Dancing In CirclesFrom: J L Williams Newsgroups: alt.out-of-body Subject: Dancing In Circles Date: Mon, 6 Jul 1998 22:16:40 +0100 Message-ID: <1998070622164075767@zetnet.co.uk> NNTP-Posting-Host: user-10003900.zetnet.co.uk X-Mailer: ZIMACS Version 1.20c 10003900 Lines: 24 Path: ccw.ch!pfaff.ethz.ch!news-zh.switch.ch!news-ge.switch.ch!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.nacamar.de!dispose.news.demon.net!demon!peer.news.zetnet.net!zetnet.co.uk!user-10003900.zetnet.co.uk!not-for-mail Hi Julia, finished your book this evening - in fact today. My daughter visited with grandchild this morning until 2.00. I managed to read with only a break for evening meal. Thats how I like to read. Once my head gets stuck in a book I have no mind for anything else. I REALLY ENJOY a good story. I enjoyed it very much indeed. I was gently surprised by the amount of "magic" involved from chapter 2 which meant that the story line could be manipulated eventually, to bring about a happy ending for all - well almost all :-( I thought that Ainea Sealfin might have chosen a different ending but hers was very appropriate for her origins. Thank you very much for a lovely tale and a descriptive setting of characters and highly charged locality. I was raised in a far flung corner of this country with all the trimmings of folk lore, druids, bards, bonfires (solstice ones) Lanyon Quoit, piskies, fairy tales, (and I still enjoy some of these) and the music which accompanies our history (recorded that is for the last few hundred years) Pleasnt radiations K Jim ###### From: hawksmoor@dial.pipex.com (Julia Hawkes-Moore) Newsgroups: alt.out-of-body Subject: Re: Dancing In Circles Date: Mon, 06 Jul 1998 23:31:16 GMT Organization: UUNET UK server (post doesn't reflect views of UUNET UK) Lines: 2 Message-ID: <35a15dfe.1717944@news.dial.pipex.com> References: <1998070622164075767@zetnet.co.uk> NNTP-Posting-Host: usern518.uk.uudial.com X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.1/16.230 Path: ccw.ch!pfaff.ethz.ch!news-zh.switch.ch!news-ge.switch.ch!news.maxwell.syr.edu!howland.erols.net!rill.news.pipex.net!pipex!bore.news.pipex.net!pipex!not-for-mail Wow! Thanks, Jim! JHM ###### From: mpfc@hotmail.com (Steve) Newsgroups: alt.out-of-body Subject: Re: Dancing In Circles Date: Sat, 11 Jul 1998 04:17:32 GMT Message-ID: <35a6e72c.9710967@n3.idirect.com> References: <1998070622164075767@zetnet.co.uk> <35a15dfe.1717944@news.dial.pipex.com> X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.11/32.235 NNTP-Posting-Host: newhopenet-19.idirect.com X-Trace: 11 Jul 1998 04:26:24 GMT, newhopenet-19.idirect.com Organization: "Usenet User" Lines: 12 Path: ccw.ch!pfaff.ethz.ch!news-zh.switch.ch!news.belnet.be!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!newsfeed.gamma.ru!Gamma.RU!island.idirect.com!epsilon!nemo.idirect.com!newhopenet-19.idirect.com On Mon, 06 Jul 1998 23:31:16 GMT, hawksmoor@dial.pipex.com (Julia Hawkes-Moore) wrote: > Wow! Thanks, Jim! >JHM Julia... have you actually written a book...?..If so.. I would be interested in a copy... would this be possible? Thanks, Steve ###### From: hawksmoor@dial.pipex.com (Julia Hawkes-Moore) Newsgroups: alt.out-of-body Subject: Re: Dancing In Circles Date: Sun, 12 Jul 1998 19:04:29 GMT Organization: UUNET UK server (post doesn't reflect views of UUNET UK) Lines: 392 Message-ID: <35a90864.1351209@news.dial.pipex.com> References: <1998070622164075767@zetnet.co.uk> <35a15dfe.1717944@news.dial.pipex.com> <35a6e72c.9710967@n3.idirect.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: userl096.uk.uudial.com X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.1/16.230 Path: ccw.ch!pfaff.ethz.ch!news-zh.switch.ch!news.belnet.be!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!btnet-peer!btnet!rill.news.pipex.net!pipex!bore.news.pipex.net!pipex!not-for-mail (Steve) wrote: >On Mon, 06 Jul 1998 23:31:16 GMT, hawksmoor@dial.pipex.com (Julia >Hawkes-Moore) wrote: > >> Wow! Thanks, Jim! >>JHM > >Julia... have you actually written a book...?..If so.. I would be >interested in a copy... would this be possible? > >Thanks, > >Steve here's J.H.M's story, chapter one. (reproduced with her permission) ==================================================== Please buy a copy! It is titled 'Dancing in Circles', by Julia Hawkes-Moore, published by Honno, ISBN 1-870206-15-0, distributed by Turnaround Publisher Services Ltd, UK. I could send you a copy direct if you email me, but we will have to work out the cost in foreign. All best wishes, Julia Hawkes-Moore. -------------------- Dancing in Circles Chapter 1 Saturday 20th June. At noon every Midsummer's Eve, the Lullstone Methodists take their harmonium up Bryngaran Hill in Herefordshire and hold a service in the middle of the ancient stone circle. This year, the heat was intense and the sky was