Tarot Moon

#tarot
#themoon

Cauldron of Forever (a fantasy)

a Fantasy

for ages 17 and older

Inspired by Celtic Welsh, and Irish mythology.

3470 words

#amwritingfantasy

#celtic

for my Pagan friends

Cauldron of Forever

Long ago before even time its self, there was a cauldron of power. It fell from the sky and stirred the heavens, its potion brewing on the fires of the firmament. A golden tail flagged in its wake like that of a spirited stallion, charging across the clouds. Sent by the Gods, the cauldron traversed the vast reaches of a great Sunless Sea from the shores of Avalon for a year and one day. The waves carried it, filled it, and delivered it to a world called Annwyn, where a war was soon to come. 

     Fire and ice clashed beneath the shadow of the tumbling cauldron. Smoke and steam whorled, dancing like lovers—like warriors. A sword of light pierced a great stone, sending a wail of sorrow across the earth, lacerating her icy flesh, drawing forth massive pools of smoldering blood. Her crystalline lands turned to ponds, lakes, and oceans, encapsulated by great hills, and peaks. Soon the abyss mounted a titan of wind that called a challenge, and so lead in a joust with the fury of Earth’s fire. The impact of her great lance struck hard and true, sending a splash of crimson-rock and water high, just as the cauldron whisked by. The blood cooled, and a mountain was born, then another, and another. As sure as the potion in the cauldron brewed on the heat of the battle, the oceans of the earth boiled, cooking life into her crest. A new dance began upon the alps and lands: a wrestling of elements. They summoned new partners, who too brought with them lovers, and singers, and other patrons of dance. They would forever revel around a hearth that would forever feed the cauldron with living flame. 

Once long ago there was a race of Men born on war, as so was the life before them born in an endless tangle of limbs, caught in an endless dance at the call of a cauldron said to be the source of eternity. Undry, it was named by the ancients, and it would turn hearts to stone, as so it had once summoned life from ice. And it would begin under a cloak of darkness.

     A comely young man sat alone in the night. His hair was black, his eyes bright and kind. He had a heavy jaw with a thick beard, and lips that sang with a voice as sweet as they tasted in the mouths of the many women he had bedded in his young years. Promiscuous he was; for as a warrior of Men there was no end to battle quite as lovely than that which came from a woman’s touch. Stripped of his armor he relaxed in the warmth of the fire, wearing only his tunic, boots and breeches. His sword was set aside with his pack, as he played a gentle song on a wooden harp. Somewhere off in the distance a raven cawed from the trees. He answered the bird’s song with a sly grin that curled at the corner of his mouth as he played on. He knew who was coming. He wanted her to come. He was summoning her. 

     Before long more birds were squawked and crooned, they liked his playing. A rustling came from the woods all around him—a tumult of woodland creatures in frenzy. His smile widened as he quickened the tempo. The forest became garrulous, talking louder and louder. Branches trembled, bushes stirred, the green canopy that enveloped him was wild with activity. Then suddenly it all came to a still. The forest fell silent, and a soft loving sigh floated on the wind. He knew that sound well. It was one he heard many times before, but never from a goddess. A curious, feminine voice then chimed, “That song—what is it, dare I ask?”

     His deft fingers finished the song. Then he peered intensely through the whipping flames. There he saw the light of the fire reflecting from a pair of big, wonderous eyes floating weightless over the shadowy silhouette of the trees before him. Intrigued, he laid the harp aside and answered, “My dear sweet stranger of the night, forgive me for my impertinence, but I am forced to answer your inquiry with a question of my own—that is, does it truly matter?”

     The mysterious eyes shifted from he to the magical harp, and then she answered dolefully, “I suppose not. Tell me then, how is it you—a foreigner from the Southern realm—come in hand with this ethereal gift of The Gods?”

     He turned to admire it a moment. Then, with a coaxing, handsome smile he answered, “The Uaithne—it was called by its previous owner… He paused a moment, as to consider how to put his next words. “’Twas given to me as a reward in a tourney when we first arrived here some years ago. I was chosen to battle with a great warrior of the Fomorians. That was long ago. I have long since forgotten his name.” 

