THE GABBY AGGIES

SELF DEFENCE:

MABEL: I worry about you sometimes, Mrs. P.

MRS P: Aw Mabel. What a lovely thing to say, though I don’t want you fretting about anything. What bothers you, Mabel?

MABEL: Oh, just crime being the way it is. I worry about you alone on that pig farm out there. I mean, a pig is not exactly a guard dog, is it?

MRS P: Mabel, what would they steal from me, eh? Bacon? My Granny’s freshwater pearls from Scotland? Anyway, my gander would see them off in a minute. A long hiss and a flap of his wing I reckon would break a man’s leg, so it could!

MABEL: If he’s about! But sure he wanders with that gaggle of geese, leading them over fields and whatnot. Mrs P! A thief could be in and out in no time and yourself lying in a ditch somewhere and we wouldn’t find you for hours, and the geese on their walkabout.

MRS P: You’re giving me the willies talking like this. And anyway, Mabel, have you no faith in my sheer common sense? I have my own protection by my bed. No-one will get past me without a shock.

MABEL: Oh? A gun or something? You’d need a wee six-shooter to make sure you got the intruder. A rifle would be too cumbersome and you don’t want a blown head on your pillow!

MRS P: Not at all, Mabel. I am not a messy sort. It’s a wee thing I have with me always. I sleep with it beside me, so I do.

MABEL: What? A truncheon or something? A knife? Although I’ve only every seen a bread knife here and it is blunt.

MRS P: My bread knife doesn’t even cut the bread anymore. I struggle to halve a scone. No, I have a whistle, a very shrill one that belonged to Billy the shepherd. You should have seen how obedient that collie dog was to the whistle. He would stop immediately and crawl on his belly to round up the sheep.

MABEL: A whistle? What could you do with that? No intruder will fall to their knees in obedience. You could hardly hit them over the head with it to keep them down.

MRS P: I’d blow on it hard and loud. Blast his ear drums at close range. Give him a fright. He would think I had summoned someone to my aid and away he’d flee. Failing that, I’d try to charm him to give myself time.

MABEL: Ha! That would scare the life out of him, Mrs P. You’re hardly a spring chicken!

MRS P: What do you mean by that? I take umbrage to that. I still have talent, you know? The bread man has been telling me so for years! But I don’t succumb. I just faintly smile and let him flatter me.

MABEL: I didn’t mean an insult, you know? I just thought that if you lead him on, not the bread man, but the thief… what would you do if he tried to take you by force? You know… do the ‘other’ with you?

Mrs P: Then my plan B would come into action, Mabel, I have a very hot pepper I keep handy. I’d sprinkle it on anything private that shows itself against my will. That would make him dance. Spread it liberally on the ‘bother’ and then throw the remainder in his eyes. He wouldn’t have enough hands to deal with it all. He’d be running to the river like a bat out of hell.

MABEL: Gosh! You’re very prepared! The more power to your wee wheel. I can’t fault you for quick thinking.. I admire your spunk, so I do. Now, what if he survives the whistle and the pepper, what then?

MRS P: Plan C as my last resort would be the pig slurry. I’d run like Billy-O from the house and lead him to the pig slurry, then trip him up unwittingly, and make him fall in. He’d sink like a stone. The trouble is, he might die and I’d be branded a killer.

MABEL: What? Even if it was self defence?

MRS P: Unfortunately, my dear, that is the hash of the Law! You defend yourself from killers and thieves and they get off and you get put away for being dangerous. I don’t have a violent bone in my body, Mabel, but I would be put away for life. A complete hash altogether, so it is! They should bring back public birching for thieves, like they had on the Isle of Man. Best deterrent is exposure, blame, shame, and pain! A spectacle… that would stop the crime in no time.

MABEL: I agree, wholeheartedly. All this pussyfooting around gets us nowhere. Have you any more ideas on self defence then?

MRS P: Oh aye, only in the most dangerous situation. I always have a bottle of paraffin as a firelighter but rarely use it. Not recommended as it can backfire on you as it goes ‘WHOOSH’ .. but if someone was coming at me with real murder on his… or her… mind, I would douse them and then threaten them with a match, ready to strike the box. You wouldn’t see their heels for dust, to get away fast, and if they were smokers, they would be gasping and getting their clothes off to get to a bath. But that is not something I would indulge in. I would end up behind bars if I tried that.

MABEL: Goodness, Mrs P! Safer to call the constabulary rather than try anything drastic.

MRS P: If you have time, but in this place it takes the police too long to get here. We have to take matters into our own hands if we are isolated.

MABEL: I’d just run and tell them to take all. They can have anything I have for nothing. It would be hard to get your life back.

MRS P: We need to take courses in self defence. The Mother’s Union would appreciate that. A twist of the wrist and a knee up to the family jewels and they’re crippled. But these days you have women doing it too so you have to aim for vulnerable bits.

MABEL: What do you mean? Where would they be?

MRS P: Mabel! How long have you been around, love, and you don’t know your vulnerable bits? Have you never slipped on the saddle of a man’s bike and straddled the bar suddenly? That is vulnerable! And your… what can I say politely?… ‘udders’ are vulnerable, and your eyes, and of course your throat. You have to protect all these.

MABEL: Oh yes, I know that. I nearly choked on a marble once.

Mrs P: I don’t need to know your eating habits. I hope you’re talking about marbled cake. No, Mabel, we have to learn to thwart anything that wants to harm us.

MABEL: I will just run. I’d throw marbles down when I run away.

Mrs P: You and marbles! Do you still play with them? You’d hardly see them nowadays. Marbles, skipping ropes, and trolleys are things of the past. It is all high-fangled stuff like computers, skateboards and electric scooters now. Children are spoiled.

MABEL: I had four wheels on my rollerskates, now they are all in a line. Impossible. So modern.

MRS P: These children today have never milked a cow by hand nor churned butter or lapped hay. Everything is done by machine. They have robots now in the world. Self defence will be a thing of the past. We will have robots to do our bidding.

MABEL: Perfect. No worries at all if we have a live-in Robo-Cop.

MRS.P: You can’t win, Mabel. There will be robot robbers too. We should stick to self defence.

MABEL: Aye, I agree! Nothing too violent. See you tomorrow at the Mother’s Union! We’ll all become martial artists at The Fingerpost! Good thinking, Mrs P. Good thinking!

MRS P: That’s the spirit Mabel, you wee scamp! Bye for now! See you tomorrow. Buy yourself a whistle on the way home!

DWINA. ***

(The Gabby Aggies gossip daily at The Fingerpost, a village where five roads meet, and Mrs.P, and Mabel sort out all the problems in the world in their own sensible way. Some of these Irish colloquial dialogues I have written recently and some were aired on Manx Radio a few years ago. I am currently creating a book of them all.)

THE GABBY AGGIES

MRS P: Mabel, I’m going to ask you a personal question. You don’t have to give details too much, on account of my weak stomach.

MABEL: Oh, since when did your stomach become weak, Mrs P?

MRS P: Aw now, it’s just as well that misfortunes usually come one by one, for if they all came together, we’d be a bag of worries courting The Grim Reaper all the time.

MABEL: I just never heard of your stomach being weak before, Mrs P. It’s a new one on me. Is it a wee gastric problem?

MRS P: There are some things we keep even from our best friends. We don’t want to alarm them, you know. To tell you the truth I get very windy with worries. They say a worry shared is a worry halved, but I don’t believe that at all. A worry shared is a worry doubled and by the time the whole country knows about it, all those wee minds thinking of you ailing makes the situation far worse.

MABEL: We won’t talk about the ‘windy’ bit. Cucumbers do that to me, so all these high falutin’ ladies with their cucumber sandwiches might have the same problem. But now I am concerned that the bad thinking multiplies.

MRS P: It multiplies surely. You might just have an insignificant pain in the head, but if you tell someone about it or borrow an aspirin, by the time the gossip has reached the tenth house, you have a brain tumour and there’s no hope. All those people pitying you who has the affliction and thankful it’s not themselves! See what I mean?

MABEL: All that badness flying around. I do see what you mean, Mrs P. That would put the wind up anyone, so it would.

MRS P: Before you know it, the headache gets worse and the sickness increases. Sickness is the physician’s feast. You become bread and butter for the doctor’s table, Mabel, and you might as well have a brain tumour then.

MABEL: So what did you want to ask me, Mrs. P? This personal thing you spoke about? Should I be alarmed?

MRS P: Aw not at all, Mabel. I wondered if you had ever been ‘bundled’? I was just curious if you had the same practice in your family?

MABEL: I am as pure as the driven snow, pure as the Holy Virgin herself. I have been no such thing.

MRS P: N0, no, Mabel! ‘Bundled’ doesn’t mean to do the dirty with someone! Quite the opposite. It’s to prevent all that shenanigans.

MABEL: What is ‘bundling’ when it is at home? I’ve never heard of it then?

MRS P: My Granny’s mother was a Shaker and she practiced ‘Bundling’.

MABEL: What? She had the palsy or something?

MRS P: Not at all, pet! Nothing physical. It’s a religious sect. Very humble and puritanical like myself! My old man, God bless his soul, said they were so poor in that day that if the wolf came to the door, he would have brought his own sandwiches.

MABEL: Ha! A mutton sandwich! Goodness, we are so lucky it is after the war now and no rationing. I can’t imagine such poverty. It’s only famine and war that gives hunger pains.

MRS P: Aw, sure we’re blessed nowadays. We can spread about and have more than one or two rooms. Look at the vicarage, a two storey house, four bedrooms for children, and a cottage. Look at the Priest’s house, five bedrooms, butler’s annex, a garden and no family. My Great Granny had a clatter of wains all sharing beds in two rooms. Some slept top to toe like sardines packed together. That was the reason for ‘bundling’ in the first place. She made these wee sacks and when cousins came to stay or a boyfriend visited, the girls would be ‘bundled’, stitched into the sacks. Sometimes she stitched the boys in to prevent them getting up to no good in the night.

MABEL: Ha! Stitched them in? I don’t think a few bits of thread would hold back a rampant bull, Mrs P.

MRS P: They should bring back ‘bundling’, says I. People like Dymphna down the road, for example, would benefit from it. Someone needs to stitch her up.

MABEL: Well, I have never been stitched into a sack, but then I am an only child and all my cousins are in Canada, you know.

MRS P: Oh, I always had a warm spot for those Canadian Mounties, the wee uniforms and cocky hats and the kerchief on the neck. So dapper! I would love to rip the stitching of their bundling, so I would! Or at least, bag them to take them home.

MABEL: I don’t think they would take kindly to that. They are wild fond of their horses.

MRS P: You’re right, Mabel. I’d have to bag the horse with them, wouldn’t I?

MABEL: I don’t think the horse would take kindly to that either! We’re talkin’ nonsense now. I am afraid of the beasts.

MRS P: Aw, now, love, there are three things you can’t trust, they say. The first is the dog’s tooth. I was bitten by a corgi called Major once. They nip the heels of cattle to round them up and he never got out of the habit. Took a chunk out of my ankle, he did. It nearly put me to anguish with the Royal Family, so it did. The second is the horse’s hoof and I had a bad experience with a big Clydesdale. He stepped on my new beige shoes and me in them at the time. That put me off beige for a lifetime. Then the third thing you can’t trust is the word of the gentleman.

MABEL: What did the gentleman do to you, Mrs P?

MRS P: Never you mind. It was a ‘bundling’ of a different sort. You wouldn’t understand.

MABEL: I’m not that fickle and I do know about birds and bees.

MRS P: Birds and bees have nothing but an excited bit of fluttering of wings. But it takes three men and a rope to stop a wanton bull breaking the cow’s back.

MABEL: You don’t say! Poor you, Mrs P, having to witness that. But what happened with the gentleman?

MRS P: I will tell you on the sly. It was in my courting days. This man will remain anonymous … Lets call him Mister X… he wooed me relentlessly and sent me this beautiful fake silk orchid that I watered for three weeks… sent me one a day. Told me I was a bloom amongst blooms.

MABEL: But you were younger then, Mrs P. Blooms do fade.

MRS P: You wee scamp. This flower still has plenty of buds. Anyway the silk flower was watered too much and got mouldy. I was allergic and swelled up. It was terrible. Meanwhile he wrote silken-tongued letters when I ignored him to let the swelling go down. You are the only one, says he, my immortal love, says he, marry me, says he. The whole nine yards, Mabel. I was flattered.

MABEL: You don’t get romances like that these days.

MRS P: There is nothing remotely romantic about mouldy silk flowers. Mabel. My eyes disappeared into my head and watered fiercely. I looked like a pig with mumps. I was relentlessly gasping for air, and who turns up at the door but Mister X! To add insult to injury, he asked me right to my face if I was at home! When I told him I was me, he turned on his heel and you couldn’t see his feet for dust, so fast was he to get away. I was peeved, Mabel, shocked and peeved!

MABEL: He wasn’t marriage material. They’re supposed to love you through sickness and in health.

MRS P: Oh, it didn’t end there. I went round to Dymphna’s to get one of her mother’s home remedies, reluctantly of course, and found Dymphna watering three silk flowers of the same breed as mine.

MABEL: You don’t say! Your romancer was wooing her too, and I suppose she had no allergy! That is a slap in the face for you. What a terrible misery for you to endure.

MRS P: I visited the local florist. There was a consignment of these rare silk orchids. They said they couldn’t keep them in stock, and that one gentleman was doing a lot of wooing in the district.

MABEL: Worse than an eager bull, I’d say.

MRS P: Every available spinster, Mabel, every wife too. When it all came out, and I made sure it did, he was hounded out of town and country. The big mistake he made was sending silk flowers to the Protestant Vicar’s wife. And the biggest mistake she made was displaying them.

MABEL: Oh dear. Did the Vicar go mad or what?

MRS P: Mad is not the word. He delivered a scathing sermon that scorned all men who coveted their neighbour’s wife, scorned adulterous women and implied that a loose woman was the second mistake in history!

MABEL: WHAT? Was his head cut? Gracious, that must have shamed them all?

MRS P: All except the Romancer, but I believe he got his hide whipped. Mister X was the abomination, and there was a drastic heap of old damp silk flowers at the municipal dump afterwards. They were a hazard, so they were.

MABEL: To the health, Mrs P?

MRS P: Not at all! To the marriages. It went from bad to worse. In my opinion, as soon as he set foot in the region, he should have been ‘bundled’ right away. There should be a law for the ‘bundling’ of strangers, so there should, before they cause havoc! Anyway, bye for now, enough said, Mabel. I’ll see you tomorrow.

MABEL: Cheerio for now, Mrs P. I tend to agree with you. It would save a lot of time and bother if they brought back the ‘bundling’ before the bad turned to worse. Cheerio and I look forward to our wee chat tomorrow!

DWINA***

PS: I produced a series of colloquial dialogues of The Gabby Aggies, as a ‘talking heads’ excerpt by two talented Irish actresses for Manx radio and I performed a one-woman show in an Irish Theatre in New York. The Gabby Aggies were also recorded for the Blind at a radio station in Miami. Some people have asked me to revive them again so I am currently creating a new book of Mrs P and Mabel’s gossipy dialogues with new additions. They are written from remembered conversations in childhood and snatches of gossip heard on buses and elsewhere. Everything was poetic and magical growing up in Northern Ireland, even through the dreadful stresses of war. Thank you for your encouraging responses here.

Dwina***

THE ACE OF CUPS

IS THIS THE HOLY GRAIL?

The Cups in the Tarot represent the Emotional Field with radial awareness.

The Element is Water. Without water we are unable to exist as humans in the material world.

All waters in the body and on the Earth have the magnetic pull of the moon and the sun, the lunar and solar tides being seen in the oceans but also occurring unseen over the entire land mass. Our bodies are made up of about 50 to 55 per cent water for women and 60 percent for men, which may give us reason now to think, contrary to popular belief, that men may actually be a tad more emotional than women.

Depending on the tidal waves of motion that ebb and flow to radiate out from the mind and body, emotions can cover the spectrum from love, increased passion, enthusiasm and excitement to the still waters of stagnation, dying love, or surges of like and dislike, either to attract or repel others.

Depending on the location and where the gravitational pull is strongest because of the proximity of the moon and the sun, emotions can differ on opposite sides of the planet.

Spiritual curiosity is also spurred by love, and sometimes sorrow, for a need to know and find answers. It requires great will and determination. It requires melting and merging deep within. It requires courage and fearlessness.

I spoke to a famous brilliant German scientist once who told me that in one drop of ocean water there was enough power to achieve great things for the planet and it was his wish to live by the sea to continue his study. He was elderly at the time so I have often wondered if he fulfilled his wish. He used to come to my home in North London because he liked the peaceful feeling there, and he sat at an old oak table and experimented with an electric magnetic board, creating little jewelled cars with perfect ball bearings in the wheels to race along special tracks, and he had a little aeroplane that hovered above it. He showed me a tiny brooch of a small person that came to life and walked across the board, pushing a pram. It was fascinating to watch this miniature magic. To thank me he fixed my clocks and anything else that malfunctioned. I found out years later, (when internet came into being and I exchanged my typewriter for a Canon computer (loved that ‘puter’), that the old gentleman in question had been imprisoned in Britain for divulging secrets of atomic energy to Russia and China because he did not believe it should belong to one nation. He was not tried for treason at the time because Russia was an ally with Britain during the war and he had come to Britain to escape the Nazi regime. Extraordinary part of my life. I met him originally in Grundigs where I had taken a small colour television to be repaired and was anxious to have it back again so I could follow a campaign May Hobbs and I were involved with, having a ‘sit-in’ at a small parts factory near Manchester for Equal Pay For Women. The irony was that the electrical parts they were waiting for were delayed because of our campaign. He was collecting a box of lots of parts of televisions. I asked him if he was trying to build one himself? We began a conversation while waiting and spoke about everything from vegetarianism to work equality to meditation and to engineering. My father was a mechanical engineer who could invent, build, or fix anything.

The gentleman was living near to me so we became friends and I watched this physicist create these entertaining electric magnetic toys in my home. The curious thing was that if he were the famed one I found through research, he had lost his right to be in Britain and had gone to live in Germany, yet I met him in London supposedly after his exile.

However, the one sentence that intrigued me was his obsession about water, and I wondered if life anywhere in the universe can only exist if water is present. Water has to be the essence that is vital for growth and also for the other elements, whether it is there to control or assist them.

To this genius of physics who rightly or wrongly believed atomic energy was not meant to be the secret and property of one nation, he had his sights set on water and spoke constantly about it with fervour.

Is this the Holy Grail content of our existence?

My study of the Ace of Cups continues and is most inspirational the more I find out about it. My son studies theoretical quantum physics and anyone who draws an Ace has the propensity to be a pioneer in their field, whether it be Cups, Wands, Swords or Shields. If one becomes an Ace in one subject, all others will follow suit. The elements are extremely powerful.

DIVINATION:

In the Ace of Cups in my Vedic Tarot, I have depicted the Elixir of Immortality being the essence within the Cup as the Soma from Indra, the King of the gods, who brings Soma to the people, the inspiring illumination that quickens the brain with a burst of inspiration that floods the senses. Aces are always New Beginnings regardless of how far along we are on a journey. The Power of Love is a blessing from birth. The force of the Ace of Cups has immense power within it that is blissful to the soul. It brings a surge of zest and enthusiasm with sudden ‘lightbulb’ moments and visions that place one on a karmic path of knowledge. The Aces are markers in life that awaken the soul to its destiny. Water is the element that marks the timing of our lives from birth onward, from the emerging from the womb, when waters break at birth, when the first milk runs through us, when the first waters pass through us, to the last waters leaving the body at our passing. The life-giving powers are for health, cleansing, emotional tears, happiness, and pride of achievement in small and great challenges that are won or overcome. New concepts arrive for creative projects. Fertility is in conception for child growing. The aim of the Ace is to become complete with all treasures and enable one to merge with Love itself. Ace cup bearers have the ability to become Saints. Their silence is as great as their words. They can touch Divinity and become Masters of their own destiny. Self-sovereignty emanates from them without ego.

