The Hidden Parchment: First Chronicle in the Series of the Entrapment

By Carole Weave Lane

The Hidden Parchment is a Fantasy adventure set in two time frames. It is the story of how Birgit de Merlinus, a pawn of the Olde Gods/Goddesses, becomes aware that she is ‘The Seeker’, and has been allocated a Quest to pursue. Try as she may, she is unable to extricate herself from the task is forced to accept it after her High Priestess informs her that she has been selected and groomed for the task that began in another time frame when she was known as Princess Brighid, named after the Goddess, daughter of the King Peradur of Dragonia.
When Lord Myrddin, Head Merlin of the Earthly Plains and High Steward in the realms of Chrysdragontail visits her father and forces her to return to the Earthly Plains to assist him. As an Enchantress, as yet unknown, does as she is bid her and future changes in such a way that the outcome is yet unresolved in the year 2003 where she has been reborn as Birgit de Merlinus, an orphan and an excellent student with an A+ average.

On the day we meet her, she is celebrating her birthday by a walk along the River in Bournemouth UK with her two friends, Cherrie and Brendan. What commences as something pleasant becomes a nightmare of experiences that change her forever. Several large Ravens await her and under the instructions of the Mother Goddess, awaken her to her Destiny. From this time forth she undergoes dreams of such a horrific nature that she struggles to maintain her sense of who she is.

As a trainee Witch, with the help of her high Priestess the Lady Moonfeather the Third, who initiates her, she jumps from one adventure to another. She finds that she not only can communicate with these ancient forces that she possesses the gift of the Dragon, the gift of fire, that if provoked can rise unaided and, that she can project it through her fingertips.

In time, as she struggles in the two worlds that she resides in, her concentration lapses and she struggles to be a good student and receives very damaging marks that will deny her entrance to Oxford where her parents were Professors in the Archeology Department.

As such, upon receiving a letter, as predicted by the High Priestess that she will be embarking upon a short trip, an Aunt of her deceased mother asks to visit with them. As she is feeling poorly, she accepts and, her Professor allows her to write two further essays that if she receives two A+ pluses he will reinstate her excellent credibility. Thus, we leave Birgit as she boards a plane to Melbourne.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Feb 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479765683

Carole Weave Lane

Carole Weave Lane was born in Melbourne and became a teacher after much travelling. She moved to Perth and now resides by the Swan River with her pets. She is a member of the OBOD and she loves to tell and write stories.

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Copyright © 2013 by Carole Wēavè-Lane.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Prelude

Chapter 1    The Raven’s Call—The Journey Begins*

Chapter 2    Nightfall

Chapter 3    Within the Cauldron, the Waters Bubble

Chapter 4    Brighid’s Tale

Chapter 5    Gold and Mayhem

Chapter 6    Bran

Chapter 7    A Witch

Chapter 8    Magic Abounds

Chapter 9    The Sleeper Awakes

Chapter 10  The Dreaming

Chapter 11  The Waxing Moon Did Shine So Brightly

Chapter 12  Come into my Parlour Said the Spider to the Fly

Chapter 13  Further Entrapment

Chapter 14  A Walk on the Wild Side

Chapter 15  The Breathing Forest

Chapter 16  The Plot Thickens

Chapter 17  The Spell is Cast

Chapter 18  Lady Moonfeather, the High Priestess

Chapter 19  The Cryptic Message

Chapter 20  The Cards Speak

Chapter 21  The Goddess Speaks

Chapter 22  Information Overload**

Chapter 23  The Witch-Hare She Did Speak to Me

Chapter 24  Imbolg—The Rites of Spring

Chapter 25  The Initiation and its Aftermath

Chapter 26  Rhiannnon’s Wild Horses Are Restless

Chapter 27  Fickle is the Wind

References

My Background

Dedication

T his book is dedicated to my deceased parents Phillip and Irene Lane. Sadly, they will not be able to read the Trilogy that it will become. I would like to think they are sharing it with me in spirit as they stroll through the old house occasionally. It was a house of dreaming for me, and that is where I wrote it alongside the books to follow. Thank you for giving me the tools to bring this together. It has been a long road, for it has taken me nine years. We’ll meet again in the Astral in another time and space. So mote it be.

Acknowledgements

A special thank you to the following people who have assisted in propelling me forever forwards. My sister Rosalinde Lane, who was there at Samhain, when the magick trickled into me in the mystical treed park of Parkville as the bats flew overhead covering the face of the Moon. Birgit de Merlinus, the Enchantress walked across the path in front of me beckoning me to follow and led me to the Oak Tree where later I sipped Acorn tea with the Fey, the Elves, and the Goddess Cerridwen.

To my long suffering family and for granddaughters Emillie and Mandy Bee, for their helpful suggestions, particularly with computer problems, To Lumina and Lady Jade who understand me.

The Librarians at the Brunswick, North Melbourne Libraries Melbourne AND The Bassendean Librarians in Bassendean Perth for all their help.

