Glacier Wilds
“When the sun shines, the Salmonberries glow like living jewels in the bushes,” The Old Woman calls delightedly to Little Snake. Her reptile companion is basking on a nearby stone. A Waxwing swoops down and pecks one of the garnet-ripe berries hanging at the height of the bushes. The Old Woman pauses to watch the dove-colored bird with the sleek black mask and yellow-tipped tail. The berry seems somewhat large for the Waxwing’s beak, but eventually slides down. The Old Woman smiles as the bird flies off.
“I haven’t seen a Waxwing in years,” she tells Little Snake.
“I used to see them in the Holly tree outside my den when I first woke up in spring,” Little Snake yawns. “I think the Trickster is back. There’s an ominous black spot in the sky.”
As Raven nears the island, he notices The Old Woman moving about in the Salmonberry bushes at the edge of the beach on the western side of the island. He has been carrying a stone in his beak since he left the glacier wilds for just this moment. He lets it fall and cackles with laughter when it hits her shoulder, causing her to drop her basket of berries.
“How are the Trolls?” asks The Old Woman, squinting up at him in the bright summer sunshine.
“Slow, tired, grumpy,” answers Raven, swooping a tight arc around her. “They don’t like when I peck at their eyes.” The sun’s radiant heat feels good on his hot, black feathers, after spending so long in the cloud-wreathed mountains between the ice field and the ocean. “I’m surprised to see you out here,” he taunts The Old Woman. “I thought you would be too busy cleaning up the mess I left you!”
The Old Woman slips Raven’s offending glacier stone into her pocket and bends down to gather the berries that spilled. Ignoring Raven’s teasing, she calls out, “You missed Solstice! We had to celebrate without you.”
“I didn’t miss Solstice,” Raven retorts. “I distinctly remember thinking, ‘The shortest night of the year sure is a strange time to wake up the Trolls,’ but maybe they need a slow start.”
“That could be,” concedes The Old Woman. “They are often slow to begin, though they can move landslide-swift once they get going. Anyway, we missed you on Solstice,” amends The Old Woman as she gingerly straightens back up.
“I didn’t miss you,” Little Snake declares from her basking stone. “The peace and quiet has been delightful.”
“That was just the calm before the storm, sweetheart,” Raven promises.
The Old Woman’s face brightens with an idea. “Let’s have a bonfire tonight to celebrate your return, Raven, and you can tell us of your adventure!”
Raven flaps and croaks in agreement. “I’ll bring my friends!” he cries as he takes to the skies.
“I’m just going to lie here and soak up the sun for as long as I can,” yawns Little Snake.
Later that evening, long before sunset, The Old Woman breaks from her work of detangling yarn, salvaging strands long enough to reweave into her tapestry. She fills a bowl with broth and brew, and in another she places a coal from her hearth. The Old Woman carries them both as she descends to the beach.
Little Snake draws near as The Old Woman’s bonfire sparks to life. Raven swoops in with a cacophony of corvids on his tail.
“We prefer to party in the morning,” he calls down to The Old Woman, “but evening will suffice.”
With the fire blazing, The Old Woman treads down to the water’s edge to ask her sister, The Ocean, for the gift of a feast fit for her guests. The Ocean obliges with a splattering of Salmon leaping out of the water and onto the shore. The noise level drops noticeably — though never completely — as the Ravens descend upon the feast, with the Trickster in the thick of the throng.
His hunger satiated, Raven extracts himself from the feast and flaps over to perch on the upturned roots of a sea washed tree. The other corvids are starting to chatter louder and he does not want to lose their attention.
“As you all will have noticed and mourned my absence,—”
“Hardly,” interrupts Little Snake.
Raven caws in laughter and continues, “I have decided to regale you with a tale from my travels.” The other birds quiet down again, though individuals let out an occasional squawk or rattle. “On a strip of coast where the ice meets the mountains and the mountains meet the sea, I met a Troll named Hrolgar, who was born in an age of ice and snow and glaciers. The ice split Hrolgar from ki’s* mountain mother with a sharp crack and ground the young Troll roughly against her body for hundreds of years. Hrolgar left youth behind in a trail of stones, pebbles, and silt.
