At one Time, long ago, the Ancestors of all the peoples living on these Fair Isles and all lands surrounding them celebrated the Grain and Herb Harvest with Human sacrifice. A young man, once having been selected, would live as King for one whole Moon’s Dance – with his every wish or desire being granted – until the next Dark Moon, when he would be cut down like the Grain; a willing sacrifice. Then he – who embodied the Sacrificed God – would be buried with the seeds of the Grain, or cast into the Fires with the first sheaves harvested. This was all with the understanding that the Harvest King’s Spirit would enter into the presence of the Gods to present the value of his sacrifice and the needs of the Tribe, Clan, or village to them. But that was long ago…
The Old Dark Tribes discontinued Human sacrifice hundreds of years ago. Now their Harvest “Killed Man,” in order to be worthy, is chosen by his showing exceptional skills in Archery, storytelling, and the hunt – just as he ever was. Except that now he is laid – alive – in the Forest, on a bed of Blue Bells – with his arms and legs bound, as if he were a Stag. Then the women Gatherers and the men Hunters, sit around him, extolling his prowess and their thanksgiving to the Goddess for a plentiful Harvest – all the while feasting upon Sacred Mushrooms, Berries, and venison and drinking copious amounts of fermented Berry juice. After the celebratory Feast, the “Killed Man,” having been released by the Sacrificed God who had possessed him, re-joins the Tribe as their equal.
The Druids of the Eire observe their Grain and Herb Harvest Rite as “Lughnasadh” – which name means the Games of Lugh – by holding competitions amoung men of many diverse skills. These include: games of strength, archery, horsemanship, ax tossing, spear throwing, swordsmanship, and poetry. The Druids of the Cymru call him Lleu Llaw Gyffes – Lleu of the Long Arm. Lleu – or Lugh – is the God of Light, Magic, poetry, and of many skills.
Long ago, one of the Ladies of the Lake began the tradition of staging the Order’s Harvest Festival on the Isle of Apples. Anyone who wishes to may attend. Even men from the continent, across the Eastern Sea, come to join in the Games. So that, in this way, once a year, all the peoples of these Our Fair Isles or elsewhere – who do in fact share the lands’ Harvest – may join in celebration together. It is the largest Festival on the Isle of Apples – and for that matter, anywhere on these Our Fair Isles.
By their very nature, the Games of Lleu are male focused; it is only the men who compete in the Games against each other. At the end of three Days, a Champion emerges. This man, in Days of old, is he who would have earned the honour of being the Human sacrifice.
Now, this Champion is honoured on the Night of and for three Days after the Games and is given every desire of his heart. He may remain on the Isle of Apples, should he wish to, being given the full hospitality of the Lady of the Lake and the Order, until it is Time for the final Ritual. But stay or go, he must vow to return upon the next Full Moon for the Harvest Ritual – not at the bloodletting Dark Moon as long ago – there to present the value of his Human sacrifice to the Fires.
For the final Ritual, he will have made a bread from the first sheaves – by his own hands – in the form of a Man, symbolizing the life and body of the Grain. The Lady of the Lake will have whispered the needs of the peoples of these Isles into his ear; which he then writes, or intones into the bread. He then offers the loaf as sacrifice, in place of his own life.
The First Seeds of the Grain in hand after the Harvest is gathered are buried at that Time, there to await, deep in the Earth, the Time when the great Wheel has turned and warmth has returned to the land – when they will sprout through the soil as the next year’s new growth.
The idea of a Sacrificed God, or King, is a very ancient one, yet Gwyddion tells me that this pattern keeps playing out in ever-new ideologies. The King/God of the Christians was said to be in the ground, or a tomb, for three and one-half Days in a Death-like state, then resurrected in full glory – just as was the Grain! And this was in the season of planting, in the first month of the Jews’ year.
Even the length of three – or three and one half – Days, has been used symbolically in many cultures. Gwyddion thinks that this number might be a part of so much Myth and Magic because a Lunar month is about twenty-eight and one half Days in measure, with eight phases, making each recognizable phase about three and one half Days long.
