2005 SAMHUINN/BELTANE PROSE ENTRIES

[Crow]

Notice: Please post your short stories and/or philosophical works for the current Eisteddfod here. This category purposely has a loose definition so as to cover as much non-poetic writing as possible.

[Underground River]

This story didn't quite make it into last competition because I was too lazy to fix it up.
Enjoy!
The Wedding

Kathy woke up slowly. She had just had a nice dream about walking through a garden. In her dream she had smelled and touched all kinds of flowers. All the flowers had been in bloom, even those which weren't in season. She wished she could have a garden. Her Mum only kept a vegetable garden, knowing that flowers were too expensive and wasted space. Her family was too poor to have luxuries such as flowers.
She told herself not to wish for stuff she couldn't have since that was selfish. She got out of bed and went to the window to breathe some fresh air.
She stood at the window for several minutes, drinking in the morning breeze.
She thought she heard a bird, but wasn't sure. She hated her ears. They had been fine until she was 10, then they had lost a lot of her hearing overnight. She had been totally blind since birth and had never missed vision.
She told herself to stop thinking about stuff she couldn't change and to get downstairs for breakfast.
She went to her closet to get dressed. When she touched the door to open it, she felt a silkiness there. She felt a sudden rush of fear. The only silk thing her family owned was her Mum's wedding dress.
They had always said she would never marry. They had told her the big day would never come. They had said she could live out her life as a kindly aunt, taking care of her sisters' children when their parents needed babysitters.
Now here she was, faced with her Mum's beautiful dress. She knew it wasn't a joke. Her sisters could be cruel sometimes, but they would never do such a thing to her. Her Mum was beyond even thinking about for a jokester.
Who was the man, she wondered. Is he nice, or is he one of those mean men her parents warned her about.

The man sat on his bed, thinking about Kathy. They had met at a party on a sunny Saturday two weeks ago.
When he had walked into the room, everybody fell silent. He always attracted attention which he hated. He had told them to please go on, he was just another young man looking for a bride.
She had been sitting in a corner, smiling at an inner thought. Her face was so radiant, he had almost cried. He so rarely saw a smile, especially not on the face of his father. His dad was a stern man who never treated his children with anything remotely resembling love. Oh, the old man never beat him, but he shut him out as surely as a locked door shuts out visitors.
So seeing the girl in the corner smiling awoke something in him. She awoke in him the craving for love and happiness he had long burried and had almost forgotten he harboured.
He read her name tag. It said Kathy Little.
All the young women at such parties wore name tags so men could ring their dads and ask for them in marriage.
After the father agreed to give his daughter, it was up to the groom to plan the wedding. His family were devout Christians, but he was not. He had a few ideas for how he wanted his wedding to go.
He recognized Kathy's family name. They were the poorest family in town. He knew they were very religious and model citizens.
He telephoned Kathy's father that evening. After he had introduced himself and Kathy's father had gotten over the shock of who he was, he said, "I am ringing you to ask for your most beautiful daughter's hand in marriage."
"Which daughter?" he asked.
"Kathy," he said.
There was a long pause, then Mr. Little said, "Sir, I think you may have meant Lisa?"
"No," he said emphatically. "I mean Kathy. She is the one with the radiant smile and the black hair."
"Well," said Mr. Little. "That is Kathy. You are aware that she is blind and hearing impaired and will possibly have difficulty with marriage?"
He felt a flash of rage at the man's words but bit it down. "She will make a delightful wife," he said. "I request her hand in marriage, please."
"All right, Sir," Mr. Little said.
After they got off the phone he sat down at his desk and began to plan the wedding.

Kathy made it through the day before her wedding in a daze of fear and confusion. She didn't smile at all that day which was odd for her.
Her Mum and Dad tried to comfort her, but they could not. Her sister Lisa, the kindest of her sisters sat with her trying to reassure her as well.
Kathy loved her parents and sister for trying to help her, but she knew they would never understand the depth of her unease.
Their cat Buster pranced over to her and brushed up against her, purring loudly so she would hear. She dearly loved Buster. The reason why a female cat was named Buster was because when they had got her, they had all been too prudish to check her sex so they had just assumed she was male.
When she had a litter of kittens, they knew she was a female Buster.
Kathy was glad Buster was there. The cat alone seemed to understand Kathy's feelings.
Her parents told her her wedding was to take place at sunrise, an odd time for a wedding. Kathy would have to wake up at 3:00 am!
She went to bed at ten, feeling too nervous to sleep. At 3, her Mum woke her up. She helped Kathy put on the dress and brushed Kathy's hair. "You are to wear no makeup," she said. "He requested that, very odd."
Kathy brushed her teeth and washed with the good soap they used for special occasions only.
"No jewelry either," said her Mum. "That's also odd."
Apparently, Kathy was to marry an odd sort of man.

The man sent a luxurious car to pick her up. It had leather seats, the likes of which she had never sat upon in her life!
Her parents did not even own a car. They took busses everywhere or walked.
They drove for what seemed to be hours but was not even half an hour. Finally, they arrived at the grand wedding hall. "The hall seats ten thousand," her Mum said in awe.
Kathy felt sick. She did not want to be married in front of ten thousand people.
Martha, her meanest sister who loved to frighten her said "Hey Kath, your wedding's being televised. Zillions of people are gonna watch you walk blindly up to the altar and marry that odd chap!"
"Enough, Martha!" her father said.
Kathy felt her heart sink. "Is she telling the truth, Daddy?" she asked.
"Yes," he sighed. "I'm sorry, Kathy."
Her brother John patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and said "Don't worry Kathy, you will look great up there," but his voice lacked conviction.
Lisa, Martha and John were her only family members still unmarried. Her three other sisters and two brothers were married and would meet them at the wedding.
They entered the hall and were met by the rest of their family. Her Mum leaned close to Kathy's ear and said "Kathy, there is a strange thing at the front of the hall. It is not a Christian wedding you shall have."
Her Mum sounded a bit afraid, but Kathy didn't care. She had long since known that Christianity was not her religion. She couldn't relate to any of it.
Kathy's young heart raced with fear when she heard a drum start beating. At almost the same instant, a hand touched her elbow. She knew it was the man. She felt an overwhelming need to flee but couldn't. If she fled, everybody would know she was not worthy of this man and her family would be dishonoured.
"Hello, Kathy," a voice said close to her ear. "My name is Mickey."
"Nicky?" she asked, mishearing an M for an N.
"Mickey," he repeated. "M as in mother."
The drums beat faster and he guided her gently down the isle between the happy rows of people.
She felt none of their happiness, just an overpowering dread.
"Don't be afraid," he said to her ear, as if reading her mood. "I won't be a mean chap."
They finally reached the altar. She heard the drumming stop, and a loud clear voice announce the wedding of Kathy Little and Mickey Muller.
A wave of shock crashed over her. She knew that name! Mickey Muller was none other than the King's son!
She didn't realize she was falling until Mickey caught her. She had done the silly girl thing and fainted.
She had fainted in front of zillions of people. The wedding stopped as they put cold water on her face.
Mickey apologized to her for not having warned her in advance, but not telling who he was was his dad's law.
The wedding went on. She heard some stuff about peace in the east and peace in the west. This was nothing she understood. There was no peace within her, that was for bloody sure.
She said her I do's without really listening to what she was agreeing to do for the rest of her life.
When they pronounced her married, Mickey whispered to her that the sun had just risen to bless their union.
She was taken to another huge hall where everybody ate breakfast. It was more like dinner feast than breakfast. She didn't even taste the little food she ate. It was all too rich for her poor stomach.
She was taken to his house after that. It was a splendid mansion. His father and mother did not live there so they had the house to themselves.
"Do I need to meet your father and mother?" she asked.
"Yes," he said. "You'll meet them soon. They were at the wedding, but they didn't want to meet you in public. They are embarrased that I would marry you. Well, my dad is, my mum goes along with everything he says. She will probably be nice to you if you are alone with her."
"Why, Mickey?!" she burst out. "Why did you drag me from my home to marry me and lock me away in a mansion? Why did you marry me when your dad, the king, is embarrased that I am so ugly and disabled? My heart almost gave out this morning from the fear and distress of it all."
Mickey thought wow she's poetic. Out loud he said "Because you smiled, and nobody else around here ever does. I saw you at that party two weeks ago and knew at first glance that you were the right person. I rang your father that same evening and asked for you. I am truly sorry about the way things had to go, but I cannot break my dad's laws. He's the king, and if I didn't follow protocol, he'd put me to death as surely as the sun will rise tomorrow."
"Speaking of the sun," she said. "Why did you have our wedding at sunrise and what was all the drumming and stuff about peace all about?"
"That is my religion," he said. "I am a druid."
He spent the next hour explaining about druidry and how he became one.
She felt something was born inside her in that hour. She too would become a druid.
When the king and queen came to meet her, she put on a brave face though she was terrified of the mean king. She had heard about how cruel he could be.
"Good day, Mrs. Muller," he said to her, speaking too loudly. "I hear that you cannot hear, and I also see that you do not see the splendor of my son's home all around you. I detest people who do not appreciate the art hanging on these walls. There are paintings by all the major artists in here. My son has chosen to marry you anyway, even though you will never be a complete person. You do not really exist, Mrs. Little. You are a non person and a persona non grata in my palace. My wife feels the same way, don't you Queen?"
"Yes, King," she replied.
"So," continued the King. "I wish to never see you again. You are a dishonour to my son, but I cannot prevent him from marrying you. He is also no longer welcome in my home."
The King and Queen left and Mickey and Kathy were alone once more.
"I am sorry, Mickey," Kathy said. "I have even lost you your father and mother."
"I care not a fig for my father," Mickey responded. "My mother I love dearly, but I cannot do anything about the fact that I cannot see her until Dad dies. He is very old you know, 70. My mother is only 45."
"Seventy isn't that old," she said. "He could live for another 20 years at least."
"No," Mickey said. "He won't live that long. He's already had two strokes and a small heart attack a couple years ago. He's hanging on by a thread. He acts vibrant and healthy, but he's not. He's all rotten inside."
Kathy was a little shocked to hear Mickey talk about his own father like that. "Don't you love your dad?" she asked.
"I don't know if I love him or not," Mickey said quietly.
"I am certain that I love my mother, she is a dear soul."
"Tell me about your father," said Kathy. "I only know the public side of things, not what he's really like."
"Well," said Mickey. "Fifty years ago when he became world ruler, he decided the only technology people would have were phones, television, cars, busses and cooking appliances. He did away with computers completely. I have never even seen a computer! He also made the laws about marriage. After that, he introduced the death penalty for most crimes. He rules by fear, not by love."
"Why didn't he make everybody be a certain religion?" she asked.
"Because he doesn't care about religion," Mickey said. "He just wants people to fear him."
"Mickey!" she cried. "You are his only son, so you will be king when he dies, right?"
"Yes," Mickey grinned down at her though she could not see it. "I will be king, and you will be queen when he dies. Together, we shall remove all the laws he made, and make the world a more peaceful place. You and I, dearest Kathy, will make the whole world remember how to smile once again!"
That night Mickey and Kathy made love.
"I hope to have many children," he said afterwards. "Heaps and loads of them!"
"Is that where children come from?" she asked.
"Blimey!" he cried. "Nobody ever told you where children come from?"
"No," she said, feeling she had let him down.
"Sex makes them," he said, then gave her the scientific explanation.
"So we just could have made a baby?" she asked, feeling the magnitude of what she had just done. "Mickey, I am hardly equipped to care for children with my disabilities. I can't always hear them, and they will run wild if they know Mum won't hear or see them."
"No they won't," Mickey said. "They will be raised by you and me to respect you and they will not get away with wildness when I'm around."
Nine months later, Kathy had her first baby girl. They named her Mickey, just for the delightful confusion two Mickeys would bring to their household.
Mickey was a joyful baby. She cried, but Kathy loved her anyway. She seemed to love Kathy, even though Kathy couldn't look at her.
Two months after Mickey was born, the old king took ill in the hospital. He was a mean man until his last moment, refusing to let Mickey visit one last time. He made a law on the last day of his life, decreeing that all disabled people were to be put to death. Of course, nobody carried out his final orders.
When he left the world, you could almost hear the collective sigh of relief.
Immediately, the queen came to live with Mickey and Kathy. She was a lovely woman, finally free from her husband's tyranny.
After the King's death, everything improved. Technology was taken out of storage, and computers filled desks once again. Kathy received her first pair of hearing aids and could hear a lot better with them. Mickey also got them braille books and Kathy began to learn to read.
Mickey learned too, so he could write letters to Kathy.
When they first appeared on television together, Kathy charmed the whole world with her smile and Mickey did like-wise. Little baby Mickey had her mother's smile too and charmed the cameras as well.
Kathy continued to have more babies, and soon their house was full of noise and confusion. Another of their daughters was named Kathy to add to the name confusion. The world was reborn, in joy and smiles under its new rulers.