Zeus turns himself into an Eagle and uplifts Ganymede to be his Cup Bearer. It is the same metaphor that exists in mythology. Giving wings to the soul within the corporeal realm to be able to touch and become aware of Immortality even as we live and breathe here. Not only is this a state of mind but it is also reflected in the work… that which is created or built has a way of inspiring others, of exciting their minds and it causes a chain reaction that removes self-doubt. There is purity in something new and original.

SANSKRIT

What is Soma? It is the sap from sacred plants compressed between stones and mixed with divine waters and milk. This is Indra’s Elixir. It is also the springtime sap rising in plants that gives life to buds, flowers and seeds. Sprouting plants can push stones aside to get to Light. It is the sap in our spines that rises with the kundalini to feed bliss to the brain. An Ascetic yogic technique during meditation was the pressing of the tongue against the roof of the mouth to still the mind and cause the cerebral spinal fluid to rise into the brain stem for journeying into higher consciousness and the subtle regions. Soma is also the cosmic energy that elevates thoughts. The language of thought is the most elevated power that travels faster than any other power without the need of instruments. It can send messages, no matter how far away someone may be. This is a natural power considered magical now. It is a power that needs self-control to stay positive and safe for the self and others.

HEBREW (Qabalistic)

HEH: Window. The windows of the mind and body are the eyes, and the window of the soul is the third eye above the world of the senses. Through this eye, one can have remote viewing. It is an extra sense for thought to travel faster for vast distances. Visual and auditory messages can be sent through this window to be seen and heard by others without telephones or any other instruments. This is a lost art that can be reclaimed and may be needed if there is a breakdown in communication networks in the future.

OGHAM

UILLEAND: (U) Honeysuckle, Ambrosia. The vowels are quintessential to language to give shape and form to letters to make words. The Word is the means of communication from mind to mouth and to ear. The vowels are sacred in the ancient Irish tree alphabet. When the circle is complete (O) and heavy compression is Iota (I) the world energy appears wretched (E) then the Ancestral Soul (A) comes in Light to awaken long-lost children and original souls. The unlimited ambrosial essence (U) brings the WORD that causes the souls to begin their transformation back to a purer state so that the world can change from Hell back to Paradise again.

MUSICAL INSTRUMENT

CONCH SHELL: The Conch Shell is part of Vishnu’s regalia that calls for the original souls to begin their Great Work to seek higher consciousness and New Beginnings. When blown, the sound of the Universe is heard, the Cosmic Ocean is the sacred sound that is the Word. The Muse arrives and we create in higher consciousness.

The essence contained within the Ace of Cups, or the Holy Grail to some, is the ambrosia or the awakening that breaks the grid lock on the mind and opens us to the possibilities ahead of true liberation in life. If we listen and absorb the Word, if we taste the essence of change, we can reach our true potential of how to think and act to create a safer world for us all, then we are already half-way to a more enlightened existence. It is happening now in this particular Age when the Cups are needed most.

DWINA***

THE GABBY AGGIES

NATURE AND THE SIXTH SENSE

MABEL:

Isn’t it wonderful, Mrs. P, all the wee birds out making their nests, clocking the eggs? The wonder of nature. I love the Spring-time, everything so frisky, families and all that singing and babies and whatnot.

MRS. P:

Aw, yes, the killing season! There might be births, Mabel, but to my mind there’s more than a fair share of deaths too. Magpies robbing nests, foxes stalking the garden…to tell you the truth, Mabel, it sounds like an animal War-Zone out there, all that murder and screaming in the night! I can’t get a wink of sleep.

MABEL:

Can’t you put cotton wool in your ears. Mrs. P? The thing is that everything has the right to survive and everything lives on something. When I come to think of it, it just seems to me that the new-born babies have a raw deal in Nature.

MRS. P:

That’s part and parcel of life, Mabel, and cotton wool doesn’t do it for me. I have to have those fancy ear-plugs that block out all the sounds. Otherwise my nightmares would be wicked.

MABEL:

Oh, I couldn’t bear to put anything in my ears at night. But nothing seems to scream at my place, Mrs. P. You must have extra perception with your ears. Or maybe you have more predators living on your farm.

MRS. P:

Oh, I have excellent perception with all my senses, even the senses you wouldn’t normally use. My mother always said I was ‘fey’. I could sense when somebody was talking about me behind my back. I have foxes and badgers and weasels and owls but I can sense predators even beyond my backyard, Mabel.

MABEL:

How unfortunate for you, Mrs. P. That must be an awful feeling. So, what is the nature of this ‘sensing’ ability? Do your ears get hot? They say : Right for Spite and Left for Love. I never get hot ears, but then, that’s just me, I suppose. I wasn’t blessed with the same charms.

MRS. P:

Believe me, Mabel, this gift is no blessing. If anything, it is a curse from Hell… to be aware of all the badness is no charm at all. If I didn’t have my wits about me, or if I were inclined to an unstable mind, I’d be persecuted beyond belief by these extra senses. The same disposition sent my Uncle Charlie into a rest home before his time. The poor man was afflicted by the sixth sense.

MABEL:

So there are six senses, Mrs. P?

MRS. P:

I know of the five we have and an extra two: Intuition and Speech. Those two can trip you up but one of them can make you ‘fey’ too. Oh, there are dozens of senses if you think of it, Mabel, sense of balance, sense of proportion, sense of humour, you name them, and then there is no sense at all that we call nonsense, and believe me, many people are afflicted with that… take Dymphna for example… now where is her sense of anything? Her sense of dress would even scare the scarecrows. Her skirt is up round the back of her neck, and she believes in letting it all hang out. My mother always said that what’s hidden is far more attractive than what’s flaunted. Don’t you agree now?

MABEL:

Mrs. P., Dymphna is a bit more daring than us, that’s all. She’s a modern ‘personality’ girl. She likes to be the centre of attention, but usually they are the ones who are unsure of themselves, regardless of the front they put out there. She is pretty even without the make-up, blackened eyelashes, and back-combed hair, and she might be very proud of her assets, but honestly, there is nothing wrong with that, but when it comes down to it, I think she’s a wee bit lonely.

MRS. P:

LONELY??? Mabel, your head is cut! If she’s lonely, I have two heads, a beard and a tail! That one would never be lonely. She’s entertained the butcher, the milkman, the coalman, the baker… next she’ll be after the Minister. You watch! There are no flies on that one. Put trousers on a table and she’d romance it!

MABEL:

Oh dear! You’re making her out to be a real man-eater, Mrs. P., but I never see her with a steady boyfriend of her own.

MRS. P:

Because, Mabel, she is too preoccupied with everyone else’s boyfriend or husband. You wouldn’t know much about these things, love, because you’re not inclined to marriage, but I have been a gentleman farmer’s wife and now a widow, and I can tell you that Dymphna tried her best to beguile my Archie away from me… not that she would have had a chance. My Archie was devoted to only two things in life, pigs and me, Mabel!

MABEL:

Not in that order, I hope, Mrs. P.!

MRS. P:

I can honestly say he was as fond of the squealers as he was of me. They were his livelihood, you see. My Archie was a dedicated man, daicent as they come… a real gentleman farmer. He would have had no time for the brashness of trollop, Mabel.

MABEL:

That’s a bit steep. Not a word I am used to at all. I suppose Archie was attracted to your ‘feyness’, you having the sixth sense and all that. That must have been a plus for you. Nature was kind, giving you something extra, I would say.

MRS. P:

I hope you’re not implying that there was nothing else, Mabel…

MABEL:

No, no, Mrs. P…. of course not, you’re a handsome woman, even now when you’re a bit long in the tooth, you can see why he would be attracted to you, all right.

MRS. P:

Oh. Mabel, do you think so? I have looked after my bits. Ponds Vanishing Cream has been a Godsend, and I’m partial to Nivea. I never bother with the high falutin’ creams they try to sell you these days that cost an arm and a leg. And you never know what’s in them, bits of sperm whale and what-have-you! Disgusting!

MABEL:

I’m not even going to ask you which bit of the sperm whale they would use, Mrs. P.! And I can tell you now, it would never get near my face. I’ve heard that Dymphna, bless her, is very fond of anything to do with the sea, so it would probably suit her. She went to a spa in a bath in Sligo to have a seaweed wrap.

MRS. P:

Yes, I’ve heard of her passion for ships and sea-side men, but apart from the sailors, I had no idea she was into the glories of the ocean, Mabel. I can’t see her knowing the difference between a cockle, a mussel, and a sperm whale!

MABEL:

Good grief, Mrs. P.! I’d die if I came face to face with a whale! I hoked for cockles and mussels in Bundoran, but never found them. My uncle used to eat them straight out of the rock pools at Mullaghmore. I couldn’t watch him do it, but then again, they just call it Sushi these days, don’t they?

MRS. P:

Sushi! Sushi! How anyone can eat raw fish, I’ll never know! All those wee worms and striddlies that the fish eat are still in their bellies, Mabel, and the Sushi-eaters swallow the lot! Yeuk! And do they bother to remove certain parts?

MABEL:

That’s too close to nature for me, Mrs. P. I think we should change the subject now.

MRS. P:

Aye, you’re right, Mabel. It’s distressing for somebody who doesn’t even eat fish. I’m sure the nearest you have come to Sushi, Mabel is maybe the odd caterpillar hidden in a bit of lettuce or something, eh?

MABEL:

I scrub my lettuce, I’ll have you know! By the time I’m finished washing it, nothing would dare hide in it, Mrs. P. There’ll be no Sushi lurking on my plate.

MRS. P:

You see, my extra sense would know if something lurked in my lettuce or cabbage, Mabel. There’d be no fear in me sitting down at the dinner table. I’d know right away if living matter was hiding on my plate. I’m like a butterfly with feelers on the top of my head, sensing things out.

MABEL:

Well, you keep your butterfly feelers to yourself when you come to my house, Mrs. P. I’d hate to think you’d be sensing out mice and clock beetles and earwigs and those wee centipede things with hundreds of legs or millipedes with millions of scuttling feet.

MRS. P:

Just as well, millipedes don’t wear boots, Mabel! By the time they’d lace them all up, it would be time to remove them to go to bed, eh?

MABEL:

Bed? What are you talking about? They’d be up all night polishing them for the next day! Aw, we’re talking nonsense now, Mrs. P! I hope you’re not thinking that my house is full of insects, but you know, I never kill a spider because I think they take care of all those little creatures. I’m very superstitious… they say it will rain if you kill a spider.

MRS. P:

There must be an awful lot of spiders being killed in Ireland, is all I can say! But then again we have lovely fertile land here because of the rain.

MABEL:

Mrs. P. I’ve had lovely hot summers here in Ireland with not a drop of rain to be seen. And people go off on their holidays to Spain and France and such like… even all the way to Miami in America, and they miss all the good weather here. Then, by the time they come back, it’s raining again!

MRS. P:

They’re never content with the weather, and there are those that complain all the year round. There are lots of contrary people around with discontented natures who would eat the head of you for nothing at all. Not my type at all, Mabel. I like a contented sort of person who makes you feel good about life, and if you’re feeling a bit down yourself, they tend to cheer you up. I have started judging the characters of people by their attitude to the weather.

MABEL:

Oh, how so, Mrs. P?

MRS. P:

Well, if the first words out of their mouth are: ‘It’s an awful day, isn’t it?’ or ‘Terrible weather, we’re having.’ Then, I don’t spend too long in listening to them, Mabel. They don’t appreciate nature at all, you see, and they’re too temperamental, ridden with misery. But if someone says: ‘Aw, we needed a drop of rain’, or ‘It’s a good day for the plants’ or if they refer to the drizzle as mist, then that’s my type of person!

MABEL:

Mrs. P. Dymphna always refers to the rain as the good auld Irish mist, and as far as I can make out, you have no time at all for her! She’s cheery night and day, always smiling, and never says a bad word about nature, not into my ears anyway.

MRS. P:

That’s her sneaky way trying to make out she’s a good person, don’t you see, Mabel? Everything to her is an excuse to show off her fashion. When it rains, she will wear her tight plastic raincoat well above the knees and stylish patent boots up to the thighs. These are not your regular fisherman’s waders, Mabel! And you never see a wee pleated plastic rain hood tied under the chin for her. She’ll have her ‘beehive do’ intact and have some young man in the village, who hasn’t a titter of wit, carry a big umbrella for her.

MABEL:

I agree with you there, Mrs. P. She takes advantage of the weather when she can. In summer, she’ll be nearly orange with fake tan, displaying as much flesh as she can for all her worth. A big effort goes into her fashion, I will give her that.

MRS. P:

Fashion nonsense, Mabel, fashion nonsense! My hand-me-downs as a teenager were far classier than her so-called Sunday best. I was alarmed last Sunday to see her wearing a long coat and tall hat, swaying her way into the church. You’d think she was going to the Grand National!

MABEL:

But sure what is wrong with a long coat and tall hat? That seems to me to be the height of decency!

MRS. P:

Mabel, I had no objection to a long coat and tall hat. It was the fact that the long coat was open, and Miss Dymphna was displaying a hipster mini skirt with the waistline well down below her belly button and a frilly blouse that stopped short… way above the belly button. There was a belt of bare flesh in the middle for everyone to see, to say nothing of the bare legs!

MABEL:

But that’s the fashion now, Mrs. P. I’m surprised they don’t catch their death of cold showing their bellies like that!

MRS. P:

I was trying to sing “We plough the fields and scatter the good seed on the land”, but the words stuck in my throat. I was so ashamed that the poor Reverend had to be subjected to that eyeful. The Choir lost their harmonies on the second verse I am sure. They would have been mortified, eyes boggling.

MABEL:

I’m sure Dymphna had the coat buttoned when she left the house, but by the time she reached church, she would have opened it. Poor Dymphna! She thinks she has to display everything to catch the eye of anyone. It is such a bold gesture to take, but I know why. She fancies one of the Wilson boys in the choir you see. That would have been all for him.

MRS. P:

In nature, Mabel, it’s the males that display themselves and the females are usually very ordinary wee things! Something went wrong in the human chain.

MABEL:

Well, I for one, am glad not to have the males displaying themselves. I doubt if the Minister would tolerate the Wilson boy displaying himself like a peacock in church to Dymphna!

MRS. P:

I suppose you’re right there, Mabel. But to my mind, church is a place where you look smart and dampen down any other kinds of urges. Best to leave your desires at the church door, I say! Even Nature doesn’t get inside there, eh?

MABEL:

Maybe the odd bat in the belfry, Mrs. P., but well out of sight to us! All upside down. Do you think they … er… ‘mate’ like that?

MRS. P:

What! Upside down? I wouldn’t know, not spending time studying bats in the belfry. I wonder the blood doesn’t rush to their heads! If it were me, I would be fainting. Even if I bend down to pick something up, I get a head-rush. Would you credit that, Mabel? Dymphna wouldn’t be so eager if she had to swing from the rafters.

MABEL:

Ha! Aw, you’re wild good krak, Mrs. P. Thank goodness there is a big division between us and Nature, eh? Mmmm! That’s a lovely bit of apple pie you made today. So sweet and juicy! You’re a good baker, you know?

MRS. P:

I used ‘Pink Lady’ apples instead of ‘Cookers’, Mabel. Now, that’s nature at it’s best, you see. Whoever grafted those ‘Pink Lady’ apples should have a Garden Oscar. That was done by an Australian farmer with a sixth sense, I’d say! They are ‘hybrids’ of Lady Williams and Cripps Pink. Two hundred days of sunshine! They wouldn’t grow well in Ireland, Mabel. Not enough sun. They are the best, are they not?

MABEL:

You can say that again, Mrs. P. ‘Nature at its best.’ Up the sixth sense indeed! And an extra bite on the ‘Pink Ladies’. All that sunshine. Dymphna should emigrate to Australia you know. Her bare body would go well down there. Two hundred hours of sunshine! No fake tan out of a bottle!

MRS. P:

Aye. Drop a hint, Mabel. The Wilson lad would be safe then!

MABEL:

I doubt that! He’s at the ‘hankering’ age. It’s Nature they say. I’m on my way. Thanks for the wee chat! See you tomorrow, Mrs. P.

MRS. P:

Bye, Mabel.

(under her breath after the door closes)

What would you know about ‘hankering’, anyway, Mabel? I doubt it has ever been in your Nature.

DWINA ***

A Note: (Mrs. P. and Mabel idling time with colloquial, mostly Northern Irish, gossip. I wrote the Gabby Aggies for radio and small theatre performances, based on snatches of conversations overheard in my youth. I loved the giggles, the exaggerations and expressions, the innocence and guilt, the twists and turns of language, all part of storytelling in the families and with neighbours, in houses, on buses, in shops, enjoyed by young and old alike. The names are not relating to any person I knew then or now, or even the strangers sitting behind me on the bus whom I would never know by name anyway.)

LUCY TAILOR OF LIGHT

LUCY

Lucy, the Tailor of Light, came and stood before the Star Child. She placed her hands on her hips and leaned back staring at one side first and then the other. She held her thumb out and squinted her eyes to get a quick measurement of the Child into her mind’s eye. She had measuring sticks and tapes and all kinds of contraptions around her neck and attached to her clothing.

“Hmmm,” she said, and walked around the Star Child slowly. “Hmmm,” she said again.

“I think we can do it. You are rather small,” she said finally.

The Star Child stared at Lucy. “Well, I am quite new.”

“Yes,” agreed Lucy. “My problem is that if you are very small and going far away, we may not have enough Light to send you there and get you back again.”

The Star Child frowned. “Not get me back? Then I shan’t go.”

“Oh, but you have to go. Do not worry, child, I will get my helpers. We will think of something. There is a solution to everything.”

Lucy called for her helpers. Three helpers came in. One carried a spindle; one carried a loom and one carried shears.

Lucy introduced them. “This is Spinner, the one who spins the Light.” She indicated the young girl who carried the spindle. “And this is Weaver, the one who weaves the Light.” And Lucy pointed to the lady with the Loom. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And this is Cutter, the one who cuts the Light.” Cutter was an old woman, bent over, eyes downcast, carrying shears.

The Star Child nodded to them all.

Lucy huddled with the three helpers, and the Star Child waited patiently, listening to their whispers like wind through grasses.

At last, they came forward. Lucy began measuring the Star Child and writing strange numbers with a stick in a sandbox. Lucy measured the fingers and toes, the chin and nose, the head and feet and between where they meet. She measured the arms and legs and counted all the teeth, then tut-tutted and measured above and beneath. She flicked through thoughts and counted the dreams and found they were perfect without any seams.

“Come into the arches,” she said, and led the Star Child to a row of different sized arches. The first was too narrow and too much too small, the second too squat and not enough tall, the third was far, by far, too much trouble and the fourth was just some magnificent rubble. The fifth was cracked and all tumbling down and the sixth was too much like a worried frown, the seventh was dark as dark can be and the eighth was fuzzy like a bumblebee, the ninth had a swinging back-and-forth ball, but the tenth had a keystone and was the best of all.

“At last!” said Lucy. “You fit under an arch. Now stand still…I said stand still, and we’ll measure you in a big way.”

The Star Child stood perfectly still under the arch. Lucy used all kinds of tools to measure the distance from the Child’s head to the keystone, then between the shoulders and the curve of the arch. After that, she measured from the Child’s sides to the pillars of the arch.

Staring into her calculations written with a stick in the sandbox, she shook her head and called for Spinner.

“The Star Child is not enough tall, too small by far.” Lucy shook her head.

Spinner looked at the calculations in the sandbox. “I can spin enough Light, no more or no less, that will be enough to go but not to come back.” Spinner shook her head.

They called for Weaver. Weaver looked at the calculations in the sandbox. “I can weave enough Light, no more or no less, that will be enough to go but not to come back.” Weaver shook her head.

