Silver's Threads, Spinning Colour Darkly

Prologue

Merry Meet! I am the one known as Silver. I am the one who'll be whispering in your ear as I share a story of mystery and magicks of which you may be unaware. I'll be there, as you turn these pages, leaning over your shoulder as you read. You may not know I am there but there again, you may feel my breath upon your cheek, although I am told, this is very rude.
I observe your body language change; your facial expressions give so much away. Mirth ...scorn …doubt ...fear! It’s really all the same to me for after all, you're the one choosing to read this book - which indeed, has been long in the cauldron of creation. I have coaxed and cajoled Sybille into putting pen to paper or fingers to key board but here 'tis and together we will tell you our story of discovery, as we are one in truth.
         So let us begin at the beginning; for that is where I am told we must, in order not to confuse, as I am often wont to do in my ramblings!
         I am my humankin Sybille's, Trueshape. I am her continuing self after all the Littleshapes fall away into physical decay - like feathers falling from a bird's wing or petals from a flower. I say physical with good reason, for the Littleshapes journey on unless they doubt and then, I too shall diminish, a little.

Chapter 1: Sybille

…the wheel turns on …trees whisper secrets and birds leave messages on the wind …nothing remains the same and yet in change we find renewal
…extract Sybille’s Book of Shadows.
Pulling her journal from its little hidden cavity in her desk, Sybille sat down to write, brooding as she did on the changes she sensed were afoot. Little things that for others perhaps might go unnoticed she knew through experience were the prelude to major shifts. She had dreams of flying to other realms where flickering figures who threw no shadow, stalked her. At times, she felt overwhelmed by the feeling of wobbling off course. This in itself gave her the sense that she would not have enough energy to create space or physical time to complete unfinished things, or to share the knowledge gained in a life time …yet alone five or six.
A great urgency overcame her; with a weary sigh, she began to write yet paused as she considered the four women who embraced the Mother's Way, albeit hard for Maeve who struggled with the oldest fear, that Magick might indeed be real. Flora and Bethan she had no fears for, other than their both being sensitives, empathetic to everyone else’s pain. Then there was Sam! Well that must unfold as she worked through what she thought were fair or unfair advantages in life. They would all need to consider what it truly meant to be a Wytch. For what is a Wytch anyway? Picking up her pen, she continued writing...          
         So now, my affairs are in order. The Wytchwheel turns and I know I will be moving on soon. I never know when, only my Trueshape Silver does and I inevitably, will be the last to know. I’ve not yet found the words to share with my girls why but at least they've come far enough on the Way to understand in part ...the rest I must leave in the Mother's hands.
         Stretching, she put her journal aside and reaching over gave her cat Morgana a scratch behind the ear, which was greeted with a deep, rumbling purr of contentment. Morgana, opening her eyes looked into her friends face and 'knew', her human friend would be leaving her behind. How long would it be this time?
         ‘Mmmm, not long now,’ Sybille said to her. ‘I can feel a stirring in the ethers I've not felt before.’ She gripped the arms of the chair, willing herself to stay present and reached for pen and parchment to write a note to each of her friends before the energies pulling at her had their way.
My dear Flora, you are the one I sense will learn to understand what I am about to tell you. I must leave and I don't know when I'll be back yet...
...she continued to write for a few minutes and then finished with...
         I leave a small note for each of you along with further instructions until my return, if that is to be, with the hope that this won't be too big a burden for you all...
         ...she trailed off unable to continue, feeling the earth shift beneath her a breeze touched her cheek; she smiled. With fondness, she thought again of the three young women she had trained in the Mysteries of the Way. She had always been clear about her methods of training, which underscored the experiential over the documented and had taught them to work on the inner levels to balance their weaknesses and strengths, perfecting their skills through self-understanding and responsibility.
         Becoming a true Wytch took courage. The world of the Wytch is a constant circle of change requiring discipline and trust, no two cycles ever being the same. Stepping out of the broom closet can become a trap; with the need to wear the right clothes, an enigmatic smile and a patchouli perfumed air of mystery.
