Celtic Queens

Highland Cathedral

2012-01-19T11:32:00.001-05:00

What could be better than Scotland in winter, men in kilts and bagpipe music in lovely Dunblane Cathedral? Join us for a rare treat.

Beinn Eighe

Loch Maree

Avochie Ruin

The Queens' Favorite

Glen Docherty

Beinn Bhan

Alban Arthuan

2011-12-08T03:33:00.000-05:00

Alban Arthuan is one of the ancient Druidic fire festivals, which takes place December 21st through 22^nd---the Druids measure of one day---coinciding with the Winter Solstice. The name of Alban Arthuan means, The Light of Arthur, and refers to the Arthurian legend that maintains King Arthur was born on the Winter Solstice.

Also known as Yule, Alban Arthuan marks the celebration of the shortest day of the year and the re-birth of the sun. The custom of burning the Yule Log honored the Great Mother Goddess. Using the remains of the log from the previous year, the Yule log would be lit on the eve of the solstice, and left to burn for twelve hours as a sign of good luck.

Early Pagans hung colorful ornaments from the Yule tree (usually a pine) to symbolize the various astral objects, as well as the moon, stars and sun, representing the souls of those who had died the previous year. From this ritual came the modern tradition of gift giving.

The more recent traditions of Saint Nicholas/Santa Claus might also be traced back to Celtic lore (although many Germans would disagree). Santa's elves could very well be the incarnation of the Nature Folk prevalent in the Pagan religions, and Santa's reindeer are closely associated with the Horned God, Cernunnos, one of the Druidic deities.

Ultimately, Alban Arthuan was a celebration of peace, and an exaltation of the waxing astral light, in which the pagans paid homage to the forthcoming Sun child, and honored the Father God in his various forms---the Old Sky God, Father Time, the Holly King, and Santa Claus.

Robert Byrne Quotes

2011-12-01T04:02:00.001-05:00

No one ever committed suicide while reading a good book, but many have tried while trying to write one.

Democracy is being allowed to vote for the candidate you dislike least.

Getting caught is the mother of invention.

There are two kinds of people, those who finish what they start and so on.

Everything is in a state of flux including the status quo.

Winter is nature's way of saying, "Up yours."

The Fairy Flag of Dunvegan

2011-11-15T04:02:00.005-05:00

The Clan MacLeod is said to have been one of the oldest and most powerful Clans of Scotland, and they claim Dunvegan Castle, near Loch Dunvegan, on the Isle of Skye as their ancestral home.

Centuries ago, a MacLeod Chieftain called Malcolm, wed with a fairy woman, who quickly bore him a son. They lived happily together for a time, but, the Fairy pined for her home in the mystical lands beyond the veil. Unable to live with his wife's unhappiness, Malcolm allowed her to return to her home in Annwn. Although Malcolm was desolate, the one saving grace was his infant son, and that very night he ordered a splendid feast to celebrate his birth.

Throughout the festivities, the baby slept. He was watched over by a pretty, young nursemaid who wanted nothing more than to join in the merriment. She decided the sleeping child was fine on his own and disappeared amongst the revelers. When Malcolm recognized her, he assumed she left his son in the temporary care of another and ordered the child bought to him immediately. The nursemaid prayed to herself that no harm had come to the infant. Just at that moment a bird flew low screeching and awakened the infant, and the Hall became engulfed in his startled cries. As his wails went unanswered, the sound carried across the sky to Annwn, to the babe's mother.

Incapable of listening to her son suffer, the fairy transformed into a spirit mist and went to him. Forbidden to appear in her true form, she was unable to cuddle her infant son in her arms. Instead, she weaved a blanket of green silken threads around his bassinet, which lulled him into a deep, peaceful slumber.

Satisfied her son was properly soothed, she began to sing. As her delicate voice traveled throughout the castle a hush descended over the merrymakers, and they listened to the beautiful voice sing of the gift bestowed on the MacLeod heir. If ever the MacLeod's found themselves in grave danger they were to wave the green silken flag to be delivered from harm. Thankful to his wife, Malcolm thought it a rare and precious gift indeed. However, the song also cautioned that the flag could only be waved three times—if waved for trivial reasons, then a great misfortune would befall the Clan. With that ominous portent the spell-binding music ceased.

Immediately, Malcolm ordered the flag placed in an iron case of intricate workmanship befitting such a treasure. What's more, he decreed that the Macleod Chieftain was the one person to keep the flag in his possession.

In the succeeding decades neither Malcolm, nor his son ever found a reason to use the gift--and as generations passed, the legend of the fairy flag was also passed down. Then one day, the MacDonald's (old enemies of the Macleod's) attacked Macleod lands and a fierce battle ensued. Greatly outnumbered, the MacLeod Chief remembered the silken flag and decided to test the legend, after all, he had nothing to lose. Holding the flag aloft, he waved it and at once the MacDonalds retreated. Filled with an unearthly strength and ferocity, the Macleod's drove the MacDonalds from their lands. The flag had proven its worth, or had it really? Some amongst the Macleod's were skeptical.

Years later, the Macleod Chief tested the fairy magic when a disease ran through the livestock threatening the clan's livelihood and well-being. Once again, the fairy flag was waved, stopping the disease from spreading. Now, more than ever, the clan believed in the power of the flag.

Then in 1799, a man called Buchman, who was an employee of the MacLeods, decide to disprove the legend. He waited until the Chieftain was away for the day and had an English blacksmith break open the iron case, grabbed the flag and waved it about. Nothing happened that day, yet, one week later disaster struck, and the only male heir to the MacLeod fortune was killed in an explosion on board the HMS Charlotte. Such was the old Chief's grief that the management of the estate became sorely neglected. Without anyone to claim the title and step in, the MacLeod had to sell off most of his land to the Campbells---and as their finances dwindled the Chief's family legacy dwindled too, decimating the once vast fortune and influence held by the Macleods.

Despite the devastating loss of their former glory, the Macleods have remained a strong, thriving clan. Perhaps, one day, if you find yourself on the Isle of Skye, you will take a moment and look in on the Macleods of Dunvegan Castle. Who knows, you just may be fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of the opulent iron case that still houses the green fairy flag.

The Haunting of Caerphilly Castle

2011-11-03T06:30:00.002-04:00

Located in Mid-Glamorgan, Wales, Caerphilly Castle was built in the 13^th century by Gilbert de Clare. Not only is Caerphilly the largest castle in Wales, it's been home to a restless spirit for centuries.

Princess Alice, of Angouleme, was known to all as a lady of sophisticated tastes. Possessed of a passionate nature, she resented her husband's continual absence and proclivity for war.

Quite aware of Alice's growing discontent, Gilbert extended an invitation to Gruffudd the Fair, Prince of Brithdir; a man who shared his wife's refined sensibilities. He thought that if he appeased his wife in this manner, she would bestow her favors in a more willing fashion. As the weeks passed, Gilbert perceived an attachment on the prince's side, yet, he deemed it harmless, since Alice had resumed her wifely duties with enthusiasm giving him no cause for suspicion.

Despite Gilbert, and Alice's renewed marital activities, she was indeed enamored of the equally amorous Welsh prince, and they became lovers. Their love-affair carried on for the duration of the prince's stay, however, before leaving Caerphilly Castle, Gruffudd confessed his sin to a village monk, who wasted little time informing de Clare of his wife's betrayal. Grief warred with rage, ultimately unhinging the warrior's mind. Crazed, Gilbert ordered his men to kill Gruffudd, and then vowed to imprison his wife in a neglected wing of the castle.

While Gilbert shouted his orders, Alice scribbled a note warning her lover of the monk's betrayal, and her husband's murderous intent. She entrusted the letter to a man who served her father's house in France, and now faithfully attended her.

Banished from her resplendent surroundings to a sparsely furnished, crumbling tower room, she spent days pacing the ramparts, praying Gilbert's men would return empty handed. Unfortunately, the hastily written letter would prove Gruffudd's undoing.

Incensed by the monk's treachery, Gruffudd captured him, and hanged the man from a tree (known as 'Monk’s Vale'). No sooner had he done so, than Gilbert de Clare’s men discovered him. It wasn't long before Gruffudd, dangled at the end of a rope alongside the dead monk.

Avenged, Gilbert sent a message to his wife, with word of her lover’s execution. The messenger found her on the ramparts, where she paced night, and day, eschewing food, drink, or, the comfort of a fur mantle. With shaking hands, she broke the wax seal skimming its contents. Shocked by the horrific news, she dropped dead at the messenger's feet.

Princess Alice, has haunted the battlements of Caerphilly Castle since that night. People who have witnessed her ghostly presence claim she is a magnificent vision in an opulent, forest-green colored gown. There are some who might tell you, that green signifies Gilbert’s jealousy, but, others will say, Gruffudd favored that particular hue. Either way, Alice, waits in quiet solitude for her prince to come.

All Souls Day

2011-11-01T03:01:00.000-04:00

In the Middle Ages, superstitious beliefs influenced by Celtic Paganism, held that the souls bound in Purgatory were released on All Souls Day in the form of witches, goblins, ghosts, and even toads. They appeared to persons who committed any evils against them during their earthly lives. To appease the unholy visitors, offerings of food and drink were bestowed upon the restless spirits in the hopes of escaping their wrath. Those unfortunate enough not to have provided for their tormentors were sentenced to a longer, and more arduous purification process upon entering Purgatory.

The Tragic Tale of Dearg-du

2011-10-30T15:55:00.010-04:00

Dearg-du was a great beauty known throughout the Irish countryside. Her beauty was so renowned, she could have married any man she chose, but fell in love with a local peasant.

Outraged, her father forbade her to marry so far beneath her station, and forced her into a loveless marriage with a wealthy, yet, vain and violent man.

She pined for her true love every hour of everyday, uncaring that she disgraced her husband in the eyes of the townsfolk. Eventually, Dearg-du withdrew from society impervious to her husband's growing resentment, and rage.

Infuriated that he could not win his beautiful bride's love, and humiliated that she preferred a peasant to him, he beat her every day for a month demanding she love only him.

Never knowing such degradation, Dearg-du hanged herself. On All Hallow's Eve, she was buried in an unmarked grave beyond the church walls, on unconsecrated ground amid murderers, rapists and thieves. An eternal punishment meted out in accordance with the laws of the Catholic Church.

Not long after Dearg-du's burial, a fanged creature smelling of the earth began terrorizing the villagers. Many believed it was Dearg-du, but her father and husband scoffed at the notion. They insisted that she had been a gentle, obedient soul in life, and could never be a blood-sucking demon in death.

Unconvinced, villagers were quick to point out that she was mistreated beyond her endurance and blasphemed against the Catholic church. What more fitting punishment than to become a demon. Everyone knew that unhallowed ground was the breeding place of vampires, demons and malevolent spirits.

Yet, despite such a sound argument, Dearg-du's father and husband dismissed the assertions and told the townsfolk to mind their own business. And they did, until both men were found dead and drained of blood.

Soon, widespread sightings of Dearg-du were reported. Women claimed she lured men to their deaths with her uncommon beauty. Others insisted she only attacked men who were known for their cruelty. The only truth they agreed upon was that the murders ceased one month after they began.

