578 AD. In this year appeared the star called comet, in August, and shone for three months each morning like a sunbeam

The Anglo Saxon Chronicle

In a time long ago, in a place where memories are half forgotten and seem like they are nothing more than a dream, the land was in turmoil. The armies of opposing forces were making their way across the country, consolidating and bringing together the great kingdoms under a single leader. They marched under the banner of the new faith, Christianity and in its wake it changed the course of history.

As the religion of the cross made its way through old Albion it is said the old gods retreated to the their last bastion, a place where the old magics still held sway.

Conversion of the Wiht had been tried and each time had failed; the people of the Island held fast to their ways and they liked it that way. Under their Wihtwalda (King of the Wihtwara), Arwald, the old gods reined supreme. Arwald protected his people and the haven for their gods, but they say this was too much for one man to bare, too much of a burden for any mortal's shoulders.

Word of the gathering forces of the great traitor king marching through the Saxon kingdoms were making its way to Arwald. His kins men in Cantawara and Meonwara ensured what information they received made their way down to the Island.

It was a troubling time for the Wihtwalda, seeds of his own doubt had been sown and the burden of his responsibilities pressed hard upon him. Neither the skies nor the seas gave any answers to him, the future seemed dark and all too close.

Arwald knew that even he, a true son of Wonden, who could trace his linage back to Wecta and so onto the Allfather himself could not control the wyrd. If time was a flowing river, then the wyrd would be the stones and other things that direct the flow. The wyrd twisted and turned, sometimes bright and bubbly, other times dark and stagnant, but was never in the power of man to control. And so it was, the ebbing and flow of the wyrd had turned dark, a storm was coming and all the Wihtwalda could see was dark and foreboding.

So it was, that one morning, while still in the midst of the Weodmonaþ (August), with the days still long and warm, Arwald was woken by his men. Blazing across the sky was new star, it had come into view during the night was still visible now. The King looked at the sky and called the Ealdwita to him. What could this mean? The news was not good.

"My Lord, I fear this star, which we call a comet, is an ill omen, it brings with it nothing but death. All signs tell me that the Getæl is upon us." Said the priest in a low and troubling voice.

The Getæl or the Reckoning was a time to settle accounts, a time where the old would be swept away, a time or great turmoil and Arwald knew this. He stood in silence transfixed by this object in the sky, his men quietly watching him but none were quiet in their hearts and the King knew this.

After some time Arwald finally announced to those standing near, "On this day, I shall set out on foot alone. I need guidance and this world does not hold it for me."

He took with him nothing but his sword and a leather flask filled with water. The water had been brought up to the longhouse freshly this morning from the ancient chalk stream that they called the Broc. This water was sacred, for it flowed miraculously from the ground and turned into a rushing stream. It never faltered and never wavered, even in the hottest of seasons and always flowed strong to its destination.

Arwald bid his sons and wife goodbye, then turned to his men to refuse their escort, all the while ignoring their protests. He gave no indication of when he might return, he needed to be alone, he needed to speak to the Gods and he needed to find direction.

By the time the King had left the settlement, the morning was well underway. He looked up one last time at the comet burning overhead, took a deep breath and plunged into the dense woodland by way of an ancient trackway. He followed it through the ancient trees, with the sounds birds rustling leaves all around him and then suddenly he took a slight diversion. This branch in the track would take him towards the ancient burial mounds of his ancestors.

After  moment he arrived and paused as he always did  to pay his respects. This act was normally a joyous  ritual but the news that he had received from his nephew, Eadric, King of the Cantwara (Kent) was fixed in the front of his mind. The great traitor Cædwalla had been coming and alas by now he must have invaded his newphew's kingdom. Arwald shook his head slowly because he knew that soon Cantwarebyrig may fall.

The Wihtwalda crouched down and put his hand on the earth work that held the remains of a long lost ruler of the Island. The stories said it was the son of Stuff, the prince who ruled with his brother, the great Wihtgar.  He stood in silent tribute and for a brief period, in that silent and holy place he felt himself transported.

The day was warm, but the breeze was cooling and all about him was foliage that gently swayed in the wind. With this abundance of plants he truly knew why this time was called the Month of Herbs.

Suddenly he heard a rustle behind him, without thinking he pulled his sword and turned. With a smile and half cursing his own anxiety he put is sword away; he saw two fox cubs tumbling about along the trackway. They were completely oblivious to the King, because like the youth of men, a fox cub is more interested in play. Arwald crouched lower and stood very still and watched this pure innocence in action until the parent fox came trotting along.

The fox immediately sensed the King, took one look and ushered the cubs out of sight. It was not unusual to see foxes out at this time of year, food was abundant and it was time for the parents to teach the cubs to fend for themselves. It was because of this that his people would call the August full moon The Fox Moon.

Arwald took a deep breath, breathing in the smells of the woodland, the warm earthy smell that permeated every part of this place. The smell of leaf fall and mushroom, blackberries and those late flowering herbs that still clung on to their blossoms. Any other time, this would have been an idyllic day, but not now, not at this time, the darkness of the Reckoning was everywhere and there was no time to waste.

Onwards he walked until he found himself in the open air; the canopy of the trees was behind him now and above him was that ill omen shining down upon him. Arwald followed the path that led him down past the cliffs of many colours  to the sea edge. This was a holy place, they called it the place of Ylfhærn Hærfestwǣta – Tide Ylfe of the Autumn Rains, she had the heart of the innocent and the courage of a warrior.

The Tide Ylfe was said to enchant the water on this side of the island, always warmer than the north and east and at this time of year you could swim all day without feeling any cold. The waters were filled with fish and all kinds of sea creatures, a bounty all year round and the next month the great migration of the giant whales would take place.

Though this place was filled with wonders and distractions there was no time for the King to stop and Arwald pressed on.

The sea front suddenly changed from the fine coloured sands to rounded pebbles, and this was a sign that he was about to cross the Western Yar onto the place they called Háligieg (The Holy Isle). This was the place of the ancient people of the Island and the isle of giants the place where Woden himself would make his presence known.

As the King made his way onto Háligieg he said a quiet prayer of cleansing. He stopped, opened his leather flask and sprinkled a little bit of the crystal clear water as an offering.  Once the small ritual was complete he pressed on, walking at a brisk pace as he hit the steep incline that would take him up and over High Downes.

His destination was a point on the island where the ancient High Priests would perform their magics.

After about 30 minutes he found himself at the place he needed to be. Directly in front of Arwald were the craggy chalk rocks known as the Dragon's Tale, with the sacred Pinnacle of Ur placed between them. To his right were the burial grounds of the ancient peoples of the Island and a place where the wisdoms of these people was often revealed. Lastly, the ancient hazel tree, the tree of life, the magical instrument that would give all whom came to her solitude and comfort.

The sun was beating down now and the breeze, though strong had lost all its freshness. The comet had dimmed to nothing more than a tiny point in the sky, but not fully hidden by the sun.

Arwald looked out to sea and took in the view, it was breathtaking and under the heat of the day he could see a slight shimmer coming off the sea. He sat down quietly, opened his leather flask and drank deeply, letting to pure water flow freely over his lips, into his mouth and spelling over his beard. On a hot day like today it tasted like ambrosia, pure nectar of the gods and he was thankful for it. When he had drunk his fill, he sit the flask down, he closed his eyes and listened to the world around him.