“Some Trolls age gracefully over long cycles of gentle stream tumbling or tide washing, but glacier Trolls grow up fast under the harsh scraping of ice. When the glacier dropped Hrolgar in a silty, pebbly moraine and melted away, the young Troll felt suddenly exposed and abandoned. The other glacier Trolls nearby accepted their own depositing as part of life’s journey, but not Hrolgar. Every night, the young Troll chased the glacier up the bare valley. The glacier, however, never stayed put. Every time Hrolgar nestled up to the edge of the ice, it melted away, leaving the Troll behind.
“The glacier Trolls tried to call Hrolgar back to the moraine, where the Lichens were beginning to grow on their granite heads. But Hrolgar feared the exposure, the strange colored crusts, and so much air.
“In the dim light of a waning moon, Hrolgar lifted handfuls of silty pebbles and stuffed them in ki’s hollowed out crevices. Once again, the Troll returned to the harsh ice. But with rocks in ki’s eyes and ears, Hrolgar could no longer see or hear, blindly feeling the way back to the glacier’s diminishing edge.
“This time, Hrolgar climbed up the steep, barren boulders and ice blocks up to the fractured surface. From there, Holgar walked across the solid snow, up the valley, and back toward the ice field. With senses dulled, Hrolgar tripped and stumbled over the jagged ice. One cloudy night, Hrolgar fell into a crevasse. Trapped in the harsh but familiar ice, Hrolgar spent the next couple hundred years being scraped, shoved, and ground down the ice river. At last, with a resounding crack, the ice around the Troll calved off into a milky green lake.
“The icy wind that swept down the valley sent the iceberg Hrolgar clung to out across the lake. As the ice melted, it scraped the silt and stones away from Hrolgar’s eyes. On the pebbly shore, the Lichens and Moss made way for young plants – dwarf Fireweed and Yarrow, Violets and Ferns. Beyond them sprouted baby Cottonwoods and Willows. Over the silt and stones a new forest grew, young as Moss on the edges, but rising up on the trunks of Hemlocks and Spruces. Fearing ki would get lost amidst the green, Hrolgar backed away from so much life, retreating into the lake where the Troll sunk to the bottom.
“But Hrolgar could not hide from life even at the bottom of the lake. Algae grew on the Troll’s great head and fish nibbled. The gentle erosion of aquatic plant and lake water felt so foreign to Hrolgar that ki mistrusted them. So, once again, Hrolgar spent nights retreating to the glacier.
“This time, however, the glacier would not take Hrolgar back. Just as the Troll climbed up the nearest ice fin, it calved off. Summer heat had melted enough of the ice that a surge of water poured forth. The lake swelled, carrying Hrolgar and the iceberg across, to the outer edge of the flood. When the ice melted, Hrolgar was stuck, surrounded by trees and flowers.
Uncomfortable, itching for ice grinding and ever-winter, Hrolgar sat among the trees. Rain dripped from their leaves and needles and mixed with the Troll’s tears. Pollen sprinkled on the wind. Birds landed and flew away again faster than Hrolgar could blink. Sphagnum Moss crept over the Troll’s ice-carved head, and this time Hrolgar relaxed into the green grow. Before Hrolgar realized what was happening, the moss had sprouted a Spruce sapling and that sapling grew roots that anchored Hrolgar in place.
“Hrolgar spent a tree’s lifetime sleeping under the Spruce as the forest grew up over and around the moraine. One night, though, a particularly violent wind swept off the ice field, out of the mountains, down the glacier, and sent the Spruce sprawling on the forest floor. The thunderous noise shook the Troll awake.
“Startled by the sound and the breath of cool air where once the Spruce had warmed Hrolgar’s head, the Troll spent several nights - maybe a year - blinking into wakefulness. Set free from the slow crumble of Lichen, Moss, and bark, Hrolgar turned to look back at the glacier. The ice river had diminished beyond recognition during the time Hrolgar slept. The lake had swallowed every calving iceberg, every blue crystal of compacted snow that melted in the warming air. A river now ran wide and fast, draining the milky waters into the ocean below. Mountains stretched bare and shameless, flanking the shrunken glacier. Hrolgar closed ki’s eyes once more, trying to comprehend all of the changes that time had wrought on the landscape.
