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Date Posted: 15:02:48 06/04/08 Wed
Author: celtgirl
Subject: Here's a bit from the book I seem to be working on mostly now, it's piled itself up to about eighty pages already and is what pulls at me most strongly when I sit down at the computer most days. >>>>
In reply to: celtgirl 's message, "For those of you who have missed Mr. Riordan, here's a wee bit of what the man has been up to- I'll put it inside the first reply." on 12:56:30 06/04/08 Wed

copyright 2008 Cindy Brandner

I was five the day I first saw Bann. I had strayed further from the baile than ever before, out to the very edges of the great stand of oaks that had guarded our village since time immemorial. I’d been drawn thus by a raven with something shiny in his mouth. He flew near the ground and then would stop and look back at me, never quite close enough for me to spy what he held in his beak, but only enough to lure me on. I was sure it was a jewel he held, a bit of moon dropped to the ground or even a fallen star. I believed in such things, then.

I had gone much farther than I was allowed, far beyond the bounds of which Nan had taught me it was dangerous. But I was certain if I just followed far enough, the raven was bound to drop his treasure and then I would have that piece of moon for my own and who knew what might happen, if one possessed a piece of the moon.

It is always ravens in the old stories, for ravens are birds of the underworld, of the inner sight, wise as a crone, steeped in the magic and darkness of that place that comes before consciousness, that holds the old knowledge that we fear in this ‘enlightened’ age.

I saw the stone drop from the raven’s beak, like a star tossed into the sea, it caught the light and dazzled, before disappearing from view. It was on the edge of a small cliff, not so small though that I wasn’t afraid of falling off of it. Small stunted trees clung to the edge, some of their roots dug into the soil, and some breathing the air that danced over the void. Hawthorne trees, scrubby and low, but hawthorne nonetheless. Even at such a young age, I ought to have known what they signified, but so great was my longing for that fallen bit of the moon, that I paid no heed. I ought to have. But the past is like that, it sends a thin thread to shiver in the future, which one day becomes the present, and we think we can still grasp it, wind it up and change the course of that thread, but, of course, we cannot. Even I cannot, as slippery as that thread has become in my own world.

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