      A letting go and emptying out of old agendas was imperative in order to fill themselves anew with the concepts of what True Magick is. She herself, well- schooled in all the Traditions of the Craft, knew the pitfalls of coming to the Way with illusions of grandeur and the belief that Wands were all in a flick of the wrist and the right incantation spoken, rather than the science that Magick was in part.
          There had been many promising students through the years but none as gifted as these.
          Recovering herself, she sat to write in her new Book of Shadows and Light, the old having long been filled to bursting with all the information she'd used in her teachings; a living, organic testimony, to a Wytch's life. She was particular about her writing, so that there could be no doubt as to what she was imparting, there being no room for error in Magickal workings. Too much of the Wytchways had already been lost from the past, through poor translations or worse, a deliberate need by some to control others. The latter had created a hierarchical ordering to the Way, which was now becoming its own downfall. She sighed, bringing herself back to her task; she reached for paper for a first draft, before entering in the Book itself…
    A year for the Wytch begins at Samhain, pronounced Soween or Sowan ...30th April to May 2nd in modern day reckoning, here in the Southern Hemisphere of this beautiful planet. The last Harvest, root vegetables, Pumpkins and Squash.
  The feelings in the air are of deep relief after the hard work of the active seasons. The coming months are for introspection tempered with grief, as the Lord and Lady leave to take the hands of all the souls who have passed beyond or of those who may have been lost in the ‘Between’. They will accompany them through the gates of the Summer-country ...the lands of peace and beauty, only imagined and for some onwards still, to discover their Trueshape.
        The true gathering for Samhain has nothing to do with ‘trick or treat’ or dressing up as ghosts and vampires. This is the miss-information passed around through superstition. It is a result of fear of the unknown. In truth, the three-day festival of Samhain is Celtic New Year and All Hallows Eve, when all over the planet we honour the spirit of our ancestors and ancestry. We make offerings, give thanks for the year passed and ask for blessings for those who have died to this world that they may be renewed. The origins of the Pumpkin carvings were to ward away the spirits that were lost or were of negative intent, that they might follow the light from the Altar candles and through the gateway to the world of spirit, the Otherworld.
         What does all this mean I hear you say? What is this talk of Wytches and Magickal lands? What is a Wytch in truth? So I'll tell you as simply as I may because just as we are approaching Samhain, so is this a beginning, a new beginning for all who are tired of the tick tock world of illusion and hierarchical ordering.
         Eons ago, long before there was the written word, there was knowledge free to all those who asked the right questions. There were no elite, only those who’d listened to the inner voice of the Mother longer. This was a time long before there were names and titles, a time when all who knew of the Lady's Way were known as the Wise Ones, the Wytchwise, male and female alike, all Her priests and priestesses, all Her people and Her tribes.
         Pausing, she felt Silver's presence close and knew her journey would be changing soon as she whispered to her in the strange language of the spirit...
         She felt Silver withdraw again, restlessly now. She looked down in wonder at the page filled in Silver's hand, so unlike her own. She wondered what the girls would make of it when they saw the writing in two completely different styles. She smiled wryly and continued.
         Therefore, at Samhain I honour the ancestors. As a modern day Wytch, I honour the energy that lives within my cells and of every being that has ever lived and is still living on this planet. As I was taught, all who have been, are and will be, are still here sharing space with me, breathing with me ...everything is here ...now...
...and then the world suddenly shifted sideways and spun. She felt herself falling, drifting, afloat in depths of wonder; no pain or physical sensations just peace, ultimate peace and the sound of bell like voices calling... ‘Gela en'ardai, gela en'ardai’.
         Then she was falling further still, a small pinpoint of life, a being of light with fragile wings closed behind her ...arrowing down toward a faintly glowing, molten mass. As she flew and dived, many others accompanied her. Small winged entities screaming with sheer, childlike glee,
         ‘We've come to sow the seeds of a planet!’
         She was flying with her kin through the ethers, seeing for the first time the glowing orb that would become earth covered in tiny lightening bugs, little Makersouls with split wings; iridescent beings, clinging limpet like to the cooling, solidifying mass that they might begin the planet's greening.
Then there was utter silence and she fell, inward.

