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Whispers from the Earth

Teaching Stories from the Ancestors, Beautifully Woven for Today's Spiritual Seekers

John Hunt Publishing Ltd.

Beginning the Story

There are many ways to get into the flow of storytelling and, later in this book, I'll be gifting you with plenty of ideas to help you work with spirit to channel some beautiful tales. Like any exercise, it's always good to begin with a warm-up, and storyweaving is no different – we need to start toning our 'bardic muscles' with some gentle introductory work. In this way, we can encourage our creativity to flow and not get stuck in trying to force a story onto the page, which simply creates a head/heart disconnect. Heart, you see, is far more important than head in storyweaving – we're not trying to invent teaching tales to fit a particular subject, as one might in NLP practices but, rather, allowing the words to flow through us, bringing all kinds of teachings with them as they grow. Sometimes, when channelling a story, the teachings are immediately obvious but, in many cases, I've re-read a channelled story years later and discovered a whole batch of new teachings; they really do deliver to us precisely what we need at the time – even if we weren't aware of our requirement!

So, how might we get into the flow of storyweaving? Well, one way might be to begin with something familiar to us and tap into our creativity to breathe new life into it. Allow yourself to think back to your favourite childhood fairytale, whatever that might be, and try to remember what so enthralled you about it. Looking back now, through the eyes of an adult, what teachings did it hold for you, and how might you be able to retell that story?

Some years ago, I had the pleasure of meeting Canadian storyteller and harpist Jeff Stockton at a gathering. Jeff enthralled us all with a beautiful Celtic tale, before inviting us all to work in groups, retelling familiar stories to each other to bring forth their teachings. Sitting out in the sunshine that day, I listened to a retelling of Rumpelstiltskin and the Tale of Taliesin; I chose to tell the old story of the two wolves and, as I wove together the words, creating the powerful teaching that had once hit me right between the eyes, it became evident that neither of my friends had heard the story before, and the power of the retelling suddenly filled my gut. You see, the thing about teaching stories is that they carry many lessons; often, the subtler teachings are hidden deep, deftly woven 'tween the words, yet always finding their prey and pouncing, their lessons carrying deep into the soul of the eager listener. Whichever teaching an individual needs is heard and absorbed right into the heart – that's why one of my old shamanic teachers used to refer to 'shooting' people with a story. Until now, however, I'd never told a traditional teaching story to people who hadn't heard it before. I watched the emotions play out on their faces as the story unfurled, saw the teachings hit their mark, and their smiles as they began to understand. And then ... then, I began to wonder. I began to hear that whisper on the breeze, feel that familiar tug on my heart that would only become stronger if I tried to resist. It called my name, and I knew exactly who the words belonged to ... this particular ancestor spirit has never pulled any punches with me. What she wants, she generally gets, and this was to be no exception.

'There are plenty more where this came from,' came the voice. 'We're holding them for you. The stories from your own lands. We hid them. We're waiting to share them again ...' and then, as if by magic, the hidden teachings meant for my heart began to make sense; I realised little clues had been slipped into conversations throughout the day, I remembered some of the signs I'd seen in nature and how they all carried their own stories, and the idea for this book began to take shape. Just moments earlier, chatting with my storytelling pals, we'd touched on those teachings from our own lands being hidden in fairytales, put there to keep them safe when our own indigenous spirituality was being stamped out. We'd chatted about myths and legends, about the glimpses of our ancient spirituality still visible in things we take for granted ... the chocolate Easter bunnies bearing a striking resemblance to sacred hares, the unproven suggestions of the dark origins of the Easter egg hunt, a magical past, assumed to be fiction, hiding in European fairy tales. I remembered a fascination with the Brothers Grimm as a child, Hans Christian Andersen ... could these tales really carry glimpses of the truth, an essence of our past? But what of the stories from ancient Britain? Where were they? I wanted to hear them now, wanted to learn, to explore ... and then came that whisper again, deep within my chest: 'They're here. We have them. We're waiting ...'

The Stories

Through the following pages of this book, you'll find a collection of stories channelled from the earth, from the ancestors. Unless otherwise stated, each of these tales has been channelled and rewritten by me, though there is a selection of wonderful stories channelled by some of my equally wonderful students towards the end of the book.

What counts as an ancestor? Well, I'm not here to give you definitive answers – my task is merely to open a doorway and invite you to walk through. Ancestor – though on the face of it such a simple word – can be viewed in so many ways; we might think of ancestors as members of our long departed blood or spirit lines who once trod these lands as we do now. Some of you might think of ancestors as all those ancient, all-knowing beings who might be willing to share their wisdom with us – the fae, the elementals, angelic beings, star people ... who knows? Some might even think about the ancestors yet to come for, if time is not really linear, we are already ancestors ourselves. For the purposes of this book though – at least for the stories channelled by me – the ancestors fall into those first two brackets: spirits of our ancient past and spirits of the land.