They called for Cutter. Cutter looked at the calculations in the sandbox. “I can cut the Light, no more or no less, that will be enough to go but not to come back.” Cutter shook her head.

All the shaking heads made the Star Child quite dizzy.

Lucy and her three Helpers huddled again, whispering all the while, like rustling paper and wind in the leaves.

At last, when Lucy emerged from the huddle, she was nodding her head, and all three Helpers were nodding their heads too.

Spinner said, “With my spindle, I will spin the Light, no more and no less, for the Star Child.”

Weaver said, “With my loom, I will weave the Light, no more and no less, for the Star Child.”

Cutter said, “With my shears, I will cut the Light, no more and no less, for the Star Child.”

The Star Child wondered about this. “But you said I will only have enough Light to get to the blue pearl planet. There will not be enough Light to get back home, if you spin just no more and no less.”

Lucy pondered for a moment. “Hmmm,” she said. She walked around the Star Child again. “We must give you the Light anyway, no more and no less. Then I will consult with the Elders.”

Lucy then commanded her Helpers to start spinning, weaving and cutting the Light.

“You cannot see the Light being made, Child, so sleep,” said Lucy. Lucy used her dividers to measure the Star Child’s head, and then with a trowel drew dark veils over the Star Child and the Child fell asleep. The three helpers worked all-day under the three suns and worked all night under the three moons and all the time the Star Child slept under the arch. The Light was spun around the Child, woven within the Child, and at last cut to the exact measurements, no more and no less. It filled the arch completely.

At the next dawn of the three suns, the Star Child awoke under the arch to the Light of the suns. Lucy and the three Helpers had gone, all gone. No one was there.

The Star Child looked…

And looked… And looked…

DWINA ***

(This is one of my chapters from THE STAR CHILD CHRONICLES. It is a sci-fi story about a child who travels from the place of three suns to the planet of one sun: The Earth, searching for a power called Love. I illustrated and designed cards from the story to send to friends. I wrote it for our family many years ago.)

SONG

A song of gentle bird follows you wherever you may go, And in that lull of song, my heart is soothed,
The assembly of bright beings is raised in triumph around you, And in their presence I am humbled and moved.

A circlet of light adorns your brow and crowns you with golden hue, And in that splendour, I bathe in reverence of being.
The hosts in mystic murmur whisper through you in ancient tongues, And in their luring, my mind grows still and I am full with seeing.

A lilt as soft as breath sounds the flute of laughter through you,
And in that offering of sweet song my soul is uplifted.
The celestial angels give praise in your presence and your absence, And in their adoration of you, I am as one favoured and gifted.

THE FLAME

The flame that you light in the shrine of my soul burns fiercely forever, an eternal fire that will not diminish, nor will it die. Like the sigh of the poet’s harp, I whisper your name to the four winds with love in my song that will never lie. In the rivers of life I will always find you and claim you when our awakening hearts beat high. In the spells of language we will breathe the gentle strains of love’s lost cries and not even the dusk and dawn of births and deaths will part us or pass us by. No tears of loss or sorrow will moisten your eyes or fall upon you, and only happiness and remembrance of our sacred destiny will, time and again, draw us nigh.

THE ROWAN SPELL

I place the sprig of rowan upon your door, cluster of reddened berry with clasping star,
And watch as it takes command. No false enchantment will occur, no wayward thoughts to cast you afar,
Senses empowered, witless not, serenity and purpose your perfect glee,
Wisdom to see bad from good, harm from help, and wishes for certain victory.
I place the rowan in your mind, the law of protection now yours to find,
This charm is yours, this charm is mine, this charm has come from endless time.

HOME

Small soul, little light, one bright gem in a myriad of stars, lost in the labyrinth of time, dancing to the tune of the turbulent elements, listen, you who have walked that walk. Remember the earth, that humble sod trodden by gods with feet lighter than the wisps of cobwebs swaying in the wind, wind as warm as soft sands bleeding the warmth from the sun, wind that whispers secrets in the ears of grasses and hears the gentle hearts of seas that talk, wind, that heralds the changes from then to now, and blows through angels’ trumpets in all the lands.

Remember when feet were not clod with clay, and garments were of the finest spun gold, and beings shimmered with light, their hands bright and bold with giving. Remember when flowers burst from bud to bloom and softly shed their scent even as a jewelled eye was cast upon them, no lapse of time, just a thought from then to now. Remember when there were no commands and nature softly stirred in ecstasy with our minds, surrendering to satisfy the visions given freely. Remember being complete in all the arts with divinity of intelligence, when the elements danced with our joy. Know that happiness and infinity is our strength and might, the light of every girl and boy. Remember the beauty that graced the lands of our birthright where death had no say and only sweet change was our way, the womb a palace, the world a place in which to play. Listen, gentle soul of blinding light, it is but a long journey from there to now, and one step only on the way back. Cast off the troubled time, and throw away the mountains of sorrow, see them as no bigger than the mustard seeds in one small sack, no more than a passing moment in the great play of tomorrow.

Stretch like the lotus flower that is rooted in the damp, stretch out from swamp and mud, and unfold the petals of the mind to embrace the sun and glorious days ahead. Remember who we really are, the Emperor and Empress souls of a great earth, by the hearth of the universe, and remember that we do not return upon this path alone. Remember that it is the pure and guiding light of the parent soul of God that brings us to this special kingdom we can only call Home.

IMMORTAL SIGHT

Although my eyes have immortal sight, my heart shreds in the limitations of mortal love, and I yearn for eternal duration of elevated bliss. No earthly light is bright enough, a mere platitude to appease the soul on the corporeal wheel, to veil the promise of liberation, to conceal Divinity in all its might. Only the soft remembrance of heavenly communion and Deity form is sealed in Psyche’s kiss, and yet the fire of radiance burns deep to echo and reveal the pleasures of forgotten paradise, the treasures of Love, and the taste of ambrosial nectar, so sweet, so absolute. I lose myself in total surrender to something resolute, all forgiving, so tender, that renders me as helpless in my human form, yet takes me from gentle kiss of death to breath of immortal living.

DWINA

(A suite of poems written about Immortal Love and A Golden Age.

)

THE GABBY AGGIES

MRS. P:

Ah, there you are, Mabel! I decided that we’ll forego the cakes and biscuits with our tea today, like they do in England. I nearly starved over there and the tea went cold while I waited for the sandwiches to go with it. They don’t feed you with the tea, you know!

MABEL:

So I heard. So I heard. But that’s probably very healthy, Mrs. P. We eat far too much, far too often. One day, when I was visiting in the parish, I went to ten houses and by the end of it, I was nearly bursting, having had a sandwich and a scone in each house with every cup of tea!

MRS. P:

Don’t I know it rightly! And tea tends to be diuretic. You must have been running from one house to the other and maybe behind hedges on the way, eh?

MABEL:

Don’t be disgusting, Mrs. P. I have never relieved myself behind a hedge in my life. It’s… it’s unthinkable! No comfort, no paper, no flush and no taps! And maybe a Peeping Tom! It’s the abode of little woodland creatures. Imagine how we would feel if they came into our houses and did the same thing?

MRS. P:

Oh, but they do, Mabel. That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve had many a field mouse enter my abode and do its bits in the corners! I remember when I was at school and mice tried to get in one fierce winter, and the teacher set traps! Can you imagine? It was a horror story for us.

MABEL:

I would have let them all loose. You see, I always put myself in every situation to see if I would like it or not, and that’s one I wouldn’t like.

MRS. P:

Oh, I’m sure not, Mabel! I don’t think anyone’s head in a trap would be anybody’s cup of tea… just when you thought you were going to eat a tasty lump of cheese…. SPLAT! And the guillotine gets you! Poor Marie Antoinette!

MABEL:
What, Mrs. P? Is your imagination running away with you now?

MRS. P:

Well, I was just thinking what it must have been like for that poor lady being whisked away and executed in public just for telling them to go and eat cake.

MABEL:
It was far more serious than that, Mrs. P. A whole revolution happened in France and people were starving.

MRS. P:
Still, nevertheless, it must have been a mortifying experience, especially with some old biddy in the front row cackling and knitting…knitting while she watched their heads roll off into a basket!

MABEL:

She must have been an expert knitter to be able to do that and not drop a stitch. I would have my whole head in the sleeve I was knitting so I wouldn’t see anything! What on earth kind of entertainment is that, eh?

MRS. P:

Aye, and that Madame Tussauds waiting in the wings to make a death-mask of your face! But is it any different today, Mabel, with all those violent video games? A lot more than the head comes off in those things, explosions everywhere! It’s disgusting! What is the world turning to anyway? In my day, we used to go out and play tig in the pasture or play hospitals with dolls. We didn’t have those video games and war games, and thank goodness for that. We came from a more polite time, didn’t we?

MABEL:

Polite? We were still in shock from the aftermath of two World Wars! What a horror story that was for our parents! Hardly polite. To say nothing of the troubles in Ireland. Mrs. P., has there ever been a time in history when there was never any trouble?

MRS. P:
You’re right, Mabel, but we’ve been sheltered at The Fingerpost, and have enjoyed a rural sanctuary from all that affliction. Apart from a few traps in the countryside, we’ve been spared from a lot of goings on. I had to think about all the work on the farm and whatnot. My mother had me milking cows and one wicked wee goat before I went to school.

MABEL:

Why was the goat wicked? I can’t imagine a wicked wee goat on your farm.

MRS. P:

It had a mind of its own, very difficult to milk! And you daren’t turn your back on it or it would charge you in a minute. It ate anything in sight too. I saw it chewing through a barbed wire fence once… barbed wire, if you don’t mind?

MABEL:

There was something wrong with that goat’s head, Mrs. P. I wouldn’t have drunk the milk from that goat. A goat like that could give you some kind of strange madness. The children today don’t know the half of it, do they? I doubt if any of them know how to milk a goat or a cow, or how to make butter or bread? And all before they go to school in the morning? Never in your life!

MRS. P:

I’m sure there’s some poor wee child out there working before they get to school. And it never did me any harm, did it? I’m still up at the crack of dawn, except at the weekends, and I’m still caring for animals. You know me, Mabel, ‘work’ is my second name. That’s the difference between our generation and this one. They have it easy these days, except for the odd wee mortal who has to ‘help out’ or do it all themselves. My hat is off to them, so it is.

MABEL:

I suppose if you think of it, automation has made things easier. Combine harvesters and tractors compared to the horse and plough and the good old scythe.

MRS. P:

Scythes give me the jitters, Mabel! Every time I see one I think of the Grim Reaper. I’m glad that scythe is a thing of the past.

MABEL:

Aye, it’s funny that they didn’t update the Grim Reaper with something electric.

MRS. P:

There’s not much difference between him and Darth Vader, is there? Neither of whom I’d like to meet on a dark night.

MABEL:

Why do they always say that, Mrs. P…. ‘not wanting to meet them on a dark night’?… you wouldn’t see them plainly enough to be frightened. It would scare me far more to see them in daylight!

MRS. P:

We have stupid sayings, Mabel, that’s true enough. Somebody said to me the other day that I was an ‘extraordinary woman’. Now, I didn’t know whether to take that as a compliment or not.

MABEL:

Of course that’s a compliment. ‘Extraordinary’ means you are special, beyond just being ordinary.

MRS. P:

I beg to differ there…not the fact that I might be special… I agree that there might be a tad of truth in that, Mabel. That can’t be denied. It’s the word ‘extraordinary’ I can’t agree with…split that word up, Mabel, what does it say: EXTRA … ORDINARY. That, to my mind, means I am ordinary, and not enough that I am just ordinary but I am EXTRA… meaning FAR MORE ordinary than anyone else!

MABEL:

You’ve got a point there, Mrs. P. You should write to the makers of the English Dictionary. They might be pleased to change it. It could be an oversight, you know! They have thousands of words to deal with, and they might thank you for your observation.

MRS. P:
It’s all bureaucracy, and reading my letter pointing out their mistake would probably embarrass them. I couldn’t put egg on their faces like that now, could I? And something like this might draw a crowd to me. I really don’t want the exposure and publicity. I’m a humble woman, bright but humble, and I don’t belong on television making a hash out of the nation!

MABEL:

Changing the word ‘extraordinary’ would be a serious thing, especially since it would end up having the exact opposite meaning of itself. Imagine people not knowing that the word had been changed and using it? What a shock they would get when they got slapped in the face for it. Oh, yes, I can hear it now… they might as well say: “You are plain, dowdy and boring.” Can you imagine the reaction?

MRS. P:

That is precisely why I have learned to keep my mouth shut. You see, Mabel, I allow my wisdom to rise up and my mind to stay open but I keep my lips sealed on my thoughts. It’s the only way to keep the peace.

MABEL:

It’s different strokes for different folks, and now I am going to be tormented every time I hear that word, and I won’t be able to keep my mouth shut at all!

MRS. P:

It makes me wonder if Marie Antoinette could have escaped the guillotine if she had kept her mouth shut about the cakes! Although they say that she has been misquoted, and that the word for cake was something similar to a little sweet bread thing that everyone ate at that time. But, I suppose, if they were all starving, mentioning bread or cake would be the same thing, bound to get their backs up, eh?

MABEL:

I would think so, Mrs. P. Talking of sweet cakes, do you have any ginger cake by any chance to go with the tea, or are we being English now?

MRS. P:

Of course I have, pet, I forgot to open the cake tin. Here, have as much as you like. No-one will be chopping off your head for mentioning cake around here, that’s for sure! They’d be flocking to the door for the recipe, so they would!

MABEL:

Thank goodness for the differences in life is all I can say. And thank heavens that Madame Tussaud is no longer lurking around making wax dummies of us. Mind you, if she were still alive, she might make one of you, Mrs. P. You’re probably going to go down in history for something or other, and end up in a museum.

MRS. P:

Oooh, do you think so, Mabel? I’m very flattered, very flattered. Do you think people would pay to come and look at me? I don’t see why not.

MABEL:

Not at the moment, Mrs. P.! Not in the flesh. You’d have to die either a hero or a villain for that! And even then, they’d be choosy about who they’d put in the museum.

MRS. P:
So what you’re telling me, Mabel, is that I have to be dead before they could make a wax of me? Surely they could rustle up an image while I’m alive? And they couldn’t expect me to pay to go in to see myself, could they now?

MABEL:

That’s not how it works. I think you have to be dead first and you definitely have to do something in history… you know, be a martyr or something?

MRS. P:
Not fond of martyrs, Mabel, not fond of martyrs. They’re out there on a limb trying to make changes, and usually get bothered a lot before they die. And the deaths are not too friendly either. No, not for me, I’m afraid. I’ll do my bit but I won’t be too different from the crowd. It doesn’t help in the long run.

MABEL:

Aye, best to stick to the people and places you know. It’s safer. You and I get along fine here at The Fingerpost, Mrs. P. with all our similarities and wee differences, don’t we?

MRS. P:

Awch, Mabel, wee differences of opinion don’t matter and I overlook them anyway, knowing secretly that I’m always right. Have I ever been wrong yet, eh?

MABEL:

Oh, Mrs. P., I feel the same way, and in knowing I’m always right, then we can agree to differ. That’s the way life goes.

MRS. P:

Hmph! Isn’t it just? More tea before you go?

MABEL:

You know what, Mrs. P? I’ll have coffee this time, if you don’t mind, coffee, just to be different.

MRS. P:
Well, Mabel, you might have to go to a different house then, for I don’t drink the stuff myself and I find it makes my guests too jumpy, and all that ‘get-up-and-go’ irritates me.

MABEL:

In that case, tea will be fine, Mrs. P., just fine. We don’t want to cause a mood, do we?

MRS. P:
Indeed not, Mabel, indeed not!

DWINA***

(I wrote these dialogues and produced them for the Isle of Man radio several years ago. They were popular and made people smile before bedtime… or so I was informed. I called them The Gabby Aggies. The Fingerpost is a place in Ireland where five roads meet, and these busybodies tried to solve the problems of the world with their curious banter. I performed them in a one-woman show at an Irish Theatre in New York.)

TOP OF VINEGAR HILL and what remains of the old windmill

Site of carnage in 1798.

The poetry of Ireland spans the history, the magic, the mystery, and song, and was instilled in the Irish consciousness by the ancient bards and poets at gatherings. These gatherings still happen today, perhaps in another way, not in the gathering of clans but within families, etched into folk songs and nursery rhymes, to never be forgotten... It is not something taught in schools nor is it emerging through gossip, but from individual memories over centuries. There are patterns within memories in the art of storytelling.

These stories are embellished and woven into the fabric of every day living. Sometimes reminiscing is an escape or a reminder, possibly preventative as a warning that there should be no repeat of the history. It is also a way of remembering the old Kings and Queens, Deities, Chiefs and Heroes, both male and female. There is a pride in the one overcoming the masses in an errant dictatorial system, similar to the concept of David and the slaying of Goliath. One soul against something greater that oppresses many souls. A constant reminder that we can overcome adversity, we can overcome with thought, word, and deed.

However, sometimes the invaders come and take over the lands and the people.

FIRST FOOTERS

On New Years Eve in my family we always had the tradition of the ‘First Footer’ on New Year’ Eve… and even today this takes place in Scotland, in Ireland and wherever settlers go from one country to another taking the traditions with them.

After the celebration at New Year’s Eve, it is not left to chance now to greet the first person who comes through the door… superstition has prompted us to choose the ‘First Footer’. I wondered why it had to be a dark-haired person who arrived and knocked at the front door, after midnight, to bring in a piece of coal and possibly bread.

The piece of coal that was brought in last year and set in a special container or upon a little altar or sacred place, not to be touched throughout the year, is burned on the fire just before midnight. A dark-haired person is chosen to leave via the back door with a new coal in the container and comes around to knock on the front door to bring it in. He or she is greeted and cheered as the new coal is presented to go into the special place for another year. If bread is brought in, everyone is given a little, although this tradition of the bread seems to be dying out. I believe at one time the crumbs were added to the first baking of new bread.

This is a blessing for the household to ensure food and warmth for the coming seasons. I recently discovered, having carried on the tradition for years and passing it on to the new generations as it had been passed on to me, that the dark-haired one was considered friend, family, and tribe, and the fair haired one would have been considered the outsider who came to take over the land… a throw-back to the Vikings, Normans, and Danes invading Ireland for example. Of course today, because of the many invasions from many centuries ago, the mingling of the clans brought different methods of farming and crafts, all kinds of useful skills that were adapted by the natives. It was an exchange and not always enslavement and robbery.

My Grandfather was blond and blue-eyed and my Grandmother had long dark hair and brown eyes, on the maternal side, so we had a mixture of dark and fair and red-hair throughout the families. It made not a scrap of difference, as the tradition outlived all the invasions and is still practiced with fun and celebration today, grandchildren trying to see whose hair is darkest so they can be the first-footer.

It is interesting that going back to the invasions in history, there was dreadful bloodshed and terrible deaths that occurred, long forgotten yet memories stirred and remembered through poetry and song.

Battle Campsite by George Cruickshank

I chose the Battle of Vinegar Hill because of the poetry written about it throughout the ages. Seamus Heaney, one of my favourite poets, wrote ‘Requiem for the Croppies’, a brilliant sonnet about this battle that took place in Wexford on 21st June 1798, when around 16,000 young United Irish men with pikes and pitchforks fought against 30,000 armed British soldiers. Unfortunately, most of the young farmers perished on the battlefield but there was something deeply poetic with a magical end about the story that reached the heart and souls of the people of Ireland and all over the world. The sonnet can be found in Door Into The Dark, an inspiring collection of works by Seamus. He described this battle as the Last Conclave.

I also heard about Vinegar Hill long before I met Seamus and wrote my own poem that arose out of the story-telling and history of the event. I would love to portray Seamus’s poem here but will give you my own version to tell the story. It was in a collection of poems and colloquial dialogues I put together in my first poetry book Ergot On The Rye for The Yeats Club many years ago.

