Of Dreams and Memories – The Bone White Tree

It is dark. The Moon, but a silver sliver, hangs suspended in the night sky. Silent. Luminous. The ground is hard underfoot. The day has been cold, but the night is chilling to the bone. The Land is now cloaked in ebony silk. Enfolding. Embracing. The Bone White Tree stands majestic, at the centre of the meadow. It seems to be made of moon-stuff. Glowing. Shimmering. Beckoning those who would be willing to spend a night ‘neath Her haunted boughs. Whispering. Enchanting.  Promising entrance, and clear guidance upon the inner roads that lead back to the source of all things.

The two who dare draw close. The two who are one. One with each other, and one with the tree.  The tree, one of the three. The three trees of resurrection. The Guardian at the gate of life and death.

The fire is built, by way of old custom. They pace around the tree.  Around the fire, against the Sun, grinding force and form with woven will, again and again. Once to lay the flour. Once to pour the water.  The fire rages.  Over and over. And they find their way back to the tree. Beneath the shelter of alabaster branches, reaching to the sky littered with stars, it begins.

She knocks hard upon the ancient trunk, announcing their presence and intentions. Tonight they need no riding pole. The Bone Mother will take them both where they need to go.

“O Bone Mother, Guardian at the Gate,
Grant us safe passage through,
Across the dark raging waters, to beneath.
Whisper now your secrets.”

They circle the tree slowly, purposefully; Soul to soul, Hand clasped in hand, the Witches’ grip which means all to some and nothing to most. Their rhythmic footfalls echo the silent beat, an unceasing and deafening rhythm that has arisen from the Deep Earth since the dawn of time. Fast rising through the tree now, surging and searing through them both. The world trembles, heads alight, shivers run down the spine. A deep sigh escapes her lips, and she clutches more tightly his firm hand, her anchor for the storm rocked vessel, her trembling body, mind and soul.

One foot in, one foot out, a relentless and merciless pace. The true path of the Witch, beyond all shallow literature and idle speculation, as old as time and twice as cruel. She knows he feels it too, she can see it in his gaze, and his obsidian dark eyes that are now filled with intense vision, as are her own.

The secrets of The Bone Mother come in vision. Secrets that She is willing to share, to those who are willing and able to listen with open hearts and minds.

Images flicker and flit before them, like the tongues of the Spirits within the wildfire. Maddening. Entrancing. Informing.

Soon enough they will pass, and the price will be paid. A sacrifice is offered, something of immense value and deep meaning. Wholesome Bread is shared, the loving cup held aloft and drained to the bitter dregs.

And silently, in the darkness beneath a fading moon, they commune, and give thanks, and are one.

They always have been, and always will be.

Text – Sarah-Jayne Farrer & Matt Baldwin-Ives

Image © Matt Baldwin-Ives (www.milescross.co.uk)

Welcome To ‘In The Chimehours’…

Welcome to ‘In the Chimehours’: An exploration of English folklore, folk tradition & magic, and my journey as an English Witch returning to her roots.

I’ll be working in collaboration with the boys at Miles Cross (Matt Baldwin-Ives and Ian Thurlby), who have been kind enough to provide all the images for this project, and have lent a greatly needed hand with the ‘back of house’ goings on. I’m so excited & honoured to be able to show off their work.

I want to completely step away from Crooked & Hidden Ways, and concentrate solely on this project, but the site will remain running (and I’ll be posting links there) for a while. To give everyone a chance to follow me over here, before completely taking the blog down. I want to thank all my readers, and friends, who have be following along these past few years, I am indeed very grateful for your support and feedback.  

The number one question on everyone’s lips during the lead-up to launching this blog was “What are the Chime hours?”

So with that question… Here we go…

The Midnight Hour - www.milescross.co.uk

“I wor born in the chimehours and can see what other folks can’t see, leastways, so they tell me”

‘Chime Hours’ or ‘Chime Children’ are not much talked of these days, as the chiming of church bells have become less and less frequent.  Not often will you hear the term ‘Chime Child’ uttered, apart from by those who follow the older ways and superstitions of the British Isles, especially those who were born within the chime hours themselves. Three, six, nine, and midnight are the most commonly accepted times of the chime hours. These were the hours that, in monastic tradition, prayers were required, and were marked by the tolling of the church bells. However, in Somerset and East Anglia those hours are held to be eight in the evening, midnight, and four in the morning. There’s still some argument as to whether a Chime Child was born exactly on the toll of the church bells, or within that hour, depending on where you were born. Still in other locales those hours are specifically limited to those who were born between midnight and dawn, Friday to Saturday. According to those, Sunday bore no Chime Children.

I was born on a Saturday, not long after the church bells were rung. A stones’ throw from the hospital where I lay wet and sticky from the womb, mewling naked upon my mother’s breast, the second round of tolls peeled through the night, marking quarter past the chime hour.

Those who were born within the chime hours are said to be gifted with ‘the eyes to see’. They had the eyes to see things which were usually hidden from ordinary people, such as ghosts, spirits and demons. The British folklorist T. F. Thiselton Dyer in The Ghost World (1893) states;

“Thus it is said in Lancashire that children born during twilight are supposed to have this peculiarity, and to know who of their acquaintance will next die. Some say that this property belongs also to those who happen to be born exactly at twelve o’clock at night, or, as the peasantry say in Somersetshire, ‘a child born in chime-hours will have the power to see spirits’.”

Children of the Sea - www.milescross.co.uk

Still other abilities are attributed to Chime Children. They are said to be skilled at herbal medicine, magic and healing, seership, and the power to control animals (both wild and tamed). A chime hour birth also made one privy to certain songs and carols; song and carols that would usually only be sung at certain times, by certain people. A chime hour birth could cancel out the bad luck that the mere utterance of these traditional songs, at the wrong time of the year, could bring. In some stories closer to the sea, Chime Children had an affinity with the waves, and these children were often the ones taught to sing the sailors or fishermen home. It is said that they can even control the sea and the weather, if born close enough to water.

Another belief was that Chime Children were the only ones able to see and hear the Ratchets, the spectral hounds of the Otherworld (the Cŵn Annwn led by Gwynn ap Nudd, or the hounds of  Herne the Hunter) which formed part of the Wild Hunt, and live to tell the tale. To catch sight or sound of those hounds was usually the harbinger of death, excepting those of a chime hour birth.

Chime Children are blessed with ‘the second sight’, and in times of old were watched closely as they grew, to see how their gift would manifest.  In parts of Ireland and Scotland, particularly the Highlands, this was accepted as normal, and it was believed that these gifts and abilities were God-given. Song and prayers were taught to the seer, in order to aid them to ‘see true’. As with any gift of this kind, many of those who were born within the chime hours considered it a curse, and would gladly be rid of it. The burdens of a Chime Child are many, especially when they have no one around to guide them in using their gifts.

“Es aw looked out my asey-casey,
On a moonlight night,
Aw sah th’ dead carrying the live.
Wasn’t that a wunderful sight?”
(Lincolnshire Traditional)

Text – Sarah-Jayne Farrer

Images © Matt Baldwin-Ives (www.milescross.co.uk)