2007 SAMHUINN/BELTANE PROSE ENTRIES

[Earthwoman]

Notice: Please add your original essays, short stories and philosophical works for the current Eisteddfod here.

[Twyrch]

Pangari: Chapter Five

Just the simple touch of her father’s cheek sent a wave of emotions flooding her. Feeling a wash of rage, sorrow, loss, vengeance, love, hate, relief and confusion inundate her mind, Kait jerked her hand away from Ian’s cheek, looking at him in a whole new light. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

Ian nodded numbly, “She was my life; my foundation; my joy. Now she’s gone and I feel like someone has ripped out my heart and filled my chest with lead.” He held Kait’s face in his hands, looking deeply into her eyes, “Is it really you Kait? What’s happened to you?”

“Why don’t we all retire to the library and discuss the matters at hand,” Drystan said, breaking in before Kait could attempt to answer her father’s question. “I’m sure everyone’s questions will be answered in due course.”

Following Drystan, Kait took her father’s hand comfortingly, leading him to the library. Drew and Adrian arrived immediately behind them. “Why hasn’t Adrian said anything to me since I arrived?” Kait wondered, stealing a glance at her cousin as she sat down next to Ian on a couch. Adrian caught her glance but quickly averted his eyes, taking a seat with his father across from Ian and Kait.

Drystan joined them shortly taking a seat in the large over-stuffed chair connecting the ends of the two sofas. “Thank you for joining me here on such short notice.” He began, “I know we have all suffered through many hardships and loss, but what I have to tell you transcends any pain or heartache we may have endured to this point.”

“Each of you,” Drystan indicated, pointing to Kait and Adrian, “were called here by Beith, the former Swansa. We all know that she was killed by a creature known as a Lamia. Both of you have extraordinary gifts which will help you on your journey, but you will have to learn to trust each other and work as a team if you will succeed.”

“Wait a minute!” Ian interjected, “What extraordinary gifts do these children have? My daughter may have been freakishly altered by some book, but she can’t work magic any more than I can grow a sixth toe. And what about Adrian? If he had any special abilities, I’m sure Drew would have told me about it already. What we need here, is Brander.”

Drew sighed, shaking his head. “Well, it seems like some things will never change… Ian, has it ever occurred to you that maybe I don’t even know about my son’s gifts? Why don’t you let Drystan continue and I’m sure all of your questions will be answered.”

Drystan nodded his affirmation of Drew’s assessment. “Ian, this task has been appointed to the children. I remember not too long ago, another brash duo who set out to save the queen and all of Faerie, and they weren’t much older than the children you see before you. Don’t worry… Brander’s services will be required too, but the primary task should be placed with the children.”

“Why?” Ian demanded dogmatically, “Why must the primary and most dangerous tasks be placed on children so young?”

“Children as young as you and Drew were when you saved Queen Beibhinn from the hands of Tuathal?” Drystan countered, his voice taking on a more serious and authoritative tone. “You and Drew were no older than these two when you fought Barghests, hellhounds, Doppelgangers, and utilized magic talismans without the slightest clue of the effects of their use. Now, 15 years later, Faerie is besieged with Lamiae who would destroy the barrier between this world and Sidhe and that is going to require all of us to work together as a team to stop them.”

Drystan glared at Ian, causing him to recoil slightly. “Don’t be a self-righteous prat, Ian. You aren’t the only person who has lost someone they loved for the sake of Faerie. There will be a time for mourning, but right now, we must save Faerie before there is no one left to mourn us. Am I making myself clear?”
Ian, numb and shocked at the change in Drystan’s demeanor, knew he had pushed his father-in-law too far. Swallowing his pride, Ian nodded reluctantly and visibly relaxed, giving in to Drystan’s plan; whatever it may be.

Drystan studied Ian for a moment, returning to his seat when he was sure he had the situation under control. Clearly intimidated, the others looked at him in a mixture of shock and fear. “I’m sorry you had to witness that outburst, but we don’t have time to debate this. I need to pass along what I know to prepare each of you for the tasks and challenges you will face.”

“First of all, let me explain why you were all called to this place.” Looking into the distance as he gathered his thoughts, Drystan continued. “As you all know, the Swansa contacted Kait and Adrian, hoping they could come to Faerie and stop the Lamiae from destroying the Floke.”

Seeing the questions rise in Ian’s eyes, Drystan paused to explain. “It’s not normally something discussed outside the studies of arcane lore. To put it simply, the Floke upholds the barrier between Faerie and Sidhe. Without this protection, demons would overrun and destroy all of Faerie. Both Kait and Adrian have unique abilities which will allow them to complete this quest; we just have to determine what they are.”

“I know it’s difficult to understand…” Drystan replied, holding each of their gaze for a moment. “You see, long ago, while Humanity was still in its infancy, the ancient Fearie had reached the height of their magic and civilization. Twelve highly skilled mages, also known as the Galldra, gathered to combat the problem of increased magical abuses within society. The ancient Faerie had been careless in their exploration of magic, accidentally unleashing a vicious demonic race known as the Lamiae. The Lamiae attempted to control Faerie by summoning all forms of demons into our world. This was the beginning of the Pangari Wars.”

“The Pangari Wars…” Kait murmured. “Aithne mentioned this to me during my vision but it didn’t mean much to me at the time. Why didn’t they call this time the Lamiae Wars?”

Drystan’s eyes gleamed expectantly, “Yes, I wondered if you would pick up on that distinction. Each member of the Galldra created a Pangari, based on their knowledge and ability, but the Lamiae proved to be elusive, so the Galldra used their combined magic to create the Floke, banishing the Lamiae to Sidhe for an eternity. They placed the Fachan in the Bundilla Valley outside the city of Barakee, creating a wall of anti-time around the valley, giving the Fachan eternal youth for as long as they tended the tree. However, two members of the Galldra, creators of the black Pangari, sought to claim the other Pangari and rule Faerie through fear and tyranny. The power of the black Pangari could not be undone, so they were split in half and carried to the four corners of Faerie. The two evil Galldra members were banished to Sidhe to live among the Lamiae. To keep such acts from happening again, one of the remaining Galldra, Aithne, was made Faerie’s first Swansa and kept the magic in balance until a successor could be chosen.”

Tenderly placing a hand on Kait’s arm, Drystan held her gaze for a moment. “Kait has been chosen to be Faerie’s next Swansa. Most acolytes study for years before taking on the Swansa mantle, but because Ariana abandoned her calling, time did not permit this to occur. Beith, poured her kotori into Kait moments before her death, but the kotori lay dormant until Aithne performed the sacred transferal ceremony. Once Kait became a Swansa, Beith’s kotori was released, causing a transformation both mental and physical. Kait received so much knowledge, she will need to rely on her intuition to lead her. The knowledge will come when it is needed and not before.”

“Which brings us to Adrian,” Drystan continued, turning his attention away from Kait. “I know it is rare for a Swansa to call two people, let alone a male, into her service. Do either of you know why the Swansa would call Adrian to her service?”

Drew shook his head in bewilderment, “I don’t have a clue, really. Adrian has always been a very gifted student and a quick learner, but we can’t seem to make sense of this puzzle. To compound our frustrations, Adrian hasn’t spoken a single word since waking up from his dream. Your summons and brief explanation was the first we’d heard of this. If you don’t know what’s going on, then how are we going to help him so he can assist Kait on her journey?”

Drystan’s eyes gleamed expectantly, “That is exactly what I am hoping our new Swansa can help alleviate.”

“Me?” Kait gasped in shocked amazement, “What can I do for him? I don’t know the first thing about being a Swansa, let alone restoring Adrian’s speech to him.”

Ian wrapped his arm tenderly around his daughter’s shoulder. “Maybe we should give Kait some time to become acclimated to her new abilities before asking her to do something like this.”

