintly sighed, and stopped. 

I saw then that what I had taken for an 

uplifted lamp was really the prow's tip, a 

grinning boar's head, lit up somehow from 

within. The Lady had been resting her hand 

upon this, and now she took her hand away 

and raised it above her head in salute. We 

continued to stare, like ducks on the shore, 

mindless. 

"I have come," she said, after looking us 

over carefully, "In answer to your plea." 

At this we looked sideways at our 

neighbors, uneasily, trying not to move our 

heads and thus draw her attention. Whose 

plea? 

"You are starving. I have food." 

There was a moment of stillness as this

information sank in, then one young mother 

near the shore darted forward as though to 

storm the sides of the ship. The Lady held out 

her other hand, the one with the horn, 

thrusting it like a shield. The woman sat down 

suddenly, still clasping her baby, which 

crowed at this game. After a pause her man 

crept up and helped her to her feet All the rest 

of us simultaneously decided upon the course 

of utter immobility. 

"Let me tell you some things, good 

people, and show you some things, before you 

forget yourself in feasting and drunkenness, 

as I have no doubt you will do the moment 

you take my gifts." 

Ah, she was going to prophesy. She must 

be a spákona, I thought, leaning against my 

mother now a little more comfortably. A very 

great one. Usually they only came on wagons. 

In the summer. No cats. 

I was enjoying her voice. It rang 

musically, with a full and sweet feminine 

cadence that was yet low and dignified. She 

could surely make herself heard all over the 

lake if she wanted, so powerful was her 

tongue. Her words created a curious echo. She 

looked over the crowd and spoke again. 

"Today you experience a famine in the 

land. But that will pass. Sunne will shine 

again, rain will fall, the wheat will bend in the 

wind, the fish will jump." There was a 

murmur of approval from the group. This was 

reassuring. "But I see both forward and 

backward, and I see that someday you will 

sink in weariness from a famine in the soul, 

and I cannot promise you that Sunne will 

shine for you then. For she may have been 

killed forever. Killed by your neglect, your 

disbelief, your fear." The man on my left 

gasped. The Lady went on implacably, her 

voice thunder from the mountains. "And I am 

Sunne, and I am rain, and I am wind, and I am 

the fish. I am the Wheat Mother you bind at 

the end of harvest, and right now I am 

hanging on your kitchen wall. But you will 

forget. You will forget and then you will 

starve for worse than food." 

We shrank in horror from her words, and 

some of the older folk fell to their knees, for 

they perceived who she must be. Although 

my ideas were vaguer, I grabbed my little 

brother's hand. Mother's arms tightened round 

us, but she did not fall, or wail. She was very 

stem and sensible, always. 

"But if— said the golden Lady in the 

slivery boat, holding up her free hand for 

quiet, "—if you take steps to remember this 

night, and my gifts, and if you tell the story to 

your children, and they to theirs for ages to 

come, someday you may survive that famine 

which I foresee. And then, seeing that in some 

small way you do remember, and have kept a 

small place for me in your hearts, a place at 

your table. . . " 

Here her voice faltered and her words 

broke off; she seemed to be having trouble 

continuing. Many people were behaving quite 

badly, I thought, bent over with their hands 

covering their eyes, or holding themselves 

and swaying from side to side. I watched the 

Lady's face attentively, as I would with any 

volva or spákona, and so I saw two tears 

squeeze from her eyes and land on the icy 

gunnel with a clink, then fall onto the frozen 

lake below: golden teardrops. 

She took a deep breath, held it—I saw 

her bosom heave—then breathed out. 

"In that case," she continued calmly then, 

in a low voice than nevertheless penetrated 

every mind like a sharpened arrow, "why 

then, I will come again, and the famine will 

pass. It will pass, and your souls will feast 

once more.' 

General commotion. Mother stood with 

us like a rock in a flooding stream, waiting for 

the turbulence to recede. 

Then one old one came forward boldly to 

stand right under the leering boar's head 

whose eyes gleamed and nickered, so that its 

glance danced across her old face. 

'So tell us, Lady,' said ancient Berit, 'what 

are the ways in which your memory should be

maintained among us, besides the recounting 

of our recollections concerning this night?" 

She spoke rather formally, the way old people 

did. 

"Three ways," replied the Lady promptly, 

as if pleased with a promising student. "First, 

you will each plant a tree outside your home, 

and this tree shall house the ancestor spirit 

that protects your dwelling and the lives of 

those within. Respect this tree, never cut it or 

hurt it. Ask it for help when need is great. 

Mothers ask it for children. And in return, 

give me—give the tree the first of your new 

ale brewed each year. On the eve of this night, 

the thirteenth, the longest full moon of the 

year, pour the ale over the roots of your abode 

tree: your botrad, your vardtradet. And I will 

know." 

"What else might we do, Lady?" asked 

the bold old thing, with her neck cricked 

back. I predicted I would have to rub it for 

days to come. She was my mother's aunt, and 

she got pains all the time, which we children 

took turns trying to ease in return for stories. 

"Second: you, and you, and you!" The 

Lady pointed suddenly into the crowd, 

singling out certain women. I felt Mother 

stiffen, for she had pointed directly at us. 

"You will be my priestesses, and you will 

dance in my honor when Sunne is at her 

height, you will dance when. the nights and 

days are equal in length, you will dance when 

Sunne is sulking in Niflheim and playing 

knuckle.bones with Hel. Four times in the 

year you will dance. Your sisterhood will 

trace my image in the stars and go about at 

this season, receiving offerings of food and 

drink from the folk and bestowing your 

blessings, which are my blessings, in return." 

"That's two, Lady," said Aunt Berit. 'Spit 

out the third!" She was no more afraid than 

Mother, I could see that, and I felt good about 

my family, though why I don't really know, 

for fear was not an unreasonable response to 

this Vision. Perhaps we were among the more 

foolish ducks on the shore. 

"Third," said the Golden One, and she 

smiled a little, I could swear, though she kept 

her voice commanding, "the eldest daughter 

in every home will make bread in the shape of 

my rune, the rune which means Gifts—you 

know it, those of you who can work them." 

Here she pulled on a chain which hung beside 

the golden spindle, and held up a small thing 

in the shape of two crossed plaits of wheat, 

but fashioned of red gold. "And on the 

morning of this day from this time forth, 

before Sunne has yawned and stuck her head 

above the covers for her short glance around, 

the daughter will rise and serve my bread with 

ale to her mother and father, her grandmother 

and grandfather, her aunts and her uncles—to 

all who live beneath that roofbeam. And her 

younger sisters and brothers shall follow in 

her train, to light her way and carry the provisions. 

She will come as I have come to you 

today, and she will be called by my name. 

And as long as she is honored, I am honored.' 

I wondered if I was to be one of the 

Sisterhood in the Second Way, but figured it 

must be my mother who'd been pointed at. 

Still, I was the eldest daughter, and I thought 

about making bread as now required of us in 

the Third Way. I would have to improve my 

skills in that direction, I decided. 

"Why is Sunne yawning, and what covers 

is she talking about?" whispered Hafdane, my 

brother. 

