by Jacky Gray
This triggered a disturbing insight. On his return from the final posting, three moons ago, Jarl had changed; reluctant to resume his prior position as a surrogate brother.
She’d barely seen him as he threw himself into a new role, trapping and hunting to keep the local markets well-stocked with exotic meats and game for their rich customers. Today’s visit had been a welcome surprise, and she appreciated his help, particularly in carrying the wassail. They handed the three skins of precious liquid to the wassail master, and then walked to the northern entrance to the henge.
Jarl stood uncertainly, positioned over the strong, vibrant energy of the Michael line. “Should I wait here while you follow the path?”
“Jarl. You know as well as I, it requires male and female energy to activate the magic. Who else could do it with me now Lyran is gone?” Senna could tell he had a specific candidate in mind by the way his eyes darted to the group of magisters, set apart from the crowd gathering by the ale tent.
Shaking her head, she moved sunwise until she met the gentler, calming energy of the Mary line. They began the journey together, keeping pace so they entered the moon circle at the same instant, meeting at the central stones where they joined hands so the basket of charms hung between them.
“Now we connect to the stones.” She touched the large, squat stone.
“You said that one is female. Can’t see it, myself. But this one is definitely male. Anyone can see.”
She had no control over the quirk of her lips at his irreverent assessment as he reached out to the tall, thin megalith.
When he linked to it, the circle completed.
She felt powerful energy surging up through the ley lines and across her arm, meeting at the junction of the two of them. The charging charms began to glow.
His muttered sound said he’d felt it too, and she sensed him trying to suppress the string of oaths which would be the natural response of most laymen experiencing such a strong burst. He looked to her for confirmation of the point at which they should continue.
When she’d done this ritual with Lyran, the surge lasted a little over a minute. As locks of hair escaped the snood to swirl around her face, she realised this was vastly different. Being the conduit for such power impacted on every cell in her body. After three minutes, she felt the toll: Her vision clouded; her ears buzzed; her muscles trembled.
Eventually, she felt the cooling wash of a breeze which combined with moonlight to signal time to move on.
She maintained a steadying grip on Jarl’s hand as they followed the adjacent paths of the two lines. Moving sedately, they walked south, through the centre of the sun circle, to exit the outer henge between the enormous portal stones. There, the two lines split off, with the Michael line following the stone avenue all the way to the sanctuary circle which marked the head of the serpent temple.
But their task was to follow the Mary line to Silbury Hill where the Field Blessing would commence. As they walked, the ancient line continued to charge the charms with Mother Nature’s nurturing energy until they shone like miniature suns. She recited the incantations and he repeated each one so it sounded like a conversation, with her asking questions, and him giving answers.
The air between them sizzled, exactly as it had the last time she’d done this with Lyran, a mere year ago. Just like then, they followed the Mary line up the hill, circling and changing direction in a labyrinth.
At the top, thirteen farmers’ boys waited for her to hand them a blessing faggot. She kissed each one, telling them to, “Speed this charm with love and joy for a fruitful harvest next year.”
As the last one sped down the hill to his assigned field, the weak solstice sun dropped below the horizon. The procession, led by the Archdruid, followed by two high priestesses, began. Next came the councillors and a number of senior magisters.
Senna barely noticed as she stood, bathed in the swirling energies activated by walking the labyrinth with a man.
Lyran’s voice filled her mind. “’Tis time, Sennalina.”
The sound of his pet name for her sent a wave of goosebumps intent on acquiring her attention.
“You need to leave the widow’s weeds behind, and get on with the rest of your life. Two worthy men will court you, but only you can decide who to choose.”
This advice felt tardy, and not particularly helpful. Unless another man were to show an interest, she had to choose between Jarl and Domenyk, assuming these were the two men to whom her husband referred. But worthy? An unreliable mercenary and a self-important magister? Heavens help her.
Her thoughts were interrupted as the Archdruid began his address. “On this mother’s day, we ask our eternal mother to bless us with a good growing season. We give thanks for another fruitful harvest, with more than enough to feed our families, and plenty left over to share with those less fortunate.” He recited the words with passion, imbuing every syllable with a fresh new energy, which belied the fact he would have used identical phrases many times as he had presided over the ceremony in his many years in the venerated position.
The two priestesses assisting him knew their parts well, and the ceremony passed smoothly. Right up to the point Senna’s faggots, dowsed in oil, were supposed to set alight each of the bonfires in the surrounding thirteen fields.
The Archdruid held up his staff, pointing to where the sun had set. As he chanted, the priestesses raised a burning torch in each hand, lighting wicks at the four corners of the tall pyre. Drenched in oil, the pyre blazed the signal, visible for miles around. In the adjacent fields, thirteen farmers anxiously waited to play their part in the eve’s drama.
Anticipation rippled through the crowds. Although they had seen it many times, the spectacle of the simultaneous firing of the bonfires always brought a feeling of overwhelming joy and hope for the following year.
Senna knew how much the farmers relied on this common practice. On the following day, they would scatter the ashes to purify the fields of any disease-carrying bugs which might attack the young seedlings planted between the following year’s Imbolc and Ostara.
