December 15, 2025 • 41 mins
In this episode of Truth and Shadow, host BT delves into the depths of Norse mythology, exploring the concept of Naglfar, the ship of the dead, and the spiritual implications of necromancy. He discusses the fear of the dead returning, the role of seeresses, and the consequences of disturbing burial practices. The conversation draws parallels between Norse beliefs and biblical themes, ultimately leading to a reflection on the choices between fear and redemption in the face of spiritual darkness.
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I have finally seen this through darkness that dwells beneath
the surface of this world. The evil. They're not a
science no reason can explain. Yet I have also seen
its beauty, and I was willing to give oh to
protect it. Welcome to Truth and Shadow, your guide through
(01:20):
the supernatural. I am your host, Bet, and this is
a shadow short. Let's navigate the unknown on this brief
journey into the depths of mystery. They say the dead
have no business with the living, that once the breath
(01:42):
leaves the body, what is left is a husk, silent,
still harmless. That's the official line. Anyway, it's tidy, sanitary, comforting.
But the Noise didn't believe that. Neither did the ancient Hebrews,
(02:03):
and I'm not sure I do either. Somewhere out past
the fjords of Norway, beyond the howling of wolves and
the whistle of pine trees bent by bitter wind, lies
a ship, not a ship built by hands but by death.
Its hull is made not of timber, but of the
fingernails and toenails of corpses. Its sails are stretched from scan,
(02:28):
its ropes sinew. The Vikings called it Nagophar, the Nail Ship.
They believed it would set sail at the end of days,
bearing giants, monsters and the dead, toward the final battle
of Ragnarok. Now that sounds like myth, a poetic flourish
(02:49):
a warrior's tail by firelight. But what if it's more
than myth. What if it's memory. Because almost every ancient culture,
from the Hebrews to the Greeks to the North, there's
a shared lingering fear that the dead can return, that
they can haunt, corrupt, in fact, that they can be used, possessed,
(03:11):
reanimated by things that were never human to begin with.
Jesus cast them out into pigs, saw someone one from
the dust, And every exorcist I've ever talked to says
the same thing. When the spirit speaks, it often speaks
and voices not its own. Maybe Nogofar isn't just a
(03:32):
story about death. Maybe it's a story about doors, about
what happens when the veil between worlds thins and something
slithers through the cracks, something with the smell of the
grave and the voice of an angel. But there's no
light in their eyes today on truth and shadow. In
this shadows short. We're going to dig up the borrow
(03:55):
graves of the north. We speak with the dead, We
trace the black lion from Odin's neck, answer to soul,
sears to the late night knock on your bedroom door
that no one else hears. This is a story about
the end, not just their end, but ours. Because if
Nago far sets sail at the fall of the world,
(04:17):
you have to wonder who's been building it and what
rights aboard. They say it's the fingernails that build it.
(04:40):
That when a man dies, his soul might fly to
a hollow or sink to hell, but as fingernails they
stay behind. If they're not trimmed before burial. They become planks,
they become pitch and tar. They become part of a
ship that should never float. This is Nagophar, the nail
ship of Norse mythology. It's not the only vessel that
(05:02):
ferries souls to the afterlife, but it's the one you
don't want to be on. The drhars the dragon proud
warships of Viking lore were often burned, with the dead aboard,
their ashes, offered to the sea or sky. But now,
go Far isn't a chariot of glory, It's well, it's
a dreadnought of doom, and according to the prose Etta,
(05:25):
it lies in the underworld, moored and waiting. When the
world begins to end, it will break free and sail
the poisoned sea, delivering its passengers, the giants, the monsters,
and corpses to the final battle at Ragnarok. Well, let's
slow down, because this isn't just the dramatic climax of
(05:48):
a Viking blockbuster. It's something older and more primal. The
imagery of a ship of the dead shows up in
multiple traditions. The Egyptian boat of Raw sailing through the underworld.
Think of the Greek ferry across the River Styx. I mean,
you could even think about Ezekiel's wheel if you're bold enough.
(06:11):
But nogal Far is different. Most mythological vessels carry the
dead to judgment or rebirth. This one carries them to war.
And that makes me ask who's building it well. The
Norse believed that human remains, especially the fingernails and the hair,
(06:32):
retained a type of spiritual residue. If they weren't properly
disposed of, they could be used by the evil forces.
I mean, that sounds crazy, but it's not that far
off from some of the ancient Jewish concerns about corpse
impurity found in the Torah, or even the Catholic practice
(06:52):
of relic veneration, not to mention the hair and the
nail curses found in Haitian voodoo and even Babylonian necromancy. Somehow,
we've all come to believe that something of the soul
can linger in the bodies, forgotten remnants. The Viking fear
(07:20):
was that the untrimmed, unburned nails of the dead were
not just waste discorded, they were construction materials. If too
many people died without care, the ship would be complete,
and when that ship sailed the world would drown and
fire and blood. There's something disturbingly mechanical about that idea,
(07:47):
as if the apocalypse isn't triggered by the gods or
the sins of the mankind, but by neglect, by entropy,
the unattended dead build the ship that carries artists. And
here's where it gets even more chilling. The Norse didn't
just fear not go far. They feared those who might
(08:09):
be building it, which is sorcerers, the luckworkers, the wondering
prophetess who spoke with the dead, summoned storms, and cast
lots by moonlight. Some of them were honored and many revered,
but others of those prophetesses were often burned or buried alive.
(08:37):
In other words, the people of the North feared necromancers,
those who could pull the dead from their graves and
make them speak, those who could awaken the Nail ship
before its time. And it might beg a question why
were these fears so common, why are they so cross cultural? Well,
there's this line in Job chapter seven versus nine that says,
(09:02):
as the cloud disappears and vanishes, away. So he who
goes down to the grave does not come up. He
shall never return to his house, nor shall his place
know him anymore. And yet Saul saw Samuel Jesus cast
out legion. The disciples thought he was a ghost walking
(09:24):
on water. The Gospels themselves are haunted by these stories.
And the vikings weren't just poetic. They were trying to
codify a spiritual threat. The Drugger, their word for the undebt,
weren't zombies in the modern sense. They weren't mindless corpses.
They were something worse. They were aware, malicious, and sometimes
(09:49):
able to grow in size. They carried memory, rage, supernatural strength,
and they haunted burial mounds and grave sites, and often
they showed signs of having been sorcerers in their life.
In nineteen oh four, a burial mound was uncovered in Augsburg, Norway.
(10:11):
Inside was a ship, a literal one, laid to rest
with two women, richly adorned in silk and sacrificial animals.