VINEGAR HILL

The Midsummer Battle 1798

Fields of golden heads swaying to a high wind-song

Whistling in a chorus of chattering ghosts,

Wheat shrines for those who fell

Upon a field of hell

The bloody battle of Vinegar Hill still toasts

A barren victory for those that wronged.

Just a handful of lads, no weapons to spare,

Armed with pitchforks and pikestaffs against an iron foe,

The Wexford boys fought well,

But for them tolled no bell,

Though in memory lives on the bravery they sowed

And the priest who dared them to dare.

Death quelled their shrill cries as they warred with swarmed Yeos,

Lake took their last stronghold and Earth claimed them that day

But their rations of wheat

In their pockets, for meat,

Buried in the ground, took seed where they lay

And golden monuments grew to remind their foes.

Many were the defeated buried by the few.

Wheat shrines rose for those who fell, starved of their bread,

They had chewed the husks for iron.

A shame for the loss of Miles Byrne,

Father Doyle and Father Murphy too were the fine dead

Remembered for the tufts of grain they grew.

DWINA ***

(Seamus referred to the grain as Barley, but we spoke of the same golden monuments. His rendering of the story made me proud that I had chosen the same subject. I wrote mine when I was a fairly young budding poet and he was a seasoned poet who became my absolute favourite of the Irish poets. We both grew up in the North of Ireland, hearing the same tales. Interestingly enough, my son RJ also chose to write a piece of music for a short film called Blind Eye, the music inspired by Irish folk tales and the marching young men in war images, and the Jewish folk music because the film was about a young Jewish girl fleeing Berlin to come to Ireland during WWII. His son who is 12 years old was also inspired to write a sonnet after drawing with a stick on the sands at Buncrana with the sea stealing his image. I do believe that the poetry of Ireland is magically captured in the land and can stir others who visit the island to write and draw, sing and make music.)

Growing up in Ireland as a child and as a teenager spending time North, South, East, and West, listening to conversations between adults was truly an eye-opener, whether it took place by a roaring fire or wandering in the land.

I was swamped in the imagination, spinning the magic of all the tales I heard given in such beautiful metaphorical poetic language. Ireland has its unique poetry ingrained in the language, both in English and in Irish. However, there are unusual twists and turns with a curious wisdom that permeates the stories every day. I do not think there was even one hour that passed that I did not learn something new. It was storytelling and folklore at its finest. No wonder so many writers, artists, poets and musicians hail from this country.

Some of the converse I overheard made its way into my prose poetry:

ERGOT ON THE RYE

“My heart bleeds, Mabel, bleeds with the sin of it all. I can’t get over the way she’s failed since her son Desmond had the ‘call’.”

“Aye, it’s a shame, Mrs. P, and him no more than a brat of a boy. Do you think it was a vision of joy that he had? Though he’s not to blame if that’s the case, for his father was a dreamer for sure and lived life at a very slow pace.”

“A slow pace indeed, Mabel, in McNultie’s pub if the truth be known, hardly a major credit to the human race. I’m told he was the hub of life there but prone to nightmares here that I am sure the home-brew beer caused, beer from the barley his son had sown, beer that my old man always maintained was queer.”

“Is that so? And you reckon Desmond got the ‘call’ from the beer? Sure I hadn’t a notion he’d taken to the drink. Certainly makes you think, doesn’t it?… but I suppose the Good Book calls and reforms can be made, giving up the drink was the price he paid.”

“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong, my friend. It wasn’t the beer that turned his head, you see, the reason the beer was queer was because the barley was dead! Have you never heard of ergot on the rye? It’s the black damp that grows on the seed and if you bake and eat the bread from that batch, it sends you high as the sky. The visions are clear, I hear, full of faeries and God and things, makes you have a need for the church or else turns you insane!”

“But, Mrs. P the ergot is on the rye, not on the barley. I, for one, have never heard of it on any other grain. I’d say at a glance he got Saint Vitus dance, but maybe he isn’t insane, he was the only one left fit to work the farm. I suppose, at first, a vision or two did no harm, then he figured it out that he was hard at work when the father was too full on the stout. No quicker way in my mind to beg for a ‘call’, a ‘call’ that might save his hide and carry him out of it all.”

“Mabel, aw, sure you’re talkin’ of Saint Vitus, an Italian Saint, not even Irish, not even a man but a boy. They beheaded him, you know? That’s a far cry, and to be fair, the fungus on the rye might be different there. It’s a crying shame what Desmond has done to his mother, Mabel. He’s no Saint, is he? Leaving her with all the bother, especially when she’s not able.”

“Poor Saint Vitus! That’s not an easy death to lose your head, is it? Well, maybe then she should change the barley to the rye Mrs. P. Let them all get the ‘call’. It would do no harm, for as I see it, they’ve all lost their heads and none of them is fit to run the farm. They might as well all get the taste of the ergot on the rye and save us from worrying of the wherefore and why.”

“Aye, wasting our time, my friend, we’re losing our own heads, goodbye for now, goodbye, goodbye, enough said about the rye.”

THE STRANGERS

“They started out as visitors, you know?”

“And who might you be referring to, Mick?”

“The strangers in the house, of course, they’re here now for better or worse, it seems, stole my grandfather’s land they did and milked the farms to fatten their purse.”

“Aw, com’n now Mick, you’re gone in the head. All that baloney is long dead. Sure, they liked us that much that they stayed and their wains are now ours… for they wed into our kin and never strayed.”

“They’ve mixed the blood then, Sean, is that what you’re sayin’? Well, I suppose you might be right but don’t you think something has gone? Not a thing that’s in sight, don’t get me wrong, nothin’ I can rightly put my finger on but something that’s under the surface just layin’.”

“Mick, times change in the world… but never here. So keep your thoughts to yourself and harness your fear. They can’t hurt us at all, for they’re caught in our web. Our history is our art, but art is our web and the web never gives. So you see, our strangers in the house have now all become relatives.”

PLOUGHING

Treading the brown-clod fields,

Listening to the piped low-wind song

Like the last whine of the Banshee’s call

Fading into solitariness.

Just you, old man, weathered like an ancient map,

Just you and your horse of pungent flanks,

Treading the brown-clod fields,

Against the wind,

Turning the sod on a rain-mist day.

The clank and slice of a plough

Spitting out soil as you strain a straight line,

Cutting down foes, imaginary, real.

One slash for the great Cuchulainn

Who coveted the Maeve’s white bull,

One cleave for the vengeance of Mrs. B.’s tongue,

One tear for the hymen of McCusker’s bride,

Treading the brown-clod fields,

Unfurling the virgin soil.

Just you and your horse, old man,

Just you and the day and the thoughts of it all.

DWINA ***

I am gathering my early collections of poetry, prose, short stories and dialogues together about growing up in this magical and fierce land.

When do we receive the urge to change? Are we born with this or is it something that develops within and when the time is right, we make the move.

My mother always told me I had wings on my feet. Sometimes talent or education makes up our minds for us to travel. At other times it is a spiritual feeling within the soul, a desire to follow a certain path that will help us make sense of our role as a human being and assist us to explore the role we play here upon this planet.

Some stay in the same region all their lives because of ties to family and what is familiar to them, especially in the farming communities because of ties to the land.

I remember when I was a young teenager, a little blue van pulled up outside our door in Ireland. An Indian man got out and made his way to our front door with a tray of scents. My father answered and my curiosity got the better of me so I had to see what this stranger had to sell. He was all dressed in white with a white turban on his head. It was most unusual to see someone like this in that part of the country. Not only that, but he had stopped the van at our house, the third one in a row of ten, so he was not taking his wares through the village.

He had rows of glass bottles, very ornate, and he urged us to smell the scents. These were exotic. I had never in my life smelled anything like them, nor could I relate to any flower I knew that grew in my mother’s garden. I was intrigued.

He then made the mistake of asking my father if he could marry me and was quickly chased away, the door abruptly closed.

I watched the van pull away, wondering if I had imagined the whole incident, but the scent in the bottles had an effect on me.

My curiosity about India increased over the years. I found out about vegetarianism and Yoga, finding teachers, discovering paths. I loved mythology and also fell into an East/West comparative spirituality that has served me all of my life.

In travels throughout the world, I realized it was the scent of the lands that awakened feelings of remembrance. In India, Japan, Hong Kong, Turkey, Israel, Italy, the scents in the air drew me, some atmospheres stronger than others, across deserts, beside seas and rivers. Certain trees I had never seen before flashed into my mind, never to be forgotten. In England, there are copper beeches that I notice and know on certain roadsides and in fields. One ‘umbrella’ tree that stretches across the road in Oxfordshire I acknowledge every time I pass it. I have a well-loved Witchhazel Ironwood tree with adjoining five trunks to spread its beauty in the arboretum. It lives in the North and is the first to bud in Spring and the first to hail the Autumn, outside my bedroom window…turning into red leaves of fire, delighting me every morning. It is like living in an ever changing painting…. I feel the world is like this…. so beautiful and yet in some places so scarred because of wars and upheavals. In Spain recently, I loved the shapes of the semi-tropical trees and the giant cacti, the scents of some of the flowers in multiple clusters even in juxtaposition on the edge of a roller-coaster theme park, a complete charge to the senses, in the middle of nowhere. I wonder if others carry maps in their heads like this, as if marking pathways we have trodden in the past, even the distant past, or to serve to remind us possibly in a future life. We try to befriend and make the strange familiar. It is a human habit to repeat scenes in order to keep knowledge within us, probably something rarely spoken about with others. Babies learn everything by repetition.

Some folks stay in one country all of their lives and do not travel at all. I met someone on the Isle of Man who lived in Peel and had never visited the other side of the Island. I knew a coal-man in Ireland who had never seen the sea and used to admire an Aunt’s painting of Mullaghmore. She wrote his name on the back of it, and when she passed away, it was given to him.

I have written poetry and recalled many of these places in the world, especially while on world tour with my late husband. However, coming home is always a comfort or a surprise, a time to rest the wings, like the migrating birds, seeking a safe roost.

This is one such poem about going home to my parents years ago, both of whom have sadly passed on in their own journeys.

HOME… AT LAST

Why did you give me a world to roam?

Lands that would take me away from my own?

Oh God, forgive me, how long has it been?

How long has it been since my folks I have seen?

The warm sweet smell of the newly mowed grass,

Roses and wallflowers sentinels in masse,

The salt-wet taste of a late summer mist

And the shamrocks in abundance, the dew always kissed.

But, where are the trees that lined the dell?

Where is the brown gate I knew so well?

My heart is heavy, my throat is sore,

Then I see them standing at the door,

My mother beams a tearful smile,

My father grips my hand in style.

I laugh and cry. They seem so small.

I remember well when they were tall.

How long since… five years, nine, ten?

But I was young and restless then.

A short road abroad, a long road home,

Some letters, some cards,

A few drawings, and often a poem.

The fire is big, the house is small,

The love is big and I’ve grown tall.

No need to roam,

I am home… at last.

***

This, of course, refers to my birth home. However, I wonder about a soul home. It has to be beyond the physical world, where soul light resides before human births are taken again. Is this the only planet we can call Home in this vast Universe?

We have wings on our feet, but I am sure we also have wings of soul.

DWINA ***

WORLD

THE TORANA is a sacred honorific gateway through which one passes to sacred places, sometimes shrines.

These are always freestanding made of stone or wood and in the East were mostly ancient Buddha, Hindu or Jain architectural portals consisting of two pillars and three ornate crossbars at the top. They are seen all over the East, in India, China, Japan, Korea and Vietnam, also throughout other cultures, archways that lead to something special, torri or tor, signifying a pass.

Everyone has the same gateway within themselves. Through this gateway one passes into a space to create liberation of the self, above the world of the senses, through the third eye to reach three stages of liberation of the soul, often marked on the foreheads of yogis or ascetics as three bright white lines of Light.

In the Western cultures we also find magical archways created to sit under or pass through: Rose arbors in English gardens with the scent of roses calming the mind, Hazel tunnels that feed your wisdom and in ancient Ireland and among itinerants in the west, willow branches bent and shaped creating covered domes for medicinal sweat lodges. The Native Americans also used them to heal their people and to have access to their ancestors, singing medicine songs and using sixteen or thirty-two fire stones heated for hours. Certain stones represented the paternal and maternal ancestors, the hottest stones brought in as the warrior stones to fight the diseases of the body with the help of the ancestors. Sage and other herbs were sprinkled or laid upon them to cleanse the mind and ward off any negativity or evil influences.

Other arches were used for the protection of animals, especially those with Rowan branches, the Rowan being a symbolic tree of ‘protection’. Passing the animals under these arches or creating an arch over the byre door protected cattle from enchantment and kept the cow’s milk from souring. Rowan was planted near houses to also protect humans. This is evidenced in English folklore in the Pitt River Museum in Oxford.

Protection of the planet Earth is also vital in the process of world change. A Swiss scientist discovered that the Earth itself threw into the atmosphere a type of bacteria that was harmless to humans but tried to stem the radiation that permeated the atmosphere after the Atom Bomb destroyed vast areas in Japan killing thousands, and also this same bacteria was discovered in American desert areas used for experimentation in the testing of the bombs. He was prevented from funding for further research into the possibilities of development and usage in the future.

DIVINATION

The Vedic Tarot card THE WORLD number 21 in the Major Arcana is a special card that may come into a reading.

It shows the synthesis of intellect, willpower, emotion, material and spiritual power to bring about success and closure in all efforts, bringing all matters into harmony. Knowing when to make limits is the key to benefiting the mind, body and soul. Knowing when to be unlimited is liberation and the key to creativity even in a seemingly world of chaos. Seeing order even in mayhem.

Not wasting resources is vital, recycling and renewing and using materials at hand. It is important to be frugal in order to expand and be bounteous in the future. Once the decision is made to make change, it spreads as a radial message from the mind and then assistance occurs within the elements themselves. The power of positive thought or communal thought can become global, even without a voice. From deep silence changes can be made. Sometimes it is safer to ‘think’ rather than to become too ‘vocal’ about change. Thought travels faster than sound. There is no visible beginning or end but a cosmic liberation of all-knowing consciousness that is in continuum. Truth is always dished in cycles, so is change, just like the seasons.

Problems will always work themselves out if we are attuned to the seasons. Something will change every season. Timing is of the essence while living in this world. The gift of ‘knowing’ is not to be wasted. Concentration is a method of meditation we practice all the time, and radial awareness is essential to increase natural psychic ability so that one feels the ‘touching’ or the ‘calling’ to be in the right place at the right time to protect oneself. It is important to be peaceful at the core no matter what upheavals occur in the drama. When everything in the world shuts down, only thought will communicate with thought, vision with vision, mind with mind, knowledge with knowledge. Those liberated from sorrow will help those immersed in it. Appearances of angel souls will rescue those in suffering, and Light will spread through all the Darkness. Even the Dark will succumb to the Light to become radiant darkness, and all souls will rise with the Light. Nature in all its torrents and upheavals will become calm instantly from the extremes, just with divine thought alone as its Master. Liberation of the world of worry and sorrow will give way to this power. Faith is the dispeller of all doubt. Belief in the Ever-Becoming chases away the fear of the illusion of Death. it is not just possible but a reality to have self-sovereignty and world enlightenment.

SANSKRIT

MOKSA: Moksha Mukti: Liberation.

This is the cycle of Death and Rebirth. The soul liberates from the cycle, resting and returning. We have our cycles of sleep and wakefulness so we are attuned to, and familiar with, this reality already.

A time of rest is needed after battle, after work, after any kind of creation but especially after war and upheaval of the elements. Even the Earth needs rest to recover from any onslaught. If we look at the details of a mandala, the design is repeated on an even greater scale. The cycles of Time can be viewed to the same degree. Overcoming karma and the effects of the sanskars of cause and effect is like lessening of the impressions in life similar to the lines on an old vinyl record. Becoming aware of Immortality by not being attached to these deep impressions is possible the more we go into the silence during rest or meditation practices and helps us enter stages of enlightenment and remembrance of soul. This creates a passport to experience Heaven on Earth and we can reach the heights of our magical and spiritual powers during this cycle. It takes a certain amount of limitation to become unlimited.

I go into more detail with these thoughts and knowledge in The Vedic Tarot, East meets West.

DWINA ***

If you already have a copy, some of this is part of the exploration of number 21: The World card in the Major Arcana. Page 122.

If you would like to purchase a copy, please click here.

To Justice, Empress, and the Magus.

I invoke you to help me be fearless in the face of reality

I invoke creativity in the raw materials of chaos

I invoke the right will in the magical realm of spirit

I am the embodiment of the one who forgets faults of the past

I am the embodiment of the one who changes the present

Knowing the dragons of the past cannot be slain

I am the embodiment of the one who takes the might of the pen

Right into the future, into balance, without fear.

May the pause of hesitation be broken,

May the spirit of abundance flow through,

May the cauldron of power open

And the winds make change begin

I invoke with equal strength and mercy,

I invoke with equal wisdom and understanding,

To pass through gateways of Knowledge,

With the absolute Love of the Art

To bring form to the story and story to the form.

Let the Light of Inspiration beckon and I to follow

Not in meekness but with the joy and bliss of creation.

DWINA xx

WILL McKENDREE CARLETON (Michigan Poet)

WHERE MUSES MIGHT FEAR TO TREAD

WRITING ANYWHERE LIKE WILL CARLETON.

I remember writing with trepidation in a Miami dentist’s waiting rooms, scribbling excitedly backstage at family concerts on a World Tour, fearfully relating the horror of a bombing incident that blew a massive hole in the road and killed soldiers in front of us, bringing the school bus to a halt one morning in Northern Ireland. We had to divert and did not get the day off, even though most of us could not hear properly for a week and then heard whispered gossip of fingers or toes found in fields.

I remember writing by a lake upstate in New York, looking down to find a four-leafed clover growing beside me. It ended up as a gift from Nature and placed in a jewellery box. I still have it, now tucked into a Leyland’s book on Gypsy Sorcery.

I sketched children in a family lounge in a pub in Mullaghmore, Ireland, who daringly dipped their lemonade straws into the Guinness or Sherry as soon as the parents went up to the bar to refresh the drinks, then the imps quickly returned the straws to the lemonade with innocent but rather flushed faces, giving me the ‘stare’ to keep mute.

I blissfully wrote spiritual letters after meditating in India and recalled a ten-minute cobra visitation in the forbidden gardens at night on Mount Abu. The hood flared out, but I stayed perfectly still in meditation and the snake didn’t bite me.

I wrote a poem at Mount Fuji in Japan, with the warning “Don’t Whistle in the Mountain.” Huge electrical pylons like steel giants strode over the landscape.

In Hiroshima and Nagasaki, I commiserated with the radiated but still living Ginkgo Biloba trees, looked after by monks.

Even the Muse shudders at the history behind it all.

Then, I discovered a book on Farm Ballads by Will Carleton, inscribed by the author with kind regards and best wishes to General Wm. Booth, and wondered if Will had been one of the early boy scouts. It was dated 1886 from Brooklyn, New York.

Reading the preface I was amused by his words, almost reflecting my own dealings with the Muse in curious situations. Of course he was a People’s Poet and well known in America. I was thrilled to find him.

Will said: “These poems were written under various and, in some cases, difficult, conditions; in the open air, “with team afield;”(helping with horses, I assumed) or in the student’s den, with the ghosts of unfinished lessons hovering gloomily about; amid the rush and roar of railroad travel, which trains of thought are not prone to follow; and in the editor’s sanctum, where the dainty feet of Muses do not deign to tread.”

I had to buy and read the book and saw that it was dedicated to his Mother. (I assumed he was devoted to her.) He said he did not expect to escape his writing, what he needed so greatly, the discipline of severe criticism, for he was aware that he wandered away from the beaten track, had too little disregard for the established rules of rhythm, in what he declared was his (oftentimes vain) search for the flowers of poesy!

He further wrote that he believed The People were, after all, the true critics, and capable of ascertaining that there were ‘more good than poor things’ in a book; and whatever may be their verdict in the case of this book, he made up his mind to remain happy.

