Peter - Chapter 14.

Peter - Chapter 14.
And so, the days did pass. Finding a site of rare secrecy and security, our two modern day shamans, Lipton and Peter relaxed in this sanctuary. Gradually their endorphins returned. Lipton left for the forest each morning with the dogs. Learning the deer paths and rabbit runs that criss crossed the hill, returning with rabbit and pheasant to supplement the vegetables bought on a mission to town, all boiled into a pot. A stew that continued to feed them, changing each day, improving with time and each fresh batch of ingredients. Wild garlic was in season as were various wild herbs. Added to dried kibble it enlivened the dogs food who's wild reciprocance saw all rivalries abandoned as the three drifted in to single pack mind, relishing each day's hunt.
Left alone on the hill fort summit, Peter cut poles to form a shelter framework. The natural hollow of their initial night now stretched out with two walls and a pitched roof. An old tent found abandoned provided a waterproof membrane over which a tight woven cover of ferns completed a green den. Adequate sleeping space for all. Further poles driven into the ground formed a windbreak, filled with interwoven ferns, stretching ten feet further that covered the campfire that kept burning for their time on the hill.
Following the exorcism of Abel both had savoured the following days, happy in the bloodied hands of a well murdered demon. Slaying a beast of such evil power sits steady in the soul of a good shaman, much like a full Sunday roast lies on the belly of a straight worker after a fifty hour week. Yeah, a bodily fatigue but of noble labour. Muscles aching but a smile on a fathers face as his kids run, wrestle, fight and swear around the family table. But a pride in an honest weeks wage and the fed fold of wife and kids gives a warm glow, a pride in the pain of work. So too, the shaman having rammed his sword through the belly of the beast, having grasped a demon of putrid evil, held it right then slashed open its throat to let the demonic blood spurt forth as the horror slips away from this dimension. This pride found a mirror in the feelings in the hearts of Peter and Lipton felt in these days.
As the last synthetic opiates cleared away the shamans fell into a reflective period. Though uncomfortable, painful, nights of wakefulness lasting beyond the imagining of most, finally breaking into hostile bursts of nightmare harsher than most will ever endure in a life, opiate withdrawal can contain moments, too, of utter crystallised beauty. Memories lost or hidden that under normal circumstances could never return, can resurface like long forgotten shipping disasters. And after the horrors that all will know from trash films, the feeling that lingers for months is that of the sailors widow. Figures stood in all weathers, on rocky outcrops bashed by angry waves, dressed in black rags staring forlornly out to sea. Waiting in daily increasing gloom as realisation that what they loved, fed, supported and comforted them is never coming home again.
And it was twixt these two mind frames Lipton and Peter shifted over the next two weeks in the hill forts sanctuary. It would be months before the darkness would entirely lift. Part of it never does. The equal of any human grief. But the wounds of the soul, in time become less raw. Scars will always remain. There are heroin addicts that never smile again. Though there was purpose and drive in their recovery, reason to retune the bio system to its fine and harmonic balance, need to refind the lost sensitivity of the complex multiplicity of systems we call human being. Full retuning would take months but being the veterans of many such wars, the shamans shouldered their suffering with dignity. Neither moaned nor complained. At times both would leave the base camp for hours at a time. Walking off alone to carry their personal miseries, respectful of the other. No one likes a moaning junkie. Lipton could be gone overnight, sometimes two before returning. Integrated and lost in the wilderness, sleeping in some hollow or perched on some rocky outcrop, staring at the stars. Both explored shamanic possibilities, entering frogs, bats or birds. Training their mind into animal perception. These were important days in their development. All transition takes time. Both reached points of tortured madness, screaming at the moon. Broken up in tears of grief. Opiate addiction buries emotional responses. Recovery sees an archeological dig as forgotten problems, never fully resolved, reemerge. Lost freinds both assumed were grieved over fully returned in dark corners of the night in shudders of pain. Wakefulness and dream intertwine as sheer exhaustion plunged them under only to be brutally restored to consciousness by dark horrific nightmares. But slowly it passed. After a time Lipton and his two dogs, Peter and his husky cross, reformed into a pack. After three nights eating together they were ready. Still raw but work could wait no longer. With clean systems and full belly, a clear starlit sky, a still night, the campfire flickering quietly they opened a few mckewens champions and chatted for the first time in a while.
Lipton: "So, what happened when you met the Drulords of Cornwall and Orcadia? You've never got round to saying."
Peter: "Two very different experiences. Different places entirely and, as you know, pagan Druids like shamans are as relevant to environmental context as the flora and fauna. They are part of one thing. The mindset of the Cornish Drulords is very different to the orcadians."
Lipton: "I'm pretty sure I've had dealings with the Irish lot, you know. I hadn't thought that's what they were then."
Peter: "We're not talking about the new age knobheads, either. Modern Druids have absolutely zero connection to the true Drulords. First time I saw those fuckers was at Stonehenge, 82. In those days the authorities let the vast diversity of freaks, hippies, travellers, punks and other assorted Mystics and acid heads into the stones for the solstice. All were doing their own thing in the chaos. What was worst to me was I could feel who the true Drulords were. Then the police opened a channel through the masses for these wankers in dresses to march up to the stones to perform some made up ritual. I caught the few Drulords eyes as they were swept aside with the rest of us. Dressed like normal folk as they have done these last two millennia to avoid persecution. They were silent but looked both steaming with rage but also in horror as their religion was turned before their very eyes into some crappy carnival. A pair of identical twins, thirteen or so, a year or two younger than I was then both stared at me with warm hazel eyes. Their parents shielding them caught my glance but were more focused on the travesty of their pagan heritage, worn as blithely as this years fashion. In later years, the Drulords were as excluded as everyone else as the new age Druids were allowed to continue with their made up bollocks under the freedom of religion act. Must have felt like JC did as the crusades and inquisition murdered, in his name, the very people he'd come down to save.
Well, after this I looked into it. Officially there is no record of Druidism in England other than what scribes from the Roman occupation describe. Druidism has no written history. It was a knowledge passed down verbally. Not a religion as such, more a methodology. Like the scientific method. A system to negotiate reality, not a faith. Roman scribes describe a class of people with a variety of roles. They were judicial. Financial negotiators between groups though weren't required to pay taxes. Doctors. Advisors. Often in crucial land negotiations they spoke before kings. Their belief was that the spirit was eternal, occupying temporary flesh for a time before moving onto another body as the last expired. Reincarnation. Little known on their gods or goddesses though the spirit realm was regarded as the true reality. Their key role was being the sole access point for others to speak to or receive advice from the spirit world. As shamans we are versed in a similar perspective though we know of several other dimensions. The three spirit realms being those of clearest access. Whether their one spirit realm covered our more detailed navigations, I don't know. All the easterly European visitors, particularly Greek and Roman, seem most disgusted by the practice of both animal and human sacrifice. It's hard to know how much of the writings are sensationalist or political propaganda. But there's sufficient archeological evidence. Criminals but others too were ritually sacrificed to ensure the goodwill of forces beyond human control. Some say the patterns of the victims flailing limbs, others the patterns of spurting blood gave Druids knowledge of the future. Their importance in Celtic society can not be underestimated but it doesn't sound entirely good to me. Sole access? Sounds as controlling as a pope or any Christian priest. In all likelihood, like any other class, their must have every colour of the spectrum. There's records of them up to 200bc and for at least a century after. By the time Roman invaders wiped them out the population of Britain was some seven million so society must have been complex. Anglesea was their final stronghold. A massive group lived there till the Romans routed them out. No record after that. The clusters we've learned of can't be found in books.
During the early 1900s, around the time Alastair Crowley and the Golden Dawn were at their peak, some knobbers got together and decided they were Druids. Modern Druidism is only a hundred years old and not a single practitioner has a clue that the true Druid clans exist. I can't speak for the Clun, Welsh nor Irish but the Cornish and orcadians, those who'd even bothered taking a passing interest in it, laughed at the new agers. Comedy characatures born of a fashion invented by ex Christians that rebelled against their parents culture. Made up some bullshit on guesswork over the Roman scribes writings then dressed up to play out a fantasy. They see them as a soldier sees the sealed knot, battle reenactment types. What Christmas panto is to winter solstice.
