Bardic work "Caught on Tape"
One of the trials of being a "modern" bard is the need for video. This is a logical requestfor many in a digital world. Sadly some of my favorite moments have not been "caught on tape". They, like the smell of the fire they were told beside or the afternoon light in a hall, were fleeting. Once I told the Wife of Bath's tale while a thunderstorm raged outside the hall. My voice battled the din to be heard and wrapped it into my story. Another time I told of Don Quixote and his desire to be a knight as the sun filtered through a stained glass window into a nearly full room.
I maintain that the work of the stage, performances, music and bardic work can be a beautiful piece of well crafted art that sometimes only lasts a moment. Below are some moments that were caught and thoughts that were found in a my sketchbook. They are by no means even close to a complete collection. For my bardic research recitation and work please see my research tab.
Crown Bardic 2021
Three performances from the April 2021 Crown Bardic Tournament can be found at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ddAJTHXGmKk
( sharing settings on the original prevent me placing it here but it is still up on the EK Youtube)
Archimedes Principle can be found at 42:29 on the time bar
Matthew of Paris' 1247 Earthquake in London is at 1:06:44
A retelling of a Tomte tale ( and my finals piece ) 3:00:08
Three performances from the April 2021 Crown Bardic Tournament can be found at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ddAJTHXGmKk
( sharing settings on the original prevent me placing it here but it is still up on the EK Youtube)
Archimedes Principle can be found at 42:29 on the time bar
Matthew of Paris' 1247 Earthquake in London is at 1:06:44
A retelling of a Tomte tale ( and my finals piece ) 3:00:08
Recreation of Reading a Period Recipe
Boasts, Poems, Stories and Scrolls I Have Written
A Boast for the Elevation Roibeard
Knowne World,
I would have you heed the tale of one
Roibeard (ROW-bareD )
mac Neill
mhic Gille Eoin (mick Gill-Owen)
as it has been relayed to me by one of his dearest friends .
You may know the work of his ancestors.
They who charmed the silver from the veins of the very Earth and twisted it into coiled shapes so exquisite that the Mitgarde Serpent itself writhed in envy , kings of old wept and songs still whisper of their skill.
Compared to Roibeard’s work, renowned and skilled, those are but brass tokens at a summer fair.
He spins the lightning into threads of molten beauty and casts about the heavens and nets the jewels of the sky to grant them a mortal moment upon a hand or head.
Beholding such art itself makes one forever a part of something immortal and so exquisite that its memory shall haunt even your most fevered dreams.
However, a force more powerful than this is wielded freely by this man.
His love for his family, friends and those he swears fealty to is fierce, fathomless and deeper than the sea on a starless night.
Woe be unto anyone who shall challenge that which is more dear to him than any jewels or precious ore.
I could tell you tales of how he has mastered the winds and waters as though he were Poseidon's own son,
Enlighten you with his adventures among many lands and people,
Yet even then you would not know all that he is, was and will be.
Behold a true champion, one of the populace come to craft, to teach, to share and to uplift those about him.
Behold one who charts his own course through implacable seas with an eye to the fixed stars,
Behold a soul so ancient and filled with lore, love and passion for art that it pours from his hands in an immortal Hesphestian fashion
Your Majesties, Your Highness, Dearest East
One Roibeard (ROW-bareD or Raw-Bared) mac Neill mhic Gille Eoin (mick Gill-Owen)
Knowne World,
I would have you heed the tale of one
Roibeard (ROW-bareD )
mac Neill
mhic Gille Eoin (mick Gill-Owen)
as it has been relayed to me by one of his dearest friends .
You may know the work of his ancestors.
They who charmed the silver from the veins of the very Earth and twisted it into coiled shapes so exquisite that the Mitgarde Serpent itself writhed in envy , kings of old wept and songs still whisper of their skill.
Compared to Roibeard’s work, renowned and skilled, those are but brass tokens at a summer fair.
He spins the lightning into threads of molten beauty and casts about the heavens and nets the jewels of the sky to grant them a mortal moment upon a hand or head.
Beholding such art itself makes one forever a part of something immortal and so exquisite that its memory shall haunt even your most fevered dreams.
However, a force more powerful than this is wielded freely by this man.
His love for his family, friends and those he swears fealty to is fierce, fathomless and deeper than the sea on a starless night.
Woe be unto anyone who shall challenge that which is more dear to him than any jewels or precious ore.
I could tell you tales of how he has mastered the winds and waters as though he were Poseidon's own son,
Enlighten you with his adventures among many lands and people,
Yet even then you would not know all that he is, was and will be.
Behold a true champion, one of the populace come to craft, to teach, to share and to uplift those about him.
Behold one who charts his own course through implacable seas with an eye to the fixed stars,
Behold a soul so ancient and filled with lore, love and passion for art that it pours from his hands in an immortal Hesphestian fashion
Your Majesties, Your Highness, Dearest East
One Roibeard (ROW-bareD or Raw-Bared) mac Neill mhic Gille Eoin (mick Gill-Owen)
Wordsmithing of the Consort's Bard Scroll
To the Consort’s Bardic Champion,
It is with great praise and joy that these words are sent to you. The importance of a bard of court
is such that it would take a missive much longer to fully declaim its potential to inspire. Thus
know the following truths. A Consort’s Bard has a unique duty to the Kingdom, the Crown and the People of the East. Theirs is the place to craft and release words that soothe, praise or spark the fire of war in the bellies of the warriors. Seek counsel of those whom you serve, fully embrace this moment you are in and use what time you have to uplift, recount the stories of our past and record those of our future.
