by Kit Berry
In Maizie’s cottage, Yul and his family lived like true Villagers and had never been happier. Sylvie and Maizie re-negotiated the delicate balance between them, for the focus had shifted since Yul’s return. He was now the man of the household, coming home every day after his stock-taking and work around the estate, to find an adoring wife, doting mother and excited daughters all waiting expectantly for him. Sylvie bloomed in a way not seen since her and Yul’s early days together, before they went off to study in the Outside World and their subsequent handfasting. Despite her blonde hair, she’d become a traditional Villager right down to the old leather boots and wicker basket, and she loved every minute of it.
As her time approached, she bowed out of most of her duties at the Hall, knowing that the Board of Trustees were managing perfectly well without her. It would be at least six months and probably a full year until everything was ready to welcome the first patients to the healing centre, as the building works and upgrading of facilities required were extensive. Sylvie was excited at the prospect of her dream becoming reality, but for the immediate future all she really wanted was to focus on her husband and family. The baby inside grew rapidly and she accepted her restricted mobility with serenity. It was good to have Maizie there to run the household, enabling Sylvie to relax in the final stages of pregnancy and enjoy her husband’s attentive devotion.
Yul had become a man she hadn’t seen before. Her dark boy, eager and passionate, had never quite overcome his impetuosity and impatience. There’d always been an edge to him that demanded attention and insisted on having the upper hand. But now he’d lost the sharpness of immaturity and youthful arrogance, and become honed into something smooth and well-tempered, a man of gentleness and strength, humility and authority. No longer did he need to prove himself at every opportunity. He listened, he attended, he cared for not only his wife and little girls, but his wider family and the community around him. At the age of thirty he’d grown up, and Sylvie had never known such happiness and contentment. Life was so very sweet.
Beltane came and with it the Dark Moon, so the traditional gathering of women in the Barn didn’t happen. Yul was a virile Green Man and Sylvie the beautiful May Queen, a role she really hadn’t wanted. But she’d been persuaded to take it on one last time, as she’d be thirty this summer and perhaps too matronly after that. She was very heavily pregnant and the baby was due in about a week or so. She felt a little incongruous dressed in white, with a headdress of hawthorn-blossom and bluebells sitting on her long blonde hair. Yul kissed her doubts away and assured her that rather than a young girl on the cusp of woman-hood, she was a radiant and true representation of blooming female fecundity.
The sun rose and Rufus up on the May Sister stone lit the Bel Fire. Yul received a dowsing of Green Magic such as he’d never before experienced, even in his wild youth. He felt himself lift slightly from the stone, his great wreath of oak leaves bristling with the energy that shot through him. Tears smudged the green paint as he thanked the Goddess for blessing him once again with her gift. Standing silently next to Leveret, Magpie watched and noted the very moving sight of the Green Man receiving the earth energy at Beltane sunrise. He planned to paint a companion to the moondance picture he’d done last year for Sylvie, which now hung on the massive staircase in the Hall for everyone to see and admire. He knew as he watched Yul that this was the perfect scene, and his differently-wired brain recorded every detail.
The Dance of the Staves, the Maidens’ Maypole Dance and Naming of the Babies all took place in sunshine on the Village Green, for the heavy rains had ceased a couple of days before to give way to warmth and sunshine. When it came to Dawn’s turn, she proudly handed little Beith over to Yul to announce her name. Sylvie gave Dawn a special hug as she presented her with Beith’s Imbolc charm on a ribbon, marking the festival nearest to the baby’s birth.
‘I’m so happy for you, Dawn,’ she whispered. ‘Your little girl is all you’d ever dreamt of, isn’t she?’
‘Oh, she is! I’d never dared to hope for all of this and my life’s complete. It’s your turn next, Sylvie,’ Dawn replied. ‘Any day now!’
‘The way I’m feeling at this moment, it could be today,’ Sylvie laughed, for her back was really aching from the weight of her belly. After such a discreet start she’d grown enormous in the final weeks, and had now reached that stage where all she wanted was for the birth to be over and done with.
