Cú Collchaille Echduine (James Acken)
Once upon a time, there was a man named Dubh Dá Leine who lived in the Islands of Western Scotland. He had three sons .i. Erc, Echbél and Finn Srianmhór. Erc was an excellent sailor and the sea called to him in Winter as in Summer. Echbél was a bard and a judge, who excelled at poetry, jurisprudence and all forms of learning, but he left the islands for the sake of foreign lore in the wide world and was not heard from again. Finn was good with horses and it was from his ability to tame any horse that he got his name Srianmhór: Great Bridle.
Their father’s wife was a jealous woman who was also a powerful poetess and because Dubh Dá Leine’s sons were not hers, she took a great disliking to them. Dubh Dá Leine was a great man for fighting and loved nothing more than standing at the headlands watching for raiding parties of Pictish warriors, as these promised the greatest challenge. Some say that, as he stood watching from the top of Beann Dá Fhíthich on Aídhche Shamhna, the mountain was opened beneath him. There he saw a bright woman among a throng emerge and, watching her closely, followed the host through the country and back into the mountain. As told in Togail Glinn na nGall Uaine, there he performed three great feats in seeking her out and at last won her favor; she gave him the three sons .i. Erc, Echbél and Finn Srianmhór.
After a full year in the mountain, Dubh Dá Leine returned home on the same night he left, but a great jealousy lay on his wife. ‘No welcome before you’ said she. ‘Then welcome these three sons’ said Dubh Dá Leine. ‘No welcome for them indeed but my curse,’ she said. ‘From where have they come?’ ‘From the headlands by the Western sea,’ he answered, ‘and you a mother to them.’ ‘That is not true indeed,’ she said, ‘but the sea shall be mother, wife and daughter to them. It shall be their life and death, for of women is the fortune of a man.’
‘Of whose family are they?’ she asked. ‘They are of your family,’ he answered. ‘That is not true indeed,’ she said. ‘Breacan was their mother’s brother; Airdomain his father, son of Dídomuin, son of Ard; Cindomain Abainn their mother’s messenger. Derrit, Díomra, and Dolbach her three handmaidens.’
‘What are their names?’ She asked. ‘They are nameless save that you name them,’ he answered. ‘That is not true indeed,’ she said, ‘for their mother named them in secret.’ Then she said:
Erc the eldest,
Ocean’s rider,
Riches seeking,
Heavens’ fire,
A fickle journey
A Joyfull lyre,
Loving wonder,
Wandering Erc.
Echbél the salient,
A sage’s psalter
Somber pages,
a steed’s halter,
home departing,
deepest fountain,
Fickle travel,
Touring Echbél.
Then she fell silent. ‘What of the third boy?’ Asked Dub Dá Leine. Then she said:
Finn the youngest
Of youthful hosts
Hungry wolves
Waiting ghosts
Gripping swords
A saddling post
Crooked paths
Biting frost
Finn the youngest ...
‘He has the makings of a horseman,’ she said ‘but will never see sixteen years in these lands.’ ‘That is a bitter curse,’ said his father. ‘That is the least of my curse, for these are not the sons of my house.’
This then was the cause of the jealousy of his wife .i. that he should bring home three boys who were none of hers and for that she cursed them.
This then was the curse laid on the Trí Mhic Dubha Dá Leine in the time of Ninian, apostle to the Southern Picts, and Martin, the soldier-saint: that they should die far from their father’s lands and that each son to the end of seventy-two generations should always die in a land different from that of their birth.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Luminaries Illuminated: Mili's Story
Come pull up a seat and join me here by the fire. I am Lady Milicent Shiveley and I would tell you the story of my one true love. It all began with the death of my mother when I was but a child. After her death I was raised by my step-father, who was a vile, vile man. Upon my reaching the age of 16, he decided it was time for him to take a new wife and I was to be it. I would have none of it as I detested the man, for he was cruel and a drunk. One dark night, I packed what I could carry and left his house to never look back. Thus began my journey into the world alone.
For the first few weeks after I left my step-father’s home it felt as though the rain would never end. My body ached for the comfort of a bed and a warm hearth to rest my weary feet upon. As a runaway with limited funds, I tended to sleep in abandoned barns and an under an occasional tree. Ever careful of strangers, I shied away from everyone in my quest to reach the Abbey. But one morn there was a loud crash, followed by deep laughter that roused me from sleep. I awoke to a giant of man lying at my feet. Seeing my sudden alarm, he arose and quickly introduced himself, “Please do not be alarmed, I am Jean-Claude de Lyon and mean you no harm.” He spoke with great polish and a charm that immediately set me at ease. Though barely of age, he proved himself well read and worldly. Through many conversations shared that day, I learned he too was searching for a place to call home. As fate would have it, we became traveling companions and with time, great friends.
