The Saga of Conn the Black - Canto V

Canto V

The hearth-fire crackled brightly,
In the circle round of upturned faces,
Brows blood-crimson in the dancing flames,
Leathery wrinkles shadow furrowing,
Beards waggling as jaws clench.
Conn glanced for friendly features
Among the assembled chieftains.
There was wide Sean from the North,
Brian the Boar, hands glistening with meat-juice,
Curach Silverhands, Bron of the Dog
And even Timaon of the Salmon,
Yet none cast a smile at brave Conn.
Sternest of all was Sluatha, King,
Legs thrust out wide and hand on thigh.
“Why do you intrude, Oath-breaker?”,
Voice but a growl as the words spat onto the floor.

Slán

Silverwolf
http://gateway.batcave.net

The Saga of Conn the Black - Canto IV

Canto IV

Then stood Conn the bold square before the door.
Collum knew well that Conn would pass his way.
Well he knew the words of truth,
Born from happier times, free from fear,
Times when Druid or Bard would wander
The land's long length,
Their words alone, safe passage.
A decision made, his spear was raised
And his arm outstretched for Conn to take.
Then both men stood arm to arm,
The warmth of battle-brothers firing their hearts,
The joy of ale to come and bread in the stew,
The tales of old memory flowing free
As a spring's sun-filled bubbles.
"Enter within, friend," said Collum.
"You'll find all at feast in the clan-hall."

--- ++ ---

Animal movements rustling in the dark,
Snuffling and bleats told Conn where he was.
Low walls of rough stone surrounded
Dark shapes of wattle, mud and thatch
Enwreathed in night-time fire smoke
As noises of tired people drifted on the air.
In the centre around a warm, ruddy glow
The largest dark shape loomed in front of him,
A sharp mound deeping against the stars.
Conn strode to the door, ancient wood ajar,
And halted he there to find his centre.
Decision of a sudden, he thrust out his hand
Striding forward from chill air into warm air,
From warm comradeship into chill stares.

Slán

Silverwolf
http://gateway.batcave.net

The Saga of Conn the Black - Canto III

Canto III

Tall and straight, Collum the Warden,
Gate-keeper, stalwart and worthy.
Fair braids tumbling onto shoulders broad,
Spear-shaft strong in steady hand,
Holding its point to Conn's proud heart.
"Whither goest thou?" in voice of thunder,
"And whence have you come?"
Conn's eye-hair raised in unspoken question
And he paused a while - an emerald fire.
"Know you me well, Collum of the gate.
We have stood shoulder to shoulder
On the line of rending death.
We have called loud to the same gods
And broken our fast at the same board.
Why do you ask me such?"
Then Collum the Tall, bending his head
With shame-glimmers flashing through his eyes:
"'Tis the Word of the King, old friend,
That none enter whom he hath not named.
I know of your worth, as does he,
But for the mead... I have said too much."
Then stood Conn to the ground, tired feet
Squelching in the mud of a host's passing,
His eyes straying through the gate
At the flickering light beyond.
Then smiled he at Collum and clapped
Hand to tired shoulder.
"Tell me, my friend, have the old laws
Of guesting and fire fallen by the way?
Is a tale or words from afar
No longer the price of a meal!
These are the gifts I bear, spear-brother,
And I can give them to none but the King."


Slán

Silverwolf
http://gateway.batcave.net

The Saga of Conn the Black - Canto II

Canto II

Trees waving proud in full leaf,
The ground wet and deep beneath hoof,
The wind rushing from a screaming sky
Howling with the pounding and heavy breath
Of the moss-brown stallion, heaving and sweating.
Lightning sparks flying from stones
As iron-shod hooves dance up the hill
Towards the mound, the dun, black against the sky.
Conn the Black, he of a thousand battles,
Thrice blessed and thrice cursed,
Son of Donan, son of Crom the Red,
Hailing from the Westmarches,
Deep within the marsh mists,
Fey-friend and wielder of the Flaming Brand,
Bending forward into the stallion's whipping mane,
His breath ragged, his hair crow-dark with life of its own
His eyes warm glowing with emeral fire.
Urgent, he urged Blackmane on
His message a sword cutting the threads of time.
Two paths spread from this moment -
The message the cross-roads.
Urgent was the news, urgent for ears to fly to.
The lips of brave Conn trembled,
Trembled to let loose the fateful words,
His heart beating pace with hammering hooves.


