More properly known as the Babble on the hill.
The following was difficult to write, in as much it would be better to write poetically, but the metre to which that poem would be constrained in itself would do injustice to the characters. As interpretation, alike the Upanishads or indeed any language ‘past’, translation to English isn’t perfect. It should almost be song that would change dependent on the moon or the wind, but I doubt anyone will listen, let alone care either way.
They approached the hillside from three differing directions.
From the East came the rotund looking Fae whose name was known as Pondbloom, his feet were unsteady and wary, his footing looking for hidden furrows and troughs in the climb up that hill that overlooked the great Woods surrounding. He clutched in his hand a weighty tome, a large scribbling book and held it tight, fear being that he’d stumble or trip on the unlevel ground and the precious article were to be released from his grip.
From the South, Branchfellow, a gangly and lanky creature whose stride upwards of the hill was unnaturally long, as if stepping over obstacles unseen, there was a permanent smile etched upon his face as though there were a hidden joke within that mind that only the lanky, gangly, awkward creature could see or know.
From the West, hurrying, scurrying and looking this way and that, the rodent-esque Twigreach, his fingers itched at unseen nuances, the nose twitched for the scent of entities unbecoming, and nervously yet hastily this smaller of the three fae run upwards much faster and yet always arriving later than the others.
By other names are they known, for want of time and reason it matters not suffice to say, for the occultists and completists, Pondbloom, Branchfellow and Twigreach were known by the Qabalists as Resh, Shin and Qoph respectively. In as much as not many would know, they were from the kingdom of the Fae, and the Fae are known in nature as the Fallen, though that does not imply they were rebels or adversaries, just as those who follow a wavering path and are not condemned because they choose not to follow the orthodox and oft’ trodden path taken by others. In as much as can be told they were given free reign to wander so, just as a crow does, not stick to the tracks or paths or roads carved ‘a the way to go‘.
It may seem odd, and indeed precisley that, odd being the balance between, we cannot see them as they live’ ‘between’, in between, in the spaces and gaps of all we sense.
They were known in other circles as the Red Fae and from those grimoires and old battered books lost in antiquity they were described thus;- Branchfellow being of the Kingdom of fire, and also spoke of as being the illumination? Everything else was lost in the great fire of the harbour, however,
In those same wandering tribes we spoke of earlier, within their language, ShaReQ from the root letters SHin, Resh and Qoph means Vermillion, or blood, or scarlet. They were also known by other nomads as the six, as apparently the name Red (*ShRQ) could also be used to determine the number six, now, it is obvious that we here talk of the three fallen Fae, so where are six? If you include the shadows, then… that is six! Which is preposterous shoehorning to fit an objective mayhaps…. It all gets a bit confusing and wayward but when there is talk of matters concerning the Fae, then wayward and strange angles will be the conclusion. We are dealing with those that inhabit, the inbetween, in the midst, the dwellers upon the threshold.
They, met atop that hill when the sun was at full height to gaze upon the manifest world that lay below them, they could see it, they could sense it, yet to us, as spokes upon a spinning wheel they were quite invisible.
Branchfellow, or Shin, was known as the wisest, not that he knew things per se, but that being purely objective, relying not on the past or the possible and permutations of the future, but clear and absolute fact of the here and now. It isn’t wisdom just absolute and unbiased determinism.
Twigreach, being from the Western borders, where the Sun Sets, was a reflective sort, forever looking at the past, condemning or praising, judging and making decisions based purely on what happened before, it was an evolving sort of intelligence, a structure built on each preceding brick as Branchfellow once described. Twigreach however, forever the voice of doom, perfection does not exist in nature, or else it would be still, and therefore calamity and death will naturally, absolutely occur.
Pondbloom by comparison was not so the pessimist, but more full of the joys of spring, and hopeful, being as Pondbloom emerged from the East where Springtime and the rising Sun casts light in the morning perhaps that’s why he was always so hopeful, the eyes of a new dawn. Which gives question to the idea that all things that happened must create the pessimist and all things to be creates the optimist, which would suggest creation and experience, destiny and fate are all doomed eventually to suffering, so Twigreach would be right, but Pondbloom believe every moment is the self’s decision to lay the foundation of its own path, and therefore its own quagmire.
Suffering, or laughter, Who knows, that’s just the way it is.
