At the Edge of Ireland (53 page)

“No—just give me a minute. I want to see what they are—”

“I'm not coming with you,” she said. But she came anyway, and we walked together slowly and cautiously, not knowing what to expect. And then a voice, soft and definitely feminine, whispered, “Hello.”

“Hi,” I said, nervously looking around for the owner of the voice. And then I spotted her, half hidden by a huge round stone. She was dressed in very dark clothes. If the moon hadn't been out, she would have been virtually invisible. “I'm sorry—are we disturbing you…?”

“No—please. Join me.”

She seemed very small and waiflike, hardly more than a teenager by the look of her young face bathed in the soft moonlight. She wore a dark cloak, wrapped like a security blanket over her slight shoulders. Five tiny candles in windproof jars were placed in an arc around her.

“Is that your van back there?” I asked, not quite knowing how to address this odd little figure.

“Yeah—a real mess, isn't it? We're in the middle of doing it up.”

“We?”

“Bob, my boyfriend—partner—and me. He's gone off walking over there somewhere…” She pointed vaguely down into the darkness beyond the stone circle.

“And are you…celebrating something? You know, the candles…”

“Right. The winter solstice…the longest night…usually around December twenty-first…it depends on the moon.”

“Well, we won't disturb you…”

“No, no. Sit down if you want. Not many people come up here at this time.”

Anne seemed hesitant, but we both eased ourselves down on the soft grass anyway.

“So—what happens at the winter solstice then?”

“Ah well—it's the time of Cailleach—the Winter Spirit. Some call her The Hag. She has different names in different parts of the Celtic world. Last year, we were way up in the north of Scotland. We were lucky, we got the aurora borealis too—you know, the northern lights—but the moon was often too bright. They're so beautiful—have you seen them?”

“No,” said Anne, finally deciding to join in. “Even though we spent some time on Harris in the Outer Hebrides, we never got the full show.”

Derreenataggart at Night

“Oh, it's great! It usually starts with a sort of hazy, ghostly rainbow—white—right across the sky, and then things come that look like huge searchlights but softer, misty…and then these sort of colored curtains rise up and dance really slowly—they look like they're throbbing…very gently…honestly, it's fabulous! And they're very important to tribal people—y'know, people living way up north around the Arctic Circle. The Inuit in Canada say they're lanterns carried by spirits of the dead lighting the way to heaven. The Lapps say they're gifts from God to relieve the disappearance of the sun in winter. Oh—and Galileo too—he called them ‘the sunrise of the north.'”

“That's an enticing idea—a northern dawn,” I said.

“It was best on the nights of the dark moon—not like tonight. Although tonight is special too.”

“Is that what the candles are for—the Winter Spirit?” asked Anne.

“Yeah. Absolutely. Celebrating Cailleach. Knowing that from now on we're moving into shorter nights and longer days. Moving through Imbolc—that's the end of January—a time of one of the celebrations for Brighde—the earth goddess. And then comes the spring equinox in late March when the new light comes…that's the time of fertility and fresh life…”

“You know, I've heard some of these terms,” said Anne. “I just never linked them to exact dates and names. All I remember is the summer solstice—around mid-June…”

“June twenty-first—the longest day.”

“…and all that crazy stuff that goes on in England at Stonehenge and Avebury, and Silsbury and Glastonbury…”

“Yeah, it's become a bit ridiculous nowadays—pseudo-Druids, New Agers, crystal planters, trance dancing, weird music, and TV cameras galore! It's all so fake, it's sickening…”

“And those Wicca exponents too, I suppose?” I asked.

“Well, Wicca's a little different, isn't it. I'm becoming more interested in that. Bob's not so sure, he thinks it's a bit too…‘witchy.' I try to explain that Wicca is like ‘white' as opposed to ‘black' magic—y'know, ‘the black arts.'”

“Well,” said Anne, “you've picked the right place to sense all these things. And on the winter solstice too!”

“Yes! And it's so beautiful, isn't it? This place is so…resonant. Part of a huge network of circles and standing stones and ley lines—you know—lines of earth energy…”

“Right,” I mumbled. “Ley lines…” (a subject I've always regarded with some suspicion)

“You feel you're touching something timeless—a great mass of ancient knowledge and truth and wisdom—thousands of years old. A power that used to be understood, but it's been forgotten for so long. The power of the Earth Mother—all these great eternal forces of nature…”

Suddenly she stopped and giggled. “I'm sorry—really I am. I don't normally talk so much…honestly…I hope you don't mind…”

“No, no, not at all,” said Anne. “Go on. It's very interesting.”

Obviously complaints about the cold and the deep dark and the menacing stones had been forgotten for the moment. And that was just fine, even though the skeptical me was wondering about the veracity of this strange little person sitting all by herself in her black garments surrounded by these tiny candles. All very odd.

“What do you and your partner do…you know…living in your van. Do you do crafts…are you writers?”

“No—and yes,” she said ambiguously. “We kind of do whatever we feel like doing. I'm trained in calligraphy, so I usually find someone wanting signs or wedding invitations…anything. I'm also an illustrator, so I make cards that sell pretty well down south, in Kent, where I come from. And Bob—my partner—oh, I'm sorry. I'm Mary, by the way—I forgot to introduce myself.”

We all introduced ourselves and she continued. “Bob is a fantastic carpenter and builder. And a folksinger. He's well known in the south. Gets a lot of gigs and stuff…oh, and a lot of other things we do. It seems to work. We get by. Living on the road isn't that expensive—except for the petrol! That monster drinks the stuff like a thirsty camel. That's why we call it the Camel…”

“Great name,” I said to Anne, and we smiled reminiscently. We'd begun our own traveling lives in a similar fashion eons ago, long before I started writing and illustrating travel books. In a way listening to Mary was like listening to our earlier selves—except for all the stuff about solstices and equinoxes and Earth Mothers. Somehow we'd never seriously explored those particular avenues. But I was certainly willing to hear more.

