The Last Druid Standing

By Dr. Larry S. Mellen

Six thousand years ago, in the time before the first megaliths and stone circles, Druids appeared in small numbers throughout Europe. They began an inexplicable migration toward the Western Isles of Scotland. Among these was a Druid prophet, Lazwin. Lazwin predicted the coming of the Beltane child. The child would reunite the rune casters, gather the Druid faithful, and set in motion a series of events that would alter the history of Druid healing magic. Sadly, Lazwin's prophecies were lost to time. In 1820 a Druid child named Finn was playing near the Fary Pools on Skye. He found a small opening behind a waterfall. Stored within this hollow were the perfectly preserved scrolls containing the prophecies of the elder Lazwin. This is the story of his prophesied Beltane child and his effect on Scottish culture. The pages describe the Beltane child's quest to many of Scotland's sacred sites and his travels around the world, meeting shamans and healers. They share his journey along the eightfold path and his understanding of herbal medicines and essential oils. You will learn of the child's discoveries on a bus trip from Kathmandu to London. In these pages, Dr. Mellen helps you realize there should be some reason for the things that have gone into making you you. If you have ever wondered, "Why am I here?" "Where am I going?" and "How am I going to get there?" Dr. Mellen provides you with a fresh perspective and some rather surprising answers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644628935

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The Last Druid Standing

Dr. Larry S. Mellen

Copyright © 2019 Dr. Larry S. Mellen

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2019

ISBN 978-1-64462-892-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64462-893-5 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

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Stop for a moment; sit quietly

What do you feel?

The shaman’s title has passed from master to apprentice

But I have always known this

Since I was old enough to hear the words

I was entwined in the lore

And a shaman was my only pathway

But mostly I must be removed from the world

For some shaman, it is more religion

For me, it is more magic

I am never sure where the boundary lies

I am not even sure I have the shaman’s gift

I have something and feel the connection

The shaman’s touch

The gift links me with the world spirit

And gives me an insight

That knows no source

But I will know

Without knowing how

With persistence, the right path will be revealed

So I walk this life

Yet removed from it

Look for inspiration along the way

I find myself listening

Ahooded figure in a dark robe sits alone on a barrow overlooking Loch Leathan. The midwinter, sometimes called the winter solstice, will be here in less than three hours. The Old Man of Storr towers above the Loch, watching as he has done since long before recorded time. The nearly imperceptible sun has filtered through the mist-filled dawn and casts the Old Man of Storr’s gray-green shadow onto the rippling water. The weather over the winter months on Skye can be grim. It has rained continuously for more than a week. The wind from the Minch, the strait between the Inner and Outer Hebrides, is at near gale force. The forecast is for more of the same—perfect weather for the longest night of the year. There is much magic and mystery when midwinter is about; this night will be no exception.

1

The Shaman’s Tale

No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.

—Aristotle

As I sat in the Old Man of Storr’s shadow, my mind began to wander. Was I really the last one? Why were there so few of us to start with? Perhaps time would tell if it ended with me. I was not sure anymore. I knew I hadn’t seen or even heard of another Druid healer for more time than I could remember. I was beginning to question my whole life’s purpose. Had this epic journey been worth the effort?

I thought it was because I could see the signs of my final transformation from student to master. They were unmistakable. I was beginning to hear the voices; I thought they were echoes of the past, maybe echoes of the future. Perhaps they had always been there, and I was only beginning to notice them. Now the voices were louder, and the background of my thoughts had quieted. The quiet caused the voices to stand out more. It was almost as though the sounds sensed a final change was near. In an environment of loud voices, I felt completely isolated.

When I began my journey, I was full of hope. I was excited by every new situation, every new challenge. I believed I could, well, do anything. There were no limitations on what I might learn, where I could go, or what I could experience. I was a bit like a sponge trying to drain the Atlantic Ocean into a fisherman’s pail. I was soaking in every new experience and savoring every moment. Through my life’s quests, I learned much. I met many incredible people, and I had such lofty expectations. But then the reality set in. I was only one person. There were a few limitations. The more time I spent learning, the less time I could spend doing. I never found the perfect balance.

