Tale of the Celtic Stone Man

'Tale of the Celtic Stone Man' was written by Stefan Grieve, a member of the Wakefield Word Writers' Group.

It was written in response to the Celtic stone head in our 100 Years of Collecting Online Exhibition and on display in Wakefield Museum. 

The Celtic stone head, on display in Wakefield Museum

A time long ago, when the Celtic Stone Man was small, he would wander the Scottish hills. But his heart desired more.

“If only I could see more of the world,” he would complain to his raven friend.

The raven would nod and give a sly smile. “There are places in these hills you have not yet seen, my friend, places in these hills that would do with your company.”

The Celtic Stone Man travelled as far as he could, every nook and every cranny, from hill to valley. Until he was sure there was nothing left to see.

Nestled with the raven in a tree, they watched the Celtic moon together. The man thought the light shining on the raven's feathers brought out a gasp of blue.

“I have seen everything, dear Raven, and there is nothing more to see.”

This time the raven did not smile.

“I can grant your wish. But it comes at a price.”
“Anything.”
“I can carry you, my stony friend, but you are too heavy altogether. But I think I can carry your head.”

The Celtic Stone Man looked at the Scottish moon and drank in its secrets to provide an answer. But of course, with the moon, the answer was always madness.

“Thank you, dear Raven. I shall break off my body by launching myself from the cliff to the sea. But please, please catch me.”

And the raven’s eyes glistened.

The Celtic Stone Man smashed into the stones beneath the cliff, and it broke his body. The waters crashed towards him, and he heard their thunder. Where was his friend the raven? Would he be swallowed by the waves?

But he felt himself rising, and he knew the raven had caught him and lifted him in the air.

They travelled far, the head of stone and the body of feathers. They saw beneath them such seas and mountains and life that the man had never seen. The moon must have taken pity on them as well, for she gave the raven her strength.

Seeing all the world’s wonderous splendour beneath him, the Celtic Stone Man ate it up with his eyes, and his head began to grow.

 The larger the head became the heavier he got, and soon the raven could take no more, and she dropped him in a rockery so far from home.

“Now that was a trip!” The Celtic Stone Man smiled.

But the raven did not answer. And he never knew what else she would say. He thought she had left him, and although sad, felt it was good that the raven could return to her life.

He had seen enough now, he would sleep.

The raven—body broken on the rockery out of view of her friend—would sleep the deepest sleep, and the Celtic Stone Man would never know of the raven's sacrifice, or how she had got her friend as far as, of all places, Chapelthorpe.

Waiting. Patiently to be unearthed. And dreaming of the kindness of a friend, whose feathers shone blue in the moonlight.