"It's a kenning for the sun, and she means 

that it only peaks over the rim of the sky for a 

very short time on the shortest day. Like 

today," I whispered back, cupping my hand 

over his ear but keeping my eye on the Lady. 

Berit was nodding and stumping back toward 

the sloping ground; thumping with her stick. 

"Wait, Berit," said the Lady, and my 

aunt looked around. I've never seen her more 

surprised. 

"Take this cup, and drink of it, and 

pass it around to ail your sisters, and then to 

your brothers." 

"I—my brothers are all dead, Your

Ladyship,- stammered Aunt, and I wanted to 

laugh, and I also wanted to rush up and 

protect her. I felt little pricks at the edges of 

my eyes. 

But the great spákona leaned over the 

side of her boat-sleigh and handed the horn to 

the old woman, saying gently, "The men of 

the village, Berit; they are your brothers 

now." 

And so it became, for I never saw a man 

in that place ever after deny Berit Grimsdottir 

a seat by the fire, a portion of wheat, or leave 

to speak in council, to the day she died. 

But that is getting ahead. Aunt Berit took 

the horn and handed it over to her neighbor 

woman, who sipped right away and then cried 

out in surprise and laughed. She handed it on, 

and it came to Mother, who drank, and then 

gave some to me. I held it in both hands, for it 

was big as the horn of an aurochs, I think, and 

made of red gold too, like all the Lady's 

things, formed of wide bands filled with tiny 

figures and symbols. The drink was not icy 

cold as I'd expected, but frothy and hot. There 

were sweet white nuts and dried currants in it, 

and spices. It tickled my nose and made me 

laugh, too. Hafdane wasn't going to drink with 

us, since he was one of the "brothers," but 

Mother chided him and told him he'd better 

take advantage of his good luck while he had 

the chance to drink with the women, so he 

did. His face came back into view covered 

with mead and smiles. In this way the horn 

made the round of all the villagers standing in 

the cold, and finally it was returned to the 

Lady on the ship. 

Then she turned and called behind her, 

"Mardoll! Horne! Syr!" And three 

wonderful women moved forward—they 

must have been there all along, and how 

we could have missed them, I don't know, 

for they glowed like their mistress— 

bringing hampers and pots and boxes and 

barrels, which they handed over the sides 

to our men waiting on the Ice. And the 

boxes were steaming, all were steaming, 

since they contained hot food the like of 

which I had never seen or even heard tell 

of. And the more was lifted out of the 

boxes and passed around to waiting hands, 

the more there was to come, and the food 

never ran out until the last family had food 

and more than enough to feast on all night 

and all day. And the remarkable thing is 

that this food lasted until spring came, 

when the hens started laying again and the 

cows gave milk. 

But while the cottagers were scrambling 

for victuals, I broke away from Mother (who 

was intent on the hampers anyway), and made 

my way down to the ice. The cats in their 

harness were sitting or lying on the lake, one 

placidly washing his paws. She was standing 

there alone, straight and tall, once again 

resting her hand on the boar's head lamp in 

the prow—fondly, I thought. I looked up at 

her, and she returned my look for a long 

moment. 

"Well, Hulda," she said,in a soft intimate 

voice. "I heard your call, and I came. You 

have done your first job tonight as leader of 

the Sisterhood of Abundance, for so you will 

become. You have seen me when others 

might not have, and heralded my coming for 

the good of your people." She knew, 

somehow, that the girl who had first noticed 

the sparkling vision sweep out of milky 

Hulda's Street—which I always watched, 

because 1 was named for it—was I. "What 

reward do you ask?" 

I knew precisely what I wanted: I had 

come to get them. But 1 suddenly felt awe 

seize me. 

She waited, while my fear flowed up 

around my ears until 1 thought 1 would 

drown in it. But 1 kept my eyes on her eyes, 

and slowly the terror ebbed again, like a quiet 

tide, forgotten. I sighed. 

"I want nothing of any value to you, 

Mistress," I said, "You've already discarded 

them, so you can't want them anymore. But 

they are of you, and I would cherish them

always." 

"What's that?" she said, smiling. 

I pointed to the ice near the keel of the 

ship. 

"Your teardrops, which fell here." 

She regarded me with her head tilted to 

one side, then nodded. 

I knelt on the ice In my grubby skirt and 

felt about. There was one—there was the 

other. I stood in triumph and held them up, 

one in each hand. "Gold!" 1 cried, like a 

viking. . 

"Look again, little Hulda!" said the Lady, 

and then I saw that the drops were clearest 

golden amber, warmest ice.These are the 

eardrops that 1 wear today on festival 

occasions, and which will pass to you, 

granddaughter's daughter, when I go west to 

play at bones with Hel. 

So now you know why the table is set, 

on the eve of the longest night, with tidbits 

and mead and the whitest napkins. The 

Sisters come, and when we see in the 

morning that they have eaten, we feel 

relieved—and blessed, of course. I'm too old 

now to go about, but I still retain that 

pleasing roundness of form which I believe 

was the result of so many holy suppers eaten 

on that eve for so many years. 

And if you have complained at having to 

get up early before morning and make the 

rolls in the shape of the X, Gefjon's mark, 

now you know why it is an honor, and good 

luck. And now you know why you put 

currants on them—for the eyes of the cats, 

which us why we call them "cats"instead of 

crosses or something else. The awkward 

heavy crown of candles on your head, that's 

to make it shine like the Lady's did all by 

itself. 

And I suppose you may have wondered 

also why we waste good ale on the roots of an 

old tree once a year. Now you know that, too. 

But there's still a little more you don't 

know yet. For when I had run back to show 

my mother the wonderful amber drops, and 

everyone else was still pawing over the food 

and guzzling ale, 1 heard the icy lake scream 

once, long and high. 1 turned in time to see 

the cats in their harness wheel the ship around 

and take off down the lake at high speed, the 

Lady guiding them with her reins. In the stem 

where the three white women stood I saw a 

crib. Just barely could I see, for a moment, a 

baby's sleeping form, in that cradle which 

glowed like gold, carved with bulrushes all 

around and surmounted by the mask of a 

boar. One of the glowing women raised a 

feather quilt and shook it over the high stern, 

and a swirl of snow raced out of the sky and 

obscured my view of the ship. 

A moment later I looked behind me, 

where the moon still rode. Just beside it was a 

great starry figure, and as I peered, I seemed 

to see the stars form themselves into the 

shape of a woman with a horn upraised in one 

hand, a distaff at her belt. I blinked, and the 

figure dissolved. But at the same moment, a 

shape streaked across the face of the moon. A 

shout was raised- some others saw it too- and 

the amber cats tore westward, with the sleigh, 

or the ship, leaping behind like a salmon. 

Even today we old people argue about 

whether they were really four amber cats, or 

white ones, or great furry white dogs, or even 

oxen, which some lummox thinks he saw, if 

you can believe that. And after all that time 

they sat there cleaning their paws, too. 