     “The Dagda, I know you,” there was suddenly contempt on the stranger’s lovely voice, the way she said it. The glowing eyes set a stark glower on him. “The Fomorians are my people. You would do well to remember that, Sir Dagda of The Worlds Beyond.”

     “I am known by the title of The Protector by my own,” he said arrogantly. 

     The woman then stepped into the light. She was so very striking with her long and silky black hair, creamy pink skin that was almost blue under the moonlight, and her piercing blue eyes. She wore a long garb of black lace threaded into the shape of flowers; they moved as she did, like they were nodding in the breeze. The gauzy dress formed to her hourglass body, only covering some parts from the wan light, but not all. Her petite frame accentuated her sinuous curves and made her a mouthwatering feast for the eyes. The dress she wore fell down the length of her body like a close-fitting gown, bearing most of her womanly glory. Her scowl darkened on the knight called, Dagda, she offered, “A protector ofyour own—as am I.” Boldly she sauntered around the hearth, closing in slow with her bewitching hips swaying seductively. “Why have you summoned me here, O’ knight of the peoples of Tuatha Dé Danann?” 

     “Why,” he said with a pause that only seemed to entice her even more. “To know you, my sweet Lady Morrígan. I have heard the stories. I lust to know your truth. For I am yours; since the first I heard of your claim from the lips of my fallen enemies, I have always been. They call you their shield; they call you their‘goddess of war.’ And so, I am naught but a man of war taken by love.”

     “You are naught but a man of lust taken by desire.” She spat in return.

     Suddenly he was standing, wrapping his arm around her full hips. A startled gasp slipped from her lips in his presence, a task not easily achieved from her by any mortal man. But in his touch, she knew then: this was no mere mortal. His sangfroid composure cooled the fire in her wrath, and fueled the fires of her passion. His mouth only moments from hers, he breathed a tantalizing whisper that said, “My desire only takes what it needs. And I need you.” 

     He went for a kiss but paused, testing her. She shuttered, but did not pull away; her wanting lips parting ever so slightly. When he pressed himself against her, his strong hands seizing her at the small of her back, she told herself to turn and flee, but her legs only opened more, and more. And then when he kissed her, she told herself something else, though she couldn’t quite recall what it was her conscience had said—something of treachery; something of a lie, but it mattered not. She was lost. Caught in his lover’s tryst like a fly in the tangle of a web he ensnared her, and that night he took her. He gave her his seed. In turn, she gave him her love, and on the morrow she would give him his victory.

     Long after, as they lay together naked under the stars, he told her what it was that he truly wanted, and with his sure victory to come she knew she would give it willingly. There were many treasures that the old peoples possessed; treasures like The Uaithne. Some were of great power. Others were for wisdom. But there was only one that could fill a cup as empty as Dagda’s: The Cauldron of Forever. And his was a covetous need to lay claim over it. He will have it all, or he will destroy it all. The notion left her with a fear that would swell in her heart. But her love was once a powerful thing, as so often did it dabble in the affairs of Men and War. It blinded her from what he truly was: a deceiver.     

     The war ended with a mighty blow to the aboriginal forces of the Fir Bolg: the Old Tribe of the Fomorian peoples. Dagda took them by storm, leading a host of thousands into their camps while they slept. It was a slaughter. Indeed, they invited the masters of their adversaries to inspect their arms for a fair battle only a fortnight ago. However, the manner of their attack would never be unveiled until their blood was long spilt from their wounds. With The Morrígan at their side, she summoned a great fog by which blinded the watchers of the Fir Bolg, thus availing Dagda’s advance into their lands. She sang a song to call on the wind, filling his sails and bringing his ships to mast on the beaches of Ireland where the war had began. Before long he and his brothers followed their King into a malicious onslaught that the Morrígan was not sure to forget. She had betrayed her own for love, and as she watched her lover put the sword to her kin, she was taken by despair. Her guilt brought tears to her eyes—tears that rained from the sky to cleanse Dagda’s armor of her people’s blood. And the rain lasted for days and nights. And it filled the banks. And begot her an offspring—a rival paramour. The Dagda looked upon Boann as she stepped out from the swollen rivers of the land and was seduced. The Morrígan soon fell scornfully from his favor.  

