The Touchwood Chronicles: Blue Moon Rising

By Corin Thistlewood

The Touchwood Chronicles blurs the lines between reality and the otherworld.

 

 A book trilogy rich with Celtic lor

• Language: English
• Publisher: Corin Thistlewood
• Release date: Jun 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781739422356

Corin Thistlewood

Leaving his career as an aerospace engineer, Corin followed his passion for spiritual and personal development. He trained in a Wiccan coven, was editor of two New Age magazines: 'Earth Spirit' and 'Sheela na Gig'. And established a self-sufficient community in Ireland.Later he trained with one of Australia's leading Clinical Hypnotherapist which led him to develop his own hypnotherapy practice incorporating psychotherapy & Shamanic Healing. Here he also founded the 'Australian College of Druidry,' ran many courses on shamanic healing and Celtic spirituality, including drum making, and developed the 'Celtic Shaman correspondence course'.Corin now lives in Southwest England where he has become a full-time author. He is a member of the local Drama group, enjoys long walks to megalithic sites or along the coast, with his son and dog scrappy.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Shapeshifter

He lay in bed that morning, not feeling ready to face the day; just yet. His old bones were weary. His long silver beard lay above the bedclothes and his long silver locks, usually tied at the back with a leather cord, now lay in a straw like tangle around his head.

Touchwood lay there listening to the gentle sounds that filled the morning. Geese murmuring, chickens clucking, and the occasional bleat of a goat. Down the chimney came the whirling of the wind turbine, that was mounted on the roof above his room. It was the familiar soundtrack that soothed his body and mind.

The small self-sufficient community where he lived had become a sanctuary for the various misfits who had found their way there. The world outside the bubble of the sacred mountain where they lived had become a very harsh place. Those that wanted to attempt to live off the land, and their wits, had found similar places to this in the surrounding area.

We had called it ‘Rath Grain’, after an Irish sun goddess. The main cottage was made of stone, with walls about two feet thick in places, and was on a plateau halfway up the mountain. It was situated perfectly, on the South slopes overlooking the wetland below.

 It was actually two single story cottages, side by side, with additional stone outbuildings which were converted into extra living space. The land and buildings were on a limestone outcrop, which not only gave me fertile soil but also provided good drainage. It had its own single green track that crossed over a little stream. The stream originated near the back of the cottage, coming from a spring on the side of a small cliff.

Slowly Touchwood opened his eyes, the wood stove still showing glowing embers through the glass, his writing desk in the corner overlooking the apple orchards. Titan lay curled up asleep on his favourite armchair by the stove. The large Maine Coon cat looked like a war hero; one ear was frayed and chewed; one eye half closed with scratch marks about his face. And his tail cut short from some battle high on the mountain, where he had come from. Our little community knew there were several breeding pairs on that mountain. But one day Titan had showed up on his doorstep, more dead than alive. Touchwood had taken him in and nursed him back to full health. He had half expected the cat to slink off back to the mountain, but he had stayed. Remaining half wild, not letting anyone but Touchwood come near him.

Still in his bed, Touchwood shifted his awareness towards the sleeping cat, mind-melding with the animal. Gently brushing across his sleeping thoughts, the cat was dreaming, prowling across the mountainside. Thoughts of warm blood flowing across his tongue. Thoughts of ripping flesh from bones entered his awareness, along with the grinding of bone and sinew with sharp teeth.

After countless times of doing this kind of mind-meld, you would have thought Touchwood would have got used to those primitive thoughts; but each time, it still sickened him.

Still half in trance, Touchwood thought back to the very first time he had been taught to mind-meld with an animal; shapeshifting some people called it. It had been many years ago now, on one of his regular visits to the otherworld, his spirit guide the Oak King had been there to greet him  …

… Casually, the Oak King waved an arm in a small arc, suddenly a small campfire appeared, and burst into flames. I was sitting on one of the logs about the fire. As always, I had manifested directly into our usual forest glade in the otherworld.

Dreamily, I looked up at the iridescent, shimmering blue of the sunless sky. Then down at the variegated greens of the mossy floor, the texture of the mosses under my bare feet was soft and spongy.  

I looked about me in wonder. The forest colours were vibrant, bright, and new. There, a Fairy-ring of champignon mushrooms, nearby a harvest of Fly Agaric, with its fairy-tale, red hood, and white spots. In the trees, a crop of bright red rosehips and elderberries hung in sumptuous black bunches. The air too, seemed filled with an enchanting bird song.