Trying to decipher the old ways was difficult, partly because they were not written down. With each telling, the lore took on subtle changes. These changes over time might have altered its meaning. If I were to understand the lore, I would somehow have to separate fact from fiction. And I was afraid that facts would be in short supply.

But while it was not easy to go through all the rituals and training, it was not impossible. The rewards were, well, there actually weren’t any rewards, not as such. There was a sense of satisfaction that you could make a difference. Now that it is ending, I find that very few people have the patience or the time or the inclination to make the sacrifices to continue the telling of the lore. No matter what the outcome, there is no one left to train, and even if there were one, only I am left to train them. I’ve had apprentices over the last ten years. More than a dozen tried, but no one was able to complete the training. It seemed that either the physical or mental demands were too hard or the sacrifices were too great.

I didn’t think their hearts were in it, and the one thing I was sure of was, for a Druid and a healer, it was all about heart. A healer must learn to trust his intuition. Without his heart, a healer was nothing.

Maybe the temptation to abuse the magic was too great. For the magic, while it could be used for noble purposes, could also be used to manipulate others. Many who tried to tread down this path confused the magic with their own personal power, taking liberties with the magic. A master must recognize this misguidance and either correct it or stop the training.

I guess I should feel sad or perhaps angry or perhaps, well, something, but I was both physically and spiritually numb. Now as I was getting older, each healing robbed me of a little more of the magic. I was already starting to lose the tactile sensation in my hands, as did every healer before me. I could always consult the Old Man of Storr, one of the sacred stone pinnacles on the Isle of Skye. He had always been there for me. When I was a boy in Portree, Scotland, we could see the Old Man of Storr in the distance but rarely took the time to visit him. Looking back, I wish I had; maybe the Old Man would be in better shape now. I knew there was a time the Old Man could heal anyone. The old ones spoke of their visits with the Old Man and how it would energize them. I knew that when they visited, it kept the Old Man feeling younger. Each new visitor brought new hope, new possibilities.

Coming here became out of fashion. Consulting with an old rock seemed useless. There was a trickle of visitors, and then they stopped altogether. And he, like me, began to age. As we have gotten older, we both needed help to get started. Now he and I sit together, watching the clouds around us—two old friends comforting each other and watching as the angry midwinter’s storm rages on into the night.

We need the healing drums, both he and I. But there aren’t enough drummers. When the stones around the Old Man vibrate in exactly the right way, magic happens. Carefully placed hands toward the Old Man’s center is rewarded with an abundant recharge of magic. And by giving the magic, the Old Man gets slightly stronger.

But now, when a drummer lays down his hand-hewn drumstick, his shillelagh, for the final time, no one retrieves them. No one even notices. The drums fall silent, the melody lost forever. The once proud Old Man of Storr lies here, slowly decaying back to the earth, a few grains at a time. This once noble visage has decayed with the ravages of time. And they are savage, the storms are much stronger than they once were, lasting longer, starting earlier. Mother Earth is angry about the way she has been treated and lashes out in the only way she knows how stronger storms and more significant earthquakes.

When I was a boy, I remember the path along the loch that leads to the Old Man’s doorway was well maintained. There were a lot more flowers and healthy plants along the way. Now the sedge is withering from the lake, and their dried-up husks cover the path.

It was hard to pick my way through the debris to get here. And I have been away for so long. Now I sit with my back pressed into the Old Man’s side, sheltered from the worst of the storm. A single drop of water strikes my cheek; it’s as warm as blood and as salty as the ocean. I was sure this was not rain. I think the Old Man might have been crying.

It had been a long time since he enjoyed the sounds of the drums and even longer since he had the energy to heal.

My thoughts were no longer as clear as they once were. I hoped there was time to finish writing this account before the changes took me. Before I left on the journey, Father Kay, my school’s headmaster, told me to pay attention to the details of my quest. I had to make enough notes so I could reconstruct an accurate tale of what I had seen.

