Moondance of Stonewylde

by Kit Berry

  The extent of Magus’ concern was to barrage Miranda with instructions about feeding Sylvie and making sure she regained the weight she’d lost. Clip felt sorry for Miranda, who was losing her independence along with her figure. She was desperate for Magus’ affection, returning like a puppy to be kicked again and again. Clip witnessed her humiliation on several occasions, but his admonishments to his brother had little effect.

  ‘I hope you’ll be joining us for the Lammas celebrations tomorrow?’ asked Clip. He was sitting in Sylvie’s bedroom with the windows open to the warm late July afternoon, and Miranda had just returned from the library. After three days she no longer felt that Sylvie needed to be watched constantly – all her daughter seemed to do was sleep or lie silently gazing at the ceiling – and she resented Clip’s intrusion. Surely they were entitled to some privacy in their rooms?

  ‘Lammas? Yes, I suppose so. What’s involved? I don’t need a costume do I, like at Beltane?’

  ‘No, this is the celebration of the cereal harvest and most of the rituals focus on the crops and the Corn Spirit. It’s not quite the same as the magic of Beltane and the Green Man, nor the holiday atmosphere of the Summer Solstice. But it’s a lovely festival nevertheless.’

  Miranda eyed him suspiciously from Sylvie’s doorway. Why did he keep turning up like this? Sylvie didn’t need babysitting and seemed to be on the mend now from the strange lethargy that had taken her over since the last full moon. Clip irritated her with his concern, and also hampered her attempts to entice Magus to stay. Every time he came striding down the corridor to see how Sylvie was doing and Miranda thought to entertain him, there was Clip lurking about like a pale shadow.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll take part,’ she said. ‘Now if you don’t mind, Clip, I …’

  He smiled at her and settled more comfortably in the chair.

  ‘Please ignore me, Miranda. I’m happy just to sit here quietly and meditate. You get on with whatever you need to do. I’m preparing myself for the festival tomorrow.’

  She frowned at this and came into the bedroom, fiddling with a jam-jar of wild flowers on the dressing table. The young lad Harold had brought them up earlier, saying a friend of Sylvie’s had sent them for her. Several petals had fallen already onto the scrubbed pine surface, and Miranda brushed them into her palm.

  ‘Preparing yourself in what way?’

  ‘Focusing my energy. Concentrating on what Lammas really means. It’s one of the Celtic cross-quarter festivals, part of the old farming calendar. Of all the eight festivals we celebrate here, it’s perhaps the one most closely linked to our need to survive and the bounty of the Earth Goddess. And of course as a farming community, that’s vital to us.’

  ‘I see,’ she said, rearranging Sylvie’s things on the dressing table. Her daughter was asleep again, a little smudge of colour now in her cheeks, but otherwise still very weak and lacklustre.

  ‘I know it’s all still strange to you,’ said Clip, his grey eyes gentle, ‘but maybe it would help if you learned more about our customs here and what they actually mean.’

  ‘Help?’

  ‘Help you to really integrate into our community. Everyone at Stonewylde has grown up with this in their blood so it’s second nature, but not for you. Take the corn dollies, for instance. For the past week or so, every child and many of the adults have been busy weaving corn dollies. It’s something everyone does in the last week of July. Have you seen any of them yet? There are lots of different designs, from the simple little favours and knots to really complicated designs, spiral plaits and so forth. Our children understand the symbolism behind this straw-work, and why we weave and plait these tokens.’

  ‘I’m sure I can appreciate the symbolism,’ said Miranda stiffly.

  ‘With your mind maybe, but not in your soul,’ he replied. ‘You need to feel it, not just know it. Tomorrow, if you come up to the Lammas field for the sunrise, I think you’ll find it enlightening. Lammas is quite a low-key event and many Hallfolk don’t bother too much with the sunrise ceremony. Some only take part in the picnic at lunchtime, and some only the evening ritual in the Stone Circle and the party afterwards in the Barn. But please do come at dawn and spend the day with the folk.’

  ‘Doubtless I will, provided Sylvie’s well enough to leave on her own.’

  ‘Good!’ smiled Clip. ‘It’s a shame that Sylvie can’t come too, but she does seem to be making a little progress at least. I’m sure it’ll do her good too, in the long run, if you’re both fully integrated members of the community. That child you’re carrying will be a born and bred Stonewylder and he needs his mother to be part of it too.’