White-rage filled Drystan as he slammed his fist into the coffee table, breaking it in half. “We don’t have the time! What would have us do, Ian? Wait until the Lamia destroy the Floke while we coddle and nurse-maid Kait into a role her mother abandoned? I may be an old man, but I remember a time when you cared more about the welfare of Faerie than your own life. Perhaps your time the Human Realm has caused you to forget that you are still a Faerie Prince and a Prescott. You and your family have a duty to protect Faerie, with your life, if necessary.”

Ian recoiled, his face twisting into a mask of hatred as he pulled Brander free. “Why you old goat! Don’t you quote duty and honor to me! How dare you impugn my character and loyalty to Faerie! Who do you think you are?”

Drew jumped to his feet, grabbing Ian’s shoulder, pulling him away from Drystan. “Ian! What’s gotten into you? This is Drystan you’re talking to!”

Kait jumped up, spreading her arms wide, pushing Ian and Drystan away from each other. “Stop it! Both of you!” Suddenly the room flashed with light, freezing Drystan, Ian and Drew in place. Adrian stared back at her ashen and terrified. He blanched physically when she reached out to calm him. “Please Adrian, I don’t mean you any harm. If Grandfather thinks I can help you, then I would like to try. I don’t know how I stopped them like this, but I think we should make the most of it. Are you willing to work with me?”

Adrian nodded, making room for Kait on the couch next to him. Kait removed Brander from Ian’s hand, placing it beneath the sofa cushion. “They should remain frozen in this state until we’re done, but I’d hate for my father and grandfather to hurt each other unintentionally when I release them. Now, I’m going to try something Aithne did to view my thoughts. Maybe that will give me a good place to begin.”
Mimicking Aithne’s actions in her vision, Kait placed her thumb against Adrian’s cheek and her fingers against Adrian’s forehead. Closing her eyes, Kait spoke in a low voice. “Our minds are joined; Our thoughts are one.”

Suddenly, she found herself within Adrian’s bedroom at Cair Ciaran. Adrian was sitting in a corner, shaking with fear as he pulled his knees closer to his chest. “Please don’t let it hurt me,” Adrian whispered. “It’s coming for me.”

Confusion showed on her face as Kait searched the room for the source of Adrian’s terror. “What’s coming for you Adrian? I don’t see anything here.”

Adrian shook his head vehemently, “You don’t understand. It’s coming for me. There’s nothing I can to stop it. It’s going to hurt me…It’s going to kill me!”

Kait slowly moved closer, careful not to startle Adrian. “Adrian, you’re right. I don’t understand. Perhaps if you could better explain what was after you, I could help you.”

Tears filling his eyes, Adrian held his arm out before him, pointing to the closet door. “You’re too late. It’s already here!” Suddenly, the door burst open and a wraith-like version of Adrian stood in the doorway.

“Come to me…” the wraith rasped, ignoring Kait. “Embrace me and make me whole…”

“No!” Adrian vociferated loudly, “I won’t go with you! Leave me alone!”

“You belong to me…” the wraith continued hoarsely. “Embrace your destiny…”

Instinctively, Kait moved protectively between Adrian and the wraith. However, this did not deter the wraith’s purpose as it cast Kait aside like a rag-doll. Kait felt herself lifted off the floor, her body filling with a burning heat as she slammed into the wall.

Kait looked up, dazed at first, then her eyes filled with understanding. In the brief moment she had touched the wraith, Kait saw the truth of its existence and found the answer which had previously eluded her. “Adrian, it’s alright!” She called, climbing back to her feet. “Do whatever this wraith asks you to do. It only wants to help you!”

“I can’t!” Adrian sobbed, placing his face in his hands. “I don’t like this creature. It scares me!”

“Adrian Andrew Prescott!” She commanded, her voice filled with authority. “I am your cousin and your Swansa. I will not lead you astray. Trust me. It’s the only way.”

Timidly, Adrian stood to his feet, scrupulously watching the wraith approach him. Fear reflected in his eyes, but he remained steadfastly rooted to his spot in the room. Finally, the wraith stood directly before him, its revolting, steamy breath clinging to Adrian’s face like a blanket of fog on a crisp winter morn. Adrian futily attempted to wipe the steam from his face, but it became more turbid as the wraith dissolved into a thick black cloud.

Frantically, Adrian beat at his arms and legs trying to keep the black cloud from touching him, but it only began swirling around him faster, as if he were caught up in the eye of a tornado. Kait wondered suddenly if she had made a mistake, when the cloud finally collapsed upon Adrian, enveloping him completely.

Adrian tossed his head backward, emitting a woeful scream. Kait moved to help him, but felt herself drawn backward…out of his room and out of his mind. She opened her eyes to once again find herself sitting on the couch next to Adrian.

“Kait…” Adrian sighed heavily, throwing his arms around his cousin. “Thank you for rescuing me. I know, now, why I’ve been called on this mission. I’m here to protect you.”

[Andrea ferch Taliesin]

The Goddess kept me awake all night giving me this tale word for word. I hope that you all enjoy it.

The Loom of Kilmartin

Come you in and rest by my fire. I have tea and spicy cakes for your comfort, and tales to warm your heart and amaze you.

I see that you admire this old plaid shawl I wrap around me to keep out the drafts of this winters day. Look more closely. Do you see the workmanship, the detail? Do you know that every tartan is the story of its clan? The weaver invests history in every warp and weft so that the old tales are never lost. Regard the complexity, for it is complex. Not complicated, ah no, complication is what we bring to such things when we attempt to define them.

Let me tell you a tale about one who wove such tartan.

Iain MacEwan was that weaver and he lived and worked in Kilmartin on the Western coast of our fair land, a place of history, mystery and magic. His people all knew him as Iain Mhor, Iain the Big. Not because he was a large man, indeed he was trim and slim and barely took up space at his loom. Like all Highland men, he knew well his lineage and could trace it through countless generations back to the original Iain, or Ewan who was weaver to the kings of Dalriada, which later became Alba and then Scotland and who lived in Kilmartin long times ago. It was, and as far as I know still is, the tradition of his family that the name Iain was passed from father to son, and where there was no son, to the nominated male heir of the line. The boy was Iain Beg, little Iain, and so he remained until the passing of the father whereupon he would in turn become Iain Mhor, the head of the family, and his son would be the new Iain Beg and so on.

One winter’s night, near Yule, Iain Mhor MacEwan lay in dreams with his wife Catriona by his side, and his sons and daughters likewise in their beds. He was dreaming of the tartan he was to weave to celebrate the marriage of his Chief and could clearly see the pattern before his sleeping eyes, and hear the rhythm of his loom as it worked. Suddenly the rhythm changed. An unnatural beat that was entirely strange to his ears even after forty and seven years at the loom. Such was the strangeness that he awoke, but still he could hear this strange rhythm.

Reluctantly leaving the warmth of his bed, he went to his workroom and, opening the door just wide enough to look in, felt as if struck by lightning. The loom was working by itself! No weaver tended the warp or the weft, nor replenished the wool nor wound the cloth. A soft glow lit the frame before him.

Forgetting the cold he approached the loom and gazed in wonder at the product of this mysterious industry. No tartan was there, in fact no pattern he could discern at all, and yet the light came from the cloth before him and shifted and changed as sunlight on a wave.

He called to his wife and together they stood and stared as the wonder continued to unfold with no sign of ceasing.

“What does this mean?” asked Iain Mhor of his wife.
“I know not,” said she “but ‘tis a wonderous thing, a magic of its own.
You must seek out Ceasg, the druid and ask her, for surely this not of our realm!”

And so the next morning, taking with him food and drink, Iain Mhor MacEwan set off to look for the druid. All that day and the next night and most of the next day he journeyed until, reaching the top of a high hill, he saw an ancient grove of trees.