But apart from the flicker of the torches at the field, nothing happened. Senna closed her eyes, beset with shame that this should occur with her charms; they’d worked perfectly for many years. Her vision again filled with rainbow colours and she fainted.
3 – Day 1: Solstice - The Yule Log
Senna awoke with a start as the first glimmer of daylight pierced her sleep. She leapt out of bed, ignoring the pain in her head. How could she have slept through the entire night’s festivities? The toasts to the trees and crops, and now the solstice sunrise? Maybe if she dressed quickly, she might be in time to greet the sun before it changed from orange to white. She glanced down to see she was still wearing yesterday’s gown, so she grabbed a shawl and stuffed her hair into the inevitable snood as she descended the stairs.
“Senna. Good morn and Yule blessings to you.” The deep, male voice sounded out of place in her house, and she paused in her attempt to scuttle out.
She watched the male figure uncurl himself from the sheepskin rug in front of the hearth, where the remains of the previous night’s embers glowed. “Jarl.” Her foggy brain did not think it strange he would be there, fixing instead on the immediate problem.
“Oh, no. The Yule log.”
“It will be just as potent if you do it now. Let me help.” Without waiting for affirmation, he manoeuvred the massive log into place.
Jarl pointed to the runes he’d carved into the massive log. “I used the same ones Lyran did for every Yule log I saw him carve. If you want any more, tell me now.” He pulled out a large knife.
Senna inspected the runes; he’d carved them well: Fehu for love, Othila and Berkana for peace, and Wunjo for joy.
“Perfect.” She watched with interest as he surrounded the log with a number of smaller branches: apple, birch and cherry to give a pleasant smell and, elm, rowan and yew to extend the burn time.
He bound them with t
wine to secure the bundle. “Do you have last year’s log for the lighting?”
She pointed to a recess in the stone structure surrounding the hearth. “Lyran built it especially to house the previous log’s remains, ready to serve its purpose and transfer the Yule energy.”
“Of course. I should have remembered.” He reached up and retrieved the basket, holding it toward her for the blessing.
Senna sprinkled a potent mix of herbs, before placing the remnant on the embers. It erupted into flames, which licked around the kindling until it glowed red.
Looking to her for confirmation of the ideal timing, he lifted the Yule bundle, offering it to her for a kiss. He thrust it into the fireplace and she sprinkled the remains of the herb mixture.
As was the tradition, they turned three circles widdershins, chanting the incantation. She peeked from under her eyelashes, wondering if he would dare to do the next bit.
With no hesitation, he hugged her to him as they spun a further three circles sunwise, and then kissed her lips – a soft, brotherly kiss.
Before she could react, he snagged her cloak from the peg and placed it around her shoulders. “If we hurry, we’ll just be in time to greet the solstice sun.” Without waiting for her response, he grabbed her hand and pulled her outside. He set a punishing pace to the henge, where they climbed the bank in time to see the watery solstice sun break through the clouds.
“Back with us, I see.” Domenyk sidled toward her as everyone applauded the rising. He bent to kiss her cheek, ahead of Jarl, who didn’t look best pleased.
Senna completed the gesture, kissing his cheek and bidding him a new year of joy and happiness. He repeated the response then turned to face a long queue of people wanting his attention.
Jarl claimed her next, repeating the entire procedure. She was surprised by the jolt of heat they exchanged; she’d felt nothing like this from Domenyk. Nor did she with any of the other men seeking her greeting.
The magister would not be deterred and, when the greetings had been exchanged by everyone in the vicinity, he caught her arm. Stealing her away from the crowd, he adopted a formal tone as he led her down the steps, circling the inner ring of stones. “I would have you accompany me to the Yule feast tonight.”
Without waiting for her reply, he continued. “It is, of course, your decision, but I’m sure no one would look askance if you decided not to wear your widow’s weeds. Your mourning year must nearly be done.”
As his glance flicked over her simple, hemp gown, his nose wrinkled at the dark snood covering her hair. It was a mark of her status, and she’d revelled in the efficacy of the tradition designed to allow a woman time to grieve before being pursued by eligible men.
No such stricture existed for men. The magister’s wife was barely three moons in the ground before he began a series of dalliances with any and every available maid or widow in the village. But it seemed none were to his liking: they rarely lasted a moon before he was on to the next one.
Before parting at the path to the council house, he flung an afterthought. “Of course, the invitation extends to Lyrelie and whichever young man is currently courting her.”
On the way home, she called in on Marena, whose last weeks of pregnancy gave her a beguiling glow which captivated her husband, Dennon. No sign of this babe entering the world imminently.
Returning from the pleasant visit, she informed Lyrelie of the arrangement for the Yule feast.
“Oh, I’m not walking out with anyone.” Her daughter’s tone wheedled. “Do I have to come?”
With a sigh, Senna regarded the concerned face, pushing a strand of hair behind her daughter’s ear, and kissing her cheek. “I’m afraid this was more of a summons than invitation.”
Lyrelie frowned as she itemised the failings of her closest male companions. “It would not be an enjoyable experience with any of them. Tol is too silly, Ran is too stuffy, and Cal is too … Cal.