My writing Buddies at the Reading and Writing Coven who share amazing writing abilities—a newer breed of writers who have supported me and offered helpful advice. In particular, they are Kim Faulks, Penny Reilly, Aynia Breeze, Stacey Jane, Joanne Stucken, Kelly-Earth Healer Watts, Amy Lally, Helen Sidebottom and to Luke West.

Daniel Falzon my nephew, who has loved the concept of ‘My Dreaming’ and is part of Earth Sanctuary Alice Springs that plays a part in the book.

The crew, past and present at the Ark of Joan, who have always admonished me in not finishing it earlier and for Nikki Earth Spirit Calleja and Irene Attwood who have loved the journey. For Maria Tsangaris who always looks after me and Sky Bear, our Seichim Reiki Mascot.

As a psychic as well, I thank the light beings from the Spirit worlds, who have taken me to places I would not have dreamed possible, to dare, to know but not to keep silent. I release you Birgit as a baby spider who joyfully runs down the golden thread as spun by her mother, to a new life. Be blessed and blessed be.

To the crew at XLibris, for the awesome cover, medieval fonts and their desire to please.

Prelude

Whatever the fates, in their ebb and flow lead us-let us follow.

(Virgil)

A nd so it was as the un-named day lengthened into dusk on 23 December 2002—so-called as it was linked to the gathering of the magical mistletoe so revered in the Oak Forest by the Druids who had now departed—their tasks complete until the same time the following year. Thereby the ‘day’ was not subject to the usual laws of the land and on this occasion magic was afoot.

As the dying day drifted into the twilight, a full moon journeyed upwards into the heavens above—gold, it glowed as a lantern. Its quivering beams shone above the swaying branches of ancient oak trees that fanned the branches of the Fairy Alder trees by the entrance to a large, damp cave descending to the very bowels of the earth. By them stood a be whiskered Druid, whose ancient body blended into the scenery around him. Intently, he listened for the tell tale muffled shuffling of footsteps and scrapings from the expected ones as they made their way up the passageway towards him. Upon hearing their presence, he sighed aloud to himself. At last, they were near. Very near. Instantly, he stroked the head of the large restless owl standing on his shoulder for he felt her body stiffen in anticipation of a meal or, perhaps, danger. It was a sign that she was unsettled. If she remained in this state, she would hoot thereby revealing their positioning. At all costs, this situation was to be avoided. Lowering his tone to almost a whisper, he gently crooned cajoling her.

‘Harken, my sweet! Be not a feared. All is well—please to be silent, eh!’ As, if in response to the change in voice more than what was verbalised she shook her blue, grey wings and stared at him from under her large tawny hooded eyes and hoot she did not though she dug her claws more tightly into his shoulders in protest. He gasped, frowned, and shook his head as if to say play is over—now pay attention to me. The bird released its pressure and turned her attention to the entranceway.

"It hast begun, they are near—thus we need to move quickly. Said he. With a quick twist he straightened his crooked back. Taking a deep breath he slowly raised to the heavens above an elaborately carved and crystallized staff. Upon its apex a dragon’s head had been carved and protruded outwards. Those who visioned it believed that it possessed a life of its own separate from the staff. Glowering eyes of a dull amber had opened and as they surveyed the scene its mouth widened and from it puffed out a golden odourless mist that rose upwards and outward before snaking towards the cave entrance. Simultaneously, the Druid murmured an incantation that ended with:

‘And from the fingers of ancient tongues and fingers of ancient powers—Charge this entrance way into mist!’ Expectantly, he stood back allowing the spell to manifest. Instantly, a skin like an invisible doorway peeled itself away from the hidden cave revealing a gaping hole.

From within the cave, the language that was used for communicative purposes became more decipherable, revealing to the Druid an archaic language of the old ones. He listened carefully, nodding occasionally, and grunted as if pleased by what they had revealed. At last, as their shapes became discernable to the naked eyed, he stepped back further into the shadows not wanting to be seen.

‘Best we are, then away, my girl. Our task is complete,’ whispered he to the owl that hooted joyously into the night air. Like shades, they evaporated into the rising mists that swept up the valley from the sea. A lone witch who had observed their exit stood at the sea’s entrance and mimicked the cry of a seagull. Very soon, water sprites spirited towards the cave, their ethereal forms spraying droplets of water around them. The wind howled in reply and darkness was forming.

A multitude of laughing fairies and other folks of all shapes and sizes sped into the twilight towards the fairy trees that seemed to be welcoming them by changing the colours of their trunks. Flashes of white, orange, red, and black flooded their vision. The colours fanned as a backdrop amidst the greenery of the leaves. Thus, earth, water, fire, air, and spirit united forming a pentagram of the hallowed guardians of the forest.

Some folks who lived on the outer fringes of it were of the opinion that the cave was a gateway between worlds hidden thus from prying eyes whilst there were others who were of the belief that it was where the Earth Mother herself spored her litters, and they in turn preyed upon unsuspecting souls who happened to have traversed into it. Thus, the forest was left in peace and to those that lived in it.