One of them may have been a vulva, a seer,
a woman with a woman of the hidden arts. No
one knows what rights were spoken over that grave, but
the archaeologists refused to sleep near the excavation site, and
(10:34):
I don't blame them. What the vikings feared most wasn't
the death of the body. It was the return of
something that looked like a person but wasn't, something that
had no place among the living, and yet moved with intent, hostility,
and hunger. It's und familiar and the New Testament. Unclean
spirits are often found haunting tombs. The man possessed by
(10:57):
Legion lived among the graves and cut himself, held in
the night, and broke chains. Mark five reads like a
drowgor tale with a Galilean twist. And what does Jesus
do while he casts the spirits into pigs and sends
them hurtling into the sea, drowned and silenced. But think
(11:19):
about it. The pigs, their unclean animals, become vessels for
unclean spirits. And the sea is the place of exile,
not destruction, and not permanency. So what if Nogofar is
the Norse version of that exile? A prison barge, a
waiting room for spirits without form, demonic forces, unbound from
the flesh, collecting the detritus of the human world, the fingernails,
(11:45):
the failures that forgotten waiting for a captain, waiting to
sail for war. In Christian terms, we'd call that the abyss.
According to Revelation nine something rises from. So here's the theory.
Naglfar isn't just a myth. It's memory garbled through oral tradition.
(12:06):
It's an ancient attempt to describe the invisible world well,
not of gods and heroes, but of spiritual rot of
demons looking for a way back into our world. In
Norse myth, the ship sets sail when Loki, of course,
breaks free from his chains and leads the giants against
the gods. But Loki isn't just a trickster. He's also
(12:30):
a liar, a shape shifter, a father of monsters. He seduces, deceives,
mocks divine law. In Christian typology, that's not a trickster god.
That's satan. So ask yourself, when the nail ship finally
breaks free, what does it carry? The dead or the damned.
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Some may say this is all imagination, that the dead
don't speak or they can't speak, and if you hear
something whispering the dark, it's greed for madness or sleep paralysis.
But others, those who i've talked to. They know better.
It's in the sagas the seers themselves. They walk alone.
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They are women, mostly according to tradition, cloaked in a
blue or in red. They bear staves carved with serpents
and bones, wearing rings and brooches and the blood of goats.
They sleep in the open fields or beside the newly dead.
They eat the hearts of birds, enchant the names of
things no man should know. These were the volure the
(13:37):
ciriuses of Norse tradition. And if they're just a myth,
well someone forgot to tell the skeletons. Archaeological digs across
Scandinavia have uncovered women buried with staves, bones, herbs, ritual knives.
One grave in particular, found in Denmark, held a woman
(13:58):
with hen bain seeds that's an entheogen used in necromantic rites.
They found another that contained a wand black cloak and
a pouch of cannabis. These were not peasant burials. These
women were powerful, revered, feared, and their power came from
(14:23):
the debt. There's a practice that involves a kind of
ecstatic magic. It often involves altered states, rhythmic chants and
communion with spirits. It's echoed in the Biblical ove and
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the Hebrew word for familiar spirit or necromancer literally a bottle,
as if the medium were a vessel for another voice.
So the most famous example it's found in First Samuel,
chapter twenty eight. It's about Saul. He's desperate. He feels
abandoned by God, so he seeks out the Witch of
(15:07):
Endor in disguise under the cover of night.
Speaker 1 (15:10):
He asks her.
Speaker 4 (15:11):
To summon the prophet Samuel from the grave. She does,
and what comes up isn't really what Saul hoped for.
Samuel's ghost or something wearing his face rises and rebukes
the king, tells him his kingdom is finished and then
he'll die tomorrow. But there's kind of like this problem.
The Bible says the dead don't return, do they, that
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they know nothing according to Ecclesiastes nine, and that neckromancy
is an abomination. So what did Saul see? Personally? I
believe it was really Samuel, but others believe it was
a demon impersonating the prophet, a spirit of deceit, using
Saul's desperation like a bait on a hook. But let's
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shift back to the Viking world, to the drag or
to the restless day. They weren't mere zombies. They were spirits,
sometimes with bodies, sometimes not that lingered after death, driven
by unfinished business, hatred, or sorcery. They guarded treasure, they
strangled the living, the infected dreams, and they were often
raised or at least drawn by a volva. In one
(16:23):
Viking saga, a shepherd sees the dead walking first, one,
then many they fill the house. They stink of rot,
and their eyes glow. A witch is called. She performs
a rite, and one by one the dead fall and
do not rise again. I mean that sounds like folklore,
but it reads like an exorcism. In another saga, warrior
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dreams of a beautiful woman, first offering wisdom, then violence.
His death follows. The dream woman was never explained, so
the spirit a demon, an echo of some kind of
necromancer's spell. I don't know. The Noorse didn't have categories
like ghost and demon. They had huger, the soul image
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that could leave the body and philed you, a spiritual
follower off an animal shape that appeared in dreams and visions.
These could be someonon, traded, even stolen, and if a
person died badly or violently or suddenly without a burial,
they could be claimed by something else, made into a tool,
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and therefore dangerous. It's kind of the same idea behind possession.
We've got Jesus who encountered the possessed, and graveyards, and
they're all I mean, other places of spiritual tension. I
mean he speaks in the spirit shriek. They name themselves,
they bargain, they cry out, not to be sent into
the abyss. Why well, it seems like demons need form.
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They need a host, a voice, a body, a fingernail.
The Norse understood this. They didn't fear death itself. They
feared the manipulation of death, the animation of which rest.
That's necromancy, not just speaking with the dead, but channeling them,
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wearing them, wearing them like gloves. In the Saga of
the Innglings, Odin learns here from a goddess Freya. Odin,
the All Father, the god of battle and knowledge, learns
death magic from the Veneer. He hangs himself on jogder
cell to gain wisdom from the dead and sacrifices eye
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well that and then whispers into the mouths of corpses.
I mean, he's not a god of light. He's the
god of He's the god of the threshold, the kind
of god who walks in both worlds, who opens doors
in another age, maybe a different language. We could call
him a watcher. I mean that would be first Enoch,
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where the watchers descend Earth and teach forbidden arts, enchantments,
root cutting, makeup astrology. They take wives, they beget giants,
and when judgment comes, they're cast into tartarus. They're bound
in chains, and their children become the unclean spirits that
haunt the earth. So imagine this Odin, the seeker of
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forbid knowledge, who sacrifices to himself and speaks to the dead.
What if he isn't like mythic What if he's a
cultural memory of those fallen ones. What if necromancy, in
all its forms, from endor to uppsala to modern seances,
isn't about talking to Grandma. What if it's about contacting
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those spirits, those watchers who still hunger for flesh, for worship,
for form. I mean you can change the language. You
can call it sator, you'd call obe spirit is a mediumship.
The mechanics are always the same, a ritual, an altered state,
an invitation, and a voice. Sometimes the voice soothes, sometimes
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it screams, but it always costs something back. In the
Viking world, the cost was usually blood. The seers would
spill it before chanting, usually animals, sometimes humans, and in
return the spirits gave secrets, but they also gave madness, fear, disease,
the symptoms described in the biblical accounts for demonic torment.