I was immediately drawn in by his honesty and the unique style of writing and wished to share some of his poetic insights and his gift of story-telling to those who had not read them in this day and age.

GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN

I’ve worked in the field all day, a-plowin’ the ‘stony streak’,

I’ve scolded my team till I’m hoarse, I’ve tramped till my legs are weak,

I’ve choked a dozen swears (so’s not to tell Jane fibs)

When the plow-point struck a stone and the handles punched my ribs.

I’ve put my team in the barn, and rubbed their sweaty coats,

I’ve fed them a heap of hay and half a bucket of oats,

And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin’ feel,

And Jane won’t say to-night that I don’t make out a meal.

He went on to say that when he got home, the door was locked! Jane had left the key under the step, in a place only known to them both. He wondered idly if someone had died and she had hustled off very ‘pell-mell’, and then he found the note.

Good God! My wife is gone! My wife is gone astray!

The letter it says, “Good-bye, for I’m a-going away,

I’ve lived with you six months, John, and so far I’ve been true,

But I’m going away to-day with a handsomer man than you.”

He was shocked and said that handsomer men than him go by every day! Then self-deprecated himself by saying he wasn’t the handsome kind, but a ‘lovin’er’ man than he, she would never find.

Curse her! Curse her! I say and give my curses wings!

May the words of love I’ve spoke be changed to scorpion stings!

Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart of doubt,

And now, with the scratch of a pen, she lets my heart blood out!

He ranted and raved for a few verses and swore she would rue that day, then said there would come a time she would find a devilish heart in the handsomer man than himself, and that that cad would find that she who is false to one could be the same with two!

Then he supposed that when the fellow was tired of her and she tired of him, she would count the real cost of what she had lost. But he would harden his heart against her having blotted her out and she would mourn for him and not be able to have him back! It would be the sweet revenge.

Then, he thought that there was something about her girlish heart that fastened him to her and that she was not all bad, so he would treat her with coolness and but take away the curses and just make her regret her actions. He was tortured by his thoughts, staring at her kitchen dress and her wedding gown, wondering why she did not take them with her. He messed the kitchen up a bit because his eyes were blurring.

He remembered that in the morning she had called him her “dearest dear” and that caused him pain, that she would turn her back and chose the handsomer man in one day!

He decided he would learn to pray that he might be happy again, and would rather that death had severed them apart than to go through this suffering, nor would he worship another woman again.

At this point in the ballad, Jane returns, accompanied by her father.

“Why, John, what a litter here! You’ve thrown things all around! Come, what’s the matter now? And what ‘ve you lost or found?

And here’s my father here, waiting for supper too…

I’ve been a’riding home with him… he’s that handsomer man than you!”

Ha! Ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on,

And get things ready for tea and kiss my dear old John.

Why, John, you look so strange! Come, what has crossed your track?

I was only a-joking, you know; I’m willing to take it back.

John thought the joke had rather a bitter cream! He felt he had awakened from a mighty awful dream. He thought her smile was so queer, and she could “smell a rat”. He did not want her to guess he had been fretting over her and that it spoiled their trust, just like that. His relief was overwhelming.

“Twas one of her practical drives… she thought I’d understand!

But I’ll never break sod again till I get the lay of the land.

But one thing’s settled with me… to appreciate heaven well,

“Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of hell!”

The book had an enrichment of words and quaint stories full of human quirks. I enjoyed every moment of his works.

Another one that tickled me was called:

UNCLE SAMMY

Some men were born for great things

Some were born for small

Some… it is not recorded

Why they were born at all

But Uncle Sammy was certain he had a legitimate call

Some were born with a talent

Some with scrip and land

Some with a spoon of silver

And some with a different brand

But Uncle Sammy came holding an argument in each hand

By now, I had the gist of Uncle Sammy, being contrary and argumentative.

Through his childhood, through youth, into manhood

Argued and argued he,

And he married a simple maiden,

Though scarcely in love was she,

But he reasoned the matter so clearly she could hardly help but agree.

At first, he said she was blooming and Uncle Sammy loved her,

But she faded away in silence and even though he helped her, it was obvious something was wrong. He devised medicine and tried out remedies with logic, but everything failed and one day she just died.

He raised a costly tombstone for her in a quiet churchyard, listing her virtues and knew in his heart she had been a victim of arguments ‘pro and con’ that had worn her out.

Apparently for many a year afterwards:

“He had discussion as his occupation and altercation his sport, arguing himself out of churches and arguing himself into court!”

Eventually he met a ponderous widow who bested him and was not the arguing kind.

Sammy tried with all his might, strength and wit, but could not out beat her confidence, nor could he budge her own mind, or the various preachers she brought to his table.

And so, with his life-aspirations

Thus suddenly brought to a check…

And so, with the foot of his victor

Unceasingly pressing his neck…

He wrote on his face, “I’m a victim,” and drifted… a logical wreck.

Uncle Sammy one morning

Lay down on his comfortless bed,

And Death and he had a discussion,

And Death came out ahead,

And the fact that SHE failed to start him was only because he was dead.

But on his face an expression

Of quizzical study lay,

As if he were sounding the angel

Who travelled with him that day,

And laying the pipes down slyly for an argument on the way.

And one new-fashioned old lady

Felt called upon to suggest

That the angel might take Uncle Sammy,

And give him a good night’s rest,

And then introduce him to Solomon, and tell him to do his best!

UNCLE SAMMY AND SOLOMON

I loved the writings, poems and ballads of Will Carleton who wrote the ballads for the Farmer’s Series. They were collected and published by Harper and Brothers as Farm Ballads accompanied by fine penned illustrations by an unnamed artist presumedly within their company.

Will Carleton wrote a beautiful tribute ballad called The Ship-Builder

obviously dedicated to Charles Dickens, using the characters of Dickens’s works, accompanied by a portrait of Charles Dickens.

I was thrilled to find it in the book.

Two of the verses resonated with me. Each verse of the entire poem mentioned a character from Charles Dickens’s books:

There came a ship of stranger seeming still,

With ‘Curiosities’ in plenty stored,

And thousands crowded ‘round her with one will’

To view the passengers she had on board,

And one there was… her name was ‘Little Nell’…

The people much admired, and loved full well,

And many wept, and lingered by her side,

When, wearily, she laid her down and died.

And so, the millions, eager to confess

The pleasures they from his creations drew,

Hastened to praise, and glorify, and bless

The telling man whose face they hardly knew,

Who, in his lonely room, worked for his goal,

With busy brain and tender, yearning soul,

And with his good pen built and rigged and manned

The noble argosies his genius planned.

Such a grand poem from one genius for another.

Robin and I both loved the works of Charles Dickens. Our house on Long Island was named ‘Gad’s Hill’ after ‘Gad’s Hill Place’, the home of Charles Dickens.

I am grateful to have found the American author Will Carleton. I wondered if he was related to William Carleton, an author from County Tyrone. He wasn’t, but they had similar interests in rural life.

Dwina***

The Earth Protects Her As She Protects The Earth

DIVINATION:

The Queens are such interesting characters in The Tarot. The most protective Queen is the Queen of Shields. Some call her the Queen of Coins or the Queen of Pentacles. In my Vedic Tarot she is the Queen of Shields, embodying the soul of the Earth itself.

Choosing this card in a reading immediately gives protective energy and shows resilience and the unstoppable urge to make everything right again, to establish or re-establish order. This Royal Archetype can be within male or female, although I am reading her as a particular Queen who existed thousands of years ago. The Soul-Power is the Power To Face and remains the same for everyone.

She is the great protector and and has established herself in her material environment. There is a compassionate nurturing Mothering side to her, but also a fierce Warrior within who will battle to be there for her community, for the nature around her and for the healing of, not just her children but family and friends and the Earth itself. Everything in her power will be used to prevent harm coming to any living creature. She is Nature. There is an understanding of being strong and alive in the world of the life-eaters. She is charming but precise if riled to defend family. Her voice can be soothing, playful, or demanding, and those who hear her will listen.

Self-Sovereignty means not having to be an effort-maker but being able to make instant and correct decisions for the good of all. Be the ultimate strategist who sees the beginning, middle and end of all decisions and knows the karma of each one.

Being able to listen to the minds of others is a special gift, regardless of what is being portrayed by speech alone, and recognize every movement of the body as the great observer. The Queen of Shields has control of every situation that comes before her, but with innate understanding and compassion.

Listen to the language of lips but hear the language of thoughts.

The Supreme Benefactor is always within the vision of the Queen as she protects her people. Love and Detachment prevents her from being sucked into the drama, so that she can deal with it from a different perspective.

SANSKRIT:

I chose VISPALA (Vishpala) as my image. She was a renowned female warrior Queen, a Shakti, who lost part of her leg in KHELA’S battle. It is documented in the Rig Veda. She stayed behind during wartime to protect the women and children in the settlements. VIS means settlement. She was helped by the ASVINS, (Ashvins) twin physicians said to have the healing powers of the gods, called Horsemen. Armourers who fashioned shields for the warriors, created a leg for her… this is probably the first documented prosthesis leg in history, made from metal (Iron). The Asvins attached it, using Light, and she was able to return to battle and run again. She was unstoppable in her protection of the settlements. This took place several thousand years ago during the Mahabharata War.

HEBREW:

LAMED (the Ox Goad)

The guide and leader in all karmic action. The letter is one of the Royal letters in the alphabet. It has the numerical value of 30. Many prophets, great leaders, and spiritual thinkers came into their power at the age of 30. Those who think they have no guide are in delusion. If the guide of Truth is given free will, then there is no error. 30 is the age of settling wisdom and spiritual awakening of knowledge. It is a time of Establishing on the Throne and ruling the self with Justice, Mercy and Compassion. Being fair is the core of everything. Victory without loss for anyone.

OGHAM:

LUIS (Rowan)

In the Irish Tree Alphabet, the ROWAN is the protective power for animals and people. The tree is flexible and strong, used for tool-making, spindles and spinning wheels, and also longbows for warriors. The red berries represent the soul-world light and protect dwellings against wandering spirits, they say. The berry juice was used to help breathing and asthmatic conditions. It is a very strong established tree throughout the world and can withstand fierce weather conditions. It is protective of all breathing creatures.

MUSICAL INSTRUMENT:

DRUM (TABLA)

Small hollowed wood, clay or metal drum, usually played in pairs, essential in Bhakti devotional music to accompany blessings, stories, music, singing and dance. Learning to play the Tabla is supposed to have treble and tonal sounds that improve breathing and help the lungs. They calm the heart and body, making balance better and create co-ordination to bring stability. Used often by Yogis and Sufis. They are traditional for travelling bards. Also very good for children to learn, especially if they need to improve their balance and breathing. Many children on the ‘spectrum’ can benefit from tapping out rhythms with their hands on these drums.

If you wish to read more from my Vedic Tarot, that spans East and West Knowledge, especially the book that accompanies the cards, the set is available from booksellers like Watkins, and Atlantis, in London, or can be ordered on line from the following site:

CLICK HERE TO ORDER

CHAPTER 4

THE CHASE

Grail had very vivid dreams that night. She replayed the chase repeatedly in her mind. The hunter’s eyes darkened and drew her in, so that she fell many times into oblivion. She was aware, even in her dreams, that he was also having a night of similar visions, this killer stranger.

She was awake long before her friend Rose and lay there thinking of the stranger. Grail had no name in her head for him. She was aware of his rage that his prize had been taken from him. There was something else though. She knew he was searching for her and could not place her because her shields were up around her. She sensed his frustration but also that his curiosity had eclipsed his anger to such a degree that it now almost matched hers. She wondered if he was able to shield himself, not that it mattered. She knew she was not about to go looking for him, because despite the fact that she could probably take on the shape of any predator, she was not a killer. However, it was best that he did not know that. This intrigue, if indeed she could call it that, was a very dangerous game and a distraction from her main objective.

Somehow, she needed to trace her ancestors to know more about her powers, where they came from, and why she was not aware of others out there until last night. This hunter on the pathways was an obstacle. He was already weakening her incentive to achieve her objective through her powers. How could she safely set foot on the pathways again? Before this she had not been aware of any danger. Now, her world was getting smaller.

Rose sat up suddenly and stretched.

“Good morning, Grail! Did you sleep well? I slept like a log.”

Rose jumped out of bed, full of beans, and kissed her friend on the forehead.

“Come on, sleepyhead. We have a long day today and we have to go to the Rag-week races! I can’t wait, can you? I love Brighton!”

Rose gazed longingly out of the window, but Grail ignored Rose’s wistful look and insisted they stick to the schedule and study, no matter what.

In two hours, Grail and Rose covered history, maths and science, and also studied some English literature. Grail used her will to set the knowledge in place for both of them. Rose, of course, was completely unaware of this.

In order to do this, Grail had to unlock the shield around her, but as soon as she had set the knowledge, she willed the shield back again. She was sure those vital minutes didn’t matter, but one could not be too careful.

Rose became very excited as they headed off to the University campus.

There were all kinds of races going on already. People raced for their different charities, sponsored by families, students, people online, and bystanders. The crowds were gathering fast.

They watched for some time. Rose pleaded with Grail to enter the final race.

“Grail, you are so good! You must race. I love to watch you run, so gracefully, exactly like a cat, and you always win, always!“

‘Cat’ was not exactly the word Grail wanted to hear at that precise moment, but she badly wanted to race, although she was not sure she could contain herself or hold back, especially not after last night.

“I don’t know, Rose. I might be too tired.”

Rose refused to be deterred. “Please, please, Grail, it’s a mixed race, the last one. Come on…they are all so sure that the boys will win this race, but I know you can beat them,” she said, persuasively.

Grail threw caution aside and decided to run. What difference was it going to make? She might as well have a normal day’s fun and enjoy herself.

She lined up with quite a few members of both sexes.

Grail prepared mentally for the race, determined she was going to run like a normal human for once, and not let down her shield, or do anything silly. Her heart was thumping unnaturally quickly as the adrenaline began to rise in anticipation of the win. She fidgeted and shook her arms and legs, then hunkered down and braced herself for the starting pistol.

When it fired, she lunged forward, pelting down the track, aware of the others flanking her. She moved a yard or two in front and held a steady pace, gritting her teeth to hold herself back, determined to keep pace with the other runners. She could hear Rose shouting.

“Grail! Grail! Run! Run!”

Others shouted for their various favourite runners. It was a long race, twice around the track, so she tried to slip back behind the front row but was surprised to feel a resisting wind at her back, not allowing her to slip back, that same wind last night that had propelled her forward on the pathways. This disorientated her for a second or two, because she knew now that she had to use her will against the resistance to stay back.

She could feel her peripheral vision disappearing and knew that her focus had shifted into tunnel vision. Everything was brighter now. Her shields were slipping. With tremendous iron will, she fought against herself being propelled forward. At that moment, she became aware of another runner on her heels, catching up with her. She could tell that the runner was almost neck and neck with her. If she could only stay ahead a little, everything would be all right. By this time, she knew that the two of them had widened the gap between them and the runners.

Rose was screaming: “Run, Grail, run!”

People were clapping and cheering and taking up the chant.

“Run, Grail, run! Run, Grail, run!”

There was no point in cheering for the others who were left behind. It was only when Grail heard that no one was cheering for the runner beside her, that she realized he or she must be a stranger, unknown to anyone.

Her skin began to crawl, and she knew then that her shields were fully down, and he had found her. She could not shift shape. There was no escape. But she was not about to let him beat her. Regardless of the danger, of the situation, and the impossible odds, she let herself be propelled just a little bit more to take her in front.

To her surprise, he was mirroring her every move, every thought, and they were still neck and neck. She knew he was trying to force her onto the pathways, because as soon as she went beyond a certain speed or changed even slightly in shape by propelling herself forward, she would be beyond the racecourse and on the Grid. They would both be there, together.

She tried to change pace and fall back behind him, but he did the same, and the resisting wind at her back was not going to let her do it further.

Grail saw the ribbon and the flag ahead signalling the end of the race. Her heart was thudding, hammering like a drum, and beads of perspiration seeped onto her forehead. At the very last minute, she forced herself forward and managed to get one foot ahead that just pipped her rival at the post. She tried to catch her breath as she turned her head to face her adversary and gazed straight into those compelling eyes again. But this time instead of showing any fear, and because she had triumphed yet again, she smiled disarmingly despite the fact that it was the last thing she wanted to do. Her eyes still had intense tunnel vision with such focus that there was quite a static force of shock between them. For one moment they both reeled, and she saw his startled look.

There was a huge explosion of clapping and calling out: “GRAIL! GRAIL!”

“Grail… after the Holy vessel, no doubt,” he whispered harshly.

She would never forget the deep rasp in his voice.

“And yours?” she asked.

“Never mind mine, Kitty-Cat. Just don’t think you’re safe,” he said.

“Nor you, stranger,” she hissed back, incensed by his threat..

He turned away and ran in the opposite direction from the students who were now crowding towards her. Before she knew it, she was hoisted up on their shoulders and presented with a huge pink rosette. She gazed in the direction he had gone, but he had already disappeared, no doubt having found a pathway by now. For an inexplicable moment, she felt totally envious. He was on her territory, exploring, probably hunting again.

Rose was ecstatic. “I knew you would win! I knew it! She wins every race! Every damned race!” she shouted to everyone around.

“Hidden talent, Grail. Well done.”

“Thank you, but not so hidden now.”

Rose shook her arm. “Hey, Grail, where’s the other guy? The one who ran neck and neck with you? Where did he come from?”

Grail shrugged her shoulders. “He just left. I suppose he didn’t like being beaten by me.”

Rose smiled: “What man does?”

Another student piped up.

“I know many of the students, especially the best athletes. I’ve never seen him before.”

Rose murmured: “Probably a tourist. I didn’t even see him at start-up. Where the hell did he come from? Completely left field, then suddenly he was on your tail. Boy, he was fast! I saw him talking to you. Did you get his name?”

“No, but he certainly knows mine now!” said Grail.

One of the male students came forward with a huge blue rosette.

“Where is he then, the guy who nearly won? I thought we should give him this for nearly winning the race for us.”

Grail took the blue rosette and put it with her pink one.

“I’ll give it to him if I run into him. I sort of know where he hangs out,” she said, confidently.

Rose listened intently. “You do? Goodness, you’re a dark horse, Grail. Who is he then?”

“Can’t name him yet, but we recognize each other. I bumped into him recently, can’t say where, but you know how things are, “ said Grail, nonchalantly.

Rose immediately picked up on her tone. “There’s something about him, Grail. He seemed dark, even from a distance. I mean, you were both neck and neck, you won, and you’d think he’d be courteous enough to shake your hand or something, especially if he’d seen you before.”

Grail forced a smile. “Oh, he was miffed, Rose. The suffering in silence type, a bit terse.”

Everyone was in celebratory mood, and a bunch of students all headed for the pub after the races, and asked Grail and Rose to join them. Grail was about to plead exhaustion when she got a wide-eyed look and feverish nod from Rose.

“What a treat! We must make the most of this.”

Grail was going to excuse herself, when a woman came over to her.

“There you are! I watched you race today! Brilliant! You should be in the Olympics! You were as fast as that big cat last night!” she said.

Grail recognized her immediately. She was one of the women from the night before.

“Iris, isn’t it? Thank you, thank you, it was a very tough race, but I made it!”

Rose, who did not miss a trick, asked: “Cat? What big cat?”

Iris prattled on: “Oh, it wasn’t tough for you at all. You were way out in front with that other fellow! Well done for beating him!”

Rose tugged on Grail’s arm. “What cat last night? What cat? Here?”

Grail shrugged. “There are loads of cats in Brighton,” she whispered.

Iris, though, was only too happy to carry on spreading her story. It was what she had been doing all day to anyone who cared to listen.