Here ends the story of a girl who married and became a woman. I hope you have enjoyed reading it. This story was inspired by a dream I had that I was going to my wedding and did not even know the man's name!
June 11, 2005.

[Underground River]

HALLOWEEN APPLES! Yep, it's back, my halloween story. I know this is the third time, but this is the Samhuin/Beltaine competition so I couldn't resist entering halloween one last time. I promise this is the last time I will enter this story.
A Halloween to Remember

I woke up on October 31 feeling excited. I couldn't wait for the evening! I was 24 years old, but I still loved this day. I feel like screaming "Halloween apples!" as soon as I wake up on this day every year. I went into the kitchen to brew up some morning java. I was dying for a cup so I filled the coffeemaker with coffee and water and flicked the switch. The coffee began to make that lovely dripping sound it makes when it's going to taste great. I went to the fridge to check on the bags of apples I had purchased for the children. They were red delicious apples and I had bought 3 10 lb bags of them. They looked red and so delicious I almost ate one but then remembered they weren't for me to eat. The coffee finished brewing and I poured myself a cup. It had never tasted so good! After the coffee, I put on my fall jacket and went out to my truck. I jumped in and started it then drove away. I drove until I came to a shopping mall. There was one thing I needed to buy, Halloween music! No 31st of October is complete without some scary music for to frighten everybody. I parked my truck, walked into the mall and found the music store. I went to the sound effects section and found the CD I wanted. It was called Spooky Sounds for Halloween. I noticed one odd thing. The cover on the CDs is supposed to have a picture of a frightened child clutching a bag of candy, but instead this cover had a picture of a forest and some strange people. There were words but I couldn't quite see them because they were too small to read. I shrugged, figuring the cover of a different CD had accidentally been put on this one copy. I went to the checkout counter and forked over $13.99. The salesman and I laughed about the funny cover and said I probably had a collector's item. I jumped in my truck and drove home.
At home, I put the disc on the table by the front door where my CD player is. I then found a large piece of cardboard and wrote on it in black marker:
"Please yell if you would like a treat. I do not answer ringing doorbells. Only yellers will receive."
I signed my name and affixed the sign to my front door. I love making kids yell. They love yelling, so why not?
It was Sunday, so I didn't have to work that day. I hate working on Halloween because the preparations are so important to me. I don't know why, it's been like that ever since I was a wee lad on my father's farm. I went to my room and dressed in my costume. I wore a long silk robe, a sort of wizard's hat, and farmer's boots. I couldn't decide if I wanted the boots. I thought going barefoot might be better so I tried it without the boots and liked it better. The working boots just didn't go with the silk robe and the hat. I had no need to paint my face. I hate makeup anyway. I set up my little stone altar which was part of my costume. I was pretending to be a druid that year. Every year I find a costume and really try to play the part. I had been practicing some Welsch words to try to sound convincingly druidic. They were really just normal words, but to a 5 year old I was sure they would sound terrifying because the poor child wouldn't know I was just saying good evening or whatever.
I practiced my words a bit more, chanting them to sound like a druid performing magic or something. I moved my hands around saying words in Welsch and thought I sounded pretty scary. I smiled at myself in my bathroom mirror and knew tonight would rock!
At 5:00 I opened my doors to the night. I was so pumped up I couldn't remember my own name. I was going to have a glorious night of scaring little kids, apologizing to their parents for scaring them and giving out cold, delicious apples. I pranced around in my druid robe and chanted spells as I waited for the first victim...oops I mean child....sorry. Seriously, I never hurt them. I only scare them and then apologize.
At 5:10 I heard a young voice scream "HALLOWEEN APPLES!".
I ran a couple steps and opened the door wide, chanting a spell at the poor child. He cowered in fear and backed away. I grinned at him, held out an apple and said in English, "Fear not little laddie, I'm just a harmless guy who likes Halloween as much as you do."
The boy looked at me for a second, then said, "Well, Mister, you sure scared me. Thanks."
"No problem, laddie," I said.
I grinned at him and closed the door.
I went on in this way for an hour. At 6, I was ready to start scaring the night with my music. I picked up the CD, unwrapped it, and put it in the player. I was a little afraid but shrugged that off. The CD seemed to take a loooooong time to load, but finally the display came up and said there were 99 tracks and 74 minutes and 20 seconds on the disc. I was afraid again to press play, but I did it anyway.
The instant I did, I heard a horrible screaming sound, felt thunder shaking the house, and then I heard a terrifying voice begin to chant in what I was positive was Welsch.
The voice screamed out the words, and I had a horrible image of a man moving his hands about deliberately in a spell. I tried to press stop, but my hands were frozen in fear. The chant increased in volume until it bounced off the walls. Finally, it fell into utter silence. I waited, paralyzed in fear for the calamity I expected...

A soft voice said into the silence "hello, Mike."
I jumped. My name is Mike. How did the voice know that?
I whirled and saw the loveliest creature I had ever known. He was tall, slim, slightly built and very beautiful. His hair was short and white, and his eyes were a soft green. He extended a hand and I took it. "That was my voice on the CD," he said. "I was the one chanting in elvish, not Welsch, and you were afraid. You shouldn't be afraid of Elves, laddie."
I stared at his outstretched hand in disbelief and mumbled something unintelligible. "What was that?" he asked, grinning at me.
"Um," I mumbled. "Um, good day...um good evening I mean...sorry my manners aren't working...sorry..."
"'Tis nothing to fret about, Laddie," he said jovially. "I have this effect on all those I meet. They are afraid then they are confused, then they are polite and give me apples and candy, then they ask me all about magic and druidry and trees and ancestors and Nature and all manner of things and then they ask for more and more and more knowledge. People are so hungry for knowledge they ask and ask and ask and ask and it's like they are children again when they meet me. So, young lad, sit yourself down on that chair yonder and let's have ourselves a night of learning and fun."
I sat down and waited expectantly.
"I will answer your door next," he said. "I will sing some verses in Elvish and really make the children happy. Halloween isn't about fear only you know. There's fun and laughter and bards get to sing verses and make merry and all that. Do you have any milk in your fridge? I am parched after that chant. Please may I have a glass?"
"Oh yes," I stammered. "Sorry Sir. I plum forgot my manners again."
I staggered over to the kitchen, unsteady with emotions I could not name. I clutched the carton of milk and thought to pour it in a tall glass for the thirsty elf.
I handed him the glass and he smiled at me so charmingly I almost fell over. "Thank you," he said and gulped down the milk faster than I could have.
Suddenly, we heard "HALLOWEEN APPLES!" shouted from outside. He Jumped up, skipped to the door and flung it open. What followed is permanently etched into my mind.
The elf sang so sweetly and so perfectly on key I almost died and went to Heaven. I have never, ever, ever heard such awesome music in my life and never will again. He sang the song and danced and the girl standing there just listened and watched and I saw her crying. The girl's mom stood there mutely, having expected me to be scary as I was usually every year. I knew them, they were my neighbours from down the street and me dancing and singing was not what they had expected. "Mike," the mother finally spoke in a tremulous voice. "Mikey is that you?"
"No" said the elf. "'Tis not Mikey. That laddie is in the livingroom listening. I am his elven guest. Here is an apple for thee and thy daughter." He produced two apples from his pocket, and I stared at them. They were golden and sparkly and filled with light somehow. The elf handed one to the little girl who took it and held it and stared at it in awe.
"From now on," said the elf. "Whenever Mikey plays his new CD, I will appear and set the world right. I am from the other world. I am a good elf and won't bother anybody. The veils are very thin right now, so this will probably only work at this time of year, but if you like I can be called any time. I just might not be able to get here if the veils are so thick. I know this is confusing you, sorry, I do tend to ramble. I am not crazy, do not be afraid."
The mother was backing away, hands held up in defence. I came to life then, unfrozen from my chair. I couldn't let my neighbour leave in fear and disgust from my home. "Hello, Mrs. Smith," I called.
She looked in and saw me. "Mike," she said. "Are you all right?"
"Yes," I said. "Just as flustered as you are by this um, creature. I think we are going to have to re-think our oppinions about magic Mrs. Smith. That CD did something..."
"Mommy," spoke up her daughter Hope. "I know magic is real because this apple I have is so lovely. A regular apple couldn't be so shiny and soft and crispy at the same time. What would happen if I took a bite, Wizard?"
The elf smiled and said, "You would be nurrished by the juices and lifted into the far reaches of delight by the flavour. Your dear ancestors would speak to you and you would remember all your happy times you ever had."
The child timidly took a bite before her mother could get out the warning words that would stop her. Hope's eyes widened in surprise and joy as the apple touched her mouth. "It is Dusty!" she cried in wonder. Dusty was their dearly departed kitty cat. "He's happy in the other lands. He's enjoying catnip and petting and mouse-chasing. He loves me and thinks about me every day. He says to not be sad anymore and there are other cats in this life who want to play with me!"
Mrs. Smith, emboldened by her daughter's words took a bite of her golden apple. "Oh, Hope," she said. "It's your grandmother. She says she is so happy in the otherworld. She is singing and telling stories and remembering me and you and your daddy and your brother. She is telling me that it was her time to leave this world last year and she is not sad where she is. Oh, Hope, what is happening? My grown-up's mind doesn't understand."
"All things come in circles, Mom," said the little girl. "The druids love the circles and they love the people who are gone to the otherworld. They are not sad and they love trees and animals and worship dirt. This elf here has come to show us magic and spells and sing us songs and give us lovely apples every year. The CD Mister Mike bought will call him each Halloween so we can learn more about ourselves and about being with Nature."
"That is correct," said the elf. "Your daughter will make a fine bard some day if she chooses that path."
We sat around chatting until 11:00 PM. The elf would answer the door, and more people would come in until the house was full of children and parents and the elf and I. We talked and ate golden apples and sang and made merry until we thought we would die of happiness. Big teenagers who thought they were immortal, little kids with light in their eyes, mothers, fathers, grandparents, everybody, all learned something that night. All learned that magic was real, druids were good people who didn't practice blood sacrifice, and elves were awesome! The elf never told anybody directly to become a druid. He said the word choose so often I started knowing what he would say. "If you choose this path", or "the path you have chosen is equally valid" or "Nobody should ever be forced to choose any path". He was so kind and gentle I knew it would all last but a night. At 11:00 he bid everybody good night and told all that he would return next year if I played the magic CD. When everybody left, he said to me "Make copies of that disc in your computer if you wish. You can give this magical Halloween gift to others. It will call an elf on this night for everybody. There are lots of us elves so that won't be a problem. I must go now, as I have to go to another place that is in another time zone. It is earlier there, and somebody there is about to press play."
With that, he vanished.
I have played that CD every Halloween since that day 10 years ago. Every year, elves visit our humble world and tell us stories, give us ancestral apples and we always make merry and enjoy every last minute until the elves must leave. I tried the CD at other times, but it only worked once. That was the day my own Grandmother died and I needed help dealing with grief. An elf appeared and sat with me all the long night telling me my dear Grandmommy was safe and happy in the otherworld, thinking of me and always loving me every second. I am blessed and honoured to have the elves visit me. I consider it a gift from Earth herself. I am studying druidry now, but I still do not know if it is my path. I might study magic instead. I am learning to love everybody of every religion and that is what matters most to me. When I see a sad person, I smile at him or her and say that there is always hope and a kind person in this world to help when times are hard. The sad person usually agrees with this.
Well, good day to all, I have enjoyed telling this tall tale to you all.

