It seemed that encountering the Elves of Belerion, had opened up my Elven sight. Whilst visiting a forest in the north of Cornwall I encountered two Elves walking by. At the time I had no conversation with them and thought that I had missed an opportunity, but as I sat down to write I moved into a trance. I found myself sitting on the bough of a huge tree, miles in the air, alongside me was an Elf. He was different to the elves of Belerion, he was dressed all in green and shimmered with a green light which I had not seen on the Belerion Elves. He was obviously a Tree Elf and his name was Ingel.
The Teleri were my kin, and through them I did make my stand,
For when I heard the horn, I was driven to the land.
I ventured deep into the forest there, and began to look for kin.
I found a party of elven friends, and through this we did begin.
To build a great city there, hung amongst the trees,
We built a home for ourselves, to take rest and ease.
The walkways of our city, they were made of vines
Our homes were woven, as if they were twines
Flowers grew naturally, as if they had always dwelt,
Giving off their fragrance, divine if smelt.
Power hung about the place, hanging on the trees
Casting divine magic, carried by the breeze
A stronghold barrier, patrolled by those of sight
Bowman trained to see, in the dead of night.
When I talk about the city, I am aware that a human mind might think of buildings which are made of stone and brick or even clay. Our cities were not like this at all. The trees in the old forests were often covered in giant vines, which we used to weave ropes and walkways, we did not cut the vine but used magic and communication with the spirit of the vine to move along lines of our design. Our city was alive no branch had been split, no leaf out of place, nature bends to our will. In the very centre of our encampment hanging high in the canopy was the main community structure. It circled about a massive old oak , it walls and floor were made of overlapping branches and entwined vines , no fire was in such a place. Ladders were sometimes erected but usually pullies and lifts allowed our ascension into the canopy above. Each Elf had his or her own pod in which to sleep. These pods could be pulled down to the ground level and then pulled back up, to hang among the treetops. On summer nights the Elves would pull them to the very top, so to catch a welcome breeze. Light is not needed for Elves for they have excellent night vision and if illumination is needed they can project an orb of light from themselves, which would then act as a guiding light. Since man placed the electricity on to the planet, Elves have been unable to project their light into orbs, not without considerable focus, electricity disturbs our abilities.
Fire in a place such as this would be dangerous indeed, however it is not needed, Elves do not really get cold not like the bones of man and are more in harmony with the seasons. However they honour the fire and can project it at will. An Elven fire from the heart is not red and yellow flamed like the fires that burn of wood, but a green light they do emit. They are warm but never hot and this is more for affect. The elves do not burn of things and do not chop down trees but maintain their fires by concentration. There are the fire conjurers whose job it is to maintain the fire, they are highly skilled and many of them can manipulate the smoke and the flame to cast pictures in the fire. The fire conjurers always work alongside the story teller and the bard. They accompany the story telling with images in the flames that all can see. It can seem that they are lazy as they lounge about the place but it takes a certain kind of relaxation to maintain the fiery blaze.
Elves do not sleep as deep as men if it could be thought as sleep at all, for we can take rest whilst we are still alert for an intruder. We cast magic among the trees, magic of illusion and disguise, seldom are our homes discovered by man or uninvited Elf. Traps are laid and detours too, many walk in circles, lost within the Elven loops that we set among the stones. We Silvarin had leaders but in those days there were no kings or queens, we are a simple folk at heart and have no need of royalty. We instead took our guidance and instruction from a wise ancient tree spirit Dyad called Dru Avi. The large oak at the centre of our complex upon whose branches sat our main hall, there lived a wise and highly evolved tree dyad. His name was Dru Avi. (Dru- druid –tree & Avi- father in Hebrew). We would gather in the hall and listen to his quiet yet deep mutterings. He had stood for so many eons before we had arrived looking for a new home.
His wisdom was known but hard to comprehend,
We listened and listened, and understood in the end.
His leaves would a chatter, as if each had his own voice,
The branches would be creaking, as if they had no choice.
The roots would be groaning, deep inside the earth,
The trunk would be turning, often in reverse.
The whole tree was breathing, no longer stiff as a board.
The spirit would be heaving, as it read his retort.
He was our guardian, our protector, and our guide,
And within his memory, we still have pride.
He taught us magic, that not all Elves do know,
He taught us how to read, the rings that grow.
He showed us his memory, we breathed it in, as if it was the air,
We looked into places that other Elves did not dare.
We are the Silvarin tree Elves, I am sure you have heard.
Our stories have been told, with many an Elven word.
We know the secret that the old oaks do tell
We have seen the place where the Eldar do dwell.