Slán

Silverwolf
http://gateway.batcave.net

The Saga of Conn the Black - Canto I

Canto I

Long have I stood, watching the trees,
The Skies ever-changing, the grass around my toes,
Living and ever-living, undying
The Voice of the Ages.
I tell the story of Men,
Of the sons and daughters of men,
Some long forgotten, others etched in stone.
I am the song of the breeze
Amongst the waving meadowsweet.
I am the voice of the heart unsung,
The harp unstrung, the plan undone.
Three songs have I sung in ancient times:
The song of the battle on the plains of blood,
Where men stood, died and stood again;
The song of the long-armed and the silver king,
When the champion's cup was passed around;
The song of the Hound, the Hound from the North,
With chariots thundering in a cloud of dust.
These songs have I sung, yet more are to be.
The tale of Conn, thrice renowned;
Conn the Black, with heart pure as thistledown,
Son of Donan, son of Crom the Red,
A tale that grew in the telling,
Told by the bards that tasted the blood
Spraying like spittle from dying heroes.
From heart to hand the song takes its flight
And now it is my geas
To loose the music from my harp,
As the words come stumbling into trembling song,
Building a swell of saga - a tale to be told.



Slán

Silverwolf
http://gateway.batcave.net

ETYMOLOGY OF THE WORD 'BARD'

ETYMOLOGY OF THE WORD 'BARD'

The word is a loanword from Proto-Celtic *bardos, ultimately from Proto-Indo-European *gwerh2: "to raise the voice; praise". The first recorded example is in 1449 from the Scottish Gaelic language into Lowland Scots, denoting an itinerant musician, usually with a contemptuous connotation. A Scots ordinance of ca. 1500 orders that "All vagabundis, fulis, bardis, scudlaris, and siclike idill pepill, sall be brint on the cheek". The word subsequently entered the English language via Scottish English.

Slán

Silverwolf
http://gateway.batcave.net

The Fountains of Youth

Is a golden dream-light streaming
Like eve through an opal west.

We sing to the sun-god, calling
By his name of yellow fire.

The touch of the dew-wet grasses,
The breath of the dawn-cool wind,
With the dawn of the god-light passes
And the world is left behind.

We drink of a fountain giving
The joy of the gods, and then –
The Land of the Ever-living
Has passed from us again.

Passed far beyond all saying,
For memory only weaves
On a silver dawn outraying
A cloud of daffodil leaves


By George William Russell [1867-1935]
The Irish Theosophist, September 1897.

Slán

Silverwolf
http://gateway.batcave.net

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Slán

Silverwolf
http://gateway.batcave.net

Brief Enchanter

Tears coursed down my cheeks as I plunged across the station platform towards the door held open for me by the friendly guard. My heels clattered on the tiles and kicked up small sprays of water from the rain-drenched platform. All I could see was a dark, chiselled face in front of me with pain wrinkling his fine features. Rainwater dripped from my hair onto my face, mixing in tiny rivulets with salty tears. My chest heaved with my sobbing in time with the breaking of my heart. The guard watched me worriedly as I plunged into the tender light of the carriage. How could this happen to me? How could I have let it happen to me?

Can it only have been thirty minutes ago that I was standing in a pool of rain-specked orange light, watching the sheets of tiny jewels rush onto the dark ground just outside of my vision? Pulling back my raincoat sleeve, I looked at my watch with a sigh. It was half past nine already. When was that train going to arrive? Delayed again, no doubt. Probably because of leaves on the line. The concrete pillar next to me, redolent of the grime of a thousand trains, seemed to sigh with me in knowing exasperation. I stamped my feet to try and shake off the chill seeping into my bones. At least I was dry under this black awning, lit by these unearthly orange cones of light. Dry and alone. For a second, fear started clawing at my belly with its uneasy fingers.