     His King Nuada fell victim as well, but he took up the crown and finished the deed, driving his enemies into the river to drown. He razed their kingdom and stole it all for his Tuatha Dé Danann. At the weeks end he claimed all of Ireland his own by conquest, and so he decreed that all men and women of the land show him fealty or perish. Boann drank the blood of the defeated greedily, and fat with her meal she made the country fertile again. 

They who would not bow down to their new king were left for Boann to feast upon. The many nights to follow were soon filled with dreadful screams, as no man, nor woman of the Fir Bolg were so craven to submit to his demands. They were a strong, and proud race; even until their end. Morrígan would watch sorrowfully as the last of her people were whist away by The Dagda’s latest love.

     Soon a celebration was had. To honor Dagda’s ascension as King of Ireland his men seized the Fomorian cauldron, and of its magic they summoned a great feast of soup and wine, lamb and mead, boar and ale; the generous cauldron never failing to answer their ravenous needs. For days and nights the revelry carried on as lively as ever. The King indulged in a surfeit of food and drink until his gluttony became him, and he was so fat he could scarcely fit into his own breeches. Drunk and mad with lust he took Boann against her wanting. She thrashed, and roiled, but in the end, she could not deny him. He would lay with her and bear a son, and he would lay with others and bring forth bastards. His men joined him. Without a sense for humility they took harlots and robbed the innocent young of their maidenhood right there in the open before the Great Hearth. The Morrígan watched it all, weeping until she could cry no more. She had herself become well with child, but the father had abandoned her. Her god of Men betrayed her, and his deception turned her heart to stone, as was the nature of those who lust for the Cauldron of Forever.

     One day in the forest where she had first met him, her Dagda, The Morrígan was lying alone on her back, writhing in agony. She tore away at her garb of flowers, allowing the tattered pieces to hang from her waist like the branches of a willow, flapping in the frigid gales. She heaved a scream in the grating voice of a banshee, arching her back skyward. Suddenly a mass of heavy chains sluiced out from her womb and whipped wildly about her like the slithering arms of a squid. A storm gathered above, and lightning streaked across the sky, as her once beautiful blue eyes faded into nothingness. Again she wailed, spitting up blood, black as tar. Then she heard the cry of a babe and she suddenly fell silent. Her lip quavered as her jaw hung in awe. She was screaming, but without a voice. The only sound being that of the keening song of a newborn infant. Then there was no pain, nor sadness—only hatred. A flock of ravens gathered around her, alighting on her, covering her, and then they took to the air, The Morrígan gone with them. 

     Dagda and his men tarried for a time at the Great Hearth, their carousal never ending. He quaffed a tankard full of ale when a queer sound came bubbling up from the cauldron. He sent his exhausted bride from his side and went swooning his way after it. Something like boiling pitch was gurgling sickly inside. His haggard face turned ashen at the acrid stench of it, a putrid smell that wafted densely at him. He drew back just as a loud pop came from within, and two black feathers floated out. All eyes were on the hearth—curious and terrified. For a moment, all of the cheers and joyous laughter came to a sudden end. 

Then a creature rose from the cauldron, the black liquid lathering her long, stringy black hair. The woman stood with a mass of black feathers hugging her body. She opened her wings, and the expanse stretched over all in attendance. Men and women stirred with fear, cowering away from the hearth; their king joined them. The woman was clad in black armor, and dripping mail, with rusty chains snaking out of the cauldron, possessed with terrible life. Resting soundly in her arms she bore a new born babe, ensconced by her coiling chains and tattered lace: it was a girl. 

Her canopy of feathers then broke apart, transforming into many thousands of screaming ravens that dove for the patrons, chasing them from Dagda’s royal camp. The king gave a startled look to his Boann, but she paid him little mind as she went scurrying off with their son cradled to her breast. Standing before the nightmarish faerie he went for his sword. However, before he could draw the blade from its scabbard a deafening voice boomed, “You dare take your greatsword to your own?”

A mysterious force sent the bulbous man tumbling, his golden crown skittering across the dirt. Fear unmanned him as he stared up at the beast with widened eyes and his pleading hands trembling before him. 