So there they merged and sat atop the hill overlooking Hadean woods.
“Have you decided again to wear that infernal jumper!” Declared Pondbloom, shooing away Twigreach who was far too close in his personal space, “Itchy thing that’s always brushing against me, and its filthy too….”
Twigreach interrupted, ” Oh, Pondbloom, every time we meet you have something to say on my clothes, I don’t really care about them, they just provide warmth, that’s all, we don’t all want to dress up in fine ironed, perfect creased and fitted clothes like you, ” he paused and with a raised eyebrow looked at the rotund Pondbloom before snidely remarking,” and judging by that pot belly you’re carrying the tailor must have been sore to measure your waistline…. “
Pondbloom glared at him and moved away fluttering his blanket so that it rested, creaseless, upon the patch of grass and to which he now sat.
Brachfellow heard the little tiff but said nothing and instead pulled a fresh stalk of barley that sat all alone, and now not, amidst the grass verge, he popped it in his mouth and watched the stalk now spring up and down as he gently chewed upon it. Pondbloom followed suit and reached inside his pocket and pulled out a small pouch of herbs which he in turn picked at before popping a sprinkling in his mouth to taste and then filled a bowl of his pipe before lighting it with a beautifully ornate silver lighter.
“Ah !” said Twigreach, ” no care for us… to inhale that dank mildewey aroma.”
Pondbloom shook his head, Twigreach always commented when Pondbloom lit his pipe of Mugwort, tobacco and other such herbs known only to his hereditary, Twigreach said the same thing every time. Just as… Pondbloom commentated every time on the itchy tatty filthy jumpers.
Branchfellow muttered under the guise of a laugh, “you two, its like listening to a wedded couple.”
Pondbloom perhaps agreed, and offered Twigreach from a small paperbag some crystallised ginger and morning glory sweets. His itchy jumper brushed across Pondlooms offering hand, Pondbloom sneered but said nothing and Twigreach thankfully took a sticky sweet which now rolled about in his chattering mouth.
It were some time before the threesome relaxed somewhat from the journey, Branchfellow laid down that lanky figure and placed his hands behind his head as a pillow whilst still chewing the cud of barley, Twigreach squinted in delight as the sickly sweet oozed its flavour and sweetness around his mouth, and Pondbloom inhaled his pipe and then perhaps some insight, some dream, some whim appeared in his mind. ” Ive been thinking,” he said, ” Or rather, the spirit of plant has whispered that perhaps we could alike the packs of wolves or flock of birds unite under some banner, some design, as, as a clan.”
“Do we need to?” questioned Twigreach, ” Are we not already that, do we need it so defined?”
There was a momentary silent before Branchfellow said, “Go on, Pondbloom, expand?”
“Well,” said Pondbloom puffing away excitedly now, ” The Devas say that rather than worshipping the natural, being thankful and observing, they say humans created their own form of worship, to a deity like them, like a human,and under that banner they unite… its symbolic, an idea, just a thought. A curious strange thought.”
Twigreach choked as he tried to speak so fast but the sickly goo in his mouth probably went down the wrong hole and caused a burst of coughing before he was able to protest his voice, “oh, must we talk about those infernal cast out humans again? “
Pondbloom offered that it was only a thought and it was only a discussion, not likely that children of the Fae would follow the outcasts to actually live a way and afar from nature, to create such an idea upon which to actually follow.
Branchfellow, sat up. The stalk of barley now flopping downwards, the last strength of sinew relenting, “its certainly worthy of thought and discussion, I think, what say you Twigreach?”
Twigreach wiped the sickly spittle from his chin which clotted together the fibres of the jumper, Ponbloom, looking on disgusted, awaited the answer. “Well, so be it, but are we to presume the imagery of, our new found, religion?”
“Exactly that,” said Pondbloom poking his pipe towards Twigreach, ” a sensible and excellent suggestion” he added.
“Dont reverse psychobabble me,” retorted Twigreach, “It was your idea, and your idea alone, so woe to you if the afternoon is wasted on silly outcast discourse.”
Branchfellow was amused and pulled the barley from his mouth, feeling upwards the stalk and until he could find some strength in the stalk upon which to bite, “So then,” he announced, ” the new religion of us Fae, undoubtedly there must be a God or a Goddess?”