A year passed before another body drained of blood was found. The victim was a man infamous for ruining virtuous women. The All Hallow's Eve murder shook the villagers, who had no idea why Dearg-du chose to kill again. However, the reason was not a mystery to the man who still loved Dearg-du.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Many people believe, 'Dracula' is based upon the story of Dearg-du, arguing that Bram Stoker never traveled to Eastern Europe. They go on to say that Dracula was written during Ireland's great, Celtic Revival and insist Stoker took the name of Dracula, from Dreach-Fhoula, meaning, bad or tainted blood. Du'n Dreach-Fhoula (Castle of the Blood Visage) is said to be a fortress guarding a pass in the Magillycuddy Mountain range, County Kerry, which is a known stronghold of blood-drinking fairies.

other photos: Photobucket

Samhain Customs--Foretelling the Future

2011-10-29T12:34:00.001-04:00

Samhain…

the time for divination, perhaps even more so than May or Midsummer Night’s Eve, because this is the chief of the three Spirit Nights. Divination customs and games often featured apples and nuts from the recent harvest, and candles play an important part in adding atmosphere to the mysteries. In Scotland, a child born at Samhain is said to be gifted with an shealladh, “The Two Sights” commonly known as “second sight,” or clairvoyance.

Apple Magic
At the heart of the Celtic Otherworld grows an apple tree whose fruit has magical properties. Old sagas tell of heroes crossing the western sea to find this wondrous country, known in Ireland as Emhain Abhlach, (Evan Avlach) and in Britain, Avalon. At Samhain, the apple harvest is in, and old hearthside games, such as apple-bobbing, called apple-dookin’ in Scotland, reflect the journey across water to obtain the magic apple.

Dookin' for Apples

Place a large tub, preferably wooden, on the floor, and half fill it with water. Tumble in plenty of apples, and have one person stir them around vigorously with a long wooden spoon or rod of hazel, ash or any other sacred tree.

Each player takes their turn kneeling on the floor, trying to capture the apples with their teeth as they go bobbing around. Each gets three tries before the next person has a go. Best to wear old clothes for this one, and have a roaring fire nearby so you can dry off while eating your prize!

If you do manage to capture an apple, you might want to keep it for a divination ritual, such as this one:

The Apple and the Mirror

Before the stroke of midnight, sit in front of a mirror in a room lit only by one candle or the moon. Go into the silence, and ask a question. Cut the apple into nine pieces. With your back to the mirror, eat eight of the pieces, then throw the ninth over your left shoulder. Turn your head to look over the same shoulder, and you will see and in image or symbol in the mirror that will tell you your answer.

(When you look in the mirror, let your focus go "soft," and allow the patterns made by the moon or candlelight and shadows to suggest forms, symbols and other dreamlike images that speak to your intuition.)

Dreaming Stones

Go to a boundary stream and with closed eyes, take from the water three stones between middle finger and thumb, saying these words as each is gathered:

I will lift the stone
As Mary lifted it for her Son,
For substance, virtue, and strength;
May this stone be in my hand
Till I reach my journey’s end.

Carry them home carefully and place them under your pillow. That night, ask for a dream that will give you guidance or a solution to a problem, and the stones will bring it for you.

Samhain Tales

2011-10-27T14:10:00.001-04:00

How old is Samhain? Well the sad truth is that nobody knows since its origins have been lost amidst the grey mists of time. Suffice it to say that it is so old that the Tuatha de Danaan knew of it when they first stepped foot on Ireland’s green shores. They may have arrived on Beltane, like the people of Cesair and Partholon before them, but their defining battle was fought on Samhain.

It went something like this. Waged against the loathsome Formori, the battle became known as the Second Conflict on the Plain of the Pillar. You see, Samhain was the time the Formori chose to demand their onerous taxes. No longer willing to pay them, the people of Danu rose up in protest. The fought the fearsome tyrants and might have succumbed but, when Lugh slaughtered Balor, the tide of battle turned.

So was Samhain a time for offerings to deities or more temporal powers—or could it have been a time of liberation from tyrannical forces? November, with its grey skies and gloom, may herald more than the start of winter. Indeed, it may just hail the spirit of vigor and independence. Despite the physical hardships of winter, could it have been seen as a time of peaceful release?

Once upon a time, a bard of the Sídhe, called Aillen mac Midgna, stalked out of the hill of Finnachaid. He cast a sleep-spell over the inhabitants of Tara Hall using his timpan and blew his fiery breath that burned it to the ground. The people rebuilt it over the winter but each Samhain night, for twenty-three long years, Aillen mac Midgna returned and burned it once more. This would have continued for many more long years but the young hero, Fionn MacCumhail, stuck his spear through the hated Aillen when he arrived for the Feast of Tara.

Samhain was the time when all was shown according to its true nature. The magical, mystical mounds of the Sídhe, long known to be burial mounds, were concealed from human eyes by the presence of the fe-fiada, a misty grey veil. On Samhain, though, the leader of the warrior bands of Laigin gets to see, not only the inside of the mounds, but must witness their inhabitants riding forth. Were these men aware that the mounds contained corpses? If they were, then they saw the beings riding forth as ghosts. It they weren’t, then they likely believed they were land spirits. How long ago did the Laigin warriors live? Some two thousand years in the past!

Would you like to hear an ancient Irish ghost story? Of course you would.

On Samhain, King Ailill offered rewards to anyone brave enough to put a wicker band about the foot of a hanging corpse. Only Nera was daring enough (or, perhaps, daft enough) to try. Upon approaching the corpse, the thing came to life and asked Nera for water. Nera resolved to honor its request. He allowed the corpse to climb on his back and carried it to a house but flames sprung up. They tried another house that became surrounded by water. The third house they visited and this proved to be a bit safer. Nera gave him a cup and the corpse drank three times from it. The last cup he spit out on the householders and killed them.

When he finally replaced the corpse on the gallows and returned to Ailill’s court, Nera found the palace on fire and the inhabitants decapitated. He rushed to the Cave of Cruachan in County Roscommon, in search of the severed heads. There he met a ban-sídhe who revealed that, what he’d seen at Tara’s Court, was nothing more than a vision of what might be on the very next Samhain night unless the warriors of Mebd and Ailill demolished the hill containing the Cave of Cruachan and the warriors of the Sídhe army. Nera rushed back to court and discovered that no time at all had passed since he first heard King Ailill’s offer.

Nera warned them, once more, what would happen, then returned to Cruachan. There he again met the ban-sídhe woman and there they lived together in the cave. Did Ailill and Mebd ever bring down that hill and defeat the Sídhe forces? Yes they did…with Nera, his sídhe wife, and their child inside. And there they’ll remain until the end of time.

The Wizard Earl of Kilkea Castle

2011-10-21T04:03:00.004-04:00

The Fitzgeralds inherited Kilkea castle through marriage and it remained their home for 700 years. Over the centuries the castle walls have housed many occupants, but none as infamous as Gerald Fitzgerald, 11th Earl of Kildare (1525-85), and known as the Wizard Earl.

When Gerald's father, Silken Thomas, was executed for renouncing King Henry VIII and leading an attack on Dublin castle, Gerald was sent to Italy out of reach of the English monarchy. Years later, he returned to claim his home, and title, well-versed in medicine, astronomy and metallurgy. Suspicious of his odd ways, and unconventional knowledge, his neighbor's branded him Wizard with the power to transform himself into a blackbird.

When the Earl married, his wife begged him to transform for her. He relented, but warned that if he transformed and she showed fear, he would disappear forever. She agreed, so he decided to test her word. He brought her to the river and raised the water to her bottom lip; she showed no fear. Then he led her to a grave and raised a dead man; she was not afraid. Finally he conjured a snake which wrapped itself around her body and hissed in her face; still she remained unafraid. Satisfied, he brought her back to the castle, and told her to shut her eyes until she heard him stamp his foot three times. She obeyed his command, he stamped three times, and when she opened her eyes the earl was gone! All of a sudden, she noticed a small black bird perched on her shoulder and singing a familiar tune. She knew it truly was her husband, the Earl of Kilkea.

Mesmerized, she reached out a finger to stroke its shiny feathers just as a black cat leaped on her. Afraid for her husband, she screamed and fainted. When she awoke the cat was gone and the Earl had disappeared. She died years later never knowing her husband's fate.

However, the Fitzgerald family and other witnesses claim that every 7^th month, every 7 years, the Wizard Earl appears astride a silver-shod, white charger galloping across the flats of Kilkea Castle in pursuit of the black cat.

Ghost Rider photo by: Terry Gettysburg Paranormal Investigations

other photos by: Photo Bucket

A Night of Bonfires

2011-10-17T09:29:00.000-04:00

In the Celtic culture, the sun was a god and the one true way in which to worship their god was through fire-building. Although fire was utilized in most of their pagan rites and rituals, the Celts reserved the most sacred night of the year to demonstrate their unstinting devotion to the Sun god; the eve of the Celtic New Year, Samhain.

The moment nightfall covered the land, mammoth bonfires were set a-light on peaks, summits, and hilltops to battle the evening's darkest hours and to ensure the return of the summer sun after the bleak, cold winter spell. So steady was their belief in the ceremony, hundreds of bonfires could be seen burning brightly throughout England, Wales, Scotland and----true believers insist----across the Irish Sea all the way into Ireland!

However, honoring their god with such a powerful display was not the only reason the Celts performed the Samhain eve ritual. The fires served a less altruistic purpose—the bonfires were a safeguard against witches who roamed free. The Celts believed that the ribbons of fiery, orange flames would reach out into the night sky and incinerate any witches hovering unseen in the air above them.

The Legend of the Jack o’ the…WHAT???

2011-10-14T10:28:00.000-04:00

Long, long ago, Samhain marked the end of the harvest and warfare, and the beginning of the season of darkness. It was the season of plenty, the season for festivals and markets and clan conferences.

Last year, Lisa told you of the legend of the Jack o’Lantern. Many sources will tell you it originated near the eighteenth century. Why could that be? It was because the pumpkin had finally found its way to the Old World from the New by then. Those weren’t the first of the lanterns to be carved, though. Oh no.

The first were carved from other root vegetables. Some chose large turnips! Have you ever seen a turnip that large? I surely never have! Rutabagas (I knew there must be a good use for those vegetables!), gourds, potatoes and beets were also used.

What you do, is cut off the bottom of the turnip and the leaves and stem from the top. Afterward, you cut off the top of the turnip and carefully carve it out with a small, sharp knife. Cut a scary face into it and put a burning ember inside. Then, like Stingy Jack, you have a small lantern to light your way in the night!

The Grey Piper and The Heavy Coach Of Donaldgowerie House

2011-10-12T14:05:00.001-04:00

Donaldgowerie House, until comparatively recent times, stood on the outskirts of Perth. It was a long, low, rambling old place, dating back to the beginning of the seventeenth century. At the time of the narrative it was in the possession of a Mr. William Whittingen, who bought it at a very low price from some people named Tyler.

It is true that it would cost a small fortune to repair, but, notwithstanding this disadvantage, Mr. Whittingen considered his purchase a bargain, and was more than satisfied with it. Indeed, he knew of no other house of a similar size, of such an imposing appearance, and so pleasantly situated, that he could have bought for less than twice the amount he had paid for this; and he was really very sorry for the Tylers. However, with them it was a question of cash—cash down, and Mr. Whittingen had only to write out a cheque for the modest sum they asked, and the house was his.

It was June when Mr. Whittingen took possession of the house—June, when the summer sun was brightest and the gardens looked their best. The Whittingen family, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Whittingen, two sons, Ernest and Harvey, and three daughters, Ruth, Martha, and Mary, were, as one might gather from their names alone, plain, practical, genteel and, in fact, very superior people, who were by no means lacking in that exceedingly useful quality of canniness, so characteristic of the Lowland Scot to which race they belonged.

Mr. Whittingen had, for years, conducted a grocery business in Jedburgh, twice filling the honoured and coveted post of mayor. When he at length retired into private life, his friends—and it was astonishing how many friends he had—shrewdly suspected that his pockets were not only well-lined but full to bursting.

Acting on the advice of his wife and daughters, who were keen on social distinction, he sent Ernest to Oxford, conditionally that he should take Holy Orders in the Church of England. Alas Harvey displayed the regular Whittingen talent for business by covertly helping himself to the sugar in his father's shop, and disposing of it at strictly sale price to his sisters' cronies in the nursery. He was sent to one of those half preparatory and half finishing schools—of course, for the sons of gentlemen only—at Edinburgh, where he was kept till he was old enough to be articled to a prosperous, exceedingly prosperous, firm of solicitors.

