Voices of the Stars

by Rowena Whaling

  Life rolled by from one Ritual to another, one season to another, one year to another – the great wheel of Creation turning.

  To my surprise our Order kept growing. I had thought it would dwindle like the ambition and the joy of our people and as had my life. Oh, I still had my beloved Bees to work with and once in a great while the folk of my Mother’s Tribe would visit. My sisters and brothers of the Order still sang and danced the Fires at Night, told the legends of our Ancestors and gossiped – all for our common pleasures. Each Day was filled with the same work of running the monastic business and keeping everything in good order and repair. Each morning, without fail, I would spend an hour by Arthur’s side, sharing with him the plans of the Day. Then, when my duties had been accomplished for that Day, I would go again every evening to be with Arthur, to give him the Sacred drops of the Water and honey and to En-chant the wool I would spin into yarn, always telling him of my Day. So, on and on, had many years of Time passed.

  I thought never to hear of Nimue again. But, eventfully, on one glorious blue-Skied Day, near the Rites of Summer’s Beginning – the season of the Heiros Gamos – amidst the bustling of preparations for one of our biggest Festivals, another courier arrived.

  It was Owen, Nimue’s old lover and companion – of what seemed all so long ago. I could not believe my eyes. Nimue and Owen had always remained friends, this I knew, but I had not seen or heard from him in... I cannot remember how long. He had come to bring another letter from Nimue.

  “It is years old. It came to be in my hand, passed on by the Old Dark Tribesmen – your people.” He blushed as if the term would offend me.

  “Yes, yes, go on,” I said, a little more impatiently than I meant to.

  “How they finally found me and gave it to me is unbelievable. My home is in the Eastern lands, South of old Hengist’s Kingdom – near no city. There – on a farm, with my wife, children, and grandchildren I live peacefully. But find me they did, after three years of passing it intact, undamaged and unopened from Tribal village to village. No one had broken the wax seal, as you see. The condition of it is almost perfect. It had come from an Island far to the North of the mainland, in the land of the Picti. How this found its way to me and now to you...” His voice trailed away.

  I suppose he saw the hungry look in my eyes to hold and read it. He handed it to me.

  Nimue told of a wondrous journey Northward. The first thing she had done – as she had set out to do – was to honour Bronte’s grave and to relive, as best she could, the beauty of Gwyddion’s experience there, to touch the marked Stones, to walk upon the very soil as had the company of travelers and The Merlin’s apprentice. She wrote:

  “In this country, there are no Roman roads or mile markers. The last evidence I passed that showed Rome had ever existed is what is left of Hadrian’s wall – a failed endeavour at best. Already one can see houses, barns, and Wells, built using the Stones of the wall. One Day perhaps it will vanish entirely. This country and its people are virgin. They stand on their own – fiercely independent and proud of their blood ties.

  But I am welcomed amoung the Picti as, in fact, are many Clansmen who have peacefully mingled with them, even intermarrying and bringing forth a new blending of language and customs. Mostly these marriages are in the Southern lands of the Picti, of course. But let any others come as worrying invaders and the Picti will slaughter them – for such is their honour and their sense of the Sacredness of “place” and of “blood.”

  As I have told you, Morgan, these people – who are my brethren of Spirit and heart – are powerfully Magical. And, although primitive – or because of this – are more aware, as a race, than any other people I have experienced. They have only an oral tradition, no Mystery Schools or Universities, just the living counsel of the wisest and most gifted ones amoung them. You see, Morgan, with no written tradition – just as the do Druids, yet differently because of their refusal of an organized hierarchy – they must learn and repeat their Mysteries and Myths in the presence of their Elders. No mistake is allowed in their exact pronunciation – not even in their inflection, tempo, and tone. But more than this, they remember them by repeating and quoting them to their kindred and children in every endeavour of their daily lives. Always are they aware of what the Gods did and said “In the beginning.” They live by their strongly held beliefs.