Time did not exist within it at all. So ancient was it that words failed to express its duration of being. Thus, it stood within pasturelands that encircled a village that was also timeless. Within it, its citizens lived a lifestyle more suited to the ways of their ancestors and, with a few exceptions, did not allow the encroachment of modern life and all its facilities overly upon their lifestyles. Such a time warp did they live in, that only a small portion of its inhabitants wore jeans or listened to radios. Modern music was frowned on and only a few owned television sets. Most people had never ventured from their village. The young who had to bus out to attend the higher schools did not feel compelled to study and thus only a handful completed year twelve. It was as if an invisible wall had been placed around this southern part of the English countryside. Unique it was and unique its inhabitants. As a whole they wished it to remain, for they were conscious that a world very different from their own existed beyond their boundaries. It was only a matter of time before some busybody would enter, and time was all they had, but, until then, they remained solid citizens, and the life went on. Few were compelled to take the step that would lead them into another existence. If they did, they never returned. Questions were often asked if indeed they had made to the other side as it was referred to or had they taken one of the many paths that led to the forest and never returned from it.

In hindsight, many of its ancestors had plodded along these tracks that fed from the forest to the village. From here, it converged into two main pathways. One interconnecting pathway that criss-crossed through farmlands, beyond their borders that were now part of the modern world of tractors and spray cropping. Further, it ran linking into paved roads and, finally, snaking into a motorway. Other pathways snaked around and through farm lets, criss-crossing and passing through the village one. Mostly unused, curved through the forest, passing by the Alder trees until it dipped into a small valley that lead down to the ocean. At high tide, its waters gurgled up dissolving into its surrounds. Seagulls, known as messengers to the gods, flew in at this time to dive and swoop after trapped fish perpetuating the cycles of life—birth and death.

Nowadays, the forest in size measured not more than one thousand hundred or so acres—one of the last of its kind. It chose whom it admitted, for it was be-spelled with ogham and runic sigils that had been placed there by powerful druids and sorcerers so long ago that it had forgotten who had performed them. If in danger of any kind, mists arose within thereby presenting an impenetrable wall thus warding off intruders. Those only pure of heart are allowed in, believers in the old faiths such as Druids, witches, and rare individuals, such as Farmer Cieran Appleton, who at twilight was explaining to his patient wife.

‘I am of the opinion,’ said he, a man of ponderous build, medium of height, whose sparsely black and silver streaked hair stood out like bunches of grass atop strangely pointed larger than normal red ears that fell forward as he shook his head at his wife Dora.

‘Yes,’ she said, waiting for him to pontificate as he usually did. Idly, she took in the tan and pale spring leaf homespun clothes that she had lovingly spun for him. Always he insisted upon wearing such shades that blended with the leaves, the trunks of trees, and the darkness of his shoes blended with that of the earth in the woods. He could have been a tree himself. She stiffened as he seemed to gathering momentum, casting upon her his blue eyes, clear as a summer’s day. They lit up his rotund face, and his cheeks were as pink as a baby’s bottom. He chopped his fat caterpillar lips together. They glued together for a minute, and she hastily looked around to see if any birds were appearing, for she was afraid he would break out in a song as he was wont to do, and birds would flutter in from nowhere and surround him. She didn’t like birds and was fearful as a large black bird flew down from the heavens above to land upon his shoulder. A crow she thought and panic filled her up like water. She didn’t like crows or ravens and could not detect differences in them. To her, they were one and the same. Rather than look at it, she glanced across at their sheep that were passing by them. They too avoided the forest at night and sought shelter closer towards their cottage. ‘Ha’, she thought, ‘they are wise too’ and flipped her thoughts back to hear Cieran speaking to her.

‘I avow that I’m the luckiest man alive for I ‘av been accepted by the forest itself as well as those that abide therein,’ he paused. She pursed her lips together waiting for him to continue.

‘An you canna see I comes to no harm—not like the others, do I?’

‘What others do you mean? ‘The others,’ he repeated shuffling backwards and forwards upon the same spot.

She shuddered involuntarily at his denial of past mishaps. ‘Are we referring to this century or the last Cieran, may I ask!’ Grimacing, her black eyes focused upon his lips because that were in the process of clamping together as a frog did before it croaked. She sighed inwardly suppressing a cold shiver that ran through her bony frame when he talked thus.

‘Well, I know not their names, but there’re some individuals that I’ve heard talk that ‘av trespassed into it and returned to tell their tales. So what is the fuss about I’d like to know.’

‘Trespassed—you mean more that they were hindered upon before returning,’ Dora his wife replied, shuddering a little at the incoming breeze and buttoned up her grey waterproof coat. ‘And who did the hindering that I would like to know. As well, why were they allowed to return?’

‘Hum, I canna see that you’re fixed in your point ‘o view, so we’ll let it drop will we,’ he replied in a defeated tone though disappointed by her continued refusal to see the situation from his view point.

She nodded, relief flooding through her that she had managed to quell, for the moment, his delivery upon his favourite subject. Her thin colourless lips set together as she hastily formulated what she needed to say to him whilst he took from his one of his many pockets from his larger than life rain jacket, a small clay pipe already filled with tobacco and lit it. Friendly smoke rose as the darkening mists rolled in from the sea. He strained his ears to listen to the swells of waves beating against the cliffs in the distance Above and around them darkness was slowly forming. Stamping his feet, he could feel the spirits of the earth rising. The moon would be full tonight, and it would be appearing very soon on the horizon. ‘It is nearly time,’ he thought, but what is she saying now and he struggled to listen, but he was distracted by the many issues to consider upon this day’s eve and was hoping that she’d hurry up and leave him be.