Copyright October 24, 2004 by GreenDruid.

[Underground River]

This one has been entered once before I believe but I still like it. It was a really fun story to write. Please enjoy!
The Well

I was driving to my mother's house for her birthday celebration. She was turning 50, and I needed to be there early so I could start setting things up. My mum lives a two hour drive away, so it is not a simple matter of dashing to her home and visiting her every day like I want to do. I was an excited 21 year old Englishwoman going to visit her mum on a beautiful bright spring Saturday morning.
I took a wrong turn but didn't notice that I had done so. I drove merrily along until I realized I was not in the right spot and started to get nervous. I did a lot of trying to figure out where I was and couldn't. I didn't have a cell phone. I was frightened and couldn't think well. I pulled my car over to take a rest and collect my scattered mind.
I worried about being late for mum but knew she would understand. She knew how panicked I could get when lost. I thought about the cell phone sitting happily on my kitchen table at home, unable to help me and not caring. I pushed that thought away as fear welled up inside me again.
After the terror of being lost had died down somewhat, I looked at my surroundings. My car was sitting at the edge of a quiet country road with a forest on either side. On the right, there was a small path leading into the woods with no sign or anything, just a dirt path leading off into nowhere.
I decided I had better leave and try to find a person who might have directions for me. I had turned my car off, and when I tried to start it, it would not start. It was a fairly new car, and had had no previous starting trouble. I was shocked, to say the least. I don't remember well those frantic minutes in my car, furiously trying to start it, then hopelessly screaming my fear and frustration out into the clear spring morning. I am sure I screamed for my mum, my dad, maybe god, who knows. All I know is that when I emerged from my panicked state, I was covered with sweat and thirsty. I reached for my water bottle and realized I had forgotten it at home too. I was alone on a deserted country road with no cell phone, no working car, no food and no water. I was totally out of luck!
I saw the path leading into the woods again and thought it would be interesting to see what was in there. Then I told myself not to be daft, that my situation was grim and that I should not be curious at a time like this. However, I could not deny that I was curious. I have no idea why, I never went into the woods before that day, I was always afraid of them. I am a city girl and never walked around trees much.
After about ten minutes of telling myself not to be daft, mad, and various other names, I realized I was still curious. This fact blew me away with surprise, but there it was, that pulling sensation, that force telling me to go see those woods. Equally strong was a feeling of great fear and dread. Most of the fear was taken up by the thought that I was probably going insane. I decided to go and see what was in those woods. I had no idea why, but sometimes curiosity won't listen to reason.
I got out of my car slowly and somewhat fearfully. I was thinking about how I would defend myself if anybody came down this lonely road and tried to kidnap me. when I am in my panic mood, everything seems not only possible, but likely.
I walked slowly toward the path. I noticed that the path was quite muddy and that my shoes and clothes would be ruined if they touched it at all. I took a step on to the path, and my shoe sunk into deep mud. I was already filthy, and I hadn't even walked a yard into that forest.
The stillness of the place unnerved me. I didn't like the forest, so what in the world was I doing there?
I walked for awhile, hoping that my curiosity would leave soon so I could try and figure out how I would get home. I just couldn't understand my wreckless behavior and decided that I must be going insane. There was no hope for it. I vowed that if I ever got home alive I would ring a psychiatrist and let him sort out my madness.
An hour later my clothes were muddy as the ground itself and I was exhausted and very thirsty. I still didn't know why I was there, and I was afraid for my life by then. I thought I would die in those lonely woods, starved and alone, without comfort at my last hour. I couldn't believe how long this path was. I kept hoping it would lead to a road with lots of people so I could go home and be away from this nonsense.
Finally, after another half hour, I came to a clearing. In the centre there was a well. I stared at the well, longing for a drink, but afraid to drink the unsanitized water. I told you I am a city girl. I expect clean treated water, electricity, a running car, and all the other city stuff. A walk in the woods is so out of character for a person like me that I still couldn't believe it.
I stared down into the well, feeling afraid and lost. The well rippled as I looked at it, seeming to call to me. That's rubbish, I told myself. It's not talking to you, it's a bloody well and it can't bloody talk, you daft girl!
I really needed to have a drink of water, but I decided that since the well seemed to be talking to me I had better leave before the madness that seemed to have come over me could become any stronger. I turned around to leave and heard a meow. A cat, I thought, somehow relieved that something as normal as a cat could be included in insanity.
I turned around to see a black cat sitting primly beside the well. Now I am not a superstitious person, but something about that black cat gave me a chill of dread. I mean, why was it black? Why couldn't it have been grey or white or anything else? Go pet it, my mind told me. No, I said inwardly. My mind can no longer be trusted. I am certifiably mad, and I am no longer acting reasonably. I must leave, now!
Resolutely, I turned to leave again. I must get help for myself or I would die out there in the woods and nobody would ever find me or know how I died.
I felt a softness brush my legs. I looked down and saw the cat. It was brushing up against me, as cats often do. Without thinking I leaned down and petted it's smooth black fur. I felt my curiosity about the well rushing up inside me again. Curiosity kills the cat! I thought wildly before I whirled around and ran to the well. I collapsed on the ground before it, and began to tremble with fear and the need to jump into that well.
The cat meowed again, and I could no longer stand it. I jumped up, and without a thought, plunged head long into the well. I floated down, down, down...
I did not drown, even though I cannot swim. I was not afraid, even though I should have been terrified. I floated as in a dream, but I remained awake and alert. Water filled my parched mouth and I drank and then the water somehow receeded from my face so I did not swallow too much. I felt renewed and reborn as I was sucked deeper and deeper into that mysterious well. I felt a fire light within me and something new happening. I could not explain it, but there it was. I was a druid. the word popped into my mind. "This is the well of awen," a voice seemed to be in my head. "What twaddle," I mumbled. "No," said the voice. "Not twaddle, truth. You are a druid. You thought you were a city girl. You may be, but you are also a Nature girl. You will go on to do great things."
"What are you talking about?" I asked, thoroughly confused. The voice did not answer. I was sucked further down into the well then. I don't remember much after that, but finally I felt a sense of rising upward on wings of water. I floated gently up until I felt my head break the surface of the gentle well.
I felt refreshed, reborn, unafraid, calm, and everything I am usually not. Usually I am nervous and on edge, but I was totally reshaped emotionally by that experience. I felt my pocket and found my car keys. I felt my other pocket and found the cellphone I had not left at home. I felt foolish and greatful at the same time. I walked back toward the lovely forested path to go home. The cat followed me, and I knew she would be my companion until she breathed her last. I found my car, and put the key in. It started straight away, and I realized that in my panic I must have tried to start it with my housekey.
I did have no water, but the well had replenished me.
I had a weird impulse to open the glove compartment. I did so, and pulled out a sheet of lovely cream coloured paper. On it was drawn a map with my car marked "car" and a red line drawn to show exactly where my mum's house was. I put the car in gear and drove mumward.
When I reached my mum's house two hours later, she said, "What took you so long?"
"Well, Mum," I said. "I had a rather interesting experience today."
"You have a cat?" she asked, looking down to where my new friend had crept up on us without me knowing.
"Yes, mum, but if I told you the story of how this happened, you'd think it was twaddle and you'd send me to a psychiatrist."
"Oh, yeah?" my mum said, her eyes lighting up with interest. "Try me!"
I told her the story, fearfully at first, then more confidently.
When I finished, she turned to me and said, "Darling, some may think you mad, but I know you. You may have panic attacks, but you would not imagine something that didn't happen. Sometimes there are things in this world that cannot be explained. For instance, just yesterday, I was surfing the internet and found this website of this thing called The Order of Bards, Ovates, and Druids. Cool coincidence, eh?"
I stood there speechless, staring at my dear mum.
"There are some things we will never understand," she repeated. "Do not be afraid, darling daughter, we will learn how to be druids and embrace this mystery together."
Needless to say, my mum's fiftyith birthday party was a bash with a great mum such as her!
Copyright March 21, 2005 by GreenDruid.

[mawnanian]

The Mud creature


I thought back and remembered when I first met the mud creature. I’d been walking in an unfamiliar part of the country and was sitting by a pool thinking about nothing in particular, not an impressive pool, it was barely the size of one of those plastic paddling pools that appear in gardens in high summer. Not very deep either, probably only a matter of a few inches, but given a mystical bottomless aura by the reflected light.

As I looked absent-mindedly across the water, for a while I wasn’t sure whether there was anything there or not, the splintered sunlight was bouncing off the surface and pricking my eyes and it was difficult to see beyond it. But I became vaguely aware of what seemed to be two yellow saucers in the middle of the pool and these gradually came into focus as two round golden eyes. I concentrated on the apparition and it appeared that the eyes were set on top of a large flat head, not raised on stalks but flush with the skull so that they were perpetually looking upward. There was the line of a mouth just visible at the front forming a semi-circle that ended level with the eyes. The back of the head merged with the rest of the body which simply seemed to disappear into the mud.

I still wasn’t sure whether I was really seeing this or whether it was the light playing tricks on my imagination so when it spoke to me it came as quite a shock.

“No, you’re not seeing things”

There was a strange sensation of the words appearing inside my head and bypassing my ears, there was certainly no sound picked up in the normal way. I found myself replying in the same fashion, I was used to this kind of communication during journeying and meditation but had never experienced it before in the physical world.

“That’s a relief”
“Yes”
“Who are you?”
“I don’t have a name”
But you must be called something”
“No”

I wasn’t going to give up

“Well, what are you then?”
“What do you want me to be?”

Playing games now

“Look, just tell me what you ‘re doing here.”
“Waiting for you”

Still playing games

“How did you know where I’d be?”
“I didn’t”

Starting to get on my nerves

“Well, how come you were waiting here then?”
“I knew that wherever I waited, if I waited long enough you would arrive eventually.”

Still not very enlightening

“How long have you been here?”
“I’ve always been here.”
“Always?”
“Always.”
“Is it only me you are waiting for?”
“Yes.”

I remembered something I once learnt in a very long and boring seminar about open and closed questions

“Why are you waiting for me and not anyone else?”
“Because you’re here.”

I took a deep breath and counted to three

“What do you want?”

There was a pause and the big yellow eyes studied me for a while, then the words came into my head a phrase at a time, punctuated by short pauses.

