Clan of Tubal Cain

 
Herne the hunter, the mythological figure said to haunt the ancient oaks of Windsor is generally accepted as presenting a face of the Old Horned God.

Through folk tale, film and song, his fame and appeal has captured the imagination of many modern pagan folk, becoming an icon of the true faith of Albion, as woodsman, wildman, hunter, free spirit and sacrificial king, bearing the antlered crown of his beloved deer.

How strange then that this potent spirit reaches out to whisper his name to our Cuveen; The Clan of Tubal Cain, especially towards Lammas.

Out in the White Peak, by chance we manage to capture images of the Red Deer against old oak, a group of a dozen or more stags with full sets of mighty furry tines, playful, energetic, and the very essence of animal masculinity, an uplifting sight and a joy to behold.

Could Herne be here, watching from beneath the emerald verdure of the lightening trees, here in deepest Derbyshire, in our neighbourhood?

Ask any child who it could be bearing such qualities and the Archetype reveals itself effortlessly, the subjective reality of myth mocking the objective analysis of academia, the name morphing to Robin Hood…who else?

Furthermore there is a place name in these parts that occurs three times and deserves closer scrutiny; Hob Hurst’s House.

Whilst Hurst suggests a link with Herne, Hob is of particular interest being a derivative of Robert, as is Robin (this calls to mind Robert Cochrane aka Roy Bowers; a patron of our faith).

Roy’s group bore the title of the Royal Windsor Cuveen; his home in Slough being not too far from the ancient Royal seat of Windsor, so one may surmise from this that the legends of Herne the hunter bore some degree of relevance.

By some twist of fate, Derbyshire maintains the old traditions honouring Old Hob, where local people may leave milk for the Celtic elven spirit in order to obtain his favour, and Robin Hood is very much a local legend; a much celebrated folk hero.

The majesty of Sherwood Forest has shrunk somewhat over the centuries, but Derbyshire was once a part of it, known as the Forest of the Deer and the Royal forest of the Peak, being royal hunting grounds under the jurisdiction of Hood’s old enemy, the Sheriff of Nottingham.

Robin Hood served as the common people’s champion, the heathen glory in opposition to the restrictive unfair establishment that sought to crush the living spirit of the true Englishman.

Yet his stride was superhuman to the level of Godly; near Stanton Moor, one finds Robin Hood’s Stride, and there it is plain that no mere mortal could straddle the width of the gritty rocky outcrop rising out of the limestone to piss upon the dancing maidens below and turn them to stone, thus creating Nine Stones Close.

An uncharacteristic gesture… for normally Robin was careful to honour the feminine, being Maid Marion’s champion in the peasantry’s May Day festivities of old, and of course this act is open to conjecture … but it raises a wry smile none the less!

Once again, the intrepid and wind buffeted Clan of Tubal Cain ventured to Nine Stones Close to commence their Lammas rites and observances, and in the shadow of Robin Hood’s Stride, the stang was raised and wreathed with local wheat, in honour of the Old Horned God.

With mirth and reverence we contemplated the tangled threads of this potent mystery, one eye over the left shoulder and armed with battered and broken umbrellas, ever ready for the full flow of ancient force to pour down upon us.

The Clan wish you all the very best for your Lammas rites, our harvest has been rich and meaningful this last year and we hope that you all have equal cause for celebration.

f.f.f.

Carol Stuart Jones
Maid of Tubal Cain

“You are in my dreams, the darkness in my eyes the rapture in my screams, Black Goddess arise”

Not too long ago, as the Moon waned thin and the relentless midsummer Sun beamed down upon a bleached and heat weary England, members of The Clan of Tubal Cain travelled deep in to the Lancashire countryside to visit the Marian shrine of Ladyewell at Fernyhalgh near Preston, thus completing our approach to the three faces of the sacred feminine.

The shrine to Our Lady was erected over a sacred well spring at the head of a ferny vale, which is commonly believed to predate Christianity in the British Isles. Fernyhalgh was already an established place of pilgrimage as early as the reign of King Edwin, being re-dedicated to Mary the Mother of Christ on Edwin’s conversion from heathen ways in the year of 627 AD. King Edwin’s reign soon fell to Saxon successors who held on to their cultural wealth in honouring the Old Gods of England.