‘I agree in principle with you, my dear, that so far you’ve been lucky, and personally, I don’t want to talk about those folks who never returned to their families.’ Her voice became no more than a whisper, and the words seemed to be squeezing out of the mouth chamber when she said, ‘Strange, though—you seem to have forgotten this point completely.’ For years, she had undergone penance as was instructed by her priest who visited the village once a month for these lost souls and had even journeyed back to her old convent, where she had been educated, to speak to the nuns about it. If only her mother had not insisted upon them returning to the village. If only her poor father had not died and left her to manage. If only her mother had not insisted she marry Cieran—how different her life would have been. ‘It was all in the past now.’ she thought, and I have to deal with this situation—that I do. Returning from her reverie, she hissed at him.

Oh dear, all this is a bit unsettling for me, and almost from habit sought once more around her for a sign, a figure anything to confirm that she was not imagining being followed. She knew it and felt it in her bones to be true, but this time, however, she saw only a nimbus settling around him and further afield towards the forest. For the moment, she put this fear aside and continued to press her subject whilst he watched her every expression and action.

‘My goodness, Cieran, why you talk about the forest as if it’s a living entity I know not. It gives me the creeps. Aye, it does! The good sisters at my old convent would turn in their graves at such a belief. It’s medieval.’

Mechanically, as she wiped her clammy long-boned fingers upon a large hand embroidered handkerchief that she kept on her person whilst a few straggly woolly sheep tripped along a narrow path by them. As they bleated, it felt as if they were in sympathy or warning her, and she began to think it was an omen of some kind. This caught her off balance and hastily she turned completely around staring into empty space, seeking for a sign that she was being observed.

‘But it is!’ he said, surprised at her vehemence, noticing her agitation but choosing to ignore it. The forest is alive. ‘It breathes like you an’ me, in fact, just like the old bellows ol’ Mr Jarvis has, and if you’d only come with me at night into it, just once, you’d see for yarself. Then, wife, you’d not be answering me back so!’ His voice had risen in response to hers. Breathing deeply to regain his equilibrium, he leaned across his staff, gaping at her from his eyes that protruded like ping-pong balls each enclosing tightly a small blue circle in the centre. He did this in an attempt to drive his point home for though he’d long given up hope that he’d persuade her, otherwise, he never ceased trying.

Dora Appleton was known to be sharp of tongue when young and considered quite up herself as she’d been educated out as well as being a devout Catholic. Most of the villagers followed the old pagan ways, and she was ostracized from the beginning. It was whispered that she had met her match with Cieran but that was not true because she had allowed it to be so, for she did not want to admit it but he was not of this world and she possessed no weapons to fight him. She felt the impact of the hypnotic quality from his eyes beaming into hers. Hastily, she avoided the eye contact as she had been caught many times before and had been hypnotised into complacency. Tonight, would not be one of them and quickly she looked around biting her lips as she did so for she not amiss to what neighbours spoke of as they gathered in small groups whispering to each other and silencing themselves if she passed by. On occasions, she distinctly heard the word witch mentioned, and she knew what that meant. They watched her every move as she did so, and it was so noticeable that they resumed their conversation after she was a little away from them. It so unnerved her that she shook all over even to think about it, but she schooled herself from talking about it. After all, she had her elderly mother to consider and to confide in him would be a waste of time for he would call her daft and that her imagination was working overtime. With an effort, she placed a weak smile upon her face and pushed his dinner wrapped up in a napkin into his hands as well as a flask filled with mead. This was a task she willingly did day in and day out though this day eve she could have cheerfully thrown it at him for she felt as if she was speaking to a child and swallowed hard before continuing.

‘In my heart, my love, is because you’re a believer in the old magic, older than that which is practiced by the others and in a small way a part of it. That’s it, and there are many who are jealous of it to be sure for who else is allowed to let their sheep graze so near the forest or in it.’

He shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably as he listened to her. ‘Alas, no one else’s sheep are so plump and covered with heavy fleece and fetch such good prices at the market. Also your sheep do not come down with strange maladies and have to put down. Ah, no, do they? I of course could mention the game and fish that all seem to arrive and other things too—couldn’t I?’

‘Ah well—tha’ could be so’, but he didn’t add that those who cooperated were left in peace and those that didn’t suffered the consequences. That was the law of the magic an’ as old as time. He couldna change it—he was a part of it. A good harvest was promised to those that cooperated. These people now they had choices they did!’

‘Don’t you see, dear, that there’s talk in the village about it I’m afraid to say. Now, and I don’t know how to say this but another child has vanished—that’s three in all—and you know what that means.’

‘I’m not sure to what you’re referring to, but I do know that three is the number of the triple goddesses—and that’s old magic, and it is rising once more that’s all. It’s the way, luv, and every one will benefit—everyone.’