  ‘He? Do you know something I don’t?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘He or she,’ he corrected with a twinkle in his eye. ‘A slip of the tongue.’

  It was still shadowy as Maizie shut the door to her cottage and shooed four of her children along the lane that led up into the hills. They joined the huge throng of Villagers trooping along the stony track to the special place where the Lammas sunrise ritual was held every year. Maizie gazed with pride at her sons walking ahead as she fell into step with Rosie, both bundled in their shawls against the pre-dawn chill. The three little ones slept in the Nursery, and would join them in the Lammas Field later. Maizie watched Yul walk with a spring in his step, tall and strong, talking quietly to Geoffrey and Gregory. Both boys looked up at Yul as they walked, one each side of him, listening carefully to what he said.

  Maizie thought back to Lammas last year, and how different it had been. She recalled Alwyn’s bad temper and how he’d cuffed Gregory hard, making the boy’s nose bleed. Yul had left earlier, not walking up with the family so as to avoid his father, and had then felt guilty all day because his younger brother had suffered in his place. She remembered Rosie crying when Yul missed the picnic after Alwyn sent him back down to the Village on some trumped-up errand. Alwyn had been out of sorts, knocking back far too much cider, fumbling with the sickle when it was his turn to reap. She’d had to practically smother little Leveret when her grizzling enraged Alwyn; she’d feared for the child’s safety and this had made the crying worse, as Leveret picked up on her fear. She remembered the humiliation of Alwyn, snoring loudly, being carried back to the Village in one of the carts normally reserved for the small children, the elderly and the heavily pregnant. She smiled to herself and thanked the Goddess for the happiness her family now enjoyed.

  ‘Mother, do you think Robin will ask me today?’ Rosie said quietly, not wishing her younger brothers to overhear.

  ‘Aye, seems likely,’ said Maizie. ‘You been at the dairy a six-month now and ‘tis plain the boy’s smitten with you.’

  ‘Oh, if he gives me his favour I shall wear it so proudly!’ said Rosie warmly. ‘Robin is my dream come true! And I’ve brought the one I made him to give in return, just in case. I’ll be the happiest girl at Stonewylde if Robin asks me to walk with him!’

  ‘He’s a good lad, Robin, and from what I hear, turning out to be a fine dairyman too. You’re old enough now, Rosie, for your first sweetheart. But young enough too to change your mind if he don’t measure up.’

  ‘Did you see our Yul last night, Mother? He was sat in the corner quiet, plaiting a favour too. I think he has a sweetheart!’

  ‘No! Surely ‘twas a knot for hisself? Just a decoration?’

  ‘No, Mother, else why would he be so secretive? And he tied a scrap o’ silver ribbon into it too, with a slip of yew! Whoever heard of that afore? Yew at Lammas?’

  ‘True, ‘tis rather odd,’ mused Maizie. ‘Fancy that, our Yul walking with someone! Though ‘tis about time – the boy will be an adult this winter. We must watch to see who wears it then. Silver ribbon is different, and a pretty idea. Makes a change from the usual. But yew … mmn, I wonder what that says?

  ‘I did ask him, but he near snapped my head off!’ said Rosie. ‘Well, we’ll see soon enough. I do hope it’s someone nice.’

  They fell silent as the track bec
ame steeper, climbing up into the rolling hills. Hundreds of Villagers tramped along, the Hallfolk using a different route, more direct from the Hall. Many of them rode, and Tom had also organised several of the long, upholstered carts to carry the less energetic Hallfolk to the Lammas Field. These rather grand carts were normally used to transport Hallfolk back and forth to the Village events, and Miranda had been grateful for the chance to ride in one this morning.

  Her absences in the Barn at Dark Moon had alerted everyone to her pregnancy and she was now treated with extra deference. She sat in the jolting open carriage with a group of visitors, thinking longingly of her four-poster bed back at the Hall. But Clip’s words had resonated with her; the child she carried was Magus’ and would be as firmly Stonewylde as everyone else around her. She needed to immerse herself in the customs and lores, which might bring her closer to Magus too. She just wished that these celebrations didn’t involve quite so many early morning starts, especially when she felt nauseous. She turned to answer the visitor next to her, who was querulously bemoaning the fact that so many Hallfolk youngsters hadn’t bothered to rouse themselves for this important ritual.