Approaching from the West, as he had been taught, he came near the grove and called for the druid in the name of the Maiden. Then again he called for her in the name of the Mother, and again a third time in the name of the crone. At his third call, a figure emerged from the grove. She was tall and lithe, standing a good head above any man, and she bore a Rowan staff at least half as tall again as she. Her robes were the colours of the Silver Birch in Autumn, and a garland of oak leaves lay on her brow. When she spoke, her voice was soft, deep and rich, like a gentle wave on a shore of sand.

“Greetings Iain Mhor MacEwan, weaver of Kilmartin. What seek you here?” she asked.

And so it was that Iain Mhor told her the tale of his marvellous loom, and asked her what it meant. Ceasg turned to the East, lifted her staff and thought for a while. Then she turned to the South and lifted her staff and listened. Then she turned to the North, lifted her staff and pondered. She then turned to face the man, and once more lifting her staff, said:

“The meaning is clear. Return here one year and one day form now, and the answer will be revealed to you.”

And while Iain Mhor puzzled over this answer, she turned and re-entered the sacred grove.

“Strange indeed are the ways of Druids” thought Iain Mhor as he made his way home.

Neither did Catriona his wife have any more idea of the meaning when he told her.

“That is all well and good” she said,” but still the loom works, and shows no sign of slowing. What will we do to earn our bread? Who will buy this cloth from us? You must seek out the finest weavers in the land and question them to see is there one of them who can explain this and give remedy.”

And so the next morning, taking with him food and drink, Iain Mhor set out on his quest. After many days he came to the cottage of a weaver and his wife, led there by the rhythm of the loom. He explained his problem and asked if they could help explain it, but neither of them could, so after resting there a night he set out once again.

After many more days he came to another weaver’s cottage, once more guided by the rhythm of the loom, and found there a young man with only a dog for company. Iain Mhor explained his problem and asked for advice, but the young man could not help him. So after resting there a night he set out once again.

Winter was now firmly upon him and travelling was hard, but by and by and he came to another weaver’s cottage, once more guided by the rhythm of the loom. There he found a young woman at the loom, with only a cat for company. He explained his trouble to her, and begged for her help, but to no avail. So after resting there a night he set out once again.

Winter turned to Spring and the going was easier, and after many adventures, which we have not time here to reveal, he came to yet another weaver’s cottage, guided by the rhythm of the loom. Here he found two men who worked the loom together, each of their arms entwined about the other, so that it was as one that they wove. He told them his story and asked for their counsel. They could offer no explanation, but said to him “ You must seek out Gregor Fine-Hand, the finest of all weavers, for surely he will know.” Iain Mhor thanked them, and after resting there a night he set out once again.

Spring turned to Summer and still he journeyed. As the first scents of Autumn touched the air, he came to another weaver’s cottage, guided by the rhythm of the loom, and there he found two young women seated at their loom and weaving the finest of fabric, each seeming to know the very thoughts of the other. He told them his tale and pleaded for assistance. “You must seek out Gregor Fair-Face” they said “ the finest of all weavers, for surely he will know.” He thanked them and, after resting there a night he set out once again.

And so it was that as the first snows once more touched the tops of the high mountains, he came at last to the cottage of Gregor Fine-Hand Fair-Face, the greatest of all weavers, and the rhythm of the loom guided him. Many lengths of the finest woollen cloth were stretched out on the ground around the cottage, and beside the stream nearby were a multitude of men and women “waulking” the cloth to proof it against the weather. That there were men there doing this work and not just the women folk was a true testimony of the quality of Gregor’s work, and the high esteem in which he was held.

On reaching the door of the cottage, Iain Mhor MacEwan announced his presence and went inside, head bowed in humility before the finest of all weavers. Receiving no response he lifted his head and saw the biggest loom he had ever seen, made of the finest wood and shining metal. And fast it was, and as the cloth poured from it, workers came and took it away, so that more might be made. So big was it that Iain Mhor had to move to one side to see the weaver, and there, seated at the treadle was – a woman!

Her fine hands danced with the shuttle as her fair face gazed intently at the work. Taking a deep breath, Iain Mhor spoke.

“I come seeking Gregor fine-hand fair-face, the finest of all weavers, for I must have an answer to my concerns. Where might I find him?”

Without slowing her work, the woman looked at him and replied:

“He is no longer here, I am Gobnait, and my time it is to work the loom. What are your concerns?”
And so it was that Iain Mhor MacEwan told Gobnait all that had passed, and begged and pleaded with her to give him understanding.

Without slowing her work, she looked to the west and thought for a while, then she looked to the south and listened, then she looked to the north and pondered. Finally, she faced him again and said:

“Strange indeed are the ways of Druids, and strange also the ways of the world. Your answer does not lie here awaiting you. Indeed you have brought it with you if you could but see it. Return to the druid and all will be answered.”

Although puzzled, he thanked her and, after resting there a night he set out once again.

And so it was that a year and a day had passed and Iain Mhor once more stood before the sacred grove. Approaching from the West as he had been taught, he called for the druid three times in the name of Maiden, Mother and Crone, and at the third call once more Ceasg stood there. She beckoned him in to the grove and bade him sit upon the grass in the centre. Before he could speak, she held up her staff to him and said:

“Iain Mhor MacEwan, weaver of Kilmartin, see now the answer you have sought.”

And lifting her staff still higher, she gestured to the sky above her. He looked up in wonder as before his eyes, through the ring of the tree boughs, the sky turned from day into night, and the stars shone down.

“What do you see?” asked Ceasg.

“I see the heavens” he replied” I see the twelve constellations of power before me.”

Then Ceasg made a prayer to the goddess, and drew down the North Star until it seemd to Ian Mhor that it touched his brow.

“What do you see now?” she asked.

“Why now I only see the one star” he replied “the weave of heaven is hidden form me.”

“So it is in life,” she said, “That often we cannot see all for seeing little, and yet all is there to see. Return to your loom and be patient, for it but plays out a greater pattern than you can yet see. The future will see this pattern ended and begun again and then will you see the whole for you will recognise its beginning and its end. For all may never be as it is seen, all changes and moves and the complexity of the pattern is its strength and its beauty.”

Iain Mhor now awake and aware, thanked Ceasg and, after resting there anight he set out for his home.

Great was the welcome that awaited him, for he had been away for a year and a day. In all that time the loom had been working. No weaver tended the warp or the weft, nor replenished the wool nor wound the cloth, and yet a cloth of such fine work it was that rich men from many places had been drawn to his cottage to marvel at it and to place their orders for lengths to hang in their great halls and Catriona and Iain Beg were now wealthy beyond their dreams. And so it was that Iain Mhor MacEwan, latest of his line, weaver of Kilmartin became known as the weaver of dreams.

And so my tale is ended. What will you take away with you? Remember, all may never be as it is seen, all changes and moves and the complexity of the pattern is its strength and its beauty. As for myself, Flann they call me, meaning “bright red” for not always was my hair as grey as you now see it, nor my beard. Indeed, my beard was not there at all for at that time Flanna was I called, sister to Ceasg and Gobnait.

[Seancha]

THE TREE AND THE TRIBE


Visualize a mighty oak tree with a large trunk planted firmly in the rich ground. See the many limbs, both large and small, reaching towards the heavens and the life-giving light. No two limbs are alike, all are different, but they come forth from the solid trunk.
Now visualize that each of these limbs has its own unique leaves and fruit, similar but different from its neighbors. Now ‘feel’ the flavors of these branches: some are ‘Celtic’, another ‘Wiccan’, another ‘Asatru’, another ‘Strega’, and so on. Many have no ‘labels’ or unique flavors. However, the one thing they have in common is that they are a branch of the trunk, they are in the same tree.
Follow the branches downward to the trunk, follow the trunk down to the earth. Feel the living forces flowing from the ground upward through the trunk out to each and every branch. Looking at the ground you feel the life throbbing just below the surface: this is the place where all life comes from. You know you are looking at our Divine Mother, the loving and caring Mother who loves us all, gave us birth, nourishes us, and helps us grow to maturity. We know also, that the sky with the sun shining its life-giving light down on us is the ‘abode’ of the Gods. From the Mother we grow upward to the Gods. Earth and Heaven. Whatever label you use, you know you come from our Divine Mother and strive to reach the Gods. Regardless whether you call yourself Celtic, Wiccan, Asatru, Strega, or no labeled group at all, we come from the same Mother: we are all kin – brothers and sisters – of this divine family.

