Aikaintaite

Where raised and carved are these mountains lying prostrate beneath beneath the vast sky? What intention has fixed that unattainable sky and the figures that drift through it? From whence came the brothers and sisters who walk upon four legs beneath the canopy of the woods, fly upon the star-pierced veil of firmament, swim below the fathoms of the waters? Into presence they surface and recede; leaving some trace of their substance: a track half filled with rainfall and cedar fronds tinged brown, scarred bark in the shape of jagged claws, some fragment of bone, moss-covered and worn beyond recognition by the incisors of small things. These traces are too destined to slip into void.

 In their passing they suggest of paths untrod by wandering feet and unseen by seeking eyes. We hear of these passages in furtive whispers at the edge of the woods at dusk or in the ecstatic mystery songs of coyotes under the horned moon. Glimpses of it sometimes present themselves to us when we stand at the edge of an abyss or sense our hearts contract within a deep, dark and old place of the earth. The aurora of an autumn sky guides our thoughts to it when those green veils seem to have faded into the night sky, but in truth still remain; a soft and subtle dance at the edge of perception.

 The shaman knows these gates beyond senses. He journeys to inner spaces where holes within the surface of the land descend to subterranean realms unfathomed, sinks within boundless spaces outside of time, hears those coyote hymns and nighthawk secrets from the other side of the earth inverted into clarity. The shaman carries away the malevolent beings from our hearth, and she returns with healing presences from the nightside realm. She weaves the stories that bind the spirit and the body into wholeness.

One such myth to yolk the outer world with that of the inner is brought to us by a dyad under the sign of Syven; meaning "depth". This particular expression of mystery was entitled Aikaintaite, and it is a tale of stark and engrossing descent into elemental sources, of the cold eyes of the snowy owl, of spirit drifting over brooding spruce forests of inscrutable silence and into abyssal caverns never illuminated by sun or moon.

Lappland drums echo deep within deep within caves where spruce pitch torches dimly illuminate the myth forms of animal and ancestor alike upon the slick and cold walls. They cast the spell that welcomes the trance state necessary to receive the visions. Deeper and subtler tones of uncertain origin lurk in the air and the voice of the shaman, low and resonant, carries a drone like wind caressing the fog enshrouded taiga. He commences the story; told in rhythm as much as in words. The shaman entwines the stoic and harsh voices of men, the sharp and antagonistic growls of werebeasts, and the whispered murmurs of hidden knowledge onto the birch bark and elk hide canvases of the soundscapes to create the dream world of receding glaciers, brooding megafauna and the wild hunt, and ancient circumpolar trees in monumental silence.

These timeless worlds are then gathered into color and life by the kanteles. Furtive and magical melodies wander up ravines to hidden springs icy cold, while shimmering resonances bring down cool mists to wet a weary traveler's face with their cool balm. True to the earth and sky's own ways, they can often be as harsh and violent as they are boon giving. The melodies become distorted and rugged, and now thunder shakes the earth and lightning blasts scars into even the faces of the mountains. Fires rage with voracious hunger throughout the forests, wolves feast upon still living prey, and all is witnessed by the untroubled eyes of the gods.

Always the forms change and the wheel revolves. The journey of Aikaintaite passes through many such cycles. To describe the entire journey, each moment of clarity and harmony, every instant of discord, all the comings and goings, every beginning and end, would be impossible, as the song of these storytellers will bring us all to different realms of our own inner life. What I can say with certainty about this experience is that, like all worthy ones, it is one of understanding and healing; of relation to the worlds of life and death, and the unknowable sphere between them.