Senna nodded wisely. “I see. You will simply have to sit at the table with no one to talk to, I’m sure my attention will be …”
“I could stay here. Or even better, I could go out with my friends.”
“Sorry, Lyrelie. That’s not possible. If the magister finds out you refused his invitation in favour of going somewhere else …” She shook her head. “I’m sure I do not need to explain the consequences of that behaviour.”
Her daughter tilted her head to one side, her face serious. “There is one person I could bring, if he’s not already spoken for.”
Senna perked up. “Do I know him? And, more importantly, would I approve of him?”
Her daughter’s curls danced as her head bobbed an affirmative.
“That’s the matter sorted, then.”
“Not quite. I’ll only attend if you allow me to do your hair properly.”
Senna’s hands flew to the rats nest resulting from moons of neglect, inspecting an unloved lock with regret. “I don’t think this would look natural if we worked on it for a week.”
“It would. I’ve been mixing some of your potions, and discovered a combination which makes my hair shine.”
Despite Senna’s misgivings, her daughter’s ministrations resulted in a return to the glossy curls of her former crowning glory.
Lyrelie clapped her hands. “See, I knew we could do it.”
She disappeared, and Senna glanced at her face in the looking glass, turning around, and marvelling at the way the hair style seemed to turn her into a younger version of herself.
Her daughter returned holding two of her mother’s best gowns. “Which one do you think?”
“Neither. I’m happy in black.”
“The green. It always brought out your eyes.”
Senna stumbled as her dead husband’s voice sounded once more inside her head. Was this part of his plan? With a sigh, she respected his wishes. “The green.”
Lyrelie squealed in delight, and ushered her mother into her bedchamber to change. Not satisfied with the transformation, she added a smear of raspberry cream to her cheeks and a thin coating of beetroot salve to darken her lips. “There, have a peek.”
Senna’s heartbeat sped up as she peered at the woman staring back at her from the looking glass over the fireplace. “What have you done? I look …”
“Beautiful.” Jarl’s voice sounded exactly like Lyran’s as he apologised for entering the room unbidden. “I did knock, but you were so busy you didn’t hear.”
“Jarl. You shouldn’t be here. I’m attending the feast …”
“With Domenyk. I know. I’m here for Lyrelie.”
She studied him, taking in the smart tunic, tamed hair, and trimmed beard. All in all, he looked quite presentable.
“Do I pass muster?” His tone reflected the amusement in his twinkling eyes.
“Yes. I mean, I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“We should make haste. It would be rude to arrive late when we have places at the top table.” Lyrelie forced herself between the two adults as they stared at each other like love-struck youths.
Taking their arms, Jarl strode through the village with the pride of a man escorting two beautiful women. They attracted many stares as he guided his charges to the hall. Senna felt like an entertainer in some kind of spectacle as people stared and whispered.
Jarl noticed her discomfort. “Ignore them; they’re only jealous of how beautiful you look.”
Before she could answer, Domenyk caught her arm. “Senna? I did not recognise you. I’m pleased you went to so much trouble for me, it’s well met.” Turning, he glared at Jarl. “This table is reserved for special guests only.”
“I know.” His smirk challenged. “I’m honoured to be thought of as such. Thank you for inviting me.” He thrust out his hand, and Domenyk had no choice but to shake it.
Senna cast her eyes down as Jarl pulled out her chair.
The magister tried again. “You misunderstood. I did not invite you to sit with me.”
Jarl’s eyes sparkled
with mischief. “Not personally. But you invited Lyrelie and her escort. Namely, me.”
Domenyk’s face twisted into something which may have resembled a smile to the rest of the room. But the venom behind his eyes suggested he would not suffer being made a fool of without severe redress. “I would have expected Eanje to be on your arm, but I see she prefers a man of power.”
They followed his gaze to where one of the village spinsters hung off the arm of none other than Magister Ranly. Senna frowned as Ranly laughed aloud and patted the beauty’s arm. Lyran’s father rarely smiled, but even more concerning was the disapproval on Jarl’s face.
With a snake-oil smile, Domenyk continued to taunt. “Don’t they make a cosy couple? I wonder will she take him back to your house? You should apply for a bawdy licence and do the job properly.” Satisfied with the damage he’d wrought, he seated Senna then himself.
Scowling, Jarl helped Lyrelie to sit, before taking the place between her and her mother.
The elaborate feast consisted of five courses, each one attempting to outdo the previous one. It felt like complete over-indulgence, brought on by the strictures of the Advent fast. Senna would much rather have sat at a lower table, enjoying simpler fayre. Her waistband expanded despite her efforts only to sample a little of each dish.
Domenyk insisted on doubling each portion she served herself, frowning when she tried to give up with food still on her platter. “How can you think of wasting that food when there are waifs starving at the door?”
“I would gladly send this out so they may share.”
“You would insult these fine people with the leavings from your platter? Do they not deserve better?”
Although she knew he was being deliberately contentious, his scathing comments hurt beyond measure. Before she had time to formulate a defensive reply, Bernadine, the councillor’s wife sitting to his right distracted him with a question.