We have named the day in honor of the 

Lady, as you well know, which is why we 

speak of the Bride of the Light, the candlecrowned 

Lucia Bride with her star maidens, 

the Van bride of Lake Vanarn, the beloved 

one. And we always tell how she came in her 

ship of ice, riding her golden boar, carrying 

her babe and pouring her gifts Into our laps 

when we would have died. For that is who 

She was: Fulla, abundance. Gefjon, the giver. 

Freya, the first One, the Lady. We will never 

forget. 

—Helen Farias

Light the candle of the north 

The fourth Sunday in Advent 

Read the fourth story, "Sul's Return", on the sun-day closest to the Feast of the Sun's Nativity, 

the day of Sulis who is also Saule and Sol and Sunna and many others: Midwinter, the Winter 

Solstice, Yule. 

Sing: The Carol of the Three Mothers and Jingle Bells. 

Eat: Moravian White Sugar Cookies (or another simple cookie) in deer shape, Stags' Antlers, or 

Scottish Shortbread. 

Drink: Eggnog or Cider.

Moravian White Sugar Cookies 

A specialty of the Pennsylvania Dutch, who also make Moravian Brown Sugar Cookies (and 

traditionally serve them to friends who come to view their creches). Moravia was once a 

province of central Czechoslovakia. 

4 cups flour 

1 scant teaspoon cinnamon 

1/2 teaspoon fresh nutmeg 

1 cup sweet butter 

2-1/8 cups sugar 

4 eggs 

2 tablespoons sherry, brandy, or rum 

Sift flour with spices and set aside. Cream butter with sugar until light and fluffy. Beat the eggs 

well and add to the butter with the liquor and blend smoothly. Gradually resift flour into the 

batter, beating well between additions. Roll out extremely thinly ("paper thinness") on a lightly 

floured board and with 2 inch cutters cut in the shape of running deer. Place on buttered baking 

sheets and bake at 350° for 10 to 12 minutes, or until crisp and a pale sand color. Cool on a rack 

and store in airtight containers. Makes about 4 dozen. (This dough can be allowed to mellow in a 

cool room- but not the refrigerator- for 5 or 6 hours or overnight before being rolled out. Old 

Moravian recipes stipulated a to-day waiting period!). (Adapted VoSP.) 

Hjotetakk: Stags' Antlers 

Especially popular in Norway and Finland. These only resemble antlers 

if you have a good imagination, I'd say. The Winter Solstice Goddess 

Rozhanitsa was considered the Mother not only of the old Rus 

themselves but also Mother of the Deer meaning that the people and the 

deer were related. 

1/4 teaspoon salt 

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon (optional) 

2-1/8 cups flour 

1 teaspoon baking soda 

3/4 cup cornstarch 

1/4 cup butter 

3/4 cup sugar 

2 egg yolks 

1 whole egg 

1/4 cup heavy cream 

1 teaspoon powdered cardamom 

Cream butter with sugar until fluffy and light. Beat in yolks and egg. Add cream, salt and spices. 

Sift the flour with baking soda and cornstarch and resift into batter, blending well. Roll out on 

floured board to 1/4 inch thickness. Cut into strips 2 inches long by one inch wide (make a paper 

template to help with dimensions, if you like). Make two slits on each strip, 3/4 inch in from 

each end and cutting a little more than halfway across the width of the strip. Curve to open the 

slits, making a kind of crown effect ("antlers"). Bake on buttered sheets at 350° for about 15 

minutes, to a pale golden brown. If these aren't sweet enough for you, sprinkle a little sugar on 

them before baking. Cool on a rack and store in airtight containers. Makes about 4 dozen

SCOTTISH SHORTBREAD: 

WHEEL-OF-THE-YEAR CAKE 

When caroling as the third of the Three Mothers and singing their carol, an entire scored cake 

may be displayed on the lines "Gold and silver-white upon the snow,/ Bright the Sun who rises 

in the east:/ This my Gift, that every child may know / Seasons turn —tonight is Winter's feast." 

It's especially satisfying if one then has the privilege of presenting the disk to a young child. 

Shortbread is traditionally made round and cut into eight pieces: it seems to clearly represent the 

eight tides of the year, especially since it's universally acknowledged as a sun symbol, and the 

Celtic Scots still actively mark all eight feasts in some way. It's said to be a direct descendant of 

the oatmeal bannock served at Pagan Yule celebrations. (The O.E.D. connects this word to Latin 

panis, bread). This bannock was a round cake with a circle in the center and ridges around the 

rim symbolizing the sun and its rays-- a decoration still used in wooden shortbread molds. It's 

unlucky to cut the baked bread with a knife- break it into pieces with your fingers. 

Make shortbread in a cool room: don't let the butter melt during preparation, or the end product 

will be grainy and won't hold its shape in the oven. To mix it thoroughly, take it into your cold 

hands and knead it till it's smooth as silk. For a slightly less sweet shortbread, confectioner's 

sugar is just barely permissible. Some (not entirely traditional) recipes add 1/2 cup of rice flour, 

or, less preferably, cornstarch to add smoothness. 

1-1/2 cup unsalted butter (never margarine!) 

1-1/4 cup sugar 

3-1/2 cups flour 

Cream butter until soft. Add sugar gradually. Sift flour(s) and gradually add to butter and sugar. 

Knead until smooth, for only a minute or two, keeping dough cool. Divide dough in half and 

press each portion into an unbuttered 8-inch round cake pan. Using the back of a wooden spoon, 

press a round indentation into the center and crimp the edges. Score with a knife into 8 sections. 

With a fork, prick cake all over, right down to the pan. Bake at 350° for 45 minutes to 1 hour, or 

until shortbread is an even pale golden color. Makes 2 cakes. (If you have wooden shortbread 

molds, dust them with cornstarch or rice flour, press dough into them and invert onto a buttered 

and floured cookie sheet. Bake as above).

EGGNOG 

Said to be a descendant of the 15th/16th-century English drink, syllabub, a spiced mixture of 

wine and creamed milk (Sansom). Now generally made with hard liquor. But the word "nog" 

originally meant "a kind of strong ale brewed in East Anglia [England)" - before that, nobody 

knows where the word came from, not even the Oxford English Dictionary. The egg is a sun 

symbol, as Moyle points out, not only because chickens hail the rising sun but also because the" 

golden treasure" of the yolk resembles the sun. Its most common festival appearance is at the 

Spring Equinox, of course. 

Remember to keep fresh eggnog cold, even when "out," because it contains raw eggs and can be 

unhealthy if it gets too warm for too long. I've made eggnog recipes which recommend "stewing" 

the beaten egg yolks in the liquor for several hours or overnight, and this results in a very deep 

taste. Some recipes call for rye or bourbon or whiskey (such as "Plantation Eggnog"). Traditional 

English eggnog uses rum, brandy and Madeira or sherry. Charleston Eggnog adds a quart of 

vanilla ice cream. The separated eggs and the whipped cream are basic to most recipes. The 

following version came from my brother Dal. I don't know where he got it, but I've used it for at 

least 15 years 

1 dozen eggs, separated 

1 dozen tablespoons of sugar (3/4 cup) (most recipes call for 1 cup but I think that's too sweet) 

1 quart milk 

1 quart cream (but 1 cup to 1 pint will suffice) 

1 pint apricot brandy 

1 pint rum 

fresh grated nutmeg 

Beat yolks with half the sugar until thick and very pale yellow. Beat in liquors. (If melding the 

liquor flavors with the eggs, refrigerate here). Stir in milk. Whip cream until it forms soft peaks. 