The girls, Ruth, Martha, and Mary, had likewise been highly educated, that is to say, they had remained so many years at an English seminary for young ladies, and had been given a final twelve months in France and Germany to enable them to obtain "the correct accent."

At the time of the story they were not yet unmarried, and were awaiting with the most laudable patience the advent of men of title. They were delighted with their new home (which Ruth had persuaded her father to christen "Donaldgowerie," after the house in a romantic novel she had just been reading), and proud of their gilded premises and magnificent tennis lawns; they had placed a gigantic and costly tray in the hall, in confident assurance that it would speedily groan beneath the weight of cards from all the gentry in Perthshire.

My one and only object in alluding to these details is to point out that the Whittingens, being entirely engrossed in mundane matters, were the very last people in the world to be termed superstitious, and although imaginative where future husbands' calls and cards were concerned, prior to the events about to be narrated, had not an ounce of superstition in their natures. Indeed, until then they had always smiled in a very supercilious manner at even the smallest mention of a ghost.

September came, their first September in Donaldgowerie, and the family welcomed with joy Ernest and his youthful bride.

The latter was not, as they had fondly hoped (and roundly announced in Perth), the daughter of a Peer, but of a wealthy Bristol draper, the owner of a house near the Downs, whose son had been one of Ernest's many friends at Oxford.

The coming of the newly-married pair to Donaldgowerie brought with it a burst of bird-like gaiety. All sorts of entertainments—musical "at homes," dinners, dances, tennis and garden parties, in fact, every variety that accorded with the family's idea of good taste—were given; and with praiseworthy "push," for which the Whittingens had fast become noted, all the County was invited.

This splendid display of wealth and hospitality was not disinterested. I fear, it might be not only accounted a "send off" for the immaculately-clad curate and his wife, but also a determined effort on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Whittingen to attract the right sort of lover for their girls.

It was during the progress of one of their alfresco entertainments that the skepticism of certain of the Whittingens with regard to the supernatural received a rude blow.

Martha, Mary, and two eligible young men, friends of Harvey's, having finished a somewhat spirited game of croquet, refreshed themselves with lemonade, whilst they continued their flirtation. Presently Mary, whose partner declared how much he should like to see some photographs she had recently had taken of herself. With an affected giggle of embarrassment, she set off to the house to fetch her album.

The minutes passed, and, as she did not return, Martha went in search of her. The album, she knew, was in their boudoir, which was situated at the end of the long and rather gloomy corridor of the upper storey. Highly incensed at her sister's slowness, she was hastening along the corridor. To her supreme astonishment, she suddenly saw the figure of a man in kilts, with a bagpipe under his arm, emerge through the half-open door of the boudoir, and with a peculiar gliding motion advance towards her.

A curious feeling, with which she was totally unfamiliar, compelled her to remain mute and motionless; and in this condition she awaited the approach of the stranger.

Who is he? And, how on earth did he get here? What is he doing?

As he drew nearer, she perceived that his face was all one hue,—a ghastly, livid grey,—and that his eyes, which were all the time fixed on hers, were lurid and menacing,—so terrible, in fact, that she turned cold with fear, and felt the very hair on her head beginning to rise on end.She opened her mouth to shriek, but found she could not cry out a syllable; neither could she, even with the most desperate efforts, tear her feet from the floor.

On came the figure, and, without swerving either to the right or left, it glided right up to and through her. As she involuntarily turned round, she saw it disappear through a half-open staircase window, at least twenty feet above the ground outside.

Shaking all over with terror, and not understanding in the slightest what to make of it, Martha ran to the boudoir, where her heart almost sprang out of her body at the spectacle of her sister Mary stretched at full length on the floor, her cheeks ashy pale, her lips blue. Martha at once made a frantic rush to the bell, and, in a few minutes, half the establishment, headed by Mr. Whittingen, poured into the room.

With the aid of a little cold water, Mary speedily recovered, and, in reply to the anxious inquiries of her sympathetic rescuers as to what had happened, indignantly demanded why such a horrible-looking creature as that piper had been allowed not merely to enter the house, but to come up to her room, and half-frighten silence that exasperated her.

She repeated her inquiries with crimson cheeks, and then, as again no one responded, she signaled to the head footman and raved at him. Up to this point Mr. Whittingen had been dumb with amazement. The idea of a strange piper having the twofold effrontery to enter his house and proceed to the private and chaste sanctuary of his highly respectable daughters, almost deprived him of breath. He could scarcely believe his ears.

"What—what in the name of—what does it all mean?" he at length stammered, addressing the unfortunate footman. "A piper—and without any invitation from me! How dare you let him in?"

"I did not, sir," the luckless footman replied; "no such person came to the door when I was in the hall."

"No more he did when I was there," chimed in the second footman, and all the other servants vociferated in a body, "We never saw any piper, sir, nor heard one either," and they looked at Mary reproachfully.

At this Mr. Whittingen looked exceedingly embarrassed. In the face of such a unanimous denial what could he say? He knew if he suggested the servants were untruthful they would all give notice to leave on the spot, and knowing good servants are scarce in Perth as elsewhere, he felt rather in a fix. At length, turning to Mary, he asked if she was sure it was a piper.

"Sure?" Mary screamed, "Why, of course I am, did I not tell you he marched up and down here playing on his disgusting bagpipes, which nearly broke the drum of my ear."

"And I saw him too, pa," Martha put in. "I met him in the corridor, he had his pipes under his arm, and the most dreadful expression in his face. I don't wonder Mary was frightened."

"But where did he go?" Mr. Whittingen cried.

"You would not believe me if I told you," Martha said, her cheeks flushing. "He seemed to pass right through me, and then to vanish through the staircase window. I have never been so terribly afraid in my life,"

Sinking on to the sofa, she began to laugh hysterically.

"Dear me! dear me! it is very odd!" Mr. Whittingen exclaimed, as Mary handed her sister a wineglass of sal-volatile.

They can't both have been dreaming; it must—but there, what a nonsensical notion, there are no such things as ghosts! Only children and nursemaids believe in them nowadays.

“As soon as you have quite recovered, my dears, we will return to the garden, and I think that, under the circumstances, the rather peculiar circumstances, ahem,” he cleared his throat, as if it might clear his embarrassment, “it will be better to say nothing to your mother. Do you understand?"

Mr. Whittingen went on, eyeing the servants, "Nothing to your mistress."

The affair thus terminated, and for some days nothing further happened to disturb the peace of the family. At the end of a week, however, exactly a week after the appearance of the piper, Mary met with a serious accident. While running across the croquet lawn to speak to her sister-in-law, she tripped over a hoop that had been accidentally left there. While falling, she ran a hatpin into her head. Blood poisoning ensued, and within a fortnight she was dead.

Martha was the only one in the house, however, who associated Mary's accident and death with the piper. To her, that sinister expression in the mysterious Highlander's eyes portended mischief, and she could not but suspect that, in some way or another, he had brought about the catastrophe.

The autumn waned, and Christmas was well within sight, when another mysterious occurrence took place. Early one Sunday evening, tea was just over, and the Whittingen family were sitting round the fire engaged in a somewhat melancholy conversation, for the loss of Mary had affected them all very deeply. A little while later, they heard the far-away rumble of a heavy coach on the high-road. Nearer and nearer it came, till it seemed to be about on a level with the front lodge gate. To their surprise there was a loud crunching of gravel, and they heard it careering at a breakneck speed up the carriage-drive. They looked at one another in the utmost consternation.

"A coach, and driven in this mad fashion! Whose is it? What does it mean? Not visitors, surely," exclaimed Mr. Whittingen, voicing everyone’s consternation.

It pulled up at the front door, and the champing and stamping of the horses vibrated loudly through the still night air. Sounds as of one or more people descending were next heard, and then there came a series of the most terrific knockings at the door.

The Whittingen family stared at one another aghast. Something in those knockings—something they could not explain—struck terror in their souls and made their blood run cold.

They waited in breathless anxiety for the door to be opened; but no servant went to open it. The knocks were repeated, if anything louder than before. The well-oiled door swung back on its hinges, making no sound except for the noise it made when it slammed against the wall before crashing shut after those who entered. The tread of heavy footsteps were heard slowly approaching the drawing-room.

Mrs. Whittingen gave a low gasp of horror, Ruth screamed, Harvey buried his face in his hands, Mr. Whittingen rose to his feet, and made desperate efforts to get to the bell, but could not stir. Martha rushed to the drawing-room door and locked it.

They then with one accord began to pray. The steps halted outside the room, the door slowly opened, and the blurred outlines of a group of ghastly-looking figures, supporting a grotesquely shaped object in their midst, appeared on the threshold.

For some seconds they maintained a grim silence. It was abruptly broken by a thud—Ruth had slipped from her chair to the floor in a dead faint. The shadowy forms solemnly veered round and made their way back again to the front door. The latter swung violently open. A rush of icy wind swept like a hurricane across the hall and into the drawing-room, the front door then slammed to with a crash, and the coach drove away.

Every one's attention was now directed to Ruth. At first sal-volatile and cold water produced no effect, but after a time she slowly, very slowly regained consciousness. As soon as she had recovered sufficiently to speak, she expressed an earnest desire that no reference should ever be made in her presence to what had just happened.

"It was for me!" she said in such an emphatic tone as filled her audience with the direst forebodings. "I know it was for me; they all looked in my direction. God help me! I shall die like Mary."

Though greatly perplexed as to what she meant, for no one excepting herself had been able to make out the phenomena with any degree of distinctness, they yielded to her entreaties, and asked her no questions. The servants had neither heard nor seen anything.A fortnight later, Ruth was taken ill with appendicitis. Peritonitis speedily set in, and she died under the operation.

The Whittingens now began to wish they had never come to Donaldgowerie; but, with the astuteness that had been characteristic of the family through countless generations of fair days and foul, they took the greatest precautions never to drop even as much as a hint to the servants or to anyone in the town that the house was haunted.

A year passed without any further catastrophe, and they were beginning to hope their ghastly visitors had left them, when something else occurred. It was Easter-time, and Ernest, his wife, and baby were staying with them. The baby, a boy, was fat and bonny, the very picture of health and happiness.

Mrs. Whittingen and Martha vied with one another in their devotion to him; and either one or other of them was always dancing attendance on him. It so happened that one afternoon, whilst the servants were having their tea, Martha found herself alone in the upper part of the house with her precious nephew. Mr. Whittingen had gone to Edinburgh to consult his lawyer on business, whilst Mrs. Whittingen had taken her son and daughter-in-law for a drive.

The weather was glorious, and Martha, though as little appreciative of the beauties of nature as most commercial-minded young women, could not but admire the colouring of the sky as she looked out of the nursery window. The sun disappeared, but the effect of its rays was still apparent on the western horizon, where the heavens were washed with alternate streaks of gold and red and pink—the colour of each streak excessively brilliant in the centre, but paling towards the edges. Here and there were golden, pink-tipped clouds and crimson islets surrounded with seas of softest blue.

Outside the limits of this sun-kissed pale, the blue of the sky gradually grew darker and darker, until its line was altogether lost in the black shadows of night that, creeping over the lone mountain-tops in the far east, slowly swept forward. Wafted by the gentle breeze came the dull moaning and whispering of the pine trees, the humming of the wind through the telephone wires, and the discordant cawing of the crows. It seemed to Martha, as she sat there and peered out into the garden, that over the whole atmosphere of the place had come a subtle and hostile change—a change in the noises of the trees, the birds, the wind; a change in the flower-scented ether; a change, a most marked and emphatic change, in the shadows.