veiled with the threat of thunder. The electric fans in all three cars creeping up the hill stopped working, and when the harmonium was set up, it went so badly out of tune that the singing had to be unaccompanied. The voices of the singers were thin and querulous in the hazy air. A party of hikers who had wandered away from Offa's Dyke sat on the fence and dangled their lumpy brown knees as they watched the Methodists. They joined in with the words they recognised in some of the hymns, but their baritones and basses buzzed like gnats in the spongy heat. "Bizarre," muttered one in a flat Brummy accent. "Religious weirdos," observed another. "Watch them glare when I pass you this can of lager." "Oh, 'Rock of ages cleft for me'. I like this one. Very suitable for Christians in a pagan stone circle." The short fat one sang along with the chorus, and then sneezed violently. "Ugh, hayfever. It's like breathing in treacle." He mopped his nose. "Perhaps it's better in the valley. There's a Norman chapel, a ruined castle, and a pub with five stars in the good beer guide." "I'll be glad to get back to Birmingham where they only sell lager," groaned the first. "One more pint of real ale, and I'll keel over." He fumbled in his knapsack. "Let's take a few photographs to show the lads in the office." The hikers were not to know that the magnetic powers humming in the stones had in fact caused all their films to go blank. An artist had propped up his home-made easel in the shade of the solitary oak tree to the south-east of the circle. He was busy splashing paint onto his canvas, and could not hear the singing. He listened to the faint trills of an invisible skyborne lark instead. His stomach felt queasy. He wondered fleetingly whether this might be the fault of the rather elderly goatsmilk yogurt which he had eaten for breakfast. He glared at the view. The Golden Valley dipped before him, patchworked fields scattered with sheep and sturdy red-and-white cattle. It was hedged about with high, rambling barriers of hawthorn, oaks, elderflower and dogroses. There were all the shades of sun-bleached green, and where the turf had been scarred by tractor-wheels, the earth was a livid red. The thatched roofs of Lullstone gleamed like lumps of amber amongst the slate roofs. Along the western horizon, beyond the jag of Hay Bluff, the mountains of Wales hung dark as thunderclouds. To the artist, the view was his palette of ochre, umber, and emerald, and not the fluorescent yellow of the one field of rapeseed which sickened him with its alien ugliness. His stomach heaved at the sight of it, and the sharp taste of sour yogurt billowed into his mouth. He swallowed, spat, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Half an hour or so later, the disgruntled Methodists packed up their useless harmonium and departed. The service had been singularly unsuccessful. They all proudly remembered Midsummer Eves when their powers of righteousness had left Arthur's Circle silenced and defeated. This year, they felt that the circle had somehow defeated them. They did not discuss, or even mention, the low vibration which had emanated from the stones. They twisted their feet on the floors of their cars to get rid of the sensation of pins-and-needles which had crept up from the earth. They swallowed hard and rubbed their ears as they drove back down Bryngaran Hill, assuring themselves that the buzzing and popping was the result of altitude. Next year, they vowed secretly, they would build up the power of prayer before they returned, to an irresistible strength. The stones would be quelled. Once the Methodists had gone, the power in the stones surged. The air took up the humming of their energy, and quivered. The hikers from Birmingham felt unsteady on the fence, and climbed down. They packed their empty lager cans into their knapsacks, sensing the unworldly atmosphere growing around the circle. Striding away down the hill, their spirits lifted and they began their usual banter again. The heat intensified. The artist only became aware of his solitude gradually. Tourists and religious ceremonies had been regular events at Arthur's Circle for as long as he had lived in the valley. He had never taken much notice of such oddities of human behaviour. His name was Isaac Talboys, and during the last five years he had rebuilt what had been a derelict cottage hidden in one of the folded valleys above Lullstone. Before settling here, Isaac had explored Europe and Asia, sketching, but failing to recapture, the raw energy of his days in art college and in the student riots of Paris. Eventually, he had decided that the peace and solitude of one home was preferable to the turmoil of vagrancy. Serendipity had introduced him to this hollow of Britain, where rural England marched alongside wild Wales. The tangled