Beat egg whites, folding in remaining sugar as they begin to stiffen. When whites are stiff, add to 

egg yolks alternately with whipped cream, folding together gently but thoroughly with a rubber 

spatula. Serve from a well chilled punch bowl set in ice. Grate nutmeg over the top, and make 

the grater and nutmegs available to guests ladling out their own nog. Makes 18 to 20 servings. 

(Omit liquor for a non-alcoholic nog).

SUL’S RETURN 

The last chapter of a larger piece, called “The Golden Spinning Wheel,” describing Sul’s search 

for the eight temples of the Sun, guided by the Golden Woman of her dream. 

Although she walked and searched and questioned, Sul couldn’t find her way to the land 

Beyond the Hill of the Sky, though everyone assured her that Saule and her daughters lived there 

and so did Dievas and his sons. “Try smoke,” they said, “sometimes it’s possible to go there in 

the smoke of fires.” “No, horseback is the only way,” said others, “but it’s a long trip. You’ll be 

old before you get there.” “If you can find a boat which will sail by night, you might make it,” 

said one man. Another told her, “You can only go by the Bird’s Way, through the sky ,” and he 

pointed to the Milky Way, which Sul had been taught to call the Track of the White Cow. 

Nothing seemed very promising. The Winter Solstice drew nearer. 

As she trudged, she looked over her shoulder now and then, for she sensed that a malevolent 

force was abroad, searching for her, tracking her. When the starry night closed over her head and 

the wolves howled, she shivered and hid herself more deeply within whatever poor shelter she 

had found. 

But she had vowed to find all of the Sun Houses , all the dwellings of the Sun, which the Golden 

Woman of her dream had sent her to visit in a year-and-a-day. Now the year was drawing to a 

close. She had climbed the Irminsul, she had passed the Soulfeast, and she was tired. Her legs 

ached all the time, her feet hurt, her back was sore—weighted down by the pack stuffed with 

tokens and boons from each temple. She felt cold and she was growing thin. Her clothes hung 

on her, and her once rosy face was wan. Her hair had grown very long and she now braided and 

tied it around her head like a crown, but she didn’t feel very regal. 

The people she spoke to along the way, farm people and villagers, all knew quite a lot about 

Saule’s habits and predilections. She drives down to her apple orchard in nine chariots drawn by 

100 horses, they said. This seemed excessive to Sul. The setting sun is a red apple falling from 

Saule’s orchard into the sea. (Sul knew this was very likely true, for she had seen a red apple fall 

into the Irminsul Well at Harvest, and saw also the frog woman dive in after it. She must be 

searching still, Sul thought). Saule weeps to see the apple fall and her tears well up on the 

hillside, creating red berries at all the different seasons. In the winter, holly berries. 

Most often this information was sung to Sul, or overheard as she passed by cottages where 

women worked together, singing. She had heard these songs ever since the Well of 

Sunnebrunno, on the lips of gaily dressed women who were called, everywhere, Daughters of the 

Sun. She wished she could dress as they did, stitching their blouse sleeves in red and black, and 

attaching ribbons to their headdresses in honor of their Protector, the Sun Woman who warmed 

them and gave them fire and raised up their crops. Sul sighed as she met on the road yet another 

cheery woman who was singing at the top of her lungs that her Beloved Fate gave her strong 

lungs to sing and she would sing until she died. 

One day, as Sul was huddled inside a cow byre drawing warmth from the cattle's breath and 

bodies, she noticed a little girl running along the path, rolling a flaming hoop on the hardpacked

snow. The child pushed the hoop along with a stick, but the stick never caught fire. She was 

running towards the west, and she disappeared around a bend in the road. Sul remembered the 

strange remarks about firewheels made by the woman at the Soulfeast, and she struggled to her 

feet to follow the little girl. When she rounded the bend, she came upon a wonderful sight: a 

great wagon with copper wheels, harnessed to a team of giant red-gold horses so bright they 

seemed to be in gold. Its driver was a magnificent woman dressed in white and red, with a great 

golden headdress and a golden necklace. Her fur mantle was pale blond, but its lining showed, 

when she moved her arm, as pitch black. She was just helping the little girl into the chariot, 

although the firewheel was nowhere in sight. As the woman lifted her reins again, Sul grabbed 

the wagon's transom and pulled herself aboard. And they rode away, over the snow, over the sea, 

over the hill of the sky, to the land called Dausos, the Realm of Souls. 

Sul buried herself in the soft, sweet straw which she found in the back of the wagon, and 

when the copper wheels finally stopped rolling, the Lady and the child got down. She heard a 

door open and close. 

She cautiously raised her head and looked around. They were in front of a large house with 

carving everywhere upon it. They had driven through one of three silver gates in a wall which 

encircled a vast estate. She saw the tall manor house and the orchards spread out around it, a 

generous sauna building, a garden with roses and herbs, and outside the wall on one side a tall 

forest of pine and fir and cedar. It seemed to be a Midsummer evening. In the distance she heard 

the susurrus of the sea. 

As she looked around dazed at this scene, two girls came out of the house, dressed in green 

with red ornaments at breast and waist. One was carrying an old jug. The walked together, 

talking and gesturing, through the apple orchard, towards one of the doors in the wall. This they 

opened, and beyond it Sul could see the blue of the ocean, twinkling with stars, although above 

Sul the sky was still the chicory blue of late day. The girls stepped to the sandy shore, and one 

knelt while the other bent to rinse the jug in the little waves that licked the sand. As they washed 

it, the jug began to gleam, and the more they dipped and poured the brighter the jug grew until it 

seemed as though the girls were handling a very star, and finally as though they were stars 

themselves, merging: just a single white blaze on the shore with faint shapes moving within. 

When they judged it was clean, they wrapped it in a white towel, covering its fire, and 

immediately they were two young girls again, carrying a bundle. They came back through the 

gate, walking up the path and back into the house. Just then a groom came out of the stable 

nearby and unhitched the fiery horses. He too went by the orchard path to the wall, leading the 

steeds through and talking to them gently. This group moved out of sight along the beach, but 

Saule heard splashing and plunging and loud hissing sounds, punctuated by the shouts of the 

groom. In a while, the man came through the gate again, but this time the horses he led were 

grey-white ponies. 

As they passed by the wagon on their way to the stables, Sul heard him say to one of them 

who was nuzzling his hand, "Sorry, Nitsa, I didn't bring you an apple today. So stupid of me, I 

admit." 

The pony turned upon him such a soulful gaze that Sul couldn't stop herself leaning over the 

edge of the wagon and saying," Groom!" 