Now you look away from our tree across the field. You see the land scraped bare, holes dug, the dirt and rocks piled randomly, hunks of steel and concrete scattered about. You know our Mother is being raped and plundered of Her bounties, you hear Her cries of pain, and anguish, and sorrow, and anger. As a mother She’d joyously care for us and provide us with everything we need. But the power-hungry, materialistic Humans take everything they want and throw it away, never thinking of tomorrow; ignoring or unaware of the pain he is causing. “It’s his right and ability to do whatever he desires”. He can now, but the penalties will be severe in the future. But he doesn’t care – he only thinks of now, not tomorrow.
You yell out “This is not right! You are wrong!” But you think ‘what can I do, I’m only one person?’ You’re right, as modern society, the dominant societies and religions, have ingrained in us that we are individuals with no power, no abilities unless it’s under the ‘guidance’ of society. But we, as the children of our Divine Mother, know that all life is interconnected: all of us are brothers and sisters; we are connected to each other as well as our Mother. As well as all the feathered and furred friends, all the creatures of the sea, land, and air, with all living things – we are all kith and kin, we are all interconnected. United we can affect what is being done to our Mother. We know that what is done to one can be and is felt by all others. Interconnected.
But we are few as compared to the dominant societies abusing Mother. We need help. To do this we must reach out to the dominant societies and, with love and patience, teach them the truths as we see it. We must educate them as to what is happening. We must acquaint them with our Divine Mother, and the Gods Who are here for us. We must admit them into our family before it’s too late.
To help with this we, as individuals and pagan groups, must devote some time and effort in helping our local communities, not as a way of advertising who we are, but as concerned citizens helping our neighbors who need help. Through example of living our beliefs, eventually we’ll educate society as to what we believe and how we are living our beliefs.

WE all must return to our Mother – to live within her loving embrace, not live off Her bounties. You must become more aware of the sacredness of nature – not that the earth or bush or tree is in itself sacred but that the sacred life force from our Divine Mother flows through EVERYTHING. We all are Her children. To help learn this do meditations, spend time outside in nature – open yourself to nature and Her people. Celebrate the seasons in ritual, whether solitaire or in groups. Learn why we do the rituals and how the ancients celebrated the seasons and why.
Then you need to connect with the Gods – whichever pantheon you believe in and/or whichever God/dess calls to you. Educate yourself as to who They are, Their aspects, what They do, etc.
Learn about the ancestors – about your ancestors – about who they were, what they did, where they came from. And why they crossed over. Learn about your family heritage, your family tree.
The immediate goal is to be One with Nature – plant and animal life. Walk with the Ancients and your ancestors. Have a living, loving connection with the Gods. This was once done as a matter of routine by the Ancients: their life depended on living within the rhythm and cycles of nature, honoring their ancients, and worshipping and living with the Grace of the Gods. They did it then, we can do it now. WE must unlearn (or modify) what society has taught us and be One with the Divine.

We are living in the greatest plague of mass extinctions in the history of the world. Very few are aware of it and even fewer care. Almost all of these species are unknown to the average man, so we’re unaware of it. Almost all of these extinctions are caused by man – directly or indirectly. Some of these species may help in the battle against diseases – but they are gone now! The reversal or stemming of the tide will be almost impossible – but only man can undo what man has done. The first step is to be aware of the damage done; the second is to take responsibility and for all mankind to be more ecologically responsible.

Knowing that we are all kith and kin, that we are loved by our Mother and the Gods does not mean that we will be spared the trials and tribulations that are upon the doorstep. For those of you have and love our smaller 4-legged friends – cats and dogs – and have tried to help them when they have been severely hurt know what it’s like to try to care for them when they are in extreme pain and/or the brink of death: they lash out in pain and fear: even the ones they love as well as the stranger, will bear the brunt of their assault. The same with our Mother: though She loves us all – friend and foe – all will bear Her assaults. However, as we are closer to Her and Her children, and are physically and psychologically prepared, we have a better chance of surviving the upcoming tumult.
Rough times are ahead. If we act now, individually and with groups, we have a chance of lessening the upcoming storm.


Go, and be One with the World….Seancha copyright 2006

[pangurban]

My sanctuary.

This is my sanctuary, picture if you will a coastline consisting of a bay that curves round for miles almost as far as the eye can see in both directions, the sand is almost pure white, it is night but there is light as it is a full moon and everything is bathed in a gentle moon glow.
At the waters edge flocks of small wading birds scurry about feeding as fast as they can but they are accepting of my presence and are not afraid. In the water close to shore there are sea otters with their heads poking out of the waters with quizzical looks on their faces, as if to say can you feel Her presence here to. When I am stressed it is hear I come to first to walk this beach and hear the waves roll in and break onto the beach it has such a soothing and calming effect.
Leaving the beach I walk through the sand dunes and enter a heath land covered in heather and scrubby bushes and trees with a few large trees dotted about mostly silver birch. There are multitudes of insects here and all around me I can hear night jars with their churring sound as they hunt down the insects. There are deer hear as well, little tiny sikka deer calmly foraging for food, they like the otters look at me as if to say can you feel her, but still it is just a feeling not her actual presence.
Moving further into this astral plain I leave the heath land behind and emerge into a place of country lanes with the striking feature being that there is no tarmac here it is almost as if time has stood still and modern life has not happened. The lanes are bounded by the most ancient hedge rows I have ever seen; there is hawthorn, sloes and blackberries so I know that there is a lot of wild life here but it is being very shy and does not want to show itself. There are also many wild flowers here too red campion, oxeye daisy, cowslip and many more that I can not put names too, so many that the dawn air is heavily laden with their scent. Then the chorus of the song birds registers on my ears first of all is the silvery liquid sound of the black bird singing as if its heart would burst only to be joined by the thrushes and warblers until it is one great symphony of praise. They also seem to be saying she is here can you not feel her. Presently I hear the wheels of a wagon and then it comes into sight a gaily painted affair pulled by the whitest horse that I have ever seen the wagon is driven by a woman she seems to be ageless and very familiar as if I should know her. I am invited into the wagon and I notice tea is being brewed and we sit and drink together in companionable silence. And then something happens that makes me jump, I feel a heavy weight settle on my feet upon looking down I am startled to see a wolf lying across my feet looking up at me with an amused gleam in its eye Who is he I ask only to hear in my mind the answer “she if you don’t mind” She is to be your companion on the rest of your journey I am informed.
Soon it is time to leave and resume my journey, so with the wolf at my side we leave the byways and start to climb up into the downs. The grass is a vibrant shade of green and very lush and dotted hear and there are red poppies. In the distance are hills, and cut into the chalk of these hills is the biggest sleekest horse you have ever seen and as I look at this horse it seems that I am on his back being taken for the most exhilarating ride of my life, and I realise this must be what the horse feels when it is running for sheer joy. As the wolf and I go deeper into the downs there comes into sight the most enormous standing stone I have ever seen it is easily twenty feet tall and the same round and I pause and wonder at the sight. I reach out and place my hands on the stone and it is as if an electric shock has gone up my arms and I am connected to the energy of the land and for the first time I really realise that everything on the earth is connected by this energy. I want to stay here and just bask in this energy but I know I must journey on I feel her here but I know the final meeting is to come as if to confirm this I hear the cry of a hawk saying hurry she is waiting for you.
So I leave this place vowing I will return and commune with the stone again. We start to climb the hills that were in the distance, when we reach the top we are confronted by ancient wood land mainly oak and beech with hazel and ash dotted here and there. As we enter the forest its like we are entering a sacred cathedral, in fact this is what it is a cathedral of nature.
Suddenly before me appears a stag, an old and venerable one. He indicates I should follow him. I am led through the dense trees till before us are two yew trees of great age making a doorway through which I am led; we emerge into a large circular clearing. In the centre of the clearing is the large stump of a tree which has the appearance of an altar. The stag is now standing by the altar but he is undergoing a change and is changed into a man with antlers growing from his head and I know now who he is it is the lord of the forest Cernunnos. By his side is the lady from the wagon but I realise now that she is the lady of the forest known by many names Diana being just one. It is her presence I have been feeling all along. They be bid me come closer and we commune together. All too soon it is time to leave, they see I am saddened by this but my lady says to me this is your sanctuary it is as close to you as breathing all you have to do is think of anywhere you have created and you will be there. I see you have met my wolf her name is swiftfoot and she will go with you and be your guide through life. “I have one more gift for you” she tells me and it is then I see the flock of jackdaws, “they are to remind you of the joy of life” she tells me “when you see them remember me”. All too soon it is time to go and I return to the mundane but I feel the blessing of this place with me and know it is close by.

