Join us at the campfire for tales from around the world, told by storytellers of all backgrounds and creeds. From the heros and heroines of old, let us relearn and rediscover the wisdom of our ancestors. Shhh..the story begins..

It was once believed that during the Winter Solstice, chances were available to transcend time...folk might see into the past and glimpse the days yet to come. Innumerable ceremonies existed for just that purpose. A maiden might sleep with pieces of bread beneath her pillow, for example. If, in the morning, the bread was found to be partly eaten, then the maiden's sweetheart would marry her before the following year was over.

Omens were thought to be lingering within the Yule straw brought into Norwegian houses from the last harvest. Grains which fell from it signified not only which crops should be planted in the Spring but also...by their health or lack thereof...whether the harvest would be a bountiful one. If the grains were discovered under a chair on Christmas morning, then the person sitting in that chair would die some time during the coming New Year.

The most powerful omens, however, were given to those who traveled free within the heart of the Solstice darkness...goddesses such as Berchta, who might be petitioned for prophecy, and the ghosts who rode in their trains. These Christmas ghosts entered the houses of descendants to feast upon the offerings left for them and to make merry in the night. Such ghosts held their own Christmas ceremonies, gathering in deserted churches at midnight on Christmas Eve. To see them was dangerous since they were eager for mortals to join their tattered company, and their following of shades foretold of matters perhaps best left in ignorance. The fetches...or doubles...of folk doomed to die trailed along behind the companies of ghosts, as if longing to see the companions who would soon join them.

This would seem to have been an excellent reason for avoiding churches during the Christmas hours, when all good people are asleep and the chapels were empty. Yet, human curiosity frequently overrides human fear. There were some who braved the churchyards for the sake of forbidden knowledge. One of these was a parish priest of the Village of Walton-le-Dale in Lancashire. He was an unassuming man, courteous enough to his parishioners, but a solitary soul...a student of oddities who sought to learn the qualities of plants and secrets of the twinkling stars. He had the habit of talking to himself, which made his flock fear him for his eccentricity. It was rumored that the priest spoke with devils. He had only one companion, that being an elderly herb doctor known as Old Abraham...and it was he who told the tale of the priest.

One Christmas Eve, after the services were over and the people had returned to their homes, the priest persuaded Old Abraham to watch with him by the church door, so that they might see the ghosts of the folk about to die as they wandered into the night. Old Abraham agreed. He has taught his lore to the priest and was more than willing to snatch a glimpse into the future.

Near midnight, the two men crept through the quiet village to the little yard where the church stood. The place was tranquil and silent. No ghosts were waiting there. On the church altar, a single taper burned. In the churchyard, the moon shone with its silvery light, bathing every stone and tree branch. The two comrades settled in the shadows of the church porch, wrapping their coats about them, for the night was cold.

Drawing on Old Abraham's knowledge of the virtues of plants, they had provided themselves with protection, carrying sprigs of St. John's wort, the Summer flower used in divination and as a guard against ghosts. They also carried bay leaf, known to be the herb of the Sun and a defense against the devil and the dark. Holly was also upon their persons...the evergreen whose red berries warded off evil...and mountain ash, descendant of the World Tree from which, according to the herbalists, the first man was created.

The moments rolled by. The churchyard was so still that the rustlings of small animals which hunted by night could be clearly heard. Beyond the wall, where the woods began, an owl hooted as the wind rose and sighed within the boughs of trees. Then, somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled. At the sound, movement could be discerned in the churchyard...an aimless fluttering of movement, as though shadows were being flicked by the wind. A figure glided along the path. The face was well-known to the priest and Old Abraham. It was that of the town's miller. Behind him walked others familiar to the two men...the midwife...the schoolmaster...a farmer. These four shuffled past the watchers on the church porch, looking neither right nor left, as they faded into the shadows.

The priest let out a great sigh, his curiosity satisfied. Then, he gasped and, as Old Abraham was later to explain, for good reason. The last walker in the ghostly company was the priest himself. The specter glanced up as it passed the porch and gave a tight smile.

Such was the priest's reward for meddling with Winter magic. He died within the year, having foreseen his own demise.

Novareinna welcomes all tale-travelers to Penumbra, her beautiful site/sight of stories and poetry and design.