No matter how many times I had come here, the entire scene still seemed unreal; it was truly surreal. But I had come to realise that this ‘Other-world’ was archetypical for my own world. Each tree here was the ‘spirit essence’, the Quintessence for its shadow, in my own world.

I looked over at the Oak King. He truly was a magnificent creature. A tall giant of a man, his body was lean and hard, his powerful thighs rippled with strength. The short tunic he wore was all different shades of green and he was crowned with a circlet of Oak leaves and acorns, complementing his long, wild, red hair. His weathered skin was toned with colours of the earth. His face had strong features, with a broad nose and brow, deep-set eyes.

I recalled that I had seen that face surrounded by leaves, carved into many old churches. People of today called him the Green Man. His enormous mouth, with thick lips, now gave a wide smile that matched the humorous glint of his deep brown eyes.

Hail and welcome brother Corin, he greeted me as always.

Good morrow Sire I said in return. The traditional greeting I had been taught to say when addressing the Oak King. Although he had no airs and graces; I wanted to respect him. The Oak King now sat on one of the larger logs, saying, "I brought you here this time, firstly, to congratulate you on your progress. Your high priestess, the lovely Hazel, and your good self, have made significant progress with your earth healing rituals. The earth's energies are starting to flow better than they have in years.

"You and your brothers and sisters have published Ireland’s first Pagan magazine: ‘Sheela-Na-Gig’, which has enabled many Pagan and magical people to network and work together. Which has helped bolster the growing Celtic and Pagan revival in Ireland. This has flourished much stronger and quicker than we in the otherworld could ever have achieved.

"Tree-Wheel Crafts your wood working business has done great work, utilising the magical bog oak, that which we call elf wood. You have done as we wished and crafted many specially prepared wands of elf wood, imbued with unique magical properties. As well as many other magical tools, and distributed them to seekers and magicians of your world; to help boost their own magical work.

"You and your brother Druid Adge, are to be congratulated sir. Moreover, just as performed by druids of old, you have implanted knowledge into growing trees, so that future generations can retrieve it, just as we showed you.

I can’t say how delighted I am with this work. It has opened up many other channels that we can work with now.

‘Ah!’ thought Touchwood, coming back to himself lying in his bed reminiscing: those were good years, we were still innocent then, and went after everything with the gusto and energy of youth. Hazel, my high priestess, and I had been working hard at our earth healing rituals. But troublesome, occult dreams had plagued me. In a bid to cure me, Hazel had introduced me to her uncle Dafydd, a mysterious alchemist living in seclusion on Anglesey.

Among the many other things he had revealed to me, he had discovered that I was from an ancient blood line of healers, who were said to be derived from the mythical Fay. Initially, I had found all this hard to really take on board until he produced an ancient alchemical formula, written on a vellum scroll. Dafydd had commissioned me to take it to my druid brother Adge, to see if he could make the magic recipe. Adge himself was a budding alchemist, so this was a test; a qualifying challenge for him.

Fortunately, Adge had passed the test with flying colours and had produced the secret potion, given to me by uncle Dafydd. After consuming the vile concoction, it had transported us to the otherworld, and this is where I had eventually met my spirit guide, the Oak King.

What a relief it had been for me to finally meet my spirit guide face to face. The same one that had advised and talked to me when I was a child; much to my parents' anguish. The same one that had been attempting to break through my ‘instilled conditioning,’ some may even say ‘brainwashing’, that my schooling and Sunday bible class’s, had worked so hard to achieve; when I was young and impressionable. The same one that had been breaking through my dream sleep, trying to establish contact with me. Finally, my sleep had been restored to normal, and I was able to be guided and advised by my spirit guide from the otherworld.

But since that very first time, that we had drank the velum scroll potion, several years had passed. These were good years for both me and Adge and my high priestess Hazel. We were happily isolated, and to some extent protected, from the problems of the big cities in the twenty-first century.

 ‘But,’ thought Touchwood, on that fated visit to the otherworld. ‘The Oak King was about to reveal to me that all was not well in his own realm.’