beauty of the countryside had wound itself around his heart, and marvellous paintings had floated from his brushtip. Now his cottage had been finished for several months, and he had lost his inspiration. He was lonely, and weary of the few local women who had once appealed to his seductive artist's eye. Isaac gazed at the unfinished canvas on his easel, and moaned. He threw his smeared palette to the ground, and tore at his streaming black hair and beard with his hands. He left paint-stains flecking the darkness, alongside the strands of grey. His hair was thick and long, and matted into his untrimmed beard and moustache; it grew out bushily from just above his shaggy eyebrows. His nose and cheekbones were sculptured and tanned by sun and wind. His clothes rambled around him, stained into earth colours by sweat and dirt. His nails were torn and blackened on his strong, long hands. A tall, lean and muscled man, he slouched cat-like in repose. He looked like all the 'wild men' of art in their unwashed phase. Only his eyes had a clean blue glitter. The heart of his picture was empty where the lurid yellow of the rapeseed lay on the bed of the valley. Isaac could not imagine any way to smoothe over this hideous eyesore. He turned away, and concentrated on rolling up a cigarette. As he licked the paper, he glanced up, and noticed that the stone circle was empty of visitors. Glancing higher, he saw that storm-clouds were piling up in the sky above the hill. His first thought was not for the canvas, but for the safety of his violin. Had he wrapped it securely before he set out? He couldn't remember. If there was to be rain, then he had better check that his old waterproofed jacket was tight around the instrument. Or better, he decided, he could fulfil a lifelong wish, and fiddle up a storm. Folding up the easel and packing away his paints took a few minutes, during which the sky darkened to purple. As he passed the stones, Isaac finally became aware of their tingling powers. His long hair crackled with static, and he shuddered as the fine dark hairs rose across his neck and shoulders. Isaac's eyes flashed a brilliant electric blue, as he felt the energy welling up from the circle. His long stride carried him quickly to the place where he had hidden his ancient black Ariel motorbike amongst the bracken. With spiderclips, he fastened his easel and haversack to the rack. Then, with a flick of his bright eyes to the glowering sky, he changed his plan, and unfastened them again. Pulling out a springy coil of thick copper wire from his sack, he twisted it along the length of the folded easel. Now he had his own personal protective lightning conductor. He unclipped the bundled jacket which contained his precious old fiddle in its battered leatherbound case. Then he returned to the edge of the circle. Here the energy from the nine stones had increased so much that Isaac felt dizzy. The dancing waves and spirals of magnetic power seemed to crackle and shimmer around the entire circle. Isaac hesitated. Would it be better to sit under the oak tree, and be sheltered from the rain but threatened by lightning-strike? Or should he brave the spinning potency of the ancient stones, which must have resisted thunderbolts for five thousand years? He realised that he wanted to join the stones, to become part of their vitality. He decided to sit below the tallest stone, from where he had a clear view down the Golden Valley, now shadowed by the dark clouds. He entered the ring of stones, and immediately felt the energy gush around him. Within the circle, the crackling magnetism died away, and a smooth, timeless peace descended. The eye of the storm. He drove the steel tip of his copper-bound easel into the hard earth beside the stone, and then knelt down to unwrap and tune his violin. He found himself mentally asking forgiveness of Arthur's Circle for his intrusion, but felt an inner glow of welcome in response. He felt comforted, and happier than he could remember for years. A violin is a great deal easier to tune than a harmonium, and it did not take long before pure notes resounded between the stones. Isaac began to play melodies of exquisite sweetness and sadness, and the circle of ancient stones seemed to draw in closer to listen. Isaac was the best fiddle player in the County, and perhaps the best to have played within hearing of Arthur's Circle since the stones were raised. He played folk music, ancient and vibrant, and the stones began to vibrate to Isaac's rhythms, instead of their own. The air inside the circle rang with music. Outside the circle, the thunder-clouds piled ever higher. Isaac played on, losing himself in the enchanted sounds. As he reached the crescendo of his tune, the air about the circle was ripped apart with an earsplitting explosion, and a dagger of lightning