And so, on this day let all who are here assembled know that ________________________________ is now known as the Consorts Bard of the East Kingdom. An honor they have earned by virtue of bardic prowess on this day __________________ at The War of of the Roses, by the Hand of _______________________
Inspiration 1532 Machevilli’s “The Prince”, Chapter 23 ,“That Flatterers Should Be Avoided.
Wordsmithed by THL Agnes Marie de Calais
To the Consort’s Bardic Champion,
It is with great praise and joy that these words are sent to you. The importance of a bard of court
is such that it would take a missive much longer to fully declaim its potential to inspire. Thus
know the following truths. A Consort’s Bard has a unique duty to the Kingdom, the Crown and the People of the East. Theirs is the place to craft and release words that soothe, praise or spark the fire of war in the bellies of the warriors. Seek counsel of those whom you serve, fully embrace this moment you are in and use what time you have to uplift, recount the stories of our past and record those of our future.
And so, on this day let all who are here assembled know that ________________________________ is now known as the Consorts Bard of the East Kingdom. An honor they have earned by virtue of bardic prowess on this day __________________ at The War of of the Roses, by the Hand of _______________________
Inspiration 1532 Machevilli’s “The Prince”, Chapter 23 ,“That Flatterers Should Be Avoided.
Wordsmithed by THL Agnes Marie de Calais
The Saga of Damhan
Neither father nor mother raised the child,
Like Romulous he found his home,
As always he was a man of deeds and honest words
Finding not one blade but two
He sought many things,
Skill, Prowess, Strength led the way,
More than that he yearned for his people and homeland.
In battles he did strike the blows swift and sure,
Hot breezes swept the plain,
They who had fallen and then rose to fight again as though Valhala they had already attained,
For days the thunder called the armies forth,
In evenings light on one of these days a belt was offered,
A piece of the falling red sun was now around his waist,
All he lacked was lasting inspiration.
A house holds many people,
A winter feast feeds fills more than a belly,
He came to his Lord’s hall disguised as a servant,
The heat and noise of the kitchen were a welcome retreat from calls to dance,
When the bread had been broken and the candles guttered he was beckoned to the table,
A maiden dressed in borrowed garments smiled with weary eyes
A friend bid him speak to her for a time.
First words spoken in the time of snow led to marriage in the golden leaves,
Family was now fully found and founded,
Both held blades until fruit proved to grow upon the tree,
His wife bore a son,
He was so strong of spirit that a mortal form could not hold him,
His life was encased in one mighty breath,
When he left the moon and stars arose to guide him the next campaign.
Sorrow is a heavy cloak,
It hides the brightest sun,
When darkness falls it is time to stay in your home,
Let the beasts and wind howl,
The deafening sound mutes the keening and hides the warrior,
Weakened, the two heal from a wound,
The scars are brilliant and raw even when morning comes again.
Years pass in what feels like only a long afternoon,
Four sons now stand like trees both sapling to mighty Ash
Again the warrior walks to the field,
The largest son makes their blades number four,
A pell at the edge of the woods has felt their blows,
The father has trained his son and set before him a path,
Shoulder to shoulder they began to seek the battle’s song.
Yet as he stands to war,
A wolf gnaws his bowels,
He is gutted,
Mortally open to stain the snow red,
His breathe ripped and stolen,
Thought to attain valhalla he is left,
His wife defies the valkyrie and claims what is hers,
He answers her call and battles anew.
Fitfully, blood at his lips,
Blood on his tunic and trews,
Blood the color of his belt is his world,
He sips poison with a promise,
Rasping breathes as the bitter cup is offered,
Death beckons yet he denies it anew
Slowly, like spring set back by snows life defiantly arises.
Gasping coughs become clear inhalations,
Stumbled steps numb from the draught cease,
They are replaced by bounds and strides with strength,
Numb hands grasp a sword,
And again the pell echoes a hundred times,
A drum beat to hearken all that there is a renewal,
Broken fittings repaired and findings fixed anew.
He stands with the son now a man,
Together they train in the dark times,
Unseen by the host,
Alone at the edge of the forest,
She watched from the window and smiles while tea grows cold,
Wondering at the unlikely magic unfolding,
Proud and weary all at once.
The armies call,
Horns echo battles’ call,
The cannon wakes the hills and valley both from their slumber,
The son in his humility and prowess is seen,
Accepted by steel clad arms,
Battles ahead and future forming,
Such pride for a son no man ever hath,
Yet,
Like a ghost tho alive he stands with the horde,
Seen and unseen all at once,
Behind the man once child,
A shadow or a brother in arms,
It is as unclear as the fog that settles upon the field.
A path undertaken in what stolen time is given.
Speak o war band!
Call him forth to guide and raise,
Finish that which was started,
If grace be offered, give it unto all,
Should the student have no tutor?
