Tag Archives: magic

The Witches’ Sabbat

Posted by Sarah-Jayne Farrer on

A dark lady, from a darker place, in the darkest time, comes forth to perform shadowy deeds. Her pathway is most crooked and madly beckons both Angel and Fool, but promises little hope of any safe return for either. Glowing eyes fall upon her, fast darting from the shadow, reflecting back the blackest of desires which burn unceasingly within her foul heart. For she, at this moment, has arrived to dance once more with her Sisters, and keep the age old appointment with her patron. An arrangement firmly made by her Ancestors, long before her mortal birth.

Underneath the pale light of the waning crescent moon and before an ample fire, she undresses slowly, slipping the hooded robe from her body; her milk white skin set aglow by the raging flames. She stands naked and proud before them; her unruly, raven hair hangs in waves down her back, a string of dark lustrous beads at her neck. The two girls watch, frozen in anticipation and silent awe at this spectacle.

Lifting a weathered earthenware pot of goose fat, pungent with the aroma of well steeped Witching Herbs, she slavers it onto her bare skin; a porcelain covering beneath which Eden’s cursed snake lies. Upon her wrists. Behind her ears. Beneath her breasts, and then south of Heaven to where God’s Light refuses to journey; the anointing takes place. As her head begins to shudder and spin, she quickly and with urgency, beckons the two girls forth.

Roughly disrobing and circling the fearful girls, she inspects with the Predator’s eye. And with the touch of the Nursemaid she anoints them with the eye-watering acrid stench of atropines amidst the rancid aroma of aging avian grease. She purposefully refrains from applying her own liberal amounts of the Flying Salve to their unaccustomed frames. She doesn’t wish them to fly too high this night; it is their first time after all. She is also keen to avoid the ceasing of the heart, an occupational hazard in such potent streams of their ancient craft.

Eyes widen, pupils dilating with confused exhilaration, these Sisters become uncomfortably numb and nauseous. Their dark world sharply blackening to the hidden Piper’s unfolding chaotic tune. Vision blurs, skin burns and throats dry. Their united cries become a rasping, hollow accompaniment to the increasing rush of noise within their head. Head swimming, the Lady plants the Serpent’s kiss firmly upon their arid and cracked lips, and then strikes hard with the palm of her hand upon the small of their fragile backs. And for that moment alone their world ceases it’s motion, grinding to a fearful halt, as stars in the night sky above them, begin to wink out. One after another the Heaven’s Lanterns are extinguished by the ghastly obsidian darkness.

Pungent plumes of grey smoke, a breath of scorched Moon-blood and resinous incense, rises from the Cauldron. And in that timeless and spaceless place, the Sisters seamlessly follow, rising into the darkness, carried by ill winds and Spirits that have watched and waited for the appointed time.

Now the dance begins: A larger, brighter, hotter burning fire. Heads alight, and blood warming again beneath their skin; the sound of it coursing again through their veins, filling their ears with the deafening, pulsing rush. Dulled senses now reawaken. The heavy smells of ash, blood, sweat and the sweetest of fragrant herbs assault their nostrils. As lightening lacerates the turbulent seething skies and the roar of distant thunder approaches, the Sisters sway and undulate to the fearful noise; as if softly caressed by the velvet darkness that surrounds their naked forms.

From out of the shadows and into the corner of their vision, the Mares of the Night step forth; patiently waiting to experience the young flesh, which dances so tantalizingly before them. They also know to leave the Witch with the Raven Hair well alone, for her hand is marked and reserved for another, their Master, the Lord of the Dance himself. As the pulse quickens and the dance picks up to a reckless pace, they draw in closer and then closer still. Dancing in wild, eerie patterns alongside the Sisters. The now wanton women welcome them until they are all but Shadows, whirling within and without the torn and twisted branches of the lightning-blasted tree. At dizzying speed, their heads, hearts and souls are fully released, and their hot, supple skin falls into the frenzied grasping hands of the Night Mares.

Lips clash, tongues entangle, corporeal and ethereal now merge as one. Rules and restraint are no longer valid here, for they have become unto Shadow, in which the unholy truth of their convocation lies concealed. For they are now bound by a dark oath taken; a promise which has been sealed beyond place and time. A promise which ushers forth memories that flitter between dream and waking mind, when they are once again set aflame by the toxin-led, lust-inspired arousal, that leads most to madness and some to death.

Howling now, with heads thrown back in fear and joy, deep ecstasy takes them and they call out into the utter blackness. To the space between the stars. Not in words, for words now surely fail them, but in guttural wild tones carried upon the dark winds by their desperate hunger for the source of this unholy communion.

The Witch with the Raven Hair stands still, motionless, surveying the chaos with her Hunter’s gaze. Her soft but sharp tongue speaks the ancient names into the void, singing forbidden psalms above the raging flames, until his scent overcomes her.

Wildfire, Man-blood, musk and the stench of damp disturbed earth; memories of the deep forest floor, of an Autumn, many moons ago, at the midnight crossroads.

He has come…

Regal, broad, tall and dark, the be-horned living embodiment of the Bringer of Black Light, now stands naked and proud beside the fire. He has called her name, she bears his mark and for her, there is no turning back. He reaches out for his Divine Whore and whirls her, deeper still, into the Devil’s dance. The inhuman waltz, both twisted and insane, bearing a choreography that melts the very fabric of time and space, as it challenges all rules and laws of creation and order. He has the lips of the Devil himself, and profane are the desires that dwell within his heart, desires which match her own. Deeply he kisses his raven-haired Witch; and she plummets sharply, and most mercilessly, into the white-eyed trance-state he demands of her.

“Remember” he softly whispers in her ear. She looks over at her two girls upon the ground. They lay like broken dolls, stringless puppets, muttering incoherently to themselves, annihilated by sheer exhaustion and bliss.

It is time…

The Serpent chalice is brought forth, and held aloft, she knows only too well what secrets that thick, dark red liquid holds. This vessel is brim-filled with a virtue that all laws oppose. The taste of iron coats her tongue, and with re-envenomed lips, they share that second, sacred, world-stopping kiss. Their mouths drink of each other. Purified in their filth, blessed in their corruption, they savor deeply. A wordless and formless communion takes place, and in the deepest depths of their shared solitude, they become as one. Passionate flesh abounds, in a yearning beyond comprehension, where their conjoined souls spiral down to the utmost depths, to the place where light is but a fading memory.

Once more, the ancient future is reclaimed; deep secrets are whispered and clear knowledge gained from the Spirits that whisper from the ice cold, pitch black, ebony depths of the secret hidden Earth.

And as the Good Lord’s Sun rises that very next morning, there is no trace of the Sisters and their consorts. No evidence of the Lady and Master, nor of their unholy union. Save perhaps from the pair of blood-stained hand prints on the trunk of the bone-white, long-dead, lightning-struck tree.

And of the Sisters three?

One dies while two thrive, the way it must always be…

Text – Sarah-Jayne Farrer & Matt Baldwin-Ives

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

* Witches’ Sabbat: photograph by Tracey Stephens’ with digital manipulations by Matt Baldwin-Ives.

Of Dreams and Memories – The Bone White Tree

Posted by Sarah-Jayne Farrer on

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’…

Posted by Sarah-Jayne Farrer on

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)