The ancient Bards encoded their knowledge of the natural world of animals and plants and the power to heal, order and judge into teasing riddles that were told or sung, not written down. They believed they had powers of divination, shape changing and the ability to travel to the ?other world?. In Tales of the Celtic Bards, Claire Hamilton captures the enchanting and often strange beauty of the tales they told and the music that went with them. She recreates the experience of the Celtic listeners of long ago by framing the myth with the teller and teller with his or her audience who would have listened spellbound as this higher knowledge was handed down. Draw together in loving, enthralled company and witness the bards, seers and druids as they tell their tales again in the old way, using the magic of poetry, harp and music. May all who hear be touched by their power, finding food for the spirit and healing for the soul.
314pp, 137mm x 215mm, softback, 2008

Extract
Out of the Fire of Speech
Out of the Sword of Song
Out of the Well of Wisdom
The tales of the Strange One come.
Tell it from ear to ear
Let the Bright Knowledge run
As candle-flame among you
Til the tale is done.

The man with the strange eyes and the twisted hazel stick is coming to our village. Bruach is his name. We call him fili, for he is a seer and has knowledge of the hidden mysteries. For days we have been preparing for him and by the time he arrives the garlands will be finished and the meat tender in the pots. I have made a poem to greet his coming and practised speaking it to a few chords on my willow harp.

Although I am still a boy, I have been chosen to honour him because the people in my village think I have the second sight. I see things in visions that no one else can see and I hear voices in the forest that no one else can hear. My name is Magor, but they sometimes call me the Strange One. Everyone thinks that Bruach will choose me to follow in his footsteps and will send me for training at the Druid College. Half of me hopes for this and half of me fears it, for the training is long and wearisome and some of it takes place underground in the dark. For the bards have to lie still in their dark cells to make their poems, and place heavy stones on their chests to stop them falling asleep. They have to learn long stories of the making and history of Erin, of its tribes and conquests and all its great battles. Then they have to speak them to their harps. They must learn the strange language of signs and symbols called the Ogham because the word is so sacred that nothing can be written down.

All this I know, and I think I have already started my journey. I can play well on my harp. It is closer than a companion to me and understands my moods. I have learned the three great strains of music on it. I tried them on my mother. First I played the grief-strain, which made her cry, then, when I could bear her sobs no longer I played the joy-strain, and she immediately began to laugh. After that I played the sleep-strain, and she quickly fell asleep. So, although I feel afraid, I think I am ready for my destiny and I want Bruach to choose me.

There is excitement stirring and I think he must be coming now. We are all glad of his visit because he brings blessing to our village after the dark turn of the year. He comes from the great ritual of the gathering of the mistletoe, the beautiful white offering of the god, which descends upon our sacred groves. Bruach has been laying the white-berried branches on the Great Stone at the king's court at Tara where he presided over the sacrifices of the white bulls.

I know about this, for it is the holiest ceremony of the year and once I saw it myself. But whether in dream or vision I cannot tell, for I was very young then, younger than I am now. It was early on a winter's day with only a beam of the sun's light, and a sickle moon alongside, or perhaps it was the sickle of gold I saw, for that was flashing high up in the oak trees, cutting the sacred plant with the white berries. All the while cries went up, chanting and invocations. And I saw the holy ones, the filidh, holding the corners of a great white sheet, which billowed like a sea of foam when the branches fell in it. After that I remember the slaughtering of the bulls, their blood almost black against their white hides. And I remember the smoke that rose from the altar and the smell coming from it. All that seemed strange to me then, but I know now that we were honouring the sky-god and our Mother Earth, and their union on the oak trees in the sacred grove.

After he has helped with the sacrifices, Bruach begins his annual travels. First he goes to the villages near Tara, and tells his tales to those who live in the sacred heart of Erin. Then, just after Imbolc, when the snowdrops are appearing in the woods, he comes to our village. Knowing he is coming makes us excited for we long to hear his stories. Some say they are simply good tales of love and war and enchantment, so they just sit back and enjoy them, but others of us listen with our hearts as well as our minds and try to discover the mystical knowledge buried deep within them.

Ah! I can see him now, striding across the plain with his white robe flying out behind him like a sail in the wind, his hair wild and his harpsack strapped to his broad shoulders. He is coming nearer. I must take up my own harp and begin my playing. Soon I will see his strange eyes look at me, and I will know....

From Tales of the Celtic Bards, ?2008 by Claire Hamilton, published by John Hunt Publishing.