Children of the Stars: The Faery Chronicles Book Three

© 2008 Kisma K. Stepanich-Reidling. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 8/11/2008

ISBN: 978-1-4343-9945-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4343-9944-1 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2008906285

Cover design & layout by Laura Walthers.

Contents

A NOTE FROM HEATHER DEVINE

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A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR

IT’S ALWAYS ABOUT TRUST, ISN’T IT?

GLOSSARY

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

UNDER THE NAME Kisma K. Stepanich-Reidling

The Last Matriarch

The Faery Chronicles

Faery With Teeth, Book One

Oceans Of Time

Children Of The Stars, Book Three

UNDER THE NAME Kisma K. Stepanich

An Act of Woman Power

The Gaia Tradition: Celebrating the Seasons of Mother Earth

Sister Moon Lodge: The Power and Mystery of Menstruation

Faery Wicca, Book One

Faery Wicca, Book Two

Faery Wicca Tarot

UNDER THE NAME Kisma Reidling

The Druid Clan of Dana

The Beauty of Morrigu

The Love of Brigid

The Art of Meditation, Book One

The Art of Meditation, Book Two

Faery Faith Traditional Wisdom, Codex 1~ Irish Cosmology & Faery Glamoury

Faery Initiations, Stone, Sword, Spear & Cauldron

For Debbie, my big sister,

and her childhood visitation.

I…Spread my dreams

Under your feet;

Tread softly

Because you tread on my dreams.

~ Yeats

CHILDREN OF THE STARS

A NOTE FROM HEATHER DEVINE

Forcing oneself to stop writing, when the flow is endless, is an extremely hard act to accomplish; one that involves considerable exertion of self-control. Yet, for my health, an exertion of this self-control I knew to be essential for continued balance between mind and body.

And so, I walked away from the manuscript and stayed away for a little while.

In many ways, walking away from the book allowed an integration of the voice and direction between sacred self and conscious-ego self, which is usually required of an adept before moving the next step deeper. By doing so, I was able to resurface again, leaving the Otherworld journey to intermingle with the physical side of life, known as the lunar realm, and set about taking care of the day-to-day mundane business that seems to be attached to this living.

Allowing rest in my spiritual growth has always been one of my assets, which I attribute to having chosen to be born in southern California, where I languidly live on the coastal region to tan under the golden rays of the sun and cool off in the wet body of ocean.

Being a native Californian has allowed me to slow-down and enjoy my spirit evolution. No need to rush, it’ll be there tomorrow. No need to always be busy, I’ll just lay here on the sand, or sit in my garden, feel the sun warmth, listen to the waves or the birds and the bees and think about it… visualize it… space-out into it. That is how I learned about vision and Otherworld journeys; naturally, peacefully, gently.

I now realize that during this time I was preparing for the full impact the Faery Queen would have in my life. But I am getting ahead of my story.

As I share my journey, you will experience the twists and turns my personality and soul went through and, even if it be but a glimpse, the mystical faith of the Faery Queen and the sacred ways of her ancient Tradition.

In hindsight: with the journey to the Land of Faery accomplished, I might not have been such a willing sojourner. But I do now carry with me a great gift from the experience.

The message attached to this gift I will share with you during my tale; it comes through me, and the Faery Queen, and the peace-seeker.

Now I am ready to begin the tale.

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There were others before Heather Devine, who came to know us, the Sidhe, the Hosts of Faery. There was John Carl, whose sorrowful words Heather was allowed to read.

Then there was Sinend, a character from the ancient past who haunted Heather, of whom Heather had been given a past-life glimpse, and who Heather was not quite sure she had been. You see, past lives and reincarnation bothered Heather. The subject always caused a birage of mental inquery in her.

Was there such a thing?

Was the living really subjected to multiple lives, each life a successive lesson in the education of spirits learning to be physical?

To Heather, such fantasies had at one time flanked her mind with curiosity. In fact, she had a professional past-life regression performed on her, and even though the regression proved successful according to the hypnotherapist, she’d still felt a touch of skeptisism.

Yet, Heather dared not tell anyone this. After all, she was a sensible woman, even if she was a traditionally initiated wiccan. But wiccans were suppose to support the Doctrine of Rebirth, and truly believe in it.

Heather often wondered how many people just gave lip-service to what they were supposed to believe?