In the distance he heard the sound he had hoped to hear, the deep throaty call of the ravens that made their home on the cliffs. Hearing them told him that Woden was not far and Arwald hoped to get a glimpse into what the wyrd may have in store for them all.  The Wihtwalda pushed his back against the trunk of the old tree and let this holy place say what it had to say.

After some time, Arwald found himself drifting into slumber, but it was fitful and had no rest to it. As he slipped into the dream world and found himself in the other place he saw only darkness. When he would awaken he wouldn't know if it had been one minute or a day and in his confusion he was unsure where he was. With nothing to guide him through his wonderings, he never truly left this world to find the other.

The day continued, the sky was blue and clear and the anxiety Arwald had been feeling grew. He opened his eyes and looked out across the still shimmering ocean and in the distance he saw a strange fog. Arwald smiled, because he knew what this meant, closed his eyes and let his mind be taken. This fog that we now call the Swaailen is a sign of the other world, the land of spells and ylfe.

Arwald suddenly opened his eyes and  before him was a fox who was standing on his back legs. The animal was dressed in a cloak of fine wool and he held a wooden stick which he leaned upon. He bowed once to the King and started to speak, but just as the words of greeting left the mouth of the fox Arwald cut him off. The King was so surprised by the sight before him, he draw his sword and pointed it at the fox, all the while watching it carefully.

The Fox held up one hand and said, "My King, please put your weapon down, I mean you no harm." The fox lifted up his cloak and continued, "Look, see, I have no arms about me, only this walking stick that helps me move about. For you see, it is not natural for a fox to stand on two legs as men do, but I do like it so."

Arwald put his sword away, stood for a moment and finally spoke "Who are you? What shall I call you?"

"I am Rædgiefa, the Fox King; my name means to Give Good Counsel and I am here to help you find your way." Replied the fox.

Without stoping to think, Arwald crouched down, he laid his sword before the Fox King in a sign of respect and peace and asked. "Please tell me Rædgiefa, what am I to do? I am lost and the weight of responsibility for my kingdom and people is heavy upon me. What comfort do you have to give?"

"I have no comfort to give Son of Woden," said Rædgiefa calmly in his growling voice, "that is not what I am here for. I am not here to tell you what to do, but only to guide you forth and help you navigate the wyrd."

The fox sat on the ground under the old hazel tree and broke off a twig. "You see this twig Arwald, it is nothing but a broken piece of wood from this tree. But when we take it and work it and cover it in all the things that are magical, it becomes an instrument of enchantment."

Arwald looked at the twig and the fox in puzzlement.

"I see you don't understand, and that is alright. It is good to not understand as long as you have the wisdom to know you do not and the courage to ask for help." Smiled the fox.

Rædgiefa continued, "Sometimes a sacrifice needs to be made to build something else. Sometimes, we have to change something's nature to help it move forward and continue. A violent act can seem destructive, but in the long run something new will be made."

The Fox King then pointed to a small white flower the grew beside the tree. "See here my King, this delicate flower."

Arwald looked down and and saw the familiar spiral of the rare orchard that they called the Autumn Lady's-tresses.

"This tiny plant is known for its deep rooted and rare magic, it represents divination in all its glory and its spiralling flowers showing the cycles of life. The white florets  twist and turn, sometimes showing, sometimes hidden, but always there and with every ending there is a new beginning." continued the Fox King.

The Wihtwalda looked silently at the delicate flower, it felt like looking into infinity, it truly was like looking into the wyrd itself.

He turned over what the Fox King had said to him and after a moment he nodded his head and quietly spoke "I understand, and I see why you are the giver of good counsel. Whatever happens I must ensure I do what is right and proper, I must defend my country and my people to the end without knowing what the outcome will be. If I do not follow my path there cannot be the enduring place that is our home."

Rædgiefa nodded, using his stick for support he struggled to his feet and  he once again stood on his hind legs. He turned to Arwald, bowed once more and said "Strength and honour, just as your name means my King."

As the Fox King turned to leave, Arwald stopped the fox and asked, "Tell me Sire, will you use your divination to answer one question for me? Will my line survive?"

The Fox King said nothing for a moment and then replied. "The future is not clear, the wyrd gives us many blind corners to make it hard to see and this is how it should be. No man should know his future fully fore he will stop truly living."

The fox then looked up at the dim stain that streaked across the sky and continued "However, it does give us signs and as you know, this streaking star is a sign that Getæl is here. The Getæl is not the ending, it is but the start of the spiral and the blood that runs through your veins will make the first great Bretwalda."

With that Arwald awoke, he sat bolt upright. He blinked int he dim light, trying to focus; the day was long gone and the sun was already on its way to setting past the Dragon's Tail.  He looked up into the sky and saw the comet was still burning its way across the sky. The revelations showed him the path that he must take; they were not the answers he had hoped for, but he knew what he must do.

He bent down and picked one of the white spiral flowers that were growing by the tree. He held it gently between his battle hardened fingers, turning it around slowly and watching it wrap into infinity. Arwald then placed it tenderly, with all the care he could muster into one of the pouches he had on his belt. From that day forth, through the Getæl  and onward, the emblem of the house of Wiht would be Autumn Lady's-tresses.

I have been thinking about doing this for a long time, a series of short tales centred around the last British pagan and Isle of Wight king, Arwald. This enigmatic ruler of our little island is often forgotten and his place in history over-looked. People have simply never heard of Arwald and the title of last pagan king is oft' touted as Penda of Mercia. This is more than likely due to the fact that Mercia was one of the great Saxon powers of the time and the Wiht (Isle of Wight) was a minor Jutish territory that was more than likely a client kingdom of Mercia itself.

This however, does not diminish the validity of our kingdom and the title of Last Pagan King or  diminish the importance of Arwald who was the Wihtwalda (King of Wight).

In recent years, there is a small but growing community that are showing a renewed interest in Arwald and the burgeoning magical identity of the Island. This identity  is  inextricably linked to the late Wihtwalda as it should be and is something that I hope to foster in these tales over the coming weeks / months.

I cannot claim that any of the tales are accurate or if they are anything more than the wonderings of my own imagination. What I can say is that each one of these was revealed to me during meditation and dreams over the course of the last few years. I feel that these accounts are stories that need to be told and even if they are nothing more than fictional notions they are intended to tell stories of devotion and inspiration. The ultimate aim is to continue the memory of a man we know so little about but has had a huge impact on the independent nature of the Island.

The Isle of Wight has always claimed to be separate and distinct from the rest of Britain, it clings to its past in more ways than one. If you ask anyone about the Island they will tell you two things, coming here is like going back in time 50 years and that there is no place they would rather be. The fact that we refer to it as the "Island" should speak volumes, we say it like there is no other island in the world but this one.

Clinging onto our past for an Islander is like breathing but some cling onto it even to their own detriment. These stories are not for those people, these stories are not for the people who cling to a rose-tinted view of empire, these tales are not for those that believe in Vectis Insular. These tales are for the open and free, the people who wish to explore the re-enchantment of this place, the people who look to the past to help find a path to the future.