A bit like we felt when the shamen got to number one with ebenezer Goode. Banging on about how good their pills are? Fuck! I find the opposite. Our sacraments require serious respect and extreme caution"
Lipton: "Knobheads! Most verily knobheads! New Agers piss me right off. I've seen them pretending to see spirits and stuff. But they're as faith based as orthodox Christians. Shamanic techniques and methodology deliver whether you believe or not. Too much, some times!"
Peter: "By 1983 I'd moved to cornwall. After leaving school, our gang of early leavers enjoyed a final year of psychedelic induction before everything fell apart. I'd gambled all on our alternative society. But once the path got tricky, I saw friends, good friends giving in. It takes discipline and commitment to live differently. So many gave up and joined the grey world of materialist convention and individual gain. There were others went mad or took to drink and dark drugs. I felt like we'd robbed the sweet shop then when the police came I was left alone holding the swag whilst everyone ran home for their tea. Most had just been playing out. When it got dark they had safe homes to return to. I was alone. Well, a few still stood left by their mates, and we pulled together.
The house we shared had grown factionalised. Maybe we'd lived too close. I met a girl called Sibyl. A Celtic witch of awesome sexual appetite though little regard for loyalty. Far tougher childhood than me. Sexually abused though unaware she was unlike any other. After losing a second house we were sofa surfing. Living with two lads who were suffering from psylocibin misuse. We all were by then. Looking back, taking psychedelics in the volume we did with little to no spiritual framework we were lucky we didn't all end up as mad as these two. I'd barely heard of shamans. And didn't yet understand that shamanism is not a faith, it's a methodolgy. So, a bunch of us who were all psychedelically battle scarred decided to leave Leeds. Most had been busted for dealing soft drugs and we'd had enough. In every way. Our early spiritualist reverence for the sacrament had held strong before we left home, and for a while after. But in the wider counter culture, we were innocents, as criminals, hard drug users and all manner of fuck up blended with our alternative society. Someone spotted a cottage advertise to rent in some rural magazine, deep in inland Cornwall and we moved there. I'd come to a blockage. In need of regeneration. Here none of us took drugs.
Me and Sibyl weren't first. Dean, the shaman I introduced you to in Leeds during the water tower mission was already down there. As was Chris, my brother and various others who came and went. We moved down when two of the initial crew couldn't hack it. It was tiny and we lived on top of each other in a commune of sorts. Isolation isn't for everyone. Pooling all funds and cooking together in loose rota. Sibyl gravitated to the kitchen, being well into the whole food thing. In summer the well ran dry and we'd bathe in the river. Hoyking water up from a nearby stream to drink. Me and Chris were the woodmen. Occasionally others had a go but me and Chris did three days a week each, Dave and Dean doing a day each a fortnight. My brother was able to become engrossed in the wildlife. I mean, this place was like heaven for city boys like us. Hidden away in a secret valley of the river Inny, a tributary of the Tamar, a good ten miles to the nearest town, a car driving by was rare, an unknown walker passing by a real event.
No TV, off grid we learned to study. Reading vociferously. I began my research into medicinal herbs. Dave would walk studying the birds, fish in the river and reptiles, insects and what have you. He had two buzzards. The first crashed into a barbed wire fence never recovered but the second, after decorating his room with shit, stayed with him for a month. The river was so clean. I remember looking down from the bridge as a salmon sculpted a trough in the river bed, ready to lay it's eggs. The male slipped around ready to fertilise. Yet as she spat her roe, a shoal of eight or so one pound brown trout ate them all. Those salmon were some of the best fish I've ever eaten.
After breakfast I'd take the bow saw and walk across the valley. About half a mile walk found me in a vast oak wood during a dying phase. Everywhere were prime columns of dried, seasoned oak trunks, six inches to a foot in diameter. I'd cut three six foot lengths each day then carry them, one by one, back across the valley. Here I'd cut the logs to ten inch billets then split them. It took about three or four hours each day to provide the nights fire. I've always been fascinated by trees but it was these firewood missions that got me into woodwork. The material was of such quality. It's weight and density, the structure, the smells. I loved it. Chris did the same, the others made a display of it when we had visitors, but, in all honesty, their efforts were rare. The seven mile each way hike to go shopping was always my turn too. Till the inevitable. Six young men living with an ultra crisp, promiscuous female, well, there was but one result.
" Still, pretty scummy shagging your mates bird. Worse if in family. But I got over it. They never pulled birds worth shagging anyway.
Back to the Druids. Travelling to Stonehenge 83 was very different than earlier years. It had grown massive. Thirty, forty, fifty thousand people by the final years. At a free festival. No ambulances, police, toilets. Incredible. For a time it was a city. An example of working anarchy. And I don't think more were hurt than at its inverse opposite. Glastonbury. Many now forget that Stonehenge is all our temple. Solstice has been celebrated there for at least three thousand years before Christ was born. This festival ought to outweigh any imported cultural tripe. When this lot have gone, current British society, a millennium from now, people will still be drawn to celebrate at Stonehenge. After it was banned, after the battle of the beanfield, hostel priory and other attacks on the traveller way of life, after the convoy was in wreckage. Michael Eavis invited the smashed up convoy somewhere to recover. The traveller mystic tribe authenticated a commercial festival. He allowed them to come stay for a few years whilst his business grew. It became straight summer festival for rich people. After a time this festival dropped all the spiritual significance and banned the travellers too. Eavis saw a deep and beautiful thing. An organic evolution out of poverty and rejection of the straight society, every man for himself was the culture that developed during thatchers ministry, travellers didn't want an empty, materialist existence, they wanted something deeper, something of the soul. Eavis took this, stripped it of all virtue, created a celebration of inebriation and mainstream music, and sold it to the rich. In isolation Glastonbury is an interesting event in its own right but Stonehenge was free for anyone. Glastonbury is for a wealthy elite. Arguably britains primary religious festival, above Christmas, Easter, Stonehenge solstice should be above this moment in British culture. It really is much worse than banning Christmas. The powers that be argued people need policing or they'll get hurt. Seeing those festivals working made me realise about police and authority. People will always do as they want. Police can't stop this. Only collect money afterwards from criminals after the fact.
Our gang had spread far afield. Animal and the Deviant were now prospecting for the Outcasts. At the time, the second strongest outlaw biker chapter after the Windsor Hells Angels. Others came from Leeds. Exeter. Swindon. Us lot from Cornwall. All meeting up at the henge. What a rebonding. That festival deserves a story of its own but I'm digressing.
The campfire was pathetic. Stonehenge can only support so much with very little nearby dry wood. Some had been hacking down green forestry logs and dragging them back on a rope with Animals Ariel Huntmaster. Me and Sibyl decided to go on a foraging quest. By now, under sleeping and under eating whilst over imbibing had rendered a few marginally paranoid. Getting away from our camp for a while was appealing. The Stonehenge festival spread up from the old car park, right up the fields facing the stones. The burial mounds at a high point provide a great spot to watch the sun go down, look at the stones on the horizon or just look across this mad temporary anarchic city. As we scanned the scene I became aware two teenagers, twins by the looks, a couple or three years our junior were watching the same picture.
Gregor: "A mystical mutants fair, eh?"
Skree: "Not many. How long have you been here?"
Gregor: "We've been here three weeks, roughly. The family always come down. Me and Gwen, here, were going to give it a miss this year but my old man won't have none of it. Bout you two?"
Sibyl: "Fortnight. It's getting a bit messy at our camp, mind. We decided to go try get some wood. Leave them to it for a while."
Gwen: "Looks like we're all escapees. Desperate for a breather away from the pack."
I recognised her piercing hazel eyes from somewhere instantly. I was pretty desensitised yet once the visual recognition found placement I realised I'd felt their presence since we'd climbed the burial mound, a growing coalescence to full focus on point of eye contact. Both were ahead of me. Shit, Sibyl too. Felt like the dumb wit finally getting a joke the rest were smiling waiting for me to arrive. It was warm.
Skree: "Last year, solstice morning. I remember you two. As the coppers shoved all and sundry aside to allow those new agers in dresses through. How the fuck have they wangled unique access on an invented religion?"
Gregor: "They're all in it together, new agers, coppers. How far have you travelled to get here?"
Skree: "Cornwall. Hitch hiked."
Gregor:"Which part. Me and Gwen, our family are based there. Do you know the Cheese Ring?"
Sibyl: "Too right we do. Seven mile walk from our cottage."
Gwen: "Ace! Were neighbours then!"