My chest jolted with sudden electricity as I heard a scraping noise behind me. Heart thumping out its primal rhythm of panic, I spun towards the sound and realised that the waiting room was not as empty as I had assumed it to be. There was a dark male shape seated calmly in the shadows, its face concealed by the door jamb. He must have been watching me. All the time that I was fidgeting nervously on this platform; scratching my nose and playing with my hair I had been the subject of his quiet inspection. My fear subsided to be replaced by a quiet indignation and embarrassment. I would go into that sheltered den and confront my silent accuser – sit down on that bench and show him that I am unaffected by his gaze.

Pushing open the grey, flaky paint door I took a step across the threshold and into another world. He looked up at me and his eyes, the deep azure of the Mediterranean, took hold of my soul with unstoppable mesmeric power. Meanwhile, a gentle smile caressed his lips with a welcome for me that wrapped itself around me like a thick winter coat. Standing calmly, he stretched his arm out towards the bench.

“Hello. Please. Have a seat.”

“Thank you sir,” I found myself replying and delicately seated myself a body’s width away from him. Smiling genuinely at him I tossed my hair back from my face, fluttering my eyelashes with a tremour. I could feel the heat rise to my cheeks. How can he have such a dramatic effect on me? I am no lovelorn teenager, hormones raging out of control through my newly awakened womanhood. He sat back down, and I saw the clean line of his teeth slide behind his lips. He was a bright flame against the walls behind that had probably once been a shade of magnolia. I sat in silence for a second trying desperately to marshal my thoughts and my common-sense.

“My name is Christian,” he said as if it were the most natural thing in the entire world to say to a rain-drenched woman struggling with her own desires. Slow and tender warmth spread through my belly and I bent my head forward as if to hide my traitorous eyes.

“Natalie. Nice to meet you,” I replied, aware that I was misrepresenting the depth of my feeling.. The lie spilled from my lips easily enough but the realisation that I was captured by the sapphires of his eyes that seemed to know so much about me rocked my very foundation. It was as if he could read the lines of my soul with the merest glance.

The mute darkness was split by the thundering of an express train as it hurtled past our door pushing a wave of impacted air and solid sound before it. I saw Christian’s lips move but heard no sound over the earthquake that was just outside. I took the moment to gather my thoughts. I felt as if my entire being were on the precipice of a momentous decision. One false step in either direction would ensure a plummet into a chasm of darkness and despair just as deep as the timeless night on the other side of the platform. The moments of my life up until this point seemed to be no more than preparation for this initiation of fire. I was terrified - terrified to face the unknown within my own heart. Silence crept back upon us and I looked back at Christian as he leaned slightly towards me.

“You look upset Natalie,” he said, the words rolling over me like a warm blanket. “Is there anything I can do?” The beseeching of his eyes, the brows slightly lifted seemed to highlight the torment wrenching inside me. The shadows washed away from his face like a receding tide and his hands were moving on his knees as if striving to reach for me but held fast by the strength of his will. They were the hands of an artisan, large but perfectly formed with a hidden strength rippling just under the taut flesh. What art could this man be master of? What notes of exquisite music could those fingers draw from my battered soul? With mute desire in my eyes I gazed up at him and he reached across to take one of my hands in his warm, strong grasp.

“Christian!” I whispered hoarsely and slid across the bench, my head burying itself into the coarseness of his grey jacket. I threw my arms around him as if by strength alone I could capture this precious moment for all eternity. My heart swelling with need for this stranger, I could no longer hear those small voices in the back of my mind which read from the history book that my life had written. All I could hear was the deep drum-beat of desire in this man’s body holding a counterpoint to the pulse of my lifeblood as it throbbed in my temples and warmed my being. Meanwhile, his strong, trembling arms had wound themselves around me and held me close to his chest. His head lowered towards me and I felt the warm breath from his lips caress my forehead with a touch as light as thistledown.

“Let me come with you,” I begged with a voice hoarse with emotion.

“Natalie – stop.” He spoke to me in a voice like hot chocolate on a winter’s evening. “I have been waiting for you to enter my life since I first took a razor to my chin. You have filled my dreams with your grace, lit my nights with the light from your eyes and danced through my desire like a bewitching elf.” Tightening his arms around me, he continued: “My love for you would hold you at my side until the stars all fade away but I can hardly believe that this is real. Are you sure that this is what you want?”