A hall may welcome but no mead serve,
Honesty is a better bread to the hungry than a slice of silence.
Quietly one comes to guide the blades,
Still the mind and counsel keep,
The future blooms an unknown flower,
Thread still spun of uncertain fate,
The weary Lady bears the silence,
Fevered dreams show a clouded field.
Summer wraps the dreamer in restless sleep,
And a light shines on the night with no moon.
Wake oh fighter, wake and see the dawn anew.
The lamp thought dimmed has been filled anew,
Oil holds the night at bay and gives him the path again.
Perhaps now a goal too lofty a thought is a shore that can be found.
Will the ship find its harbor and the navigator grant him a path home?
Neither father nor mother raised the child,
Like Romulous he found his home,
As always he was a man of deeds and honest words
Finding not one blade but two
He sought many things,
Skill, Prowess, Strength led the way,
More than that he yearned for his people and homeland.
In battles he did strike the blows swift and sure,
Hot breezes swept the plain,
They who had fallen and then rose to fight again as though Valhala they had already attained,
For days the thunder called the armies forth,
In evenings light on one of these days a belt was offered,
A piece of the falling red sun was now around his waist,
All he lacked was lasting inspiration.
A house holds many people,
A winter feast feeds fills more than a belly,
He came to his Lord’s hall disguised as a servant,
The heat and noise of the kitchen were a welcome retreat from calls to dance,
When the bread had been broken and the candles guttered he was beckoned to the table,
A maiden dressed in borrowed garments smiled with weary eyes
A friend bid him speak to her for a time.
First words spoken in the time of snow led to marriage in the golden leaves,
Family was now fully found and founded,
Both held blades until fruit proved to grow upon the tree,
His wife bore a son,
He was so strong of spirit that a mortal form could not hold him,
His life was encased in one mighty breath,
When he left the moon and stars arose to guide him the next campaign.
Sorrow is a heavy cloak,
It hides the brightest sun,
When darkness falls it is time to stay in your home,
Let the beasts and wind howl,
The deafening sound mutes the keening and hides the warrior,
Weakened, the two heal from a wound,
The scars are brilliant and raw even when morning comes again.
Years pass in what feels like only a long afternoon,
Four sons now stand like trees both sapling to mighty Ash
Again the warrior walks to the field,
The largest son makes their blades number four,
A pell at the edge of the woods has felt their blows,
The father has trained his son and set before him a path,
Shoulder to shoulder they began to seek the battle’s song.
Yet as he stands to war,
A wolf gnaws his bowels,
He is gutted,
Mortally open to stain the snow red,
His breathe ripped and stolen,
Thought to attain valhalla he is left,
His wife defies the valkyrie and claims what is hers,
He answers her call and battles anew.
Fitfully, blood at his lips,
Blood on his tunic and trews,
Blood the color of his belt is his world,
He sips poison with a promise,
Rasping breathes as the bitter cup is offered,
Death beckons yet he denies it anew
Slowly, like spring set back by snows life defiantly arises.
Gasping coughs become clear inhalations,
Stumbled steps numb from the draught cease,
They are replaced by bounds and strides with strength,
Numb hands grasp a sword,
And again the pell echoes a hundred times,
A drum beat to hearken all that there is a renewal,
Broken fittings repaired and findings fixed anew.
He stands with the son now a man,
Together they train in the dark times,
Unseen by the host,
Alone at the edge of the forest,
She watched from the window and smiles while tea grows cold,
Wondering at the unlikely magic unfolding,
Proud and weary all at once.
The armies call,
Horns echo battles’ call,
The cannon wakes the hills and valley both from their slumber,
The son in his humility and prowess is seen,
Accepted by steel clad arms,
Battles ahead and future forming,
Such pride for a son no man ever hath,
Yet,
Like a ghost tho alive he stands with the horde,
Seen and unseen all at once,
Behind the man once child,
A shadow or a brother in arms,
It is as unclear as the fog that settles upon the field.
A path undertaken in what stolen time is given.
Speak o war band!
Call him forth to guide and raise,
Finish that which was started,
If grace be offered, give it unto all,
Should the student have no tutor?
A hall may welcome but no mead serve,
Honesty is a better bread to the hungry than a slice of silence.
Quietly one comes to guide the blades,
Still the mind and counsel keep,
The future blooms an unknown flower,
Thread still spun of uncertain fate,
The weary Lady bears the silence,
Fevered dreams show a clouded field.
Summer wraps the dreamer in restless sleep,
And a light shines on the night with no moon.
Wake oh fighter, wake and see the dawn anew.
The lamp thought dimmed has been filled anew,
Oil holds the night at bay and gives him the path again.
Perhaps now a goal too lofty a thought is a shore that can be found.
Will the ship find its harbor and the navigator grant him a path home?
A Retelling of the Wife of Bath's Tale by Chaucer
I sought to tell this classic tale but to change the knight's actions to a kiss and unwanted affection to make the tale less upsetting or triggering for some and to enable it to be told in audiences of mixed age. The concept of consent is so important and I wanted a version all could feel safe hearing.
