When I don’t continue, he asks, “What happened?”
“It was the spring after you were last here. He had been at the college on what the druids call the Mother Isle. For no reason that was understood, his strength was leaving him, and the seers on Ynys Mon decreed he must return to me. They knew something had happened to cause the sickness in his soul. But it is such a long way.”
“I have heard of the island,” he whispers. “It must be ten days ride or more.”
“The journey took the last of him. He died in my arms, his soul depleted.”
His face is pale. “You gave the lad your son’s life.”
“I did not mean to.”
He touches my face with a hand, and our eyes meet, no longer wet with tears but with the emptiness of exhaustion, and he says with such tenderness, “Vivi, I am so sorry.” And in my mind I hear Seren’s voice, Let him hold you, Lady. I look up as if to find her, but the only spirit in the grove is my grandmother, and she smiles. Yes, I murmur, I will let him hold me, and I let my head softly fall to his shoulder. He breathes in through the sadness, with such love and relief. And as his arms move around me, I feel him bringing me back, and I almost laugh at the sensation: in the strength of his embrace, I can feel my edges once again.
For a moment, I am distracted. I draw the unexpected presence from the pocket of my robe and a smile breaks across my face. Sianed’s daughter must have given some to Gwenlli, who sneaked a few into my pocket, knowing that I had not broken the night’s fast with any appetite. Dried, golden fruit from the Roman trader. I breathe in the sweetness but slip it back into my pocket. I have forgotten the name, but it reminds me of the setting sun. Eos will know . . .
Eos. The sun is setting as we walk up the hill from the forest at evening, and we stop at the ridge and watch its last golden moments flood across the skies. I close my eyes and murmur prayers, but he squeezes my hand,
“Say it aloud, Vivian, I want to hear your voice.”
And my heart skids through my soul, and I wonder how I can possibly allow myself to feel like this, but I smile and turn again to the setting sun, and speak my thanksgiving to the lord of light,
“You who move through my soul with the songs of ancient fire . . . ” and he turns to me before I am done, closing his eyes and putting his cheek to mine, whispering again my words,
“Ancient fire, Vivi, I feel this ancient fire.”
I breathe in, dragging myself back into presence. I must return to the festival.
~~~~~
The gathering is strong. In the bright sunshine of the meadow we call Dolgwyl Waun, I look around me. There are folk here from ten tribes or more, stretching out in every direction, from across the marsh islands and into the hills beyond. Whole families are here from the closest settlements, mothers holding children with more running at their feet, the older people leaning on walking sticks, watching. There are groups of youngsters of fifteen to twenty summers, filled with anticipation, chattering and waiting, and by their manner I see some have come from the further villages, accompanied by a few fighting men to protect them upon the road, their tribal marks upon their arms and faces in woad. And some look upon me and the other priestesses of the island with a curiosity given courage by the strength of the nearness of their tribe, and in some I see fear, in others deep gratitude. A few try to catch my eyes to offer a smile of reverence, and others avoid my gaze as my eyes survey the meadow.
And each and every person is dressed in their finest, hide cloaks and furs of wolf and bear, fine woven linen and old clothes washed and mended, and so many feathers and shells sewn in, and flowers in their hair, both girls and boys, heavy elderflowers, and the delicate whitethorn and stitchwort, and head dresses crafted of hazel, ivy and dragon’s weed, and bangles of bronze and silver, torcs and other neck pieces. And my heart is filled with the hope that is written in their faces, that is sewn into each robe, and hums in their blood as they wait and watch, and the last logs are placed upon the pile ready to light in the centre.
Walking away from the wood, I move to the great stone. The stories tell it once stood tall as part of an ancient temple, but now it lies in the grass, six strides long and embedded in the mud. Behind it is an old whitethorn, her thickly blossomed canopy reaching over the stone as if to protect its spirit from further disturbance. Like the whisp of a fey young woman leaning over a great fallen warrior, my heart reaches to them both.