The Morrígan glared down at him through the strands of dripping hair that fell over her face. Black blood ran down the length of her neck from her sliced lips—scarred by his traitor’s kiss. Her glowing eyes flashed as she said, “You are a fool, King Dagda of The Worlds Beyond. You are no protector!You are a liar and a fraud. You slay your own to gain your prize. You spoil the fruits of Undry to poison your soul. You are a blind fool. Do you not see this Cauldron of Forever as the gift that is Annwyn—your generous mother earth? Do you not see how you take from her as you have taken from my land? Verily, you do not!” She looked down at the sweet child in her arms. The babe awoke, yawning innocently. She smiled her way. Broken, her mother spoke sadly, “As so, you do not know the like of your own flesh and blood: your daughter and all that was once my love.” 

The king looked to the girl in her arms. She was beautiful. She was Light—the very same Light he had once seen in The Morrígan on that first night. The Light that had been extinguished from her now steely eyes. 

“She is the exalted one!” The Morrígan decried, her voice booming again, echoing across the heavens. “She is the fire of dreams, and she is the bridge betwixt the Fomorians and the Tuatha Dé Danann that will return the strays of Men back to The Light. She is the hearth, which burns through the night, and the forger to mend all things broken. She is the banshee that will keen for the fallen. She is the milk from the breast of goodness; the honey to sweeten the sour hearts of the exiled. She is life, love, sorrow, and joy. Behold, she is Brigid, and the sun stands still in her name.”

The king crawled to his knees. In the sky, the curtain of the heavens parted to show down upon them the brilliance of a lost sun. Its loving warmth upon him, its swimming light igniting a glow of shimmer in the tears that filled his eyes. His voice cracked with emotion as he prayed, “Dark Queen, forgive me. I shall take her, and rear her as only a good father can. I shall show her the love and care, I wish only I could have shown you. For she is all I could ever dream a princess of my own blood. My daughter. My sweet. My Brigid. Forgive me…”

He reached out his arms to accept his child, but The Morrígan hesitated, staring at the girl with her cold eyes. She was all that was once human in her, and soon she would be forever gone from her touch. Though the shell of The Morrígan was to never again know sadness, nor joy, nor love, somehow, she felt the last flicker of her humanity inside as it faded. She gave him the child. An icy tear broke from her rigid lashes, but it soon turned to steam against her fiery white skin. Then without another word, she vanished into a black shroud of retreating ravens, leaving Brigid and Dagda alone for the rest of their living days. 

Many moons after, a desolate Morrígan found herself wandering a beach at the edge of the world. A curious song on the southern winds had called her there—a beguiling song. She soon found herself at the break of the ocean where the waves plumed like warring clouds. A faint shadow was moving abreast the shore under the waters. It swam with the elegance of a porpoise, but she could see it was a woman. The submerged stranger had long green hair and a scaly body marked with dancing streaks of light from the sun’s rays. The creature came to the surface but did not peer out. Instead, she launched her silky, lissome arms out from the water, her clawed hands closed around the golden hilt of a longsword with a crystal pommel. The droplets ran off of its perfectly crafted blade like glittering diamonds falling from a beaming silvery steel. The Morrígan marveled at it for some time, her breath stolen by its beauty. She knew well what this sign marked, and so she saw the coming of a great war on the horizon: a war to shatter lands and mend them as one—a war that would call forth a new King—a child king. The Cauldron’s work was far from done, its ever-turning waters driving an ebb and flow through the waves of life toward. Pushing them all toward another chapter waiting anxiously to be read. A chapter to come. A song to sing… a Dream yet to be dreamt.    

The End

High Priestess

Here is my first Tarot card original art for 2018. The High Priestess.

#tarot

Beautiful Hunger

I heard her calling so I went.

The night was peaceful and somnolent, but the wind was pressing hard at my back. The breeze was cool and soft as a lover's touch, but demanding, hungry, and cajoling. Like a voice caught in the whistling gales she whispered into my ear. She told me to go to the sea. Somewhere near the smell of death lingered, but I paid it no mind as I followed her music to the break of the shore. Her airy voice floated on, beckoning me further. The frothy white waves stirred and crashed, erupting into plums of mist against corals and rocks. The tide advanced, eager to lay claim to the beach, for by the call of the moon it was rightfully hers. Cool spray took me like the spittle of a great beast preparing to taste its prey. Coaxing, as intoxicating venom administered to lure me into her trap, her song carried me forward… her beautiful song.  