… The Oak King now stood up, and facing away from me, seemingly warming his hands over the fire; but I noticed, not looking me directly in the eye, when he spoke, But this … this, brings me to the second reason I brought you here Corin. The Oak King noisily cleared his throat before he spoke again. I don’t really know how else to break this to you, Corin. So forgive me for being direct; but all is not well in my realm. There is continued unrest in … in, certain factions, and much talk of retaliation against your world. All due to the excessive damage that is being done to the natural world by … by you humans. This damage has been effecting our realm, the ‘otherworld’ as you call it, very adversely indeed. These… these, ‘rebellious factions’ are getting serious Corin. We can’t work out their agenda yet, but it’s not good news for either of us.

I had gone silent and very pale listening to this news. He was right, of course. We humans were damaging our planet, and I felt very ashamed for the human race. But a great fear rose up in me also. Retaliation against my world? I echoed in disbelief. What does that mean? And what rebellious factions? This sounds like terrible news indeed Oak.

It is indeed Corin. And I’m sorry to have to bring it to you, Oak shook his noble head in agreement.

Suddenly, it all was getting too real for me. Somehow, it seemed to me that this last few years, Adge, Hazel, and myself had been playing a game. We had run away from the reality and pollution of the big cities; I thought I was safe and protected here, on the edge of the world. But not anymore. How could I be so foolish as to think that it couldn’t affect me?

Oak had been watching my reaction, dismay written across his kindly face. But then he added, Because of this ‘development’, it has been decided, Oak pressed on with false joviality. To… to err… ‘gift’ certain magical powers to some of our followers in the human world. A bid to… err, redress, yes, redress the balance and… err… help with your safety, so to speak. As you must now be ever… err ever vigilant and watchful for those that may wish you ... err… harm.

I just looked at the Oak King in disbelief. I had never seen him like this, so unsure and disconnected. But he pressed on, So without further ado, I hereby will grant you a special ‘gift’. In your case, it is the gift of shapeshifting.

It was very clear to me that the Oak King knew more than he was saying. But this new ‘gift’ he talked about distracted me. The Oak King moved behind me now, placing a large hand on my head. It felt heavy, but with it came a feeling of euphoria, not unlike the healing given to me by Adrian from the Atlanteans, all those years ago.

The feeling flowed through me, seeming to invigorate and ‘charge’ every cell in my body. Somehow, I felt new and more alive than I had ever felt before. And with it came understanding. I suddenly knew that everything was connected by strings of energy, and that I was energy, or rather, my body was energy. Who I was, my ‘consciousness’ was something else; I had no words to explain? But gradually I became aware that I was able to move that ‘consciousness’ to whatever I focused on. 

I looked over at the over ripe damsons, hanging on a nearby tree. I focused on one particularly ripe fruit. As I concentrated, it suddenly plummeted to the ground, splattering seed and pulp all about. In slow motion, it seemed to me, or was it speeded up? it was hard to tell. The seed produced a root that hungrily dug itself into the soft mossy ground. Then a shoot emerged from the top of the seed and grew, till leaves sprouted. As I looked on in amazement, before my very eyes, a small tree began to form.

Then it stopped growing. The hand was removed from my head, and I felt normal again. But not as I was before. I still had the memory of the vision. And my understanding of the world seemed to have fundamentally changed.

But before I had time to think about that, a large tabby cat, with bright green eyes that momentarily flashed at me, walked slowly across the glade. The Oak King said to me, Corin, see if you can enter the mind of the cat. The same way you moved your consciousness to the damson seed just now. I have gifted you ‘a power.’ Now you must learn to use it.

Things seemed to be moving too fast for me. I was still reeling in amazement from watching the damson seed growing like that. Was that really me, influencing the seed to grow? But the Oak King was standing beside me, waiting patiently. So I looked at the cat before me, and tried to move my awareness towards it, like Hazel had taught me to do with the Athame. As I projected my mind towards the mind of the cat, I saw it pause in its tracks. Its body suddenly twitched, and it shivered its fur. Then the cat slowly turned its head to stare at me with its vivid green eyes.

My head began to swim slightly, before I realised what was happening, I was seeing myself sitting on the log, with the magnificent Oak King stood beside me. Then the most peculiar thing happened. I had the strongest urge to taste blood in my mouth! Suddenly I was able to hear sounds around me that weren’t there before, like someone had turned up the volume. I could hear a stream from the valley below us. Insects chittering in the grass, the scurrying of a mouse in the roots of a nearby tree.

