THE SHAMAN MYSTERIES – British Shamanism, Living the Pagan Life, Solving Mysteries and Falling in Love – SABBIE DARE's life revealed

Sabbie Dare, Shaman
British Shamanism, 
Living the Pagan Life,
Solving Mysteries and Falling in Love – Sabbie's life revealed.


Welcome to Sabbie Dare’s Own Page

In the Moors was the first of the Shaman Mysteries published by Midnight Ink.   Unraveled Visions continues to follow Sabbie’s adventures as she runs a therapeutic shamanic business in Bridgwater. The interest sparked in these books is exciting, and it seems everyone wants to know more about Sabbie Dare – and shamanism.
The third in the trilogy, Beneath the Tor, is now in production. It will be released in the US in November 2015 and in the UK in January 2016.
In the Moors and Unraveled Visions are both available online, from Amazon, Waterstones, and from bookshops and libraries as a paperback or hardback large print book as well as on Kindle and an ebook and available. 

 On this page, she reveals some of her secrets, and will answer any questions you would like to put to her. 
All you have to do is use the comment box below.




The Weird Genesis to the Shaman Mysteries - Nina Milton



When I became a druid, in the late 1990’s, I’d been on a search towards the deeper meanings of life for a long time as a Rosicrucian, but I knew that something was missing for me in those teachings…a true love and honouring of the land and the ancient deities that still look over this land. I found this aspect in druidry. 


I’m an OBOD, which means moving through the three ‘grades’ of Bard, Ovate
and Druid. There’s a saying, among Ovates, that moving into this middle grade will change your life, and for me, that happened in spades.

The summer I became an Ovate, I had my star chart read at a Rainbow Camp. “Something’s afoot in your chart,” the astrologist told me. “Things are on the move for you. Tremendous changes.”

I told him I was booked on a Shamanic Training weekend. Maybe that was it? I already knew that once you begin to walk between the worlds, nothing is the same again – you are not the same again. “That’ll be it, then,” said the astrologer. He was right, but neither of us guessed quite how.

On a sunny morning that autumn, I shipped up in Bath, at John Matthews’ introductory workshop. Thirty of us, making hot drinks in a tiny kitchen, chatting a bit nervously and introducing ourselves. Like a lot of the participants, I had read John and Caitlin Matthew’s books, and knew their reputation went before them, but John looked ordinary, sitting cross-legged between us, and he opened the workshop in a quiet, almost muted voice. 
He reminded us that although shamanism can be a spiritual path, from its very early beginnings, it had been a tool; a method of getting close to another world – the world of spirits. It’s a very ancient practice indeed; there are those who think shamans are depicted in the Neolithic cave paintings found all over Europe. Shamans are thought of as special people by the communities they function within.  By entering a trance, often using nothing more than a drum beat or the rhythm of a dance, they move between the solid world we all live in, and the otherworlds, bringing back answers to questions that have no answers. 

It is said that to become a shaman, one must be called by spirits, but I think the spirits are calling us all...it’s just that only some people listen. When I talked to the other work-shoppers that weekend, I found several who described having the ‘shaman’s sickness’, a health crisis that had brought them visionary dreams. Other had found their minds opening during a ‘vision quest’ in wild country or during a dark night.

The more I delved, the more fascinated I became. By closing my eyes, listening to a fast, regular drum beat and allowing my mind to steady and focus, I found I was able to walk between the worlds, accompanied by my spirit ally who came to me in the guise of a mole, able to burrow down into lower realms. When I stroked his back with one finger, his coat felt as soft, warm and sleek as any mole of this world. Mole and I would come upon otherworldly presences who spoke to me, either in perfectly normal conversations or in mysterious symbols and signs. They often advised or directed me, or offered a gift of significance. I’d emerge feeling refreshed...amazed. 

I was already a writer at this time. In fact, I think I’ve always been one, ever since, when I was five, my first infant school teacher, Mrs Marsden, read an animal fable to the class, then asked us to write a similar sort of story. I was dumfounded – for the first time I realized that the books I loved had actually been written by real human beings. Before that, I believed they must have fallen from some sort of story heaven. It was a revelation – from then on I was scribbling down stories all the time, and I wrote my first novel at the age of fifteen. Well, okay, I started to write a novel which I never finished. But by the time I started work as a nurse, I was regularly publishing short stories in women’s magazines, and when my children were born, I began my career as a children’s writer. But I’d never had much success writing for adults and sometimes wondered if I ever would.

I had been moving through Caitlin Matthew’s series of shamanic workshops, and working with other British shaman too, building up my skills, and using them to some degree in my work as a palliative care nurse, when a new character walked into my head.

“Hi,” she said. I was driving to work, at the time, and she seemed almost to plonk herself down on the passenger seat. “I’m Sabbie Dare.” 

She looked like a woman in her late twenties, of mixed race, with a cute little gap between her teeth and very long, almost black hair, which kinked as it fell. “I’m a shaman,” she went on. “A therapeutic shaman.” 

“Ah, I responded,” (in my head, and keeping my eyes on the road, of course), “you take clients with problems. Probably problems they’ve already seen a gamut of professionals about; doctors, chiropractors, even hypnotherapists.”

She’d nodded.  “Some have souls that are complete shattered. And some bring me some very...difficult problems. They are people on the edge.”

She isn’t the sort to use the word ‘scary’. I’ve discovered that not much scares Sabbie Dare. But in my first Shaman Mystery, In the Moors, things get very scary indeed for Sabbie, as she tries to help someone in trouble. She’s a girl who only wants the best for those she meets, and she’ll regularly put herself on the line for her clients, not only in the spirit world, but also in the apparent world, because of course, The Shaman Mysteries, published by Llewellyn’s Midnight Ink imprint, are thrillers, albeit with an edge of spiritually. 

I write them for pagans and crime fiction lovers alike, so I have to be careful to walk a line between the truth of my own spiritual path, and the fictions I create. I don’t want to spin a line, that shamanism can ‘solve crime’ or ‘get people out of trouble’. And as the series progresses I am trying to introduce some of the aspects of shamanism, and paganism that might enlighten the ‘muggle reader’. Book one, In the Moors explains the shamanic journey, and introduces Sabbie’s animal ally, an otter called Trendle. In the second book, I begin to develop Sabbie’s otherworld associations, especially her guardian, a river goddess who she doesn’t yet quite trust. Book three, Beneath the Tor, uses a theme of transformation, including shapeshifting.This book is set in Glastonbury, and it was my great delight to be able to use some of the legends of the Vale of Avalon I also introduce the reader to the lower realms of the otherworld. 

