The Old Ones
- As told by Taexalia
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As I walked I became aware
of company and looked to my left to see a herd of Red Deer following me. One of
the hinds came close with her calf and we stood and eyed each other for a while,
blessing each other for the day. I knew that her presence indicated a gentle initiation
into adventure and wondered what might be coming to me. I bowed my head in gratitude
and walked on. The deer moved off down the hill and I was alone again. I walked
and walked, stopping occasionally to look at a stone here and a boulder there,
I had a picture in my head of the piece I wanted to carve and I knew that the
right stone would show itself in time.
The sun had been low in the sky when I began my journey and as
I had climbed the first hill the sun had climbed too. At the top I had taken some
time to bask in the sun, stripping off my clothes and feeling the breezes and
heat caress my skin. I felt alive and free. But I had found no rock for my carving
and I knew I must continue. I decided to head west, that way several hills were
joined by ridge-walks and I could remain at a high altitude. I crossed to the
second peak and looked around for my rock. There were many rocks there but none
that caught my eye. Just below the summit were the remains of a fort. 2,000 years
ago the night skies were lit up as the ramparts of this fort burned. The defenses
had been made of stone and reinforced with baulks of timber running through the
wall. When the invaders set the timbers alight the burning wood created so much
heat that the stones fused together and still lie there today, telling their story
of the beginnings of the end of the peaceful times that had reigned.
The afternoon wore on and I continued across the ridge. I was
walking towards the foreboding peak of Ben MacDhui and noticing the sun getting
lower in the sky. My mind turned to the old legends of the hill and I wondered
at my wisdom in climbing the old man as the sun was fading.
They say
this mountain is haunted and they say to watch for phantom mists that descend
within seconds and swallow your vision. Many men have been trapped on this peak
in just such a way, and it is best to sit still and wait till those mists clear
before trying to climb down. They say that sometimes when the mist has come down
and a man is sitting biding his time, footsteps can be heard crunching on the
scree. Loud footsteps, too loud to be a human, and as they approach the air turns
icy. They say this is a visit from An Fear Liah Mhor, the Great Grey Man of Ben
MacDhui. Rarely seen, other than a vast dark blur, he is said to carry with him
an air of despair. His presence has driven men to run from the sound of his footsteps
and fall to their deaths over the Lurcher's Crag, rather than endure what he brings.
>But I climbed to the summit, still searching for my rock. I knew
that I had to find it to bring my gift to my wolfsisters. Sitting 1309 metres
above sea level I looked out across my world. In the West the sun was glowing
big and dark and orange. Below me I could see the ancient trail of the Lairig
Ghru winding along the floor of the steep glen, passing the Pools of the Dee where
the great salmon river springs out of the earth. Across the way lay the Devil's
Point, said to be where the Devil's penis protrudes from the underworld. I sat
transfixed by the beauty laid out before me and, though I did not find a rock,
I did not feel the need to move on. I felt safe and my instincts told me I should
stay and watch the sunset. Logic did not visit me and point out the hazards of
being on these mountains in the dark and so I sat and drank in the atmosphere
of the approaching night.
Now, the Highlands are home to many legends and tales, strange beasts and beings and stories abound of the folk who live under the hills. It is said it is unlucky, or worse, to call them by their true name and they are often called the Good People. They are said to be evil but I think that they are more benevolent then evil. They are the faery folk and they are neither good nor evil. Still, I tell you their name with just a little hesitation... Their true name, in these parts at least, is the Sidhe.
As I sat and watched the dusk draw in my mind turned to thoughts of them and I wondered if that shadow moving behind that rock was a trick of the light, my imagination, or something more. The harder I looked the less I saw and so I turned my face so that I was only seeing the rock out of the corner of my eye. And there! I was sure I saw a little being. I snapped my head back round and all I saw was shadow. I chuckled to myself for allowing my imagination to run away with me and I was considering beginning to walk downhill when suddenly I was shrouded in mist. The dimming sunlight was gone and I could see nothing save a few feet in each direction. I sat down abruptly and tried to stop my imagination running free.
For a time nothing happened and I calmed myself that of course I was not going to be chased by a wraith. The thought had only just crystalised in my mind when I heard the first crunch. Then another. I turned to face the sound and could only make out a shapeless darkness in the mist. I fought the urge to run, and forced myself to remain seated on the large boulder. The crunching came closer and I felt the air freeze. I began to feel waves of emotion coursing through me. All the pain I had ever felt travelled back down the years and manifested itself again. My body wracked with pain from every injury, my mind tormented with anger and self hatred, my heart breaking again and again. I sat and cried as the steps came closer. I wailed and wept and wanted the pain to stop. But I refused to run and risk certain death. The black shape was almost tangible now and I could hear a high pitched humming, as An Fear Liah Mhor sang his wretched song. I stood to face him, singing and wailing my own song of pain. And as I stood I felt his blackness envelope me and I found myself in the darkness with nothing but my pain.
I don't know how long I lay there with my life wounds washing over me but as I faced each hurt and woe I tried to find a spark of something positive in each one and the pain began to abate. At some point I fell out of consciousness and when I awoke I was back on my rock and the mist was gone and the beginnings of morning rose in the East. I looked around and before me were a group of little beings. They had strange wizened faces but their beauty was astounding. I had no energy to sit, or stand. I could not even try to talk. One of the beings came forward, I guessed she was a she, and laid her hand on my brow. I felt her energy and her healing and I managed a weak smile. She spoke in tongues but my heart understood. It was time to forgive myself for the past and let it go. Only then could I move on to give the world my gifts. The Sidhe lifted me up and carried me home, behind me more Sidhe carried the rock I had clung to. They had chosen this rock for my statue of Cailleach and I was in awe of the size of the thing and of those tiny beings carrying it. They set me and the rock down in my garden and instantly disappeared, all except the female healer who handed me a leather pouch and then she smiled and disappeared too. The bag contained a pencil, a chisel and a mallet and I knew these were to signify my role as storyteller and artist. I took the chisel and mallet and for three days I hammered and chipped until my red jasper rock began to resemble the Cailleach - goddess of death and rebirth, ancient goddess of Winter. With my pencil I wrote down this tale and I bring both gifts to you, my wolfsisters. Stand this statue somewhere on Star Mountain and when you need to visit the Underworld you can go to her and she will hear your songs. © Suzanne Martin 2005