The Smith's Shop

The magickal smith's shop is his temple. This day, we enter the temple

carrying a model of the face of Cernunnos.

From the north, we carry the oil-sand for the mold. Packed tightly with

the smith's hammer, there is no place where the face of Cernunnos does not

carress the Mother, where she does not mold herself to match his form. When

he has departed, she remembers his shape in her own...she will bear the

child of the god...her shape will give form to liquid fire. The womb of

the mother has been formed. She waits.

In the south, the forge breathes in its never-ending breath...drawing in

the liquid fuel from the west, mixing it with the air and with its own

essence, unleashing the power and the passion of fire. Into this crucible,

this cauldron, we place the raw metal, born of the Mother. The spirit of

the forge grows larger, its soul brighter...brighter, until the golden

brass, in an ecstasy of transition, gives up its form, releases who it

has been, and becomes pure potential...the seed of the god.

From the heart of the forge, the smith carries the molten metal. As this

liquid enters the mold, the seed of the god is spilled within the womb of

the mother, and her memory of the god gives form to the fire...flame and

smoke pour forth from their union. Now the son is born once more, emerging

from her, glowing with his own heat. I, too, am aglow with the power of

the moment, dazed by the light.

The words of a song echo in the deepest part of me. "Horned-one, lover-son,

leaper-in-the-corn...deep in the Mother, die and be reborn."

Later, as I hold the face of Cernunnos in my hands -- the golden brass of the

Sun in his brow, his beard, his horns -- I see life give way to death give

way to life, form following form, a circle within a circle within a circle.

Within this metal is the memory of death and rebirth, within and formed by

the earth, mystery and magick that is heavy in my hands.