“The Surrey Big Cat. Have you never heard of it? Except it is now a Sussex Big Cat. Your friend here was out at the same time as Annie and me. Thank God we didn’t take our dogs out! They would have been supper for the cat! It was the biggest, fastest, cat I’ve ever seen, and it ran up a side street right in front of us! Annie said it was a cheetah. I said a leopard. It had all those spots; we could just about make them out under the streetlamp! Your friend here was walking down that street. But she missed it. I don’t know how, but she did!”

Iris turned to Grail: “You said you didn’t see it, didn’t you?”

“Iris, the Surrey Cat?” Grail said to change the subject. “I heard it was golden in colour. In fact, I believe there was a sighting in Esher, or at least big paw prints in the snow one time. No spots on it. And you saw spots on this one, for sure?”

Iris nodded even harder. “Oh, believe me, this one had spots. And its hind legs were catching up with its front ones.”

“Were they crossed over, like you see on those David Attenborough programmes, where a cheetah travels so fast that its back legs cross to the front?” Grail asked.

Iris got very excited. “Yes, yes, that is exactly what I saw. What’s your name, by the way? I heard them calling Grail, so unusual a name, something to do with King Arthur, I believe.”

“Oh, sorry, yes, I’m Grail, not sure why the name. I suppose my mother liked it, and, hey, this is my friend Rose.”

As soon as Iris left, Rose sidled over to Grail, linking arms with her.

“Grail, so you were cat-spotting last night? I didn’t even hear you go out or come back,” she said.

Grail stiffened slightly, but Rose persisted.

“Why did you go out?” she asked.

Grail shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep, so I explored the paths of Brighton. The two ladies saw the cat and asked me about it.”

That was the truth, and Grail didn’t want to go into any more detail.

“Who was that guy who tailed you suddenly in the race? There was something aggressive about him. I wouldn’t like to meet him on a dark night.“

“I have no idea who the guy is, but I had difficulty beating him, that’s for sure,” Grail said.

Rose persisted. “You said you sort of know where he hangs out. Where? Somewhere back home?”

“No, no, of course not! I saw him, well, noticed him somewhere, that’s all. He has a certain look about him.”

“And you don’t even know his name?” Rose was worried.

Grail grimaced. “Rose, would you mind if I passed on the pub? I’m a bit tired after the race.”

“Please, please?” Rose tugged on her sleeve.

Grail sighed. “Just one drink, then we go back to the lodgings. Okay?”

Rose nodded happily. For a moment Grail was almost fooled, but Rose gave her a triumphant fleeting glance, and Grail knew right away that her friend was keeping an eye on her.

“You don’t trust me, do you, Rose? You are afraid that I’m going to have a secret date with the strange runner, aren’t you? Well, I promise I’m not in the least interested in meeting him tonight. I can guarantee that!”

Rose shook her head. “And it is not about me not trusting you, I do implicitly because you are so much stronger than me, but I don’t trust that runner who pursued you, Grail. There is something about him. I’m always right about these things.”

Grail was agitated, but she knew Rose was right. Grail felt the same way. She had to control her own mind and had to keep the shields up. The trouble was, and she realized it very fast, that Rose had no such method of shielding herself. Her dark thoughts about the stranger and her visualization of the race could easily lead him to them. That was the danger with being psychic when it came to other psychics. It was a two-way channel. Grail wondered if there was a method of somehow linking her mind with Rose’s to shield her, so he could not find them. It was easily done in families with a genetic blood connection, but there was no permission outside of family for this. It would be too invasive and alarming for Rose, who, being so sensitive, would understand when someone else tried to share her mind and body.

There was a long bar at the end of the room with limited seating in the pub. They grabbed a corner quickly as the place was filling up fast.

Grail just had Tonic water. She did not want to drink. She had to keep her wits about her now that the stranger knew where she was based. The other students drank cider and lager.

Before long, everyone relaxed and talked about the races. They began a singsong with their own brand of karaoke, in which some of them made mouth music to accompany the singer. Grail was invited to sing but declined. Rose pleaded with her, and the others, sensing that Grail also had a talent for singing, took up the same chant they had done at the races: “Grail, Grail, Grail”; some of them banging their hands on the tabletop like a drum. Grail was mortified. She hated singing in public, but the people became so demanding that she finally stood up just to keep them quiet. She sang “Unbreak My Heart.” The chanting of ‘Grail’ stopped, and they began humming. Others put their glasses down and began to listen. Grail had a great voice and went into a different world when she sang, putting such energy into the song that everyone began to jump to their feet and clap long before she finished. Rose had tears in her eyes. She had heard Grail sing before, so she expected it, but still felt moved.

As Grail finished the song, she opened her eyes and stared straight into a pair of dark, compelling, smouldering eyes across the room. A shock wave hit her when she realized her shields were down completely. He had found her again, because of the chanting, because of the intense focus of others’ minds on her, the race, and her singing.

Grail knew that the only way to remain safe was not to flee. He could not harm her in a room full of people. She never took her eyes off him and began to move towards him. There was a resisting magnetic force, similar to the one she had encountered on the pathways, which tried to prevent her moving forward, but she used her tremendous will to push herself towards him.

The magnetic force became hot only to her, like a burning wind. She concentrated and drew her own warm force back from her extremities by slightly tremoring to keep her core warm and using her will to cool her limbs. Then it became so chilly that she shivered, and her teeth were chattering. She had to relax her core to become warm again. He was obviously adept at changing the elements, which put her into defensive mode. She was beginning to learn what were his skills and this was one of them. This was obviously a way of snaring his victims. It made her feel vulnerable. She too could play the elements a little but did not have the confidence or control that he had. There was always the underlying thought that if she played them too much it might affect the ecological systems somewhere else. Grail remembered when she was younger, trying to will the wind to stop and start. It took tremendous effort, and she never knew if she was really doing it, or if the wind was just in a natural rhythm and she was picking up on it.

“Grail! Are you okay?” Rose loudly whispered in her ear, suddenly beside her. She jumped out of her reverie and nodded quickly.

“Back in a minute, Rose. I’m going to the loo. Keep them entertained.”

He was standing in front of the sign for the Ladies. She did not take her eyes off him for even a moment.

Rose sensed Grail needed to be alone. For some reason, she had not spotted the stranger.

“Come on! Who’s next?” She yelled to the others. “Another song!”

There may well have been a chilling wind between Grail and the stranger at this moment, but there was something deeper, an attracting force that was difficult for them both to resist. Was it because of the challenge between them? A craving for knowledge that they both had? Grail knew no others in her world who travelled the pathways. Her lonely existence could end right here, and that other world expand for her. She could not run away from this, regardless of what evil may be presented to her. She had found another like herself and must pursue her destiny no matter what. Perhaps in time she would be led to her Clan.

Grail stood before him. He was taller than her. The current between them was visible to her and to him.

“Grail, we meet again,” he said, through his teeth.

She did not greet him, nor did she smile. Her heart was thumping, tightening her chest. She handed him the blue rosette. He stuffed it in his pocket, not even bothering to look at it.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

His eyes darkened almost to pitch black.

“No-one asks my name without paying a forfeit.”

“What nonsense,” she retorted. “You know my name now without a forfeit, and I believe I could demand one from you if I wished, but I don’t want anything from you… yet.” She added ‘yet’ as an afterthought, because she did want information from him.

His voice was chilling. “You already took your prize from me. Why did you save him? Are you working for him?”

If he had said anything else, she might have been prepared for it, but this completely unnerved her. If he saw her surprise, he did not register it. So, the killer had not been in the process of killing a stag, as she thought. ‘Are you working for him?’ Did he mean the stag? If so, then the stranger was killing another shapeshifter like her. The fact that she had been saving his ‘prize’, as he called it, meant that she was his enemy number two now. Either she owned up to save herself or kept her secret.

“I work for no one,” she said simply.

“Have you been ostracized?” he asked.

“Ostracized from whom or what?” she asked, puzzled.

He stood strong and tall, not fidgeting or moving a muscle. He wanted answers and was determined to get them. She understood that, but she wanted them too. A crowded bar was not exactly the place for this conversation. He sensed her qualms and moved into a private alcove, nodding for her to follow so that no one could overhear them; they were in their own bubble. She knew her safety depended upon not getting on those pathways with him, especially after what he had just revealed to her.

“Yes,” he said coldly, “it is all about revealing and concealing, isn’t it?”

She nodded and was not surprised he had read her thought patterns. Her vulnerability had left her exposed, but she knew that her naivety was frustrating him. She had no knowledge to give him. To all intents and purposes, she was an orphan, without teachers, without family or Clan to help her, and had done everything by instinct, with no one to hold her hand or guide her in any way. To her dismay, she felt tears welling in her eyes, not because she was feeling sorry for herself, but because for the first time she had met someone with similar powers and could not bear the fact that he was being aggressive towards her.

As he stared into her eyes and saw the glimmer of tears, he looked taken aback for a moment but then put his guard up again.

“This web of illusion is very convincing. You are no Innocent so don’t pretend. You are as lethal as I am, aren’t you?”

To her utter disappointment, she felt the tears spill over and trickle down her cheeks. She wiped them away fiercely with her hand.

“I-I don’t know you,” she said brokenly. “I have no name for you and you are not about to give it to me. I told you, I travel alone, so please leave me alone. I have no business with you.”

She was about to turn her back on him and walk away. But he stretched out and gripped her arm. It sent a chilling shockwave through her body that made her jump.

“You saved my enemy!” he hissed in her ear. “You deserve obliteration!”

“I saved a beautiful golden stag,” she answered quietly and sincerely, gently prising his hand off her arm. Her touch shocked him equally.

He looked at her, astounded, knowing she spoke the truth as she saw it. “You really are… an Innocent!” he said. “Of course, you can’t tell me your story because you don’t know it. You have no idea how much danger there is out there on the Grid. Everyone is accounted for. How have you slipped through the network? To whom do you belong?”

“I was told my father lost his life in a war,” she said.

“Not a human war. We can’t lose our lives in human wars,” he said bluntly.

“I came to that conclusion myself,” she said resignedly. “Who owns you?”

“You are an Innocent. You wouldn’t understand even if I told you. A company called MASS thinks they own us, although that is of no consequence and will mean nothing to you. The only way you could have slipped through the network was if your father didn’t know of your existence. You don’t even know how rare you are, Grail. If it becomes known that you exist, you will be hunted. You were aptly named.”

“Are you going to hunt me?” Grail said, shivering at his words. She was alarmed because her mother had told her that MASS had something to do with her grandfather, but she did not want to mention this.

“No, I can’t hunt you. I’ve found you. I am honour-bound to protect you. But there is one who may certainly look for you, and that’s the so-called beautiful golden stag that you saved.”

“Why?” Grail was curious rather than frightened.

“Because you are an unknown and have revealed yourself, both sides will hunt for you.”

“And hunting means what? How can one ever be killed in this?”

“Your ‘Innocence’ is your power. Now I know why you can outrace me, why you can shift shape into the fastest of animals, the strongest of creatures. Only the pure, unknown and untouched can do that. But there are those out there who will try to leech your power, who will try to get your blood.”

“My blood?” Now, she was alarmed.

“We can’t talk here,” he said. “Your friends will come looking for you. Just promise me you will not go on the Grid until we meet again. I will find you. You must trust me now.”

“So that you can leech my power or get my blood? Why would I trust you?” Grail stared straight into his eyes. But this time, instead of the dark pools, there was light and for one eternal moment she felt safe.

“What is your name?” she asked again.

“I can’t tell you yet, but I promise you will know it when I find you again.”

At that moment, Rose came marching over. “For God’s sake, Grail, where have you been? I’m ready to go. My voice is hoarse from singing!”

Grail turned to Rose quickly. She felt a chill at her back, then turned back to say goodbye to him, but he was gone. She ran to the door and opened it, looked up and down the road, but he had vanished into the night.

Rose hurried behind her. “Well, at least wait for me! Gosh, Grail, you look as white as a ghost. Are you sure you are feeling okay?”

Grail smiled. “It has just been a long day, that’s all. We need to go back to the room. I desperately need to sleep.”

One of the students walked them back, where he bowed to Grail and Rose.

“Goodnight, lovelies. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bugs bite!” he said.

“There’d better not be bugs,” laughed Rose.

“It was great to see you run that race and beat that guy! Gosh, and can you sing!” he exclaimed admiringly to Grail.

Rose pouted and said in a little voice: “I can sing too.”

“Of course, you sing beautifully. You sang all night, remember?” he said.

Grail had shut off from them and could think of nothing else but the dark eyes of the stranger locked with hers so intently.

When she went to bed, the image of his eyes remained watching, waiting, even when she closed her eyes to sleep, but she was not afraid. She put her shields up and snuggled down for the night, for once having lost the urge to wander the pathways.

Even through the shields, the stranger watched her.

DWINA***

PET LOYALTY

PADDY AND KERRY GIBB

Growing up in Ireland, everyone I knew had a family dog or working farm dog.

Sometimes good stories, sometimes not, but always a story of love and loyalty.

It was usual to see a tractor going down the road with a dog sitting up beside the farmer. The loss of a dog was a time of sadness, like losing a relative. Neighbours would miss the animal as much as the owners.

In Northern Ireland, the pet or the working dog always took on the surname of the family. Next door, we had: Lassie McNickle, a friendly sheepdog, and beside Lassie: Rover Mackay, a fifty-seven variety. On the other side we had Duck Costello, a Springer Spaniel.

One day Duck Costello ran out onto the road when a huge tanker lorry with a dozen wheels rumbled by. Duck ran at the tanker and sped through the front and back wheels and out the other side. She was so frightened she ran across the fields for miles. The Costello family and half of the neighbours searched for her but she had disappeared. It was getting dark when she eventually got home. We were all relieved she had not been hurt and dragged away under the tanker.

In the Daley’s household they had Bruce Daley. We had Teddy Murphy and Tiny Murphy, both small Lakeland Terriers. They ate the same food we did, our leftovers, and the butcher gave them a bone every week. They had stumped tails to stop foxes dragging them back if they went down a foxhole (so we were told).

I never saw tins of dog-food in anyone’s house, yet the animals lived long lives, unless they had an accident.

My sister dressed Tiny up with a baby frock and bonnet and wheeled him around in a doll’s pram . Later we had Ringo Murphy, all black with a white ring around his neck and rings on his paws. He uncannily knew the exact time my sister would get off the bus from school, and he would scoot across the road to wait for her at the bus-stop… like clockwork every school day. One day the bus ran late and, as if he knew, he waited some time before he crossed the road.

In those days there was little traffic on the main road and unbeknownst to my mother, we would go out of sight, away from home. My brother and I played tennis across the road using the white line in the middle as our net. The dog would be the ‘ball-boy’ fetching the balls that went astray.

Ringo was blamed for trying to attack Hammy Grey’s hens and we were sad when Daddy put him on a long chain tied to the clothesline for a couple of days. However, during that time, there was a further attack on Hammy’s chickens and the culprit blamed this time was Bruce Daley or so they thought, until they saw Bruce chase a fox, so both Ringo and Bruce were let off the hook.

Unfortunately the poor old fox had a tough time in Ireland. Some dreadful law came in that foxes could be trapped or shot and their tails brought to earn a half-crown (two shillings and sixpence) at the local police station.

No idea what the police did with the tails. One winter’s day I did see a local lady with a whole fox fur skin round her neck with dangling tail and toes.

It was very important to have an animal that was not going to attack farm animals, chickens, ducks, turkeys or geese, although having been chased once by a gander, I doubt any dog would dare attack a goose.

At my aunt’s house, they strutted around in groups with their kingpin gander being very watchful. I shooed him away, and next thing he flapped his wings, hissed at me, then chased me down the lane. I was scared to death with all the flapping and hissing behind me, and Auntie May nowhere in sight. I ducked through a side gate, but the blighter flew over to confront me. Luckily he did not have the gumption to fly back again over the gate when I reopened it and sped up the lane like ‘Billy-O’!

PUFFING BILLY 1813

(Apparently the phrase of ‘running like Billy-O,’ comes from the 19^th century steam locomotive trials by George Stephenson, when the popular “Puffing Billy” at the collier was his inspiration to build his ‘Billy’ steam locomotive, forerunner to our trains.)

I was certainly puffed out after racing up that lane. I never chased the geese a second time and gave the hissing gander a wide berth, being ready to run if he as much as gave me the eye.

No wonder the owners of the old Irish and Scottish whiskey distilleries kept flocks of geese as ‘guard-dogs’!

Uncle Tommy and Auntie May had a Welsh Corgi called Major Prescott, Tommy’s father was American and a Prescott from Boston, I believe rivalling the Kennedys in status and in power. There was an old photo album or should I say daguerreotype album in the house with metal photographs of his ancestors, all in old USA military uniforms with one or two Mounties. An extraordinary book. There was a postcard for worming pills given with a signed picture of Ulysses Grant, Our Afflicted Hero on the front of it. And there was one photo of a very large family of Abyssinians that my aunt thought may have been servants ‘or even slaves,’ she whispered, appalled.

GENERAL ULYSSES GRANT

His parent’s portraits were very grand, and I wondered how he ended up in Ireland on a farm with iron feather beds and horsehair chairs. He was very particular about not having the ‘electricity’, seeing it as an unnatural intrusion that would affect even the little people. When we visited, it was like going back into the 1700s with oil lamps and tilly lamps. He didn’t use a tractor but had Bob the horse pull the plough, the harrow, riddle and other iron contraptions. He used a slane to cut turf in the bog, and the cows were all hand-milked in the byre. We were told there was a water-horse in the bog holes that would drag us under.

My aunt had us churn milk for her and she made yellow butter and cheese and buttermilk to make bread. Uncle Tommy used a scythe for the cutting of the hay and we rolled laps of hay in the summer and made hay ropes out of hay for the rucks or ricks so the wind would not blow them away. In September we picked potatoes and ate what I called cheese or blackcurrant jam and clay sandwiches, our fingerprints all over the sandwiches. They tasted delicious anyway with flasks of tea or homemade lemonade. Water was taken from the spring well where cress sometimes grew. I still know how to lime a well.

Eventually, my uncle agreed to have the gas light put in, and we would wait for the gas mantles once lit to turn from blue to yellow so we could read.

Major Prescott, the Corgi learned to fetch the cows down to be milked, with or without my uncle. He could duck and dive through their legs and nip their ankles if they tried to go in a different direction, and a hound called Fly Prescott would run like the wind alongside the cattle so even the cows gathered into lines to be taken to the byre, and the cat would be waiting at the byre for the cream.

Major loved to be cuddled and have his ears rubbed but he did not like his paws being touched. He would growl to let us know that if we insisted on touching his paws, he would snap. He never bit us because we knew the signs of his annoyance.

My cousin had a very posh Pekinese dog with glorious long golden fur, a squashed nose, and big brown eyes. He was called Ming Cooper and, who knows, probably a throwback to the Ming Dynasty? He was excited for people to come into the house but when they got up to leave, he had to be held or he might just go for a sharp bite on the ankles. Ming did not like to see people go. He liked to keep his audience.

There was one hero dog, that everyone loved. His name was Grouse Clingen. Grouse was known as the school dog and he would leave from his farm everyday once he heard the children in the playground. He was an oversized half collie half something else that made him big and curly with a large face and big body and soulful eyes. Every child rushed to cuddle him and play with him and he galloped around the playground and drank water from rain puddles.

He visited everyone in the village and on the farms. One little girl played with him and hugged him every day at school.

“Grouse Clingen is here!” shouted the children as they rushed to greet him.

One day, very sadly, the little girl went missing from her home. There had been a huge storm and the river was a torrent that went past most of the farms, including her parent’s place. Children often played in the river as it was usually quite shallow. In the deeper places, boys would fish for trout and skim stones. However, after storms the river was high and usually avoided.

The little girl had been playing in the garden as she usually did, but somehow she left and went to the river and must have fallen in. It could only have been minutes.

Everyone went looking for her. They put netting up at the bridge further along. Divers in wet-suits and fishermen waded through the swollen river. Police and farmers scoured the fields and the riverbanks. No-one could find her.

