The Wounded King Surrenders to the Land

Today there's going to be a conjunction of Saturn and Pluto, including a conjunction with the Sun, so astrologically it's a Big Deal. Many astrologers observe that whenever there is a Saturn and Pluto conjunction there also tends to be a spike in Fascism. 

I've been doing some meditations and divination on what kinds of magic could help work this energy in a direction more favorable to us, and there was something about how Pluto confronts Saturn with all its shadow (in the case, all the shadows of our current systems of economics and governance) and Saturn becomes Fascistic when he responds to this with fear and projection. But if Saturn could be influence to receive Pluto as a healer, then the necessary transformations could occur more smoothly. 

In service of this I wrote the following allegorical ritual poem that draws on the myths of the Fisher King / Wounded King, but instead of being healed by a passing knight, he submits to an underworld healing and initiatory process by an avatar of the Land.

-Anthony Rella

An ailing king, aggrieved in power, dwelt

alone with starving folk, a bitter land

turning against his reign with flood and wind,

famine and war, whose history rebelled

as unknown poison wracked his failing frame.

And sleep evaded him, for when he dreamt

he saw two fish with faces like cats devour

his hand, and swell enough to swallow him whole.

And those around him feigned a cheerful mien

pretending not to see sickness claim him 

and fear inciting him to firm his grip.

“Why am I loathed by the people?” he asked.

“I give them peace, they demand medicine.

I give them safety and they ask for bread.

I build them marvels and they tear them down.

Every knot I’ve tied has been unbound.

Every heart poisoned with such mistrust.”

Overhearing this protest, his council

began to question his mental soundness.

“Is he so unaware of his own acts?

The people ask for grain and clean water,

he sends them off to war for gold and oil.

The people ask for roofs and medicine,

he sends the guard-at-arms to put them down.

The people ask to be paid for their worth

and he gives all their wealth to his nobles.”

As Sol crossed into the sign of the goat,

none could ignore the suffering of the king

so his council sent him to the western edge

where their nation melted into the next,

forest enveloping a cave in which

a miracle-worker was said to live.

At night his retinue drove him away

to hide his frailty from common eyes.

When he awoke, a ray of light had pierced

the folds of cloth around his stopped carriage.

At the mouth of the cave he saw a being

reptilian and queer in look and dress,

wide open eyes and lanky limbs, no hair,

swathed in a robe the riotous colors of fall.

Lifted from the carriage, the king stumbled

toward the one who watched, silent and still.

“What brings you to this healing place,” it asked.

“I am the ruler of this land, and need

the strength to hold my nation in its place.”

The king struggled not to whisper, unnerved

by the reflection of the creature’s green eyes.

“You will not find that here,” it said, “and yet

the medicine we have is greater still.

We summoned you with portents in your dreams

to spur you to consider our healing.

If you will submit yourself to my aid

you and your people will find renewal.”

The warmth and softness of the creature’s hands

surprised the king, whose heart was racing fast

as he walked away from his retinue,

leaning against the healer who gripped him firm,

wedging the king’s hand into their elbow

so escape was denied. “Fear not,” it said.

“You are alive.”

“Are you the healing one?” 

“I am, and you may address me as Land, 

for my hands and my voice belong to it,

this ground that gives us life and our being,

made from this clay and rivers flowing through,

and baked in light that brings soil to bloom.

The land taught me secrets buried herein,

among the bones beneath the stones upon

your city’s foundation. Their souls uphold 

your reign, but neglect leaves them rancorous.

Therefore I serve that which your sovereignty

depends upon, which your people forgot.”

Inside the cave bright torches revealed piles

of gold and jewel, fur, and leather boots 

arrayed in haphazard display. “Now you 

must pay for the healing you will receive.”

The eyes of Land flicked across the king’s clothes.

The king removed his outer garb, watching

to see when the offering was complete,

but Land was not satisfied until all

the king’s finery was stacked in a pile,

the regent nude and shivering. “Who takes

this opulent fee?” wondered the king. “It seems

wasteful to leave it piled in this dungeon.”

“The sacrifice is ours, for it was torn

from our body and warped for your glory,

when its value could have fed your people.”

And with a kick, the Land scattered the wealth,

then wrapped a burlap robe around the man. 