Many races of Elves live complicated lives living in hierarchy, rules, lores and governance dominant their culture, Silvarin we are not as complicated. We like to consider ourselves those Elves who stayed true to the original intent of loving and caring for Arda. Even though many of our people were lost in the great wars we were slow to make the decision to fight, it took great persuasion from other factions to finally make us join the war. We knew there was trouble out in the wider world but we were not concerned
with such things, for long ago we had moved so deep into the forest many thought us now trees ourselves. Living among dense forest trees we began to hear their language and came to migrating across the wide stretches of thick laid tracks following their songs as they passed them from leaf to leaf. Many wars came and went and we had no word of them at all in our safe havens of green leaves. It was not until the time of iron did we wake from our slumber and realise the outside world had changed. A
nd when the man with the axe did walk into our old oak woods we felt the shudder as he struck the first strike and the first tree fell. We thought this cannot be how can man do this? We knew of man’s existence and his fall but we were content to stay out of his business if he stayed out of ours. But when the axe did strike into the bark of that first tree we vowed we would take revenge.
Elven lores there are many, too many to mention now however there are several which man would do well to abide, if he knows what is good for his form. Not a single cutting of the tree is the golden rule which ever Elf does know, even those who are lost in the incarnation of time still feel the sin when the bough falls under the tree feller’s axe. It’s only a tree I hear you cry you foul mouth of man, what would you know about being sentient and wise. For towering above you, with its branches reaching to the sky and its roots deep inside the earth, stands the mightiest of beings on the whole of this land. The trees are life and Arda in her most beautiful expression yet it is only seen as dead as wood. It is obvious the only dead wood is that which lies in the minds of those who wield those chained saws. How can they not hear the silent scream from the depths of the tree, how can they not feel the tearing of its roots. Are they of wooden hearts, it is painful for any Elf to watch.
Even those trees that are fallen some considered before their time, are not allowed to be removed for fire wood but left for the growing of more life. The mushroom makes if fungi from its death and decay, insects, worms, lifeforms you cannot imagine grow with the death of a tree. When man only gathered fallen branches cast from the tree like a human would shed its hair, then all lived in harmony that was before the time of iron, the time of the sword, the axe and the death of all who felt its cold blade. Many men fell to the sword and some are remembered even in books , heroes some would say , but never a tale is told about the many of our brothers and sisters residing in the trees, that died at the hands of the axe. Dyad of mighty oak fell beneath a pile of his fellow kin, sailing ships and mining shafts they became, carrying men to war and holding up their mines, so they could rape Arda of her precious stones.
Trees breathe life into the atmosphere, oxygenating the air, their roots stabilising the ground, preventing floods with their mighty thirst. They are antennae, reaching their branches into the heavens hoping to catch a message from the stars. Their crowns of leaves sits in the heaven spaces and their roots deep inside the belly of the earth. Each one a sentient being with more wisdom than even an Elf could know, the records of time are recorded in the rings of the tree. All of life is recorded there and even all of death, for without the death of another, the life of the new remains unborn. Decay and turning to dust is the way of the tree, its life cycle does not end with its demise as a mighty oak. For even when it is no longer recognised as an Elm or a Rowan, it is still living within every being which it feeds upon its death and decay. It passes its wisdom on to the next generation through the telephone exchange of the mushroom.
A tree spirit is the sentient spirit of the tree who resides deep within its hazel halls and its Rowan towers, living among the records, tracking the rings as they spiral around and around, it is the dyad of the tree. History is recorded there Arda, Elven and even Man. Scientists are always looking for ways of reading the past but seldom do they look to the memory of the tree , if only they knew what the language of such rings really meant they would understand so much more about life itself. For every tree is the tree of life every trunk holding up the world, each one a symbolic representation of the world tree. Every flower from its branches is sacred to Elven kin alike, every fruit a gift for both taste, smell and sight. But trees are not just there to provide us with food, and shelter they provide us all with a connection to Ilúvatar. Man thinks he was made in the image of God, how ignorant and misled, for every Elf knows that the Tree is the true form of the Creator.
Each tree is a healer and performer of magic, each one has a speciality it provides. Its bark can be taken with permission and respect and used for tinctures, teas and the changing of consciousness, as can it flowers, leaves and fruit, this wisdom has been forgotten because of the burning of books. Many a hedge witch did know the tree magic known only in complete form by the Elves. Trees are the guardians of the secret ways into the protected spaces of the Fey, they do not let anyone pass that is not Fey in form or in blood.