Father Kay said, Every detail is important if we are to separate the fact from the folly. I think it is time the Druids make an accurate record of what we know. This way, it won’t be lost to the ages. Long gone are the bards and troubadours who brought our stories to the masses. Long gone are the Druid priests who told of our past accomplishments and gave us a path toward the future. Time has taken them, everyone. Now there is only you, lad. Don’t let us down.

Father Kay was right. Someone needed to know where we came from and the lessons we learned on the long journey. Maybe more importantly—what went right and what went wrong. That would be difficult to determine because I believed much of our past had already been lost.

It was hard to talk about being the last of anything. It was a bit like being the last white rhino. There was very little you could do about it, except watch the world as it trundled by. It was so bewildering as I looked back at the journey I had taken. Honestly, had I known the outcome, I was sure I would have done things a little differently. I was one man, tasked with capturing six thousand years of legends and lore and sorting the myth from the facts along the way. This journal would capture all I could remember, all I could piece together from my notes. I hoped so. I needed to get on with this because there was so much more I wanted to accomplish. For the first time, I was willing to admit that my time to effect a change was closer to the end than I would like it to be. For now, I needed to stop being a healer and start being a chronicler.

The new Celtic and Druid generation didn’t want to know about where we came from or who we were. They didn’t study. They didn’t practice. They didn’t see the need for a spiritual journey. Material possessions had become their reason for living; they had lost sight of life’s true purpose. They did not understand that we were meant to attain spiritual growth and enlightenment. When they were ready for the journey along the spiritual path, if they ever would be, it would be too late. They would only have this chronicle left to guide them.

Maybe I should concentrate on what went right. I did manage to heal a few thousand people in my lifetime and teach thousands more. I helped many continue their journey along the spiritual path. I was sure many of them went on to enjoy a complete spiritual life. I would consider my life as a success if I helped a single stumbling soul find their way.

I could only hope, the knowledge of the ancient ones would not die here at this very spot. Did I study long enough? Did I work hard enough? Time would tell. But I did know the lore was leaving with me if I didn’t do something about it. I’d do the best I could to explain what took me more than thirty years to begin to understand.

But I was not confident that anyone was listening anymore. The lore was never written down, for fear that someone who was not of our clan would abuse the magic. In the past, when the magic was shared carelessly, it had done harm. The lore told us that life and education must not come only from the scrolls but from the teaching of masters and life experiences. As time had changed, the magic had changed as well, but with no one to train, there was no one to remember it. For these reasons, I would violate a long-held Druid and Celtic tradition. I would preserve what I had learned of our history, for I would rather it fall into the wrong hands than no hands at all. This was the journal I promised Father Kay I would write.

I will start with a Celtic prayer

I am silent

Listening to the wind

For guidance shared

For Mother Earth

To share her wisdom

I sit in silence

There is nature’s song

I hear it

Fleeting at first

Now even the stones

Begin to sing

And I listen

—The Wanderer Lazwin, circa 4000 BCE

According to the lore, the word Druid came from doire, a Gaelic word for oak tree. Druids were always concerned with the natural world and its powers. They considered all trees sacred, particularly the oak. There was a particularly elegant red oak near Uig on the Trotternish peninsula of Skye. The magnificent tree was overlooking Glen Conon, which is sometimes called the Fairy Glen or Faerie Pools. Longevity among the red oaks is legendary, some living five hundred to six hundred years. One tree, in particular, Mother Oak, has been there much longer. Longevity among the Druids is fleeting, but Mother Oak…well…all the legends and all the lore have always included accounts of her sage counsel. The Druid’s story began about six thousand years ago.

Druids appeared in the Hebrides and a few isolated spots in Western Europe all at about the same time. While DNA test could trace humans back hundreds of thousands of years, a true Druid’s DNA seemed only to go back about six thousand years ago, with no genetic pathways to follow further back. It seemed that all at once, they simply appeared, perhaps crawling from the woodwork. Who knew? Since the only records were the lore, I would use it and what I learned on my quests as the basis for this journal.

