As day draws to a close, the caravans settle, circle, gather about the wee fires tended for warmth and food and light. And around these fires gather the clan, homely and inviting, together as one, their backs set against the cold of the night creeping in around them. Colour and light dance together, music and song fill the air, until the gypsies fall silent, every eye turned to the dreamweavers, the storytellers, the keepers of the lore and the word.
One among them rises, candlelight casting the scarlet and blue of her garb into softened, darkened hues, turning her skin to rich gold, and the raven-black fall of curling hair to a thing of shadows and darkness. She waits, quiet and still, as a lone voice calls to them from the darkness beyond the circle, a watchman singing a tune to keep his spirits high.
"D'ye hear tha' sweet music, liltin' on th'breeze? Some say 'tis only th' call o'th' lone man, makin' his way t'bed." She pauses, barefeet stepping lightly around the circle, molten eyes seeking each and every gaze turned to her.
"Some say 'tis the Fair Folk, the wee folk, the fae and faery, whisperin' dang'rous promises t'th'unwary ones. Some e'en say 'tis th' Mother herself, singin' her sweetlin's t'sleep of a night .... "
The Storyteller draws herself up, coiling a scarf of forest hue about her shoulders, the sign of a tale to come.
"But I say 'tis the children of Lir, singin' sweet as they play wi' their father, off in th' Summerland ..."
Out of the world's thread, fates' fingers spinning. Some lives are shot with gold, others with shadow. This is a tale of enchantment and exile, of four lives woven together by white swan's feather, storm and ice and the sound of a little bell.
Long ago, when the high gods and goddesses known as the Tuatha de Danaan lived in Ireland, before they were driven into the hollow hills to become the faery folk, there was a great king whose name was Lir. And this Lir had four lovely children - Fionnuala, Conn, Fiacra and Aodh. Fionnuala was the eldest, and she was as fair as the young rowan tree; her brothers Fiacra and Conn were swift and strong as running water, and Aodh was a little bright-eyed baby boy. Everyone in Lir's court on the Hill of the White Field loved them - except their stepmother, Aoifa, who was jealous of their father's love for them. And her hatred pursued them as the wolf pursues the fawn.
One day, she took them in her chariot to the lake of Darvra to bathe in the waters. But as they played on the shore's edge, laughing and splashing, catching rainbows of mist and light between their fingers, she struck them with a rod of enchantment, and turned them into four white swans.
"You will swim on this lake for three hundred years," she said, "then three hundred years on the narrow sea of Moyle, and three hundred years on the isles of the Western Sea. This only will I grant you: that you shall still have human voices and there will be no music in the world sweeter than yours. And so shall you stay until a druid with a shaven crown comes over the seas, and you hear the sound of a little bell."
The swans spread their wings and rose up, circling the lake, and as they flew they sang their sorrow in the voices of human children. When the king found out what had happened, he banished Aoifa from his court for ever, and he rode like the wind to the lake and called his children to him. "Come Fionnuala, come Conn, come Aodh, come Fiacra!" And there they came, flying to him over the lake: four white swans, and they huddled sadly around him as he knelt by the water's edge.
King Lir said through his tears, "I cannot give you back your shapes till the spell is ended, but come with me now to the house that is mine and yours, dear white children of my heart."
But the swan that was Fiacra said, "We cannot cross your threshold father, for we have the hearts of wild swans. We must fly into the dusk and feel the wave moving beneath us. Only our voices are of the children you knew, and the songs you taught us - that is all. Gold crowns are red in the firelight, but redder and fairer far is the dawn on the water."
The king reached out his hand to touch them, but the swans rose into the air, and their voices were lost in the sound of beating wings.
The Storyteller pauses, to wet her throat, as the clan lean in. This is the way of an evening on the road, no entertainment but that which you make yourself. The mark of a tale well spun is in the attention of its audience, and though this Storyteller is young, she has them ready and eager to hear more.
Three hundred years they flew over Lake Darvra and swam upon its waters. Many came to listen to their singing, for their songs brought joy to those in sorrow and lulled the sick to sleep. But when three hundred years were over, the swans rose suddenly and flew away to the straits of Moyle that flow between Scotland and Ireland. A cold, stormy sea it was and lonely. The swans had no-one to listen to their songs, and little heart for singing on the wild and chanting sea. Then one winter, a great storm rushed upon them and scattered them far into the dark and pitiless night.
In the pale morning, Fionnuala fetched up on the Carraig-na-Ron, the Rock of Seals. Her feathers were broken and bedraggled with salt sea-water, and she lamented long for her brothers, fearing never to see them again. But at last she sees Conn limping towards her, his feathers soaked, his head hanging, and now Fiacra, tired and faint, unable to speak a word for the cold. Her heart gave them a great welcome, and she sheltered Conn under her right wing and Fiacra under her left.
"Now," said Fionnuala, "if only Aodh would come to us, we would be happy indeed." And as the first evening star rose in the sky, they catch sight of the little swan that is Aodh paddling valiantly over the waves towards them. Fionnuala held him close under the feathers of her breast. As they huddled together, the water froze their feet and wing-tips to the rock, so that when they flew up, skin and feathers remained behind.
