♥ My Angels ♥
They called her the Sibyl for she knew things, things she shouldn’t have known, couldn’t have known. She knew things about you that you did not want her to know, and she knew things you wanted to know…and maybe she would tell you those things, and maybe she would not. She was different, you looked into her eyes and saw they were a deeply knowing and beguiling mix of the blue of the sky and the green of the earth. She looked into your eyes and you knew she could see into the very well of your being, into the depths of your soul itself. She saw your light, your dark, those things you kept hidden from others and even those things you kept hidden from yourself. The Sibyl could see if you were wearing a mask and hiding your true self. She also knew if you were ill, and she knew the plants and herbs of the forest that would cure you and it was rumoured she knew those that could kill you too. How did she know what was in a man’s mind, heart and soul? How did she know how to cure and heal? Phaedra had the power of healing in her hands and also in the way she spoke to and looked at you. The magic of healing was also present in the potions and infusions she brewed in the thick cast iron black cauldron, bubbling away on the fire lit by an eternal flame. It was said she had ‘the sight’. She was a Seer, for she also saw many things that were not of this world, those secret occult things hidden to others. It was rumoured she conversed with wraiths of the dead and the spirits of the ancestors, and that she could conjure up unseen forces through rituals, incantations and spell weaving. She was an adept of the old ways, a mistress of the dark night. Aspects of the Maiden of the golden days, Earth Mother and Wise Crone found expression in this woman’s heart.
In winter she wore a deep green velvet cloak, as if she had wrapped herself in the mossy ground upon which she walked, and in summer a gossamer gown, pure and white as the light of the moon itself, spun from the silk threads of the many spiders that inhabited her dwelling. Her hair was long and as black, like a raven’s wing, falling as silken rain down her slender back and her eyes shining as dark as midnight. She wore the flowers of the meadow and forest braided in a circlet around her head. As the wheel of the year unfolded, so would she honour aspects of the Great Mother with the offerings from nature placed on a small stone altar in her humble dwelling place. Reverently laying fruits of the forest before The Morrigan, her personal Goddess fashioned from rich clay, with nine strands of her own hair and clothed in crows feathers, black as darkest night.
Her deep love of the forest was repaid by the spirits of the trees and the elemental kingdom, who dwelt in the realm between this world and the next. They all knew her name, Phaedra, and she was beloved by them. Yet with all this seeming power the Sibyl chose to live alone, never courting fame or fortune for her many talents. Phaedra understood her gift was Goddess given and only to be used in service of the Light, never for power or glory, for she knew these things to be transitory and not a true path to contentment, wholeness and happiness. She lived deep in the greenwood, and it was her home, sanctuary and her apothecary too.
It was said that she danced and sang by the light of the moon. Eyes shining bright with a wild cry of ‘Blessed Be!’ Casting all clothing from her body Phaedra would run and skip skyclad in pure abandon, around the dancing, leaping flames as exotic incense, fragrant and heady would fill the night air. In blissful trance she would become one with the rich earth beneath her feet and the stars above her head. Chanting a mystical incantation to draw down the fullness of the moon and fill her body with the energies of the Mother earth and the Father sky, so would the mysteries of the cosmos be revealed to one of Gaia’s daughters.
‘As above, so Below’.
© Eily Nash ~ Extract from ‘Torn from the Heart’
Doors are intriguing…I wonder what lays behind this one?
Deep within the darkest heart of night dance slender beams of soft Moon Light.
Brushing aside the despair cloaking the ancient ruins, La Luna’s children played midst the remaining dank and gloomy walls. With carefree abandon darting moonbeams brought illumination to the derelict Eastern Tower, a silent Sentinel withstanding the ravages of time, proudly giving testament to the pride and glory of bygone years. Those who once lived and loved within the Castle’s protective embrace are but jagged shards of memories, forever entombed within decrepit walls. Yet there remains a solitary voice from long ago compelled to whisper her sadness upon the wind. Trapped by her heart she cannot leave her lonely Bower within the Castle Tower.