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Modern necromancers talk about the veil thinning, about portal opening.
They say the dead come back with messages, with warmth
of presence, but so do mimics. If an ancient Norse
woman could summon a spirit that knew your secrets, looked
like your father, and spoke in riddles, you might believe her,
but should you, because the truth is something may answer
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your call, and that means it's not what you want it.
There's a reason we bury the dead, and it's not
just hygiene, it's not just tradition, it's actually spiritual, and
across cultures, across centuries, the graves we dig aren't just
holes their boundaries. In ancient Israel, to touch a corpse
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was to become unclean, not symbolically but spiritually. The Law
of Moses doesn't mince words. The dead Pollute Numbers nineteen
lays out the remedy and detail ashes of a red
haf or running water, a priest, and a seven day
ritual cleansing. There's no short cuts, no exceptions. That's not
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the language of ceremony. That's the language of containment. The
Hebrews understood something we might have forgotten, that the dead
leave more than memory behind. They leave spiritual residue. It's
the kind of residue that attracts things like blood in
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the water for sharks. The Vikings had no male priesthood,
no torah, but they found the same chill. To die
badly was to die unclean. Not in a moral sense,
but a metaphysical one. A man's lain and rage. Drowned
without riots or buried without coin or blade was vulnerable.
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His soul stuff could linger worse, it could be stolen.
The drogger again is the key. These weren't aimless haunts.
They were spiritually corrupted dead men who had ben warriors,
chieftains or seers, and their souls are now worth now restless.
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They possessed their own corpses, or perhaps something else did,
and you'll find stories of men buried without care who
later knocked on doors, They rode midnight horses, even infected livestock.
The cure through the heart decapitation, the second burial with
(23:05):
the rights. The same practice shows up in Romania, in Ireland,
Western China, a global fear of the misbary. And here's
the chilling part. Sometimes all it took was a missing nail,
or a whispered curse, or the wrong direction of the
(23:27):
burial mound an In Viking tradition, graves weren't dug at random.
The body was placed with its head facing a specific
direction off an east. Tools, weapons, coins, sometimes even boats
were added, not just for honor but function. These were
spiritual provisions, insurance policies. If the soul got lost, these
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things could help find its way. If something else came
for it, these things might keep it safe, or so
they hoped. The Christian tradition doesn't escape this logic either.
Weary bury facing east, awaiting the resurrection, we mark graves
of stone crosses, We pray at the site. We consecrate
the ground not just to comfort the living, but to
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protect the debt. Why well, because of the debt, aren't
protected they can be used. This is the unspoken horror
behind both paganism and biblical burial rights. It's not just
what might rise from the grave, what might I don't know,
crawl in the Old Testament forbids necremancy, ancestor worship, and
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the consultation of mediums specifically livigous, specifically Leviticus twenty verse six,
I will set my face against anyone who turns to
mediums and spiritists to prostitute themselves by following them. Deuteronomy
(24:54):
eighteen eleven calls such practices detestable, not because the fake,
but because they work, and when they work, they invite
something else into the room. Vikings feared the same thing,
but they didn't have a cannon to warm them to
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warn them. They relied on sagas, and the sagas are
full of the dead returning because something was wrong in
their burial. A warrior who wasn't given a blade, a
child whose name was never spoken again, a woman killed
in childbirth and buried without honor. These become the again walkers,
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the aptroganar. And what animated them wasn't the soul. Sometimes
it was a spirit, a curse, and the dialec in
in lex Dala saga, a prophetess dies and is buried
in a mound. Years later, a shepherd sleeps too close
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to it. He wakes up screaming, and he's blind. Others
with him soon fall ill. The people dig up her grave,
we bury her deeper off her prayers, the sickness ends,
vision returns. It's not just folklore, it's an ancient theology
of borders, of boundaries. The dead must be put not
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because we don't love them, but because we know what
they might become if they don't. And yet in every
generation someone breaks the rule. They take up the pass
they desecrate graves, They summon, and they speak to what
should remain silent, and return they get answers, usually not
the ones they want. You can hear it in some
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of the modern stories. People who bring home an artifact
from a dig site only to hear voices at night,
children who see someone standing at the feet of their
bed after walking through a battlefield. Paranormal investigators who open
a tomb and never sleep soundly again. I mean, maybe
it's the imagination. I don't know. Maybe it's memory. Maybe
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it's some kind of spiritual mechanics of burial that are
actually real, they're true and honest. And maybe when we
bury the dead with honor, we're not appeasing the soul.
We are guarding it, sealing it, marking it as this
corpse is not available. It's a kind of a spiritual quarantine,
if you will. And in that Viking world, oddly enough,
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cremation was viewed as the safest route. The fire cleansed,
the fire, release. The fire ensured that whatever power remained
in bone or blood would not be used against the living.
Within Christian tradition, fire is judgment, it's final, it's permanent.
Ashes to ashes after all, But the tomb of Christ
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was not left sealed. He was buried, yes, but he rose,
not as a drugger, not as a ghost, not as
a mimic, but glorified. That's the contrast. The Norse believe
the dead could rise, twisted, vengeful, monstrous. Christ rose whole, wounds,
still visible, voice, still his own. He didn't come back
(28:11):
because something called him. He came back because death couldn't
hold him. And that makes all the difference. Every religion
has an end, a final chapter, a cosmic curtain call,
when the gods show their teeth and the world burns.
For the Christian it's the Book of Revelation, filled with trumpets, bulls, beasts, fire,
(28:32):
and a king riding on a white horse. For the Vikings,
it's Ragnarok and the similarities they're not superficial. In Ragnarok,
the skycracks open, stars fall, the earth shakes, monsters rise,
dead men march, fire consumes the world, and when it's over,
a new one emerges, clean, cleansed, pure. It's almost biblical,
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but not quite because there's no victory, there's no self.
Its just a time bloop and the gods they die,
so let's walk through it. Ragnarok begins with three endless winters.
They're cold, they're brutal, brother killing brother, and then the
sun and the moon are swallowed by a couple of wolves.
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Earthquakes break out and they shatter the chains that bind
the Great Beast, Fenrir the wolf Yorngamungir the Serpent, and Hell,
the goddess of the dead. They march along with the Jotune,
the frost Giants, and the legions of the dishonored Dead,
selling aboard No go Far the ship of Nails, and
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leading them is Loki the Trickster, the shape shift the liar.
You might be tempted to compare Loki to Judas the betrayer,
or maybe Prometheus the rebel, but once again, he's more
like the adversary. Loki is an evil in the way
we understand, and that he opposes order, opposes justice. He
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laughs in the face of sacred things. His father, he's
the fathers of monsters, right his children. Fen your Mungir
and Hell all chaos andcarnate. Fenra is the beast that
kills Odin, He swallows him whole. Your Mungeir is the world.