Good question. Whenever Heather mentally responded with this comment she immediately felt relieved—not better, just relieved.

Personal beliefs were allowed to remain open and subject to change, or at least that’s what she believed. And so, without further consideration to what she was suppose to believe and what she didn’t believe, Heather didn’t give it a second thought, until the ‘Remembrance’ was forced upon her.

Oh yes, forced, and by a Being not even of her world. Or was she? Were the Sidhe of her world? Maybe, maybe not. Did it really matter? No, all that mattered to Heather was that such a creature did exist and, not only that, was able to appear—physically manifest.

The fancy of faeries as real had always been a belief of Heathers. You see, Heather’s family were pure Irish. As Irish as they come. On this subject, if we were to peek into Heather’s personal journal, this is what we’d read:

…My name is Heather Devine of Clan O Daimhin, whose territory once extended over the counties of Tyrone and Derry and the two baronies of Raphoe and Inishowen in Donegal, Ireland. All this district was anciently called Tir-Eoghain, Owen’s territory, which is now written Tyrone, and restricted to one county. But I don’t live in Ireland, nor was I born there. I’m an American, born in California in 1958.

And no, my family was not part of the mass Exodus from Ireland in the mid-1800s because of the Great Famine. We left for political reasons; so the family tale goes:

‘After the potato famine the climate of Ireland became hot and fiery. From 1865 to 1870 the English Courts were kept busy with the trail of the Fenian Prisoners, and in Dublin the barrack yards ran red with the blood, echoing with the shrieks of the soldiers condemned to the lash. Then the land struggles began, and in 1881, when the Gladstone Land Act was sanctioned, did our clan leave blessed Eire’.

There are a few things that need to be said about my reason for giving my pedigree—it’s the nature of the Irish first off. From the earliest days the Irish have been known to recite the genealogies of our families, because most of our genealogies are connected to some ancient king or chieftain, and the descendants mustn’t forget that!

The sept, rather than the clan, was the Irish dynastic system. It comprised a group whose immediate ancestors had a common name and lived in the same locality. Chieftaincies were not hereditary, which often led to bloodshed or putting out of eyes: a maimed chieftain would not be acceptable. But I shall stop here and not go into any of the tales I’ve been spoon-fed since birth.

Secondly, my family name—O Daimhin—actually means bard or poet. Many of my ancestors were involved with the writing of literature. In fact, part of the blood that runs through my veins has been mingled with the Clan O Dalaigh (pronounced O’Daly), which was the word for a meeting place.

The O Dalaigh ancestry goes back to the 4th century, to Niall of the Nine Hostages, the High King who had his palace at Tara, Co. Meath, and from whom descended also the O Neills and the O Donnells. But never mind them (even if the O Neills have been one of the most prestigious of Irish families), what I’m getting at is that one of my ancestors, Cuconnacht O Dalaigh, was a genius for Bardic literature and founded the Bardic school in Westmeath. Plus, from the 11th to the 17th century, my ancestors were hereditary poets and minstrels to most of the leading families, which is how I’ve come to be a writer. It’s in my blood….

Writing was in Heather’s blood alright. As a writer she’d authored three non-fiction novels on woman spirituality. Of course, our Heather was not only a wiccan, but a feminist, active in the women’s Goddess movement, currently researching subject matter for a new project—it being that of the ancient oral Faery tradition of Ireland, once known as the Faery-Faith.

As an Irish, and as an elder priestess of Celtic Wicca, Heather received the idea to write a modern book about the Faery—or Sidhe, as the Irish were found of calling us—with the hope of presenting the Faery-Faith as a shamanic practice of ancient Ireland. Heather thought it would be a good idea to provide a comparative study of world-wide shamanic traditions, showing the similarties, while highlighting differences as not being antagonistic but rather distinctive signatures of each culture.

Shamanism had become a very popular topic in the literary world; an ancient term whose current use was inclusive of any magical or spiritual practice of native peoples who strived to dwell in a perpetual state of balance with the natural world. Heather’s idea to show this parallel in the Faery-Faith set her off on a journey that far exceeded her wildest expectations.

One fine autumn morning in 1990, as Heather sat amidst a pile of library books, her favorites being those written by Evan-Wentz, Vivian MacFarlain, and Kathleen MacNamarra, she paused for a moment in her sifting through of the materials, while listening to the cooing voice of Joni Mitchell playing on a CD.