What is it? What is this change? Whence doe it originate? What does it portend?

A slight noise, a most trivial noise, attracted Martha's attention to the room. She looked round and was quite startled to see how dark it had grown. In the old days, when she had scoffed at ghosts, she would as soon have been in the dark as in the light. The night had no terrors for her. But now—now since those awful occurrences last year, all was different.

She peered about her, her flesh crawling. What was there in that corner opposite, that corner hemmed in on the one side by the cupboard—how she hated cupboards, particularly when they had shiny surfaces on which were reflected all sorts of curious things—and the chest of drawers on the other. It was a shadow, only a shadow, but of what? She searched the room everywhere to find its material counterpart, and at last discovered it in the nurse's shawl which hung over the back of a chair.

Then she laughed, and would have gone on laughing, for she tried to persuade herself that laughter banished ghosts, when suddenly something else caught her eyes. What was it? An object that glittered like two evil eyes. She got up in a state of the most hideous fascination and walked towards it. Then she laughed again—it was a pair of scissors. The nurse's scissors—clean, bright, and sharp.

Why did she pick them up and feel the blades so caressingly with her thumb? Why did she glance from them to the baby? Why? In the name of God, why? Frightful ideas laid hold of her mind. She tried to chase them away but they quickly returned. The scissors, why were they in her fingers? Why could not she put them down? For what were they intended? Cutting! Cutting thread, and tape,—and throats! Throats! She giggled, her hysteria mounting, even to consider the bare notion.

But what was this round her waist—this shadowy arm-like object! She looked fearfully round, and her soul died within her as she encountered the malevolent, gleeful eyes of the sinister piper, pressed closely against her face. Was it she he wanted this time—she, or—or whom—in the name of all that was pitiable?

Desperately, as if all the lives in the universe and the future of her soul were at stake, she struggled to free herself from his grasp—but in vain. Every fiber, every muscle of her body was completely at his will. On and on he pushed her, until foot by foot, inch by inch, she approached the cradle, and all the while his hellish voice was breathing the vilest of inspirations into her brain.

At last she stood by the side of the baby, and bent over it. What a darling! What a dear! What a duck! A sweet, pretty, innocent, prattling duck! How like her mother—how like her handsome brother—how like herself—very, very like herself! How everyone loved it—how everyone worshipped it—how (and here the grey face beside her chuckled) everyone would miss it! How pink its toes—how fat its calves—how chubby its little palms—how bonny its cheeks—and how white, how gloriously, heavenly, snowy white—its throat! And she stretched forth one of her stubby, inartistic fingers and played with its flesh. Then she glanced furtively at the scissors, and smiled.

It was soon done, soon over, and she and the grey-faced piper danced a minuet in the moonbeams. Afterwards, he piped a farewell dirge,—a wild, weird, funereal dirge, and, marching slowly backwards, his dark, gleaming eyes fixed gloatingly on hers, disappeared through the window.

Then the reaction set in, and Martha raved and shrieked till everyone in the house flew to the rescue.

Of course, no one—saving her father and mother—believed her. Ernest, his wife, and the servants attributed her bloody act to jealousy, the law—to madness. She subsequently journeyed from Donaldgowerie to a criminal lunatic asylum, where the recollection of all she had done soon killed her.

Unable to remain there for one moment longer, Mr. Whittingen took his wife away and sold Donaldgowerie. A new house was soon afterwards erected in its stead, but never would they forget the toll taken upon their family by the gray piper and the occupants of that terrible heavy coach.

~Adapted from a tale related by Elliott O'Donnell. Scottish Ghost Stories

The White Lady of Charles Fort

2011-10-04T06:31:00.000-04:00

Built in 1667 near the town of Kinsale, Ireland stands Charles Fort. The outpost was ruled with an iron fist by Colonel Warrender the Lady Wilful's, father. Shortly after joining him at the Fort, she fell in love with Sir Trevor Ashurst, a lieutenant in the Irish militia.

On the eve of the couple's wedding, they strolled along the fort’s battlements taking in the crisp air. Gazing out over the walls, Wilful spied her favorite wildflower growing in the fields below, and expressed a wish to fashion a garland to adorn her hair on the morrow. Wanting to please his future wife, Sir Trevor ordered a nearby sentry to gather the flowers, while he assumed the guard's responsibilities. Sir Trevor dressed in the sentry's uniform jacket and hat, took up the man's musket, and resumed the watch. Wilful, bid her love good sleep and allowed a chaste kiss to her forehead before retiring for the night.

After securing a rope the sentry started his descent down the wall to retrieve the flowers. Not long after, Sir Trevor gave in to his fatigue, sat down and fell into a sound sleep. His chin rested on his chest and the oversized hat obscured his face, though not the soft snores.

Making his nightly spot-checks, Colonel Warrender rounded the corner and discovered the sleeping sentry. He kicked the man's foot but the guard didn't stir. Enraged that a man under his command could be derelict in his sacred duty, he drew his flintlock and shot the man in the chest killing him instantly----the penalty for such a serious offense.

Stripping the body of its hat and rank, the Colonel drew back, aghast. He had shot his future son-in-law! Horrified, he dropped down next to the body, as the echo of the revolver sent soldiers and Wilful running to the battlements. Shocked by the sight of her betrothed's lifeless body, she immediately looked to her father for an explanation. When she noticed the smoking gun dangling from his fingers, the expression on his face confirmed the unimaginable. Incapable of envisioning a life without her beloved, and unable to reconcile his brutal demise at the hands of her father, she threw herself off the parapet to her death. Later that night, a broken man, the Colonel put the flintlock to his temple and killed himself.

To this day, the White Lady haunts the battlements of Charles Fort, weeping for her beloved.

photos courtesy of photobucket

The Ghostly Drummer of Cortachy Castle

2011-09-28T03:35:00.002-04:00

In medieval times a drummer was an important element to feudal Clans. Assigned to the highest turret of the highest tower, he would drum a particular cadence whenever an enemy approached. The drummer was the first line of defense in protecting the castle and its inhabitants.

The Ghostly Drummer of Cortachy Castle

Cortachy Castle is the family seat of the Ogilvy Clan, located north of Kirriemuir, in Angus, Scotland. Well known for their vigorous support of William the Lion they were awarded lands and titles after thwarting an ambush on the King. When Scotland became a unified country the Ogilvy's were the 1st Earls of Angus. Throughout the following centuries the Ogilvy Clan grew more influential increasing their lands and filling their coffers with every advantageous marriage.

However, along with great wealth they acquired fierce enemies who resented their rising power. Repeated attacks brought down their strongholds almost decimating the clan with the exception of Cortachy Castle, which remained intact and impenetrable. Undaunted, the Earl of Ogilvy set about regaining his lofty position. Unfortunately, mortal adversaries were not the only enemies the Ogilvy clan was up against.

When the Earl was summoned to the King's side, the drummer started an ill-fated liaison with the Countess of Airlie, Ogilvy's wife. They were none too discreet and when the Earl returned, he caught the couple abed in the Countess's chamber. Enraged, the Earl had the drummer removed from the chamber and imprisoned in the very turret where he drummed his warnings. While the drummer languished, the Earl thought about the man's punishment. He knew the value of his drummer and didn't want to kill him. With the decision made, he sent for his wife. She would feel the weight of his hand for making a fool of him. When the Countess found out the drummer would not hang for his offense, she told her husband that the drummer had been aiding the Earl's enemies. Furious by the betrayal, the Earl ordered the drummer's death. The drummer proclaimed his innocence to the end, and as he was shoved through the window of the highest turret, he cursed the Countess, the Earl and the Ogilvy clan.

Whether the drummer's curse was realized right away is unclear. However, in the ensuing centuries guests and visitors have claimed to hear the drummer's cadence before the death of an Ogilvy.

Christmas 1844 a guest at the castle was dressing for dinner when she heard the beating of a drum. During the course of the meal, she questioned her host about the drummer's solemn cadence. The Lord, and Lady Airlie, visibly paled at the mention of the drummer and told their guest that the last time the drummer was heard the first Lady Airlie died not long after. The guest laughed it off as superstition, until she heard the eerie echo of the drummer at the same time the next evening. Disturbed, the guest fled the castle immediately. Within months of the woman's visit, Lady Airlie died by her own hand. She left a note for her husband telling him she knew the drum beat for her.

August 1849, an Englishman was visiting Lord Ogilvy, heir to the Earldom of Airlie. After being seated at table, he questioned his host about the drumming he heard as he dressed for dinner curious to know what it meant. His host denied hearing anything and refused to speak anymore on the matter. Later that evening, Lord Ogilvy and the Englishman were in the Lord's library enjoying a dram of whisky when a servant appeared with the news that the 9th Earl of Airlie had become seriously ill and required Lord Ogilvy's presence. That night, as he made his way to his chamber the Englishman heard the drummer again. When he went down to breakfast the next day the 9th Earl of Airlie was dead.

The succeeding Earl died during the Boer War, yet, no one claims to have heard the drummer's warning. Yet, despite successive premature deaths amongst the landed Ogilvy, no one admits to hearing the mysterious beating of the drum. Could it be the curse had run its course? Or, had the Ogilvy's discovered a way to rid themselves of the ghostly drummer? To uncover the answer you must first ask yourself this; do you believe in vengeful ghosts?

photos courtesy of PhotoBucket

The Each Uisge...Beware!

2011-09-21T14:18:00.000-04:00

Do you think of the fae as wise, beautiful creatures? Do you see them as cute and mischievous? Perhaps they are...or perhaps not. Perhaps you should regard them with just a bit of terror!

The most malevolent of the water creatures, the Each Uisage inhabits the sea, sea lochs and fresh water lochs. Although sometimes mistaken for a Kelpie, he most certainly is not. The Kelpie is a creature of running water.

The Each Uisge is a shape shifter and is able to disguise himself in several forms. One might have the misfortune to see him as a fine horse or pony who stands by the water's edge to lure the unwary to climb on his back. Once there, however, the traveller will find himself unable to climb down. No, indeed. He is stuck fast to the black horse's back. Another form he may be seen in is that of a handsome man who will lure beautiful young maidens into the dark murky depths. He can only be recognised for what he is by the water weed tangled in his hair. By the time she realises her terrible danger, it is far too late for the hapless girl. Yes, there is yet one more form in which the each uisage may be seen. He may also appear as a terrible great bird. Few will ever see him in his true form, which is the torso of a strong man, the head and legs of a horse with the teeth of a lion.

The Each Uisge will sometimes appear elaborately bridled and saddled, and often it is with gold. It is said that if a man keeps the each uisge inland, away from the smell of salt water, he will have a strong reliable horse. He can be ridden as a normal horse at that time, but at the first scent of salt water, the rider is then bound fast to the water horse, who runs away with him and plunges himself into the deepest depths of the loch or sea. Once the rider is drowned, the each uisge will tear him apart. The only part of his body that remains, his liver will float to the surface, the last remnant of the water horse's victim.

There is a tale told, of seven children near Aberfeldy, off on a Sunday afternoon's walk, who spied a pretty little pony standing beside the loch's shore. One of the little girls mounted him and then another and another. Soon, six little girls sat upon his back. The little boy was more canny, and noticed that the pony grew longer and longer as each little girl climbed onto the pony's back. He took refuge among the high rough rocks at the end of the loch. Suddenly the pony turned its head and noticed him.

"Come on, little scabbie-haid, come climb on my back," cried the creature.

The little boy shook his head, his eyes full of terror. The creature rushed toward him, the little girls screaming, unable to pull their hands from his back. To and fro, they dodged among the rocks, but the pony could not reach the boy. At length, it tired of trying and plunged into the loch with its prey on its back. Next morning, the livers of the six children were washed up on the loch's shore.