In the morning they turned westward towards the island of Glora in the Western Sea, and settled on the Lake of Birds till three hundred more years had passed . Then at last the Children of Lir soared homeward to the Hill of the White Field - but they found all desolate and empty, with nothing but roofless green raths and forests of nettles: no house, no fire, no hearthstone. Gone were the packs of dogs and drinking horns, silent the songs in lighted halls. And that was the greatest sorrow of all - that there lived no-one who knew them in the house where they were born. They rested the night in that desolate place, singing very softly the sweet music of the sidhe.
At dawn they returned to the island, and it was about this time that bless?d Patrick came into Ireland to spread the faith of Christ. One of his followers, Saint Kemoc, built a little church by the lake-shore on the Isle of Glora. In a break of day, the saint arose from his heather bed, wrapping his rough brown robe around him to keep out the chill, and rang the bell for matins. On the other side of the island, the swans started up and stretched their necks in fear.
"What is that dreadful thin sound we hear?" said the brothers.
Fionnuala said, "That is the sound of the bell of Kemoc and soon our enchantment will be passing away."
They began to sing gladly and the sweet strains of faery music floated across the lake and in through the reed walls of the cell. St. Kemoc rose in wonder and walked down to the shore's edge, and saw them, lit by the morning sun: four white swans singing with the voices of children! They came to rest at the saint's feet and told him their story and he brought them to his little church. Every day they would hear Mass with him, sitting on the altar. Their beauty gladdened his heart and the heart of the swans were at peace.
Then one day Fionnuala asked the saint to baptize them, but no sooner did the holy water touch the swans than their feathers fell away, and in their place stood three lean withered old men, and a thin withered old woman. In a cracked whisper, the woman that was Fionnuala said:
"Bury us, cleric, in one grave. Lay Conn on my left, and Fiacra on my right, and on my breast place Aodh, my baby brother."
So they were buried, a cairn was raised above them, and their names written in Ogham. And that was the fate of the Children of Lir.
But it is said, that on windy days in the west of Ireland, by lake-shore or ocean strand, you can sometimes hear children?s voices in the air, singing sweeter than you?ve ever heard, as they play with their father at home in the blessed Summerland.
The tale is done, the Storyteller resumes her seat, and the gentle lilt of that lone watchman's voice drifts over the seated Garridan gypsies, at once reminding them of legend and myth and familiar reality. Then an elder speaks, the dream is broken, and the circle drifts apart, each to their beds to await the coming dawn.
______________________________
http://www.wherewhenhow.com/turks-caicos-islands/providenciales/night-life/bonfire-1.jpg
((The tale is The Children of Lir, an ancient Irish legend.))
One among them rises, candlelight casting the scarlet and blue of her garb into softened, darkened hues, turning her skin to rich gold, and the raven-black fall of curling hair to a thing of shadows and darkness. She waits, quiet and still, as a lone voice calls to them from the darkness beyond the circle, a watchman singing a tune to keep his spirits high.
"D'ye hear tha' sweet music, liltin' on th'breeze? Some say 'tis only th' call o'th' lone man, makin' his way t'bed." She pauses, barefeet stepping lightly around the circle, molten eyes seeking each and every gaze turned to her.
"Some say 'tis the Fair Folk, the wee folk, the fae and faery, whisperin' dang'rous promises t'th'unwary ones. Some e'en say 'tis th' Mother herself, singin' her sweetlin's t'sleep of a night .... "
The Storyteller draws herself up, coiling a scarf of forest hue about her shoulders, the sign of a tale to come.
"But I say 'tis the children of Lir, singin' sweet as they play wi' their father, off in th' Summerland ..."
Out of the world's thread, fates' fingers spinning. Some lives are shot with gold, others with shadow. This is a tale of enchantment and exile, of four lives woven together by white swan's feather, storm and ice and the sound of a little bell.
Long ago, when the high gods and goddesses known as the Tuatha de Danaan lived in Ireland, before they were driven into the hollow hills to become the faery folk, there was a great king whose name was Lir. And this Lir had four lovely children - Fionnuala, Conn, Fiacra and Aodh. Fionnuala was the eldest, and she was as fair as the young rowan tree; her brothers Fiacra and Conn were swift and strong as running water, and Aodh was a little bright-eyed baby boy. Everyone in Lir's court on the Hill of the White Field loved them - except their stepmother, Aoifa, who was jealous of their father's love for them. And her hatred pursued them as the wolf pursues the fawn.
One day, she took them in her chariot to the lake of Darvra to bathe in the waters. But as they played on the shore's edge, laughing and splashing, catching rainbows of mist and light between their fingers, she struck them with a rod of enchantment, and turned them into four white swans.
"You will swim on this lake for three hundred years," she said, "then three hundred years on the narrow sea of Moyle, and three hundred years on the isles of the Western Sea. This only will I grant you: that you shall still have human voices and there will be no music in the world sweeter than yours. And so shall you stay until a druid with a shaven crown comes over the seas, and you hear the sound of a little bell."
