Posted on Mar 7th, 2008
by 
Dryad
I have begun telling a story. It happens to me every once in a while. This one began with some strange happenings on Valentines Day at PLAY-POD . . . then the
PLAY-POD Virtual Road Trip got mixed up in it . . . There was a Banshee wailing on the beach in Oregon and the next thing I knew . . . a story was biting me on the ankles. So I guess I'll tell it (so it will stop nipping me.) It's quite long - what a surprise! It is, however, quite good, if I do say so myself and it seems that I just did. If you want to read the background it is at the
PLAY-POD RUG or you can just jump in here . . . ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I come and stand before my chair. I lift my arms before me with the palms turned up. My eyes are fixed upon eternity, just above the horizon line. The fingers of both hands come back to rest lightly against my forehead and I gift an ancient blessing. This blessings connects me with all who have come before me and all who will come after. My hands move from my forehead, open toward the audience, over my heart, clasped together, opening and lifting, as if I were releasing to the wind a magnificent, ever beautiful bird, as, of course, I am.
This story is my own
I created it anew
Wind, fire, water, stone
I offer it to you
Hold it silent in your heart
Send it soaring like a bird
Of THE LORE ‘twill be a part
Blessings on the Word
~ A Gift From the Sea ~
by
Edwina Peterson Cross
Simile. I don’t care if it is a dangling participle, I had heard that Banshee scream and I, for one, was just a little bit … unsettled. Looking around that the faces of my friends I could see that everybody was a little unsettled. A lot of very strange things had happened since we arrived. It is so intensely beautiful here, but it is good to remember that out beyond the breakers is: The Sea, and The Sea is a Mystery. There are many places on earth where it is difficult to remember this. The beaches are crowded with houses and motels, there are so many people that you can’t see the sand. In those places, perhaps the magic has gone completely, pulled far back into the sea where it never reaches out to touch the land at all. The water keeps lapping the shore, but it is empty of essence. Here in Oregon things are different. Because of farsighted legislators many years ago, the beaches of Oregon are all still wild. There are places to stay very close and several towns almost on the water, but the beaches themselfs are still wild. It may be because of this that the magic still touches the shore here. The wildness of The Sea comes onto the land and kisses the sand with drift wood and foam; it wreathes the rocks and the nearby pine trees with a mystic mist - an unbridled enchantment. They call this ocean ‘Pacific,’ but one only has to watch the massive breakers pounding the rocks until the water is sliced into miles of churning lace to know that the mighty ocean was, perhaps, misnamed.
The other thing about the Oregon coast that helps to keep it so pristine is … it is COLD! This is not a place you usually see bathing beauties in bikini’s laying on the sand. You will see people with their pants rolled up, wearing vests, hoodie’s or parka’s walking, talking and gazing; or sitting still, staring west, filled to their eye lids with the sorcery of the sea.
We were walking when we met an old woman gathering rocks in one of the tide pools. She was taking only the grey speckled rocks, round and smooth and and only the rocks that were exactly the size of her palm. We asked her what she was going to do with the rocks, why she chose only the one kind. She looked up at use, squinting into the sun and smiled. That was all.
We asked her about the Banshee. The Princess who arrived on the Unicorn had said it was a simile. That was all well and good, but we had heard it scream and one who has heard even a simile of the Banshee … well. It isn’t lightly forgotten. The old woman stood up and wiped her hands on her smock. “Well, now,” she said and then for a long time she said nothing else. “Well, now,” she finally continued. “I believe that someone here has somehow gotten themselves INSIDE a story. Or, perhaps one of you is supposed to BE in a story and instead you are here?” She looked around at all of us. When her dark eyes passed over me I felt … nervous. Maybe it was me!? Would I know if I had come out of a story? Would anyone?
“ Someone here is from a story” she went on, “and they have brought you all along with them! Don’t be getting upset now. It isn’t a terrible thing … to be inside a story … and I think I know someone who can help you. You all wait here and if I am lucky and the wind is right, I will send you help.” And with that, she threw her bag of rocks over her shoulder like they were a sack of marshmallows and hiked up over the sand dunes, disappearing into the salt grass.