Meanwhile Sabbie herself begins to understand who she is. She was brought up in the care system, after her mother died when she was six, and she’s never known her father. As the books develop, she uses her shamanic pathways to find out more about her own past.

One thing I love about the Shaman Mysteries is the landscapes I’m able to describe. I set the books in the Somerset Levels, a place with a truly fay and mysterious atmosphere, which can turn tricksy and dark, when mists come down, or floods rise. 

That conversation I had on Druid Camp five years ago, is beginning to ring true. Something did move and shake in my life, when I signed up to the Matthews shamanic workshops. Once you know how to access the world of spirits, you really never know what might happen next. 

What happened to me was that I now write books I love, and that people seem to love reading them. It was the one thing I’d longed to be able to do, and I am sure that the spirit world brought me this blessing.






Author Nina Milton has been chatting to her character,

Shamanic therapist, Sabbie Dare


NM - How long have you been a Shamanic Therapist and Counsellor, Sabbie?
SD - I was a shaman first, and became a complimentary therapist because of my shamanism. I got drawn to shamanism; there was something calling me from inside. Actually, it was my power animal, and totem, an otter I call Trendle; he knew my destiny better than I did.  But it was Bren and Rhiannon Howell who started up my interest and allowed me to understand that I could find the spiritual side of my nature.

NM - Tell us about Bren And Rhiannon.

SD - I stayed with them for the three years of my  psychology degree. They live outside Bangor in North Wales, which was where I studied at University. They are complimentary therapists themselves; herbalists. But they call themselves Cunning Folk because they come from a long line of herbalists, stretching back through generations. Bren and Rhiannon were the first pagans I ever met. Bren entered my dreams before...oh, that’s a long and complex tale...best to read IN THE MOORS to find out how I met Bren. I love these two people; they are as important in my life as my foster family. Sadly my foster parents didn’t like the Howells at first; they were suspicious of the ‘witchcraft’ side of their nature.

NM - How long have you known your foster family?

SD - Since I was 12. I started going round to their house when I met Gloria, but it was Philip who actually asked me to come and live with them. ‘If you like,’ he said, leaving the decision with me. Best decision I made. Gloria is the most cuddly, earth-mothering person I know. I’d sell my arm for one of her cuddles. Or one of her pies! She was born in Britain, but her family is from Trinidad. Philip came to Britain as a young boy in 1962. Just in time for the Beatles, apparently, so he tells me. He used to have his own roofing firm but he’s retired now. They’ve got two children; Dennon and Charlene; she’s got a partner now, and two kids, Kerri and Rudi. They are cherubs! But if they grow up a bit wild, we’ll just say they take after their uncle, because I’m afraid Dennon, who’s just over a year older than me, got into lots of trouble when he was a kid. I got into most of it with him.
The Somerset Levels.

NM - Don’t you have contact with your own family?

SD - For years I just wasn't interested. My mum died with I was six and I never knew my father. Mum, Isabel Dare, didn’t seem to have any family to take me in, so I grew up in care. Not a nice story, really, so I prefer to forget most of those times. That’s why meeting  Gloria was a real salvation for me; Bren and Rhiannon would say that I was guided towards the Davidsons by my guardians. When I was little, it never occurred to me to trace my roots, I was too busy being angry with the world. When I went to live with Gloria and Philip, they started encouraging me to look for my birth family. If you read about my adventures in In the Moors, you'll see that I took no notice of their suggestions. But in Unraveled Visions, something happens. The otherworld takes a hand in matters, and I meet people from my past - some I like a lot, but some I don't like at all. Even so, by Beneath the Tor, I'm ready to investigate further.

NM - Is Bridgwater a good place for a shaman to be based?
SD - It’s as good as anywhere else. I’m about 30 minutes drive from Glastonbury. People ask me why I don’t live there, but the answer is that I wouldn’t want to; it would be like living inside your work office for me. And the internal politics of the little town of Glastonbury can be pretty harsh. Anyway, I couldn’t afford the rental prices. Bridgwater is okay, and it's surrounded by beautiful, mysterious countryside.


Nina Milton on The Shamanic Mysteries

The idea for my Shaman Mysteries, and In the Moors in particular, came to me when Sabbbie Dare walked right into my head and  spoke directly to me; ‘hi, Nina, I’m Sabbie, I’m 28 and I’m a shaman, which means I walk in the spirit world to help my shamanic clients. I love my job, but sometimes very strange people come into my therapy room. They are people on the edge, seeking help from a shaman because all other avenues of help have closed off...’ 

Sabbie gains the strength to get through life with her pagan beliefs, but still struggles over the memories of her difficult childhood which left her as a very angry young teenager. But she has an open heart, and is adept at inviting trouble into her life. As she says in In the Moors,  I’m the sort of person who has to poke their finger into all the holes marked, ‘do not insert’.”

People are saying that, despite Sabbie Dare’s cheerful demeanor, the Shaman Mystery series has a dark, atmospheric edge. Sabbie has a mysterious past herself, which she’s only just beginning to unravel. She has recently been working with a goddess who is her guardian in the shamanic spirit world. She first encounters The Lady of the River in Book One. In Book Two, this otherworld spirit proves equally enigmatic, but guides Sabbie carefully along a dangerous path. And in Book Three, Sabbie discovers that the goddess knows everything about her ancestry; something Sabbie has avoided for all her life. Finally, she finds out the goddesses name.

Sabbie believes strongly in making an environmental effort. She’s got about a quarter of an acre of land around her little house, and she tries to grow most of her food in it. As she’s a vegetarian, that’s not so difficult. As the series continues,   her little flock of hens keeps growing, and they’re always a laugh in a dark world.

The Sabbie Dare Questionnaire
Add your query about Sabbie to those below by using the comment box.
Tell your readers what do you look like, Sabbie.
(Question from Nina) 
I’m of mixed race. My mum was English white, and I’ve never met my dad, so I’m not sure what my ethnicity really is, and I don’t really want to. If I wanted to know, I would have bothered finding out, like my foster family is always nagging me I’ve got blackish eyes and almost black hair. It’s a long time since I tried colouring my hair. You get to like yourself in the end. I have darkish skin and almost black hair of varying lengths, depending on the book you’re reading! I’m five foot five. I haven’t weighed myself for three years, but I was under nine and a half stone at that point. I have quite small feet, compared to my girlfriends.