Serpent rises from the ocean, poisons the sky. Thora kills him,
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but dies after nine steps from the venom, and Hell
remains in the underworld, ruling over the dishonored dead, those
who died of sickness, cowardice, or old age. Her hall
is called the misty sorrow. Her dish is hunger, and
her knife is famine. I'm reading the sagas. She sounds
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almost like an afterthought. But she's death without glory, and
the parallels start to merge. If you give an honest
look at the Book of Revelation. It describes beasts, one
from the sea, one from the land and a dragon
cast from heaven, a false prophet, an abyss opened, releasing
(31:13):
smoke and locusts with the faces of men. There's a
harlot riding on a many headed beast, fire from heaven,
and the blood is rising to the horse's bridles. That's chaos,
that's judgment, that's terror. And then the rider he comes
with fire in his eyes, a sword from his mouth,
and a name no one knows. He defeats the dragon,
(31:35):
chains the beast, casts the diceiver into the lake of fire,
and raises the dead. But this is an interesting resurrection.
Some are raised to glory and some to shame. And
if we compare that to Ragnarok or dead rise but
they're not judged. They rise to fight. The dishonored dead
are foot soldiers for the apocalypse. They side with the
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giants with why because the nurse has no concept of
hell as punishment. Hell was simply where you went if
you didn't die in battle, no sin required, no guilt,
just quiet forgotten. But what if hell like Hades became
something else, something hungry. What if it took the dishonored
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dead and they could use them. What we've seen that
before in Revelation the beast from the Abyss. It's given
a mouth that speaks blasphemies. The dragon gives him his power,
and all who dwell on earth worship him. Let's not
They're not there to resist him, they're not to mourn him.
They just follow, because in the end, everyone serves something.
(32:44):
And then the Viking methos, those who die poorly serve Loki.
The unsettling question, did the Norse into it something true?
Do they catch a distorted glimpse of the real end? J? R.
Tolkien thought so? At j R. R. Tolkien thought so.
(33:05):
He's a devote cat, devout Catholic, and a Norse scholar.
He once said that pagan myths are not lies. The
fragments of truth splinters from a broken mirror that once
reflected God. So maybe Ragnarok's twisted memory a cultural trauma
(33:30):
echoing the true apocalypse. Van Reer, the monstrous wolf unbound
in devouring the world, may be a shadow of the
beast from Revelation You're mung Yander, the world serpent who
poisons the sea in the sky could be the Leviathan
or the dragon in Revelation twelve. Hell, the ruler of
the dead, cold and silence. She bears resemblance to Haighties
(33:52):
or even the grave itself, which Christ must conquer. And Loki,
the father of lies, the one cast out by the gods,
the one who leads the final rebellion. I mean that
Worle doesn't require any translation. Now this is where it
gets stranger. Ragnarok doesn't just end in destruction. It ends
in renewal. Sure that gods die, the summer reborn Balder,
(34:18):
the bright, gods slain too early returns from hell. The
world has made new. It's green, peaceful, fertile. It's got
two new humans, lift and lift th restrayer who survived
by hating in a forest, and merge into the new dawn.
I mean, does that sound familiar? It should, because I
(34:39):
mean the Bible ends with a new heaven and a
new earth, a garden, a tree of life, a bride
in a city, God dwelling with man again. But there's
some kind of difference, you know. The Bible God wins
evil as judged, and the king returns and there's no
more death and Ragnarok, the cycle just starts over again.
Gods live, God's die of the serpent coils again beneath
the sea, it's like the whole plan isn't defeated, it's
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just reset. It feels like a false hope, like a
cosmic loof a promise without justice. And that's what makes
it dangerous, because in our world, echoes like that matter.
The myths we believe, shape the rituals we perform. The
rituals we perform shape the doors we open, and the
doors we open let things through. So when nago Far
(35:26):
sails again, whether as symbol or spiritual weapon, what side
will it be on? And who's waiting to climb aboard?
If you listen closely, you can almost hear it, the
creaking of black wood over dark water, sails stitched from skin,
ropes made of hair. No wind stirs, and it moves on, memory, on, hunger,
(35:50):
on the unfinished sentences of the dead. Nago Far is coming,
but not in the way the old poets thought. Maybe
it's not a literal shit, but a spirit shall construct
of accumulation of what humanity has left untended, unrepented, unburied,
a vessel made of everything we didn't let die, rage, trauma, sorcery, idolatry,
(36:17):
every false name we give to things we don't understand.
And the thing is, the ship doesn't build itself. We
do every time we invoke the past without discernment, every
time we glamorize the gods of chaos and blood. Every
time we sacrifice truth for power or invite spirits to
(36:37):
soothe our wounds without asking who answers. Every time we
treat darkness like a gain, another nail goes in, and
when it finally sets sail, it won't just bring a
flood of monsters from some mythic underworld. It'll bring the
spiritual consequences of every unexamined right, every ancestor we call
(37:00):
without covering every blood soapd symbol we hang above our
children's bed because it looks cool. The Vikings feared the
ship because they feared the dead weren't done, that something
might use their memory, their bones to walk the world again,
that uncut nails might become the nails of war. And
(37:20):
they were right to be afraid, because the dead aren't done,
not until they're redeemed, are destroyed. In revelation, the rider
on the white Horse returns not to marter with chaos,
but to end it. He wears many crowns as robe
is dipped in blood, not in sacrifice, but a victory.
He is called faithful and true. He's not odin. He
doesn't hang himself on the tree to gain knowledge. He
(37:41):
hangs on the cross to give life. He doesn't build
a ship, he calms the sea. He calls to the dead,
not to rise an army, to raise an army of shadows,
but to resurrect the saints. That's the choice. We don't
have to fear the nail ship, but you do have
to recognize when it's being though, because myths matter, symbols matter,
(38:02):
spirit's answer, and some doors, once they're open, don't close quietly.
So if you see black sales on the horizon, ask yourself,
is this a memory? Is this a dream? Or is
it a warning? And who is steering the wheel? Thank
(38:26):
you for listening. This is a free podcast based upon
the value for value model. If you find value in
this or any episode, you can return that value by
liking the show, subscribing to this channel, leaving a review,
or sharing with a friend on your social media accounts.
You can also donate on my website. Thank you again.
This is BT for Truth and Shadow podcast. You are
(38:51):
the Light in the darkness, an.
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I know, slippers, we gotta keep cleaning these chimneys.
Speaker 4 (00:55):
I have finally seen this through darkness that dwells beneath
the surface of this world. The evil. They're not a
science no reason can explain. Yet I have also seen
its beauty, and I was willing to give oh to
protect it. Welcome to Truth and Shadow, your guide through
(01:20):
the supernatural. I am your host, Bet, and this is
a shadow short. Let's navigate the unknown on this brief
journey into the depths of mystery. They say the dead
have no business with the living, that once the breath
(01:42):
leaves the body, what is left is a husk, silent,
still harmless. That's the official line. Anyway, it's tidy, sanitary, comforting.