Wading through the icy waters I went deeper, and deeper still. The ocean was alive, churning and shifting wildly, but I sensed a patience no terrestrial mind could ever understand—she was waiting, and she savored that. But for what, I did not know. The moon swelled over me, like wanting pupils, it's rays reflecting off the placid sea, shimmering as to eclipse the heavenly bodies in the sky. She guided me on my quest to seek the singer of this bewitching song at my ear. So beautiful she sang.

Then there came a darkness so absolute I felt as though I had lost myself in a great pool of nothingness, an endless abyss. The living body fell suddenly silent, stagnant in my wake. In the depths I found a leafy green growth swimming in the water, as if dancing to the lilt of the mysterious voice that still hung on the wind. The weeds swayed from side to side, like a submerged willow. Spiraling green ribbons caught in a vortex turned my way. Suddenly there were eyes upon me, peering up from the queer shrub. They were luminous, glowing in the red of love, the crimson of blood. Spellbindingly beautiful as they were, she caught me in her web.

She calls me still, and so I go to her. Her osculate lips locked on to mine longingly. Her full breasts against me, and her lathery tongue darting into my mouth, I tasted her hunger—I craved her desire. I prayed she would never let go. To my dismay she does not. She seized me by the neck, and wrests me from my own will. Though lissome and smooth as silk, her hands were strong, and so I did not resist, nor did I want to. Like a forbidden ecstasy, I willed her to pull me in and wished I had the strength to free myself from her grasp. The creature asked me to join her, to descend into her realm. I went, and even as my lungs heaved and the burn of the salty water filled them with blissful agony, I never fought her. Oh, so beautiful she was.

Her sleek scaly body coiled around me and squeezed like a vice, yet still I wanted it. My muscles turned to rubber, and my ribs shattered, yet still I begged her to take me. I was hers, she knew well as she opened her mouth to feed. Her jaw seemed to detach and grow. Her teeth were all at once spears and daggers sinking into my flesh. Drowning in my own hot blood, I bathed in her saliva, and came to be one with this beautiful monster. Piece by piece I filled her belly, dissolved in her acids, nourished her fibers, and fed her cells, giving her all the power that was in me.   

With the sent of my own flesh upon her breath, I have been transformed into this magic that was her song. Together we will call on the next to join us, to be consumed by love, and devoured by the sea. Soon another will follow suit, in search of the caller of that song so lovely, so beautiful… so hungry. Soon he will join us.

Core concept behind Goddess in Flames

Goddess in Flames is a work of fiction: a heroic romance that is inspired by true events. Taking place at the height of religious reform during the early modern period of Europe, the story follows a band of wood-dwelling pagans to explore the forgotten truths in their practices. The beautiful wonders as found in their mythology—a poetic paragon of our living breathing earth. The power of change demonstrated by the turn of the seasons, and the magic of ritual. A great journey between worlds awaits, where fairies and Goddesses are palpable beings. Where love knows no bounds. Where both man and woman are free to explore their power, and their passions as one. It is a story that will detail the grim tactics used by the Inquisition as they carry out a task to suppress a coming age of defiance. Their attention to record keeping, censorship, and techniques in extraction by way of torture will pave the way for a modern bureaucracy written in blood, drawn from the innocent. This is the tale of The Witch and how she came to be as we think we know her, and who she truly was.   