Chapter 2: Samantha
 

…falling leaves gather like floating gold
…soft scents of wood smoke recall times of old
…where will you be when the winds set you free?
...safe in your bed or outside in the cold

…from Seasons Change…Arianwen Isil’Lindir

Samantha woke to a strong foreboding of change, of something not quite right. The memory of her dreams still fresh and she needed to record them, while they remained vibrant.
         All her life dreaming had been a rich tapestry of colour and movement. Lingering sounds of crystal-clear voices and aromas of something sweet and warm, like vanilla bean or violets, filling her senses.
         Now, suddenly her dream memory was crowded with rasping sounds, clicks and guttural voices; her senses filled with the pungent aroma of damp, loamy leaves and woody lichen. Stretching and rolling on to her back, something scrunched beneath her, something crisp and dry. Sitting up, she ran her hands across the sheets to find the cause of the scratchy, discomfort ...leaves, dead, amber leaves; in fact oak leaves …how on earth?
         The thought trailed off, her attentions caught by the state of her desk, in her writing room directly across the way, and  ...shoot ...the mess! Papers, books, OH NO, her journals were scattered everywhere; her desk a chaotic, disorder that wasn't of her making. Who would ...who could, have done this? Her fresh ink sketches, that she'd taken such delight in yesterday, were gone. They'd come from her dreams and were different to anything she'd created before, as were the new notes for the never discussed and carefully hidden away, fantasy novel she was working on.
         Leaping out of bed, she ran across the hall, leaves crunching underfoot,
         ‘Wait a minute ...leaves?’ she shrieked, as she saw yet more, strewn in a trail, from bed to desk. ‘What in the name of…’
         Where had they come from? Sam tried to recall whether she'd left some on her desk in a vase and if she'd left the window open. She often brought bits and pieces home, found on her walks, bits of bark, dried leaves or pretty stones, anything that took her eye. Scanning the room, she noted that the windows were closed; no entry could have been made that way!
         ‘Mmmm what's going on?’ she huffed, scrubbing her face with her hands, ‘I can’t make any sense of this?’
         Taking a closer look, she saw that her article for work was sitting untouched on the desk amidst the other chaos. She had a deadline for the paper she worked for and at least, heaving a sigh of relief, that was intact.
         ‘Ok Sam, don't panic,’ she said aloud, ‘first you need a strong brew before you can even think of sorting this out’; so saying she headed to the kitchen.
         Her head buzzed with thoughts. What, on earth, had happened? Had someone broken in while she slept? Her hands worked automatically, as she set up the coffee machine for the brew, craving the caffeine to clear her head.
         Drawn back to the chaos again, taking a cup with her, she reviewed the damage. Carefully putting the cup down out of reach of her papers, she stood looking at what had been her notes and what remained of her journals. On one page, she'd doodled a small Fae figure, pulled together from a fragment of her dreams. It had changed, had taken on a life of its own in fact, the facial structure clearer, the complex drapery resembling clothing was altered, more detailed, consisting of almost web-like, gossamer threads. The finely traced silvery and russet leaves of organic fibres, had previously escaped her pen, nevertheless, here they were on paper. Had she drawn this and forgotten? No! She couldn't possibly have done it and not remembered, surely? Yet the angle of the head and the candid gaze, caught in an expression of surprise and fear, gave her pause to think it was somehow familiar. How had anyone been able to get in and do this without her hearing, her sleep had been so light of late?
         Shaking herself, she replaced the sketch on the desk and looked around in utter frustration. Automatically she reached for the phone to call Sybille, her Aunt. Stopping herself, she remembered again, with deep sadness, that her Aunt was gone, disappeared without a trace, leaving only a note of instruction as to what was to be done with her property and possessions. Her leaving so unexpectedly, had left Sam bereft and with no understanding of why or where she may have gone. Her note hadn’t even been addressed to her but rather to one of her students, Flora, who’d always been the one to look after Sybille's home when she was away giving her talks and signing books for eager fans. Her insightful writings, on Wytchcraft and the Occult were enormously successful.
         Consciously pulling back from the edge of despair, when she thought about the loss of the woman who had cared for her and kept her steady, after her parents unexpected death on one of their many spiritual pilgrimages, when she was not quite 18, Sam realised that her thoughts had led her back to this, possibly decisive, moment. Today she may find out where her Aunt had gone and why. Today  was the year and a day since her disappearance, that Sybille had prescribed in her note be the day, when Sam would meet with Flora and the two other women Bethan and Maeve, who had been Sybille's top students and closest friends, should she not return in that time.