“It must be,” said Pondbloom, “Reflective of nature, therefore I propose that The Sun, being still and firm, steady and illuminating would represent the God, and the Moon, being tidal, and creating, reflecting the light of the sun be the Goddess.”
“Wait a moment !” barked Twigreach, ” Reflective! Are you daring to suggest the moon wields no power except in the sway of the Sun? that somehow, somehow as a Goddess this is bowing and subservient to the might of The God?”
“He has a point,” said Branchfellow, ” or perhaps, maybe you don’t have the correct point made Mr.Ponbloom?”
Pondbloom squinted his eyes as he puffed at the mixture awaiting for some revelation, some insight in which to equal Twigreach’s fair comment, equal, Equal! that’s it.
” During the dance of the moon and heaven,” he voiced, “at certain times the Moon shadows over the sun.”
” The eclipse!” said Twigreach
“The eclipse”, repeated Pondbloom, “and at this,” he looked and nodded at Twigreach again, “eclipse… we can see that the Moon, is in fact, whether or not they actually are, but to all intent and purpose the moon is the same size as the sun, it shadows it perfectly, conceals it, and whether the sun is a thousand times larger, if it is a thousand times more distant then perspective, relatively, they both wield the same power, well… the same …to us”
“Equilibrium” offered Branchfellow.
“Equilibrium!” agreed Pondbloom.
“Twigreach scratched at his itchy jumper, “Im not altogether at ease with this talk,” he fluttered, “we know that the moon is the great influence that nurtures the tides and creates rhythm, but the sun, bloody burns.”
It was an argument that started well but the final words seemed a missive on Twigreach’s part.
“No, No,” said Branchfellow at last, “As the seas and oceans cool, so too the winds, so too the ice, which freezes. All things by these two are in equilibrium, balanced, one without the other is a desert or an abyss of ice.”
Twigreach was uncomfortable, he fidgeted and scratched and shook his head and had another scratch on his jumper.
“Will you!” barked Pondbloom, “stop itching at that infernal tatty filthy jumper, its giving me quite the urge to itch myself.”
“Its this discourse,” protested Twigreach, “to talk of things as if our nature didn’t matter, and construct another in its place, its making me itch and come out in nervous weals and sores.”
“We are,” said Branchfellow, “merely discussing the mindset of those, the outcasts, the humans, how they perhaps arrived at their beliefs, and in doing so construct our rationale to see if we arrive at the same possible imagery? Don’t fret Twigreach, we could discuss the chemical construction of Ginger and morning Glory sweets if you so wish, but I fear you’ll never want for them again.”
“Fare thee well,” sighed Twigreach, “So in our , system, The Goddess is alike the Moon and The God alike the Sun, yet, they are equal, in fact like a dance they are the same.”
“Agreed,” offered Pondbloom, “and as such, though the seasons are as Spring, Summer, Autumn Winter we shall, reciprocally, I suggest, offer the Birth, Life and waning of creation to the Goddess, and the dark winter inversely to The God.”
“Of the sun?” queried Twigreach, wondering where this sudden burst of dialogue had sprung from, “But the God rules the Sun, thereby the life seasons belong to him?”
” I think,” said Branchfellow “that being the nature of equilibrium they belong to the mother, is that how you see it Pondbloom?”
Pondbloom had tapped out his pipe upon the hillground and was now writing furiously in his book….
“Oh not another book” moaned Twigreach, “must you write everything down, is not vocal discourse worth a thousand written books?”
Pondbloom peered over his glasses, “why, thats almost wisdom Twigreach, very good,” and proceeded to write the quote down;- “Vocal discourse is worth a thousand written books“-Twigreach in the midsun wearing an infernal tatty filthy itchy jumper.
And so it is, on the countless bookshelves, and stacks of written knowledge in the web, there is amongst us, the hereditarian witches, the wayfarers and the wanderers, knowledge and wisdom known only by the voice to voice, known only by its oral transmission. You will not know me, the author of this enigmatic and obscure piece, you will look for the wisdom of the Druids in books, and never find it, you will acquaint yourself with the legend of Merlin and read only of a stranger, Alike The Oak, we are the witnesses and the watchers, and the FAe of which we speak, are inherent in our soul.
The Western Gate 
Leave a comment