So I invite you to join me as I explore the world of the Wihtlore and in this, explore our last Wihtwalda, Arwald.

The weather is a pretty fundamental force that shapes our daily lives, it is no wonder that we spend so much time talking about it. I don't know about you, but just about every conversation I have with one of my neighbours starts with a greeting and then something about the weather. Anyone would think we are obsessed with it and not only that, we are really good at stating the obvious either directly or with a sharp bit of irony.

How the seasons affect us and the weather it brings has shaped not only how we go about our daily lives, but also how we see the world. It has shaped how to farm, how we live, what we live in and how we worship. It stands to reason that this mysterious entity that can be a blessing and a curse is something we would like to tame or at the very least placate.

We have sent much of our collective history, making offerings, preying and even trying to make deals to keep the unwanted parts of the weather away from us. As we have developed as a society we have stopped trying to get the weather under our control and gone "all-in" on divination. This is true today as much as any time in our time on this earth, though these days we use weather maps and satellites rather than consulting with oracles or looking out for a "red sky at night".

Terms and Folklore

1. Allhallowtide Summer (or just Tide Summer)
   Unseasonably weather right through until the Allhallowtide. Those that experience this always say there is an account that needs to be paid for extra good weather that has been granted:
   When the winter comes,
   It will snow until May,
   Because old man frost,
   Is due his warrant paid.
2. Blunk
   A sudden squall that will hit the sailers at sea. The day maybe fair and the water calm, but the ocean can be harsh and all of a sudden a blunk can hit. They say: "The Sea Crone will call a blunk upon those that do no pay tribute..." Sadly there is no mention of what this tribute might be, which doesn't really help the seafarer.
3. The Candlemas Saaveall
   It is the rough weather, high winds and pelting rain that hit the Isle of Wight during February and March. It is believed that all "Good God fearing men" should go to St Mary the Virgin Church in Brading and make a donation and light a candle for St Wilfrid. It is unclear if this works, but, the fact it no longer happens and we have these storms every year might suggest something.
4. A Drythe
   A Drythe is a hot and dry northerly of easterly wind that blows over the Island. It is known to have no freshness to it and is relentless when it hits. The farmers call it the Curse of the Drythe because of the effect it has one the land and their crops. They believe it is a drythe that causes the ground to crack so it can get down under the earth and dry up the springs and watercourses. When the Island is being hit by a drythe, one should never sink a new well as the drythe will follow it, dry up the water and leave the ground poisoned.
5. Waadishens
   Extremely hot weather, but unlike the Drythe there is no wind, just a constant beating down of heat. It is said that it is caused by the gallibaggers (scarecrows) turning their backs on the sun and they say that a gallibagger should always face north/south so as to never  to bring down the waadishens. An old saying "It's so hot even the Devil feels the waadishens".
6. Bengy
   Bengy means that is overcast and threatening to rain. The word "bengy" had also become part of the Isle of Wight dialect and it meant "To drink too much".
7. Eague or Heague
   This a sudden squall that hits the Island on an otherwise bright and calm day, quite often it will hit the south or west. They say it is caused by someone angering the rooks or crows to such a degree that they send the eague to show their displeasure.
8. Drouth
   The perfect weather to dry clothes, a bright warm day with a cross breeze. The weather cannot be too hot and the breeze not too strong otherwise the clothes are libel to become scratchy from the heat and blow away in the wind. There are ways of making a Drouth more likely and they say that whispering to bumble bees will help.
9. Dæsaal
   It describes how the sun moves in the sky:
   – Easing Dæsaal is the movement in winter
   – Growing Dæsaal is the movement in summer
   They do say that is a way to reverse the dæsaal and to do that you must follow the moon accross the island from the moment it rises to when it sets and never take your eyes off it. If you do then then Easing will happen in summer and the Growing in winter.
10. The Swaailen
    The last and most important bit of weather on the island is the Swaailen. It is the mysterious fog that comes over the Island from no-where, a thick blanket that will roll in from any point except the north. It is believed that when this comes in, the other place is near and anything might happen. If you are taken by the Swaailen who knows where or when you might come back, you could even return before you were taken. The hills have been known to change height during this and in some cases completely disappear with people forgetting they even existed. It is the world of the Ylfe and the Puck and a place of spells and magic and is not for us mere mortals. But, not all is lost, can you can anchor yourself in this world by the laying of stones or steaning and people would often keep a few pebbles in their pockets for just these occasions.

Many years ago there was a man of wealth who had a very headstrong and curious daughter. Her father was a large land owner on the Island but part of his estate was a place that was well-known for strange goings on. Although the land was fertile, it was never worked; it was said that is family had struck a deal with the Ylfe to ensure the rest of his estate was always profitable. The price for this magical protection was that this field would be left fallow and be the domain of the imps.

The man's daughter would often go off walking when the weather was fine and spend her time walking the downs and meadows that belonged to her father. Everytime she went to leave the house her father would say "Stay away from the fallow field, that place is not for us to travel. However, time and again one of the workers would spot the daughter crossing the Fallow Field running and dancing. The worker would always report back to her father and each time her father would scold her, “Daughter, that place is not for you, please take the road rather than crossing that field. Nothing good can come of you crossing that place.”

The maiden would not listen and continued to cut across the Fallow Field. She never believed the stories and cutting across the field would save her half an hour. The view was spectacular, to the east she would see the sea and the the west the rolling hills that lead all the way to her father's house. Although she didn't believe the stories, she had to admit there was something very different about this place. He her it seemed like her voice carried further and her feet were lighter as she danced. She always looked forward to this part of her adventures, it always felt it was worth the stern words she would get from her father.

One day, in late June, when the wild flowers were in full bloom and the days were long and hot, the maiden decided to once again go on an adventure. Like every time she left the house, her father would remind her not to go through the Fallow Field.  The Maiden agreed to stay away from the field, or at the very least she would try not to be seen.

The young woman thought the day was so lovely that she would take some bread and cheese and have a picnic. She set off on her travels across her father's land, cross crossing the meadows and across the downs. The sun continued to climb in the sky and but the time she had made her way across the estate she realised it was already close to midday. She found herself sanding at the hedge that marked the boundary to the to Fallow Field and stopped for a moment contemplating her father's words.

She considered things for a moment, directly across the field was a lovely wooded area where she could stop, rest and eat her meal. If she listened to her father's words, it would take another half an our to get there. However, if she cut through the field, she could go sit by a young oak tree in the centre of the field, enjoy the view and take in the sunlight as it played over the wildflowers.

Taking great care not to be seen she climbed through a small break in the hedge and made her way down the slight incline that took her directly to the middle of the field. As she walked through the grass she felt her feet spring like she was bouncing on a soft bed. She quietly sang to herself, a little nonsense song about butterflies and honey as she made her was to the young oak.

The heat of the day was around her and with every foot fall she smells of summer tickled at her nose. When she got to the tree, it was all should could not to not just flop down in a tired heap. She made herself comfortable and opened the little package of food she had made for herself and started to eat.

After some time, to her surprise a lamb came walking up to her from no where it seemed. She looked around for the young sheep's mother but couldn't see anything near by. To make things even more curious the lamb showed no fear and so it appeared to the young woman that is was tame.