Long ago there was a good king who sought for his knights to be noble in both word and deed. He saw them as an extension of himself and their actions reflected upon them. One of his knights was young, bold, a pleasure to behold but oft times lacking in patience and prudence. Knowing he was admired by many a maid he felt he could choose any of them to pursue. He sought out a young lady in waiting to the queen. The girl was young and not accustomed to court but pious and sweet of nature as well as fair of face.
As he woo’d the maiden she rebuffed his advances. Thinking her protestations an invitation he tried to kiss her. A mighty slap was heard in the great hall and soft weeping. All became silent. As the red flower of shame bloomed on the knights face all eyes turned to him.
To behave in such a manner was to lose one’s title, land, place in court and worst of all honour.
In the silence the girl was brought to the queen’s side consulted, comforted and taken to recover in spirit with the other ladies of the chamber. The queen summoned the knight to the front of the hall. Ashamed he walked forth. His pride collapsed and the scorn the elder knights gave him felled him like no blow ever had. The queen had asked the maiden what she thought a fair reward for such unseemly actions and she knew well the mind of the king. Because it was her lady insulted she spoke to the knight. She bade him go on a quest to better know the mind of women. If he could tell her one year and a day hence what it was women truly desired he lands and title and place at court would be safe; if not he would become a beggar.
The knight left the hall and rode away to seek the answer that would save his title. He thought it would be easy. It was not. It seemed to him every woman near and far wanted different things. Maidens wanted young husbands, mothers wanted for sleep and crones wanted for youth to bloom again in their cheeks. Some women wanted pleasure in bed, others land, some power, most money and none wanted more work or a knight asking questions but not helping their situation.
A year and a day passed and he still had no answer. As he rode to the castle prepared to lose all he held dear he spied a hag in the road. Ugly, bent and scarred. He paused to ask her if she knew what women desired above all else. She replied she did but she would only tell him before the queen and that he should grant a wish to her after she told. He agreed and rode with her to end his quest.
When questioned by the queen the hag whispered into his ear that above all women desired dominion over themselves. The right to control their future, bodies and all else that pertained to them. The varied answers made sense to him now. He was also suddenly struck by the gravity of his actions. The Queen pronounced him able to rejoin court and at that moment the hag spoke.
She told the court of the knight’s promise. The one thing she asked was to be his wife. Horrified by his reality but knowing he must be noble he married her that night. That evening the knight avoided the marriage bed as long as he could. The hag asked him if he would prefer her to be a beautiful maiden but untrue and constantly a vexation or be herself, but wise and devoted. Exhausted, tired of questions and seeking to make the right response he asked her how she would live. At that moment a bright light appeared and the hag revealed herself as a beautiful member of the fey. Smiling she invited her husband to bed for he had truly understood what women desire. The next morning they were gone, never to be seen again by mortal eyes.
I sought to tell this classic tale but to change the knight's actions to a kiss and unwanted affection to make the tale less upsetting or triggering for some and to enable it to be told in audiences of mixed age. The concept of consent is so important and I wanted a version all could feel safe hearing.
Long ago there was a good king who sought for his knights to be noble in both word and deed. He saw them as an extension of himself and their actions reflected upon them. One of his knights was young, bold, a pleasure to behold but oft times lacking in patience and prudence. Knowing he was admired by many a maid he felt he could choose any of them to pursue. He sought out a young lady in waiting to the queen. The girl was young and not accustomed to court but pious and sweet of nature as well as fair of face.
As he woo’d the maiden she rebuffed his advances. Thinking her protestations an invitation he tried to kiss her. A mighty slap was heard in the great hall and soft weeping. All became silent. As the red flower of shame bloomed on the knights face all eyes turned to him.
To behave in such a manner was to lose one’s title, land, place in court and worst of all honour.
In the silence the girl was brought to the queen’s side consulted, comforted and taken to recover in spirit with the other ladies of the chamber. The queen summoned the knight to the front of the hall. Ashamed he walked forth. His pride collapsed and the scorn the elder knights gave him felled him like no blow ever had. The queen had asked the maiden what she thought a fair reward for such unseemly actions and she knew well the mind of the king. Because it was her lady insulted she spoke to the knight. She bade him go on a quest to better know the mind of women. If he could tell her one year and a day hence what it was women truly desired he lands and title and place at court would be safe; if not he would become a beggar.
The knight left the hall and rode away to seek the answer that would save his title. He thought it would be easy. It was not. It seemed to him every woman near and far wanted different things. Maidens wanted young husbands, mothers wanted for sleep and crones wanted for youth to bloom again in their cheeks. Some women wanted pleasure in bed, others land, some power, most money and none wanted more work or a knight asking questions but not helping their situation.
A year and a day passed and he still had no answer. As he rode to the castle prepared to lose all he held dear he spied a hag in the road. Ugly, bent and scarred. He paused to ask her if she knew what women desired above all else. She replied she did but she would only tell him before the queen and that he should grant a wish to her after she told. He agreed and rode with her to end his quest.
When questioned by the queen the hag whispered into his ear that above all women desired dominion over themselves. The right to control their future, bodies and all else that pertained to them. The varied answers made sense to him now. He was also suddenly struck by the gravity of his actions. The Queen pronounced him able to rejoin court and at that moment the hag spoke.