“I’ve been here
in this place
since the beginning of time.

I haven’t moved
I haven’t changed
The world has moved
And changed around me.

I am the first
The one
I was here before all others

I have no name
I didn’t need one
For there was no-one else
Not even God

Now you have found me
Your journey is at an end
You can retrace your steps
Or you can begin another.”

This took a while to sink in.

“Begin another?” I repeated.

“Yes.”
“Where to?”
”I can’t say.”

There suddenly seemed to be a lot at stake here.

“I’m not sure that I want to.”
“You can take your time.”
“How long have I got?”
“As long as you like, I’ll still be here.”

With that I got up and walked away, At that moment I wanted to put as much distance as possible between myself and that place. I wasn’t sure what had happened, perhaps all this shamanic stuff had gone to my head, and yet it all seemed so real, unlike a dream or a journey.

By the time I got back to where I was staying I had it mentally filed in a box marked ‘Interesting anecdotes to tell the others’. It was a weird experience but since my mid-life crisis had encouraged me to embark on a new-age quest I had been half expecting, or even hoping, that something like this would happen. Still, the rest of my time there was a bit of an anti-climax.

It was not until the following year that I found myself in the area again. A lot had happened in the past twelve months and I had almost forgotten the incident at the pool, but once my memory was jogged I couldn’t help but retrace my steps.

The pool was still there, the sun still shining and glittering on the surface of the water. I crouched by the edge and gazed across.

There, almost breaking the surface, I could just make out two yellow smudges.

“Hello again.”
“Hello.” I replied automatically

I was gripped by something, not exactly fear, not exactly excitement.

“You’re still here then.”
“Of course; have you decided?”
“Er,no.”
“Then why have you come back?”
“I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”
“You didn’t believe me?”
“I wasn’t sure I believed in you.”

A pause.

“And now?.”
“Well, I can see you.”
“Yes.”
“And talk to you.”
“Yes.”

Another pause.

“But I’m still not sure I believe.”
“Believe in me?”
“Yes.”
“You see me.”
“Yes.”
“And hear me.”
“Yes.”
“So what is it that you don’t believe in?”

It was my turn to pause.

“I don’t believe in what I’m seeing and hearing.”
“Now why would that be?”
“Because it can’t be real.”
”Why not?”

Think of an answer

“Because it’s never happened before.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“And I’ve never heard of it happening before.”
“So?”
“So how do I know it’s real?”
“Good question.”

Another pause, which ran on to become a silence while I tried to think of an answer. The two eyes continued to stare at me blankly as I struggled.

“Ok” I said.
“I’ll be back.”

I was determined not to let him have the last word, I walked for an hour or more thinking it over until I’d sorted things out a bit.

Back at the pool

“You’re back.”
“Yes.”
“Well?”

A deep breath, almost a sigh.

“If I can see you,
and hear you,
and talk to you,
and you’re not real,
then I’m imagining you.”
“Yes”
“But you seem as real as everything else.”
“Thanks”
“So if you aren’t real, how do I know what is real and what is not?”
“You tell me.”

“I don’t know, I need to come to terms with that”
“If you say so, goodbye”
“Wait a minute, I’m not finished!”
“Ok.”

Round two

“If you appear to be as real as everything else I experience, unless I accept that you are real, my whole life could be an illusion.”

No reaction

“So in order to give my life any substance I have to believe that you exist.”
“Why?”
“Because I have to have something of substance to base my life on, otherwise I can’t be sure of anything.”
“Do you believe in me then?”
“I have to.”
“Otherwise your life has no meaning?”

I was uncomfortably aware of the consequences of my answer.

“Yes.”

Maybe there was a change of expression, maybe the eyes became brighter or maybe the sickle mouth curled a little more at the edges, I’m not sure

“Thank you.”

The creature slowly began to sink from sight.

“Hey! Wait a minute, about my journey. How do I start my journey?”
“You already have.”

And with that he disappeared into the mud.

That was the last time I saw the mud creature. I never go back to the pool because I don’t need to. I know He is there because I’ve seen Him and spoken to Him and that is enough. I believe in Him and that is empowering because it means that I can have faith my own feelings and my own senses regardless of what anyone else may say or think..

If I encounter anyone who is confused, needs help or the strength to continue I tell them of my experience with Him. Often they want to go and see Him for themselves but I never tell them where to go, it is important that they make their own journey and find Him in their own way.

And then, when they meet their epiphany and realise that they owe it all to something that lives at the bottom of a pond, they will be saved.

[Creirwy]

Walking through the woods I see the reflection of the moon in a lake. I sit by the edge of the lake, my bare feet finding their spot between the grass and the soil, the reeds and the daisies and the spores of the mushrooms. The potential of magick in the air sends shivers through my body as I breathe in the cool refreshing air. The air sparkles and dances with the magick of the fae, the magick of the miracle of life, of the God and Goddess and all Goodness. This is something the Land has offered freely.
I pull the hair back from around my face and feel the soft moonlight on my skin. I hum out a tune in offering to the Light, in offering to the Land that freely gives Awen, to take in the beauty of the song.
Notes flow from the centre of my being, the song of the Now pours forth and delights the magick, giving the fae something to rock and sway too together. I hear the rustle of feathers and the plop of the fish jumping in the lake. All want to take part in this moment. Something we all need and wake up even from the depths of slumber to part take in.
I sing softly but with more confidence knowing my audience is captivated. My eyes are closed so I can focus, draw up the energy that wants to, no needs to be changed and transferred into this song. I offer life to this potential into sound for all to share. Spaced out I am aware that I have drawn the energy of the Goddess into me.
Gently I pat a rhythm into the ground with the tips of my fingers, strumming the grass like the strings of a guitar. The faeries sway and twirl, partner up to simply be part of this with me.
The waters swirl, wishing for their turn to shine in this song. I hum softly, gently pat as the waters move and flow and taking the lead. I watch the moon’s reflection change and ripple. One moment the solid reflection of a mirror, the next distorted and out of focus. I look at the Lady of the Lake and admire her beauty and grace, using the water as her dance-floor so she can twirl and flow with the moment.
I start to feel so humble at this moment. My consciousness awake to what the beauty of this moment is and then breeze pushes those thoughts out of my head. It pulls my hair over my face so that I can be hidden and enjoy the peace of the Darkness, the space of magick for a little longer.
The fae dance on my feet, letting their light and hope shine on to me. The warmth that is to be locked up for a rainy day when I feel blue - a faery gift to honour forever. I sing again, offering this song for their pleasure. Friends sharing love to feel warm even at the coldest hour, to be called on and supported.
Licking my lips to bring in a new part of the song, I move towards the water, needing to be closer to the source of Life and Love. Dipping my toes into the water and feeling the songs of the droplets on my skin. The birds let this song send them deeper into their dreams as I stare longingly at the moon’s reflection. How can I be nearer? How can I get closer to the Lady in the Lake?
I gaze into the waters, still humming the song that is fading on my lips. The winds have changed, a new song will be coming soon. The silence takes over and I hold on to the space it offers. Some faeries swoon still in the trance like me, and others fly off to capture the last notes in the distance. A fish leaps out of the moon’s reflection, flicking droplets all over my skin, my face and my lips. Straining my neck I seek another glance of the moon’s reflection, the rye smile of the Lady. Only the moon has gone deep into the clouds now, leaving only my reflection in the water. The reflection of my own round face, pink and blemished with tears and the heat of that moment, blushing as I realise the Goddess looks through me, that the Goddess is in me - could I be a goddess myself? I giggle out loud, with the stupidity of my thoughts, blow kisses to the moon and all my adoring fans from before and walk my way back home so I can return to the Tweens another day.

22/9/2005

[Badger Bob]

A Kinder Story

Peter snorted the wet-dog smell out of his nostrils as he stepped onto the worn tarmac platform. The rain had nearly stopped now, blessed relief after the steady blatter on the train window for the last half hour. Just a quick dash into the platform shelter to change from trainers into boots and the day’s business could begin.

The day had started out badly; Sheffield is a city that does not take kindly to bad weather. The traffic had been dense and difficult as Peter cycled through the early Saturday rush to the station. The trains, once the mainstay of the Hope Valley tourist trade had dwindled down to a single hourly service leaving forty minutes of wandering around, dodging the ice-cold rapier-like shafts of water that poured in through the station canopy covering platforms six to eight. “Soon be there, soon be there”, a mantra breathed through clenched teeth half wishing and half reassuring as Peter ached to leave the glowering, damp, black city and live for just a few hours without the claustrophobia of buildings and crowds. The ache was starting to curl up in his stomach, anxiety giving him that familiar feeling of indigestion just as the train arrived, a long, glistening, navy blue slug squealing and hissing its way into the isolated platform reserved for local services.

Anyway, now he was here all thoughts of his life in the city fell away – each pull of the laces against the speed-lace hooks on his boots seemed to squeeze another drop of dark depression from his mind. Booted and suited, the road lay at Peter’s feet, the second best part of any walk is of course the anticipation, the part between finishing the grim task of planning and travelling to get there and starting the gruelling slog to the top of the clough. On mood-lightened feet, he trotted past the pub, the very best part of the walk should occur in there later on but for now he was content to wind through Edale village, past the visitors centre, the churchyard and on to the start of the Pennine Way. The ritual of taking a handful of water from the little stream-fed stone basin at the side of the lane and rubbing it over the face and neck was regularly observed by Peter, today was no exception. Just as Sikhs and Hindus wash before entering their holy places Peakland folk like to immerse themselves in the elemental essence of their land, stripping away the accumulated grime and filth of human habitation with a handful of the drippings from the ancient featherbed of peat that lies at the top of the mountain. As soon as his skin warmed the water Peter could smell the organic, slightly apple and cinnamon aroma of the peat liquor evaporating under his nose. Despite all appearances it was a clean smell, a wholesome smell that made the nostrils quiver as the coldness made the skin tingle. Ritual ablutions over, the real part of the walk was now underway.

The wooden footbridge was as sturdy as ever and the paved climb up into the meadow with its flagstone highway gave a false sense of security to the first few hundred yards. Once past the small copse and over the decidedly more rickety footbridge crossing a side-stream the illusion melted away. All that lay ahead towered above Peter’s eyeline, the black lumpen ridge with the path curling up Grindsbrook Clough into the belly of the hill briefly obscured now and then by wandering patches of low cloud. The rain had started up again and was stinging into any exposed flesh like darts of ice being shot from the black velvet ramparts. Despite the sense of forboding, one foot followed another as he tramped along the relatively good surface of the path up the clough. The stream down to the left of the path was heavy and swollen with coffee-dark water, percolated through the black sticky peat. Peter had intended to cross the peat-hags to the Kinder Downfall, leaping from ridge to ridge over the rivulet-sculpted trenchways that cover the plateau but when there is this much water around a man can sink in up to his neck and die in a matter of hours. Skirting round the edge would be a more exposed and less fun but safer alternative. The top was around fifty minutes walk further though, plenty of time to decide on the gruelling climb from the rock-garden to the top of the clough.