We were speaking of Mother Oak. Based on the appearance of the Druids, it was evident that Mother Oak was at least, well, in my world, it was impolite to ask a lady her age, but it didn’t mean you couldn’t wonder. I believed she had been here about as long as the Druids.

Druidism could be defined as a shamanic religion, as it relied on a combination of connection with the spirit world and holistic remedies to treat illnesses and deliver spiritual guidance. When I was a child, children started learning the shaman’s lore as soon as they were able. This lore was taught to by old masters. They shared their experience with the lore, and we became part of the legend. Then we were taught the holistic ways by the Druid healers. Then we were instructed on how to gather the herbs and make the essential oils.

This had been the way for thousands of years, as long as the Old Man of Storr had been standing sentinel at Loch Leathan. The knowledge has been passed from master to apprentice over and over. It had always been this way. When the tasks were completed, a successful student met with the clan elders to discuss what he had learned. The pathways for continuing his education were presented; a student was free to choose his livelihood. Those that had completed all the tasks and wanted to continue the Druid’s training must request this of the elders. Then the elders would decide if the candidate had the aptitude to complete the remaining training. Few were chosen. Those that were selected were taught the healing magic, delved more deeply into the lore, and were sent on quests.

The choice wasn’t too complicated when it was the time of my choosing. I was the only one who had completed all the preliminary training. I was the only one in nearly seventy years that had asked to continue the training. I was chosen. I liked to think it was because of merit, but it could have easily been because no one had been chosen in years and they needed someone—anyone. If one was chosen, there was a ritual that bonded the chosen to the magic and the magic to the chosen. This was a lifetime bond; once selected, this was now the purpose of one’s life’s journey. The bonding initiated a series of quests; at any point during the quests, the student may stop. Because of the difficult nature of the quest, most chose to stop. The Druids and Celts believed that information should be learned through experience and reinforced through teaching. This was amplified during the completion of tasks within each quest.

Before a chosen student could begin his quests, he must take an oath: I promise not to make it worse. I will make it better if I can. I took that oath, I lived that oath, and it had formed the basis of the person I’d become.

In the past, mistakes were made by trying to continue the line of healers without having proper candidates. There were a few that initially completed the training but were not properly vetted before they were approved by the clan elders. Then through no fault of their own, these candidates were improperly chosen. They then went through the bonding ceremony. It did not go well. These young men developed the type of madness that afflicted many Druids toward the end of their lives. The council of elders that made these selections was disbanded, not only because they had made mistakes, but there was no single elder left that had the knowledge to make the decisions. None of them had gone through the quests. So how were they qualified to judge a person’s fitness to go through the bonding or start the quest?

Once the mistakes had happened, the clan decided that a much larger group of the village elders would make the decisions. But it didn’t give back the lives of the children that were harmed by a madness that sets it all at once. The lore tells of their extreme suffering; I am sure this is one of the reasons why many decide not to attempt the bonding.

My masters told me that they believe the madness sets in because of the constant drain of energy that it takes to do the healing magic. Older Druids get impatient because as we age, the recovery takes a little longer. Their inclination was to work faster, not slower, and their body slowly drains of the energy that it takes to sustain itself. The slow depletion of energy is believed to cause the Druid’s madness, but it is gradual and can be hard to notice, in time.

A Druid healer can adjust the way he heals and live his life in a way that will slow the process down. But it will happen. Maybe I have a touch of it now. I compensate by being orderly and ritualistic, these young people that went through the wrong bonding never even had a chance to be children before their lives were forever altered.

A few of the students that were not chosen still were able to become very accurate fortune-tellers and mystics. Some of the Druids’ knowledge of the earth, heavens, and time seems to have no origin. It is likely that the fortune telling luminaries always had some of the knowledge from the megalithic times locked away in their subconscious, patiently waiting to be discovered. For these special soothsayers, there was no precise knowledge of the past; one day it was not there and then suddenly the entire vista opened for them. No one is entirely sure why it happens. The wisdom of alternate timelines and the tools for soothsayers cannot be taught. It must come to them this way.