To which pagan “devil” this sacred well was originally established, remains unrecorded and unknown, but on a somewhat subjective reach, we have surmised the forgotten Goddess may have been Old Mother Hel, the Norse Queen of the underworld, from whose sacred cauldron such potent waters flow.

And so history and legend merge to suggest the shrine fell into disuse only to be rediscovered in a chain of miraculous events in the 10th/ 11th century by Fergus Maguire, son of the Chief of Fermanagh. The Catholics managed to hold on to the shrine right through the reformation, continuing their worship in this remote hideaway, in spite of the fact that their chapel was left in ruins by the Protestants.

The stones may have lain tumbled around the feet of the faithful, but the waters still flowed, bringing testimonies of health, restored to body and mind, for the spirit of the place endured regardless. When freedom of worship was re-established, the bricks and mortar were too. And so it remains until this day, where the well is to be found in the carefully tended grounds of an established religious house, several chapels, refreshment facilities, a shop (with a huge second hand book department) and a reliquary.

The grounds remain open even when the house is closed, and it is then, under the moon, the constant North and turning Stars, that the respectful seeker fares best to visit in honour of Our Lady. To take our photographs we visited during daylight hours on the hottest of days to find an organised Christian pilgrimage in full swing, but things were not as we expected. Clan members experienced strong feelings of constriction at Ladyewell, an encroaching malaise which could gradually overwhelm the senses, something malign just beyond the threshold of waking consciousness.

This unseen but crushing pressure cloaked the congregation at their prayer, as surely as the clergy took ladles in hand, to sprinkle pilgrims with water from the Sacred well. We waited, and watched closely, raising the obligatory cup of English tea to our parched lips, but even this cure-all did little to raise our dampened spirits and lighten the weight of this exposure to a most ancient power.

We relocated to the quiet of an interior Chapel, only to set eyes upon the severed blackened hand of Margaret Clitherow, a Catholic martyr from the time of the reformation. This Lady, known as The Pearl of York, had been crushed to death on Good Friday in 1586; her only crime was protecting fellow Catholics. We all gazed at the Saint’s hand, which seemingly beckoned us deeper into areas of darker thought, prompting us to revisit the Holy Well again before we departed.

Descending the stone steps to the well once again was in itself a journey closer towards the dark portal from which this disturbing presence made its entry into our world. And so it was, that even on this sweltering afternoon, the stifling moisture emanating from the well head, which feeds leafy fern and all manner of verdure, chilled the air around us, like the very breath of death itself. Our perceptions sharpened; this shrine had all the ambience of a disturbed grave, and all the subtlety and trappings of a rasping death rattle.

The shrine’s guardians had capped the well; even constricting the healthy aperture our Maid knew from years ago, down to a trap door of A4 dimensions. This was without doubt a futile and sacrilegious (in our view) modern measure, undertaken during the recent fevered years of health and safety EU madness. It presented an opening just big enough to trap a limb or a small head… but could never contain the potency of the untameable force; the dark and ancient power of The Black Goddess.

Later that evening, our Clan enjoyed the finest of curries in the town of Darwen, feasting as friends, and a splendid time was had by all, but as darkness finally lowered over the Lancashire hills and we had retired to bed, the Maid let out a terrible scream from her sleep, a scream so loud it roused our companions, a cry both bloodcurdling and protracted. Her dream proved impossible to describe to concerned friends, who had rushed to her aid, up three flights of stairs to the attic.

Totally unable to formulate any recall of the details of the dream, it appeared that this nightmare scream had emanated from a dark and formless void. Later, and before the sun could set once more, the pressing need arose to record these events, offering a pale reflection of Her dark visage.

“Caught in thy net of shadows, what dreams hast thou to show? Who treads the silent meadows, to worship thee below?”

Lady, we do…

F/F/F

Carol Stuart Jones
Maid of Tubal Cain

References:

1) The Black Goddess Rises: Words by Daniel Lloyd Davey (1994)

2) Shrines of Our Lady in England (p76 to p84) by Anne Vail (2004) Gracewing Publications: Herefordshire: England

Resources:

Megalithic: http://www.megalithic.co.uk/article.php?sid=17435

In the early 1960’s a man named Raymond Howard offered a correspondence course called “The Coven of Atho”. The first lesson begins by telling the reader that they are going to be taught about the symbolism and rites of a “Clan of White Witches” that are known as The Coven of Atho

It was taught, “ATHO” is the name of the Horned God of Witchcraft.”