The first milestone was reached fairly quickly as the familiar site of the rock-garden came into view. Popular with sheep and walkers alike it was a pile of stones that had rolled down from the escarpment to the right of the clough and choked the stream. This created both a natural picnic-site and a picturesque waterfall to enjoy while drinking coffee and eating the customary bag of crisps and chocolate biscuit. Several years before Peter had encountered one of the hill’s more fantastic sights, a strange luminous fog that encases the unwary in a shroud of unbearable white light. Without a pair of sunglasses Peter had been forced to ascend on all fours with eyes tightly shut against the glare and even now he felt slightly uncomfortable at spending more than a few minutes resting here. Onward and upward, the comfortable path was soon left behind as the route went first one side of the clough, then the other, and finally straight up the streambed over scree and shale. This was the dangerous part of the walk, nobody else had bothered to follow the clough on such a soggy day and Peter was walking up a forty-five degree slope made of fist-sized stones with a stream cascading down just to give it that “little extra”. This was “broken ankle and death by exposure” country but Peter’s mind was elsewhere as he climbed hand and foot over the cobbles.

With only another fifty yards to go Peter straightened up and turned round to look down the clough, puzzled to see nothing but grey sky he turned his head just in time to see the rocky slope rushing towards him.

Pain.

As if waking up with a belting Sunday morning hangover, parts of his body made themselves known over an agonizing ten seconds or so. Everything aches so it’s all still connected: the surge of elation known to every climber who has taken a fall. Even the most mangled pile of blood, snot and bones will punch the air with a snapped and flappy wrist and shout “ YES! I CAN STILL FEEL MY FEET!”, usually powered by concussion and adrenaline. There was only a mild adrenaline rush for Peter though, feeling his bruised buttocks and grasping for the signs of a crushed coccyx he rose to his feet.

“Areet surrey?” came the inquiring but unintelligible female voice from up the slope. Peter turned round mentally groaning that his stupidity had been witnessed and by a member of the opposite sex at that. The woman at the clough-top was clad from head to foot in a sturdy grey-green tweedy dress, her long dark tresses framing a perfect oval face and spilling over the greasy leather bag slung over her shoulder. Peter had long had a thing about “hippy chicks”, living in a town with sixteen thousand students in two universities meant that he had grown accustomed to seeing elfin waifs decked out in esoteric finery and he enjoyed long drawn out, boozy discussions in The Brown Bear about ecology and environmental ethics. For now he was mesmerized by the beckoning hand and braced his knees against the slope of the path as he scrambled up to his new companion.

The day had changed subtly, the clouds had taken on a slightly greenish cast and the purple of the heather seemed more vibrant than usual. Bees! You never see bees on Kinder in bad weather but here they were buzzing about and making the whole plateau shimmer and hum.

“Cawun me’wen” the woman’s voice spilled like silk over the space between them as she turned and moved lightly over the moorland scrub along the southern edge. Peter felt energized by her presence although he put it down to a subconscious wish to look macho and in-control in the presence of this strangely natural woman. Not a word was exchanged as they crossed the moor to the top of the next clough, Crowden.

Peter had never seen Crowden clough before, always eschewing the tourist-laden edge path for the slightly more dangerous and exciting crossing to Kinder Downfall. The first sight of it made him wonder why he had avoided the area, lush heather clashed with scarlet rowan berries on the wooded slopes where the red grouse barked and chuckled around the perfect blue-grey rills and pools of the Crowden brook. The path bounced underfoot and made the normal knee-jarring descent like walking on an old eiderdown. As they descended he made mental notes of places flat enough to pitch a discreet tent, planning a very near-future wild camping trip. Apples!, the rowan trees were becoming interspersed with small, wind-bent but fruiting apple trees. A sharp “plop” made Peter spin, checking his footing this time, in order to see the trout playing in the deep gritstone-bowl pools of the stream.

“This is paradise compared to Grindsbrook”, Peter nodded towards the woman but she merely turned and smiled with understanding warmth as the path drove deeper into the thickly wooded valley. Slowly the trees began to thin out as woodland gave way to the rich sheep pasture at the foot of the hill. Large stones appeared here and there along the path and the familiar sight of Mam Tor ridge with its iron-age hill fort returned to his immediate skyline. The woman beckoned for Peter to take a rest, sat on a large flat block of stone, possibly a block fallen from the top of the clough or one quarried out by farmers long gone for reasons unknown. Like many lying stones in the Peak District this one had the usual cup and ring marks gouged into the upper surface where milk could be left for the hobs and boggarts at lambing time. This one had been blackened by spoilt milk so it must still be used, not an uncommon thing even these days.

Peter sat on the stone and the woman sat beside him. He turned to talk to his companion, the hill-walkers code of etiquette dictating that a dislike of conversation on the hills must be observed but may be ignored when back on level ground. She met his gaze with large brown, sad eyes and for a second her face hovered inches away from his. Closing his eyes Peter lunged forwards, clumsily catching her lips upon his as he took his chance.

Pain.

A taste of tin and bile in the mouth.

Numbing pins and needles of frozen skin.

A blur of orange in front of the eyes.

“..ack with us, hello, are you in there? What’s your Name”

The orange blur seemed to be coming from a distant place immediately in front of Peter’s eyes.

“P..t..er…” he mumbled as if very unpleasantly drunk.

“Well Peter, you have had a very nasty fall, you have broken your pelvis, your arm and fractured the back of your skull, lie still and we will get you down to Edale. I’ve no idea where you came from, one minute we were setting up a training incident base and the next minute you pop up out of nowhere behind this rock. Someone is looking after you mate, we are the only Mountain Rescue Team in the area at the moment and you come to find us. Fate, I call it”.

As the rescuers strap Peter into the stokes stretcher he catches a glimpse of the bare, rocky, windswept path back up Crowden Clough.

“Someone was definitely looking after me...”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Clough - a valley formed by a stream running down the side of a hill
Areet surrey - Derbyshire dialect "alright son?"
Cawun me'wen - roughly translates as "come on kid"

[Kat Lady]

The Green Coat

Did I ever tell you the story of the Green Coat? No? It was in the summer of 1976 when I pulled the Trans Am into the driveway and rammed it into park, taking my anger out on the transmission. This was the final straw. In two short years of marriage, we’d had many fights, usually they were the typical ones: leaving my socks in a pile; not closing the lid on the toilet seat; drinking from the milk carton. But since I accepted the promotion, the fights seemed to happen all of the time.

I opened the car door, getting little satisfaction from slamming it closed. Hopping up the back steps, I took the key from under the mat and let myself in to my grandfather’s house. The kitchen smelled like the usual blend of spices and herbs that reminded me of my youth. Even though Nanna wasn’t there anymore, Bumppa still made sure he used her recipes just so the “home” smell remained. I chuckled at how after all these years he was still Bumppa, the name I gave him as a small boy before my tongue worked properly.

“Bumppa? You here?” I shouted down the hall, knowing he most likely was in the den watching Jeopardy. Watching that old black-and-white television was how he claimed he learned English. Sure he had a color one in the Family Room, but he preferred to yell at the contestants in black-and-white.

“Ah! Kismalac! You have come to spend time with an old man in his last days.” I sighed, first at the standard exaggeration of this being his “last days”, and also at still being called piglet. Ok, so I had been a chubby baby! Did he have to remind me of that? And these had been his last days for the past 30 years! He shuffled over to me, the harshness of his life apparent in every step, and gave me a great bear hug. How I loved those hugs!

“So, your lovely lady is where?” I scowled in reply which generated the usual one-raised-eyebrow response and its accompanying “Oh?” He ushered me back toward the kitchen for our routine of tea, cookies, and conversation.

Somewhere between the second cup of tea and the fifth cookie I said, “Bumppa, the marriage just isn’t going to work. Maybe I should throw in the towel and give it up before we lose any more time.” I stared into my cup, the milk swirling slowly.

Silence. Dead silence. I finally got the courage to look into those deep blue eyes and saw worry and something else. “Do you love her?” he asked emphasizing the word love. I replied, “Of course I do. But that has …” His upraised hand stopped me from finishing that thought. He sighed, a long, heavy one that was always the sign of an oncoming storm of words. But he only asked, “Then, why does it end?”

So I told him of the fights and the tears and the harsh words. I told him about the promotion and how she just didn’t understand that I was doing this for her; for us; for our future.

“Your future? What good is a future without the one you love?” he asked. I replied, “Oh, Bumppa. Get a grip. Love means crap in today’s world.” His eyes narrowed and I immediately regretted my words. I knew that look; although I was too old for a beating, his words could still cut to the heart. He sighed, raised himself from the table and took my hand. Silently he led me to his bedroom at the back of the small house.

He brought me to the old cedar chest that I used to play on as a child. He removed a key that he carried on a worn cord around his neck and gently unlocked the chest before him. The wonderful smell of cedar wafted through the air as he moved items gently around. I saw an old wooden horse that I played with as a child; a clay casting of my hand-print alongside the print of my dog, Boomer’s, paw; a picture of me as a young child standing with him and Nanna at my parents’ funeral. Finally, there, on the bottom, wrapped in brown paper and tied with rough string, was the precious item for which he hunted. He gently removed the package and slowly unwrapped the string, asking as he did, “Did I ever tell you the story of this coat, fiúunoka?” I shook my head no. He removed a worn coat and fondled it like a mink stole. He began the tale and I sat back and wondered how it pertained to me. “It was in Budapest, before the great wars, when your great grandfather gave this coat to your great grandmother...”
***********************************************************************
Times were tough and it was difficult to make ends meet. But Viktor had many skills so he moved his young wife and son to the city to try to make his way. He soon found a job at a factory and was promoted to supervisor, with a pay raise coming quickly because of his hard work. But the extra responsibility meant extra hours. That was fine, he said, as the extra money would make a better life for him and Zsofia. She and the boy needed so much and he was doing this for them, for the family. He looked at the worn coat she wore and saw the many patches. The extra money would buy her a new coat and make her happy. There was one coat that he’d seen, a beautiful red one with a felt collar. Zsofia would look radiant in that coat, with her dark hair and fair skin. So he spent more time at the factory and less with his beautiful wife and son. And when he had saved enough money, he bought the red coat and presented it to his wife as a gift.

As Viktor worked, Zsofia was worried about the man who was her light and life. She worried about his health and how he always seemed tired, too tired. She worried that he was always angry and yelled at poor Izsák, even lifting his hand to him for no reason. She worried that Viktor no longer loved her. And she became afraid; she was afraid of the anger and afraid of what would become of her family. But she thanked Viktor for the gift and hung it in the cupboard next to her old coat.

For weeks Viktor watched as his wife still used her old green coat. He came home late from work and checked to see if the new red coat had been worn. And each day, he saw that it had not moved from its place in the cupboard. One day, he came from work early to see Zsofia as she returned home from her daily errands. He was sitting on a chair, the new coat across his lap when she entered the flat wearing the old green coat. Weeks of frustration and tiredness welled in him and he threw the new red coat at his wife and said, “See? See what I have done for you? See what my hard work has done? It has given me the ability to buy this, to give you something of beauty. And my thanks have been what? Arguments and whining.” He tore the green coat from her arms and threw it onto the blazing fire.

Zsofia screamed and plunged toward the coat, pulling it from the flames miraculously before it was harmed. She stood and faced the man she loved with anger in her eyes and said in a tone that demanded his attention, “Enough!” Eyes ablaze she continued.

“Yes, you have worked hard to buy me this beautiful coat. But will it keep me warmer than the arms of the man I love? Is it worth more than my son having his father read to him at night instead of pushing him away and raising his hand in anger? Does this new coat wear the badges of my memories as does this old green coat you have cast into the fire?” She stepped toward Viktor, pointing at each patch in turn. “This is from the first winter of our marriage, and this tear was made in the woods by the old farm when you were chasing me. Remember? I slipped and it tore on the tree as you reached to help me up.” She smiled. “Our son was conceived that night.” Her voice grew quiet. “And this one was from when we had to go to the doktor when Izsák had that big gash and we tore a piece to stop the bleeding. And this one was when you grabbed me as I fainted when we buried our daughter in the snow.” She paused, tears now in her eyes. “This is not just a coat, Viktor. It is a painting of our life, our family, the good and the bad. It was a gift to me from you, the only man I have ever loved, and I will wear it until the day that I die. That red coat, while beautiful, cannot replace my family. It will not replace my family.”