The groom jumped, but the horses swung their heads around expectantly. 

"I have a treat for each of your ponies," she said. "Would you allow me to feed them my 

apples?"

The fellow looked at her suspiciously. 

"It's a bit irregular," he muttered, and then his face changed. "But are you a guest of 

Herself?" 

"I think so," said Sul, taking out the apples of Etain. She extended one in each hand to the 

ponies, who first lipped them delicately and then neatly devoured them, reminding Sul of the 

fierce Red Horse she had met in the shadow of Dinsul. 

At the sight of the perfect red fruits, so sweet that their juice dripped out of the ponies' tidy 

mouths, so fresh in the depth of earthly winter that their fragrance permeated the yard, the groom 

stepped back a pace and gulped. He pulled off his hat and held it, and then told Sul he would 

announce her if she hadn't already been announced. 

"Well, I would rather just knock on the door myself," she began, but he interrupted. 

"No, no no no, can't have that, wouldn't look right, no no, not at all, please come along, 

Miss, uh. . . won't you take my arm and I'll give you a lift down? Thank you Miss, step this way 

Miss," and so in this way Sul was ushered up to the door of Saule's Manor. 

But when Sul knocked— she insisted on knocking herself—the door was opened by an old 

lady with black hair and white skin. 

"A Guest, Ma'am," said the Groom in a low voice, and then he slipped away. 

The Old Lady looked at Sul calmly. 

"Please, Mistress," said Sul. "I am so weary and tired. If I could just sleep for one night in 

your home, in a bed instead of a byre, I'm sure I would be able to rise again truly rested." 

''It may take more than that," the Lady replied levelly, but she stood aside and let Sul pass. 

The Old Lady gave Sul a soft feather bed covered with a quilt of goosedown, hidden 

behind a screen near the tile stove. There was still no sign of the tall woman of the chariot. Sul 

dropped down exhausted, eating two of Etain's apples and saving the cores for the ponies. The 

apples kept her alive, she reflected, but she wasn't fattening. Just as she was about to drop off, 

she heard the door open again, and a radiant light filled the room. Curious, she pulled herself up 

and peaked through a crack in the screen. It was Saule at last. 

"Oh Mother," she cried, "I've just met with that Dievas, and I don't know if I can ever see eye 

to eye with him!" 

"Not likely, since you're the taller," remarked the Old Lady, taking her daughter's cloak and 

hanging it on a peg. 

"He's not as bad as some—he's not violent, like that wretched Perkunas, so unpredictable!— 

but all he ever thinks of is himself and his sons. And the 'sons of men', as he calls them—as 

though the fellows hatched boys out of stones they found on the beach. Talking to him makes me 

tired." 

"So don't talk to him, talk to me," said the Mother. "Sit down." She began to knead her 

daughter's shoulders. "How hard you work, little girl. Did you remember to sow the gold and 

silver by the lakeside?" 

Saule laughed a little and patted her mother's gnarled hand. "Yes, I remembered," she said. 

They stayed this way for a while, Mother and Daughter. Then with a sigh Saule stood again, and 

together they untied the intricate lacings on her brilliant dress. When they pulled it over her head 

she stood in her soft white linen shift, with the black and red embroidery at the throat and on the 

sleeves. The Mother hung up the bright gown on another peg while Saule unbraided her hair and 

brushed it. Then she lit a candle, and the Old Lady threw Saule's cloak, inside out, over the dress 

on the wall, whereupon the whole room was drenched in darkness. There was only the tiny fire

of the candle bobbing along in Saule's hand as the two left the chamber. Sul heard her say, as she 

passed through a door into another room, "1 heard the Wolf tonight." 

And though the sweet depth that filled the room felt only safe and wholesome, drawing Sul 

down into sleep, a hard shudder ran through her at those words. 

In the morning, Saule and her Mother came back, and Saule pulled her cloak aside and put 

on her bright dress. 

"Today's the last time I shall wear this," she remarked as she tied a ribbon. "Just as well, it's 

getting so threadbare." 

''There' s a bright new gown, the latest thing, folded up in our cedar chest. You'll be 

dazzling." 

Sul was just remembering that she had a duty to speak to Saule and obtain a boon when the 

two ladies embraced, and Saule rushed out the front door. 

"Goodbye, my little Sun, my sweet girl! Safe journey!" called the Mother, and the rumbling 

sound of chariot wheels filled the room, dying away quickly in the distance. Defeated by this 

turn of events, Sul sank back onto her mattress and stared blankly at the ceiling. The wavy rays 

and coiling spirals painted there just confused her and made her feel worse. 

"So, you're still tired!" said the Old Lady, suddenly coming around the side of the screen. 

"I didn't speak to Lady Saule in time, and now she's gone," said Sul, her lip trembling like a 

little girl's. 

'That's true, she's gone, but—" the Old One sat down on the bed, "I'm here, which is even 

better. Since I'm the Mother of the Sun," she added, in case Sul was thick. 

Sul stared with her large golden brown eyes. 

“You’re a scrawny little thing, your hair's a mess, your clothes should be burned, your shoes 

are shot, your skin is parched and cracked by the weather. Lucky for you you've got one really 

good feature: eyes like that wilt take you far," went on the Mother, conversationally. "Saule has 

those eyes, maybe we're related. What did you say your name was?" 

"Sul." 

"Sul, Saule, could be. So, what did you want to know? Ask me anything." 

This approach from such a great lady surprised Sul so much that all her ideas left her head. 

She forgot to ask for a boon, she even forgot to ask what the Wolf was. What came rising up out 

of her heart was one great plea: "Can you help me get home again?" 

The Old Lady tilted her head at Sul and regarded her with a birdlike eye. "Surely," she 

replied, "but you'll have to do something for me in return. 1 can send you to my sister, she'll take 

care of you. I'll give you a little something to carry along with you. Now don't lose this." And she 

hobbled over to a shelf by the stove, where she took something down and returned to Sul's side. 

"See, a little pod," and she touched it with the tip of her finger. "Your people are beset with 

cold and dark, and the Wolf is threatening my Daughter and all of us. This winter threatens to 

take over the earth completely and never end—the people are afraid that the Bitter Winter has 

come at last. So, you take this little cardamom pod here. See, I stick it together with honey, it 

won't come apart unless you pull it firmly, then you can stick it back together. Inside here you 

can carry the kernel of fire, but that you can't get from me. No matter what, you must take that 

fire back to your home. You are the fire bringer, little bird. I'm sorry, but there's only you." 

Sul didn't understand much of what the Mother of the Sun was saying, nor why she seemed 

to have grown so grave, but she took the empty pod and put it in the pouch she wore around her 

neck, which also carried the spiral pendant she'd got from the Queen of Tara. With this action

she gave her consent to the Mother's conditions. Then the Mother's mood changed, like the sun 

coming out from behind a cloud. 

"Well, you'll need a change of clothing, so come here!" She brought Sul over to a carved 

chest under the window, and drew forth a golden dress embellished in white and red stitches. 