So we waited. The sun was swallowed by a flowing sunset, the likes of which are only seen on the Pacific shores. It got cold quickly after that and began to get dark. We wondered if the old woman had been unlucky, if the wind had been wrong or if she had just forgotten us. Finally we built a fire from driftwood and huddled around it, grateful for the heat and the light. And we waited some more. We began to talk of who the old woman might be sending to aid us. Maybe a hero, someone suggested. Someone who could fight the powers of the dark that seemed to be pressing around us so closely. Maybe a Magician, a Magician might be more useful against the darkness of things unknown. The wind howled in the pine trees up on the cliffs. No, said someone else, a Magician won’t do. This is too ‘real.’ A Wizard. There were sounds of agreement all around the fire. A Wizard was surely what we needed. A Wizard would know what to do. We began to hear noises all around us, noises that didn’t sound like the wind. Soon we were all very uneasy and nervous, jumping every time someone stepped on a twig or the fire cracked.
We didn’t hear anything when the figure arrived. It was just suddenly there, standing right there looking into the fire. This completely unnerved us and several people screamed.
“I don’t know,” said a voice with a flat, wry tone, “doesn’t sound like a banshee to me, but I guess things are always changing.” The figure was cloaked and hooded and the shadow behind it on the sand was long and wavering in the light from the fire. I realized that I was holding my breath. Then the fire suddenly flared and we could see that the huge figure we thought we had seen was just a trick of the light. The person standing there was not big at all, in fact most of us were taller. In another up-flame from the fire she put back her hood with both hands and stood looking at us all with a slightly twisted smile. She was a woman of medium height, slender, and pale. She had big eyes the color of the moon and long gold hair in two thick plaits over her shoulders.
“What?” she said, “you were expecting Merlin on a Harley with Gandalf in a side car?” She spoke the sarcastic words with a voice that was soft and melodious, a voice that was plump with laughter and just about ready to dance. We looked sidewards at each other. Someone had said something about Wizards. She looked us up and down and then looked around as if someone were missing.
“I’m expecting a couple of friends,” she said. “I thought they would get here first. You haven’t seen anyone have you?”
We muttered that we hadn’t, but that we had certainly been hearing things. She smiled. “Well, one DOES hear things, down by the Sea at night. The Lady is a consummate singer, She hardly ever stops, but at night, the songs seem to … take your attention more. You wouldn’t have seen my friends unless they wanted to be seen and you certainly wouldn’t have heard them.” She shrugged. “They will show up. I dare say they are off hunting.” We looked at each other out of the sides of our eyes. Hunting? In the dark?
“Now!” she said, suddenly all business, “I’ll need a very good, smooth rock to put my back against. Drift wood will do, if it is shaped right. Bring it right down by the fire. Everyone should find themselves something similar so you will be comfortable.”
“What … what are we going to do?” asked someone.
She smiled again, softer this time. “Well. I’m not Phantom-Wright or a Necromantic Warrior to battle your banshee for you. My friend Mayanna came to tell me that you had someone with you who seems to have … fallen out of a story. She was quite sure that was the root of your banshee problem. If Mayanna is quite sure of something, then you want to take it as gospel. If you are having problems with people in stories or people who ought to be in stories but aren’t or people who seem to be falling in and out of stories or … well, stories in general, you don’t want a Hero, or a Wizard, a Necromantic Warrior or a Phantom-Wright. You want … a Story Teller.” She bowed slightly, a small smile playing around her lips.
“A … Story Teller?” said someone, slightly incredulously.
“Yes,” she said softly. “A Story Teller. I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself properly. That was remiss of me.” She lifted the harp case off of her back, setting it down on the sand, moving it until she was sure it was secure. She then undid the intricate clasp at her throat that held her heavy cloak shut. It was shaped like a leaf and was that bright, soft color that speaks of heavy, real gold. There were smaller gold leaves dangling from her ears, behind the gold of her braids. She set her cloak down on the sand as well. She was wearing a strange, but beautiful dark green garment like a dress with a split skirt. An intricately worked leather belt crossed her chest and then hung low on her hips. She smiled again, and inclined her head.