“So—why are you doing all this? What are you personally looking for?” I asked.

Mary giggled again. It was enticing. She didn't come across at all like one of those “I've found it, and you haven't” New Age converts. There seemed be no complacency. No preaching. She didn't seem to demand control of the channel changers. She seemed to be just someone reaching out to aspects and forces in our world that most of us either scoff at, reject, or blissfully ignore.

“I'm not always sure what I'm looking for. I'm not even sure if there's any specific ‘it.' I think it's more of a process of letting go and opening up and seeing what comes…does that make any sense?”

“Yes,” said Anne adamantly. “Yes, it does.”

Mary continued. “I don't think there's any end-thing I want or need. I'm just excited to…‘go with the flow.'” She laughed out loud. “Clichéd—but it's what it feels like, you know. Flowing. Seeing where the flow takes us. There's so much inside us—all of us—that we rarely use. We don't even know it exists much of the time. I think the ancients knew. I'm sure they felt themselves intuitively to be part of these powerful forces—a huge network of forces—that linked them with…well…everything.”

“That's the impression you certainly get when you read about ancient cultures—tribes in Amazonia, the Australian Aborigines, Native Americans…,” I said.

“Yeah—right. They were all tapping into energies that we don't seem to understand anymore at all nowadays. We've got too many distractions—we're all so…separate, I suppose. The people who placed these stones were fully in tune with the power of the seasons—Bealtaine, Lammas, Samhain—the Celtic New Year at the beginning of November when they light those huge bonfires. I mean, the whole layout of the stones here—and other places on the island and all over Britain—reflect the exact phases of the seasons. They show the great turning circle of Earth's energies—the circles of everything in creation. From the tiniest bits of matter—all those revolving bits and pieces of atoms, right out to our own solar system, the galaxies…all circles…life, death, and back to life again. Round and round. You can sense all that here…circles within circles within circles…”

As Mary spoke, her hunched little frame rose straighter, higher, but then she stopped, slumped back to her former dark crouch, and giggled. “Or something like that. It's hard to explain.”

“I think you've explained it beautifully,” said Anne softly.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Thank you.”

Mary smiled. “I know we're living a bit of a crazy life—Bob and me. And who knows how long it'll be…before we're sucked back into the everyday things. But at the moment it feels right. We're touching things we don't quite understand…and it's beautiful…”

“And you're learning—and sharing,” I suggested.

“Yeah…we're learning…” Mary smiled. “We're very lucky to be able to do that.”

I wanted to give her something. A small thank-you gift. But all I could find in my pockets was a bar of chocolate. “I wish I'd got a bottle of brandy or something to keep you warm,” I said. “But maybe some chocolate…”

“Oh, thanks,” said Mary with what looked like genuine pleasure. “That's really nice of you. I'll save it until Bob gets back…well, some of it…”

We left her crouched down in the moonlight by the monoliths with her candles. We turned one last time as we passed out of the stone circle, and they were still flickering. Tiny warm glows in that dark, chill December night…

A Final Adventure in Search of My Irish Heritage

“W
ELL
—I
KNOW YOUR GRANDFATHER
, W
ALTER
Wade Yeadon, was a famous comedian and singer…right? And Yorkshire-born too, like you and Anne.”

It seemed odd to be chatting with my cousin David, whom I'd met only on the rarest of occasions during our lives. We're not a particularly close extended family, but by the amicable tone of our conversation, you'd think we'd been buddies for years. And somehow our chat now began encompassing aspects of our mutual family history and one character in particular who had always intrigued me—the great black sheep of our Yeadon clan. My father's father. My grandfather. Walter Wade Yeadon.

I'd heard only tantalizing bits about him in the past. No one in the family seemed willing to discuss him or his life. It was, quite simply, a taboo subject. You just didn't mention his name. I explained all this to David.

“Yes, well, I suppose that's understandable.” He chuckled. “He was quite a rake. A naughty old boy of the first order. Used to travel with those music hall shows—and, of course, lots of those music hall chorus girls—all over the place…Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, South America, the USA—you name it! I think he went up the Amazon once or twice to that weird city—the one that used to control the rubber trade. The one with that enormous opera house!”

“Manaus.”

“Right—Manaus. I think he went there. And then, when he was home in England, he performed in all the big music hall theaters. He was billed as ‘Walter Wade—The Great Yorkshire Scot' and also ‘Yorkshire's Harry Lauder.' He pinched the real Harry Lauder's act—you remember the famous Scottish guy with the kilt and the crooked walking stick? Did a kind of Andy Capp Yorkshire take-off of Harry's spiel—flat cap, baggy trousers, wooden clogs, and all that. Apparently he was very popular. Kept on going for years with pretty much the same act…”

“Right—and he kept on going past my grandma's house too, hardly ever popping in. And according to Gran, God bless her, when he did, it was a quick ‘So how are you and the kids doing and here's a bit o' cash for a few treats' and then he was gone again, leaving four children behind and my gran weeping and furiously sticking knitting needles in his old music hall posters…or so my dad told me. Normally he wouldn't talk about him at all. Well, actually, he wouldn't until the last few years of his life. Then he seemed to make peace with his memories and forgave old Walter, who was long gone by then, and he began to talk about him…just a little at first and then later on with what seemed to be something approaching real affection. And he even gave me Walter's battered, stringless violin—I still have it back at home. On display, even!”