Friday, February 7, 2020

Lullaby for Heathen Children of All Ages

Wolf Song

I recorded this song by the creek with my Iphone. My only plan was to send it to Vidar Jonas Freden, my great-nephew, and a selected few other magical children of different ages. Somehow I failed in every attempt to get this recording to niece/mother Emelie Freden. So finally I gave up, and decided to upload it as this week's The Echo World Magical Extra. The song is from Ronja the Robber's Daughter by Astrid Lindgren. Music originally by Björn Isfält. Translation of song can be found below:

Wolf Song The wolf howls ferociously in the woods by night He can't sleep for hunger And his den is bitterly cold He lusts for fat sheep O Wolf, o wolf, don't come hither My child you shall have nevermore The wolf howls ferociously in the woods by night He howls and laments for hunger But I give him a pig's tail That shall fit in his stomach O Wolf, o wolf, don't come hither My child you shall have nevermore O Wolf, o wolf, don't come hither My child you shall have nevermore The wolf howls ferociously in the woods by night And can't find a bite to eat But I shall give him a cockrel's comb That shall make his throat burst O Wolf, o wolf, don't come hither My child you shall have nevermore Sleep, my child, in mother's bed And let the wolf howl away For if none before has taken them I shall give him some chicken legs O Wolf, o wolf, don't come hither My child you shall have nevermore O Wolf, o wolf, don't come hither My child you shall have nevermore Translation:

Saturday, February 1, 2020

Thursday, January 16, 2020

The Echo World Magical Extra: Sofia Drums for Skadi

In this video of The Echo World Magical Extra Sofia talks about the winter goddess Skadi, and take you on a journey so you can meet Skadi yourself, using song and drum. The video is lagging somewhat especially in the second half. But the sound is ok, so this should work anyway.

Wednesday, December 4, 2019

GoFundMe Fundraiser to Keep The Echo World in Print

We have started a fundraiser to ensure that we can keep The Echo World in print. For background on why you can check out Sofia's editorials in the November and December editions of The Echo World. The fundraiser is going full force, and we have good hope we will pull it off. For details on how you can help - see below.

We love The Echo World, and hope you do to. If you are interested in its long-term survival – we welcome any help we can get – and will keep putting in hard work and our best efforts to make it sail into the future. You find the GoFundMe fundraiser to keep The Echo World in print below.

Checks for donation can also  be sent to The Echo World P.O. Box 93 Nellysford, VA 22958. These will be accounted for separately, and counted together with GoFundMe. We will report every cent to The Echo World readers. Please remember to add your name and contact, (if you do not wish to be anonymous). Any donation we get in will, of course, go directly into the long life of The Echo World.

Blue Star

There was a blue star hanging on a thread, in the dark blue night sky. But, when he reached out to catch it, the star moved farther away, just out of his grasp. He remembered a story from his childhood about Grandmother Spider, endlessly weaving the world into existence.
In his childhood there had been an abundance of spider webs, dew filled and glimmering in the thin morning light, when he followed his father to the barn.
"Hard workers, those spiders," his father often said. His childhood self too filled with the glory of the moment to answer anything but, "Uh-huh."
They worked the land as brothers, though he himself was only eight when he was considered old enough to first tag along.
The dew filled spider webs. The smell of new cut hay. Him. His father. The sweat. The trust.
He was an old man now, lying in his bed trying to wake up, his own two children fretting around, making him dizzy. It was Christmas Eve and his daughter insisted that they have Christmas dinner as usual, only this year served with him still in his bed. The bed he seldom left these days. His daughter wasn't a very good cook. Not as his wife had been. But he endured small pieces of every dish, including a thin slice of pudding at the end. His son ate as well, sitting awkwardly on a wooden chair close to the bed in his expensive clothes, dinner plate in lap, restlessly forcing himself not to reach for the cellphone in his pocket.
Finally, it was over; plates cleared away, kisses on his forehead, his daughter lingering until he closed his eyes, pretending to sleep.
There it was again: the blue star, mystically sending out light sparks over the deeper blue sky. Different in coloring than the bright, white stars covering the velvet sky had been when they smoked fish in a barrel at the backside of the house; first his father and him, then him and his son.
He had never moved. His wife simply moved in with him, and adapted easily to being a farmer’s wife, in a down to earth way. She was a good woman, as they say. Never complained, steadily working by his side year after year. Only when cancer ate her from the inside and out did he, for the first time, see weakness. He could not stand the sight, nor her moans, or her spasms. So, he overdosed morphine and made her drink strong toxic, herbal remedies he mixed together in a pot on the wooden stove. When the nurse came around that day, she pretended not to understand what had happened.
"Now she won't have to suffer," she simply said, locking his eyes in her summer sky ones a short moment, and then went about practical business. As if death was just another everyday chore. Perhaps it was.
He never moved. He never sold off the land either, just let piece after piece fall into wildness, ignoring his sons complaints, until the only thing he could plant was the tomatoes by the stone wall; shaking paper skin hands patting the soil, picking yellow leaves off the stems, caressing the healthy, hairy green leaves.
The blue star gleamed. A giant spider leg took a soundless step over the sky. He himself stepped right into the dew-wet grass and the scent of new cut hay flowed over him in a wave.
Michael and I saw him once, on one of my very first walks since I landed in the Blue Mountains. We walked up Berry Road and I saw a shadowy figure standing in the middle of the road. Everything was so new to me then: the moist, the thick vines circling up tree trunks, the lookout for snakes on the dusty road. I was a bit jumpy I will honestly admit. So, I took a sharp breath when I saw the shadow man, but said nothing to Michael.
Michael stopped soon thereafter, by a small creek, water falling down on a rock, making splashing, playful sounds. Michael cocked his head to the side, as if listening to the water and started to tell me of a man who had lived close to where we were. A farmer, who didn't want to leave his home, who stayed where he felt safe. The man simply moved farther into the land. Learned the language of spider webs. And listened to the song of the blue star.

Ghost-story by Sofia Karin Axelsson, first published in the December 2019 edition of The Echo World

Thursday, November 14, 2019