We all broke up in laughter. Looking back Sibyl was a powerful pagan witch, just a difficult girlfriend. Back then she had gnosis whilst I was beginning to question my mystical states. It would be another five or more years before my lost years but even then I'd begun to wonder if my instincts were right. But seeing them there, Gwen and Gregor, Druidic twins, I felt an utter confirmation of my early shamanic learnings. The planet had shaped this mound, using men of a much older lost culture to form a hillock for this meeting. A fixed point in time. Inevitable. It was warm. Like we'd always known each other but never noticed. I've only felt that ease with siblings, or the odd close friend. Like you, Lipton.
After talking a while the four of us headed on past the burial mounds, through gates as the land drops leading toward a small forest. Gwen had her dog but I can't recall his name. We'd barely got to the edge of the word when shots rang out. We legged it back toward site, fire wood forgotten. Local farmers were scared by this mass intrusion on to their patch. Anywhere else the police would clamp down on a firearm attack. Not on freaks at Stonehenge though. The year before, two coppers broke the rules. Arrested someone on site. Along with a thousand others I'd ran down to the prefabs where the coppers stayed. Working as one the mass of people began to rock the prefab. Watching the terrified police escape just before we turned it over felt good. But deep down I think most knew, there would be heavy payback down the line. A stray shot gun pellet had pierced Gwens dogs ear. This sort of finished the joy of being there. Our encampment was too messy to stay. Back round the pathetic fire after two hours coaxing the green branches into flame, a hand reached from a near tent pinching a used nappy. This fire was too weak to beat a damp teabag but a used disposable nappy? Fuck. The lass Zoe had brought a baby less than a week old. And we weren't travellers then. Just City hippies in tents. No campers, buses or benders. We just stared at the shit flavoured smoke and with a silent glance me and Sibyl decided to hitch back to Cornwall at first light. As our last evening there got underway we looked out from our tent doors. We were the only tent smart enough in our bunch to look outward, away from the fire.
Spread out in a twenty yard circle were a large Hells Angels chapter. The Deviant was with us and the Outcasts were at war with them at the time. His colours were covered but I could feel his discomfort. What took place I'll never fully understand. One of them had committed some crime and a trial took place. Prosecution, defence, independent mitigation speakers and previous character, all represented and all angles explored. Easily the judicial equal of normal crown court. Less biased if truth be told. But the poor guys punishment was to be severe if found guilty.
We took our moment to slip away to bid farewell to Gwen and Gregor. Their bender and truck made our pathetic tents look shanty town squalor. A well stocked burner with cooking plate where the mother prepared a thick stew. That night the twins parents were a bit off with them, and us. We'd all had enough. Stonehenge solstice is big for their kin. Proper bloodline Drulords, these lot. I mean, this festival era since the seventies was a tiny blip in their ancestors use of the site. You could tell they found the festival a bit nihilistic but they embraced the people's right to celebrate and intoxicate as they saw fit. As kids, Gwen and Gregor had lived their lives to codes and leaving now, before summer solstice, had their parents melancholic. Annoyed even. I gave my deepest respects but explained we were fucked and had to go. The twins took their father aside as they muttered amongst themselves. After ten minutes debate they returned.
Gregor: "Dad, reluctantly, says he'll drive us back. If you want a lift be back here at six. He's not happy with us, mind, so you'll have to be on time. He'll be fine with you."
That sorted, the psychic endurance of Stonehenge festival now with end in sight, found us in a buoyant mood. We drank some scrumpy but nowt else then left them till the morrow.
We were up and packed before any of our lot had even woken up so we left notes. Turned out they'd all decided to take up our invitation to come to recover for a few days with us in Cornwall, so we'd be seeing them in a day or two anyway.
Gregor and Gwens old man Grendel drove a MAN long wheelbase flat bed truck. He'd cheered up a bit and waved us on to the back. Shoving our rucksacks under a heavy tarp we thanked him for the lift. They took up the three seats up front but, to be honest, this suited us. Sibyl and me unrolled our sleeping bags then crawled under the tarp. We looked out as the truck rolled towards the gate, having a last look at the midsummer madness. Then wriggled out of site in case police were up to the usual trick. Pulling over strays like cheetahs picking off the lame gazelle. I slept better on that journey back than I had all fortnight. We'd miss solstice but having the cottage to ourselves, even for two days before the rest came back, felt much better. Food. A clean bed. Some silence. All awaited.
I felt Grendel pull up and nudged Sibyl awake. Peeping from under the tarp I realised we should have been more clear on where we lived. From Launceston its only seven miles and we'd often hitch a lift some part of that. We were up on Bodmin Moor. Still, only ten miles to lower trebullet.
Gregor: "Here alright for you?"
Sibyl: "No it's fucking.."
Skree: " that's perfect for us, just ten miles." I didn't want to moan after their generosity.
Grendel: "Which way? We go south now."
Fucking bingo. I jumped off the back and asked to see his map. They were headed our way. Half way home.
Skree: "Drop us at the cross. We can get into the lanes there."
So they did. They asked us if we wanted to come back to theirs for breakfast but we were homesick. Gregor spread open the ordinance survey, pointed to a road leading to a forest where he said, if you're driving to leave your vehicle. From here he drew out in pencil a track the cartographers obviously didn't know, leading deep into a forest. He described a foot bridge that we'd have to cross. Also he told us it's rarely open so walk upriver a quarter of a mile and look over the other side. In winter, we were told, their cluster of houses is easily seen but when the trees are in leaf they're tough to spot. Once there, yell like mad until someone hears, then walk back and they'll open the footbridge. Well, most will. Grendel said if it's his dad that hears, run like fuck. He don't like people and finds it safer to shoot till they're at lest wounded before he'll discuss crossing over.
Basically, they lived about five miles up the river Inny. I've been in that forest, well, its edgelands. So thick you need a machete to get through or insider knowledge. Easy to get home if you're lost though. Downhill then downriver. Gwen and Gregor invited us over in three days so me an Sibyl could have a day or twos peace then escape from the Stonehenge refugee mob who, by the sounds of things, were coming down in number. They said they'd light a fire so we could look for the smoke. Sounded good to me, so we hugged, grabbed the map he'd pencilled on. We're about to leave when Grendel called me over.
Grendel: " There's things you need to know. I know what you are, you stink of shamanics. Now, much as you may think otherwise, we are fuck all like you. Modern Druids will have no doubt influenced your ideas of druidry, you're nothing like us, ok? However, in the greater scheme of things we're on the same side. Same fucking enemy, any road. Stinking like you do boy, it's only a matter of time before some demonic cunt from the other side or some copper or psychiatrist from this side, comes for you. You like a baby deer with a broken leg. My old man would probably kill you just cause he could. Now, don't be scared. I can help you a little. But chances are you're fucked, if I'm honest. Another thing, don't trust that Sibyl. She's a dark fuck. I don't like witches much anyway. Don't fuck with my kids heads while I'm away either. When I was their age, miss a solstice and my old man would cut off a finger. Two for Equinox. But I'm open minded. Modern ways, me. That's why I'm offering my help. Be at the Cheese Ring midnight next full moon. If they've done you in by then I'll not be angry so don't worry. Well, I'll be quite angry with you, if I'm honest. And don't forget, dump your mrs."
And here we were dropped. A five mile walk through the lanes. Gwen smiled and Gregor waved. Grendel spat and shook his head. "Fucking shamans, cunts! Shagging a fucking dunker, too. Pair of cunts!"
What the fuck was that about? If Grendel is open minded, modern thinking then what the fucks his old man going to be like? I said nowt to Sibyl. Too tired for an ear battering. Maybe I shouldn't trust her. I mean, I knew she was a slag but I'd had to get over that. But surely she couldn't hurt me more than she has already.
Once over the bridge there was only a couple hundred yards of tree cover before we saw the cottage. Home. Food. Sleep.
Rarely has any place I've slept felt more worthy of the word home. Teacake, the semi feral tomcat who lived half his life with us had left the remnants of some eight rabbits across the cottage floor. Stomachs, ears, feet etc. he'd go off for days anyway, returning with a leap onto the bottom half of the stable door. A full size rabbit in his jaws. We'd left him cat food but he liked to eat organic locally sourced fresh stuff. We barely drank tea and toast before falling into bed. Sleeping off Stonehenge damage.