“Hello beautiful thing,” she said to the lamb and held out her hand. “Are you lost? Where is your mother my precious?”

The lamb bleated and slowly came closer to the maiden. It stopped for a moment, bowed its head and sniffed her fingers. The maiden looked at the beautiful create and giggled to herself at the light touch of the lambs nose on her fingertips.

After a moment the lamb was well within the young woman's reach, so she stroked its nose and smiled. She was sure that the lamb winked at her and even make a little smile, but he knew it was her imagination. “What a delight you are.” the maiden squealed.

At that moment and without warning, the lamb looked at the maiden, dead in the eyes and  bit her on the finger. The girl recoiled, in shock and in pain. She tried to push herself away but found she could not stand and was only able to stumble back against the trunk. As her bod hit the hard bark of the tree she felt a great heat emanating form bite on her hand. This heat spread out rapidly and consumed her entire body like a fever until finally she was unable to move, only lay there helpless. The fever quickly turned into an all-consuming tiredness. This was a tiredness that forced her eyes to close and before she knew what was happening she had passed into a deep slumber.

For what the girl did not know was, the lamb was an imp in disguise. For years the magical folk had seen her passing over their lands and for years had resented her for it. They could no longer  stand to have this trespass go unpunished and the way the saw it, they had always kept up their end of the deal with her father.  The Ylfe devised a plan to make her pay for her indiscretions and had waited for the perfect moment.

When the lamb bit her, it placed a strong spell upon her, a bond that could not easily be broken. For the Ylfen magic is not one that any normal human can oppose. Even those of us learned in the magical arts know it is wise to not challenge such things; this sort of magic is to the Ylfe as breathing is to you and I.

When the girl did not return that evening her father sent out search parties, but his daughter could not be found. They searched high and low, through every part of their master's lands until they finally came to the Fallow Field. None of the workers dared go in there, for they knew the mischief that was waiting for them over the other side of the hedge.

Her father was desperate and armed himself with charms and a good strong cudgel and made his way into the field. Alone he walked every inch of it, calling to his daughter and cursing the name of the Ylfe, but he found nothing.

The young women's father spent the rest of his days a broken man, the light from his life left him on that day. It is said that his good fortune ended as well, for a great blight came over his livestock and all died a miserable death. Ever crop that was planted died and her man ended you dying in poverty, his lands sold to pay his debts.

You see, not only had he lost his only daughter, but as far as the magic folk we concerned their agreement has been broken. For the Ylfe were not content to take away their protective enchantments and let the wyrd fall what may, they are also spiteful and took revenge in all ways they could.

What become of the maiden I hear you ask? As she drifted into her slumber, it is said that young oak tree took pity on the maiden. The oak knew the ways of the Ylfe and her knew what they were capable of. But their magic is no match for something as mighty as a prince of the wood.

As the glamours of the other place were descending, making it impossible for any human to see the enchanted child the oak made it clear she was under his protection.  It grew its branches around her and kept her safe, eventually surrounding her completely with its mighty trunk, protecting her from the vengeful temptations of the magical folk.

The oak grew large and strong, and became the largest tree in the woodland that eventually took over the Fallow Field. The prince grew into a king of the trees and forever is protecting the sleeping maiden.

The oak tree is still here on the Island if you know where to look and no one dares to cut it down. It sand in its wood, in a place where will do not like to longer for too long. The wayfarer does not tarry in this corner of the world, especially at dusk for people know that misadventure will come to those the idol amongst these trees.

The maiden still sleeps, warm and protected within and the tree's oath still stands. Those people who know this tree will stop and pay their respects and on warm summers days they may even leave a wild flower before the trunk of the great oak.

Many years ago, a white hart was born on the Isle of Wight; a treasured creature that was seen as a blessing and a sign of prosperity. According to the law of the time, the doe and her fawn were set free and allowed to roam the Island without hinder; no hunter would touch them.

And so it was that the white fawn grew to have to no fear of man, in fact he saw them as friends as they would all come to him with food and bowed heads. The people of the Island found themselves filled with joy at the sight of this most magical of creatures. Word spread quickly from the Island to the mainland and beyond. People travelled from far off lands to come and see the white fawn, make their offerings and leave in peace.

However, word of the white fawn made its way to a lord who knew nothing but greed. All he could see was jealousy and his only desire was to have this creature as a prize. So he sent his men to capture it and bring it back to his lands.

The men made enquiries when landing on the Island and asked to be given an audience with the white fawn. They told a local guide they wished to make their offerings and bestow peace upon the young deer and the guide gladly obliged. The guide took the men to the fawn and his mother and the lord's men went through the motions of offering grain and nuts for it to eat. That night, they went back out into the woodland and aided by the light of the full moon they easily found the deer. The deer stood looking and them and in the light of the moon it appeared to glow. The men stood and stared at the creature and because it had not learnt to fear men, it gladly came close enough for them to capture it.

The men stole away with the fawn and made haste to their boats. They tied it up, and muzzled its mouth and set sail for their master's hall.
When the lord saw the beast, his greed and black heart blinded him the deers inner beauty and magic, he only saw it as a possession.

“A fine animal! We will feed it and fatten it and when it is grown we will set it for the hunt.” Proclaimed the lord.

He finally had what he wanted and he made sure that fawn was kept safe until it was time to put the rest of his plan into action.

Over the course of the next few years, the fawn grew into a great white stag – strong, tall and mighty. The White Stag walked around the lord's grounds, and was always given anything he desired. People would sneak onto the grounds at night and give him offerings, but those that could truly see knew there was a sadness that clung to it. No offering, no kindness would take the sadness away, yet the Stag would still bestow his blessing of peace and prosperity upon anyone who came by.

They say the stag had never forgotten his home, the kindness of the people he was stolen from and the love of his mother. However, his nature was that of giving and that is what he did.

It was said that it was a curious thing, the White Stag never took a mate and would never fight another for territory but it was not because it could not. It was quite clear that the White Stag was the biggest and strongest buck in the herd and the others all treated him with reverence and respect.  It seemed no other male would dare challenge him; all knew his true power.

Finally the time came and the lord decided the hunt was afoot. He ordered his men to take the White Stag and release it into the hunting forest. The lord was excited, his eyes filled with the hunger of the kill and his heart wanting nothing more than full submission of the beast. He believed the stag would prove an easy trophy, this tame animal that was always able to be seen. Before leaving after the White Stag he ordered his cooks to be ready to roast the deer when he brought it back.

The stag ran and ran, a distant longing had taken over; a natural calling that showed him the way. Before he knew it he had run so far that the forest was thinning and the daylight was steaming and warming his white fur. As he ran with those invisible fingers pulling him and guiding him he noticed the air has changed and suddenly before him was the sea. In the distance the stag could see the island of his birth, the land he was from and it was calling him home. He leapt straight into the calm waters and started to swim.

The lord, his men and dogs gave chase but no matter how hard they pushed the hounds and horses they could not catch the deer. They feared they had lost him, but the dogs still seemed to have the scent and the party pressed on. By the time they got to the edge of the water, the shadows were already lengthening. They looked out across the sea they saw a white dot making its way to the other side.

