There is a lot going on right now.

 

I wrote a little about fear porn the other week, and if you are feeling particularly activated, go give it a read, as understanding can help reduce the anxiety.

 

 

We’ve had a 2222222222222222222 portal that got lots of people very excited.

 

And now there is more fear being generated in Ukraine.

 

The story of the experience of war humans have is that of how we experience strife and conflict.

 

Part of the human experience is that we tell stories of how we cope, manage, and evolve our trauma, and stress into life.

 

Back in the day, the day when the wolf at the door was not a metaphor, the day when the bear in the woods was not a story involving porridge and golden hair people lived.

 

People lived in the village, and they lived their lives. Life’s of growing, hunting, farming, loving and life. Lives of simple pleasures and deep community.

 

And this life was good, the needs were met, no one went hungry, the children learned and grew, and the tinker came to town every mid summer.

 

Life while not all honey and wine, was not fraught with danger and disease. The wise woman kept the people safe, and the elders guided the decisions.

 

Oneday, when the sun was low in the sky, the cold winterly winds still took the warmth from your body if you ventured out without a jacket. A noise was heard in the woods. A noise eerily reminiscing of an angry bear. The wise men sat around the fire puffing their pipes. The pale smoke drifting up to the stars. While they discussed the noise that had been heard. They discussed the nosie and what it could be.

Was it bear?

 

No, too early in the season for a bear.

 

Wolf?

 

No Wrong sound for the wolf.

 

And, so as the night went on the discussion went on, the wide eyes of the villages around the edge of the fire. Women, children, men, gazed on as the discussion as to what the noise was went on.

 

First one thing proposed, and the thought dismissed. Another, and another. With each suggestion the creature became more and more fantasict, the Hippogriff? The Wargen, The Ghast, the Cocatrice, the Wyrum. All put forward, and the wise men dismissed this creature.

 

When, as the sun was setting, the the cry was heard again, echoing over the village, bouncing off the mountains walls.

 

Fear gripped the village, spears and bows were reddied. The whites of their eyes showing, the wise men wisperd one word.

 

Dragon.

 

The words echoed louder than a rutting stag around the fire.

 

Dragon.

 

The young men, the warriors and hunters stood, their young muscles straining under their clothes. Knuckles white on hilts. Their banter silenced by the realisation.

 

Dragon.

 

One face was not pale, mainly as it could not be seen, her cowled hood covered her visage. Her salt and pepper braids hung out of the shadows, tied with bright leather and glittering metal.

 

The young men began the war chant. The deep resonance of their voices shook the needles from the trees. The beat of their spears beat like the drum skin.

Then the keening lament of the mothers and wives joined. The song of potential loss and hope winding its way like a serpent around the words of valour and bravery.

 

The energy of the tribe rose, like a mighty oak, the song of the people enveloped all. Young men prepared to face the evil. Their loved ones and lovers’ voices raised in the pride and fear of those whom may lose all.

 

The old men, took up the beat, adding a complexity that the young could not counjour. The children feeling the power began to dance, the almost-men, and almost-women yelled and lept.

 

The little ones clung to their mothers breast, knowing not what was happening, but feeling the power.

 

The one who knew, her with the salt and pepper hair, with the braids of power, stood in the silence. Letting the energy build.

 

From her belt she drew mystic paste, and anointed the dancing warriors with runes of power. Of protection, Of victory. Of Strength. Of Love.

 

One warrior, different from the rest, smaller. Had different runes.

 

Runes of knowing, of seeing, runes of cunning and sight. This warrior did not see a difference. Only knowing they were too blessed like her brothers.

 

As the sun broke over the village, the people stood ready, the warriors and hunters clad in runes of power and armor of steel. White knuckle grasped the hafts of spears their fathers-fathers had used. The young stood with sling and stone, the women and very young stood around the fire holding the power.

 

The Shadowed one watched. The fear flowing off her people. As they readied themselves to face the dragon.

 

All but one. The small warrior. The different warrior.

 

The maiden.

 

She was not present. She had left the fire. The people. Drawn by a pull of her heart. Into the night dark forest. Moving from stone to rock, leaving no trace in woods her people had hunted for generations. Moving towards the high dark rocks, still clad with white cold teeth.

 

She followed the echos of the chant, and the scream of the dragon. That sounded so much like an angry bear.

 

Where the black earth met the white of the snow, she found a track. A track she knew, a track hour old. Not clawed like she had been told of the dragon but clawed like the bear.

 

She followed the fresh bear tracks, up over the loose scree, her feet not leaving a trace. Her father’s spear in her hand, its shaft thicker than her wrist. Her mothers bow on her back, the salt and pepper braid of hair hanging from the knock.

 

She followed the pull of the runes, the knowing, her knowing. The bear tracks where there should be no bear. The wise men said so.

 

When the white blanket covered all, she had no choice but to leave her mark. Her feet sinking into the crisp shell.

 

Still following the bear trail.

 

When the scent of it came to her. Not the fire and ash scent of the dragons in story. But the sweet scent of illness and decay.

 

Before her in a hollow, torn from under a tree that fell in the winds, lay a bear, its eyes mad with pain. Its fur matted and unkempt. A jagged wooden splinter the size of the warriors leg in the beasts side.

 

The mighty brown one tried to rase itself on to its hind legs to crush the foolish warrior. The effort to much, the sick creature collapsed. 

 

The warrior knew her role, here. Not that of a dragon slayer, not of a hero of the village, but of the salt and pepper cowled one. Of the mercy of the spears edge. Of the ending of a life that was hurt beyond reason. To stop the story of the dragon and bring peace to the village.

 

Swift and sure, she struck. Practiced. With no fear. The runes burned on her face, laced with the red life of the bear.

 

Tears stung her eyes. She started the song of grief and thanks. Her spear glittered in the light, red gold. Her song echoed down the mountain. And the warriors heard. And they echoed.

 

The people sang.

 

Sang of relief of fear realised. And People united. And death. And life. And thanks.

 

Aound the fire the Maiden sang the song of her hunt, of the pull of the runes. Of the brown ones wound and death.

 

Her mother cowled and shadowed, her glittering hair in the fire light. Stood, her snow-white teeth visible in smile.

 

The old wise men, nodded, and learned. The young men looked at the maiden, the Dragon slayer. Her name was chanted.

 

For it matters not to the young that there was no dragon. It matters that the dragon was slain.

 

To the wise men, they learned.

 

The wives and lovers, with relief, hugged their men.

 

The children danced, ate too much and were sick, as children do.

 

To the salt and peppered one. She knew her people were safe.

 

The Dragon Slayer, she danced. For she lived, and she learned.

 

She learned that the lesson is not that dragons exist. It is that the fear is often more mundane and normal than we imagine.