Nemeton
The Trial of Calas
Christopher Lee
Book One
of
The Hallowed Veil
Nemeton: The Trial of Calas Copyright © 2017 by Christopher Lee. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover designed by Christopher Lee
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Christopher Lee
Visit my website at www.christopherleeauthor.com
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: Aug 2017
Epic Tales LLC
ASIN: B076ZY8DW4
This is novel is dedicated to my wife, my mother, my father, family and all those who have supported me. It is not an easy task to realize one's calling in this world. I hope this book stands as a testament to all artists, writers, and creatives who seek to bring the world understanding, wisdom, and beauty.
A Brief History of the First Age
Before the first stars shone. Before the first blade of grass crept from beneath fertile soil. There was only the great Abyss. From the void came forth the primordial powers of the cosmos. Within this eternity existed one singular chance. A possibility so minute, so infinitesimally small it can not be comprehended by the minds of men. It was from this singular chance that all we see, all we sense came to be.
Raise your eyes towards the night sky. See the depths of the Abyss, the eternal womb of the Great Mother, the primordial creatrix of all. She is the beginning of all things and the end of all things. Through her, all things come to pass, and to her, all things return. Through her grace, we are set free.
This Abyss whence we came, was her sacrifice and her gift to us all. It is a universal truth that nothing begets nothing. Without her corporeal sacrifice the existence of men, of fairy kind, of every animal and plant that grows, lives, and dies on this Earth would have never been. It was a sacrifice of her own body, her own luminous being that allowed life to spring forth from the darkness.
From one word uttered from her lips all was born into being. This word is believed to be so powerful that only she can know it. That word is held in the depths of inspiration, in the well of Abred.
From the cauldron, the inspiration of all things come. Known now to all as the word of creation, this word is only known only two beings the Great Goddess and her first child, Atum. He whom was formed in her womb as it was spoken in an immaculate conception. From the word, countless streams of luminous light spread like celestial wildfire against the darkness of the void. From these streams did she weave the heavens together, with grace, humility, and power. In her haste to weave, to create, she feigned to recognize that which grew within her. Until she noticed a swell within her womb.
She closed her eyes and looked within. He was the most beautiful being she had ever seen, filled with the light of heaven and beaming with benevolent potential. In her own womb, he grew strong and formidable. The Goddess beamed at his potential.
But her kin, the primordial beings that existed before time and space itself shunned the child and demanded that she quench the fires of life within her belly. Against the will of her kin and at great peril to her own existence the Great Goddess fled with her child to the depths of the Abyss. There in the infinite black she gave birth to the first of men, the morning star of the east. In the dark recesses of the cosmos she hid with her child as he grew more luminous every day. She knew with every fiber of her being that together they would forge the race of men. They would create a haven in which they would live and die upon.
The Goddess adored Atum so much that she took him as her lover and from their union, the race of man was made. As the father of all men, the fate of mankind was tied to the fate of Atum himself. A doomed fate, one of trials, tribulations, and shortcomings. The Goddess saw this and knew well that her children the race of men would fall from grace. Eventually the dark would no longer hide his light. Atum's luminous being drew her kin, like moths to a flame. The terrible powers of the primordials were unleashed on the pearl of Earth. Millions of souls cried out in horror as the primal forces of the universe sundered her creation.
The Goddess and Atum stood against the tide as defenders of their children. She knew the minds of her kin; they were jealous of the potential of men. Their singular aim was to destroy the line of Atum. Whom they believed to be too powerful and too dangerous to exist in any world, let alone the power and beauty of the physical world.
For millennia they warred against her kin in the heavens. Victory by the primordials was imminent, and thus Goddess to fled in the last ditch effort to lure her kin away. The Goddess feigned the destruction of mankind and drew their hatred. She fled deep into the Abyss where they could not pursue and hid the light of Atum from their sight.
Atum believed his beloved Goddess to be gone forever. Mankind and Earth fell to Atum's keeping. In his stead man was prosperous and lived happily, free of assault from the primordials for millions of years.
She charged him with one law to keep above all. To protect her sacred power and magic. He was granted permission to use her powers of creation only in the event that the destruction of mankind was imminent. For she knew the powers of creation were too much for her children to grasp. For she knew that the act of creation demanded a terrible price, a sacrifice.
In his isolation, Atum grew bitter. He hated the primordials, and slowly that hatred drove him mad, twisting his soul into an abused and perversion. When he could control his rage no longer, Atum fell. He used the creative powers of the Goddess to forge a celestial army of such terrible power that the heavens trembled at the pounding of their righteous feet. He renamed himself Elohim and marched his host against the primordials. Elohim marched his host to the stars and with it laid low the primordial of the night. With no darkness to hide them, the light of Atum grew brighter and peered into the deep dark illuminating the primordials one by one. With the death of the night, the Great Celestial War of the First Age had begun.
