LEABHAR LIATH NA HAIMIDE PART THREE – THE VOW – The Hollow Behind The Hearthstone

[read Part I – The Forge here : https://thehollowbehindthehearthstone.com/leabhar-liath-na-haimide-part-one-the-forge/ ]

[read Part II – The Ruins here : https://thehollowbehindthehearthstone.com/leabhar-liath-na-haimide-part-two-the-ruins/ ]

I MAKE MY VOW – 29 April 2020

SO… it’s two weeks since then, and I have not had a clear sign, but neither have I maybe been open and receptive to it. Clearly, however, there have been many moments of peace and communion with the Land and the Demesne. Many times, I’ve sat in the golden light of late afternoon and watched the children play among swirling motes of glowing meadow-down or light feathery leaves from the Willow. There was a day of storm when the children and I stood out in front of the Forge and watched the sky on the horizon churn and boil with black clouds, heard the thunder growl and saw the lightning play ; the storm mostly passed us by.

Hailstones rattled down and the kids pulled me outside ; the Dark Girl swept some of them into her cupped hands, and carried them to me, and made me taste them. It is an education in apprehending the World. We have sat in the grass in sunlight and watched the clouds. We have been led by multifarious butterflies through meadows, and a black tulip has bloomed for us, so many flowers have bloomed. Intoxicating scent of perfect whorls of roses, a spray of them above our door. We are so blessed.

Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow

BY ROBERT DUNCAN

as if it were a scene made-up by the mind,

that is not mine, but is a made place,

that is mine, it is so near to the heart,

an eternal pasture folded in all thought

so that there is a hall therein

that is a made place, created by light

wherefrom the shadows that are forms fall.

Wherefrom fall all architectures I am

I say are likenesses of the First Beloved

whose flowers are flames lit to the Lady.

She it is Queen Under The Hill

whose hosts are a disturbance of words within words

that is a field folded.

It is only a dream of the grass blowing

east against the source of the sun

in an hour before the sun’s going down

whose secret we see in a children’s game

of ring a round of roses told.

Often I am permitted to return to a meadow

as if it were a given property of the mind

that certain bounds hold against chaos,

that is a place of first permission,

everlasting omen of what is.
Robert Duncan, “Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow” from The Opening of the Field. Copyright © 1960 by Robert Duncan

But there has been sorrow and lassitude as well at times, and shivers of ill-feeling. She and I have talked seriously of staying, and she raises real objections, practical and reasonable ones, and I felt the dream slipping. But I know now that I need to prove to her that it is possible, and show her that I am equal to the task. Make it real.

The day after that last entry, I shaved my head, finally. Maol Mhanannáin – I re-dedicate myself to him thus. I saved the hair, and the clippings and cuttings from my claws and pelt and skin, saved them in a little cloth bag. But I was not ready yet. I have struggled with gloom and melancholy. Last week one day, I fell to my knees in the grass, where no-one could see me, and wept secretly for my weakness and my shame. But I am back into my strength. Today I was asked to read the cards for the Wolf Lady, who had been my first ever client as a Consulting Occultist. From where she was we spoke on the screen, and she drew her partner and his daughter in, and all I had to say seemed to fit what they needed to hear, both comforting and disturbing.

I did my work, and felt my power wax anew (perhaps as the Moon waned so did I – and there were many gloomy chilly days – but now she waxes again, and so do I). And so tonight, as I realise the challenge before me, I set out in the Witching Hour with Knife and Saille, and the purple candle, and the bag of the shearings from my body. I went to the Ruins, and I cast the Circle and called Them in. And as I spoke my petition, vow, and compact, owl-hoots pierced the night, loud frogs’ cacophony, and then a strange, eerie, rushing, breathing, singing sound. I have no idea what it was, but it seemed the Night was alive with presences that hailed our compact.

I asked for Their protection, Their bounty, to do us no harm, and to clear the way for us to stay here. I swore to be steward, custodian, Guardian, to serve Them and this Land, to grow together and make a life here and to restore and care for it and to make Them offerings and honour and blessings and said we would be great together and I would pass it on to my line to take up these duties if I inherit. The Night was still.

THE DARKENING – Witching Hour 14 May 2020

Bealtaine came and went and it was wild and wet. The Bright Boy and I brought clothes and a toothbrush (his idea) to the cartoonish Frog sign that sits above the old village lavoir, and that must suffice for that day of incredible rains and torrents in the vines and in the ditches. The Hare Moon in Scorpio came, and I went out under it the night it started to wane, and I recorded the sights and sounds of the Night and sent them to someone who needed them, and the chattering Toads down by the Decay called me to come to them. I will speak more of the Toad…

But tonight. Tonight, the Seven Sisters descend to Earth. Queens of the Wood and the Wave, Wind and Winter, Flame and Horns and Cranes. I received these names from the Faery Scholar, and it seemed right to me.

I told her that I would go at dusk, and for the Witchlings’ last story put them all to sleep with the soft music of a long and meandering tale of the Seven Wandering Queens at the Court of the Childe-Knights. They all slumbered, she as well, and I slipped out. Quickly in the dying light I wrote the Ritual into the Leabhar Deas-Ghnáth (the Book of Ceremonies, or literally, “The Book of Fine Habits”), I took my Crane-Bag and went, filled the green-glass bottle from the Well, took my Gift-Staff I got at the Goblin-Market and through the Gloaming went. I went by the Bounds tuathalach, through the Wood, the waist-high grass, the paths of deer. Dim and grey, a final band of fire on the Western Horizon. I went by wood-trail and by-way, I slithered down to the Glade. There I set my altar up.

I had hurried. The Spring-Water had spilled a little in the bag. Three candles, book, staff. Straif and Saille crossed. Incense : Frankincense and Myrrh, fit gifts for Queens. Went thrice tuathalach around the Altar. Something large stirred in the Woods nearby. It called. Owls hooted. Frogs sang. My Corpse Candle started hissing. Did it get wet? I invited in all Goodly Spirits. When I got to the Spirits of Wind, of Rain, of Storm, the wind rushed suddenly in the trees like the sound of the sea. The candle fizzled out and I tried to relight it as the Thing stirred and stopped, stirred and stopped, in the Wood. It would not catch flame again.

I spoke the words as I had written them, facing North-East to the sky, to where the Queens come down, candles at my back, staff in hand. I sat and meditated, seeking a light trance. The wind came up again. All was dimming, darkening.

I spoke the words, as prescribed, once more, and closed my eyes and the afterimage of the candles gave me a Green Vision of the Pleiades. I called upon the Storm, and the wind rose again. Then I poured the water in a thin stream in the dark all around the Circle tuathalach for the Folk. I stood and swirled my staff, drawing down the sky. Then unbound the Circle deiseal, and as I did, a bird burst from a tree and whirred away and the bottle fell sideways ringing on the Altar from where I had carefully placed it. I walked the Bounds backwards, the censer of incense burning as I carried it aloft. Thus I sanctify my steps. So may it be.

To be continued in Part IV of the