the break and snap of kindling. burning petals curling the air with their scent. salt to share a story. shadows turning gold. the fires are lit by an unseen hand.
the hearth and wood burning stove in my work studio has been cold since last winter. plants and craft projects adorning the cast iron plates, obscuring the glass. this week i removed all the distractions and sat with the empty shell. what is calling me?
in a matter of days the pull to make fires, ones that whisper of antiquity is stronger than ever. i am gathering kindling wood, herbs, threads, stories and the smoke of winter. to seep the warmth and power of fire into my life. i will share some along the way here through the frayed and velvet nights and stark grey days.
one story to begin. written over samhain. a little spooky. a very large amount scottish.
and within it, is a fire.
the women of the wood Bronagh Chisholm stood at the highest edge of the glen. The waxing moon pierced the night bright and bulbous. She knew she would be beaten for coming by her father. For no lady would leave her home in the middle of the night, go riding to chase a dream. Ah, but not just ANY dream, but a wild dream filled with uncanny music and the sight of a comet, red and gold flying across Glen Affric! She was here now, loose haired and corset and bustle left on the bedroom floor of her turret in Erchless Castle, or had she left them on the telescope? No matter. She leaned against her horse, Merry and sighed contentedly. It had been so long since she had been allowed to go riding here. Since her corsets had been fitted. She had grumbled then at her Granny Uma, but she had cackled in her wickedly light way, pulled tight the laces, then stroked Bronagh’s cheek. They smiled together. What could you do? As if from her dream the comet appeared. Mouth open she watched its arc (a squashed elliptical) over the glen and disappear behind the old nameless wood. Then as if from the centre of the dense woodland, she saw an orange light. Firelight? Curiosity peaked, she trotted Merry to the entrance and tied her to the blackthorn that protected the entrance way. She had been told many tales of the glen and this forest by her granny and her Aunt Aisling. Stories of bears that spoke, of women that were birds and of the sidhe, the fairy folk. She snorted, what rubbish! she was much happier with her telescope and the once in a lifetime Venus procession. Why one day she might even discover a planet! The oaks were somewhat terrifying in the dark light. Jagged shapes on the thorny path. She was happy she knew this place from her girlhood and made her way to the deepening glow. Coming now from the yew glade that had stood there on Chisholm land since before recording. As she crawled over mossy boulders, knees bloody from the thorns, she heard them. The singing from her dream. A chorus of women’s voices in the old, outlawed tongue. She heard the words seanmhair thasin gad ghairm. Familiar voices cut through the blackness, Uma, Aisling, and was that cook as well? At the opening her eyes widened as she saw fifty women around the fire. Smoke billowed from a cauldron and filled her lungs with a heady fragrance. Each woman wore a lace veil and in turn each tore a piece from that veil and tied it on the furthest tree, the oldest yew tree (taxus baccata if she remembered her latin). Bronagh began to sing along, a little dazed. Her usual busy mind, soothed by the chant. All of her scientific reasoning, distant as her room, her prison. Uma suddenly moved to her and handed her a piece of lace. Your turn girl, you have been invited, smiling mischievously. Bronagh took her lace and climbed the yew, ripping and tying the now flapping cloth. Then the music became a chaos and the women howled and danced, yelling seanmhair seanmhair! Old Fiadh, the shepherdess lifted her arms, touching her fingers to the dry soil below her. All was silent. Bronagh saw lights appear in the cold clear night. She blinked, astonished, they were women! Boireannach an sidhe from the stories! She was not afraid. But she thought she might do well taking a mental picture. For science. One wearing nothing but skirts and spear with spirals on her breasts, another with wings like a great owl, women with tartan, stretched across their bodies in a myriad of styles. They moved together in the firelight with the music. Unearthly. Thrilling. Were they witches, sidhe? She remembered stories of witches burned from clan Chisholm. At that thought, she watched a green light move across the clearing from the far yew. It was coming towards her. Bronagh yelped, stumbled and fell. She turned over and all the familiar faces of her life were running to her. She looked up and the light hovered over her body, forming into arms. Please no, she squeaked, scared now, seeing Uma’s face blank and slack with fear. Then with a rush and a wave. The light entered her and all was black.
with a light of applewood and oak
until next week
Jai Michelle
I loved that story beyond words 💫