  Bright dawn bloomed in the sky as the folk of Stonewylde gathered in the Lammas Field, high up amongst the hilltops. Under the pink sky the people stood strung out like a necklace around the rustling wheat, golden and heavy-headed. Everyone held hands around the perimeter of the large field and the giant human circle began to chant. Magus, glorious in his robe of gold, led the ceremony. Voices raised, they started to move widdershins, all facing outwards and looking out across the vast expanse of fields around them. There were crops growing and ripening as far as the eye could see; gold, ochre and burnt sienna in the clear light. This particular field was chosen for the Lammas ceremony because it commanded such magnificent views across the miles and miles of flourishing fertility that was Stonewylde in August.

  As the red sun burned its fiery arrival above the horizon, the people turned inwards and began to move deosil, making another complete circuit of the field and chanting to the drumbeat. Overhead a pair of buzzards circled, their enormous wings outstretched, the air plaintive with their high-pitched mewing cries. Miranda was moved by the beauty of it all and wished that Sylvie were here to experience it too.

  At a signal from the drums everyone released hands and stepped forward, each plucking a single ear of wheat from the crop. All was silent as the people reflected for a minute or so on the bounty of the Corn Mother who lived amongst the grain. Every year she sacrificed herself for the community, yet held within herself the seed for next year’s abundance. The drums picked up a different rhythm and the folk plucked the grains off their ear of wheat one by one, thanking the Corn Mother for her generosity, throwing the individual seeds back onto the soil. Symbolically they returned some of her bounty to the darkness of the earth, where it would lie dormant through the long winter months until spring quickened it with new life.

  The ritual struck a chord in the hearts of the people of Stonewylde. They were still in touch with a knowledge so simple and primeval that most others in the western world had long forgotten it. This knowledge was the very source of survival: without the Earth’s gift of fruitfulness, all would perish. The ceremony ended with a final chant, and then the huge circle of people broke up, laughing and chattering, and crowded towards the entrance of the field.

  The sun was by now well risen and everyone cheered at the arrival of two carts pulled by beautifully decorated horses, their manes and tails woven and plaited with red ribbons and corn favours. One cart carried wicker hampers of Lammas cakes, special flat cakes as big as dinner plates baked from corn, honey and butter and flavoured with nutmeg. The other brought great churns of milk, creamy and frothy, straight from the dairy. Robin walked by this cart, having helped that morning with the milking, and Rosie’s heart skipped at the sight of him. She’d been disappointed to be relieved of her duties at the dairy in order to take part in the sunrise ceremony.

  Breakfast was served and everyone tucked in hungrily to their Lammas cake and beaker of milk. Afterwards the younger men of the community were presented with sharp sickles decorated, like the horses, with red ribbons and favours. They stepped forward with a flourish and a few words from Magus, and began to cut the crop in time-honoured fashion. This was a ritual, for the combine harvesters reaped all the other fields. But at Lammastide this one field was reaped in the old way, just as their ancestors had done for thousands of years, ever since hunters became gatherers.

  Many of the Village women and most of the Hallfolk went home at this point, after watching a little of the reaping. The women would be busy all morning preparing picnic lunches and also food for the feast tonight. In the Lammas field there was music and singing as the musicians took out their fiddles, pipes and tambours, and the old harvesting songs were played. Children ran around happily and the older men stood about gossiping of times gone by. The reapers worked steadily in relays. Their sickles sliced the stalks of wheat close to the dry earth, their hands grasped the bundles which were then laid to the side for the binders. The binders were younger boys and girls who tied the thick bundles into a sheaf with a long piece of reed. The stookers followed the reapers and binders, gathering up several sheaves at a time and stacking them into stooks, roughly pyramidal in shape. This took place all around the enormous field and everyone had their turn, for a while at least.

  By mid-morning there were many stooks standing proudly in the blazing August sun, and the uncut area in the centre of the field was dwindling rapidly. Even for the hardy Villagers this was tough work, requiring a great deal of bending and stooping. There was water and cider available to quench thirsts, and as the morning progressed the atmosphere became increasingly merry. By mid-day there was only a small circle of golden wheat left standing in the middle, and it rustled and moved strangely. The boys got their nets and clubs ready to hand.