News on Goddess

Learning so much as I gain progress through my Historic Fiction: So much in fact, I am really dreading the second draft, as I will have to alter many entries and facts that I only knew very little about when I first went into this project. It was expected however, and I already have an alternative path prepared for my characters that which runs in parallel with the original outline. Working with such a vast world has proven quite the task when combining fantasy with reality. Especially when you are juggling so much information around—both fact and fiction—trying to hit all of the vital bullet-points of history, while at the same time trying to successfully tell a compelling story about characters that never existed. The Witchcraze period at its worst was a time of reform, war, and economical struggle, and there were a lot of factors that played into these developments, which must be explained. Not to mention that most of what we know about ancient cultures as such comes to us from surviving texts that were written by the winners: i.e- The Christian scholars who cataloged these activities before proselytizing them all. So too is it that most of what modern-day NeoPagans practice is naught but a combination of surviving traditions, originating from many different cultures that span all across the globe. We owe most of that knowledge to the Wiccan movement, which was first brought into public light by the venerable Gerald Gardner in the early 50's, who was too himself a radical idealist, but an honorable soul nevertheless, for being so brave to take his views and beliefs as far as he had during a still dangerous time to do so. Therefore, targeting the specifics in this topic has been quite the challenge for me, especially since this is my first literature venture in years, as so it is the very first historic fiction I have ever written in my life. One day I may write a full bio on this piece, detailing the trials and tribulations I was forced to undergo in the process, because It really is quite an epic adventure recreating this world. But until then, I need to just get it done and over with, and move on to the next great-pain-in-the-ass assignment. God, I love this stuff.

Preview to The Eyes of Awen

Heres a look at my new short story, Dreams: The Eyes of Awen. Ebook now available on Kindle.

The loss of her beloved husband has left her in a state of despair, spawning a hatred that would raze an entire kingdom of Men. Ceridwen—a magician of shapes, resurrection, and magical potions—condemns the lands of her king, blaming him for the death of her valiant consort. Her curses turn on her threefold, as her last seed is born of an awful deformity, her daughter of light and beauty is rendered blind of sight, and a plague is fallen upon her house at the call of a mischievous beast long forgotten from time. She looks to an ancient power to answer for her sins. However, her quest to summon forth a prophetic potion called The Awen, only paves yet a darker road for her kin to follow: a road blanketed with tinder that would give rise to the flames of deceit.

(Excerpt)

The screams that came of Mother Ceridwen during her contractions were nothing to match her cries of woe when Gwion Bach had presented to her the abomination she had birthed. The child she was to name Morfran was born of skin as black as coal, of limbs as twisted as the roots of a great oak, and of a face so ghastly it scarred the minds of eyes with sight. Creirwy would never forget the first she saw of him: sharp teeth protruded from his swollen lips; flesh layered with scales like that of a serpent; and eyes as white as death. He lived only to wheeze a single muffled shriek, and then he was no more. Mother held the lifeless child in her arms, the last of her lover’s seed, and wailed with dolor.

Creirwy ran from her home, and fled to the trees, the glow of her scintillating skin lighting her way. Fraught terror in her eyes, she ran until she could go no further. She collapsed into a pile of crisp, dry, autumn leaves, and cried.

She strained her neck to peer into the night’s sky. “Why?” She asked, expecting nothing in return, the glory of the celestial bodies mocking her sorrow.

“She wished for death, and so her prayer is answered.” A strange whispery voice answered.

Startled, Creirwy gasped. “Who said that? Who’s there?”  

     A hooting came from a lone naked branch above. She looked and found a snowy white owl staring down at her with fiery eyes. “Who?” The voice laughed. “Who, indeed.”

     The owl spoke to her without moving her beak, the words coming to her ears alone; menacing words. “Your mother has killed your brother. Her hate, her woe: it has poisoned her womb.”

     The girl sat up, pondering her words. “Can he be saved?”

     “No…” the voice answered. “She must learn to love again, or death will forever follow her.”

     Thinking of the boy and his repulsive disfigurement, the girl gave the owl a disgusted grin and said, “He was so horrible… so, hideous.”

     “If you could only had seen him as he truly was,” the owl insisted. “You would find that it is not he that is so hideous. Your vanity blinds you, dear Creirwy. If you could look upon him with your heart… ahhh!” The voice stopped short, intrigued.

Spreading her dabbled wings she glided down toward the girl. Creirwy moved clear of her path as the owl swooped by and flew around her. Circling round and round, sending up loose leaves in her wake she said, “There is perhaps another way your brother would breathe the breath of life once more.”

“How?” she asked.

“Sacrifice.”

The word came with a chill that ran down her spine like prickling needles. The brushes that surrounded her stirred, and an ominous cold wind came against her luminous skin. Still she pressed, piqued with curiosity, “What sort of sacrifice?”

A cackling echoed from the trees as the bird answered, “Your eyes…”

The Morrígan

War Goddess


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