Daughter of Destiny

by Evelina, Nicole

  “Where is he anyway?” asked a man whose name I did not know. “It is unlike any son of Lothian to miss a celebration.”

  We continued on, the boys harassing the girls like children and making jokes that on any other day would have been considered lewd. From time to time, a couple lingered behind to steal a few kisses or inspect a grove or meadow and claim it as their own for later in the night.

  We were nearing the apple orchards when we crossed paths with another group, Aggrivane among them. He smiled when he saw me and motioned me off the path into a small stand of trees. I followed in breathless anticipation, palms sweaty, heart thumping.

  When we were alone, he drew me toward him. I ran my fingers through the thick mass of dark curls at the base of his neck and smiled, breathing in his scent. It took me a moment to notice there was something in his right hand. A golden arrow with a crystal tip shimmered as the wind waved the branches overhead. It was his prize as second.

  “I have made my choice,” he whispered into my hair, kissing the top of my head.

  “And I, mine.” I melted into his arms, reveling in a state of pure bliss.

  An hour later, the sun was high overhead. The wind had stilled, holding its breath in imitation of the crowd.

  At the center of the clearing, the two opponents stood, facing one another on the axis of a great circle drawn in the dirt. On one side stood the morning’s victor, a large man who had been transformed into the Oak King, naked save for a loincloth the color of tree bark and the oak leaves twined in his yellow hair. Tiny painted vines and leaves wound their way around his sinuous flesh, tracing the contours of toned muscle in his arms, legs, and torso. His face had been painted green, so his identity was unknown to all but a select few.

  Across from him, sweating in fur as white as snow, was the Holly King, a crown of prickly green leaves and bright red berries upon his brow. Merlin, being the last man to hold the office of Sacred King, fulfilled this role. Just as each year light conquered darkness, so too would this newcomer have to defeat him in order to claim the favor of the Goddess and restore the balance of power in the heavens and on the earth.

  As I stood at the edge of the circle, Aggrivane’s arms protectively encircling me, I caught a whiff of roasting flesh from the stag sacrificed by the Druids, our food at the feast that would follow. I shivered, suddenly aware of the pungent reminder that although this battle was mock, it served a great significance in the cycle of life and death.

  Argante stood in the circle between the two men, cloaked in silver from head to toe, the goddess of the stars who directed the wheel of time and decreed all things. She attentively watched the midday sky, waiting for the precise moment between day and night when all things hung in perfect balance.

  Looking at her now, I could see no trace of the illness that had kept her confined to her hut the last several weeks. Worried that the ritual might further damage Argante’s health, Viviane had asked to take her place, but Argante insisted on fulfilling the role that was her due as Lady of the Lake.

  Soundlessly, she gave the signal and glided out of the circle. The two men began to shift, testing one another as in a real duel. As prescribed by the ancient ritual, each man was armed only with a staff made of the wood whose spirit he embodied. Neither was allowed to cross his half of the circle, for it represented the light and dark halves of the year, which twice annually stood in equilibrium but never overlapped.

  The combatants poked at one another with their staffs until they reached the center of the circle. Then their branches crossed, crackling and popping as each tried to overtake the other. The sound brought back memories of a forgotten life—a time in my youth when the young boys and I would practice fencing with blunted wooden swords under my mother’s direction.

  They danced along the center line, bobbing and weaving to avoid each other’s swings, while trying to find the weakness in the other, the opportunity to overpower. It did not take long for the stalwart Oak King to topple the lithe Holly King, though Merlin was a much better fighter than I had anticipated. He had a speed and skill belied by his size. Still, that was not of much consequence when he lay supine on the ground, the Oak King’s foot resting lightly on his throat.

  “The Holly King has died! The Oak King is reborn! The light ascends once again!”

  The cry echoed through the isle as the victor helped Merlin to his feet. The time for ritual drama was at an end; the time for celebration had begun.

