(11 am. – promoted by ek hornbeck)
This is the Brocken, the highest mountain in the German Harz mountain range. I was brought to this mountain shortly after the Berlin Wall fell by a German friend, Stefan, who was serving in the Bundeswehr at the same base I was stationed, Ramstein. Being the highest mountain in the area, it was naturally being used as a radar post by the Soviets and was unreachable by anyone from the west prior to the fall of the wall. In fact, Stefan issued a stern warning as we crossed what had been the No Man’s Land on the Eastern side of the perimiter to keep to the concrete road, as “it was not certain that all the land mines had been cleared yet”.
The few Soviets who remained at the small outpost were terrified, as their future was in limbo and they were well hated by local area Germans. They peered out with frightened and hopeful faces from behind the fence. Stefan said they had been in there for weeks, afraid to leave for fear that they would be murdered once they set foot on what was no longer a country under their control. Sympathizers were apparently bringing them food and cigarettes. “Please don’t feed the Russians,” snarled Stefan, whose father was the equivalent of a Major in Bundeswehr Intelligence, and whose home in Goslar had seen many an Ostlander refugee of the Communist regime given sanctuary. They actually had a room set up as a sort of “underground railroad” station in their basement. It was where I stayed during my visit.
Stefan’s mother was also a witch. I regret that I never got to meet her, but she was terminally ill with cancer. From her deathbed she DEMANDED that Stefan take me to the Brocken. Although now it has been turned into a popular tourist spot, in the early spring of 1990 I was probably the first Heathen American to set foot on that mountain in fifty years. We climbed higher and higher, and finally Stefan announced that we had reached “the place”. He and my boyfriend at the time withdrew from the area. “You will know what to do,” he said. Left alone, I dedicated myself to the service of Freyja Vanadis on this holy mountain, although as I was Wiccan at the time I simply said “The Lady”.
The Brocken is one of the places that optical illusions can cause a person’s shadow to manifest with a rainbow aura around it’s head. This is very likely what led to it’s being named the Brocken, or “the Bridge”, and it’s consistent association down through the centuries with witches and pagan gatherings. This being the heart of Saxon Germany, it was very likely associated with Bifrost, the Rainbow Bridge; the path to Asgard.
What would any reference to the Witches’ Mountain or Freyja the Goddess of Love and War be without a little Saxon Violins? This song has always reminded me of my self dedication on the Brocken.
A favorite Saxon’s take on the Stimulus Bill!
That’s enough Saxon Violins for now… ;-7 Happy Friday the 13th!