Wayland: Silver-Smith of Souls…


There are a number of intriguing aspects to the legend of Wayland Smithy…

The earliest written sources appear late and are decidedly piecemeal.


Wayland is the son of a God, Giant, or King of the Otherworld.

He is schooled in metallurgy by Dwarves, whom, in skill, he quickly surpasses.

He lives, hunts, and works alone in a region associated with wolves and bears.

One day he comes upon a swan-maiden bathing skin-less.

He finds her skin, appropriates it, and she lives with him for nine years.

At the end of which time she discovers her hidden skin and flies away.


Wayland is then taken captive by the King of Sweden,

maimed to prevent escape and set to work on an island…

Wayland surreptitiously kills the king’s sons, turns their skulls into goblets

and presents them to the king and queen.

Their teeth he turns into a brooch for the king’s daughter.

The king’s daughter has a ring of Wayland’s, stolen from him by her father,

and when it breaks she asks him to mend it.

Wayland inebriates the king’s daughter and fathers a son on her.


At this point, in the tale, Wayland’s swan-wife returns,

with a swan-skin for him and they fly away,

to the Blessed-Isles of Britain, together…




Priest of the Sun…

Cadbury Castle


‘…Reality is now shimmering in the heat as the air sparkles and I remember that King Arthur sleeps beneath the hill of Camelot like a child in a giant’s womb… ready to wake in the hour of need…

I plunge into the earth in search of a cool cavern, yet my feet stand on the sunlit grass as the Knight who is a Priest approaches.

I pull the furs about me against the chill, standing spear-straight in the winter sun…

He may not pass.

The Temple is mine….


 He may not pass without answer…

Behind me a crescent of acolytes, await, with bowl and stone, oil and wine…

I hold up my hand, and he meets my eyes…

“Whither goest thou, Priest of the Sun?”

“I go hence into the Lowlands for the people are in need.”

“What is that need?”

“The need is Love…”

“And what will you give for the passage?”

“I will give my heart’s blood to the land.”

He offers his left hand.

A priestess steps to my side, holding the bowl and the razor-sharp shard of blue flint.

He is silent, save for a sharp intake of breath as the thick flesh at the base of his thumb yields to my ‘stone-blade’.

Blood, red as the holly crown I wear, wells into my bowl.

With blood and oil, I mark him, the sign of passage paid.

I lift the cup to his lips…wine steeped herbs that open the inner sight…bitter… part of the price…

He drinks, his eyes holding mine like a serpent…I like his strength… he is no fool, this one…he knows the true price of vision…

Passing the cup to the maiden I take his hand and lead him into the dark womb of the temple…’


The Wyrm and the Wyrd: Descent

The trouble with awe-inspiring landscapes is that the camera can never do them justice. It is not merely a matter of scale, depth and perspective… the lens can capture all the details accurately. It can hold a frozen moment of beauty forever. But it will seldom take your breath away in that indefinable manner that ‘being there’ in the presence of wonder will do.

We had seen the little museum and gained a reasonable understanding of the science and archaeology. We had even watched the introductory film. We were both open-mouthed when we actually stood in the presence of the entrance to the mines. It is hard to explain why. It is not just the sheer scale of the workings, nor is it knowing that the mines were created four thousand years ago with antler picks and stone hammers. It is nothing to do with knowing how many miles of tunnel have been discovered so far, or the complexity of the smelting process by which the green, copper-rich malachite was turned into metal. It is not even marvelling at the level of technology that took the Stone Age into the Bronze Age.

The nearest I can come to describing the feeling is to say that walking out into the morning and seeing the mines spreading out below,  feels very similar to walking into one of the great Gothic cathedrals. There is that same sense of awe and wonder. The same feeling that here the hand of Man reached out to something he saw as divine and was touched in return by Its essence.

That probably does not sound as if it makes any sense. We think of mines as commercial ventures…dark, dirty airless places,  or the horrendous open-cast affairs that rape and destroy mountainsides, leaving ugly scars and irreparable damage. These mines felt ‘other’ than that. They were not divorced from Nature, but part of it, colonised by flowers and lichens, birds, horseshoe bats and many small, busy creatures.  The earth seemed not so much plundered as harvested.