‘If only they could be certain that their children lived, Cieran—it would be a blessing. Don’t you see? The uncertainty of it will gnaw away at them forever. Why it has happened to us too—don’t you remember too.’

‘Aye—but that’s different, and we’ve never looked back since,’av we?’

‘He’d paid the price too. Yes, he ‘ad, but he always felt his little Enegren was alive and kicking, but in a different form that’s all.’

‘Our only child was taken. Was he taken by the fairies or was he sacrificed to the trees who drained the life force from him. Did they suffer the same fate, Cieran? Did they? Tell me how is it different, Cieran? Please tell me for goodness’s sake, then go tell those other woman.’ Hurriedly, she made the sign of the cross and looked furtively behind her once more as her shoes beat a steady beat upon the grass.

‘Do you think that I do not think about it to this day. The pain does not go away. It becomes a form of cancer inside of me. If I feel this, other women would also. But I can’t expect you to understand because you’re one of them. You don’t seem to think as mortals do—that’s for sure.’ She pursed her lips together before continuing, ‘It’s just another name for murder—that’s all. Nothing you can say will convince me otherwise.’ The last sentence she added with a sob.

Scratching his head, for the first time since their conversation he searched for the right words, but they were not forthcoming. Hesitating, as he opened his mouth to say something, a voice not his own spoke through him, and he and let it spew from him.

‘These children are special and were conceived and born for this purpose. These souls have connected to the heartbeat of the mother goddess and that in turn connected to the wheel that turns and twists from sunrise to moonrise, season to season, year in and year out. This is the pulse of life as directed by the Ancients and so it shall be.’

The deepness of the tone that seemed to be coming through a microphone ceased and her husband, or whom she thought was her husband, swallowed and stared at her. The moment of truth had arrived. He was part of the deep magic—whatever that was. It was not the first time that such thoughts had run through her. She was certain now. Her words had fallen upon deaf ears as she knew they would.

Sadly, she gathered herself together adding a slight smile as a final touch, ‘Time’s are a changing. I know that it’s inevitable an’ I’m fearful of it an’ I pray that we be taken care of. I really do.’

Then as she wiped back a grey curl from her thin face, her eyes moistened, and she regretted her outburst and attempted to smooth it over and kissed him on the cheek and whispered, ‘Bye bye, dear, best I be getting back then. Mother will be worried.’

He nodded, and she tearfully made her way back home conscious that it was nearly dark and the pale sun had disappeared into the horizon. Darkness overtook her as she sped in her flat lace up shoes along rabbit paths that lead to their small cottage a little ways from the edge of the forest. The sheep had taken themselves into the outer yards and had spread out into the barn and to her astonishment—its door had been closed and locked—the key sitting in the lock. She retrieved it and took it into the cottage. ‘Oh, dear—she muttered who could have done that. It’s too much, too much!’

Quickly, she entered the cottage and closed the door, bolting it, then walking backwards to the kitchen table as if she felt she had been followed and collapsed into a hard chair. She was determined that she would not think about the forest at all and all its implications. With a lump in her heart, she rose and checked on her mother who was asleep in her bed. Only then did she return to her chair.

Farmer Appleton had watched her speed away and gulped down his dinner. Calmly, as he sipped steadily on the potent home-brewed mead he looked towards the forest. The air chilled around him. He inhaled some more allowing it to slowly enter his lungs whilst feeling one with the night. His wits were a little dulled, he failed to defect the energy change that was slowly and subtlety altering around him for so still was he, his eyes were closed. Locked into this embrace, he felt rather than saw a soft thudding sound by him. Too late, he saw the air shimmering as it lifted him into it and like a whirlwind whisked him in the forest depositing him near the centre of it by ancient oak trees, whose twisting and ferreting roots eased in an out of the earth mother like giant worms.

Gasping from the suddenness of it all, Cieran felt alive, free as a bird, and, gleeful as if in a trance, not once thinking about his wife and that she would be worried if he didn’t return. He clambered on large rocks and over them for they formed a network of hummocks of varying sizes that allowed refuge for mushrooms to proliferate and provide homes to small creatures. As he did so puffing and panting, he shed his large form and lost height and became a creature resembling a dwarf and the arms of his rain jacket hung down to the ground. In spite of this, he continued his challenge and pressed forward. Above him the arms of the trees united, whispering to each other like washing put to dry upon a clothesline. He had been called, and he was obeying orders, and in time, he came to edge of the cave where he watched the comings and goings of the forest folk.

Beyond him Goddess Arianhrod, in spider form, stared out on the mysterious Alder trees until as if the night called her she threw out a web that fluttered with the breeze and ran with it into the constructed web that hung from one side of the cave entrance to the other. Thus linking it together she squatted into position gathering and replucking threads dissolving it all into the ‘Dreaming’ where it glittered with the dew that danced upon the lacy patterns. Above her, the golden moon shone outside the cave as a lantern and within the black velvet sky the twinkling of stars reminded her of her home. There was no time to think of work she has to do and soon the rain would come.