Is Sabbie Dare your real name?
(Questions from Yvonne)
My full name is Sabrina Isabel Dare. But, really, don’t get me started on names. I hate both of mine. I like my surname though!
Thanks for that, Sabbie, here’s  another Q. Are you a morning person or a night person?
Like, what time did you get up this morning and what did you do first? 
All through my teens I was a night person. But then, I didn’t know anybody under 19 who wasn’t. It was the hens that did it. You have to be up for them, and by the time you’ve scrabbled about looking for eggs, you fancy one. (an egg, I mean). So today, because it winter, I was up at Seven forty. It was just getting light, and the cock was crowing; get me up!
First off, I throw on sweats, clean teeth, wee. By the time I’ve filled the bread machine (every other dayish), fed the hens, checked the greenhouse (not winter) and pottered about in the garden for a bit, it’s time to take a shower and eat breakfast. I like tea and eggs for breakers if I have any, along with my bread – half and half wholemeal organic. It’s my best meal of the day.
Okay, so what did you do last night?
I worked until 8.30. Last client an aromatherapy. Showered off the ‘dross’ and switched on the telly. More dross. So I surfed the net for a bit…yeah, dross. Then I went to bed and read.

Which would you choose, Sabbie; diamonds or pearls?
(3 Questions from Zanda Crane)
Well, here’s the thing. I’ve never really liked either. When I was a kid, I was all doc martins and jeans, and I didn’t even like rhinestones on my jeans.  But during my shamanic training at Glastonbury, I couldn’t help falling in love with crystals. Mind you, I don’t believe in the trade in them, where they are torn from the earth and sold. They belong in the earth, and should not be mined. I try not to buy them, but I still manage to possess many, mostly gifts. Amethysts are my favs but I like all crystals which effect me – especially rose and smoke quartz, and amber, although this is not a crystal.

Favorite brand of clothing?
I’m trying hard to be green. No, not the colour, stupid, although some green does suit me as I have mid-brown skin. But I can’t really afford Organic cotton and all that. If you buy from Charity Shops, you’re recycling, and what I love about charity shopping is that you can invent your own fashion – the ‘you look’. I like tight trousers with loose tops at the moment and I’m into pastels teamed with primaries. Yeah, fashion icon, me.

Favorite item of clothing?

 Mostly, I’ll bum around in jeans and t-shirts , but when I’m practicing my shamanic therapy, I wear a shamanka gown. This is in a heavy black cotton which fits my figure from shoulders to hips then flared out to my ankles, bright embroidery swirling round the hem. I love pulling on that dress; it transformed me. Usually I smear a single drop of rose oil between my breasts before pulling it on. I wear no underwear when working – it’s too constricting – and nothing on my feet. I do wear earrings, though, usually long, complicated structures. In my opinion, this is what earlobes are for. I wear a belt hitched round my waist, from which dangle the tools of my trade…the buckskin bag of talismans; a bean rattle and my wand of yew.

Have you ever broken the law, or taken something that didn’t belong to you?
(Questions from Melvin)
I would’ve. Like a shot. When I was a kid I believed the world ought to belong to me anyway, because I’d been handed this shitty deal. But Shamanism will not allow me to behave like that any more. I’ve seen the spirit world, and I know how these things resonate…Karma, man…So the last time, I broke a law (I reckon) was in 1999. Primark. Broadmead. Bristol. Bra. It is time to give up crime when you’re driven to nicking underwear from Primark, me thinks. 

What characteristic do you despise?
(Question from Trudy)
I don’t like meanness – with money, or time. But this is hypocritical of me – I’m the biggest meannie of them all when it comes to remarks – I’m always shooting my mean mouth off. And I am careful not to ‘give’ of my time to my clients – they have to pay for it. This makes me feel like a heel. Actually, this makes me a heel, but a girl has to eat. 

Chocolate or Vanilla?
(Questions from Pete Q) 
Chocolate as a drink is a bit of a waste, I think. I’d rather eat it. Vanilla what? Honey, apple and ginger made with honey, apple juice and ginger root. Hot. Fantastic.

Coffee or tea? 
I sort of had a bit of a renegade past. So now, I stay away from stimulants – no coffee or Coke.

Hugs or kisses
Why choose?

Summer or winter?
Spring 

Night or day?
Night. I love the moon. She's a goddess.

Hi, Sabbie, can you tell what is your favorite restaurant?
(6 short questions from Garry)
I should be so lucky. If I make it to Pizza Hut I’m happy.

And what food do you most dislike?
Meat. I’ve been a veggie since I got the hens and someone asked me how I would eat them. Well, I don’t.

Do you drink?
White, Chardonnay, Sauvingnon or Pinot Blanc

Do you smoke?
Gave it up when I was twenty. I gave up everything for a while - I was in a coma.

Do you Swear?
Fuck no. 

Thanks! One more, please; what’s your favorite sport to watch?
I've now got to like soccer

If you could go anywhere in the world on holiday, where would you go?
(Question from Hennie) 
I could do with a holiday. I don’t really get them, what with the hens and all. I’d like to see all the places that have shamanic traditions…Lapland, Tibet, Mexico Africa, South America, Haiti. I’m not going to get to any of those places, but a girl can dream. I do love the way Bren and Rhiannon live, quietly, on the wild edge of Wales, still collecting their herbs and lighting their ritual fires. So if I can get away, I go there.

Hi Sabbie. Could you answer me this; when is your birthday?
(Questions from Adrian)
Feb 10th  I’m an Aquarius, the truth-seeker, so don’t try your lies on me!

What was your most recent memorable birthday?
Last year. Went home for the weekend, and went out with my old Bristol mob on the Friday night, but I must be growing up faster than them or something, because I was the least wasted at the end of it. Stayed the night at Oak Villa and spent all Saturday with Philip, Gloria, Dennon, Charlene and Kerri and Rudi. We just chilled, ate loads of Gloria’s cooking and played that new modern Monopoly where you have to buy Hong Kong. On Sunday we went for a walk up on Wetmoor Nature Reserve.

When was the last time you cried?
(Question from Jerry A)
Now let me think. Was it when I was tied up by a mad woman who had KO’d me with her expensive chopping board in her expensive kitchen then scalped my hair…which I had been growing for ten years…right off my head with her expensive kitchen knife? Yeah – that was a bad boy, all right.

What is under your bed? Yes, I know I’ve copied this question from Unraveled Visions, but I’m curious!)
(Question from Erica)
You know those dust balls that roll all over the American Prairies? Well I reckon there’s a few of those. Plus all the stuff I can’t squeeze into my one spare bedroom.

