We are the seiðfolk.
We exist. Not in large numbers, only by the handful in any given region,
but we exist. Where Ásatrú-folk may number in a plurality
of thousands, we might barely reach one score, but we exist.
Seiðfolk traditionally
were treated poorly. The ordinary folk mocked us, called us names, bullied
us, passed around rumors about us, and killed us. Eirík Bloodyaxe,
son of Harald Fairhair, killed his brother, Rognvald Rettilbeini, along
with eighty sorcerers in Haþaland because he and Papa didn't like
sorcerers. Well, it's obvious: some things never change. Even though
we're no longer being killed, all the other nasties still apply. Go
for it, guys! Bad pennies have been around for eons. For us, a true
bad penny is the sacred symbol of our lives. We didn't go away!
Every country has a handful
of us. We go by different names, have different functions, play different
roles, have different belief systems, worship different Gods. Some of
us remain celibate, some of us have multiple partners. Some of us are
even Christian. Seiðfolk are not the same as shamans which are not
the same as sadhus which are not the same as yuwipi, or houngons, or
taltos, or noaides. We are seiðfolk!
Even though there are cultural
differences, enough so that the systems are not directly translatable
or mutually understandable, there are also some similarities. We are
not trusted by the general populace, for example. Some cultures have
a penchant for putting us up in the center of the community so that
we can be closely watched (they say that they are "honoring us
for our power". . . .yeah, right.) When this happens, we don't
mind because we give you ceremonies, personal names, and public healing.
We heal your fields so that they will bear, and we get rid of your damned
ghosts so that they don't bug your sleep, mess with your cars, kill
your livestock, or make your kids sick. We will even make a public show
out of damaging your enemies. Really, we don't mind being in the public
eye. (It pays well for the most part.)
However, some cultures,
like the northern European which gave birth to Ásatrú,
have treated us as if we were a public embarrassment. They call us despicable
names, pass around rumors about us being homosexual (some of us are),
baby-killers (doubtful, but we don't mind the reputation; keeps the
riff-raff out), charlatans (actually, not one of us but one of
"you" pretending to be one of us!), insane (see below), or
evil (see "baby - killers" above). We are kept on the fringes
of society. Interesting set up, too. You leave us alone for the most
part, we leave you alone for the most part. When we do get together,
it's like the annual Shriner's Circus. You get to see the freaks perform,
and us well, we get to laugh at you (in secret, of course, wouldn't
want to hurt your feelings. . . .).
In every culture, in every
age, there is a major segment of the population who insists that the
reason that we do what we do is because we must be having a difficult
time dealing with reality. Au contraire, mes freres! We have quite a
good time with reality! The ones having a difficult time are those of
your segment of the population who can handle neither consensus reality
nor seiðr. Oh, we have our misfits, too, but when we can't deal
with consensus reality, we have any number of others from which to choose.
We're lucky that way, I guess, because we don't take any of them particularly
seriously.
Honest answer, though? We
don't have any more idea of what reality is than you do. We just use
a cosmology as a map. The major difference between a seiðman and
the average Joe-Blow is the fact that we know that we're stupid and
accept it; on the other hand, poor Joe-Blow goes around flappin' his
catfish yap about how silly and unscientific we are, and he doesn't
even have the slightest clue that he doesn't have a clue. That's all
right, though. We're always on the look-out for fresh comedy material.
"Yessiree! Look at
the silly fools running around seeing ghosts in every tree, Jötunar
in mountain caves, ancestors in the graveyards and tompts in the cellar!
Pretty crazy. . ."
Seiðfolk's silliness
ranks right up there with theories like passed on genetic traits, racial
superiority, quantum mechanics, and conspiracies in comic books, though.
All theories are unprovable EXCEPT when you use a theory to prove a
theory (clue: maybe that's why they're called theories), but they are
accepted by many as being a chunk of reality. At least in our case,
we present our theories for what they are theories, figments of
our imagination, which help us traverse the unknowable seas of reality.
But we don't confuse the map of the ocean with the ocean itself
that's our strength. Your theories are just as crappy as ours
you are just not always capable of realizing it, that's all!
Ever notice that seiðfolk
do not seem to take too many things seriously and seem to get some kind
of perverse joy out of baiting others? Know why? Because we don't, we
can and we enjoy it, that's why! We know that politics are a joke, the
bones of the Kennwick man are a joke, entropy is both a joke and a theory.
Oh, we enjoy moments of seriousness, but these don't have so much to
do with the interactions between men; they have more to do with the
flowing of the Waters out of the Spring of Urð (yep, la-la-land
is often more serious than whether homosexuals are ruining the country).
That is our fate.
We love this Midgard. Our
time here is precious. (Oh, back down ye warrior-types! Ye ruffle your
feathers only for the sake of ruffling!) Ye spend much of your time
doing glorious battle against Email letters which come across your machines
believing that each letter is a real person. One of you is famous for
the "kill-file." A "kill-file?" A battle glorious
term to mean only "I'm going to ignore this letter." (The
only person involved is the one reading the type on the machine, and
reacting to it; at least, Don Quixote had a windmill to mash!)
Riddle
#1: Who is "pretending"
more? The man or woman arguing with $2000 worth of machinery, or the
seiðman traveling the skies on the back of a storm-jötun?
Riddle
#2: What is more
serious: the neighbor's interracial marriage, or the fact that it's
herb-gathering time?
Midgard truly provides us
with an endless source of entertainment.
We see this world differently
than you. Things hold a different meaning for us. That's because we
are what we are: seiðfolk. Call us names, laugh at us, "kill-file"
us, whatever. We don't go away. We exist and will continue to exist.
When one dies, another takes his or her place. We are a minority. We're
misfits, and we don't even care!