“I am Elezia,” she said conversationally. Then she lifted both arms, with her fingers stretching toward the sky. The wide sleeves of the dress fell in folds around her shoulders and her white arms stretched skyward. At exactly that moment the full moon rode out from behind a heavy cloud cover, giving everything shadows and turning Elezia’s white arms to translucent alabaster; alabaster shot through with a tracery of veins that were not blue, but bright, vivid green. A huge wave crashed against the shore and a clear, cold lightening shot up both of her arms, twining into a glowing braid where the two streams met above her hands. The plait of searing light stretched into the sky further than we could see. She spoke again, but this time her voice was huge, it over road the crashing of the sea and the thunder that had arrived to echo the lightening. Her voice had something in it, a quality we couldn’t even define, that made us know that if she told us the sea was blood red, we would believe her. More frightening than that, was the knowledge that if she told us to drown ourselves in that scarlet sea, we would have been on our feet and rushing for the ruby waves in a moment. She seemed to have no such appalling intents. It seemed she was giving us her resume, as it were. It was somewhere beyond impressive.
~ Elizia ~
A Traveling Bard
of the
High Order
Of Taliesin
~
Inducted to the Mysteries
by the
Hand of
Myrddin Emrys Ambrosis
~ The Merlin of Britain ~
~
In Learning, in Wisdom, in Lore, Intuit
By Training, Thorn, Test and Trial
Degree by the Masters of the Circled Palestra
By Assent of the Ancients
The Universal Word
She has become:
* Long Walker*
*Lore Keeper*
* Time Slider*
* Word Wizard*
*Word Warrior*
*Shape Changer*
*Poet, Singer, Minstrel, Bard*
~
Consecrated Dancer
Endowed Choreographer
The Sacred Lyceum E’Cole Danse
~
Sanctified into Elysium
By the Hand of the Goddess
~ Demeter ~
To Sing That Of Which Words are Unwoken
To Send on the Song Still Unspoken,
To Dance That Which is Spellbound Unbroken
~
Reader of the Cycled Moon
Priestess of the Circle Turning
Harp-Daughter of Annaenama of the Wyrd Wood
Guardian of the Sacred Word
Oread of the Towered Hills
Daughter of the Mountain
Child of the Deep Wood
Dryad of the Blood
~
She brought her arms down, rearranged her sleeves, shivered and hurriedly pulled the heavy folds of her cloak around her shoulders and clasp the golden leaf. She picked up her harp, slinging it straight on to her back in a very practiced movement.
“There!” she said brightly, “a Story Teller. I won’t bore you with my other titles, they haven’t got anything to do with the problem at hand. How are we doing with those rocks?” We were all still staring at her with our mouths open. OTHER titles? She had just pulled lightening out of the moon and announced that she had been inducted into the Mysteries by Merlin and Sanctified into Elysium by the Goddess Demeter. Now she was happily looking for a rock to lean against so she could tell a story. We were all a little gob-stopped.
Peri got un-gobstopped first, at least she managed to move. She and Elezia found a perfect rock and together they wrestled it back to the fire. “Do you want something to sit on?” Kimmergy asked, ‘Your robe is so beautiful …” Elezia smiled and laid her hand against Kimmergy’s face for a moment. “Thoughtfulness. Such a heart-softening thing to find in the middle of a wild dark night. Thank you and be blessed.” Kimmergy felt something cool as lemonade in August and warm as mulled wine in December move through her body. It lasted only one nano of a second, but it left her blinking with a sort of wonder. “Thank you for the Leaning-Rock, this is perfect! I could tell an epic with this at my back!. I do just sit in the sand. It is soft and comes off things quite easily. Not at all like visiting the Muck-Rakers. One has to be polite and they are always giving you the very squishiest seat to be kind. It is as bad as it sounds, I’m afraid, not only yucky squishy, but, noisome as well.” Suddenly her forehead folded and she looked terrifically concerned about something. My heart started beating faster immediately and I looked around in the dark. If she was worried, I can tell you, so was I.
“That doesn’t make any sense what-so-ever,” she muttered. “Why would noise be stinky? They are crossing senses!” She reached into the inside of her cloak and from a pocket there brought out a small green book. She took the gold pen that was clipped to it’s side and lifting her foot onto the leaning-rock, wrote against her knee. Being interested in such things, to say the least, I sidled up where I could look over her shoulder. She wrote the word “noisome” in a beautiful, shimmering gold ink. A moment later more letters just appeared by themselves. These words were green and they did more than shimmer, they were actively shooting small green stars. “Adjective:” she read out loud, “causing or able to cause nausea. Adjective: offensively malodorous.” Yes, sir, that would be the Muck-Rakers. WHERE did it come from?” She flipped to another part of the book and wrote the word again. This time the words that appeared were a black ink that even as they appeared, looked old, caked and cracked.