Within the Abyss, the Goddess felt the tremors of this great celestial war between Atum and her kin. His monstrosities fought with reckless abandon. One after the other fell to Atum, and as each primordial being was struck down, so fell another petal from the purity of the eternal souls of men.
Though men believed their war to be righteous, their actions challenged and order they could not hope to understand. From their arrogance and folly, they stained and tarnished the whole of creation.
Thus the fall of man followed the fall of their father. The Goddess knew what she had to do to save her children and Atum. She returned, renewed from the darkness, her source of eternal power, full of fury riding the back of a celestial stag.
She smote the forces of Atum with flame, wind, water, air, and spirit. Each blow pushing him and his armies back to Earth with Armageddon's fire and fury. With the help of her only remaining kin, she forged a new army. Through her union with one of her only surviving kin, the god of death Bile, was born the Fae, the fairy kind. Their sole purpose, to act as a counterbalance to the evil in mankind. Just and firm in their purpose they fought unceasingly for the Goddess, and Atum's celestial empire crumbled. Their armies cornered him and his followers. With
only one place to hide, Atum fell to Earth in a dazzling blaze.
In the final battle on the fields before the everlasting city of Formene, the Fae fought against their brothers, mankind. As her generals led her armies against Atum, the Goddess looked upon the field and wept at the bloodshed. The fields that were once a vibrant green, shimmered with the dark red blood of her children. In this moment as brother slaughtered brother the Goddess realized that her kin had been correct that mankind could not be entrusted with the powers of the cosmos. As Atum fell to her generals on the field of battle, the Goddess set to work on a plan that would both save her children and sate the appetite of her two remaining kin, death, and eternity. Entrusted only to her most loyal, Dagda, she lay forth a plan to give Atum's soul to the god of eternity, to be chained forever in its endless and infinite blackness. Atum screamed in agony and begged her forgiveness, but she turned her back to him and wept as he was pulled into the Abyss. With eternity sated, only death needed to be placated. To death, she gave the bodies of her children that of mankind, but not their souls. With death sated, the Goddess set to work and devised a way to keep her children from harm. For her kin both agreed, should humanity rise once more against the celestial lords, they shall be forever silenced.
In her infinite wisdom, the Goddess devised a plan. Upon the ashes of Atum's once great empire, she placed a singular voice to direct the affairs of man and the Fae. She placed it not in fabrication of stone or edifice of wood, but in the groves of trees, deep within the untouched lands of Earth. In these groves came forth the voice of power, reason, and law.
In these sacred groves, the souls which served the Order of the Nemeton were to be named by the trees themselves. Through the trees their names would be whispered, their purpose revealed, and their fates tied to the eternal task of maintaining balance between the worlds of men and the world of magic. Though she could not altogether remove humanity's link to the cosmic power of magic, she dampened their ability, cursing mankind to struggle against the weight of their tarnished souls. Like quicksand the more they struggled against the laws of the cosmos the more they lost their connection to it and power from it. Though men now faced an eternity of damnation, she placed a failsafe within her curse. Should her children learn humility, surrender, and grace, they could once again harness their power, and commit themselves to their eternal destiny as the saviors of all that exists. Though she knew this double-edged sword would be hard for her children to walk upon she believed in their divine providence to wrest life from the boundaries to which even she and her primordial kin were bound.
As time passed so too did the memory of the past. As the world entered a new age, the gravity of man's mistakes lessened in the minds of the living. The Golden Age had long since passed, and the Silver Age had come and gone. As the wheel of time turned towards the Bronze Age, man grew proud and strong once again. They stretched out across the surface of the Earth into several kingdoms all under the watchful eyes of the Nemeton and the Druid Knights of the Sacred Groves. Each of the fabled Derwyddon were selected by the voice of the Nemos and knighted by the High Priestess whose voice was the Goddess's word and law on Earth. Neither man nor Fae dared to stand against the Sacred Grove. As the great and lasting peace of the Silver Age passed into distant memory, on the final eve of the festival of the Summer Solstice in Hyperborea, pilgrims from every corner of every kingdom on Earth will flock to the Whispering Hills of the ancient city of Tara, to celebrate the Goddesses victory over the darkness, and in their revelry will be born a savior, a new Druid Knight will be born into the service of the Nemeton.
-Excerpt from the Voice of the Trees
By Emrys Myrddin
I am a stag: of seven tines,
I am a flood: across a plain,
I am a wind: on a deep lake,
I am a tear: the Sun lets fall,
I am a hawk: above the cliff,
I am a thorn: beneath the nail,
I am a wonder: among flowers,
I am a wizard: who but I
Sets the cool head aflame with smoke?