I looked up at his face, half-lit by the yellow light above us and the flickering orange lights just outside and it seemed for a moment that the solid blue of his eyes cracked and shimmered with his doubt. I thought of Sean, waiting for me patiently at home with his feet up on the chair and his face glowing with the pallid, ever-changing reflection of the television he was watching. He would have a beer by his side, frosty glass filled with broken rings of old froth and he would flick impatiently at an ashtray on his knee. The smell of Christian’s after-shave wafted through my reflection and brought me back sharply to the present.

His face was hovering over mine and his mouth opening for the touch of my lips. Those glowing eyes were half-closed in eager anticipation. I could feel the impression of those lips in my imagination – as imperative as the encircling arms around me. I couldn’t breathe and felt claustrophobic in an aura of passion. The only relief would be to give into it and let my desire drive my willing mouth.

At that moment the loudspeaker above us blared into life and an unreal nasal voice informed us that the eight thirty from Victoria was approaching the station. An image of Sean came unbidden to my mind. I could see him standing next to me, all top hat and tails, carnation in his buttonhole and love in his glowing face. The hand that gripped mine was trembling and the promises that I had made came back to me like axes in the night; each one thudding with deathly finality into the aura of passion that was slipping rapidly away from me.

I could bear it no longer. I struggled away from Christian and rushed to the waiting-room door as the huge, metal monster screeched to a halt in a rush of wind and rain. Turning back to Christian, my apologies fell onto deaf ears and my heart caught in my throat as his face slid back into the shadows, a mask of darkness covering the searing pain coursing through him. My tears fell freely and I plunged into the concealing rainfall towards the gentle light of the train.

My one and only attempt at romantic fiction :)



Slán

Silverwolf
http://gateway.batcave.net

The Old Beech

The wild wood reaches out,

Long twisted arms of ancient oak,

Waving branches of young birch,

Rustling and sighing throughout

The fields of living grass.

Its' eldritch shadow twists and turns,

Painting jagged silhouettes

Over rugged, untrodden meadow.

A single beech stands erect

And ancient, tall in its years,

wide in its shadow circled round.

No bird, no squirrel or woodland

Creature disturbs its peace -

Just the breeze rustling angry leaves.

The Wild Wood beckons – its ancient call

Loud and omnipresent, its reach extending

As shadows lengthen, and Twilight creeps.

Well-worn tracks filled with stone

Lead off into darkness cracked

by light amongst weaving branches.

Coldness and damp seep from the earth,

And the wood closes its doors over the path.

All is still – grave-quiet and black.

No wind, no birdsong, no rustling.

Twisting and turning the way bends

This way and that, confusing the senses,

lost in shadows, in dark trees, in thought,

Winding slowly upwards on some unseen hill,

As if purposefully leading to somewhere,

A hidden spot, an unseen glade,

Somewhere of light amidst darkness,

Underneath the bare-seen Moon.

Creeping darkness deepens dimly

Foreshadowing the deepest dark.

Temple-like, a hidden circle

Stands beneath the canopy

Of an even older Beech, its

Spreading arms each a tree-trunk

Pointing the way to the four corners,

Its mountainous crown upheld

By legs that have withstood

The centuries, its unseen eyes

A thousand lives have watched

As man and woman have passed

Out of sight, sound but not memory.

And, oh! The terrors that

It has been forced to witness,

Its unwilling judgement untold.

Yet it stands not unaffected

By the darkness around it.

Years of elder torment, called

Upon and reinforced by men

In whom the darkness has taken

Long, deep roots, call forth

The fore-boding as the circle round

Tries to retain its quiet brood.

A song of light begins quavering

Amidst the throng of pressing dark,

Gathering strength as the fire slowly burns -

Pushing back the seeping gloom.

The circle of hatred expands and thins,

But the song has not gone unheard.

An ancient Terror dwelling deep

In the blood-soaked earth hears the call.

In anger, it bellows and rushes to the fray.

The song wavers but durst not die

Lest the light be quenched and

Darkness return - forever claiming

This corner of twisted, faerie realm.