After several months on the road and many misadventures, we finally reached Brockore Abbey. Gaining permission from the monks to settle just outside the walls of the Abbey, Jean-Claude and I built small huts for each of us. Life became very routine and we earned our keep. Jean-Claude hunted and did repairs with-in the Abbey. In return the monks taught him his letters and other knowledge, the likes of which only the wealthy received at University. As a female, I was not allowed within the walls of the Abbey, but I earned my keep and a small garden spot by cooking and sewing for the monks. Though not the luxury life I grew up with, it was a good life and one I have grown to cherish.
Winter passed and with it came the long days of spring. At the Abbey, spring meant cleaning everything, starting the summer gardens and the visits of many travelers and singing troupes making their way to the city. On one particular day, I was weeding my garden when I noticed a stranger staring at me over the gate. He spoke not a word, just stood and watched as I worked. I glanced up often intending to speak but each time I caught his eyes, it was as if I were struck dumb, unable to speak. Still he stood there not saying a word, merely smiling more and more each time our eyes met. Then I looked up and he was gone. My heart felt as though it had left my body and shattered into a million parts. Scolding myself heartily for such silly feelings, I rose and went inside to clean up and make myself a wee meal, all the time thinking on this stranger and who he was. I saw him often the next few days working at the Abbey, in the small village down the way, and oft times in the company of Jean-Claude. But never did I speak to him; surely he must have thought I was the village idiot!
And then, he was standing at my door! Again, I was speechless, but with a smile he said, “M’Lady, I am Donal Oneal and I shall call upon you this evening. I would be greatly pleased is you would join me for a stroll into the village.” I could only nod as he took my hand, kissed it and walked away still smiling. Once he was out the gate, my mind began to race and I was as flustered as a school girl. But I was ready at the appointed time and gladly took his arm as we strolled into the village. Listening as he spoke of his life, all I could think was how lucky I was to be in the company of such an exception man. He was beautiful to me with his dark hair and greying beard; I had to stop myself from drowning in his blue eyes. It was at the moment I knew I was hopelessly in love with a man that I didn’t even know! It was such a heady feeling that I didn’t bother to consider what exactly that meant or even what his intentions might have been.
From that day forward we spent a great deal of time together talking while strolling the village. I found myself falling more and more in love with the man, never thinking of what that truly meant. As Spring turned Summer and melted in Fall, our relationship blossomed and moved forward. By mid-fall night time found him quietly entering my home and staying until just before day break. Never would he enter the house before dark as he guarded my reputation with great care. We didn’t speak of marriage nor of how long he would stay, as we both knew he was a wonderer and staying put was not in his soul. And to my great joy, he chose to spend the winter months there with me as well. It was a time of great pleasure and joy for me. Someone to share my entire world with, something I had never had. And he loved me! Loved ME! The plain little runaway who had nothing to offer but her heart and her home. I felt like a queen and the future didn’t matter.
Spring came once more and the wonderlust in Donal began to grow. I saw it and knew what the outcome would be. I could see it in his eyes the day he came to say good-bye. Once more I was speechless and knew that I would never find another man such as he. He promised to return with the winter and I could only hope he spoke truthfully to me. The days after he left was as empty as my heart. The warm and love filled home became just a house. The days I had spent with him became a blur – nothing much seemed to matter anymore. The Summer heat was oppressive but not nearly as much as the winter that had sprung to life within my soul.
And suddenly winter was upon us once more. The outside cold began to match that which had taken hold of my heart. One evening I cleared dishes from a meager meal and readied myself for bed. Not really caring if the fire in the hearth would make it through the night, I crawled into my lonely bed almost hoping to never awaken again. Dreams of my Donal plagued me that night more than the day he left. The tears flowed like wine and the ache within my soul was such a physical pain that I cried out until sleep and exhaustion overtook me. Daybreak came and slowly I awoke to the smell of hot tea and soft noises with my house. There was a familiarity I felt but could not explain as I struggled to open my eyes to see if this was yet another taunting cruel dream. I felt the brush a hand upon my face and knew it was my Donal come back to me. I opened my eyes and there he was. He had returned just as he had promised, returned with the winter!