Presently, she ran along her silken realm and crossed two of her many haired legs and was so oblivious to her many babies scampering upon and around her in and out of the web’s pathways. Thus, she released one single thread, so fine, so sticky, so pure, and so evil. Lengthening it until she was satisfied with its progress, she quickly split it into four string like threads. Tut-tutting, she allowed them to float with the breeze, billowing like tresses until they were carried along by the four Airts to all the four corners of her kingdoms. Her newborn babies gleefully swung themselves free, running from her black swollen stomach, attaching themselves like hitchhikers to the webs whilst she silently farewelled them. She had given life, and life had taken form.

This task completed, she yawned, opening her mouth to breath out warm air into the cold and frosty night. Through her middle eye in her forehead that gave her x-ray vision, she glimpsed Dora Appleton and projected some healing to her as well as placing a veil of protection around her; otherwise, her fate would be sealed by the so-called good folk of the village, and she would end her days branded as a witch—strung up to a tree. She would see to it that she’d leave the village, and she and her mother returned to the convent. A task for one of her priestesses she thought. Cieran Appleton came into her view, and she sighed, for he was one the forest people thus protected by old magic. If anything happened to him, she would need to remove the forest from its surrounds elsewhere. Anyway, she may yet do so, but at this moment all was well.

The wind had arisen, raindrops were softly falling around her, and she proceeded stamping her feet in anticipation for her visitor. In theory, it should have been the Holly King, but it was a ‘nameless day’ as such it stood outside of time, thereby the laws and customs did not prevail until the dawn. Impatiently, she became anxious to complete her final task. So much depended on its success—failure was out of the question.

A large stag made its way through the Alder trees. His four legs supported a muscled upper body, and as he neared the cave, the light from the moon shone on his prominent veins heavy and gorged with blood. Huge antlers jutted through his head and long dark hair hung free around his handsome face. His eyes were flecked with tawny gold lights. By many names was he known, and at different times of the season. Cernunoss was one. Sometimes Pan and, of course, Gwyn ap Nydd and another Herne the Hunter, tonight—he was the Horned God.

Pawing at the earth, he roared into the night. The sound echoed and vibrated throughout the leaves and branches of the trees. Each leaf trembled for it was a call to arms.

The moon was now at its highest point whilst the goddess uncrossed her legs and rose upwards upon four legs, using the other four as arms pushing them outwards towards him and did scream in a wavering voice.

Awaken old ones—slumber no more

Rise and be counted upon the forest floor

Come now answer to my cries

I am the goddess, and I beseech alt to rise

Question not—for the fey hath arrived

They seek to fulfil their destiny

Come now answer to my cries

Before the tide ceases to rise!

In an old tongue she lengthened out to the world ‘rise’, pushing out her juicy, salivating lips, squelching them together and placing herself upon her gossamer web, balancing upon her furry legs to weave strand by strand the fates of man and beast.

Glistening golden leaves, some moss bound, budged from their dormant locations rising upwards until the forest floor became alive as they were awakened from their lengthy sleep. Some diminutive creatures stretched, unfearful, on being awakened once more. One by one, the sleeping fairy kingdom surfaced—some tiny, some taller—though the majority were taller than human beings. As well, they were joined by stick people—forms that resembled walking sticks—their faces shaped like triangles. Inset into it appeared slit eyes and mouth and button-shaped noses.

They all sped forth taking their lead from the queen, and some smaller creatures flourished bushy tales behind them. Birds twittered and squirrels leapt from tree to tree. Large owls stared with rounded, unblinking eyes, until all those that resided within the forest boundaries were awake.

The Stag King had modified his roar to a caressing melodic note arousing the forest dwellers and assembling them into a long weaving line. Thread after thread they united dancing and spinning towards him as if in a trance. Their dancing feet, scraped the surface of the forest floor amid the rising and floating leaves that entwined with grasses and stone, snakes, and worms and all creeping and crawling creatures. Together they linked to the soul of the forest that hearkened to the scrunching creatures all prancing to the cajoling notes. Thus he sung.

Faster, faster spin and twirl

Awaken the old ones

Faster, faster spin and whirl

Awaken the old ones

For the goddess calls.

Sweet was the cadence that persuasively was being crooned to the cadaverous souls, and those in skeletal forms, some with missing bones and limbs as they stepped on the sacred earth of the great mother. Ancestors of old came forth; some clinging to the heaving backs of the wild horses of fire, their flames lighting up the darkened forest igniting the salamanders that were fuelled by the rising sylphs of the Air. As the music lowered, it brought forth the eleven participants and the spirits of the trees opened their button-shaped eyes to the world.

As they stretched forth their long, flickering twiglike fingers benign and unbenign creatures arose. Banshies, nymphs, and sylphs lifted their dripping heads from muddied waters all delighting in the sheer magic of being even air, earth, fire, and water. The guardians in their respective forms as handed down by Tuatha de Daana were linked as one.

Above them, the clouds gathered and the wind heightened. Raindrops continued to fall on the treetops, drizzling down on the procession as if it were possessed by a strange force becoming a cone of power that swayed to an internal rhythm to their final destination. On entering a small circular clearing within the centre of the forest, a large clear quartz crystal, the size of a medium-sized man rose from the earth. Circling it, they came to rest, awaiting the completion of the rite.