We Elves have a different connection to nature than humans, for we see ourselves as a part of this symbiotic consciousness known as Arda. We do not see her as an object, seeing no life in the stones in the earth, for we have eyes which are not blinded by the corruption of the mind and can see clearly that our brethren live in the rocks and stones. Many humans collect crystals and diamonds as if they are somehow better than a common rock in the garden. For us all rocks are divinity in form. We see faces formed in the rocks and know they are the face of the rock spirit who lives inside. We commune with them in verse and rhyme and they reply in beat and hum. Many stones hold the memories of Arda’s birth and the dawning of the Elves, holding time in their very bodies. They are geometric entities each one has a unique pattern as its skeleton to support its form. Communication with such beings does not come in words or eloquence but is transmitted as a beat and a hum.
Every flower is a gift for us as if we were chosen to receive from the creator Ilúvatar itself. As each bud opens we sing and rejoice for life is abundant here on this planet of ours. As the fruit ripens on the bough we feel this ripening within us as if we too are moving in cycles and seasons, in line with Arda. In the spring we have many rites of passage, ritual and magic combined. Many of us walk the silent path at this time to contemplate the coming of the snow drop and the crocus. As the seasons pass and we walk upon the earth the seasons move us through rites of passage, ritual, ceremony and council. Large gatherings of Elven clans migrated across the surface of the earth meeting in places of dragon pools. Walking the sacred dragon tracks, ley lines of power, coming to the place where two dragons meet, creating a pool of magnetic earth energy.
For we are not separate from the consciousness which is Arda and neither is man but that is another story for another time. We vibrate with the same hum as Arda, we purr in energy along to her beat, so because of this we can move through the network which is Arda and manifest ourselves in any of her forms. We are fully aware of who we are and how we fit into Arda’s plan, mankind on the other hand has no single clue. Because of our perspective, we still have the eyes to see, for we are not blinded by false beliefs and plain un-trues, we are curious and enquiring so nothing passes us by. We are long living and see many greater seasons come and pass, thousands of year cycles experienced as if a few days have passed. For a human with such a short life span to comprehend this, it is not possible, they can only guess. We have seen man rise in various cultures and then we have watched them fall , we have watched them murder and kill each other as if the letting of blood is all they know. We have seen them take the wisdom of metallurgy which was given to them by the Elves become perverted and dangerous, creating weapons of iron which can cut into the body of flesh.
We honour the springs, the rivers, and the oceans, for Arda is her strongest in this form, for she is a water Goddess, most of her body is covered in the waters of life. We honour the rainfall, the wind in the trees, we honour the snow beneath our feet, for weather is the soul of Arda, her moods, her passing feelings. If the spring is like a thousand bright mornings all rolled into one then Arda is dancing naked under the sun. If summer is hot and the fruit is abundant then Arda is happy in her maidenhead attire. If autumn is misty and dew lies upon the leaves that have fallen from the trees, then Arda is getting ready for sleep, to have her sweet dreams. If the winter is crisp and snow covers the ground, Arda is sleeping waiting for spring so she can rise once more, dressed a new in a gown of spring flowers.
Nothing is lesser or better in our eyes for all of Arda is perfection all fitting perfectly into a grand design, that only a being as wise as Arda could possibly know. Every ant , every worm , very butterfly , each species , each race, each level of consciousness all has its special place and role in Arda’s dance . Even man once had his place but has since forfeit this for a life of artificial restraint of mind. We are the singers as you all should know but our singing is not just rejoicing or lamenting, for there is magic with every word. For magic created the complexity of this world and for this we have to take some credit. For singing the sacred songs of creation allows us to form the plasma field, to create blueprints of nature designs for the forming of a seed or flower. We work with Phi, Fibonacci, and spiral magic to weave into the space time of reality, forming new expressions of Arda’s desire. We are the measurers, we divide in sacred geometry and use pattern and script to hold our spells in form. We taught the Henge builders how to use the sacred rule, angles and curvatures, spirals of earth energies were captured in time. We are the dowsers walking the dragon tracks, passing over miles and miles we made long pilgrimage, moved by a migratory desire, feeling the impulse to migrate just like the birds in winter looking for warmer climes. Many of our kin settled in this place or that, building large settlements of beautiful design. Many of us could not bring ourselves to stay in one place choosing to ride over valley and glen, exploring Arda in all her attire, landscapes changing in the blinking of an eye. Might forests there were then but now they have all gone, all laid waste under the advancement of man.
