Daily Archives: April 19, 2017

Field of Sheaves VI…

*

‘Riders

of the Sidhe

to me

from every place

still free…

*

That’s how Lug, the Lord of Light, summoned the Otherworldly Hosts…

He met his father Cian and Cian’s two brothers and together they set off for the four quarters of Albion.

Cian went to the North, while his two brothers went East and West respectively and Lug, well naturally, Lug went to the South…

*

Riders

of the Sidhe

to me

from every place

still free…

*

It is not difficult to see how this might have been a ritual summoning, however Cian didn’t reach his quarter because on the very next plain, he traversed, he was spied by Brian and his two brothers which was a bad thing because a deep, deep, enmity existed between the Sons of Turan and the Fathers of Lug…

Brian ran Cian through with a spear

And then he buried the body a man’s height deep in the earth

And covered it with rocks…

The Cairn of Cian.

*

When Cian failed to show at the hosting, Lug went off in search of him and he found his father’s body and divined who had put him there.

The eric he demanded of the Sons of Turan in recompense for his father’s murder was to raise three shouts of victory on the Hill of Midken knowing full well that Giants lived there, a father and his three sons.

Brian and his brothers, though, managed to overcome the four Giants and raise three shouts but they died in the raising of them…

…and when they gain the Field of Warriors, why, who do they find waiting for them but Lug’s father, Cian…

He welcomes them, as the brothers they are, and offers them a branch with three apples of wisdom growing on it.

They each take an apple and bite into it.

*

Peace up to heaven

Heaven down to earth.’

*

Beyond time…

The Silent Eye

With the Feathered Seer workshop just a few days away, I thought I would share a glimpse into the origins of the story around which we will be building the weekend…

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I had met her before, thinking her a dream of the landscape, born of the mists and the magic. Imagination. Fantasy. Perhaps she is. Perhaps I delude myself with my listening. Perhaps my tears fall for a will-o-the-wisp. Who can say?

Do I believe in ghosts? The dead have better things to do with their lives than linger here in longing, clinging to a world they cannot touch and wishes they cannot hold.

Do we call them back with our desire? Are we children tugging at their apron strings as they move forwards through the layers of existence, passing through otherworlds we try to glimpse in our fear and curiosity, in our inability to let them lie?

The Old…

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