Sorrow

Vaporous mists rise and sink. They shift into phantasmagoric figures before fading again into the nebulous and silent maelstrom. Faint and pale light casts soft shadows in the veils of fog, and vague silhouettes loom in the distance, only to be shrouded by the drifting cloaks of mist. Then, as a portal opens in the fog, piercing sun rays penetrate this shapeless world. Vapours are burnt and evaporated, and order is revealed above and below the chaos. Stark cliffs and peaks seem to ascend above the sea of fog and thrust their barren heads into the gray dawn light. Stately firs stand like monoliths in the solitude of this subalpine dreamscape. Now scattered, tendrils of curling mist float amongst the vertical tree line. Trickling channels of glacial melt stream down cliffsides in thin streaks of gently falling white water. The delicate and soft voice of a stream is heard close by, fed from a purest mountain spring.

So begins Sorrow by the gathering that was known as The 3rd and the Mortal. The entirety of this work explores this strange and wonderful landscape. It is a beautiful juxtaposition of the ethereal and delicate with the rooted and physical. Though this central direction of the opus is maintained throughout, the individual songs themselves visit different aspects of this location, and each has its unique place in the greater whole.

It is not without purpose that I describe this relic of melancholy as having location, but this region is only in part corporeal. 'Ring of Fire' opens with a tangible, yet uncanny sense of geography. The riff descends, down the sharp slopes of those cliffsides, but betrays a pervasive sense of abstractness. It begins to dawn on those who descend those wind carved steps that there is an impossibility about this once familiar path. Like a location from waking life visited in a dream, what appears at first to be ordinary space takes on fantastic proportions. Illogical patterns, warped verticalities, impossible geometries, and landscapes that feel at once both fractal and fluid. Topography of dreams. Terrain of the inner world.

And though these dreams were named together under the title Sorrow, it does not adequately describe the emotions evoked by these inner journeys. It is instead an air of delicate melancholy that floats over this immaterial land. It hangs around austere peaks, drifts over scarce mountain grass, settles into cold hollows, sinks into forgotten and wind worn bones. Even as sun rays penetrate rare windows in the everpresent clouds, their presence is too ephemeral to bring warmth to these cold stones, somber altars that we lay our tired bodies upon to recess into sleep, and dream of roots deep within the marrow of these mountains.

Obsequiae

The need for fire is rooted deep within us. We long for the warmth it brings to our bodies, the unheralded heights it raises our spirits to, and the captivation it holds in our minds. The need for wild things is intrinsic to our being. Alone watching the fall of the leafe as they dance in a whispering breeze is of value beyond quantification. The tranquility of acquiescence is always carried in our hearts. In the final acceptance of unremitting change, this passing of forms, we are healed and come to grow and change ourselves.

This demo by Obsequiae is a transition in itself. It comes as an evolution of a former troupe under the title of Autumnal Winds. The 3 hymns found here originate from the distant past of this band lost to time, lovingly re-explored and brought into new life in a new context. For myself, the music found here is evocative of all of the aforementioned traits of fire, wildness, and acquiescence.

An almost tangible warmth exudes from these songs. The thick timbre of the guitars creates a sense of dulled brightness, like an oil painting of an autumn sunset over a pastoral landscape, now darkened by years of accumulated wood smoke. When the thicker chords give way to the dancing melodies and rising solos, it is as sudden flashes of bright flame, sharp and ever shifting, and hundreds of sparks rise at once into the air. This is the purely sonic quality of this artwork. It is the shade of oaken walls dimly illuminated by the hearth's fire, the smell of cedar smoke in a lover's hair, and the quiet but endlessly fascinating dance of the flames. This display is framed by the merry and active skins, played like long lost pages from Carmina Burana.

The structure of the music itself is meticulously crafted, while still appearing wildly organic. Each song follows it's own winding path. Ever shifting trails lead through the forest at dusk, subtly transitioning to new expanses before returning to grounds that feel familiar, yet both you and they are changed since you last visited. Riffs, melodies, and harmonies interweave throughout this dreamlike landscape, and even in moments of sorrow they perpetually seem to playfully cast their mysteries of light and shade. Vigorous screams and shouts make their announcements on the wind and solos gloriously ascend beyond the tree line and into the sky.