By the light of the moon, at her lonely loom, sits the Lady Eleanor. The passage of time has ravaged her home but not she, for the lady is comely still. With hair as dark as a Raven’s wing and eyes of cobalt blue, her beauty beguiles the starless night, for there is no other to gaze upon her countenance within these torn and empty walls. Softly, she sings a sad lament, fragments from a Troubadour’s tale of a love long lost. Sorrow clouds her as a shroud. With downcast eyes and ethereal hands she takes soft strands of numinous threads and weaves silently through her tears. Through the telling of her silken tales there begins to unfold a story of love, a story of loss. The lost love of a Knight of old. Her Knight…Her story…
To the soft strains of a melancholy Mandolin every stitch of the Knight’s chivalrous deeds begin to unfold upon her fragile tapestry.
The dazzling Sir Berengar, encased in his suit of armour and clutching his sword of steel, mounted upon his dashing destrier.Drawing admiration from the assembly of illustrious Lords and Ladies, aware all eyes were on him, damsels to Dowagers their adoration freely flowing to the mighty man of war. As he graciously bestowed generous glances upon the Ladies fair, Eleanor had smiled trustingly. She knew within his brave breast beat the chivalrous heart of one who only had eyes for his Eleanor, for her. And so with a righteous fire burning in his heart and mounting his noble steed the valiant Knight bade Adieu to his assembled Court and proudly rode to war.
Satisfied with the vibrancy of the first scene, Eleanor left her labour of love at her loom. Gazing out of the window her searching heart went forth once more into the blanket of night, looking and longing…Did she know then, as her Gallant Knight took leave of his Lady Love to sail from England’s green and pleasant lands, how their story would unfold? With a sigh she returned to her tapestry, intent on weaving the threads of her fragrant memories. There is a chill that pervades her bower, yet her shivers are not from cold, but the delightful anticipation of her noble Knight’s triumphant return. The glory. The honour. How her heart sang joyfully for him! How she wrapped her self in the warm glow of the sweet words of eternal love he had spoken. How her heart had ached at his proclamations that her reluctance to acquiesce to his burning desires would surely rend his heart in two. His entreaties were urgent. His Lady was so cruel to tarry for had he not great perils to face? And had he not entreated her that the sweet memories of her succour would surely comfort him upon the bloody battlefields. Her chivalrous Knight, bestowing upon her his troth, declared they would marry upon his victorious return from the beast of war. The Lady Eleanor would become Châtelaine within these Castle walls; with lyrical persuasion the Knight’s conquest was assured. Cautioning Eleanor keep well her own counsel for their secret summer of trysts, his ring of gold set with a ruby red held the promise of eternal love and her silence.
Through the cloak of darkness a mote of light broke through the night, bringing momentary illumination. Eleanor’s fragile heart skipped a beat. Was that her Knight she saw?
Cruel memories came crashing into her dreams. A tear fell. Her beloved had sailed across the seven seas. Yes he was gallant, yes he was brave but he had left her and their unborn child for the glory of the King’s Crusades in a faraway Land. By forfeiting his vow to make the Lady Eleanor his wife and thus give legitimacy to his seed before his departure, he had abandoned her to her fate.
Watching the passage of many Moon tides from her lonely Bower she entreated the star clad night to light his way home before her shame was there for all to see. The Highborn Lady Eleanor, who some may say was without blame, could not be seen to be robed in tarnished garments of dishonour. Yet she held her head high, comforted by their unborn child’s quickening. For he would surely return and she would be his wife, and all judgement would pass.
The tidings of great sorrow came at the dying embers of the old year. Sir Berengar would nevermore see the sun rise and set upon England’s Sceptered Isle nor give his child his name. Enemy and Gallantry had brought him to his knees. Ever true to her Love, Eleanor kept her counsel well.For the Templar’s cause her brave Knight willingly gave his life.For her family honour, the lady Eleanor gave hers.
They found her at the break of day, pale sunlight glinting on her lifeless and broken body. His fire red ruby ring proudly burning bright upon her unwed hand. The fallen Lady laid to rest beneath her lonely bower whilst her Lover lay buried beneath the sands under an Eastern Sun.
