The Feathered Seer: Alienora and Dean were our Lore Keepers, spinning the tales, warp and weft …

Since early childhood, I have been a spinner of lore, working, oft-times, in tandem with my opposite, my all-but-twin, Sun to my Moon, Weaver of that which I spun from moonshine and memory, tale and tradition.

But it is a lonely existence in many respects. The spinning calls upon tides and times unseen by the melting-pot of mankind. My rhythms, slightly askew, jerk and judder when social meets and frenzied fraternising is called for. Hermit by nature, I do not venture out of the Cave of Seers with ease. I stand, in sun too bright, blinking and bleary from the soothing uterine darkness of the Mother Cavern, wordless and shy amongst the silver- tongued ones.

Oh! At necessary moments, and clad in convincing costume, the rules of society rote-learned and word-perfect, I emerge and walk amongst the Land-Dwellers, selling my stories for a monetary pittance or exchanging them for the sweet and heavy round of fresh orange, the feathered warmth of recently-laid egg, a hunk of spelt bread.

Lore-Keepers are Seers, for their psychic eyes rove back and forth at will and penetrate the secrets of timelessness, symbol, metaphor and mystery. They bring back the raw material of story, from times ancient even when cavemen strode the land, and spin or weave it into the language and beat of the century in which they exist, though the silk from which it comes is timeless and infinitely pliable.

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