The lord, furious, ordered his men to get the boats so they could sail after the White Stag with their horses and hounds in toe. Something strange happened as they set out, the water that was calm suddenly turned. It became choppy and the breeze that was full and proper fell away. The men pulled out the oars and started to row, but it felt like they were pushing against an upstream current.

The hunting party made it to the island by nightfall; exhausted by their terrible trip the men wanted to stop. But the lord said no!  For it was a bright night, the July Full Moon. This was the very moon that the lord's men had used to capture the deer all those years before and the lord believed this was a sign.

The dogs quickly picked up the scent and they gave chase. Slowly and methodically the party went off in search of the beast but it was soon evident that they were going around in circles. What they did not realise was that the White Stag remembered his home and took them all about. He was leading them on wild goose chase by back tracking and running around in circles. This infuriated the lord, who decided  plunge the party deep into the woods and make their way like an invading army through the island.

The night went on and the moon rose higher and higher and the hunt continued.

After what seemed many hours, the Stag, tired and bruised found a quiet spot to rest. Unfortunately the stag’s luck had run out and the lord  finally caught up to the beautiful animal. The White Stag jumped up and went to run, but it was too late he was cornered.

Behind the White Stag was the sea and he was stuck on a narrow section of land that jutted out into the raging ocean below. Seeing that the deer had no where to go but the jagged rocks below the hunting party was filled with confidence. They moved slowly, arrows at the ready, but the White Stag stood his ground.

As the hunters drew back their bows the great beast crashed its antlers to the ground. It is said the sound it made was like thunder coming down from Woden himself. The Stag was not going to go out without a fight and he crashed his antlers down again hard and powerfully on the ground. Sparks flew up and the crashing thunder filled the air.

The land rumbled with each crash and before the hunting party knew what had happened the earth below gave way. The splint of ground with the chalk beneath crumbled and the lord and his men tumbled into the ocean and their death. The men were swept onto the rocks below and the sea ripped them apart as it dragged them out.

The Stag stood tall and strong, head held high. The moonlight shone down on it, bathing it in its cold grey light making him glow brightly. The Stag was standing in the middle of the sea, on a tall remanent that made a sort of small island and he leaped forward. Light of foot to the point of flying he landed safely back on solid ground and  quietly walked off into the woodland of the Island.

To this day the rock is still called Stag Rock and it is in Fresh Water Bay. People look at it and ponder its name, some people even know that a Stag once jumped there to avoid a hunting party. People say that the White Stag is still on the island and brings blessings to those that need it. The cunning folk know that there is something special about him and remember him every year during the Stag Moon.

This article does not talk about the pre and mid Romanic period of the Isle of Wight as information is quite scant and based on speculation with the tiniest bits of archaeological evidence.

What information we are using

We will be concerning ourselves with the information that we have from the Venerable Bebe and his work the Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum (The Ecclesiastical History of the English People) c731 AD and the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles as they are the closes contemporary accounts we have.

Background: Early Medieval Period

In the early medieval period, the so called “Dark Ages” (because very little written record exist or survive) was a brutal time in the land of Bryttania [Britain]. There was no single country, but a mass of smaller kingdoms that were ruled by warlord kings. In fact even the concept of “Bryttania” seems to have been idea of the past and the name was used in reference to a bygone era (most probably the Roman occupation).

The Kingdom of the Wihtwara (where the name Wight comes from) was fiercely independent and considered itself very much a different sovereign nation, with its own customs and more than likely its own dialect. Little is known about the lines of succession for the Wihtwara Kings, but we do know some detail.

The First Kings of Wihtwara

The name Wihtwara gets its name from the earliest known king, Wihtgar. Wihtgar (There is debate over Wihtgar and whether he was a real person or apocryphal) and Stuf are the first recorded kings of the Island, although it has never been stated they must be either cousins or brothers as they’re reported to be the nephews of the first King of Wessex, Cerdic.

Although Newport is now the County Town for the Island, in the early medieval period the capital of the kingdom was Wihtwarasburgh which over time became known as Carisbrooke. It is thought that Wihtwarasburgh is thought to have been built on top of a pre-existing Roman fort, however this has never been proven. The earliest known archaeological evidence is 6th century pagan cemetery which does match up with the account from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.

Wihtgar and Stuff ruled from c534 AD to c544 AD and possibly buried at Wihtwarasburgh.

Extract Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

A.D. 530. This year Cerdic and Cynric took the Isle of Wight, and slew many men in Carisbrooke.
A.D. 534. This year died Cerdic, the first king of the West- Saxons. Cynric his son succeeded to the government, and reigned afterwards twenty-six winters. And they gave to their two nephews, Stuff and Wihtgar, the whole of the Isle of Wight.

Etymology of Names

wiht (Strong Feminine Noun): A person from Wight / a sea creature / person of the sea
wara (Weak Masculine Noun): An inhabitant
Wihtwara People of the Isle of Wight / People of the Sea
Stuf Stump (Possibly a nick name)
gar (u-stem Masculine): Spear / Dart / Javelin
Wihtgar The spear of the Isle of Wight / The Spear of the creature of the Sea / The Spear of the Person of the Sea

Unknown Period

There are no records for the next 120 years on who ruled the Kingdom of Wihtwara, there are two possible explanations:

1. Because the Wihtwara was a minor Kingdom it was left alone and ruled itself with very little outside intervention. The Kingdom was seen as client Kingdom to Wessex and as long as nobles held up their duties to their overload King then it was probably just left alone.
   or
2. The Kingdom was taken over by Wessex and ruled remotely. This does not seem likely as there is no mention of the Island in that whole time. It could be that the King of Wessex assumed his rule was enforced and again the Island was just left alone.

King Aethelwalh of Sessex

In c661 AD King Aethelwalh of Sussex was given overlordship of the Isle of Wight by King Wulfhere of Mercia. Upon taking control of the Island, Aethelwalh forced the Islanders to convert to Christianity.

There is a discrepancy between Bede and the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. Bede says that the Bishop Wilfrid went to convert the 7,000 families in Kent and then onto Sussex and the Island in 681 AD.

It is unknown if King Aethelwalh over-threw the current King of the Island or if there was a death causing a power vacuum allowing an easy take over. What is known, however, the Island was made “Christian” in name only, and as soon as Aethelwalh left, the Islanders continued with their ancient, pagan beliefs.

Extracts from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

A.D. 656. This year was Peada slain; and Wulfhere, son of Penda, succeeded to the kingdom of the Mercians. ... "And I Archbishop of Canterbury, Deus-dedit, ratify it." -- Then confirmed it all the others that were there with the cross of Christ (+): namely, Ithamar, Bishop of Rochester; Wina, Bishop of London; Jeruman, Bishop of the Mercians; and Tuda, bishop; and Wilfrid, priest, who was afterwards bishop; and Eoppa, priest, whom the king, Wulfere, sent to preach Christianity in the Isle of Wight; ...
A.D. 661. This year, at Easter, Kenwal fought at Pontesbury; and Wulfere, the son of Penda, pursued him as far as Ashdown. Cuthred, the son of Cwichelm, and King Kenbert, died in one year. Into the Isle of Wight also Wulfere, the son of Penda, penetrated, and transferred the inhabitants to Ethelwald, king of the South-Saxons, because Wulfere adopted him in baptism. And Eoppa, a mass-priest, by command of Wilfrid and King Wulfere, was the first of men who brought baptism to the people of the Isle of Wight.

