Wildwood Lord

The Wild-wood Lord is the energy of the land. Although antlered and animal-like, there is a human quality that startles and beckons the crafter into a different woodland glade.

The Wild-wood Lord is nature at it's core. There is no father-figure here. Standing off at a distance his gaze is fixed, eyes feral, his breath hot and rhythmic. Humbled, your heartbeat quickens, you dare not pull your gaze for fear he might leap beyond your comfortable boundary, to what end you cannot predict.

As witches, we understand this figure as the true and vital force of nature in the raw. No climbing into this All-Father's lap for comfort; for this is not the Hero of the Forest as told in popular myth. Dealings with this unvarnished aspect of the land can be dangerous for those who think that their relationship will be different, or safe. Caution is the action to keep foremost in ones' mind.

There are two cycles to his lordship outside of the guardian of the animals, field and stream.  They are similar in their title but not in aspect. Known as reign of the Winter and Summer Kings, their royal authority in this form does not change at the popular solstice celebrations marked by modern Wiccan calendars. As with the shifting of seasonal tides, they change as nature changes, in an authentic way, not light for dark or dark for light, but by a subtle shifting, a gradual integration called Tides.

Holly and the Oak are the mantles this aspect dons. The timing of this exchange is through the demonstration of the oak. Looking to the holly through the seasons of a given year we see it as unchanging, an evergreen whose subtle increase or decline of power is hidden from us. The oak on the other hand is a deciduous tree and this is the herald of the exchange of crowns.

Within the Old Ways many view this rulership beginning in the spring, when buds appear, and the summer half of the light-divided year begins anew. What better time than at this, known as Roodmas, to become a King and rule the land with vitality. His reign ends when leaves turn ruddy-brown, dropping to the ground and the first frost covers the fields.

With the arrival of summer's end he removes his oak circlet; standing stiff in sinew and bone, the Holly King rules the windswept field and leafless branch. Now, hollow-eyed,  breath, sharp, smelling of death and decay, his attention fixed on the purpose ahead; to gather up the wandering spirits of the passing year.  With a spectral group of huntsman by his side, phantasmal horses with wild mane and blowing steam shift their weight, hounds race forward in mad pursuit across the hardened ground.  This is the frenzied clamor and thunder hooves of The Wild Hunt of Souls.

My path as a witch is one trodden with eyes wide open, not impaired by a long ago child's innocence. There are no faery glittered glades with toadstool pixies whispering tidings of good cheer in the woods I wander.  No bother, I prefer the eldrich-kind of shadowy glen and weird forgotten hollow.

As a witch I touch, smell and taste life, unafraid knowing full well what the Wild-wood Lord embodies, and I accept it without objection.