With their bonding comes an abundance of knowledge of the past. You learn the truth; the madness comes when you can’t handle the truth. For truth, it is, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and it can frighten you into the madness.

What we are sure about our past, is that Mother Oak has always had a magnificent view of the Quirang. From my perspective time always seemed to run a little slower in the Quirang. The Quirang was almost a world in miniature, that obeyed a set of slightly softer and kinder rules. If you seek counsel with Mother Oak, you must wind your way along a footpath that leads you around round-topped grass-covered hills. There are many small lochans (ponds) along the way which gives the glen an otherworldly feel. The Isle of Skye has a long history of a connection with the Fairies, most of which is related to the mystical appearance of the landscape. The vision of the faeries often came after an extended visit with one of the islands other spirits, whiskey. It was on the walk home from a tavern that the faeries and all sorts of other things appeared. Mother Oak watched it all. While there is no real evidence of fairies, Mother Oak will gossip.

Now my personal legend, while shrouded somewhat in a mystery of its own, has it, that from the time I was old enough to crawl I would disappear. My family would look for the little Boffin. They always knew where to find me. Sitting in Mother Oak’s abundant lap. It was here in the Lap of Mother Oak that my lessons began in earnest.

For a plant to survive on Skye, the plant had to be hearty. Skye has a pretty mild climate; however, many plants were not equipped to survive inland or on the east coast. The plant must be resistant to cold temperatures. They also must have a firm connection to the soil. While they can cause damage, it is not the 125 mph gusts in the summer that is a fly in the ointment. No mother earth had a special treat in store for Skye. The continuous, unrelenting gale force winds that can batter the eastern shores for weeks. So the native plants must be anchored firmly to the soil, and the soil is anchored by the native plants. And before me stands this grand red oak tree, Mother Oak, who has been rooted to this spot for about six thousand years.

Under Mother Oak’s ample boughs was where all shamans, Druids, and healers began their training. I was told that it took more than twenty years to learn the lore, as it was complicated and had to be learned oft by heart as the elders rarely used a written language. This was the fundamental reason why we knew so little about our ancestors. No one wrote anything down. I would change that.

Some legends, particularly those that were passed down by my clan, must also be treated with caution. Many of them might have even been altered by outside influence, exaggeration, or simply forgetfulness. This was why in my training, when I asked a question, the response was usually another question, and then I was guided in finding the answers for the question I asked and the additional questions my master would ask. A Druid must first think, then learn, then act.

Before beginning the formal Druid or shaman training, the elders devised an initiation to determine which candidates had the courage and wisdom to go forward. Without wisdom and courage, a candidate would not survive the quest.

A candidate would be sent alone into the Spar Cave. The Spar Cave was a singular inhospitable cave on the northwestern corner of Skye. I thought it might have been chosen to test a candidate’s commitment to the training. This trip required some forward planning and great care; candidates would take weeks preparing for the journey. In the summer, there was a two- or three-kilometer walk, depending on the path you chose. This led to a steep trail down to the Atlantic coastline. The walk along the shore was over slimy, seaweed-covered stones. On a calm day, the journey was terrifying; it got much worse on a windy day. It was always windy there.

The walk could be completed only at low tide; therefore, it was crucial to time your visit to Spar to match the low tides in and out. In the winter, the expedition was a little more challenging. You had all the joys of the summer journey; plus there were snow and ice. And it got dark incredibly early; there could be as little as eight hours of twilight. The journey required an ice axe and crampons as the path you would have walked down in the summer was now a sheer ice cliff. And the walk along the shore would have the wind trying to knock you off your slimy perch. If you were lucky, the frigid north Atlantic waves would drench you as you walked. I didn’t even have a word for how horrifying it was.