  As it is amoung our Southern Clans and Tribes, Christian Monks have taken to writing their histories, Myths, and Sacred Poetry, but they take away or add to them as suits their Christian perspective. Even though many of these Monks are still followers of Pelagian ideas – in fact, many Monks are really old Druids in new robes and head shavings – because of an ever more centralized power structure in their Church they must be very careful of what they write. In fact, I have heard that soon all such writings will have to be approved and edited by their superiors.

  I heard it said in my Grandmother’s court, that all history is written by the conquerors. Even though Rome never conquered the North Tribes, the Church has begun their infiltration – not that there are many Christians, for in fact there are but a few. But, these Priests and Monks are literate – they hold the power of the quill. I have seen that your histories, Morgan, will remain untouched. This is why I add my words to them.

  As I am on the subject of Christians, there is a man I wish to tell you about. I learned of him on my travels Westward after helping Bronte’s village and paying honour to her grave. His name was Columba. It is told that he was a student of a famous Abbot from the lands of the Eire, named Finnian, who founded a large Monastery and school there. As it happened, Columba had a bloody disagreement with his mentor in which tempers rose to the point of violence and where many men died. Columba, as a penance, was banished from Eire to Pictland. No doubt Finnian thought this to be a Death sentence for Columba. Columba was told he could bring twelve of his brothers with him and that he could only return when he had completely converted, as they say, one soul to Christianity for each man killed in their dispute.

  So Columba and his fleshly brother, Oran, came along with eleven others to build and establish an Abbey Church and Monastery – albeit quite a small one – on the Isle of Iona, which lies off the West coast of the Isle of Mull. They work diligently, going from farm to farm and village to village to bring “the way of the truth” to the Picti. So charismatic and kind was Columba that soon there were several followers. Some even left the Old Gods to serve Yeshua, who Columba calls Jesus, and the cross.

  People tell that Oran sacrificed himself because Columba wanted to consecrate the building of their Monastery with a burial and somehow it was deemed necessary for someone to be buried alive. So, after a lengthy dispute with his brother about the nature of Heaven and Hell, Oran descended alive into a pit, which was then filled in with dirt. After twenty Days, the pit was opened and when they uncovered Oran’s head, it spoke to them, saying, “Heaven is not what it is said to be, Hell is not what it is said to be. The saved are not forever happy. The damned are not forever lost.”

  But upon hearing this, Columba was convinced that a demon had possessed his brother and quickly had him buried again.

  Hmmm, I wonder...

  Still other stories are sung that it was his head alone that was buried. Yet others say that after being buried whole for twenty Days, he was dug up fully awake and filled with the Mysteries, speaking prophecies – all through the grace of God – and at this, Oran was embraced back into the Love of his brother.

  But in the end, Columba was killed for his trouble. It is said that not long before his Death he called Christ his ‘Druid.’ He did predict the hour of his own Death. Although most say that a painted warring party stormed the Church and laid him open, others say he fell peacefully into the arms of Death in his Church – in the presence of the cross, his God’s Spirit, and his Monastic brothers. Who knows which stories are true, if any? Still their legend grows and many powerful, Magical acts are attributed to Columba – as well as to his brothe
r Oran.

  Curious, I went to visit Columba’s Church, Morgan, and I will tell you this – I did feel the Divine presence of Love there. I think that he must have been a very good man – regardless of the stories – with nothing but good intentions. I do not believe a man like that would bury his own brother alive. His small group of brethren slowly grows on Iona.

  While there on the Islands I visited all of the great Stone monuments and observatories. My very favourite is the White Lady’s Dance, where one Night every fourteenth year, when the Full Moon’s arch across the Sky moves just above the horizon, She “dances” between a long row of Standing Stones high upon a ridge. When this Night comes, She shows her full beauty off and on, by hiding behind each Stone, then peeking out again – over and over. I, of course, waited there in that territory to see this beautiful phenomenon. The Fates blessed me in that I had only to wait less than a year.

  I saw all of the Western Islands in my travels – ever Northward I went through the mainland and beyond, to what was to be my final destination – the Isles of Orkney.