  In the valley at the foot of the Tor, hundreds of bonfires lit up the night, surrounded by circles of merry priestesses in pale blue ritual robes, Druids in white and royal blue, and nobles loyal to the ancient ways spanning every color in between. Fire was everywhere. It lit up the night and ignited the spirits of the revelers. A handful of men and women made their way through the crowd, twirling staffs with blazing tips, while some brave souls were rolling fire wheels down the hillside into the lake.

  Everywhere drums echoed the heartbeat of the earth, whipping us into an ecstasy of wild abandon. Laughter and lively conversation mingled with smoke and the intoxicating scent of ritual herbs, a potion of joy carried on the warm night breeze. A makeshift musical troupe of harpists, pipers, drummers, and singers gathered to play traditional songs of the twelve ancient tribes. Some of the more intoxicated revelers were singing along, while the more sober conversed, told off-color stories, or continued the luck-bestowing tradition of jumping over the smoldering embers from the fire that had cooked the ritual meal.

  In the center of the valley was the largest fire, built of the nine sacred woods. Around it, the Archdruid, the Lady of the Lake, Viviane, Morgan, and the Sacred King sat, breaking their ritual fast on the flesh of the fallen stag. The shadows in which he sat made it difficult for me to see the Sacred King clearly, but I could tell that he was now dressed in animal pelts and his face was painted with sacred markings.

  While I was watching them, grateful to have claimed Aggrivane as my own but still a tiny bit jealous of Morgan, the drummers shifted to a lively tune. Aggrivane tossed off his cloak and grabbed my hand, easily whisking me to my feet. I laughed and stumbled as he pulled me toward the center of the festivities and we joined a train of dancers whirling between the bonfires. I lifted my skirts in my right hand and struggled to hold on to his with my left as we spun between the bonfires in a dizzying dance of freedom. Faces swirled past—Mona, Grainne, Rowena, Druids I had come to recognize but whose names I did not know—each one seemed more joyous than the last. Finally, the song came to an end, and Aggrivane scooped me up, breathless, in his arms.

  “Look.” He pointed at the main fire. “The Sacred Marriage is about to begin.”

  The drums ended on a sharp beat, and silence settled over the valley. The high note of a bell rang out, and the Virgin Queen was led forward by the Lady of the Lake. I would not have guessed it to be Morgan had I not already known. Her face was hidden from view by a gauzy white veil, but her hair flowed softly over her shoulders, blazing brighter than the bonfires, and upon her head rested a crown of spring flowers. A flowing white skirt concealed her thighs from view, but her breasts remained bare, revealing that each of her nipples and her navel had been adorned with paint in the shape of a small blue spiral. After a few instructive words from Argante, she stood barefoot before her consort.

  She bestowed her blessing upon the Sacred King, anointing him with the blood of the stag and investing him with the sacred sword of Avalon, the first of the treasures to be returned to the outside world, according to the Goddess’s decree. He, in turn, gave her the lingering kiss of knowing, which signaled the start of the most sacred part of the evening.

  The couple was blocked from my sight as Merlin and Argante stood in front of them, conducting the rest of the ritual in secret. I could only guess that what was taking place was a magnified version of the ritual the spectators were about to perform in pairs. After the sacred couple was led off to the area reserved for their union, other pairs followed suit, fanning off to secluded
groves, caves, and other private areas across the island.

  Aggrivane led me by the hand down through the orchard along a winding path, his boots making soft indentations in the dirt in front of me. The apple blossoms breathed their perfume into the air as we passed. My heartbeat quickened with each step.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  Aggrivane chuckled but did not reply.

  He led me to a small copse of dense oak trees. Their base formed a nearly perfect circle, roots intertwining deep in the ground beneath. A carpet of soft moss blanketed the base, nurtured by the shade of the branches above. Moonlight filtered down through the leaves, throwing glittering shadows before us.

  The grove would have been breathtaking alone, but it had been decorated for the feast. Strings of white hawthorn blossoms hung from the lowest branches overhead, and a rainbow of wildflower petals were strewn among the moss and ferns, making the grove appear much like a faerie queen’s bridal bower.