She told the court of the knight’s promise. The one thing she asked was to be his wife. Horrified by his reality but knowing he must be noble he married her that night. That evening the knight avoided the marriage bed as long as he could. The hag asked him if he would prefer her to be a beautiful maiden but untrue and constantly a vexation or be herself, but wise and devoted. Exhausted, tired of questions and seeking to make the right response he asked her how she would live. At that moment a bright light appeared and the hag revealed herself as a beautiful member of the fey. Smiling she invited her husband to bed for he had truly understood what women desire. The next morning they were gone, never to be seen again by mortal eyes.
Persephone and the Hemlocks
Persephone was bored and for a daughter of a Goddess that was a feat in itself. Her ladies were content to spend virginal days gathering flowers. She wanted to visit the Hemlocks and Henbane and herbs of a darker growth. Flowers with the power to send one from this world to the next. The things that only bloom at night. Her preferences caused her to wander from her maidens frequently. So often did she roam ahead that they became accustomed to it. And there at the edge of the forest, where the field ended and shadows played she met a man one day. WIth hair as fire and eyes of gold he stood by some mushrooms she had been seeking. They began to converse on them and other things that grew in the shade until she heard her maidens and when she turned to see them and then turned back...he was gone.
The visits continued and one day he asked her to come with him, join him always, ruled beside him as an equal in all things for he loved her mind and wit above all else. Be the wife of Hades.
She wanted to go. Marry. Join her love. But her mother was jealous, possessive and saw her daughter as a child, a possession. So the lovers planned.
The next day saying she smelled a flower in bloom she went ahead of the maidens and with a rumble and heavying of the Earth a Chariot of bone appeared, flames in its wake. Persphone ran to it and her waiting snatched her up and downward they rode as the earth closed behind them.
“She has been taken! Stolen! Abducted,” cried the maidens to Demeter. Distraught and angry Demeter failed to walk the Earth, the matters of mortals and fields of Barley meant naught to her. Her heart had been stolen and so as she grew cold and desolate so did the earth.
Zeus himself heard the wailing of all and saw the earth brown and wither and went to Demeter to beg her do her duty. She would not with out Persephone.
Zeus went to Hades and saw Persephone happily at her husband’s side. Seeing Zeus and knowing why he had come she snatched a pomegranate from a bowl beside her and scooped the seeds into her mouth. Red juice staining her robe and mouth.
“I have eaten the food of the underworld and now you must let me stay, “she cried.
“Only a few seeds and for that you can not claim a meal,” replied Zeus.
“But she HAS eaten them,” roared Hades.
“A handful of seeds you ate and so a handful of months each year you shall reside below, the mortals can manage a few months of your mother’s woe. The rest of the time you shall be with her.”
Dressed in black she returned to the maidens and her mother. Encouraging the things that grow only to send mortals to her kingdom or bring release, knowing despite her mother she would be home below soon enough.
Persephone was bored and for a daughter of a Goddess that was a feat in itself. Her ladies were content to spend virginal days gathering flowers. She wanted to visit the Hemlocks and Henbane and herbs of a darker growth. Flowers with the power to send one from this world to the next. The things that only bloom at night. Her preferences caused her to wander from her maidens frequently. So often did she roam ahead that they became accustomed to it. And there at the edge of the forest, where the field ended and shadows played she met a man one day. WIth hair as fire and eyes of gold he stood by some mushrooms she had been seeking. They began to converse on them and other things that grew in the shade until she heard her maidens and when she turned to see them and then turned back...he was gone.
The visits continued and one day he asked her to come with him, join him always, ruled beside him as an equal in all things for he loved her mind and wit above all else. Be the wife of Hades.
She wanted to go. Marry. Join her love. But her mother was jealous, possessive and saw her daughter as a child, a possession. So the lovers planned.
The next day saying she smelled a flower in bloom she went ahead of the maidens and with a rumble and heavying of the Earth a Chariot of bone appeared, flames in its wake. Persphone ran to it and her waiting snatched her up and downward they rode as the earth closed behind them.
“She has been taken! Stolen! Abducted,” cried the maidens to Demeter. Distraught and angry Demeter failed to walk the Earth, the matters of mortals and fields of Barley meant naught to her. Her heart had been stolen and so as she grew cold and desolate so did the earth.
Zeus himself heard the wailing of all and saw the earth brown and wither and went to Demeter to beg her do her duty. She would not with out Persephone.
Zeus went to Hades and saw Persephone happily at her husband’s side. Seeing Zeus and knowing why he had come she snatched a pomegranate from a bowl beside her and scooped the seeds into her mouth. Red juice staining her robe and mouth.
“I have eaten the food of the underworld and now you must let me stay, “she cried.
“Only a few seeds and for that you can not claim a meal,” replied Zeus.
“But she HAS eaten them,” roared Hades.
“A handful of seeds you ate and so a handful of months each year you shall reside below, the mortals can manage a few months of your mother’s woe. The rest of the time you shall be with her.”
Dressed in black she returned to the maidens and her mother. Encouraging the things that grow only to send mortals to her kingdom or bring release, knowing despite her mother she would be home below soon enough.