But the Noise didn't believe that. Neither did the ancient Hebrews,
(02:03):
and I'm not sure I do either. Somewhere out past
the fjords of Norway, beyond the howling of wolves and
the whistle of pine trees bent by bitter wind, lies
a ship, not a ship built by hands but by death.
Its hull is made not of timber, but of the
fingernails and toenails of corpses. Its sails are stretched from scan,
(02:28):
its ropes sinew. The Vikings called it Nagophar, the Nail Ship.
They believed it would set sail at the end of days,
bearing giants, monsters and the dead, toward the final battle
of Ragnarok. Now that sounds like myth, a poetic flourish
(02:49):
a warrior's tail by firelight. But what if it's more
than myth. What if it's memory. Because almost every ancient culture,
from the Hebrews to the Greeks to the North, there's
a shared lingering fear that the dead can return, that
they can haunt, corrupt, in fact, that they can be used, possessed,
(03:11):
reanimated by things that were never human to begin with.
Jesus cast them out into pigs, saw someone one from
the dust, And every exorcist I've ever talked to says
the same thing. When the spirit speaks, it often speaks
and voices not its own. Maybe Nogofar isn't just a
(03:32):
story about death. Maybe it's a story about doors, about
what happens when the veil between worlds thins and something
slithers through the cracks, something with the smell of the
grave and the voice of an angel. But there's no
light in their eyes today on truth and shadow. In
this shadows short. We're going to dig up the borrow
(03:55):
graves of the north. We speak with the dead, We
trace the black lion from Odin's neck, answer to soul,
sears to the late night knock on your bedroom door
that no one else hears. This is a story about
the end, not just their end, but ours. Because if
Nago far sets sail at the fall of the world,
(04:17):
you have to wonder who's been building it and what
rights aboard. They say it's the fingernails that build it.
(04:40):
That when a man dies, his soul might fly to
a hollow or sink to hell, but as fingernails they
stay behind. If they're not trimmed before burial. They become planks,
they become pitch and tar. They become part of a
ship that should never float. This is Nagophar, the nail
ship of Norse mythology. It's not the only vessel that
(05:02):
ferries souls to the afterlife, but it's the one you
don't want to be on. The drhars the dragon proud
warships of Viking lore were often burned, with the dead aboard,
their ashes, offered to the sea or sky. But now,
go Far isn't a chariot of glory, It's well, it's
a dreadnought of doom, and according to the prose Etta,
(05:25):
it lies in the underworld, moored and waiting. When the
world begins to end, it will break free and sail
the poisoned sea, delivering its passengers, the giants, the monsters,
and corpses to the final battle at Ragnarok. Well, let's
slow down, because this isn't just the dramatic climax of
(05:48):
a Viking blockbuster. It's something older and more primal. The
imagery of a ship of the dead shows up in
multiple traditions. The Egyptian boat of Raw sailing through the underworld.
Think of the Greek ferry across the River Styx. I mean,
you could even think about Ezekiel's wheel if you're bold enough.
(06:11):
But nogal Far is different. Most mythological vessels carry the
dead to judgment or rebirth. This one carries them to war.
And that makes me ask who's building it well. The
Norse believed that human remains, especially the fingernails and the hair,
(06:32):
retained a type of spiritual residue. If they weren't properly
disposed of, they could be used by the evil forces.
I mean, that sounds crazy, but it's not that far
off from some of the ancient Jewish concerns about corpse
impurity found in the Torah, or even the Catholic practice
(06:52):
of relic veneration, not to mention the hair and the
nail curses found in Haitian voodoo and even Babylonian necromancy. Somehow,
we've all come to believe that something of the soul
can linger in the bodies, forgotten remnants. The Viking fear
(07:20):
was that the untrimmed, unburned nails of the dead were
not just waste discorded, they were construction materials. If too
many people died without care, the ship would be complete,
and when that ship sailed the world would drown and
fire and blood. There's something disturbingly mechanical about that idea,
(07:47):
as if the apocalypse isn't triggered by the gods or
the sins of the mankind, but by neglect, by entropy,
the unattended dead build the ship that carries artists. And
here's where it gets even more chilling. The Norse didn't
just fear not go far. They feared those who might
(08:09):
be building it, which is sorcerers, the luckworkers, the wondering
prophetess who spoke with the dead, summoned storms, and cast
lots by moonlight. Some of them were honored and many revered,
but others of those prophetesses were often burned or buried alive.
(08:37):
In other words, the people of the North feared necromancers,
those who could pull the dead from their graves and
make them speak, those who could awaken the Nail ship
before its time. And it might beg a question why
were these fears so common, why are they so cross cultural? Well,
there's this line in Job chapter seven versus nine that says,
(09:02):
as the cloud disappears and vanishes, away. So he who
goes down to the grave does not come up. He
shall never return to his house, nor shall his place
know him anymore. And yet Saul saw Samuel Jesus cast
out legion. The disciples thought he was a ghost walking
(09:24):
on water. The Gospels themselves are haunted by these stories.
And the vikings weren't just poetic. They were trying to
codify a spiritual threat. The Drugger, their word for the undebt,
weren't zombies in the modern sense. They weren't mindless corpses.
They were something worse. They were aware, malicious, and sometimes
(09:49):
able to grow in size. They carried memory, rage, supernatural strength,
and they haunted burial mounds and grave sites, and often
they showed signs of having been sorcerers in their life.
In nineteen oh four, a burial mound was uncovered in Augsburg, Norway.
(10:11):
Inside was a ship, a literal one, laid to rest
with two women, richly adorned in silk and sacrificial animals.
One of them may have been a vulva, a seer,
a woman with a woman of the hidden arts. No
one knows what rights were spoken over that grave, but
the archaeologists refused to sleep near the excavation site, and
(10:34):
I don't blame them. What the vikings feared most wasn't
the death of the body. It was the return of
something that looked like a person but wasn't, something that
had no place among the living, and yet moved with intent, hostility,
and hunger. It's und familiar and the New Testament. Unclean
spirits are often found haunting tombs. The man possessed by
(10:57):
Legion lived among the graves and cut himself, held in
the night, and broke chains. Mark five reads like a
drowgor tale with a Galilean twist. And what does Jesus
do while he casts the spirits into pigs and sends
them hurtling into the sea, drowned and silenced. But think
(11:19):
about it. The pigs, their unclean animals, become vessels for
unclean spirits. And the sea is the place of exile,
not destruction, and not permanency. So what if Nogofar is
the Norse version of that exile? A prison barge, a
waiting room for spirits without form, demonic forces, unbound from
the flesh, collecting the detritus of the human world, the fingernails,
(11:45):
the failures that forgotten waiting for a captain, waiting to
sail for war. In Christian terms, we'd call that the abyss.