And I wonder where Eos is. Perhaps, I sigh, he is keeping a distance, ensuring his god does not object to his presence at the rite. I can feel him close but cannot see him, and yet again I command myself not to search the gathering.
The crowd have hushed and I turn to the centre, and feel the earth beneath me and the spirits’ songs in my heart. Caldreg has stepped forward, two of his apprentices behind him. Since old Mordreg’s dying, this is the second year he has been chief druid at the rite. As a passionate speaker for his people I know him well, for we meet often at the council up at the wells of Llw Ffynnon, but seldom do we share ritual. I know he is competent, if still weakened by the arrogance of his lack of years, and I watch his face, wondering if his vision has grown any deeper. I know his sister’s man and her two sons were killed fighting Romans in the south not long ago.
I walk towards him and we meet between the fire and the stone. He takes my hand and, as he brings it to his forehead, I feel the energy of his land and his people humming within him. I am glad, and I acknowledge his connection, Lord druid.
My Lady of the Waters, he bows.
His eyes are a clear deep blue, alive with passion yet not muddied by it. He is a long moon-sun cycle of nineteen years younger than I, and his body feels strong and firmly set upon the ground. He has a solid confidence that makes me think of Eos. As the thought slips through my mind, Caldreg’s eyes wake and question mine.
Ah, so you do see, I whisper.
What has woken your soul, Lady?
Who it is does not concern you, druid.
He bows, We have a rite to be done. And for it, he smiles, you and yours are mine.
As are yours mine, druid.
There is silence around us. We turn together to the edge of the circle, acknowledging the young man with the torch who has been awaiting our sign. Naked but for a cloth about his waist, his body marked with the woad of his tribe, he has been questing visions for three days and nights, sleepless and without food, and as he walks forward I see his soul ragged with exhaustion yet as exquisitely alive as the fire which he has brought to the rite. I walk up to him and run my fingers over his chest, whispering the prayers as I craft the signs on his oiled skin, and he tries not to look at me, breathing deeply, feeling the magic seethe into his soul.
Then with a snarl that explodes into a yell, he rams the torch into the heart of the woodpile and within moments the pile is ablaze. The drums begin all around us, their pulse moving through my body as they have these sixty five cycles and more. Lifting my eyes to the top of Bryn Fyrtwyddon, rising here at the south of Dolgwyl Waun, I see the druid’s boys and I raise my staff. A great holler comes from the hill and, a moment later, the beacon upon it is lit. I think I see Eos on the hillside, watching, but I turn away, fearing I will lose my focus, instead filling my mind with singing the ancient prayers of gathering, wakeful to feel when the next beacon is lit. That one is not within our sight, but others are, and as the fires rise up from hilltops, the drums get louder and the gathering in the meadow begins to dance and cheer and holler, knowing that other fires within other valleys will be brought into flame as the threads of our people come together once again, celebrating the first warm moon of summer.
As Caldreg and I begin the necessary prayers, the gathering slowly quietens. He sings an ancient invocation, calling to the spirit of the great stone. I sing the prayer of the earth, and the children run forward to smear the mud of their islands and fields upon the stone’s smooth grey sides. Caldreg sings to the fire, and burning branches are brought over by two of his people, embers shak
en over the stone, tiny orange gold lights disappearing in the sunlight, leaving a sprinkling of black ash and spirits dancing. Young priestesses bring water, as the song of my goddess rises through me, and offerings are made to the stone and the land. And so does the rite continue, with barley sheaves and apples, with whitethorn and honey, with salt and milk and iron, as the gods of our people are each acknowledged, their songs sung and the offerings made. And at times the gathering sings with us, with drums and dancing, and at other times there is solemnity, the children wide eyed, the adults feeling the power of the circle.
And when the last prayer is made and the dancing has been wild and free, Caldreg walks to my side and almost smiles for the first time.
Is my Lady in love? he asks with his clear blue eyes.
It is not your concern, druid, I murmur in reply.
