I knew as I said these things to her that it was a lot all at one Time, but there was something or someone that bade me speak.
Then my eyes caught sight of her golden lyre leaning against my chest of Sacred things. You see, I had positioned everything in my hut so that the chest could catch the morning Sunlight through the small open window in the front wall near the doorway. I had been blessed in that the front of my cottage faced relative East. The Rosemary and lavender bushes which Arthur had brought to me from the continent thrived in that setting, and while in bloom emanated a lovely fragrance that wafted through the open window. Well, when my eyes happened upon Branwen’s lyre, it was at the perfect moment. The Sunlight was gleaming on the surface of its polished gold. It shone brightly, even casting a ray of light across the room to Branwen’s heart and breast. I think she was unaware of this, though. She had called her lyre a harpy, or herpie, which is the Saxon name for it.
“Branwen, will you grace us with your lovely voice and lyre this Night at our bonfire and evening meal? Music soothes the heart. We have many talented Singers and Storytellers here, both male and female, but none I think, quite as gifted as you. Do not tell anyone that I said that. Art is wondrous, especially in the way that its quality can be judged only by the eye or ear of the one beholding it. There are such seemingly endlessly diverse ways of expression and each is beautiful in its own way.”
Somewhat to my surprise she said, “Yes, I will.”
“Good then, I will leave you to freshen yourself to see Lady Vivianne. Do you have clean clothing?”
“Yes, Lady... Thank you for everything.”
As I left her to walk for a while by myself, I tried to comprehend the ramifications of all she had told me of Gwenyfar’s decisions and actions. Queen Gwenyfar had renounced the old ways and taken Christian vows and baptism. This was after a many-cycle-long mentorship and friendship with a certain Monk. She had told Branwen that their Love and sexual relations were a great sin and an abomination and that she dreadfully feared the Fires of Hell – the torment of punishment in the Christian afterlife. So Gwenyfar would never see Branwen again. Just like that – No kiss of parting. No consolation.
Then she had written a letter– a letter – to Arthur, explaining that this Monk had told her that she and Arthur were not really married. This, he said, was because the marriage bed had never been duly consecrated or consummated. Gwenyfar’s letter went on that she feared the loss of honour to herself and to Arthur because of the deception of the false blooded sheets on their wedding Night, and that she would keep this their secret if Arthur would allow her to retire from her position as Queen and live with the sisters of the small Christian monastic center near to our Order’s land.
Eight Days later, Arthur arrived at the Isle of Apples…
Arthur later told me that she had signed it and sealed it with the ring her sister, Princess Rowena, had given to her as a wedding gift. How ironic! No other words, apologies nor salutation, simply signed – Princess Gwenyfar – retaining only her Saxon title. The letter and ring were delivered to Arthur in Aquae Sulis by messenger.
“She acts like a mad bitch – or perhaps more like a snake – heartless, no concern for the harm she has done,” was his reaction.
He had immediately sent word to Gwenyfar upon his arrival at the Isle of Apples – too angry to go himself to the small Monastery. His message said, “Queen Gwenyfar. You will never be relieved of your title as Queen, but I do give my permission for removing yourself from court. Signed, Arthur Rex.”
“Oh Morgan, what more can I do?”
“Arthur,” I said, “I hope this causes as little embarrassment as possible to you. I know that you hold no Love for her in your heart – but poor Branwen.”
“Yes, she did not deserve this ill treatment from Gwenyfar... Can I do anything for her?”
“I know not what, Arthur...”
These were my only words of comfort to him. I thought it best to let lie this twist of the Fates.
And so it was that Branwen, during her first Moon’s Dance here, sang and played her harpy for us, in bittersweet and haunting melodies on many fine evenings ‘round the Fires, in the coolness of early Summer. During her Days, she spent much Time with me, learning how to care for my Bees, shear the wool from the white -aced Sheep, tend the dairy Cows, make cheese, and to build and repair the cottages. She especially Loved the crafts of the Thatchers and Weavers. None of these tasks had she ever done before. At Times she seemed to be fine and to find some peace here. One Day she came to me and said, “How I do Love to thatch the roofs, Morgan.”
