Writing fire

We might as well call … Through The Mists

Writing fire

The mysterious Charles James Fox had taken some tracking down, but we had finally arranged a rendezvous and the three of us hunched over our beers in the corner of the Waggon and Horses in Langsett. My companion had taken me once before to see foxfire beneath the Hunter’s Moon. This, however, was something different. We had been granted the singular honour of being invited to a rehearsal meet of the Foxes, held at a secret location to preserve their anonymity. No-one, after all, knows who they are…. So to see them dance unmasked to pipe and drum was a real privilege. We were to go from here…

Crows patrolled the ancient stone of the roof tops; dark guardians of a magical dance. We felt their permission to pass within to a different world, older and deeply connected with the life of the land. We watched the honed precision of the dancers’ weaving, knowing that when next we saw them, they would be hooded and masked and in their hands the flaming brands that menace the night.

Drums would be beaten with fire, poi would paint arcs of light against the blackness and the music would call to something deep and primal within that rises to answer the rhythm of the dance.

Charles James Fox met our eyes.

“Write the legend,” said the Silver Fox.

And so we did…