Book of Knowings: The Roman Grave



She sat staring at the flame, as had her mother before her, and her grandmother, and their mothers and grandmothers for countless generations before them. She allowed her eyes to grow softer and then she saw it, the dark tunnel that brought the Visions. They swerved and swirled before her until, finally she saw……


The sun no longer warmed the air and the priest and priestess often awakened cold and shivering. The priestess held her wee Boudicca close sharing warmth with her newborn. She wondered how they would survive the long winter to come.

The native people who had helped with the birth stayed. They gathered wood and hunted, adding to the stockpile the priest had already accumulated for the long winter; their help was appreciated.

In the evening they shared the warmth of a fire on the beach, but at night the priest and priestess entered their shelter under the coracle while the native people spread the embers of the fire in a long pit and buried it with dry sand. There they slept for the night, warm under a pile of furs and the next morning they would dig up the glowing coals to start a new fire. The priestly couple marveled at the ingenuity of it, but they knew it would not be enough when the snows fell. So they kept to their shelter finding ways to keep out the draft and keep each other warm.

One early morning just as the frost was melting off the land, the priestess called to her husband. “Look,” she said as she pointed to one of the native women writing with charcoal on birch bark. “Do you recognize it?”

“Yes,” the priest replied. “It is the script of the ancient Pharaohs. I learned it at the Serapeum as a young lad.”

“When you were sent to the lands of your Tuatha De ancestors? Tell me again.”

“Yes, it was the Storms of Thoth blew my ancestors to the land the cursed Romans call Scotia. It is the same storm, I think, that blew me to you and has now brought us to this new land, this new Scotia.”

“I love that story,” she replied.

The priest gave his wife a gentle kiss on the head and then took a step closer and looked over the woman’s shoulder. 

“What does it say?” his priestess asked.

“She speaks of us, how they found us, and of the birth a special girl-child. She writes it was omens brought them here.”

The priest picked up a stick then and made symbols of his own in the sand—Egyptian hieroglyphics the native woman understood. She drew more symbols then and called to her companions.  

“These people know the writing of the Pharaohs better than I do, I think,” the priest said as he puzzled over a few of her glyphs. “But this will do.” 

“Ask her about our people. Do they know of people who have come in ships?” 

The priest scratched out his question as best he could. “E’e,” the native man called Kal’boo replied. Then he drew the symbol for dangerous.

“Take me,” the priest wrote.

The two native men conferred, argued, but finally agreed. Kal’boo wrote the symbols for, “tomorrow, one day trip,” before he once again made the symbol for dangerous.

And so the next morning the two native men set off with the priest just as the sun was rising. They hiked across the island to the far shore before Ka’boo stopped and motioned to the priest and his companion. “Toqwe’gig,” he said and the priest knew he was to stay there.

Ka’boo took off, crouching as he went. He crested the hill and then crept forward on his belly. Minutes later he returned and motioned the priest forward.

When the priest crested the hill, he, too, knew this place to be dangerous. Not twenty feet in front of him, he saw a grave marker and on it was a Roman sword, a helmet, and a single coin to pay the fallen soldier’s passage across the River Styx. The ground was too rocky to draw out the glyph for enemy, but the priest’s companion seemed to understand. Ka’boo pointed to the bay below and with his gestures indicated that many ships sailed this way and that they must leave now, before they were discovered.

When the three men returned to camp, the snows had just begun to fall.

“You look upset, my husband. What has happened?”

“The Romans have been here. We found their grave. They travel up and down this island. We must leave this place and leave now. Before they find us.”

“But where will we go? We cannot leave with the snows beginning, not unless the people we seek are very close.” The priestess picked up a stick then and drew a picture in the sand. It was of a boat and of women standing as they had for millennia to greet the Great Mother.

  IMG_1082 (1).jpg

One of the women, the one called Amu, understood the picture. She smiled, nodded, pointed to the south and drew another glyph.  

“What does she write?” the priestess asked.

“It says that we would have to walk for a moon cycle and more to find this sign. And then who knows how much further to find our people.”

Amu spoke to Ka’boo and he stepped forward then, pointed to the west, and drew two suns in the sand. Then he pointed to the priest and priestess and motioned for them to follow him across the channel and into the forest beyond.

Amu took the priestess’s hand and smiled before drawing more glyphs in the sand.  

“She says that you are her Sister of the Sacred Flame,” the priest explained, “and we will be safe with them. She says when the spring comes they will take us south.”

That evening the priest and priestess packed what little they had in the coracle. The priest hefted it on his back like a pack. “I praise the gods that they taught us the art of making the coracle for it is truly a boat, a shelter, and a pack, all in one. I only wish we’d found a bigger one for the ocean voyage. But this one serves us well, I think.”

That night they slept under soft furs, the sand below warm from the glowing coals buried beneath them. And the next morning they took off with their new friends to winter in the Mi’Kmaq village. 



For evidence of Roman presence in the land of the Micmac and surrounding areas:


For theories about the Tuatha De Danann and an Irish-Egyptian connection:


Did the Mi’kmaq from Eastern Canada write in Egyptian Hieroglyphics?

fell micmac criticisms wikipedia.jpg


The story goes like this:

Father Le Clerq,  a Roman Catholic Missionary from the late 1600s, claimed to have seen Mi’kmaq (Micmac*) children taking notes (writing) on birchbark as he was giving his lessons.

Pierre Milliard, also a Catholic Priest but in 1730s, documented the Mi’kmaq writing system and claims to have added to it to help his converts learn prayers and responses to the Catholic Mass.

In the interim, the birch scrolls containing the writings of past generations had been destroyed.  So it is Abbe Milliard’s works, including his book Manuel Hieroglyphique Micmac, that is most helpful in documenting the similarity between Mi’kmaq writing and ancient Egyptian Hieroglyphics.