According to Revelation nine something rises from. So here's the theory.
Naglfar isn't just a myth. It's memory garbled through oral tradition.
(12:06):
It's an ancient attempt to describe the invisible world well,
not of gods and heroes, but of spiritual rot of
demons looking for a way back into our world. In
Norse myth, the ship sets sail when Loki, of course,
breaks free from his chains and leads the giants against
the gods. But Loki isn't just a trickster. He's also
(12:30):
a liar, a shape shifter, a father of monsters. He seduces, deceives,
mocks divine law. In Christian typology, that's not a trickster god.
That's satan. So ask yourself, when the nail ship finally
breaks free, what does it carry? The dead or the damned.
(12:51):
Some may say this is all imagination, that the dead
don't speak or they can't speak, and if you hear
something whispering the dark, it's greed for madness or sleep paralysis.
But others, those who i've talked to. They know better.
It's in the sagas the seers themselves. They walk alone.
(13:14):
They are women, mostly according to tradition, cloaked in a
blue or in red. They bear staves carved with serpents
and bones, wearing rings and brooches and the blood of goats.
They sleep in the open fields or beside the newly dead.
They eat the hearts of birds, enchant the names of
things no man should know. These were the volure the
(13:37):
ciriuses of Norse tradition. And if they're just a myth,
well someone forgot to tell the skeletons. Archaeological digs across
Scandinavia have uncovered women buried with staves, bones, herbs, ritual knives.
One grave in particular, found in Denmark, held a woman
(13:58):
with hen bain seeds that's an entheogen used in necromantic rites.
They found another that contained a wand black cloak and
a pouch of cannabis. These were not peasant burials. These
women were powerful, revered, feared, and their power came from
(14:23):
the debt. There's a practice that involves a kind of
ecstatic magic. It often involves altered states, rhythmic chants and
communion with spirits. It's echoed in the Biblical ove and
(14:45):
the Hebrew word for familiar spirit or necromancer literally a bottle,
as if the medium were a vessel for another voice.
So the most famous example it's found in First Samuel,
chapter twenty eight. It's about Saul. He's desperate. He feels
abandoned by God, so he seeks out the Witch of
(15:07):
Endor in disguise under the cover of night.
Speaker 1 (15:10):
He asks her.
Speaker 4 (15:11):
To summon the prophet Samuel from the grave. She does,
and what comes up isn't really what Saul hoped for.
Samuel's ghost or something wearing his face rises and rebukes
the king, tells him his kingdom is finished and then
he'll die tomorrow. But there's kind of like this problem.
The Bible says the dead don't return, do they, that
(15:33):
they know nothing according to Ecclesiastes nine, and that neckromancy
is an abomination. So what did Saul see? Personally? I
believe it was really Samuel, but others believe it was
a demon impersonating the prophet, a spirit of deceit, using
Saul's desperation like a bait on a hook. But let's
(15:56):
shift back to the Viking world, to the drag or
to the restless day. They weren't mere zombies. They were spirits,
sometimes with bodies, sometimes not that lingered after death, driven
by unfinished business, hatred, or sorcery. They guarded treasure, they
strangled the living, the infected dreams, and they were often
raised or at least drawn by a volva. In one
(16:23):
Viking saga, a shepherd sees the dead walking first, one,
then many they fill the house. They stink of rot,
and their eyes glow. A witch is called. She performs
a rite, and one by one the dead fall and
do not rise again. I mean that sounds like folklore,
but it reads like an exorcism. In another saga, warrior
(16:45):
dreams of a beautiful woman, first offering wisdom, then violence.
His death follows. The dream woman was never explained, so
the spirit a demon, an echo of some kind of
necromancer's spell. I don't know. The Noorse didn't have categories
like ghost and demon. They had huger, the soul image
(17:08):
that could leave the body and philed you, a spiritual
follower off an animal shape that appeared in dreams and visions.
These could be someonon, traded, even stolen, and if a
person died badly or violently or suddenly without a burial,
they could be claimed by something else, made into a tool,
(17:29):
and therefore dangerous. It's kind of the same idea behind possession.
We've got Jesus who encountered the possessed, and graveyards, and
they're all I mean, other places of spiritual tension. I
mean he speaks in the spirit shriek. They name themselves,
they bargain, they cry out, not to be sent into
the abyss. Why well, it seems like demons need form.
(17:53):
They need a host, a voice, a body, a fingernail.
The Norse understood this. They didn't fear death itself. They
feared the manipulation of death, the animation of which rest.
That's necromancy, not just speaking with the dead, but channeling them,
(18:13):
wearing them, wearing them like gloves. In the Saga of
the Innglings, Odin learns here from a goddess Freya. Odin,
the All Father, the god of battle and knowledge, learns
death magic from the Veneer. He hangs himself on jogder
cell to gain wisdom from the dead and sacrifices eye
(18:37):
well that and then whispers into the mouths of corpses.
I mean, he's not a god of light. He's the
god of He's the god of the threshold, the kind
of god who walks in both worlds, who opens doors
in another age, maybe a different language. We could call
him a watcher. I mean that would be first Enoch,
(18:58):
where the watchers descend Earth and teach forbidden arts, enchantments,
root cutting, makeup astrology. They take wives, they beget giants,
and when judgment comes, they're cast into tartarus. They're bound
in chains, and their children become the unclean spirits that
haunt the earth. So imagine this Odin, the seeker of
(19:22):
forbid knowledge, who sacrifices to himself and speaks to the dead.
What if he isn't like mythic What if he's a
cultural memory of those fallen ones. What if necromancy, in
all its forms, from endor to uppsala to modern seances,
isn't about talking to Grandma. What if it's about contacting
(19:44):
those spirits, those watchers who still hunger for flesh, for worship,
for form. I mean you can change the language. You
can call it sator, you'd call obe spirit is a mediumship.
The mechanics are always the same, a ritual, an altered state,
an invitation, and a voice. Sometimes the voice soothes, sometimes
(20:08):
it screams, but it always costs something back. In the
Viking world, the cost was usually blood. The seers would
spill it before chanting, usually animals, sometimes humans, and in
return the spirits gave secrets, but they also gave madness, fear, disease,
the symptoms described in the biblical accounts for demonic torment.
(20:32):
Modern necromancers talk about the veil thinning, about portal opening.
They say the dead come back with messages, with warmth
of presence, but so do mimics. If an ancient Norse
woman could summon a spirit that knew your secrets, looked
like your father, and spoke in riddles, you might believe her,
but should you, because the truth is something may answer
(20:56):
your call, and that means it's not what you want it.