That was well over 25 years ago. We have never married and most likely never will. We have loved and laughed and shared so many years together and I still get lost in his eyes. But this I know for certain, when the snows begin to fall and winter wraps it’s icy hand round the earth, my Donal will return to me just as he did that first winter.
by Lady Milicent Shiveley
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Easy Fabric Batik by Rohesia Anven of Thessalonica
Greetings,
A while ago I stumbled upon an art how-to “Easy Fabric Batik” by Dick Blick and am reviving it from my archives for this month’s article. It’s short, sweet and best of all it is kid friendly! There is no use of hot wax and is fun for kids (of all ages) to participate in. I tried it myself and the final product will be with me at War of the Wings. Follow the link below (which requires Adobe reader) and follow the very easy instructions. One note to keep in mind is that they call for a small class size amount of materials, which may be great if you wish to use this at an event, demo or A&S day activity.
In service,
A while ago I stumbled upon an art how-to “Easy Fabric Batik” by Dick Blick and am reviving it from my archives for this month’s article. It’s short, sweet and best of all it is kid friendly! There is no use of hot wax and is fun for kids (of all ages) to participate in. I tried it myself and the final product will be with me at War of the Wings. Follow the link below (which requires Adobe reader) and follow the very easy instructions. One note to keep in mind is that they call for a small class size amount of materials, which may be great if you wish to use this at an event, demo or A&S day activity.
I ran into some minor issues but for the most part it took minimal effort to create a really pretty final product. Keep your design simple and go and have some artsy fun! I have included an image with my try.
Left side is with the glue lines and the right is the paint applied once the glue dried.
In service,
Rohesia Anven of Thessalonica
arwynn16[at]gmail[dot]com
https://sites.google.com/site/byzantinetimetraveller/
Dukkering, Chapter Two: The Gypsy Trap by Baron Bardulf
Life would slow down after All Hallows Day. The harvest was done and the farmers had plenty of idle time and idle money. On a cold night, they would find their way into the tavern. The lure of a warm fire, the company of friends and perhaps some spiced wine would prove irresistible.
Dulcy usually set herself up in the fire-side corner of the public room. An azure tablecloth, two borrowed candles and some scattered herbs would set the stage. There she would hold court like a ragged gypsy mage-queen.
In that corner, magic reigned and a ha’penny or other petty coin would buy a peek at whatever the future held. While a palm reading was best for some queries, the cards were Dulcinaya’s favorite.
Theatrics were the enchantment of the game. Each card was revealed slowly and teasingly. The turn of a card brought forth a look of grave concern, feigned shock, or perhaps surprised delight. The secret to dukkering was to answer each question with yet another question. Thus a heart’s desire would be laid bare. When a few more cards were shown, there would be a raised eyebrow, a knowing glance, or perhaps a conspiratorial wink and a sly smile. Whispering a vague prophecy somehow made it all seem true.
However, this Sabbath’s Eve had been a wretchedly slow night, and there was naught but three pence in her purse to show for it.
It was near closing time. A few farmers argued drunkenly as to what next year’s market would bring. Off in the other corner there were four strangers who drank and kept mostly to themselves. One could overhear the usual debate concerning the vagaries of gambling, the fickleness of women, or the merits of one horse over another. By the look of them, they were likely nothing more than sell-swords.
“Tis Sabbath Eve, gentlemen, and midnight is upon us - we must bid all a good night.” The serving wench made her usual announcement to no one in particular. The farmers downed the last of their grog and ale while gathering their cloaks. The four in the corner didn’t so much as lift their cups. The wench went over to their table. “There’s an inn less than a league north of here. I’m sure you gentlemen will find a night’s rest there.” They kept their seats and said nothing as the last of the farmers left the tavern. “Surely you'll not break the Sabbath? There’ll be hell to pay if the Vicar finds out that you were sitting here with an ale in your hand past midnight.”
“What about the gypsy?” One of the men queried.
“I let her stay because she helps me clean up this rat-hole tavern. Now out with all of you! None of you look like the sort who will sweep floors.”
“Sit down and be silent, woman.”
“I’ve no patience for your nonsense. I’ve got work to do. Now get out!”
The man stood up and towered over the wench. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
He turned to the other three and gave orders…”You guard the door - and keep the gypsy in her seat. Search the larder and kitchen - make sure no one else is here.”
The brute held the trembling woman's face before his.
"Leave this place, tell no one what you have seen, and do not return until sunrise. If you disobey, the gypsy..." He glanced in Dulcinaya's direction. "...will be found feeding the crows in a field somewhere. Do you understand?"
The wench gave a terrified nod and fled the tavern.
"Give the signal that it's safe to enter."