As we entered the narrow passageway of the entrance, we were entering a sacred place. If the earth is seen as the body of the Mother, then we were walking through her veins. The precious minerals, mined with such diligence by our ancestors might, perhaps, be part of her central nervous system; crystals are used for communication even in our own uber-technical age after all. I wondered about that and remembered a valley full of crystal where the idea of communication-by-minerals had first come to mind, feeling as though we were almost on the edge of understanding something…

We had the place almost to ourselves as we squeezed through narrow passageways, making the inevitable comparisons with the process of birth. On each side, there were glimpses into other tunnels, so narrow that only small children could have mined them. That is an odd thought for the modern mind, yet the children must have worked alongside their parents in the flickering shadows cast by the tallow candles. The mines were part of the community and, although the work would have been dark and dangerous, there is no lingering whisper of distress in the stone.

Stalactites in one of the unopened caverns. Image from information board

Beneath our feet, grilles were windows into even lower levels. Much of the mine is still closed to the public, but nine levels of tunnels descend 220 feet into the earth and over five miles of tunnels have been found, created over a period of a thousand years. It was not only malachite ore that was mined; the green stone is well known today as a semi-precious gem and is still used in jewellery. Once it was finely ground and used as  a pigment in ancient cosmetics and paint, but here the main focus was for the making of bronze. Blue azurite, gold chalcopyrite and even native copper were extracted as well as the malachite.

Those with an interest in the healing properties of crystals will already be wondering about that cocktail of minerals and what it must have been like to spend one’s life within a cocoon of them. Balancing, enhancing, positive stones all of them… their meanings well worth researching for those who choose to delve further into the idea. If our ancestors, so intimate with stone, were sensitive to such energies, they must have truly felt the embrace of the Mother keeping them safe within her womb.

On every wall you can see the marks made by the tools and hands of those who carved the caverns from virgin stone. Antler picks, four thousand years old, have left their traces and bring their wielders close as you walk through the tunnels. In places, ancient walls block older tunnels, still holding their secrets and waiting to be explored. Then, you turn a narrow corner and find a window on wonder.

I am not a fan of coloured lighting in caves, but here, the cycling colours were a perfect way to highlight the level upon level of excavation in the most astonishing cavern. It is one of the largest prehistoric, man-made caverns in the world, carved out only with antlers and stone tools. When it was first rediscovered in 1987, there was only space to crawl into the cavern; it had been backfilled with rubble. It took the team five years to reveal the full extent of the space and the multitude of levels that honeycomb the walls, leading into the central cavern. Layer upon layer of workings, both higher and lower than you can see… it is an utterly incredible sight!

We had to go back and see it twice, waiting till a couple had passed before testing the acoustics and taking a reading. It is not just mind-blowingly huge, it is also beautiful and feels somehow full of life, with shadows casting faces from every angle in the shifting light. And no matter how many pictures we took, we would not capture even a fragment of its presence.

Outside, the story was the same. What should have seemed like a damaged landscape had a ‘rightness’ that spoke of a respect and a harmony with the earth that we have lost with industrialisation. Although it could well have been an alien landscape, perhaps it is we who have alienated ourselves.

On the surface, there are the usual information points. A smelting shed shows how the bronze was made… not really something that could have simply been discovered by the accidental burning of a piece of malachite as one gentleman we passed was suggesting.  On the other hand, there is an area that demonstrates how flames can weaken stone, making it friable and easier to mine.

At one point the path leads you above the 470 ft deep Vivian’s Shaft, dropping straight down into the earth. It was when the landscaping project was first proposed that local enthusiasts decided to explore what was thought to be merely an old Roman mine worked by the Victorians. Deep within the shaft they found bones and stone tools that would carbon-date the mines and alter history.

Both above ground and below there are a bewildering number of entrances and passageways, promising many more discoveries. The lease for the  mines were purchased by four passionate local people who continue to protect, explore and uncover one of the most amazing prehistoric sites I have ever seen. Not just for the sheer physical endeavor that the site represents, but for the sense of place and purpose. If you get chance, it is more than worth as visit. As for us, we were leaving the womb of the earth to head for the hills and a meeting with a druid…

Unexpected Shaman (4) – In the Mouth of the Jaguar

Really? A giant, black, Jaguar materialised from the south face of the Chichen Itza pyramid and thundered across the ground to devour you?

On one level, it’s a preposterous thing to write; on another, it’s the heart of the matter.

“If you can’t let go,” Jerome had said, under the quiet shadows of the one silent place in the hotel grounds, “then you’ll get little, apart from academic worth, from Chichen Itza.”

Manuel had moved his guided group on, away from the the place of the first sighting of the temple complex, and to the fabled ‘ball court’, leaving a solitary figure staring at the pyramid, from which the jaguar that was filling his perception had emerged.