Retelling of the Introduction to "Don Quixote"
There lived in a village, the name of which I do not care to remember. A gentleman of not quite fifty, lean of body and sparse of pate. He had a fine suit of homespun he wore daily and one of velvet on Sunday and occasions. He had a housekeeper of not yet forty, a niece of barely twenty and a stable boy to help him with errands and such.
He ate more pottage than all else and on some days a pigeon, mostly a salad and once a week a joint of beef. He had, at one time a sizable estate but had taken to neglecting it, even selling off whole acres of tillage for books. He sought the stories of his ancestors, of knights errant, squires faithful and maidens fair. Of Giants and sorcerers evil. He loved such phrases as “ The reason for my unreason regarding the reason for your beauty leaves me with no reason,” He sought so hard to understand these verses that in truth Plato himself could not have understood them.
He surrounded himself with so many books that he scarcely slept and read so much that his mind began to wither and turn to dust that seemed to dribble out his ear. So furtive in his pursuit of the past that one day he awoke and decided that he himself was indeed a knight. And sought to outfit himself as such.
First he needed a noble steed and so went down to his stable. There he had an on old hack, a beast barely a horse, with a swayed back, sores on its legs from an abundance of flies, pointed withers and a knotted grey mane. Yet this is not what our self proclaimed knight saw and it was the only horse he had. He saw a noble steed with a milk white coat that shone in the sun and muscles that rippled as it strode nobly toward him. So to this nag now graceful charge he gave a noble and fine name of Rocinante.
While in the stables admiring his mount he discovered bits or armour belonging to a long dead ancestor. Seizing the pieces he drug them to his hall and took the lance from off the wall and began to polish the pieces more rust than naught. A helm missing a goodly portion of its chin was obtained from an attic and with paper and plaster he sought to fix it. He swung a long dead blade he had retrieved from the wall at his repairs and they crumpled. Feeling that his helm would protect him without such repairs he set it aside.
And now, with his swayback nag, dressed in rusted remains of armour , with a dull sword and crooked lance our dear gentleman rode forth. In his mind he saw only the world he wished, the world that had passed long before his birth. To him he rode a valiant charger, in shining armour with blessed blade and lance. He was off to find the fair maiden for whose honor he would fight, a squire to faithfully accompany him and wrongs to be made right. Swaging and clinging to his mount our knight errant rode noble of heart but no sound of mind into a world he had only dreamt.
Oh wait tales of giants and sorcerers and deeds done I have to tell.. I you but give me the chance.
There lived in a village, the name of which I do not care to remember. A gentleman of not quite fifty, lean of body and sparse of pate. He had a fine suit of homespun he wore daily and one of velvet on Sunday and occasions. He had a housekeeper of not yet forty, a niece of barely twenty and a stable boy to help him with errands and such.
He ate more pottage than all else and on some days a pigeon, mostly a salad and once a week a joint of beef. He had, at one time a sizable estate but had taken to neglecting it, even selling off whole acres of tillage for books. He sought the stories of his ancestors, of knights errant, squires faithful and maidens fair. Of Giants and sorcerers evil. He loved such phrases as “ The reason for my unreason regarding the reason for your beauty leaves me with no reason,” He sought so hard to understand these verses that in truth Plato himself could not have understood them.
He surrounded himself with so many books that he scarcely slept and read so much that his mind began to wither and turn to dust that seemed to dribble out his ear. So furtive in his pursuit of the past that one day he awoke and decided that he himself was indeed a knight. And sought to outfit himself as such.
First he needed a noble steed and so went down to his stable. There he had an on old hack, a beast barely a horse, with a swayed back, sores on its legs from an abundance of flies, pointed withers and a knotted grey mane. Yet this is not what our self proclaimed knight saw and it was the only horse he had. He saw a noble steed with a milk white coat that shone in the sun and muscles that rippled as it strode nobly toward him. So to this nag now graceful charge he gave a noble and fine name of Rocinante.
While in the stables admiring his mount he discovered bits or armour belonging to a long dead ancestor. Seizing the pieces he drug them to his hall and took the lance from off the wall and began to polish the pieces more rust than naught. A helm missing a goodly portion of its chin was obtained from an attic and with paper and plaster he sought to fix it. He swung a long dead blade he had retrieved from the wall at his repairs and they crumpled. Feeling that his helm would protect him without such repairs he set it aside.
And now, with his swayback nag, dressed in rusted remains of armour , with a dull sword and crooked lance our dear gentleman rode forth. In his mind he saw only the world he wished, the world that had passed long before his birth. To him he rode a valiant charger, in shining armour with blessed blade and lance. He was off to find the fair maiden for whose honor he would fight, a squire to faithfully accompany him and wrongs to be made right. Swaging and clinging to his mount our knight errant rode noble of heart but no sound of mind into a world he had only dreamt.
Oh wait tales of giants and sorcerers and deeds done I have to tell.. I you but give me the chance.
Janet and the Wood
One of Three in the Tam Lin Cycle I have Written Based on Classic Scottish Myth
One aspect of the Tam Lin tale that is often quickly passed is that when Janet returns to the wood she is pregnant and seeking herbs. We know Tam Lin has lived with Mab for time untold...but what of the young woman who stands against her. Why would she dare fight the Queen of the Fey? There must be more to the tale. Often we only hear the action, not the before.