The swans spread their wings and rose up, circling the lake, and as they flew they sang their sorrow in the voices of human children. When the king found out what had happened, he banished Aoifa from his court for ever, and he rode like the wind to the lake and called his children to him. "Come Fionnuala, come Conn, come Aodh, come Fiacra!" And there they came, flying to him over the lake: four white swans, and they huddled sadly around him as he knelt by the water's edge.
King Lir said through his tears, "I cannot give you back your shapes till the spell is ended, but come with me now to the house that is mine and yours, dear white children of my heart."
But the swan that was Fiacra said, "We cannot cross your threshold father, for we have the hearts of wild swans. We must fly into the dusk and feel the wave moving beneath us. Only our voices are of the children you knew, and the songs you taught us - that is all. Gold crowns are red in the firelight, but redder and fairer far is the dawn on the water."
The king reached out his hand to touch them, but the swans rose into the air, and their voices were lost in the sound of beating wings.
The Storyteller pauses, to wet her throat, as the clan lean in. This is the way of an evening on the road, no entertainment but that which you make yourself. The mark of a tale well spun is in the attention of its audience, and though this Storyteller is young, she has them ready and eager to hear more.
Three hundred years they flew over Lake Darvra and swam upon its waters. Many came to listen to their singing, for their songs brought joy to those in sorrow and lulled the sick to sleep. But when three hundred years were over, the swans rose suddenly and flew away to the straits of Moyle that flow between Scotland and Ireland. A cold, stormy sea it was and lonely. The swans had no-one to listen to their songs, and little heart for singing on the wild and chanting sea. Then one winter, a great storm rushed upon them and scattered them far into the dark and pitiless night.
In the pale morning, Fionnuala fetched up on the Carraig-na-Ron, the Rock of Seals. Her feathers were broken and bedraggled with salt sea-water, and she lamented long for her brothers, fearing never to see them again. But at last she sees Conn limping towards her, his feathers soaked, his head hanging, and now Fiacra, tired and faint, unable to speak a word for the cold. Her heart gave them a great welcome, and she sheltered Conn under her right wing and Fiacra under her left.
"Now," said Fionnuala, "if only Aodh would come to us, we would be happy indeed." And as the first evening star rose in the sky, they catch sight of the little swan that is Aodh paddling valiantly over the waves towards them. Fionnuala held him close under the feathers of her breast. As they huddled together, the water froze their feet and wing-tips to the rock, so that when they flew up, skin and feathers remained behind.
In the morning they turned westward towards the island of Glora in the Western Sea, and settled on the Lake of Birds till three hundred more years had passed . Then at last the Children of Lir soared homeward to the Hill of the White Field - but they found all desolate and empty, with nothing but roofless green raths and forests of nettles: no house, no fire, no hearthstone. Gone were the packs of dogs and drinking horns, silent the songs in lighted halls. And that was the greatest sorrow of all - that there lived no-one who knew them in the house where they were born. They rested the night in that desolate place, singing very softly the sweet music of the sidhe.
At dawn they returned to the island, and it was about this time that bless?d Patrick came into Ireland to spread the faith of Christ. One of his followers, Saint Kemoc, built a little church by the lake-shore on the Isle of Glora. In a break of day, the saint arose from his heather bed, wrapping his rough brown robe around him to keep out the chill, and rang the bell for matins. On the other side of the island, the swans started up and stretched their necks in fear.
"What is that dreadful thin sound we hear?" said the brothers.
Fionnuala said, "That is the sound of the bell of Kemoc and soon our enchantment will be passing away."
They began to sing gladly and the sweet strains of faery music floated across the lake and in through the reed walls of the cell. St. Kemoc rose in wonder and walked down to the shore's edge, and saw them, lit by the morning sun: four white swans singing with the voices of children! They came to rest at the saint's feet and told him their story and he brought them to his little church. Every day they would hear Mass with him, sitting on the altar. Their beauty gladdened his heart and the heart of the swans were at peace.
Then one day Fionnuala asked the saint to baptize them, but no sooner did the holy water touch the swans than their feathers fell away, and in their place stood three lean withered old men, and a thin withered old woman. In a cracked whisper, the woman that was Fionnuala said:
"Bury us, cleric, in one grave. Lay Conn on my left, and Fiacra on my right, and on my breast place Aodh, my baby brother."
So they were buried, a cairn was raised above them, and their names written in Ogham. And that was the fate of the Children of Lir.
But it is said, that on windy days in the west of Ireland, by lake-shore or ocean strand, you can sometimes hear children?s voices in the air, singing sweeter than you?ve ever heard, as they play with their father at home in the blessed Summerland.
The tale is done, the Storyteller resumes her seat, and the gentle lilt of that lone watchman's voice drifts over the seated Garridan gypsies, at once reminding them of legend and myth and familiar reality. Then an elder speaks, the dream is broken, and the circle drifts apart, each to their beds to await the coming dawn.
______________________________
http://www.wherewhenhow.com/turks-caicos-islands/providenciales/night-life/bonfire-1.jpg
((The tale is The Children of Lir, an ancient Irish legend.))