Suddenly, I was running over towards the tree where the mouse was. I was crouching down in the long grass, saliva drooling from my mouth over my long fangs. They desperately wanted to sink themselves into warm flesh. My tongue desired the taste of warm blood flowing across it. Slowly, I slunk forwards towards the sound of the scratching mouse. It was preoccupied, digging and gnawing a little hole in the roots of a tree. I sprang through the air, claws protruding, and teeth showing and landed on the mouse, claws and teeth sinking into its little, quivering body.

The taste of blood in my mouth brought an ecstasy I had never known and couldn’t describe. The thrill of the hunt, ripping flesh from bones, the grinding of bone and sinew in my mouth, where all experiences that disgusted me; the part that wasn’t ‘Cat’. For I was aware now that I was experiencing two consciousnesses. At the moment, ‘Cat’ was in control.

Then I was aware again of the voice of the Oak King saying, Now try exerting ‘your will’ over the cat, make him move to where you want to go.

Once I realised that I was allowed to do that, I concentrated on exerting my ‘will’ over the cat. I thought: ‘go to the stream for a drink’. The cat immediately turned away from the half-mauled mouse and trotted across the glade and down the hill towards the stream. Daintily, the cat leapt onto a stone at the side of the stream and bent to lap up the flowing water. The taste was extraordinary, I had never known water taste so good before. My thirst sated, I willed the cat to travel back uphill, towards the glade where the Oak King waited.

The cat, now standing before the Oak King. Through the cat's eyes, I watched him bend and stroke the thick fur on the cat's back. It felt amazing, ecstatic. All the feelings of elation and healing I had felt earlier when Oak had placed his hand on my head returned. It was wonderful. Then Oak stopped petting and clicked his fingers and suddenly I was back in my own body, watching the cat pad off across the glade and into the trees.

So how was it, Corin? he asked.    

Wow! I reeled. Amazing, it’s hard to put into words. Can I do it again?

No! commanded the Oak King. "Not just yet. And hereby lies the danger Corin, for your kind it can be very addictive. Humans find it hard to give it up. Forgive me for bringing you back so suddenly, but I knew you would have difficulty coming away from it.

Using this ‘gift’ of shapeshifting requires great discipline of mind, and awareness that you can get ‘stuck’ within the creature and never come back into your own body. There have been many cases throughout the ages, so beware. I encourage you to practice this, when you return to your own world. But only use it for short periods; at first. Slowly build up the time you spend like this. In time, with discipline, you may be able to spend a whole day in this way. But beware, never allow the animal to sleep when you are with it, hereby lies the biggest danger of getting stuck …

‘I was so excited with my new gift’, thought Touchwood, coming back to his old body, lying in his bed reminiscing. I was still young and impulsive then, so I had tried to use it straight away, with the house cat. She had recently birthed a litter of kittens and was laying in her basket feeding them. I had made such a hash of that first mind meld with her, that I was certain, that if she hadn’t had a basket full of kittens to feed, she would have run away from home. Touchwood chuckled at the thought of it.

But the mother cat had played a large part in my perfecting the technique. After the initial shock, she had proved cooperative to the process, and allowing my ‘amateur’ melding to become almost seamless in the end. Consequently, a strong bond had developed between us, cat and human, for the rest of her life.

‘That’s enough reminiscing for the time being,’ Touchwood thought. ‘The goats won't milk themselves; the vegetables won't plant themselves; I have a smallholding to run.’ He threw the covers back and sat up, dragged his old bones out of his bed. ‘Besides,’ he thought wryly, ‘I need some breakfast to get the taste of mouse out of my mouth.’

Chapter 2

Fair Thee Well

Touchwood felt strongly that all the magical work that he had been engaged with, early on in his life, had led him eventually to find and setup the self-sufficient community; that they all now lived in. Some of the younger people who had grown up there had asked him to write a brief history of their community; a Chronicle of how it was founded, etc.

He had set out writing in earnest but somehow it had taken on a life of its own. Instead of writing the brief history of the community, he had found himself writing a Chronicle of his own life story instead. But he found that the two were so intricately bound together, it had been impossible to separate them.

In retrospect, he could see now that his whole life, it seemed to him, was driven by spiritual forces, that at the time he was unaware of. As a young man of thirty or so he had felt compelled to ‘walk the talk’ and live off the land. So decided the best thing he could do was to travel the west coast of Ireland, and search for a suitable smallholding there.

It was while travelling through the west coast that he had been drawn to the magical mountain of Sliabh an Iarainn. Through a series of coincidences, he had become the proud owner of the cottage and land that they now lived in.