Then our Daddy had the idea of taking Grouse down the length of the river. On one of the bends, Grouse stood still and started barking loudly and whined, unusual for him, and it was Grouse who found her. Daddy alerted the men on the search. Unfortunately, the little one had drowned. It was the saddest day ever. The children had time off from school, and her funeral was one of the biggest ever in the district. From the back fence, my brother and I witnessed the men carrying her up from the river, with her little coat still on. My mother quickly took us inside and there was sad remembrance in our house that evening. It was especially hard for my father and he made sure that Grouse got home to his farm. We were very wary of the river after that. Grouse continued to come to the school to see the children.

Then there was old Maggie who lived at the end of the village. She has served as a character in my poems and in my Gabby Aggies. She had a dog called Betty Potter. She had a round penny moon face always smiling and hair plaited on either side. She had a few aprons on top of her clothes, the crossover style that my grandmother used to wear.

In her home, there was an old-fashioned hearth with a crook and kettle, everything blackened by soot, even her apron. When she visited my Aunt, a newspaper would be laid on the seat of the armchair before she sat down.

(My mother would put a match to the point of a needle to make soot before she took a splinter out of our fingers. She always ‘sterilised’ the needle with soot. I still do.)

I remember faded blue forget-me-nots on Maggie’s top apron. She had ducks and chickens and cats and a dog. All her animals and consecutive ones, including the replacement dog when one died, whether male or female, were called Betty. So when Maggie called out: “Betty! Dinner!” Everything came to her, cats, dog, ducks and all.

“It makes life easy,” she said.

She still saw them as separate entities. Whether they did or not might have been a different matter.

Another uncle told me he had a badger once that he rescued and reared like a puppy. It was just like a dog, following him around, and because he was feeding the badger, it didn’t bother with the hens or any other fowl. Badgers usually eat worms. However, I think this one had dog food. The tragedy was when the badger decided to go walk about and went two or three farms away, another farmer shot him thinking he was going to disturb his hens, not knowing he had become a pet.

Robin and I had two Irish wolfhounds that Robin decided should accompany us on a holiday to Ireland to see the land of their origins. They were called Paddy Gibb and Kerry Gibb, for the vet’s sake really.

We drove to Holyhead in two Range Rovers to Wales to take the Irish ferry to Dun Laoghaire, a dog in each vehicle as they were so enormous, and then made our way up North to Donegal, staying near Cruit Island Cottages. We loved the cottage with the half-door on the end by a lovely sandy bay but Stephen Rea, a favourite Irish actor, was in it that year. There is a sailor’s graveyard nearby overlooking the sea. It is a lovely peaceful place.

A lovely sheepdog used to sense when people were at that cottage with children and would travel a few miles to stay there, sleeping on the doorstep and rounding up the children if they went too far into the sea. The woman who owned the dog told us this. I had stayed there a few times and Robin loved the area. Our son named the place Red Rock and later we found out that the local Irish name meant red rocks.

We had dinner with Stephen and his boys at Danny Minnie’s a little gourmet restaurant in the middle of Donegal. My family came to stay with us in the area, mesmerized by the colourful edible pansies served with the food.

Unfortunately, the lovely house we were in had no sturdy fence and Paddy and Kerry took off, escaping over the hills, almost to the sea. We frantically took after them, asking Stephen on the way if he had seen them. Eventually we found them, with locals telling us to be careful that two bears had escaped!

“We saw them with our own eyes,” they exclaimed.

Upon our return, Robin and I and my family spent the evening hammering a fence into place to keep them in. All good fun though as Robin was a big fan of Stephen’s acting. Robin and I later went to see Stephen as a brilliant Cyrano de Bergerac at the National Theatre in London.

STEPHEN AND ROBIN

I gave Stephen some of my Irish poetry.

About a year after Robin passed, Stephen came to The Tristan Bates Theatre in London to see my comedic Irish farce: The Last Confession that ended up having to be renamed The Last Confessions of a Scallywag because a serious American play called The Last Confession was due to hit London, about a priest giving a last confession that he had murdered a Pope. I duly complied when asked to change the title, and my play went to The Mill at Sonning on Thames.

Stephen told me that:

“Farce is difficult to write but I had made it look easy. Well done!” I was thrilled.

I always admired the way Stephen, no matter how famous, brought plays to the people in the rural districts of Ireland and on the Islands.

He also told me that when he heard that Robin sadly passed away, a little robin visited him in his house that day.

There are so many stories of our visits to Ireland during the Troubles, and so many other tales of travels throughout the world.

This is mostly about my childhood in Ireland and about the dogs that were so special to owners they took on their family names.

LITTLE DOG FROM HER CHILDHOOD

The dogs are never forgotten by their families in Ireland, and maybe the families are not forgotten by the dogs either. My lovely Aunt who was my Godmother, while she was spending her last hours in hospital, smiled and told her daughter, my cousin, that her little dog from her childhood was visiting and sitting on the chair by the door.“

DWINA ***

.

GRAIL’S QUESTS: THE GRID

An Inter Dimensional Thriller about Shapeshifters, Vampires and Mythical Beasts.

Chapter 3

Grail hurried down the street, hugging the walls, passing a few late-night strollers on the way. The sea relentlessly rushed the shore on one side, rattling the pebbles on the beach, adding to them. But that was Brighton for you, hardly a grain of sand in sight. It always amazed her in the summertime when people actually lay on top of the pebbles to sunbathe.

She searched the air, looking for a gateway so that she could reach the storm. It didn’t take long. She just had to make sure she was not being watched. There was a faint glow drawing her in. She took a deep breath and lunged forward as if starting to race then willed herself beyond the normal confines of gravity, finding the path. But, she was surprised to hit a sudden resistance. No matter how hard she willed herself to be propelled forward, there was a tunnel of wind that seemed to push her back. She had never encountered this before. She reasoned that perhaps it was the proximity of the sea or the type of storm.

Determined to stay on the path, she used her tremendous will to go forward. Slowly, slowly, at half the speed she usually travelled, she managed to maintain her staying power. Her limbs were tiring and, for the first time ever, the muscles of her arms and legs hurt. It was unusual for her to feel such pain when she travelled the Grid.

There was something different about this storm. Grail caught up with it eventually as it rattled and rumbled through the countryside. The temperature was higher than normal; the lightning more intense, but the usual rains were not bucketing from the skies. There was a permanent register of shuddering blue light on the Grid and the pathways were wider than usual. The scenery was dim, blurred in a rare fog. She tried to discern nature, the trees, the rivers, even the sea she had left behind.

She thought of her mother and felt the resistance even more. It was almost as if she were being prevented from going to her.

A sound drew her attention away from the path and startled her. It was most unusual to hear sound at all when she was in acceleration: although she was accelerating at half-life at the moment because she was tiring. She wondered if this enabled her to be aware of sound. She peered in the direction of the noise and waited for her sight to focus enough to bring light and clarity.

What she saw next shocked her to the core. She was utterly unprepared for it and became immobilized in a state of fright and fascination.

A tall and muscular young man was on a parallel path in the Grid, and he was in the midst of wrestling a golden stag to the ground. Using her intense focus, she could see the wide, terrified eyes of the animal as its antlers were being twisted to bring the head down so that the magnificent beast would crash to the ground. The young man was trying to kill the stag, and the stag knew it. She wondered why the stag did not gore him with the antlers or kick him away. He was enormous, obviously a Monarch.

Without thinking, Grail yelled out, not sure if she could be heard. Then, before she could stop herself, she felt her body grow stronger with rage and she leapt across a tremendous gulf on to the other path of the Grid, her eyes gleaming.

The young man swung around, suddenly aware of her presence. Before he could do anything, she had hoisted the stag upon its feet and slapped its rump to free it. Then she turned on the man, eyes blazing. To her horror, his initial startled expression had now changed to a paler ethereal face with eyes of smouldering blackness. She was falling into them, deliciously falling into them in a state of absolute bliss, but she instinctively knew this was the conversation of death. It was something she had never experienced before. Her hesitation was her undoing. She lost her sense of proportion and became very vulnerable, as if the energy were being sucked out of her. She knew it was imperative that she got away from him. This was a killer. She felt it in her bones. She knew it in her heart. Turning with great strength against the magnet she willed herself to flee, letting the resisting wind get behind her this time. Suddenly she was accelerated along the pathway, but he was giving chase now. She had to drop all sense of fear somehow in case it became her harness. She leapt across the pathways, zigzagging like a hare, racing for her life.

He was catching up with her. He was so close that she could feel his icy breath on the back of her neck. Her peripheral vision had gone because of her concentration and focus on keeping upon the paths and lighting up the way before her. She felt his hand trying to grab her and moved as fast as her will could take her. It was not enough.

She needed the speed of a cheetah. She concentrated mightily on the image. Her mouth opened wide and gnashed at the air. A roar rumbled up from her chest cavity as her lungs filled with power. The patterned pelt of the great cat filled her mind. It plastered her body relentlessly in a searing pain of heat that raged through her.

Just as his hand clawed at her shoulder to grapple her down, she felt herself stretching and burst free from his grip with a great snarl. She heard him gasp behind her. To her utter relief and wonder, she bounded away through the night with rippling muscles, past trees that blurred now with her speed. She heard his roar of rage and disappointment as she left him far behind. She had found the right archetype at the right time and felt empowered beyond belief. Her heart raced with the strength of the great beast, her limbs surging with the adrenaline of the chase. She was no longer the prey and knew she could turn on him and tear him to shreds and she knew that he knew that too. It was her first victory and Grail revelled in it, jumping recklessly off the Grid pathway in a blinding flash of light before she had transformed herself back again.

Someone screamed. Still in her animal form, she ran up a side street; until she was quite sure no one saw her. Then she dropped the image immediately, and ground breathlessly to a halt. Her heart was thudding, and she panted for a few moments, trying to calm herself. She began to walk briskly back to the hotel, listening to the familiar roar of the sea again. Then, in the dimly lit street, two women ran towards her.

“Did you see that? Did you see that? Did you?” shouted one of the women, almost hysterical, gripping her arm. “It was a huge cat! I’ve heard of them being in England before, but this was amazing!”

“I’ve never seen anything like it in my life,” said the other woman. “It was magnificent. Thank God we didn’t bring our poodles out with us. They could have ended up as dinner!”

“Don’t say that, Iris! We could have been dinner too! It ran right up this street. Didn’t you see it, Miss? I think we should all get out of here and call the police or something.”

Grail shook her head. “Gosh, I never saw anything. But I’ve heard of big cats being seen in Surrey and on the outskirts of London, never as far South as this, but I suppose it’s possible.”

“It must have escaped from a zoo, don’t you think, Ann?” said Iris, nodding her head at her companion.

“I always thought they were shy of people,” said Grail. “Why don’t we all get indoors as soon as possible, just in case this one isn’t. I‘m going back to my hotel right away. Thank you for warning me. Goodnight, Ladies, be safe.”

“You too,” said Ann.

The two women hurried to their home as fast as they could, and Grail made her way back to the hotel briskly.

Only when she was safely inside did she begin to panic. To know that there was danger out there, where she had wandered freely on the pathways before, was very upsetting for her. Yet something inside her was thrilled to know that she wasn’t the only one capable of traversing the subtle paths. Fortunately, her assailant did not have the same powers that she had, otherwise he would have been able to catch her easily, so this was her one weapon, if it could be called a weapon. He was undoubtedly an extremely rare good-looking man with very compelling eyes. Grail recalled what her mother had told her about her grandfather’s and father’s eyes, and it all fell into place. They must all belong to the same tribe, the same clan.

DWINA ***

This is Chapter 3 on my Sci Fi Thriller novel: Grail’s Quests about Shapeshifters, Vampires and other Creatures that inhabit The Grid ( Inter dimensional pathways across Britain and Europe ).

DENIS HEMPSON, BLIND HARPER FROM COUNTY DERRY. 1792.

This was taken from an engraving of the said Denis Hempson when he was 97 years old. He was playing his harp in the ball-room of the Exchange Rooms in Belfast in 1792. Hempson was one of ten harpers, most of them elderly, blind, or lame. Denis lived to the ripe old age of 112 years old and played only ‘ancient airs’, their sweet melodious beauty that would make people weep.

The constant itinerant life tramping the roads from County to County throughout Ireland or Scotland blistered the feet of many a harper, and caused lameness. Those fortunate enough to travel by cart, trap, or coach with a driver, for most of them had blindness from childhood smallpox, were happy to find the patrons who took them in. Once housed for a few weeks or months in the “Big Houses”, they entertained families and their friends or compatriots at gatherings organized by the hosting family. Watered, fed, and bedded, their talents gave them a lifestyle. They were the historians, some were poets, bards and minstrels, that brought alive the ‘old airs’ and legends, battles and laments of the ancient tribes of Ireland.

We can only honour the heart and resilience of Charlotte Milligan Fox for her research and writings published in 1911 about the Irish Harpers. She was the sister of Alice Milligan, one of the first Protestant Nationalists at the turn of the century. William Butler Yeats befriended the Milligan family in County Tyrone, not far from my own birthplace. He admired their poetry, playwrighting and minstrelsy, Alice being a great poet and her sister Charlotte a harper. It was thought Yeats swayed Alice to write plays, being possibly jealous of her poetry. Charlotte had a sincere admiration for Edward Bunting and Arthur O’Neill, both of whom documented and gave credence to the Irish Harpers. O’Neill himself was blind and an instructor to the Belfast Harp Society.

Denis Hempson was born after Turlogh O’Carolan but would not play Carolan’s famous harper’s works, looking upon them with scorn, as he considered them too modern and regarded anything other than the ‘old airs’ as being tainted. At the Assizes, Feis, and Festivals, no-one wished to play the harp after Hempson played because of his astounding talent. Crowds wept and were moved by the sounds that transported them.

HIS ENVIRONMENT:

Hempson was a native of Ulster in Londonderry created by the London companies in the reign of James 1. Anywhere with the word Derry in Ireland meant Oak Wood or Oak Grove from the Irish Daire or Doire. The Grove schools were here in Druidic times and later the hedge schools were started for children. This district was once the tribelands of the O’Cahans, the most loyal and powerful of the sub-tribes of the O’Neill chieftains in Tyrone. There is a mound at Tullahoge that has a flag-stone used when an O’Neill chief was inaugurated. An O’Cahan always stood beside the O’Neill at his right hand side, during the ceremony.

Hugh O’Neill, whose mother is buried in the old churchyard of Saint Skire in my home village, had his own harper called Rory Dall, an O’Cahan. Denis Hempson was first taught to play the harp in childhood by an O’Cahan, a woman harper. She told him that when he was an accomplished player, his instrument should be made for him in his native County Derry by the skilled harp maker, Cormac Kelly of Ballinascreen.

A town called Draperstown was created by the English, but regardless and in spite of the Londoners’ influence, the Irish speech, singing and all the old traditions were held dear here. It was meant to be an Anglicised town but the Gaelic tide was never extinguished.

When Hempson was a boy, he was regaled with stories of wars and risings in Ireland, and legends that went beyond history. Old men who took part in the 1641 rising would relate their stories. The rising of Montrose that led to his execution in Scotland happened.

Colonists fled with their families behind the Derry walls in Ireland during the Siege of Derry. Many starved and died. There were laments played on harps that reminded grieving families of terrible losses. James 1st was defeated at Aughrim and at the Battle of the Boyne. Special tunes were created for the troubles then. Bunting tried and managed to find them all.

(Charlotte Milligan Fox and her love of music and reverence for Edward Bunting revealed this world and paid homage to this great man and the blind harpers. Many hours of research and seeking in old books and manuscripts tells us the story of this missing past. My own interest was stirred by the knowledge there had been a blind bard on my paternal side in our familial history. I remember when I was a child, meeting a blind great uncle for the first time who traced my face with his hands and told my mother “I was a lovely wee cutty.” I wept suddenly over his hands, recognizing the loss of that sense of seeing for the first time in my life. I do not think he was the said bard, but it certainly had an impact on me.)

Denis Hempson played in Holyrood in the presence of Charles Edward, the young Chevelier.

In Ireland he played in Belfast before Wolfe Tone, John Keogh, and James Napper Tandy from Dublin.

The Belfast Newsletter gave all the names and ages of the Harpers present at the Exchange. Usually hundreds would arrive but on this occasion there were only ten men and one woman, Rose Mooney, and one Welsh man called Williams who was praised by Denis for his marching tunes and the ‘airs of old Wales’. Bunting described the harpers dressed in drab, rough, manufactured cloth in dull colours, but some of them had made an effort of having silver buttons and Arthur O’Neill had very large silver buttons with his crest on them. They played to the most fashionable people of the town lands. There were prizes.

A Belfast lady of gossip wrote to a friend that the money was drawn over four days, and the best performers got ten guineas, and the worst got two, and the rest according to their merit. She said all were old, except two, and one woman only, and they were all blind or lame. Now, how do you like the poor old Harpers?

In his old age and after his wanderings in Scotland and Ireland, Hempson decided to settle on the coast of his native Magilligan. His patron was a man who had political leanings and leadership in the stirring of events in 1782. He was Harvey, Earl of Bristol and Bishop of Derry who was highly responsible for the gathering of the Volunteers, although he was a great patron of the arts and music. He had a stately home built on the steep cliff overlooking Magilligan Strand.

Hempson loved this enchanted land where the River Bann flowed not far from the Giant’s Causeway. Buncranagh and Innishowen were further west. Sandhills swept across the strand, and ships sailed into the waters of Lough Foyle.

St Colmcille sailed in his currach to Iona and made peace between the High King of Ireland and the Bardic Orders upon his return here, slighting the poets who satirized to demand money and praising the poets who kept the history truthful according to their original vows.

In poetry and song the legends of that place abound with tales of King Lir’s daughters, one of them lonely and in her swan shape, floating and lamenting with her mournful song. Then, on the mouth of the river, there was a skeleton of a great sea monster. The wind blew through the bones and lulled to sleep any lamenting woman who came by it, flying from the one she did not desire but who desired her. The swan-girl fell into slumber. The unrequited lover followed and found her asleep, then fashioned a harp out of the bones that the wind sang through, and with this harp tried to woo her with love, in the same way the wind had seduced her into her dreaming.

The legend states that this was the first harp made in Ireland, fashioned from the bones of a sea-monster by a pained and jilted lover.

This castle on the cliff looking down on this strand is said to house the harp of one of the last itinerant minstrels, the time-beaten well-loved harp of Denis Hempson of Magilligan.

Bunting said that Denis Hempson was born in 1695, and although he may have seen O’Carolan, he preferred the most antiquated of tunes, so that Edward Bunting followed him around in the latter years to be able to record those tunes and preserve them for prosperity. He noted that Hempson played the harp in a unique way, with long crooked hard nails. He plucked the strings between the flesh and the nail not using the pad of his fingers. He played by plucking the string and following it like lightning to quell the vibration with his second finger immediately. In legato, he ran through rapid divisions with unusual speed and competence learnt through years of experience but he claimed it came from ‘far back’, further than you can think.’

Bunting wrote that he made a survey of the man with two heads (in allusion to an enormous excrescence on the back of his head that he covered with a pointed hat.)

He said that Denis, with the double head is a native of Craigmore near Garvagh in County Londonderry. His father was Brian Darragher Hempson (of blackish complexion) who owned Tyrecrevan land and his mother’s relatives owned Woodtown farms at Magilligan. He lost his sight at three because of smallpox and at twelve he began instruction of the harp under Bridget O’Cahan. later he was instructed by John Garragher, a blind travelling harper who started him on the road, following him to Buncranagh and other places. So many different masters followed.

“All were from Connaught, the best part of the kingdom for harpers and Irish music.”

At eighteen, he played for himself and was taken in by Counsellor Canning at Garvagh for six months. His host was Squire Gage and Doctor Bacon and they bought him a harp.

