Origins

by Cate Tiernan

  “Aye, red and white ribbons to signify the blood that flows from a woman when her purity is taken. For that’s how Diarmuid and I will celebrate Beltane.” “This I cannot believe!” Kyra screeched. “Do you know what you’re doing, Rose?” “Aye.” I twirled around in the field, letting the ribbons stream behind me. “I know quite well. I believe the Goddess has called us together for this. And Beltane is a festival of love and union, is

  it not?”

  Kyra swallowed hard. “I don’t know that the Goddess intends us to take every detail so literally.” I danced over to Kyra and tugged on her hand. “Don’t be an old toad in the mire! We’re seventeen years under the Goddess’s sky.” “Aye, but there’s been no handfasting, no joining of the two of you in the circle.” “That will come later,” I insisted, pulling her into my dance. She dropped her basket and spun around with me, our eyes meeting in laughter until we grew dizzy and dropped to the grass.

  “Oh, dear Goddess, now You’ve convinced me,” Kyra said, staring up into the clear blue sky. “Rose has lost her wits.”

  “I have not!” I protested. “And I’ll wager that you’ll be telling me the same thing soon, about you and Falkner.”

  “I can’t imagine it, though I am so in love.” I rolled onto my side and squeezed her arm. “You must pretend that I’m with you, tonight after the circle.”

  “Oh, Rose, you know I am a terrible teller of tales.” “’Twill be nothing. The younger coveners always end up celebrating a bit on their own as the others dance by the light of the Beltane fires. Just tell Ma I am with you.” “Lying to the high priestess,” she said. “Goddess, forgive me.” “I knew I could rely on you.” I stood up and brushed grass from my hair. “We’d best go and see to the decorations.”

  We filled our baskets until they were brimming over with blossoms, then headed back to our cottage. Ma looked on as we made bunches to hang on the doors, leaving aside other flowers to decorate the circle. Then Ma set some sage leaves afire in a clay pot, and we blew off the flames until the burning ashes produced a pungent smoke, which we spread through the cottage. As we set about our tasks, Kyra spoke of Falkner, how he thought her the best baker in the Highlands, how he had come to visit her just the day before. Ma did not comment until we were finished smoking the house and ready to head over and do the same to Kyra’s cottage. That was when she brought out the sewing basket along with a few old snatches of cloth. “Hearing you talk of young Falkner, I’ve come to think you should put your thoughts into action,” Ma told Kyra. “If you truly want to bring love into your life, it’s wrong to trap a particular person, as you did with the charmed moonstone.” Kyra lowered her head. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I know.” “Trapping a person with a spell is dark magick,” Síle said. “It has the potential to harm someone by tinkering with their destiny and stripping away their free will. However,” Ma went on, “the Goddess can help you bring love into your life, as long as you’re not targeting a particular person and meddling with their destiny. You can work love magick through poppets.” She placed two pieces of cloth together and began to cut. As she trimmed away the cloth, the shape of a gingerbread man began to emerge. “You must make two small dolls—one to represent you, the other to represent the boy, or man, of your dreams.” I watched carefully as Ma showed us how to make the poppets. She helped Kyra sew brown ribbon on the girl doll to make it resemble herself. Then Ma handed Kyra the boy doll to decorate. “Make him handsome in your eyes, but don’t inscribe him with a name or a rune that points to a particular person.” Kyra thanked Ma when we finished, then we raced off to decorate her cottage and our coven’s meeting place in the woods. It was afternoon when our work was done. Kyra headed home to

  bake some of the ceremonial cakes with her ma, and I headed off to decorate my own maypole.

  We were just about to go our separate ways, when a tall chestnut horse came trotting up the road. It was a majestic sight, the rider sitting tall. “It’s Falkner,” Kyra said, patting down her hair. “ ’Tis not,” I muttered, blinking into the sunlight. Kyra was right, though I had not expected this beanpole of a boy to be transformed into a knight. “Good day!” Kyra called, waving wildly.

  Falkner stopped his horse as it reached us, then swept down and landed at Kyra’s feet. “Would you like a ride?” he offered Kyra and me. “I’ve got to return the horse. Da just fixed his shoes, but you may ride along the way.”