During the time of setting up the self-sufficient small holding, quite early on in fact, he had met a fellow druid who went by the name of Adge. They had become close friends and had a lot of interesting adventures together. Another person he had befriended was a local Irish farmer called Michael. And it is with him we resume our story as written down in the Touchwood Chronicles.

* * *

I hadn’t seen Michael in some weeks now. Michael was a bit of a local character and a close neighbour of mine. We had become friends when I had helped him out with his cattle, when he wasn’t well for a couple of weeks. He was probably one of the oldest locals that I knew of in the area. He was a fine old gentleman; I had seen him many times going into town on his dilapidated donkey cart. The old, damaged wooden planks that hadn’t been painted in years, and the back gate was held together with blue bailing twine. The poor, haggard old donkey didn’t look much better.

Several times now I had been over to his cottage with a bottle of whiskey, to encourage him to talk about the old Celtic hero stories, which he seemed to know of by heart. I had grown to love the old man and his knowledge of the old ways of Ireland. So was a little concerned for his welfare, when I went over to his cottage one evening and found his cattle gone and the place in darkness …

***

‘It had been several years since Adge, and I had taken the velum scroll potion …’

Touchwood put his pen down, stroking his long silver beard as he read over what he had just written. Scratching the skin under his beard, he thought, ‘I must have been very naïve at that time, for I should have been more aware’. Touchwood continued writing …

‘ … old man Michael hadn’t got any younger in that time. He had looked frail even then, poor guy. But he had seemed such a legend to me, that I imagined he would go on forever.’

‘However, since taking the potion, we had been so busy making bog oak wands and staffs, Ogham divination sets and all manner of magical tools to sell. Not to mention that we had been engaged in the educational workshops with Ellie, and my many rituals with Hazel, all over Ireland. I felt guilty now that I had not taken enough time for the old man. But back at Michael’s cottage that night.’

***

Puzzled by Michael's absence, I decided to seek an answer in the main community focus, of all local information; our local pub. I knew Michael often visited on a Saturday night, so decided to go down there for a pint of Guinness and ask the barman if he knew anything.

Ah, tis a sad old affair is Michael, said Padraic O’Doherty, the barman. "Poor man collapsed on his seat here a few Saturdays ago now. Course, it was good Craic in here and heaving. The band was screeching, and no one thought anything of it, being a Saturday night and all. There was one or two others in a similar state, over in the corner.

But when Michael didn’t sit back up to finish off his Guinness, Liam, that’s his great nephew, became a little concerned and soon realised poor Michael had had a heart attack. So I helped Liam to get him in his car and take him off to the hospital in Carrick. He’s with his sister in Drumshanbo now. They say he’s got a bad dose, hasn’t got long, poor chap. He will be sorely missed.

And Padraic O’Doherty, the barman, had been right. For it wasn’t more than a couple of days later, one morning, when Liam came banging on my cottage door, to tell me poor old Michael had passed on. They were having a wake this afternoon and evening, at Michael's sister’s house, in Drumshanbo town, and they invited me.

As I arrived at his sister’s house, I had seen a line of people slowly entering, caps in hand and shuffling their way into the hallway. I had duly lined up with the others and was now about to enter the kitchen. It was quiet and dark in there, no lights. When my eyes adjusted, I could see poor Michael laid out on the kitchen table. They had dressed him in his Sunday best suit and black shoes. A flickering candle had been placed at his head and one at his feet.

As I waited in the doorway for the couple in front of me to finish their viewing. I noticed that the small kitchen window had been opened, to allow his spirit to leave and the small mirror, above the old Stanley cooking range, had been covered with a cloth.

But now I heard a low, but prolonged wailing sound, but wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Looking around, I noticed in a dark corner left of the door, an old lady sat in a dark wood spindle chair. Her keening suddenly became louder and very high-pitched and warbling. It tore into an otherwise silent afternoon. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and a shiver ran down my spine as I wondered who she was.

The couple in front of me both did the sign of the cross over their chest, then left by the back door. It was my turn; reverently, I walked forward to pay my respects to poor old Michael. They had crossed his arms over his chest and laid old Irish pennies on his eyes.

I looked down on the old man, who had welcomed me to his fireside and told me old stories about the sacred mountain where I lived. And of the coming of the Tuatha de Danann and many more Celtic myth and legend tales. And wondered who would tell those stories now that he was gone.

I dipped