Pangur-ban 6/10/2007

[Willowhawk]

I originally sumbitted this several Eisteddfodau (spelling?) ago, but after much consideration, I still think it's my best work-- at least, it's the piece that delights me the most. So, enjoy-- again!

Willowhawk
______________________________________________________________________________



The Changeling

Prologue


The McQwethy family lived in a snug cottage on the edge of the village of Tye Grange. Mr McQwethy farmed a few acres between the meads and the old forest, and he kept a small herd of the prettiest black-and-white cows in the shire. Mrs McQwethy milked the cows, who gave the richest milk in three counties, and turned it into creamy-sweet butter and rich cheeses to sell in the market square. Her aged Old Forest, in particular, caught the fancy of gourmands throughout the country, and became a much-sought delicacy as far away as the capital. More than once, well-dressed businessmen, wearing fine suits with gold watches and chains, had appeared in the cottage door, offering the McQwethys anything they wanted for the cows, the land, or at least the secrets of the smooth, sweet butter or the creamy, tangy cheeses. But the McQwethys declined all these offers, telling the wealthy men that they would not part with so much as a straw from the thatch.

"But we can make you rich!" these men protested.

The McQwethys merely smiled and offered them a drink of new milk before showing them the easiest path through the meads back to the high road. They were far too happy in their cottage, whose roof leaked a bit, whose walls needed new paint, to ever think of leaving it, or selling the things that made them who they were.

At the time our story begins, the McQwethys had, in addition to the cows and a fine flock of glossy-feathered chickens, twelve children. Mrs McQwethy was a passionate gardener, and fascinated by the old herblore her grandmother (a well-known cunning woman still held in awe by the villagers) had taught her besides, so she had named her sons and daughters for her favorites. The McQwethy brood stair-stepped down from the eldest, a broad-shouldered lad of fifteen, to the youngest, a high-stepping toddler still finding his legs, and each was named for the plants described in the detailed herbal Granny had left Mrs McQwethy on her deathbed.

They were a matched set, all with blue eyes and blond hair whose shades ranged from straw yellow to warm honey. Basil was the eldest, a strapping boy already nearly as tall as his father. He was followed by Rosemary, a sharp-eyed girl of fourteen, who had for several years been her mother's strong right arm when it came to caring for the younger children, and whose special task it was besides to hand-print the labels for their different varieties of cheeses. Next came Coriander, spectacled and serious at thirteen, and his closest brother, Dill, a fun-loving and rambunctious lad of eleven. Lavender, ten, was a willowy girl who was most often to be found daydreaming over the churn, and Cinnamon, the nine-year-old prankster, tied knots in his sister's long hair as she lost herself in fantasies about heroic knights and beautiful maidens. The eight-year-old twins, Violet and Verbena, were as like as two peas in a pod— their mother said fondly of them that "there's nary a freckle's difference between them."

Anise, a tomboy of five, spent much of her time tearing after her next youngest brother, four-year-old Sage. Next came Poppy, a sunny little girl with golden ringlets, and finally, Thorn, a sturdy, snub-nosed boy who was halfway through his second year. All together, the McQwethy clan made quite a sight when they trooped through the village to the market square— almost, some said, as good as a parade come to town each Saturday.

The procession began with Basil, who led the patient old ploughhorse, Mustard, drawing the wagon full of butter, cheese, cream, and milk. Mr McQwethy and Dill carried the planks that fit together to form their market stall, while Coriander was entrusted with the basket of fresh eggs. Next came Mrs McQwethy and the twins, their arms full of cloths for the counter and signs proclaiming that week's wares. Rosemary and Lavender followed, herding the smallest ones, while Anise and Sage, delighted with their weekly chance to make mischief, brought up the rear.

Once Mr McQwethy, Basil, and Coriander had managed to assemble the stall, the girls went to work decorating it. In the spring they outdid themselves with flowers and greenery; in the fall, the counter was strewn with brilliantly colored leaves. By the time they had the stall set to their satisfaction, there was already a line of customers, locals and visitors alike, waiting to purchase the remarkable family's goods.

This particular year, Samhain fell on a Saturday, and as such, the family were preparing for market. Basil had old Mustard hitched and ready to go, and Dill and Coriander were loading the last crate of Old Forest cheese onto the wagon. Lavender was chasing the others into their accustomed places in line, and having difficult time of it— her younger siblings were all the more wound up for knowing it was All Hallows, and the faeries would be about that night.

"Hurry up!" she called irritably to Cinnamon and Anise, who were playing a spirited game of tig. "The sooner we're gone, the sooner we're back. We have to carve the lanterns yet!"

The smaller ones came at once. They would choose their turnips from the vegetable stand at market, and Papa had already promised to buy the biggest pumpkin in the village to carve that night. They argued about whether "nips or tatties" made better elf-lights, until Coriander pointed out that a carved tattie was useful mainly for frying.

Sage refused to believe him. "A tattie could be a lantern!" he protested. "Ask Mama!"

They all looked around... and realized, suddenly, that Mama was nowhere to be seen. For that matter, neither was Rosemary. Lavender frowned. "Where...?"

"It's all right, children!" Mr McQwethy's voice boomed from the cottage door. "Mama's staying in today, and Rosemary too. On the way to market, we'll stop off at Mrs Treadway's cottage, and ask her to come see to them."

The children exchanged glances. The older ones' eyes were knowing; they were well aware that when Mrs Treadway came to see Mama, it usually meant that another McQwethy was soon to follow.

Poppy and Thorn weren't satisfied with Mr McQwethy's explanation, and sat together on the ground, sobbing, until their small faces were streaked with tears and dirt. Their Papa cheerfully picked them both up and kissed them until they were giggling, then set them in the wagon. "Let's get on," he called. "There's pumpkins to be had!"

Lavender looked uncertainly back toward the cottage. "But what about Mama?”

"Mama will be fine," Coriander assured her. "Look at all of us. Don't we prove it?" He cuffed his younger sister amiably on the shoulder. "Just watch," he said. "We'll have a new baby when we get home— you'll see."

But Coriander's prediction proved wrong: when the family trooped home from the market, just before dusk, Rosemary did not meet them in the lane, nor was Mama to be found waiting in the old willow rocker before the hearth, a sleepily content newborn in her arms. Mr McQwethy's brow furrowed slightly, but his voice was calm as he told the children to go back outside into the garden.

While Basil unhitched Mustard and led him away to the barn, Mr McQwethy and Coriander lifted the great pumpkin—taller, almost, than little Thorn—down from the wagon, then set about unloading the empty milk pans, the cream jugs, and all the rest of their market things. The others milled about uncertainly, casting wistful glances back at the cottage.

"Papa?"