Assuming you had gotten down somehow and made it along the shore without being dashed against the rocks or pulled out to sea and you timed the tides right, you would find the small squat, square-shaped entrance that was completely covered at high tide. When you made your way in between the waves, you’d be greeted by a floor that was muddy in places and covered with rocks in others. There was also a distinctive smell that you would not soon forget. Following this there was an almost impossibly steep ascent to get to the dry portion of the cave twenty meters above your head. There was no light; even when the sun was shining, it only managed to go a few meters into the cave. It was important to remember that torches were required for this part of the journey. Assuming that you survived all the pitfalls and made it this far, your torch would reveal the painted figures of wild animals crudely drawn on the walls. Most would never get as far as the painted animals.

If you did get this far and were fortunate enough to wonder what it was like in total darkness and turned off your torch, you would find the actual reason for your journey. For it was here in complete darkness that you would see a detailed map of the night sky in the faint luminescent paint on the ceiling. Featured in the center of the painted map was a rendering of Sirius, the brightest star in the sky. If you looked very carefully, you might see a second or even a third star very close to Sirius. Maybe it was there, or maybe it was a trick of the light.

If you timed your trip precisely and the tide was at its second low for the day, you could exit the cave the way you entered. If you dawdled too long, you might be stuck in the cave for the night. No one liked to stay locked in a cave overnight and particularly not this cave. It got very cold and very dark, and legend said there were voices. I thought the cave’s legend was to keep curious people from wandering into the caves, but who knew?

Those that did find the maps had completed the first step of the initiation. A candidate that made it this far would sit with Mother Oak to ensure they could develop a connection with nature. Those who could not communicate with Mother Oak did not go forward. They would not receive any additional Druid training. Of all the candidates that started with my group, I was the only one that completed the initiation.

Around the sixteenth century, the critical text of Druid spirituality was transcribed from the oral tradition by clerics. The translations discussed many aspects of the spiritual and magical training I was to receive. While there were many omissions and much that was imprecise, it was a good start. I was allowed to read all that was available.

Nothing prepared me for the enormous responsibility. Certainly, nothing prepared me to be one of the last or possibly the last of anything. I was probably the last Druid healer. There was also a little additional pressure placed on me because there would not be customary twenty years to train because the only other healer was already more than ninety. I had a lot to learn. I had a lot to learn quickly. There was a need for my services now.

One surprising thing I later found out was that the adults were not quite the unconcerned people the candidates seemed to think they were. They were, in fact, not sending naive children off into the portentous north on their own. To begin with, there was this shadowy raven that I would befriend later in life that would watch the child’s progress from a discrete distance and report the details of the child’s journey. If it had only been this, I would have been okay, knowing if we were washed out to sea or eaten by, well, nothing, because there were no real predators. There were a few bunnies. Perhaps I could have been nuzzled to death by a bunny? Well, we were kids, and we didn’t know that the bunny was the most dangerous animal in the north.

It seemed the adults had a master plan. Offshore, beyond visual range, a stevedore sat in a dory prepared for a sea rescue. They had the air covered and the sea covered, but they had one more, in case there was something unforeseen. They had another entrance into the Spar Cave. They could reach the cave on a paved and well-marked road. Their entrance brought them into the cave from the south into a chamber separated by the thinnest of crystal from the Spar cave upper chamber that could only be reached by sea or a cleverly hidden little door from this southern chamber. This cave was all decked out. They had books to read and overstuffed reclining armchairs. They even had a small refrigerator and an electric kettle for making tea. They could sit in relative comfort and watch through the thin crystal how we spent our time in Spar’s upper chambers.

The decision for a candidate to move on was probably made by the elders sitting in this very chamber. The parents of the children were not sacrificing their children, even though it appeared that way to every child that attempted this task. The parents were trusting the elders to monitor their progress carefully—and to always ensure their safety.

The message I learned here was Look closely. Things are not always what they seem.

2

This Druid Child

Those who educate children well are more to be honored than they who produce them; for these only gave them life, those the art of living well.

—Aristotle

Who I was, where I was from, and how I came to be embroiled in the complicated Beltane prophecy—these should be explained. A member of an ancient Scottish clan, I was born in the 1950s in Portree, on the island of Skye, in the Inner Hebrides Islands, off the coast of Scotland. Legend had it that An t-Eilean Sgitheanach (in Gaelic), or Skye, got its name from the Norse word sky-a , cloud island. I couldn’t confirm that, but what I could confirm was that Skye was a fifty-mile-long collage of intense moors, jagged highlands, glimmering lochs, and soaring sea cliffs.