They had split time, the Shaman and Manuel, the gentle guide; had opened a door of perception known about but never personally experienced in this form. I had, as I wrote in the last part of this narrative, resisted many of the ideas of shamanism, not because they were suspect, but because they used a symbol system with which I was not comfortable. But that said more about me than the system.

There is only one set of spiritual truths; only one inner architecture of the soul. But there are as many ways of describing ‘it’ as there are life-forms that perceive it. And that’s its glory – that each one of us comes to ‘seeing’ in a unique way, a potency of ‘knowing vision’ that is really not about us, but is a revealing of the truth that stands before us, altering what was ‘our’ world, but really only dissolving the power of the egoic self to stop us seeing it as it is.

Once the world is seen as it is, the ego has lost all its power. It doesn’t want that… If we could see what was fighting this, in all its frailty, we would no longer have any fear, and the egoic self could go about its business in peace and correct alignment.

Now, a huge, airborne jaguar was eating my head…

It didn’t hurt, but it did separate – in a way that was quite familiar from my studies of alchemy. In simple terms, it dared me to not be a tourist, to drop everything that thought like a tourist, as though, in the very word, it had found the perfect metaphor with which to communicate with its meal. Seeing I had grasped this, it followed the lines in my brain and came up with another: newfound.

Time – rather, experience – had split. One of me had followed Manuel and the rest of the party around the corner and into the ball-court. The other had it’s attention fixed on the pyramid, under the inner, but silent tutelage of the consuming Jaguar.

“The whole temple complex was a process,” Manuel was saying. “Remember, there were only priests allowed in here. Everything was directed at one goal…”

The newfound gazed up at the pyramid and Jerome’s voice came again, along with a mental picture of his hand-written notes.


“It’s a temple, based on a square with four ‘intelligent powers’ on each of its faces,” Jerome’s voice is calm and clear. “Know anything about those?”

Manuel’s voice added itself, speaking to the tourists and the newfound in parallel time, using the same words.

“The pyramid was both the theatre of daily ritual and – itself – the priest-maker. The newfound would be immersed in its outer and inner presence until they could hear its voice. The rituals were there to ensure that connection – the power was already present; a product of the pyramid’s perfect construction. The pyramid was made in an age before metal tools, and made with such exactness that no mortar was needed for its construction – we could not do that today. This perfection connected the worlds, in a way that objective truth always does.

The newfound blinked his eyes. The descending presence of the Jaguar had pounced in an arena naked with the Sun’s power, and this now poured into his accepting psyche.

Manuel’s eyes glistened as he turned, holding out his arms as though to touch the boundaries of the vast complex that is Chichen Itza.

“There were seven of them- the waters, what we now call the Cenotes. Chichen Itza was originally thought to mean ‘mouth of the well’ but recent linguistic research suggests that ‘Itza’ was really two words: ‘It’ and ‘Za’: the place of the water magicians.

To the newfound, that made perfect sense. But far more important was his previous statement: This perfection connected the worlds. We think of ‘other worlds’ as though they are other planets – distant in time and space.  But the ancient meaning of ‘other worlds’, protected in the lore of the western mystery tradition in all its forms, is that the separation is neither one of space or time, but is only one of experience. To experience one of the other forms of consciousness available and present, albeit latent, in our souls, is to be in that other world.

It was written, plainly, in Jerome’s drawing. The building on the top of the Chichen Itza pyramid sat on a squared-off base. Like other pyramids from ancient times, it was designed to terminate at a point – but the fact that it didn’t indicated and indicates something utterly profound; and I may not reveal that, because the arrival at that point is a process of personal initiation…

And the arrival at that point is everything…

Chichen Itza and Alchemy/Magic share the same language. The ancient symbols of Fire, Air, Water and Earth, representing our inner states of consciousness, are meant to be united and empowered, as needed, by a fifth element: that of Spirit. The spirit was always referred to as the ‘ghost’ because it could not be seen, but its very presence commanded the others in the same way that a rested and waking-up brain commands the hands. In an analogy that was designed to help us all to see, the spirit is said to leave the body at death – removing the perfection of life. Measure what has gone? Good luck…

But, unlike a study of alchemy, the Chichen Itza pyramid was also the map of the movement of cosmic life – the living cosmos in perfect miniature.

The Jaguar, recognising that the newfound had reached the decisive moment, picked him, weightless, off the ground and began a loping prowl towards the steps of the south face of the pyramid.

Commanded, silently, by the great beast, the newfound began to count…

(To be continued…)

Steve Tanham is a director of the Silent Eye school of consciousness. His personal blog is at stevetanham.wordpress.com

Other posts in this series:

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven – end

 ©️Stephen Tanham