Gwyddion once posed the question to Bedwyr and me, “Boys, why do we keep these Sacred Festivals?”
Of course this was a rhetorical question, so he continued: “It is because, as long as the Sun rises again each Day and the Earth, Trees, Grain, Animals, Humans, and all other living things continue to turn the Wheel of the Year by performing their annual Ritual rounds of necessary tasks, the World will go on. This is why we keep these Sabbats. It is the right thing to do. It is our Divinely given endeavour and function upon this Earth.
“Let me ask you this, boys: What do you think would happen, if upon one year, all the Trees refused to do their dance – refused to blossom, leaf and drop their leaves – refused to honour the great cycles of life in the Wheel of the Year? Why, all life on Earth would die! For all things on Earth are interdependent.
“Well then, let me ask you this: What if all the insects or Animals or Birds – and so on – did the same?”
“All life on Earth would die!” quoth we.
Gwyddion continued, “We as Humans must do our part in keeping the Wheel of the Year turning. We must enter the Land of Myth – the Realm of the Gods – and do as they did ‘In the Beginning’ and have taught us to do; we must keep the Holy Days and perform the Rites. By doing these things we keep the seasons turning – one notch at a Time. For I tell you truly, if the Day should ever come when all Humans refuse to do their part in this and keep the Old Gods’ ways, all things as we know them on Earth will come to an end. Yes, we keep the Holy Days because it is the right thing to do!”
The Order’s lands...
As a very generous gesture on the part of the Order, the footpath – beyond the gates of entry, which leads to the beginning of the Tor’s spiral climb – was open to everyone that week, in honour of the Games. No Human guards stood there to intimidate visitors.
The pathway is kept in a state of natural perfection. Throughout the growing season, sweet smelling Herbs, variously coloured Flowers and bushes with medicinal properties, wild Ferns and green Mosses, all grow along its sides. It is a beguiling delight to the senses. Once having walked its length, never have I forgotten its haunting beauty. Like strains of an Incantation does it come ever unbidden into my thoughts – maddening yet comforting all at a Time. Every so often, a Willow, Oak, or Ash Tree stands beside the foot path, to offer shade from the Sun or shelter from the often sprinkling Rain. Stones to be seated upon have been placed beneath those Trees – a rest to the stiff bones of the aged or unwell pilgrims who have traversed to the Isle for Healing.
This same path also passes beside the two Holy Wells of the Red and White Springs. A Thorn grows by each of them.
At Summer’s Beginning, in the season of fertility and then again at the Grain and Herb Harvest, folk who live near and far come to dress the Wells with Charms. Coloured ribbons of wool, flax, and silk hang in the Thorns, billowing in the breezes, carrying prayers of worship, thanksgiving, and supplication to the Four Winds. Small White Quartz pebbles are tossed into the Wells, for requests of blessings and for Divination. Gold coins sparkle in the Water, where they have lodged in the Stones containing the Wells. Of course no one takes them – no one would dare rob the Gods.
That Day as I walked by the White Spring, I saw that bread offerings had been made as well. It was understood that these gifts, which had been left on a Stone offering table, would be used by the sisters and brothers of the Order, who maintain this place of beauty. Fruits, Vegetables, mead, ale, honey cakes and such things were sometimes left there too. And these things, although appreciated by the Order, were not needed by them due to the bountiful harvest of their gardens and fields. So,
these food stuffs were given to the poor, the widows, and sickly folk living in the vicinity of the Order.
To walk the pathways of the Order’s gardens, to drink from the Holy Wells and to continue up to the top of the Tor, changes one from their ordinary state of being to that of the world of Seers and Mystics – at least in the way one feels – whether Gifted in these Arts or not. Even a man such as I, who has been passed by in the way of the Gifts of my Mother’s blood, can feel a sort of floating motionlessness and a profound silence of peace. It seems a Spiritual Ascension of sorts – yet was I more in touch and connected to everything in the Earthly world of form, as well as in the realm of Spirits. The path to the Tor was filled with the Dragon’s Breath – a Mist. It seemed a Time out of Time. As I walked the path up the Tor, I felt as though I was walking the path of my Destiny – and all was well and right.