Viktor looked as his wife and saw the truth in her words. He had started out wanting to make a better life for them and had ended up making less of one. How many nights had he been too tired to read to his son, or make love to his wife so that he could buy things that they did not truly need? How many words of anger had they shared over things that did not truly matter? And how much time had he wasted when he could have been here with his wife and son? He put his arms around her and promised her that their family would not be lost.
**************************************************************************************
“And so, fiúunoka, we left the city and lived a simple but happy life. My mother wore this coat until the day she died and my father gave it to me to give to your grandmother.” At this point, my grandfather stopped and pointed at a patch on the right sleeve. “This was the day your grandmother and I married. It was torn on a piece of barbed wire behind which we lived. And this,” pointing at the golden Star of David on the breast, “was the badge given to us to show who we were and where we belonged.”

He looked at me with those clear blue eyes I remember still and handed me the green coat. “Love is all we have, David. In the end, love is all we have. Now, you take this and go to that lovely lady of yours and you give her what she deserves. You give her back her husband.”

I looked at him, his blue eyes full of tears and saw the pain of many years in those eyes. I saw death and suffering. But I also saw the pride of family and heritage and love.

I left my grandfather that day, returned home and gave your mother the green coat. You came into our lives but a short time after that. Your mother and I lived a simple life, as you know. But you also know that there was love. And your mother wore this coat until the day that she died.

And now, I give this coat to you, my son, along with its story, for you to give to your young bride. From father to son, apáról fiúra, it passes. Now, let me tell you about the patches that your mother added. This patch is for the day you were born when I pulled the coat from its hanger too quickly. And this patch is for the day you graduated from college when your mother got it caught in the car door. And this one …


©2005 L. F. "Kat Lady" Soria
special thanks to Crow for pointing out the difference between a comma and a semi-colon!

[Olly]

A little abstract, but here it is:


Running through the forest the grass beneath my feet, the cool breze blowing back my hair, the tall trees stand like guardians of an acient realm. The birds song echoing around the forest can be heard wherever I run. Unspoilt vegetation, making up the green velvet forest floor which is like a carpet, scattered with crimson flowers and light blue snowdrops. The first drop of rain can be felt on my face, then it comes, the rain clensing everything, my troubles are washed away, I feel as if I am floating, floating through thr forest, the sky and floor become one. I hear water spilling up out of a waterfall, the water us crystal clear.I jump.
The icy cold water embraces me, as I it and I could never feel more alive. I climb out and keep running, running ,running. The birds are flying side me, the hums harmonicly I become one with nature. I stop.



I see a grove, ancient trees and grass that is as green as I have ever seen it. The trees acknolage me and I lie down. This is true bliss.....


As the stars rise in the jet black sky, the clouds dissapear into the blackness, and all is one. The trees become dark, the water no longer shimmers. But. I see ancient stones, outlined in the dusk, the colossal structures dominating the sky line. I touch a stone. It ripples through my body like the passing of a breeze. I can feel the stone... it has energy and light inside it. I keep running. The crunch of the leaves on the ground replaces bird song, the movment of a fox is a waterfall. The night goes darker, the trees never grow dark, the forest is as light as ever, the ferns quiver almost of their own accord, the animals sleep. I stop. I realise I am tired and I lie down, the leves become my blanket, and the moss on the ground my mattress. I can feel nature accepting me. I instantly fall asleep.

***

I wake up.... Im in my room in London, the police car sirens blasting out, the morning sky a hideous orange. It was another wonderful dream

[Azrienoch]

I Am Tom Fool

I hate PTA meetings. I hate the smell. It’s so sterile, like a hospital, and full of sick and smelly people. I hate these little plastic blue chairs that they put us on. Mine has a cracked seat, and it’s pinching my leg. And I hate the microphone, because there always is one, and it always has some stupid parent behind it, screaming at the school board, and shoving their ass in my face. Every time I’m forced to come here, I try to sit further and further back into the room, but it doesn’t help. The ass just gets bigger and bigger, and their pants get stuck further and further up their crack.

I particularly hate the parents who bring their children. I mean, who needs that sort of pressure? Sometimes what the students want isn’t the best thing for them, and I shouldn’t have to sit around and actually care what they think.

Now, I know that this view isn’t very fashionable. Many people think that we should listen to the children and get their opinions because they are the ones that have to deal with it. That’s stupid, because kids just don’t care. They may be a little miffed about not being allowed to drink pop in school, but then how else do you solve the problem of students drinking alcohol that they mixed in with their Dr. Pepper? Or hats, when the bills have the answers to the test they are taking taped to the inside. Or running in the hallways, because some girl was trampled in a rush for the doors on the last day of school? This is precisely the reason that this is the Parent-Teacher Association, and not the Parent-Teacher-Student Association.
There are, however, referendums that parents install into the school system that have nothing to do with the interest of the kids, and I’m sure that the meeting I’m at right now is one.

I tried to listen objectively to the concerned parent up at the microphone, but her big ass was jiggling, and I only caught bits and pieces of it. “To say that this is absolute fact is absurd when we only have a few sources for it. I don’t want my child hearing about these things when they may not even be true.” Jiggle, jiggle, jiggle. “So this must be removed!”

The crowd applauded as she went and sat down. Her cheeks bounced about half a foot with every step she took. Then a dad went up there.

“For every battle ever fought, people were killed. We don’t want this!” Sick. He had a tuft of back hair coming out of the collar of his t-shirt. “… Permanently!” The man sat back down. He should really get that waxed.

I hadn’t noticed it from behind, but the woman sitting in front of me was extremely hot. I mean really, really sexy. At the microphone, she read from a book. “’… forced into gas chambers and incinerated.’ My two children shouldn’t have to hear this junk!” But how did she keep herself that shapely after even one birth? It’s mind boggling. Yes, that is definitely an ass I can stare at, and so I will all the way back to your seat. Oh, yeah, sitting down, and that tight ass is in my face. Sigh. Glad my wife can’t read my mind.

Speaking of my wife, I don’t know why she never comes to these, herself. Always sending me and it’s not like I ultimately care one way or the other. Schools should just do what they do and leave me out of the process.

Everyone was raising their hands and so I did too. After a moment, the head of the meeting, a fat, balding man with a white beard, leaned into his microphone. People should really learn to get over their insecurities about going bald and really stop combing their hair over the spot like this guy. “By a unanimous vote, the school board has agreed,” I’m sure he’d look just fine with a very short haircut, “that no history book shall,” it would probably look really dignified if it was short, “include any information that does not,” wait, what’s he saying? “portray inherent family values, nor will such obscenities be taught in any form.”

What? Are they joking?

[Flidais]

There he sat in his cage, a beautiful black panther, keeping his dignity amidst the shrieking and pointing of the group of school children that had gathered to see him. Occasionally he would curl his lip in response to a well aimed toffee paper.
He closed his eyes and returned to the Indian forests of his ancestors. There he could walk free with his head held proudly, there he was afraid of no one.
When night falls in the forest, then he is king, his black body blending with the darkness. Then he could feel the nerve tingling thrill of the hunt. Then he would earn his own food.
He awoke from his reverie when his keeper poked a piece of long dead meat through the bars to him, to the whoops and shouts from the children. He took it, as his hunger was stronger than his pride.
Maybe one day he would return to his forest in India, maybe one day...... .

[Fiacharrey]

Twelve Virtues of the Druids

One of the beauties of Druidry, and also of Neo-Paganism in general, is that it is largely a "blank slate" that practitioners can make of what they wish. This is also its greatest weakness. Because there is no central authority, there is no consistent guidance on matters of ethics. Because it is left to the individual to figure out, it is often mistakenly believed that "what is right and wrong for one person may not be what is right and wrong for another." Each person gets to choose what is moral, and all choices are often seen as equally valid.

This is sometimes inaccurately referred to as "moral relativism." As critics of Neo-Paganism are quick to point out, if morality is truly this relative, then why not burn witches if doing so is "right for me?" True moral relativism, as a philosophical theory, says that morals are relative to a culture or society, not to an individual. This individualistic "moral relativism," then, is not philosophically sound. If morality exists at all, it is universal at least to a culture. But I would argue against any kind of relativism and suggest that morality truly is universal. We would not have much of a leg to stand on if morality were dictated by a culture since, being minorities in our cultures, many of our activities would have to be considered immoral inasmuch as they diverge from the majority's sense of morality.

Therefore, it may be in our interest to consider morality a universal that transcends time and culture. Not only does it allow us to break free from the often stifling local mores of the predominant culture to the extent they diverge from "universal" morality, it gives us a stronger reason to explore the past and seek to understand what our ancestors thought about morality and virtue.

Because there is no central authority to hand down proclamations concerning morality, we must find our universal principals from other sources - the same ones the ancients did. The three pillars of Pagan morality are reason, experience, and intuition. Any rule or system of morality must be supported by all three. They must withstand analytical scrutiny, comport to our every-day experience, and ring true in our hearts.

Morals vs. Virtues

Ethics represent the bottom-line rules of expected behavior. These define what "thou shalt not" inasmuch as that phrase can apply to pagans. In other words, ethics lay out the minimum standard that we should all be held accountable to. Morals are simply ethics with religious overtones. When ethics come from a particular religious conviction, they tend to be called "morals." In this work, I use the words "ethics" and "morals" interchangeably.

Ancient pagans didn't spend too much time considering ethics as such. They were more focused on virtues, which represent the ideals one should aspire to. We should follow our ancestors and try to determine what are the best actions to take, rather than those that are minimally acceptable. Therefore, I will spend little time discussing ethics, and focus instead on the Pagan Virtues. When one pursues the Virtues, morality takes care of itself. For those who are not satisfied with this abrupt dismissal of morality in favor of virtue, and feel they need a set of rules defining the minimal acceptable behavior they should be expected to comport to, I suggest this: Don't break the law.

Developing a Living Faith

The unexamined life is not worth living. - Socrates

By "faith," I mean simply a system of belief. That would include our moral philosophy, our point of view, our spirituality, even our political philosophy. Faith and belief should be constantly questioned and subject to change. Here, one can borrow some tips from the scientific method. This seems appropriate, considering that science itself was largely an invention of ancient pagans, and they frequently applied scientific techniques to questions of faith.

Our faith ought to be more akin to scientific hypothesis than dogmatic certainty. With a hypothesis, a good scientist both assumes it is true and, at the same time, tries to prove it isn't. Little in science is more valuable than a hypothesis that is dis-proved and successfully shooting down his own hypothesis may leave a scientist to shouts of glee.

So, live life as if your beliefs are true, but also try to prove to yourself at every opportunity that they are true by seeing if you can prove they are not. If you succeed, then there is cause for celebration. You have a better belief system because the new concept is either incorporated into your old one or replaces one that was weaker. If you fail, then stick with what you have because it is the best you can find. By being constantly questioned, faith constantly grows, deepens, matures, and adapts. It is like a living organism. It is a living faith. When we accept blindly, when we refuse to question, our faith is a dead thing.

