Nemeton: The Trial of Calas (Hallowed Veil Book 1)

by Christopher Lee

“Only one may enter the Nemeton. Only one may commune, the who carries the voice of the Great Goddess,” spoke the ancestral guardian. With each word uttered, Pythia could feel her soul being reckoned.

  She took a deep breath and responded, “Only one may be her word on Earth.”Pythia’s head rose, and she looked upon the guardian of the Nemeton without a shred of fear.

  The guardian beckoned her to step forward. “The bones of the Earth will judge, for a stone never lies.”

  Pythia walked between the massive boulders and closed her eyes focusing on her specific intention to enter the Nemeton. “I am Pythia, High Priestess of the Goddess and I come to enter the sacred grove.”

  The stones hummed in unison. Their song filled the air with a vibration that rippled through every single fiber of her being. The great standing stones whispered for a moment, then returned to their slumber.

  “You have been proven holy. Pythia may enter.” said the guardian. A stiff wind blew, dispersing the cool violet flame and making way for Pythia to enter the sacred grove.

  Pythia walked forward. Beyond the stones lay a void. She could not see through it though she knew what lay beyond. Through her own understanding she believed this space between to be the hallow. A veil that protected the Nemeton from all who may wish to exploit its power. This was only one of many groves within the great web of the Nemeta. These centers of sacred power were where the Derwyddon communed with the spirit world, performed their magical initiations and rituals, and conferred with one another on matters of law. The groves lay scattered across the land as far as each horizon, in each of the cardinal directions. Each grove built upon the lines of power within the Earth herself. They acted as an individual unit exacting the will of the Goddess in their region.

  Balance between the realm of magic and the realm of the mundane was their mandate. A balance between mankind and the Fae. The law stated the druids were the only souls worthy of communing with the world of spirit. Pythia had visited each which had its own unique beauty and power. However, this grove was hers and hers alone. Only she may enter this space, only the High Priestess.

  She stopped before the veil and looked at the night sky. She was between the worlds of man and magic. It was a place unlike any other, always twilight, always calm and silent. A world devoid of life. She paused and took in the beauty of the world between the worlds. Pythia took a deep breath before entering. As she did her spirit left her body. Though the connection between them remained, her spirit body soared. Her limbs broke through first, followed by her head and body. A biting chill gripped her as she passed through and into the Nemeton. Her eyes opened and beheld the grand sight of the gargantuan oak trees that formed a perfect circle. The trees danced and swayed with a constant vibration of power. The leaves sung the song of the wind. Atop the trees were the curious red eyes of a flock of ravens that cawed and celebrated her entrance. The air was darker here, full of mystery and heavy laden with spirit. Pythia’s skin rippled in reaction and her spine tingled with the power that swirled around her. This place penetrated her the deepest levels of her spirit. Her fingers ran across the rough surface of the oak trees as she broke through the vigil they kept over the clearing.

  In the middle of the clearing was a great iron cauldron hissing and bubbling. Standing over the cauldron were three shrouded women. Legend knew them as the Fand. Pythia knew them as friends. The maiden, the mother, and the crone, each an aspect, a personality of the Great Goddess whom she served.

  She made her way to the cauldron her mind spinning with memories of the Silver Age. It had been a remarkable age of peace under the rule of the Fae King Dagda Nuada. Mankind had flourished in their own right and if the estimates of bards were correct, they now outnumbered the Fae.

  For the time being the combined power of the Fae and the Order of the Nemeton was enough to maintain the balance, but she feared that would not last for long. Now as the Silver Age came to an end, she wondered how the growing power of mankind would shift the delicate balance she had worked diligently for thousands of years to maintain. Many of the dominions of Mankind still feared the power of the Nemeton, and the divine law of the Goddess. Yet, for Pythia their history was still too near to be overlooked. The Nemeton needed to remain vigilant if they were to enforce the will of the Goddess.