  “I’m headed off into the woods,” I said, “but Kyra has been afoot all day, preparing for tonight.” “Are you tired, then?” he asked her, the fondness in his eyes unmistakable. She nodded at him sweetly, and he boosted her up onto the horse’s back. “There you go.” “Thank you.” Gazing down at him, Kyra seemed like a different person. Not the gawky braided girl who used to skip over stones in the brook, but . . . a woman. The image stayed in my head as we parted ways. On my way through the woods I stopped by the brook and sat down at the water’s edge. Here the water slowed into a clear, still pool, where tiny minnows darted through the weeds and bugs skittered along the glassy surface. I reached down to cup a drink of water but stopped, startled. Staring back at me was the face of the Goddess. No, ’twas but a reflection of a woman. Me. I had grown in the ways of the Goddess, and I was ready to take the next step. For Beltane was not only a feast of love, it was a feast of fertility. It was a time for joining two halves to make a whole—the third entity. And although every young witch knew the spell to cast to close the door to the womb, I would not speak that spell. My lunar bleeding was but a week’s past, and my body was ripe for his seed.

  Tonight we would make a child.

  Laughter rumbled through the forest as the coven’s Beltane celebration wound down. Sitting on a log, Kyra’s father strummed a lute and another covener piped, making merry music for revelers to enjoy. In another part of the circle I sat with the young coveners, finishing up the last of the cakes and wine.

  “There you are,” Falkner said to Kyra, who giggled behind her hand. “I tell you, it looks quite fine that way, unbridled and untethered.” He had removed one of the braids from her hair and was now combing through it intimately with his fingers. Kyra pressed a fat flower into his face. “You are such a silly goose,” she teased. As far as I was concerned, they were both quite silly, but perhaps I was just impatient to be off to my own Beltane celebration. And worried. What if Ma would not let me go? What if Diarmuid could not get away?

  “ ’Tis time to leave the circle to the elders,” I told the others around me. Kyra agreed, and plans were made to head off to Falkner’s cottage. I crossed my fingers as we went to our parents for approval, but the festive, relaxed mood prevailed. “Just beware that you are not spotted traveling in a group,” my mother advised us. “ ’Tis a night to revel, but we must not let the Christians get wind of our celebration.”

  I could hear my mother laughing with friends as we left the circle. Within minutes we were a distance away, and I was saying good-bye to Kyra. “Be careful!” she whispered before Falkner pulled her away with the others. I just smiled as I walked quickly through the dark night.

  Diarmuid’s dark figure was unmistakable. Standing naked under the maypole tree, he was

  silhouetted by the small fire he had lit in the north quarter of the circle. Now my eyes feasted on what my hands had explored, his rounded muscles, long limbs, smooth skin. He was a god. The red and white ribbons fluttered in the air over his head; the same wind feathered the hair from his noble forehead. The night was dark, the new moon having just passed, but Diarmuid’s skin seemed to glow from across the clearing as I paused. The space between us seemed alive with warmth. Around us the forest sang, its crickets and toads and swaying trees a symphony so clear and sweet, even a deaf man could hear its answer. I loosened the girdle at my waist, then dropped my own gown to the ground so that I was wearing only a shift. The rustle of cloth made him turn my way, and he smiled. I ran across the clearing, and Diarmuid caught me in his arms against his warm body. We were meant to be together, to p
articipate in this rite tonight. I noticed that he had already lit the candles, so I swept the circle while he called upon the four Watchtowers, drawing pentagrams in the air. Then we went to the maypole and each took a ribbon. “’Tis a time for joy and a time for sharing,” I said as I started to walk around the tree. “The richness of the soil accepts the seeds. For now is the time that seed should be spilled.” I knew the words to most Greater Sabbats by heart, but today this particular ritual seemed so fitting! “Let us celebrate the planting of abundance,” I went on. “The turning of the Wheel, the season of the Goddess. Let us say farewell to the darkness and greet the light.” “The Wheel turns,” Diarmuid said. He walked behind me, wrapping his ribbon over mine. “Without ceasing, the Wheel turns.”