half-a-mile long hurtled down to earth. It hit the huge stone at its tip, and for an instant the ancient quartzite slab glowed like an electric light-bulb. Then a branch forked off and leapt over his head, hitting the primitive conductor, which sizzled with a green and blue flame. Isaac dropped the bow and clutched the fiddle. He shook his head to clear his ears, and his long hair floated and crackled with static. As his stunned vision began to focus, he looked out across the Golden Valley. The combined effect of the vibrating magnetic powers of the stone circle and the massive voltage of the lightning- strike which had momentarily enclosed him had wrought an extraordinary change in Isaac's vision. He could see the countryside about him with perfect clarity, but superimposed over it, he could see something else; a glistening cobweb of shimmering silvery lines, centred on Arthur's Circle. His memory instantly convulsed, and responded to his puzzlement with an explanation. These gleaming snail-trails must be the legendary Ley Lines which had been first identified in Herefordshire at the turn of the century. They marked a system of primeval pathways running as straight as rulers between points of importance, such as the circle in which he now crouched like a dark spider. Heedless of the danger of lightning-strike, Isaac stood up, and looked about him. The glistening lines fanned away from Bryngaran Hill in all directions, up and down hills, regardless of contours. They crossed lines from elsewhere, and wherever they met, Isaac could see some ancient feature appear. He recognised the squat tower of St Briavel's chapel and the turret of Hay castle aligning with the mound of Dingle Tump, at the mouth of his own valley. The sculptured hook of Hay Bluff showed clearly as the nexus of many lines running into Wales. At several crossing-places, moats or pools of open water shone like mirrors, to catch the eye, or single standing-stones or ancient headless crosses marked the way. Fords and stone-arched bridges across rivers showed as vividly as did lengths of Offa's Dyke. Across into the rich plains of England, the spires and towers of churches and cathedrals soared, each aligned so as to partially obscure the next. Circular copses and spinneys of oak trees formed dots on this extraordinary map, new to Isaac and as ancient as time. The network of tracks had faded to invisibility in the eyes of the twentieth century, but to the visionary artist, energised by the earth's magnetism and the sky's electricity, they sparkled out to the horizon in all directions. He realised that the pathways would always be visible to anyone who was aware of them. He would never lose his way again. Isaac turned around towards the south-east and gazed down the length of the Golden Valley, catching his breath in excitement as he did so. A broad and brilliant line shone all the way to the estuary of the river Severn, over thirty miles away. Modern roadway ran along much of it, overlying Roman roadway beneath. The towers of four distant castles shone out, as did the remains of a ruined abbey and of the castle in Lullstone itself. More surprisingly, a radio mast appeared along the route. At the limit of the horizon Isaac could see the shimmer of the Severn, and the gleam of rocks at Lydney Sands. Instantly he knew that something very special indeed awaited him at Lydney Sands. He had to go there. Ignoring the temporary lightning-conductor, which was too hot to touch, he plucked his bow up from the scorched grass, and packed it away with the fiddle. Then he ran across to his motorbike, and strapped the bundle onto the rack. He fastened on his small black helmet, and pulled the greasy Belstaff jacket over his shoulders, before hoisting the bike upright. Oddly enough, the bike started first time. Isaac crouched over the machine, and set off down the hill. The narrow lane, with hedges at either side higher than a tractor-load, took him past The Knapp, where Bryn Jones lurked, and past the organic orchards of the Mortimer's nurseries. At one point, he squeezed past two carloads of excited witches following a van laden with firewood, all going up Bryngaran Hill to prepare the bonfire for their solstice ceremony. He shot out of the lane and into the Golden Valley road without looking, confident that no traffic would trouble his route, and only just missed colliding with a sleek black BMW saloon which was coasting towards Hay. Isaac took no notice of the angry blast of the horn, which he barely heard over the pounding of his heart and the motorbike engine anyway. As he passed the first cottages of Lullstone on his left, Isaac glanced across at them. A tiny boy tumbled on the lawn of the first house, playing with a bouncing mongrel dog. From the top of the thatched roof of the second cottage, Don Craven the thatcher