Flashes of teenage years flew to life as Heather attempted to grasp an inner truth that, at the age of sixteen, had propelled her forward in a personal quest. Images of when she was sixteen and swaggering across the school-yard, ankle-length Gyspy skirts flowing around her legs, fringed shawls wrapping her slender torso, long wheat-colored braids rubbing against her blossoming breasts, flared to life.

Heather had been born too late to be a true flower-child. But in ninteen-seventy-three, who would have imagined that the hippie-look would be even stronger then in the sixties?

At sixteen Heather experimentated with pot—it was E.V.E.R.Y.where and hard to avoid. Even born-agains were smoking it. Twice she’d taken LSD. But when she got high it made her sad, depressed, got her thinking too deeply about the ugly-side of life.

She wanted to live on a commune. She wanted to live in the mountains and grow her own food. Of course, she was a vegeatarian—strict and eccentric, demanding her own shelf in the refridgerator, refusing to use the same pots and pans, plates, and utensils the rest of the family used—which she’d grown-up using, because the vibration of meat was implanted in them.

She bought ceramic plates and chop-sticks, wild rice and seaweed, tofu and mung beans, and a variety of culinary herbs. It’s a wonder her parents induldged her, but like anything Heather did, she was an extremist, and, most likely, her parents were grown used to their youngest daughter’s dramatic ways.

Shortly after becoming a vegetarian, Heather found a 1969 photograph taken of Joni in concert at the Atlantic City Pop Festival. Heather was amazed at the resemblance: high, pronounced, cheek-bones, full lips, and slightly buck teeth.

After that, she aspired to be the next Joni and eagerly learned to play the guitar. Soon, she was writing her own lyrics. The songs she wrote were young, unseasoned songs of woe-begotten-love, or songs of exile.

When Heather found-out that Joni Mitchell was sitting five rows ahead of her at a Jackson Browne concert, she slipped under the arm of an allied bodyguard, as his whispered hiss to "do it before I have to see you," egged-her-on.

You’re Joni Mitchell? Kneeling before Joni, Heather heard yes. A beige barret hugged Joni’s crown and blond hair cut blunt at the shoulders. Joni’s sharp-features softened with a smile.

I just wanted to tell you I think you’re beautiful! Heather tentatively touched Joni’s hand. The shock of Joni’s other hand grasping her own startled Heather so much that—dumbfounded—she forgot to add: I want to be you! Heather’s two friends called her bitch out of sheer jealousy when she returned to her seat, slumping down in it next to them, stary-eyed and swooning.

Joni, a sister Irish, inspired Heather to write and write and write—poetry, lyrics, short-stories. Funny, that now she’d finally be like Joni—different, but like her; a voice spouting humanistic messages.

On that fine autumn morning, our Heather listened to Joni’s messages, sometimes singing along, other times drifting off into the Otherworld the woman’s lyrical storytelling created, and it was then Heather realized, after the CD finished playing, and she sat in the all too quiet of her mind, that she too was a storyteller; that the manner in which she would write her next book would be through the storytelling of her own personal mythology as an adept in the modern Faery Tradition.

The term creative non-fiction was soon put to use as a description of the book’s genre, and Heather set off, a sojourner, into the writing of the manuscript.

Ah, and here is where the first startling surprise takes place. You see, the above decision was intellectually based and, of course, this was due to the scholarly manner in which Heather spent an entire year researching the ancient lore of Ireland. Furthermore, this decision was made before she’d found the ritual.

As it happens, most of the time, when Heather remembered her youth while listening to Joni, a tear or two trickled down her cheek. As if those two tears were flag-wavers starting a race, desire reared its head to suddenly start writing the book. Oh how the desire in Heather ignited.

Burning me alive, Heather said, wiping the tears away with her finger-tips. Now isn’t that a wonderful pun? She thought back to her circle’s full moon ceremony in September.

They’d gathered at the ocean to uphold freedom of religion by honoring the wiccans who had been tortured, hung, murdered, in Saleem, Massachusetts in 1692, as well as the countless others, from around the world, who, during the European Inquisition, had met a worse fate of being burned alive at the stake.

To think of her creative desire as burning me alive, was quite interesting. What she did not stop and consider was the message being conveyed by her Soul-Monad, which is the pan-psychic view of the universe derived from the mother-sea of consciousness within.