  Pythia walked to the cauldron where the Fand were stirring the bubbling waters of fate with iron rods. The great cauldron of Abred seethed and swirled with the power of inspiration. As she approached the cauldron, she could hear the whispering of the Fand. They chanted the sacred language of the Goddess in unison, producing an otherworldly tone that influenced all that surrounded the cauldron. All she could see were the whites of their eyes as they lay entranced in their work. None had acknowledged her presence yet, but Pythia knew they knew of her presence. She placed her hands over the rolling surface of the water and felt its heat. She closed her eyes and chanted with the three aspects of the Goddess. The language they spoke was known only to those within the Order. To the common folk it was called the dark speech.

  “I surrender to her will, I receive her grace, I am under her spell, I am one with this place,” Pythia chanted. Through the power of the Fand, she ascended into the realm of spirit where their spirits awaited. Moment passed into moment, time bled into itself, and all that Pythia could see melted away. Though her body remained in the clearing of the Nemeton chanting with the Fand, the essence of her soul rose beyond the boundaries of time and space into the eternal fields where the Goddess and her primordial kin existed. It was here in this place without definition, without boundary that her spirit could receive communion with the Goddess. It was a place of feeling and believing, markedly different from her waking life as a living being on the Earth. Here she was one with the greater universe. The peace was intoxicating and without discipline one could become forever lost in this immeasurable bliss. It was a gift that few had ever experienced, and Pythia cherished this ability above all.

  “Welcome, my child,” The voice of the Mother broke the silence. It was the most dominant aspect of her divine presences. This aspect shined brighter than her others. Pythia took a moment to bask in the light of the Goddess. It was a warmth unlike any felt in the realm of the physical. It penetrated and cut through reaching the center of all things.

  “Great Mother, creatrix of all that is and ever will be, I am your humble servant. I, Pythia come before thee as requested.” Pythia felt the smile of the Mother and returned the gesture. The formless took form. All that was once amorphous light took shape in the heavenly guise of a golden-haired mother whose beauty shone brighter than all the stars in the heavens combined. No matter how many times Pythia received communion she could never look upon her mother without at least a single tear falling from her eye. Here her body was not her body, and nothing physically existed, but in order for the Goddess to communicate with her children she produced form and shape to convey her message. She walked upon the celestial plains with cultivated beauty. She wiped the tear from Pythia’s cheek.

  “My sweet child, your innocent beauty never ceases to amaze me,” said the Mother. “I trust your walk with the trees was pleasant?”

  Pythia shook her head in agreement. “It was Great Mother. The night was calm and your children rejoice, singing praises of the unending grace of their divine mother.”

  The Mother smiled. “If only all of my children were as gracious and grateful as you.”

  Pythia had spoken from the heart, yet the Mother knew her more stubborn children did not always share the spiritual fervor of the High Priestess. Pythia felt saddened because so many of the Mother’s children had lost their way.

  “Please walk with me, Pythia.”

  The pair walked down the streaming bridge of iridescent light that arched across the sky above the tiny globe. It appeared so tiny beneath their feet. From this vantage point they could see all of creation. There were many other worlds, and many other creations that speckled the infinite horizon, yet Earth hung as a crown jewe
l in her majestic web of life. Though there were many fantastic sights to see from where they were Pythia could never draw her eyes from the pale blues and deep greens of her own home.

  “It is beautiful, is it not?”

  Pythia smiled and nodded. “It is magnificence realized, Great Mother.”

  “A Mother is never supposed to have favorites,” the Mother paused. “Of all I have created over the infinite expanse, nothing gives me as much joy as the birthplace of my first children.”

  Pythia knew the Goddess favored men, the lineage that sprung from her union with Atum. They were her first children, and her most problematic. Though Pythia loved the Mother and the Goddess very much, she could never help but feel slighted in some small way by the Mother’s infinite love for mankind. For Pythia was not of Atum’s bloodline, she was Fae, and was of the line of the Dagda, the fairy king of Hyperborea. Born of his father Bíle the primordial god of death. It was Dagda’s union with the Goddess that produced the race of the Fae. It was the armies of the Fae that led to Atum’s defeat on the celestial plains. Though the Mother favored man, she also loved her progeny with the Dagda.