It is possible to kill an each uisge. There is a tale of a smith in Raasay. He had a herd of cattle, and his own family herded it. One night his daughter did not return. In the morning, they found her heart and lungs on the loch's shore that was known to be haunted by the each uisge. The smith was heartbroken and determined to destroy the monster. He set up a forge by the loch and he and his sons forged great iron hooks and heated them red hot in a fire. They roasted a sheep on the fire and the scent of it went out over the dark water. Soon, a steaming mist arose and the water horse, like an ugly shaggy yearling, rose out of the loch. It seized the sheep while the smith and his sons grappled it with the hooks and killed it there. In the morning, there were no bones nor hide to be seen. All that remained was a heap jelly-like substance that looked like nothing so much as star-shine--the remnants of a fallen star.

Ériu? Who’s That?

2011-09-03T12:34:00.006-04:00

Well, to begin with, she was the daughter of Ernmas of the Tuatha dé Denann. So she’s been around for a very, very long time. Along with her sisters, Banba and Fódla, she was part of an important triumvirate of goddesses.

Would you like a story? Of course you would. (Thank you, Lady Gregory!)

The Coming of the Milesians

IT is not known, now, for what length of time the Tuatha de Danaan had the sway over Ireland, and it is likely it was a long time they had it, but they were put from it at last.

It was at Inver Slane, to the north of Leinster, the sons of Gaedhal of the Shining Armour, the Very Gentle, that were called afterwards the Sons of the Gael, made their first attempt to land in Ireland to avenge Ith, one of their race that had come there one time and had met with his death.

It is under the leadership of the sons of Miled they were, and it was from the south they came, and their Druids had told them there was no country for them to settle in till they would come to that island in the west. "And if you do not get possession of it yourselves," they said, "your children will get possession of it."

But when the Tuatha de Danaan saw the ships coming, they flocked to the shore, and by their enchantments they cast such a cloud over the whole island that the sons of Miled were confused, and all they could see was some large thing that had the appearance of a pig.

And when they were hindered from landing there by enchantments, they went sailing along the coast till at last they were able to make a landing at Inver Sceine in the west of Munster.

From that they marched in good order as far as Slieve Mis. And there they were met by a queen of the Tuatha de Danaan and a train of beautiful women attending on her, and her Druids and wise men following her. Amergin, the poet of the Milesians and one of the sons of Miled, spoke to her then, and asked her name, and she said it was Banba, wife of MacCuill, Son of the Hazel.

They went on then till they came to Slieve Eibhline, and there another queen of the Tuatha de Danaan met them, and her women and her Druids after her, and they asked her name, and she said it was Fodlha, wife of MacCecht, Son of the Plough.

They went on then till they came to the hill of Uisnech, and there they saw another woman coming towards them. And there was wonder on them while they were looking at her, for in the one moment she would be a wide-eyed most beautiful queen, and in another she would be a sharp-beaked, grey-white crow. She came on to where Eremon, one of the sons of Miled, was, and sat down before him, and he asked her who was she, and she said: "I am Ériu, wife of MacGreine, Son of the Sun."

And the names of those three queens were often given to Ireland in the after time.

The Sons of the Gael went on after that to Teamhair, where the three sons of Cermait (meaning Honey-Mouth), son of the Dagda, that had the kingship between them at that time held their court. And these three were quarrelling with one another about the division of the treasures their father had left, and the quarrel was so hot it seemed likely it would come to a battle in the end.

And the Sons of the Gael wondered to see them quarrelling about such things, and they having so fruitful an island, where the air was so wholesome, and the sun not too strong, or the cold too bitter, and where there was such a plenty of honey and acorns, and of milk, and of fish, and of corn, and room enough for them all.

Great grandeur they were living in, and their Druids about them, at the palace of Teamhair. And Amergin went to them, and it is what he said, that they must give up the kingship there and then, or they must leave it to the chance of a battle. And he said he asked this in revenge for the death of Ith, of the race of the Gael, that had come to their court before that time, and that had been killed by treachery.

When the sons of Cermait Honey-Mouth heard Amergin saying such fierce words, there was wonder on them, and it is what they said, that they were not willing to fight at that time, for their army was not ready. "But let you make an offer to us," they said, "for we see well you have good judgment and knowledge. But if you make an offer that is not fair," they said, "we will destroy you with our enchantments.

At that, Amergin bade the men that were with him to go back to Inver Sceine, and to hurry again into their ships with the rest of the Sons of the Gael, and to go out the length of nine waves from the shore. And then he made his offer to the Tuatha de Danaan, that if they could hinder his men from landing on their island, he and all his ships would go back again to their own country, and would never make any attempt to come again; but that if the Sons of the Gael could land on the coast in spite of them, then the Tuatha de Danaan should give up the kingship and be under their sway.

The Tuatha de Danaan were well pleased with that offer, for they thought that by the powers of their enchantments over the winds and the sea, and by their arts, they would be well able to keep them from ever setting foot in the country again.

So the Sons of the Gael did as Amergin bade them and they went back into their ship and drew up their anchors and moved out to the length of nine waves from the shore. And as soon as the Men of Dea saw they had left the land, they took to their enchantments and spells, and they raised a great wind that scattered the ships of the Gael, and drove them from one another.

But Amergin knew it was not a natural storm was in it, and Arranan, son of Miled, knew that as well, and he went up in the mast of his ship to look about him. But a great blast of wind came against him, and he fell back into the ship and died on the moment. And there was great confusion on the Gael, for the ships were tossed to and fro, and had like to be lost.

And the ship that Donn, son of Miled, was in command of was parted from the others by the dint of the storm, and was broken in pieces, and he himself and all with him were drowned, four-and-twenty men and women in all. And Ir, son of Miled, came to his death in the same way, and his body was cast on the shore, and it was buried in a small island that is now called Sceilg Michill. A brave man Ir was, leading the Sons of the Gael to the front of every battle, and their help and their shelter in battle, and his enemies were in dread of his name.

And Heremon, another of the sons of Miled, with his share of the ships, was driven to the left of the island, and it is hardly he got safe to land. And the place where he landed was called Inver Colpa, because Colpa of the Sword, another of the sons of Miled, was drowned there, and he trying to get to land. Five of the sons of Miled in all were destroyed by the storm and the winds the Men of Dea had raised by their enchantments, and there were but three of them left, Heber, and Heremon, and Amergin.

And one of them, Donn, before he was swept into the sea, called out: "It is treachery our knowledgeable men are doing on us, not to put down this wind."

"There is no treachery," said Amergin, his brother. And he rose up then before them, and whatever enchantment he did on the winds and the sea, he said these words along with it:

"That they that are tossing in the great wide food-giving sea may reach now to the land.

"That they may find a place upon its plains, its mountains, and its valleys; in its forests that are full of nuts and of all fruits; on its rivers and its streams, on its lakes and its great waters.

That we may have our gatherings and our races in this land; that there may be a king of our own in Teamhair; that it may be the possession of our many kings.

"That the sons of Miled may be seen in this land, that their ships and their boats may find a place there.

"This land that is now under darkness, it is for it we are asking; let our chief men, let their learned wives, ask that we may come to the noble woman, great Eriu."

After he had said this, the wind went down and the sea was quiet again on the moment.

And those that were left of the sons of Miled and of the Sons of the Gael landed then at Inver Sceine.

And Amergin was the first to put his foot on land, and when he stood on the shore of Ireland, it is what he said:

"I am the wind on the sea;
I am the wave of the sea;
I am the bull of seven battles;
I am the eagle on the rock
I am a flash from the sun;
I am the most beautiful of plants;
I am a strong wild boar;
I am a salmon in the water;
I am a lake in the plain;
I am the word of knowledge;
I am the head of the spear in battle;
I am the god that puts fire in the head;
Who spreads light in the gathering on the hills?
Who can tell the ages of the moon?
Who can tell the place where the sun rests?"

Source: Lady Gregory - Gods and Fighting Men, first published 1904.

Re-published by Colin Smythe Ltd. 1970.

The Legend of Sawney Bean

2011-08-29T02:23:00.000-04:00

One of the most gruesome Scottish legends of the 15th century is that of Sawney Bean, the patriarch of an incestuous, cannibalistic family, who lived in a hidden sea cave on the Galloway coast. To this day, there are some who insist the legend is rooted in real events.

The Legend of Sawney Bean

Born in the late 14th century in the village of East Lothian (less than 10 miles from Edinburgh), Sawney Bean had a reputation as a lay-about and liar. Unwilling to work for his living, he ran away from home with a woman as cruelly inclined as he. Having no means to support themselves they established a home in a hidden sea cave on the Galloway coast and began robbing and murdering travelers, locals, and sea-goers, surviving on their victim's cured and salted flesh.

While they committed their heinous crimes, Sawney's family grew to an incestuous mob of 46 sons, daughters, grandsons and granddaughters. And, though their reign of horror didn't go unobserved the Beans' became bolder in their butchery pitching inedible body parts into the sea where they were carried to the shore of other coastal communities.

Unable to ignore the large number of missing people, as well as the remains washing up on various beaches the community beadles and constables executed innocent people for Sawney's crimes. Unfortunately, this meant many local innkeepers were hanged since they were usually the last people to see the victims. This occurrence forced countless innkeepers to flee their villages in search of less hazardous employment. Soon, people shunned certain towns and these areas became uninhabited.

After almost 25 years villagers had given up hope the real murder would be brought to justice, until, one evening a man and his wife on horseback returning from a local fair were ambushed by the Bean family. The husband fought furiously and managed to throw off Sawney along with a few of his sons. Sadly, the man's wife lost her balance and fell from the horse and was instantly butchered by the females of the Bean clan, who then ripped out the woman's entrails and feasted on her blood. Horror-struck, the husband fought harder, but the odds of his survival seemed slim. Luckily, 40 or so revelers from the same fair happened across the scene. Outnumbered, the Bean family abandoned the slaughter and retreated to their cave-hideout. With nothing left of his wife except a few shreds the grieving husband vowed retribution and enlisted the fair goers to follow him to Glasgow to inform the magistrates, who, in turn, petitioned the King, James IV. Enthralled with the tale, King James took charge of the case. Fortified with bloodhounds and 400 seasoned soldiers the hunt for the cannibals began.

As they scoured the Galloway coast the bloodhounds led the King and his men to a cloistered beach and before long ferreted out the well-concealed cave. As they neared the covered entrance the heavy stench of fetid flesh hung in the air. Cautious, the soldiers entered the cave and discovered an atrocious scene; human bodies hanging from the ceiling, brine-soaked limbs in barrels lining the walls and baubles, jewels and money stolen from the victims scattered about on the damp cavern floor. Taken by surprise, Sawney and his family made no attempt to escape and were rounded up, clamped in leg and wrist-irons and transported to Edinburgh, where they were imprisoned until their death.

Faeries and Other Magical Folk

2011-08-19T10:51:00.000-04:00

Calling all Celtic readers and writers! Have you ever thought about where the faerie folk and elves originated? Our friend, Sharron Gunn, is conducting another of her compelling workshops and you should certainly not miss this one.

Walt Disney would have you believe that fairies are sweet little creatures with wings and wands, helpful entities like Tinkerbell and the Tooth Fairy. Walt was wrong. In Celtic lands people believe it's not wise to go about your business in a manner which offends them--they are very touchy. Dead scary in fact.
Some say the idea of fairies was just too useful to be abandoned. Some say they are still around because they are the old gods, the gods of the ancient Celts. They can do what they want. But what changes they have undergone; Lugh, the sky god good at doing many things, became the Luprachan (leprechaun), the little fairy good at only one thing -- making shoes. And guarding a pot of gold.