  The band of Village women, all the small children and the Hallfolk returned up the track. Some came in the carts and some carried their own wicker baskets; all were laden down with the picnic lunch. Then, once they’d arrived, the last bit of the field was reaped. The boys hopped around in glee, as this next part was their special task. As the men cut into the wheat with their sickles, rabbits started to fly out, their final refuge no longer a haven. The boys were waiting. Nets were thrown and clubs whacked, and before long the stubble field became a rabbit graveyard. Miranda turned away in horror, her Outside World sensibilities shocked at the carnage. The unfortunate creatures were lifted by the ears and flung into one of the carts. The Village women would spend the afternoon skinning and gutting and baking special Lammas rabbit pies, enough for the whole community to feast upon tonight.

  When the final handful of wheat right in the centre of the field was cut, it was carefully carried over to Magus. He stood waiting, the sunlight glinting on his gold robes, and wrapped it carefully in a poppy-red cloth. He then presented it to the Corn Mother, the girl who’d been chosen for the Lammas festival to represent the keeper of the Corn Spirit. She must take this last sheaf and during the afternoon, with the help of other women, weave it into a special, ornate corn dolly. This great dolly, symbolically harbouring the Corn Spirit, would take pride of place on the Altar Stone at tonight’s ceremony in the Stone Circle.

  Miranda had been told all this earlier and watched now with a catch in her throat. She longed to be the one standing by Magus’ side, his queen and partner. She knew she’d look beautiful in the golden robes with the great headdress of corn and poppies on her red hair. She was pleased to see Wren was the Corn Mother, one of the rather silly teenagers she taught, and no competition at all; the girl was only a year older than Sylvie.

  Now, with the whole field reaped, sheaved and stooked by so many willing pairs of hands, the picnic lunch could begin. Yul took his sickle and trudged over to the area where the women were spreading the cloths over the stubbly ground and laying out food from the baskets. His back ached, his arms throb
bed, and he had a thirst on him that would’ve drained the duck-pond. But he was happy; it had been a good reaping and it was immensely satisfying to see the golden stooks stacked all over the field. This was the first year he’d been allowed a sickle; before he’d only been a binder or stooker.

  Yul put the sickle into one of the carts where they were being collected and joined the queue by the cider cart. There were several barrels on board and some older men, no longer able to help with the reaping, handed out great tankards of cider to the thirsty workers. Tom was in charge of the carts and horses and greeted Yul with Lammas blessings as he was handed a brimming tankard. Yul stood gulping down the cool, tangy cider, his eyes shut at the pleasure of the liquid sliding down his parched throat. He was clapped on the back by Edward, the farm manager and cricket team captain, and nearly choked.

  ‘Good reaping, Yul! Well done, lad. Let’s hope you do as well tomorrow in the match, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ grinned Yul, feeling like a man amongst men. Since the Solstice, when Alwyn had been taken away, he noticed that people were treating him differently. He was now the head of his family and enjoyed the honour and responsibility. He refilled his tankard and found Maizie and the family already seated on their rug and tucking into the picnic.

  ‘You two did well at the rabbiting,’ Yul said to Geoffrey and Gregory, who were both experienced rabbiters. They grinned at him as they devoured their food. Gefrin and Sweyn poked at the ground as they ate, digging up insects with sharp stones and kicking each other. Rosie kept Leveret well out of their reach as the little girl ate her lunch and gazed dreamily up at the sky, watching the swifts darting and swooping overhead. Maizie poured everyone some redcurrant wine, diluting it with water for the younger ones.

  Yul looked around at the other families enjoying their picnics under the brilliant blue August skies and felt a surge of happiness. For him, the only blight on the day was Sylvie’s absence. He’d quickly established that she wasn’t with the Hallfolk, although he noticed her mother was, and Harold had confirmed that Sylvie was still confined to bed. Yul was becoming increasingly worried about her. According to Harold she hadn’t left her room since the last Moon Fullness. Yul knew something wasn’t right but was at a loss as to what he could do. However, he’d devised a plan to visit her later on; besides being desperate to see her, he had something to give her as well.