Oh wounded is the body of Arda, how did this creature called man become so wide spread, wasting the ground beneath his feet, spreading poison and disease. For blights were not heard of in Elven times, no plant rotted on the bough, no seed refused to sprout , every harvest was abundant and no one wanted anything more. Now that is sorely a thing of the past for man now thinks he can fertilise and pesticide his way into becoming the conqueror of Arda herself. Forgotten are the spiral planting and the sacred design of the garden to increase the yield , forgotten are the planting on new moons and special days marked by ceremony ,party and cheer , long gone are the pagan ones who still carried the ancient stories from the blood of their ancestors and their kin. Now man plants in rows, the same plant cloned with no spirit at all. Even though the form stands there is no spirit living inside, why would they want to live in such artificial conditions it is not natural and that is all. Man no longer communes with the plants by ingesting their forms for the spirit of the plant is simply not there and has not been there since they sprouted from the seed. So man’s fruit have no taste, their vegetables bland and without power for it is the spirit of the plant which gives the food its life. Herbs no longer sing in the morning calling a picker to discover them, even flowers grown for the vases of ladies are lifeless and bare of spirit. Only the physical stands with no substance or life. Cloning this, modifying that, mankind thinks he knows better than Arda what arrogance, what pride, foolish is man, his arrogance will be his demise. How could one possibly think they know better than she who knows, how man could think he could improve on her design when he does not know her intent? Has he ever bothered to ask her, no he does not see her which is his biggest crime. He sees her as a rock floating in space, every form put there in service to him. Oh the ego of man.
Elven lore is based on natural law, Arda’s wisdom in action, no harm is to be done to the great mother and her many children of all and any species. All of life is to honour and respected, nothing wasted or cast aside, from this basis our Elven lores were written into the rings of a tree. We Elves believe in fate more than most, we can see the spinning of the spider in this web of life, we are a patient, waiting for the tides of our fate to turn, some of us waiting for thousands of years before the weave is cast. We accept without question the way of our life, guided and intended by Arda herself. We do not plead to false gods who live on clouds, we do not prostrate ourselves at the feet of stone idols. We live and breathe and sing our worship of Arda in all our deeds and actions, we do not allot time to visit our god in stone buildings but live and breathe with Arda as if we are one in every moment of the day. We speak to her directly in songs and poetry, and she replies in signs and portent. For mysterious is she, the one who knows, little known are her ways to man. We have been with Arda since the beginning and we know her well, every bird taking flight is a message, an omen, every breeze carries news from a far. The sons and daughters of the human family have since given up listening for her words.
Gone are the shamans of long ago, their feathers cast to the wind
Gone are the medicine men, replaced by preachers who have sinned
Gone are the wise women of the hedge, knowledge of berry and thorn
Gone is the druid, with his serpent staff, lost in the mists of the dawn
Man would do well to follow the Elven Lore of no harm to none but sadly he only speaks in shallow resolve, his actions show his true intent. For harm is always on his mind , chop a tree, clear the land , harvest, reap and rape, little is given back all he knows is how to take. He mines the earth as if she has no will of her own. For man is seen as little more than parasites by those Elves of dark intent, for long ago they lost their trust in the hearts of men. When man forged the iron into sharpened blades a chill ran through every Elf’s heart, they knew this was the start of the destruction of the great forest. “Timber” we heard them cry as the trees fell, the heavy bodies sending a shock wave through the earth, we cowered and quaked in our hollowed hills and spelled for some relief. But sadly our magic was failing, we were unable to affect the feats of man, our influence waned with every passing day, our messages incomplete, or simply not heard. Men began to fear us as the divide widened and men began to think of us ghosts or ghouls. Some talked of fairies and sprites who lived under a tree, remembered in folk tale , poetry and song but even those who remember the words are now long gone, taken to their graves the script and lyric.
We live in the roots of trees they say scrambling around in the dirt, how foolish the minds of men, for we live in palaces of gold in forest of permanent green. For deep inside the earth there is world not for the eyes of men. Where Fae, Elf and Shee live in peace and harmony. Some say we have created ourselves a world out of time where the leaves never fall from the trees, where blossoms are in permanent bloom. Where the air is fresh and never stale, where the sky is always blue, where the grass is green and always lush, where trees stand tall as mountains. Where mountain streams fresh and cool sing a mountain song, where eagles soar on the wing, where Elven voices can be heard ringing through the trees. Magic is in this place that you can surely feel, golden sparkling lights pass in swarms, colour fills the air. Warm is the night air never cold is this place, fruit of every kind hangs upon the bough. To taste of our honey mead is dangerous for men, as it binds and ties the dream body of man to our hidden isle. The Piper plays his pipes a merry old tune, the harp and drum and shell and sticks pass along the rhythm. Through dance and song and mirror magic we cast out spells and create this world we see, hidden in the roots of an old Ash tree. We battled and raged against those men with axes in the minds, waiting to fell our sacred trees, though as the battles wore on we began to become pale and fade and we knew our time on the surface of the earth was coming to an end and we knew that we had to delve deep into the earth and make the homes of the Shee.
NB * This is an ongoing project , these are the first chapters more to come
If you have google chrome you can download an app called Mercury Reader which gives you the ability to send this page to kindle .