I had given her leave to call me by my familial name, so as not to stand on protocol.
One of my brothers called “Wolf Eyes” accepted her as his apprentice.
Excitedly, she shared her enthusiasm with me.
“First we collect the materials of Water reeds, straw, and flax from the Marshes or the fields; these being Water reeds, they are not very heavy and are easy to roll to the building sites on our wagons. Then the thatch is tied in bundles and laid in an under layer upon the roof beams. And then they are pegged in place with rods of Hazel-Wood. Added to this is an upper layer – which is very thick – laid over the first, and a final reinforcing layer is laid along the ridgeline.
I was told that when, in Time, the roof leaks it can be repaired by rethatching only the badly damaged portion of it. But I could not see how that would work, for each of the original layers formed a solid barrier over the entire roof. Then, when one of the widows’ – living in the nearby village – roof leaked buckets at a Time, the Order’s Thatchers heard of it and came to help. Wolf Eyes showed me how to Weave a repair together with the original thatching. It worked! And very fine work I did – if I may be allowed to say so.
On the continent across the Eastern Sea, Thatchers have taken to decorating the edges of roofs with beautiful designs. I would Love to see that done here. Might I try it, Lady Morgan? I have asked my teacher – I know that it would take extra Time... But all things of beauty are a reflection of the Goddess’ Love, are they not?”
To see her enthusiasm did my heart good. Perhaps she was finding her light again. At the end of that Moon’s Dance, she decided to stay with us.
She so Loved the Weaving. She was also fascinated in the Art of Weaving wool into yarn and then dying it and quickly learned to be an excellent Weaver in a short Time. With most of our Weavers it had taken much longer to learn how to spin, then much more Time to achieve the finest perfection of regularity in the Weaving of the yarn. Branwen was gifted in so many ways and, it seemed to me, that she was finding some joy here at last.
But then there were her dark Times when she was so distant, lonely, and seemingly out of place. Though surrounded by friends, there would be a hollowness of Spirit about her. I so often wondered how she could create such beauty with such an empty heart – but she did. Perhaps the answer to this is that her Muses sang and played through her, just as sometimes the Voices speak through me.
One Night, over a year later, at the beginning of the First Harvest when all of those who had worked so hard were tired – yet joyful with the blessing of the accomplishment of a ripe and full Harvest – we built a great bonfire. We would celebrate that Night by dancing and drinking honey mead – all in our own good measure – and the morrow would be a Day of rest. Near to the end of our revelries, Branwen stepped forward to play her harpy and sang a song she had just written. Branwen’s song had a Magic of its own, the power of it seemed to circle and fill our whole grounds. When she sang it, all Creatures – Animal and Human – hushed, but the Air stirred as if she had called the Winds. Heart-piercing was the melody, and her words cut to the bone. I knew... yes I knew what her song was about.
“I sing a song macabre
A dark and restless tune
A woeful tale of sadness over Love...
Oh-oo-oo-oo-oh...
All over Love...
How once the Raven sang more sweetly than the
Nightingale
Her Spirit soared more joyfully than a Crane in flight
Her heart was full and peaceful as the Dove...
But then you clipped the Raven’s wings
Now she no longer sings
Her heart a lonely fortress... over Love
Oh-oo-oo-oo-oh, all over Love...
Oh-oo-oo-oo-oh, I’m over Love...”
Of course, there were other Seers amoung us who felt the hollow hopelessness in her song as did I. But the others – overwhelmed by Branwen’s golden mask and dark shadows, equally devastatingly beautiful and disturbingly mysterious – stood to their feet, applauded and cheered her. She smiled, bade us all a good Night, and thanked us for all of the Love and kindnesses we had shown to her.
The next morning when she did not join us in our song to the Sun Mother at her rising, I went to the hut which she and three of our men had just finished building for her. All was quiet. Not the usual sort of quiet, but a vacant stillness. I hesitated a moment outside her doorway.