There's a reason we bury the dead, and it's not
just hygiene, it's not just tradition, it's actually spiritual, and
across cultures, across centuries, the graves we dig aren't just
holes their boundaries. In ancient Israel, to touch a corpse
(21:16):
was to become unclean, not symbolically but spiritually. The Law
of Moses doesn't mince words. The dead Pollute Numbers nineteen
lays out the remedy and detail ashes of a red
haf or running water, a priest, and a seven day
ritual cleansing. There's no short cuts, no exceptions. That's not
(21:40):
the language of ceremony. That's the language of containment. The
Hebrews understood something we might have forgotten, that the dead
leave more than memory behind. They leave spiritual residue. It's
the kind of residue that attracts things like blood in
(22:00):
the water for sharks. The Vikings had no male priesthood,
no torah, but they found the same chill. To die
badly was to die unclean. Not in a moral sense,
but a metaphysical one. A man's lain and rage. Drowned
without riots or buried without coin or blade was vulnerable.
(22:23):
His soul stuff could linger worse, it could be stolen.
The drogger again is the key. These weren't aimless haunts.
They were spiritually corrupted dead men who had ben warriors,
chieftains or seers, and their souls are now worth now restless.
(22:43):
They possessed their own corpses, or perhaps something else did,
and you'll find stories of men buried without care who
later knocked on doors, They rode midnight horses, even infected livestock.
The cure through the heart decapitation, the second burial with
(23:05):
the rights. The same practice shows up in Romania, in Ireland,
Western China, a global fear of the misbary. And here's
the chilling part. Sometimes all it took was a missing nail,
or a whispered curse, or the wrong direction of the
(23:27):
burial mound an In Viking tradition, graves weren't dug at random.
The body was placed with its head facing a specific
direction off an east. Tools, weapons, coins, sometimes even boats
were added, not just for honor but function. These were
spiritual provisions, insurance policies. If the soul got lost, these
(23:48):
things could help find its way. If something else came
for it, these things might keep it safe, or so
they hoped. The Christian tradition doesn't escape this logic either.
Weary bury facing east, awaiting the resurrection, we mark graves
of stone crosses, We pray at the site. We consecrate
the ground not just to comfort the living, but to
(24:08):
protect the debt. Why well, because of the debt, aren't
protected they can be used. This is the unspoken horror
behind both paganism and biblical burial rights. It's not just
what might rise from the grave, what might I don't know,
crawl in the Old Testament forbids necremancy, ancestor worship, and
(24:34):
the consultation of mediums specifically livigous, specifically Leviticus twenty verse six,
I will set my face against anyone who turns to
mediums and spiritists to prostitute themselves by following them. Deuteronomy
(24:54):
eighteen eleven calls such practices detestable, not because the fake,
but because they work, and when they work, they invite
something else into the room. Vikings feared the same thing,
but they didn't have a cannon to warm them to
(25:15):
warn them. They relied on sagas, and the sagas are
full of the dead returning because something was wrong in
their burial. A warrior who wasn't given a blade, a
child whose name was never spoken again, a woman killed
in childbirth and buried without honor. These become the again walkers,
(25:36):
the aptroganar. And what animated them wasn't the soul. Sometimes
it was a spirit, a curse, and the dialec in
in lex Dala saga, a prophetess dies and is buried
in a mound. Years later, a shepherd sleeps too close
(25:59):
to it. He wakes up screaming, and he's blind. Others
with him soon fall ill. The people dig up her grave,
we bury her deeper off her prayers, the sickness ends,
vision returns. It's not just folklore, it's an ancient theology
of borders, of boundaries. The dead must be put not
(26:21):
because we don't love them, but because we know what
they might become if they don't. And yet in every
generation someone breaks the rule. They take up the pass
they desecrate graves, They summon, and they speak to what
should remain silent, and return they get answers, usually not
the ones they want. You can hear it in some
(26:44):
of the modern stories. People who bring home an artifact
from a dig site only to hear voices at night,
children who see someone standing at the feet of their
bed after walking through a battlefield. Paranormal investigators who open
a tomb and never sleep soundly again. I mean, maybe
it's the imagination. I don't know. Maybe it's memory. Maybe
(27:05):
it's some kind of spiritual mechanics of burial that are
actually real, they're true and honest. And maybe when we
bury the dead with honor, we're not appeasing the soul.
We are guarding it, sealing it, marking it as this
corpse is not available. It's a kind of a spiritual quarantine,
if you will. And in that Viking world, oddly enough,
(27:29):
cremation was viewed as the safest route. The fire cleansed,
the fire, release. The fire ensured that whatever power remained
in bone or blood would not be used against the living.
Within Christian tradition, fire is judgment, it's final, it's permanent.
Ashes to ashes after all, But the tomb of Christ
(27:51):
was not left sealed. He was buried, yes, but he rose,
not as a drugger, not as a ghost, not as
a mimic, but glorified. That's the contrast. The Norse believe
the dead could rise, twisted, vengeful, monstrous. Christ rose whole, wounds,
still visible, voice, still his own. He didn't come back
(28:11):
because something called him. He came back because death couldn't
hold him. And that makes all the difference. Every religion
has an end, a final chapter, a cosmic curtain call,
when the gods show their teeth and the world burns.
For the Christian it's the Book of Revelation, filled with trumpets, bulls, beasts, fire,
(28:32):
and a king riding on a white horse. For the Vikings,
it's Ragnarok and the similarities they're not superficial. In Ragnarok,
the skycracks open, stars fall, the earth shakes, monsters rise,
dead men march, fire consumes the world, and when it's over,
a new one emerges, clean, cleansed, pure. It's almost biblical,
(28:56):
but not quite because there's no victory, there's no self.
Its just a time bloop and the gods they die,
so let's walk through it. Ragnarok begins with three endless winters.
They're cold, they're brutal, brother killing brother, and then the
sun and the moon are swallowed by a couple of wolves.
(29:20):
Earthquakes break out and they shatter the chains that bind
the Great Beast, Fenrir the wolf Yorngamungir the Serpent, and Hell,
the goddess of the dead. They march along with the Jotune,
the frost Giants, and the legions of the dishonored Dead,
selling aboard No go Far the ship of Nails, and
(29:42):
leading them is Loki the Trickster, the shape shift the liar.
You might be tempted to compare Loki to Judas the betrayer,
or maybe Prometheus the rebel, but once again, he's more
like the adversary. Loki is an evil in the way
we understand, and that he opposes order, opposes justice. He
(30:03):
laughs in the face of sacred things. His father, he's
the fathers of monsters, right his children. Fen your Mungir
and Hell all chaos andcarnate. Fenra is the beast that
kills Odin, He swallows him whole. Your Mungeir is the world.