Skye was a magical place; it was the largest and northernmost of the Inner Hebrides. The island’s center was dominated by some of the most dramatic mountain scenery in Scotland. The range of rocky mountains that split the island in half was called the Black Cuillin.

Enshrouded in frequent cloud cover, Skye had always appeared mysterious. Naturally, anything that happened that could not be explained on the Scottish mainland must have its roots in Skye. The waters between the mainland and Skye had treacherous currents and were frequently immersed in a dense fog. This made the trip to Skye, particularly your first trip, seem like Columbus sailing off the end of the map. You would sail into the clouds, having no idea what to expect when you emerged on the other side. Consequently, any legends of dragons, of wizards, or of any other nonworldly event always included an origin in Skye.

It was into this magical place that I was delivered. The elderly midwife who was there to assist in my delivery was rumored to have said, Be careful with this one. He’s been here before. Look at his eyes. Those are old eyes. There is wisdom in this little lad. Mind you now, this Beltane child is special.

My grandparents and great-grandparents were there to witness the arrival of the prophesied child. Upon my birth, there was much speculation among the gossipier members of my clan. They were sure I was the Beltane child, and with each telling, it seemed their stories became even more fantastical. Soon the Beltane stories took on a life of their own. I either arrived on the back of a unicorn sneezing rainbows or fell from the sky and drifted like a snowflake into my crib…

The one thing my clan could agree upon was that I was born midcentury on the Beltane. I was going to be a shaman, a Druid, and a healer. My uncle Norman was convinced I was meant to be a golfer or a pirate. He believed that both seemed to be equally acceptable professions. Later, the elders shared their understanding of the lore with me. It seemed I always knew that I would have some connection with healing. Nearly my entire clan had something to do with healing or magic. So casting me as a healer seemed a pretty safe bet.

I was born on the Beltane, the day of the Gaelic May Day Fire Festival. Everyone that was remotely related to my clan came out and participated in the Beltane celebration. Some members harvested the flowers that were used as the Beltane decorations. The Druid priests lit and then tended the Beltane fires at the island’s sacred sites. Most people carried rowan or mountain ash twigs around one of the fires, chanting.

Three times forward

Three times back

Household provided

With what they lack

Three times back

Three times forward

Household protected

Both stone and mortar

(Traditional folk song, anonymous)

The rowan or mountain ash twigs were hung above the fireplace on the hearths. Once the twigs were placed in their home, the owner would be assured their homes were protected until the twigs were renewed at the next Beltane.

The older boys would maintain the Beltane community purification fire. The fire was made from a blending of local woods; the exact proportions were secret. Keeping the wood mixture right required a lot of attention.

My gran—a woman of short stature, substantial girth, and with shockingly bluish hair—and her friends would make the Beltane cakes and pastries. My grandfather and the rest of our clan alchemists would share the new potions they had made during the last year. My grandfather’s father and my uncle Ash performed energy work on ailing clansmen.

They all told stories of magic and dragons. These dragons naturally came from Skye. The captivated audience, both young and old, hung on their every word. This year, the audience could be forgiven if their attention wandered to one of the celebrations around them. The magicians demonstrated their ancient magic. Dancers swayed to the traditional Beltane music. Everyone contributed to the celebration; no one was left behind.

On this Beltane, nearly everyone was a little nervous, and a bit distracted by the fulfillment of a six-thousand-year-old prophecy. All conversations eventually turned to this new Beltane child. It turned out that this Beltane child was me.