  “And turns again,” he said as our ribbons twined as inexorably as our love. When the tree was wrapped with a lovely weave of red and white, we went to the altar, where the crown of early red roses and daisies lay. Diarmuid lifted off my shift, then picked up the crown and held it over my head.

  “The Goddess has brought us through the darkness to the light,” he said. He lowered the crown to my head, and I felt the heady fragrance of the roses surround me. “Now our Goddess is among us,” Diarmuid whispered, his eyes sparkling. “Speak, Lady.” “I am the one who turns the Wheel,” I said evenly. I felt the pulse of the Goddess within me, steady and strong, hungry and ravenous. My body was ready to take on his seed, my spirit prepared to mingle with his. “When you thirst,” I said, “let my tears fall upon you as gentle rain. When you tire, pause to rest upon the earth that is my breast. Know that love is the spark of life, the fire within you. Love is the beginning and the end of all things.” I opened my arms to Diarmuid, the light of the fire dancing over my naked body. “And I am love,” I whispered.

  The next morning I left my bed at dawn to bathe in the spring. Most days I simply wash with a rag, but today I went to the deep part of the brook for a more thorough cleansing. On the grassy bank I glanced around to make sure no one else was afoot. A peahen rushed through the bushes, but otherwise the woods were quiet. Quickly I slipped out of my robe and stepped into the brook. The water was cold, barely two lunar cycles away from the last winter snow, but I ventured all the way in, submerging myself to my neck, just below where my hair was knotted.

  A cleansing.

  And an offering.

  I touched my belly, wondering at the tiny babe inside me. I had a new life to offer up to the

  Goddess—Diarmuid’s baby. Already I knew it to be true, but my secret would grow safe within

  my belly for a few months. There would be enough time to work on our two clans, time to help them accept Diarmuid and me as man and wife. Waving my arms through the water, I smiled. My whole body felt aglow with the promise of motherhood. This child would tie us together in a physical way. I knew our baby was another part of the Goddess’s plan, which was slowly being revealed to us. I was eager to tell Diarmuid, but for now I would keep my secret as a delightful surprise to be enjoyed after our love was sanctioned by the clans.

  Feeling cleansed and refreshed, I arose from the waters and climbed onto the muddy bank. Quickly I pulled on my robe and stepped into my sandals. But what was that noise?

  I peered out of the bushes, searching the path. There was no one in sight, though I felt a strong sense of another’s presence.

  Had someone been watching me?

  Esbat Rites, Mid-July

  “When the moon is full and the sky is dark,

  We meet within our circle.

  Now hear the singing of the lark

  And dance in the circle, move in the circle.

  Do what thou wilt if it harms none,

  As the Goddess wills it, may it be done.”

  A covener sang as we stood in the coven circle, surrounding the High Priestess Síle. Falkner played a pipe, and Kyra joined in the music by beating on a small drum. I think she and Falkner had devised the ruse of practicing their music in order to spend time together—as if their parents weren’t wise to their swelling emotions. Kyra had mentioned something of it, but I had been so wrapped up in attempting to see Diarmuid that I’d lost track of the details. The music ended, and Síle called two coveners—Kyra’s parents—to come forward for the cake and wine ceremony. Side by side, Lyndon and Paige stepped before the altar, where Ma handed Paige a goblet of wine.

  Paige lifted the goblet with both hands and held it between her breasts. Facing her, Lyndon took his athame and held the handle between his two palms, the blade pointing down. Slowly he dipped his blade into the wine, saying: “In like fashion may male join female for the happiness of both.”

  “Let the fruits of union promote life,” Paige responded. “Let all be fruitful and let prosperity spread throughout the land.”