Lectures:

What is a fairy?
Dinnsenchus (Hill Traditions) & The Otherworld
Folk & Creatures of the House, Water & Forest

Sharron's Bio:

Sharron Gunn lives in British Columbia and teaches Irish and Scottish history at the University of Victoria part-time. Of Scottish, French and Irish origin, she was born on the east coast of Canada--some knowledge of the Gaelic and French languages and cultures was inevitable.

While living over eight years in Europe, she studied the languages and history of Great Britain and France. She has a diplôme from the Université de Nancy, France, a B.A. in French and a Masters degree (2nd first degree) in Scottish History and Celtic Studies from the University of Glasgow. She is hard at work on a paranormal set in World War II.
Are you interested in joining us? I hope you will. Here is the information you'll need to sign up for this fascinating workshop:

Click HERE for Registration Form
FMI: HHRW Campus Coordinator: classes@heartsthroughhistory.com

Faeries and Other Magic Folk:
Instructor: Sharron Gunn w/a Sheila Currie
Dates: September 7, 2011--October 5, 2011

Format: Course is conducted via Yahoo Groups email with lessons and Q&A

For additional information, contact the Campus Coordinator.

Click http://www.heartsthroughhistory.com/faeries.html to register for this class.

Registration Deadline: September 6, 2011
Fee: $10/HHRW members, $20/others
Click HERE for Registration Form
FMI: HHRW Campus Coordinator: classes@heartsthroughhistory.com

Lake of the Smith's Rock

2011-08-10T07:46:00.000-04:00

A Smithy living on the Isle of Skye heard it told that in a nearby volcanic rock formation an army of slumbering warriors were interred for eternity. If anyone dared to enter the rock, blow the wooden crier (whistle) three times, the Fians would rise up and wreak havoc on the villages.

The man known for his lack of faith didn't believe the legend, and devised a plan to discredit the old tale. He fashioned gloves and boots that would keep his fingers and feet from burning as he climbed the demon rock. After a day and a night, he reached the Figalians's hallowed resting place and with clues taken from the local lore located the keyhole. He retrieved a bar of soap from his pocket and pressed it to the hole, then went back down the mountain and forged a steel key.

By this time, the villagers realized the Smithy's intent to release the ancient warriors on the town. They pleaded for him to see reason, but the man was determined to prove the village elders wrong. That afternoon he set out for the stone prison. It took him little time to reach his destination, and he hesitated for the briefest moment wondering if the legend could be true. He tamped down his doubt, fit the key into the keyhole and opened a door that had been sealed for generations.

What his eyes beheld amazed him. Men of a size he'd never thought possible, lay asleep on the floor of the massive great chamber, one bigger than the next. Near the biggest warrior lay a large hollow baton made of wood--the Smithy knew it was the whistle. However, it was so large he didn't think he could lift it, much less pass enough air through it.

No longer in doubt the warriors were real, he wondered if the rest of the legend was true. Irresolution kept him immobile for some time, until he decided he had come too far not to go through with the rest of his plan. He picked up the wooden crier discovering it was lighter than it looked, raised it to his mouth and blew with all his might. The sound was so loud it echoed deep in the chamber causing bits of rock to fall. He soon realized pebbles were the least of his problems, as the enormous men shook off their enchantment, turned in unison and gained their feet. Their arms were as big as tree trunks, their fingers as thick as pitchfork handles, and their faces too terrible to look upon. The Smithy prayed to God for deliverance.

Then, the biggest warrior began to chant, "Worse have you left us, than as you found us." The rest of the warrior's men chanted too, and soon the cacophony were so great it rattled the mountain.

Horrified by what he had done, the Smithy threw down the whistle with such force it broke in half. Not wasting any time, he lunged for the door. He dared not look behind him and managed to shut the door seconds before the Fians smashed against it. He ripped the key out of the keyhole, and threw it in a lake not far from the rock, which to this day is called, the Lake of the Smith's Rock.

Lughnasadh

2011-08-01T17:47:00.000-04:00

Lughnasadh, pronounced loo-na-suh, is the fourth Celtic fire festival, which celebrates the reaping of grains, the ripening of field corn, and the fruit harvests. In ancient times, Lughnasadh ended the bread famines that resulted from depleted grain stores over the long winter period and is widely celebrated on the eve of August 1st.

The festival, was named for the Celtic God, Lugh Lamfhada (Lugh of the Long Arm) and believed to have originated as a tribute for his foster mother, Tailtiu who was the last of the Fir Bolg Queens, and Goddess of the Land. She died as a result of exhaustion from her efforts clearing Ireland's central plain for cultivation, now known as County Meath. Tailtiu sacrificed herself to increase the land's fertility and yearly yield. As she lay close to death, she asked Lugh to hold funeral games in her honor.

After her death her burial site became the location of the great assembly during Lughnasadh. Those early assemblies celebrated the first fruits of the land and the talents of human society. They also featured foot races, horse races, games and other athletic competition, as well as art festivals and political forums.

These days, the festival of Lughnasadh continues to celebrate the first harvest with games of strength, agricultural fairs and dancing!

Celtic Myths and Legends

2011-07-21T16:15:00.000-04:00

A topic on my writers' group currently has to do with this endlessly fascinating topic. Are there differences between Celtic myths and legends and those of England? My friend and Celtic mentor, Sharron Gunn, says yes. She has graciously permitted me to share her discussion here and I hope you will find it interesting...
~Donna

Dear Celtic Writers,

There were women who used to go around Gaelic communities in Canada, and make a living telling all sorts of stories, short and long. There must have been women in Scotland who did the same. I've only heard about women making a living this way, but perhaps men did as well. This type of story was only told at night which is what makes me think they are originally myths, the stories of gods and goddesses.

As I understand it, the storytellers had no homes; they stayed in the taigh-chèilidh in every village, the house where people frequently gathered to entertain each other. The favourite stories usually concerned Fionn or Cù Chulainn, but another well-known group of stories was about Conal Gulban, a legendary king.

My favourite story is about Deidre nam Bròn (Deidre of the Sorrows). The story came to me this way, but there are variations. Deidre was supposed to marry King Conachair (Conchobar), but she met and fell in love with Naoise. She escaped from Ireland and went to Scotland with her lover and his two brothers. The king summoned Cathbad his druid and told him to put them fo crossaibh is fo geasaibh (under crosses and spells). So the druid complied and made the plain the fugitives were crossing into a forest, but the three brothers took out their swords and hacked their way through. Then the druid made the plain into a sea, but Naoise put Deidre on his shoulders and, hand-in-hand with his brothers, they crossed the sea. Then the druid made the plain into an ice-covered mountain, and the brothers slipped to their deaths.

The druid brought the king to Deidre who survived. She refused to marry him and lay down beside her lover and died of a broken heart. So Conachair buried them all and went home to Ireland.

Out of the graves of Naoise and Deirdre grew a hazel tree and a white rose bush. When Conachair heard about it, he had the druid build a wall between the graves. But the hazel and the rose grew over it and entwined together. This time Conachair made the druid bring Deirdre back to Ireland, but this time the rose and the hazel grew so high that they entwined together under the cover of the sky. The hazel nuts and the roses became the stars that you see at night.

A version of this story was collected in the 19th century and published in Scotland. The book is about 150 pages, and would have taken a teller several nights to finish it.

Here's another difference between Gaelic and English folklore.

A storyteller, born in the same province as me, had a story about a Scot (Gaelic-speaking) who was paid to stay in a house in a town settled by English. An Englishman who inherited the house wanted to sell, but couldn't because the house was said to be haunted. People of the town would not even enter the place.

So the Scotsman made a fire and stayed overnight, nothing happened and the Englishman was able to sell. The Scot, a Highlander didn't believe that ghosts, the spirits of the dead, could enter the house of the living. A hearth and building a fire banishes them and keeps them off. Abandoned houses and castles are fair game, it seems for ghosts. There are similar beliefs among Irish Gaels.

~Sharron

A Short Hiatus~

2011-07-02T16:38:00.000-04:00

Hello All!

Donna and I are on hiatus for the month of July. Although we are taking a break from posting legends, we may put up a few notices or announcements we think might be of interest to writers.

Thank you for stopping by, and we'll see you back here in August!

Warmest Regards,

Lisa & Donna

Let's Hear it for the Boys!

2011-06-14T15:48:00.000-04:00

Scots, the lot of 'em~

Talk Show Host Craig Ferguson

Rugby Player Sean Lamont

David Gandy; The 3rd most successful male model in the world according to Forbes Magazine.

Actor Brian Cox

Singer Mark McLachlan

Actor Hans Matheson

The Irish Dullahan

2011-06-08T17:24:00.000-04:00

Heed my words. If ever you venture into the Irish countryside on a mist-shrouded night, please take care and avoid the Dullahan.

Although many have tried, there is no way to bar the road against the headless Dullahan. The most intricate locks and heavily fortified gates open of their own accord when the Dullahan approaches. If you happen to be on the wrong side of that lock, or gate, avert your eyes, look away, and do not stare. Those who dare to watch will find themselves marked for death; drenched with a washbasin of warm human blood. Or perhaps, if the Dullahan is kind that day, it will blind the observer with the lash of its whip fashioned from a human spine. And if the Dullahan halts its horse, pray it does not call out your name, unless in that instance you wish to greet death.

Yet, there are a few who have witnessed the Dullahan about its dark tasks and lived to tell the tale. That, which they say is...disturbing. The Irish Dullahan carries its own head in the crook of its arm. The flesh is taught over the skull in some places---the rest is sagged like a half full bag of fresh entrails. The mouth stretches across the face in a hideous grin, and the eyes bulge, as they dart about in search of its next victim.

From this reading, you might conclude nothing will bring down the Dullahan. However, it may comfort you to know that it is terrified of gold—even the smallest amount will drive it away. Still, it is best to avoid a confrontation if you can—not many shall survive an encounter with the Dullahan.

pictures courtesy of photobucket

Thus Speaks a Small Man...

2011-05-29T14:13:00.000-04:00

"...a terrible disaster occurred in Britain. Two cities were sacked, eighty thousand of the Romans and of their allies perished, and the island was lost to Rome. Moreover, all this ruin was brought upon the Romans by a woman, a fact which in itself caused them the greatest shame....But the person who was chiefly instrumental in rousing the natives and persuading them to fight the Romans, the person who was thought worthy to be their leader and who directed the conduct of the entire war, was Buduica, a Briton woman of the royal family and possessed of greater intelligence than often belongs to women....In stature she was very tall, in appearance most terrifying, in the glance of her eye most fierce, and her voice was harsh; a great mass of the tawniest hair fell to her hips; around her neck was a large golden necklace; and she wore a tunic of divers colours over which a thick mantle was fastened with a brooch. This was her invariable attire."

-Dio Cassius Roman History (LXII.1-2)

~More about Boudicca the Queen~

This is the only physical description we have of her. Since Dio lived over a hundred years after Boudicca, how could he have known this? Possibly he relied upon sources that no longer exist. Possibly, he may have been simply relating commonly held ideas of what Celtic women looked like. Author Natalie Kohout, in her article published online in 10/02/2005, at http://www.militaryhistoryonline.com/conquestbritain/articles/boudicca.aspx suggests, “In other words, there is no way to verify or dismiss any or all of this description.”

Celtic women, protected by centuries of culture and law, knew a nearly unprecedented level of freedom and rights in the ancient world. In Celtic society, women held positions of prestige and power. Many took prominent roles in political, religious, and artistic life. Women could own land and could choose their spouses, initiate divorce and rule their people. Did Boudicca really exist or are the stories of her nothing more than legend?

Romans, masters of the known world by the time Boudicca became queen, would have seen no reason to recognise her as a client queen of the Iceni. Why? For the simple reason that she was a woman. In fact, under Roman law, it would have been illegal for a woman to succeed as ruler. For a better-known example of this, one has only to look at what happened to Cleopatra!