  I live on the Southwestern coast of the second largest Island – which Island lies just to the North of the largest one. It is from here that I am writing to you of my adventures.

  This is a land of drama. The stark terrain, the eerie light, the Sea – which is at once breathtakingly beautiful and overwhelmingly, terrifyingly alive with Her undulating force of motion – seemingly posturing Herself to engulf the whole world in Her dark and restless depths.

  In Summer it is Daylight almost the whole Day and evening long, with but a very short twilight and no true darkness at all. In Winter it is a harsh, freezing, and gale-ridden place, with very few hours of light and a long Night of darkness. Yet, I Love the Winter best because of the frequent show of the phantastical Lights above the horizon. To me, the exquisite display of the Lights is the great celestial Goddess’ way of allowing us to see the glory of Her eyes watching from the darkness. Out of the bounty of Her unquestioning Love, we catch glimpses – momentary, infinitesimal flashes of revelation and Love from them. I pray that she never in this lifetime Loves me enough to reveal herself completely – for I would surely die and be absorbed into nothingness if I were to look fully into the eternity of those eyes and thus be forever gone from this Earth. I do not wish to leave this Earth, which I so dearly Love. Not yet – for there is one more great and wonderful work for me to fulfill in this lifetime.

  Oh, perhaps I am overmuch influenced by my surroundings, in that I have become so poetic.

  But I have digressed. We are all getting older, are we not, my sister?

  I have yet to see a Tree on this Island – it is so strange. But there are many beautiful flowers and much good vegetation to eat and of course, many Fish, too. No one ever goes hungry here, for there are so few people and much abundance. There are many Birds and other wildlife too. At Times the shores are covered with Seals. Funny Creatures are they, but with an apparent, devoted sense of family. Oh, I could go on and on.

  You will be astonished to hear that I live in a Stone house. This house stands upon the Southwestern coast, at Water’s edge, but because of its strong and thick Stone walls – and that it is mostly buried in the ground – it is quite sheltered from the Winds. Of course, it was not built for me, but has been here for some long centuries past. I heard of it from a Seer I had met in the first Moon’s Dance of my being here. She lived in the house and said that she welcomed us to live with her.

  Oh, yes, I said ‘us’ – a white Wolf has become my constant companion. To tell you how he came into my life, I must speak of Bronte once more.

  My beloved Gwyddion had spoken of her so often, always with a fond, sweet sadness. “So young was she. We buried her by the Northernmost Stone just outside the outer ring of the Stones at Croft Moraig.”

  The site is ancient, and still powerful. The cups, or indentations, on some of the Stones must have had great importance, but who can know now of what or why.

  I, of course, knew of where Gwyddion had spoken, for he had described the way of getting there many Times.

  “It lies close to the West coast of Alba, near to the town of Obar Pheallaidh. Traveling Northward from Eidyn – the town closest to Table Rock, where was Bronte’s home – toward the old Picti town of Pert, there is an ancient trade path. Arthur, the Companions, Bronte, and I travelled upon this until we came to Pert. Then we veered North-Northwestward from there, still following the path until it turns due Westward. We stopped at a small village to ask the way to Obar Pheallaidh. A good neighbor led us to the great double horseshoe of Standing Stones. It took four to five Days by Horse for the entire journey”.

  He said that we should go there together one Day. So, there I went.

  Sitting upon her grave... – what an amazing feeling it was to be closer to Gwyddion through Bronte. Whilst there, I was at peace. I closed my eyes and said, “Bronte – the Bestower – are you the bestower of this peace I feel, as well? How I wish I had known you. Come back, sweet child. The Voices of the Stars told that you have a great work to do. ‘Saoirse,’ claim your freedom soon...”

  I have added these written words to your letter Morgan, so that in case the site of her burial has not been recorded in your histories, it may be known and remembered.