There were games all afternoon on the Green. Yul made Sylvie a little nest of rugs and cushions under a beech tree coming into leaf, so she could watch the proceedings in comfort. She looked lovely resting there in her white dress, silky hair falling around her bare shoulders like a bridal veil. Pregnancy suited her, filling out her hollows and sharpness and giving her a look of smooth ripeness. Magpie and Leveret came across the Green, Magpie taking her hand so Leveret too could enjoy the lovely image of Sylvie reclining under the beech tree.
Maizie came over to join them, finally feeling her old self again. She was so very happy to have her special boy back home in the bosom of the family and wanted nothing more than for Yul, Sylvie and all three children to remain with her in the cottage, where there was plenty of room for them all.
‘You’re ready to drop I reckon,’ she said, running her hand wisely over Sylvie’s rock hard belly. ‘He’s very still today and ’tis a sure sign he’s gathering up his strength.’
‘More like he just can’t move any more,’ laughed Sylvie. ‘He’s outgrown his accommodation.’
‘What do you reckon, Leveret?’ asked Maizie. ‘Put your hand here and tell me what you think.’
She pulled Leveret’s hand across and placed it on Sylvie’s bump. Leveret’s hand tingled and then she felt overwhelmed by the strange sensation of this child, this special one, making contact with her through Sylvie’s stretched skin. She had a jolt of certainty that she and the little boy would be very close. He’d be such a huge part of her life – the child she could never have herself. He was a magus and would be great; he’d be loved by everyone and would bring joy and true prosperity to Stonewylde. When the Green Man returns to Stonewylde, all will prosper . . . it was carved in yew in the Jack in the Green, and would be so. But before that . . . Leveret snatched her hand away, not wanting to see.
‘He seems to be doing fine in there,’ she said, laughing shakily. ‘He’ll come when he’s ready.’
He came at the sunset ceremony that evening in the Stone Circle. His father stood chanting on the Altar Stone as the great ball of fire slowly sank below the horizon. The folk of Stonewylde filled the Circle where the Bel Fire had burnt all day, where the laughing Green Men danced on the stones and the huge Lord of the Greenwood above the Altar gazed down. The drumbeats were loud and insistent, filling the arena with a great throbbing, and the May Queen’s backache that had nagged and twinged all day suddenly became much, much sharper.
Sylvie stood near the Altar Stone next to Leveret, who was once more wearing her headdress and beautiful new robes. Drowned out by the massive noise of the drums, surrounded by the crush of people and shifting, pulsating energy, Sylvie gasped and then groaned. Her tiny sound was engulfed and nobody noticed as her eyes flashed wide-open in shock. She looked down and saw that her waters had broken, and liquid was pooling around her bare feet on the earth. The baby inside began to burrow his way out on a grinding, splitting wave of pain and again she groaned, long and loud, and clutched the Altar Stone for support. Down, down, he pushed and she pushed, just wanting out, riding the crescendo of pain. Beside her, the young Wise Woman somehow sensed it and took her arm, making her squat on the ground. Leveret knelt down on the earth beside her and felt between Sylvie’s legs; she found the crown of the baby’s head there already, on the threshold of birth.
‘Oh Goddess, Sylvie, he’s coming! HAZEL! Quick, Magpie! Get Hazel or Mother now this minute!’ she shouted over the wild drumming.
Sylvie let out the cry, the primeval scream of the female giving birth, that same sound so un
changed throughout the ages and throughout the lands, and she pushed and pushed and he was coming, swimming, emerging, tunnelling, travelling and there! One huge final push and he was out and slippery and then another ache, and cramp, and twist, and push and there! – the afterbirth. Leveret all alone and blind had eased him, supported him, twisted him out and now she held him hot, greasy, slimy, bloody. Still wearing her hare headdress and laughing with joy, she held precious little Ioho as he took his first breath of Stonewylde air into his lungs. He yelled triumphantly across the great arena where all his folk were now standing, silent and rapt, the drums and dancing forgotten. Tenderly the Wise Woman presented him to Sylvie as she sat propped against the Altar Stone. She cradled him, bloody against her white dress, her silver-blonde hair falling onto his waxy body and veiling his folds of almost-purple flesh and night-black hair. She smiled at his loud, insistent bleats for attention: ‘I’m here, I’m born, I’m arrived!’
