Reflections of the Past A Story of the Guardians of the Well By Vanda Inman These words are written in honour of the guardians of the past and those who journey in the name of love,
Light and all that is good.
The answers to all the questions we might ever ask can be found in the ground beneath our feet.
Part One Earth Pagan Prophecies Keridwen's Cauldron The Sacred Pool and the Lines of Power The Rowan Tree The rowan,
Mountain ash,
Quickbeam,
Has the ability,
Perhaps more than any other tree,
To help us increase our psychic abilities and connections.
It has a beneficial energy,
Which will aid us to receive visions and insights,
Which in turn will enhance our communication with the spirit realms.
Its message is not to give up,
But to hold on strong to what you believe in and to the power of the life force.
Keridwen's Cauldron Once upon a time there was a goddess,
Keridwen,
Who lived in Wales in the mountains of Snowdonia,
Beside Lake Bala.
Keridwen had two children,
A girl who was beautiful as the day was long and a boy who was exceedingly ugly.
Keridwen decided if her son could not manage to enjoy good looks,
Then he should receive the gift of wisdom.
Druid alchemists,
Known as the Feralt,
Lived in the hills of Wales and Keridwen heard that from them she could obtain a recipe to brew an elixir which would give wisdom to whomever tasted the first three drops,
But the remainder would become poison.
As the mixture had to brew for a year and a day,
Keridwen chose an old blind man and a young boy named Gwion to tend the fire beneath the cauldron.
For long days and nights they tended the fire for Keridwen while her cauldron bubbled and at last the time came when the elixir was ready to be used.
Unfortunately,
As Gwion was tending the fire for almost the last time,
Three drops splashed out of the cauldron onto his hand.
They were hot,
He raised his hand to his mouth and the three drops of inspiration from Keridwen's cauldron were tasted by Gwion himself rather than Keridwen's son.
Fearful of Keridwen's wrath,
Gwion attempted to escape,
But Keridwen chased after him.
Gwion turned himself into a hare,
The swiftest animal he could think of,
But Keridwen changed herself into a greyhound and pursued him across the land,
Uphill and down dale.
As she was about to catch him,
He turned himself into a fish,
But Keridwen turned herself into an otter and continued the hunt through the icy waters of the river and the stillness of the lakes.
As she almost caught him once more,
Gwion turned himself into a bird and soared into the sky.
Keridwen at once became a hawk and continued to pursue him as high as they both could fly.
Just before he was caught,
Gwion made one final transformation into a grain of wheat,
So small he hoped he would never be found.
But Keridwen turned herself into a hen,
Ate all of the wheat,
And Gwion too.
Nine months later,
The goddess Keridwen gave birth to a baby boy.
She knew this was no ordinary boy,
But Gwion reborn,
Just as the sun is reborn every year from the Earth Mother.
Unable to find it in her heart to kill the child,
She placed the baby in a leather bag and set him adrift upon the ocean.
The bag finally came to rest in the mouth of the river Conwy and was found by a man called Elfin,
Who became the baby's foster father.
Elfin named the child Taisin,
Which means Radiant Brow,
And in time Taisin became the finest bard in all the land.
There was fire in his head.
Fire stronger than he had ever experienced before,
Burning into his consciousness like the blazing sun at its height in the fullness of summer,
Calling him to another form,
Another time and place.
Stronger even than the last time the moon had been full and the world shining around him.
Now in the brightness of the night sky it was back,
Blazing more fiercely than ever and calling,
Ever calling.
Fire in his head and all around a bitter cold which reached into the depths of his soul.
The snows had started with the dark of the moon,
The clouds gathering until the first swirling flakes fell,
Turning the landscape to white.
Dearman spent the entire morning watching the green and brown of the moorland steadily change colour.
As the snow began he made his way to the peak of the Tor,
His body wrapped in animal furs to keep out the cold and wet,
Standing still and silent,
A solitary figure,
Clutching his staff of twisted rowan with white frozen knuckles.
The flakes had settled upon his face and eyelashes,
Turning him into a man of snow,
Before he finally made his way back to his shelter and the meagre warmth of his fire.
And still the snow fell.
It finally stopped,
Leaving the world in silence.
Then the clouds cleared to reveal a landscape of brilliant twinkling light and bright blue sky,
The air so sharp and cold it took his breath away,
And when the moon rose,
Full and silver in the blackness of the night sky,
He felt the call.
Taking his drum of wood and stretched animal skin,
He stood outside his shelter.
It was impossible to walk to the Tor.
The snow lay as thick and deep as the tops of the stone circle on the moor.
No human would be abroad and the villagers would stay safe inside,
Safe and warm with their stock,
Until it was time to venture out again.
Facing the rising moon,
Dearman began a slow drumbeat,
Slow as the rhythm of his heart,
Resonating into the shining,
Snow-bound night.
As he increased the pace,
An owl called in the distance,
To be answered almost immediately by another,
Their eerie cries echoing all around.
On the periphery of his vision,
The swift,
Shadowy shape of a hare bounded across the landscape,
And still he maintained his drumbeat,
Slowly building to its crescendo,
As he felt his heartbeat quicken with the rhythm and the fire begin to burn in his head.
Faster and faster,
Until the sound of the drum filled his mind and echoed over the moor around him,
The black and white of the surrounding landscape merging with the beat of the drum,
The call of the owl,
The racing of the hare,
The fire in his head burning brightly.
Dearman drummed to the heartbeat of the universe,
Breathing as one to the same rhythm.
The drumbeat ceased abruptly.
There was a moment of complete silence as the world waited,
Before a rush of wings and a blur of whiteness moved into a dark night sky.
Then he was gone.