Mr McQwethy looked down to see Lavender, wringing her hands and shifting anxiously from one foot to the other. "Yes, my love?"

"Is Mama— do you think— ?"

He smiled down at his second daughter. "I expect Mama is fine, and that our new little one is just more stubborn than most. But I give you leave to go see."

She flashed him a grateful look and dashed into the cottage while her younger siblings quarreled amiably over turnips. She returned only a little while later, her eyes round with excitement.

"She's very tired, Papa, but she smiled at me," Lavender reported. "Mrs Treadway is with her, and Rosemary is wiping her face with cool cloths. They've built the fire up high—it's ever so hot in there!"

"Ah, well," Mr McQwethy said easily, "then it's certain to be soon, eh?" He took Lavender by the hand and called out to the others. "Come, my dears! Time to sing Mama our strength, so she can birth our new babe-- what are we meant to call this one?"

All the children clustered around him and chorused the name their Mama had declared she would bestow on their next sibling: "Foxglove!" Mr McQwethy laughed and scooped Poppy into the crook of his arm, and Basil lifted his smallest brother to his shoulder. The family stood together— even the fidgety little ones— and, led by their Papa, began to sing the song that greeted every one of them at their own births.

Lu-lay, lu-lee, thou bonny wee thing,
bright be the morning, our welcome we sing.
As the sun rises we greet the new day,
And bless thee, wee babe, here with us to stay.

They sang as the sun dipped below the treetops. As the twilight gathered, Mr McQwethy set Poppy gently beside Sage, and went to light a fire in the great black cauldron that had stood in the cottage dooryard since at least his grandfather's time. As the flames rose and the night chill grew, the children gathered around it, watching and waiting.

Lavender went back into the cottage to procure three loaves of bread, a crock of sweet butter, and hunk of Old Forest cheese. As they shared the food around the fire, Mr McQwethy told them stories of other nights passed like this, waiting for another small McQwethy to emerge. They all giggled over the twins' tale in particular— Violet and Verbena had been so crowded and ready to come out and stretch, they hadn't seen fit to wait for Mrs Treadway, or even Papa.

"Mama was in the kitchen, putting up strawberry preserves," Mr McQwethy recounted, "and she knelt to reach the big bag of sugar."

"She got Violet instead!" Dill crowed.

"No, Verbena!" Cinnamon argued. "I remember— "

"No you don't, you were just a baby," Coriander put in. "And it was Violet."

"How did anyone know?" Anise wondered.

"Mama knew," Mr McQwethy said firmly. "It was Violet. And Verbena came right after, before Mama could even stand up."

"They couldn't bear to be apart five minutes!" Dill laughed.

"When we came into the kitchen, Mama already had the pair of them wrapped in tea towels," Lavender remembered, "and we all had scones and strawberries for tea!"

"Stwabewwies," Poppy echoed sleepily, and Basil, who was holding her in his lap, ruffled her blonde curls affectionately.

"Now, when Cinnamon came— " Mr McQwethy began, but just then, the cottage door banged open. Mrs Treadway appeared, mopping her brow with a crumpled kerchief.

"Tis done," she announced, and all the McQwethys leapt to their feet. "You've an obstinate babe there, and no mistake. Ah, but he's a darling, to be sure."

"He?" Mr McQwethy grinned broadly at his brood. "Did you say he, Mrs Treadway?"

"Oh, aye," the old woman answered, her eyes twinkling. "Another strapping laddie to add to your count." She put a companionable arm around Lavender's shoulders for a moment, then shook at the kerchief and laid it over her iron-grey hair. "Now, if you'll pardon me," she continued, tying the cloth beneath her chin, "I'm off for my supper, then to bed. I'll leave you to it." She winked at Dill and Coriander.

"I'll send the boys around later with eggs and cheese," Mr McQwethy called as the midwife set off down the path. "And some of that whiskey my da put away!"

"Save the whiskey for your children's weddings," Mrs Treadway laughed back at him. "You'll need to start saving now!" She paused at the hedge. "Mind you care for her," she said more seriously, referring to Mrs McQwethy. "If there's trouble, send for me." She glanced at the rising moon. "Don't forget the faeries!" she added, and vanished up the lane.

Mr McQwethy turned back to his expectant children, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “Well, my dears? Shall we go meet your newest brother?”

The entire family crept carefully into the great room. The fire had burned low now, and shadows leapt high on the walls. Rosemary was pushing the shutters back to let in the night breeze when she heard them enter.

“Oh, Papa!” she cried softly, and fell into his arms, face flushed but smiling gladly. “Wait till you see him, he’s just perfect—“

“How’s your mother?”

“Well, she’s well,” Rosemary assured him, drawing him toward the bedroom door. “It was the baby’s stubbornness that made it go so long—but once he made up his mind to come out, Mrs Treadway said she’d rarely seen as smooth a birth.” She looked up at her father, eyes shining. “I’m to be her apprentice,” she said shyly, and Mr McQwethy beamed at her.

“That’s my lass,” he said approvingly. “We’ve long thought you might go that way, your Mama and I.”

Together they entered the small bedroom where Mama lay, tucked up in the big bed, cooing to the small sleeping infant in her arms. She met her husband’s gaze with maternal pride. “The biggest yet,” she said in a satisfied tone. “Have a look, dear, here’s your Papa.”

He took the babe from her, unable to contain his delighted grin. “A bonny lad, isn’t he?” he laughed. “Those golden curls, like Poppy’s… there’s many will think you’re a little girl!”

“No, they won’t,” Rosemary said stoutly. “He’s all boy.”

“It wouldn’t matter if they did.” Mrs McQwethy reached out for her eldest daughter’s hand. “Lass or lad, I love you all the same. You’re all my joy.”

Mr McQwethy admired his son a moment longer, then carefully replaced him in his mother’s arms. “I’ll bring the others in, shall I? They won’t sleep till they’ve seen him.”

“Of course, of course, let them come meet our Foxglove.”

As soon as Papa opened the door, the children crowded in, eager to see their smallest sibling. There was a chorus of oohs and aahs as they jostled each other and tried to squeeze closer to Mrs McQwethy. The little ones climbed up onto the bed—except Thorn, who hung back, his fist clenched doggedly in Lavender’s skirt, wailing plaintively until Coriander picked him up and patted his back soothingly.

“It’s just a baby,” Coriander told him. “You may as well get used to them.”

“Baby,” Poppy repeated, and patted her Mama’s arm appreciatively. “Baby bruvver.”

“Yes, love,” Mrs McQwethy confirmed. “He looks like you when you were born.”

“He’s so cute!” Sage declared, and there was agreement all around.

“He is,” Papa said at last, “but he and Mama need to rest. Come, loves, let’s go light the lanterns—then it’s off to bed!”

They all trooped out, chattering happily. Mr McQwethy leaned over to give both infant and wife a kiss, then followed them from the bedroom. It took quite awhile to settle them all down, but eventually the jack-o-lanterns were lit, the turnips were carved and prominently displayed, and all the young McQwethys were yawning.

“Good night!” Papa called, tucking the twins into their trundle. “Sleep well, my dears!”

“Good night, Papa!” they called back. “Good night, Mama! And little Foxglove! Good night!”

The last lamps were extinguished, and a hush began to fall. Suddenly, in the girls’ room, Lavender gasped and sat up. “The faeries!” she cried.

“What?” Rosemary murmured sleepily—and a little crankily, but she had had a long and tiring day. “What about them?”

“We forgot to put out bread and milk!” Lavender exclaimed, and pushed back her duvet. Rosemary, who shared her bed, groaned and pulled the cover back up.

“Go to sleep,” she urged. “The faeries will wait.”

“But it’s Samhain night—“

“So what?” her sister mumbled. “They’ll understand…” And then she was asleep, unable to keep her eyes open a moment longer.

Lavender was tired too, and the bed was too soft, too inviting. She lay back down, murmuring something to herself about waking up early to put a dish of cream out, and then she too was lost to dreams.




