Otherworld | Storyteller | Singer | Musician | Poet | Shaman | Pilgrim | Artist Won't you come by the hills, to a land where fancy is free, Come by the hills, to a land where life is a song, Come by the hills, to a land where legend remains, Have you ever wondered why we wear stones in jewellery - rings and pendants and the like? Have you wondered why we erect tall stone pillars for gateposts? Indeed, why do we mark all kinds of special places with a stone? I'll tell you how I came to discover the answers to these (and many other) questions... Many years ago, when I worked at the old house at the edge of the moor, I liked to wander of an evening among the curious stones and the secret places of the countryside around. Many strange sensations were to be felt - even amidst the quiet corners of the moorland close to the village. One day I met an old man who told me some of the history of the moor, and the legends that live still among the stones. He told me that the stones have memory, and that they may pass on their secrets to those who linger long and quiet enough to hear. The old one told me of many wondrous things, and many curious tales. Together we visited places of legend and myth - the stones shared their memories. I asked my new friend to show me the way to the WiseMan's Wood. The equinox approached, and he told me that we may watch the setting of the equinox sun from there. The day of balance dawned brisk and clear, and we left the village with a light tread. Spring was everywhere in the air as violets and primroses danced and nodded in the banks along the way. As we left the high road, close by the two bridges, a squally breeze whipped up a lingering winter chill. Passing through the farm gate we made our way up the stony farm track towards the high moor. The centuries-old dry stone walls on each side of the track sheltered us from the icy fingers of the brewing gale as the track followed the course of the tumbling torrent below, while at our other side the ground rose gently to disappear over the horizon with never a bush or tree to break it's barren line. As far as the eye could see lay the barren, brooding lands of forefathers long forgotten. It seemed that little trace remained of any human occupation of this unforgiving landscape. We followed the track as it became more rough and stony. The river still leapt and tumbled far below. I scanned the scene for some glimpse of the enigmatic WiseMan's Wood, but saw nothing other than the barren grass close-cropped by the sheep who now huddled for shelter beside the wall behind us. Trudging on in silence, we bowed our heads to the wind, the hail blinding us. Soon we had left the track behind us too, as it petered out to become no more than a thread of dragon's breath to guide us. I felt a shiver of apprehension. We should surely not see the equinox sunset through this blinding blizzard... But how to voice such thoughts to the hardy Man of the Moor, my Guide? Silencing my qualms I hurried after, longing for some sign that we were indeed approaching the enigmatic wood - but there was none - until, with unexpected suddenness, we reached the crest of yet another moorland horizon. As if in response to some magical cue the hailstorm relented, the veil of cloud withdrew from the face of the sun, and a forest of ancient gnarled oaks was bathed in it's watery light. Thus I first saw the WiseMan's Wood, that magical forest, huddling in the valley ahead. The low drystone wall seemed as a great dragon encircling the head of a moorland giant, it's scales of irridescent greens and silver glistening in shafts of rainbow light. We slackened our pace, the better to appreciate the scene and the new gentleness in the air. As we drew close to the wood we saw the new season's buds swelling the tip of each branch and twig. At intervals the drystone wall was pierced by small holes at ground level. My Guide told me that some call these holes "sheep creeps", but others gnow that they are Spirit Ways, where the dragon's breath may pass freely across and through the Land.
Clambering over the wall we entered an enchanted world where the strangely-twisted lichen-covered oaks were unlike any that I had met before. Stunted growth, clothed by the green of many centuries, testified to the crystal hard climate of the moor. All around us moss-covered boulders strewed the ground to trip the hurried step of the unwary. Slowly, silently we threaded our way toward the centre of the wood. An avian choir sang among the branches while many pairs of eyes could be felt watching us as we passed. As we penetrated deeper through the trees the birds ceased their refrain. The trees seemed to be growing taller, straighter, younger. Here in the heart of the forest it seemed that we stumbled upon a world in a different time. The spring buds had burst, and fresh young leaves swayed softly in a gentle breeze, enjoying the warmth of the summer solstice sun. The Man of the Moor seemed curiously changed too. So at one was he with this strange world that his thin grey hair seemed transformed into a wreath of leaves, and a beard of spiral tendrils wound around his mouth and eyes as he spoke. His coat is twisted bark that's old, his eyes are almost closed The old man of the forest, the old man of the trees Sitting on a soft cushion of moss, and leaning back against the granite slab, I closed my eyes to revel in the unexpected warmth of the late afternoon sun. I drew a long deep breath, in and out. And again, in and out. I feel the Spirit of the forest as the Man of the Moor tells me of the old folk who lived here so many aeons ago. I see the old castle that once stood where we now sit, surrounded by a moat where swans swim in the clear crystal water. I feel the shape of the fallen walls - the great hall, the kitchens, stables, watch tower and turrets. Down in yon forest there stands a hall, Lully, lully, lully, lullay, In that hall there stands a bed, Over that bed the moon shines bright At the bed foot there grows a thorn Under that bed there stands a stone
Lully, lully, lully, lullay, Within the castle live the King and Queen with their two beautiful daughters, and all the knights and ladies of the court. The King is kind, just and generous, and well loved by all of his people. Each year the King gives a splendid banquet for all of his subjects, who travel from the four corners of the Kingdom for the great occasion. All spend many days preparing puddings and pies, sweetmeats and dainties. The finest wines and meads are brought from the cellars, and the Queen and the princesses embroider a special cloth for the great banquet table. The ancient oak table was built in times long forgotten, around a massive granite boulder - the very heart of this enchanted kingdom. For the King's special banquet the table is polished until the magical beasts carved upon it's sturdy legs gleam and dance with life. The great hall is hung with fine draperies, and the table set with splendid silver platters, dishes and urns - all overflowing with the finest fare from the land. Juicy fruits, and every kind of vegetable imaginable - succulent and flavoursome. At the centre of the great table, standing high on the granite stone, is set the mystical golden chalice which contains special ruby-red wine. For later all present will drink from this chalice which never runs dry. It is said that to sup from the magical chalice ensures health, happiness and prosperity throughout the coming year. As the King's people arrive for the feast there is much laughing and revelry throughout the castle, for surely this is one the the four most sacred days of the year. When all are arrived we gather around the great table. The King welcomes his subjects and gives thanks for the bounty of the land which sustains us. And so the feast begins, with each enjoying our favourite dishes. Bards and minstrels entertain us with tales of strange lands and with music from other worlds. When all have eaten their fill a hush descends, for we know that the moment has arrived when the King will bless his kingdom, drinking from the chalice and passing it to his loyal subjects to share. All eyes are on the King as he steps forward to lift the chalice from the stone. He drinks from the chalice before handing it to me. I accept the chalice, feeling it's weight and the texture of it's engraved rim. I raise the chalice to my lips... and in a blinding flash of golden light I am dazzled by brilliant hues as the summer solstice sun sets behind the western horizon. As I marvel at the glorious solar display that I have just witnessed I flex my fingers, then wriggle my toes, before opening my eyes and returning gently to consciousness. The Green Man bids me to rise and follow.
Dusk cloaks the hall with shimmering silver shadows as the ancient guardians rustle in the gentle carress of magical air. As I step through a gap in the drystone granite wall I glance back for one last glimpse of the autumn golden leaves as they whisper their farewell lullaby, before striding across the morning moor as the glorious autumn equinox sun rises to glisten in the golden locks of my young Guide. The End Copyright Jenny Selfe 2001
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