“One night, heat hotter than anything Hrolgar had ever felt before drew the Troll from sleep. Gentle, vibrating music so unlike birdsong filled the air. Something soft pressed against Hrolgar’s face as the fogginess of dreamtime dissipated. Hrolgar opened eyes to see a light brighter and warmer than the cold stars and moon the Troll was accustomed to. The heat wafted from this light that danced and crackled. As the Troll’s eyes adjusted to the scene, Hrolgar realized that the soft pressure was a creature. Curious, Hrolgar rose up from the ground, knocking the being over in the process. The music abruptly stopped.
“‘What are you?’ Hrolgar asked the creature.
“Cowering on the ground beside the fire — for that was the source of the heat and light — the creature responded, ‘I am Tristan; I’m a Human.’”
“They could understand each other?” asks Little Snake, surprised.
“Hrolgar explained to me how they sent sounds and images to each other, through their imaginations,” replies Raven. With a croak of laugher he says, “Apparently, Tristan sent so many images when they spoke, that Hrolgar had to sift through them all to find the answers to simple questions. I mean, it’s no wonder the Human stories about Trolls always say how stupid the Trolls are, when the Humans crowd their imaginations and want fast answers.”
Some of the other corvids rustle about, expressing their amusement in their varied voices.
“What are the chances of Hrolgar finding a Human these days who can talk to Trolls?” asks a Crow.
“Well,” says Raven, “loneliness had driven the Human to start speaking to the plants and animals he encountered. Eventually, he expanded his conversation to the waters and boulders he came upon. Tristan was a long way from home, but home was in a city and he never felt he could breathe there. He had come up to the wilds beside the melting glacier to get away from the world the Humans had built up. He spent the summer camping, too disheartened to find work. But he kept getting kicked out of campsites, told he was not allowed to live in a tent in the woods, told he needed to get a job and live in a “proper” dwelling, one that required money to live in.
“‘Life in the city is such a grind,’ he told Hrolgar. ‘There’s so much pressure - it really wears a person down. I came here for rest, for a break from civilization and all of its trappings, but I’m constantly on the run to escape the traps, and I’m not able to rest when I’m busy just trying to survive. Humans were meant to live wild, but definitely not alone, like this.’
“Summer had just peaked. The spring greens had grown too tough to eat, and the Salmonberries were only just starting to ripen. Tristan was hungry, anxiously awaiting the return of the Salmon. He stalked the edges of night, hoping no one would notice if his crossbow happened to shoot a Deer out of season.
“Tristan moved about the mountainside during the day while Hrolgar slept, but the Troll sought him out each night, sniffing the air for smoke, listening for the gentle guitar strumming. Like a moth, the Troll sought the light and heat of Tristan’s fire, so very different from the cold dark of a snowy night. Halfway through the summer, Tristan vanished like smoke from the mountain. The only traces left were scorched stone fire rings filled with cold ashes.
“Curious if the Human story Tristan was running from had finally caught up with him, Hrolgar moved down the mountain in search of the Human. Hrolgar stopped short when ki came upon a dead-eyed Troll at the edge of the glacier wilds. Reaching out to touch the massive, lifeless being, Hrolgar discovered the false stone of concrete where ki had anticipated stone.”
“Wait a minute!” interjects a Jay. “Are you saying Hrolgar found a dead Troll?”
“No, silly,” retorts a Magpie. “It’s a building. Didn’t you hear Raven say it was made of concrete?”
“Then how does it have dead eyes?” demands the Jay.
“The building had a wall of windows,” explains Raven. “Hrolgar just didn’t know what they were. When Hrolgar looked in them, though, the Troll came face to face with ki’s own reflection. Melting away in the background, Hrolgar saw the glacier and the mother mountain, the life ki had been chasing when the time was ripe for resting. Hrolgar recognized in that moment just how ki had tried to cement a passed life back together, and that the Troll had needed the help of a Spruce tree to anchor ki in place long enough to change that pattern.