  “Not even I can bend the laws of the Universe. It has been and it always will be that sibling will fall to the envy of fellow sibling. Though it pains me to see my children forever at odds, I know that it is the way of things.” said the Mother.

  “Fate will once again try my patience as my children bathe themselves in each other’s blood.” said the Maiden.

  Pythia’s eyes widened. She could not fathom what the Maiden said. A war between the Fae and Man would shatter everything she had worked for. For six thousand years it was the sacred duty of the Nemeton to keep the balance, to keep the peace.

  “Yes, girl, she speaks the truth,” a haggard voice croaked behind her. “Brother will fight brother, sister will slay sister. It is conflict, it is first law of nature.”

  Pythia turned to the Mother and watched as tears formed and streamed down her soft face. “I don’t understand. The Nemeton would have seen this coming? We have been vigilant in keeping the peace. I know that man has strayed but,” she paused. “Will it come to war?”

  The maiden appeared beside Pythia. “It is no fault of the Nemeton that fate will come to pass. We know not when it will occur, nor how, but man will rise again to defy the natural order. It is their fate. Though the warlock is an unexpected occurrence, it does not change what was always coming. The warlock can and must be dealt with, but man must be allowed to realize their true potential.”

  All three of the aspects of the Great Goddess spoke in unison. ¨As light overtakes the darkness and the fires of the sacred hilltops give way to the pinnacle of light in the summer sky. Two battles will be waged that will mark the turning of the silver age and give way to the dark age of mankind. The Fae will fight valiantly, and man will be persistent. Two battles, each a Fae victory. Both will bolster the hatred boiling within mankind. Two Battles, one on the physical plane, the other in the shadowy realm of spirit. Two Battles. Man must overcome the dark seed of Atum’s lust for power. It is their fate, it is their destiny to break that which cannot be broken.”

  Pythia watched as the battles unfolded before her, the carnage, the hatred was unbearable. Though she saw the battles unfold, Pythia knew the future was never set in stone. No matter how powerful the seer of a prophecy was, the future was always mutable and subject to the actions of those who inhabit it. Even the Great Goddess could not predict the future wholly, but what she prophesied was an undeniable reflection of the threads by which fate and destiny are woven.

  Could this prophecy mean not one but many children now conspired against the Goddess? Pythia contemplated. She could not fathom how it had happened on her watch, underneath watchful eyes of the order of the Nemeton.

  The Mother turned to Pythia and smiled. “I am truly sorry.”

  Pythia fell to her knees. “Goddess it is I who am sorry. It is I who have failed you. It was my negligence that led to... ¨

  “My sweet child, it is I who made them, and I who made you. I am the one who must ask your forgiveness, for what you will have to witness, for what is coming. Of all of my children, you deserve it the least.” She paused. “Be at peace and have faith.”

  Pythia was in shock. How was she to be at peace?

  The entire Silver Age had come and gone without even a hint of a magical war. Though conflict was ever present in the realm of the physical, a Great War had not surfaced since the fall of Atum. She remembered the havoc, the utter destruction of a magical war. It was the entire reason that man had to be “cleansed”. Still she knew the bond of magic was unbreakable, and that man would harness the power of the universe once again, but she had hoped that…

  “That it wouldn’t be so soon. I know, my child,” said the Mother. “You must steel yourself against fear, against hatred, against all that would pollute your purpose. The long dark approaches us. Though I cannot see the full extent of the future, I feel you my children the Fae, will bear a heavy burden. Help Dagda, the Nemeton, and all the Fae understand the sacrifice you must make if man is to achieve their destiny.”

  Pythia reeled. “How do I make them understand that? How do I?”

  The Maiden interrupted. “You will know... in time. But first I have something I must ask of you.”

  “My Goddess, I am your servant, your mouth, and your divine will on Earth. Command me and it shall be so.” Pythia bowed.