Extract from Ecclesiastical History of the English People

Chap. XIII. How Bishop Wilfrid converted the province of the South Saxons to Christ. [681 a.d.]

But Wilfrid was expelled from his bishopric, and having long travelled in many lands, went to Rome, and afterwards returned to Britain. Though he could not, by reason of the enmity of the aforesaid king, be received into his own country or diocese, yet he could not be restrained from the ministry of the Gospel; for, taking his way into the province of the South Saxons, which extends from Kent to the south and west, as far as the West Saxons, containing land of 7,000 families, and was at that time still in bondage to pagan rites, he administered to them the Word of faith, and the Baptism of salvation. Ethelwalch, king of that nation, had been, not long before, baptised in the province of the Mercians, at the instance of King Wulfhere, who was present, and received him as his godson when he came forth from the font, and in token of this adoption gave him two provinces, to wit, the Isle of Wight, and the province of the Meanware, in the country of the West Saxons. The bishop, therefore, with the king's consent, or rather to his great joy, cleansed in the sacred font the foremost ealdormen and thegns of that country; and the priests, Eappa, and Padda, and Burghelm, and Oiddi, either then, or afterwards, baptised the rest of the people. The queen, whose name was Eabae, had been baptised in her own country, the province of the Hwiccas. She was the daughter of Eanfrid, the brother of Aenhere, who were both Christians, as were their people; but all the province of the South Saxons was ignorant of the Name of God and the faith. But there was among them a certain monk of the Scottish nation, whose name was Dicul, who had a very small monastery, at the place called Bosanhamm, encompassed by woods and seas, and in it there were five or six brothers, who served the Lord in humility and poverty; but none of the natives cared either to follow their course of life, or hear their preaching.

King Arwald - The Last British Pagan King

Sometime between c661 AD and c686 AD the last king of the Wihtwara, King Arwald came to power. Nothing is known about Arwald’s early life or where he came from. However, it is believed he was born on the Island as he was a Pagan and the Island, by then, was the last Pagan Kingdom in Britain.

Arwald ruled this Island with his two younger brothers by his side who Bede describes as “youths”. Unfortunately neither Bede nor the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle recorded their names, they were sometimes referred to as "The First Fruits". We also know that Arwald had a sister (name also lost to history) and because she went on to marry the then King of Kent, Arwald's family must have been seen as noble.

The Fall of Arwald and the Slaughter

In c686 AD, Caedwalla, who was an exiled King from Wessex had invaded Sussex and killed Aethelwalh and took his lands. After establishing his powerbase in Sussex he used the pretence of “Conversation” to invade and take Wihtwara. Caedwalla had promised one quarter of the Island to Bishop Wilfrid and the Church if he was allowed to proceed with his righteous crusade. Of course this was nothing more than a thinly veiled pretext to invade the Island, slaughter the ruling house and make another power grab.

22nd April 686:
It’s unknown how much foreknowledge Arwald had of the coming invasion but he must have had enough time to amass his small army to defend his land.

Arwald was killed in battle but it isn’t documented if his two brothers (later called “The First Fruits” as they were first fruits of the slaughter that was to come) fought along side Arwald and then escaped or if The King sent them to the mainland for safety. Judging by Bede’s own words, the boys were probably sent away by their brother “… two royal boys, brothers to Arwald, king of the island, were crowned with the special grace of God. For when the enemy approached, they made their escape out of the island … “

What we do know is that the fight was bloody and that Caedwalla suffered many injuries from the battle. So the Islanders, though most likely much smaller in numbers fought valiantly for their kingdom and home.

The two brothers successfully made their way to the mainland and where hidden by sympathisers in Stoneham near Southampton. However, they were betrayed and Caedwalla sentenced them to death because they were the last claimants to the throne.

Before their death, a priest named Cynibert asked to take the boys to convert and baptise them in the name of saving their immortal souls. Cynibert wanted to “instruct them in the mysteries of the Christian faith.” The two youths were subsequently canonised (disingenuously) under the name St Arwald with their feast day being 22nd April.

According to the official Vatican records: ARWALD (Saints) Martyrs (April 22) (7th century) Two brothers, sons of Arwald, a prince in the Isle of Wight, whose proper names are lost. They were put to death by the soldiers of King Ceadwalla, then a Pagan, on the morrow of their baptism (A.D. 686).

The irony being that Caedwalla is painted as being a brutal Pagan barbarian that killed the children for being Christian. Although Caedwalla was still technically a pagan, he was doing "the Church's work" and was Christian in everything but name at this point. Eventually he did get baptised when he went to Rome on pilgrimage only to die ten days later.

Once Caedwalla had killed the two brothers he went on the slaughter every Islander that he could and replaced them with his own people. It is unclear if the slaughter was only the noble men at Wihtwarasburgh or every Islander. However, the former is probably more likely with quite a few peasants thrown in for good measure.

Not the end of the Royal House of Wihtwara

The story doesn’t quite end there: as mentioned earlier, Arwald’s sister married the King of Kent, Ecgberht. Arwald’s sister was the mother of King Wihtred of Kent, grandmother of Aethbert II of Kent and great grandmother of Ecgberht of Wessex and in turn great great grandmother to Alfred the Great.

Extract from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

A.D. 686. This year Ceadwall and his brother Mull spread devastation in Kent and the Isle of Wight. This same Ceadwall gave to St. Peter's minster, at Medhamsted, Hook; which is situated in an island called Egborough. Egbald at this time was abbot, who was the third after Saxulf; and Theodore was archbishop in Kent.

Extract Ecclesiastical History of the English People (Book Four)

Chap. XV. How King Caedwalla, king of the Gewissae, having slain Ethelwalch, wasted that Province with cruel slaughter and devastation. [685 a.d.]

In the meantime, Caedwalla, a young man of great vigour, of the royal race of the Gewissae, an exile from his country, came with an army, slew Ethelwalch, and wasted that province with cruel slaughter and devastation; but he was soon expelled by Berthun and Andhun, the king's ealdormen, who held in succession the government of the province. The first of them was afterwards killed by the same Caedwalla, when he was king of the Gewissae, and the province was reduced to more grievous slavery: Ini, likewise, who reigned after Caedwalla, oppressed that country with the like servitude for many years; for which reason, during all that time, they could have no bishop of their own; but their first bishop, Wilfrid, having been recalled home, they were subject to the bishop of the Gewissae, that is, the West Saxons, who were in the city of Venta.

Chap. XVI. How the Isle of Wight received Christian inhabitants, and two royal youths of that island were killed immediately after Baptism. [686 a.d.]

After Caedwalla had obtained possession of the kingdom of the Gewissae, he took also the Isle of Wight, which till then was entirely given over to idolatry, and by merciless slaughter endeavoured to destroy all the inhabitants thereof, and to place in their stead people from his own province; binding himself by a vow, though it is said that he was not yet regenerated in Christ, to give the fourth part of the land and of the spoil to the Lord, if he took the island. He fulfilled this vow by giving the same for the service of the Lord to Bishop Wilfrid, who happened at the time to have come thither from his own people.636 The measure of that island, according to the computation of the English, is of twelve hundred families, wherefore an estate of three hundred families was given to the Bishop. The part which he received, he committed to one of his clerks called Bernwin, who was his sister's son, assigning to him a priest, whose name was Hiddila, to administer the Word and laver of life to all that would be saved.

