I see mist all about me. Myst. Shrouding the land, trees, hills, and boulders. I am Lady Lighthawk, with my hooded cloak and soft, suede leggings and high boots. I am waiting… and walking very slowly.
Then, Marcus comes. Greets me, helps me over rugged ground with a hand beneath my elbow. He came to me in a seeking for an Ancestor Guide… but he is more than that, different than that. He is my companion in a Quest for my own Self, and the ancient Magic that binds us together.
The mist is very thick now… hard to see even a hundred feet beyond, in any direction. But he guides me, secure in himself of where to go.
Suddenly, looming out of the heavy mist, are standing rock pillars.
“Stonehenge,” I whisper.
“Yes,” he whispers back.
We step into the middle of the Circle.
“We have to hurry,” he says, walking up to one of the pillars.
“Hurry,” I ask?
“Yes. Watch what I am doing, and then you do it, too… so we can get this done quickly.”
I watch him, in front of a pillar. He brushes his hand, from eye level down about a half-meter.
When he takes his hand away, there is an opening, like a tiny alcove. And, in the alcove, there is some kind of vessel. He breathes gently on it, and it comes to life. Green sparkling light fills the alcove, and stretches out over the pillar and upon Marcus’ face.
He turns to me.
“Understand?”
“Yes,” I reply.
As he moves to the next pillar, I walk directly across the Circle to a pillar there, so that we both have only a half-circle to complete. I walk up to the pillar, and brush my hand down its stony self, watching – fascinated – as it reveals its small alcove. I carefully breathe upon the vessel inside, and immediately the green sparkly light glows all around.
Smiling, I go to the next pillar.
Soon, we are both done, and the Circle of Stonehenge glows with a misty green Light, like Faery dust. In a few moments, the green glow is clear and sparkling, with all the mist now outside the Circle. Marcus conjures a log for us to sit on.
“Now what,” I ask.
“We wait.”
“What is that smell, Marcus? It seems kind of metallic… or electric… or something.”
“Ozone. Lightning. Lightning waiting to be born.”
“The Stones are singing. Can you hear them?”
“Not singing, my Lady, chanting. They are chanting and calling the ancient Magic.”
The log is situated at the south end of the Circle, and we sit facing north.
“What are we waiting for,” I ask, glad that he doesn’t get annoyed with all my questions.
“A Message. The Wind has shifted. It comes from the North. We wait for it.”
I put my hand over his, and find it quite cold.
“Your hands are cold. Is there something wrong?”
“No, my Lady. They are cold from all the energy I have used. Yours are a bit chilly, too.”
So we huddle close together, holding each other’s hands – waiting.
Then, from the North, walking right through the Green-lit Veil, she comes bungling in. I see an old bag lady, dressed like a homeless vagabond, with all her stuff in a rickety shopping cart. She comes all the way through the Veil, stops her cart, and starts unloading pieces of cardboard and plastic bags, right there in the Circle. With no more than a grunt, she instantly builds (manifests, I think) a sturdy cardboard shelter, and sits down in its south-facing “doorway”, with a newspaper for a mat.
She looks at me.
“Tea, girl,” she speaks brusquely.
As I am trying, then, to conjure like a fire and teapot and teabags, she looks at me and says, “No. Just a cup of tea.”
So I manage to manifest in my hands a hot cup of tea, steaming in the chill air.
“Wished you’d a thought a that earlier for yourself, hmmmmm?”
I’m startled that she reads my thoughts before I’m even thinking them, but I hand her the cup of tea, making it Irish Breakfast. In her hands, she re-works it to hold cream and sugar, as well.
“The English, you know, like tea this way. Sit down.”
Looking down, I see a copy of the London Times, 1956. A shockwave goes through me. 1956.”
“You remember deep things with electric shockwaves, don’t you?” She asked, kindly.
“Things I don’t particularly try to remember.”
“Wrong answer.”
“Um, things that resonate with Truth; things that are quite important and deep in my Path?”
“Better.” She pauses before continuing. “Did you hear me come through the Veil? Wait. Think deep before you answer.”
So, I stop, and sit down. I tell myself to unfocus, allow, be. And I recall her step through the Veil. A loud crack of Lightning. I jump.
“See? You did hear. Why won’t you let yourself listen? Scared?”
“Yeah… I … I… keep expecting bad things. I need to reconnect these sounds to their Truth and Light, with nicer meanings instead of all the false dark nasty ones, I guess.”
“One is a Word; one is a Noise. When you are in a safe place, practice Listening. Things have shifted, and you have asked to become more in tune, more your Truth. So you are hearing more, feeling more, knowing more. I am here to help you see more.”
And saying this, she touches my forehead with her finger. This is not the gentle breath igniting the alcove lights. No. This is a lightning strike blasting away the stone in front of the alcove of my spirit-self. Green-fire Lightning flashes and arcs from her finger to my very core.
I rock back, in stunned silence.
Then, I open my eyes. I look around the Circle. In each of the alcoves, now, the green light grows out beyond the pillar until it becomes a sentient being of emerald-green fiery energy. They are as tall and as thin as the pillars, and reach out to each side with tendril-like arms to touch the beings next to it. Soon as they all connect, their green-fire selves meld into a dense Veil, like a circular boundary between us and the rest of the world. Then, tiny tendrils of green fire spread above and below us, manifesting what appears to be a Sphere. We – Marcus and I, and the Crone – are all within a Sphere of Green-Fire Lightning. Then, the flat ground at our feet begins to sparkle with spidery green threads of energy reaching from the outskirts of the Veil to the Center.
When they reach the Center, a node manifests, growing and pulsing, and bursting into a solid area of green fire with deep emerald-green flames, calling me. The Fire calls in perfect harmony to the Stones’ chanting. Marcus lightly drums on the log. The Crone watches me.
I look back at her.
“Go. The Fire Calls. Not the Fire of the Human’s Realm. The Fire of the Faery’s Realm. The Fire of ancient Magic. Go. It Calls for you.”
So I carefully edge near the Fire, expecting intense heat or burning or something. But I feel nothing but the Drawing and the Calling. And soon there is nothing in my mind but the Fire and me.
As I walk into its midst, I open myself to it. Green fire fills me. Becomes me. In my blood. In my bones. In my breath. In my thoughts. Green fire is racing through me like electricity, but not electricity… pure magical Lightning. It builds a Web of emerald-green Fire within me – purging, cleansing, renewing. There is no separateness. We are One. We are One.
And, at the point my mind finally lets go to this Emerald-Fire Beingness, I collapse onto the grassy Center… the Fire is not there; it is within me.
Before I can hit the ground, however, Marcus catches me, and holds me close, concerned, and vaguely I can hear the Crone speak to him.
“Hold her until she wakes. It may be a while.”
And she just vanishes. And all the green-fire Beings and Veil fall into me, except for the small quiet flames in the alcoves. I let go myself into Marcus’ arms, and sleep.