But the fellow is not present, he says. Or at least, not amidst those gathered here. Is he hiding? My Lady, you have not given your heart to an outcast . . .
“Your disrespect dishonours your people, druid,” I whisper, adding, “Be careful.”
He turns from me, finding it hard to hold in his smile, and rubs his beard with a fist.
“Shall we call the young ones?”
“Yes,” I murmur. Mischievous imp.
Barely need he make the invitation aloud before the young people of the gathering are moving forward to the great stone, and from there, as the drums find their rhythms and the music is crafted by flutes, horns and lyres, they make their circles. The young girls, Sianed’s daughter amongst them, laughing, nervous, excited, alone or hand in hand with a friend or two, dancing around the fire, their hair flying out in the breeze, simple short robes tied with ivy and reed braids, bare feet and faces filled with sunshine and expectation. The boys are the same, in the simplest cloths tied about their waists, any bare skin decorated with their tribal marks, some with furs across their shoulders, their boots tied tight, their chests full of hope and pride. And each one, filled with apprehension and curiosity, is blessed by Caldreg or by me, then sipping from the meadhorn and skipping off into the circle to dance once again.
~~~~~
Sitting beside me on the grass, Gwenlli offers me the bowl.
“Drink, my Lady.”
We share the cool water in the shade of the oak, quietly watching as the celebrations continue. Along the track from the walkway there is a constant stream of people, carrying baskets of food, cauldrons, drums and infants, dogs yapping, children running at their heels, a few leading goats laden with urns and leather bags. All around the circle, cooking fires are burning, music and rhythms filling the air, children’s cries and laughter, and the scent of roasting meat.
I breathe deeply: it is the only time in the whole cycle of the sun that meat is eaten on Ynys y Niwl, and though my soul flinches, a part of me also celebrates the strength of the people. If there is meat then there is hope.
In the circle, Caldreg is presiding over business deals, trading arrangements and land rights negotiated between tribes over many months, here to be sworn and witnessed by the gods and the community. Such oaths are not a part of my work, and for that I am grateful, for the tension shudders through the air, albeit with the men’s daggers left by the great stone - except one, the druid’s long blade upon which the deals are sworn.
To one side, Sianed and another priestess are speaking with a group of women, each one with children or infants in their arms. No doubt discussing peace and grief, children lost and born, remedies and communities, it is a circle I once ran, very many cycles ago.
And then I see him, and my old heart begins to race. He is standing beside Fianna, in his hand a garland of flowers that has been dropped by one of the little girls. They are talking together, with laughter and smiles, watching the children running around Sianed’s circle.
“Take some more water, my Lady,” Gwenlli says softly.
Her voice startles me and I am embarrassed, taking the bowl with thanks and drinking, then stupidly forcing myself to look elsewhere. But she has been beside me too many cycles. She takes the bowl from me with gentleness, saying,
“He is a good man, my Lady.”
“He is a distraction,” I murmur, feeling the weight of the words in my soul.
“But, my Lady, perhaps - ”
I put my hand on her arm to stop her from speaking. I know what she will say and I know it is hard for her to say. It is hard to hear: perhaps, at this time, as my soul tires of life, his presence is not a distraction.
Perhaps he is a guide.
“Perhaps,” I say aloud, and I find a smile and sigh. “Come, let us ask him the name of this Roman fruit.” I hand it to her, and she helps me to my feet, then brings it to her nose as I steady myself, biting a little of the wizened brown flesh.
“Chewy,” she murmurs with a frown, and we share a smile.
Making our way through the noise and commotion of the gathering, before either of them are aware of our presence their conversation is close enough to hear. No longer light with laughter, their words are serious and quiet with sadness. His voice at first lifts itself on the flow of my heart, then the meaning plummets through me like cold river stone.
“She had no child that lived, other than her son?”
“Not one,” Fianna is saying, shaking her head.
“How many did she lose, Fia?”
“Manann was her fifth child.”
I stop.
