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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: History / Historical
- Published: 04/26/2024
The Stalisfield Blade
Born 1948, M, from Kent - garden of England, United Kingdom.jpeg)
The Stalisfield blade.
Tucked away just behind the brow of the Kentish Weald and within an arrows flight of the pilgrims way, which meanders across southern England to Canterbury then beyond into Europe, becoming part of the great Camino, there is a tiny hamlet, Stalisfield. It boasts a church of around a thousand years old, a pub of a few hundred, and, dotted about, are historic cottages and farms - Stalisfield sleeps and rarely wakes to excitement or change. The country here is old, hardly changed since the Plantagenets had power, and one can walk many a footpath once trod by the ancient feet of Britons, Romans and Saxons, as they went on their various ways. In later times Chaucers pilgrims would also step this way, and to this day artifacts abound, to be discovered along the route by modern folk, - I have a few myself, a religious badge, a buckle and a silver coin, lost by whom, we cannot tell, but which connect us firmly to the past.
So sleepy, dreamy, pleasant, Stalisfield still exists, and so do the mysteries surrounding it.
Is it worth a visit, I hear you ask? Well yes, the village and countryside are both neat and beautiful, and an afternoon watching village cricket or enjoying a substantial and well served meal at the pub, The Plough Inn, are a delight. In winter, around a blazing fire, the ambience is wonderful in the pub, and in summer children play gleefully in the sunshine on the lawn outside, not knowing what once went on beneath their feet, whilst refreshing wine is served under a blue and hazy sky. Occasionally a glider or Spitfire spirals overhead, leaving or returning to the local airfields, and an afternoon here can be lazy, but never wasted. Unless really in the know, tourists rarely visit this tiny gem, but those who do, recognise it as the diamond that it is, set into the green expanse of Kent, The Garden of England.
But now the scene is set, and the curious will visit, so here we start our tale.
Lost in the mists of time, Stalisfield was a pagan place, as was much of England, and the seasons and ritual ruled the lives of common folk. From planting to harvest the earth provided work and sustenance, and was the most important factor in life, as, without its beneficence, disease and death lurked around every corner. Life was hard to sustain, as can be seen from the many tombstones about the vicinity of the church, and the ancient bones still often ploughed to the surface in the surrounding fields. But pagan times begot pagan ways, and the pleasant was sometimes shrouded in the veil of sacrifice and murder. It is said that at several points within each year, ceremonies and rituals would take place in order to ensure the continuing life of the village and its community.
Often this would involve the sacrifice of something, such as a symbol, an animal or indeed, someone.
And maybe, even today, something similar may occur, beneath the blazing sunrise, in the heat of noon, or in the darkness of midnight at the solstice, and deep in the woods or the centre of a village field.
The secrets of Stalisfield are many, and who can tell what occurs behind the leaded panes or white lace curtains of a lonely but picturesque cottage, even in these days of technology and instant news. And, it has always been so.
There is, kept in a secret place within the village, a blade of flint, hewn from the hard and mean Kentish stone and still as sharp as when it first was knapped by its unknown maker, eons ago. It is the Stalisfield sacrifice knife, its edges still tainted with the blood of once living creatures, creatures from long ago and, very likely, not so far in the past too!
Old stories, related by the older folk of the village tell of rituals to ensure a rich harvest, where living blood was strewn upon the seed before the fields were planted, the very seeds sown at first light on those days considered special by the spirit world.
A goat, a sheep or oxen would be slaughtered upon a Kentish sarcen stone, - I have one such stone in my garden - looked upon by the villagers as they sang their laments to fertility. And then, it is believed, a young maiden, clear of face, golden haired and proved a virgin, would brought to be tied to a stake, close to the stone, and dismembered with the cold flint blade, its keen and stony edge slicing easily into the young flesh as the blood was collected into a golden vessel, to the sound of wailing screams from the young victim, then her body to be burnt as an offering to the very ground upon which she stood, and this, as her neighbours chanted her praises and made their fond farewells. Mixed with the bloodied seed, her warm ashes would be broadcast in a corner of each field, to ensure that the living crop would rise from death, to provide for Stalisfield and to ensure seed for the future sacrifice. In time fresh shoots would appear, but until this time the local folk would eschew any visit to these corners after dark, and, in Stalisfield, till this day, few will venture to the corner of a field at day or night, as can be evidenced by the high growth in these mystic places, which you will easily observe yourself.
But let’s cheer up a little bit. To this day Stalisfield enjoys wonderful harvests, celebrated by the special Harvest Festival in the ancient church, where local folk bring produce of fine quality and much abundance on this special day, and which is, incidentally, a good day to visit! It may be wise to leave your young, blond, and fresh faced daughter at home, however.
Of course in modern England this could not still occur, or maybe, - could it?
Nobody in the village will acknowledge the reality, however, should you have the gall and temerity to ask, - it may be best, to just believe, and live in hope.
Only the Stalisfield blade can know or tell the truth.
Copyright Ken DaSilva-Hill 2024
All intellectual rights to this work retained.