The roar of Animals Ariel Huntmaster returned me to consciousness. His prospecting for the Outcasts had come to an amicable end. It's a tough life, that of the outlaw biker. He liked a drink and bikes, but the politics and gang rivalry never suited. Next a second Outcast outcast arrived. The Deviant had had enough too. Meeting up with us lot, his old gang at Stonehenge had brought home what he left behind. The outlaw biker brotherhood provides family, security and true loyalty, something sadly lacking in the modern day. But there's a price. Commitment. All in or out. I loved meeting that lot. Too young to be any kind of apprentice or threat, still they looked after young and wild boys, lost in the world. Mascots. Younger brothers to protect. It would be a few years before the Outcast rivalry with the Angels and less civilised associates like the Road Rats would find its conclusion. A bloodbath and dead bodies. Men who gave their lives for a cause. Their deaths delivering the stupidity of the whole game to those left alive. Now disbanded, some joined the Outlaws, others went nomad. Most grew out of it all.
Further faces from Exeter arrived. More lost friends from leeds. Plus the cottage hardcore, twenty odd friends, scattered for a year, reassembled at Stonehenge, recuperating at the Cornwall cottage. After the festival a week in the rural peace brought a bond, a re linking of the Leeds underground chain.
Three days were up and I nodded to Sibyl. Both of us knew not to say where we were off. The Druid twins were cool but I'm not sure what would have happened if I'd dragged my outlaw clan to their sanctuary. Thursday morning we walked off. Heading for an off licence with hashish and twelve microdots, six white, six blue. Bought at Stonehenge, supposedly the last remains from the operation Julie laboratories. It turned out, as guests, nothing we offered was needed nor accepted. This high quality acid was floating about into the early eighties, such was the scale of production. By now I'd drifted away from psychedelics. I can't have done three trips in the last year. I'd grown to fear it a little. I think it takes until mid to late teens to be able to think of madness. At the time there was so much propaganda about acid casualties. The underground was a haven for any of strange mindset but, looking back now, all psychosis I saw came naturally, from speed or weed. But the seed of doubt was sown. Maybe our sacrament wasn't the evolutionary trigger we'd thought? Maybe we'd all end up like Syd Barrett. Touted at the time as an acid casualty. Later it became clear his fragility would have emerged under the pressures of fame, acid or not. The seventies had that feel toward the end. The LSD dream had failed. Punk rock, nihilism, sexual dysfunctions, a cold lonely time of political polar diversion, racism, leftism, Thatcherism, socialism. Art had been crunched by politics. Suicides were martyrs in social realist monotone. The free festival scene was yet to blossom into the convoy and it's subjugation. The mystical was deeply repressed.
Gregors directions were good. We found our lane that skirted the hardwood forest. Abandoned vehicles in various conditions from road worthy to rusted scrap in a lay by marked where the hidden footpaths led into the undergrowth and woodland. We walked an hour in midday shade. Mosses and fungi in abundance cushioned our venture. Light ahead as the land dropped to the river elevated our spirits. As promised the two jetties pointed from either bank. Stumbling upriver through brambles and decomposing leaf mulch, no path just the splashing sound of water led us on. Sibyl smelled smoke in the air, steering us to the river bank. The break in tree cover shone some light across but we could see no buildings. We cracked a can and rested a while allowing our eyes to readjust. Right on cue I spotted a plume of grey woodsmoke pointing skyward. We'd cracked it.
Sibyl: "Gwen, Gregor!"
Skree: "Over here!"
On the opposite bank what appeared to be a heap of leaves shifted shape in silhouette.
Grenden Spite: "Get you's to fuck!"
A shotgun blast cracked the silence as a sphere of lead shot sailed into the undergrowth to my left. More voices now, berating the shooter. I'd not noticed we'd dived but both me and Sibyl were tight to the moist forest deck.
Gregor: "Grandpa, you senile twat! These are freinds. Remember them things? Freinds?"
The leaf heap grumbled back into the darkness as the twins gleeming faces brought us down from the shotgun terror.
Gwen: "You've made it down. Minted! Make your way back and we'll swing over the footbridge."
I put an arm round Sibyl, she hated guns, we walked back in parallel to the twins on the other bank. Attempts at conversation failed as the river in spate drowned all voices.
I'd not seen it before but above the far jetty, in line with the trees, was the drop section of the footbridge. Gregor unleashed its hemp tethers and lowered the narrow walkway down, sinking snugly into our jetty, linking river banks. Sibyl ran across to greet Gwen but two stone heavier I trod the basic footbridge with less trust. Algae and moss had blended the man made into something organic. But nothing was rotten and the four of us reclustered.
Skree: "What a place. You'd never find this down here."
Gregor: "All I've known as home. Let me take you round."
Sibyl and Gwen were nattering, pointing out forest flora. Herbal rarities. Complimenting each other's hair, shoes and female shite. Gwen was an elfin princess but at fifteen still a kid. Sibyl had city tackle that lit up her rural eye. Still, Gregor, her twin, though three years my junior was my equal. More a man in many ways.
Gregor took us on a guided tour of their hidden settlement. Once the footbridge was retracted by rope and winch he walked us to a derelict looking mill house. The superficial decay hid a fully operational water turbine that powered the whole set up. Waterwheel driven this took up half the building, the living area housed his parents, still at Stonehenge. Walking deeper into the woods a further five dwellings housed more of the Druid clan. Two old workers cottages both had couples with children and deeper still was a vast bender the size of a tennis court. Gregor spoke of some caves, half a mile beyond. The homes of the original Cornish Druid sanctuary. The twins stayed here and said we'd be kipping there later but first we had to introduce ourselves. Guests were extremely rare, Greg informed us. Years went by with no new admittants. Back then there were still some forty odd rural tramps who walked Cornwall. These secret hedge monkeys were welcomed each year, usually staying till the Drulords got sick of them sponging and sent them on. After a year, their behaviour was forgotten and returning each found welcome again till the usual expulsion.
Both twins warned us they were in the families bad books over leaving Stonehenge early. Grendels dad Grenden was most angry and had gone roaming the woods with two pints of peel shine liquor and his shotgun for two nights grunting about his sons modern ways, how he ought to cut off fingers and stuff. This morning he'd stumbled out of the woods with an empty bottle and bloodied fists. When he had these moods only his wife could soothe him but two years now buried everyone was sick of his periodical internments, dragging what remained of her corpse around, stinking up the place till the shine wore off when the rest of the group would pester his aching brain till he returned her to the earth. Nevertheless, all agreed we'd best meet our hosts first. Gwen and Gregor told us once this was done we'd be free to go hang out. Both apologised at their paranoid relatives but they held little trust of outsiders born out of years of persecution. Besides, they'd cooked and refusing food in most cultures can come over rude. The three peels of a bell rang out announcing dinner. The twins led us past the mill house and cottages, up to the vast bender. A few giggling kids pointed whilst adults heading the same way affected nonchalance whilst stealing glances of the new types on site.
Possibly the biggest bender I've ever seen. It's form, an amoeboid, lumpen mass of tarpaulins and other water proof sheeting must once have been a harlequin of colour but time, lichen and moss unified it to a thing of nature itself. I could see three points at least where chimneys bled out thin woodsmoke. Stepping through the doorway my vision blanked for a second to retune from daylight. The floor built on a vast raft of lorry pallets, insulated with layers of corrugated cardboard, topped with carpet. The entrance area was lined with boots, wellies and shoes under a timber frame over which an assortment of coats were laid. Hazel branches, a finger thick, driven into the soil and bent in hoops formed the structure supporting the variety of tarpaulins. Through a secondary doorway of flaps we followed the twins into the main Hall. There were several openings like the one we just entered through leading to some dozen odd rooms. The place was a badger sett. By far the largest straggling bender I'd seen. Over years it must have been extended, growing out over the forest floor like a vast termite mound.
As our eyes adjusted to the scene, emerging from the dark into the pre electric light quality of old portrait paintings. The central glow blending off into shadow. The long dining table, thirty odd feet in length, five wide was illuminated by two lines of candles spaced a foot or so apart. Sixty candles a night, by, this lot must get through them by the lorry load. A number of steaming dishes and pots sat in line down the centre along with various seasonings and condiments. Seven or eight sat down each side with Grenden at the head, the only one not staring at us, already gnawing on a chicken drumstick. Addressing the table,
Gregor: "Last year at Stonehenge there were over a thousand faces round the stones at dawn. Gwen and myself looked around, feeling for any kin folk. Like two aquamarine stars glowing in a gravel pit, these two stood out so brightly we felt compelled not to openly project their glamour. We caught eyes but never spoke. Three days ago, the goddess placed the four of us on the burial mounds. Their nature is barely known to them. In fear for their safety we invited them here, under strict order from Grendel he asks you all, as do I, to welcome both as family. Sibyl, a pagan witch and Skree who was chosen, born with the powers you can feel."