One witch named Doreen Valientewrote about ATHO in her book, An ABC of Witchcraft Past and Presentmade a drawing of it and included it next to the well-known image of Baphomet “the God of the knights Templars” drawn by Elphas Levi. She writes a good bit about her personal observations of this wooden head that was carved from single piece of dark oak.

The horns were decorated with the signs of the zodiac and in the centre of the head were five circles, which stood for the five different types of circles cast by a witch. Some symbols are a bit harder to notice like the nose in the shape of a chalice..

 Atho: The Horned God of the Witches: can be found here: http://www.witchvox.com/va/dt_va.html?a=ussc&c=words&id=13989

The Coven of Atho Lesson course can be found here: http://www.atho777.com/library/TheCovenofAtho.html

Elegy for a dead Witch is a poem, written by Doreen Valiente in memory of Roy Bowers (Robert Cochrane)

Many thanks to John and Julia Belham-Payne, Estate holders for Doreen Valiente’s work, for granting us permission to place this on our website.

A quality satin finish print of this poem, with a fine art border by Marc Potts : A4 Size (297 × 21 mm) can be purchased at this website:

http://www.doreenvaliente.com

Please click on the image to access  Elegy for a dead Witch

A Day For Gerald Gardner including an exhibition of his artefacts

Following on from the success of last years A Day For Doreen Valiente, the Centre For Pagan Studies presents A Day For Gerald Gardner including an exhibition of his artefacts. All funds from this fantastic event will be used to help the Doreen Valiente Legacy Trust.

This spectacular one day event event will include:

Guest speakers: Lois Bourne, Zach Cox, Philip Heselton, Professor Ronald Hutton, Fred Lamond

Contributions from: Doreen Valiente, Patricia Crowther, Dayonis and Gerald Gardner himself!

Question Panel: Julia Phillips, Vivianne Crowley, Prudence Jones, Morgana, Rufus Harrington and question master Brian Botham 

Date: Sunday 12th September 2010
Venue: Conway Hall, 25 Red Lion Sq, London WC1R 4RL
Time: Doors Open at 10 am Programme Starts at 11 am.
Tickets: £20 in advance £25 on the day
Information Hotline: UK 07733 581504
Website: www.centre-for-pagan-studies.com
E-mail address: enquiries@centre-for-pagan-studies.com

As tickets for last years event quickly sold out, we strongly advise that you purchase your tickets well in advance. To purchase your ticket(s) now online please click on the above banner and make use the e-shop facility

To purchase in person: The only shop selling tickets is White Witch of Waltham Abbey: http://witchesofwalthamabbey.co.uk/

Brian Botham (CFPS Events Manager) has released an article on The Day For Gerald in the new Esoteric Source Magazine and copies of this can be purchased here: http://www.esotericsource.org/ 

Have you seen Jack-In-The-Green?
With his long tail hanging down.
He sits quietly under every tree, in the folds of his velvet gown.
He drinks from the empty acorn cup, the dew that dawn sweetly bestows.
And taps his cane upon the ground, signals the snowdrops it’s time to grow.

                                                                Jethro Tull (Songs from the Wood) 

The Clan of Tubal Cain visited the Norman edifice of Southwell Minster in Nottinghamshire to celebrate an important anniversary and bring you images of the Green Man. All of these astonishing carvings depict indigenous trees and plants, noticeably the hawthorn which features strongly in our May Day folklore.

Southwell, England’s smallest Cathedral City, is situated close to the river Greet and the Roman Ermine Street, being originally known by the Saxons as Fingaceaster, where a thriving community grew around the church founded in 627 by Paulinus (first Bishop of York).

The parish church of St Mary the Virgin became a popular site of pilgrimage as it housed the tomb and remains of St. Eadburgh, a Lady Saint of the Saxons. Fragments of tessellated paving and an 11th century tympanum depicting St Michael and the dragon and David rescuing the lamb from the lion, have survived within the Minister to this day.

Southwell Minster was constructed in 1100 and has some of the finest examples of Norman archways in this country. This spectacular building was later reclassified as Southwell Cathedral in 1884 by the diocese of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire.