(I believe it was Barry Fell who found Milliard’s book and discovered the similarities.  The table above is from Fell’s work.)

Note the dates for Abbe Maillard and Father Le Clerq: late 1600s and early to mid 1700s.  Now note the date that Egyptian Hieroglyphs were deciphered: 1823.

So it is impossible for the priests to have taught the hieroglyphics to the Mi’kmaq people–even if the priests knew about them, they could not have known the meanings of the Egyptian glyphs.

Here is another really interesting example that I found on the Mathisen Corollary blog:micmac cartouche name.jpg


Indeed, Barry Fell (1976, 1989, p.256) claims several thousand of Maillard’s recorded hieroglyphics are similar to or exactly like dynastic Egyptian.

Who are the Mi’kmaq?

They are a Native American group from Canada–Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island and along the coastline of the Gulf of Saint Lawrence through eastern New Brunswick and even into eastern Quebec.


Their lands included the famous Oak Island where evidence of both a Roman and a North African presence has been discovered. (More on the proto-Tifinagh–North African–inscriptions found on Oak Island in another blog.)

This area was clearly a port of entry for Old World peoples thousands of years before Columbus. Perhaps they were after the copper from the Great Lakes via the St. Lawrence River–but that, too, is a topic for another blog.

If you are interested, Kirsten Dally (2011) is worth reading. She cites many similarities between the Mi’kmaq and the Picts (northern British Isles) including the use of blue tattoos, a matriarchal society, similar governance, and similarities in some words.

Oh, in my research I did find one other interesting tidbit: Compare the Mi’kmaq flag to that of the Templars. A port of entry, indeed.





Fell, Barry. (1976, 1989). America B.C.: Ancient Settlers in the New World. Muskogee, OK: Artisan Publishers.

Dalley, Kirsten (2011). Exposed, Uncovered, and Declassified: Lost Civilizations & Secrets of the Past. Career Press. Kindle Edition.


* I have seen both spellings–Micmac is the more common. Mi’kmaq is the more traditional and the one that seems to be preferred by the Mi’kmaq themselves. Use both if you are doing a search.

Book of Knowings: A girl-child is born



She sat staring at the flame, as had her mother before her, and her grandmother, and their mothers and grandmothers for countless generations before them. She allowed her eyes to grow softer and then she saw it, the dark tunnel that brought the Visions.

The woman cried out in pain. When the contraction eased, he watched as his priestess tried once again to shift the head of their unborn baby. Why had the Great Mother spared her the journey across the sea only to have her die in childbirth on this lonely forsaken island?

Kneeling beside her, he mopped her brow. It was cold outside their make-shift shelter, but the upturned coracle placed over the crag in the rocks held the warmth of their bodies close. If only the baby would come. But for that to happen his priestess needed to turn the child and, alone, he was not sure she could.

 His priestess once again massaged her belly and tried to turn the girl-child inside. But once again, the baby slipped back around, positioning herself shoulder first at the womb’s opening to the world.

“Let me try,” her High Priest said. He imitated what his high priestess had done, but she screamed out in pain again.

“No, gentler,” she said, but he knew gentler would not help either.

As the hours passed, the woman’s screams grew fainter but the contractions grew stronger. “We have to try again,” he said but she turned her body away from him and seized up as another contraction took hold.

“It is no use,” she whispered when the pain had abated.

It was then light broke unto the darkness of their shelter and the priest turned to see the flap covering the entrance had been pulled back perhaps, by the wind. The mid-day sun was streaming in. Blinded by it, he crawled out to secure the flap once again, but felt himself grabbed by strong arms and hauled to his feet. The two native men who held him were dressed in leathers and had a fierce look about them. A third stepped forward and took the knife from his waist. What they said, he could not understand.

Two native women stepped forward then and the men shoved the priest aside so one of them could enter the shelter. Moments later the woman beckoned the second and, together, the women brought the priestess out and lay her on the ground before waving the men away.

But the priest would not budge. He stood staring as one of the women squatted, then propped his priestess up between her knees. The other woman began to massage his priestess’s belly. A contraction came and his priestess called out. The two women nodded to each other. Then they both took hold of the unborn child and deftly turned it around.

The priestess reached down to probe her belly and a faint smile crossed her face. “They are here to help,” she told her priest. “Leave us. We will be fine.”

He moved off then and collapsed exhausted onto the sandy shore as the native men gathered wood for a fire and set a battered iron pot on it. So tired was he that he did not think how they could have come by iron in this far-off land.  Instead, he watched as they boiled water, scooped it into gourds, and brought it to the two women.

And then he heard the cry of a baby—his baby and rushed back to his priestess.

Kneeling beside her he waited while the women covered his hands in yellow dust. “Hoddentin,” his priestess told him. “That is what they call it. I think it is a blessing.”

He picked up this daughter then and saw the baby had been blessed on her hands, feet, heart, and forehead with the same yellow powder. Then he watched as one of the women took some hoddentin on her fingers and placed a bit in the baby’s mouth.

One of the native men stepped forward. He took a rock and cradled it in his arms as if it was the baby. He turned to face the setting sun and lifted the rock to the sky. What he spoke, neither the priest nor the priestess understood, but they did know his meaning when he gestured for the priest to do the same.

As the priest lifted his daughter to the sky, the sun dropped below the horizon in a splash of glorious color, and the three native men said a prayer behind him.    

“Our daughter will be blessed in both our lands, I think,” his priestess told him as he handed the baby back to her. “Tonight I will present her to the Great Mother and our wee Boudicca will hear the sacred name of the Lady for the first time. We will call her Boudicca, right?”

He nodded. “Of course, my lady.”