We were both embarrassed. Born as a what? But most of the eyes looked warm so it seemed polite to give a few words to express gratitude.
Skree: "Gregor and Gwen, all of you, we are honoured as your guests. We live five miles down river, in a cottage with friends. We are from the North. Leeds is our city of birth, Sibyl in Chapeltown and myself in Alwoodley. The gifts and skills the twins speak of are modest. Sibyls knowledge on entheogenic plant law and herbal medicine is as deep as any her age, myself, however, I feel I have the knowledge but, as yet it's like a pre pubescent yearning. Grendel expressed a wish to help me disguise myself so I hope he returns, eh?"
Some mumbling laughter at my nervous introduction dissolved into hungry impatience.
Gwen: "Eat, if you like, I just want to introduce you all. Skree? You and a Sibyl can use our parents seats tonight as they'll not be back for a while. At the head of the table, scoffing away is our grandfather, Grenden. I think your meeting over the river spoke more than I can with words. Grenden Spite was married to Holly Togan. Sadly she passed away two years back. The lady to Grendens right is Grandma Togan, Hollys younger sister. Next down is Gran Dunnock, the widow of Grendens elder brother Glenn. Now with Holly."
A drumstick missed Gwens head by an inch, "Thar cunter not with my holly! Your tongue, Gwen, a demons cock, it is. A conger of deceit and bullshit. Don't listen to her. Holly waits for me, I keep check, so I does!" I'd thought he wasn't listening but his anger thinned the air.
Gwen: "I'm sorry you misunderstand me. I shall contemplate my laxity in long solitary walks!" The sarcasm went over the wild mans head who returned to his meat.
Gwen: "Holly, Grendens loyal wife is in the afterlife, some distance from Glenn. Both are buried near the caves. This lot here, the family Togan, Georgia was a Spite but wed Glyn, together you see their sat in line. Polite as always. Gretchen is eighteen, her sister Sianna fourteen and young Rob is eight. Opposite them are the Dunnocks, Gagger took Gayle Togan as his wife, the blond lad sat by his mother is Samuel, ten. To his right, his sister Molly, seven, and that cheeky tyke is Jack, four last Sunday. Our beloved grandfather Grenden is Grendels father, his wife Gorgie was a chavro. He pulled her at some festival and after years of pestering Grenden, they married and now she's one of us."
Grenden: "Lad there! The eel tongue your following spits facts of no crubbage. That bitch isn't one of us and when she dies her corpse ain't staining the compost of my forest. It'd be like yellow piss in snow. I yelled my son no, but he'd not give. I'm a free thinker, not like my Pa. some chavros can be nearly as good as ours, so I let her in. And I love her as my own. Eat!"
Gwen looked embarrassed at the old Druids ranting but her frown revealed it was a discomfort like the rain. Part of life. He had me scared though and sitting down came as a relief.
Gregor: "There's Gloid too, Gwen left him out as he's not here often. He's our older brother but not of our mother. Grendel got some townie up the duff when he was eighteen. Grenden went mental and told our dad to find her and kill the baby. A child, one of us growing up alone in straight society could go many ways but few good. It's happened before. Some survive but most bring out the animal in man. They'll usually reach eight or nine before walking out alone. Straights lose sense, form a mob and kill the child. It's instinctual. Those who are born strong can go far but with the gifts and no tutoring most become sociopaths. They see others as different animals. We know they have feelings, some feelings anyway, but born with the gnosis in a world of cattle, these bastards, free of empathy, become ruthless in business, even politics. But Grendel wouldn't do it. He spied on the mother and child for days, waiting for an opportunity. When he got back with baby Gloid, Grenden kicked his head in. Broke his arm, left shin and two ribs. Grendel took to the caves and raised Gloid alone. Mother began taking him up food and stuff. Outcast there for seven years. When they married they hoped Gloid would be allowed in. But Grenden took the boy off into the woods. Two nights he was gone. Our parents were distraught, the waiting torturous. When Grenden came home alone Dad gave him a kicking worse than he'd had seven years earlier. For three months he stalked the woods, even reaching the coasts, but he came to accept his father had killed and buried his boy. Since then they've never got on. Anyway, about ten years later we heard those beast of Bodmin stories. A black panther was supposedly out there, escaped from some private zoo. Sheep were being taken and a bunch of farmers set out to kill this beast. We were kids when Gloid returned. He'd gone feral. Barely recognisable as human. To this day he goes about on all fours but then we thought he must be some beast, slipped over from the other side. Wounded he crawled into the river. Grendel knew him straight away and took him in. I swear I've not seen joy in any man as my father had that day. Our folks took us to the caves where we lived from then on. Grenden was berserk, charging at Gloid, desperate to kill. But everyone supported our family. Battering Grenden, cursing his madness. They chained him safely in the compound to a post, twenty metres of chain allowed him access to the shit pit, the rivers edge, even into the bender to eat. Each man took on a rota of watch duty. After a year Grenden calmed down and they let him free. He still tries to kill Gloid when he gets drunk but Gloid has the senses of a bat, the smell of a dog, owl like vision and other less human danger senses. Grenden can't get close. Gloid lets him try once in a while just for the pleasure of battering the old cunt.
Our folks healed him good. Even taught him some words. But once he was well he returned to the wild. I doubt you'll see him. He'll see you though. He stalks these woods. Feeding on deer, rabbit, fish all caught by bare hand, eaten raw. In winter he comes to the caves sometimes to sit with us. I tell you, no human animal has a fraction of Gloids Druidic gnosis. No shaman can explore a fraction of the dimensions he can. He's known better in many other dimensions than he is in ours. We communicate, but not in words. Me and Gwen love him dearly. So many times whilst in danger or fear or hunger, he'll appear like he's been watching from a distance. A guardian yeti. I've learned more from Gloid than from anyone. He seldom comes here, mind. Keeps an eye out for us. Warns the clan if trouble is afoot. But he doesn't like people, on the whole. Only his family.
Sibyl gave me a look to say, "Fucking weird!". I didn't know then but Gregor was wrong. I did meet Gloid, a few days after this meal.
Once that introduction was over everybody got stuck in. Rabbit was the dominant meat but chicken and pheasant too. Potatoes and vegetables, passed in urns down the table. The gentle buzz of conversation filled the benders food hall. Simple food but filling.
Some of the younger kids came over to say hello but most adults seemed friendly but uninterested. We offered to wash up but the grandmas dismissed our gesture. Guests don't work here, they said. And they promised to do nowt if they ever came to ours. We bid them good night, thanked them for their acceptance and food. The twins said a few quiet words to relatives before leading the way out. I'd be lying to say I didn't hear a burst of laughter from the Druids once we were outside. All told, it had gone well. The kids loved us, the Grandmas smiled as did the family heads, only Grenden was hostile. The twins said the opposite. Most visitors left bloodied. Marking his rejects represented his extended self. Gwen explained, on very rare nights, Grendens temper softened to merely surly. He was fond of her, enjoying telling her his tale. One night he'd brought out a large drawing, unrolling revealed a map of Cornwall, Devon, Dorset and south Somerset. The detail showed in green, everywhere he'd explored. A subset, like a road map, showed blue lines leading to hundreds of points. Each where someone he'd marked, scarred or wounded lived. This was his reach of being, his mind stretch, his psychic territory, travel able by astral projection, negotiated by the wounds of his victims. There was a further network in black. A darker pattern of lines leading to black circles, initialled. This he refused to explain though Gwen suspected only Harold Shipman could boast a better number of such sites.
The path to the caves took an elaborate route, winding in sympathy to the undulations of the land. Single file prohibited talking for the mile and a half through pitch dark woodland which I was grateful for to record a mind map and sequence of markers we might need to get home.
A babbling stream marked topographic change, then boulders and rocks sat at a cliff face that stretched vertically ahead. Tomorrow we'd learn the complex labyrinth of caves and tunnels that had been the home of these Druids for time beyond record.