  The Mother looked at her. “Rise, Pythia, and be joyous. Take with you the names of the chosen. For when the sun is at its peak when the fires are lit in the Whispering Hills you will give witness to the birth of a new servant of the Nemeton. A soul that will shape the coming darkness and lead Mankind forward into the light. This soul will not only give birth to light from the darkness, but it will help you uncover who it is that has betrayed the order. Go forth, my child, and bear this news unto the world be joyous and do not dwell on the coming dark, but on the light that follows it. Have faith.”

  Pythia chanted the names of twenty souls who would undergo the ritual of Conclave. The Fand recorded the divine will of the Goddess. It was a rite that Pythia knew well, for she had once endured its barbarity.

  The Mother turned and departed followed by the Maiden. The Crone stood before her with a stern look.

  “The Nemeton has grown weak, complacent, meanwhile man has grown strong and bold. The sacred grove calls for sacrificial blood. He who has slept through the ages now awakens, his task set before him.”

  Pythia’s eyes grew wide. “But he has not woken in two thousand years… he would only cause more harm than good. ¨

  The Crone’s eyes grew darker as she spoke. “He will flush out the poison that turns brother on brother. His ways defy your precious orthodoxy, but they are necessary. Allow him to complete his work and he will cleanse the filth from your house. Until then it will spread like a cancer throughout the groves, darkening creation and all within it. It is a malignant growth that must be cut from the flesh. If he does not, you all will face my wrath.”

  The Crone turned and walked away. As the three forms walked into the mist, the celestial plane they had been on dissipated and Pythia knew her audience with the Goddess had ended.

  Pythia closed her eyes and felt her spirit journey back to her body within the wilds, to the sacred grove where the corporeal forms of the Fand stood, their eyes fixed upon her. She took a deep breath and gasped for air as her spirit shocked her physical form back to life. She reclaimed her composure and as she did, she felt the fair skinned Maiden of the Fand give her a piece of parchment.

  “Here are the descriptions of the souls you spoke of in your trance, High Priestess. Each has been recorded as you have directed,” she said.

  Pythia took a moment to scan the parchment. On it were brief descriptions depicting the champion each dominion must submit to the Nemeton to undergo the trials of the Conclave. It had been many centuries since the last initiation. Pythia wondered how many of the domini
ons of man and Fae would recognize the significance This was to be no mere bard, or ovyddic healer joining the order, this was a Derwyddon, an eternal keeper of the balance of peace between man and the Fae, a master of the elements. Until this point only twelve had ever been called upon to keep the balance. Called into existence at a crucial point in time to deal with a specific threat to the balance. This soul would undergo the most rigorous of trials, the most terrible of curses, that of eternal servitude to the balance. Though the soul would be granted immortality, it would also be imprisoned within a physical body to hold vigil over creation until the chains that bound life in a never-ending cycle of rebirth were broken. This soul was the harbinger of a new age.

  ¨Summon the Druid Knights of each grove to the ancient City of Tara. The Nemeton will send bardic envoys to every dominion in her creation to demand tribute. The Conclave will commence on the eve of Beltane. A new soul shall be born into her service.”

  Pythia was exhausted. The Fand helped her to her feet and placed her upon a flat stone that leaned against an oak tree. Millions of thoughts, millions of outcomes ran through her head. A new member of the order, war, and most troubling to her the Nemeton had missed the omens. If Mankind were ever to discover that the Nemeton had lost even a modicum of power they would surround the fae like wolves.

  “Bring me black glass,” said Pythia.

  The maiden fetched a large round slab of obsidian and handed it to the High Priestess. Pythia took the glass and opened her skin. Blood dripped from the incision. Her fingers smeared her life force across the mirrored surface.

  Daughter of the blackened night,

  One who fills the heart with fright.

  Reveal your form within the shadow,

  Step forth through numinous hallow.

  From the shadows of the towering oaks the darkened form of a woman appeared before Pythia. The form peered at her in curiosity. Never had Pythia allowed another within the boundaries of her sacred space.