Here I think it ought not to be omitted that, as the first fruits of those of that island who believed and were saved, two royal boys, brothers to Arwald, king of the island, were crowned with the special grace of God. For when the enemy approached, they made their escape out of the island, and crossed over into the neighbouring province of the Jutes. Coming to the place called At the Stone, they thought to be concealed from the victorious king, but they were betrayed and ordered to be killed. This being made known to a certain abbot and priest, whose name was Cynibert, who had a monastery not far from there, at a place called Hreutford, that is, the Ford of Reeds, he came to the king, who then lay in concealment in those parts to be cured of the wounds which he had received whilst he was fighting in the Isle of Wight, and begged of him, that if the boys must needs be killed, he might be allowed first to instruct them in the mysteries of the Christian faith. The king consented, and the bishop having taught them the Word of truth, and cleansed them in the font of salvation, assured to them their entrance into the kingdom of Heaven. Then the executioner came, and they joyfully underwent the temporal death, through which they did not doubt they were to pass to the life of the soul, which is everlasting. Thus, after this manner, when all the provinces of Britain had received the faith of Christ, the Isle of Wight also received the same; yet because it was suffering under the affliction of foreign subjection, no man there received the office or see of a bishop, before Daniel, who is now bishop of the West Saxons.

The island is situated opposite the borders of the South Saxons and the Gewissae, being separated from it by a sea, three miles wide, which is called Solvente. In this sea, the two tides of the ocean, which break upon Britain all round its coasts from the boundless northern ocean, daily meet in conflict beyond the mouth of the river Homelea, which runs into the aforesaid sea, through the lands of the Jutes, belonging to the country of the Gewissae; and after this struggle of the tides, they fall back and return into the ocean whence they come.

Etymologies of Names

Ar: Honour / Glory
Wald: Power / Strength
Arwald: Power & Honour

In the time of the three islands, before this Sacred Isle became one, all the lands lay still and cold. The Gods moved over the bare ground, working their magic and creating a dominion for themselves. They created mountains and valleys, forests and grasslands and over eons they created all the creatures that roamed, flew and swam.

Powerful magic was used to create this wonderful world and it should be of no surprise that left in hidden parts of the world bits of this magic remained.
The energy flowed through the lands, swirling and wrapping itself around objects. Some objects became magically enchanted, while others resisted, and the energies would move on. Eventually, finding cracks and fissures in the Earth the magic seeped deep underground to where the rocks are so hot they flowed in rivers of lava and ash.

Unconstrained by any god, this magic took on a life on its own and acting upon the fiery depths it forged an egg. This egg, hard as diamond and heavy as lead lay quietly within its inferno covered home for centuries. Magically fertile, the egg held a living thing safe within its impenetrable walls; an animal never seen by god nor beast. The creature grew larger and stronger as it was nourished  by the blaze and the magic that surrounded it.

The centuries passed and the egg floated on the underground molten sea until it found a place to escape its confines. With a thunderous sound it belched forth from the ground causing the earth around it to be engulfed in a conflagration that had never been seen before nor since. The egg flew high into the air until the pull of the ground caused it to come crashing down and it destroyed a mountain in its wake. Dirt, rock, trees and rivers were thrown for miles in all directions and nothing was left, but the egg.

All was silent, except for the distant crackling of the fires around gaping hole that gave birth to the egg. No bird sang, no dear walked, it was like the wind itself was scared to approach the still hot object lying on the bare ground.

After a time a cold mist rolled in and tightly wound itself around the land, but still the egg lay silent.

The mist turned into rain and the rain into a torrent the egg started to move, rocking from side to side until finally with a sharp cracking noise it opened. As the egg opened a stubby little snout popped out, the creature’s nostrils barely slits through her scaly skin. Then, pushing with all her strength she was finally able to push her entire head out and for the first time saw the world around her.

She was the first dragon. Born from fire and magic, she would go onto be the mother of all dragons that once roamed the earth and her name was Ollpheist.

Ollpheist roamed the Earth and when she found a suitable place she would lay her eggs, these eggs would then birth their own dragons. These dragons all had their own personalities and although many were benevolent, a few were not. These malevolent dragons were driven by greed, they caused havoc and destruction where ever they went.

Millennia passed, and a new inhabitant started to make itself known throughout the lands: humanity. These people gathered together in tribes and moved through the world building houses and villages, roads and farms. They lived deep within fertile valleys as well as rough and unforgiving mountain tops.

As the tribes grew and expanded they encroached on the lands of the dragons which at first was greeted awe and wonder. The tribes of humanity met many benevolent dragons who helped the people and protected them. As time went by though,  the tribes encounted the malevolent dragons who went on the exploit and sow the seeds of hate and dispare in the hearts of humanity.

People would go onto fight each other and in between these tribal battles they would fight the dragons; constantly at war, the whole Earth would tremble. The dragons, once challenged would lay waste to the lands of the tribes and the tribes would retaliate by destroying any dragon they came across, no matter what the creature’s disposition. The wars between the tribes and dragons raged for centuries leaving great scares and rifts upon the lands.

The fighting did not go unnoticed by the mother of the dragons and she wept great tears of sorrow and remorse. Ollpheist took to the skies and travelled to the lands of the dragons. She stood before them, and using all her authority, she appeal to her children to learn to help the tribes of humanity, but anger and revenge were now in the dragons’ hearts. No amount of pleading from their mother would change their minds and they stood as one to banish her from their lands. No longer would they listen to Ollpheist, she had no control over her children and all she could do was let the wars rage on.

Sorrow upon her, the Mother Dragon left that place and flew high into the skies. Her heart was broken and as she looked down at the battles that were being fought below, she lost her faith. Ollpheist flew a great distance in search of refuge, she let the trails of magic lead her, trusting in those fine filaments that weave themselves through the world. As she flew, she found that the energy grew stronger until she came to a place of three islands.

Ollpheist landed on the centre island and lay down to rest and presently closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

Suddenly she was awoken by the sound of chanting, she opened her eyes and saw that gathered around her were people paying tribute.

“What is this place?” she asked in a warm and calming voice.

One man came forward, introduced himself as their King, bowed his head and explained “This is Ictis, the land of the Old Gods and these are my people. We were given these lands in a time before we can remember but we are fragmented. Our land is split in three, it causes disunity and forever we find ourselves fighting between ourselves.”

The Dragon nodded her head, she knew only too well the trials of conflict and she gestured to the King to continue.

“I do my best to keep my people whole, but we find harmony is slipping away; our family is no longer one, and I fear soon it will be torn asunder forever.”

After some time, Ollpheist spoke, “My King, your story is one that I understand and have experience with. I have lost my family and find myself abandoned and alone. I offer you this accord: If you grant me sanctuary in your land I will promise to unify and protect your people for as long as the Sun shines and in the sky and the seas lap against the sands. All I ask is that you trust and never forget me.”