  A Day’s walk or two hours on Horse, from Croft Moraig, there is another smaller circle of four Standing Stones, with one very large one at the North-Northeastern end of the circle. Gwyddion had told me that whenever we went to Croft Moraig we should also visit it. So I did. It is so peaceful there. A sweet kind of peace, as if the Stones are Elves, dressed up as Stones. I remember thinking, “I wonder if these Stones are Star aligned. Had this perhaps been a grave, too?”

  I tied my Horse to a small Oak Tree growing right near the center of the Circle, then laid myself down to a beautiful sleep.

  Gwyddion came to me there in a Dream of reassurance. “I will Love you forever and we will meet again,” said he. When I awoke, still in the wonder of that tiny Circle on its small Mound, I thought that I wished I could just stay there until my flesh was absorbed by the green. I remember thinking, “This might just be my favourite place in all the Earth!”

  The next Night, while still there, I fell to sleep again within the ring of Stones, beneath the midnight blue Sky. I felt many Spirits encircling and comforting me. When I awoke, I walked in the chill Dawn. A thick Mist covered the ground, which was usual there. Someone or something stirred just behind me. I jerked quickly with my heart pounding and my knife at the ready. I could barely see him. All white, in the white Mist, lying near to me... was a young Wolf with golden green eyes. He stood up quickly, but with no harm intended toward me – I had startled him too. He was a bit shy at first, but I stooped down to his level and called to him in a soothing voice. He came right to me to lick my hand. That was it, Morgan. He travels now with me – my faithful companion. His name is Mist.

  As for my Orkney home – I am happy here. Here I feel closest to the Gods. The Sea has become my Mother – all-be-Her dark at Times – and the cold North Wind is my brother.

  Perhaps you will come to visit me in your sleep or Visions sometimes? I would like that very much.

  My dear Morgan, as I sit here in the in the long twilight writing to you, I know that all life is a gift and a wonder and that peace and contentment cannot be found without – for it dwells within.

  These are probably the last words you will hear from me. Have strength, my sister. We will meet again in the Summerlands, if not sooner.

  May the GREAT GODDESS always keep you in her Love.

  Nimue...”

  Owen had waited so quietly that I had forgotten his presence. Perhaps I am getting old. When I had finished reading, he made a sound in his throat like “a-hem.”

  “Oh, yes, I am sorry – I forget myself. Sit here with me by the hearth. Will you have some mead? Tell me of your family and how your life has been.”

  “Yes, Lady Morgan. But first, there is a reas
on that the Old Tribes came to fetch me. You see, long ago, Nimue entrusted me with the true genealogies of her Grandmother, Queen Vivianne, of Merovech’s Kingdom, and it is even more complete than that which Nimue gave to her Mother. Its tendrils reach deep within the royal families of many lands – here and on the Continent. Nimue sent word to me to bring them to you, to use as you see fit.

  “This is and will always be controversial information. You must choose the value or harm of bringing this knowledge to light”

  Chapter 42

  Queen of the Bees

  Morgan

  Nineteen years after the final battle, the Death of Mordred, and the ruining of Arthur’s alliance, I began to hear disturbing rumours again. These were of sightings of Morganna Le Faye – returned from oblivion, arisen to the land of the living!

  “Cloaked through Woods and villages, she walks in silence, my Lady, young and beautiful as she was when she vanished.”

  “And they say she is even more powerful in Magic than before.”

  “She did not walk by my door, she floated in the Air.”

  “She felled an ancient Oak by calling a bolt of lightening down upon it.”

  “This is ridiculous” – thought I. “Superstitious people!” Yet I wondered what prompted them to these tales.

  Why... she would be seventy-three years old by now. Most of the generation who were old enough to remember the Days of Arthur’s crowning and of Morganna’s youthful beauty are long dead, so how can they compare? Yet these stories persisted.

  One bright afternoon, while I was with my Bees, one of the brothers of our Order came running up the Hill toward me.

  “My Lady,” said he – puffing and holding side for the stitch in it – “a courier has arrived. This man says that he has come with a message from your sister.”

  “My sister? Morganna?!”

  “Yes, my Lady.”

  “Well, let him come, then.”