Green Man,
Regent surrounded in green foliage.
Embodied with the spirit of nature.
Ecclesiastically carved in stone and oak.
Now breathe forth ‘O Verdelet, the vines of life!

Motif peering through,
As a forester dressed in Lincoln green.
Nascent to be with us now.
                                                   © Linfa 2010

The intricate stone carvings within the small 13^th Century chapter-house depict oak, apple, hawthorn and beasts of the forest, and of course, the Green Men of Southwell, and collectively could be regarded as one of England’s lesser known, yet great historic works of art.

These precious late13th, early 14^th century carvings are among very few that survived the ravages of the reformation but then suffered damage during the English Civil war, when the archbishop’s palace was totally destroyed.

It is now about eight years ago since my attention was first drawn by the Revd. J. Griffith, then vicar of Llangwm, in Monmouthshire, and himself a folklorist, to a curious carving. It is a man’s face, with oak leaves growing from the mouth and ears, and completely encircling the head. Mr. Griffith suggested that it was intended to symbolise the spirit of inspiration, but it seemed to me certain that it was a man and not a spirit, and moreover that it was a “Green Man

                                    Lady Raglan (extract from:  “The Green Man in Church Architecture”) 

So, the term Green Man was only coined in 1939 by Lady Raglan, wife of the anthropologist the 4th Lord Raglan, and although academia disputes the genuine pagan origin of these images, esoteric practitioners acknowledge and respect the potency that lies behind the carvings, cunningly tuning into the archetypal power of foliate wild men, something clearly dating back to Gilgamesh (circa 2700 BC):

I was a wild man of the woods, so about forest I do know. In the cedar forest’s to the west sits a demon, awesome Hawawa.Great Enlil did fashion this guardian of his cedar forest far and wide. His power is like the fire of the sun, like the flood of the ocean.When Hawawa roars all before its noisy power falls. Hawawa hears every fearful breath while his own breath is death.

                                      Epic of Gilgamesh (tablet 3)

For many the Green Man represents a union (a kinship or brotherhood) of the human with the natural world captured, peering through the foliage in all manner of emotion from the serene to the tormented.The King of May, Robin Goodfellow, Viridios, Jack-in-the-green, Green George, Woodwose, Robin Hood, Jack-in-the-tree, Green knight, Oak King and Puck all serve as potent roads to approach the living mystery cycles of regeneration, rebirth and virility of our sacred land and ancient woodlands.

With this firmly fixed in our minds, the Clan of Tubal Cain wishes each and every one of you a most fertile May morning and the very best for your Beltane celebrations!

F.F.F

Carol Stuart Jones
Maid of Tubal Cain

 
 
 
References:

1. Songs From the Wood: Jethro Tull (1977): Island Records (UK)
2. A Little Book of the Green Man: Mike Harding (1998): Aurum Press: Worthing
3. The Green Man in Church Architecture (1939): Lady Raglan: The Folklore Journal (no 50)
4. The Green Man by Linfa (A Witches Almanac Folklore Resource)

 Resources:

1. Further information: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Green_Man
2. Good Green Man site: http://www.greenmanforum.co.uk/
3. Linfa’s Witches Almanac website: http://mrsnicolson.webs.com/

They worshipped the Great Goddess Danae, or Danu, and it is suggested that another band of these refugees went to Ireland, where they were known as the Tuatha De Danaan, “the Children of the Goddess Dana”.

Gerald Brousseau Gardner (1884 -1964)

Doncaster in South Yorkshire owes it’s name to the now more beautiful than it has been in years, dark hungry river Don, so called in turn in remembrance of the Celtic mother Goddess Don, or as she was also known; Danu or Anu.

Not just a mother Goddess, Don was the mother of the Gods. She ruled over the watery depths.

She afforded protection and rescue from drowning for those who sought her benediction.

Her starry counterpart is the constellation of Cassiopeia. A shamed mythic figure suspended upside down (sound familiar?) in the depths of the night sky forming a letter “W”, or to put it another way; an inverse “M”. (Consider Inguz?)

Following on from our pilgrimage to Walsingham to encounter there the sacred feminine, members of The Clan of Tubal Cain visited a Marian shrine in Doncaster.

Like her counterpart in Walsingham, the icon of our Lady of Doncaster had been taken to London from its home in the Carmelite priory, and given to the pyre of the reformation.

Interestingly our Lady of Doncaster is also said to protect and rescue from drowning.

