Tarot Moon

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High Priestess

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

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Goddess In Flames: Black Silhouettes

Swabia, 1558

Her words were passionate, but plagued with melancholy and confliction as they came, “The world has so many realms,” she said, pondering it all. Her voice was bodied with the strength that wrote every bit of her very being, but there was a sense of hurt, and love, and childlike spirit woven within. A girl was in there still who just wanted to be a girl, but the hard world wrought her into steel, it made Adalia sad when she thought on it. “In the East they recognize four elements: Earth, Fire, Water, and Air. In the West there is Heaven, and Hell, and Earth is only a dead thing to be pillaged, and exploited. Where my family comes from there is Earth, there is sea, and Sky. But the imagination… here,” she touched her on the forehead, it made her blush; she was such a shy thing then. “There is no end here. In the mind you can go anywhere… You are free.” She was so beautiful.

A shrill scream tore Adalia from her sleep. Her father’s irascible wroth had been woken in the late hours. It was an unwise thing to do. She listened. They went quiet for a moment. She shrunk under her bed covers, fearing what might come next. Then she heard her mother mewling, and begging, and through the walls the sounds of her suffering bled through. Her mother quailed, and her father cursed. Tears drew from Adalia’s eyes. The blows were so deafening in the night they echoed off the boards that walled her room. The neighbors would be waking soon. If she were going to get away she would need to move fast. There was nothing that could quicken the lust hungry monster that was in her cruel father like the disappointment that her mother drew out of him. Quickly she wriggled herself into her dress and pulled on her boots. Then she escaped out her window and she ran, crying. Her father would only storm into her bedchamber to find it empty long after he was finished objurgating his wife for whatever great offence she could have caused him. There at the doorway he let go of his rage, falling into confused despair. He looked at the swollen bruises on his knuckles, and listened to the waning whimpers still clinging to her lips. It was her fault, he told himself. The girl was as wild as her mother’s treachery.

Adalia did not know where she was going, she just ran. On and on she went, hurtling into the foliage, and up an old road until she was lost in the wilderness. The forest never scared her, not so much as did her father’s quick temper. Her home was so much like a prison to her, and in the woods she felt the breath of freedom. The critters went scrambling from her as she walked. She could not see them, but she knew when they were near. She always had a sense for such things. Animals seemed to love her; at least she liked to think so. Nothing ever hurt her out there. It was her place to go to feel safe. But after a time she saw something strange. There was a fire; its brilliance was swelling through the threaded branches. Wind burbled around her as she went to see where it was coming from.

She found the home at the top of the hill. Of course, it was the Eisenbergs. They were a queer presence in the city, mostly because they were scarce seen in the city. A new family, with a keen sense for business and art, it had fed them well since they had first arrived. She heard laughter, so she tentatively moved closer. Adalia suddenly found herself crawling in the brushes trying to see. The big cabin house was in the way. Her dress snagged on a limb from a bush. She yanked if free to the startling scream of a tear ripping in her skirt. It sounded so loud out there. But no one heard it. Twigs and dry leaves crushed and crinkled under her. She went on, moving as deep as she would dare to go, but the ranch was still so far away. A pile of rocks eclipsed the fire, but she could see figures swinging round and round. They were his children. The silhouettes bounded about so graceful, so happy. It was a queer thing, as they always seemed so miserable when found in public seeing, helping their father sell off his stores at the market square. But here they were, in high ecstasy. Capering, and singing strange songs, on the strangest night they could ever choose to do so. It was a cold night, and the end of harvest, said to be the darkest season of the year. A chill went down her spine, but for Adalia it was all so very exciting. She wanted to know more about them. She wanted to taste this joy… this freedom. Here, before a lively hearth they whirled, and cavorted under the stars. Their black impressions burning against the fire as it flailed like a golden banner made them appear as though they were weightless, like they were flying without wings. And Adalia watched with coveted eyes, ensorcelled, stolen with the wonder of a fly caught in the web of a seductive black widow. That night was October 31^st, and she would not soon forget it.  

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…”

Cone of Power

This piece is a depiction of a sequence from my upcoming novel, Goddess in Flames. After a hellacious battle, emotionally and physically spent, Brigid wanders off into the woods alone. She sets up her alter, and summons a cone of power, creating a link to her blessed instruments with her own inner essence. Tapping into the spirit world through a state of deep meditation, she calls upon the otherworldly beings in search of spiritual guidance.
Notice her strong biceps. I originally started this piece just to illustrate how physically powerful this character is. In my story she is forced to wear long sleeves to cover her toned Physique, for during this time period it was unfitting for a woman to possess such strength. One of the many important details to look for in my book. It was a very superstitious and restrictive time period.


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Ceridwen

My adaptation of Celtic Goddess Ceridwen.



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Exploring the forgotten

Spent all day working on my new novel today. I am pretty excited about it thus far. The more I progress, the more I realize the breadth of the world I am trying to recreate in this piece, and it is quite the adventure. Writing about the 16th century is like exploring a whole other world, that is bound by the strangest rules. Imagine a time where simply speaking your mind could land you in a dungeon where you are to starve or freeze to death, or caught in a malign torture device designed to twist, tear, or break an individual until they are forced to confess to crimes that which they could never possibly commit. While at the same time, it is a world of beautiful forgotten natural wonders. It really is a ying and yang type of universe, but so very fascinating to me. My goal in this piece is to guide my readers through the trials and tribulations of the renaissance period, and show them the beauty of a culture that has been misconstrued for so many years by ancient political propaganda. The word Witch as we understand it today is such a vague term compared to its true meaning. From the Anglo-Saxon word Wic, which means to bend or shape, it has taken on many different forms over the centuries. Like the many shape shifters in Irish mythology, it's meaning has evolved and transformed in our minds, and now I believe we are finally returning to that magical time when it can return to its true form. Nature dweller, or one who understands the wisdom of the earth, that was its true origin. Today however, as a result of the horrendous witchcraze period, we misunderstand the word as a symbol of evil, instead of enlightenment. The same charges that were leveled against accused witches, and heritics, were used to justify the enslavement of the Africans (who were brought to the New World, supposedly to christianize them), as well as the enslavement of the Irish who worked side by side with the Africans in The early days of America. The same immoral justifications would eventually lead to the destruction of other cultures, and the wholesale genocide of Native Americans. The patriarchal powers of the world have been training their subservients to view the world as a dead machine, to which men have a god-given right to pillage and destroy for many centuries. It is that same mentality that would lead into the witchcraze and slavery. We went from, "if one is different from the majority, then we should have power over them" to "if someone or something is different, then I should fear it" when we should be thinking, "we are all apart of this living earth, and so we should take care of each other, for we are all family." This piece is about a culture that once understood that concept.
I have learned a lot be studying the work of Starhawk. If anybody is interested in learning more about these topics, I strongly recommend you checkout some of her books at your local Library.

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Location:Witch, witchcraze, pagan, book, writing, novel, Irish, Celtic, Starhawk