“Um,” she Elezia, “from noye “harm, misfortune,” shortened form of anoi “annoyance” Not noise at all. Fascinating.”
“Fascinating!” We had said the word at the same moment. She looked up at me and laughed. “I’m not supposed to be showing this to anyone. I guess I shouldn’t flash it around so freely. So. What do you think?”
“Abracadabra Google,” I said. She laughed, a sound that felt like rain falling on a High Country stream.
“That is EXACTLY what it is! Abracadabra that predates Google by a few hundred years.”
“You don’t have to kill me now, do you?” I asked, “or turn me into a frog?”
“I don’t know,” said Elezia, “Do you WANT to be a frog?”
“Not necessarily,” I said slowly, “but I wouldn’t be adverse to a Merlin Falcon for a few minutes.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll also tell the old tree-snoozer next time I see him, he’ll think it is a kick in the pants.”
I opened my mouth. There was a question that I wanted desperately to ask, but I didn’t.
Elezia sat down with her back against the rock that she and Peri had tussled to the fire. She folded her legs up underneath her cloak, opened her harp case and took out a small Celtic knee harp. It was so beautiful that everyone there made a noise that was sort of cross between a gasp and sigh. It was made of a very dark wood that seemed to gleam even in the darkness. That made no sense, but it was what we saw. It was intricately carved. I wanted to take it and hold it in my hands. I wanted to look at all the carving. I couldn’t even tell what they all were. I saw the shape of the same leaf she wore at her throat and in her ears, vines of ivy twined around; grape vines as well Elezia inclined her head again. “Thank you. This is Celeste, at least she is Celeste today, when the moon begins to wane she will be Selene. She is as true as she is beautiful. Now. Before we begin, lets ask again … anybody here aware that they ought to be in a story? Have recently been riding around in a story? No? Well, then, here we go. You may never have heard a story sung by a Taliesin Trained Bard. It may feel strange to you, because first of all, it will FEEL. You may see pictures … not the usual kind that we do imagine, but more vivid and possibly when your eyes are open. Don’t worry about it. Just go with the flow. The story may be … frightening in places. Try not to worry about this. I don’t think you would be in danger from something in a story anyway, particularly when it has been identified as a simile. Still, better safe than sorry. I set quite strong wards around this area before I came in. And … she lifted her head as if she were listening to the wind, then she smiled. “My friends have arrived. They will keep watch. I will introduce them to you later, right now they are On The Prowl. Their names are Sovonoka and Princess.” “Sovonoka,” I said, quite without thinking. “ … little owl,’ I finished in a small voice. I went and looked in her book and now here I was telling her what her words meant. She was going to hate me. I wasn’t really sure why I cared so much if she hated me, but I really, really did.
She smiled. “Indeed. And indeed, my Sovonoka is, an owl, that is, not necessarily small, but I suppose she was when she was gifted her name. Princess is a wild cat. They are good guardians. Rest easy. Open your ears and your hearts, open your inner eye. We are trying to solve a riddle here. Listen for hints, openings.” She stopped for a moment, looking around at us. “You do understand that I am not about to tell you a story that I know. I am taking it out of the ether, pulling it down from the air. If I knew the story, I could just tell you the answer, perhaps you were thinking that?” A couple of people nodded. It hadn’t occurred to me, but then, I was so blown away by the storyteller that I wasn’t really thinking much about the story.
“I thought as much,” she said. “We will be hearing the story together for the first time. I am … um, under a trance is too much, but I will be a step on the other side. Just one step, but I will need you to listen carefully to what I say. I will remember the words, but I often miss connections and meanings. Just be aware and listen deep.” She put her harp down in the cradle of cloak across her lap and then lifted her white arms toward the fire. Her eyes looked through the fire, possibly to the other side of the universe.
We seek to solve a mysteryWe will taste each rising clueWind, fire, water, stoneI offer it to youHold it silent in your heartSend it soaring like a birdOf THE LORE ‘twill be a partBlessings on the Word(TO BE CONTINUED … PART TWO COMING SOON TO THE PLAY-POD RUG)
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Poetry
November 2009 