What are you afraid of?
(Question from Jon)
Evil, because I’m not sure what it is. The Masters I have work under – Bren and Rhiannon, and more recently, Wolfsbane,  would all say that, within the universe, there is only a state of ‘neutrality’ – that no act is evil in itself, because all creatures intend only to live without fear and reproduce their kind. But I’m not so sure now. I have seen some massive evil. Massive.

How many keys on your key ring?
(Question from Sarah W)
Oh, goddess, I can’t take much more of these heavy questions. Back door. Front door. Car. Dungeon…no, only kidding…


Your most missed memory.
(Question from Erica again)
My mum. When I was a kid I spent a lot of time hating her. But she didn’t mean me any harm.  So now, I do treasure the few memories I have of her, when she was concentrating on me, and on being a mum to me. They are few.


What is your favorite flower?
Snowdrop, because it is out on my birthday (and it’s a darn sight more pure than I am!)

What is a day on the calendar you are looking forward to?
The day I get Rey Buckley in the sack.

What are you listening to right now?
Pet Shop Boys

How is the weather right now?
There are ragged shreds of stratus scudding underneath a mostly overcast sky – cumulonimbus covering any chance of blue and promising rain. Rain is good – the garden needs it.  I learnt about weather when I was living with Bren and Rhiannon. They could tell what would happen next all the time. They were better than the met office. (although the goal posts aren’t very high…)
Do you have piercings/tattoos?
EarsX1 each. Did have one in my navel, but it went septic and put me off. My tattoo is at the base of my spine. It is an otter. My spirit guide is an old, wise, male otter, called Trendle.

What  was the last thing you ate?
Charred red pepper risotto, made by Gloria from the peppers I grew in my greenhouse last year. Frozen and defrosted by me.

Do you wish on stars?
I like to work with a wand and a pentangle, with herbs, essential oils, crystals, earth water and fire. I like to summon up gods and goddesses who are aspects of us poor humans and work with them for good. I like to work in a circle, too, using words, music artifacts and actions with other magicians intent on powerful, benevolent magic. And I like to walk with spirits and bring back their magic in icons, myth and symbol. Stars can be part of all that.

What was your favorite toy as a child?
My sawn-off. No, only joking. But I didn’t have much luck with toys. We kept moving around (mostly at midnight) when I lived with my mum. She died when I was six. Then I moved around from foster home to foster home. By the time I was 10, no one would give me or my Kalashnikov house room, so it was Children’s Homes from then on. Every move, my toys went missing. Gloria saved me, in so many ways, but by then I’d grown out of toys and was ready for boys.

If you were a crayon, what color would you be?
That’s right, bring us down with a bump. I’d be…..a rainbow, right?

The first person you spoke to on the phone today?
Percy Hamilton. He cancelled his Reiki. At least he rang.

Right or left handed?
Right

Best Physical feature
That was my hair. but it's not my best feature now. Maybe my eyes???

Goal You Would Like To Achieve Year:
Getting Rey Buckley into the sack is predominant.

Thoughts First Waking Up:
Phone – diary – what’s on today.

Worse Weakness?
Blokes. 

What do you regret?
No point. What is the point? There seems to be a path. Tread it and you’ll see the point, not the regrets

Any new and exciting news you ' d like to share with us?
Yeah, loads. Go to my…..blogspot.com to catch up with my adventures.




A Virtual Tour of Sabbie’s house.

I’ve lived in many places, but number forty-three Harold Street is…the motherland. I’d worked hard to get it nice, both the oversized garden and the undersized house, and every speck of dust is mine. The houses in my road are the same as in all the little estate I live on in Bridgwater; they’re poky. But before I moved in, the landlord had knocked the kitchen and dinning room into one, so it looks more spacious than it is. The kitchen-cum-diner-cum-lounge is is my entire living space. I eat in there, surf the web, sink a bottle of wine, you name it, because the other room, the one at the front, is my therapy area. I use it for healing work. The therapy room is the heart and hub of my working life – a boxy room containing two mis-matched wicker chairs, a homemade desk draped with muslin and a pile of floor cushions. The air often smells of burnt herbs. At the window, is a corded wooden venetian blind,  and muslin drapes. Below the window is my alter. It holds my working tools, my pottery otter and a tiny image of Persephone, goddess of the otherworld, along with a few small crystals. 

Upstairs there are two rooms, one full of jumble which I laughingly address as the ‘guest bedroom’ and the other full of my boot-sale finds…porcelain bowls of jewellery, fake fur, taffeta and silk, mirrors, feathers, crystals, pre-Raphaelite reproductions and soft, temping cushions. This is where I sleep, and only the closest of friends get to see it.  


How Sabbie (and her creator) discovered Shamanism

Sabbie’s story…
Nina’s story…At first, the introductory workshop felt much like any other. Thirty of us, making hot drinks in a tiny kitchen, chatting a bit nervously and introducing ourselves. We sat on floor cushions in a circle. We were in a workshop space in the city of Bath on a sunny autumn day, waiting for our introduction to shamanism to begin. Although intrigued, I didn’t know much at all about the subject, but quite a lot of the participants had read John Matthew’s books. John and his wife Caitlin are among the most respected practicing shaman in this country, and his reputation went before him, but John looked ordinary, sitting cross-legged between us, and he opened the workshop in a quiet, almost muted voice. 
“I’d better warn you now,” he said, without drama. “Shamanism will alter your life.”
Although I was keen - really keen, I’d paid money to be here - I couldn’t help thinking...yeah, right.
But John meant it. Things were never the same again.
Shamanism is not any sort of religion. It can be a spiritual path, but, from its very early beginnings, it has been a tool which allows a method of getting close to another world - the world of spirits. It’s a very ancient practice indeed; there are those who think shamans are responsible for (or depicted in) the Neolithic cave paintings found all over Europe. Shaman are thought of as special people by the communities they function within. They enter a trance, often using nothing more than a drum beat or the rhythm of a dance, and move between the solid world we all live in and the otherworlds which the rest of us don’t experience. They bring back answers to questions that have no answers. But at my first workshop, I realized that shamanism is no different to any other skill; it can be learnt. It is said that to become a shaman, one must be called by spirits, but I think the spirits are calling us all...it’s just that only some people are listening. When I talked to the other work-shoppers that weekend, I found several talk about  the ‘shaman’s sickness’ - a health crisis that had brought them close to an otherworld, or a high temperature that had brought them visionary dreams. Other had found their minds opening during time in wild country, during a dark night or when coming face to face with an animal.
The more I delved into shamanism, the more fascinated I became. By closing my eyes, listening to a fast, regular drum beat and allowing my mind to steady and focus, I found I was able step into another world that seemed as real as this one, and during these ‘walks between the worlds’ I was always accompanied by a guide that had my welfare in mind. He came to me in the guise of a mole, able to burrow down into lower realms. When I stroked his back with one finger, his coat felt as soft, warm and sleek as any mole of this world.Mole and I would come upon otherworldly presences who spoke to me, either in perfectly normal conversations or in mysterious symbols and signs. They often advised me, or directed me, or simply offered universal wisdom. I’d emerge into this world feeling refreshed...amazed. 