The morning dawned clear and crisp. A low mist hung beneath the eaves and the forest canopy, and frost traced each leaf and blade of grass. Mr McQwethy, who had risen with his oldest sons to milk the cows long before daybreak, was sitting at the scarred oak dining table, sipping thoughtfully from a mug of fragrant tea. In the kitchen, Cinnamon and the twins were giggling as they stirred up oatcakes for breakfast.

“Where’s the honey?” Violet wanted to know.

“Mama hid it from Anise and Sage,” her sister replied. “Maybe the high cabinet?”

“Cinnamon, help, you’re taller than I am—”

“Can’t, I’m up to my elbows in batter.”

“I’ll look.”

“Verbena, you’ll fall!”

“Hey! Mind the flour—“

Mr McQwethy smiled to himself, wrapping his hands round the steaming mug to ward off the morning chill. He was just about to go assist his wayward children when the door to his bedroom burst open, and Rosemary emerged, panic-stricken.

“Papa!” she cried, on the verge of tears. “Oh, Papa, Papa—the baby—“

Mr McQwethy was on his feet in an instant. “What’s wrong?” He crossed the room in three great strides and caught the girl by the elbows. He had left his wife and infant safely sleeping only a few hours earlier. “What is it?”

Rosemary broke down, tears pouring down her cheeks. “Mama—“ It was all she could manage. Her father let her go and dashed into the bedroom.

Mrs McQwethy was sitting up in bed, gazing blankly into the cradle. She looked up when her husband came to her side, but she could not speak. He reached into the cradle and drew back the crocheted blanket to find—

The baby, sleeping peacefully. He turned confusedly to his wife.

“Rosemary heard him cry,” she said at last. “His nappy was wet, so she picked him up to change him, and—“ She stopped, shaking her head. “I just don’t understand.”

“Understand what?” Mr McQwethy, thoroughly puzzled, lifted the babe from the cradle and laid him on the bed. Then he blinked. “His hair…?”

Like all the McQwethy children, Foxglove had golden curls—or had them at birth. The infant on the quilt had a fuzz of dark, fine hair.

Curious, Mr McQwethy undid the pin that held the baby’s nappy closed. He opened the cloth, and stared.

“It—he—she—“

His wife nodded, her face drawn and anxious. “Just as Rosemary found it,” she whispered. “A girl!”

But her husband shook his head. “This can’t be right. Someone’s played us a prank. Rosemary!”

The frightened adolescent crept into the room. “Yes, Papa?”

“Run to Mrs Treadway’s cottage. Tell her to come quickly. Don’t tell her why—just say we have need of her. Hurry, girl!”

It was only about half an hour, but time stretched much longer while the anxious parents waited for the midwife. They said nothing to each other; they could only stare helplessly at the small and unmistakably female child between them. Mrs Treadway finally arrived, pink in the face and out of breath.

“Whatever is the matter?” she asked. “Poor Rosemary looked scared out of her wits!”

Mutely, Mr McQwethy handed her the naked baby, who now lay awake and quiet—almost unnaturally so. The midwife scrutinized the infant from head to toe, clucking and murmuring to herself. Then she looked Mr McQwethy straight in the eye.

“Did you set gifts out for the faeries last night, as I bid you?”

He looked taken aback. “No… no, I don’t suppose we did,” he admitted. “Usually we do, of course, but after all the excitement… “

“I thought so.” Mrs Treadway tutted and replaced the baby’s nappy. Then she wrapped her in a warm woolen blanket and gazed into her solemn little face. “Welcome, then, small one,” she said, and tucked the baby firmly into Mrs McQwethy’s arms. “May you be a blessing on this house, and not a bane.” She sketched a small sign on the child’s forehead, then turned to leave.

“Wait—“ Mr McQwethy caught her arm. “Where are you going? Where is my son? Is this the child you delivered, or not?”

Mrs Treadway looked pityingly at him. “Of course she isn’t. But she’s a good healthy girl—tis lucky, that, she seems hale enough. Usually they’re puling, sickly things. “

Mrs McQwethy gasped. “Oh, no— oh, surely not!”

Mrs Treadway nodded. “It appears so,” she said sympathetically.

“But we’ve always done them honour!” Mrs McQwethy protested. “Granny said they smiled on us!”

“And so they may still,” the midwife told her. “The ways of Faery are a mystery—your Granny knew that, and so should you.” She laid a hand on Mrs McQwethy’s shoulder. “Keep to what you know, my girl,” she said. “It will all be well. Love this little one as you would another flax-headed boy. You won’t be sorry.”

“The old way was to put them out on a hillside,” Mrs McQwethy said bitterly, and she started to lift the child toward the midwife.

“None of that!” Mrs Treadway said sharply. “That’s sure to anger them, and what will become of your fine cows and dairy then? They’ve a reason for what they’ve done. Maybe your forgetting the proper gifts riled them, maybe not. Maybe they’ve a need for a baby boy. Maybe he’ll only be gone for a time, and they’ve left this one for your keeping till he comes back. It doesn’t matter now. You’re bound to them, dearie—it was your Granny’s doing, though I told her not to go interfering in things beyond the ken of mortals. Now you must bear the cost of her meddling.”

“What are you talking about?” Mr McQwethy demanded, looking frantically from his wife to the old woman and back again. “Where is Foxglove?”

Mrs Treadway raised an eyebrow. “Here. And not here. I can’t tell you more.” She gestured toward the baby, who was making small noises and rooting for Mrs McQwethy’s warm breast. “This is your Foxglove now. Make your peace with it. I tell you, it’s all for the best in the end.”

She bustled from the room, paused in doorway long enough to pat Sage on the head, and was gone. Mr McQwethy started to follow her, but got no further than the front stoop. He returned to the bedroom, where his wife was gazing down at the infant, her expression a mixture of grief, bewilderment, and wonder.

“Do you know what she’s talking about?” he queried, utterly confused.

She nodded wordlessly. The baby—uncommonly patient for a newborn—patted gently at the neck of her nightgown, and she hesitated only a moment before helping her latch on to nurse. As the infant suckled, she raised one shaking hand and began to gently stroke the small downy head.

By now all the McQwethy children had crept into the room, silent, watchful as mice from the corners. Mr McQwethy cleared his throat, uncertain what to say.

“Well, my dears,” he said with forced jocularity. “Come greet your new baby—uh—sister.”

The older ones shared apprehensive glances, but stepped slowly forward to look. Anise was not so diplomatic. “What sister? Mama had a boy!”

It was Lavender who spoke up, surprising everyone but her mother. “Yes, she did,” she said clearly, “but we forgot the Samhain gift for the faeries. They’ve taken the baby and brought us… a Changeling.”

[Abhaill]

BY THE BLACK LAKE

A girl was walking through the snow, quickly, looking for something. She found herself at the base of a very tall birch tree. It was so tall she could not see the branches at all, but she knew the bark and the trunk well enough. It occurred to her to see the world from its branches so she started to climb, and climb very fast.

As the surface of the Earth fell away and began to curve in the distance, she climbed past branches bare of leaves. The sky darkened slowly and deepened into midnight blue. The stars were swallowed by blackness.

Then she thought she saw clouds just above her, but as she pushed her head above them she realized that it was actually snow at the foot of a ring of mountains. The tree itself reached just beyond the surface of a long thin lake, a lake like a finger. She had to boost herself up from the tree onto the shore because merely a twig broke the surface of the water. She wasn't wet, she wasn't cold, but she should have been both.

In the sky was the sun, brilliantly shining high above, but it seemed closer than it usually did. She felt as if she were standing at the northernmost tip of the planet. She was in a snow-covered valley, and evergreen trees were clumped around the slopes of the mountains. There were no sounds, none at all. It felt strange.