For a decade he travelled through Ireland and Scotland. One such patron, Sir J. Campbell took him into the castle.

Hempson told Bunting that “ This man of the Campbells was the most stateliest and high bred man I had ever known, and that if he dropped a perfectly clean glove on an equally clean floor, he would order the servant to bring another pair.”

While he was in Scotland, he said that “Charley the Pretender was there and I was called into a great hall in Edinburgh to play for him. At first, I was alone and then four fiddlers joined . I was asked to sing:

“I hope to see the day

When the Whigs shall run away,

And the King shall enjoy his own again.”

Bunting asked him if he heard the Pretender speak?

“I only heard him say: Is Sylvan there? But he meant to say ‘Sullivan’, but that was the way he called the name, you see.”

When he came to Magilligan at the age of eighty-six, he met and married a woman from Innishowen.

“I can’t tell,” said Hempson, “if it was not the devil buckled us together, she being lame, and I blind.”

We have no notion of her age, but by this wife he had one daughter who married a cooper who made barrels, and she produced several children. He maintained them all, he said, but Bunting thinks he seemed to doat on this. He blamed the son-in-law for being a spendthrift. The family humoured his whim and he was quiet.

Long after the Belfast Exchange ball-room, remembering he was 97 then, Bunting kept visiting and chasing him for the wealth of his musical knowledge so that it would never be lost.

“At a time, when he rarely left the house, past being a centenarian, Hempson imagined that all and sundry were requiring his presence and he planned expeditions never to be attempted again, much less realized, “ said Bunting, adding: “and these were the only faint traces of mental ability.”

His favourite drink, no longer beer but now milk and water, kept him sober; his diet chiefly potatoes, his tatties mashed but not peeled.

“Lord Bristol, when lodging at the bathing-house of Mount Salut, near Magilligan, gave three guineas, and ground rent free, to build a cabin where Hempson now lived. At the house-warming, his lordship with his lady and family came, and the children danced to his harp.”

At the close of Denis Hempson’s life of 112 years (he died in 1807), a man who had often fed him, the Reverend Sir Henry Harvey Bruce, made his life comfortable. The day before his death, Denis, hearing that his most constant friend was visiting, desired to be raised up in his bed, with the harp, that often slept in his bed beside him during his life, when he sometimes fell to dozing on the floor in early days until he met his wife, and so he begged for the said harp to be placed in his hands.

He struck some notes of a favourite strain, then lay back down, unable to proceed, hugging his last adieu of the precious instrument that had been his constant companion on his long life, even in his sleeping hours. It was his solace and the means of keeping the ancestral music in all ears of those who were fortunate to be present to hear it.

His harp was preserved in Sir Henry’s mansion, at Downhill. This was the same harp made by Cormac O’Kelly about the year 1700, at Ballynascreen in County Derry.

Edward Bunting had difficulty for many years to get the music but he persevered.

Denis Hempson always replied to him: “ There was no use in doing so, they were too hard to learn, they revived painful recollections.”

“He regarded the old music with superstitious veneration, and thought it profane to divulge it to modern ears.”

Bunting knew the only way to find the music was to follow that wandering minstrel and so he at least got half or maybe even three quarters of the musical antiquity of Ireland and a real feeling for the emotional history of the land in all its joys and sorrows.

DWINA ***

ARBOR VITAE, TREE OF LIFE.

Change ourselves to Change Our World.

In the Vedas, the Ashvattha Tree is the Peepul Tree, the sacred fig of the Bodhi and related to the Mulberry.

The Ashvattha Tree is a vital tree amongst trees, uniquely delivering oxygen both day and night and it grows in two different directions. According to mythology and early religion, Brahma lives in the roots, Vishnu in the trunk and Shiva in the leaves and seeds.

In the Sanskrit, the Ashvattha is the Ficus Religiosa, the Tree of Knowledge and of Life itself. The Bow for Brahma to give to Arjuna for self-control and precision is crafted from the wood of this tree, also for the bow of Rudra, which causes the accuracy of Love to fly into the heart.

Across the Cosmos, in Vedic Astronomy, the Ashvattha stretches from the North Polaris (North Star or Pole Star) to the South Polaris (Sigma Octantis). These two stars are our stability in the night sky, appearing almost motionless, all other stars rotating around them, the compass points of our galaxy. They are seen respectively above Greenland and below Australia, used always for shipping directions. Birds use them for their flights of migration.

The world tree grows upward and also downward, like the related bodhi tree and banyan tree and also has similar traits to the yew tree. It is believed to stretch across the universe in both directions.

Strangely enough, while living in Florida, a Banyan tree had literally climbed the wall between our home and the house next door, setting down great thick branches that re-rooted into the ground.

Robin’s personal assistant set his bicycle against the tree and practically forgot about it, driving around in his new jeep instead. The tree threw down a couple of branches that pinned the bicycle firmly into the tree. It is against the law to cut down these trees or chop them in any way, and so to this day, Uncle Bob’s bicycle is still trapped in the Banyan tree.

It is said that the Buddha found his enlightenment under such a tree, and I can truly believe that. There is something very powerful and special about these trees, like our famous Yew trees in England, often found in churchyards and thousands of years old. They also throw branches down to re-root the tree. The Yew hedges that are so popular in grand estates are rows of these Yew trees, clipped and manicured that stand the test of time, many pairs of birds building their nests and sheltering inside them year after year. I have a Yew tree that houses little chattering wrens to greet me every morning.

The curious Ashvattha Tree seems suspended across our milky way in a series of stars known to those who wrote the Vedas, with Earth suspended in the middle. It is quite rightly regarded as the Tree of Life, because we are aware only of life in existence upon this planet until proven otherwise.

In the Southern hemisphere, the Southern Crab Nebula was imaged by NASA’s ‘Hubble telescope’ on April 24th 1990. It showed the structure of Shiva’s Damru drum in a whirling form of stars. This drum, like a figure eight, is a small drum held in one hand and swivelled back and forth with a wrist movement to make beads on two strings strike each end in turn. It is used in many spiritual practices symbolizing the expanding and collapsing Universe, the two sides representing the duality of existence, creation and destruction, life and death, not as opposing forces but as complimentary elements that sustain the universe.

It also represents the heartbeat of the earth, the intake and outbreath of oxygen and carbon dioxide that keeps the core of life and the heart and lungs going to give life.

The damaru or damru is known as a power drum that can raise spiritual energy. NASA does not necessarily believe in the spiritual mythology, yet the images cannot lie from the telescope, and it is obvious to anyone who knows about the ‘drum’ that this is where the image originated in the cosmos.

The North Star is also a curiosity in that the Hubble Telescope confirmed that the Polaris is possibly five times greater than the size of the Sun and it has dark spots upon it. It is a Cephid that lights up and dims in its rotation. It looks like a triple star with a close companion adding to the light according to NASA. A study of it was published in the Astrophysical Journal.

Because of this remarkable Tree of Life and Knowledge I added the ARBOR VITAE to the Vedic Tarot as 0-8 appearing before number 8 Justice. The middle row of the Major Arcana, 0-8 and 8 through to 14, I see as the eight powers of the Soul.

Soul Power: Tolerance related to pure Love. The image is a tree, and even if the tree is kicked, it still gives fruit freely to the assailant.

Key: Movement and Growth.

Path: Souls and the Cycle of Time.

Regalia: Breath, Medicine, Sound, Poetry, Singing, Weaving.

DIVINATION:

The querent sincerely seeks to know their role in life and how to participate in the Great Work. Through learning and insight we become an expert. The nurturing of the planet is crucial to understanding the way of healing those who live in this world of matter. All the senses are used to ‘see’ what is needed to prevent waste and to store knowledge. What the soul knows cannot be destroyed even with the leaving of the body. Soul memory is different from brain memory in that it is beyond the world of matter and has divine knowledge rather than just gathered knowledge.

The power of Tolerance is used not to overreact to the destruction and blood sacrifice, the terrible scenes that we witness at this time, but to be loving and quietly do what is useful to relieve the pain and cruelty around us, to make the relevant changes. Nature will also help us and protect us as we protect her, the Mother. As the blinkers are removed, new consciousness emerges that enables us to use different powers of communication between us, a strengthening of quiet determination and truth as a spiritual warrior. To sustain life, we can use the medicine of Light and Might in our thoughts, speech, and actions, to lessen our own karma. Each person who takes responsibility like this will cause a gentle revolution and evolution within the species across the world because of the interconnected nature of matter. Undoing the wrongs with right action and right thought is the greatest medicine of all. One tiny change in conscience of one person can have the effect of greater change throughout the world if done with ‘soul’ purpose and heart consciousness and not ‘ego’ but with humbleness. Sudden illumination of the mind makes major changes and new patterns then have to emerge.

I could go into the Sanskrit and the Hebrew and Ogham in my book, and all the ancient alphabets of other languages, if I knew them all, but if you have a copy of the Vedic Tarot, I explain some of them in there. There is spirituality and psychic awareness everywhere and extra senses are available to us if we work on them. We just need to read the silence within ourselves to awaken them. This is the lesson of all the yogis and spiritual teachers in the world. The ancestral teacher is within each of us and divine help is there when we need it. We have all the archetypes and have lived them many times, not just in this life. The research can start within our own minds. It is up to us to change ourselves little by little, and in doing so, with love and caring, change our world through our own transformation.

Dwina***

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I do not pretend to be an ornithologist but birds fascinate me and I admire those artists and writers who have given us great poems and beautiful illustrations of birds through the centuries. Alexander Wilson lived from July 1766 to August 1813. He was born in Scotland but left suddenly after publishing a satirical poem about the dire conditions for weavers in Paisley, (he worked as a weaver), naming a notorious owner called William Sharp. Unfortunately he also blackmailed him and had a court case that forced him to emigrate to America when he was 27. There is a statue of him at Paisley Abbey because of his brilliant illustrations and poetry about birds in North America. Like many artists of the time, he died early, in poverty at 47, but the legacy of his works was printed posthumously by his friend and admirer. I read a lovely poem of his called Blue Bird.

I suppose my interest was piqued because my father had an old well-loved stock car called Blue Bird, nothing to do with birds of course.

Furthermore, I visited Paisley with Robin when his family was being researched for a TV programme in England: “Who Do You Think You Are.” His great grandfather had worked in one of the Paisley weaving factories during the time Paisley shawls were made fashionable by Queen Victoria. Incidentally, they fell out of fashion when the Edwardian bustle came in, the shawls making women look quite misshapen with humped bottoms.

In my family in Ireland, the women were often given signs by birds for births and deaths, and my mother who kept hens, had ‘a way with birds’, able to heal a little Silkie rooster that had been mauled by the strutting Rhode Island Red vicious cockerel. The last straw was an attack by the said Rhode Island Red on my brother, tossing him into nettles, and the fact that he tried to peck at our beloved Lakeland Terrier’s eyes. In one foul swoop his neck was wrung and he ended up plucked, methylated, and on the dinner table. My brother refused to eat him saying: “He tried to kill me when he was alive, and I don’t trust him now even when he’s dead.”

He befriended the Silkie who recovered well in the warmth of the fender beside the range, and my brother taught him to ride on his shoulder like a parrot and jump through hoops and spin on top of a long-handled brush. The Silkie loved to be spun around, then flew off and walked drunkenly for a minute or so, only to fly up onto the head of the brush to be spun again… like a child on a roundabout. My mother did put a stop to my brother winding paraffin-soaked rags around the hoop, thinking he could train Silkie to jump through the burning hoop. He was our pet until he eventually died of old age but not from being cooked by a flaming hoop.

I have a suite of poems I wrote for some birds and an illustration or two from my King Wren.

My birds have little jackets, frocks, and waistcoats, and the ‘inner child of nature’ that surely lives whom I call AwynBeag relates to this magical world that I use frequently for my illustrations where it all comes to life. Storytelling crosses all barriers to an expanding universe.

NEST OF WINTER

I watch the dawn creep over trembling foliage,

And observe the winter stealing the souls of trees,

My heart frozen in solemn silence in the death-white peace.

The pulse of spring buried low and deep in measured degrees,

My anxious thought that life will thrive within this secret nest

Gives way in humble grace to nature’s mastery of the most and least.

WREN

Harsh is the winter that denies seeds to the wren, and cruel the wind that chills to

the bone.... creatures falling asleep and feeling cold...

EAGLE OF THE NIGHT (THE OWL)

Eagle of the night, friend of strangers in the dark,

Seer of the unseen, you who are of silent feathers,

Companion of Athena,

You, who bring light to those without sight,

Be my eyes in the blackest of deep places,

Be my breastplate of wisdom in the Court of Indra,

Be the bearer of keen insights in soothsaying

And the revealer of Truth in all omens and faces.

Eagle of the night, guardian owl of all forest trees,

Keeper of the woodland, you who are witness to secrets,

Companion of Hecate,

You, who bring solace to walkers of the twilight,

Be my ears in the depths of noiseless places,

Be my potent quill in the writing of sacred Law,

Be the plumed cloak of refuge, talon and claw,

And the revealer of mysteries in all arts and graces.

STONE CURLEWS

Secretly watching the spectral gathering of the stone curlews,

Leaping wildly, striped wings in full display,

The autumn dances heralding the approach of winter days,

Courting birds in regal ritual, heads bowed in opposite ways,

And wailing, plaintive cries haunting the downs like banshees gone astray.

Golden eyes scanning the heaths and land for danger,

And upon seeing me, sudden play of death, startling to see,

Heads and necks stretched out upon an array of sticks and stones,

Sacrificial offerings presented in the most unconvincing way.

BIRD SONG

Softly tender is the song that rises from the speckled breast of the nut-brown thrush,

And sweetly piping is the fluting of the blackbird’s anthem in the fresh-wet dawn.

I am cradled in the savage beauty of the air-borne tunes in the wild woods,

Sacred harps plucked freely in the wind-rush choirs of birds in changing moods.

Gently ever is the dust of stars scattered across the black bowl of hollowed sky,

When all living creatures upon the earth are in the sweetened death of slumber-breath.

Only the lark soars high to follow the light of stars in this great deep dark,

And sings a melody that flies the soul to places higher still to soothe the heart.

BASKET

Taking my basket out... scurrying through the grounds... one eye on the

mistletoe for fear it should fall...imagining kissing under the berries and

scrunching under apple branches…

hoking the grounds, scouring the ponds, heart-lit murmurings to blown toads...

where is it? ...whispering madness...

where is the treasure? show me the bounty...

slithering snakes smiling their way back home...

where is it? show me the bounty?

jackdaws scolding... go back, it is cold... go back! go back!

wind-fresh face and stinging gusts ...laughing softly...

magpies turning cold-eye stares... competing for glinting jewels...

thrushes head-cocked to the ground... must eat... speckled eggs to clock,

where is it? ...smiling delightedly... on the rampage with nature...

do not worry, little friends, do not worry your little hearts,

I borrow only what belongs by rite... sHe will give it back in wishes

NOTHING SO LONELY

Nothing so lonely as the sound of the wild swan winging the air,

When the lifting splash gives way to the lamenting song in the sky,

Droning across the winter lakes, beating the air in hushed singing,

Her heart and mine pining love, time and away that can never die.

Nothing so lonely as the call of the solitary eagle so far and so high,

When the piercing cry cuts through sighing thoughts and silent ears,

Echoing across the desert crags, lancing the wind in silent ringing,

This mind and mine dancing tears, time and away that can never die.

MO EALA… MY SWAN

Sweet unwilling song of swan I never want to hear,

For the trilling dirge she sings when death comes nigh,

And parting from heart-love so pure, so bright, so clear,

Spawns only deep wound of savage smote and piteous cry.

I send her wings of words so deep and brave in truth,

And spin them in soft grace of life-long pine,

Her song so defined in eloquence of timeless youth,

I can never bear the cleaving of her soul from mine.

ODE TO A MOCKINGBIRD

If I had an ocean full of ink in which to dip my pen,

And all the eagles’ wings of quills with which to write,

And if I had desert sands of paper glowing white

I could not scribe in all the words of any lands the value of your might.

If I plucked the sweetest strings of each and every harp,

And blew soft the satyr’s pipes that steal the loving hearts,

And if I strummed the finest lutes carved from all the special barks,

I could not match all the notes or any chords that from your throat departs.

If I mourned the passing souls of all the birds that sing,

And softly wept the lakes of tears in grief and sorrow,

And if I tried to count your hours of joy in the day and in the morrow,

I could fill the seas and never reach the end of songs that you can borrow.

KINGFISHER

Glittering water like sunlit diamonds dripping off the sallow willow,

Soft blond fronds trailing on the dappled river like a kneeling maiden,

Anxious to see her reflection to know she is there, and there to be seen,

And perched upon her arm, you, so bright, so blue, so green, colour-laden,

Painted by the hands of gods unseen, vivid in your shy majesty.

Flashing turquoise as you take to wing,

Whistling, trilling so high and sharp, no song to sing,

Fleet burst of radiance across the shallows,

Dipping for the stickleback, in billow spray,

Bringing back unwary prey to beat senseless against the Sally branch,

To flatten dorsal spines, which vanish in morsel of headfirst swallow.

And shivering, I watch you, King of fisher birds,

Watch you from secret recline beneath my sallow willow.

THE HERON

Only this heron gracefully dances across the rising moon, and dips her feet daintily

upon the splashing diamond waters, startling the hedge-witch child who diligently

counts the nine steps to flight. Only this heron runs that race, lifts into the free air, draws

back her crested head and arches broad ink-hemmed wings into the gathering night. Only

this heron, poised motionless in dark shallow stream, patiently awaits the unaware fish, then

stabs artfully with dagger-sharp bill making her kill. Only this heron observes and responds

to the mating dance, the puffed chest and bobbing crest of a lover’s stance in a glorious

dawn. And only this hedge-witch child knows how the chicks emerge, clad in their long

sparse down that is bristly on the crown with a comical crest that outwits her best. And only

AwynBeag laughs with delight at the very sight, for it reminds her of her own hedge-witch

hair when she arises from dreams in the nest.

DIPPER

Dipper, Dipper, biding your time, come out from behind the waterfall,

Quit your hiding for I can see you fine under the bank overhang, you know,

Dipper, Dipper, come out from beneath the bridge, stop following the river so.

I hear your call, I hear it well, I hear you sing your song,

Above the rushing whirr of your wings, above the water swell.

Dipper, Dipper, busy, busy, bobbing, flying, swimming,

Even wading underwater up the bed of the fast-flowing stream.

How do you march against the current, nowhere to be seen?

Dipper, Dipper, perch on the boulder, chasing the water with your eyes,

Finding tiddlies and striddlies inside the river

And giving the fish a big surprise!

LITTLE GREBE

Little dabchick, what are you doing there, all dapper and ducking in the Queen’s

best lake? Ball of feathers, up-tail, down-tail, diving and bobbing for even smaller

fish, for pity’s sake. Little Grebe, with your fluffy-striped head, and now riding on the back

of your red-bibbed mother, are you pretending to be dead, so tucked in there that I fear you

might smother?

DUSK COMES SOONER

Dusk comes sooner and dawn comes later in the winter days leading to the long

nights,

When the mist of human tears falls lightly on my heart hollowed in waiting,

And there is no warmth from a rising moon over my head in this dark place of wanting,

Only the pleasure of the haunting song of the nightingale gives me wings,

And never too late nor too soon is this treasure that causes souls to smile and sing

For then the voice of hope rings out in me, calling for the light of Spring again.

I UTTER YOUR NAME

I utter your name in the bowl of the night, and plead with the stars and the pale

moonlight. I call you to me in the pillow of dark, in the call of the nightingale, in the

song of the lark.

FAREWELL

Farewell from every star of might that shines upon you in the night. Farewell from

the deepest heart of love I sealed just for you. Farewell, and know that time alone has

devoured our precious hours. Farewell from all the shadows of the grey, and from the

blinding light of day. Farewell, my Love, Farewell, my friend, Farewell from Now until The End.

DWINA ***