In battle are joined – gloom and doom,

Unbidden are rising like angry embers,

Exhaustion is imminent, one life against many

But then, unseen amongst hidden trees,

Hidden in darkness beyond the edge,

A white Stag, ancient and proud

Lifts its quivering muzzle, tosses

its branching antlers and lifts its head,

Eyes dark with aeons-old wisdom,

And bellows the song of life,

Joining the song of light and

Breaking the hold of the Ancient One.

The Terror flees deep within the earth,

And the guardian gloom is broken,

bound and tied.

One small step to free the ancient Beech,

A gleam of hope for future cleansing.

Deepest tiredness sags and weighs down

But the Moon riding high sends rays

Of sheerest healing deep within the soul.

It has left a scar – but not one unhealed.

Slán

Silverwolf
http://gateway.batcave.net

Haiku

Soft Lavender buds
Stalks reaching bristle
Snip! The bush is pruned with shears

Slán

Silverwolf
http://gateway.batcave.net

Inspiration

Breathe into me the wild,
The boundless, the beauty of the child.
Let me drink deep the endless cup,
The cauldron, the grail – let me sup
Deep and my soul be filled.

To those behind the face of form,
Present since the time of Dawn,
Ever-here, everywhere – seen and unseen,
I call on you to wipe my soul clean.
Let he who ever-chatters be stilled.

Let us be one, you and me,
The tired and bound, the wild and free.
Sing to me in voice pure and clear,
Open my mind so my ears can hear.
May the words of my pen be truly skilled.

You and I have known each other long,
Aeons have passed since your first song
Filled my heart and drove me to tears.
Yet have I grown deaf over the years -
Logic and reason have been my shield.

Now I hear you sigh in the whispering grass,
Hear your laugh amongst leaves as I pass.
Let my ears finally hear your voice.
Be aware – that I have made this choice
At whatever cost, let them be healed.


Slán

Silverwolf

The Young Shaman

Deep in the heart of the jungle, a wizened Indian sat by the smoking fire and gazed at the red-lit face of the young apprentice opposite him.

“Breathe in deeply of the air of the jungle” he whispered as the young man closed his eyes.

“But I can't see anything!” the young man's tremulous words spilled out. His shoulders were taut and his hands tightly clenched.

“Relax – and breathe with the beat of the jungle, listen to the life of the fire,”

His apprentice's shoulders deliberately dropped and his face lost the lines of care as he relaxed. His hair twitched in the silent breeze and the old man waited, smiling. The young man started to breathe a little harder and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

“I'm afraid...” he started to say, his voice seeming to come from a long way away. “I can hear a great thumping noise and it's coming towards me!”

“Greet it eagerly, my son.”

“But...”. Then the young man relaxed. A smile started to creep along his mouth. “It's the eldest of the land, master -one of the tall ones, long in leg, large in body and with eyes bright with ancient wisdom.!”

“Is he looking at you, my son?”

“Yes, and his trunk is curling around my shoulders.”

The old man stood up and placed a gentle hand on top of the dark, black hair of his apprentice.

“The Elephant spirit has accepted you – be proud, for he is long of memory and full of wisdom. Let him guide you and make a totem for him to always link you to him.”

The young man left the clearing and returned to his village. There, after many days, he chose a special piece of wood from an ancient acacia tree and started to carve. He carved a wide bracelet to fit on his young arm and the Elephant was pleased.

In the fullness of time, the spirit urged him on to pass the wisdom to another and he journeyed long to the large Town and the Elephant guided him to a tourist – a stranger in his land. Without a word, he passed the bangle on and its journey thereafter became a mystery, known only to the shaman's totem spirit. Eventually it came to this country where it was worn with pride, its wisdom seeping slowly into the bones of its owner.

The old man smiled – nothing is forgotten, nothing is ever forgotten.

Slán

Silverwolf

Haiku Jan 17

Ripples in the bowl
Bouncing off the edge
Unseen rain falls constantly


Slán

Silverwolf

Haiku

Screaming bright gulls wheel
Bulbous swirling clouds
The cat drips wet and peeks out


Slán

Silverwolf

Happy New Year

Happy new year everyone - this one's got to be better than the last!

Slán

Silverwolf