As a writer, I soon discovered I could also use these techniques to explore the stories I was writing, so that they almost ‘wrote themselves’ before I even got to a keyboard. And at that point, a character arrived in my life - a zesty twenty-something therapeutic shaman called Sabbie Dare, who kept telling me that I should write about her. “I see a lot of clients,” she told me, “who don’t really know what’s wrong with them. And some bring me some very...difficult problems.”

She’s not the sort to use the word ‘scary’. Not much scares Sabbie Dare. But in my first Shaman Mystery, In the Moors, things get very scary indeed for Sabbie Dare, as she tries to help a client in trouble. That warning that John Matthews gave us on my first morning as a shaman remains true. Once you know how to access the world of spirits, you really never know what might happen next.

It’s all about the Hens

Sabbie’s story.
I’ve been keeping hens from the beginning of the Shaman Mystery Series. At the start of the first book, In the Moors, we meet the hens in Chapter One, when Sabbie goes out early to collect the eggs…At the henhouse door I dropped my empty basket and cried out in raw distress. Slaughter lay at my feet. Saffron, the biggest of my hens, was gone, and Pettitgrain, my favourite, lay dead from a clean bite to the neck
When I moved into Harold Street and started tilling the soil (as Philip puts it), it seemed natural to get some. I chose ex-battery hens, the sort without feathers and a lifetime of ‘stuff” that no analyst could attempt to heal. I named them all after aromatherapy oils, in case it helped. Someone gave me a not so sweet-smelling cockerel – Cocky Bastard – ready and willing for chicken-nooky morning, noon and evening, but not one chick was born of his seed, as ex-bats don’t get broody. 
Then one night, a fox got in. A fox, hen-keepers tell me, will always eventually get in, whatever you do. I was left with three hens, which became nine when a farmer called Sandy gave me some chicks. One of those sadly died from a mysterious chicken illness and another turned out to be a very cocky male…definitely a Kaiser. I called the new girls after pop singers. Don’t know if that was irony, because I’m never sure what that is. So now I have seven hens to talk to; Florence, Emili, Jessie, Rihanna, and the final two of the old-timers Melissa and Ginger.


Nina’s story.
It’s often said that characters in books resemble their authors. But in my case, I seem to be following in my heroine’s footsteps. Unlike Sabbie, we had never kept chickens. A small garden in the city suburbs just didn’t seem like the right place. But when we moved to the Welsh countryside, we went out and got ourselves four hens. Since then, we’ve been totally enamoured with the little lovelies, just like Sabbie Dare. In the second of the Shaman Mystery Series, Sabbie confesses… I definitely fell in love with hens. They’re feathered like queens and feel as soft as duvets when you pick them up. But I chose ex-battery hens, the sort without feathers and a lifetime of ‘stuff” that no analyst could attempt to heal… (Unraveled Visions by Nina Milton, Midnight Ink, release date September 2014)

We started out with four hens, but it wasn’t long before their numbers swelled. In the spring our Jersey Black, Ceredwin, went utterly broody. We tried explaining to her that her eggs weren’t going to hatch as she’d never as much as been sniffed at by a cockerel, but she wasn’t listening to us. She growled and pecked every time we tried to move her out of the nesting box. Then our friend Jane, who has got almost one hundred hens of various breeds, all free range, brought us a clutch of six eggs from her chickens, who are lucky enough (!) to be getting chicken-nooky from Jane's not inconsiderable number of cocks.                          
 Ceredwin didn't seem to mind in the least that these were not her own eggs. She sat on them for more than 23 hours a day, coming off only when I made her, taking a quick drink of water, a peck at some corn, and a quick poo (she kept the nest spick and span at all times), before rushing back to her babies.

She loved making clucking noises at her eggs in practice for when the babies arrived, as if she thought the chicks inside could already hear her. Perhaps she knew they would hear her. She grew feathers on her feet, to aid the warmth and cosiness of the nest, but lost all her breast feathers, which helped line the nest, and created a 'hotspot' for the eggs. All we had to do was check she was okay - she did the rest by herself.

Twenty-one days later she was safely delivered of five strong (and noisy) chicks. I came out early in the morning to find two, very wet and bedraggled little chicks under my hen. I'd lifted her in the usual way, but she ran back quickly without even drinking, knowing the other eggs were hatching still.
  
Our lack of experience showed with egg number six. I saw Ceredwin pecking hopefully at it, but left her to it; I should have actually helped her get the chick out of the egg. Five out of six is apparently a good ratio though, and although we couldn't possibly be as proud as Ceredwin is, we think they are the most gorgeous things in the world right now.
Ceredwin is a proud mum, fiercely over-protective of her brood. She was timid before her checks hatched – right at the bottom of the pecking order – but now she’ll face up to any of the bigger hens – fight them with beak and claw if needs be, and ready and willing to draw my blood, if I try to pet one of her darlings. I can practically hear her whispering to them, “beware of the Big Boots! Don’t go near the Big Boots!” But if we offer them mini mealworms, which chicks love, she will bring them out for a photoshoot. 

