Throughout the books written with Stuart France there are visions; moments of a past long fled that ‘Wen’ still sees written in the ancient stone of the landscape and within the circles of the Old Ones. They come when they will, flooding her consciousness with something that may be no more than imagination, no more than a waking dream… or perhaps they are shadows that are cast across the face of time…
The stone is warm beneath her back. Above her the clear blue of the sky is powdered with clouds, barely moving. It is sheltered here in the circle, the earthen banks of the henge protecting the centre from the ceaseless assault of the winds in this high place.
She closes her eyes and waits, feet towards the centre, hands crossed on her breast, relaxing each muscle, each limb in turn, breathing deeply of the clear air.
The shift comes. The world falls away. She can see her companion through closed eyes, across the circle, mirroring her. She does not need to look to feel his presence.
On the screen of inner sight a single glowing point of light that seems farther than the farthest star, yet closer than the sun. Between her and the light nothing but the streaks of passage… a stream of movement, as of a million suns caught racing comets in the blackness of space. A wormhole… dragons… serpents aflame with brilliance… a tunnel through which she is rushing faster than the light itself, falling inwards, forwards, upwards… she does not know.
Then a figure blocking the brightness… a dark silhouette against the torchlight and the tang of smoke. A hand extended, smiling eyes unseen but felt. She takes the hand, stiff after the long vigil in the chill of night, accepting assistance to regain her feet.
The grass is cold, frost biting her bare toes. Above, a million stars streak across the heavens. It is done. The old one smiles, raising his hand…
Continue reading at The Silent Eye
Never look back!
It is good advice, unfortunately, in story-telling this advice,
when given, is never adhered to.
Orpheus… Lot… Dr Faustus…
They are all concerned with Soul.
The Soul that turns to look back is caught in time.
It may be an ‘intention thing’, like trying to serve two masters, do not walk one way and look the other.
There are any number of mythological monsters depicted in this way to prove it.
Tiamet… Nergal… The Dread Beast of Mercia.
The hero ‘slays’ them all, by moving forward.
But going back to take another look, that is different.
That is part of going forward.
And it is also inevitable.
This time we inadvertently found ourselves following our own advice from one of our books.
We started at Hordron’s, that hoary old receptacle of time, went on to Strines, the ‘Peacock Pub’, and finished up at the Old Horns Inn.
And this time when we got to Bradfield, ‘Castle Hill’ was illuminated.
No need to wonder where we will be heading next then.
But first, we had another encounter with one of our mounds to experience.
We needed more photographs.
Were duly forthcoming.
Once we had braved the curiously over-friendly sheep…
With the afternoon heading inexorably
towards evening at a pace…
and a two-and-a-half hour drive
before our next hostelry
ahead of us…
We probably did not really have time to explore…
But I am so glad we did.
Deep within the Forest of Yore…
We discovered a Clootie Tree…
And an Old Celtic Chapel.
Although we didn’t know it at the time,
Ballowal Barrow is a ‘Faery-Fort’.
It is situated close to a now disused tin-mine
and miners, during the late nineteenth century,
upon finishing their night shift, are said to have seen
lights burning over the barrow and faeries dancing there.
It would explain the sense of caution with which we approached the site.
Getting on the wrong side of the Faery-Folk is never advisable.
And it did feel like we were being watched, observed, or monitored, by something.
Still, as our intentions at these places are generally honourable we managed
to escape with our wits, more or less, intact.
Though, curiously, for the evening was still young, our sojourn there signalled the
end of adventures for that day.
Perhaps, they had some thing in store for us on the morrow…
Given that we were now checking out the ‘Michael Line’,
One might have expected some sort of ‘Angelic Support’…
But even by our standards,
The send off assumed ridiculous proportions…
It also offered unexpected vindication
for our speculations in the ‘Doomsday Trilogy’…
A ‘Glastonbury Thorn’.
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Don and Wen, following the breadcrumb trail of arcane lore and ancient knowledge, scattered across the landscape of time, turn their attention to the myths and legends of Old Albion. They delve into the tales of King Arthur, asking some very strange questions about biblical family trees and exploring the many stories that abound in the very landscape of Avalon. Meanwhile, in Derbyshire, the voices of the past still whisper from the stones, opening a passage through time, place and memory to another world…
Doomsday: The Ætheling Thing
How is it possible to hide such a story… the hidden history of Christianity in Britain? Oh, there are legends of course… old tales… Yet what if there was truth in them? What was it that gave these blessed isles such a special place in the minds of our forefathers? There are some things you are not taught in Sunday School. From the stone circles of the north to the Isle of Avalon, Don and Wen follow the breadcrumbs of history and forgotten lore to uncover a secret veiled in plain sight.
Doomsday: Dark Sage
…. something was spawned up on the moor… something black that flew on dark wings. It heeds not time or place… but it seems to have developed a penchant for the travels of Don and Wen….
“Are those two still at it?”
Doomsday: Scions of Albion
Things are getting serious…
Exactly what is Wen doing with that crowbar and why is she wearing a balaclava?
All will be revealed…or will it?
as Don and Wen explore the ancient land.
‘Of wheel-tracks there were none just strange,
narrow paths across the moorland.’
With the dust well settled over the Living Land Workshop, and already two days into our vacation, we found ourselves in search of a map.
A big map.
One which showed in greater detail the ways and by-ways of Old Cornwall.
We had done well that first day, discovering a goodly number of the most obvious and easily accessible sites…
But this was going to need precision.
We had a name.
We had a description.
We even had a picture, and now, we had a good map.
We could not fail, could we?
“Well, it has taken a while, but I think we can be fairly certain that this particular example of the symbolist’s art has something to do with the number eight.”
“‘Fairly certain’? ‘Something to do with’? It is hardly the stuff of science, now is it?”
“Symbolism, by its very nature, is much more than science, and much less too.”
“You are not making much sense.”
“It is open like an ‘art’, but its precision is less focused and more inclusive.”
“I keep wanting to turn it on its head.”
“Which would give us a… mirror!”
“And the ‘S’?”
“Stands for saviour.”
“Or a stream.”
“Which flows underground.”