No reproduction in any media without
authors written consent.
The Stalisfield Blade(Ken DaSilva-Hill)
The Stalisfield blade.
Tucked away just behind the brow of the Kentish Weald and within an arrows flight of the pilgrims way, which meanders across southern England to Canterbury then beyond into Europe, becoming part of the great Camino, there is a tiny hamlet, Stalisfield. It boasts a church of around a thousand years old, a pub of a few hundred, and, dotted about, are historic cottages and farms - Stalisfield sleeps and rarely wakes to excitement or change. The country here is old, hardly changed since the Plantagenets had power, and one can walk many a footpath once trod by the ancient feet of Britons, Romans and Saxons, as they went on their various ways. In later times Chaucers pilgrims would also step this way, and to this day artifacts abound, to be discovered along the route by modern folk, - I have a few myself, a religious badge, a buckle and a silver coin, lost by whom, we cannot tell, but which connect us firmly to the past.
So sleepy, dreamy, pleasant, Stalisfield still exists, and so do the mysteries surrounding it.
Is it worth a visit, I hear you ask? Well yes, the village and countryside are both neat and beautiful, and an afternoon watching village cricket or enjoying a substantial and well served meal at the pub, The Plough Inn, are a delight. In winter, around a blazing fire, the ambience is wonderful in the pub, and in summer children play gleefully in the sunshine on the lawn outside, not knowing what once went on beneath their feet, whilst refreshing wine is served under a blue and hazy sky. Occasionally a glider or Spitfire spirals overhead, leaving or returning to the local airfields, and an afternoon here can be lazy, but never wasted. Unless really in the know, tourists rarely visit this tiny gem, but those who do, recognise it as the diamond that it is, set into the green expanse of Kent, The Garden of England.
But now the scene is set, and the curious will visit, so here we start our tale.
Lost in the mists of time, Stalisfield was a pagan place, as was much of England, and the seasons and ritual ruled the lives of common folk. From planting to harvest the earth provided work and sustenance, and was the most important factor in life, as, without its beneficence, disease and death lurked around every corner. Life was hard to sustain, as can be seen from the many tombstones about the vicinity of the church, and the ancient bones still often ploughed to the surface in the surrounding fields. But pagan times begot pagan ways, and the pleasant was sometimes shrouded in the veil of sacrifice and murder. It is said that at several points within each year, ceremonies and rituals would take place in order to ensure the continuing life of the village and its community.
Often this would involve the sacrifice of something, such as a symbol, an animal or indeed, someone.
And maybe, even today, something similar may occur, beneath the blazing sunrise, in the heat of noon, or in the darkness of midnight at the solstice, and deep in the woods or the centre of a village field.
The secrets of Stalisfield are many, and who can tell what occurs behind the leaded panes or white lace curtains of a lonely but picturesque cottage, even in these days of technology and instant news. And, it has always been so.
There is, kept in a secret place within the village, a blade of flint, hewn from the hard and mean Kentish stone and still as sharp as when it first was knapped by its unknown maker, eons ago. It is the Stalisfield sacrifice knife, its edges still tainted with the blood of once living creatures, creatures from long ago and, very likely, not so far in the past too!
Old stories, related by the older folk of the village tell of rituals to ensure a rich harvest, where living blood was strewn upon the seed before the fields were planted, the very seeds sown at first light on those days considered special by the spirit world.
A goat, a sheep or oxen would be slaughtered upon a Kentish sarcen stone, - I have one such stone in my garden - looked upon by the villagers as they sang their laments to fertility. And then, it is believed, a young maiden, clear of face, golden haired and proved a virgin, would brought to be tied to a stake, close to the stone, and dismembered with the cold flint blade, its keen and stony edge slicing easily into the young flesh as the blood was collected into a golden vessel, to the sound of wailing screams from the young victim, then her body to be burnt as an offering to the very ground upon which she stood, and this, as her neighbours chanted her praises and made their fond farewells. Mixed with the bloodied seed, her warm ashes would be broadcast in a corner of each field, to ensure that the living crop would rise from death, to provide for Stalisfield and to ensure seed for the future sacrifice. In time fresh shoots would appear, but until this time the local folk would eschew any visit to these corners after dark, and, in Stalisfield, till this day, few will venture to the corner of a field at day or night, as can be evidenced by the high growth in these mystic places, which you will easily observe yourself.
But let’s cheer up a little bit. To this day Stalisfield enjoys wonderful harvests, celebrated by the special Harvest Festival in the ancient church, where local folk bring produce of fine quality and much abundance on this special day, and which is, incidentally, a good day to visit! It may be wise to leave your young, blond, and fresh faced daughter at home, however.
Of course in modern England this could not still occur, or maybe, - could it?
Nobody in the village will acknowledge the reality, however, should you have the gall and temerity to ask, - it may be best, to just believe, and live in hope.
Only the Stalisfield blade can know or tell the truth.
Copyright Ken DaSilva-Hill 2024
All intellectual rights to this work retained.
No reproduction in any media without
authors written consent.
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