A white stone

…Across the flames is a young woman little more than a child.

Behind her is a guardian, one of those who served the sacred enclosure.

Ever silent except to speak for the Gods.

Tall he stands against the distant glow, present, watchful.

A figure of fear and trust, he is the shield of the young one.

The almost-child weeps tears of molten gold in the fire glow.

Her eyes beg questions, plead for answers… yet they are silent.

The kinship of the three shines in their resolve.

It must be now.

There is no more time…

Heart of Albion

***

***

It is raining again… and bitterly cold. It was last Sunday too when on the final day of my foray into the north the hills were calling. We had unfinished business there and in one of those quirks of intuitive emotion, I had felt the pull of the place driving past our parking spot on Friday evening and woken on Sunday with the conviction that the time was now. I had been putting it off after the events of the last time. So the freezing wind and rain were, of course, entirely appropriate weather to go walking across the hilltops.

Like the first time we had been to the site of the ancient stone circle here, the plan was a quick visit before a leisurely lunch.  Like the first time, it didn’t work out quite that way, and ended once more with me sobbing into a soggy if sympathetic shoulder.

Yet it seemed fitting to have come back as we completed the book which had begun here in such dramatic fashion. True to form, the drama continued, but on a gentler note and with a gift.

I have written of this strange sensation of walking between worlds, playing it down, perhaps for the appearance of sanity. But as I wrote once before, objective reality barely matters when the subjective holds its own; reality has many facets and all have their place if they serve.

In dream, imagination, vision… call it what you will… I have followed a story from its birth to its passing and on Sunday once more I went beyond that veil, returning with a bit of advice way too pertinent. And with another phrase, I did not understand.

I put off writing the notes of this ‘encounter’, knowing they would set me off again. Eventually, I wrote them up and before sending them off, typed into Google the curious phrase I had taken away from the afternoon, wondering if there was an ancient site with the name.

No, not a site, but a reference… a quotation… that left me wide-eyed in surprise! A glance back at the notes from the night before confirmed how closely notes and quotation were linked… way too close for mere coincidence…

“I was aware of that…” says my correspondent, airily. “ I thought it might be that.”

“…!” Imagine me gobsmacked….

There was a name too… one I couldn’t quite catch, but which was whispered on the wind and settled on the page as I wrote. A name, now I have traced its origins, that also has meaning. But that is another story…

So now I wait for the next step in the journey… in a world that is changing faster than I can keep step, it seems; and as we prepare to release Giants Dance the next book takes shape, almost without our design, as Ceridwen adds what she wills to the cauldron of life and inspiration.

 

***

He had stood guard all night… I had felt him there…the last thing I had known. He stood there still, shoulders fallen… head bowed… until they came. It was he who carried me to the place of preparation…

I could no longer feel his tears as they fell upon my face… no longer reach out in comfort to him…

There was a memory of the ache of separation… a severing of the cords of life… What of me was human still yearned to offer comfort… what of me was beyond knew it was not needed… it was a birthing. He laid me in the circled place and the drums began…

They brought me treasures… one by one… a hawk’s feather… a flower… a stone…The fires were lit…The great cauldron was filled and boiling…

It was for him to make the first cut…

Giants Dance

***