Gregor led us through the lower rocks to his home. Gwens cave was nearby, connected by tunnel and a third much larger communal cave. A central fire pit below a natural opening in the caves roof that drew smoke away leaving clean air with a scent of the various timbers they used as firewood. Each species holds different meanings, different heat, different flames, different aromatic properties, different spiritual properties, different medicinal properties; their knowledge on fire alone, three or more millennia of development, a working methodology every bit the match of modern science disciplines. Initiation in the basics taught there began one of my shamanic specialities. Over thirty years later, I still know less than Gregor and Gwen have forgotten.
Sleeping hollows around the pit, sculpted by many thousand generations, were lined with hessian sacks, packed with sheep wool, worn deer leather covers completed our comfortable recumbence spots.
Sibyl: "Great place you've got. Never been anywhere close."
Gwen: "I suppose we take it for granted, growing up here. I'd show you round now but it's better in day light. I'll give you guided tour after breakfast."
Gregor: " After you'd left, Grendel told me he'd had words with you. I can be a twat but you really should take him up on his offer. No offence, like, but you stink of shamanics. It will draw all kinds of danger if you don't learn to blend better. He asked me to fill you in on our history. There's many misconceptions about druidry. Druids, prior to Roman invasion, were a class of people. The mystical aspect, shamanic similarities are true but Druidic Mystics made up only a tenth of any village. When the Romans wiped out druidry britains population was around five to seven million. A complex society. If truth be told, Druids had become a necessary evil for most. Living outside society, preserving the knowledge, maintaining authority over the spiritual dimensions ensured Druid security. Only Druids were qualified to act as intermediary between other worldly beings. Of course this is as bad as Christianity with their Pope. Anyone can experience the divine. Druids spent as much time executing heretics as did the Orthodox Church. Druids were not required to pay taxes. The general populace was dependent on Druids as they claimed sole access to the gods and demons. Human sacrifice could only be offered to gods by Druids. Others trying were regarded as insane murderous. Apostates. And it wasn't only criminals that were sacrificed. Druids chose who they wanted, or who they said the gods wanted. Reincarnation has always been central. The soul occupies a series of flesh vehicles, leaping to a newer model as the old body dies. Druids took money to live higher lives. Trade negotiations had to be overseen by Druids. Political arguments, squabbles often leading to war saw Druids speaking first, Kings second. Druids ran the judicial system, banking, they weren't the pure and noble pagans these new age copyists believe. The game was over when Romans invaded. Older people helped Druids escape but most Britons were grateful to the Romans. New ways were an exciting liberation. Grassing up Druids brought in cash and the projection of a modern mind, free of superstition and unprepared to submit. Of course Roman taxation and replacing all the Druidic power positions meant the new boss was the same as the old boss. Finally, as the Romans cleansed the land of Druids Anglesea became the last great Druid centre. There were scattered outlaws, hiding here and there, seeing how things would play out. In 79ad Anglesea was marched on and every man, woman or child was put to the sword. Effectively the Druid class was finished. It never returned. The remaining underground Druids fled the areas of Britain under occupation. Some made home in Orkney, a clan in Ireland, one in deep Wales, our people came to these caves, and a bunch of the most violent resistance fighters settled in Clun. Here on the Welsh borders they stood just out of reach. Refusing to be driven deeper out, able to operate a terrorist freedom fighting coven. These were unlike most Druids. If you ever get an invite like you did here, be very careful. Their allegiance is to the land and natures cycles. They've grown to distrust humans in general. My Dad told me a tale of drinking with a Clun Druid. Walking back drunk, a car of ravers, out of it on pills raced past them. A mile on they found the car crashed. The driver dead but three passengers, two girls and the drivers brother, injured but alive. They'd hit a Red Deer that lay at roadside, leg broken. Grendel began to pull the passengers clear. Looking over he saw this Clun Druid, Brock his name, the deer cradled in his arms, tears running down his face. "Quick, man. Help me!" He asked. After Grendel continued he steamed over, picking up a rock as he stepped up. My dad could not believe it and failed to stop the madman as he worked in swift certainty, crushing each ravers skull with a single blow each. "Now! Stop fucking about and help me!". Sadly the deer was not going to make it anyway. Brock spoke some prayers and gently stroked the deer before breaking its neck. "We might have saved her if you'd not been fucking about!".
Grendel lost his rag and the two drunk men fought viciously. Both in certainty of the righteousness of their moral choice. Grendel woke some hours later. Brock had knocked him out. The bodies of the ravers had been violated. Their skulls opened, their brains removed, halved. Looking closer dad said the amygdala and pineal glands had been taken. He ran. Left the county. He says he'll never go near the Clun coven again.
The pagan methodologies, the entheogen use, dimension travelling, accessing the other world and spirit dimensions, what interests you most, is only one aspect. Most Druids never get born with the gift. Historically their ranks were always supplemented with children brought by their parents, children born, like yourself, with a natural ability to access other dimensions. This great plan is going to need people like you.
The idea came about as Rome was growing stretched. It's empire increasingly unsustainable. The hidden groups, like here and Clun, imagined they'd be gone in a century or two. Which they were. But what they'd triggered continued. These unconnected groups weren't in communication. They'd assumed their grand children, maybe their children, would have preserved the Druid knowledge. Once this new Christian fashion was over, they'd be there, ready to retake their position over society. Partly through a care for their people and a certainty in the Druid methodology. They could see that Christianity was flawed and assumed everyone else would see it too. Once the idea of personal salvation and death transcendence took over, British people now were above animals, spiritual beings. This individualism and separation from the earth continued. Nothing was ever written down. This made sense as the knowledge is largely a craft, tacit knowledge. Knowledge stored in the body. Twenty years of committed apprenticeship is essential to call yourself a Druid. You can't fault Druidic stubbornness. And, at the most basic level, we were right. Man is an animal. The environment is not a mirage he finds himself in. Man, like all animals, is the natural response of life to evolve surviving creatures as aspects of the bio system. Their aren't two things. All is one.
So what happens now? The Cornwall drive is to complete the plan. But, if a kid grows up blind to nature, wanting a different life. Just encourage them to follow their journey. Equally so, those like yourself, born with the knowledge, we must offer you sanctuary. We need to work together."
I've known since then. My life went weird but I wish I'd committed then. This history lesson Grendel had delegated to Gregor was essential for when I was to see him at the Cheese Ring, next full moon.
We slept there, the four of us around the fire. Waking to Gwen cooking rough oatcakes on the embers. With tea this breakfast had us sorted. Gregor and Gwen showed me the caves. Occupied for two millennia before and two after Christ. Walking these tunnels we saw early cave art and graffiti from Vikings who took over briefly. Celtic anti Roman stuff. Cromwellian stuff. By far the over ark to each of these brief infections was a true Druidic rainbow bridge. These caves had been sanctuary that held the rainbow bridge to the very near future. This was 83 but already planetary imbalance was being noticed. Green peace were still thought eccentric idealists but most of much mind knew, the project of western civilisation was failing. We'd gone it alone, left divine assistance, a brave gamble, a lost bet. But politics was all class then. Thatcher had waged war on the miners, labelling them 'the enemy within,' generations of men whose short life's were spent in darkness, enduring this hell knowing it was their labour that powered the empire. Now hated. Individualism now touted as noble, 'Greed is good,' thatcher told the nation. Polarised class divisions lost sight of environmental concerns.
Our walk back to the Cottage, down the river, from our new hidden neighbours, back to our ramshackle band, was spent in silent reflection. Sibyl held my hand but what we had been so fortunate to see, would shape our lives. Neither of us mentioned it, claiming we'd been out camping, when we walked in. Twenty odd friends had followed our pack back to our Cornish sanctuary. The company was fantastic, old bonds reaffirmed. Both prospects took the opportunity to exit the Outcasts. Leaving an outlaw club can be more tough than joining.
The moon was close, now, my mind still digesting all Gregor had said. Soon I would hear Grendels words. Warnings I was growing to realise were no bluff. An untutored shaman. Now known. A vulnerable target that sharks could smell from other counties. Clueless in self protection.
From Trebullet to the Cheese Ring is about eight miles. The cottage crew ate tea as I slipped away to walk to my meeting. I'd kept it from Sibyl as Grendel really saw something bad in her. Each pace is uphill as the lush green land rises to the wild edges of Bodmin Moor. We'd walked there before on days out. Swimming in the water filled mine shaft. Checking out stone circles. Climbing the Cheese Ring.
