From:    Melizande                              Area: Metaphysical
To:      All                                    13 Jan 95 22:23:06
Subject: The Standing Stone                     UpdReq 

Copyright 1995 by Melizande Underhill.  All rights reserved. For permission to 
reproduce, contact melizand@brewich.com
.                      The Standing Stone
.                            by
.                     Melizande Underhill
..     The day was clear and cold.  A brisk wind whipped  over the winter
landscape, carrying with it the salt-tinged sharpness of the North
Sea.  I had a  day,  a single, precious day secreted in between
business meetings and the flight home from Copenhagen, and I intended
to use it well.  I drove my rental car out of the city,  west  towards
the Viking museum I'd heard about from some new Danish friends.  
     The museum was  impressive.  Full of longboats, tales of Viking
warriors' bravery and skill at sea.  I bought an amulet, a
reproduction of dragons, a charm for luck in the shape of the ancient
symbol for strength and the ever-repeating pattern of the circle.
     At the museum I asked about local archaeological sites. I was
searching for a stone circle, but found none.  Instead I decided to go
to the nearby site of a great warrior's burial.  
     I drove down a two-track, muddy road through gently rolling hills.
The wind was cold and biting, and the long grasses whistled as it
passed over them. 
     In a shallow valley I found the site, a series of standing stones
placed in the shape of a Viking ship.  The stones were three and four
feet high, arranged to a point at either end of the burial.  I was
alone with the wind.  I felt only the calmness of the land, the peace
that lay quietly like a blanket over the earth.
     I closed my eyes and opened my senses, to ken the place and what had
passed here.  Nothing.  Wind, the sound of dry leaves rustling as they
hung onto the branches of a few scattered trees, the faint but
comforting warmth of the sun on my face, the solidity of earth beneath
me, and cold, biting cold.
     I opened my eyes and looked around.  A few black birds flew overhead
as I returned to my car, beginning to shiver a bit.  I was
disappointed, but not surprised.  I'd been to other burial sites,
cairns scattered all over Scandinavia, and not once had I tasted the
spirits of those who'd gone before.
     As I took one last look at the empty landscape, I saw it.  A single
stone,  at the top of the hill.  It drew me, called me.  As I came
closer, I could feel power, subtle at first, but growing stronger,
emanating from the place.  It stood alone, at the highest point,
glowing, pulsing with power.  I placed my palms flat against it and
instantly was transported to a different time.
     There was battle all around me.  Fire, blood, the screams of the
dying, the joyful screams of men lost in berserker bloodlust.  A tall,
muscled man stood before me, his sword raised, the horned helmet on
his head dented but sturdy.  His shoulders gleamed with sweat and
blood.  He looked directly at me.  I felt his thoughts as if they were
mine.
     Red, joyous rage washed through my body.  My strength was the
strength of ten men, my sword the bringer of death to all men not my
own.  I was the master, the owner, the revenger.  The power of the
gods was within me, and by that power alone I would vanquish the foe.
The power pulsed through my body, a total surrender of concious
thought to the desire for destruction, for total anihilation of all
that stood before me.
     The warrior released my thoughts with a final look of kindred
understanding, then slashed downward with his sword and a great shout
of victory. 
     I felt myself in my own time again, cold wind whistling over me.  I
opened my eyes and looked around, pulling my hands from the stone.
At my feet lay a small piece of granite, weathered on one side, fresh
broken rock on the other.  It pulsed with power.   I opened my
pocketknife to the sharpest blade and pricked my finger.   Blood
dripped at the base of the stone once more.   Thanking the spirits of
that place, I picked up the chip and was gone.


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