“The folk demand I wear such wealth, show off

our nation’s pride. Without such majesty,

none will respect our wisdom and our rule,” 

replied the king, burning with shame and scorn.

“Take heart. Our medicine is bitter to taste.

Yet we honor the intention of acts.

We know in your mind you were serving the folk.”

“Without structure the people would falter and fight.

Together we build monuments that will last

beyond our grandchildren, but without food,

metal, and wood, without language and truth

and roofs under which to sleep and care for kids

and weapons to ward our walls and guard our ways

and wheels to transport logs, and banks to fund

our works, and people to oversee labor,

the squabbling folk would fuck and starve and die.”

“Your ambition is well observed. We know.

Do you feel our witness and loving care?”

Sighing, the king felt his anger soften. 

“And do you care for us, the foundation?

Surprised, he did not lie. “I’ve not thought much.”

In silence they continued deeper in,

the king noticing his heart’s deep sadness

that he’d never observed, a longing to feel

the Land’s affirmation of his cruel reign.

They listened and spoke without malice and scorn

yet he felt guilt and grief stirring his heart.

The Land guided the king to steaming springs

that, scalding, sent shivers through his form,

and startled gentle tears from both his eyes.

“While steeping you must hear a bitter tale,”

announced the Land. “Once there was a boy

who desperately wanted to be seen

but instead was burdened with harsh demand,

insult, and the neglect of his soft heart.

To find safety, he broke himself apart

and hid innocence from despair and rage

that they not find and then consume it whole.

But rage lived jealously in the darkness 

watching over the boy of love and light.

“Rage hated the boy but wanted him to be safe,

and when the boy’s sweetness threatened him harm,

rage crept behind to murder the risk, and laugh

as innocence would cry in disbelief

wondering why happiness eluded 

the permanence of his passionate love.

The boy despised his rage, who hated him back

and neither remembered they needed the other.

The boy became a man with this cleavage

and believed himself victim in everything

though power, glory, honor were given to him,

and venom crept behind in his shadow.” 

In burning heat, the king felt close to vomit.

“A strange and pointless fantasy,” he said. 

“There never could be such a man. Venom

and virtue could not coexist in the heart.”

“You deceive yourself. In every heart and land

grows bitter, sweet, healing and baneful herbs.

Your forgetting has made you sick and weak.

To heal you must remember yourself whole.”

The king trembled with greater force, leaving

the pool for chilly air, and retched, stomach

clenching in pain around its emptiness

for he had not eaten in hours. Done,

he was taken to a thick beam, and clasped,

surrendering to the Land’s ministrations

as they picked up a flail. “And now we wake 

your body from its sleep of forgetting.

Stay strong and remember you are not harmed.”

Surprised, the king accepted the rapid slaps 

sharply strapping against his tender skin

bizarre images flashing through his mind,

of dancing in the woods, breaking the doors

of banks, laboring beside his people

in field and factory, and saw his heart

as empty bottle beneath his breastbone,

hearing the words of cruelty and praise

spoken by ones from whom he wanted love.

“Are you nothing more than the peonage?

Turn away from their savagery and learn.

Nobility demands a coldness of mind.”

The forests of his land, he saw, gone sick

by fungal rot; its rivers filled with metals

that belonged in the earth, not in the fish

and children; its crops thinning under hot sun.

He saw the rivers swell like giant fish

whose tumorous mouths threatened to swallow

his dominion. And then the thrashing stopped.

Supportive hands allowed him to lean back

and folded around his undamaged skin,

so he could feel the coldness of his breath.

“Those visions I had were strange and upsetting,

and yet honesty was mixed into the dream

so perhaps every bit of it was true.”

“Having your body purged of its disease

allows prophecy to reach you in truth.

Your people have forgotten, kings are seers,

not rulers who only listen to their will.

The king or queen were once given to land,

to root their reign always in its wisdom,

and, caring for the land, receive its care.

“The monarch was the voice of the terrain.

But far too long has passed since your rulers

humbled themselves to initiation.

And so you’ve grown too sick, the land rejects

your ambition and rigidness of will.”

“How can I stop this threat to my people?

What villain strips the woods and makes them sick?

Who spills poison into the river water?”

Yet every word made the king more afraid,

and he could not contain his voice to hear.