Leveret delved in her robes and found Mother Heggy’s sacred white-handled knife and, feeling along the length, gauging the distance carefully as Hazel had shown her, cut the cord so he was now of this world. Leveret raised her blind eyes to the skies, to the twilight where no moon would rise tonight for it was the Dark Moon. She called out into the awe-struck hush, thanking the Dark Goddess for this precious gift of new life, for Ioho of the Yew, this little boy born of the Green Man and the May Queen, the Magus and the Moongazy Maiden.
‘Your Hare Woman has spoken true! I told you that at Beltane, when the Green Man raises the sap and fertilises the White Maiden in the never-ending cycle of rebirth and growth, something magical will come to pass! And behold – our own magical baby is come! He is here amongst us!’
As she cried out these words she felt it coming, sizzling around the hidden labyrinth, until it burst forth from the ground. The Green Magic enveloped Sylvie where she reclined, her white dress smeared and blotted with blood. She was doused with the green light; it raced through her and into Ioho and the new-born creature glowed with the bright energy. Sparks seemed to fly from him and he yelled in triumph, his tiny naked body rigid in a spasm of ecstasy. Then the green energy faded and there he was, an ordinary babe cradled in the arms of his tearful mother, and his father looking on with such love and joy he could’ve set the world alight. The folk stared in wonder at this auspicious beginning for such a child – conceived under the yew tree on the Village Green at the Blue Moon on Lammas Eve, born at the Dark Moon in the Stone Circle at Beltane. Was ever a child more blessed?
32
Bluebell stood under her favourite tree on the Village Green – a huge sweet-chestnut that produced long serrated leaves like kippers, and, in the autumn, green prickly hedgehogs full of fat brown chestnuts to roast. She wore her best dress, dyed with delicate rose madder and embroidered all over the bodice with white stars. Granny Maizie had done those, and had knitted her soft white lambswool cardigan too. Bluebell also wore a circlet of bluebells in her hair which made her feel especially magical, as they were her own flower. She was the Princess of the Bluebell Faeries, in her story at least.
It was warm and sunny, the day of Hare Moon and the day of the handfastings. Uncle Gefrin was being wed to Meadowsweet today, and Granny Maizie was very busy and excited. Her parents were also busy as they must perform the ceremony together, wearing special robes for the occasion. Celandine was to dance at the start of the ceremony all on her own in the circle. She wore a beautiful white dress that Granny Maizie had made for her at Imbolc, when Auntie Leveret had become an adult.
Bluebell could see her sister still practising nervously, jumping about like a long-legged faun on the grass. Baby Ioho was safely asleep in the Nursery for now, Auntie Leveret sitting with him while they got the Village Green and Barn ready. Auntie Leveret spent a lot of time with the baby, and Bluebell thought it was because she really wanted to be a mummy but knew she couldn’t. Ioho was only two weeks old and might need another feed soon. Bluebell hoped so; she loved to sit all cuddled up to her mother whilst he suckled, sharing the closeness and that lovely smell of baby, mummy and milk all mixed up.
Her thumb crept up to her mouth and she guiltily enjoyed the comfort it brought. Nobody could see her here under her tree if she stood right back against the trunk. The jagged leaves were young and fresh and starting to provide more cover, useful if she wanted to be secret. Bluebell wondered if she should start trying to make her spell now, whilst everyone was so busy and hadn’t yet noticed her absence. It must be done today, for something bad was going to happen.
Bluebell did the complicated thing where she had to go through the alphabet as fast as she could and make her eyes jump quickly along a row of something one by one – she chose the chestnut leaves today – but that didn’t help. The nightmare last night had been the worst yet, so bad that she’d had to climb in with Celandine, even though her sister didn’t like being disturbed again. She’d really wanted to creep into her parents’ bed but she knew her father would be cross. Baby Ioho was sleeping in his new cradle made of magical yew with a crow carved on it, and if she woke him up there’d be worse trouble. So, in the darkness, with her heart pounding, she’d tried to do the alphabet thing because sometimes it helped and pushed the dark stuff away.