Serpent rises from the ocean, poisons the sky. Thora kills him,
(30:27):
but dies after nine steps from the venom, and Hell
remains in the underworld, ruling over the dishonored dead, those
who died of sickness, cowardice, or old age. Her hall
is called the misty sorrow. Her dish is hunger, and
her knife is famine. I'm reading the sagas. She sounds
(30:51):
almost like an afterthought. But she's death without glory, and
the parallels start to merge. If you give an honest
look at the Book of Revelation. It describes beasts, one
from the sea, one from the land and a dragon
cast from heaven, a false prophet, an abyss opened, releasing
(31:13):
smoke and locusts with the faces of men. There's a
harlot riding on a many headed beast, fire from heaven,
and the blood is rising to the horse's bridles. That's chaos,
that's judgment, that's terror. And then the rider he comes
with fire in his eyes, a sword from his mouth,
and a name no one knows. He defeats the dragon,
(31:35):
chains the beast, casts the diceiver into the lake of fire,
and raises the dead. But this is an interesting resurrection.
Some are raised to glory and some to shame. And
if we compare that to Ragnarok or dead rise but
they're not judged. They rise to fight. The dishonored dead
are foot soldiers for the apocalypse. They side with the
(31:58):
giants with why because the nurse has no concept of
hell as punishment. Hell was simply where you went if
you didn't die in battle, no sin required, no guilt,
just quiet forgotten. But what if hell like Hades became
something else, something hungry. What if it took the dishonored
(32:23):
dead and they could use them. What we've seen that
before in Revelation the beast from the Abyss. It's given
a mouth that speaks blasphemies. The dragon gives him his power,
and all who dwell on earth worship him. Let's not
They're not there to resist him, they're not to mourn him.
They just follow, because in the end, everyone serves something.
(32:44):
And then the Viking methos, those who die poorly serve Loki.
The unsettling question, did the Norse into it something true?
Do they catch a distorted glimpse of the real end? J? R.
Tolkien thought so? At j R. R. Tolkien thought so.
(33:05):
He's a devote cat, devout Catholic, and a Norse scholar.
He once said that pagan myths are not lies. The
fragments of truth splinters from a broken mirror that once
reflected God. So maybe Ragnarok's twisted memory a cultural trauma
(33:30):
echoing the true apocalypse. Van Reer, the monstrous wolf unbound
in devouring the world, may be a shadow of the
beast from Revelation You're mung Yander, the world serpent who
poisons the sea in the sky could be the Leviathan
or the dragon in Revelation twelve. Hell, the ruler of
the dead, cold and silence. She bears resemblance to Haighties
(33:52):
or even the grave itself, which Christ must conquer. And Loki,
the father of lies, the one cast out by the gods,
the one who leads the final rebellion. I mean that
Worle doesn't require any translation. Now this is where it
gets stranger. Ragnarok doesn't just end in destruction. It ends
in renewal. Sure that gods die, the summer reborn Balder,
(34:18):
the bright, gods slain too early returns from hell. The
world has made new. It's green, peaceful, fertile. It's got
two new humans, lift and lift th restrayer who survived
by hating in a forest, and merge into the new dawn.
I mean, does that sound familiar? It should, because I
(34:39):
mean the Bible ends with a new heaven and a
new earth, a garden, a tree of life, a bride
in a city, God dwelling with man again. But there's
some kind of difference, you know. The Bible God wins
evil as judged, and the king returns and there's no
more death and Ragnarok, the cycle just starts over again.
Gods live, God's die of the serpent coils again beneath
the sea, it's like the whole plan isn't defeated, it's
(35:03):
just reset. It feels like a false hope, like a
cosmic loof a promise without justice. And that's what makes
it dangerous, because in our world, echoes like that matter.
The myths we believe, shape the rituals we perform. The
rituals we perform shape the doors we open, and the
doors we open let things through. So when nago Far
(35:26):
sails again, whether as symbol or spiritual weapon, what side
will it be on? And who's waiting to climb aboard?
If you listen closely, you can almost hear it, the
creaking of black wood over dark water, sails stitched from skin,
ropes made of hair. No wind stirs, and it moves on, memory, on, hunger,
(35:50):
on the unfinished sentences of the dead. Nago Far is coming,
but not in the way the old poets thought. Maybe
it's not a literal shit, but a spirit shall construct
of accumulation of what humanity has left untended, unrepented, unburied,
a vessel made of everything we didn't let die, rage, trauma, sorcery, idolatry,
(36:17):
every false name we give to things we don't understand.
And the thing is, the ship doesn't build itself. We
do every time we invoke the past without discernment, every
time we glamorize the gods of chaos and blood. Every
time we sacrifice truth for power or invite spirits to
(36:37):
soothe our wounds without asking who answers. Every time we
treat darkness like a gain, another nail goes in, and
when it finally sets sail, it won't just bring a
flood of monsters from some mythic underworld. It'll bring the
spiritual consequences of every unexamined right, every ancestor we call
(37:00):
without covering every blood soapd symbol we hang above our
children's bed because it looks cool. The Vikings feared the
ship because they feared the dead weren't done, that something
might use their memory, their bones to walk the world again,
that uncut nails might become the nails of war. And
(37:20):
they were right to be afraid, because the dead aren't done,
not until they're redeemed, are destroyed. In revelation, the rider
on the white Horse returns not to marter with chaos,
but to end it. He wears many crowns as robe
is dipped in blood, not in sacrifice, but a victory.
He is called faithful and true. He's not odin. He
doesn't hang himself on the tree to gain knowledge. He
(37:41):
hangs on the cross to give life. He doesn't build
a ship, he calms the sea. He calls to the dead,
not to rise an army, to raise an army of shadows,
but to resurrect the saints. That's the choice. We don't
have to fear the nail ship, but you do have
to recognize when it's being though, because myths matter, symbols matter,
(38:02):
spirit's answer, and some doors, once they're open, don't close quietly.
So if you see black sales on the horizon, ask yourself,
is this a memory? Is this a dream? Or is
it a warning? And who is steering the wheel? Thank
(38:26):
you for listening. This is a free podcast based upon
the value for value model. If you find value in
this or any episode, you can return that value by
liking the show, subscribing to this channel, leaving a review,
or sharing with a friend on your social media accounts.
You can also donate on my website. Thank you again.
This is BT for Truth and Shadow podcast. You are
(38:51):
the Light in the darkness, an.
Speaker 1 (40:32):
Hi, everybody, it's me Cinderella Acts. You are listening to
the Fringe Radio Network.
Speaker 2 (40:44):
I know. I was gonna tell him, Hey, do you
have the app. It's the best way to listen to
the Fringe Radio Network. It's safe and you don't have
to log in to use it, and it doesn't track
you or trace you, and it sounds beautiful. No, I
was gonna tell him, how do you get the app?
Speaker 3 (41:03):
Just go to fringe radionetwork dot com right at the
top of the page.
Speaker 2 (41:09):
I know, slippers, we got to keep cleaning these chimneys.
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