The backsmith was courting her sister. The miller’s son gave her cousin an excuse to bring grain to grind. And for a second summer no one came for Janet.
“Why? What is wrong with me ? Am I damned to spin in my father’s home and have no hearth of my own? Will I never glow from a walk in the wood with the man I burn for?” She found fault in her rebellious brown curls, her eyes of no one color and the blemish on her cheek. The very curve of her ample breast made her feel disgust as she reached for even the smallest morsel.
One evening her sister came to supper with cheeks a glow and her hair astray babbling on about her wedding a few weeks hence.
“Janet” she said” if you keep such a dark look on your face not even Tam Lin in the Wood will want you.”
Janet left the table. Tears in her eyes as her father scolded her sister.
“I am off to the well father,” she called. No one seemed to hear. She began to walk.
As the sun set and the pale light of evening began to show above Carhart wood.
Tam Lin of the Elves indeed…
A story to caution girls just LIKE HER SISTER to save themselves before the priest blessed a coming union.
Anger, rejection , unworthiness burned in Janet. Her chest heavy and cheeks a flame…
Her head began to pound and she knew she needed a sweet flower tea to calm it. The herbs were gone and she would need more if she were to sleep at all.
She kept walking through the pasture.
Past the sheep and to the edge of Carhart Wood.
The earth and green and life scented the air and then, what was that? Ohhh roses.
She smelled roses. SO many uses for a rose.
Deeper she walked
Plants in hand
Forgetting her complaint
Her hair slipped its knot as she plucked a rose in full bloom, its thorn drew a dark drop of blood. And a pale hand brushed the fallen curl from her face.
Eleven hands caressed more that night and it seemed to Janet a dream. The sort of dream that one does not talk of. And in that stolen night Janet gained power over herself and how she saw each curve and marveled at all that had been hidden.
In the morning she awoke in her narrow maiden’s cot a maiden no more, a cut rose in her hand, wondering if it had indeed been a dream.
But all dreams can turn dark in a moment. For Janet it took the weeks till her sisters marriage.
Her breasts ached, her stomach rebelled and the weariness the overtook her was greater than any she had ever known. And then, fair Janet knew that yes, there was one who had wanted her and all she could be.
But he was no mortal man and to wed him in a church with the haste her sister enjoyed with her lover was not to be.
A child would make a constant companion.
What is no other would have her? Certainly not now.
What would this seedling bloom to be? Would Mab reclaim it anyhow and leave her alone and ruined?
No.
It could not be.
That evening weeping but resolute she walked in Carhart Wood but sought no roses.
She sought other flowers, small and violet. Mosses too.
She sought to brew a bitter drink to swallow, one that drew more than a drop of blood.
Heart heavy she heard a voice and with it she pondered her third choice.
And as we know Tam Lin she claimed and fought for and along with him she made another choice all her own. For no matter how the evening had played Janet alone controlled her future.
One of Three in the Tam Lin Cycle I have Written Based on Classic Scottish Myth
One aspect of the Tam Lin tale that is often quickly passed is that when Janet returns to the wood she is pregnant and seeking herbs. We know Tam Lin has lived with Mab for time untold...but what of the young woman who stands against her. Why would she dare fight the Queen of the Fey? There must be more to the tale. Often we only hear the action, not the before.
The backsmith was courting her sister. The miller’s son gave her cousin an excuse to bring grain to grind. And for a second summer no one came for Janet.
“Why? What is wrong with me ? Am I damned to spin in my father’s home and have no hearth of my own? Will I never glow from a walk in the wood with the man I burn for?” She found fault in her rebellious brown curls, her eyes of no one color and the blemish on her cheek. The very curve of her ample breast made her feel disgust as she reached for even the smallest morsel.
One evening her sister came to supper with cheeks a glow and her hair astray babbling on about her wedding a few weeks hence.
“Janet” she said” if you keep such a dark look on your face not even Tam Lin in the Wood will want you.”
Janet left the table. Tears in her eyes as her father scolded her sister.
“I am off to the well father,” she called. No one seemed to hear. She began to walk.
As the sun set and the pale light of evening began to show above Carhart wood.
Tam Lin of the Elves indeed…
A story to caution girls just LIKE HER SISTER to save themselves before the priest blessed a coming union.
Anger, rejection , unworthiness burned in Janet. Her chest heavy and cheeks a flame…
Her head began to pound and she knew she needed a sweet flower tea to calm it. The herbs were gone and she would need more if she were to sleep at all.
She kept walking through the pasture.
Past the sheep and to the edge of Carhart Wood.
The earth and green and life scented the air and then, what was that? Ohhh roses.
She smelled roses. SO many uses for a rose.
Deeper she walked
Plants in hand
Forgetting her complaint
Her hair slipped its knot as she plucked a rose in full bloom, its thorn drew a dark drop of blood. And a pale hand brushed the fallen curl from her face.
Eleven hands caressed more that night and it seemed to Janet a dream. The sort of dream that one does not talk of. And in that stolen night Janet gained power over herself and how she saw each curve and marveled at all that had been hidden.