The Iceni were a Celtic tribe located in an area of southern Britain known as East Anglia. Geographically they were isolated; to the north and east the boundary was the sea and the remainder was covered in dense forest, making invasion from foreigners nearly impossible.

Let’s review what little is known. Written histories of Boudicca and of early Britain in general, are found in only two classical manuscripts, which may have been derived from the same original source. The historian, Tacitus, wrote his history only fifty years after the events of 60 CE, and it has been said that his father-in-law, Agricola, was able to give an eyewitness account of the rebellion. Dio Cassius also gives his account of the events.

Sometime between 43 and 45 CE, Boudicca was married to Prasutagus, King of the Iceni. Let’s take a brief look at Prasutagus. It has been suggested that Boudicca was not of Iceni origin since outside marriages were quite common among the ruling class. Whether or not this is true is unknown. In The Agricola, The Annals of Imperial Rome and Dio's history, only The Annals makes mention of Boudicca's husband, King Prasutagus. After a "life of long and renowned prosperity" Prasutagus (presumably through a will) had made the emperor Nero co-heir to his kingdom along with the king's two daughters. According to Tacitus, he had done so in the hope of preserving his kingdom and household from attack. Did he really exist as ruler of the Iceni? The proof appears to have been found on coins found in Suffolk, England. On these coins the phrase "subri prasto" and "esico fecit" are found. It is believed that this translates to "Under King Prasutagus Esico made it". These coins lend credence to his existence.

Her name, in the Brythonic language, meant victor. Tacitus’s accounts are nearly devoid of any personal information about Boudicca or her family. Neither historical source provided her age although, there have been guesses. Boudicca's two daughters are another portion of the story that stands shrouded in mystery. Along with their ages, their names and their subsequent demises are not known. They do not exist outside of one reference in Tacitus’s, The Annals. Dio Cassius writes nothing of them.

Tacitus’s account tells us that kinsmen of the royal house were enslaved. Boudicca was flogged and then forced to witness the public rape and torture of her two daughters. The current guess is that these children were believed to have been about 12 years old at the time of the rebellion.

Although, under Roman law, Boudicca had no claim to queenship after her husband's death, her people would have regarded her right to rule as a natural right according to their customs and laws. Neighboring tribes would have been willing to support any anti-Roman uprising. The Iceni and their neighbors had suffered under Roman taxation for years. They were also driven off their own land and subjected to lives as prisoners and slaves. Tacitus wrote of their complaints: “the governor tyrannized their persons; the procurator, their possessions. Their gangs of centurions or slaves, as the case may be, mingle violence and insult. Nothing is, any longer, safe from their greed and lust. In war it is the braver who takes the spoil; as things stand with us, it is mostly cowards and shirkers that rob our homes, kidnap our children and conscript our men."

Thus was the stage set for the subsequent disaster that befell the Roman invaders of which Celtic Queens has already written. Did it really happen? The archeological evidence supporting Tacitus' assertion is clear. Camulodunum (now known as Colchester) was the first city to fall prey to Boudicca's army. The director of the archeological dig, Philip Crummy, concluded that the buildings which would have existed were made of hardened clay and timber and were not easily flammable. The dig, however, revealed that every house had been "carefully leveled, one by one". Crummy described the attack on Camulodunum as "murderous, determined, intensive and deliberate".

Londinium was next to fall prey to Boudicca’s fury, according to Tacitus. Archeological excavations in what is now London, confirm that the city did undergo a violent destruction around the time of Boudicca's revolt. Other archeological finds include desecrated graves which are thought to have been the work of Boudicca's army, since the time frame for the graves coincides with the revolt.

Afterward, Verulamium (what is now St. Albans) met the same fate as the two other towns. It was inhabited, not by Romans but by Britons friendly to the Roman invaders.

The written record, accompanied by archeological evidence, paint a very fuzzy portrait of what could only be called an angry widow whose own body and those of her children had been victimized by the Romans. How many widows, throughout history, could have met the same fate at the brutal hands of invaders? This particular widow, however, was a Celtic Queen and her anger was the stuff of which legends are born.

This post was written at the specific request of a reader who asked for more information about Boudicca's daughters. The information contained here will not please her, since there really is no further information known of them other than what is contained herein. There are only legends, including suggested names and supposed ages, of these girls of whom history has been more than a little unkind.

Combats that Never End

2011-05-11T08:54:00.000-04:00

Did you ever wonder where an author’s stories originate? Sometimes, they are woven from the stuff of our dreams, conceived on the precipice of sleep. Sometimes, a legend or old faery tale piques our imaginations and we wonder what more may be said of it. Sometimes the character fairly jumps off the page at us, takes us by our collars and demands that we tell his tale—in a new way. That’s precisely what gave life to author Nicole North’s hero, Duncan. That is Nicole’s name for the black faery from an old Scottish tale. In “Combats that Never End”, as it is re-told by Donald Alexander Mackenzie**, the black faery lived in the night. The day was inhabited by his brother, the white faery. Nicole’s character was the result of imagining what if. What if the black faery wanted to share the day with his brother and what might it take to achieve that goal? Was he bad, this half-Fae? Could there be more to his tale? Could the white faery be only good? How good could he be if he constantly tried to kill his brother? Does the battle truly never end? Such is the stuff of Nicole’s newest book, Laird of Darkness. Please believe me when I tell you that Nicole is the storyteller we always hope to find, the one who not only brings a tale to life, but breathes fire into it! The tale is reprinted here exactly as it appears in MacKenzie’s book. Please enjoy…

…Combats that Never End

There are two mountains that overlook the Spey valley, one to the east and one to the west, and a fairy king dwells on each of them. They are both sons of Beira. One fairy king is white, and has great fame as an archer; he has a silver bow and arrows of gold, and once a day he shoots an arrow across the strath. The other fairy king is black as the raven, and on his left breast there is a red spot. He has no weapon, but is yet terrible in battle, because he can make himself invisible at will. When he does so, nothing remains in sight except the red spot. He has great strength, and when he goes against his enemies he seizes them unawares and throws them to the ground. No matter how well they are armed, his enemies tremble when the invisible fairy comes against them. All they see is a red spot moving about in the air.

Now, the white fairy has a fair bride whose name is Face-of-Light. It is a great joy to her to wander among the mountains where herds of deer crop the green herbage, and through the strath where cornfields rustle in soft winds and fragrant flowers bloom fair to see. The black fairy has no bride, and is jealous of the white fairy because his days are filled with joy by the beauty of Face-of-Light. These two fairies have ever been enemies. The black fairy keeps out of sight of the famous archer, fearing his arrows of gold.

One summer evening when the twilight shadows were lengthening and deepening across the strath, Face of Light tripped merrily over the grassy banks, gathering wild flowers. Silence had fallen on the world; no bird sang and no wind whispered, the lochs were asleep, and the shrunken river made scarcely a sound louder than the sigh of a sleeping babe; it was no longer bright when Face-of-Light turned away from it.

The black fairy looked out from his mountain home. He knew that the white fairy had lain down to rest, and he watched Face-of-Light gathering wild flowers. Nearer and nearer she came to his dwelling, and he crept into a deep forest which conceals the entrance to his mountain, and waited to seize her. Face-of-Light, never dreaming of her peril, tripped towards the edge of the forest; and, seeing many flowers growing beneath the trees, went in to pluck them. She made the forest bright with her beauty, and the flowers grew fairer as she drew near them.

Suddenly a great black hand was thrust out from a thick clump of bushes. The hand seized her, and she shrieked in terror and struggled to escape. The white fairy heard her cries, which pierced the air like the keen long whistle of the curlew, leapt up, and looked forth from his mountain top. In a moment he knew what had happened. Face-of-Light had been seized by his enemy, the black fairy, who was dragging her to a dark dungeon in the middle of his mountain. The white fairy was unable to go to her rescue for two reasons. Like his dark enemy, he could not pass the utmost limits of his mountain house, and having already shot a golden arrow that day, he could not shoot another until a new day had dawned.

Night came on, and the black fairy climbed to the top of his mountain, where he danced with joy because he had taken captive the bride of his enemy. The white fairy was stricken with sorrow, and when he heard the cries of Face-of-Light coming from the dungeon, he fell down in a swoon.

All night long Face-of-Light sobbed and wept, while the black fairy danced on the mountain top and sang songs of triumph. He danced so fast that he raised a wind which swept down the strath and shook the trees from sleep, so that they moaned and sighed all night long. The cries of Face-of-Light were heard by human beings, and those who were awakened said one to another: "Listen to the hag of night. How terrible are her cries!"

Not until the dawn began to break did the white fairy recover from his swoon. Just when the first shaft of grey light pierced the eastern sky, he opened his eyes. Then he remembered his sorrow and wept softly. His tears fell as dew on the flowers and the grass.

Weeping, he climbed his mountain, and then wandered round about the crest of it. His heart was heavy for the loss of Face-of-Light, and when he listened he heard her moaning in her dark prison. The black fairy had ceased to dance. He stood upright on the highest point of his mountain house, and shouted to his enemy: "Ha! Face-of-Light is my prisoner." Then suddenly he was silent. He saw the white fairy stringing his silver bow and then drawing from his shining quiver a bright golden arrow.

"Ha!" cried the black fairy, "would you dare shoot at me?"

"Set free Face-of-Light, or I shall shoot," the white fairy made answer. His face was white as snow and hard as ice.

The black fairy laughed, and willed himself to become invisible, and then, just as the white fairy raised his bow to take aim, his enemy vanished from sight. No part of him could be seen but the great red spot on his left breast, which seemed to float in the air.

For a moment the white fairy, gazing eastward, looked with wonder at the red spot which grew brighter and brighter. His bow was bent, and his golden arrow was held ready for flight.

The sound of defiant laughter came down the wind as the black fairy, now invisible, danced with joy on his mountain top.

To and fro swayed the red spot, and the white fairy thought he would shoot at it. His aim was true and his arm was strong. Straight from the bow flew the bright golden arrow. It darted through the air with lightning speed and struck the red spot, which, be it known, was the heart of the black fairy. A shriek rang out across the strath. It was the death shriek of the black fairy, who fell down on the bare rock and died. His life-blood streamed forth, and the whole eastern sky was covered with it. In the midst of the redness gleamed the bright golden arrow of the white fairy.

No sooner was the black fairy slain than Face-of-Light was set free. The doors of her dungeon flew open, and she came forth in all her beauty. When she did so, the mountains and the strath were made bright, the river sparkled in the light, and the lochs flashed like burnished silver. All the land was made glad when Face-of-Light was set free from her dark prison. The slumbering flowers opened their eyes to gaze upon her, and the birds broke forth in merry song, while the white fairy smiled and danced with joy.

The black fairy lay dead and invisible on his mountain top until evening came on. Then Beira came to visit him. When she found that her son had been slain, she took from her wallet a pot of healing balsam and rubbed it on his wound. Then she rubbed the balsam on his eyes and on his lips. When she did this, he came to life, and began once again to plot evil against the white fairy and his beautiful bride.

This story, which used to be told in Strathspey, is the story of the struggle between darkness and light. The black fairy is night, which begins to, make itself invisible at dawn, and the red spot on his left breast is the red light of morning. The golden arrow of the white fairy is the golden shaft of sunlight that darts across the eastern heaven as the sun rises in morning splendour. Face-of-Light is the spirit of the River Spey, which is bright in daytime and lost to sight in the darkness of night. When the story-teller says that Face-of-Light leaves the river, he means that its brightness leaves it when the shadows of night are falling.

**Mackenzie, Donald Alexander. Wonder Tales from Scottish Myth and Legend. New York: Frederick A Stokes, 1917.

Please visit Nicole at:

http://fierceromance.blogspot.com/ and

http://www.nicolenorth.com

Laird of Darkness

Available at: Carina Press, Barnes & Noble and Amazon!