Though Sul protested and tried not to accept, the Old Lady just laughed, and almost before she 

knew what was happening she was wearing the golden gown, and she had new black boots and a 

warm cloak of fur too. Her old pack, held together with string, was declared in shreds and thrown 

away. The Lady gave her a brand new basket and put all the contents of the pack inside, 

exclaiming over each as she packed them tightly, closing the lid and fastening it. At last she led 

Sul up a series of winding stairs to 

the very top of the manor and out 

onto the roof. 

"I want to introduce you to a 

friend of mine, 1 think you'll get 

along very well," she said, and 

going over to a curious little 

brazier which was burning there, 

she withdrew from a deep pocket 

a bright golden feather tipped with 

red. This she dropped into the 

flames, though Sul cried out in 

dismay. Within seconds the air 

was filled with turbulence, and the 

sound of giant wings filled their 

ears. An enormous sparkling bird 

with a wise eye and a wicked 

talon settled onto the roof beside 

them. 

"Sunbird, Sul, Sul, Sunbird," 

said the Mother, making the 

introductions. "Some say Firebird, 

some say Sunbird. Sul wants to go 

home," she continued to the great 

creature, "so she must visit my 

sister immediately. She goes to 

fetch the kernel of fire, but the 

Wolf is growing in strength. You know what's needed. Fly high, my friend, fly well. Stay with 

her." 

The Firebird, who had nodded civilly to Sul, now settled down like a roosting chicken, so 

Sul climbed on its back and put her arms around its neck. It was warm, almost hot. Its feathers 

and down rose up around her like the featherbed she had just left. . 

The Sun's Mother patted Sul's boot kindly. 

"You're sure you're ready for the trip?" 

Sul replied, "Dear Mistress Sunmother, I am very ready," and reached down to clasp the 

strong old hand. "But who is your sister, that 1 must travel to her so urgently?" 

"Oh, well, she's Ragana, the seer. She's my older sister, you know. Very wise. Some people

are scared of her. Don't you be." And with this encouragement the Lady released Sul's hand and 

stepped back. 

The Firebird rose and flapped its wings, and they were off. The Mother of the Sun, a doll 

way down on the roof of the manor, waved goodbye. 

Sul caught glimpses of the remarkable countryside far below her from time to time, but it 

was hard to see past the pinions of the Firebird, beating their powerful rhythm, and her perch was 

so warm and strangely comfortable that she eventually fell asleep. Although she had slept long 

the night before, it seemed to her she was always tired lately. In her dream she heard a distant 

howling, but it was drowned out by the whoosh of the glowing wings she nestled between. A 

bouncy landing woke her. They were in a forest, before a curious hut raised up on tree stumps 

with roots that looked a little like birds' feet. All around them was deep sparkling snow, white as 

bones. There was a faint bubbling sound from the region of the Firebird's feet, and steam rose up. 

She felt a tug at her leg and looked down at the ancient woman who was pulling on her boot. 

"Come into my izba, sleepyhead! We have much to do, the day is passing!" She had such a 

long hooked nose Sul feared she would catch it between her teeth when she spoke; her frame was 

lean, her skin yellowed. 

Sul slid down the Firebird's side and made a courtesy to it, and though it again inclined its 

huge head in a genteel manner, its way of cocking an eye at her made Sul feel a bit like a small 

edible rodent. She hurried after Ragana towards the izba, staggering in the deep drifts. She saw a 

horse's skull on the gatepost. The forest around them was very dense, and only a little bit of 

daylight filtered through the dark green boughs. The door swung open before the Ancient One, 

although she did not touch it. 

''No time for tea and crumpets or whatever you're expecting," said Ragana bluntly, stamping 

to shake the snow from her shoes. "But here's mint in a cup—run out some hot water and refresh 

yourself. Try to wake up, if you possibly can." She pointed at a strange object on the table. 

As Sul cautiously attended to her needs at the big brass samovar (for that's what it was), 

Ragana was rummaging around the cabin, climbing up into the curtained bed above the stove, 

climbing down and pawing through chests and trunks, searching among woven baskets and 

carved cupboards. With a snort of triumph she found what she was looking for. 

"I need someone to take this wool to my daughter Gabija. I elect you," she said, slapping a 

mound of shining wool on the table. "But!" she went on before Sul could utter a word and 

pointing a bony finger at Sul's eyes, "I will prepare you well. I see you're pretty well-dressed so 

far as it goes, but still half-naked!" Sul protested at this, for her voluminous skirts covered her 

more thoroughly than any others ever had, but Ragana just waved off her objections and plunged 

into a deep cabinet on the wall. As she stood with her head stuck inside the cupboard, a big 

brown toad hopped out of the comer and leaned against Ragana's scrawny legs like a cat. Finally 

the wizened old woman reappeared with a headdress and a many-stranded golden necklace. 

"But I would feel like a queen wearing such jewels!" cried Sul. 

"Of course," said Ragana, placing the headdress on Sul's head, tying it firmly under her hair. 

She fastened the heavy necklace around Sul's neck as well. 

The crone took Sul's hand and pulled her over to stare into a shiny silver tray with crescent 

handles, hanging on the wall. In it she could was her likeness, a radiant face with glowing honeycolored 

eyes framed by a gleaming collar and a tall pointed coif, from which depended a small 

sunburst, a star and a crescent moon cut from golden foil. The headdress winked with beads of

amber, gold and sunstone crystal, and was heavily embroidered in red silk. To bear its weight Sul 

had to stand very straight. 

"Soon you won't even notice it," commented Ragana, reading her mind. 

"Who am I?" whispered Sul. 

"That is what you have undertaken this journey to find out." 

"But I've discovered nothing! And I broke my pledge, for I was told to go from temple to 

temple only as I was guided, but I asked the Sunmother to send me home. I'm feeling so weak!" 

She put her hands over her eyes, but didn't dare to bow her head for fear her new hat would fall 

off. 

"You're not. Going home right away, as it happens. You're going to Brugh na Boyne—that's 

unless you have other plans? No? Good. Feel better? I wasn't going to tell you but I can't stand a 

weeper. You were supposed to ask Gabija and she would have told you. Oh well. . . it doesn't 

matter so much, anyhow. Just keep out of the way of the Wolf. He often sleeps by day, so he 

may not trouble you on your trip across the river to my daughter. But after that—." Ragana just 

shook her head. 

Sul took some deep breaths to steady herself. She thought about the Tree with its roots in the 

earth, its boughs in the sky. This realm of Dausos where she wandered now, the resting place of 

the Sun and so many of Her relatives and colleagues, perhaps it was the sky itself. lf so she 

needed to concentrate harder on the Tree's roots to keep herself in balance, she decided. 

"That's good," nodded Ragana, "you meditate and prepare, and I'll call your ride. Just look 

into the silver, that'll help you." 

Sul stared into the reflective disk, and as she stared she lost sight of her own image, as she 

had already begun to lose sight of her own identity. She had been Sul Springdaughter, Orphan of 

Solsbury. But who was she now? The seer had not said, would not say. She lost her sense of time 

passing, and seemed to experience a swirling, cloudy place where there was no up or down, no 

then or later, only here here here. There were dark shapes in the clouds and bright shapes, but 

always it swirled. 

