Wassail: A Mythical Ritual of Blood, Trees, and Renewal

In the heart of winter, when the cold bites deepest and the nights stretch endless, we gather. It is the Wassail, the time to bless the trees, drive away the frost, and summon the sun back to our land. We shiver not only from the chill but to remind ourselves that we are alive — and must fight to stay that way. This year, the duty falls to me. I am the chosen one, the giver of blood, the offering to the trees.

Every year I have danced in the circle of fire and flame, ribbons in my hair, feathers in my braids, bells at my hips. But this time, my part is more solemn, more sacred. My family watches with pride. Hazel, my younger sister, watches with wide eyes as I prepare, tying my hair into plaits and weaving in the pheasant and kite feathers we’ve gathered from the cold, bare fields. She pins an apple twig to my belt — a reminder that we dance not just for ourselves but for the trees and the creatures that rely on them.

I have told Hazel the stories: how the bright ribbons we wear awaken the spirits of spring, reminding them of colors when all is grey and dead. I have made her squeal with tales of demons that hide in rotten apples, spirits that could blind a child or snatch away her mind. She giggles, but she believes me, as I once believed when my mother told me these tales beside the hearth.

I am dressed now — red ribbons for Braeburn, Hazel in green for Egremont Russet. Our father spices the ale, filling the house with the scent of apples and cloves. Mother is outside lighting the sticks and lanterns, her ribbons the gold and crimson of Pippins. We are ready.

I step out, banging together my willow and ash sticks. The bells sewn into my skirts jingle, delicate as frost tinkling in the air. I light my torch from mother’s and lead the way into the village night, our flames a bright defiance against the cold, dark wind we call Njordr. House by house, we shout, sing, bang our sticks, calling neighbors to join the dance. Doors open, villagers spill into the night, lighting their own torches from ours. Together, we build a procession of flame, light, and sound.

We climb to the highest point of the orchard. The bare trees stand like silent sentinels, their branches reaching as though pleading for warmth. Here is where it begins — our songs, our ritual, our sacrifice.

First, a ribboned braid is cut from my hair, dropped into the ceremonial cup of wassail. Then comes the knife, its handle of mistletoe, its blade ready. Jimmy, who gave his blood last year, steps forward. His arm bears the scar of his own sacrifice. I see him hesitate, but he knows what must be done.

I bare my arm, trembling not just from fear of pain, but from the greater fear — that if I do not give, the birds will never sing again, the trees will wither, the sun will not return, and Hazel will grow up in a world of endless winter.

I look at Hazel, her small face pale and earnest in the firelight. She clenches her fists, trying to be brave for me. That courage gives me strength. Jimmy grips my arm and cuts. The sting is sharp and hot. I cry out, but I hold still, my blood dripping into the wassail cup, mixing with ale and hair, binding me to the trees.

Jimmy quickly binds my wound. I raise the cup and drink — my blood, my offering. Jimmy drinks next, then Hazel, then each villager in turn. Together we sprinkle the bloody ale on the roots of the trees. This is not just ceremony — it is a covenant between us and the land, a promise that we will protect one another.

We dance, we sing, stamping the ground to awaken the earth. My legs weaken, but Jimmy holds me up, my mother kisses my forehead, and my father leads the dance onward, torches aloft, smoke swirling, ribbons streaming. We will not let the demons return. We will not let the canker fester again.

I have told Hazel the story of when the wassail was forgotten — when strangers came, built a cold stone building, and made us worship a lifeless statue instead of the living world. When that happened, the trees sickened, a child died from a poisoned apple, and the orchard bled red sap. We lost many before we remembered who we were and danced the wassail again. Never again would we forget. Now each year, a life is willingly given, so no one must die unwillingly.

At the alehouse, we sing and dance long into the night, the fires burning high, the air filled with laughter and song. Hazel dances in green, I in red, our skirts twirling like the red-and-green of an Elstar apple. Jimmy and I stand beneath the trees, their bare limbs above us, and feel their blessing, their ancient strength. We are part of them now, blood and root intertwined. And as the cold wind drops and the stars shine bright, we know we have done our part to call the sun back home.

✅ Moral of the Story

Traditions, no matter how old or strange, often hold the wisdom of survival and harmony with nature. By honoring the cycles of the earth, we not only protect the world around us but preserve our place within it.