Happy Mother's Day!

2011-05-08T03:05:00.000-04:00

~WHY GOD MADE MOMS~

Answers given by 2nd grade school children to the following questions:

Why did God make moms?
1. She's the only one who knows where the scotch tape is.

2. Mostly to clean the house.
3. To help us out of there when we were getting born.

How did God make your mom?

1. He used dirt, just like for the rest of us.

2. Magic plus super powers and a lot of stirring.

3. God made my mom just the same like he made me. He just used bigger parts.

What ingredients is your mom made from?

1. God makes mothers out of clouds and angel hair and everything nice in the world and one dab of mean.

2. They had to get their start from men's bones. Then they mostly use string, I think.

Why did God give you, your mom?

1. We're related.

2. God knew she likes me a lot more than other people's mom like me.

What kind of a little girl was your mom?

1. My mom has always been my mom and none of that other stuff.

2. I don't know because I wasn't there, but my guess would be pretty bossy.

3. They say she used to be nice.

What did your mom need to know about your dad before she agreed to marry him?

1. His last name.

2. She had to know his background. Like is he a crook? Does he get drunk on beer?

3. Does he make at least $800 a year? Did he say NO to drugs and YES to chores?

Why did your mom marry your dad?

1. My dad makes the best spaghetti in the world. And my mom eats a lot

2. She got too old to do anything else with him.

3. My grandma says that mom didn't have her thinking cap on.

Who is the boss in your home?

1. Mom doesn't want to be boss, but she has to because dad's such a goof ball.

2. Mom. You can tell by room inspection. She sees the stuff under the bed.

3. I guess mom is, but only because she has a lot more to do than dad.

What is the difference between moms and dads?

1. Moms work at work and work at home and dads just go to work at work.

2. Moms know how to talk to teachers without scaring them.

3. Dads are taller and stronger, but moms have all the real power 'cause that's who you got to ask if you want to sleep over at your friends.

4. Moms have magic, they make you feel better without medicine..

What does your mom do in her spare time?

1. Mothers don't do spare time.

2. To hear her tell it, she pays bills all day long.

What does it take to make your mom perfect?

1. On the inside she's already perfect. Outside, I think some kind of plastic surgery.

2. Diet. You know, her hair. I'd diet, maybe blue.

If you could change anything about your mom, what would it be?

1. She has this weird thing about me keeping my room clean. I'd get rid of that.

2. I'd make mom smarter. Then she would know it was my sister who did it not me.

3. I would like for her to get rid of those invisible eyes on the back of her head.

~~~

Wake Me Up Wednesday

2011-05-04T07:47:00.000-04:00

Kevin McKidd

and a cup of tea;

a great way to start any day~

A Very Brief History of Clan Campbell~

2011-04-27T16:53:00.000-04:00

The 35th Chief of Clan Campbell, (addressed as)His Grace, the Duke of Argyll, is 43 year old Torquhil Ian Campbell. The 13th Duke of Argyll is the son of the late Sir Ian Campbell, the 12th Duke of Argyll.

His Grace holds 15 titles. The first title of Lord Lieutenant of Argyll and Bute, dates back to the year 1402. The most recent title, Duke of Argyll (UK), was acquired in 1892. In addition to his 15 titles, he also claims 7 hereditary titles, which includes, Member Queen's Body Guard for Scotland, and Keeper of the Great Seal of Scotland.

Clan Motto: Ne Obliviscaris ~Forget Not

Campbell Surname History:

The name Campbell, is derived from the Gaelic 'cam-beul,' which means 'crooked-mouth.' It's been said that the name relates to the actual facial features of an early chieftain.

Clan Tartans:

Campbell of Argyll Weathered Tartan

Campbell of Argyll Ancient Tartan

Campbell Tartan

Innis Chonnel, Loch Fyne, Argyll:

Ruins of this castle, which belonged to Sir Colin Campbell of Loch Awe. The castle is still owned by the Argyll family and remains closed to the public. However, it can be viewed from the shore road along the east side of loch Awe (Obha)

(pictured here)

Clan Castles:

Carrick, Dunoon, Dunstaffnage, and Tarbert

The Septs of Clan Campbell are numerous, and this list may not be complete, but this is what my research has turned up to date. And away we go!

ARTHUR
BANNATYNE

BURNES

BURNESS

BURNETT

BURNS

CADDELL

CADELL

CALDER

CATTELL

CONNOCHIE

CONOCHIE

DENOON

DENUNE

GIBBON

GIBSON

HARRES

HARRIS

HASTINGS

HAWES

HAWS

HAWSON

ISAAC

ISAACS

IVERSON

KELLAR

KELLER

KISSACK

KISSOCK

LORNE
LOUDEN

LOUDON

LOUDOUN

LOWDEN

LOWDON

MACARTAIR

MACARTHUR

MACCARTER

MACCOLM

MACCOLMBE

MACCONACHIE

MACCONCHIE

MACCONNECHY

MACCONOCHIE

MACDERMID

MACDERMOTT

MACDIARMID

MACELLER

MACELVIE

MACEVER

MACGIBBON

MACGLASRICH

MACGUBBIN

MACGURE

MACISAAC

MACIVER

MACIVOR

MACKELLAR

MACKELVIE

MACKERLIE MACKESSACK

MACKESSOCK

MACKISSOCK

MACLAWS

MACLEHOSE

MACNICHOL

MACNOCAIRD

MACONACHIE

MACORAN

MACOWEN

MACPHEDRAN

MACPHUN

MACTAUSE

MACTAVISH

MACTHOMAS

MACURE

MOORE

MUIR

OCHILTREE

ORR

PINKERTON

TAWESON

TAWESSON

THOMAS

THOMASON

THOMPSON

THOMSON

TORRIE

TORRY

URE

Funny & Odd Welsh Laws~

2011-04-25T03:01:00.000-04:00

By law, boys must learn the sport of rugby. (I love a scrum…)

Do not call a Welsh person, 'English.' (Right-O)

A child born in:

Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, must be able to spell their town name by six and pronounce it correctly by age thirty-our. (Good luck people!)

Any male under ten years of age may not view a naked mannequin. (We'll talk when he's eleven.)

It is illegal for a commoner's pet to have relations with animals belonging to the nobility. (No afternoon delight for you, Fido!)

It is against the law to be abducted by aliens. (Keep this is mind before you investigate that strange light hovering over the trees)

Any person discovered cracking a boiled egg at the narrow end could be sentenced to twenty-four hours in the stocks. (If high cholesterol isn't reason enough to limit your egg consumption...)

It is illegal for a lady to consume chocolates while riding a public conveyance.

(That's it, I'm never going to Wales!)

Italian Easter Bread

2011-04-22T03:32:00.000-04:00

The holidays are a time for family and friends, and while this is intended as a site for all subjects Celtic, I am going off script today!
As you may, or may not know, I am able to lay claim to my lovely Welsh-Irish ancestry courtesy of my mom---so why, you might ask, do I consider this to be off script ? Well, it has to do with my Dad, a first generation Italian-American (and boy, is he ever!). Add this factor to the smattering of Italian that happens to lurk throughout my Mom's family tree, and that, my dear readers, makes me more Italian than anything.

Like many families--whatever the culture--we enjoy our food traditions. One family recipe in particular dates back to my great-great-nona, Palmira, who was a cook for the Royal House of Savoy, when she lived in the region of Piedmont, Italy. Many of the recipes handed down to the family were conceived by nona Palmira, and served at the royal table. My own nona taught them to me, and today, I will share one of my absolute favorites with you.
Buon Appetito!

Italian Easter Bread
Pasqua Pane Italiano

first: preheat oven to 350(f) 200(c)

flat baking/cookie sheet

ingredients:

3 cups all-purpose flour (I like King Arthur Flour)
1/4 cup sugar (Baker's sugar)
1 pkg. active dry yeast (Rapid Rise)
1 tsp. Kosher salt
2/3 cup warm whole milk (120-130°F)
1/4 cup unsalted butter, room temp.
7 eggs (I get mine from my local farmer)

1/2 cup mixed candied fruit, finely chopped & soaked in brandy
1/2 tsp. anise seed or extract if you don't like the seeds

2 Tbs unsalted, melted butterolive oil

directions:

Combine 1 cup of the flour, sugar, yeast and salt in a large mixing bowl. Add milk and room temp. butter. Beat for 2 minutes on medium speed.

Add in 2 eggs and another 1/2 cup of flour. Beat 2 minutes on high speed. Stir in fruit, nuts and anise seed; mix well.

Stir in enough remaining flour to form a soft dough (you will not need to use it all if you have a good quality flour).

Turn dough out onto a lightly floured work surface. Knead dough until it is smooth and elastic, about 7-11 minutes. (You could also use the dough hook on your mixer for 5 minutes, then knead by hand for 1-2 minutes)

Place in a warm bowl greased with olive oil. Turn the dough one time so that it is lightly coated in oil.

Cover the bowl with a dampened cloth and let rise for 75 minutes in a draft free, warm place until doubled in size.

The remaining eggs(uncooked and kept in their shell) should be dyed in pastel colors, then dried and lightly sprayed with cooking oil.

Once dough has doubled, punch it down, and then divide in half; roll each section into a 24 inch rope. Loosely twist the 2 ropes together, and place on a greased baking sheet and form into a circle.

Pinch the ends together. Next, take a small knife and make 5 splits on top of the ropes and tuck uncooked eggs into the openings. Cover with a towel and let rise until doubled, another 30 minutes.

Bake for 30-35 minutes or until golden brown.

Slide from pan onto a wire rack. Brush top of bread with melted butter.

~Happy Easter Everyone ~

Bendith Y Mamau; Fact or Fiction~

2011-04-18T04:13:00.000-04:00

It started out as a folktale meant to encourage new mothers to keep their babies close. However, a recent document uncovered by Celtic Queens and confirmed by an official source within the Heddlu De Cymru,(one of the four territorial police forces) reports that the Bendith Y Mamau is currently menacing remote villages in Southern Wales.

Here's what we know:

The name 'Bendith Y Mamau' translates to, 'mothers blessing,' and a common name used for fairy, in Wales. The description from a reliable eyewitness describes the fairy as, "small, ugly and resembling the West County pixies." The eyewitness goes on to say that she saw the small winged creature fly away with her neighbor's newborn baby days earlier. When asked why she didn't immediately report the incident, she gave this explanation;

"Well, at first I thought it was a large predatory bird making off with a rabbit, or something. I didn't put it together until a day later when my neighbor came running from her house screaming her baby was gone."

When territorial police asked the mother of the missing baby, "how she could go a full day without realizing her son had been taken," she said, "A Crimbil," had been substituted for the boy.

Our source told Celtic Queens that a Crimbil, or Changeling, is left by the Bendith Y Mamau and transforms into the stolen baby just long enough for the fairy to leave the scene undetected.

Disturbed by the tale, Celtic Queens went to University of Wales, Swansea and sat down with the Chair of Welsh-Pixie Studies, Professor Berwyn Owen. We asked what the Bendith Y Mamau hoped to gain by stealing human babies. He told us "it is believed they need to improve their culture through the fusion of fairy and human blood." When we pressed further for details of this theory, Professor Owen was either unwilling, or unable to answer our question. However, he did tell us that the gentle moniker, 'mother's blessing' was bestowed as a way to appease the Bendith Y Mamau.

After our encounter with Berwyn Owen, Donna, and I were at a local cafe discussing whether or not we should bring this extraordinary story to light. To our surprise, we were approached by Professor Owen's research assistant, Rhys Williams. The evidence he presented helped us to make our decision.

The photo below is the only one of its kind, and has been authenticated by the Federal Bureau of Photographic Authentication in Quansaico, VA.

We leave it to our readers to decide the truth.