  Lyndon raised his athame, and his wife held the goblet to his lips so that he could drink. When he finished, he held the goblet for her affectionately. Watching them, I felt a stirring inside me. Could it be my child waking lazily? My belly had not begun to grow yet, but I had noticed a heaviness in my breasts. Diarmuid had noticed, too, and had teased me that I was coming into womanhood. I still had not told him, and he did not yet realize that my body was preparing to nurse a child. Glancing around the circle, my eyes fixed

  upon Kyra, whose face was alight tonight, probably warmed by her love for Falkner. A few

  times I had almost slipped and told her about my baby. I wanted her to know in the worst way but didn’t think it fair for her to find out before Diarmuid. As the wine was passed, I thought of all the couples blessed by the Goddess: Kyra and Falkner, Lyndon and Paige, Diarmuid and me. We had been together for over three months now, seeing each other nearly every day despite the obstacles. Last month we had celebrated the summer solstice by coming together in our circle, surrounded by red feathers for passion. I was more in love with him now than ever, still happy to guard our secret love, our secret child, but I had to admit, I wanted more. Watching a ceremony like tonight’s, I realized that change must come. If we were to raise our child together, in a strong coven, it was time to reveal our love to our clans. After the wine and cakes were passed around, the talk turned to spells to be cast and tales of witch hangings. One covener reported that a Wyndonkylle woman from a village to the south had been pulled from her home and charged with human sacrifice. She was still in prison—if the frightened guards had restrained themselves from burning her without trial. “ ’Tis worse than you say,” said Ian MacGreavy. “For that woman’s coven believes that she was turned in to the authorities by two of our own! They’re accusing Wodebaynes of naming her as a witch!”

  “No!” everyone grumbled. “It can’t be!”

  “But there are no Wodebaynes residing in the south,” said Falkner’s mother. “Aye, but at the time two of our own happened to be traveling south, right through the Wyndonkylles’ village,” the miller answered. “Will we never have justice?” one elder railed. It was Howland Bigelow, an old woodcrafter. “Once again we’re being blamed for someone else’s evil! Why don’t they just heap more condemnation upon our already burdened reputation?” I felt the ire of the coveners rising as folks broke into smaller groups to tell their own tales of hateful acts against Wodebaynes. A few times in the past we had discussed bigotry in the circle, but never with this level of unrest and anger. The glitter of hatred in Ian MacGreavy’s eyes harkened me back to the time I had witnessed him casting a dark spell, and I wondered if any of the other coveners had turned to black magick in private. Perhaps Aislinn, the young rebel, not much older than me, who often railed against the bigots who hated us? I pressed a hand to my bodice, worried about the child within. I was convinced my bairn was a girl—another future high priestess. But she could not come into a world of hatred and chaos; this rancor had to subside before my child entered this life. “ ’Twould be wise to calm your tempers and your fears,” came a firm voice. Coveners looked to my mother, who spoke with the authority of the high priestess. “I daresay this is nothing
new.” “But Síle, it’s getting worse!” old man Bigelow claimed. “I’ve half a mind to cast a dark spell upon the Wyndonkylles to show them what real black magick is. We’re taking the blame for it; we might as well do the deed!”

  My mother remained quiet while people grumbled, then answered, “Howland, I know you are far too gentle a man to ever wish harm upon another.” “Oh, I can wish,” he said. “I can wish the Goddess would send a mist over their fields to dampen the soil. Ruin their planting!”

  “He’s right!” Aislinn pushed into the center of the group. “Haven’t we endured enough hatred? Isn’t it time to fight back?”

  People murmured in approval, nodding.

  I couldn’t believe how eager the folks in our coven were to engage in a war between clans. I

  winced, realizing how impossible it would be to see Diarmuid if we took to fighting.

  “That is quite enough!” Síle said sternly. The coveners fell silent as she demanded their attention. “We’ll have no more talk of evil spells. Have you all forgotten your own initiation into the circle? Your vow to do the Goddess’s will? Have you forgotten that you committed yourself to foster love and peace under the Goddess’s sky?”

  Aislinn tucked a loose tress of red hair behind her ear and let out a disappointed sigh, but most of the others seemed thoughtful. They seemed to be listening to Ma’s words. “Remember the Witch’s Rede?” Síle asked in a commanding voice. “Whatever you desire, whatever you ask of the Goddess, let it harm no one. And remember that as you give, so it shall return threefold.”

  “ ’Tis right thinking, Síle,” Ian MacGreavy said. “This coven will never engage in dark magick, so ’tis futile to waste words upon it.”