On 15 July 1524 William Nicholson of Townsburgh attempted to cross the Don with an iron-bound wain in which were Robert Leche and his wife and their two children; being overwhelmed by the stream they called on our Lady of Doncaster and by her help came safely ashore; they came to the White Friars and returned thanks on St. Mary Magdalen’s Day, when ‘this gracious miracle was rung and sung in the presence of 300 people and more.’

William Page (1861-1934)

We found her modern day counterpart in the church of Saint Peter in chains in Doncaster not far from where the original shrine had stood (but is now built over).

Surrounded in an aqua glow, north light pouring through the exquisite stained glass, her pure white image issued consolation, peace and gentleness in a building full of sharp angles and everything that is so wrong about a certain era’s bleak architecture.

Her shrine is without doubt the vital core of that particular sacred space, rewarding those who approach in a good heart and with an open mind.

Enjoy the images and if you get the chance to, check her out for yourself.

Long years have passed since your shrine was forsaken,
Now once more honoured, we kneel here today,
Come to our aid in this land, once your dowry,
Lady of Doncaster, hear us we pray.

(Extract from Hymn to Mary of Doncaster)

FFF

Carol Stuart Jones
Maid of Tubal Cain

 References:

1) The Meaning of Witchcraft: Page 57: G B Gardner: (1959) available at Melissa Seims wonderful website: http://www.thewica.co.uk/Gerald%20Gardner.htm

2) The Victoria history of the county of Yorkshire: Volume 3: (1907) Page 267: Edited by William Page: Constable and Co: London: Online version at: http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924088434919

3) Mary of Doncaster: http://doncaster.catholicweb.com/

On a wet and windy weekend, the Clan of Tubal Cain ventured into the rustic heart of rural Norfolk, to visit the conjoined villages of Little and Great Walsingham, world famous for their shrines to Our Lady of Walsingham.

 
It is said that in 1061, Richeldis de Faveraches, a devout Saxon noblewoman, received a vision of the Virgin Mary who issued instructions to construct a replica of the house in which the Archangel Gabriel appeared to the Mother to be of Christ. Lady Richeldis duly completed her task, and the Holy House was constructed in Walsingham, becoming a focus for pilgrims and a shrine for the faithful. Word spread and Walsingham quickly became one of the most well known and visited shrines in England, attracting even European visitors.

Suffering the fate of many holy sites under the reign of Henry VIII, the shrine at Walsingham was destroyed in 1538 during the English reformation, a grievous blow to those who dedicated themselves to approaching and honoring the sacred feminine.

Thus wrote Bishop Latimer of the image of Our Lady;

“She hath been the Devil’s instrument, I fear, to bring many to eternal fire…”

At a time when religious hysteria flourished and the witch trials spread to England from the Continent, the wooden image of The Lady (enthroned with the Christ child on her lap) was;

“brought up to London with all the jewels that hung around…at the King’s commandment, and divers other images, both in England and Wales, that were used for common pilgrimage… and burnt at Chelsea by my Lord Privy Seal.”

                         (Windsor Herald, Chronicle of England)

Furthermore it was recorded in 1564 that a woman from Wells (Norfolk), declared that as the image of Our Lady had been carried away to London, she had been bestowed a miracle. Her reward for such heresy had her put in the stocks on market day to be brutalized. In modern times the shrine has been restored across two main sites of Pilgrimage in Walsingham; first the Roman Catholic in the 19th Century, then the Anglican in the 20th.

Here, new versions of her icon are revered and in the latter, the holy house rebuilt.

The Lady has returned.

What Witch could not find some affinity with this face of The Goddess, worthy to be cherished and remembered in the wake of Candlemas.

F.F.F

Carol Stuart Jones
Maid of Tubal Cain

Further information:

(1) http://www.walsinghamanglican.org.uk/welcome/index.htm

(2) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Our_Lady_of_Walsingham

May the faith and friendship that we share in spirit round our fireside never fail this circle of companionship, or any other in the world this coming season, however cold and bitter it may be elsewhere, may we always welcome one another in our hearts and homes with warmth enough to overcome the very worst of Winter. Now let us see if we have sufficient strength for our feet to follow the returning solar rays around the symbol by which we represent them.

Candlemas 2010 was in many ways nothing more than a series of ‘firsts’ for me.