As if in answer, a bolt of lighting from above struck it, slicing it in two with such precision that its two halves fell upon the forest floor. From within it fell a sheaf of leather, revealing an enclosed parchment concealed inside. A tall, blond-haired elf donned in a pale blue tunic over a white blouse, stretched his long arms out, taking it to himself before it hit the ground that was fizzing and hissing with sparks. Removing the parchment from the sheaf, he held it above him and called out for all to hear.

I declare to the all seeing gods and goddesses

That I hath found the hidden parchment long ago buried until

Such times as it was required to be released.

Now it is Goddess bound.

Long limbs bent low, he bowed in succession to the four Airts. Rising up he backed away from all, disappearing into the darkness of the trees.

In response to such happenings, a long silence was broken as the stag raised his head to the moon and bellowed a pitiful cry and pursued the elf. He watched as the elf handed the parchment to the Goddess Arianhrod and then sped into the cave.

‘The Deed ist complete, and I am well pleased,’ she called and seemed to vanish before his eyes, and she broadcast it to other goddesses in different realms. Momentarily, she said, ‘Now I’ll take my leave. One click of the fingers and she stood before all those that had pursued the stag. In her human form was she a beautiful woman, dressed in the palest of silver gowns woven by a tiny spider in her kingdom. The gown fell down to covering her feet. Lengthy silver/blonde curls wrapped fell on a silver mantle. Around her waist was strung a belt of twinkling deep blue stars. In her hands, she held close the parchment. Smiling she disappeared from view and was gone.

Other goddesses by names of Cerridwen, Brighid, and the Morrigan smiled down into a crystal ball into which this scene was enacted and pointed to the stag king as he continued to pave the ground moaning and cajoling.

‘Ah, he called to them. It is indeed such a night to awaken the dead. Hast it not been so.’ In answer, they sent forth a white crow that landed on his back and proceeded to croak. He was well pleased. ‘Let the quest begin,’ he called back in answer.

He called to the guardians of the east, south, north, and west as the moon slid lower into the west as the tide began to turn.

‘As above, as below, it is time to awaken the Seeker as it has been prophesized our blood is to mingle thus uniting the world of fairy with that of mankind. May we be one—the waiting is over. The curse will be lifted. So mote it be!’

Flexing his muscles, he bellowed into the early morning air, sending forth ripples of fear amongst the trembling leaves—the vibrations lingered within them.

‘I hath been patient for too long. Ah ra ha ah!’

Queen Mab, a fairy queen, housing in her world beneath the earth’s surface feeling the tremors as they pounded like waves through her kingdom allowed it to embrace her fear of apprehension for she knew as she spoke to those around her. ‘That which had to be now is.’ Hastily, she waved her wand and invoked a spell of protection and called to those of her kind.

Fairies, elves, everywhere

Seek for shelter, seek for shelter

For when the sun doth rise

The door will be closed

Until three more moons will hath passed

So be quick—if not seek refuge in the

Arms of the forest,

But know that ye are safe.

Chaandra-san—Chaandra fan ah tet ah.

And so it is.

Amongst the reddened sparks trod the Druid, his cloak dragging along the floor and decorated by little fires. His hood was damp from the mist and tiny blobs of water lay. Atop his shoulder, his hooting owl shunted restlessly from one foot to another. The Druid perambulated towards the fallen crystal pointing his staff at it and chanted enchantments at it. Leaf green it glowered as crimson and golden sparks encircled it restoring it to its former glory. Snap, two halves became one. An enchantment, he whispered and the earth opened wide, swallowing it. Satisfied, he turned his attention to the singed trees, the blackened grasses, leaves and upturned rocks and stones. From his fingers, a line of runes ran forth dancing into the trees.

Unfold, revolve—all that is within these borders.’

Return to your former glory.

A twirl and whirl of floating debris rose and fell and were relocated. Displaced and injured trees embedded themselves deep into the earth’s surface and all healed. With all seeing eyes, he ran them through the forest. Now satisfied, the Druid patted his owl’s head ruffling her tiny feathers. A thin line that was his mouth murmured encouragements to her. She nibbled on his ear.

‘All is well. All is well,’ he murmured, and he too faded into the awakening shadows as a faint pale light of colour appeared upon the horizon. The night had closed its doors.

In other dimensions, other old ones bestirred themselves. One in particular, unaware of these happenings and unaware of the gathering of forces was asleep. Birgit was her name and unknown to herself, ‘The Seeker’

Thus, the old wheel turned and the Ancients were awakened; the forest slept and the earth mother’s heart pulsed its syncopating rhythm. The forest sighed. It breathed, it relaxed, content! The seeker had been awakened. So mote it be.

Chapter 1

The Raven’s Call—The Journey Begins*

Within the mists of time

An innocent soon becomes

An offering to the Gods.