I am a spear: that roars for blood,
I am a salmon: in a pool,
I am a lure: from paradise,
I am a hill: where poets walk,
I am a boar: ruthless and red,
I am a breaker: threatening doom,
I am a tide: that drags to death,
I am an infant: who but I
Peeps from the unhewn dolmen, arch?
I am the womb: of every holt,
I am the blaze: on every hill,
I am the queen: of every hive,
I am the shield: for every head,
I am the tomb: of every hope.
—Song of Amergin
Translated by Robert Graves, from The White Goddess,
Faber and Faber Limited, 24 Russell Square London WC1.
It appears here under the principle of Fair Use.
Chapter One
Pythia, the High Priestess of the Great Goddess
Betwixt worlds her feet do tread,
She goes where none dare enter,
Perceiving visions of the living and the dead.
Leaves rustled against a soft breeze in the night air. The breeze caught her wild red hair entwined with vines, leaves, and acorns and she smiled. The moon was full and at its zenith in the night sky giving a dim light to her green skin and the forest floor through the canopy of the ancient trees. Silence stalked the night air as the woodland creatures slumbered. Though her gentle footsteps reported her movement to her own ears, they were so elegantly soft she might as well have been a ghost. Pythia had walked this path countless times deep into the woods where only her feet had tread. She stopped for a moment and took a deep breath as she opened her crystal blue eyes she noticed a great white hooded owl gazing down at her from the top of an old oak tree. It watched her intently. To the great owl this intruder must have been a strange sight. A branch snapped in the distance and the great owl’s head swiveled directing its attention toward its quarry before taking flight. Pythia wondered if the great owl had seen any of her kind before. Dryads were common in the forests, but she had never heard of groves migrating this far into the wild. Where she stood would have stricken fear into the hearts of the greatest of heroes. In fact where she journeyed no creature on the face of the Earth dare enter. None except her.
Her bare feet led her through the dense wood, leagues from any sign of civilization. In these wilds, creatures of unbelievable power existed. Here they were free of the taint of mankind, free to live without fear of being hunted. Man saw them as terrible beasts, but to her they were like children. Pythia did not fear them as men did, she respected their beauty, their intelligence, their sheer power. They respected her; they feared her power. For she was both master and servant of this land, bound to it by sovereign decree of the Goddess.Pythia’s hands caressed the hardened bark of the trees creating a soft croak as her own hardened skin ran across. With each step she partook in the whispers and gossip of the spirits. Her feet danced across the rippling waters of the streams, and her fingers sang as she touched the standing stones. Her presence in the wood did not appear as an intrusion, but a sacred dance with the wild. She was as much a part of this wood as it was a part of her.
Pythia walked for many miles with her eyes closed never once opening them to see where her feet led her. She knew the path, and she knew no eye could lead her to where she was going. Her senses were on fire with the dark mystery of the night and her spirit was in tune with a singular purpose. She made for the Nemeton, the most sacred grove of trees created by the Goddess. As she neared it, she could feel a distinction, a shift in the energy on the wind. This was her signal she had arrived where she had intended. Like in the eye of the storm the wind stopped, and an eerie silence fell over the wood. Pythia was now betwixt the land of the living and the land of spirit.
She opened her eyes. Before her was the entrance to the sacred grove. Pythia’s robes slipped from her shoulders bari
ng her naked form before the divine. Though she had ventured here thousands of times before, it always left her awestruck. In her path were two titanic standing stones engraved with the sacred markings of the Goddess. Spiral after spiral intertwined in an ornate and delicate balance. They seemed to reach to the stars themselves, towering over any who might seek to enter the hallowed ground they guarded. Between them stood a hooded figure, wreathed in a cool dark violet flame. Flashes of distant memory poured over her as she walked close Now her feet led her towards that which once sent tremors down her spine. She was mere feet from the shadowy specter before it raised its ghostly head. Its face shrouded in darkness, with no definable feature. It raised its limb contesting her right to walk any further.
A ghastly voice emanated from within it, “Come no further.”
She bowed her head, her sky clad body displaying her reverence for its authority over the sacred path. Pythia lowered herself in prostration before the ancestral guardian, her knees resting against the soft grassy Earth, her arms laid out before her. She kissed the holy ground and waited for the judgement of the spirit.
“Pythia, servant of Her grace and power, mouth of the Goddess, High Priestess of the Nemeton, rise and face the judgement of your intention,” the ancestral guardian commanded.
Pythia rose to her feet. Her head remained hung in reverence. She had been through this ritual each time she had ridden the hedge to the Nemeton, and although it had been many thousands of times, her respect for the old ways had not diminished. Each time she entered the Nemeton, she felt reborn, renewed, and restored. She waited as the spectre judged her.
Nemeton: The Trial of Calas (Hallowed Veil Book 1) Page 1