         Sam still felt somewhat resentful that the note had not been addressed to her. That it had not been her, entrusted with the key to the amazing restored barn, where she had spent so many intriguing hours with her Aunt over the years. Sybille had been her anchor when, as a misunderstood and moody child, her parents had sent her to stay, while they went off on their long, (and boring) journeys, searching for their own personal grail, whatever that may have been, for eventually it had killed them.
         Her frustration at never being able to express herself fully to her parents, for they brooked no argument, led Sam to start writing a journal from an early age, describing all her deep and intimate beliefs. Her love and understanding of words had left her dreaming of becoming a writer. Children's books she'd thought, as she was also clever with fantasy art but, as always, had talked herself out of her own dream.
         Even as a child, she’d had a way with words; it had brought her trouble, more than once. She'd had an enquiring mind and always posed questions, sometimes with great frustration when adults, teachers especially, whom she in childlike naivety presumed to have all the answers, couldn't or wouldn't, answer all her deeply searching question.
         Her very strict and rigidly dogmatic parents had never allowed her room to debate her views that deity was not a far removed or judgemental patriarch, angry and unforgiving as their scriptures depicted. Samantha knew that her version was a smiling and benevolent being who watched over her and the planet with tolerance and patience.
         Sybille had been the guiding light, supporting her in her understandings and encouraging her to be strong and direct. To never settle for someone else’s dreams for her and had also given her, ever so subtly and gently, a whole new viewing point of the world as an amazing, evolving being and the Goddess, as well as the God, approachable, rather than a separate or distant entity. Tentatively Sam had listened and in part begun to understand why her Aunt Sybille had always been so different to her sister, Sam's mother, Anne.
         ‘Sybille,’ she remembered, her parents had spoken in whispers, ‘is a Pagan, a Wytch!’ and yet she'd been left guardianship of her, their own daughter.
         The deeply ingrained conditioning by her parents had seriously limited her ability to believe in herself, so off she went to Uni like a ‘good girl’, with her parent’s intention that she studied law.
Her intellect, strong enough to achieve high marks, only left her with a sense of outrage when she discovered that the laws were really only about the person who could manipulate them to the highest advantage and was purely about winning ...whether the accused was actually guilty or innocent did not count much in the equation apparently!
         The first two years were torture, so she had somehow, plucked up the courage to change stream mid-way. She started a course in journalism and entered a different world. She'd told her parents it would lead to writing and analysing court cases and the wheeling and dealing behind the scenes. Again, what she found, behind the masks of bargaining for the good of the victim of any crime, rested in the hands of the cleverest person who could twist the law to suit.
         She'd felt guilty about her subterfuge where her parents were concerned; still her love of the written word and her drawing drove her. She completed her journalism courses together with a creative writing and illustrating course, which, she'd told herself, was just for fun. She’d continued to send articles to the more progressive, journals and papers and had finally landed on her feet, due to the excellence of her word style, in a small, edgy newspaper. Now, at 25 and three years on the job, she was their youngest, lead writer.
         Today, now, she realised, glancing at the clock, it was time to get ready for that long awaited meeting with Flora, Bethan and Maeve, her Aunt's one time students of philosophy and closest friends, despite the difference in age.
         Washed and tidied, she stuck her tongue out as she caught her slender, reflection in the hall mirror, black choppy hair sticking out every which way, due to her constant habit of grabbing handfuls, whenever she was thinking deeply. Leaving the mess behind her, she grabbed keys and bag on the way out, then hesitated, hearing a rustle of leaves and the faint haunting sound of words on the wind,
         ‘Gela en'ardai, gela en'ardai,’ as faint and as fragile as a wraith caught in the wind, as musical as a glass wind chime,
         ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I'm not listening.’ ‘Go away!’
         Shrugging off the chill, as the sun disappeared behind the scudding clouds, she almost ran to her car, her thoughts whirling; there was that feeling again that she should know something, understand something forgotten ...déjà vu!