Perhaps this term is too cosmic. So let’s look at it this way.

In the ancient mystery school in which Heather apprenticed, she was taught that through traversing the Circle of Life, woman and man reach a destined perfection which through natural analogies—life’s processes as exhibited by living things, and evolution—suggest, and from which at present woman and man are so far removed. Because of this belief there seemed to have emerged this postulate: the world is the object of normal consciousness, while the ego is the object of subconsciousness.

Accordingly, subconsciousness cannot be realized in the human world until—through the normal consciousness of woman and man—the ego is able to function completely, and so endow woman and man with full self-consciousness in matter, which endowment seems to be the goal of all planetary evoltuion.

This teaching was, however, developed through an intellectual and psychological study of the ancient mysteries.

To Heather, an active participant in the modern living of the ancient mysteries, she believed the ego was really creative imagination, and was that part of her self that allowed her to move between the Three Worlds of her Celtic Wiccan tradition: the lunar, solar, and stellar worlds; thus, allowing her to become—what was called in shamanic terms—a co-walker.

Becoming an adept co-walker was exactly what Heather was striving for, and so, when she came across an ancient ritual buried deep, almost obscurly, in the middle of one of the library books, did she gasp, This one’s authentic!

She hurried to the computer to transfer the ritual into its cerebral cortex. Once saved in an appropriate file—AUTHENTIC.DOC—she printed a copy of it, gave it another reading, before jotting down a ritual format she would use.

Heather, Heather, Heather! You’ve got it! Oh, how happy our Heather was, forgetting her sweet-sixteen years and the mental turmoil such memories generated.

This ritual was going to be enacted. Heather, high priestess Heather, flew into action. The wiccan came out to play and medthodically gathered necessary tools and other accouterments before setting off for the ocean shore, the same place where her circle celebrated religious freedom, down at the river jetty.

Of course, a part of Heather did not really believe she could conjur the Faery Queen, as the ritual claimed, but her ego was itching to be put to the test and, according to one phrase in the ritual: ‘the time of enchanting would be best at twilight?

The sun was almost setting.

Arriving at her destination, she parked the car on coast highway and treaded across the beach to the farthest point on the sandy jetty. As it was late fall, and the days grown colder, there were no beach-goers sprawled across the sand, hoping to lose themselves in the orange-magenta horizon, nor were there any joggers running at the water’s edge in search of health. And since the light was slipping away, the die-hard surfers were coming ashore to head for the warmth of their showers.

Within fifteen minutes the beach was relatively deserted. The last sliver of proud orange slipped below the ocean horizon, casting ever brighter—but fleeting—magenta streaks across the sky, turning the blue-green water a silver-gray. Twilight had come.

With wand in hand, Heather traced a circle in the sand around herself, cutting a boundary of sacred space. In each of the four quarters she placed a crystal, and in the center a white candle lantern.

To the heavens and the stars above. To the sacred land and the Underworld below.

Like the mirage of a medieval witch, our modern wiccan held her arms out from her sides and turned in a circle.

To woman and man, and the living Spirit in the center, came Heather’s voice, unlike her normal speaking voice. Tinged with authority, and supported by an inner sense of power, the high priestess stood in the circle, a minion of the moon, a forgotten seer, the Delphic priestess of the oracle.

Heather faced the east, closed her eyes and whispered, East. Powers of air, dawn, spring, you are requested to be here now, ending with a so mote it be that was no more ancient then Heather, aged 33.

To the south, west, and north, the modern witch turned, invoking each quarter in much the same manner, but changing the list of correspondences accordingly. In the south she called fire, mid-day, and summer. In the west she called water, twilight, and autumn, and, lastly, in the north, earth, mid-night, and winter.

Whether one could really say they saw a difference in the area surrounding Heather, especially within the boundary of the circle traced in the sand, is debatable. Felt a difference is a different conversation all together, because around our little wiccan, within her circle, the energy became compacted, and the hairs on the back of her neck began to tingle.

Without hesitation, or stopping to feel the difference, Heather lay the wand down to light the white candle in the lantern, with a Guardian Spirits, weave around me, a web of protection, by the powers of moon and sun, by the powers of earth and sea, by the powers of the twisted tree, as I will it, so it will be!

