The Story of a Bard

Long ago, when the earth was much younger than it is now, and there was still mystery and magic left to be found, the people of the world lived in many different tribes and moved about the land. The tribes of the world went by many names and all behaved in different ways, but one tribe was special. This tribe was destined to spread over most of the known world and echo through the annals of history and legend. They were called the Celts.

The Celts were a people set apart. They stood out for their great might and stature, for their bright red and blonde hair, and for their deep blue and green eyes. They clothed their legs in leather, because of their great love of riding horses. More than riding, though, the Celts loved a good fight. Among the other tribes of the young earth, the Celts quickly gained a leg up through their warrior skills. They craved battle for the challenge and the sheer thrill of it. Even the Celtic women loved battle, and fought fiercely alongside the men. To the Celts, battles were a test and a chance to prove oneself. Victory meant that one would be renowned as a hero. To be a hero was to be remembered and live on forever. The Celts fought to live on.

Their love of battle was met only by their deep spirituality. The Celts believed that everything was spiritual. Nothing was secular to them. Everything breathed with the spirit of life. The Celts believed that our world is conjoined to the Otherworld; a sort of spiritual other half to our own world, where the faeries and other spirits dwelled. Some stories even suggest that the Celts may have believed in a supreme being, or God, with all of the other gods and goddesses they followed being merely manifestations or aspects of the greater God. The truth of this has been muddied by the ages. Perhaps one day, we will know for sure.

The spiritual needs of the Celts were met by their spiritual leaders, the druids. The druids were very special, in that they were much more than simple priests. They were also lawyers, doctors, political leaders, and philosophers. When any major descision was to be made the druids were relied upon for their great wisdom. When their was conflict within the tribe, the druids were the peace-keepers. For their great service to their people, the druids were held in very high regard, being nearly as important as the king or queen of the tribe.

Deep within the Celtic soul lived a love of beauty and art. The Celts were true warrior-poets. They reveled in stories and songs, especially ones of high adventure or great battles. The master of these stories and songs were a very special kind of druid, called the bard. Bards were just as important and honored as the other druids, for the bards kept the souls of their tribe alive through music and stories. Their skill with these arts were so great, that legends say bards could literally weave magic out of their harps. Kings feared the bards, for to earn the ire of the poet-seers was dangerous. Bardic sattires could literally sting the flesh and leave whelps and bruises, legends say, or even kill from the shame they would bring. The warriors of the tribe fought for the Bard's attention, for to be put into a song or poem by one of the magical talecrafters would render them immortal. The Celts fought to live on.

One family of Celts took up the craft of the bard as their main profession. They were the Mac an Bháirds, which means son of the bard. This family traced their lineage back to Conaill Cearnach, one of the Red Branch Knights, mythic heroes of the county Ulster in Ireland. On though the years, the Mac an Bháirds practiced the old bardcraft in county Ulster and made great names for themselves as bards of considerable skill.

With the march of time, the Celts would eventually fall from their glory. Just as Summer continually gives way to Winter, so to did these mighty warriors fall. The war machine of the Roman Empire conquered much of their land and other tribes, like the Vikings, took advantage of the Celts weakened state, plundering their villages and killing their people. Eventually, even the druids passed with the coming of Christianity.

But not all was lost. The Celts managed to survive their many challenges, though battered and weakened. What remained of the Celts lived on in Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Brittany, Cornwall, and the Isle of Mann. The culture and way of life of the Celts endured and even many of the druids simply traded in their druid robes for the hoods of the Christian monks, mixing their druidic beliefs with that of the new religion. The bardic tradition survived in the form of minstrels and troubadoors. The Celts fought to live on.

Many years after their struggles, the Celts were handed a new twist of fate. During the 1800s, many in the Celtic lands were still facing struggles, from the Irish potatoe famine, to the Scottish suppression by the British. To escape these hardships, many felt that they must escape their homeland and find somewhere new to live their lives. Thus the Celtic Diaspora began, with thousands of Irish, Scottish, Welsh, and other Celts moving to the Americas and Australia. These brave Celts settled into their new home countries and adapted the best that they could. Many even changed their names to better fit in with their new countrymen. The Mac Gabhanns became the Smiths. The Mac Gearailts became the Fitzgeralds. And the Mac an Bháirds, the bards of Ulster, became the Wards.

In the year 1986, a boy was born. He had bright red hair and fair skin. As he grew, he came to love stories of might and magic. He loved to read about these things, and the more he learned, the more he hungered for myth and legend.

One day, when the boy had reached that awkward thing between boyhood and manhood, he found his way to a very unusual shop that was tucked away in the misty lands of Appalachia. The shop was named Celtic Heritage, and it was filled with the relics of a long forgotten way of life. There were harps, jewels, books, and songs. There were pictures, hats, kilts, and scarves. And there was one book in particular that caught the boy's eye. It was a book of Heraldry and filled with the crests of families of all names. Intrigued, the boy scoured through its pages, until he came across a name that he knew all too well. Ward. His own name. How could this be? Looking at the page and reading further, something awoke in the young Ward's soul. A yearning for something long lost. He felt a great pull, but toward what, he did not yet fully comprehend. His destiny still lied before him.

Ten years from that day, I sit here. I, Zachary Trey Ward, one of the descendents of the Mac an Bháirds, now fully appreciate my ancestry. And I fully appreciate my calling. That day in the shop, I believe that something stirred inside me that remembered what it is to be a bard. I believe that all of my love for stories, songs, and myths is not just a coincidence. I believe that something ancient lives on in my blood and the blood of my family. I believe that I was always meant to be a bard. And I finally feel like I am in a place where I can pursue that goal. This is the first entry in a blog that will chronicle my travels along that path. I will reflect here and offer my thoughts to others for their feedback.

Just as the Celts saw wisdom in the turning wheel of the seasons, so has God brought everything back to a new beginning. Winter always turns back to Spring. The Celts have had a long a grand history, but it is not over. More is waiting to be told. The Celts may be spread out over the world, but they still linger. They may not know who they are, but the blood of the warrior-poet still flows though their veins. The Celts still fight to live on.