The Crone

I come to the island
tonight to remember
blood that runs in my blood
all those whose footsteps marked their passing
sailors who travelled far
and brought their stories
teachers who told the tale
babes who listened cuddled safe in strong arms
young wives who became grandmothers
grandmothers whose young lives
were cut short
for tonight the pibroch rings through the mountains
and in far away places
young lovers dance once more
to the mellow tones
of a saxophone
and the children’s piping voices
remind me that I too was young
once
Fran

One has to begin somewhere!

As I focused and adjusted my blurred vision I could see that images were forming in the tiny vial of golden specks. I could hear his gentle voice “Its simple enough” he explained. “Gold is heavy! Almost everything else is lighter. All we need to do is load our pan with gold bearing gravel and sand, agitate the dish and watch as the gold sinks to the bottom”.

My eyes shone, filled with wonder. I marveled at his deft actions as he crouched beside my tiny body, patiently sucked up tiny specks of gold which he carefully slid into the tiny vial.

The vial he placed in my young hand is with me still. As I studied it it seemed that the specks were shape shifting, morphing into exotic dancers, twirling gracefully.

“Who am I now?” I pondered. No sooner did the question form in my mind than I could hear faint, golden voices giggling.

“You go by many names. You are Crone! Your life is just beginning!

I am Crone! I am Ferry Woman living in the Lemurian archipelago. I lead pilgrims, eager to meet the ancient ones in the inner chambers of the Holy Mountain, to meet with those two legged, four legged, feathered ones, tree people, stone people who have walked this path before them.

I am Crone! I am Ferry Woman! I am rebel Seer and Witch. I am Raven Queen! I am one of the ancient ones! I willingly take leaps of faith and step through portals knowing I will land where I am meant to be. I guide pilgrims who have come seeking to go to the Holy Mountain on this famed Isle of Ancestors.

They come to enter the complex chambers that date back, have been a place of worship since before the Ice Age. When I drank from the Well of Mnemosyne I remembered my kin watching as they were carving the inner chambers. It was one of my flock that flew from the window that Noah had made in his ark at the time of the Great Flood, to report on when the waters had abated.

As far as the majority are concerned, my talk, my ministry is dismissed as having little to do with the real world, that is, the world where money is made. Most of what I do is done in solitude, perceived to be a harmless outlet for a frustrated old woman who is best unseen and unheard. I am not a commercial threat so I can stay under the radar.

The majority have no idea of my power or of how old I really am. They don’t believe I can cast real spells, invoke spirits or perform magic. It is for the best really. If they did believe they would be building pyres again and we would see the smoke rising. Little wonder, after living for so long, in the midst of so many philistines, that I regularly slip through the portal and reside in the ancient Lemurian archipelago, work only with those who know, who understand the magic of this place, the Magick I carry within me.

The majority have no idea of my power or of how old I really am. They don’t believe I can cast real spells, invoke spirits or perform magic. Its for the best really. If they did believe they would be building pyres again and we would see the smoke rising.

Mystical Shaman Oracle and The Magick of You Oracle

I am Crone! I have been a retriever of souls. It is an ancient art and certainly not work for faint hearts. It can be tough going! I can face less resistance from a tough old gorse bush clinging stoically to the earth. While it would seem to be easier to take a shovel and dig a grave, old grave digger style, the task is doable. Just takes stubborn commitment.

I work primarily with the living dead, the ones who relinquished their soul purpose to meet the demands of the industrial conveyor belt machine that molds and shapes, casts everyone into categories and spits them out to wander in a daze.

I have helped the living dead find their old voice, the one they were sent with. I take them through a portal, row them across the sea to the Isle of Ancestors, give them a special bag of talismans and a key to a comfortable cell in the Lemurian Abbey, where they can begin rehabilitation and retrieve their soul mission.

I take Pilgrims through a portal, row them across the sea to the Isle of Ancestors, give them a special bag of talismans and a key to a comfortable cell in the Lemurian Abbey, where they can begin rehabilitation and retrieve their soul mission.