They were so cute when they were bundles of yellow and brown fluff, but now they have proper feathers; they’re growing up quickly. Very soon we will find out how many hens we have and how many of the brood are male. We’re keeping our fingers crossed. One cockerel will be quite enough, thank you. In the meantime, I have finally stolen a march on my own character; none of Sabbie’s hens have had a brood of chicks…not yet, at least…
If you want to see them, come quick; they'll be gaining their grown-up feathers in 6 or so weeks time.
And Sabbie,  And in the chicken area, there are four des res; Pwych and Little Wings are in the big house, Henrietta and her little brown chick are in the smaller house, Ceredwen and her little yellow chick are in the tiny coop and poor old Red Neck has to make to with something the size of a cardboard box. The two males strut around outside the babies' cages, as if to say "they're mine…" … "No, they're mine…"
Well, sorry, Redneck, but I'm relieved to say neither of them show signs of becoming Transylvanian Naked Necks like you! We're just hoping they're both girls; won't know for a long time yet. With Henrietta and Ceredwen doing their mothering act, Pwych has to manage with one wife, and he's not good at keeping a weather eye on her at all, while he was strutting round the babies this morning, Red Neck grabbed her and had his wicked way. She let out an almight howl – sort of, Rape! Rape! and Pwych came a-running and chased Red Neck all round the field at great speed and with much crowing. But she's dreadfully fickle; moments later she was making eyes at Red Neck again.



In the Moors:

The original walk on the Somerset Levels
Have you ever walked the Somerset Levels at night? I have, purely for research purposes, and it was a scary experience. On the night I took my walk, charcoal clouds were scuttling across the sky. The quarter moon and the thick, milky covering of stars played hide and seek. Everything was grey…prickly hedges…reed beds…looming trunks of ancient willows…all shades of grey. As I walked the farmland paths, it was hard to spot the channels of water bordering each field. Several times I came up sharp to find myself staring down into reeking, stagnant ditches or canals brim full and squelchy at the edge. I battled on, my torch spotlighting my map, taking the wooden bridges in a zigzag route towards my destination. 
I was heading for the peatbogs.
The marshy moors of Somerset extend for almost 200,000 acres, from Bridgewater Bay across the low, flat lands to Glastonbury Tor and beyond. They are framed by the Mendip and Quantock hills and crisscrossed with thick fingers of water; rivers, brooks, canals and rhynes. In ancient times the area were covered in fresh lakes mingled with salt sea. Early farmers, desperate for growing room, reclaimed every clod of earth they could, draining the land, creating an obstacle path that sent me miles out of my way like a child’s puzzle maze. 
Right back to Roman times, locals have extracted peat in Somerset. There are miles of moorland with soil as black as a seam of coal. The older excavations quickly grew thick with sedge and bullrushes and became wildlife magnets. The largest, such as Ham Wall, have become nature reserves. On a hot June day, Ham Wall is peaceful, full of swooping swallows and the boom of the bittern. The wide expanses of water are awash with wildfowl. If you’re quiet and lucky, you’ll see families of otters romping in the shallows. 
But the modern exploitation of peat is carried out with commercial intensity and the results are extreme. Acres are excavated to a depth of several metres, the edges mechanically angular. 
Eventually, I reached these on my nighttime tramp. When I saw the thin, straight paths leading between the pits, my mind screamed at me to turn back. The paths were slippery and narrow, with an invisible drop on either side. It felt like standing on the edges of ink-filled swimming pools.
I’m clearly quite mad to have attempted this. But I needed to experience what I was about to put my protagonist through. Sabbie Dare, the girl at the centre of my Shaman Mystery Series, had a similar moonlit journey through this nightmare place. In the first of the series, In the Moors, she has to search for the shallow grave of murdered children. Her hope is that she will find some other-world clue which the spirit of the last child to die might have left where he had been buried. 
At the start of In the Moors, we see the wetlands at night when the police – detective sergeant Rey Buckley and his constable Gary Abbott – spot a strange figure grubbing around this shallow grave, now a police investigation site.
Abbott handed him a pair of night-vision binoculars. He slotted them to his eyes. It was hard to judge distance through the ghostly green glow. There was nothing but the vastness of the Somerset Moors where gales blew so hard and long that the leafless trees grew at low angles. Reeds and rushes were the natural uprights in this world, unlike the metal spikes holding the police tape, which were sinking into the peat. The blue and white tape flapped in the wind like alien birds; even at this distance Buckley could hear it crack. He made a steady scan of the cordoned area until he had a sharp picture. A figure loomed, swathed in scarves, bog water halfway to the tops of his rubber boots. He was standing within the forest of bulrushes, thick as a man’s thumb and as tall as a man’s thigh. Through the binoculars, Buckley could clearly see the man was stroking the suede-like top of a bulrush, as he stared at the shallow grave.
I survived my night-walk around the levels, but I’m glad I took it when I did. Much of the area is below sea level, so when the rains came in the winter of 2013/14, it was catastrophically flooded. Farm animals drowned. Entire villages went underwater. Help did arrive, and in the last ten months the murky floodwater has slowly retreated, but the clear-up is ongoing. Teams of volunteers are trying to restore order. The rivers are now being dredged, something locals have called for since before the floods, and there is talk of a long-term action plan.
I have become intensely fond of the Somerset Moors, as is Sabbie Dare; she watched those flood waters rise from her little house in Bridgewater.
Did Sabbie survive her journey to a child’s shallow grave? Only just, I have to say, but she’s a shrewd and savvy lady. With a little help from the spirit world, she came through her ordeals and returned for a second adventure in Unraveled Visions,  now available; watch out for the third in the series in the autumn of 2015.









The Ritual Circle of the Year –
 How Sabbie Celebrates her Spiritual Life

21st December: the first glimmerings of a new year
Winter Solstice Sunrise Ceremony 
Windmill Hill Glastonbury

Rune staves inserted at four directions . Sesame/ incense bowl by fire.
Fire is lit.
We form a circle, with four main direction holders in place by Rune staves, holding appropriate staffs (plus foliage). 
In the cross quarter places:
South West:  bowls containing offerings 
North West:  the arrow, in front of fire pit
North East:the alignment to the energies coming through the portal to the central fire
South East: Two people position themselves ready with the uprights for sun-door.


Smudging of Mound & people follows a short grounding atunement – earth beneath our feet, staffs connecting us with earth .
Calling the directions East, south, west and north are called with reference to energies and elements of the direction, but no god(dess) forms are invoked.
We call in the above
We call in the below
We call in the centre and bless the fire.

 Invocation - the blessing of the Avalonian and British guardians (including Edmund) upon the ceremony. We ask the higher guides (Great Spirit) that guidance as well as compassion may be shown to humanity at this time, pray that we may now learn to walk in balance with all of life, and partake of the soma of enlightenment. They give thanks for the great opportunity as well as the challenge that this time presents. They end by offering cedar, tobacco, pinyon, sage to the fire.
Portal creation the arrow is secured between the uprights of the portal,with an appropriate blessing,  point facing south, tip curved downwards if possible.
A libation with milk and honey and red ochre. Offerings to the star beings and to the ancestors.
Offerings are invited -All who wish now take  seeds/incense from bowl, offer it to fire.
Closing the Circle
May the sacred fires be relit around the world!