Moderation

"O Cormac grandson of Conn, what is good for me?" asked Cairbre.
"Not hard." Said Cormac "Be no too wise ... too foolish ... too conceited ... too diffident ... too haughty ... too humble ... too talkative ... too silent ... too harsh ... too feeble." "If you are too wise, they expect much ... too foolish, you will be deceived ... too conceited, you will be vexing ... too humble, you will be without honor ... too talkative, you will not be heard ... too silent, you will not be regarded ... too harsh, you will be broken ... too feeble, you will be crushed."

- "Teagasc an Riogh" (Instructions for a King)

To be truly happy, according to Aristotle, requires that we live a full and balanced life guided by moderation in all things. To him, all virtues were a "golden mean" between two extremes. While Aristotle is credited with formalizing this notion, it is clearly part of the Celtic understanding of virtue as well, as evidenced by the quoted exchange above.

Many of the virtues might be looked at the way Aristotle did, but some seem to defy such an analysis. They might be means between multiple extremes instead of merely two, for example. Or maybe some are such that seem to defy an extreme by its very nature. Perhaps the balance we should seek is not the mean between various extremes, but an appropriate balance between all of the virtues. In other words, one should not sacrifice one virtue entirely in order to go to the extreme in another. Moderation, then, is the virtue that embraces and guides us in all other virtues.

Justice

Wrong will not rest, nor will ill-deed stand. -Gaelic Proverb

The ancient Celts had a fairly specific understanding of what justice is. To them, justice is about an exchange. Justice is about reciprocity. You pay back what you owe, you keep your promises, you give back what you take. You are fair in your trades with others. When you harm another, you must make compensation. Doing a wrong creates a debt owed to the victim and to society at large. Ancient bards could calculate this debt rather precisely using a complex set of rules. Punishment, then, was in the form of compensation given to the aggrieved. It was not an eye-for-an-eye sort of thing, but rather more akin to our system of civil claims -- an attempt to restore to the aggrieved what had been lost.

Vengeance was also considered a virtue. Honor called for justice to be done. "Payment" was to be exacted from those that wronged your clan and failure to exact vengeance was seen as a dishonor to one's clan. I do not advocate "taking the law into your own hands." However, what I think we can take from this is that "turning the other cheek" is not a virtue. Upholding the virtue of justice takes more than just not committing an injustice, it is actively taking steps against injustice.

Truth

Three things from which never to be moved: one's oaths; one's Gods; and the truth. - from the Triads

Truth was clearly valued highly by the ancient Celts. By Truth, I don't think they meant anything esoteric. Rather, I think they meant it in the ordinary sense of the word: Don't lie. Don't be fake or pretentious. Don't cover up problems.

If there is an "Ultimate Truth," it is not about a mystical experience one might find in Zen, or a dogmatic belief such as those found in certain monotheistic religions, but rather about logic and reason. The Druids were students, not only of esoteric and magical arts, but of science, math, and logic as well. Logic is the method by which one truth can lead us to another. Reason was often held up as the highest capacity of mankind -- the defining capacity. By developing our capacity for logic and reason, we develop the ability to see Truth and discern it from the untrue or that which is not supported by sound reason.

Another aspect of Truth is the virtue of Integrity. Integrity is living truthfully. What you say, what you do, and what you believe are in synch. One with integrity does not hide his faults. Benjamin Franklin once said that we should always act as if the whole world is watching. We should not do anything that we would be ashamed of if it were exposed to the public. This does not mean that we should never keep secrets. For example, many of us keep our religious convictions secret for good reasons that have nothing to do with shame. But even though we may keep our beliefs "under our hats," we should still live in accordance with those beliefs. That is where integrity lies.

Loyalty

All the water in the ocean could not wash away our kinship. - Gaelic Proverb

Loyalty is recognizing and honoring a duty we have to friends, family, and those around us. The Celts were a tribal people, and thought in terms of their tribe or family rather than individuals. To the Celts, family, and tribe, was everything. We moderns are not used to thinking in terms of "tribes." I suggest that we should consider our "tribe" as everyone we normally interact with: everyone in your family, everyone in your address book, everyone you know personally, everyone on your block, in your neighborhood, and in your local community.

As Dag Hammarskjol, a United Nations Secretary General once said: "It is more noble to give yourself completely to one individual than to labor diligently for the salvation of the masses." We tend to think that the people who make sacrifices to "save the world" should be our heroes. It is far better, though, to devote yourself to your spouse, your child, your parents. It is a service that will go by unnoticed in this world obsessed with the "big story," but the truly noble of heart doesn't crave recognition for doing what is right. Helping "the masses" spreads yourself thin. It doesn't give much to the people that should matter the most to you.

We exhibit the virtue of Loyalty by being of benefit to our tribe. We benefit our tribe by working productively, educating and nurturing our children, being active in local government, and obeying the law. We help those in need in our community. We get to know our neighbors and let them know they can rely on us when needed. We respect our elders, and we nurture our children. We pull our own weight in the community and insist that others do as well.

Strength

Be strong and fear not, for by strength and justice kings should rule. - Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms, and Superstitions of Ireland

On one level, Strength refers to our physical health and well-being. A balanced approach to living well must include nourishment for the mind, the body and the spirit. Physical fitness was very important to the ancient Celts, to the point that one could be fined for being in poor condition. A king could not rule unless he was "whole." That is, he had to be in sound health -- no missing limbs or the like. Today, our survival does not rely as much on our physical condition, but it is a factor. When one is physically fit, one has more energy to do common daily tasks without tiring as easily, can handle stress better, is less likely to become ill, and is more capable of handling emergency situations.

On another level, Strength refers to all of the resources at our command that can be used to affect the world. Physical strength is just one of these resources. Financial strength is another. We develop financial strength by saving money, reducing debt, and living frugally. Financial strength allows us to better provide for our family and tribe in times of need. We should seek to develop all of our Strengths so that we can affect the world as virtue dictates we must. Living by the virtues does little good without the power to affect the world around us.

Will

The only remedy for hardship is to harden to it. -Gaelic Proverb

Will is the personal drive to achieve a goal. It is perseverance in overcoming difficulties. Socrates thought that the reason people failed to do good was out of error, because they didn't properly understand the Good. But Aristotle chalked it up to the will. In his view, people know what is good or bad, many just don't have the will to overcome vice and pursue virtue.

The path of virtue is a difficult one. It is demanding. It requires a constant effort and diligence that is difficult to maintain for most people. By developing our Will and holding Will itself as an esteemed virtue, we are fostering the growth of the other virtues. Without Will to give them life, the other virtues wilt into nothingness.

It should also be said that the Celts were a passionate people. They felt strongly. They were quick to anger and quick to love, but they were not ruled by their feelings. It is the virtue of Will that allows you to feel and experience life with all of your heart, but not be swept away by your emotions.

Memory

Three things that make a bard: Playing of the harp, Knowledge of ancient lore, Poetic power. - from the Triads

When we speak of memory, we speak of two related values. First is the individual's capacity to remember facts. Second is the "tribal" memory, the lore of our ancestors, our history. To the ancient Druids, memory was a very important faculty. While they were literate, they did not believe in writing down their teachings. I think they believed there were some things too important to be written down. Things that, if they were important enough to you, you would devote to memory. They exercised their memory, practiced mnemonic devices, and mastered incredibly large bodies of knowledge. It is a virtue, then, to master knowledge that is good to have -- to study and memorize great poetry, important history, and maxims of wisdom such as the Triads. Truly, knowledge is power. The Druids understood this and sought to master as much knowledge as possible.

The virtue of Memory includes serving the role of "tribal" memory by passing our knowledge and wisdom to others: to our children and to those willing to learn and use what they learn wisely. We should learn about our ancestors and pass that knowledge to our children. It is in this way our tribes carry on their traditions and remember "who they are." We should study and transmit our history, for without knowledge of history, we are trapped in a societal amnesia. We can't understand our world today without understanding what happened in the past.

Vision

'What is your name?' said Medb to the maiden.
'Fedelm, the prophetess of Connaught, is my name,' said the maiden.
'Whence do you come?' said Medb.
'From Scotland, after learning the art of prophecy', said the maiden.
'Have you the light of foresight?' said Medb.
'Yes, indeed,' said the maiden.
'Look for me how it will be with my hosting,' said Medb.
Then the maiden looked for it; and Medb said: 'O Fedelm the prophetess, how seest thou the host?'
Fedelm answered and said: 'I see very red, I see red.'
-The Cattle Raid of Cooley

Vision embraces the concepts of foresight, wisdom, and intuitive insight. It is the power of divination. It is the wisdom of considering the long term implications of our actions. It is the light of inspiration which is the seed of our greatest achievements.

There are two sources of wisdom and foresight. One is in the realm of logic and reason, using inductive reasoning and experience to draw logical forecasts of the future. The other is the "magic" of our intuitive powers, lateral thinking, and divination. The druids studied both of these means, and it is the combination of the two that allowed them to give wise counsel.

Whether we look into the future through divination and supernatural means, or through the powers of inductive reasoning and lateral thinking, the virtue of vision is allowing ourselves to see beyond the ordinary and tap into a deeper wisdom. As the light of inspiration, it is the power beyond forecasting what is probable -- it is seeing what greatness is possible. Those gifted with this virtue truly are Visionaries.

Piety

There are three whose full reward can never be given to them: parents, a good teacher, and the Gods. - from the Triads

Piety is the virtue of maintaining our relationship with the divine. It is our spirituality. This virtue is probably the most open to interpretation because our understanding of spirituality and divinity differs greatly from individual to individual. Piety is about what we do and how we act. It is not about what we think or believe. True piety doesn't require absolute faith or belief. You can question and doubt, and you should. What matters is whether you do the things you should to develop yourself spiritually. As mentioned before, the ancients tended to see everything in terms of an exchange. Their relationships with the gods and spirits were no less. The gods and ancestors offer us protection, guidance, and comfort. In return, we should offer them praise and remembrance, and keep whatever commitments we may have to them.

However we choose to envision the divine, it is important to serve that vision faithfully. If we see the divine in Nature, then we should treat nature with respect and seek to commune with Her frequently. Piety includes taking the steps needed to foster our own spirituality. Maintaining a journal, meditating regularly, and making offerings to the gods, if these fit your beliefs, can all be seen as aspects of piety.

Courage

The man who finds death each day is the man who lives best. - Gaelic Proverb

Courage is the virtue of doing what one must in the face of fear. We fear death, loss, humiliation or physical pain, but we must not allow our fears to rule us. We must accept that there is risk in what we do. We must accept that death will find us some day and approach it with dignity. As William Wallace once said: "Every man dies. Not every man really lives."

Aristotle gives us useful guidance concerning bravery. He teaches that bravery is the mean between the extremes of rashness and cowardice. Thus, being foolhardy and rash is as much of a vice as cowardliness. One should not throw away ones life for no tangible benefit in a fight that cannot be won.

Courage may be best developed by diligent improvement in the other virtues. One who lives piously, puts the needs of their loved ones ahead of their own, and develops their will and love of justice would tend to be more courageous than others.

Fertility

The three most beautiful sights: a potato garden in bloom, a ship in sail, a woman after the birth of her child. - from the Triads

Fertility celebrates the birth of new life in all of its forms. It also concerns the creativity and industry that bears for us beautiful fruit: the arts, music, poetry, food, shelter, and clothing to name just a few. The creative genius of our ancient ancestors can easily be seen to this day: the Roman aqueducts, the Parthenon, the Pyramids, the plays of Euripides, the sagas of Homer, Stonehenge.

