I walked through the humidity to the field. I didn't know how far it was on foot, what was growing, or if it would still be there for the Sabbath. Bush tomatoes are flowering out there, some kind of ice plant too, paddy melons along the fence lines. Dark clouds on the horizon.
In view of a combine harvester parked beside a silo, I said my prayers. Ravens cawed and flies crawled over my bare legs, cars went by.
Three ears of two- row barley cut with my ancestor's knife. Offerings. A striking striped quartz for the hörgr. As I walked home I gathered other unknown grass seedheads, magically everything survived my tote bag.
At home I realised I didn't have an appropriate little vase or jar or anything to place the bundle in. To the Traincase of Ritual Paraphernalia to see if there was anything in there. Oh oh oh. A small model of the Westray Wife, used in Disir veneration, who was once a keyring and has a loop on the back of her head. Red thread to bind and wind and she's a pretty little Maiden indeed (when you accidentally do something right).
Then the dough, made from supermarket plain flour with a silly impromptu Ode to Yeast. Placed on the warm snake house roof to rise. Not only the symbolic first bread of the harvest, but the first loaf baked in our new house.
Last minute scrubbing of the new rusty shed scythe. It was supposed to have been step one, it will look better next time I promise. (I am struck by the cursing potential of vinegary scythe rust- water.)
Baked the bread and took it in procession with the Maiden to the hörgr to be cut. The first slice given back to the land (whose heralds in this instance are surely the sparrows). Even Lilydog had a piece for luck.
Much to be thankful for this harvest, our labours have reaped so many rewards. I will try and find some local wheat to go with my barley, and when the farmers plant for next season, so shall I.
It was the night after Wolfenoot and the first I'd heard of it, but Sirius is high in the sky.
