The Death Clans enter the spiral to celebrate the birth of the sun. Eagles, Badgers, Ravens, Owls, Lynx, Wolves, and Greihound dance the sacred for their people. The Mother moves their feet; they lift their arms awe-struck by Her power. Skins and feathers mix with guttural, rhythmic prayers. I drift into their dreamtime, Darkling Light prods me to stay alert, “Don’t watch the others, you stand for Moondog and Greihound.” I feel him stirring inside me like a wisp of smoke that rises from an extinguished candle. I watch it disappear. He comes again, growling, teeth bared. (I’m alert! I’m alert!). He licks my lips renewed to his sacrament. Grasping the need I stand for days, centuries, six thousand years, filling his tender belly with delicacies of my ether as he fills mine, dancing the rapture for all of us. Calvinist ancestors cover their eyes, others I catch peeking between their fingers, they realizing that savagery was never cruel.
Flesh Eaters nearly naked whirl in air so frigid the snow feels warm to their skin and melts into the Earth. Rhythmically they reach between their moving feet touching the soil, offering the traces on their fingertips to the sun, never missing a step, believing the magic will always work.
[Excerpt from Ancestral Airs].