In the morning she awoke in her narrow maiden’s cot a maiden no more, a cut rose in her hand, wondering if it had indeed been a dream.
But all dreams can turn dark in a moment. For Janet it took the weeks till her sisters marriage.
Her breasts ached, her stomach rebelled and the weariness the overtook her was greater than any she had ever known. And then, fair Janet knew that yes, there was one who had wanted her and all she could be.
But he was no mortal man and to wed him in a church with the haste her sister enjoyed with her lover was not to be.
A child would make a constant companion.
What is no other would have her? Certainly not now.
What would this seedling bloom to be? Would Mab reclaim it anyhow and leave her alone and ruined?
No.
It could not be.
That evening weeping but resolute she walked in Carhart Wood but sought no roses.
She sought other flowers, small and violet. Mosses too.
She sought to brew a bitter drink to swallow, one that drew more than a drop of blood.
Heart heavy she heard a voice and with it she pondered her third choice.
And as we know Tam Lin she claimed and fought for and along with him she made another choice all her own. For no matter how the evening had played Janet alone controlled her future.
Agnes in Pennsic-Land
I fell asleep in my hammock reading a book last July or maybe August and had the most peculiar dream.
I awoke in a white tent to the sound of a cannon, when I stumbled out I was surrounded by vikings and they offered me a cool blue drink as some marched off to a battlefield. Bewildered I smoothed my dress; only to find it had become a blue bodice and skirt. My hair was now braided with ribbons.
A woman with a basket and a broad hat beckoned me to come down the hill with her, and overwhelmed with curiosity I followed. Down a dusty road we walked. Sun shining on steel burnished bright as a battle was fought but no blood was shed. Suddenly a brass band marched past us. It was as if every market day and tourney in all time had been blended together.
Colors of fabrics I had not known fluttered by, merchants in pavilions selling everything from delicate dragons made of glass to Steel Helms. It was too much and not enough all at once. From the other side of the road I smelled meat roasting and endless delicious options from many lands.
And oh the people! They came from every land and nation, from times recorded and not, with all manner of dress from loincloths to starched gowns with ribbons ruffs. On and on the sights and sounds enrobed me till dark fell and magical lanterns glittering with warmth in the drum and laughter laden air called me back up the hill towards a castle. A real castle.
So what was it? It was warm and cold, dry and wet, quiet and loud, empty and full all at once.
When I awoke I sought this place and found only a bare green hill, now knowing something I could never explain.
Would that I should wake to this dream again.
I fell asleep in my hammock reading a book last July or maybe August and had the most peculiar dream.
I awoke in a white tent to the sound of a cannon, when I stumbled out I was surrounded by vikings and they offered me a cool blue drink as some marched off to a battlefield. Bewildered I smoothed my dress; only to find it had become a blue bodice and skirt. My hair was now braided with ribbons.
A woman with a basket and a broad hat beckoned me to come down the hill with her, and overwhelmed with curiosity I followed. Down a dusty road we walked. Sun shining on steel burnished bright as a battle was fought but no blood was shed. Suddenly a brass band marched past us. It was as if every market day and tourney in all time had been blended together.
Colors of fabrics I had not known fluttered by, merchants in pavilions selling everything from delicate dragons made of glass to Steel Helms. It was too much and not enough all at once. From the other side of the road I smelled meat roasting and endless delicious options from many lands.
And oh the people! They came from every land and nation, from times recorded and not, with all manner of dress from loincloths to starched gowns with ribbons ruffs. On and on the sights and sounds enrobed me till dark fell and magical lanterns glittering with warmth in the drum and laughter laden air called me back up the hill towards a castle. A real castle.
So what was it? It was warm and cold, dry and wet, quiet and loud, empty and full all at once.
When I awoke I sought this place and found only a bare green hill, now knowing something I could never explain.
Would that I should wake to this dream again.
Sheva’s Rose
In the late Spring
When the bird do nest
A lady begged a lord to answer her request,
My Lord a Rose I do beg thee,
To bloom all the summer day,
And growing ever more in my garden to stay.
In the market he did search,
To find his love’s request,
But it was a sickly branch that she thought was best.
The branch shall die
And you shall see no bloom
Are you sure this is the rose to which we should give room?
Why yes m’lord this is the rose,
Small that it may now be,
With love and nurture constant glorious it shall be.
The days did pass and care she gave,
Tending both day and night,
And lo the bud with spring forth with the summer’s light.
The buds grew and bloomed,
She walked by them in the day,
And smelled soon the rose that loves wages did now pay.
In the late Spring
When the bird do nest
A lady begged a lord to answer her request,
My Lord a Rose I do beg thee,
To bloom all the summer day,
And growing ever more in my garden to stay.
In the market he did search,
To find his love’s request,
But it was a sickly branch that she thought was best.
The branch shall die
And you shall see no bloom
Are you sure this is the rose to which we should give room?
Why yes m’lord this is the rose,
Small that it may now be,
With love and nurture constant glorious it shall be.
The days did pass and care she gave,
Tending both day and night,
And lo the bud with spring forth with the summer’s light.
The buds grew and bloomed,
She walked by them in the day,
And smelled soon the rose that loves wages did now pay.