Then: she was sitting in a birchwood cradle suspended between the antlers of a great tawny 

stag. She was stitching. Her lap was covered by a red linen cloth and she was trying to finish the 

last black stitches on an embroidery. It revealed a tall woman with horns sprouting from her 

head, who held a tiny child in her arms. Deer flanked her. 

My rushniky, thought Sul. I must finish it before I get to Aunt Gabija's. 

The stag plunged on and on, through the snow, and though his stride was very steady, 

sometimes her hand was jogged, sometimes her needle bit a finger instead of the cloth. She felt 

apprehension rising in her, and the words to a song rose with it, words she had never heard 

before, but which could not be denied. As the stag leapt into a wide green river rimmed with ice, 

she opened her mouth and the song fell out. 

"Oh my beloved," she sang to the stag, "swim smoothly, do not falter. If you falter, I may 

spoil my work. Then my brothers, the hunters, will find you and slay you. Oh my beloved, swim 

smoothly, do not falter." 

They reached the other side and ran on and on through the dusk, the last twilight glinting 

through the trees creating tiny crystal blazes around them, the snow flying beneath the stag's 

hooves. As they ran, Sul sang again: 

Oh my beloved, do not falter, 

If you falter, the cloth will not be finished. 

Then my brothers, the hunters, will slay you.

With your flesh make my wedding, 

With your bones build my dwelling, 

With your hide roof it well, 

With your skull light my gate, 

With your hooves make drinking cups. 

Oh beloved, never falter. 

They flew on through the dark forest. 

Finally a clearing appeared before them, with a small izba lit brilliantly within: the light 

leaked in red-gold streams from every crack and chink. All the time she had been singing and 

riding, Sul had been stitching, though what she was doing she could not imagine, for the dark 

had soon grown complete. 

The stag lowered its neck and she stepped down from the cradle. She embraced the stag, 

with tears welling in her eyes, and kissed its dark muzzle. It was breathing hard, and whickered 

gently. Then it lifted up its head and turned to trot towards the forest, pausing only once in 

silhouette so that Sul might was and remember it. Then it was gone. As it fled, the Song of the 

Stag faded from Sul's mind forever. 

The door opened and Sul was pulled into a hot bright room. The light was generated by a 

golden spinning wheel whining in the comer. It was almost out of wool, its spindle was full. The 

wheel looked exactly like all the spinning wheels Sul had left behind her at various fanes, but 

larger and bolder. Sul wondered doubtfully if this spinning wheel could ever be contained within 

a nut, even a very large walnut, much less a tiny hazelnut as hers had been. 

"I am Gabija," said the Mistress of the bright izba, holding Sul by the hands. She was very 

young and splendid, with long black braids and red cheeks. 

"I'm Sul," replied her guest, "and I've come—although I don't remember leaving—from your 

esteemed Mother, the Lady Ragana, and previously from your esteemed Aunt, the Sun's Mother, 

although I'm afraid I never learned her name. They send their loving greetings." 

Gabija laughed with pleasure and kissed Sul’s cheeks, nearly burning them—perhaps 

because they were still so cold from the strange ride through the forest. She then began to open 

up the linen cloth Sul clasped. 

"I tried to finish it, but I'm not sure if I succeeded," began Sul hesitantly. Gabija held it up. 

"But it's perfect, wonderful! I will hang it right now in my Beautiful Comer." And Sul saw 

to her wonder that the design was complete. Gabija strode to one comer of the room where other 

long red woven cloths draped a table altar, with embroidered napkins hung from shelves. A 

basket there was filled with red eggs which were covered by thin black and white lines making 

rich designs. Gabija noticed Sul's interest in these and held one up. "Pysanky," she said. She 

tacked up the large cloth of the antlered mother on the wall beside the altar. 

"A good addition," she said with satisfaction, regarding it with her hands on her hips. "Now 

I'm a little less worried." 

"Worried?" asked Sul. 

''The Wolf! I know you've been hearing him. The Stag runs so fast there's no way—I think— 

that the Wolf could have caught you even if he'd been awake, but he'll soon be snuffling around 

here. I'm having a terrible time trying to get the Needfire to earth in time for Midwinter Sunrise. 

I've racked my brains, but with the Wolf circling this izba every day—you can see his big tracks 

in the snow—I don't know how I'm going to get there safely! And then there will be nothing but 

cold for your people. Bitter Winter forever." She shook her head and stared out the window.

"I think I can help," Sul said shyly," that is, your gracious Lady Aunt gave me a cardamom 

pod which she said could carry the kernel of fire, if that's what the Needfire is. And she said as 

well that I could get home from here but the Lady Ragana said I must go to Brugh na Boyne. I'm 

willing to help, wherever I must go, even if there's danger. I've met danger before and survived 

it. I think it must be because I carry the blessing of the Lady Trout, who protects me.” 

"Do you mean the Trout of the Sun's Well?" asked Gabija quickly. 

''Yes, of Kill-na-Greina. And she's never failed me. I trust her blessing, even against the 

Wolf." 

"Even against the Wolf," murmured Gabija. ''That's some blessing, little girl. I wish I could 

go there to ask for such a boon, though you have brought me tonight a blessing of my own—that 

image of Rozhanitsa, the Deer Mother. But we each have our place on the Wheel. . . ." 

The room seemed to be growing dimmer as they conversed, and Gabija glanced towards her 

spinning wheel. It had slowed almost to a halt. 

"Oh no! It mustn't stop! But I have no more fleece. That wolf, that wolf, he'll destroy 

everything! No heat, now no light—what can I do?" She ran towards the wheel distractedly, 

trying to make it spin again, but the last of the yarn was just now magically winding itself around 

the spindle. 

Sul reached into her bodice—somehow she knew where to look—and pulled out the bundle 

of golden wool sent by Ragana. She thrust it into Gabija's hands, shouting, "Here, Mistress, try 

this!" 

With a shriek Gabija snatched the golden cloud and began to spin. She pulled the full 

spindle off and fixed an empty one in its place, never missing a beat. After a while, she left the 

wheel, but it went on spinning the wool and winding the thread, yet it was so thin and fine Sul 

had to get up very close and squint to see the new yarn winding on. 

"Now," said Gabija, with the air of someone who is getting down to business at last, "let's 

was this cardamom pod." 

When Sul had produced the little pod, Gabija held it for a moment in her hand, looking at it 

closely first, then closing her eyes and holding the pod between her breasts. She then turned to 

her glowing hearth. This was not a tile stove, nor yet a beehive oven or a stove with a bed above 

it of the kinds Sul had seen in Dausos and in the earthrealms below. This was just a circular 

hearth in the center of the room, with a chimney hole above it. All the heat in the world seemed 

to radiate from this fire, although it seemed to Sul that the brilliant light that filled the space and 

was visible from far away, even in the thick woods, emanated from the merry spinning wheel 

and bright spindle. 

