‘No… They burned the keepers…the practitioners…they were too old to flee with the rest.’
‘The lore perished?’
‘There was a young one…also a keeper’
‘This is before the Romans right?’
‘Oh way… way… way before…’
‘How did they generate so much heat?’
‘Wood-lore…and oils… tree resins.’
‘They burned their own alive!’
‘They used wood that gives off poisonous fumes.
Yew… Alder… Holly.
They did not burn.’
‘Have you got the rods?’
…Well, at least the rods prove unequivocal.
A couple of circuits from different directions and the rods point the same way.
The spot is unmistakable and we sit, Wen and I, in the eye of the maelstrom although it is now ostensibly quite calm.
The way to describe it, I suppose, would be oppression.
The place has an oppressive feel to it.
And that is all it is really but it also has an insidious effect… on everything and I mean everything around it.
There is a diseased tree growing close by which gives graphic illustration, with its black spots for green leaves, if that were needed.
Wen places her gifts and blessings.
And I give a very brief, and somewhat sporadic resume… of the death of Lug’s father which is an infamous fratricide… and one of the Tragic Tales of Albion which in some versions, at least, does have a tremendously liberating resolution, if you can get there… and although I do struggle somewhat…perhaps understandably, in the circumstances…
I sort of manage it…
In the end…