By Baron Bardulf
Dulcy usually set herself up in the fire-side corner of the public room. An azure tablecloth, two borrowed candles and some scattered herbs would set the stage. There she would hold court like a ragged gypsy mage-queen.
In that corner, magic reigned and a ha’penny or other petty coin would buy a peek at whatever the future held. While a palm reading was best for some queries, the cards were Dulcinaya’s favorite.
Theatrics were the enchantment of the game. Each card was revealed slowly and teasingly. The turn of a card brought forth a look of grave concern, feigned shock, or perhaps surprised delight. The secret to dukkering was to answer each question with yet another question. Thus a heart’s desire would be laid bare. When a few more cards were shown, there would be a raised eyebrow, a knowing glance, or perhaps a conspiratorial wink and a sly smile. Whispering a vague prophecy somehow made it all seem true.
However, this Sabbath’s Eve had been a wretchedly slow night, and there was naught but three pence in her purse to show for it.
It was near closing time. A few farmers argued drunkenly as to what next year’s market would bring. Off in the other corner there were four strangers who drank and kept mostly to themselves. One could overhear the usual debate concerning the vagaries of gambling, the fickleness of women, or the merits of one horse over another. By the look of them, they were likely nothing more than sell-swords.
“Tis Sabbath Eve, gentlemen, and midnight is upon us - we must bid all a good night.” The serving wench made her usual announcement to no one in particular. The farmers downed the last of their grog and ale while gathering their cloaks. The four in the corner didn’t so much as lift their cups. The wench went over to their table. “There’s an inn less than a league north of here. I’m sure you gentlemen will find a night’s rest there.” They kept their seats and said nothing as the last of the farmers left the tavern. “Surely you'll not break the Sabbath? There’ll be hell to pay if the Vicar finds out that you were sitting here with an ale in your hand past midnight.”
“What about the gypsy?” One of the men queried.
“I let her stay because she helps me clean up this rat-hole tavern. Now out with all of you! None of you look like the sort who will sweep floors.”
“Sit down and be silent, woman.”
“I’ve no patience for your nonsense. I’ve got work to do. Now get out!”
The man stood up and towered over the wench. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
He turned to the other three and gave orders…”You guard the door - and keep the gypsy in her seat. Search the larder and kitchen - make sure no one else is here.”
The brute held the trembling woman's face before his.
"Leave this place, tell no one what you have seen, and do not return until sunrise. If you disobey, the gypsy..." He glanced in Dulcinaya's direction. "...will be found feeding the crows in a field somewhere. Do you understand?"
The wench gave a terrified nod and fled the tavern.
"Give the signal that it's safe to enter."
By Baron Bardulf
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Recipe by Vincent d'Orleans
I have an excellent recipe for Horsey Dorveys, a most delightful morsel that goes well with any fine chocolate and champagne. The recipe takes a bit of work, but with everyone pitching in, we can pull it off.
It is basically a hand pressed fresh horse pate’, wrapped in a crispy frog skin crepe, then lightly accented with a drizzle of a rich, creamy, snail shell sauce. Yummy. Nothing else like it.
Given how Silvermist hardly drinks, I am sure that she is not in need of her entire liver. In all likelihood, it is conceivably possible that eventually she would somewhat heal from the procedure. I shall need some help holding her down, but if I am not mistaken where the liver is, all should go fairly quickly.
What we will need:
If you get another horse this year, we can make this an annual tradition!
It is basically a hand pressed fresh horse pate’, wrapped in a crispy frog skin crepe, then lightly accented with a drizzle of a rich, creamy, snail shell sauce. Yummy. Nothing else like it.
Given how Silvermist hardly drinks, I am sure that she is not in need of her entire liver. In all likelihood, it is conceivably possible that eventually she would somewhat heal from the procedure. I shall need some help holding her down, but if I am not mistaken where the liver is, all should go fairly quickly.
What we will need:
A wooden meat grinder (to avoid that unpleasant metallic taste)
4-5 large frogs (or toads if none are available)
1 large Vidalia onion
Thick fresh cream
Mushrooms (Dulcy, whatever you have handy)- leftover escargot shells (hang on to any you get between now and then)
- 2 cases Dom Perigon
- French Tarragon (fresh stuff, not the dry store stuff, preferably shipped in that day from Paris)
- Silvermist
- rope
sharp knives- 1-2 horse tranquilizers
- sutures
If you get another horse this year, we can make this an annual tradition!
IMPORTANT! For best results, Silvermist needs to be on a strict diet of oats only for the next few weeks. She will like that.
Truly in Service,
Vincent
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