…autumn journeying…

robin…the robins returned right on All Hallows …if I lived in ‘silly time’ I could set my clock by it …instead they set my inner clock…spiderweb2.jpg

…they flash into the bramble’s berry remnants and the potato patch in search of the last bugs before they become ‘frozen dinners’; fluttering in their dipping, swooping flight like little darts of flame against the chocolate-brown soil.

Celtic New Year in Oz, a rich tapestry of memories rush up from the ground to meet me at this time of year …my ancestors may not have physically walked this soil and yet through my genes they walk with me.

…it’s the end of the harvest …small sweet tomatoes are still ripening in the greenhouse, cauliflower, kale, broccoli, salad onions, spinach and silverbeet all vie for attention …several kilo of apples are now becoming apple chutney, complemented with sultanas and ginger that will be a treat through winter’s cold months, with cheeses and freshly dug potatoes, wet and loamy-smelling with soil…

..Jack Frost took most of the pumpkin this year but a friend swapped some for fresh potatoes …there’s always enough to go round if we share…

…my best writing is achieved through the coming quieter months and with 28,000 under the belt I’m confident I’ll be on target for a July release …here’s a snippet of the next book in the series …blessings …Penny

Silver’s Threads Book 3, Warp and Weft


Chapter 1: Morgan Trethaway

 …plummeting, falling, she broke through the veils

…light dying, senses failing, darkness prevails,

…all things must change when an immortal light fails

…as she plunges, silently screaming,

…becoming human, becoming frail.

‘Ruuuark, Ruuuark,’ the cry ripped through Morgan’s silent contemplation in the forest. It echoed through the Aethers in a chain reaction, re-echoing back and forth through the time-space continuum.

The Raven Ruark heard the call but could no longer remember where the distorted sounding of the name she bore, originated. Tara heard, Lily heard, Claire heard as she sat in the tree above. Morgan heard, his aspect Bran’s reaction instinctual within him. Would he have been able to save her if he had returned? What could he have done if his horse hadn’t bolted?

 ‘Tara,’ Morgan cried aloud, ‘where is the body of the Corvidae Cal found on the Wolds.’ There was no reply.

Steadying his breath Morgan relaxed back into his earlier posture, calming his wildly racing thoughts again. The cry had taken him by surprise this time, although he had heard the scream in his mind so often before.

Stilling his mind again to consider the events of the past months; from the moment he had almost collapsed as an inexplicable grief hit him, through Lammas, Mabon, Yule and now nearly Imbolc; almost half a Wheel’s spin, to today.

He remembered he’d been playing at a gig in the local pub, walking home in the rain afterwards. He’d known then that something had happened to his friend and mentor Sybille who he’d known only from a distance or in the ethers, when they met for his training. The connection with her had been so strong and then it had vanished, all but for an occasional tug on his mind as if she slept, stirring occasionally to mind-link with him, but he could make no sense of it. As soon as he focussed, the fragile thread would instantaneously dissolve.

Morgan would sometimes see strange, otherworldly images of a tree so huge it defied description and of small lights; Makers as he’d later learned, flitted, tending to shapes he couldn’t understand, with the more logical parts of his psyche.

These images were becoming stronger if he didn’t worry at them, for that only pushed them deeper into the recesses in his mind designed to cope with the unknown. He pondered, if he actually let it be, whether the answers would simply float to the surface, all knowledge was after all available, he just had to remember the ‘how to’ of it all and wished, not for the first time, there was a manual for the process.

Chuckling to himself at the thought, he stretched long limbs and stood up, seeing the Moon rising through the canopy above him.

‘What the …!’ he exclaimed aloud, ‘the moon shouldn’t be there surely; it’s too far round to the south-east  I’ll have to check with Flora, she’ll know,’

Pacing a little now in frustration, he thought of the last Sabbat when he had found himself in the Hearth of Scatach in his aspect Bran, seeing Maeve strong, restored to her former self.

He recalled the experience when he’d first seen the Shapechanger Rowan, as Bethan had first described her and then, subsequently he’d scried, to see her struck down with an arrow from a Dark Fae’s bow. Morgan remembered the face of the female and always would; the hatred directed toward both Rowan and himself, had been a tangible force and how helpless he had felt as his horse had bolted, almost unseating him. Thing was, he felt he knew the face from somewhere, recently in fact.

With a deep sigh, Morgan relaxed back against a huge old forest giant, feeling himself slip into a calm, meditative state. His eyes glazed over a little, he felt glued to the ground, solid. He visualised small taproots sliding, probing down deep into the skin of the Mother.

Sybille, the very person he’d previously been thinking about, had taught him this method of grounding and so he relaxed deeper still, allowing the feeling of peace to wash over him.

It was as if he became the tree, his skin the bark, his body the trunk, his arms and legs growing and dividing into many limbed branches, covered now in the last leaves of winter, too stubborn to fall. Small nubby buds were just beginning to thrust towards the light of day, each one full of the promise of spring.

Just as Morgan felt he would lose himself entirely to the grip of nature; an owl’s hunting scream tore through the stillness within him. He shook his head to bring himself back into physical awareness, before attempting to stand up, the better to sniff and to hear what travelled on the ethers on heavy, great wings and on the wind that had come up from the west.

It appeared to be heading for Covenstead. He centred, steadying himself fully in the moment before sprinting off into the forest, heading to the farm, although, it would have been quicker to borrow Max’s car, he thought as he ran. With the amount of physical, mental and psychic work the group were undertaking, he had become as solid as a rock, stamina had increased and he was feeling at his best.

As he ran, he could see that the forest was starting to change to spring but that there were sticky black, Aetheric webs festooning numerous branches and even across the natural pathways formed by wombats, wallaby, echidna and kangaroo.

We need to focus our attention on the healing side of things he thought; we’ve forgotten about the blight while we focussed on Sybille’s rescue; perhaps she’s just the catalyst to motivate us to take action? Nature must have the answers; work in reverse as it were, before he pushed his way through the thicket of hawthorn and raced toward the farm.

Morgan came to a screeching halt when he saw Claire locked in the arms of a large man whose dark hair was streaked through with silver. He would recognise him anywhere.

Copyright Penny Reilly 2013 All rights reserved.

Silver’s Threads Book 3, Warp and Weft

Silver’s Threads Book 1, Spinning Colours Darkly July 2012

Silver’s Threads Book 2, Grey Weavings December 2012



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