They are still not aware of my presence.
Gwenlli takes my arm and leads me away from the gathering.
“The sun is low, my Lady. It will not be long before the heart of the rite. Let us make sure that you are fully refreshed and prepared.”
~~~~~
One drum is marking a slow steady beat.
With the fire at my back and my hood hiding my face, as I have done so often, into the dusk I call my song. Using the language of the marsh, I know few but the old people and the women of my community will understand, but that is not important. Nor is it now taught by the druids of the marshes and I feel Caldreg, his soul open to me completely, listening with his essence, not reaching for understanding yet seeking the current of power that he can follow.
And I sing. And in my song I reach yet more deeply, calling from the depths of my soul to the goddess of the night sky and deep black water, and I sing, and I sing with all my body, and within my body I hold the excruciating and shimmering moments where the dark sky and the waters meet, a line that can only be perceived from afar, for within its essence it does not exist in matter, and only fleetingly in time and space, ever dissolving, evanescing as another emerges, sparkling. And yet within that place of evanescence and emergence exists all the darkness of the night and the water, reaching up into the infinite eternal height of the skies and into eternal depths of the earth below, and I sing. And as the song floods through me, my goddess fills me utterly, and through me the circle is washed with the darkness of life.
Opening my eyes, the druid moves towards me and I see his soul naked, throbbing with breath and blood. He sinks to the earth at my feet and calls out a prayer of welcome, and his words echo through the silence of the meadow and through all time. He stands, and slowly walking towards me, coming closer, he closes his eyes, drawing his gods into his soul as he moves, murmuring his prayers with the voices of his ancestors, voices that rumble like ancient lazy thunder from a storm far, far away.
And when he is before me, he opens his eyes. Firelight dances wild and bright in them and, in his gaze, that fire touches my darkness. There is a moment of cataclysmic resistance. He stumbles, taking a step backwards, and I almost break. But through me, my goddess whispers, Come!
And the voices of our ancestors move through him once again, as he murmurs, slowly and with such strength, My Lady, at your bidding.
And I close my eyes as his light moves into my soul, bringing with it every balefire and hearth fire, every banefire and grain fire, every blade of the forge, every slow drip of molten ore, every
cut and every yell that has been the craving of man to survive. And when I open my eyes, that craving is love. And I open my soul and the druid, with his flaming eyes, touches my mouth with his lips, and in that moment I accept the light, the tribe, the people, into the night, into the dark waters, into the womb of creation.
Does it matter that nobody knows what is done? The seer and the druid walk together across the circle, and kiss. The wakeful may feel the wild storms of conflict and the union shimmering somewhere in the air, but this is all that is seen. A kiss.
Tearing ourselves apart, he steps away, and bows low, and his words spoken to me in trust are murmured again, this time into sound,
“My Lady, at your bidding.”
And my soul leaps in shock as, on the cue of those words, the whole gathering erupts into a clamour of cheering, clapping and stamping, drums, whoops and jigs. The first deed is done and they yell, bashing sticks together and hollering for more.
I know I must move, but suddenly I am not sure how. I have done this rite so many times: is it my tiredness or is it Eos that makes it now so difficult? Two priestesses appear on either side of me and, finding my feet, we move to where the druid stands by the great stone. Torches are lit from the fire, and I breathe deeply. Caldreg looks into my eyes, and the smile of his soul lends me a little strength,
“”My Lady, he whispers, “as ever, you are . . . “
There is no word for what he says, for instead of language, for the briefest instant, again he opens his soul, provoking my goddess to rise within me.
The fluster of young girls moves towards the stone, gathering in a huddle, trying to be quiet, hand in hand, but in truth filled with fear. To be so close to the wild power and sorcery of the island’s seers is enough to send most of them into tides of trembling. Again I see Sianed’s daughter. A maiden of the island, she holds nobody’s hand, for the village girls keep a little distance from her, but still she is too nervous to look at me, biting her bottom lip with excitement.
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