waved as Isaac hurtled past on the noisy bike. As he swung around the corner below the church and the castle, Ivy Grigson glared at him from the rose-covered porch of the Post Office. Passing the tiny school, Isaac glanced appreciatively up at the crepe-paper tropical rainforest festooning the windows of the end classroom. He tore past the group of people shoving the harmonium about outside the Methodist chapel, and shot by the elegant new craft workshops at the edge of the village without noticing them. Soon he had reached the stretch of Roman road which aligned with the Ley Line, and tucked his head down and concentrated on the journey. Once he ran out of Roman road, Isaac could not follow the course of the Ley Line directly, but he had memorised the markers along the route, and headed for Monmouth. The rain began at Grosmont castle, and he had to peer through his goggles to see his way between the sheets of falling water. Before long, he was passing beneath the fortified arch on the ancient stone bridge over the Monnow at Monmouth, glancing up at the castle to check his position. Threading his way through the lanes towards Lydney Sands took more calculation, but eventually he found a railway crossing which he could use, and reached the bank of the River Severn. Isaac concealed his motorbike amongst the brambled undergrowth in the pinewood which ran along the bank, and unpacked the bundle from the rack. He discarded the helmet, but drew the Belstaff around him more closely. The noon heat had dropped since the rain began, and the earlier pressure of the air had lessened noticeably. The downpour dissolved away to a gentle dripping, and the earth gave off a clean fresh fragrance. The scent of pinetrees and wildflowers tingled in his nostrils. Isaac stood still for several minutes to get his bearings, and then moved off downstream until he sensed the place where the Ley Line met the river. Here, an outcrop of mica-studded rocks tumbled down to the beach below. The wide river wound its lazy way through the broad flat sands, late-afternoon shafts of sunlight gliding over its surface. The sands were still firm and damp from the rainstorm, and glistened as the clouds faded away, and blue skies reappeared. There was no trace of human activity anywhere. Isaac sighed, and understood that he had to wait for his promised event, probably until dark fell after high tide. Locating a dry cleft amongst the rocks, from which he could see the expanse of sand easily, he coiled himself up on his outspread jacket, lit up a cigarette to lull his hungry stomach, and prepared to wait. * From: "Julia Hawkes-Moore" ###### From: silkdick@aol.com (Silk Dick) Newsgroups: alt.out-of-body Subject: Re: Dancing In Circles Lines: 9 Message-ID: <1998071223021500.TAA03417@ladder03.news.aol.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: ladder03.news.aol.com X-Admin: news@aol.com Date: 12 Jul 1998 23:02:15 GMT References: <35a90864.1351209@news.dial.pipex.com> Organization: AOL http://www.aol.com X-Newsreader: AOL Offline Reader Path: ccw.ch!pfaff.ethz.ch!news-zh.switch.ch!news.belnet.be!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!newsfeed.internetmci.com!152.163.199.19!portc03.blue.aol.com!audrey03.news.aol.com!not-for-mail getting some mileage outta that post, eh JHM? :-) haven't heard from you in a while. Have I lost you? Pleasant Dreams |-) Silk Richard.Silk@Juno.Com SilkDick@aol.com Pager #615-923-1696 ###### From: Kris@greenpolyesthercan-can.pcsonline.com (DreamWind) Newsgroups: alt.out-of-body Subject: Re: Dancing In Circles Date: Mon, 13 Jul 1998 14:41:26 GMT Organization: PacketWorks Public Newsserver Lines: 27 Message-ID: <6od6g7$o5e$5@siesta.packet.net> References: <1998070622164075767@zetnet.co.uk> <35a15dfe.1717944@news.dial.pipex.com> <35a6e72c.9710967@n3.idirect.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: pcs143.pcsonline.com X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.0.82 Path: ccw.ch!pfaff.ethz.ch!news-zh.switch.ch!ubnnews.unisource.ch!news-nyc.telia.net!howland.erols.net!newsfeed.wli.net!su-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!su-news-feed1.bbnplanet.com!news.bbnplanet.com!newsgate.tandem.com!daver!news.packet.net!not-for-mail mpfc@hotmail.com (Steve) wrote: >On Mon, 06 Jul 1998 23:31:16 GMT, hawksmoor@dial.pipex.com (Julia >Hawkes-Moore) wrote: >> Wow! Thanks, Jim! >>JHM >Julia... have you actually written a book...?..If so.. I would be >interested in a copy... would this be possible? >Thanks, >Steve Intresting header...does anyone have the original post on this? -- DreamWind ************************************************************** Remember always, that all power comes from the creator *************************************************************** note; to send e-mail, remove greenpolyesthercan-can from address