The nightmare last night had been different to the old ones from the Hall. All her dreams about the Moonlight Man had stopped now. Bluebell understood that Grandfather Clip had taken him away to the Otherworld and he couldn’t come back ever again – nor could Martin, of whom she’d lived in abject terror for as long as she could remember. On the night of Samhain she’d seen Grandfather Clip in a dream. She’d seen him wrap the Moonlight Man and Martin in a great cloak of black raven feathers like a dark wing, and fly them away through the veil of smoke and cobwebs into the scary Otherworld. Her grandfather had turned as he passed through, and looking back he’d seen her standing there, small and alone, watching him. He’d smiled at her and his mouth had made the words “Farewell, Bluebell!” which had always been a joke between them because it rhymed. She’d been so sad that he’d gone, but very happy that he’d taken the other two bad men with him. She’d thought then that everything – apart from Father being away from them and all on his own – would be happy. And when Father came back again at the Spring Equinox and they learned of Baby Ioho growing in Mummy’s tummy, life was perfect. Until yesterday.
Bluebell squatted down with her back against the sharp lines and fissures of bark. She didn’t care if her white cardigan got dirty, even if Granny Maizie would be really cross. Today was Hare Moon and something was going to happen, and she thought it was about Celandine. Her sister wasn’t safe any more because something really bad and evil would be set free today; she knew this from the nightmare. Then it would be on the prowl – those words made her shudder with terror – all around Stonewylde. Sooner or later it would find its prey. And its prey might be Celandine.
Bluebell remembered watching one of the barn cats which lived in the huge, dusty Village Store. Granny Maizie had been waiting her turn to collect some provisions – salt and new embroidery needles – and Bluebell had wandered off round the back of some sacks of oats. In a patch of sunlight she’d seen the cat. She’d wanted to stroke it but its tail was lashing and its ears were flattened and suddenly it had leapt through the air and there’d been a terrible mad squeaking that had abruptly stopped. The tiny mouse had spilled its entrails as it twitched in death, and Bluebell had sobbed for the rest of the morning. Granny Maizie had said that hunting creatures had to catch their prey – it was their job. She said it was only natural, and that the cat had probably spent hours watching and waiting for the right moment to pounce. Bluebell had imagined the little mouse happily going about its business all morning, not knowing it was actually prey and shortly would die.
It terrified her that today something was out there hunting and would strike like a cat. But who was the prey? She’d thought long and hard about this. Baby Ioho was protected because Auntie Leveret held him a lot and
that must help as she was magic, and he slept in the yew cradle that Father had made especially for him. Bluebell knew that she herself was safe because she did the alphabet thing all the time and she’d made more magic with her Bluebell Faerie book. Most people thought it was just a story but they didn’t realise she and Magpie had hidden real magic in the pictures and words. So that left Celandine. Bluebell was almost sure, after what had happened yesterday at the Hall and then last night’s terror, it was her big sister with her dancing feet and her long silver hair and moongazy dreaming who would be the prey.
Yesterday she’d gone up to the Hall with Mummy for Baby Ioho to be weighed and checked. In the hospital wing, Hazel had needed to talk privately with her mother so Bluebell had been sent outside to play on the wide stone terrace. Some old folk were sitting out there in a sheltered spot in the sun, and they spoke kindly to her and stroked her blonde curls. But when Bluebell trotted around a corner of the wing following a bright butterfly, she’d bumped straight into an old woman sitting all alone in a wicker chair on wheels.
It was Baba Yaga, straight from the fairy-tale that Grandfather Clip had told them. The crone was hunched into a twisted shape, her face so lined and shrivelled that she hardly looked human any more. Her mouth was sunken around her toothless gums and her nose hooked. Her eyes glowed with dark fire beneath jutting brows and she shot out a claw to grab Bluebell’s arm in a hard, pinching grip.
‘Raven-spawn!’ she’d cried. ‘Still she lives on!’
Bluebell had been too terrified to speak, trying to pull away from her iron grasp, but the old woman was strong and cackled at her attempts to escape.