The solitary passage of time has shrouded the castle walls in shadows and gloom, yet awaiting her Lover’s return Eleanor’s ghost still sits by her loom, lingering midst the rot and decay, trusting Love eternal will raise them from the ashes and dust of betrayal. Her Love lives on, though her Knight and their child are long dead, as is she…
Perchance, your steps take you through the ruined walls of the Castle Keep, they do say by pale moon light and night’s embrace, you may yet hear the strains of a mandolin as the lonely Lady weeps within her ghostly bower.
Deep within the darkest heart of night dance slender beams of soft Moon Light.
© Eily Nash ~ I took the threads of a poem and wove it into this ghostly tale…
A BEAUTIFUL BALLAD TO SHARE…
Sometimes you come across someone who has a HUGE talent, and you go WOW and are in awe of that talent. I did just that when I heard “Busking in Berlin” by Jorg. This young man has worked so hard and deserves every success. I so wish him well…
Take a moment to visit the link to his music… Listen for yourself to one of my most favourite Bloggers on WordPress, the multi talented Mike Steeden’s son do his thing…
I think you will agree the boy did good :)
The Lady Shivered. Was it from anticipation? Or the graveyard chill, spun on the air like fine threads of a spiders web? Silence hung heavy, her velvet slippered feet keeping quiet counsel, as she glided across the ancient flagstones. Almost imperceptibly, the swish of her gossamer gown signalled her presence as her wraithlike form moved through the all pervading gloom of the Castle walls. Darkness shyly approached, and she welcomed it’s soothing cloak gratefully draping it over her unquiet Soul.
Walking the length of the hallowed halls she allowed her thoughts to dance ahead to her Chamber. In darkness she reached the spiral stone staircase. Each familiar, well worn, step taking her nearer to her desire. A faint glow pierced the shroud of night. Bid by Flickering Flames of Fire she drew near the Candle and took her place kneeling before her altar. Entranced she watched a Story unfold in the dancing light. Synergies of love and of lust, of passion and obsession, of hate and desire. Tonight, the story would have a different ending.
Taking a vial from her gown, she drank droplets of the Morning Dew infused with a sprig of Wormwood, purified over Sandalwood. And once more blood coursed through her veins and she blessed the life-giving potion for allowing her to walk between two Worlds…
As Night came riding in she lit another candle. With arcane words she chanted an incantation to call her Lord to her, for she was his Lady. She conjured through the night, calling, calling. He had loved her once before the Stranger came, he would again. “So Mote It be”. She willed it be so, before the breaking of the day.
She sat and she waited by flickering candle light and she remembered…
He had let the Stranger in, she with her long flaxen hair and comely face and a heart in which twin snakes of jealousy and hate lay coiled, waiting to strike. He had lain with the Stranger in my Lady’s Chamber. The Lady had pleaded for her Lord to banish the Stranger, and she saw remorse and guilt in his eyes. She saw that in time he would do as she bid. He would be hers once more. Yet the Stranger had come in and she was not willing, having claimed him as her own, to give back the True Love she had stolen. And so on a Moonless night, she had His Lordship summon his Lady to his Chamber, where she had lain in wait.
With joy in her heart the Lady had heeded the call. Her beloved had sent for her once more! Dressing in her most becoming gossamer gown, she had wound and bound her raven black hair with threads of silver and gold and placed her diadem upon her fair head. The chamber, lit by a single Candle, beckoned her return to their marital bed. Her Lord beckoned his Lady to come sip from the silver Loving Cup he had prepared for her, filled with blood red wine. She lifted it to her lips and drank a toast to their eternal union, whereupon the Stranger had stepped out from behind the damask drapes around the bed. Together they watched as fire raged in her throat as the goblet of malice, filled with the fruit of the vine and a rage of Monkshood did it’s deadly deed and the Lady fell into Death’s dark embrace.
Yes, The Lady remembered and now she waited patiently in her chamber for her Lord to come and accompany her back beyond the veil to her silent grave.
© Eily Nash
I reworked and expanded an old post CandleNight for Amazon’s “Kindle Write-On” Beta Group. Very interesting site for all you fellow writers out there.