The Myrðaling
A Ghost Story
A Ghost Story
Cold across the portal
through the shadow of the veil
the child shivers at me
wild-walking the mirk.
She's thin as she'd never been
when she lay as she was left,
tiny feet kicking in a stiff skin wrap,
taller too than when her kicking stopped
tiny feet kicking in a stiff skin wrap,
taller too than when her kicking stopped
alone in the bramble where the light broke
as the snow wound blue
around her like smoke.
Now she can walk miles
through the night from the black
back corners of the winter before
and after all things
for she's passed the rock door.
for she's passed the rock door.
On the slaughtering shadow
that splits the soft loam
she blows like a seed that won't be sown
but must be milled on
the stone of years
the stone of years
with a river of bones.
She opens her mouth
and sings like the plague
for a name of her own
to give her a grave.
Take mine I say--it's all I have
for a night sister here in the dying year,
where we've gone too far
where we've gone too far
to turn around, where too soon
we eat the bread of the dead,
where spirit can weigh
as heavy as flesh when the veil falls away.
we eat the bread of the dead,
where spirit can weigh
as heavy as flesh when the veil falls away.
Then the moon-girl came out of her lost disguise;
I saw my twin smile, and close her eyes.
~October 2014
reposted October 2021 for Spooktacular Weekend
at earthweal Open Link
Process notes: In Scandanavian folklore, a myrðaling, (from Old Norse, 'myrða,'
murder) or more properly, myling, was the ghost of a child killed by
its mother in infancy, usually the child of an unmarried woman, or of a
poor family unable to provide for it, abandoned in some unfrequented
place and forced to walk the earth seeking burial. The myling might
appear and reveal the acts of its killer in a song, or call out for a
name, when the hearer could save the spirit by saying "take mine' so
that it might then rest in consecrated ground, (as in this poem) or it
might vengefully possess the living, jumping on their backs and forcing
the victim to carry them to a graveyard, growing heavier with each step.
You can read more in this wikipedia article.
Image: The Strawberry Girl, 1777, by Joshua Reynolds
Public domain via wikiart.org
I have manipulated this image.
Oh my goodness. The poem is spellbinding and your notes after wring my heart. I imagine, across the world, many ghost children have walked the earth. So sad. It is especially hard to think of that infant in the snow. A fabulous write, Joy. As always.
ReplyDeleteThank you Sherry. In another life, she could have been me, or any of us.
Deletegoosebumps. the veil is thinner now, even for Samhain. ~
ReplyDeleteYes, thinner and it doesn't keep out the cold. Thanks, M.
DeleteThis child-familiar is more than a ghost, but they always are. Some stellar otherworldly phrasing -- "wild-walking in the mirk," "alone in the bramble where the light broke/ as the snow wound blue /around her like smoke" and "she blows like a seed that won't be sown /but must be milled on / the stone of years / with a river of bones." How sad this ditch-drabbed child, all too common and the bearer of every bad childhood. How welcomed here.
ReplyDeleteThanks, B. Couldn't miss the All Hallows bonfire.
DeleteSuch a heartbreakingly haunting tale! You tell it so beautifully.
ReplyDeleteOur folktales hide hard truths. Beautifully rendered.
ReplyDeleteyou truly are the defender of lost souls. love this poem, and like most of your poems, there is an anthropological angle to it. these are just lost cultural stories lost to history, they are the stories of humanity. i love that i have to do research everytime i read something from you. and as always, so well crafted, every word so well placed.
ReplyDeleteThanks,Phillip. Your words mean a lot to me, and sorry about making you work so hard. ;)
DeleteI agree with Phillip, you are the defender of the lost. The idea of an infant being left alone to perish is about as depressing and awful as it gets, but there was rest for the poor thing at the end. It reminds me of the unsanitized lyric to All The Pretty Little Horses" that goes: "buzzards and flies peck out its eyes while the poor little thing cries mammy. " It's a wonderful world.
ReplyDeleteThose are some chilling lyrics, indeed, Shay. Life was brief and cruel then and not so sure it's changed much over the centuries. Thanks so much for taking the time to comment.
DeleteThis time of the year I can feel the lost souls, searching for a place of rest. So sad about the children. Interesting footnotes, it made me pause and wipe a tear. At first, I thought you were referring to seeing your younger self in another sphere of time and place. It could be any of us living in a parallel world unknown.
ReplyDelete