“A cloud passed over the moon and the reflection faded. Hrolgar now beheld the dead-eyed Troll as a Human creation, a “trapping,” as Tristan had called it. Here on the edge of the glacier wilds, Hrolgar saw clearly just how this civilization mirrored the glacier: cracking, trapping, grinding, and then disposing of its children. But that was where the similarities ended. While the glacier retreated from its children, leaving space for them to grow up in the wilds, the Human civilization chased its children, flattening the wilds into which its children, such as Tristan, fled.
“Hrolgar headed toward the nighttime glow of the Human settlement past the edge of the wilds. The Troll listened for music like Tristan’s but instead heard tuneless rumbling punctuated by ear-splitting blasting, wailing, and an occasional sky-tearing roar. Ever attracted to fire, Hrolgar sought out Human lights, but found the fire dance muted, motionless, trapped in glass. Hrolgar breathed in the night scents, but choked on foul-smelling fumes. The Troll wondered how someone so melodious and bright could come from a place so discordant and toxic.
“‘If ever I find Tristan again, I must hide him where they won’t find him. I shall be his anchor so his flame and his music don’t burn down to cold ash,’ Hrolgar decided.
“Hrolgar kept busy while waiting for signs of Tristan. The Troll climbed the slope above the glass-eyed concrete building and began the slow and relentless process of rousting the other Trolls sleeping there under their Moss blankets. Hrolgar had glimpsed just how much the world could use their energy about now.
“Hrolgar awoke one night in late summer to the warmth of a fire and the sound of Tristan’s guitar. Relieved to see ki’s friend, the Troll sent the little Human sprawling once more.
“‘Where did you go?’ Hrolgar demanded.
“I knew I couldn’t survive winter on my own out here,’ Tristan explained. Moving almost as slowly as a Troll, Tristan gingerly picked himself and his guitar up and found another, less volatile place to sit. ‘I didn’t have enough food and I wouldn’t be able to keep warm and dry. So, I got a job on a fishing tender.’
“Watching Tristan move so slowly, Hrolgar sensed something was wrong with him. Tristan sent Hrolgar foggy images of how he had fallen on the slippery deck of the fishing boat, and something sharp had cut his thigh. They were out at sea for many days and the wound became infected.
“Hrolgar realized that Tristan could no longer postpone his need for rest. The Troll carried Tristan, his guitar, and a single ember from his fire over the ridge and down into another valley, to the landslide Trolls. Unlike the glacier Trolls, these were younger, sharper, and somewhat closer to the surface of dreamland. That is, Hrolgar did not have to work as hard to wake them.
“‘Can any of you heal a Human?’ Hrolgar asked of the landslide Trolls.
“‘Talk to Boí the Hag,’ they all replied.
“Hrolgar searched the mountainside for three nights before finding the place where Boí the Hag resided. But when Hrolgar stepped onto the path leading to the Troll in question, another Troll blocked the way with a long, wooden staff.
“‘The Human must go on his own.’
“‘Why?’ Hrolgar asked
“‘The Human must complete his journey of his own will and propulsion,’ was all the other Troll said.
“Hrolgar set Tristan down and found a dished out stone to place the ember in so Tristan could carry it. Clutching this stone, his guitar slung across his back, the Human hobbled up the stone path as Hrolgar watched over the staff-wielding Troll’s shoulder.
“Boí the Hag turned to look at Tristan. ‘You have come for healing.’
“‘Yes.’
“‘You have come for rest.’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Take these herbs and walk through my passage.’ Hrolgar heard the Troll tear a plant from the ground. In the faint light of Tristan’s ember, Hrolgar watched Boí the Hag spread ki’s legs and a black corridor appeared between them. ‘Place the herbs upon your wound and drop into the heaviness of the dark. Now is the time to step away from the story. Sleep now, and dream. When you awake, may a new story be ready to unfold.’
“Hrolgar left Tristan inside Boí the Hag, and continued on with the business of waking the Trolls. Honestly, only the sleepiest were left for me to pester by the time I met Hrolgar.”