Sometimes, these stories have downloaded (because that's the best word I can find in modern language to describe what happens – it's like a huge, sudden blast of beautiful words, pictures, sounds, moving images, smells and senses dropped into my head and heart) hard and fast, and sometimes they've gradually wended their way into my subconscious, perhaps during meditation, or a medicine walk, before spilling beautifully out onto the page and coming to life as a story. Sometimes the story has been told to me; a spoken voice weaving the tale into being, as if listening to a real, live storyweaver. Sometimes, I have seen the words and images on an otherworldly page offered to me by one of my trusted guides, and sometimes I have watched the story play out in my mind's eye – or during a shamanic journey or astral adventure – and have then done my best to weave the adventure into words for you.

Some of these stories may be suitable for you to pass on to your children, and to your children's children, and to the children who have yet to come, and some are more suitable for adults. Make no mistake – although some of the stories here may be well received by youngsters, this is not a children's book, and I would urge you to read it cover to cover before deciding who to pass it on to, or who to gift a copy to; follow your heart and your gut instinct and you won't go far wrong.

In order to source these teaching stories, I have been out in nature, visited ancient sites, talked to the tree folk and rock people and been gifted some of the most beautiful teachings to share. Some of the lessons are screamingly obvious, some more subtle – and whichever teachings you find, the ones you notice – the ones that land in your heart – will absolutely be the ones you need.

Before going further, what I will say is this: whether you choose to believe these stories have been gifted by spirits and energy beings, or whether you choose to believe they have been borne from my imagination matters not. What does matter is how much you enjoy them, how much they speak to you and how much you learn from them. Anything over and above that is gravy.

And so, without further delay, on to the stories ...

Why Pheasant's Face is Red

Many years ago, in a time long before you and I were even thought of, Great Spirit gifted all the animals and birds with special powers.

To the frogs he gave a sticky tongue with which to catch their food and powerful legs with which to leap great distances; to the ants he gave strength with which to carry great bounties to the rest of the colony; to the deer he gave great heart with which to carry their gentle strength and to bear he gave knowledge of healing plants and roots to use in medicine.

Every creature, great and small, was granted some divine power, skill or armour to take forth into the great teachings of the world.

Pheasant was gifted with a beautiful coat of reds, oranges and greens; resplendent and as a warning for others not to eat him. As well as this glorious rainbow jacket, Pheasant was granted wings with which to escape from predators who might allow their hunger to cloud their judgement.

But Pheasant grew lazy. Awed by his beauty, he spent days preening and gazing at his reflection. Before long, Pheasant grew fat and beating his wings to float into the air became far too much effort.

Gradually, Pheasant's predators grew wise to the inactivity of he and his kin and began to pounce until, over time, his brightly coloured coat stopped being seen as a warning and, instead, became seen as a shining beacon signalling dinner time! Other creatures urged Pheasant to flap his wings and fly away, but Pheasant always refused.

'Why has Great Spirit cursed me so?' he would cry. 'When I was plain and unnoticed nobody bothered me and I lived my life in peace.'

'But Pheasant,' came the reply, 'Great Spirit has gifted you with such beauty and the ability to soar like the eagles. Anyone would be eternally grateful for such wonderful powers.' Pheasant would always shake his head, feebly lift his wings against his plump body and sigh. 'It's no use. These things are useless. I am cursed.'

One day, Great Spirit himself came down to speak to Pheasant. 'My child, why do you sit and wait to be eaten instead of using the gifts I have given you?' he asked.

Pheasant scowled. 'You call these gifts? Predators see me from miles around because of these stupid colours and these wings are too heavy for me to lift!'

Great Spirit shook his head. 'Pheasant, it is your own vanity that has rendered you inactive. It is not your wings that are too heavy, but your ego.'

Feeling wounded by the Creator's words, Pheasant became angry. 'You do not understand what it's like! If you could only experience the pain I go through every day, maybe you would have greater sympathy for the mess you've landed me in.' Great Spirit tried again. 'Dear Pheasant, alongside your beauty, I have given you the ability to make good your situation. You have only to believe in yourself, to have faith in the divine power of nature, and you will be able to fly. The more you move your wings, the lighter you will become, and the higher you soar, the more insight you will gain.'

Pheasant's face grew redder and redder as his anger took hold. He let out a cry: 'Because of you and your stupid gifts, my kin are dying out. Very soon, there will be only me left, with my beautiful feathers and my useless body. You have done this. I should just die now and get it all over with!'