  “I found this place not long after we arrived to await the firedrake,” Aggrivane explained. “It has been my own personal paradise. I had no way of knowing if you would say yes, but I wanted to make it special, just in case.” He scratched the back of his neck nervously as he spoke.

  “It is beautiful.” I could say no more, emotion choking my voice. That he would do something so thoughtful reassured me that whatever passed between us tonight would be something much greater than lust incited by the festival.

  Aggrivane cocked his head to the side as the tempo of the far-off drums shifted. They were softer now, but somehow more insistent. He removed his cloak and laid it on the ground before pulling me to him and cupping my cheek in his hand. I was suddenly paralyzed with nerves, but as I gazed in to his eyes, I knew I was safe.

  The thrum of ritual became like a dance as we moved ever closer, drawn in by the steady musical pounding and the pulsing of blood in our veins. His fingertips sent shivers up my spine as he ran them up the length of my body, from hips to shoulders, bringing the fabric of my dress along with them. I reached out a shaking hand to untie his belt and remove his clothing, aided by his more knowledgeable hands.

  For a moment, we simply stood, marveling at the sight of one another. Then Aggrivane took a small step toward me, closing the gap between us. Gently, he brushed his lips against my skin in the sacred triune kiss, lightly touching the crescent on my brow, pausing to taste my lips, and trailing down to my heart.

  I ran my fingers through his hair, every nerve begging him to remain there, to do what he willed. But mindful of my sovereignty, he looked up, wide eyes seeking permission to continue. I smiled softly and nodded, sending a private prayer to the Goddess to guide me as I trod unknown paths.

  His lips closed on my breast, and I arched my back in unexpected pleasure, grateful for the circle of his arms around my hips to keep me upright. As if sensing my thoughts, Aggrivane slowly eased me to the ground, where his cloak waited to enfold me.

  He eased himself down on top of me, slowly tracing his way down my body with a litany of kisses and delicate caresses, each one increasing my longing. As the heat of his skin seeped into mine, I lost all sense of space and time, until the boundaries between us melted away.

  A quick stab of pain followed as the veil within me was rent and we became one with the heavens and the earth. He was the velvet black of midnight enfolding and embracing me. I was the silver moon that called the tides of our joining and lit up his darkness. Together, we feverishly fought against the coming dawn, only too aware it would tear us apart forever.

  Far too soon, the pale light of morning began to erase the night. We clung to each other, shivering, unwilling to do what must be done. The ecstasy of the festival had long since faded, and with it, the surety of divine expansiveness. I keenly felt the insignificance of my humanity, how small and helpless I was in the face of the cruel fate that befell all couples of the festival fires.

  In the distance, the low moan of the Druids’ horn broke the silence.

  “They are calling me,” Aggrivane whispered, lips grazing my cheek.

  “Calling us to part.” I said what he did not. Then I kissed him slowly, imparting my unspoken emotions in that single act.

  The horn sounded a second time, and Aggrivane reluctantly pulled away.

  “Do you see that?” He pointed toward the eastern sky, where a single star still glowed with the fierce brilliance of midnight. “That’s the morning star, named by the Greeks for the goddess of love. When you see it, think of me and I will think of you.”

  “No.” I shook my head, wondering how many other lovers were now making that same pledge. “That star is the herald of the dawn that now takes you from me. I don’t wish to relive this pain, nor should you. I will think of you on the rising of its counterpart, the one that signals the coming darkness, for it was under that starry veil our love was conceived and consummated.”

  He held my hands between his and kissed them. “My love, most of the year they are one and the same star. Just as we cannot think of one another without remembering our parting, neither can they be separated. But as you will it, so shall it be. I will think of you when the stars emerge from their daylight retreat.”