I had already been welcomed into the hearth of The Clan, before we made our way around 9 pm to the chosen place for the Candlemas rite. 

This was my first meeting with The Clan in the flesh and my first time to Stanton Moor where our rite was to take place. 

The brightest full moon was high in the starlit sky, and so bright in fact that there was little need for torches. 

It was cold, painfully so at times, and upon the ground a hard frost formed and began to sparkle in the light of the full moon. 

I had never known a night quite like this one, despite years of Wiccan ritual this night seemed real, this was what it was all about, and I couldn’t help but wonder what I had been doing all these years. 

I felt like I was seeing the night sky in many ways for the first time, with all the wonder of a child, excited, nervous and every step was filled with a certain trepidation and anticipation.

After a good 10 minutes walk we made our way up a small incline to be met by the Nine Ladies stone circle. 

Young Birch trees reflected the light of the full moon, guarding and watching over the ancient stones as they danced by starlight to the music of an unseen piper. 

I fell in love with this place instantly and was admittedly a little disappointed that this was not the appointed place for the night’s work.

Being led on by the occasional beat of a drum to help guide us through the night to the chosen place we walked on until we arrived. 

Only a couple of the group knew of the place, and as we slowly stepped around a small corner I think it’s safe to say no one was disappointed when we beheld the working site of choice. 

Surrounded by Birch trees this little known sacred site stood unassuming amongst heather and gorse, and I couldn’t help but think there was no where more fitting for celebrating the return of life and The Goddess to the cold and frozen Earth.

Having already discussed the rite, who would do what, and when and so on, we decided to forget that to some extent and in true Cochranian spirit we would instead ‘wing it’ and go with the flow.  Another first for me, a former Wiccan ritualist used to script and procedure.

“You’re gonna tread the mill tonight boy” announced a quarterman, and I giggled nervously, suddenly worried I might fall or I might trip over the person behind me or in front of me and ruin everything, but as it happens my clumsy half decided to stay home that night and as we started to pace round the fire, chanting I began to feel the shift. 

It seemed that with my entire being, I needed to go faster, wanted to go faster, had to go faster. Pretty soon I couldn’t tell if I was pacing the round or walking a straight line, if I was pacing round the fire or it was orbiting me.

The Bell rang and despite my wanting to keep going we moved in single file to the stone altar where the Lady waited to speak, and spoke she did. 

It was the first time I had ever been in a circle where the Lady spoke and it pierced to the core, like the icy cold her voice cut like a knife.  If I had let myself go I think I would have dropped to my knees but instead all I could do was bow my head as the lady said;

“I am the pause between heartbeats and the silence between breaths…”

I could have cried, but I let her words heal and wash over me with the light of the full moon and the very essence of renewal.

We finished with food which invigorated, and fire which warmed, and I felt a little spaced out and spent, somewhat drained and even sad that the night was over when I felt there was so much more I wanted to see, so much more I wanted to know. 

After packing up we headed back to the warmth.

Upon reflection, the night may not have offered me miraculous experiences of unknown Gods, long dead ancestors or inescapable entranced visions of the past or future, which maybe a tiny part of me was perhaps expecting. 

But what it did give was the opportunity to see my faith and my work through new eyes, and like a baby taking his first breath, or toddler taking his first steps into the world, I drove home the following day knowing I too had been part of something I will never forget, and had taken my first steps towards the mysteries. 

The magic of the night had done no more and no less than it needed.

Jay
(Apprentice of Tubal Cain)

References:

(1) Seasonal occult rituals: (page 70) W.G. Gray (1970) Helios Books: Cheltenham.

(2) Stanton Moor: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stanton_Moor

(3) Nine Ladies Stone Circle: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nine_Ladies

(4) English Heritage: http://www.english-heritage.org.uk/server/show/nav.11585

It brings me tremendous pleasure to introduce The Inner Library, a new website created by my good friends, Josephine and Pete McCarthy, genuine seer’s, seasoned occultists and experienced practitioners of the arte magical.

F.F.F.

Stoatfire

http://theinnerlibrary.weebly.com/ 

The Inner Library website holds free texts of the magical writings, rituals and visions of Josephine and Pete McCarthy. The samples of work presented span 20 years of magical work, which enables the reader to see the paths of developments, contacts made,mistakes made and lessons learned.