The rushing wind and crashing waves echoed around the wiccan’s circle. The most intense hue of the setting sun had washed from the sky, now shadowed in gray. Overhead, the squeak of a sandpiper, followed by the squawk of a gull, disrupted the elemental sounds.

As Heather picked the wand back up she noticed her hand to be slightly trembling. She bit her bottom lip to keep from giggling. Images of early apprentice days flooded her mind. How afraid she used to be when casting sacred space and moving between the worlds. Goose bumps would rise on her arms, along with the uncanny feeling someone, or something, was standing directly behind her.

The grit of sand between her teeth made her cringe. Shaking-off the memories, focusing on the ritual at hand, taking a deep relaxed breath and letting it out slowly, Heather cradled the wand in her lap, closed her eyes, and began chanting the spell rune of the ancient ritual.

"Micol o tu micoll regina pigmeorum,

deus Connla, deus Brigid, deus Gabriel;

tibi benedicat et omnia fausta danet

et concedat Modo venias et mihi morengem veni.

"Igitur o tu micol in nomine Dana veni cito,

ters quatur beati in qui nomini Dana veniunt veni;

Igitur o tu micol in nomine Dana veni cito qui sit omnis

honor laus et gloria,

In omne aeternum,

Ome, Ome!"

Over and over she chanted, shifting her consciousness from the outer world, following the words inward. The chant became a ringing in her ears, brassy and thunderous, high and melodious. Dimly heard, the echoing of wind rushing, the sound of horse’s hoofs pounding, and the crackling and popping of fire.

Heat blasted her face, singed her hair. Colors swirled around her body.

She opened her eyes and saw a wave rushing toward her. She threw-up her arms, trying to scramble to her feet, but her body would not respond, and then she heard a voice, her voice, the voice of ageless wisdom.

Who among you is brave enough to come under the realm of Faery? For I am Queen Fay and I have come at your bidding, but I leave at my own time and of my own will. You can always call me near, but … you can never claim hold of my enchantments for they are mine and mine alone.

She spoke as if delivering a fierce warning that Heather was trespassing in her realm, like the kitten who so wants to play with the potted fern grown for fresh oxygen more than anything else.

She stood against the backdrop of the waves, long, golden hair faintly ruffled by the light breeze swimming off the ocean, the ocean that was still several yards away, not crashing upon our little wiccan.

"Geabheadh tu an sonas aer pighin Tir na nOg," Queen Fay’s voice was but a sigh in the chorus of ocean breeze and seabird’s chatter.

But here, she swept an arm as white as creamy milk before her. Here, you must go into poverty before finding even one pinch of joy. Her golden mane of curls swayed with the shaking of her head as if they too acknowledged the pitiful state of affairs Heather’s physical dimension of life dwelled within.

She stood tall, willowy of limb. A faint gleam of ornaments could be seen in the shadowy blossom of her golden hair. Around her neck laced a band of serpents’ scales.

Heather blinked to clear her sight and be sure she was seeing what she thought she was seeing: never had serpents dwelled in the land of Erie; although legend liked to hand that fact over to the accomplishment of St. Patrick for having driven them all away.

Queen Fay followed the wiccan’s gaze, and through the second-sight that Heather was to learn is as natural to Faery as breathing is to human beings, her thoughts were heard by the Faery.

Queen Fay’s soft voice lifted Heather’s eyes to her gray ones. The Faery smiled and said, Yes, it was always heard that Padrig drove all the serpents from beloved Erie, and that with them he had his final battle, gaining complete victory.

Her gray eyes held steady Heather’s gaze. What is not told is that Lough Derg was the last stronghold of the Sidhe, and that what this old legend really means is that Lough Derg, the Lake of Spilled Blood, is where Padrig ended his fight with the druids, and that the serpents represent the Ancient Mysteries, or Paganism. A scowl disfigured her lips. She looked out to sea.

Heather swallowed hard, realizing for the first time that an Otherworld creature had actually materialized in her sacred space—that this wasn’t just a meditation, or of her imagination. Her teeth chattered together before she forced them still by clinching her jaw.

The queen sighed, absentmindedly twinning a piece of hair around a finger. Her gray eyes focused back on Heather.

"Once, two of our clan, Eithne the Fair, and Fedelm the Ruddy, went down to the well at sunrise to wash their hands as was custom before beginning Divinity, and