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I call to Ricagambeda, noble lady,
mighty one, granter of strength of every sort,
strength of body, strength of will, strength of spirit,
all are in your domain, O goddess great and wise.
Digger in the dirt, furrower of fields,
the seed we plant becomes our dream and our desire,
the salt we sweat only sweetens the gathered fruit,
for time and yearning bring all things into being.
Yours is the land of the many valleys,
the river-ways cutting through sod and stone,
yours the path we all must travel, the final fight.
O Ricagambeda, I offer you my praise.
O Satiada, protector of multitudes,
of those who held together in rich times and poor,
who shared one another’s greatest joys and sorrows,
silent one who keeps close her land and her people,
who keeps close her secrets, goddess, I call to you.
The shadowed folk of the south, hidden by the years,
their tales untold, their songs unsung, their names long lost,
they spoke your name in prayer, they carved it into stone,
a final remembrance, a token of a faith
held still in blood and bone, felt by each beating heart,
spoken with each breath, each footfall on the ancient ground.
Satiada, I praise you, I honor your might.
I call to fair Latis, lady of the waters,
the seething springs, the rivers rough and raging,
the well dug deep into the earth in which your might
resides. Goddess you are of our blood and of our bliss,
of the wine and the whiskey, the ale and the mead,
the flowing fire that lights our loins, the blessed brew
that grants voice and vision to the bard. O Latis,
ancient one, your people walked the wall of Hadrian
with spear in hand and prayer upon their lips;
in later days they trod the furrowed fields, sowing seed
and hoping for good harvest. Latis of the spur,
of sweetness and wrath, I praise your name, I honor you.
Bricta of the broiling baths, the healing spring,
companion of the lord of light, silvery bright,
dancing on the waters, on ripple and crest,
here and gone in an eyeblink’s time, I call to you.
Great-hearted Bricta, good and gracious goddess,
shining one, lady most noble, lady most high,
lady of magics, of words wrought well with precision
and care, laid into lead, pressed into the earth.
Watchful Bricta, safe-keeper, merciful goddess,
shield of the innocent, refuge of the weak,
friend of the forsaken, solace of the lost,
I offer you my praise and my reverence.
I hail Abandinus, standing firm and faithful
by the deep-dug rock on which such sturdy walls
were built, by the banks of the river, deep and broad.
O Abandinus of the solitary shrine,
built and rebuilt by the hands of the pious;
Abandinus of spring and stone, answerer of prayers,
whose name withstood long years unspoken, whose power
and presence grew and thrived as generations
walked the field and forest of your land, I call to you.
God of the stronghold, well warded in times long gone,
god of the storage jar, brimful and bountiful,
I say your name, O god, with reverence and praise.
I call to Belatucadros, light of the mere,
friend of those who count their wealth in copper coins,
who know the worth of a loaf of bread when winter comes.
Long ago your name was carved in red, spoken
by those who held the line, who trod in the mud,
side by side with their fellows, their friends, their kin.
Beautiful in battle, beautiful in the hunt,
you wear the ornaments of war, the sharpened shaft,
the bloodied blade; you hold in hand the lives of men,
to scatter afield for the raven’s feed
or set aside for another season.
Belatucadros, ancient one, I honor you.
I call to Cocidius of the northern wood,
bearer of spear and shield, chaser of man and beast,
beloved of the soldier and the huntsman.
Cocidius, yours were the people of the deer,
of the thick-grown meadow and the wildflower field;
you watched as the men of Hadrian dug in the dirt
and lay the silty stone, as time and again
the good green land was taken. Cocidius
of the alder tree, honored in sheltered grove
and simple shrine, your image shaped in stone,
carved in thanks by hardened hands, Cocidius,
I offer you my words of reverence and praise.
I call to Abnoba of the wilderness,
your bow at the ready, your well-honed shafts at hand;
keen of eye you are, goddess, and fleet of foot,
your nerve never falters, your aim never errs.
Abnoba who we see in the shift of shadows,
whose breath we feel on the back of the neck,
we hear you in the cry of the hawk, the bay of the wolf,
we know you in the tangled wood, the cold-water stream,
the sweet scent of fallen leaves in decay.
The madness of the hunt is yours, O goddess,
the pounding heart of predator and prey;
Abnoba of the shining eyes, I honor you.
Camulus of the oak leaf and the ram,
warder of the battlefield, master of war
and all its arts, granter of strength and will
to those who follow your calling, I salute you.
In high lands and in low, from Britain’s northern bounds
to the wilds of great Gaul, your might was well known,
your name carved deep in stone by those who put their faith
in you; many were the prayers said to you
for courage and for victory, for refuge
and salvation. Our fathers of a thousand years
and more made offering to you, O Camulus;
hear our call, O god of the one and the many.
I call to Mogons, leader of men, protector
of the people, friend of those who serve the good
of all, who offer their strength and their spirit
for the sake of hearth and kin. Upholder of honor,
companion of the worthy and the righteous,
in far-flung lands your altars stood, carved in rough stone
by those who knew your favor, raised up in hope
and thanks by those who trusted you with their lives.
Mogons, great of the battlefield, great of the hunt,
you hold the might of many in each heavy hand.
Mogons, champion of those who struggle and strive,
god to whom all works are possible, I praise you.
Fieldstones 