  With one last kiss, he was gone and I was alone in my despair, certain this moment was the worst I would ever experience.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  One full moon cycle later, I watched the light slowly drain from the sky as I traversed the seven rings of the Tor with the other women of Avalon. I clung to Aggrivane’s parting words as though they would bring him back to me. I was supposed to be thinking of the ritual, but instead I sought out the night star, as I would every night until the end of time.

  “Airanrhod, Branwen, Brigid, Rhiannon, Cerridwen, Great Mother,” the priestesses uttered in rhythmic unison. The chant echoed off the terraced side of the Tor as we wound our way in and out of its turns, slowly ascending.

  “Hear us,” responded the acolytes.

  The wood chips lining the path crackled underfoot as we passed. We moved like the tide, first closer and then farther away from our destination, which was the summit of the Tor, the center of the labyrinth. Unlike a maze, it had no dead ends or trickery—only a beginning and an end. The complex journey of ascent that began our ritual was meant to free our minds of all care and focus our spirits. When we descended at the close, it would slowly release us from our spiritual state and bring us back to the world.

  I pushed all thoughts of Aggrivane from my mind and concentrated on my breathing. Regardless of my mood or mindset when I entered the gate, I always found peace along the way. This walking meditation had been one of the few ways I had found solace during my early days in Avalon. To this day, I marveled at how symbolic the pattern was. As in life, the farther I seemed from the goal, the closer I was, and when I thought it lie just around the next bend, I was at the opposite point.

  “Airanrhod, Branwen, Brigid, Rhiannon, Cerridwen, Great Mother,” we called.

  “Hear us,” the younger ones replied.

  “Airanrhod, Branwen, Brigid, Rhiannon, Cerridwen, Great Mother.”

  “Hear us.”

  I gradually fell under the spell of the chant and lost the ability to distinguish my own voice from the rest. Around me, the rosemary, lavender, and night-blooming flowers that clung precariously to the side of the Tor’s rings exhaled their fragrance, coaxed by a gentle nudge from the hem of our gowns. Above, the rotund Honey Moon ruled the clear night sky, sparkling stars surrounding it like dutiful courtiers.

  I was so absorbed in the procession that I scarcely noticed when we reached the top.

  Across the circle, Morgan’s copper hair reflected the silver moonlight with an odd luminosity. By now it was clear she was not with child as was hoped. Still, Argante said the Sacred Marriage was not a failure; she insisted the Goddess had a greater purpose in mind.

  Four of the women raised their arms to honor the elements, then Viviane recited the sacred prayer to the Goddess of the moon. As
her last words died out, the wind stirred, fanning the flames of the ritual fire toward the heavens. Argante gave the signal. It was time for the invocation.

  Viviane stepped forward and assumed the position at the center of the circle normally occupied by Argante. This was the first time in anyone’s memory that Argante had not acted as the mouthpiece of the Goddess. It was not a good a sign. Argante’s lingering illness—the one that had taken hold before Beltane—had progressed to the point that she had been carried up the Tor on a litter. She was far too weak to withstand such powerful forces, so Viviane performed the ritual in her stead.

  Viviane faced the moon. Morgan and I moved to flank each of her sides, serving as attendants to her every need. Viviane raised her arms, closed her eyes, and the air around her grew perfectly still, as if time had stopped. An ancient chant passed her lips in a language of time immemorial, and her head tilted back as her body received the spirit of the Goddess. Morgan and I braced both of her shoulders, but Viviane shrugged away our hands, indicating she needed no assistance. Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned, regarding each priestess with distant eyes.

  “Great Mother, may your wisdom forever guide us.” Argante leaned heavily on her cane as she posed the first of the ritual questions to the Goddess. “What say you of this land?”

  “The red dragon is poised to return to the realm of spirit, but another shall succeed him. The hallowed one has received the blessing of the land, and so shall it prosper under his guidance. Although malevolent forces threaten from without, the bear shall be victorious and all shall bow at the sound of his name.” The voice that issued from Viviane’s mouth was not her own, but one like liquid silver.