Shielding myself with courage, I knocked and then entered. I half expected to see her hanging from a beam, but no, she lay peacefully in her bed. In her hand was a written note, addressed to me.
“Morgan of the Woods, Enchantress of the Bees, dear, kind friend... you have done everything you could do for me. Have no regrets, dear one. Please accept and care for the only thing of beauty left of me – my lyre, my harpie. Perhaps, Morgan, you will play it, and if not you, then Gwenda.
Thank you and Goddess bless you...
Branwen”
An empty vial lay across her belly.
I never sent word to Queen Gwenyfar. Perhaps that was uncouth of me, but I had no words lacking anger and distaste for her that I could say. I tried to keep my thoughts away from Gwenyfar for as long as she lived, for my thoughts have power and my wishes can and do manifest in this world of form. I would not soil my Spirit by wishing her to Death, so besides the writing of this account, I have never spoken her name again, nor will I ever.
Now, before I write of the events that followed, I must say that I am not a superstitious person, but I do have great respect for the interaction of all life forces, even emotions such as grief and fear. I consider them living entities that can swell like a great wave of the Sea, covering all in their path, consuming everything. And so the despondency of Branwen, when released from her living body, spread all over the Isle, including the land of our Order. It hung in the Air with a powerful heaviness. Two of our milk Cows could give only spoiled milk. One of them died over Night – she was very difficult to move. When finally we were able to move her, she had to be buried right where she lay outside the dairy’s entrance, which of itself was a sadness and constant reminder of Branwen. The Cow’s name had been Marigold. The milkers wept. The Horses were agitated in their stables. A Hound who visited us from a nearby village had formed a bond with Branwen in the short Time of her life here. The Hound wailed at her grave until his owner came to bring him home. But he kept coming back. Even my Bees felt the heaviness. They were quiet and listless. You see, none of us had ever experienced anything like this before. In our known history, no one had ever taken their own life here.
Oh, it is said that Time out of memory ago, the Harvest Kings, Human males, had been Sacrificed at the Grain Harvest Festivals, but that was a very long Time ago. And besides, every Harvest King had been a willing and honoured Sacrifice to the Earth Mother – a joyful thing, not a waste of life for sadness sake, as was Branwen’s.
Even the weather was unusual. It was so hot and humid, so stifling, that our Harvesters had not enough stamina to complete their tasks, and so, some of the Grain and early Apples withered and rotted in the fields and orchards. The green lands began to turn brown, but of course, I knew it was the same in all the lands around us, as well. The decline of all around us was not caused by Branwen’s Death. It could not be, could it? But still it added to the general ill mood.
As I have said, I did not contact the Queen – but Arthur insisted that she attend Branwen’s burial. He sent a heavy guard and a messenger to fetch her here by royal command. She could not refuse on penalty of treason! Her standing on our blessed land made everything even worse. I spoke not a word to her. Arthur asked me to acknowledge her, but I said I would only under his royal command. He smiled, stroked my hair and said, “Do as you will, Morgan. Never will I command anything of you.”
So I did as I would, not even sharing eye contact with her. Once, though, I snuck a glance at her face as she stood behind Branwen’s open grave. When they lowered the box that held Branwen’s body into the hole, the Queen stood dry eyed and blank faced. The moment it was over, she turned to Arthur and sarcastically said, “May I go now?”
My kind hearted Bear could not believe it. Branwen had been her lifelong friend and devoted lover. His face grew stern and cold, something I had only seen twice before in him. He said, “Go then, never let me see your face again!”
To my knowledge, that was the last Time Arthur and Gwenyfar ever spoke to each other.
This one Time, Arthur’s guard had not included Bedwyr. Bedwyr held hatred to his core toward Gwenyfar – for his Love of Arthur.