Out there at night the full moon lit up the landscape as bright as day but not warm and golden, a silver white world. I sensed no one about and felt no fear, just duty. Like on the burial mound. A point in time in the earths history that physics dictated. The Cheese Ring is a stack of large round rocks. Flat bread cakes starting a mere six feet in diameter, each level a step wider, to the top stone so vast the structure defies physics. How this oddity can stand goes beyond logic. Positioned above an old quarry, mined to completion. The deserted hole the work had left forms a circular cliff with a flat base. No life, plant nor animal detectable by human senses lives here. Ascending the cliff using tracks I recalled from daylight visits, finding the top where these boulders looked across the moor toward the abandoned tin mines, left were the minions, two stone circles the ancients left us. The wind sharpened my senses awaiting Grendel. Cold, I climbed to the top stone, both to warm my muscles and take a vantage point of full 360 spread.
Wrapping clothes tight, scarf, hat, I began drumming to keep blood circulation and to summon up the drulord. The hour was close now. Scanning the minions a creature scurried in fluid shadow. A dog could not be that smooth. A large cat maybe. We felt each other. He could see me and I him. A creature of such stealth could have easily beaten my perception. It was showing me it was watching. Focus settled into clarity. A heightened state of sensation. Circling the stones, two hundred yards away, the creature kept this distance. It was curious, wary. Not hunting me. If I was prey i would be dead already. If anything I felt warmth. As though this night stalker could feel my vulnerability and was watching out for me. A guardian perhaps, it's biology appeared of some alternate lineage. If man had opted not to stand and think in conscious reason, but instead taken the route of other animals, to react in instinct, flow in physical response to its world. Graceful like a swift, decisive as a shark, man of somatic knowledge, free of cognition. Watching each other in telepathic contact, trust settled like snow.
Grendel: "Skree! Get down here before I put an arrow through you myself. You twat! Sat up there you're just teasing them. Offering yourself as a target, Now! At least you didn't bring that demonic witch bitch!"
I scrambled down to look at the paranoid old fucker. What was it about Sibyl he hated so much? Once on the turf I brushed my clothes free of dust and lichen flakes. His eyes stared so deep into mine, as if a child he'd thought dead some ten years had returned. Searching to see he wasn't deluding himself. Testing out any possibility that I was some fraudulent double agent, studying me for any sign of an imposter, before grabbing me to his chest. At the time he seemed mad. The world he saw terrified him. To me it was ok. His demons I thought were hallucinations. Looking back the reverse was true. The earth and all life on her was under threat. The only rational reading was his. Entities of all types that operated in other dimensions were growing very worried at mans environmental disregard. There planet, the earth we shared, was under threat. Angry demons were clawing at the membrane, furious to burst into our domain and destroy these human creatures that endangered everyone. Grendel was right to be concerned. His life now had serious purpose. Work with speed, with certainty, disregard the frowns of blindmen. Trust what your senses told you. Never, not for a second, question yourself. He wasn't paranoid. He was a sane man in a civilisation gone mad.
Grendel: "Walk with me, boy!"
A cloudless sky left the full moon to illuminate our surroundings.
Skree: "Have you noticed that creature out there? Is that what hunts me?"
Grendel laughed, shook his head at my ignorance.
Grendel: "That 'creature' may be the one thing able to protect you should you draw their attention. You've been very lucky so far. Has no one told you what you are yet?"
Skree: "No. These last few years my paranoia has been growing. Faces in town, odd people in places I've never been before. It's like a bell has rung out but I hear nothing. Their heads will look around, searching for something. Then once they spot me they stare. I've seen doctors who've called me paranoid. So I've put it down to minor drug psychosis. It's not often. Once a month or so that some stranger will fixate on me. Like they want to tell me something but no one has as yet come over to speak."
Grendel: "Aye, they could be any manner of beast. Many will be decent but some, and it's not worth risking finding out which, some will want you dead. Shamans sometimes are brought up by the fathers, their is a genetic element. But most start showing around five or six years old. In most cultures, once recognised they're taken from their parents to be taught by the shaman closest to the family. In mainstream British society they have no understanding of these things. Children may be diagnosed autistic, adhd any number of things. From then on the mental health system will crush them. Their visions called hallucinations, the spirits that speak to them deemed delusions. These rare traits show in a small percentage of people in all cultures throughout time. Other cultures revere your kind. They know that having a person able to communicate with beings from other dimensions is essential. Without this connection a people have no way of dealing with anything that stands outside material science. Schizophrenia is very real, I'm not making light of that. But they share the same buildings with shamans that are perfectly well. Having no framework of understanding shamans are told they are deluded, mentally ill. They're sectioned away. Drugged into dumb submission. This problem began long ago. As far back as Roman invasion. The burning of witches is no different to the electro convulsive therapy, antipsychotic chemical coshes and imprisonment in 'hospitals'. Driving out all with the ability has left them in a right mess. Climate change, mass extinction, depleted resources, over population; the consequences of western mans promethean journey, leaving behind all belief in spiritual dimensions to human existence, rejecting pagan interconnection with the bio system, stepping above those they thought beasts, first as Christians, gods chosen creature, soul beings in flesh chariots, into science where all became material, all they thought would be delivered to human understanding. But we are just animals. Science finally revealed we can never know reality. But the journey had left the earth all creature shared severely damaged. Demonic spirits, forces of wrath, entities beyond all human conception are boiling in fury. The membrane that separates dimensions is thin in places. From their side they search out humans that have the knowledge. Sniffing out their scent, looking for the glow, fishing for any sign of shamanism. They seldom grasp how unimportant those like us are considered in our worlds. But we are the sole points of communication. Their objective is to make man wake up, shake some sense into his blind arrogance. They hope people like you and me will hear their anger, report it to our planets leaders so mankind will stop this destruction. They assume, as we are few and able to access their dimension, able to hear their voices, they assume we must be like Druids were four thousand years ago. If you try explain that David Cameron is so delusional that even if we could speak with him, even if he grasped what we said, even then he'd continue on their journey to use the remaining resources to further their material greed. Then, in anger, and in all honesty I can't blame them, then they will destroy you in frustration before looking for the next poor lad like you.
So, you've two options. You repress all your abilities. Let psychiatrists drug you up or section you. This life will be forever plagued by psychotic episodes as there's no way someone of your gifts can keep them repressed at all times. When life gets tense as otherworldly visitors come to warn or engage with you, you'll go psychotic. Your people will call you mad. Or, the other option is to embrace your fortune. Learn to use your gifts. Accept the planet spat you out at this time in its history, your evolutionary duty. Where it with pride. Seek out others. Older witches, pagan seers, visionaries, shamans, learn from them and study your craft. Become skilled. The life force needs you. Earth opened you, positioned you with exactitude. It's the only way things can be.
In doing this you will find that the mental health 'experts' are the least of your worries. Weaker pagans will push you forward to the enemy as their champion. The enemy will forever stalk you. You will have few allies. Admittedly these two options both may now seem a little unsettling. However, it will be far, far worse than you can imagine. All I can give is this warning. Dark times are coming."
With these thoughts running like a pack of free dogs across my mind, we walked towards the mine lake. At the time I felt unconvinced at Grendels fears. He obviously felt his warnings to me were vitally important but whether this was in his mind, a delusional paranoia left to develop unchecked by normal society, or a truth greater society was living oblivious to. His predictions turned out accurate. It's with some shame I admit I tried for a time to suppress all my feelings. Psychiatrists were only too ready to use my visions as evidence of their scientific acumen.
Grendel: "You're young, boy. Most of what I'm telling you won't make sense. Shamanic emergence isn't as predictable as puberty. You could well find twenty years pass before you mature. There are a few that are born with the potential yet live lives where no triggers bring their gifts to fruition. But, you need to know. Until you come of age I can teach you little. All I can promise is to provide camouflage. A technique to hide yourself so you can blend. Stop the stares of strangers you mentioned. A mind veil to blur the ambiguity, any passing eye should see no peculiarity in any crowd you're in. It reflects back the expected. Handy piece of kit. Keep you alive until your time arrives.
This trihex has worked for generations of our people as long as we've been here. Gregor and Gwen have been veiled, as has everyone you are with the other night. You did the first part sat up on the Cheese Ring, soaking in the night wind, the air of the moon is in you. Air, fire, earth, water."