She watched the sun stand still in the sky, felt the moment hang in time, and watched the orb begin to slowly fall toward the northern horizon, getting smaller and pinkening as it descended. She wanted to explore her surroundings and so started to walk. It was completely deserted, and it still felt strange to her.

She looked back at the lake and it seemed to her to be made of black ice. When her eyes sought the birch twig jutting above the surface of the lake she saw that it was still there, waiting for her, and she knew she could return whenever she needed to, back to the world from which she'd climbed. There was a boulder breaking through the snow near to the shore and she turned toward it and sat down.

Immediately and silently there was a man standing next to her. He had a cloak of sewn skins across his back and she was unable to see his face. He reminded her of a trapper or a hunter. She stood up; he sat down. She walked around him trying to ascertain who he was, and finally she asked him.

He said nothing; instead he took out a knife and cut the index finger on his right hand. Blood dripped onto the snow at his feet. Then faster than lightning he was on his feet; he grabbed her so she couldn't get away and he pushed the bleeding finger toward her mouth.

She would find it hard to explain how that felt. She might say it felt like a prelude to rape, but she didn't know what that was like. She imagined it felt a lot like this felt, however. Her defenses, her shield, seemed like a wobbling liquid envelope in the face of the precision of his strike.

He could almost penetrate it, and probably would have if left to himself, but she turned her head away from him and sealed her mouth. She knew intuitively that she couldn't protect herself with what she had at her disposal in that moment, so she thought she should leave the situation. She walked away from him and he did not grab at her, but he wasn't gone either.

She walked alongside the black lake and knew she could leave now if she wanted to, but that's not what she wanted. She wanted to stay in order to figure this creature out, and upon making this decision he took her. He wrapped her into a kind of ball with felt or skins or blankets, and he carried her into a kind of cabin. There was a fire but otherwise the place was dark. He left her by the door, went in and took off his cloak, and warmed himself by the fire.

There was no panic in the girl. She knew she was there because she had chosen not to leave. But at the same time her defenses were on high alert, and she did not trust her host. She emerged from the wrappings and saw that the man was sitting at the fire with his back to her. She still could not see his face.

She asked him again who he was. He said, in an almost surly tone, "You will never know me, until you taste my blood." "Then I will never know you," she said.

He got up suddenly and stood facing her, and she felt him prodding her again, looking for weaknesses, feeling for holes in her armour. It was like being poked by shadows and then alternately shredded by pellets of ice. Her conscious self said, "Don't wait for your own downfall. If these defenses aren't enough to fend him off then find another way!"

And then she heard a clang, like iron being struck. Every poke he made was met by a long strip of iron, like an unfinished sword blade, that appeared and disappeared as she was surrounded by the shadow-arms and the ice-spit. And all the while, the face of the man looking as though he were involved in a kind of battle, but never appearing to move.

Then it was over as suddenly as it had begun. She felt as though she had been tested.

Again they found themselves beside the lake with no feeling of battle between them. When she looked into his face he looked flatteringly upon her, much like a teacher would upon a prized student, and he placed something into her hand. Eyes twinkling, he waited as she examined the rolled-up animal skin she now held, stretched very thin and soft, tied with a tether.

When she rolled it out she saw a black drawing of a world-tree moving upon its surface. The tree seemed alive, its branches and roots stretching and snaking. She rolled it up, replaced the tether, and held out her hand with the skin lying across it.

He took the roll from her hand and in its place he dropped a double-headed axe. It was so heavy, her arms felt its weight tauten her muscles as she held it. It sang through her with an energy she'd never felt before from neither tool, nor weapon, nor instrument. It called to her and whispered her name in a voice as soft as silk and as coppery as blood.

It was as if the axe had been made for her, that their spirits knew how to sing the same secret tune and exalted in their union. She felt the overwhelming desire to wield it, to sink it into as many things as she could find. She felt the intoxication of the need to destroy anything and everything, and she swung it around her looking for a target.

And her eyes found him. He said, "I'm the target. Hit me." It was then she really looked into his eyes, and what she saw was a thirst, the same thirst she'd felt from him when he attacked her. She knew that spilling his blood and tasting his blood would be the same thing, and even though every vein in her body sang with the need to cleave him in two, she walked to the lake and buried the axe-head deep into the ice.

Letting go of the handle was one of the hardest things she'd ever done. It was like stepping into a smaller being for her to be alone again, without its companionship. She forced herself to turn away from it, and walked toward him.

For now she knew that this was Odin. A god who had intrigued her for many months, of whom she'd read stories, about whom she'd received warnings. She walked toward him until she stood face to face with him. He gave her a shrewd look. He had tried to assault her and that failed. He had tried to seduce her by playing the part of the impressed teacher without achieving his goal. And then he used his attack and the weapon he gave her to manipulate her into doing what he wanted anyway.

“I could never trust you,” she told him. "I would never know if I loved the thing, or if you did."

Then he took her head in his hands and looked into her eyes. He said, "What do you see in my eyes?" She thought she saw wind-swept plains of snow, and grey fur. Shifting, restless, searching.

Then she said, "What do you see in mine?" And she let him look. For an instant, she saw an eye open inside her head, behind her own eyes. She felt him open her thoughts and draw out her memories until there was a swirl of knowledge before him as he scrutinized what he saw. She saw his ravens fly to him and perch on his shoulders as he searched through her.

And then he withdrew, and she felt him leave, but still he held her head in his hands so that they stared at one another. Her question hung on the air, and his answer was, "Potential." He let her go, as though his hands were made of smoke, and then he was no longer there.

This time when she walked to the edge of the lake where she could see the birch twig, as she looked down through the water she thought she could see the stars. She climbed down slowly, being sure of her footing, until eventually she reached the ground at the foot of the birch tree.

Even though perhaps she shouldn't, she felt at peace. Somewhere Odin sat, and no doubt plotted, but she was happy to have finally met him. He could not take from her what she would not give him, although he didn't mind tricking people into promises either. So she tried not to think too often or too fondly about the axe waiting for her in the ice of the black lake above the stars.


~ Abhaill

[kytty]

The way of life.

The day was hot and the lack of breeze made the day stifling. He was sitting slumped deep into the back of his seat. He sensed pain in his legs and every rut in the road made the small of his back ache. The long journey was taking its toll. Nothing, but mile after endless mile of dirt and dust and flies. His mind started to wonder and he began questioning why he ever decided to travel fair across the country by bus.
He reached his destination just before noon. A little villa by the sea, where he could relax, let his hair down, and live it up. He didn’t bother with social formalities, just straight up to his room. Despite being midday, he made himself comfy and quickly drifted off to sleep.
As night fell the heady sent of frangipani and jasmine wafted in on the sea breeze, and aroused his senses. He felt mildly disorientated upon realising it was dark and made his way toward the window, where he could see people below, drinks in their hands and enjoying themselves in conga lines round the pool. Passing the mirror he decided it was time to get spruced up and join the crowd.
After dinner, he made his way to the bar. In his usual style, he backed into the corner nearest the window so he could see all who would come and go and settled in for the duration. Waiting for the lady of his dreams to arrive. As the night rolled on past disco, through to karaoke, he sat there…. watching, waiting. Scores of people come and go and pass him by. He never paid any heed and they even less to him. Then suddenly, as the band began to play, in walk the most gorgeous creature he’d ever seen. Long legs and seductively all in black, how could he not notice her? Slowly but surely she inched closer too him. He pretended not to notice. And as he stood to leave, she glanced straight into his eyes. She held him totally transfixed, and he knew he was powerless to leave. All his life he had dreamed of the moment when that someone special would enter his world. Someone he would wile away the hours of his life with. Someone to be his partner.
The long legged lady all in black held him spellbound and before he knew it he was caught in her web. She too had been searching for that certain someone. But unlike him, long term commitment was not on her agenda. Only the primal wants and needs. There and then they entered into the dance that would ensure her line would continue, and after a moment of pleasure, with one foul swoop his life was no more.
For such is life for a male spider.