Great Spirit reached forward and touched Pheasant's heart. His plumage instantly turned brown from the neck down but, still filled with rage, Pheasant's face remained bright red.

'Do not worry about your kinfolk,' the Creator spoke gently. 'I will see to it that your clan is always plentiful, but the choice between victim and warrior will always be yours.'

To this day, Pheasant still resists using his wings and frequently runs into the path of his predators instead of choosing to escape into the air. It is said that Pheasant's face will remain an angry red until the day he truly embraces the call of the sky.

The Great Boy Warrior

Many years ago, in a faraway tribe, lived a young boy. He was the only one of his age group in the village – too old to play with the children, but too young to be considered a hunter, gatherer or warrior like his older brothers and cousins.

Day after day, the boy would kick around at the edges of the village, watching as his brothers and their friends went out on the hunt and returned with rich bounties to sustain the men, women and children. Day after day, the boy would call after them and plead with them to take him along. 'Stay in the village,' always came the reply. 'You're too young and immature to join us menfolk!'

The boy's mother tried her best to include him in village life, but he did not want to hang around baking bread with the women, herding the cattle or tending the old folk, no matter the rich teachings his mother promised the experiences would bring. In the evenings, the boy would feel even more miserable and alone. The menfolk would sit in circle around the fire, talking village business and sharing stories of hunting, visits to outlying settlements and discussing messages from spirit, but the boy was not allowed to join in, for he was too young for such gatherings. He had been invited to sit with the womenfolk many times, but he did not like the way they teased him about the young girls in the village and guessed which one he might take as his wife one day. So, he chose to skulk around in the shadows, kicking up dirt at the edges of the fire site and listening to all he could from the menfolk gathered there. Sometimes, they'd spot him and tell him to go back to his mother, but every now and then, he managed to sit quietly, unnoticed until the flames died down and the embers began to glow deep red.

One day, the boy woke from a brilliant dream: he dreamed he brought down a great red deer with his hunting knife and was the hero of the village, having single-handedly brought in enough food to sustain them for some time.

'This is it!' he exclaimed. 'This dream was a message from Spirit. It is my time now and time I was seen as a man!' Gathering himself, the boy got up, washed, ate and set out to visit the village elder and chief.

At the door of the chief's hut, the boy waited for a few moments before hearing a voice beckoning him inside. The hut smelled of smoke and warmth, and the chief nodded to the boy and motioned for him to speak.

'It's time you and all the village saw me as a man,' said the boy.

The chief raised a brow, but the boy continued.

'Spirit came to me in a dream last night. I brought back a huge red deer for the village ... the biggest deer I'd ever seen! This is a message from Spirit, telling you all that I am as fine a huntsman as you ever did see, and that you are withholding great bounty from the tribe by not seeing me as a man or allowing me to hunt.'

All this time, the great chief said nothing, his eyes cast down as he listened to the boy's wavering words. The boy waited and, finally, the chief spoke: 'How can you be so sure of the dream's meaning?' he asked. 'You are not our seer, and you did not attend her to learn when the opportunity arose.'

The boy thought for a second. 'Because I am meant for greater things,' he said. 'That is what the dream meant. How can I hunt such magnificent game if I spend my days tending to our old folk? That's why spirit sent me the dream! To show you! To show everyone!'

The chief threw some herbs into the fire and thought. 'If it was my dream, I'd be wondering if there could be another meaning. The dream weavers do not always speak arrow straight. Perhaps the great deer represents something else you need to slay ...'

'No!' the boy interrupted. 'It was MY dream. I KNOW what it means. I cannot believe you are being so blind!'

The old chief nodded and looked the boy in the eye. 'You are right. Your brain is much younger than mine, of course, so it works much more swiftly.'

The boy stood up straighter, eyes widening at the chief's words. He nodded.

'If you are such a great huntsman,' said the chief, 'you will need to prove it to all the menfolk, not just me. We will need to see how quickly that young mind of yours works and whether your feet can keep up with it. You'll need to demonstrate heart, speed and good sportsmanship.'

'That will be easy,' said the boy.

Again, the chief nodded. 'Come to the fire when the moon reaches her highest point. Demonstrate these abilities and show us the man you claim to be. We will be waiting.'

For the rest of the day, the boy puffed out his chest and walked tall. He practised running, leaping, throwing, tumbling and everything else he could think of to show the tribesmen. He told his mother to prepare a feast in his honour, for tonight he would be recognised as a man and, by the will of Spirit, the greatest hunter the village had ever known. His mother smiled and went about her tasks.

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Excerpted from Whispers from the Earth by Taz Thornton. Copyright © 2015 Taz Thornton. Excerpted by permission of John Hunt Publishing Ltd..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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