On the Beltane

Morn he arrived

A boy foretold

A faerie’s child

He will be born

When the moon is new

He will befriend

Both the oak and yew

The queen now gone

Morn fifty years

Her mem’ry still brings

Floods of tears

The prophet’s no king

This Druid child

His spirit strong

His eyes are wild

Victoria in days of yore

Her prediction did bring

A ruler great

Who would ne’er be king

On early morn

Of Beltane he came

The lands of the north

Will call his name

The Druid child

Who will ne’er be king

Will change this world

For peace he’ll bring

The prophet’s no king

This Druid child

But his spirit strong

And his eyes are wild

(From The Beltane, Lazwin the Younger, circa AD 1920)

This was the prophecy that Lazwin the Younger wrote to complement the prophecy written by Lazwin the Elder. Lazwin the Elder’s prophecy had been passed down for more generations than anyone could remember. The bards sang of this great occurrence, and when their voices tired, it had been said that the stones and trees began to sing. The fact that there was a new moon sealed the deal. The entire clan was sure the old prophecy had finally come to pass. Lazwin the Younger’s prophecy was what we believed was the retelling of a vision that Queen Victoria had about seventy-five years earlier. Her visions seemed to predict where and when I would be born.

When I looked back at the two prophecies, there were some parts they got right. I was born on the Beltane, on a new moon, and from the land in the north.

Interestingly, not another child was born on Skye that day. Not a single child was born in the Hebrides in the morning. And not a male child came to life in Scotland that morning. But apparently, I was—although I contended I had scant little to do with it—the Beltane child.

By the beginning of May, the daylight hours had been growing steadily longer. There were seventeen hours of daylight. The remaining seven hours were more twilight than real darkness, except on a clear night with a new moon. The festivities continued into that particular time of night when the new moon darkness was at its zenith, that special time when the northern sky got seriously dark and the stars came out of hiding to fight one another for twinkle space. This night the sky seemed to be alive.

On this night, the darkened sky contained a singular star that stood out among the others. This remarkable star, a blue-white star, while always the brightest in the night sky, seemed to shine even more brilliantly. It seemed to radiate not only light but also delight and harmony. It appeared that the celestial bodies had joined their terrestrial neighbors in the celebration of this Beltane.

This singular star was Sirius. The lore told us that Sirius—the shoulder star of the great dog that chased Orion, the Hunter, through the night sky—shone so bright on that moonless night that it cast both shadows and light on the celebration. It seemed to stay in this night’s sky much longer than the seven hours it was allotted. My source for this information was the celebrants themselves, who, by the time this particular evening rolled around, had consumed much of mead and many spirits. Therefore, I would describe the stories’ reliability as at least a bit suspect.

Or it might have been the newly delivered bard’s tune that I believed was also written under the same spirit-induced revelry.

Oh, what is to become

Of the boy of Beltane

Can we speak of him?

Or call out his name

Upon his birth

The sky stood still

The infirmed and dying

Cured of their ill

Hair of flaxen

Eyes of wilde

We looked upon

This faerie child

The ancient ones

Sang his song

The night was still

From dusk to dawn

A prophecy old

Now reconciled

We would behold

This Beltane child

(Uncle Norman, Uncle Reg, Joe, and Uncle Ash, circa midnight on the Beltane)

The Beltane festivals occurred each year at the anniversary of my birth. Okay, technically, the Beltane came first, but after my birth, no one ever talked about the previous ones. I could recall nothing of my first three Beltanes. By the fourth, I was beginning to seem a little different. The information I chronicled on the early Beltane celebrations was all from discussions with the celebrants.

From this point forward would be from my recollection captured as accurately as possible. There might be some things omitted or some things added by mistake, mainly associated with my early childhood. I tried to avoid the wildly apocryphal tales—however, as with life, there were no guarantees.

My first recollection or maybe my lack of memories involved my parents. I never knew my parents. Well, I knew who they were, but I knew nothing about them. While they were alive, they were almost always gone. And when they weren’t gone, it would probably have been better if they had been.

As I grew up, my father was away, wholly consumed with his various business endeavors, and my mother nearly always traveled with him. In later life, I would find my father was much like Loki. He was not evil, nor was he good; he created a world all his own that orbited around his favorite person, himself. Like Loki, he was both cunning and clever. He would always come up with new ideas to annoy and