T hrough a veil of leaden clouds, one lone white and four ink-black ravens swooped downwards towards the Bourn River. Fast it ran—its destination nigh. Omnipotent, the restless ocean beyond absorbed the ceaseless flow of colourless tipped waves into froth and foam. The sucking and gulping action of pull and drag allowed the continuous processes of merging to continue—night and day, day and night. On this afternoon in mid-January 2003, many grey and white seagulls, servants to the Ancients, screeched in unison, biding their time as they searched for fish within the rock pools and surging waters that spread out on golden sands.

Silently, above the ocean waves probing tentacles of white and grey mist drifted in the direction of the river’s mouth. A strong breeze encircled and engulfed it, urging it further along upstream. Sand, froth, and foam, mist, air, and rocks converged together to hide a very large worm, a dragon, the size of a tree trunk as it entered the mouth. Snakelike it flicked its slivery body from side to side as the waters slid over its spine. Gliding just above the murky waters of the riverbed through reeds and the occasional fish, it was also hidden from the naked eye by the mist and the cries of the seagulls.

Some distance further up the stream where pine and cedar trees hugged the riverbanks, the ravens from the north met with the seagulls from the south. Above the surging river, they hung suspended in time, their wings fluttering up and down until the dragon soared upwards in between them like a candle igniting the air with a belch of fire. Like sparks, the birds in perfect harmony as if they were performing on stage and had practiced the movements for eons, simply drifted apart in different directions. Westward, the seagulls spun—their direction inland before returning to the coast. Easterly, the ravens, turned to glide upwards towards the tall trees until they found a suitable branch to land on. Limp wings sought respite. Dry beaks sought droplets of water that lay on sodden branches. Lifeless feet clung to them tightly.

A flash of expanding flames an answer to their prayers that may have been lightening to the naked eye, lit up the air around them. The birds stiffened to attention as they became charged by the manifestation of fire as an elixir of energy dribbled through their veins energising them. In reply, the white raven arched its head back and barked stretching out its neck as it did so. It was such an eerie, unearthly howl that could send shivers down a human’s spine. That is, if anyone was listening. Fortunately, no one was. No one looked up into the tall trees and cried out:

‘Did you hear that weird sound? What could it be? However, one student by name of Birgit had seen the flash preceding the curl of sound and her eyes became saucers as she glimpsed it in the sky.

She sat, squashed into the left side of a slow-moving crowded bus that was travelling down the hillside to the right of the sighting. She bolted upright in her seat, knocking into Brendan, a friend seated next to her—though he was much too busy talking loudly to their friend Cherrie seated in front of him to notice her astonishment. Music, laughter, and loud conversation became the order of the day in the bus. To say it was noisy was an understatement. To communicate at all with anyone required the effort of shouting. She declined this choice.

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled anyway as she swept her head around behind her at such an angle it could have snapped in two for she was desperate to gain another sighting. To her dismay, the image had paled into nothingness—like a dream.

‘Rats’ she muttered to herself, stroking with one hand two long auburn plaits that drooped down like a cloak in front of her, hiding the contraction of her stomach muscles—one by one until they formed a knot. In reaction, she panted slightly with the effort to stem the rising fear that was lingering in her subconscious and was being released drop by drop to baffle her. The answer was not forthcoming. Closing her eyes in an effort to escape it, the image appeared to recreate itself flame by flame in front of her, and she felt a stab of pain as it etched its image into her third eye. She whimpered at the suddenness of it forcing herself to study it.

Lightning, the image was not. Almost round at its base it sought height rising into the grey sky. Crimson sparks flew outward like slithering headed snakes. Fire it was! ‘What would belch fire?’ she questioned to herself unaware that she was speaking aloud. Out of nowhere a picture of a dragon breathing flames flew to her. Speechless, she gulped and let out a sigh. ‘The Draco’ had forced its attention on her. But why—and in this century as well. It was too far out, too wild—at the same time possible that dragons still existed or reigned somewhere in ‘the astral’? Quizzically, she screwed up her lips in frustration at the implications of such an idea having merit. Thereby, she resolved to be silent about the sighting for she still smarted from the sting that she was not ‘sane’. She had revealed to Cherrie and then Brendan of a continuing dream that was haunting her of being sacrificed to the gods. His cruel comments had hurt her deeply, and she retreated into herself, enduring the dreams silently becoming more cranky from lack of sleep. Thus, it was affecting her studies and her sanity. In desperation, she had prayed diligently to the goddess for an answer.

It had been given as a dream showing her that on her birthday she was to take a stroll down by the river, and the answers would come forthwith. Brendan and Cherrie had agreed to accompany her, so as a gift for being twenty-one as they good-naturedly tolerated her oddities and her link to the high priestess. Now she should talk to her about these happenings, but she was hesitating for a reason she did not know. In the meantime, she straightened out her cramped legs, knitting her palms together. Her brow ached as did her eyes to close them, so she turned her head to glance through the window once more.

As she did, she sighted the dark birdlike forms on the branches. ‘Ravens here as well—always ravens,’ she muttered. ‘Is this a sign too?’ Defeated, she lowered her chin on her chest to avoid eye contact with them. Indifferent to her qualms, the wind spread its fingers through, ruffling their feathers. Irritated by its thrust, they scrunched up closely