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‘Claims to ancient reach’?…

Arbor Low and Stanton Moor Imbolc 001 (15)

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

‘Fact-Checka’! …

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“The only thing

mutating

is the lie!”

Count Jack Black

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 A Questionable Science:

Love and Death in the Time of COVID 

by Stuart France and G. Michael Vasey

‘The Gallows and Gibbet Inn’, proclaimed the sign, which singular nominal ought really to have aroused, if not my shackles then, at least my suspicions. 

Too late, Anu was already tugging me over the threshold into the warmth, and the light, and the sound of voices, and music…

…They were all in there!

Black Jack Davey… Teigue-the-Fool… The Miller’s Son… The Sorcerer’s Apprentice… H.R.H. the Lord of the Elements, and one-hundred-and-one other far less savoury characters.

Most of them in their cups. Reprobates all! And what a tale they had to tell.

If you have ever wondered why all the public houses are shut.

You had better pull up a chair…

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Now available in paperback and Kindle formats on Amazon

Departing…

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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…

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We probably did not really have time to explore…

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But I am so glad we did.

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Deep within the Forest of Yore…

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We discovered a Clootie Tree…

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And an Old Celtic Chapel.

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A visit to spiral castle…

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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…

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Holy Scions…

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Given that we were now checking out the ‘Michael Line’,

One might have expected some sort of ‘Angelic Support’…

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But even by our standards,

The send off assumed ridiculous proportions…

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It also offered unexpected vindication

for our speculations in the ‘Doomsday Trilogy’…

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A ‘Glastonbury Thorn’.

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DOOMSDAY

The Aetheling Thing     Dark Sage   Scions of Albion

All books available via Amazon in Paperback and for Kindle

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?”
“Apparently….”


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?

Follow the story begun in The Initiate and the Triad of Albion,

as Don and Wen explore the ancient land.

Clues…

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“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!”

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“And the ‘S’?”

“Stands for saviour.”

“Or a stream.”

“Which flows underground.”

 

 

Chapel-en-le-River…

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“There was one thing.”

“Oh yes?”

“Well, two things, really.”

“These days ‘really’ is not a precise term, but proceed anyway.”

“No, no of course not… it’s just that, it struck me that the stones were conceived as shadows.”

“Shadows of what?”

“The ancestral realm.”

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“And the second thing?”

“We’re being haunted.”

“By what?”

“By a shape!”

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“It’s a Cop.”

“Look again.”

“It’s still a Cop.”

“Or a very big Long Barrow.”

“But it’s a hill.”

“Look again.”

“It’s still a hill.”

“Or a very big Long Barrow.”

“They didn’t build Long Barrows that big.”

“Why not?”

“It’s absurd. It’s preposterous. They simply couldn’t have.”

“They built Silbury.”

“Silbury’s not a Burial Mound.”

“No, but the ‘Archaeos’ used to think that it was.”

“The ‘Archaeos’ are always getting it wrong.”

They think it’s a hill.”

“They thought all the ‘Motte and Bailys’ were mediaeval.”

“Precisley, it’s definitely a big Long Barrow.”

“It’s not definitely anything but what makes you so sure?”

“Numbers.”

“Numbers?”

“Most of the sites hold a lot of people and there are thousands of them. A lot of them would have taken huge numbers to construct and there are thousands of them and yet, the burials are relatively few. Even at the massive sites…”

“Where are all the bones?”

“I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking.”

“Especially on Ilkley.”

“We know Ilkley’s a Necropolis…

“…And yet, there are hardly any cairns.”

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Derbyshire’s Green Man…

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Beyond the forest’s leafy shade,

The hooded one, with giant’s pace

From pinnacle to pinnacle

Leap’t silently, in moonlit grace… 

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In eremitic solitude

In caverns deep to meditate…

Within, the riddle of the night,

A key that will elucidate…

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Beyond the stones, to four once nine

To where the goddess meets her mate

And heavens dance at winters turn

Bends earthwards to illuminate.

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