1st February, Imbolic, 

Bridget's Cross
1st February, 10am, and I was at my kitchen table making a Bridget's cross; twisting thin, springy reeds into the pattern of a complicated four-armed pattern. Not quite weaving coats from nettles, but my fingers were complaining. I was getting prepared for the celebration of Bridget – Imbolc it’s called by the Irish, meaning the coming of  the ewe’s milk. In England it is known as Candlemas...festival of nineteen candles, of well-dressing, of mother and child. It is the gateway into spring and was first imagined in Celtic times, the Iron Age, when for early farmers the tilling and harvesting of the land was the hub to the wheel of their lives.  Imbolc spoke of growing light, growing warmth, of hope for the new year. It still does; the grass grows anew, the waters flow free and lambs are being born in Britain's fields. It’s the time of quickening, when in the womb of the Earth, spring stirs and grows green.

Bridget was a saint, but prior to that she was a Celtic goddess of the Irish Pantheon – daughter of the great Dahgda. She is both gentle maiden and Queen of the South, Lady of the forge, goddess of fire, the year’s midwife who births the sun. She is also the Lady of the Well and goddess of healing water. She is Lady of the Bards, goddess of poetry, song and inspiration and goddess of the hearth, so it stands to reason she would have many names; Bridghid, Bridie, Bride, as well ad Bridget. Around the fire, we told each other stories, sang songs and enjoyed a meditation together.

On the only dry day, some of us went Wassailing around the neighbourhood's orchards. This was traditionally a Twelth Night custom in England, but we didn't manage to get to do it until later. The word 'wassail' comes from the Anglo-Saxon phrase 'waes hael', which means 'good health'. Dressed outrageously, we blessed our fruit trees (and ourselves) with cider, while we sang ancient wassialing songs and rhymes. asking for a good harvest.  They went something like this–


Here we come a-wassailing
Among the leaves so green;
Here we come a-wand'ring
So fair to be seen.

Here’s to thee, old apple-tree,
Whence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow,
And whence thou mayst bear apples enow!
Hats-full! Caps-full!
Bushel, bushel sacks-full!
And my pockets full, too! Hurrah!

 Originally, the fruit farmers would have taken shotguns into the orchard to scar away evil spirits – we made do with drums and party poppers, finally staggering home in the first dusk. 

Last week, I was at an outdoor ritual, held on the high land overlooking the Teffi estuary in Cardigan, west Wales. It was a cold day, but at least it wasn't raining. Because, even now, two thirds of the way through February, the frosts are still biting and the cold stung our faces as we gathered in the field. Darkness maintains its hold on our lives, even as the year moves steadily towards the vernal equinox. Darkness is our memory of winter, but is still our experience at Imbolc. The mornings begin before the night is ready to leave; the evening dusk falls quickly. Most of us are impatient for the light to return – desperate for the warmth  of spring. 

snowdrops
But that is what Imbolc is all about. The Iron Age Celts were as keen to see things warm up as we are. They called it the greening of the land – the spreading of Bridget's green mantle across the earth, and that is already happening, right now, beneath our feet. When we talk about spring in this way, we aren't talking about the weather. February is well known to prone to snow, ice, sleeting rain. But through the white layer over the earth, the snowdrops bloom. Imbolc is about seasons, not weather. The land is stirring, as it does every February. Buds are black on the ash trees. Spears of daffodils are shooting up through hard ground. The birds are establishing their territories.

I've just started writing a new story about Sabbie Dare, which I'm hoping will be the 4th in the Shaman Mystery Series, and, luckily, it is set in February, so I'm trying to soak up all the February experiences I can for the book. The story opens at the end of January 2014, when floods on the Somerset Levels, where Sabbie Dare lives, had been wrecking farmland and villages since November of the previous year. As they slowly recede, a car is revealed beneath the waters. Many vehicles were 'drowned' in the Somerset floods that year, but this one contains a dark secret. A man, dead before the floods overcame his car. And lying next to him, a shotgun.

Sabbie picks up the story: It seemed the saddest occurrence of the all the sadness of the devastation. According to bulletins, he was named as John Spicer. He had parked miles from his prosperous farm and big family, and shot himself in the head. 
He must have chosen it as a quiet spot and driven there through the rain, too wrecked in his life to want to go on with it. He’d stuck a shotgun in his mouth. Not a cry for help – he knew he would die. Then, as the waters rose, he floated inside his car, like spacemen float around their cabin, alone, undiscovered, the murky waters covering him as if he was a burial at sea, the car a coffin. I couldn’t help imagining how his family must have become demented with worry when he didn’t come home.

2014 floods in Somerset Photo: PA Telegraph
Of course, all is not yet told. Did John Spicer really kill himself? In this latest episode in Sabbie's life, I will explore the darkness that surrounds suicide, and the darkness that pervades sexual abuse.

So it was light relief to write about Sabbie's experience of Imbolc, which she celebrated with her friend  Marianne in her garden, under a crescent moon. A moment of respite for the terror and dread that  creeps closer and closer to her, through to the end of this new novel.

 And now, bit by bit, day by day, the sun will come, it will warm the land, Bridget will spread her green mantle and soon, we will be tending our spring gardens, getting them ready for a flower-full summer. And, I hope, Book Four of the Shaman's Mysteries will grow and flourish through the year, just as  gardens do.


March 21st, Vernal Equinox

An ALBAN EILER CELEBRATION for SPRING EQUINOX 

 This moment is known by many names,  ALBAN EILER, ASTORA, and the vernal equinox, which  takes place when the Sun crosses the celestial equator – the imaginary line in the sky above the Earth’s equator – from south to north. This marks the beginning of astrological spring. The world stands still as we reach this balance of star and stone.

As day begins to dominate night, and the days grow warmer and lighter, we turn our thoughts to the progress we make through our lives. As birds return to mate and build their nests, and the first flowers of the year grace our gardens, as the crops are being sown, we can thing about decisions of the past and present and how they effect the pathways of our life. Now is a time to take stock, take a moment, to consolidate the pathways we have chosen to be on. 

AIR speaks:  air is warming up around us and the blooming of spring flowers, their scent and perfumes. How birds take flight to gain territory and create nesting sites and mating. The way the sun stands in in the east, high point of the circle and the equal light of day and night.