Might my final rest be here in this realm, or perhaps on this very piece of land? I do pray so.
As always, there was a basin of pure Well Water standing at the top of the spiral path, there for any who needed refreshment. I washed my hands, neck and face. After thusly refreshing myself, cleansed of heart and thought, I went to Morgan.
She was with her Bees, of course. Like a child I hid in the bushes to watch and listen. Buzzing and humming they were. Morgan and her Bees in some great sympathetic song, or was it really a conversation? Of a sudden she turned and smiled at me.
“Bear!”
I ran to her, wanting so to embrace her as a lover, of course I only held both of her delicate hands and kissed her forehead.
“Morgan, it seems so often I come to you in need. What I wish is that each Time would only be a joy, but now again...”
“Arthur, is it regarding Gwenyfar?”
I blurted out, “Oh, Morgan, how can I be husband to her? If I like her at all, it is only as a friend.”
Recovering my composure, I recanted, “But this is not your problem. Truly, none of my problems are. Please, once again, forgive my neediness. I will be here for six Days. Let us have pleasant Times together. Tell me! What has your life been like this season?”
“Simple, as always, Arthur.”
“Oh, but talk of your ‘simple things’ is like music to my ears. I will wait here until you finish your work for the Day and if it is all right with you, then perhaps we can walk together in the Woods as we used to do so long ago. If it pleases you, would you tell your tales of the Myths to me?”
“Oh, Bear – I think you must know them all by now!”
“It would not matter if I heard them one hundred and one Times! The joy is in the listening; you have surely been told what a wonderful storyteller you are, Morgan!”
“Well, yes I have.”
“Then after we walk and sit in the Woods, would you like to fish in the Lake with me?”
So I spent three blessed Days in Morgan’s company, then on the fifth Day – the second of the Games – everything changed...
The Games...
Great sport and fun was had by all contestants, I believe; those bested as well as those besting. There were Champions competing under the standards of many Kings and Chieftains; from as far away as the Languedoc in the far Southwest of the Continent. Even as far as from Rome was one man. His name was Lucian – “Of the light” – and so he was.
This next is difficult for me to quill to page. But it is so, that many people speak of the good looks of their King – handsome and well-built, light wavy hair, clear skin, good teeth, brilliant blue eyes and on and on and on. It is tedious to me how often they speak of this.
At first, when I was a boy, comparisons of my looks to other young boys hurt me for Bedwyr’s sake, for he was small, dark and well... just plain. And I would not have his feelings hurt for anything. Of course, at that Time he was thought to be the young Lord of Dumnonia, so no one dared to openly compare us. But as years went by, Bedwyr changed. Every year he grew more comely, with a smile sly like a Fox. He was clever, agile, virile, charming. His Magic seemed more and more to attract women, and so does it still. Now, it only makes me uncomfortable for my own sake when people go on and on about their “handsome King.”
The reason that I write of this here, is that this Warrior – Lucian – was all that I am in these ways and very much more. He was taller and more muscular. His hair shone like gold on the field when the Sun lit it, and to my eyes, he was much more handsome than I. In fact, I do not remember ever seeing a man so beautiful as he. Like a God he looked – out there upon the field of Games.
In addition to this, he had the same Fox-like smile and charm that Bedwyr had. No woman could keep her eyes from him. No woman... not even Morgan. She watched him with a fascination that made my gut churn. It was a jealousy that burned me. I could not turn my thoughts from it. Even when I played the Games of wit – in which, indeed, I was wagered on and expected to win – I could not concentrate. I brooded between events and chided myself for a fool. Why had I not realised – expected – Morgan to want and Love other men? My thoughts raced, “She is a Priestess of the Goddess. She will express Love in all ways. I have no right to her... I have no hold upon her.”
Finally, I was pitted against this Lucian. I shouted within myself: “Arthur! It is a Game! Let not yourself be dishonoured by anger – by jealousy.” Then, just before we were to meet in this pretend combat, he walked right to where Morgan sat with Lady Vivianne and Makyr and gave her a bow, a smile, and a piece of cloth from his under tunic. In a Latin accent, he loudly proclaimed, “My Lady, you are so beautiful...”