Raven looks around at his audience. Some of the crowd has thinned: many of the Jays still have youngsters back at their nests.
One Crow interjects, “I think it’s curious how Hrolgar kept chasing a story that was finished with ki, while Tristan couldn’t escape a story he was finished with.”
“Unfortunately, I think that is the case for many Humans these days,” replies The Old Woman. “A storyline that began as a single waterfall crashing down a mountainside has picked up speed and drawn other streams into its course until it is now a raging river. Just like a river, though, when all of the streams have come to join together, then the mouth is near and the river will end in an ocean of possibilities.”
“Is there really only one storyline for the Humans now?” asks a Magpie.
“Not necessarily,” muses The Old Woman. “A river can shift course anywhere along the way, and a river delta can be the most dynamic part of the whole watercourse. They can choose many different ways, and even several at once, fanning out around sand bars and islands before they reach the sea.”
“What about Tristan?” Little Snake asks. “When Boí the Hag put him to sleep, did he die?”
The Old Woman looks down at her scaly, green friend, “Do you know that a river does not just run over its bed? The water flows under as well, inside the earth. Tristan just went underground to rest from the relentless torrent of the main watercourse. He went into the tomb womb of the Earth, like a seed awaiting the right conditions to grow.”
“Well I’m ready to go spend a night in the tomb womb of The Old Woman’s cave,” announces Raven. “Go home everybody!” The other corvids cackle their laughter at his abruptness.
“Catch you in the morning!” they call out as they flap off to their own roosts.
The Old Woman chuckles to herself as she puts out the remaining embers of the fire. Raven is already flying up to their cave. The last of the gloaming lights her way as she carries Little Snake up to join their tricky friend.
“So what do you think Hrolgar is up to tonight?” The Old Woman asks Raven as she puts another log on the fire and stirs each of her cauldrons before bed.
“You know,” muses Raven, “that Troll took a real shine to Tristan. I wouldn’t be surprised if Hrolgar goes looking for more Humans to gather like seeds, planting them under Boí the Hag, hoping they will sprout when the world is ready for open-hearted boulder-chatters who want a different story.”
“What I don’t understand, though, is why Tristan has to go underground to wait for another story,” Little Snake joins in as she slithers her way back to the bed she shares with The Old Woman. “Why can’t he help make one now?”
“He was trying to make a different story,” explains The Old Woman, “but the old one nearly killed him. He needs to rest and recover enough that he can help make a better story. Hrolgar recognized this and helped him get time to heal. Tristan will come back, maybe in his current lifetime, maybe in another. In the meantime, though, Tristan is curled up inside Boí the Hag, and I am sure they are having some interesting conversations.”
*For those of you who are new to “A Basket of Herbs and Feathers,” first of all, welcome! I sincerely appreciate you taking the time to read my “Tales for a Changing World.” The word “ki” is a non-gendered pronoun that refers to a living other-than-human being. I know this unusual pronoun is awkward and jarring, but “ki” conveys a meaning that he/she/it/they just cannot. I believe that at the root of the extensive and unrelenting damage civilization is enacting upon this world is a shift from living relationally within the web of life to treating the other members of this world objectively, as resources. If we have any hope of surviving on a planet we are increasingly making inhospitable to lifeforms like humans, we will need to make some stark changes to our current lifestyles. While these changes include reducing our energy usage and living as local communities again, they also include shifting the way we perceive the world around us from lifeless resources back to living members of our extended family. Just as a minute shift of Raven’s tail feathers sends him on a different trajectory, habituating ourselves to small changes in our language, such as the subject-ifying pronoun, “ki,” changes our relationship to the world around us. As a friend of mine likes to say, “English is a language built from war and commerce.” I invite you to stumble with me as we carry this language we speak off of the battlefield, out of the corporate offices and strip malls, and back out into the living landscapes we inhabit. Let us welcome the awkwardness and difficulties as signposts that we have left the smooth asphalt road to destruction behind as we trip over the Tree roots jutting up through the trail, and slip over the Algae-covered Stones along the stream on our way into the dark, tangled, second-growth Forest we will have to navigate if we wish to survive.