FIRE speaks:   the light of the sun in the wheel of the year grows strong, shedding light and warmth upon creatures of the land including ourselves

WATER speaks:  love and emotions; love and procreation; balance in nature and in life; strength of the great equinoctial tides; and of how peace and calm can be part of the gaining of balance 

EARTH speaks:  the warming earth, tilling of the soil
the sewing of seeds, the rising of sap, bursting of buds. 
The changes of colour across the land. The work needed now.

MOON HARE; I am Gearr, the sacred hare, symbol of fertility and resurrection. Moon bright, I prance in the meadows, box with other hards  and race over the furrowed fields. Yet, at night, I am seen to gaze up at the full moon, bright as a silver penny. 

This is the vernal equinox,  the time of the great tides, moon-pulled. Moon mates with Sun,  and Nature stands in balance. I proclaim this moment a most powerful time for magic.
The spring goddes, Oestre, has asked my to guard and treasure the beautiful eggs, in which are carried the sacred dreams of this tribe, which they have wished and dreamed over the winter, and written into the art of these gifts – for wishes and dreams are magic in embryo.

Awake, Awake! Be renewed, be happy! The Goddess is alive, and magic is alive! 
Let us call to Oestre, the goddess of springtime, to step into our circle, and be with us tonight.
Eostre, (oystre)  of the North! 
Ostara of the South!
Oestra (eastra) of the moon and radient goddess of the dawning light
We ask you to step into our circle! 

EOSTRE steps into the circle
Yes, I am Eostre,  of the North and Ostara of the South and Oestra  of the moon and radiant goddess of the dawning light. My sister, Bridgit has cast her mantle over the land and now  I can oversee the budding plants and burgeoning fertility of the earth. I can watch over the farmer as he ploughs his fields and the gardener, as they plant their first crops; broad beans, potatoes, onion sets. Into their ears I whisper my words - take care of this land, little ones, for it does not belong to you, however much you paid for it. It belongs to the great goddess and the great god, and the spirit which is above all things. Keep your work in harmony with them. If you love the land as you tend it, all will be well.

One day, I found a bird, wounded, on the ground late in winter. To save its life, I transformed it into a hare. But the transformation was not a complete one. The bird took the appearance of a hare but retained the ability to lay eggs...the hare would decorate these eggs and leave them as gifts to me as thanks for protecting it. And so I, the spring lady of life, have a deep affinity with the sweet, fast-running hare.

Another myth associated with spring is that of the Goddess DEMETER 
I am a mild Goddess; I have a gentle soul. I aim to do no harm to any being. My delight is to care for the land. When I am happy, the earth is happy. When I am ready to enjoy the fruits of nature, they blossom, flower and fruit for everyone. In my youth, I was always happy and the earth was always fruitful; every day way a day of bounty, of harvest, where each had what they needed, and more. Every part of the land had a cornocopia of plenty and no creature went without. Everyone was warm, sheltered, fed to fullness...and so they had time to turn to thoughts of love. 
It was my role to show you timid humans how to truly love each other; how to give pleasure in the showing of your love. I was not immune from my own counsel, I became inflamed with the nectar of love on occasion...too many occasions, perhaps. I lay upon the couch of love with my own brother, Zeus, and from this heady union came my dear and beautiful daughter, a goddess in her own right. Persephone. She is as fresh as a spring dawn. Her hair is as golden as ripened corn; her face is as clear as the spring moon. When she was still a maiden, she loved to run with her friends in the meadows among the flowers; I often did not know whither she had run, but trusted her to return to me, as a mother should. One glorious spring day, my brother, Hades, saw Persephone. She was kneeling close to a fast-running brook, and the glitter of the water shone fair upon her face. She was picking the flowers that grew along its bank, the pale lemon flowers of spring. As she plucked them, she took in their scent, and the look of wonder upon her young face was so radiant, that Hades fell in love with her on that instant. He knew, should he ask me for her hand in marriage, I would refuse. So he simply took her. He went to her in the meadow and abducted her. He forced her into his black carriage and drove the horses full speed down into the dark drear of his underworld. Who can blame him? He lived alone down there, amid the dead, with no companion and no sight of the light of the day or living beings. 
You see...I am a mild and forgiving Goddess. I can understand. I can forgive. But that does not lessen the pain of losing your daughter. I wandered far in search of Persephone, not understand why she did not run back to me, laughing. I called her name, I asked those I passed if they had see her. I wept for the loss of her. Food did not pass my lips as I searched. And, as I am the fruitfulness of the earth, as I did not eat, neither did it. It wasted away as I went upon my quest, neither seeding or fruiting. The rivers dried. The corn withered before it ripened. And the crops, once gathered, did not grow again.
Finally, I came upon old Hecate, my sister in Olympus, who told me her story. She had been walking early one morning when she’d heard a young girl crying RApe! Rape! She’d run to help her but found nothing. Together we approached Helius, for, as he makes his daily circuit of the earth, he sees everything. Finally, he admitted he had seen Hades take my daughter through a gaping hole in the earth. Now, we had our evidence, we approach Zeus. His pronouncement was that Hades should restore Persephone to me and to the light and the living...so long as she had not eaten the food of the dead. 
This gave me such hope; Persephone is a bright girl and would have taken care to do no such thing. But she had, without knowledge of it, consumed just seven pomegranate seeds.
I was consumed with rage. I am not a vengeful or wrathful goddess, but I spoke then, I cried out to heaven that I would never remove my curse from the earth if my daughter was not returned to me. It would continue to wither and die and there would be no harvest from now on.
And so, a compromise was reached. It was the time of the equinox, a time of balance and arbitration. Six months I was to have Persephone with me, her slight frame running with joy through the warm air, her nose buried into the scent of flowers. But for six months also, she would belong to Hades, and return to the underworld. And for that time, I would mourn and the earth would whither and die. 
And so it does. Every winter it remains in this dormant state while my daughter goes to do her duty to her so-called husband. And every spring, she returns to life and the to world and to me. Then, the earth begins to warm, the rains come, the soil bursts with life, the animals give birth and the corn grows tall, ripens, and before winter is upon us, it is cut down for the bread of life...








You’ll find out more about Sabbie and the Shaman Mysteries at Nina’s blogsite, http://kitchentablewriters.blogspot.com . Connect with her on @ninahare or visit her facebook page The Shaman Mystery Series. 
In the Moors and Unraveled Visions are available in paperback and on Kindle,
and all good bookshops.







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