Bedwyr was a powerful Seer and Magician, raised and taught by Igraine, my Mother. Something told me that he was prudent in his absence, so as to keep his Spirit unstained by his Death wish toward Gwenyfar. I am sure we all tried to keep our thoughts pure, but ironically on the ride back to her small Monastery; Gwenyfar’s Horse shied, stumbled, and fell upon her. Oh, she did not die, but lived with deformity and pain for the rest of her life.
The next Day Lady Vivianne called a council with all Initiates of our Order. She and the rest of the nine Mothers had planned a great cleansing Ritual, which we were all to participate in. Her proclamation was: “This needs be done; to cast out and away from the land – and all who inhabit Her – the dismal forces of sadness, anger, confusion, and despair, so that the Order can be restored to balance and once again be filled with the Spirits of joy.”
Although this Ritual would not be held as being of great importance in the years to come, it is a memory – Sacred and dear to my heart – for which reason I write of it here in these histories.
Perhaps I should begin by sharing my observations of Magic workers in many other cultures. It seems to me that with most, the more passionately they try to banish or rid themselves of some evil, unhealthy, or dangerous forces – or as we perceive them, Spirits – the more angrily, puffed up, and loudly they command these to be GONE! They hold their breath, tense up every muscle in their bodies, and then expel all of their powers in one great BOOM! –
such as does an Archer releasing an arrow held too long for the aim – believing that the surge of power will force the desired action to occur. I have heard that some rant and rave and threaten in very dramatic gestures, shaking their fists, staffs, bells, or swords to the Four Winds – proclaiming an eternally dreadful outcome for the Spirits who refuse to leave. Oh, but listen to my mocking... My apologies.
“Remember to respect all paths, Morgan…” came a vague breath whispering into my ears.
I mean no disrespect to my peers and I cannot say with certainty that they do not gain the desired results in their works. But it has come down to us, from our Ancestors, that there is a simpler way.
You see, our tradition teaches that the great Astronomers who came here from our Motherland discerned that it is not the Sun Mother who traverses the Day and Night sky, but rather it is that the Earth Mother dances a spiral dance, so elusively and gracefully around the Sun that we cannot detect her motion.
Just so, does it look to us, when the White Moon Goddess arches the Sky from our left to right if we are facing South, that her dance is so subtly slow, that we can watch Her moving betwixt Trees and Hills to beyond the horizon; always moving vaguely in the same direction as does the Sun. This is all because the sphere of our Earth spins in a widdershins direction.
This may all be very confusing, beca
use people in many other lands have very different understandings of the Cosmos than we. Perhaps, one Day in the future, when someone – like you – is reading these histories, these scientific observations will be recognized as truth and understood by everyone.
But back to our Magic making...
A component of raising Magical or any energy is friction – such as rubbing two sticks together to spark a flame – or how your hands will warm on a Winter’s Night when you rub them together, back and forth in hard and swift motion. Friction equals building energy. Energy “changes” things; which equals Creation. Expansion is the male polarity of the Cosmos – the “breathing out,” the pushing force – hence, manifestation or the coming into form.
But the allowing of all things to go with the natural flow – not against it – is the female polarity. It is the Cosmos’ “breathing in,” “the contraction,” “the draw,” the” pull,” the “reception.”
Heat is always drawn into the absence of heat. When you touch your cool hand to the Fire, heat will be drawn into your hand, burning you. It will not be that your hand will cool the Fire.
Perhaps I am saying too much of things that may never be understood, accepted, or proven, but these things are our teachings. It is from this science that we obtain the understanding of how to use the natural currents of the Earth – and all within Her – to do our Magics of the making, Creation, the coming into form – or the breaking, destruction, the coming un-done.
So, when we wish to banish ill forces or Spirits, we do not create the friction that is necessary when we wish to create something – bringing it into form. No, we simply move with the flow and motion of the Earth. We circle, we glide, we dance – always widdershins, drawing these energies with our ‘dance,’ allowing them to spiral with the irresistible natural widdershins flow of Earth. No huffing and puffing and anger and threatening, which only feeds these unwanted forces with the energies they thrive upon. We simply deplete them; drawing them down into the Mother. We release them.
Voices of the Stars Page 46
