Two ravens at the offering stump
First Sunday of every month I pour a horn of mead and leave a heel of bread at the back of the property, where the forge yard meets the trees. It's for the landvættir, the spirits who were here long before my mortgage.
Usually it all just soaks into the moss. This time two ravens came down to the stump before I'd even turned around. Took the bread, ignored the mead entirely, looked straight at me and made that deep knocking sound ravens make. Critics.
My daughter (8) watched from the porch and announced, 'They're Huginn and Muninn and they're reporting back.' I'm not going to be the one to argue. Next month the bread gets a little honey.
The woman at the well
Went down to Brigid's well in Kildare on a grey weekday, the kind where it's only you, the crows and a couple of pensioners doing the rounds. Tied a strip of old cotton to the tree (it rots away, as it should) for a friend who's struggling, said a few lines of my own to Brigid, and walked along the stream.
An older woman I'd never seen before fell into step beside me. Didn't introduce herself. She said, 'She hears the ones who come in the rain best,' and pressed a little rush cross into my hand, the kind you make at Imbolc, a bit dusty like it had lived on a dashboard all year.
I turned to thank her and she was already halfway up the lane. Probably just a lovely local woman. Probably. The cross is on my altar now, beside the candle and the fire extinguisher.