Gabija stood over the hearth. Slowly and deliberately, murmuring to herself, she reached 

into the center of the flame and withdrew a tiny coal. This she put inside the cardamom pod, 

closing the honey hinge and resealing the edge with her finger. The tips of her fingers glowed a 

little more rosily than before, but this act caused her no injury that Sul could see. 

"Put this where the fleece was," was all she said, and Sul put the kernel of fire in her bodice. 

Gabija took Sul by the hand again and led her up some steps, into a sleeping room that 

opened onto a balcony overlooking the snowy surround. She withdrew from her pocket the full 

spindle which she had ripped from the wheel. ''With the fleece that you brought, I can spin 

another year of light," she said, "and I can toss a beam of light towards earth that will sustain it 

from solstice to solstice. But only you, I think, at this late hour, can take the Needfire back to the 

altar. It's good that you are willing. I admire that." Gabija unwound a long length from the

spindle, of yellow thread finer than a hair, supple as wind. She tied the end of it loosely about 

Sul's throat. 

"Follow the Bird's Way until you reach the Animal Path, then veer towards Morning," she 

said. She leaned forward to kiss Sul's lips at the very moment it occurred to Sul that she had left 

her basket of boons and rewards behind her at Ragana's—or worse, with the Firebird. She took a 

breath to say something and inhaled the sweet, fiery breath of the Fire Mistress, and in an instant 

she was a small brown bird beating its little wings against the frosty night. 

The wren felt the tug at its heart, like instinct or hunger, pulling. Almost there was a beam of 

faintest light which it followed. It flew up and up, towards the milky river of mingled light that 

arced almost north-south across the sky. As it attained a greater altitude it encountered dozens, 

then hundreds, then thousands, millions, of other birds, great and small, all flying on the Birds' 

Way. In this company the wren beat on, encouraged and emboldened, until a great intersection 

was met. The wren had to pull away to the east, leaving the safety and friendship of its sisters 

and brothers and cousins behind. It felt despair at this parting, but could not stop. 

On this path, which was wilder and closer to earth, it passed various creatures: a crayfish, a 

panther, a snake, a horse. The horse reared in alarm as the bird flew past, and a terrifying eerie 

howl tore at the darkness. There was a pounding behind it, and a single glance to the rear 

revealed the Wolf—vast, grey, ominous and implacable—bearing down on the wren from 

beyond the stars. But it flew on, its small wings beyond pain, beyond aching, its fragile chest 

swollen with the struggle to breathe, relying on the pull of the thread. Snow began to flurry. The 

little bird passed a goat, who was running away in fright, and just as the Wolf's breath fell icy 

upon its tail feathers, it saw again through the blizzard a narrow shaft of light. Just as the wolf’s 

cavernous jaws were opening and surrounding it, it found the mouth of a tumulus, and the shaft 

beamed it straight inside. 

Through a roughhewn passage, deep and dark, the wren flew desperately, still in thrall to the 

undeniable golden thread, until 

it came to a standing stone with 

a stone altar before it, and on 

that altar a basin, and in the 

basin—the golden spindle. 

With a gasping breath the wren 

fell into the basin, hearing the 

enormous jaws snap shut 

outside the brugh. But the tiny 

bird heard nothing more, for its 

heart burst with this last effort 

and its small form stilled, 

frozen. 

APOTHEOSIS 

But the rising sun of Midwinter Morning lit upon the lifeless form and upon the pod in her 

beak. As the shaft bore directly into the mouth of Newgrange, Brugh na Boyne, the body of the 

wren was consumed in a sudden flame which burst from the basin and seemed to fill the chamber 

with roaring heat and light- heat and light enough to fuel the world for a year. 

From out of the fire stepped a woman. She was a golden woman, rich with life and power. 

She wore the Sun and the Moon and the Stars on her head. Her golden necklace marked her as

divine. The gown she wore was radiant as three hundred dawns. Behind her the Needfire burned, 

and would bum for a year and a day. 

When Sul reawoke, she felt refreshed and alert. She went to the mouth of the tumulus and 

there she met the Firebird, who nodded, as was its habit, and indicated with a yellow claw the 

bright new basket, filled with all her rewards and treasures. She leapt on its back, holding her 

treasures in one arm, and away they flew. 

In the meantime, the Sisters of the Hotsprings had been carrying out their Midwinter rites 

since the night before, the year's longest night. All was very cold and dark in the cave beneath 

the hill of Solsbury. The fires wouldn't burn properly, the springs were frighteningly cool. The 

spectre of endless Bitter Winter seemed to loom over them, dampening all efforts to create heat 

or light. 

Sister Ann, seated by the pool of Sulis, looked idly towards the shadowed back of the cave 

and to her astonishment saw the carved Suleviae, the Three Mothers, glowing. Even stranger, if 

possible—for a moment they all looked to her like Sul, young Sul who had left the community a 

year ago yesterday and who must be lost to them forever. At the same moment that Sister Ann 

noticed the glowing frieze, there was a commotion in the spring, and she then watched with 

amazement as a bright green frog swam to the surface, carrying a red apple between its front 

feet. It hopped to the lip of the spring, exchanged a short glance with Sister Ann, then turned its 

back on her and hopped towards the Suleviae. One of them reached down and took the glowing 

ball, which sparked like an ember. Another picked up the frog and wrapped it in a cloth like a 

child—and a child it became, while the third fed it a bit of her cake. 

Someone cried, the fires! as all the cave's braziers flared with gouts of flame. Another sister 

dashed to the spring and exclaimed that the water was hot again, almost boiling! No one else had 

seen the miracle of the Three Mothers, it seemed, being rapt in contemplation and, if truth were 

told, consumed with fear. When Ann looked again, the carved frieze was as still as ever, but 

touched with the lambent gleam of the fires. 

While each was struggling to compose herself and complete the ceremony, a brilliant light 

exploded at the mouth of the cave in a welter of wind. As Sister Ann praised Sulis in 

thanksgiving, in walked Sul, radiant in a golden gown, bringing a basket of gifts for the temple. 

She had coursed the track of the sun for a year and a day. She had become the woman of her 

own dream, the Golden Woman of the Sun. 

-Helen Farias

SOURCES: 

Ekstrand, F.E. The Ancient Norwegian Calendar Stick. 

Seattle: Welcome Press, n.d. 

Moyle, Natalie K. "The Goddess: Prehistoric and Modem," in Goddesses and Their Offspring: 

19th and 20th Century Eastem European Embroideries. Binghamton, NY: Roberson Center for 

the Arts & Sciences, 1986. 

Samson, Wm. A Book of Christmas. NY: McGraw-Hill, 1968. 

Sheraton, Mimi. Visions of Sugarplums. Illustrated by Walter Swartz. NY: Random House, 1968. 

Valiente, Doreen. Natural Magic. Custer, WA: Phoenix, 1986. 

ILLUSTRATIONS: 

Firebird from www.Russiansunbirds.com 

Food-related illustrations are from Visions of Sugarplums. 

Good Yule 

© 1989 by Helen G. Farias

The Advent Sunwheel - Living in Season

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