The process of creativity is an exercise of one of our truly "god-like" powers: the power to bring forth into existence something that was not there before. We celebrate and acknowledge the importance of fertility by feasting in the autumn on a bountiful harvest or frolicking in the clover in the spring; by reading great works of poetry and trying our hand at making maybe not-so-great poetry. It is a respect and nurturing of inspiration, creativity, and passion which makes it possible to accomplish truly great things.

Magnanimity

Be more apt to give than to deny, and follow after gentleness, O son of Luga. - Celtic Myths and Legends

Magnanimity is a generosity and greatness of spirit, and considered by Aristotle to be one of the most important virtues. It is helping others in need with open arms. It is showing true hospitality by being a good host and a gracious guest. It is treating others with respect and basic human dignity.

Magnanimity involves giving to others liberally, but care should be taken in giving the proper amount and for proper causes. It is not fitting to be generous to those persons or causes that are not deserving. As Aristotle put it: "Virtuous actions are noble and done for the sake of the noble. Therefore the liberal man, like other virtuous men, will give for the sake of the noble, and rightly; for he will give to the right people, the right amounts, and at the right time, with all the other qualifications that accompany right giving." Magnanimity, then, is hospitality and generous giving to the worthy.

Hospitality is more than merely giving freely. It is about making guests feel welcome, and about accepting others openly into our care. It is by this virtue that the caring boundaries of tribal consciousness are extended to others, even if complete strangers, and treating them as part of our family.

Application of the Virtues in Everyday Life

At first, I intended to set out a hierarchal system of virtues. This is the reason that Moderation was listed first as I consider it the most important in guiding our understanding of the others. It seemed to me that one could better guide ones actions by knowing which virtue to chose if there were a conflict between two or more. Now I am not sure that such a system is worthwhile for a few reasons.

First, the importance of a particular virtue would depend greatly on your role in society. Consider what is known as the ‘tri-partite' model of Indo-European society. There are considered to be three ‘classes' in the Celtic culture: the scholars, the warriors, and the producers. A scholar's role would require a focus on different virtues than a producer or a warrior. Some absolute hierarchy just couldn't work.

The second reason that I think it is unnecessary to develop a hierarchy of the virtues is that it is not useful to the way the virtues should be applied. It is not necessarily a good thing to try to analyze our every action to see how ‘virtuous' it is. A hierarchical system would help with that kind of minute to minute application, but by doing so, we risk missing the big picture.

Lastly, we should look towards perfecting all of the virtues and considering the course of action that would be most in keeping with the virtues taken as a whole. No system of mathematical formulae or rigid rules of precedence are going to help. It is simply not possible to categorically state what is the most virtuous possible action in every possible given circumstance.

We should set aside some time regularly to take inventory of our lives and see what changes we can make to live more in accord with the virtues. So, instead of focusing on every little thing we do, we should focus on trying to become a better person in general. Our goal, then, is to develop the virtues within us to the point that proper action is a natural, instinctive act. We are seeking a state of balanced harmony --in harmony with our bodies, our minds, our families, our tribes, and Nature itself. That is the heart of true virtue.

[Robb Hawklord]

Entry

The Future Storytellers

“Children sit down, I have a story to tell you, about our life now and how it came to be”

At this request the whole family gathered around the fire pit, Mothers, Fathers, Children and Grand-children to hear what Granpa had to say. They had been asking to hear this story for many years but he had always insisted that he would only tell them when he was ready to leave.

“Before I start to tell you I must choose two of you to learn this off by heart, so it can be passed on to future generations, so that the lessons that were learnt by mankind shall never be repeated. Never!”

“Now my sweets, can we get plenty of water, so I am not interrupted?”

Again there was a scurry of feet as his Sons got up to fetch water and cups, for them all, and thoughtfully brought a few more logs in to keep the fire going. Once they were all served with water, Granpa began his story.

This story has been passed down from generation to generation, being learnt word for word, none added or taken away, and this will be the way it will be learnt by those I choose.

For thousands of years mankind used the black that they found in pools all over the world to seal their boats, to soak their torches so they burned longer and for many other things. Over the centuries that followed man became ever greedier, ever more intolerant to his neighbours, they built castles and paid men to fight for them, these castles became communities and spread out side the walls and became towns and cities, stripping away the forests for timber to build with and burn in their fires, as we burn it now.

As the communities grew they needed to create great herds of animals to feed the inhabitants, as the hunt no longer provided sufficient food, so they became farmers and stripped away more woodland. They grazed sheep on the hills which stripped away the heathers and bracken and gorses. The animals would be bred, then slaughtered for food and skins. Man came to control most of the animals on the Earth, very few escaped mans goal to dominate.

And so the story goes with man breeding at a very high rate, and increasing the need for animals to feed from. And with the animal farming grew the agricultural farming, to provide copious quantities of vegetables, fruits and cereal, and also to provide winter food for the animals.

Man's richness grew, man's ingenuity grew, man tamed water to provide power from the wheel and industry expanded. Man discovered power to mass produce cloth. Man had for millions of years got metal from stones, and in his search for stone, had found coal, but not only coal, but stone that could make great buildings such as his castles and city walls, but also stones than shone and they became a symbol of wealth. Man started to rape the surface of the earth for stones and to dig deep for the wealth that could be found in these ‘money’ stones, and also for coal for power and heat as coal burnt very well and gave much heat for tiny amounts compared to wood. So the trees were saved as now they were not being cut for Timber or firewood.

Man's determination to become wealthy grew and grew and there came Inventors. These were men who were very clever and full of ideas and they creatyed steam engines which produced more power to make more things and this needed more coal and more metal. But to get the necessary materials needed better transport, and Man put wheels onto steam engines which could pull bigger carts than the horses could, and cost less to ‘feed’ and look after.

As the years progressed man built railways to put theses steam engines on and now could move things from city to city faster and in far greater quantity. But while this sudden growth of mans ability continued, other men were finding ways to use the Black, the Oil. They found that they could make better fuels than coal, that give these machines more power to pull more, and also to make smaller engines to help the rich folk move around. Thus was born the motor car, the gasoline/Petroleum engine had arrived. Now the race was on to make powerful fuels from Oil, and they found that adding Lead to the fuel made the motorcars run better and faster than before, Man could now live away from the city but travel to it in many ways, he had also discovered how to put wings on an engine and fly! In less than 100 years man was to rape the Earth of most of its coal, for man discovered that he could make the electricity that was to power the whole world, decimated the its Oil as bigger and better flying machines were built that could fly all over the earth and take hundreds of people at a time, man even managed to leave the earth and reach the moon and beyond.

Man's greed for riches always brought about war and countries had armies in big boats on the sea, and under it too! He had armies that flew in Aeroplanes, the flying machines, he had armies that fought on foot in big strong armoured vehicles, Man was now fighting for Oil.

Man in his lust for the Black stuff, created bombs that could kill hundreds at a time, but it wasn’t good enough, so Man created bombs that could kill thousands even millions, but this type was only used three times, in anger.

What man never realised until it was too late that his greed for Oil was to bring desperation to the human race. The great use of Oil, thirty billion gallons a day, was to burn holes in the air that protects the great mother, the earth and create layers of gas that stopped the heat of the sun escaping, the Ice melted, the seas rose over most of the lowlands, burying cities beneath it.

The people who lived in these cities needed new homes, they started to fight for land, they had a final big war, from which few people survived, but some did, and we are here as proof of that, but we must not make those mistakes again.

Since that war a thousand years has passed Mother Earth is healing her wounds we are living in cooler times, 600 years ago you could not go outside in the sun, but alas now we can, soon your grandchildren or maybe their grandchildren may be able to stay outside all day.

Mother Earth has seen to growing new trees and other plants which we can use and eat, but we must be careful not be greedy, we must be friends with our neighbours as we are all one big family, a brotherhood of survivors, and it has been this way since the big war, since the end of the Oil Age. This message I must bestow upon you to pass on, and now I must choose the future storytellers.

[Conn]

Ok, here's my turn. This is what I wrote yesterday, but thought about it for a longer time than one evening.
This...fable of some sort...was primarly intended (good word? ) for the kids, but I think that it will bring some ideas to the mature ones as well
I hope I didn't make grammar mistakes...

ENTRY - The Tree and the Machine

There was a Tree. And stood the Tree at the bank of the meadow. Years were passing by, some trees grew, other died, but this Tree stood all the time. The Tree observed the surroundings.
And one day a strange creature came. It was shiny, glittering, silver-colored, and rather noisy. The tree looked upon the new visitor.
‘Who are you?’, asked the Tree.
‘I am Machine’, answered the Machine.
‘Machines…I have heard of you. You are the opposite. You are my enemy’, said Tree, and a slight wind moved his branches.
‘No. It is not me, who is your enemy’, replied Machine, smiling.
‘Then…Who is it?’
‘Man.’
‘Man?’, laughed the Tree heartily. ’Man used to play between my branches, Man used to rest in my shadow, Man used then to praise me for what I am, what I represent, and for the fruits I give’
‘Oh, but that’s not the Man I am talking about’, the Machine smiled again.
‘Are you saying that there is a different kind of Man?’
‘Yes’
‘But what are they like? Are you talking about the evil Man? I saw him. Once or twice. But he didn’t survive long…’ said the Tree.
‘No. There is no good Man, neither evil Man. This is rather relative…I am talking about Man created by me.’
‘What?’, whispered stunned Tree. ‘How did you create a man?’
‘This is very simple’ answered Machine. ‘There was a Man. And Man created Me. Not good. Not evil. Just a machine. And then, the Man started to use me. And with every use I created another Man. Whether it was good or bad, using me, I created a new Man. A changed Man. You see…That Man you are talking about is the past. The Man I create is the future, drowned in oil and metal. Man that is my creation. Not all of them are like this, of course. There are good men, and bad men, as you might say – but they are all created by me. It is just that some of them are spoiled through usage.’
‘Then you must be destroyed. You will be doom to us all’, whispered Tree through the blowing wind.
‘No. Don’t you see? It is not me, it is through the choice of Man. I am just something that Man uses. All time. Now, without me, he is blind, deaf, and handicapped. He can’t talk, interact, move without me.’
‘Oh, I understand now.’ said Tree. ‘I created a Man like this once. But he is long dead by now…’
‘He is not dead. He just failed to keep the balance. Balance that is surely important now. He cannot survive long without me, but he cannot survive long without you as well. He just forgot that you still exist, and he is looking only after me. And there comes vanity…’
‘Vanity?’ asked Tree.
‘Yes.’ said Machine. ‘Vanity. You know about it, you probably just forgot. Long time ago, man used to cut trees and kill animals because he was hungry, he needed cloth to warm him, and he needed shelter. There was nothing wrong with this, because he wanted to survive. Just like any other species on our Earth. But now…Man that drowned in my image kills another beings not because he wants to wear something. He wants to show himself off, to satisfy his greed, his vanity. He is cutting down trees, not to build a house or basic furniture, but to show that his furniture, his house is better than other houses.’
‘That is awful’ whispered Tree. ‘How he could do that?’
‘He is Man. Man that is spoiled. Man that cannot keep the balance.’
‘Is there anything we can do?’ asked Tree.
‘No.’ answered Machine. ‘No, because it is up to Man. He makes his own choices, he chooses how to live. He is thinking about it. To him, we are only surroundings. Nothing less, nothing more. But – to cheer you up – not every Man is like that. There are some, that think about keeping balance. Some that know that nowadays they cannot live without me, and without you. Sadly, their numbers are decreasing…’
‘I understand now, all of it.’ said Tree. ‘I shall observe this…But wait. What is that noise?’
‘That? That is the sound of a chainsaw.’ said Machine and disappeared.