The ancient whisper from the heart of Ireland, the yew bow, sings a tune etched amongst the soft susurrations of leaves in the forgotten wood. A weapon, not truly; an amulet, a bridge into the Othercrowd, where the Sídhe people whirl around in moonlight revelry and the banshee wails her sad song. Deep in the…
Views: 238
Enjoyed this article? Read the full piece and our ever-growing archive by taking an online membership. Members receive 10% off at the TIFAM Newsagent and sustain a community magazine that runs as a non-profit, carried by dedicated volunteers. Your support keeps the work alive. —
take your membership here.