At the midpoint of the journey through this forest the luminous spell that has been casting suddenly fades away, and the observer is left alone under the canopy with only the songs of birds, lifting our spirits from within ourselves and outwards, beyond. A lone harp gives voice to the strange sense of wonder that the air itself is electrified with. That we could have a part within such a beautiful whole gives us pause, and the activity of our minds slowly channels into this place, revealing patterns in the fabric of life we had never before been aware of. Suddenly, with the single resound of a drum, a grand realization falls over us and we slip into a trance of ecstasy:

Venerari Sacra Mysteria

It feels as if a great burden has been lifted for the final 1/3 of this short but rich work. 'Funeral Oath' conjures feelings of both triumph and wonder. The riffs surge with life unable to be contained, the solos burn with strength and purpose. If you could translate the feeling of seeing sun rays bursting through a hole in the clouds during a torrential rainstorm into sounds, this song would come very close to it. As all else fades away, the drums march onward with boundless intention. The leaves have been shed, but never truly lost, as they nourish the dark soil beneath us.

Autumn

The Sun's perennial journey across the sky has once again reached a mark of change: a human observance of the passing of what was into what is becoming. Summer, long in descent from it's zenith, has now gone from us. Signs of her presence are slowly withering from the limbs of trees. Herbaceous plants of the forest floor return to roots to dream within the womb of the cold earth. The breath of Boreas carries away the winged ones, and the songs of many are no longer heard in these forests. Only a stillness lays over the lakes that once echoed with the haunting cries of the loon. The fading calls of geese in their great formations and the undulating waves of starlings in the thousands remind us that the tide of life must, by it's nature, ultimately recede and pass onto spheres beyond that which it once knew.

And that time will come, only not yet. Though Persephone now passes into the deepest hollows of the earth, carrying with her the vibrance and joy of summer, there is much here still, and new energies and orientations grip us and our kindred. We hear the snorts of great bucks, and see the signs of their virility on ravaged trunks, an omen that life still thunders and thrives. The antlers of bull moose reach their potential and inspire with their nobility and strength. Ravens everhaunt the paths of the wolves, their breeding and denning season now passed, soon to begin long treks of the hunt. Fields and gardens bear their fruits, and the trees and shrubs of the forest offer their own gifts to warm our bodies before the coming cold. Cranberries, apples, hawthorns, and grapes wait for searching hands, claws, and jaws. The seedheads of leeks lead us to hidden sustenance. Cattails still stand sturdily in the cold winds, and wild rice hangs heavy over solemn lakes. Our feelings of loss and mourning are overcome by a swelling in our chests at the strange beauty of this new time of harvest, and we are moved to joyous celebration, not only for what has passed, but for the space and time we now find ourselves in, and for the mysterious coming journey into the night, with the hint of a distant morning to follow.

It is with this deep sense of celebration that I begin this work at the equinox. I have held the desire to create and grow such a thing since the past midsummer. Like all ambitions, it began as a spark: without substance, and likely to pass quickly out of time, as are most things so bright and small. This spark would not meet that fate. I felt that it was one that I must tend. It would become a small coal, dark cedar dust animated into life by heat and oxygen. Such a thing must be carefully handled. It could be scattered in the slightest wind, drowned by a single drop of water, lost with the slightest carelessness. Over the cycles of the moon and descension of the sun I have held this coal gingerly to my chest, nestled in a bed of cedar bark and dried leaves, wrapped in a strip of proud white birch bark, waiting for its time.

Now with cutting winds beginning to sting my eyes and autumn rains chilling my bones, it is time to grow this coal into it's potential. Standing beneath noble firs burning in purest gold in the final rays of sunset, with a hearth of dried hemlock and spruce twigs awaiting it's fiery apotheosis at my feet, piles of assorted sticks at my left, great maple logs to my right, and an offering of sacred cedar fronds bound with with their own bark, I lift the kindling housing this coal, and with rapt joy, begin to breathe the fire into life.