“I know. It’s me. It’s done through my command.

My banks are funding these works, my police kill

the ones who object to poison. My priests

advise the people to submit their work

for little pay, as though it’s holiness.”

“You are the threat to your people,” the Land

agreed. “Rulers always inflict their wounds

upon the folk. Thus they should always strive

every need, wound, and desire

that they may guide without despoiling.” 

“What must I do? Give up my rulership?”

“Surrender to the death we offer you. 

Let your mind root within my soul, to take

the nourishment we have. Stop protesting

your innocence and feigning victimhood.

In sleep, turn toward your rage and fear

and see how it has cared so well for you

and claim those warriors to your service.

Call suffering into your open heart—

the shame dividing your soul; wounded rage;

your secret longing for death; your urge to love;

and let them ferment in my cold embrace

until you melt like gold in the fire

and let those forms renew themselves in me,

and then awake to see that grace has grown

the boy become a man, the rage a beast

upon which he can ride into battle

and shield his loving heart, humbling himself

to set aside the weapons of control

and cruelty. Come into my embrace.”

In drowsiness the king nodded, longing

for nothing more than reprieve from power,

to rest his heart and unburden shoulders.

The Land, who at first had appeared a wight

was now almost nurturing to the king,

pouring a bitter tea into his mouth

and taking the king into their arms to lay

him out across a bench, pulling a shroud

heavy and warm over the king’s body

where he succumbed to a sleep like a fog

suffused with visions of dragons and crying boys

swirling and fading into a burning bright sun

floating above the corpse in which he dwelt

guided by a golden beetle who pushed

the star into his chest, enflaming him,

dissolving all that he was into light—

all harshness, love, indignation and fear,

all certainty of his virtue, all doubt—

annihilated by this aliveness.

And he awoke alone in a dark cave.

Invigorated, he wanted to run

but had to crawl his way toward the light,

none responding to his appeals for help.

He forgot his own name, belly gurgling 

with the foreign sensation of hunger,

his tongue dry and leathery. Toward the mouth

he found a grail on which lay food and drink,

treasure richer than all the wealth scattered

about, now seeming dull and without life.

Even the softest furs irritated

his skin, but he found simple clothes to wear.

Outside he found his retinue was gone

but he felt at leisure and walked alone

for many days and many nights, and met

the creatures of the land on which he lived.

He swam the rivers with beaver and fish.

He waited silently for deer and wolf.

He slept beneath the oaks, and learned the song

of sparrow and crow, realizing reluctance 

to return home. But fear had been resolved,

he found, for his castle had been aflame

for days, and looted thoroughly by folk

reclaiming stolen wealth. None noticed

the displaced king. Even his former guard

were taking turns ransacking the burning place

like children playing a game. “What is this?”

the king asked a woman who was watching,

stroking what he recognized was his cat.

“We learned our bastard king abandoned us

and have declared ourselves independent.

We are taking what we need to govern

ourselves.” The uncrowned king quietly thought.

“How will the people feed themselves, maintain

order, educate their children, defend

from threats, and build the monuments they need?”

If the woman recognized him, her gaze

did not reveal. “As we have always done.

Order never protected us. We’ll work

enough for what we need, and rest, and laugh,

and if someone has ambition, they must

convince the rest to care enough to build.”

“It sounds like a beautiful dream,” he said.

“But could it work?” She tilted her head, wary.

“Are you a nobleman? You’re dressed like us,

so you should know we’ve always done it so.

The ones who rule only fuck up our lives.”

Unbidden crept a smile across his face,

feeling his freedom finally, his ease

from imagining it was all on him.

He wanted to defend against her words,

but saw that what he imagined was care

was brutal control against his people. 

And so he lived upon the land, and learned

the ways of working fields, fishing streams.

He loved deeply and well, ferociously

and bravely he protected his own town.

And he worshipped the glory of the land

that makes all folk equal in dignity.


ANTHONY RELLA

Anthony Rella is a witch, writer, and psychotherapist living in Seattle, Washington. Anthony is a student and mentor of Morningstar Mystery School and a member of the Fellowship of the Phoenix. Anthony has studied and practiced witchcraft since starting in the Reclaiming tradition in 2005. More on his work is available at his website.

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