Category Archives: Messenger

Faerie Form, Language & Visits

wood fairy (2)

Being a witch and Wiccan. I did, and still do, have visits from the Fae.

Yes, some can be small. But appear as ball of lights or orbs. No, they not like Tinkerbell.

But they are majestic and beautiful spiritual beings. However they can take animal forms. And mix animal attributes with human.

Those who visit me seem to be from all over the world. And I heard them speak in middle eastern languages as well as European. And yes, some do have an Irish or Scottish accent.

I believe some are djinn and some are Sidhe. One that represents them is a tall woman with long black hair. Her skin can be dark. Or light grayish or blue in color. She helps me in my path of Wicca and witchcraft.

Sorry, might of strayed from the subject. Blessed be.

Richardtwicca

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The Banshee Visits

Imagine being all of five and living a world away from Ireland when you have an encounter with the Banshee.

Imagine being told by your Grandfather that it was pointless to tell anyone, since in the United States no one respected the old ways or recognized them anymore.

I remember it clearly.

My Aunt was suffering from breast cancer, a young thirty-nine, with my Mom, who was a nurse, caring for her. My Grandfather, their father, was living with us at the time. For some reason he and I were at our house when Mom and Dad were at my Aunt’s. I suspect it’s because nobody expected my aunt to die so suddenly.

colouring pencils]

The other kids were out in the street playing ball in the hot summer sun, but Grandpa and I were together in the shadowy house. I don’t know what I was doing. Drawing, I think, on the chipped and scarred coffee table that had been roundly abused by the seven kids in the house.

It was really quiet. I do remember that, and my Grandpa was sitting in my dad’s comfortable chair doing a crossword puzzle in the daily paper. We’d been listening to the shrill voices of siblings and neighborhood kids all morning, but it seemed that they’d moved farther down the street, because I remember a hushed kind of silence.

Suddenly I heard a sound I still can’t describe; a keening, yes, but the most beautiful, hair-lifting cry I think I’ll ever hear.

Outside, up, as if it hovered high over the front porch. fold newspaper

I looked up.

My Grandpa froze where he sat.

Slowly he set down his newspaper and rose, pausing, as if by dragging his feet he could prevent the inevitable.

Then he walked to the front window and pulled the curtains aside.

The keening came again, like a high wind or one of the old ladies who showed up at the family funerals, except indescribably more beautiful and haunting.

I sat where I was, suddenly unsure what to do. My Grandpa knew. He looked out, looked up, as if something hovered in the bright white sky.

“She’s gone,” he said, and there were tears in his voice.

Quietly he let the curtains fall back into place, and for a while just stood there, his head down.

curtain window

“What was that, Grandpa?” I asked.

He shook his head, never looking for me.

“It was the Banshee.”

He walked back to his chair and sat down.

He picked the paper up that he’d carefully folded to exhibit the crossword puzzle, but he didn’t look at it. He just held it.

I looked out toward where the voice had come from. I knew what banshees were. I’d just seen ‘Darby O’Gill and the Little People’ not long before, and the Banshee in the movie was a terrifying swirl of flowing black robes and hair. Her voice, though, had been terrifying.

This hadn’t terrified me. Even so, I didn’t have to courage to get up and walk to the window to look out. I just went back to coloring.

Just then my Mom called. My Aunt had just died. My Mother didn’t seem surprised that my Grandpa already knew.

I never asked my Mother about what I heard. I didn’t tell anybody until only about ten years ago when I finally discovered the Irish part of our family who had been able to stay in Ireland.

“Of course,” my cousin said when I told her. “The Banshee follows our clan.”

I’ve never heard her again.

 Eileen – United States.

sunset

Dream of an Irish Death

Last year, I had a dream and I remember it so well it might as well have been just last night. In fact I will never forget it.

So, I was walking through a creepy cemetery on a path of small, crunchy stones. The path was winding and there were headstones everywhere on either side of me. And they were in no order, just seemingly random.

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It was quite dark when I reached the end of the path, and there stood a shiny new headstone with a fresh pile of earth piled high and covered in flowers.

I looked at the headstone and it read:

‘Patricia Kelly.

Born April 1958 – Died Dec 2018.

Cavan, Ireland.

Gone too soon.’

I suddenly realized a woman was standing next to me. She wore all black, a long flowing heavy gown and a black veil over her face.

I looked at her face and found it was her, my aunt, Pat Kelly. Her face was sallow but she was smiling. I woke with a start and got up to get some water and found my Mother sitting at the kitchen bar crying. She just got word that her sister (my aunt) Patricia Kelly had died in a car accident near her home in Cavan.

I don’t know if this is strictly related to the Good People but once I got past the shock of it, I felt the dream had been a message. Aunt Pat was always a great believer in the Good People.

Jessica – Washington D.C.

The Red Fox

This happened 18 months ago. My husband and I woke early to visit my Mother at the retirement home as she was poorly with flu.

While my husband made tea, I pulled the curtains back in our sunroom which opens out to the garden.

Stood there, just a few yards from the glass door was a red fox, staring at me, with a wee branch from a Rowan Tree in its mouth. The branch had no leaves, but an abundance of red berries.

I stood perfectly still as we stared at each other and quietly called to my husband to come and see for himself, for I knew well enough he would never believe me if he hadn’t seen it himself.

When my husband entered the room, the fox stepped forward and gently lay the Rowan branch upon the grass close to the door. All the while it never took its eye from mine.

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The telephone rang and the red fox turned and scarpered away.

The caller was from the retirement home to tell us my dear Mother had passed away during the night.

I knew immediately, and without a doubt, that the red fox was delivering a message. The Rowan Tree signifies courage, wisdom and protection, and it was a message from my Mother.

Heather – near Aberdeen.