With great joy in his heart, the King agreed to the terms “O Great Dragon, from now until eternity, this land will remember you, you will be our protector, our mother, our very soul. This land will forever be your home.”

Ollpheist smiled at the people before her and blessed the Tribe with good fortune. She then turned and began to bury herself into the earth, deeper and deeper she buried until she could feel the heat of the lava that gave her life. She pulled the rock and dirt over her, her body becoming one with the land and as she pushed, the three islands became one. Her spine becoming the backbone of the Island, her head and nostrils forever looking out to sea on the east and her tail, holding up the needles in the west.

The Mother Dragon is now asleep beneath the land, holding it high and keeping unity afloat. The land once known as Ictis then Vectis, Wihtwara then Wight, will always be the sacred Island of the Dragon. And, although Ollpheist sleeps, she still listens and still protects and waits for the time when she will rise to defend us once again.

Old Jack woke with a start, his tired eyes trying to focus on the world around him. For a moment he wasn’t quite sure where he was, he just knew he had the sensation of rocking and could see the white pinpricks of the stars above him. He slowly pushed himself up, his old bones creaking as they stretched and pulled him into a sitting position. Looking around, he chuckled to himself as the realisation hit him: he must have fallen asleep on his boat again. “Martha is going to kill me.” he said to himself with a smile.

Jack looked around, noticed that his boat was really looking shabby these days. He made a metal note that during the winter he was going to have to make an effort to clean things up. He really should look after the old girl, she was his livelihood and in her heyday one of the finest fishing boats on the Island. Old Jack was one of the last fishermen left in Steephill Cove he wanted to make sure she had as much life in her as he did. She was, after all his second greatest love behind Martha.

He and his wife Martha had lived in Steephill Cove all their lives, cut off from the rest of the Island, but happy in their isolation. Martha would tend to the animals on their little small holding and Jack would go out fishing in all-weather then selling his catch to the fishmongers. Their children had moved away long ago, seeking a more exciting life on the mainland and had no interest in continuing in the family business. So it was just the two of them now and it was a simple life, but one that made them both very happy.

“Well, I suppose I had better get going.” he mumbled to himself, “Martha will probably have thrown my supper out by now.”

Straining against gravity, the old man got up on one knee and holding onto the side of his trusty boat he hauled himself up onto both feet. His body felt so tired these days, age really was overtaking him, but tonight was especially bad and he felt like he hadn’t moved in years.

His old clothes seemed to just hang off him now, he was no longer the strapping young lad of yesteryear. Skin and bone is how he felt, a shadow of his former self and as he started to climb off the boat he noted how cold and empty everything seemed to him now.

Something was different about tonight, the air was warm and still, but Old Jack felt cold to the core. The sounds around him seemed muffled and distorted like he was listening to the world thought an old pipe. His old eyes, though not what they used to be, were still keen and sharp, but tonight they felt watery and everything had a misty glow to it.

“Pea soup’s coming in.” he thought to himself. It wasn’t unusual for the strange wall of fog to roll in over the Island and when it did, everything would change. People would say that the veil between the worlds was thin when this happened, and the spirits would walk the Isle. Old Jack shivered at the thought and felt a twinge of nervousness as he looked at thickness enveloping him. He chided himself for buying into those old superstitions, “Bah! Don’t be stupid you old goat. Now get on, you won’t be able to see more than a foot in front of your face soon.”

Old Jack trudged on as he had quite a few steps to walk up before he would get to their little cottage. As he walked he heard a clicking sound, a rock must have become lodged in to tread of his shoe and was hitting the pavement as he walked. He didn’t think anything of it, in fact it was somewhat comforting.

They didn’t call it Steephill for nothing and he wondered to himself how he ever made it to the top. Tonight, the steps seemed to go on forever, each footstep felt like he was walking through mud and each time his foot hit the stone he would hear the click. Eventually, half way up he had to stop and rest. He crumpled down on one of the steps, noting how it felt like the stone was so rough that is was scraping his very bones. The air was still and thick, still warm, but that undercurrent of chill was still there. He took a deep breath, breathing in the heaviness and off in the distance he heard some voices.

He called out into the mist, “Hello?” but heard no reply.

The voices, though muffled, started to get closer and Jack could make out the sound of two, maybe three people. They were laughing and talking, but something was not right about them, they were getting closer, but still sounded so very far away.

Suddenly, without any warning, they were upon him, whooshing past him like phantoms in the night. So close and loud that they made Old Jack jump – his heart beating fast and so hard that he could almost feel it hitting his ribcage. There were three of them, cackling away, arm in arm and in that joyous state where they’re had too much to drink but don’t care.

The old man pulled himself up and was about to tell them off for not even excusing themselves and scaring a poor old man to death, but they were gone. The fog had closed in around them and even their muffled sounds had eerily faded into nothing.

Somewhat invigorated by his odd encounter, Old Jack turned and continued to walk to the top of the stairs. The only sounds around him were the echoing click, click as he walked. He would get the damn rock out of his when he got home and could see again. The Fog was deep and thick now, it was winding its way around everything and it felt like the very filaments of it were passing directly through his skin and into his joints.

The streetlights, glowing yellow in the night hardly lit his way, but it didn’t matter, he could have walked home blindfolded. At the end of the road was the entrance to his driveway. It was nothing more than a gravel path and he noted that this too needed work. The once well-kept drive to his home was now potholed and the whitewashed stones that marked the edge were now nothing but a shabby grey. Time waits for no man he thought to himself.

He got to the front door and went to open it, it was locked. He looked through the window and saw that not a single light was on. “What time is it? I must really be in the dog house if Martha has locked the door.” He half chuckled to himself.

Jack started to bang on the door, how hard the wood felt against his knuckles now. Old age and arthritis had done their job and everything was just so much harder than it used to be. Not getting anywhere with the knocking (except for saw knuckles) he called out to his wife “Martha! Martha! Let me in!” but still nothing.

Look around, he decided to throw some of the gravel from the path at their bedroom window. After some time, he saw the yellow glow of a light turning on and his wife looking out the window. Old Jack banged on the door again and called out “Martha! Let me in, I’m home!”

Finally, the light in the front room turned on, the warm glow spilling out through the open curtain. Old Jack prepared himself for the berating that was to come; he put on his cheekiest smile and came close to the window but what he saw made him stop in his tracks.

Staring back at him was the face of an old woman that looked like his dear Martha, but not the woman he left that morning. Her palled skin was pulled tight, her eyes wide open and staring out into the night. Her head, lolling uncontrollably and contorted in the ugliest of ways. Then, without any warning the person before Old Jack started to scream, the scream of someone possessed.

Old Jack took a step back, he did not know what was going on, he put his hands up to the window and called out to his wife “Martha! Martha...” And he stopped.

He looked at his hands and saw the putrid flesh hanging off his fingers, the whites of the exposed boned peeking through. And as Martha closed the curtains in panic, Old Jack was confronted with his own reflection, the horrid grinning face of a skull, eye sockets empty and blackened rotting skin peeling away.

As he walked backwards in a panic he heard the sound coming from his shoes again. He looked down and instead of boots he saw the remains of his bony fee click clicking against the pavement.