This area of Bodmin Moor is littered with rocks left over Frome old mine and quarry works. Before us flat, angular rock sides picked out in silver shards by moon light, our track a six foot wide strip clear of debris. I knew where he was taking me having spent days there last summer. The lake isn't so wide as to swimmer of common skill. But it's depth has an effect on the mind that can't be pictured until you see. The land forms a shallow windbreak and a plateaux at waters edge. No more than a hundred yards in diameter, a circular black disc with a silver disc floating at its centre, the moons reflection. Once a mine shaft now filled with water dropping straight down in to the earth. In daylight it's impossible to gauge its depth. The water crystal clear and small looking, last summer. Pig, a fiend from Leeds, me and Sibyl, reacted the same without speaking. Dropping jeans and shirts me and Pig had dived into the cold as Sibyl pulled away jeans, tore off her linen shirt, freeing her breasts then joining us. Looking down it appeared endless, once treading water at its centre the volume of water below sent a terrifying pull on us. I hoped we wouldn't be night swimming.
Grendel walked with me to the lakes edge where our eyes marvelled at the lunar reflection, so bright it projected pure white light that lit the whole area. The Druid broke the silence by calling out to something moving nearby. The kindness in his voice contradictory to all I knew of him.
Grendel: "Gloid, my boy. Come over my son."
Silently a shadow low to the ground moved cautiously our way.
Grendel: "It's safe, my child. This boy seeks your blessing."
Moving across the rocks on all fours but with a dexterity reminiscent of a leopard. Gloid was of human species but had the trepidation of a wild animal. Moonlight picked out two pure blue eyes as the creature paused to study the veracity of his fathers vouch on my behalf. Matted locks tied back with bailer twine showed Gloids features, a mass of unkempt beard lost below him. His body bound in animal skins held tightly by thin hemp rope. Seemingly love and excitement at seeing his father overcame his reservations saw him scuttle at speed, covering the yards between us in a breathe before leaping on Grendel, knocking him to the ground. More like a dog who'd months back, lost his owner, unable to contain excitement, than a son meeting father. They wrestled and hugged, embracing then breaking to stare, both in joyous tearful abandon. The smell, though! Like a tannery mixed with soil, peat, woodsmoke. If Gloid had ever bathed it must have been many years ago. Grendel himself seemed to forget language and join the grunting, mewling, animal noises that jumbled to occasional words I could grasp, Gwen, Gregor others well being were being discussed as Druid and son bonded. Leaving them to this private moment I wandered over to what I thought a round seat. Once close it became an upturned coracle. A crude vessel, crossed thin boards, steam bent forming a frame over which animal skin had been stretched, pinned and dried. Tar smeered this hide hull water sealing it, a cross member of ash wood held the structure together. Beside the craft sat a rough, short ore and two smooth white rocks, a tad bigger than a football in size.
The Druidic reunion over attention returned to me.
Grendel: "Do you like the coracle boy? I made that myself. A visitor we had stay years ago, from the Welsh borders showed me how to make them. Looking at its size you'd not guess it can take three men, would you?"
Surely not. There was no way I was getting in that thing to sail across this lake at night. It was mid summer time but that water must be freezing. No way on earth.
As Grendel pushed the craft away from the side it's base sank dubiously till no more than three inches remained above the water line. Gloid couldn't have weighed more than eight stone, me nine but Grendel on his own doubled our combined weight. Worse still, they'd insisted we bring the White rocks. But the lake surface was still as glass. Not a splash came over as Grendels gentle rowing pushed us toward the lakes centre. Here we stopped as the rituals practice was explained. A circle of blackness, fifty yards to either bank. A mile or more of water below is, a river to the centre of the earth. The silver disc the moon shone as the bullseye. The pupil at dead centre a round coracle holding a Druid, a scared boy and some creature, half of mystical dimension, half human.
Grendel: "Follow Gloid. Trust him without question. He will take you in to the underworld through this water tube. Hades will not detect you through the water. It operates as an arm punching through dimensions. A tunnel of safety. These white rocks are from the Dorset Coast. They hold matter from early Jurassic times. Tonight has brought you such fortune, boy. Doing this alone as I'd thought you'd be doing, can kill even the strongest men. But Gloid has offered to share your journey into the earths belly. Now, there's little room but get your clothes off. They'll hinder you."
Reluctantly I undressed noting Gloids animal skins remained. They'd become part of his body. Now shivering and naked, unsure what the fuck was going on. Only by the unavoidable conviction in my hosts eyes. Only through rejection of questioning the logic of the whole business, handing over trust to mad minds that worked in certainty, only through following this insane project to this point where I had no option but to comply, did I find myself doing the hades plunge. Grendel completed his instructions.
Grendel: "Hold the stone to your chest with every ounce of your strength. Your heart will pull it closer too. Watch Gloid and follow his every move. You will sit on the corral edge facing each other, then fall backwards into the lake. The stones weight will pull you toward the place where our ancestors hid their knowledge. Hold your breathe and don't drop that stone until you see what is drawn on the rock wall. Keep Gloid in sight and hold till he releases. You will know. Be brave, boy. This honour falls to few."
Gloid was already sat ready, tipping the craft as I shuffled into place, balancing the weight. The stone felt smooth. In moments of extreme fear, the strangest things bring comfort. My heart pumped, linking me to the White stone. Gloids blue eyes fixed mine. He felt my fear and a flickering smile reassured me. Together we fell in to the cold. The sudden shift from air in to water took all thought away, only the stone provided a point of contact to the known. Like a mother.
Plummeting at speed perceptions retuned. The water shaft, a blue column that connected the land above to the underworld we were falling into. Above me the security of Grendels coracle, a swiftly shrinking black circle that blocked out the moon above, yet it's light stretched through the water, picking out the ragged rock wall. Gloid plunged six feet away matching the speed the stones dictated. Two creatures of land and air, racing downwards in a dimension increasingly displaying its hostility to us. My head grew tight, the impulse to let go, to breathe in water intensified. My limit was close, worse still was that return would require again what I had used. Consciousness at this pressure becomes a distillate of will. Thought dissipates.
Then around the tubular shaft walk ran a pattern, some pictorial depiction, a hieroglyph, a n algebra, runes, no language I knew, and in that moment of a brain deprived of oxygen, I instantly understood. Both of us released our rocks and began desperately rising to the surface. I saw the two white stones that had carried us so deep continue on, growing smaller, two white dots, then nothing. I have an image of Gloid breathing his air into me but nothing more.
I must have been unconscious for over three hours as my waking moment sensed the earliest glimmers of nights end and dawns first glow. Somebody shuffled me over and laid covers over me then again I went under.
Full awakening found me alone. Not far from the lake are two stone circles called The Minions. Looking up I'd been positioned between two stones, my feet pointed to another stone and the sun rose over its tip, shining new light on me. Warming my shivering form. This was the third piece of the trihex. The sun infused me in a way I've never felt before. Returning me to the life of earth. Rebirth. I'd been to the underworld, seen and learned. I now understood gnosis. I now knew. I can't describe this knowledge. I can sometimes bring those submerged wall markings to mind, but out of context, in a mind of normal consciousness, an oxygenated brain, they would make no sense. Only by experiencing can this knowledge be gained.
Grendel and Gloid had left me wrapped in blankets and hides. A breakfast of meats and bread left for me. Water that I drank deeply. My body was in pain. My mind at peace.
Gradually I got my shit together. Found my clothes stacked for me, dressed and walked around the stone circles. Feeling weak I stayed till late afternoon. Eating the Druids food and sleeping. Letting the experience settle on me. Till a calm acceptance came.
I stumbled back to the cottage. The post Stonehenge party was slowing down. After a week or so, most who didn't live there left. The Deviant, however, stayed and joined us there. Getting over his Outcast period. I saw Gwen and Gregor many times after but never referred to that night with their father and step brother.
A year later we'd moved away. I've visited once or twice but not in years, now. I never forgot Gloid. We bonded in that ritual. He's more powerful, more in touch with the earth than anyone I've met since. Sometimes, when out in the wild, I get a sense he's out there. Watching me. We will meet again. Gloid will play a part in my life at some point. I don't know when but I feel certain, our paths can not fail to cross again."
Lipton: "Cornwall Druids. They sound alright to me. I'm tired mate. I need sleep. But I want to hear the low down on the Orkney lot you met. Another night, eh?"
The fire flickered on as Lipton fell under. Peter soon followed. Dreaming back of those times. As a young lad, called Skree.






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