My blood boiled. I grabbed a real sword and put off the wooden one I was supposed to use for this game. The crowd went silent.
I called out to him – “Arm yourself Sir; let us put more spice in this Game. First cut?”
He called back, “So be it – first cut.”
I had angered and offended him. So we each, with heavy breath, threw ourselves at the other. We thrust and parried back and forth. “Evenly matched – Good!” thought I. I might have beaten him, but for the ache I felt at the loss of Morgan. Loss! Yes, it was on that Day, on that field, that I felt I had really and finally lost her.
This painful realisation and the thought that – “Even crazed as I am, I cannot be so disreputable as to deliberately endanger our lives. I am King, after all, my life is not my own to waste” – caused concentration to slip from my grasp.
He was quick. I had not even seen it coming. Of a sudden, I felt a searing burn at the top of my left arm. He withdrew from me and held down his blooded sword.
“Sir, you are High King of this land; to your right as King, I bend my knee.”
His words stung much more than did his cut. He had said: “To your right as King” – not “To your honour.”
I had not behaved honourably. I was so ashamed. He rose, turned and began to walk away from me.
I called to him, “Good Sir!”
He turned to face me.
“A good and honourable man you are,” said I, “Much to my shame and dismay I let my heart rule my behavior toward you – you who have not wronged me. I give my apology to you with the hope that you will accept it.”
I held his gaze. He deserved as much. I would not look away. He returned it.
“My Lord, King Arthur, whatever led your heart in anger toward me, I do not know of it. I have only held the deepest respect for you, for the stories of you are all of ‘a great and good Lord.’ We men are not Gods, none of us, but mere Humans – fallible and prone to missteps. You, King Arthur, have a great heart. You, as King, apologized to me – one who has in some way offended you... Of course, I accept your apology.”
Attendants began to rush toward us as I swayed upon my feet.
“Leave us!” I called out.
Everyone backed away.
He continued, “But will you not allow someone to assist you? The cut is deeper than I intended.”
“Good Sir, Lucian, the cut is deep, but you hold no fault in it.”
He motio
ned for help as I lost consciousness, lying in a pool of my own blood.
The next thing I saw was Morgan’s worried face and the morning Sun streaming through the doorway of her cottage – to whence I had been taken from the Field of Games.
She and two other Healers had cleansed my wound the Night before, but after using a medicinal herbal salve made from honey to keep it from festering she had decided to sear the wound with a hot iron rod anyway. However, I had still raised a slight fever in the Night. The fever worried Morgan. She had run to the kitchens to find some bread mold, then, having used just enough – not so much as to be poisonous – in a potion, she had tried to make me drink. It tasted horrible – I gagged and choked. This was what had awakened me from my stupor. In my wild Dream, Morgan was calling to me, “Bear... Arthur! Come to the world of form! Awaken!” Whether she had said these words in reality or just in my Dream, I could not tell. Finally she shook me. The pain in my arm from the movement was terrible. I remember thinking, “How can I hurt this much from one cut?” She helped me to drink the rest of the potion.
“Lie still.”
As if I would, or could move; drugged as I was... The pain then began to subside... I slept again.
Morgan
After I was assured that Arthur would not die from his wound, I returned to Lady Vivianne’s side. In order to justly honour the Games and all of the contestants, my duty was to be present, watching until a Champion had emerged. This was now the third Day of the Games.
At the end there were two with tied points – Bedwyr and a Scald of Hengist’s court. His name was Cuthbert. He had the most beautiful voice I had ever heard in a man. Yet, it was more than just that. He had composed a song of such loveliness of phrase that tears rolled down my cheeks in the midst of it. When he had finished, the strangest thing happened. Where I would have thought that everyone would be cheering him, everyone was still and silent. A pause… for at least three breaths, he stood there with his head downcast, holding his lyre to his right side. Then, of a sudden, a cheer arose to wake the dead! Everyone was standing, stomping their feet, and those who had them, clanged dagger to shield or staff to ground.
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