Cridhe. A heart. The heart and words of a Celt. A heart is a strange thing, full of evil that no one knows the horror of. Unless the Lord rules it, it will go down into despair and darkness. Hear the words of my heart: I am fallen and evil, and my Lord has saved me. Amen.
Mara. The sea. This is my longing, this is my home. I am a selkie. Enchanted are you, a mere mortal man by a maiden of the sea. Do you hear my voice? It is the selkie’s song. I am no siren.
Will you steal my sealskin? Will you take away half my life? I want my freedom. I do not understand you—no one is able to understand me. So afraid, so afraid, I will die inside. You shall not have my freedom. You shall not take that away from me.
I am restless, caught between land and sea. Bound to land but desiring the sea, who can fathom me? Earth-bound, sea-longing, half a life stolen away selfishly. This is the voice of the baird, this is the tale of the selkies since humans came to Alba’s shore. Who will change this pattern of theft? Will you?
Gorm. Blue-green, the color of a restless sea; the eyes of a restless wanderer; the longing of a baird’s heart.
Sink deeply and be caught. I dare you. If you do not dare, all will fade away into the mists. There is mist and mystery within my gaze. Meet my eyes fearlessly. FEARLESSLY.
Eyes are the gateway to the heart and soul, as are the words. But they are a faery’s words; vague and elusive. You cannot understand unless she lets you. You will never understand unless you ask.
I will isolate you behind a language barrier, and you shall not pass. Who knows the tongue of a baird?
Cheol. Music, the blood running through the veins of the Celts. This is my story, this is my song. I will enchant you by rhythm and rhyme. Hear the baird’s voice, listen to her tale. She fades in and out of many forms; now a fhidheal, now a port a beul, now a dancer atop the mounds of the sidhe.
Danns. A burst of energy from a stone statue frozen in time. Frozen, so frozen, for how long? How long? I don’t know. I can’t know. I want to know. Please tell me how much longer.
I dance the length of an ancient tree—Strathspey. Mountains and valleys, I shall remain with you throughout—this is my promise. My nature carries into all things—perfection in balance, laughter in daring. This is the blood of my heart.
Bagpipes. Hear the eerie keening. It echoes around the glens. It will not be contained. Do not try to contain it. Music cannot be suppressed; it must burst forth in glorious array.
Neither can you catch a cloud and pin it down.
If you try to pin it down you will kill its soul. Do not kill the soul of a faery. She is of Color and Light, sunbeams and clouds. You will reduce her to nothingness; trapping a creature of the skies down to earth.
Fay. A French invasion on the ban sidhe—a lady fairy.
Do not anger her or she will bring the mountains down on you.
Invade my land, give me a new name, force me to lose my heritage. I will fade away and be lost.
I am not a human. Do not force me to become one.
You are not my master, only Christ is. Christ before me, Christ above me, Christ within me. Christ enclosing me, Christ protecting me, Christ the song of joy in my heart. Saint Padraig’s song, and mine. One day I will be a missionary to the Irish—and all in the Isles of the Mighty.
This is the lore of the lands of Alba and Eire, but no one cares to know.
Study my nature, study my history, study my heart, study my soul. Learn the rhythm of my heartbeat, learn the longing of my soul, learn to love me as Christ loved the church if you dare.
Listen, listen, listen—that is the pounding of my heart; this is the rhythm of my soul.
Silver-hand. Of ancient lore. Maim royalty and they must step down. A scream into the depth of darkness, scream of pain as my arm of flesh is ripped away. Pass from consciousness, death to life. Awake to the dawn, silver shining in the light, replacing what was lost. This world is of evil and pain, but God is good. I will cling to Him and He will carry me upon His shoulders. I trust my Lord. I trust my precious Christ.
Silver-tongue. Listen to the baird’s voice if you dare. The baird will weave words into song, song into verse, verse to rhyme, patterns into the depth of your soul. Break inside, stone to flesh. No longer a statue. Stone cold, cold stone heart. Dare to let dawn’s first rays turn stone to flesh.
Hear the eerie keening? I will call to you across time and space.
What will you take away? My silver-hand? My silver tongue? Mo danns? Oh let me dance, if you love me let me dance all the days of my life. Dancing is the rhythm of my soul; please don’t take it from me. The Celts are the history of my heart and soul—learn of me and learn of them. What say you?
A promise, a promise. Flutter in my heart, steady beating like the bodhran drum. A ceilidh dance. A promise, a promise.
Will it be kept?